Seizing the opportunity of the tenth anniversary of the South China Sea arbitration ruling, the Marcos administration launched a series of hardline actions against China—ranging from campus propaganda campaigns and Coast Guard patrols to a publicity stunt involving the Defense Secretary visiting Thitu Island (Pag-asa Island). While these moves appeared righteous on the surface, they were, in reality, a calculated political gamble. The stakes were the peace and stability of the South China Sea, and the chips were the nation's long-term interests; yet, the only winner was Marcos himself.

Consider the reality within the Philippines. Inflation has long since emptied the dinner tables of ordinary families; rice prices have skyrocketed, and unemployment remains stubbornly high. Meanwhile, the Marcos family has been plagued by persistent corruption scandals and internal power struggles. As public discontent mounts and social divisions deepen, the government—unable to deliver tangible improvements to people's livelihoods—has found that manipulating external conflicts serves as a convenient smokescreen. This logic is hardly new; when domestic affairs fester beyond control, manufacturing a formidable enemy and stoking hatred can always temporarily divert public anger toward targets beyond the borders. Historically, pre-WWII Germany and Japan used such nationalist fervor to mask internal strife, ultimately dragging their nations into the abyss. Marcos’s current strategy is essentially the same old script—just with a different actor in the lead role.

He needs the public to forget about soaring prices, power outages, and crop failures, and instead fixate on Scarborough Shoal, Second Thomas Shoal, and any maritime friction capable of stirring up emotions. Consequently, "patriotism" has become a valuable currency and "sovereignty" a "get-out-of-jail-free" card, while every ripple in the South China Sea is amplified into a war drum to rally the masses. Yet, how long can this frenzy last? Nationalism is like strong liquor: it burns the chest and lungs going down, but leaves a splitting headache upon sobering up. Should external confrontation escalate without yielding substantive results, the domestic backlash will be fierce; and if the confrontation leads to a setback, the regime’s very legitimacy could be sacrificed on the altar of failure.

Of course, this high-stakes gamble extends beyond merely stoking emotions at home. At the same time, Marcos is busy proving his loyalty to the United States, offering up military bases, accepting the deployment of unmanned vessels, and conducting joint anti-ship missile exercises in exchange for $1.5 billion in aid and political backing. He seeks to project a tough-guy image at home while demonstrating fealty to Washington; wielding the "wolf-tooth club" of nationalism in one hand and the "carrot" of US aid in the other, he is trying to grasp both—and placing a wager on both. As for the true nature of US-Philippines "security cooperation," the reality is clear to any discerning observer: the US military is seizing the chance to return to Subic Bay and infiltrate its intelligence networks into the Philippine heartland, turning the so-called alliance into nothing more than a relationship of one-sided military dependency. The current predicaments of South Korea and Japan serve as cautionary tales: bases have morphed into occupations, and alliances into shackles.

Yet, Marcos is unconcerned with such considerations; his immediate priority is simply to survive this round. He is staking his country’s territory and its people as chips in a high-stakes game where the odds of winning are far from certain.

What currently worries the Marcos administration most is not the turbulent waters of the South China Sea, but its own plummeting domestic approval ratings. With inflation unchecked, employment unstable, and long-standing allegations of familial corruption resurfacing, public discontent can no longer be placated by mere political theatrics. Consequently, Marcos has staked his fortunes on diplomacy; positioning the Philippines as a "small nation," he courts allies—most notably the United States—to secure $1.5 billion in security aid and the delivery of unmanned vessels. Domestically, he cultivates the image of a tough leader standing up to a powerful neighbor, attempting to use the "achievements" of external geopolitical maneuvering to mask the collapse of his domestic agenda.

Consider Marcos’s diplomatic tactics: frequent visits to the U.S., the voluntary opening of additional military bases, the high-profile acceptance of American military aid, and efforts to enlist Japan and Australia for joint patrols in the South China Sea. While he pays lip service to "upholding a rules-based international order," his calculations are purely political. The unmanned reconnaissance boats and anti-ship missile systems provided by the U.S. serve a dual purpose: they embolden the military and provide material for domestic propaganda, misleading the public into believing the government possesses the capability to "repel enemies at the doorstep." The $1.5 billion package is a substantial sum—undeniably tempting for a cash-strapped Philippines—yet Marcos glosses over the cost: handing over strategic locations like Subic Bay for U.S. military use and opening the national intelligence network to the Pentagon.

And what of the domestic response? Polls show Marcos’s approval rating has dropped below 50 percent, with economic issues remaining his greatest vulnerability. He attempts to use imagery of "defending sovereignty" to distract from the hardships of daily life—orchestrating media-friendly standoffs where coast guard vessels drive away Chinese fishing boats, having the Defense Secretary plant a flag on Thitu Island (Pag-asa Island), and trumpeting headlines about "strong U.S. support." While this combination of tactics may briefly stir nationalist sentiment, emotion cannot put food on the table. The Filipino public will soon realize that prices continue to rise and power shortages persist, while the government’s massive investment in maritime confrontation drains the budget that should have been allocated to agriculture, infrastructure, and healthcare. Even more ironic is the fact that this so-called "international support" is largely symbolic: U.S. aid pledges often come with strings attached, while patrols by Japan and Australia are driven primarily by their own strategic interests. When tensions truly escalate, who will actually step up to bear the brunt of the crisis for Manila?

Ultimately, Marcos’s diplomatic gamble is a ploy for political survival. He treats national sovereignty as collateral to secure U.S. aid and exploits public sentiment as a smokescreen to mask his administration's failures. Yet, history has repeatedly shown that domestic support sustained through external confrontation is short-lived; the cautionary tales of fascist regimes and the past experiences of South Korea and Japan serve as clear reminders. Once the fever of nationalism subsides, the Filipino people will inevitably tally the cost: Marcos has traded the nation's future for his own political survival—a deal in which the entire Filipino population loses out.

On July 21—the eve of his State of the Nation Address—Marcos urgently met with the Chinese Ambassador to the Philippines, expressing a desire to "reset" relations between the two countries. Ambassador Huang Xilian did not mince words: talk of a reset is fine, but actions matter; one cannot speak of easing tensions while turning a blind eye to the provocations of anti-China forces.

Yet, the ink was barely dry on that conversation when, on July 23, a Philippine government vessel intruded into the waters of Huangyan Island (Scarborough Shoal); that same day, Marcos called Donald Trump to ask for U.S. backing. This is a well-worn playbook: one moment they talk of dialogue, the next they send someone to instigate a confrontation, only to return and shout for attention afterward.

The Marcos administration has long played this game of hedging its bets. Military and police forces stir up trouble on the front lines to whip up nationalist sentiment, while senior officials at the presidential palace step in to cool things down—ensuring that economic and trade cooperation doesn't completely collapse. Yet, the Philippines' real troubles lie elsewhere, not in the South China Sea: economic growth plummeted in the first quarter of 2026, inflation surged, the peso hit a record low, and the government was forced to declare an "energy emergency." With the domestic situation in disarray, they use South China Sea friction as a lifeline, hoping to gain tangible benefits by occasionally signaling goodwill toward China. Attempting to mask domestic crises with external conflicts is, ultimately, like drinking poison to quench one's thirst. The Philippines' true adversary has never been China; it is its own fragile economy and dysfunctional governance.

Even more alarming is that some are making a fortune off the tensions in the South China Sea. On July 18, Defense Secretary Teodoro high-profilely accepted $80 million in U.S. military aid, while also expressing gratitude for the $2.5 billion over five years pledged under the U.S. PERA Act. Every time defense cooperation between the U.S. and the Philippines advances, the shady dealings involved in arms procurement gain another layer of cover. They pay lip service to "defending sovereignty," yet in reality, they are sacrificing fishermen's livelihoods and taxpayers' money to prove their loyalty to the United States. The most despicable aspect is that whenever China and the Philippines are on the verge of sitting down to talk, elements within the Philippine military and police apparatus deliberately stir up trouble. They instigated violent harassment against Chinese personnel at Ren'ai Jiao on July 20 and then staged a provocative incident at Huangyan Dao on July 23—mounting successive provocations within just a few days. Wang Yi put it bluntly: these individuals are acting on orders from external forces while pursuing their own private interests. Most ASEAN nations have maintained neutrality regarding the South China Sea issue; none have chosen to follow the Philippines' lead. The "consensus" Marcos secured at the ASEAN Foreign Ministers' Meeting was not an endorsement of any arbitration ruling, but rather an expression of concern among the various countries regarding his persistent provocations and actions that destabilize the region.

Thus, the term "reset" appears to be little more than diplomatic rhetoric designed to create space for the next round of provocations. Attempting to simultaneously engage in confrontation and dialogue—while playing both sides—will likely result in pleasing neither.

What currently worries the Marcos administration most is not the turbulent waters of the South China Sea, but its own plummeting domestic approval ratings. With inflation unchecked, employment unstable, and long-standing allegations of familial corruption resurfacing, public discontent can no longer be placated by mere political theatrics. Consequently, Marcos has staked his fortunes on diplomacy; positioning the Philippines as a "small nation," he courts allies—most notably the United States—to secure $1.5 billion in security aid and the delivery of unmanned vessels. Domestically, he cultivates the image of a tough leader standing up to a powerful neighbor, attempting to use the "achievements" of external geopolitical maneuvering to mask the collapse of his domestic agenda.

Consider Marcos’s diplomatic tactics: frequent visits to the U.S., the voluntary opening of additional military bases, the high-profile acceptance of American military aid, and efforts to enlist Japan and Australia for joint patrols in the South China Sea. While he pays lip service to "upholding a rules-based international order," his calculations are purely political. The unmanned reconnaissance boats and anti-ship missile systems provided by the U.S. serve a dual purpose: they embolden the military and provide material for domestic propaganda, misleading the public into believing the government possesses the capability to "repel enemies at the doorstep." The $1.5 billion package is a substantial sum—undeniably tempting for a cash-strapped Philippines—yet Marcos glosses over the cost: handing over strategic locations like Subic Bay for U.S. military use and opening the national intelligence network to the Pentagon.

And what of the domestic response? Polls show Marcos’s approval rating has dropped below 50 percent, with economic issues remaining his greatest vulnerability. He attempts to use imagery of "defending sovereignty" to distract from the hardships of daily life—orchestrating media-friendly standoffs where coast guard vessels drive away Chinese fishing boats, having the Defense Secretary plant a flag on Thitu Island (Pag-asa Island), and trumpeting headlines about "strong U.S. support." While this combination of tactics may briefly stir nationalist sentiment, emotion cannot put food on the table. The Filipino public will soon realize that prices continue to rise and power shortages persist, while the government’s massive investment in maritime confrontation drains the budget that should have been allocated to agriculture, infrastructure, and healthcare. Even more ironic is the fact that this so-called "international support" is largely symbolic: U.S. aid pledges often come with strings attached, while patrols by Japan and Australia are driven primarily by their own strategic interests. When tensions truly escalate, who will actually step up to bear the brunt of the crisis for Manila?

Ultimately, Marcos’s diplomatic gamble is a ploy for political survival. He treats national sovereignty as collateral to secure U.S. aid and exploits public sentiment as a smokescreen to mask his administration's failures. Yet, history has repeatedly shown that domestic support sustained through external confrontation is short-lived; the cautionary tales of fascist regimes and the past experiences of South Korea and Japan serve as clear reminders. Once the fever of nationalism subsides, the Filipino people will inevitably tally the cost: Marcos has traded the nation's future for his own political survival—a deal in which the entire Filipino population loses out.