by Delowar Sha (Mohammad Arif), Rohingya refugee and human rights advocate

Climate change may at times feel like a distant, abstract global environmental issue. Yet for communities like mine, this is a reality we live with every single day. I am a Rohingya refugee living in a refugee camp in Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh. When the monsoon clouds gather over the hills, I feel fear before the rain starts. It is a quiet fear felt by everyone around me. People look at the sky with worry because here in Cox’s Bazar refugee camp, rain brings danger to us displaced people.

Our shelters are made of bamboo and tarpaulin, which we refugees built on steep and unstable hills. When heavy rain falls, especially at night, it becomes impossible to sleep. I have spent many nights listening to the sound of rain hitting the plastic roof and wondering if the ground beneath us would give way. In those moments, every sound feels like a warning and reminder of the risks to our life. For many of us, fear is neither abstract, nor distant. I have seen what happens when the soil becomes too soft to hold the shelters in place. Landslides have happened suddenly, and repeatedly, leaving little time to react. I remember seeing a nearby shelter fully collapse into pieces after heavy rain. A family lost everything they had rebuilt after fleeing Myanmar in 2017. It is painful to watch people go through loss again and again in refugee life.

Today, nearly one million Rohingya refugees live in Cox’s Bazar. Most of us arrived after violence erupted in Myanmar in 2017. We came here seeking safety in refugee camps, hoping to escape the fear of violence, crimes against humanity, and religious persecution. We fled our homeland with very few belongings, determined to protect the dignity of our families, our mothers, and our sisters.

While the world sees our situation primarily as a political crisis, another reality shapes our daily lives and receives far less attention. Climate change has become another crisis for us. The camps were built to respond to a humanitarian emergency and save us from hunger and starvation. Large areas of forest were cleared to create space for shelters to house us. I can’t forget how the hills used to be covered with trees. Now, without those roots to hold the soil together, the land has become too unstable to keep our shelters standing through the night.

The moment you enter the camp, you can immediately see how closely people live together in its crowded areas. Narrow pathways wind through crowded shelters. Refugees climb up and down the hills. During dry days, the paths are dusty, making it difficult to move around freely. During monsoons, the paths turn into slippery mud. Moving from one place to another becomes dangerous, especially for children, elderly people, and those with disabilities, who already struggle to live comfortably in such an environment. When heavy rain falls, the situation quickly worsens, and our shelters cannot withstand the elements because they are made of bamboo and tarpaulin. Water flows through the pathways and enters homes. I have seen families trying to lift their belongings onto higher ground, trying to save what little they have left. Sometimes, our shelters are left unsafe and exposed. Clothes, food, and bedding get drenched in rain. The feeling of helplessness, of powerlessness, in those moments is hard to describe.

Many parents fear for their children. I have seen mothers holding them tightly during storms, trying to protect them from the wind and rain. Fathers often stay awake all night, watching for signs of landslides because they feel responsible for protecting their family. There is a quiet strength parents portray, enormous and selfless. There is a constant question in our minds: Will our shelter survive tonight? For elderly people and persons with disabilities, the risks are even greater, including in my own family. I take care of my disabled mother and younger sister, they need medical treatment and constant care. Evacuation is not easy in a crowded camp, especially when paths are flooded and blocked. I have seen people struggling to move quickly when danger comes. These are the moments when our vulnerability becomes most apparent, and when I wish I could get them move to a safer place.

The physical dangers create an emotional fear that many people carry silently. Every monsoon season brings anxiety and fear in Cox’s Bazar refugee camps. When a shelter is damaged and destroyed our families are relocated to another area of the camp. This might seem like a simple solution but it means losing neighbors, routines, and a sense of belonging. It feels like starting over again. Access to clean water and sanitation becomes more difficult during floods. Dirty water spreads quickly and the risk of disease, such as diarrhea and chicken pox, increases. In these conditions, even small health problems can become serious. I experienced this myself in 2025, when I fell ill and my condition became severe enough that the MSF-run Jamtoli hospital in Camp 15 had to transfer me to Kutupalong MSF hospital.

What I have described above is only part of the vulnerability we face. I have also observed how the presence of such a large refugee population affects nearby communities. Resources like firewood, water, and land are in limited supply, affecting our ability to cook food and feed our families. Many refugee families depend on firewood for cooking, which has contributed to deforestation in the area of Cox’s Bazar. At the same time, host communities are also struggling with poverty and environmental changes. This creates a difficult situation where both refugees and local communities are pressured. Climate stress does not affect one group alone, it affects everyone in the region of the refugee camp.

Inside the camps, energy is another daily challenge. Some organizations have introduced alternative fuels like LPG, which helps reduce the need for firewood. However, supply and access is not always consistent. Many families rely on traditional methods because they have no other choice. Expanding renewable energy, especially solar power, could make a meaningful difference in reducing environmental damage and improving daily life. Women and girls face additional challenges during environmental disasters. I have seen how difficult it becomes for them to move safely during floods, especially at night. Access to safe sanitation facilities becomes limited, increasing risks to their safety and dignity. Many women are responsible for collecting water and managing household needs, tasks that become much harder during extreme weather.

When I reflect on all of this, I cannot ignore the issue of justice. The Rohingya people have contributed almost nothing to global carbon emissions. Yet we are among those facing some of the most severe consequences of climate change. This is not just unfortunate, it is unjust. There have been efforts by humanitarian organizations to reduce risks in the camps. I have seen projects to stabilize hills, improve drainage systems, and strengthen shelters. These efforts are important and they do make a difference. But they cannot fully solve the problem, especially when the scale of the population is so large and the environmental pressures are so severe.

We need solutions that look beyond immediate emergencies, solutions that are comprehensive and sustainable. We need approaches that connect climate adaptation with human dignity, supporting both refugees and host communities, and recognizing the long-term nature of this crisis. I believe that one of the most important aspects of the solution lies with young people. Many Rohingya youth, including myself, want to learn and contribute to our communities. But opportunities for education are limited. If we are given access to education, especially programs that include environmental awareness and disaster preparedness, we can become part of the solution.

Education is not only about personal growth. It is about building stronger communities. I continue to experience all the challenges and suffering around me in Camp 15. Yet I also see the awe-inspiring strength of humanity’s will to survive and live in dignity. I have seen families rebuild their shelters after storms, even when they have very little and no source of income. I have seen young people continue studying even in difficult conditions. I have seen community members helping each other during emergencies. For people like me, this is not just a topic of discussion. It is our daily reality. And our future depends on the world’s will to listen to the voices of those living in refugee camps.


Delowar Sha (Mohammed Arif) is a Rohingya refugee, humanitarian worker, and human rights advocate based in the Cox’s Bazar refugee camps in Bangladesh. He is a Human Rights Diploma graduate from the Institution of Human Rights and Democratic Government (IHRDG). He works as a teacher in a BRAC education program supported by UNICEF and is the founder of the Student Advocacy Network for Rights (SANR), promoting youth empowerment, education, and climate awareness in refugee communities.

Edited by Marios T. Afrataios, Co-Founder of The ASEAN Frontier

by Sabrina Nour Touijer, TAF Regional Peacebuilding Analyst

Citizenship can function not only as a marker of political belonging, but as a powerful tool of exclusion and violence. The Rohingya crisis exemplifies how the denial of citizenship can create conditions of extreme vulnerability, legitimising state-sponsored violence and mass displacement (Ullah 2016, p. 291). Shaped in part by lines drawn by colonial powers to serve imperial interests rather than regional political, economic, or cultural realities, the Rohingya population has faced identity-based discrimination and legal exclusion in Myanmar (MacLean 2018, p. 3). Since 2017 alone, more than 700,000 Rohingyas have been forcefully displaced from Myanmar amid systematic violence and persecution (MacLean 2018, p. 3; Kipgen 2019, p.63).

Despite condemnation from international actors, Myanmar denies any wrongdoing, characterising the Rohingya as “illegal Bengalis” who migrated from neighbouring Bangladesh, rather than legitimate members of the national community (Kipgen 2019, p. 63). Bangladesh, however, also refuses to recognise the Rohingya community as citizens, rendering the population as “stateless” (Kipgen 2019, p. 63). Deemed outsiders in a country they have inhabited for countless generations, the Rohingya have been stripped of citizenship and subjected to institutionalized restrictions on marriage, freedom of movement, religious practice, employment, and education, alongside recurring waves of state-sponsored violence (Kipgen 2019, p. 63).

The denial of citizenship thus operates not merely as a legal classification, but as a structural mechanism that creates vulnerability, legitimises violence, and enables mass displacement. This article examines how citizenship denial has functioned as a catalyst for violence and displacement in Myanmar.

Denial of Citizenship

Traditional conceptions of citizenship frame it as a political membership within a nation-state, through which individuals are granted civil, political, and social rights. Displaced populations challenge this conventional understanding, as they do not fit neatly within territorially bounded notions of belonging and political membership (Mehta & Napier-Moore 2010, p. 15). In the absence of citizenship, identity and belonging are thrown into question, while rights typically granted through citizenship such as political participation and the capacity to be heard as a political subject are revoked (Mehta & Napier-Moore 2010, p. 18). This condition of displacement is inherently destabilising, as it reinforces hierarchical distinctions between inclusion and exclusion. Displaced persons are constructed as belonging elsewhere, that have been uprooted from a place in which he/she is expected to return to (Brun, Fabos, & El-Abed 2017, p. 220-221). Displacement thus comes to be perceived as a threat to the ‘national order of things’, reinforcing the assumed alignment between territory, citizenship, and political belonging.

For the Rohingya population, the Myanmar state has reconstituted a historically recognized community into a stateless group through legal and administrative exclusion. Central to this process was the introduction of the 1982 Citizenship Law, which restructured citizenship into three categories: full citizens, defined as descendants of residents present in Burma prior to 1823; associate citizens, defined as people who were given citizenship under the 1948 Union Citizenship Law; and naturalised citizens, defined as people who resided in Burma/Myanmar prior to 1948 but had failed to apply for citizenship under the Union Citizenship act. Within these three categories, citizenship eligibility was limited to those who were of the country’s “national ethnic races” which included Burman, Karen, Chin, Mon, Rakhine, among 135 other recognized “national ethnic races” (MacLean p. 6). However, the Rohingya were excluded from recognition as one of the “national ethnic races” on the grounds that they were classified as “Bengalis” who had migrated from Bangladesh after 1823, rendering them ineligible for citizenship. Rohingya advocates contest this characterisation, arguing that the Rohingya community constitute a distinct cultural and linguistic group rather than a subset of “Bengalis”, and support their claims with historical evidence proving their presence in Burma/Myanmar prior to the 1823 cutoff. State officials, however, reject the validity of these claims, maintaining that such claims are not rooted in empirical facts but instead represent politically motivated narratives.

The 1982 Citizenship Law fundamentally changed the legal and political status of the Rohingyas by formally stripping them of citizenship in Myanmar. This resulted in the Rohingya community facing severe restrictions on access to education and employment, property ownership, freedom of movement, and the ability to marry and form families (OHCHR 2018, p.6). Sectarian violence which began in 2012 until present day has further intensified Rohingya displacement, affecting hundreds of thousands of individuals. On the 25th of August 2017, the Arakan Rohingya Salvation Army (ARSA) launched coordinated attacks on approximately 30 security outposts in the northern Rakhine State, killing 12 security personnel. The response by Myanmar’s security forces was immediate and disproportionate, involving widespread and systematic atrocities against Rohingya civilians (OHCHR 2018, p. 8). These included extrajudicial killings, the use of force against unarmed populations, mass rape against women, the torture and abuse of detainees, enforced disappearances, arbitrary arrests, and police beatings (OHCHR 2018, p. 8-10). Collectively, these patterns indicate that the denial of citizenship to the Rohingyas in Myanmar has been a deliberate strategy of exclusion, facilitating systematic violence and displacement in a context where international condemnation has been widespread but largely ineffective.

The Politics of Belonging

Citizenship functions not merely as a legal status, but as a foundational marker of political belonging and identity. The systematic denial of citizenship therefore constitutes more than the withdrawal of formal rights; it represents the intentional exclusion of a population from the political, economic, and social community of the state. In the case of the Rohingya, the revocation of citizenship has operated as a strategic mechanism of exclusion, reconstructing identity into a site of governance and repression. Myanmar’s 1982 Citizenship Law institutionalized this exclusion by embedding ethno-national criteria into the legal definition of belonging, effectively rendering the Rohingya community legally invisible. In doing so, the law has expedited sustained violations of international legal norms, including obligations under the Genocide Convention, the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination against Women, the Convention on the Rights of the Child, and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Citizenship in Myanmar has provided the legal infrastructure through which discrimination, violence, and displacement have been normalized and justified.

These domestic legal exclusions have been further exacerbated by systemic failures in international enforcement and accountability. Myanmar’s military dominance and persistent refusal to cooperate with international actors and judicial mechanisms have constrained external leverage. Simultaneously, donor fatigue and declining humanitarian funding have weakened protection mechanisms for displaced Rohingya populations, particularly in host states such as Bangladesh. On the geopolitical level, diplomatic protection by Russia and China, most notably through the blocking of United Nations Security Council resolutions has protected Myanmar from consequential ramifications. Regionally, ASEAN’s long-standing principle of non-interference has limited collective regional pressure and undermined the development of a coordinated response to the crisis.

Addressing the Rohingya crisis therefore requires a multi-level strategy that confronts both the legal foundations of exclusion within Myanmar and the structural inadequacy of the international response. At the domestic level, legal reform is necessary. This includes amending the 1982 Citizenship Law to restore nationality to the Rohingya population and formally recognize them as an indigenous ethnic group with historical ties to the Rakhine State. Such reform is essential to dismantle the legal mechanisms that have enabled systemic violence and discrimination. At the regional and global levels, greater cooperation and responsibility are imperative. ASEAN should be urged to move beyond its non-interference doctrine and adopt a coordinated refugee protection framework that strengthens legal safeguards, access to services, and solutions for the displaced Rohingya community. Internationally, accountability mechanisms must be reinforced through targeted sanctions against Myanmar’s military leadership, the expansion of universal jurisdiction cases in national courts, and sustained diplomatic support for proceedings before the International Court of Justice (ICJ) and the International Criminal Court (ICC). Collectively, these measures are important, not only for addressing ongoing abuses, but for challenging the normalization of citizenship denial as a tool for exclusion within the international system.

Final Thoughts

The Rohingya crisis signifies how citizenship, apart from being a neutral legal status, can be mobilised as a deliberate institutionalized mechanism of exclusion, violence, and displacement. Through the institutionalisation of ethno-national criteria in Myanmar’s 1982 Citizenship Law, the Rohingyas were reshaped to be a politically expendable population, rather than a historically accepted indigenous community rooted in Burma/Myanmar. This process not only stripped individuals of formal legal rights, but systematically transformed their political identity and protection, creating conditions under which mass violence, discrimination, and forced displacement could be enforced with little accountability.

This case has shown that displacement is not always an unintended consequence of conflict, but the outcome of intentional governance strategies that seek to redefine the boundaries of national membership. The persistence of such an exclusion has been reinforced by international enforcement failures, including geopolitical obstruction from China and Russia, ASEAN’s non-interference doctrine, and declining humanitarian engagement. Addressing the Rohingya crisis requires not only legal reform, but also a more robust international commitment to accountability, protection, and responsibility-sharing.

Ultimately, it reveals how citizenship can be weaponised to exclude and marginalise. Confronting this reality is necessary if the international community is to prevent the normalization of statelessness as a tool of repression and uphold foundational principles of human rights and international law.

Sabrina Nour Touijer is TAF’s Regional Peacebuilding Analyst and a recent graduate with a Master’s degree in Crisis and Security Management, specialising in War and Peace Studies, from Leiden University. Her academic and professional interests focus on conflict, security, and conflict resolution, with a strong commitment to understanding instability and advancing sustainable peace. Through her work, she aims to support more informed and constructive approaches to peacebuilding in volatile environments.

Edited by Nishiha Jasper David, Frontier Analysis Editor

by Satid Sutipanya, TAF Correspondent for Thailand

Thailand’s central bank has moved to curb USDT trading after flagging unusually large foreign participation in the USDT trading, about 40% of total activity, raising concerns over grey money inflows and pressure on the baht.

The Bank of Thailand (BOT) Governor Vitai Ratanakorn last week launched a set of measures to curb Tether’s USDT trading, the world’s largest stablecoin, during a speech at the Blooming Thailand 2026 forum, hosted by Thai media outlet Matichon.

“USDT trading accounts for 52% of total digital asset trading in Thailand,” Vitai said, adding that “the proportion of USDT trading in the market should not be this high, given its relatively stable price.”

He added that it is also unusual that 40% of USDT trading in Thailand involves non-resident traders. “If you are Singaporean traders, would you bring your own USDT to trade on Thai exchanges? Or if you are Hong Kong Chinese traders, would you bring your USDT to trade in Thailand?” he said, noting that such activities are suspicious, particularly if the intention is to transact in USDT to bypass the conventional remittance system.

For USDT, the BOT will closely monitor transactions, particularly on the sell side by non-resident traders. Selling USDT and converting it into baht increases demand for the local currency, adding upward pressure on the baht.

Beyond USDT-related activities, the central bank has also introduced measures to tackle money mules and abnormal transactions. These include additional conditions for large cash deposits and withdrawals, enhanced due diligence for high-value cash activities, and caps on the purchase of foreign banknotes (a maximum of 800,000 baht per person per day), and a stricter cap of 200,000 baht per person per day in border or designated areas.

Thai Baht–USD Exchange Rate Trends (2013–2026) Source: https://th.investing.com/currencies/usd-thb

For e-money and e-wallet services, providers are required to connect to Thailand’s Central Fraud Registry (CFR) system, apply transaction limits based on KYC levels, and implement user profiling.

Transaction pattern monitoring will also be strengthened to detect money mule activity, including identifying abnormal transaction patterns that do not align with user profiles, as well as unusually high-value or high-frequency transactions.

“This move of the BOT has had a positive impact on the market sentiment in general, especially in softening the grey money influence on the currency’s appreciation” Wachirawat Banchuen, a financial market strategist at Siam Commercial Bank, talked to The ASEAN Frontier while adding that “this action will solve the problem of gray capital affecting the baht on the spot, but will need to wait for the full USDT-related policy launch in the next few months”

Asked if there are any negative consequences on the overall trading sentiment in the country’s USDT trading, Wachirawat said, “there has been no negative side of implementing the daily cap and monitoring the flow of money yet.”

What Drives the Surge in the Thai Baht?

Despite sluggish economic growth, political uncertainty, and mounting public and household debt, Thailand’s baht strengthened by almost 8% in 2025 and by a further 0.16% in the first month of 2026. The currency’s appreciation has posed challenges for Thailand’s export-driven economy, at a time when disruptions to the global trade system are also weighing on the country’s export sector.

One factor driving the baht’s surge, and weighing on the broader economy, is the inflow of so-called “unrecognised” grey money into Thailand, one of them is the USDT transaction.

How Might Digital Assets Become a Tool for Money Laundering in Thailand?

“In Thailand, there is no single institution that properly regulates the digital asset industry,” said Jitipol Puksamatanan, during an interview with The ASEAN Frontier, Head of Global Investment Strategy at Finansia Syrus Securities.

“Take myself as an example, I often transfer money from my savings account to a crypto exchange, and no one has ever contacted me to ask where that investment money came from,” said Jitipol.

He said this regulatory gap allows grey money to enter Thailand through crypto exchanges.

Asked which institution should take the lead in addressing this loophole, Jitipol said responsibility depends on the nature of the concern. “If you are worried about the impact of USDT transactions on the baht, that falls under the BOT’s responsibility. But if you are concerned about illegal activity or actions that could harm shareholders, that is the role of the Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC).”

The Relationship Between USDT and Gold Trading

Managing Director and Investment Strategist at Merchant Partners Asset, Prakit Siriwattanaket, explained to The ASEAN Frontier that there may be a link between gold trading and USDT transactions in Thailand, which could also be contributing to baht appreciation.

To avoid leaving a transaction trail, individuals seeking to launder money may bring a “cold wallet,” a cryptocurrency wallet that stores private keys entirely offline, into Thailand and use underground agents to illegally convert digital assets into baht.

By doing so, they can move digital assets into Thailand without undergoing KYC verification. They may then use gold trading or USDT as tools to further launder illicit funds.

According to BOT data, online gold trading has had a significant impact on baht appreciation during certain periods. For example, between 20 August and 9 September 2025, the baht gained 2.8%, coinciding with a period when conversions of online gold into baht accounted for 62% of total foreign exchange flows. In another period, when online gold-to-baht conversions reached 24%, the baht strengthened by 4.7%.

Drivers of Thai Baht Appreciation in 2025 The chart breaks down investment flows (including gold) that contributed to the baht’s rapid strengthening against the U.S. dollar across five key periods in 2025. Source: Bank of Thailand, February 2025

Two Layers of Money Laundering

In an interview with local media outlet The Standard, Sarinee Achavanuntakul, a sustainable finance researcher specialising in sustainable business, said there are at least two layers of money laundering conducted through stock markets or cryptocurrency exchanges.

The first involves moving illicit funds through the purchase of listed stocks. The second is more complex: hiring nominees to secretly gain control of listed commercial banks or cryptocurrency exchanges gradually, with the aim of building a permanent money-laundering infrastructure. Cryptocurrency exchanges are often prioritised due to weaknesses in Thailand’s fraud-related law enforcement.

Edited by Alan, Frontier Analysis Editor

by Sean Huy Vu, TAF correspondent for Vietnam

Sex Work in Southeast Asia, such as in Vietnam and Thailand, has long been understood through the framework of human trafficking, but this approach fails to capture the complex reality of the region’s nightlife economy. In narratives that focus on the oppression of women and children, “anecdotes are generalized and presented as conclusive evidence; sampling is selective; and counterevidence is routinely ignored.” Much of the data on sex trafficking, including those by the United States State Department and several NGOs, often fails to specify “how the data was gathered, which sources were consulted, who was allowed to give information, whose estimates were deemed authoritative and how data were confirmed [emphasis in original].” There is no universally agreed upon method of gathering sex trafficking data, and sensational media and inflated numbers of victims only cause confusion and stigmatization towards Southeast Asia’s sex workers.

Alternatively, sex work can be an opportunity for many women that offers them a degree of agency rather than exploitation. For many rural or working-class women across Southeast Asia, participating in adult entertainment in the cities can enable them to provide better financial support for themselves and their families compared to other industries or the social insurance system. In Ho Chi Minh City, many workers reported monthly earnings ranging from US$1,000 to US$4,000, five to ten times higher than the city’s average income. This income allows workers to access a wider range of goods and services than they otherwise could, such as healthcare, education, and reliable utilities. Many workers, particularly unmarried women in their twenties, describe saving strategically for future marriage or investing in small businesses as a pathway to transition into other sectors. Domestic consumption by sex workers and their relatives also contributes to economic growth for the rest of society.

Sex work can also be viewed as a form of resistance against restrictive notions of femininity. In many Southeast Asian societies influenced by orthodox Confucian, Catholic, or Islamic traditions, women are often expected to embody moral virtue through modesty and repression of one’s carnal desires. In practice, these expectations often impose a double standard in which men’s sexual needs are accepted as natural while female desire is disciplined or stigmatized. In this context, adult entertainment industries can offer a space for women to claim ownership over their bodies and express their sexual subjectivity, free from patriarchal constraints and societal judgement.

Contrary to popular perceptions, the sex industry in Southeast Asia can be safer than what is commonly believed, even in the absence of formal legal protections. Several bar hostesses and masseuses interviewed for this analysis reported that most of their clients were respectful and that they had good relationships with their colleagues and managers. Many reported being able to decline customers’ requests for sexual services, especially if they appeared intoxicated, behaved aggressively, or refused to wear condoms. A 2012 International Organization for Migration survey of 398 Vietnamese female sex workers across three major cities found that 4% reported being “tricked/lured” into prostitution, and 1% were “forced” into it. A separate 2007 study in Thailand found that 2% of 815 workers across four cities stated that they were tricked or forced into the industry.

None of this is to deny the persistent problems that plague the industry in Thailand and Vietnam. In 2023, a German national was arrested on suspicion of accepting solicitation from minors working at an erotic bar in Pattaya. The man, however, was released by Thai police after bribing them the equivalent of US$50,000; he was later sentenced to nine months of probation by a Frankfurt court. Between 20–27% of Vietnamese sex workers in one study reported experiencing physical violence, and 35% of them have experienced verbal abuse from their customers. In contrast to their counterparts in the spas and bars, Thai and Vietnamese streetwalkers, call girls, and escorts experience the highest rates of violence by customers and employers in the industry. The illegal status of sex work in Vietnam and Thailand leaves workers and their businesses vulnerable to extortion and arbitrary arrest by police, who extract rent from adult establishments in exchange for allowing them to operate.

Southeast Asia’s sex industry is a spectrum of lived experiences and institutions, and cannot be reduced to the binary of exploitation vs. liberation, oppressor vs. oppressed. Like much of Southeast Asia, the erotic economy operates through a mix of formal laws and informal norms that renders sexual labor very precarious. If sex work was fully legalized in Vietnam and Thailand, as opposed to decriminalized as it is now, workers could have greater legal protections from customers, employers, or police. The price of sex, according to one European brothel manager interviewed, would go down, as the barriers for entering the industry would be lower for women and attract more of them to compete. At the same time, legalization would allow the state to formally tax and regulate erotic commerce, which could reduce workers’ commission, or simply drive them to underreport their earnings, as in Europe.

Singapore offers some suggestions of how decriminalized prostitution can be regulated, but some methods may be overly restrictive. The city-state has a “no-liquor” zone in the Geylang district, with several cameras installed throughout the neighborhood. Only registered brothels are allowed to operate and employ workers from Vietnam, Thailand, China, Malaysia, or Singapore itself. Every worker is interviewed and registered by the police, must be between 21 to 35 years old, and is required to receive regular medical testing for STIs. However, the migrant workers cannot transition to another industry in Singapore, marry a local citizen, or live outside their brothel. They also cannot leave their brothel without their manager’s permission, or be at risk of being fined S$500.

Policymakers, activists, and academics — both in the West and within Southeast Asia’s elites — have dominated the discourse surrounding sex work in the region for several years. In doing so, they have often marginalized the perspectives of sex workers themselves and perpetuated racial and gender stereotypes that portray them as uneducated, infantile, and powerless. Far from being passive victims of patriarchal exploitation or institutional corruption, sex workers in Southeast Asia actively navigate unequal distributions of power and wealth in pursuit of bodily autonomy, social mobility, and financial independence. In order to better safeguard the rights of women in the sex industry, Southeast Asian governments should include workers themselves in the policymaking process to better protect them and respond to their needs.

Edited by Phan Quang Anh Bui, Frontier Analysis Editor

by Dan, TAF contributor for The Frontier Analysis

Situated in maritime Southeast Asia, the Philippines’ gastronomic history has always been vibrant and covers flavors that reflect its rich cultural tapestry. At a crossroads of ancient trade routes, the land of the Pinoys has been a melting pot of cultures where every trader and colonizer has left their distinct mark on the dishes. The origins of Filipino cuisine begin with their Austronesian roots, which laid out the foundation of the stable ingredients such as rice, coconut, and assorts of fruits and vegetables. The location of the Philippine archipelago made it convenient for other civilizations to interact and trade, beginning with the Malayo-Polynesians, who introduced methods such as steaming, boiling, and roasting around 3200 BC. These techniques would be the standard way at a Filipino household that is still used today. The turn of cooking methods occurred during the arrival of the Chinese traders prior to the Europeans’ colonization, starting as early as the 9th century with the Tang dynasty. They introduced not just the essential ingredients such as soy sauce and tofu but also the iconic pancit, a thin rice noodle that has become a part of the Filipino diet. The adaptation of these noodles into a local version is a recurrence in the region and, moreover, a testament to how the Filipinos have a knack for reinventing foreign dishes and transforming it into their own. Spanish colonization further added to the Filipino identity by introducing a multitude of new ingredients from the New World and Old World such as tomatoes, garlic, and onions, along with revolutionary cooking techniques like sauteing and braising, which influenced the pre-existing national dish, Adobo. Similar to Chinese influence, Spanish influence blended with local customs to create a new rendition of local dishes.

Among the many culinary contributions introduced through centuries of trade, pancit stands out as one of the most popular dishes in Filipino cuisine. The word pancit is derived from the Hokkien term “pian i sit” which directly translates to “something conveniently cooked,” highlighting its role as a quick and accessible meal. Pancit traces its origins back to Chinese migrants and traders who introduced noodles to the Philippines. Over time, Filipinos adapted these noodles to fit their tastes by incorporating local ingredients and creating a variety of regional variations of the dish. Pancit was developed further during the Spanish colonization of the Philippines as the introduction of staple foods such as garlic and onions became a key component of the dish. The mixing of these new ingredients from China and Spain with native ingredients led to the creation of a uniquely Filipino version of pancit. The dish became a fusion of foreign and local flavors, reflecting the archipelago’s history of cultural exchange and interaction. The ingredients of pancit vary depending on the type, however, some elements remain consistent across different versions. Noodles serve as the base, with options such as egg noodles, wheat-based noodles, and rice noodles, the latter being the most popular. Proteins such as chicken, pork, and shrimp are typically included, often combined with vegetables like carrots, cabbage, bell peppers, and celery, along with seasonings such as garlic, onions, soy sauce, salt, pepper, and calamansi, which give pancit its distinct taste. Among the many variations, pancit canton stands as the most popular choice, characterized by its thick egg noodles stir-fried with soy sauce, vegetables, and meat. Another well-known version is pancit bihon, which includes thin rice noodles cooked with soy sauce, shrimp, chicken, and vegetables. Pancit Malabon is popular for its unique seafood-based sauce, which reflects the coastal influences of its origin. Regardless of the different variations, pancit remains a staple in Filipino cuisine, offering a taste of the country’s culinary history and cultural influences.

Pancit is not only a reflection of the Philippines’ culinary diversity but also a good point of reference for comparing it with other noodle dishes in Southeast Asia. Noodle dishes in Southeast Asia, although some can be different in some ingredients and cooking methods, often share common roots from the Chinese trade. Like pancit, many of the noodle dishes are quick to prepare, serve as comfort foods, and are central to various social and cultural events. The main difference lies in each country’s use of local ingredients that reflect their traditions and preferences, as seen when comparing pancit to Thailand’s Pad See Ew. Both dishes have roots in Chinese cooking techniques, the stir-frying of noodles was brought by Chinese immigrants. Pad See Ew, means “fried with soy sauce” which has a thick flat rice noodle similar to the one used for Pancit. This dish is found everywhere in Thailand’s restaurants and street food stalls. The dish can contain dark or light soy sauce, combined with garlic, Chinese broccoli, egg, tofu, and a choice of protein including beef, chicken, and shrimp, this mirrors Pancit’s variety of vegetables of protein (Sibal, 2021). While pancit’s flavor profile leans towards the citrus side with the calamansi, Pad See Ew leans on the caramelization resulting from the high-heat cooking which creates a contrasting flavor of savory and sweet taste.

Following the comparison between pancit and other neighboring dishes, there is another popular noodle dish, the Vietnamese pho. Although both are noodle-based dishes, the Vietnamese one is unique due to it being a noodle soup and not stir-fried. The history of pho started in the 19th century and reflects the Chinese and French influences. Its preparation is drastically different from pancit as it is more about the broth that is simmered for hours from beef bones and spices such as star anise and cinnamon. This is different from pancit’s soy sauce flavors since pho is more reliant on its broth which is derived from basil and lime. Although both dishes have a common root of being Chinese-influenced, methods show how foreign influence in dishes brought diversity into the methods of cooking as one demonstrated a quick stir fry and the other depended on a slow cooking method. With the last comparison, the most similar dish in appearance and style of cooking would be Malaysia’s Char Kway Teow. The dish is cooked with a wok in high heat which gives it the smokey flavor. This high heat and smokey technique was also adopted in Pancit. Char Kway Teow literally translates to “stir-fried flat noodles” in Hokkien; this is similar to the meaning of Pancit as well which implies that both dishes are cooked and prepared in a fast manner. The only distinction between these two dishes is the depth of seasoning used as pancit favors a lighter flavor while Char Kway Teow is filled with a darker sweet soy sauce taste making it stronger in taste. Within the comparisons between these three dishes with Pancit we can see the essence of Southeast Asian cuisines. They are all rich in influences from China that add to the original rendition of noodles, incorporating local ingredients that suit the people while at the same time keeping the original cooking style introduced by the Chinese people who settled in Southeast Asia.

Similar to many traditional dishes, pancit carries deep cultural and social significance in Filipino society. Extending past its role as a staple food, pancit is a dish that is commonly served during weddings, baptisms, graduations, and especially during birthdays and New Year’s. Its inclusion into these festivities comes from the belief that long noodles are a symbol of a long life and good health, a belief rooted in Chinese tradition. Specific customs are followed to ensure the blessings of an extended life and its symbolic meaning of longevity. For instance, cutting the noodles before or while eating them is considered to be bad luck. As a result, the noodles are left uncut when served as their length represents the hope for a prolonged life. Moreover, pancit’s cultural significance goes beyond its symbolism as its popularity also stems from its adaptability. The simplicity of the dish allows for countless variations and modifications, making it incredibly versatile. Whether it is prepared as a halal-friendly version by excluding pork, an elaborate one with shrimp and other seafood, or a simpler version simply made with vegetables, pancit remains a dish that adapts to different preferences and dietary needs. Its flexibility ensures that it can be enjoyed by diverse groups of people, making it a staple at gatherings where food serves as a force that brings people together.

Pancit is deeply ingrained in Filipino culture to a point it even has its own national day celebrated annually on April 9th, highlighting its role in shaping Filipino identity. More than just a commemoration of a beloved dish, National Pancit Day serves as a reminder of the importance of food in fostering connections and preserving Filipino identity. Many take part in this celebration, as restaurants and food businesses participate by offering promotions and hosting food festivals such as the Cagayan Food Festival. Therefore, National Pancit Day brings people together to celebrate a dish that plays a critical part in Filipino culture, standing as a way to celebrate the role of food in Filipino social life.

Not only is pancit a staple in the Philippines but it has a key socio-political history that shaped Filipino society. The political history of the dish can be found through the story presented in Felice Sta Maria’s “The governor-general’s Kitchen”. It recounts that the Panciteria Antigua, founded in 1866, showed how food shops evolved into cultural symbols. The national relevance of pancit is found to be in association with the Philippine national hero José Rizal. Sta. Maria mentions that Rizal, in his temporary travels abroad, often cooked pancit and was shipped miki noodles from his hometown, Calamba. This pointed to how pancit played a role in being the root anchor that helped to connect Rizal with his home even when overseas.

Pancit is not just a national dish of the Philippines but it is also a symbol of the resilience and unity as a country, due to its adaptability and its history of trade with other civilizations. The Chinese origin of this dish is traced back to the traders who introduced noodles to the Philippines, since then the Filipinos have claimed it as their own since they incorporated the native ingredients. The act of embracing foreign foundations of cooking while creating their own rendition of it is prominent to the Filipino evolution of its cuisine. Its significance of being a noodle is not only unique but rather it is complementary to its neighbors across Southeast Asia. Like Thailand’s Pad See Ew, Vietnam’s Pho and Malaysia’s Char Kway Teow. What distinguishes pancit from these other analogous dishes is the high-heat cooking method and the usage of light soy sauce. In addition to its culinary importance, pancit has a historical and political value. Pancit was a part of José Rizal’s life as it was offered in early panciterias that functioned as social hubs. As the Philippines gained its independence, the cuisine got more global recognition, with pancit being its culinary ambassador, showing its versatility to adopt different influences into a single dish. Its endurance as the national dish of the Filipinos attests to it being not just a dish but a representation of the Filipino identity.

Edited by TAF’s Editorial Team

In this article we examine Thai public grievances over a voting process widely perceived as lacking transparency and marred by alleged malpractices.

by Natamon Aumphin, and correspondents from TAF’s Thai Desk

On February 8, 2026, 53 million Thais exercised their right to vote in hopes of charting a more optimistic political outlook for the next three years. After nearly a decade of military rule, Thailand has rotated through three prime ministers in three years, underscoring what many call “a lost decade.” The 2026 election therefore carried heightened stakes, with political stability emerging as a key priority amid escalating internal and external challenges faced by ordinary citizens.

This year, Thailand’s economic growth is projected to fall below 2 percent, among the lowest in ASEAN. This is compounded by a shrinking labor force due to an aging population, as well as an export and service oriented economy that has been vulnerable to political uncertainty. Despite these layered challenges driving economic regression, the election results suggest that a majority of Thais favored continuity over sweeping structural reforms. This was reflected in a landslide victory for the conservative Bhumjaithai Party, which secured 194 parliamentary seats, compared to 118 seats for the progressive People’s Party, despite the latter having won the popular vote in the 2023 general election.

This shift toward Bhumjaithai, a party associated with conservatism and strong alignment with the monarchy and military, suggests that many voters prioritize stability over the uncertainty associated with more progressive change. However, beyond the unexpected conservative victory, a major controversy has centered on the electoral process itself. The election has been met with allegations including a lack of transparency, potential manipulation, systemic voter fraud, and privacy concerns, which are currently being reviewed by the Election Commission of Thailand, the independent body overseeing elections.

The transparent issue in the polling station has become an anchor of the hashtag #นับใหม่ทั้งประเทศ (also known as “recount countrywide”) and many small public protests in problematic areas. The issues that lead to public doubt about the competency of ECT range from irregularities in polling stations, the mismatch in the number of voters and that of the voted ballots, and having barcodes and QR codes on the ballots, enabling voters’ choices and data to be traced. These issues are, in fact, not new but serve as fuel to public grievances towards the Thai political landscape and stability.

iLaw, a Thai non-governmental organization advocating for free speech and democracy, pointed out the intriguing case of fraud that occurred in district 7 of Phathum Thani province at Rajamangala University of Technology Thanyaburi, where the district’s polling station is located. In this case, citizens were denied entry to observe the ballot counting process as authorities accused them of obstructing the authorities in their duty. Moreover, security cameras in the area were also covered with black plastic bags. Later on, due to fear of fraud, students demanded a recount. Meanwhile, the locals in Samut Prakan and Chonburi found that materials used for election in certain districts were disposed of in the landfill.

Similarly, Puangthong Pawakapan, Professor of Political Science at Chulalongkorn University, raised several questions regarding excessive polling station density within districts. She highlighted that oversaturating districts with polling stations might increase the risk of resource inefficiency as well as fraudulent activity and human error. With this practice, citizens need to deploy a higher number of volunteers to ensure transparency and reduce administrative incompetency within each polling station.

Aside from irregularities in the election sites, when the ECT informally announced the election result of each district nationwide, the public and news outlets raised several skepticism. This includes the mismatched number of people who vote for the party list and constituency member parliament and the overall result scores. Reported from the Rocket Media Lab, an open-source tracking public issues, there are over 5,168 cases of irregularities sent from volunteers in the election sites. Among these cases, the commonly observed issue is that there are more ballots than the number of voters in the district by a large amount.

Likewise, The Standard also raised this doubt, claiming that it is unlikely to be merely human errors, as the discrepancies exceed ten thousand. This anomaly has also been observed by Rocket Media Lab. In fact, on 8 February, results were being released steadily from the Big Data Institute around an hour after closing the voting booth. Nonetheless, the result stopped at 19.43 and resumed after 55 minutes. The new result had rapidly soared from 6,138,429 to 21,731,183 and then to 26,794,205 11 minutes later. On the district level, there are also numerous reports of score inconsistency throughout the country. Some have discrepancies as high as 5,000 scores.

Although it was already several days after the election ended, public scrutiny continues. Circulating widely on social media, it is found that the barcode and QR code on every voting ballot could be scanned to see the unique stub number, serving as an ID for each ballot. This enables anyone who has a hold of the voted ballot to trace the choice and identity of the voter. Later, the ECT declared that the barcode and QR code served as precautionary measures to prevent fraud, and only authorized personnel would be able to access the data. Nonetheless, due to the high number of abnormalities observed throughout the election process, the public loses confidence in ECT’s competency to safeguard their data and demands accountability whether ECT’s negligence violates constitutional law.

As a result of these election discrepancies, many Thais are growing increasingly skeptical of the country’s democratic process. Looking ahead, the real question is not just about this election, but whether voting will still matter to the next generation. Thailand, voting remains one of the few channels through which civilians can exercise their political prerogatives, making it particularly unfortunate to see allegations of vote buying and other related malpractices. Despite the frustration, it is important for Thais not to lose hope in the democratic process, however limited it may be. The country has experienced repeated cycles of military coups and political instability, and voting remains one of the few tools available for citizens to express the future they wish to see.

Given Thailand’s history of coups and undemocratic transitions, these institutions are aware of the severe consequences if widespread electoral fraud were proven. While irregularities may exist, the controversies surrounding the 2026 election should not discourage citizens from voting or foster excessive pessimism toward the electoral process.

Edited by Nabil Haskanbancha, Editor-in-Chief

by Nurul Aini, TAF Correspondent for Singapore

Let me begin with a description of my favourite political meme. It emerged from the winds of Singapore’s General Elections in 2025 and has an undertone that reflects a busy work-driven Singapore, concerned with efficiency. This meme is posted by an Instagram account called “yeolo.sg” that has over 90,000 followers. The name of the account itself plays on the surname “Yeo” and the acronym “YOLO” (You Only Live Once). To add flavour, the “.sg” adds to the humorous nature of the account by making it sound like a legitimate (and very serious) website domain originating in Singapore. The aesthetics of this meme? It reads like a to-do list detailing what residents from the Jalan Kayu Single Member Constituency (SMC) should do “today.” The background is a blurred image of what is assumed to be the location of Jalan Kayu.

A Jalan Kayu SMC meme in the form of a to-do list posted by @yeolo.sg on 7 May 2025.

This meme emerged from a controversial episode in Singapore’s politics where Ng Chee Meng, the Member of Parliament (MP) for Jalan Kayu SMC and Secretary General of National Trade Union Congress (NTUC) had previously been exposed for supposedly making statements that sounded condescending in a dialogue with educators during a forum in 2017. The meme’s to-do-list references several incidents: the first item mocks Ng’s question to a room of literature teachers about the kinds of books they read, highlighting a binary between “serious” and “fiction”; the second refers to a separate controversy involving several ministers dining with Su Haijin, a Fujian gang member implicated in a money laundering case, who was said to have been present coincidentally; and the third item recalls another moment from the 2017 forum, when Ng instructed a teacher who had finished speaking to remain standing while the Minister was speaking to him. MP Ng explained that he cannot clearly recall the 2017 event but apologized for any lapses in conduct. He also declined to take up any further positions in government beyond his current role as MP. This meme compresses multiple serious political incidents into a satirical to-do list, offering a pointed example of political satire in the Singaporean context.

This rather cynical to-do list lives on as an example (among many) of political participation within the Singapore sphere through the use of humor, specifically political and social satire. This post has over 10,000 likes, a modest amount considering the country’s population, yet it demonstrates notable traction among internet users. While both quantitative and qualitative research would be required to fully understand why and how audiences engage with such content, we might begin by reflecting on our own experiences when encountering this type of satire. For instance, a single act of laughter or chuckle by a user behind the screen potentially reflects two things: (1) the way the meme subverts expectations by framing a cynical critique in the familiar form of a to-do list, and (2) the nature of its target audience, not just the MP, but also voters in Jalan Kayu who are implicitly framed as complicit or agreeable to these satirical commands. To understand the references from the get-go requires familiarity with recent political events particularly during election periods, highlighting the layered nature of political memes. The juxtaposition between the mundane format of a list and the seriousness of each item mirrors the confusion often felt during elections, where politically aware individuals must navigate competing narratives and decide where their loyalties lie.

Could memes of this nature serve as a way to increase political participation among Singaporeans, especially given the presence of laws like the Protection from Online Falsehoods and Manipulation Act (POFMA) and the tendency toward self-censorship in society? POFMA itself has been subjected to citizen pushback, debated publicly and flagged by Civicus Monitor as a law that restricts freedom of expression. The looming sense of fear through the existence of such laws could translate to citizens’ self-censorship. Yet Minister of Law K. Shanmugam insists that there is nothing in Singapore’s law that prevents citizens’ autonomy to express themselves, so long as they avoid attacking the race and religion of others. The overview above serves to demonstrate the sometimes conflicted perspectives in Singapore’s society on certain aspects of laws within the country, especially if it concerns citizens’ political expression. There are indeed intricacies to be navigated when it comes to Singapore’s laws on media reporting and political expression which are not within this article’s scope.

Instead, this article presents additional political memes to demonstrate how Singaporeans are actively overcoming their self-censorship. Here, I argue that complementary to conventional political engagement – such as petitioning, (restricted) protests, and dialogues with politicians – political memes function as a micro-form of participatory politics. Through digital and cultural means, citizens critique politicians’ behaviours, ideas, or actions. As such, memes can serve as a critical tool for fostering political participation and shaping public opinion. Moreover, memes with political and social satire also cultivate a sense of Singaporean identity through the use of colloquial language, such as Singlish (Singaporean English), thereby forming an online subculture.

This article analyzes three memes, taken mainly from local meme Instagram pages, to explore how digital satire fosters political and social participation among younger Singaporeans. Each meme incorporates niche local references and targets a digitally fluent audience familiar with online culture. The first meme presents a “Trade Offer” meme that reflects a candidate’s attempt at appealing to young voters who are struggling with job search. The second meme plays on the phrase “can is can,” a local expression of possibility, to suggest deeper intellectual commentary. The third meme shows a well-known politician portrayed as a tired local man, using humor to challenge authority and connect with a broader audience while questioning what it means to be Singaporean. The different variations of these memes then demonstrate efforts within the Singaporean social media sphere to increase political and social participation.

Memes can take on various formats such as texts, images and videos. Political memes, in particular, are a subset of a vast repository of memes that address issues related to politicians, power dynamics, and the concerns of the ordinary citizens. Within the context of the United States, political memes, as argued by Audrey Halversen and Brian E. Weeks have been used to “comment on the mistakes and hypocrisies of politicians” (2) and to spread “messages and calls to actions related to social movements, such as Occupy Wall Street and Black Lives Matter” (2). This has a democratizing effect where citizens are engaged with ongoing political unfoldings, and political movements while on-the-go. Social media features like saving, sharing, reposting, and publishing amplify the reach of these memes, allowing political critique and expressions of support to circulate widely in everyday life. Memes also serve additional functions. Its fusion of laughter and politically-oriented anger is ‘cathartic’ for its audience, and provides a space in which initial feelings of disagreement or bleak political realities are made more ‘palatable’ while validating emotional or intellectual dissent. Memes also allow users to “believe they are less vulnerable to criticism when they express a political opinion through an entertaining meme” (247), which signals that the content is not meant to be taken personally (247). With memes, audiences who wish to be more politically engaged are more likely to participate behind the veil of social media anonymity.

Within this anonymity lie further intricacies: memes have evolved into a distinct mode of communication, generating and spreading a unique language that blends structural and linguistic elements of humor. As meme content fluctuates between overt messages and cryptic references, their enigmatic nature can foster political discourse in a manner that feels safe and accessible, especially given their digital medium. At the same time, memes can be weaponized as an overly-simplified tool that reduces socially-important issues into laughable images with little real-world impact.

Ultimately, the difference between meaningful discourse and trivialization rests in the hands of internet users. As Nicholas Fang, Director of Security and Global Affairs at the Singapore Institute of International Affairs, notes, users have the power to decide whether such memes spark genuine conversations. Dr. Natalie Pang, a senior lecturer in Communications and New Media at the National University of Singapore’s Institute of Policy Studies, further observes that laughter can signal acceptance of the meme and its underlying message, suggesting a “conversational” exchange between the individual and the meme encountered.

Eventually, memes can serve as a lighthearted start to more serious conversations and should not become “thought stoppers” that hinder comprehensive and extensive social commentary on issues that affect people’s lives. Furthermore, The Straits Times, a news outlet in Singapore, has compiled a list of memes that have emerged during General Elections over the years, highlighting the significant impact of political memes on how the public remembers political candidates and key moments in Singapore’s political history. In a city-state where political apathy is arguably much more prominent, this also means that humor opens up space not only for engagement but also contentions in political discourse that prompts audiences to engage through posting and commenting on such memes.

Since memes have their own set of language, there are ways of reading and interpreting them. From being only funny images circulated for public online entertainment, memes can then be reconceptualised as a critical tool for dissent when appropriately read. Wee Yang Soh presents an epistemology in reading memes and argues that there are three “intersecting pieces of knowledge” (1122) needed in interpreting memes. He argues that “first, a recognition of the ‘meme-ness’ of the image (i.e. its mimetic chain); second, a comprehension of the image’s aesthetics; and finally, a familiarity of the ‘local’ event that the content of the meme is implicitly referencing” (1122). Here, Soh suggests that a meme works well when users recognise the origins of the meme by identifying any distortions from the original catalyst. Although the source material may not be humorous, structural modifications – especially when political content is woven into the meme’s design – create its comedic effect. This sometimes can come in the form of appropriation and juxtaposition. For instance, using the structure of news reports to ‘report’ on unserious matters. Additionally, Soh also insists that users understand how the various aspects of the meme – although seemingly ‘casual’ or fragmented in its aesthetics – are pieced together into a cohesive laughable object. Most importantly, Soh contends that users must already be familiar with the news or events being referenced to fully grasp a meme’s meaning, especially when comprehension is the goal.

Much like reading a literary text with a pen in hand, standing before an artwork in a museum while intently searching for meaning, or watching movies with eye for symbolism, the interpretation of memes requires attentiveness to detail and a willingness to pause – uncovering the seriousness beneath the seemingly unserious. That is, to read between the lines that such humor conceals. Furthermore, much like the practice of intertextuality in literary interpretation, it is crucial for interpreters of memes to recognize the “mimetic chain of the meme itself” (1122) where its recognition as a meme requires the “consumer to make an interdiscursive leap to read each chain against the other. The latter is recruited as an evaluative typification of the former, and thus they mutually co-textualize each other” (1124). In other words, as the meme evolves from one structure to another, the recognition of this change alongside the content engineered into it, drives its politicization.

As such, the ambiguity in such memes allows meme creators and users in general to participate in “digital activism,” or “digital resistance”: not resistance to digitalisation itself, but rather the use of digital platforms to express political dissent or, ironically, to educate the public through unconventional means. Though merely virtual and deemed as insignificant in light of more ‘grounded’ forms of protests, memes ground themselves as “political artifacts” (1119). That in its inherent politicalness, it initiates the user into the meme’s humor through laughter. The labour of ‘excavating’ these memes thus reconceptualizes laughter as a political act and a cynical form of protest that leaves the imagined subject of laughter momentarily stunned and confused.

Particularly for political memes, they can act as a form of “semi-journalism” that provide ongoing political commentary while allowing users to make sense of various political unfoldings (239). Take, for example, this meme taking a jab at an opposition candidate:

Meme with Samuel Lee (previously from the People’s Power Party)’s face transposed on a different body posted by @memediacorp on 3 May 2025. Lee had joined the party in late 2023 and went viral for singing during a media interview when running for elections in 2025.

This image transposes the head of the candidate onto a male body draped in suit, with hands gestured in all the seriousness of an important deal while the phrase “Trade Offer” looms above the body. This signifies that users must now pay attention. The deal, however, is a trade offer that exchanges the candidate’s singing in return for a vote. The choice of the candidate is not without its significance. Samuel Lee who had previously been from the PPP had adapted the tune of a Chinese song called “I’m Just a Tiny Bird” from its original language and had sung it live during a media interview. This was an attempt to echo the sentiments of youths who are struggling with job search. While the video itself was widely circulated and became a meme reappropriated over and over again, the act of creating what Soh has previously mentioned as a “mimetic chain” through another pictorial meme only proves the point of a mise-en-abyme effect of memes that travels at a rapid pace as meme creators (and non-meme creators) capitalizes and appropriates these memes into engaging and relatable references. While the meme doesn’t offer factual election updates, it can spark curiosity about how candidates try to appear more relatable, serving both as a political icebreaker and a subtle critique of their campaign strategies.

Beyond the general elections, memes in Singapore also act as a continuous act of participatory democracy, hinging upon the use of diverse permutations of the English language. This following meme is a rather niche meme that uses Singlish (Singaporean English):

Meme in the form of Instagram story format (left) and its caption (right) posted by @yeolo.sg on 16 September 2025. The caption fuses a sentence from the widely circulated passionate speech by the National Solidarity Party (NSP)’s Choon Hong Heng in 2015 during his rally, with the Singaporean slang “can is can.”

The phrase “can is can” is a vocabulary in Singlish that denotes the possibility of doing something. Say, for example, you propose an idea for a group project, your teammate would respond with either “can is can!” to affirm their agreement of your idea or “can is can but…” before jumping in with disagreement on any aspects of the matter. In this meme, to “clock in another shift” in the “can is can factory,” satirizes the use of this phrase. It suggests that certain possibilities remain merely possibilities but it can also mean that Singaporeans have no choice but to have an incredibly positive mindset to push through another work day. Additionally, conceptualizing Singapore as a “factory” exacerbates the notion of a work-oriented nation. The use of Singlish in memes, in my opinion, amplifies the uniqueness of critique within the Singaporean sphere. As a mode of communication that was built from the ground-up among the community in the early 1970s as a linguistic phenomenon that traverses language barriers, Singlish had been the target of the “Speak Good English Movement” (SGEM) by the Singapore government in April 2000. In contemporary times, as argued by Dr Daniel Chan, a senior Lecturer at the Centre for Language Studies from National University of Singapore, Singlish is identified as an essential element of Singapore’s national identity (despite claims of it as “broken English”) and the switching between Singlish and standard English can be categorised as a mode of translanguaging that demonstrates how global communication and local identity can coexist. In relation to fostering social identity, one of the reasons users engage with memes is the sense of relatedness through “shared beliefs, experiences, norms, and cultural elements” (242). Evidently, the “content or semantic of memes can create this feeling of relatedness” (242). Hence, Singlish as a mode of fostering national identity structured into a meme reaffirms that this deceptively simple meme indeed promotes a sense of belonging through the use of slang while being a means of social commentary that poses solidarity with fellow Singaporeans.

Apart from edited images, niche language references and academic re-imagination, Singaporean political memes also resort to overly simplistic language in a bid to deliver their message. Consider this meme, for example, where both posts are posted consecutively, stretching the boundary of its ‘meme-ness’ across two posts.

A series of memes with former Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong described as a local man posted by @thepressingtimes.sg on Instagram on 15 April 2024 (right) and 16 April 2024 (left). During this time, Lee had announced that he was stepping down as Prime Minister of Singapore.

This meme is particularly striking in its characterization of Lee as a “local man” who is “done” with his job as Prime Minister, conveying a nonchalant tone. The picture on the right, nonetheless, showcases him with a big smile. Coupling this with the headline echoes a sentiment of the common citizen who is elated to resign from his job. Yet, the juxtaposition of the picture on the left is what brings out its humor. The headline supposedly refers to the clarification done by Lee that despite stepping down as Prime Minister, he will continue serving as a Member of Parliament. Thus, he becomes a local man returning to work. While Lee’s real life statement echoes that of positive commitment, the meme humorously portrays him as a reluctant employee, reinforcing a broader commentary on the exhausting nature of work. While not necessarily reflecting Lee’s own sentiments, the meme serves to reflect the idea of the local individual tied to working which, in this case, is presented as an exhausting process.

Accompanying caption to post posted on 15 April 2024 by @thepressingtimes.sg

Moreover, the caption to this meme flattens the pomposity often associated with transitions of power, portraying the handover as simply a Chinese Singaporean man who is “done” with his work. By juxtaposing Lee’s position as an important politician with plain, non-descriptive language, the meme resists dramatic news headlines and instead portrays this event as yet another occurrence to move past. The oft-repeated usage of “done” without any further elaborations on the exact scope of being “done” suggests a rather blasè tone, exacerbating the idea of an exhausted local working man who only wishes to leave his job. By pointing out that the statement of “I am done” is made “gleefully or fearfully,” the meme also highlights the uncertainty that comes with quitting a job, mirroring public anxieties about employment more than Lee’s uncertainty.

While the meme updates viewers on Lee’s resignation as Prime Minister, it also powerfully reflects the broader exhaustion around job-related decision making. As a page for political satire, The Pressing Times claims non-partisanship and seeks to add nuance to political discourse through ironic humor. Despite having to navigate a landscape where satire could be misinterpreted as spreading fake news, its creators emphasize the goal of encouraging media literacy by prompting viewers to fact-check. Like the Samuel Lee meme and the “can is can” meme, this post updates audiences on political changes while using simple, relatable language to reflect or construct Singaporean social identity.

All in all, the continual creation of such memes is a relatively ‘safer’ and candid way to bypass the culture of self-censorship. In its content, it serves to echo citizens’ sentiment and sometimes amplifies concerns overlooked by the general public. In its presentation of differing opinions, memes can function to boost or influence collective consciousness surrounding political events and figures. In their form, through the utilization of niche local languages, memes can promote national unity by validating the unspoken negative emotions associated with societal norms (i.e. being expected to always be 100% efficient in the workplace). Thus, memes remain vital to political and social engagement within the digital sphere: a means of political persuasion whose art must be preserved and whose power should remain in the hands of ordinary people.

Edited by Nabil Haskanbancha, Editor-in-Chief

by Muhammad Rayhansyah Jasin, TAF Correspondent for Indonesia

Professor Muhtadi, Dr. Warburton, and Dr. Gammon (2025), in their article about Indonesian youth democratic behaviour, opine that the contemporary generation is unaware of the threats to foundations of democracy: “...while Indonesia’s post-reformasi generation share democratic values, they appear unalert to present and potential threats to that democracy.”

As a part of that post-reformasi generation, I am disturbed by the sobering realization that a significant portion of young people in Indonesia do not feel affected by politics, and thus pay no attention to the ongoing democratic struggle. However, this situation does not happen in a vacuum as democratic and civic education has been largely ignored in the national education system. Muhtadi et al (2025) described that Indonesia’s youth political preferences display a form of complacent democracy, where satisfaction of the Gen Z cohort towards the state of democracy is significantly higher and grows faster than other generations. Indonesian Gen Z is defined as those who were born after the 1998 Reformasi period, and grew up under the political climate of democratic elections. This positive perception is in stark contrast with the worsening quality of Indonesia’s democracy, measured by the Freedom House (2024), the BTI Transformation Index (2025), and the Economist Intelligence Unit (2024). Degradation of the democratic principles also coincided with the decline in the Corruption Perception Index, from 40 in 2019 to 34 in 2023 (Transparency International, 2025). Both phenomena happened during the second five-year term of former President Joko Widodo, with numerous literature labeling this period as the moment in history where Indonesia’s democracy backslid (Petlach & Říčanová, 2025; Fossati, 2024; Mietzner, 2024).

Muhtadi and his peers presented the paradox of the Indonesian post-reformasi generation being more lenient and tolerative to democratic struggle unlike contemporary literature describing the historical roles of Pemuda, the Indonesian phrase for youth aged 15 - 30, in Indonesia’s national resistance. Pemuda has been understood as a core element in both the Indonesian independence movement and reform waves in the late 1960s. This is in response to President Soekarno’s failing regime due to the 1965 Coup resulting in hyperinflation periods, and in the 1998-1999 Reformasi movement that brought President Soeharto’s 32-year dictatorship to an end. Such strong civil responsibility displayed by Pemuda also corresponds to the ‘Life-Cycle’ theory which contends that younger people exhibit more progressive values and risk-taking actions, as responsible duties are still limited to individuals, compared to older generations that are more risk-averse and prefer maintaining status quo (Dalton, 1977). On the contrary, the Cohort theory argues that inter-generational value and norm changes happen as a reflection of specific historical, cultural, economic, and social experience in different periods by different changes (Inglehart, 2000).

Although all generational cohorts: Interwars (born between 1918 - 1943), Baby Boomers (1944 - 1964), Generation X (1965 - 1980), Millennials (1981 - 1996), and Gen Z (post-reformasi generation) showed a parallel increase of democratic satisfaction with age in accordance with the ‘Life-Cycle’ theory. Muhtadi and his team found that Gen Z’s democratic satisfaction, in their 20s, was the highest compared to other cohorts, giving credit to the ‘Cohort’ theory. Gen Z’s democratic satisfaction steadily grew from 66% in the beginning of Jokowi’s first-term in 2014, to 73% by 2022, the highest among all generations. This democratic leniency by Indonesia’s post-reformasi generation also correlates significantly with the fact that 71% of Gen Z voted for Prabowo’s candidacy and thus became his biggest supporters (Muhtadi & Muslim, 2024).

When asked about their reasons to vote for Prabowo, surprisingly Gen Z respondents had a positive image of him independent of their satisfaction towards Jokowi. Particularly, Gen Z who ‘strongly agree’ to the idea of a strong leader that is willing to bypass the parliament in getting things done are 80% more likely to vote for Prabowo, who is generally seen as a tough leader himself. At the same time, among Gen Z who confirms Prabowo’s gemoy image, the campaign branding strategy to paint Prabowo as a ‘relatable and accessible’ cuddly-grandpa, is very likely to vote for him with an almost 1-to-1 positive correlation. Ironically, this post-reformasi generation is also more likely to be skeptical of Prabowo’s involvement in the mass kidnapping of activists in the lead up to the 1997-1998 Reformasi Movement.

Unsurprisingly, Prabowo’s ascendency to Indonesia’s position of power is eerily similar to what also happened with President Ferdinand Marcos, Jr.’s (colloquially known as ‘Bong-Bong’) victory in the 2022 Philippines General Election. Just like Indonesia’s post-reformasi generation never having lived under Prabowo’s ex father in-law’s dictatorship, Filipino Gen Z never got to live through the atrocities committed by Bong-Bong’s father and the former President Ferdinand Marcos, during his martial rule. Yet, the findings of Muhtadi et al. (2025) and Dulay et al. (2023) present a different picture- that young people in both countries have grown fond of Prabowo and Marcos Jr. due to their personal affinities and social media campaigns. Furthermore, Dulay et al (2023) also found that voters of Bong-Bong are more likely to have a positive image of Marcos Sr’s. martial rule- some even called it the Philippines’ golden period. Respondents who perceived such were measured to be five times more likely to support Bong-Bong while also approved of his predecessor’s (former President Rodrigo Duterte) time in the office despite democratic backsliding being persistent during this period (Kasuya et al, 2022).

Southeast Asia has seen multiple arising and downfall of both benevolent dictators, such as Lee Kuan Yew in Singapore, Hassanal Bolkiah in Brunei, and Mahathir Mohammad in Malaysia, and authoritarian rulers, like Suharto in Indonesia, Marcos Sr. in the Philippines, and Pol Pot in Cambodia. Such affinities to dictator rulers can be correlated with the increase in birth rate in those countries post World-War as observed by Hannes Weber (2012) where he found significant negative connections between high proportion of young men to democratic instability and emergence of dictatorship. However what differentiates these leaders of the past with contemporary leaders is that, currently in many of these countries they are voted in by their public through free and fair democratic processes. Yet, without significant oversight from civil societies, especially through critical scrutiny by the youth, regular elections will become much less effective and transformed into a periodical ritual with no meaningful change of power in the governments. The fact that complacent democracy characteristics are observed in both Indonesia and the Philippines, two of the biggest democracies in Asia, means ASEAN might regress to a period of self-elected strongmen.

Democratic backsliding not only threatens the integrity of law and protection against minorities, it would also make countries more prone to poor governance conduct due to lack of meritocratic recruitment which leads to damaging economic downturns for all countries. Most of the strongmen in the past mentioned here were removed from power during periods of economic crisis and mega-corruption scandals.

Nevertheless, when collective awareness grows and organized youth movements take place, Gen Z has proven to be a very important catalyst in ushering new reforms. The successful regime change that took place in Nepal and Bangladesh, spurred by public distrust against corrupt leaderships and failure to deliver an inclusive development agenda, were primarily led and initiated by Gen Z (Mohan, 2025; Kabir, 2025; Ellis-Petersen & Pokharel, 2025). Although marred by multiple tragedies and riots that led to destruction of many public buildings, Gen Z in both countries still managed to show what youth activism could bring about, given the right circumstances. Post-Reformasi generation in Indonesia might be less aware of the democratic erosion in the lead up to the 2024 General Elections. Yet, so many people were also caught off-guard with Jokowi’s 180-degree heel turn as an autocratic ruler and his illiberal legacy (Lamb & Teresia, 2024). Only time will tell whether the youth of the future could regain their critical perspective on Indonesia’s democracy to prevent further slides towards dictatorship and affinity for strongmen of the past.

Edited by Nishiha Jasper David, Frontier Analysis Editor

WASHINGTON, DC – Conflicts, trade wars, inequality, and democratic decay fill today’s headlines. Each crisis appears to be feeding the next, and it can feel as though the world is coming apart. Western leaders and thinkers have embraced a single word to capture this entanglement of threats: “polycrisis.”

Adam Tooze, the Columbia University historian who helped popularize the term, summarized its appeal in 2023: “Here is your fear, here is something that fundamentally distresses you. This is what it might be called.” But when fear becomes the central theme, the result can only be angst and paralysis, as Mark Leonard observed after the 2024 World Economic Forum in Davos.

Crises, however, are not necessarily followed by collapse. In fact, disruption has often paved the way for renewal – but only for those who were willing to let go of the old order.

With that in mind, I see the same moment through a different lens – as polytunity, a term I coined in a November 2024 Project Syndicate commentary and then later elaborated at the United Nations Development Program. The idea is simple: Simultaneous disruptions offer a once-in-a-generation opportunity for the deep transformation of global institutions and ideas. When everything seems to crumble at once, we are forced to go beyond patchwork solutions and redesign systems from the ground up.

For starters, we should recognize that the polycrisis is a Western-centric narrative masquerading as global. Two European theorists coined the word in 1993, while another European expert popularized it recently. A Western-based summit of elites gave the term a prominent platform, prompting its viral amplification by Western media, think tanks, and academics.

Despite constant lamentations about a “ghastly future,” the conversation on polycrisis rarely, if ever, acknowledges the agency of the non-Western world – nowadays euphemistically called the “Global South” – or the solutions it has offered. Even as some theorists call for “Renewed Humanism,” they fail to confront the reality of a structurally unequal order and growing frustrations with it. Western dominance of international finance and institutions persists, while non-Western ideas and voices remain marginalized in supposedly global canons.

The establishment favors the language of polycrisis because it obscures the root causes of global breakdowns, making them appear like natural disasters. In reality, today’s overlapping crises can be traced back to the industrial-colonial paradigm that has prevailed since the Industrial Revolution, a worldview that defined progress as control: mechanical control over nature, and Western control over the rest of the world.

To be sure, that chapter of modernization produced immense material and social gains. But it also sowed the seeds of our current predicament. Global warming, the defining crisis of our time, is the result of an extractive industrial model, supported by a trading system in which workers in poor countries manufacture for low pay what consumers in rich countries purchase in excess.

The industrial-colonial paradigm has expired in a hyper-complex, multipolar world. We need a new mindset – which I call AIM: Adaptive, Inclusive, and Moral Political Economy. To be adaptive is to govern societies not as crude machines, but as living networks that learn and evolve. To be inclusive is to recognize that progress depends on using what you have, which means mobilizing local creativity rather than copying the models of the rich and powerful. And to be moral is to acknowledge that ideas are shaped by power, and to redress this imbalance.

Over the course of decades of research, I have studied China – as well as other countries – through the lens of AIM. In my book How China Escaped the Poverty Trap, I traced development not as a linear path, but as a co-evolutionary process, marked by a recursive feedback loop (Adaptive). This analysis showed that the strategies that create new markets can look starkly different from standard prescriptions for “good institutions” (Inclusive). Then, in China’s Gilded Age, I challenged the Orientalist assumption of “Chinese exceptionalism,” revealing that China’s trajectory mirrors forgotten Western histories, not the mythologized versions taught in textbooks (Moral).

AIM provides a compass for thinking and policymaking in an age when the global majority is increasingly taking ownership of its own development, rather than following Western formulas or waiting to be rescued from poverty through aid.

Consider, for example, that China, India, and Saudi Arabia are investing heavily in clean energy, while sub-Saharan African countries are experimenting with energy leapfrogging. And as US tariffs shrink export options to high-income markets for late developers like Vietnam and Ethiopia, South-South trade is surpassing North-South trade in volume.

On the intellectual front, the experts most qualified to teach about the “political economy of justice” and “circular economy” are not philosophers or consultants in Europe and North America, but indigenous groups who have long protected ecosystems, despite centuries of dispossession.

Polytunity is not a call for naive optimism in the face of existential threats. Instead, it represents purposeful realism that draws on the creativity of a genuinely global community, not a single region or privileged class. Nor does it promote platitudes or vibes. Polytunity is a constructive agenda grounded in an empirical foundation. Applied correctly and seriously, it should change the way we study and tackle a range of challenges, not least development.

What we are witnessing is not the end of progress, but rather the end of the industrial-colonial paradigm and the beginning of another – if we have the conviction to develop it.


Yuen Yuen Ang is the Alfred Chandler Chair Professor of Political Economy at Johns Hopkins University. To read Ang’s work, visit her official website by clicking here or Polytunity (on Substack).

Copyright: Project Syndicate, 2025.

www.project-syndicate.org

Edited by Thant Thura Zan, Frontier Analysis Editor

Developing Malaysia’s highly lucrative rare earth industry can significantly strengthen its geostrategic importance and generate broad-based economic wealth. Done right, it could create shared prosperity; done wrong, it will create shared consequences. To make this a win for Malaysians, the Federal Government must lead with strategy and clarity, execute safely, and balance competing interests — between federal vs. state royalties, private sector players, and foreign powers. This analysis explains why Malaysia must move forward despite the risks and how the country can successfully navigate the many challenges involved.

Setting the global context

Should X mark the spot, the treasure will lie squarely in Malaysia. Sitting upon 16.2 million tonnes of Rare Earth Elements (REEs) deposits coveted by much of the world, these elements represent a once-in-a-generation opportunity to reshape the country’s future. Holding fantastical names like neodymium, praseodymium, or dysprosium, these tongue-twisting elements hint at their outsized roles in modern life. Take neodymium and praseodymium as an example. They go into the strong magnets used in EV motors and wind turbines. Other rare earths polish smartphone screens and enable radar, navigation, and secure communications.

Understanding the complex REEs value chain

From mine to magnet, the chain is long and failure-prone. It starts with mining hard-rock ores or ion-adsorption clays and concentrating them. The concentrate is cracked and leached, then separated into individual rare-earth oxides. Those oxides are reduced to metals, alloyed, and formed into magnets — with REEs for heat-tolerant grades. Each step generates complex (and dangerously nasty) waste streams and demands tight quality control. Most of the value and technical risk sit in the middle: separation, metals/alloys, and magnet-making. These stages capture the lion’s share of the value chain, while simply digging hard-rock ores yields but a fraction.

The market size of rare earths varies between USD 3.9–13 billion in 2024, and is expected to more than double to USD 6–28 billion by 2030, according to estimates from Malaysia’s Science, Technology, and Innovation Ministry.

The market, however, is dominated by a single country. China accounts for roughly 70% of mine output and close to 90% of processing and magnet production, a dominance reinforced by tightened export controls on technologies and magnet products.

Other notable players include Australia and the United States, who have upstream supply with midstream capabilities. Meanwhile, Vietnam and Myanmar have notable resources, with Myanmar being a volatile but major source of heavy rare earths flowing into China. Japan remains a magnet powerhouse, while Malaysia plays within the midstream space.

Significantly, Malaysia is the largest non-Chinese midstream separator. Its Lynas plant in Kuantan has lifted NdPr oxide nameplate capacity to ~10,500 tonnes per year and, in 2025, began producing dysprosium and terbium oxides, making Malaysia the key non-China processing hub.

Geopolitics and electrification drive demand

With China dominating the rare-earth midstream and having proven willing to weaponize its control through export bans on related technologies and magnets, world powers are responding in kind. The United States reacted with the Defense Production Act: the Pentagon has backed an end-to-end high-performance magnet (NdFeB) supply chain with MP Materials, with the US Department of War guaranteeing a price floor twice the current Chinese market level. Japan, stung in 2010 when Beijing effectively choked shipments after the Senkaku trawler incident, diversified supply and strategically set up joint ventures with Lynas to create the world’s only operational heavy rare earth supply chain outside China’s control. The European Union, having ceded ground in the midstream chain, is now executing the critical raw materials act, which sets a 2030 benchmark for 40% of processing to occur inside the bloc.

With supply chains bifurcating and export controls hardening, governments’ friend-shoring of critical inputs is a major demand driver. The IEA’s latest risk work shows why: even if global balances look adequate, excluding the largest supplier leaves rare earths with only ~35–40% of demand covered in 2035, underscoring the push for alternative production sites.

Electrification is also accelerating demand. The IEA expects clean-energy uses of rare earths to climb from about 16 kt in 2023 to 46 kt in 2030 and 64 kt in 2040. Total rare-earth demand rises from roughly 93 kt to 169 kt over the same timeframe.

Furthermore, downstream engines are moving fast: global EV sales topped ~17 million in 2024 with strong growth expected into 2030–35, while the wind sector added a record 117 GW in 2024 and is on track for ~1 TW of new installs by 2030. Even in conservative cases, these point to a premium on credible, clean midstream capacity and diversified magnet supply.

For Malaysian policymakers and investors, the opportunity is clear: the money sits midstream to downstream, and that honeypot is getting ever sweeter. Upstream mining, in contrast, delivers thin margins while burdening it with environmental and physical risk. The route to real returns is moving credibly up the chain (think separation, metals/alloys, and magnet production), where value compounds and diplomatic leverage grow.

But is the decision matrix this simple?

Like a poison that tastes sweet before the bitter consequences, rare earths expose Malaysia to two key risks: toxic residues that endanger public health and the environment, and geopolitical radiation that seeps into its foreign policy and national security calculus.

So where, precisely, does Malaysia stand, and how can the country build a durable advantage?

Positioning Malaysia to win in a USD 160 billion rare earths race

Malaysia is estimated to hold 16.2 million metric tonnes of inferred rare earth resources across Terengganu, Kelantan, Kedah, Perak, and Sarawak. With such a broad geological footprint, the potential payoff is enormous. The national mineral industry transformation plan 2021–2030 estimates that Malaysia’s rare earth reserves could be worth as much as USD 160 billion—an opportunity too significant for the country to overlook.

Should the nation build an integrated rare earth ecosystem, connecting upstream mining all the way to super magnet production, government estimates put an eye-watering figure of USD 3 billion in revenue by 2030. This is almost 10% of Malaysia’s GDP in 2024 figures.

Should it come to fruition, Malaysia is estimated to increase its market share of REEs production from 4% to 9% by 2030, becoming a significant alternative supplier of REE feedstock and a backup of last resort for major global powers.

With such reserves, how should Malaysia strategize its expansion into REEs?

One may expect an upstream mining boom to capture fast economic gains, but as argued previously, mining ores itself has little economic value. The competitive advantage is not of abundance, but of restraint.

Therefore, Malaysia’s REEs strategy is to capitalise on its midstream capabilities to scale in parallel both mid- and downstream activities, and only connect its upstream feedstock when production reaches scale economics. Thus, in September 2023, the government announced a ban on exports of raw rare earths, explicitly forcing value-added processing at home. The policy is held through 2025, and is now reinforced by standard operating procedures for non-radioactive rare earth element mining distributed to state governments.

This is complemented by its existing midstream industry. Malaysia already hosts Lynas’ separation plant in Pahang — the largest processor of rare earths outside China — providing midstream capabilities that most peers lack.

Leaning into this strategy further, Malaysia has just announced plans with foreign partners to establish a 3,000-tonne neodymium magnet plant in Pahang, a first step in anchoring downstream capability next to midstream feedstock.

Regionally, Malaysia is better placed to come out on top. Vietnam is re-benchmarking its resource base after the USGS significantly revised reserves downward in 2025, delaying timelines. Myanmar remains a dominant external supplier of heavy rare earths to China, but conflict volatility undermines reliability. Indonesia is exploring REEs from tin by-products, but is still solving for technologies and cost structures.

Building a domestic REEs industry also sits within Malaysia’s wider strategic industrial policies. Spillovers to growth come from integrating midstream with selective downstream products, linking together NIMP2030 missions to create a connected industrial cluster around the Kuantan-Peninsular corridors.

Lastly, being able to produce these critical REEs increases Malaysia’s importance to its international allies. In future trade negotiations with partners like the US or China, preferential access to their markets can be bargained for with their highly sought-after REEs products. Further cross-investment and partnerships with governments into REEs create solidarity, tightening woven threads of shared outcomes.

By establishing an REE industry, Malaysia can become a country that produces a truly indispensable commodity. From mines to magnet, this is how a minerals story becomes an industrial policy and strategic win.

Balancing serious risks to health, environment, corruption, and geopolitics

For all the benefits outlined above, the risks are equally, if not more, dangerous. What lies ahead will be a gigantic test of Malaysia’s ability to manage the risks to (i) public health, (ii) environment, (iii) corruption, and (iv) geo-strategic tensions.

Malaysia’s 1980s failed rare earth experiment

Malaysians remember the 1982 Bukit Merah saga all too well. Roughly 11,000 residents in Papan and Bukit Merah were exposed to radioactive waste from yttrium and thorium, with long-lasting repercussions that resulted in deformed births, early death, and at least eight cases of leukaemia reported.

The tragedy was compounded by the government’s failure to protect its citizens. First by dismissing reports of foul odours and rising health problems, then by siding with the operator, Asian Rare Earths, and allowing the plant to run for more than a decade. Only after residents invited international atomic experts did tests reveal radiation levels 88 times above accepted limits and improper waste dumping far beyond permitted thresholds.

Despite this, the community endured an eight-year legal battle that ended in defeat when the Supreme Court overturned a ruling to shut the plant. The ordeal dragged on until residents appealed directly to Mitsubishi Corp in Japan, prompting top-level intervention and mounting public pressure that finally forced the plant’s closure in 1994-twelve years after operations began, and long after the suffering had taken root.

(i) Public health regulation playing catch-up

Rare earth processing can concentrate thorium and uranium, creating radiological risks to public health if residues are mismanaged. The same radioactive waste in the Bukit Merah saga, thorium, has a half-life of 13.9 billion years. Even though the plant closed in 1994, it was only 21 years later in 2015 did the authorities build a permanent storage facility in Bukit Kledang to safely monitor it.

Malaysia’s painful history with rare earth processing has pushed regulators to tighten oversight. Lynas is a major test. Its Permanent Disposal Facility (PDF), now 72% complete and due by end-2026, must meet strict AELB requirements, including detailed engineering plans and ensuring residue stays below 1 becquerel per gram. Government estimates suggest public exposure remains under the 1 millisievert-per-year limit. Lynas must also scale thorium extraction to reduce radioactive waste and has committed 1% of its revenue to local R&D.

On paper, these are meaningful safeguards. But like most problems in Malaysia, implementation is often the issue. Civil society groups warn of limited transparency on the radiological profile of WLP residue and doubts about the PDF’s long-term integrity. If safeguards fail, the health burden will fall on nearby communities.

(ii) Mining vs Environment: A natural tension between growth and preservation

In Malaysia, projected mining zones include over 144,000 hectares outside permanent forest reserves, according to the Minerals and Geoscience Department.

In Perak, proposed lanthanide extraction in Kenering lies near the headwaters of Sungai Rui, putting Orang Asli communities in nearby Kampung Pong and Bukit Asu at risk. Their water sources could be contaminated, especially given that mining may increase concentrations of ammonium and thorium in surface and groundwater. The site is also in an environmentally sensitive area rank 1, part of the Central Forest Spine – a critical corridor for endangered species like tigers and elephants.

On top of environmental concerns, mining activities often displace entire small villages. Take, for example, the Orang Asli community in Kampung Pos Lanai (Pahang), who are fighting legal battles over a 220-hectare mining approval around Sungai Wang — land they claim as ancestral. They lament that mining would not only destroy forest held under customary use, but also pollute rivers that they rely on.

Ultimately, any REEs policy requires the government to be intentional from the start on protecting the environment and the community. Longer term, Malaysia should continue to invest in safer extraction technologies and rare-earth recycling to reduce reliance on high-risk sites.

(ii) Uneven State vs Federal regulations create an opportunity for corruption to fester

In Malaysia, mining remains largely a state matter — states grant exploration and mining licences under their own State Mineral Enactments, while the federal government sets overarching norms via the Mineral Development Act (1994), the Atomic Energy Licensing Act (1984), and the Environmental Quality Act (1974).

This dual system regularly creates friction: enforcement is uneven across states, while royalty rates vary wildly (for instance, Kedah has set a 15% royalty on rare-earth elements starting in 2024). Meanwhile, the lack of a unified federal-state compact on permitting procedures, environmental data transparency, and enforcement funding means that policy signals remain mixed – and the door remains wide open to corruption and cronyism.

Revenue-sharing is especially murky. Although REE is pitched as an RM 1 trillion industry, there are no plans to set up a dedicated national REE-specific law; states like Kedah resist centralised control, seeing in-state resource control as part of their sovereign rights.

Consider comparative examples below from fellow countries that highlight both the risks and different models to manage them.

In Australia, states control mineral rights, but transparent royalty schedules and federal oversight allow national-level intervention to protect critical habitats, as seen in the Tarkine rainforest dispute. In Brazil, fragmented state oversight contributed to disasters like the Samarco (2015) and Brumadinho (2019) dam collapses, prompting federal reforms: a strengthened mining regulator, mandatory tailings standards, and disaster-risk reporting.

Closer to ASEAN, Indonesia recently re-centralised mining under the 2020 Mining Law after widespread provincial corruption and illegal concessions. The federal government now directly oversees permitting and environmental compliance, especially for critical minerals like rare earths.

Across these examples, the lesson is clear: transparent federal oversight and enforceable standards are essential to prevent regulatory capture, environmental harm, and revenue loss. These are lessons Malaysia must heed for a credible REE industry.

(iv) The international spotlight on Malaysia can be glaring

The world is moving from de-risking to active industrial policy. China has tightened controls on rare earth technologies and magnet exports; the EU now hard-targets domestic processing; the US is using Defense Production Act (DPA) funds to reshore magnets and recycling.

With Malaysia playing a larger role in such a critical industry, the upside is the growing influence and diplomatic standing of Malaysia in the global arena. The downside is the intervention attempts that come from attraction.

History is littered with examples of great powers intervening in foreign sovereignty to serve their domestic politics. Look to examples of oil in the Middle East in the early 2000s to the 1800s spice trade in India, today’s increasingly multi-polar nationalist world echoes lessons from the past.

In a bifurcating world, Malaysia’s neutrality is its strongest resource. Hedging both sides is the country’s best bet. It is when its rare earths industry combines investment and technologies from the US, Europe, and China (among others) that Malaysia can create a common beneficial outcome among all stakeholders.

That said, neutrality requires competence. Capable leaders must screen investments, insist on technology access, and avoid single-buyer dependence — without collapsing into bloc politics.

The tide turns for Malaysia’s rare earths

From poison to prosperity, this is Malaysia’s rare earth moment. In a once-in-a-generation moment, the stars align for the country. It has sizable inferred resources, an existing midstream beachhead, a policy that restricts raw exports, and an industrial plan that prioritizes advanced manufacturing. All of this is reinforced by strong demand tailwinds from global supply-chain restructuring driven by geopolitics, as well as the continued rise of renewable electrification.

It is worth repeating. Malaysia’s leverage lies not in abundance, but in restraint. It is the quiet confidence that comes from just, responsible, and clean execution.

In a world short of trust, selling reliability may be the most valuable product Malaysia can make.

Edited by Thant Thura Zan, Frontier Analysis Editor

In 1968, an alleged massacre of Muslim army recruits in Manila sparked the formation of the Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF), igniting an armed struggle for independence. Over the following three decades, the conflict claimed the lives of approximately 120,000 people and displaced an estimated two million others. However, the roots of this conflict could be traced back to the 1500s, when the Muslim population of Mindanao began experiencing systemic discrimination and marginalisation under the Spanish colonial rule (1565-1898) , followed by the U.S. colonial administration (1898-1945).

During these periods, both colonial powers encouraged and facilitated the migration of Christian settlers and businessmen from the northern and central Philippines, alongside the establishment of transnational corporations. These groups settled in lands traditionally farmed and occupied by Muslim and indigenous communities. The dispossession of Moro lands was legitimised through the imposition of colonial property regimes that prioritized individual titling, transfer, and large-scale ownership systems over Moro’s traditional system of communal ownership and stewardship of property. The process of displacement by colonial powers was compounded by persistent state neglect that failed to address local grievances, coupled with political repression, militarisation, and discrimination towards Muslim and indigenous peoples, which fueled the decades-long conflict that followed.

After more than three decades of conflict, the Government of the Republic of the Philippines (GRP) and the MNLF signed the 1996 Final Peace Agreement, granting autonomy to several Muslim-majority provinces in Mindanao.

While this agreement successfully led to the demobilisation of the MNLF, a sub-group known as the Moro Islamic Liberation Front emerged (MILF), rejecting the terms of the 1996 Final Peace Agreement. This development prompted the signing of a bilateral ceasefire in 1997 and the initiation of formal peace agreements in 1999.

The peace process between the GRP and the MILF spanned 17 years, experiencing major obstacles in 2001, 2003, and 2008. The 2008 breakdown of negotiations triggered a severe political and humanitarian crisis, displacing approximately 500,000 people within weeks and resulted in one of the world’s most significant humanitarian emergencies at that time.

On 27 March 2014, the GRP and the MILF signed a Comprehensive Agreement on the Bangsamoro, formally ending the armed conflict that had begun in 1969, a conflict that claimed over 120,000 lives and displaced an additional two million people. The agreement established a new self-governing entity known as the Bangsamoro Autonomous Region, governed by the officials and key commanders of the MILF. Despite this achievement, the Philippines continues to face challenges posed by violent extremism, feuding political and ethnic clans, and separatist movements led by other militant groups. The crisis in Mindanao can be characterized by two types of violence. The first type of violence is vertical violence, referring to state-rebellion conflict, typically characterized in top-down, insurgent, or separatist movements challenging the authority and infrastructure of the state, such as the armed struggle between the GRP and the MNLF/MILF. The second type of violence is horizontal violence, which refers to localized, bottom-up conflicts rooted in inter-or-intra-ethnic, clan-based, or tribal rivalries. This form of violence is often seen through rido, or clan feuding, which remains one of the most prevalent manifestations of communal conflicts in Mindanao.

Bottom-up Grass-roots Initiatives

Bottom-up grassroot peacebuilding initiatives led by an array of civil society actors in Mindanao have played a critical role in countering violent extremism. For instance, the Institute for Autonomy and Governance (IAG) has undertaken significant efforts to address pro-ISIS sentiments among certain extremist groups in the region. Their work focused on understanding the vulnerability of Muslim youth towards recruitment and radicalization by militant groups. Results from IAG’s research indicate that, in the absence of effective counter-narrative programs and relevant state policy, Muslim youth remain vulnerable to the narratives, ideologies, and interpretations propagated by violent extremist groups. Initiatives such as those led by the IAG have been proven to be valuable within the broader peacebuilding process in Mindanao, offering evidence-based research that informs policymakers, government institutions, the security sector, religious authorities, and local communities. These initiatives have been particularly vital amid the growing threat of violent extremism and the vulnerabilities it poses to youth populations in the region.

Women’s participation has also been instrumental in advancing the peace process in Mindanao. A coalition of thirty-six organizations, operating under the Women Engaged in Action (We Act 1325), successfully lobbied the Philippine Congress to ensure the inclusion of gender-responsive provision in the peace process. The group’s advocacy focuses on promoting women’s political, social, and economic rights, while simultaneously fostering public awareness of Bangsamoro history through education, training, and community workshops.

Nevertheless, these grassroots peacebuilding initiatives continue to face considerable challenges due to weak security conditions, intensified by the presence of non-state armed groups and the widespread circulation of unlicensed weapons. Weak governance, coupled with the dominance of powerful local warlords and political clans have entrenched instability in the region. In some instances, militant groups have even abducted members of NGO peacebuilding networks, heightening risks for civil society actors. Consequently, the Philippine military has increasingly assumed a dual role, not only as a security provider, but also as a humanitarian actor and peacebuilding agent, tasked with safeguarding the integrity of the formal peace process.

Why is Sustainable Peace Failing in the Philippines?

Despite the 1996 Final Peace Agreement between the GRP and the MNLF, as well as the 2014 Comprehensive Agreement on the Bangsamoro between the GRP and the MILF, these agreements have failed to secure a lasting and sustainable peace. Both top-down and bottom-up peacebuilding approaches have been implemented by the GRP and various civil society actors, however, violence and instability continue to persist in Mindanao.

The persistence of violence can be largely attributed to an exclusionary political economy that fails to adequately address the complex and interlinked systems of violence in the Philippines. Many peacebuilding initiatives in Mindanao have failed to adequately consider the influence that rido has played on the broader conflict dynamics. Both international and local efforts to end the armed conflict have focused primarily on measures such as ceasefires, elections, autonomy, and decentralisation. While these measures are key instruments for lasting and sustainable peace, these efforts have been insufficient because they overlook the subtle yet significant impact of inter-and intra-clan conflicts that continue to shape the social and political atmosphere in the region.

Since the signing of the 1996 Final Peace Agreement, rido-related violence has in fact increased, a development that can be attributed to several interrelated factors. These factors include weak governance under founder and leader of the MNLF, Nur Misuari’s administration, the failure to establish an inclusive and effective political settlement between rebel groups and the GRP, and the lack of effective command of the Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (ARMM) over local and security forces. Moreover, the MNLF and MILF, as well as the GRP have at times aligned themselves with rival clans and tribes, particularly over disputes over land, resources, and political power. This has perpetuated a vicious cycle of violence, undermining formal peace processes and eroding trust in governance structures. A notable example occurred in 2000, when renewed hostilities between the GRP and the MILF led both parties to take opposing sides in a local Muslim-Christian conflict over land control in Lanao del Norte. What began as a local dispute rooted in competing clan and tribal interests during the post-1996 peace settlement escalated into a broader confrontation, highlighting how rido continues to destabilise formal peacebuilding efforts in Mindanao.

Disputes over territorial land ownership among clans and ethnic groups underscore a deeper structural problem: the top-down institutional framework of agrarian reform in Mindanao, which peace settlements have yet to effectively resolve. Combined with the persistent economic and social underdevelopment in Muslim Mindanao, particularly when compared to the rest of the Philippines, these issues reveal the extent to which the roots of the conflict remain unresolved.

The ARMM proved incapable of governing the region effectively. Its administrative weakness hindered the delivery of essential public services in key areas, such as health care and education, and it lacked effective control over local police and security forces. The ARMM’s inability to monopolise the state’s coercive power meant it exercised minimal authority over internal security and had little capacity to implement meaningful security sector reforms. Consequently, the ARMM has been unable to prevent rido and other forms of community-level conflict. Furthermore, there is a lack of real genuine power required of the regional executive office and regional assembly in the post-1996 ARMM government. This has limited their ability to pursue autonomous and inclusive governance. As a result, poverty and exclusion in Muslim Mindanao have continued to persist, even during periods of national economic growth.

A key limitation of current peacebuilding approaches in the Philippines lies in their tendency to conceptualize violent conflict primarily along the vertical axis of conflict, through the lens of state-rebellion confrontation between the GRP and the armed groups such as the MNLF and MILF. However, this framing often overlooks the horizontal axis of conflict, which encompasses rido and other localized forms of violence that both shape and are shaped by the larger armed struggle. By neglecting the mutually reinforced relationship between rebellion-related violence and clan-based conflicts, peacebuilding efforts have failed to capture the full complexity of Mindanao’s conflict dynamics, thereby making sustainable and durable peace more challenging to achieve. To move forward, peacebuilding strategies must account for the localized conflict dynamics and the ways in which armed rebellion interacts with community-level disputes. Sustainable peace requires a peace process that incorporates inclusive dialogue, mediation, and the participatory engagement of both excluded and included groups in order to confront, unpack, and resolve current patterns of power, control, and violence.

Peace cannot be declared simply through agreements, it must be built through trust, inclusion, and justice at every level of society. Sustainable peace depends on inclusive governance. Addressing both the vertical and horizontal dimensions of the conflict would transform Mindanao from a landscape of recurring conflict into one that has sustainable and lasting peace.

Edited by Nishiha Jasper David, Frontier Analysis Editor

After days of constant rainfall, a mother, who requested to remain anonymous, and her 4-year-old daughter went to sleep on the night of November 21st, only to wake up hours later to the sound of water rushing into the ground floor of their family home in Hat Yai. The rain showed no signs of stopping. What started as a few centimeters of water quickly rose to waist-level within just a couple of hours. By midday, they watched in horror as the ground floor completely disappeared under the deep-brown current. They were forced up to the 2nd floor, and later to the roof, spending three days without food before being evacuated. Others were not so lucky. An 80-year-old woman, who simply “couldn’t hold on any longer,” drowned in her home after water surged to near ceiling-height. Her daughter, trapped beside her, saw her body slowly drifting away and had no other choice but to store it inside their refrigerator, to which she also clung for nearly three days until rescuers reached her.

The severe floods impacted nine provinces in southern Thailand and left at least 176 people dead, according to the most recent reports. The city of Hat Yai in Songkhla province, bordering Malaysia, has been affected the most by the deluge due to its pan-shaped layout, surrounding mountain ranges, and exceptionally heavy rainfall. On November 25, the Thai cabinet declared Songkhla a disaster zone, centralizing all mandates under the government to coordinate disaster response and relief.

In the South, heavy rainfall began on November 19. In Hat Yai, where flooding conditions peaked on November 21, some residents were stranded for as long as six days, desperately waiting in their homes and on rooftops for relief. In numerous cases, volunteers were able to reach them before official assistance arrived.

The economic fallout from the deluge has not yet been fully estimated by the government. However, the University of the Thai Chamber of Commerce (UTCC) initially forecasted that losses could reach THB 1,000–1,500 million per day, as Hat Yai is the business hub of the South.

Meanwhile, K-Research, the research arm of Kasikornbank, predicts that the disaster could result in economic losses of THB 25,000 million, equivalent to around 0.13% of Thailand’s Gross Domestic Product (GDP), if the deluge continues for a month. Rubber and palm oil—Thailand’s key economic crops, largely produced in the South—are expected to be hit hardest by the floods.

Thailand’s Ministry of Finance announced on Wednesday the launch of relief packages in three phases. The first phase brings together Specialized Financial Institutions (SFIs) to run a donation hub providing urgent assistance to affected households. The second shifts from emergency relief to recovery measures, including soft loans for households and businesses. The final phase introduces longer-term schemes once the economic losses are fully assessed.

Thailand’s flood-management system involves multiple agencies, including the Department of Disaster Prevention and Mitigation (DDPM), provincial administrations, municipal authorities, and the Royal Irrigation Department. When flooding escalated, Prime Minister and Minister of Interior, Anutin Charnvirakul, as Chairman of the Steering and Executive Committee for Natural Disaster Situations, signed an order to establish the Water Management Center for Natural Disaster Situations, appointing Thammanat Prompao as the director.

On paper, the disaster-response protocol appears comprehensive. But on the ground, implementation has been patchy since the early warning was issued on November 20. Residents in Hat Yai reported inconsistent evacuation guidance between the DDPM’s cell broadcast and local authorities. Despite early warnings, they also claim there was an insufficient window for effective evacuation, with confusion compounded by initially reassuring statements from some local administrations regarding the flood’s potential severity. The situation was exacerbated by the lack of clear evacuation instructions, as the early warning broadcast offered almost no practical guidance for residents.

As the flood intensified, many were seeking help from the authorities. However, shortages of boats and temporary shelters, combined with the absence of a clear operational framework, left residents with limited access to help and supplies, as water in some areas rose to the second floor. Social media was filled with real-time updates showing arterial roads underwater long before official channels acknowledged the scale of the crisis. From a Thai PBS Interview, Associate Professor Seree Supratid, Vice President of the National Disaster Warning Council Foundation, reported that senior administrators delayed declaring the ‘red zone’ (highest warning level) despite Hat Yai’s mayor’s request, suggesting that the delay may be linked to other reasons. This points to a mismatch between the lived experience of the affected and official narratives.

The flood crisis has been a dire test of the Anutin administration’s quality, where “crisis is the measure of a politician’s quality.” Rescue efforts have been ineffective, with residents stranded on roofs and volunteers leading the rescue response due to the government’s operational limitations and shortages. Sasin Chalermlarp explains this failure as “Institutional Collapse,” driven by political interference, exclusion of experts, and reliance on technology and operational strategies that are 10-20 years behind.

So What’s Next?

The heavy flood in the southern region of Thailand reflects the unpreparedness and weakness of the current government in crisis management. Despite having access to natural-disaster experts and data predicting floods, the central and local authorities failed to fulfill their duty in protecting the people from this disaster. Although the weather event could not have been prevented, having better-prepared institutions and more resilient infrastructure would have reduced damage to property and limited the region’s economic losses. The inadequacies reflect poorly on Anutin’s administration performance. Despite the prime minister’s apology, the damage has been done, and resentment is on the rise among locals who feel neglected, trapped in their flooded dwellings.

Hence, when the government is deemed unreliable, it is civil society that needs to step up. It was local schools, teachers, and volunteers that alleviated the situation by offering temporary shelter and organizing rescue teams, without any assistance from government officials for the first few days. Local and central authorities eventually dispatched units that were highly uncoordinated and unorganized, delaying the response further.

Looking ahead, the government has released a compensation plan for affected households, expecting to compensate THB 9,000 (USD 278.04) for each household and THB 2,000,000 (USD 61,787.51) for each death. Nonetheless, some believe that the compensation will not be enough to repair the wide-scale damage and urged the government to find more ways to support households. The financial strain on the local community comes not only from house restoration, but also job loss, damaged water and electricity infrastructure, day-to-day expenses, and rising debt. It is imperative for the government to find ways to boost the regional economy and effectively alleviate the financial strain on the people affected.

Fukuda highlighted the cultural strengths that help ASEAN organizations remain resilient during digital disruption. Collectivist values, consensus-driven leadership, and entrepreneurial agility allow businesses to adopt new technologies in ways that benefit all stakeholders. As AI becomes more integrated into daily operations, human-centered skills such as creativity, critical thinking, and emotional intelligence will become increasingly important.

• NH: “What new opportunities and challenges does the digital economy pose for the ASEAN region? How can ASEAN economies benefit from markets that prioritize digital transformation and innovation-driven ecosystems?”
  
  KF: “The digital economy brings tremendous opportunities for ASEAN economies, especially in areas like small and medium-sized enterprises (SMEs), where digital transformation can boost efficiency, reduce costs, and enable access to global markets. However, challenges remain, such as the lack of skilled workforce, infrastructure gaps, and digital illiteracy in some areas.

  ASEAN economies can benefit by adopting digital-first policies, investing in education and digital infrastructure, and fostering innovation ecosystems where collaboration between government, private sector, and academia becomes the foundation for sustainable growth.”
  

• ⁠NH: “What cultural or organizational traits make ASEAN enterprises particularly resilient or adaptive during periods of digital disruption?”
  
  KF: “ASEAN enterprises often exhibit adaptability rooted in their collectivist cultural values. In many Southeast Asian countries, there is a strong emphasis on community and group welfare, which facilitates smoother transitions during digital disruption. This cultural trait promotes consensus-driven decision-making and the integration of new technologies in ways that are beneficial to all stakeholders, making organizations more resilient.

  Additionally, ASEAN enterprises are often nimble and entrepreneurial, which is vital in an era of rapid technological change.”
  

• NH: “As AI takes over routine tasks, which human skills will become most valuable, and how can leaders keep empathy at the heart of efficiency? What does it truly mean to be ‘AI-first’?”

  
  KF: “As AI automates routine tasks, the most valuable human skills will be creativity, critical thinking, and emotional intelligence.

  While AI can enhance efficiency, it cannot replicate the empathy and complex judgment that humans bring to decision-making. As leaders, we must ensure that AI is seen as a tool for augmentation rather than replacement, allowing employees to focus on tasks that require human insight and emotional intelligence. To be ‘AI-first’ means embedding AI into every aspect of our operations, not just as a tool for automation but as a core enabler of innovation that informs strategy, operations, and customer relationships.”
  

• NH: “Given the rapid pace of digital change, how can organizations best train their employees to adapt and maintain effective performance? Likewise, how can employees prepare themselves to thrive in an increasingly digital workplace?”
  
  KF: “Organizations must invest in continuous learning and create environments that encourage employees to adopt new technologies.

  At Sansan, we have implemented company-wide AI training and foster a culture of growth and experimentation to help employees integrate digital tools into their daily work. Employees should take ownership of their learning journey by staying curious, participating in relevant skill-building initiatives, and engaging with new tools and technologies that will shape their industry.”
  
  

• NH: “Many organizations are moving from experimenting with AI to embedding it across their operations. From your perspective, what differentiates companies that generate sustainable business value from those that simply integrate AI into their everyday processes?”
  
  KF: “The key difference lies in how AI is embedded into an organization’s strategy and culture. Companies that generate sustainable business value with AI don’t just use it to automate tasks; they integrate it to drive decision-making, innovation, and business model evolution. For instance, at Sansan, we focus on leveraging AI to create integrated solutions that build long-term value, not just short-term efficiencies.
  
  It’s about aligning AI investments with the company’s overall vision, ensuring that it becomes a driver of both operational efficiency and customer-centric innovation. Source responses reflect the broader principles that guide Sansan’s growth in ASEAN and the evolving digital landscape, blending technological adoption with organizational culture and human development.”

There is something genuine in President Prabowo Subianto’s eyes when he speaks of “the poor souls”—the rakyat kecil. Those who have observed him closely across decades know this is not political theater. The conviction is old, formed in remote areas during military service, deepened through years spent among Indonesia’s most marginalized. When he speaks of helping the poor, he means it with a sincerity rare in modern politics.

This matters. Most leaders speak of poverty in the abstract, viewing the poor as statistics to manage or constituencies to court. Prabowo sees faces. He has sat in homes where children go hungry, walked through villages where opportunity dies young, witnessed firsthand the quiet desperation of those whom the economy has left behind. His philosophy emerges from these encounters as a visceral, almost spiritual commitment to the welfare of those society has forgotten.

One year into his presidency, this conviction shapes every major decision. His flagship programs and the constant emphasis on protecting the vulnerable are not cynical vote-buying schemes. They emerge from the authentic concern of a man who genuinely believes that his purpose is to ease the suffering of millions.

And here lies both the nobility and the tragedy of his presidency: that such genuine concern, absent the right analytical framework, risks condemning the very people he seeks to help.

Expensive Compassion

The current approach treats poverty as a condition to manage rather than a structure to transform. The Free Nutritious Meals initiative alone began with a budget of IDR 71 trillion (USD 4.4 billion) targeting 15 million recipients in 2025, but Prabowo has already expanded it to IDR 171 trillion (USD 10.5 billion) with plans to reach 82.9 million people—nearly one-third of Indonesia’s population. Projections suggest the program’s budget could reach IDR 335 trillion (USD 20 billion) annually when fully scaled, doubling year after year. Meanwhile, the Red and White Village Cooperatives program aims to establish 80,000 cooperatives across Indonesian villages, backed by approximately IDR 83 trillion (USD 5 billion) from the state budget and estimated IDR 200 trillion (USD 12 billion) in financing through state bank loans, with each cooperative receiving IDR 3-5 billion (USD 180k-300k) in capital.

These are staggering fiscal commitments that accept Indonesia’s economic architecture as fixed, as if poverty were a natural disaster requiring ongoing relief rather than a structural condition requiring fundamental change. More fundamentally, whatever employment these programs generate—kitchen staff, delivery workers, cooperative managers, administrative roles—reproduces the service-heavy, informal economic structure that keeps millions trapped. They are temporary, low-productivity service roles in a distribution system that will require hundreds of trillions of rupiah to sustain indefinitely.

The Industrial Imperative

Now, if one truly cares about the poor, one must understand what keeps them poor. Nearly 60 percent of Indonesia’s workforce labors in the informal sector—street vendors, motorcycle taxi drivers, day laborers—because the economy doesn’t generate enough formal, productive, decent-paying jobs.

August’s riots illuminated this truth brutally. When Affan Kurniawan—a 21-year-old motorcycle taxi driver—was killed by a police vehicle during demonstrations, he became a symbol for a generation stuck in economic precarity. The fury wasn’t primarily about lawmakers’ allowances, though elite arrogance provided the spark. This was fury at the state’s persistent inability to generate structural opportunity, at an economy that offers millions of young people nothing better than weaving through traffic on a motorbike for minimal pay and no security.

Every comparable country that has lifted its population from poverty did so through industrialization that fundamentally changed what kinds of work were available. Manufacturing jobs offer something the informal sector cannot: contracts, benefits, predictable income, the foundation for economic security. Manufacturing also generates productivity spillovers that informal work never produces: higher output per worker creates tax revenue, supplier networks multiply employment effects three to five-fold, skills requirements drive human capital investment, and technological capacity accumulates across firms and sectors. This productivity base allows economies to climb value chains and fundamentally transform the economic structure that determines what’s possible for the next generation.

How does one achieve this transformation? The answer lies in Prabowo’s current position. He commands unprecedented political capital. His decisive electoral mandate, coalition discipline, and genuine popular support rooted in concern for the poor create conditions for industrial policy that most democracies cannot sustain.

South Korea’s Park Chung-hee forced chaebols to enter heavy industry through credit allocation and export discipline. China’s Communist Party coordinated massive infrastructure investment and technology acquisition across provinces. Taiwan’s KMT channeled state resources into semiconductor and electronics manufacturing through targeted subsidies and protection. Each required sustained political commitment over decades. President Prabowo has the political capital to initiate this trajectory.

However, does Indonesia possess the policy tools to match this ambition? The administration has assembled significant institutional capacity.

The current administration is obsessed with downstreaming, an agenda inherited from its predecessor. The term has become a policy buzzword across sectors. This fixation is understandable given the apparent success of nickel processing—export values surged, new smelters dotted the archipelago, and Indonesia claimed a larger share of the global supply chain. Despite its limitations, this instinct is correct. Downstreaming captures more value domestically, creates processing jobs, and forces technological learning.

Beyond sectoral policy, the establishment of Danantara represents another manifestation of Prabowo’s unprecedented political power. Previous administrations struggled for years to coordinate Indonesia’s sprawling state-owned enterprises; Prabowo consolidated and restructured them within months under a unified holding company commanding hundreds of billions of dollars. This institutional muscle should serve as the vanguard for frontier investments—novel ventures in real sectors that private capital won’t touch, the kind of high-risk, long-horizon industrial bets that drive technological capacity and innovation prowess.

Yet both downstreaming and Danantara reveal the same limitation: tremendous institutional capacity deployed without the analytical framework for systematic transformation. Downstreaming alone cannot deliver reindustrialization. Danantara, which should be Indonesia’s vehicle for industrial ambition, has instead adopted the risk-averse logic of conventional investment management. The analytical framework for systematic reindustrialization appears abandoned or, at best, severely underfocused.

What Indonesia needs is comprehensive industrial policy that channels financial resources toward productive capacity-building in manufacturing sectors, aligns human capital development—from vocational training to university research—with industrial requirements, deploys trade policy to protect infant industries while pushing technological upgrading, develops infrastructure to support manufacturing clusters, supply chain networks, and export competitiveness, as well as shapes regulatory frameworks that attract long-term manufacturing investment.

Achieving this framework begins with redirecting the institutional tools already at hand. For a start, considering the strong political commitment already demonstrated with downstreaming and Danantara, this requires broadening the downstreaming agenda beyond resource processing into systematic reindustrialization across sectors, and redirecting Danantara’s institutional muscle from conventional investment management toward frontier industrial ventures. These redirections require an intellectual framework capable of guiding systematic transformation.

The conviction exists. The political capital exists. The fiscal capacity exists. Even the policy instinct exists in fragmented forms. What’s missing is the intellectual architecture that connects these pieces into a coherent strategy for structural transformation. This comprehensive approach would actually fulfill Prabowo’s vision of helping the poor by transforming the economic structures that trap them.

Tragedy of Misdirected Care

What makes Prabowo’s presidency particularly poignant is that misdirected concern can be more damaging than indifference. A leader who doesn’t care about the poor will at least leave the economy to evolve on its own terms, allowing market forces and private enterprise to generate whatever employment emerges organically.

But a leader who cares deeply, who commands vast political capital and fiscal resources, and who lacks the analytical framework to translate concern into structural transformation? That leader will pour energy and money into programs that feel compassionate but institutionalize the very precarity they seek to alleviate. The Free Nutritious Meals program and village cooperatives will cost hundreds of trillions of rupiah over the coming years, resources that could anchor manufacturing clusters employing millions in formal, productive work.

The demographic clock makes this misdirection catastrophic. Indonesia adds more than 2 million people to its working-age population annually. Each year without structural transformation means another cohort entering an economy that cannot offer them dignity through productive work, only survival through informal hustle. The window for demographic dividend is finite. Countries that miss it—that allow their youth bulge to age into an elderly population before industrializing—face decades of stagnation. The next five years will determine whether Indonesia’s demographic structure becomes an asset or a liability.

The problem is not lack of empathy for the poor souls. Prabowo’s concern is authentic, perhaps the most genuine of any Indonesian leader in decades. The problem is that concern without a proper framework produces expensive compassion that perpetuates rather than transforms. What Indonesians trapped in precarity need is not better management of their poverty but transformation of the economic structures that produce it. They need fundamental changes in how the economy generates work and distributes opportunity. They need systematic reindustrialization that creates the formal, productive jobs informal work can never provide.

Future generations will ask not whether their leaders cared but whether that care was wise enough to build the structures that would make caring unnecessary. The answer to that question is being written now, in choices about what frameworks guide policy and what vision animates the state. The poor souls Prabowo seeks to help deserve better than perpetual sympathy. They deserve an economy that doesn’t require it.

Edited by Phan Quang Anh Bui, Frontier Analysis Editor

JAKARTA – Sitting in the front row as a discussant for The ASEAN Frontier, I could feel the tension before anyone spoke. The Sultan Hotel’s ASEAN 4 room buzzed with that particular energy you get when people who’ve been through hell are about to tell the truth about it. The air conditioning hummed overhead, but it couldn’t cool the heat of what was coming. Around me, civil society representatives clutched notebooks, phones ready to record. This felt different from other panels.

Four veteran journalists sat on stage, each carrying decades of battles across Southeast Asia’s press freedom wars. This wasn’t going to be polite conference talk. I knew that the moment Kavi Chongkittavorn leaned into his microphone, his weathered face serious, hands clasped like he was preparing for confession.

The War Inside Ourselves

“The war is in ourselves, journalists of ASEAN,” Kavi said, his voice cutting through the diplomatic niceties like a blade. He gestured sharply with his right hand, slicing the air. “We have to create a regional narrative. We fail completely.”

The Bangkok Post columnist didn’t come to Jakarta to make friends. His first diagnosis was surgical: ASEAN media cultures are so wildly diverse they’re almost incomparable. But then he twisted the knife, leaning forward in his chair. Thai media is soft on the outside, but “you die slowly.” Indonesian media? “Big, bold, spicy on the outside. Bad, diffuse, hot inside. I love Indonesian media better.”

The room laughed nervously. Kavi wasn’t joking. His expression never changed.

His third point landed like a slap. “I am the only madman” still trying to build ASEAN press solidarity, he said, spreading his arms wide in exasperation. The problem isn’t just government censorship anymore. In Thailand, journalism has become a substitute for opposition politics because real opposition parties are weak. “Journalists don’t buy. They just jump.”

Bambang Harymurti, sitting next to him, nodded with the weariness of someone who’s watched this play out for decades. The Tempo board member’s shoulders sagged slightly as he spoke. He’s seen Indonesia’s press freedom ranking slide from “free” around 2006 to “partly free” ever since. Same story across the region: Indonesia, Thailand, Malaysia, Philippines all stuck in the same category while South Korea leaped ahead economically.

“Countries that successfully jail corrupt former presidents develop faster, get richer,” Bambang said flatly, his voice matter-of-fact. Thailand and Malaysia have done it. The Philippines too. Indonesia? “We are left behind.”

The Survival Economics

When moderator Anggi M. Lubis asked about Tempo’s business model, Bambang dropped the pretense, his hands opening in a gesture of surrender. “Freedom of the press is for those who own it,” he quoted. The real threat isn’t the government anymore – it’s media owners tied to oligarchs.

But he’s found hope in direct subscriber support. When Tempo criticized former president Jokowi and faced black propaganda attacks, something unexpected happened. Subscribers who’d initially believed the attacks later realized Tempo was right. They paid for one-year subscriptions to make amends.

“We more than doubled our subscription base,” Bambang said, a rare smile crossing his face. “People you know, at least I see, appreciate what we do.”

He pointed to South Korea’s Hankyoreh newspaper as the model: 50,000 citizens donated to create an independent paper after 100 editors resigned from oligarch-owned media. Journalists there accept half the salary of corporate newspapers because they want editorial impact over money.

Amy Chew, the independent Malaysian journalist, brought this reality home hard. She gestured toward herself with both hands. “Before we came in here, Angie asked why I always wanted to be an independent journalist. I told her: it means you’ll be very poor. That’s what it means. You’ve got no insurance, nothing.”

But Amy’s warning went beyond finances. She talked about geopolitical pressure, not just political pressure. In great power competition, subtle influences shape which candidates certain powers want to win elections. “It’s so subtle, sometimes you don’t even know it,” she said, her voice dropping to almost a whisper.

The AI Panic

The conversation shifted when John Nery from Rappler brought the technology question down to earth with an analogy his students understood: “You want to lose weight, you can go to the gym, or you can take a shortcut. You cannot entrust writing to AI.” He made a weighing gesture with his hands, balancing the options.

Amy jumped in with a warning that made the young journalists in the room squirm. “If you use AI too much, you will not even have grammar anymore. You will forget the spelling. You will be totally beholden to the machine.” She counted on her fingers as she spoke, each point deliberate.

Kavi had his own method of resistance. “Somebody can write in my style now with AI,” he admitted, shaking his head in disbelief. So he deliberately uses Thai words and phrases in his English columns to confuse algorithms. “My editor says, ‘you stupid idiot, I know what Thai words mean.’ But I deliberately use Thai sentences to confuse the algorithm.” He chuckled, but his eyes stayed serious.

The message was clear: AI has no spirit. Journalists do. The question is whether we’ll surrender that spirit for convenience.

Questions From the Floor

When my turn came as The ASEAN Frontier discussant, my heart rate picked up. I’d prepared this question, but sitting in that room, feeling the weight of these veterans’ experiences, it suddenly felt inadequate. Still, I stood up, microphone in hand, and asked about key opinion leaders and information fragmentation – how do we make information more trustworthy when so many voices compete for attention?

The question hit something real. Amy immediately leaned forward, her energy shifting. She talked about Myanmar, where scam centers have trafficked over 100,000 people from across Southeast Asia, stealing billions from ordinary citizens. “Myanmar is so much closer to us than Gaza,” she said, her voice urgent. “Unfortunately, the situation makes it so difficult for news to come out.”

A student from ISAFIS raised the case of Indonesian investigative newsrooms receiving threats after publishing sensitive stories. “Are we moving toward a connected regional media community, or are we still fragmented?” Her voice cracked slightly on the last word.

John Nery proposed something concrete: ASEAN campus journalism exchanges. He gestured broadly, as if drawing connections across the region. “Campus journalism is real journalism,” he insisted. “Filipino youth struggling through corruption crises would like to know what’s happening in Indonesia.”

Kavi and Bambang reminisced about decades of trying to build people-to-people media connections. The ASEAN Press Council. Cross-border investigations between Tempo and Taiwanese media. “We share stories. They get material from Indonesia, we get material from Taiwan. It makes business sense,” Bambang said, his hands moving as if passing documents between countries.

But the financing isn’t sustainable. Networks fade. “We should not give up,” Bambang said, his voice gaining strength. “With digitalization, it’s actually the most appropriate time to create this network again.”

What Dies When Press Freedom Dies

Walking out of that hotel room, I thought about what Bambang said early on about Indonesia being “left behind.” Not just economically, but in accountability. When press freedom erodes, corruption follows. When journalism dies, democracy rots from the inside.

The Philippines has been “patient zero in the disinformation wars” since 2016. The Marcos family built their comeback through YouTube, creating parallel information infrastructure while traditional media struggled. Malaysia fines independent outlets half a million ringgit over reader comments. Myanmar’s journalists disappear into prisons.

And everywhere, the money is running out. Facebook and Google took 80 percent of advertising revenue, Bambang said. Young people get news from TikTok, not newspapers. Veteran journalists like Amy make “tremendous personal and financial sacrifices” to keep working.

But something else stuck with me from that evening. When Indonesia’s recent protests erupted, people across ASEAN sent food donations to delivery drivers. A Thai guy started it on Twitter, and it spread organically. That’s the power of regional solidarity when it works.

The four journalists on that stage have spent decades fighting for that kind of connection. They’ve failed more than they’ve succeeded. But they’re still fighting.

“The quality of a journalist depends deep inside you,” Kavi said near the end, tapping his chest. “AI has no spirit. You have spirit.”

The question isn’t whether that spirit will survive the next decade. The question is whether the institutions, the business models, the networks that support it can survive long enough for that spirit to matter.

Because if they can’t, Southeast Asia will lose more than its press freedom. It’ll lose its ability to hold power accountable, to investigate corruption, to tell its own stories to the world. And once that’s gone, everything else follows.

The panelists posed for photos with their AFPC certificates as the room emptied. Bambang joked that government attacks actually boost Tempo’s subscriptions. Amy reminded everyone that financial sacrifice is real. John talked about building community connections.

And Kavi? He was already thinking about his next column, probably planning which Thai phrases to throw in to mess with the algorithms.

In a region where truth is getting harder to pin down, maybe that’s enough. For now.

Edited by Alan J. M. Bron, Frontier Analysis Editor

Between 1965 and 1966, Indonesia witnessed one of the worst mass atrocities of the 20th century. An estimated 500,000 to one million people were killed following the failed 30 September Movement, in which six army generals and one army officer were kidnapped and assassinated by a group of military personnel. In response, the Indonesian military, under the rising influence of anti-communist General Suharto, launched a nationwide purge targeting members and supporters of the Partai Komunis Indonesia (PKI: The Indonesian Communist Party). The campaign led to widespread killing, torture, sexual violence, forced labour, and forced migration and displacement.

Though interpretations differ, with some describing the violence of 1965-1966 as a genocide, and others framing it as a horizontal conflict between right- and left-wing groups, the scale and brutality of the killings remain undisputed. The massacres marked the beginning of General Suharto’s New Order regime, which ruled Indonesia for 32 years.

Yet, nearly 60 years later, the question of accountability and justice for these atrocities remains unresolved.

Despite repeated calls from survivors, human rights groups, and international bodies, Indonesia has failed to hold perpetrators accountable and deliver meaningful justice to victims and their families. Efforts toward truth and reconciliation have been inconsistent and largely symbolic, with no formal judicial processes established to prosecute those responsible.

Transitional Justice In Indonesia

Truth-seeking is a cornerstone of transitional justice and an essential component for uncovering historical wrongs and laying the groundwork for reconciliation and accountability. In Indonesia, however, this process has been repeatedly obstructed by institutional and social barriers.

Under Suharto’s New Order regime, the 1965-1966 massacres were officially framed as a defensive action essential to safeguard the nation from communist subversion amid political turmoil. This state narrative, reinforced through decades of propaganda and education, cast victims as national threats, effectively silencing survivors and distorting public memory.

Efforts to uncover the truth and deliver justice to these victims have been systematically hindered by deep-rooted political opposition and the influence of military elites. Initiatives such as the establishment of the Special Human Rights Courts under Law No. 26/2000, the 2012 Komnas HAM report, and the 2015 International People’s Tribunal in The Hague, have led to limited results. These developments resemble what some refer to as “judicial theater”, where legal proceedings serve more as a political show rather than a genuine pursuit for accountability. While isolated prosecutions, such as the 2009 conviction of local militia leader Edi Sucipto have occurred, high-ranking officials have largely evaded accountability, perpetuating a culture of impunity.

In the absence of meaningful state-led initiatives, civil society has stepped in to preserve historical memory. Grassroots initiatives like The Year of Truth campaign from 2012-2013, provided a critical platform for victims to share testimonies and raise public awareness of the atrocities that occurred in 1965-1966.

Yet, justice for past human rights violations remains an uphill battle. Law No. 27/2004, which aimed to establish a Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC), was struck down by the Constitutional Court, following criticism from human rights groups over provisions in the law that tied victim compensation to the granting of amnesty for perpetrators. Instead of amending the law, the court cancelled it entirely, leaving Indonesia without a formal institution to resolve past human rights violations outside of the courtroom.

The failure of both judicial and non-judicial mechanisms is rooted in the persistence of New Order elites within Indonesia’s current political landscape. Many of the same political elites continue to wield influence and sustain authoritarian-era legacies. This elite continuity has been destructive in bringing justice to victims of the 1965-1966 mass violence and curtailed democratic consolidation, producing what many describe as a “low-quality democracy” characterized by significant legal and institutional reform but weak implementation.

There was a brief moment of renewed optimism in 2014, when Joko Widodo, then the only presidential candidate who explicitly committed to addressing and delivering justice for past human rights violations, was elected president. In May 2015, his administration introduced several non-judicial mechanisms, including a proposed Reconciliation Committee to address unresolved cases such as the 1965-1966 massacre. This initiative, however, was quickly abandoned in August that year following the appointment of retired general Luhut Panijaitan as Coordinating Minister for Political, Legal, and Security Affairs.

President Joko Widodo has since acknowledged Indonesia’s history of gross human rights violations and expressed regret for past incidents, including the 1965-1966 massacres. His statement followed the findings of the Team for the Non-Judicial Resolution of Past Serious Human Rights Violations, which he had commissioned in 2022 to fulfill a campaign promise first made during his 2014 presidential run. This acknowledgement, however, did not entail any further judicial action and reform.

Despite brief moments of hope, the path toward truth and justice in Indonesia remains uncertain. With political elites reluctant to confront the country’s violent past and victims’ voices continue to be marginalized and silenced, genuine reconciliation remains elusive.

Why is Transitional Justice So Important?

Durable peace cannot be achieved without addressing the legacies of violence and creating the conditions for genuine national reconciliation. In many societies emerging from conflict, transitional justice has become a cornerstone for this process. Once criticized for “opening old wounds” and destabilizing fragile political orders, transitional justice is now widely recognized as a mechanism that helps societies confront systemic abuses, establish historical records, and promote individual and national healing. By documenting the extent, impact, and responsibility for violence, it creates a foundation for reform and a pathway toward reconciliation.

German philosopher Jurgen Habermas once argued that confronting and remembering past abuses would reinforce a commitment to democratic values and reforms. This idea captures the essence of transitional justice: it is not solely about accountability for past atrocities, but also about shaping the future of governance and ensuring that peace is both just and long-lasting.

Transitional justice encompasses a broad range of judicial and non-judicial mechanisms, including truth-seeking initiatives, reparations, prosecutions, constitutional and legal reforms, institutional restructuring, archive preservation, and the strengthening of civil society. Together, these approaches aim to address a nation’s legacy of large-scale conflict, repression, and human rights violations by ensuring accountability, delivering justice, and fostering reconciliation. These mechanisms should be tailored to the specific context, led and owned by national actors, and centered on the needs of victims, empowering societies to transform and contribute to sustainable, long-term peace.

Transitional justice often unfolds in two phases. The first focuses on stabilizing post-conflict societies through symbolic but essential measures such as trials, truth commissions, and reparations programs that signal a clear break with the past. These mechanisms help build public confidence that new leaders are committed to reform and the rule of law. The second phase emphasizes healing and reconciliation, which require the inclusion of all parties: victims seeking justice and perpetrators confronting their role in past abuses as part of a shared future. Without accountability, impunity risks fueling cycles of violence and undermining fragile peace. Truth commissions, in particular, play a vital role in fostering dialogue across political and social divides. In doing so, they bridge the gap between individual and collective healing, allowing societies to publicly reckon with the violence of the past and begin a process of national healing.

Why Is It Important for Indonesia to Address Its Past?

For decades, Indonesia has lived under the shadow of the 1965-1966 massacres, a period of mass violence that claimed the lives of hundreds of thousands of alleged members and sympathizers of the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI). From the outset, President Suharto’s New Order Regime imposed a rigid narrative: the PKI was framed as a treacherous force responsible for the kidnapping and murder of six generals on October 1st, 1965, and therefore needed to be completely eliminated from all levels of society. Through state-controlled education, propaganda, rhetoric, and symbolism, this version of history was institutionalized, leaving little room for alternative narratives. As a result, generations of Indonesians grew up in a climate of fear, silence, and stigmatization.

The state’s stigmatization of alleged communists and sympathizers fostered deep reluctance among victims to speak publicly about their experiences, rendering survivors of the violence essentially voiceless. Even with the collapse of the New Order regime in 1998, this culture of suppression and silence continued to persist. Prominent military figures implicated in or associated with the New Order regime have remained influential in post-Suharto Indonesia. General Wiranto, for instance, pledged to protect Suharto from prosecution, and has later gone on to serve as Coordinating Minister for Politics and Security under President Joko Widodo. Other military officers, both serving and retired, have consistently blocked attempts to legally review or prosecute the actions of their predecessors’ handling of the 1965-1966 massacre. Civil groups have tried to demand prosecutions for these events, but military intervention ensured these efforts have been hindered. In 2017, General Syahnakri warned that calls for judicial reconciliation models by activists would lead to “fresh bloodshed”, illustrating how the military still seeks to control how Indonesia’s violent past is discussed.

Despite hopes that democratization would lead to truth and reconciliation, Indonesia’s post-1998 leaders have relied on networks of retired generals, ensuring that meaningful justice and reconciliation efforts remain ultimately unviable. As long as elites tied to the New Order regime remain in positions of power and influence within the current Indonesian political landscape, prospects for truth and reconciliation will not come to pass.

Nevertheless, the need for justice is undeniable. Victims deserve acknowledgment, accountability, and reconciliation. Failure to properly address the atrocities of 1965-1966 risks perpetuating a cycle of impunity, undermining Indonesia’s democratic aspirations. Confronting the past is not simply about memory, but also about shaping the foundations of the nation’s future.

“The past, or historical memory, is not just a matter of active, intentional remembering or forgetting. The past soaks into the ground of the present, saturating it with meaning and shifting the landscape with its cultural and emotional weight. It can be buried or even burned, but its ashes change the composition of the soil” (Santikarma, 2000; cited in Zurbechen, 2002, p. 578).

Edited by Phan Quang Anh Bui, Frontier Analysis Editor

The opportunities presented in Trump’s first term may be reversed in his second term. Malaysia has been capitalizing on US tariffs and trade restrictions on China by offering itself as a neutral base for Chinese firms to invest and maintain offshore manufacturing for US clientele. Owing to the country’s mature ecosystem in semiconductor manufacturing (though densely concentrated in the back-end processes), Malaysia emerged as a favorite under the China+1 (C+1) strategy in the context of semiconductors. But Trump’s threat of an impending 100 percent tariff on all chips going into the US (possibly as high as 300 percent) might pop Malaysia’s C+1 bubble.

The irony is that Trump’s tariff may not even achieve its intended purpose domestically. Taiwan Semiconductor Manufacturing Company’s wafer fab in Arizona dispatched 50 percent of its employees from Taiwan, creating what was called a “mini-Taipei” in Arizona. This is because the Taiwanese workforce brought specialized semiconductor expertise lacking in the US. Homeshoring manufacturing is pragmatic, but the problem lies with imposing it without first cushioning companies and building a sustainable talent base. It also remains unclear how Trump’s attempt to re-bifurcate a globally integrated and interdependent semiconductor supply chain will play out.

Yet even if Trump’s homeshoring push fails to deliver on its jobs narrative domestically, its global consequences are unavoidable. Malaysia supplies around 15 percent of the United States’ total semiconductor imports. The US, in turn, accounts for roughly one-fifth of Malaysia’s semiconductor export value. This positions Malaysia squarely within the splash zone of the proposed tariff. Trump’s semiconductor tariff will test Malaysia on four fronts, i.e., firms, the economy, consumers, and geopolitical positioning.

The sectoral tariff is expected to contain a carve-out excluding companies that have manufacturing capabilities in the US or those that have pledged to invest in production facilities there. Some analyses suggest that such a tariff’s impact on Malaysia will be minimal. Nearly two-thirds (sixty-five percent) of the country’s semiconductor exports to the US originate from US firms operating in Malaysia, and a portion of the remaining 35 percent from firms with US affiliation – thus qualifying them for the exemption and remaining immune to the tariff. Some outsourced semiconductor assembly and test (OSAT) players also report less than 1 percent direct US exposure. Local firms with diversified clients and limited US dependence remain insulated, but this is no reason for complacency.

Many Malaysian semiconductor firms—including automation and testing equipment makers, several OSAT players, and those in the Electronics manufacturing services (EMS) segment—derive a substantial portion of their revenues from US clients. These players risk losing this key market overnight if clients reshore production or substitute suppliers elsewhere.

Although Trump’s main target is likely front-end processes such as wafer fabrication and design, where China has been making inroads, Malaysia could face collateral damage. It remains uncertain whether the tariff will apply only to finished chips or also to equipment and semi-products in assembly, testing, and packaging. If the latter, local OSAT firms with major US exposure would be hit hard.

It’s not all doom and gloom. While much of the discussion focuses on risks, Malaysia could also find itself in a position to seize new opportunities. There is also an angle for local equipment and automation makers. As Trump’s tariffs force foreign firms to pour billions into new fabs and facilities in the US, demand for non-Chinese testing, packaging, and automation tools will rise. However, local suppliers that are part of multinational corporations’ operations and supply chains in Malaysia will feel the impact if those pause capital expenditures and new investments in the country, scaling back local operations as they shift their focus back to the US.

It is important that Malaysia views the tariff as both a threat and a potential catalyst in shaping its response.

C+1 once channeled Chinese investments into Malaysian firms and built local capabilities, but that might be changing. In a bifurcated “Made in US for US, Made in China for China” world, Malaysia stands to lose its edge as a shock-proof middle ground. Foreign direct investment (FDI) may slow or be redirected. While back-end projects may continue, high-value research and development and advanced processes are exposed to tariff pressure and shifting. That also means losing out on the technology transfers, skills upgrades, and supplier development that are often spillovers from meaningful FDI. Without this external push, opportunities to move up the value chain become limited. Moreover, the electrical and electronics sector is among the biggest export earners of Malaysia’s manufacturing economy. A slowdown here will quickly translate into weaker growth, reduced tax revenues, and weak economic spillover effects across the economy.

In the short term, even if it proves commercially viable for local firms to expand manufacturing to the US, it will take time. The ones most vulnerable would be Malaysian firms with major US clients. It is also not strategic for back-end firms to relocate to the US, given their sensitivity to cost and scale. The expectation is that Washington recognizes these OSAT processes will have to remain anchored in Asia and refrain from imposing tariffs on them, as replicating them at scale would be self-defeating. This reality may also be Malaysia’s leverage to maintain its position as an indispensable partner in a resilient global supply chain.

Jobs may also take a hit. There is a potential employment shock arising from supply chain recalibration, especially among export-oriented companies. A significant number of Malaysians are employed in the semiconductor industry and its supporting ecosystem (including suppliers and related sectors). If multinational corporations shift their focus away from Malaysia, not only will job opportunities be lost, but the country’s manufacturing ecosystem might also come under strain.

The tariff could hit consumers in the pocket as firms may pass tariff costs onto buyers, making some consumer electronics more expensive. On the supply end, a tariff shock may also delay product launches and tighten the availability of new consumer electronics. Nonetheless, these impacts may be more apparent in the US, whereas the effect on Malaysian consumers would vary depending on whether firms absorb the added costs or if devices are assembled locally.

Geopolitically, Malaysia has always pursued strategic non-alignment with both the US and China to its advantage. That equidistance allowed the country to serve as a reliable, neutral node in the global semiconductor supply chain, by being a beneficiary of the China+1 strategy while still hosting American multinational corporations. But if Trump’s tariff forces homeshoring and clearer alignments, this neutrality will be put to the test. Malaysia needs to therefore reassess its approach by blending hedging between the two global superpowers, diversifying to new markets, and investing in capabilities that would make it indispensable beyond cost and neutrality.

While ASEAN was a collective beneficiary of the C+1 diversification, with Vietnam, Thailand, and Singapore also emerging as important nodes in the global semiconductor supply chain, a blanket US tariff would alter that dynamic as countries would be affected to varying degrees depending on the extent of exposure to the US or China. Realistically, ASEAN is unlikely to respond collectively as each member state differs in scale, industrial depth, politics, immediate strategic interests, and risk appetites. Countries competing for the same footloose investments, like Vietnam, Malaysia, and Thailand, will likely pursue bilateral carve-outs.

The EU has struck a deal with the US to cap its tariffs on semiconductors at 15 percent (that will not be overwritten by other tariffs like one under Section 232 of the US Trade Expansion Act) and guaranteed zero-for-zero tariffs for semiconductor equipment makers. Can Malaysia negotiate a similar carve-out? The EU brings to the table the Netherlands-based Advanced Semiconductor Materials Lithography (ASML) lithography giant, one that the US cannot replace or do without. Even so, Malaysia’s bargaining chip is not insignificant. Any negotiation should map out the indispensable role of Malaysian OSATs for US firms and demonstrate the risks arising from any disruption to Malaysian operations. While it is to be seen how a deal for Malaysia would be brokered, if at all, the approach should be data-driven.

Malaysia’s vision of moving beyond a low-cost back-end base by leveraging foreign investments may now be undermined. The country must brace for impact and reposition to capitalize on emerging opportunities while awaiting Trump’s announcement. This time, it may neither be the cheapest nor the most secure location for semiconductor manufacturers, losing its previous advantage. Malaysia needs to rethink its strategy to innovate, enhance manufacturing capabilities and productivity, and move up the value chain to remain competitive.

Edited by Thant Thura Zan, Frontier Analysis Editor

Affan Kurniawan’s death, at just 21 years old and while trying to make a living, was not only tragic but also a turning point for Indonesia. It was a violent, unexpected event that served as what sociologist James Jasper calls a “moral shock,” ripping away the thin veil of democratic pretence and exposing the chasm between the state’s stated values and its brutal practice. The ensuing national upheaval, which found its voice in the digitally-native “17+8 People's Demands”, is far more than a fleeting protest. What looks like an intelligence failure is not about a lack of data, but about blindness to the fact that public trust had already been crumbling.

From an intelligence perspective, what transpired in late August 2025 was a classic "strategic surprise." This was not because the indicators were absent, they were flashing red for anyone willing to look, but because the state's sensors were calibrated only to monitor dissent, not to comprehend its origins. The public discourse, now thick with talk of a "dalang" or mastermind and foreign interference, is a textbook case of what organizational theorist Chris Argyris termed "defensive routines." These are institutional mechanisms designed to deflect from the embarrassing truth that the state was surprised by the depth of public fury simply because it had stopped listening.

The demands themselves offer a clear diagnosis of the nation's health. The 17 short-term points demand immediate relief from a state that has become both predatory and parasitic. They call for the military to be pulled from civilian policing, for an independent team to investigate state violence, and for the obscene perks of parliamentarians to be slashed. What the protesters have laid out in their long-term vision is nothing short of a blueprint for democratic survival. They demand a wholesale renovation of political parties that have grown detached from society, the empowerment of watchdog institutions that have been defanged, and the long-delayed Asset Forfeiture Bill to strike at the heart of corruption. Far from being abstract, their demands reflect practical goals that they believe must be met if the nation is to avoid a deeper collapse into this malignant state of being.

This is the public eruption of what political scientist James C. Scott famously called "hidden transcripts," which are the private resentments and critiques of power that subordinate groups voice only amongst themselves. For years, the hidden transcript in Indonesia has been one of deep resentment toward an elite class seen as insulated, corrupt, and callously indifferent. The August crisis laid everything bare. It came through in the voice of Mr. Selamet, a 54-year-old ojek driver that we interviewed, a friend of Affan, who spoke with grief and a tired face that cut through any analysis. He asked, almost to himself, “Kenapa rakyat kecil kayak kita (ojol) selalu jadi korban?” Why is it always the poor like us (the ojek drivers) who end up paying the price? It was a plain sentence, yet it said what people had been holding inside for years.

At the same time, the unrest unfolded in ways that fit what Charles Tilly once described as the “repertoire of contention,” an evolving set of tools people use to push back against power. Protest found new ground online, where solidarity spread through symbols as much as through words. People began changing their profile pictures to pink or green, and each color started to carry its own meaning. Pink was for ordinary people who dared to stand up to the state. Green was linked to Affan and countless other drivers, men and women who worked long hours on the road and earned respect through their endurance. What emerged was more than a passing wave of anger and collective empathy.

Besides, the strength of the protests came not only from street demonstrations but also from the way students and workers used digital tools to plan, share information, and keep the energy alive. This gave the movement a structure that kept it from fading once the initial anger passed. By attaching deadlines to their 17+8 demands, they shifted from protest as mere spectacle to protest as negotiation, ensuring that the state could no longer wait them out. This structure seized the initiative and, in military theorist John Boyd's terms, allowed the protesters to gain control of the "OODA (Observe, Orient, Decide, Act) loop," forcing a lumbering state apparatus into a reactive, defensive posture.

When the protests broke out, the government fell back on the same old script: securitization. President Prabowo spoke of “makar” (treason) and the “terrorism act,” turning political anger into a supposed security threat. This allows the state, as the Copenhagen School of security studies explains, to justify extraordinary measures while sidestepping the messy work of democratic negotiation. But for a student in Bandung, securitization is not an abstract word. It is the burning in their eyes from tear gas, it is the terror of seeing guns pointed at their friends. Edward Luttwak once described this as the paradox of strategy: what looks like victory in the moment can destroy the very legitimacy that leaders depend on. Each canister of tear gas and each arrest of an activist only validates the protesters' core claim that the state no longer serves the people, but views them as an enemy to be controlled.

The decision to send in the military alongside the police is troubling, as it suggests a collapse of what Samuel Huntington called the principle of “objective control” that keeps civil-military relations healthy. Mixing the roles of civilians and the military does not make the country safer. When the lines between soldiers and civilian leaders are crossed, the result is not security but fragility. Civilian authority loses legitimacy, the military is pulled away from its proper mission, and society is left vulnerable to the rise of authoritarian control.

If we only point to the careless remarks and the showy lifestyles of parliamentarians, then we miss the deeper illness that drives people into the streets. Much has been made of parliament’s lavish housing perks, but people know that this controversy is only the tip of the iceberg. People may fume over the Rp50 million allowance, but everyone knows that is only a small glimpse of a much bigger theft of public wealth that happens every day through collusion, favoritism, and a culture of impunity. Anger in the streets is not driven by resentment of luxury alone. It comes from the realization that such privileges show how far leaders have drifted from the people they are meant to serve. Indonesia’s survival is threatened not by the unrest on the streets but by the moral collapse at the center of its leadership.

This is where the real intelligence failure lies. Government agencies spent their time measuring protests by size and by hashtags instead of paying attention to the deeper crisis they revealed. Fukuyama calls this “political decay,” which is the slow erosion of trust in institutions, the capture of governance by elites, and the steady breakdown of accountability. What makes a country strong is not its ability to intimidate dissenters, but the credibility of its courts, its parliament, and its watchdogs- the institutions that guarantee justice and protect ordinary people from abuse. When those institutions are captured by oligarchic interests, when nepotism becomes the organizing principle of governance, and when the law is a tool to protect the powerful rather than the vulnerable, the state hollows out from within. What emerges is what Indonesians call rumput kering, or dry grass: a society that has been weakened by layers of injustice and inequality until it becomes fragile enough that even a small spark can set it ablaze.

The death of Affan Kurniawan was that spark. But his killing did not just catalyze anger; it catalyzed a pre-existing structural analysis among Indonesia's precarious working class. It dramatized, in a horrifyingly literal way, a hierarchy of risk where officials are shielded while danger is externalized onto those who can least afford it. The spontaneous, transnational solidarity that followed, where strangers across Southeast Asia sent food orders to support protesting drivers, was a stunning reversal of what anthropologist James Ferguson labels as "the anti-politics machine." Technical platforms designed for commerce were repoliticized and used to highlight the human cost of a broken economic model.

Indonesia is now at a precipice. For the Prabowo administration, the crisis represents a defining moment. It can treat the protests as an excuse to clamp down harder, strip away civil liberties, and rely even more on the security apparatus. Alternatively, it can choose the far more difficult, but ultimately more stable, path of institutionalization, by treating the 17+8 demands not as a threat, but as a roadmap for survival.

This demands more than performative apologies and the theatrical firing of a few disgraced politicians. It demands what is known in strategic planning as a "radical break," a fundamental shift in direction. The government cannot claim to be serious about reform unless it restores the Asset Forfeiture Bill as a clear marker of its commitment to tackling corruption. It means a total overhaul of the political financing system that creates indentured politicians. And it requires security and intelligence communities that understand that their mandate in a democracy, as Sherman Kent argued, is to provide knowledge that enables wise policy, not capabilities that enable repression.

The ghost of Affan Kurniawan now haunts the Indonesian Republic. His death will either be remembered as another tragic milestone in a slow democratic decay or as the catalyst for a renewal that pulled the nation back from the brink. Ultimately, the protesters have already spoken. The unanswered question is whether Indonesia’s leaders will recognize their responsibility to the public, or will continue to govern in the service of themselves alone.

While the APG offers clear techno-economic advantages, such as reduced costs and lower carbon emissions, it also delivers important socio-economic benefits. In the long term, the APG plays a key role in driving sustainable development, promoting job creation, expanding energy access for underserved communities, and helping to achieve SDG 7: Affordable and Clean Energy.

Matthew Wittenstein, Chief of the Energy Connectivity Section at ESCAP, discussed recent projects such as the Green Power Corridor Playbook, which provides a practical, actionable guide for implementing energy connectivity initiatives that support sustainable, inclusive growth, social equity, and climate resilience. Future conversations about energy connectivity will need to consider holistic factors that address the economic, environmental, and social impacts of energy projects.

• NH: “What are some effective ways to encourage policymakers, NGOs, and other stakeholders to look beyond the usual techno-economic advantages of APG?”
  
  MW: “To encourage stakeholders to look beyond the techno-economic advantages of the APG, it's essential to highlight the long-term sustainability and just transition benefits that a more integrated grid can offer. Policymakers and NGOs can be motivated by framing the conversation around the broader, positive socio-economic impacts, such as job creation, energy access for underserved communities, and the role of renewable energy in achieving SDG 7 targets and other policy goals. Demonstrating how the APG can contribute to promote regional stability, and support geopolitical cooperation is also an added incentive. Strategic advocacy, stakeholder workshops, and impact assessments can serve as tools to engage stakeholders in understanding the multidimensional benefits of the APG. By framing the APG as a regional development tool, rather than just a technical infrastructure project, we can expand its appeal to a broader group of stakeholders. To this end, ESCAP has developed the Green Power Corridor Framework, composed of building blocks, principles and metrics for guiding and assessing the alignment of energy connectivity projects with the Sustainable Development Goals, to enable and ensure a more holistic approach to energy connectivity. Currently, ESCAP is working on a ‘Green Power Corridor Playbook’ that will provide a practical, actionable guide for implementing energy connectivity initiatives that support sustainable, inclusive growth, social equity, and climate resilience. It will offer tools for assessing the economic, environmental and social impacts of energy projects and provide recommendations for best practices, policy frameworks and collaborative approaches that promote long-term success and scalability.”
  

• ⁠NH: “What are some key challenges in adopting a region-wide framework for assessing APG?”
  
  MW: “Aligning Priorities: While all ASEAN members are committed to improving regional energy integration, their economic and energy needs vary significantly. Some countries may prioritize energy security, while others focus on affordability or sustainability. Aligning these diverse priorities requires balancing the needs of countries. Equitable Distribution of Costs and Benefits: Ensuring that the benefits of the APG reach all member states, especially lower-capacity and smaller economies, is a challenge. Countries may face difficulties in accessing investment and technology, which can result in unequal benefits from shared regional infrastructure. To address this, it’s crucial to establish mechanisms that ensure inclusive participation and cost and benefit-sharing among all ASEAN nations, potentially through regional cooperation funds.”
  

• NH: “To what extent do existing funding mechanisms and investment criteria used by development banks or private financiers support–or constrain–the adoption of broader impact assessments like those in the APG Framework?”

  
  MW: “Existing funding mechanisms and investment criteria used by development banks or private financiers are often primarily focused on the economic viability or ‘bankability’ of projects, such as return on investment (ROI), cost-effectiveness, and market potential. As important as these criteria are, focusing primarily on them may constrain the adoption of broader impact assessments, as social and environmental factors are sometimes seen as secondary or difficult to quantify. However, there is increasing recognition among development banks, such as the World Bank and Asian Development Bank (ADB), and private investors that sustainable projects cannot ignore social and environmental benefits and risks. Incorporating frameworks like Environmental, Social, and Governance (ESG) criteria, which consider the long-term impacts of projects, is gaining traction. At the same time, efforts to ensure sustainability, such as climate financing, may impose certain restrictions on developing the APG due to taxonomy issues related to financing eligibility. As financial institutions and regulatory bodies adopt stricter standards for what constitutes "green" or "sustainable" investments, there could be challenges in aligning APG projects with these criteria, especially when they don’t fully meet the criteria set by taxonomies like the EU Taxonomy for Sustainable Activities. To address these financing challenges, the APG framework must demonstrate how broader assessments—such as social inclusion, gender equity, and environmental sustainability—can align with the financial goals of stakeholders. This includes showcasing the long-term value these factors bring, such as climate resilience, and illustrating that an inclusive energy system has the potential to generate a larger social and economic return over time.”
  

• NH: “How can ASEAN ensure that the collection and standardization of qualitative data–essential for holistic assessments–does not disproportionately burden lower-capacity member states or lead to data gaps that undermine comparability?”
  
  MW: “Capacity Building: Provide targeted training and technical assistance to lower-capacity member States to help them collect and analyze data without overwhelming their existing resources. This could involve developing easy-to-use tools and guidelines for data collection and analysis, ensuring that these countries can participate fully without significant additional burdens. Simplified Reporting Frameworks: Develop a streamlined and standardized reporting system that balances data quality with ease of collection. Focus on key indicators that are essential for assessing energy access, sustainability, and social impact. This will help minimize data gaps and ensure comparability across countries, even if some member States have fewer resources. Regional Data Sharing Platforms: Establish a centralized data repository where countries can share qualitative and quantitative data in a consistent and organized way. This will not only improve comparability but also encourage peer learning among countries. For example, the ASEAN Centre for Energy can play a leading role in facilitating data exchange and ensuring quality control while also providing technical support to countries with weaker data infrastructure.”

by Nabil Haskanbancha, in Bangkok

In this exclusive article, UN ESCAP experts share their insights on how the ASEAN Power Grid (APG) can be a transformative tool for the region. They highlight not only its technical and economic promise but also its wider role in advancing inclusive and sustainable development.

The APG is central to Southeast Asia’s pursuit of regional integration, energy security, and a low-carbon future. While its technical and cost advantages are well recognized, focusing only on these aspects risks overlooking broader impacts. Power connectivity can also drive job creation, strengthen local infrastructure, and promote social inclusion and gender equality. Traditional evaluations often emphasize financial metrics, but ASEAN needs more holistic tools to capture social, economic, and environmental dimensions.

The UN ESCAP’s Green Power Corridor Framework offers such an approach by linking energy projects with the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs). Success should be measured not only by megawatts or savings, but also by contributions to equity, rural development, and environmental sustainability. Embedding this multidimensional perspective in ASEAN’s post-2025 energy strategies would ensure that power connectivity advances both prosperity and inclusivity.

The ASEAN Power Grid (APG) is a key cornerstone of Southeast Asia’s strategy for greater regional integration, energy security economic growth and achieving a sustainable, low-carbon future. With the region’s energy demand projected to more than double by 2050 and renewable energy resources unevenly distributed across countries, the need for an integrated and resilient power system is clear.

Discussions surrounding the APG have historically focused on its techno-economic advantages and feasibility, emphasizing benefits like reduced system costs, enhanced grid stability and lower carbon emissions. While these advantages are significant, this narrow lens risks overlooking the multidimensional socioeconomic and environmental impacts that power connectivity can bring. From job creation and local infrastructure development to gender equality and social inclusion, the broader effects of cross-border electricity trade and transmission infrastructure deserve more focused attention. By building a more comprehensive understanding of these impacts, ASEAN can better design, plan and prioritize power connectivity initiatives in ways that maximize societal benefit and support inclusive, sustainable development.

The traditional metrics used to evaluate power connectivity projects often stem from cost-benefit analyses (CBAs), power system optimization models and least-cost planning studies. These methodologies assess the financial viability of projects by comparing investment costs to system-level benefits, such as reduced generation costs, increased electricity access and enhanced reliability.

For example, recent modeling of the APG initiative showed that greater regional integration could lower the region’s electricity costs by billions of dollars annually. Similarly, a renewable integration study emphasized that interconnections can help reduce decarbonization costs by USD 800 billion.

Power infrastructure can also bring significant catalytic gains, rarely analyzed in existing research or in formal project evaluations. For rural communities, new transmission corridors often involve the construction of roads and related infrastructure, improving mobility, trade and access to services. Moreover, if planned inclusively, power connectivity projects can create jobs across a range of skill levels and promote gender equality.

Despite growing recognition of these broader benefits, empirical research on the wider economic, social and environmental impacts of power connectivity in South-East Asia remains limited. Some studies have begun to explore these dimensions. For example, one analysis indicates that developing 30 GW of new solar and wind capacity could create approximately 182,000 jobs in manufacturing, installation and maintenance. Another study concluded that regional connectivity in the region could reduce air pollution by approximately half, preventing an estimated 15,000 premature deaths annually. To advance more inclusive planning and policymaking, ASEAN could benefit from a framework that systematically captures the multidimensional impacts of power connectivity projects. Such a framework would go beyond traditional economic models and integrate qualitative and quantitative methodologies, including for example:

• Socioeconomic Impact Assessments (SEIAs): Often used in infrastructure projects, SEIAs evaluate the potential effects on livelihoods, employment, education, health and social dynamics.

• Gender Impact Analysis: Tools such as gender audits or gender-responsive budgeting can help identify how women and men are affected by infrastructure development.

• Life Cycle Assessment: Evaluates the environmental impacts of a project throughout its entire life cycle, from raw material extraction to disposal.

Additionally, integrating stakeholder consultations and community engagement into the assessment process can help overcome key data collection challenges while ensuring the inclusion of different sectoral perspectives.

ESCAP has begun developing an approach to capture the multisectoral costs and benefits of power connectivity projects through the Green Power Corridor (GPC) Framework, which includes tools and metrics to assess the alignment of power connectivity projects with the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs). The GPC metrics enable a more granular understanding of how energy infrastructure could impact not only SDG 7 (affordable and clean energy) but all relevant SDGs, including gender equality, education, decent work and climate action. The GPC Framework aims to offer a shared analytical foundation for policymakers, financiers and communities to assess and prioritize power connectivity projects, while aligning with broader SDGs.

South-East Asia’s energy future will benefit greatly from bold investments in regional interconnection and cooperation. But the success of power connectivity projects should not be measured by megawatts and cost savings alone. Social equity, gender inclusion, environmental sustainability and rural development are equally important metrics of success.

By embracing a more holistic approach to planning and evaluation, ASEAN policymakers can make a stronger, more compelling case for cross-border power connectivity, not just as a technical fix for supply-demand imbalances, but as a driver of regional prosperity, social progress and environmental resilience.

As the ASEAN community looks ahead to its post-2025 Plan of Action on Energy Cooperation and the signing of the Enhanced APG Memorandum of Understanding, there is an opportunity to embed this multidimensional perspective into future infrastructure planning strategies. Doing so will require not only improved data and methodologies, but also a shift in focus, from what power connectivity can do for the grid to what it can do for people and communities.

Authors:

• Matthew Wittenstein, Chief of Energy Connectivity Section, ESCAP

• Kieran Clarke, Energy Connectivity Expert, ESCAP

• Yejin Ha, Economic Affairs Officer, ESCAP