EU–Russia Relations in Crisis: Understanding Diverging Perceptions 9781138215061, 9781315444567

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EU–Russia Relations in Crisis

Relations between the EU and Russia have been traditionally and predominantly studied from a one-sided power perspective, in which interests and capabilities are taken for granted. This book presents a new approach to EU–Russia relations by focusing on the role of images and perceptions, which can be major obstacles to the enhancement of relations between both actors. By looking at how these images feature on both sides (EU and Russia), on different levels (bilateral, regional, multilateral) and in different policy fields (energy, human rights, regional integration, multilateral institutions), the book seeks to reintroduce a degree of sophistication into EU–Russia studies and provide a more complete overview of different dimensions of EU–Russia relations than any book has done to date. Taking social constructivist and transnational approaches, interests and power are not seen as objectively given, but as socially mediated and imbued by identities. This text will be of key interest to scholars, students and practitioners of European Foreign Policy, Eastern Partnership, Russian Foreign Policy and more broadly to European and EU Politics/Studies, Russian Studies, and International Relations. Tom Casier is Reader in International Relations and Jean Monnet Chair at the Brussels School of International Studies, University of Kent, Brussels, Belgium. He is also Visiting Professor at the University of Leuven, Belgium. Joan DeBardeleben is Chancellor’s Professor and Jean Monnet Chair at the Institute of European, Russian and Eurasian Studies at Carleton University, Canada. She is also Director of the Canada–Europe Transatlantic Dialogue.

Routledge Studies in European Foreign Policy

Series Editors: Richard Whitman, University of Kent, UK, and Richard Youngs, University of Warwick, UK. This series addresses the standard range of conceptual and theoretical questions related to European foreign policy. At the same time, in response to the intensity of new policy developments, it endeavours to ensure that it also has a topical flavour, addressing the most important and evolving challenges to European foreign policy, in a way that will be relevant to the policy-making and think-tank communities. For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge. com/Routledge-Studies-in-European-Foreign-Policy/book-series/RSEFP The European Union in International Climate Change Politics Still Taking a Lead? Rüdiger Wurzel, James Connelly and Duncan Liefferink Theorizing the European Neighbourhood Policy Sieglinde Gstöhl and Simon Schunz EU Security Missions and the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict Amr Nasr El-Din The EU and Russia in Their ‘Contested Neighbourhood’ Multiple External Influences, Policy Transfer and Domestic Change Laure Delcour Europe and Iran The Nuclear Deal and Beyond Cornelius Adebahr EU-–Russia Relations in Crisis Understanding Diverging Perceptions Edited by Tom Casier and Joan DeBardeleben The European Union’s Evolving External Engagement Towards New Sectoral Diplomacies? Edited by Chad Damro, Sieglinde Gstöhl and Simon Schunz

EU–Russia Relations in Crisis Understanding Diverging Perceptions

Edited by Tom Casier and Joan DeBardeleben

First published 2018 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2018 selection and editorial matter, Tom Casier and Joan DeBardeleben; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Tom Casier and Joan DeBardeleben to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-1-138-21506-1 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-44456-7 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Taylor & Francis Books

Contents

List of illustrations List of contributors Acknowledgements Acronyms Introduction: A Transnational Approach to EU–Russia Relations

vii viii ix x 1

JOAN DEBARDELEBEN

PART I

The Historical and Ideational Context of the EU–Russia Relationship 1 EU–Russia Relations in Crisis: The Dynamics of a Breakup

11 13

TOM CASIER

2 Identity and Hegemony in EU–Russia Relations: Making Sense of the Asymmetrical Entanglement

30

VIATCHESLAV MOROZOV

PART II

EU–Russia Bilateral Relations 3 Negative Mutual Interdependence? The Clashing Perceptions of EU–Russia Economic Relations

51 53

HISKI HAUKKALA

4 EU–Russia Energy Relations: Do Institutions Stand the Test?

72

TATIANA ROMANOVA

5 From Hidden ‘Othering’ to Open Rivalry: Negotiating the EU–Russia Role Structure through the Visa Dialogue ANNA A. DEKALCHUK

93

vi

Contents

PART III

EU–Russia Relations in a Regional Context 6 Alternative Paradigms for EU–Russia Neighbourhood Relations

113 115

JOAN DEBARDELEBEN

7 No Middle Ground? Economic Relations Between the EU, Ukraine and Russia

137

CRINA VIJU

8 EU–Russia Relations and the Unravelling of the European Security Regime in the Context of the Ukraine Crisis

159

MARIA RAQUEL FREIRE AND LICÍNIA SIMÃO

9 The EU and Russia in the Pan-European Human Rights Regime

178

PETRA GUASTI

PART IV

The Multilateral Context of EU–Russia Relations

199

10 The EU and Russia in a Multilateral Setting

201

TOM CASIER

11 Russia Turns East Again? Russia and China After Ukraine

219

PETER FERDINAND

Conclusion

238

TOM CASIER AND JOAN DEBARDELEBEN

Index

244

Illustrations

Figures 7.1 7.2 7.3 7.4 7.5 9.1

Ukraine’s trade with Russia (2014) EU trade flows with Ukraine by SITC sections (2015) Exports to EU and Russia in 2014 (%) Imports from EU and Russia in 2014 (%) Income per capita, regional GDP and sectoral value-added shares (2012, %) The number of judgments at the ECtHR 1995–2012: EU 27 and ECHR 47

139 139 140 140 141 185

Tables 0.1 6.1

The Evolution of EU–Russia Relations Pre-Ukraine Crisis: EU and Russian Policy Frames for a Common European Space (CES) 6.2 The Pre-crisis Paradigm Compared with the Competing Regionalisms Paradigm 6.3 Post Ukraine Crisis Previous and Alternative ‘Greater Europe’ Paradigms 7.1 Quantitative Studies 9.1 The Number of Judgments at the European Court of Human Rights 1995, 2000, 2005, 2010, 2012 – EU 27 (without Cyprus) 9.2 The Number of Judgments at the European Court of Human Rights 1995, 2000, 2005, 2010, 2012 – non-EU countries 11.1 Russian Trade with PRC (in million US$) 11.2 Share of Major Commodities in Russian Exports to PRC (in %) 11.3 Share of Major Commodities in Russian Imports from PRC (in %)

4 123 129 131 150 186 187 227 228 228

Contributors

Joan DeBardeleben, Chancellor’s Professor and Jean Monnet Chair, Institute of European, Russian and Eurasian Studies, Carleton University, Ottawa, Canada. Tom Casier, Reader in International Relations and Jean Monnet Chair, Brussels School of International Studies, University of Kent, Brussels, Belgium. Anna A. Dekalchuk, Associate Professor, National Research University Higher School of Economics, St. Petersburg, Russian Federation. Peter Ferdinand, Emeritus Reader in Politics and International Studies, Warwick University, United Kingdom. Maria Raquel Freire, Associate Professor in International Relations, Jean Monnet Chair, School of Economics of the University of Coimbra and Researcher at the Centre for Social Studies, University of Coimbra, Portugal. Petra Guasti, Postdoctoral Research Fellow at the Goethe University, Frankfurt, Germany. Hiski Haukkala, Associate Professor of International Relations, Faculty of Management, University of Tampere, Finland. Viatcheslav Morozov, Professor of EU–Russia Studies, Johan Skytte Institute of Political Studies, University of Tartu, Estonia. Tatiana Romanova, Associate Professor and Jean Monnet Chair, St. Petersburg State University, St. Petersburg; and National Research University Higher School of Economics, Moscow, Russian Federation.. Licínia Simão, Assistant Professor in International Relations, School of Economics of the University of Coimbra and Researcher at the Centre for Social Studies, University of Coimbra, Portugal. Crina Viju, Associate Professor, Institute of European, Russian and Eurasian Studies, Carleton University, Ottawa, Canada.

Acknowledgements

This volume is the product of work carried out by a Multilateral Research Group aimed at developing a transnational perspective on EU–Russia relations. The project was coordinated by the Jean Monnet Chair at the University of Kent (Dr Tom Casier) with Jean Monnet Chairs at three partner universities: Prof. Dr Joan DeBardeleben from Carleton University (Ottawa, Canada), Dr Tatiana Romanova from St Petersburg State University (Russia) and Prof. Dr Arne Niemann from Johannes Gutenberg University (Mainz, Germany). We gratefully acknowledge financial support provided to the project by the Life Long Learning Programme of the European Union. We also acknowledge support from the Social Science and Humanities Research Council of Canada (SSHRC) and participating universities for aspects of the project and this publication. We are grateful to Idris Colakovic and Susanne Szkola for editorial assistance in the preparation of this volume. More information about the activities of the Multilateral Research Group is available at the project website: https://www.kent.ac.uk/brussels/studying/ research/projects/jeanmonnet.html. The contents of this publication are the sole responsibility of the authors and do not reflect the views of the European Union or any of the project sponsors.

Acronyms

AA ABM AIIB ASEAN BRICS CBM(s) CBR CEN CES CENELEC CFE CFSP CIS CoE CSCE CSDP CSTO CU DCFTA EaP EASC ECHR ECtHR ECJ ECT ECU EEAS EEU EIDHR ENP ENPI

Association Agreement Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty Asian Infrastructure Investment Bank Association of Southeast Asian Nations Brazil, Russia, India, China, South Africa Confidence Building Measures Central Bank of Russia Committee for Standardization Common Economic Space European Committee for Electrotechnical Standardization Treaty on Conventional Armed Forces in Europe Common Foreign and Security Policy Commonwealth of Independent States Council of Europe Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe Common Security and Defence Policy Collective Security Treaty Organization Customs Union Deep and Comprehensive Free Trade Area Eastern Partnership Euro-Asian Council for Standardization, Metrology and Certification European Convention of Human Rights European Court of Human Rights European Court of Justice Energy Charter and its Treaty Eurasian Customs Union European External Action Service Eurasian Economic Union European Instrument for Democracy and Human Rights European Neighbourhood Policy European Neighbourhood and Partnership Instrument

Acronyms ENTSO-E ESDP EPC EU EurAsEc FDI FSJ FSU FTA G8 G20 GDP GOST GSP HR IC(s) IFHR IG IMF IR ISSG LGBT LNG MES MFN NATO NDB NGO NPE OBOR OSCE PCA PfM PfP R2P RNSS SCO SME SPS SVOP TACIS TG THAAD

European Network of Transmission System Operators for Electricity European Security and Defence Policy European Political Cooperation European Union Eurasian Economic Community Foreign Direct Investment Freedom, Security and Justice Former Soviet Union Free Trade Agreement Group of Eight Group of Twenty Gross Domestic Product (Russian: ГОСТ) Standards maintained by the EASC Generalized System of Preferences Human Rights International Courts International Federation for Human Rights Intergovernmental International Monetary Fund International Relations International Syria Support Group Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transsexual Liquefied Natural Gas Market Economy Status Most Favoured Nation(s) The North Atlantic Treaty Organization National Development Bank Non-Governmental Organization Normative Power Europe One Belt, One Road Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe Partnership and Cooperation Agreement Partnership for Modernisation Partnership for Peace Responsibility to Protect Russian National Security Strategy Shanghai Cooperation Organization Small and Medium-sized Enterprises Sanitary and Phytosanitary Norms Council on Foreign and Defence Policy Technical Assistance for Commonwealth of Independent States Transgovernmental Terminal High Altitude Area Defense

xi

xii

Acronyms

TN UK UN UNSC US USSR Wiiw WTO

Transnational United Kingdom United Nations United Nations Security Council United States Union of Soviet Socialist Republics Vienna Institute for International Economic Studies World Trade Organization

Introduction A Transnational Approach to EU–Russia Relations Joan DeBardeleben

The collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 brought great hope of improved relations between Russia and the West. In the early 1990s, the new Russian leadership, under President Boris Yeltsin, seemed committed to moving the country in the direction of democratic political institutions and a market economy. The period of hope was reflected in negotiations between the European Commission and Russian leaders to conclude a Partnership and Cooperation Agreement (PCA), which took effect in 1997; the agreement would set the basis for a constructive and mutually beneficial relationship between the two entities. In the period following the collapse of the communist system in Eastern Europe, the European Union’s approach to Russia was governed very much by the same ideas that had spurred the European integration project itself, namely the notion that strong economic ties could provide an enduring basis for peace and prosperity in Europe. As Yeltsin and other Russian leaders affirmed their European identity, there seemed no reason why a similar logic could not be applied to relations further east. The Russian side, responding from a position of relative weakness, was seeking support and assistance, in both a material and political sense, so a closer relationship with the EU also fit with Russian priorities, despite some divergent domestic voices about the degree to which Russia should embrace a European path (Tsygankov, 2016). All was not rosy however, even in this early period, as Russian actions in the country’s separatist region of Chechnya were deemed by many European leaders to be in violation of basic human rights standards and elicited criticism from the European side, leading to a delay in putting the PCA into effect. Nonetheless the tone was still positive on both sides, as the PCA affirmed a commitment to joint values and to closer relations between the two continental actors. In 1999, the EU issued a Common Strategy on Russia, which affirmed these same principles, and, in response, the Russian government issued a medium-term strategy on its relations with the EU. Vladimir Putin, first elected as Russian president in 2000, continued in the positive tone toward the EU, but key shifts in Europe and Russia changed the environment in which the relationship was unfolding. First was Russia’s economic revival, following the 1998 financial and ruble devaluation crisis. From

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1999, growth was reignited in Russia, in part based on a revival of Russian production spurred by the unfavourable foreign exchange rate. In this same time period, the Russian leadership saw new opportunities in utilizing Russian oil and gas exports as a power resource, reinforced by rising global energy prices. Russia no longer viewed itself as a supplicant country, dependent on the goodwill of Western partners, but more assertively sought equal status with the EU. Second was the progressive expansion of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), beginning with the accession of Poland, Hungary, and the Czech Republic in 1999, followed by the seven other Central and East European states in 2004, including the three Baltic states that border Russia and had also been part of the Soviet Union. While the EU was not itself responsible for NATO expansion, key EU Member States that were members of both organizations were supportive of and instrumental in the decision to expand the military alliance. While not directed at Russia, the move elicited strong objections from the Russian side. A final shift was the ‘big bang’ 2004 enlargement of the EU itself; in a certain perspective, this enlargement definitively removed Russia’s ‘buffer zone’ with the West, by including eight countries that had formerly been Soviet allies or part of the USSR into the EU and extending the EU’s borders with Russia to include frontiers with Poland and the three Baltic states. At the time, the Russian leadership did not express overall concern about these developments, despite some particular irritants such as visa and transit issues in relation to the Russian region of Kaliningrad oblast, which took on exclave status with the 2004 enlargement, and changed trade relations with the Central and East European countries as they became EU members. In light of the fact that the EU’s new borders moved further to the east the EU initiated the European Neighbourhood Policy (ENP) in 2004 to try to create a ‘circle of friends’ among old and new neighbours, including postSoviet countries such as Ukraine, Belarus, and Moldova, as well as Mediterranean neighbours in the South. Shortly thereafter the Caucasus states of Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Georgia were added. Russia rejected the EU’s offer to be included in the ENP, seeking for itself a more important status. In this time period, the EU and Russia began to frame their relationship more explicitly and regularly as a ‘strategic partnership’. In this context, they identified Four Common Spaces of cooperation in 2003 and Roadmaps to realize them in 2005. However, subsequent events in the years to follow indicated rising tensions, but most notably the war between Russia and Georgia in 2008, which elicited apprehensions in some European capitals about Russia’s intentions in it ‘near abroad’. NATO enlargement was, however, the strongest irritant to Russia; while not an EU initiative most EU Member States were involved in this expansion decision. When the EU launched the Eastern Partnership policy, as an amendment directed to six non-EU Soviet successor states in the ENP, in 2009, Russia expressed more concern over the Union’s explicit focus on countries that it considered part of its legitimate sphere of influence. In an effort to accelerate cooperation, the EU

Introduction

3

and Russia announced a Partnership for Modernization in 2010, which was largely stillborn. Some ten years after the EU’s big enlargement, in February 2014, EU–Russia relations suffered a radical rupture, marking the beginning of a confrontational phase. A drama had unfolded from the summer of 2013 involving Ukraine. As Ukraine and the EU prepared to sign a long-planned Association Agreement (AA), including a Deep and Comprehensive Free Trade Area (DCFTA), at the Eastern Partnership summit in Vilnius in November 2013, Russia raised objections. Amidst Russian pressure, such as trade embargoes, threats about economic repercussions, and promised incentives, the Ukrainian president Viktor Yanukovych, in addition to the Armenian leadership, backed off from the EU deal. While the earlier Armenian decision seemed to be well accepted by large parts of the Armenian population (Loda, 2016), the unexpected reversal by Yanukovych elicited massive protests in Kiev. At the Euromaidan, hundreds of thousands of Ukrainian citizens gathered both to support the EU deal and to censure the corrupt Yanukovych leadership. Following violent attacks on the crowd by Ukrainian security forces in February 2014, events unfolded quickly. Hope rose for a political settlement on February 21, when, with EU endorsement, a hasty agreement was hammered out between Yanukovych and the opposition movement to hold early presidential elections, before the end of year. However, to the surprise of many observers, on February 22, Yanukovych fled the capital, and shortly thereafter was removed by the Ukrainian parliament, replaced by a pro-EU interim government. Russia actively supported separatist figures in Crimea, the southern region of Ukraine, resulting in the annexation of Crimea by Russia in March 2014, following a rushed referendum in Crimea itself. While Russian authorities saw the end of Yanukovych’s presidency as caused by a ‘coup d’état’, implicitly supported by the EU and other Western nations, supporters of the Euromaidan considered the events to be a legitimate democratic revolution, involving an efficacious expression of popular will. These dramatic developments were surprising to observers in both Russia and the West, not so much by their direction as by their intensity and timing. While EU–Russia relations had suffered difficulties, sometimes called a crisis and sometimes stagnation, the eruption of a violent confrontation close to the borders of the EU had hardly been anticipated. Despite Russian hesitancy about the EU’s Eastern Partnership policy, launched in 2009, which sought to promote closer relations between the EU and six neighbouring post-Soviet countries, until 2013 the intensity of the Russian objections was not registered in Brussels. The violent turn of events in 2014 defied the original objectives both of the European integration project as a whole and more specifically contradicted the stated goals of the EU’s eastern policy, namely to build a ‘circle of friends’, and a zone of peace and prosperity around the EU’s new eastern perimeter. Furthermore, the Russian actions breached what had been perceived as the shared post-World War II and post-Cold War consensus about the inviolability of existing borders within Europe.

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As outlined in Chapter 1 of this volume, the EU–Russia relationship had moved, in a short period of just over two decades from one of cooperation (1993–2003) through a period of pragmatic competition (2004–2014) to a state of confrontation (2014 to present). The temporal boundary between the period of cooperation and the period of pragmatic competition is fuzzy, as a number of factors marked the shift. On the other hand, the shift from pragmatic competition to confrontation can be clearly dated at the time of the annexation of Crimea in February 2014 and the unfolding of the larger crisis over Ukraine, including the civil war in eastern Ukraine. As the relationship moved through these phases, images that the EU and Russia held of each other also evolved, as did the nature of the power dynamic between the two actors. If, in the early period, Russia was economically weak and willing to take instruction from the West, including the EU, beginning in 1999 Russia became increasingly assertive, seeing itself more as a resurgent power that deserved equal status with its Western partners, looking to the EU as both a partner and potential competitor. With the breakdown in relations in 2014, the power balance between the actors remained undefined, as Russia began to articulate an ideological position that defined the EU in more negative terms, characterized by hypocrisy, deception, and degraded moral values. On the other side, the EU moved from viewing Russia as a teachable ‘pupil’, as Casier puts it in Chapter 1, to a resistant partner in the next period, and finally as a revisionist and potentially threatening neighbour (see Table 0.1). The objective of this book is to look at the dynamic of this evolution through a particular lens, namely that of constructivist theory, with particular attention to the transnational element, namely the interaction between the EU and Russia at multiple levels. The particular focus is on perceptions and images of the two actors, both of themselves and of each other. This objective is facilitated by inclusion of authors from both the European Union and Russia, as well as ‘outside’ analysts from Canada. The driving assumption is that relations are determined not so much by some objective ‘facts’ as by the Table 0.1 The Evolution of EU–Russia Relations Time period

Basic feature

Power relationship

EU image of Russia

Russian image of the EU

1992–2003

Cooperation

Pupil

Support and partner

2004–2014

Pragmatic competition

Asymmetrical, favouring the EU Shift toward equality

Unwilling partner

Feb. 2014 on

Confrontation

Mutual assertions of power directed at the ‘Other’

Revisionist actor

Partner and illegitimate hegemon Declining and deceptive European power

Introduction

5

way actors construct the meaning of these ‘facts’ and mutually interact to affect their perception. Alongside the descriptive task of determining the facts of the situation are attributions of significance and meaning. Which ‘facts’ are important and what do they mean to the actors involved? What interpretations are given to these occurrences by the actors themselves, also as they interact with one another? And how does the process of interaction affect and change behaviours and mutual interpretations? The importance of perceptions and attributed meanings became crucially evident as the Ukraine crisis unfolded in 2014, when differing narratives provided largely incompatible interpretations of the same events on the ground. For example, while Russian commentators applauded the independence referendum in Crimea as an expression of democratic legitimacy, Western officials generally labelled it a violation of Ukrainian law and the subsequent inclusion of Crimea into Ukraine a violation of international law. Continuing disagreements surround not only actual ‘facts on the ground’, but also the interpretation and application of principles such as sovereignty, democracy, territorial integrity, and human rights to the situation in Ukraine and Crimea. The difficulty of bridging such conceptual gaps, which have widened since 2014, makes the understanding of their roots an essential task for scholarly research. By drawing attention to the importance of constructed meanings and the mutually constituted nature of the relationship, this volume hopes to make a substantial and new contribution to unravelling the roots of the current crisis between the EU and Russia, and in this way stimulate new thinking about reversing the current trajectory.

The Volume The first section of the book sets the context for the relationship, providing the conceptual framework that grounds analysis of particular bilateral policy arenas as well the regional and multilateral context in Parts II and III. Chapter 1, by Tom Casier outlines the conceptual framework that governs the study, analysing the dynamics that govern processes at play in the relationship and the role of images therein. Casier explains the growing divergence of views of the relationship held in Moscow and Brussel from the 1990s to 2014. While Russia sought to reaffirm its great power status, the EU hoped to avoid new dividing lines in Europe and promote continental stability following the 2004 and 2007 enlargements, first through the European Neighbourhood Policy (2004) and then the Eastern Partnership (2009). Using concepts from social psychology, Casier explores the interaction between these two diverging perceptions, and how, through ‘attributional bias’ (Kowert, 1998), a logic of competition and a spiral of mutual distrust emerged, culminating in the events of 2014 and following. Chapter 2, by Viacheslav Morozov, explores more closely the role of identities, both as a factor shaping the relationship but also shaped by interaction between the two actors. Throughout history, Russia has found itself in an ambiguous stance vis-à-vis Europe, on one hand

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seeing Europe as its main point of reference, on the other often resisting European dominance and formulating an alternative. Meanwhile, the EU’s efforts to export its values and governance agenda (Gänzle, 2008) in the postSoviet space produced an image of its normative hegemony within the continent, with Russia strategically resisting this dominance. The rise to prominence of what Morozov (2015) calls ‘paleoconservative ideology’ under Vladimir Putin’s leadership embodied this resistance but also bolstered the regime’s authoritarian tendencies. Morozov concludes by considering conditions under which Russia might undergo another transition that could turn the country back toward a more positive orientation toward Europe. Contributions to Part II of the volume draw on concepts developed in the first section to three sectoral arenas of the bilateral relationship between the EU and Russia: trade, energy, and mobility and border management. In Chapter 3 Hiski Haukkala examines trade relations from the early 1990s until the present. The backdrop for his analysis is the idea, consistent with the logic of EU integration itself, that economic interdependence could provide the foundation for a peaceful and constructive political relationship. However, as the title of Haukkala’s chapter suggests, the outcome has, at least to some extent, rather been ‘negative mutual interdependence’. After reviewing the nature of EU–Russia trade and investment relations, Haukkala identifies increasing dissonance over the EU’s assertive efforts to export its norms (see also DeBardeleben, 2015). While the EU–Russia Partnership for Modernization (2010) and Russia’s accession to the World Trade Organization in 2012 reinforced hopes of ‘positive interdependence’, Haukkala argues that trade relations in fact became progressively more politicized, reflected in Russia’s use of energy resources as well as other trade disputes. Haukkala finds that the positive potential of economic interdependence has eroded over time, due to divergent views and interests. Chapter 4, by Tatiana Romanova, picks up on the energy issue, but from a different angle. In line with the theoretical focus of the volume, she supplements the traditional focus on inter-governmental relations with attention to the role of transnational and trans-governmental linkages in the energy field. She asks why these structures were not more effective in ‘cushioning’ the impact of the inter-state crisis that emerged between the EU and Russia in 2014. While these institutions provided a foundation for stability when the overall relationship was set on a cooperative basis, she finds that once formal state relations broke down, these more informal linkages failed to function effectively because they were largely formalistic, rather than dealing with actual substance. Romanova seeks an explanation for this failure in differing EU and Russia views of the role of such non-governmental institutions and a process of what she calls ‘institutional primitivisation’. The third bilateral policy arena examined in the volume relates to the role of borders and visa regimes. Achievement of a visa free regime with the EU has been a priority objective of the Russian leadership, making Anna Dekalchuk’s examination, in Chapter 5, of its failed realization a particularly salient

Introduction

7

issue, perhaps indicative of more general tendencies in the relationship. This issue also illustrates very graphically the distinction between actual physical borders and their meaning for identity and sovereignty, which have become increasingly contested concepts since the Ukraine crisis erupted. Specifically, Dekalchuk explores the symbolic meaning of the Schengen system and of visas for Russia, while showing how the EU has repeatedly framed such issues in technical terms, providing a justification for delaying the introduction of a visa-free regime. In Part III the volume turns to the regional context, which in recent years has been the most contested, with the Ukraine crisis the most visible manifestation of the rift. In Chapter 6, Joan DeBardeleben argues that a potential paradigm shift is occurring in terms of how both parties frame their mutual relations with countries in the ‘shared neighbourhood’ that lies between the EU and Russia. Drawing on the work of Thomas Kuhn (1970) and Peter Hall (1993), DeBardeleben sees the paradigm shift, while primarily driven by Russian actions, as emerging out of the interaction between Russia’s perceived failure to realize its key foreign policy objectives and the EU’s efforts to project its normative model to the east. This chapter looks at how negative images held of each other’s intents have contributed to a process of escalation and eventual confrontation over Ukraine. She concludes her piece by assessing possible paths to escape the new confrontational paradigm, through a reconstruction of the notion of a common European space. Focussing specifically on the relationship between the EU, Russia, and Ukraine, Crina Viju, in Chapter 7, looks at the economic aspect of EU–Russia regional competition. She assesses the costs and benefits of Ukraine’s choice to integrate with the EU rather than Russia, examining the role and perspectives of each of the three parties (EU, Russia, Ukraine). Behind the chapter’s analysis lies the question of the degree to which Ukrainian decision-makers construct their choices based on economic reasoning or other factors such as identity preferences or geopolitical considerations. The third contribution to this Part, Chapter 8 by Maria Raquel Freire and Licínia Simão, frames the regional context more broadly in terms of the overall European security arena. This contribution explores differing perceptions of security on the Russian and Western sides, and how these have inhibited agreements on a common security regime. Key points of contention have been understandings of concepts such as territorial integrity and national self-determination. Freire and Simão argue that despite various innovative attempts, divergent concepts have not been reconciled, and in fact have been institutionalized through the evolving role of NATO and the Collective Security Treaty Organisation (CSTO). In Chapter 9 Petra Guasti explores one of the most contested arenas of value dissonance between Europe and Russia and its impact on another transnational institution, the European Court of Human Rights (ECtHR). While a shared commitment to human rights protection is referenced in the 1997 PCA and various institutional mechanisms to promote discussion of the

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issue were developed, Guasti finds that ‘perceptions regarding the role of human rights differ profoundly between the two actors’ (p. 182). These disparities often have become evident in cases brought by Russian litigants to the ECtHR, which is not itself an EU institution, but rather is associated with the Council of Europe, to which the Russian Federation acceded in 1994. Based on an impressive foundation of empirical research on ECtHR cases, the author highlights increasing Russia scepticism toward ECtHR decisions. Guasti shows how divergent meanings attributed to commonly used concepts such as human rights placed the capacity of transnational institutions, such as the ECtHR, under challenge. In the final Part of the book the analysis moves to the multilateral level, situating the EU–Russia relationship in the larger international context. Tom Casier, in Chapter 10, takes up the task of examining attitudes of the EU and Russia towards the idea of multilateralism, a legitimizing concept that both actors support rhetorically while applying its principles selectively. In particular, Casier contrasts the EU’s notion of ‘effective multilateralism’, which involves support for legally binding commitments, with Russia’s notion of ‘equal multilateralism’, linked closely to Russia’s preference for multipolarity and recognition of equal status. These ideational differences are shown to manifest themselves in differing institutional preferences, for the EU in support of existing international structures and for Russia increasingly tied to support for alternate organizational forms promoted by emerging countries. Casier also assesses the possibilities for the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) to emerge as an acceptable multilateral vehicle for both parties. In the final chapter, Peter Ferdinand extends the discussion to consider whether a turn to the East by Russia may offer a viable alternative to Russia’s failed aspiration to achieve equal status with the EU or the West, particularly in the context of the Ukraine crisis. Taking account of both identity aspects as well as of Russia’s construction of its own economic and geopolitical interests, he assesses the likely sustainability of Russia’s apparent turn to China. In applying a constructivist and transnational approach, this volume also seeks to avoid a one-sided power perspective and to explore the transnational interactions between the actors, both at official and unofficial levels, that may feed cooperative or conflictual relations. While it would be naïve and overly optimistic to hope that this endeavour could provide a resolution to current difficulties between the EU and Russia, the elucidation of the dynamics that have produced radically differing, and often conflicting, interpretations of events may nonetheless contribute to rebuilding mutual understanding.

References DeBardeleben, Joan (2015) ‘Backdrop to the Ukraine Crisis: The Revival of Normative Politics in Russia’s Relations with the EU?’ In Matthew Sussex and Roger E. Kanet (eds) Power, Politics and Confrontation in Eurasia: Foreign Policy in a Contested Area. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 161–185.

Introduction

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Gänzle, Stefan (2008) ‘The EU’s Policy toward EU–Russia Relations: Extending Governance Beyond Borders’. In Joan DeBardeleben (ed.) The Boundaries of EU Enlargement. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 53–70. Hall, Peter (1993) ‘Policy Paradigms, Social Learning, and the State: The Case of Economic Policymaking in Britain’, Comparative Politics, 25(3) (April): 275–293. Kowert, Paul (1998) ‘Agent versus Structure in the Construction of National Identity’. In V. Kubalkova, N. Onuf and P. Kowert (eds) International Relations in a Constructed World. New York: M.E. Sharpe, pp. 101–122. Kuhn, Thomas (1970) The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, 2nd edition Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press. Loda, Chiara (2016) ‘The European Union as a Normative Power: The Case of Armenia’, East European Politics, 33(2). doi:10.1080/21599165.2016.1230545. Morozov, Viatcheslav (2015) Russia’s Postcolonial Identity: A Subaltern Empire in a Eurocentric World. Basingstoke: Palgrave. Tsygankov, Andrei (2016) Russia’s Foreign Policy. Change and Continuity in National Identity. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield.

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Part I

The Historical and Ideational Context of the EU–Russia Relationship

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EU–Russia Relations in Crisis The Dynamics of a Breakup Tom Casier

The Ukraine crisis in 2014 pushed EU–Russia relations to the deepest point since the collapse of the Soviet Union. With the annexation of Crimea, the war in eastern Ukraine, sanctions imposed, and finally the suspension of their ‘strategic partnership’, the two actors found themselves entangled in deep and direct confrontation. The clash over Ukraine did not appear out of the blue, but was the ‘culmination of a long-term crisis of EU–Russia relations’ (Haukkala, 2015, p. 25). The EU–Russia relationship was a marriage of convenience well before the Ukraine crisis, but gradually it had become an increasingly defunct association between partners who held incompatible images of each other and were facing increasing tensions. Analysts have sought the structural causes for the failing marriage in many different and not necessarily mutually exclusive directions: clashing interests (Mearsheimer, 2014), diverging views of the post-Cold War order in Europe (Sakwa, 2014), irreconcilable norms (Prozorov, 2006; Romaniuk, 2009), domestic factors, an integration dilemma (Charap and Troitskiy, 2013), a re-emerging Russia, and so forth. Despite the explanatory value each of these analyses may have, one crucial element needs to be explained: Why did the divorce happen when it did? Why did the breakup not occur earlier? Disagreements between Russia and the West had piled up over time and several events brought the relationship out of balance and breached trust: the NATO enlargement waves of 1999 and 2004, the Kosovo crisis of 1999, the Orange Revolution in Ukraine of 2004, the energy spats of 2006 and 2009, the Georgian-Russian war of 2008, and many others. Why did the marriage of convenience survive all of these profound crises? Both partners even renewed their vows on several occasions: agreeing on the Common Spaces of cooperation in 2003 or the Partnership for Modernisation in 2010. If we want to understand the ‘gradual deterioration’ (Sakwa, 2014, p. 31) of EU–Russia relations, we also need to understand the dynamics of the relationship. In other words, we need to examine not only the structural causes of a failing marriage, but also how EU–Russia relations transformed in and through interaction. This chapter seeks to explain the process dynamics of EU–Russia relations becoming acrimonious. How did the relationship worsen gradually? How did

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trust dwindle? It will be argued that a logic of competition developed in the decade preceding the Ukraine crisis. The engine driving the process was the interaction between the perceptions the EU and Russia held of each other and of the situation they found themselves in. The dynamics were driven by increasingly negative images, which led both parties to discern certain negative intentions in the behaviour of the other and to adapt their own foreign policies to this reading. This negative spiral, driven by the mutual attribution of negative intentions (Kowert, 1998), in turn legitimised more assertive policies. This dynamic explains how images radicalise and tilt to zero-sum interpretations. Charap and Troitskiy call this an ‘escalatory spiral’ (Charap and Troitskiy, 2013, p. 60). The ensuing pattern of action-reaction may be largely detached from reality. With a focus on images and on process dynamics, this opening chapter sets the contours for this book, and its social constructivist perspective (see also DeBardeleben, 2012; Clunan, 2009). This chapter first outlines the substantially diverging views of Russia and the EU on post-Cold War Europe. It then highlights some key trends in Russian foreign policy and in the EU’s policies towards its eastern neighbours. The next section explores the dynamics of action-reaction to explain how a logic of competition has developed in the interaction between Moscow and Brussels, distinguishing between three stages in their relations.

Structural Causes: Diverging Views of post-Cold War Europe From the beginning, Russia and ‘the West’ (a Cold War term in itself) have held different views of the architecture for post-Cold War Europe. Despite the ‘honeymoon’ (Pushkov, 1993) years in the early 1990s, these different expectations have formed a structural divergence in a marriage of convenience. Richard Sakwa states: ‘Two actual and potential orders in Europe interact and clash in Europe today, generating contestation in the borderlands’ (Sakwa, 2014, p. 26). One order is that of Wider Europe, based on key EuroAtlantic structures in Europe: NATO, as the key security organisation, based on collective defence; the EU as an organisation for economic and political integration. The two organisations extended eastward, reinforcing the EuroAtlantic community. The – at least symbolic – centre of power was to be situated in Brussels, the host to the NATO Headquarters and EU institutions, with concentric circles emanating over the rest of Europe (Sakwa, 2014, p. 27) The Russian view of Greater Europe goes back to Gorbachev’s view of a ‘European common home’, which he presented in a speech in Strasbourg in 1989 (Gorbachev, 1989). Europe was a house with different rooms, making cohabitation and cooperation inevitable, but leaving each a sufficient degree of autonomy. This vision of post-Cold War Europe was a multipolar one (Sakwa, 2014, pp. 27–29). There would be centres of power in Brussels, Moscow and Ankara. From the very beginning Russia opposed the enlargement of NATO. Yeltsin, for example, stated in 1995: ‘When NATO

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approaches the borders of the Russian Federation, you can say that there will be two military blocks, and this will be a restoration of what we already had’ (Yeltsin, quoted in Tunander, 1997, p. 38). Initially Moscow had less of a problem with the EU. The Medium-term Strategy of 1999 declared the EU to be Russia’s primordial partner (Medium-term Strategy, 1999). Certain issues needed to be settled on the eve of the 2004 enlargement, inter alia the transit to the Russian enclave of Kaliningrad, but overall Russia saw economic opportunities in the EU. This changed later on, as Moscow increasingly opposed the dominance of the norms the EU promoted in its neighbourhood, not least liberal democratic norms. The latter were seen as establishing a form of ‘normative hegemony’ (Haukkala, 2008; Diez, 2013). In the words of Foreign Minister Lavrov: ‘There is only one criterion used [by the Western powers] to assess the readiness of a country to pass the “democratic” test – their readiness to follow in the slipstream of others’ policies’ (Lavrov, quoted in Averre, 2008, p. 33). Russia eventually became a challenger of this Western hegemony in wider Europe.

Russian Foreign Policy: Changing Strategies towards Great Power Status Ever since the collapse of the Soviet Union, the new-born Russian Federation had the ambition to become a great power again – an ambition that has become part of its identity (Clunan, 2009). This aspiration is not an invention of Vladimir Putin. Earlier, Yeltsin stated: ‘Russia deserves to be a great power’ (Yeltsin quoted in Blank, 2012, p. 154). Under Primakov, Russia’s post-communist foreign policy took on a more coherent outlook, based on three core principles: the ambition to become a great power, the preference for a multilateral world order and a commitment to defend national interests more consistently. What has changed substantially over time is thus not the ambition to be a great power, but the way the Kremlin seeks to realise it, as well as the perception of main threats along the road. Three main trends can be discerned: from internalisation to externalisation of threats; from status quo to neo-revisionist power; from military disengagement to the economisation of foreign policy and a return to military re-engagement. First, in the 1990s Russia saw the main threats to its security as internal (Snetkov, 2012). The National Security Concept of 2000 illustrates this well, with an estimated 80% of the threats mentioned being domestic (Kontseptsiia, 2000). In the 1990s Russia had been plunged into chaos. Its economy collapsed, resulting in a disastrous recession with two digit negative growth figures. This eventually culminated in the financial crisis of 1998. Politically, Yeltsin’s second term in office (1996–1999) was characterised by political instability. In terms of security, Russia fought two domestic wars in Chechnya. There was a clear understanding that for Russia to become a great power again, it had to sort out internal problems first. This changed radically after the start of the new millennium, when Russia rode the waves of rising oil prices. Increasingly Moscow externalised its main security threats (Snetkov,

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2012), with greater emphasis on the dangers of NATO enlargement, the antimissile shield, American interventionism, the EU’s Eastern Partnership and, in general, a West unwilling to take Russia’s interests seriously. Medvedev stated in 2007: ‘We aren’t trying to push anyone to love Russia, but we won’t allow anyone to hurt Russia. We’ll strive to win respect both for the citizens of Russia and for the country as a whole’ (Medvedev, 2007). Over time the foreign policy discourse has become increasingly anti-Western. This has reached a peak over the Ukraine crisis, with Russia and the West now finding themselves in a direct confrontation. In his Crimea speech, Putin refers to a neo-containment policy of the West: ‘we have every reason to assume that the infamous policy of containment, led in the 18th, 19th and 20th centuries, continues today’ (Putin, 2014). Secondly, Russia moved away from a status quo position to a neo-revisionist stance. In the early 1990s, Russia was seeking to be a great power by becoming part of the dominant international community of Western states. This proWestern policy was embodied by Foreign Minister Kozyrev (1991–1996). Although cracks appeared in this policy from the very beginning, and despite concerns over NATO enlargement, the relationship was that of master (the West) and pupil (Russia). By working with the West, Russia hoped to be recognized as a ‘normal great power’ (Tsygankov 2005). Larson and Shevchenko (2014) refer to this as a ‘social mobility’ strategy for status enhancement. However, Russia perceived that this recognition was nonetheless denied and that the West continued to trample on the country’s interests, resulting in increasing frustration in Moscow. Under Putin, Russia’s foreign policy eventually evolved towards a neo-revisionist stance (Sakwa, 2014; Sakwa, 2012). The dominant perception that developed in Russia was of a non-representative international system, dominated by the US. Over time Moscow’s ambition evolved toward a goal of making international structures of governance more inclusive and less American, but without overhauling them completely. Accordingly, under Putin’s leadership, Russia set out ‘to ensure the universal application of norms’ (Sakwa, 2014, p. 31), rather than pursuing an alternative international order. The following quote by Lavrov at the Munich Security Conference is illustrative of the neo-revisionist stance: We categorically reject the allegations of those who accuse Russia and the new centres of global influence of attempting to undermine the so-called “liberal world order”. This global model was pre-programmed for crisis right from the time when this vision of economic and political globalisation was conceived primarily as an instrument for ensuring the growth of an elite club of countries and its domination over everyone else. It is clear that such a system could not last forever. Leaders with a sense of responsibility must now make their choice. I hope that this choice will be made in favour of building a democratic and fair world order, a postWest world order, if you will, in which each country develops its own sovereignty within the framework of international law, and will strive to

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balance their own national interests with those of their partners, with respect for each country’s cultural, historical and civilisational identity. (Lavrov, 2017) Yet, with the Ukraine crisis, it could be argued that Russia has moved further towards a revisionist approach, in as far as the annexation of Crimea is seen as violating key norms of which it claimed to be one of the main defenders: sovereignty and non-interference. A third crucial evolution in Russian post-communist foreign policy was from global military disengagement to economisation and back to military reengagement. Immediately after the collapse of the Soviet Union, Russia abandoned it ambition to project military power around the globe. It closed military bases in Cuba and Vietnam, ultimately maintaining the naval basis of Tartus as its only base outside former Soviet territory. De facto, this indicated a reduction of Russia’s ambitions to the regional level, commonly referred to in the 1990s as the Near Abroad. Of course, the country maintained its nuclear capacity, at parity with the US, but predominantly as a deterrent, not as an instrument for the advancement of its interests around the world. In the first years of Putin’s presidency, Russian foreign policy underwent a clear ‘economisation’. The objective for Russia to be a great power had to be achieved by economic means, not least using strategic natural resources, such as oil and gas. This was embedded in the consensus that had grown by the end of the 1990s, that Russia first needed to deal with its internal problems and economic chaos, as mentioned above. The economisation became the hallmark of Putin’s early presidency and was also given voice by Foreign Minister Igor Ivanov (1998–2004). Arguably, with the annexation of Crimea in 2014 and the economic retaliation and military build-up in its aftermath, the primacy of economic relations got eroded. Important decisions in 2016 indicated how Russia is increasingly eager to restore its capacity to project power beyond the Near Abroad. Moscow considered reopening military bases in Cuba and Vietnam. More significantly, it actively intervened in the Syrian war in 2015, becoming a major game changer in the conflict. In so doing, Russia did not shy away from largescale use of military force. These actions coincided with a very assertive rhetoric about its nuclear capacity, as well as showcasing new advanced weapons. Russia’s ambition to become a great power again after communism has thus been following fundamentally new strategies in the three ways described: the externalisation of threats, neo-revisionism and return to global military engagement. The reasons for this change are complex and under investigation in this chapter. No doubt they are a mixture of domestic and international factors. At the domestic level, Russia left the chaos of the 1990s behind and started a slow process of economic recovery. Helped by high oil and gas prices, its economy grew steadily. By 2007 Russia had regained 1991 production levels. In other words, it had taken Russia 16 years to recover economically from the collapse of the Soviet Union (Macfarlane, 2006). This gave

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Russia additional means, additional confidence and renewed strength. Also, the instability of the 1990s was replaced by a protracted period of political stability under Putin. Several international developments contributed to a consensus that Russia should defend its interests more consistently (Kontseptsiia, 2000). In particular, three events in 1999 contributed to the perception that the West was exploiting Russia’s weakness: the first post-Cold War NATO enlargement, the strategic concept of Washington (allowing NATO to operate outside its own territory) and the US-UK Kosovo intervention (for which there was no UN Security Council mandate). Some analysts have described these events of 1999 as a watershed (Light, Löwenhardt & White, 2000). Further enlargement waves of NATO, as well as the US decision to deploy an anti-missile defence shield along the alliance’s eastern border further soured relations between Moscow and the West. To a considerable degree relations with the EU developed in the shadow of Russian-American relations. As will be demonstrated below, the geopolitical interpretation of NATO’s objectives spilled over to Russia’s reading of the EU’s intentions as well. Finally, it should also be noted that a new coalition in Russian foreign policy has been formed (Tsygankov, 2016). It has triggered a new, more assertive and anti-Western policy, actively challenging ‘NATO-centric egotism’ (Lavrov, 2016) on multiple fronts.

The EU’s Policy towards its Eastern Neighbours The ‘big bang’ eastern enlargement of the EU of 2004 and 2007 extended the structures of West European economic and political integration to former communist countries. The former satellite states of the Soviet Union, as well as three former Soviet republics (the Baltic states) acceded to the EU. This posed a new dilemma for the EU, addressed by the United Kingdom’s thenForeign Secretary, Jack Straw. In a letter to the Spanish presidency he warned of new dividing lines, a Europe of the ‘haves and have nots’ after the eastern enlargement. His plea for a new targeted policy of privileged relations eventually paved the way for the European Neighbourhood Policy (ENP), launched by the EU in 2004. In origin, this was an ill-defined policy aimed at privileged relations – in particular trade-related – with the new neighbours of the enlarged EU, but with the explicit exclusion of membership. Apart from worries over new dividing lines, the ENP was also driven by concerns over stability. It encompassed both countries from Eastern Europe and around the Mediterranean and later the states of the Southern Caucasus. The Russian Federation, while originally part of the ENP blueprint, decided not to join. Moscow was increasingly lukewarm to an EU-centric policy, in which it was put in the same basket with small countries, such as Moldova and Tunisia. As a result, the EU’s policy towards its East European neighbours was de facto decoupled from its Russia policy (Wolczuk, 2009). This happened by accident much more than by conscious strategy. Yet, the consequences were

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considerable. Stepwise, tension would develop between the two policies. With the eastern ENP countries, the EU developed a structural foreign policy (Keukeleire and MacNaughtan, 2008) aimed at long term reforms. The neighbours were to converge their laws, norms and institutional practices to those of the EU. Policies were predominantly EU-driven. The neighbourhood would be redesigned in the EU’s image. With Russia, on the other hand, the EU engaged into a Strategic Partnership over four Common Spaces of cooperation. This partnership was based on equality and frank recognition of each other’s interests. It was a form of strategic diplomacy (Allen and Smith, 2012), driven by interests rather than norms and based on ‘constructive engagement’. The tension between both policies resided in their incompatibility. The ENP, as a form of structural diplomacy, sought to reshape its eastern neighbours in the EU’s image, extending the EU’s legal and economic system. However, these neighbours were equally part of Russia’s neighbourhood – with whom the EU had a Strategic Partnership – and an area in which Moscow considered itself to have ‘privileged interests’ (Medvedev quoted in Reynolds, 2008). Suspicion over each other’s ambitions in the overlapping neighbourhoods grew. It was further aggravated by the launching of the Eastern Partnership (EaP) in 2009. The latter was an autonomous dimension of the ENP, and further distinguished the EU’s ‘dual-track’ approach toward Russia and other post-communist neighbours in Europe (DeBardeleben, 2011). It also took Belarus on board.1 The EaP was seen very negatively in Moscow, in the same way as the Russian initiative to launch the Eurasian Customs Union one year later was seen negatively by the West. As will be described in further detail on p. 24, tensions rose over mutual regional foreign policies. This was particularly the case on the eve of the conclusion of Association Agreements between the EU and three Eastern Partnership states. Association Agreements were eventually signed with Ukraine, Moldova and Georgia in 2014. They formed the first tangible result after a decade of ENP. In essence the ENP/EaP is a system of rule and norm transfer from the EU to neighbouring states. Haukkala has analysed the EU’s position in the neighbourhood as one of ‘normative hegemony’ (Haukkala, 2008, 2010). In particular during the 1990s EU norms were unquestioned and EU supremacy taken for granted. Consent over the norms that the EU promoted also generated potential power for the EU and long term competitive advantages by creating a favourable legal and economic environment for the EU and making the diversion of trade flows and ultimately political allegiances more likely. While the EU has repeatedly argued that it did not force a choice upon neighbouring countries, the supremacy of its norms (or those of the West) and strong economic dependence of neighbours rendered relations highly asymmetrical. The self-evident nature of the EU’s norms as guiding principles became increasingly contested as the ENP/EaP developed, at least by certain actors. Russia, in particular, very assertively contested the dominance of the EU in setting norms for their common neighbours.

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The Dynamics of Dwindling Trust The sections above provided an overview of the evolution of Russian and EU foreign policy approaches in the neighbourhood, setting the context to understand the process dynamics. The rest of the chapter seeks to demonstrate how the evolution of both policies has, to a large extent, happened in interaction. Acts of one player have been understood negatively by the other, prompting the latter to take more drastic action, not by choice, but ‘by necessity’. This action-reaction mechanism has produced an escalation of distrust and has contributed to a ‘logic of competition’. Russia and the EU (by extension the ‘West’) increasingly perceived the behaviour of the other as a threat to their interests and understood the strategic context in which they operated as a zero-sum game. The engine behind this negative dynamic involves images the two actors hold of each other. The theoretical foundation is to be found in social psychology, in the dynamics between ingroups and outgroups. Ingroups tend to aggrandise differences between themselves and other groups, forming certain images of the behaviour of the Other. The emphasis on image is important. It is not the actual behaviour that leads the ingroup to react to the outgroup, but the images they have formed about its behaviour. In what Paul Kowert labels ‘attributional bias’, there is a tendency ‘to attribute the behaviour of political outgroups to the intent or desire of those groups; ingroup behaviour, however, will more often be attributed to the influence of environmental constraints. Perceived increases in the power of outgroups will strengthen the tendency to assume intent (attributional bias)’ (Kowert, 1998, p. 109). In other words, as the power of the outgroup is believed to increase, its behaviour gets seen as driven by malicious intent. The self-image of the ingroup, however, is that the context forces it to follow a certain course of action, to react against the malicious intention of the other. This attributional bias forms an essential driver of the logic of competition we have seen develop between Russia and the EU in the decade preceding the Ukraine crisis. This is how the hampering marriage of convenience has eventually led to a divorce through a stepwise process of degradation. More specifically, the other’s behaviour was increasingly read as driven by negative geopolitical aspirations. This in turn reinforced the ‘necessity’ of taking geopolitically driven counter measures, while the intent of the ingroup was seen as purely driven by either reasonable behaviour (Russia simply defending its vital national interests against the hegemonic West) or good willed behaviour (the EU being a force for good, promoting universal norms without imposing a choice on anyone). The attributional bias becomes very clear in the mutual negative reactions over each other’s regional integration projects, as demonstrated below. Looking at how the EU–Russia relations developed in and through interaction, three major stages can be distinguished. A first decade (roughly 1992–2003) was characterised by highly asymmetrical relations, but a willingness to cooperate. During a second stage (2004–2013) the logic of competition

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developed, fuelled by the attributional bias or negative reading of each other’s intentions. The third stage (from late 2013 on) is the escalation of the logic of competition into a direct confrontation. The sections below indicate the most dominant dynamics in each of these stages, with a clear focus on the escalating logic of competition. Positive Dynamics in the 1990s The dynamics during the first stage of relations between the EU and postcommunist Russia could be characterised as one of master-pupil relations (Neumann, 1998). Russia was seeking recognition from the West and integration into its community of states. The Russian Federation had adopted a liberal-democratic constitution and was willing to follow the track the EU indicated. Through conditionality, the Union promoted its normative and legal system in Russia in a predominantly EU-centric agenda. Relations were fairly positive, though the political and economic chaos of the 1990s seriously hampered Russia’s real progress on the path of transformation. While Russia had expressed concerns about NATO from the very beginning, this was not the case about the EU. Moscow even moved away from a US first policy towards prioritising the EU. This was confirmed in the Medium-term strategy of 1999 (Medium-term Strategy, 1999). Around the same time the EU started using the term ‘strategic partner’ to refer to Russia. The positive dynamics were confirmed in the agreement on Common Spaces in 2003, decoupling EU–Russia relations from the EU’s structural foreign policy towards the other former Soviet states. Relations were non-confrontational, though highly asymmetrical. Moscow was largely accepting its subordinate position of pupil. In terms of intergroup dynamics, there was an unmistakable differentiation between ingroup and outgroup, but it was understood predominantly as a temporal issue: Russia was ‘lagging behind’ and had to catch up with the West, by taking over EU norms and practices. Brussels acted as a guide, but progress was hampered by domestic problems. The strategy Russia was following at this stage was one of ‘social mobility’ (Larson and Shevchenko, 2014). By reforming itself into the image of a ‘European’ model, Russia tried to obtain recognition and to climb up the social ladder of the international community of states. Yet, cracks appeared in these rather positive dynamics and, in the background, tensions over NATO enlargement and the Kosovo crisis loomed. The Unravelling Logic of Competition (2004–2013) EU–Russia relations took a different turn in the early 2000s and a negative dynamic became dominant around 2004, despite the Strategic Partnership and the agreement on Cooperation in Four Common Spaces (2003). A logic of competition developed during this stage. Behaviour of the Other was readily seen as an attempt to obstruct the power and influence of the Self. We

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can speak of a ‘logic’ of competition because of its autonomous dynamics: the negative attribution of competitive behaviour became abstracted and detached from reality and had the capacity of self-reinforcement. As mentioned above, the attributional bias is likely to be triggered when the power of the outgroup is perceived to increase. In the case of the Euro-Atlantic Community, NATO and EU enlargement and consolidation reinforced the perception of enhanced power. In the case of Russia, economic growth, but also a more assertive claim of regained strength, contributed to this. Around 2004 Russia launched a public relations campaign, seeking to create a more favourable image for the country. In this campaign critique from the West is increasingly presented as ‘a coordinated campaign’ (Feklyunina, 2008, p. 606). What can be seen to develop in roughly the decade following the Common Spaces agreement is an increasingly tense relationship. Both partners continued to talk, but disagreement was paramount, over energy, competition rules, market access, visa regulations, regional integration, and other issues. Growing tensions, however, did not get in the way of pragmatic relations during this period. The partnership with Russia became the EU’s most institutionalised one, trade volumes grew, and high-level diplomatic contacts were frequent. Yet, progress was limited. This was most visible in the failure to negotiate a new agreement, as a successor to the 1994 Partnership and Cooperation Agreement (PCA 1997). This agreement, which legally defined EU–Russia relations, had entered into force in 1997 and was supposed to expire after ten years. By lack of a new agreement it was silently prolonged. The signing of the Partnership of Modernisation in 2010 aimed at giving relations a new impetus and at modernising Russia’s economy, but it failed to reverse the negative dynamics. The Strategic Partnership became a continuous balancing exercise between the preferences of Brussels and Moscow. The master-pupil asymmetrical dynamics paved the way for relations on (formally) more equal grounds, but increasingly competitive, involving a difficult balancing exercise between diverging preferences. It is against this background that the EU and Russia started understanding each other’s behaviour predominantly as attempts to gain power and influence. To get back to the metaphor at the beginning of this chapter, it is during this stage that negative dynamics took the upper hand in the marriage of convenience. In terms of Kowert (1998), this is the stage where differences between ingroup and outgroup became aggrandised and distrust of the intentions of the other grew, setting into motion a negative spiral of dwindling trust. A logic of competition came to dominate EU–Russia relations, in which everything the counterpart did got read in terms of a zero-sum competition. As outlined above, two elements are crucial in Kowert’s model. First, the behaviour of the outgroup is explained on the basis of its assumed negative intentions, in this case the intention to accumulate power and influence at the expense of the other. As a result, all acts of the outgroup are attributed to its malicious intentions, rather than understood on the basis of its actual

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behaviour. Secondly, the ingroup is blind to its own intentions. Each actor regards its own behaviour as purely rational, forced by circumstances. It is the context, created by the negative intentions of the outgroup, that force the ingroup to act in a certain way. In the case of the EU (and by extension the West), the negative intention perceived to underpin Russia’s foreign policy involves what Klinke calls a ‘postmodern-modern binary’: ‘whereas Russia is seen as caught up in a modern spatial framework of fixed territory, national identity and traditional geopolitics, the European Union embodies a postmodern spatial mindset that simultaneously reflects and drives the dissolution of sovereign territory, the formation of multi-layered identities and the disappearance of geopolitics’ (Klinke, 2012, p. 929). Yet, when it comes to its own policy, the EU turns a blind eye to any power related motivations. The signing of the Association Agreements with Ukraine, Moldova and Georgia, was seen as a power neutral operation, despite the fact that it extended the EU’s legal and economic sphere to their neighbours and despite the fact that the agreements provided for an alignment of foreign policies of those countries with those of the EU. The constructed dichotomy between the perceived normative foreign policy of the EU and the perceived Realpolitik of Russia seems to lead EU policymakers to believe that its policies have neither a geopolitical motivation nor geopolitical consequences (Casier, 2013; see, for example, the testimonies of EEAS2 officials in the inquiry by the House of Lords 2015). It thus underestimated the negative impact of its policy towards its Eastern neighbourhood and attributed all tensions simply to Russia’s negative geopolitical intentions and unwillingness to cooperate. Russia from its side was driven by a ‘sense of disappointment and disillusionment, even betrayal by “the West”’ (House of Lords, 2015, p. 20), which came to dominate its perception of relations with the EU. Sergei Karaganov accused the West of failing ‘to give up the “velvet-gloved Versailles” policy towards Russia, i.e., to abandon its policy of systemic encroachment on spheres of Russia’s vital interests’ (Karaganov quoted in Sakwa, 2014, p. 212). This perceived anti-Russian policy came to dominate Moscow’s reading of the behaviour of the Euro-Atlantic Community. Expressing a similar idea in different words, Putin referred to the Western policy of ‘neo-containment’ in his Crimea speech: In short, we have every reason to assume that the infamous policy of containment, led in the 18th, 19th and 20th centuries, continues today. … But there is a limit to everything. And with Ukraine, our western partners have crossed the line, playing the bear and acting irresponsibly and unprofessionally. … Russia found itself in a position it could not retreat from. If you compress the spring all the way to its limit, it will snap back hard. You must always remember this. (Putin, 2014)

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This again illustrates the attributional bias mechanism: negative intentions are attributed exclusively to the West. Russia’s reaction is seen as purely rational, given that the West did not leave it any choice. Clashing Integration Projects: The Attributional Bias at Work Nowhere were the dynamics of attributional bias and its autonomous capacity of self-reinforcement more visible than in the case of competing regional integration projects in the overlapping neighbourhoods (see also Chapter 6). Both Brussels and Moscow were pursuing regional integration with the same former Soviet republics in Eastern Europe and the Southern Caucasus. The EU was seeking privileged relations and Deep and Comprehensive Free Trade Areas (DCFTA) within its Eastern Partnership, launched in 2009. Russia changed its initial course of integration within the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS) towards a Eurasian integration project based on a coalition of the willing (Putin, 2011). This led to the establishment of the Eurasian Customs Union (ECU) in 2010, to be reformed in 2015 into the Eurasian Economic Union (EEU). As such, these forms of regional cooperation should give little reason for concern. Integration initiatives like Mercosur or the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) have not been received negatively as geopolitically motivated and potentially threatening initiatives. Also in the conception of either the EaP or the ECU/EEU there is fairly little that gives strong reasons for concern. The ECU even generously copied institutional terminology from the EU itself. Yet, in a context of a logic of competition and mutual suspicion, both initiatives were read as geopolitical and exclusionary projects. Mutual reactions were negative from the beginning. When the EaP was launched, Russian Foreign Minister Lavrov referred to it as an attempt by the EU to build ‘a sphere of influence’ (Lavrov, 2009). When the ECU was established, this was largely understood in the Euro-Atlantic Community as a regional geopolitical project aimed at regaining influence. Hillary Clinton, then US Secretary of State, for example stated in 2012 that labels like ‘customs union’ could not ‘conceal Russia’s regional power ambitions’ (Clinton quoted in Wolczuk & Dragneva, 2013, p. 4). This occurred despite the fact that Eurasian integration was originally an idea of President Nazarbayev of Kazakhstan in the 1990s, to which Moscow was initially lukewarm. These negative perceptions of the intentions of their counterparts formed rationalisations and a legitimation for more radical and more geopolitical policies. For example, the Eastern Partnership added a new security dimension to the ENP. Under Polish impulse and fostered by the Russian military intervention in Georgia in 2008, the policy obtained in some interpretations an ‘anti-Russian’ dimension, which was not present in the original ENP (Sakwa, 2014, pp. 39–40). This in turn was read in Moscow as a clear proof of the intention of the EU to gain influence at its expense. Yet, Russian actions and reactions helped to reinforce these geopolitical images. Denis

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Volkov states that ‘successive Russian governments had exploited “the situation if not of conflict then of controversy between Russia and the West” and that it had been part of official policy to “exploit the idea of Russia as some sort of besieged castle”’ (Volkov quoted in House of Lords, 2015, p. 21). Power concentration in Russia and the use of coercive power in the post-Soviet area in turn seemed to confirm Moscow’s aggressive geopolitical agenda, making it easier to read its behaviour as driven exclusively by malicious intent. Along similar lines, it can be illustrated how EU actions in the neighbourhood were understood in Moscow as a confirmation that they were geopolitically motivated. The evolution towards a more anti-Russian and security based approach of the EU to its eastern neighbours was seen as a result of its 2004 enlargement. Sergei Yastrzhembsky, for example, claimed their accession ‘brought the spirit of primitive Russophobia’ to the EU (Yastrzhembsky quoted in Sakwa, 2014, p. 21). When the EU refused, at the EU–Russia summit of June 2012, to start direct negotiations with the Eurasian Customs Union, this was perceived as a confirmation of its geopolitical ambition to build an exclusive sphere of influence in Eastern Europe and its unwillingness to recognise Russia as a regional leader and truly equal partner. These examples illustrate how the logic of competition follows its own dynamic, fuelled by the negative images the EU and Russia formed about each other: understanding the behaviour of the Other through a prism of competition and rivalry, each act is seen as a proof of negative intentions. This necessitates decisive counter action and leads to a negative spiral.

Spiralling Out of Control: Confrontation over Ukraine In late 2013 and early 2014, the logic of competition derailed into a direct confrontation, when Kyiv had to make a choice between joining the ECU or signing an Association Agreement with the EU. Russia and the EU accused each other of forcing Ukraine to choose their camp. According to Lavrov ‘Kiev was forced into signing arrangements with the European Union’ (Lavrov quoted in Haukkala, 2015, p. 34). The EU, for its part, accused Russia of coercing Ukraine through restrictive trade measures. When the Euromaidan protests erupted, after Ukrainian President Yanukovych refused to sign the Association Agreement with the EU, this was seen by Moscow as ‘staged’ by the West (Lavrov quoted in Haukkala, 2015, p. 34). The fall of Yanukovych was for Russia nothing but a nationalist coup d’état. The Euro-Atlantic Community was held responsible for the escalation. Within a zero-sum geopolitical framework of interpretation, Russia was seen to lose Ukraine to the West. Moscow reacted with a radical shift in strategy. In a surprise act, it took control over Crimea, violating both the territorial integrity of Ukraine (of which it was one of the guarantors in the 1994 Budapest Memorandum) and the European border regime (according to which borders are inviolable and can only be changed through negotiated agreements).

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From an EU perspective, the annexation of Crimea and the war in eastern Ukraine were seen as a further confirmation of the bad intentions and even neo-imperialist ambitions of Russia. Many regarded this as proof that Russia’s ultimate ambition was to restore control over former Soviet states. This ‘confirmation’ of Moscow’s bad intentions also legitimised the EU’s actions. It justified a policy of sanctions and the freezing of the Strategic Partnership. The result of the Ukraine crisis was thus a further escalation with sanctions, retaliation measures and military build-up. The positions on both sides got further entrenched. Russia is increasingly positioning itself along a counter-hegemonic strategy, challenging the Euro-Atlantic Community on different fronts, from ideological to military.

Conclusion This chapter has demonstrated how the EU–Russia Strategic Partnership was in essence a marriage of convenience. Despite high hopes when the partnership was given form in 2003, the marriage gradually got into a negative spiral of increasing tensions and a logic of competition, ultimately ending up in a breakup. While structural causes – such as diverging views on post-Cold War structures in Europe – may explain the defunct marriage, they do not explain why the divorce happened when it happened, over the Ukraine crisis in early 2014. To understand the evolution and timing of the deteriorating marriage, it is crucial to grasp the dynamics of the process. How did a negative spiral of competition and distrust occur? The key drivers of this spiral are the images Brussels and Moscow held of each other. Using the concept of ‘attributional bias’ (Kowert, 1998), it was argued that the EU and Russia – in a context of altering power relations and domestic change – increasingly tended to understand the other’s behaviour as driven by negative, geopolitical intentions. Not only did this enhance distrust vis-à-vis the other, but it also served as a legitimation for more radical counter measures, in turn raising suspicion and fuelling escalation. The spiral is thus driven not by the actual behaviour of the other, but by the intentions that are assumed to drive its behaviour. As a result, the logic of competition becomes somehow detached from reality and obtains an autonomous capacity of self-reinforcement. With the Ukraine crisis, the constraints on this logic of competition disappeared and escalated into direct confrontation. Trust has fallen to such a low level that any restoration of relations will require a long process of normalisation and trust-building.

Notes 1 The ENP had not been activated for Belarus. 2 European External Action Service.

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References Allen, David and Michael Smith (2012) ‘The EU, Strategic Diplomacy and the BRIC Countries’, Policy Paper 11 [Diplomatic System of the EU Network], February. Averre, Derek (2008) ‘Russian Foreign Policy and the Global Political Environment’, Problems of Post-Communism, 55(5): 28–39. Blank, Stephen (2012) ‘The Sacred Monster: Russia as a Foreign Policy Actor’. In Stephen Blank (ed.) Perspectives on Russian Foreign Policy. Strategic Studies Institute Monograph, pp. 25–194. Casier, Tom (2013) ‘The EU-Russia Strategic Partnership: Challenging the Normative Argument’, Europe-Asia Studies, 65: 1377–1395. Charap, Samuel and Mikhail Troitskiy (2013) ‘Russia, the West and the Integration Dilemma’, Survival, 55(6): 49–62. Clunan, Anne (2009) The Social Construction of Russia’s Resurgence. Aspirations, Identity and Security Interests. Baltimore, MD: John Hopkins University Press. DeBardeleben, Joan (2011) ‘Revising the EU’s European Neighborhood Policy: The Eastern Partnership and Russia’. In Russian Foreign Policy in the 21st Century, Roger E. Kanet (ed.). Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 246–265. DeBardeleben, Joan (2012) ‘Applying Constructivism to Understanding EU–Russia Relations’, International Politics, 49: 418–433. Diez, Thomas (2013) ‘Normative Power as Hegemony’, Cooperation and Conflict, 48: 194–210. Feklyunina, Valentina (2008) ‘Battle for Perceptions: Projecting Russia in the West’, Europe-Asia Studies, 60: 605–629. Gorbachev, Mikhail (1989) ‘Europe as a Common Home’, Address given by Mikhail Gorbachev to the Council of Europe, Strasbourg, July 6. https://chnm.gmu.edu/ 1989/archive/files/gorbachev-speech-7-6-89_e3ccb87237.pdf. Haukkala, Hiski (2008) ‘The European Union as a Regional Normative Hegemon: The Case of European Neighbourhood Policy’, Europe-Asia Studies, 60: 1601–1622. Haukkala, Hiski (2010) The EU–Russia Strategic Partnership: The Limits of postSovereignty in International Relations. London: Routledge. Haukkala, Hiski (2015) ‘From Cooperative to Contested Europe? The Conflict in Ukraine as a Culmination of a Long-term Crisis in EU-Russia Relations’, Journal of Contemporary European Studies, 23: 25–40. House of Lords (2015) ‘European Union Committee, 6th Report of Session 2014–2015’, The EU and Russia: Before and Beyond the Crisis in Ukraine, HL Paper 115: 53. Keukeleire, Stephan and Jennifer MacNaughtan (2008) The Foreign Policy of the European Union. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Klinke, Ian (2012) ‘Postmodern Geopolitics? The European Union Eyes Russia’, Europe Asia Studies, 64: 929–947. Kontseptsiia. (2000). Kontseptsiia natsional’noi bezopasnosti Rossiyskoi Federatsii [Concept of National Security of the Russian Federation] (2000), Utverzhdena ukazom Presidenta Rossiyskoi Federatsii ot 17 dekabria 1997 g. N° 1300 (v redaktsii Ukaza Presidenta Rossiyskoi Federatsii ot 10 ianvaria 2000 g. N° 24). Kowert, Paul (1998) ‘Agent versus Structure in the Construction of National Identity’. In International Relations in a Constructed World, Vendulka Kubalkova, Nicholas Onuf and Paul Kowert (eds), New York: M.E. Sharpe, pp. 101–122. Larson, Deborah and Alexei Shevchenko (2014) ‘Russia says No: Power, Status and Emotions in Foreign Policy’, Communist and Post-Communist Studies, 47: 269–279.

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Lavrov, Sergei (2016). Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov’s speech at the ministerial panel discussion during the Munich Security Conference, Munich, February 13, 2016. www.mid.ru/en/foreign_policy/news/-/asset_publisher/cKNonkJE02Bw/content/id/20 86892/pop_up?_101_INSTANCE_cKNonkJE02Bw_viewMode=print&_101_INST ANCE_cKNonkJE02Bw_qrIndex=0. Lavrov, Sergei (2017) Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov’s address and answers to questions at the 53rd Munich Security Conference, Munich, February 18, 2017. www. mid.ru/en/press_service/minister_speeches/-/asset_publisher/7OvQR5KJWVmR/con tent/id/2648249/pop_up?_101_INSTANCE_7OvQR5KJWVmR_viewMode=print& _101_INSTANCE_7OvQR5KJWVmR_qrIndex=1. Lavrov, Sergei (2009) ‘EU Expanding its “Sphere of Influence”, Russia Says’, EU Observer, March 21. http://euobserver.com/24/27827. Light, Margot, Löwenhardt, John and Stephen White (2000) ‘A Wider Europe: The View from Moscow and Kyiv’, International Affairs, 76: 77–88. Macfarlane, S. Neil (2006) ‘The “R” in BRICs: Is Russia an emerging power?’ International Affairs, 82: 41–57. Mearsheimer, John (2014) ‘Why the Ukraine Crisis is the West’s Fault: The Liberal Delusions that Provoked Putin’, Foreign Affairs, Sept./Oct. Medium-term Strategy (1999) Medium-term Strategy for Development of Relations between the Russian Federation and the European Union (2000–2010). [Unofficial translation] http://presidency.finland.fi/frame.asp [October 1999]. [no longer available] Medvedev, Dimitry (2007) Speech at the World Economic Forum in Davos [excerpts]. January 2007. https://www.rt.com/politics/we-wont-allow-anyone-to-hurt-russia-med vedev/. Neumann, Iver B. (1998) ‘The Geopolitics of Delineating “Russia” and “Europe”: The Creation of “the Other” in European and Russian Tradition’. In Is Russia a European Power? The Position of Russia in a New Europe, Tom Casier and Katlijn Malfliet (eds), Leuven: Leuven University Press, pp. 17–44. Partnership and Cooperation Agreement (1997) ‘Agreement on Partnership and Cooperation between the European Communities and their Member States, of One Part, and the Russian Federation, of the Other Part’, Official Journal L 327, November 28: 3–69. Prozorov, Sergei (2006) Understanding Conflict between Russia and the EU: The Limits of Integration. Basingstoke: Palgrave. Pushkov, Alexei (1993) ‘Letter from Eurasia: Russia and America: The Honeymoon’s Over’, Foreign Policy, 93: 76–95. Putin, Vladimir (2011) ‘Novyi integratsionnyi proekt dlia Evrazii – budushchee, kotoroe rozhdaetsia’, Izvestiia, October 3. http://www.izvestia.ru/news/502761. Putin, Vladimir (2014) Address by President of the Russian Federation. March 18. http://en.kremlin.ru/events/president/news/20603. Reynolds, Paul (2008) ‘New Russian World Order: The Five Principles’. http://news. bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/7591610.stm. Romaniuk, Scott Nicholas (2009) ‘Rethinking EU-Russian Relations: “Modem” Cooperation or “Post-Modern” Strategic Partnership?’ Central European Journal of International & Security Studies, 3(2): 70–85. Sakwa, Richard (2012) ‘The Problem of “The International” in Russian Identity Formation’, International Politics, 49: 449–465. Sakwa, Richard (2014) Frontline Ukraine. Crisis in the Borderlands. London: Tauris.

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Snetkov, Aglaya (2012) ‘When the Internal and External Collide: A Social Constructivist Reading of Russia’s Security Policy’, Europe-Asia Studies, 64(3): 521–542. Tsygankov, Andrei (2005) ‘Vladimir Putin’s Vision of Russia as a Normal Great Power’, Post-Soviet Affairs, 21: 132–158. Tsygankov, Andrei (2016) Russia’s Foreign Policy. Change and Continuity in National Identity. Lanham, Boulder, New York, Toronto, Plymouth: Rowman and Littlefield. Tunander, Ola (1997) ‘Post-Cold War Europe: Synthesis of a Bipolar Friend-Foe Structure and a Hierarchic Cosmos-Chaos Structure’. In Ola Tunander, Pavel Baev, Victoria Ingrid Einagel (eds) Geopolitics in Post-wall Europe. Security, Territory and Identity. London: Sage, pp. 17–44. Wolczuk, Kataryna (2009) ‘Implementation without Coordination: The Impact of EU Conditionality on Ukraine under the European Neighbourhood Policy’, EuropeAsia Studies, 61(2): 187–211. Wolczuk, Kataryna and Dragneva Rilka (2013) Eurasian Economic Integration. Law, Policy and Politics. Cheltenham: Edward Elgar.

2

Identity and Hegemony in EU–Russia Relations Making Sense of the Asymmetrical Entanglement Viatcheslav Morozov1

The study of EU–Russia relations has been a fruitful testing ground for constructivist research. This is the case for a number of reasons: firstly, both the EU and Russia began to constitute themselves as international actors relatively recently and in many respects are still in the making (DeBardeleben, 2012, p. 419); hence, it is difficult to analyse their conduct in terms of given and self-evident interests, as rationalist international relations (IR) tends to do. Secondly, the significance of the EU–Russia relationship is much wider than a set of bilateral issues. What is often at stake here is the question of Europe as such: of its spatial borders, its past and future, and of the values that underlie the universal appeal of the European idea. From this perspective, understanding EU–Russia relations implies making sense of Russia’s ambiguous position in Europe as both an insider and an outsider, and thus as an Other whose presence is indispensable for defining what ‘Europe’ means. This chapter attempts to take stock of the existing constructivist research on EU–Russia relations and to suggest some avenues for further research. Broadly speaking, the constructivist literature in the field can be subdivided in line with the two approaches outlined above: one views the relationship as deriving from the actors (their identities, normative outlooks, constructions of interests and approaches to governance, see DeBardeleben, 2012, pp. 426–429) while the other interprets the actors as constituted by the relationship. In the latter case, the focus is on the contradictory dynamic of identification and othering, linking and differentiation (Hansen, 2006). This latter approach also implies looking at how the two particular identities are related to the plane of the universal. The significance of identifying with (or against) Europe is always primarily political: it implies subscribing to (or opposing) a certain set of values seen as shared, potentially, at least, by humanity as a whole. This chapter focuses on the structuralist approach by interpreting the identities of the actors as deriving from their relationship. In the EU–Russia case, as in many others, this means a focus on mutual othering and partial, problematic identification in the struggle over universal values. In the postCold War European context, controlling the meaning of the universal norm is usually associated with the concept of Normative Power Europe (NPE), a unique feature of the EU (Manners, 2002; 2008). As Thomas Diez has

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argued, NPE is not simply a resource at the Union’s disposal: it has become the cornerstone of its identity (Diez, 2005; see also Manners and Diez, 2007, pp. 174, 183–186). Inter alia, this means that the EU occupies a hegemonic position in the wider European space (Diez, 2013), while Russia could be seen as a subordinate, or indeed subaltern, actor (Morozov, 2015). In this perspective, inequality is viewed as a fundamental feature of the relationship, a feature that the current economic crisis in Russia makes more visible than ever before in this century. This chapter does not attempt to give a comprehensive overview of the constructivist literature in the field of EU–Russia studies, or even in the narrower subfield as defined above. Rather, the aim is to highlight the findings that are most relevant for such key themes as othering, hegemony and inequality. Accordingly, the next section sums up what we already know about the relational aspects of identity in the relations between the EU and Russia and highlights the fact of Russia’s undecidable, in-between position in wider Europe. Its identity is undoubtedly European, but it is not fully represented as such, politically and discursively. In Russia, this generates a whole range of responses, ranging from attempts to assert the country’s Europeanness to deliberate self-exclusion. The second section draws attention to the fact that Russia’s undecidable Europeanness is fundamentally conditioned by its subaltern position in the European international society and the global capitalist system. The third section explores the policy implications of this approach by tracing the history of the relationship from the negotiations on the Partnership and Cooperation Agreement (PCA) to the Crimean breakdown, with a particular emphasis on the key policy sectors such as energy and the European Neighbourhood Policy (ENP). The concluding part offers a view of the annexation of Crimea by Russia as a self-proclaimed act of decolonisation, an assertion of normative and political independence from the hegemonic West. It also discusses the future prospects for normalisation.

Russia and the EU in a Wider Europe The centre of gravity in constructivist identity studies is the point that identity construction must be seen through the prism of Self–Other relations, which are instrumental in ‘the inscription of boundaries that serve to demarcate an “inside” from an “outside”’ (Campbell, 1992, p. 8). Mutual othering between Europe and Russia has been one of the central empirical cases illustrating this theoretical point (Neumann and Welsh, 1991; Neumann, 1999; Prozorov 2006; 2009). As in any similar case, othering can at times be antagonistic, but never completely so. Rather, it is a relationship full of ambiguity, of mutual attraction and repulsion, and it is also deeply and diversely asymmetrical. To begin with, the notion of Europe is not fully synonymous with the European Union: indeed, some of the common ways to define Europe would have Russia included. There are still quite a few people on both sides who vociferously resist the tendency to use the word ‘Europe’ as a shortcut for the

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EU. However, the tendency is certainly there, and it would be unwise to discard it as incorrect use of language. Rather, the synonymy reflects the hegemonic position of the EU in the wider Europe, its role as the guardian of the norms that most people, including the Russians themselves, would consider as European. In Ian Manners’ terms, this would indicate that the EU does indeed wield normative power over its neighbours (Manners, 2002; 2008; cf. Diez, 2013). The following discussion uses both the narrow and the wide definition of Europe as appropriate, using the term ‘EU-Europe’ as a specific reference to the narrower concept. Russia is an indispensable Other for the EU; along with Turkey and perhaps with the less clearly defined East European Other, it has been instrumental in shaping modern European identity from the times of the Enlightenment (Wolf, 1994; Neumann, 1999; Morozov and Rumelili, 2012). The semantic relationship between the two signifiers, ‘Russia’ and ‘Europe’, is characterised by the very type of ‘undecidability’ which, since Jacques Derrida, has been at the centre of poststructuralist theorising (cf. Edkins, 1999). In fact, the problem of Russia’s place in Europe provides a perfect illustration of the very concept of undecidability; thus, Sergei Prozorov describes Russia as simultaneously belonging to and excluded from Europe, as ‘present in Europe without being represented in it’ (Prozorov, 2008, p. 181). To simplify the complex logic of Alain Badiou’s ontology, which Prozorov’s analysis builds upon, Russia is counted as a European country, but does not have much of a legitimate voice when it comes to the discursive representation of Europeanness.2 Contrary to the habitual Russian complaints, the exclusion is not a result of someone’s ill will. Neither does it stem from Russia’s radical difference, usually described using terms such as ‘Russian political culture’ (Surkov, 2008). Rather, what is at play here is a complex fabric of identification and othering that makes any straightforward answer about Russia’s place in Europe obviously and hopelessly ideological. Any definite affirmation or negation of Russia’s Europeanness implies privileging one identity among several equally possible identities, trying to stop the flow of meaning and to postulate certainty in a field which is essentially contested. It is exactly this ‘will to “totality” of any totalizing discourse’ that, according to Ernesto Laclau (1990, p. 92), differentiates the ideological from the political. Looking from the other side, we see a mirror image of Europe serving as the key Other in Russian identity politics. Its position is similarly undecidable: Russian discourse invariably oscillates between attempts to appropriate the European legacy and to distance from Europe. In its pure form, positive identification with Europe has been consistently present in the Russian public space since it emerged in the first half of the nineteenth century: the presence and occasional prevalence of the Westernising discourse is probably the single most enduring element of Russian identity politics (Walicki, 1980; Neumann, 1996; Hopf, 2002; Morozov, 2015). Characteristically, it has not disappeared even under pressure from the increasingly authoritarian state in

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the post-Crimean period. Russian Westernisers have visible and solidly institutionalised presence in the public space, and their impact on the public opinion could be illustrated by the fact that despite the widespread negative attitudes towards the EU, more than 20 per cent of the Russians would want their country to become an EU member if it ever gets a chance (Levada-Tsentr, 2016). What is even more telling is that none of the Russian discourses has ever been able to completely detach itself from Europe: it remains indispensable even in the radical isolationist articulations of Russian identity, such as early Eurasianism or contemporary paleoconservatism (Tsymbursky, 1993; Morozov, 2015, pp. 103–134). The paleoconservatives (starokonservatory), who came to dominate the Russian ideological landscape after Vladimir Putin’s return to the Kremlin in 2012, need to be differentiated from the more moderate conservative circles whose influence peaked in the previous decade (Prozorov, 2005; 2009).3 While their predecessors believed that modernisation and prosperity could be achieved without imitating the West, the paleoconservative ideology is framed as an explicit rejection of modernity as detrimental to tradition and organic spirituality (Novozhenova, 2014). At the same time, ‘traditional Russian spiritual and moral values’, which the state is supposed to promote, are never described in any detail. An attempt to define them is made in the National Security Strategy, but it stops at such commonplaces as ‘priority of the spiritual over the material’ and ‘family, creative labour, service to the Fatherland’ (RG, 2015, pt. 78). When it does come down to more precise definitions, they invariably remain negative: Putinite paleoconservatism opposes the moral bankruptcy of Gayropa to Russia as the true guardian of traditional European values and the Christian legacy (Sharafutdinova, 2014; Morozov, 2015, pp. 118–128). What we observe in this case is yet another incarnation of the opposition between the ‘true’ and the ‘false’ Europes, brilliantly analysed by Neumann (1996). In the post-Crimea environment, in particular, Europe is blamed for allowing euthanasia and promoting feminism, legalising same-sex marriages and everything else that Russian conservatives detest. The conflict in and around Ukraine is also customarily blamed on the ‘false’, pro-American Europe. The conclusion is that European values need protection from the Europeans themselves, and Russia, in alliance with the right-wingers like Marine le Pen, is ready to come to the rescue (see e.g. Khamraev, 2015). As Foreign Minister Sergei Lavrov (2016) emphasised in his recent programmatic article, ‘human solidarity must have a moral basis formed by traditional values that are largely shared by the world’s leading religions’. In the end, the fullness of the native, organic being that the conservatives postulate is based on pure negation and defined in opposition to a certain set of stereotypes about ‘Western values’. The ‘true–false’ Europe binary is a persistent element of all conservative Russian discourses, from the late eighteenth century onwards (Greenfeld, 1992, pp. 250–260). Neumann’s (1996) book provides plenty of examples from authors as diverse as the Slavophiles and Dostoyevsky, the Eurasianists, and

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the Soviet mezhdunarodniki (foreign policy experts).4 Moreover, the Russian discourse of civilisation has always been part and parcel of the pan-European Romanticist tradition, and has contributed to its development by, inter alia, playing a key role in forging the notion of the West as a cultural entity (Heller, 2010). Thus, Aliaksei Kazharski is absolutely right when he argues, in his recent detailed study (Kazharski, 2017), that the adoration of Samuel Huntington and his civilisational approach by contemporary Russian conservatives is best described not as a borrowing, but as a reproduction of cultural codes embedded in a discursive matrix shared by Europe, Russia and the US. In other words, in the conservative tradition, Russia’s uniqueness is taken as the point of departure, while the discursive resources used to substantiate this claim are taken from the common pan-European repertoire. As the civilisational discourse is essentially the same everywhere, othering of the West remains the only way to prove Russia’s difference, and it takes on even more radical, antagonistic forms if difference is conceptualised as moral superiority (cf. Zevelev, 2016). There is, however, always a temptation to ease the tension by deconstructing the identity of Europe and appropriating those of its elements which reinforce Russia’s self-esteem. These are then presented as ‘true’, friendly Europe whose values Russia is there to defend. Naturally, the elements that negate Russia’s Europeanness are lumped together into the image of ‘false’, morally decadent Europe, and antagonised with even greater intensity. In the end, the paleoconservative discourse does not eliminate the tension but externalises it by presenting it as a confrontation with an outside adversary rather than an internal identity issue. It is important to highlight, however, that the pro-European position is also based on negativity and othering, this time of Russia’s perceived backwardness and of the social groups that have allegedly preserved traditionalist, premodern attitudes. It is therefore hard to even imagine an identity for Russia that would be free of any Eurocentric elements, positive as well as negative. Theoretically speaking, it might only be possible through an identity project that would ignore Europe and its values and identify Russia through something entirely different. Something along these lines was proposed by Vadim Tsymbursky (1993; 2016), who argued that Russia needs to break with the established tradition of Europe-oriented foreign policy and concentrate instead on integrating the ‘difficult spaces’ of the Russian inland. The argument as such is not without earlier parallels, such as Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s (1990) essay Rebuilding Russia, but Tsymbursky was the first to offer a comprehensive critique of post-Petrine foreign policy and national identity discourse as ‘contused with the geopolitical myth’ (1993) about Russia’s indispensable role in Europe. Inter alia, Tsymbursky argued that Russian Slavophiles and their descendants, such as Fyodor Dostoevsky or the early twentieth-century Eurasianist thinkers, were all obsessed with the idea of ‘the rape of Europe’. It was also the driving force behind imperial Russian and Soviet foreign policy

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in Asia. Tsymbursky’s analysis suggests striking parallels with the ‘pivoting to Asia’ embraced by the current administration in response to the Western sanctions. The contemporary ‘Eurasian’ project, focusing on the Eurasian Economic Union and emphasising economic integration, is very different from the Eurasianist doctrine formulated in the 1920s. However, it is equally Eurocentric in its claims to be an alternative to European integration. This negative moment, once again, must not obscure the fact that Eurasian regionalism is strictly modelled on the global neoliberal discourse of regional integration, which takes the EU as its prototype (Kazharski, 2017). In a more general context, Bobo Lo concludes: There has been little dilution in Moscow’s Westerncentrism, and its relationships in Asia, with the exception of the Sino-Russian partnership, are weak and underdeveloped. In this connection, China’s growing importance to Moscow does not point to a new Asian direction so much as an old reliance on geopolitical balancing. (2015, p. 163) In other words, Russia and the EU, as political actors, remain entangled in a broader field of identity politics where Europe and Russia define each other through both negative and positive practices of identification. Brussels needs Russia as a foil to confirm its own role as a wielder of Normative Power Europe; the presence of a country that belongs to Europe but does not share European values helps to establish the hegemonic position of the EU with its power to define what Europe means. Russia, in turn, continues to define itself through Europe, even antagonistically, due to the lack of any alternative way to anchor its national identity. This relationship, however, is not between equals; it is the EU that occupies the hegemonic position in the Eurocentric regional order.

Russia as a European Subaltern Deconstructing indispensable Others into ‘true’ and ‘false’ elements is not a unique feature of Russian discourse. Europe, after all, also has its ‘true’ Russia, represented by the classical Russia culture as well as the liberal proWestern opposition to the regime. The following quote from the European Parliament resolution on the murder of the Russian liberal politician Boris Nemtsov illustrates pretty well where the line between the two Russias is drawn: The European Parliament … [p]ays tribute to Boris Nemtsov, a prominent opposition leader, a founder and leader of the political movement Solidarnost and a leading critic of President Vladimir Putin and of the war in Ukraine who committed his life to a more democratic, prosperous,

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Viatcheslav Morozov open Russia and to strong partnerships between Russia and its neighbours and partners; extends its deepest condolences to Boris Nemtsov’s family and friends, members of the opposition and the Russian people; condemns the Russian leadership’s decision to prevent some EU diplomats and national delegations from attending his funeral, thereby impeding the EU’s attempt to pay tribute to brave Russian citizens standing for universal values. (EP, 2015)

As in many other similar statements, it is the Russian liberal opposition that represents the European Russia and its people, who take universal values as their own. However, this friendly Russia is a rather peripheral element of the EU-Europe discursive space: while antagonistic othering is routine, suggesting that the Russian people might actually share the common European legacy and values is nowadays entirely optional. Russia’s main function in EU identity construction is to embody Europe’s past. As Ole Wæver (1998) and Thomas Diez (2004) have argued, EU identity is based on the temporal othering, in which Europe of sovereign states figures as the domain of conflict and violence and as such confirms the importance of ‘post-sovereign’, integrated Europe. Russia, obsessed with the idea of sovereign control over its territory and, increasingly, information space, is in this sense almost a caricature of what Europe attempts to leave behind. However, as Diez (2004, p. 328) himself admits and as Prozorov (2009, pp. 156–157) shows in more detail, spatial othering is never fully eliminated. Since the introduction of the Copenhagen criteria in 1993, the Others of Europe (mostly in the East and in the South) are framed as being in transition: they are all potential members of the EU, or at least of the European Neighbourhood and the Wider Europe, but presently they continue to cling to their outdated sovereign statehood and need a helping hand to be able to join the post-modern European project (see also Joenniemi, 2008; Dimitrova, 2012; DeBardeleben, 2012, pp. 423–424). Against this background, the radicalisation of Russia’s position through the espousal of the paleoconservative ideology and the intervention in Ukraine must be interpreted as the decisive break with the pattern of ‘hierarchical inclusion’ of Russia in Europe, which had been ‘the key “point of diffraction” of the entire political discourse on Russia’s relations with Europe’ in the 2000s (Prozorov, 2009, p. 155). While the liberals and the moderate conservatives of the previous decade had been complaining about Russia’s unequal treatment by the EU, today’s paleoconservatives have embraced the image of Russia as a traditionalist sovereign power and, in that sense, the opposite of Europe with its moral decadence and helplessness in the face of repeated crises. It would, however, be entirely wrong to describe the inequality in the EU–Russia relationship merely as a discursive construction. The recent critical reappraisal of the English School concept of international society (Keene, 2002; Keal, 2003) suggests that all latecomers to the Eurocentric hegemonic world order

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were assigned an inferior status, which they then could have internalised or rejected. Internalisation of the external norm, in particular, produced all sorts of identity issues that Ays¸e Zarakol (2011) chooses to describe as ‘stigmatisation’ (see also Suzuki, 2009). Alternatively, this could be viewed as an outcome of the more complex and long-term dynamics of uneven and combined development: Russia’s late integration into the emerging capitalist world order has resulted in what could be described as subaltern imperialism (see Morozov, 2015). As an empire, Russia established and maintained control over the vast and diverse periphery. Conventional postcolonial wisdom emphasises cultural difference as marking the boundary between the imperial centre and the colonised periphery, with ‘culture’ being often understood in anachronistically modern terms, as signifying ethnic, religious or linguistic difference. However, some of the most insightful studies of the Russian empire (e.g., Hosking, 2001) suggest that the Russian empire also treated its ‘own’ people (first of all, the Russian peasants) as objects of colonisation. This latter aspect is stressed by Alexander Etkind (2002, 2011) in his writings on internal colonisation. An aspect crucial for the analysis of EU–Russia identity politics, and highlighted by the concept of subaltern empire, is that Moscow colonised its ‘internal’ periphery on behalf of the capitalist core. While remaining politically sovereign, structurally it was an element in the global colonial system – an element whose main function consisted in ensuring control over natural resources, their harvesting and transportation to the core (Kagarlitsky, 2008; Etkind, 2011). However, the effects of uneven and combined development cannot be reduced to resource dependence: it also impacts identity politics and mass common sense (cf. Hopf, 2013) by displacing the national political agenda and establishing the relations with the hegemonic Western Other as the dominant political question (Morozov, 2015, pp. 157–165). Russia’s economic dependence on the global capitalist core created the preconditions for what was in effect a European colonisation of the country. This claim certainly sounds controversial, and it must not be read as a valuebased judgement. Yet it is a simple logical corollary from the two points widely accepted in the existing literature. On the one hand, we know from Etkind and others that Russia’s Europeanised elites were the colonisers in their ‘own’ country; on the other hand, it is more or less self-evident that the underlying structural forces were global rather than internal. Hence, it is only logical to conclude that the process is best described as external, as well as internal, colonisation. At the same time stating, literally, that Russia was a colony of Western Europe would definitely mean taking it too far, because the word ‘colony’ certainly implies the loss of formal sovereignty. Etkind (2002) is right to highlight the cultural difference between the ‘shaven’ colonisers and the ‘bearded’ peasants as one element that justifies the use of his internal colonisation framework. However, the ‘shaven’ Russians, even if they privately felt at home in nineteenth-century Europe, were nevertheless often unhappy about the way in which their country was treated in

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Europe politically. As Neumann (2008) has shown, while Russia was a great power in terms of capabilities, it was not able to meet the standards of good governance that the European great powers established among themselves. Whether it was indeed governance that was the primary factor here, or exclusion that came first and then was justified in terms of insufficiently good governance, the fact is that the difference between Europe and Russia was articulated quite consistently, and often in explicitly Orientalist terms (Neumann, 1999, pp. 65–112). The Soviet modernisation did temporarily make Russia a superpower, but could not reverse the dynamic of combined development. The level of technological dependence remained high throughout this period. The late Soviet economy was heavily militarised (Epstein, 1990), which in itself was a consequence of the weakness in the face of the much more powerful and technologically advanced opponent. Finally, starting from the late 1960s, oil addiction became a permanent problem (Goldman, 2008, pp. 33–49; Robinson, 2013; Morozov, 2015, pp. 96–97). Their theoretical differences notwithstanding, both Neumann (1996) and Tsymbursky (1993) agree that no major changes occurred in the previous Eurocentric pattern of the identity debate. In the meantime, Russian national culture of the imperial period and later on was developing as thoroughly and unambiguously European. As already pointed out, the Russian intellectuals, even the most conservative ones, imagined the Russian nation within the conceptual matrix of the Enlightenment and civilisation. With societal modernisation, this European outlook was also adopted by the masses. The end result of this process has been a thoroughly Europeanised society which at the same time is both Orientalised by the hegemonic core of Europe and engages in self-Orientalisation. Russia is indeed a subaltern empire, capable of achieving neither equality within Europe nor independent standing outside of it, and thus locked in a vicious circle of repeated catch-up modernisation followed by an anti-Western reaction.

Policy Implications The asymmetric interplay of belonging and exclusion, briefly outlined above, defines the fundamental preconditions of EU–Russia relations and ultimately accounts for the failure of the proclaimed partnership. Even though in the early post-Soviet years Russia was a willing recipient of technical assistance in the framework of the Tacis programme, political aspects of the relationship were problematic from the very beginning. Starting from the negotiations on the Partnership and Cooperation Agreement (PCA) in the early 1990s, Russia’s main concern was its subordinate position in the dialogue. This was reflected, inter alia, in Moscow’s unease about the so-called ‘suspension clause’, which made all aspects of the relationship conditional upon the ‘respect for democratic principles and human rights’. The Russian delegation was anxious that Brussels would use the clause for economic purposes, but

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eventually agreed to its inclusion in the PCA, in a softened form, as Article 2 (Haukkala, 2010, pp. 77–81). Equally important was Article 55, which stipulated that ‘Russia shall endeavour to ensure that its legislation will be gradually made compatible with that of the Community’. In other words, the EU’s hegemonic role was institutionally inscribed in the partnership at the moment of its inception. The agreement was eventually signed in June 1994, but its entry into force was delayed because of the first Chechen war. This fact sparked renewed complaints about the EU’s impinging on Russia’s sovereignty and using the language of values to achieve pragmatic ends (Smith, 2005, pp. 112–116). Similar concerns persisted in the following years. The EU’s criticism of Russia’s conduct in the second Chechen war, its policy on visas and the freedom of movement, and the treatment of the Russian speakers in the Baltic states were presented by Russia as manifestations of ‘double standards’ in the promotion of European values (Haukkala, 2010; Prozorov, 2009). To be even marginally successful, all attempts to institutionalise and enhance the EU–Russia relationship during Putin’s first two terms had to be presented as based on equal cooperation. Thus, the offer to bring Russia as a partner under the umbrella of the European Neighbourhood Policy (ENP) was rejected with indignation, as denying the country’s special status in the wider Europe and attempting to put it on an equal footing with Morocco and Moldova (Averre, 2005). In contrast, the Northern Dimension, introduced in 1999 as a general framework for addressing the specific regional problems of Europe’s northernmost regions in the context of EU enlargement, has been accepted by Russia and even survived in the post-Crimean environment. Its longevity, however, is primarily explained by the reformatting it underwent after 2005, ceasing to be an instrument of the EU’s external governance at the subnational level and continuing as a standard framework of cross-border and cross-regional cooperation under the control of national authorities (Haukkala, 2010, pp. 152–167; Elsuwege, 2016). Generally speaking, the EU opted for a norm-based approach to the Neighbourhood countries, which implied that they were considered as part of the wider European community, while relations with Russia were now developed on a more pragmatic, interest-based platform (Casier, 2013). Instead of the European Neighbourhood Policy as a way of providing more structure to the relationship, Brussels and Moscow chose to give more substance to the Four Common Spaces. Inaugurated in St Petersburg in 2003, they were put on a more solid ground with the adoption of road maps at the 2005 Moscow summit. As Haukkala (2010, pp. 138–139) highlights, the road map for the Common Economic Space restates the goal of legal convergence set by the PCA, but carefully avoids any indication that it is Russia which is expected to implement the EU’s acquis, and not vice versa. Even though the direction of legal approximation was clear to everyone and was considered beneficial by the Russian side at the technocratic level, politically Moscow insisted on an equal status (see also Averre, 2007, p. 174).

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Another important example is the field of energy, which in the beginning of the 2000s was, for a while, perceived as a pragmatic alternative to deeper political cooperation. While in the political domain strong disagreements over human rights, the conflict in Chechnya and in Kosovo, along with a number of other issues, had a persistent negative affect on the relationship between Brussels and Moscow, the Commission seemed to be sympathetic to the position of big business on the EU side, which advocated a more pragmatic relationship (Romanova, 2008, pp. 64–97; see also Timmins, 2002; Aalto, 2008). Russia is the largest supplier of hydrocarbons for the EU; the lion’s share of Gazprom’s exports goes to the European market (Krickovic, 2015, p. 9). The resulting interdependence was seen as conducive to cooperation on the basis of economic interests, while the parties agreed to disagree about values. In this spirit, the Feira European Council in June 2000 moved to decouple political conditionality and economic cooperation in relations with Russia (Romanova, 2008, p. 64). In October, the Russia–EU Energy Dialogue was inaugurated as a semi-formal platform to discuss issues such as security of supply, energy efficiency, infrastructure, investment and trade. However, both sides soon discovered that their incompatible visions of Europe’s future blocked the potential of positive interdependence and instead drove them into a security dilemma (Krickovic, 2015; see also Casier, 2011). The EU was promoting the 1994 Energy Charter Treaty and its proposed supplement, the Transit Protocol, as an institutional means towards the wider political goal of market liberalisation. It also proclaimed the need to increase energy efficiency and diversify supplies. Russia, on the contrary, was keen to ensure sovereign control over what it came to define as ‘strategic sectors’ of the economy. To that end, it abandoned or indefinitely postponed the plans to privatise state-owned corporations such as Gazprom and Rosneft, re-nationalised some of the previously privatised assets (most notoriously, Yukos) and changed legislation to restrict foreign investment in energy and other ‘strategic’ industries (Heath, 2009). It launched a number of new infrastructural projects, most importantly Nord Stream, to reduce its dependence on the transit countries, and arguably also to increase its political leverage in the region (Smith, 2004). The use of ‘pipeline diplomacy’ in dealing with Ukraine, as well as Belarus, the Baltic countries and Poland, which quietly began already in the 1990s, became a matter of foreign policy, with the first ‘gas war’ with Ukraine setting the stage in 2006.5 Even though Russia has succeeded in achieving many of its short-term objectives, long-term developments in the energy sector correspond to the dominant logic of uneven development, perpetuating Russia’s subordinate position vis-à-vis the EU. The risks associated with ‘economic growth based on extensive exploitation of natural resources’ (Strategiia, 2016, p. 7) and technological dependence on the West, especially in the information technology sector, have been acknowledged at the highest possible level (see also Doktrina, 2016). In the meantime, Brussels’ efforts to reduce dependence on Russia seem to have fallen in line with the global trend towards greater energy

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efficiency and diversification of sources, leading to a sharp and, by all accounts, long-term decline in the global oil prices (Hartmann and Sam, 2016; Randall, 2016). Even though Russia has managed to consolidate sovereign control over ‘strategic’ industries domestically, it has been able neither to overcome dependence on the energy exports nor to mitigate the destructive effects of oil price volatility by other means. Regardless of how seriously the Kremlin really considered energy as a geopolitical weapon, the attempts to use it have also largely failed. Among the Eastern Partnership (EaP) countries, Armenia and Belarus have so far stayed in Russia’s orbit, but that is due to a much larger spectrum of dependencies not limited to energy alone (Vasilyan, 2016; Vieira, 2016). In Ukraine, the limited reach of Moscow’s ‘energy weapon’ has been demonstrated in the most dramatic way: Russia had to intervene militarily to prevent what it believed was an imminent shift of the geopolitical balance in favour of the US and the EU due to the ‘unconstitutional coup’ of February 2014 (Allison, 2014; Averre, 2015, pp. 705–710). In other words, the strategic trends in the energy sector have been defined by the EU and, more widely, by the developed world, while Russia, at best, has been able to achieve some tactical gains. Given the importance of the politico-normative dimension of the Energy Dialogue, it was hardly a coincidence that the first ‘gas wars’ occurred exactly in the same period when Russia moved to openly challenge the EU, and the West more generally, on normative grounds. Vladislav Surkov’s ‘sovereign democracy’ was the most prominent attempt to offer an alternative reading of universal values while keeping the basic reference points of the Eurocentric discourse in place (Morozov, 2008b). It emphasised democracy as the key part of the shared European, and even global, legacy, while insisting on each nation’s sovereign right to implement the abstract democratic values in accordance with the local cultural and social realities. Putin’s Munich speech in February 2007 also offered a sharp critique of what was seen by the Kremlin as the usurpation by the West of the right to speak on behalf of entire humanity, this time focused on the problem of international law and the principle of non-intervention (Putin, 2007). This was soon followed by the Russian-Georgian war of August 2008, the first ever open military conflict between post-Soviet Russia and a neighbouring country. As it turns out, it was the shared neighbourhood that became the main arena for EU–Russia confrontation, which eventually produced a crisis of global dimensions. Even as the conflict between the Union’s policy of conditionality and Russia’s insistence on sovereign equality was removed from the bilateral agenda, it continued to inform both parties’ perception of the developments in the former Soviet republics, especially after the introduction of the EaP in 2009 as a policy specifically targeted at the region (Haukkala, 2015). The EU might well have seen its mission as projecting NPE and assisting the countries of the region in their craving for universal values, but this put Brussels on a collision course with Moscow, which saw the game in very different terms. It interpreted the ‘colour revolutions’ as a direct security

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threat and saw the entire paradigm of democracy promotion as aimed at regime change in Russia (Snetkov, 2015). The outcome, regardless of the intentions of the European leaders, was a geopolitical battle for the spheres of influence fought in accordance with the classical logic of sovereignty (cf. Prozorov, 2009, p. 157). The significance of the annexation of Crimea and the subsequent escalation of the military tension between Russia and the West consists primarily in changing the name of the game: in effect, Russia has finally managed to drag the EU out of its ‘post-sovereign’ heaven into the world of Realpolitik. Given the general structural background outlined in this chapter, it is hardly surprising that after more than two decades of awkward partnership, the EU and Russia stumbled into a conflict. The degree of Russia’s dependence on the EU in both economic and normative terms has made substantive cooperation on an equal footing difficult for both sides. As long as Russia’s belonging to Europe was emphasised over exclusion (i.e., until 2014 at the latest), the difference in the way the country is governed was bound to make the Europeans unhappy with the current state of affairs. They might have agreed to put up with this difference if it was conceptualised as a temporary one: Russia’s deviation from the European norm could be tolerated as a sign of immaturity, typical of a ‘transition society’. This, however, could last only for as long as the hegemonic status of the EU normative order was not put into question too explicitly: Russia, as a country in transition, was expected to agree with the EU’s self-perception as Normative Power Europe, the model of the ideal society epitomising the putative end to which the transition is directed. Therefore, Russia’s endeavour to stage a counter-hegemonic rebellion on an intra-European platform was doomed from the outset. ‘Sovereign democracy’ had no chance exactly because it reproduced the same pattern of normative dependence on the EU and the West, while at the same time challenging Western hegemony. Add to that the background of ever more obvious economic and technological dependence that was visible to everyone involved, and the failure of the Surkovian project must come as no surprise. Dmitry Medvedev’s modernisation came to complement and partly replace ‘sovereign democracy’, and could be interpreted as stemming from the tacit recognition that the counter-hegemonic offensive did not quite work out. The Partnership for Modernisation (PfM), which framed EU–Russia relations during Medvedev’s presidency, was a logical outcome and a key symptom of the underlying logic of this brief interlude. PfM was explicitly structured as a programme for Russia’s inclusion in Europe by bringing in best practices from the EU. It thus reflected the overall spirit of Medvedev’s presidency, with its emphasis on reforms and a partial rehabilitation of the idea of catching-up modernisation. At the same time, even during this period efforts were made to make sure that the EU’s logic of conditionality was not back on the agenda (Romanova and Pavlova, 2014). We know all too well that this latest, timid and incoherent, attempt to Europeanise Russia hit a wall when it became clear that innovation and development are hampered by the lack of

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transparency and democratic accountability. The failure of the urban protest movement of 2011–2012 (Greene, 2014) sealed the fate of the reforms and pushed the country towards the traditionalist reaction of Putin’s third term (Sakwa, 2014). For Putinite paleoconservatism, Russia’s estrangement from Europe is no longer a problem: on the contrary, it celebrates the difference, bringing this to the point of proclaiming mutual exclusion between Russia and the EUEurope. The once shared feeling of belonging to the same political and cultural domain is receding to the distant background. However, the dependence inevitably comes back, since the entire debate about ‘traditional Russian values’ is waged, in fact, on the European discursive turf. Instead of following Tsymbursky’s advice to turn away from Europe, Russia is desperately trying to prove its status of the guardian of true European values.

Conclusion The relational dynamic of the EU–Russia relationship seems to have driven both parties into a geopolitical conflict, with the paleoconservative ideology taking the upper hand in Russian domestic politics and translating into an open confrontation with the West. Paradoxically, the paleoconservative discourse is self-Orientalising to a no lesser degree than the one of the Westernisers. By worshiping ‘traditional values’ and ‘spirituality’ it appeals to the common people and their values, which are allegedly conservative and antimodernist. The ‘genuine Russian’ of the paleoconservatives is a mirror image of the ‘noble savage’, a central figure of colonialist mythology (see Ellingson, 2001). It is a patriarchal barbarian who is naturally inclined to healthy patriotism, but can be easily seduced by the evil forces if left without supervision. The government thus undertakes the mission of surveilling and disciplining the unruly native, using quintessentially colonial techniques (cf. Morozov and Pavlova, 2016). This justifies the increasingly authoritarian character of the regime and the increasingly assertive foreign policy. From within this perspective, the annexation of Crimea was an act of decolonisation, a declaration of independence from the Eurocentric hegemonic order and a proclamation of the truly sovereign ‘Russian world’ in which the Russian native will be able to fully realise his spiritual potential. It symbolises Russia that has ‘risen from its knees’ and no longer feels obliged to follow the imperialist dictates of the West. As any decolonising move, it is inevitably imagined in modernist terms, through categories such as sovereignty and national self-determination, and realised with the help of modern weapons and postmodern information warfare. As noted at the outset, Russia in effect does not have access to any pool of genuine native knowledge: instead, it has to construct its uniqueness from the building blocks provided by the shared European intellectual tradition. In the short term, this anti-colonial rebellion was shockingly successful, at least on its own terms. However, as any postcolonial society has discovered so

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far, legal sovereignty matters very little if it is not supported by functioning institutions and a robust civil society. More specifically, while the Russian public might find the ease with which the Kremlin uses military power in defiance of the West rather exhilarating, this power itself is conditioned by the dependence on Western technologies and oil revenues. Moreover, it appears that in order to explain what is meant by traditional Russian values one has to once again actualise the discursive figure of ‘true’ Europe by presenting Russia as the guardian of the European Christian heritage. In other words, Russia’s act of decolonisation remains only a declaration, while the structure of dependence is still fully in place (see Morozov, 2015 for more details). Even as the Russian economy seems to have adjusted to the crisis, it has happened at the expense of the population, with the positive impact of the weaker rouble being felt only in the food industry and, to some extent, in the raw materials sector (World Bank, 2016). In other words, the status quo probably can be maintained for a long period of time, but only at the expense of long-term development. The Medvedev interlude provides ample illustration of how the cleverest plans of technological and institutional modernisation fail in the absence of political reform. There can be no conclusive proof that Russia will never be able to overcome its relative backwardness while maintaining a negative identification against Europe. However, given the continued Eurocentrism of Russian identity politics, such a scenario does not look plausible. While Russia’s European identity does not directly translate into being ready to accept conditionality imposed by Brussels, another rapprochement with the EU might seem a natural course of action if the ‘anti-colonial’ alternative is discredited and the leadership is brave enough to admit that. It is not clear whether the EU would be prepared this time to accept Russia as again going through transition and to tolerate Russia’s imperfections as temporary in nature. What is especially difficult to foresee is any way out of the Crimean entanglement: any rapprochement with the EU would probably imply addressing the issue of annexation, which would be a domestic political minefield. Most probably, these issues will significantly complicate the new partnership, which means that the era of post-Cold War optimism is never coming back. However, it is not improbable that the current generation of Europeans will see some sort of opening in Russia towards the EU and much more willingness to adopt European best practices than the Russian leadership displays at the moment. It would be good to have a strategy in case this scenario happens to materialise.

Notes 1 This work was supported by the Estonian Ministry of Education and Research personal research grant PUT1138. 2 Note that Badiou (2005, pp. 81–84) differentiates between belonging (being present) and inclusion (being represented).

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3 The liberal conservative camp centred around the Seraphim Club, founded in 2003 by the editor in chief of the Expert magazine Valery Fadeev and TV commentators Mikhail Leontiev, Maksim Sokolov and Alexander Privalov (Prozorov, 2005, p. 127). After 2011, Leontiev drifted towards the paleoconservative position, which eventually earned him a job with Rosneft as its press-secretary. Other typical paleoconservatives are, for instance, the Minister of Culture Vladimir Medinsky, TV anchor Vladimir Solovyov and Duma deputy Vitaly Milonov. 4 On the nineteenth-century debate, see also Riasanovsky (1952), Thaden (1964) and Walicki (1980). 5 The analysis in this paragraph is mostly based on Morozov (2008a).

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Neumann, Iver B., and Jennifer M. Welsh (1991) ‘The Other in European Self-Definition: An Addendum to the Literature on International Society.’ Review of International Studies, 17(4): 327–348. Novozhenova, Aleksandra (2014) ‘Proch’, vyrozhdenie!” Otkrytaia levaia, 13 April. http://openleft.ru/?p=2519. Prozorov, Sergei (2005) ‘Russian Conservatism in the Putin Presidency: The Dispersion of a Hegemonic Discourse.’ Journal of Political Ideologies, 10(2): 121–143. Prozorov, Sergei (2006) Understanding Conflict between Russia and the EU: The Limits of Integration. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Prozorov, Sergei (2008) ‘Belonging and Inclusion in European–Russian Relations: Alain Badiou and the Truth of Europe.’ Journal of International Relations and Development, 11(2): 181–207. Prozorov, Sergei (2009) ‘In and Out of Europe: Identity Politics in Russian–European Relations.’ In Eiki Berg and Piret Ehin (eds) Identity and Foreign Policy: BalticRussian Relations and European Integration. Aldershot: Ashgate, pp. 133–159. Putin, Vladimir (2007) Speech and the Following Discussion at the Munich Conference on Security Policy, 10 February. http://en.kremlin.ru/events/president/tra nscripts/24034. Randall, Tom (2016) ‘Wind and Solar Are Crushing Fossil Fuels.’ Bloomberg, 6 April. www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2016-04-06/wind-and-solar-are-crushing-fossil-fuels. RG (2015) ‘Ukaz Prezidenta Rossiiskoi Federatsii ot 31 dekabria 2015 goda N 683 ‘O Strategii natsional’noi bezopasnosti Rossiiskoi Federatsii’.’ Rossiiskaia gazeta, 31 December. http://www.rg.ru/2015/12/31/nac-bezopasnost-site-dok.html. Riasanovsky, Nicholas V. (1952) Russia and the West in the Teaching of the Slavophiles: A Study of Romantic Ideology. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Robinson, Neil (2013) ‘The Contexts of Russia’s Political Economy: Soviet Legacies and Post-Soviet Policies.’ In Neil Robinson (ed.) The Political Economy of Russia. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, pp. 15–50. Romanova, Tatiana (2008) ‘Energy Dialogue from Strategic Partnership to the Regional Level of the Northern Dimension.’ In Pami Aalto (ed.) The EU-Russian Energy Dialogue: Europe’s Future Energy Security. Aldershot: Ashgate, pp. 63–91. Romanova, Tatiana, and Elena Pavlova (2014) ‘What Modernisation? The Case of Russian Partnerships for Modernisation with the European Union and Its Member States.’ Journal of Contemporary European Studies, 22(4): 499–517. Sakwa, Richard (2014) Putin Redux. Power and Contradiction in Contemporary Russia. London and New York: Routledge. Sharafutdinova, Gulnaz (2014) ‘The Pussy Riot Affair and Putin’s Démarche from Sovereign Democracy to Sovereign Morality.’ Nationalities Papers, 42(4): 615–621. Smith, Keith C. (2004) Russia’s Energy Politics in the Baltics, Poland, and Ukraine: A New Stealth Imperialism? Washington, DC: Center for Strategic and International Studies. Smith, Hanna (2005) ‘The Russian Federation and the European Union: The Shadow of Chechnya.’ In Debra Johnson and Paul Robinson (ed.) Perspectives on EU–Russia Relations. London and New York: Routledge, pp. 110–127. Snetkov, Aglaya (2015) Russia’s Security Policy under Putin: A Critical Perspective. London and New York: Routledge. Solzhenitsyn, Alexander (1990) ‘Kak nam obustroit Rossiiu.’ Komsomol’skaia pravda, 18 September, special issue.

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Strategiia (2016) Strategia nauchno-tekhnologicheskogo razvitiia Rossiiskoi Federatsii. Utverzhdena Ukazom Prezidenta Rossiiskoi Federatsii ot 1 dekabria 2016 g. N 642. http://kremlin.ru/acts/news/53383. Surkov, Vladislav (2008) ‘Russian Political Culture: The View from Utopia.’ Russian Politics and Law, 46(5): 10–26. Suzuki, Shogo (2009) Civilization and Empire: China and Japan’s Encounter with European International Security. London and New York: Routledge. Thaden, Edward C. (1964) Conservative Nationalism in Nineteenth-Century Russia. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Timmins, Graham (2002) ‘Strategic or Pragmatic Partnership? The European Union’s Policy towards Russia since the End of the Cold War.’ European Security, 11(4): 78–95. Tsymbursky, Vadim (1993) ‘Ostrov Rossiia: perspektivy rossiiskoi geopolitiki.’ Polis 5. www.polisportal.ru/files/File/puvlication/Starie_publikacii_Polisa/C/1993-5-Cimburs kiy_Perspektivi_rossijskoj_geopolitiki.pdf. Tsymbursky, Vadim (2016) Morfologia rossiiskoi geopolitiki i dinamika mezhdunarodnykh sistem XVIII–XX vekov. Moscow: Knizhnyi mir. Vasilyan, Syuzanna (2016) ‘‘Swinging on a Pendulum’: Armenia in the Eurasian Economic Union and with the European Union.’ Problems of Post-Communism. doi:10.1080/10758216.2016.1163230. Vieira, Alena (2016) ‘A Tale of Two Unions: Russia–Belarus Integration Experience and Its Lessons for the Eurasian Economic Union.’ Journal of Borderlands Studies. doi:10.1080/08865655.2016.1211959. Walicki, Andrzej (1980) A History of Russian Thought: From the Enlightenment to Marxism. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Wæver, Ole (1998) ‘Insecurity, Security, and Asecurity in the West European Non-War Community.’ In Emmanuel Adler and Michael Barnett (eds) Security Communities. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 69–118. Wolf, Larry (1994) Inventing Eastern Europe: The Map of Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. World Bank (2016) Russia Economic Report, no. 35. http://www.worldbank.org/en/ country/russia/publication/rer. Zarakol, Ays¸e (2011) After Defeat: How the East Learned to Live with the West. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Zevelev, Igor (2016) Russian National Identity and Foreign Policy. Washington, DC: Centre for Strategic and International Studies.

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Part II

EU–Russia Bilateral Relations

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3

Negative Mutual Interdependence? The Clashing Perceptions of EU–Russia Economic Relations Hiski Haukkala

Introduction Since their inception at the turn of the 1990s relations between the European Union (EU) and Russia have been based on an economic foundation. It is not an exaggeration to argue that despite their political and institutionalised nature, the true foundation of EU‒Russia relations is economic. This was already reflected in the Partnership and Cooperation Agreement (PCA) of 1994/97, which is largely an economic agreement aimed at the eventual development of a Free Trade Area (FTA) between the EU and Russia. Since then the idea of economic interdependence as the backbone of relations has become more strongly entrenched. For example, the European Commission’s 2008 review of EU–Russia relations noted how ‘interdependence in the energy sector is a core element of the relationship’ (European Commission, 2008). This idea has been perhaps particularly noticeable in the case of Germany, whose ‘rapprochement through interweavement’ approach, predicated on the assumption that increasing interaction and interdependence would consequently turn Russia into a reliable member of the wider European security community, has been highly influential in shaping the EU’s Russia policy as well (Meister, 2012). Despite these strong foundations and good intentions relations between the EU and Russia have become increasingly fraught with problems and succumbed to a crisis, even conflict over Ukraine in 2013–14. (For an extensive analysis of the whole gamut of relations, see Forsberg and Haukkala, 2016). This chapter will look at the development of economic and trade ties and their growing politicisation and even securitisation over the years. The chapter asks the questions why and to what extent the promise of ‘positive mutual interdependence’ has remained unrealised and what ramifications the current and increasingly contested political and economic relationships entail for the future of EU–Russia relations. The chapter will proceed in four steps. It will first provide an overview of economic relations between the EU and Russia, starting from trade and investment. It then moves to examining the repeated attempts at solidifying and institutionalising these relations with a view to arriving at an eventual

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free trade area. The chapter then discusses the impact of mutual sanctions imposed by the EU and Russia over the Ukrainian conflict and the economic relations between the two increasingly alienated strategic partners before ending with some concluding remarks. The chapter will also touch upon energy relations. The subject is one of the key cases that highlights the dual problems of close interdependence and the growing contestation concerning the ‘rules of the road’ for managing those relations and consequent interdependence (see Romanova’s chapter for more about the topic).

The Development and Structure of EU–Russia Trade The question of trade flows and investments between the EU and Russia is far from insignificant. Russia is the third largest trading partner of the EU, with an impressive annual turnover of 285 billion euros in 2014, totalling eight per cent of the EU’s external merchandise trade (European Commission, 2015). The EU runs a significant trade deficit with Russia. By contrast, the EU is by far the largest trading partner for Russia, consisting of almost half of Russia’s trade. This dominance is further accentuated by the fact that the EU and its Member States are the most important source of foreign direct investment (FDI) into the country, with up to 75 per cent of stocks in Russia coming from the EU, including the lion’s share from Cyprus, which represents a good deal of repatriated Russian money. Here we see an interesting symmetry with some 68 per cent of Russia’s outward FDI stock going into the EU (Liuhto and Majuri, 2014, p. 200). That said, it is worth pointing out that Russia’s share of the EU’s inward FDI stock is meagre, representing less than one per cent of all FDI received from outside the EU. Some Member States are, however, significantly more exposed, including Austria, Bulgaria and the Baltic states with close to five per cent, and with Cyprus topping the bill with nearly 15 per cent of the FDI stock (Liuhto, 2015, pp. 81–82). After the lost decade in the 1990s, trade between the EU and Russia showed steep growth until 2008 when the positive trend was interrupted by the global financial and economic crisis, which also had a negative impact on EU‒Russia trade. In 2010 mutual trade once again resumed growth, reaching record levels in 2012. To illustrate the robust growth in trade between the EU and Russia, it is worth noting that the volume essentially tripled between 2003 and 2013. To be sure, a good deal of this growth is explained by the EU’s massive Eastern enlargement in the early 2000s. Since then the weakening of Russia’s economy and the decline in oil prices, together with the negative effects of the sanctions imposed by the EU and its Western partners over the conflict in Ukraine, and vice versa, have reduced the volume and value of trade, while casting the long-term prospects of Russia’s economy as well as the future development of EU–Russia economic relations into doubt. The structure of trade between the EU and Russia reveals natural complementarities, suggesting a good match between the economies. EU exports to Russia have been dominated by machinery and transport equipment,

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chemicals, medicines and, until the adoption of Russian counter-sanctions in August 2014, agricultural products. EU imports from Russia are almost exclusively made up of raw materials, in particular oil (crude and refined) and natural gas (European Commission, 2015). In 2014 the share of primary products in Russian exports to the EU amounted to 80 per cent, a figure that reveals important trends in Russia’s own economic landscape. First, it highlights the almost unidimensional, and growing, reliance on oil and gas as key export commodities (Movchan, 2015). The resource sector has been the main engine of growth in Russia, and the increasing state control of key resources and companies has been an essential part of Putin’s economic policy (Gustafson, 2012). That said, Putin and Russia under him were also exceptionally lucky, as almost the entire 2000s witnessed near-continuous and rapid growth in the price of oil and other commodities on the world market, boosting the Russian economy and consumption along the way (Hill and Gaddy, 2015, p. 134). It also enabled the Russian state to rid itself of foreign debt almost entirely and amass significant currency reserves and a sizeable sovereign wealth fund that have proved invaluable in weathering, first, the 2008‒09 economic storm, and then the negative impact of sanctions over the conflict in Ukraine. At the same time, the combined effect of the strong resource base and Putin’s policies has resulted in a situation where Russia is more reliant on the primary sector today than was the case during the Soviet era. Russia’s pattern of economic growth reveals how dependent the Russian state was, as it still is, on these revenues – as well as the associated rents – to keep both the private consumption and the public economy afloat. The dominant role that the primary sector plays in Russia is reflected in the share of oil and gas in the state’s budgetary revenues, being approximately 60 per cent, but much more if one accounts for the knock-on effects of these financial flows in the wider Russian economy (Movchan, 2015). This means that the Russian economy is highly vulnerable to external shocks. For example, and despite Putin’s initial professions to the contrary, Russia was hit very hard by the global financial and economic crisis of 2008 and saw its economy contract by 7.8 per cent between 2008 and 2009 (Hanson, 2013, p. 34). But Russia’s economic system was not only a source of vulnerability. Paradoxically, it was also a key enabling factor for the continued stability of ‘Putin’s Russia’. His initial personal popularity in the early 2000s can be attributed in large part to the rapid growth in public and private incomes and the consequent stability and even legitimacy of the political system created under his stewardship. An interesting question that follows is what will happen to Putin’s popularity and the stability of Russia should the country experience a protracted period of sluggish economic growth at best, as now seems likely. At the same time, the economic structure and the rents it affords are a factor shaping the domestic structures in their own right in several ways. The so-called sistema – informal networks of power and governance – are the key to how Russia is governed (Ledeneva, 2013). This economic structure – combined with a set of

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neo-patrimonial, clientelistic and corrupt practices – is, in the words of Gaddy and Ickes (2013), one of the most crucial ‘bear traps’, i.e., factors that constrain and even inhibit any attempts at reforming that very system. Other such traps are the Soviet legacy of central planning and inefficient economic structures, including the misallocation of people and physical and financial assets in faraway and climatically hostile places (Hill and Gaddy, 2003). Coupled with the continued resource abundance, these factors lessen the urgency, and even the likelihood, of any meaningful economic reforms in Russia. Moreover, the system and the consequent understanding of how the economy and politics operate are also the basis for how Putin and the Russian elites perceive the external world. The domestic system, based on bought loyalty and patronage, is a source of beliefs underlying operational practices wielded in order to affect change in Russia’s immediate neighbourhood and beyond, as the debate about the subversive and ‘hybrid’ tactics of influence in Europe and the wider West testify. This is not the place to discuss these tactics in full (see Jonsson and Seely, 2015). Suffice it to say that the phenomenon is not new, as to a degree they were already part and parcel of Soviet tactics towards the West. Writing a decade ago, the US scholar Celeste Wallander (2007) already warned how Russia’s ‘transimperial’ tactics were taking advantage of global financial structures to corrupt, carve out and consequently influence Western political and economic systems and key actors, a practice that has been brought to the fore during and over the Ukraine conflict.

The Institutionalisation of Economic Interdependence EU‒Russia relations have revolved, in large part, around the question of the depth and breadth of economic integration and the eventual terms of reference for that process. As was already mentioned, the PCA did spell out the objective of an eventual FTA between the two and put Russia under a broadranging yet somewhat abstract obligation to harmonise its laws, rules and regulations with the Community acquis. This is how the EU operates in general when granting third parties open access to its Single Market, but for the Russians in particular the expectation of unilateral normative convergence towards EU norms and standards has entailed certain sovereignty-challenging dimensions that Moscow has, over the years, become increasingly uncomfortable with (Haukkala, 2010). As a consequence, one sub-theme of relations, ever since the adoption of the PCA, has dealt with how to eventually realise the ambition of an FTA, and through what mechanisms. The initiative for establishing a Common European Economic Space in the EU–Russia Summit in Paris in October 2000 must be viewed against this background. On the one hand, it was an attempt on the part of the EU to steer the ailing EU–Russia relations on a more constructive track after the freezing of relations during the Second

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Chechen War. On the other hand, it can be seen as an attempt at ‘operationalising’ the rather monolithic and abstract obligation for Russia to harmonise its trade-related laws and rules with those of the EU acquis (see Haukkala, 2003, p. 75; Maresceau, 2004, p. 210). In essence, it aimed at generating a forward momentum in a process which, from the vantage point of the Union, had remained disappointing, to say the least. There is hardly any need to dwell at length on the development of the Common Economic Space (CES) as it became known in the context of the Four Common Spaces that followed (see Haukkala, 2010, Ch. 8). The process proved to be drawn out and difficult, even ‘bitterly contested’ (Averre, 2005, p. 183). The process did witness a breakthrough of sorts in the form of the EU granting Russia Market Economy Status (MES) at the EU–Russia Summit in Brussels in May 2002. Although the EU at the time announced the decision as a ‘major milestone’ and ‘a reward for substantial progress’ on the part of Russia, giving ‘fresh impetus to Russia’s WTO accession negotiation’ (European Commission, 2002), neither contention was, in fact, fully accurate. On the contrary, in the words of Godement (2016, p. 1), granting the MES was merely a status symbol in the development of economic relations. This is testified to by the fact that the decision had fairly minimal actual consequences for economic relations between the two. Indeed the CES document revealed significant tensions between EU and Russian readings concerning the way forward in their economic relations. The issue boiled down to the level and quality of the sovereignty-challenging adoption of EU norms by Russia. The evolution of this dilemma is reflected in changes in wordings in some key documents. To begin with, the Article 55 of the PCA explicitly obligated Russia to bring its norms, standards and regulations into line with the European ones. By contrast, it is highly significant that the CES refrained from mentioning explicitly from whom convergence is to be expected and according to whose standards it should take place (Emerson, 2005). The muddying of waters in this respect was one of Russia’s key aims in the negotiating process. The reason for this stemmed from the Russian view according to which legal approximation would present a threat to Russia’s sovereignty, and that Russia should do its utmost to ensure a maximum degree of autonomy and ‘liberty of action’ in the process (Bordachev and Romanova, 2003). Underlying this line of reasoning is the key Russian theme during the Putin era, namely that relations with the EU should be a reciprocal process whereby the partners would be ‘meeting each other halfway, harmonizing the rules and regulations on either side’ (Chizhov, 2003, p. 14). Keeping this discussion in mind, it should come as no surprise that Russia increasingly started to question the very feasibility and legitimacy of normative convergence with the Union (Karaganov, 2005, p. 32). Especially at the height of the oil- and gas-led economic boom in late 2000s, Russians started to view their country as more dynamic and economically successful than the EU (Karaganov, 2004, p. 180). In this respect, an interesting document is The World Around Russia: 2017 scenario prepared by the influential Council on

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Foreign and Defence Policy. In the document, a group of distinguished Russian scholars wrote how the ‘stagnant model of Europe’s political development is not beneficial for Russia’ (SVOP, 2007, p. 112). The euro crisis and the associated economic woes in the EU only accentuated this line of reasoning in Russia. To begin with, the EU’s internal governance problems have cast a shadow over Brussels’ insistence that it can offer a successful model that others should follow, while opening up space for competing powers to challenge the EU’s international role (Keukeleire and Delreux, 2014, p. 59). This has increased scepticism towards the EU among the Russian elites but has also impacted Russian society, which sees the EU less and less as a model to be followed (Fischer, 2013, p. 31). The Cyprus bailout episode in 2013 was particularly disruptive as it was seen by many in Moscow as a cynical ploy pursued by the Europeans to punish Russian money and investors in Cyprus by confiscating parts of their deposits. The Russians were particularly angry because Moscow was not consulted by the EU in the process (Karaganov, 2013). The EU Ambassador, Vladimir Chizhov, argued that the bailout scheme, known as a ‘haircut’ for larger depositors, was tantamount to a ‘scalping’. The whole case had shown him the EU’s ‘lack of values’ (Fleming, 2013). Indeed, criticism of the EU’s own lack of values and morals has become a mainstay of Russian rhetoric, as exemplified by Putin’s words before the Valdai Discussion Club in September 2013 where he accused Western Europe of rejecting ‘their roots, including the Christian values that constitute the basis of Western civilisation’ (Putin, 2013).

Russia’s WTO Accession and the Partnership for Modernisation The road maps for the Four Common Spaces presented in May 2005 received a highly critical treatment from scholars and commentators. In the Russian debate, they have been called ‘road maps to nowhere’ (Kononenko, 2005) and criticised for their lack of concrete substance (see also Tyazhov, 2006). Specialists on the EU side were not much kinder, branding the whole exercise as politically flawed (Barysch, 2006, p. 14), or as the ‘proliferation of the fuzzy’ (Emerson, 2005) with very little practical relevance. Yet, in actual fact, it is important to note that at the time it was neither the CES nor the EU that played the central role in the attempts at integrating Russia into the system of free trade and global norms and regulations. It was in fact Russia’s accession into the World Trade Organization (WTO) that took centre stage. The EU also made this clear by arguing that the marching order was WTO membership first, and only then would other arrangements in the field of economy be possible (Verheugen, 2005). This stance is understandable as Russia’s membership obligated Russia to bring its trade laws and practices into compliance with WTO rules which, if implemented, would automatically make Russia more compatible with EU rules and regulations as well, thus facilitating the creation of a possible FTA with the EU, too (Jones and Fallon, 2003).

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The WTO accession process began in 1994 and lasted for a gruelling 18 years, culminating in accession on 22 August 2012. The long and drawn-out process became a source of chronic irritation to Russia, which viewed it as a series of ‘unjustifiably tough demands which virtually block Russia’s entry’ into the organisation (Putin, 2003). The global financial and economic crisis resulted in Russia calling for a stronger role for itself in setting the global agenda. As early as 2008, the new President, Dmitri Medvedev (2008), labelled the main global institutions, such as the WTO and IMF, as ‘discredited’. Speaking in his role as Prime Minister, Putin outlined the Russian alternative vision at the World Economic Forum in Davos in January 2009, calling for ‘a more equitable and efficient global economic system’ with a major role reserved for Russia in the process (Putin, 2009). Since then Russia has taken steps to move from abstract criticism to concrete action: the June 2009 decision to establish a customs union with Belarus and Kazakhstan foreshadowed Russia’s ambitions to build its own economic and political power bloc in the Eastern part of the continent while practically putting, as it seemed at the time, Russia’s own WTO bid on hold indefinitely (Bovt, 2010). In addition, the Russian leadership introduced the initiative of turning Moscow into one of the leading financial centres globally – an idea that has been made moribund by the combined weight of the lacklustre performance of the Russian economy and the impact of Western sanctions targeting the financial sector in the country (for more about the idea, see Abramov, Polezhaev and Sherstnev, 2011). Be that as it may, Russia did finally accede to the WTO in 2012. The entry spurred expectations, and even a short-lived period of optimism concerning the prospects of the Russian economy (Connolly and Hanson, 2012, p. 480). For example, writing in the immediate aftermath of Russia’s accession, a group of Spanish economists mused enthusiastically how ‘[f]ull implementation of Russia’s WTO accession is on the horizon’ and how ‘WTO accession not only will benefit the overall performance of enterprises and competitiveness of the economy, but also will contribute to developing technological sectors in which the position of Russia is weak’ (Camacho, Melikhova and Rodriguez, 2013, pp. 337‒8). Yet to the European Commission’s consternation, the reality pointed in the other direction, towards maximal use of protective measures afforded by the WTO and the creative adoption of novel ways to circumvent the WTO regulations and obligations by Russia (Connolly, 2015a). This resulted in a host of complaints against Russia in the WTO dispute settlement procedure. Russia, for its part, remained brazen about this fact. For example, in a news conference in December 2013 President Putin highlighted the protectionist intentions of Russia, arguing that one of the motivations for joining the world trading body was precisely the opportunities it afforded for protection, adding how Russia had ‘not yet begun to fully use all these options, but we intend to do so’. What is more, Putin turned the guns towards the EU, suggesting that it was, in fact, the EU itself that was engaging in unfair discrimination against Russia and that it

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would be taken to task by Russia in due course in the WTO dispute settlement mechanism (Kremlin, 2013). For some, Russia’s WTO process nevertheless raised hopes for the diversification and eventual modernisation of the Russian economy, as well as for joint rules on the basis of which trade disputes could be resolved. These themes have also played a prominent part in the EU–Russia agenda, as exemplified by the Partnership for Modernisation (PfM), adopted in 2010. The background to this innovation was the presidency of Dmitri Medvedev (2008‒12) and the global economic crisis of 2008, which brought the question of the sustainability of Russia’s economic system and the consequent need for modernisation and the quality of innovation in the Russian economy to the fore (Fischer, 2013, p. 27). This was reflected most starkly in Medvedev’s article Go Russia! (Medvedev, 2009), which was a call to arms to radically restructure the Russian economy away from the resource sector towards hightech and innovations. The EU, and Germany in particular, saw a political opening and quickly took the initiative to adopt a wide-ranging Partnership for Modernisation with Russia (Makarychev and Meister, 2015). The first such partnership had already been launched between Germany and Russia in 2008 but it was turned into an EU-level initiative at the EU–Russia Summit in Rostov-on-Don on May 31 to June 1, 2010. In certain respects, the PfM formed an instance of ‘constructive bilateralism’, where a Member State-level initiative eventually spilled over onto the EU agenda, creating positive dynamism in the process (David, Gower and Haukkala, 2013). An indication of initial enthusiasm concerning the topic is that in addition to the EU-level partnership, a total of 24 bilateral PfMs were signed between Russia and EU Member States (for a full list and discussion, see Romanova and Pavlova, 2014). But the positive momentum of the PfM proved to be short-lived. The previous pattern of relations once again became quickly visible with the initial enthusiasm concerning a fresh beginning soon getting bogged down due to differences concerning the meaning of modernisation and the consequent way forward in its implementation (Larionova, 2015). The key problem lay in the different understandings concerning what modernisation in fact entailed. For the EU, at stake was a democratic modernisation of Russia, the key issues being good governance, fighting corruption and encouraging improvements in civil society and the business environment in Russia, including the development of small and medium-sized enterprises (SMEs). For Russia, the partnership boiled down to a much more conservative and technocratic approach, implying technology transfers and multi-billion euro projects between major companies, essentially improving but not challenging or reforming Russia’s current model (Romanova and Pavlova, 2014; Makarychev and Meister, 2015). What is more, after Putin’s return to the presidency in 2012 it soon became clear that ‘modernisation’ had been a Medvedev-era project. Clearly, the mass demonstrations following the contested Duma elections in December 2011 showed Putin the danger of creating expectations for reforms in

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Russia. It seemed that Medvedev’s reform-minded rhetoric had in fact been instrumental in creating an opening for a growing number of Russians to express their discontent with the political system and the elite as well (Fischer, 2013, p. 29). Instead of modernisation, stability became the new catchphrase in Russia. The end-result was the PfM turning out to be yet another false start, a process only managing to feed the mutual frustrations and irritations in both the EU and Russia, and a concept that has now fallen completely by the wayside during the Ukraine conflict. Instead of developing cooperation the two have come to adopt a set of sanctions against each other, a topic to which we turn next.

The Politicisation of Interdependence: Economic Relations as a Political Weapon The discussion above has already brought the contrasting visions and perceptions and clashing interests between the EU and Russia to the fore. But economic ties have also been wielded by both sides to influence, even sanction, each other’s behaviour. The use of economic incentives in modifying other countries’ preferences is a well-established practice in international politics (Baldwin, 1985). For example, the EU has made the use of conditional access to its Single Market one of the main and most successful modes of operation in its own foreign policy (Smith, 2003). That said, it is Russian energy, a truly strategic commodity, that is usually seen as the most potent dual-use product (Sullivan, 2014). The question of the potential use of Soviet/Russian energy as a tool of influence, even blackmail, has long been a divisive issue. During the Cold War, the United States in particular viewed the growing reliance on Soviet gas by some key Western European allies, particularly West Germany, with increasing concern, a trait that has persisted to this day and has undoubtedly once again been accentuated by the conflict in Ukraine (Rutland, 2009). Yet apart from one supply disruption in January 1981 (see Staar, 1987, pp. 140–1), the Soviets proved to be reliable partners that consistently shied away from using energy for political ends. By contrast, during the post-Cold War era, Russia has used energy as a foreign policy tool much more openly. This is not to contend that Russia is somehow ‘evil’ and that it wants to use energy first and foremost to coerce others. In an interesting article, Orttung and Overland (2011) have argued that Russia’s strategic use of energy is, in fact, an indication of its otherwise fairly ‘limited toolbox’ in foreign policy – in other words it reveals the chronic lack of other reliable levers of influence. But be that as it may, the practice of Russian foreign policy has revealed a pattern where, particularly in the former Soviet space, Moscow has frequently wielded its energy influence. The background to this is the old Soviet energy policy, which deliberately drew the Republics into a dense web of oil and gas dependency (Newnham, 2011, p. 135). Russia has used this dependence both as a carrot and as a stick, as exemplified by the variance in gas prices

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between different customers that cannot be explained on commercial grounds alone (Smith Stegen, 2011, p. 6509; for an overview, see Newnham, 2011, pp. 140‒2). However, to view energy simply as a ‘weapon’ that Moscow can wield freely at will is too simplistic and misses some important nuances in Russia’s international role. The first is how singlehandedly unsuccessful Russia has been in using the ‘energy weapon’ for political gain (Drezner, 1999; Smith Stegen, 2011). On the contrary, the relationship is clearly not unidirectional as, interestingly, Russia has also suffered at the hands of the transit states (Stulberg, 2012). The second is the wider fact that, for Russia, energy is also an important objective of its foreign economic policy: Russia needs stable demand, high prices and, in the final analysis, reliable customers. To that end, Russia has come to realise that it needs to use energy for political purposes with great caution and selectively: Moscow may be in a position to use energy pricing for buying peace at home and leverage in its immediate neighbourhood, but it needs to tread more carefully farther away. Indeed, especially in its relations with Western European states, and perhaps with the development of a more joined-up energy policy in the whole EU over time, there is a certain logic of ‘mutually assured disruption’ at work: although Russia could conceivably use energy for coercion against the EU, it would simultaneously also destroy the basis for its own economic well-being and undo its prospects of being an energy power. This has spurred Casier (2011) to describe Russia’s energy leverage over the EU as ‘overrated’. That said, one should also note that in the last instance Russia and the EU operate in different time frames: a supply disruption would cripple the EU Member States practically instantaneously, while the loss of revenue would affect Russia more slowly (Shaffer, 2009, p. 39). Therefore, the use of the Russian ‘energy weapon’ against the EU cannot be entirely excluded, should an even more serious crisis than the one over the Ukraine conflict between the two develop. However, energy has not been the only bone of contention in trade relations. The Putin period(s) in particular witnessed various kinds of disputes related to trade and other rules governing commercial activities. The EU repeatedly accused Russia of unfair economic practices and has used a series of anti-dumping measures against the country and its key industries, a practice that is usually equated with protectionism by the majority of economists (Davis, 2009) and, as already noted, has increasingly aroused the ire of Russian officials (see pp. 59–60). One of the longest-standing irritants deals with the dispute over the so-called Siberian overflight fees for European aircraft flying between Europe and Asia via Russian territory. It is also an instructive case in the sense that the issue has been ‘resolved’ on numerous occasions between the parties without actually being successfully solved (see Forsberg and Seppo, 2009). At the time of writing, Siberian overflights are still an open wound in EU‒Russia relations. If anything, the issue has gained a sense of new urgency in the context of the Ukraine conflict, as Russia on several occasions hinted that it was considering banning Europeans

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from using Russian airspace altogether as part of its own counter-sanctions (Smith, 2014). Indeed, turning to embargoes and other restrictive measures, Russia is not the only party that has felt wronged in the field of trade relations. For its part, Russia has repeatedly used embargoes against products from some EU countries, such as Polish meat and Lithuanian dairy products, officially citing quality and health reasons, but for some reason these complaints seem to be associated with political problems between Russia and the Member State in question (Forsberg and Seppo, 2009). The EU has not been entirely exempted from energy embargoes either. Three cases in particular are worth highlighting. First, in 2006 Russia shut down the oil pipeline servicing the Lithuanian Mazeikiai refinery citing a ‘leak’ in the pipeline after Lithuanians had refused to sell the refinery to the Russians. In 2007, during the so-called Bronze Soldier crisis between Estonia and Russia, Russia halted shipments of oil via rail to Estonia due to ‘maintenance work’. And in July 2008 Transneft cut oil deliveries for ‘commercial and technical reasons’ to the Czech Republic in the aftermath of Prague’s decision to base elements of US missile defence on its territory (Newnham, 2011, p. 142; Orttung and Overland, 2011, p. 84). The wrangling over hiked export duties that Russia set on raw timber between 2007 and 2009 is also instructive as it can be seen as an attempt at compelling Western countries to invest in pulp and paper mills in Russia.

The Impact of the Ukraine Conflict on Trade Relations As already noted, the conflict in Ukraine brought the question of sanctions, or restrictive measures in EU parlance, in EU‒Russia relations to the fore. Yet 2014 was by no means the first time that the EU adopted sanctions against Russia. On the contrary, already in 1994‒1996 and again in 1999‒2000 the EU applied economic pressure on Russia over the two wars in Chechnya, while the 2008 war in Georgia also resulted in a brief freeze of political relations in particular. That said, the gradually toughened EU and wider Western sanctions have been an order of magnitude more severe and have caused significant hardship for the Russian economy and many Russian companies in particular, which have been shut off from Western financial markets and forced to rely on the Russian state for financing (Dobrokhotov, 2015). For its part, Russia responded in kind, imposing its own food embargo against EU Member States in August 2014 (Wegren, 2014). Taken together, the conflict in Ukraine brought the EU and Russia to the brink of an open trade war. The EU and wider Western sanctions have definitely played their part in Russia’s economic woes. For example, Gurvich and Prilepskiy (2015) estimated that sanctions have had a significant effect on the Russian GDP, amounting to a detraction of over two per cent by 2017. At the same time sanctions are not the primary culprits for Russia’s poor economic performance. As President Putin (2015) himself has noted, sanctions ‘are definitely

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contributing to our current problems’ but they are ‘not our biggest problem’. Indeed, the structural problems and the consequent slowdown of the Russian economy were visible even in 2013, well before the conflict in Ukraine and the imposition of sanctions. In the words of Hanson (2014, p. 2), Russia’s economic problems are long-lasting, making it no longer ‘an emerging but a submerging’ economy. What is more, the dramatic devaluation of the rouble in December 2014 was not caused by the sanctions but by the equally dramatic plummeting of oil prices. Indeed Gurvich and Prilepskiy (2015) have estimated that the oil price shock has played by far a bigger role than the sanctions have. Over the longer term, if sanctions are continued, their impact on the Russian economy will be far from insignificant (Gurvich and Prilepskiy, 2015). The fact that key Western technologies for deep off-shore and fracking operations have been included on the list alone will entail severe difficulties for the future development of Russian oil and gas industries. This can have serious consequences for Russia’s future ability to sustain production which, even before the conflict, had a question mark hanging over it because of the chronic underinvestment in greenfield production on the one hand, and overinvestment in export infrastructure on the other during the post-Soviet era (Gustafson, 2012). In addition, the political risk factor has also been accentuated and Russia’s very reputation as a business partner has been damaged. These will have a long-lasting effect on Russia’s ability to attract FDI, which will be the key to the country’s future economic growth. However, a word of caution is in order as the election of Donald Trump as US President has inserted an element of unpredictability in US‒Russian relations, including the continuation of sanctions. Russia has remained far from idle in the face of this economic onslaught but has actively sought to blunt the edge of EU and wider Western sanctions. To begin with, Russia has embraced trade substitution, even flirting with some Soviet ideals concerning autarchy, namely complete self-sufficiency in certain key sectors of the economy. It is worth pointing out that the Ukraine conflict and consequent sanctions have not brought about this change in Russia economic thinking. On the contrary, they have merely accentuated a pre-existing trend in Russian economic thought by empowering some key elites favouring a more state-centric model of economic development for the country (Connolly and Hanson, 2016; for an analysis of different schools of economic thought in Russia, see Zweynert, 2010). In a sense, spurring this direction in Russia has been an unintended consequence of EU sanctions that has, over time, the potential to make it even harder for the Union to realise its essential interests and objectives in the country (Ashford, 2016, pp. 115–118). The policy of import substitution has brought some economic benefits. In the words of Popescu (2015, p. 2), the crisis has acted ‘like steroids for a sportsman – boosting performance in the short term at the expense of longterm health’. Indeed, by spurring domestic production, import substitution has brought some results particularly in the agricultural sector. This was

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reflected in the words of Putin in November 2016, when, in front of the gathering of the All-Russian People’s Front, he vowed to keep the ban on Western food imports in place ‘as long as possible’ (The Moscow Times, 2016). At the same time attempts at trade substitution have exposed the limits of the Russian economy to rid itself of external dependence (Traub-Merz, 2015). The process has also managed to accentuate one of the main ailments of the Russian economy by increasing state intervention therein (Connolly, 2015b). Russia has sought to offset these losses by launching its own ‘pivot to Asia’ and seeking to deepen both its economic and its political relations with China. On the face of it, Beijing seems to have been happy to reciprocate but, ambitious political declarations notwithstanding, fairly little has been achieved in practice. In fact, it is hard to avoid the conclusion that China has been happy to welcome Russia into the fold, seeking to entangle Moscow in a web of economic ties with a view to turning it into a trustworthy junior partner in the process. It may very well be that Moscow will find Beijing a more wily and ruthless partner than Brussels ever was (Gabuev, 2016). Yet, the fact remains that for the foreseeable future Russia will remain dependent on economic ties with the EU and the wider West: the ties that have been developed over the past quarter century, and even before, cannot be severed overnight. Russia is also faced with the dilemma of finding new markets that would be big enough to offset the losses on the European front. Although China’s rise will continue for the foreseeable future, it will not be able to supplant the European markets any time soon. There is simply no feasible alternative to continued dependence and interdependence between the European Union and Russia in the field of economy. An acknowledgement of this has been the third tactic adopted by Russia, namely a series of moves to evade the sanctions by overt changes in the ownership structures of certain key companies, using covert offshore safe havens often residing under Western jurisdiction, or by directly challenging some of the restrictive measures in EU courts (see Johnston, 2015; Nesvetailova, 2015, 16). Although Russia has had some success with these actions, the country is nevertheless facing tough times economically.

Conclusion: From Positive to Negative Interdependence? This chapter opened by arguing that economic relations – and in the final analysis trade in energy – are the glue that essentially binds the EU and Russia together. The discussion of economic relations that ensued confirms this proposition. The vast amount of trade and other economic links is a significant achievement. The interdependence is real and enduring. At the same time, the analysis also suggests that, due to incompatible economic interests and increasingly divergent views concerning the very foundation of their political relations, economic ties have, instead of bringing the two close together, become an object of increasing political and economic contestation; this contestation has, in fact, lessened the prospects of a wholly successful

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‘strategic partnership’ between the EU and Russia. This field reveals what seems to be a recurring pattern of relations between the EU and Russia: despite good intentions, natural synergies and the size of the stakes involved, relations have succumbed to mutual recrimination and have remained suboptimal. Instead of maximising mutual utility and synergies, EU–Russia economic relations have succumbed to a vicious circle of what Bozhilova and Hashimoto (2010, p. 641) call reactions on reactions. The end-result is the current state of affairs, whereby instead of creating positive interdependence and synergies, economic relations, and perhaps particularly trade in energy, have become one of the toughest bones of contention between the EU and Russia. We should prepare for a period of further and most likely very intense politicisation of energy, and a potential crisis between the two that can be expected to have significant and manifold impacts on EU–Russia economic relations, and indeed on the overall relations between the two ‘strategic partners’. The possible erosion of economic links may be a further concern for the future of EU–Russia relations, already heavily strained over the crisis in and over Ukraine. The continued politicisation, even securitisation of energy is a case in point that has the potential, first, to undo the positive gains and interdependence achieved during recent decades while, second, potentially heralding a more conflictual relationship between the EU and Russia in the future (Ciuta 2010). The relationship is in danger of losing a significant part of one of its most important stabilising factors: the interdependence and the mutual economic benefits which the trade in energy in particular has brought to the parties. This raises the question concerning the future of economic relations and interdependence. With the prospects for the Russian economy remaining weak and the EU’s attempts at diversifying its energy away from Russia on the increase, we are headed towards gradually declining interdependence. This process will most probably not be rapid but the trend seems clear. Although there is no unequivocal evidence of economic interdependence let alone mere energy supply relationships preventing or alleviating conflicts (see Nye, 1997, Ch. 7; Shaffer, 2009, p. 67), it does not mean that the factor is entirely insignificant. Indeed, even if to date interdependence has failed to prevent relations between the EU and Russia from entering a downward spiral, one should refrain from thinking that severing economic ties would automatically help. This is admittedly a double-edged sword as the Russian propensity to use asymmetrical economic ties as sources of influence, even subversion, has shown. But at the same time the asymmetry cuts both ways as the EU will remain in a preponderant role as Russia’s key customer in future. As a consequence one should be cautioned against lessening the interdependence between the EU and Russia too far: increased peace and harmony are not necessarily in store at the end of that road.

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4

EU–Russia Energy Relations Do Institutions Stand the Test? Tatiana Romanova

Energy trade and investments have been a key pillar of EU–Russia relations for decades. Contacts originated in the 1970s in the form of gas and oil trade between the Soviet Union and various European Community Member States. Since then flows of hydrocarbons have constantly grown; fuel resources reached nearly 70% of the EU–Russia trade turnover in recent years (European Commission, 2016). Since early 2014 both the EU and Russia have intensified talks about mutual diversification in energy. Hydrocarbon trade has continued to grow in volume, shrinking in value due to the collapse of global oil prices (Central Bank of Russia, 2015; European Commission, 2016; Gazpromexport, n.d.). At the same time investments from the EU in Russia were cancelled, redirected or withheld; in total, western investments to Russia (of which the EU is the main place of origin) have fallen by 70% since 2013 (UNCTAD, 2015). Inter alia, European companies abandoned some liquefied natural gas (LNG) and pipeline projects as well as a few exploration initiatives in Russia. Hence, in the long run the effect of mutual diversification will manifest itself. Moreover, the institutional basis, which supports energy relations and drives them forward, has in the last years become more primitive due to sanctions. Therefore, energy relations are diminished and undone both rhetorically and in reality, despite the commercial attractiveness of maintaining EU–Russia energy relations. The present chapter explores this institutional facet. Institutions are defined here in line with the neo-institutionalist approach as a ‘relatively enduring collection of rules and organised practices, embedded in structures of meaning and resources that are relatively invariant in the face of turnover of individuals and relatively resilient to the idiosyncratic preferences and expectations of individuals and changing external circumstances’ (March and Olsen, 2013, p. 1). Attention is mostly focused on formal EU–Russia institutions, established on the basis of the Energy Charter and its Treaty, Partnership and Cooperation Agreement (PCA) (EU and Russia, 1994), and various Energy Dialogue documents at intergovernmental (IG), transgovernmental (TG) and transnational (TN) levels. International Relations (IR) theory informs us that well developed TG and TN institutions should cushion major IG crises. However, in the case of

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EU–Russia relations the opposite seems to be true: TG and TN institutions suffered immediately from the 2014 crisis in the relations, caused by events in Ukraine (change of power in Kiev, its conceptualisation and reaction to it on both sides). The research question of this chapter is why TG and TN energy relations did not cushion the crisis. It is argued that the theory needs to be further developed. Firstly, in order for TG and TN institutions to cushion the crisis they have to be strong and credible vis-à-vis IG institutions (structural condition). Secondly, strong economic interdependence should exist on both sides (substantial condition). Finally, a long-term cooperative vision should be promoted and expectations from the TG and TN institutions should be compatible. This is where perceptions, binding decisions and official discourse become of paramount importance (visionary condition). Both structural and substantial conditions were deficient in EU–Russia energy relations while visionary conditions turned against TG and TN institutions in 2014. This combination explains why TG and TN institutions, despite their seeming density, did not cushion the crisis but rather fell victim to the overall worsening of EU–Russia relations. The rest of the chapter is structured in the following way. Firstly a theoretical framework is developed and the need for structural, substantial and visionary conditions is explained. Secondly, the institutional evolution of EU–Russia energy relations before March 2014 is reviewed, stressing the diversification and multiplication of EU–Russia formal institutions in energy cooperation. The third part will examine changes, which have occurred since early 2014 when the EU first introduced restrictive measures against Russia. These changes are described as institutional primitivisation because they made EU–Russia energy institutions thinner and stripped them of most of their influence. The conclusion underlines that consequences of these changes will be long-term and difficult to overcome.

What Makes TG and TN Institutions Cushion an IG Crisis? Any interstate relation today has at least three levels of institutions. The most obvious one is IG, which is about summits and meetings of ministers and other senior officials. However, they are only the tip of the iceberg, which also includes TG and TN institutions. These later levels increase international pluralism and interdependence among states, limiting their freedom but also increasing mutual influence (Nye and Keohane, 1971, p. 337; Keohane and Nye, 1974). Both TG and TN institutions describe non-hierarchal, network interrelations among participants (Keck and Sikkink, 1999; Powell, 1990). These networks facilitate information exchange and interpretation, mutual learning and socialisation (Dolowitz and Marsh, 2000). TG and TN institutions result from technological progress (like development of means of communication), growing complexity of state regulation, demands for specific expertise, and overall economic globalisation.

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The TG level can be defined ‘as sets of direct interactions among sub-units of different governments that are not controlled or closely guided by the policies of the cabinets or chief executives of those governments’ (Keohane and Nye, 1974, p. 43). The need for specific details to put flesh on the bones of international agreements increases in international trade and investments, and divergent standards, which create barriers for business, are all factors that nurture TG institutions (Raustiala, 2002). TG institutions perform at least three functions. Firstly, information transfer, dialogue and mutual transparency facilitate decision-making, improve its efficiency and enhance trust of all the parties involved. Secondly, TG institutions help harmonise various policies and regulations, frequently by adopting similar national norms, sometimes bypassing IG authorities (doing it by simple coordination). Finally, TG networks and their institutions enforce adopted decisions by monitoring activities of their members across borders, creating mutual guarantees and forcing their members to comply with the obligations (Slaughter, 2004). TN institutions result from the multiplication of non-governmental actors and contacts. Although they have always existed (Krasner 1997, 1999), they became a focus of the study in the second half of the twentieth century. TN institutions can bring together business representatives, NGOs and epistemic communities. All of them supply information but also help to define the agenda and create cognitive guidelines of actions (Haas, 1992; Keck and Sikkink, 1999; Sell and Prakash, 2004). Business was the first to draw scholars’ attention; companies bypassing state bodies and borders started cooperating, creating parallel to state contacts. Their main purpose is to gain profit but as a result of their activities, they influence state sovereignty (tax revenues, internal legislation, social stability) (Garrett, 2000; Krasner, 1976; Strange, 1988, 1996). In the 1980s international NGOs entered the picture; their studies ‘ontologically evolved … from global pressure groups before Rio; to transnational social movement organizations … in the early 1990s; to transnational advocacy networks … in the mid- and late 90s; to global civil society … as globalized social space filled with private actors other than “progressive” activists’ (Kelly, 2007, p. 82). Transnational NGOs make their independent expertise available in the international community; they also strengthen the legitimacy of actors (Clark, 1995), or challenge it. The third and final component of the TN level involves epistemic communities. These are networks ‘of professionals with recognized expertise and competence in a particular domain and an authoritative claim to policy-relevant knowledge within that domain’ (Haas, 1992, p. 3). They are examined here as TN because their independence from the officials and their professional reputation are key to their status. Their role has grown constantly and proportionally to the importance of knowledge in today’s society. They define problems, their interconnections, national interests and possible solutions (Haas, 1992, pp. 4–16). The three levels of institutions are not autonomous. Stages of decisionmaking reflect their interdependence. Initially the TG and TN levels shape the

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agenda, define relations between various factors, and provide cognitive frames, shaping or correcting the perspectives at the IG level or what is deemed appropriate and acceptable at the IG level. IG institutions make decisions, but the TG and TN institutions are key for their implementation (see also Risse, 2002). At any time, IG bodies depend on knowledge and information, coming from TG and TN levels. Hence, a particular system of governance emerges. States have also learned to use TN institutions to promote their own interests. At the same time, access to state authorities is frequently a factor of success for both businesses and NGOs (Green Cowles, 2003). In return, both businesses and NGOs can refuse some of their demands. Finally, business and NGOs can also perform some functions that states or international organisations do not want to undertake directly (Risse, 2002). In sum, IG, TG and TN institutions are interconnected. TG and TN institutions dilute the boundary between domestic and foreign policies. Moreover, the density of TG and TN institutions illustrates the quality of cooperation among actors (Pollack and Shaffer 2001). These institutions are believed to stabilise IG interaction and at the same time limit IG players. This interdependence of the state with TN and TG partners can be conceived as a rational process (e.g., business requires stability, the critique of NGOs leads to reputational losses). It can also be viewed through the lens of constructivist theory (e.g., involving the gradual socialisation of states and their respective populations around reciprocal norms). However, EU–Russia relations demonstrate that dense TG and TN relations by themselves are not a guarantee of strong and depoliticised relations, capable of resisting any destructive influence at the IG level. My hypothesis is that TG and TN institutions perform a stabilising role only if at least two out of three conditions, hereinafter referred to as structural, substantial and visionary, are fulfilled. The structural condition relates to the nature of the state system of each actor, and the degree to which it allows for independence of the TG and TN levels. For TG institutions to exert independent pressure on the IG level, effective competences and responsibilities have to be delegated from top to lower levels, and political and administrative functions are to be clearly defined and separated on both sides. Already Woodrow Wilson (1887) wrote about the need to separate the political level from public administration and civil servants. Later this theory was complemented with various concepts of bureaucracies, delegation and decentralisation to ensure effectiveness. Principles of any policy are shaped at the IG level but TG institutions put flesh on their bones, particularly because today’s governance is so complex. The top political level provides for the legitimacy of power whereas the administrative level (and TG relations) accounts for the legitimacy of results (Cardona, n.d., p. 9). In the West delegation of responsibilities is so pronounced that a concept of a fourth, regulatory, branch of power has appeared (Majone, 1996). Administrative personnel take more than half of all decisions, which creates predictability, depoliticises agendas, and frees top politicians to attend to really serious questions. In contrast, in Russia, political and administrative

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levels have not been clearly delineated. As a result, many decisions are taken politically (rather than technically), responsibilities are not delegated and lower-level officials may refuse to take decisions or bear responsibility for them A second important dimension of the state structure that affects whether TN institutions will have a stabilising influence, and whether they will limit the arbitrariness of the IG level, has to do with the degree of independence of the commercial sector. The EU is characterised as a liberal market economy. Russia, on the other hand, is frequently described as ‘state capitalism’, that is a system based on tight interconnections between state and business, in which ‘governments manipulate market outcomes for political purposes’ (Bremmer, 2009). This system is based on four pillars: oil and gas companies, state corporations, national giant companies and sovereign welfare funds (Bremmer, 2009, 2010). As a result, business is much more dependent on the state than in a liberal market economy. Instead of contacting their business peers, companies in state capitalist systems prefer to rely on state structures, in particular, to help negotiate long-term contacts or construction of a new pipeline. Hence, the TN level of institutions emerges as weak, while issues have a tendency to be more politicised. A similar factor relates to the non-commercial sector, which includes civil society. Its main characteristic is its independence from state institutions and its ability to monitor state actions, particularly in fields such as human rights or environmental protection. The level of development of the civil societies on both sides defines the level of development of non-commercial TN institutions (Risse, 2002; Strezhneva, 2010). Generally non-commercial TN institutions are weaker compared to commercial ones because they are driven by more abstract goals compared to profit-making that motivates business (Pollack and Shaffer, 2001). NGOs are more numerous, stronger and influential in western liberal democracies; it is the place of their origin from where they also externalised their activities to the rest of the world. For this reason they are frequently criticised for their one-sided Western agenda (Collingwood and Logister, 2005; Scholte, 2002; Smith and Wiest, 2005) and for selectivity of the interests they defend (Ottaway, 2001; Waterman, 1996). Energy-related NGOs are strong in the EU, dealing inter alia with CO2 emissions or protesting against nuclear power installations (including Russian ones in Finland, for example). The Russian situation is mixed. On the one hand, its environmental NGOs originated already in the nineteenth century and human rights movements were set up in the 1960s (Alekseeva, 2002, p. 53). On the other hand, NGOs are frequently perceived by public authorities in conspiracy terms, as western infiltration. As a result, a law was adopted in 2012, which, inter alia, requires NGOs that receive foreign assistance from abroad to be registered as ‘foreign agents’. This dual attitude toward NGOs is also well illustrated by Vladimir Putin’s (2012) article, where he argues that ‘[t]he civilized work of nongovernmental … organizations deserves every support. This also applies to

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those who actively criticize the current authorities. However, the activities of “pseudo-NGOs” … that try to destabilize other countries with outside support are unacceptable.’ This framing allows Russia to restrain the influence of NGOs in both national and international interactions. NGOs as a result have never received any prominent role in EU–Russia energy relations. Rather, bilateral clean energy issues have been mostly addressed in business terms (through promotion of relevant activities of small and medium enterprises). Therefore, the rest of the chapter does not address them. Finally, the strength of the epistemic component of TN institutions depends on the independence of the experts’ community in respective countries and more broadly on the strength of critical thinking and the power of the civil society. Like with NGOs, Russia is more ambiguous about independent experts than the EU. Loyalty to the regime seems to be a stronger currency. However, energy is a peculiar field where independent experts, advancing alternative (state-driven and market-driven) visions, have always existed both in Russia and in the EU. The former, for historical and ideological reasons, have mostly been dominated by experts, supporting state intervention, while the latter was mostly inhabited with proponents of market approaches. Structural conditions, which are predefined by state systems (by delegation, by relations between the state and the business, and between the state and civil society), have direct consequences for the TG and TN levels. These conditions either facilitate the role of the TG and TN levels in helping to define cognitive frames at the IG level and in restraining the arbitrariness of actions of key public figures, or, on the other hand, they may constrain TG and TN interaction. In the former case, TG and TN institutions can cushion IG crises; in the latter, TG and TN institutions rather fall victim to any deterioration at the IG level. The substantial condition for TG and TN institutions and their ability to cushion crises consists of the degree of interdependence between partners. One criteria is the degree to which the goods and services supplied by each of the sides are unique. Another criteria is how difficult it is to substitute existing economic relations with others. In particular, production cooperation, which presupposes involvement of companies on both sides to produce a final good or service, makes substitution difficult and time-consuming. Unique infrastructure, which is costly and is required for the supply of a good, can also lock actors into a high degree of interdependence. The more sophisticated economic exchanges between given partners (like production cooperation), the denser TG and TN institutions (see also Raustiala, 2002–2003). Depth and density of economic interconnection particularly strengthens the commercial TN institutions. Interdependence and its recognition provide a longterm vision of cooperation. Depth and density of economic interconnections lead to greater demands for substantial cooperation and, hence, define the agenda of IG and TG institutions. TG and TN relations set sector-specific goals and shape instruments of their implementation. TN institutions can also

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regulate certain issues informally, among themselves, if the density of cooperation and independence of TN links is high enough. This is also the situation when companies can resist changes imposed for political reasons at the IG level. If, on the other hand, the level of interdependence is not sufficient, the strength of TG and TN links suffers as well. Russia mostly imports consumer goods from the EU and exports natural resources (primarily oil and natural gas) to the EU, which does not make this interaction indispensable. However, for oil and particularly gas to be delivered, a system of pipelines is essential, which, indeed, grants the EU and Russia a high degree of interdependence. It can only be decreased in the long-term and requires constructing new pipelines or terminals for the delivery of oil and natural gas. However, the amount of production cooperation is limited, hence, TG and TN contacts are highly concentrated in delivery and trade, rather than joint processing of energy and joint provision of energy services. Finally, the visionary condition includes IG institutions providing longterm goals of either cooperation or diversification. These long-term goals can be fixed in bilateral or unilateral documents and speeches; they can be clear and straightforward or ambiguous, including several options. They can be either rhetorical or supported by some practical measures (research on alternative suppliers, support of parallel infrastructure, ban of certain investments and services). The visionary condition depends on the IG institutions, on internal developments of actors in question as well as on the overall situation in bilateral relations and in the world. It can also be shaped by the cognitive input from TG and TN institutions as well as promote the latter. However, if TG and TN interaction is limited, IG interaction becomes more detached from the reality, from the nitty-gritty of cooperation, and ultimately more politicised. This visionary condition has evolved dramatically over the last years in EU–Russia relations, from cooperation to confrontation, from embracing interdependence to the EU being more cautious of its dependence on Russia (and Russia reciprocating, although with less intensity). From the very beginning, however, the EU and Russian attitudes were different with the EU trying to encourage reforms in Russia, patterned after the EU-style liberalisation and Russia trying to dodge it and to guarantee equal interaction (Romanova, 2007). Therefore, the EU and Russia dealt with TG and TN institutions differently. Russia looked for their multiplication as a way to demonstrate its exclusive partnership with the EU. The EU, in turn, expected them to be venues of socialisation into EU practices and norms and, hence, looked for more substantive results. The next section will demonstrate how the density of TG and TN institutions in EU–Russia energy relations increased between the early 1990s and 2014, as well as how substantial and visionary conditions facilitated that process. The chapter will then reveal the paralysing effect of sanctions on TG and TN interaction. The inability of TG and TN institutions to cushion the crisis will be explained with the help of structural, substantial and visionary

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conditions. More specifically, the argument is that although the substantial condition was still in place, the visionary condition changed and revealed the weakness of the structural condition. As a result, TG and TN institutions have been frozen, destroyed or paralysed, which made IG interaction even more politicised and locked in the pattern of mutual diversification rather than cooperation and promotion of interdependence.

Before 2014: Diversification of EU–Russia Energy Relations Energy Charter and Energy Charter Treaty Energy cooperation between the Soviet Union and European countries before the 1990s was limited to IG agreements, which created the basis for longterm contracts between European companies and the Soviet Ministry of Natural Gas (later transformed into Gazprom). As a result, the density of TN institutions was relatively low and TG institutions were virtually non-existent. The situation started to change in the early 1990s when Russia moved to liberalise its economy, and privatised a part of its oil and gas business. The EU, in the meantime, actively constructed its internal liberalised energy market. As a result, the necessity of new regulation for bilateral energy relations emerged. Initially EU–Russia energy relations were constructed on the basis of the Energy Charter and the Energy Charter Treaty (ECT); the EU–Russia PCA, which remains the basic document governing relations overall, refers to the Charter and its Treaty as key documents on energy. The ECT contains rules on trade, investments, transit and energy efficiency as well as a dispute resolution mechanism for investors and Member States. Both the ECT and the PCA promote a market-based, cooperative and interdependent agenda. This vision was deeply entrenched in EU–Russia energy relations throughout the 1990s, facilitating contacts at TG and TN levels. The EU and Russia believed that mutual interdependence would provide energy security to the EU and revenues to develop energy and other sectors of the Russian economy. The ECT’s key body, the Energy Charter Conference, involves regular meetings of Member States at the ministerial level, hence it is IG. However, the ECT also created a Secretariat, in charge of day-to-day operations, and various auxiliary structures for preparatory work, monitoring and assistance. The latter include groups on trade and transit, investments, energy efficiency as well as a budget committee and a legal advisory committee. In 2009 a group on strategy was established to prepare a reform of the ECT. In sum, the Secretariat facilitated gradual development of TG institutions; they were multilateral, not limited to the EU and Russia. Furthermore, in 2001 a legal advisory task force was set up to assist companies in preparing contracts for cross-border oil and gas pipelines. In addition, in 2004 an industry advisory panel was created to provide an opportunity for business representatives to express their opinions on the ECT and its implementation. It meets three times a year and prepares a

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communication for the ECT Conference on the basis of its deliberations. The group concentrates on information exchange but also provides an example of how the ECT facilitates TN institutions. Again, the group has a multilateral character; it does not concentrate on EU–Russia relations. Russia joined the ECT from the very beginning but has never ratified it. Initially in the 1990s the document was hostage to the conflict between the Parliament and the President. After 2000, the State Duma became more cooperative with the President, but the overall attitude to the ECT became more critical. Gazprom feared that the document could lead to more competition in the gas market as a result of opening its pipelines for Central Asian gas. The ECT also failed to demonstrate its efficiency in the 2006 and 2009 gas crises with Ukraine (Pirani, Stern and Yafimava, 2009). Thirdly, the intention of the EU to use the World Trade Organization (WTO) regional integration clause, which allows members of an integration entity to maintain better relations on their territory, led Russian leaders to suspect that the ECT was meant to constrain Russia without symmetric obligations of the EU. Finally, Russia was (rightly) concerned about being sued for the Yukos case (in which this private company was sold for nothing and eventually acquired by the state-run Rosneft). In sum, the critique of the ECT emerged at IG and TN levels but the visionary goal of long-term cooperation and mutual interdependence was still in place. As a result, in 2009 Russia stopped the provisional application of the ECT and refused its ratification. However, Moscow continued participating in various auxiliary bodies of the ECT. Russian companies still take part in the industry advisory panel. Hence, despite the rupture at the IG level, TG and TN institutions are preserved. Their potential is, however, limited by the lack of Russia’s IG commitment to the ECT. Although TG and TN institutions were relatively weak, their cooperation has been supported by mutual interdependence and by cooperative agenda at the IG level, that is by substantive and visionary conditions. In turn, IG institutions have been fed with insights from the TG and TN levels. Energy Dialogue The launch of the EU–Russia Energy Dialogue in October 2000 was meant to close the lacuna that emerged due to the Russian non-ratification of the ECT. The Dialogue was to complement rather than substitute for the ECT because it differed substantially from the latter; the ECT was meant to extend the reach of EU’s energy regulations of the early 1990s, whereas the Dialogue stressed the equality of the EU and Russia, reflecting Russia’s nascent confidence. Secondly, the ECT is a multilateral and legally binding set of institutions whereas the Dialogue was a bilateral institution for consultations and mutual deliberation rather than for the implementation of legally binding provisions. However, the Dialogue furthered a cooperative agenda. When launching it in Paris in October 2000, the parties declared that ‘the European Union and

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Russia have decided to institute, on a regular basis, an energy dialogue which will enable progress to be made in the definition of an EU–Russia energy partnership and arrangements for it’ (EU and Russia, 2000). And they have reaffirmed this vision ever since. Like the ECT, the Dialogue started as an intergovernmental forum with the two high-level coordinators from both sides (currently Russia is represented by its Minister of Energy whereas the EU sends its Commissioner for Energy, at present Vice-President of the Commission whose portfolio includes energy). These coordinators reported on progress to the leaders of the EU and Russia on the eve of biannual summits and to the Cooperation Council (Permanent Partnership Council as of 2003). However, coordinators rarely met in-between these sessions and reports were hastily put together on the eve of the summits. In 2001 and 2005 special working groups were set up to further develop the Dialogue and upgrade its agenda. In both cases working groups consisted of medium level officials from the EU, its Member States and Russia, as well as business representatives and epistemic communities. In 2005 working groups had a larger business (that is TN) representation because the EU–Russia Roundtable of Industrialists (bringing together business representatives of the EU and Russia) initiated the review of the Dialogue. In both cases working groups were limited in time; therefore, they did not lead to the emergence of day-to-day TG interaction. However, TN business relations functioned well as a result of the intensification of various supply deals between Russian and EU companies, cooperation in exploration and occasionally in final sales in the EU. In other words, both visionary and substantive criteria nurtured TG and TN interactions. Gradually the Dialogue led to the emergence of TG and TN institutions. Firstly, a secretariat was set up to support high-level coordinators administratively and technically. The EU and Russia also opened an EU–Russia Energy Centre in Moscow, which was meant to link high-level (IG) discussions with the interaction of medium and small companies of the EU and Russia (especially in energy efficiency and renewable energy). Initially these TG and TN relations were not regular. Hence, their ability to influence IG level was limited. Business (especially on the Russian side) continued to rely on IG contacts for the defence of their interests. This is well illustrated by the support of long-term contracts that has come from various top Russian officials (including the President and ministers of energy and foreign affairs). The 2006 Ukrainian gas crisis was a turning point because then existing structures failed to prevent it. Despite early warnings, the Russian side had to bear the blame for supply disruptions (with European partners reminding that Russia still transferred its gas to EU partners at the western border of Ukraine and not at the border between Russia and Ukraine, and that negotiating with Ukraine was Russia’s responsibility). Firstly, the EU and Russia agreed to set up a crisis communication line (the so-called red phone). Secondly, they created three thematic groups (on strategy and scenarios, energy markets and energy efficiency). These groups consisted of low-level officials

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from the EU and became permanent as of 2007. The groups have met regularly and developed their terms of reference. They started performing the very basic function of TG institutions: information exchange (EU and Russia, 2007a; 2007b). As a result the quality of the dialogue’s progress reports improved, and they coordinated the strategic vision of the two sides better. Business representatives were also incorporated into thematic groups, turning them into hybrid TG/TN bodies. The Russian Ministry of Energy describes them as a form of dialogue between business and government (Ministry of Energy, n.d.). Hence, the density of TG and TN contacts improved and a culture of consultations developed further. The maturity of TG and TN contacts became obvious in September 2008 when, following the Russian-Georgian conflict, the EU stopped high-level contacts with Russia. At the same time TG and TN dialogues, exchange of information and companies’ regular cooperation cushioned the crisis and absence of IG interaction until the latter was resumed in November 2008. As EU officials in informal interviews in 2015 argued, IG perceptions that Russia reacted to Georgian actions, rather than acted as an aggressor, contributed to the success of TG and TN institutions. That perception, that is maintaining visionary condition, despite some rhetoric, coupled with substantive condition, helped maintain TG and TN institutions. Their structural weakness, which resulted from the specificity of the delegation in public administration and relations between the state and the business in Russia, did not manifest itself. Contacts between business representatives also gradually deepened. Most frequently these were contacts between EU and Russian companies on supply of hydrocarbons and various services but also consultations on changes in the EU’s regulations, the third energy liberalisation package being the most central topic. Companies on both sides sought inter alia to maintain long-term supply contacts, challenged by the package. Multilateral contacts of gas business (EU’s Eurogas and Russian Gas Society) and electricity business (Eurelectric and CIS Electric Power Council) supplemented bilateral contacts between EU and Russian companies. Development of institutions at the TG and TN levels did not prevent the gas transit crisis in 2009. It was mainly due to the absence of any mechanism for crisis management at the TG level (the red phone for crisis communication existed but there was no clarity as to what steps to take in case the supply was interrupted). The deliberate EU policy of non-intervention into what Brussels presented as a bilateral Russian–Ukrainian problem exacerbated the crisis. However, the interruption of supply in January 2009 made it obvious that any future Russian–Ukrainian conflict would also affect the EU. As a result the need for institutional changes became obvious. In response, the EU and Russia created a new crisis mechanism, spelling out clearly all the details of an early warning mechanism (EU and Russia, 2009). They also reshuffled thematic groups, with groups on electricity and on nuclear energy replacing a group on energy markets, which manifested the determination to move to

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cooperation on processed energy goods rather than trade in raw materials (hence creating a deeper interdependence). Oil and natural gas were discussed in the group on strategies and forecasts (in the context of matching the EU’s demand with Russian capacity to cater to it). Finally, the status of thematic groups was upgraded; in January 2014 they were recognised as a key mechanism of the Dialogue (EU and Russia, 2014). These TG contacts were only slightly modified in 2014 as a result of the adoption of the EU–Russia 2050 Energy Roadmap (EU and Russia, 2013). The thematic groups mainly performed the function of information exchange, staying clear of policy coordination or approximation of legislation, let alone enforcement. The terms of reference did not give these latter competences to them, which was logical in the light of limited delegation in the Russian system of public administration. Moreover, while the EU wanted the groups to be a venue for the transfer of its practices and rules to Russia, Russia saw them mostly as a way of problem-solving while guaranteeing Russia’s equality in policy-making and demonstrating the exclusivity of the EU–Russia energy partnership. At the same time, supported by substantive and visionary criteria, the structures of the Energy Dialogue flourished. They also provided IG institutions with feedback, which was positive for deepening interdependence; that in turn reinforced the demand for TN institutions. The EU and Russia also started informal consultations between energy regulators in 2010. Although this was not a part of the Energy Dialogue, it further strengthened TG contacts, creating yet another platform for information exchange but also for some informal policy coordination (in particular in mechanisms of regulation of electricity and gas markets). It is for this reason that a regular progress report of the Energy Dialogue called for systemic consultations of energy regulators (EU and Russia, 2014). The EU–Russia 2050 Energy Roadmap also presupposes development of contacts between the Russian federal network company and the association of systemic operators of the EU (ENTSO-E). The most interesting developments were linked to the Gas Advisory Council, set up in 2011. It consists of independent experts, business representatives and state officials, and functions as a preparatory body for the coordinators of the Dialogue. The Council, on the one hand, filled a vacuum, which emerged when working groups focused on electricity and nuclear energy. On the other hand, the Council created a platform for greater involvement of experts in the Dialogue. The Council set up three working parties: on energy scenarios and forecasts for the period up to 2030, on internal market regulation, and on infrastructure. The last two concentrated on the EU’s third liberalisation package and its consequences for the supply of Russian gas to the EU. What is particularly interesting in the work of the Council is that instead of just repeating the arguments of each side (and hence following the pattern of information exchange), the Council preferred to adopt a shared vision on small, technical, highly specialised issues. Hence, the Council became an arena for deeper TG cooperation (compared to working groups of

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the Dialogue). The results of this TG and TN cooperation were integrated in the last progress report on the Energy Dialogue (EU and Russia, 2014) and in the 2050 Roadmap (EU and Russia, 2013). They, therefore, shaped the vision at the IG level, contributing to the long-term cooperation and interdependence goals and making discussions depoliticised and technical. In sum, by 2014 the EU and Russia developed a relatively dense network of TG and TN institutions in energy. These institutions facilitated information exchange but also in some fields led to coordination of policies and some limited legal convergence. The bilateral character of the Dialogue and its nonlegally-binding nature, the equality of partners and the 2006 and 2009 gas supply crises bolstered TG and TN interaction. These institutions, in turn, led to considerable depoliticisation of energy relations, and they also became the basis of the EU–Russia energy market to be, as set out by the 2050 Roadmap (EU and Russia, 2013). Hence, they contributed to the cooperative visionary condition. The TG and TN institutions thus flourished, despite the deficient structural condition in Russia. However, the 2014 events in Ukraine and varying reactions of Russia and the EU to them interrupted this positive thickening of TG and TN institutions.

2014 Onward: Primitivisation of Energy Institutions Following the 2014 events in Ukraine, the EU introduced four series of restrictive measures. First, in March 2014 the EU froze all negotiations on the new EU–Russia agreement that was to replace the current PCA as well as discussions on any further simplification of the visa regime. In theory this meant a freeze on IG but not TG or TN institutions. Moreover, the European External Action Service issued a recommendation to maintain all technical discussions and fora (with the exception of those working on the new agreement). In practice, however, most meetings were postponed indefinitely by EU institutions and bodies. This severely affected the Energy Dialogue and its thematic groups, the Gas Advisory Council and its working parties. The latter renewed their meetings in summer 2014 but without any EU official present (hence limiting any influence on decision-making). In fact, EU civil servants adopted a very cautious pattern, staying clear of any contact with their Russian counterparts other than to avert crisis situations. Moreover, most unofficial meetings (like expert discussions, academic events) required authorisation of top EU officials (directors general in the case of the Commission). This indicates a level of politicisation of TG structures, at least on the EU’s side. One exception was made for the meetings about gas supply, particularly via Ukraine and of Ukraine, because this had immediate security consequences for the EU and its Member States. In 2015 about 60 billion cubic metres of natural gas (mostly for EU Member States) went via Ukraine; in 2016 Gazprom increased transit by 20% because of maintenance works of the Nord Stream. Moreover, gas is essential for Ukraine’s energy balance and transit

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fees form a considerable part of its budget. This situation forced the EU to open gas transit discussions with Russia. At the highest level, most discussions about energy supply to Ukraine involve top EU and Russian officials (Vice-President of the European Commission and Russian energy minister), that is at the IG rather than the TG level. Preparatory work is virtually nonexistent or is managed by ad hoc rather than permanent structures. Russian and EU public servants frequently limit their interaction to informal discussions at various seminars and roundtables, arranged by third parties (mostly business or research organisations). The anti-trust case against Gazprom seems to provide a rare example of TG/TN interaction. Another apparent illustration of current TG links is a recent Commission decision, authorising Gazprom to use a larger part of the OPAL gas pipeline capacity (immediately challenged by Poland in the European Court of Justice and eventually authorised by the latter in 2017). However, these cases are rather instances of unilateral EU examination of whether Gazprom violated EU competition legislation and the third liberalisation package. Russian officials have had a very limited role to play here (although Gazprom has adopted a relatively active line). In other words, IG and ad hoc TG structures do crisis-management but stop short of any medium-term (not to mention long-term) planning. Political opposition to energy dependence on Russia can also be traced in recent documents on energy security, coming from the EU (European Commission, 2014). Multilateral discussions compensate partly for the deficit of TG contacts. The ECT provides one illustration; Russia continues its participation in most expert meetings despite the refusal to extend provisional application or to ratify the ECT. Another example is the WTO, which the EU and Russia use to clarify various aspects of the third liberalisation package and its influence on new gas pipelines between the EU and Russia. However, these multilateral instruments have limited efficiency; at best they can be a venue for information exchange and specific dispute resolution but not for regular technical cooperation and legal approximation. The idea of EU–Eurasian Economic Union (EEU) contacts has been raised as well, but such contacts have not yet been officially initiated. One reason is that the EU still has not recognised the EEU, which is frequently seen as an illustration of Russian imperialism. Another reason is that the EEU has not yet acquired competencies in energy. In any case the potential of these multilateral meetings is limited and cannot compensate for the absence of the Energy Dialogue and proper contacts at TG and TN levels in bilateral relations. The second part of the EU’s sanctions consisted of blacklisting people (including Russian nationals) linked to the events in Ukraine. It included both top Russian officials and business representatives. Thirdly, the EU introduced a ban on any commercial contact with Crimea and companies operating there. The effect of these restrictive measures is worsened by an opaque ownership structure in Russia where frequently it is not known who exactly owns a company. Coupled with the overall negative attitude toward Russia,

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promoted at the top level and hence defining the visionary condition, this situation discourages EU companies from any commercial contact, especially where no link had been established before 2014. Finally, sectoral sanctions were introduced in August 2014 on the Russian financial, banking, oil and military sectors. Russian business was blocked from long-term (exceeding 30 days) financing. In particular, Rosneft, Transneft and Gazpromneft were named in these restrictive measures. Moreover, all Russian businesses were affected by financial sanctions, which touched on 70% of the Russian banking sector and limited access to international credit instruments. Furthermore, access of Russian companies to energy technologies and relevant services (e.g., for deep sea exploration, geological studies in the Arctic, shale oil production) was limited. This measure does not affect present production but will delay opening new fields and, therefore, it will manifest results in the long-run because Russia imports about 80% of relevant equipment from abroad (Energetic Digest, 2014). The EU measures affect only future contracts. Existing contracts between EU companies and Russia should be honoured, but require licences. However, the process of getting a licence is long and cumbersome (not least because of the lack of qualified personal in relevant EU Member States’ bodies). Moreover, separate licences have to be acquired for the supply of goods/services and for their payment, which further complicates contacts. The wording of EU sanctions’ measures has been obscure at times. Finally, the US sanctions also target Gazprom and Lukoil (on top of Rosneft, Transneft and Gazpromneft, which are also in the EU’s list). The retroactive effect of the US sanctions also limits possibilities for western companies to continue business relations with Russian oil and gas companies. The US also monitors closely that its sanctions are respected by both American and non-American companies; Washington previously introduced sanctions against violators and this past experience serves as an additional discouraging factor for western energy companies whenever they contemplate activities in Russia. These restrictive measures are complemented by self-censorship of companies. For example, Italian ENI stopped its participation in various shelf development projects with Rosneft. French Total stopped the purchase of Novatek assets, related to the participation in a liquefied natural gas (LNG) project. Finally, some states witnessed civil society campaigns against energy projects with Russian participation. In particular, Finland saw a demonstration against a new nuclear project implemented by Russian Rosatom. The campaign emphasised inter alia the need to decrease rather than increase the dependence on Russia (Crauch and Spigel, 2014). In sum, much like TG interaction, EU–Russia TN institutions have become poorer and scarcer. That also has led to greater politicisation (no technical, cooperation agenda feeds IG interaction) and to less technical relations. Russian efforts to appeal to commercial interests, to remind about the losses that European companies incur, and to transform economic events (like the St Petersburg Economic Forum) into foreign policy highlights have not been

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effective. They do not change this dynamic on the EU’s side, either at the IG, TG or TN levels. Why did TG and TN institutions not cushion the crisis in EU–Russia energy relations? Why did they rather become a victim of worsening IG relations? Firstly and foremost, the EU targeted these relations either directly or indirectly through its restrictive measures. It changed the rhetoric to openly hostile, classifying Russia as a strategic problem rather than a strategic partner, and promoting diversification away from Russian energy. Secondly, this rhetoric was supported with a set of practical measures, as outlined above. In doing that the EU in the post-2014 world acted differently than it did in response to the 2008 Georgian events. One reason for the divergent attitude in 2014 was that in 2008 Russia, although intervening into a sovereign state, did not annex any territory. Moreover, there was a belief in Brussels that the blame for 2008 events fell on Georgia as much as on Russia (compared to Russia being unilaterally blamed for 2014 events in Crimea and eastern Ukraine). Furthermore, the 2014 activities represent (at least for EU authorities) a massive and open violation of the post-Second World War order with its principle of inviolability of borders. From that point of view, the Crimean events are a more serious challenge compared to Russia’s alleged activities in eastern Ukraine. Finally, in 2014 the EU did not have any illusions about liberal values in Russia or its President (compared to the world of 2008 when Dmitry Medvedev had just arrived at the Kremlin and was associated with upcoming reforms). Hence, the perception of the EU about Russia was fundamentally different, which reversed the visionary condition. In this absence of the cooperative visionary condition on the EU’s side, the weakness of the structural condition became apparent. Russia is deeply different from the EU in the delegation of responsibilities from the political level to the administrative one. It is equally different in the interrelationships between the state and business and between the state and civil society. As a result, although contacts at TG and TN levels indeed developed, they were limited in their function, and they have not emerged as independent layers, limiting the arbitrariness of the IG level. Rather, they were promoted at the IG level and supported by the visionary condition. Moreover, the EU and Russia saw them differently. For the EU it was a way to socialise Russia into the EU’s practices and norms, whereas Russia viewed TG and TN structures as a way to demonstrate the exclusivity of EU–Russia energy relations and to grant its participants a say in the development of the EU’s internal legislation (and hence the overall energy regulation in the continent). Although the Energy Dialogue bodies (including the Gas Advisory Council) were invaluable for information exchange and some legal convergence, in most cases TG and TN institutions had limited competencies and were perceived as controlled by the Kremlin on the Russian side. Hence, TG and TN institutions functioned and flourished as long as the EU viewed Russia as a constructive partner at the IG level. In the absence of this visionary condition the TG and TN partners on the EU’s side adopted a cautious line.

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These institutional changes paradoxically happened at the time of an increase of EU–Russia trade in energy resources. Limited interdependence (with Russia supplying raw energy resources to the EU, while importing EU finished consumer goods and energy technologies) facilitated the paralysis of TG and TN institutions. Moreover, development of LNG technologies, availability of oil and gas in the global market and relatively low hydrocarbon prices contributed to the weakness of the substantive condition. The impact of supply cuts on the EU could still be pronounced in the short-term (although Russia seems determined not to challenge its reputation as a stable supplier). However, in the long-term the role of Russia in the energy supply of the EU can be further limited with the help of alternative suppliers and routes, new fuels and a decrease in overall energy demand in the EU. This is further underlined by the political will in the EU (and most of its Member States) to decrease exposure to an unpredictable Russia. Russia, for its part, has actively developed an Asian direction for its exports, trying to limit the EU’s leverage over this main export commodity. Hence mutual diversification seems to dominate the EU–Russia bilateral agenda. In sum, although TG and TN institutions actively developed in EU–Russia energy relations in 1992–2013, they could not withstand the pressure of the IG level in a context when TG and TN structures did not develop their own autonomy and dynamics, due to the peculiarities of the Russian political system. The visionary condition was fundamental for the development of TG and TN institutions in the context of the lack of credibility of Russian partners but also different views on them in the EU and Russia. When the EU became disillusioned in cooperation and interdependence and started to actively discourage them at the IG level, the failure of TG and TN institutions became unavoidable. The substantive condition was not sufficient to keep TG and TN institutions afloat, partly due to the developments in the sector (cheaper LNG facilities, low oil and gas prices, their abundance in the market), and partly because of limited interdependence.

Conclusion The way that EU–Russia (energy) relations have developed since early 2014 clearly demonstrates the limits of TG and TN institutions in cushioning the crisis. While, indeed, they gradually developed, they did not become immune from IG influence. On the contrary, the visionary impulse from IG institutions was indispensable for them. As long as the EU and Russia had a shared vision of cooperation and interdependence, TG and TN institutions flourished. The moment the EU changed its position to highly critical and to an insistence on diversification, supplementing this new position with practical measures (various sanctions against Russia), TG and TN institutions found themselves paralysed. In order for TG and TN institutions to perform a stabilising role, irrespective of IG pressure and the vision that is promoted at the top level,

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structural and substantive conditions need to be fulfilled. The structural condition describes internal preconditions (relations between top national leaders and bureaucracies, between the state and business, between the state and civil society). The substantive condition refers to the quality of interdependence between partners and ultimately is linked to how much they need each other. Although TG and TN institutions have intensively developed since 1992 (and particularly since 2000), that development mostly was about institutions for the sake of institutions, rather than institutions to manage the substance of the relations. Moreover, the EU and Russia viewed their role differently. Besides, a low level of delegation in Russia and its particular system of state capitalism resulted in limited efficiency of these institutions and their low credibility in the EU. TG institutions were mostly used to exchange information, while limited policy convergence became important only in 2011–2013 in the context of the Gas Advisory Council. The influence and the efficiency of TG and TN institutions remained limited. The EU’s perception that this interdependence was not essential, yet left the EU too exposed to a problematic Russia and a belief that this interdependence was easy to decrease when oil and gas were abundant in the market, worsened the situation. The EU’s overall perception also contributed to the difference in how easily the visionary condition was changed and the substantive condition was discarded. At the time of the Russian–Georgian conflict, the overall expectations of Brussels vis-à-vis Russia were positive. Therefore, TG contacts were preserved. In 2014 the EU stood disillusioned about Moscow. Anti-Russian sentiments and official rhetoric were tough. The results of this policy on both sides are not optimistic. Even if the EU partly abolishes anti-Russian restrictions in 2017, which is in itself questionable, the pre-2014 level of TG and TN cooperation will not be easy to restore. Participants of both TG and TN institutions will maintain an extra-careful attitude to each other for years to come. Their ability to provide for a technical and independent solution (including at the IG level) will be compromised. In the absence of this information, IG contacts will remain deeply politicised, the policy choice on both sides will be for diversification rather than cooperation and mutual interdependence. In turn, it will limit the prospects of closer energy relations between Moscow and Brussels, of swiftly overcoming the current crisis and a return to more sound economic relations, both in energy and other sectors.

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From Hidden ‘Othering’ to Open Rivalry Negotiating the EU–Russia Role Structure through the Visa Dialogue Anna A. Dekalchuk

Theorizing Schengen Borders and Visa Policies In the late 1980s ‘border’ emerged as a concept on the research agenda of various academic disciplines and became a matter of intense interdisciplinary inquiry. There are now many different ways of thinking about borders, starting with traditional perspectives of political geography, through mainstream international relations theories, to diverse post-positivist approaches, both moderate and radical. Accordingly, depending on the perspective chosen, borders are either claimed to be mere physical barriers, or viewed as exclusively metaphorical constructs, meaningless when stripped of the social context; a number of approaches aspire to integrate these arguments (Golunov, 2013, pp. 9–27). One possible way to think about borders in general, and Schengen borders in particular, is to consider them as a mechanism of identity construction and of distinguishing between the Self and the Other (Newman, 2003, 2010; Paasi, 2002; van Houtum and van Naerssen, 2002; van Houtum et al., 2005). In this perspective, borders present ‘material and metaphorical spatializations of difference’ that ‘locate difference through establishing identity and mediating flows [of citizens and foreigners]’ (Morehouse, 2004, p. 19). State borders serve as an instrument that ‘maintains and controls the inner ordered space and … separates it from the external Other, [thus] preventing it from penetrating inside and challenging this [inner] order’ (Golunov, 2013, p. 26). Viewed through this lens, borders are not just material lines fencing one state off from another; rather, they ‘organically’ constitute the collective identity of the Self (Barth, 1969; Wilson and Donnan, 1998). A more subtle perspective that involves thinking about borders along both geographical and metaphorical lines is provided by Wendt, who explicitly connects the inner/outer (or the Self and the Other) dichotomy to the concept of sovereignty. As he mentions, ‘there is no sovereignty without an other’, as sovereignty is essentially a social construct which ‘exists only by the virtue of certain intersubjective understandings and expectations’ (Wendt, 1992, p. 412). Borders, in this view, serve to mark these shared ‘understandings and expectations’ and are therefore one major building block of sovereignty. At the

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same time, this does not mean that borders no longer mark different geographical spaces under international law, or that any doubt is cast upon their basic function of separating different sovereign states with their exclusive right to rule within their territorial limits. On the contrary, according to Wendt, sovereignty has historically been primarily linked to territory (Wendt, 1992, p. 414), and the geographical dimension of borders is therefore essential. As Newman puts it, ‘notions of territory and borders thus go hand in hand [and] it is not possible to imagine or understand the one without understanding the other’ (Newman, 2010, p. 774). Taking this perspective allows for a slightly unusual view of the Schengen project. In this view, the Schengen system, with its abolition of border controls between Member States, is not only a unique manifestation of the voluntary surrender of a tangible part of European states’ sovereignties but, first and foremost, a clear sign of the change in the ‘intersubjective understandings and expectations’ that the European states have of themselves and towards each other.1 Wendt calls a stable system of these ‘intersubjective understandings and meanings’ covering states’ views of themselves and the international environment a role structure (Wendt, 1999, pp. 249–259). We could therefore say that the launch of the Schengen project signified a fundamental role structure transformation on the European continent. As Wendt argues, there are three ideal types of role structures (or, using Wendt’s own notion, cultures of anarchies) that characterize relations between states: the Hobbesian culture of enmity, the Lockean culture of rivalry and the Kantian culture of friendship. All three present a reflection of the perceptions and expectations the Self has towards the Other. The Hobbesian culture reflects the ‘kill or be killed’ principle, which underlies the natural state of war of all against all. The Lockean culture allows for the ‘live and let live’ system, in which war is a possible, yet undesirable, means of communication between states. Here, as a norm, states would mutually recognize each others’ property rights and view their own security in less competitive terms. Finally, in the Kantian culture ‘war is no longer considered a legitimate way of settling disputes’ (Wendt, 1992, 1999, pp. 246–312). It is now often argued that since the end of the Second World War relations between the West European countries (and their North Atlantic counterparts) have mutated into the Kantian culture of friendship, characterized by nonviolence as a principle of dispute resolution, involving the rule of mutual aid or, in other words, a principle of collective security (Wendt, 1999, pp. 297–302). Note, though, that borders present one key element of a state’s national security, because it is these borders that the state needs to protect and secure to function in its identity as a sovereign state (Wendt, 1992, p. 414). Border policies could therefore serve as a proxy for the actual role structure existing between the states. Border policies present a particularly revealing object for analysis, exactly because they do not necessarily deal with military threats. In most cases the Other crosses national borders unarmed, and the way the peaceful Other is

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treated is especially indicative of the existent role structure. Thus, the decision to abandon borders and border checks within the Schengen territory in 1995 marked the unique way in which the Schengen states have internalized this culture of friendship. The ‘we’ has been explicitly expanded and the ‘in-group’ has been evidently re-defined (Golob, 2002, p. 3) to become another stepping stone to the construction of the post-national identity of the EU region (Newman, 2001, pp. 235–237; Paasi, 2002, pp. 138–141). Not only ‘the cognitive boundaries of the Self [were] extended to include the Other’ (Wendt, 1999, p. 305, my emphasis), but, literally, the states’ physical borders were abolished to form the new collective Self. As this happened, the Schengen Member States also needed to define their relationship to those outside of this collective inner order. This, in turn, led to the rigid external border, visa and migration policies that underlie the infamous metaphors of Fortress Europe and Schengen curtain, used to illustrate the difficulties one faces when entering the Schengen zone (e.g., Welch, 2004). Moreover, the existence of this inner order provides a clear need for managing external borders jointly and for conducting all the related policies in a uniform manner. Among various border-related policies, visas are the most versatile tool of marking the Self and the Other. Visas allow the same physical border to be socially constructed differently for various groups (Bigo and Guild 2005, p. 234; Balibar, 2002, p. 79). A visa-waiver regime with the US, for instance, reflects the particular culture of friendship existing between the EU and Washington as it ‘dismantles the strict self/other coordinates … and opens the political community to the continuous presence and circulation of Otherness’ (Prozorov, 2006, p. 103). At the same time, this regime is still able to distinguish between the culture of family-like friendship among the Schengen countries and the role structure of friendship between the EU and the US – most visible in the fact that when entering the Schengen area, the US citizens still need to pass the passport control using a separate ‘All passports’ queue, whereas European citizens would choose a special ‘EU citizens’ line. On the other hand, even before arriving at the border, nationals of the ‘black list’ countries, who need a visa to enter the EU border-free territory, are clearly marked as the external – and potentially unfriendly – Other vis-à-vis the collective Self of the Schengen states (Bigo and Guild, 2005; van Houtum, 2010). This is because visa policies present a particular instance of border externalization technologies (Gilbert, 2016, p. 206) and a specific instrument of border delocalization when the boundary function of separating the Other is exercised away from the geographical borders of the state (Salter, 2006, p. 175). Notwithstanding the importance of the territorial dimension of borders, boundaries ‘as sets of practices and discourses … are not restricted to the border areas’ (Paasi, 1999, p. 670), and visa issuance arrangements are one such practice. Every visa issued is essentially a ‘decision and action that accepts the rules and functions of a given boundary [and as a result] reproduces that boundary’ (Morehouse, 2004, p. 33). Issuing a Schengen visa is, thus, a symbolic act of allowing the Other into the collective Self.

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A visa(-free) regime as a whole is also of symbolic significance. It is by formulating its common visa policies towards different states that the EU ‘borders’, ‘orders’, and ‘others’ those countries (van Houtum, 2010; van Houtum et al., 2005; van Houtum and van Naerssen, 2002) and assigns roles to them. Through its visa policies it defines both itself and how the Other is perceived by this Self (Prozorov, 2006, p. 108). Put boldly, ‘the visa obligation denotes a suspicion towards a country or a nationality as a whole’ (Bigo and Guild, 2005, p. 236). By virtue of diplomatic reciprocity, such an ‘othering’ signal on the part of the EU and the subsequent practices that make this signal ‘visible’ are usually mirrored by the country in question.2 As a result, shared ‘intersubjective understandings and expectations’ are created and reproduced by the two entities, because ‘identities are constituted by both internal and external structures’ (Wendt, 1999, p. 224) and because ‘it is impossible for a state, cast as the Outside of the Other, to presuppose the space, from which it is excluded, as its own inside’ (Prozorov, 2006, p. 109). Thus, both the actual practice of the EU visa issuance in a given country and the visa regime as part of EU external relations with it, sustain the culture of anarchy between the EU and its counterpart. Zaiotti argues that these actual practices are not restricted to the everyday management of Schengen borders through visa issuance and passport controls, but they manifest themselves in the policy-making process both when ‘negotiating among themselves and with others’ (Zaiotti, 2011, p. 26). This chapter addresses this latter practice of negotiating with the Other, as reflected in the Visa Dialogue between the EU and the Russian Federation. The way this dialogue is carried on through two intertwined discourses – one European and one Russian – presents an especially strong indication of the role structure existent between Brussels and Moscow and can shed light on the perceptions and expectations the two have of each other. In particular, the analysis presented in the chapter traces how the current role structure of open rivalry has come into being and whether it is rooted in the developments surrounding the Ukrainian crisis or, on the contrary, has a much longer history.

Before the Dialogue: The ‘European Choice’ of Russia and No Choice by Europe The story of the EU–Russia Visa Dialogue has been told more than once (Hernández i Sagrera, 2010; Potemkina, 2010; Voinikov, 2011; Hernández i Sagrera and Potemkina, 2013; Van Elsuwege, 2013; Voinikov and Korneev, 2013; Mäkinen et al., 2016), but the story-tellers are mostly Russian, with not much written by them in English. This even made Mäkinen et al. (2016, p. 165) complain in their recent study about the thinness of ‘research dealing with visa issues in EU–Russia relations’. The usual point of departure in these narratives, whether theory-informed (Prozorov, 2006, pp. 27–45, 102–127; DeBardeleben, 2014, pp. 78–81) or

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policy-oriented (Salminen and Moshes, 2009; Van Elsuwege, 2013; Voinikov and Korneev, 2013), is August 2002 and the proposal by Vladimir Putin to move forward to a visa-free regime between Russia and the EU as a solution to the Kaliningrad exclave problem, given the upcoming ‘big bang’ enlargement. It should be mentioned, however, that implications of the prospective Schengen area expansion, the Kaliningrad ‘question’ and visa issues were listed among ‘Russian concerns’ regarding the 2004 enlargement as early as 1999 (Potemkina, 2003, p. 231; Prozorov, 2006, pp. 28–29). Intense negotiations between Brussels and Moscow had been underway since then and entered their most crucial stage after the May 2002 EU–Russia Summit, which was, to a large extent, devoted to the Kaliningrad issue. Yet, at that point, there was no clear indication that Russia would propose a visa waiver regime as a potential solution to the problem. The major catalyst for a change was likely politicization of Russian rhetoric on the Kaliningrad issue. When addressing the Kaliningrad question at the May 2002 EU–Russia Summit, President Putin repeatedly referenced human rights of Russian citizens both in Kaliningrad province and in mainland Russia (Putin, 2002). Similar high-flown politicized discourse had been used by the Russian authorities even earlier. Already in April 2001 reacting to the Commission Communication on Kaliningrad and visa-related issues, Russian diplomats stated that Russia would prefer a principled political solution to the technicalities proposed by the EU executive as a way to resolve the Kaliningrad transit problem (Potemkina, 2003, p. 237). In early 2002 Dmitrii Rogozin, then-Head of the Duma International Relations Committee and special representative in charge of the Kaliningrad issue, became the major champion of the politicization of this issue. He constantly repeated, and to a certain extent rightly, that this was a political rather than the technical question ‘as the Europeans had tried to present it’; he also linked it directly to human rights and respect of Russian territorial integrity (Rogozin, 2002). As Russian negotiators framed the Kaliningrad issue in political terms, they needed a general, non-technical solution to the problem. Accordingly, Minister of Foreign Affairs Igor Ivanov echoed this discourse, emphasizing that the EU and Russia were furthering their cooperation in creating common economic and security spaces and that the two had no reason to introduce ‘artificial barriers’ that would impede cooperation. The visa regime, both in respect to Kaliningrad oblast’ and more broadly, was implied to be one such barrier (Ivanov, 2002). Finally, in July 2002 Rogozin came up with the idea of visa-free travel as the ultimate political solution to the Kaliningrad problem (Rogozin, 2002). This is when the technicalities of the Kaliningrad problem were linked to the symbolic questions of trust, common goals and mutual perceptions. This approach was lifted to the highest political level when a visa waiver program was proposed by Vladimir Putin in August 2002, both as a way to resolve tensions over the Kaliningrad question, and as mechanism that would support the ‘European choice’ made by Russia, thus helping to transform

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‘Europe into the continent of peace without dividing lines’ (MID RF, 2002). In proposing this approach, Russia explicitly suggested that the EU could perceive Russia as a potential ‘friend’ rather than a suspicious Other, and that these perceptions needed to be cemented by actions with regard to borders and visas that fenced the EU off from Russia.3 The EU’s reaction to this ambitious proposal was cautious, to say the least. In its September 2002 Communication, the Commission did not reject the idea right away but several reservations were clearly stated. The Commission insisted that EU–Russia arrangements about visas could only be considered as a separate issue from the Kaliningrad question; a visa waiver regime had to be viewed as a long-term goal, and its achievement was conditional on intensified cooperation in the fight against organized crime and irregular migration and the adoption of a readmission agreement between Brussels and Moscow (Commission, 2002). This position was repeated in a more chilly tone at the EU Council meeting on 30 September 2002: ‘The Council agreed that the Russian proposal to open discussions on defining the necessary conditions for the eventual establishment of a visa-free regime is separate from the discussions on Kaliningrad, and will be considered as a long term issue’ (Council of the European Union, 2002, p. 7).4 The Russian side strongly opposed the EU’s attempts to detach the visa question from the Kaliningrad issue. From January to May 2003 Ivanov, his Deputy Chizhov and other Russian diplomats repeatedly invoked the earlier Russian discourse equating visa abolition and respect of human rights, and at some point the Deputy Minister went as far as to say that ‘the Schengen Wall was replacing the Berlin Wall as a symbol of the division of Europe’ and that it was time for the EU partners to prove that their ‘statements about the “new quality” of the relations with Russia were not a cheap talk’ (Chizhov, 2003a, 2003b). At the same time, it was obvious that if a visa-free regime were ever to be established, it would have to be done in a technical dialogue rather than in an exchange of passionate political monologues. This was already acknowledged by President Putin in his August 2002 statement (MID RF, 2002), as he proposed to move the ‘ambitious political goal’ into its practical dimension, thus immediately turning it into a technical and practical negotiation point, though with symbolic significance. This new approach was ultimately fixed during the May 2003 EU–Russia Summit in St Petersburg. It is evident from the joint statement following the Summit that the high-flown and figurative discourse pedaled by the Russian side earlier, made it only to the title of the section dealing with visa-related issues (‘A United Europe for All Europeans’). At the same time, the document was concise in substance and labeled visafree travel as ‘a long-term perspective’ with no specific deadline for launching the negotiations mentioned (EU–Russia Summit – Joint Statement (9937/03 (Presse, 154)) 2003, p. 4). Compared to articles and speeches delivered before the Summit by Igor Ivanov and Vladimir Chizhov, the joint statement was completely devoid of politicized emotions, as were the concluding remarks made by President Putin at the end of the Summit (Putin, 2003).

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Following the Summit, the discourse of the Russian diplomats noticeably changed. The change was particularly evident in the October 2003 interview with Mikhail Fradkov, then-Head of the Russian Permanent Representation in Brussels. He calmly stated that Moscow was interested in clarifying the ‘roadmap’ towards the visa-free regime and that it was ready to proceed incrementally to the ultimate target, with first steps being to facilitate visa requirements for particular groups of citizens (Fradkov, 2003). Thus, once the decision to start preliminary talks had been taken in May 2003, the Russian authorities lowered their dramatic tone. It is also clear that no change of heart occurred in Brussels. Caution and suspicion towards Russia remained the EU’s main companions on the road to a visa-free regime with its eastern neighbour. Already in October 2003, during the first expert meeting, EU officials informed the Russian side about the list of criteria that had to be met by any third country aspiring to a visa-free regime with the Schengen countries (MID RF, 2003), thus making it clear from the outset that the EU would act as ‘the imposer of the visa regime’ (Voinikov and Korneev, 2013, p. 18) and as ‘the reluctant partner’ (Mäkinen et al., 2016, pp. 172–173), listing technical criteria (just like it had done with the Kaliningrad issue), grading the homework done by Russia and, thus, making the negotiation process hierarchical (Prozorov, 2006, p. 105). With the 2004 EU enlargement completed, both sides were pushed to restate what had been proclaimed in St Petersburg almost a year earlier. This time the joint statement turned out to be more high-flown in its form. Yet, nothing changed in substance: The EU and Russia reaffirm their commitment to ensure that EU enlargement will bring the EU and Russia closer together in a Europe without dividing lines, inter alia by creating a common space of freedom, security and justice … We confirm our intention to facilitate visa issuance for Russian and EU citizens on a reciprocal basis and plan to launch negotiations in 2004 with a view to concluding an agreement. We will continue to examine the conditions for visa-free travel as a long-term perspective. (Joint Statement on EU Enlargement and EU–Russia Relations, 2004, my emphasis) It is noteworthy that, despite the statement’s explicit linkage of the visa-related issues to creation of the EU–Russia Common Space of Freedom, Security and Justice (Common Space of FSJ), the Road Map for this Common Space adopted in May 2005 did not go any further. Rather, it continued to portray a visa-free travel regime as a ‘long-term perspective’, emphasizing the need to ‘conclude parallel negotiations on an agreement on visa facilitation and an agreement on readmission’ (15th EU–Russia Summit – Road Maps for Four Common Spaces, 2005, p. 23). At the same time, Brussels was openly reluctant to bind the future conclusion of the readmission and visa facilitation

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agreements between the EU and Russia and the subsequent start of the negotiations about the eventual visa waiver (15th EU–Russia Summit – Press Release (8799/05 (Presse, 110)) 2005, p. 3). In contrast to the European position, Russian diplomats made the discursive link between the two as early as in the beginning of 2004; they even indicated at some point that Russia would sign those two agreements only when the EU provided Moscow with a detailed schedule for introduction of the visa-free regime (Yakovenko, 2004). Throughout the next two years, despite talking much less about the ‘European choice’ of Russia and the dividing lines in Europe and much more about Russia being a great power that saw reciprocity as the only way forward, Russian diplomats still repeatedly insisted that a date be set for opening the negotiations on the visa issue and that a concrete roadmap was needed to achieve this goal (e.g., Chizhov, 2005). This became particularly evident after the signing of the readmission and visa facilitation agreements in Sochi in May 2006, which the Russian side depicted as ‘the first step towards introducing a complete visa-free regime’ (Putin, 2006). And, indeed, on 1 June 2007 Moscow and Brussels finally agreed to officially launch the EU–Russia Visa Dialogue5 at the EU–Russia Summit in Samara (Putin et al., 2007). This moment marked a turning point; from this time on Russian authorities decided that abolition of a visa obligation between the EU and Russia should be re-defined as a purely technical issue, with an insistence that Russia had met all of the major requirements. As long as the negotiations were advancing, politicization was not needed and could, in fact, even be detrimental should the EU, on its side, decide to overtly switch the mode of the negotiations into a political register. This perception also convinced Russian negotiators that for the EU this was never merely a technical question but more of a political decision to allow Russia into the ‘club’ (Mäkinen et al., 2016, p. 174).

The EU–Russia Visa Dialogue: Giving Up the Choice for Europe and Levelling the Role Structure The launch of the official Visa Dialogue, along with the entry into force of the readmission and visa facilitation agreements between the EU and Russia, were listed in the Commission progress report as ‘the most tangible achievements’ made in 2007 with regard to the implementation of the ‘Freedom section’ of the EU–Russia Common Space of Freedom, Security and Justice (Commission, 2008b, p. 30). EU and Russian officials and experts met twice in 2007 within the newly established framework and were even able to start expert talks on the first thematic block of the Visa Dialogue – ‘Document security, including biometrics’ (Commission, 2008b, p. 30). Moscow was also satisfied with the progress made in this direction and emphasized in its overview of Russian foreign policy achievements in 2007 that work within the Visa-free Dialogue had moved to the expert level,

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implying that earlier the dialogue had already been in place at the political level, whereas the year 2007 clearly marked the turn toward technical negotiations (MID RF, 2008). According to the overview, this was almost the only positive development in EU–Russia relations, and still it was overshadowed by the failure to launch the talks to replace the expired Partnership and Cooperation Agreement (PCA) due to the raw meat dispute between Moscow and Warsaw that broke out in late 2006 (MID RF, 2008). Warsaw’s decision to withdraw its veto on the launch of talks led Russian diplomatic circles to believe that EU–Russia relations could see visible improvements and evident progress in 2008 with regard to both the new agreement and the intensification of the Visa Dialogue (Chizhov, 2007). The EU–Russia Summit in Khanty-Mansiysk in June 2008 met these expectations. The two sides issued a joint statement on the official launch of the negotiations to replace the outdated PCA, and setting ‘the timetable and specific steps’ toward the introduction of a visa-free regime was identified by thenRussian President Dmitrii Medvedev as ‘the most important thing’ for the implementation of the Common Space of FSJ (Joint Press Conference following the Russia-European Union Summit, 2008). This was another sign that not only Russian diplomats but also the highest political establishment was eager to present the visa-lifting question as a technical process with specific deadlines and benchmarks to be agreed and then followed. The cautious optimism of the first half of 2008 vanished overnight in August as Georgia and Russia engaged in armed conflict on the Georgian territory.6 Already on 1 September 2008, the European Council decided to freeze talks on the new PCA as a response to the ‘Russia’s unilateral decision to recognize the breakaway regions of Georgia’ (Commission, 2008a, pp. 5–6). Following the request of the European Council, in November 2008 the Commission conducted a review of EU–Russia relations to assess ‘where the EU’s own interests now lie’ when it came to its eastern neighbour, clearly demarcating the Union as opposed to the unpredictable and potentially dangerous Other (Commission, 2008a, p. 2). While stressing the fact that the interests of the European Union and Russia overlapped substantially in the areas covered by the Road Map for the Common Space of Freedom, Security and Justice, the Commission made it bluntly clear that this was not true with regard to a visa-free regime as visa abolition was mentioned among Russia’s own interests and nothing was said about the EU being interested in this development (Commission, 2008a, pp. 4, 2, my emphasis). Moreover, the text was heavy with discourse on human rights and the rule of law, identifying these two issues as key EU concerns when cooperating with Moscow, especially in the areas of the Common Space of FSJ. Notwithstanding these concerns, the Commission proposed to relaunch the talks. As a result, the negotiations were resumed and the Nice Summit took place as planned in November 2008. The Russian reaction to this clear sign of the deterioration in relations between Brussels and Moscow was surprisingly confident. Though regretting

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the EU’s decision to freeze the negotiations, Sergei Lavrov, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, affirmed that EU–Russia relations were damage-proof and at some point, even resorted to the forgotten discourse of Russia belonging to the European civilization (Lavrov, 2008a). Yet, this discourse was qualitatively different from its earlier versions of 2002–2005 in that it clearly defined Russia and the EU as two comparable global actors, whereas Deputy Minister Grushko went so far as to openly assign the roles of competitors, or rivals, to the two parties (Grushko, 2008b). No less confident was the Russian position on the visa-free regime. On the eve of the Nice Summit Russian officials repeatedly emphasized the importance of making the expert negotiations even more ‘practical’ and ‘applied’ in their nature, with concrete yardsticks on the way to the ultimate goal of abolishing visas (Lavrov, 2008b). They also insisted that the Russian side ‘was absolutely against any politicization of the work [carried out by the experts] and against the binding of this work with additional questions that had nothing to do with the movement of people’ (Grushko, 2008a). Furthermore, at that moment they started to explicitly underline the reciprocal character of the Visa Dialogue, carried on by two equal partners: ‘these must be rather clear requirements that have to be met by both Russia and the European Union … We need to avoid the situation of having an unlimited list of mutual demands’ (Grushko, 2008b, my emphasis). Despite the events of August and the subsequent chilling of relations, the Visa Dialogue was carried on actively during the first half of the year, with the second and third blocks of the dialogue discussed in February and April 2008. The only thematic block left (‘External relations’) was to be negotiated during 2009, according to the Commission progress report (Commission, 2009, pp. 38, 41). This meeting took place in June 2009 and was followed by talks between the senior officials in charge of overseeing the Visa Dialogue in October. While it was clear that the expert negotiations went through all the stages and, as Potemkina (2010, p. 555) argues, basically were completed ‘with positive results … [as] the two sides did not reveal any significant obstacles on the way to a visa-free regime’, in its 2009 report the Commission vaguely mentioned the need to continue the Visa Dialogue without providing further details or stating any particular steps or deadlines (Commission, 2010b, pp. 41, 44). This clearly signalled a reluctance to advance the process to a qualitatively new stage. By the end of 2009 the Russian understanding of state of progress was rather different. On the eve of the Stockholm Summit in November 2009 both Minister Lavrov and Vladimir Chizhov, the Permanent Representative of Russia in Brussels, reiterated the need to finally come up with a roadmap and to set a date for the introduction of a visa-free regime after the successful round of expert talks (Lavrov, 2009; Chizhov, 2009). Yet, compared to the agreement to launch a new Partnership for Modernization (P4M), visa-related talks saw no substantial breakthrough in Stockholm (News Conference following EU–Russia Summit, 2009).

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Nonetheless, Russian officials proceeded to heat up the discourse on the successes of the expert Visa-free Dialogue during the first half of 2010: ‘in the framework of the dialogue we had managed to clarify almost all the questions regarding the practical operation of such a [visa-free] regime that one can think of … ; we believe it is time to take a principled decision … that does not politicize the question of introducing a visa-free regime between Russia and the EU’ (Lavrov, 2010a). This assertive position should not have come as a surprise, as Minister Lavrov explicitly stated right before the Summit in Rostov-on-Don that the Russian side ‘was eager to make a breakthrough with regard to the question of visa abolition … taking into account that technical expert consultations concerning practical aspects of such a regime were almost completed’ (Lavrov, 2010b). This breakthrough (that never materialized though) could come on the basis of a ‘draft agreement on the abolition of visas for Russian and European citizens’ that President Medvedev handed to his European partners during the Summit. Proudly announcing this fact at the press conference, the President did not miss the opportunity to stress that ‘the most important thing … [at that time was] not to politicize this issue or dote on bubbles’ (News Conference following EU–Russia Summit, 2010). In contrast, Herman Van Rompuy and Jose Barroso almost overlooked this gesture by the Russian authorities, stating only that both sides were committed to ‘the long-term goal of visa-free travel’. This clear mismatch is also evident in the EU press release following the Summit: The leaders discussed progress to date and the way ahead in the EU– Russia visa dialogue. The EU and Russia reiterated their commitment to the long-term objective of visa free travel between the EU and Russia, based on a step-by-step approach focused on substance and practical progress. Work will now begin on preparing a list of common steps for a visa-free travel regime. (Commission, 2010a, my emphasis) The Visa Dialogue was soon included into the P4M framework and rebranded as the Partnership for Modernisation Visa Dialogue. As for the Common Steps themselves, they were adopted at the Brussels Summit in December 2011. This adoption became possible after endorsement by the Permanent Partnership Council on FSJ to launch their elaboration in November 2010 (Commission, 2011, p. 46) and the inclusion of this task and the deadline into the P4M work plan by the Russian side in December 2010 (Work Plan for Activities within the EU–Russia Partnership for Modernisation, 2010, p. 9). Throughout the whole preparatory period before the adoption of the Common Steps, Russian diplomats repeatedly insisted that the list of steps had to be concrete, exhaustive and focused on movement of people and not on any additional issues. Accordingly, the closing of all the chapters of the document had to automatically trigger the transition to the visa-free regime

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(Lavrov, 2011). To the dissatisfaction of the Russian side, this turned out to be more wishful thinking than reality. Many analysts agree that the Common Steps signalled a stalemate in talks between the EU and Russia on lifting visa requirements. First, the thematic blocks of the document are identical to those of the Visa Dialogue launched in 2007 and already ‘successfully’ negotiated by the experts, which indirectly indicates ‘the absence of a significant breakthrough in solving the problem, first of all, on the part of the EU’ (Voinikov and Korneev, 2013, p. 19). Second, the Common Steps neither set any official target date nor presuppose an automatic launch of visa-free talks once all the chapters are closed (Van Elsuwege, 2013, p. 10). Third, Voinikov and Korneev (2013, p. 19) argue that some provisions of the Common Steps belong to ‘the field of politics’, also contrary to the Russian demands not to link this ‘technical’ question to the issues of human rights protection and political freedoms in Russia. Finally, despite the reciprocity implied by the word ‘common’, ‘it is mostly a document of unilateral undertaking [and as such] is considered by the European Union as “homework” for Russia’ (Voinikov and Korneev, 2013, pp. 19–20). And it is clear that the EU believes that by 2013 the Russian side had failed to do its homework (Commission, 2013b). Multiple expert visits to Russia and to the EU Member States and completion of questionnaires by both sides in 2012–2013 resulted in two different assessment reports. The first was sent to Brussels by Russian diplomats in December 2013 and the second – released several weeks later by the European Commission. Deep-seated indignation characterized the reaction of Russian negotiators to the way the EU conducted the assessment process in 2012–2013; the EU was constantly accused of missing deadlines, providing scarce information to Moscow, ‘politicizing’ visa-related issues and ‘artificially binding’ them with human rights, and otherwise protracting the implementation process for the Common Steps (Azimov, 2012, 2013). Nonetheless, in December 2013 the Russian side was happy to announce that it believed the EU to be ready to finally start visa waiver talks (Lavrov, 2013). How frustrating it was then for Moscow to learn from the released Commission report that much work lay ahead, that, for instance, the EU was concerned about how homosexuals were treated in Russia and that this could ‘generate certain barriers to freedom of movement’ (Commission, 2013b, p. 51). No less discomforting was the statement made by the EU Commissioner Cecilia Malmström, who indicated that the Commission was able ‘to present to Russia the areas where further work is necessary to implement the Common Steps’ (Commission, 2013a), overtly indicating that the EU still considered itself as the ‘visa regime imposer’, reluctant to view Russia either as an equal partner or as a friend. This position was explicitly confirmed at the January 2014 EU–Russia Summit where no progress was made with regard to visa issues, and reaffirmed by the European Union in March 2014. While on 3 March 2014 the EU Council only warned the Kremlin that the suspension of the Visa

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Dialogue was an option, given Russia’s destabilizing actions in Ukraine (Council of the European Union, 2014, p. 2), after the Crimean referendum on 16 March the words turned into deeds. The dialogue was cut off, Russia was marked as an aggressor and, indeed, as a dangerous Other who had to be kept out of the collective Self of the EU not only through hardening of borders but even through suspending talks about letting Russia into the ‘club’.

Conclusion The current role structure of open rivalry between the EU and Russia did not develop in a single day following the Ukrainian events. Our analysis shows that it was in formation for more than a decade. The manner in which the Visa Dialogue unfolded is one particular indication of how this role structure became entrenched in both the EU and Russia’s understandings of each other. Our review of the way the Dialogue developed casts no doubt that these talks have never been only technical but, first and foremost, identity negotiations with an identity conflict accompanying them. The early attempts of Russian diplomacy and the political establishment to present Russia as part of Europe, as part of the ‘club’, have repeatedly encountered cold reactions from Brussels. The persistent need for the ‘existential delimitation of the European ontopological identity’ (Prozorov, 2006, p. 107) has made the EU more than a reluctant partner in the negotiation process because the EU has always clearly defined itself as separate from Russia. This became particularly evident after the armed conflict between Russia and Georgia in 2008 when the Commission explicitly demarcated the Union from a dangerous and unpredictable Other present on its eastern borders that pursued its own interests and purposes often opposite to those of the EU. As predicted by Wendt and later by Prozorov, this early asymmetric structure of roles, with Russia pushing for the inclusion and the EU politely insisting on exclusion, mutated into a symmetric role structure of rivalry. The signs that Russia no longer viewed the EU as a potential friend, or ‘its own inside’ (Prozorov, 2006, p. 109), became visible already in 2007–2008 when the Russian diplomats ceased to resort to the ‘European choice’ rhetoric and started to talk openly of calculated reciprocity between the EU and Russia, on the one hand, and competition and rivalry, on the other. The Visa Dialogue and the way it has been carried on since then leave no doubt that EU– Russia relations have been stagnating and degrading for quite a while as have been the perceptions the two sides have of each other.

Notes 1 As Paasi (2002, p. 139) mentions, ‘identities and boundaries are different sides of the same coin’. 2 Wendt himself argues that for the cultures of anarchy, and the culture of enmity in particular, it is natural that the roles are symmetric (Wendt 1999, pp. 257–258, 263).

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3 Prozorov mentions that this is how the Kaliningrad issue conflict became simultaneously an identity conflict since the EU did nothing to indicate its readiness to ‘include Russia into Europe’ (Prozorov, 2006, pp. 31–32). 4 One possible explanation for such a reaction could be various Member States’ positions. Whereas the Kaliningrad issue had to be resolved by a clear deadline of May 2004 and none of the European capitals doubted that, the views on whether to lift visa requirements for the Russians travelling to the Schengen area diverged substantially. For example, Finland has been a major proponent of a visa-free regime, especially since 2008, while Germany always feared possible influx of the Russian job-seekers (Salminen and Moshes, 2009, pp. 15–18). The very technical approach chosen by the Commission, with all its lists of criteria to be satisfied, could indeed be a handy excuse that reflects the lack of consensus on the part of the Member States (for more details on the Member States’ positions, see Salminen and Moshes, 2009; Boratyn´ski et al., 2006; Chajewski et al., 2009). 5 The fact that the Russian side calls this dialogue a visa-free dialogue (безвизовый диалог) whereas the EU uses the term visa dialogue speaks for itself (Hernández i Sagrera and Potemkina, 2013, p. 10; Voinikov and Korneev, 2013, p. 16). 6 In her analysis of EU–Russia relations in 1999–2015 Maass (2017, pp. 137–163) convincingly shows how the ‘fresh start’ in the relationship that was evident at the Khanty-Mansiysk Summit was jeopardized by the conflict in Georgia and was later followed by the ‘gloomy period in EU-Russia diplomatic relations’, exacerbated by concerns of the EU and some Member States over the regime transformation in Russia towards autocracy.

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Council of the European Union (2002) 2450th Council Session – External Relations (12134/02 (Presse 279)). https://www.consilium.europa.eu/uedocs/cms_data/docs/p ressdata/en/gena/72321.pdf (accessed 5 May 2016). Council of the European Union (2014) Council Conclusions on Ukraine. www.con silium.europa.eu/uedocs/cms_data/docs/pressdata/EN/foraff/141291.pdf (accessed 5 May 2016). DeBardeleben, Joan (2014) ‘New EU–Russia Borders after Enlargement: From Local to Transnational Linkages?’ In Roger E. Kanet and Rémi Piet (eds) Shifting Priorities in Russia’s Foreign and Security Policy. Farhnam: Ashgate, pp. 73–94. EU–Russia Summit – Joint Statement (9937/03 (Presse 154)) (2003) www.consilium. europa.eu/uedocs/cms_data/docs/pressdata/en/er/75969.pdf (accessed 5 May 2016). Fradkov, Mikhail E. (2003) ‘Interv’iu Postoiannogo predstavitelia Rossii pri ES M.E. Fradkova zhurnalu ‘Evropa’, opublikovannoe v no. 9(32) oktiabr’ 2003 goda pod zagolovkom “My vse nastroeny na sotrudnichestvo”’. http://www.mid.ru/web/guest/ evropejskij-souz-es/-/asset_publisher/6OiYovt2s4Yc/content/id/502738 (accessed 5 May 2016). Gilbert, Liette (2016) ‘Visas as Technologies in the Externalization of Asylum Management: The Case of Canada’s Entry Requirements for Mexican Nationals’. In Ruben Zaiotti (ed.) Externalizing Migration Management: Europe, North America and the Spread of ‘Remote Control’ Practices. London and New York: Routledge, pp. 204–224. Golob, Stephanie R. (2002) ‘North America beyond NAFTA? Sovereignty, Identity, and Security in Canada-U.S. Relations’, Canadian-American Public Policy (52): 1–50. Golunov, Serghei V. (2013) EU–Russia Border Security: Challenges, (Mis)Perceptions, and Responses. London and New York: Routledge. Grushko, Aleksandr V. (2008a) ‘Interv’iu zamestitelia Ministra inostrannykh del Rossii A.V.Grushko po voprosam vzaimootnoshenii Rossii, ES i SShA agentstvu Interfaks 10 noiabria 2008 goda’. http://www.mid.ru/web/guest/maps/us/-/asset_publisher/ unVXBbj4Z6e8/content/id/317218 (accessed 5 May 2016). Grushko, Aleksandr V. (2008b) ‘Interv’iu zamestitelia Ministra inostrannykh del Rossii A.V. Grushko RGRK Golos Rossii po problematike otnoshenii Rossiia-ES, 1 noiabria 2008 goda’. http://www.mid.ru/web/guest/evropejskij-souz-es/-/asset_publ isher/6OiYovt2s4Yc/content/id/318370 (accessed 5 May 2016). Hernández i Sagrera, Raül (2010) ‘The EU–Russia Readmission–Visa Facilitation Nexus: An Exportable Migration Model for Eastern Europe?’ European Security, 19(4): 569–584. Hernández i Sagrera, Raül and Olga Potemkina (2013) Russia and the Common Space on Freedom, Security and Justice. Study for the Directorate General for Internal Policies, Policy Department C: Citizen’s Rights and Constitutional Affairs, European Parliament. Ivanov, Igor S. (2002) ‘Interv’iu Ministra inostrannykh del Rossii I.S. Ivanova ‘Rossiiskoi gazete’, opublikovannoe 24 iiulia 2002 goda pod zagolovkom “Oblast’ vysokogo davleniia”’ www.mid.ru/web/guest/mnogostoronnie-struktury-i-forumy/-/asset_publ isher/KrRBY5EMiHC1/content/id/551354 (accessed 5 May 2016). Joint Press Conference following the Russia-European Union Summit (2008) http://en. kremlin.ru/events/president/transcripts/575 (accessed 5 May 2016). Joint Statement on EU Enlargement and EU–Russia Relations (2004) http://eeas. europa.eu/russia/docs/js_eu-russia_2004_en.pdf (accessed 5 May 2016).

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Lavrov, Sergei V. (2008a) ‘Interv’iu Ministra inostrannykh del Rossii S.V. Lavrova, opublikovannoe v pol’skoi gazete Gazeta vyborcha 11 sentiabria 2008 goda’. www. mid.ru/web/guest/foreign_policy/news/-/asset_publisher/cKNonkJE02Bw/content/id/ 325626 (accessed 5 May 2016). Lavrov, Sergei V. (2008b) ‘Interv’yu Ministra inostrannykh del Rossii S.V. Lavrova finskoi gazete Khel’singin Sanomat, opublikovannoe 9 noiabria 2008 goda’. www. mid.ru/web/guest/foreign_policy/news/-/asset_publisher/cKNonkJE02Bw/content/id/ 317770 (accessed 5 May 2016). Lavrov, Sergei V. (2009) ‘Stenogramma interv’iu Ministra inostrannykh del Rossii S.V. Lavrova telekanalu Vesti, 11 noiabria 2009 goda’. http://www.mid.ru/web/guest/for eign_policy/news/-/asset_publisher/cKNonkJE02Bw/content/id/273822 (accessed 5 May 2016). Lavrov, Sergei V. (2010a) ‘Stenogramma vystupleniia i otvetov Ministra inostrannykh del Rossii S.V. Lavrova na voprosy SMI v khode sovmestnoy press-konferentsii po itogam peregovorov s i.o. zamestitelya Prem’er-ministra Bel’gii, Ministra inostrannykh del i institutsional’nykh reform S. Vanakere, Moskva, 4 maia 2010 goda’. http://www.mid.ru/web/guest/maps/be/-/asset_publisher/fQn3NAcPpHyE/content/id/ 252730 (accessed 5 May 2016). Lavrov, Sergei V. (2010b) ‘Stenogramma vystupleniia Ministra inostrannykh del Rossii S.V. Lavrova v Gosudarstvennoi Dume Federal’nogo Sobraniia Rossiiskoi Federatsii v ramkakh “Pravitel’stvennogo Chasa” po aktual’nym voprosam vneshnei politiki Rossii, Moskva, 19 maia 2010 goda’. http://www.mid.ru/web/guest/foreign_policy/ news/-/asset_publisher/cKNonkJE02Bw/content/id/249466 (accessed 5 May 2016). Lavrov, Sergei V. (2011) ‘Interv’iu Ministra inostrannykh del Rossii S.V. Lavrova, opublikovannoe v gazete Moskovskie novosti 12 maia 2011 goda’. www.mid.ru/ web/guest/foreign_policy/news/-/asset_publisher/cKNonkJE02Bw/content/id/207782 (accessed 5 May 2016). Lavrov, Sergei V. (2013) ‘Otvety Ministra inostrannykh del Rossii S.V. Lavrova na voprosy SMI po itogam “Pravitel’stvennogo Chasa” v Sovete Federatsii Federal’nogo Sobraniia Rossiyskoi Federatsii, Moskva, 18 dekabria 2013 goda’. www. mid.ru/web/guest/foreign_policy/news/-/asset_publisher/cKNonkJE02Bw/content/id/ 83434. Maass, Anna-Sophie (2017) EU–Russia Relations, 1999–2015: From Courtship to Confrontation. London and New York: Routledge. Mäkinen, Sirke, Hanna Smith and Tuomas Forsberg (2016) ‘“With a Little Help from my Friends”: Russia’s Modernisation and the Visa Regime with the European Union’, Europe-Asia Studies, 68(1): 164–181. MID RF (2002) ‘O poslaniiakh Prezidenta Rossii V.V. Putina predsedateliu Komissii Evropeiskikh Soobshchestv i glavam gosudarstv-chlenov Evrosoiuza’. www.mid.ru/ foreign_policy/rso/-/asset_publisher/0vP3hQoCPRg5/content/id/548954 (accessed 5 May 2016). MID RF (2003) ‘O pervoy vstreche ekspertov Rossii i Evropeiskogo Soiuza po kompleksnomu rassmotreniiu problemy perekhoda na bezvizovoi rezhima poezdok i uproshcheniiu vizovykh formal’nostei’. www.mid.ru/web/guest/evropejskij-souz-es/ -/asset_publisher/6OiYovt2s4Yc/content/id/501370 (accessed 5 May 2016). MID RF (2008) ‘Vneshnepoliticheskaia i diplomaticheskaia deiatel’nost’ Rossiiskoi Federatsii v 2007 godu. Obzor MID Rossii’. www.mid.ru/web/guest/foreign_policy/ news/-/asset_publisher/cKNonkJE02Bw/content/id/345430 (accessed 5 May 2016).

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Morehouse, Barbara J. (2004) ‘Theoretical Approaches to Border Spaces and Identities’. In Challenged Borderlands: Transcending Political and Cultural Boundaries, edited by Vera Pavlakovich-Kochi, Barbara J. Morehouse and Doris Wastl-Walter, pp. 19–40. Farmham, Surrey: Ashgate. Newman, David (2001) ‘From National to Post-national Territorial Identities in IsraelPalestine’, GeoJournal, 53(3): 235–246. Newman, David (2003) ‘On Borders and Power: A Theoretical Framework’, Journal of Borderlands Studies, 18(1): 13–25. Newman, David (2010) ‘Territory, Compartments and Borders: Avoiding the Trap of the Territorial Trap’, Geopolitics, 15(4): 773–778. News Conference following EU–Russia Summit (2009) http://en.kremlin.ru/events/p resident/transcripts/6034 (accessed 5 May 2016). News Conference following EU–Russia Summit (2010) http://en.kremlin.ru/events/p resident/transcripts/7932 (accessed 5 May 2016). Paasi, Anssi (1999) ‘Boundaries as Social Practice and Discourse: The Finnish–Russian Border’, Regional Studies, 33(7): 669–680. Paasi, Anssi (2002) ‘Bounded Spaces in the Mobile World: Deconstructing “Regional Identity”’, Tijdschrift voor Economische en Sociale Geografie, 93(2): 137–148. Potemkina, Olga (2003) ‘Some Ramifications of Enlargement on the EU–Russia Relations and the Schengen Regime’, European Journal of Migration and Law, 5(2): 229–247. Potemkina, Olga (2010) ‘EU–Russia Cooperation on the Common Space of Freedom, Security and Justice – A Challenge or an Opportunity?’ European Security, 19(4): 551–568. Prozorov, Sergei (2006) Understanding Conflict Between Russia and the EU: The Limits of Integration. Houndsmill, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Putin, Vladimir V. (2002) ‘Vystuplenie Prezidenta Rossii na press-konferentsii po itogam vstrechi Rossiia – Evropeiskii Soiuz 29 maia 2002 goda’. www.mid.ru/web/guest/evrop ejskij-souz-es/-/asset_publisher/6OiYovt2s4Yc/content/id/555446 (accessed 5 May 2016). Putin, Vladimir V. (2003) ‘Zakliuchitel’noe slovo Prezidenta Rossii V.V. Putina na sammite Rossiia-ES, Sankt-Peterburg, Strel’na, 31 maia 2003 goda’. http://www. mid.ru/web/guest/foreign_policy/news/-/asset_publisher/cKNonkJE02Bw/content/id/ 518882 (accessed 5 May 2016). Putin, Vladimir V. (2006) ‘O 17-oi vstreche na vysshem urovne Rossiia – Evropeiskii Soiuz, Sochi, 26 maia 2006 goda’. http://www.mid.ru/web/guest/evropejskij-souz-es/ -/asset_publisher/6OiYovt2s4Yc/content/id/402798 (accessed 5 May 2016). Putin, Vladimir V., Jose Manuel Barroso and Angela Merkel (2007) ‘Press Statement and Answers to Questions During the Joint Press Conference with President of the European Commission Jose Manuel Barroso and German Chancellor Angela Merkel Following the Russia-European Union Summit Meeting (2007)’. http://en. kremlin.ru/events/president/transcripts/24264 (accessed 5 May 2016). Rogozin, Dmitrii O. (2002) ‘Interv’iu spetspredstavitelia po Kaliningradskoi Oblasti, glavy Komiteta po mezhdunarodnym delam Gosudarstvennoi Dumy D.O.Rogozina korrespondentu Nezavisimoi Gazety, opublikovannoe pod zagolovkom “Moskva printsipami ne torguet”’. www.mid.ru/web/guest/mnogostoronnie-struktury-i-forum y/-/asset_publisher/KrRBY5EMiHC1/content/id/551458 (accessed 5 May 2016). Salminen, Minna-Mari and Arkady Moshes (2009) Practise What You Preach: The Prospects for Visa Freedom in EU–Russia Relations. FIIA Report: Finnish Institute of International Affairs.

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Salter, Mark B. (2006) ‘The Global Visa Regime and the Political Technologies of the International Self: Borders, Bodies, Biopolitics’, Alternatives: Global, Local, Political, 31(2): 167–189. Van Elsuwege, Peter (ed.) (2013) EU–Russia Visa Facilitation and Liberalization: State of Play and Prospects for the Future. EU–Russia Civil Society Forum. van Houtum, Henk (2010) ‘Human Blacklisting: The Global Apartheid of the EU’s External Border Regime’, Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 28(6): 957–976. van Houtum, Henk and Ton van Naerssen (2002) ‘Bordering, Ordering and Othering’, Tijdschrift voor Economische en Sociale Geografie, 93(2): 125–136. van Houtum, Henk, Olivier Thomas Kramsch and Wolfgang Zierhofer (2005) B/ordering Space. Farnham: Ashgate. Voinikov, Vadim V. (2011) ‘The Facilitation of Freedom of Movement between Russia and the European Union: Prospects and Legal Issues’, Baltic Region, 3(9): pp. 106–112. Voinikov, Vadim V. and Oleg Korneev (2013) ‘Problems and Prospects of EU–Russia Dialogue on Visa-free Travel’, Baltic Region, 3(17): 14–26. Welch, Richard (2004) ‘From Iron Curtain to Fortress Europe and Beyond’. In Vera Pavlakovich-Kochi, Barbara J. Morehouse and Doris Wastl-Walter (eds) Challenged Borderlands: Transcending Political and Cultural Boundaries. Farnham: Ashgate, pp. 81–90. Wendt, Alexander (1992) ‘Anarchy is What States Make of It: The Social Construction of Power Politics’, International Organization, 46(2): 391–425. Wendt, Alexander (1999) Social Theory of International Politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wilson, Thomas M. and Hastings Donnan (1998) ‘Nation, State and Identity at International Borders’. In Thomas M. Wilson and Hastings Donnan (eds) Border Identities: Nation and State at International Frontiers. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 1–30. Work Plan for Activities within the EU–Russia Partnership for Modernisation (2010) http://eeas.europa.eu/russia/docs/eu_russia_workplan_2010_en.pdf (accessed 5 May 2016). Yakovenko, Aleksandr V. (2004) ‘Otvety ofitsial’nogo predstavitelia MID Rossii A.V. Yakovenok na voprosy rossiiskikh SMI ob otnosheniiami Rossii so stranami ES’. www.mid.ru/web/guest/evropejskij-souz-es/-/asset_publisher/6OiYovt2s4Yc/content/ id/475508 (accessed 5 May 2016). Zaiotti, Ruben (2011) Cultures of Border Control: Schengen and the Evolution of European Frontiers. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.

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Part III

EU–Russia Relations in a Regional Context

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Alternative Paradigms for EU–Russia Neighbourhood Relations Joan DeBardeleben1

In the lead up to the Ukraine crisis, the EU and Russia developed a highly institutionalized structure for their relations within the context of a mutually defined Strategic Partnership. However, the two parties failed to develop any common understanding or governance mechanisms to deal with their ‘common neighbourhood’. Russia chose not to join the framework initially proposed by the EU in 2004, the European Neighbourhood Policy (ENP); accordingly, following that, the EU pursued a two-track policy, one part focussed on the Strategic Partnership with Russia and the other on its other eastern neighbours, culminating in the Eastern Partnership (EaP) policy (DeBardeleben, 2011). The EU and Russia lacked a shared vision of how the relationship should unfold within the larger European space. Both the EU and Russia affirmed a goal of building a common economic space in broader Europe,2 with the relationship situated in a larger body of international organizations of which both are members (e.g., the Council of Europe and the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe) However, the specific characteristics of creating that integrated European economic framework and a security structure acceptable to both parties differed in the EU and Russian approaches. With the eruption of the crisis over Ukraine in 2013–2014 it became evident that the pre-existing framework defining EU–Russia relations had broken down. It appears more and more likely that a fundamental shift in strategic and policy paradigms has taken hold, based on a series of reactions and counter-reactions from both sides, which have reinforced one another. This chapter will analyse this shift in policy frames governing decision-making in the EU and Russia. It is argued that the beginning of such a shift was already visible in Russian policy in the lead up to the Ukraine crisis, but crystallized further with and since the crisis began. Before the paradigm shift, the relationship revolved around contested visions of a common integrated space, but with agreement on some fundamental principles. The alternative paradigm that may be emerging is one of competing regionalisms. Furthermore, while the greatest divergence between the two parties in the earlier period related to security concerns, in the current crisis period the sphere of competitive regionalism has expanded into the economic

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and political domains as well. The purpose of the chapter is to explore the evolution of this change, its nature, and what the implications may be. The chapter is organized in four sections. The first looks at the concept of strategic and policy paradigms. The second section examines the policy frames that prevailed prior to the paradigm shift, and fissures that developed over time between the EU and Russia. The third examines the new emerging ‘competing regionalisms’ paradigm, and the final section explores alternative paradigms in the future, offering a potential way out of the current trajectory.

Policy Paradigms and Paradigm Change In line with the constructivist approach taken in this book, policies of the EU and Russia to the neighbourhood are examined in terms of strategic paradigms. Both the EU and Russia construct their policies toward the neighbourhood on the basis of a set of normative and interest-based assumptions. While the term ‘paradigm’ is often used in scholarly circles in the sense discussed by Thomas Kuhn for the analysis of the conceptual structures adhered to among communities of scholars and how they change (Kuhn, 1970), the term is used here to refer to the mental frames and principles that define the policy-making context, drawing on the work of Peter Hall (1993) and Yves Surel (2000). Hall distinguishes three orders of social learning that occur in the policy context – relating to the overarching goals, policy instruments, and the particular use of these instruments (Hall, 1993, p. 278). When speaking of goals, Hall uses the term ‘policy paradigm’. A paradigm involves ‘a framework of ideas and standards that specifies not only the goals of policy and the kind of instruments that can be used to attain them, but also the very nature of the problems that are meant to be addressed’ (p. 279). Drawing on Kuhn, Hall argues that paradigm shifts involve ‘radical changes in the overarching terms of policy discourse’, whereas issues relating to policy instruments and their particular use fall into the category of ‘normal policymaking’ (p. 279). Shifts in policy paradigm are ‘often a more disjunctive process associated with periodic discontinuities in policy’ (p. 279). Hall draws out several implications of paradigm shifts. First, they are likely to be governed more by sociological and political factors than expert input. In a competitive political environment (such as the EU and its Member States), this can involve the power that various actors can mobilize either due to their structural position or resources they command (Hall, 1993, p. 280). While Hall’s analysis focuses on contexts in which non-state actors can play a significant role, in a non-competitive environment, such as Russia, a paradigm shift may reflect fundamental principles in leadership circles; leaders may then help to shape public acceptance of the new paradigm. Second, Hall notes that when existing policy paradigms come under challenge, issues of authority arise. Accordingly, as a contest for authority erupts in the policy community, ‘movement from one paradigm to another is likely to be preceded by significant shifts in the locus of authority over policy’ (p. 280). Finally, Hall also notes

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that paradigm shifts often follow instances of ‘policy experimentation and policy failure’. Within competitive political environments: the movement from one paradigm to another … is likely to involve an accumulation of anomalies, experimentation with new forms of policy, and policy failures that precipitate a shift in the locus of authority over policy and initiate a wider contest between competing paradigms. (p. 280) One paradigm may eventually win out and become institutionalized. While Hall’s analysis and the approach it implies have been more frequently applied to the economic, social, and domestic policy fields within competitive political systems (see e.g., Geddes and Guiraudon, 2004), one can equally identify the impact of policy paradigms and paradigm shifts within the field of international relations. This chapter uses the term ‘strategic paradigms’ in that context rather than policy paradigms to distinguish their broader interpretive function for policy elites within the international arena. Rather than dealing with a particular policy arena or set of policy problems, in the field of international relations shifts in paradigm often involve a large scale reinterpretation of the configuration of international power and the position of the nation state within it. Examples of strategic paradigms might include the Cold War paradigm (shared by both the USSR and the West), and the containment and détente paradigms, as two successive paradigms adopted in the West in response to Soviet power. It is the argument of this chapter that the Ukraine crisis reveals a potential change in strategic paradigm in Russia’s approach to the West, in part in reaction to EU actions. The process of change was in important part triggered by the perceived failure of Russia’s previous foreign policy instruments in establishing itself as the legitimate regional authority in the post-Soviet space and larger international arena. Two arenas of failure can be identified. One was referenced explicitly by the Russian leadership, and the other unacknowledged. The first had to do with Russia’s perceived failure to achieve recognition as an equal partner of both the EU and the United States. NATO expansion to the East, America’s perceived flouting of international law in the Middle East, the failure of Europe to join Russia in resisting a US-dominated international system of power, and the EU’s claims to be the source of universal European values were all indicators of this failure to Russian leaders. The second arena relates to Russia’s goal of establishing primacy in its regional sphere of influence, particularly in those countries of Eastern Europe that had not joined the EU. Previous Russian efforts to induce respect or compliance in neighbouring states, which involved the leveraging of Russia’s economic and energy resources as well as appeals to common culture and history, had produced ambiguous results. Beginning with the Orange Revolution in Ukraine in 2004 and culminating in the 2014 Maidan protests, outcomes were not going according to the expected script in the largest and most

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important neighbouring country. In 2013, before the Vilnius summit when an Association Agreement (AA) and agreement on a Deep and Comprehensive Free Trade Area (DCFTA) were slated to be signed between the EU and Ukraine,3 Russia’s application of traditional pressure tactics on Ukraine and Armenia succeeded in the latter case but produced a dramatic failure in the other, finally resulting in the fleeing of Yanukovych and installation of a Westoriented government in Kiev. As discussed above, the impending failure of traditional approaches to establish global and regional influence led, as Hall’s framework suggested, to policy experimentation and then to a potential strategic paradigm shift in Russia. Thus, Russian spokespersons, when arguing for a way out of the current crisis, repeatedly emphasize that this cannot involve a return to the old ‘normal’, i.e., the paradigm has shifted. EU institutions and leaders have resisted this paradigm shift because it challenges many of the founding principles of European integration itself, namely, building peace through economic interdependence and a community of shared European values, principles that are defined in EU founding documents. However, with developments in Ukraine the EU experienced an unexpected and abrupt policy failure, with war breaking out on European territory and the fundamental principles of the post-war order in Europe under challenge by Russian actions. In a proximate sense, the crisis was triggered by the EU’s eastern policy. This policy failure has, however, in Brussels been met by a resistance to a paradigm shift but preference for ‘normal’ policy adjustments, in the form of sanctions against Russia and a reassessment of the Eastern Partnership policy. While sanctions might be viewed as an extraordinary policy instrument, they have been used in varying contexts by Western countries (e.g., earlier with South Africa, more recently with Iran) to try to motivate other countries to adjust their behaviour to dominant norms, and thus have become part of the ‘normal’ diplomatic arsenal. At the same time, the EU and Member State leaders were flummoxed by Russia’s actions and by the discourse that accompanied it. Merkel’s now famous reported observation that Putin is ‘living in another world’ and ‘has lost touch with reality’ (quoted in Alexander, 2014) are not so much a commentary on the Russian leader’s psychology as Merkel’s observation of the paradigm shift under way in Russian thinking. As Putin’s positions that surprised Merkel obviously ‘made sense’ in the Russian political environment (evidenced by strong elite and public support for them), the communication mishap mirrored the increasingly frequent articulation of the irreconcilable narratives emerging from Russia and the West. This situation echoes arguments by Kuhn and others that paradigms are incommensurable, as ‘there can be no neutral observation language’ (Franklin, 1984, p. 57). While Kuhn referred to scientific paradigms, this statement seems to well describe divergence of the EU and Russian discourses. Realization that something fundamental has shifted in the way that Russia is constructing its foreign policy responses has fed a search for framing concepts to describe what is happening. Most of these efforts, however, involve a

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reversion to older concepts, for example talk of a new Cold War (e.g., Legvold, 2016; Nitoiu, 2016), a new containment policy, or an attempt to ‘re-Sovietise the region’ (Hillary Clinton quoted in Clover, 2012). Turning to the past to understand current trends reflects a lack of imagination in conceptualizing the motivations and influences that are at play. Another tendency is to normalize the crisis, as in the repeated calls to implement the Minsk II Agreement concluded by Russia, Ukraine, Germany and France in February 2015 to deal with the war in eastern Ukraine. Here, rather than recognizing the possibility of an impending paradigm shift, a focus on instruments suggests that this is diplomacy as normal. Russian moves that suggest a possible shift in its strategic paradigm have triggered a process of reflection in the EU. What is evident is that there is no agreement on how to respond and few ideas other than insisting on fulfilment of the Minsk II Agreement, which many analysts consider highly unlikely to succeed (e.g., Adomeit, 2016). Not only is there no Plan B, should Minsk II fail, but there is no acknowledgement that one is needed. To be sure, there may be pragmatic reasons for failing to engage in this discussion (i.e., as long as Russia is deemed not to have fulfilled the Minsk II conditions a strong argument remains for continuing sanctions). However, more fundamental is the reluctance to engage a real discussion of whether the EU paradigm for the region also needs revisions. In the contentious political environment between EU Member States, opening such a debate might be highly divisive at a time when many other issues also are challenging EU solidarity. As Hall suggests, if the previous paradigm is drawn into question, this might also raise the issue of whether the locus of authority could shift. In this case, such a shift has worked in a direction away from Brussels towards major EU Member States, most notably Germany or to the Normandy format (Germany, France, Russia, Ukraine) because the EU would have difficulty in reaching agreement on a new strategic direction. This question will be returned to below because the implications are of considerable importance.

Comparing EU and Russian Conceptions of a Common European Space (pre-crisis) As noted above, the founding principle of the EU’s policy toward the East, since the end of the Cold War, has been the notion of building peace through economic interdependence. With the collapse of the Soviet Union, this became a realistic possibility, reflected in the Partnership and Cooperation Agreement with Russia, the 2004 and 2007 eastern enlargements, and announcement of the European Neighbourhood Policy (ENP) addressed to non-acceding countries. Following Russia’s rejection of inclusion in the ENP, the EU pursued a two-track policy toward the East, but underlying principles governing both tracks were consistent with the founding principle. From an EU perspective both policies could work in tandem to bring about the long-term goal of an integrated European economic space, within

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the architecture of shared political and market values that were defined by the EU. Nonetheless there were some differences in the two tracks of the EU’s eastern policy. The ENP and subsequent Eastern Partnership policy are defined by the principle of conditionality. This principle is a vehicle for promoting democracy and market reform in line with EU values, implying a transformative agenda in willing partner countries. The Strategic Partnership with Russia, in contrast, is a relationship of mutual self-definition; accordingly, in its relations with Russia, over time the EU deemphasized political conditionality, focussing more on particular areas of technical cooperation and sectoral discussions. The EU included ever closer trade and investment relations (including the eventual conclusion of deep trade agreements) in its approach both to other eastern neighbours and to Russia, also supporting World Trade Organization (WTO) accession of these countries. With the Eastern Partnership countries the conclusion of Deep and Comprehensive Free Trade Area, along with Association Agreements (AA), was foreseen as a near-term possibility; however with Russia the prospects for a free trade agreement in the near future were minimal, due to continuing Russia protectionism and lack of Russian interest in broad acceptance of EU standards. More relevant in the near term were measures for trade facilitation and improvement of the climate for European investment in Russia. Despite these differences, the EaP and Strategic Partnership with Russia were both built on the same economic and strategic principles (i.e., a liberalized trade and investment space with progressive regulatory convergence). Therefore, in the official EU view an integrated European economic space could emerge organically, including post-Soviet Eastern Europe and Russia, and this space would be based on EU political and liberal economic principles. The EU did not offer a membership perspective to any of the Eastern Partnership countries (thus not bringing any of them fully into a single market, which also involves a customs union, with the EU), and Russia had no interest in this option. Accordingly, the EU saw its approach as posing no threat to Russia, but to be part of the larger trajectory in the direction of an integrated European market. The EU also engaged in a visa liberalization process and a Visa Dialogue with Russia, with the eventual objective of visa-free travel, another potential element of the integrated European space. The EU welcomed Russian participation in crisis management operations of its Common Security and Defence Policy (CSDP) and Russian accession to a variety of global multilateral organizations, as well as the Council of Europe. In the area of security policy, EU support for an integrated European space was more ambiguous. Neither the EU nor its allies supported alteration of existing security arrangements in the direction of a broadly integrated continental security community involving Russia. Despite the CSDP, the EU itself is not a strong security actor; primary security needs, for most EU Member States, are met through national policies and the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO). The NATO–Russia Council gave Russian only

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minimal voice. Within the EU–Russia relationship itself, one of the four common spaces for cooperation between the EU and Russia related to external security, but it was arguably the least developed, focussed primarily on Russian participation in crisis management operations, anti-terrorism, nonproliferation of weapons of mass destruction, and civil protection in emergency situations, thus dealing with ‘second order’ problems rather than the larger European security framework (Shopov, 2008, pp. 12–13). The Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe (OSCE) (Fernandes, 2011) also did not provide a venue to address these issues, despite Russian pressure to do so. The EU conception of an integrated European space clearly would be based on the EU definition of political values, even if some breaches were overlooked with Russia, in practice. On a declarative level, however, without adherence to common values such as liberal definitions of human rights, democratic governance, and rule of law, the progress toward a larger integrated Europe would falter, in the EU view. Until 2011–2012 the Russian leadership expressed consistent support for developing an integrated European security and economic space (e.g., Medvedev, 2008), bolstered by statements acknowledging Russia’s rightful place in European civilization and adherence to European values. The notion of a common economic space from Vladivostok to Lisbon was explicitly referenced by President Putin (2010). Until summer 2013, the goal of a common trade and investment environment rooted in market economic principles was supported; Russian leaders even expressed support for convergence with European regulatory standards in many spheres (Strategiia, 1999; Medvedev, 2009), provided this was based on Russia’s sovereign choice. Energy interdependence between the EU and Russia was also an accepted part of the Russian leadership’s vision of greater Europe, involving mutual support for investment and technological innovation within the context of a more modernized and diversified Russian economic structure: these goals were articulated as an objective of the EU–Russia Partnership for Modernization, announced in 2010. Russia looked to Europe as a potential partner in counteracting US unipolar power (Putin, 2007) in favour of construction of a new European security architecture, as suggested by then-Russian president Dmitry Medvedev. Some Western analysts have interpreted the EU approach as involving an assertion of its regional normative hegemony (Haukkala, 2008). In reaction, the Russian concept of how a ‘greater European space’ might develop is rooted in three principles that diverged, in some points, from the EU approach.4 First, Russia should be an equal partner with the EU or other European partners in shaping the post-Cold War European order, particularly the security order. This apparently implied, for Russia, more than acceptance into existing organizations (such as the Council of Europe, WTO, G8), but rather the joint construction of new institutional structures, at least in the security arena. Second, the EU would not be allowed to solely define

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European values. Russian leaders began to lay claim to an alternative definition of ‘Europeanness’, a theme strengthened recently with Putin’s assertions about the degradation of traditional European values in contemporary Western societies. Third, national sovereignty is emphasized, particularly sovereignty of the Russian state in its internal affairs (Putin, 2012), implicitly rejecting the EU norm of pooled sovereignty and insisting that any acceptance of EU standards must be based on Russian choice. While the three principles discussed here were not contested by the EU explicitly, the EU’s projection of its values and regulations, as well as its lack of receptiveness to Russian overtures on a new security architecture, suggested a distinction between an EU-centric concept of an integrated Europe and Russia’s insistence on national distinctiveness and equality. Russia also did not find in Europe the strong partner it was looking for in counteracting US unipolar power (Putin, 2007). Table 6.1 summarizes the similarities and differences in the paradigm of a common European space governing EU and Russian policy choices prior to the Ukraine crisis. What is clear is that in economic and technical arenas the overlap in EU and Russian approaches was considerable, whereas in security issues and treatment of the common neighbourhood, differences were greater. Particularly in terms of the common neighbourhood, even dialogue was absent.

Cracks in the Paradigm: Dissonance over Neighbourhood and Security Policies The EU and Russia each had differing concepts of how an integrated European space would include neighbouring post-communist countries. There was also a marked absence of shared governance mechanisms that could bring the two parties together to discuss issues related to this problem area. Therefore this issue was the most contentious in the relationship, even if it was only infrequently, if at all, directly addressed in joint statements or in agreements between the two parties. An analysis of media coverage of the relationship in Poland, Germany, and Russia in the period up through 2012 identified neighbourhood relations as not only the most problematic but suggested that the difficulties between the partners were often depicted as intractable (DeBardeleben, 2014, 2015). Media in all three countries attributed responsibility for tension, to greater or lesser degrees, to both Russia and the EU, as well as to Ukraine. Just as the EU and Russia expounded somewhat different ideas about how to achieve an integrated European space, efforts to include the common neighbourhood in EU–Russia cooperation faltered in multiple policy arenas as well, causing spill-over effects into the larger relationship. In the area of trade and investment, for example, the EU approach to EaP neighbours was based on eventual conclusion of Deep and Comprehensive Free Trade Areas (DCFTA), but not on the inclusion of these countries in the

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Table 6.1 Pre-Ukraine Crisis: EU and Russian Policy Frames for a Common European Space (CES) Pre 2013 EU-defined CES

Pre-2013 Russia-defined CES

Rhetorical agreement

Rhetorical difference

(+ role for strategic industries)

Yes

Technical issues

Energy

Peace through trade Market enabling competitive space Interdependence

Interdependence

Yes

Regulatory norms

Approximation to EU norms

Partial

Political values

EU-defined European values

Approximation sometimes accepted Pluralistic view of accepted European values

Borders

Inviolable

Inviolable

Yes

Security

Transatlantic security community + Russia Sovereignty for neighbouring countries; EU and Russian interests compatible

New European security architecture

Declining

Technical issues; Russian use of energy as political tool Technical issues, e.g., visas Russian charges of EU hypocrisy; EU mutes values Exceptions (Kosovo, Georgia) Over NATO, missile defence, US actions

Russian privileged sphere of influence

No

Trade

Neighbourhood

Partial

Muted

EU itself. The DCFTAs (which were actually concluded with Ukraine, Moldova, and Georgia in 2014), were viewed by the EU as compatible with continued operation of existing or future free trade agreements that the EaP countries had with Russia and other neighbours. These agreements included the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS) Free Trade Area, initiated in 2011 and ratified by nine countries (including Ukraine and Moldova, but not Georgia) thereafter. Alongside the CIS Free Trade Area, under Russian and Kazakh leadership the Eurasian Customs Union came into existence in 2010 and in January 2015 the Eurasian Economic Union (EEU) came into force. These initiatives represented a more intensified model of economic integration in the post-Soviet space and included a smaller group of countries. Initially

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the Eurasian Customs Union and the Eurasian Economic Union were constituted only by Russia, Kazakhstan, and Belarus, with Armenia and Kyrgyzstan joining later. In mid-2013 Russia began to exert strong pressure on Ukraine to refrain from signing the DCFTA with the EU, as this was deemed to potentially undermine its close relations with Russia and the possibility of future membership in the EEU. These developments marked a definitive step in the shift to a new ‘competing regionalisms’ paradigm, because, for countries in the shared neighbourhood, joining the customs union would preclude a DCFTA with the EU. In the security arena, tensions also rose. Most of the controversy over security between Russia and the West was focussed on NATO actions and progressive NATO enlargement to the east. In contrast, Russia sought a new pan-European security architecture and consistently objected to any suggestion that NATO might extend its scope further into the ‘common neighbourhood’. While the admission of Ukraine and Georgia to NATO was not accepted at the Bucharest NATO summit in 2008, the final declaration of that meeting welcomed ‘Ukraine’s and Georgia’s Euro-Atlantic aspirations for membership in NATO’ and supported their applications for a Membership Action Plan (NATO, 2008). The EU was not directly involved in these issues, however 21 of the EU’s Member States were also NATO members at the time (out of 26 NATO members). Among EU Member States, France and Germany have been among the most sceptical of the eastward expansion of NATO to include Georgia and Ukraine. In another arena of security policy, EU–Russia cooperation in addressing ‘frozen conflicts’ was limited, in part because of disunity within the EU itself and in part because Russian positions sometimes contradicted interests of the EU’s EaP partners (particularly Moldova and Georgia). In a more general sense, the EU sought security by fostering stability through promoting democratic reform and market integration with its EaP eastern neighbours. Russia perceived this approach as encirclement and threat (Shopov, 2008) and attempted to develop security cooperation through the Collective Security Treaty Organization and the Shanghail Cooperation Organization. Competition between Russia and EaP countries in winning visa-free travel with the EU introduced another area of subtle tension in the EU–Russia relationship. EaP countries resented that Russia, which was resistant to EU political norms, might speed ahead on the road to visa-free travel; Russia, on the other hand, perceived technical obstacles to its objective of visa-free travel, and interpreted these obstacles as engineered by the EU to disadvantage Russia. In the field of energy, some EaP countries (Moldova, Ukraine) are contracting parties to the European Energy Community, accepting EU regulatory approaches, whereas Russia, being an energy exporting country, saw these norms and requirements as against its interests. While energy sector irritants between the EU and Russia are not directly related to neighbourhood countries, but have to do with issues like compliance with the EU’s Third

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Energy Package and alleged discriminatory pricing and abuse of dominant market position in relation to Central European EU countries (European Commission, 2015), Russia’s practice of using energy pricing to exert political pressure on the EaP countries had indirect impacts on EU countries during the so-called ‘gas wars’ between Russia and Ukraine in 2005–2006 and 2009–2010. Here, unlike in other arenas, the EU and Russia did cooperate to resolve the problems, given the commercial and energy security significance of the issue to both parties, for example, in the form of an early warning system fashioned in 2009 after the second Ukraine Russia gas dispute (European Commission, 2009) Prior to 2014, there was a broad awareness and growing evidence that the shared neighbourhood could be a flashpoint in the relationship, and that responsibility was shared. The events in Georgia in 2008 were the first strong signal of trouble, but the EU–Russia relationship was not directly involved in this conflict, as it would be in the Ukraine situation later on. Rather, here, Nicolas Sarkozy, the President of France, acted as a mediator; this role was facilitated by the fact that France held the rotating Presidency of the Council of the European Union at that time. Nonetheless, until the summer of 2013 there was relatively little warning that differing concepts of a common European space and contested approaches to the common neighbourhood would escalate into an acute conflict point. On a regular basis, the EU informed the Russian leadership about its eastern policies, but Russia apparently maintained distance from the process; objections took a sharply more critical tone in mid-2013, when Russia leaders apparently came to appreciate the strength of the EU’s attractive power in Ukraine and to assess the geopolitical implications implied by signing of the Association Agreements and DCFTAs between the EU and Russia’s western neighbours. The failure of the EU and Russia to create mechanisms to address potential concerns or differences in regard to the common neighbourhood fed misunderstandings, differing perceptions, and the likelihood of conflict.

The Emergence of the ‘Competing Regionalisms’ Paradigm Russia’s promotion of the Customs Union and Eurasian Economic Union marked a step in the shift from a paradigm that involved the shared objective of a common European space to a paradigm of competitive regionalisms. However, things need not have developed this way. In fact, observers note a strong element of emulation of the EU in the EEU design and structure (Dragneva and Wolczuk, 2015; Furman and Libman, 2015), which Russian leaders and experts acknowledge as well. Despite its problems dealing with the complexity of the EU and criticism of specific EU actions, the Russian leadership apparently recognized its model of regional integration as an effective tool for augmenting global and regional influence, particularly in the economic sphere, where Russia was still largely dependent on its energy exports. Had things developed differently in 2013 and 2014 one could imagine a

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positive scenario where the two unions could interact constructively. This idea is buttressed by the fact that the EU has generally supported the formation of regional economic organizations (which are seen as drawing on and possibly imitating EU experience), and the EU did not identify these formations, ipso facto, as a problem. While also a product of internal regional dynamics affecting the other founding partner countries (Kazakhstan and Belarus), assertive promotion of the EEU was, for Russia, in important part a response to the policy failures discussed above. The next step, a Eurasian Union, which would involve more broad-ranging integration, would give Russia the possibility to assert greater influence in its interactions with the West. Putin (2011) noted in a key article in Izvestiia in 2011 that the further development of such a Eurasian Union would ‘be able to play the role of an effective “link” (“sviazki ”) between Europe and the dynamic Asia-Pacific region’. Furthermore, it ‘will build on the liberal integrative principles as an integral part of Greater Europe, unified by shared values of freedom, democracy, and market economy’. He saw it as potentially involving ‘an economically logical and balanced system of partnership of the Eurasian Union and the EU’. Within Hall’s framework, discussed earlier, this was an experimentation effort to bring new life to the existing paradigm of EU–Russia relations by augmenting Russia’s capability to realize its objective of equal partnership. At the same time, in terms of the other arena of policy failure discussed earlier, namely Russia’s waning influence in the post-Soviet space, the Eurasian Economic Union represented an effort to offer neighbouring countries a form of association that would involve significant benefits, particularly compared to the arduous demands that the EU made a condition of its Association Agreements and DCFTAs. In the lead up to the Ukraine crisis, Russian media reports repeatedly documented offers of preferential energy pricing and other economic benefits for countries like Ukraine through the Eurasian Customs Union and EEU. In short, the integration scheme represented an effort to address policy failure through a new and more assertive integration scheme, but one that would still operate within the existing paradigm of EU–Russia relations. One could interpret other Russian efforts earlier as similarly intended to ‘correct’ the old paradigm and to address perceived issues of inequality and declining regional influence. These would include Medvedev’s proposal for a new security structure (the European Security Treaty) as well as actions in Georgia in 2008. Unfortunately for Russia the reaction in the West to its newest policy initiative, the Eurasian Economic Union, was cool. Russian media reported Western reactions that depicted the initiative as an attempt to revive the USSR (e.g., Rahr, 2011), but also some positive reception in Germany (Novikova, 2011). Furthermore, Russian leaders interpreted assertive EU efforts to push forth the signing and ratification of the DCFTAs and Association Agreements with Ukraine, Armenia, and Moldova as undercutting the Russian experiment because the EU trade agreements would preclude membership of these countries in the EEU. (Russia presumably did not hold much

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hope that Georgia would shift its course from the EU to the EEU.) In short, the Russian effort to ‘correct’ the old paradigm appeared to have failed, and the Russian leadership, in the summer of 2013, turned to traditional pressure tactics such as trade restrictions and embargos, to place pressure on neighbouring countries to dissuade them from proceeding with the EU agreements. Unfortunately, Ukraine became a particular contest point. For Russia, Ukraine’s size and proximity made it seem critical to the success of the EEU. Although even the Russian-leaning Ukrainian president, Viktor Yanukovych, did not support accession to the EEU (but rather wanted observer status), the Kremlin must have held out hope that this could change. This hope was evidenced in numerous media reports about meetings and incentives to try to persuade Yanukovych. Here, however, the failure of the Russian model of economic and political development to provide an attractive pole for large parts of the Ukrainian elite and population produced a bias against this outcome; furthermore Ukraine’s geographic position made it rational for the Ukrainian leadership to pursue close economic ties with both unions, particularly since the EU offered a modernizing potential and more attractive governance features. Thus, Russia’s (this time) successful pressure on Yanukovych to reject signing the agreements with the EU in fall 2013 unleashed a public reaction (in the Euromaidan), presumably unforeseen both by Moscow and Brussels, which set the competitive trajectory in full force. Both the EU and Russia claimed that the other party ‘forced’ an either/or choice on these countries (e.g., Luk’ianov, 2013 on the Russian position). In fact, the EU’s vision was compatible with Ukraine’s dual-vector strategy (‘Nam kraine vygodna’, 2012) (i.e., two free trade agreements, application of ‘rules of origin’ to mediate differences between the two regulatory and trade regimes, and an eventual visa-free zone across the region). To be sure, the DCFTA is likely a more all-encompassing type of free trade agreement compared to the CIS free trade area, but that is in part a product of the fact that interaction with the EU requires regulatory transformation where trade relations within the CIS can rely in part on old structures inherited from the Soviet period, and thus do not require so much change. In addition, Russia, however, wanted asymmetric relations, i.e., closer relations between Ukraine and Russia than between Ukraine and the EU. This insistence may have grown out of a fear that in an equal contest, the tools that Russia had to attract Ukraine would be weaker in the long run, but stronger in the shortterm (e.g., lower energy prices, see Tsiptsiura, 2012; Chernenko, 2013), thus better mobilized now. Russia introduced an additional element to the dilemma by informing Ukraine that signing the DCFTA with the EU would not only mean exclusion from the Eurasian Customs Union but also suspension from benefits of the CIS trade agreement (Censura et al., 2014; ‘Medvedev prigrozil’, 2014). Furthermore, worries about Ukraine’s eventual NATO accession and the security dilemma this would imply for Russia fed the fears. The Russian position framed the situation as an either/or choice; the necessity

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of choice was denied by EU spokespersons, but was implicit due to the incompatibility of the DCFTA with EEU membership. Thus the organic emergence of an integrated economic space, which underpinned the EU view, was undermined. Later on, once the AA and DCFTA with Ukraine were signed, Russia made good on its threat regarding the CIS free trade agreement, as it had with Moldova earlier (Censura et al., 2014). Russia first pressed for a delay in application of the DCFTA to allow ironing out of what it foresaw as adverse implications of the agreement for Russia, however trilateral talks (Ukraine, Russia and the EU) failed to resolve these issues. Russia expressed concerns that included the incompatibility of EU product standards with existing CIS standards, the possibility of illegal exports of EU products to Russia through Ukraine, ineffective or contradictory ‘rules of origin’ regimes, and concerns about the lesser competitiveness of Russian products on the Ukrainian market (Aleksashenko, 2014). There are indeed legitimate technical concerns about differing rules of origins and assuring that they are applied properly. However, these concerns and differing regulatory standards as well as issues involving illegal exports would have viable technical solutions (e.g., the use of different regulatory standards and rules of origin for different markets, cooperation in enforcement, and coordinating border controls). However, the fourth issue, lack of competitiveness, represents a challenge to market norms and might suggest reticence on the Russian side about moving toward free trade with the EU in the near to medium term, as the old paradigm foresaw. By the end of 2015 the talks had failed to satisfy Russia and implementation of the Ukraine–EU DCFTA went forward on January 1, 2016. Russia responded by excluding Ukraine from benefits of the CIS Free Trade Area, without the agreement of the other members of its trading bloc. The features of the new ‘competitive regionalisms’ paradigm in Russia were emerging, summarized in Table 6.2, which compares this to the pre-crisis paradigm: a

b

Pressure on neighbouring countries to choose between closer relations with one or the other of the two unions (zero-sum game). On the Russian side this involved offering of benefits and threats to dissuade neighbouring countries from deeper engagement with the EU, and ‘punishment’ when the dissuasion was unsuccessful; on the EU side, this principle is still resisted. For example, when Armenia announced, in fall 2013, that it would join the Eurasian Economic Union rather than signing the DCFTA, the EU expressed surprise but exerted no pressure to change the decision. EU discourse, however, has gradually adjusted to the new paradigm, e.g., talk about the necessity of Ukraine to make a clear choice. An expanding discursive and normative distance between the two actors, where factual depictions and normative assessments on a range of everyday as well as more high-level events diverge. This includes divergent

EU–Russia Neighbourhood Relations

c

d

e

129

interpretations of international law, of what constitutes European norms, and of key concepts like democracy, legitimacy, and sovereignty. A broad-ranging securitization of East–West (and EU–Russia) relations which involves interpreting actions of the other as security threats and taking both rhetorical and material action to oppose these threats. Such a securitization is associated with military build-up close to the new East–West border and repeated instances of military brinkmanship, all of which would, in fact, reduce security for populations in both East and West. A reduction in trade interdependence, reflected in Russian counter-sanctions triggered by Western sanctions in reaction to the Crimean annexation and Russian actions in the Donbass. This also includes moves toward diversification of energy sources (for the EU) and of energy markets (for Russia), as well as a move toward import substitution or a search for other trade partners on the Russian side. Competing regional integration projects, i.e., the European Union and the Eurasian Economic Union, with struggles for influence at the geographical margins.

Table 6.2 The Pre-crisis Paradigm Compared with the Competing Regionalisms Paradigm

Underlying principle Trade

Energy Regulatory norms

Competing Regionalisms paradigm

Previous (shared) ‘Greater/common Europe’ paradigm

Uncertainty about the viability of a common European space Mutually exclusive and competing integration schemes

EU definition of common European space, contested by Russia Peace through trade and investment Market enabling competitive space Interdependence

Diversification, reduced interdependence Competing regulatory norms

Political values

Distinct European/Eurasian values

Post-communist borders Security

Selective inviolability

Neighbourhood

Broad securitization of the relationship; military build-up; brinkmanship Either/or choice for neighbours; competing spheres of influence

Regulatory approximation by choice Common European values (implementation and sometimes interpretation contested) Inviolable (some exceptions) Contested security communities but areas of common security interest Not addressed/no agreement

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Even if the EU inadvertently fed a competition through its requirement that EaP partners adopt regulatory and normative convergence with the EU, the EU also has resisted the underlying logic of the ‘competitive regionalisms’ paradigm. The paradigm contradicts the logic of EU integration itself (involving peace based on economic interdependence); furthermore, it would be difficult to gain Member State agreement on a new approach. Nonetheless, in responding to Russian actions, the EU has, in some regards, begun to adjust its behaviour to adapt to the new situation. Thus an interactive process is underway. Regardless of which side initiates it, a competitive discourse tends to win out over a cooperative approach in a situation where fundamental issues are at stake. However, whether the paradigm of competing regionalism prevails in the region is primarily, but not exclusively, dependent on Russia. The EU will likely continue to resist the zero-sum logic of this new paradigm, because the assumptions of the previous paradigm mirror the normative base of the European integration process itself and may serve its long-term economic and energy interests. It is possible that one party (either the EU or Russia) would operate out of one paradigm and the other out of a different one. This raises the issue of incommensurability, discussed on p. 116, and a continuing discursive mismatch, as well as continuing distrust between the parties.

Alternative Paradigms Could there be a new approach that would halt the march of the new competing regionalisms paradigm? Such an alternative is suggested in Table 6.3 labelled the ‘greater/common Europe’ paradigm revised. Such an alternative is premised on an understanding that the Russian leadership maintains a strong preference for a European association, if its terms are acceptable (i.e., are based on an equal partnership and maintenance of substantial influence in the neighbourhood). Reasons for this abiding preference are cultural, but also pragmatic. In particular, there is no visible alternative for sustainable modernization of the economy. ‘Import substitution’ is a stop-gap measure to respond to the current economic downturn and sanctions regime; the Eurasian vector does not offer a credible modernization model and would leave Russia in a subordinate position to a much-larger China. In addition, Russia enjoys a strong European cultural preference, evidenced in previous insistence by Russian leaders (including Putin) that Russia is a European country. It is argued that there is a basis for fashioning a new vision for a common European space, which would represent a compromise between the earlier contested EU and Russian visions. Such a concept would offer a potential exit from the prospect of intensified regional competition. Outside of the most contentious issues of security and neighbourhood relations, the EU and Russia would each need to make only minimal accommodation. For the EU this would involve a move in the direction of accepting a notion of mutual recognition in regulatory standards as opposed to a notion of approximation

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Table 6.3 Post Ukraine Crisis Previous and Alternative ‘Greater Europe’ Paradigms Previous (shared) ‘Greater/common Europe’ paradigm

Proposed revised ‘Greater/common Europe’ paradigm

Underlying principle

EU definition of common European space, contested by Russia

Trade

Peace through trade Market enabling competitive space Interdependence Regulatory approximation by choice Common European values (implementation contested) Inviolable (some exceptions) Contested security communities but areas of common security interest Not addressed/no agreement

Reengagement based on equal partnership + respect for neighbourhood sovereignty + peace through trade Peace through trade Market enabling competitive space

Energy Regulatory norms Political values Borders Security

Neighbourhood

Interdependence Mutual recognition Value tolerance Inviolable Integrated European security community Sovereignty for neighbouring countries Overlapping concentric circles of influence/affiliation Dialogue on the issue; possible trilateral discussions

to EU norms. The EU applies such a principle in relations with countries such as Canada and the United States. Also the EU would need to suspend efforts to realize a transformative agenda in relation to Russian domestic affairs or a values agenda. On the Russian side, the key concession in terms of trade and economics would be recognition of sovereign choice for neighbourhood countries and suspension of punitive economic policy based on geopolitical criteria. The most contentious arenas in forging a new cooperative paradigm involve security and neighbourhood issues, as in the past. On the EU side, elements of the compromise would be supporting Russia in its desire for a new European security structure outside of NATO, and recognizing Russia (and potentially the EEU) as an equal partner, at least in a structural sense if not in a real economic sense, in the economic sphere. On the Russian side compromise would involve tolerating freedom of choice for neighbourhood countries and an acknowledgement of the compatibility of the two integration projects in the region. Therefore, within this revised ‘common spaces’ paradigm, a justifiable sine qua non for EU engagement with the EEU would be Russia’s acknowledgement of the right of countries (such as Ukraine,

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Moldova, and Georgia), which are members of neither the EEU nor the EU, to conclude free trade agreements with either or both, without pressure or penalties. In neighbourhood relations the new paradigm would be grounded in a principle of overlapping concentric circles of affiliation of both the EU and the EEU/Russia. It might be necessary to compartmentalize the security issue from other arenas of accommodation, on the grounds that the EU is not primarily a security actor. The EU stands at a disadvantage in trying to promote a new ‘common Europe’ paradigm over the competitive regionalisms approach. First, it would require agreement of EU Member States on such a compromise variant. Second, even in the most optimistic scenario, the security arena will pose continuing problems, also in light of the strong European transatlantic connection. A separate security dialogue could be attempted, but this would be a difficult and protracted process that would require American acquiescence. The Ukraine conflict has only worsened the disparity in views on security issues. Russians actions have produced a self-fulfilling prophecy, generating NATO’s attentiveness to a previously absent Russian threat. Furthermore, judging by Russian discourse, which often is focussed on concerns about NATO enlargement, differing European and Russian approaches to security have now ‘infected’ the relationship as a whole. In addition, another risk arises. Any attempt to reach an accommodation could devolve into what one might call a ‘great power bargain’, to the disadvantage of EaP countries. Such a ‘great power bargain’ would be a variant of the new competitive regionalisms paradigm, but one which would allow key western actors to retain strong economic relations with Russia. The rhetoric of Donald Trump’s presidential campaign in the United States suggests this path as a strong possibility. This variant would revert to the principle of stability through economic interdependence, a notion that could be attractive both to Russia and larger Western trading countries, not only for economic reasons but because it might temper the likelihood of destabilization of Russia and of increasing militarization. However, such a ‘great power bargain’ would involve de facto acknowledgement of Russian dominance in the shared neighbourhood, in short, a stealth realization of Russia’s desire for a ‘new Yalta’ that would potentially rewrite post-war agreements about division of spheres of influence in Europe. This process could unfold without a transparent policy shift but nonetheless undermine the ability of Ukraine, Moldova, and Georgia to resist Russian influence. In practice this could occur through EU and EU Member State neglect of these regions (e.g., inadequate support for implementation of AA and DCFTA agreements), lifting of sanctions before key requirements are met relating to Ukraine, and acceptance of Russian sanctions against these countries for EU-favouring actions. It could also occur through a shift in US policy, which would leave the EU or its Member States alone in supporting EaP countries against Russian pressure. Such a ‘great power bargain’ would likely be the outcome most favourable to Russia, for it would allow Russia to retain regional influence while

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partaking in economic benefits of interaction with the West. Consistent with Hall’s framework (see pp. 116–17), the focus of authority in this ‘great power’ variant of the competing regionalisms paradigm would definitively shift from Brussels’ consensus decision-making to leading national capitals (possibly including Washington). The inability of the EU to reach a common policy feeds the tendency of larger EU Member States to take the lead, a trend comfortable for Russia, which prefers bilateral relations. The alternative approach outlined above, ‘the greater/common Europe paradigm revised’, falters because there is no clear ‘change agent’ (i.e., actor or country that would have the interest and capability to effectively promote change in this direction). While the normative stance of the EU corresponds most strongly to the logic of this revised paradigm, the EU suffers problems of unity and coherence in its response, and thus may be ineffective as a change agent. The very principles that make the EU supportive of a Europe of sovereign states make it less capable of acting to defend the principle in the eastern neighbourhood. Which paradigm will prevail in future EU–Russia relations hangs in the balance. A paradigm of competing regionalisms seems most likely to win out. In practice, Russia’s narrative of competing regionalisms, and European reactions to it, may push the relationship in a more and more adversarial direction. Or, Russia’s zero-sum approach may result in a de facto accord allowing Russia to retain its sphere of influence. While the EU will probably continue to resist the zero-sum logic of the new paradigm, the EU may not have the coherence and capacity to assert this agenda. Thus it rests with major EU Member States to set the trajectory. A great deal depends then on commitments of the larger more influential Member States such as Germany. While currently official German policy is to strongly support the sovereign choice of neighbourhood countries, slippage from such a position, could, even if inadvertently, easily occur.

Notes 1 Research for this chapter was supported by a grant from the Lifelong Learning Programme of the European Union (EU) through a Jean Monnet Multilateral Research group, ‘EU-Russia relations: Developing a transnational perspective’, and by a standard research grant from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada (SSHRC). The contents of this chapter are the sole responsibility of the author and can in no way be taken to reflect the views of the EU or SSHRC. 2 The Russians generally use the term ‘Greater Europe’ and the Europeans the term ‘Wider Europe’. To avoid either, I use the term ‘common European space’. 3 Such agreements were also to be initialled between the EU, on the one hand, and Georgia, Moldova, and Armenia on the other. 4 This might be considered an example of Russia’s neo-revisionism, as discussed by Sakwa (2015).

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References Adomeit, Hannes (2016) ‘Germany’s Russia Policy: From Sanctions to Nord Stream 2?’ Transatlantic Academy 2015–2016 Paper Series, No. 3. March. www.transatlanticaca demy.org/publications/germany%E2%80%99s-russia-policy-sanctions-nord-stream-2 ?page=4 (accessed July 3, 2017). Aleksashenko, Sergei (2014) ‘For Ukraine, Moldova, and Georgia Free Trade with Europe and Russia is Possible’, Moscow Carnegie Center, July 3. http://carnegie.ru/ commentary/56074 (accessed July 3, 2017). Alexander, Robin (2014) ‘Merkels Drahtseilakt zwischen Putin and Obama’, Die Welt, March 3. www.welt.de/politik/deutschland/article125385606/Merkels-Dra htseilakt-zwischen-Putin-und-Obama.html (accessed July 3, 2017). Censura, Denis, Michael Emerson, Tamara Kovyiridse and Veronika Movchan (2014) ‘Russia’s Punitive Trade Policy Measures Towards Ukraine, Moldova, and Georgia’, CEPS Working Document, no. 499, September. Chernenko, Elena (2013) ‘Ukraina khochet stat gosudarstvom dvykh sioizov’, Kommersant, March 20. Clover, Charles (2012) ‘Clinton Vows to Thwart New Soviet Union’, Financial Times, December 6. www.ft.com/content/a5b15b14-3fcf-11e2-9f71-00144feabdc0 (accessed July 3, 2017). DeBardeleben, Joan (2011) ‘Revising the EU’s European Neighbourhood Policy: The Eastern Partnership and Russia’. In Roger E. Kanet (ed.) Russia Foreign Policy in the 21st Century. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 246–265. DeBardeleben, Joan (2014) ‘Framing of EU–Russia Relations in National Media: Russia, Germany, and Poland’, UACES (British European Studies Association), Cork, Ireland, September 1–3. DeBardeleben, Joan (2015) ‘Otnosheniia Rossii i Evrosoiuza v presse Rossii, Germanii, i Pol’shi’, (Relations between Russia and the European Union in the Press of Russia, Germany, and Poland) Vestnik Sankt-Peterburgskogo universiteta, Series 6, 2015, no. 1, pp. 77–85. Donner Abreu, Maria (2013) ‘Preferential Rules of Origin in Regional Trade Agreements’, March. http://ssrn.com/abstract=2244772 (accessed July 4, 2017). Dragneva, Rilka and Kataryna Wolczuk (2015) ‘European Union Emulation in the Design of Integration’. In David Land and Vsevolod Samokhvalov (eds) The Eurasian Project and Europe: Regional Discontinuities and Geopolitics, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 135ff. European Commission (2009) ‘The EU and Russia Reinforce the Early Warning Mechanism to Improve Prevention and Management in Case of an Energy Crisis’, Press Release, November 16. http://europa.eu/rapid/press-release_IP-09-1718_en. htm (accessed July 4, 2017). European Commission (2015) ‘Antitrust: Commission Send Statement of Objections to Gazprom for Alleged Abuse of Dominance on Central and East European Gas Supply Markets’, Press Release, April 22. http://europa.eu/rapid/press-release_ MEMO-15-4829_en.htm (accessed July 4, 2017). Fernandes, Sandra (2011) ‘European Security Through EU–Russia Relations: Towards a New Multilateral Order?’ Journal of Contemporary European Research (JCER), 7(2): 195–215. Franklin, Allan (1984) ‘Are Paradigms Incommensurable?’ British Journal for the Philosophy of Science, 35(1): 57–60.

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Freinkman, Lev, Evgeny Polyakov, and Carolina Revenco (2004) ‘Trade Perfomance and Regional Integration of the CIS Countries’, World Bank Working Paper No. 38 Washington, DC: The World Bank. Furman, Ekaterina and Alexander Libman (2015) ‘Europeanization and the Eurasian Economic Union’. In Piotr Dutkiewicz and Richard Sakwa (eds) Eurasian Integration – The View from Within. London and New York: Routledge, pp. 173–193 Geddes, Andrew and Virginie Guiraudon (2004) ‘Britain, France, and EU antiDiscrimination Policy: The Emergence of an EU Policy Paradigm’, West European Politics, 27(2) (March): 334–353. Hall, Peter (1993) ‘Policy Paradigms, Social Learning, and the State: The Case of Economic Policymaking in Britain’, Comparative Politics, 25(3) April: 275–293. Haukkala, Hiski (2008) ‘The European Union as Regional Normative Hegemon: The Case of the European Neighbourhood Policy’, Europe-Asia Studies, 60(9): 1601–1622. Hille, Katrin, Roman Olearchyk and Christian Oliver (2015) ‘Putin Suspends Trade Zone with Ukraine in Tit-for-tat Escalation’, Financial Times, December 16. Kuhn, Thomas (1970) The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, 2nd edition, Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press. Lavrov, Sergey (2013) ‘State of the Union Russia-EU: Prospects for Partnership in the Changing World,’ JCMS: Journal of Common Market Studies, Special Issue: The JCMS Annual Review of the European Union in 2012, 52, (Supplement S1) (Sept): 6–12, http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/jcms.12047/abstract (accessed 10 January 2015). Legvold, Robert (2016) Return to Cold War, Cambridge: Polity Press. Luk’ianov, Fedor (2013) ‘Tsena voprosa’, Kommersant, April 20. Mäkinen, Sirke, Hanna Smith, and Tuomas Forsberg (2016) ‘“With a Little Help from my Friends”: Russia’s Modernisation and the Visa Regime with the European Union’, Europe-Asia Studies, 68(1): 164–181 Medvedev, Dmitry (2008) ‘Speech at a Meeting with German Political, Parliamentary, and Civic Leaders’, June 5 (Berlin). http://en.kremlin.ru/events/president/transcripts/ 320 (accessed July 4, 2017). Medvedev, Dmitry (2009) ‘Presidential Address to the Federal Assembly of the Russian Federation’, November 12, Moscow. http://en.kremlin.ru/events/president/tra nscripts/5979 (accessed 10 January 2015). ‘Medvedev prigrozil Kievy otmenoi zony svobodnoi torgovli’ (2014) Interfax, September 15, http://www.interfax.ru/business/396771 (accessed July 3, 2017). ‘Nam kraine vygodna zona svobodnoi torgovli SNG’ (2013) interview with Viktor Suslov, representative of Ukraine to the Customs Union and Eurasian Economic Commission (by Ianina Sokolovskaia), Izvestiia (Moscow edition), September 17. Nitoiu, Christian (ed.) (2016) ‘Avoiding a New “Cold War”: The Future of EU–Russian Relations in the Context of the Ukraine Crisis’, LSE Ideas, special report SR020, March, Dahrendorf Forum at http://www.lse.ac.uk/IDEAS/publications/reports/ SR20.aspx (accessed July 3, 2017). North Atlantic Treaty Organization (2008) ‘Bucharest Summit Declaration, Issued by the Heads of State and Government Participating in the Meeting of the North Atlantic Council on April 3 2008’ (Bucharest, April 3, updated 8 May 2014). http:// www.nato.int/cps/en/natolive/official_texts_8443.htm (accessed July 3, 2017). Novikova, Anastasiia (2011) ‘Nemtsy zhdut izbraniia Putina’, Izvestiia, November 17.

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Putin, Vladimir (2005) ‘Annual Address to the Federal Assembly of the Russian Federation’, 25 April, Moscow. http://en.kremlin.ru/events/president/transcripts/22931 (accessed July 3, 2017). Putin, Vladimir (2007) ‘Speech and the Following Discussion at the Munich Conference on Security Policy’, February 10. http://en.kremlin.ru/events/president/tra nscripts/24034 (accessed July 3, 2017). Putin, Vladimir (2010) ‘Von Lissabon bis Wladiwostok’, Süddeutsche Zeitung, November 25. http://www.sueddeutsche.de/wirtschaft/putin-plaedoyer-fuer-wirtscha ftsgemeinschaft-von-lissabon-bis-wladiwostok-1.1027908 (accessed July 3, 2017). Putin, Vladimir (2011) ‘Novyi integratsionnyi proekt dlia Evrazii budushchee, kotoroe rozhdaetsia segodnia’, Izvestiia, October 4. Putin, Vladimir (2012) ‘Presidential Address to the Federal Assembly’, December 12, Moscow. http://eng.kremlin.ru/transcripts/6402 (accessed July 3, 2017). Rahr, Aleksandr (2011) ‘Diplmatiia vzaimnykh ustupok’, Izvestiia, October. Sakwa, Richard (2015) ‘Russian Neo-Revisionism and Dilemmas of Eurasian Integration’. In Roger E. Kanet and Matthew Sussex, Power, Politics, and Confrontation in Eurasia. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 111–134. Shopov, Vladimir (2008) ‘Implementation of the Four Common Spaces: Space on External Security’, Briefing Paper, Directorate General External Policies of the Union, European Parliament, November (Brussels: European Parliament). http:// www.europarl.europa.eu/RegData/etudes/note/join/2008/406987/EXPO-AFET_NT (2008)406987_EN.pdf (accessed July 3, 2017). ‘Strategiia razvitiia otnoshenii Rossiiskoi Federatsii s Evropeiskim soiuzom na srednesrochnuiu perspektivu (2000–2010 gg.)’ (1999) http://mgimo.ru/files2/y11_2013/ 243404/4.4.strategy_russia_relations_eu.htm (accessed July 3, 2017). Surel, Yves (2000) ‘The Role of Cognitive and Normative Frames in Policy-making’, Journal of European Public Policy, 7(4): 495–512. Tsiptsiura, Maria (2012) ‘Tamozhennyi soiuz ne pustil Yanukovicha v Moskvu’, Izvestiia (Moscow edition), December 10.

7

No Middle Ground? Economic Relations Between the EU, Ukraine and Russia Crina Viju

Introduction In 2009, the European Union (EU) launched the Eastern Partnership (EaP), an initiative that governs its relations with the post-Soviet states of Armenia, Azerbaijan, Belarus, Georgia, Moldova and Ukraine. Under the umbrella of the EaP, the EU started negotiations for Association Agreements (AA), including Deep and Comprehensive Free Trade Areas1 (DCFTA) with Ukraine, Georgia, Moldova and Armenia. The ratification and implementation of the two agreements would result in important political and economic, medium and long-term benefits for these countries. The AAs and DCFTAs between the EU and Ukraine, Georgia and Moldova were signed on June 27, 2014, with the political section of the EU–Ukraine AA being signed on March 21, 2014. The AA and DCFTA with Armenia was not concluded. The other important regional integration project, the Eurasian Customs Union (ECU),2 was launched by Russia, Belarus and Kazakhstan and it came into existence in 2010. In 2015, the original ECU agreement was integrated in the Eurasian Economic Union (EEU)3 agreement. During the same year, the EEU was enlarged to include Armenia and Kyrgyzstan. The European countries of the former Soviet Union (FSU) chose a multivector economic policy by being involved in various multilateral and bilateral agreements with both the EU and Russia, choosing different levels of economic integration per sector and per third party. The structure of the DCFTA and ECU/EEU practically forced these countries to choose a side. Membership in a customs union (CU) restricts the choices of member countries. Due to the common external tariff towards third parties, a member of a CU cannot sign a Free Trade Agreement (FTA) independently from the other member countries of the CU. Thus, all members of the CU should agree to sign an FTA with a third party. An FTA does not impose such a restriction on its members and each member country can be involved in multiple FTAs at the same time. Thus, countries in the post-Soviet space do not face a symmetrical choice. By signing the DCFTA with the EU, they still have the choice of being involved in FTAs with Russia or other countries. However, by choosing to be part of the Eurasian Customs Union, they will not be able to

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sign individual FTAs with the EU or other countries, but the ECU will have to negotiate FTAs with third parties for all its members. In this chapter, the Ukrainian case is being used to illustrate the nature of the economic dilemmas facing these countries in their efforts to balance relations with both sides. Although the Eurasian Economic Union is not on the table anymore for Ukraine, given the conflictual situation from the past few years, a comparison of the two initiatives, DCFTA and EEU, is worth exercising to point out the economic difficulties Ukraine had and still faces. Given that Russia imposed restrictive trade measures on Ukraine and cancelled its FTA with Ukraine once the DCFTA went into effect in January 2016, how was and is Ukraine affected by the declined in economic relations with Russia? The chapter will analyze the role that each of the three parties, the EU, Russia and Ukraine, has played in explaining the Ukrainian deadlock situation from an economic perspective and what could be the steps forward.

Ukraine’s Economic Situation Ukraine’s economy is dependent on exports, with steel, fertilizers and grains representing the most important exported commodities. At the same time, it is highly dependent on imports of oil and gas. The percentage of trade in Ukraine’s nominal GDP declined from 86.7 percent during the period 2005– 2009 to 79.1 percent for the 2010–2014 period (World Bank, 2015). In 2015, 34 percent of its exports were moving to the EU and 13 percent to Russia, while Ukraine’s share of imports from the EU had increased to 41 percent, and the share of imports from Russia declined to 20 percent (European Commission, Directorate-General for Trade, 2017 and State Statistics Service of Ukraine, 2016). Regarding trade with Russia, main exports are represented by machinery, metals, chemicals, and agricultural and food products, while the main imports from Russia are dominated by energy, mainly gas (Figure 7.1) (Ministry of Economic Development of the Russian Federation, 2014 and State Statistics Service of Ukraine, 2016). The main Ukrainian exports to the EU are iron, steel, mining, agricultural products and machinery, while the important categories of imports from the EU are machinery and transport equipment, chemicals and manufactured goods (Figure 7.2) (European Commission, Directorate-General for Trade, 2017 and State Statistics Service of Ukraine, 2016). In terms of services, in 2015 the EU was the largest source of services for Ukraine accounting for 51 percent of total services imports, while Russia accounted for only 13 percent of total imports of services. Regarding the exports of services, Russia still represents the largest destination, accounting for 32 percent of Ukraine’s exports of services in 2015, while the EU accounted for 30 percent (State Statistics Service of Ukraine, 2016). On the other hand, with only 0.8 percent of the EU total trade in 2015, Ukraine ranks only 29th in terms of EU trading partners. The share of EU imports and exports to Ukraine has not changed significantly since the year 2000 (European Commission, Directorate-General for Trade, 2017). For Russia,

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Ukraine represents the 12th most important trading partner explaining 2.7 percent of Russian trade in goods for 2015 declining from being the third most important trading partner in 2013 (State Statistics Service of Ukraine, 2016). Breaking down the exports by products, it can be observed that the crisis between Ukraine and Russia has affected mainly product groupings in heavy industries. Figure 7.3 shows a major regional shift of Ukrainian exports from EEU (mainly Russia) to the EU and a product structure shift from heavy industry to food products. Figure 7.4 shows similar declines in imports from both, the EU and Russia, except for one category represented by minerals. Important structural changes happened in the energy sector with a geographical shift from Russia to the EU and Belarus. Focusing on the gas sector, the imports from Russia declined by 44 percent, while imports from the EU increased by 135 percent being explained by reverse flows from Russia. Regardless of the regional shift in gas imports, Russia still remains the main provider of gas accounting for 74 percent of the Ukrainian import

Figure 7.1 Ukraine’s trade with Russia (2014) Source of data: Ministry of Economic Development of the Russian Federation (2014) and State Statistics Service of Ukraine (2016).

Figure 7.2 EU trade flows with Ukraine by SITC sections (2015) Source: European Commission, Directorate-General for Trade (2017) and State Statistics Service of Ukraine (2016).

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shares (while the EU holds only 26 percent of import shares). In terms of oil, an increase in importance of Belarus4 as an oil provider is observed, with imports from Belarus increasing by 48 percent, from the EU by 32 percent, while from Russia declining by 33 percent. Other than minerals, the structure of imports by products did not suffer major changes, with minerals remaining the most important item to be imported. The restructuring of the regional and product composition of trade does not tell the whole story. That the EU is gaining more importance as a trading partner for Ukraine is not a surprise, but can the Ukrainian economy afford to see such a sharp decline in trade with Russia in the short and/or longer term? Here, regional specialization within Ukraine is an important consideration. Economic activity was, as of 2012, highly concentrated in Ukraine with the food and light industry, agriculture and food processing located in the west, and industrial production in eastern Ukraine. As observed in Figure 7.5 the regions with higher income were in 2012 located in the industrialized area in the east and the capital city Kyiv.5 The same pattern could be observed when looking at the contribution of individual regions to the national GDP. Thus,

Figure 7.3 Exports to EU and Russia in 2014 (%) Source: Reproduced with permission from Giucci, Ryzhenkov and Movchan (2015), p. 6, based on data from the State Statistics Service of Ukraine. See: http://www.bera tergruppe-ukraine.de/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/PB_02_2015_en.pdf.

Figure 7.4 Imports from EU and Russia in 2014 (%) Source: Reproduced with permission from Giucci, Ryzhenkov, Zachmann, and Movchan (2015), p. 8, based on data from the State Statistics Service of Ukraine. See: www. beratergruppe-ukraine.de/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/PB_03_2015_en.pdf.

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Figure 7.5 Income per capita, regional GDP and sectoral value-added shares (2012, %) Source: Reproduced with permission from the Vienna Institute for International Economic Studies (2015), p. 64. See: https://wiiw.ac.at/how-to-stabilise-the-econom y-of-ukraine-dlp-3562.pdf.

the Donbas region (including Donetsk and Luhansk provinces) accounted for 16 percent of Ukraine’s GDP in 2012. Due to the military conflict in eastern Ukraine, the industrial output has declined in the Donbass region by between 30 to 40 percent, which explains a decline in Ukraine’s GDP of 11 percent. The annexation of Crimea and Sevastopol by Russia did not result in significant short term economic losses for Ukraine, as they represented only 4 percent of Ukraine’s GDP. However, future economic losses for Ukraine will be substantive due to loss of port facilities and gas and oil off-shore deposits6 (Vienna Institute for International Economic Studies, 2015). The import restrictions imposed by Russia and the cancellation of the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS) FTA with Russia as of January 1, 2016 will certainly result in important economic costs for Ukraine, at least in the short-term. Regardless that in the medium and long-term Ukrainian producers can find new markets for their exports, this will not happen without important costs, modernization and restructuring of trade and investments. There are certain sectors in which Ukraine is highly dependent on the Russian market. One of the main export categories to the Russian market was machinery and transport equipment, and such exports cannot necessarily be

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diverted to the EU market as there is no demand for these products and there are important differences in standards and quality. Data from 2013 show that various export commodities such as nuclear reactors and boilers, railway/ tramway locomotives, inorganic chemicals, paper, salt, dairy products, plastics, beverages and spirits, and meat were mainly dependent on the Russian market. Thus, by having exports restricted in these sectors by Russia or elimination of preferential treatment, Ukrainian producers risk facing bankruptcy in the short-run. Restrictions on Russian energy exports to Ukraine or energy price increases for Ukraine can result, first, in a freeze up of Ukrainian economic activity, as the semi-manufacturing production is still highly energy intensive and, second, the impossibility of paying back the high energy debts as Russia is still the largest provider of gas for Ukraine. Additionally, as shown in Figure 7.5, the Eastern regions, such as Luhansk, Donetsk and Dnipropetrovsk, were in 2012 the largest industrial regions (apart from Kyiv) and, thus, the most important exporters, which were highly dependent on the Russian market and, thus, suffering the most from trade disruptions. The type of products exported to Russia such as machinery, equipment, vessels, aircrafts etc. are the result of strong linkages from the Soviet times, and, thus, not necessarily competitive with European/Western products. Unless important investment is redirected in these sectors, they could face bankruptcy. Thus, a redirection of these exports in the medium/long term should not be taken for granted.

Ukraine’s Relations with the EU and Russia Institutional Framework: EU–Ukraine Once Ukraine declared its independence on August 24, 1991, it became an important, but at the same time difficult partner for the EU. Their relations were first institutionalized through the Partnership and Cooperation Agreement (PCA) ratified in 1998. The PCA was a comprehensive framework for cooperation and it was focused on issues related to the post-communist transition such as the economy, public institutions and human rights. Since 1993, Ukraine has defined its main foreign policy aspiration as being the accession to the EU, a view expressed by political elites on several occasions (Mission of Ukraine to the European Union, n.d.). After the Orange Revolution of 2004, the prospects of EU accession improved, as pro-European Ukrainian president Viktor Yushchenko pushed for more action from the EU regarding Ukraine’s future accession (EUObserver, 2004). However, after the 2004 eastern enlargement, the EU launched the European Neighbourhood Policy (ENP), which addressed countries to the south and east; in the east it was intended to prevent the creation of new borders between the enlarged EU and neighbouring countries. Through the ENP Action Plans, the partner countries supposedly show their commitment to European values, such as democracy, human rights, market economy, and

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rule of law, approximation of their rules with those of the EU in exchange for EU financial, technical and policy support, access to the EU markets and easier travel to the EU (European Union External Action, n.d.1). Ukraine has been one of the EU ENP partners since 2004. In 2009, the EU launched the Eastern Partnership (EaP), which is the eastern dimension of the ENP. The EaP includes both, bilateral and multilateral cooperation initiatives with the main goal of creating strong relations with all partner countries (European Union External Action, n.d.2). Under EaP, the EU and willing partner countries, such as Ukraine, undertook negotiations for a new legal framework that would take the form of an Association Area (AA). The main chapters of AAs are focused on values and principles; cooperation in foreign and security policy; a free trade agreement; Justice, Freedom and Security; energy; and other policy areas. Upon Ukraine’s entry to the World Trade Organization (WTO), in February 2008, the EU and Ukraine also launched negotiations for a Deep and Comprehensive Free Trade Area (DCFTA) with the objectives of eliminating most tariff and non-tariff barriers, thus facilitating free movements of goods, services and capital. Additionally, visa-free travel negotiations were launched in October of 2008. In March 2012, the AA, including the DCFTA, was initialed and ready to be signed. However, due to what was perceived by the EU as an unfair politically motivated behaviour against political figures in Ukraine plus issues related to rule of law and corruption, the signing of the AA and DCFTA was postponed. The official signing was planned for November 2013 in Vilnius. However, the signing was suspended this time by the Ukrainian president Viktor Yanukovych. This was the beginning of the current crisis, which started with a wave of protests (Euromaidan) leading to the overthrow of the Ukrainian president and government. The political part of the AA was finally signed on March 21, 2014, while the DCFTA was signed on June 27, 2014. In response to Russian objections to the agreement, the implementation of the DCFTA was postponed until January 2016. However, the EU granted unilateral preferential access to its market for Ukraine from April 2014. In January 2016, the DCFTA commenced provisional implementation awaiting EU ratification, while at the same time, Russia cancelled its CIS FTA with Ukraine. In terms of financial and technical assistance, the EU is the largest donor to Ukraine. Between 1991 and 2006, the amount of aid granted to Ukraine approached EUR 2.4 billion. This financial assistance included funding under the TACIS program (Technical Assistance for Commonwealth of Independent States), macro-financial assistance, humanitarian assistance and so on. For the period 2002–2006 the top priorities for assistance were represented by institutional reform, economic development and social consequences of transition (European Commission, 2014a). In 2007, the EU replaced the cooperation program TACIS and other technical assistance funds with the European Neighbourhood and Partnership Instrument (ENPI). The ENPI is provided on a bilateral basis to each partner country based on country- specific initiatives established in their Action Plans. Although

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Russia is not part of ENP, it is included in some ENPI funded projects. Ukraine has been the largest receiver of funding in the Eastern Neighbourhood with EUR 964 million (European Commission, 2014b).7 Other financial instruments, such as the Neighbourhood Investment Facility and Governance Facility, provide additional funding for infrastructure projects and improvement of public governance respectively. Once the Eastern Partnership was created in 2009, the EU assigned an increase in the ENPI funding to Eastern partners of EUR 350 million for the period 2013–2020 (European Commission, 2014b). Since the beginning of the crisis in Ukraine, the EU has mobilized EUR 3.4 billion in macro-financial assistance through three programs of lowinterest loans with EUR 1.61 billion already disbursed in 2014 and 2015 (European Commission, 2017). Trade Regime: EU–Ukraine The institutional frameworks described above include various rules that affect economic and trade relations between the EU and Ukraine. However, the trade regime between the two parties is mainly determined at the multilateral level through the WTO, at the bilateral level through the PCA followed by the DCFTA since January 2016 and unilaterally through the EU’s Generalized System of Preferences (GSP). According to the PCA, which was signed in 1994, the two parties gave each other most favoured nation status. The 2008 accession of Ukraine to the WTO resulted in the reduction of applied industrial and agricultural tariffs and, more importantly, has required Ukraine to follow WTO rules and regulations in international affairs. The EU GSP, which Ukraine benefited from since 1993, offers low tariffs for over 6,000 mainly industrial products. In terms of tariff barriers, both parties tend to have higher tariffs on agricultural goods than on industrial goods. Additionally, Ukraine is imposing export tariffs on certain categories of goods exported to the EU, such as metals, mineral products, oil seeds and skin etc. (Movchan and Shportyuk, 2012). Nevertheless, the most important barriers to trade are non-tariff barriers such as standards. According to Movchan and Giucci (2011), at the end of 2010 only 25 percent of Ukrainian standards were harmonized with the EU standards. Additionally, in 2005 the EU granted Ukraine the market economy status. This recognition did not stop the use of commercial defence instruments such as anti-dumping measures imposed by the EU (six as of 2016, mainly for metal products) against certain Ukrainian products or safeguards measures (European Commission, n.d.).

Institutional Framework: Russia–Ukraine On December 8, 1991, Russia, Belarus and Ukraine signed the Belavezha Accords that declared the Soviet Union officially dissolved and created a new entity, the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS), which was the

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first among a multitude of initiatives taken by the former Soviet countries to re-integrate the area. The CIS was joined by the other nine former Soviet Union countries (except for the three Baltic states). However, the CIS has not achieved its main goals and remains a loose organization based on intergovernmental institutions with no binding powers. Soon after the formation of the CIS, relations between its Member States started to be regulated through various bilateral and multilateral agreements that were mainly focused on economic issues. However, Ukraine did not participate in any of the regional agreements that were initiated by Russia (White, 2000). One of the important factors defining the Russian–Ukrainian relationship is natural resources. Ukraine remains the main transit route of Russian gas to the EU market. Gas transit and prices are the most important reasons for conflict between the two parties. The energy disputes started in the 1990s when the Soviet Union broke up and continued in the 2000s and most recently in November 2015. Up until the new gas deal of 2009, Ukraine paid very low gas prices after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, highly subsidized by Russia, and, thus, it did not have much incentive to become more energy efficient or to diversify its energy sources/partners. In 2011 Ukraine took the first step towards becoming more energy efficient by acceding to the European Energy Community. Through this initiative, the EU aims to extend its internal energy market to South Eastern Europe and the Black Sea region, covering gas, electricity, security of supply, renewable energy, oil, energy efficiency, environment and competition. Trade Regime: Russia–Ukraine The trade regime within the CIS was established through a network of bilateral agreements, and, thus, Russia and Ukraine signed a FTA in 1993. The FTA was focused only on trade in goods and it was supposed to eliminate all duties and taxes that would impede trade between the two parties. However, the final agreement has included a long list of exempted goods such as sugar and tobacco products. Neither of the two countries was part of the WTO at the time, any trade conflict was solved through lengthy negotiations. In November 2005, an agreement was signed to remove the opt-outs over a certain period of time (2006 for Russia, 2010–2011 for Ukraine) (Szeptycki, 2008). In October 2011, a new CIS FTA was signed by most CIS members, including Russia and Ukraine, also covering only goods trade. The new agreement preserved the status quo, but postulated that trade in goods among the CIS countries will be governed by the WTO regulations (Movchan and Giucci, 2011). The non-tariff barriers are limited as both parties have mainly adopted standards from the Soviet period. The CIS FTA between Ukraine and Russia was suspended by Russia as of January 1, 2016, once Ukraine started to implement the DCFTA with the EU.

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Regional Integration Initiatives: Deep and Comprehensive Free Trade Area and Eurasian Custom Union8 The DCFTA represents one of the most ambitious bilateral trade agreements that the EU has initiated and it is part of the EU’s first generation of new trade agreements that provide commitments that go beyond the WTO, including the elimination of most tariff and non-tariff barriers to harmonization of human rights, labour standards and environmental protection. The DCFTA eliminates 99.1 percent of Ukrainian duties and 98.1 percent of the EU duties, including most of the industrial tariffs except for a few sectors which are conferred transitional periods (such as the Ukrainian automobile sector). In terms of agricultural products, significant quotas of dutyfree exports have been granted to Ukraine for cereals, pork, beef, poultry, dairy products and sugar, while others have been granted progressive elimination of custom duties by the EU over transitional periods of up to 10 years (European Commission, 2013). At the same time, Ukraine agreed with duties elimination on all EU agricultural products. Additionally, the EU’s agricultural export subsidies will be eliminated, while Ukraine’s export duties will be replaced with temporary surcharges on certain exports. Trade in services will be further liberalized (Movchan and Giucci, 2011). However, a distinctive characteristic of the DCFTA is its regulatory and institutional character, aimed at the harmonization of Ukraine’s regulations with EU rules in areas such as technical barriers to trade, sanitary and phytosanitary rules and intellectual property rights. Additional regulatory adjustments are expected in Ukraine’s competition policy, sustainable development, public procurement, and state aid (European Commission, 2013). Moving on to the Eurasian Customs Union (ECU), its origins are in the Customs Union formed by Russia, Belarus and Kazakhstan in 1995, which was joined by Kyrgyzstan in 1996 and Tajikistan in 1997. Once Vladimir Putin became president of Russia, he pushed for more regional integration and, thus, in October 2000 the Eurasian Economic Community (EurAsEc) agreement was signed in Astana by Russia, Belarus, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. The main goal of EurAsEc was the formation of a Single Market. The EurAsEc introduced a different and improved institutional framework compared to previous regional organizations formed in the area (Dragneva and Wolczuk, 2012). Russia, Belarus and Kazakhstan showed interest in moving on and forming the ECU. Thus, in December 2008, the EurAsEc Customs Union Commission, which was a supranational institution of the customs union, was established, being followed by the launching of a common customs tariff in January 2010 and a common Customs Code in July 2010 (Dragneva and Wolczuk, 2012). The three ECU members announced the intention of forming a single economic space, followed by an economic union, with the Eurasian Economic Union (EEU) being launched on January 1, 2015. Armenia acceded to the EEU on January 2, 2015 and Kyrgyzstan on August 12, 2015. Apart from a common tariff policy, the ECU envisioned the

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elimination of non-tariff barriers and harmonization of standards but only at the next level of regional integration. From an institutional perspective, ECU was clearly different from its predecessors with decisions of the Commission being legally binding and directly applicable and by having a dispute resolution mechanism. Until 2012, certain decisions of the Commission were taken based on qualified majority voting, with Russia having 57 percent of votes, while Belarus and Kazakhstan had 21.5 percent each. Sensitive decisions, such as determination of lists of sensitive goods and exemptions from the common tariff, still required consensus (Shumylo-Tapiola, 2012). Since 2012, when the ECU Commission was replaced by the Eurasian Economic Commission, the executive body of the new commission is formed of five representatives, one from each country, thus, all have an equal voice, at least formally (Dragneva and Wolczuk, 2012). Additionally, since Russia joined the WTO, the provisions of the WTO agreement became a part of the EEU’s legal framework, meaning that the WTO provisions will prevail if they conflict with the EEU’s provisions, including for Belarus which is not a WTO member. Costs and Benefits The economic benefits of deeper economic integration with the EU go hand in hand with political and institutional development. The most important economic benefits of deeper integration with the EU will be the outcome of trade and investment liberalization. The DCFTA with Ukraine will provide free access to the largest market in the world, which will result in increased mutual trade, while barriers to foreign direct investment (FDI) will be eliminated. Due to harmonization of regulatory and institutional standards, the risk of investment will decline due to a perceived increase in institutional stability and performance, thus attracting more FDI into Ukraine. Additionally, by harmonizing with EU standards, Ukraine will benefit in the long-run from an improved access to third parties’ markets due to an increase in the competitiveness of Ukrainian goods. Ukraine will benefit from exchange of knowledge, technology and ideas which result in increased productivity of capital and labour, increased business transparency and corporate accountability, and thus in economic modernization. Additionally, more diverse and better quality consumer goods and economies of scale could result in lower prices and transaction costs. Ukraine benefits as well from financial and technical assistance from the EU, which will continue while the DCFTA is implemented. All these economic benefits will result in economic growth and improved welfare in the long term. In terms of economic costs, the most important are related to the compliance with the EU acquis. The DCFTA envisions that Ukraine would implement approximately 80–90 percent of the trade-related acquis (Delcour and Wolczuk, 2013). The implementation of almost 100,000 pages of EU rules and regulations imposes important economic and social costs borne not

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only by the government, but also by non-state actors, such as businesses. Apart from the direct financial costs, the Western standards could deprive Ukraine of some of its comparative advantages. For example, new labour market regulations might kill jobs and increase labour costs or various Western standards of food production might push Ukrainian producers out of business. Additionally, the DCFTA will not provide free access to the EU’s sensitive sectors, the most important for Ukraine being the agricultural sector. An important cost of the DCFTA for Ukraine is the reaction from Russia. In July 2013, Russia imposed restrictive trade measures against Ukraine once it was clear that the AA and DCFTA would most probably be signed in November 2013. Most measures concerned agri-food products, but also manufactured goods and gas supplies. President Putin himself has warned that should Ukraine sign the AA and DCFTA with the EU, then Russia would have to impose safeguards to avoid the re-importation of European products in Russia through Ukraine (Åslund, 2013). Additionally, an important cost for Ukraine is the cancellation of the CIS FTA between Russia and Ukraine as a result of Russia’s perception of negative impacts of the DCFTA on the Russian economy. On the other hand, Ukraine was offered membership in the ECU/EEU with no political conditions or institutional changes attached. Even if this option is not under consideration any more, the question of whether the EEU represented a viable competitor to the DCFTA remains. The main immediate economic benefits for Ukraine of joining the EEU would have been free access to EEU members’ markets, especially the Russian market, and the opening of sensitive sectors, such as the agricultural sector. However, this benefit could also have been achieved through maintenance of the already signed FTA with the CIS countries. A second important benefit for Ukraine would have been reduced energy prices from Russia, a deal that Belarus is currently benefiting from under the EEU. It has been estimated that reduced gas prices could have resulted in up to US $8 billion in savings per year (Dragneva and Wolczuk, 2012). Had Ukraine joined the EEU, Russia had also promised Ukraine other forms of financial assistance, such as buying part of the Ukrainian state debt ($15 billion of financial aid in 2013). In exchange for these economic benefits, which would have had immediate effect, the costs of joining the EEU would have been significant for Ukraine in the long term. First, this would have involved the loss of an independent trade policy. Once a member of the EEU, Ukraine would not have been able to individually negotiate any FTAs with third parties, since the EEU Member States would have negotiated as a group. Given the reluctance of Russia and Belarus to sign any kind of agreement with the EU that would involve the implementation of any European standards/values, the probability of the EEU signing an FTA with the EU is slim. Thus, Ukraine would not have been able to realize its closer relations with the EU. Second, if Ukraine had joined the EEU, it would have had to revise its WTO commitments of bound tariffs. As the EEU has higher average import tariffs than the Ukrainian bound tariffs,

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Ukraine would have had to increase its tariffs; thus, the other WTO members would have been able to ask for compensation for the losses caused by the increase in tariffs. Higher tariffs would have resulted in more trade diversion from third parties. The impacts would have been important, especially in relation to chemicals, machinery and equipment, as higher tariffs would have reduced the amount of technology coming from third parties, thus not allowing the Ukrainian economy to follow its modernization path. Furthermore, all the Russian promises regarding lower gas prices and different versions of financial help are non-binding; Russia has shown in previous situations that it can adapt its policies depending on its political relations with the respective state. Another consideration is the economic viability of the EEU. The five member countries are different in terms of their economic interests and structures, with Kazakhstan, as Russia, being a large exporter of raw materials and Belarus having in place a Soviet-type economy with main exports being Soviet-type manufactured goods. The participation of Belarus in the EEU has not yielded important economic benefits, as already its access to the largest partner, Russia, was liberalized through previous agreements. China and Brazil are still more important as trade partners for Belarus than Kazakhstan. Additionally, Belarus’ accession to the EEU did not solve its trade disputes with Russia. The main benefit for Belarus is important discounts in energy prices as the Belarussian economy is 100 percent dependent on Russian gas and 85 percent on Russian oil (Frear, 2013). The accession of Kazakhstan to the EEU was even more questionable as trade between Russia and Kazakhstan has decreased since 1995. Furthermore, it hurt some Kazakh producers and consumers as their tariffs towards third parties were greatly increased (Kassenova, 2013). Regarding Armenia, despite the fact that the EU was the most important trading partner, Armenia is highly dependent on Russia from two perspectives, energy and security. Kyrgyzstan, on the other hand, did not have any other alternative on the table. The situation became even more complicated once Russia joined the WTO, since Belarus, a member of the EEU, is not a WTO member. This means that Belarus must open its borders for goods coming from the other WTO members, but it does not benefit from the same access to the WTO members’ markets. Thus, even if it is too early to assess, from initial evidence, the economic goals of the EEU are questionable. Quantitative Assessments The Ukrainian and European assessments of the costs and benefits of the two initiatives found much larger benefits from a scenario of deeper economic integration with the EU. At the opposite spectrum is the report by the Eurasian Development Bank (2012), which contradicts all other findings. Most of the studies have used computable general equilibrium models or standard gravity equation to assess and quantify the costs and benefits (CEPS, IFW

Computable general equilibrium

Movchan and Giucci

Source: summarized by author

Shepotylo

Eurasian Development Bank

Computable general equilibrium

IER

2012/Ukraine and the Customs Union. Comprehensive Assessment of the Macroeconomic Effects of Various Forms of Deep Economic Integration of Ukraine and the Member States of the Customs Union and the Common Economic Space 2013/Export Potential, Uncertainty, and Regional Integration: Choice of Trade Policy for Ukraine

Computable general equilibrium

ECORYS and CASE

2007/Trade Sustainability Impact Assessment of the Free Trade Area in the framework of the Enhanced Agreement between the EU and Ukraine 2010/Costs and Benefits of FTA between Ukraine and the European Union 2011/Quantitative Assessment of Ukraine’s Regional Integration Options: DCFTA with European Union vs. Customs Union with Russia, Belarus and Kazakhstan

Gravity model

Computable general equilibrium

CEPS, IFW and ICPS

2006/The Prospect of Deep Free Trade between the European Union and Ukraine

Method

Study/authors

Study/year, name

Table 7.1 Quantitative Studies

-FTA between EU and Ukraine: +36% in exports in long term -Ukraine joins ECU: +17.9% in exports in long term

-Simple FTA between EU and Ukraine: +1.3% in medium term and +4.6% in long term -DCFTA between EU and Ukraine: +4.3% in medium term and 11.8% in long term -Ukraine joins ECU: −0.5% in medium term and −3.7% in long term -DCFTA between EU and Ukraine: −1.5% GDP; +5% Ukrainian trade deficit -Ukraine joins ECU: +$12.2 billion/year = $219 billion between 2011 and 2030

Most benefits in medium and long terms Most costs in short and medium terms

-Possibility to double in long run -reduction in capital costs: additional + 4–5% -improvement of institutions: +20–30% GDP in long run Same results

+ 4–7%

Welfare impacts

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and ICPS, 2006; ECORYS and CASE, 2007; IER, 2010; Movchan and Giucci, 2011; Shepotylo, 2013), while the Eurasian Development Bank does not reveal or explain the authors’ methodology. Computable general equilibrium models are widely used in the analysis of the welfare impacts of preferential trade agreements, such as FTAs and CUs. However, they present a variety of important challenges that must be accounted for, such as lack of transparency, sensitivity to the user’s choices in terms of key parameters and a high degree of aggregation. At the same time, gravity models are popular empirical tools used in analyzing the impacts of various trade policy issues on bilateral trade flows between different geographic areas. They also have major limitations, such as difficulty in isolating the causes for the identified impacts and lack of theoretical underpinnings. Thus, when looking at the results obtained by the studies outlined in Table 7.1, these weaknesses must be kept in mind. Despite the results of the quantitative and qualitative analysis of the two initiatives, Ukraine still faced a hard economic decision, and, thus, the following section analyzes the position of the three parties, the EU, Russia and Ukraine, with the main scope of identifying the main mistakes that were made prior to the decision moment and what each side can do moving forward.

How and Why Did Ukraine Reach this Economic Situation? The EU’s Role The EU–Ukraine relationship has moved from low-binding agreements under the PCA to a strong, asymmetrical relationship under the AA and DCFTA. The latter have as important goals Ukraine’s regulatory convergence to rules and regulations established by the EU’s acquis. In this situation, the implementation of the acquis is not defined by the EU as a step toward EU accession, but is seen as a modernization tool (Delcour and Wolczuk, 2013). This situation poses difficulties for partner countries, as the agreements may not take adequate account of the constraints or financial burdens facing them. Additionally, the EU does not allow countries to opt out of reforms based on the structure of their economies, but rather provides limited financial and technical assistance. On the other hand, the EU is cautious in opening sectors that are considered sensitive by its Member States. For example, in the case of Ukraine, the DCFTA liberalizes EU–Ukraine agricultural trade only over a long transition period. Furthermore, the former Soviet Union states and, in particular Ukraine, represent special cases of strategic importance for both the EU and Russia, but mainly for Russia. The EU did not consider a possible reaction from Russia once negotiations for the DCFTA started. From an economic perspective, there are important aspects the EU should consider when dealing with countries in the region. First are their economic relations with Russia. For example, Russia is still one of Ukraine’s most

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important trading partners. Compared to the Central and Eastern European and Baltic countries, which have re-oriented their trade towards the EU, the former Soviet states still trade significantly among themselves. Second is the structure of the partner economies. Ukrainian exports are mainly intermediate goods and raw materials (Shepotylo, 2013). Demand for Ukrainian machinery is much weaker in the EU when compared to Russia due to lower quality and different standards of production. Additionally, once Ukraine harmonizes its standards with EU standards, it might lose its competitive advantage, which is based on low production costs. Another potential technical obstacle is that the EU uses ‘CEN-CENELEC’ standards,9 while the EEU uses ‘GOST’10 standards. Trade with the EEU countries may become more difficult once European standards are required for Ukraine, as some Ukrainian goods might require supplementary certification before their export to EEU markets. The picture looks the same for imports. Russia is the most important exporter market, and the Ukrainian economy is still highly energy inefficient and, thus, dependent on Russia. Further steps were taken by the Ukrainian government to reduce that dependence, but this is a long-term goal. Third, the Ukrainian economy is highly affected by trade sanctions imposed by Russia, including the cancellation of Ukrainian benefits under the CIS FTA. Trilateral meetings involving Russia took place only after the DCFTA was signed and Russia threatened to cancel the CIS FTA with Ukraine. Unfortunately, these meetings came too late and they were unsuccessful. What can the EU do now to improve the situation? A staged implementation of the DCFTA would allow Ukraine to transform its sectors one by one, beginning with those that will not affect trade with Russia, will impose the least costs on Ukraine’s budget, and will bring the most benefits. Additionally, trilateral negotiations should continue in a transparent manner and closer scrutiny of Russian objections to the DCFTA, especially regarding the adoption of EU standards, should be undertaken. Negotiations between the EU and the EEU regarding recognition of technical standards would be a first step in the right direction. This might result in better economic relations with Russia, which are of a great importance, especially for the Eastern regions and certain industries that are among the most competitive ones in Ukraine. The EU could increase direct investment and financial assistance in particularly sensitive sectors, such as shale gas exploration, to reduce Ukraine’s long-term dependence on Russia. Russia’s Role Moving on to Russia’s policy towards Ukraine, Ukrainian and Western elites perceive it to be primarily driven by political motivations rather than by economic interests. Through its actions, Russia has undermined its international image and has suffered economic losses due to economic sanctions imposed by the West. Additionally, Russian policies toward Ukraine have contributed to a destabilization of the Ukrainian economy; in this situation,

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Western financial help is necessary to prevent Ukraine from defaulting on its loans. In fact, Ukraine has already defaulted on $3 billion of Russian debt. Thus, Russia is negatively impacted by the economic fragility of Ukraine. What are the Russian economic interests in Ukraine? First, Russia has been highly dependent on Ukraine for gas transit to the EU, the most important consumer of Russian gas. However, the situation is changing due to the construction of the Blue Stream (2005) pipeline, the Nord Stream (2011–2012) pipeline and the future Turkish Stream. The latter was announced in December 2014 once the South Stream project was cancelled by Russia. These three new pipelines avoid Ukraine, thus reducing Russian dependency on Ukraine as a gas transit country. In terms of energy, Ukraine also represents an important consumer market for Russia and disputes regarding pricing and debt levels have impacted the relationship for a long time. However, the perception that the DCFTA would jeopardize their energy cooperation in any way is not supported by evidence. Second, for Russia, Ukraine represented the third most important trading partner, after the EU28 and China in 2013 (Russian Federation Federal State Statistics Service, 2013). However, its importance has declined due to Ukraine’s general economic decline and Russian sanctions on Ukraine, with Ukraine being the 12th trading partner for Russia in 2015. The explanation for the sanctions given by the Russian politicians, including President Putin, is that the DCFTA would facilitate European goods entering Russia/EEU through Ukraine at preferential tariffs, given that Ukraine would be involved in an FTA with both sides (DCFTA and CIS FTA). However, under WTO rules, this is dealt with by imposing strict rules of origin. The EU, Ukraine and Russia are all WTO members, while the EEU follows the WTO rules, meaning that the participation of each of the three parties in multiple FTAs is coordinated through rules of origin, and safeguards or import restrictions would not be justified unless the rules of origin are not followed. Porous borders in the region are a plausible scenario; however, coordination of border controls with EU help would be a feasible solution. Additionally, Russia complains that once Ukraine implements the EU technical standards and Sanitary and Phytosanitary (SPS) norms, trade will be affected and Russia will incur additional costs. However, countries do face different standards when involved in multiple regional agreements. Ukrainian producers will be able to produce for both markets under different standards if it is a profitable strategy. According to the DCFTA, they will have to produce according to the EU standards only for the domestic and the EU market. At the same time, the three parties, the EU, Ukraine and EEU, could negotiate mutual recognition of standards and cooperate in their enforcement. Thirdly, Russia complains about increased competition for its products from more competitive European producers in the Ukrainian market. However, this is not a reason accepted by the WTO for imposing trade restrictions. The import restrictions imposed by Russia from July 2013 do not comply with the WTO rules, hurting Russia’s international image only one year after

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its WTO accession. Additionally, starting on January 2016, Russia cancelled its CIS FTA with Ukraine once the DCFTA started to be implemented. What can Russia do now to smooth economic relations between the two parties? Trilateral negotiations offer the best prospect for a positive outcome. Russia would need to accept implementation of the DCFTA, at least in sectors that are not of importance to Russia. A re-opening of the CIS FTA with Ukraine would bring important gains to both parties. Russia’s economic future is still dependent on Western technology, which is highly restricted through Western sanctions. Additionally, an economically unstable Ukraine can have contagion effects. Ukraine’s Role Does Ukraine carry any responsibility for the crisis, or is it simply a victim of EU–Russia competition? Ukraine has placed itself in a vulnerable economic position, even after more than 20 years of economic transition and independence. Effective institutions have been identified as an important factor for successful economic transition from a centrally planned to a market economic system (Popov, 2007). According to Myant and Drahokoupil (2011), Ukraine has developed an oligarchic or clientelistic type of capitalism, characterized by strong links between business and politics, with low levels of investment due to a poor institutional environment and inadequate enforcement of property rights. Thus, private property is not protected by sound market-based institutions and expropriation of private assets by political elites is always a threat. Since independence in 1991, Ukraine has repeatedly tried to play off the two sides. Even though EU accession has been the declared goal since the 1990s, the actions taken by successive Ukrainian governments were not necessarily in line with the specified objective. By oscillating between the two parties, depending on the benefits offered, Ukraine did not choose the best long-term strategy. What can Ukraine do now? Ukraine should focus on reforms that will result in macroeconomic stability, to create an economic environment that will attract investment in sectors that are highly impacted by the current crisis. Ukraine should be open to trilateral negotiations, allowing Russia to express its concerns in a peaceful manner. Additionally, Ukraine should press for a staged implementation of the DCFTA until macroeconomic stability is achieved.

Conclusions In 2013 Ukraine was still faced with an economic choice between the signing of the DCFTA with the EU or acceding to Russian pressure to join the EEU (ECU at the time). The choice offered was asymmetric, as by signing the DCFTA with the EU Ukraine could still be involved in the CIS FTA with Russia, but by joining the ECU/EEU Ukraine would have been deprived of the possibility of signing the DCFTA with the EU. However, due to Russian

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concerns which were perceived by Ukraine and the Western community as being political and not economic, Russia cancelled the CIS FTA with Ukraine once the implementation of the DCFTA started in 2016. A DCFTA with the EU was perceived by Ukraine as a first step towards EU accession, however, this was not supported or declared on any occasion by the EU. Research has shown that a DCFTA with the EU would have mainly medium and long-term benefits from economic modernization and short-term costs mainly explained by convergence to European standards. Accession to ECU/EEU would have short-term benefits from gas price discounts and financial support from Russia and long-term costs explained by constraints on Ukraine’s trade policy and, thus, reduced opportunities for strong relations with the EU. Analysis of both options reveals that a partnership between the three parties was and still is the best solution for Ukraine’s long term economic stability. A first step towards achieving this goal is to establish the compatibility between the two trade agreements, the DCFTA and CIS FTA (and possibly the EEU), including in relation to standards of production. A second step would be a future free trade agreement between the two regional unions, the EU and the EEU. This could take the pressure off third parties, like Ukraine, that are not part of either union. However, to achieve this outcome, economic, political and security relations should be treated separately; perhaps successful negotiations in one policy field will have spillovers in other policy arenas.

Notes 1 A free trade agreement (FTA) is a cooperation between two or more countries to reduce or eliminate trade barriers with the main goal of increasing trade between the parties involved in the agreement. Originally, FTAs focused only on reducing tariffs and import quotas for trade in goods. However, as trade in services and foreign investment increased and non-trade barriers became the most important barriers to trade, FTAs started to include all aspects that affect international business. A free trade area defines a region whose member countries signed an FTA. 2 A customs union (CU) is an agreement between two or more countries to trade freely among themselves (thus a free trade agreement) and to have a common external tariff towards non-member countries. 3 An economic union or a single market is an agreement between two or more countries to trade freely among themselves (free trade agreement), to have a common external tariff towards non-member countries (custom union agreement) and to have the four freedoms of movement of goods, services, capital and labour. 4 Russian oil processed in Belarus. 5 Donetsk region is the second richest in Ukraine after the capital city in per capita GDP (Figure 7.5). 6 According to the State Statistics Service of Ukraine, data for the national GDP are presented with the temporarily occupied territory of the Autonomous Republic of Crimea and the city of Sevastopol for the period 2010–2013, while since 2014, the data exclude the temporarily occupied territories of the Autonomous Republic of Crimea, the city of Sevastopol and occupied regions from eastern Ukraine. 7 The priorities for the 2007–2013 assistance period were represented by democracy and good governance; a fully functioning market economy; market and regulatory reform; justice, freedom and security; improvements in realizing energy efficiency and

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tackling climate change; an increase in transport efficiency, security and safety; upgrades to the education system, including convergence with the EU standards; and increased scientific and technological cooperation (European Commission, 2014a). 8 The Eurasian Customs Union (ECU) ceased to exist on January 1, 2015 when it was incorporated into the Eurasian Economic Union (EEU). The two names are used interchangeably. 9 CEN is the European Committee for Standardization and CENELEC the European Committee for Electrotechnical Standardization; hence CEN-CENELEC represents the European standards. 10 GOST represents the set of technical standards maintained by the Euro-Asian Council for Standardization, Metrology and Certification (EASC) for the Commonwealth of Independent States.

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EU–Russia Relations and the Unravelling of the European Security Regime in the Context of the Ukraine Crisis Maria Raquel Freire and Licínia Simão1

Introduction: Regimes and European Security In this chapter we use the concept of international regimes, as defined by Krasner, to analyse the transformations occurring in the European security regime, which we see grounded in the principles established with the Helsinki Final Act. Regimes are defined by Stephen Krasner as ‘sets of implicit or explicit principles, norms, rules, and decision-making procedures around which actor expectations converge in a given area of international relations’ (Krasner, 1983, p. 2). They are ‘more specialized arrangements that pertain to well-defined activities, resources, or geographical areas and often involve only some subset of the members of international society’ (Young, 1989, p. 13). Regimes thus allow us to study structured patterns of cooperation within different areas in international affairs, which may fall short of full institutionalisation into international organisations.2 Despite critiques, this definition favours the development of comparisons among regimes as well as the analysis of regime change (Hasenclever et al., 2000, pp. 12–13), with the latter being particularly relevant for our study of security relations in Europe between the European Union and Russia. Thus, we use the principles, norms, rules and institutions that form the European security regime, consolidated with the signing of the Helsinki Final Act in 1975, as the measures against which to assess regime change in European security. We perceive this as a fundamental step in analysing the strong dissonance between the EU and Russia regarding security matters, understandings about democratic principles, and the relevance of trust in any inclusive regional security regime. The development of regimes on specific issue areas presupposes the ability to move beyond short-term interest calculations towards a commitment to a general obligation, based on shared principles and norms. Thus, even if interest calculations change, altering rules and procedures, the regime may survive if the fundamental principles and norms are maintained (Krasner, 1983, p. 3). When discussing the basis of the existing security regime in Europe and the perceived impact of the changes that occurred over the last decades, it is fundamental to understand the extent to which these changes question the principles of the regime or reflect instead a shift in the structures

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of governance.3 Many times, the understanding of whether changes in rules and practices jeopardise the underlying principles and norms, or whether they are changes only at the procedural level is open to interpretation and discussion among the participants in the regime, and dependent on power imbalances. As Russia and the EU become central actors in post-Cold War European security, their views on the stability of the security regime need to be reconciled in order to understand whether the principles structuring the regime are still recognised as valid, or whether they have irrevocably been put into question. The study of regime transformation has addressed these concerns, namely by studying how regimes are impacted by changes in context, including the emergence of new relevant actors in a given field, or, by technological innovations that render the previous rules obsolete. Oran Young (1989, pp. 98– 101) has put forward a useful distinction between spontaneous, negotiated and imposed orders, to understand how transformation occurs in each of these contexts. Of specific interest to our analysis are the negotiated orders. These can be divided into constitutional contracts and legislative bargains (Young, 1989, pp. 99–100), where the former is defined as arrangements in which those subject to the regime participate in defining them. This strikes us as a particularly important element in the analysis of the European security regime as consolidated with the Helsinki Final Act, which established the Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE) in 1975, later institutionalised into the Organization for Security and Cooperation Europe (OSCE).4 This agreement contributed to a negotiated order, agreed by the United States, the Soviet Union and all European states, where all were represented at the same level (one state one vote) and where all had to collectively agree on issues (decision making by unanimity), thus highly increasing its legitimacy. As no order, even if negotiated, is immune to power imbalances, however, this agreement and the evolving security regime that it sustained also reflect the specific context of bipolarity, in which the two superpowers commanded greater influence over the process. This imbalance of power is particularly visible in the context of the Soviet Republics, which became independent only in 1991, and thus lacked the ability to actively contribute to the principles sustaining the regime since the 1970s. The development of this European security regime has been contentious and filled with contradictions. The permanence of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) after the end of the Cold War has contributed to tensions between the Euro-Atlantic and the pan-European security arrangements within the regime. This state of affairs hampers the very foundations for trust, limiting the redesign of European security in an inclusive logic. Moreover, the OSCE’s downgrading in this institutional security architecture, with a clear prevalence of NATO as the provider of Western security (including Turkey), constitutes an important element in the reconfiguration of European security. It further reflects the shifts in power perceptions in the post-Cold War era. The new order, with a more prominent role of Western institutions in which

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Russia does not fully participate, has been to a great extent imposed on Russia, with NATO’s reinvention being here the best illustration. In this light, Russia’s active contestation of the institutions, norms and to some extent, the principles sustaining the European security regime may be read as a tactical device to force the renegotiation of the security regime in more equal terms. Whatever changes may occur in European security these will certainly reflect shifts in power. This chapter seeks to analyse the divergent understandings of security which the Helsinki Final Act reconciled in innovative ways and to trace their evolution in order to understand how these differing perceptions of different actors have remained unresolved, despite the establishment of common rules. Our analysis is guided by Oran Young’s (1989, p. 111) categories of factors inducing change, namely shifts in power structures, internal contradictions and exogenous factors. These categories are mutually constitutive and interdependent and this needs to be taken into account in the analysis of the European security regime. In the management of the post-Cold War security regime in Europe, Russia’s marginal position in European security and its attempts at reaffirmation are fundamental elements in this structural power shift. The profound differences in the nature of the actors involved, namely Russia and the EU,5 and of their self-perceptions, in the context before and after the annexation of Crimea, reinforce divergent positions and associated internal contradictions in the prevailing security regime. Exogenous elements, such as the Global War on Terror after 9/11, have interacted with the structural shifts in power mentioned before and with internal contradictions inherent in the principles of the Helsinki Final Act, creating nodules of tension, as evidenced in Georgia in 2008 and in Ukraine in 2014. The extent to which these tensions amount to a fundamental questioning of the principles of the regime, or instead reflect much needed adjustments in governance structures, is the major issue we seek to address.

Consolidation versus Erosion: What European Security Regime? The security regime in Europe has been broadly conceived, including the progressive 1975 Helsinki Final Act, following a wide understanding of security, reaching much farther than military security – which was dominant throughout the Cold War period – into human and environmental security, for example. The norms and principles established in the Final Act, particularly the Decalogue,6 can be perceived to form the normative core for a CSCE/OSCE regional cooperative security regime. At a time of bipolar rivalry this institutional mechanism provided a forum for dialogue on regional security, broadly conceived, between both blocs. Although the formation of regimes in the field of security is perceived by the literature as ‘very hard’ or difficult (Peterson, 2012), sectoral agreements were established, including the Nuclear Non-proliferation Regime and arms control treaties, such as the Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty (ABM) and the Treaty on Conventional Armed

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Forces in Europe, as well as Confidence Building Measures (CBMs), mechanisms for reporting on substantive military manoeuvres or redeployment of forces, and the monitoring of compliance including through on-site inspections. Thus, the CSCE/OSCE itself is, since its inception, a formal part of the European security regime, alongside NATO and the then-European Communities.7 The subsequent revisions and adaptations of the OSCE-based security regime sought to accommodate the new political realities in Europe but also created new inconsistencies within the regime. The most important revisions included: a) the 1990 Paris Charter, symbolically marking the end of the Cold War; b) the 1992 Helsinki conclusions, establishing cooperative mechanisms between the CSCE, NATO and the Western European Union on peacekeeping; c) the Budapest Declaration of 1994, enlarging the scope of action of the organisation to conflict prevention and crisis management; and d) the Istanbul commitments (1999) setting out a security concept for Europe, rooted in the principle of common and comprehensive security, and in the indivisible nature of the human, economic, political and military dimensions of security. With these revisions, however, inconsistencies gradually became visible following the end of the Cold War, particularly relevant to Russia’s relations with Western states and institutions. One of the first contentious issues undermining the strength of the security regime had to do with the ratification of the Treaty on Conventional Armed Forces in Europe (CFE). The CFE Treaty, signed on November 19, 1990, has been a reference point for security in Europe by setting thresholds for conventional military equipment and implying CBMs regarding military manoeuvres, for example. The Treaty was revised after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, allowing the deployment of larger quantities of military equipment in the North Caucasus, in particular due to the wars in Chechnya. Nevertheless, the ceilings agreed were not considered excessive and still respected the agreement’s rationale for limiting conventional forces. At the CSCE Istanbul summit in 1999, an Adaptation Agreement was signed trying to address the new geostrategic situation in Europe almost a decade after the end of the Soviet Union. At the time, Moscow committed to withdrawing military forces from Moldova and Georgia, where, nonetheless, it still has operational military bases,8 understood as violating the security regime. However, and despite some dislocation of troops and equipment from these military bases, Russia did not fulfil the compromise and the Treaty ended up not being ratified by NATO countries. Another element of pressure on the CFE, as a fundamental building block of the European security regime, was NATO’s intervention in Yugoslavia at the end of the 1990s. Besides Russia’s enduring antagonism towards the Atlantic alliance, Moscow argued that the 1999 NATO bombardments, without a United Nations’ mandate, constituted a fundamental breach of what it perceived as the structuring elements of the European security regime. These included the principle of non-intervention in international affairs, and

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thus the respect for the primacy of state sovereignty. In response, and after failed attempts at finding a common view, Russia suspended unilaterally its participation in the CFE Treaty in July 2007 (President of Russia, 2007). This decision might have been reinforced by the difficult context in Russia–West relations at the time, namely due to NATO enlargement and US plans for the deployment of components of a missile defence shield in Europe (The White House, 2011). Despite the CFE Treaty’s limited provisions, it nevertheless contributed to mutual assurance and confidence. However, considering the importance of trust in regime effectiveness, both these security-military disagreements and the post-Cold War fundamental power shifts have contributed to regime inconsistency. The current stand-still regarding the ratification of the CFE Treaty represents an important element unravelling the security regime. As mentioned before, this regime has also been affected by internal contradictions, namely between the principles of territorial integrity and selfdetermination. Such a contradiction at this fundamental level has meant that many of the rules and institutions designed to sustain the regime have furthered this contradiction rather than resolving it, creating very tangible tensions over Kosovo, Abkhazia, South Ossetia, Transnistria and Nagorno-Karabakh. Tensions over the balance between sovereignty, on the one hand, and democracy and human rights, on the other, have also contributed to the escalation of problems. As argued by Sjursen (2006, p. 176), ‘the EU has been a particularly active normative entrepreneur at the security level, by pursuing the spread of norms and values and/or emphasi[ng] non-military instruments in foreign policy’. This results in new challenges to the Westphalian order, namely by making human rights a ‘core reference for security policy, supplementing the principle of territorial sovereignty’ (Sjursen, 2006, p. 176). Internal contradictions are also visible in the articulation of security mechanisms and institutions in Europe such as the EU’s Common Foreign and Security Policy (CFSP), NATO and the OSCE, in the duplication of competencies among these different actors and in turf wars among them. This is particularly complicated by Russia’s limited or non-existent role in these institutions, such as in the Russia–NATO Council and the EU. Also, affecting this regime are exogenous factors, including new sources of insecurity, such as transnational terrorism and organised crime. These have undermined the democratic principles of Western societies and in their own terms question the structure of the European security regime, while also eventually suggesting new avenues for transnational cooperation, including new cooperative mechanisms between the EU and Russia. The three categories of factors inducing change (shifts in power structures, internal contradictions and exogenous factors) are identified by Young (1989, p. 111) as not being mutually exclusive and often influencing each other. Any assessment of the changes affecting the European security regime needs to address the interactions between elements in the three categories, and acknowledge the varying importance of each set of factors. European security does

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not, therefore, take place in a hermetic way, and the context where EU–Russia security relations develop, as well as the internal and external challenges they face, the need to be taken into account.

An Evolving European Security Regime: Shifts and Balances in EU–Russia Relations Although the Helsinki Final Act was not signed by the European Communities (EC), due to the Soviet Union’s opposition, its Member States closely coordinated their positions, first through the European Political Cooperation instrument; also, the Italian Prime Minister, holding the Presidency of the Council of the European Communities, signed the Final Act on behalf of Italy and the EC in 1975 (Urwin, 1999, p. 93). In 1990 and 1999, the thenpresidents of the European Commission signed two other fundamental treaties in the European security regime, namely the Charter of Paris for a New Europe and the Charter for European Security (Pavlyuk, 2013, p. 283). On these occasions the EC’s and then the EU’s commitment to being a central part of the developing security regime, both conceptually and operationally, was made clear. In fact, discussions leading up to the CSCE summit in Istanbul in 1999 on how the different pan-European institutions should coordinate towards the goal of peace and security in Europe, further illustrate the divergent perspectives gradually being formulated between the Russian Federation and the European Union. Sensing a declining role for the OSCE in European security, Russia argued in favour of a division of labour among institutions such as the EU, NATO and the Council of Europe (CoE), while acknowledging the overriding responsibility of the OSCE in this field. The EU, on the other hand, by 1994, had put forward the idea of a Platform for Cooperative Security, which was approved by the OSCE participating states in Istanbul (1999) as the operational component of the Charter for European Security (Pavlyuk, 2013, p. 283). The Platform for Co-operative Security, practically defining some form of articulation between the OSCE and other security organisations in Europe, like the EU, NATO and the Collective Security Treaty Organisation (CSTO),9 still sought to commit the participating states to ‘the OSCE’s concept of common, comprehensive and indivisible security and a common security space free of dividing lines’ (OSCE 1999). However, the establishment of less inclusive institutions, with expanding mandates, can hardly be reconciled with the broad and inclusive perspective on security put forward in the OSCE’s fundamental documents. At a practical level, both the EU and NATO have gradually expanded their operational responsibilities in European security as well as in the areas of action they cover. The way the EU defines itself as a security actor, both as a producer and a product of security, has implications in its capabilities with immediate reflex in its actions. The EU’s security actorness has been defined broadly, ranging from early warning and preventive diplomacy to conflict

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transformation and peacebuilding, and from civilian approaches to military ones in responding to insecurity. NATO enlarged the reach of its agenda and scope of action to encompass new geographies, new political dimensions and a far-reaching understanding of security/insecurity. The CSCE/OSCE has been marginalised in this process. Despite having reinvented itself in the post-Cold War setting, its central features remained simultaneously its weakness and its strength: consensus decision-making, no legally binding decisions (just politically binding), and no military apparatus or economic resources with which to place itself as a strong institution in the new security architecture. Despite attempts at reinforcing the OSCE’s format, progress has been limited. For example, the Panel of Eminent Persons, created at the end of 2004 to reflect on the transformations needed in the face of the changed European context, concluded mainly with a strong recommendation on the development of collective procedures for dealing with protracted conflicts. The Corfu Process, initiated after the 2008 Georgia war, was an informal process seeking to rebuild ties among the parties; it led dialogue forward, but a road map for implementation was never agreed. The reform agenda is currently part of the so-called V-to-V Dialogues, pushing forward the Helsinki +40 process. However, the crisis in Ukraine halted the whole process, questioning once more the role of the OSCE as the pillar of the security regime in Europe. As a result, the then-Chairperson-in-Office, Didier Burkhalter from Switzerland, launched the Panel of Eminent Persons on European Security as a Common Project (Ministerial Council in Basel, December 2014). On the agenda were issues such as rebuilding trust on shared principles and commitment of Member States to these, mapping threats in the OSCE area and possible responses, enhancing co-operative security, and equipping the OSCE to better respond to ongoing conflicts and situations such as Ukraine (Tanner, 2015). These issues seem to suggest that the principles sustaining the European security regime are still valid and that the institutional architecture needs a reinforced commitment by participating states. The Report on ‘Lessons Learned for the OSCE from its Engagement in Ukraine’ (OSCE, 2015b) clearly demonstrates how differences in understanding prevail between Russia and the West, and that reaching common ground is far from easy.10 Throughout the Interim Report, the Russian representative in the Panel, Sergei Karaganov,11 added several remarks detaching himself from the Panel’s position, specifically in reference to the ‘annexation of Crimea’. Karaganov also stated that the difficult state of relations between Russia and the West ‘reminds us of the worst days of the Cold War’ and suggested that the OSCE’s Secretary General ‘could fall prey to prejudices or blackmail’ (Karaganov, 2015). These examples clearly demonstrate how, despite various efforts, the OSCE has been unable to promote integrated dialogue and become a fundamental voice in European security issues. The Russian expert made clear the OSCE’s limits, while also reconsidering its eventual role in the face of events in Ukraine. But his wording does

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not dismiss how the OSCE has become marginalised in European security and the implications of this. The marginalisation of the OSCE created two important problems in the European security regime. First is the associated marginalisation of Russia as a partner and interlocutor in European security; neither the EU–Russia Strategic Partnership, nor the North-Atlantic Cooperation Council have reached significant results as forums for coordination and mutual consultation with Moscow, as they set out to be. Russia’s marginalisation reflects the post-Cold War structural power shifts and Russia’s inability to reaffirm itself as an equal partner in the negotiated order sustaining the European security regime. Second, the important balance at the heart of the OSCE, between human rights, democratic principles, sovereignty and non-intervention, for instance, has been replaced by what can be perceived as an EU and NATO-led interventionist agenda, promoting liberal peace as the only means towards peace in Europe (Freire and Simão, 2016, p. 58). This imbalance reflects the internal contradictions inherent in the principles of the regime, and has been reinforced by the shifts of power taking place in Europe as well as the exogenous conditions facilitating such an EU and NATO global interventionist agenda, undermining sovereignty and non-interference in internal affairs. Thus, it becomes obvious that both at the level of the structures of governance (rules and institutions) and of the principles, the European security regime became increasingly challenged in this process.

EU and Russian Understandings of Security: What’s in a Concept? In order to understand the diverging positions of the EU and Russia on the European security regime, it is fundamental to explore the conceptualisation that each brings in defining security and how it can be pursued. The EU’s vision of regional security is hard to grasp, partly due to the Union’s unique political features. The EU’s history of peace through functional cooperation has been a powerful driver of its very own conceptualisation of regional security for the broader European continent. However, there is no clear definition shared among the Member States on what security means. Thus, the understanding of security within the EU has been very much constructed through the identification of threats, the creation of mechanisms to address these threats, many times in a reactive manner, and building on liberal democratic principles. In fact, the fundamental principles of the EU are clearly listed in the Treaties as forming the basis of interstate and social relations within the organisation, as well as the compass for the EU’s engagement with other actors in the international system. These liberal principles include democracy, human rights and rule of law, and functioning market economies, which seek to promote interdependence and prosperity through trade. This approach dates back to the very own founding project of the European Communities where economic integration dynamics were understood as a driver for peace. In the European context, the promotion of these values is

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particularly evident, as the EU’s enlargements and its neighbourhood policy have extended not only the EU’s governance structures throughout the European continent, but also its normative conceptions of regional peace and security rooted in these principles. As argued by Hintermeier (2008), the evolution of the EU’s conceptions of security remains difficult to grasp, namely because the EU lacked a clear policy document in this field until the European Security Strategy of 2003 (European Council, 2003). And this reference document still does not provide a shared definition of security. In the absence of such a collective understanding, different conceptions of security emerged both from the various institutional actors and among EU Member States. The European Commission has favoured a broader understanding of security, including economics, alongside development and political issues, whereas EU Member States within the Council tend to follow a narrower view focused on conflict and crisis management, in the framework of the CFSP and the Common Security and Defence Policy (CSDP). Partly reflecting the institutional development of the Union as a security actor, which relied mainly on the European Commission’s tools to promote stability (focusing on political and economic reforms), and which saw a slow development of foreign policy and defence tools, EU policies have naturally preferred a view of regional security that is structural, that is, in line with the Commission’s focus on reforms; this has been made clear by EU enlargements and the EU’s neighbourhood policy. Accordingly, our understanding of the defining moments of the European security regime needs to also include EU and NATO enlargements and their respective policies of proximity, the Eastern Partnership (EaP) and the Partnership for Peace (PfP), respectively, as major tools for the promotion of reforms and exporting and reinforcing the EU’s external governance (Lavenex and Schimmelfennig, 2009). Similarly, the 2016 Global Strategy on Foreign and Security Policy for the European Union (European Commission and High Representative of the EU for Foreign Affairs and Security Policy, 2016), the fundamental document guiding EU action worldwide, reinforces a comprehensive view of security, including development and humanitarian action, but highlighting defence issues more prominently and making this a priority area for EU development. The structural transformations promoted by these external policies of the EU and NATO, as well as their increasing attention to hard security issues, embed and symbolise important geopolitical shifts in Europe, by altering these countries’ strategic calculations vis-à-vis Western institutions and Russia. The conceptualisation of security in Russia has, to a large extent, retained the traditional hard-security tone, emphasising military power, but adding other descriptors to the concept with mention of energy, food, and environmental security, for example. In contrast to the EU, where the finding of a common definition of security has been difficult, in Russia the 2000 National Security Concept refers to:

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This wording has remained consistent, with the 2015 Russian National Security Strategy (RNSS 2015, paragraph 6) underlining the linkage between the rights of citizens, sustainable economic development and the traditional values of ‘sovereignty, independence, state and territorial integrity’. Nevertheless, the new document broadens the concept of security in a clearer way to address ‘all types of security envisioned by the Russian Federation Constitution and Russian Federation legislation – primarily state, public, informational, environmental, economic, transportation, and energy security and individual security’. The inclusion of culture, education, and science and technology, for example, as part of the sphere of national security, besides more traditional concerns, emphasises a shift in security readings. This does not mean, however, that traditional security is losing ground. In fact, the document refers to ‘militarization and arms race processes’ (RNSS 2015, paragraph 14), and re-emphasises NATO’s enlargement and policies as a major threat to Russia’s national security. The identification of diversified threats to Russia’s security leads to a listing of military and non-military measures to respond to current challenges, while also clearly linking internal development in different spheres (economic, cultural, social) to external security, by addressing issues such as corruption or ideological use of systems of communication and information, among others (RNSS 2015, paragraph 43). Despite this broader approach to national security, just as in the Soviet period, the military dimension of security remains relevant for post-Cold War Russia. NATO is the main provider of Western security and Russia understands NATO enlargement as its main external threat. Therefore, military modernisation is understood as a necessary means to assure Russia’s survival. Despite the recession that the Russian economy has been undergoing since the 2008 financial crisis, and the budget cuts it has introduced, amounting in general to up to 10% across the budget’s issue-areas, the area of military investment is the one where cuts were less severe with just a 5% decline (Stratfor, 2016; Reuters, 2016). The aftermath of Russia’s annexation of Crimea implied sanctions, an inflamed rhetoric in some EU and NATO members about the ‘Russian threat’ and demands for bigger NATO deployments in the Baltic states. These had the dual effect of raising confidence in these countries and raising distrust in Russia. Feeding into the ‘encirclement’ discourse, these moves have allowed military build-up on both sides: EU-NATO countries and Russia. Moscow has been putting forward its own vision of a more inclusive security order. This became evident before the crisis in Ukraine, namely in

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Russia’s October 1999 Medium Term Strategy for Development of Relations with the European Union, and later with the European Security Treaty Proposal advanced by then-president Dmitry Medvedev in 2008 (The Kremlin, 2009; RFE/RL, 2009). This proposal in particular helps us grasp the Russian understandings of what the European security architecture should look like, as mentioned above. The European Security Treaty Proposal was advanced as a European-inclusive security pact, which was even called ‘Helsinki II’ (Lo, 2009), remembering the principles of cooperative security as drafted back in 1975. But it was at the same time a recognition of the limits of the OSCE and of the need to bring forward something new as Russia became disappointed with the OSCE’s limitations and sought to signal its frustrations by blocking decisions. This happened for example with regards to the non-extension of the OSCE Border Monitoring Operation to Georgia, in 2005. Announced by then-President Medvedev in Berlin, in June 2008, the European Security Treaty was described as a proposal to bring together all actors contributing/ subject to European security. It is fundamental to set the context for this step, as Russian–United States relations were particularly at a very low point. NATO enlargement, and the Bush administration’s policies in particular, contributed to a tense relationship with Moscow. In Medvedev’s words: Our predecessors ( … ) managed to draw up the Helsinki Final Act ( … ), and so why should we not be able to take the next step today? Namely, drafting and signing a legally binding treaty on European security in which the organizations currently working in the Euro-Atlantic area could become parties. (Medvedev cited in Van Herpen, 2008, p. 1) But it was also stated that ‘absolutely all European countries should take part in this summit as individual countries, leaving aside any allegiances to blocs or other groups’ (Medvedev cited in Van Herpen, 2008, p. 3). This would allow a less-NATO oriented security architecture that Moscow has long been favouring. The proposal does not question the fundamental principles of the security regime as outlined, on the basis of the Helsinki Final Act, but does question the actors involved in regime implementation, with a strong focus on NATO’s role. This implies the security regime norms are not highly contested and that the focus of criticism revolves around procedures for participation in the regime, namely the need for an inclusive approach towards Russia in decision-shaping and making. Medvedev’s initial proposal was reinforced at his speech at Evian the following October, though details became clearer with the draft advanced in November 2009. Nevertheless, at the time, references made to the participation of China in this new regime raised concerns mainly with regard to the Euro-Atlantic nature of the proposal, which did not seem to clearly match this extended invitation. It was understood by some as seeking to give a more

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prominent role to the CSTO and the Shanghai Cooperation Organization (SCO) within the security architecture (Van Herpen, 2008, p. 2), and in this way to diminish, or at least counterbalance, the role of NATO in it. Overall, the proposal meant to refurbish old principles and bring Russia back into the European security discussion and decision-making. The proposal built deeply on the role of the UN Security Council as the main provider of international security, on respect for the territorial integrity of state parties, on the non-use of force against any party/parties to the Treaty, and on the assurance that decisions made within regional organisations would always abide by the guiding rules as enshrined in the UN Charter, Helsinki Final Act, Charter for European Security and other relevant OSCE adopted documents (Art.2 of the European Security Treaty, The Kremlin, 2009). However, the discussionprocess was messy and the draft document suffered several iterations, from a closed European-state-based treaty, to a wide-ranging proposal, involving European states plus the USA and Canada, and even considering the possibility of having international organisations, such as NATO or the CSTO, as members.12 The proposal ended up as an overly broad and complex document that lost direction and with it momentum. Nevertheless, this episode reveals how Russia conceptualises its active engagement in European security, and how it seeks recognition of this role in a renewed European security architecture. What is on the table now? Karaganov, the Russian representative to the OSCE Panel mentioned above, has been voicing support for a new security architecture stretching to China, bringing the Asian dimension in. To some extent this reflects central elements of Medvedev’s Security Treaty proposal: The old system is withering away, partly because of the Ukraine crisis, even though some are trying to use it for reviving now defunct institutions and approaches. But there is no need to reject all of its elements. It would be more reasonable to raise a new structure within it, including through accelerated creation of a Community of Greater Eurasia, and a broad dialogue on the future within the Eurasian Cooperation, Development and Security Forum. (Karaganov, 2015) However, this inclusive security regime, where Russia would have voice, vote and veto, would be based on shared principles of sovereignty and respect for the territorial integrity of states, as core norms binding the parties into the common framework proposed. However, difficulties remain in finding a balance between the current contested order and new proposals to reshape it. The Ukraine conflict and the annexation of Crimea questioned the very foundations of the security regime Russia has been promoting, given the violation of the very basic principles that were at the core of this security order. The end-result has not only been the imposition of sanctions, but also contradictory dynamics regarding Russia’s inclusion in the European security

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regime. It is a formal part of the regime, but it is not a member of the institutions that have come to dominate the management of European security. The instability and insecurity that have prevailed since the outbreak of events in Ukraine are illustrative of how the European security regime has been fundamentally challenged in its core foundations. This leads us to our central question of whether the security regime is still recognised as valid, and by whom, or whether it has irrevocably been put into question, and again by whom. The regime is increasingly evidencing characteristics of an imposed, rather than a negotiated order – both on Russia by Western states and on Russia’s neighbours. The neighbourhood becomes a relevant space where the contradictions inherent in both EU and Russia’s readings of the security order seem to clash. The goal of promoting a ring of friendly states around their borders reveals competing projects for the projection of two different security orders, instead of translating into a politics of rapprochement, in security terms. These competing neighbourhood projects, namely the EU and NATO enlargements and proximity policies, on the one hand, and the CIS/CSTO and Eurasian Union, on the other hand, have been developing around two different poles, projecting different principles with regards to what the security order should look like. The Western-led approach keeps NATO as the central pillar of the operational dimension of the security regime, and a major focus on democracy and human rights as a source of stability, whereas for Russia the Atlantic alliance is regarded not as security-providing, but as a security-destabilising mechanism within the European regime. The clashing proposals at the level of engagement with the neighbourhood have been expressed most clearly in the case of Ukraine. At the same time, the evidence resulting from these exclusionary projects suggests that the European security regime is not irrevocably questioned, considering that the fundamentals are still shared, but the operational dimension of the regime is certainly not. Overall, the current structures sustaining the security regime in Europe can be perceived as having been profoundly changed by the unbalanced nature of power in the post-Cold War context. As argued above, these new features resemble more what Young (1989) refers to as ‘regime imposition’ by Western states and institutions than a negotiated order, where all perceive the rules of the regime as advantageous. As power imbalances become less pronounced, Russia is clearly looking to redefine the balance between the principles of the regime in more favourable terms. We can thus make the argument that both Russia and Western states and institutions are seeking to adapt the existing security regime in line with their perceived interests. Although neither side has openly questioned the principles underlining the regime, the West, in particular, has been actively engaged in changing its governance structures (namely the institutions managing the regime) and in doing so, has altered the power balance enshrined in the original Helsinki process. This process, in our view, is closer to what Young

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(1989) refers to as the imposition (rather than negotiation) of a new order. However, imposed orders require hegemonic power to work, something the current international and regional European context clearly does not provide to any of the sides. The aftermath of the crisis in Crimea reinforced a trend of contestation in Russian politics and discourse that was already present earlier. In the post-Crimea setting, this discourse has taken on a tone of selfjustification and self-legitimation, as Russia has brought historical arguments in the face of harsh criticism of its violation of the principle of state sovereignty. This seems to put into question the very security order Russia has been promoting by simply erasing one of the founding and structural principles of this order – sovereignty.

Ukraine as a Turning Point: European Security before and after Crimea The debates continue about the reasons for and goals of Russia’s annexation of Crimea in March 2014 as well as its engagement in the ongoing war in the Donbass region of Ukraine. Faced with the lack of clarity in the design of Russian foreign policy, analysts and commentators have ranged from alarmist to more conciliatory views of Moscow’s strategic goals.13 At the political level, the narratives have also been highly polarised, with references to Hitler and the annexation of Sudetenland, on the one hand, and nationalist narratives of a Novorossiia, on the other hand. This polarisation and the use of radical extremist arguments have clear consequences on how ‘national’ security is perceived and constructed. However, narratives are just one aspect of the construction of security regimes, which must be translated into concrete policy options and institutions. The Ukrainian crisis is often presented, both by many Western and Russian analysts alike, as the culmination of growing tensions (Haukkala, 2016), the eruption of an abscess that had infected relations for a long time (Ivanov, 2015). The development of the EU’s EaP initiative, aimed at developing closer political cooperation and economic integration with the six East European post-Soviet countries, much like the EU’s enlargements, advanced both a vision of regional security and a geopolitical project – even if it was articulated in normative terms. As argued above, the expansion of EU norms and rules and the development of closer and more interdependent relations with its neighbours are still perceived by the EU as the most important means to promote security in the regional European context. What is fundamentally different about the EaP is Russia’s challenge to this normative and benign selfunderstanding of the EU’s expansion of its governance systems. First, the EU’s policies were gradually perceived in Moscow as undermining Russian economic and political interests. In fact, by proposing that Ukraine, Moldova, Georgia, and Armenia sign new Association Agreements (AAs)14 with the EU, Brussels contributed to an accelerated disruption of Soviet-era links between Russia and these former-Soviet republics. Economic rules devised under the CIS were now being dashed by some states in order to pursue more modern

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and Western-oriented ones (although in the case of Georgia that process had started before the EaP was set up). Moreover, pro-western administrations were taking power in certain capitals, revising old ways of doing politics and questioning Russia’s role in their state-building processes and their security. Moscow’s reaction to the EU’s proposed signature of AAs with these countries was not surprising. Russia sought to stop these initiatives as well as expose the fundamental re-shifting of European security promoted by the EU, under the guise of technical and functional cooperation.15 The Kremlin resorted to a series of measures directed at containing the expansion of NATO, understood as the main external threat to Russian security, and undermining the EU’s policies for closer relations mainly with Ukraine and Georgia. The meaning of Crimea’s annexation becomes clear in this context. It represents a definitive shift with regards to Russia’s position in the European security regime, distancing Moscow from agreed norms and shared principles, including on border regimes. Regionalism, in the shape of traditional spheres of influence, seems to be back and it is informing the erosion of the European security regime. How can we problematise the ways in which the EU’s EaP and its relations with Russia have contributed to altering the security regime in place in Europe? At the rhetorical level, the EU’s regional policies are clearly in line with the OSCE-based principles of democracy and human rights, democratic oversight of armed forces and economic prosperity. What is lacking are the channels through which political dialogue could develop towards confidence and trust in relations with Russia. As the political partnership with Russia became hostage to sanctions and geopolitical competition, neither the OSCE nor the EU–Russia Strategic Partnership, currently halted, have provided adequate institutional channels through which actors can engage in dialogue. Moreover, the Russia-NATO Council did not live up to its role of promoting transparency in military and security-related matters. Distrust prevails both at the level of political rhetoric, and at the operational level, including the escalation of tensions between the two militaries.16 In this sense, institutions became both a reflection of the context of distrust that surrounded them, and drivers of change, by exercising socialisation of their members. This trend raises fundamental questions about the European security regime’s core principles and very existence. The post-Crimea setting presents a new dimension of this challenge, as central principles of the European security regime were violated by Russia. Notwithstanding arguments put forward by Moscow about historical legacies or cultural proximity, the principle of the territorial integrity of states – and thus, the principle of sovereignty – was violated. This renders the Russian quest for an inclusive security regime fragile, when it became the first to challenge the fundamental constitutive principles of the regime, namely respect for state sovereignty and non-intervention.

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Conclusion The chapter has analysed European security through the differentiated approaches the EU and Russia have been pursuing, building, in particular, on the Helsinki Final Act principles. The broad understanding of security at the time of the establishment of the CSCE in 1975 provided the basis for innovative ways of reconciling disparate perspectives on the European security regime. The emphasis on military security was very much present in the Cold War context, but the introduction of human security, societal security or environmental security opened the way for more inclusive discussions about how relations could evolve to construct a more comprehensive security regime. However, and despite the conciliatory efforts that Helsinki reflects, underlining dissonance was not really overcome. The context of Georgia and Ukraine only came to reinforce divergence and highlight how differences in perspectives and approaches became increasingly hard to reconcile. The clashing projects for the neighbourhood by the EU and Russia, the competitive readings of NATO and the CSTO, and of the very nature of the European security order, led us to the fundamental question about the erosion of the principles underlying the regime. The analysis showed that Crimea constitutes here a prime example. However, power shifts and competing readings about security reflect mainly a much needed adjustment in governance structures, more inclusive in their design, while assuring compliance with shared principles. In the face of an increasingly challenged European security regime, a readjustment of European governance structures seems to be much needed. Therefore, how might a more inclusive security regime be devised? Most probably neither by the demise of current institutions, nor by the creation of new ones, nor through the crafting of new principles. Instead, this could be achieved through the development of shared security understandings and by framing this institutional architecture in a more balanced and representative security framework. Rethinking the NATO-Russia Council, reframing EU–Russia relations on the basis of dialogue and a legally binding agreement, and devising creative ways of Western participation in Russian-led arrangements, might be part of a new strategy to avoid erosion of the European security regime principles, while providing room for a retailoring of governance structures.

Notes 1 The authors acknowledge funding for research from the Marie Skłodowska-Curie Innovative Training Networks (ITN-ETN) of the European Union’s Horizon 2020 research and innovation programme, under grant agreement ‘CASPIAN – Around the Caspian: a Doctoral Training for Future Experts in Development and Cooperation with Focus on the Caspian Region’ (642709 – CASPIAN – H2020-MSCA-ITN-2014). 2 Regimes have proliferated in areas such as the environment (including the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Flora and Fauna or the Kyoto Protocol), in the field of energy (international nuclear energy regime, managed by the International Atomic Energy Agency) or transportation (including in shipping, air transport, telecommunications and postal services).

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3 On the issue of the challenges to Europe’s security governance by the Ukrainian conflict see Averre (2016). On the governance of European security see Webber et al. (2004). 4 The CSCE was renamed OSCE at the 1994 Budapest Summit with effect from January 1, 1995. 5 The then-European Communities developed the European Political Cooperation (EPC), since 1970, as a mechanism for coordination of the Member States’ foreign policies and for laying the ground for the establishment of a Common Foreign and Security Policy (Maastricht Treaty, 1992). The EPC was used actively by the Member States in the process leading to the creation of the CSCE. 6 The ten principles of the Decalogue are: sovereign equality, respect for the rights inherent in sovereignty; refraining from the threat or use of force; inviolability of frontiers; territorial integrity of states; peaceful settlement of disputes; non-intervention in internal affairs; respect for human rights and fundamental freedoms including the freedom of thought, conscience, religion or belief; equal rights and self-determination of peoples; cooperation among states; and fulfilment in good faith of obligations under international law. 7 Although the EU is not primarily a security organisation, it seeks to contribute to European security through the promotion of interdependence and economic and political integration. It also developed mechanisms to address security crises, namely the Common Security and Defence Policy. 8 Russia keeps its 14th Army stationed in the disputed region of Transnistria (Moldova), and has reinforced its military presence in the disputed regions of Abkhazia and South Ossetia (Georgia). 9 The CSTO is an intergovernmental military alliance, formally established in 2002, including six post-Soviet countries, namely Russia, Armenia, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, and Uzbekistan. In 1992, these six states signed the Collective Security Treaty within the Commonwealth of Independent States, which was transformed into the CSTO in 2002. 10 In the Final Report (OSCE, 2015a) Sergei Karaganov signed a letter of disagreement included at the beginning of the document reiterating these concerns. 11 Sergei Karaganov is a member of the Panel of eminent Persons and Honorary Chairman of the Presidium of the Council on Foreign and Defence Policy. For further detail see http://www.osce.org/networks/pep (accessed 6 July 2017). 12 Article 10: This Treaty shall be open for signature by all States of the Euro-Atlantic and Eurasian space from Vancouver to Vladivostok as well as by the following international organizations: the European Union, Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe, Collective Security Treaty Organization, North Atlantic Treaty Organization and Commonwealth of Independent States. (European Security Treaty, The Kremlin 2009) 13 See Robinson (2016) for a good overview of the ongoing debates. 14 Armenia declined to sign the Association Agreement with the EU in 2013 and participates instead in the Russian-led Customs Union. 15 For an interesting conceptualisation of the EU’s functionalist approach to security, see Visoka and Doyle (2016). 16 Several episodes of Russian Air Force entering the airspace of NATO members and provocative manoeuvring over NATO ships have raised concern regarding potential violent escalations between the two sides (Frear et al., 2014).

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References Averre, Derek (2016) ‘The Ukraine Conflict: Russia’s Challenge to European Security Governance’, Europe-Asia Studies, 68(4): 699–725. European Council (2003) A Secure Europe in a Better World. European Security Strategy. Adopted by the European Council, 12 December. European Commission and High Representative of the EU for Foreign Affairs and Security Policy (2016) Shared Vision, Common Action: A Stronger Europe. A Global Strategy for the European Union’s Foreign and Security Policy. Brussels, June. Frear, Thomas, Kulesa, Łukasz and Kearns, Ian (2014) ‘Dangerous Brinkmanship: Close Military Encounters Between Russia and the West in 2014’, European Leadership Network Policy Brief, November. Freire, Maria R. and Simão, Licínia (2016) ‘(Re)focusing the Atlantic Alliance: Reframing Security Readings into a Peace Agenda’, The Polish Quarterly of International Affairs, 1: 51–60. Hasenclever, Andreas, Mayer, Peter and Rittberger, Volker (2000) Theories of International Regimes. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Haukkala, Hiski (2016) ‘A Perfect Storm; Or What Went Wrong and What Went Right for the EU in Ukraine’, Europe-Asia Studies, 68(4): 653–664. Hintermeier, Stefan (2008) ‘Reconceptualization of External Security in the European Union since 1990’. In Hans Günter Brauch (ed.) Globalization and Environmental Challenges: Reconceptualizing Security in the 21st Century. Berlin: Springer, pp. 659–676. Ivanov, Igor (2015) ‘The Decline of Wider Europe’, Speech at the 20th International Conference of the Baltic Forum on The US, the EU and Russia – The New Reality, September 12, Jurmala, Latvia. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3QLgBDjsERs (accessed 6 July 2017). Karaganov, Sergei (2015) ‘Eurasian Way Out of the European Crisis’, Russia in Global Affairs, 8 June. http://eng.globalaffairs.ru/pubcol/Eurasian-Way-Out-of-the-Europea n-Crisis-17505 (accessed 6 July 2017). Krasner, StephenD. (1983) ‘Structural Causes and Regime Consequences: Regimes as Intervening Variables’. In Stephen D. Krasner (ed.) International Regimes. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, pp. 1–22. Lavenex, Sandra and Schimmelfennig, Frank (2009) ‘EU Rules Beyond EU Borders: Theorizing External Governance in European Politics’, Journal of European Public Policy, 16(6): 791–812. Lo, Bobo (2009) ‘Medvedev and the New European Security Architecture’, Centre for European Reform, Policy Brief, July. www.cer.org.uk/sites/default/files/publica tions/attachments/pdf/2011/pbrief_medvedev_july09-741.pdf (accessed 6 July 2017). National Security Concept of the Russian Federation (2000) Approved by Presidential Decree No. 1300 of 17 December 1999 (given in the wording of Presidential Decree No. 24 of 10 January 2000), Full English translation from Rossiiskaya Gazeta, 18 January 2000. http://www.fas.org/nuke/guide/russia/doctrine/gazeta012400.htm (accessed 6 July 2017). OSCE (2015a) ‘Back to Diplomacy’, Final Report and Recommendations of the Panel of Eminent Persons on European Security as a Common Project, November 2015. http://www.osce.org/networks/205846?download=true (accessed 6 July 2017). OSCE (2015b) ‘Lessons Learned for the OSCE from its engagement in Ukraine’, Interim Report and Recommendations of the Panel of Eminent Persons on

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European Security as a Common Project, June. http://www.osce.org/networks/ 164561?download=true (accessed 6 July 2017). OSCE (1999) ‘Istanbul Document’, Istanbul Summit. Pavlyuk, Oleksandr (2013) ‘CSDP and the OSCE: Time for Partnership to Reach its Full Potential?’. In Sven Biscop and Richard Whitman (eds) Routledge Handbook of European Security. Abingdon: Routledge, pp. 281–291. Peterson, M.J. (2012) ‘International Regimes as Concept’, E-International Relations, 21 December. http://www.e-ir.info/2012/12/21/international-regimes-as-concept/ (accessed 6 July 2017). President of Russia (2007) Information on the decree ‘On Suspending the Russian Federation’s Participation in the Treaty on Conventional Armed Forces in Europe and Related International Agreements’, 14 January. http://en.kremlin.ru/supplem ent/3327 (accessed 6 July 2017). Reuters (2016) ‘Russia Will Cut Defense Budget by 5% in 2016, RIA Reports’, 6 March. www.reuters.com/article/us-russia-defense-budget-idUSKCN0W80TL (accessed 6 July 2017). RFE/RL (2009) ‘Russia Unveils Proposal for European Security Treaty’, 30 November. http://www.rferl.org/content/Russia_Unveils_Proposal_For_European_Security_ Treaty/1891161.html (accessed 6 July 2017). RNSS (2015) ‘Russian National Security Strategy, December 2015 [Text of 31 December Russian Federation Presidential Edict 683 approving appended text of ‘The Russian Federation’s National Security Strategy’]’. www.ieee.es/Galerias/fichero/Otra sPublicaciones/Internacional/2016/Russian-National-Security-Strategy-31Dec2015.pdf (accessed 6 July 2017). Robinson, Paul (2016) ‘Russia’s Role in the War in Donbass, and the Threat to European Security’, European Politics and Society, 17(3) [pre-publication online http:// www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1080/23745118.2016.1154229]. Sjursen, Helene (2006) ‘What Kind of Power?’, Journal of European Public Policy, 13(2): 169–181. Stratfor (2016) ‘Russia Prepares to Tighten Spending in 2016’, 3 November. www.stra tfor.com/analysis/russia-prepares-tighten-spending-2016 (accessed 6 July 2017). Tanner, Fred (2015) ‘Rethinking the OSCE and Security in Europe’, Security Community, 1. http://www.osce.org/magazine/171266 (accessed 6 July 2017). The Kremlin (2009) The Draft of the European Security Treaty, 29 November. http:// en.kremlin.ru/events/president/news/6152 (accessed 6 July 2017). The White House (2011) ‘Fact Sheet: Implementing Missile Defense in Europe’, Office of the Press Secretary, 15 September. https://obamawhitehouse.archives.gov/the-press-of fice/2011/09/15/fact-sheet-implementing-missile-defense-europe (accessed 6 July 2017). Urwin, Derek W. (1999) The European Union Encyclopedia and Directory 1999. London: Europa Publications Limited. Van Herpen, Marcel H. (2008) ‘Medvedev’s Proposal for a Pan-European Security Pact. Its Six Hidden Objectives and How the West Should Respond’, Cicero Working Paper WP 08–03, Paris/Maastricht, October. Visoka, Gëzim and Doyle, John (2016) ‘Neo-Functional Peace: The European Union Way of Resolving Conflicts’, Journal of Common Market Studies, 54(4): 862–877. Webber, Mark, Croft, Stuart, Howorth, Jolyon, Teriff, Terry and Krahmann, Elke (2004) ‘The Governance of European Security’, Review of International Studies, 30(1): 3–26. Young, Oran R. (1989) International Cooperation: Building Regimes for Natural Resources and the Environment. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.

9

The EU and Russia in the Pan-European Human Rights Regime Petra Guasti1

Introduction In April 2013, legal documents were drafted and the EU’s accession to the European Convention of Human Rights (ECHR) was official. It was a further step towards a pan-European human rights regime. However, the situation is complicated by recent institutional developments between the two major powers on the European continent, the European Union (EU), and Russia, as well as the standstill of the EU–Russia relations following the outbreak and evolution of the armed conflict in eastern Ukraine. In December 2014 the EU’s accession to ECHR was effectively halted by a decision (ECJ Opinion 2/13)2 of the European Court of Justice (ECJ) over competencies between the ECJ and the European Court of Human rights (ECtHR).3 A year later, in December 2015, the Russian Duma adopted an Amendment to the Federal Constitution (Federal Law No.7-FKZ)4 allowing the Russian Constitutional Court to decide whether or not to implement rulings of international human rights courts. In April of 2016 the Russian Constitutional Court was applied for the first time in ruling that a decision of the ECtHR (Anchugov and Gladkov v. Russia) cannot be implemented in Russia because measures aimed at its implementation would contradict the Russian Constitution.5 Furthermore, the conflict in eastern Ukraine, in which both sides (Ukraine and the Russian Federation) speak of violations of human rights and justify their actions with the need to protect human rights and minorities, highlights the epistemic and normative clash over the understanding of human rights on the European continent. Moreover, both the ECJ judgment and the 2015 Constitutional Amendment in Russia establish the doctrine of the superiority of ‘domestic’ (in the case of the EU, European, and in the case of Russia, Russian) law over international human rights law and its implementation. This chapter examines the European Court of Human Rights as an international institutional context of the EU–Russia relationship. It proceeds by first reviewing the literature on international human rights regimes and their efficacy. Then the chapter reviews cooperation between the EU and Russia,

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followed by an examination of the role of the European Court of Human Rights. Finally, findings and their implications are discussed.

Advancement of Human Rights The first generally recognized comprehensive charter of human rights was the Universal Declaration of Human Rights of 1948, which formed the basis of an overlapping consensus on international human rights (Donnelly, 2013). Its proclamations were legislated in a number of codified agreements, such as the European Convention on Human Rights (1953), the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (1966) and the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights (1966). In the 1990s, events such as the Rwandan Genocide (1994) and the Srebrenica Genocide (1995) fuelled not only academic and political debates but also the introduction of new international norms, albeit at a slower rate. The Responsibility to Protect (established in 2005), for the first time, recognized the obligation of the international community to intervene if states and their rulers are unable or unwilling to protect citizens from human rights violations (Bjola, 2009). The EU Charter of Fundamental Rights, ratified in 2000 and entering into force in 2009, reinforced the importance of human rights in the international system (Risse et al., 2013). Human Rights Regimes Human rights regimes are institutional settings that hold governments accountable for their domestic and internal activities. According to Moravcsik (2010), human rights regimes are not enforced by interstate action, as governments rarely challenge one another. These regimes exist (1) in part, as a result of states’ aims to enhance the credibility of their domestic policies by binding themselves to international institutions; and (2) as a way of reinforcing domestic changes in recently democratized countries. According to Risse, Ropp and Sikkink (2013), human rights define the category of liberal democratic states and thus contribute to the identity formation of states. Belonging to a human rights regime is akin to belonging to a club of advanced states. Thus, democratizing states join international organizations more frequently than other countries, especially those where existing members are democratic. Joining such organizations raises democratic credentials of democratizing states, and reduces the prospect of reverting back to an authoritarian regime (cf. Moravcsik, 2010; Mansfield and Pevehouse, 2006). As Hathaway (2002) notes, international human rights treaties play a slightly different role for liberal and democratizing states. Liberal democracies have a normative commitment to the aspirations embedded in the treaties, but it is more difficult for less democratic countries to conceal the dissonance between expressive and actual behavior. On the other hand, the ratification of an international human rights treaty creates an opportunity for domestic

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actors in democratizing states – norm entrepreneurs – to provoke gradual internalization of the domestic norms, such as human rights and protection of minorities (2002, pp. 2016–2017, cf. Koh, 1996). However, Hafner-Burton and Tsutsui (2007, pp. 422–423) demonstrate that human rights treaties can only make a difference under certain conditions – the absence of severe repression, relative stability, and an active civil society; furthermore, the worst abusers of human rights fail to reform even upon accession to a human rights treaty. The scholarly literature also suggests that international courts (ICs) are an important part of international human rights regimes. For example, ICs are more independent than domestic courts because they allow access to private litigants and compulsory jurisdiction. Moreover, they can introduce additional checks to domestic jurisdiction by establishing international legal regimes (Alter, 2006). Among all international courts, the ECtHR is the most powerful international enforcement mechanism; it is also the only court whose decisions are respected by its Member States (Huneeus, 2013, p. 5).

EU–Russia Cooperation on Human Rights The relationship between the EU and Russia has long involved a balancing act. On one hand, the gradually evolving European Communities (EC), then the EU, were firmly set to establish themselves as the main architect of the European post-Cold War order, both in terms of the European integration process and its enlargement, but also in the ambition to economically, politically and normatively shape its neighbourhood (Haukkala, 2015; Utkin, 1995). Russia, on the other hand, has undergone significant economic, political and territorial turmoil since 1991, trying to reinvent itself as a partner, potential member and most recently as a direct competitor, establishing its own regional integration project. The cooperation between the EU and Russia is based on the Partnership and Cooperation Agreement (PCA),6 signed in June 1994, ratified in November 1997 and in force since December 1997. In the negotiation of this agreement, the EU made clear that economic cooperation is only possible if Russia accepts political conditionality. The main reason was to secure the (then) fragile Russian political and economic order. The optimism surrounding the drafting was soon replaced by the reality of numerous conflicts and a significant shift in Russian foreign policy from close cooperation to competition and contestation based on the notion of Russia as a major power and the division of Europe into spheres of influence (Haukkala, 2015, p. 28). In terms of human rights, the PCA includes several references to shared respect for human rights, with special reference made to the rights of minorities (Preamble), shared principles stemming from international agreements – such as the Helsinki Final Act (Article 2), and the establishment of Political Dialogue, including cooperation on ‘observance of principles of democracy and human rights’ (Article 6). This document can be understood as establishing a common normative framework for cooperation, in which shared values and

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dialogue play an important role. As Haukkala (2015) points out, the role of Article 2 was key, allowing the EU to suspend or terminate the agreement in the case of breach of European values (Haukkala, 2015, pp. 27–28; cf. Hillion, 1998). The 2004 Road Map on the Common Space of Freedom, Security and Justice7 focused on asserting commitments of both the EU and Russia to common values (democracy, rule of law, and independent judiciary), dedication to implementing international commitments, and adherence to principles of non-discrimination, fundamental rights and freedoms countering intolerance and racism. In terms of human rights, common international frameworks included the UN, ECHR and OSCE (Organization for Security and Cooperation) charters; both the EU and Russia committed themselves to respect, to adhere to and implement obligations stemming from these treaties. Again, special reference was made to minority rights and to free and independent media, along with fundamental freedoms in general. Overall the Road Map is dominated by reference to joint cooperation on security and justice, particularly cooperation on crime-prevention and border controls. For these tasks more detailed cooperation plans were outlined, whereas references to fundamental rights were general and lacked mention of enforcement mechanisms. In the subsequent joint EU–Russia documents, the prominence of human rights (compared to the PCA) was decreasing. In the 2004 Joint Statement on Enlargement 8 the only reference to human rights was in connection to protection of minorities. The subsequent 2007 Joint Statement on Enlargement 9 did not include any reference to human rights. The main EU vehicle for the promotion of human rights is the European Instrument for Democracy and Human Rights (EIDHR), launched in 1997. The EIDHR works directly with non-governmental actors around the world and between 1997 and 2014 supported over 330 projects in Russia, focused on four main topics – governance and justice, migration and asylum, border management and the fight against organized crime.10 Within the EU–Russia relationship, the Human Rights (HR) Dialogue, founded in 2005, provided a suitable platform for human rights consultations and cooperation between the two parties. The six-monthly EU–Russia human rights consultations (starting in 2005) provided for a diplomatic exchange and dialogue on human rights issues in Russia and the EU and on EU–Russia cooperation on human rights issues in international fora. In this dialogue, Russia has mainly raised concerns regarding the situation of ‘non-citizens’ in the EU and on legislation on the use of minority language in some European education systems. The European Union has shared its concerns, for example, on issues such as freedom of expression and assembly, the situation of civil society, the functioning of the judiciary, the observation of human rights standards by law enforcement officials, violence against lesbian, gay, bisexual and transsexual (LGBT) individuals, racism and xenophobia, and the harassment of human rights defenders and opposition leaders in Russia. The European Union also

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upholds a dialogue with both Russian and international NGOs in Russia on human rights issues. The HR Dialogue, as a form of international engagement, has had severe limitations. It has been hard to bridge from discussion to agreement and from agreement to change on the ground. This is especially the case between partners who do not necessarily share the same normative vision on the centrality of human rights (Provost, 2015; Marsh and Koesel, 2016). The EU sees itself as a long-term promoter of human rights. And although its direct role in human rights protection is limited with the Lisbon Treaty, the protection of minorities became a binding principle of primary EU law (2009). This offers the EU additional leverage in the areas of external relations, neighbourhood policy and enlargement, where protection of national minorities is one of the main criteria for cooperation with the EU and for potential accession. Based on the 2010 assessment of the HR Dialogue by the International Federation for Human Rights (IFHR), the evolution of the HR Dialogue is less than optimistic. Between 2005 and 2010 eleven rounds of consultations took place; meanwhile Russian authorities continued prosecution of human rights organizations, and human rights deteriorated in Russia. In contrast, both sides described the atmosphere of the HR Dialogue as constructive and positive. This led the critics of the HR Dialogue (among others the IFHR), to see the HR Dialogue as a mere ‘diplomatic exercise’11. The Russian delegation was systematically opposed to the alteration in location (especially to holding the meetings in Russia), interaction between Russian non-governmental organizations (NGOs) and Russian authorities and inclusion of relevant authorities beyond the Ministry for Foreign Affairs.12 Over time, the issue of human rights moved to the periphery of the EU– Russia agenda well before the Ukraine crisis. Whereas, the 2003 joint statement highlighted both common values and economic interests as the basis for cooperation,13 the 2014 statement by European Commission President Barosso not only framed the cooperation by common interests only, but also distinguished between those interests and the relationship as such.14 More importantly, Barosso established a baseline for future engagement – indicating the principles on which any future cooperation must be founded, including ‘the respect for sovereign decisions, democratic societies and open markets’.15 Recent developments have highlighted that perceptions regarding the role of human rights differ profoundly between the two actors. Both the EU and the ECtHR perceive human rights as in principle superior to national sovereignty (based on the largely overlapping Charter of Fundamental Rights of the European Union, ratified in 2000, and the European Convention on Human Rights, adopted in 1950 and effective from 1953); Russia officials, on the other hand, depict human rights as subordinate to the notion of national sovereignty, in direct contradiction to the EU, to the Council of Europe, and to Russian official obligations as a member of the Council of Europe. (As of 1996, Russia is a Member State of the Council of Europe and signatory of the ECHR.)

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Overall, the diffusion of human rights, as understood in the EU, does not at this point in time represent an acceptable option for Russia. On the contrary Russia is pursuing its own regional integration project, in which economic interests, rather than liberal norms and values, play the key role. The human rights protection, as understood by the ECtHR, also does not seem to be held in a high regard in Russia, as will be demonstrated further.

The European Court of Human Rights The European Court of Human Rights (ECtHR) is a supranational court headquartered in Strasbourg, France. The Court is responsible for monitoring compliance and respect for the human rights of 800 million Europeans across the 47 Council of Europe Member States that have ratified the Convention (ECtHR, 2013). It was first established under the auspices of the Council of Europe in 1959, and sprang from Article 19 of the European Convention on Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms (ECHR). The ECtHR is embedded in the legal framework of its Member States, and gradually is increasing in international prominence. The judgments of the Court are binding and have been effective in causing governments to revise their legislation and administrative practices (Nigro, 2010; Moravcsik, 2010). The Court’s judgments enjoy widespread respect. As Moravcsik notes, state compliance with the Court’s judgments is nearly as consistent as that of domestic courts (Moravcsik, 2010). Many empirical examples substantiate this statement. For instance, Van der Vet (2012) lists cases of ‘disappearances’ of Chechens presented to the Court by human rights lawyers and NGOs to highlight how international organizations or groups can successfully litigate on behalf of individuals. Although it is not always possible to determine what has happened to the victim, Van der Vet (2012) also showed that the Court was able to obtain financial compensation from the Russian authorities. By March 2011, Russia had paid a total of 1.3 million Euros for material damages and 12.7 million Euros for moral damages to Chechen applicants. Simultaneously, considerable dissatisfaction has been mounting against the Court in the recent past. British politicians, legal scholars and legal practitioners have voiced considerable dissatisfaction with the judgments of the Court, and some have even suggested that the UK might pull out of the ECHR altogether.16 Russian politicians have also been highly critical of the rulings of the ECtHR on human rights violations in Chechnya; the rhetorical opposition to the payment of material damages to the Chechen families as a result of ECtHR court decisions was very strong. In both countries, voices repeatedly surfaced regarding the UK’s and Russia’s possible exit from the ECHR. Whereas in the UK, these were mostly rhetorical exercises, in July 2015 the Russian Constitutional Court took an unprecedented step and ruled in the highly salient Yukos case that national laws should take precedence over decisions of the ECtHR. (In 2014 the ECtHR ruling awarded shareholders of

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the now-defunct oil company Yukos €1.9 billion euros in compensation from the Russian government.) This was a first ruling of its kind among all ECHR Member States and is openly in breach with the ECHR. In the UK, the compliance with the ECHR is a politically salient issue; most recently in April 2016 UK Home Secretary (and as of August 2016, Prime Minister) Theresa May raised the issue again in relationship to possible rejection of the changes to the British Bill of Rights proposed by Prime Minister David Cameron’s government in 2015, where one of the contentious issues was prisoner voting. However, the UK never undertook any formal steps incompatible with its membership in the ECHR, and continues to adhere to the Court’s rulings. The literature on the ECtHR generally casts it in a very positive light, emphasizing that the Court has made significant contributions to the enhancement of human rights in Europe by providing legal remedies to human rights violations for individuals at both the domestic and supranational levels (Moravcsik, 2010; Van der Vet, 2012; Cichowski, 2006; Meehan, 2009). Yet, Gorzev (2013) shows that some states are highly selective in their implementation, depending on the domestic political costs, and make concessions to religious minorities, but resist implementing changes potentially facing strong public opposition. Kondakov (2015) illustrates this argument with the case of Serbia and Russia on LGBT issues due to prevailing heteronormativity. Thus, although the Court has made important judgments and shaped the behavior of states towards greater respect for human rights, it remains unclear whether the Court is able to protect the most vulnerable by issuing judgments against those countries with the worst human rights records. Studies have demonstrated that compliance with the Court’s rulings can be politically unpopular and divisive domestically (Hillebrecht et al., 2015), and countries are more prone to compensate victims and to cover the costs of litigation than to amend legislation or change institutional practices (Hawkings and Jacoby, 2010) without further external incentives (Bogdan and Mungiu-Pippidi, 2013). Empirical Analysis of ECtHR Judgments In order to shed some light on the impact of the ECtHR, this section compares the number of judgments across 47 Member States from 1995–2012. The analysis, carried out for each year in this time period, examines the impact of various factors on the number of ECtHR judgments per country per million inhabitants. The explanatory variables that were examined include human rights record, governance, economic development, independent judiciary, EU membership, ethnic fractionalization and population size.17 The results reveal no direct link between a country’s human rights record and the number of ECtHR judgments (Guasti et al., 2017). This finding indicates that citizens of more affluent countries with better human rights records are

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significantly more likely to reach redress for human rights violations at the ECtHR. The citizens from less affluent countries with worse human rights records and less independent judiciaries are more likely to face human rights violations, but have less capacity to successfully seek redress. This can also be observed when comparing admissibility of cases to the Court. Litigation in front of the supranational court requires capacities vulnerable people subjected to human rights violations do not possess, unless aided by transnational human rights advocacy groups (Gorzev, 2013; Anagnostou, 2013). Furthermore, Guasti et al. (2017) also show that ECtHR issues more judgments against countries with less independent judiciaries. For the countries with less independent judiciary, fewer cases get resolved on the domestic level and if the case reaches the ECtHR (in case that litigant’s capacity is improved by aid from human rights NGOs, improving the chances for the case to be admitted by fulfilling all formal criteria), there is a possibility of judicial redress. Further insights are gained by comparing the variation of EU and non-EU countries on the dependent variable – the number of ECtHR judgments per country per million inhabitants. Figure 9.1 indicates significant differences between EU and non-EU countries reflecting, in part, a change in capacity of the citizens of new EU Member States over time. This is due to EU preaccession programs as well as the positive effect of several Council of Europe programs for strengthening the rule of law.

Figure 9.1 The number of judgments at the ECtHR 1995–2012: EU 27 and ECHR 47 Note: EU 27 without Cyprus, axes x (time 1995–2012), axes y (number total number of judgments in the giver year in all countries belonging to EU/non-EU groups) Source: Data from ECtHR: http://www.echr.coe.int/Pages/home.aspx?p=home. See also Guasti et al. (2017).

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Table 9.1 The Number of Judgments at the European Court of Human Rights 1995, 2000, 2005, 2010, 2012 – EU 27 (without Cyprus)

Austria Belgium Bulgaria Croatia Czech Republic Denmark Estonia Finland France Germany Greece Hungary Ireland Italy Latvia Lithuania Luxembourg Malta Netherlands Poland Portugal Romania Slovakia Slovenia Spain Sweden United Kingdom

1995

2000

2005

2010

2012

14 1 0 0 0 0 0 3 12 1 3 0 1 29 0 0 1 0 5 0 1 0 0 0 2 0 8

21 2 3 0 4 6 1 8 73 3 19 1 3 396 0 5 1 1 6 19 20 3 6 2 3 1 27

22 14 23 26 33 3 4 13 60 16 105 17 3 79 1 2 1 2 10 49 10 33 29 1 0 7 18

19 4 81 21 11 0 2 17 42 36 56 21 2 98 4 8 7 4 4 107 19 143 39 6 13 6 21

29 6 64 29 15 1 4 5 29 23 56 26 2 63 14 12 2 3 7 74 23 79 23 22 10 15 24

Source: ECtHR annual reports available at: www.echr.coe.int (accessed 20 October, 2016) – author’s calculations.

As Table 9.1 indicates, there are significant differences between EU Member States, However, the overall number of judgments remains relatively stable over time. Comparing the old and the new EU Member States, considering the length of EU membership as an exposure to democratic values of human rights, also yields only limited results. Rather, as the recent analysis of Guasti et al. (2017) indicates, the difference is best explained by the presence of economic capital and civil society. In this sense, the ECHR human rights regime represents an opportunity structure, which can be utilized when actors

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Table 9.2 The Number of Judgments at the European Court of Human Rights 1995, 2000, 2005, 2010, 2012 – non-EU countries

Albania Andorra Armenia Azerbaijan Georgia Iceland Lichtenstein Moldova Monaco Montenegro Norway Russia San Marino Serbia Switzerland Republic of Macedonia (FYROM) Turkey Ukraine Total non-EU Total ECtHR Percentage

1995

2000

2005

2010

2012

0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0

0 0 0 0 0 2 0 0 0 0 1 0 2 0 5 0

1 0 0 0 3 0 1 14 0 0 0 83 1 0 5 4

7 0 5 16 4 1 1 28 0 2 1 217 0 9 11 15

7 2 16 17 12 2 0 27 0 6 3 134 1 12 8 7

3 0 3 84 3.6

39 0 49 683 7.2

290 120 522 1103 47.3

278 109 704 1495 47.1

123 71 448 1108 40.4

Source: ECtHR annual reports available at: www.echr.coe.int (accessed 20 October, 2016) – author’s calculations.

(such as civil society) are present and have resources to bring the case to the ECtHR. For the non-EU Member States, the figures in Table 9.2 indicate that capacity of the citizens (assisted by domestic and international advocacy groups) to litigate transnationally is growing. In particular Russia, Turkey, Ukraine and Moldova face numerous judgments regarding violation of human rights and can be described as the drivers of the overall trend. It is important to note that civil society and resources for human rights promotion and protection in non-EU countries mostly stem from international sources, including the EU (Gorzev, 2013; Anagnostou 2013). The domestic resources for human rights protection in non-EU countries are mostly utilized rather selectively (e.g., for protection of children’s rights). In some cases, rights of selected social groups are questioned and undermined by discriminatory legislation (e.g., anti-LGBT legislation in Russia).

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This finding is relevant for Russia, where starting in 2012, the role and functioning of NGOs, including human rights advocacy groups, have become highly politicized18 (Provost, 2015; March and Koesel, 2016). In particular, human rights NGOs that receive foreign funding are increasingly being targeted by the government. Given the increasingly troublesome human rights record of Russia, a further decreasing capacity of human rights NGOs will negatively influence the ability of Russian citizens to seek redress at the ECtHR. Similarly, there is no evidence that the independence of the Russian judiciary is improving; on the contrary, Russia’s score on the independent judiciary scale is low and stable over the past several years (BTI, 2016). Thus, the number of judgments might potentially decrease, but this may not be reflective of improvement in human rights protection, but rather of a low capacity of Russian citizens to seek justice without the aid of human rights NGOs. The European Union and the ECtHR The interaction between EU institutions and the institutions of the Council of Europe (CoE) is gaining both scientific and societal relevance. In terms of societal relevance, the interaction between domestic courts, the ECJ and the ECtHR is a decisive factor in finding a new balance between politics and human rights in two respects. First, an increase in human rights standards has empowered human rights advocates to shape European and national politics, and, second, has also let the EU move from an endorsement of human rights discourse to recognition of the international human rights regime established by the ECHR (Scheeck, 2005). In terms of scientific relevance, recent studies have examined the types of judgments, the concurrence of states with the Court’s judgments, and the relationship between the ECtHR and the European Court of Justice, as well as possible ways of reforming the ECtHR and its efficacy (Scheeck, 2005; Helfer, 2008; Anagnostou, 2013; Provost, 2015; Guasti et al., 2017). In the past, the cooperation between the European Union and the Council of Europe was, on the one hand, driven by common goals and shared norms; on the other hand, it was limited by existing legal provisions. In 1996 the ECJ ruled in Opinion 2/94 that (EU) Community law prevented accession to the ECHR. The justification provided at the time was the need for ‘substantial change in the existing Community system for the protection of human rights’ and the lack of compatibility among the two legal systems (Community law and international human rights law). A significant shift in EU law occurred in December 2000 with the enactment of the Charter of Fundamental Rights of the European Union in Nice (Charter of Fundamental Rights of the European Union, 2000: C 364). For the first time, international human rights treaties, as well as ECJ and ECtHR case law, were recognized as fundamental to the European human rights regime. The Treaty of Lisbon (which entered into force in December 2009) further reiterated this and opened up the possibility of the EU’s accession to the ECHR, giving the European Council the task to draft the accession agreement.

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The drafting process culminated in April 2013, when legal documents for the EU’s accession to the European Convention on Human Rights were submitted for review to the ECJ (and were subsequently to be reviewed by the EU Member States). Unfortunately, in December 2014, the ECJ issued a negative opinion on the EU’s accession to the ECHR, effectively bringing the process to a halt (Opinion 2/1319). The ECJ reiterated the centrality of fundamental rights as an integral part of the general principles of EU law and recognized the ‘special significance’ of the ECHR for EU law. Its decision to reject the EU’s accession, reacting to a proposal submitted by the European Commission, was based on refuting the potential of an external body – the European Court of Human Rights – to review the application of EU law, the exclusive domain of the ECJ (cf. Lazowski and Wessel, 2015). In order to resolve this gridlock several proposals have been put forward, including a (partial) merger of the ECtHR and ECJ. And although the EU’s accession to the ECHR will be a more long-term process, and the European human rights regime remains fragmentary, the growing linkages and epistemic convergence between the two institutions hints at the emergence of a European normative system. The main obstruction to more integration is institutional competition (especially as perceived by the ECJ), lack of consensus among EU institutions and growing criticism of the ECtHR by the Member States (Scheeck, 2005; Provost, 2015). Russia and the ECHR Historically, Russia has had a distinct human rights discourse, rooted in its pre-revolutionary era; unlike the legislative and the executive branches, which were autocratic, the 19th-century judiciary was based on democratic principles (Bowring, 2009, p. 38). The post 1990 reforms were seen as a shift from rule by law to the establishment of rule of law. One of the cornerstones of these reforms was the adherence to international human rights (UN Charter of Human Rights), which was ratified in 1948, but never implemented (Opinion 2/13). The Council of Europe’s invitation to Russia to join and the Russian decision to accede and ratify came as a surprise to many, as it was potentially in a clash with the doctrines of sovereignty and non-interference (Bowring, 2009, p. 43). Russia adhered to the ECHR in 1998. The timing of Russia’s accession and ratification, in-between the first (1994–1997) and second (1999–2000) Chechen wars, was also rather unorthodox. Still, domestically, there was general political consensus among the Russian political elite in favor of accession20 (ibid.; cf. Provost, 2015). As for many new democracies, the rationale was both to ensure international recognition and to anchor the domestic changes towards democratization (especially following the 1993 domestic political turmoil). Under President Putin some legal reforms continued. Unlike Yeltsin, who often referred to the international human rights regime in order to gain international recognition,

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Putin’s framing was domestic, based in the continuation of the nineteenth-century judicial reforms (Bowring, 2009). The Chechen conflict resulted in a number of ECtHR judgments against Russia (Henderson, 2008; Leach, 2008) and continues to define Russia’s troubled relationship with the ECtHR (Bowring, 2009). The death penalty issue also remains unresolved. Russia has not executed a convicted person since 1999, but Article 6 has not been ratified. On a positive note, from 2000 onwards, the Russian Constitutional Court began systematically referencing ECtHR jurisprudence (Bowring, 2009; Provost, 2015). Over time, as the number of high-profile cases Russia was losing at the ECtHR grew, the relationship became increasingly strained. In 2006 the Russian Duma initially refused to ratify Protocol 1421 (streamlining and simplifying the ECtHR procedure and resolving the growing backlog of cases), leading to a delay in ratification until January 2010.22 This was regarded as an unnecessary power game between the Russian government and the ECtHR, criticized by human rights organizations, and resolved by a provisory procedure applied between 2009 and 2010 to all countries that had ratified Protocol 14 (all, but Russia). This approach was detrimental to the human rights situation in Russia, especially because 30% of submissions to the ECtHR and pending cases came from Russian citizens.23 The 2010 ratification of the Protocol 14 by Russia also opened up the possibility of EU accession to the ECHR.24 Following the military conflicts in the North Caucasus (the 2008 Georgian Conflict, the first Chechen war from1994–1996 and the second Chechen war from 1999–2000), the number of submissions to the Court by Russian citizens grew again. In 2014 submissions by Russian citizens made up almost 16% of total applications to the Court and of the existing backlog of 69,900 cases submissions from Russia account for 10,000 (Provost, 2015, p. 295). Over time, the number of admitted cases grew as the litigants received support from domestic and international NGOs, but the Russian per capita rate is not the highest in Europe (Guasti et al., 2017). Simultaneously, the opposition to the ECtHR among the Russian political elite was growing, proportionally to the number of negative judgments (Provost, 2015). Political actors view the Court’s judgments as attacks, and the membership fee is regarded by some as funding anti-Russian propaganda (Bowring, 2009, p. 51). The judicial elite, as well as public opinion, was increasingly inclined to view the ECtHR as infringing the country’s sovereignty (Provost, 2015, pp. 318–320). Until the 2014 ECtHR Yukos judgment (discussed on pp. 183–84), Russia had adopted a dual approach: Russia paid the monetary compensation when required by the ECtHR, but failed to comply in a non-monetary sense, ignoring the substance of the judgment, failing to investigate the cases, to prosecute perpetrators, or to implement remedial measures (Provost, 2015, pp. 305–310). This dual approach allowed Russia to avoid remedial actions by the Council of Europe’s Parliamentary Assembly or the Committee of Ministers, but

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limited domestic costs of non-monetary compliance. Instead litigants (NGOs and individual citizens) were being actively discouraged from submission of cases to the Court (Lapitskaya, 2010). In monetary terms, the actual payments to victims were relatively small, up until the 2014 Yukos judgment. For Russia, paying off litigants was a small price for Russia to pay to demonstrate compliance with international law. For example, in 2007 $4.2 million was allocated in the Russian state budget to pay compensations and costs of ECtHR judgments, with an average of 20,451 euros (in 2008) and most payments were made in a timely manner (Lapitskaya, 2010, pp. 491–492). However, no measures were put in place to implement changes into the Russian legal system to systematically address the issues raised by the ECtHR judgments – neither in the areas relating to the issue area of the individual judgments, nor within the legal system (cf. Provost, 2015; Lapitskaya, 2010). The main reason is a principled opposition to the authority of the ECtHR and a perception that implementation of judgments involves following foreign dictates and succumbing to ‘foreign propaganda’ (cf. Bowring, 2009; Provost, 2015). The Yukos case was the turning point in Russia’s relationship with the ECtHR. Prior to the June 2014 judgment, Russia held numerous negotiations with the Court, and took various steps to delay the admission of the Yukos case (January 2009).25 In the Yukos judgment, the ECtHR found various offenses within Article 1 (right to property) in respect to seizure of Yukos Oil’s assets and their handling, and awarded compensation of €1.9 billion, to be paid to 55.000 Yukos stakeholders (see ECtHR 2009 and 2011). As a part of the June 2014 judgment, Russia was to cooperate with the Committee of Ministers in order to produce, within a time period of six months, a comprehensive payment plan to the Yukos stakeholders.26 Russia appealed the ruling to the Grand Chamber of the ECtHR, which in December 2014 upheld the June 2014 ruling (Oao Neftyanaya Kompaniya Yukos v. Russia, 14902/04). Russia accepted the verdict, but Russian Justice Minister Konovalov stated that unlike the Court’s verdict, enforcement of decisions is a separate – and internal – matter. ‘Life will show to what extent this decision will be enforced in Russia’.27 In June 2015, Russia missed the deadline to submit the compensation plan to the Committee of Ministers; on the same day, 90 members of the Russian Duma requested the Russian Constitutional Court to provide clarification on the necessity of compliance with judgments of international courts.28 In December of 2015 the Russian Duma adopted a new law amending the Constitution of the Russian Federation to allow the Russian Constitutional Court to decide whether or not to implement rulings of international human rights courts.29 This law allows the Russian Constitutional Court to overturn judgments of the ECtHR if it deems them ‘unenforceable’. In April 2016, the first ruling of the Russian Constitutional Court based on the new law was issued (in reference of the ECtHR ruling from July 2013 in Anchugov and Gladkov v. Russia App. No. 11157/04 regarding voting rights of prisoners). In

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its ruling the Russian Constitutional Court stated it was impossible to provide electoral rights to all prisoners and that reform of correctional legislation is necessary to provide voting right to some prisoners – proportional to the type of sentence. Until relevant legislation is passed the implementation of the judgment is not possible.30 As Pomeranz (2011) noted in regards to an earlier case (the 2010 Markin case; see ECtHR, 2010), Russia has, for a long time, been on edge with respect to the domestic reception of some ECtHR judgments (cf. Provost, 2015; Marsh and Koesel, 2016 – in particular focussing on religious freedoms). Up until the Yukos judgment, dialogue had prevailed over confrontation. But the unwillingness to pay compensation to the Yukos stakeholders changed this. Not only has Russia moved from partial compliance to noncompliance (Yukos case), but through its law on the supremacy of the Constitutional Court over international legal rulings, Russia has institutionalized its position. This new position, together with the annexation of Crimea, is in breach of the European Convention of Human Rights and runs counter to principles of customary international law. In April 2014, Russia was temporarily suspended from the Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe. This is an important (symbolic) gesture of the Council of Europe, indicating that it can and will use measures in an effort to force Russian compliance. In the statement accompanying the suspension, representatives of the Parliamentary Assembly were unwilling to exclude Russia completely. In their opinion, the situation regarding Crimea, Ukraine and the Russian Constitutional Court can be only resolved through dialogue.31 Meanwhile some voices in Russia are calling for the termination of the country’s membership in the Council of Europe.32 Additionally, the current suspension is the second one for Russia (the first took place between 2000 and 2001 as a reaction to Russian actions in Chechnya and lasted nine months). At the conclusion of the first suspension Russia reiterated that cooperation and not confrontation yield results in terms of reforms of the Russian judicial system, but remained unapologetic about its past actions (Lapitskaya, 2010). For Russia, the long-term strategy of partial (monetary) compliance is no longer a viable alternative, as domestic political costs and economic costs of the Yukos compensation outweigh the symbolic, reputational costs of membership (cf. Pomeranz, 2011). In March of 2015 the Venice Commission (the full title of the Venice Commission, a body of the Council of Europe, is the European Commission for Democracy through Law) published an Opinion on the Amendment to the Russian Federal Law, in which it found this change incompatible with the Russian Constitutional system and human rights regime established by the Constitution of the Russian Federation. The Venice Commission deemed this incompatible with the Russian obligations under international law, namely Article 46 of the ECHR (Venice Commission, 2016: 24–25). In light of this development, and the unwillingness of Russian elites to meet their international obligations, it is increasingly difficult to justify the

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membership of Russia in the Council of Europe. Permanent exclusion of Russia would be detrimental to Russian citizens as well as to the pan-European human rights regime (Lapitskaya, 2010). But the renewed consensus on shared principles of human rights requires a change of the current Russian position, which is undermining the authority of the ECtHR and the credibility of the Council of Europe.33 However, this consensus is impossible as long as Russian political elites subscribe to the notion of ‘rule by law’, circumvent the 1993 Constitution, and continue politicization of judiciary (Provost, 2015; Marsh and Koesel, 2016).

Conclusion Given the current geopolitical situation, the possibilities for cooperation between the EU and Russia on human rights are limited. For a long time, the EU and the broader international community were willing to downplay human rights violations inside Russia in order to justify maintaining cooperation and dialogue. However, Russian actions in Ukraine (including Crimea) elicited a stronger stance. Until the Russian position vis-à-vis the ECtHR and the Council of Europe changes, involving at least some degree of domestic compliance and implementation beyond monetary compliance, the Council of Europe does not offer a place for dialogue on human rights between Russia and the EU. For Russia, incentives to regain international credibility in the area of human rights are currently outweighed by domestic costs, and thus blocked. Measures such as seeking lodging of an interstate complaint against Russia with the ECtHR (Lapitskaya, 2010 – in particular in the case of disappeared Chechen citizens) seem unlikely to change the current standstill (Provost, 2015). Still, it can be argued, a number of possibilities for dialogue exist. Russia has not been expelled from the ECHR, even if its voting rights in the Parliamentary Assembly have been suspended; and, the EU is still open to cooperation in areas such as education and science. However, possibilities for dialogue remain limited as long as there is no common agreement on values and norms. The current situation exemplifies an interesting paradox: although Europe overall became more democratic and friendlier towards human rights, especially in the last two decades, the pan-European human rights regime is facing significant challenges in terms of non-compliance by states and new institutional hurdles. This issue accompanies the paradox in which transnational human rights litigation continues to grow significantly, due to the empowerment of citizens, but the transnational human rights regime itself is being challenged.

Notes 1 The author would like to thank Prof. Joan DeBardeleben and Dr Tom Casier for their valuable comments on an earlier version of this chapter.

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2 http://curia.europa.eu/juris/liste.jsf ?pro=&lgrec=de&nat=or&oqp=&dates=&lg=& language=en&jur=C%2CT%2CF&cit=none%252CC%252CCJ%252CR%252C20 08E%252C%252C%252C%252C%252C%252C%252C%252C%252C%252Ctrue% 252Cfalse%252Cfalse&num=C-2%252F13&td=%3BALL&pcs=Oor&avg=&page= 1&mat=or&jge=&for=&cid=566407 (accessed August 15, 2016). 3 In sum, the ECJ rejected a claim made by the European Commission and European parliament, that the accession of the EU to the ECHR is in accordance with EU law (especially when the previous 1996 Opinion 2/94 rejecting accession to the ECHR was overturned by Article 6(2) and Protocol 8 of the Treaty of Lisbon). 4 https://rg.ru/2015/12/15/ks-site-dok.html (accessed August 15, 2016). 5 www.ksrf.ru/ru/News/Pages/ViewItem.aspx?ParamId=3281 (accessed August 15, 2016). 6 http://eur-lex.europa.eu/legal-content/EN/ALL/?uri=CELEX%3A21997A1128(01) (accessed August 8, 2016). 7 http://www.russianmission.eu/userfiles/file/road_map_on_the_common_space_of_ freedom,_security_and_justice_2005_english.pdf (accessed August 3,2016). 8 https://eeas.europa.eu/russia/docs/js_eu-russia_2004_en.pdf (accessed August 3, 2016). 9 http://www.consilium.europa.eu/ueDocs/cms_Data/docs/pressData/en/er/93797.pdf (accessed August 3, 2016). 10 https://eeas.europa.eu/topics/sanctions-policy/720/the-russian-federation-and-the-europ ean-union-eu_en (accessed October 24, 2016). 11 The IFHR contrasted the EU-led Dialogue with other bilateral human rights dialogues, most notably the US–Russian Civil Society Group, where both state authorities and NGOs are involved, and which are led by the deputy chairman of the Russian Presidential administration. 12 https://www.fidh.org/IMG/pdf/assessment.pdf (accessed October 24, 2016). 13 www.consilium.europa.eu/uedocs/cms_data/docs/pressdata/en/er/75969.pdf (accessed October 24, 2016). 14 http://europa.eu/rapid/press-release_SPEECH-14-66_en.htm (accessed October 24, 2016). 15 http://europa.eu/rapid/press-release_SPEECH-14-66_en.htm (accessed October 24, 2016). 16 One of the UK’s most vocal opponents of the ECtHR is Theresa May, who regards ECHR as limiting the powers of the British parliament, as ineffective and overall detrimental to human rights – in particular as it binds the hands of governments in favor of citizens. www.theguardian.com/politics/2016/apr/25/uk-must-leave-europ ean-convention-on-human-rights-theresa-may-eu-referendum (accessed August 1, 2016). 17 Human rights performances are measured by the Cingranelli and Richards’ (CIRI) Human Rights Data Project indicators. To examine the robustness of findings, we also considered an alternative measure of human rights performance – the Political Terror Scale (PTS), based on yearly country reports by the US State Department and the country reports of Amnesty International. Economic development was operationalized as a country’s gross domestic product (GDP) per capita for a given year. The Polity IV democracy score was used, and Political Rights Index compiled by Freedom House was also tested. Independent judiciary was measured by the CIRI indicator for the ‘Independence of the Judiciary’. EU membership was operationalized using the number of years that a country has been a member of the EU. Population data were collected from the United Nations Statistical Division (2013) and log transformed in the analysis. To measure ethnic fractionalization, Fearon and Laitin’s data on ethnic fractionalization were used. The analysis also includes a time trend variable. 18 In 2012 a law was adopted requiring all NGOs engaged in ‘political activity’ and receiving foreign funding to register with the Ministry of Justice. After strong

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19 20 21 22

23

24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33

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criticism of the NGOs and an appeal of the Ombudsman to the Constitutional Court, the Court ruled in April 2014, that this registration is ‘not intended to persecute or discredit’ NGOs, and only serves the public interest. As of June 2014, the Ministry of Justice is authorized to deregister NGOs, which fulfil the two conditions above (political activity and international funding) without their consent (Marsh and Koesel 2016). Opinion 2/13 of the Court of 18 December 2014: Accession by the Union to the European Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms, ECLI:EU:C:2014:2454 However, the ratification was not smooth, as the Russian Duma refused to ratify Article 6 (and to abolish the death penalty). (Then) President Putin made a statement in support of Duma’s position (Nikakikh ogovorok etot protocol ne dopuskaet, 2009), viewed as a rebuke for ‘purely political decisions against Russia’ (Lapitskaya 2010, p. 499). The ratification was a result of significant domestic and international pressure, a number of concessions by the Council of Ministers (participation of a Russian judge in cases brought against Russia), and the desire to avoid more significant human rights reforms (Lapitskaya 2010). In support of the adoption of Article 14, Russian than President Dmitry Medvedev cited the need to change Russian ‘legal nihilism’ and the need to strengthen the independence of Russian judiciary. http:// humanrightshouse.org/Articles/13136.html (accessed August 1, 2016). Again both international factors (recognition) and domestic factors (anchoring judicial reforms) played a role. Most of these cases concerned human rights abuses in Chechnya http://huma nrightshouse.org/Articles/13136.html (accessed August 1, 2016). Approximately 90% of the cases were inadmissible on formal grounds – this is a usual ratio for CEE litigants; up until 2010 the decisison on admissibility was taking a large part of the Court’s capacity (cf. Guasti et al., 2016). http://echrblog.blogspot.de/2010/06/protocol-14-enters-into-force.html (accessed August 1, 2016). www.eu-russiacentre.org/our-publications/column/YUKOS-case-strasbourg-russias -ratification-protocol-14.html (accessed August 1, 2016). www.humanrightseurope.org/2014/07/russia-court-makes-e1-8-billion-yukos-damag es-ruling/ (accessed August 1, 2016). https://www.rt.com/business/215155-russia-accepts-court-verdict/ (accessed August 1, 2016). http://sputniknews.com/world/20150626/1023892911.html (accessed August 1, 2016). www.loc.gov/law/foreign-news/article/russian-federation-constitutional-court-allows -country-to-ignore-echr-rulings/ (accessed August 1, 2016). www.loc.gov/law/foreign-news/article/russian-federation-constitutional-court-allows -country-to-ignore-echr-rulings/ (accessed August 1, 2016). www.euractiv.com/section/europe-s-east/news/council-of-europe-assembly-suspends -russia-s-voting-rights/ (accessed August 1, 2016). www.euractiv.com/section/europe-s-east/news/council-of-europe-assembly-suspends -russia-s-voting-rights/ (accessed August 1, 2016). www.euractiv.com/section/global-europe/opinion/council-of-europe-can-do-without -russia/ (accessed August 1, 2016).

References Anagnostou, D. (ed.) (2013) The European Court of Human Rights: Implementing Strasbourg’s Judgments on Domestic Policy. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.

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Alter, K. J. (2006) Private Litigants and the New International Courts. Comparative Political Studies, 39(1): 22–49. Bertelsmann Stiftung – BTI (2016) Russia Country Report. Gütersloh: Bertelsmann Stiftung. Bjola, C. (2009) Legitimising the Use of Force in International Politics: Kosovo, Iraq and the Ethics of Intervention. Abingdon and New York: Routledge. Bogdan, D. and Mungiu-Pippidi, A. (2013) ‘The Reluctant Embrace: The Impact of the European Court of Human Rights in Post-communist Romania’. In Dia Anagnostou (ed.) The European Court of Human Rights: Implementing Strasbourg’s Judgments on Domestic Policy. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, pp. 49–70, Bowring, B. (2009) ‘Russia and Human Rights: Incompatible Opposites?’, Göttingen Journal of International Law, 1(2): 33–54. Charter of Fundamental Rights of the European Union (2000) Official Journal of the European Union, 18 December, 2000/C 364/01. Cichowski, R. A. (2006) ‘Courts, Rights, and Democratic Participation’, Comparative Political Studies, 39(1): 50–75. Cingranelli, David L. and David L. Richards (2010) ‘The Cingranelli and Richards (CIRI) Human Rights Data Project’, Human Rights Quarterly, 32(2): 401–424. Donnelly, J. (2013) Universal Human Rights in Theory and Practice. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. European Court of Human Rights (2009) Case of OAO Neftyanaya Kompaniya Yukos v. Russia. Application no. 14902/04, Decision as to the Admissibility of Application no. 14902/04, 29 January. European Court of Human Rights (2010) Konstantin Markin V. Russia. No. 30078/06 [2010] ECtHR 1435, 7 October. European Court of Human Rights (2011) Case of OAO Neftyanaya Kompaniya Yukos v. Russia. Application no. 14902/04, Judgment, 20 September. http://hudoc. echr.coe.int/sites/eng/pages/search.aspx?i=001-106308 (accessed 9 July 2017). European Court of Human Rights (2013) The Court in Brief. Strasbourg: Council of Europe. Fearon, James D. and David D. Laitin (2003) ‘Ethnicity and Insurgency in Civil War’, American Political Science Review, 97(1): 75–90. Gorzev, Y. ‘Political Opposition and Judicial Resistence to Strasbourg Case Law Regarding Minoritites in Bulgaria’. In Dia Anagnostou (ed.) The European Court of Human Rights: Implementing Strasbourg’s Judgments on Domestic Policy. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, pp. 122–142, Guasti, P., Siroky, D. S. and Stockemer, D. (2017) ‘Judgement without Justice: On the Efficacy of the European Human Rights Regime’, Democratization, 24(2): 226–243. Hafner-Burton, E. M. and Tsutsui, K. (2007) ‘Justice Lost! The Failure of International Human Rights Law to Matter where Needed Most’, Journal of Peace Research, 44(4): 407–425. Hathaway, O. A. (2002) ‘Do Human Rights Treaties Make a Difference?’ The Yale Law Journal, 111(8): 1935–2042. Haukkala, H. (2015) ‘From Cooperative to Contested Europe? The Conflict in Ukraine as a Culmination of a Long-term Crisis in EU–Russia Relations’, Journal of Contemporary European Studies, 23(1): 25–40. Hawkins, D. and Jacoby, W. (2010) ‘Partial Compliance: A Comparison of the European and Inter-American Court of Human Rights’, Journal of International Law and International Relations, 6(1): 35–85.

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Helfer, L. R. (2008) ‘Redesigning the European Court of Human Rights: Embeddedness as a Deep Structural Principle of the European Human Rights Regime’. European Journal of International Law, 19(1): 125–159. Henderson, J. (2008) ‘Making a Drama out of a Crisis: The Russian Constitutional Court and the Case of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union’, King’s Law Journal, 19(3): 489–506. Hillebrecht, C., D. Mitchell and S. C. Wals (2015) ‘Perceived Human Rights and Support for New Democracies: Lessons from Mexico’, Democratization, 22(7): 1230–1249. Hillion, C (1998) ‘Partnership and Cooperation Agreements Between the European Union and the New Independent States of the Ex-Soviet Union’, European Foreign Affairs Review, 3(3): 399–420. Huneeus, A. V. (2013) ‘International Criminal Law by Other Means: The QuasiCriminal Jurisdiction of the Human Rights Courts’, American Journal of International Law, 107(1): 1–44. Koh, H. H. (1996) ‘Why Do Nations Obey International Law’, Yale Law Journal 106(8): 2599–2657. Kondakov, A. (2015) ‘Heteronormativity of the Russian Legal Discourse: The Silencing, Lack, and Absence of Homosexual Subjects in Law and Policies’, Sortuz: Oñati Journal of Emergent Socio-Legal Studies, 4(2): 4–23. Lapitskaya, J. (2010) ‘ECHR, Russia, and Chechyna: Two is Not Company and Three is Definitely a Crowd’, NYUJ International Law and Politics, 43: 479–547. Lazowski, A. and Wessel, R. (2015) ‘The European Court of Justice blocks the EU’s accession to the ECHR’, CEPS Commentary, 40. Leach, P. (2008) ‘The Chechen Conflict: Analysing the Oversight of the European Court of Human Rights’, European Human Rights Law Review, 2008(6): 732–761. Mansfield, E. D. and Pevehouse, J. C. (2006) ‘Democratization and International Organizations’, International Organization, 60(1): 137–167. Marsh, C. and Koesel, K. J. (2016) ‘Toward a Strategy for Engaging a Resurgent Russia on Democracy, Human Rights, and Religious Liberty.’ The Review of Faith & International Affairs, 14(2): 40–48. Meehan, N. (2009) ‘Human Rights Imprisoned: Institutional Human Rights NonCompliance in Council of Europe Member States’, International Journal of Comparative and Applied Criminal Justice, 33(1): 119–142. Moravcsik, A. (2010) ‘The Origins of Human Rights Regimes: Democratic Delegation in Postwar Europe’, International Organization, 54(2): 217–252. Nigro, R. (2010) ‘The Margin of Appreciation Doctrine and the Case-Law of the European Court of Human Rights on the Islamic Veil’, Human Rights Review, 11(4): 531–564. ‘Nikakikh ogovorok etot protocol ne dopuskaet’ (2009) ‘Interview with Anatolii Kozlev, conducted by Nargiz Asadovoi’. Kommersant, 5 October. https://www. kommersant.ru/doc/1247022. Pomeranz, W. E. (2011) ‘Uneasy Partners: Russia and the European Court of Human Rights’, Human Rights Brief, 19(17): 17–21. Provost, R. (2015) ‘Teetering on the Edge of Legal Nihilism: Russia and the Evolving European Human Rights Regime’, Human Rights Quarterly, 37(2): 289–240. Risse, T., S. C. Ropp and K. Sikkink (2013) The Persistent Power of Human Rights: From Commitment to Compliance. No. 126. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Scheeck, L. (2005) ‘Solving Europe’s Binary Human Rights Puzzle. The Interaction between Supranational Courts as a Parameter of European Governance’, Questions de Recherche 15. http://www.sciencespo.fr/ceri/sites/sciencespo.fr.ceri/files/qdr15.pdf. Utkin, A. I. (1995) ‘Russia and the West: The Day After’. PSIS Occasional Paper, Number 3/1995. Geneva: Programme for Strategic and International Security Studies. Van der Vet, F. (2012) ‘Seeking Life, Finding Justice: Russian NGO Litigation and Chechen Disappearances before the European Court of Human Rights’, Human Rights Review, 13(3): 303–325.

Part IV

The Multilateral Context of EU–Russia Relations

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10 The EU and Russia in a Multilateral Setting Tom Casier

Introduction Both the EU and Russia are self-declared champions of multilateralism. However, both have been criticised for being selective and non-consistent in the way they put that commitment into practice (Wilson Rowe and Torjesen, 2009; Drieskens and van Schaik, 2014). While at first sight their foreign policy preference for multilateralism looks very similar, their discourses on multilateralism turn out to be strongly interwoven with ideologically coloured selfimages and biased by the perception of the broader strategic context. For many years, Brussels and Moscow have held incompatible images of each other’s roles as multilateral actors. At the regional level their multilateral policies have also developed into rivalry and, increasingly so, in a geopolitical way. The Ukraine crisis, starting late in 2013, has substantially affected EU–Russia relations in multilateral settings. Russia’s membership of the G8 was suspended and sanctions have inhibited cooperation in many international forums. The confrontational relations have also modified the context in which both actors understand each other’s roles. Yet, the freezing of high-level institutional contacts has also increased the importance of some multilateral platforms as alternative diplomatic channels. This chapter first seeks to grasp the concept of multilateralism as both an organising principle and as an idea. It then studies the discourse of the EU and Russia on multilateralism before the Ukraine crisis, understanding how (self-)perception has coloured the multilateral preferences of both actors, specifically the EU’s ‘effective multilateralism’ and Russia’s ‘equal multilateralism’. The disparities between actual policies and stated preferences are understood in terms of the diverging drivers of the multilateral policies of both actors. Multilateralist rhetoric appears as an important legitimiser. Further, the question is raised why the EU and Russia – despite similar stated preferences for multilateralism – clashed over their regional projects for multilateral cooperation – the Eastern Partnership and the Eurasian Economic Union. The final section analyses changes since the Ukraine crisis. It explores how the conflict has altered attitudes to multilateralism and affected cooperation

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between Brussels and Moscow in multilateral forums. It is argued that, while tensions over Ukraine could be regarded as a deep crisis of multilateralism, they have also created some unexpected ambiguities whereby certain forms of multilateral cooperation have taken on a new role. Yet, the crisis has also put further strain on the credibility of Russia’s concept of multilateralism, strongly interwoven with international law.

The Concept of Multilateralism Pollack states: ‘Multilateralism is an abstract concept, more easily defined by what it is not – namely, it is not purely unilateral or bilateral – than by what it is.’ (Pollack, 2004, p. 116). Most commonly it refers to a way that multiple states coordinate their relations or cooperate in certain issue areas or within institutions. Multilateralism can be global or regional and is contrasted to unilateralism and bilateralism. Essentially it assumes cooperation (Caporaso, 1992, p. 604), but this does not necessarily entail non-hierarchical or symmetrical relations. It should also be noted here that multilateralism and multipolarity belong to different analytical categories, the latter referring to the relative distribution of power within an international system. The terms are not mutually exclusive. Multilateralism can be used for diverging forms of interaction, from dense forms of cooperation on the basis of equality to limited forms of ‘great power management’ (Makarychev and Morozov, 2011).1 Ruggie defines multilateralism as ‘an institutional form which coordinates relations among three or more states on the basis of “generalized” principles of conduct – that is, principles that specify appropriate conduct for a class of actions, without regard to the particularistic interests of the parties or the strategic exigencies that may exist in any specific occurrence’ (Ruggie, 1992, p. 571). He approaches multilateralism as an organising principle, ‘a generic institutional form of modern international life’ (Ruggie, 1992, p. 567) based on three characteristics: indivisibility, diffuse reciprocity and generalised principles of conduct (Ruggie, 1992; Pollack, 2004, p. 116). These principles can be understood as follows. First, whereas bilateralism ‘segments’ and ‘compartmentalizes’ relations, multilateralism entails an indivisibility among the Member States (Ruggie, 1992, p. 571). Ruggie emphasises how this is essentially a matter of social construction: there is nothing inherently indivisible about free trade or peace – it is the very fact that states accept the indivisibility and behave according to it that makes it indivisible. Secondly, whereas bilateralism ‘is premised on specific reciprocity, the simultaneous balancing of specific quid-pro-quos by each party with every other at all times’ (Ruggie, 1992, p. 571–572), multilateralism is based on ‘a rough equivalence of benefits in the aggregate and over time’ (Ruggie, 1992, p. 571). Thirdly, multilateralism implies that the behaviour of states is coordinated through generalised principles of conduct (Ruggie, 1992, p. 574). These will take very different forms and represent diverging levels of institutionalisation.

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It is this characteristic that closely links multilateralism to rule-based behaviour in international relations. Caporaso adds to this a distinction between multilateral institutions and the institution of multilateralism (Caporaso, 1992, p. 602). While the former refers to the formal, concrete organisation of international life, the latter refers to ‘how the world might be organised’ (Caporaso, 1992, p. 602). In other words, it is about the norms and ideas of international society. This approach to multilateralism as both organising principle and idea also guides this chapter. Multilateralism can thus both be seen as a mode of international cooperation (taking many different forms) and as part of a policy preference (idea, norm, strategic objective). To understand multilateralism as idea, the next section approaches it through the lens of discourse and perception. Following Jönsson’s theory of images (Jönsson, 1983), a distinction can be made between images the EU and Russia hold of themselves, of the other and of the strategic context in which they operate. This will help to understand the ideological bias of multilateral approaches on both sides.

EU and Russian Attitudes to Multilateralism before the Ukraine Crisis When checking how multilateralism features in foreign policy discourses of Russia and the EU, differences seem to be minimal, at least at first sight. Foreign policy doctrines of both the EU and Russia make multilateralism a key objective and both suggest a strong allegiance to multilateral principles. The EU has rhetorically committed itself to ‘effective multilateralism’. Keukeleire and Hooijmaaijers describe the EU’s ‘effective multilateralism doctrine’ as ‘a preference for legally binding commitments and powerful international regimes as the outcomes and instruments of multilateral co-operation’ (Keukeleire and Hooijmaaijers, 2014, p. 591). The EU’s 2003 European Security Strategy states: In a world of global threats, global markets and global media, our security and prosperity increasingly depend on an effective multilateral system. The development of a stronger international society, well-functioning international institutions and a rule-based international order is our objective. We are committed to upholding and developing International Law. The fundamental framework for international relations is the United Nations Charter. (European Council, 2003) The 2008 Implementation Report (European Council, 2008) echoes this idea and states that ‘[a]t a global level, Europe must lead a renewal of the multilateral order’. Also, the EU Global Strategy of 2016 repeats this idea:2 ‘The EU will promote a rules-based global order with multilateralism as its key principle and the United Nations at its core’ (European Council, 2016, p. 8).

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It also confirms the ‘aspiration to transform rather than simply preserve the existing system’ (European Council, 2016, p. 39). Overall the EU’s doctrine appears to differ fairly little from what one reads in diverse Russian Foreign Policy Concepts. The 2013 edition lists multilateralism among the basic foreign policy goals: developing mutually beneficial and equal bilateral and multilateral partnership relations with foreign states, interstate associations, international organizations and forums on the basis of respect for independence and sovereignty, pragmatism, transparency, multi-vector approach, predictability and non-confrontational protection of national interests; promoting broad international cooperation based on the principle of non-discrimination and facilitating the formation of flexible non-bloc network alliances with Russia’s active involvement. (Foreign Policy Concept of the Russian Federation, 2013) The concept of multilateralism is strongly interwoven with the primacy of international law. The main difference with the EU is Russia’s emphasis on non-discrimination and a non-bloc approach as well as respect for state sovereignty. In the 2008 Foreign Policy Concept, Moscow declares it aims at ‘preventing double standards, respecting national and historic peculiarities of each state in the process of democratic transformations without imposing borrowed value systems on anyone’ (Foreign Policy Concept of the Russian Federation, 2008, III.5). The emphasis thus is on equal or balanced multilateralism. The devil is thus in the details. Both preferences for multilateralism come with a strong ideological interpretation of the state of international relations and one’s own position therein. Using Jönsson’s theory of images (Jönsson, 1983), this is summarised on the basis of the images of Self, Other and Situation both actors hold. The EU self-image as multilateral actor is connected to that of ‘normative power’ (Manners, 2002), a concept that has increasingly entered EU diplomatic rhetoric. The EU perceives itself as having a normative basis and is therefore predestined to diffuse norms in a setting of open and equal cooperation. It sees a key role for itself to ‘lead a renewal of the multilateral order’ (European Council, 2008), turning the world into an international society rather than a ‘jungle’ (Cooper, 2004). This, however, is not the image Russia holds of the EU as multilateral actor. From Moscow’s perspective, the EU is seen as the representative of ‘collective unilateralism’ (Makarychev and Morozov, 2011, p. 354), favouring a world order biased towards Western overrepresentation and serving its interests. The Russian self-image is that of a multilateral actor driven by genuine concerns over fairness, inclusiveness and the supremacy of international law. It is that of a country that resists the Western hegemony that makes current multilateral institutions non-representative. Moscow wants a better and more

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equal representation in the multilateral system and plays a leading role in diplomatic attempts to achieve this, for example as driver of the consultations among the BRICS countries (Brazil, Russia, India, China, South Africa). What this reveals is that the concepts of multilateralism on both sides are not neutral preferences, but are understood in light of a broader ideational interpretation of international relations. The stated objectives of ‘more’ multilateralism on both sides may have to do with the common good and the reduction of transaction costs, as well as expressing a normative commitment. However, they also conceal crucial aspirations. For the EU this is to reinforce its status and regional leadership in an international context that is structured in a way beneficial to the Union. For Russia, it is to become a great power and enhance its regional role in an inimical Western-centred system of international governance. It is one vehicle to break the ‘normative hegemony’ (Haukkala, 2008 and 2010) of the EU and the West. This has led some authors to classify Russia as ‘neo-revisionist’ (Sakwa, 2012). The country does not seek to overthrow existing international governance structures, but wants to make them more representative and equal. Rhetorically multilateralism is often linked to norms such as equality, fairness, good governance or transparency. While not an inherent part of the definition used above, this is how it tends to be used in political discourse. As a result, the choice for multilateralism tends to appear as a highly normative preference. It represents the idea of multilateralism and is used as a legitimation of certain policies – as will be investigated further. In line with this, in both EU and Russian rhetoric, multilateralism is strongly interwoven with international law and its supremacy. Multilateralism, be it ‘effective’ (EU) or ‘equal’ (Russia), is seen as the best guarantee for respect for international rules. This implies that it is hard to separate the legal and the multilateral argument. For many years, Russia has used a strongly legalistic argumentation on multilateralism to back up its counter-hegemonic foreign policy.

Multilateralism at Work Against this finding that similar preferences for multilateralism hide different images of international relations and diverging motivations, this section looks at the drivers and determinants of the EU’s and Russia’s regional and global foreign policies in different multilateral settings. Together these factors offer a context to understand their attitudes towards multilateralism, based on their role concept, self-perception and domestic factors. It should first be reiterated that abundant rhetorical references to multilateralism in both foreign policy discourses in no way imply that the principle is applied consistently in practice. Both the EU and Russia have been found to be selective (Drieskens and van Schaik, 2014; Wilson Rowe and Torjesen, 2009), favouring multilateral channels in some cases and not in others. The reasons behind selective reliance on multilateralism go beyond the purpose of this chapter. Literature suggests the conditions under which multilateralism is

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targeted are related to relative power distribution in the international system, domestic factors, the issue area (for example low versus high politics), and the nature of the multilateral institution (Wilson Rowe and Torjesen, 2009). It is clear that these different variables reflect different theoretical approaches. Status enhancement or recognition of leadership (regionally or globally) may play an important role. Ruggie also stresses the importance of ‘a permissive domestic environment’ (Ruggie, 1992, p. 568). The EU’s Multilateral Policy The EU’s positive attitude towards multilateralism should be understood in the light of its self-perception as a legalistic and normative actor. By nature, the EU is an institutionalist actor, which is by nature inclined to operate through an institutional modus (see for example Chandler, 2010). The ‘development of a stronger international society’ is declared a central objective (European Council, 2003). In particular, the ambition to create a thick regional international society is at the heart of the EU’s foreign policy. It seeks to extend its legal sphere through rule and norm transfer to neighbouring countries, in particular within the European Neighbourhood Policy and Eastern Partnership. It has, for a long time, enjoyed an uncontested position of ‘normative hegemon’ (Haukkala, 2008), of which the norms and rules were seen as uncontested point of reference. Also, the EU seeks to extend the economic sphere of the Single Market through deep free trade arrangements. It is helped in doing so by the strongly asymmetrical interdependence with most of its neighbours. Its multilateralism is strongly driven by liberalism. Overall, the EU is ‘seeking to export its “domestic” model and policies to wider multilateral forums’ (Pollack, 2004, p. 116). But globally the EU is less well equipped to promote multilateralism. In key international institutions, such as the United Nations (UN), the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund (IMF), it does not speak with one voice. In the UN Security Council (UNSC) two individual Member States, the UK and France, hold a veto right and the EU seeks coordination of policies with them. Arguably Brussels has tried to profile itself predominantly as a global multilateral actor in certain areas where its leading role fits with its self-image of normative actor and its liberal agenda, such as climate change. Yet, the use of the multilateralism is strongly selective. In the field of trade, for example, the EU has chosen a path of bilateral agreements because of stalling progress at the multilateral level. Deep free trade agreements were signed with Canada, South Korea, Singapore, Vietnam, Ukraine, Georgia and Moldova. In general, the EU has given priority at a global level to the establishment of a network of strategic partners. The EU currently has Strategic Partnerships with ten countries around the world. As stated by Keukeleire and Hooijmaaijers, the EU has ‘failed to use the “Strategic Partnerships” with the emerging powers to promote its view of multilateralism’ (Keukeleire and Hooijmaaijers, 2014, p. 584), despite the fact that it sees these partnerships as

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building blocks for effective multilateralism (Keukeleire and Hooijmaaijers, 2014, p. 593). Finally, the domestic factor is important. The internal institutional constellation is a strongly determining condition. The decision to opt for multilateral channels is strongly determined by the EU’s capacity to speak with one voice, a capacity that differs from one area to another. Russia’s Multilateral Policy Russia has traditionally regarded multilateral institutions as forums for defending international law, sovereignty and non-interference. Its attitude should be understood against its neo-revisionist stance (Sakwa, 2012). From this perspective, Moscow regards current structures of international governance as non-representative and non-inclusive. The US, and by extension ‘the West’, are too dominant and international institutions need to be reformed to become more representative. The emphasis is on the autonomous role of the state. Multilateralism and international law are protecting state sovereignty. This strong Russian emphasis on sovereignty should be understood from a relational perspective: it follows from the perception that the country is underrepresented and ‘cornered’ by the West, as part of – in the words of Putin – a continuation of ‘the infamous policy of containment’ (Putin, 2014). With an agenda that strongly objects to Western interventionism, the protection of sovereignty automatically becomes a core priority. This agenda can equally be seen as part of a long Russian foreign policy tradition, where a ‘statist’ approach has been traditionally strong (Tsygankov, 2016). This is not contradictory to multilateralism, but indicates that Russia favours a form of equal multilateralism where states are key actors. The aspiration is not to create a thick international society, with an extended and dense set of rules, but a multilateral system protecting sovereign states and the rules they have agreed on among themselves. At the regional level, Russia has long favoured a pan-European multilateral system for collective security. This preference stood out clearly in the Medium-term Strategy of 1999. It was also the signal that Medvedev’s proposed European Security Treaty aimed to send ten years later, in 2009 (European Security Treaty, 2009). This draft European Security Treaty suggested a de facto merger of NATO and the Collective Security Treaty Organisation (CSTO) into one pan-European collective security system. In terms of economic and political regional cooperation, Russia fundamentally shifted its strategy away from the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS) as the umbrella organisation for former Soviet states towards a ‘coalition of the willing’. Moscow opted for deeper and more effective forms of integration with those states that wanted to be on board. This led to the establishment of the Eurasian Customs Union (ECU) in 2010, later to become the Eurasian Economic Union (EEU). The latter has also been understood as part of a strategy to challenge the regional hegemony of the EU by setting up its own rivalling structures.

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At the global level, the counterhegemonic strategy resulted in alternative channels for collaboration outside Western dominated multilateral structures. Russia has been one of the main drivers of the BRICS consultations, organising the first summit meeting among the leaders of Brazil, Russia, India, China and South Africa. The importance of this form of multilateral cooperation mainly needs to be sought in its potential as an alternative diplomatic channel and as a platform for a counter-hegemonic strategy. The BRICS countries are mainly united on the basis of a negative factor, a will to resist American and by extension ‘Western’ dominance (Laidi, 2010). Within the BRICS framework a National Development Bank (NDB) was set up in an agreement signed at the 6th BRICS summit in Fortaleza (BRICS, 2014). Its mandate overlaps with the Asian Infrastructure Investment Bank (AIIB), which Russia has joined as well (Xing, 2016). Like the NDB the latter was established out of frustration with Western-dominated financial institutions like the World Bank and the IMF. The AIIB is a Chinese initiative, aimed at making better use of Chinese foreign currency reserves. It has 57 founding Member States, among which many EU countries, and is expected to grow further. Its resources make it a real match for multilateral banks within the UN system, such as the World Bank or the Asian Development Bank. This indicates a profound disequilibrium within the BRICS forum. The People’s Republic of China (PRC) is an economic giant among much smaller economies, whose growth has in most cases followed a winding path. The significance of this asymmetry is that the future of the BRICS consultations will ultimately depend on China’s will to use them as multilateral platform, in particular in a context where the BRICS countries are only united on the basis of a negative factor (resistance to Western dominance). This implies that Russia does not hold the key to make crucial alternative diplomatic forums work. Bobo Lo has suggested that the current precarious balance between Russia and China is based on a mutual recognition. Moscow recognises China’s economic primacy, while Beijing recognises Russia’s geopolitical primacy (Lo, 2016). With China’s military expenditure growing fast, the question is whether this balance is tenable in the longer term. Rivalling Regional Multilateralism Particularly interesting is how the two self-declared proponents of multilateralism clashed over each other’s regional integration projects, the Eastern Partnership and the Eurasian Economic Union, both based on multilateral principles (see also Chapter 6). The perception of each other’s multilateral role had become increasingly negative over the decade preceding the Ukraine crisis. In a strategic context increasingly perceived as competitive, Brussels and Moscow started to regard each other’s regional policies as incompatible and their multilateral objectives as rivalling. This led to ‘competitive regional multilateralism’ (Wilson Rowe and Torjesen, 2009, p. 15), despite a common preference for multilateralism on both sides.

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In the case of Russia, ‘competitive regional multilateralism’ can easily be understood from the ‘complex multipolarity/multilateralism dialectic’ in its foreign policy, an attempt to bridge principles of multilateralism and geopolitical balance of power thinking (Tsygankov, 2009). The two concepts got connected, mainly because of Primakov’s emphasis on multipolarity as the ordering principle Russia should aspire to (Makarychev and Morozov, 2011). However, also the EU’s policy towards its Eastern neighbours was more geopolitical than acknowledged. The transfer of rules and norms inherent to deep and comprehensive free trade of the Association Agreement implied a strong anchoring of Ukraine, Moldova and Georgia in the EU’s wider legal and economic sphere. The results of this were by no means power neutral. Rule transfer creates a form of ‘sticking power’, as withdrawal implies serious costs. Sakwa (2014) explains the root causes of this rivalry on the basis of a deeper structural confrontation between two different projects for post-Cold War Europe. On the one hand, there is a Euro-Atlantic ‘Wider Europe’ project, built around the EU and NATO and on the policies of rule and norm transfer through enlargement and partnership. On the other hand, there is the Russian ‘great Europe’ project, which favoured multipolarity and a more pluralistic Europe, based on centres in Brussels, Moscow and Ankara (Sakwa, 2014, p. 27 ff.).

Multilateralism as Legitimiser In both the EU’s and Russia’s case, multilateral engagement is selective and strongly determined by preferences and the self-perception of their roles. Moscow prefers multilateral cooperation that forms an alternative for international governance structures dominated by the West, in line with its neorevisionist foreign policy. It opts for modes of cooperation that confirm its role as regional leader, such as the Eurasian Economic Union. Brussels prefers multilateral routes that allow it to extend its economic and legal sphere beyond its borders or that confirm its image of normative leadership, as in the case of climate change. At the point where multilateral cooperation becomes uncomfortable or inconvenient, or is seen as threatening key interests, both actors may quickly decide to choose alternative routes. Russia’s original love for pan-European collective security in the framework of the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) cooled down as the organisation was increasingly seen as representing double standards. In November 2016 Russia withdrew its signature from the Rome statute, establishing the International Criminal Court – a treaty it had never ratified. The EU has often been associated with a ‘natural’ choice for multilateralism, following from the advanced form of multilateral cooperation on which it is based itself. It has fostered this reputation as champion of multilateralism in certain fields, such as climate change. Yet, as Pollack states, ‘the

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EU’s “instinctive” multilateralism is a legitimising myth for European countries that have always been, and remain, selective in their support for multilateral cooperation both among themselves and with third countries’ (Pollack, 2004, pp. 115–116). Moreover, the images third countries held are often not that of a multilateral champion. In the field of trade, for example, elites in many countries consider the EU to be foremost protectionist (Lucarelli, 2007). Multilateralism thus appears a largely empty signifier, which can be invoked to legitimise certain policies or objectives. It has been argued that the EU’s concept of multilateralism reflects the idea of what in English School terms is called a thick international society, an extensive network of agreed norms and rules. In contrast, Russia is often presented as defender of an international system, where interaction is little restricted by international norms and rules. Yet, such a representation is at odds with Moscow’s emphasis on international law. When Russia uses multilateral platforms – such as the UNSC – to defend principles of international law, such as sovereign equality and non-interference, it is definitely operating within an international society of agreed rules. The key point is rather that Russia takes a ‘statist’ approach to multilateralism, while the EU’s approach is more liberal. In terms of multilateralism as organising principle, it could be stated that Russia has traditionally preferred an intergovernmental concept of multilateralism, which allows the country to use its veto power. It holds, inter alia, a veto power in the UNSC and the OSCE Permanent Council. From a relational perspective, this is easy to understand: if Russia feels it is subjugated within international structures of governance by a dominant West, it is likely to see the defence of sovereignty as a core objective. The EU, on the contrary, is more inclined to selectively promote supranationalism, a form of multilateral cooperation in which states transfer some of their sovereignty to an international organisation. This may be presented as a normative inclination; on the basis of its own experience of pooling sovereignty, the EU would be more willing to accept modes of international cooperation that transcend sovereignty and interfere into domestic affairs. Yet, the selectivity in promoting supranationalism suggests it is more likely part of the ‘legitimising myth’. More than expressing a principled choice, the rhetoric of multilateralism of both Russia and the EU could thus be seen to fulfil a double function of legitimation. First this relates to the international order. The EU’s multilateralism legitimises its preferred liberal world order and seeks to reinforce it. This is not simply a matter of normative or ideological choice. A strong legitimation of the world order also reduces costs of compliance. In the case of Russia, multilateralist rhetoric serves to delegitimise a world order dominated by the West. The Kremlin does not do this by rejecting the fundaments of this order altogether, but by challenging its non-inclusive, unrepresentative character. In doing so, it puts a strong emphasis on statist norms, such as sovereign equality or non-interference, and on intergovernmental forms of multilateral cooperation. Secondly, the EU and Russian rhetoric of

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multilateralism serve to legitimise and reinforce the self-concept of their role within this international order. This role concept definitely involves regional leadership, but also aspirations for global leadership, with the EU presenting itself as normative vanguard, Russia as a leader of a neo-revisionist alliance, challenging collective unilateralism.

The Ambiguities of Multilateralism since the Ukraine Crisis Developments over Ukraine from late 2013 on have radically changed the strategic context in which multilateralism operates. The conflict over Ukraine was the ‘culmination’ of long process of increasing tensions (Haukkala, 2015). The latter had set into motion a ‘logic of competition’, where trust was dwindling, but the willingness to look for ways of pragmatic engagement survived. While this long process of increasingly acrimonious relations definitely prepared the ground for the Ukraine crisis, the latter constituted a radical break in EU–Russia relations. Tensions over the fate of Crimea and later the conflict in eastern Ukraine have led to Western sanctions (in three different rounds in 2014), followed by Russian retaliation measures (in 2014 and 2015). This led to the deepest crisis in bilateral relations since the collapse of the Soviet Union. The EU–Russia Strategic Partnership is defunct and EU–Russia summits have been suspended. Talks on a new EU–Russia agreement and on visa waivers, as well as most cooperation programmes, have been suspended. Only at technical level, bilateral talks continue. But also at multilateral level, the developments have had a deep impact. Russia’s membership of the G8 was suspended in March 2014. The Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe deprived Russia of its voting rights in April 2014. And so on. Self-evidently, also EU–Russia collaboration at multilateral level was heavily burdened as a result of the tensions. It has been suggested that Russia has shifted ‘from a defensive to an offensive posture’ (Bond, 2015, p. 139). Undeniably, Moscow has changed the way it uses multilateral organisations. The United Nations Security Council was traditionally an instrument for Russia to restrain Western interventionism (Bond, 2015), despite the fact that it has, at several crucial moments, given its support to interventions. While Moscow supported the British–French intervention in Libya in 2011, this operation eventually became a turning point (Doyle, 2016). Both Russia and China felt that Paris and London overstepped their mandate, allowing for the Muammar Gaddafi regime to be overthrown. Hehir warns not to see UNSC Resolution 1973 as an expression of a consistent application of norms, in a process of developing the principle of responsibility to protect (R2P). Rather the agreement on the resolution was ‘impelled by the occasional coincidence of interests and humanitarian need’ (Hehir, 2013, p. 137). However, in some fields collaboration has continued. This happened at different levels. First, the EU and Russia have continued to collaborate in different international networks. One of the most successful examples of

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ongoing diplomatic collaboration was the Iran nuclear deal reached in 2015. This deal was made within the framework of the E3/EU+3 Iran nuclear talks, in which the EU took a leading role, alongside three of its Member States (UK, France, Germany) and with Russia, the US and China. Other examples of continued multilateral collaboration include the OSCE, the International Syria Support Group (ISSG) and the G20 (in particular on the margins of the G20 meeting in Brisbane in November 2014). Secondly, multilateral meetings have regularly been used for discrete bilateral contacts. This was, for example, how the so-called Normandy format took shape, on the margins of a commemoration of the Battle of Normandy. The Normandy contact group is an informal diplomatic format for consultations between Russia, Ukraine, Germany and France (with the backing of the EU) over the war in eastern Ukraine. Finally, also during the Ukraine crisis bilateral contacts between the EU and Russia have never ceased to exist, not least in the field of energy. Yet, these contacts have often acquired a more international focus (interviews EU-INT 1, RU-INT 1). The OSCE: A Test Case This leads to the question of whether multilateral platforms function as an alternative channel for high-level diplomacy. In this respect, the case of the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) is a particularly interesting test case. In the early days of the Ukraine crisis, the OSCE was unable to live up to the expectations and was even humiliated. Its weak performance is understandable for an organisation that is largely dependent on the willingness of its Member States and mainly disposes of soft tools like monitoring and mediation (Kropatcheva, 2015, p. 17). Moreover, despite its preference for a pan-European collective security system, Russia had fallen out of love with the OSCE, increasingly regarding it as a biased organisation, applying double standards. Already in the late Yeltsin years the organisation was criticised for taking a tougher stance on post-Soviet states, particularly in election monitoring and on human rights. Yet, the conflict over Ukraine gave the OSCE a more central position again. The crisis revealed in all clarity that Europe did not dispose of a well-functioning collective security mechanism. Despite the dramatic first weeks of the Ukraine crisis, the OSCE has gained in importance as a channel for interaction between Russia and the West. The organisation facilitated the Normandy talks in the framework of the Trilateral Contact Group on Ukraine and has a border mission running at two checkpoints between the Russian and Ukrainian border (OSCE, 2014). Given Russia’s fluctuating relations with the OSCE (Kropatcheva, 2012), this is a noticeable development. Whether the role of the OSCE and Russia’s attitude towards the organisation has substantially changed as a result of the Ukraine crisis was evaluated in a series of semi-structured interviews held by the author in January to February 2016 with senior diplomats of the OSCE, the European External

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Action Service (EEAS) and the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. All agreed that the OSCE had gained in importance as a result of the crisis, being left as one of the few channels for a security dialogue between Russia and ‘the West’. Yet, the OSCE was revitalised at the operational level rather than politically (OSCE INT 2). The Ukraine conflict and the context of sanctions made the OSCE an acceptable actor again for the Russian Federation (OSCE INT 1 and 2). This, however, did not indicate a fundamental change of course, but was a choice ‘by default’ (OSCE INT 1). The OSCE mainly offered a platform and a forum for consultation, but it played this role mainly because of a lack of better alternative (OSCE INT 1 and 2). In general, the Russian attitude towards the OSCE became more positive. One interviewee pointed out that the ‘Observer Mission at the Russian Checkpoints Gukovo and Donetsk’ (OSCE, 2014) is the first OSCE mission on Russian soil since the Chechnya war (OSCE INT 3). Also, remarkable in this respect is that in June 2014 ‘the Russia-led CSTO made a decision to suspend attempts to establish dialogue with NATO and instead to strengthen interaction with the OSCE to preserve communication with Europe’ (Kropatcheva, 2015, p. 18). All in all, this suggests an increased role for the OSCE and a more positive Russian attitude. Yet the OSCE will not become Moscow’s ‘preferred actor’ but just one ‘acceptable’ actor for cooperation (OSCE INT 1). Russian diplomats are quick to repeat their critique of the OSCE as an organisation holding double standards, which inhibits a greater role in European security (RUS INT 1). Despite the enhanced role of and the more positive Russian attitude towards the OSCE, the organisation has been unable to make a significant contribution. At the heart is a more fundamental clash of visions, a tension between the ‘indivisibility’ and ‘equality of security’ (OSCE INT 2). This cannot be seen independently from a tension between the ‘Western’ choice for Euro-Atlantic security cooperation through NATO and Russia’s preference for a pan-European OSCE platform. While the latter is a collective security organisation, NATO is a military alliance and collective defence organisation. The two organisations are of a very different nature. NATO is no doubt the more dominant security actor, largely forcing the OSCE to operate in its shadow. A decade ago, Ghebali argued that Russia’s ambition to be recognised in its equal status explains its preference for direct bilateral interaction with the EU and NATO over multilateral platforms like the OSCE (Ghebali, 2005, p. 388). It would be jumping to conclusions to state that this preference has come to an end with the Ukraine crisis. The latter may have enhanced the role of the OSCE as platform, but it has by no means upgraded that organization into a key security actor. Nor has the crisis over Ukraine fundamentally altered Moscow’s concerns. Russia prioritises bilateral relations with Germany and France (OSCE INT 2), but evaluates the Normandy format positively in light of how it builds on and facilitates these contacts (RUS INT 1).

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The Credibility of Multilateralism A more lasting effect of the Ukraine crisis may be on the credibility of multilateralism discourses. As indicated above, the Russian diplomatic rhetoric traditionally put a strong emphasis on equal, balanced multilateralism, driven by respect for international law and sovereignty. The argumentation was predominantly legal and rational. Arguably this discourse has come under strain with the annexation of Crimea, which was seen by many as incompatible with Moscow’s legal defence of state sovereignty. Very few countries supported the annexation. China abstained during a vote at the UNSC. Putin tried to save Russia’s discourse on international law by referring to the: Kosovo precedent – a precedent our western colleagues created with their own hands in a very similar situation, when they agreed that the unilateral separation of Kosovo from Serbia, exactly what Crimea is doing now, was legitimate and did not require any permission from the country’s central authorities. (Putin, 2014) He makes further reference to a ruling of the UN International Court that there is ‘no prohibition on declarations of independence’ (Putin, 2014). This reference fails to note that Crimea got integrated into the Russian Federation, thus going considerably beyond mere independence. This gap between rhetoric and practice has created a credibility problem for Russia, at least in the short term. According to Tsygankov (2009), this reflects a tension between the two pillars of Russian foreign policy: multilateralism and geopolitical balance of power thinking. For the EU, the events in Ukraine raise the question of whether sanctions on Russia can be sustained in the longer term in combination with a discourse of ‘effective multilateralism’. In particular, at the regional level, isolating Russia in certain multilateral forums may create tensions within this approach. Also in the current context, the EU and its Member States have to balance between maintaining sanctions on Russia and keeping certain multilateral and bilateral channels open. In this respect, it is interesting to note that trilateral talks between the EU, Ukraine and Russia have been held on the implementation of the EU–Ukraine Association Agreement throughout 2015, in a context of deep tensions and confrontation. Before the crisis, the EU had largely resisted earlier calls for trilateral talks which could help to take away Russian concerns. All the above indicates that the outcome of the Ukraine crisis for multilateralism and attitudes towards multilateralism is not one-dimensional. On one hand Russia’s policy has exposed a rhetoric–reality gap between its stated preference for multilateralism and international legal principles of sovereignty and non-interference on one hand and its actions on the other. This suggests a further tilting of the balance towards a geopolitical orientation to foreign

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policy, with the defence of multilateralism and international law increasingly under strain. On the other hand, the suspension of high-level bilateral relations with the EU and the US may give Russia little choice but to revalue multilateral channels, particularly in the regional European context. The sanctions have led to a relative isolation of Russia. Multilateral forums like the OSCE present themselves as more interesting channels for influence and communication.

Conclusion Both the EU and Russia have professed their adamant adherence to the idea of multilateralism. At first sight their discourses on multilateralism look very similar. Yet, in both cases they are strongly coloured by their images of international relations and their role within. Against the background of a statist agenda, Russia prefers equal and balanced multilateralism that forms an alternative to international governance structures dominated by the West, in line with its neo-revisionist foreign policy. As a result, its concept of multilateralism is intertwined with its counter-hegemonic strategy. Moscow opts for modes of cooperation that confirm its role as regional leader, such as the Eurasian Economic Union, or enhance its global leadership. The EU’s doctrine of ‘effective multilateralism’ reflects a more liberal agenda, is driven by a will to reinforce its normative hegemonic position, and is an instrument to project its own model regionally and globally. Brussels prefers multilateral routes that allow it to extend its economic and legal sphere beyond its borders or that confirm its image of normative leadership, as in the case of climate change. For both Russia and the EU, the notion of multilateralism thus serves as a legitimiser for foreign policy aspirations and self-images. This rhetoric contrasts with selective multilateral engagement in practice. The crisis over Ukraine, starting in late 2013, has put heavy strain on multilateral cooperation. Yet, it has also produced some ambiguities. In some cases, multilateral channels have functioned as alternative channels for diplomacy, with the EU–Russia Strategic Partnership suspended. With many bilateral channels blocked, it has also enhanced the role of organisations like the OSCE, that, by default has become an acceptable partner for Russia again, though certainly not a central actor. The annexation of Crimea has increased the gap between Russia’s traditional rhetorical defence of international legal principles such as sovereignty and an increasingly dominant geopolitical perception of international relations.

Notes 1 Wilson Rowe and Torjesen (2009) make a similar distinction between ‘horizontal’ and ‘great power multilateralism’. 2 The term ‘effective multilateralism’ does not appear in the EU Global strategy, though there are references to ‘effective global governance’ (European Council 2016, p. 36 and 43).

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References Bond, Ian (2015) ‘Russia in International Organizations: The Shift from Defence to Offence’. In David Cadier and Margot Light (eds) Russia’s Foreign Policy. Ideas, Domestic Policies and External Relations. Cambridge: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 189–203. BRICS (2014) Agreement on the New Development Bank. http://brics.itamaraty.gov. br/agreements (accessed 21 November 2016). Chandler, David (2010) International Statebuilding. The Rise of Post-liberal Governance. Abingdon: Routledge. Cooper, Robert (2004) The Breaking of Nations: Order and Chaos in the Twenty-First Century, New York: Atlantic Monthly Press. Doyle, Michael (2016) ‘The Politics of Global Humanitarianism: The Responsibility to Protect before and after Libya.’ International Politics, 53(1): 14–31. Drieskens, Edith and Louise van Schaik (eds) (2014) The EU and Effective Multilateralism. Internal and External Reform Practices. London: Routledge. European Council (2003) A Secure Europe in a Better World. European Security Strategy. [Approved by the European Council held in Brussels on 12 December 2003 and drafted under the responsibilities of the EU High Representative Javier Solana] http://www.consilium.europa.eu/uedocs/cmsUpload/78367.pdf (accessed 21 November 2016). European Council (2008) Report on the Implementation of the European Security Strategy – Providing Security in a Changing World. S407/08, Brussels, 11 December. www.consilium.europa.eu/ueDocs/cms_Data/docs/pressdata/EN/reports/104630.pdf (accessed 21 November 2016). European Council (2016) Shared Vision, Common Action: A Stronger Europe. A Global Strategy for the European Union’s Foreign and Security Policy. June. https:// eeas.europa.eu/top_stories/pdf/eugs_review_web.pdf (accessed 21 November 2016). European Security Treaty (2009) The Draft of the European Security Treaty, 29 November. http://en.kremlin.ru/events/president/news/6152 (accessed 1 February 2014). Foreign Policy Concept of the Russian Federation (2008) http://en.kremlin.ru/supplem ent/4116, accessed 15 June 2010). Foreign Policy Concept of the Russian Federation (2013) http://www.mid.ru/en/for eign_policy/official_documents/-/asset_publisher/CptICkB6BZ29/content/id/122186, accessed on 1 February 2014). Ghebali, Victor-Yves (2005) ‘Growing pains at the OSCE: The Rise and Fall of Russia’s Pan-European Expectations’, Cambridge Review of International Affairs, 18(3): 375–388. Haukkala, Hiski (2008) ‘The European Union as a Regional Normative Hegemon: The Case of European Neighbourhood Policy.’ Europe-Asia Studies, 60(9, 1601–1622. Haukkala, Hiski (2010) The EU–Russia Strategic Partnership: The Limits of PostSovereignty in International Relations. London: Routledge. Haukkala, Hiski (2015) ‘From Cooperative to Contested Europe? The Conflict in Ukraine as a Culmination of a Long-Term Crisis in EU–Russia Relations’, Journal of Contemporary European Studies, 23(1): 25–40. Hehir, Aidan (2013) ‘The Permanence of Inconsistency: Libya, the Security Council, and the Responsibility to Protect’, International Security, Summer, 38(1): 137–159. Jönsson, Christer (1983) ‘A Cognitive Approach to International Negotiation’. European Journal of Political Research, 11(2): 139–150.

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Keukeleire, Stephan and Bas Hooijmaaijers (2014) ‘The BRICS and Other Emerging Power Alliances and Multilateral Organisations in the Asia-Pacific and the Global South: Challenges for the European Union and its View of Multilateralism’, JCMS Journal of Common Market Studies, 52(3): 582–599. Kropatcheva, Elena (2012) ‘Russia and the Role of the OSCE in European Security: A “Forum” for Dialog or a “Battlefield” of Interests’, European Security, 21(3): 370– 394. Kropatcheva, Elena (2015) ‘The Evolution of Russia’s OSCE Policy: From the Promises of the Helsinki Final Act to the Ukrainian Crisis’, Journal of Contemporary European Studies, 23(1): 6–24. Laidi, Zaki (2010) ‘Is Europe a Risk Averse Actor?’ European Foreign Affairs Review, 15(4): 411–426. Lo, Bobo (2016) ‘The Illusion of Convergence – Russia, China and the BRICS’, Russie.Nei.Visions, 92 (March). https://www.ifri.org/sites/default/files/atoms/files/ifri_ rnv_92_bobo_lo_brics-eng_march_2016_0.pdf (accessed 21 November 2016). Lucarelli, Sonia (2007) ‘The European Union in the Eyes of Others: Towards Filling a Gap in the Literature’, European Foreign Affairs Review, 12: 249–270. Makarychev, Andrey and Viatcheslav Morozov (2011) ‘Multilateralism, Multipolarity, and Beyond: A Menu of Russia’s Policy Strategies’, Global Governance, 17: 353–373. Manners, Ian (2002) ‘Normative Power Europe: A Contradiction in Terms?’ Journal of Common Market Studies, 40/2): 235–258. OSCE (2014) OSCE Border Observer Mission: The Facts. http://www.osce.org/om/ 122174?download=true (accessed on 23 November 2016). Pollack, Mark A. (2004) ‘Unilateral America, Multilateral Europe?’ In John Peterson and Mark A. Pollack (eds) Europe, America, Bush: Transatlantic Relations in the Twenty-First Century. London and New York: Routledge, pp. 115–127. Putin, Vladimir (2014) Speech to the Federal Assembly, 18 March 2014. http://en.krem lin.ru/events/president/news/20603 (accessed 21 November 2016). Sakwa, Richard (2014) Frontline Ukraine. Crisis in the Borderlands. London: Tauris. Sakwa, Richard (2012) ‘The Problem of “The International” in Russian Identity Formation.’ International Politics, 49(4): 449–465. Tsygankov, Andrei (2009) ‘Russia in Global Governance: Multipolarity or Multilateralism?’ In D. Lesage and P. Vercauteren (eds) Contemporary Global Governance: Multipolarity vs New Discourses on Global Governance. Frankfurt/Brussels: Peter Lang Publishing Group, pp. 51–62. Tsygankov, Andrei (2016) Russia’s Foreign Policy. Change and Continuity in National Identity, Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield. Wilson Rowe, Elana and Stina Torjesen (eds) (2009) The Multilateral Dimension in Russian Foreign Policy. London: Routledge. Xing, Yuqing (2016) ‘The Asian Infrastructure Investment Bank and China’s Role in Regional Economic Governance.’ East Asian Policy, 8(2): 25–36.

Interviews OSCE INT 1: Interview with senior official of OSCE, Vienna, January 2016. OSCE INT 2: Interview with senior official of OSCE, Vienna, January 2016. OSCE INT 3: Interview with senior official of OSCE, Vienna, January 2016.

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RU INT 1: Interview with senior diplomat of Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Moscow, February 2016. RU INT 2: Interview with senior Russian expert, Moscow, February 2016. EU INT 1: Interview with senior diplomat, EU Delegation to Russia, Moscow, February 2016.

11 Russia Turns East Again? Russia and China After Ukraine Peter Ferdinand

This chapter will examine the background to Russia’s ‘Eastern’ turn – particularly towards China – in response to Western sanctions over Crimea and eastern Ukraine. Why did Russia respond in this way, and does it represent a significant and durable reorientation of Russia’s foreign policy? The vector of Russia’s policy is structured by three sets of interrelated factors. The first is at the level of overall values: given its geographical location, does Russia, and particularly do its foreign policy-makers, primarily ‘look’ East or West? The second relates to the development of Russia’s eastern provinces: how can their potential be maximized, and where will the resources come from? The third relates to Russia’s conception of its place in the world: how can great power status be sustained? This chapter will first address these sets of concerns in turn. Then it will consider in more detail the Russian turn to China as a response to Western sanctions over the Crimean and Ukrainian events, before concluding with implications for EU external relations.

Russia: the emerging Eurasian pole After the collapse of the Soviet Union, the Russian Federation readopted the old Tsarist symbol of the double-headed eagle. Figuratively this is often presented as a symbol of a Russia that ‘looks’ both eastwards and westwards. Russian political circles time and again debate Russia’s ‘appropriate’ place in the world. Is it part of the West, or the East? Debates from Peter the Great onwards in the eighteenth century about how to modernize Russia often polarized between ‘Westernizers’ (who believed that Russia should learn from Western Europe and become European) and the Slavophiles (who believed that Russian civilization was distinctively different from Western Europe, primarily because of its Orthodox Christian heritage, and should go its own way) (Tsygankov, 2012, pp. 212–311). The collapse of the USSR reignited this debate (Liuks, 1993; O’Loughlin and Talbot, 2005), but at first President Yeltsin opted decisively for the West. This was the era of extensive Western advice on reforming the Russian economy through the market, in the expectation that this would lay the basis for a functioning Western-style democracy (Wedel, 1998). Yeltsin floated the idea

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of Russian membership of NATO and the EU. But the Western advice of ‘shock therapy’ led to one economic crisis after another, and in foreign policy Yeltsin became disenchanted with the West and its perceived failure to treat Russia as an equal partner – indeed suspicion took hold in Moscow that the US wanted to keep Russia weak. So already in 1996 Yeltsin turned to China and made an official visit there, after which the two countries issued a statement of their common views about the need for diverse paths for development in the international order. This then laid the basis for the basic agreement that underpins their bilateral relations, the 20-year Treaty on Good-Neighbourliness, Friendship, and Cooperation signed in 2001. Then Putin repeated Yeltsin’s shift in international orientation; after initially floating the possibility of Russian membership of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) and the EU, from the middle of the 2000s he began to push for stronger relations with Asia to compensate for disenchantment with the West (Luzianin, 2007). These domestic ‘push’ factors were reinforced by the ‘pull’ of developments in the Asia-Pacific region in general, and of Chinese economic growth in particular. The 2007–8 global financial crisis undermined both the economies of the West and their appeal, and then President Obama also announced a ‘pivot to Asia’ from 2011–12. In 2012 Putin set his sights on connecting the ‘wind’ of rapid Chinese economic growth with the ‘sails’ of the Russian economy (Putin, 2012). In the same year Russia and China signed a comprehensive Strategic Partnership of cooperation. And in 2014, more or less coinciding with the crisis in Ukraine, the Russian Academy of Sciences produced a major analysis of the desirability and opportunities for Russia to make a ‘turn to the East’ (Makarov, 2014a). Such a turn also offered a solution to the conundrum of how best to develop Russia’s resource-rich regions of Siberia and the Far East. They are strategically important in that they establish Russia’s presence in the Asia Pacific region and thus enhance its status as a global power. However, they suffer from small populations and a recurring sense of neglect by Moscow. The population there fell by a quarter from 8 million in 1991 to the current figure of 6.2, and while most of the decline took place in the 1990s, there was still a worrying tendency for young people, especially the well-qualified ones, to keep leaving for careers elsewhere, including neighbouring Asian states. The mortality rate in the Far East exceeded the birth rate by 4.7 per cent, the biggest disparity in the country, where the overall average was 0.7 per cent. Average real incomes in Siberia were still only 39 per cent of those in European Russia in 2014 (though admittedly this was an improvement on the figure of 15 per cent for 2000) (Larin, 2015, pp. 19–20). In Moscow, however, there had persisted a nagging fear that major reliance upon Asian investments, especially Chinese, could lead to Russia ‘losing’ Siberia. Putin said as much already in 2000, yet the most recent plan for the comprehensive development of the region announced in 2012 had already been abandoned as unrealizable by 2014. Russia was unlikely to be able to mobilize resources of its own to develop the region for decades. The cost

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would be simply enormous (Makarov, 2014b). Now minds were concentrated by Western economic sanctions after Crimea. With no prospect of economic cooperation with Europe or the US for years or even decades to come, Russia would have to bite the bullet, however unpalatable, and consider investments from China. Accompanying this economic turn was a strengthening philosophical and sociological one that identified Russia as a uniquely ‘Eurasian’ rather than Western state, with its own distinctive values and traditions – a twentiethcentury update of Slavophilism. The Eurasianists all advocated the coexistence of different civilizations to counterbalance American or Atlantic hegemony with a globalization without westernization. According to Brutents, the Eurasian project linking Europe and Asia with Russia at the centre of it, if realized, would lead to a redistribution of forces on the international arena (Brutents, 2012, p. 5). Gradually Putin’s experience of dealing with the US turned him away from the West. In 2011 he met US Vice-President Biden and remarked: ‘We are quite different from you. We only appear to resemble you. But we are quite different. It only looks as though Russians are no different from Americans. In fact we are built differently. We have quite different values.’ He became more sympathetic to Eurasian ideas. In 2012 he told a gathering of the ruling party United Russia: ‘Eurasianism is the tradition of our political thought … Moreover this has already migrated from the field of political philosophy to the political level, the agenda of current work’ (Zygar’, 2016, pp. 137, 306). Thus narratives of civilizational samobytnost’ (uniqueness) had begun to dominate how the regime framed the evolution of its political system. And Eurasianists have also framed what they claim is a distinctive Russian appeal to Asian states as compared with the West. Karen Brutents, a former senior official in the Soviet Communist Party with long-term experience of Russia’s foreign relations, claimed: A great advantage for Russia in its dealings with Asia is its image … Russia approaches all Asian countries without exception with open arms, striving for equal and mutually beneficial relations … Russia does not strive to impose unacceptable conditions on other countries. It carefully respects the sovereignty that they have achieved, and it opposes any imposition of spheres of influence. (Brutents, 2011) Since Russia does demand ‘respect’ for a sphere of influence in the West, this suggests a certain foreign policy schizophrenia: the eastward-looking eagle behaves differently from the westward-looking one, or at least believes it does – though Japan would certainly raise Russian occupation of the northern islands since 1945 to challenge such a perspective.

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Russia as a Great Power Beyond rediscovering a Eurasian vocation, Russia has a second more general deep-seated foreign policy priority. This is to restore its position as a great power and a global diplomatic player. According to Orlov, a writer associated with United Russia, no world order is acceptable to the Kremlin if Russia does not influence global strategic decisions and if Russia is not part of the global ‘board of directors’ (Orlov, 2006, p. 6). Despite their disagreements over domestic policy, this has been a constant and recurring objective for Gorbachev, Yeltsin and Putin. Already under Yeltsin the appointment of Primakov as foreign minister in the mid-1990s heralded a move to promote Russia’s global position in a world of increasing multipolarity through closer ties with the non-Western world, particularly Asia (Barskii, 2016). So the idea of pursuing closer relations with Asia to enhance Russia’s global stature dates back beyond the 2014 annexation of Crimea. As Russia restored economic growth and its self-confidence after the financial crisis in 1998, it began to spread its diplomatic wings globally, looking beyond relations with the West. It sought to promote the increasing multipolarity that it had identified with China as the key feature of the emerging post-Cold War world. One example was the Shanghai Cooperation Organization. Another was the BRICS grouping of countries (Brazil, Russia, India, China and South Africa), whose foreign ministers began to meet together from 2006, and the heads of whose governments began to hold annual summits in 2009 (South Africa only joined in 2010). This was originally a Russian initiative intended to demonstrate to the West that it could serve as an intermediary between the developed and the developing worlds with its own diplomatic resources (Dynkin and Ivanova, 2011, p. 366): Partly under the influence of circumstances and partly of its own free will, Russia has become the first major country of the ‘non-West’ to challenge the West … [I]n the context of the general redistribution of power in the world, Russia is now preparing for itself the status of one of the leaders of the future non-Western world, thus seeking to compensate the relative weakness of its economy with determination and the demonstration of an ability for leadership. (Braterskii, 2014) This ignores earlier efforts by the developing world to resist the West, but the fact of the claim is revealing.

The Impact of the Crisis in Ukraine on Sino-Russian Relations According to Alexander Lukin, an enthusiastic advocate of better relations with China, ‘2014 can be called a turning point in Russia’s foreign policy. As a result of the Ukrainian events it finally refused to follow in the West’s wake

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and embarked upon confrontation with it … Moscow began its real, and not just verbal turn to the non-Western world’ (Lukin, A., 2016, p. 21). The crisis over Crimea sped up rather than launched the turn to the East. During the previous decade Russia and China had signed two important contracts for an oil pipeline to the Far East, with a spur to China. While the negotiations had taken years, the agreement was finally clinched by Chinese companies paying upfront for future supplies as a way of ensuring the pipeline was constructed. By 2014 Russia had become the second largest supplier of oil to China. But gas supplies remained a major outstanding issue. For China this was important because Russian gas could supply its three northeastern provinces, which are beyond an existing pipeline into China from Central Asia. These provinces are currently still heavily dependent upon coal for energy, which is increasingly unsustainable for environmental reasons. Talks had been deadlocked for years. Apparently the ultimate sticking point was the gas price. Russia wanted China to pay what it charged European companies, on the grounds that the gas could equally well be supplied to either market. China, however, resisted, arguing that these supplies would be sourced from eastern Siberia, and therefore much nearer to China with much lower transport costs. The Chinese hand was strengthened by the fact of a global surplus of supply over demand, and Chinese companies were also playing different Russian energy companies against each other. ‘It is hard not to reach the … conclusion that China is playing a hard bargaining game and does not see its relationship with Russia to be as strategic as the Kremlin might like’ (Henderson and Mitrova, 2016, pp. 6, 55, 42). Then in 2013 Russia put pressure on China by dropping all preparatory work on the pipeline, knowing that completion would always take at least five years, by which time, Russia calculated, Chinese demand for energy would be even greater (Grivach, 2014). The aftermath of the Crimean crisis, coupled with the fall in world energy prices, forced the Russian hand. China ‘understood President Putin’s political desperation to sign a deal’ (Henderson and Mitrova, 2016, p. 75). In May 2014 Russia and China held a summit in Shanghai to announce a 30-year $400 billion deal for a gas pipeline from Eastern Siberia. The actual price agreed for the gas was not revealed, but analysts suspected that Russia had come down nearer to what the Chinese were demanding, no doubt in part out of hope that this would clear the way for a whole series of other deals, although some also believed that China had conceded to pay more than it had previously demanded. In any case the presumed price for pipeline gas, at around $387 per 1000 cubic meter of gas, is about 15 per cent less than the $444 that China is currently paying for 1000 cubic meters of Liquified Natural Gas (LNG), while the current spot prices of LNG in Asia are around $600. A further concession to China was that the pipeline to supply gas from Eastern Siberia will not be connected to the bigger pipeline network that sends gas from Siberia westwards to Europe (Bradshaw, 2014, p. 15). This means that these supplies will be tied exclusively to Chinese demand and Russia will not be able to leverage higher prices by later renewing threats to divert supplies to

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a Europe that might be prepared to pay more – assuming relations with the EU over gas supplies return to something like their pre-crisis state. At this Shanghai summit over 40 intergovernmental, interministerial and interregional documents were signed and several Russian big businessmen came away with memoranda of understanding about future deals. These covered space cooperation, the construction of high-speed railways, the joint development and production of wide-body aircraft for long-haul routes and of heavy-lift helicopters, and a pipeline from western Siberia to the western part of China. All this led to euphoria in Moscow, fostering hopes that China would replace potential Western, Japanese and South Korean investors who had been scared off by economic sanctions (Gabuev, 2016a). In October 2014 Chinese Premier Li Keqiang visited Moscow and a further 38 agreements were signed. According to Gabuev, Russian officials assumed that ‘if we are friends in politics, if we support each other over Syria or freedom on the Internet, then we must also help each other in business’ (Gabuev, 2015a). As the Russians saw it, ‘[i]n the light of the Ukrainian crisis, … China … has every chance to bolster its position as Russia’s key trade and economic partner by seeking the most favourable conditions for itself ’ (RIAC, 2015, p. 8). However, the Chinese had a rather different perspective. They welcomed the gas deal as ‘a manifestation of Russia’s strategic choice’, but they were also more realistic: Russia’s pivot to the East does not signify its withdrawal from Europe or the complete rupture of political and economic ties with it. China wants Russia’s pivot to the East to help diversify the latter’s foreign relations, making them more balanced, sustainable and multi-faceted in the economic field and other areas. (RIAC, 2015, p. 9) Generally the Chinese side wanted to keep politics and business separate, even though state-owned companies were involved on both sides. They downplayed over-optimistic hopes of trade expansion: ‘Russia is encountering its own limitations caused by its production structure and low product competitiveness, which inhibit growth in Russia–Chinese trade as a whole, including exports of Russian machinery and electronics to China.’ China had tried to help Russia increase its manufactured exports, but within the limits of what was allowed under World Trade Organization (WTO) rules. And they warned: ‘If Russia does not develop market mechanisms, a large-scale breakthrough is unlikely to happen in trade and economic cooperation, particularly when it comes to mutual investment’ (RIAC, 2015, pp. 14–15). Subsequently it became clear that Chinese banks were unwilling to offer new loans to Russian companies to replace those from Western banks because of the risk that they might themselves be penalized for contravening Western sanctions. Although the Chinese government condemned the unfairness of the

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sanctions and the increasing instability that they introduced into the global economy, Chinese banks were not prepared to put their other financial relations with the US at risk. Only the state-owned policy banks – the China Development Bank and the Export-Import Bank of China – were somewhat more willing to offer loans, but Russian negotiators in private complained that the terms they offered were ‘highway robbery’. The experience was summed up by one of Russia’s biggest oligarchs, Viktor Vekselberg: ‘The Chinese turned out to be very rational and very good businesspeople, so they wouldn’t give money away for nothing’ (Gabuev, 2016a). In the first seven months of 2015 Chinese direct investment in Russia fell by 20 per cent (Gabuev, 2015b). Once the gas deal had been signed, the Russian government also began to pay more attention to a new ambitious Chinese plan aimed to develop the economic resources of Eurasia. Known in short as the ‘One Belt, One Road’ initiative (OBOR), it had been launched by the new Chinese leadership of President Xi Jinping and Prime Minister Li Keqiang as their signature foreign policy innovation towards the end of 2013. It aimed at showing that China could make a significant contribution to international development and simultaneously develop its own relatively poor western regions. It is directed at improving long-distance transport infrastructure and comprises two distinct parts: a land-based economic belt stretching from China’s eastern seaboard all the way westwards to the Atlantic coast of western Europe, and a ‘maritime Silk Road’ running from China around Southeast and South Asia to East Africa, through the Middle East and the Mediterranean, also terminating in western Europe. All in all it looks to involve up to 56 countries (Ferdinand, 2016). There appears to have been no coordination with Russia over its initial launch, though the land belt concept was first announced by President Xi Jinping during a visit to Kazakhstan. Russia’s initial response was somewhat wary, since it was a rival to Russia’s own plans for a Eurasian Economic Union involving Russia, Belarus and Kazakhstan, which was about to be launched at the beginning of January 2015. The Chinese plan was more ambitious and suggested a more determined Chinese attempt to muscle into economic development in Central Asia, which Russia had been resisting for years. As Rozman (2014, p. 262) put it, up to that point Putin’s strategy had been to join with China internationally but block it regionally. However, Russia’s diplomatic isolation after Crimea led to a bilateral agreement in May 2015 to find synergies between the two projects (Russia–China Joint Declaration, 2015). Russia’s need to find alternatives to Western investors deterred by sanctions had become much more pressing. Again there were high hopes in Moscow that Chinese investors and state funds such as the recently created Asian Infrastructure Investment Bank and the Silk Road Fund would step into the breach, presaging even greater cooperation in the future: The next step towards implementing a common vision of the future of the Eurasian continent could involve a joint Russia–China concept for the

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In addition to the increased economic cooperation, the Russian and Chinese militaries continued to expand their joint exercises. In 2015 the Russian and Chinese navies conducted joint naval exercises in the South China Sea and the Mediterranean. Then in 2016 the two countries carried out a simulation of a joint response to a ballistic missile attack (Financial Times, 2016), highlighting their shared concerns about American attempts to embed parts of its Terminal High Altitude Area Defense system (THAAD) in Poland, Romania, South Korea and Japan. And after a pause of several years in Russian sales of military technology to China, in November 2015 Russia signed a $2 billion contract to sell 24 Su-35 fighters to China, having previously resisted Chinese blandishments on the grounds that China had ‘stolen’ technology embodied in earlier generations of fighters sold to them and then incorporated it into aircraft that it offered to other countries. Previously Russia had only supplied Su-35 fighters to India, with whom it had no security issues. But although Russia had marketed the fighter widely, no-one else had yet signed up, apart from China. Now Russia was prepared to put its concerns aside. In the same deal Russia agreed to supply China with four Lada-class stealthy diesel-electric submarines. And in the same year Russia also signed a deal worth $1.9 billion to supply its most advanced S-400 surface-to-air missile systems. All of this should raise the value of Russian arms sales to China from the $1.5–2 billion annual amount in recent years to something closer to the $2.7 billion level that was achieved around the turn of the century (National Interest, 2016; Kashin, 2016). Both deals had been under negotiation since 2011, so once again the Crimean crisis had provided an incentive to clinch the deal. When it came to diplomatic support, however, China would not reciprocate by supporting Russia’s annexation of Crimea. The PRC is extremely sensitive about issues of secession since it could face the same pressures from dissidents in Tibet, Xinjiang and, worst of all, independence activists in Taiwan. The Russian referendum in Crimea to legitimize the annexation is of no consolation at all to the PRC since this could be used as a precedent in Taiwan. The furthest that China was prepared to go was to express its understanding for all the complex historical circumstances that had led up to the crisis and to complain about ‘foreign interference’, implicitly backing Russia’s allegations about EU and NATO enticement of Ukraine with association agreements and Western manipulation in the overthrow of the Yanukovych

48165 44.27 19677 12.09 28489 80 −8812

56831 17.99 23825 21.08 33005 16 −9180

2008

Source: RIAC, 2016, p.14 (figures have been rounded)

Total %change Exports %change Imports %change Balance

2007 38797 −31.73 21283 −10.67 17514 −47 3769

2009

Table 11.1 Russian Trade with PRC (in million US$)

55449 42.92 25836 21.39 29613 69 −3776

2010 79249 42.92 40346 56.16 38904 31 1442

2011 88158 11.24 44101 9.31 44058 13 42.98

2012 89206 1.19 39600 −10.21 49606 13 −10007

2013 95285 6.81 41607 5.07 53678 8 −11932

2014

68065 −28.57 33264 −20.05 34801 −35 −1538

2015

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Table 11.2 Share of Major Commodities in Russian Exports to PRC (in %)

Mineral fuel, oil, oil products Wood, wood products Nonferrous metals Ferrous metals Chemical products Fish, molluscs, crustaceans Ores, slag, ash Fertilizers Paper pulp, cellulose Machinery, equipment Precious stones Paper, cardboard Mineral products

2007

2009

2011

2013

2015

47.5 15.17 4.9 1.8 6.82 6.8 4 5.8 3.5 1.3 0.23 0.4 0.7

44.11 11.1 10.1 7.63 6.5 5.57 4.98 3.33 2.27 2.04 0.68 0.45 0.25

56.76 8.65 7.6 0.53 6.4 3.94 8.31 2.82 2.26 0.7 0.8 0.31 0.48

67.89 7.07 4.29 0.25 3.79 3.53 5.3 3.03 1.51 0.71 1.51 0.25 0.35

60.7 9.39 9.06 3.27 3.54 2.73 2.61 2.52 2.04 0.87 -

Source: RIAC, 2016, p.16

Table 11.3 Share of Major Commodities in Russian Imports from PRC (in %)

Machinery, equipment Chemical products Footwear Textiles, clothes Knitwear Leather goods

2008

2009

2011

2013

2015

36.71 7.46 5.18 4.91 11.18 2.32

38.43 8.01 7.91 6.12 6 2.48

40.91 9.28 6.34 5.41 5.2 2.69

37.9 8.35 6.31 6.85 6.31 2.12

35.91 9.08 5.31 7.47 6.2 1.6

Source: RIAC, 2016, p.16

administration. Russia vetoed a UN Security Council resolution that declared the results of the Crimean referendum invalid and China condemned Western sanctions on Russia, but it only abstained (Zhang, 2015). Nevertheless the Russian government acknowledged its ‘understanding’ of what it termed China’s ‘friendly neutrality’ (the phrase comes from China) over the issue, claiming that ‘the positions of Russia and China continue to converge on the backdrop of the Ukrainian crisis’ (RIAC, 2016, p. 9; RIAC, 2015, p. 4).

Analysis and Implications How have Russia’s hopes fared of expanded trade with China offsetting Western sanctions? Table 11.1 illustrates the trend of Sino-Russian trade since the global financial crisis. It shows a general rise, though subject to occasional

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fluctuations, with a marked fall in Russian imports from China in 2009. But this Table also demonstrates the decline of trade in both directions in 2015, dashing the hopes in Moscow. In the event, sanctions provoked a fall in the value of the rouble and the nominal value of Russian exports to China, though the physical quantity of the exports remained more buoyant. The quantity of oil shipped to China only fell by 7 per cent, while prices fell by 33 per cent as world oil prices also collapsed. But the sanctions depressed demand for manufactured goods from China. While the value of Russian exports has generally increased over the last decade, Table 11.2 shows that energy has come to occupy an even more important place in it – and that can only increase as recent oil and gas deals come on stream. Russia’s official Energy Strategy to 2035 approved in 2014 calls for gas exports to the Far East from Russia to rise from virtually zero in 2012 to 23 per cent of the total by 2035, but some suggest the figure might rise as high as 31 percent of the overall total. And over that period there is the expectation that the only growth in overall exports of gas will take place towards the Asia Pacific region – mostly to China (Bradshaw, 2014, p. 16; Mastepanov, 2014). By contrast machinery and equipment still occupy a tiny place in Russia’s exports to China – even less than Russia’s exports of seafood. By contrast, as can be seen from Table 11.3, manufactured goods occupy a dominant place in Chinese exports to Russia. In one sense, that could make for a mutually beneficial exchange, with each making the most of their respective comparative advantage, but it emphasizes the difficulty of attracting foreign investors to Russian manufacturing industry. However, it also underlines the importance of energy revenue from China in financing Russia’s future attempts to modernize its economy (as long as it is used for that), whether or not that is supplemented by foreign direct investment from Chinese companies. Actually Western sanctions have reduced the dangers of Russia being afflicted by the ‘Dutch disease’ of a higher exchange rate crowding out manufacturing investment, so there could be a silver lining. But any lifting of sanctions will revivify Russia’s vulnerability. All of this provides moderate confirmation for a Russian economic ‘turn’ towards China. In addition, according to Gabuev (2016b), the Chinese government has provided other, less publicized support. For example, in October 2014 the two central banks signed bilateral swap agreements to mitigate financial crises and to facilitate trade deals which would avoid using dollars. Financiers in both countries have begun exploring the possibility of setting up special joint institutions to finance joint projects which bypass Western banks or payments systems and therefore would not be subject to sanctions. Russia has overturned previous policy and decided to allow Chinese companies to take shares in major infrastructure projects such as railways and telecommunications, not to mention energy, which will expedite OBOR. And Russia has encouraged its companies to engage in joint IT projects with Chinese companies rather than Western ones.

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Increasing warmth in official relations has been facilitated by the growing number of meetings between Putin and Xi, whether at special summits or on the margins of international conferences; in fact Putin is the foreign leader whom Xi Jinping has met most often since becoming leader. And, according to Gabuev, both regimes have issued informal advice to editors to avoid embarrassing negative media comments on the other (Gabuev, 2016b). But none of this has changed the basic asymmetry in trading relations, in that Russia accounts for only 2 per cent of Chinese exports, while China accounts for 11 per cent of Russian exports (Gabuev, 2015a). Nor is it likely to do so. Russia remains much more dependent upon China than vice versa. The closer contacts between Russia and China do seem to have led to a shift in public opinion in Russia in favour of China. Surveys in Russia in 2014–15 show that China has replaced Germany as a country considered a ‘strategic’ or valuable partner for Russia, with ratings rising two- or even three-fold (Pautova, 2015). A survey run from the US in 2014 concurred, with 58 per cent holding a favourable view of China (and only 5 per cent unfavourable), which compared with 6 per cent rating the US favourably and 20 per cent Germany (Associated Press-NORC, 2015). This trend followed years of attempts by the Russian and Chinese governments to thicken popular understanding in their country of each other. Yet, also according to Pautova, Russians still retain a certain ‘wariness’ of China. While they regard China as a valuable partner, they would still prefer to go to France, Italy or Germany rather than to China if offered a hypothetical trip abroad (Pautova, 2015). As for the reverse relationship, Lo has remarked on the popular indifference of Chinese, especially the young, towards Russia (Lo, 2010, pp. 21, 12). The relevance to East Asia of the Russian preoccupation with Eurasianism does not resonate much in China. There ‘Russia is a European civilization’ (Rozman, 2014, p. 267). Chinese officials ‘are less inclined to see Russia as a geopolitical partner than to ensure that it does not join with other powers in a policy of anti-Chinese containment’. They acknowledge the place of the Westversus-Eurasia debates in Russian foreign policy thinking, but in general they believe ‘the Sino-Russian relationship is a partnership of interests, not values’ (Lo, 2010, pp. 15–23). And the zigzags in Russian foreign policy have reminded Chinese policy-makers (like Western ones) of its unpredictability, which leads to a trust gap (Mikheev, Shvydko and Lukonin, 2015, p. 6). Reportedly the Russian actions in Crimea took Chinese decision-makers as much by surprise as it did Western ones. They regarded the Russian reaction as too impulsive and emotional (Gabuev, 2016b, pp. 8–9). So while these events have created an opportunity for closer collaboration, they have also failed to quell uncertainty about the long-term direction of Russia’s external relations: might they zigzag back westwards again?

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Conclusion According to the editor of the journal Russia in World Affairs, Fyodor Lukyanov (2016, pp. 35–36), ‘[W]hen it comes to its role in the world, Russia is in the throes of an identity crisis. It has neither fully integrated into the liberal order nor built its own viable alternative.’ The Asian, and specifically the Chinese, vector of Russian foreign policy has indeed strengthened as a result of the Ukrainian crisis, but it does not crowd out the other vectors of Russian foreign policy, just as the other vectors did not previously shut out the Asian vector. To some extent this also reflects a natural response to a gradual shift in world politics towards Asia. Russia as a would-be great power wishes to demonstrate that it can exert global and not just regional influence. The crises over Crimea and Ukraine have reinforced the determination of Russia and China to strengthen the ties between them and the Eurasian region as a whole, as a way of keeping out the West, and especially the US, or at least at a distance. At the same time the benefits to Russia of turning towards China have not fully compensated for all the pain inflicted by Western sanctions on the Russian economy. Nor do they obviously help Russia with the modernization and transformation of Russian industry which the government knows it needs if it is to become internationally competitive (Lo, 2015). And, as Gabuev points out, in addition to other problems, Russian trade continues to be beset by a shortage of Russian expertise on doing business with China (Gabuev, 2014). The increase in trade between the two countries has continued to fail to live up to the very optimistic targets set by Presidents Putin and Xi. Indeed according to Kaplan (2016), there is a danger of increasing instability in Eurasia as both Russia and China suffer from increasing economic difficulties. The paradox of Russia deepening its anti-Western, or at any rate antiAmerican, stance and stressing its partnership with China is that it potentially gives China greater freedom to play off the US and Russia in the Russia– China–US triangle. The former Soviet diplomat Vladimir Lukin has remarked on the willingness of the other BRICS states in general to let Russia ‘lead the protest against the treacherous Americans’ (Lukin, V., 2016). China’s former Deputy Foreign Minister Fu Ying has recalled this by recently reassuring Americans: The two countries’ [China and Russia] diplomatic styles differ … Russia is more experienced on the global theatre, and it tends to favour strong, active, and often surprising diplomatic maneuvers. China’s diplomacy, in contrast, is more reactive and cautious … China and Russia should stick to the principle of partnership rather than build an alliance … [F]rom the Chinese perspective, the tripartite relationship should not be considered a game in which two players ally against a third … China’s cooperation with the United States will not be affected by Russia, nor by tensions

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Peter Ferdinand between Moscow and Washington. China should neither form an alliance based on bloc politics nor allow itself to be recruited as an ally by other countries. (Fu, 2016, pp. 99, 104, 105)

In fact, Chinese foreign policy under Xi Jinping has itself become more assertive and less predictable. It no longer follows Deng Xiaoping’s principle of tao guang, yang hui (keep a low profile) (Ferdinand, 2016, pp. 941–2). This adds to the complexity of Russia’s foreign policy calculus. Russia cannot expect to be able to go on playing the kind of diplomatic ‘elder brother’ role vis-à-vis China that it has pursued in recent decades. Gabuev (2016c) has suggested that it should aim at being China’s ‘elder sister’, i.e., a family member with greater status rather than authority, but warned it might find itself confined to the role of ‘younger brother’. Comments like those of Fu Ying are bound to preserve underlying qualms in Moscow about the commitment of Beijing to the priority of the bilateral relationship and how a closer relationship might work out in the future. Ultimately Russia’s turn towards China is motivated by the fundamental ambition to recover its great power status. The sanctions imposed by the West have hit both Russia’s economy and its diplomatic standing. The Putin administration has responded by seeking to demonstrate that it should be ‘respected’, and that the West would ignore it at its peril. This is a thread running through recent Russian actions over Ukraine and Syria. Cooperation with China definitely helps with that. It shows that Russia has viable alternatives. The personal connections between Putin and Xi certainly contribute to a convergence of foreign policies and they suggest that it is more than just ‘an axis of convenience’ (Lo, 2008). China has generally played its hand very diplomatically. It has had no problem with lavishing diplomatic respect on Russia, unlike the West. All the BRICS nations have long adopted similar positions on global affairs at the UN (Ferdinand, 2014). The various diplomatic groupings that bring them all together – BRICS, the Shanghai Cooperation Organization, the Russia–India–China trilateral, not to mention the UN – help to amplify Russia’s presence on the global diplomatic stage. One solution to China’s anxiety over Russia’s long-term foreign policy trajectory would be an actual alliance. That would enshrine the principle of equality between them, but it would mean reversing 50 years of Chinese foreign policy which has resolutely rejected alliances after the very painful experience of the Sino–Soviet split ending their alliance in the 1950s. A fundamental principle of current Chinese foreign policy is that alliances fundamentally destabilize the world order. Such a change would also mean China downgrading the priority of its own aspirations for global prominence by restricting its potential freedom of manoeuvre in various other parts of the world. An alliance with Russia would outweigh all the ‘partnership’ agreements that China has signed around the world. Is China prepared to prioritize relations with Russia to that extent?

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The global balance of power – economic, diplomatic and potentially military – is shifting towards China. The Chinese leadership are only too aware of such shifts – as even Russians sympathetic to enhanced cooperation with China themselves recognize (Kuzyk and Titarenko, 2006). Professor Feng Yujun (2017) from Shanghai remarks on the Achilles heel of Russia’s otherwise very skilful diplomacy being national economic weakness. If Russia cannot reverse that trend, it will find China less and less ready to defer. According to Gabuev (2016d), the Head of the Russia-Asia Pacific Program at the American Carnegie Endowment Center in Moscow, both American and Chinese observers view Russia now as only one of the centres of global power, a little greater than, say, the UK, but not big enough to be included in any kind of putative ‘triangle’ that will ‘rule’ the world. And they believe that its significance will shrink in the next 10–15 years, whichever way Russia ‘jumps’. China too harbours the ambition to recover the great power status that it lost in the nineteenth century. Its scheme for OBOR is partly intended to demonstrate that China is, if not yet a world power like the US, at least more than the dominant regional power in Pacific Asia. It too is trying to make use of its relations with Russia to promote that goal, but it has a wider range of options and its leaders tend to take the long view. The OBOR project will be a decades-long commitment. Thus as Russia turns east to further its great power ambitions, China is turning west to do the same, and it means that they will rub up against each other much more than in the recent past. These two rising – or returning – great powers may evolve an equitable partnership which would contradict those who believe that rising powers ‘inevitably’ spark conflict (Xiang, 2016). They talk the language of equality in international relations themselves; but can they practise it over the long term in their own bilateral relations? Others may think that Sino-Russia relations are subject to the same question that Lenin posed in 1921, i.e., who will overtake whom (kto kogo?). But irrespective of whether or not the dominant trend of Russian foreign policy shifts again back towards the West, its Eastern vector will be more substantial than it was in the 1990s and early 2000s. It is being inexorably pulled in that direction by the advance of Pacific and South Asian economies. Russia and China are expanding their cooperation as part of their interlocking strategies to develop Eurasia. This stretches beyond energy and security cooperation, though these remain the most significant, to include transport, agriculture, media exchanges, scientific cooperation, and higher education student exchanges (RIAC, 2016). The Crimean events did not launch this process, but they did accelerate and deepen it. All of this means that when Russia and China review the Treaty of Good-Neighbourliness and Friendly Cooperation that expires in 2021, there seems no doubt that they will renew it. Quite possibly they will expand it. According to Godement (2016), Chinese Communist Party experts are even currently debating the option of an alliance with Russia. And one of the most prominent Chinese thinkers on

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international affairs, Professor Yan Xuetong (2013, p. 12), has argued that China will only be able to shift the world order from unipolarity to bipolarity in the next ten years if it forms a formal alliance with Russia. But if China does ultimately agree to do this, they will need to be very sure that they are not perpetuating the zigzagging cycles of Russian foreign policy, shifting eastwards only later to swing back westwards. In other words, they will need to be convinced that Russia’s turn this time is indeed ‘serious and long-term’ (vserioz i nadolgo). For the moment that is still not clear. Nevertheless the joint ‘rise’ of Russia and China will undoubtedly add to the challenges facing EU foreign policy. Even though they do not pursue fully coordinated foreign policies, both Russia and China offer significant opportunities for greater trade with the EU, but on potentially unpalatable diplomatic terms. EU states will be repeatedly challenged by dilemmas over how best to ensure reliable energy supplies from Russia and benefit from enhanced trade with China, while at the same time upholding liberal international values and human rights. Both Russia and China will seek to shut out further expansion of the EU (and NATO) eastwards by exploiting divisions between EU Member States and their asymmetric economic vulnerabilities, and by offering the ‘carrot’ of trade opportunities. In 2015 the EU as a whole had a record trade deficit with China of €180 billion, and only two Member States (Germany and Finland) enjoyed a trade surplus with it (Eurostat, 2016). An OBOR with active Russian contributions could offer a partnership that might help with that, but would the cost be too high in other foreign policy areas? Whatever the differences between them, Russia and China have a strong common interest in excluding human rights from international diplomatic agendas and they will enjoy enticing the EU to downplay such concerns for the sake of economic concessions, particularly increased opportunities for the export of services, the one sector where the EU already enjoys an overall trade surplus and one which is not covered by WTO agreements. And the more Russia and China cooperate financially, e.g., by setting up their own inter-bank payments arrangements and avoiding Western ones, the more they can devise ways of frustrating Western attempts to impose economic sanctions. In one sense, though, there is a certain symmetry in the EU’s relations with Russia and China. Neither side is completely united in its foreign policy behaviour. Each can and will try to exploit divisions in the other. The outcome will depend upon who has the better diplomatic cards and who is more skilful at playing them.

References Associated Press-NORC (2015) ‘Public Opinion in Russia: Russians’ Attitudes on Foreign Affairs and Social Issues’, www.apnorc.org/projects/Pages/HTML%20Rep orts/public-opinion-in-russia-russians-attitudes-on-foreign-affairs-and-social-issues04 01-6253.aspx (accessed 25 March 2017).

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Conclusion Tom Casier and Joan DeBardeleben

A New Perspective From the point when the Soviet Union crumbled at the very end of 1991, narratives of the relations between a new, post-communist Russia and ‘the West’ have oscillated between hope and gloom. Arguably two main theoretical interpretations have dominated the discipline. One is a Structural Realist (Waltz, 1979) account, which sees the post-Cold War developments as a realignment of spheres of influence, driven by a set of largely predictable state interests of the actors involved (e.g., Mearsheimer, 1990; Mearsheimer, 2014). Russia had been pushed back with the collapse of the USSR, losing not only superpower status, but also seeing its regional primacy placed under challenge as former Soviet satellite states sought security guarantees by joining the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) and more prosperity by joining the European Union (EU). From this Realist angle, it was predictable that Russia would ‘return’, in an attempt to regain power and to re-establish lost influence once its economic capabilities were restored. Likewise, although the EU’s self-image was that of a benevolent normative actor without a geopolitical agenda, for the Structural Realist this masked a powerful geopolitical agenda that embodied at least three elements: a set of expansionary market interests, a desire to maintain the Euro-Atlantic security guarantee (through NATO), and the legitimacy function provided by the claim to represent universal political values. In this perspective, a clash between the interests of the Euro-Atlantic community and Russia was nearly unavoidable. This pessimistic view has been challenged, most strongly in the 1990s, by a more optimistic narrative, underpinned by a Neo-liberal Institutionalist perspective and sometimes linked to democratic peace assumptions (e.g., Keohane, 1993; Russett and Oneal, 2001; Russett, 1993; Splidsboel Hansen, 2004). In this reading two elements could converge to produce a more positive outcome: strong economic interdependence and the potential for finding common interests through negotiation. These factors, the same ones that had driven the at-that-time flourishing European integration project, would push Russia and the West closer together, reinforcing Westernizing domestic reform inside Russia. Second, Russia’s inclusion in an ever expanding set of

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international institutions would anchor the newly independent state in the liberal order. The fact that the Russian Federation rushed to join bodies such as the International Monetary Fund (1992), the International Bank for Reconstruction and Development (1992), the Council of Europe (1996), the G7/G8 (1997), and eventually the World Trade Organization (2012) seemed to bolster this interpretation. In addition, Russia signed and/or ratified major international agreements such as the UN Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees (1993), the European Convention on Human Rights (1998), and the Kyoto Protocol (2004), and renewed the past Soviet commitment to several others. Less frequently emphasized, however, was that Russia’s apparent adherence to a Western-dominated governance system was in part driven by the country’s supplicant position in the face of the major economic depression that gripped Russia in the 1990s as the country faced challenges produced by the multiple reform processes underway. Nonetheless, into the 2000s, despite setbacks and occasional conflicts, cooperation seemed to drive the agenda between the EU and Russia, with a Strategic Partnership touted from the late 1990s and a set of thick institutional linkages created. Neo-liberals believed that the cooperation of the 1990s and into the 2000s validated their interpretation, even as clouds gathered with issues such as the Ukraine–Russia ‘gas wars’ of 2005–6 and 2008–9 and the Georgia–Russia War in 2008. The Neo-liberal Institutionalist narrative was bolstered by a more general optimism that prevailed after the collapse of the Soviet Union, when some analysts declared the ‘end of history’ (Fukuyama, 1992), as the globe appeared to be entering an era characterized by widely shared global norms and the development of international institutions that could promote their implementation and manage conflict. After 2000, however, several developments, such as new terrorist threats, extremist populism, the 2008 financial crisis, and disillusionment with the capacity of international institutions to respond to regional conflicts and humanitarian crises, undermined this optimism. The early 2000s were also a turning point for Russia. Following the dramatic financial crisis of 1998, Russia experienced an economic revival, spurred both by the domestic stimulus of rouble devaluation and by the evident potential of energy exports, unlocked by rising energy prices, to fuel Russian economic growth and provide Russia with an important foreign policy resource. Russia’s energy tool could, in turn, either be seen as an important element of interdependence that would push Russia and Europe together, per the Neo-liberal narrative, or it could, as the Realists might anticipate, become the wedge to drive the predicted geopolitical conflict between Russia and the West. When relations definitively derailed and clashed over Ukraine in early 2014, Structural Realists – John Mearsheimer (2014) on the front row – claimed their theoretical interpretation had now been finally proven correct. And yet questions abounded about the timing and process that had brought this rupture to occur, and whether it really reflected a vindication of the Realist narrative, or more accurately, a failure of diplomacy to avert an

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avoidable conflict. Neither narrative seemed able to explain the mix of conflict and cooperation that characterized the post-Cold War period or to explain how cooperation so quickly had mutated into a war on European territory that seemed to place in question many of the norms that had ostensibly been agreed. There is a lot these monocausal explanations need to account for. The story of relations between Russia and the Euro-Atlantic Community is far more complex than either a struggle for power or a consensual process of institution-building around converging interests and norms. What neither of these analyses adequately accounts for is the subjective factor, namely the critical role of perceptions, identities, mutual images, and the associated meanings attributed to their interaction. Furthermore, interaction is not only shaped by such subjective factors, but also shapes images, identities and perceptions, in an iterative process. Ideas along those lines have been developed through theoretical perspectives which, in this field, existed much more in the shadow, most particularly constructivism in the broad sense of the term. Within this framework, the perceptions of the Self and the Other, as well of the relationship between the two, are not simply the offspring of ‘given’ national interests or of relative power relations. Rather, these ‘subjective’ factors themselves have independent explanatory power. It is to this broad and varied Constructivist understanding that this book has contributed. The book seeks to make a significant contribution in three different ways. First it highlights the role of images that the EU and Russia hold of themselves and of each other, and how these images give meaning to the broader context in which they operate. Second, the book focuses on the process, in order to grasp the relational dynamics of EU–Russia relations. In other words, how did relations develop before and after the Ukraine crisis, with a particular eye to the evolving perspectives of each party and their behavioural corollaries? This focus on evolving relational dynamics is crucial to understanding the negative evolution of relations, which did not get into a crisis overnight but slowly deteriorated in the decade preceding the Ukraine crisis. Third, this volume adds a transnational perspective, focusing on different levels and different contexts of interaction. Within this framework several themes emerge, three of which are discussed here. The first centres around the conceptual roots of Russian foreign policy behaviour, specifically as it relates to Europe. Several authors analysed Russia’s simultaneous attraction to and resentment of the West, both in terms of imagining Russian identity and in making policy choices. In this light, Morozov states that an increasingly dominant paleoconservative ideology in Russia interprets the annexation of Crimea as an ‘act of decolonization, a declaration of independence from the Eurocentric hegemonic order’ while at the same time presenting ‘Russia as the guardian of the European Christian heritage.’ (pp. 43–44). DeBardeleben argues that Russian leaders saw initiation of the Eurasian Economic Union as both part of an effort to reignite the project of a Greater Europe, by creating constructive synergy with the

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European integration project, but at the same time an effort to counterbalance Russia’s reliance on Europe. Ferdinand points to Russia’s recent more assertive turn to China as reflecting disappointment in its relations with Europe. A second theme relates to the unintended consequences of the EU’s projection of itself as a normative actor, promoting benevolent universal values. Haukkala documents how Russia has come increasingly to resent the EU’s insistence on normative convergence, seeing the latter as masking economic interests and responding by asserting its own trade relations, especially in the energy field, to exert influence, particularly in its near abroad. Likewise, by the mid-2013 Russian leaders came to see as geopolitical the EU’s drive to realize association agreements and deep trade agreements with its eastern neighbours, even though the EU denied these motives. Casier sees the EU doctrine of ‘effective multilateralism’ as reflecting the EU’s hegemonic tendencies in the normative sphere, which have been countered by Russian demands for equal status. A third theme relates to the failure of institutions to bridge these two conceptual gaps, between Russia’s ambivalence toward Europe and the EU’s projection of superiority. Romanova demonstrates that in the field of energy relations the apparent density of transgovernmental and transnational institutions did not have adequate substance to compensate, when intergovernmental relations were ruptured in 2014. DeBardeleben points out that the EU–Russia relationship was highly institutionalized, except in dealing with the common neighbourhood; here there were no institutional mechanisms, other than regular high-level summits, to mediate problems. Freire and Simão identify an inadequacy of governance structures in the security field, due to their lack of inclusiveness, rooted in the lack of shared security understandings. Casier argues that existing multilateral organizations, including the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE), have been unable to perform their functions effectively in mediating conflict situations. At the same time, as Guasti documents, Russia’s early enthusiasm for the Council of Europe has declined, as judgments made by the European Court of Human Rights have become irritants in the Russian domestic political context. These three dynamics aid in understanding the spiral of dwindling trust, which eventually resulted in the confrontation over Ukraine and in a deep crisis of both the security regime and the border regime in wider Europe.

Which Way Forward? Today EU–Russia relations have reached the deepest crisis since the end of the Cold War. There is a standoff amidst an ongoing war in eastern Ukraine, military build-up, and sanctions. Positions on both sides seem entrenched in a situation where any concession could easily be read as losing face. Yet, exactly at this time rethinking relations between Russia and the EU (and the Euro-Atlantic Community by extension) is more necessary than ever.

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The most difficult arena for relations, as evident in the Ukraine crisis, involves what has been variously called the ‘shared neighbourhood’, Russia’s ‘near abroad’, or Russia’s ‘sphere of privileged interest’. While we cannot turn back the clock on the diverging visions of post-Cold War Europe in Moscow and Brussels, it is not too late to rethink the interaction of Russia and the Euro-Atlantic Community and its impact on these countries in between. At the end of the day, the crisis over Ukraine was the result of the extension of Euro-Atlantic structures eastwards colliding with Russia’s renewed assertive claim to regional great power status. Therefore, in the longer term we need to think how the regional projects and ambitions on both sides can be made maximally compatible, so that the countries in between do not face an unpalatable choice between Moscow or Brussels. However, this process will involve not only the negotiation of divergent interests of all parties involved and the establishment of mediating institutions, but also the adjustment of perceptions. Both the EU and Russia claim legitimate interests in the region, due to geographic proximity and/or historic ties; both sides claim that the other side has pressed its own policy objectives, thus forcing countries ‘in between’ into an ‘either–or’ choice in line with competing regional integration projects; and both sides claim to better represent the interests of the countries affected. And finally, Russian leaders claim that the EU seeks to unilaterally establish norms and regulatory frameworks that apply in the neighbourhood, while the EU’s institutional nature pushes it to conduct its foreign policy with neighbours on the basis of the export of its rules and norms. The above claims, made on both sides, involve attributions of motives to the Other. This divisive discourse is also rooted in divergent interpretations of facts, and diverse applications of previously agreed norms. One way out of the stand-off could be an effort to identify a shared narrative that is compatible with identity and perceptions of both actors. Agreement on such a shared narrative would be difficult to achieve, given the highly charged atmosphere that prevails today. However, its core might focus around two concepts: that both the EU and Russia have legitimate interests in the region, and that the European space should be re-conceptualized as involving overlapping rather than exclusive spheres of interest. The idea of concentric circles may be a useful image to visualize this latter concept. Where both concentric circles overlap, different forms of integration should be compatible. This avoids a situation where regional integration initiatives create exclusive allegiances (only with Brussels or only with Moscow). The imagery of a common economic space from Lisbon to Vladivostok is an established part of the historical narrative on both the EU and Russian sides, but one that would require readjustment to address the clashing narratives that have emerged since 2014. If we cannot manage to find some common ground for a shared narrative, polarisation and recurring crises will likely continue. A long term vision is required to inform today’s policies on both sides, so it does not get fed exclusively by the distrust and indignation of today.

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There is a second requirement to getting out of the current stalemate. As this book demonstrates, the current crisis is also the result of a negative spiral of distrust, of the attribution of negative intentions to the counterpart. To reverse this negative escalation, a long and winding process of trust-building will be key. Small ad hoc steps will be essential in generating new perceptions of the other’s identity and intentions. Self-evidently, this cannot be an isolated process. It will be strongly interwoven with how domestic developments, in Russia and in the EU, feed into this process. The two elements – rethinking diverging visions to promote a shared narrative and reversing the negative spiral of distrust – are interrelated. In a binary Europe of exclusive allegiances, any choice ultimately gets perceived as a geopolitical one, which will in turn enhance negative images of the counterpart and undermine trust. This renders the project of rethinking geopolitical structures extremely challenging. Tackling these challenges will no doubt be a long and hazardous process. There is little ground for optimism today, but there is a tremendous task for analysts to better understand the complexity of the process and the role that images play in driving the interaction between Russia and the EU.

References Fukuyama, Francis (1992) The End of History and the Last Man. New York: Free Press. Keohane, Robert O. (1993) ‘The Diplomacy of Structural Change: Multilateral Institutions and State Strategies’. In Haftendorn, Helga and Tuschhoff, Christian (eds) America and Europe in an Era of Change. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Mearsheimer, John J. (1990) ‘Back to the Future: Instability in Europe after the Cold War’, International Security, 15(1): 5–56. Mearsheimer, John J. (2014) ‘Why the Ukraine Crisis is the West’s Fault. The Liberal Delusions that Provoked Putin’, Foreign Affairs, September/October. Russett, Bruce (1993) Grasping the Democratic Peace: Principles for a Post-Cold War World. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Russett, Bruce, and John R. Oneal (2001) Triangulating Peace: Democracy, Interdependence, and International Organizations. New York: Norton. Splidsboel Hansen, Flemming (2004) ‘Trade and Peace: A Classic Retold in Russian’, European Foreign Affairs Review, 9: 303–322. Waltz, Kenneth (1979) Theory of International Politics. New York: McGraw Hill.

Index

Abkhazia 163, 175 see also Caucasus acquis 39, 57, 147, 151 see also Copenhagen Criteria Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty (ABM) 18, 161 Armenia 2, 118–24, 126–28, 137, 146, 149 see also Caucasus ASEAN 24 Asia 35, 62–65, 126, 170, 220–23, 229, 231 Asian Infrastructure Investment Bank 208, 225 Association Agreement 25, 118–20, 125–26, 137–43, 148, 172–73; and Armenia 137; geopolitics 209, 241; tensions 19, 25, 125–26, 148, 173, 226; and Ukraine 3, 128, 143, 148, 151; and EaP countries 19, 23, 172; and Ukraine, Russia, EU 214 attributional bias 5, 14, 20, 22, 24, 26 Baltic countries 2, 18, 39–40, 54, 145–52, 168 Belarus 2, 40–41, 124–26, 137–40, 144–49; and CIS 144; and DCFTA and EEU 148; economy 139–40, 149; and EEU 124, 126, 146–47, 149; and EU 137 bipolarity 29, 160–61, 234, 237 see also polarity borderlands 14 borders: confrontation 3, 15; EU extending 2–3; external 95; inviolability 3, 25, 87, 123, 131, 175; national 94; new 2, 129, 142, 165, physical 7, 95; porous 153; post-communist 129; regime 173, 241; Russian and Ukrainian 212; spatial 30; western 25, 81, 93, 95–96; see also boundaries; othering boundaries: cognitive 95; function 95; margin 129; temporal 4 BRICS 205, 208, 222, 231–32

Canada 4, 131, 170, 206 Caucasus 2, 18, 24; North 162, 190; South 18, 24 see also Abkhazia; South Ossetia CFE Treaty 162–63 Charter for European Security 164, 170 Chechnya 15, 40, 63, 162, 183, 192; wars 39, 57, 189–90, 213 China 65, 169–70, 205–08, 211–14, 219–26, 228–34; and Belarus 149; diplomacy 231; economy 208, 220, 223–25, 229–32; military expenditure 208; relations with Russia 8, 35, 65, 223–28, 231–33; rise 65; trilateral forum (Russia, India) 232 Chizhov, Valdimir 58, 98, 102 CIS Free Trade Area 123, 127–28, 154–55; and Ukraine 143, 145, 148, 152; and Ukraine DCFTA 153 civilization: European 102, 121, 230; Russian 219; Western 58; civil society: Russia 60, 76–77, 87, 89, 181, 186–87 climate change 206, 209, 215 CoE, see Council of Europe Cognition: dissonance 6, 122, 159, 174, 179; frames 74–75, 77–78 Cold War 61, 119, 160–62, 174, 241; new 119; paradigm 14, 117; post- 26–30, 61, 160–63, 171, 238, 240; post-optimism see also Fukuyama collective security: pan-European 209 Collective Security Treaty (Organisation) CSTO 175 Colonialism 37; anti- 43–44; de- 31, 43–44, 240; European 37; mythology 43; and Order in World Politics 37; post- 27; society post- 43;

Index Common European Space, economic 39, 56–57, 115, 121, 242 Common European Space (CES) 7, 36, 119, 122–25, 129–31, 133 Common Security and Defence Policy, see CSDP Commonwealth of Independent States, 24, 123, 141, 143–44, 175, 207 see also CIS community: epistemic 74, 81; international 16, 21, 74, 179, 193; Western 155; wider European 39 competition; logic of 5, 14, 20–22, 24–26, 174, 211; open rivalry 96, 105; regional 7, 130; zero-sum 22, 25, 130, 133 complexity 73, 125, 232, 243 conditionality 21, 29, 40–42, 44, 120, 180 see also Copenhagen Criteria Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe, see CSCE conservatism 43; paleo- 6, 33, 36, 43, 240 conspiracy: western 76, 226 containment 16, 23, 117–19 Conventional Armed Forces in Europe 162 see also CFE Treaty Copenhagen Criteria 36 Corfu Process 165 Council of Europe (CoE) 115, 120–21, 164, 182–88, 192–93, 239–41 Crimea 3–5, 87, 172, 192–93, 214–19, 225–26; annexation of 3–4, 17, 42–43, 168–73, 214–15, 226; post- 33, 39; speech 16, 23 crisis: economic global 60 Croatia 186 CSCE (Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe) 160–62, 164–65, 174–75 see also OSCE CSDP (Common Security and Defence Policy) 120, 163, 167, 175 CSTO (Collective Security Treaty Organisation) 7, 124, 164, 170, 174–75, 207–13 CU, see Customs Union culture 34, 37, 82, 94–96, 168; of anarchy 94, 96, 105; classical Russia 35; common 117; of difference 37; Hobbesian 94; Kantian of friendship 94–95; Lockean 94; national 38 Customs Union (CU) 24, 59, 120–25, 137, 146, 151–55 Cyprus 54, 58

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DCFTA (Deep and Comprehensive Free Trade Area) 3, 24, 118–20, 122–28, 137–38, 143–48, 151–55; and CIS FTA 153, 155 Deep and Comprehensive Free Trade Area see DCFTA democracy 5, 129, 142, 163–66, 171–73, 180–81; and conditionality 42, 120; sovereign 41–42; as value 38, 159, 163, 166, 182, 189 democratization 179–80, 189 differentiation 21, 30 discourse 95–97, 102–3, 118, 172, 201–3, 214–15; civilisational 17, 34–35, 38–39, 221; competitive 130, 242; construction 36; eurasianist 33, 221; eurocentric 41; EU-Russia 102, 118, 128; EU ‘Russian threat’ 168; figurative 98; foreign policy 16, 203, 205; global neoliberal 35; hegemony in 19, 192, 204–5; human rights 101; national identity 34; paleoconservative 34, 43; distrust 5, 20–26, 130, 168, 173, 241–43 Donbass 141, 172 Donetsk 141–42, 213 Eastern Europe 18, 24–25, 117 Eastern Partnership, see EaP 2–3, 19–24, 41, 120, 137–44, 172–73 ECHR (European Convention of Human Rights) 178, 181–84, 186, 188–90, 192–93 ECJ (European Court of Justice) 85, 178, 188–89 ECT (Energy Charter Treaty) 40, 79–81, 85 ECtHR (European Court of Human Rights) 7–8, 178–80, 182–93 ECtHR judgments 185, 190–92 ECU (Eurasian Customs Union) 19–25, 123–27, 137–38, 146–47, 154, 207 see also CU EEU (Eurasian Economic Union) 24, 85, 123–29, 131–32, 137–39, 146–49, 152–55, 207–09 see also CU EIDHR (European Instrument for Democracy and Human Rights) 181 elites: political 142, 154, 189–90, 193 empire 37; subaltern 37–38 Energy Charter Treaty, see ECT Energy Dialogue 40–41, 80–81, 83–85, 87 Energy Roadmap: EU-Russia 2050 83 English School 36, 210

246

Index

Enlightenment 32, 38 ENP (European Neighbourhood Policy) 2, 18–24, 31–39, 115–20, 142–44 ENP Action Plans 142 ENPI (European Neighbourhood Policy Instrument) 143–44, 157 Estonia 63, 186 EU: Medium-term Strategy 15, 21, 207; eastern enlargements 2–5, 15–18, 97–99, 167, 180–82; Global Strategy 167, 203 Eurasian Cooperation, Development and Security Forum 170 Eurasian Customs Union, see ECU Eurasian Development Bank 149, 151 Eurasian Economic Community 146–47; see also ECU; EEU Eurasian economic integration 24, 157 Eurasian Economic Union, see EEU Eurasianism 33–35, 130, 175, 221–26, 230–31, 233 Euro-Atlantic Community 14, 22–26, 169, 240–42 Euro-Atlantic security 213, 238 Euromaidan 3, 25, 127, 143 Europe: binary identity 243; decadent 34; friendly 34; integrated 36, 121–22; nineteenth-century 37; pluralistic 209; post-Cold War 14, 209, 242; post-modern 36; the rape of 34 European Charter of Human Rights, see ECHR European Commission 53, 104, 164, 167 European common home, Greater Europe 14 European Convention on Human Rights 179, 182, 189, 239 European Council 90, 101, 188 European Court of Human Rights, see ECtHR European Court of Justice, see ECJ European economic space, integrated 119–20 European Energy Community 124, 145 European External Action Service 84 European Human Rights Regime 188–89 European idea 21, 30, 33, 35, 189, see also borders; boundaries; (European) identity; othering European Identity: ontopological 105; Russia 44 European Integration 3, 35, 118, 130, 180, 238–41 European Neighbourhood Policy, see ENP

European security 159–61, 163–66, 169–74, 213; order 7, 84, 121, 162, 169, 174; post-Cold War 160; regime 159–67, 171, 173–74 European Security Strategy (ESS) 167, 203 European Security Treaty 126, 169–70, 207 European space 115, 242; greater/wider 31, 120–22 European Union 23–25, 164–69, 178–82, 188 EU-Russia Relations 4–8, 36–39, 121–25, 178–81; escalation 7, 20–21, 25–26, 42, 163, 173 EU-Russia Strategic Partnership 19–22, 26–28, 45–46, 68–69, 115–120, 215–16 FDI (foreign direct investment) 54, 147, 229 financial crisis: global 15, 168, 220–22, 228–29, 239 Finland 76, 86, 106, 186, 234 foreign direct investment, see FDI foreign policy: assertive 43, 61; behavior 118, 233–34, 240; coordinated 234; doctrines 203; global 205; mutual regional 19, perceived normative 23; schizophrenia 221; structural 19, 21 Fortress Europe 95 Four Common Spaces 2, 13–19, 21–22, 57–58, 99–101, 121; road maps 39, 58, 99, 101, 165, 181 Frame: concept 118, Russia 123 see also framing framing 77, 174 Free Trade Area, see FTA frozen conflicts 124 FTA (Free Trade Area) 53–56, 122–23, 127–28, 137–38, 145–148, 155 Fukuyama, Francis 44, 239 gas 55, 78, 83–84, 87–89, 138–42, 223–29; transit crisis 82; wars 40–41, 125, 239 Gazprom 40, 72, 79–80, 84–85 geopolitics 23–26, 34–35, 41–43, 172–73, 214, 239–243 Georgia 2, 23–24, 101, 123–27, 132–37, 161–62, 172–74; Conflict 13, 87–89, 101–05, 165, 190, Euro-Atlantic aspiration 124; Russian intervention 24, 239 see also Caucasus Germany 60, 119–22, 124–26, 212–13, 230–34

Index Gorbachev, Mikhail 14, 222 Governance: democratic 121; effective global 215; external 39, 167 Greater Eurasia 170 Greater Europe 14, 126, 129–31, 133, 209, 240 great power: ambitions 233; management 202; normal 16; status regional 242 see also power Hegemony 20, 31, 39, 241; Atlantic 221; counter- 20, 26, 42, 205, 208, 215; eurocentric 6, 35, 38, 43–44, 240; normative 6, 15–19, 34, 121, 205–9, 215; regional 207; Western 37, 208, 239 Helsinki 162, 165, 171, 174 Helsinki II 169 History: End of 239 human rights 7–8, 97–98, 142, 163–66, 178–89, 193, 234; international regimes 178–80, 186, 188–89, 192–93; NGOs 185, 188; violations 178–79, 183–85, 193 Huntington, Samuel 34 see also identity; civilization identification 30, 32, 35, 166, 168; negative 44, positive 32 identity 7, 30–36, 94–96, 240–43, binary Europe 243, civilisational 17, 34–35, 38–39, 221; collective 93; conflict 105–6, 231; multi-layered 23; national 23, 35; and othering 30; politics 7, 34–35, 37–38, 105; in Russia 34, 37; post-national 95; Russia uniqueness 43, 221 images 4–6, 13–14, 19–22, 201–4, 240–43; geopolitical 24; international 152–53; mirror 32, 43; mutual 240; negative 14, 25, 243; self- 20, 201–06, 215, 238; theory 14, 203–5, 215 see also identification IMF (International Monetary Fund) 59, 206, 208, 239 Imperialism: Russian 85, subaltern 37 insecurity 163, 165, 171 see also security interdependence 53, 65–66, 73–78, 83–84, 88–89, 129–31; asymmetrical 206; close 54; consequent 54; declining 66; deeper 77–78, 83; economic 6, 53–56, 66, 118–19, 130–32; energy 121; limited 88, 129; mutual 79–80, 89; negative 65; positive 40, 66; promotion of 79

247

interests, sphere of privileged 242 internalisation 37, 180 International Bank for Reconstruction and Development 239 International Society 8, 16, 36, 159, 203–6, 210; European 31, 38; thick 206–7, 210 International Syria Support Group (ISSG) 212 interventionism, western 207, 211 Iran 118, 212 Kaliningrad 2, 15, 97–99, 106 Karaganov, Sergei 23, 57–58, 69, 165, 170, 176 Kazakhstan 24, 59, 123–26, 137, 146–449, 225 Kosovo 13, 18–21, 40, 123, 163, 214 Kremlin 15, 33, 41–44, 87, 104, 127, 222–23 Kyrgyzstan 124, 137, 146, 149 Land belt concept 225 see also OBOR Lavrov, Sergei 15–18, 24–25, 28–33, 47, 102–9, 135 legitimacy 24, 26, 55–57, 74–75, 201–205, 210; function of 209–11, 215, 238; myth 210; self- 172 leverage 40, 62, 88, 182, 223 linkage 99, 142, 168, 189 liquified natural gas, see LNG Lisbon Treaty 121, 182, 188 Lithuania 186 LNG (liquefied natural gas) 55, 72, 78–79, 83–84, 86–88, 223 Macedonia 187 May, Theresa 184 Medvedev, Dimitry 16–19, 42–44, 59–61, 101–103, 169 Mercosur 24 Merkel, Angela 118 metaphors 22, 93, 95 militarization 132, 168 military: alliance 15, 213; apparatus 165; conflicts 41, 141, 190; disengagement 15, 17; modernisation 15, 17, 168; threats 42, 94 minorities 182, 184 Minsk II 119 Modernity 33; anti- 43; and Postmodernism binary 23 modernization 3–6, 121, 141–47, 149–55 Moldova 18–19, 123–28, 132–37, 187, 206

248

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Moravcsik, Andrew 179, 183 multilateralism 201–11, 214–15, 217; and ambiguities 211; balanced 204, 214–15; competitive regional 208–9; and cooperation 201–2, 208–10, 215; credibility 214; dialectic 209; discourses 201, 210, 214; effective 8, 201, 203, 207, 214–15, 241; equal 201, 207; Europe 201, 204–5, 208, 214; instinctive 210; and geopolitical balance of power thinking 209, 214; institutions 203–4, 206–7; law and international 207, 215; rivalling regional 208; and Russia 209, 222 multilateral system, pan-European 8, 201–05, 207–8, 210, 213–15 multipolarity 202, 209 see also polarity Munich Security Conference 16 Nagorno-Karabakh 163 narratives 96, 172, 221, 238, 242; differing 5; irreconcilable 118; nationalist 172 National Development Bank (NDB) 208 national interest 15, 17, 20, 74, 204, 240 NATO 21–22, 120–24, 166–68, 170–71, 213–220, 238; enlargement 2, 13–18, 124, 167–69, 17–73; intervention in Yugoslavia 162, 166; Russia Council 163 neighbourhood 15–20, 56, 116, 130–31, 171–74, 242; eastern 23, 133, 144; rivalry 129, 131; shared 7, 19, 41, 115–122, 124–32, 241–42 neighbours: new 2, 18; post-communist 19; western 125 Neoliberalism 238–39 Neo-Revisionism: Russian 17, 56, 205, 209, 215 Nice Summit 102 non-interference 17, 166, 189, 207, 210, 214 non-intervention 41, 82, 162, 166, 173 Normandy Format 119, 212–13 Normative Power Europe (NPE) 30–31, 35, 42, 206, 238, 241 Normativity 56–57, 128, 130, 204, 211, 241; hegemon 6, 15–19, 34, 121, 205–6, 209–215 norms 19, 56–57, 122–24, 159–61, 203–6, 240–42; agreed 173, 210, 242; diffuse 204; domestic 74, 180; dominant 118; entrepreneur 163; European 42, 129; external 37; global 58, 239; international 179, 210; irreconcilable

13; liberal 15; 183, shared 75, 188; universal 20, 30 North Atlantic Treaty Organization, see NATO NPE, see Normative Power Europe Obama, Barack 134, 220 One Belt One Road initiative (OBOR) 225, 233–34 Orange Revolution 13, 117, 142 order 63–64, 93–96, 160, 172, 210, 232–34; contested 170; economic 180; eurocentric 36, 38; global 203, 210–11, 220; international alternative 16; liberal 231, 239; multilateral 137, 203–4; negotiated 160, 166, 171; new world 160, 172; normative 42; post-Cold War 13, 118, 121, 180; regional 35 see also world order Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) 121, 160–66, 169–70, 181, 209, 212–15: OSCE Border Monitoring Operation 169; limitations 169; Permanent Council 210 Orientalisation: self- 38, 43; western 43 see Orientalism Orientalism 38 OSCE: see Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe Other: eastern border 105; the East European 32; EU and Russia 105; of Europe 36; friendly Russia 16, 36; the sovereign European 36 see also identity; othering othering 30–32 34, 93, 103, 105; antagonistic 36; mutual 30–31; signal 96; spatial 36; temporal 36 see also identity; other Otherness, see othering Paradigm: common spaces 131; competing 7, 117; new cooperative 131; revised 7, 116, 133; strategic 116–119 Partnership for Modernisation (PfM) 3–6, 13, 22, 42, 58, 60–61, 103 Partnership for Peace (PfP) 167 PCA (Partnership and Cooperation Agreement) 31–39, 53–57, 72, 142–44, 180–81 peace 62, 98, 129–31, 164–66, 202, 243; liberal 166; regional 167 perceptions: anti-Russian 23; diverging 5, 7, 125, 161, 164; mutual 97, 164; negative 24

Index periphery 37, 182; colonised 37; internal 37 PfM, see Partnership for Modernisation Platform for Cooperative Security 164 Poland 2, 40, 85, 101, 122, 186, 226 polarity see bipolarity; multipolariy; unipolarity politicisation 53, 61–66, 84–86, 97–98, 100–04 postmodernism: information warfare 4; modern binary 23; world 23 see also Modernity power 4, 14, 20–23, 73–75, 116–17, 160–61, 233; balance of 4, 171, 209, 214; coercive 25; competing 58; dominant regional 233; global 220, 233; great 15–17, 38, 132–33, 178–80, 222, 231–33; hegemonic 172; imbalances 160, 171, 238; international 117; military 17, 44, 167; neo-revisionist 15; normative, see NPE; relative distribution 26, 206, 240; shifts 161, 163, 166, 174; traditionalist sovereign 36; veto 210 Primakov, Yevgeny 15, 209, 222 propaganda 191; anti-Russian 190 protectionism 62, 210 protracted conflicts 165 proximity 127, 167; cultural 173; geographic 242 Putin, Vladimir 15–18, 48, 55–60, 68–70, 97–98, 121–22, 134–36, 220–23 realpolitik 23, 42 reciprocity 65, 99–100, 102–04, 202, 226; calculated 105; diffuse 202; diplomatic 96 recognition 8, 16–21, 42, 144, 152, 169–70 regime: authoritarian 179; change 42, 159; international 159, 203; visa-waiver 6, 95 region: breakaway 101 regionalism 173; competing 115–16, 124–25, 128–30, 132–33; and integration 20, 80, 129–37, 180–83, 208 respect 163, 170–73, 181–83, 185–92, 204–5, 214 rivalry 25, 94, 102–05, 201–09, 225 Rosatom 86 Rosneft 40, 45, 80, 86 Russia: (counter-)sanctions 55, 129, 132, 153; anti- 24–25, 89; bilateralism 213; and China 35, 208–211, 219–23, 228–34; competition with EaP countries 124;

249

Constitutional Court 178, 183, 190–92; Duma 178, 190–91; economy 54–60, 63–66, 79–80, 141–42, 219–20, 228–29, 231–32; elites 56, 58, 192; empire 37; energy 61–64, 80–87, 142–49; EU energy partnership 72–79, 81–88; EU image 204; Europeanness 32–37, 42, 96–97, 100–08, 122, 170, 220, 238; Foreign Policy Concepts 15, 204; geopolitical primacy 117, 208; and Georgia 24, 41, 82; identity 8, 33, 219, 240; identity politics 32, 44, 166; image of 4, 36; imperial 34; National Security Concept 15, 33, 164, 166–68, 173; NATO Council 162, 173–74; neo-revisionism 34, 133; PCA 79; pivot to East 220, 223–24, 229, 232, 234; political culture 32; post-Cold War 168; post-communist 21, 238; public opinion 78, 203, 213; relationship with EU 4–8, 36–39, 54, 121–25; self-image 34, 204; and Ukraine 25, 81, 118–25, 138–45, 148–51, Visa Dialogue 96, 100, 103; WTO 6, 58–59 Russian World 43 Russophobia 25 sanctions 54–55, 61–65, 85–86, 118–19, 213–15, 224–29 Sarkozy, Nicolas 125 Schengen 94–95, 97–99 SCO (Shanghai Cooperation Organization) 170, 222, 232 securitisation 53, 66, 129 security: collective 94, 207, 212; cooperative 132, 164, 169, 213; energy 79, 85, 168; environmental 161, 167, 174; equality of 213; European and Russian approaches to 124, 132, 174, 233; external 121, 168; human 174; individual 168; indivisible 164; international 170; military 161–62, 168, 174; national 94, 168, 172; primary 120; regime 159–63, 165, 169, 171–73, 241; regional 161, 166–67, 172; societal 174; traditional 168; understanding of 161, 165–67, 174, 241 security actorness 120, 132, 164, 167, 213 security architecture 97, 121, 124, 132, 160, 170; less-NATO oriented 169; new pan-European 121–22, 124–31, 160–66, 170–71

250

Index

security community: contested 120, 129, 131; integrated continental 120; wider European 53, 131, 168 Security Council 170 security dilemma 40, 127 security regime: common 7, 115, 164; comprehensive 174; inclusive 159, 170, 173–74; norms 169; post-Cold War 161; regional cooperative 161, 165 Serbia 184, 187, 214 Sevastopol 141 Shanghai Cooperation Organization 124, 224 see also SCO shock therapy 220 Sino-Soviet split 232 slavophilism 33, 219, 221 Slovakia 186 Slovenia 186 socialisation 73, 75, 78, 173 social psychology 20 Solidarnost 35 South Caucasus, see Caucasus South Korea 206, 224, 226 South Ossetia 163, 175 see Caucasus sovereignty 41–43, 93–94, 133, 166–68, 172–73, 207–15; challenging of 57; conceptualizations of 32, 41–42, 210; control 36, 40–41; of European states 133; formal 37; neighbourhood 123, 131; outdated 36; pooled 122, 210; post- 36, 42; protection of 207; and Russia 121, 163, 170, 172–73, 204, 214; territorial 5, 7, 25, 97, 163, 168, 170; transcendent 210 Soviet: economy 149; energy policy 61; legacy 34, 56–61, 117, 127, 142–45, 168; Republics 18, 24, 41, 145, 160; tactics 56 Soviet Union 2, 13–18, 144–45, 162, 219, 238–39 spheres 23, 42, 115–121, 132–33, 168, 180, 221; competing 129; exclusive 25, 242; of influence 24; legal 206, 209, 215; legitimate 2; normative 241; privileged 123; regional 117; traditional 173 stability 5–6, 18, 55–61, 74–75, 160–67, 171 status: diplomacy 232; equal 2, 8, 39, 213, 241; great power 5, 15, 219, 232–33; hegemonic 42; inferior 37; special 2, 39; superpower 238 stigmatisation 37 Saint Petersburg Economic Forum 86

Switzerland 165, 187 Syria 17, 224, 232 system: balanced 126; competitive political 117; global capitalist 31; global colonial 37, 43; pan-European collective security 207, 212 see also order; world order TACIS 38, 143 tactics: hybrid and transimperial 56 Taiwan 226 Tajikistan 146 territory 18, 36, 63, 80, 87, 94–95; fixed 23; former Soviet 17; sovereign 23; turmoil 180 TG and TN institutions 73–75, 77–82, 84, 87–89 threats 3, 15–20, 120–28, 166; diversified 168; main external 168, 173; new terrorist 163, 239 transitions 42, 142, 146, 151 Transnistria 163 Treaty on Conventional Armed Forces in Europe 162, 177 triangle, Russia-China-US 152, 231 Trump, Donald 64 trust: breached 13; gap 230; rebuilding 26, 165, 243 UK 18, 91, 183–86, 194, 206, 212, 233 Ukraine 2–5, 25, 84–85, 117–19, 122–28, 137–58, 171–74, 211–16; AA 137, 148, 214; civil war 4; conflict 54–56, 61–64, 82, 105, 213, 219–22; crisis 7–8, 13–17, 26, 115, 201, 211–14, 240; dual-vector strategy 127; eastern 4, 13, 26, 87, 119, 178, 211–19; economic integration 150; economy 140, 149, 152; EU relationship 151–52; FTA 150; pre-crisis 123; and Russia 25, 105, 118, 127, 137–39, 145–53; Russia gas dispute 81, 125; security forces 3 unilateralism 202; collective 204, 211 unipolarity 234 see also polarity United Europe 98 United States 61–63, 117, 131–32, 160, 163, 231 UNSC (UN Security Council) 18, 170, 203–06, 210–14, 226–28 UN Security Council, see UNSC USSR, see Soviet Union

Index Valdai Discussion Club 58 values 30–36, 39–40, 120–22, 219, 229–30; Christian 58; common 121–26, 180–82; common European 129, 131; dissonance 7; distinct European/ Eurasian 129, 221; European traditional 33–35, 39, 121–23, 142, 181; lack of 58; moral 4, 33; political 121, 123, 238; tolerance of 131; traditional 33, 43, 168; traditional Russian 43–44; universal 30, 36, 41, 241; Western 33 Venice Commission 192 Vietnam 17, 206 Vilnius Summit 118, 156 visa 2, 6–7, 39, 95–96, 98, 103–4, 123; abolition 101–03; dialogue 93, 96, 100–105, 120; facilitation 96, 99–100; waiver regime 6–7, 84, 96–103, 211 vulnerability 55, 229 Wæver, Ole 36 Wendt, Alexander 93–94, 105

251

Westphalian order 163 see also order; world order Wider Europe 14, 31–32, 36–39, 119, 133, 209, 241 Wilson, Woodrow 75 World Bank 206, 208 world order: emerging capitalist 37; emerging post-Cold War 222; fair 16; liberal 16, 210; multilateral 15; postWest 16, 222–23 see also order World Trade Organization, see WTO WTO (World Trade Organization) 6, 58–59, 80–85, 120–21, 143–47, 149–53 Yanukovych, Viktor 3, 25, 118, 127, 143, 226 Yeltsin, Boris 14–15, 189, 219–20, 222 Yugoslavia 162 Yukos 40, 80, 183–84, 191–92 Yushchenko, Viktor 142 zone, buffer 2