Meta’s Waterworth cable project is about geopolitics and geoeconomics

Announced on 14 February, Meta’s Project Waterworth is not just proposed to be the world’s longest submarine cable but reflects ever-shifting geopolitical and geoeconomic landscapes. It presents a great opportunity for Australia to collaborate more with its regional partners, especially India and the Pacific countries, on technologies keeping us online.

For Meta, this addition to subsea infrastructure is slated to open a chance to monetise accelerating international data flows. In developing and running this cable, Meta also seeks to prioritise its own traffic and minimise latency for its and its partners’ infrastructure and services. No surprises there.

But what is different this time is the clear recognition of intense geostrategic competition featuring both state and non-state actors. Connecting five continents, the proposed route, longer than the circumference of the planet, avoids areas subject to malign influence or control, such as the Baltic, Red and South China seas. Meta plans to lay as much of the cable as possible in deep water, making it harder for malicious actors to spy on or sabotage it.

Perhaps an even bigger takeaway is Meta’s choice of locations for cable landing points: the coastlines of three BRICS countries (India, South Africa and Brazil) and three Quad countries (India, Australia and the United States). With India being in both groupings, the route particularly reflects India’s rise as a digital, geopolitical and economic power. Meta has specifically said the cable will support India’s continued rise in the digital realm. With the world’s largest population, India is both a massive source of data to train Meta’s AI products and an emerging hub for data centres.

More broadly, Meta is seeking to be a bigger player in the submarine cable industry, and thus in geopolitics, competing with fellow US hyperscalers Google, Microsoft and Amazon. Indeed, those three companies and Meta represent about three quarters of active submarine cable capacity worldwide. Meta seeks to go one better by, as it said, ‘opening three new oceanic corridors’ with Project Waterworth.

Meta knows how the geostrategic significance of submarine cables is causing the technology’s politicisation, reflecting an ongoing split between the anti-China and pro-China camps in telecommunications amid the larger Sino-US technological rivalry.

As a US technology company, Meta arguably seeks to reinforce its value as a member of the anti-China camp, alongside Google, Microsoft and Amazon. It would see Project Waterworth as a downpayment on support from Western and partner governments (such as finance, easier regulatory approvals and oversight, and more robust diplomatic and operational support) to help counter Chinese influence in digital infrastructure, especially in the Global South.

In this context, Meta must beware cyber supply-chain risks that can arise from its and its operating partners using: Chinese equipment at any point in the technology stack; and unvetted remote access applications, managed security service providers and managed network service providers.

Rising cyber threats around telecommunications infrastructure underline the importance of such cyber supply chain risk management. In 2022, cybercriminals attacked the servers of the operator of a submarine cable that connected Hawaii with the Pacific. Chinese state-sponsored hackers have compromised US terrestrial telecommunications infrastructure for espionage and pre-positioning malicious capabilities to be deployed during a major security crisis (such as a Taiwan contingency).

Indeed, such are the risks to submarine cables that the US  Federal Communications Commission has proposed reforms to its regulatory regime. These changes relate to: cyber risk management by operators; banning certain hardware or software from regulated cables and their infrastructure; risks from remote access solutions; and cable operators reporting their use of managed network service providers.

While Project Waterworth may seem like just another planned cable by another Big Tech company, Australia should be paying attention because a cable landing point in northern Australia has been proposed. Meta’s plan reinforces the extraordinary significance of the maritime domain for Australia, with more than a dozen submarine cables already connecting us with the world via the Indian and Pacific Oceans. India’s role as a landing site is also important as Australia seeks to continue boosting economic and technology ties with New Delhi.

Project Waterworth also allows for further cyber diplomacy with Pacific partners. The project could bolster Pacific connectivity and cyber resilience through branches to Pacific countries, complementing Google’s efforts through the Pacific Connect Initiative.

The project further offers Australia the opportunity to work with regional partners to tackle regulatory fragmentation and boost operational collaboration on submarine cables. For example, the Australian Communications and Media Authority should engage regional counterparts to identify opportunities to harmonise and expand regulatory regimes, such as for cable repair and by mandating transparency from operators around cable damage (as ASPI’s Jocelinn Kang and Jessie Jacob have recommended). Canberra should work with regional partners to also increase information-sharing on risks around cables traversing exclusive economic zones. The Cable Connectivity and Resilience Centre of the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade could help mediate such engagement, while the Australian Cyber Security Centre and Cyber and Infrastructure Security Centre could provide expert advice to inform policy on the operational resilience of submarine cable infrastructure

Project Waterworth reflects our brave new world, especially its contested digital and maritime domains, and the opportunity for Australia to collaborate further with regional partners to keep us all online.

US-Russia negotiations won’t bring peace to Ukraine

Will US President Donald Trump be able to forge a peace between Russia and Ukraine, or are we facing a repetition of the infamous Munich Agreement? When Britain and France forced Czechoslovakia to cede the Sudetenland to Nazi Germany in 1938, they believed that doing so would ensure long-term peace. But appeasing a revisionist aggressor had the opposite effect, setting the stage for another world war one year later.

If peace means settling all the issues that now divide Russia and Ukraine, the likelihood of achieving such an outcome is extremely slim. The origin of the war lies in Russian President Vladimir Putin’s determination to prevent Ukraine from becoming ‘anti-Russia’, namely by forcing it back under Kremlin control. A democratic, sovereign Ukraine that sought cooperation and integration with the West was incompatible with what Putin regards as his historic duty. He has long maintained that the collapse of the Soviet Union was a catastrophe, and that Ukraine is not, in fact, an independent nation-state.

This means that a true peace between Russia and Ukraine will not be possible until Putin has left the Kremlin, and a more realistic vision of Russia’s future has gained ascendancy there. Nothing of the kind appears imminent. But if peace is not possible in the near term, a halt to the fighting and the beginning of a political process to reduce tensions might still be achievable.

Trump’s promise to end the war in 24 hours obviously was never serious. He is now facing a challenge that will take months, not hours. Putin previously made clear that he will not accept a ceasefire that does not result in Russia’s territorial expansion and Ukraine’s political and military submission. He will now try to extract as much as possible from a direct meeting with Trump, and judging by past meetings between the two men, his maximalist approach could pay off. Recall Trump’s private meeting with Putin in Helsinki in 2018, when he declared that he believed the Russian leader over his own intelligence agencies.

But can Trump really deliver Ukraine to Putin?

In September 1938, Czechoslovakia did not have a choice about what happened to it. It wasn’t even at the table for the discussions in Munich, where Adolf Hitler persuaded French and British leaders to accept its dismemberment. Within six months, Hitler violated the agreement, and German tanks were rolling into Prague. Trump and Putin are equally adamant that Ukraine should not be at the table. Their intention seems to be to draft an agreement and then force Ukraine to accept its terms.

Putin will likely be very ambitious with his demands, because he knows that this is his big chance. In his own opening bid, Trump will probably seek a straightforward ceasefire, with political talks later. But Putin will want more. He will not only press his original demands but also ask for relief from Western sanctions. The risk, of course, is that he will overplay his hand, demanding more than even Trump believes he can deliver.

But even if Putin resists that temptation and the two men agree on territorial and political terms, it is far from certain that Trump can force Ukraine to accept them. In 1938, Czechoslovakia decided not to fight, because its military prospects were essentially hopeless. But Ukraine’s are not. The chances that it would simply swallow a blatantly unjust and unfair diktat are slim to none.

To be sure, there is war fatigue in Ukraine after years of attritional warfare and routine Russian strikes on civilians and critical infrastructure. But the Ukrainians also recognise what is at stake. In February 2022, almost everyone assumed that they would break under Russian pressure within the space of just days or weeks. But now, three years later, Russia controls only around 19 percent of Ukraine’s territory. Moreover, Ukraine itself has taken control of territory in Russia’s Kursk region.

While the stakes are existential for Ukraine, they are also very high for the rest of Europe. If a US president not only refuses to acknowledge a brazen act of aggression, but also forces the victim into submission, much of what NATO stands for risks going up in smoke. Would the United States still come to the defence of the Baltics or other vulnerable NATO members?

And the risks are not Europe’s alone. What would become of NATO’s security guarantees and alliances in Asia and elsewhere? If the US is unwilling to defend Ukraine, would it really defend Taiwan?

Critical days lie ahead. A new and powerful source of global instability—the US government—must now be reckoned with.

Strategic and industrial factors favour Japan for Australia’s frigate project

It’s not just technical naval capability. Australia has persuasive geostrategic and industrial reasons for choosing Japan over Germany as its partner in building as many as 11 general-purpose frigates in a priority defence program.

The upgraded Mogami class offered by Mitsubishi Heavy Industries (MHI) does have strong technical advantages for the Royal Australian Navy over the competing Meko A-200 from Germany’s ThyssenKrupp. But Australia must also consider that it and Japan share the threat from China, which is another reason to choose the Japanese design.

Related to that, the two countries can and should help each other. And, industrially, Japan is well positioned to help.

The Australia-Japan ‘special strategic partnership’ has great potential but is underexploited in defence industrial cooperation, largely because of Japan’s historically strict arms export controls. But the controls are gradually loosening as Japan faces an increasingly complex Indo-Pacific security landscape, with three assertive nuclear-armed neighbours—China, North Korea, and Russia—at its doorstep.

In response, Japan has taken significant steps, including establishing a joint public-private committee to support defence exports. This committee brings together representatives from various ministries and major industrial and defence firms such as MHI, Hitachi and NEC. The effort stems from lessons learned following Japan’s unsuccessful bid to sell submarines to Australia in 2016.

The stakes are high this time, since MHI is one of two finalists in the frigate program with an estimated budget of $7-11 billion.

The program, Sea 3000, prioritises rapid acquisition, requiring the first ship to be delivered by 2029. The first three members of the class will be built overseas by the designer and the rest in Australia.

The Mogami class is in Japanese naval service but the upgraded version offered to Australia is yet to be deployed. Thyssenkrupp’s design, Meko A-200 is an evolution of the Anzac class, which the new ships are intended to replace. A choice between the designs is due this year.

Leaving aside the question of which design is better technically suited to Australia (discussed in an accompanying article), Japan can offer more at a strategic and industrial level than Germany can. There are three aspects to consider.

The first is that Australia and Japan both reject Beijing’s moves to treat the South China Sea as its own. Australia and Japan have shared concerns over China’s increasing coercive behaviour that is responsible for the deteriorating strategic environment in the Indo-Pacific. Recent actions include China’s unlawful maritime claims with its 10-dash line (updated from the original nine-dash version), resource pilfering in the South China Sea, dangerous military manoeuvres, such as releasing flares in front of an Australian aircraft over international airspace, and violating Japan’s territorial waters around the Senkaku Islands.

The steady tempo of China’s coercive measures in the Indo-Pacific prompted action from Australia and Japan. In December 2022, Japan approved three strategic documents: the National Security Strategy, the National Defense Strategy and the Defense Buildup Program. These marked a shift in defence policy, a response to the real threat of military attacks on its territory. Similarly, Australia’s 2024 National Defence Strategy and Integrated Investment Program emphasise a strategy of denial, aiming to deter conflicts and prevent coercion through force.

Together, Japan and Australia view themselves as the northern and southern anchors of Indo-Pacific security, and both stand to play a strategic role in deterring China.

Germany is awakening to the challenge that China poses, but it is not there yet. The government of outgoing chancellor Olaf Scholz introduced a strongly worded China strategy in mid-2023, but his coalition government was deeply divided on China policy. So Berlin maintained Angela Merkel’s risk-averse policy, prioritising short-term economic gain over tackling strategic risks. Moreover, a major flaw in Scholz’s China policy was how strongly influenced it was by German companies with longstanding investments in China. This led to overdependency on China, paralleling the country’s reliance on cheap Russian oil and gas. However, the next German government, under Friedrich Merz, could potentially change course.

The second reason for Japan being a more attractive partner than Germany is that Australia and Japan stand to gain strategically by working more closely together in the Indo-Pacific. Canberra and Tokyo already share significant strategic alignment on China’s intensification of coercive activities, as highlighted in their eleventh 2+2 Foreign and Defence Ministerial Consultations in September 2024.

Australia and Japan have also taken steps to strengthen military cooperation with the planned deployment of a Japanese Amphibious Brigade to Australia for joint exercises with US Marines. These measures underline the salience of the special strategic partnership, reflected in the Reciprocal Access Agreement signed in 2022. The agreement, Japan’s first defence treaty with an international partner since 1960, demonstrates the priority both nations place on their bilateral ties.

The third reason is that Australia would benefit from Japan’s industrial capacity and maritime expertise in building advanced warships designed for the same operational environment in the Indo-Pacific. Australia’s limited shipbuilding capacity demands help from partners, and Japan is well positioned to provide it quickly. A clear indication that Japan is serious came from Japan’s defence chief General Yoshihide Yoshida, who said Japan would give ‘priority’ to Australia if the Mogami design was selected for the frigate program.

A related consequence of choosing the Mogami design would be strengthening the interoperability of the Japanese and Australian navies: they’d be using almost identical ships.

Australia must also be wary of risks to export supply from a German arms industry that is suddenly coming under great pressure as the United States tells European countries to look after their own defence. Urgent domestic needs can push their way to the front of the queue. Japan’s industry has been under rising pressure too, but the problem has been building up for years.

Australia stands to gain significantly by deepening its defence industrial cooperation with Japan. By forging a robust industrial partnership, both nations can enhance their defence capabilities, address shared security challenges in the Indo-Pacific and translate their strategic relationship into tangible benefits. Given their shared concerns over China’s coercive behaviour, this enhanced cooperation is necessary for maintaining stability and deterring aggression in the Indo-Pacific.

US cuts to science and technology could fast-track China’s tech dominance

Is the United States now trying to lose the technology race with China? It certainly seems to be.

The race is tight, and now the Trump administration is slashing funding for the three national institutions that have underpinned science and technology (S&T) and what advantage the US still has.

China is outpacing the US in the volume of high-impact research in 57 of the 64 critical technologies in ASPI’s Critical Technology Tracker. The US’s main remaining advantage is downstream in implementing technology, and even that’s at risk as China’s significant S&T investments pay off.

Now the US’s lead may disappear even faster following cuts to the National Institutes of Health (NIH), National Aeronautics and Space Agency (NASA) and National Science Foundation (NSF).

The NIH is the biggest public funder of biomedical research worldwide and impacts global health in ways often taken for granted. For example, it supported the foundational work that led to the Haemophilus influenzae type b vaccine which, by some estimates, prevented 1.2 million infant deaths between 2000 and 2015. NASA is a stalwart of space research and inadvertently has contributed to medical innovations as it has attended to the health of its astronauts, such as the ear thermometer. The NSF funds all non-medical scientific research (biology, quantum computing, artificial intelligence, space and advanced materials) in the US and manages major research facilities.

The NIH stands to lose $4 billion out of the $32 billion already allocated to US research grants in 2024. This $4 billion cut is not just 11.4 percent of the NIH’s research grants; it will also limit its ability to cover indirect costs associated with equipment, maintenance, safety and personnel—everything that keeps world-class research facilities ticking.

According to The New York Times, indirect costs make up 29 percent of grant funds on average. With only 85 out of 613 institutions having indirect costs below 15 percent, a decision to cap indirect costs at 15 percent will at least halve the funds for maintaining labs for most NIH grant recipients.

If you are a grand-slam-winning tennis champion, these indirect costs are akin to the payments for your team of coaches, strategists, medical entourage, all your equipment and access to training facilities. Without these, you won’t stay at number one. It’s the same in the critical technology race.

Typically, labs and other research facilities have state-of-the-art equipment, which have indirect costs commensurate with their level of sophistication. This means that high-level labs—where breakthroughs often happen—have more to lose when funding is cut for indirect costs.

The biggest losers in these cuts will be top US universities, medical schools and hospitals, many of which are among the top 10 institutions in the Tech Tracker for biotechnologies, including MD Anderson Cancer Center, Memorial Sloan Kettering and many teaching hospitals within the Harvard Medical School. The NIH not only provides research funding in the biomedical fields; it also has 27 biomedical research institutions. The NIH combined is currently ranked second for vaccines and medical countermeasures and eighth for genetic engineering in the Critical Technology Tracker, highlighting its global importance and competitiveness.

NIH-funded research has contributed to early detection and prevention of cancers, chemotherapy and immunotherapy. The NIH also helped develop vaccines for flu and RSV (Respiratory Syncytial Virus), as well as the mRNA Covid-19 vaccine. These are the very institutions that the US government will rely on to develop the future vaccines needed to protect Americans from the next global pandemic.

In addition, in early February, biomedical research was again in the firing line with termination letters sent to hundreds of employees at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the Food and Drug Administration, and the NIH. More job cuts are expected to follow, further weakening the sector.

Around the same time, the NSF froze all grant review processes to comply with new directives to end all diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) programs. According to the Washington Post, NSF staff were tasked with scrutinising active research grants—preciously approved by peer review—with a list of keywords including ‘women’, ‘diverse’ and ‘institutional’ to reverse any grants remotely related to DEI initiatives.

On 18 February, the haemorrhage of US S&T talent continued with a 10 percent cut to the NSF workforce. Given the NSF’s annual budget of $9 billion, the effect of this cut will be felt across all technologies. The Computer Research Association, for example, predicts devastating consequences for scientific innovation and talent in AI technologies and high performance computing, as the NSF funds 80 percent of fundamental computing research at US institutions. The association credits foundational US technologies behind AI, cybersecurity and quantum technologies to NSF funding.

The Critical Technology Tracker ranks the US first in quantum computing, with seven of the top 10 institutions based in the US. However, quantum technologies are priority areas for China, which unveiled its most advanced quantum computer, a 504-Qubit Superconductor, in December 2024. In 2022, the NSF’s Directorate for Technology, Innovation and Partnerships was set up to accelerate the implementation of NSF-funded discoveries from research to new industries, especially in technologies where the US faced the greatest competition. According to Reuters, the directorate lost 20 percent of its staff last week.

Similarly, NASA, currently ranked first in space launch systems research in the Tech Tracker, may face a 10 percent cut to its specialised workforce. These massive cuts have been put on hold, but if they resume, the loss of talent would be a blow to an important component of the technological race, especially with a worldwide shortage of tech specialists. Historically, US space and satellite companies have benefited from NASA’s decades-long public investments in research and development.

The Economist reported that the scrutiny of DEI programs extended to keywords related to climate change. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) and NASA are therefore expecting major job cuts for their work in climate science and extreme weather patterns. The NOAA plays an important role in weather prediction. Its research on space and sensors is visible in the Tech Tracker across the areas of small satellites, gravitational sensors, and sonar and acoustic sensors.

While the US is cutting its funding, China continues its systematic, long-term investment in critical technologies. Synthetic biology is a sector in which China has the largest lead in the Tech Tracker. Over the past 5 years, China has published 57.7 percent of high-impact research in the field, while the US has produced just 13.1 percent.

Synthetic biology is the design and building of new biological systems. It has applications in many areas, such as agriculture and medicine, which directly affect food security and health. Like quantum computing, synthetic biology is an emerging technology where scientific innovation and intellectual property ownership can determine future industry dominance. Since 2006, China has prioritised synthetic biology and built a tech ecosystem around this emerging technology, comprising research institutes and industry.

As Drew Endy, a synthetic biologist from Stanford University, pointed out, the research infrastructure that China has built to support its all-of-nation approach to emerging biotechnology is now the envy of the world. The contrast between China’s investment strategy and the cuts imposed on the NIH could not be starker.

If the US doesn’t want to lose the S&T race with China, it must review its funding cuts. Reducing the funding envelope to grants organisations that oversee scientific grants, such as the NIH and NSF, will stifle the scientific innovations and breakthroughs that have been central to the rise of the US as a technology superpower.

Countries that have long relied on US technological research may need to step up spending on scientific research, or they, too, will risk being left behind.

ASPI USA roundtable: Trying to understand US economic statecraft

Governments are outraged, industry leaders are keeping a low profile, and economists and analysts are confused as they work to understand how the Trump administration’s approach can make the United States simultaneously safer, stronger and more prosperous.

In its first month, the Trump administration has shaken up the world trading system as it uses tariffs to try to promote US investment, productivity, industrial and technological advantage; defend US economic and national security; and help US workers.

An ASPI USA discussion with Claire Chu, Aaron Glasserman, Kimberly Donovan, Phil Rogers and William Alan Reinsch this month focused on what this approach means for US-China relations. This is the first in ASPI USA’s series of Chatham House roundtables to consider the Trump administration’s approach to geoeconomics.

The administration has imposed a 10 percent general tariff on Chinese imports, adding to economic measures established under the previous Trump and Biden administrations.

It has threatened to impose 25 percent tariffs on aluminium and steel not made in North America, reciprocal tariffs on all countries, 25 percent tariffs on automobile imports, and tariffs of at least 25 percent on pharmaceuticals and semiconductors. The US will also place 25 percent tariffs on imports from Mexico and Canada, unless these countries can further appease Trump. This is all before considering retaliatory tariffs levied on the US.

If a country adds a tariff to protect an industry, it does so by making foreign goods more expensive and domestic goods relatively more attractive. If the protected local companies then enjoy a larger market, they may expand their workforces.

But tariffs could also lead to job losses in non-protected industries. When companies pay more for imported inputs, they may pass on the higher cost to consumers. They may shrink their workforces, too. Costs would rise for US imports with no domestic alternative, affecting businesses downstream. For example, placing a tariff on coffee would increase prices for cafes. This might then affect bakeries that supply the cafes, as some consumers decide not to buy coffee.

The administration wants businesses to invest in domestic manufacturing, but this will take time. Tariffs and export controls, together with incentives, have led to reduced US investment into China, with some returning to the US. However, Donald Trump has questioned the value of mechanisms incentivising business to relocate. He suggested he might abolish the CHIPS and Science Act, a law that provides funds and incentives for semiconductor research and production in the US. He has also paused disbursement of grants under the Inflation Reduction Act, which seeks to do the same with renewable energy.

Broad tariffs increase production costs, which in turn inflate consumer prices. They also undermine US export competitiveness by increasing production costs and strengthening the dollar, leading to inflation and fewer jobs in the short to medium term.

The US must also consider how applying tariffs on allies and partners will affect its reputation. Imposing tariffs on any country the US perceives as having an unfair trade deficit, including when this is for a single sector within a broader trade surplus (for example, aluminium from Australia), signals a shift toward purely transactional economic relationships.

An apparent US disregard for decades of strategic and security cooperation will erode trust in US leadership, particularly among allies. This will reduce its ability to rally international partners for broader strategic objectives.

The proposed tariffs might also affect the US’s ability to counter China in the Indo-Pacific, particularly regarding Taiwan. Tariffs on Taiwanese goods, targeting its world-leading semiconductor industry, could impact Taipei’s calculus about whether its alignment with the US is in its best interest.

US tariffs could also affect Taiwanese public opinion, influencing voters to reconsider the viability of self-determination and strategic alignment with the US. This would be a gift to China as it works to lure Taiwan to unite with it.

The loss of Taiwan would undermine US national security; isolate key US allies and trade partners; make the 80 percent of global trade that passes by Taiwan and the South China Sea vulnerable to Chinese manipulation; and reduce US commercial access to 60 percent of global GDP.

Further, the Trump administration’s use of economic measures to elicit political outcomes—such as against Mexico to get action on the southern border or Columbia on illegal migrants—undermines its ability to call China out when it does the same.

Campaigning for election, Trump and his supporters boiled his trade proposals down to creating jobs and lowering prices, which would make the country safer, stronger and more prosperous. If the above principles of economics stand, then we must ask why the administration is using tariffs in contradictory ways.

At the roundtable, some experts pointed to Trump’s long-held view that allies and adversaries had taken advantage of the US for decades on trade and security. Others noted that with the national debt at more than US$36 trillion and still climbing, Republicans were willing to back Trump’s deal-making skills to lift revenue and get more favourable trade and political outcomes. While Elon Musk’s effect on trade policy was unclear, maybe the tariff on China being set at 10 percent instead of the foreshadowed 60 percent was because of his investment in the country.

At this stage, it is hard to see a strategy behind the tactics being employed.

A Westless world

Each February, members of the transatlantic strategic community head to Munich to discuss the state of international security, making the Munich Security Conference a not-to-be-missed event on the foreign-policy calendar.

This was true even during US President Donald Trump’s first administration, when it seemed as though very little was still binding the West together. After watching the debates at the 2019 conference, when key figures talked past each other and failed to find common ground, I coined the term ‘westlessness’ to describe the new state of play. Not only was the rest of the world becoming less Western, but so too were many Western societies.

Eager to reverse the tide, those attending the Munich conferences in recent years took great pains to signal Western unity and determination, as if to suggest that westlessness had been just a passing phenomenon. Joe Biden’s election to the US presidency led Europeans to believe that the United States was back, and Russian President Vladimir Putin’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine a year later gave the West a new sense of shared purpose. But by the time that the 2024 gathering arrived, Western self-doubt had returned; and at this year’s conference, westlessness returned with a vengeance.

Following the news of Trump’s call with Putin and Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth’s comments acceding to Russian demands before negotiations had even begun, the audience in Munich anxiously looked to Vice President JD Vance for clarity on the new administration’s transatlantic security strategy. But the speech that Vance gave did not seem to be about security at all. Instead, he used his time to scold Europeans for their alleged departure from shared values, condemning Europeans’ interpretation of freedom of speech even as his own administration uses lawsuits and other threats to crack down on the US’s free press.

With Germany’s federal elections just a week away, Vance then condemned European governments’ unwillingness to rein in ‘out-of-control migration’ and lambasted German liberal-democratic parties for refusing to work with the far right. ‘I’ve heard a lot about what you need to defend yourselves from’, he noted. ‘But what has seemed a little bit less clear to me and certainly, I think, to many of the citizens of Europe, is what exactly it is that you’re defending yourselves for.’

To those in attendance, these remarks looked like a direct attack on the values at the heart of the North Atlantic alliance. Vance offered up the illiberal-nationalist alternative to the liberal-internationalist order that has underpinned intra-Western relations—and debates at the Munich Security Conference—for many decades.

The Europeans in Munich duly pushed back. Shocked to find themselves being lectured to by a government that is waging war on the rule of law and freedom of the press at home, they rejected Vance’s attempt to interfere in their domestic political affairs. ‘We do not only know against whom we are defending our country, but also for what’, German Defence Minister Boris Pistorius replied. ‘For democracy, for freedom of expression, for the rule of law, and for the dignity of every individual.’

These are the principles that once bound the West together. While members of the broad transatlantic community often disagreed (sometimes vehemently) about specific policies, their shared commitment to these values always allowed them to mend fences and overcome whatever crisis was at hand.

But now the ballroom in the conference hotel, not much larger than a basketball court, must accommodate two fundamentally incompatible worldviews. The Trumpists and their European critics each maintain that the other side has deviated from the norm. As Vance sees it, the biggest threat ‘is not Russia, it’s not China, it’s not any other external actor. What I worry about is the threat from within.’

Despite Vance’s insistence that ‘we are on the same team’, the majority view at the conference was that the US has become a free agent. Just a month after Trump’s inauguration, it has already abandoned its role as a benign hegemon and the leading power within a global community of liberal democracies. To Europeans’ shock and dismay, the US is behaving like a nineteenth-century great power, seeking territorial expansion and pursuing deals with other powers to carve out spheres of influence.

Four years after Biden announced that ‘America is back’, Europeans see the US abandoning transatlanticism and everything it stood for. Trump’s America is not only making deals with the liberal West’s enemies. It is also openly supporting illiberal, anti-democratic forces within the West.

If there is any silver lining, it is that the US’s volte-face has shaken European leaders out of their complacency. They agree that they must come together to increase defence spending and reduce their dependence on the US. If they follow through, we could well end up with a rejuvenation of the transatlantic partnership between two equal powers.

But this outcome is unlikely. The Trump administration’s support for illiberal, anti-European and pro-Russian forces within Europe will make it far more difficult for Europeans to focus on their own security together, even though that is ostensibly what the Trump administration wants.

In this respect, Europeans can agree with Vance: the greatest threat to the West is indeed coming from within.

Some US allies contribute, some loaf. Here’s a numerical assessment

Which US allies have paid their bills, as President Donald Trump would see things? Which, having given the United States little support in return for its security guarantee, now risk losing it?

The short answer, derived from our numerical methodology, is that only nine countries in the US’s main European and Indo-Pacific alliance networks are genuine net contributors to their partnerships with Washington. Australia, Britain and the Netherlands rank highest. Poland, Norway and France are also pulling their weight.

Sixteen countries in those alliances, though not quite free-riders, can fairly be called cheap-riders, according to our assessment, which measures allies’ commitments of blood and treasure. Another 12 may be classified as blatant cheap-riders, notably including Japan, which has the largest economy among the US’s friends.

Our assessment does not focus on Washington’s Latin American and Caribbean allies, but, if it did, they’d all be classed as cheap-riders or blatant cheap-riders.

With Trump taking the unprecedented step of linking protection with payment, our analysis aims to clarify allies’ risks of US abandonment. For the NATO and Indo-Pacific allies, this is no mere academic exercise. European NATO members face an aggressive Russia that has threatened to expand its war against Ukraine. And US allies in the Indo-Pacific confront an increasingly assertive and powerful Beijing, alongside growing nuclear and missile threats from Pyongyang.

Contrary to expectations, we found that proximity to these threats did not necessarily correlate with higher contribution to the US alliance, especially in Europe.

Within alliances that are asymmetric, as any with the US must be, weaker partners cannot fully compensate the stronger partner for protection. They’re not rich enough. But they can contribute (or, in Trump’s parlance, ‘pay’) through such actions as providing international diplomatic support, forward bases or niche military capabilities.

Trump generally attaches greater weight to more readily quantifiable measures, such as defence spending as a percentage of GDP. So we follow him, answering the bottom-line question ‘Who’s paid?’ by asking five component questions with readily quantifiable insights. We aggregate the results into an overall payment score.

First, has the ally met its defence spending targets over the lifetime of the alliance? Washington expects allies to spend at least 2 percent of GDP on defence (though Trump has floated higher standards). By doing so, allies develop properly funded independent military capabilities, reducing the US’s burden of guaranteeing their security. Higher spending also makes them more useful potential partners in US-led coalitions operating outside the alliance areas. Consistently meeting the 2 percent target, amid constant pressures on the public purse, also demonstrates a domestic political resolve that enhances the alliance’s deterrent potential. So we assess lifetime spending by comparing each ally’s total defence expenditure and GDP during its time in alliance with the US. Net contributors meet the 2 percent threshold, whereas net cheap-riders fall short.

Second, has the ally met its defence spending targets over the past decade? Military capabilities, accrued over time, atrophy without sufficient ongoing funding. Washington, for example, built a world-class navy in the American Civil War—which, after years of underinvestment, amounted to just ‘an alphabet of floating washtubs’. Correspondingly, recent defence spending provides insight into which allies have maintained the military capability and preparedness that Washington values. And, again, it shows political resolve. We assess recent spending by considering allies’ defence expenditures and GDPs since 2015 (when combat operations in the last US-led ground-war ended and when Trump’s full engagement in politics began). Net contributors meet the 2 percent threshold, whereas those falling short have either been persistent cheap-riders or, having formerly paid their dues, have now decided to take it easy.

Third, how much US weaponry has the ally purchased? Allied acquisitions of US military equipment, such as aircraft, give Washington several benefits: revenue from and longer production runs of existing systems (for example, F-16s); more work from their maintenance programs; savings from cooperative development of new systems (such as the F-35); and improved US and allied fighting strength thanks to the ease of operating common equipment. We assess weapons purchases by considering allies’ relative shares of US arms transfers and global GDP during their alliance tenure. Scores under 1 indicate comparatively limited purchases, whereas those exceeding 1 denote outsized purchases, and those above 2 show purchases that greatly favour US suppliers.

Fourth, has the ally supported US-led combat coalitions? Allied participation in military operations benefits Washington by providing international legitimation for the action and reducing the burden on the US. Alliances, however, are not wellsprings of guaranteed support: as self-interested actors, allies can decline to render aid or even defect to opposing blocs. Correspondingly, joining US-led coalitions builds good faith with Washington (and implicitly serves as down payment on reciprocal assistance). We assess participation by considering five ground-war coalitions (those for the wars in Korea, Vietnam, Persian Gulf, Afghanistan and Iraq) and five primarily air-war coalitions (in the Iraqi No-Fly Zones and campaigns in Bosnia, Kosovo and Libya and against ISIS). We allocate points according to the burden undertaken: for ground-wars, 8 points for providing frontline combat forces, 4 for supporting units, and 2 for financial assistance. For air wars (which involve less cost and risk), point values are halved. We count allies as consistently supportive if their points exceed 17 points and as reliable combat partners if they exceed 30.

Fifth, has the ally paid a blood price? Allied personnel losses, incurred while furthering Washington’s security interests, represent a shared sacrifice, one that demonstrates the highest form of loyalty (a value cherished by Trump) and implicitly serve as further down payment on reciprocal assistance. Since US-led air wars have featured minimal casualties, we assess losses by counting the number of US-led ground wars after World War II in which allies have suffered service deaths.

We generate overall payment scores by aggregating allies’ performances across all five measures. Each measure receives a 20 percent weighting, and we grant maximum points for:

—Meeting the 2 percent defence expenditure target during the period of alliance;

—Meeting it in the past 10 years;

—Greatly favouring the US in weapons purchases;

—Providing frontline combat forces for each US-led combat coalition; and

—Incurring personnel losses in each US-led coalition ground war.

Partial points are awarded relative to these maximums. Scores below 50 indicate blatant cheap-riding. Those exceeding 70 denote genuine net contributors—for example, 40 for meeting both spending targets, 20 for joining and suffering losses in more US-led coalitions than not, and 10 for outsized weapons purchases.

So, who’s paid?

The US alliance network contains few genuine net contributors, with only nine of 38 NATO and Indo-Pacific allies exceeding 70 points. Moreover, three net contributors deserve qualification: Greece and Turkey generally prioritise each other as a threat rather than NATO’s common adversary, Russia, and South Korea owes the US for its ongoing protection along with its defence during the Korean War.

The Indo-Pacific allies contribute relatively more than their NATO counterparts, averaging higher overall and component scores (apart from participation in operations, among which were three NATO-centric air-war coalitions). Compared with NATO, the Indo-Pacific alliance network also includes a greater percentage of genuine net contributors (28 percent versus 22 percent) and a much lower percentage of blatant cheap-riders (14 percent versus 35 percent).

Notable cheap-riders include Germany and Japan, because they have large economies and therefore great potential military might.

It’s also remarkable that cheap-riding is common in the countries of NATO’s Eastern European expansion. Apart from Poland, Romania and the Baltics, all are blatant cheap-riders, even though their membership has brought added burdens and risks to the alliance, including the US.

Australia is well insulated against Trump’s potential revisions to US alliance policy, which largely (and, in light of our findings, rightly) concentrate on redressing NATO’s relative underpayment. Canberra is immune to similar charges: no other ally has given Washington comparatively more blood and treasure than Australia, and the Albanese government has already begun reversing recent dips in defence spending, pledging to spend 2.3 percent of GDP by 2034. Moreover, Australia’s ‘indispensable’ strategic partnerships with other US allies remain relatively safe: Britain ranks second in terms of its alliance contributions (which bodes well for AUKUS solvency), and Japan, though a definite laggard, has been steadily boosting what Trump would see as its payments. It’s greatly lifting defence spending, increasing host-nation financial support and reinterpreting its constitution to permit collective military action.

How, or whether, Canberra’s unrivalled contributions will affect its bargaining position with Washington remains to be seen and needs supplementing with qualitive analyses (as given here for the first Trump presidency).

Europe is only as weak as it thinks it is

Europe has just held a rapid-fire series of high-profile summits. Following the Paris AI Action Summit and the Munich Security Conference, European leaders gathered for two emergency meetings in Paris to address the disturbing signals coming from the new administration in the United States. In each case, a central question was how Europe can catch up with the US and China technologically and militarily.

By now, it is obvious to everyone that US President Donald Trump’s administration intends to treat Europe with contempt, and that Europeans must take responsibility for their defence and security fully into their own hands. The US is not only sidelining European governments to negotiate an end to the war in Ukraine; it has also thrown its support behind European far-right parties and accused European liberals and democrats of betraying Western values.

Is there a method to this madness? Could the overture to Russia be an attempt to repeat president Richard Nixon’s strategy of breaking the alliance between communist China and the Soviet Union? We know that Trump is obsessed with China, and that Russians themselves have good reason to fear Chinese dominance. If sacrificing some part of Ukraine would allow Trump to strike a blow against his bete noire, he would surely seize the opportunity.

But this Nixonian manoeuvre is unlikely to succeed unless Trump secures Europe’s participation, and that seems unlikely. Paralysed by fear since Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine in early 2022, Europe has forgotten that it can say no. But the Trump administration has shaken European leaders from their slumber. They are now taking an inventory of their strengths and exploring their options. Ukraine is not up against a wall yet. With increased support from Europe, its battle-hardened, highly innovative military can continue to resist Russia’s aggression.

Moreover, the Trump administration has not done much of anything yet except talk. Its real focus is on the home front, where it is busy gutting its own state capacity by mass firings. Trump’s war on the civil service—presumably the prelude to installing a skeleton crew of political loyalists—will inevitably cost the US money and reduce his ability to carry out his policy agenda.

The European Union, for its part, should not respond with the usual search for unity. Given the parties in power in Hungary, Slovakia and elsewhere, that is neither possible nor necessary. The better strategy is to build a coalition of willing EU member states and other countries that Trump is pointlessly alienating, such as Canada, Britain and South Korea.

This seems to be what French President Emmanuel Macron has in mind, judging by his recent statements. Many of his past warnings are now coming true. He remains one of the only leaders, alongside British Prime Minister Keir Starmer, who is not ruling out sending troops to Ukraine or the surrounding area. And lest we forget, France and Britain both have nuclear weapons.

Lost in the coverage following the rupture with the US is the fact that Western Europe is more fearful than Eastern Europe. We are arguably more familiar with crises, but we also are not the ones in Trump’s crosshairs. We do not have a huge trade surplus with the US, and we spend hundreds of billions of dollars on US-made weapons. Unlike the Netherlands (ironically the home of NATO’s new secretary-general), which spent around 1.7 percent of its GDP on defence in 2023, Poland spends almost 5 percent.

Judging by the flurry of recent speeches and statements from Republican officials, one might think that there are actually two Republican parties. On one hand, there is the old party that always sought to raise defence spending, strengthen US military alliances, and confront autocrats such as Russian President Vladimir Putin. On the other hand, there is the party of Trump’s MAGA movement, which seems to believe that national greatness requires dismantling the US state and abandoning longstanding alliances, all justified with primitive blood-and-soil rhetoric and conspiracy theories.

While it feels as if the entire world has changed overnight, the truth is that nothing really has happened yet. If Europeans would only open their eyes, they would see that they have all the resources, talent, and instruments they need to secure their sovereignty and restore peace and stability. They do not need an invitation to the table. They should take inspiration from Ukraine, which has single-handedly halted Russia’s march of aggression through sheer willpower.

This is no time for Europeans to panic. On the contrary, Trump has given us what we need the most: a reason to get our act together.

ASEAN cyber norms need broad stakeholder engagement

As Malaysia assumes the chairmanship of the Association of Southeast Asian Nations in 2025, the government wants to make its mark on the region’s cybersecurity cooperation framework. Malaysia is keen to develop the third iteration of the cybersecurity cooperation strategy, which will guide ASEAN’s collaborative efforts in cyberspace. But to be truly effective, cooperation must remain a multistakeholder affair.

The landmark release of ASEAN’s cyber norms checklist in October last year, championed by Malaysia and Singapore, translated the United Nations’ eleven norms of responsible state behaviour in cyberspace into practical steps. ASEAN member states now have a structured way to implement cyber norms, focussing on political endorsements and safeguarding critical infrastructure.

However, the real challenge isn’t adoption; it’s implementation. Making these principles work in the real world requires more than government buy-in; it demands broad cooperation across sectors and countries.

As I have argued, one of the biggest hurdles is embedding these norms into the operations of defence, law enforcement and intelligence agencies. Southeast Asia’s cyber capabilities are expanding, but transparency remains a sticking point. Militaries, intelligence agencies and law enforcement are embracing cyber tools, but are reluctant to discuss operations and strategies. These institutions see cyber norms as constraints rather than mechanisms for stability. Without transparency, trust erodes as states struggle to gauge each other’s cyber intentions and capabilities.

Recognising these challenges, in August 2024, ASPI brought together experts from Australia, ASEAN member states and Timor-Leste in a civil society dialogue in Kuala Lumpur sponsored by the Australia-ASEAN Centre. Discussions on the shifting cyber threat landscape, regional progress on cyber norms and strategies for strengthening cooperation highlighted one thing—transparency, information sharing and collaborative threat assessments reduce misperceptions and strengthen trust among ASEAN members.

But governments cannot implement cyber norms alone. They must collaborate with those who build, manage and depend on digital infrastructure and with those who advocate for digital rights, privacy and cybersecurity. Private sector actors, particularly technology firms that manage critical information infrastructure, need to be engaged to ensure that cyber norms are not only socialised but policies or initiatives that come out of them are practical, enforceable and aligned with the rapidly evolving cyber landscape. Industry-driven initiatives, such as sector-specific security standards for critical infrastructure, can support government-led efforts by introducing adaptable and enforceable cybersecurity measures.

Academia and think tanks also play a role by supporting capacity-building programs and offering research and policy insights that help shape decision-making. They can help assess the success of policy measures, including progress in norms operationalisation, and can function as informal intermediaries between governments seeking to communicate issues indirectly.

For ASEAN’s cyber norms to take root, multistakeholder engagement must be institutionalised through regular dialogues that include government and non-government actors. ASEAN has long used these mechanisms to navigate complex security challenges. Applying them to cyber governance will ensure that all member states, regardless of their cyber capabilities, have a say in shaping the region’s approach to cybersecurity.

Beyond dialogues, ASEAN needs a regional model of cyber norms maturity to measure their progress in implementing UN cyber norms. Such a model would consider factors such as cybersecurity infrastructure, legal frameworks and policy development. A structured roadmap would enable ASEAN states to move from basic compliance to advanced implementation, creating a stronger, more cohesive approach to cybersecurity.

Engaging local stakeholders is just as important. Cyber norms shouldn’t just be the domain of policymakers; they must resonate with businesses, academics and local communities. Bringing small and medium-sized enterprises, universities and civil society groups into the conversation ensures that cyber norms are implemented in ways that are practical, relevant and responsive to local challenges. Regular feedback loops will help refine these norms over time, keeping them relevant and adaptive.

In addition, discussions on cyber norms must break out of traditional security silos. Cybersecurity challenges intersect with issues such as environmental protection, trade, human rights and even cultural heritage. ASEAN should take a broader, interdisciplinary approach and incorporate insights from diverse fields to craft comprehensive solutions. For example, protecting critical infrastructure, such as submarine cables, shows that cyber resilience is interconnected with economic and environmental stability.

As a long-standing ASEAN partner, Australia has a key role to play. Recognising that cyber threats do not respect borders, Australia has been a strong advocate for regional cybersecurity cooperation in Southeast Asia. Australia can offer technical expertise, capacity-building programs and legal assistance to help ASEAN member states bridge cyber capability gaps and build a resilient digital ecosystem.

ASEAN’s adoption of the cyber norms checklist is a promising step, but real progress will depend on sustained implementation, capacity-building and advocacy. Multistakeholder collaboration, including between ASEAN and Australia, will ensure these norms move from paper to practice. Through inclusive engagement and cooperative action, the region can take decisive steps toward a secure, resilient and rules-based Indo-Pacific cyber landscape.

Peace in Ukraine depends on European commitment

Peace is an attractive, yet elusive, concept. It can mean different things to different people at different times. Ukraine is a case in point. The quest for peace could yield either of two fundamentally different outcomes: a Vichy-style capitulation, perhaps with an interim ceasefire that buys Russia more time to rearm and prepare its next attack, or a robust defence of a frozen frontline, as one finds on the Korean Peninsula today.

The Kremlin’s vision for peace in Ukraine is clear. Russian forces would directly occupy swathes of illegally seized Ukrainian territory, and a compliant, helpless Ukrainian government (lacking any meaningful military capacity) would take orders from Moscow. Something quite similar happened in France during World War II, when the part of the country not under direct German occupation was run by General Philippe Petain’s collaborationist government and took orders from Berlin.

Thus, for most of WWII—roughly between 1940 and 1944—the situation on the ground in France was ‘peaceful’. The Vichy regime under Petain regularly boasted that it had protected France, while blaming the Resistance—French guerrillas—and periodic Allied bombing raids for any disturbances to the ‘peace’. This option has been on offer for Ukraine since the first hours of Russia’s large-scale invasion. Yet having witnessed the executions, rapes and other atrocities committed by Russian forces against civilians in Bucha and elsewhere, the Ukrainians have understandably refused to capitulate.

The alternative is the type of peace that kept Germany peaceful for decades after WWII and kept the Korean Peninsula peaceful since the 1953 armistice. In each case, the peace was secured by accepting de facto borders, which were fortified with massive defensive military buildups, boots on the ground and credible security guarantees. While West Germany enjoyed NATO membership after 1955, South Korea relied on a bilateral alliance with the United States. Even today, the US keeps around 28,000 active-duty troops in South Korea and 50,000 in Germany.

Such backstops made the former wartime frontline almost impregnable, allowing each rump state to consolidate, develop and remain at peace. The equivalent of a West German or South Korean model for Ukraine today would require a freezing of the frontline and either NATO accession or a deployment of tens of thousands of Western troops to Ukrainian territory.

The French government has pushed for this kind of solution since February 2024, and it now features prominently in discussions among European leaders. With the new US administration demanding that Europe do more to ensure its own peace and security, at least a half-dozen European governments are said to be seriously considering it.

Of course, if Europeans dislike the first model (a Vichy-style peace) but prove unable to deliver a sufficient security guarantee, that will create the conditions for a third possible scenario: a bogus peace leading to another war. A temporary ceasefire—like the one that prevailed under the Minsk agreements after 2014—would allow Russia to regroup, rearm and attack again sooner rather than later. Not only might this cycle be repeated more than once; it also could implicate countries beyond Ukraine—such as the Baltics or Poland.

Thus, if Ukraine does not get enough support in the coming months and years, Europe will find itself confronting a dangerous new strategic reality, one that would challenge NATO solidarity and leave EU territory perpetually vulnerable. With enough prodding and hybrid warfare, Russia could test the limits of NATO’s mutual defence guarantee and either expose it as a dead letter or precipitate a direct military confrontation between nuclear powers. Such would be the consequences of a bogus peace.

The immediate task for Europe, then, is not only to navigate US President Donald Trump’s unilateral pursuit of a settlement with Russia that could offer Ukraine on a platter to Russia, but also to ensure that any deal does not increase the likelihood of an even wider war in the near future.

Many Europeans think that if Russia could not conquer Ukraine in 2022, Russia would not dare challenge NATO and the European Union. That is dangerously wishful thinking. Occupying most of Ukraine would not only allow Russia to expand its territory, but also allow it to unite Europe’s biggest and second-biggest armies, under Kremlin command. Occupied territories bring in new people, defence production capacities, and resources—from rare-earth minerals to gas and nuclear power plants. Ukraine’s defence industrial capacity—which has been impressive in multiple areas, from sea drones to the sheer capacity to produce equipment en masse—would be a welcome bonus for Russia as well, and it could be used against Europe. French President Emmanuel Macron already publicly warned that the combined armed forces of Russia and Ukraine would be unstoppable.

The bottom line is that avoiding a Ukrainian capitulation or a fake peace will require a European commitment to, at the very least, freezing the current frontline. Otherwise, vulnerable EU and NATO members could be the next targets. European public opinion must wake up to the reality that the only alternative is something that no one wants: a perpetual threat of war for much of Central and Northern Europe, with all the security and economic uncertainty that comes with it.