Former Defense Sec Orly Mercado, remembering Mao and the “heady 60s”, weighs in on the Chinese embassy’s steady stream of protests against what it calls Philippine “provocations” that suggests to him “performative indignation rather than the usual quiet diplomacy.” I’m not sure about “performative” though. Parang sincerely upset sila by our “transparency initiative”, i.e., the Philippine government’s strategy to control the narrative and expose China’s coercive and unlawful actions in the West Philippine Sea. Umuubra kasi?

WHEN MAO’S WORDS COME BACK TO HAUNT BEIJING 
by Orlando Mercado

IT was the heady 1960s. As a political science student, I developed more than a purely scholarly interest in the writings of Chairman Mao Zedong. Like many of my generation, I read revolutionary tracts not only to understand China, but to make sense of a world in upheaval — about Vietnam, student movements, anti-imperialist struggles, and the seductive certainties of ideology.

Those years were saturated with manifestos and slogans, with the conviction that history itself was bending under the weight of mass movements and moral clarity. We believed ideas mattered, that words could mobilize millions, and that power was never as permanent or as invulnerable as it appeared. In that charged atmosphere, Mao’s writings were read less as dogma than as tools, frameworks that could be used for interpreting conflict, resistance and reaction.

One Mao line, in particular, has stayed with me through the decades: “To be attacked by the enemy is not a bad thing but a good thing.” At the time, it sounded almost paradoxical, even counterintuitive, especially to young minds still inclined to equate criticism with failure. Yet the more one sat with it, the clearer its strategic logic became. Attack, in Mao’s formulation, was not merely hostility; it was information. It was evidence that one’s actions had registered, that they had crossed a threshold from harmless dissent to meaningful challenge.

That line came rushing back to me recently after reading reports that China summoned Philippine Ambassador to Beijing Jaime FlorCruz over statements made by Commodore Jay Tarriela, spokesman of the Philippine Coast Guard, on developments in the West Philippine Sea. Beijing has since doubled down, with its embassy in Manila issuing a steady stream of protests against what it calls Philippine “provocations.” The language has been sharp, repetitive and unusually public, suggesting performative indignation rather than the usual quiet diplomacy.

The immediate trigger is the Philippines’ so-called transparency initiative: the systematic public release of photos, videos and accounts of Chinese maritime actions in our waters. There is nothing radical about it. They’re not “fake news.” They’re only facts placed on record for the world to know. For years, their gray-zone tactics thrived in darkness and ambiguity. Now, they are being dragged into the spotlight for all to see.

Transparency, in this sense, is almost disarmingly modest. It does not rely on rhetoric, escalation, or counter-force. It relies on documentation. It assumes that visibility itself has power, and that when actions are observed, recorded and shared, they lose some of their deniability and much of their strategic advantage.

Mao would have understood this instinctively.

In a 1939 essay delivered in Yanan, Mao argued that enemy attacks were not merely inevitable, but also proof of effectiveness. If your adversary attacks you, it means you have drawn a clear line of demarcation. It means you have become a problem. Silence from the enemy is more dangerous than criticism, because silence suggests irrelevance.

In Maoist dialectics, struggle clarifies. Attacks sharpen contradictions. Overreaction reveals weakness. So, when the response is loud, it usually means something hit home. Noise, in this framework, is diagnostic. The louder the protest, the greater the likelihood that a sensitive nerve has been touched. Calm confidence rarely needs theatrical outrage.

Seen through that lens, China’s increasingly vocal protests are not signs of strength. They are signs of irritation, and perhaps anxiety. Transparency works precisely because it disrupts a longstanding advantage: control of narrative. Gray-zone operations depend on fog. Sunlight is their natural enemy.

Every diplomatic summons, every embassy statement, every angry denial does more than rebut a Philippine claim. It advertises to the region and to the world that something is being exposed, something Beijing would rather keep blurred, contested, or buried in competing versions of events. Ironically, the protests amplify the very material they seek to delegitimize, drawing attention to incidents that might otherwise have remained localized or transient.

This is where Mao’s old doctrine becomes strategically useful in a modern, democratic setting.

First, attacks validate impact. If Beijing is protesting loudly, it means the transparency initiative is biting. It is not being ignored. It is being felt.

Second, attacks clarify lines. The choice becomes starker for third parties: between openness and opacity, between documentation and denial, between rule-based processes and coercive gray zones.

Third, attacks shift the burden of explanation. Instead of Manila constantly defending its actions, Beijing is forced to explain why transparency, of all things, is so objectionable. What, exactly, is being hidden that sunlight makes so uncomfortable?

There is a deep irony here. Mao crafted this doctrine for revolutionary movements struggling against stronger powers. Today, a democratic Philippines is applying a version of that logic not with insurgency, but with cameras, facts and public accountability against a far more powerful state.

As someone who once pored over Mao’s writings in the ferment of the 1960s, I cannot help but note the twist of history. A doctrine meant to steel revolutionaries against imperial pressure now offers a lens for understanding why a major power bristles at transparency.

When Beijing reacts loudly, it may believe it is projecting resolve. However, in the dialectical logic that Mao himself embraced, loud attacks often signal that the pressure point has been identified. They suggest discomfort — an instinctive response to loss of control over narrative and perception.

In the West Philippine Sea, sunlight is not a provocation. It is a strategy. And every angry protest may be the clearest sign yet that the strategy is working.

US Supreme Court Justice Louis Brandeis was right. Indeed, “sunlight is said to be the best of disinfectants.”