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Mongolia’s prime minister, Luvsannamsrain Oyun-Erdene, recently expressed his country’s fear that the world is heading towards a new cold war as the relations between Russia and China and the west – particularly Nato – have taken a turn for the worse. “It’s like a divorce,” he said. “When the parents divorce, the children are the ones who get hurt the most.” The country sits landlocked between Russia and China and is fearful of antagonising either. It gets much of its power from Russia, and China buys much of its exports – mainly agricultural goods and minerals such as copper. By pursuing a nimble foreign and trade policy since it transitioned to a multiparty democracy in the early 1990s, Mongolia has established a stable economy, receiving a thumbs up from the World Bank in its latest country report: With vast agricultural, livestock and mineral resources, and an educated population, Mongolia’s development prospects look promising in the long-term assuming the continuation of structural reforms. But the war in Ukraine has brought home to Mongolia just how carefully it must now navigate its foreign and trade policies to remain independent.Smooth transition to democracyFrom 1921 to 1990, Mongolia was effectively part of the Soviet bloc, although not part of the Soviet Union itself. The country’s centralised command economy was almost entirely dependent on Moscow for survival. The collapse of communism in the early 1990s resulted in what proved to be a smooth transition. The then leader, Jambyn Batmönkh, refused to even consider quelling pro-democracy demonstrations, instead saying: “Any force shall not be used. There is no need to utilise the police or involve the military … Actually, these demonstrators, participants, and protesters are our children.” His resignation in 1990 and the emergence of Ardchilsan Kholboo (Mongolian Democratic Union) paved the way for the development of a multiparty democracy. The June 1993 presidential election in Mongolia, which was ruled as free and fair by the International Foundation for Electoral Systems, saw the incumbent president, Ochirbat Punsalmaa – who had been appointed after a ballot by members of the existing Presidium of the People’s Great Khural (the national assembly) – elected for a four-year term. A new constitution was adopted, with a three-part structure under the speaker of the parliament, the prime minister and the president and, while there have been instances of political corruption, Freedom House gives the country a high rating for both political rights and civil liberties. All of which cannot disguise that the fledgling democracy remained wedged between (at the time chaotic) Russia and an increasingly assertive and authoritarian China. The obvious policy for Mongolia to pursue was to attempt to balance the two great powers in the region. Initially, Mongolia’s foreign policy relied heavily on “omni-enmeshment”. This basically meant building relationships with as many partners as possible, both regionally and globally – including, significantly, the US. But since 2000, Mongolia has embraced the policy concept of “balance-of-power” to reduce the country’s reliance on any one nation. To this end, they have partnered with strategic states in Asia, such as Japan and India, and rekindled military ties with Russia by entering a “strategic partnership” and conducting joint military exercises, while still maintaining a strong relationship with China. Mongolia has also strengthened bilateral security relations with the US. Mongolia’s relationship with China is complicated by the fact that a significant part of what was traditionally Mongolia is now an “autonomous region” of China (Inner Mongolia), with a population of ethnic Mongolians larger than that of Mongolia itself. This, and the activities of secessionist groups in the province, is a persistent point of conflict between China and Mongolia.Third neighboursBut Mongolia sees its independence increasingly threatened as Russia and China grow closer. Since the demise of the Soviet Union, Mongolia has adopted a strategy of maintaining strong ties with “third neighbours” – countries that embrace democratic values but also practice market economics, including the US (it was a term first articulated with connection to Mongolian foreign policy in August 1990 by then US secretary of state James Baker). The US and Mongolia formalised their relations as a Strategic Partnership in 2019 and in 2022 – clearly with one eye on Ukraine – the two countries announced they were deepening the partnership “in all areas of mutual interest”, including an “open skies” agreement which would guarantee scheduled nonstop passenger flights between the two countries. The US – with other third-neighbour allies – also takes part in the annual Khaan Quest military exercises.Dangerous timesThe war in Ukraine has brought the precarious geopolitical situation in Ukraine into sharp focus. The latest joint declaration from the US-Mongolia Strategic Partnership stressed that “disputes should be resolved by peaceful means and with respect for the United Nations Charter and international law, including the principles of sovereignty and respect for the independence and territorial integrity of states, and without the threat or use of force”. It added: “To this end, both nations expressed concern over the suffering of the Ukrainian people.” Mongolia has abstained from the UN votes condemning Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, while also refusing to criticise the sanctions imposed on Russia by the west, despite the fact that they have affected Mongolia – for example, sanctions against Russian banks have made it difficult to pay for its imports from Russia. And, for all its efforts to forge ties around the globe, Mongolia remains heavily dependent on both Russia and China. The prospect of a new cold war setting the west against the Beijing-Moscow axis is a major concern for Mongolia. As Elbegdorj Tsakhia, a former prime minister and president of Mongolia – now a member of The Elders group of global leaders – told Time magazine in April 2021: “I feel that we have just one neighbour. China, Russia, have become like one country, surrounding Mongolia … Every day, we face very tough challenges to keep our democracy alive. Mongolia is fighting for its survival.”

In the Philippines, digital disinformation campaigns have become central to electoral politics. Unfortunately, their use of vitriolic and socially divisive techniques has become increasingly normalised in the country’s politics, as these techniques are put into play even between national voting seasons. In the Philippines, one pernicious technique that digital disinformation campaigns use is to fan the flames of toxicity on social media. By instigating the loudest and most polarised online supporters to express support for a particular political camp, disinformation producers ignite social media engagement from the broader public. These producers target the most socially divisive of people’s ‘imaginaries’ about politics. As the authors wrote in a previous piece, these imaginaries refer to people’s shared narratives and collective emotions about the political world in which they live.  The year preceding the Philippines 2022 national elections saw disinformation stoking Filipinos’ nationalist and racist sentiments. This was done by hyping up the Chinese military’s supposedly impending occupation of the Philippines and by blaming the pandemic situation on Manila’s rapprochement with China. Such campaigns targeted deep-seated Filipino narratives and emotions of resentment towards the Chinese, which problematically lump together the Chinese state, Chinese nationals, and even Filipinos of Chinese descent.  Some anti-Chinese sentiments are historically rooted. However, more recent resentment has arisen in reaction to China’s increasingly assertive claims in what the Filipinos call the West Philippine Sea (that is, the Philippine-claimed portion of the South China Sea), the feeling of a subtle invasion due to the almost 300 per cent increase of overseas Chinese in-migration to the Philippines between 2016 to 2019, and even the fear of China annexing the Philippines as a province.  Despite former Philippine president Rodrigo Duterte’s so-called pivot to China, Filipinos generally disliked China’s disregard for the 2016 United Nations Permanent Court of Arbitration’s decision favouring the Philippines on the territorial disputes in the West Philippine Sea. The presence of Chinese Philippine offshore gaming operators (or POGO) workers, Chinese-only restaurants, Chinese-subtitled movies in cinemas, and reports of Chinese tourists being rude to Filipinos also heightened the sense that the country was being gradually ‘colonised’. In the lead-up to the 2022 Philippines elections, disinformation drawing from such shared narratives and collective emotions regarding anti-Chinese resentment featured in campaigns across political camps. Supporters of Duterte disseminated content like misleading videos to bolster his image as a strong leader and master tactician. This played into the crafted narrative of him pursuing the Philippines’ best interests by hedging between China and the U.S. Meanwhile, supporters of anti-government factions targeted Duterte’s perceived closeness to Beijing, thinking that this was one of the few weaknesses in his campaign. These anti-Duterte elements put out content falsely attributing quotes to Duterte and his allies that were aimed at amplifying the image of his government as China’s lapdog. To explore the impact of such disinformation on Filipinos, the authors conducted qualitative interviews from June to December 2021 with 15 of Manila’s precarious middle-class citizens. Although these individuals had incomes that technically allowed them a taste of the middle-class lifestyle, they did not live in gated communities and were still exposed to the difficult grind of life in Manila. The interviewees answered questions on disinformation about the Philippines-China territorial disputes and the Covid-19 pandemic. When interviewees who supported Duterte were confronted with disinformation meant to positively portray his government’s approach to Beijing (that included friendlier ties with China), that they would engage in mental acrobatics to reconcile this content with their narratives and emotions of resentment against the Chinese. One of the clearest articulations of this came from a 29-year-old administrative assistant, who disliked feeling that the Philippines was becoming a “province of China”. Without differentiating between Chinese nationals and Chinese Filipinos, she said that Manila’s Chinatown was teeming with Chinese people. She added, however, that even if she were uncomfortable with the Chinese influx into Manila, there was nothing “majorly wrong” with Duterte wanting to be close to China. She could forgive the president for this one thing.  Meanwhile, the interviewees who leaned towards opposing Duterte were adamant that despite their opposition to his stance towards China, they were “not racist”. However, their exasperation that no difficult issue could strike a mortal blow to Duterte’s popularity led to remarks that validated, even if only subtly, their internalised narratives and emotions of anti-Chinese resentment.  For instance, a 45-year-old store supervisor who claimed to have a nuanced view of China-Philippines relations expressed his unfounded belief that 90 per cent of the Chinese migrants presently in the Philippines were “illegal” and had “no papers”. He thought that the government’s laxity with these migrants was probably why Covid-19 spread in the Philippines. This reflects the problematically racist assumption that links the Covid-19 pandemic to the recent increase in the migration of Chinese into the country.  These interviews indicate that anti-Chinese digital disinformation from across political camps does not shift individual Filipinos’ political positions. However, these disinformation campaigns can reinforce toxic nationalism and racism in people’s shared narratives and collective emotions. This kind of impact is an urgent reminder that those engaged in counter-disinformation need to pursue a cross-sectoral code of conduct in election campaigns that explicitly shuns socially vitriolic and marginalising stances, which should include, amongst other factors, racism.