Photo: MPA.mn / “News for Equality” image archive

It has now been a year since Mongolia’s newly expanded Parliament convened—one that, for the first time in the country’s history, includes 32 women from five political parties, making up a quarter of the chamber. The 2024 elections also brought in two members with disabilities and marked the arrival of Mongolia’s first Gen Z lawmaker, Tsenguun Saruulsaikhan. Over 17% of MPs are now under the age of 40, marking another step toward more diverse representation.

On the surface, this 126-member Parliament appears more inclusive than ever. But a deeper question remains: Are these representatives truly being heard? Does their presence translate into real power?

Recently, Parliament’s official Facebook page proudly posted about installing a podium for Bayasgalan Jadambaa, an MP who uses a wheelchair, calling it “a symbol of human rights and an inclusive society.” In reality, it was nothing more than a simple wooden stand. A basic gesture, dressed up as a milestone. Before that, senior officials declared that “Mongolia now leads Asia in women’s political participation.”

This, in essence, is tokenism.

Coined in the 1970s by Harvard Business School professor Rosabeth Moss Kanter, tokenism refers to the inclusion of a few members of marginalised groups to appear diverse, without giving them real influence. Visibility without power.

Everyday Disrespect, Deepening Harm

In one telling moment, Bayarmaa Judag raised a question during a budget hearing. Then, former Prime Minister Oyun-Erdene Luvsannamsrai responded—not by addressing her directly—but by attributing the question to a senior male politician from her party, as if she were merely delivering his message. The implication was clear: she wasn’t speaking for herself. This subtle dismissal quickly fuelled online rumours that she was simply a proxy for male colleagues, lacking her own voice or agency.

Fake news spread linking Bayarmaa to other male opposition politicians. Some even shared a photo of her daughter on social media, speculating about the child’s paternity. These attacks revived long-standing stereotypes about women politicians—that they earn power not through merit, but through loyalty or sexual relations with powerful men.

“Defamation should have limits,” Bayarmaa said at a press conference. “I’ve been accused of all kinds of things. I’ve never gone to the police. But this time, after ten days of nonstop harassment—and when they posted my child’s name and photo—I won’t stay silent.”

As in many parts of the world, women politicians in Mongolia face constant online abuse. And much of it is gendered and personal.

They’re expected to endure not just dismissal, but humiliation. On International Women’s Day last year, the President publicly scolded Minister Bulgantuya Khurelbaatar for arriving late, shouting from the stage: “Stand up! Apologise! I said Stand up!” She had just come from a cabinet meeting. The scene took place in a hall full of uniformed women, at an event meant to celebrate their rights. It was disrespectful—and revealing.

When leaders behave this way, they legitimise the everyday sexism that women in politics already face. From ridicule to outright abuse, the attacks continue with little accountability.

The “Pink Teddy” and the Politics of Appearance

Last year’s Intermed hospital data breach led to a new wave of online attacks. Disinformation circulated that MPs Bayarmaa and Baatarjav Munkhsoyol had been treated for syphilis—claims based on doctored documents, as confirmed by Mongolia’s Fact-Checking Center.

Meanwhile, how women MPs dress remains fair game for mockery. When Narantuya Munkhtur wore a pink coat, she was nicknamed “the pink teddy.” Later, when several women MPs wore coordinated pink outfits, they were mocked again. One outlet ran a piece titled “Let’s Uniform Our MPs,” while another shamed them with the headline: “Women MPs, Shame on You”—scolding them for posting photos while “children are dying from air pollution.”

Their appearance is policed. Their personal lives are scrutinised. They are pressured to speak on every issue related to children, families, or social justice—and if they don’t, they’re accused of being silent, ineffective, or out of touch.

Yet when they do act, their work is often ignored.

It’s worth remembering that it was only after more women entered Parliament—starting in 2012—that progress was made on long-stalled reforms in education, domestic violence, child protection, elder care, and disability rights. At last year’s Women Parliamentarians Conference, Deputy Speaker Bulgantuya Khurelbaatar presented detailed examples of the legislative progress women MPs have led. But these achievements rarely make headlines.

The Road to One-Third: Why Numbers Matter

Kanter found that in male-dominated fields, the few women who do make it in are heavily scrutinised. One mistake can cost them everything. That’s why critical mass matters. When women make up at least 30–35% of a decision-making body, they are no longer seen as outsiders. They are seen as leaders. Malcolm Gladwell calls this the “magic third.”

Getting there isn’t easy. That’s why gender quotas are essential. Today, 138 countries use some form of quota to improve representation. Mongolia is no stranger to this. During the socialist era, quotas helped women reach 24.9% of the legislature. But after 1990, that number dropped sharply.

The first legally enforced quota came in 2011, requiring 20% of candidates to be women. This led to 11 women MPs in 2012, and 13 in both 2016 and 2020. In 2023, new reforms increased the quota to 30% for the 2024 election and 40% by 2028. A mandatory 1:1 gender ratio (zipper system) was also introduced for party lists.

This is how 32 women entered Parliament in 2024. But let’s be clear: 24 of them were elected via party lists. Only eight won direct constituency races, showing that many voters still hesitate to support women as individual candidates.

Where We Really Stand

Yes, Mongolia now ranks slightly above the Asian average for women in Parliament. But we are far from leading. According to the Inter-Parliamentary Union, Mongolia ranks 98th out of 183 countries, with women holding 25% of seats.

So, no—there’s little to celebrate. What we have is a fragile foothold. And a long, unfinished road ahead.