End of the Rules-Based Order: Survival Lessons for Small Nations in a Darwinian World – After the Collapse – Part I

Editor’s Note: This article is the first in our three-part series After the Collapse, examining how small nations can survive in the new Darwinian world that has emerged from the ruins of the “rules-based order.” In Part I, we explore how Ukraine and Taiwan are navigating a geopolitical landscape where promises are brittle and only power deters predation. Part II will turn to the hollowing of global institutions and the return of unilateral realism.

Introduction – A World Without Guarantees

Kharkiv, January 2022: A Ukrainian conscript stands guard in the pre-dawn cold, AKM in hand. He enlisted just weeks ago, comforted by his president’s assurances that NATO and the UN were watching over Ukraine’s fate. In his jacket pocket is a dog-eared copy of the 1994 Budapest Memorandum, the pact where Russia, Britain, and America swore to respect Ukraine’s borders if it disarmed its nukes. He believes treaties mean something. By spring, that belief will be buried under the rubble of his apartment block. When Russian missiles scream in and NATO’s promised shield stays a wish, he learns the harsh new reality: no one is coming.

For nearly 80 years after World War II, a U.S.-led “rules-based international order” promised that big fish wouldn’t simply eat little fish. Two pillars upheld this order: unrivaled American power, and a web of institutions, treaties, and norms meant to civilize global conduct. That order is now dead—even if Western leaders refuse to hold a funeral. In its place a jungle regrows, as Robert Kagan warned: “the historical norm has always been toward chaos – the jungle will grow back, if we let it”[1][2]. In 2019 John Mearsheimer grimly observed that the liberal international order was “destined to collapse because of its fundamental flaws,” with liberal excesses provoking nationalist backlash until the system failed[3]. We are now living that collapse. From Ukraine’s charred cities to Taiwanese chip fabs under threat, the lesson for small nations is the same: in a Darwinian world, power and preparation matter more than promises or ideals.

The West’s post-Cold War delusions are shattering. American strategists once dreamed that international law, democracy, and economic interdependence would tame geopolitics. They expanded NATO, signed trade deals, and issued security assurances, believing these “rules” were ironclad. But Vladimir Putin and Xi Jinping never bought into that dream. They built armies, forged iron alliances, and waited. Today Russia openly redraws borders by force. China builds its own parallel international systems and threatens its neighbors with impunity. Authoritarian powers have effectively declared that might makes right again. And they are largely getting away with it, exposing the uncomfortable truth: global rules only exist if someone with real muscle enforces them. As a U.S. diplomat once said of America’s role, “the United States may be the only nation without which the global order cannot persist”[4]. Now, American will to uphold that order is faltering, and no one else is both able and willing to step in. The consequences are being felt in every corner of the world.

This long-form analysis is not about lamenting the “good old days” of U.S. hegemony—days that included their own injustices and hypocrisies. It’s about starkly assessing the new multipolar jungle and extracting survival lessons for small nations. We will journey through case studies—Ukraine, Taiwan, global institutions, Israel, Armenia—where the collapse of old certainties has forced nations to learn to survive on their own. Each illustrates a facet of a brutal new clarity: treaties and UN votes won’t save you; diplomacy may delay war, but only deterrence prevents it. In an anarchic world, small states face a choice: cling to nostalgic ideals, or adapt and arm for the real challenges ahead.

Robert Kagan titled his book The Jungle Grows Back for a reason. The civilized garden of international law needs constant weeding by a powerful gardener, or the jungle returns[1]. That gardener—the United States—is weary and retreating. International norms are withering from neglect and abuse. This leaves alert small nations with one rational approach: strategic realism. The narrative-driven sections that follow all point to the same conclusion: the post-WWII “rules-based order” is over, and those who survive in what comes next will be the cold-eyed realists—those who arm themselves, harden their societies, and make pragmatic alliances without illusions. As we proceed, consider this the field guide for what Ukraine’s soldiers, Taiwan’s hackers, Israel’s spies, and Armenia’s forlorn villagers have learned in the school of hard knocks.

The old rulebook is in flames. The new one is unwritten, but its first chapter will be titled “Trust in force, not in hope.” Let us turn the page, then, to see how we got here and what tomorrow’s survival demands.

From Hegemony to Multipolar Fragmentation

A. The Collapse of Unipolar Certainty

For a brief flicker of history—between 1991 and 2015—one nation towered over all others. The United States emerged from the Cold War as a unipolar giant, presiding over what seemed a new epoch of liberal triumph. Pundits spoke of “the end of history” and a perpetual peace secured by America’s military might and democratic ideals. Indeed, in those years the U.S. used its power liberally (and often for liberalism): pushing NATO ever eastward, policing global trade routes, toppling rogue regimes, intervening in humanitarian crises. It was a historical anomaly. As even America’s friends noted, nothing like the post-Cold War Pax Americana had ever existed – a solitary superpower enforcing a kind of global semi-peace. And it could not last.

Unipolarity bred hubris. Washington overreached, and the world noticed. The United States’ well-intentioned misuse of power in places like Iraq and Libya dealt grievous blows to the credibility of the “rules” it claimed to uphold. When the U.S. invaded Iraq in 2003 on dubious premises, without UN authorization, it signaled that might would trump international law when convenient for DC. The 2011 NATO intervention in Libya, sold as a humanitarian mission to stop massacres, morphed into regime change and chaos – causing countries like Russia and China to openly question Western motives. Meanwhile, the long quagmire in Afghanistan showed the limits of American resolve and competence. Each misstep eroded the aura of unipolar certainty and spread disillusionment globally. Allies quietly fretted; adversaries grew bold. By the mid-2010s, both Moscow and Beijing were prepared to challenge the U.S.-led order in earnest.

Vladimir Putin tested the waters first. In 2008, just months after NATO hinted that Ukraine and Georgia “will become members” eventually (but offered no timeline or defense pact)[5], Russia invaded Georgia, slicing off two regions. The Western response was tepid. In 2014, Putin seized Crimea from Ukraine – blatantly violating the Budapest Memorandum’s security assurances[6]. Again, the West balked at force, responding with sanctions and stern speeches but ruling out any military action to reverse the landgrab. If the post-Cold War order meant to forbid such conquests, no one effectively enforced the norm. Putin gleefully noted the mismatch between Western rhetoric and action. By the time he launched all-out war on Ukraine in 2022, it was clear he doubted NATO’s willingness to actually fight for non-members. The “liberal order” had, in his eyes, become a paper tiger: all roar, no bite.

In parallel, China undertook a patient undermining of U.S. dominance. Seeing Washington bogged down in Middle East wars, Beijing quietly built its economic and military sinews. It created new international institutions like the Asian Infrastructure Investment Bank (AIIB) and pushed its own trade pacts, crafting a parallel ecosystem of power outside Western control. Beijing and Moscow drew closer, coordinating votes in the UN Security Council to shield each other and presenting a united front against Western sanctions. The unipolar moment was ending not with an American victory lap, but with multipolar fragmentation – great powers carving the world into spheres of influence, and institutions bending to reflect raw power rather than universal principles.

No clearer acknowledgment of this shift exists than Mearsheimer’s blunt assessment in International Security: the liberal international order was “a failed enterprise with no future”[3]. In its place, he foresaw an emerging realist order where power blocs – a Chinese-led sphere, a U.S.-led sphere – coexist and compete, managing affairs within their domains. We are seeing this play out. The illusion that a single set of rules, backed by U.S. might, governs the world has been shattered. Instead, the world is “multipolar” and fragmented, with different rules in different neighborhoods. In Eastern Europe, brute force has redrawn borders. In East Asia, China builds its own trade and security architecture. In the Middle East, regional powers like Turkey and Iran pursue their interests with scant regard for Western preferences.

From the standpoint of small nations, this fragmentation is terrifying. In the old unipolar world, aligning with the U.S. or at least with international law offered some protection – if not absolute, at least your plight would get attention and possibly help. In the new world, every small nation is essentially on its own. They can appeal to this or that great power patron, or to the UN, but such appeals are increasingly transactional. The question in every crisis now is: Does some big power’s vital interest dictate saving this small nation? If not, expect statements of “grave concern” at best. As one poignant example: when Azerbaijan attacked Armenian-held Nagorno-Karabakh in 2020, the U.S., EU, and Russia – co-chairs of the OSCE peace process – all essentially shrugged, letting Azerbaijan’s military decide the outcome[7]. Neutrality by the supposed guarantors of norms sent a clear signal that wars of conquest might again be tolerated, at least in “far away countries of which we know little.” It is precisely this signal that opportunistic powers have been receiving loud and clear.

B. Beijing Thinks in Centuries

On a muggy day in Djibouti, a convoy of Chinese trucks rumbles through a shiny new port facility. Once a sleepy East African harbor, Doraleh port is now effectively run by a Chinese state-owned enterprise. Chinese security contractors guard the perimeter[8]. The locals whisper that even the Djiboutian authorities need permission to enter certain docks. What happened here? In short: Beijing’s long-game strategy. China financed and built the port, extended massive loans with generous terms (“don’t pay a dollar for years, just promise us access”), and when debt came due, gained operational control on a 99-year lease. It’s Hambantota all over again: in Sri Lanka, unable to repay Chinese loans, the government handed Beijing a 99-year lease to a strategic port in 2017[9]. Western officials cried “debt trap,” but the deal was done. As one observer quipped, “While Washington thinks in quarters, Beijing signs 99-year leases.”

That witticism captures a profound difference. China’s approach to world influence is not ideological evangelism; it’s imperial patience. Beijing thinks in centuries. The Chinese Communist Party plans for 2049 (the PRC’s 100th anniversary) and beyond, setting targets decades out. It offers infrastructure and loans under its Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) with payback schedules so extended that today’s officials signing the deals will be long dead when the bills come due. Poor nations, desperate for roads, bridges, and ports, find this alluring – no immediate strings, no lectures on human rights. By the time the loan balloons, China has typically entrenched itself: perhaps by taking equity in a port (like Hambantota[10]), or securing mining rights, or establishing a local military outpost (as in Djibouti). The brilliance of it (from Beijing’s view) is that control is gained without outright conquest. A port secured by a century-long lease is as good as a colony, but without the messy optics of invasion.

Consider how China methodically expanded its influence in the Horn of Africa. It invested billions in Ethiopia’s railways and factories, constructed Kenya’s mega-port in Mombasa, and built its first overseas military base in Djibouti. Each project was ostensibly “win-win development.” Yet, Chinese state-affiliated firms now operate over one-quarter of all African ports[11], and Chinese security firms protect growing assets on the continent[8]. This dual economic-military penetration creates leverage. If an African government displeases Beijing – say, by recognizing Taiwan or criticizing Chinese policies – they risk China calling in debts or even taking over critical infrastructure. It’s the Mafia don model: we helped you build this place; shame if something happened to it. And because China’s investments often come with non-interference pledges (no nagging about corruption or human rights), local elites often prefer them to Western aid, which arrives with a lecturing chorus.

Contrast this with Western engagement: U.S. and European aid usually demands reforms, comes in smaller trickles tied to election cycles, and can vanish with a change of administration. Western strategists think in 4-year election cycles or quarterly reports; Beijing strategists think in 30- or 100-year terms. Graham Allison, in Destined for War, notes that China’s rise is unprecedented in speed and scale, but also undergirded by a remarkably patient outlook[12]. Chinese leaders often invoke historical grievances from a century ago as if they happened yesterday, and likewise plan for reunification with Taiwan or dominance of the South China Sea as goals that may take decades – and that’s fine. They assume China will still be here, stronger each year, so time is on their side.

The result is that by the late 2010s, China had built a Sino-centric network rivaling the Western-led system. Through the BRI, it became the largest creditor to developing countries, particularly in Asia and Africa. It created institutions like the AIIB and New Development Bank (with BRICS partners) to lend without Western oversight. It established regional forums and summits (e.g. China-Africa Cooperation Forum) that exclude Western influence. In diplomacy, Beijing positioned itself as leader of the “Global South,” often coordinating voting blocs at the UN to support its positions or those of its allies. For instance, China (along with Russia) shields regimes like Syria or Myanmar from tough UN action, under the principle of non-interference. All of this undermines the notion of a universal rules-based order. Instead, there are now dueling orders: one led by the West (increasingly shaky), and one led by China/Russia (illiberal but ascendant in influence).

A vivid narrative crystallizes this. In a dusty East African village, a new Chinese-built highway runs past idle Western aid offices. The highway is part of a Beijing-funded mega-project; locals recall the fanfare when construction started – Chinese engineers and African ministers posing together. Down the road, a USAID billboard touts a “democracy strengthening initiative,” but the building behind it is shuttered, budget gone after the latest U.S. budget cut. The highway, though, is finished and already dotted with Chinese cargo trucks hauling minerals to port. Who earned goodwill here? The answer is obvious. Power, not preaching, earned influence.

It’s not that China faces no pushback. Its loans have led to debt crises, sparking resentment; some BRI projects are mired in accusations of corruption or poor quality. But from a strategic view, Beijing’s gains are undeniable: ports, railways, and telecom networks across Eurasia and Africa that it controls or can access at will. Meanwhile, the U.S. spent two decades (and trillions of dollars) fighting insurgencies in the Middle East, achieving dubious lasting gains. The opportunity cost was immense. While Washington was fixated elsewhere, China quietly built the world’s largest navy (by number of ships) and fortified islands in the South China Sea, creating military bases on disputed reefs. It engaged in the “largest military buildup” of the modern era[13] – adding hundreds of missiles, aircraft, and ships. By 2025, China’s navy surpassed 370 battle-ready ships, far outpacing the U.S. Navy’s 296 ships[14], and is on track for 400+ within years[15]. Beijing achieved local naval superiority in Asia without firing a shot, while America’s fleet struggled to even maintain its size.

For small nations, the rise of China as an alternative patron means they have choices—but also new perils. They can play the great powers against each other to some extent (as e.g. Cambodia or Hungary does, courting China to offset Western pressure). But if they miscalculate, they could become pawns or debt vassals. The lesson in this new context is: align with someone strong, but guard your sovereignty fiercely. The era when joining the UN and signing treaties guaranteed your survival is over. Now, you must consider who will actually stick their neck out for you in a crunch. And as China’s long-game shows, the real game is about hard power and infrastructure control.

A Chinese proverb says, “Dig the well before you are thirsty.” Beijing has dug many wells (and ports and roads) to secure its future influence. The West largely assumed the liberal order would water itself, and now finds wells running dry. Small nations must therefore emulate the foresight of thinking in decades: building domestic strength and nimble foreign policies to survive the coming storms. Those who assume someone else’s umbrella will always be there will find themselves drenched and alone.

Ukraine: The Death of Security Guarantees

Kharkiv, February 24, 2022: That same Ukrainian conscript we met earlier is now huddled in a crater on the outskirts of his city. He hasn’t slept in two days. The sky is orange with fire. In his trench are a motley crew of volunteers – a programmer, a gym teacher, a grandfather – clutching rifles from the Soviet era. Conspicuously missing are the modern weapons his government was once promised. “Hold on,” they were told, “the West is sending help.” And help did come – but weeks later, and carefully calibrated not to “provoke” Moscow too much. In those crucial early days, Ukraine’s survival hinged on its own people’s grit alone. The lesson is burned into the conscript’s mind like the smoldering ruins around him: paper guarantees mean nothing once the shooting starts.

Ukraine’s recent history is a case study in the failure of international security assurances. After the Soviet Union collapsed, Ukraine found itself in 1991 suddenly independent and holding the world’s third-largest nuclear arsenal. The U.S. and Russia were keen to prevent nuclear proliferation, so a grand bargain was struck: Ukraine would give up its nukes and join the Non-Proliferation Treaty as a non-nuclear state, and in return its sovereignty and borders would be “assured” by the major powers. The result was the 1994 Budapest Memorandum, signed by Russia, the U.S., and UK. It promised that no one would violate Ukraine’s territory or economic independence, and that if aggression occurred, the signatories would seek UN Security Council action. Importantly, these were “assurances” rather than absolute guarantees – a nuance largely lost on Ukrainians who optimistically regarded it as a de facto security guarantee[16][17]. As one protester’s sign bitterly summarized in 2022: “Ukraine gave up its nukes for this?”

We now know how hollow those assurances were. In 2014, Russia tore up the Memorandum by seizing Crimea and fomenting war in Donbas. The other guarantors, the U.S. and UK, protested diplomatically but pointed out the memorandum was not a binding defense treaty. Indeed, the Budapest Memorandum’s pledges lasted only 20 years before Russia violated them by force[6]. Ukraine was left essentially alone militarily. Western countries offered sanctions on Russia and some military aid to Kyiv, but notably in 2014, the Obama administration even declined to give Ukraine lethal weapons, fearing escalation. Putin faced no real deterrent. A red line had been crossed with impunity.

In hindsight, some analysts argue that not extending a firmer security guarantee to Ukraine (either via NATO membership or robust military aid pre-2022) was a fatal error. Mearsheimer and others have a controversial view that NATO’s eastward flirtations provoked Russia[3], but an opposite case can be made: NATO’s half-measure in 2008 – declaring Ukraine would join but providing no timeline or interim protection – was the worst of both worlds. It alarmed Moscow yet failed to actually secure Ukraine[18]. “Hesitation in 2008 and 2014 emboldened Russia” has become a common refrain in Western strategic debates. By showing neither a clear commitment to defend Ukraine nor a willingness to definitively close NATO’s door, the West left Ukraine in a dangerous gray zone. In that ambiguity, Putin saw opportunity. He wagered (correctly, initially) that the West would not directly fight for Ukraine.

When full-scale war erupted in 2022, the West did rally impressively with arms and aid – but crucially, only after Ukraine demonstrated its will to fight alone. In the frantic first week, many Western officials expected Kyiv to fall quickly. Reportedly, some offered President Zelenskyy evacuation; his retort became legend: “I need ammunition, not a ride.” Ukraine’s soldiers and citizens stopped the initial onslaught with virtually no foreign troops by their side. That feat of self-reliance shameed and then spurred the West into stepping up support. One Ukrainian officer later remarked, “If we hadn’t held those first 10 days by ourselves, there would be no point of any help arriving later.” His point: only a nation willing and ready to fight alone can convince others to help it fight together.

Another lesson from Ukraine’s ordeal is the value of preparation and deterrence versus diplomacy and hope. For years, Ukrainian leaders oscillated between seeking peace deals with Moscow and pleading for defensive weaponry from the West. In 2014-2015, Ukraine signed the Minsk accords, which froze the conflict but at the cost of effectively conceding some sovereignty in the east. Many viewed Minsk as buying time. Ukraine did use the interlude to rebuild its army somewhat, but it was slow and hampered by political turmoil. Come 2022, it still had glaring weaknesses (e.g., an air force outmatched by Russia’s, limited air defenses, old Soviet-era tanks). Some Western intelligence assessments thought Ukraine would crumble in days. They were wrong – mainly because they discounted the morale and ingenuity of a people fighting for their homeland. Ukrainian soldiers compensated for gaps by deploying creative tactics: using cheap drones to attack Russian armor, leveraging real-time intelligence from civilian IT groups, etc. Still, the toll has been devastating. Cities like Mariupol and Bakhmut are largely destroyed. The ultimate price of under-preparation was paid in blood.

As Ukrainian defense minister Oleksii Reznikov put it, “Diplomacy can delay war, but only a well-armed army can deter it.” Indeed, one of the starkest strategic lessons here is that nuclear weapons might have deterred Russia (we can’t know for sure, but the thought lingers). Ukraine had the technical capability to keep some of the Soviet nukes in 1994 but chose the high road of disarmament, putting faith in international law. After 2022, even some dovish analysts grimly concluded that Ukraine’s error was trusting security assurances over hard power. North Korea, by contrast, gleefully pointed out that it would never make such a mistake – a telling indicator of how global norms have eroded. In a world where the aggressors prosper, other nations may seek nuclear insurance, a nightmare for nonproliferation. Ukraine’s plight thus reverberates far beyond Europe: it signaled to every minor power that only serious deterrent capabilities (be it alliances with a superpower or indigenous arsenals) can guarantee survival.

Yet Ukraine also offers hope in another sense: it showed that a nation with grit and civilizational will to fight can surprise the world. The West’s eventual military aid (HIMARS rockets, anti-tank Javelins, advanced artillery) made a huge difference, but that support was earned by Ukraine’s refusal to submit early. This underscores a core survival lesson: fight for yourself first, and help may follow. If Ukraine had not resisted—if its government fled and army collapsed instantly—would foreign aid have flowed? Unlikely. Countries considering their own looming threats (say, Taiwan looking at China) have absorbed this example. In Taipei, civil society groups now run regular defense workshops, teaching civilians how to respond in an invasion; gun clubs and paramedic courses are oversubscribed. They know they must hold out on their own at least for some time, should the worst happen.

Finally, Ukraine’s experience teaches that appeals to global sympathy or morality are insufficient. President Zelenskyy became an icon, skillfully rallying world opinion with moral clarity. But even his stirring speeches did not stop some nations from hedging. Many developing countries abstained on UN resolutions condemning Russia, preferring not to alienate Moscow (or Beijing) for Ukraine’s sake. The UN Security Council, predictably, was paralyzed by Russia’s veto. It all reinforced the cold truth: in this “Darwinian” system, interests trump principles. Ukraine’s appeals to international law were legally sound but practically toothless until paired with battlefield successes.

In sum, Ukraine paid the ultimate price for the death of the rules-based order: it became the proving ground that when push comes to shove, might prevails unless met with might. The Budapest Memorandum turned out to be a polite piece of paper[6]; NATO’s open door turned out to be a revolving door that never quite swung open for Ukraine. And yet, through courage and resilience, Ukraine has also forced a reluctant West to awake from its end-of-history dream and confront the “jungle” reality[1]. Small nations watching this saga are drawing the necessary conclusions. As one Baltic official put it, “We trust in NATO, yes – but we trust more in our own rifles and our own plans.”

No more naive trust in unsigned security blankets; no more unilateral disarmament without ironclad protection. The age of hedging and rearming is here. Ukraine’s tragedy may ultimately be remembered not only as a warning, but as a catalyst that re-taught the free world a lesson it had forgotten: peace comes not from parchments, but from power.

Taiwan: Strategic Ambiguity in a Bipolar Trap

A thousand miles to the east of the Ukrainian steppe, another small democracy watches, learns, and arms itself feverishly. Taipei, Taiwan, 2025: In a repurposed factory on the city’s outskirts, a tech engineer demonstrates to students how to jury-rig commercial drones into aerial scouts and bomb-droppers. The students – programmers by day – absorb every word. They’ve all seen the footage from Ukraine of cheap drones halting a mighty army. They know in a showdown with China, they are the Ukrainian civilians, the last line of defense. Overhead, the whine of Chinese fighter jets occasionally intrudes; Beijing sends warplanes near daily to test Taiwan’s nerves. On the wall, a poster reads: “Be Ready – 沒有誰能代替我們保衛自己” (“No one can replace us in defending ourselves.”).

Taiwan exists in a bizarre geopolitical purgatory known as “strategic ambiguity.” For decades, the United States has deliberately left it unclear whether it would militarily defend Taiwan against a Chinese invasion. The idea was to deter both Beijing (from attacking) and Taipei (from declaring formal independence and provoking war). This policy kept an uneasy peace: China was never sure if attacking Taiwan might bring in U.S. forces, and Taiwan was never sure it could expect automatic U.S. rescue, so it trod carefully. But as China’s power grew, strategic ambiguity bred dangerous uncertainty rather than firm deterrence. In Beijing’s eyes, the U.S. might hesitate to intervene if costs are high; in some Washington war-gaming, indeed, U.S. victory in a war over Taiwan is no longer assured. The result: deterrence has eroded. China openly practices blockades and invasion drills around Taiwan now. And despite lofty rhetoric about support, the U.S. still debates issues like whether to ban TikTok, seemingly distracted, while China’s navy surges ahead.

On the ground, Taiwan is scrambling to upgrade from porcupine to saber-toothed tiger. In just the last few years, it has boosted defense spending dramatically, ordering new missile systems, drones, and fleet upgrades. It’s extending compulsory military service and training civilians in defense. President Tsai Ing-wen launched the concept of the “All-Out Defense” mobilization, calling for the entire society to be prepared for disruption. This includes stockpiling food, decentralizing critical infrastructure, and running regular air-raid drills – something not seen in Taiwan since the 1950s. The sense of urgency is palpable: polls show a sharp rise in Taiwanese people’s willingness to fight if attacked, especially after watching Ukraine’s example.

Yet, Taiwan also knows it cannot do it alone indefinitely. It needs external help to deter an attack in the first place. This is where the trap of bipolar rivalry comes in. The Taiwan issue sits at the crux of U.S.-China great power competition. For the U.S., Taiwan is a critical link in the “first island chain” that contains Chinese naval expansion, and it’s a vibrant democracy of 23 million people – abandoning it would shatter U.S. credibility. For China, Taiwan is a “renegade province” whose eventual unification with the mainland is a core nationalist goal; Xi Jinping has tied it to the “China Dream” of rejuvenation. Both sides have reasons they cannot easily back down. Ambiguity worked when China was relatively weak and cautious. Now China is powerful and increasingly impatient, while the U.S. public is war-weary and divided. A recipe for miscalculation is in the making.

Indeed, the last few years have seen multiple near-crises. In 2022, after the U.S. House Speaker visited Taipei in a show of support, Beijing erupted with unprecedented live-fire exercises encircling Taiwan – effectively rehearsing a blockade and assault. Missiles flew over Taipei; cyber attacks hit government sites. It was a demonstration that China could choke Taiwan at will, even if it wasn’t ready yet for an outright invasion. The U.S. responded by sailing aircraft carriers nearby and reaffirming that its commitment to Taiwan’s defense was “rock-solid.” But tellingly, it did not break ambiguity officially. President Biden has offhandedly said the U.S. would defend Taiwan if attacked, but each time White House staff walked it back, insisting policy hadn’t changed. This waffling has a cost: it unsettles the Taiwanese and emboldens China. When predator and prey both smell indecision, the risk of a fatal pounce increases.

Small wonder that prominent U.S. strategists are now debating ending ambiguity and moving to “strategic clarity” – an open pledge to defend Taiwan. They argue that clarity would strengthen deterrence by removing China’s hope that it could get away with an invasion[19]. Others worry that clarity might provoke the war it intends to prevent by cornering Beijing’s pride. Meanwhile, China keeps building up forces for a potential Taiwan campaign: amphibious assault ships, ballistic missiles designed to hit ships at sea (the “carrier-killers”), and a huge expansion of its rocket force that could bombard Taiwan’s bases and cities. The quantity of hardware China can bring to bear is staggering – dozens of new ships, thousands of missiles. As Hal Brands and Michael Beckley note, China’s military might and aggression toward Taiwan are record-breaking in modern times[13]. Xi Jinping has directly told the PLA to be ready by 2027 for a Taiwan scenario.

For Taiwan, every month of peace is precious time to prepare. It has studied Russia’s failures and Ukraine’s successes for applicable lessons. For instance, maintaining a domestic arms industry is crucial – Taiwan has accelerated projects to build its own submarines and mass-produce long-range cruise missiles that could strike Chinese bases. It is embracing asymmetry: instead of matching China tank-for-tank (impossible), it’s investing in mobile anti-ship missiles, fast attack craft, and air defenses that can survive initial strikes. Taiwan’s strategists often mention the “hedgehog” approach: make yourself so prickly that China bleeds badly if it tries to swallow you. Part of that is psychological too – convincing Beijing that an invasion would result in a protracted, bloody insurgency even if they took the cities. Given China’s reliance on conscripts and its one-child policy legacy (each casualty a family’s only son), the hope is the specter of heavy losses deters an adventure.

The Taiwan case illuminates a broader principle: in a post-American world, small nations near aggressive powers must create uncertainty in the aggressor’s mind about the cost of aggression. The old rule-based assurances (like the Taiwan Relations Act, a U.S. law committing to help Taiwan with arms) are helpful but not sufficient. Ultimately, Beijing must wake up every day unsure if today is the day Taiwan could, say, strike back decisively or if U.S. submarines are lurking ready to sink its fleet. Thus far, Beijing appears cautiously confident it can manage the U.S. risk – perhaps because of American domestic discord. U.S. indecision on smaller matters (e.g., will the U.S. even ban TikTok, a Chinese app, on security grounds?) sends a signal of lack of resolve. This is dangerous. Authoritarian leaders sniff weakness like sharks do blood.

Taiwan, more than anyone, understands that its fate may well be decided by others’ backbone as much as its own. That is a uniquely agonizing position: to be fully self-determined, it might need to formally declare independence (which likely triggers war), but to survive, it must also not be abandoned by distant allies. It is a classic bipolar trap – caught between two giants whose dance it can’t control, but whose moves will decide if it lives or dies. In such a trap, the best a small nation can do is radically improve its own odds. Taiwan’s approach has been to become what one U.S. admiral called a “porcupine unswallowable by the dragon.” Every anti-ship missile in a cave, every citizen trained as a medic or hacker, every semiconductor fab that the world relies on (making Taiwan valuable to others) – these are hedges against abandonment.

The island has another asset: a front-row seat to Hong Kong’s fate. Hong Kong was essentially left to Chinese mercy despite an international treaty guaranteeing its autonomy until 2047. Beijing shredded that pledge early, imposing a draconian security law in 2020. The world did little beyond rhetoric. To Taiwan, Hong Kong was a test case of the West’s willingness to confront China over a broken promise. The test results were discouraging. That further cemented Taiwanese resolve to never trust “one country, two systems” or any such hollow arrangements. Their freedom will be self-defended, or it will not be at all.

In the high-tech corridors of Hsinchu Science Park, where world-leading microchips are made, engineers whisper about “the Ukraine scenario.” Some have urged the government to establish a doomsday plan to sabotage the chip fabs if invasion is imminent – a kind of economic mutually assured destruction, since China’s tech industry depends heavily on Taiwanese chips. Again, deterrence thinking creeps in: make invasion so costly that it loses any appeal. It is a sobering sign of how even the economic integration that was supposed to keep peace (remember all those theories that trade would prevent war?) is now seen as another battleground or bargaining chip.

If Ukraine taught the lesson of fighting alone until help arrives, Taiwan is determined to not be caught as the next test of an alliance’s credibility. It is seeking clearer security commitments (some U.S. lawmakers talk of a Pacific defense pact or a lend-lease program for Taiwan). But whether those materialize or not, Taiwan will fight like hell regardless. As one Taiwanese reservist put it to a reporter: “The U.S. is our friend, but we are our own saviors.”

In a larger sense, Taiwan epitomizes the plight of all small democracies in the new era: strategically vital enough to be in the crosshairs of an ambitious authoritarian neighbor, yet not vital enough (in others’ eyes) to automatically guarantee rescue. Navigating this perilous tightrope requires diplomatic savvy (not provoking China unnecessarily, building partnerships with many countries), military strength (to make any attack a risky gamble), and social unity (so that an aggressor cannot exploit internal divisions or win without a fight). Taiwan is working on all three. Its story is unfinished, a crisis in slow motion. But one thing is clear: strategic ambiguity as a concept belongs to the old rules-based order – a luxury of a time when war over Taiwan seemed remote. In the coming Darwinian world, clarity and capability will matter far more. Taiwan is lighting the path for small nations: prepare alone, hope for help, but be ready to resist regardless. Ambiguity won’t save you; courage and strength just might.

Conclusion 

The stories of Ukraine and Taiwan reveal the brutal clarity of our age: when the gardener of the old order retreats, the jungle advances. Both nations have adapted in different ways but share the same survival instinct—to be ready to fight alone until help arrives, and to shape their fate before it is shaped for them. In the next instalment, we will widen the lens to examine the institutions that were meant to safeguard this order. We will see how they have been bent, hollowed out, and—in some cases—turned against the very values they were built to protect.

Note: This is the first part of a three articles series, to go and check out the sources used for its creation please go to the end of the last article of the series. See articles two and three.