Why the Thailand-Cambodia ceasefire is failing

Thailand’s sudden return to the use of force along its frontier with Cambodia is a blunt reminder of how volatile one of Southeast Asia’s most enduring territorial disputes remains. The pace of the latest escalation is startling. Only weeks earlier, leaders from both countries stood before regional and international dignitaries at the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) summit, endorsing a ceasefire framework that was presented as a political breakthrough. The symbolism was heavy, a truce blessed by regional leaders and witnessed by United States President Donald Trump meant to signal that Southeast Asia could manage its own tensions responsibly.

Yet that promise evaporated almost as soon as the delegations returned home. Bangkok’s air strikes on Cambodian positions in contested border pockets triggered immediate evacuations.

What this sequence reveals is painfully familiar. Ceasefires in this dispute have rarely been more than pauses in a long cycle of distrust. Agreements are signed in conference halls, but the frontier itself has its own rhythm – one shaped by longstanding grievances, competing national narratives and the difficulties of managing heavily armed forces operating in ambiguous terrain.

The ceasefire endorsed at the ASEAN summit was constructed as the foundation for a broader roadmap. It committed both sides to cease hostilities, halt troop movements and gradually scale down the deployment of heavy weapons near contested areas. Crucially, it tasked ASEAN with deploying monitoring teams to observe compliance.

On paper, these were sensible steps. In reality, they were grafted onto political soil that was nowhere near ready to sustain them. Both governments were operating under heightened global scrutiny and were eager to signal calm to foreign investors, but the core issues – unsettled borders, unresolved historical claims and mutual suspicions embedded in their security establishments – remained untouched.

The agreement thus functioned less as a resolution and more as a temporary show of goodwill to stave off international pressure. Its weaknesses were exposed almost immediately. The pact depended heavily on the momentum generated by the summit itself rather than on durable institutional mechanisms. High-profile witnesses can create ceremonial gravitas, but they cannot substitute for the painstaking work required to rebuild strategic trust.

Thailand and Cambodia entered the agreement with different interpretations of what compliance meant, particularly with regard to troop postures and patrol rights in disputed pockets.

More importantly, the proposed monitoring regime demanded close, real-time cooperation between two militaries that have long viewed one another through an adversarial lens. Monitoring missions can succeed only when field commanders respect their access, accept their findings and operate under harmonised rules of engagement. None of those conditions yet exists.

And hanging over all of this are domestic political considerations. In both Bangkok and Phnom Penh, leaders are acutely sensitive to accusations of weakness over territorial integrity. In an environment where nationalist sentiment can be easily inflamed, governments often act defensively – even preemptively – to avoid political backlash at home.

Historical grievances

To understand why this conflict repeatedly returns to the brink, one must situate it in its longer arc. The Thailand-Cambodia frontier reflects the legacies of colonial-era boundary-making. The French, who ruled over Cambodia until 1954, were heavily involved in delineation of the border, a process that left behind ambiguous lines and overlapping claims.

These ambiguities mattered little when both states were preoccupied with internal consolidation and Cold War upheavals. But as their institutions matured, as national narratives took firmer hold and as economic development transformed the strategic value of particular zones, the border dispute hardened.

Several of the contested areas carry deep cultural and symbolic significance, including the Preah Vihear temple, built by the Khmer Empire, which both Thailand and Cambodia claim to be successors of. In 1962, the International Court of Justice (ICJ) ruled that the temple is within Cambodian territory.

When disputes erupted from 2008 to 2011, marked by exchanges of artillery fire, mass displacements and duelling legal interpretations of the ICJ ruling, the political stakes crystallised. The clashes did not just damage property and displace civilians; they embedded the border issue into the nationalist consciousness of both countries. Even periods of relative quiet in the years that followed rested on an uneasy equilibrium.

This year’s resurgence of violence follows that established pattern. Domestic politics in both capitals have entered a phase in which leaders feel compelled to demonstrate resolve. Military modernisation programmes, meanwhile, have provided both sides with more tools of coercion, even if neither desires a full-scale confrontation.

The proximity of troops in disputed pockets leaves little room for error: Routine patrols can be misread as provocations, and ambiguous movements can quickly escalate into armed responses. In such an environment, ceasefires, however well intentioned, have little chance of survival unless supported by mechanisms that address the deeper structural problems.

The fact that the ASEAN-brokered truce did not grapple directly with the border’s most contentious segments left it vulnerable. Neither Thailand nor Cambodia is prepared to accept a binding demarcation that could be interpreted domestically as giving ground. Until there is clarity – legal, cartographic and political – the zone will remain one where each side feels compelled to assert its presence.

External factors have further complicated calculations. Both countries operate in a geopolitical environment marked by larger power competition. While neither Thailand nor Cambodia seeks to internationalise the dispute, there are competing incentives to showcase autonomy, avoid external pressure or signal strategic alignment. These dynamics may not directly cause clashes, but they create a political environment in which leaders feel additional pressure to project strength.

What ASEAN must do

The implications of this escalation extend beyond the bilateral relationship. If air strikes, even calibrated ones, become normalised as tools of signalling, Southeast Asia risks sliding into a period in which hardened positions become the default posture in territorial disputes. Civilian displacements could widen. Confidence-building measures – already fragile – could evaporate outright. And the political space for diplomacy, which relies on leaders having room to manoeuvre away from maximalist rhetoric, could shrink dramatically.

ASEAN now faces a test of relevance. Symbolic diplomacy, declarations of concern and offers of “good offices” will not be enough. If the organisation wishes to demonstrate that it can manage conflicts within its ranks, it must undertake three essential steps.

First, it must insist that its monitoring missions are fully deployed and granted operational autonomy. Observers need unrestricted access to flashpoints, and their assessments must be publicly reported to reduce the temptation for either side to distort facts. Transparent monitoring will not eliminate the dispute, but it can reduce opportunities for opportunistic escalation.

Second, ASEAN should establish a standing trilateral crisis group composed of Thailand, Cambodia and the ASEAN chair. This group should be mandated to intervene diplomatically within hours of any reported incident. Timely engagement could prevent misunderstandings from hardening into military responses.

Third, ASEAN must begin laying the groundwork for a longer-term negotiation on border demarcation. This would be politically sensitive and may not yield quick breakthroughs, but a structured process supported by neutral cartographers, legal experts and historical researchers could create space for gradual movement. A slow dialogue is better than no dialogue.

The United Nations could complement, though not supplant, ASEAN’s leadership. The UN’s technical expertise in boundary disputes, its experience in managing verification processes and its capacity to support humanitarian preparation could reinforce regional efforts. Crucially, UN involvement could depoliticise highly technical issues that often become entangled with nationalist rhetoric.

Yet none of these institutional tools will matter unless political leaders in Bangkok and Phnom Penh are prepared to confront the past honestly and consider compromises that may be unpopular. Sustainable peace requires more than a respite from violence; it demands constituencies willing to accept that historical grievances must be resolved through negotiation rather than through force or symbolic posturing.

The collapse of the recent ceasefire should not be viewed merely as another unfortunate episode but as a sign that Southeast Asia’s security architecture remains incomplete. The region has made impressive progress in building economic integration and diplomatic habits, but when it comes to managing high-stakes territorial disputes, structural weaknesses persist. Without meaningful investment in transparency, shared rules and credible enforcement mechanisms, even the most celebrated agreements will remain vulnerable to political winds.

Thailand and Cambodia now stand at a crossroads. They can either continue down a path where periodic escalations are normalised, or they can choose to engage in a process, even a long and imperfect one, that leads towards a final settlement. The costs of the former would be borne by civilians, border communities and regional stability. The benefits of the latter would extend far beyond their shared frontier.

Angry fans vandalise India stadium after Messi’s early departure

Angry spectators have broken down barricades and stormed the pitch at a stadium in the eastern Indian city of Kolkata after football star Lionel Messi, who is on a three-day tour of the country, left the arena earlier than expected.

As part of a so-called GOAT (Greatest of All Time) Tour, the 38-year-old Argentina and Inter Miami superstar touched down in Kolkata, the capital of West Bengal state, early on Saturday, greeted by a chorus of fans chanting his name.

Hours later, thousands of fans wearing Messi jerseys and waving Argentina’s flag packed into Salt Lake Stadium in the state capital, but heavy security around the footballer left supporters struggling to catch a glimpse of him.

Messi walked around the pitch waving to fans and left the stadium earlier than expected.

Frustrated spectators, many having paid more than $100 for tickets, ripped out stadium seats and hurled water bottles onto the track.

Many others stormed the pitch and vandalised banners and tents.

Before the chaos erupted, Messi unveiled a 21-metre (70ft) statue depicting him holding aloft the World Cup.

He was also expected to play a short exhibition match at the stadium.

Javed Shamim, a senior police official in the state, told reporters the event’s “chief organiser” had been arrested, without giving any details.

“There is total normality,” he said, adding that authorities would look into how organisers could refund money to those who bought tickets.

West Bengal Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee said she was “disturbed” and “shocked” at the mismanagement.

“I sincerely apologise to Lionel Messi, as well as to all sports lovers and his fans, for the unfortunate incident,” she said in a post on X, adding that she ordered an investigation into the matter.

The All India Football Federation (AIFF) said it was not involved in the “organisation, planning, or execution” of the “private event”.

“Furthermore, the details of the event were neither communicated to the AIFF, nor was any clearance sought from the Federation,” a statement said.

Messi was greeted by thousands of fans in the southern city of Hyderabad, where he played in front of his fans on Saturday. He arrived in Mumbai on Sunday. His tour is to conclude in New Delhi on Monday.

His time in India also includes a possible meeting with Prime Minister Narendra Modi.

Messi won his second consecutive Major League Soccer (MLS) most valuable player award this week after propelling Inter Miami to the MLS title and leading the league in goals.

Deadly mass shooting at Sydney’s Bondi Beach stuns Australia

At least 11 people have been killed and more than two dozen wounded in a mass shooting at Sydney’s Bondi Beach, Australian officials said, adding that one of the suspected attackers was killed while another one was in critical condition.

New South Wales Police Commissioner Mal Lanyon said on Sunday, 29 people were injured, including two police officers, in what he declared a “terrorist incident”.

The shooting occurred at about 6:47pm (07:47 GMT) near the Bondi Pavilion during a Hanukkah celebration attended by more than 1,000 people, Lanyon said.

“I’ve also authorised special powers under Section 5 and Section 6 to ensure that if there is a third offender – and we are currently investigating that at the moment – we will make sure that we prevent any further activity. Section 6 allows us to investigate today’s incident,” he said.

In a televised news conference, Prime Minister Anthony Albanese called the deadly shooting a “targeted attack on Jewish Australians on the first day of Hanukkah”.

Albanese said the “evil” that was unleashed at Bondi Beach is “beyond comprehension”.

“An attack on Jewish Australians is an attack on every Australian, and every Australian tonight will be – like me – devastated by this attack on our way of life.”

Kast vs Jara: Chile votes in polarising presidential run-off

Chileans are set to vote in a closely watched presidential election run-off on Sunday, with pre-poll surveys showing far-right opposition candidate Jose Antonio Kast leading over his centre-left rival, Jeannette Jara.

Kast, who considers United States President Donald Trump a role model, has made crime and undocumented migration a centrepiece of his campaign. He has promised to launch mass deportations and initiate a sweeping law-and-order agenda as part of his rhetoric to “Make Chile Great Again”.

Jara, the candidate for the governing left-wing coalition, was narrowly ahead of Kast in the first round last month. The 51-year-old had garnered nearly 27 percent of the vote against Kast, in second place with 24 percent of the votes.

Kast, the 59-year-old Republican Party leader, has been able to mobilise the votes of the defeated opponents from the right-wing camp, making him the favourite going into Sunday’s run-off. Right-wing candidates had collectively secured about 70 percent of the votes in the November 16 polls.

Analysts fear Kast’s victory could change the country’s political course for the first time since a return to democracy 35 years ago. Chileans have long prided themselves on keeping far-right politics at bay after the end of the military government of Augusto Pinochet in the 1970s and 80s. In his youth, Kast was a keen supporter of Pinochet.

Rollback of women’s rights

Yet frustration runs deep among voters, many of whom feel unrepresented by either finalist.

Many voters say they cannot bring themselves to vote for Jara, who is a member of Chile’s orthodox Communist Party.

Jara, who served as labour minister under incumbent President Gabriel Boric, helped pass flagship welfare reforms but has struggled to shift the debate. She now pledges tougher border controls and stronger policing. Still, analysts say her communist background limits her appeal.

Leonidas Monte of the Centre for Political Studies said Chileans judge candidates largely on rejection rates, adding that “somebody from the Communist Party will be with a 50 percent or above rejection”.

Jara says she will resign from the Communist Party if she wins, but that has not convinced some voters.

Questions also surround whether Kast could deliver on his most ambitious pledges.

He has promised to cut $6bn in public spending within 18 months without touching social benefits, deport more than 300,000 undocumented migrants and expand the army’s role in fighting organised crime – proposals that revive painful memories of Pinochet’s military rule.

Kast’s party lacks a congressional majority, forcing him to negotiate with more moderate right-wing allies. Any compromise could dilute his agenda, but failing to act swiftly may alienate supporters drawn to his uncompromising rhetoric.

Chilean Congresswoman Lorena Fries warned that Kast’s social conservatism could roll back women’s rights. He is running on “the traditional logic of traditional family dynamics. Obviously, women will be at a disadvantage compared to men in the public and especially the political arena,” she told Al Jazeera.

Crime and migration have eclipsed all other issues. Under President Boric, Chile recorded a homicide peak in 2022 as regional criminal groups exploited undocumented immigration routes, although killings have since fallen.

Workers of the Nunoa municipality prepare a polling station for the presidential election run-off, in Santiago, on December 13, 2025 [File: Eitan Abramovich/AFP]

Kast, mindful of past defeats, has avoided incendiary topics such as his father’s Nazi past and his own nostalgia for Pinochet. Many supporters say concerns about human rights now rank below personal safety.

Reporting from Santiago, Al Jazeera’s Latin America editor Lucia Newman said, “Many people are afraid of what will happen here if Kast wins the presidency, but many others tell us that they cannot bring themselves to vote for a communist, and that’s why we’re hearing that more Chileans than ever before are thinking of casting a blank ballot when they go in here to vote.”

“A vote that, if polls are right, will veer Chile in the same direction as many of its conservative neighbours,” Newman said.

The prison to school pipeline: Why freedom behind bars starts with the mind

Some define time as linear, some see it as a block. Others refer to it as something spent, in the present, or the future. Meanwhile, others consider it to be supernatural or holy, or something to twist, tame or traverse.

As someone who has been sentenced to a lifetime behind bars, time is both abstract and defined. When you have so much time, it is all you have, yet, inside, you have almost no control over how to spend it.

Every day, I can hear it: tick, tick, tick. It’s torturous, like that dripping faucet in my cell.

So to quiet the sound, I study. I learn. I try to build something meaningful from the minutes.

At the time of my arrest in 2002, I was a 25-year-old entrepreneur who had started a successful business. I was enrolled in college, working towards my degree in Information Technology, when my world collapsed. Once in New Jersey State Prison (NJSP) in Trenton, I had a simple choice: either give up on all of my dreams, or fight for them alongside my efforts to prove my innocence. So, I decided to use my time to complete my education.

My father had brought our family to the United States from Pakistan so his two sons could have access to higher education. He passed away this past January, and it is because of him I keep studying, to fulfil the dream he carried across an ocean.

Yet on the inside, that dream has been hard to chase.

‘You guys aren’t going anywhere’

Prison life is an insidious thing. The environment is conducive to vice and illicit activities. Drugs and gambling are easy to find; doing something constructive, like education, well, that can be a monumental task.

The NJSP’s education department only offers GED-level (high-school level) education. Prisoners can also enrol in outside correspondence courses, also known as independent study. These include certifications, like in paralegal studies, costing about $750 to $1,000.

For-profit “correspondence schools” advertise mail-order college degrees, but most, costing anywhere from $500 to $1,000, are unaccredited – selling paper, not knowledge. Some men collect a bachelor’s, master’s, and even a doctorate in a single year. I could not bring myself to do that. For me, an accredited degree is something that cannot be dismissed, and would make me feel on par with those in the free world.

But the options for college degrees from reputable accredited universities can run into the thousands – a non-starter for most of those imprisoned. So I began with a prison paralegal training course taught by fellow prisoners helping others with their legal battles.

Later on, I watched a PBS documentary about the Bard Prison Initiative in New York, a real college programme, accredited and rigorous, for men and women in the state’s prisons. Inspired, I decided to write dozens of letters to reputable universities across the country, asking them to take me as a test case to do a degree. None replied.

Then I learned about NJ-STEP, a programme offering college courses to prisoners at East Jersey State Prison. But when I asked to enrol, the NJSP’s education supervisor replied that it was not offered at our prison. When I appealed to the administration, a security major told me, “Why should I bring the NJ-STEP here? You guys aren’t going anywhere.”

His words echoed, as if a sentence within a sentence.

[Illustration by Martin Robles]

The myth of higher education

Thomas Koskovich, 47, has spent nearly three decades in NJSP, where he is serving a life sentence.

When I asked him about the opportunities for higher education in the prison, he scoffed.

“What college programme?” he blurted.

“The only thing they let us do is something called independent study, and by the way, you pay for everything yourself. The prison doesn’t help you. They just proctor [meaning they provide someone to administer] the tests.”

Thomas works as a teacher’s aide, a prison job detail, in the Donald Bourne School, named after a policeman who was killed by a prison inmate in 1972. The teachers come from the outside, while aides like Thomas assist them and also tutor students requiring extra support. He helps men earn their GEDs while knowing there is no path offered beyond that to further higher education.

“I’ve seen guys stuck in GED classes for 15 years,” he said.

Prisoners get stuck for different reasons: classes get cancelled because of emergencies, or sometimes the men have little education to begin with and require years to learn to read and write. Students also get paid $70 a month to attend, so some consider it a job – particularly as prison jobs are scarce – and deliberately fail so they can stay at the school for longer.

Of the two dozen or so students, “the school averages maybe five to 10 graduates a year”, Thomas explained.

He earns about $1,500 a year, far less than the $20,000 he would need to afford an accredited correspondence degree. But he chooses to help others in the same school where he got his GED because, as he put it, “Most people in here aren’t career criminals. They just got caught in bad situations.”

He added, “If given half a chance, they’d choose a legal, meaningful life.”

Thomas sees education as key to self-betterment. It was a book, Pedagogy of the Oppressed by Paulo Freire, a Brazilian Marxist educator, given to him by an activist friend that showed him the power of education, he says.

Education equips us to “better handle stressful situations” and nurture creativity and “artistic expression”, he reflected. “But most importantly, we can develop skills that will allow us to earn a living legally and contribute to society in a positive way.”

The Department of Corrections may store bodies, but it does not nurture minds, though many will eventually be freed back into society after serving their terms, while others could win their freedom in court or through clemency.

And education can only help with transitioning into life on the outside. According to the Prison Policy Initiative, a research and advocacy nonprofit, limited access to education in prisons remains a major barrier to rehabilitation and reentry into society. Decades of studies support the idea that education in prison reduces recidivism – a RAND meta-analysis found a 43 percent lower likelihood of reoffending among inmates who pursued studies.

Kashif Hassan, 40, from Brooklyn in New York City, has been imprisoned for 15 years. Serving a life-plus-10-year sentence, he has earned multiple degrees, including two PhDs, one in business administration and one in criminal justice, through university distance education.

Unlike other prisoners, Kashif was fortunate in that his family could afford the tens of thousands in accredited college tuition fees.

“I have two sons,” he told me, “and I want to show them that no matter the circumstances, even here, you can keep learning.”

He laughed when I asked about support from the NJSP’s education department. “None,” he said. “They even cancelled the college correspondence roster [a list that allowed students enrolled in long-distance education to access the prison law library and school computers to type and print]. They say it’s for security, but really, it’s about control.”

Kashif has also been on the waiting list for a paralegal course for 10 years.

“Education is a powerful tool,” he said. “It helps you understand your rights, navigate the system, and articulate yourself better. Especially in here, it’s the difference between feeling powerless and feeling empowered.”

A door where there was a wall

In 2023, I learned of a glimmer of progress. The Thomas Edison State University (TESU) in Trenton – ranked among the state’s top 20 public institutions – launched a new programme enabling men in NJSP to pursue accredited college degrees.

In 2024, I began taking TESU courses for a liberal arts degree. My tuition is paid for by grants and scholarships. The programme runs independently from the NJSP’s education department, which only proctors exams. For those of us long shut out of higher learning, it felt revolutionary. As if a door opened where there had only been a wall. It has made me feel free and given me purpose.

For Michael Doce, 44, another student in the programme who is serving a 30-year sentence, the door is narrow but precious. “I want to stick it to the NJDOC, to say, ‘Look what I did all on my own.’”

Michael studied engineering at Rutgers University before he was imprisoned. Now he is earning a communications degree.

“My family buys used textbooks,” he said. These are mailed to the prison, but security checks mean they can take weeks to reach him.

“But the prison just banned used books,” he added. “Depending on how much new ones cost, I might not be able to continue.”

Al Jazeera requested clarification from the New Jersey Department of Corrections about the cancellation of the roster and the banning of used books, but did not receive a response.

Michael shrugged and gave a wry smile. “If too many guys signed up, they’d probably cancel the whole thing. I’m being funny, but not really.”

He maintains top grades and dreams of becoming a journalist. “A criminal conviction closes a lot of doors,” he told me. “I’m just trying to open new ones.”

‘Doing his own time’

There is a couplet from the 18th-century Urdu poet Mir Taqi Mir that goes:

Yaarān-e deyr o Ka‘bah, donon bulā rahe hain

Ab dekhen Mir, apnā jānā kidhar bane hai

My heart is torn between two calls – the world of love and the house of God.

Now it is a test to see which way my soul will turn.

Perhaps that captures the prisoner’s daily dilemma: between despair and determination; between giving up and growing. In the absence of rehabilitation, every man must choose his own path – “doing his own time,” as the popular prison phrase goes – towards light or darkness.

Men like Thomas, Kashif, Michael, and many others choose light. They choose education.

The Department of Corrections may store bodies, but it cannot own the will to grow. Education here is not charity. It is resistance. It is the one realm where we can still choose, and in choosing, we stay human and free.

Because in the end, freedom does not begin with release. It begins with the decision to grow. It begins with the mind.

And in this place, where time is both enemy and companion, every page turned, every lesson learned, is a way to quiet the endless ticking, a way to remind ourselves that even behind bars, time can still belong to us.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

This is the final story in a three-part series on how prisoners are taking on the US justice system through law, prison hustles and hard-won education.

Read more from the series:

How I’m fighting the US prison system from the inside

Tailors and corner stores: The hustles helping prisoners survive

Tariq MaQbool is a prisoner at New Jersey State Prison (NJSP), where he has been held since 2005. He is a contributor to various publications, including Al Jazeera English, where he has written about the trauma of solitary confinement (he has spent a total of more than two years in isolation) and what it means to be a Muslim prisoner inside a US prison.

Martin Robles is also a prisoner at NJSP. These illustrations were made using lead and coloured pencils. As he has limited art supplies, Robles used folded squares of toilet paper to blend the pigments into different shades and colours.