Taiwan, a leader in public health, should be in the WHO

Taiwan urges the World Health Organization and all relevant parties to recognise Taiwan’s considerable contributions to global health. We view health as a fundamental human right and universal value. Improved health results in greater well-being and has ramifications for the survival and development of individual countries and the world.

At the 77th World Health Assembly, held from 27 May until 1 June 2024, members adopted the WHO Fourteenth General Programme of Work for 2025 to 2028. Its objectives include improving health coverage and bolstering financial protections to ensure universal coverage. WHO has called on all countries to act on these issues.

Taiwan’s experience in making advances in public health should be shared through the WHO, from which it is excluded due to opposition from China.

Taiwan launched its national health insurance system in 1995. The system, which combined existing insurance schemes, now covers 99.9 percent of the population. It provides access to equitable and efficient healthcare and is an important pillar of social stability, health and safety. It has become a global benchmark for achieving universal health coverage. In annual health care indexes by Numbeo, a global database on cost of living, Taiwan has ranked first for the past seven years.

Taiwan’s national health insurance system operates on a pay-as-you-go, self-sustaining model, resistant to financial challenges such as aging populations and rising costs. The system has a sound, sustainable footing, built by reforming premium rates and adding funding sources, such as a tobacco surcharge.

To promote the health of our people, President Lai Ching-te described a vision of a healthy Taiwan in 2024. Remaining focused on people, families, and communities, we are expanding health promotion operations and preventive healthcare. Moreover, we are implementing a family physician plan, offering comprehensive care to patients with chronic diseases, and using telemedicine to improve accessibility in rural areas. By promoting integrated long-term care, palliative care, and aging in place, we ensure health equity—holistic, lifelong, and dignified care for all people.

In 2021, the WHO released the Global Strategy on Digital Health for 2020-2025. Under this plan, the global health body is seeking the development and adoption of person-centric digital health solutions to prevent, detect and respond to infectious diseases. It is also overseeing development of infrastructure and applications to use health data to promote health and well-being.

Taiwan exploits its prowess in information and communications technology to build effective health systems and services with a high return on investment. Taiwan’s health insurance system uses cloud storage, facilitating the efficient exchange of medical records. The adoption of internationally recognised data exchange guidelines, such as the Fast Healthcare Interoperability Resources standards, enhances international medical data sharing. Incorporation of artificial intelligence is advancing the development of smart healthcare, and virtual health insurance cards, and the My Health Bank app enable real-time management of health data.

In 2008, Taiwan introduced the Health Technology Assessment to facilitate evidence-based policymaking. In 2023, gene and cell therapies were covered for the first time, enhancing patient options and marking a new era for precision medicine. Taiwan also continues to leverage innovative technologies to improve the working environment for the medical workforce and to bolster the overall quality of medical service.

Despite facing political challenges, Taiwan has continuously participated in international health affairs and has been dedicated to supporting the global health system. Throughout the Covid-19 pandemic, Taiwan played a crucial role in sharing supplies, strategies and experiences, proving itself a reliable partner. Separately, Taiwan’s successful implementation of universal health coverage offers valuable lessons for countries worldwide. As we continue to share our experiences in universal coverage, financial management and digital health, we aim to help other nations achieve WHO’s goal of universal health coverage.

In this rapidly changing era, health challenges transcend borders and global cooperation is essential to addressing various health crises. However, Taiwan is prevented from participating in the WHO due to China’s continued distortion of United Nations General Assembly Resolution 2758 and World Health Assembly Resolution 25.1. Neither of these resolutions mentions Taiwan, nor does either declare Taiwan as part of China. They do not give China the right to represent Taiwan in WHO.

In light of this, and to uphold the core UN values of inclusiveness and universality, we urge the WHO and all relevant parties to recognise Taiwan’s considerable contributions to global health and the human right to health. The WHO must adopt a more open-minded approach and demonstrate flexibility, adhering to the principles of professionalism and inclusivity. Taiwan should be included, as a matter of pragmatism, in the World Health Assembly and all WHO meetings, activities and mechanisms, particularly those concerned with the WHO pandemic agreement. Taiwan earnestly hopes to work with the international community to create a future of borderless healthcare that realises the fundamental human right to health stipulated in the WHO Constitution, and the vision of leaving no one behind espoused in the UN Sustainable Development Goals.

‘Deterrence’—an agreeable word that obscures strategic debate

Deterrence has become the centrepiece of Australian strategic thinking, but its value has become more political than strategic. The focus on deterrence has advantages in terms of messaging, but this has tended to muddy Australia’s strategic thinking, obscuring the need to establish causal relationships between force design, posture and outcomes.

British academic Lawrence Freedman has written ‘Deterrence is a “goldilocks” concept, not too hot and not too cold.’ Although written from a European perspective in the context of the war in Ukraine, these words are equally applicable to the Australian context.

Freedman contends that the word ‘deterrence’ sends out just the right kind of message for a Western liberal democracy. ‘It implies a defensive intent without weakness, a determination to prevent aggression without being reckless …. There is no dishonour in deterrence.’

The word is also wonderfully vague. Nobody can object to having more deterrence. What’s more, it can be bandied around without being specific about whom you are deterring from doing what and without talking about scary concepts such as actual fighting. This fuzziness is especially useful for a country whose most likely adversary is also its primary trading partner.

The vagueness of deterrence has led to its rise as an all-purpose strategy. It has become a central concept in recent policy documents in spite, or perhaps because, of its lack of specificity.

On one level, deterrence makes a lot of sense for Australia. After all, we are what would have traditionally been called a status quo power—broadly happy with our lot and keen to avoid any conflict.

However, this obsession with deterrence is also problematic. This is especially the case for a nation without nuclear weapons and therefore unable to rely on classic Cold War deterrence, which is deterrence by punishment.

Instead, Australia is going for what is usually described as deterrence by denial. This is where a nation seeks to achieve deterrence through ‘having military forces which can block the enemy’s military forces from making territorial gains’, or at least imposing such costs as to dissuade them from trying.

In its National Defence Strategy (NDS), Australia adopted a strategy of denial to achieve deterrence. This approach is, in fact, not particularly novel; previous Defence white papers have consistently discussed the need to be able to ‘deter, deny or defeat’ attacks. However, recent framing has prioritised deterrence above all else.

The NDS adopts the language of ‘shape, deter and respond’ originally used in the 2020 Defence Strategic Update, but adds that ‘whilst previously these objectives had been given equal weight in Australia’s strategic settings, deterrence is now Australia’s primary strategic defence objective’.

On first reading this sounds great, but a closer examination reveals problems. Australia has agency in its ability to respond, and to a slightly lesser extent in its ability to shape. But Australia has very little agency in its ability to deter. Whether Australia’s deterrence posture works will be decided in Beijing, not in Canberra.

Deterrence, therefore, is an outcome. Deterring China from aggressive acts will be a product of Australia’s ability to shape the region in such a way as to make aggressive actions unappealing, and to respond in a credible way if Beijing decides to act anyway.

What the NDS is therefore saying is that Australia should be prioritising the outcome of its strategic approach over the inputs necessary to achieve that outcome—it is nonsensical.

The focus on deterrence has value to politicians because of its innate slipperiness. This is dangerous when it comes to strategic thinking. It also distracts attention away from some of the more challenging realities of defence debates.

Deterrence, especially conventional deterrence or deterrence by denial, regularly fails. History is littered with examples where states have either misread deterrence signals or simply ignored them. Furthermore, deterrence only ever works if the adversary believes that you are willing to fight.

Both aspects highlight that no matter how much politicians and officials use the vague language of deterrence, Australia’s security ultimately depends on the willingness of its men and women to fight for its national interests and their way of life. If our leaders are sincere in their statements about the seriousness of the strategic circumstances, it is time that they have an honest discussion of what that actually means.

There has been very little public discussion of the contingencies which underpin Australian strategic planning. The government and the military have notably avoided any discussion of the realities of a potential conflict, whether that be in terms of the factors driving Australian involvement, the deployment of Australian forces, or the impact on the military and the country more widely. This stands in marked contrast to relatively open discussion elsewhere, including in the United States.

Deterrence has a place in the Australian strategic lexicon, but its recent fetishisation does no one any favours. It has confused public communication and muddied Australian strategic thinking.

With work underway on the next iteration of the NDS it is time to refocus on the issues that Australia can control. The priority should be on engaging with partners to shape the region and enhancing the ability of the Australian Defence Force to respond to the most likely contingencies. If this is done well, Australia will maximise its chance of deterring its adversaries, and ensure it is best placed to respond if that deterrence fails. We cannot, and should not, ask for more.

New frontiers of Southeast Asian space diplomacy

Southeast Asian countries were formerly peripheral to debates on space governance. They had nascent space programs and modest capabilities, and their policy interests focused largely on civilian applications.

But this is changing. Growing reliance on space-based infrastructure for national development, disaster resilience and connectivity has pushed countries to take a more proactive role in shaping the global space agenda. The April 2025 session of the United Nations Open-ended Working Group (OEWG) on the prevention of an arms race in outer space marked a turning point—one in which Southeast Asian voices were heard more clearly than ever.

While Southeast Asia is not formal bloc in space diplomacy, a shared regional voice is emerging. Most countries in the region consistently advocate for the peaceful use of outer space, oppose its weaponisation and emphasise that space must remain accessible to all states regardless of their size or level of technological sophistication. Joint statements from the Association of Southeast Asian Nations have underscored these shared principles, calling for multilateralism, transparency and inclusive development in space. The region increasingly presents itself as a consensus-driven and rule-abiding constituency committed to responsible space governance, even as individual countries build their capabilities.

This growing unity of voice coexists with posture variation between states. Indonesia, for example, has long advocated for legally binding mechanisms. In statements at the OEWG and other forums, it has warned that voluntary norms must not substitute for treaty-based regimes. Indonesia has consistently framed space as a peaceful, shared domain and opposed its weaponisation. Yet it also recognises the domain’s strategic value. Jakarta’s defence policy calls for the development of military space capabilities, and the government is exploring a national space command. These dual commitments—normative leadership and strategic readiness—mirror Indonesia’s broader foreign policy tradition of balancing principle with pragmatism.

This was seen in Indonesia’s October 2024 statement on behalf of the Non-Aligned Movement (NAM). While reiterating peaceful intentions, it also referenced the draft treaty on the Prevention of the Placement of Weapons in Outer Space. The controversial proposal—backed by China and Russia—is not supported by all NAM members. The reference suggested Indonesia’s willingness to push for ambitious legal outcomes, even at the risk of internal divergence.

Malaysia has taken a similarly principled yet institutionally focused path. Its 2022 Space Board Act established a domestic regulatory framework and prohibited the deployment of weapons in space—an unusual step for an emerging space actor. Internationally, like Indonesia, Malaysia has advocated for transparent and inclusive negotiations on a binding arms-control mechanism. But it has been more specific, having stressed the need to regulate space technologies, especially given their dual-use nature. While Malaysia advocates for transparency in military use of space, they do argue that such activities must not compromise national sovereignty.

The Philippines, though relatively new to the space domain, has emerged as one of the region’s most normatively ambitious players. Despite its limited capabilities, Manila contributed substantively to the OEWG, including a working paper on the principle of ‘due regard’. With Germany, it highlighted emerging threats such as kinetic anti-satellite weapons, directed energy weapons, and cyber intrusions. It also raised concerns over proximity operations conducted without consent—an issue of growing relevance as on-orbit manoeuvrability increases. The Philippines’ interest in the US-led Artemis Accords and its alignment with transparency, confidence-building measures and legal frameworks reflect its broader diplomatic tradition: rules-based, West-aligned and institutionally driven.

Singapore, Thailand and Vietnam round out the region’s increasing engagement in space diplomacy. Singapore has been a pragmatic bridge-builder, supporting voluntary norms while being open to long-term legal mechanisms. At the OEWG, it voted for resolutions backed by Western powers and the NAM, calling for convergence and cautioning against fragmentation. Thailand and Vietnam have shown similar pragmatism. Thailand has encouraged international legal models that promote equitable technology and data sharing, while Vietnam has endorsed transparency measures and reaffirmed its opposition to weaponisation.

These differences in approach do not amount to disunity. Rather, they underscore a maturing regional diplomacy in which Southeast Asian states pursue shared normative goals through varied means. Importantly, ASEAN has helped foster this cohesion. Through joint statements and informal coordination, regional mechanisms have enabled countries to articulate common positions anchored in peace, equity, and legality, while also maintaining national flexibility.

Many Southeast Asian states still fear that the space domain could become another theatre for strategic competition. Their preference remains for inclusive, consensus-based processes that preserve the centrality of the UN and resist hardening of rival blocs.

Southeast Asia may not be a unified actor in space diplomacy, but it is no longer on the margins. The region’s increasingly coordinated, principle-driven approach offers a middle path grounded in legalism, equity and multilateralism. As global rivalries extend into orbit, Southeast Asian perspectives are not just relevant—they are essential to a peaceful and rules-based space order.

Realising Darwin’s potential as a marine industry hub

If Australia is serious about defending its interests and shaping its region, building out Darwin’s marine industry must be at the forefront of our national agenda.

Darwin is where Australia’s northern frontier meets the Indo-Pacific’s strategic crossroads. Despite its location, infrastructure and growing defence presence, Darwin falls short of its potential to serve as a sovereign marine industry hub capable of supporting national security, regional engagement and economic resilience.

The Northern Territory government is already making tangible progress. By releasing its Maritime Industry Development Plan and investing in the Darwin Ship Lift, it has laid the groundwork for the next phase of maritime industry growth. However, building Darwin’s sovereign marine capability requires more than shipyard infrastructure and policy intent.

What’s now needed is a coordinated, sustained national effort—led by the Commonwealth, enabled by the NT government and underpinned by private sector investment—to transform Darwin into a critical maritime node in Australia’s defence-industrial and economic architecture.

As the Indo-Pacific becomes increasingly contested, supply chains become more vulnerable and coercive statecraft becomes more common. Darwin’s proximity to key maritime routes and regional partners makes it an indispensable asset. A robust marine industry in Darwin would allow Australia to project influence, sustain operations and support partners across the northern arc, from the eastern Indian Ocean to the western Pacific. This is not simply about regional economics, but a foundational element of national sovereignty.

The private sector will be important to this process. The sector’s investment should include committing capital to expand marine logistics, repair and sustainment services, as well as engaging in equity partnerships with industrial facilities tied to the Darwin Ship Lift. The energy, logistics and resources sectors, which rely on maritime infrastructure to service operations across northern Australia and the Timor Sea, should be at the front of this charge.

Building a marine industry in Darwin will also require people. Skilled labour shortages already constrain the growth of northern Australia’s economy across various sectors. Without a coordinated investment in trade training, apprenticeships and Indigenous workforce development, the marine sector will unsustainably depend on external contractors and fly-in-fly-out models. The private sector and the government must collaboratively invest in the future workforce, focusing on emerging maritime technologies, sustainment trades and operational support.

The federal government has a central enabling role. Through the Northern Australia Infrastructure Facility (NAIF), the Department of Industry, Science and Resources (DISR), and the Department of Defence, Canberra can and must provide the strategic weight and funding necessary to build confidence, de-risk private investment and connect Darwin’s marine capability to national strategic priorities.

NAIF must continue to expand its role as a first-mover investor and adopt a proactive approach. This should apply to co-financing infrastructure needed to support industrial-scale ship repair and maintenance, logistics handling and utility upgrades. Rather than reacting to low-risk, late-stage business cases, NAIF must support the first steps where the commercial market fears to tread, but where the national interest demands action.

DISR must integrate Darwin’s marine capability into a broader national industrial strategy. Programs such as the Modern Manufacturing Initiative and the National Reconstruction Fund should prioritise investment in dual-use maritime technologies, automation and sovereign sustainment capability to serve commercial and Defence needs. Darwin should be designated a priority industrial precinct for maritime innovation and logistics, linking northern Australia’s marine services to Australia’s broader manufacturing and resilience goals.

Defence has the most immediate and compelling role. As Australia expands its forward posture in the north—across the Top End, Tindal and the broader Indo-Pacific Defence Network—Defence must commit to sustaining a greater portion of its fleet and autonomous systems in Darwin. The Darwin Ship Lift must be fully integrated into Defence sustainment planning, not as a backup or overflow site, but as a routine component of ADF readiness. In doing so, Defence would provide essential commercial scale and confidence to attract further private investment and talent into the region.

Australia must also confront a growing structural challenge in its naval sustainment network. Henderson in Western Australia is already under pressure from an expanding set of responsibilities, submarine support, surface fleet maintenance and future shipbuilding. As a result, it risks becoming a choke point. A single point of failure at such a critical node carries unacceptable operational risk.

Darwin and Henderson can and should operate in complement, sharing the load, building redundancy and ensuring continuous support to the Royal Australian Navy and allied vessels across both the Indian and Pacific Oceans. This is not a question of competition; it’s a matter of resilience and reach. A distributed sustainment model, anchored in Darwin, delivers sovereign flexibility in the face of rising operational demand.

Defence must also shape its industry policy and Australian Industry Content requirements to favour local capacity-building. Defence can serve as an anchor client and capability multiplier in the Top End’s maritime future by actively encouraging NT-based contracts, apprenticeships and infrastructure investment.

A thriving marine industry in Darwin does not just serve Defence. It enhances Australia’s capacity to support regional humanitarian assistance, disaster response, civil maritime enforcement and economic engagement. Darwin’s development has long been framed as a national opportunity. It is now a strategic obligation: Australia cannot afford to leave its north underdone or underutilised. A sovereign, commercially viable, and strategically aligned marine industry in Darwin is no longer aspirational.

Declarations or single-point projects will not deliver this. It will take a coordinated national effort spanning governments, departments and industry partners. It will require risk tolerance, patience and clear-eyed prioritisation, but the economic, strategic and sovereign dividends are considerable.

It’s not just software. Physical critical equipment can’t be trusted, either

Just auditing the software in critical equipment isn’t enough. We must assume that adversaries, especially China, will also exploit the hardware if they can.

The latest report on the dangers from China-made solar inverters is a strong reminder that the physical part of equipment must not be trusted. Reuters said on 15 May that investigators had discovered rogue communication modules embedded in Chinese solar inverters installed in critical US energy infrastructure.

These ghost machines, capable of wireless data transmission, had not been declared by the manufacturers and had no documented function. They were, in effect, silent participants on the US grid.

No specific act of sabotage has been confirmed, but the purpose of the devices is unclear. Are they passive intelligence collectors, quietly contributing to foreign data aggregation? Or are they latent access points with offensive potential, waiting to be activated?

Inverters could be coordinated to disrupt voltage regulation or overload circuits across distributed energy resources, causing instability or damage to grid infrastructure.

Presence of the rogue communications modules in the inverters reminds us that adversaries can exploit vulnerabilities hidden deep in hardware, creating potential strategic leverage across essential systems.

As globalisation enters a new phase defined by contested technologies and fragmented supply chains, treating hardware as implicitly trustworthy builds hidden risks into the systems designed to ensure our national resilience.

Governments and industries have embraced zero-trust security models, in which no user, device or connection is trusted by default. But, too often, this principle is only applied to software and user access, not to the hardware operating inside our critical systems. Physical infrastructure, such as the devices that run power, water and transport systems, is rarely scrutinised to the same degree. In part, that’s because hardware threats are harder to observe, difficult to attribute, and require specialised tools and skills to detect.

This is a dangerous oversight.

Modern infrastructure is not a single system. It is a complex patchwork of such globally sourced equipment as sensors, inverters, routers and gateways. Many of these devices run proprietary firmware, are updated irregularly and operate with little visibility once installed. The complexity is such that no single organisation, and often no single person, fully understands how it all works. Much like modern vehicles, we no longer repair these systems part by part. We replace entire black-box subsystems, trusting that what’s inside the new ones will be what we expect.

Inverters and controllers similar to those exposed in the United States are deployed across Australia’s solar energy sector, particularly in residential and commercial-scale distributed energy resources. Many are connected to the grid and managed remotely via mobile networks.

The structural risks highlighted in the US investigation almost certainly exist here. It’s likely we simply haven’t looked closely enough. We may not even know how to look or where to start.

So far, Australia’s policy focus has been on network security and operational resilience. The Security of Critical Infrastructure Act and its Risk Management Program reforms have strengthened awareness and governance. But hardware integrity remains a blind spot. Vendors are often evaluated based on documentation or country of origin. Few components are independently tested for physical or embedded threats. Even fewer are built with tamper evidence or verifiable firmware.

So what would a zero-trust model for hardware look like? It starts with rejecting assumptions. Devices used in critical environments should be able to prove they are genuine and unaltered, using cryptographic signatures that can be independently verified. Firmware should be auditable and digitally signed. Hardware platforms need runtime integrity checks, tamper detection and the ability to isolate or disable compromised components. These capabilities exist today but are rarely adopted at scale.

Procurement models must also evolve. Hardware cannot be selected from trusted supply chains on cost-efficiency alone. It requires a broader risk lens, one that accounts for consequence, likelihood, adversary capability and intent. Mitigation may require investment in local capacity, or co-development with partners that share our security posture. Where equipment cannot come from reliable foreign countries, governments must cultivate domestic sources.

This is not about closing off our economy. It is about building resilience. In a contested region, the ability to operate independently of hostile actors may determine national outcomes.

We must also let go of the idea that trust is permanent. Zero-trust is not a one-off assessment; it’s a posture of continuous verification. Supply chains evolve. Vendors change hands. Firmware updates introduce new code. Just as we monitor software over time, we must now monitor the behaviour and integrity of the physical devices that carry our systems.

The ghost machines uncovered in US infrastructure cannot be understood as an isolated glitch. They represent a deliberate strategy: embedding long-term access and influence into the physical core of critical systems.

Australia has made progress in recognising cyber threats as national security challenges. The next step is to extend that awareness to hardware.

We cannot secure the future while building on unexamined trust.

Australia should establish a unit dedicated to financial warfare capabilities

In an age of great-power competition, the next major conflict may be waged not in the skies over the Indo-Pacific or in the South China Sea, but through sanctions regimes, targeted financial disruptions and coercive use of trade and capital. Finance has emerged as a sixth domain of warfare.

Economic and financial warfare has become a critical instrument of statecraft, from Iran’s isolation from SWIFT to China’s creation of the Cross-border Interbank Payment System (CIPS). The ability to shape behaviour through financial tools is now a strategic reality. Australia, as a middle power with limited kinetic mass but outsized regulatory and technological clout, must take financial warfare seriously.

Australia’s deterrence measures lie in asymmetric capabilities. Just as cyber and space reshaped operational planning, Canberra can use financial tools to shape adversary behaviour, impose costs and support allies in the grey zone.

Our economic integration with the Indo-Pacific makes us both influential and vulnerable. Australia is deeply embedded in global financial networks and supply chains, with extensive dependencies in sectors like semiconductors, pharmaceuticals and critical minerals. The regulatory reputation of institutions such as AUSTRAC and the Reserve Bank gives Australia credibility, and our intelligence partnerships provide a deep well of financial data. These interconnections create leverage, but also exposure.

Australia should properly mobilise these assets to become a leader in economic and financial statecraft among middle powers offering asymmetric capability to our arsenal. The combined effort would also help to protect our financial vulnerabilities.

From an AUKUS perspective, our institutional architecture has not kept pace. Australia lacks a coherent entity capable of wielding financial power with precision and purpose, like the US Treasury’s Office of Foreign Assets Control or the wartime Ministry of Economic Warfare in Britain. This must change.

Warfare has always been about economics, since Athens and Sparta blockaded each other’s trade routes and the British disrupted Axis supply chains through economic subversion. More recently, US sanctions reduced Iranian oil exports from 2.7 million to under 500,000 barrels per day. These economic tools degraded adversary capacity without firing a shot.

But today, financial intelligence, market manipulation, sanctions enforcement, and cyberattacks on financial infrastructure converge as multidomain tools in warfare. China’s efforts to control rare earths, buy foreign ports and develop a digital yuan are coherent strategies of financial statecraft.

Financial warfare encompasses a wide spectrum of instruments, often deployed in synchronised campaigns to shape the strategic environment before the first shot is fired:

—Sanctions and export controls have constrained Iran’s oil exports and Russia’s defense industrial base.

—Asset freezes and Magnitsky-style laws target kleptocrats and human rights violators, disrupting elite networks.

—Cyber-financial attacks, such as North Korea’s 2016 Bangladesh Bank heist, illustrate the intersection of hacking and financial disruption.

—Currency manipulation and trade coercion, notably by China, undermine fair competition and weaponise market access.

—Supply chain domination, especially in critical minerals, allows adversaries to impose latent costs or influence decision-making through chokepoints.

To develop our own strategies of financial warfare, Australia should establish a Financial Warfare Office. Whether embedded within the Joint Capabilities Group or established as a standalone body reporting to the National Security Committee, its mission must be unambiguous: to use finance to deter aggression, degrade coercion and defend sovereignty.

Core capabilities should include fusion of financial intelligence, in which data is aggregated from AUSTRAC, the Australian Federal Police, private banks and allied intelligence to map financial vulnerabilities and illicit flows. Targeted economic instruments should be developed in collaboration with existing government entities to combine sanctions, investment restrictions and export controls. The dedicated unit should lead in resilience planning to identify weak points in critical financial infrastructure and supply chains. It should run strategic influence operations, leveraging financial narratives and market signals to amplify deterrence.

This unit would also serve as a key interface with AUKUS partners, particularly under Pillar Two, where financial, cyber and technological tools must be integrated for strategic effect.

For example, it could pre-emptively disrupt illicit financing of a hostile proxy group by tracing shell companies across Southeast Asia and triggering coordinated asset freezes with Five Eyes partners. It could also identify and block foreign acquisition of a biotech firm holding sensitive data, using regulatory levers to frustrate strategic land and IP grabs. Such risks are already recurring features of grey-zone competition.

Financial warfare is powerful but double-edged. Ill-considered sanctions can harm civilian populations, erode legitimacy and strain alliances. Cyber-financial campaigns may escalate unpredictably. Australia’s response must therefore be grounded in rule-of-law principles and transparent governance.

For this, we must invest in legal authorities, oversight frameworks and international coordination to ensure that economic tools serve democratic security, not undermine it. Financial warfare must not become a pretext for economic nationalism or short-term political gain.

Australia must now make economic and financial statecraft a core pillar of our national defense strategy. Doctrine, investment, institutions and alliances must be calibrated for this new domain of warfare.

Australia must rethink cybercrime to tackle it effectively

Let’s face it: Australia is seen as a soft target for cybercriminals. Its fragmented cybercrime response makes both individuals and institutions more vulnerable.

Australia’s cybercrime framework must be informed by diverse perspectives, and it must focus on victims as much as on perpetrators. This means dismantling outdated binaries between ‘technical’ and ‘non-technical’, challenging the militaristic culture of cybersecurity and building a workforce that reflects the public it serves.

Between 2020 and 2022, scam syndicates across Southeast Asia and Africa targeted thousands of new Australian victims monthly, while intentionally avoiding targets in the United States. In an interview, one of the hackers behind the 2022 Medibank breach reportedly said that ‘Australians are the most stupidest humans alive… they have a lot of money and no sense at all.’ While offensive, the comment points to a broader perception among cybercriminals: Australia is lucrative and underprepared.

Part of this weakness stems from outdated frameworks. A long-standing distinction divides ‘cyber-enabled’ crimes—traditional crimes such as fraud, scams, or sextortion committed via technology—from ‘cyber-dependent’ ones, which rely entirely on digital systems such as hacking and ransomware. This distinction was helpful when internet access was limited. Now, it merely obscures the complexity of cyber threats.

Our perceptions haven’t caught up either. The stereotype persists of the cybercriminal as a male hacker in a hoodie working in a dark room. But this figure is largely mythical. Research shows that cybercriminals come from varied backgrounds, have diverse motivations—including financial gain and thrill-seeking—and have no consistent links to traditional forms of crime. What they do tend to have in common is gender: most are men.

The archetype of the hacker aligns with the model of ‘nerd masculinity’. In this model, once-ridiculed characteristics such as technical expertise and social awkwardness have become assets in the digital era. Such traits are associated with status and control, particularly in cybersecurity and hacking cultures.

This evolution has consequences. As cybersecurity increasingly mirrors military structures, technical skills become a form of power. The hacker, rebranded as a kind of digital warrior, reflects and reinforces dominant masculine norms. Cybercrime is thus framed as a battleground—a contest of skill, prestige and conquest.

Existing frameworks reduce cybercrime to a technical problem requiring technical solutions, obscuring the human and societal costs, particularly for victims of scams, abuse or online stalking. This also fuels a culture of exclusion in the cybersecurity workforce, where hypermasculine norms marginalise women and other diverse voices.

Feminist criminology—which focuses on women offenders, women victims and women in the criminal justice system—is an important, yet underused lens for understanding cybercrime. One useful theory is Raewyn Connell’s ‘hegemonic masculinity’, which argues that culturally idealised masculine traits, such as dominance, control and emotional detachment, are rewarded and reinforced. Offline, these traits underpin acts of violence and coercion. Online, they shape how cybercrime is both perpetrated and policed.

Indeed, research shows that men often view cybersecurity as the protection of systems and infrastructure, while women more commonly emphasise cyber safety or the protection of people from digital harms. Both are important. But Australia’s current policy response, including the establishment of a ‘hack the hackers’ taskforce after the Medibank breach, leans heavily toward the former. This retaliatory, militaristic posture positions cybercrime as a battlefield for elite operatives, not a public safety issue.

The impact is felt in the data. Australians lost over $3.1 billion to cyber fraud in 2022 alone, though the figure is likely much higher due to underreporting. Only one in four victims report these crimes, partly due to a culture of victim-blaming that casts them as careless or gullible. This mindset is another byproduct of the hegemonic, technicist model: it prioritises system protection over human wellbeing.

In October 2023, the Joint Committee on Law Enforcement launched an inquiry into how well law enforcement is equipped to respond to cybercrime. The hearings included testimony from government, industry and community stakeholders. The inquiry exposed a systemic lack of support for victims of cyber-enabled crimes and identified widespread gaps in cybersecurity awareness among frontline responders. Yet despite its potential to spark meaningful reform, the inquiry lapsed in early 2024. It was an opportunity lost. Meanwhile, Australia’s cybersecurity strategy and funding priorities continue to centre on data breaches and ransomware, leaving broader systemic issues unaddressed.

A critical first step for the new government should be to revive the inquiry, confront persistent stereotypes and publicly release the findings. As for us, we’ll keep pushing for change and shedding light on the issue.

To respond effectively, we need to move beyond yesterday’s logic. Cybersecurity must be inclusive, not exclusive, to be effective. If nothing changes, Australia will remain vulnerable, not only to overseas hackers, but to the blind spots in our own thinking.

China’s geopolitical dominance game in the South China Sea

For all the talk about the South China Sea’s complexity as a security issue, its geopolitical significance to China is simple: China wants to condition Southeast Asian states to subordinate status. Southeast Asian countries would do well to consider this when assessing Beijing’s motivations and behaviour.

I was in Singapore earlier this month to participate in the International Maritime Security Conference, organised by the S Rajaratnam School of International Studies. The conference was part of IMDEX Asia 2025, a biennial congregation of sailors and warships from around the region, hosted by Singapore’s navy. This edition included senior representatives from Australia, Britain, Canada, China, India, France, Japan, New Zealand, Sri Lanka, the United States, and member states of the Association of Southeast Asian Nations.

It’s common for speakers at regional conferences to present the maritime environment in terms of complex, cross-cutting transnational security challenges, such as illegal fishing, critical seabed infrastructure, marine pollution, cyber, climate, autonomy, energy exploration and others. (The list expands continually.)

The importance of cooperation and adherence to international law remains a staple theme of such gatherings. Yet advocates of regional maritime cooperation struggle to name new initiatives. The widely referenced Malacca Strait Patrol, for example, is two decades old. It is also telling that the lexicon of power and competition has gradually crept back into session titles. Phrases such as ‘geopolitical implications’ and ‘armed conflict’ were an uncommon sight at maritime conference agendas 15 years ago. This is no longer the case.

Southeast Asian analysts and security practitioners know that the regional security environment is deteriorating, but they remain reluctant to acknowledge the source of the problem head-on. Some have convinced themselves that great-power competition between the US and China is their primary security challenge, rather than domination by the latter. This manifests in a collective view that conflict avoidance is ASEAN’s primary security objective, more than order preservation—though these are not necessarily mutually exclusive aims. Nowhere is this more evident than in the South China Sea.

In geopolitical terms, the South China Sea is best thought of as an arena. The core game within this arena is between China and Southeast Asia. Beyond access to seabed resources and any intrinsic significance of the sea itself, China’s strategic purpose is to establish dominance over Southeast Asia through repeated conditioning.

Australia, Japan, the US and some European countries are also players in this game. They recognise that their own security will suffer if China successfully resets its relations with Southeast Asia in hierarchical terms, at the expense of respect for sovereign equality and international law. They rightly fear that China aims to eject the armed forces of non-littoral states from the South China Sea, hence their preoccupation with freedom of navigation. But these nations also rely on political support from Southeast Asian countries to legitimise their presence to a significant degree.

In relation to the South China Sea, Southeast Asia’s core group of states is composed of Brunei, Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines and Vietnam. The latter two are Southeast Asia’s frontline territorial claimants and are most directly exposed to Chinese pressure tactics. Vietnam’s geography makes it uniquely vulnerable to any impediment on navigation or commercial activity in the sea. China’s current focus is to isolate the Philippines as far as possible within ASEAN, since Manila has publicly defied Beijing’s attempts to establish dominance and has revived its military alliance with the US. Chinese participants at the conference made this focus clear.

Brunei and Indonesia do not have territorial disputes with China, but Beijing claims overlapping jurisdiction within both countries’ exclusive economic zones, based on its dashed-line claims. Jakarta has long maintained that it has no maritime boundary dispute with Beijing, as it has treated China’s claims as without legal foundation. So the admission to ‘overlapping claims’ in last November’s joint statement during Indonesian President Prabowo Subianto’s inaugural visit to Beijing was a surprising concession to China’s dominance game. Indonesia’s Foreign Ministry maintains that its position on the South China Sea is unchanged. But if Chinese firms can pursue ‘joint development’ based on the November statement, Beijing can claim to have eroded Jakarta’s resolve.

Brunei has proceeded more cautiously on the question of overlapping maritime boundaries. But, in February, Brunei and China jointly agreed ‘to cooperate in the development of resources in mutually agreed areas, on a without prejudice basis to legal positions of the respective countries under international law’. Such development could include joint fisheries activities or hydrocarbons extraction. Whatever form it takes, China is likely to treat such overtures from Southeast Asian claimants as tacit concessions.

Malaysia occupies a middle position among ASEAN claimant states. China claims Malaysian-occupied territory in the Spratly Islands and disputes Malaysia’s jurisdiction within significant portions of its exclusive economic zone and continental shelf. China behaves less aggressively towards Malaysia than it does towards the Philippines and Vietnam. But China’s coast guard maintains a continuous watch inside Malaysia’s exclusive economic zone and exerts physical pressure to deter Putrajaya from developing untapped seabed energy resources within Chinese-claimed areas. One Malaysian participant at the conference floated a proposal for Malaysia to pursue joint energy development with China, without formally acknowledging disputed jurisdiction—similar to Brunei. This is a personal view, not reflective of Malaysian government policy, but Chinese participants will perceive it as further evidence that Southeast Asia’s collective resolve is weakening.

The rest of ASEAN has lower, less direct stakes in the South China Sea. Cambodia and landlocked Laos are already dominated by China to a considerable degree. Singapore, though not a claimant state, relies heavily on freedom of navigation and actively facilitates access for the US Navy and its allies, including Australia through the Five Power Defence Arrangements. Thailand and Myanmar, especially, are less invested. Their main interest is the ASEAN-China Code of Conduct. Frequently dismissed as irrelevant, the code nonetheless serves Beijing’s interests as a useful conditioning tool, since it binds the whole of Southeast Asia (except East Timor) into a seemingly endless diplomatic process. The code’s torturous lack of progress repeatedly demonstrates to ASEAN’s members that negotiations on a draft code have no practical constraint on China’s strategic activities.

China’s quest for dominance in the South China Sea is not about resources nor any single maritime issue; in essence, it isn’t about the sea at all. Beijing’s geopolitical aim is to condition Southeast Asian states, individually and collectively, into accepting subordinate status. If it can achieve this without fighting, the likelihood is that the South China Sea will remain tense but stay below the threshold of armed conflict.

With the standout exception of the Philippines, things are currently trending in Beijing’s direction. Indeed, from Beijing’s perspective, ASEAN’s collective trajectory might be summarised as ‘losing without fighting’.

Indonesia has good reasons to reject Russian aircraft basing

Indonesia has plenty of reason to reject basing of Russian aircraft at its air force base on Biak, an island north of New Guinea at 1,400 km from Darwin.

From Russia’s point of view, keeping aircraft at the Manuhua Air Force Base would add to its prestige and might also be helpful to its ‘no-limits’ partner, China.

Whether it has asked for such access is disputed. Defence publisher Janes, citing Indonesian government sources and documents that it had reviewed, reported on 14 April that Russia had asked to base several aircraft on Manuhua; this would be a step up from aircraft merely transiting through the airfield. A day later the Indonesia Defence Ministry said the report was ‘incorrect’. But the Australian, a newspaper, said in an unsourced 28 April report that the Australian government had known in February of Russian requests to use Indonesian airfields for long-range military aircraft.

No one has suggested Indonesia has accepted such a proposal. Acceptance would indeed amount to a huge change in foreign policy and would roil the strategic situation in the region. It is not clear that Indonesian leaders would want to engage in such drastic initiatives.

Moreover, Indonesia has always presented itself as non-aligned, and it is proud of this self-image. As the Foreign Ministry said on 17 April, ‘Indonesia has never granted permission to any country to build or possess a military base in Indonesia.’

Though one can quibble over the true extent of Indonesia’s non-alignment, at the very least, the superficial trademarks of non-alignment are important to the country. Accepting the Russian proposal to use an Indonesian air base would severely dent the country’s non-aligned stature.

Acceptance would upset Indonesia’s international relationships, including the one with Australia, with which it has have become increasingly close. Indonesia knows that Russian aircraft basing on its territory would not please Canberra. Indeed, Australia would consider basing Russian combat aircraft so close to Australian territory a seriously unfriendly act.

Other powers, including India, the United States and Japan, would also be displeased. These are all powers with which Indonesia enjoys good relations and hopes to deepen ties. Even India, which has good relations with Russia, would be concerned about the potential for such a move to enhance China’s power in a vital region, especially so close to the sensitive Malacca straits.

Russian aircraft flying from Biak could conceivably provide valuable wartime reconnaissance and targeting data for China. If Russia were not a declared participant in the war, China’s opponents, such as the US and Australia, could do little to stop this activity. Even in peacetime, the potential to offer such wartime benefits would increase Russia’s clout in Beijing.

A request to base aircraft on Biak, which Moscow’s ambassador to Jakarta has not denied, would be part of a pattern of Russian expansion. Russia has sought to extend its global reach. President Vladimir Putin wants to reassert the country’s traditional great power role, despite its much-weakened condition and its being bogged down in its war against Ukraine.

Russia has been increasing its activities in Africa and the Middle East, areas of traditional Russian influence during the Cold War. Though Russia suffered a setback in Syria last year, its ties with Iran have deepened, with Tehran becoming an important source for drones and ballistic missiles.

Regardless of the practical benefit that Russia gets from this, it clearly enjoys the prestige of global influence.

Though Russia does not have any direct interests at stake in Southeast Asia, Putin likely views a Russian presence in the region as necessary. Russia’s traditional friend in the region has been Vietnam. The Soviets had an important military base in Cam Ranh Bay, reportedly the largest outside their own territory. But the lean years after the Cold War saw Russia withdraw its Indo-Pacific presence.

Nevertheless, Vietnam continues to be an important partner, but it is also concerned about China and is increasingly friendly to the US and its partners. A US aircraft carrier visited Vietnam in 2023 and the country has reportedly agreed to buy F-16 fighters from the US. Vietnam and the region are worried about China’s aggressiveness.

Federalism could torpedo AUKUS

AUKUS is under pressure, not from adversaries abroad but from state governments at home. While Canberra drives the security pact forward, Australian states are the ones that that hold the constitutional levers over the land it will need, through their powers of zoning, environmental approvals and handling Indigenous rights.

States are already dealing with legal and political friction relating to this, and concerns over reliability of the United States as an ally may lead states to question the long-term value of their sacrifices.

The real opposition to AUKUS may ultimately come from Adelaide or Perth.

South Australia isn’t just building submarines—it’s building legal tension. The state recently fast-tracked legislation to smooth the path for AUKUS infrastructure at Osborne, but critics aren’t buying it. The Greens and local community groups say the new laws sidestep environmental oversight and shut the public out of decisions that reshape their suburbs. What looks like streamlined defence policy to Canberra looks more like executive overreach to inner-city Adelaide.

Western Australia may be next. With HMAS Stirling flagged for upgrades and nuclear training added to the mix, the state government will soon face its own AUKUS-related planning headaches. WA’s environmental protections are some of the strongest in the country. We may soon find out just how far they’ll bend under the weight of trilateral ambition.

In both states, the issues are the same: land, laws and legitimacy. AUKUS might be stamped with the Commonwealth seal, but the real action is unfolding on state soil. Zoning battles, nuclear questions, and Indigenous land rights aren’t just planning issues; they’re pressure points in our constitution. While no one wants to wade too deep into black-letter law, AUKUS is fast becoming a case study in how fragile Australia’s federal balance really is. While defence might be a national responsibility, it’s built—quite literally—on state foundations.

State concerns go well beyond turf wars. States are being asked to make permanent, often politically difficult changes, such as rezoning coastal areas, approving nuclear-related facilities and navigating complex heritage protections. But in return, they face uncertainty.

When asked about AUKUS, US President Donald Trump responded with his own question— ‘What does that mean?’—sending diplomatic shockwaves through Canberra.

Alliances, once assumed to be stable, can become suddenly transactional. If a future US administration walks back or redefines its AUKUS commitments, states will be the ones left with the consequences. They will have bent their planning rules and stirred local opposition for a security benefit that might vanish based on election results in Washington.

These pressures are converging. As a result, it is Australian states—not just the courts or Canberra insiders—that could prove the most formidable challengers to the next phase of AUKUS.

That opposition won’t necessarily be loud, dramatic or even headline-grabbing. It may look like legal challenges, bureaucratic roadblocks, and slow-walked approvals. It may come as litigation over environmental law and cultural heritage, or as quiet political resistance: premiers may begin to ask whether the federal government has done enough to justify the upheaval.

None of this means AUKUS is collapsing, but it does mean closer attention needs to be paid to states, especially Adelaide and Perth. Canberra cannot afford to treat AUKUS as a closed federal project. The government can’t assume consent, but rather earn it, and not just with federal funding announcements or defence white papers. AUKUS will increasingly require political legitimacy beyond Defence briefings and federal budgets.

To achieve that, the Commonwealth must engage more transparently with state governments, clarify the legal boundaries of implementation, and address public concerns about environmental, cultural, and economic impacts. Otherwise, the most significant resistance to Australia’s biggest strategic undertaking in a generation may come not from foreign adversaries, but from within—one zoning dispute at a time.