What’s the purpose of the Quad?

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The Quad’s main challenge comes from America’s strategic drift, rather than from China

Indian External Affairs Minister Subrahmanyam Jaishankar speaks in front of the U.S., Japanese and Australian foreign ministers before a Quad meeting at the State Department in Washington in July 2025.
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Brahma Chellaney

Nikkei Asia

As U.S. President Donald Trump pivots from confronting China to selectively accommodating it, America’s Quad strategic coalition with Japan, India and Australia is becoming increasingly marginal to U.S. strategy and is at risk of strategic irrelevance unless the grouping restores coherence, commitment and purpose.

The Quad was once projected as the democratic world’s strategic answer to China’s growing assertiveness in the Indo-Pacific. It was conceived as a strategic alliance to uphold a “free and open Indo-Pacific,” the vision advanced by the late Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe and later adopted as a central pillar of U.S. strategy.

Today, however, the Quad is losing strategic relevance. The upcoming Quad foreign ministers meeting in New Delhi is unlikely to arrest this drift or restore momentum to a grouping that appears ever more directionless.

Increasingly, the Quad resembles a Potemkin alliance — outwardly intact but hollow at its core.

The signs of drift are unmistakable. No Quad leaders summit has been held since 2024.

In his first term, Trump revived the Quad after a decade of dormancy and made it central to U.S. Indo-Pacific strategy, a priority his second term initially appeared to confirm when Secretary of State Marco Rubio convened a Quad foreign ministers meeting on his first day in office.

But the grouping’s momentum has visibly slowed as Washington’s China policy has fundamentally shifted.

The shift, highlighted by Trump’s visit this month to Beijing, began after the president’s sky-high tariffs on China prompted Beijing in April last year to halt most exports of rare-earth minerals — critical inputs for high-tech civilian and military production. China’s weaponization of its near-monopoly on rare-earth minerals forced Washington to negotiate a truce.

That accommodation has since deepened. The economic and geopolitical fallout from Trump’s Iran war has further weakened his hand, including by aggravating stagflationary pressures at home. With the U.S. still dependent on China-controlled supply chains due to the failed “decoupling” strategy of Trump’s first term, Washington needs a cooperative Beijing to keep inflation from spiraling and to discourage Chinese unloading of U.S. Treasury holdings, especially as U.S. borrowing rises.

To make matters worse, even vis-a-vis allies critical to Indo-Pacific power equilibrium, Trump has subordinated long-term strategy to short-term economic coercion, wielding trade pressure to extract concessions. Viewing allies chiefly as revenue sources may produce short-term returns, but it undermines trust and the foundations of joint strategy.

The self-inflicted damage was apparent when Trump’s trade war against India, in the form of 50% tariffs, killed any prospect of New Delhi hosting the Quad summit last year. India was originally slated to hold the Quad summit in 2024, but previous President Joe Biden persuaded it to host it in 2025 so that he could convene the leaders in his hometown of Wilmington in the twilight of his presidency.

Now India is making a renewed bid to host the Quad summit this year after the U.S. midterm elections, lest the grouping be relegated to geopolitical insignificance or even become defunct.

Washington agreed to the Quad foreign ministers meeting in New Delhi next Monday in an apparent attempt to reassure nervous partners that the arrangement still matters to it. Rubio is confirmed to attend, but the primary purpose of this meeting is essentially damage control — mainly trying to agree on a summit date to demonstrate that the Quad remains a functional pillar of Indo-Pacific security rather than a relic of previous U.S. administrations.

But symbolism cannot substitute for strategy. The reality is that the grouping increasingly lacks strategic clarity, institutional cohesion and political urgency.

The contradiction is glaring. If the U.S. itself is pursuing a more conciliatory approach toward Beijing, what exactly is the Quad’s central strategic purpose?

Originally conceived as a balancing coalition to preserve a favorable Indo-Pacific balance of power, the Quad cannot retain strategic credibility if its leading member simultaneously seeks geopolitical accommodation with the very power the grouping was implicitly designed to counterbalance.

The Trump administration’s own National Security Strategy reflects the grouping’s diminished status. The Quad receives only a single passing mention in the entire document — and even that only in relation to India. Such marginalization would have been unthinkable until 2024, when the Quad was routinely described by Washington as the cornerstone of Indo-Pacific strategy.

Meanwhile, the grouping has drifted toward low-risk initiatives — vaccines, critical technologies, supply chains and maritime-domain awareness — while avoiding the harder strategic questions that originally gave it geopolitical significance. Cooperation in these areas is useful, but such efforts cannot conceal the absence of collective political will.

India, Japan and Australia have reason for concern. Their long-term strategic calculations still rest on assumptions of sustained U.S. commitment to balancing China in the Indo-Pacific. Yet Washington’s signals are increasingly mixed: rhetorical support for the Quad paired with a broader search for accommodation with Beijing. With Trump’s China posture shifting, the Quad has become increasingly marginal to his strategy.

The result is strategic ambiguity and confusion that weaken deterrence and erode confidence among allies and partners alike.

The Quad was never meant to be a talk shop or bargaining chip in U.S.-China relations but a strategic bulwark against Chinese expansionism and a stabilizer of the Indo-Pacific balance of power. Allowing it to wither through neglect risks vindicating Beijing’s longstanding contempt for the Quad.

The Quad is unlikely to disappear formally. Too much diplomatic capital has been invested in it for that. But alliances do not become irrelevant only when they collapse; they can also gradually decay into performative institutions that hold meetings, issue communiques and stage symbolic displays of unity while losing their original strategic rationale.

That is the danger now confronting the Quad. Unless its members restore strategic coherence and political purpose, the grouping risks becoming precisely what it was never meant to be: a Potemkin alliance — impressive in appearance but increasingly hollow underneath.

Brahma Chellaney, a professor of strategic studies at the independent New Delhi-based Centre for Policy Research and fellow at the Robert Bosch Academy in Berlin, is the author of nine books, including “Water: Asia’s New Battleground,” which won the Bernard Schwartz Book Award.

A striking reversal in America’s China policy: From confrontation to accommodation

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What may seem like strategic pragmatism to Trump looks like strategic retrenchment in Tokyo and other Asian capitals

President Xi Jinping of China, left, greets President Donald Trump outside the Great Hall of the People in Beijing during their two-day summit, on Thursday, May 14, 2026. CREDIT: (Kenny Holston/The New York Times)

By Brahma Chellaney
Contributing Writer, The Japan Times

Soon after departing Beijing for the U.S. last Friday, U.S. President Donald Trump called Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi to brief her on his talks with Chinese leader Xi Jinping. The call was intended to reassure Tokyo after Trump’s high-stakes summit in Beijing.

But Japan can scarcely draw comfort from the symbolism of that phone call.

For Tokyo, the critical issue is whether the U.S. is fundamentally rethinking its approach toward China — and whether that shift could leave Japan dangerously exposed at a time of rising Asian instability fueled at least in part by Chinese expansionism.

The Beijing summit underscored a striking reversal in America’s China policy. Trump, casting aside both the adversarial approach of his first term (which the Biden administration largely maintained) and the hawkish rhetoric of the early months of his second term, now appears to be pursuing a policy of pragmatic accommodation.

The seismic shift in China policy, from confrontation to an increasingly dovish posture, holds profound implications for Japanese and broader Asian security, as the reversal comes just when Chinese coercive power is expanding.

During his first presidency, Trump defined China as the most consequential U.S. adversary, launched tariffs and made the Indo-Pacific central to U.S. strategy. He revived “the Quad,” strengthened pressure on Beijing and increasingly treated economic dependence on China as a national-security vulnerability.

In contrast, the latest summit projected a conspicuously conciliatory U.S. stance. The same president who often treats U.S. allies and strategic partners like freeloaders, vassals or adversaries, adopted a strikingly deferential posture toward America’s principal geopolitical rival. He lavished praise on China and Xi, even telling the Chinese leader, “It’s an honor to be your friend.”

The U.S. shift is occurring when Japan, under Takaichi’s leadership, has accelerated military normalization, increased defense spending and linked Taiwan’s security to its own. Now Tokyo faces an uncomfortable paradox: Just as Japan is seeking stronger deterrence against China, its principal ally appears to be edging toward tactical accommodation with Beijing.

For Japanese strategists, this revives an old nightmare — an “over-the-head” arrangement in which Washington and Beijing stabilize their relationship while Japanese security concerns are treated as secondary.

The concern is not that Trump will abandon allies. Rather, it is the prospect of gradual erosion: delayed or scaled-back arms sales to Taiwan, quieter naval operations, greater ambiguity in American commitments and increasing willingness to defer to Chinese “red lines” in exchange for economic or diplomatic concessions.

In a transactional framework, such concessions can accumulate incrementally. Over time, they alter the regional balance.

Trump’s willingness to roll back sanctions on Chinese refiners purchasing Iranian oil, together with his studied ambiguity on Taiwan and arms sales to Taipei, will reinforce concerns in Tokyo that immediate transactional calculations are increasingly outweighing Indo-Pacific deterrence.

His silence on China’s egregious human-rights record further underpins the perception that strategic accommodation is increasingly taking precedence over principle and long-term security.

Behind Trump’s conciliatory turn toward China lie the mounting costs of his Iran war fiasco, economic turbulence at home and slumping approval ratings.

The war against Iran has exposed serious strains in American military capacity. Precision-guided munitions, missile interceptors and other high-end systems have been consumed at alarming rates, depleting stockpiles. The conflict has also revealed vulnerabilities in U.S. forward bases and maritime operations — lessons Beijing is undoubtedly studying closely.

At the same time, China has demonstrated powerful economic leverage. A year ago, in response to Trump’s sky-high tariffs, Beijing effectively pulled a geoeconomic kill switch by halting most exports of rare-earth minerals — critical inputs for high-tech production. Washington was forced to climb down and negotiate a truce.

For Trump, confrontation with China now carries mounting economic and political costs. Inflationary pressures stemming from Middle East instability, fears of supply-chain disruption and concerns over U.S. debt have strengthened Washington’s incentives to stabilize ties with Beijing, lest China weaponize its holdings of U.S. Treasuries and America’s dependence on China-centered supply chains.

But what may seem like strategic pragmatism in Washington looks like strategic retrenchment in Tokyo and other Asian capitals that rely on the credibility of U.S. deterrence.

Japan’s security environment is uniquely vulnerable to any weakening of deterrence in the Taiwan Strait. Taiwan is not a distant geopolitical issue for Japan but central to its national security. If China were to dominate Taiwan, it would gain greater control over the maritime choke points and sea lanes through which much of Japan’s energy imports and trade flow.

Moreover, the Iran conflict itself has highlighted the geopolitical power of choke points. Just as disruptions in the Strait of Hormuz have delivered a global energy shock, Beijing may conclude that pressure on Taiwan and surrounding sea lanes could coerce adversaries without requiring a full-scale invasion.

For Japanese policymakers, unquestioned reliance on an all-encompassing American security umbrella is starting to look risky. That realization is likely to accelerate two trends already under way.

First, Tokyo will intensify efforts to strengthen “minilateral” security networks across the Indo-Pacific, particularly with countries such as India, Australia, the Philippines and Vietnam. These partnerships increasingly serve as insurance against uncertainty in American policy.

Second, Japan’s internal debate over constitutional revision and long-range strike capabilities is likely to accelerate further. Trump’s Beijing pivot may strengthen the argument among Japanese strategists that Japan must become a more autonomous military power capable of defending itself even if Washington’s priorities shift.

The Trump-Xi summit may have reduced immediate tensions between the world’s two largest powers. But for nations on China’s periphery, the summit reinforced a more troubling reality — that Washington increasingly sees the world’s largest autocratic state less as a challenger to be contained and more as a peer superpower whose cooperation America now urgently needs.

For Japan, the deeper fear is no longer merely a rising China, but an America growing less willing to confront it.

Brahma Chellaney, a longstanding contributor to The Japan Times, is the author of nine books, including “Water: Asia’s New Battlefield,” which won the Bernard Schwartz Award.

Is Modi ‘coup-proofing’ India’s top military post?

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Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi greets members of the Indian contingent of UNIFIL (United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon) during a visit at the Indian Army Cemetery of World War I to honour fallen Indian soldiers, in the Israeli coastal city of Haifa, July 6, 2017. REUTERS/Jack Guez/Pool

By Brahma Chellaney
Contributing writer, The Japan Times

India created the post of Chief of Defense Staff in 2019 to achieve what its military had long lacked: genuine jointness among the Army, Navy and Air Force.

The CDS was intended to function as the principal military adviser to the government, improve interoperability among the services and push through long-delayed reforms such as integrated theater commands.

Yet less than a decade later, the institution is being weakened by the very government that created it.

The issue goes to the heart of civil-military relations, military effectiveness and India’s ambitions as a rising major power.

The latest appointment to the office illustrates the issue clearly. For the second consecutive time, Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s government has chosen a retired three-star lieutenant general to serve as CDS, immediately elevating him to four-star rank upon appointment. Lt. Gen. N.S. Raja Subramani will now coordinate among serving four-star service chiefs who continue to command troops, budgets and operational structures.

This is an unusual arrangement for a position that was originally conceived as primus inter pares — first among equals.

Only the first CDS, Gen. Bipin Rawat, assumed office while serving as Army chief. His appointment carried institutional weight because he entered the role directly from active command at the apex of the military hierarchy. By contrast, a retired officer re-entering service on a contractual basis inevitably derives authority less from institutional standing than from political selection.

Since Rawat’s death in a helicopter crash in late 2021, the government has moved toward appointing retired officers — a shift that reflects both a rethink of the CDS office and a broader instinct toward institutional “coup-proofing.”

India, unlike neighbors such as Myanmar, Bangladesh and Pakistan, has no history of military intervention in politics.

Indeed, much like Japan, India long remained reluctant to integrate military officers into a defense ministry dominated by civilian bureaucrats often lacking specialized military expertise. Over the past decade, however, Japan has moved further and faster than India in dismantling the bureaucratic walls separating its military from the defense ministry.

Yet, even as career bureaucrats still dominate Indian defense planning, New Delhi appears increasingly wary of concentrating too much institutional authority in a CDS drawn directly from the serving chiefs of staff. A sitting service chief elevated to CDS would carry operational authority, institutional networks and considerable standing within the armed forces.

A retired officer reappointed through executive discretion is inherently more dependent on the political leadership. That may reassure civilian authorities seeking tight control over the military hierarchy. But it also risks weakening the CDS’s credibility within the services themselves, undermining the very jointness and theaterization the office was meant to advance.

That distinction matters. A serving chief who has risen through the ranks and commands active forces possesses independent stature within the military system. Such an individual is better positioned to provide candid advice to political leaders, including advice they may not wish to hear.

A retired officer brought back through a government notification may instead be perceived — fairly or unfairly — as more beholden to the political executive that restored him to office.

Perceptions shape institutions. If serving chiefs begin to see the CDS primarily as a political appointee rather than an impartial coordinator among equals, the trust necessary for meaningful military integration erodes.

This comes at precisely the wrong time for India.

Modern warfare increasingly depends on cross-domain integration. Air power, naval reach, cyber capabilities, space assets and long-range precision systems are becoming as important as massed land forces. The wars in Ukraine and the Middle East have demonstrated that military success now hinges less on the dominance of any single service than on the ability to synchronize all instruments of combat power.

India itself has recognized this reality. The push for theater commands — integrating Army, Navy and Air Force assets under unified operational structures — reflects an understanding that future wars cannot be fought through service silos.

Yet institutional culture matters as much as organizational charts. And here the government risks sending the wrong signal.

Every CDS so far has come from the Army. Given the Army’s size and political influence, that may not be surprising. But repetition creates institutional expectations. If the top military post appears effectively reserved for Army officers — including retired ones — the Navy and Air Force may reasonably conclude that “jointness” in practice means Army predominance.

That is a dangerous perception for a country seeking to become a major maritime and aerospace power.

India’s strategic challenges are increasingly maritime in nature, from the growing Chinese naval presence in the Indian Ocean to the security of sea lanes and energy routes. Likewise, air and missile power will be central to any future conflict involving China or Pakistan. A genuinely integrated military structure requires all three services to feel equally represented and invested in reform.

Instead, New Delhi appears to be moving in the opposite direction: centralizing authority politically while narrowing the institutional base of the CDS.

The irony is striking. With considerable fanfare, Modi announced the creation of the CDS position on Independence Day in 2019 as a transformational reform intended to streamline military advice and reduce bureaucratic barriers between the armed forces and the political leadership. Yet the government has increasingly transformed the CDS into a politically managed bureaucratic office within the Ministry of Defense.

The CDS also serves as secretary of the defense ministry’s Department of Military Affairs, effectively combining military leadership with bureaucratic responsibilities. That dual role risks turning what was envisioned as India’s senior-most military strategist into a highly placed defense administrator.

The country’s political leadership may prefer a CDS who remains firmly dependent on civilian authority and lacks an independent institutional power base. But there is a trade-off between political control and military effectiveness.

An overly constrained CDS may preserve tighter civilian oversight in the short term while weakening the office’s ability to drive difficult reforms, resolve interservice rivalries and provide independent strategic advice. Theaterization, long discussed but still unrealized, could continue to stagnate.

The CDS was created to strengthen India’s military integration. Instead, the office risks evolving into a politically managed coordinating post with diminishing institutional authority.

That would leave India with the appearance of reform, but not its substance.

Brahma Chellaney, a longstanding contributor to The Japan Times, is the author of nine books, including “Water: Asia’s New Battlefield,” which won the Bernard Schwartz Award.

Trump heads to Beijing with fewer cards to play

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The Iran war has exposed systemic vulnerabilities in the American way of war, offering China a real-time tutorial in how to exploit them.

AP Photo/Mark Schiefelbein

By Brahma Chellaney, The Hill

When President Trump meets Chinese President Xi Jinping in Beijing, it will look like another great-power summit. It is anything but. The balance has shifted — and not in Washington’s favor.

Trump goes with a weakened hand as the Iran war has boomeranged into a global energy shock. The visit, delayed from March to May as the conflict escalated, is less a show of strength than it is damage control.

The geopolitical landscape has shifted markedly since Trump and Xi first agreed to the Beijing summit last October.

The immediate source of weakness is the war itself. What Washington billed as a short, decisive campaign against China’s closest Middle Eastern partner has instead exposed systemic vulnerabilities in the American way of war, offering Beijing a real-time tutorial in how to exploit them.

Iranian reprisals degraded U.S. air defenses, blinded early-warning systems and left many of its 13 regional bases inoperable. Low-cost drones and missiles imposed disproportionate costs. Chokepoints became contested.

Just as consequential is the drain on U.S. munitions. Precision interceptors, missiles and other high-end systems have been consumed at a pace that has forced the Pentagon to divert stockpiles from Asia, thinning deterrence in the Indo-Pacific just as China’s coercive power expands.

Replenishment will take years, not months. And the problem is not just quantity — the war has exposed deeper weaknesses such as vulnerable forward bases, the difficulty of countering drone swarms and how quickly maritime superiority erodes in narrow seas.

These are not abstract lessons for Beijing. They are a playbook.

The Iran conflict has shown China how asymmetric tools can blunt a superior military, and how control of chokepoints can yield leverage without full-scale war. The implications are clear as Beijing plans for contingencies along the First Island Chain — from Japan through Taiwan to the Philippines — which it views as a U.S.-led line of containment.

For Washington, the lesson is sobering: a two-theater posture may be far harder to maintain than had been assumed.

The U.S. economic picture is just as troubling. The war has triggered an energy shock that is feeding inflation and eroding political capital. Gasoline prices now shape the White House’s strategic calculus as much as battlefield outcomes.

Trump’s bargaining position is thus tied to his need for relief — relief Beijing is uniquely positioned to facilitate, whether through its leverage over Iran as its main oil customer or its central role in global supply chains.

In April 2025, in response to Trump’s tariffs, Beijing effectively pulled a geoeconomic kill switch by halting most exports of rare earth minerals — critical inputs for high-tech production. Washington was forced to climb down and negotiate a truce.

This is the context in which Trump’s China policy has shifted — from confrontation to accommodation.

In his first term, Trump recast China as a strategic adversary, launched tariffs and made the Indo-Pacific central to U.S. strategy. He revived the Quad and treated economic interdependence as a vulnerability.

In his second term, that posture has softened. Planned tariffs have been paused, punitive measures shelved and rhetoric cooled. Even baseline steps — such as arms sales to Taiwan — have been delayed. As the administration now frames it, Trump seeks “stable peace, fair trade, and respectful relations” with China.

The shift is unmistakable. The U.S. remains deeply reliant on Chinese inputs, not least rare earths, and Beijing has shown it will weaponize that dependence. At a moment of depleted munitions and economic strain, the risk of disruption is a constraint Trump cannot ignore.

Trump now needs China — a major financier of U.S. government spending — in ways he did not in his first term. Then, a strong economy allowed escalation. Now, stagflation makes confrontation costly. The White House needs stable supply chains, and cannot risk Beijing weaponizing its U.S. Treasury holdings as U.S. borrowing rises.

That dependence reframes the summit. Trump is going not to dictate terms but to seek relief — on energy and financial stability and a political “win.” Chinese cooperation will not come cheap.

Beijing’s leverage is substantial. It has cushioned its energy vulnerabilities through stockpiles and overland pipelines from Russia and Central Asia, while deepening ties with Moscow. China can afford patience, and will trade only for advantage.

Export controls are a prime target. Beijing will push to ease restrictions on advanced semiconductors and AI. Extending the trade truce will be framed as stabilizing but will lock in Chinese gains.

The most sensitive domain is security — above all, Taiwan. The concern is not a dramatic “sell-out,” but gradual erosion: fewer arms sales, quieter naval operations, more ambiguity. In a transactional framework, such concessions can be traded piecemeal. Over time, they shift the balance.

The Iran war has sharpened these concerns by exposing Taiwan’s vulnerabilities. Highly dependent on imported energy and with limited reserves, Taiwan is exposed to sea-lane disruption. The lesson of Hormuz — that chokepoint control can impose pressure without invasion — will not be lost on Beijing.

All this points to a stark conclusion: Trump’s visit comes on terms that favor China. The likely outcome is a managed detente — a cooling of rhetoric and a symbolic reset. Trump will present it as deal-making prowess; Xi as proof of China’s rise. Both will claim success.

But the underlying shift will endure. A rivalry of near-peers is giving way to something closer to a creditor-debtor dynamic, in which Washington seeks relief and Beijing sets terms. Beijing can wait. Washington cannot.

In geopolitics, as in markets, timing matters. Trump is going to Beijing at the wrong time, and with fewer cards than he would like. The question is not whether he can strike a deal, but what he will give up to get one.

Brahma Chellaney is the author of nine books, including the award-winning “Water: Asia’s New Battleground.

Nepal after the fires: Can a landslide deliver democratic stability?

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A demonstrator holding Nepal’s flag celebrates at the Singha Durbar office complex, which houses the prime minister’s office and other ministries, after storming it during protests that toppled Nepal’s prime minister, in Kathmandu, Nepal, September 9, 2025. Photo: REUTERS

By Brahma Chellaney
The Japan Times

Last September’s mob rampages in Nepal did more than torch buildings; they incinerated public trust in the state itself. Parliament, the Supreme Court, ministries, police stations and thousands of government and privately owned buildings were reduced to charred shells. What followed was not merely a political crisis but a systemic shock that exposed the fragility of Nepal’s democratic experiment.

Yet this violence was curiously described in much of the Western media as a “Gen Z revolution.” That label was not just misleading; it was dangerous. It blurred the line between democratic dissent and nihilistic destruction, recasting the burning of institutions as a form of political awakening.

The recently held election has delivered a dramatic political response. In a stunning upset, a three-year-old party led by rapper-turned-politician Balendra Shah — or “Balen,” as he is popularly known — has swept to power, ending the dominance of Nepal’s established parties, especially the two main communist parties. At 35, Balen embodies a public demand for rupture with the past.

The scale of his party’s victory, however, raises a more fundamental question: Can an electoral earthquake translate into institutional stability?

For nearly two decades since abolishing its 239-year-old monarchy, Nepal has struggled to consolidate its republican order. It cycled through 15 governments in 17 years until last September’s violence forced the last communist-run government to resign, leading to the installation of an interim regime headed by a former chief justice.

Coalition fragility and institutional weakness have prevented durable governance in Nepal, widening the gap between democracy on paper and democracy in practice.

The September 2025 violence brought that gap into stark relief. The so-called “revolution” was, in practice, a collapse of order. The coordinated arson attacks suggested not just anger, but a deeper erosion of respect for state authority. Core administrative infrastructure was gutted, police personnel were lynched and prisons were overrun, allowing more than 13,500 inmates to escape, most of them still at large.

Democracy cannot survive without institutions. Courts, legislatures and bureaucracies are not symbols; they are the machinery through which democratic will is expressed and enforced. To destroy them in the name of political change is to hollow out democracy itself.

Yet the violence also revealed something else: a profound and widespread disillusionment, particularly among Nepal’s youth. With unemployment hovering above 20% and economic opportunity increasingly tied to migration abroad, many young Nepalis feel locked out of their country’s future. The unrest was as much about dignity as it was about governance.

Balen’s rise must be understood against this combustible backdrop. His party’s victory is less a conventional mandate than a rejection of the old order. Voters have placed a high-risk bet on a political outsider to break a cycle of economic stagnation and revolving-door politics.

That bet will be tested immediately, as the electoral mandate does not automatically translate into institutional renewal.

The new government will have to deal with three interlocking challenges.

The first challenge is restoring state authority without deepening mistrust. Nepal’s security apparatus emerged from the September violence both discredited and weakened. It was accused of excessive force, even as it became a target of mob fury.

Rebuilding credibility will require a delicate balance: Prosecuting those responsible for arson and looting while also holding security forces accountable for abuses. Failure on either front risks deepening the polarization, either by emboldening lawlessness or alienating the very institutions needed to enforce order.

Second is the economic crisis driving public anger. The country’s dependence on remittances from overseas Nepalis has created what some call a “dignity deficit,” where millions must leave home to earn a living. Reversing this will require credible domestic job creation.

The stakes are high. If economic frustration persists, today’s political reset could prove short-lived.

Reconstruction adds another layer of strain. Billions of dollars will be needed to rebuild infrastructure destroyed last September — funds that would otherwise support development. This creates an austerity dilemma: How to finance recovery without triggering fresh unrest. Transparency in reconstruction spending will be critical to maintaining public trust.

Third is the challenge of governance in the digital age. The violence was triggered by a Chinese-style social media ban, underscoring the centrality of digital platforms to both political mobilization and economic opportunity. The new government must regulate online spaces — where misinformation and even incitement can spread — while preserving digital freedoms that many young citizens see as non-negotiable. Resorting to heavy-handed controls could reignite tensions.

Beyond its borders, Nepal’s crisis has also reshaped its geopolitical environment. The electoral collapse of the country’s established communist parties complicates China’s longstanding strategy of cultivating a friendly government in Kathmandu. At the same time, it presents India with an opportunity to recalibrate its relationship with Nepal — if it avoids past missteps. 

Ultimately, however, Nepal’s future will be determined less by geopolitics than by whether it can forge a new social contract.

The era of elite-driven governance appears to be over. What must replace it is a more participatory model that channels dissent into dialogue rather than destruction — through decentralization, credible accountability and sustained engagement with a disillusioned youth population.

But institutions cannot be rebuilt overnight, nor trust restored by electoral mandate alone.

Nepal’s election has delivered clarity. Whether it delivers stability will depend on what comes next.

Brahma Chellaney, a longtime contributor to The Japan Times, is the author of nine books, including “Water: Asia’s New Battleground.”

Nepal’s election marks a rare democratic defeat for communists

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In a rare example of a communist movement being decisively rejected through democratic means, Nepal’s long-dominant communist parties suffered a crushing defeat in this month’s national election.

Balendra Shah’s party has ended communist dominance of Nepal’s politics.

By Brahma Chellaney, The Hill

For more than a century, scholars and policymakers have debated whether democracy and communism can coexist.

Capitalism and communism clearly can: Modern China provides the most vivid example of market economics flourishing under communist rule. But whether communism can function comfortably within a democratic system has remained far more uncertain.

The tension lies in the underlying logic. Democracy rests on political pluralism, open competition for power and the protection of individual freedoms. Communist movements, in contrast, have historically sought to monopolize political authority in the name of ideological unity and revolutionary transformation. In practice, this produces closed political systems dominated by a small party elite that muzzles dissent to maintain control.

Today the world has only five officially communist states — China, Cuba, Laos, North Korea and Vietnam. None offers genuine political pluralism.

Even where economic reforms have introduced markets and private enterprise, political liberalization has not followed. China, the most powerful autocracy in modern history, demonstrates that even economic openness under communist rule does not necessarily lead to political pluralism.

Historically, communist parties that seized power did so through revolutions, coups or externally imposed regimes. Once in control, they typically banned opposition parties, making electoral defeat impossible. The Soviet Union and its satellite states followed this pattern until the Cold War’s end.

Yet communist parties have long operated legally in democratic systems. During the Cold War, communist parties in countries such as France and Italy were influential political forces. But they almost always remained opposition movements or junior coalition partners.

Against this backdrop, the Himalayan nation of Nepal has emerged as a fascinating political test case.

With nearly 30 million people wedged between India and Chinese-ruled Tibet, Nepal has spent the last three decades experimenting with democratic politics under heavy communist influence. Since the restoration of multiparty democracy in 1990, communist factions have been among the most powerful actors in the country’s political landscape.

Their influence increased after 2008, when Nepal abolished its 239-year-old monarchy and declared itself a federal democratic republic. From that moment on, communist parties became central to nearly every governing coalition.

As the country cycled through 15 governments in 17 years, communist factions remained constant players in what many Nepalis came to view as a revolving door of political elites.

But now that era of appears to have ended.

In a rare example of a communist movement being decisively rejected through democratic means, Nepal’s long-dominant communist parties suffered a crushing defeat in this month’s national election.

The result represents a political earthquake. Voters swept aside the two main communist parties that had shaped Nepali politics for years, reducing them to minor players in parliament.

The outcome also carries broader geopolitical implications. For years, China quietly encouraged “leftist unity” among Nepal’s communist factions to help cultivate a stable, friendly government there and expand its influence along India’s northern frontier. The electoral collapse of these parties leaves Beijing’s preferred political channels in Nepal marginalized.

The biggest winner from the upheaval is a three-year-old political party led by Balendra Shah, widely known simply as “Balen.” A former rapper turned politician, the 35-year-old first rose to national prominence as the reformist mayor of Kathmandu, the capital. In the recent election, voters handed his party an almost two-thirds majority in Nepal’s 275-member House of Representatives.

Nothing illustrates the scale of the political shift better than Balen’s defeat of veteran communist leader K.P. Sharma Oli in his own parliamentary constituency. Oli, a four-time prime minister and one of Nepal’s most powerful political figures for decades, lost to a candidate nearly four decades his junior.

The upset symbolizes a generational and political turning point.

Nepal’s established parties have struggled to address the country’s economic stagnation, chronic unemployment and persistent political instability. Public frustration reached a boiling point last September when waves of youth-led violence swept across the country.

During the unrest, rampaging mobs burned down major state institutions, including parliament, the Supreme Court and numerous government offices. Thousands of buildings were looted or torched, and even police officers were killed. Despite the scale of the destruction, many supporters — and much of the Western media — portrayed the upheaval as a “Gen Z revolution.”

Whatever its label, the unrest exposed a deep collapse of public trust in Nepal’s political class. The election was the democratic expression of that anger.

Nepal’s experience also highlights a broader political pattern. Communist parties, once in power, often struggle to transition from revolutionaries to effective administrators. When they are associated with patronage networks, corruption and policy stagnation, they become vulnerable to the same democratic accountability as any other ruling party — at least to whatever extent other parties are allowed to exist.

There are few precedents for communists’ electoral downfall. After the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, several Eastern European countries saw communist successor parties win and then later lose power within democratic systems. Outside the former Soviet bloc, however, such examples are rare.

Nepal now joins that small historical category. Voters have repudiated a political order that had come to dominate public life.

The result was less a defeat of Karl Marx than a rejection of the status quo — delivered decisively and peacefully at the ballot box.

Brahma Chellaney is the author of nine books, including the award-winning “Water: Asia’s New Battleground.”

At last, some good news for Taiwan’s security — Taiwan’s strategic position gets a boost from Japan

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Brahma Chellaney, Taipei Times

The Chinese Communist Party (CCP) has long been expansionist and contemptuous of international law. Under Chinese President Xi Jinping (習近平), the CCP regime has become more despotic, coercive and punitive.

As part of its strategy to annex Taiwan, Beijing has sought to erase the island democracy’s international identity by bribing countries to sever diplomatic ties with Taipei. One by one, China has peeled away Taiwan’s remaining diplomatic partners, leaving just 12 countries (mostly small developing states) and the Vatican recognizing Taiwan as a sovereign nation. Taiwan’s formal international space has shrunk dramatically.

Yet even as Beijing has scored diplomatic successes, its overreach is turning it into its own worst enemy. Nowhere is this clearer than in its relationship with Japan, which it has pushed from wary partner to strategic counterweight over the past two decades.

More recently, China’s full-spectrum pressure campaign against Japan — intended to weaken Japanese Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi — has instead helped deliver her a landslide victory in the Feb. 8 election. Japanese voters appear to have grown weary of Beijing’s coercion. The resulting supermajority in the Diet gives Takaichi not only political authority, but also strategic latitude to harden Japan’s statecraft against China.

Japan’s election has thus delivered something Taiwan has not heard in a long time: genuinely good news.

For Taipei, Takaichi’s victory is not just another electoral outcome in a neighboring democracy. It marks a strategic inflection point for Taiwan’s security environment. For the first time in decades, Japan is moving decisively from strategic ambiguity toward strategic clarity — and that shift matters enormously for Taiwan’s future.

The first and most consequential change is political. Takaichi has been more explicit than any previous Japanese leader in stating that a Chinese attack on Taiwan would constitute a “survival-threatening situation” for Japan itself. Under Japan’s 2015 security legislation, that language is not rhetorical; it provides the legal basis for the Self-Defense Forces to exercise collective self-defense if an ally is attacked in circumstances that endanger Japan’s survival.

In practical terms, this signals that Japan is politically and legally prepared to stand alongside the US if Taiwan is attacked.

For Taiwan, this reduces the most dangerous form of uncertainty — not whether China might act, but whether others would respond.

It may also explain Beijing’s sharp reaction. At the recent Munich Security Conference, Chinese Foreign Minister Wang Yi (王毅) denounced Takaichi’s Taiwan position as a “challenge to China’s sovereignty.”

The second shift is military. Japan’s southwestern island chain, stretching from Kyushu to Yonaguni just 110 kilometers from Taiwan, is rapidly becoming a fortified defensive arc. Japanese missile batteries, air defense systems, electronic warfare units and surveillance networks are being deployed along this chain, transforming it from a symbolic “tripwire” into a credible counterstrike barrier. This significantly complicates any Chinese attempt to blockade Taiwan or project force across the Taiwan Strait.

Geography has always made Japan central to Taiwan’s security. Taiwan, in turn, underpins Japan’s own security as a geographic extension of the Japanese archipelago. Under Takaichi, that geographic reality is finally being translated into operational strategy.

Third, Takaichi’s supermajority opens the door to constitutional reform. For decades, Article 9 has constrained Japan’s ability to act as a normal security provider.

With a two-thirds majority in the Lower House, Takaichi now has the leverage to formalize the status of the Self-Defense Forces and expand their operational latitude, even as she accelerates defense spending toward 2 percent of GDP.

A stronger Japan means a more secure Taiwan. Indeed, a Japan that is legally unshackled becomes a far more credible deterrent against Chinese expansionism — one that Beijing must factor into any calculus over Taiwan.

Japan now appears poised to move from reacting to Chinese military pressure to imposing tangible costs. Nowhere is this clearer than along the southwestern island chain, where Tokyo is building the capacity to deny access, complicate Chinese planning, and ensure that no coercive maritime gambit or fait accompli seizure of territory goes unanswered.

Fourth, and just as important, Tokyo has demonstrated that it will not be intimidated by China’s economic coercion, despite the costs.

Beijing attempted to influence Japan’s election by restricting seafood imports and Chinese tourism, tightening export controls on critical materials, and intensifying military pressure around Japan’s southwestern islands. The effort backfired. Japanese voters interpreted the pressure as bullying and responded by strengthening Takaichi’s mandate.

That outcome carries a powerful message for Taiwan: China’s economic leverage is not irresistible, and democratic societies can push back when they choose to do so.

Taken together, these developments amount to something Taiwan has long needed but rarely enjoyed: strategic clarity from its most important neighbor.

The benefits for Taipei are concrete. A Taiwan contingency is now explicitly linked to Japan’s own security. Intelligence-sharing is likely to deepen as Tokyo centralizes its intelligence apparatus. Economic ties may expand through a potential Taiwan-Japan Economic Partnership Agreement, embedding Taiwan more firmly in trusted supply chains. And Japan’s easing of defense-export restrictions opens the door to quiet but meaningful industrial cooperation.

None of this means Taiwan’s challenges are over. Beijing will continue to apply pressure — diplomatic, economic and military. Japan’s constitutional reforms will likely face hurdles in the Upper House and in a national referendum. Ultimately, Taiwan’s own resilience remains the decisive factor in its future.

But geopolitics is rarely about perfect security; it is about relative advantage. Compared with a year ago, Taiwan’s strategic position is stronger. It now has a Japan that is more willing, more capable and more politically authorized to contribute to its defense. And the US has approved a record US$11.1 billion arms package to strengthen Taiwan’s deterrence against Chinese coercion.

In a region where bad news has become routine, that alone marks a meaningful shift.

For Taiwan, Japan’s election result is a reminder that the balance of power in Asia is not static and that democratic solidarity, when backed by political will, can still reshape the strategic landscape.

Brahma Chellaney, professor of strategic studies at the independent Center for Policy Research in New Delhi, is the author of nine books, including the award-winning Water: Asia’s New Battleground (Georgetown University Press).

In divided Bangladesh, election delivers power, not stability

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Without order and growth, the country risks sliding into Islamist majoritarianism

Bangladesh Nationalist Party leader Tarique Rahman, left, and Jamaat-e-Islami leader Shafiqur Rahman. (Source photos by Ken Kobayashi and Reuters)
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Brahma Chellaney

Nikkei Asia

After 18 months of turmoil, lawlessness and Islamist violence, Bangladesh’s national election has produced a government with a commanding parliamentary supermajority. On paper, that should be a recipe for stability. In practice, it may instead entrench a new and potentially more dangerous form of instability.

The central question is no longer who holds power in Bangladesh, but whether the world’s most densely-populated large country can still function as an inclusive, rules-based state at all.

Bangladesh stands today at a perilous crossroads. Without political reconciliation and economic revival, it risks sliding toward the kind of Islamist dysfunction that has long plagued Pakistan, the country from which it seceded in a bloody war of liberation in 1971.

For half a century, Bangladesh’s politics has been dominated by two dynastic forces: the Awami League, established by Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the country’s charismatic founding leader who was killed in a 1975 army coup, and the Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP), launched in 1978 by military ruler Ziaur Rahman, whose son Tarique Rahman now heads the new government. These parties have alternated between power and persecution, each using the state against the other.

Sheikh Hasina, Mujibur Rahman’s daughter, once symbolized democratic resilience and kept both the military and Islamist militancy in check. But her increasingly undemocratic rule triggered a violent, student-led, Islamist-backed uprising in 2024 that forced her into exile after she lost the military’s support. What followed was not a democratic transition but a dangerous vacuum.

The interim regime led by Nobel Peace Prize winner Muhammad Yunus presided over widespread repression, institutional purges and a resurgence of Islamist vigilantism. Armed mobs attacked minorities with impunity, journalists were silenced and thousands were imprisoned. Even more alarmingly, the regime rehabilitated extremist groups previously linked to terrorism, including releasing convicted terrorists, and allowed radical Islamists to enter the political mainstream.

The result is that Bangladesh now risks shifting from a secular-authoritarian order to an Islamist-majoritarian one.

Against that backdrop, this month’s election was less a democratic reset than a managed transition. The secular Awami League, historically the country’s largest political force, was arbitrarily outlawed last year and thousands of its members remain in jail without trial. As much as 30% to 40% of the electorate was effectively excluded from the election.

In that vacuum, the BNP emerged as the dominant electoral force. But it faced a new challenger in its former ally Jamaat-e-Islami, a hardline Islamist party. The election thus pitted an Islamist-leaning bloc against a coalition led by a hardline Islamist group, rather than offering a pluralistic national choice. Unsurprisingly, many Awami League supporters boycotted the vote and turnout fell sharply in minority-heavy constituencies, where intimidation and violence created a climate of fear.

The result is a 300-member parliament that may be numerically stable but socially brittle. It includes just seven women and only four members from religious and ethnic minority communities, though these groups make up about 10% of the population.

Even before the new government settles in, its legitimacy is already under challenge.

For years, the BNP and Jamaat-e-Islami accused the Awami League of rigging elections. Now, with the banned Awami League gone, the accusers have turned on each other. Jamaat — once the BNP’s indispensable ally, providing street muscle — has charged the BNP with rigging the the latest election, alleging widespread ballot fraud and irregularities.

This rupture reflects a deeper contest over who represents the spirit of the 2024 uprising, which Islamist groups helped organize and sustain. If the Islamist-led opposition believes it has been cheated of its “revolution,” Bangladesh may soon see renewed unrest.

Compounding this fragility is the near collapse of judicial credibility. Bangladesh’s Supreme Court has repeatedly reinterpreted the constitution to suit those in power, legitimizing coups, overturning its own precedents and even invoking a “revolutionary mandate” to justify continuance of an unelected interim regime.

In such a system, law becomes an instrument of power rather than a constraint on it. This is hardly a foundation for stability or investor confidence.

The new government, in fact, inherits an economy in distress. Growth has slowed sharply, inflation has surged, investor confidence has collapsed and foreign debt has risen. The BNP has indicated it will continue with the IMF bailout package negotiated by the interim regime, but austerity, subsidy cuts and banking reforms will impose real social costs, especially on a restless youth population.

The government must restore macroeconomic stability while delivering visible improvements in jobs and governance. Failure on either front could quickly translate into renewed street anger.

Bangladesh’s trajectory will have consequences beyond its borders. For India, instability raises immediate security concerns, including the risk of militant infiltration across a porous border. Bangladesh’s direction will also shape the regional balance between China, a major infrastructure investor, and Western partners seeking greater market access.

A parliamentary supermajority gives the BNP-led government enormous formal power. But political dominance is not legitimacy. Bangladesh’s cycles of instability have historically been driven not by weak governments but by exclusive ones — regimes that rule for one party while suppressing rival political forces. This election risks reproducing that pattern in a new ideological form.

True stability will require something Bangladesh has rarely sustained: national reconciliation. Countries emerging from deep trauma, from Rwanda to South Africa, recognized that durable peace depends on bringing former adversaries into a shared political framework. Bangladesh will need to do the same, to create a pathway for the Awami League and its supporters to reenter politics, protect minorities and dissenting voices, restore judicial independence and revive civil society.

Otherwise, the country risks replacing one form of autocracy with another: trading secular illiberalism for majoritarian Islamism, and stability for a cycle of confrontation and lawlessness.

The election has produced a government, but not a political settlement. Unless the new leadership uses its supermajority to widen inclusion, rebuild institutions and rein in extremist forces, the promise of stability and economic revival will remain elusive. The real test of this election will not be whether it delivered power, but whether it can deliver peace.

Brahma Chellaney, a professor of strategic studies at the independent New Delhi-based Centre for Policy Research and fellow at the Robert Bosch Academy in Berlin, is the author of nine books, including “Water: Asia’s New Battleground,” which won the Bernard Schwartz Book Award.

Feb. 8 election will determine if Japan emerges as a more autonomous strategic actor

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Brahma Chellaney, Nikkei Asia

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The upcoming election is shaping up to be one of the most consequential political contests Japan has faced in decades, largely because it will determine whether Japan decisively locks in a new strategic orientation at home and abroad. The vote will effectively function as a referendum on whether Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi’s more assertive approach to economic security, global engagement and China receives a democratic mandate or stalls amid political fragmentation.

The election outcome will also signal whether China’s model of economic coercion is effective against a major U.S. ally. Beijing has deployed a full-spectrum pressure campaign against Takaichi’s four-month administration — punitive measures designed to hurt Japanese business interests and undermine domestic support for her government.

A Takaichi victory would represent a significant setback for China, signaling that Japanese voters are prepared to absorb real economic pain in exchange for greater strategic autonomy. Reducing exposure to Chinese economic pressure is also essential for navigating a more coercive global order, one in which U.S. President Donald Trump has shown little hesitation in pressuring even close allies.

Equally important is how the election intersects with Japan’s international role, especially in the Global South. Under Takaichi, engagement with key developing countries has become a core pillar of economic resilience. The campaign has elevated “Sanaenomics,” a strategy that emphasizes supply-chain diversification, technological co-creation and reduced dependence on China. Countries such as India, Vietnam and the Philippines are positioned not only as alternative manufacturing hubs under a “China-plus-one” strategy, but also as long-term partners in energy, AI governance and critical infrastructure.

The election thus has implications far beyond Japan. A clear mandate would accelerate Japan’s shift toward a more forward-leaning, technology-driven diplomacy, aimed at out-competing — rather than accommodating — Chinese influence. Conversely, a weaker or divided outcome would slow this transition, as Japan enters an era of fragmented, coalition-based bargaining.

In short, the vote will help determine whether Japan emerges as a more autonomous strategic actor or remains vulnerable to external pressure in an era of weaponized interdependence.

Brahma Chellaney is a professor of strategic studies at the independent New Delhi-based Centre for Policy Research and fellow at the Robert Bosch Academy in Berlin.

The mother of all mega-dams is China’s hidden weapon in the Himalayas

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A fisherman sits next to his boat along the river Brahmaputra in Guwahati, India. AP Photo.

By Brahma Chellaney, The Hill

New disclosures reveal that China’s planned super-dam on the Yarlung Tsangpo — the world’s highest-altitude major river, better known as the Brahmaputra — is not a single structure. Rather, it is a a vast, tunnel-linked hydropower and water-diversion complex, spanning roughly 150 kilometers through the Himalayas.

The project would transform an internationally shared river, originating in water-rich Tibet, into a strategic instrument of state power.

For years, China’s super-dam was discussed as a single, if colossal, piece of infrastructure. That description is now obsolete. What Beijing is constructing on the so-called “Everest of Rivers,” near Tibet’s border with India, is not just the largest dam ever attempted. It is an extensive subterranean network designed to give China effective command over the river before it reaches any downstream country.

A cascade of barrages, reservoirs and power stations — linked by giant tunnels bored through the world’s highest mountain range — will together form a titanic, integrated hydropower system.

It remains unclear whether some of the impounded water will be diverted into what Beijing calls the Great South-North Water Diversion Project. While the eastern and central routes — already operational — transfer water from China’s southern rivers to its arid north, including Beijing, the controversial western line aims to reroute waters from Tibet-originating international rivers that sustain hundreds of millions of people across South and Southeast Asia.

The new project is centered near the Great Bend of the Brahmaputra, where the river makes a dramatic U-turn around a Himalayan peak before plunging toward India. Over a stretch of just 30 miles, the river drops some 6,500 feet — one of the steepest descents of any major river on Earth.

China plans to exploit this extraordinary gradient not with a single concrete wall, but by diverting the river through multiple tunnels, some extending more than 12 miles, to feed a cascade of five power stations. Their combined generating capacity is estimated at over 60 gigawatts — almost three times that of the Three Gorges Dam, currently the world’s largest.

This design fundamentally alters the risk calculus for downstream states. Beijing has described the project as “run-of-the-river,” a term meant to reassure neighboring countries that water storage — and therefore Chinese control — will be limited. But the scale of tunneling and the interlinked reservoirs undermines that claim. Even without massive surface reservoirs, the ability to divert, withhold or abruptly release enormous volumes of water through subterranean channels gives China de facto control over the river’s flow just before it leaves Tibet, which Beijing annexed in 1951.

By occupying Tibet, China effectively redrew the water map of much of Asia. The Tibetan Plateau is the source of ten major river systems that together sustain nearly one-fifth of the world’s population. China’s intensive dam-building and resource extraction across the plateau since the 1990s thus poses a growing risk to Asian water security, ecological stability and regional peace. Control over the headwaters of key transboundary rivers confers immense leverage, turning water into a potential geopolitical tool and raising the specter of environmental disaster and conflict.

Nothing illustrates these dangers more starkly than the current gargantuan project, which officially began in 2025, although evidence suggests preparatory work started much earlier. What is taking shape is, in strategic terms, a hydrological weapon system. It is capable of degrading fragile ecosystems while giving China unprecedented coercive leverage over South Asia — especially India.

There is also a profound seismic gamble. The project lies in one of the world’s most active earthquake zones, where the Indian and Eurasian tectonic plates collide.

Geologists warn of reservoir-triggered seismicity, in which the immense weight of stored water increases stress along fault lines, even if the statistical probability of a major quake remains uncertain. A partial failure, caused by an earthquake or a massive landslide into a reservoir, could unleash a cascading flood racing toward India’s densely populated Assam Valley, with catastrophic consequences for downstream communities, cities and infrastructure.

What makes this project uniquely destabilizing is not only its scale but its opacity. China has released no meaningful technical details, including information on design parameters or water-storage capacity. The project has proceeded without environmental impact assessments open to international scrutiny and without consultation with downstream states that stand to bear the greatest risks.

This is a textbook case of hydrological hegemony: unilateral control over a shared lifeline exercised by an upstream power.

The international response has been strikingly muted. Governments that rightly scrutinize Chinese ports, telecommunications networks and supply chains have largely treated this mega-project as a regional matter rather than a global concern. That is a mistake. Water insecurity is a well-documented accelerator of conflict, forced migration and state fragility. A project capable of degrading ecosystems and affecting tens of millions of people downstream implicates not only Asian stability but the international order itself.

China’s Brahmaputra mega-system should therefore be understood for what it is: an unprecedented experiment in high-altitude engineering, ecological transformation and geopolitical leverage rolled into one. It is a strategic instrument whose consequences will flow far beyond the Himalayas.

Brahma Chellaney is the author of nine books, including the award-winning “Water: Asia’s New Battleground.”