A Hollow Justification: Why Using Russia, China, and the United States to Reject the International Criminal Court is Deeply Flawed

A Hollow Justification: 

Why Using Russia, China, and the United States

to Reject the International Criminal Court is Deeply Flawed

In recent years, the question of whether the Philippines should rejoin the International Criminal Court (ICC) has sparked heated debate. As investigations into alleged human rights violations gain traction on the international stage, some voices within the country have called for rejecting international scrutiny altogether. They argue that justice should be dealt with exclusively within national borders and that global institutions have no place intervening in sovereign affairs. 

Among those voices is Samuel Rusiana, who stated, “There is no need for the Philippines to join the International Criminal Court. What we should strengthen is our own justice system.” He added that not even the presidents of the United States or Russia—despite their graver human rights violations—have been held accountable by the ICC. 

At face value, his statement appears to defend national sovereignty and judicial independence. However, the argument collapses upon closer scrutiny. Citing the absence of the United States, China, and Russia from the ICC as justification for the Philippines to do the same reveals a flawed and dangerous logic: that if powerful countries avoid international accountability, others should follow suit. 

But must these three nations be the standard for how global justice is approached? All three have complex relationships with international law and often act based on strategic self-interest rather than a commitment to universal principles. Their refusal to join or comply with the ICC should not be seen as a badge of sovereignty, but rather as an indication of their geopolitical privilege. 

In stark contrast stands the United Kingdom—an equally sovereign nation with a robust legal system that nonetheless remains a signatory to the ICC. Its participation signals that international cooperation on justice is not a weakness but a moral and institutional strength. It recognizes that domestic systems, no matter how developed, can benefit from and contribute to a broader framework of accountability. 

To call international oversight “interference” may soon lead to the downplaying—if not outright erosion—of human rights. In fact, this erosion already manifested during the Duterte administration, when human rights activists were openly threatened. These were not idle words; they were backed by real consequences. Supporters applauded such threats, branding dissenters as accomplices in subversion against the state. But if expressing dissent and asserting social justice is deemed subversion, then so be it—for that has always been the cry of the oppressed, whether resisting a foreign colonizer or a domestic tyrant. History shows that when justice is silenced, movements for liberation often rise in its place. 

Critics note the irony that a country like the Philippines, which frequently invokes democracy, liberty, and global cooperation, would cite authoritarian or self-interested powers as models for rejecting international justice. This contradiction is glaring: how can a state claim to uphold democratic values while resisting the very mechanisms designed to protect them? 

Moreover, the argument that the Philippines should not participate in the ICC simply because certain major powers do not, is a race to the bottom. If global accountability mechanisms are abandoned on the basis that some countries ignore them, then no standard remains. By that logic, any international institution that exerts scrutiny—such as the United Nations—could be dismissed as “interference.” 

Such reasoning reflects a narrow and defensive worldview. It views international scrutiny not as an opportunity for growth or reform, but as a threat to national pride. But mature democracies do not run from accountability; they embrace it, recognizing that justice transcends borders. 

In truth, the ICC is not about punishing countries. It exists to ensure that no individual—regardless of office or influence—is above the law. To resist it is to resist that very principle. The Philippines, like any nation committed to the rule of law, should not fear participation. It should see in it a reflection of its highest democratic ideals. 

If justice is truly the goal, then strengthening domestic institutions and engaging with international ones are not mutually exclusive—they are necessary complements. The world watches not only what the Philippines says about justice, but also how sincerely it is willing to pursue it. 

₱50 FOR THEIR SILENCE? A Wage Order in an Age of Hunger and Control

 ₱50 FOR THEIR SILENCE?

A Wage Order in an Age of Hunger and Control

On Monday, the NCR Wage Board approved a ₱50 across-the-board wage increase for workers in Metro Manila. Predictably, the decision is expected to set the tone for other regions, many of which will soon issue similar wage orders—uniform in modesty, uniform in disappointment. This minor adjustment comes despite the existence of two national wage hike proposals: a ₱100 increase passed by the Senate in 2024, and a ₱200 measure pushed through the House of Representatives before the June 13 recess of the 19th Congress. Both now lie dormant, effectively killed by inaction.

With the latest increase, Metro Manila’s minimum wage rises to ₱695 per day. But this remains a far cry from the ₱1,270 poverty threshold calculated by government before 2023—an amount already outdated yet still more than what most workers take home. The Constitution’s mandate for a living wage remains a promise unfulfilled.

Labor Secretary Bienvenido Laguesma confirmed that some 1.2 million workers stand to benefit from Wage Order No. 26, which the Department of Labor and Employment described as “the highest ever granted” by the NCR wage board. But this “record-breaking” increase offers little relief. In the face of surging prices of rice, electricity, transportation, and essential goods, ₱50 is barely enough to buy a day’s worth of decent food. It does not cover rent, medicine, or emergency needs.

The 'hike' is no 'hike' at all- a mockery rather

For many labor advocates, the outcry over the ₱50 hike is not merely about arithmetic—it is about the moral and political bankruptcy of the current economic order. 

“This P50 wage hike is not only out of touch with reality—it is outright insulting. It’s not a raise, it’s crumbs. BPO workers, who bring in billions of dollars in revenue and keep the economy afloat, deserve far more than this slap in the face,” said Mylene Cabalona, President of BPO Industry Employees Network (BIEN), representing workers in the Information Technology and Business Process Management (IT-BPM) sector. 

And make no mistake—the numbers speak volumes. In 2024 alone, the Information Technology and Business Process Management (IT-BPM) sector raked in a staggering $36.5 billion. That’s roughly 8.5% of the entire GDP. The sector employs 1.8 million Filipinos directly, most of them in NCR, and countless more indirectly. And yet, many of these workers take home less than ₱15,000 a month—well below the ₱36,000 estimated minimum required for a family to live with dignity in the capital.

“This is not just about numbers; it’s about justice. The government is perfectly aware that the wealth created by workers fuels the economy, yet they continue to give in to the greed of foreign and local capitalists,” added Cabalona. “We demand a significant across-the-board wage increase, the abolition of regional wage boards, and the enactment of a national minimum wage that reflects the real cost of living.”

How about those who call for 'austerity'? Is the increase worth contenting?

Meanwhile, the loudest opposition to wage increases continues to be framed in the language of productivity, discipline, and austerity. These terms, however, veil a harsher truth: that the poor must be content with less, and that their dignity is conditional upon business confidence.

According to an analysis by TB Board on the July 2025 hike in NCR and other regions it stated that: “The wage hike reflects the continued efforts to cushion the impact of inflation, maintain worker productivity, and balance the needs of employers and employees.” And this framing positions the ₱50 increase not just as a nominal rise, but as part of a broader economic strategy balancing cost-of-living needs and productivity.

The Philippine Chamber of Commerce and Industry has consistently opposed across-the-board wage hikes—raising concerns over inflation, competitiveness, and impact on SMEs, as they warned that such blanket increases would “lead to higher labor costs, consequently resulting in higher costs of goods and services, and inflation”; while the Makati Business Club (MBC) also opposed legislated increases larger than ₱35–₱50, arguing they may stoke inflation and should be left to regional boards.

It is not surprising that this boils down to an ideology that favors obedience over justice, and contentment over empowerment. Whether the alibi is about "letting the wage boards decide" or "make it a matter of choice for companies" over wages, it simply demands that workers remain docile in the face of rising living costs, while corporate profits surge and basic utilities are privatized. Critics of wage hikes often warn of “inflationary pressure,” yet they fall silent when transport fares spike or when monopolies raise the price of food staples overnight.

In this context, demanding higher wages is no longer a radical act—it is a survival imperative. The erosion of public services has left the wage as the last and only buffer against precarity. And when wages stagnate while inflation soars, workers are crushed—not just financially, but existentially.

What is left is the illusion of a thriving economy. Officials tout GDP growth and foreign investment while ignoring the daily struggles of the majority. Wage suppression is recast as “discipline.” Corporate giveaways are called “development.” And workers are told to tighten their belts in the name of national progress.

Still, the 'increase' ain't enough-
if not showing a system that fails to address the people's demand.

But beneath the numbers lies the truth: a system that does not serve the people, but pacifies them. The ₱50 increase is not a step forward—it is a silencing gesture. Too small to lift lives, just large enough to deflect criticism.

This is not merely an economic issue. It is a question of legitimacy. An economic order that requires the sacrifice of the many to maintain the comfort of the few is not sustainable—it is unjust. In such a framework, austerity becomes more than a policy—it becomes a mechanism of control.

And control is exactly what is being exercised. Workers are being told to wait, to be patient, to endure. But the question remains: for how long must they suffer before justice is more than just a word in the Constitution?

They do not lack discipline. What they lack is justice.

Necessariable: Tactical Accommodation and Revolutionary Strategy in Contemporary Socialist States

Necessariable: Tactical Accommodation and Revolutionary Strategy

in Contemporary Socialist States

In the era of late capitalism and renewed multipolarity, socialist states such as China, Vietnam, Cuba, and North Korea confront the dilemma of preserving revolutionary objectives while navigating a global system dominated by neoliberal hegemony. This paper proposes and elaborates the concept of necessariable—a theoretical framework to explain the strategic pause, retreat, or accommodation undertaken by socialist movements and states in anticipation of future revolutionary advancement. Drawing from Marxist-Leninist theory, world-systems analysis, and contemporary political developments, this paper argues that while many contemporary socialist states have entered a phase of tactical accommodation, the dialectical moment of renewed socialist construction remains contingent upon material conditions and political will. If properly harnessed, the necessariable scenario can break the cycle of endless accommodation, especially if socialist states adhere to a program in which market adoption becomes the means—rather than the end—for socialism’s eventual construction.

Introduction

In a time marked by the retreat of leftist internationalism and the strategic adaptation of socialist regimes to global market norms, a reassessment of revolutionary theory and praxis is imperative. The survival and persistence of nominally socialist states amid global capitalism invite a critical conceptual inquiry: can tactical retreat be reconciled with revolutionary integrity? This question frames the core theoretical intervention of this paper—the introduction of the term necessariable, denoting the condition in which revolutionary actors engage in tactical accommodation as a necessary yet temporary strategy for preserving long-term transformative goals.

The theoretical utility of necessariable emerges from historical patterns and contemporary exigencies, whereby socialist states deviate from orthodox paths not out of betrayal, but from an understanding of material conditions, geopolitical constraints, and the dialectics of revolutionary survival. Through an examination of the historical lineage of Marxist praxis and its application in the 21st century, this paper situates necessariable as a key analytic for understanding the ambiguous yet intentional strategies employed by contemporary socialist states.

Theoretical Framework: Dialectics of Revolution and Strategic Retreat

Marxist theory has long grappled with the question of tactical adaptation. In Left-Wing Communism: An Infantile Disorder, Lenin emphasized the necessity of compromising with reality to preserve the revolutionary vanguard, warning against purist deviations detached from material analysis (Lenin, 1920). Similarly, Antonio Gramsci’s notion of a "war of position" underscored the need for ideological and institutional entrenchment prior to direct revolutionary confrontation (Gramsci, 1971).

The necessariable expands on these concepts by naming the moment in revolutionary strategy when tactical withdrawal becomes a condition of necessity—determined by the global and domestic configuration of forces that make continued confrontation unsustainable. It is not capitulation but a calibrated recalibration.

As Immanuel Wallerstein argues in The Modern World-System, no state exists outside the gravitational pull of the capitalist world-economy (Wallerstein, 1974). Socialist states, therefore, may be compelled into periods of strategic accommodation—without this necessarily signaling the end of their revolutionary potential. Necessariable captures this liminal zone, a dialectical pause that is temporally necessary for future progression.

China and Vietnam: Pragmatism or Prefiguration?

The transitions of China and Vietnam from command economies to hybrid systems integrating global capitalist mechanisms have sparked intense debate within and beyond the socialist tradition. In China, Deng Xiaoping’s shift toward “socialism with Chinese characteristics” marked a paradigmatic reorientation: the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) retained ideological control while embracing market reforms, foreign direct investment, and eventual accession to the World Trade Organization. This dual-track approach has led many to argue that the revolutionary trajectory has been not only re-routed but possibly abandoned (Harvey, 2005; Hung, 2011).

The shift from collectivization and central planning to “socialism with Chinese characteristics” was justified as a necessary evolution rather than a betrayal of revolutionary ideals. Deng famously declared: “It doesn't matter whether a cat is black or white, as long as it catches mice” (Deng, 1962/1994, p. 301). This pragmatism—the hallmark of Deng’s reform agenda—epitomizes necessariable accommodation: a strategic engagement with global capitalism under the justification of developing productive forces to lay the groundwork for a future socialist society.

Yet the CCP continues to assert its commitment to socialism—framing market reforms as tactical moves to strengthen national development, productive capacity, and social stability.

Vietnam followed a comparable path through its Đổi Mới reforms in 1986. By liberalizing its economy while preserving single-party rule, it adopted what might be termed necessariable accommodation—a strategy where engagement with global capitalism is portrayed not as ideological capitulation, but as a pragmatic step necessary to safeguard political sovereignty and eventually fulfill socialist aims. In both cases, the ideological line is carefully managed: the state is said to lead the market, not the reverse- and these reforms are often framed as national development imperatives rather than ideological revisions. However, critics argue that both countries have adopted a form of “state-capitalism” that privileges accumulation over class struggle, and economic growth over socialist transformation (Hung, 2011).

Yet even Mao Zedong, decades prior, had signaled the need for flexibility within socialist construction: “There is no such thing as abstract Marxism, Marxism must be integrated with the concrete conditions of our country” (Mao, 1940/1971). This notion—that Marxism must evolve through local, historical, and material conditions—has been used by reformist leaders to justify transitional compromises. Still, the critical issue remains: are these accommodations part of a long arc toward socialism, or have they crystallized into a new ruling logic?

Giovanni Arrighi (2007) suggests that China, in particular, may be charting a “non-capitalist” developmental path within capitalism itself—leveraging global markets to enhance state sovereignty, redistribute gains internally, and consolidate national cohesion. However, the ambiguity lies in the directionality of these reforms: Are they transitional stages toward a more socialist future, or have they ossified into a new synthesis of authoritarian capitalism? If such accommodations are not explicitly time-bound or tethered to a clear socialist horizon, they risk becoming permanent features of a hybrid system in which the market logic steadily erodes revolutionary purpose.

The dilemma for both China and Vietnam, then, is not whether the state can manage capitalism, but whether the socialist project can survive long-term market entanglement without succumbing to structural capitalist reproduction. The necessariable becomes dangerous when it ceases to be a tactic and is mistaken for a telos.

Cuba: Dialectical Negotiation and Revolutionary Continuity

Cuba offers a more dialectically explicit model of socialist endurance. Despite severe economic hardship—exacerbated by the collapse of the Soviet Union and the ongoing U.S. embargo—Cuba has pursued reforms that open sectors of the economy (e.g. tourism, remittances, and foreign investment) while preserving a strong commitment to the socialist ethos. Unlike China and Vietnam, Cuba’s leadership has consistently presented these reforms as provisional and defensive—measures designed to protect the foundational gains of the revolution in healthcare, education, and popular sovereignty (Mesa-Lago, 2005; Spadoni, 2014).

Fidel Castro consistently emphasized that these reforms were temporary concessions, not a systemic retreat: “We are not reforming the revolution. We are reforming the methods of the revolution... to save socialism, not to bury it.” (Castro, 1994, in Spadoni, 2014). And Cuba's approach reflects a conscious use of necessariable tactics—contingent, ideologically supervised, and always presented as in service of revolutionary survival. Unlike China or Vietnam, Cuba has retained explicit Marxist-Leninist rhetoric as the ideological lens through which reforms are assessed and constrained.

This dialectical maneuvering has allowed Cuba to preserve core welfare institutions (education, healthcare, and public housing) even under extreme material pressure. While criticisms remain—particularly about bureaucratic ossification and generational disengagement—the ideological horizon of socialism remains publicly intact and politically directive.

Here, the necessariable is not a quiet retreat but a dialectical maneuver. Cuba’s strategy affirms that socialist states can engage with capitalist forces without forfeiting their ideological core, provided they maintain strategic clarity and revolutionary discipline. Even economic liberalization is tightly circumscribed by political intent. As such, Cuba demonstrates a unique model of ideological resilience: neither rigid isolation nor unchecked marketization, but a continuous negotiation that seeks to preserve revolutionary integrity while navigating adverse conditions.

Cuba thus exemplifies necessariable tactics guided by revolutionary intentionality—showing that the preservation of socialist structures is possible without wholly capitulating to market logics. The Cuban model suggests that the question is not whether socialist states engage the capitalist world, but how, for what purpose, and with what ideological guardrails.

North Korea: Isolation and the Limits of Rigidity

North Korea stands as a counterpoint to both models. For in contrast to the examples stated, North Korea exemplifies necessariable refusal—a strategy of isolation framed as ideological integrity. Anchored in Juche, its official ideology of self-reliance, North Korea rejected both market reforms and international dependency. As Kim Il Sung proclaimed: “Independence in politics, self-sustenance in the economy, and self-defense in national defense—this is the Juche idea!” (Kim Il Sung, 1974/1979).

What more following the collapse of the USSR, Kim Jong Il sought to reaffirm North Korea’s commitment to socialism in the face of global retreat. His writings emphasize ideological steadfastness and the dangers of 'revisionism': “Our socialism is a socialism of Juche, which embodies the independent idea. It is the most advantageous socialism for the people, the most powerful socialism that defends the independence of the people.” (Kim Jong Il, 1992) 

Thus, Kim Jong Il presented the DPRK’s isolation not as backwardness but as ideological integrity, suggesting that retreat from the global system was necessary for revolutionary preservation, regardless of hardship. While this has allowed the state to maintain rhetorical and institutional consistency with its foundational vision, it has also resulted in severe material deprivation and increasing geopolitical isolation. North Korea’s resistance to liberalization is often framed internally as revolutionary steadfastness, but scholars such as Hazel Smith (2005) have argued that its contemporary politics are more accurately described as post-socialist nationalism, with the survival of the ruling elite outweighing genuine revolutionary renewal.

In this context, the refusal of necessariable engagement has not generated a more robust socialism, but rather an ossified system marked by militarism, dynastic leadership, and limited developmental prospects. North Korea illustrates the perils of equating isolation with ideological purity: absent dialectical adjustment or tactical engagement, a revolutionary project can stagnate, turning inwards and losing its transformative potential.

The North Korean model shows that revolutionary rhetoric without strategic adaptability may uphold form without content. Ideological rigidity, unmediated by material and international realities, risks devolving into mere survivalism.

Meanwhile, Kim Jong Un’s rhetoric shows selective continuity with his predecessors but has attempted to modernize the image of socialism in the DPRK. His approach is still deeply rooted in Juche, but with greater emphasis on material improvement and limited engagement with global discourse: “We must firmly adhere to our-style socialism, which is based on the great Juche idea... The independent economy is the lifeline of socialism.” (Kim Jong Un, 2017)

But despite modest infrastructural modernization and diplomatic gestures (e.g. the 2018–2019 summits), Kim Jong Un reinforced the primacy of ideology: “Socialism is our life and soul, and the dignity and happiness of our people are unthinkable separated from socialism.” (Kim Jong Un, 2019)

like Kim Jong Il, has also positioned any attempt at reform or liberalization as inherently destabilizing: “We must never tolerate bourgeois ideology and way of life, not even a speck of them, infiltrating into our ranks." (Kim Jong Un, 2020)

Thus, Kim Jong Un's regime maintains the frame of ideological rigidity, even while recognizing the need for improved economic performance. In practice, this continues the tradition of rhetorical resistance to capitalism while offering only highly constrained internal adjustments—no serious necessariable accommodation akin to China, Vietnam, or Cuba.

The Crisis of Global Socialism:
From Comintern to NAM and BRICS

The crisis facing contemporary socialist states is not merely one of internal policy but of geopolitical disarticulation. The collapse of transnational institutions that once unified revolutionary movements has fragmented the socialist project, leaving each state to navigate capitalist pressures with little external support. This structural isolation exacerbates the condition of necessaribility—a strategic pause or retreat forced by the absence of a coherent global socialist alternative.

Historically, socialist advancement was sustained by transnational coordination through structures like the Comintern and COMECON, which attempted to consolidate revolutionary projects into a unified bloc. The Communist International (Comintern), founded in 1919, functioned as a vanguard of global revolution, fostering the growth of communist parties worldwide and coordinating anti-imperialist strategy. According to E.H. Carr, “the Comintern was the instrument through which the Soviet Union sought both to defend itself and to promote revolution abroad” (Carr, 1953). Its dissolution in 1943 reflected a shift toward Soviet diplomatic pragmatism, yet its legacy endured.

The Council for Mutual Economic Assistance (COMECON), established in 1949, was designed to institutionalize economic collaboration among socialist states. It operated on non-market principles, relying on bilateral barter, long-term planning, and intra-bloc industrial specialization. As noted by János Kornai, COMECON represented “a real attempt to construct an alternative to capitalist globalization” but eventually fell victim to internal inefficiencies and dependence on Soviet leadership (Kornai, 1992).

The collapse of these structures after 1989 left a profound void. As Samir Amin observed, “the disintegration of the socialist bloc meant the loss of a counterweight to imperialist globalization” (Amin, 2013). Without an international institutional framework, contemporary socialist states became more vulnerable to integration into global capitalist markets.

Their collapse left a void that newer groupings such as BRICS have failed to fill. BRICS (Brazil, Russia, India, China, South Africa), despite its anti-hegemonic posture, lacks ideological unity or a commitment to socialism. It is a strategic bloc, not a revolutionary front. This emergence in the 21st century raised hopes of a new counter-hegemonic alignment. It called for financial reform, development equity, and de-dollarization of global trade. Yet BRICS lacks a unifying ideology or shared political economy. As Patrick Bond critiques, “BRICS is not anti-capitalist or anti-imperialist; rather, it is sub-imperialist—seeking better terms within the existing order” (Bond, 2015).

The internal contradictions of BRICS are stark. China and India are geopolitical rivals; Russia is a resource-driven oligarchy; Brazil and South Africa remain dependent on Western capital. While China nominally adheres to socialism, its use of BRICS has been largely instrumental, advancing state capitalist expansion rather than proletarian internationalism (Hung, 2011).

Hence, BRICS represents “strategic diversification” rather than revolutionary alignment. It challenges Western dominance without offering a coherent or socialist alternative. As Leo Panitch and Sam Gindin argue, “multipolarity should not be confused with anti-capitalist transformation. A world of multiple capitalist centers is still a capitalist world” (Panitch & Gindin, 2012). 

Similarly, the Non-Aligned Movement (NAM)—once a banner for Third World sovereignty—has lost much of its radicalism, now often reduced to diplomatic formalism. Inaugurated in 1961, NAM was once a powerful force for decolonization, development, and geopolitical neutrality. It aligned itself with the broader goals of the Global South, seeking to avoid entanglement in Cold War rivalries while supporting economic sovereignty. As Vijay Prashad recounts, “the NAM demanded a New International Economic Order... premised on fairness, equity, and sovereignty” (Prashad, 2007).

However, by the 1990s, NAM had drifted from its transformative roots. Lacking ideological clarity and weakened by neoliberal reforms in member states, it became what historian Robert Vitalis calls “a diplomatic zombie—alive in name, but devoid of political will” (Vitalis, 2015). Its once-radical platform has been reduced to non-binding communiqués, unable to mount collective resistance to neoliberal globalization.

The institutional atrophy of former socialist coordination bodies has intensified the burden on individual socialist states, forcing them to navigate global capitalism tactically and unilaterally. In the absence of supportive blocs or a cohesive international alternative, these governments face a profound dilemma: either engage with the market on their own terms to preserve internal cohesion and autonomy, or risk political isolation and economic collapse. This vacuum accentuates the condition of necessariable retreat—a reluctant but strategic withdrawal into pragmatic engagement with capitalism in the absence of external socialist support.

Rosa Luxemburg’s prescient warning—that “the fate of the revolution does not lie in one country alone” (Luxemburg, 1918)—finds renewed relevance. In the absence of a global revolutionary framework, individual socialist states retreat into tactical accommodations. The necessariable condition arises precisely because the internationalist scaffolding necessary for revolution’s next phase has been dismantled.

This vacuum ensures that even states with nominally socialist goals—China, Vietnam, Cuba—must operate under global capitalist norms. As Michael Lebowitz writes, “socialism cannot be built in isolation. Without internationalism, socialism stagnates or turns into its opposite” (Lebowitz, 2012). Necessaribility, then, is not a betrayal, but a reflection of geopolitical constraint.

To move beyond this phase, a new form of revolutionary internationalism must arise—one that transcends both the Cold War bipolar model and BRICS-style pragmatism. Such a formation would need to combine ideological clarity, institutional capacity, and economic coordination. Until then, socialist states remain suspended in a state of strategic necessity, navigating global capitalism not by choice, but by historical compulsion.

Conclusion: Everything Becomes Necessariable
—But Not Permanently

The concept of necessariable provides a theoretical tool for interpreting the paradoxes of contemporary socialist practice. Revolutionary struggle, as history demonstrates, is not linear but dialectical—marked by advance, pause, retreat, and renewal. What distinguishes revolutionary pause from reformist stagnation is political will—the determination to use tactical retreat not as an end but as a condition for re-advancement.

The necessariable condition does not doom socialist states to permanent compromise. On the contrary, it can be a transformative strategy—a crucible in which tactical market engagement is not just tolerated, but ultimately weaponized to build the foundations of socialism. That is, the necessariable scenario can break the cycle of deferred revolution, especially if socialist states adhere to a political program wherein strategic retreat and selective adoption of market forces are explicitly framed as instruments to unleash productive capacities, concentrate capital under state direction, and eventually transform those very market foundations into the infrastructure of socialist development.

Such a process must be intentional, transparent in its aims, and tightly bound to revolutionary consciousness. It requires ideological discipline, mass participation, and leadership committed not to perpetual adaptation but to dialectical transcendence.

Whether contemporary socialist states retain the capacity to move beyond accommodation remains an open question. China and Vietnam’s path may risk entrenching capitalist logics, while Cuba offers a vision of principled negotiation. North Korea, meanwhile, reflects the limits of isolation.

To understand the global Left’s position today is to recognize that everything becomes necessariable: all revolutionary aims must now pass through the crucible of strategic deferral, dialectical reassessment, and material recalibration. But the true test lies in whether necessaribility becomes not a euphemism for indefinite delay—but the precondition for the next leap forward.

***

References

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Arrighi, G. (2007). Adam Smith in Beijing: Lineages of the Twenty-First Century. Verso.

Bond, P. (2015). BRICS: An Anti-Capitalist Critique. Haymarket Books.

Carr, E.H. (1953). The Bolshevik Revolution, 1917–1923 (Vol. 3). Penguin Books.

Castro, F. (1994). Speech to the National Assembly of People’s Power, cited in Spadoni, P. (2014). Cuba’s Socialist Economy Today: Navigating Challenges and Change. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers.

Deng, X. (1994). Selected Works of Deng Xiaoping Volume III (1982–1992). Beijing: Foreign Languages Press. (Original statement from 1962, popularized in reform-era speeches)

Gramsci, A. (1971). Selections from the Prison Notebooks. Trans. Q. Hoare & G. Nowell Smith. International Publishers.

Harvey, D. (2005). A Brief History of Neoliberalism. Oxford University Press.

Hung, H.-f. (2011). China and the Transformation of Global Capitalism. Johns Hopkins University Press.

Kim Il Sung. (1979). On the Juche Idea. Pyongyang: Foreign Languages Publishing House. (Originally presented in 1974)

Kim Jong Il. (1992). Abuses of Socialism Are Intolerable. Pyongyang: Foreign Languages Publishing House.

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Kim Jong Un. (2020). Speech at the Eighth Congress of the Workers’ Party of Korea. Pyongyang: Foreign Languages Publishing House.

Kornai, J. (1992). The Socialist System: The Political Economy of Communism. Princeton University Press.

Lebowitz, M. A. (2012). The Contradictions of 'Real Socialism': The Conductor and the Conducted. Monthly Review Press.

Lenin, V.I. (1920). Left-Wing Communism: An Infantile Disorder. Progress Publishers.

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Smith, H. (2005). Hungry for Peace: International Security, Humanitarian Assistance, and Social Change in North Korea. United States Institute of Peace Press.

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Wallerstein, I. (1974). The Modern World-System I: Capitalist Agriculture and the Origins of the European World-Economy in the Sixteenth Century. Academic Press.

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From Multilaterality to Multipolarity: The Struggle for a New Global Order

From Multilaterality to Multipolarity: 

The Struggle for a New Global Order 

The crisis of multilateralism is no longer unfolding—it has arrived. What was once touted as a cornerstone of postwar stability now lies in tatters. Western-led institutions like the World Trade Organization (WTO), International Monetary Fund (IMF), and United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) either stand paralyzed or function as empty rituals. As Walden Bello recently remarked during the IDEAs conference in Barcelona, “The key institutions of western-led globalization are no longer functioning or are in sleep mode.” The death of multilateralism, he argued, is not simply an event—it is a long-unfolding process, now openly acknowledged even by those who once upheld it.

What replaces this decaying architecture is still uncertain. But emerging in its wake is a contested and uneven multipolarity, a term increasingly debated in both radical and mainstream geopolitical discourse. For Russian philosopher Alexander Dugin, multipolarity is not merely a redistribution of unipolar power but the expression of “fundamentally different civilizational codes.” It is not the same world with new players—it is potentially a new world altogether.

Yet herein lies both the promise and peril of this historical transition.

End of the Liberal International Order 

 The collapse of multilateralism did not begin with Donald Trump, but he dramatized its end. As Walden Bello observes, “It is Trump… who has cut the cant, shed the hypocrisy, and sounded the death knell on the grand strategy of liberal internationalism.” What Trump did was not to dismantle the liberal order singlehandedly, but to accelerate a retreat already in motion—a long withdrawal from the moral and institutional commitments that once underpinned U.S. global leadership. The so-called “rules-based international order” had always masked an architecture of dominance, designed to legitimize and protect U.S. state power and the interests of transnational capital. 

 In the economic realm, the decay is undeniable. Since the collapse of the WTO’s Fifth Ministerial in Cancun in 2003, global trade negotiations have been paralyzed. The IMF and World Bank, though deeply implicated in the debt crises of the Global South, refuse to implement reforms that would grant voting power commensurate with the real economic weight of countries like China, Brazil, and South Africa. Climate finance, meanwhile, has proven woefully inadequate: the $58 billion offered to developing countries is dwarfed by the $1 trillion in annual damages they suffer from climate disasters largely caused by industrialized nations. 

 But perhaps nowhere is the erosion of multilateralism more evident than in the exercise of U.S. military power. The recent strikes on Iran—conducted without United Nations sanction or even regional consensus—represent not a break, but a continuation of a longer trend. Washington no longer hides behind the fig leaf of coalition-building. It acts unilaterally, preemptively, and without apology. “The UNFCCC will continue to meet,” Bello writes, “but the reality is that negotiations are dead in the water.” 

 In this context, Russian theorist Alexander Dugin offers a useful analytical lens. For Dugin, the liberal international order was never truly universal. It was “a project of ideological colonization,” one that sought to erase civilizational difference under the pretext of norms, markets, and democracy.

 “Liberalism,” he writes, “destroys all forms of collective identity—religion, nation, family, and even gender—and replaces them with the figure of the isolated individual as the sole political actor.” What Trump signaled was the collapse of faith in this universalizing project—not only among its critics abroad, but increasingly among its creators. 

 Seen through this lens, Trump’s foreign policy was not an aberration but a symptom. The U.S. no longer had the means—or the will—to sustain the burden of global empire. What emerged in its place was a new kind of imperial retrenchment: inward-looking, ethnonationalist, protectionist, and hostile to multilateral constraint. It is not simply that the U.S. abandoned multilateralism; it is that multilateralism, as previously conceived, had outlived its usefulness as an instrument of empire. 

 Thus, the collapse of the liberal order should not be read as a vacuum to be mourned, but as an opening in which other political imaginaries—rooted in difference, autonomy, and genuine pluralism—might take root. Whether this leads to a more just world or merely new forms of domination remains an open question.

The Rise of BRICS and the Multipolar Horizon

Into the vacuum left by the decaying liberal international order steps the BRICS bloc, a coalition that has evolved from a loose acronym into a geopolitical force with growing gravitational pull. With the admission of Egypt, Ethiopia, Iran, Indonesia, and the United Arab Emirates as of January 2025, BRICS now comprises ten members, collectively representing over 40% of the global population and nearly 28% of global GDP. Its expansion has transformed it from a rhetorical gesture of Southern solidarity into a tangible platform of strategic realignment.

Dozens of countries—including Saudi Arabia, Thailand, and Malaysia—have either applied or expressed interest in joining. This reflects, as Walden Bello argues, a deepening realization across the Global South that “the scale is steadily tipping against the West, which has grown increasingly defensive, grouchy, and insecure.” The desire for alternatives—financial, technological, diplomatic—is not only about power-balancing; it is about escaping the suffocating grip of the Washington Consensus and the conditionalities that have historically tethered development to neoliberal orthodoxy.

The institutions spawned by BRICS—the New Development Bank (NDB) and the Contingent Reserve Arrangement (CRA)—remain modest in scale when compared to their Bretton Woods counterparts. As of 2021, the NDB’s total lending stood at just under $30 billion, a fraction of the World Bank’s activity. And yet, their symbolic weight exceeds their financial footprint. They signal a shift in imagination: that development finance can be decoupled from Western tutelage, that alternatives to dollar hegemony and IMF austerity are not only conceivable but already underway.

China, in particular, has emerged as a development financier of formidable capacity. As Kevin Gallagher notes, Beijing now provides more infrastructure financing to the Global South than all Western-backed institutions combined. Unlike the IMF, whose assistance often comes bound to harsh structural adjustment programs, Chinese loans are typically free of overt political conditionality—though not of strategic calculus.

Yet the BRICS bloc is no utopia. Bello cautions against triumphalist narratives: “Are the key actors in the BRICS going to be open to sharing decision-making power over their resources?” This is no small question. Internally, the bloc is riven by contradictions—economic, ideological, and civilizational. China’s centralized state capitalism sits uncomfortably beside India’s populist Hindu nationalism. Brazil and South Africa wrestle with extreme inequality and governance crises. Russia remains a pariah to the West, even as it positions itself as a Eurasian anchor of anti-Western multipolarism.

To understand the deeper significance of BRICS, one must look beyond GDP aggregates and investment flows to the civilizational dimension—a point emphasized by Russian political theorist Alexander Dugin, whose writings on multipolarity have gained traction among various ideological camps worldwide. For Dugin, multipolarity is not merely the redistribution of geopolitical power; it is the rejection of the unipolar, liberal-capitalist model as the sole template for civilization. As he writes:
“Multipolarity means that different civilizations and peoples have the right to follow their own paths… It affirms the plurality of truths, histories, and destinies.”

In Dugin’s formulation, BRICS and other emergent blocs do not simply challenge Western hegemony—they reassert the legitimacy of cultural, historical, and political pluralism. This stands in stark contrast to the liberal internationalist ethos, which has sought to universalize a narrow set of values—free markets, liberal democracy, human rights—often backed by coercive enforcement.

But Dugin also issues a warning: 

“Multipolarity does not mean peace; it means pluralism. And pluralism is full of tensions.” 

A truly multipolar order is inherently unstable, for it allows for contradictions, rival claims to legitimacy, and divergent civilizational logics. As such, BRICS cannot be expected to function like a monolithic bloc with a coherent ideology. Its unity is not in doctrinal alignment but in shared resistance to Western dominance, and in the recognition that development and sovereignty can take different forms in different contexts.

This civilizational multiplicity raises uncomfortable questions. Can a bloc that includes both democratic and authoritarian regimes produce a model of development that is participatory, equitable, and sustainable? Can it avoid the temptations of replication—of becoming merely a “new center” dominating new peripheries? Already, China’s Belt and Road Initiative has been critiqued for generating local dispossession, ecological degradation, and elite capture. India’s expansionist development model often replicates similar patterns, particularly in its treatment of indigenous lands and labor.

Thus, BRICS is best understood not as a cohesive alternative, but as a field of struggle—a contradictory space where the seeds of a post-Western future are being planted, but not yet cultivated. Bello reminds us that “democratic governance at the global level cannot be delinked from democratic governance at the local level.” Without grassroots participation and mechanisms for accountability, BRICS could merely reproduce the structural inequalities it claims to resist.

The multipolar horizon, then, is not a destination, but a terrain—contested, unstable, and full of potential. Whether it becomes a foundation for global justice or simply a new arena for imperial competition remains to be seen.

Revisiting Bandung, Recalling Lenin

The year 2025 marks the 70th anniversary of the Bandung Conference, a landmark in postcolonial internationalism. In 1955, leaders from newly decolonized Asian and African nations gathered not simply to reject Western imperialism, but to imagine a third way—a sovereign path unaligned with either the capitalist West or the Soviet East. Bandung was more than diplomatic choreography; it was a moral-political declaration of independence, rooted in the collective aspirations of peoples who had endured centuries of colonial exploitation.

Central to the Bandung spirit was the affirmation of dignity, self-determination, and non-interference. The first of its ten principles—“respect for fundamental human rights”—placed human dignity above Cold War alignments. But seventy years on, that principle lies in ruins. As Walden Bello points out, many of today’s BRICS states—some of which were key movers at Bandung—are themselves entangled in massive human rights violations. India, once championed by Nehru as a voice of secular democracy, is now governed by a Hindu nationalist regime that treats Muslim citizens with systemic hostility. China, led by a party claiming anti-imperialist lineage, pursues forced assimilation and surveillance of Uyghurs in Xinjiang. Egypt and Myanmar, both present at Bandung, are ruled by repressive military regimes.

This grim landscape raises an uncomfortable question: What happens when the heirs of anti-colonial movements become agents of new forms of domination? As Dugin’s notion of multipolarity gains currency, one must ask—does a world of many poles offer freedom, or simply many empires?

It is here that Lenin’s critique of imperialism becomes crucial. In Imperialism: The Highest Stage of Capitalism, he describes imperialism not merely as conquest, but as the structural expression of late capitalism—the domination of monopolies, the merging of banking and industrial capital, and the export of capital to exploit foreign labor and resources:

 “Imperialism is capitalism at that stage of development at which the dominance of monopolies and finance capital is established; in which the export of capital has acquired pronounced importance… and in which the division of the world among the international trusts has begun.”

Lenin’s framework suggests that imperialism is not abolished by changing flags; it is abolished only by disrupting the logic of accumulation that underpins it. In this light, a BRICS-led world that remains embedded in capitalist extraction, elite control, and ecological degradation cannot be considered post-imperial—it is imperialism in a new dialect.

This contradiction lies at the heart of the multipolar discourse. Is multipolarity a step toward emancipation, or a reshuffling of global hierarchy? In theory, a multipolar world affirms plurality, sovereignty, and the right of different civilizations to pursue their own developmental trajectories. But in practice, many BRICS states reproduce the same patterns of internal exclusion and external exploitation long associated with Western dominance. Large-scale infrastructure projects, often financed by Chinese or Gulf capital, frequently displace indigenous communities, pollute ecosystems, and strengthen authoritarian governance under the guise of development.

These tensions were already visible at Bandung. The conference brought together a heterogenous group—liberal democracies, monarchies, military-led states—united more by shared opposition to colonialism than by a shared vision for justice. In this sense, Bandung was always a project of contradiction, a coalition held together by negative unity rather than positive consensus. What is different today is that these contradictions have deepened, as neoliberal globalization has entrenched elite rule, expanded class polarizations, and narrowed the space for genuine democratic participation in the Global South.

Antonio Gramsci’s notion of passive revolution helps explain why radical decolonial promises are often absorbed and neutralized by capitalist structures. Passive revolution is the process through which elite transformations appear revolutionary, but actually preserve the underlying structures of domination. Gramsci writes that “the old is dying and the new cannot be born,” and in this interregnum, morbid symptoms appear—from technocratic authoritarianism to extractive populism.

What we are witnessing in much of the BRICS world is not revolutionary rupture, but passive adaptation: elites deploying the language of anti-colonialism and sovereignty to mask extractivist agendas, nationalist violence, and elite capture. China’s Belt and Road Initiative, India’s megaprojects, Brazil’s agribusiness expansion—these are not alternatives to imperialism, but its regional mutations.

Thus, to recall Bandung today is not to romanticize it, but to reclaim its radical horizon: a world order rooted in solidarity, self-determination, and material justice. That vision cannot be realized through diplomacy alone. It must be grounded in class struggle, in the rights of indigenous peoples, peasants, workers, and women to control their lands, bodies, and labor. It requires, as Lenin insisted, the rupture of the structures that enable imperialism—not simply their rebranding.

And so, the task before the Global South is not merely to replace one multilateral system with another, but to transform the very foundations of how global power, production, and legitimacy are organized. Without that transformation, multipolarity risks becoming a mirage: a new map drawn by old hands.

Capitalism Without a Compass

A shared characteristic of both the liberal international order and its emergent challengers is their deep and continued entrenchment in global capitalism. The past forty years of neoliberal globalization have blurred the ideological boundaries that once seemed to separate capitalist, socialist, and developmental regimes. Whether one speaks of the United States, the European Union, China, India, Brazil, or South Africa, the logic remains broadly the same: market expansion, capital accumulation, and extractive growth. As Walden Bello writes,
“Capitalism continues to both penetrate the farthest reaches of the globe and deepen its entrenchment in areas it has subjugated. Whether market-driven, developmental, or state capitalist, the same dynamics of surplus extraction, with massive planetary externalities, cut across these variants of capitalism.”

The illusion that multipolarity alone can transform the system is shattered when one observes that the structural conditions of exploitation remain intact, simply relabeled or redistributed. The Belt and Road Initiative may differ from World Bank lending in form, but it often replicates the same extraction, dispossession, and elite alignment. India’s digital infrastructure push, framed as modernization, similarly concentrates wealth and facilitates surveillance, while marginalizing informal workers and rural communities. These examples reflect what David Harvey has called “accumulation by dispossession”—the process by which land, labor, and commons are commodified in new and ever more sophisticated ways.

Meanwhile, the defenders of neoliberal capitalism maintain that markets, deregulation, and globalization are the best tools for lifting populations out of poverty and advancing human development. Jagdish Bhagwati, a prominent free trade economist, argues that “globalization is not the cause of poverty; it is the only cure,” suggesting that open markets empower developing nations by increasing competitiveness and attracting investment. Similarly, Lawrence Summers, former U.S. Treasury Secretary and World Bank Chief Economist, once famously said,
“Spread the truth—the laws of economics are like the laws of engineering. One set of laws works everywhere.”

For them, capitalism is not only efficient—it is inevitable. They often cite the reduction in global extreme poverty, driven by growth in China and India, as evidence that capitalism works when unshackled. But this narrative obscures the underlying costs: mass ecological degradation, precarious labor conditions, urban slums, and deepening inequality. The system delivers growth, but often without justice, without stability, and without democratic accountability.

The critics of neoliberal capitalism offer a starkly different view. Naomi Klein, writing in The Shock Doctrine, describes neoliberalism as “disaster capitalism”—a system that exploits crises to push through unpopular reforms that benefit elites. She warns that what is celebrated as efficiency is often predation. Ha-Joon Chang, a heterodox economist from South Korea, argues that neoliberalism has “kicked away the ladder” of development by enforcing policies on the Global South that the West never applied to itself during its own industrial rise. He writes,
“What rich countries tell developing ones to do and what they actually did to become rich are very different things.”

Likewise, Thomas Piketty, in Capital in the Twenty-First Century, documents how capitalism naturally produces inequality unless actively curbed by redistributive measures. “R>G”—the return on capital exceeding the rate of economic growth—is not an exception, but a rule that ensures wealth concentrates in the hands of those who already own it. In his view, unless we radically rethink the structure of ownership, tax, and labor, the 21st century will look more like the 19th—a world of rentiers and permanent class divides.

Even within the Global South, many progressive scholars and activists warn that capitalism without sovereignty—and increasingly, capitalism without direction—is an engine of internal colonialism. The wealth extracted in the name of “national development” often never reaches the majority. As Bello notes, “the masses… are economically disenfranchised, and in liberal democracies, their participation in democracy is often limited to casting votes in periodic, often meaningless, electoral exercises.”

This brings us to the central contradiction of our time: capitalism as both the engine of development and the architect of disaster. The climate crisis, mass displacement, urban poverty, rising authoritarianism—these are not external to the system, they are its logical consequences. As Friedrich Hayek, one of neoliberalism’s founding figures, famously warned (unintentionally prophetically):
“We shall never prevent the abuse of power if we are not prepared to limit power in the first place.”

Hayek meant the state. But today, that warning applies equally to the unchecked power of capital, which increasingly dominates not only the economy, but politics, society, and even nature.

Thus, the greatest obstacle to a just global order may not be the West or the East—it may be capitalism itself. A world of many centers, without an alternative vision of economic justice, will simply replicate the same center-periphery dynamics internally: workers and peasants at the base, elites at the helm, and the planet as collateral. Multipolarity without post-capitalism is not liberation; it is capitalism without a compass—directionless, extractive, and dangerously unsustainable.

Conclusion: Monsters at the Threshold

Antonio Gramsci’s oft-quoted insight feels more prophetic than ever: “The old world is dying, and the new world struggles to be born: now is the time of monsters.” The unraveling of the liberal international order does not usher in a period of harmony. Rather, it exposes us to an interregnum filled with volatility, opportunism, and ideological realignment. Multipolarity is not a safe harbor—it is a storm-tossed sea of competing sovereignties, corporate dominions, resurgent empires, and fractured truths. The danger is not disorder alone, but co-optation: the capture of decolonial energies by new authoritarian regimes, the absorption of democratic yearnings into technocratic development models, the branding of imperialism in civilizational or nationalist garb.

Dugin warns that the transition from a unipolar to a multipolar world will not be peaceful or seamless:
“Multipolarity is not the end of history; it is the beginning of struggle. Between civilizations, between values, between meanings. It is a world of many truths, not one.”

But this relativism, while emancipatory for some, risks legitimizing illiberal orders and ethnonationalist visions that weaponize culture against universal rights. What emerges, then, is a paradox: in the name of diversity, new hegemonies form—ones that speak of tradition while crushing dissent, that promise sovereignty while excluding the subaltern, that invoke civilization while devouring the commons.

Karl Marx warned of such cyclical illusions in The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte, noting that history repeats itself “first as tragedy, then as farce.” The tragedy of the 20th century was empire cloaked in liberal internationalism. The farce may be a world where multipolar capitalism disguises itself as liberation—where China’s tech-authoritarianism, India’s caste-coded capitalism, and Russia’s neo-imperial geopolitics stand in for post-colonial justice. What Marx called the “fetishism of commodities”—our mistaken belief that relations between people are relations between things—now finds its geopolitical counterpart: the fetishism of power blocs, where emancipation is projected onto states rather than built from below.

It is here that Lenin’s clarity cuts through:
“We must dream! But we must also critically examine our dreams, confront them with the facts of reality, and test them in practice.”

Dreaming of a just multipolar order is not naïve. What is naïve is to believe that it will arise automatically through shifts in global GDP or membership in new international clubs. The dream of a liberated future must be tempered by the discipline of struggle—a struggle rooted not in the summits of state power or the corridors of finance, but in grassroots mobilization, democratic insurgency, and transnational solidarity.

The real terrain of contestation, then, is not Belem or Sevilla, not BRICS or the IMF, but the fields and forests where land defenders resist extractivism; the factories where precarious workers demand dignity; the flood zones and drought belts where climate justice becomes a matter of survival. These are the frontlines where capitalism meets its ecological, moral, and political limits—and where new imaginaries are being born, often in fragments, but nonetheless real.

If multipolarity is to mean anything beyond the redistribution of imperial functions, it must be tied to a transformative vision: one that links sovereignty to justice, pluralism to equity, decolonization to democracy. This requires the active construction of a radical internationalism—a politics that is not about siding with powers, but empowering the powerless; not about naming new centers, but dismantling the logic of the center-periphery divide altogether.

To quote Dugin once more, with caution:
“In multipolarity, we are not seeking stability—we are seeking meaning. The world must rediscover meaning through difference.”

But meaning without justice is merely myth. And difference without equality is hierarchy by another name.

Multipolarity is not a destination. It is a terrain. A battlefield between the ghosts of empire and the seeds of liberation. As the world shifts into this new configuration, one question remains: Will this be a reorganization of global power, or a reimagining of global freedom?

The Dilemma of Filipino Nationalism: Sovereignty vs. Subservience

The Dilemma of Filipino Nationalism: Sovereignty vs. Subservience 

In the face of rising tensions in the West Philippine Sea, Filipino nationalism is once again at a crossroads. China’s growing maritime assertiveness has forced the Philippines into an increasingly precarious position, compelling the government to seek stronger military ties with the United States. Under the recently expanded Enhanced Defense Cooperation Agreement (EDCA), the Philippines has opened nine sites to U.S. military access, including new locations in Cagayan, Isabela, Zambales, and Palawan. These additions are being framed as strategic countermeasures to deter Chinese aggression and bolster the country’s defensive capabilities. 

At first glance, this might seem like a prudent decision. After all, Beijing has continued to ignore the 2016 arbitral ruling in favor of the Philippines, harassed Filipino fishermen, and conducted increasingly brazen maneuvers near Philippine-occupied territories. In such a dangerous environment, some argue that reinforcing alliances with the United States—the Philippines’ long-standing defense partner—is not only logical but necessary. 

However, a deeper look reveals a troubling trend: the Philippines may be reinforcing a historical pattern of subservience disguised as pragmatism. By integrating itself further into America’s Indo-Pacific strategy—especially within the U.S. “first-island chain” encircling China—the Philippines risks transforming into a forward operating base for a conflict it did not choose. This militarization bears striking similarities to America’s presence in South Korea and Japan, where U.S. bases persist amid deep-seated public resistance and sovereignty concerns. 

In this light, the Philippines’ recent decisions represent more than just military logistics. They are a test of national identity. 

Nationalism and the American Shadow 

Filipino nationalism has long carried an anti-colonial, and by extension anti-American, undercurrent. Born out of resistance to Spanish and later American rule, the nation’s sense of identity has always been tethered to the struggle for independence. From the Philippine-American War at the turn of the 20th century to the eventual removal of U.S. bases in the 1990s, the nationalist imagination has consistently viewed American influence as a challenge to full sovereignty. 

Despite this historical backdrop, many today argue that anti-American sentiment must be shelved in favor of strategic necessity. The threat from China is tangible, immediate, and increasingly aggressive. By contrast, American presence is seen as stabilizing—a lesser evil. But this line of thinking imposes a dangerous binary: it reduces Filipino nationalism to a choice between two imperial patrons. It implies that sovereignty can only be preserved by compromising it to one power in order to fend off another. 

Such logic is not only flawed—it is a betrayal of the very ideals Filipino nationalism claims to uphold. 

Symbolic Patriotism vs. Real Sovereignty 

Over time, nationalism in the Philippines has been reduced to symbolic acts: wearing the barong Tagalog, speaking in Filipino, commemorating national heroes. While these expressions are culturally valuable, they do little to address the structural dependence that keeps the country tethered to foreign interests. True sovereignty cannot exist without economic and political independence. 

The post-war “Filipino First” policy under President Carlos P. Garcia was one of the few serious attempts at asserting economic nationalism. It prioritized Filipino businesses over foreign ones, seeking to build a self-reliant industrial base. However, it was short-lived and largely dismantled by subsequent administrations more amenable to foreign capital. Critics dismissed it as protectionist and oligarchic, while foreign corporations—especially American—regained dominance in key sectors such as mining, energy, and telecommunications. Today, Chinese firms have joined the fray, especially in infrastructure and construction. 

Instead of building strong domestic industries, the Philippine economy remains heavily reliant on foreign investment, remittances, and imports. Successive governments, including the current Marcos Jr. administration, have continued to open up the economy under the guise of development, while failing to nurture local productivity. Wall Street influences financial policies, while the Pentagon shapes defense priorities. The result is a country locked into the global economy without the safeguards or leverage to assert its own interests. 

A Global Reassessment: Even Americans Are Pulling Back 

Ironically, as the Philippine government embraces deeper military cooperation with the U.S., there is a growing movement within the United States calling for an end to its role as the “world’s policeman.” A significant portion of the American public is increasingly skeptical of overseas military interventions. Many now demand that their government focus on domestic issues—healthcare, infrastructure, education—rather than funding endless wars and maintaining hundreds of military bases abroad. 

In Japan and South Korea, where U.S. military presence is deeply entrenched, there is growing public backlash. In Okinawa, for example, mass protests against American bases have persisted for years, with locals decrying crimes, environmental degradation, and land grabs. South Korean civil society groups have repeatedly demanded greater autonomy from U.S. influence in both domestic and foreign policy. These are not marginal sentiments—they reflect a deeper global reassessment of military alliances born in a different geopolitical era. 

If more prosperous and militarily capable nations are questioning the wisdom of hosting U.S. bases, why should the Philippines, with its history of colonization and current vulnerabilities, embrace this arrangement so readily? 

The False Choice: China or the U.S.? 

The current discourse presents Filipino nationalism with a false dilemma: either align with the U.S. to contain China or fall prey to Chinese expansionism. But real patriotism demands rejecting this binary. The Philippines is not fated to be a pawn between superpowers. Instead, it must reclaim its sovereignty by asserting an independent foreign policy that genuinely prioritizes national interests. 

This means investing in the self-sufficiency of the Armed Forces of the Philippines, not to wage war, but to credibly defend national territory without depending entirely on foreign powers. It means building industries that generate local wealth and employment, rather than continuing to serve as a cheap labor market for multinational corporations. It means resisting the temptation to outsource national security and development to those who ultimately answer to their own capitals, not to Manila. 

History has shown that nations caught in the crossfire of great power rivalry suffer the most—Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan, and now Ukraine stand as stark reminders. Should conflict erupt between the U.S. and China, the Philippines’ proximity to flashpoints like Taiwan and the South China Sea, combined with its strategic EDCA locations, would make it one of the earliest and most vulnerable targets. 

Toward a Nationalism of Action 

Filipino nationalism must evolve. It can no longer be a hollow invocation of heroes or a passive reliance on foreign alliances. It must become a living, breathing framework for national renewal. 

This means: 

Establishing a clear roadmap for industrial development that prioritizes Filipino entrepreneurs and workers.

Renegotiating foreign agreements that undermine sovereignty or bypass local consultation.

Demanding transparency and accountability from government officials involved in security and economic policymaking.

Educating the public on the long-term costs of military dependence and foreign-led development.

The struggle for sovereignty is not merely diplomatic—it is economic, cultural, and psychological. It requires courage, vision, and above all, political will. 

Conclusion: A Nation at a Crossroads 

The Philippines today stands on a precipice. It can choose to double down on dependency, allowing foreign powers—whether East or West—to define its future. Or it can take the more difficult, but ultimately more rewarding path of genuine independence. 

This choice must be made not just by politicians, but by every Filipino who dares to ask: what does it truly mean to be free? 

The real enemy is not any one country, but the idea that the Philippines must always be someone else’s protectorate. The question now is not whether to kneel before China or the U.S., but whether Filipinos are ready to stand on their own. If nationalism means anything at all, it must begin with that decision.   

The Incompatibility of Multipolarity with the Neoliberal Imagination

The Incompatibility of Multipolarity with the Neoliberal Imagination

For those firmly invested in the ideology of neoliberal capitalism and globalization, democracy is tolerated only insofar as it does not impede market imperatives and capital accumulation. Within such a paradigm, the notion of multipolarity—a world shaped by multiple centers of political, economic, and cultural power—becomes ideologically inconceivable.

“Rules-Based International Order”: A Legal Fiction or Alibi? The expression “rules-based international order” is frequently invoked as though it were a neutral framework of universal norms. In reality, it often functions as a legal fiction—an ideological alibi to legitimize Western unipolar dominance.

As noted on Reddit:

“Rules based order in short is – जियो और जीने दो... Might is right at the end of the day…the West…contains the richest and most powerful nations on the planet” .

This blunt admission exposes how these “rules” were crafted by and for the powerful, not as impartial constraints.

Legal scholars like John Dugard affirm this critique. Dugard argues that the “rules-based international order” often stems from tacit arrangements among Western states alone, and affords them a unilateral license—one not available to non-Western actors.

Critics from TWAIL (Third World Approaches to International Law) go further, contending:
“The regime of international law is illegitimate. … a predatory system that legitimizes, reproduces and sustains the plunder and subordination of the Third World by the West”.

TWAIL scholars view international law not as a neutral code of global governance, but as a colonial project serving Western interests.

Historically, Western interventions—such as in Kosovo, Iraq, and Libya—have flouted legal norms in the service of declared higher purposes, revealing a double standard.

Multipolarity as Epistemological and Political Challenge

Multipolarity fundamentally challenges the neoliberal frame. It does not merely redistribute geopolitical power—it redefines legitimacy, norms, and global discourse.

Amitav Acharya, a prominent advocate of plural global order, observes that:
“Emerging powers cannot be simply co-opted into the existing liberal international order…mutual accommodation” is required—meaning deep institutional reform, regional legitimacy, and normative pluralism.

He warns that many non-Western states see the existing order as “narrow, unilateral, and Western‑centric,” and therefore in need of radical transformation.

What Acharya terms a “multiplex world” is neither return to past multipolar systems nor simple Western hegemony. Rather, it is a decentered, heterogeneous global order shaped by multiple actors, layers of institutions, and historical legacies.

Reclaiming Democracy Beyond Market Logic

Reviving democracy in a meaningful way—beyond its current subordination to market forces and hegemonic legalism—requires two intellectual tasks:

Decolonizing global discourse: We must reject the conflation of Western unipolar dominance with universal legality. As Acharya and TWAIL scholars remind us, the current “rules-based order” is structured, framed, and sustained by a narrow bloc of Western powers.

Reimagining power as plural: Multiplexity involves accepting diverse normative orders as legitimate. This means democratizing global institutions, acknowledging civilizational pluralism, and embracing mutual accommodation—rather than enforced adoption—of norms and structures.

Conclusion

The invocation of a “rules‑based international order” as a universal norm is, upon closer scrutiny, a rhetorical alibi—designed to preserve Western unipolar dominance under the guise of legality. Multipolarity, or better yet multiplexity, represents not just a shift in power distribution but a challenge to the very terms of global legitimacy.

Only by confronting this ideological fiction, and by committing to a plural democracy not subordinated to market imperatives, can we begin to conceive of a world shaped by multiple equal centers of power, legitimacy, and possibility.

References:
Acharya, A. (2016). Interview – Amitav Acharya.E‑IR. Retrieved from …
Acharya, A. (2017). After Liberal Hegemony: The Advent of a Multiplex World Order. Ethics & International Affairs, 31(3), 271–285.
Acharya, A. (2025, April 13). US‑led world order is going through a big shift… The Times of India.
Dugard, J. (n.d.). Liberal international order [Wikipedia].
Nigam, S. (2025). Third World approaches to international law. Canadian Lawyer Magazine.
Reddit user. (2022, March 25). The Rules‑based order myth. r/IndianDefense. Retrieved from reddit.com
Third World Approaches to International Law. (2025). Wikipedia.  

A Note on Freedom: Independent, But Still Becoming

A Note on Freedom: Independent, But Still Becoming 

 Issued on the 126th Anniversary of Philippine Independence 

June 12, 2025 

 This is a note—not a declaration. Not a decree. Simply a note, offered quietly from the folds of a nation’s heart. 

 The Philippines is an independent country. That much is fact. The flag was raised, the anthem sung, the colonizer’s rule ended. On paper, sovereignty was secured. But even now—over a century later—there remains a quiet truth that cannot be silenced: this country is still fighting to become a nation that truly determines its own path. 

 What is independence without dignity? Without agency? Without the power to shape policy, economy, and identity on its own terms? 

 There is freedom, yes—but it is partial, conditional, and often borrowed. For all the beauty of its islands and the strength of its people, the Philippines still struggles under the weight of foreign dependence and domestic inequality. Its seas are encroached upon. Its workers are shipped abroad. Its resources, extracted. Its decisions, too often shaped by interests beyond its shores. 

 And so this note speaks—not to celebrate with fanfare, but to remind with quiet resolve: sovereignty is not a single moment, but a continuous motion. 

 It is in the rice farmer asking for fair compensation. In the student demanding education that liberates. In the worker who stays not because they must, but because they choose to. In the leader who serves the flag, not their own pocket. 

 It is easier to say that the Philippines is independent. Easier still to celebrate it in parades and fireworks, with the illusion that the matter is settled. But a harder truth shadows the page: for all its legal sovereignty, the nation often behaves not like a republic charting its own course, but like a cultural community waiting for permission—beholden to the very powers it once defied. 

 Unlike Taiwan, which despite isolation chooses self-definition and stands firm in the face of pressure, the Philippines too often trades resolve for reassurance, policy for patronage. It invokes democracy while deferring to interests that neither vote here nor suffer the consequences of their influence. It speaks of people power, yet waits for others to validate its direction. At times, the question echoes uncomfortably in the national conscience: is the Philippines truly a sovereign state—or has it accepted a softer identity, closer to that of a postcolonial Puerto Rico, where the forms of freedom are present, but not its full weight, nor its responsibility?

 This is not to condemn, but to call. Independence must be more than an inheritance; it must be a decision remade every generation. A republic that forgets how to act as one may find itself adrift—not colonized, but not fully free either. So let this June 12 not mark a finish line, but a call to continue. Let it remind every Filipino—at home and abroad—that independence is not merely about being free from something, but about being free for something: for justice, for truth, for dignity, for nationhood that is lived, not just proclaimed. 

 And if that journey is uphill, then let it be climbed with the same courage that once lit the fires of revolution. This is the note. It is not loud. But it is clear.