Contested

Dhaka, Bangladesh – Bangladesh is holding its first contested presidential election in 35 years, with the ruling Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP) candidate Mirza Fakhrul Islam Alamgir pitted against former army officer Oli Ahmad, the nominee of the Jamaat-e-Islami-led 11-party opposition alliance.

A total of 349 members of parliament are eligible to vote in the parliamentary chamber between 08:00 GMT and 11:00 GMT on Thursday, with the result expected hours later, according to Bangladesh’s Election Commission.

The election was triggered by the resignation last month of Mohammed Shahabuddin, who was elected unopposed in 2023 as a nominee of ousted Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina’s Awami League (AL) party. He quit halfway through his five-year term after serving through Hasina’s removal in August 2024, the Muhammad Yunus-led interim administration, and the BNP’s return to power in February.

Thursday’s vote will be the first contested presidential election since October 1991, when BNP candidate Abdur Rahman Biswas defeated AL nominee Badrul Haider Chowdhury by 172 votes to 92. Every presidential election since was uncontested.

The outcome, however, is widely seen as a foregone conclusion.

Of the 349 lawmakers eligible to vote, 247 belong to the BNP and 90 to the Jamaat-led opposition alliance, giving Alamgir a decisive numerical advantage.

Still, the vote carries symbolic significance for a country reshaping its institutions two years after the 2024 uprising that ended Hasina’s iron-fisted 15-year rule.

Who are the candidates?

Alamgir, 78, is one of the BNP’s most prominent leaders. He became the acting secretary-general in 2011 and was formally appointed to the post in 2016, emerging as one of the party’s principal public faces during its long years in opposition under Hasina.

After the BNP swept this year’s election, Alamgir became minister for local government, rural development and cooperatives.

At a BNP parliamentary party meeting on Wednesday, he thanked Prime Minister Tarique Rahman for nominating him and pledged not to compromise on Bangladesh’s independence and sovereignty. Rahman in turn urged BNP lawmakers to vote for Alamgir.

Alamgir’s opponent, retired Colonel Ahmad, 85, is a decorated veteran of Bangladesh’s 1971 Liberation War, chairman of the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP), and a six-time member of parliament.

Once a close associate of former President Ziaur Rahman, the father of current Prime Minister Tarique Rahman, Ahmad joined the BNP in 1980 after leaving the army the year before. He served as communications minister under former Prime Minister Khaleda Zia, and founded the LDP in 2006.

Ahmad’s nomination is politically striking: his main backer, the Jamaat, had opposed Bangladesh’s independence in 1971 and sided with Pakistan during the war, while Ahmad fought in the Liberation War.

Despite Ahmad’s slim chances of winning, the opposition alliance has hailed him as an experienced and broadly acceptable candidate, ensuring that the presidency will be decided through a vote and not remain uncontested.

Among Bangladeshis, views are divided over the two men’s political records.

For Anwarul Islam, a former Bangladesh Bank official, Alamgir stands out for his personal integrity.

“I visited Mirza Fakhrul’s constituency. People, irrespective of race or religion, have enormous affection for him,” Islam told Al Jazeera. “His integrity is rare among Bangladeshi politicians.”

Abdul Baten, a manager at a construction site in the capital Dhaka, said he preferred Ahmad.

“I would definitely prefer Oli because he is a seasoned politician,” Baten said. “His opponent, Fakhrul, and the BNP did not keep their promises on state reforms.”

Historic, but how important?

Bangladesh’s constitution makes the president the head of state, but grants the office little independent executive authority. Article 48(3) requires the president to act on the prime minister’s advice, except in appointing the prime minister and the chief justice.

Ali Riaz, a political scientist who served as co-chair of the National Consensus Commission on state reforms under the Yunus-led interim government, said the return of a contested election was welcome, but its practical significance should not be overstated.

“It’s good to see that someone who has been at the forefront of the democratic movement and fought against a fascist regime will be occupying the office of the president,” Riaz told Al Jazeera.

“However, the presidential election has very little significance due to the limited powers of the president.”

Riaz said the July National Charter on key reforms agreed by political parties after the 2024 uprising, and ratified through a referendum in this year’s election, proposed that the president be elected by members of both houses of parliament. The plan for an upper chamber of parliament, with significant powers over key constitutional and statutory bodies to balance power, has still not been implemented.

Riaz also questioned the significance of an open vote in which the governing party already has the numbers to win. “The election is more of a ritual than substantive in terms of governance and politics,” he said.

Questions over the process

For the families of more than 1,400 people killed by the security forces during the 2024 uprising, Shahabuddin’s departure and the election of a new president are overdue.

“It should have happened much earlier, but it is still good to see it happening now,” Sanjida Khan Deepti, mother of 17-year-old Shahriar Khan Anas who was killed during the uprising, told Al Jazeera.

But Deepti questioned whether MPs should be bound by their party’s choice.

“If an MP cannot vote for the person they believe is best for the country, then what is the point of holding a vote?” she said. “Our children gave their lives for democracy.”

The election has revived debates over whether Article 70 of the constitution – which can cost lawmakers their parliamentary seats for voting against their party – should apply to a presidential election.

For all its constitutional limitations and predictable arithmetic, Thursday’s vote will mark a rare moment in Bangladesh’s politics: for the first time in more than three decades, lawmakers will have two names on the ballot for the country’s next head of state.

By chaining bilateral naval exercises across a widening circle of partners — Russia, Malaysia, Cambodia, Thailand, Vietnam, and now Indonesia — Beijing is not assembling an alliance. It is manufacturing the impression that a Chinese warship’s presence near every regional flashpoint, including the waters off Taiwan, is unremarkable.

On July 29th, the Indonesian frigate KRI I Gusti Ngurah Rai wrapped up a two-day naval drill with the Russian navy in Vladivostok, part of Exercise Orruda 2026. Two weeks later, on August 12th, China’s Ministry of National Defense announced that the same ship, on its way home, would run a “passing exercise” with a Chinese frigate, the Honghe — not in Indonesian waters, not in the South China Sea, but east of Taiwan. Jakarta’s navy described it in the blandest terms available: communications drills, a resupply run, “a universal naval tradition.” Taipei was not reassured. Taiwan’s foreign ministry said it “sternly condemns” the move and complained that Beijing had “unilaterally claimed” Indonesian participation before Jakarta had said a word about where, or why, this was happening.

That gap — between Jakarta’s shrug and Taipei’s alarm — is the story. It is also a useful corrective to how most coverage of Chinese naval activity is currently framed. The default lens is bilateral and confrontational: China versus the Philippines at Second Thomas Shoal, China versus Japan around the Senkakus, China versus Taiwan in the Strait. That lens catches real events, but it misses the connective tissue between them — a growing schedule of joint drills with third parties, each one small and individually deniable as “routine,” that collectively do something the confrontational track cannot: they make China’s presence in the surrounding water look normal to everyone except the state it is actually disputing with.

Indonesia and China have their own maritime dispute: Beijing’s nine-dash line overlaps Indonesia’s exclusive economic zone around the Natuna Islands, and Chinese fishing incursions there froze bilateral naval drills between 2015 and 2021. Those “Sharp Knife” exercises resumed in 2021 and have picked up pace since 2024. That history matters, but it is not what explains this month’s drill, because this drill did not happen anywhere near Natuna. It happened off Taiwan — waters Indonesia has no claim to and, until now, no naval presence in alongside China. Indonesia is simply the newest and most sensitive addition to a list that already includes Russia (the mature anchor partnership, most recently “Joint Sea-2026” in July), Malaysia (“Peace and Friendship 2025” in the Strait of Malacca last October), Cambodia (“Golden Dragon” at the newly built Ream Naval Base logistics center last spring), Thailand (“Blue Strike” and “Falcon Strike,” the latter launched again this month), and Vietnam (a Beibu Gulf coast guard and navy patrol series now past its fortieth iteration). All of this sits alongside a separate, unilateral track — a 100-plus-vessel show of force spanning the Yellow Sea to the western Pacific last December, and routine coast guard patrols around Scarborough Shoal and Second Thomas Shoal.

The claim of this piece is that these two tracks are not separate stories about Chinese assertiveness. They are one story, working in tandem: the unilateral patrols draw the lines, and the bilateral drills erase them, by training a widening circle of regional navies — and the publics who read about them — to treat a Chinese warship’s presence near contested space as routine bilateral traffic rather than a signal.

The Indonesia case is the clearest evidence yet, because the location was Beijing’s choice, not Jakarta’s. Indonesia had no dispute-driven reason to be operating near Taiwan; its dispute with China sits in the Natuna Sea, hundreds of miles away. What Jakarta had was a frigate already at sea, returning from Russia, and a willingness to let Beijing choose the itinerary’s final leg. Global Times, writing for a domestic Chinese audience, called the drill’s timing “of great significance” — language China’s defense ministry does not use for routine port calls. The exercise also landed in the same week that Elbridge Colby, the U.S. Under Secretary of War for Policy, was in Jakarta courting Indonesia’s alignment. Chaining a Chinese passing exercise onto the tail of an Indonesian-Russian one, in waters adjacent to the most dangerous flashpoint in the region, at the exact moment Washington was making its own pitch, is not the profile of a routine bilateral courtesy call.

The strongest objection to this argument comes from analysts of Malaysia’s drills with China, who point out that Kuala Lumpur treats “Peace and Friendship” as a hedging tool it controls, not a concession Beijing extracted — the exercises are deliberately unsophisticated (humanitarian assistance, counter-piracy, no live fire), and Malaysia’s own defense establishment remains wary of Chinese assertiveness even as it participates. That is a fair description of Malaysia’s intent, and it likely holds for Cambodia and Thailand too: these governments are managing great-power competition on their own terms, not capitulating to it. But intent on the partner’s side does not determine the effect on Beijing’s side. Whatever Kuala Lumpur or Phnom Penh tell their own publics, every additional bilateral drill lowers the diplomatic and psychological cost, for Beijing, of being seen operating a warship near water someone else disputes. Indonesia’s case shows why that distinction matters: Jakarta’s intent was almost certainly routine — a frigate coming home. Beijing’s was not. It picked the coordinates.

None of this means China is close to fielding a formal coalition in the NATO sense; nothing here involves interoperability, shared command, or mutual defense. What it means is narrower and, in some ways, more useful to Beijing: a maintenance routine that makes normalization cumulative rather than a single dramatic claim to defend. Each additional partner adds one more government that has, at least once, treated a joint Chinese naval presence near contested water as unremarkable — and one more precedent for the next invitation.

The guest list is also instructive. The one claimant conspicuously absent from it is the Philippines — the country with the loudest ongoing disputes with Beijing, at Scarborough Shoal and Second Thomas Shoal, and the one treaty ally the United States has directly on the South China Sea’s rim. Manila gets unilateral coercion, not invitations: coast guard patrols, water-cannon incidents, and jamming, rather than passing exercises. Every partner on the actual list — Russia, Malaysia, Cambodia, Thailand, Vietnam, Singapore, Indonesia — either has no U.S. mutual defense treaty or, like Thailand, treats its treaty commitments as dormant rather than active. That is not a coincidence; it is a selection criterion. Beijing is not inviting the states most capable of resisting the normalization effect. It is inviting the states most likely to accept it, and saving coercion for the one state structurally immune to the charm offensive.

What happens next

Base case (roughly 55 percent).  The Indonesia relationship deepens but recalibrates location. A higher-tempo revival of the Sharp Knife series continues, concentrated in Indonesian or South China Sea-adjacent waters near Natuna rather than repeated performances off Taiwan. Jakarta absorbs the diplomatic cost of this month’s episode privately — quiet reassurances to Taipei and Washington — while keeping the relationship with Beijing intact. The key assumption: the backlash from Taiwan and the attention from Washington made a second Taiwan-adjacent rerun more costly to Jakarta than its benefit to Beijing.

Downside case.  Beijing repeats the chaining tactic with a second partner within the next twelve months, most plausibly Brunei — the quietest South China Sea claimant, which in February 2025 already agreed to joint oil-and-gas development with Beijing in disputed waters it claims. A first-ever Brunei-China passing exercise, timed to overlap with a Brunei exercise involving another power and staged near a genuinely contested reef rather than international water, would confirm this is a repeatable playbook rather than an Indonesia-specific improvisation — and would be far harder for the U.S. and Japan to counter, since Brunei has never been a vocal claimant to rally around.

Upside case.  Taiwan’s public condemnation, paired with Washington’s trilateral drills with Australia and the Philippines, hardens into an explicit regional habit of naming the chaining tactic itself — not just the individual exercise — making it reputationally costly for the next candidate partner to accept the choreography. The coalition-of-drills strategy stalls not because China stops asking, but because fewer navies say yes.

The takeaway

Beijing did not build a coalition off Taiwan this month; it borrowed one, for two days, from a country with no stake in the fight. That is a cheaper and more durable tool than a formal alliance would be, and it will not show up as a single dramatic escalation — it will show up as a pattern, one passing exercise at a time.

Watch for:  whether Indonesia’s navy does it again, and where. A repeat performance near another sensitive location within the next two quarters would confirm the pattern; a retreat to home waters would suggest Jakarta drew its own line. Watch, too, whether Brunei’s navy — quiet for decades — puts to sea with a Chinese frigate for the first time following its 2025 oil-and-gas pledge in disputed waters.

In May 2026, just hours before President Donald Trump met President Xi Jinping, OpenAI’s Vice President of Global Affairs Chris Lehane floated the idea of a US-led global governance body for artificial intelligence that would include China as a member. The model, according to media reports, was compared to the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA), a familiar reference for managing strategic technologies with global consequences.

One month later, at the G7 summit in Évian-les-Bains, a different tone emerged. Several influential AI executives joined leaders from advanced economies to discuss AI governance, online safety, and global security. According to Axios, Anthropic’s Dario Amodei and Google DeepMind’s Demis Hassabis leaned towards a more selective framework among democratic countries, while OpenAI’s Sam Altman used broader language, calling for an international forum to develop shared testing standards and risk assessments.

These two moments reveal something important: the meaning of “global AI governance” remains unsettled. In one setting, global means including China for legitimacy. In another, it can mean a trusted coalition designed to manage access, capability, and strategic risk. AI governance is becoming part of the architecture of global power.

Three Voices, Different Emphases

Their presence at the G7 showed how quickly AI firms have moved from building systems to helping shape the politics around them. The leaders of OpenAI, Anthropic, Google DeepMind, Mistral, Cohere, and other firms were not simply observers of geopolitics. They were part of the conversation about how technological power should be governed.

Their positions were not identical. Amodei reportedly urged democratic countries to coordinate more closely so that AI governance would not fragment. Hassabis stressed the strategic importance of frontier capability. Altman, by contrast, used more institutionally neutral language, suggesting that advanced AI should not be shaped only by the companies building the most capable systems.

Even among frontier AI developers, there is no settled imagination of global governance. Should it include all major AI powers, including strategic rivals? Should it be built around trusted coalitions? Should it prioritize safety, democratic values, geopolitical advantage, or public legitimacy?

The question became more complicated because the G7 discussions came shortly after the US government imposed export controls that forced Anthropic to suspend foreign access to its Fable 5 and Mythos 5 models. Reuters reported that the order required Anthropic to block access to the models for foreign nationals, leading the company to disable them more broadly to ensure compliance. The episode showed how frontier AI governance can move from abstract principles to abrupt restrictions. Even among democratic allies, technological solidarity has limits. When AI becomes strategic infrastructure, every country begins to think about its own room for maneuver.

The Asymmetry of “Global”

The deeper issue lies in who has the power to define the word “global” in the first place. In May, global governance could mean a US-led institution that includes China. In June, it could mean coordination among democracies to manage frontier capability and strategic access. The definition changed because the political room changed.

This reveals a double asymmetry. The first is technical: only a small number of firms can define what counts as a frontier model, how its capabilities should be tested, and who should be allowed to access it. The second is narrative: the same ecosystem also helps frame the language through which the world discusses governance.

For countries outside the frontier AI circle, they may be invited to conversations but not always to the stage where categories, thresholds, and governance priorities are first shaped. They may be asked to adopt best practices whose assumptions were formed elsewhere. They may be told that risks are global, even when preparedness remains highly unequal.

G7 outreach to partner countries such as India, Brazil, Kenya, South Korea, and Egypt is important. It recognizes that AI governance cannot remain a conversation among advanced economies alone. Yet there remains a difference between being present in a forum and helping design the architecture of the forum itself. The question is who defines the table, the agenda, the risk categories, and the meaning of global governance itself.

When the AI Frontier Moves Towards the Market

There is another reason why a broader governance imagination is necessary. Frontier AI innovation is no longer centered primarily in universities or public research institutions. It is increasingly shaped by private firms with the capital, compute, talent, data access, and infrastructure required to train and deploy the most capable models.

Stanford’s AI Index 2025 noted that nearly 90 per cent of notable AI models in 2024 came from industry, up from 60 per cent in 2023. A report prepared for the European Economic and Social Committee on generative AI and foundation models also described significant US dominance across the value chain. These findings point to a structural shift: the frontier is becoming more concentrated, more expensive, and more closely tied to corporate and geopolitical capacity.

Much of AI’s progress has come from companies willing to take risks, scale products, and build technical capability at extraordinary speed. But the center of gravity has shifted. When frontier AI is largely financed, defined, and deployed by market actors, the default imagination of AI development can tilt towards commercial viability, platform advantage, user growth, and strategic positioning.

Public interest does not disappear in such a system. It risks becoming secondary unless other actors are strong enough to bring it back into the room.

Open Future, a European digital policy organization, has warned that concentrations of power in AI can make public activities dependent on “a narrow group of monopolists.” The phrase matters because infrastructure-level dependency can weaken society’s ability to negotiate the terms of the technologies it relies on.

A Wider Public-Interest Layer

In a multiplex digital world, power does not flow only through states or markets. It also moves through universities, civil society organizations, professional associations, media, labor groups, open-source communities, public-interest technologists, and moral institutions. Together, these actors form the society layer often missing from discussions dominated by states and markets.

States define security priorities. Companies define technical possibility. Society must help test legitimacy. Who bears the risk? Who benefits from deployment? Who is excluded from design? What harms are being normalized because they are commercially convenient or geopolitically useful?

This is why Pope Leo XIV’s recent intervention on AI is politically relevant beyond its religious context. In his encyclical Magnifica Humanitas, he argues that protecting the human person in the age of AI requires renewed reflection on the common good, solidarity, social justice, and human dignity. Such interventions will not replace regulation or technical standards. They help recover a truth easily lost in frontier AI politics: governance is also about preserving the human meaning of technological progress.

The same question of authorship is beginning to appear in empirical research. Ongoing fieldwork-based research at the University of Oxford has started to examine whether countries in the Global South are developing approaches to AI governance that are neither simple copies of Western regulatory templates nor rejections of international cooperation but pragmatic syntheses shaped by local institutional capacity, regulatory sequencing, and historical experience with technology transfer. Indonesia has appeared as one of the country cases in this line of inquiry.

Governance models worth studying are not only those negotiated in Évian, Brussels, Washington, or New York. They are also being improvised, often informally, by mid-sized digital economies navigating dependency and ambition at the same time.

The United Nations’ Global Digital Compact (GDC), adopted in September 2024, offers a useful multilateral reference point. It frames digital cooperation and AI governance around inclusion, human rights, open standards, interoperability, digital public goods, and multi-stakeholder cooperation. The Compact does not resolve the power asymmetries of frontier AI by itself, but it gives societies, alongside states and firms, a language for claiming a legitimate role in digital governance.

The practical task is to strengthen public-interest evaluation: the ability to test social impact, language bias, local risks, institutional misuse, and deployment consequences in different societies. The aim is to preserve enough room for public reasoning so that the future of AI is not defined only by those with the largest models, the biggest markets, or the strongest strategic leverage.

Imagining a More Inclusive AI Governance

The lesson from the IAEA analogy and the G7 discussions is not that one model is right and the other is wrong. Both reflect real concerns. A broadly inclusive governance arrangement may be necessary for legitimacy, especially when AI risks cross borders. A trusted coalition may also be necessary when capability access raises genuine security concerns. The problem begins when either model claims to be global while leaving too many societies downstream of decisions made elsewhere.

For emerging economies, the strategic challenge is not simply to wait for a better invitation to the next summit. Participation matters, but it is not enough. Countries and societies need stronger capacity to evaluate AI systems, understand their dependencies, articulate local risks, and negotiate governance terms with greater confidence.

This is a call for a more plural architecture of governance, where states, markets, and society all have meaningful roles. The uncomfortable question is not whether AI requires international coordination. It clearly does. The harder question is whether that coordination can remain open enough for societies, not only states and companies, to shape the terms of technological power.

In the age of frontier AI, the future will not be determined only by who builds the largest models. It will also be shaped by who gets to define risk, test systems, question assumptions, and decide what counts as progress.

Every era that has tried to govern a transformative technology eventually learns the same lesson: legitimacy borrowed from power is not the same as legitimacy earned through participation. The IAEA’s own history shows that global trust is rarely built at the moment institutions are created; it is earned over time, through broader representation, credible restraint, and shared accountability. The real question for AI governance is whether it can shorten that distance by design, rather than waiting for legitimacy to arrive only after contestation.