The ASEAN Five-Point Consensus (5PC) was established on April 24, 2021, during the ASEAN Leaders’ Meeting convened at the ASEAN Secretariat in Jakarta, Republic of Indonesia. The 5PC is the primary peace plan to address the post-coup crisis in Myanmar, focusing on halting violence, promoting dialogue, and providing access to humanitarian aid.

On the situation in Myanmar, the leaders reached consensus on the following:

• First, there shall be an immediate cessation of violence in Myanmar and all parties shall exercise utmost restraint.

• Second, constructive dialogue among all parties concerned shall commence to seek a peaceful solution in the interests of the people.

• Third, a special envoy of the ASEAN Chair shall facilitate mediation of the dialogue process, with the assistance of the Secretary-General of ASEAN.

• Fourth, ASEAN shall provide humanitarian assistance through the AHA Centre.

• Fifth, the special envoy and delegation shall visit Myanmar to meet with all parties concerned.

It has been five years since the military coup in Myanmar and no significant progress has been made, with the implementation of the 5PC effectively stalled throughout the period.

On May 8th, during the Press Conference at the 48th ASEAN Summit in Cebu, President Marcos highlighted the limitations associated with the implementation of the Five-Point Consensus and noted the growing frustrations among member states over the lack of measurable progress. The President reaffirmed that ASEAN remains committed to working harder to resolve the situation in Myanmar. Despite the commitment, the actual plan remains unclear.

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With the Philippines’ chairmanship of the 48th ASEAN Summit this year, observers’ attention turned to how ASEAN aims to tackle the protracted Myanmar crisis, which remains a top concern for the regional bloc. During the Press Conference, our media representation from the ASEAN Frontier observed that President Marcos framed Myanmar not only as a regional security concern but as a humanitarian and familial responsibility within ASEAN. “Myanmar is not merely a trade partner or a friend. Myanmar is part of the ASEAN family, and it is a tragedy when a family member is left out of the family for whatever reason,” he stated, framing the crisis as a shared regional responsibility. This framing suggests an attempt to sustain political cohesion within the bloc, even as practical outcomes remain limited. He further highlighted that ASEAN needs to do more and find other ways “to move the process forward.”

President Marcos asserted that the Philippines, along with all member states, would like to see more progress, but not at the cost of ASEAN’s core principles such as the rule of law and respect for human rights.

The President also highlighted a recurring challenge within ASEAN’s response to the Myanmar crisis; a gap between adoption and implementation under the Five-Point Consensus (5PC).

While ASEAN has publicly expressed frustration over the lack of progress on the 5PC, the strategy on how to move forward remains unclear.

Rhetorical commitment contrasts with the absence of enforcement tools or alternative diplomatic pathways. While ASEAN leaders continue to express dissatisfaction with the status quo, the institutional architecture of the organization offers few mechanisms to move beyond consultation and symbolic pressure.

From a policy perspective, the persistence of this deadlock reflects ASEAN’s broader institutional constraints. The bloc’s consensus-based decision-making and long-standing principle of non-interference limit its ability to enforce compliance, particularly in internal political crises involving member states. As a result, the 5PC has functioned more as a normative framework than an operational mechanism.

The Myanmar issue increasingly functions as a test case for ASEAN’s credibility as a rules-based regional institution. The current trajectory suggests a continued reliance on declaratory diplomacy, with limited capacity to alter ground realities—underscoring a persistent tension between ASEAN’s stated principles and its operational effectiveness.

Myat is a senior undergraduate student majoring in Politics, Philosophy, and Economics. She has interned at The Asia Foundation in Washington, D.C., and she has also worked as a summer research assistant at the Centre for Policy and Innovation (CRPI), gaining experience in research and analysis. Her work focuses on civic engagement, gender, youth leadership, and community development.

Edited by: Marios T. Afrataios

by Satid Sutipanya, TAF Thailand Correspondent

This coming October 2026, the high-profile meeting between the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and the World Bank Group (WBG) will take place once again in Bangkok, Thailand under “The IMF-WBG Annual Meeting 2026” after hosting the annual meeting for the first time in 1991.

The meeting will bring policymakers, business leaders, and decision-makers across 191 member nations of the Bretton Woods Institutions, the collective name for the IMF and the World Bank Group, to Thailand, which could help boost Thailand’s sluggish tourism sector hit severely hard by both COVID-19 and the current world’s energy shocks.

Against the backdrop of the annual meeting, one key issue to consider is the comparative economic growth of the Thai economy between the 1990s and now.

The Kingdom’s economy had expanded by 8–11% during the late 1980s to the early 1990s due to significantly high foreign investment flows enhanced by relatively low wages, reduced trade barriers, and stable macroeconomic policies, which kept inflation low and the exchange rate stable, according to a paper conducted by the Thailand Development Institute (TDRI).

One key driver of this growth was the influx of Japanese investment. In 1985, the Japanese government, among other five members, including France, Germany, the United Kingdom, and the United States, had signed an agreement to allow coordinated intervention in currency markets to strengthen the U.S. dollar, later called the Plaza Accord Agreement.

One implication of the agreement was the Yen’s appreciation, making manufacturing and exporting in Japan during the late 1980s to the 1990s difficult. Therefore, the tough investment atmosphere during the time led to the flow of Japanese investment into Thailand, especially in the automobile industry, in the 1990s, which was the key foundation of Thailand’s economic boom at the time.

The Thai government also initiated the Eastern Seaboard (ESB) project to attract more foreign direct investment (FDI) with numerous tax incentives. The ESB provided tax perks to multinational firms, mainly in the automobile industry, to build their factories in the eastern area of Thailand. The initiative has driven the Thai economy by creating millions of jobs, making Thailand the ‘Detroit of Asia’.

However, a series of crises — the Asian Financial Crisis in 1997, the Global Financial Crisis in 2008, the outbreak of COVID-19 in 2020, the reciprocal tariffs implemented by Donald Trump, and the ongoing oil-price shocks — have gradually reduced the country’s economic growth from well above 10% to merely 1–2% today.

Thailand today is facing significant challenges from both internal problems and external shocks. For the former, rising household debt, limited fiscal space, ballooning fiscal deficits, mounting public debt, and over-reliance on export and tourism are the key challenges; for the latter, disruptions in the global trade system and the spike of the world’s oil prices are the primary concerns.

Besides economic challenges, political instability is another significant factor hindering the Thai economy for many decades, which has prevented governments — particularly anti-establishment ones — from implementing long-term structural reforms. Since becoming a constitutional monarchy in 1932, there have been 13 successful coups in the Kingdom; every successful coup also leads to a new amendment of the constitution. Thailand has gone through approximately 20 versions of its constitution since 1932.

Ekniti Nitithanprapas, Thailand’s Finance Minister, said during a press conference on the formal launch of the IMF-WBG Annual Meeting in March 2026 that the Thai economy now and in the 1990s had different problems. In the 1990s, it was a matter of overheating, meaning the economy expanded at an unsustainably fast pace without proper regulations from the government, while the Thai economy now is experiencing new shocks, for example an aging population.

Ekniti added that in order to upgrade Thailand’s potential growth, the government needs to focus on infrastructure investment as well as digital transformation and Artificial Intelligence (AI) adoption to attract more foreign investment, upskill the workforce, and increase productivity.

“By adopting those innovations, Thailand will be able to attract investment from everywhere, not only to Thailand but to the region, and use that as a way to upgrade our potential growth that can be shared and learned from each other,” said Ekniti.

Kristalina Georgieva, Managing Director (MD) of the IMF, said during the same press conference that global growth is slowing compared to its historical trend. The pre-COVID trend growth rate averaged about 3.7–3.8%. Now, the rate is around 3.2–3.3%.

“The factors slowing the growth down are that productivity has not been growing fast enough,” said Georgieva, adding that “So if we want to see faster growth, we have to focus on what are the obstacles to productivity growth.”

To increase output in the economy, she suggested that each government needs to follow three priorities: deepen capital markets instead of heavy reliance on bank loans, leverage AI to increase productivity growth, and improve the allocation of labor and capital.

“We assess that, in Asia, there could be all the way up to 1% increase in productivity if AI is taken as an advantage for the economy,” said Kristalina, adding that “Also make sure that the factors — labor and capital — are all deployed to the fullest, while reducing red tape.”


Satid is a multimedia economic journalist and news anchor who covers macroeconomic trends, Thailand’s fiscal policy, and key regional developments for Bangkok Biz. A Journalism graduate from Thammasat University, he has reported on major issues such as the US–China trade tensions, the Myanmar crisis, and global corporate stories, drawing on prior newsroom experience at The Momentum, the Bangkok Post, AFP, and Varasarn Press. His work blends economic analysis, foreign affairs, and digital storytelling, with a strong focus on making complex financial and political topics accessible to Thai audiences.

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

by Sean Huy Vu, TAF Vietnam Correspondent

The ongoing conflict in the Middle East demonstrates the importance of studying Southeast Asian history and perspectives, and the costs of not doing so. Although leaders from both sides have claimed victory, to the average consumer the war is far from over. Tehran now controls approximately 25% of the world’s oil through the Strait of Hormuz, and negotiations have reached an impasse. Fuel prices around the world remain high, especially in Southeast Asia. The escalation of violence was entirely avoidable, and the Trump administration is now at risk of following the same trajectory as the Kennedy, Johnson, and Nixon administrations during the Vietnam War.

This essay critically analyzes US foreign policy in its war on Iran by comparing it to the history of the Vietnam War. It examines the personalities, incentives, and organizational structures across US administrations to understand how policies and outcomes were made. This essay aims to show how identifying patterns in history can be applied to contemporary strategy and risk-management, and can inform future decision-making.

Personalities and Organization: The most important person in either the Iran or Vietnam War is the American President, for he sets the agenda and atmosphere of the administration. Although Democrat Lyndon Johnson and Republican Donald Trump are very different men, they are temperamentally similar. Historians and psychiatrists speculate that Johnson had bipolar disorder, a mental health condition that makes it difficult for an individual to self-regulate their emotions. Johnson was known by his wife and advisors to have wild mood swings between ecstasy and depression. His predecessor President Kennedy characterized him as “a very insecure, sensitive man with a huge ego.” Johnson’s lack of self-confidence and paranoia led to a “preoccupation with consensus and unity [in his administration],” writes lieutenant general and former national security advisor H. R. McMaster. “His quest for reassurance and support, rather than wide-ranging debate on policy issues,” negatively affected Vietnam policy. As a result, Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Maxwell Taylor both prevented advice from the Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS) from reaching President Johnson out of fear of challenging him. Similarly, Secretary of War Pete Hegseth has purged several JCS members who do not conform with his or President Trump’s views, including Army Chief of Staff General Randy George.

Donald Trump’s leadership style is even more centralized and hierarchical than Johnson’s. The President has replaced institutions with sycophantic loyalists, and routinely intimidates and blackmails appointees who fail to carry out his orders. This pressures subordinates, such as Director of National Intelligence Tulsi Gabbard, from making accurate assessments that may upset the president. When asked by Congress whether Iran was an imminent threat to the United States, Gabbard simply replied, “the only person who can determine what is and is not an imminent threat is the president.”

Overconfidence in Air Power: In the beginning of the Vietnam conflict, Defense Secretary McNamara proposed to President Johnson a strategy of “graduated pressure” against the communist forces in Vietnam and Laos. McNamara hoped that slow escalation of bombing would communicate American resolve and deter the enemy from absorbing South Vietnam. A graduate of Harvard Business School and a former president of Ford Motors, McNamara calculated that a purely aerial campaign would be a cost-efficient means of achieving “maximum pressure with minimum risks.” Johnson, who believed a ground invasion of Vietnam would draw attention away from his domestic agenda, affect his popularity, and provoke the Soviet Union and China, accepted McNamara’s logic. The JCS insisted that a bombing campaign would be insufficient in preventing a communist takeover of the South, and that a full-scale ground invasion would be necessary. But it was too late by the time Johnson realized this.

Similarly, the Trump administration relied solely on air power in Iran to avoid the political and human costs of a ground invasion. At its peak, the United States sent over 500,000 troops to South Vietnam, a state of 174,000 km² , and yet this was still insufficient to save the Saigon regime. Even if Washington sent the same amount of troops to Iran, a mountainous country of 1,650,000 km², the operation would likely still be infeasible.

Absence of Strategy: From the period of 1963 to 1965, Johnson was initially reluctant to get deeply involved in Vietnam. He was focused on improving race relations in America and Great Society programs, which sought to reduce inequality in the United States. In addition to domestic social issues, Johnson was also preoccupied with securing election in 1964. Taken together, these issues prevent him from developing a coherent strategy for Vietnam.

Donald Trump has shown even less desire to deeply contemplate his country’s war in the Middle East. Virtually everyday, the administration has delivered inconsistent and competing explanations for the conflict in Iran. Since he is constitutionally ineligible for a third term, he has no incentive to develop a property strategy, or maintain his popularity for the next election.

Compared to the Trump or Kennedy/Johnson administrations, the Vietnamese and Iranians had very clear objectives for fighting. Both peoples faced an existential threat to their sovereignty and both had the home advantage. But above all both groups understood the power of nationalism and storytelling, inspiring collective effervescence from their population for a larger cause. With a few exceptions, US administrations have consistently failed to garner meaningful support for their wars.

Recommendations:

1. Consider the Qualitative, not just the Quantitative: Historians Philip and William Taubman point out how “McNamara’s mechanical prosecution of the Vietnam War… [and] his obsessive and misplaced reliance on statistical data in making decisions,” affected the outcomes of the war. He discounted the role of confirmation bias and motivated reasoning in shaping research. More importantly, he, and the rest of the administration, did not consider the emotional factors that motivated the Vietnamese resistance movement: the role of language, history, and culture. Although a deeper knowledge would not have necessarily guaranteed an American victory, it would have bridged greater understanding between combatants and possibly reduced the duration of the conflict.

   Likewise, the American and Israeli governments, largely through quantitative assessment, overconfidently concluded that regime change in Iran was possible through overwhelming air power and a decapitation strike. However, they discounted how a humiliating history of Western intervention (i.e. the 1953 Coup), and Shia Islam could serve as powerful motivators of Iranian resolve.
   

2. Build Reliable Institutions: During negotiations under President Nixon’s tenure, the United States bombed North Vietnam to make concessions to conclude the war. Now, as talks stall in Iran, President Trump appears to be considering bombing again. In order for conflict to resolve, a foundation of genuine trust needs to be established. “Personal rapport is important,” writes Vietnam expert Zachary Abuza, “Trust must be based on an honest discussion and acceptance of the other side’s red lines,” such as domestic political pressures. Most importantly, Abuza concludes, trust must be based on “durable institutions that work together day in and day out.” Such institutions can be organized by governments or can arise from civil society. They should be open, transparent, dynamic, and creative to earn the trust and participation of outsiders. Institutions can require substantial funding and specific personnel to negotiate, investigate, and coordinate resources and information as well.
   

3. Offer Credible Concessions: During peace negotiations, President Nixon promised billions of dollars in reconstruction aid to Vietnam. However, since this money was technically not reparations, the US felt no obligation to compensate the Hanoi government after the fall of Saigon. Nonetheless, the US government, through NGOs, has helped Vietnam with dioxin remediation, removal of unexploded ordinances, and provided medical care to victims of Agent Orange. In the case of the current conflict, offering reparations to a designated state-sponsor of terror would likely not sit well with the American electorate. Instead, the United States can suspend arms sales to Israel to communicate a genuine attempt at reducing hostilities in the region while imposing costs on Israel for provoking the United States to launch preemptive airstrikes on Iran.

In the end, Johnson escalated the conflict in Vietnam due to lack of planning, a failed air campaign, and out of fear of appearing weak to the American public. Political scientist Robert Pape theorizes that there is a high chance that Trump will escalate to boots-on-the-ground in Ira. for similar reasons, despite current efforts to settle a peace deal. As Trump loses power domestically and on the international stage over the war, he may commit to a sunk cost endeavor and retaliate against Iran with more force out of desperation.

As similar as the Vietnam and Iran wars are, it would be a mistake to believe history ever repeats: it only rhymes. As Burmese historian Phyo Latt warns, “Analogy can illuminate, but it can also intoxicate… once resemblance becomes destiny, thinking stops.” History is a guide for decision-making; it does not determine it. As Latt writes, the past “warns, interrupts, complicates, and, at its best, slows the hand before it reaches for force.”


Sean is a scholar of East Asian history, culture, and international relations, with current research at Georgetown University examining working-class labor and human trafficking in the region. His broader interests include the social psychology of religion and identity politics. Sean previously taught modern Korean history at the University of California, Irvine, where he completed his B.A. in History, and later taught English in Ho Chi Minh City while studying Vietnamese language and culture. His writing has been published by UC Irvine, Johns Hopkins University, and Foreign Analysis.

Edited by Phan Quang Anh Bui, Frontier Analysis Editor

Ask a young Southeast Asian about the maritime issues shaping the region, and the answer will likely begin with the South China Sea dispute, coast guard confrontations, and flashpoints in contested waters. While these form the most visible part of the story, a wider set of maritime issues also shapes coastal livelihoods, climate exposure, food security, infrastructure resilience, and access to future opportunity across Southeast Asia.

With ten of eleven Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) member states being coastal states, the sea defines the region’s geography, economies, weather, and food supply. The maritime domain is therefore an integral part of the region’s strategic, political, economic, and social landscape, with direct effects on the peoples of ASEAN, and in particular on its youth.

Youth aged 15 to 34 make up around a third of ASEAN’s combined population, with many of these young people living near the coast or in communities tied closely to fisheries, ports, shipping, marine tourism, and the wider coastal economy. For this generation, maritime issues shape the conditions under which they will live, work, and adapt.

Maritime pressures affecting young lives

A 2021 report by the Center for Strategic and International Studies has described Southeast Asia as being on the front lines of climate change, plastic pollution, and fisheries stress. UNICEF estimated that more than 120 million children in East Asia and the Pacific are highly exposed to coastal flooding, while more than 210 million are highly exposed to cyclones. In the Philippines alone, UNICEF recorded 9.7 million child displacements between 2016 and 2021, with about 60 per cent of the population living by the ocean and sea levels rising at up to four times the global average. The Asian Development Bank has also found that Southeast Asia bears more than 42 per cent of global annual damage from coastal flooding, estimated at over US$26 billion each year.

ASEAN member states accounted for around 20 per cent of global fishery production in 2022, yet surging global and regional demand has left 64 per cent of the region’s fisheries base at medium to high risk. The ASEAN Centre for Biodiversity has warned that, under current practices, viable fish stocks could be exhausted as early as 2048. In fishing and coastal communities, these pressures shape household incomes, if local work remains viable, and whether younger people see a future at home. In Indonesia, climate change has driven fishers to migrate to Jakarta in search of livelihoods, often settling in informal coastal neighbourhoods with limited access to sanitation, housing, and schooling. In the Philippines, a landmark assessment of 44 coastal towns found that 68 per cent of their fisheries were unsustainable, and reclamation projects from Cavite to Cebu have steadily reduced local fish supply and displaced long-established fisherfolk communities. These pressures cut directly into education choices, migration patterns, household security, and community stability.

A November 2024 survey of more than 2,700 Gen Z and millennial respondents across the region also found that employment opportunities rank among the most pressing issues for 76 percent of Gen Z respondents, while 44 percent identified environmental protection as a major concern – both issues sit squarely at the intersection of the maritime domain. Ports, shipping, fisheries, marine services, coastal management, and maritime technology will continue to shape Southeast Asia’s future, yet these sectors may not be front-of-mind when younger people think about work, training, and advancement.

Why the youth angle matters

Ocean-dependent communities, including youth, are disproportionately affected by maritime insecurities and competing pressures linked to the ocean economy, yet they often remain marginal to decision-making and maritime governance. For younger Southeast Asians, that imbalance carries long-term consequences, since they will live longest with coastal climate stress, resource strain, marine pollution, and economies deeply dependent on maritime trade and infrastructure.

However, engagement is more than a matter of fairness. Young people across the region are already generating solutions that formal institutions have been slower to develop. The UNDP-supported ASEAN Blue Innovation Challenge has surfaced youth-led ventures tackling concrete maritime problems: projects such as retrieving discarded fishing gear in Myanmar, turning old fishing nets into tiles in the Philippines, and making biodegradable materials from coconut waste in Indonesia.

Youth networks can also mobilise at a reach that formal regional or national processes may miss out. Bye Bye Plastic Bags, an Indonesian youth-founded initiative, has reached over 50,000 students across more than 20 countries and helped shape Bali’s provincial plastic-bag ban. Save Philippine Seas has mentored more than 600 marine conservation leaders across Southeast Asia and backed 130 youth-led community projects. These ground-up organisations reach audiences, drive behavioural change, and generate citizen-science data that institutional channels may miss.

Young people in coastal communities also hold ground-truth knowledge the sector is short on. Studies of community-based fisheries co-management in Indonesia, the Philippines, Thailand and Vietnam have found that when local youths are brought into decisions, resource conflicts drop and food security improves. USAID’s work on small-scale fisheries across the Indo-Pacific has similarly shown that youth and women already do essential, often invisible, work along fisheries value chains, and that formalising this work through training, credit access, and value-added processing is among the most effective ways to keep the sector viable as older generations retire.

What should change

Part of the challenge lies in how maritime issues are usually presented. In much of Southeast Asia, they still appear mainly through disputes, sovereignty, law enforcement, and inter-state coordination. That language remains necessary, but it has become the dominant register of discussion, and it narrows how maritime issues are understood. The ASEAN Maritime Outlook shows how broad the maritime agenda already is, spanning connectivity, fisheries, labour, tourism, transport, and science and technology alongside security. It acknowledges that many maritime challenges directly affect the welfare of the peoples of ASEAN, but that breadth still does not come through clearly enough in wider public discourse.

Closing that gap calls for two reciprocal moves. Regional youth dialogues on resilience, skills, sustainability, and future opportunity should treat maritime pressures as a recurring thread rather than a specialist concern. Maritime discussions, in turn, should routinely draw in younger people working on coastal, fisheries, environmental, infrastructure, and community issues. At present, the two tracks run largely in parallel, touching similar terrain but rarely meeting.

The scope of youth engagement itself also deserves to be widened. Existing ASEAN youth conversations have largely clustered around a familiar set of themes such as employment and entrepreneurship, digital skills, education, climate action, and civic participation. Maritime concerns tend to surface only when a crisis or flashpoint forces them into view. Coastal livelihoods, blue economy careers, fisheries sustainability, marine pollution, and coastal climate adaptation fit naturally alongside the themes already in play, and speak directly to the realities many young Southeast Asians live with.

Framing, though, is only half of the shift. It will need to be matched by the quality of participation once young people are in the room. Three things matter in particular. The first is engagement at the shaping stage of policy, so that young people inform positions as they are being formed rather than respond to positions already set. The second is involvement in delivery, which takes seriously the fact that many maritime policies land in coastal communities where young people are already adapting, organising, and responding on the ground. The third is making adequate space for young Southeast Asians to set their own agenda on maritime affairs, as legitimate interlocutors rather than beneficiaries of programmes designed elsewhere. ASEAN’s existing youth and sectoral processes already offer much of the scaffolding required; the work ahead is to connect them with greater intent.

Towards a wider maritime conversation

Southeast Asia’s maritime issues will continue to involve security, diplomacy, and statecraft. They also involve coastal climate risk, strained livelihoods, vulnerable infrastructure, food security, and uneven access to opportunity. These pressures already shape how many young people across the region live, work, and plan their futures.

Treating the maritime domain as a wider conversation, and treating young Southeast Asians as participants in shaping it, are two sides of the same move. A region whose median age is thirty cannot afford a maritime agenda that speaks past the generation most exposed to its pressures and most invested in its future. Nor can it afford to treat their involvement as symbolic. Much of the practical work, from adapting coastlines and rebuilding fisheries to closing the loop on plastics and staffing the blue economy, will fall to them.

The headlines will continue to focus on the visible flashpoints. The more consequential maritime story is the one unfolding in coastal neighbourhoods, fishing households, and the choices young Southeast Asians are making about whether to stay, leave, or build something new. That story deserves a fuller conversation, and a generation ready to help lead it.

Edited by Thant Thura Zan, Frontier Analysis Editor

For decades, Malaysia’s nation-building project has been inward-facing; focussing on managing racial complexity, ensuring stability, and building the foundations of a modern economy. This approach has delivered real progress. But as the global system fractures and reverberations are felt around the Indo-Pacific, it is no longer sufficient. This article argues that Malaysia’s next chapter requires a shift in perspective: from inward management to outward purpose. What the country lacks is not capability, but a unifying idea that defines our role in the world. Existing ambitions such as becoming high-income, moving up the value chain, maintaining non-alignment are important, but they describe outcomes and methods, not purpose and identity.

Malaysia’s geography and history point to a clearer answer. Situated along the Straits of Malacca, one of the world’s most critical trade corridors, and shaped by centuries of historical heritage of movement, Malaysia is not merely a participant in global commerce, but is positioned to become a central node within it.

To realize this, Malaysia must dedicate itself to becoming a modern trading civilization: A country where nations come to trade goods, invest capital, and exchange ideas. Where its people are open, and they explore the world.

Malaysia should build a nation of, and a nation for, explorers.

Where it started

Whether consciously or not, many Malaysians are familiar with this question: What is Malaysia? What defines the country and its people as Malaysians? Are Malaysians characterised by their multicultural, multiracial, and multireligious diversity? Or simpler still - it’s the child-like wonder of, “Who are we?” The common answer may sound familiar: Malaysia is defined by her people.

They carry a rich tapestry of history: from unwilling neighbours ferried to support British colonial trade, to post-independence citizens tied together by Satu Malaysia. A melting pot of food, language, and that unmistakable Malaysian twang. Malaysians are less defined by similarity, and more by their differences.

Yet, sometimes, in the space where a national identity should sit, many have wondered if the harmony is held together less by a coherent idea of unity, and more by a quiet fear of disharmony.

Malaysia celebrates Satu Malaysia, but how many have more multicultural friendships than their parents did? And how do those compare to their parents?

The country continues to be moulded by differences inherited from an older time, and still allows the future to be shaped by the same paradigm. Surely, this must change. A new way of thinking about Malaysia’s future is required, and this article presents a thesis for a way forward.

It’s time to look outwards, not inwards.

The majority of Malaysia’s nation-building literature largely explored the question of Malaysia’s future by looking inwards.

Most start by tracing the curvature of colonialism beneath the smiles of ordinary Malaysians, and find that British racial separation birthed a constitution that embeds our differences as an institutional reality.

Unlike its Southeast Asian neighbours, who chose to suppress racial differences in pursuit of a unified identity, Malaysia chose to embrace them. From there, there was no turning back.

Malaysia was forced, from the onset of its genesis, to start nation-building by looking inwards. Institutions and policies were designed to distribute wealth along racial lines, managing a delicate balance that demanded constant attention. For the consequences of failure snake beneath every Malaysian’s subconscious: Malaysia cannot afford another May 13.

In effect, much of what Malaysia built as a nation was shaped by race. It became a country that understood itself through its internal racial dynamics, rather than its external place in the world.

For the last 70 years, this was not only understandable, but necessary. How can a country look outward if it is not yet stable within?

In the 1970s, Malays controlled only a small share of corporate equity despite forming the majority of the population. Rural states such as Kedah, Kelantan, and Pahang lagged far behind more urbanised regions like Selangor, Johor, and Penang. In East Malaysia, social mobility was limited, and for many, economic advancement remained a distant aspiration.

Since then, Malaysia has made real progress. Poverty has fallen dramatically. Inequality has narrowed. Participation in the modern economy has broadened. The economy has expanded, and human development indicators have improved significantly states data from Sultan Nazrin Shah’s book Striving for Inclusive Development, which traces Malaysia’s economic journey from its colonial roots to the present day.

But progress did not come without cost.

Institutional weaknesses enabled periods of corruption and misgovernance. Race-based policies, while addressing inequality, also created distortions that continue to shape the economy today.

Yet, through these imperfections, something else emerged.

From the cracks of its early struggles grew institutions and infrastructure that defined the Malaysia Boleh (Malaysia can do it) spirit. Malaysia now has strong physical infrastructure, a capable financial system, widespread connectivity, and a population that is increasingly educated and globally aware.

In many ways, Malaysia is ready.

And this is increasingly recognized, not just by observers, but by policymakers themselves. In recent years, there has been a wave of national strategies: the 13th Malaysia Plan, NIMP (industrial), NETR (energy), and the Defence White Paper. Together, they signal a renewed push to re-energize growth and reposition the country.

Perhaps for the first time since Mahathir Mohamad (Malaysian Prime Minister) sparked a frenzy for industrialization that catapulted Malaysia into a middle power, there is a recognition that the country stands at the precipice of something great.

As Liew Chin Tong argues in Second Takeoff, this is Malaysia’s time. As global supply chains shift and geopolitical tensions reshape the world economy, a new wave of industrialization is underway. Countries that position themselves well will capture the next phase of growth.

For 70 years, the country looked inward. Now, it must begin to look outward.

This is not to deny that challenges remain. Malaysia’s internal issues have not disappeared. But the path forward may not lie in continuing to look inward alone. It is through the outward journey of pursuing a Grand Strategy that the country will reshape how it sees itself.

Its diversity, long treated as a source of tension, will begin to find new meaning. Its pockets of economic aspirations will orient themselves to serve a wider purpose.

Like sailors on land who spent decades fixing their vessels, Malaysia’s entire nation-building apparatus will finally set sail towards this true north. And in doing so, the country may finally arrive at an answer to the question it began with: What is Malaysia?

Crafting Malaysia’s Grand Strategy

A grand strategy is the overarching, long-term plan that defines a nation’s core objective and aligns all its resources: economic, political, military, and social, to achieve it amid a contested global order.

At its core, it must answer three questions:

• What is Malaysia trying to become? (state/identity)

• Where does it play? (geography, domains, arenas of competition)

• How does it align everything to get there? (policies, institutions, capabilities)

If these three do not connect, what exists is not a grand strategy, but a collection of initiatives.

The ambition of this article is simple, but demanding. It is not to examine Malaysia through a single lens, but to define what Malaysia should be by holding its geography, history, economy, institutions, and identity together as one system.

Yet even with years spent studying Malaysia’s development, answering a basic question remains difficult: what is Malaysia’s grand strategy?

The answers available today are, at best, incomplete. Consider the familiar description:

“Malaysia is a strategically positioned, multiethnic middle-income nation balancing export-driven economic ambition, state-guided development, and social cohesion while navigating identity, governance, and geopolitical complexity.”

This may sound accurate, but it is not distinctive. Replace “Malaysia” with Indonesia, the Philippines, India, Turkey, or Brazil, and it would still ring true.

At best, Malaysia’s current policy direction suggests that it aims to become a stable, inclusive, high-value economy and a neutral middle power embedded in global supply chains. But this is not a grand strategy. It is a well-coordinated development approach.

It tells how Malaysia grows, but not what it aspires to grow into.

Consider this:

• “High-income nation” is an outcome, not an identity.

• “Move up the value chain” is a method, not a direction.

• “Neutral middle power” is a posture, not a purpose.

Malaysia knows how it wants to grow, but not what it wants to grow into.

It is, in many ways, like a chef with all the right ingredients, but no dish defined. Or a ship in choppy waters, with capable sailors and a sturdy vessel, but no clear destination.

This gap becomes clear when examining national policies.

The 13th Malaysia Plan, for example, outlines a broad set of domestic priorities, with limited articulation of Malaysia’s role on the global stage.

Similarly, Malaysia’s industrial policy (NIMP) identifies the right capabilities such as advanced manufacturing, digitalization, net-zero, and supply chain resilience, but offers little clarity on the unifying purpose behind them.

Why is Malaysia digitalizing? Why is it pursuing net-zero? Why is it revitalizing manufacturing? Beyond responding to global trends, what is the larger role Malaysia is trying to play?

An articulation of a Malaysian grand strategy can be found in the aforementioned book by Liew Chin Tong (The Second Takeoff). In this interpretation, he makes a memorable argument that Malaysia’s direction is to achieve three Ms:

• Middle-Class: To grow rich before growing old.

• Middle-Power: To be a non-aligned middle power that serves as a conduit between the West and East.

• Middle-Ground: To occupy the “middle” in manufacturing (e.g. assembly), leveraging its “middle” position between East and West.

But even this framing does not provide a clear direction for Malaysia.

Having a strong middle class signals a stable economy, and being a non-aligned middle power is an approach. Occupying the middle ground in manufacturing is an industrial strategy. These are important but they do not, in part or in full, define what Malaysia is meant to be.

What emerges, then, is a pattern. For decades, Malaysia’s socioeconomic development has largely been inward-facing, focused on stabilizing the racial-religious balance while pursuing industrial growth. This model has served the country well. But it cannot be the path of a country on the precipice of its next chapter.

This is the moment to ask a different question - not just how Malaysia grows, but what it will grow into.

Any meaningful answer must be clear, practical, and carry a call to action; one that defines what Malaysia must become, and, when examined closely, reveals the foundational core of what makes a Malaysian.

Malaysia as a Trading Civilization

Some countries must struggle to create relevance in the world. Others have relevance thrust upon them by sheer size or by geography that places them at the center of global affairs.

China and India derive relevance from scale. As vast continental powers, their populations provide depth and internal momentum. The same is true of the United States which is shielded by the Pacific and Atlantic, bordered by relatively stable neighbours, and able to grow into a global center of innovation and capitalism.

Others derive relevance from movement. The Gulf states, such as the UAE, have leveraged their position along critical trade and energy routes to become hubs of commerce and connectivity. Similarly, small states like Singapore have capitalized on geography to attract capital and talent. In these cases, relevance is not driven by size, but by proximity to global flows of goods, capital, and people.

Malaysia belongs to this second category.

It does not possess the scale of continental powers, nor the singular continuity of older civilizations. But it sits along one of the most consequential waterways in the history of global commerce - the corridor linking the Indian Ocean and the Pacific.

Malaysia has the Straits of Malacca.

Long before the modern nation-state, the Malay world thrived as a network of maritime trading communities. The Malacca Sultanate became a crossroads of cultures and economies, a resting place where merchants, scholars, and diplomats gathered to exchange goods and ideas.

Trade did not just bring wealth. It shaped a shared identity. The people of the Malay world became defined by movement, exchange, and exploration.

As such, the diversity that defines Malaysia today did not arise in isolation. It is the birthmark of a land shaped by centuries of trade, migration, and exchange. Malaysia’s diversity is not merely a byproduct of colonial history, but the inheritance of a trading civilization that once stood at the center of its world.

Today, the global system is reorganizing once again. The Indo-Pacific has become the central arena of economic dynamism and geopolitical competition. Supply chains are shifting. Trade routes between East Asia, South Asia, the Middle East, and Europe are deepening.

The system before Malaysia is being rebuilt. And parts of it are being rebuilt around it.

The Strait of Malacca remains one of the most vital trade corridors in the world. But geography alone does not guarantee influence. Malaysia’s strategic advantage must be cultivated through institutions, infrastructure, diplomacy, and capability.

Singapore understood this early. It did not merely benefit from its location but organized its entire system around it. By leveraging its maritime position decades ago to become the epicenter of regional trade, it used that advantage to become the financial, military, and intellectual drumbeat of the region.

Does Malaysia not stand at such a moment too?

There are strong instincts in adopting the right developmental policies. Manufacturing growth, export-led industrialization, and integration into global supply chains have transformed the country into a middle-income economy. Its ports are active. Its industries are competitive. Its society is diverse and capable.

Malaysia knows how to grow. But not what it is growing into.

The answer lies in something both old and new: Malaysia must turn its core into a trading nation once again. Not only of goods, but of capital, ideas, and exchange.

And this begins at sea.

Maritime trade is Malaysia’s natural foundation. The country already possesses ports across Penang, Selangor, Johor, and the East Coast. Capturing trade flows begins as a (behemoth) logistical challenge to attract transhipments away from Singapore. But if achieved, the long-run benefit is clear: global flows become anchored to Malaysia.

From there, everything begins to align.

Manufacturing gains purpose when it is positioned close to trade. Supply chains deepen when firms see Malaysia not just as a production base, but as a gateway. The export-led model becomes more powerful when it is tied directly to both Eastern and Western markets.

Maritime trade connects global demand with the supply from Malaysia’s re-industrialization objectives.

Growth then spreads. Industrialization strengthens existing hubs of Penang, Selangor, and Johor, and gradually extends outward as demand increases. States that were once peripheral gain new relevance as part of a larger system of production and exchange.

Even Malaysia’s military and foreign policy begin to align. A stronger role in trade demands a more capable naval and aerial presence to secure its waters. Its non-aligned foreign policy becomes an advantage as a platform of neutrality and trust in an increasingly divided world. Malaysia moves from participating in ASEAN to shaping it through connectivity and integration.

Tourism evolves alongside this as traders, investors, and talent flow through Malaysia. Its diversity becomes an asset on display, not a tension to manage.

And perhaps most importantly, in what started this entire essay, Malaysia inherits a renewed sense of identity.

A country that has long looked inward begins to look outward. Diversity is no longer just something to manage, but something to present. Malaysia becomes defined not just by its differences internally, but by how it showcases its diversity externally.

And if the above sounds far-fetched, the argument here is to the contrary.

This vision does not replace existing ambitions, but gives them meaning. Industrial policy, digital infrastructure, green energy, and innovation all remain essential. But within a trading strategy, they are no longer isolated efforts. They become parts of a coherent Grand Strategy.

Malaysia already possesses the foundations. Its geography places it at the center of key trade routes. Its ports, industries, and workforce are deeply connected to global markets. Its diplomatic posture remains balanced and pragmatic.

What is lacking is not capability, but clarity.

If developed intentionally, Malaysia can become a central, trusted platform for trade, production, and exchange in the Indo-Pacific.

This will not be easy. Institutional fragmentation, governance challenges, and gaps in execution remain real constraints. But they are not new, and they are not insurmountable.

Malaysia’s forefathers have done this before, and it can do so again.

The civilizations that once thrived along these shores succeeded not because they had more resources, but because they understood that success meant organizing themselves around global movements that are bigger than themselves: movements of goods, people, and ideas.

Today, Malaysia faces a similar moment.

Reclaiming History and Aligning Future

The question is not whether Malaysia can participate in the global system. It already does. The question is whether it will define its role within it, or continue without one.

Reclaiming its historical heritage as a trading nation offers that definition. It connects its geography to its future, aligns its capabilities with purpose, and places Malaysia not at the margins of the Indo-Pacific, but at one of its natural centers of gravity.

This should be Malaysia’s Grand Strategy.

This is what Malaysia must grow into.

Edited by Nishiha Jasper David, Frontier Analysis Editor

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 Tony, Editor at TAF

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 Tony, Editor at TAF

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.

• Tony: “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.”
  

• ⁠Tony: “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.”
  

• Tony: “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.”
  

• Tony: “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.”
  
  

• Tony: “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