Cambodia under the Chinese umbrella, Thailand in the American camp, and yet another war the world doesn’t understand
On the border where ancient temples rise above the jungle, a centuries-old conflict awakens once more, carrying with it myths, wounds, and new fears.
Thailand and Cambodia are at war again—not necessarily in a formal sense, but very much in reality—with mines, rockets, air strikes, and hundreds of thousands of people fleeing. The summer of 2025 brought the fiercest clashes between the two countries in recent history, and at the beginning of this month the conflict again turned into open violence. Thai F-16s and Gripens are bombing targets in Cambodia, while rocket launchers on the Cambodian side pound border areas. Soldiers and civilians are dying, and more than 400,000 people have been evacuated on both sides of the border.
The foundation of the conflict lies deep in history. For centuries, the territory along today’s Thai-Cambodian border was the heart of the Khmer Empire—Angkor, temples, languages, and customs spread westward into what is now Thailand. Only with the rise of the Siamese kingdom of Ayutthaya in the 15th century did the slow pushback of the Khmers begin. Siam (the historical name for today’s Thailand) plundered Angkor, seized western parts of Cambodia, adopted part of Khmer culture and wove it into its own identity. In the following centuries Cambodia was squeezed between Siam and Vietnam, often in a vassal position, and that sense of historical insecurity remains deeply embedded in Cambodia’s political psyche.
Khmer and Siam
Before we continue, it’s worth distinguishing these two peoples.
The Khmers are the indigenous people and historical core of today’s Cambodia, with deep roots in the ancient civilizations of Southeast Asia. Their cultural and political peak was the great Khmer Empire (9th–15th century), one of the most impressive empires in the region’s history. The Khmers built the monumental temples of Angkor Wat, developed a sophisticated system of hydraulics and rice fields, and shaped a lofty, layered culture that influenced the entire region. Language, religion (especially the Hindu–Buddhist tradition), and art spread from the Khmer heartland westward. But as the empire weakened due to climate challenges, wars, and internal crises, its territories gradually fell under the influence of neighboring powers, especially Siam and Vietnam.
Siam, or the Siamese Kingdom—again, the historical name for today’s Thailand—is a people of Tai linguistic origin who migrated southward in the early Middle Ages from the area of modern southern China. In the 13th century they formed their first powerful kingdom, Sukhothai, and later Ayutthaya, which became the region’s dominant power in the 15th century. The Siamese were militarily organized, more centralized, and demographically stronger than the weakened Khmers, and they gradually conquered the Khmers’ western territories, including Angkor, whose plunder around 1431 symbolically marked the end of Khmer power.
In short: the Khmers are an original, older civilization of Southeast Asia, while the Siamese represent a later rise—a people who built one of the region’s most stable political systems and who, in the 19th century, survived the colonial period as the only independent country in Southeast Asia. The historical encounters, wars, and cultural exchanges between the Khmers and the Siamese shaped the modern identities of Cambodia and Thailand—but also deeply rooted feelings of suspicion, pride, and historical injustice that still simmer beneath every border incident. This is a crucial point for understanding the rest of the story.
The arrival of the colonial powers
In the 19th century, the French arrived. Cambodia became part of French Indochina, and the border with Siam was drawn in Paris and Bangkok based on maps designed primarily for colonial interests. The treaties of 1904 and 1907 returned to Cambodia the provinces of Battambang and Siem Reap and the area of the Preah Vihear temple—but they left numerous territorial inconsistencies, “teeth,” and undefined zones. Thailand never fully accepted this colonial carve-up. Occasionally, as during World War II with Japan’s support, it tried to reclaim part of the lost territory, but after the war it had to give everything back in order to join the UN. These episodes, of course, further damaged relations between the two peoples.
After Cambodia gained independence in 1953, the Preah Vihear temple became a symbol of this colonial legacy. The Thai army occupied it, Cambodia sued before the International Court of Justice, and in 1962 the ICJ ruled in Phnom Penh’s favor—the temple belongs to Cambodia. The problem is that the court did not draw a precise boundary around the temple—the plateau, cliffs, and forested slopes remained a gray zone. On paper, international law was satisfied, but on the ground, soldiers from two poor countries continued to stare at each other through rifle sights over the same rocks. The situation is similar at other temples, such as the Ta Muen Thom complex, where something as simple as the Cambodian soldiers’ wives singing patriotic songs could prompt Thai troops to storm in and stop the “provocation.”
Who controls the temple controls history
Temples come up a lot, don’t they? With good reason.
In Thailand and Cambodia, temples are far more than archaeological sites—they lie at the heart of historical identity, political legitimacy, and spiritual tradition. Both Thais and Cambodians share the same religious foundation: Theravada Buddhism, although Cambodia also has a strong heritage of older Hindu-Buddhist cults that shaped Angkor. Therefore, monumental temples such as Preah Vihear or Angkor Wat are at once sacred sites, historical proof of statehood, and symbols of lost glory. Put in one sentence: whoever controls a temple “inherits” part of its historical grandeur, in local perception.
At the same time, temples are national territorial markers. In a region where borders shifted for centuries and empires came and went, temples remain the most visible traces of who once ruled what territory. For Cambodia, Preah Vihear is proof that the Khmer Empire once stretched deep into present-day Thailand. For Thailand, the same temple is a reminder of periods when Siam dominated a weaker Cambodia. Thus, disputes over temples are not mere conflicts about stone ruins—they are battles over the symbolic geography of identity, over the right to claim a particular history and culture. Because of this emotional and historical weight, any temple dispute quickly escalates into a political crisis or armed conflict.
Interestingly, the temples themselves, precisely because both peoples share the same religious background, are usually spared. In clashes, soldiers often take “ritual care” not to damage sacred sites. They may fight around the temples, but they never target the temple itself, which would cause a moral and political scandal. Even the hardest nationalists understand that destroying such a site would profane their shared heritage and cost them legitimacy. Thus, temples play a special role in this conflict—they are sacred places that must be protected, yet the territory around them becomes militarized.
Nationalism and paradoxical episodes of the Cold War
Let’s move further into history and the present.
Nationalism plays its role. Cambodians often see Thailand as a historical aggressor that “stole” territory and parts of the Khmer heritage; Thais often emphasize that their kings once conquered those regions and that the current border is an unfair colonial product. Political elites on both sides readily activate these narratives whenever convenient. In 2003, anti-Thai riots erupted in Phnom Penh—the embassy was burned, Thai establishments destroyed. The unrest broke out because of an inaccurate comment by an actress about Angkor Wat (yes, even that was enough). The Thai actress Suvanant Kongying allegedly said that “Angkor Wat actually belongs to Thailand and Cambodia should be grateful Thailand let them keep it.”
On the other side, Thai nationalists have for decades used Preah Vihear as a symbol of “treason” by any government willing to compromise with Cambodia. In this part of the world, temples become less places of prayer and more stone tents for political mobilization.
The Cold War turned the Thai-Cambodian border into one of the most turbulent and paradoxical frontlines of global geopolitics. After Vietnam’s 1979 intervention in Cambodia, which toppled the notorious Khmer Rouge regime, the sound of weapons did not stop—only the stage changed. The newly formed pro-Vietnamese government in Phnom Penh tried to stabilize the country, while anti-government forces (including remnants of the Khmer Rouge) withdrew to the inaccessible areas near the Thai border. A whole network of rebel camps emerged there, and Thailand—deeply fearful of Vietnam’s influence spreading into its territory—allowed them to operate on its side of the border.
This led to the remarkable situation in which the United States and China, despite being global rivals, supported the same rebel factions, including some structures of the former Khmer Rouge. The motive was not sympathy for those groups, but rather containing Vietnam, then closely aligned with the Soviet Union. Cold War logic was relentless: the enemy of my enemy becomes a temporary partner. Thailand, itself anti-communist and close to the U.S., became a key logistical corridor for supplying various rebel factions fighting the pro-Vietnamese government in Phnom Penh.
Meanwhile, the Cambodian government was supported by Vietnam and the Soviet Union. The Thai-Cambodian border thus became more than a line between two poor states; it became a contact zone between two blocs. Today the Cold War is formally over, but the legacy remains—Cambodia is closely tied to China, Thailand remains a traditional U.S. ally, and over their local dispute hovers the question: who stands to gain—Beijing or Washington?
We already saw a smaller “version” of this war in the early 21st century. In 2008, when Cambodia registered Preah Vihear as a UNESCO World Heritage site, Thai politics and the street reacted with fury. It was perceived as an attempt to cement Cambodian sovereignty over the disputed area. From 2008 to 2011 a series of armed incidents erupted—rockets, shelling, soldiers killed, thousands of civilians displaced. In 2013 the ICJ further clarified that the temple and its immediate surroundings unquestionably belong to Cambodia—but once again did not resolve the broader border dispute. The conflict was frozen, not solved.
2025 – the conflict escalates again
In 2025 the ice began to melt again. First came symbolic incidents—Cambodian national anthem or patriotic songs sung at disputed temples, nervous reactions from Thai troops—and then real gunfire. At the end of May, in the so-called Emerald Triangle between Thailand, Cambodia, and Laos, ten minutes of fire exchange between border patrols ended with the death of a Cambodian soldier. Cambodia responded with trade bans, Thailand shut border crossings, and restricted electricity and internet to its neighbor. In the background is also the “new border economy”—entire camps of online scam operations exploiting weak state control and funneling billions of dollars through the region’s digital periphery. When Thailand announced a major crackdown on these centers along the Cambodian border, Phnom Penh saw it as both a security and political pressure move. The truth is that various criminal groups have entrenched themselves in impoverished Cambodia (and in Laos as well), coming from China, Myanmar, and beyond.
In June 2025 the border crisis unexpectedly took on a personal dimension when a leaked recording surfaced of a conversation between Thai Prime Minister Paetongtarn Shinawatra and Hun Sen, Cambodia’s lifelong senator and father of current Prime Minister Hun Manet. Paetongtarn, political heir of the powerful Shinawatra family, addresses him as “uncle” and refers to the Thai army as “the other side,” suggesting an attempt to establish a parallel, personal channel of communication outside formal diplomacy. Hun Sen secretly recorded the call and then released it days later without warning Bangkok, turning a private exchange into a political bomb.
The release of the recording caused a political earthquake in Thailand. Nationalist circles and the military establishment accused the prime minister of naïveté, disloyalty, and endangering national security; coalition partners abandoned the government; and the stock market plunged amid deep distrust. The Constitutional Court quickly suspended Paetongtarn and soon permanently removed her from office. This allowed political and military structures in Bangkok that favor a tougher approach toward Cambodia to gain the upper hand. Whether intentional or not, Hun Sen’s move weakened the Thai government more inclined to negotiation precisely when border tensions were peaking—further pushing both countries toward a sharper and more dangerous course.
Why did he publish the recording? He clearly didn’t think through the consequences. Hun Sen released it because it was a geopolitically useful diversion that, in his mind, weakened the rival government, strengthened his own position, and worsened Thailand’s stance amid the border crisis.
With this backdrop, it is no surprise that a mine explosion on July 23, 2025 became the spark for war. A Thai soldier was severely injured in Ubon Ratchathani province. Bangkok immediately claimed it was a new mine secretly planted by Cambodians; Phnom Penh insisted it was a leftover from past wars. In the following days, artillery duels erupted along some 40 kilometers of the border, infantry units crossed into one another’s territory, Cambodia used BM-21 Grad rocket launchers, and rockets hit hospitals, schools, and gas stations in Thai border towns. Thailand responded by establishing air superiority: F-16s flew combat missions against a neighboring state for the first time since the 1980s. The dozens of dead and hundreds of thousands displaced in five days showed how dangerous the conflict had become, despite the global media largely ignoring it (all attention focusing on Ukraine).
A powerless ASEAN and Trump’s attempts
Under pressure from ASEAN neighbors, especially Malaysia, and with the discreet presence of Chinese and American envoys, Thailand and Cambodia accepted a ceasefire at the end of July. The Putrajaya agreement, later formalized as a peace treaty in Kuala Lumpur on October 26, provided for the withdrawal of heavy weapons, joint committees, ASEAN observers, and demining of critical areas. For Washington, it was an opportunity for Trump (who can hardly be expected to understand the background of the conflict) to present a new “peace success”; for Malaysia, proof that ASEAN can still achieve something; for China, a chance to show itself as a responsible power supporting regional solutions. But paper does not change the reality that the border remains undemarcated, mines remain, and nationalist rhetoric in both countries stays the same.
Peace did not last. In November a new mine explosion injured Thai soldiers in Sisaket province. Bangkok immediately announced it was suspending the peace agreement and accused Cambodia of “fresh mine traps.” Phnom Penh again insisted they were old mines and accused Thailand of using the incident as a pretext. A series of smaller clashes followed, accusations of ceasefire violations, and withdrawal from agreed de-escalation measures. In early December the new Thai prime minister, Anutin Charnvirakul, publicly declared that “there will be no negotiations” and that peace is possible only if Cambodia accepts Thailand’s conditions. Shortly after, on the night of December 7–8, new exchanges of fire and Thai airstrikes deep into Cambodian territory took place. According to Bangkok, the targets included long-range Chinese missile systems that Cambodia is using to compensate for its lack of air power. Phnom Penh condemned the attacks as “barbaric aggression” and sought international condemnation, but the reality is that both sides are now using the most modern weapons they possess.
Causes of the conflict, borders as arteries, and consequences
If one seeks the “real reason” for the conflict, as we’ve seen, the answer is not simple. The first part is obvious: a border that has never been properly demarcated on the ground and is symbolically charged with ancient temples and colonial wounds. The second layer is nationalism—historical grievances, stories of “stolen-our” territory and cultural heritage, and an emotional logic that recognizes no compromise. The third layer is domestic politics: the Thai army is using an external enemy to mobilize voters ahead of the 2026 elections and discipline the domestic opposition. Cambodia’s leadership, transitioning from Hun Sen to his son Hun Manet, cannot afford to appear weak before Thailand and its own public. A border war is a perfect tool for consolidating power while economic inequality, authoritarianism, and social problems fade into the background.
Resources in the classic sense—oil, gas, rare minerals—are not the main motive, although they do exist. In the Gulf of Thailand, the two countries have unresolved maritime claims likely hiding hydrocarbon reserves. On land, border areas are rich in forests and some mineral deposits. But the more important economic factor right now is the borders themselves as arteries—goods, energy, and hundreds of thousands of workers, mostly Cambodians doing the hardest and worst-paid jobs in Thailand, cross daily. Every disruption—every import ban or closed crossing—hits these workers and small traders the hardest. Paradoxically, the only sector that benefits from areas of weak control are the cyber-scam camps, products of modern deregulated capitalism, which both Chinese and Thai authorities now want to dismantle—while further militarizing border zones.
The role of external powers in this conflict is therefore not decisive in the sense that they directly control the war, but important as context. China is Cambodia’s main patron. It invests in infrastructure, logistics, real estate, potentially even in a military base at Ream on the coast, and supplies Cambodia’s military with weapons, including missile systems that Thailand is now trying to destroy from the air. Beijing officially presents itself as “neutral,” supporting regional solutions through ASEAN and often emphasizing that the border is disputed because of the colonial past—a message that resonates well in Phnom Penh and across the Global South. China has no interest in a large war that would endanger its investments, but it has a clear interest in ensuring Cambodia is not humiliated and does not turn toward American protection.
The United States approaches from another angle. Thailand has been a formal U.S. ally since SEATO (1954). Joint exercises and security ties continue despite periodic coups. However, in this crisis Washington claims it is trying to act as a peacemaker rather than an explicit Thai patron. Trump personally mediated the July ceasefire, attended the Kuala Lumpur signing, and when the truce began to crack under the pressure of mines and new clashes, his administration publicly urged both sides to “honor their commitments.” It’s hard not to see the PR calculation: in a world where American wars and interventions accumulate, any “peace agreement” in a region long ignored by the West is a good story for domestic audiences. But structural problems—colonial borders, militarized nationalism, social misery—are not so easily solved.
Balance of power and the impact on the wider region
When comparing the balance of power, it is clear that Thailand enters the conflict with a significantly greater advantage. With about 70 million inhabitants, a GDP of over 500 billion dollars, and a defense budget of nearly 6 billion annually, it can afford a modern air force and a massive mechanized army. Cambodia, with around 17 million people and a military budget under one billion, has no operational combat aircraft, but in recent years it has accumulated an impressive number of multiple-launch rocket systems—several hundred launchers, enough to saturate the depth of Thai territory. Thailand dominates the air; Cambodia tries to respond with salvos of rockets. That imbalance makes any escalation a potential humanitarian catastrophe. It is one thing when clashes occur between armies in the jungle; it is another when inaccurate rockets rain down on border towns, while above them fly fighters that can destroy an entire village with a single bomb.
For the wider region, the conflict between Thailand and Cambodia is dangerous precisely because it strikes at the core of what ASEAN liked to pride itself on—“peace among its members.” The same organization has for years failed to stop the bloodshed in Myanmar, and now it is watching two of its own members wage war against each other. Malaysia is trying to mediate, Indonesia and Vietnam are calling for peace, Laos fears spillover and refugees, but the organization as a whole appears powerless. The weaker ASEAN is, the more room there is for bilateral arrangements under the patronage of larger powers—whether China or the United States—and the more small states become mere pieces of other people’s strategies instead of shaping their own regional order.
At the same time, the war has a very real human cost. Hundreds of thousands of people have already been forced to leave their homes. Schools and hospitals in border areas occasionally close for safety reasons. Since these are rural, already impoverished regions, every month of war means years of additional setbacks. A border that—in a different political context—could be a corridor of trade, joint tourism to ancient temples, a field of cross-border cooperation and demilitarized heritage, is instead turning into a no-go zone of new conflicts.
Can the temples become peaceful?
The entire conflict thus seems like a distilled expression of the broader logic of today’s world order—small countries with heavy colonial legacies, internal authoritarian structures, and unresolved social issues stuck between a regional integration that does not work and global powers offering “peace” on the condition of new dependencies. Cambodia balances between China while cautiously opening the door to Washington; Thailand balances between its American alliance and growing economic dependence on China. ASEAN balances between its own declarations and practical impotence.
The solution, of course, does not lie in another round of air strikes or another “Trump agreement,” but in what has systematically been avoided until now—serious, long-term, and technically demanding border demarcation with international guarantees; joint management of temples and sacred sites as world heritage; demilitarization of sensitive areas; and a genuine fight against transnational crime that will not serve as a pretext for increasing military pressure on a neighbor. This requires political will in both Bangkok and Phnom Penh—the will to separate national pride from an obsession with a few kilometers of rocky plateau. As long as that will is absent, the temples above the jungle will remain not only monuments of past civilizations but also the tragic stage on which an old script is replayed—borders drawn by foreign hands, blood shed by local ones.
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