In July 2025, Thailand and Cambodia exchanged rocket fire, air strikes, and drone attacks along their disputed border near the Preah Vihear and Ta Muen temples, marking the most serious escalation in years. From your perspective, what were the immediate triggers that reignited these clashes?

When we talk about the triggers, it’s really a confluence of long-standing territorial and domestic pressures. It’s not one factor or another. It’s multiple streams coming together.

On the territorial side, the Preah Vihear temple complex and the adjacent zone have long remained a deeply contested frontier. The 1962 International Court of Justice judgment awarded the Preah Vihear Temple site to Cambodia and required Thailand to withdraw its forces from the area. In 2013, responding to Cambodia’s request for interpretation, the ICJ clarified that the 1962 ruling also covered the entire promontory on which the temple stands. While that clarification reaffirmed Cambodian sovereignty over the temple grounds, it did not resolve overlapping claims to adjacent territory beyond the promontory, which remain disputed.

In 2025, several developments acted as catalysts. Cambodia reportedly reinforced its positions near the border, while Thailand increased deployments under the banner of “border security.” These moves heightened mutual suspicion. Territorial claims were central, but they weren’t the whole story.

On the domestic front, both Bangkok and Phnom Penh were grappling with internal political pressures that made the border dispute politically useful. In Thailand, leaders facing criticism from nationalist constituencies and the military found it convenient to shift public attention outward. Meanwhile, Cambodian leaders could bolster their domestic legitimacy by adopting a firm stance on sovereignty—classic “rally-around-the-flag” politics. It’s the same logic politicians often invoke: even an inch of land is worth defending at any cost. That rhetoric can quickly inflame public emotions.

These domestic dynamics interacted with the border tensions, lowering the threshold for confrontation. Before, perhaps dozens of casualties would have been needed to provoke a major crisis. But in this case, a few incidents—a Cambodian soldier killed, a Thai soldier injured by a landmine—were enough to set off a chain reaction. It’s similar to what we sometimes see on the India-Pakistan border: constant low-level friction that suddenly escalates when tempers flare.

This was the tipping point of a situation where territorial, political, and military tensions—layered atop volatile domestic politics—rolled over into open conflict. Five days of fighting followed, resulting in heavy casualties and widespread displacement. The economic fallout was immense. Hundreds of thousands of Cambodian migrant workers were displaced from Thailand, cutting off vital remittances that many families depend on. This is where the tragedy deepens. The decisions of politicians to inflame nationalist sentiment for short-term political gain had enormous consequences—particularly for Cambodia, whose economy is ill-equipped to absorb the sudden loss of income from abroad.

Finally, there’s the political intrigue that followed. Former Prime Minister Hun Sen released a secretly recorded phone call with the Thai leader—something he knew would politically damage her. And it did: she was forced out. But actions like that have long-term costs. You can remove a rival, but you can’t control who comes next. In this case, her replacement was reportedly more hardline and far less open to dialogue. As a result, relations have only deteriorated further.

In your Financial Times piece, you wrote that the conflict was driven by ‘domestic instability and regional dysfunction.’ Could you elaborate on how those two dynamics reinforced each other and led to escalation?

By domestic instability, I meant the internal stressors—leadership changes, legitimacy crises, civil-military tensions, and economic pressures—unfolding simultaneously in both Thailand and Cambodia.

In Cambodia’s case, the prime minister is the son of the former leader, Hun Sen, who ruled for nearly four decades. In Thailand, the prime minister is the daughter of a former prime minister as well. In both countries, there are leadership transitions that raise questions about merit and capability—about whether these successors have the political mettle to survive real challenges. Those doubts, combined with ongoing civil-military friction and fragile economic conditions, significantly reduced each government’s capacity to manage external disputes with patience or restraint.

In a more stable domestic context, a border skirmish might have been contained. But here, these internal vulnerabilities lowered the threshold for confrontation. The Thai military still wields enormous influence and has always questioned the resolve of civilian leaders. “Are you going to defend the nation?” becomes the implicit challenge. When a leaked phone call revealed the Thai prime minister referring to former Cambodian Prime Minister Hun Sen as “uncle,” asking him about a troublesome general, it immediately raised suspicions in Bangkok. That incident alone severely damaged her credibility at home.

Meanwhile, on the Cambodian side, Hun Manet’s new government faced its own legitimacy problems. The ruling Cambodian People’s Party claimed victory in the 2023 election, but only because it controls who appears on the ballot. Opposition parties were effectively banned. Hun Sen then handed power directly to his son, which many viewed as dynastic succession rather than democratic transition. This pattern of nepotism extends through multiple ministries—from father to son, or father to daughter—creating a perception that state institutions are family property. Those perceptions erode legitimacy and heighten the leadership’s sensitivity to any challenge, especially one involving national sovereignty.

When we talk about regional dysfunction, we’re referring to the inability of ASEAN—the Association of Southeast Asian Nations—to prevent or mediate conflict among its own members. If ASEAN, often compared to the EU, cannot stop two of its members from going to war, what does that say about its effectiveness? It’s a serious institutional failure.

Historically, integration efforts like the European Coal and Steel Community were designed precisely to make war unthinkable—binding countries economically so that conflict would be self-defeating. As the saying goes, “If goods don’t cross borders, soldiers will.” ASEAN was meant to serve a similar function, but it operates by consensus and non-interference. That “ASEAN way” sounds diplomatic, but in practice it means slow, toothless responses to crises that require swift intervention.

When you pair domestic instability, which makes escalation more likely, with regional dysfunction, which makes resolution slower, the danger multiplies. Nationalist rhetoric becomes a tool to shore up shaky internal legitimacy. Border militarization intensifies. And without effective regional mediation, a local incident can spiral rapidly into widespread violence.

Nationalist rhetoric has long been instrumentalized in Cambodian politics—from the 2003 anti-Thai riots to today’s mobilization efforts. What differentiates the current wave of nationalism from past episodes?

In 2003, there were street protests and arson, but the violence never crossed the border. In 2025, rockets, drones, and artillery were exchanged. The Preah Vihear and Ta Muen clashes involved BM-21 rocket systems and drone strikes. To some extent, nationalism today translated from symbolic acts to tangible military confrontation.

Furthermore, the information ecosystem has transformed. Back then, a single forwarded email could cause outrage. Now, with social media, nationalist narratives spread with lightning speed. People see realistic videos, convincing fake news, and emotionally charged stories that travel instantly across rural and border communities. That level of digital saturation has made mobilization far faster and harder to contain. The geopolitical environment has also shifted. Cambodia today is closely aligned with China, while Thailand leans toward the United States and its allies. What might once have been a bilateral border dispute now has the overtones of a proxy confrontation. In the weeks before the fighting, for instance, China supplied weapons to Cambodia, including BM-21 rockets. Beijing denies involvement, but you can’t move that kind of hardware to the border without the supplier’s consent. From here, you can clearly see that nationalist rhetoric now operates within a larger frame of great-power rivalry.

Moreover, the domestic stakes are much higher now than before. Border communities feel directly exposed and abandoned. For them, nationalism is about personal safety, livelihood, and dignity. That sense of vulnerability fuels anger and makes mobilization far easier.

So, compared to 2003, today’s nationalism is more digitally embedded. It’s also far more militarized and internationally entangled. What’s shocking is how quickly things went from zero to a hundred: how a few sparks of rhetoric, amplified through politics and technology, could turn into five days of full-scale conflict.

What role do social media and digital networks play in amplifying state-led nationalism today, particularly among rural communities near the border?

Social media now allows nationalist narratives to cascade from the political center to the periphery in near real time. Messages originating in Phnom Penh or Bangkok can reach border villages within minutes, bypassing traditional gatekeepers like radio stations or local newspapers. Rural communities are suddenly exposed to national-level propaganda, state messaging, and emotionally charged digital content all at once.

But the impact extends beyond geography. It reshapes generational attitudes as well. For instance, in Cambodia, where the ruling party has long struggled to capture youth support, this conflict has unexpectedly turned a deeply unpopular figure into a patriotic symbol. You now see young people wearing T-shirts of Hun Sen, celebrating speeches from a leader once condemned for dismantling democracy and repressing dissent. The state has successfully repackaged him as a “defender of the nation,” illustrating how digital propaganda can rewrite reputations almost overnight.

State actors and nationalist groups have become adept at exploiting this ecosystem. They produce targeted videos, use local dialects, and circulate border-region testimonials that personalize national narratives. Once these messages take root in rural communities, local mobilization becomes easier. Villagers begin demanding stronger military presence or reacting defensively to perceived incursions.

This dynamic also creates space for unregulated, bottom-up amplification. On the Thai side, for example, one local activist near the border reportedly used loudspeakers to broadcast horror movie soundtracks at night to intimidate nearby Cambodian communities—an act not sanctioned by the Thai authorities but tolerated for too long. It shows how nationalist sentiment can spiral independently once the digital environment primes people for confrontation.

The feedback loop between rural users and national media is now rapid and unstable. Border residents post images and videos—some real, others manipulated—which are then picked up by larger outlets, feeding the sense of crisis. The result is a volatile border region where rumor, grievance, and instant communication reinforce one another. De-escalation becomes far more difficult when nationalism operates from both the top down and the bottom up.

In your op-ed, you described the conflict as a “systemic failure for the region.” Why has ASEAN repeatedly struggled to mediate effectively in intra-member disputes?

At the heart of ASEAN’s problem is its institutional design. The organization operates on a consensus-driven model—meaning every member must agree before any decision can move forward. If even one state dissents, the proposal stalls. It’s effectively a veto system. Imagine if the UN Security Council required unanimous consent among all five permanent members before acting—nothing would ever get done. That’s the reality ASEAN faces every time it tries to respond to a crisis.

This structure reflects the context of ASEAN’s founding: it was designed as a loose, sovereignty-respecting coalition, prioritizing harmony and non-interference over enforcement or supranational authority. Those principles—consensus, non-interference, respect for sovereignty—have often helped maintain unity in peacetime. But in moments of conflict, they become liabilities. First, the non-interference norm prevents ASEAN from condemning or sanctioning a member, even when that member violates borders or international norms. Second, the consensus rule makes mediation slow and often toothless; any one member can water down or block collective action. Third, ASEAN lacks enforcement capacity—its Secretariat and Secretary-General have minimal authority to deploy peacekeeping missions, enforce binding resolutions, or initiate independent monitoring. There’s no equivalent of a regional security council or rapid mediation track with real leverage.

On top of that, great-power dynamics further complicate the picture. Both China and the United States often prefer to deal bilaterally with Southeast Asian states rather than through ASEAN as a bloc. That sidelines the organization and undercuts its credibility as a neutral mediator.

And of course, China has also managed to co-opt influence within ASEAN itself. Certain member states, heavily dependent on Chinese investment or political support, can be relied upon to block any initiative that Beijing opposes. Even if the majority wants to take a firm stand, one dissenting vote can derail the entire effort.

The result is a systemic failure: an organization built to preserve peace and dialogue, yet structurally unable to act decisively when its own members clash. The moment a crisis requires hard decisions, ASEAN’s design prevents it from functioning as an effective regional broker. It’s institutional paralysis by design.

How do you see the contrasting responses from the U.S. and China—Washington’s coercive diplomacy versus Beijing’s cautious restraint—shaping Southeast Asia’s evolving crisis management architecture?

The United States and China bring very different diplomatic styles and incentives to Southeast Asia, and both have profoundly shaped how the region now manages crises.

Washington’s approach increasingly relies on coercive diplomacy—using the threat of withheld military aid, conditional economic assistance, or political pressure to influence outcomes. American officials have framed alliances, such as with Thailand, as tests of U.S. credibility in the region. In this view, the recent Thai-Cambodian border clashes became a measure of whether Washington can still project influence in mainland Southeast Asia. The emphasis, however, often leans toward symbolism over substance. High-profile “peace signing” ceremonies and public gestures serve the political optics of involvement more than the structural needs of regional stability.

Beijing, by contrast, favors a more discreet and economically grounded form of diplomacy. Cambodia occupies a central role in China’s Belt and Road Initiative, and Beijing’s influence operates primarily through infrastructure investment and financial leverage rather than overt military presence. Its public posture is one of neutrality, yet its actions tell a more complicated story. China’s provision of rocket systems and other weapons to Cambodia ahead of the conflict suggests quiet complicity, offering diplomatic cover while allowing escalation to proceed.

The coexistence of these two strategies has fragmented Southeast Asia’s crisis management landscape. Great-power competition now intrudes directly into ASEAN’s domain, making autonomous regional coordination increasingly difficult. Member states caught between U.S. pressure and Chinese patronage often turn outward for support rather than relying on ASEAN mechanisms, eroding the bloc’s credibility as a neutral broker. The result is a patchwork system in which external power diplomacy and intra-ASEAN mediation run on parallel tracks, rarely aligned and often working at cross-purposes.

This hybrid architecture, part regional, part external, has made Southeast Asia more vulnerable to miscommunication and mistrust. It reflects a deeper loss of agency. A region once striving for strategic autonomy now finds itself managed by the very powers it sought to balance. Both Washington’s heavy-handed coercion and Beijing’s quiet manipulation undermine the same principle of regional ownership.

Ultimately, the tragedy is that Southeast Asia’s crises are no longer resolved within Southeast Asia. The region has become the stage. Its security has become shaped more by others’ ambitions than by its own collective will.