In 2024, Asia and the Pacific recorded a staggering 24 million disaster-related displacements—accounting for over half of the global total. This figure, highlighted during the March 2026 International Organization for Migration (IOM) dialogue, is often framed by states as a logistical nightmare or a failure of border security. However, viewing these millions through the lens of cold statistics conceals a deeper, more corrosive crisis of human dignity. When migration is treated merely as a panicked flight from rising tides or scorched earth, the agency of the individual is erased.

While international bodies like the IOM provide the necessary high-level platforms for cooperation, they often operate in a vacuum of abstraction. The true “reality check” resides within the region’s (Civil Society Organization) CSOs, which are actively reclaiming the narrative of climate mobility. By grounding policy in frontline experience and indigenous customary systems, these organizations argue that migration should not be a desperate last resort of the vulnerable, but a proactive, dignified strategy for adaptation. Ultimately, the path to regional resilience lies in moving away from top-down management toward a framework in which the right to move—and the right to stay—are defined by the communities themselves.

The temporal gap

The climate crisis in Asia and the Pacific is not a single event but a spectrum of hazards that demands a sophisticated, dual-track response. On one end are sudden-onset disasters—the flash floods, heatwaves, and droughts that triggered over 24 million displacements in a single year. These are the headline-grabbing shocks that typically command state attention. On the other end, however, lies the more insidious threat of slow-onset processes: the creeping sea-level rise, shifting rainfall patterns, and gradual environmental degradation that erode the very foundation of habitability.

The structural tension within the region arises from a fundamental mismatch between political “short-termism” and cumulative reality. Government disaster responses are largely reactive, designed to manage the immediate logistics of temporary evacuation and emergency aid. Yet, for millions in the Pacific and Southeast Asia, climate mobility is a long-term, cumulative process in which the point of “no return” is reached well before a storm hits. When policy remains fragmented—focusing only on the next monsoon or fiscal cycle—it fails to address the permanent loss of ancestral lands and the total restructuring of local economies.

This creates a profound “top-down” disconnect. International frameworks and national mandates often prioritize bureaucratic efficiency over the indigenous customary systems that have governed mobility and land use in the Pacific for centuries. In nations like Fiji, these traditional systems are not merely cultural artifacts; they are the primary mechanisms through which communities negotiate risk and define belonging. When regional policies overlook these local realities, they inadvertently strip agency from the displaced. The analytical problem, therefore, is not a lack of data but a lack of integration. By ignoring frontline insights from civil society, top-down strategies risk treating climate migrants as passive victims of a “natural” disaster rather than active participants in political and social transformation. The stakes are clear: without aligning formal policy with indigenous resilience, the region’s response to migration will remain as dangerous as the coastlines it seeks to protect.

Practice-based resilience

The intellectual heart of the climate mobility debate is not found in the displacement statistics, but in the concept of “Dignified Livelihoods.” For too long, regional policy has viewed migration as a binary: a person either stays and suffers or leaves and survives. CSOs are dismantling this reductionist view by arguing that true dignity is rooted in choice. If a community is forced to move because of a total collapse of local opportunity, that is not “adaptation”—it is a failure of the state.

A primary example of this is seen in the work of Mars Ashir, Project Coordinator at the National Workers Welfare Trust in India’s Narayanpet district. By securing 125 days of guaranteed rural work annually, local initiatives have transformed the “Right to Stay” from a theoretical hope into an economic reality. This is a critical intervention against urban vulnerability. When rural workers are not forced to migrate to cities to work in often exploitative informal economies, they retain their social capital and community ties. Dignity, in this context, is the financial and structural power to resist unwanted displacement.

Simultaneously, for those who must or choose to move, the narrative is being rewritten through digital sovereignty. In Vietnam, Khanh-Linh Ta’s “Green Path Migrants” project demonstrates that the modern climate migrant is not a silent victim, but a digitally connected agent. With over 80% of its engagement coming from youth aged 18–34 and a significant majority of users being women, this platform uses “youth-focused language” to navigate the complexities of mobility. This digital shift allows vulnerable groups to share practical solutions and peer-to-peer insights, effectively bypassing top-down information systems that often fail to reach those most affected by shifting rainfall or saline intrusion.

The reasoning for this shift is that CSOs provide the “practice-based knowledge” that high-level frameworks lack. International agencies can model sea-level rise, but they cannot model how a mother in a rural household negotiates the risk of a drought against the risk of sending her child to an unfamiliar city. They cannot map the “informal and collective action” that sustains a community when a storm passes. Because CSOs operate at the household level, they understand that mobility decisions are deeply gendered and generational. By centering the experiences of women and youth, these organizations ensure that “resilience” is not just a buzzword in a synthesis brief, but a lived reality that prioritizes the dignity of the person over the efficiency of the policy. In the end, a dignified move is one made with a clear map, a full stomach, and a protected identity.

The limits of localism

While the argument for grassroots agency is compelling, it must be tempered by the sheer magnitude of the coming crisis. By 2050, the Internal Displacement Monitoring Centre and Asian Development Bank project that up to 48.4 million people in East Asia and the Pacific could be forced to move. Critics of the decentralized approach correctly ask: Can a network of relatively small CSOs truly manage a human migration of this scale? The necessity of state-led intervention and massive top-down infrastructure—ranging from planned city expansions to international visa frameworks—cannot be ignored. Local resilience projects like those in India or Vietnam are vital, but they cannot build the cross-border legal protections or the multi-billion-dollar sea defenses required to protect tens of millions.

Furthermore, intellectual honesty requires us to acknowledge the inherent limits of “localism” and indigenous customary systems. While these systems provide deep cultural continuity, they often lack the sustainable resources and formal legal standing in international law to protect migrants once they cross a sovereign boundary. A traditional land-tenure system in Fiji, for instance, offers little protection to a family that has relocated to an urban center in Australia or New Zealand. Without a high-level policy bridge, the “dignity” of local systems risks being lost in the friction of international bureaucracy.

Finally, we must confront the internal complexities within these communities—specifically the persistent gender gap. As Mars Ashir noted, migration decisions are still largely dictated by male household members, often sidelining the needs and voices of women and youth. If CSOs are to be the true “reality check” for regional policy, they must also act as internal disruptors of the patriarchal structures that silence vulnerable members within their own ranks. The challenge, therefore, is not to choose between top-down and bottom-up, but to create a symbiotic governance model where the state provides the massive structural “canopy” under which local, dignified, and inclusive agency can actually flourish.

The legislative litmus test

As the March 2026 IOM dialogue concludes, all eyes turn toward the forthcoming synthesis brief—a document that must be more than a record of shared grievances. For this dialogue to transcend mere rhetoric, its “Common Principles” must undergo a rigorous transition from high-level advocacy into the hard reality of national budgets and international law. Analysts and citizens alike should watch closely: will the proactive strategies be codified into state-funded resilience planning, or will they remain marginalized as “best practices” while top-down infrastructure continues to dominate the fiscal landscape?

The true test of regional cohesion lies in whether governments can move past reactive disaster management toward a framework of Climate Sovereignty. This requires a fundamental shift in how we define success in the face of environmental collapse. In an era where 48 million lives hang in the balance, we must confront a final, existential provocation: does the future of the Pacific and Southeast Asia depend on the height of the sea walls we build, or on the strength of the legal and social protections we afford to those forced to move beyond them? The answer will define the dignity of the region for generations to come.

This article reflects reporting and analysis made by The Southeast Asia Pacific Frontier. If you have additional context, a different take, or a perspective we’ve missed — whether you’re a researcher, a policy practitioner, or someone living with these realities on the ground — this is an evolving story and we’d like to hear from you. Drop a comment below or get in touch.

Restrictions in the Strait of Hormuz have exposed the structural dependence of the Philippines on oil imports. In response, the administration of Ferdinand Marcos Jr. recalibrated into a pragmatic approach in the South China Sea (SCS)–a joint oil and gas exploration with China. Analysts believe Trump is making China win, who only needs to watch its rival collapse from within without firing a single shot. A joint oil and gas exploration in the Philippine Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ), or within the West Philippine Sea (WPS), is indeed transformative for Filipinos, but it would also hand another win for China. Viewed historically, it is a reactive fallback, not a strategic choice for the smaller country trapped in asymmetric relations and a global energy crisis. Although triggered by a 21st-century war, the eventuality of this move is path-dependent on decades of institutional paralysis and underinvestment in a unified maritime strategy that integrates resource use.

This is the third time since the 2005 Tripartite Agreement for Joint Marine Seismic Undertaking (JMSU) between the Philippines, China, and Vietnam, and the 2018 Memorandum of Understanding (MOU) on Cooperation on Oil and Gas Development between the Philippines and China, that the two countries are exploring the possibility of a hydrocarbons cooperation in disputed waters. In 1994, a consortium among the Philippines, China, and the United States was also proposed but never pushed through.

Each attempt fails for the same reasons. The ownership and exploitation of natural resources by wholly-owned foreign corporations is unconstitutional. More importantly, the legal and political implications of joint exploration remain deeply contentious.

While UNCLOS allows joint exploration in contested waters, the 2016 arbitration’s nullification of the nine-dash line makes the WPS legally undisputed. To enter a “joint” arrangement would imply that the waters are disputed after all, undermining Manila’s own legal victory. Domestic politics compounds the dilemma. No administration wants to be remembered as the government that compromised sovereign rights in favor of accommodation with Beijing, particularly when anti-China sentiment remains a matter of political legitimacy.

From China’s perspective, “setting aside disputes and pursuing joint development” has been a constant call in its dispute settlement since the 1980s. In principle, it promises mutual economic gains for both sides. However, it comes at the cost of accepting China’s sovereignty, binding smaller states into its laws that must govern operations, and thereby normalizing its status quo presence, albeit illegal. Furthermore, there is a trust deficit in China’s commitment to comply with rules and agreements.

There are both risks and opportunities in pursuing joint exploration with China in the WPS. However, what is often missing from public discourse is a deeper scrutiny of the prevailing assumption that compromise is the only way to harness the energy sources sitting in the WPS, and that China’s aggression is the only thing that has been stopping the Philippines from doing so independently. This is not to critique joint exploration itself; if carefully structured and aligned with legal grounds and developmental objectives, a negotiated arrangement may indeed prove to be the most practical move. Rather, the more important question is how the Philippines arrived at a point where such a compromise is perceived as the only path forward.

Other Southeast Asian claimants have not accepted this option.

In the history of SCS disputes, multiple claimants have employed several approaches to assert territorial claims. These are not limited to China’s active maritime enforcement and militarization of the features, or the Philippines’ media transparency, defense alliances, and international law. Vietnam and Malaysia’s strategies, despite China’s protests and periodic harassment, also include economic integration in sectors such as hydrocarbons and fisheries. Arguably, sovereignty must not be asserted merely through legal rhetoric or militarization, but through sustained physical and economic presence. After all, territorial demarcations in contested areas are also driven by the need to determine who gets access to which resources.

Historically, the Philippines pursued hydrocarbon exploration in the WPS since the 1970s. It was also one of the early movers in Southeast Asia to occupy several features in the Kalayaan Island Group (KIG) and legalize the claims. But rather than a politically sustained strategy of physical assertion, occupied islands never truly expanded, and oil and gas explorations remained an economic activity separate from sovereignty and discouraged by weak enforcement, years of stalled operations, and risk aversion or defensiveness.

Today, the Philippines stands as the only major Southeast Asian claimant not actively developing new hydrocarbon resources in waters contested by Beijing. And this was not always due to China.

Successful extraction has been conducted with state-owned and private service contractors in safer, nearer oil and gas blocks in offshore Palawan, outside core contested areas. This includes the almost-depleted Malampaya, the decommissioned Nido-Matinloc Complex, and ongoing exploration and production in the Galoc, Malampaya-East (extension), and Calamian oil fields, among others. Limited deepwater drilling technology, geological uncertainty, and commercial viability concerns that require years of exploration before production largely constrain operations. It was only in the 2010s that security concerns became a decisive factor in hydrocarbon operations. The 2011 Reed Bank incident involving MV Veritas Voyager and the 2019 Reed Bank collision involving the Filipino vessel Gem-Ver conducting survey work for Forum Energy were turning points.

Yet by then, the Philippines had already lost valuable time on an investment that takes years to generate returns.

This reflects a deeper institutional weakness in Philippine maritime policy and the persistent tendency to oscillate between legal-diplomatic and military approaches instead of employing a broader statecraft, one that integrates a market-centric lens.

Philippine exploration at Reed Bank (Recto Bank) was halted for decades by both Manila’s legal moves and fear of Beijing’s retaliation. In 2014, the government banned oil and gas activities in the WPS while the arbitration trial was ongoing. Even after the ruling and calls from contractors to lift the moratorium in Reed Bank, persistent Chinese aggression prevented companies from consistently exploring the WPS. Reed Bank is believed to be almost on par or even greater than the Malampaya gas field, which has been supplying 30% of Luzon’s energy until its expected depletion by 2027.

Following the 1995 Mischief Reef incident, Fidel Ramos responded by modernizing the armed forces. The incident caught the Philippines off guard, exposing maritime incapacity due to its delayed discovery of China’s construction activities. Although Ramos already ordered the expansion of facilities, including the construction of lighthouses in 1994 to reinforce claims and expand petroleum exploration, major renovations only began in 2018, largely due to institutional paralysis. In the end, the only “solution” that materialized at the time was the signing of the 1998 Visiting Forces Agreement with the United States, which at the time was looking for an alternative military base in Southeast Asia after it left Subic in 1991.

In 2011, before the Scarborough Shoal standoff in 2012, and the filing of the arbitration case in 2013, Benigno Aquino III created the Zone of Peace, Freedom, Friendship and Cooperation (ZOPFF/C) to separate non-disputed and disputed waters based on international law. The goal was to determine areas for marine conservation and national development, where a “Joint Cooperation Area” may be conducted under applicable laws. Central to this approach is the Philippine Coast Guard’s role in upholding the “white-to-white, gray-to-gray” principle, where civilian vessels (“white hulls”) should enforce civilian law, and reserve military assets (“gray hulls,” such as naval ships) for military encounters to prevent escalation. It did not last long when the Philippine Navy arrested Chinese poachers, which then escalated into a military standoff with China that most likely saw this as an opening to seize control of the Scarborough Shoal. In 2013, this forced the government to pursue arbitration. Since then, fishers and enforcement authorities have been restricted from the area.

These present a pattern: initiatives were never institutionalized into a long-term, unified maritime doctrine. There is evident fragmentation across maritime institutions and non-state actors that have stakes in the dispute. Philippine policy remained reactive, responding to crises after they emerged rather than shaping facts before they did. The sudden revival of joint exploration talks with China triggered by the war in Iran is the price of a state confronting the consequences of having waited too long to invest in oil and gas exploration as part of its maritime policy. Not to mention underlying structural vulnerabilities caused by an overreliance on oil liberalization and imports.

Now, years of strategic failures leave Manila cornered. With Malampaya nearing depletion, energy supply vulnerable to geopolitics, and a Filipino public demanding tangible actions from the government, the pressure to exploit WPS is intensifying. But after decades of delay, the Philippines now confronts that imperative under far worse conditions as China’s physical presence becomes more entrenched than it was in the pre- to early 2000s.

There could be more than just institutional (in)competence why the Philippines has been less willing than its Southeast Asian counterparts to pursue unilateral, high-risk exploration in contested waters. There is a need for more public data and scholarship to conclusively attribute legal, geographic, commercial, or alliance-related considerations in shaping Manila’s calculus in the WPS. This includes deepwater drilling costs, investor risk tolerance, uncertainty over reserve viability, and the differing intensity of Chinese presence across claimant states. In this light, the Philippines’ repeated linkage of offshore development to joint exploration with China may also reflect a broader recognition that unilateral development has become politically and operationally difficult under present conditions.

If joint exploration is the way forward, the debate should not be simply whether it should proceed, but how it should be pursued. Any future arrangement must be anchored in full transparency to ensure public trust and avoid the secrecy that undermined previous initiatives such as the JMSU. Negotiations should clearly affirm that any agreement remains subject to Philippine laws. Equally important is the inclusion of non-state stakeholders that have long been left out in WPS policies in overall consultative processes, not only in matters of energy resources, to ensure that strategic decisions are not made solely within closed political channels.

This article reflects reporting and analysis made by The Southeast Asia Pacific Frontier. If you have additional context, a different take, or a perspective we’ve missed — whether you’re a researcher, a policy practitioner, or someone living with these realities on the ground — this is an evolving story and we’d like to hear from you. Drop a comment below or get in touch.

The United States’ Artemis program is more than just NASA’s traditional scientific mandate; the Artemis program is a pivotal move of Western power through the multinational alliance aimed at countering China’s International Lunar Research Station (ILRS) ambitions. This space rivalry marks the beginning of the global power marathon to set the next domain for global and space dominance, the lunar race between the US and China presents profound implications for Southeast Asia and the Pacific as both regions are involved in both powers’ alliances. Far from a mere discovery race, the new space race signals a new era of space warfare, where lunar footholds dictate the pace for future Mars missions, resource control, and terrestrial influences. Policymakers must view it as such to safeguard strategic equities. The new era for the space race is no longer a showing of scientific innovation prowess of the two sides, but it transcends space exploration as the next battlefield for global and space power.

The US’ Artemis program was launched in 2017, in close collaboration between the United States of America, Japan, Canada, the European Space Agency (ESA), and the United Arab Emirates under the Artemis Accords, which now has 45 nation signatories. Artemis targets a sustainable lunar presence by 2028, including a Lunar Gateway station and south pole bases that are believed to be rich in water ice for rocket fuel and life support to test humanity’s capabilities before taking on the next step, going to Mars.

This is no isolated NASA ingenuity, but a deliberate counter to China’s ILRS that aims to put the first non-American foot on the moon by 2030 with international partners like Russia, Pakistan, and others through the “Group of Governmental Experts.” China’s Tiangong station and Chang’e missions have demonstrated rapid progress, aiming for lunar helium-3 mining and military tech like precision landing. Artemis positions the US to enforce the Outer Space Treaty of 1967 norms, such as the peaceful use and no sovereignty claims. While China denies unilateral dominance. Think of it as NATO for space, wherein shared infrastructure secures US leadership in cislunar space (Earth-Moon sphere), where it is vital for satellite defense and supply lines.

In the context of the Southeast Asia region, the region’s chokepoints amplify lunar stakes as US allies like Japan, Australia, Singapore, and the Philippines, which is an active signatory of the Artemis Accords, bolster its program with tech and basing rights, this move counters China’s existing Belt and Road space ties with Thailand, Indonesia, Malaysia, and Cambodia.​

The Philippines hosts US rotational forces under its Enhanced Defense Cooperation Agreement (EDCA) with the United States. This enables Pacific launch monitoring, like Australia’s Harold E. Holt station, which tracks lunar trajectories, and Japan’s H3 rocket, which supports Artemis cargo.

Other Southeast Asian nations are also active on China’s bid on lunar missions, as Indonesia is eyeing ILRS radar tech. Thailand, on the other hand, is a signatory of both the Artemis Accords and China’s space alliance with Thailand, which trains Chinese astronauts. Malaysia is also an active agent as its space agency partners with China’s Chang’e mission data.

Its implications are that lunar success yields pacific leverage, the United States bases could track hypersonic threats from lunar relays, which China could weaponize lunar south pole helium-3 for fusion energy, tilting ASEAN energy security that is currently in a volatile state. Tensions mirror the current South China Sea disputes as space assets could jam regional GPS or enable surveillance, forcing SEA nations like Vietnam (US partner) or Laos (China partner) into alignment dilemmas.

This scientific race for a breakthrough also echoes a race for new global and space power. Take a closer look, as this is a hybrid warfare in orbit. Lunar bases enable persistent presence for kinetic anti-satellite tests, cyber ops on rival sats, or even resource denial, which both sides have done in the past. This 21st-century space race echoes Cold War proxy battles but with trillion-dollar economics at stake as the lunar economy is projected at least $100 Billion by 2040.

China’s 2024 anti-satellite test debris has endangered the International Space Station. Artemis envisions armed defense under the US Space Force. It is not just a race for discovery, but a race for domain control. The winners claim regolith rights, propellant depots, and Mars gateways, heavily marginalizing the loser of this race.

Lunar victories precondition future missions to Mars. Artemis’ Gateway tests deep-space habitats, while China’s ILRS prototypes nuclear propulsion. By 2039, which is NASA’s Mars goal, lunar helium-3 could fuel reusable Starships, while ILRS enables rival landers. A US-led Moon secures Pacific Mars trajectories. China’s race for dominance invites exclusionary blocs, risking arms races. For Southeast Asia, Mars tech spillovers promise economic growth, but alliance choices lock in dependencies, as the US is for open access, while China is for closed tech transfer.

This article reflects reporting and analysis made by The Southeast Asia Pacific Frontier. If you have additional context, a different take, or a perspective we’ve missed — whether you’re a researcher, a policy practitioner, or someone living with these realities on the ground — this is an evolving story and we’d like to hear from you. Drop a comment below or get in touch.

In the humid, bustling common areas of the University of Papua New Guinea (UPNG), the premier university of the Pacific, I stood as a young woman commanding a crowd of hundreds from diverse backgrounds. I was not just speaking; I was articulating a vision for student welfare and national development that cut through the noise of corruption, culturally ingrained mindsets, and the repeated systems that constitute a disease affecting our people.

In that moment, I felt like a confident and capable leader until I was hit by a sad reality that broke my confidence as a female and had me question my passion for leadership in my future endeavors the very moment I stepped my foot in the National Parliament of Papua New Guinea (PNG) - the largest Island Nation in the Pacific and the world at large home to thousand tribes, diverse cultures and more than 800 languages.

This experience reflects what can be described as the “Pacific Paradox”: our universities are laboratories for female leadership, but our national parliaments remain guarded fortresses of patriarchal political culture.

My visit to PNG’s National Parliament should have inspired hope, but instead, it revealed a gap that demands urgent attention. I expected to witness leadership in action, but instead, I was confronted with a silence that spoke volumes. In 15th of December 2025 after contesting for 2026 UPNG Female Vice Presidential seat, I was selected as one of the top 60 successful Youth applicants among 430 applicants across PNG for an annual event known as the PNG National Mock Youth Parliament Program (NMYPP) - a weeklong event fully sponsored by international institution such as United Nation Population Fund (UNFPA), European Union (EU), United Nation Development Program (UNDP), and United Nations Human Rights in partnership with National institutions like PNG National Youth Development Authority (NYDA), National Capital District (NCD) Commission, and PNG National Parliament.

It was an eye-opening experience and a wake-up call for me during our tour of the PNG National Parliament as a female student, exclusively involved in student politics, pursuing my passion for leadership. Many thoughts and questions ran through my mind as I studied the building structures, artifacts, the hidden meaning behind the symbols, the number of seats, and the elected members of parliament who represent us as the voice of our people in PNG.

It was a sad reality check for me to learn that, out of 118 seats in Parliament, only 3 were represented by women. I sat there hopelessly imagining my future fast-forward some years later, working a quiet desk job with my political ambition discouraged by a reality I did not face on the school campus, while my male peers were contesting provincial seats with massive war chests. The near absence of women in the space meant to represent us all forced me to question the true inclusivity of our nation’s leadership and whose voices are truly being heard when women (half of the population) are underrepresented.

Student politics to national governance

The transition from student politics to national governance is a broken bridge. Across the Pacific region, Women remain significantly underrepresented in political leadership. According to UN Women, women hold less than 8% of parliamentary seats across the Pacific, the lowest regional average globally. Pacific countries are grouped into three main regions - Melanesia (Black Islands such as PNG, Solomon Islands, Vanuatu and Fiji), Micronesia (small Islands including Federated States of Micronesia, Palau, Marshall Islands, Nauru and Kiribati) and Polynesia (many Islands namely Samoa, Tonga, Tuvalu, Cook Islands and Niue) because of our geography, culture, language and history.

In PNG, the situation is even more concerning: as of early 2026, only 3 women sit in a 118-member parliament. Since PNG’s national independence day on 16 September 1975, only 10 women have been elected to parliament. This represents our current average for women’s representation at 2.7%, which is far below even the Pacific region’s already low average of 8-9%, placing PNG among the countries with the lowest representation of women globally.

While countries like Fiji and Samoa have made progress, the broader region, including Vanuatu and Tuvalu, continues to struggle with near-zero or single-digit representation, with the overall trend reflecting persistent gender inequality in political leadership. This suggests that while the Pacific accepts women as student leaders in academic settings, it rejects them as legislative authorities in the national arena.

Thus, the gap between student leadership and national governance raises an important question: “Why does this disparity exist?” The answer lies in the merit-based environments rather than the culture-based “Big Man” politics. In student politics, leadership is often judged on communication skills, ideas, competence, policy, and the ability to unite diverse student bodies. However, national elections in PNG and the wider Pacific are governed by the “Gift Economy” and deeply rooted Patriarchal norms, traditional beliefs, or mindsets that often position men as natural leaders, while women are expected to take on supportive or domestic roles. These perceptions influence public attitudes and voting behavior, making it difficult for women candidates to gain trust and support.

Women also face other underlying factors or barriers, such as financial limitations, political violence, intimidation, harassment, and lack of institutional support. On the school campus, debate is regulated, while in national elections, women face psychological and physical violence. A 2025 study found that over 75% of female politicians in the Asia-Pacific reported experiencing psychological abuse. Also, national general elections campaigns require immense capital for gift giving, “mumu” feasts, compensation, and logistics—resources women rarely control compared to their male counterparts. Moreover, the Student leadership is often seen as a “learning phase”, but national leadership is viewed as a “customary” domain for men. These challenges create an uneven playing field, limiting women’s participation in national politics.

Beyond student politics

The issue is not about women’s lack of ability to lead, but rather the structural barriers, cultural expectations, patriarchal systems, lack of resources, trust, and financial support for women. Student leadership provides the skills but fails to offer the institutional support or a safety net pipeline needed for women to transition from student politics into the “real world”. Addressing these challenges requires collective effort from government, institutions, communities, and individuals to challenge existing norms, thereby creating opportunities and conducive environments where women can thrive as leaders.

Also, to change this, the Pacific region must move beyond Temporary Special Measures (TSMs) and implement them by reserving seats for women in Parliament to bridge the gap between the school campus lecture hall and the floor of Parliament, enabling women to equally participate in national decision-making processes and politics.

We also need to start asking questions like: “Is student leadership a pipeline or a ceiling?” We must reflect and ask ourselves: “If we trust women to lead our students today, why do we fear them leading our nations tomorrow?” Ultimately, true representation in parliament should reflect the nation it serves. Until women are equally represented, the question remains—whose voices are truly being heard in our national parliaments?

Alice Francis is a final-year Business Management student at University of Papua New Guinea, driven by leadership, gender advocacy, and empowering Pacific youth. She has held key roles including SBPP Female Representative, BMSU Vice President, and Welfare and Gender Officer for the Komo Mt. Sisa Nationwide Tertiary Student Association. Alongside her leadership journey, she contributes to youth career development through PNG Career Development Inc.

This article reflects reporting and analysis made by The Southeast Asia Pacific Frontier. If you have additional context, a different take, or a perspective we’ve missed — whether you’re a researcher, a policy practitioner, or someone living with these realities on the ground — this is an evolving story and we’d like to hear from you. Drop a comment below or get in touch.

The irony of speaking English in the Philippines is that proficiency only gets you in the door, but sounding a certain way grants you access to the room.

The Filipino accent has long occupied an ambiguous cultural space. For one, the Philippines has been consistently ranking among countries having the most proficient English speakers in both the world and the region - a distinction that has naturally brought upon Philippine English, complete with its own vocabulary and inflections. From this emerged a distinct Filipino accent, and with it, an identity marker that travels with the diaspora.

However, recognition has not meant acceptance. Unlike hierarchies based on name and wealth, the Filipino accent is subject to a different system—one rooted in pride, humor, shame, and discomfort in sounding distinctly Filipino. This tension is perhaps most visible when comparing Filipino-American comedian Jo Koy’s use of the accent to English teachers’ experiences in the Philippines.

Jo Koy built much of his early career on the impression of his Filipino mother. The structure of his sets follows a familiar and simple diasporic formula: He would start with a childhood anecdote, his mother’s “Filipino-ness” set against American norms, and a punchline that lands on the exaggeration of her accent. What is worth observing here is not just that the jokes worked, but who they worked for. His special Coming in Hot holds a 7.4 on IMDb, and the material was received warmly by both American and Filipino audiences as a form of representation. But representation of what, exactly? The accent in Jo Koy’s sets becomes a comedic shorthand that is legible, repeatable, and affectionate on the surface, especially in callbacks to his mother, but it still positions the Filipino accent and “Filipino-ness” as the thing being laughed at. He is not alone in this; creators before and after him have built punchlines on the same foundation. It’s important to note that the humor is rarely cruel, but it consistently frames the accent as a deviation from an unnamed norm.

English educators in the Philippines, however, tell a different story from a different pressure point. Research from the International Journal on Multilingualism found that English teachers in the Philippines feel increasingly compelled to suppress their Filipino accent in favor of a more “neutral” tone. Notably, the teachers in the study did not deny the cultural significance of their accent, as many acknowledged it as a part of their identity and their teaching of Philippine English. Yet their professional and social networks consistently pushed them toward a more “neutral” register, treating their natural accent as something to be managed.

These two examples reveal the complex negotiation at the center of this piece. Filipinos themselves actively participate in and shape this dynamic — the accent functioning simultaneously as a vehicle for self-deprecating humor, a marker of cultural identity, and a source of professional shame. What makes this particularly difficult to untangle is that it operates on the same axis as English proficiency itself, a skill long measured against standards of class, intelligence, and social worth.

That is why, for Filipinos, speaking English with an accent is not merely about pronouncing words differently, but about being located within hierarchies of value and credibility.

English in the Philippine social order

When the Americans replaced Spanish colonial rule in the Philippines, one of their first steps was to institutionalize English. In 1901, over 600 American teachers and volunteers, boarding the USAT Thomas, arrived in the Philippines and established a public educational system with English as the medium of instruction.

This effort extended beyond the capital Manila to far-reaching provinces throughout the first two decades of the 20th century, and its effects on the country were sweeping. English came to occupy almost every aspect of Filipino life, from governance to science, mass media, and more.

Filipino media reflects this hierarchical sorting. The familiar “rich versus poor” narrative in Filipino dramas frequently assigns more English lines to wealthy characters, while working-class characters speak predominantly in Filipino or broken English. Consider Bobbie Salazar in Four Sisters and a Wedding: her polished English, professional demeanor, and New York cosmopolitan confidence are not presented as incidental details. They function as signals of education, of refinement, of a certain kind of belonging. Characters who are less cosmopolitan, by contrast, are written with heavier local accents and less code-switching. The message consistently pushed forward in these dramas is that English, and a particular kind of English, marks who has arrived.

This association does not stay on screen. It also shapes how English is spoken in real spaces, including among young people. The “conyo” accent, a Filipino English heavily inflected with a Western tone, has become closely associated with elite universities like De La Salle and Ateneo de Manila. While it has drawn its share of mockery, it has also solidified into a distinct sociolect, a recognizable register of inflection that signals class affiliation as much as it does language preference. To speak conyo is, in part, to signal where you studied and with whom you belong.

In professional settings, this logic becomes formalized and even an economic decision. In the business process outsourcing industry, where 1.3 to 1.8 million Filipinos work today, accent training is standard practice. “Neutralization” programs aim to minimize the natural features of the Filipino accent and replace them with an American English register, specifically to appeal to North American clients. The demand for this kind of training has become an industry in itself, with American English training centers operating across Manila and on online platforms. Here, the pressure to sound a certain way is literally written into the job.

Over time, these patterns, habits, and professional requirements do change, but continue to have consequential cultural work. They reinforce the idea to associate English, and often a certain kind of English, with intelligence, refinement, and authority. And they also reinforce its complete opposite: that sounding distinctly Filipino when speaking in English is, at best, charming, and at worst, a liability.

The pressure here is not merely to speak English, but to sound a certain way while doing so.

The politics of belonging

Linguist Braj Kachru mapped English into three concentric circles. The inner circle comprises countries where English is historically native - the United States, the United Kingdom, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand. The outer, expanding circles represent countries where English functions as a second language or as a global lingua franca.

Notice that Kachru’s model was descriptive, not hierarchical. It was meant to explain how English circulates globally, not to rank its speakers. Yet in the Philippines, these circles operate as if they were ranked. Proficiency matters, but so does the accent you use to speak the language. Where you fall in this framework, or how closely you mimic the inner circle’s “standard”, determines your place in the social order and your prospects for mobility.

Rosina Lippi-Green, in English with an Accent: Language, Ideology, and Discrimination in the United States, argues that the so-called “standard” is simply the accent of a white, upper-middle-class, educated speaker. She argues that no variety of a language is inherently superior to another. Institutions that push for a “standard” do not merely teach a register. They construct a hierarchy, one that sorts English speakers by perceived intelligence, professionalism, and belonging. This happens in schools where students are pressured to conform, in workplaces where employers use accents as a proxy for competence, and in media where “non-standard” accents mark the villain, the comic relief, or the uneducated supporting character. The analysis is uncomfortable precisely because it describes the Filipino setting with such accuracy.

But the persistence of this hierarchy raises a deeper question. It is not an argument against learning, adapting, or code-switching. Language is fluid, and people shift registers for practical reasons every day. The issue is not the act of modification but the expectation underneath it. The expectation that professionalism, class, and intelligence must sound a particular way reveals a hierarchy of legitimacy, one that the Philippines did not author but has nonetheless internalized.

For many Filipinos, modifying their accent is an economically rational decision. Migration, outsourcing, and transnational labor markets reward this kind of adaptability, and the incentive is real and material. It would be too easy, and frankly unfair, to frame every instance of accent modification as capitulation. People navigate systems they did not design, and doing so skillfully is its own form of agency. But there is a difference between adapting strategically and adapting because no other version of yourself feels credible. Again, the deeper issue is not accent modification itself. It is the absence of a framework that allows Filipinos to define legitimacy on their own terms.

The global hierarchy of accents did not emerge in a vacuum. It followed economic and political power. For decades, the United States set the standard not only in markets and media, but in sound. To speak like the center was to signal proximity to it, and proximity to it meant access. That logic made sense when American cultural and economic dominance went largely unchallenged.

But power shifts. Southeast Asia is no longer peripheral to the global economy. It is central to supply chains, manufacturing networks, and long-term growth projections in ways that would have been difficult to imagine a generation ago. The geography of influence is changing, but the geography of linguistic legitimacy has not caught up. Until the Filipino accent is treated as fully legitimate on its own terms, sounding “standard” will continue to function as a shortcut to credibility.

On whose terms?

The same study that documented Filipino English teachers’ pressure to adopt a neutral accent also documented their response to it. Neither teacher simply complied. Over time, both adapted their classroom practice to incorporate other varieties of English. Their classrooms became small sites of negotiation, and then of redefinition.

The Filipino accent does not need rehabilitation. What it needs is for the structures around it to stop treating it as a problem to be corrected and minimized. That means policy in how schools train teachers, in how BPO companies use accent neutralization, in how Philippine media writes its characters. It means being honest that the pressure to sound neutral for legitimacy is not neutral. It is a pressure with a deep history.

But legitimacy is not only granted from above. It can also be claimed. And the decision to keep a Filipino accent in certain spaces can, in itself, be a deliberate act.

This article reflects reporting and analysis made by The Southeast Asia Pacific Frontier. If you have additional context, a different take, or a perspective we’ve missed — whether you’re a researcher, a policy practitioner, or someone living with these realities on the ground — this is an evolving story and we’d like to hear from you. Drop a comment below or get in touch.

In mid-2025, gunfire broke out near the Temple of Ta Muen Thom, a centuries-old Khmer ruin sitting on the contested border between Thailand and Cambodia. Over the following days, clashes spread across twelve border locations.

For a region whose diplomatic identity is built on consensus, restraint, and the careful avoidance of public rupture, it was a striking image. The Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) has long prided itself on managing regional tensions through consultation rather than confrontation. Border clashes, despite having historical precedence, between member states were not part of the script.

And yet de-escalation came. Not through ASEAN’s formal mechanisms, but through Malaysia, whose Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim stepped in to broker talks, with the quiet assistance of the United States and China, even after Thailand’s Foreign Minister had rejected third-party mediation outright.

While most have criticized ASEAN for taking a back seat, a better question is: if the formal institution did not resolve the crisis, what did? And what does that tell us about how regional order in Southeast Asia actually works?

The answer, this article argues, is that ASEAN operates not just through a single channel, but through two distinct souls, one institutional and one political.

The case of two ASEANs

The idea that ASEAN contains more than one logic within itself is not new. Jose Bagulaya, a professor at the University of the Philippines, argues in ASEAN as an International Organization that the organization has always operated with two souls: one legal, one political. The ASEAN Charter formally confers decision-making power to the Summit, but remains silent on what the organization is actually empowered to enforce, effectively placing matters of compliance in the realm of politics rather than law. For Bagulaya, this is not a design flaw. It is a design choice. As he puts it, “ASEAN is a political animal, and the States wearing of the ASEAN mask is just one of the many ways of performing politics.” The result is a permanent tension between acting in accordance with the rule of law and acting in accordance with power politics.

This tension is not merely theoretical. It has a structure. The first soul of ASEAN is institutional. It is structured around the ASEAN Charter, three community pillars (Political and Security, Economic, and Socio-Cultural), and key bodies such as the ASEAN Summit, Coordinating Council, and Secretariat. All of which are consensus-bound, meaning that all member states must agree before mechanisms are adopted and statements are issued. This makes ASEAN deliberately slower to address crises like border clashes than most regional organizations, but for a reason.

According to Bilahari Kausikan, former UN Representative of Singapore, a consensus decision is not a weakness but a preservation mechanism. It ensures that smaller states do not get overwhelmed by the will of bigger states such as Indonesia, and it reassures that the bigger states will not be overwhelmed by a coalition of smaller states. In this line of thinking, consensus is what keeps ASEAN intact.

”Achieving consensus among member states is the central mechanism of ASEAN’s functionality. This consensus is founded upon the idea that the regional interest is interlinked with each member state’s national interest,” Kausikan noted.

The durability of this consensus model was seriously tested in 2012. In July that year, under the Cambodian chairmanship, ASEAN ended a ministerial meeting without issuing a communiqué for the first time in its 45-year history. Following the maritime stand-off in the Scarborough Shoal between China and the Philippines in April 2012, Phnom Penh refused to allow mention of the South China Sea dispute in the joint statement. Vietnam and the Philippines resisted, and the Cambodian Foreign Minister Hor Namhong remained firm, arguing that the foreign ministers’ meeting was not a court and had no business issuing verdicts on bilateral disputes.

“I requested that we issue the joint communique without mention of the South China Sea dispute ... but some member countries repeatedly insisted to put the issue of the Scarborough Shoal… I have told my colleagues that the meeting of the Asean foreign ministers is not a court, a place to give a verdict about the dispute,” Namhong argued.

Yet ASEAN still did not collapse. The deadlock exposed the structural limits of consensus, but it also demonstrated ASEAN’s capacity for internal repair. Then Indonesian Foreign Minister Marty Natalegawa undertook rapid shuttle diplomacy across regional capitals, eventually securing agreement on a six-point consensus on the South China Sea. It was not an ASEAN mechanism that resolved the crisis. It was a member state, moving faster than the institution could, using bilateral initiative to do what collective consensus could not.

It is at this point that the second soul of ASEAN becomes visible. It does not replace the foundational mechanisms of ASEAN, nor does it openly defy it. Rather, it comes in at moments where consensus is slow or has not been reached. Usually, it operates through bilateral initiatives, shuttle diplomacy, and quiet coalition-building. It is political in exactly the way Bagulaya describes: the ASEAN mask is still worn, but the hands moving underneath it belong to individual states.

The political ASEAN in practice

Malaysia’s mediation between Thailand and Cambodia was unexpected, but only if you were watching the institutional ASEAN. Thailand’s Foreign Minister had already rejected third-party mediation outright. Yet Malaysian Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim moved ahead with the involvement of both the United States and China. As Dr. Ilango Karuppannan, a retired Malaysian Ambassador, observed, Cambodia’s acknowledgment that the meeting was “co-organized by the U.S. with the presence of China” did not diminish Malaysia’s role; if anything, Malaysia’s willingness to host and announce the talks swiftly was what made it possible. Kuala Lumpur did not wait for institutional endorsement.

And this pattern of a Southeast Asian state moving faster than ASEAN’s mechanisms is not entirely new. Indonesia took on a mediating role in the peace process between the Philippines and the Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF) in the 1990s. When an impasse was reached between the Philippines and the MNLF, the Organization of Islamic Cooperation (OIC) expanded its committee and placed Indonesia in charge of mediating talks. This has led to facilitated negotiations that eventually produced the 1996 Final Peace Agreement, which aimed to fully implement the 1976 Tripoli Agreement and established the Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao. Moreover, up to the early 2000’s, Indonesia has provided personnel to the OIC for ceasefire monitoring.

More recently, during Indonesia’s 2023 Chairmanship, Jakarta engaged in extensive quiet consultations with multiple stakeholders, including the junta and opposition-linked actors. Rather than publicly confront Naypyidaw, Indonesia pursued what officials described as “silent diplomacy,” attempting to operationalize the Five-Point Consensus through sustained engagement.

Dr. Karuppannan argues that such intervention became necessary precisely because ASEAN’s formal mechanisms were not designed for speed, but for regional unity.

”Its foundational norms of consensus and non-interference, which are critical to regional unity, also inhibit timely responses to intra-regional crises. The Treaty of Amity and Cooperation (TAC) provides for peaceful settlement and even a High Council, but these mechanisms remain inactive,” Dr. Karuppanan noted.

In the Thailand-Cambodia case, the situation was further complicated by the fact that the ASEAN Secretary-General at the time was Cambodian, which made it politically difficult for the Secretariat to assume a visibly mediating role. In such circumstances, bilateral and informal mechanisms became, as Dr. Karuppannan described, the “default approach.”

When the institutional ASEAN stalls, individual member states step into the gap, not to replace the organization, but to do what it cannot do quickly enough. The ASEAN mask, as Bagulaya might put it, is still on. The hands moving underneath it simply depend on the moment.

Timor Leste’s new approach

On February 2, 2026, judicial authorities in Timor-Leste opened legal proceedings against the Myanmar junta, including Senior General Min Aung Hlaing, for war crimes and crimes against humanity. The case was initiated after the Chin Human Rights Organization presented a criminal file to a senior Timorese prosecutor in Dili two weeks prior. The file documented specific atrocities allegedly committed against the ethnic Chin minority, including targeted killings, sexual violence, and aerial attacks on civilian infrastructure protected under international law. It was the first time an Association of Southeast Asian nations (ASEAN) member state had initiated such proceedings against a fellow member.

However, the move was not new. In 2023, Timor-Leste engaged with the National Unity Government, Myanmar’s government in exile, which led to the expulsion of their top diplomat in Yangon.

What explains Timor-Leste’s willingness to act where others have not? Deputy Research Director of the Lowy Institute, Susannah Patton, argues that Timor Leste has a distinct international personality from its Southeast Asian counterparts.

”Timor-Leste may be in ASEAN, but its leadership will not quickly assimilate the political culture of the group,” Patton argued.

This does not come as a surprise. According to the ISEAS State of Southeast Asia Survey in 2025, respondents from Timor-Leste placed a higher priority on the Myanmar crisis than any other ASEAN country except Myanmar. Moreover, respondents from Timor-Leste reported being less concerned about the principle of non-interference than those from other ASEAN countries.

The deeper explanation may also be historical. Timor-Leste’s international identity is shaped by its own history of occupation and international advocacy. Its path to sovereignty was secured not through consensus, but through the help of the international community and UN peacekeeping missions. This background may explain why Dili appears more willing to externalize disputes rather than absorb them into ASEAN. The solidarity framing was made explicit by Salai Za Uk, Executive Director of CHRO, who noted that “given Timor Leste’s history, and the indignities the Timorese people suffered in their struggle for independence, there is a real sense of solidarity with the people of Myanmar.” For Dili, the instinct to externalize a crisis rather than absorb it into ASEAN’s diplomatic space is not a departure from its international identity but an expression of it.

This is where Timor-Leste’s move complicates the two-soul framework. The political ASEAN described in the previous section, Malaysia’s mediation and Indonesia’s shuttle diplomacy, works within ASEAN’s diplomatic culture even as it moves faster than its mechanisms. This is because it is centripetal; it pulls crisis response back toward the regional frame, keeps the ASEAN mask on, and resolves tensions without rupturing the organization’s foundations.

Timor-Leste’s legal action is something different. By relocating the contestation from ASEAN’s diplomatic space into the international arena, Dili is stretching the second soul toward something centrifugal. The proceedings do not openly defy ASEAN because Timor-Leste remains a member and has not called for Myanmar’s expulsion. But the logic of juridical escalation such as appointing prosecutors, building criminal files, pursuing accountability through domestic courts, operates on a different axis than consensus and quiet mediation.

Whether this represents a new direction for the political ASEAN, or an outlier shaped by Timor-Leste’s singular history, remains to be seen. But it suggests that the second soul is not monolithic. It too contains multitudes.

Does this strengthen or weaken ASEAN centrality?

At first glance, these episodes appear to strain ASEAN’s foundational norms. But ASEAN has long possessed mechanisms for consultation and dispute management. What these crises reveal instead is a tension between process and urgency.

ASEAN’s formal mechanisms are consensus-bound and intentionally rooted in deliberate diplomacy rather than speed. But crises move faster than consensus. When that happens, Southeast Asian states increasingly supplement institutional procedure with their own initiatives.

The immediate interpretation is that this weakens ASEAN centrality. If mediation is conducted by individual states and if legal proceedings are pursued outside collective endorsement, it’s easy to see how ASEAN can be easily put on the sidelines.

However, this interpretation assumes that centrality requires institutional monopoly. That may no longer be the case.

Even when member states act independently, they rarely depart from ASEAN’s diplomatic culture. Mediation remains consensual, and no state openly calls for expulsion or structural rupture. In this sense, ASEAN may not always execute a crisis response, but it continues to define the boundaries within which crisis response occurs.

Now, Timor-Leste’s legal action tests this logic. By moving the contestation into the international legal arena, Dili stretches ASEAN’s principle of non-interference. Yet it does not abandon the organization; it remains within ASEAN as its newest member while pressing on Myanmar.

The durability of ASEAN centrality, therefore, may not depend on whether ASEAN leads every crisis response. It may depend on whether member states continue to recognize ASEAN as the frame within which the regional order is negotiated.

ASEAN was always a political animal. What these crises reveal is not its weakness, but the full range of its instincts.

This article reflects reporting and analysis made by The Southeast Asia Pacific Frontier. If you have additional context, a different take, or a perspective we’ve missed — whether you’re a researcher, a policy practitioner, or someone living with these realities on the ground — this is an evolving story and we’d like to hear from you. Drop a comment below or get in touch.

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When Philippine President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. announced that the Philippines had approximately 60 days of reserve gasoline, fuel oil, and kerosene following the closure of the Strait of Hormuz, the countdown began - at least in the headlines. The figures have inspired fear, calls to stockpile, and pointed questions about government mismanagement and preparedness.

The Philippines is not alone. Across the region, oil reserves of different countries are suddenly being measured against a number and found wanting at different degrees. Japan has 254 days, while Thailand has 61. China has 200 days, while Indonesia has 25. But reserves were never designed to measure how long a country can survive without energy imports. They exist to stabilize markets while global supply adjusts, specifically to prevent panic, smooth price volatility, and buy governments time. Essentially a strategic buffers against sudden supply chain disruptions such as the US-Iran war.

This is a misreading of the crisis. Focusing on counting down the days to which reserves last displaces the real issue because the crisis does not begin on day 61 when tankers run dry. It begins when prices move - and they already have.

How shock actually travels

When the Strait of Hormuz closed the immediate problem is not that the region ran out of fuel. It was that among the 3000 vessels stuck inside the Persian Gulf, 200 oil tankers are physically trapped with nowhere to go. Iraq has already begun shutting down operations at the Rumalia oil field because tankers cannot leave and onshore storage is reaching its capacity. According to Marine Insight, only three tankers carrying 2.8 million barrels of oil crossed the straight on early March, far below the usual daily average of about 19.8 million. This is an 86% decline.

But markets do not wait for the physical shortage to run out before reacting because of how oil is bought and sold. According to research from the Revenue Watch Institute, two-thirds of all traded oil moves through long term contracts between producers and refineries. These are agreements that give both sides predictability over supply and demand. The remaining third is sold on the spot market, where individual barrels are bought and sold in real time. That small share matters disproportionately because long term contracts don’t have fixed prices. They are rather written with formulas tied to whatever the spot market says oil is worth at delivery. This means spot prices set the benchmark for the entire system.

On top of this is the layer of futures trading. Futures contracts, or the agreement to buy or sell oil at a fixed price on a future date, are traded on exchanges in volumes the exceed physical supply. When traders anticipate a supply disruption, they bid up futures prices immediately, then spot prices follow, and because term contracts are pegged to spot, the reprice cascades across the whole market at once.

While this structure is designed to price risk in advance, it also means that he moment news of the Hormuz closure broke, markets were already repricing every barrel that would need to move through or around that strait in the weeks and months ahead.

On March 6, crude futures rose to their highest level in two and a half years, climbing 12% to $90 a barrel. International Brent crude followed the surge over 28% to above $86 a barrel in the days following the closure. JPMorgan Chase warned that prices could spike to $120 per barrel if disruption in the strait is sustained, estimating that Gulf producers can only sustain normal production for roughly 25 days.

Moreover, because oil is priced and settled in US dollars, the exchange rate matters as much as the barrel price for the Philippines and Southeast Asia. According to ING Think, even a brief oil price spike in June 2025 was enough to pull down the Philippine peso, Korean won, Thai baht, and Japanese yen by roughly 1.5 to 3%. The Philippine peso depreciated to around 59 per dollar in early march, a historical low, as risk sentiment deteriorated alongside the conflict. What this means in practice is that the the region pays more for oil in dollars at the exact moment its currency buys fewer dollars.

That double hit then travels through the economy in a chain that reaches ordinary households long before the supply of oil actually runs out. For example, transport costs rise first with fuel surcharges on trucking, fare increases on public transport, higher operating costs for fishing boats and delivery vehicles. According to ING Think Regional Head of Research for Asia Pacific, Deepali Bhargava, inflation in the Philippines could climb up to 0.4% for every 10% increase in oil prices. A price shock of this magnitude, coupled with peso depreciation, could push Philippine inflation to the upper end of the BSP’s 2-4% target range.

The picture is not unique to the Philippines. According to MUFG Research, Thailand, Vietnam, the Philippines, and South Korea are the most sensitive economies in Asia to oil price increases, with CPI inflation projected to rise by between 0.1 and 0.9 percentage points across the region. Under the assumption of a six-week Hormuz closure and oil prices rising from $70 to $85 a barrel, regional inflation across Asia could rise by 0.7 percentage points, with the Philippines and Thailand the most vulnerable.

Who was always going to be exposed?

That vulnerability did not begin with the Hormuz closure. When governments and analysts compare reserve levels across the region, it is easy to read these numbers as a performance table. Simply a ranking of which countries planned well and which didn’t. Japan at 254 days, South Korea at 208, China at 200. Thailand at 61, The Philippines at 60, and Indonesia at 25. The assumption is that these gaps reflects choices and that better choices would have produced better numbers, but that assumption misses something important.

The 90-day reserve standard that serves as the global benchmark was established by the International Energy Agency, whose membership obligation requires countries to hold stocks equivalent to at least 90 days of net oil imports and to be ready to collectively respond to severe supply disruptions.

It is a standard designed by and for IEA member countries, which in the region include Australia, Japan, South Korea, and New Zealand. However, most of the region are only Association countries in the IEA because in part because full membership requires holding oil stocks equivalent to at least 90 days of net imports. But according to the IEA’s Southeast Asia Energy Outlook, mandatory oil stockpile regimes across the region are generally only equivalent to fewer than 40 days of oil use and in some cases as few as six days.

According to an IEA-affiliated study on oil stockpiling options for Southeast Asia, financial constraints are among the most common factors slowing down oil stockpiling across the region. Crude purchases alone account for at least half the total cost of maintaining reserves, with significant capital and operational expenditures layered on top of storing and distribution. For example in Indonesia, the financial burden of oil stockpiling was estimated at over $1.1 billion in 2015 alone.

Storing oil is expensive and it ties up capital that developing economies cannot afford to lock away under normal conditions. According to the IEA’s report on energy security in ASEAN+6, developing emergency oil response capabilities and integrating them into global supply security mechanisms will take time and money, precisely the two things fiscally constrained economies have the least of. The result is a reserve gap that reflects not poor planning in the abstract, but constrained choices made under imitations.

The other constraint is where the oil comes from in the first place. Even if the region’s economies could build larger reserves, they would largely be filling them with Middle Eastern crude. Asia imports 60% of its crude oil from the Middle East, and the Philippines sources 90% of its oil imports from the region. Diversifying away from that dependence is not simply a matter of finding new suppliers, it requires retooling the refineries themselves.

“If you put a new crude into the refinery, you have to change the cutoff points. You have to change gasoline blending. There’s a lot of things you need to change. It’s hard work. This is why diversification has been so poor in a lot of countries,” Adi Imsirovic, director of consultancy at Surrey Clean Energy, explains.

The implication is that even the will to diversify runs into a physical ceiling. Refineries across the region were built and configured around Middle Eastern crude. This includes the specific density, sulfur content, and chemical composition of said crude - a product of decades of infrastructure built around a single supply corridor.

“Simply put, even replacing a modest share of the roughly 16 million barrels a day of Middle Eastern crude that arrives to Asia with Atlantic basin supply is not feasible,” Energy Aspects analyst Richard Jones said.

What energy security actually means here

According to a peer-reviewed study on global energy security, countries including the Philippines, Myanmar, and Cambodia were already in a precarious position before the strait closed, held back by poor energy resource endowments and limited domestic production capacity.

The panic about reserve levels treats that vulnerability as a policy problem, one that better preparation might have prevented. But the region was never fully inside the global energy architecture to begin with. The IEA’s 90-day benchmark, its emergency coordination frameworks are membership obligations, and most of Southeast Asia and the Pacific sits outside full membership precisely because meeting those obligations requires resources the region doesn’t have.

The 60-day countdown obscured all of that. It made a structural problem legible as a planning failure, which is a more comfortable story because planning failures have solutions. Structural ones are harder to sit with.

None of this fully excuses the choices made within those constraints. A 90% import concentration from a single region reflects fiscal limitation, but also decades of institutional inertia. Both are true at the same time, and both are part of what needs to change.

But the harder question, the one the Hormuz crisis leaves sitting with this region, is not simply how to build more reserves or diversify supply lines. It is what energy security actually means for economies that were never fully designed into the system meant to provide it. And whether that system, as currently built, is even capable of answering that question.

This article reflects reporting and analysis made by The Southeast Asia Pacific Frontier. If you have additional context, a different take, or a perspective we’ve missed — whether you’re a researcher, a policy practitioner, or someone living with these realities on the ground — this is an evolving story and we’d like to hear from you. Drop a comment below or get in touch.

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