Nonstate Actors in Intrastate Conflicts 9780812208672

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Nonstate Actors in Intrastate Conflicts

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National and Ethnic Conflict in the Twenty-First Century Brendan O’Leary, Series Editor

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Nonstate Actors in Intrastate Conflicts

Edited by

Dan Miodownik and Oren Barak

u ni v e r s i t y o f p e nn s y lvania p r e s s p h i l ad e l p h ia

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Copyright © 2014 University of Pennsylvania Press All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used for purposes of review or scholarly citation, none of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher. Published by University of Pennsylvania Press Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19104-4112 www.upenn.edu/pennpress Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Nonstate actors in intrastate conflicts / edited by Dan Miodownik and Oren Barak. — 1st ed.    p.  cm. — (National and ethnic conflict in the twenty-first century)   Includes bibliographical references and index.   ISBN 978-0-8122-4543-1 (hardcover : alk. paper)   1. Insurgency. 2. Civil war. 3. Non-state actors (International relations) 4. Ethnic conflict. 5. Middle East—History, Military—20th century. I. Miodownik, Dan. II. Barak, Oren. III. Series: Nonstate actors in intrastate conflicts. JC328.5.N67 2013 341.5'84—dc23 2013012710

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Contents

Introduction 1 Dan Miodownik and Oren Barak with Maayan Mor and Omer Yair 1. The ‘Modern Sherwood Forest’: Theoretical and Practical Challenges  12 Oren Barak and Chanan Cohen 2. Framing to Win: The Transnational Recruitment of Foreign Insurgents  34 David Malet 3. State, Society, and Transnational Networks: The Arab Volunteers in the Afghan War (1984–1990)  56 Avraham Sela and Robert A. Fitchette 4. A Conceptual Framework for Understanding the Roles of Diasporas in Intrastate Conflicts  84 Gabriel Sheffer 5. Turkey’s Dual Problem: Between Armenia and the Armenian Diaspora  106 Nava Löwenheim 6. Turkey, the Kurds, and Turkey’s Incursions into Iraq: The Effects of Securitization and Desecuritization Processes  125 Gallia M. Lindenstrauss

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vi Contents

7. From a Militia to a Diasporic Community: The Changing Identity of the South Lebanese Army  140 Orit Gazit 8. Domestic-Regional Interactions and Outside Intervention in Intrastate Conflicts: Insights from Lebanon  166 Avraham Sela and Oren Barak Notes 187 Bibliography 203 List of Contributors  233 Index 237 Acknowledgments 243

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Nonstate Actors in Intrastate Conflicts

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Introduction Dan Miodownik and Oren Barak with Maayan Mor and Omer Yair

Intrastate armed conflicts, whether of low or high intensity, are the most pronounced form of organized violence in the world today. Thousands of people are killed, wounded, or displaced every year in intrastate conflicts that range across the globe, from Sudan, Lebanon, Afghanistan, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo to Iraq, Libya, and Syria. Intrastate conflicts are often viewed as stemming from, and revolving mainly around, domestic factors and issues. To the extent that scholars and policymakers explore the involvement of external actors in domestic disputes, most attention is devoted to states (including the immediate neighbors of the disrupted state and other states) and to international organizations (especially the UN), examining their stabilizing or destabilizing role in these contexts. Less attention, however, is given to the role of external nonstate actors—​ ­which are neither sovereign states nor international (that is, interstate) ­organizations—​­in intrastate conflicts. This volume addresses this critical void and focuses on the role of external nonstate actors—​­particularly foreign volunteers and members of diasporas—​­in intrastate conflicts. Although the focus is on the contemporary Middle East, we argue that the book’s findings are relevant to other regions of the world and to earlier periods in history. Before proceeding farther, however, let us explain why the Middle East is especially relevant for this discussion. First, several intrastate conflicts in the region, beginning with the Palestinian Arab revolt against the British Mandate and the Jewish community in Palestine (1936–​­1939) and the First Arab-​ Israeli War (1947–​­ 1949), attracted foreign volunteers and members of ­

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2 Introduction

diasporas. The apex of this phenomenon was the conflict in Afghanistan in the late 1970s and 1980s, when foreign volunteers (mostly Muslims) came to fight alongside the Afghan mujahidin (guerrillas) against the Soviet Army and its local allies. Some of these volunteers, who came from Arab countries and hence became known as “Afghan Arabs,” later founded Al Qaeda, the organization that carried out the 9/11 terrorist attacks on the United States and other armed operations against Western and non-​­Western states. The intrastate conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq—​­which followed the U.S.-​­led invasions of these countries in 2001 and 2003 respectively—​­also became a lodestone for foreign volunteers. Finally, the “Arab Spring,” a wave of popular uprisings that engulfed several states in the Middle East from late 2010, resulted in, among other things, intrastate conflicts (especially in Syria), which also attracted foreign volunteers (Agence France Presse, March 7, 2012) and led to protests by diaspora members outside the region. In this introductory chapter, we first discuss the concept of nonstate actors generally. We then present the major types of external nonstate actors, which are examined in depth through the chapters of this book. For each type of actor, we discuss the existing literature, the contribution of the current volume, and the gaps that still remain for future research. We conclude with a summary of the book’s main contributions regarding the role of external nonstate actors in intrastate conflicts.

Nonstate Actors and Their Roles in Intrastate Conflicts Intrastate conflicts present one of the most critical challenges to world peace today. Over the last decade, these conflicts have received increasing attention from policymakers and scholars (especially political scientists, sociologists, economists, and students of International Relations), who have explored their causes, duration, and possible resolutions. As a result of these efforts, a considerable body of literature has accumulated on various aspects and dimensions of internal armed intrastate conflicts.1 What are nonstate actors, how do they differ from sovereign states (and other “statist” actors, such as international organizations), and what are their general characteristics when they resort to violence? Studies on the process of state formation and the emergence of the modern international system have examined the attempts made by sovereign states, and especially by the Great Powers, to restrain, co-​­opt, and even physically eliminate a host of nonstate

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Introduction 3

actors (for example, pirates and terrorist organizations). These actors were perceived as challenging the state’s claim to a monopoly over use of legitimate force within, and from, its territory and, ultimately, to its hegemony both in the coercive and ideational senses.2 Drawing on these pioneering works, as well as on other contributions, a number of conclusions can be drawn. Nonstate actors are not sovereign states and do not act in their name (Arts 2003: 3). Nonstate actors are not part of the formal institutions of states (militaries, police forces, and bureaucracies) and tend to operate outside these institutions’ purview (Schneckener 2006: 25). Last, state institutions do not guarantee the continued existence of these nonstate actors, nor do the norms that helped preserve states (especially since 1945) even when they had few positive capacities.3 There are several ways to categorize nonstate actors: first, by the particular issue-​­areas in which they operate (for example, the environment, human rights); second, by the shared values and perceptions of their members (epistemic communities, for example); and third, by their organizational character (for example, NGOs, transnational corporations, social movements, national liberation movements, mafias, terrorist networks, and organizations) (Arts 2003: 2). Armed nonstate actors, a specific category of nonstate actors, have both the capacity and the will to pursue their goals by violent means (Schneckener 2006: 25). This requires that these actors have a basic command structure (though hierarchy in these organizations is, at times, fluid) and that their fighters and arms be outside the effective control of the state (Bruderlein 2000: 8–​­9). Armed nonstate actors may include rebels or guerrilla fighters; paramilitaries and militias; tribal chiefs; ethnic or regional warlords; local or international terrorists; criminals and mafias; and mercenaries and private security firms and marauders (Schneckener 2006: 25–​­28). While all armed nonstate actors use violence from time to time, their goals may vary. Some aspire to maintain the existing political, social, or economic order (which they see as beneficial to them), while others aim to change or even eradicate it. Some employ physical violence, while others use psychological warfare. Some wish to conquer a particular territory and impose exclusive rule over it, while others strive to win a share in power in an existing territorial unit. And some are motivated by political considerations, while others are driven by economic incentives (Schneckener 2006: 28–​­31). Whatever the case, where the state’s institutions are weak or virtually nonexistent, such as in several non-​­Western states (which form the majority among

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4 Introduction

weak states and failed states), armed nonstate actors may thrive and exert the greatest influence on the citizens’ security (Bruderlein 2000: 3–​­9). The chapters by Sela and Barak and by Gazit in this volume look more closely at the interactions between various types of domestic armed nonstate actors and sovereign states in the context of an evolving intrastate conflict (in Lebanon, 1975–​­1990). As these chapters suggest, more attention should be accorded to these complex domestic-​­external connections and their impact on both the conflict and the parties involved in this and possibly other cases. We propose that when dealing with nonstate actors involved in intrastate conflicts, one should differentiate between two major types: domestic and external.4 This book focuses on two major types of external nonstate actors—​ ­foreign volunteers and members of diasporas—​­and their roles in intrastate conflicts. In the next two sections, we present each of these external nonstate actors in more detail.

Foreign Volunteers and Their Roles in Intrastate Conflicts Foreign volunteers are armed activists who arrive in a disrupted state (or in a particular region within it) either before or after the outbreak of violence in order to take part in the hostilities. In some cases, these volunteers remain in the state for many years and sometimes even indefinitely. The role of foreign volunteers in intrastate conflicts has received some attention over the years, including works on the (mostly) Jewish volunteers who fought alongside Israel in the First Arab-​­Israeli War (Heckelman 1974: 51–​­173; Malet 2009: 175–​­219) and the Arab-​­Israeli War of 1967 (Kaufman 1994: 169–​­79); the volunteers who joined the International Brigades during the Spanish Civil War in 1936–​­1939 (Caroll 1994: 91–​­208; Baxell 2004: 8–​­46; Malet 2009: 124–​­74); and the recruitment of Muslim foreign fighters in the Afghan War (1979–​ ­1992), the war in Chechnya (1994–​­1996) and the War in Iraq (2003–​­) (Esposito 2002: 71–​­117; Hafez 2009: 74–​­76, 86–​­90; Schwartz 2007: 113–​­14, 117–​­23; Malet 2009: 220–​­97). Most existing studies opt to analyze the institutional-​­structural underpinnings explaining foreign volunteers’ recruitment. Rotberg argues that the institutional weakness of failed states attracts terrorist networks and warlords (Rotberg 2002: 85–​­87). Failed states provide ample space for hideouts, but also convey revenue and power opportunities that are liable to make the state a target for international terrorism and local insurgencies (Piazza 2008:

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Introduction 5

481–​­83). The inability of failed states to guarantee a stable allocation of goods may drive even their citizens to join terrorist and insurgency networks. Hehir, on the other hand, argues that the institutional weakness of the state may not explain its attractiveness to international networks of terrorists, and that democratization, which is seen as a potential remedy to some failed states, is not necessarily followed by a decline in terrorist activity (2007: 314–​­17, 321–​­26). Other authors examine the ideational (or cultural) motivations for recruitment of volunteers, highlighting the role of religion as a powerful universal ideology. These look at the impact of religious movements on international security (Thomas 2000: 14–​­21), as well as the role of religion and identity in intergroup conflicts (Seul 1999: 558–​­63) in both national and international political contexts (Fox 2004; Fox and Sandler 2005). The current volume contributes to the discussion of the role of foreign volunteers in intrastate conflicts in several important directions. The chapters by Barak and Cohen, Sela and Fitchette, and Malet suggest that foreign volunteers can affect intrastate conflicts in a number of ways. First, they can forge alliances with domestic nonstate actors, thus contributing to the centripetal tendencies in the state‘s political system. Second, by entering into alliances with other external actors, such as the neighbors of the disrupted state or more distant states, they can persuade these actors to intervene in the conflict. And finally, by becoming active participants in the conflict, they add to the scope of the fighting and, in some cases, induce additional foreign intervention (by states, international organizations, or other external nonstate actors). Barak and Cohen coin a new term, “the Modern Sherwood Forest,” to account for circumstances that would attract foreign volunteers to wage war in remote lands. Specifically, inflows of volunteers can be expected in “zones of statelessness” (for example, failed states and other ungoverned territories) when the volunteers themselves are motivated by transnational or universal ideologies or identities (in recent years mostly religion) or when the volunteers have other psychological or interest-​­based motivations. Sela and Fitchette focus on the Arab volunteers who became involved in the Afghan War, arguing that the driving force of volunteers in this case was complex state-​­society relations in the Arab states, in conjunction with the activities of transnational networks in the Middle East. They suggest, moreover, that the act of volunteering to fight in foreign lands in the name of national and Islamic solidarity has fortified transnational networks committed to acting against the ruling elites in their homelands.

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6 Introduction

Malet‘s chapter challenges the notion that foreign volunteers engage in conflicts merely to promote specific individual interests, and argues that an increasing number of intrastate conflicts attract external actors who would seem to have no direct personal interest in the outcome. Malet suggests that successful recruitment of volunteers entails “framing” the issue of contention as an “existential threat” to a community of which both the local population and recruits are part, and consequently enlisting the assistance of recruits who believe that they are mobilized for defensive conflicts. What can be done to further our understanding of the role of foreign volunteers in intrastate conflicts? Comparative empirical evaluations of the impact of foreign volunteers on intrastate conflicts are a challenging endeavor. The vast literature that has accumulated on civil wars has gone a long way to untangling the impact of collective grievances (e.g., Gurr 1970), the exclusion of ethnic groups from power (Wimmer et al. 2009: 320–​­25; Cederman et al. 2010: 94–​­96), economic motivations (e.g., Collier and Hoeffler 2004: 464–​­570), state capacity (e.g., Fearon and Laitin 2003: 79–​­82), and rebel organization characteristics (e.g., Gates 2002: 112–​­14; Weinstein 2007: 27–​ ­162) on the onset and duration of civil wars. Disaggregating categories of conflicts in order to find out which types attract foreign volunteers may provide a more nuanced understanding of conflict processes, their duration and intensity.5 For instance, are conflicts that attract foreign volunteers different from other conflicts? Is the incentive structure of these volunteers different from that of other recruits, and if so, how? These and related questions deserve more attention. One of the problems in studying the role of foreign volunteers in intrastate conflicts is the lack of reliable data. Malet’s Foreign Fighter Project dataset6 appears to be the only available source that allows for an examination of these and related questions (2009: 54–​­58, 314–​­17). This dataset was composed using the PRIO and Correlates of War (COW) datasets, and is possibly the only available dataset that can be used to empirically test hypotheses on foreign volunteers’ involvement in intrastate conflicts. The dataset includes information on the date range of the conflict; the geographical region in which it occurred; the conflict’s outcome; the warring parties’ names; whether the conflict was ethnic or nonethnic in nature; and whether foreign fighters were co-​­ethnics or not (316). When possible, the number of foreign participants has been carefully coded using available sources such as media reports and cross-​­referencing the data.7 A more detailed extension of the Foreign Fighter dataset, moreover, contains information on the war in Iraq and

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Introduction 7

includes data such as the fighter’s name, town of origin, means of recruitment (such as through a friend or family relatives), age, and occupation or field of study (if the volunteer was a student). We suggest that the Foreign Fighter dataset and its (limited) detailed extension needs to be complemented by a more comprehensive enterprise that would code the role of foreign fighters in intrastate conflicts around the globe. Once completed, this resource may offer a set of key variables that would allow students of intrastate conflicts to situate the role of these actors in the expanding literature on intrastate conflicts while at the same time reflecting critically on these works with the purpose of advancing our understanding of these conflicts and their complex nature.

Diasporas and Intrastate Conflicts Diasporas form another key external nonstate actor, one that is involved in an intrastate conflict that occurs in a diaspora’s homeland. These mainly include members of ethnic diasporas, who share strong interest in and frequently become involved in the political and social affairs of their homeland, including intrastate conflicts. The involvement of diasporas in homeland politics and their role in intrastate conflicts have received some scholarly attention in recent years. Examples include Shain and Barth (2003: 452–​­56, 461–​­75), who discuss the Armenian and Jewish diasporas; King and Melvin (1999–​­2000: 118–​­30), who study diasporas-​­homelands bilateral relations in post-​­Soviet Eurasia; and other works that focus on specific diasporic communities’ engagement in homeland politics: Jewish, Eritrean, Irish, Somali, Sudanese, and Sri Lankan (see, e.g., Sheffer 1986:1–​­15, 2003; Cohen 1997: 509–​­17; Baser and Swain 2008: 9–​­11, 19–​­23; Adamson 2006: 168–​­72). Most of these studies conclude that diasporas can contribute to the mitigation but also exacerbate conflicts in the homeland. Diasporas, in other words, can be peacemakers as well as peace-​­wreckers (Smith and Stares 2007). The chapters by Sheffer, Lindenstrauss, Löwenheim, and Gazit examine the role of members of diasporas in intrastate conflicts, and suggest that this involvement can take on quite different forms. Sheffer’s conceptual chapter calls for a more nuanced understanding of diasporas and their roles in intrastate conflict. Specifically, he asserts that diasporic communities from various classes differ in their interest in, attitudes

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8 Introduction

toward, and influence on homeland politics. Stateless ethnonational diasporas, particularly those characterized by strong religious affinities, are more prone to use illegal and aggressive methods to influence homeland politics and intrastate conflicts. The three other chapters that deal with the role of diasporas (and local actors turned diasporas) in intrastate conflicts highlight the challenge that these actors pose to the state, both as an arena for conflict and as a hegemonic actor in the international system. Gallia M. Lindenstrauss focuses on Turkey’s armed incursions into northern Iraq since the mid-​­1980s, which sought to eliminate the Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK) fighters who found refuge there. These incursions in fact represented Turkey’s breaking with its own tradition of being a status quo actor and resulted in international criticism. Lindenstrauss demonstrates the usefulness of theories of “securitization” and “desecuritization” in explaining why certain threats (including from members of diasporas who reside across the border) are presented as so dangerous that they justify military action, as well as why, following even a partial process of desecuritization, the state’s policy becomes more ambivalent (see Buzan et al. 1998: 21–​­48). The Turkish case is also the focus of the chapter by Nava Löwenheim. She turns to the case of intrastate conflict between Turks and Armenians that occurred in World War I, which the Armenians regard as genocide and Turkey denies and attempts to silence. Löwenheim shows how conflict has resulted in the creation of an Armenian diaspora that, many decades later, opposes the establishment of normal relations between Turkey and the state of Armenia. This triangular game, in which at least two actors (Turkey and the Armenian diaspora) have rigid identities, is further complicated when various hostlands of the Armenian diaspora are drawn in. Finally, Orit Gazit’s chapter focuses on the case of the South Lebanese Army (SLA), a local militia in South Lebanon whose members collaborated with Israel for over a quarter of a century (1975–​­2000). Following Israel’s withdrawal from Lebanon in May 2000, the SLA transformed from a domestic to an external nonstate actor—​­a Lebanese diasporic group—​­that resides within Israel and is therefore subject to its laws. The existence of this non-​ ­Jewish Lebanese diaspora in Israel complicates matters for both the state (which defines itself as Jewish) and the community, whose members’ interests, identities, and practices change in reaction not only to intra-​ o ­rganizational dynamics, but also to the dynamic circumstances of the intrastate conflict in which they are embedded. What can be done to improve our understanding of the role of diasporas

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Introduction 9

in intrastate conflicts? Empirical comparative studies on this topic are rather scarce. However, the seminal work by Collier and Hoeffler (2004: 568, 574–​ ­75, 588–​­89) on civil war onset stands as the singular most visible exception to the rule. Exploring economic and social antecedents of civil war onset and duration, Collier and Hoeffler have found that the financial contribution diasporas make to rebel organizations does not increase the likelihood of civil war, but rather prolongs these wars once they break out. It should be noted that Collier and Hoeffler do not measure diasporas’ funding directly; instead, they use the size of the country’s diaspora, itself proxied by the proportion of a population of emigrants from a specific country living in the United States relative to the homeland’s population (Byman et al. 2001: 49–​­52; Baser and Swain 2008: 19–​­20). Relatively little attention has been devoted to the robustness of Collier and Hoeffler’s observations and their sensitivity to the particular proxy used for diaspora funding.8 This is despite the fact that the latter issue demands reassessment given recent work about funding sent to zones of conflict mainly from coethnics residing outside the United States, for example, in Western European countries (Byman et al. 2001: 49–​­52; Baser and Swain 2008: 19–​­20) or the Persian Gulf (Zunzer 2004: 14–​­15; Adamson 2006: 170). Indeed, Collier himself later explained that while some insurgencies were backed by diasporas in Europe, the specific proxy was used because “the data [on ethnic diasporas] are not available for most other countries” (2006: 6). Insofar as acknowledging the complexity of the diasporic phenomena and the difficulties in trying to measure it, the field in general would benefit from new ways of measuring and assessing diasporas’ impact on intrastate conflicts. One obvious way to improve the measurement implied by Collier and Hoeffler would be to invest in collecting demographic data on ethnic communities in states other than the United States, mainly in Europe.9 Another possibility would be to use available World Bank information on migrations and remittances10 to measure payments that each country receives from diasporas relative to its GDP, which can account for the direct impact of diasporas’ remittance on the homeland’s economy.11 It is clear that a renewed effort in data collection may contribute to a better appreciation of the political influence of ethnic diasporas, both in their homelands and hostlands, and allow for a better theoretical and empirical integration of a key transnational and regional dimension affecting intrastate conflict.

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10 Introduction

Conclusions The role that external—​­and domestic—​­nonstate actors play in intrastate conflicts vary: some of their activities—​­and especially the resort to violence and the insistence on, and lobbying for, hardline positions by the belligerents—​ ­may exacerbate intrastate conflicts and make them more resistant to peaceful solutions. At the same time, other actions, such as engaging in or endorsing various peacemaking efforts, may have a moderating effect on these conflicts. Members of diasporas, for example, can contribute to prolonging an intrastate conflict by extending material or moral support to their ethnic kin within the homeland and by volunteering to fight alongside their coethnics. However, these actors can engage in, and even initiate, domestic or international peacemaking efforts with the purpose of resolving the conflict.12 In any case, the role of these nonstate actors in intrastate conflicts deserves more attention—​­and fewer generalizations—​­from scholars and policymakers alike. Second, the interactions among domestic and external nonstate actors, as well as their relationships with states and international organizations, are highly complex and include coercive, material, and discursive-​­cultural aspects. When nonstate actors and states have shared interests, they may cooperate, and even fight together to achieve their mutually beneficial goals. But when their interests are incongruent, both types of actors may choose to coerce, co-​­opt, or deter one another. In addition, both types of actors can appeal to common cultural values or attempt to “securitize” the situation in order to motivate other actors to intervene on their behalf, and both types of actors can attempt to delegitimize other actors and their role in the conflict. Third, while external nonstate actors such as diasporas and foreign volunteers have received some attention in the literature on intrastate conflict, little has been done to improve conceptualization and operationalization of these two categories, which is a necessary step to assess their full impact empirically and theoretically. In the previous sections, we have surveyed the state of the art with regard to these actors and offered ideas for measurement improvement. More specifically, we have suggested using publicly available sources to collect the demographic data on ethnic diasporas and remittance information required for comparative analyses of the role of diasporas in homeland intrastate conflicts in general and the impact of funding in particular, as well as to extend the pioneering work on foreign volunteers done by Malet (2009: 54–​­68). Through such data, we would gain a more nuanced understanding of the role of these external nonstate actors in intrastate conflicts.

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Introduction 11

In sum, by better understanding how, when, and why nonstate actors such as diasporas and foreign volunteers (but possibly others) influence ­intrastate conflicts—​­and particularly their onset, duration, mitigation or ­deterioration—​­we might be able to produce effective mechanisms that would encourage members of diasporas to help mitigate conflicts that occur in their homelands instead of aggravating them. This would lessen the motivation of foreign volunteers to become involved in faraway conflicts rather than working to improve the political, social, and economic conditions in their own countries and on the global level.

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Chapter 1

The “Modern Sherwood Forest”: Theoretical and Practical Challenges Oren Barak and Chanan Cohen

Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake? Grey and ghostly shadows are gliding through the brake, Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn, Dreaming of a shadowy man that winds a shadowy horn. Robin Hood is here again: all his merry thieves Hear a ghostly bugle-​­note shivering through the leaves, Calling as he used to call, faint and far away, In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. —​­Alfred Noyes, “A Song of Sherwood” (1913)

Bassam Ahmad Kanj, a Sunni Muslim, was born in 1964 in a small village in the al-​­Dinniyeh region of North Lebanon. In 1985 he left for the United States and studied in Boston. There, he was influenced by the conferences on Jihad in Afghanistan, organized by sympathizers of the Islamic cause in that country. In 1989, Kanj left the United States for Pakistan, where he underwent military training. He crossed the border to Afghanistan and joined the “Arab Afghans”: the Arab volunteers who came to fight the Soviet “infidels” alongside the local mujahidin. In Afghanistan, Kanj developed close ties with other Arab Afghans—​­including Osama Bin Laden and Ayman al-​­Zawahiri, future

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The “Modern Sherwood Forest”  13

leaders of Al Qaeda. In 1991, Kanj returned to Lebanon to spread the word of Jihad, and during the next three years he fought alongside the Muslim militias in Bosnia. Chechnya was supposed to be the next stop in his quest, but the office in charge of recruiting Arabs volunteers for Chechnya rejected him and he returned to Lebanon. There, he began setting up training camps in North Lebanon and was assisted by radical Islamic activists in the Palestinian refugee camp of Ain el-​­Hilweh. In less than a year, Kanj recruited more than two hundred young militants. In late 1999, Kanj and his group attacked the Lebanese army; after six days of fighting, which left scores of people dead, they were defeated, resulting in Kanj’s death (Saab and Ranstrop 2007: 832–​­33). What is striking in this case is how a nonstate actor was able to move with relative ease from one zone of statelessness to another and use violence against his rivals in the name of a universal ideology—​­Jihad. This phenomenon, however, is by no means unique: Al Qaeda, which carried out the terrorist attacks of 9/11, is probably the most best-​­known example of a violent transborder nonstate actor (VITNA) that has emerged in a zone of statelessness (Afghanistan) and espoused a universal ideology (Jihad). But other VITNAs currently operate in places such as Iraq, Yemen, the Horn of Africa, Algeria, Lebanon, Pakistan, and Indonesia. The historical record, too, provides several relevant examples: Andrzej Tadeusz Kościuszko, the Polish army officer who came to the help of the American colonists during the Revolutionary War; Lord Byron, the English poet who fought alongside the Greek nationalists in their struggle for independence from the Ottoman Empire; British author George Orwell and American author Ernest Hemingway, who joined the Spanish Republic in its war against General Franco and his fascist and Nazi allies; Fawzi al-​­Qawuqji, the former Ottoman army officer who fought against British forces and Zionist Jews in Palestine. In general, contemporary research considers these and other VITNAs from one of three perspectives. The first looks into the motivations, organization, and modus operandi of terrorist movements and networks (i.e., of particular types of VITNAs).1 The second asks how the emergence and persistence of “failed states” and “ungoverned territories” help sustain and sometimes intensify violent transborder nonstate action.2 Finally, a third research trend emphasizes the role of transnational identities—​­especially ethnic and religious—​­in a globalizing world, which, according to their view, are sometimes manifested in nonstate violent action.3 It is clear, however, that concepts such as “failed states” (or “ungoverned

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14  Oren Barak and Chanan Cohen

territories”), “international terrorism,” and “transnational identities” are all insufficient when attempting to explain this phenomenon. First, not every failed state and ungoverned territory has attracted VITNAs or become a cause célèbre for them. In fact, most of these territories elicit little international attention. Second, the term “international terrorism” not only is politically charged—​­no VITNA would describe itself in this way—​­but also relates to individuals and groups that operate in various settings, including functioning states. Finally, transnational identities are not necessarily violent and are, moreover, espoused by individuals residing in many kinds of states. It is, in sum, the convergence between zones of statelessness, VITNAs, and universal ideologies and not each of these factors in itself that asks for conceptualization. Still, few studies explore the complex interlinkages between terrorist movements and networks, failed states and ungoverned territories, and transnational identities (Mousseau 2002–​­2003: 15–​­21; Takeyh and Gvosdev 2002: 98–​­101). As a result, the phenomenon of violent transborder nonstate action—​­with its agency-​­based, structuralist, and culturalist facets,4 is not dealt with in a comprehensive way. This chapter coins a new term—​­the Modern Sherwood Forest—​­to refer to instances when VITNAs arrive in zones of statelessness with the intent to fight in the name of a universal ideology. Modern Sherwood Forests are created, then, when the following three factors converge (see Figure 1). A zone of statelessness (the “forest”) refers to a state or part of a state where the process of state formation has encountered major difficulties or has been reversed for a significant period of time (that is, for years or decades). VITNAs, or self-​­proclaimed “Robin Hoods,” are persons, groups, or organizations that operate outside their homeland for a considerable period of time and use violence as the primary means of advancing their goals. A “universal” ideology (or, a worthy cause) is a cultural system that invests the struggle of these self-​ ­proclaimed Robin Hoods with broader supranational and suprastate meaning. Unlike national ideologies, which relate to a specific territory, universal ideologies seek to transform the entire world (this, of course, does not mean these ideologies have universal appeal; in fact, they elicit much resistance). With regard to our terminology, it is well known that the actual Sherwood Forest was once a zone of statelessness that attracted violent nonstate actors—​ ­Robin Hood and his band of merry thieves—​­whose claim to use violence not for their own sake but for the common good won them popular support. By using this metaphor, we wish to emphasize two things: first, that although this phenomenon is essentially modern it does have historical precedents, and

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The “Modern Sherwood Forest”  15 Zones of statelessness

Modern Sherwood Forest

Universal ideologies

Violent actors

Figure 1. The Modern Sherwood Forest.

second, that the high regard for nonstate actors who use violence to promote a “worthy cause” is a cross-​­cultural phenomenon. Which cases fall under the category of the Modern Sherwood Forest? The most recent is Iraq since 2003, where the institutional void created by the U.S.-​ ­led invasion has created fresh opportunities not only for local actors but also for VITNAs who have waged jihad against the “infidels.” Other contemporary and recent cases are Afghanistan during the Soviet invasion (1979–​­1989) and since the U.S.-​­led invasion in 2001; Bosnia and Chechnya in the 1990s; Lebanon during the civil war (1975–​­1990); and, to some extent, the Lebanese-​ ­Israeli border area up to the present. More historical cases include Spain during the civil war (1936–​­1939); Palestine during the Arab Palestinian Revolt (1936–​­1939) and in the first Arab-​­Israeli War (1947–​­1949); Greece during its war of independence (1821–​­1829); and the thirteen British colonies in North America during the American Revolutionary War (1775–​­1783). Why study the Modern Sherwood Forest? First, because it has a significant impact on domestic and international security. Domestically, the Modern Sherwood Forest is generally accompanied by massive violence (including

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against civilians) and the destruction of the state’s infrastructure. But the Modern Sherwood Forest can also result in spillover of violence and disorder into neighboring states and the emergence of global terrorist networks that threaten international security. Second, elucidating the Modern Sherwood Forest enhances our understanding of the process of state formation and its different facets: the accumulation of coercive power by the state, but also its attempt to construct itself as an autonomous actor vis-​­à-​­vis society and elicit popular identification with the state through the idea of the nation (see below). This is because the Modern Sherwood Forest represents a threefold physical, cognitive, and emotional-​­ symbolic—​ challenge to the state—​­ w ­ hereas its successful elimination is an indication of its strength. Finally, as mentioned above, although important studies discuss certain aspects of the Modern Sherwood Forest, a study that is attentive to its three major facets, as well as to their complex interplay, is wanting. Our chapter is organized as follows. First, we present a typology of the major types of transborder nonstate action, which further underscores the uniqueness of the Modern Sherwood Forest in relation to kindred phenomena. We then give an overview of some of the most salient contemporary and historical Modern Sherwood Forests. We conclude by presenting our hypothesis regarding the emergence and persistence of Modern Sherwood Forests and suggest how to deal with them.

Robin Hoods and Other Transborder Nonstate Actors The terrorist attacks of 9/11 and subsequent launching of the “War on Terror” by the United States have resulted in growing scholarly attention to old and new forms of transborder nonstate violence. These include pirates, bandits, self-​­proclaimed Robin Hoods, and, of course, Osama Bin Laden’s Al Qaeda.5 But despite this growing interest, which extends from academia6 to popular culture,7 few attempts have been made to study the phenomenon in a systematic manner: to conceptualize it, differentiate between its various manifestations, and explain its occurrence in different periods in time. The result of this omission is that the long-​­term processes and circumstances that facilitate the activities of VITNAs, their motives and considerations, and the ideologies they espouse—​­as well as the complex interplay between these factors—​ ­remain, by and large, understudied. In order to better comprehend the Modern Sherwood Forest, we isolate its

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three constitutive elements—​­zones of statelessness, universal ideologies, and VITNAs—​­and ask when some or all of these factors converge. We also add the “opposites” to these factors to broaden the discussion. Table 1 presents twelve ideal-​­types (labeled A through L) where there is a convergence between zones of statelessness/functioning state; universal ideologies/national ideologies/materialist values; and violent/nonviolent transborder nonstate actors. We define “functioning states” as states that have made considerable headway in the process of state formation and its three major interrelated facets: (a) state-​­building, which includes measures that produce “territorial consolidation, centralization, differentiation of the instruments of government, and monopolization of the means of coercion” (Mann 1986: 112; Tilly 1975: 42);8 (b) statecraft (or, state-​­construction), the enhancement of the state’s power and authority through an array of informal, including cultural means (Davis 1991: 12); and (c) national integration (or “nation-​­building”), which connotes centrally based efforts to invest the state’s populace with a common identity (Anderson 1991: 109–​­10; Gellner 2006: 54–​­57; Hobsbawm 1992: 9–​­10). The term “zones of statelessness” refers to states or parts of states where the process of state formation has encountered grave difficulties or been reversed.9 By “universal ideology,” we mean a cultural system that emphasizes supranational and suprastate values such as liberty, anticolonialism, anti-​ ­imperialism, Communism, and jihad. A “national ideology,” on the other hand, is a cultural system of a particular national group, generally one that resides within an existing state or covets its own “place under the sun.” The term “materialist values” refers to persons or groups mainly preoccupied with the accumulation of profit, booty, and so forth. Finally, “transborder nonstate actors” are persons, groups, or organizations that are not part of the state’s institutions and operate outside its purview for a considerable period of time. These actors can employ nonviolent means (e.g., cultural, economic) to attain their goals, but they can also resort to violence. Among the latter, one can differentiate between established hierarchical groups and horizontal networks (Pedahzur and Perliger 2006: 1988–​­89). Let us now discuss the different types of transborder nonstate actors we have identified. We wish to emphasize that this is a preliminary categorization of the major manifestations of this phenomenon and not an exhaustive list. The upper left-​­hand side of Table 1 (Types A, B, C) includes nonviolent transborder actors that operate in functioning states. Type A actors include

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Zones of statelessness

Functioning states

E Informal cultural/ political organizations

Private business & commercial firms

Informal cultural/ political organizations

Private business & commercial firms

D

B

National ideologies

A

Materialist values

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Missionaries; global political movements

F

Global political movements; religious organizations

C

Universal ideologies

Nonviolent transborder nonstate actors

Table 1. VITNAs and Other Transborder Nonstate Actors

Pirates; privateers; mercantile companies; criminal groups & networks and drug cartels; mercenaries; private security firms

J

Mercenaries; private security firms; criminal groups & networks

G

Materialist values

L Robin Hoods operating in a Modern Sherwood Forest

Filibusters; national liberation movements

Terrorist networks & organizations

Political exiles

K

I

Universal ideologies

H

National ideologies

Violent transborder nonstate actors

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The “Modern Sherwood Forest”  19

private businessmen and international firms that operate overseas in order to promote their economic interests. Although this phenomenon is not new, it has certainly become more widespread in the era of globalization. Type B actors include informal cultural or political organizations operating abroad and promoting national ideologies and interests. It is quite difficult to find contemporary cases (the same is true regarding Type E and also H and K actors) precisely because of the triumph of the nation-​­state. Indeed, most organizations and individuals that promote national ideologies and interests in foreign countries do so in the name of sovereign states (e.g., diplomats, national trade organizations, cultural organizations), but since these are essentially “statist” actors they are excluded from our categorization.10 Type C actors can be divided into two major groups: Christian missionaries and monastic orders, and global political movements such as Greenpeace and antiglobalization activists (to the extent that they do not use violence). The lower left side (Types D, E, F) also includes nonviolent transborder actors, but these operate in “zones of statelessness.” Type D actors include private businessmen and international firms who exploit the volatile political situation in zones of statelessness in order to make a profit. Examples include arms dealers and commercial firms involved in the “blood diamonds trade” in Africa. It should be noted that some of these businessmen and firms have, in time, acquired a considerable influence on the politics, society, and economy of these states. Type E actors include informal cultural and political organizations that operate in zones of statelessness. An example is the American University of Beirut (AUB) during the Lebanese civil war, which was sometimes targeted by the warring sides. Examples of Type F actors include Christian missionaries and monastic orders, which carry on their operations despite volatile political situations, and global movements like Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders), an NGO that operates in conflict zones throughout the globe and provides humanitarian (especially medical) aid. Our main interest, however, is the right-​­hand side of Table 1, which presents six types of VITNAs. Types G and J cases are transborder activists who use violence to attain material gains in functioning states and in zones of statelessness respectively. Type G cases include mercenaries (individuals who fight under a foreign ruler and who are principally profit-​­seekers). Mercenaries were very common in Europe from the late Middle Ages to the nineteenth century (Thomson 1994: 26–​­32), but in later periods most modern states established national armies composed of their own citizens (Avant 2000: 41–​­43; Finer 1975: 101–​­2; Posen 1993b: 82–​­86). Examples of Type J actors are the

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pirates, privateers, and mercantile companies, which, like the mercenaries, were widespread until the nineteenth century. Another example is mercenaries who are employed in zones of statelessness. It should be noted that nearly all of these VITNAs were successfully eliminated as part of the process of state building and its domestic and interstate facets (Thomson 1994: 19–​­20). Nevertheless, some Type G and J actors persist. The former include crime organizations and private security firms employed by states and private organizations (Avant 2005; Mandel 2002: 9–​­14); the latter of crime organizations such as the drug cartels in Columbia; pirates operating in Somalia, Nigeria, the Malacca Straits, Malaysia, the Singapore Straits, and Bangladesh; and private security firms like those in present-​­day Iraq. The next two forms of VITNAs, Types H and K, include actors that espouse a national ideology in functioning states and zones of statelessness respectively. Type H actors include political exiles, to the extent that they use violence. An example is the Iraqi opposition groups in Iran (especially the Islamic Dawa Party), which carried out attacks against President Saddam Hussein’s regime before the U.S.-​­led invasion of Iraq. Historical examples of Type K actors are the Filibusters: mostly adventurers from the Southern states of the United States who tried to overthrow several governments in Central America during the first six decades of the nineteenth century. While some Filibusters wished to create their own states, most sought to bring new territories into the United States (Thomson 1994: 118–​­20, 140–​­42). More recent and contemporary examples of Type K actors include the Palestinian armed factions, which from the mid-​­1960s to 1982 launched attacks against Israel (from Jordan until 1970–​­1971 and Lebanon until 1982), and the PKK, which has carried out attacks against Turkey, including from the Kurdish stronghold in northern Iraq. The last two types of VITNAs, Types I and L, operate in the name of a universal ideology in functioning states and in zones of statelessness respectively. Type I actors include terrorists operating in Western states such as the Al Qaeda cell that launched the terrorist attacks of 9/11 and the perpetrators of the train bombings in Madrid in 2004 (known as “11–​­M”) and the London bombings in 2005 (known as “7/7”). Type L, the Modern Sherwood Forest, includes VITNAs who operate in zones of statelessness in the name of universal ideologies. In the next sections of this chapter, we present concrete examples of the Modern Sherwood Forest and explain the emergence and persistence of this phenomenon. We see, then, that some of the most salient forms of transborder nonstate

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violence before the nineteenth century, such as the privateers and filibusters, have been suppressed as part of the process of state formation and the emergence of an international system of sovereign states. Other actors, such as the pirates and mercenaries, have become marginal or, in the case of the latter, been overshadowed by large private security firms that, in turn, presented the international system and its member-​­states with new kinds of dilemmas. Still others, such as national liberation movements, have acquired their own “place under the sun” (most recently in Kosovo) or have yet to do so. There is, however, one type of VITNA—​­self-​­proclaimed Robin Hoods operating within a Modern Sherwood Forest—​­that has not been effectively suppressed by the international system or by its member-​­states. The remainder of this chapter will begin to explain the remarkable persistence of this phenomenon while being attentive to its changing characteristics over time.

The Modern Sherwood Forest: Major Types and Cases This section presents the major types of the Modern Sherwood Forest and several illustrative examples of each type. The cases that fall into the category of Modern Sherwood Forest, which will be presented in more detail below, can be divided into two general subgroups:11 Anti-​­imperial struggles: rebellions waged against world empires that became a lodestone for foreign volunteers who espoused universal ideologies; internationalized internal conflicts: domestic conflicts that attracted foreign volunteers who saw these struggles as imbued with universal meaning (see Table 2). Anti-​­Imperial Struggles The first type of Modern Sherwood Forest includes armed rebellions against the world’s empires, which attracted foreign volunteers motivated, first and foremost, by universal ideologies.12 The first case that can be mentioned in this context is the American Revolutionary War (1775–​­1783) waged against Great Britain by its thirteen colonies in North America. The American colonists, who wished to free themselves from Britain’s yoke, managed to create a zone of statelessness (or “empirelessness”) and were joined by foreign volunteers who wished to take part in the struggle. Many of these foreigners were volunteers in name only: they were sent by Britain’s long-​­ time rivals (especially France), which

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Internationalized internal conflicts

Rebellion against Ottoman Empire

Greek War of Independence (1821–33)

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Internal conflict

Internal Conflict

Internal conflict after end of colonial rule

Spanish Civil War (1936–39; Republican side)

Spanish Civil War (1936–39; Nationalist side)

Palestine War (1947– 1949; Palestinian side)

Rebellion against British Empire

Rebellion against Spanish Empire

Gran Colombia War of Independence

Palestinian Revolt (1936–39)

Rebellion against British Empire

American Revolutionary War (1775–83)

Anti-imperial struggles

Cause for statelessness

Cases

Types/features

Table 2. The Modern Sherwood Forest: Types, Cases, and Main Features

Arab volunteers

Foreign Volunteers (English, Irish, French, White Russians, Romanians)

International brigades (from more than 50 countries)

Arab volunteers

Foreign volunteers (European)

Foreign volunteers (British, Irish)

Foreign volunteers (French, Polish)

Violent transborder nonstate actors

Pan-Arab and Islamic values, anti-imperialism

Anti-communism; antiatheism

Anti-fascism, anti-nazism

Pan-Arab and Islamic values, anti-imperialism

Liberty

Liberty

Liberty

Universal ideologies

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U.S. invasion

Foreign invasion (Soviet & U.S.)

Afghan Civil War (1979–89); War in Afghanistan (2001–)

War in Iraq (2003–)

Breakup of Yugoslavia,

War in Bosnia (1990s)

Breakup of Soviet Union

Internal conflict

Lebanese civil war (1975–90)

War in Chechnya (1990s)

Internal conflict after end of colonial rule

Palestine War (1947–49; Jewish side)

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Arab volunteers, Al Qaeda

Arab & Muslim volunteers

Muslim volunteers, Arab volunteers (Afghan Arabs); Al Qaeda (1996–)

Arab and Muslim volunteers

Palestinian factions, Japanese Red Army, German Revolutionary Cells, Hizbullah

Jewish and some Christian volunteers

Jihad

Jihad

Jihad

Jihad

Anti-imperialism; Islamic Revolution

Justice (for Jewish people but also in a general sense)

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exploited the situation (Ferling 1988: 147–​­63). But others regarded the war as a struggle for freedom from tyranny (i.e., a universal ideology) and the Americans, too, saw their struggle as imbued with universal meaning. It is noteworthy that some of these foreign volunteers were political activists who wished to induce fundamental change in their own countries but were unsuccessful due to government oppression. A telling example is count Casimir Pulaski, who joined the American Revolution in 1777 after failing to liberate Poland from Russian domination. Pulaski later recounted that since he “could not submit to stoop before the sovereigns of Europe [he] came to hazard all for the freedom of America” (Kajencki 2005: 5–​­7). In retrospect, the fact that the British mobilized 18,000 foreign mercenaries to fight the Americans and their foreign allies (Thomson 1994: 10) turned this into a symbolic struggle between old and new forms of nonstate violence (Types J and L in Table 1). The wars of independence waged against the Spanish Crown in Latin America in the early nineteenth century also featured significant numbers of “foreign revolutionaries, mercenaries, spies, and freebooters” (Blaufarb 2007: 743). In the period 1816–​­1825, approximately 7,000 foreign volunteers, most of them British and Irish, participated in the war of independence of Gran Colombia (which included the territories of present-​­day Colombia, Venezuela, Panama, and Ecuador) under the leadership of the well-​­known South American heroes Simón Bolívar and José Antonio Páez (M. Brown 2006a: 1). The motivations of these foreign volunteers are difficult to discern: while some were profit-​­and adventure-​­seekers or harbored national sentiments, others were prepared to risk their lives in faraway areas because they identified with the cause of freedom and liberty—​­that is, with a universal ideology. A telling example is John Devereux, the commander of the Irish Legion who fought under Bolivar’s leadership: he described himself as a natural lover of liberty who could not stand aside while a brave and generous people were oppressed (M. Brown 2006b: 37–​­39). What was true regarding the Western Question—​­the demise of the Spanish empire in the Americas—​­later applied also to the Eastern Question—​­the breakup of the Ottoman Empire and the creation of zones of statelessness in some of its ex-​­provinces (though not in others). A noted case of a Modern Sherwood Forest in this context is Greece during its War of Independence (1821–​­1833). This struggle, which captured the minds of European intellectuals—​­and especially the “Philhellenes” (the sympathizers of the Greek national cause)—​­attracted foreign volunteers who included, among others,

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English poet Lord Byron.13 Indeed, during the war at least 500 Philhellenes from all over Christian Europe came to fight alongside the Greek patriots (Brewer 2001: 153). The main motivation for these foreign volunteers, apart from adventurism, was a mixture of Christian values and the pursuit of freedom. In their eyes, Greece was the birthplace of European civilization fighting against Asian “barbarism” and the Greek nationalists represented Christianity endangered by Islam. Indeed, throughout Europe, “politicians, churchmen and university professors proclaimed the triple message that Europe owed its civilization to the ancient Greeks, that the modern Greeks were their descendants, and that Greece could be regenerated by driving out the Turks.” This call appealed especially to youth, as demonstrated in the words of a young Danish student: “How could a man inclined to fight for freedom and justice find a better place than next to the oppressed Greeks?” (Brewer 2001: 138). Moving forward to the twentieth century, one can mention the foreign volunteers who came to help the Arab Palestinians during their revolt against the British Mandate in Palestine (1936–​­1939). After the defeat of the Ottoman Empire in World War I, its Arab provinces were divided up between the victorious European powers (Britain and France), which administered these areas as Mandates according to the terms specified in the Covenant of the League of Nations (1919). But some of these Mandates (especially in the Levant) proved difficult to govern, often resulting in anti-​­imperial struggles and the creation of zones of statelessness that at times attracted foreign volunteers. In the case of the Palestinian revolt, these volunteers included several hundred Arab fighters (mostly Iraqis, Syrians, and Jordanians) who espoused pan-​ ­Arab and Islamic ideologies. It is noteworthy that one of the leaders of these volunteers, Fawzi al-​­Qawuqji—​­a Sunni Muslim from Tripoli, Lebanon—​­had formerly served in the Ottoman army, fought against the French during the Druze revolt in Syria in the mid-​­1920s, and was adviser for the Saudi and Iraqi armies (Barak 2002: 624–​­25; Parsons 2007: 39–​­40). In 1941, Qawuqji participated in the anti-​­British revolt in Iraq, and in 1947–​­1949 he fought against the Jewish State in Palestine (see below). Internationalized Internal Conflicts The second type of Modern Sherwood Forests includes internal conflicts that have become internationalized and a lodestone for foreign volunteers. The Spanish Civil War (1936–​­1939), waged between Spain’s Republican

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government and its supporters, on the one hand, and the Nationalist rebels led by General Franco, on the other—​­attracted tens of thousands of foreign volunteers. About 40,000 foreign volunteers from more than fifty countries came to the aid of the Republican side and fought in the ranks of the International Brigades (Thomas 1965: 796–​­99). These volunteers, who included George Orwell and Ernest Hemingway, regarded the Spanish Civil War as part of a universal struggle against Fascism and Nazism that was the duty of every honest person. This idea is represented in the motto of Hemingway’s famous novel, For Whom the Bell Tolls, based on his personal experience in the war: No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were: any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. Most of the foreign combatants fighting on Franco’s side—​­who came from Nazi Germany (19,000), fascist Italy (80,000), and Salazar’s Portugal (several thousand)—​­were actually regular soldiers sent to Spain by their governments. But here, too, one could find a small group of foreign volunteers motivated by universal ideologies. These included some 1,000–​­1,500 English, Irish, French, White Russians, and Romanians who viewed the Spanish Civil War as a struggle against the global spread of communism and atheism. Some of these volunteers were Catholics who felt that Christian civilization was in danger and regarded the conflict in Spain as a struggle against Marxists, agnostics, atheists, and Freemasons (many of these were also anti-​­Semitic). Others were predominantly fascists who were “convinced that Socialist, Communist and anarcho-​­syndicalist trade unions and propaganda organizations were destroying the patriotic traditions, the necessary discipline and social hierarchy of Western capitalist societies” (Keene 2001: vi–​­viii, 1–​­9). Keene, who discusses the role of foreign volunteers in the war, concludes, quite appropriately, that the “adventurers came for the action; and the ideologues perceived the Spanish Civil War, simply, as an extension of the political struggles in which they were engrossed at home.” Much like the aforementioned Lebanese activist Bassam Kanj, many of these volunteers moved from one zone of statelessness to another. But for them, too, there was a marked continuity in the type of struggles that they chose to join.

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A number of Franco’s foreign volunteers had fought against the Bolsheviks in the Russian Civil War. Others were with Mussolini in 1935 in the Italian invasion of Ethiopia. In 1939 some of Franco’s foreign veterans fought against Soviet soldiers in the Russo-​­Finnish War; or in 1941 went on to enlist with Hitler on the Eastern front. In this sense, for the European Right, the Spanish Civil War was an important step in a series of defining political events between the wars (Keene 2001: 2). A second case that can be mentioned is the Palestine War. Following the UN Partition Plan of November 1947, fighting broke out between the Arab Palestinian and Jewish communities in Palestine, which, as mentioned earlier, was under a British Mandate. In May 1948, after the British forces left Palestine, several Arab states intervened in the conflict. This formal intervention was preceded by the intervention of the Arab Liberation Army—​­a force composed of Arab and non-​­Arab Muslim volunteers led by Qawuqji (see above)—​­which fought on the Arab Palestinian side, and Machal (Hebrew acronym of “overseas volunteers”)—​­about 3,000 volunteers from 29 countries, mostly U.S. and British World War II veterans—​­who fought on the Jewish side. It could be argued that this was not a Modern Sherwood Forest per se because the ideologies of these foreign volunteers were in fact national (Arab Palestinian and Zionist respectively) and not universal. However, at least some of the pro-​­Palestinian volunteers were also motivated by pan-​­Arab and Islamic values (Sela 2005: 12–​­14), and some of the volunteers on the Jewish side—​­who, quite interestingly, included both Jews and Christians—​­“saw themselves contributing to the fulfillment of the prophesied return of the Jewish people to their homeland” (Weiss and Weiss 1998: 21). Indeed, Weiss and Weiss, who interviewed some of these pro-​­Jewish volunteers, write that they “saw this as another ‘good’ war, like World War II. For them, justice lay entirely on the side of the Jews who fought for the independence of their tiny state.” The 1948 war, in other words, is an ambivalent case, but we believe that there is sufficient ground for including it in our discussion of the Modern Sherwood Forest. Lebanon in the period 1975–​­1990 also represents a Modern Sherwood Forest resulting from the internationalization of an internal conflict. Already in 1969, after the signing of the Cairo Agreement between Lebanon and the PLO, the presence of the Palestinian armed factions in Lebanon was legitimized; and following their defeat in Jordan in 1970–​­1971 (“Black September”), Lebanon became their primary base of operations. From then until

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1982, the Palestinians created a “state within a state” in parts of Lebanon, and were soon joined by other VITNAs, including members of the Japanese Red Army and the German Revolutionary Cells. Like the more radical Palestinian factions, these foreign groups espoused leftist and anti-​­imperialist ideologies. In April 1975, when conflict broke out in Lebanon, the PLO became increasingly involved in the fighting; and in June 1976, Syria intervened to prevent Lebanon’s disintegration. However, an informal understanding between Syria and Israel, known as the “red lines” prohibited the Syrian army from coming near the Lebanese-​­Israeli border. The result was the creation of a zone of statelessness in that area, which attracted a host of nonstate violent actors, including the Palestinian factions and, after Israel’s invasion in 1982, Lebanese factions, in particular the Shi‘i Muslim group Hizbullah. Although Hizbullah is first and foremost a Lebanese movement, it did receive considerable outside help (particularly from Iran and Syria) and created transborder networks that were active outside Lebanon’s borders (e.g., in South America and Egypt). In addition, the movement initially called for an Islamic revolution in Lebanon along the Iranian model (Barak 2003: 308–​­18, 2009: 187–​­96; Norton 2007: 34–​­41). Afghanistan in the period of the Soviet invasion (1979–​­1989) and since the U.S.-​­led invasion (2001–​­present) is another Modern Sherwood Forest. In the first period, the Afghan mujahidin, who fought the Soviet invaders, were joined by Arab and Muslim volunteers who gained the support—​­and, at times, the active encouragement—​­of Arab states (such as Saudi Arabia) and the United States. For some Arab governments, the war in Afghanistan was a convenient way of getting rid of opposition members, especially from among the radical Islamic movements, while paying lip service to the cause of jihad.14 These “Afghan Arabs” eventually forged horizontal networks among themselves, and in 1996 some of them established Al Qaeda, which focused on U.S. targets in the Middle East and Africa and eventually carried out the 9/11 attacks (Sela 2005: 24–​­28). Another Modern Sherwood Forest occurred in Bosnia during the 1990s. The breakup of Yugoslavia resulted in violence between the Serbs and Muslims in Bosnia, and Arab and Muslim volunteers came to the help of the latter. Another case in this context is Chechnya following the breakup of the Soviet Union. During the two wars by the Chechen rebels against the Russian army in 1994–​­1996 and 1999–​­2000, Arab and Muslim volunteers came to the aid of the insurgents. The most recent case of a Modern Sherwood Forest is Iraq since

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the U.S.-​­led invasion in 2003. The creation of a zone of statelessness in Iraq attracted foreign nationals, mostly Arabs and Muslims, who came to fight the U.S.-​­led occupation. According to a CIA report from 2005, Iraq has become “a training ground in which novice terrorists were schooled in assassinations, kidnappings, car bombings and other terror techniques” and could prove to be “more effective than Afghanistan in the early days of Al Qaeda as a place to train terrorists who could then disperse to other parts of the world, including the United States” (New York Times, June 19, 22, 2005). A year later, the U.S. National Intelligence Estimate held that “The Iraq conflict has become the ‘cause celebre’ for jihadists, breeding a deep resentment of U.S. involvement in the Muslim world and cultivating supporters for the global jihadist movement” (National Intelligence Estimate 2006: 2).15

Discussion and Conclusion Modern Sherwood Forests have emerged in different periods in history and in a number of regions of the world. Let us now explain the remarkable persistence of this phenomenon in time and space by identifying the changing interplay between its structuralist, rationalist, and culturalist factors. Beginning in the fifteenth century, the European powers discovered and subjugated vast new territories rich with natural resources that increased their power manifold. But the European colonial empires proved difficult to sustain, especially after the colonists began to feel confident enough to look after their own matters. As the colonists’ demands to have more say about their own lives were rejected, the result was armed rebellion against the Crown. In some cases, like Greece, it was the indigenous people that rebelled against the sultan. The outbreak of anti-​­imperial struggles, first in the Americas and later elsewhere, attracted a host of foreign adventurers, profit-​­seekers, and, most interestingly, foreign volunteers motivated by universal ideologies—​ ­particularly freedom from tyranny. These VITNAs included, among others, political activists who were incapable of pursuing their objectives in their own countries due to government oppression. For these activists, the rebellions that erupted in the “new world” were a way out of their predicament. Indeed, by helping bring about political change in faraway lands, these foreign volunteers hoped to induce similar changes in the “old world.” The support extended to these VITNAs by various international players—​­France

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during the American Revolutionary War and the United States and Britain in the wars of independence in Latin America—​­helped them advance their goals. In view of the above, one could have expected the Modern Sherwood Forest to disappear with the demise of Western colonialism. But the international system of sovereign states, which expanded throughout the globe following decolonization, had certain basic features that facilitated the emergence of Modern Sherwood Forests, albeit of a different kind. First, many of the “new states” in Asia and Africa were politically unstable. This was due to the tremendous obstacles facing the process of state formation in these contexts: the need to build coercive institutions, embed the state in its citizens’ consciousness, and promote an all-​­engulfing national identity—​­and to do all this simultaneously (Rotberg 2003: 2–​­10, 2004: 5–​­10). But these new zones of statelessness did not stem only from domestic factors. They emerged also because intervention in these states’ internal affairs by other states—​­even when the governments had little or no actual capacity—​ ­became taboo (Jackson 1990: 21–​­26; Jackson and Rosberg 1982: 16–​­23). The “territorial integrity norm” (Zacher 2001: 215), which precluded forcible change of state borders, thus helped sustain zones of statelessness within existing states (Atzili 2006: 145–​­47; Fazal 2004: 339–​­40). It could thus be concluded that the international system of states, and especially the mutual recognition between states’ rulers, which was a significant factor in eliminating major VITNAs such as the mercenary armies, the pirates, the privateers, and the mercantile companies (Thomson 1994: 19–​­20), helped sustain another type of transborder nonstate violence—​­the Modern Sherwood Forest. Indeed, while functioning states managed to assert their authority vis-​­à-​­vis domestic nonstate actors and other states, a host of new zones of statelessness in weak and failed states presented self-​­proclaimed Robin Hoods with fresh opportunities for violent action. State sovereignty, in other words, ceased to be a solution to nonstate transnational violence and became part of the problem. Unlike VITNAs such as pirates, mercenaries, and privateers—​­who were first and foremost profit-​­seekers—​­the foreign volunteers who arrived in these zones of statelessness espoused universal ideologies. In his account of revolutionary Barcelona in 1936, George Orwell writes, “All this was queer and moving. There was much in it that I did not understand, in some ways I did not even like it, but I recognized it immediately as a state of affairs worth fighting for” (Orwell 1970 [1938]: 17). Indeed, the struggles waged by these

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self-​­proclaimed Robin Hoods were presented as part of a universal struggle. Thus, in the Americas, in Greece, and in Palestine what was at stake was not only national liberation but also a struggle for freedom from tyranny and justice; in Spain, anti-​­Fascism and anti-​­Nazism on the Republican side and anti-​­Communism and anti-​­Anarchism on the Fascist side; in Lebanon, anti-​ ­Imperialism; and in Afghanistan, Bosnia, Chechnya and Iraq, jihad against the “infidels.” One way to explain why VITNAs, who in earlier periods were mostly profit-​­seekers, embraced these universal ideologies is to regard the latter not only as a motivation for these actors’ behavior but also as means of legitimizing their struggles. Indeed, as other forms of nonstate violence—​­and especially those waged for materialist values or national ideologies—​­became increasingly illegitimate, only nonstate violence that was waged in the name of universal values could gain widespread support in the international system. That these self-​­proclaimed Robin Hoods could appeal to audiences in faraway countries was no doubt due to major technological advances: new means of public communication such as newspapers, radio, television, and, most recently, the Internet, enabled politically aware citizens to sympathize with struggles waged in faraway lands in the same way that they enabled them to imagine their own nation (cf. Anderson 1991: 33–​­36). New means of transportation, in their turn, made it possible to reach the remote battlegrounds that one has read or heard about. Distant struggles, in other words, became both identifiable and accessible. It should be added, however, that social movements and political parties played a crucial role in mobilizing these political activists and in sending them to these conflict zones, and that these organizational aspects of the Modern Sherwood Forest deserve more attention, especially in theoretical and comparative perspective. Although the framework for analyzing the Modern Sherwood Forest presented in this chapter is exploratory, let us present several theoretical conclusions and practical implications, as well as suggestions for further research. Theoretically, our research suggests that much of the scholarly work on VITNAs is problematic since it focuses on the means employed by these actors (“terrorism”) or the countermeasures taken by the state (“antiterrorist policies”) while overlooking the deeper structuralist, culturalist, and agency-​ ­based factors of this phenomenon. Indeed, though some of these factors have been addressed (see above), there is a need to explore the interplay between

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them. In addition, the scope of inquiry ought to be broadened by adding cases, contemporary and historical, to the investigation and by exploring them in depth. In this chapter, for example, we emphasized the complex, long-​­term nature of the process of state formation and suggested that ideologies are important not only as a motivation for social and political action but also when trying to explain the widespread support that it elicits among distant audiences. We posit that these structuralist and culturalist elements of transborder nonstate violence should be investigated more thoroughly, in addition to the agency-​­based factors. On the practical level, those who wish to put an end to Modern Sherwood Forests—​­the international community and especially the great powers—​­must also address their structuralist, agency-​­based, and culturalist factors, and do this simultaneously. Since building new states “from scratch” is more difficult and costly than reconstructing existing ones, states ought to be preserved even when their leaders pose a threat to international security. Restraining “rogue” states, in other words, is easier than dealing with “nonstates,” which are liable to become Modern Sherwood Forests. But our discussion of the Modern Sherwood Forest also has “proactive” implications for policymakers: state failure must be addressed through long-​­term reconstruction projects. Though not all failed states evolve into Modern Sherwood Forests, zones of statelessness are a necessary condition for this phenomenon. Failed states, in other words, cannot be left to their own devices. In addition to preventing state failure, authoritarian regimes in the Third World, including several U.S. allies (e.g., Saudi Arabia, Egypt, and Pakistan), must refrain from exporting political dissidents to faraway conflict zones. Instead, these states should open their political systems to incorporate these actors. While this would not preclude participation of foreign volunteers in distant struggles, it might reduce one of their primary motivations. This chapter has offered a new framework to help in thinking about transborder nonstate actors generally, and those that use violence in zones of statelessness and in the name of universal ideologies in particular. More research is needed to explain the factors that give rise to the Modern Sherwood Forest, as well as their interplay. First, why do some transborder nonstate actors resort to violence and what are their modes of organization and mobilization? Second, what are the similar and divergent elements of the universal ideologies adopted by these self-​­proclaimed Robin Hoods and what can explain this variation over time? Third, why have some zones of statelessness attracted these actors while others have not?

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In recent years, policymakers have failed to adopt a comprehensive strategy toward the pressing problems of state failure, international terrorism, and ideological extremism. In our view, the Modern Sherwood Forest is a good starting point for rethinking the theoretical assumptions that underpin the largely unsuccessful policies adopted toward these phenomena.

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Chapter 2

Framing to Win: The Transnational Recruitment of Foreign Insurgents David Malet

How do insurgencies recruit foreign fighters to join intrastate conflicts? Empirical data from a diverse array of civil conflicts in which foreigners joined the rebels indicate that the main contending explanations for local mobilization in civil wars—​­greed and grievance—​­appear to hold little purchase for transnational insurgents. Although this question is relevant to counter-​ ­insurgency (COIN) operations in contemporary wars including Iraq and Afghanistan, foreign fighters are not a new phenomenon. Indeed, numerous insurgencies have successfully recruited transnationally throughout the history of the modern international system, and their methods have remained consistent despite the vagaries of particular conflicts. Reconstructing individual motives for participation in intrastate conflicts is problematic, particularly given that the circumstances involved in violent acts might produce claims or even remembrance of nobler motives than material gain. As Gates notes, many of the variables explaining why individuals choose to join insurgencies remain “immeasurable” (2002: 18). However, it is possible to examine the rationales for participation offered in recruitment propaganda presented by insurgencies to volunteers, which survive in a number of cases in the form of pamphlets, recordings, and posters. Based on this evidence, I argue that insurgencies recruit foreign fighters when they frame the issue of contention as an existential threat to a transnational community to which both the locals and foreigners belong. Recruiters are strategic actors

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who select target audiences whose social ties to local insurgents (such as ethnicity, religion, or ideology) cause them to identify with their struggle. What recruiters consistently offer these foreign volunteers is not the hope of plunder or political gains, but the elimination of a threat to their shared community and, ultimately, to their own security. In some instances, when recruiters are unsuccessful in making preexisting shared identities warranting of intervention, they even attempt to create and make salient new ones that they can credibly claim are under threat. The strategy of framing distant intrastate conflicts as requiring defensive mobilization abroad is consistent with the logic of collective action and expectations of prospect theory, which both predict that the fear of an even greater loss will motivate individuals to pursue costly actions. It is also illustrative of the intersubjective process of securitization, in which actors use speech acts to present an issue “as an existential threat, requiring emergency measures and justifying actions outside the normal bounds of political procedure” (Buzan et al. 1998: 23–​­30). The use of communities as both rationales for and mechanisms of recruitment is also consistent with the normative weight of roles in social identity theories. In this chapter, I present examples from key historical cases and suggest how these consistent messaging efforts by recruiters apply to current transnational insurgencies and potential policy responses.

Rationales for Participation in Intrastate Conflicts The case of Iraq is useful for illuminating the distinction between the local recruitment examined in most studies of intrastate conflicts and transnational recruitment, which has been largely overlooked in the literature until now. In 2005, NBC News reported that an investigation of foreign fighters killed during the intrastate conflict in Iraq indicated that although the majority were citizens of Arab states bordering Iraq, there were at least twenty-​­one nationalities among the four hundred combatants (Myers 2005). Another report the same year indicated that although transnational insurgents comprised less than 10 percent of the Iraqi resistance, they were responsible for more than 90 percent of suicide bombings and high lethality attacks (Quinn and Shrader 2005). Consistent with this, insurgent personnel records found in the border town of Sinjar two years later indicated that 56 percent of the incoming transnational insurgents stated their preferred duty in Iraq as martyrdom (Felter and Fishman 2007: 18).1

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This data may be troubling on a variety of levels, but particularly problematic for scholars of intrastate conflicts based on the prevailing explanations for insurgent behavior. Rational mercenaries would seem unlikely to seek the riskiest missions or blow themselves up, and it is not immediately evident why the grievances of Iraqis would prompt outsiders to risk their own lives and take up arms. The fact that many of the transnational insurgents come from states that do not border Iraq indicates that their involvement is no spillover effect of the conflict simply expanding into a neighboring country or the assistance of coethnics. The situation in Iraq therefore does not easily match the expectations of insurgent or mercenary behavior in the intrastate conflict literature. Local Mobilization: Greed Versus Grievance Many of the currently most widely accepted explanations for recruitment and mobilization in intrastate wars center on appeals to locals to maximize material gains. The formulation, commonly known as “greed and grievance,” proposes that rebellion is produced by some combination of the two, with debate focused on how much of each element is necessary or sufficient. Greed proponents generally support the Collier-​­Hoeffler model—​­abbreviated in the literature as CH—​­in which “opportunity provides considerably more explanatory power than grievance” (2004: 563). Under the CH model, the demand for rebel labor is the product of some grievance and the supply is the result of the expected net positive utility of rebellion. Therefore, as net income falls, so too does the opportunity cost of war and the government’s ability to pay for deterrent defenses, and intrastate war becomes more likely. Kalyvas and Sambanis (2005: 209–​­10) argue in this vein that participation by Bosnian civilians in their country’s conflict was motivated by the opportunity to obtain looted property from neighbors. Lichbach claimed that grievance is neither a necessary nor a sufficient condition for rebellion, and that rebel leaders prompt collective action through the promise of individual concessions, such as land grants, in addition to the public good achieved through victory (1994: 384). Fearon and Laitin contend that the main consequence of poverty is that the state apparatus is too weak to prevent incitement to opportunistic rebellion, and that identity cleavages such as ethnicity and religion have little impact compared to appeals to plunder (2003: 75–​­90). If these greed-​­based explanations for recruitment into intrastate conflicts are correct, observing recruitment efforts should readily yield evidence of

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appeals by insurgencies to foreign volunteers to aid them in exchange for loot or material incentives. Alternatively, if a conflict state is known to be rich in extractable resources, would-​­be foreign fighters might not require any encouragement and would participate of their own accord without recruitment drives. In either case, we would expect to observe foreign fighters engaged in widespread resource extraction and looting, with Saudis traveling to Afghanistan and Americans to Kosovo in an attempt to return with enough riches to justify the risks. Such foreign fighters would thus not necessarily have any ties to their local colleagues, and might actually be unlikely to have kinship with the wider population subject to their predations, but would instead simply be mercenaries. However, the data from diverse cases indicate that recruiters typically explicitly inform volunteers prior to their enlistment that their services will bring minimal, nonguaranteed payments, often in a nonconvertible currency (Nelson and Hendricks 1996: 37). Even when large land grants were offered as direct payment for paramilitary service, large numbers of victorious foreign fighters have left conflict zones without claiming their bounty, as in the case of the Texas Revolution in the 1830s (T. L. Miller 1971: 31–​­34, 49). In Israel, despite offers by the newly independent government of financial assistance, such as loans to start businesses and Hebrew lessons, less than 10 percent of outside volunteers stayed after the war in the homeland they had fought to secure (Weiss and Weiss 1998: 22, 267). While the CH model of participation may apply to local insurgents, evidently recruiters do not necessarily offer foreign fighters the same incentives. But would local grievances, such as the lack of democracy, be sufficient rationales to persuade outsiders to travel to the war to fight? This would seem unlikely on the surface, as foreign recruits would not be affected by the political conditions in the conflict state. If grievances do play some role in the recruitment of transnational combatants, this raises the question whether recruiters tell foreign fighters that they are fighting for something different than the stated cause of the local fighters. If grievance is the basis for recruitment then examining transnational recruitment requires expanding on either the nature of the grievance or the definition of which parties are aggrieved. External Interventions in Intrastate Conflicts Rather than rely upon the same types of motivators used to prompt local mobilization, transnational recruiters, while sometimes offering payment for

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service, instead frame the conflict as one that impacts outsiders and requires intervention by individuals because state regimes will not act. There is no single standard for what constitutes an intervention in foreign conflicts (Finnemore 2003: 7–​­11), and studies of mobilization tend to either focus on states rather than insurgent groups or simply do not distinguish between types of actors. For example, Pearson (1974: 273–​­75) included French regular troops in Algeria, the International Brigades in Spain, and professional mercenaries hired by Biafran separatists in Nigeria as examples of external interventions, but focused exclusively on state behavior in his analysis. Exceptions are notable in the edited volume International Aspects of Civil Strife (Rosenau 1964), which attempts to describe what distinguishes intrastate from interstate conflicts and explain why the former nonetheless attract foreign involvement. In intrastate conflicts, the fission of the state’s political system results in the development of parallel political structures on each side. The incumbent side retains the instruments of statehood, and therefore usually has international ties through diplomatic, military, and trade institutions. Insurgents attempt to mirror these external relations, in the hope of gaining similar access to outside resources, often through elite-​­level contacts (examples include the African National Congress [ANC] and Palestine Liberation Organization [PLO]). Thus it is common for rebel groups to attempt to involve outside parties in hope of changing the balance of power (Modelski 1964: 14–​­15). Rosenau argues that foreign states are likelier to participate in a conflict if it is concerned not merely with which individual will control the mechanisms of power but is waged over the structures of society, such as ideology or religion, as outside parties see the opportunity to advance their own agenda. In either case, proximity is expected to be a factor in intervention, because the concerns of neighboring states are the most likely to be affected by the conflict (1964: 45, 51, 63, 66, 292–​­94).2 Kaplan (1964: 92) further argues that decision makers in external states or “social systems” may seek to intervene in intrastate conflicts if they believe the victors will emulate them, and cites the Comintern-​­sponsored International Brigades and foreign fascists in the Spanish Civil War as an example. Subsequent works attempting to build upon this platform argue that outside intervention occurred as internal conflicts widened to involve a greater scope of contested “universal values” rather than local power arrangements (Sullivan 1969: 1–​­40; Kelley and Miller 1969: 1–​­40).

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Why We Fight Just what are these values that enable mobilization efforts in interventions? Modelski (1964: 16–​­20) notes that political solidarity is often not limited by national political boundaries. Instead, foreign individuals, movements, and corporations all hold ties to one or both sides in insurgencies through a variety of transnational ties, and many of these foreign entities provide the resources that insurgencies require to match those of the incumbent forces. But Modelski does not specify just what these “ties” might be and what element of “solidarity” might prompt self-​­sacrifice. To attempt to answer this first requires an examination not of foreign fighters, but of recruitment by military forces more generally. Our contemporary concept of national military service and the obligation of all citizens to their state does not extend back beyond the advent of professional national militaries during the nineteenth century. Instead, in feudal societies, the province of warfare belonged to knights, and peasants could even be punished for presuming to take up arms for their sovereign.3 Rulers did not want a populace that saw itself capable of uprising, and large standing armies were expensive and potentially dangerous. But with the rise of the nation-​­state, armies had to grow to match the magnitude of the new political territories, and class pride was no longer sufficient to fill the ranks. Regimes now emphasized for the masses the romantic glory of combat, with an emphasis of service based on emotion that could, as Foch put it, “overcome lesser considerations” imposed by reason, such as personal safety. The ideal of military service was to uphold justice by preserving the institutions of society (Vagts 1959: 17, 41–​­46, 157, 221). E. A. Cohen (1985: 23–​­25, 57) notes that this aim has been achieved as citizens are recruited to military service by calls to “glory, plunder or, above all, security.” Therefore, while the intrastate conflict literature largely explains recruitment by insurgent groups as opportunism, offering either bounty or political concessions, there is also present in effective mobilizations for armed service the communication of the need to defend the state. In International Relations theory, the state is considered the primary political unit of the international system, and individuals are typically expected to affiliate with and fight for their own state, not select some other conflict and abrogate the duties of citizenship. With the conclusion of the Cold War and a flare of ethnic conflagrations in the 1990s, attention also turned to the influence of substate polities in

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armed conflicts, often based on the supposedly inexorable pull of blood ties or deeply ingrained civilizations. But recruiters also act in the name of other types of communities: Islamic fundamentalists’ claim that their calls for jihad are in defense of the transnational Islamic community, irrespective of state citizenship (O. Roy 2004: 18–​ ­22, 119–​­25). Transnational recruiters in other instances rely on similar frames of duty and defense as well, whether of an ethnic group or an ideological faction. However, this raises the question of why recruiters should expect their targets to fight on behalf of an affiliation other than their citizenship, particularly when the demands of the two are in conflict. Why do recruiters employ diffuse affiliations such as Muslim or Philhellene in recruitment messaging and expect it to overcome identities and obligations as Algerians or Britons?

Social Identity and Recruitment Sociologist George Herbert Mead (1934) proposed that individuals develop a sense of who they are through the reflected appraisals and expectations of others. Identity is therefore a construct of social structure. In social network analysis (SNA), a methodological approach for measuring relational data such as community structures, decision-​­making processes cannot be reduced to individual choice when all choices are constrained by interactions with others. Relations create identities and their attendant norms of behavior, or “roles” (Degenne and Forsé 1999: 2, 6). In SNA terminology, “role” is defined as putting into effect the rights and duties that constitute status, or identity as a member of a network (Wasserman and Faust 1994: 348). Preferences in SNA are therefore not exogenous but have a material basis in social structure. This approach is compatible with constructivist claims that material and social structural factors determine decisions rather than wholly individual choice. Sociologist Talcott Parsons (1937) argued that individual interest is insufficient to explain most social behavior and that choices are prompted by the interests of institutions that exist to promote their own core objectives. This is why different actors make different choices in a given situation—​­different courses appear more rational based on “pre-​­fabricated” perspectives imparted by institutions with which the individual is affiliated (Swidler 1986: 274–​­77). Foreign fighters are then not actively selecting the political identity most salient to them.

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Transnational recruiters instead find recruits in roles that make them amenable to messages of duty to the Islamic Ummah, workers of the world, Albanian diaspora, or other such group that encompasses local combatants. The data available from case studies do indeed indicate that membership in standing transnational organizations provided recruiters access to pools of prospective combatants, and that membership roles in existing groups were sometimes used to justify or coerce enlistment. Structure and Preferences Stronger ties to others through an identity lead to that identity becoming activated, or more salient. Under social identity theory, individuals define themselves by their “fit” with a group, or the perception that one has more in common with members of a given social unit than those outside of it (Stets and Burke 2000: 226–​­32). Tilly contends that even nationality and ethnicity are only meaningful as labeled connections between people, not as individual attributes. Therefore it is transactions rather than individuals that define social structures. Identity is based on social ties, and it “becomes stronger according to the multiple of their 1) frequency, 2) intensity and 3) range of behavior.” Transactions produce ties, and ties to various actors produce social networks, including political affiliation. “Some lead to mobilization and collective action, others do not. The same persons participate in collective action under different identities on different occasions, and the risks people are ready to take on behalf of one identity or another vary enormously” (Tilly 2002: 19, 48, 49). Oberschall (1973) found that mass-​­society theory, which holds that marginal individuals with the fewest social ties join mass movements, is not empirically valid. Those who mobilize for contentious politics tend to be segmented from the rest of society, but have strong ties within their subgroups. Typically they have been previously active within specific social or political milieus, a finding that reinforces the theory that groups minimize costs by building on existing social structures (Tilly 1978: 81–​­83). These close ties to specific communities relative to overall society produce strong identification with the substate group over the state polity. For example, Balkan émigrés in the United States and Canada who returned to participate in the civil wars of the 1990s had been extremely active in their respective local immigrant communities but not in the broader host society (Hockenos 2003: 10–​­11). The 7/7 London bombers, who claimed to act on behalf of a pan-​­Islamic

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identity (being three Pakistanis and a Jamaican convert protesting the British presence in Iraq), were involved in local Muslim community institutions but not integrated into the broader British society. As group leader Mohammed Khan stated in the will he left behind, “I am directly responsible for protecting and avenging my Muslim brothers and sisters. Until we feel security, you will be our targets” (House of Commons 2006: 13–​­19). Is Islam the Answer? Across Muslim states in particular—​­with channels for popular discontent through domestic Islamic groups either severely suppressed or integrated into mainstream politics, and therefore compromised—​­the natural outlet for “idealists” is through what Graham Fuller describes as an emerging “Muslim foreign legion” (Fuller 2002: 48). The motivation of these fighters stems from a sense of besiegement by the West and a feeling that they are victims of a Western-​­led system that is tilted against their societal framework and interests: In the interest of maintaining its own power, or hegemonic stability, the United States props up regimes that are not responsive or responsible to the populations they govern. Similarly, religious and ethnic leaders view the spread of foreign ideas as threats to their position of social control and seek to foreclose the emergence of alternate networks of influence. To actors who consider themselves in a domain of loss, such efforts, though not in the form of state military force, could readily be perceived as hostile actions (Watson 2002). Thus a group of Australian Muslims charged with plotting to plant bombs around Sydney were not seeking an offensive advantage through terrorism, which is by definition the weapon of the weak, but instead, in the words of the prosecutor in the case, “They believed Islam was under attack . . . ​jihad was an obligation for every Muslim” (Australian Associated Press 2007). Ranstorp ( 2004) claims that religious extremists view themselves as fighting a defensive battle to preserve communal values. While this is a widely held formulation for explaining transnational jihadi groups, the weight of historical evidence shows that there is nothing particular to Islam that produces foreign fighters. Where jihadi recruiters are successful (as Philhellenes, liberals, ethnic diasporas, and both communists and anticommunists have been previously), it is in the utilization of salient social identity roles to persuade volunteers to sacrifice their individual interests for the needs of the community rather than by exploiting any tenets unique to Islam.

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Defensive Mobilization as a Cause of Violence Regardless of the issue of contention, recruiters can overcome the barriers of individual interest to producing collective action by persuading their audience that their interests will suffer even greater costs with inactivity. What is presented as defensive collective military activity is therefore easier to organize (Niou and Tan 2005: 519–​­30). Political interest groups also emphasize the need to mobilize to protect shared interests, which outweigh the costs of membership obligations (Hansen 1985: 79–​­96; Gamson 1992: 53–​­76). These findings are in line with the expectations of prospect theory, in which individual decision makers, and “probably states”—​­and therefore presumably other units of social organization—​­have a bias in favor of maintaining the status quo and will work harder to protect it than they otherwise would to improve it in the absence a threat. When individuals or states, or perhaps individuals believing themselves to act on behalf of their society, perceive themselves to be in a domain of loss rather than status quo or a domain of gain, they will be motivated to assume greater risks to avoid further deterioration of resources or relative position (Levy 1996: 179–​­95). François-​­René de Chateaubriand argued, “Men don’t allow themselves to be killed for their interests; they allow themselves to be killed for their passions” (Anderson 1998: 212). Robert Pape, in Dying to Win (2005) argues that suicide bombers are motivated by a sense of social obligation to a threatened population that they perceive will be conquered unless desperate measures are taken. The strategic goal, then, is to effect the withdrawal of the occupying power, even if the costs exceed the material benefits for the individual carrying out the attack. This same logic can be extended to the recruiters of foreign fighters, who emphasize obligations to the transnational communities by which their audiences define their identities. Particular identities are salient because of the structure of the recruits’ social relations (typically strong ties to in-​­group members and relatively few to their broader polities), and these identities carry with them norms of conduct that dictate appropriate conduct in relation to the community. Rather than appeals to greed, or grievances suffered directly by the recruits, recruiters emphasize the duty to defend the recruit’s fellows because the state will not act—​­or at least not without the recruits to lead the way—​­and that the threat will eventually come directly to the recruit after having destroyed the rest of the group. The effectiveness of such an appeal depends on the recruiter being able to frame the intrastate conflict as one that

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affects not some distant population but a broader transnational community of which the local combatants are members. Florini and Simmons (2000: 7) ask, “Why should people in disparate parts of the world devote significant amounts of time and energy, for little or no pay, to collaborations with groups with whom they share neither history nor culture?” Their explanation—​­that “they are bound together more by shared values than shared interest”—​­applies only because the individuals in question conceive of themselves as part of some common grouping beyond the state. Like ethnicity and religion, ideology also creates identities that compel action. Clifford Geertz defines culture as constitutive “sense-​­making tools,” and Williams (1996: 371) distinguishes ideology as pertaining particularly to organizing principles regulating political arrangements: “Ideologies emerge as comprehensive systems of meaning at times when current cultural systems seem unable to handle social changes.” On an organizational level, shared ideology leads to membership in groups, ranging from the Communist Party to College Republicans, and produces new levels of collective identity. Ideology can therefore be a form of identity because cohorts share constitutive sense-​­making tools that other members possess and outsiders do not. In the tumultuous 1930s, recruiters for the Spanish Civil War constructed the broadly shared ideological identity of anti-​­Fascist as salient enough to overcome divisions between disparate groups of recruits with divergent political goals from dozens of countries. (The target audiences included the labor movement, socialists, farmers, Jewish and Black nationalists, and others who could be credibly convinced that they would suffer under Fascism and would not be protected by their own governments.) This approach has more recent historical parallels. Kumar (2000) describes the enlistment by the armed Zapatista rebels in Chiapas, Mexico, during their insurrection of a coalition of various transnational advocacy organizations as advocates and witnesses. By serving as an information conduit, these groups ensured that foreign media attention would be focused on any violent government reprisals, and they also permitted the rebels to gain support from a wide variety of foreign sources, requiring the Zapatistas to alternatively portray themselves as indigenous rights activists, environmentalists, or anticorporatists depending on their target audience.

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Constitutive Identity and Framing Olesen (2005: 18–​­21, 41, 104), in examining the Chiapas case, argues that rather than simple framing, participants evidenced the emergence of a “global consciousness” that views the lot of humanity as common and interconnected forms the basis for transnational civil society. These activists employ a social constructionist approach, using framing to create a common understanding of issues so that they are seen as a question of justice that resonates with those who would otherwise not be directly impacted. However, the distinction is worth noting that not all transnational activists conceive of a global civil society in which all of humanity are members or of equal concern, but many instead focus exclusively on the interests of particular groups and take sides in political conflicts. The Technique of Framing Tarrow contends that the implementation of mass transnational activism depends upon the successful process of framing a political conflict as one of global concern, leading to internationalization by forming coalitions with outside groups. To internationalize an issue of contention, activists must create an abstraction of their core idea that shifts its meaning from one specific to their situation to one that can be generalized to other situations as well. For example, a local intrastate conflict involving sectarian divisions is represented as a contest between adherents of the different religions (e.g., Serbs vs. Bosniaks becomes Christians vs. Muslims). With this shift in claims come shifts both in the identity of the participants and in the scale of the conflict, as well as changes in the nature of the claims and action required to meet them. Tarrow (2005: 61, 123–​­28, 204) describes this technique as frame-​­bridging: the linking of two or more ideologically congruent but structurally unconnected frames regarding a single issue or problem. Accomplishing frame-​ ­bridging allows groups to enlarge the scope of contention by bringing in new participants who previously would have had no direct interest in the outcome. The success of this practice then permits target shift and claim shift (focusing on another conflict and redirecting the attention of the mobilized to it as relevant) as seen in the case of militants successful in Afghanistan who developed the concept of jihad and exported it to other circumstances. A downward scale shift, by contrast, is when an international movement adapts itself to local causes, such as the same jihadi movement’s decision to set up shop in Iraq.

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The strategy of frame-​­bridging is consistent with the literature on the interest group behavior strategy of conflict enlargement, in which engaging otherwise nonparticipating parties is often the best strategy for the weaker side in the hopes it will tip the balance by creating a new majority. Enlarging the scope of public involvement in political conflicts by “displacement” into the activity of other interest groups brings new participants and resources—​ ­and eventually governing majorities—​­into the fight onto the side of the minority party (Schattschneider 1960: 5, 10, 60, 72). The emerging strategy of forming “constellations” of groups representing different but related issues, as seen in the Chiapas example, joins the capabilities of different organizations. Fowler (2005: 2, 3, 6, 19, 39, 116, 119) argues that the power of contemporary transnational insurgencies comes from the inclusion of people, not the acquisition of territory. The goal of insurgents is therefore to demonstrate that they can project power in distant locations to signal the strength of their network, and recruits can be committed locals with little insurgency training, with skilled advisors brought in from abroad. Despite their perceived organizational prowess, however, recruiters of foreign volunteers maintain the frame of securitization threatening the transnational community that they share with their target audiences. Contemporary Foreign Fighter Recruitment in Practice An example of this strategy was reported recently in Morocco, where Islamist groups recruiting foreign fighters maintain “watchers” at radical mosques and other places where people express anger about Iraq and Palestinians (rather than, notably, Moroccan affairs.) The watchers discuss social justice and the duty to intervene on behalf of fellow Muslims with likely prospects, and then subject them to background security checks and psychological assessments for willingness to die for their cause. Those who pass are assigned a handler who smuggles them out of the country on false passports to a training and indoctrination center abroad prior to entering the conflict (Whitlock 2007). Ironically, this procedure is nearly identical to the practices of Communist and Zionist recruiters decades before them. Role Modeling and Redirection Tarrow (2005: 186–​­87) notes, “New forms of activism do not simply appear in different places automatically. That transfer involves diffusion of forms of

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activity that can be adapted to a variety of national and social situations.” Recruitment of Islamist foreign fighters in Iraq, Yemen, and other contemporary conflicts is predicated on the downward scale shift discussed earlier in this chapter, by which the framing of international contentious political activities are transposed on local conflicts. Sometimes veteran foreign fighters do travel between conflicts to set up the organizational infrastructure in the new locale, which notably occurred when Al Qaeda first spread forth from Afghanistan to Bosnia. However, even in past insurgencies that began without outside assistance, foreign fighter recruitment propaganda legitimates the activity by claiming that volunteers will be emulating heroes of the past who performed comparable actions. For example, American Jews who were recruited into the Israeli War of Independence self-​­consciously modeled themselves after the Abraham Lincoln Battalion in the Spanish Civil War, just as the International Brigades in Spain often referenced foreign volunteers in the Greek and American wars of independence. McAdam (1994: 41–​­42) notes that movements are not discrete phenomena, but are cultural artifacts that cluster in time and space around the emergence of a master conceptual frame. When an identity emerges, it is appropriated by successive groups. A sit-​­in protestor is therefore not presenting a unique violation of the laws and norms of society, but following the successful and accepted tactics of prior activists. Thus, the success of the international jihadi in Afghanistan provided inspiration and legitimacy to emulators elsewhere even if they had no direct ties between them. Victories enjoyed by foreign fighters should inspire other insurgencies to isomorphic adaptation to the form of successful groups (Powell and Dimaggio 1991). However, the very malleability of identity groups that permits successful transnational recruitment also suggests the means by which counter-​­insurgency planners might attempt to check the phenomenon. Jesse and Williams (Jesse and Williams 2005: 8) argue that because identities are constructed, they can be reframed, thus leading to a lower degree of salience assigned to identity-​­based conflicts. They recommend implementing policies within divided societies that promote consociation, because broad, overlapping identities are less likely to trigger conflicts than are those that highlight stark divides.4

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Recruitment Messaging: Case Studies Would such efforts serve to mitigate transnational violence of the sort complicating peacemaking efforts in Iraq and Afghanistan? Recent evidence suggests that the messaging Islamist groups use to expand the scope of conflict in Iraq is consistent with the foreign fighter recruitment model, with propaganda activating the identity of Muslims and the conflict there framed as one front of a larger, highly relevant struggle. Rather than using theological arguments to justify their cause and tactics, recruiters use mass media that employ the “emotive element” of “highlighting Muslim humiliation and suffering in video clips and audio recordings.” These recordings and online publications frame the conflict as a story in three acts: first, the humiliation, torture, and suffering of Muslims by Westerners, portrayed as constant across globe; second, the impotence or collusion of apostate Arab regimes; and finally, the inevitable Islamic victory because a righteous few have stepped forward and sacrificed to fight for justice. The montages of footage from different conflicts imply that fighting in Iraq is equivalent to fighting anywhere in the global theater of conflict (Hafez 2007: 118, 141, 144, 168). Comparative Historical Data However, recruiters for the Iraqi conflict are not unique in this strategy, an observation that becomes evident by examining diverse prior instances of transnational recruitment. I select cases from a dataset I constructed of conflicts over the past two hundred years in which foreign fighters were present, which I then divided into a typology based on whether the intrastate war was an ethnic conflict and whether the local and foreign insurgents were co-​ e­ thnics (to test the competing claims in the literature about whether ethnic ties make foreign intervention more likely). I then selected four cases, one of each type of transnational insurgency, for in-​­depth analysis: the Texas Revolution (1835–​­1836), the Spanish Civil War (1936–​­1939), the Israeli War of Independence (1947–​­1949), and the Afghanistan War (1979–​­1992) (Malet 2013). Each case represents a well-​­documented example of the mobilization of thousands of transnational insurgents, in four different types of conflicts occurring in a variety of locations and time periods, with highly diverse casts of belligerents. The data in all four cases evidence strong parallels in both messaging and recruiting methods. In all four instances (or six, if the foreign

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fighters on opposing sides of two conflicts are counted separately), recruiters focused their efforts on institutions that were frequented by individuals who would tend to be sympathetic to the cause of the distant insurgents and that reinforced communitarian ties and obligations. These ranged from Jewish summer camps to Masonic lodges, Communist Party meetings to mosque services. While recruiters made varying offers of salary or selective benefits in each case, these tended to be nominal, while the potential costs of service were emphasized. In each instance, speeches, broadsides, and even Broadway shows informed potential recruits that people with whom they identified faced a life-​­or-​­death struggle and that their contribution was necessary to prevent a wider catastrophe. In documented instances, would-​­be volunteers who had not adequately established their bona fides with the community were turned away. Among those who did go, a common perception was that rather than being invaluable, they were placed in more dangerous positions than local insurgents, and many survivors of victorious insurgencies returned home feeling that their efforts were not necessary to the defense of their brethren after all, despite bounties of land or promises of integration and employment in new states. In the Texas case, liberal Mexican and American Freemasons sought to defeat the centralist Mexican state to restore constitutional rights and expand commercial opportunities. They funded public recruitment drives in the United States with the stated intention of rolling back creeping military dictatorship in North America. Subsequent recruiting efforts by Texan colonists focused on the need to protect white women against the advances of the Mexican army. In the Spanish Civil War, thousands of Communist volunteers for the International Brigades who fought on the Loyalist side were told that their intervention was necessary to prevent the global triumph of Fascism. Across the lines, hundreds of foreign volunteers on the Nationalist side were told that they were all that stood in the way of the destruction of the Catholic Church by Communism. Diaspora Jews were recruited to Palestine with the understanding that if they were unsuccessful in establishing the State of Israel, then the survivors of the Holocaust must perish and they would not be assured of safety in their own countries in the future. The pan-​­Arab irregular volunteer force raised to counter them was under orders to “preserve the Arabism of Palestine” or risk destabilizing the Islamic world. A similar threat prompted foreign mujahidin

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to Afghanistan to defend fellow Muslims against a spreading conquest of their lands by the Soviets. Texas (1835–​­1836) The struggle by Texians—​­or Anglo-​­American settlers who had initially taken Mexican citizenship—​­for autonomy, and ultimately sovereignty, was part of a broader Mexican intrastate war of various states against the centralist regime. Organizers of the incursion to take Texas expected American audiences to consider reports of the repression of fellow liberals and the advance of militaristic centralism in neighboring Mexico as a direct threat to their way of life (Roberts and Olson 2001: 93–​­94). As a result, the revolution was “portrayed by its leaders as the ‘last rallying point of liberty’ for the ‘republicans of Mexico.’ ” The settlers’ General Council declared that it sided with “any Mexican liberal, whose cause is our cause, as opposed to military despotism” (Crisp 2005: 42). In adjuring Americans to put down the threat of Santa Anna, Frank Johnson, a commander of the Texian army, framed it as part of a larger, necessary struggle against despotism: To arms! then, Americans, to aid in sustaining the principles of 1776 in this western hemisphere. . . . ​It is more than probable that the freedom of Mexicans has been sold to tyrants, and that a European force is to sustain the diadem on the head of the traitor Santa Anna. Not only Texas and Mexico, but the genius of liberty, demands that every man do his duty to his country, and leave the consequences to God. (Reid 2007: 87) This rhetoric soon shifted as the Mexican federalist efforts failed and the Texians and their supporters found that their success depended more on American volunteers. When this occurred, “Anglos began to express both open hostility toward [Hispanic] Tejanos and a belief that fundamental cultural-​­political differences dictated the need for independence” (Lack 1992: 78). James Fannin, who had immigrated to Texas only in 1834 (and would later lead scores of foreign volunteers to their deaths) sent an appeal that insisted, “The design of Santa Anna [is] to overrun the country and exterminate every white man within its borders” (Roberts and Olson 2001: 144). “Frantic” that external support for the Army of Texas was insufficient to match the

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massive Mexican military, he found that “the threat of racial violence was an effective mobilizer when all else failed”: Can it be possible that they—​­that any American—​­can so far forget the honor of their mothers, wives, and daughters, as not to fly to their rifles, and march to meet the Tyrant and avenge the insults and wrongs inflicted on his own country-​­women on the Rio Grande? What can be expected for the Fair daughters of chaste white women, when their own country-​­women are prostituted by a licensed soldiery, as an inducement to push forward into the Colonies, where they may find fairer game? (G. Brown 2000: 102–​­3) Spain (1936–​­1939) One hundred years later, no such ethnic appeals were necessary to recruit the International Brigades as a coalition of “Anti-​­Fascists,” an identity invented by organizers in the Communist International to enlist as many recruits as possible while keeping party members off the frontlines. With totalitarian states closed to Spanish propaganda, the messages were tailored for audiences in the Western democracies. The Nationalists tried to portray the Republic as a Trojan horse for international communism, while the Republicans presented an image abroad of working people threatened by exploitive plutocrats, their democracy trampled by a military-​­clerical conspiracy (Stradling 2003: 17, 101, 103). In different organs, the conflict was alternatively portrayed as a threat to liberal Democrats, minorities, and workers. One propaganda pamphlet sold in the United States, designed to appeal to a rural audience, began with a discussion of the land reform program initiated by Spain’s besieged socialist government, immediately framing the conflict as a class issue. The pamphlet then turned to discuss the threat to other European democracies, suggesting that America might be next (Ward and MacLeod 1936: 1–​­8). In another periodical, Black readers were informed that “What may come to Ethiopia now may come to many another nation sooner than we think. Americans of African descent should stand as a unit in their defense of this fascist malice and threat” (Imes 1935; Southworth Collection).5 Much of the propaganda plays explicitly on the theme of sacrifice, and even the Daily Worker, distributed as the newspaper to volunteers as well as

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abroad, reported earnestly on casualties with pieces on how happy foreigners were to “die smiling” for the Republic (Fisher 1998: 166). Published material included a magazine titled The Spanish People’s Struggle, in which a clearly doctored photo depicts an armed policeman inserted over a fleeing crowd with the title “Police firing on the people.” Also presented were gruesome photographs of the cruelty of fascist guards toward political prisoners, with warnings that such practices would be exported if the Republic fell. Such images were juxtaposed with cartoons of the Spanish Inquisition, no doubt to delegitimize Church claims of atrocity against clerics and to imply that the fascists wanted a return to the Middle Ages (e.g., Republican Propaganda Ministry 1941; Southworth Collection). On the other side of the lines, the Nationalists recruited more than 1,000 foreign fighters by communicating the message that Spanish culture was under assault by a spreading Red Menace. In France, Arriba Espana! . . . ​Espagne, éveille-​­toi! presented an advancing Communist threat rather than the strategic challenge of a German ally on the western border. The book describes the opening hours of the war as “a heroic struggle” against numerically superior Communists, and concludes that “France is menaced by Sovietization and a civil war. At all costs, another must be prevented” (Riotte 1936: 24, 127; Southworth Collection). A Spanish propaganda pamphlet presented biographies of two Romanian volunteers, with one testifying, “Is it not a great spiritual benefit for the afterlife to fall in the defense of Christ? . . . ​We defend the power that is the source of our nation!” (Los Legionarios rumanos 1941; Southworth Collection). Israel (1947–​­1949) A decade later, the First Arab-​­Israeli War was also framed for transnational recruits on both sides as a nationalist rather than a religious conflict. Jewish (and later Israeli) recruiters raised the specter of the Holocaust and the possibility of its continuation after an Arab victory against the nascent Jewish state. Hank Greenspun (1966: 83, 91), when presented with the message by associates that his intervention was required to prevent annihilation, wrote, “That’s all over now, I tried to tell myself. The hell it is! my conscience answered. It’s been going on for thousands of years. . . . ​We were more than crazy if we kept taking it: We were suicidally stupid.” After his recruitment, Greenspun found a direct way to frame the issue of contention and the stakes for those he attempted to recruit: “Are the Jewish people going to live or are they going to die?” Other war

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veterans with special skills (and Jewish surnames or personal connections) literally received cold calls stressing their duty to defend world Jewry. Paul Kaye, who had served in World War II as a naval engineer, received a phone call from “a stranger” asking, “Do you want to help your people?” (Lowenstein 2006). The effectiveness of using such veterans to build a modern army capable of employing World War II military tactics and weapons alarmed Arab leaders, who soon decided to develop a transnational force of trained soldiers to match the Israeli success. Founding figures argued that “[our] aim is to adopt all possible means to preserve the Arabism of Palestine. The tranquility of the Islamic world depends on keeping Palestine an Arab country.” A May 1946 meeting of the Arab League declared Palestine to be “an Arab country and it was the duty of other Arab countries to see that Arab status was maintained.” The Syrian delegate made an impassioned appeal “to all Arabs to die for the beloved Arab land of Palestine” (Levenberg 1993: 41, 43). Afghanistan (1979–​­1992) Although the transnational force of Arab recruits in the Palestine War was generally regarded as an operational failure (Rogan and Shlaim 2001: 6), it inspired the next generation of Arab activists to participate in the Afghani efforts to end the Soviet occupation of their country and birthed a movement that continues to have a significant impact in Afghanistan, Iraq, and a variety of other contemporary intrastate conflicts. The initial organization of foreign volunteers was conducted by former Palestinian militant Abdullah ‘Azzam, who spent the first half of the 1980s disseminating his message of the obligation of jihad to liberate Muslim lands, before his disciple Osama bin Laden provided the funding and logistical support to begin bringing large numbers of recruits to the conflict zone for training. In Join the Caravan, ‘Azzam (1987a: 12, 16, 22, 24, 25) describes Afghanistan as merely one front in a larger war against Muslims, in which fighting is necessary so “that unbelievers do not dominate.” In this frame, Muslims in many countries are living in subjugation, with “Muslim women being taken captive in every land,” and “they cannot repel attacks on their lives, honor, and properties.” Echoing the Zionist claim that a homeland was necessary for self-​­preservation, ‘Azzam argues that the “Establishment of the [uncompromised] Muslim community on an area of land is a necessity, as vital as water and air. This homeland will not come about without an organized Islamic

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movement . . . ​.The Islamic State will be born, but birth cannot be accomplished without labor, and with labor there is pain.”6 In “The Solid Base” (“al-​­Qaeda al-​­Sulbah”), which appeared in al-​­Jihad magazine, ‘Azzam argued that this struggle would be best realized through the efforts of a cadre with proper religious and military training, because “without a profound education, which provides the safety valve for the long march, the enormous sacrifices and disproportionate costs it exacts cause boredom and disrepair in time.” Elsewhere, ‘Azzam acknowledged the difficulty of the life of a foreign mujahid, fighting in the mountains “in ignominy and wilderness . . . ​among people whose language you do not understand.” Rather than material gain, in a memorial to Yahya Senyor,7 distributed as a recruitment audio recording titled “Words of Gold” (‘Azzam 1987a), the emphasis is on hardship. Senyor, described as dying without any money, is reported to have written home stating, “I will never return to you, and if I visit you, then I won’t visit you before six months. Everything in my place here is difficult, the cold is bitter, and the heat in the morning is killing, the food is insipid, the mountains are nauseous, and everything is strange to me, but I am at the peak of happiness . . . ​ because I feel that I am performing an obligation.” In the same sermon, ‘Azzam references a Sura (chapter) from the Qur’an describing the difficult necessity of jihad. He notes that “leaving behind the house and children . . . ​[is] a tough and heavy operation on the human self . . . ​ The case of migration is difficult. It is—​­it is really tough . . . ​I saw it myself in those Chechens and Shirkats who ran from the hell of Communism and czarism before . . . ​[and] had to work diligently and struggle [their] whole day to get the price of a loaf.” Nonetheless, ‘Azzam proclaimed, unconsciously echoing the calls for volunteers in Texas 150 years earlier, that recruits must step forward or “Who is it who will protect the honor of our sisters in Afghanistan? Who is there for her? . . . ​Where is the chivalry? Where is the manhood if we lose the religion?” Additionally, he refers to orphans calling for assistance as well. These motifs would outlive both the Soviet invasion and ‘Azzam himself, emerging in recruitment for intrastate conflicts from Algeria to the Philippines in which Afghan veterans aided the local insurgents and often reframed nationalist conflicts such as Chechnya into religious wars. A recruitment video titled The Sword Is the Solution features an opening shot of an abandoned Soviet tank in Afghanistan that quickly leads to images of Bosnian Serb leader Radovan Karadzic, police confrontations with civilian women,

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and the mutilation of the body of a young boy. These are followed by readings from the Qur’an and the narrator insisting in Arabic that “The religion of Allah will not be spread except through Jihad, and the Jihad is through fighting and killing . . . ​Jihad is an activity to be carried out by society as a whole” (Dar al Murabiteen Publications 2008).

Understanding Appeals to Violence: Lessons of History In all these cases, the frame of threat implies or directly requires drastic counterresponses that deemphasize individual self-​­preservation for the preservation of the community as a whole. The various recruits were presented with the information that sacrifice was essential—​­and certainly preferable to the consequences of defeat. This messaging of duty and of preventing even greater losses motivated higher levels of violence against opponents and civilians, particularly by recruits in Texas and Afghanistan. In most instances it also led to foreign fighters bearing disproportionate levels of casualties. The dynamics in Iraq, Syria, and Algeria did not require the particular identity of Muslim or mujahid to produce the same outcome. Globalization and the success of past foreign fighter-​­driven rebel groups are increasing the probability that insurgencies will transnationalize their violence in an effort to tip the balance of forces enough to win their intrastate conflicts. These efforts are desperation ploys that are attempted when the insurgencies are not strong enough to win on their own and are unable to obtain the assistance of a friendly foreign state. Foreign fighters are responsible for higher levels of violence because they believe that their people are fighting a losing struggle for survival and because they do not have their own assets and families in the area to protect. Rather than confronting them in the field or attempting to disrupt their mobilization, establishing alternate identities for them through the strengthening of inclusive state civic and military institutions that foster ties of national citizenship would mitigate the social identities that compel their participation in foreign conflicts.

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Chapter 3

State, Society, and Transnational Networks: The Arab Volunteers in the Afghan War (1984–​­1990) Avraham Sela and Robert A. Fitchette

In December 1979, Soviet forces entered Afghanistan at the request of the embattled ruling communist regime, which faced a mounting indigenous insurgency. Over the ensuing decade, thousands of Arabs volunteered for holy war (jihad) against the Soviets, in solidarity with the Afghan Muslim resistance forces (mujahidin). As part of a joint anti-​­Soviet program in coordination with the United States and Pakistan, Arab regimes played a critical role in sponsoring these volunteers (known as Arab Afghans). Though implemented mainly through semiofficial Islamic associations, this state sponsorship is perplexing because the volunteers often identified with domestic Islamic opposition groups that espoused anti-​­regime sentiments. This chapter ventures to explain this counterintuitive collaboration by exploring the origins and dynamics of transnational networks and their place in a state-​­society framework. Though the Arab Afghans played an inconsequential role in the eventual defeat of the Soviets, their narrative is enormously relevant to current studies of transnational Islam and Middle East politics. Indeed, the anti-​­Soviet jihad produced an unprecedented convergence of multinational Islamic activists and, following the Soviet withdrawal from Afghanistan in 1989, led to the rise of transnational jihadist networks like Al Qaeda. Since the early 1990s, this “new breed” of globalized jihad has emerged as a critical international security threat.

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State, Society, and Transnational Network  57

The existing literature on the Afghan War provides a fairly cursory account of the Arab volunteers’ wartime role and meteoric development.1 Not surprisingly, most post-​­9/11 studies refer to Arab Afghans primarily in the context of their postconflict roles in international terror networks.2 Indeed, the persistent menace of Islamic jihadist groups worldwide has aroused a prolific academic and journalistic interest on Islamic terrorism and counterterrorism.3 The last decade also witnessed a growing academic interest in the appeal of ideology and practice of transnational Islamic jihad, especially among Arab Muslims.4 Overall, the existing literature on transnational jihad has rarely analyzed the Arab Afghans in a manner that comprehensively addresses their social and political origins, motivations, organization, and relations with their home states and societies. One notable exception is Thomas Hegghammer’s (2010–​­2011) work on the globalization of Islamic jihad, in which the Arab Afghans serve as the first case in an evolving transnational phenomenon throughout the 1990s and 2000s. Critically, Hegghammer maintains that states extended no direct operational support to the Arab Afghans; rather, he argues that state support for the Arab Afghans was strictly tacit in nature, provided primarily by well-​­funded Islamic organizations backed by Saudi government and religious authorities. In contrast, we argue that states played an essential role in the Arab Afghan project, both promoting a new jihadist ideology and lending crucial logistical support for the mobilization of groups and individuals for jihad in Afghanistan. Unlike previous studies on this subject, we analyze the Arab Afghans’ emergence through the lens of state-​­society relations. By scrutinizing the social and political conditions within the Arab Afghan volunteers’ states of origin, this chapter provides a more comprehensive explanation for the rise of transnational jihad. In reviewing the formative, wartime, and postwar relationships between the Arab Afghan volunteers and their home states and societies, we intend to: (1) illuminate each social actor’s motivations for supporting the Afghan jihad and especially the Arab volunteers; (2) understand the willingness of historically hostile social forces—​­Arab states and Islamist social groups—​­to collaborate on this enterprise; and (3) examine the nature and limits of their cooperation in this endeavor. We argue that the Arab Afghan enterprise arose from the temporary convergence of strategic interests—​­not a fundamental shift in objectives—​­of Arab states and Islamic social groups. This partnership was anchored in a common recognition that supporting the highly valued (and popular)

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religious duty of defending fellow Muslims against the Soviet infidels held substantial political benefits. Specifically, Arab leaders recognized their chance to: defuse immediate domestic threats by deflecting anti-​­state actors and sentiments outward; enhance the regime’s image and legitimacy at home; and advance state interests internationally. For Islamist movements, particularly those related to extremist groups, volunteering for jihad in lawless, war-​ ­torn Afghanistan presented a chance to: legitimately escape state repression; secure a convenient arena for independent action; acquire military experience; harden their members; and enhance their own social and political status. The most readily available evidence of this state-​­society collaboration is the semiofficial financing of, logistical accommodation for, and formulation of a jihadist ideology to substantiate, the volunteer project. Still, despite the project’s significant duration and substantial human, financial, and material scope, a strikingly limited amount of definitive information is available on the domestic end of the cosponsorship. Moreover, very little official evidence about states’ involvement in the volunteer project is available, reflecting the covert nature of the state support. This gap is partly bridged by Arabic-​ ­language data such as memoirs, media reports, propaganda, and research literature.5 The chapter contributes to the existing literature in several aspects. First, by focusing on the social and political origins of the volunteer project, we aim to conceptualize the phenomenon of the Arab Afghans rather than merely tell their story. This will enhance global Islamic jihadist studies, and allow future theoretical comparative applications of this phenomenon to other conflicts that elicited a similar transnational jihadist response, such as in the aftermath of the U.S.-​­Iraq War and amid the ongoing Syrian civil war.6 More broadly, the chapter clarifies and enhances the literature on state-​­society relations in developing regions, and the origins, motivations, and position of revolutionary transnational networks operating within this paradigm. Contrary to studies of International Relations that treat statism and transnationalism largely as mutually exclusive, our study underscores the notion that in developing regions, state and social actors have floating boundaries, are often deeply intermeshed, and develop variable—​­even paradoxical—​­relationships that shift according to temporal circumstances and rational, interest-​­based calculations. Such flexible relationships, even among actors defined by contrary objectives, can swing from being mutually antagonistic and hostile to mutually constitutive and cooperative to somewhere in between.

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The chapter is organized as follows. First, we lay out the theoretical framework for a blurred and shifting “state-​­in-​­society” model. We then review the complex relations between Islamic movements and their ruling elites on the eve of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. In the third section, which constitutes the chapter’s main contribution, we analyze the practical collaboration between the state, Islamist groups, and the volunteers; the motivations behind international responses to the invasion; the propagation of a reinvented transnational concept of jihad; and the patterns of official and semi-​­official material support to the volunteers. Next, we explain the shift from cooperation to hostility between the state, radical domestic Islamists, and the new transnational jihad networks following the Soviet withdrawal from Afghanistan. Finally, we present our concluding remarks.

The State-​­in-​­Society Approach: Transnational Networks and Social Movements Studies of International Relations have given modern transnational movements and networks significant attention in recent years. The growing interest recognizes that in the modern globalized world, nonstate actors play a larger role in areas of international affairs traditionally undertaken by hierarchical state actors. These nonstate actors commonly assert themselves through dynamic interactions with domestic and transnational social actors, and with international institutions. Though transnational movements vary drastically in their agendas and structures, they largely rely on domestic networks, resources, and opportunities to form new internationalized arenas that advance their interests. While some function as global social advocates for a variety of causes such as environmental, human, and national rights and diplomacy, others seek revolutionary, fundamentalist, ideological, or nationalist political objectives.7 Transnational actors in the latter group are more likely to seek relative autonomy from the state, employ violence against the regime, and foster alternative transnational or subnational ideologies that compete with, blur, or transcend the boundaries of state identity. Traditionally, these actors capitalize on existing transnational kin networks and overseas communities for support. The current era of global media, communication, and migration permits these actors and their global supporters to connect through global information networks. Within this virtual, deterritorialized “identity space,” Islamic-​­oriented transna-

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tional actors can establish or reinvent the ‘umma as an “imagined community” and deepen their global support structures.8 It should be emphasized, however, that while ideologically and operationally transcending state borders, transnational networks necessarily materialize within territorial boundaries. Accordingly, to fully understand transnational phenomena, one must focus on the structural domestic conditions that fashioned their character. As we will demonstrate, the Arab Afghan volunteers arose out of, had to contend with, and were ultimately shaped by a multitude of traditional and modern forces within their countries of origin. Traditionally, a state is conceptualized as a unitary and effective body that sets and enforces rules and values for its society while maintaining internal and external sovereignty over a defined territory. However, comparative politics studies on developing states depart from this conception. Such states are instead viewed as less autonomous from and more at odds with their societies, caused by states’ poor political legitimacy resources and conflictual, competitive, or partly nonexistent relations with societal elements.9 In this “state-​­in-​­society” model, the state is just one of many social players struggling to attain the hegemonic role of shaping a society’s loyalties and collective identities, and determining the governing norms and rules (Migdal 2001a: 47–​­52; Migdal 2001b: chap. 1). In many instances, the state cannot sufficiently placate its subjects’ divided loyalties, particular ethnoreligious identities, and, in some cases, basic social and economic needs. These shortcomings hamper the state’s ability to establish norms that govern and are accepted by its society. Such acceptance constitutes a major element of state legitimacy, which in Gramscian terms is more important than absolute power for attaining social and political hegemony (Martin 1997: 37–​­56). Under these circumstances myriad social forces—​­popular movements; “strongmen” whose authority is affixed to prestate loyalties; NGOs; religious institutions; opposition groups; universities; the community; family and peers—​­hamper the state’s ability to institutionalize its presence or arise to fill the void. Passively or actively, these social forces sometimes offer distinctive ideologies that challenge the state’s legitimacy and legal authority. If successful in providing valuable social functions, these social agents can gain popularity, credibility, and legitimacy of their own. The state-​­in-​­society model underlines the gaps between the ideal self-​­image of the state as a unitary actor and its actual character as a dispersed and multifaceted institution. On a micro-​­level, individual state agents—​­for example, the

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bureaucracy and law enforcement agencies—​­ directly interact with both friendly and hostile social groups. At times, these state agents form working relationships that may deviate from official state policy and its conventionally presumed standards (Migdal 1988: 15–​­24; Mitchell 1991: 94; Migdal 2001b: 6). In essence, the multifaceted state establishes informal “networks, alliances, and crony relations” with the full spectrum of social actors including those whose competing rules «recognize neither the division between state and society nor the sovereign sanctity of the territorial boundaries” (Migdal 2001b: 6). In this environment, state-​­society interactions function in a complex web of cultural and practical exchanges in which social players seek power and prestige, amid shifting identities and loyalties (Migdal 2001b: 110; Chambers 2002, 92–​­93). These patterns are quite evident in Arab states that, lacking legitimacy and regularly facing strong societal actors, have been labeled “over-​­stated” and “baseless” (Ayubi 1995: 4; Kelidar 1993: 315–​­39). The modern Arab state is based on a Western model, alien to the region’s supranational and religious doctrines (i.e., Arabism and Islam) and local identities (e.g., familial, tribal, ethnic, communal). By employing and appropriating symbols and values that resonate with the populace, the state and alternate social agents compete for dominance in shaping the social order, articulating collective consciousness, and establishing a hegemonic structure of authority (Migdal 2001b: 28–​­29). Failing to establish social primacy through a state-​­led national identity, Arab regimes typically seek to entrench hegemony through authoritarian rule, inflated bureaucracy, and repressive police tactics. However, since total state domination of deeply rooted identities, ideologies, and social groups is unfeasible, its resulting strategy is to strike a power equation that holds down potential social challengers through a mix of coexistence, co-​­optation, and coercion. The competition between the state and other social agents, in turn, manifests itself in repeatedly shifting alliances and “fluid loyalties” where social actors, including the state, work together against other social actors to maximize their respective interests (Migdal 1988: 27–​­28). Under such circumstances, it is not unusual that even radical Islamic groups guided by dogmatic and revolutionary ideologies (e.g., Hamas, Hizbullah) use interest-​­based calculations to inform their momentary relations with the state and other groups allowing for all sorts of odd-​­couple alliances (Mishal and Sela 2000: esp. chaps. 4–​­5). The blurring of state and society in the developing regions often occurs through intermediaries in the form of rudimentary civil society organizations—​ s­ ocial groups that fall outside the purview of state control but generally accept

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the rulemaking code of the state (Migdal 2001b: 107–​­8). In the Arab world, civil society is far from being fully developed, yet, in the case of Egypt, “it is endowed with a legally mandated autonomy, involving legal rights and protections backed by the law-​­state” (Wickham 1994: 508). Each nascent civil society group is typically linked (financially, ideologically, or operationally) to one or more social agents (Ismail 1998: 201), which, in turn, seek to advance their own interest by influencing the civil society group’s operation and ideology. Though Islamic movements are not civil society actors in the true liberal sense of the term—​­despite their established social and political agencies—​­by the late 1970s and 1980s they became the most prominent manifestations of civil society in the Arab world. Best embodied by the Muslim Brotherhood, these Islamic organizations created a parallel system to the state’s formal provision of social services and public outlets for the populace.10 Based on an informal understanding, these groups enjoy a significant degree of freedom to operate so long as they do not threaten their state’s security. The state’s security services therefore maintain a low-​­level penetration into these groups for surveillance and intelligence purposes. Nonetheless, their relative freedom, unfettered access to the masses, and mere existence allow them to replace certain social and ideational functions of the state. To bolster their own tenuous legitimacy, Arab ruling elites periodically celebrate these popular groups, rely on their effectiveness to compensate for state shortcomings, and interchangeably collaborate with or repress them. These particular patterns of state-​­society relations help account for the cooperation between Muslim states and competing nonstate social agents in supporting the Afghan mujahidin and in sponsoring Arab volunteers for jihad. Indeed, though the state and the Islamists offered conflicting socioreligious ideologies and contradictory political objectives, the blurred nature of state-​­in-​­society in the Arab world, with its shifting web of alliances and rivalries, enabled such collaboration. As we will demonstrate, these mutually suspicious and fundamentally hostile societal agents used the quasi-​­independent civil society actors as intermediaries to facilitate, and provide cover for, their conditional and temporary alliance.

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Islamic Movements and the State: Between Accommodation and Domestic Jihad Before delving into the nature of the volunteer project during the Afghan War, it is imperative to review the historical and ideological context in which it emerged. While all Islamists share the goal of implementing Islamic Law (shari’a) in the Muslim world, contemporary Islamic movements lack central leadership and differ in their strategies—​­from peaceful to accommodative to revolutionary. Accordingly, the state establishes separate relationships with individual Islamist groups. Thus, despite their “claim to be supranational,” contemporary Islamic movements must be viewed primarily as a modern response to national social and political conditions (O. Roy 2004: 62). In this section, we focus on the shifting state-​­society dynamics within Egypt and Saudi Arabia because of the defining role each state and its internal social actors played in supporting the Afghan jihad project and Arab Afghan networks. In the 1970s, Arab societies witnessed a rapid surge of Islam as a social and political force. The “return of Islam” was commonly explained as a social response to Western cultural imperialism, the Arabs’ humiliating defeat by Israel in the 1967 war, rampant state inefficiency and corruption, brutal repression of political opposition, and grievances over social and economic marginalization. These factors eroded the legitimacy of the ruling Arab regimes and demonstrated the bankruptcy of their imported secular ideologies. Simultaneously, the post-​­1973 oil boom marked the rise of Saudi Arabia and its official Wahhabi version of Islam as the center of religious funding and proselytizing throughout the Sunni world (Khoury 1983: 222–​­25; Kepel 2002: 61–​­80). By the early 1980s, these factors combined to make Islamism, as embodied by popular social movements, the primary challenger to the ruling elites. Rather than broadly repressing the Islamic tide, the state responded by embracing and co-​­opting the Islamic movements’ mainstream groups while sidelining its militant factions (Kepel 2002: 81–​­105). The Egyptian regime’s experience with political Islam is particularly illuminating. Reversing a decades-​­old policy of suppressing all Islamic groups under President Gamal Abdul Nasser, in 1971 President Anwar Sadat freed the Muslim Brotherhood leaders from prison, permitted them to resume public activity, and incorporated Islamic rhetoric and symbolism into his speeches and policies. Sadat even embraced the title “Believing President.” By the 1970s, the bourgeoisie-​­ led mainstream Muslim Brotherhood

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largely moderated their former militant strategy, seeking to peacefully and incrementally “Islamize” society by working “within the existing institutions . . . ​while preserving the political status quo” (Ismail 1998: 200). Through its vast, decentralized network the Muslim Brotherhood provided a variety of essential services that formed an alternative “social contract” that often superseded the state’s, gaining popular support and legitimacy, while forcing political concessions (Wickham 2004: 13–​­19, and chap. 5; al-​­Awadi 2004: 62). Sensing the political winds, Sadat aligned his state-​­sponsored clerics with the Muslim Brotherhood and other mainstream Islamic organizations (Ismail 1998: 215). Sadat’s quest for popular support was hindered by long-​­term factors including Egypt’s overburdened financial commitments for social security and growing income inequality following the 1970s oil boom and the economic “openness” policy. More immediately, Sadat’s landmark peace treaty with Israel in 1979 revived activism of militant Islamic groups. Unlike the accommodating Muslim Brotherhood, these militant groups sought to violently upend the existing political system by overthrowing the “impious” regime and implementing shari’a. Drawing chiefly from the ranks of student unions of Central and Upper Egypt and the dejected professional classes, the groups’ operations were relegated to secrecy to evade Egypt’s police forces.11 Saudi Arabia’s relationship to Islamism during this period is distinct from Egypt’s, where Sadat’s newfound embrace of Islamic identity was a response to popular trends. Since its establishment by Ibn Saud in the mid-​­1930s, the Saudi kingdom has suffered from a basic institutional weakness. Owing to eighteenth-​­century tribal alliances, the House of Saud draws its legitimacy from Wahhabism, a strict fundamentalist brand of Islam. The dual sources of power have forced Saudi political leaders and Wahhabi clerics into a precarious yet flexible status quo partnership, in which the Saudi regime enforces a strict form of shari’a as absolute law in the kingdom while championing and disseminating Wahhabism internationally (Kostiner 1996: 75; Fandy 1999: 25, 36–​­38). During the 1950s and 1960s, the devout Saudi regime viewed the rise of secular nationalists, pan-​­Arabism, and leftist revolutionaries in the Middle East as a serious threat. To guard against this secular influence, the Saudis reverted deeper into their religious roots and in 1962 established the Muslim World League (Rabitat al-​­‘Alam al-​­Islami), a charitable organization into which they funneled billions of dollars to systematically promote Wahhabism worldwide by building mosques, Islamic community centers, religious schools, and publishing religious texts (O. Roy 2004: 236). The 1970s

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witnessed the establishment of Hijazi-​­based pan-​­Islamic networks that propagated Islamic solidarity and supported repressed Muslim groups worldwide, with similar networks founded also in other Gulf monarchies. Funded generously by the Saudi and other oil-​­rich monarchies, these networks were heavily staffed by exiled Muslim Brothers in these countries thus offering transnational connections with colleagues in other Arab and non-​­Arab countries (Hegghammer 2010–​­2011: 79–​­85). A collateral effect of the Saudi efforts to counter rising Arab secularism was that it helped lay the foundation for the emergence of political Islam in Egypt. Facing Nasser’s brutal repression, many senior Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood members fled to Saudi Arabia and the Gulf emirates where they became instructors and preachers in religious and educational institutions. These teachers found young Saudis eager to learn and embrace radical strands of political Islam developed in Egypt, which mixed well with the kingdom’s social conservatism and religious orthodoxy. Egypt’s radicalization was further assisted by the Wahhabi impact on Egyptian labor migrants to Saudi Arabia and other Gulf states during the oil boom of the 1970s (Kepel 2002: 70–​­71). On the eve of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan three seismic events in 1979 shook the Middle East status quo. In February, a popular revolution toppled Iran’s Western-​­backed autocratic regime giving rise to a fundamentalist Shi‘i regime led by Ayatollah Khomeini. The Iranian revolution inspired Islamists (both Sunni and Shi‘i) eager for similar revolutions throughout the Arab world. In March, the signing of the peace treaty with Israel led to Egypt’s expulsion from the Arab League and rise of the Baathi Iraqi and Syrian regimes as leaders of the Arab world. Finally, in November, Saudi Islamic militants stormed and occupied the Grand Mosque in Mecca in an attempt to trigger a revolution against the “apostate” Saudi regime (Wright 2006: 88–​­94; Hegghammer and Lacroix 2007: 103–​­22). The early 1980s also witnessed a sharp rise of domestic jihadi violence against ruling elites in Egypt and Syria. A member of the Jihad Organization (Tanzim al-​­Jihad) assassinated President Sadat in October 1981. At the same time, Syrian Islamists murdered Baath Party officials and army personnel setting off the February 1982 Islamic rebellion in Hama, which the Syrian army brutally quelled, killing thousands. Thus, by the time of the December 1979 Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, Islamist ideologies and networks had taken root in several Arab societies with some strands posing a grave and indeed an existential threat to the state.

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Uneasy Cooperation: The State, Society, and the Volunteers This section examines the motivations and methods behind the involvement of the participants (the state, Islamic groups, and individual volunteers) in supporting the Afghan resistance. We also examine the development of a new transnational jihad ideology, which formed the intellectual foundation for the Afghan jihad project. Finally we explore how the volunteers reoriented their energies from their domestic arenas to the international realm, and the avenues by which official and semiofficial institutions, social movements, civic NGOs, and private entrepreneurs intersected when providing ideological and operational support to thousands of volunteers for jihad. Official Arab Responses to the Soviet Invasion of Afghanistan It is clear from the above discussion that by 1979 the Muslim world was anxiously anticipating a broad Islamic revival similar to the Iranian revolution. By invading Afghanistan, the Soviets provided devout Muslims a fortuitous event that captured their restless imagination. The soaring Islamic awakening could now unite its energies for a single purpose: waging the first modern Islamic war against foreign invaders (Darraz 1993: 33; Hamid 2006a: 10–​­11). While Soviet client states in the Arab world, such as Syria, Algeria, and South Yemen, as well as the PLO, congratulated, or at least withheld condemning, the Soviet invasion, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and other Gulf monarchies assailed the foreign incursion. From a strategic standpoint, and at the urging of their U.S. ally, these states adopted numerous policies to support the Afghan mujahidin. From a domestic standpoint, the regimes’ condemnations contributed to their objective of gaining legitimacy by championing a popular Islamic cause. Egyptian president Sadat was the first Arab leader to publicly commit to supporting the Afghan mujahidin. He provided Afghans with military training and stockpiles of Soviet-​­made weapons and ammunition and in 1980 established the League of the Arab and Muslim Peoples to organize grassroots support for the Afghan jihad (Darraz 1993: 52–​­ 60; Maliah and Shai 2009: 196). In addition, Egypt’s Grand Mufti promptly called for all Muslims to support the Afghan jihad against the Soviets, while Sadat encouraged the Muslim Brotherhood to extend their support networks to the Afghan mujahidin albeit warning them not to conduct

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military training or engage in combat (Salah 2001: 48–​­49; Gerges 2005: 69; Guardian, January 31, 1986). In a convergence of strategic interests, Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, and the United States cosponsored a covert trilateral project to support the Afghan mujahidin (O. Roy 2004: chap. 7). Throughout the 1980s, the three powers facilitated the massive inflow of funds and arms into Afghanistan. By 1985, the project expanded to encourage Muslim volunteers to travel to Pakistan as Saudi rulers recognized the golden opportunity to neutralize a growing domestic Islamic threat by “project[ing] jihad outward” (Kepel 2004: 163). At the same time, the Saudis calculated that championing the Afghan jihad enabled them to counterbalance revolutionary Iran’s newfound prestige in the Muslim world. Waging a proxy war against the Soviets also gave the Saudis a chance to weaken regional communist movements in South Yemen and Ethiopia. Pakistani involvement stemmed from President Zia ul-​­Haq’s strategic ambitions to strengthen his alliance with America and expand Pakistan’s power and influence in Central Asia with respect to India, Iran, and the cross-​ ­border Soviet presence. Domestically, though Zia effectively prevented organized volunteering of Islamist Pakistanis for the Afghan jihad, his open and massive support of foreign Sunni mujahidin bolstered his regime’s fundamentalist Islamist identity, a central component of his legitimacy (Rashid 2002: 129; O. Roy 2004: 291; Hamid 2006a: 239). A striking example of the paradoxical state-​­society collaboration discussed earlier is that Zia allowed Arab militants to operate within his borders as an “Arab entity” (Jamahi 2008: 274). Zia not surprisingly considered the influx of foreign radicals into Pakistan to be destabilizing and undesirable, However, he deemed their presence an acceptable risk in the overall context of their interests related to the Afghan War. Cold War calculations determined America’s interest in supporting the Afghan mujahidin. By supporting the anticommunist Afghan jihad groups, Washington, beginning with the Carter administration, intended to entangle the Soviets in a protracted, costly, and bloody quagmire—​­“their own Vietnam.”12 U.S. involvement expanded massively under the Reagan administration, which characterized the mujahidin as “freedom fighters.”13 By helping to advance a global Sunni cause, the United States also shared an interest with its partners in containing the fiercely anti-​­American Iranian regime. Furthermore, with the Saudis “unleashing” Wahhabism against the Soviets, the United States could deflect domestic concerns about its oil-​­rich ally’s dismal human rights and antidemocratic record (Randal, 2004: 73).

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The trilateral project’s primary support mechanisms were financial, logistical, and operational assistance.14 Because of its proximity and close relations with the Afghan mujahidin, Pakistan served as the staging area for all incoming Arab volunteers. Pakistani embassies and consulates worldwide readily gave visas to incoming volunteers (Rashid 2002: 129; 2004: 75; Darraz 1993: 28). Reluctant to send any official American contingent into Afghanistan, the United States relied on the Pakistani Intelligence Service (ISI) to distribute money and arms to the Afghan mujahidin, and manage logistical and strategic operations (Coll 2004: 132–​­37, 238; 2004: 72; O. Roy 2004: 292). Thus, the ISI, its ranks filled with Islamic fundamentalists, was the primary coordinator for the trilateral project. The Saudi Kingdom and the U.S. government provided the lion’s share of the official financial aid for the mujahidin. The official Saudi policy was to support the main Afghan resistance groups equally, matching dollar-​­for-​ d ­ ollar the amounts allocated by the United States.15 The CIA funneled billions of dollars into a Swiss bank account to purchase arms for the Afghan resistance (Coll 2004: 82; Wright 2006: 58; Federation of American Scientists 1994). The CIA, ISI, British Secret Intelligence Services (SIS), and Saudi Intelligence mediated weapons transfer to the mujahidin from China, Egypt, Israel, and other states (Randal 2004: 72; Wright 2006: 58, 104; Kahaner 2006). The Saudi government was initially content with providing financial and political support to the Afghan jihad. However, the growing Islamic radicalization that swept Saudi religious schools and universities prompted the regime to change its calculus and expand domestic support activities. By the mid-​­1980s, the regime sought to “channel the energy of thousands of students and their mentors toward anti-​­Soviet jihad in Afghanistan to deflect criticism away from the royal family” (Jones 2009: 119). The Saudi royal family devoted large sums of charitable funds to a mass propaganda campaign that implored young people to volunteer. State clerics assigned preachers to educate and disseminate Wahhabism among the Afghan mujahidin. The state-​­controlled media portrayed volunteers as heroes and martyrs. The Saudis also discounted airfare to Pakistan on Saudi airlines by up to 75 percent (Randal, 2004: 75; Gerges 2004: 61–​­62, 68–​­69). Following Sadat’s assassination, new Egyptian president Husni Mubarak severely cracked down on militant Islamist groups but also adopted a policy of containment toward the mainstream Muslim Brotherhood.16 Nonetheless, Mubarak allowed hundreds of radicals who had fulfilled their prison sentences in connection to the Sadat assassination to leave the country as hajj

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pilgrims to Mecca or as workers in the Bin Laden construction conglomerate, effectively enabling them to join the mujahidin in Afghanistan (2004: 75; Schanzer 2005: 34; Maliah and Shai 2009: 45). Included among these radicals was the spokesperson for the imprisoned Jihad Organization members, Ayman al-​­Zawahiri, Al Qaeda’s future theoretician. By tacitly or overtly encouraging militant Islamists to leave for Afghanistan, the Saudi and Egyptian states deepened their penetration into the ranks of their worst enemies only a short time after the Ka‘ba Mosque incident and Sadat’s assassination. Reflecting continued state-​­society competition, through their financing and logistical accommodation, each state obtained intelligence on, and greater control of, the more militant participants in the Afghan volunteering enterprise (Darraz 1993: 9–​­10; Hamid 2006a: 28–​­29). The Role of Ideology This section reviews the ideological framework propagated by promoters of the Afghan jihad. We analyze the scope of state-​­society collaboration in the reinvention and dissemination of a jihad concept that differed distinctly from existing contemporary interpretations espoused by revolutionary jihadist movements. Though widely considered an important religious obligation, the very meaning of “jihad for the sake of Allah” has been debated since early Islamic history, on both theological and practical grounds (Sivan 1998: 171; Mir 1991: 113–​­15). Traditionally, the declaration of jihad was conceived as the ruler’s prerogative and as a collective duty relegated externally at combating the enemies of Islam. Internally, in order to preserve social order, subjects must obey Muslim rulers, even if they disallow certain legal and religious rights (Sivan 1998: 181, 191). Sayyid Qutb, an Egyptian thinker and radical Muslim Brotherhood ideologue executed by the Nasser regime in 1966, established the theoretical framework for the contemporary radicalized Islamist movements. In his writings, Qutb condemned the contemporary Muslim world for cultivating a state of jahiliyya (literally ignorance, the period before Islam). Qutb disparaged modern Arab regimes as corrupt and impious, ruled by leaders whose embrace of Western ideologies undermined Islam. Drawing on selective reading of the Qur’an, medieval scholarship (primarily Ibn Taymiyya’s), and the Indian-​­Pakistani Muslim scholar Abu al-​­A‘la al-​­Mawdudi (1903–​­1979), Qutb concluded that because Islam was gravely threatened by the jahili

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rulers, waging defensive jihad against them was a fundamental right of all Muslims.17 A decade after his execution, Qutb’s interpretation of jahiliyya and jihad was further radicalized by his spiritual disciples—​­primarily Shukri Mustafa (founder of jama‘at al-​­takfir wal-​­hijra), sheikh ‘Omar ‘Abd al-​­Rahman (the spiritual leader of the Egyptian al-​­Gama‘a al-​­Islamiyya or Islamic Group), and ‘Abd al-​­Salam Faraj (founder of the Egyptian Jihad Organization). Focusing exclusively on the relations between state and power, in his booklet al-​ f­ arida al-​­gha’iba (The Missing Duty) Faraj injected a new meaning into Qutb’s concept of defensive jihad against apostate Muslim rulers deemed infidel for failing to abide by the Islamic Law, defining jihad as a permanent and individual religious duty, not merely a right.18 To an extent, Qutb also defined Islamic jihad in offensive terms—​­as a rightful strategy to protect human freedom everywhere to choose and worship Islam. Yet in general, the primarily defensive conception of jihad inculcated by Qutb and his followers was bereft of the classical, universal meanings, in which jihad entails expanding the territory of Islam or defending its borders against foreign invaders (Cook 2005: 105). It is precisely the missing transnational dimension in Qutb‘s neoclassical concept of defensive jihad that was reinvented in the wake of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. Intensively fostered and propagated by religious and political authorities, this classical, all-​­Islamic concept of defensive jihad underpinned the Afghan Arab volunteer project and was later further altered to advance Al Qaeda’s global jihad. Sheikh ‘Abdallah ‘Azzam was the intellectual godfather of the Arab Afghan jihad project and is credited for creating and promoting the new international jihad concept which attracted thousands of volunteers to Afghanistan.19 A charismatic Islamic scholar and orator, ‘Azzam was a broadly networked Jordanian (of Palestinian origin) Muslim Brotherhood leader. ‘Azzam, through his relentless writings, recorded and live lectures, and preaching to global Muslim audiences, effectively revived the classical all-​ ­Islamic notion of defensive jihad, historically crafted as an eschatological myth heralding the advent of the Mahdi (messiah). Offered as a foundational strategy to lift the Muslim world from its current state of social decline and political weakness (Sivan 1998: 175–​­76), the myth served as a powerful force for motivating supporters of the Afghan jihad project. In 1984 ‘Azzam published a learned religious opinion (fatwa) rooted in the classical interpretation of defensive jihad, defined in universal rather than

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in national terms (it was published as a book in 1987). The fatwa was endorsed by highly respected Muslim scholars from across the Arab world, including Saudi Arabia’s Grand Mufti, ‘Abd al-​­‘Aziz bin Baz (‘Azzam 1987b: 5). The fatwa asserted that foreign invasion of Islamic territories such as Palestine and Afghanistan renders jihad an individual religious duty (fard ‘ain), incumbent upon every Muslim and second only to the Islamic faith itself (’iman). ‘Azzam asserted that failure to defend Muslim lands facing foreign invasion threatens the entire Muslim community and might cast doubts about Islam itself (20–​­21, 25). ‘Azzam’s jihad was thus focused outward as the linchpin of an all-​­Islamic vision of resurgence-​­through-​­combat along the true spirit of the Prophet and his Companions. Migration (hijra) from the “jahili hell” and fighting—​­“the only meaning of jihad”—​­were indispensable for the establishment of an Islamic state—​­without a renewal of the Caliphate—​­based on the shari’a. ‘Azzam’s concept of jihad is reminiscent of Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth (1963: 34–​­105), which regards the essential role of violence as a psychological catharsis for the subjugated struggling for liberation from colonialism.20 Thus, while contemporary jihadist movements prioritized defensive jihad against the Arab “apostate” regimes, ‘Azzam internationalized defensive jihad to include all territories historically part of “the House of Islam.” Within this context, ‘Azzam unequivocally prioritized Afghanistan, rather than Palestine or elsewhere, for practical reasons: Afghanistan was already the site of a massive indigenous Islamic jihad against foreign invaders, and further, ‘Azzam believed the Muslim world was insufficiently prepared politically, militarily, and spiritually to wage domestic revolutionary jihad against apostate jahiliyya Arab regimes (‘Azzam 1987b: 31–​­32; Lia 2008: 73). ‘Azzam’s ultimate objective of jihad in Afghanistan was to establish an authentic Islamic state ruled by the Shari’a, that would serve as a haven for persecuted Muslims. Here too, Afghanistan’s isolated geography and social fabric seemed favorable; contrary to the secular nationalist and „communist“ Palestinian groups, the Afghan mujahidin were committed to establishing a “Qur’an state” (‘Azzam 1985: 142–​­44, 152; 1987b: 31–​­32). Representing the Muslim Brotherhood’s typical approach, ‘Azzam sought to secure a proper Islamic education not only for the international volunteers but also for the Afghan population whose faith, though resolute and untainted by modern materialism, he worried was rural and unsophisticated—​­a problem which “only Arabs could resolve” (‘Azzam 1985: 29–​­37, 53).21

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Though some Arab states endorsed ‘Azzam’s activities and his ideology due to its utility in fostering support and volunteers for the Afghan jihad project, their ruling elites harbored fundamental misgivings with his interpretation. ‘Azzam’s focus on the individual duty of jihad collided with raison d’etat and the Islamic state’s prerogative, according to traditional exegesis, to lead jihad against encroaching infidels. Moreover, although ‘Azzam strove for Arab official and semiofficial support, his writings portrayed Muslim ­regimes—​­albeit avoiding specific critique—​­as corrupt, apostate, weak, and subordinate to Western influence and thus too feeble to conduct jihad against Islam’s enemies.22 ‘Azzam also insisted that the Afghan jihad received no material support from the American infidel government arguing that such aid was theologically forbidden, while bin Laden ascribed the U.S. role in Afghanistan exclusively to bipolar rivalry and separate from Islamic jihad (‘Azzam 1987b: 32; Maliah and Shai 2009: 77–​­78). In contrast to Arab states’ reluctant support for ‘Azzam’s broadly popular ideology, many Islamic scholars, including top religious officials in Saudi Arabia, forcefully endorsed ‘Azzam’s jurisprudence of jihad and pleaded for volunteers to support the Afghan resistance (Randal 2004: 75; Gerges 2004: 62, 68–​­69; Hamid 2006a: 244–​­45). While Arab regimes welcomed marginal increases to their legitimacy, they tempered their complete endorsement of ‘Azzam’s global jihad by conceiving it as strictly limited to defeating the Soviets in Afghanistan.23 However, Arab states’ support for ‘Azzam’s organized effort was in part a cynical plot to refocus the priorities of antistate Islamist elements away from domestic political realms and also to break their monopoly on jihad, recapturing a state role in defending Islam against infidels. The broadly supported transformation from internal to international jihad was astonishingly successful. And while ‘Azzam deserves tremendous credit, it seems unlikely his ideology would have had the same reach without the support of institutional state agents. The Saudi regime’s tacit cooperation in propagating ‘Azzam’s revived ideology of defensive jihad quite remarkably reflects a paradoxical instance of one social actor (the state) appropriating the signifying symbols of another actor (the radical Islamists) as a means of containment. It is noteworthy that ‘Azzam’s new jihad ideology contained no specific international agenda beyond Afghanistan though he envisioned a continuous all-​­Islamic defensive jihad in Palestine and other “occupied Islamic territories” such as Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, Uganda, Bukhara, and Andalusia (‘Azzam 1990: 36; 1987b: 29–​­31, 71–​­93). Despite his revival of the international dimension of

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jihad, in general, “localism, not globalism, informed the thinking and actions of jihadis who had initially fought in Afghanistan” (Gerges 2005: 12–​­13). Indeed, following the Soviet withdrawal, most Afghan Arab veterans returned to their countries of origin; only a minority of sworn jihad groups opted to wage jihad in or from their nonnative countries. Motivation, Mobilization, and Organization of the Arab Volunteers The rise of Islamism in the Arab World by the 1980s, though pervasive, does not adequately explain why some individuals chose to volunteer for jihad in a remote and unknown territory. Theories of social movements commonly focus on “grievance-​­based” explanations in which pervasive historical trends and passions result from structural imbalances, relative deprivation, and unpopular or ineffective regime policies. Other theories focus on social, nationalist, or religious ideologies as the motivating force behind political violence.24 Recent scholarship on terrorism and political violence has viewed these explanations as insufficient and instead incorporates rational-​­choice approaches to establish motives. According to this approach, “every conscious human action is a mixed outcome of both individual and collective identity,” rendering individual-​­and group-​­utility inseparable (Gupta 2008: 45). Hence, an active role in social movements, including the case of sacrificing one’s life for the sake of a collective cause, is explained as “selfish altruism” (Gupta 2008: 32–​­63; E. Berman 2009: 9–​­13). Without ignoring the impact of group and institutional efforts of mobilization, we contend that Arab volunteers for Afghan jihad were primarily motivated by individual conviction and a collective perception of altruism. The available personal testimonies and biographies of these Arab Afghans suggest that they were largely acting on their profound desire to support fellow Muslims against foreign invaders. Average Muslims considered volunteering for jihad a pious, selfless journey; the loftiest expression of devotion to Islam and fellow Muslims, and an escape from a marginalized and frustrating life.25 Other volunteers simply looked to jihad for adventure or as a means to make money (Wright 2006: 97, 102–​­3; al-​­Hayat, March 28, 2005). While radical Islamic ideologies played an important role in the recruitment process, they were not a sufficient impetus for joining a radical group or volunteering for jihad in Afghanistan. Such decisions were often the result of personal ties and social bonds, rather than an independent or studied intellectual or

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ideological inference.26 Thus, a charismatic and effective “message source” (a cleric or religiously knowledgeable acquaintance) that resonated with a recruit’s social and political reality was vital to the very personal process of recruitment and transmittal of jihadist ideology. Message sources tap into (or emanated from) the Islamic movements, leveraging their institutionalized organization, pervasive networks, and popularity to steer “money, communications technology, meeting places, [and] social networks” toward the recruiting processes.27 Notwithstanding the near unanimous state and nonstate institutional support for the Afghan jihad, a relatively small number of diehard supporters actually traveled to Pakistan and a much smaller number actually fought in Afghanistan. Estimates vary widely, though on average fall in the range of ten to fifteen thousand volunteers who journeyed to Pakistan. Volunteers came from every Arab and Muslim country, though Saudis, Yemenis, Egyptians, and Algerians composed the greatest percentages. While the international force contained very few Shi‘i Muslims, a limited number of non-​­Arab Sunnis (Kurds, Turks, Indians, Chechens, and Indonesians) participated.28 The Arab Afghan volunteer enterprise was not simply an extension of contemporary domestic Islamism, primarily because of the state’s foundational, if indirect role in sustaining it. On arriving in Pakistan and Afghanistan, however, the volunteers’ organization and conduct largely reflected their divisions at home, especially between the mainstream Muslim Brotherhood and revolutionary Islamic groups. Members of existing radical Islamist groups took advantage of the secure environment—​­awash with money, arms, training fields, propaganda, and impressionable youths—​­to establish in-​ ­region networks to recruit new members from newly arriving volunteers. The Arab Afghan volunteers were further divided along leadership and exegetic rivalries to the extent that each sheikh and commander (amir) established his own mosque in Peshawar, the Pakistani frontier city that served as the principal base for the Afghan mujahidin (Darraz 1993: 100–​­101). Only a few dozen volunteers entered Afghanistan in the first four years following the invasion. Religiously motivated middle-class professionals including doctors, ex-​­army officers, and other devout young men (including Osama Bin Laden) composed the first generation of volunteers in the early 1980s. Many of these volunteers were recruited by the Egyptian Medical Association to provide medical treatment to both Afghan civilians and mujahidin (Darraz 1993: 61–​­62). In 1984, with Bin Laden’s funding and in coordination with leading Afghan mujahidin figures, ‘Azzam established the Services Bureau (Maktab

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al-​­Khidamat) in Peshawar as the headquarters for the Arab volunteers (Coll 2008: 256). The bureau’s centralized efforts to encourage young Muslims to take part in the Afghan jihad corresponded with a significant surge in the number of young Arab volunteers (Anas 2002: 19; Hamid 2006a: 242; Maliah and Shai 2009: 38–​­39). The Services Bureau administered the flow of Arab volunteers to and from the battlefield and provided military training, Islamic education, medical treatment, and logistical support. It also conducted intensive worldwide fundraising campaigns to finance its growing welfare, medical, and educational services to families of the fallen and injured volunteers, in accordance with Islamic tradition. The bureau’s services expanded significantly to include a fully equipped hospital and schools for the volunteers’ children and young Afghan refugees (Darraz 1993: 71–​­72; Maliah and Shai 2009: 39–​­45). Starting in late 1984 the Services Bureau published al-​­Jihad, a monthly magazine edited by ‘Azzam that served as the primary transnational organ propagating the concept of jihad in Afghanistan as an individual duty (fard ‘ayn) and containing frontline reports.29 The Services Bureau also operated as a publishing house for other magazines, books, and newsletters, which were distributed among Muslim communities around the world, including in Europe and North America. Later in the decade, military advisors from a number of national elite intelligence forces, especially Egypt’s, trained incoming Arab volunteers (Jacquard 2002: 20; Federation of American Scientists 2004). Egypt-​­based al-​­Gama‘a al-​­Islamiyya and Jihad Organization were two such existing radical organizations lured to Afghanistan as a safe haven from state repression and for the opportunity to gain military experience, expand their ranks, and harden their members. Numerous testimonies emphasize the intention of sworn jihadists, especially those arriving after 1987, to use the Afghan arena as a staging ground for revolution in their home countries. For these jihadist groups, Afghanistan was a means rather than the objective, which also explains their continued arrival in Afghanistan even after the 1989 Soviet withdrawal.30 However, with the significant exception of the Egyptian volunteers, the vast majority of volunteers did not emanate from existing radical groups (O. Roy 2004: 298; Sageman 2004: 25). Most recruits lacked prior familiarity with extremist ideologies and, though discontented at home, had no desire to wage jihad domestically (Tawil 2007: 41–​­46; Gerges 2005: 80–​­81). Members of the mainstream Islamic groups, such as the Muslim Brotherhood, showed little or no desire to fight the Soviets in Afghanistan and were content with

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working alongside Arab regimes to fundraise, preach, and provide medical care in Peshawar (Darraz 1993: 71; Hamid 2006a: 85–​­86, 270–​­71). Jihadist leaders like al-​­Zawahiri fiercely criticized the Muslim Brotherhood’s unwillingness to fight and viewed its collaboration with the Egyptian regime as heretical (Raphaeli 2002: 9–​­10). Initially, the Afghans viewed the Arab volunteers with suspicion, condescension, and disdain for their military incompetence and extreme zealotry—​­to the extent of deliberately seeking martyrdom (shahada) in the battlefield (Darraz 1993: 105–​­7; Gerges 2005: 111; Wright 2006: 116). But by 1986, Bin Laden gained Afghan approval to allow Arab volunteers to operate autonomous units, which enabled them to improve their battlefield performance (Hamid 2006a: 239–​­40; Darraz 1993: 89). Avenues of State-​­Society Cooperation and Its Limits This section focuses on the joint state-​­society support mechanisms for the volunteer enterprise. The semiofficial collaboration between the state and societal elements highlights the floating and blurred boundaries of state and society. Despite most Muslim states’ restrictions on political speech and organization, social entrepreneurs, with or without official support, formed various associations, charities, and public services anchored in the Islamic traditions of preaching (da‘wa), education, relief, and welfare. These organizations were especially active in the Gulf monarchies, where, with government encouragement, many became active supporters of the Afghan refugees and the resistance.31 During the Afghan War, the Saudi regime permitted groups to raise money openly for only two discrete international causes: the Palestinian and Afghan resistances (Woodward 1986). In conjunction with ‘Azzam s bureau, these Wahhabi-​­oriented associations operated hospitals, barracks, refugee shelters, training/holding areas, madrassas, and eventually a medical and engineering university in Peshawar. Funding for these semiprivate ventures came from elite wealthy citizens as well as donations from mosques and religious schools (2004: 94). A network of charismatic fundraisers, most prominently ‘Azzam, regularly visited Muslim countries, Western Europe, and the United States to glorify martyrdom and recount sensational and miraculous stories of the mujahidin. In addition to distributing literature that propagated the duty of jihad, surrogates circulated audio messages of ‘Azzam and Bin Laden throughout the Muslim world (Randal 2004: 90; Maliah and Shai 2009:

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41–​­ 42). Many elite donors were Saudi royal family members or well-​ ­connected wealthy Arab businessmen. Osama Bin Laden, the son of a billionaire Yemeni construction mogul with extensive ties to the royal family, figured prominently in the Afghan jihad project. Bin Laden served as a middleman for other elite donors, the state, and Islamic charitable associations throughout the Arab world (Gerges 2005: 76; Maliah and Shai 2009: 62–​­63). Working with ‘Azzam, Bin Laden leveraged his family connections to gain extraordinary access to influential royal elites and international arms markets. Bin Laden maintained personal working relationships with Saudi intelligence and diplomatic officials in the kingdom and in Pakistan, and gained their support for his personal mission to “organize the infrastructure of the jihad against the Soviets.”32 Bin Laden enlisted his family’s construction conglomerate to build military fortifications, shelters, roads, and bases in Afghanistan and Pakistan (Randal 2004: 88; Coll 2008: 291–​­96; Maliah and Shai 2009: 62). In a 1986 project funded in part by the CIA, Bin Laden’s group constructed the Khost Tunnel Complex, a large mujahidin base on the Pakistan-​­Afghan border (Rashid 2001: 132). Additionally, the Bin Laden company’s Cairo bureau served as a “pipeline for radicals” to enter Afghanistan, often via Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, where the extended Bin Laden family had lived and operated their business for years.33 Oftentimes, the state preferred to steer huge sums of official state money through networks of Islamic charitable associations and civil society actors (Gerges 2005: 76; Coll 2004: 154). The Saudi and Gulf emirates’ semiofficial welfare and relief NGOs operating in Pakistan united under an umbrella organization, the Peshawar-​­centered Islamic Coordination Council, directed by ‘Azzam (Emerson and Levin 2003: 40). The Saudi government channeled its official funds primarily to the Islamic Union, the mainstream confederation of seven Afghan mujahidin groups united against the Soviets and backed by the United States, Pakistan, and Gulf monarchies (Hamid 2006a: 195–​­96, 280). However, wealthy private Saudi donors, often firm adherents to the Wahhabi doctrine, sometimes strayed from official policy and favored more radical mujahidin groups.34 Having extended their pervasive charitable and relief networks into Pakistan (Time, October 4, 1993), the Muslim Brotherhood, like the Saudi Wahhabi groups, funded resistance groups willing to embrace their ideology (The Guardian, January 31, 1986). Both official and nonofficial Saudi financial support for the Afghan

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resistance was conducted through the kingdom’s semiofficial, regime-​­funded Wahhabi organizations. Primary among them were the Muslim World League, the World Assembly of Muslim Youth, and the Saudi Red Cross. These well-​­funded and well-​­connected organizations played an essential role in propagating the Afghan jihad, raising funds for ‘Azzam’s Services Bureau, and recruiting, funding, and facilitating young volunteers’ travel to Pakistan, often through Saudi territory under the pretext of pilgrimage to Mecca.35 Like other Arab states, Egypt under Mubarak was complicit in allowing domestic jihad groups to focus their priorities outward, but continued to constrain them from expanding their domestic networks and membership. Still, despite the regime’s crackdown following Sadat’s assassination, these jihadist groups possessed considerable resources and maintained covert networks ready to be mobilized (Wiktorowicz 2004b: 34; Rapaheli 2002: 11–​­12). Moreover, through their own presence in Peshawar and via Islamic networks, these militant groups were indirect beneficiaries of the ambiguous public-​­private financing operation from the Saudis and other states. By 1988, al-​­Zawahiri’s Jihad Organization bureau in Peshawar had recruited enough new members to reconstitute the weakened radical organization and coordinate terrorist attacks against the Egyptian government.36 In 1988, the Islamic Group opened a Saudi-​­financed bureau in Peshawar, sparking a feud with Zawahiri’s Jihad Organization that ultimately prompted Arab relief organizations to cut ties to Zawahiri. Because this forced Zawahiri to solicit funds from Shi‘i Iran, Saudi Arabia, and other Gulf states channeled all their aid to the Islamic Group (Raphaeli 2002: 7–​­8). The competition between the Egyptian radical groups even in faraway Afghanistan succinctly demonstrated the primacy of the groups’ domestic agendas and the shifting alliances of Arab state-​­society relations. State support for the Arab volunteers for jihad in Afghanistan involved direct and indirect collaboration with multiple social agents, many of which held alternative or hostile ideologies toward the state. Yet these sentiments were muted during the Afghan war as each actor calculated that advancing the new transnational jihad project was temporarily in its interest. Once the Soviets withdrew from Afghanistan, however, the cooperative spirit melted away and violent competition reemerged.

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The Post-​­Afghan War Return to State-​­Society Conflict The actions of Arab Afghans in the aftermath of the Soviet withdrawal from Afghanistan demonstrate the continued salience of domestic motives and interests that governed each actor’s involvement in the first place. As the Soviets exited Afghanistan in late 1989, the tenuous Afghan mujahidin coalition, the Islamic Union, collapsed into internecine warfare while the desperate communist Afghan regime managed to cling to power until 1992. With the Soviet retreat, the U.S., Saudi, and Pakistani governments no longer shared a clear interest in the Afghan cause. Saudi and American funding and logistical support for the Afghan jihad project declined dramatically, while Pakistan continued supporting various Afghan factions in hopes of ensuring a favorable outcome in the neighboring state (Gerges 2005: 76). Unbeknownst to any participant, their collaborative project set the stage for a new threat that they would face for decades to come; a well-​­trained, heavily armed, hardened, and radicalized stateless network lacking a primary battle-​­ battlefield. Shortly after the Afghan war ended in late 1989, Pakistan began persecuting the Arab Afghans, forcing the once celebrated veterans to seek an alternative territorial base of operations. In addition, with the conquest of Kabul by mujahidin factions in 1992, the new Afghan Islamic government forbade the entrance of Arabs into Afghanistan without visas (Darraz 1993: 102). While some hardline volunteers remained in Afghanistan and Pakistan, many others returned to their home countries to join or reconstitute armed radicalized Islamic groups (O. Roy 2004: 298). In the early 1990s, the Islamic government in Sudan welcomed Egyptian, Libyan, and Algerian jihad groups forced out of Pakistan and Afghanistan. Other Arab Afghans, effectively in line with ‘Azzam’s general vision, undertook jihad to assist Bosnian, Chechen, and Kashmiri Muslims struggling against incursions by non-​­Muslims. More recently, some of these Afghan veterans and the next generation of jihadists took arms in occupied Afghanistan and Iraq following the American invasions.37 In the 1990s many Arab states experienced waves of targeted assassinations and terrorist attacks. In many cases, the state attributed this uptick in violence to the returning Arab Afghan veterans and responded harshly and broadly (O. Roy 2004: 299). Many of the hundreds of Egyptian volunteers who returned home were arrested, tortured, and prosecuted for terrorist activity against the Egyptian homeland; eight received death sentences (Darraz 1993: 141–​­52; Mideast Mirror, January 27, 1994; Wright 2006: chap. 9). Some

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Arab and Muslim states simply refused the veterans’ reentry (Wright 2006: 163). The Yemeni government established a precarious policy of mutual coexistence with returning veterans. Saudi veterans, though ardently encouraged to volunteer in the first place, were arrested and tortured upon their homecoming, leading to a series of reprisal operations against the state (al-​ ­ uds al-​­‘Arabi, March 18, 2005). Beginning in 1992, hundreds of Algerian Q veterans participated in the Algerian civil war, establishing the Armed Islamic Group (GIA), which sought to overthrow the military dictatorship and establish an Islamic state (O. Roy 2004: 298; Federation of American Scientists 1994; Tawil 2007: 100). Jordan’s government cracked down on returning Afghan war veterans in the early and mid-​­1990s, blaming members for assassinations, terrorist bombings, and coup conspiracies (Mideast Mirror, April 14, 1994; Hussein 2005: 11–​­17). In 1995, Pakistan arrested approximately 200 Arab Afghans following the bombing of the Egyptian Embassy in Islamabad, which was attributed to Zawahiri’s Jihad Organization (Wright 2006: 217–​­18). The end of the Afghan war exacerbated the growing factional rift among the Arab Afghans who were able to remain in Pakistan and Afghanistan. In fact, the partnership between ‘Azzam and Bin Laden became more competitive and increasingly strained by the late 1980s (Coll 2004: 156–​­64, 202–​­4). The rapid growth and effectiveness of the U.S.-​­Saudi-​­Pakistani support for the mujahidin—​­in terms of financing, arms delivery (particularly U.S. Stinger missiles), and numbers of volunteers—​­outpaced that of the Services Bureau, rendering ‘Azzam a less pivotal figure to the Saudi and Pakistani regimes, and the mujahidin.38 Although ‘Azzam’s 1989 assassination remains a mystery, some suggest it is connected to the trilateral alliance’s determination to rein in his unsettling version of jihad.39 At the same time, Bin Laden’s stature continued to rise among the Arab Afghans and internationally. By 1987 Bin Laden had gained reverence for his role as a combat commander (amir) of a newly established core group of jihadists—​­the precursor to Al Qaeda—​­which included his ideological companion, al-​­Zawahiri (Jamahi 2007: 274). The Saudi regime’s response to Saddam Hussein’s invasion of Kuwait in 1990 marked a permanent shift in Bin Laden’s relationship with the Saudi royals. Bin Laden’s offer to organize an all-​­Muslim volunteer brigade to expel the Iraqi invaders was quickly rebuffed by Saudi officials, who scorned the highly impractical proposal (Coll 2004: 221–​­23; Randal 2004: 105). Underlining the gap between revolutionary and statelike thinking, the Saudis instead permitted a U.S.-​­led coalition to attack Iraq from Saudi soil and later

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permitted permanent American military bases in the kingdom. Despondent and furious, Bin Laden moved to Sudan, where he, Afghan Arab veterans, and other Arab jihad groups exploited the new haven by reorganizing themselves, attracting new recruits, and planning and executing unprecedented jihad offensives in Egypt, Yemen, Libya, and Algeria (Tawil 2007: 32, 50–​­51, 151–​­53, 170–​­71). Yet it was precisely this period that demonstrated the jihad movements’ limited ability to seriously threaten their respective regimes. Domestically, Arab state security forces proved ruthlessly effective in disrupting radical networks. Moreover, continued terrorist attacks against civilians in Algeria and against tourists in Egypt sparked a broad popular backlash against radical Islamism in these countries and beyond (Gerges 2005: 153; Tawil 2007: 237–​ ­40). These networks themselves not only lacked transnational leadership, but were also plagued by internal rivalry and competition. Worse still, Arab governments pressured Sudan into expelling the disparate jihad nationals from its borders in 1996. Afghanistan, now ruled by the ultra-​­fundamentalist Taliban, once again became a default haven for the itinerant Arab Afghans. The incessant, agonizing quest for a safe haven exposes the indispensability that a secure territorial space holds for violent transnational networks to fulfill their operational needs (Tawil 2007: 231–​­71, 274–​­75). The main outcome of the failure of domestic jihad was still to come. Exiled in Afghanistan, in February 1998 bin Laden and Zawahiri, together with three other jihadist leaders (including two non-​­Arabs), issued a fatwa in the name of the “World Islamic Front of Jihad Against the Jews and Crusaders.”40 The statement forged a new ideology of jihad that targeted the United States as the ultimate evil for its aggression against Muslims in Iraq, military presence in the Arabian Peninsula, and uncompromising support for Israel. The new strategy represented a practical lesson: since committing jihad against the repressive “apostate” Arab rulers was not viable, Muslims must target the United States, the primary ally and supporter of these “artificial regimes,” wherever possible. The new global jihad sought to incite confrontation between America and the Muslim peoples, revitalize and unite the wayward radical Islamist movement under one banner, and undermine the foundations of existing Muslim regimes. Within a few months, Al Qaeda translated its declaration of jihad against American targets into action. On August 7, 1998, simultaneous truck bombs at the U.S. embassies in Kenya and Tanzania killed more than 200 people and injured more than 4,000.41 Critically, the attacks appeared to validate the Al Qaeda leaders’ newfound intuition that

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American targets abroad were far more operationally accessible than those in “apostate” Arab states. Al Qaeda’s new interpretation of jihad combined Qutb’s defensive and individualized jihad with ‘Azzam’s neoclassical concept of defensive jihad against infidel invaders of the House of Islam. Discarding ‘Azzam’s emphasis on defending the ‘umma against invading infidels, the new, offensive global jihad required taking the fight to the infidels, laying the foundation for the current age of global Islamic terrorism against the West.

Conclusion The nature, motivations, impulses, stimuli, and actions of the state are fundamental and hotly debated topics in International Relations theory. The case of the Arab volunteers in the Afghan war highlights the multifaceted relationship between the state, as a meta-​­political institution, and social movements that are linked to transnational solidarities and reflect popular sentiments and perceptions. Our analysis suggests that where states lack legitimacy, fail to establish ideational hegemony, and are inherently challenged by sub-​­and transnational identities, the state and social actors are interlocked and operate in a complex and amorphous web. In this shifting and blurred environment, power-​­ seeking states and social agents alternate between allying, tolerating, cooperating with, fighting, and even constituting each another. After decades of increasingly open hostilities, the interests of Arab regimes and popular Islamic social movements temporarily converged in the anti-​­Soviet jihad in Afghanistan, as each supported the revitalized Islamic tradition of revival through holy war. Ostensibly separate but truly blended Arab and Muslim public and private organizational networks marshaled substantial resources to support the Afghan resistance. By appropriating the popular ideology of jihad from domestic Islamists, the state recapitulated the classical tradition of jihad’s defensive and outward nature. The militant Islamic movements, on their part, perceived the Afghan jihad as an opportunity to escape the state’s reach, acquire combat experience, and harden their ranks. And though they had seemingly “gone transnational” while benefiting from state policies, after the war they returned to their original domestic revolutionary agenda. Only following their strategic failure at home did a full-​ ­fledged global jihad network emerge. Globalized Islamic jihadism can thus be viewed as the result of the

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strength of the Arab state, at least in the coercive sense: by successfully containing mainstream Islamist organizations (namely the Muslim Brotherhood) while isolating and harshly neutralizing sworn Islamist radicals at home, the state effectively externalized contention (Tarrow 2005) as openly antistate actors established an alternative base of operations, with a new ideology, and with a broader, global agenda. Under these circumstances, declaring a total war on both “apostate” Muslim regimes and their Western patrons reflected the global jihad network’s rational decision to target operationally accessible—​­and thus more vulnerable—​­Western countries. The Arab Afghan transnational network substantiates the claim that international challenges to state and international order by nonstate actors are possible only with states’ sponsorship, be it tacit or overt, active or passive (O. Löwenheim 2007). It also underscores the indispensability of a failed state’s lawless territory—​­recently evident in war-​­torn Afghanistan, post-​­Saddam Iraq, tribal Pakistan, and lawless Yemen and Somalia—​­for the incubation and thriving of ultra-​­revolutionary transnational threats to international order. In the decade since 9/11 the transnational jihadist networks of Al Qaeda and its offshoots have become significant nonstate international actors and primary spoilers of global order, a phenomenon this chapter has ventured to explain. A deeper understanding of this threat requires comparative studies of other cases that similarly elicited states’ and transnational responses, such as the influx and involvement of foreign jihadists in post-​­Saddam Iraq and in the ongoing Syrian civil war, in which neighboring states are playing an active role.

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Chapter 4

A Conceptual Framework for Understanding the Roles of Diasporas in Intrastate Conflicts Gabriel Sheffer

Recent worldwide social, economic, and political developments have had a significant impact on diasporas, in particular on their relations with host-​ ­lands, homelands, and other states in which their kin permanently reside (Sheffer 2007a: 187–​­88). Consequently, many diasporic communities have been increasingly involved in the politics of their host-​­lands: for example, maintaining effective lobbies or directly and indirectly influencing politicians, political organizations, and institutions. At the same time, diasporans tend to remain involved in their homelands, either through transferring funds or more directly in local politics. Currently, ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporas are more demanding and active than before in attempts to promote their own and their homelands’ interests, including involvement in intrastate conflicts. But are all diasporic communities identical? Do diasporas have common characteristics, or rather are they quite different? Do such differences explain variation in degrees of diasporic communities’ engagement in the political, social, and economic systems in their host countries and homelands? The general public, politicians, and media tend to indiscriminately group together dispersed individuals and entities and their various legal and illegal activities. Regardless of their different ethno-​­national-​­religious origins and identities, for example, dispersed Muslims, Polish immigrants, and the stateless Roma are lumped together in the same category of people who reside outside their coun-

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tries of origin. It is not surprising then that diasporas are typically seen as having the same motivations and engaging in identical activities. It should be noted that significant differences exist among various diasporas, and that these differences explain the variation in diasporic communities’ engagement in the political, social, and economic systems in their host countries and homelands. Furthermore, it should be realized that essential theoretical, analytical, and actual differences exist in the motivations of various types of dispersed communities to become involved in intrastate conflicts. This blurring of analytical differences has profound effects on understanding diasporic communities’ involvement in the social, political, and economic spheres in general, and, more specifically, to accurately show why and when diasporans and diasporas become involved in intrastate conflicts. This chapter examines various clusters of the deeper causes and more immediate motivations for the involvement of various ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporic entities—​­Cuban, Armenian, Pakistani, Basques, Persian, Jewish/ Israeli, and Palestinian diasporas, to name a few—​­in conflicts that take place in either their homelands or host countries. Ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporas stand out among the various categories that will be discussed in this chapter as being more demanding and active in their attempts to promote their own and their homelands’ interests, including through involvement in conflicts. The chapter begins with a discussion of the various types of dispersals, focusing on ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporas. After classifying and characterizing these groups, the main reasons why diasporas become involved in intrastate conflicts will be discussed. The next sections examine the various types of conflicts in which diasporas are engaged, address the aggressive activities of diasporas in intrastate conflicts, and offer some propositions about the actual effects of the involvement of diasporas in these conflicts on the policies and actions of other involved actors. Finally, the main arguments are summarized in the concluding section.

Why Distinctions Between Dispersals Are Needed When considering diasporas’ engagement and activities in intrastate conflicts, it is essential to remember six critical facts: first, none of the dispersed persons or groups involved in intrastate conflicts (and in violence, terrorist, or criminal activities) form homogeneous entities; second, these activists

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consist of individuals and groups whose historical, or more recent, origins are not in the countries of their present permanent residence (i.e., their host-​ ­lands); third, some of these groups are involved in conflicts in both their host countries and their countries of origin (homelands); fourth, not all these individuals and groups are involved in any given conflict to the same extent and intensity; fifth, there are important variations in diasporas’ bellicose involvement in intrastate conflicts, and when these conflicts are resolved, the diasporas’ peaceful behavior is resumed; finally, dispersed individuals and groups are also actively involved in positive cultural, social, political, and economic activities in both their homelands and their host-​­lands. In short, when dealing with the sensitive issue of diasporic activities, especially involvement in intrastate conflicts, there is a substantial need to avoid unjustifiable generalizations. Accordingly, this chapter suggests that a clear distinction should be made between various types of “others” in host-​­lands, and especially between two categories of dispersals: the first is that of cultural and religious entities known as transnational communities; and the second is that of organized ethnonational-​­religious diasporas. With regard to the latter category, two additional distinctions must be made: first, between members of stateless and state-​ ­linked diasporas; second, between core and peripheral members of the diaspora. national-​ Before specifically discussing the transnational and ethno-​­ ­religious diasporic entities, however, a more general distinction should be made between the five categories of dispersed people that might be or actually are involved in conflicts in their host-​­lands or homelands. Tourists Two subcategories of tourists can be involved in conflicts and consequently in legal and illegal activities in either their homelands or host countries. The first subcategory is that of actual tourists, as distinct from persons who are defined as tourists but are really permanent residents in the host-​­land. The second subcategory consists of members of established diasporic entities who are permanent residents in one host-​­land and visit other host-​­lands for short periods, leaving these countries after they either accomplish, or fail to accomplish, their goals in connection with conflicts.

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Refugees and Asylum-​­Seekers It should be noted that the vast majority of these individuals and groups are displaced from their own homelands. Only a minority reside permanently in host-​­lands; and after they are dispersed, many reside in states bordering their country of origin. Nonorganized Legal and Illegal New Migrants Most of these persons are guest workers of various occupations and professions and most of the rest are students. The chances are greater that students, rather than guest workers, would be involved in conflicts and illegal activities. Members of Established and Organized Ethno-​ ­National-​­Religious Diasporas The members of these entities share a common ethnonational-​­religious origin, and their identity is based on a combination of primordial, psychological, and instrumental factors. This chapter mainly refers to members of such diasporas who are permanent residents in their host-​­lands and who are integrated, but not assimilated, into their host societies. In most cases, the core members of these groups maintain their ethno-​­national-​­religious identities, are well organized, and keep in contact with their homelands. Some of these entities permanently reside in countries bordering their homelands, some are residents of countries far distant. In certain cases, their ethnic identity is supported and enhanced by religious beliefs and feelings. According to various estimates, worldwide there are more than 400 million members of such ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporas, which include, among others, Palestinians, Jews, Greeks, Irish, Mexicans, Basques, and Tamils. However, it should be noted that when members of such groups settle in host-​­lands far from their countries of origin, they do not automatically become members of what are known as transnational communities (to be discussed below). Thus, for example, many Pakistani diasporans who are active members of the Pakistani ethno-​­national-​­religious diaspora may or may not be active in the general transnational Muslim diaspora. This category cannot adequately include individuals and groups that have not migrated from their homelands but live in neighboring states—​­such as

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distinct groups in Africa (among others the Tutsis and Hutus), the Roma, and African Americans—​­who do not have factual home states, but nurture imagined homelands. With regard to the main issues discussed in this chapter, it should be noted that core members of established stateless and state-​­linked historical, modern, and incipient diasporas have been involved in conflicts, and have been engaged in or supported violent and terrorist activities in either their homelands, host countries, or third and fourth countries. Cultural, Ideological, and Religious Transnational Dispersed Persons Recent extreme terrorist activities launched by Al Qaeda and other dispersed Sunni and Shi‘i Muslim entities and organizations have drawn unprecedented attention. In many cases, politicians, scholars, and other observers view and refer to these entities and organizations as homogeneous transnational diasporas. However, actual involvement in conflicts is not a characteristic of most homogeneous and highly organized “Muslim,” “African,” “Latino,” or “Asian” entities, but rather of members of older organized and incipient ethno-​ n ­ ational-​­religious diasporas. As noted above, from a transnationalist viewpoint, the only common characteristic of groupings such as the Moroccans, Pakistanis, Albanians, and Iranians is that their religion is Islam; apart from this similarity, they have different ethno-​­national origins and pursue specific goals based on these distinct identities and connections. (Also in this respect, one should remember the distinctions between Shi‘i and Sunni Muslims.) When considering the involvement in conflicts—​­and consequently in criminal or terrorist activities—​­of various Muslim, Asian, and African groups whose origins are in different nation-​­states or perceived homelands, more attentive and clearly differentiated examination of their motivations and purposes is needed. And again, as has been noted above, the same applies to the differences among ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporas.

Types of Diasporas Current global events are affecting the emergence and activities of dispersed entities, their four-​­sided relations (with their host-​­land, homeland, kin in other host-​­lands, and international organizations), and the interactions among them and other relevant actors. Therefore, there is a need to reexamine and

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reevaluate the past, present, and potential future of the dispersal phenomenon in connection with the two main theoretical and analytical categories identified earlier: transnational communities and organized ethno-​­ national-​ ­religious diasporas. Such a reexamination would allow us to assess more accurately the goals of and challenges facing these dispersals, their host-​­lands, and their homelands with regard to intrastate conflicts. Despite the application of the popular transnationalist explanatory approach to all dispersals, the term “ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporas” could and should be used to characterize a certain type of dispersals (Sheffer 2006: 118–​­21, 2007a: 192–​­95, 2009: 378–​­80). There is also a need for a theoretical and analytical synthesis of certain elements of the two approaches, and a concise conceptualization of the ethno-​­national diasporic phenomenon and its main characteristics. Nevertheless, as noted above, it should be remembered that members of ethnonational-​­religious diasporas may be active partners in transnational networks, share their ideas and interests, and act on their behalf. For example, some Palestinian and Afghan diasporans are active not only within their ethnonational-​­religious diasporic entities but also in transnational Muslim radical organizations, such as Al Qaeda, which is actually or perceptually part of the Muslim transnational community. The Transnational Approach Essentially, the main idea of the “transnational communities” approach is that transnational entities consist of larger and smaller groups of persons in which some members, although certainly not all, regard themselves as forming coherent entities.1 Purveyors of this approach have generally grouped together all such individuals, their families, their kin, and their wider social groups, and stressed the multiplicity and hybridity of their identities and sense of belonging. In doing so, this approach has minimized the significance of specific ethno-​­national identities, modes of identification, and connections to the countries and societies of origin of some of these individuals and groups. Furthermore, some transnationalist scholars have argued that diasporas should be seen not as given deterritorialized communities that are extensions of ethnic or national groups, but as imagined communities, continuously reconstructed and reinvented (Tsagarousianou 2007: 101–​­17). However, more recently it has been realized that combining all dispersed persons under the same category is problematic because “there are many

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forms of transnational processes and associations beyond migration, and migrants themselves participate in a range of transnational processes and connections” (Glick Schiller 2003: 123). Hence, some adherents to the transnationalist approach now make a quite clear distinction between transnational and ethno-​­national-​­religious entities and argue that, in certain cases, national-​­ religious diasporans may voluntarily become individual ethno-​­ members of transnational networks, but they still maintain their original identity and therefore they belong to the ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporas (Braziel and Mannur 2003: 1–​­18; Levy and Weingrod 2004: 3–​­9; Glick Schiller 2007: 39–​­65). The Ethno-​­National-​­Religious Approach The second approach focuses on ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporas. Since the 1980s, some scholars have argued that most ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporas cannot be viewed as simply a kind of transnational entity (Sheffer 1986: 1–​­15; Safran 1991: 83–​­99). With evidence gathered through qualitative observations of actual developments and quantitative surveys, as well as historical, analytical, and theoretical academic studies of diasporic formations (including their identities, boundaries, modes of organization, patterns of behavior, and activities), these scholars have suggested that ethno-​­national-​ ­religious diasporas form a clearly separate category. Some of these activities include, on the one hand, their “positive” roles in the cultural, social, political, and economic development of their host countries and homelands and in the political support of their kin, and, on the other hand, their “negative” involvement in terrorism and criminal activities on behalf of their homelands and kin. One of the main arguments of this second approach is that the ethno-​ ­national-​­religious diasporic phenomenon should be separated from transnationalism in view of two very basic factors. The first is the growing worldwide perseverance, reawakening, and strengthening of ethnicity, nationalism, and ethno-​­nationalism. This trend strongly reinforces the ethno-​­national identity of many diasporans and facilitates identification with their entity. The second factor is the significant role and various effects of ethno-​­nationalism in most host-​­lands and among most of their dispersed persons, which pushes them to maintain a connection to the entity. As noted above, some transnationalists have realized that nationalism and ethno-​­nationalism, far from being obsolete, are on the rise, and that

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events in homelands of such groups influence these ethnic entities and, consequently, these diasporas influence developments in their homelands. In fact, researchers who adhere to one or the other of the two theories are beginning to realize that to use a single explanation for the entire dispersal phenomenon is not realistic, and that transnational communities and diasporas share characteristics that fit parts of both explanations.2

Transnational Communities and Ethno-​­National-​ ­Religious Diasporas—​­Similarities and Differences Transnational Dispersals The transnational category is composed of widely dispersed groups that vary in size. Not all members in these entities regard themselves as belonging to a transnational community (e.g., not all Cubans in the United States regard themselves as part of what is called the “Latino Diaspora”). In fact, transnational entities are informal nonorganized “networks” rather than formal cohesive organized communities. The term “community” would more accurately characterize some much better organized ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporas. Persons regard themselves, or are regarded by others, as members of transnational networks because they have in common some characteristics (often ill-​­defined): for example, beliefs and affiliations to a religion or a sect (“Muslims,” “Buddhists,” “Catholics”), regional geographic background (“Africans,” “Latinos,” “Arabs”), language (“Francophone,” “Chinese-​­speaking”), or shared ideological beliefs (“Greens” and, in the past, “Communists”). The continued existence and activities of the transnational dispersals are influenced by postmodern trends and ideas, aspects of globalization (such as the ease of migration), current highly developed communication systems, individualization, neoliberalism, and spreading hybrid cultures. Consequently, for example, members of these entities who do not have noticeable physical markers can with relative ease change their cultural, religious, and social affiliations and loyalties—​­to the extreme stage of full assimilation into the societies in the countries in which they live (Espiritu 2003: 2–​­6; Zhou and Xiong 2005: 1147–​­49; Morawska 2009: 69–​­72). In fact, what ties these persons together, and hence also their networks and organizations, are mainly cultural or economic interests. Because members of these entities are influenced by constantly changing factors, their

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boundaries are not clearly drawn, fixed, or stable. Most of those who permanently reside in certain host-​­lands experience a continuous process of cultural hybridization, which causes substantive heterogeneity in the entity at large and also in smaller subgroups residing in the same country, region, or city. As a result, they tend to assimilate or to fully integrate into their host societies, and their memories of their ancestors or of their “original homelands” are not very significant for their continued existence as coherent entities. However, it must be emphasized that not all transnational movements are like this. For example, the Muslim and similar religious transnational movements are influenced by strong historical factors rather than by current developments, which has a profound effect on their involvement in intrastate and international conflicts and other aggressive activities. Ethno-​­National-​­Religious Diasporas The extreme complexity of the diaspora phenomenon makes it vital to elaborate definitions by providing a profile of ethnonational diasporas. The following comprehensive profile covers the most significant characteristics of these entities, and serves as a basis for the more concise definition of the diaspora phenomenon presented later in this chapter.3 An ethno-​­national-​­religious diaspora is a cultural-​­social-​­political-​ ­economic entity of people who are united by the same ethno-​­national origin and who permanently reside as minorities in one host-​­land or in a number of host-​­lands. Such diasporas emerge out of voluntary or forced migration from one ethnonational state or homeland to one or more host countries. Diasporans also experience secondary and even tertiary migration from one host-​ l­and to another. Members of these diasporas maintain their ethnonational identities, which are based on primordial elements, myths, psychological factors, and interests related to their own and to their homelands. Such diasporas seek to create, maintain, and promote communal solidarity. This solidarity is the basis for diasporas’ cultural, social, political, and economic cohesion and for their joint activities. Another important characteristic, especially of core members (nonassimilated or fully integrated) of such entities (even when they are socially, politically, and economically integrated into their host societies), is that they maintain regular contacts with their homelands, regardless of whether or not these are independent states. For this purpose, they create elaborate trans-​­state networks

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that permit and encourage exchange of money, political support, and cultural features with their homelands and with other segments of the same diaspora, wherever these exist. Members of such diasporas are ready to get involved in conflicts related to them, their kin, and their homeland. These networks facilitate the organization and coordination of activities in all relevant spheres. Such activities can create friction with homelands and with host countries, which arise out of highly complex patterns of divided, dual, or ambiguous loyalties, and out of homeland-​­host-​­land relations. The strategies used by diasporans for coping with their complex situations include various degrees of integration (learning to operate within their host-​ l­ and while at the same time maintaining a degree of cultural separation); cultural integration (blending into the host-​­land culture while maintaining their original ethnonational identity), communalism (promoting integration while maintaining themselves as a separate entity); corporatism (establishing representative organizations recognized by host-​­land governments and sociopolitical systems); autonomism (acting primarily in accordance with their own interests while maintaining a certain degree of integration into their host-​ ­land); and isolation. Most members of ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporas select a combined communalist and autonomist strategy, typically following the relevant rules of both homeland and host-​­land.4 Although transnational and ethno-​­ national-​­ religious dispersals share certain characteristics, which have been presented above, it is possible now to clarify the differences between these two categories and enhance our discussion of diasporas’ involvement in conflicts. First, diasporans’ identity and identification prevent core members from full assimilation. Second, diasporans maintain the cultural, social, and political boundaries of their entities through highly developed and effective multiple networks and organizations. Third, diasporans are basically loyal to their homeland and contribute to its existence and development. Fourth, diasporans make actual positive and negative contributions to their four-​­sided ­connections—​­homelands, host-​­lands, international organizations, and kin residing in other host-​­lands. Fifth, mainly through their own organizations, ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporans formulate and implement strategic and tactical policies vis-​­à-​­vis their homelands, host-​­lands, and other involved individuals, groups, and organizations. Two further significant distinctions among ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporas are relevant to this discussion: state-​­linked versus stateless diasporas; and geographically concentrated versus widely scattered diasporas in their

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host-​­lands. In general, geographically concentrated stateless diasporas are more prone to engage in conflict with their countries of origin and host-​­lands than are historical diasporas (diasporas formed in ancient times), modern diasporas (diasporas formed in the modern era), or incipient diasporas (diasporas currently organizing).

Diasporas’ Goals and Involvement in Conflicts Effects of Global Developments Recent wide-​­ranging developments—​­in particular the worldwide economic crisis—​­carry significant implications for diasporas in their relations with their host-​­lands and homelands. The number of diasporas and diasporans is rapidly increasing all over the world. This occurs despite the efforts of many host-​­land governments to reduce the number of immigrants to their states and their permanent residence, which lead to the establishment and increase of organized diasporas. Indeed, diasporas are fighting restrictions on immigration to host-​­lands, and are active in efforts to enable easy acquisition of the right of permanent residence there. Failure in these efforts on the part of diasporas creates the background for their involvement in conflicts. The social, political, and economic capabilities and positions of core members of diasporas have strengthened since the late twentieth century. Many diasporas have representatives in elected and official political institutions in their host-​­lands, are active in the electoral campaigns in their homelands and host-​­lands, or have established effective lobbies. As a result, the ability of such diasporans to protect their members and homelands has increased. Also increasing is the orientation of new migrants and incipient diasporas toward their homelands. This trend creates divided or dual loyalties to their host-​­land and homeland, which may serve as a cause for conflicts with either. Diasporas’ positive and negative activities vis-​­à-​­vis their homelands and host-​­lands are more resourceful and effective. Consequently, ethno-​­national-​ ­religious diasporas are more demanding and active in their attempts to promote their own and their homelands’ interests, including through their involvement in conflicts.

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Goals and Patterns of Conflict Let us turn to diasporas and diasporans that are involved and active in the society, politics, and economics of their homelands, especially in those homelands that are engaged in intrastate or international conflicts (e.g., the Cuban, Iraqi, Lebanese, Jewish, and Palestinian diasporas). In this way, it is possible to assess the main current goals and patterns of diasporic involvement in two types of intrastate conflicts—​­in the homeland and the host-​­land. The recent changes in the ideological and strategic goals, positions, and activities of diasporas, combined with the reaction of host-​­lands’ authorities to these changes, have introduced new grounds for conflicts in which diasporas are engaged. In general, with the worldwide revival of nationalism and ethnicity, even in traditional democracies (e.g., France, Canada, Britain), but also in partially democratic or nondemocratic states (e.g., the former Soviet Union, Turkey, Syria), ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporas are more aggressive in promoting not only their own but also their homelands’ interests and goals, and thus they become involved in conflicts. The following are the most prevalent causes for the involvement of ethno-​ ­ ational-​­religious diasporic individuals and groups in intrastate conflicts and n related activities. The expulsion of kin from the entire or certain parts of the country of origin. Some, but not all, of the various Palestinian diasporic organizations serve as an example of this motivation for a diaspora’s involvement in an ongoing conflict pertaining to their homeland. The struggle for separation and independence in the country of origin. Some of the best known cases in this connection are Ireland, the Basque (which involved ETA that was and still is supported by certain segments of the Basque diaspora in the United States), and the Kurdish case. Absolute and relative cultural, political, social, and economic discrimination and deprivation in the homeland. One example is Hizbullah, a movement that is mainly dedicated to protecting and promoting Shi‘i interests in Lebanon but at the same time identifies with the Palestinians and is opposed to Arab peace negotiations with Israel. Because of this involvement in the Palestinian (and other Arab)-​­Israeli conflict and its multiple connections with Iran, Hizbullah, which has supporters among the Lebanese diaspora, is regarded as part of the Shi‘i transnational religious diaspora. Legal and political persecution in the homeland. The Ethiopian and Cuban

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diasporas are affected by this type of situation in their homelands, leading to their involvement in conflicts there. Absolute and relative cultural, political, social, and economic discrimination in the host-​­land. The Algerian and Moroccan diasporas in France and the Mexican diaspora in the United States (and to some extent also in Canada) are involved in such sensitive situations and, consequently, in conflicts connected to real or perceived discrimination. Blatant racism in both the homeland and the host-​­land. The Jewish Diaspora is still fighting against racism and anti-​­Semitism in various host-​­lands. The general argument in this chapter is that a state-​­linked diaspora will try to promote the resolution and management of a conflict in which it is involved and will “invest” less in its encouragement. On the other hand, stateless diasporas may be more aggressive, demanding, and ready to fight for the achievement of their goals. In connection to this, special attention should be given to the following issues, which are determining factors in both the activity of diaspora and the reaction of the host-​­land and homeland governments to a conflict: (1) the “objective” nature and severity of the conflict; (2) the host-​­land government’s perception of the severity of such a conflict; (3) the type of triangular relationship that exists between the diaspora, its host-​­land, and the diaspora’s homeland; (4) the contact that a host-​­land government has with the social actors in the diaspora and in its homelands; (5) any changes in the diaspora’s involvement during the period of conflict and the postconflict era. An important aspect contributing to diasporas’ participation in conflicts that has not been adequately studied is the increasing economic involvement of diasporas both in their homelands and in their host-​­lands. This change is linked to the ability of diasporans to raise money and donate it to political parties and politicians in their host-​­land, and to transfer remittances to their families and relatives in their homeland and invest money in economic projects. The capabilities of diasporas to invest money in homelands and, in certain cases, to financially support rebellious individuals and groups there are also expanding. All these issues are of increasing significance in diasporas’ behavior and involvement in conflicts, as well as in homeland and host-​­land governments’ reactions. There is a need to consider more carefully how diasporas and diasporans aid aggressive movements and terrorism in their homelands, and their potential for violence in their host-​­lands. Furthermore, investigation must be made into the connection between diasporans’ remittances and

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growing investments in their homelands and their involvement in criminal activities and organizations. These activities have very significant implications for conflict initiation, management, and resolution.

Aggressive Activities of Diasporas Some organized diasporic cores and individual diasporans initiate and endorse intrastate conflicts and violence in their homelands as a means of attaining their various own self-​­interests. They do this by politically and financially supporting the relevant rebellious or criminal groups in their homelands, and by lobbying and pressuring host-​­land governments. However, in other cases, organized diasporas and individual diasporans contribute to the management or resolution of conflicts in their homelands, try to solve conflicts between their homelands and host-​­lands, and reduce their active involvement in postconflict periods (Koinova 2009: 1–​­6). Most deeply rooted conflicts—​­which often involve aggressive, illegal, and even terrorist actions—​­are intended to achieve mainly national, nationalist, or “communal” ethnic goals of transnational entities, and especially of ethno-​ ­national-​­religious diasporas, in their homelands or host-​­lands. Generally, the religious beliefs of members of both categories are only secondary supportive elements of their determination to achieve their goals through involvement in conflicts, and therefore these are not vital elements in determining their inclinations and actual activities. On the other hand, “pure” religious terrorism, which is mainly carried out by transnational movements like Al Qaeda, is usually motivated by an unqualified belief that a divine power has commanded and sanctioned the application of violence and terror for the greater glory of faith. In this context it should be noted that the difficulty in distinguishing between, on the one hand, ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporas and, on the other hand, transnational religious diasporas, is connected to the debate about the role of religion in shaping the identity and the behavioral patterns of ethno-​­national-​­religious entities in general, and those of the diasporic groups discussed in this chapter in particular. While it isn’t known how many dispersed persons are totally motivated by such religious beliefs, it is clear that these numbers are relatively small. The deeper causes, and consequently the more immediate motivations, for ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporic participation in violent and terrorist

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activities in the homeland or host-​­land have remained fairly unchanged over the last decades, including throughout the recent intensified process of globalization and what is called “glocalization” (that is, where individuals, groups, communities, etc., are willing and able to “think globally and act locally”). Although transnational and ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporic entities (both state-​­linked and stateless) exhibit certain similarities with regard to their goals when it comes to involvement in conflicts, some further distinctions must be made between these two types of dispersals with regard to their goals, involvement, and actions. The extreme terrorist activities that have been launched by Al Qaeda and other dispersed Sunni and Shi‘i Muslim groups and organizations have drawn unprecedented attention to such groups. In fact, these conflicts and acts of violence and terror are carried out not by homogeneous and highly organized “Muslim,” “African,” “Latino,” or “Asian” diasporas (that is, transnational diasporas), but rather separately by autonomous members of specific (ethno-​ ­ ational-​­religious) diasporas and organizations. Thus, it is true that the main n basic common ideational and ideological characteristic of groupings such as the Lebanese, Saudi Arabians, Palestinians, Iraqis, and Iranians is that their religion is Islam. Nevertheless, since these entities are not of the same background it should be noted that, for example, Palestinian and Lebanese Christians also participate in these and other transnational entities. That is, members of transnational networks are of different ethno-​­national-​­religious origins and pursue specific ethno-​­national-​­religious goals. As mentioned above, when considering the motivations of fundamentalist Muslim groups and individuals, such as combative groups comprising North African and Asian diasporas, it is difficult to determine whether their activist members are motivated by “pure” religious sentiments or mainly concerned with the political and cultural rights of their co-​­nationals in their homelands and host countries. A further relevant distinction should be made between groups that direct their violent activities at their homelands and groups that act against host-​ ­lands. Transnational entities and organizations (such as Al Qaeda and North African diasporas) mostly target their host countries. On the other hand, ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporas (such as the Irish, Palestinians, Basques, and Turkish Kurds) mostly support violent actions carried out by their kin in their homelands, and only rarely carry out or support terrorism against their host countries. The next distinction is between state-­linked and stateless ethno-­national-­

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religious diasporas. Because state-​­linked ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporas have multiple interests in their host countries and problematic relations with their homelands, they are more reluctant than stateless diasporas to use violence and terrorism to promote their interests. These latter diasporas disguise their real political and social motivations with cultural and religious explanations, as has been seen in cases of the Irish and the more radical Palestinians. In view of the above categorizations, and based on various surveys provided by the Center for Defense Information (CDI) in the United States,5 it is now possible to approximately rank the five types of “others” mentioned at the beginning of this chapter according to the intensity and rates of their participation in conflicts and radical activities. Tourists are increasingly involved in conflicts that result in terrorist activities. More refugees and asylum-​­seekers are also implicated in conflicts and terrorism. However, most of those who carry out terrorist activities are, first, members of ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporas, and second, members of transnational religious dispersals. Thus, twenty-​­five groups that have been surveyed as involved in conflicts or rebellions espousing terrorism in either their homelands or host countries have been linked to ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporas. They performed terrorist acts in addition to their involvement in nonviolent tactical activities such as propaganda campaigns, legal protests, marches, and demonstrations. Furthermore, of the fifty most active terrorist organizations and groups, twenty-​­seven are either segments of ethno-​­national diasporas or supported by such diasporas. Insurgents in Egypt, India (in the Punjab and Kashmir), Indonesia (Aceh), Azerbaijan, Sri Lanka, Northern Ireland, Kosovo, Lebanon, Palestine, Israel, Pakistan, Algeria, Turkish Kurdistan, Iraqi Kurdistan, Iran, Greece, the Philippines, and Russia, all received or are still receiving various kinds of support—​­financial, political, diplomatic, and moral—​­from their respective diasporic communities. Moreover, according to the CDI, twelve organizations using terrorism have proven links to ethno-​­national-​­religious diasporic entities. These are the Palestinian Hamas; the Islamic Jihad and Fatah-​­Tanzim; the Lebanese Hizbullah; the Egyptian Islamic Jihad (EIJ) and Islamic Group (al-​­ Gama‘a al-​ ­Islamiyya; IG); the Irish Republican Army (IRA) (which has dissolved and no longer carries out armed activities); the Algerian Armed Islamic Group (GIA); the Indian Barbar Khalsa International (BKI); the Sri Lankan Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) (now forcibly dissolved); the Turkish Kurdistan Workers Party (PKK); and Al Qaeda (which is connected to, and cooperates with, various ethnonational diasporas).

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The international financial support for Hamas, a group that has been declared a terrorist organization by Washington since 1995, exceeds $100 million per year and it is secretly transferred through Arab countries. As for the LTTE, the annual resources provided by the Tamil diaspora have been estimated at approximately $50 million. Interestingly, this movement transfers the money through African states; several organizations in South Africa—​ ­such as the People Against Sri Lankan Oppression (PASLO), the Dravidians for Peace and Justice (DPJ), and the Tamil Elam Support Movement (TESM)—​­support the LTTE. For instance, the Tamil Rehabilitation Organization (TRO), which is based in Durban, South Africa, collects money for the LTTE, which is then channeled through Australia. In sum, it seems that except for Al Qaeda and a few other militant organizations that are essentially culturally and religiously motivated, the most active and supportive movements and organizations of conflicts and of terrorist actions are ethno-​­national-​­religious stateless diasporas. The next most active movements and organizations are those that try to improve the cultural, political, and economic conditions in their homelands. The following is a brief examination of diasporas’ involvement in criminal acts, which is based again on the information of the CDI. Such involvement of diasporas, again both in their countries of origin and in host-​­lands, is of course not a new phenomenon. However, the collapse of the Soviet Union, the end of the Cold War, and the rapid and far-​­reaching development of global electronic communication systems have prompted a new wave of organized crime on the international level involving diasporans. Thus, ethnic diasporans have been recruited to participate in such organizations, and other diasporans cooperate with such networks. Some diasporans come together in such activities in order to help their diasporas in their struggles both in homelands and in host countries, but most join these organizations to enhance their personal and collective economic interests. Worldwide criminal networks also benefit from their origins in, or connections with, diasporas. Being part of a diaspora, or having close ties with kin in the diaspora, allows members of criminal organizations freedom of movement, access to information, ready-​­made networks of communication, political assistance, cover, and social backing. As with any other businesses, international criminal activity requires enforcement mechanisms and trust, which diasporic networks can easily provide. Increased migration—​­much of which stems from states with weak economies and political instability—​­has created a great demand for both

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larger global networks and their financial support. In many cases, such networks become particularly prominent where immigrant groups are not fully integrated into their host societies. These connections create mutual benefits for diasporans and for their kin in the homeland. However, because of the availability of sophisticated and global communication systems, it is extremely difficult to determine which diasporas and criminal networks contribute to the various activities. The principal activities of these criminal networks are drug trafficking, illegal arms trade, human trafficking, smuggling (especially of women and children for prostitution and servitude), and money laundering. The following are some, but by no means all, criminal networks that operate in or have connections with diasporas: the Italian Mafia; Russian networks; Chinese networks; various Latin American networks (e.g., Mexican), which have lately expanded their interest and activities beyond drug production and trafficking into money laundering and production of counterfeit goods; Nigerian networks, which are active in drug trafficking and sophisticated fraud schemes; Albanian networks, which are small but very active; Sudanese networks, some of which are involved in the conflict in Southern Sudan; and various other networks of Somalis, Cameroons, Iranians, Armenians, and Chechens. The exploratory analysis offered in this chapter thus allows us to come to the following main suggestions concerning diasporas’ terrorist, illegal, and criminal goals and activities. First, most existing diasporas are not entities that collectively pursue any single strategy, and especially not terrorist or criminal ones. Second, it is a grave mistake to generalize that all core diasporic members partake in terrorist and criminal activities or support them; in fact, in most cases—​­such as the Irish, Palestinian, Turkish, Basque, or Kurdish diasporas—​­only a relatively small number of individuals or groups of core members support such activities or actually participate in them. Third, in most cases, terrorism does not constitute a permanent but rather a temporary strategy of diasporas; essentially, such tactics are intended to achieve the social and political goals of the conflict a diaspora is involved in, and when these are met and the conflict is resolved, the diaspora will change its behavior. Fourth, in most cases the use of terror as a tactic is confined to relatively short periods of crisis or acute conflict in homelands, host countries, or other states where their kin reside; hence, the use of violence does not transform entire diasporic entities into warrior communities.

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Effects of Diasporic Involvement in Conflicts One of the most challenging tasks in analyzing relations between governments and groups, organizations, and individuals is determining the influence of public statements and actual actions of these actors on government policies. This difficulty persists even when there are indications of correlations between, on the one hand, statements of demands and actual activities of individuals and entities and, on the other hand, positive government responses to these statements and actual activities. Without the evidence of original and accurate statements of senior policy makers or documentation created by such persons stating clearly that specific actors influenced them, it is extremely difficult to ascertain the definitive sources for policy-​­making and implementation. This very basic observation also applies to diasporas’ influence on the policies and activities of host-​­land and homeland leaders, governments, and organizations involved in the conflicts discussed here. For example, despite the arguments of many analysts, including Mearsheimer and Walt (2007: 11–​ 1­ 4), it is very difficult to determine the precise impact of the Jewish diaspora on the American government’s Middle Eastern and Israeli-​­Palestinian policies since the 1980s. While the United States and other host-​­land governments undoubtedly make their own independent decisions according to their own interests, the contacts between the Palestinian Authority, Israeli governments, and the U.S. administration is one of the main reasons to question the role and influence of the Jewish Diaspora in general—​­and AIPAC in particular. In fact, since the 1980s, many of the policies and actions of the United States regarding Israel and the conflicts in which Israel is involved have been directly influenced by the various Israeli governments themselves, rather than by AIPAC. Nevertheless, leading activist diasporans and well-​­organized and interconnected diasporic entities and organizations can and actually do influence policies under certain circumstances and in certain spheres of action. Hence, below are general initial suggestions concerning the effects of diasporas on the policies and actions of other involved actors. It should be noted that these suggestions are tentative, as further studies are required with regard to this “tricky” and complex sphere of issues. The first of these suggestions is that in certain cases in the absence of clear policies, diasporas and their members can influence the formulation and implementation of the internal and external policies of both the host-​­land

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and the homeland. This means that when diasporas are fully aware of their own needs and goals, they try to follow very closely the policies and mood of host-​­land governments. But if they recognize a lacuna in a host-​­land’s policies, they can step in and effect, and even cause the implementation of a policy. The second suggestion is that the success of a diaspora’s efforts to influence government policies and actions depends on whether its members and their organizations do not contradict basic and accepted host-​­land interests. As in other cases, the chances of a diaspora receiving a positive reaction and promoting supportive action are clearly much better when there is an overlapping, or at least a close correlation, between the host-​­land’s and the diaspora’s interests and goals. The third suggestion is that diasporans’ success in influencing host governments depends on their ability to coordinate among the main actors in the homeland as well as among various persons and institutions in the host-​ ­land—​­and to neutralize whatever opposition exists. A relevant example of this is the current case of the American Jewish Diaspora: there have recently surfaced oppositional Jewish groups to the established Jewish lobby (AIPAC). These groups (such as J Street) promote policies that do not fit the ideas and actual positions of all members of the American Jewish Diaspora. In the same way that AIPAC created difficulties for the Rabin government in Israel (1992–​ 1­ 995), these relatively new organizations may make it more difficult for rightist Israeli governments to achieve their goals vis-​­à-​­vis the Palestinian-​­Israeli conflict. The fourth suggestion is that voting patterns of organized diasporans in host-​­land elections may have a great deal to do with how successful diasporas are in influencing elected officials on policies that concern their interests with regard to local and homeland conflicts. Thus, for example, despite the problematic position of Cubans in the United States and the policy of the U.S. government, the way that Cuban Americans vote may increase the cooperation between them and the administration, augmenting the chances of new policy in the U.S.-​­Cuban conflict. The fifth suggestion is that individual leaders and activists may have greater influence and produce more and better results for diasporas or for their homelands than established diasporic organizations. This, of course, does not contradict the undeniable significance of the establishment of organizations in all diasporas, which is an essential process in ensuring their survival and performance. Although the influence of these individual diasporans

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is particularly prevalent when they are friends or well-​­known supporters of leading officials in the host-​­land, their success depends a great deal on their personalities and modes of operation. The sixth suggestion is that a diaspora’s ability to influence a host-​­land government’s decisions and actions with regard to conflicts depends on how skillful it is at lobbying parliament and the administration, and this, in turn, depends on its ability to use sophisticated media and communication networks in launching public campaigns. These gain the attention and support not only of politicians and officials but also of the general public (Brinkerhoff 2009: 2, 6–​­13). In sum, these “soft” preconditions for effective influence of collective diasporic entities and individual diasporans on host-​­land and homeland governments concerning conflicts are essential to organized diasporas and individual diasporans. Despite the inherent difficulties in examining this aspect of the relations between diasporas and governments, further study would provide better information and consequently more insight into this very sensitive issue.

Conclusion This chapter has put forth a number of arguments and suggestions regarding the roles of diasporas in intrastate conflicts. First, when considering the involvement of diasporas and diasporans in conflicts and in various types of violence, one should not indiscriminately lump together all of these individuals and entities into one category. Second, we should emphasize the need for a discussion of the similarities and differences between transnational communities and ethnonational-​­religious diasporas: that is, between their positions and their ability to achieve their goals. Third, despite their similarities, transnational and diasporic entities should be analyzed separately. Fourth, the most prevalent causes for diasporas and diasporans to become involved in conflicts are expulsion from a country of origin; the struggle for separation and independence in the country of origin; absolute and relative cultural, political, social, and economic discrimination and deprivation in homelands and other states; absolute and relative cultural, political, social, and economic discrimination in host countries; legal and political persecution in homelands; and blatant racism in both homelands and host countries. Fifth, members of transnational entities and ethno-​­ national-​­ religious diasporas,

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especially stateless diasporas, do not use illegal and aggressive methods as an end in themselves, but as a tactic when dealing with relevant conflicts. Sixth, it is difficult to assess the impact of the involvement of disaporas in such conflicts; therefore, additional research is needed in this regard. We should remember that many cores of diasporic entities and groups engage, first and foremost, in activities intended to enhance the cultural, civic, and economic well-​­being of their own community and their homeland. Therefore, care must be taken not to stigmatize entire diasporic entities and thereby create a permanently hostile environment, making the lives of diasporans harder than they already are and potentially pushing these persons and organizations to use dangerous tactics to achieve their own and homelands’ goals.

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Chapter 5

Turkey’s Dual Problem: Between Armenia and the Armenian Diaspora Nava Löwenheim

For over ninety years a debate has been waging over how to define the tragedy of the Ottoman Armenians during World War I, referred to here as the Armenian genocide. The Armenian genocide was the culmination of an intrastate conflict between Armenians and Turks that began in the nineteenth century and escalated during World War I, when the Ottoman Empire lashed out at the Armenian minority that resided within its borders. The Ottoman Armenians were forcibly deported from their homes to the Syrian and Iraqi deserts, and under these harsh conditions many of them perished.1 The use of the term “genocide” to refer to this tragedy later became sacrosanct to Armenians and taboo to Turks (Akçam 2006: 9). Indeed, Turkey, the successor state of the Ottoman Empire, refuses to recognize the Armenians’ suffering during World War I as genocide and considers claims of its responsibility for this wrongdoing to be absolutely false. The Turks deny that any intention or program to deliberately destroy the Armenian people even existed, let alone was executed by the Young Turks regime, which ruled the Ottoman Empire in that period. The Armenian fatalities during World War I have been ascribed to intercommunal conflict, hunger, disease, and other mishaps that usually occur during war. Indeed, when Turkish officials make reference to this episode, they call it “the so-​­called Armenian genocide” or “the Armenian question.”2 For decades, Turkey invested much effort (and millions of U.S. dollars) in attempts to ward off claims about the Armenian genocide. It not only ex-

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cluded these events from its own state memory but also launched an aggressive campaign to induce other states to follow suit (Göçek 2008: 102; Tavernise 2009). The result has been an unresolved historical and political conflict between Turks and Armenians over the fate of the Armenians in the period 1915–​­1917. More precisely, it is an “identity conflict,” which relates to existential issues (considered so at least by one side), and as a result is considered particularly obstinate (Auerbach 2005: 42, 51, 2009: 294–​­95; Seul 1999: 553, 564).3 An important development in this context occurred in 2008 with the attempts to normalize relations between Turkey and the Republic of Armenia. Until 1993, Turkey and Armenia (which was established in 1991, following the disintegration of the Soviet Union) had no diplomatic relations and their shared border remained closed. Moreover, both states have been involved in the conflict over Nagorno-​­Karabakh (a disputed enclave within Azerbaijan with an Armenian majority; from 1988 to 1994 a violent struggle raged over this region). However, in September 2008, Abdullah Gül became the first Turkish president to visit Armenia, and he and his Armenian counterpart, Serge Sarkisian, watched a football match between their national teams in the FIFA 2010 World Cup. This “football diplomacy” was the culmination of over a year of secret negotiations (beginning in 2007) between Turkey and Armenia on the renewal of diplomatic relations between the two states (Lindenstrauss 2009). On October 10, 2009, Turkish and Armenian representatives met in Zurich and signed protocols aimed at reopening the borders between the two states and establishing economic cooperation (Lima 2009; Garbis 2009).4 The agreement, reached through Swiss mediation, was a display of considerable political will by the Turkish and Armenian governments (Iskandaryan 2010: 4). However, the ratification process has not advanced in either state (Lindenstrauss 2010b: 3), and in April 2010 Armenia decided to suspend the procedure of ratifying the agreement’s protocols. One of the factors complicating the Turkey-​­Armenia interplay was that this was not merely a relationship between two sovereign states. Turkey faces two main protagonists with regard to the Armenian question: the state of Armenia as well as Armenian diasporic groups (which are sometimes backed by their host-​­states). This chapter focuses on the triangular relationship involving Turkey, Armenia, and the Armenian diaspora. I argue that in addition to the difficulties posed by these relations, both Turkey and the Armenian diaspora have rigid collective identities that sustain the continuation of the controversy. For Turkey, any acknowledgment of the Armenian genocide and

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of its predecessor’s responsibility for it challenges its state memory and thus its national identity—​­as memory and identity have reciprocal relations. For the Armenian diaspora, Turkey’s continued refusal to acknowledge the Armenian genocide threatens the diaspora’s distinctive core identity as a victim diaspora (R. Cohen 1997: 27–​­28, chap. 2). Only the third actor in this triangle, the Armenian state, has more flexible tendencies toward the past, enabling it to approach Turkey. For Armenia the shadow of the past does not take precedence over its regional interests. Armenia has therefore agreed to discuss and negotiate the genocide issue, establishing a subcommittee with Turkey to examine the “historical dimension” of the two states’ relations (Shain 2002: 131; Tokatlian 2009; Dixson 2010: 477). However, the Armenian diaspora has thus far prevented Armenia from normalizing its relations with Turkey. The majority of diaspora Armenians have rejected the rapprochement process between Turkey and Armenia because of the former’s refusal to recognize the genocide.5 As the Turkish-​­Armenian case suggests, nonstate actors such as diasporas have become prominent agents for change in the international arena, and they may become serious competitors of the state, particularly when identity-​ r­ elated conflicts are concerned. Thus, while the state still has the prerogative to define and promote its interests, diasporic groups can sometimes challenge the perception of the national interest presented by the homeland (Shain 2007: 104). This is done not only by voicing the diaspora’s opinions on national matters but also by manipulating domestic politics in the homeland and in various host-​­lands (as well as in other states), and, ultimately, influencing international relations. In light of the Armenian diaspora’s active involvement in Turkey and Armenia’s relations, they find themselves in a complex situation. Although Turkey almost solved one problem with the signing of the Turkish-​­Armenian protocols in 2009, it failed to solve the second problem of the struggle waged against it by the Armenian diaspora. And since the perceptions of Armenia and the Armenian diaspora toward Armenian-​­Turkish relations do not always coincide,6 Turkey faces a dual problem that makes it difficult to preserve its policy of denial regarding the “Armenian question.” Moreover, the rigidness of Turkey and the Armenian diaspora has extended the triangular relations into a four-​­player game, as Turkey has had to defend its position over the past facing the Armenian diaspora, Armenia, and host or other interested states. This situation also presents a theoretical and practical challenge to international relations in general as conflict resolution is no longer the monopoly of states.

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The Roots of the Conflict In the period of the Ottoman Empire, Ottoman sultans called Armenians the “loyal millet.” Indeed, many writings on the Armenian genocide mention that the Armenians lived in relative peace under Ottoman rule. However, as a non-​­Muslim minority, the Armenians were never considered Ottoman citizens but, rather, subjects of the Sultan, and thus vulnerable to oppression and discrimination. The decision that led to the Armenian genocide and Turkey’s official position toward this issue are both rooted in the process of the Ottoman Empire’s decline. A toxic mixture of religion, anxiety about the empire’s future, and xenophobia created growing mistrust and resentment toward the Armenians, resulting in Muslim-​­Christian clashes that eventually led to the 1915 genocide (Akçam 2006: 19–​­20). During the nineteenth century the non-​­Muslim communities in the Ottoman Empire were struggling to achieve basic rights and freedoms. The European powers took advantage of this as a pretext to interfere in domestic Ottoman affairs on behalf of “their” clients. The failure of the Tanzimat (reorganization reforms) enabled Britain and France to extend more influence on the Ottoman Empire’s financial affairs. This involvement in the affairs of the so-​­called Sick Man of Europe, and specifically Britain’s interference in pro-​ ­Christian reforms accompanied by growing control over the Ottoman economy, resulted—​­to borrow a term from psychology—​­in the displacement of Ottoman resentment from the foreign powers to the Armenians. Indeed, in this period Armenians began to be perceived by Ottoman officials, local authorities, and Turkish intellectuals as a subversive alien element that consorted with foreign powers against the Ottoman Empire.7 Another important factor that added to the mistrust and resentment of Ottoman Muslims toward the Armenians in this period was article 61 of the Berlin Treaty of 1879. The Russo-​­Ottoman war of 1877–​­1878 elevated the Armenian question from a domestic issue to international importance when the Armenians, for the first time, were singled out as beneficiaries among the non-​­Muslim minorities in the Ottoman Empire. Under article 61, Sultan Abdul Hamid II was expected to carry out reforms and guarantee the Armenians’ security. However, the Armenians did not gain much from their new international status: the Ottomans did not fulfill their commitment and, moreover, the Armenians were attacked by Kurdish tribes in the eastern provinces (Akçam 2006: 39; Bloxham 2005: 37, 44–​­45; Chalk and Jonassohn

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1990: 253–​­55). The revolt that broke out in Sasun in 1894 after Armenian villagers refused to pay taxes to their Kurdish lords led Abdul Hamid II to a crucial decision: to deal with the Armenian question “not by reform but by blood.” This massive violence in eastern Anatolia during the years 1884–​­1886 was considered by the Armenians the first step in a series of massacres against them, culminating in the 1915 genocide (Suny 2004: 34; Chalk and Jonassohn 1990: 256). The bloody suppression of the Armenian revolt led to yet more interference by Britain, France, and Russia, forcing the Ottomans to accept a reform package that did not materialize. It should be noted that despite their apparent concern for the Armenians’ well-​­being, the European powers were more focused on pursuing their own political and economic interests, which led them to promise the Ottoman rulers they would not undertake any unilateral action to help the Armenians (Akçam 2006: 41–​­43). In the last decade of the nineteenth century, the social exclusion of ­national-​­religious groups, among them the Armenians, was an official policy in the Ottoman Empire. The decline of the empire, together with an increased interference of Britain, France, and Russia in its sovereignty and its pan-​ I­ slamist ideology, made the Armenians into scapegoats for Ottoman rulers. They were portrayed as enemies who collaborate with the Christian world, striving to bring about the empire’s downfall. The revolution of the Young Turks in 1908 did not bring with it any significant improvement for the Armenians, as Turkish nationalism grew even stronger. Pan-​­Islamism, Turkism, and Muslim superiority remained the dominant ideas and Christian communities were still suspected as aiming to destroy the Turkish homeland (Akçam 2006: 43, 48, 50; Chalk and Jonassohn 1990: 259). Anxiety over the Turks’ future in light of the empire’s decline, together with exclusion of “others,” now stood at the basis of the Turkish national identity. The Young Turks, or the Committee of Union and Progress (CUP), opposed demands for autonomy or reforms and mistrusted the Christian minorities: they wished to see Turkey as a homogenized Turkish state without them. Between 1912 and 1918, the CUP followed an aggressively revisionist agenda (Akçam 2006: 55, 58, 102; Dadrian 1993: 187, 2003: 278; Zarakol 2010: 12). It is against the backdrop of these developments and the military defeats of winter 1914–​­1915 that the Turkish decision regarding the Armenian genocide took place. The Armenian diaspora was shaped as a consequence of the genocide in World War I. Many Armenians escaped from the Ottoman Empire and sought refuge throughout the world. They settled in the United States, Western Europe (with a large community in France), and Russia. A small

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Armenian community remained in Turkey and most of its members reside in Istanbul. The genocide became the source of the diaspora’s collective memory and the defining element in its identity (Kurz and Merari 1985: 3; Cooper and Akçam 2005: 83; Kirakosyan 2010: 54). For over nine decades, the historiography of the Armenians’ fate during the war has been characterized by deep controversy. Ever since its establishment, Turkey has relegated the Armenian genocide to oblivion (Akçam 2006: 11). Turkey’s Armenian policy since then has been aimed at refuting genocide allegations and Turkey’s alleged responsibility for it. The Turkish position is not only an outright denial that there was a plan to destroy the Armenian minority that was carried out, as is claimed by opposing scholars, especially from the Armenian diaspora. But Turkey also posits that the steps taken against the Armenians were justified in order to protect national security against Armenian insurgency (Bloxham 2003: 142). The Treaty of Lausanne (1923) marks the beginning of silencing the genocide issue in the official Turkish discourse and keeping it from entering the Turkish public discourse, as Turkey refused to incorporate any reference to the Armenian massacres in this treaty (Dixson 2010: 470). Silence is reached when people collectively ignore something they are aware of, what Zerubavel terms “the elephant in the room” (Zerubavel 2006: 11, 14). It is the foremost form of denial, which also involves an effort to actively avoid or ignore something, even pressuring others to disregard a subject (Zerubavel 2010: 33, 38). In sum, after World War I, a minority that once resided within the Ottoman Empire became a diaspora. In its efforts to challenge Turkey’s continuous silence with regard to the Armenian genocide, the Armenian diaspora is a meaningful party in a triangular relationship with Turkey and Armenia and plays a decisive role in regard to the future relations of the two states.

Diasporas’ Role in Conflicts: A Powerful Actor A diaspora, which is a sociopolitical formation that originates in voluntary or forced migration, is defined as people with a common ethnonational origin who reside as minorities outside the borders of their ethnic or religious homeland in one or more host countries (Sheffer 2003: 9). As independent, assertive organized political actors, diasporas not only actively help shape their homeland’s or kin states’ foreign policies, but also have the power to influence the policies of the host-​­land (their state of residence), and even

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other countries’ foreign policies (Shain and Barth 2003: 453; Sheffer 2003: 64, 154, 158, 177). Diasporas might interfere in the homeland’s foreign policy if they consider that it affects the “people’s interests” as defined by them (Shain and Barth 2003: 455). In recent decades, diasporas have had an important role in intrastate conflicts (including identity conflicts) and peace processes in their homelands, where they can simultaneously act as “peacemakers” and “peace-​­breakers.”8 The Irish diaspora in the United States, for example, played a major part in sustaining the conflict in Northern Ireland; however, it also helped bring about a peaceful settlement to the conflict (Bercovitch 2007: 33). This suggests that in our globalized era, conflicts are no longer simply contests between two or more states or groups. Other actors, among them nonstate actors (in this case, diasporas), have a crucial impact on the direction of the conflict (2007: 18, 36). Therefore, in some cases we are in fact facing a three-​ l­ evel game of peacemaking, where the diaspora is considered to be an important actor by the homeland’s leaders, by the homeland’s adversaries, and by the governments of their host states. In addition, because of the diaspora’s international activities, other states can also view it in this way (Shain 2002: 116). The pivotal role that diasporas play in conflicts raises the issue of diasporas’ identity and the impact of this identity on the international level. Indeed, diasporas are a major force of identity formation (Shain and Barth 2003: 450; Shain 2002: 121, 128, 138). This is particularly true with regard to diasporas that Cohen calls victim diasporas (R. Cohen 1997: 27–​­28, chap. 2). A victim diaspora is one that was coerced to migrate due to an aggressive action toward it or a catastrophic event remembered as a collective trauma by the group’s members. Victim diasporas tend to have more extreme attitudes toward conflicts in the homeland they were forced to leave (Lindenstrauss 2010a: 7–​­8, 2010b: 6; Gazit 2011: 8, 11, 15). The reason for this likely lies in a rigid attachment to conflict-​­related identity. As Pirkkalainen and Abdile (2009: 8) note, the conflict that led to their diasporic status plays a central role in the identity development of the diaspora‘s members. Moreover, according to Cohen (1997; 23, chap. 2, 180), the event that led to the (coerced) migration is a constitutive trauma for diasporic groups, and thus a key component of their identity. This identity—​­which is a hybrid identity9—​­serves as a mobilization tool of a shared transnational “we feeling” (Adler 2005: 5) that unites diaspora communities and can encourage a response to major events. Because diasporas perceive themselves as guardians of the group’s identity and

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protectors of its collective memory—​­often a memory of pain, dispossession, and trauma (Cheran 2003: 4)—​­identity not only determines their interests but can also become the interest itself (Shain and Barth 2003: 455). Although diasporas are outside the state, they still consider themselves to be “inside” the people (459). They sustain a collective memory of their homeland and have a duty to pass on the memory of the collective trauma and grievance to their decedents, idealize their ancestral home and keep a strong sense of symbolic attachment to the homeland, and wish to see it restored.10 To conclude, the conflicts that diasporic communities tend to be involved in are usually constructed and perceived as zero-​­sum conflicts and they generally concern identity, beliefs, and values (Bercovitch 2007: 24). These are identity conflicts, where the need for identity is at the heart of the dispute (Auerbach 2009: 294). Furthermore, diaspora groups with prevailing traumatic memories tend to compromise less and therefore exacerbate the protracted nature of conflicts (Lyons 2007: 530). Peace processes involving the homeland might pose a threat to the diaspora‘s identity, leading it to take the role of peace wreckers.

The Persistence of the Turkish-​­Armenian Conflict The Armenian diaspora’s involvement in the relations between Turkey and Armenia created a triangular relationship that transcends interstate relations. I argue that this triangle, on which I elaborate below, constitutes one of the major explanations for the continuation of the Turkish-​­Armenian identity conflict. This is because in this triangle, a nonstate actor, the Armenian diaspora, holds what amounts to a veto power over the two states, as it can decide how the relations between them would develop. When trying to account for the persistence of the Turkish-​­Armenian conflict, it should also be emphasized that both Turkey and the Armenian diaspora have rigid identities in relation to how their shared past should be approached and how they perceive each other.11 A rigid identity leads an actor to view the “other” as an enemy. This is how Armenian diasporic communities perceive Turkey (because of its refusal to acknowledge the genocide), as well as how Turkey perceives the Armenian diaspora. A flexible identity, on the other hand, enables an actor to view the “other” as a rival or even a friend,12 and thus to acknowledge the other’s rights and reach a compromise that would put an end to the conflict. Whereas a rigid actor asks,

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“What can I do with the past?” or perceives it as an insoluble problem, a flexible actor asks, “What can the past do for me?” (Olick 2007: 20). Given that Armenia, in 2009, was willing to reach an agreement with Turkey and agreed to the establishment of an academic committee to discuss the past, and since the objection of the people in Armenia to the deal with Turkey was more moderate than expected (Lindenstrauss 2010b: 9–​­10), one can regard Armenia as the most flexible actor in this triangular relationship. When its identity is contested and problematized by a counternarrative, the rigid actor characteristically reacts to this challenge by clinging to the narrative that sustains this identity, valorizes the past (Megill 1998: 40), and continues the conflict. The rigid actor refuses to acknowledge the other side‘s counternarrative, because it threatens its ontological security. States, like individuals, need ontological security (or, the security of the self, the security of being), which creates a sustainable identity and feeling of stability about a social order (Giddens 1984: 50, 86, 375; Steele 2005: 526; Epstein 2007: 14).13 Even conflict and dangerous relations can offer actors ontological security: as long as these relations are stable, actors will prefer to preserve them (Mitzen 2006: 342). The Turkish-​­Armenian identity conflict provides solid ground for both Turkey and the Armenian diaspora by upholding their historical narrative and, thus, their familiar self-​­perceptions. Neither actor, therefore, intends to meet the other halfway. However, if Turkey and Armenia were to ratify the 2009 protocols, the Armenian diaspora would experience a growing threat to its ontological security. And since the question of the Armenian genocide has been internationalized, Turkey might also feel a growing threat to its ontological security. To sum up, at the heart of the triangular tension among Turkey, Armenia, and the Armenian diaspora stands the issue of identity. Indeed, this triangular formation is a major hurdle in itself. However, the rigid attachment of Turkey and the Armenian diaspora to their conflict-​­related identity complicates things even more.

A Dynamic Game Involving State and Nonstate Actors The Turkish-​­Armenian interaction began with two main actors, both domestic in nature: the Ottoman Empire and its Armenian minority. Until Armenia came into the picture, there were also two actors, though now the Armenian

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side was represented by the diaspora. It seemed that as long as the game was played between Turkey and the Armenian diaspora, no settlement could be reached. The reason was the relentless activity of the diaspora to achieve an acknowledgment of the genocide by Turkey while Turkey insisted upon denying the genocide. When Armenia entered the game, a triangle was formed and the game changed, as the rapprochement process between Armenia and Turkey demonstrated. In what follows, I elaborate on the triangular relationship among Turkey, Armenia, and the Armenian diaspora. It should be noted, however, that the considerable influence of Armenian diasporic groups in their host-​­lands has caused the latter to become involved in the genocide issue as well, turning the triangular game into a four-​­player game. In other words, when defending its position regarding its past, Turkey confronts not only Armenia and the Armenian diaspora, but also several host-​­states of Armenian diasporic groups, as well as other interested states. The Emergence of Triangular Relations Claims that its history includes a wrongdoing are liable to undermine a state’s official narrative and present it with dilemmas that cannot be easily resolved because of the shameful nature of these acts. Therefore, Turkey, like other states facing similar dilemmas, uses strategies of silencing and denial of problematic past events. Silence and denial are common reactions of a rigid actor to the accusation of wrongdoing (Zerubavel 2006: 3–​­5). According to exiled Turkish scholar Taner Akçam (2001, 2004: 40, 59, 209, 211, 237) Turkish society lacks historical awareness, and forgetfulness is a social disease in Turkey. The Turkish people lost their connection to written history before 1928, after the state replaced Arabic letters with Latin ones, which made them dependent upon the history presented by the state (Akçam 2006: 11). This socially constructed disinclination to consider the past, which is strengthened through censorship and taboo14 and which prevents people from discussing even the possibility of an Armenian genocide, is a tool to protect and preserve a certain identity and guarantee ontological security for Turkish society. Indeed, for many decades even the notion of an Armenian genocide caused resentment, rage, and feelings of being persecuted among Turks. Turkey’s decision to deny the genocide brought about the identity conflict between Turks and Armenians that constantly threatens Turkish identity. Paradoxically, Turkey has created and is responsible for this continued threat: its systematic disregard of the Armenian genocide was eventually challenged

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and confronted by the Armenian diaspora, and thus a two-​­player game, albeit of a different type, came into being. Indeed, in 1965, on the fiftieth anniversary of the genocide, the victims ceased their silence. The turning point, however, came only a decade later, in the mid-​­1970s. This belated reaction of the Armenians can be traced to two developments: first, at this point the Armenian diaspora established itself economically in its host countries; and second, Armenian concerns for the continuing situation of exile and the possible loss of Armenian identity were on the rise (Aghanian 2007: 102–​­5; Bloxham 2005: 215). During the Cold War, Turkey’s strategic importance prevented Western acknowledgment of the Armenian genocide (Aghanian 2007: 90, 102). This situation likely contributed to the Armenian diaspora’s frustration. A frustrated victim of a wrongdoing may become violent when the wrongdoer consistently refuses to acknowledge its act as a wrong. This was the case when the Armenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia (ASALA) began to launch terror attacks against Turkish officials in 1975, aiming to end the “conspiracy of silence” surrounding the Armenian genocide (Kurz and Merari 1985: 1, 3).15 In the 1980s, diplomacy became a favored tool for Armenian groups, which began lobbying the governments of their host-​­lands to acknowledge the events of World War I as genocide (Cooper and Akçam 2005: 83).16 Despite the Armenian diaspora’s lobbying, by the time the Armenians revived the debate over the past in the 1970s, Turkey had already learned how to pressure other states every time the Armenian question emerged (Bloxham 2005: 218). For Turkey, the silencing of discussions of the Armenian suffering in other states—​­discussions that present alternative narratives that might percolate into Turkey and challenge its current identity—​­is considered the most important element to ward off Armenian diasporic efforts to gain more international support. Indeed, Turkey invested substantial resources and time to offset the Armenian diaspora’s lobbying activities. In spite of this, over a dozen European states have acknowledged the Armenian genocide and urged Turkey to do the same. ASALA’s terror attacks, together with diasporic lobbying, forced Turkey to move to a defensive stance and change its strategy from backstage silencing to a forefront policy of active denial. This denial, in turn, has encountered fierce counteractivity from the Armenian diaspora. Ever since Armenia achieved its independence in 1991, the Armenian diaspora has been part of its domestic political scene. The diaspora has a great influence on its foreign policy-​­making process and is very much involved in

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Armenia’s social and economic life through money transfers and political advocacy in their host countries. The critical role the diaspora has in setting Armenia’s foreign policy stems from its major interest in shaping Armenian national identity. Diasporic political parties went to Armenia and became politically active. The most powerful among these, the Dashnaktsutyun (or the Armenian Revolutionary Federation),17 is very committed to the national ideology. Compared with Armenia, which is a new and weak state (and therefore subject to external influence and highly dependent on the Armenian diaspora’s support),18 the diaspora is strong, influential, organized, and has an important lobbing role. Whereas the diaspora is in a position that enables it to confront Turkey, Armenia faces great international challenges, prominent among them the Nagorno­-​­Karabakh conflict19 as well as its relations with Turkey (Shain and Barth 2003: 466, 468–​­69, 471–​­72; Tölölyan 2007: 112; Iskandaryan 2010: 45). In signing the protocols in 2009, Turkey and Armenia both decided to put the problematic past aside. While Turkey’s reasons for doing so stem from an attempt to preserve its ontological security, Armenia mainly wished to establish normal diplomatic relations with Turkey. As a state, Armenia’s considerations are quite different from those of the Armenian diaspora. First, Armenia likely takes into consideration that it is weaker than Turkey. Second, relations with Turkey will benefit Armenia’s economy. Finally, relations with Turkey will end Armenia’s political isolation, which has been imposed by Turkey, Azerbaijan, and the instability in Georgia (Lindenstrauss 2009). Because Armenia can be characterized as a flexible actor, it was able to compromise and sign the protocols in 2009. Similar utilitarian considerations guided Israeli-​ ­West German relations in the 1950s. Israel’s dependency on German reparations served as a strong incentive for it to approach West Germany in spite of strong objections from world Jewry and opposition within Israel itself. West Germany, unlike Turkey, acknowledged the crimes perpetrated against the Jews during World War II and issued an apology. Even though this apology was partial, problematic, and driven mostly by political considerations, it did facilitate the reparation agreement and the establishment of diplomatic relations between Israel and West Germany (Löwenheim 2009: 553). It is important to note that after the establishment of the Republic of Armenia, Turkey was among the first states to recognize its independence. However, the relations between Turkey and Armenia soon deteriorated on account of the Nagorno-​­Karabakh dispute (which began in 1988), and the shared border was closed in 1993. The involvement of the Armenian diaspora

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in the Nagorno-​­Karabakh conflict is one of the major hurdles that Turkey-​ ­Armenia relations confront. The fact that the Armenian diaspora has not acted monolithically with regard to this issue has convoluted things even more (Tölölyan 2007: 114). The shadow of this dispute was very much present in the protocols‘ signing, and it is connected to the current standstill of the rapprochement process. For Turkey, the Armenian diaspora’s inclusive involvement in Armenia’s foreign policy presents a major obstacle to achieving an agreement with Armenia that would benefit both states and, ultimately, uphold Turkey’s policy on the Armenian “question.” Indeed, so long as the 2009 protocols are not ratified, the clause on a historical subcommittee authorized by both parties to investigate the past will not be implemented. This clause clashed with Armenia’s longstanding insistent opposition to such deliberations (Lindenstrauss 2010b: 13; Dixson 2010: 477). However, it is possible that if Turkey had faced Armenia alone in their rapprochement process, this clause could have been implemented. This is because it had the potential to lead to change in the future, and it also held a promise to leave the past behind (Dixon 2010: 477). Indeed, the proposed subcommittee could have lightened Turkey‘s burden, stemming from its difficult past, by leaving history in the hands of historians (Marutyan 2010: 31). Being ontologically secure means that a group’s collective memory or narrative is not challenged. This is what Armenian diasporic groups strive to achieve through their activity in their host countries, as well as in Armenia: they struggle to commemorate the Armenian genocide, which Turkey has contested for over nine decades. Like Turkey—​­but unlike Armenia—​­the Armenian diaspora can be characterized as having a rigid identity. The reason for this lies in its being a victim diaspora. As mentioned above, a victim diaspora originates from a traumatic event, which is the cornerstone of its collective identity and which, moreover, leads its members to emphasize hardships and cling to the memory of past suffering (Lindenstrauss 2010a: 7–​­8). Having a rigid identity means that the Armenian diaspora in Western states—​­which is usually well-​­organized, easily united on identity issues, and driven by identity (Shain and Barth 2003: 466)—​­will not support relations with Turkey or, of course, the rapprochement between Armenia and Turkey until the latter acknowledges the genocide (Lindenstrauss 2010b: 12). The diaspora is therefore more persistent in fighting against Turkey’s denial than the Armenian state. Indeed, excluding the acknowledgment of the genocide from the 2009

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protocols indicates that for Armenia this issue could be subordinated to other issues (for example, Armenia‘s economic interests). The diaspora, for its part, perceives the protocols as a failure to represent the Armenian people. Struggles over who represents the people and thus over the definition of the nation and its interests cause tensions between the diaspora and Armenia. Because the conflict involves a transnational independent actor (the diaspora), Armenia, and host countries, Turkey cannot restrict its interactions to the familiar government-​­to-​­government level. On the one hand, Turkey’s identity is constantly being challenged by the Armenian diaspora and supporting states, resulting in ontological insecurity. On the other hand, Armenia strives to achieve some agreement with Turkey but is too weak to resist the diaspora’s influence on its foreign policy. Turkey is not ready yet to confront its troubling past due to its rigid identity, and as long as the diaspora crusades for genocide acknowledgment by Turkey, the reality of the identity conflict triumphs. The fact that there is no open discussion about the beginnings of the Turkish Republic or the actions of its founders (Akçam 2006: 11) proves the rigidity of Turkey’s identity as a state.20 Indeed, Turkey is even prepared to jeopardize its relations with other international actors—​­including the EU, which many Turks wish to join—​­because the “Armenian question” is tremendously important to it. The rigidity of Turkey and the Armenian diaspora maintains the triangular relations, which in turn preserve the current standstill. As Armenian diasporic groups operate in host-​­states and Turkey tries to prevent other states from acknowledging the genocide, the identity conflict between Turks and Armenians has effectively been transformed into an international conflict. Turkey is now facing a four-​­player game, which will now be discussed. A Four-​­Player Game Since the last decade of the twentieth century, numerous apologies and expressions of regret have been made by state leaders, governments, and religious organizations toward peoples they have wronged in the past.21 The growing occurrence of political apologies places pressure on Turkey to come to terms with its past and recognize the Armenian genocide. Indeed, Turkey’s constant refusal to apologize for the Armenian genocide is one of the salient cases that stands out among the numerous apologies of the last decade (Nobles 2008: 5). Behind the pressure exerted on Turkey to come to terms with its past (e.g., in France or the United States) stand Armenian diasporic groups.

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Turkey-​­Armenia relations have thus become part of Turkey-​­Europe and Turkey-​­U.S. relations because of the genocide issue (Iskandaryan 2010: 41). The political impact of the Armenian diaspora (they constitute a significant body of voters)—​­especially in the United States, Canada, and France—​­presents Turkey with a very difficult task, as it finds itself in a four-​­player game (Shain and Barth 2003: 472; Shain 2007: 116; Iskandaryan 2010: 41). Although Armenia uses the diaspora activities in the West to exert pressure on Turkey to make concessions in the reconciliation process (Iskandaryan 2010: 41), often diasporic organizations disregard the impact of their actions on Armenia’s interests (Goshgarian 2005: 5). The involvement of powerful diasporic groups with dogmatic opinions (which, moreover, do not always speak in one voice among themselves or vis-​­à-​­vis Armenia) might create uncertainty for both states regarding the rapprochement process. Moreover, as more actors outside the basic triangle become involved, Turkey’s policy of denial toward the Armenian genocide becomes more and more difficult to sustain and implement. This is because Turkey now struggles for its international image and its status/position as a regional power (Iskandaryan 2010: 42). However, the shadow of the past—​­which refuses to fade away because the triangular relationship extended into a four-​­player game—​­stands in Turkey’s way as it challenges its familiar self-​ ­perception. As Armenian diasporic activities revolve around emphasizing the memory of the genocide, and in light of diasporic ability to achieve Western support, Turkey faces a long struggle if it continues to deny the Armenian genocide.

Discussion and Conclusions Theories of international relations have long held that the main actors in the international system are sovereign states. However, this perception has been challenged since the end of the Cold War as nonstate actors gained increasing influence on global affairs. Among these actors, diasporas have assumed a prominent role. Indeed, in our globalizing age, organized diasporas can influence foreign policies of both homeland and host-​­lands. When diaspora members are more belligerent and unyielding than their kin in the homeland, this can impede peacemaking not only between rival communities but also between sovereign states that wish to sort out their differences. This chapter focused on the Armenian diaspora and its impact on Arme-

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nia-​­Turkey relations as well as the constant challenge it poses to Turkey’s continued policy of denial concerning the Armenian genocide in World War I. As I have shown, the Armenian diaspora and the Armenian state are engaged in a struggle over who shall determine the Armenian national interest. A great source for tension in the diaspora-​­homeland relations revolves around the place the Armenian genocide should receive in the rapprochement process with Turkey. Armenian diasporic groups perceive themselves as guardians of Armenian identity, and as such they precondition any agreement between Armenia and Turkey on the latter’s recognition of its responsibility for the Armenian genocide. Armenia, for its part, is willing to make certain concessions on this issue as it wishes to promote its regional interests. Thus, when Armenia and Turkey signed the protocols in 2009, the two sides were led mostly by utilitarian considerations: for Turkey, there was a possibility that the agreement would facilitate its entry to the EU; for Armenia, signing the agreement was seen as beneficial to its economy and as a way out of its regional isolation. But the Armenian diaspora had other considerations, especially safeguarding Armenian national identity. The involvement of the Armenian diaspora in Turkey-​­Armenian relations creates a complex triangular relationship between these parties. Moreover, the ability of the Armenian diaspora to harness the support of their host-​­states extends the triangular interaction into a four-​­player game, complicating the situation even further. As I have shown, it was the rigid positions of both Turkey and the Armenian diaspora that created this game, and which eventually involved other states—​­host-​­lands of the Armenian diaspora but also others—​ ­in the conflict. For Turkey this diasporic-​­state tension poses a difficulty. Instead of having traditional and familiar relations with another state—​­Armenia—​­Turkey faces the Armenian diaspora’s involvement, which leads to uncertainty. Turkey cannot negotiate the genocide issue with Armenia alone. If Turkey reaches an understanding with Armenia, there is no guarantee that it would endure given the influence of the diaspora on Armenia’s foreign policy. Moreover, Turkey’s own rigid stance toward the events of 1915 is another stumbling block. The agreement with Armenia does not necessitate any change in Turkey’s attitude toward the events of 1915; on the contrary, the agreement is yet another tool to preserve its national narrative. For decades, Turkish leaders have been convinced that the genocide accusation is a deliberate attack on Turkey’s reputation and on Turkish collective identity. Thus, the denial of committing genocide has been assimilated

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into the collective narrative, which constitutes Turkish identity. In a 2006 poll of Turkish citizens, 82 percent were positive about establishing relations with Armenia if the latter gave up its genocide allegations and apologized to Turkey for making them (Turkish Daily News, November 28, 2006). In other words, the Turks see the allegation of genocide as essentially false. However, denying the Armenian genocide is becoming a complicated and difficult task for Turkey, as it cannot ignore the persistent efforts of the Armenian diaspora, which receives growing support from its host-​­lands. The fact that the battle over memory is waged on the international arena in turn leads to the assumption in Turkey that its ontological security is constantly being threatened. As for the Armenian diaspora, the four-​­player game (involving Turkey, Armenia, the Armenian diaspora, and host-​­states) contributes to its feeling ontologically secure as it mobilizes the support of other states for its struggle. Armenia, in comparison to Turkey and its diaspora, has a more flexible attachment to its identity. In contrast to the objection of the diaspora, domestic Armenian elites were in favor of rapprochement with Turkey. For the latter, this rapprochement held a promise to reduce the attention surrounding the genocide issue. However, Armenia’s flexible tendencies are yet to be helpful for Turkey in its efforts to silence the problematic past. Armenia’s foreign policy is overwhelmed by the diasporic vision of the genocide memory, which constitutes a major obstacle in Turkey-​­Armenia rapprochement efforts (Iskandaryan 2010: 45; Shain 2007: 150). Therefore, although the leaders of Armenia expect that the diaspora would understand their own predicament and their limitations as a sovereign state, the diaspora remains fortified in its position. The diaspora’s ability to affect Armenia’s foreign policy prevents Turkey and Armenia from conducting a two-​­player interaction. Several conclusions can be drawn from the above discussion. First, the obduracy over acknowledging the Armenian genocide by both parties, Turkey and the Armenian diaspora, reveals the importance of conceptions of identity in the construction of international actors’ perceptions of reality. At times, maintaining an actor’s identity takes precedence over material advantage. For Turkey, this rigidity risks the enhancement of its prospects for EU membership. It should be noted, however, that because it is a nonstate actor, the Armenian diaspora does not seem to risk as much as Turkey and Armenia, but can invest in identity struggles and be rewarded. Indeed when Armenia preconditioned relations with Turkey in genocide recognition, Armenia found itself secluded in its region.

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A second conclusion is that diasporas have an important role to play in sustaining or terminating conflict. Diasporas can promote dialogue and encourage cooperation. However, when the diaspora holds inflexible perceptions of the conflict, it can constitute a major obstacle to a solution. As we have seen, the relations between Turkey and Armenia exceed the interstate level, and a dual problem for Turkey has thus been created. On the one hand, Turkey reached an agreement with Armenia (which has not been ratified). On the other hand, it faces the Armenian diaspora, which objects to rapprochement and is capable of overturning the understandings concluded with Armenia. But Turkey’s dual problem is even greater, as it is forced to confront steps taken by other states (including host-​­lands of the Armenian diaspora but also other states that have little to do with the Armenian question) to acknowledge the Armenian genocide, resulting from the Armenian diaspora’s lobbying activity. Can Turkey reconcile with the Armenian diaspora? Although the latter tends to unite around the genocide issue, it should be remembered that this actor is not a homogenous entity at all times. Diasporic groups are influenced by local human rights discourses in the host-​ l­ands, and it is difficult to control them as they have different interests and agendas to promote. Thus, reaching an agreement with diasporic groups does not guarantee peace. These conclusions can help elucidate other relevant cases, including the Israeli-​­Palestinian conflict, which bears strong resemblance to the Armenian-​­Turkish relationship. In the Israeli-​­Palestinian conflict, too, a state-​­like weak entity, the Palestinian National Authority (PNA), is subjected to the influence of powerful diasporic groups, the Palestinian refugees, who are very much involved in PNA relations with Israel, whose formation is a scarring historical event for the Palestinians (R. Cohen 1997: 28). As in the Turkish-​ A ­ rmenian case, both Israel and the Palestinian diaspora have rigid identities, and these make an Israeli-​­PNA rapprochement difficult to achieve. The fact that the PNA is not a sovereign state—​­like Armenia—​­makes things even more difficult for it in this respect. In sum, in an age when diasporas are becoming increasingly influential actors, conflicts between states, and particularly those in which identity issues are at stake, can develop into a triangular game that involves state and nonstate actors. Such triangular relations may complicate matters further, as illustrated in the case of Turkey: this state has to confront both Armenia and the Armenian diaspora and cannot avoid the shadow of its past because of the Armenian diaspora’s tenacity. The result is that for Turkey, it not only

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becomes more difficult to deny the Armenian genocide, but the price of continuing this policy of denial rises and involves more and more international actors, some of which were initially involved in the creation of the Armenian issue but which are only very loosely connected to it in the present era.

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Chapter 6

Turkey, the Kurds, and Turkey’s Incursions into Iraq: The Effects of Securitization and Desecuritization Processes Gallia M. Lindenstrauss

During the last three decades, Turkey has repeatedly sent its forces across the border into Iraq, largely as a result of the trans-​­state nature of the Kurdish problem and the weakening control of the Iraqi central government over developments in Northern Iraq. The most recent of these incursions took place in 2011, previous interventions occurring in 1992, 1995, 1997, and 2008.1 These frequent Turkish attacks have received wide international criticism, especially from EU countries (Hale 2007: 76). Furthermore, these offensive operations seem contrary to Turkey’s strategic culture as a status quo power, one that would normally hesitate before taking action across its borders (Benli Altunışık 2007: 69). In this chapter, I explain this recurring phenomenon and address variations in Turkey’s inclination to use this strategy. Although some of these incursions occurred during the Iran-​­Iraq war (1980–​­1988),2 I will focus on the post-​­Cold War era, as the dramatic changes that have taken place during this period deserve special consideration. To explain Turkey’s choice of military actions vis-​­à-​­vis the Kurds in Northern Iraq (specifically, the PKK fighters who sought shelter there), I first briefly present existing arguments on the causes of military interventions, and then, with reference to these findings, turn to consider theories of securitization and desecuritization. Shifting to the question of Turkey’s behavior, I present the origins and evolution of the

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“Kurdish problem” within Turkey itself and discuss some of the interstate and transnational developments in the last two decades that have affected Turkish actions. Last, I link the intrastate, interstate, and transnational dimensions and show how the securitization and partial desecuritization of the Kurdish issue in Turkey has influenced this state’s inclination to militarily intervene in Iraq.

Military Interventions, Securitization, and Desecuritization It is debatable whether Turkey’s military actions in Iraq are “military interventions” according to common definitions of the term.3 Although Turkey is concerned with and opposed to the possible separatist aspirations of Iraq’s Kurdish community, it has refrained from taking sides in the internal struggle in Iraq during its incursions. Also, the frequency of Turkey’s actions renders the claim that these operations are not part of the “normal” relations between the two states, at least in the last three decades, problematic. Moreover, Turkey has maintained a small force of around 2,000 men on Iraqi territory for long periods of time (Benli Altunışık 2007: 79; McGregor 2007: 4); hence, the Turkish presence in Iraq might be more appropriately referred to as Turkey’s “security zone” or “sphere of influence” in Iraq. The fact that Turkey has sent large forces to Iraq only for short incursions, however, does not fit with such terminology. These problems of definition notwithstanding, the literature on military interventions in other countries’ intrastate conflicts is still useful as a starting point for explaining Turkey’s actions in Iraq. Regan (1998: 754) suggests that this literature can be divided into two main types. The first emphasizes instrumental considerations and rationalist risk-​­value calculations with regard to the state’s national interests.4 The second type emphasizes affective considerations and kinship (Carment and James 1996: 528–​­30; Ganguly 1998: 9–​­33). Most studies that emphasize instrumental considerations concentrate on the motives that lead great or super powers to intervene (Jesse and Simon 2004: 37). Some studies, however, consider the motives of regional powers and small states (Khosla 1999: 1143). A superpower will decide to intervene out of considerations of strategic balance of power and diplomatic, economic, and military interests. Regional states will intervene mainly as a result of regional considerations, such as border disputes and relative regional influence

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(Pearson and Baumann 1974: 277). These states may fear that an internal conflict in a neighboring state will lead to the creation of a power vacuum that other states may exploit to their advantage (Walt 1996: 19, 44). A military intervention in these circumstances would thus be aimed at preventing the opponent from gaining strength, or a counter-​­intervention may occur after another actor has already intervened. Studies that emphasize affective considerations highlight factors such as national, ethnic, ideological, and religious kinship. The importance of such affinities can be seen in cases in which states that do not initially see a strategic reason to intervene are later persuaded to do so by nongovernmental actors operating out of ethnonationalist considerations (A. Roy 1997: 307). Ethnic affinities can also add to regional tensions: when such affinities exist between particular groups across state borders, then a violent intrastate conflict in one state might cause fears in neighboring states of an increased possibility of intervention in the conflict and escalation into interstate war (W. H. Moore and Davis 1998: 92). Some scholars claim that seeing interventions as the result of a single type of consideration is too narrow a view, and that in most cases intervention has a combination of affective and instrumental causes.5 Saideman also criticizes this dichotomy, suggesting the possibility of an internal instrumental dimension, which would be seen in cases in which political leaders wish to gain intrastate support by acting upon ethnic considerations (Saideman 2001: 228, n. 72; see also Lobell 2002–​­2003: 166). Since the divide between the categories of instrumental and affective can be confusing and misleading, and since what may appear as affective can be instrumentalized for political and economic gains, Paquin and Saideman (2010: 2350–​­51; in this respect see also Regan 2000: 47) have suggested reclassifying the literature along the dividing line between intrastate and interstate considerations. Among the intrastate considerations, they include the vulnerability thesis,6 the existence of ethnic lobbies, and irredentism. Among the interstate considerations, they include the existence of a security threat, ambitions to maximize power, and international norms and regimes. However, as Paquin and Saideman themselves admit, working on one level of analysis is also too limiting, and hence more work is needed on the interaction between these different levels. In addition, the divide between intrastate and interstate concerns is sometimes blurred, especially when dealing with a phenomenon with transnational dimensions, such as the existence of a cross-​ border ethnic problem, VITNAs (Miodownik et al., this volume ), or ­

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transnational actions of diasporas. To arrive at more effective models of how the interaction between intrastate and interstate considerations shapes decisions of military intervention, we must identify the mechanisms through which certain considerations gain prominence. One of these mechanisms is the “securitization” and “desecuritization” of threats. The term “securitization,” developed by the Copenhagen School after the end of the Cold War,7 reflects the view that the feeling of security (or insecurity) is not the outcome of material conditions, but is rather a social construction. Competing national elites frame certain issues as threats, and through influential speech-​­acts create threat perceptions (Aras and Karakaya Polat 2008: 497; Buzan et al. 1998: 23–​­26; Stritzel 2007: 360). According to this view, when an issue is securitized, it is presented as an existential threat; in order to deal with such a threat, extraordinary means and emergency measures are needed. Long-​­standing and persistent threats are institutionally securitized and thus can be taken out of public debate and dealt with mainly through the military establishment (Buzan et al. 1998: 27–​­28). Some critics of the concept of securitization have suggested that the Copenhagen School has placed too much emphasis on the influence of speech-​­acts and on the subjective dimensions of the construction of threats over the context in which the actors are situated (Knudsen 2001: 359; Balzacq 2005: 171–​­72; Balzacq 2011: 11–​­15). “Desecuritization,” on the other hand, refers to the shifting of issues away from the security realm and back into the arena of “normal” political discourse (M. C. Williams 2003: 523; also in Aras and Karakaya Polat 2008: 498).8 Whereas the existence of debate over whether an issue is a security-​­related matter or not indicates the continuance of its securitization (Aras and Karakaya Polat 2008: 498–​­99), a successful process of desecuritization is marked by the absence of discourse about the issue, which makes it difficult to identify. It should be noted in this regard that total desecuritization of an issue is quite rare: one is more likely to witness issues that are becoming desecuritized (i.e., receiving less and less attention and becoming nonissues s­ ecurity-​­wise while attention shifts to other issues).9 Also, desecuritization might not penetrate into different sectors of society in the same manner: some sectors might prove more resistant, preferring the existing definitions of threats. Securitization and desecuritization processes can have a substantial impact on the decision of whether or not to intervene militarily in an intrastate conflict. Because such an intervention is usually a relatively costly action taken in an environment of uncertainty about its outcome, it needs to be

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justified as an action taken against a severe threat that is intolerable to the state. Securitization is a useful concept in analyzing how elites rationalize military intervention because it can explain how certain interstate strategic considerations gained predominance, as well as how ethnic affinities are framed by elites as affecting the security of the state. Affinities between ethnic group members residing in more than one state can be presented as threatening in two ways: in the first, such a group is presented as “the kin group,” and any endangerment of this group might seem to endanger the group as a whole; in the second (opposite) mode, the relevant affinities are those of a group that is oppressed by the state, so that any development that strengthens the kin in a neighboring state may be presented as an opportunity for the home group to rebel.10 Buzan, Wæver, and de Wilde in fact link these interstate and intrastate dimensions when they claim that, because both concern the sovereignty of the state, the military sector is the most likely to attempt to securitize the possible threat (1998: 49–​­53). The state decision that a particular threat “demands” a response such as military intervention reflects that the process of securitization of this threat has, at least temporarily, been successful. However, although successful securitization is a perquisite for a decision on military intervention, this is not to suggest that if leaders decide not to intervene militarily, the securitization process has failed; rather, it means that other methods were seen as more appropriate for dealing with the threat. But if a state is experiencing a process of desecuritization, the chances of military interventions will decrease. A partial desecuritization process—​­one that has not penetrated all sectors of society in the same manner—​­might lead to an ambiguous policy. In these cases, because the issue remains a point of contention between the competing elite groups, the use of means such as military intervention might be indeterminate. Nonetheless, we can expect, in these situations, that some of the competing elite groups will demand military intervention.

Turkey’s Military Incursions into Iraq The Intrastate Dimension: The Kurdish “Problem” in Turkey Following the proclamation of the Republic of Turkey in 1923, the Turkish nationalist elite thought to create a national identity that was territorially defined. However, because of Turkey’s centralized regime, this process did not

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lead to a pluralistic civic-​­national identity (Kirişci and Winrow 1997: 88). Hence, the state has not been open to accepting the Kurdish minority’s ethnic identity, especially after a number of failed Kurdish rebellions around the period of the formation of the Turkish Republic. As a result of these rebellions, for many years the separatist aspirations of the Kurds were presented as extremely dangerous to the territorial integrity of Turkey, even though there were almost no instances of rebellious Kurdish actions in the years between 1938 and 1984 (Heper 2007: 2). This securitization of the Kurdish threat has been so successful that for a long period there has been no public debate about the assumption of this danger or the refusal to grant the Kurds cultural rights. It wasn’t until the late 1980s that the “Kurdish question” received public attention (McDowall 2007: 431), and then, it was still stated that Turkey did not have a Kurdish problem, but a “terrorist” problem (Hale 2007: 69). The absence of public discourse on the Kurdish issue indicates not only the taboo that existed on the subject, but also the magnitude of the perceived threat. In contrast, two periods in which serious efforts were made to deal with the Kurdish question—​­Turgut Özal’s presidency (1989–​­1993) and the Justice and Development Party (Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi; AKP) single-​ ­party government’s terms in office (from 2002)—​­were notably marked by precisely those revolutionary utterances that raised outcry and the emergence of the previously missing public debate. Following the military coup of 1980, the PKK gained a stronger presence in Turkey. However, this was not seen by the majority of the Turks as the result of the increasing suppression of Kurds in Turkey that followed the coup; instead, it was viewed as a consequence of the underdevelopment in the Southeastern regions of Turkey, which allowed the PKK to more easily locate “misguided” people and entrap and recruit them (Lundgren 2007: 47, 60, 67–​ ­68). There was near-​­consensus in Turkey that the PKK posed an existential threat to the territorial integrity of Turkey, and that it should be dealt with as such a threat. Interestingly, however, the few times that the option of Kurdish secession from Turkey was assessed, it was presented in formal statements as unrealistic, and the Kurdish population’s desire to secede was questioned (2007: 63). In addition, PKK leader Abdullah Öcalan—​­after his capture in Kenya in 1999 and trial in Turkey, but also before—​­stated a number of times that the Kurds were not striving for separation, but, on the contrary, would be better off continuing to live with the Turks if Turkey were to become fully democratic (Gunter 2000: 853–​­54; McDowall 2007: 432).

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Although securitization theory attributes importance to successful speech-​­acts, critics such as Balzacq (Balzacq 2005: 171–​­72; 2011: 11–​­15), as mentioned earlier, emphasize that more attention should also be given to the context. By the mid-​­1990s, the PKK’s struggle had already had huge repercussions in Turkey: almost a third of Turkish security manpower (around 240,000 to 300,000 soldiers and police) were engaged in fighting the PKK, and in 1999 it was estimated that 30,000 people had died in the struggle.11 While official figures state that 380,000 people in Turkey were driven out of their homes, unofficial estimates are that three million people were internally displaced as a result of the struggle with the PKK (Hale 2007: 70). Hence, the magnitude of the effects of the Kurdish struggle and Turkey’s handling of it should not be underestimated in assessing why the Kurdish issue has only been partly desecuritized in the decade following this period. The desecuritization process with regard to the Kurdish minority has been accompanied by public discussion on granting the Kurds the right to express their culture and identity, a discourse that was almost nonexistent among the Turkish majority before the early 1990s (Aras and Karakaya Polat 2008: 499). This change is attributed to the first Gulf War of 1991, in which Turkey’s refusal to absorb Kurdish refugees from Iraq made it difficult to support the claim that the categorization “Kurdish” was meaningless (Kirişci and Winrow 1997: 113; Lundgren 2007: 50). Desecuritization was accelerated by Turkey’s attempts to join the EU, which insisted that Turkey introduce reforms specifically with regard to the Kurds (Gunter 2000: 862). The process of desecuritization that accompanied Turkey’s attempts to join the EU, however, did not affect all sectors of society equally. Some actors, like the army and other conservative institutions, refused to go along with the reforms and changes that the central authorities agreed upon (McDowall 2007: 463).12 Groups that opposed Turkey’s entrance into the EU emphasized that European demands with regard to the Kurds were simply a disguise for long-​­standing neo-​­imperialist ambitions to weaken Turkey and tear it apart. The resistance to the reforms attests to how deeply internalized was the notion that any concession to ethnic diversity might be dangerous to Turkish identity and the state’s territorial integrity (Lundgren 2007: 52). After the AKP rose to power in 2002 and formed a single-​­party government, Turkey’s efforts to join the EU accelerated, and more reforms were undertaken (Kardaş 2006: 308; Robins 2003: 553–​­54).13 In an exceptional statement in 2005, in the predominantly Kurdish city of Diyarbakir, AKP leader Recep Tayyip Erdoğan admitted that Turkey had a Kurdish “problem,”

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that “mistakes have been made” in previous dealings with the Kurds, and that the Kurds should be given “more democracy” and not more oppression (Peterson 2007b).14 The AKP could more easily attempt to desecuritize the Kurdish issue in this way because it emphasized the religious dimensions of the Turkish identity over the ethnic ones. One result of this is that the predominantly Muslim Kurds were very supportive of the AKP in the parliamentary elections of 2002 and 2007 (International Crisis Group [ICG] 2008: 5). The AKP also attempted to break with some elements of the Kemalist tradition and develop what can be seen as a neo-​­Ottoman agenda, which was more open to granting cultural rights to the Kurds (Taşpinar 2008: 3).15 Further, the AKP was interested in promoting the democratic reforms necessary for accession to the EU because it perceived that they would enable more religious freedom in Turkey and curtail the dominant role of the Turkish military in politics (Robins 2003: 553; Usul 2008: 178–​­79). Following the 2007 parliamentary elections in Turkey, the AKP was able to re-​­form a single-​­party government.16 The results of this election and the reaffirmation of the AKP’s vast public support made it feel more secure in promoting its religious agenda, and implementation of democratic reforms, specifically with regard to the Kurds, seemed less urgent. The growing apprehension in Turkey that its chances of joining the EU were low also reduced the pressure for democratic reforms (Cizre 2008: 133, 145; Robins 2007: 293). It should also be noted that from 2005 onward, desecuritization of the Kurdish issue in Turkey was problematic because of the sharp increase of attacks initiated by the PKK inside Turkey, including suicide bombings and the use of landmines or improvised explosive devices (IEDs) (Cağaptay and Koknar 2007; McGregor 2007: 4; ICG 2011: 1, 4). Funerals of victims soon turned into mass demonstrations against the PKK, and calls for action were widespread (Gottschlich 2007). In 2009, there was once again a serious attempt to desecuritize the Kurdish problem in Turkey when a “democratic opening” was announced. The set of reforms was mainly aimed at improving the situation of the Kurdish community and was to include a negotiated settlement with the PKK. Among the steps that were implemented was the broadening of access to Kurdish-​ ­language television and the legislation of the right for political speeches to be voiced in Kurdish (ICG 2011: i, 1). This time, as Barkey claims, there was even the tacit support of the chief of the Turkish General Staff to these reforms (2011: 63–​­64). However, “Within months, the initiative had stalled, leaving both sides bitter and questioning each other’s sincerity” (ICG 2011: 8).

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Moreover, the June 2011 parliamentary elections and AKP campaign to win an even greater share of the votes brought about a more nationalistic approach. A political crisis following the elections with the Kurdish representatives only made matters worse. The Interstate and Transnational Dimensions In Turkey, the Kurdish threat was perceived to be mastered and encouraged by hostile outside forces17: Western neo-​­imperialist trends vis-​­à-​­vis Turkey or neighboring states trying to meddle in its politics (Lundgren 2007: 70). Thus, it was not Kurdish separatism alone that was seen as the threat to Turkey, but also the malignant intentions of outside forces. These perceptions are related to what has been coined the “Sèvres Syndrome” of Turkey18—​­the persistent fear that there will be another attempt to tear the country apart (Benli Altunışık 2007: 71). Developments in Iraq in the last two decades seemed to enhance the Turkish fears of a possible link between the weakening of the Iraqi government’s control over its Kurdish population and the rise of Kurdish separatist demands in Turkey. This connection was also seen as resulting from foreign encouragement of Kurdish separatism both in Iraq and in Turkey. Following the first Gulf War, the no-​­fly zone created in northern Iraq to protect the local Kurdish population from the Iraqi central authorities—​­part of Operation Provide Comfort led by the United States, Britain, and France, with the use of Turkish military facilities—​­laid the foundation for creating a de facto Kurdish autonomy in Northern Iraq.19 Ironically, it was Turkey that pressured for the creation of this no-​­fly zone. The increasing numbers of Kurdish refugees (around half a million) that had been flowing toward the Turkish (and Iranian) borders can explain Turkey’s actions. Turkey, after initially refusing to admit any refugees, had been forced by international pressure to accept a large number of them. As a result of these circumstances, Turkey encouraged the creation of the no-​­fly zone, hoping that the Iraqi Kurds would return to Iraq (Benli Altunışık 2004: 363; Kirişci and Winrow 1997: 159, 161; McDowall 2007: 428). In spite of Turkey’s role in the establishment of the no-​­fly zone in Northern Iraq, Turkish opposition leaders repeatedly claimed that this operation was a Western ploy to create an independent Kurdish state there (Kirişci and Winrow 1997: 166).20 Turkey’s fear of a Kurdish independent state in Northern Iraq was also shared by Iran and Syria. Because there is little congruence

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in the “nation to state balance” in this area (Miller 2007: 53–​­61, 254), Iraq’s neighbors are apprehensive about a possible diffusion of Kurdish nationalist ambitions to the Kurdish population in their own territories (Bengio 2005: 177), even though in each country the Kurds, and the different factions within them, have developed their own ways of action (O’Leary and Salih 2005: 23; ICG 2011: 2).21 While this fear has at times served as a basis for cooperation among these states to repress the Kurdish population (Robins 2003: 562; Aras 2007: 62), it has also been used as a means for them to exert pressure on each other. Adding to the neighboring states’ worries was the fact that not only was the Iraqi central government losing control over what was happening in Northern Iraq, but in the mid-​­1990s tensions were growing among the different Kurdish factions in Iraq. On the one hand, this development could have postponed the possibility of the emergence of an independent Kurdish state; on the other hand, both Turkey and Iran feared it might more easily allow rebellious Kurdish groups from their states to find shelter and an operating ground in Northern Iraq and act as VITNAs. Thus, not only did the 1990s see frequent Turkish military operations against the PKK fighters, but in 1996 Iran sent forces across the Iraqi border in pursuit of members of the Kurdish Democratic Party of Iran (KDP-​­I) (Hale 2007: 77). It should be noted, however, that it was the successful Turkish containment of PKK violence in its territory that led to the PKK fleeing Turkey and establishing itself as a VITNA on the border areas in Iraq and in Syria. In addition, the PKK has used its transborder presence and the Kurdish (Turkish) diaspora22 for lobbying in European countries23 and for support of its transnational organized criminal activities, which are used to fund the continued struggle.24 Moreover, the capture of the PKK leader Öcalan in 1999 has further complicated matters for the Turks, as it led to the development of several power centers—​­PKK insurgents in the field, PKK headquarters in Northern Iraq, PKK members in jail in Turkey, and PKK exiles in Europe (ICG 2011: 2). It should be emphasized that the trans-​­state dimension of the Kurdish problem cannot be seen as the sole trigger for the Turkish actions; rather, it is an enabling feature whose effects were enhanced following Turkey’s success in causing the remaining PKK fighters on its ground to flee. Turkish-​­Syrian relations were strained during most of the 1990s because of Turkish accusations that Syria was providing shelter to PKK forces and hosting Öcalan (Bacik 2007: 69). Tensions rose in 1998 when Turkey threatened to wage war on Syria if it did not expel Öcalan and concede to all the

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other Turkish demands concerning the PKK (Hale 2007: 69; James and Özdamar 2009: 26, 29). Turkish threats proved extremely effective: Öcalan was expelled from Syria and was later captured in Kenya. In addition, following the events of 9/11, U.S.-​­initiated isolation of Syria encouraged it to be more flexible on other points of contention with Turkey (i.e., the Alexandretta issue and allocation of regional waters). This has contributed to more than a decade of improved relations between Turkey and Syria (Bacik 2007: 67), which ended with the events of the Arab Spring.25 While Turkish-​­Iranian relations were less strained than Turkish-​­Syrian relations, Turkey also accused Iran of assisting PKK forces. This was presented in the context of Turkish accusations in the 1990s that Iran was meddling in internal Turkish politics and was sponsoring Islamic fundamentalist groups in Turkey. However, in recent years, Iran has stopped its cooperation with the PKK, and this, along with the rise of a more Islamic-​­friendly government in Turkey, has contributed to improved Iranian-​­Turkish relations. The invasion of Iraq by U.S.-​­led forces in 2003 has transformed it in many respects into a failed state (Barak 2007: 459; Mueller 2005: 120). This has caused the neighboring states to fear the possible repercussions of a U.S. withdrawal from Iraq: that is, a power vacuum and a rise in ethnic-​­related terrorism (Bacik 2007: 70). There was a further concern that the United States would try to end the turmoil that emerged in Iraq by partitioning it into three states (Berman 2007), which intensified the fear in the neighboring states of the possible establishment of an independent Kurdish state (Yavuz 2009: 231). Moreover, Turkey voiced suspicion that the Kurdistan Regional Government (KRG) established in Northern Iraq was assisting the PKK in order to pressure Turkey to agree to a Kurdish independent state that would include the Iraqi province of Kirkuk (ICG 2008: 3).26 The invasion of Iraq also led to deterioration in Turkish-​­U.S. relations. The Turkish public was vehemently against the U.S. actions.27 There was a widespread fear in Turkey that such a war would lead to the partitioning of Iraq, which would consequently create problems for Turkey (Benli Altunışık 2004: 373). The United States expressed great disappointment in Turkey’s objection to the war, especially in its parliament’s failure to pass a bill allowing U.S. ground forces to invade Iraq from Turkish territory.28 This weakening of Turkish-​­U.S. relations was accompanied by the support of the Kurdish population in Iraq of the U.S. actions (Hale 2007: 124), which has added to the growing fears in Turkey that it will lose its influence over developments in Northern Iraq. In addition, since the resumption of terrorist acts by the PKK

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in 2005, there has been dissatisfaction in Turkey over the insufficient efforts of U.S. forces in Iraq to stop PKK fighters from infiltrating Turkey. This frustration has led Turkey to occasionally threaten to send its own forces to deal with the PKK fighters (Schleifer 2007). However, no significant Turkish force entered Iraq until February 2008, and even in this case, most of the soldiers remained for only a week.29 While mutual suspicions remain at the time of writing, Turkey has managed to develop a strong relationship with the KRG, especially since 2009, that is mutually beneficial for both entities. The remarkable degree to which Turkey has been able to transform its relationship with the KRG has also had its mark on Turkey’s struggle with the PKK. On the one hand, the growing cooperation with the KRG and the fact that the KRG enjoys great support also among Turkish Kurds (Barkey 2011: 55) requires Turkey to act more cautiously. On the other hand, there are Turkish claims that the KRG is not assisting Turkey enough in its struggle against the PKK. Turkey‘s decision to act militarily in 2011 also reflects its fear of the ramifications of the U.S. withdrawal from Iraq that was taking place at the time. The deteriorating situation in Syria also reflected a potential for the resumption of PKK activities from Syria‘s territory. Similar to 2008, the 2011 military actions were limited in scope compared to the interventions of the 1990s (Spiegel Online 2008; Guardian 2011). Interestingly, in the 2011 crisis KRG leader Massoud Barzani tried to mediate between Turkey and the PKK, highlighting again the growing impact that Turkish-​­KRG relations are having on the Turkish­-​­PKK struggle. Linking the Intrastate, Interstate, and Transnational Dimensions Turkey’s view of the PKK as an existential threat that justifies military incursion into Iraq—​­an action that breaks with Turkey’s traditional emphasis on maintaining the status quo—​­is the result of a long-​­term successful securitization of the Kurdish issue in Turkey, which takes place on both the intrastate and interstate levels. The Kurdish issue was so successfully securitized that there was no public discussion of it until the late 1980s, and even then the rise of the PKK was linked not to any growing ethnic awareness of the Kurds, but to economic underdevelopment of the southeastern provinces of Turkey or to foreign meddling in Turkey’s internal politics (Lundgren 2007: 67). Thus, not only was the Kurdish issue presented as a threat to the territorial integrity of Turkey, it was also linked to the enduring fear in Turkey that outside forces want to tear the state apart.

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In the beginning of the 1990s, President Özal’s more revolutionary outlook and the consequences of the first Gulf War had brought with them some openness in dealing with the Kurdish issue. However, following Özal’s sudden death in 1993—​­and also for some time before this—​­increasing objections were made to the reforms Özal suggested with regard to Turkey’s Kurdish population. This unsuccessful desecuritization attempt, combined with the rise in the level of violence of the PKK struggle, resulted in a situation that saw vast public support for Turkey to take cross-​­border action. Another explanation for the frequent Turkish incursions into Northern Iraq during the 1990s is the high level of violence in Turkey at the time, which seemed to reaffirm the existential nature of the Kurdish threat. However, as argued above, the fact that Turkey was successful in combating the PKK fighters on its ground contributed to Turkey’s increasing annoyance over PKK presence as a VITNA, in Iraq and also in Syria. The uncertainty regarding the future of Northern Iraq following the first Gulf War and the possibility of the creation of an independent Kurdish state there also led Turkey to conclude that any concessions to its own Kurdish population would not only give the negative impression of conceding to a terrorist organization, but also contribute to the legitimization of a Kurdish state in Northern Iraq.30 Although it might seem that Turkey’s reluctance to operate militarily in Northern Iraq from 1998 to 2008 should be attributed to the capture of Öcalan, the subsequent unilateral ceasefire declared by the PKK, and the 2003 U.S.-​­led invasion of Iraq, these factors, while important, are only part of the explanation. Öcalan’s arrest and the unilateral ceasefire, while contributing to a relaxation in tensions, did not result in a dismantling of the PKK. It has been estimated that 3,500 to 5,000 PKK fighters, including their top leaders, were still taking refuge in Iraq. Hence, they were maintaining their VITNA status and the Turks continued to fear that they would reemerge as an active actor. Also, since the ceasefire was unilaterally declared by the PKK, Turkey had no obligation to respect it. Furthermore, the PKK renounced the ceasefire in September 2004 (Benli Altunışık 2007: 78–​­79), more than three years before Turkey operated militarily with significant force in Iraq. U.S. pressures not to intervene also cannot solely explain Turkish reluctance. Turkey has on previous occasions chosen to operate militarily in Iraq in spite of international criticism. To be sure, Turkish diplomatic efforts aimed to reduce this disapproval, but such diplomacy was also an option that was open and used after 2003. Furthermore, because the United States had already become a “regional player” in Iraq following the first Gulf War, its

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stand would have been a factor to be reckoned with in previous decisions on Turkish incursions into Iraq.31 It could be claimed that the Turks were fearful of further alienating the United States following Turkey’s refusal to allow U.S. forces to invade Iraq from Turkish territory. The repercussions of this decision, however, were already somewhat mitigated following the subsequent decision to allow U.S. cargo planes to use Turkish airspace and the İncirlik air base (Yavuz 2009: 236). Also significant in Turkey’s calculations were U.S. apprehensions that a Turkish military action in the Kurdish areas of Iraq might destabilize the only region in the country that, at the time, was relatively calm (ICG 2008: 6).32 However, while it became clear to Turkey after 2003 that it would need U.S. consent for any military operation that it would carry out in Northern Iraq, it could have pressured the United States to allow it to operate there in a limited manner earlier than 2007–​­2008.33 An additional interstate reason for Turkey’s lack of enthusiasm to operate in Northern Iraq was the relaxing of tensions between Turkey and both Iran and Syria after they stopped sponsoring PKK fighters that found refuge in their territory. However, the two states, isolated by President George W. Bush’s foreign policy doctrines, had enough incentive to continue to cooperate with Turkey even if it had intervened in Northern Iraq earlier. In fact, in an official visit in Turkey in October 2007, Syrian president Bashar al-​­Assad publicly declared that Turkey had a right to stage cross-​­border offensives against Iraqi-​ ­ ased Kurdish rebels (ICG 2008: 5). b Thus, interstate dimensions can provide only a partial explanation as to why Turkey was hesitant to use a military option at this stage. The desecuritization process of some of the intrastate dimensions of the Kurdish problem in Turkey (which began following the first Gulf War and was intensified by developments in Turkish accession efforts to the EU) contributed to Turkish efforts to deal with the PKK using means other than military.34 The demands from the EU also reflect, as mentioned, pressures from the Kurdish (Turkish) diaspora in several European countries. However, as suggested earlier, desecuritization of the Kurdish problem had not percolated into all the relevant sectors in Turkey—​­in particular, the military establishment.35 Hence, Turkish policies vis-​­à-​­vis Northern Iraq were at times ambiguous (Benli Altunişik 2007: 84; Kibaroğlu 2007: 5; Usul 2008: 187), accompanied by disagreement between the AKP leaders and the military establishment;36 and in 2008 and later in 2011, Turkey returned, albeit somewhat reluctantly, to its recurrent practice of a large military operation in Iraq.37

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Conclusion Turkey’s policy vis-​­à-​­vis the PKK in Northern Iraq can be seen as resulting from a mixture of intrastate and interstate considerations and the trans-​­state nature of the Kurdish “problem.” In this chapter, I have demonstrated that adding the dimension of the securitization and (partial) desecuritization of the Kurdish problem over the years to the analysis can enhance our understanding of Turkey’s actions. This dimension helps to explain why Turkey has repeatedly resorted to military incursions over the last three decades, and also why Turkey has seemed at times to be less enthusiastic about this option. This analysis of frequent Turkish incursions into Iraq reinforces the arguments of those scholars who are critical of works that emphasize only one set of considerations behind military interventions in intrastate conflicts. The distinction between intrastate and interstate considerations seems to be blurred when addressing an issue with trans-​­state dimensions, such as the Kurdish problem. In this respect, further analysis of processes of securitization and desecuritization can be useful, because in their framing of threats, the elites themselves sometimes not only link the intrastate and interstate including dimensions, but also act on their transnational dimensions—​­ through the use of force.

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Chapter 7

From a Militia to a Diasporic Community: The Changing Identity of the South Lebanese Army Orit Gazit

The Israeli withdrawal from Lebanon in May 2000 had far-​­reaching effects on Israel and Lebanon, as well as on Middle Eastern regional dynamics. One of its lesser-​­known consequences was the creation of a new Lebanese diasporic community in Israel. This diaspora included the former members of the South Lebanese Army (SLA), 1 a militia mostly composed of Lebanese Maronite Christians, who collaborated militarily with Israel for over a quarter of a century within Israel’s self-​­proclaimed “security zone” in southern Lebanon. Following the Israeli withdrawal from Lebanon, many SLA members fled into Israeli territory in fear of Hizbullah’s reprisal. While the Lebanese state is known for its many diasporic communities—​ ­ ispersed in destinations such as Northern and Southern America, Africa, d Europe, and Australia—​­the presence of a Lebanese diaspora within the premises of the Israeli state is an exceptional phenomenon. What makes this diasporic community unique is that its members not only collaborated with Israel before the year 2000, but also found themselves later in a position of “double marginality” within it. They have been pushed to the economic, social, and political margins of Israeli society both by the Jewish majority, who perceives them as part of the Arab minority, and by the Arab minority, who sees them as traitors and collaborators with the enemy. Thus, while the SLA was originally formed with Israeli support as what

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might be seen as a mercenary militia—​­a local client backed by an external regional power that played an active role within the Lebanese prolonged intrastate conflict (the Lebanese civil war, 1975–​­1990)—​­it has transformed under the changing political and strategic realities of this conflict. It is now an external nonstate actor—​­a Lebanese diasporic community residing within the borders of the Israeli state—​­further attempting to influence the Lebanese intrastate conflict from abroad by other means. Several studies have significantly contributed to the scholarly literature on the Israeli policy and activity in Southern Lebanon through the years,2 yet there are no existing comprehensive accounts dealing directly with the phenomenon of the SLA. The current chapter aims at shedding light on this understudied case by analyzing the SLA’s fundamental transformation from a militia to a diasporic community. This transformation is explored through the lens of identity change: namely, the dynamics between shifts in the content of identity categories; institutional changes; and changes in modes of practice (Todd 2005: 429–​­32). In this way, I follow a growing body of scholarly research on processes of identity transformation in extreme social and political institutional settings (McAdam et al. 2001: 4–​­7; Todd 2005: 444).3 As these studies suggest, extreme circumstances of rapid social and political transformation—​­as opposed to more incremental or subtle identity shifts—​ ­allow us to detect and analyze the elusive qualities of change in collective categories of identity in a more accurate, nuanced, and comprehensive manner. Based on four years of extensive ethnographic fieldwork pursued among the SLA community in Israel, the following analysis uncovers some of the processes of identity change that take place among the members of nonstate actors on the ground. In particular, I argue that identity change among nonstate actors might occur while their members react to actions taken by other state or nonstate actors, as well as via internal social evolution influenced by intra-​­organizational dynamics. Hence, beyond its empirical contribution to uncovering the identity dynamics of this militia, this chapter, by portraying the members of such entities as “flesh and blood” people who react to their changing surroundings and attach social meanings to their situation, might also contribute to the development of a multilayered discussion of nonstate actors in intrastate conflicts—​­a discussion that will take into account micro-​ ­social and hermeneutic aspects of this phenomenon in addition to their macro-​­political analysis. Consequently, analyzing nonstate actors through the prism of identity

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change processes emphasizes the complex, and often contradictory, empirical realities in which nonstate actors’ goals, interests, identities, and practices constantly evolve within the dynamic settings of intrastate conflicts. Some fields, such as the study of social movements, have revealed a growing awareness of the processual nature of actors’ identity and behavior (Snow and McAdam 2000: 41–​­42); however, the political study of nonstate actors, and especially the study of these actors’ role in intrastate and interstate conflicts, tends to overlook these aspects. A complementary contribution of this chapter is hence to highlight the constantly evolving nature of these actors and their dynamic qualities within the context of intrastate conflicts. The chapter has five sections. The first section introduces the conceptual framework for the analysis of identity change and explores its relevance to the study of nonstate actors. The second section presents the historical and political context of the evolution of the SLA. I then turn to discuss the identity of the members of the SLA as part of a militia: an internal nonstate actor within the intrastate Lebanese conflict. The fourth section depicts the processes of identity change that have occurred among SLA members following the Israeli withdrawal from Southern Lebanon in May 2000, and its transformation into a diasporic community in Israel. I conclude by discussing the broad implications of these identity shifts to the study of nonstate actors more generally, as well as the possible contributions of this study.

Identity Change, Nonstate Actors, and Intrastate Conflict: A Conceptual Framework Nonstate actors—​­such as terror networks, crime cartels, militias, nongovernmental human rights and ecological organizations, and an array of other social and political movements—​­have been examined within the fields of political science and international relations in great detail. A noteworthy number of studies within these fields focus on such aspects as the legitimacy, accountability, and effectiveness of nonstate actors in the context of global governance (Mansbach et al. 1976: 273–​­76; Karns and Mingst 2004: 3–​­9); their involvement in terror activity, crime, and militant social activism, especially in the age of cyber warfare (Arquilla and Ronfeldt 2001: 1–​­5); and their influence on the formation of national and international norms (Mertus 2000: 537–​­38). Within some related fields, such as the study of social movements, there

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has been a growing awareness of the processual and dynamic qualities of these actors, as these qualities are expressed in the evolution of their roles, interests, identities, and practices across time and space (Melucci 1995: 41–​ ­48; Snow and McAdam 2000: 46–​­54). However, these aspects are absent in the political study of nonstate actors, especially the study of these actors’ role in intrastate and interstate conflicts. This chapter suggests bringing the dynamic dimension into the political study of nonstate actors. In particular, following recent developments in the sociological study of ethnic and national identity categories (Todd 2005: 429–​ ­32; 2007: 107–​­11) and in the study of social movements (McAdam et al. 2001: 4–​­7), I propose examining nonstate actors in intrastate conflicts through a prism that delineates the linkage between identity change, institutional change, and change in modes of practice. To do this, I first place this chapter within the broader theoretical boundaries of the constructionist approach to social identity, mainly identified with the scholarly work of the American school of cultural sociology (Alexander 2003: 11–​­26; Dimaggio 1988: 3–​­21). According to this approach, identity, as articulated in discourse,4 is constantly shaped by actors interpreting and ascribing cultural meaning to the social world. Following the works of Michelle Lamont (1992: 1–​­19; 2000: 2–​­13) and Margaret Somers (1994: 626–​­27), these processes are perceived here as occurring not in a social vacuum, but within coercive power structures, institutional settings, and widely accepted public narratives. Somers refers to these structures as “relational settings,” while Lamont depicts them as “cultural repertoires.” In any case, they restrict and enable—​­“shape and shove”—​­thus determining the range of possibilities within which social actors engender cultural meaning and use particular social practices. Based on the acknowledgment of this processual and structural dimension, identity is further defined for the purpose of this chapter in relatively simple and manageable terms. This definition follows recent works on social identity in migratory and diasporic contexts (Samers 2003: 354), similar to the context discussed here. In particular, I adopt Vertovec’s definition of “identity” as the variety of ways through which individuals perceive and conceptualize their surroundings, in a process generated through an internal (self-​­attributed) and external (other-​­ascribed) dialectic, conditioned within specific social worlds. This holds for both personal and collective identities, “which should be understood as always closely entangled with each other, while recognizing the serious theoretical problems debated around notions of self, personhood and collectivity” (Vertovec 2001: 577).5

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Within the boundaries of the constructionist approach to the study of identity, I focus specifically on processes of identity change. This aspect of the study of identity, which has been of increasing interest in the fields of sociology (Todd 2005: 429–​­32; 2007: 107) and International Relations (Adler 1991: 43–​­60; Wendt 1994: 384–​­91; 1999: 313–​­69), fits the dynamic emphasis of the broader constructionist approach, yet also goes beyond it. Thus, I look at the particular processes of transformation in modes of identification, in the content of identity categories, in the relations among these categories—​­and, in certain cases, of the bare categories themselves (Todd 2005: 429–​­32)—​­as they influence and are influenced by the institutional settings in which they are embedded and by the actual practices of actors in these settings. In the context of intrastate conflicts, such transformations in collective categories of identity may occur when militias, terror networks, rival ethnic factions (in a civil war), or other nonstate actors react, either voluntarily or through coercion, to the changing social and political realities of the conflict they are involved in. While they might respond to these structural circumstances in an agency-​­like and intentional manner, this response could also be an unintended consequence of their conscious and intentional behavior (Merton 1936: 894–​­98; Elster 1990: 129–​­31). At the same time, processes of identity change might also occur among nonstate actors following a “bottom-​­up” dynamic, as a result of their internal social evolution. These intra-​­organizational dynamics may include inner controversies, competition, or alliances among their different factions and coalitions, ultimately leading to an overall alteration of the nonstate actor‘s identity, which in turn opens up a new range of possibilities vis-​­à-​­vis other state and nonstate actors involved in the conflict. Thus, while at times such identity change may limit or hinder the nonstate actor‘s range of possibilities for action, it might also enable the development of a novel range of practices. The nonstate actor might then take upon itself new or revised roles within this conflict, and adopt innovative strategies vis-​­à-​­vis other state and nonstate actors to cope with the changing realities of this conflict. Finally, in reality the intra-​­organizational dynamics of identity change are inseparable from the external institutional settings in which the actors are embedded and their continuous reactions to and interpretation of these settings. Thus, identity change among nonstate actors should be seen as an onsituated between the external and internal levels—​­ that going process—​­ constantly evolves across time and space. Accordingly, the chapter furthers a case-​­sensitive approach that emphasizes the identification of specific social

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and political conditions under which change in the content of identity categories may occur, and highlights the contribution of a thick description of the subjective meanings that actors attribute to their changing situation in concrete social settings. My focus is therefore on whether, when, and how identity change occurs in a given social context; on the institutional circumstances that enable or restrict it; on the actors involved in this process and the interplay among them; and on the meanings that these actors attach to such changes.

The Evolution of the SLA: Historical and Political Context I now turn to the historical and political context in which the SLA has emerged. This section’s aim is to provide the factual basis for the analysis of the identity change that the members of the SLA have undergone. I thus briefly delineate the main events, historical landmarks, and political processes that facilitated the transformation of the SLA from an armed militia in Southern Lebanon into a diasporic community residing in Israel. Historical Roots The SLA was a local Southern Lebanese militia, active since the mid-​­1970s within the area that later became Israel’s security zone in Southern Lebanon.6 Its core included Christian (mainly Maronite) ex-​­officers and NCOs in the Lebanese army, who were joined by members of the Shi‘i, Druze, and Sunni communities originating from the towns and villages along the Israeli-​ ­ ebanese border (Bar-​­Siman-​­Tov 1997: 68). Although the Maronites played a L leading role in the SLA, since the mid-​­1990s the Shi‘is have outnumbered them. In a broad perspective, the emergence of this militia should be understood within the context of the historical and political development of the Lebanese state and its postcolonial legacy. The creation of the state of Lebanon was the consequence of an arbitrary French-​­British understanding to divide the Middle East among the two powers during World War I, as well as a response by the French colonial power to pressures of the leaders of the Maronite Christian community in Mount Lebanon, who demanded a political entity with extended borders. However, the new political entity was, in fact, an amalgamation of clans and ethnic and religious communities in

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geographically diverse areas within a common political framework, none of which enjoyed an absolute majority (Zisser 2000: ix–​­xi; Barak 2002: 620). This delicate equilibrium, balanced with the immense political hardships since the late 1960s and early 1970s (culminating in the outbreak of the civil war in 1975) and the growing involvement of its neighbors (Israel, Syria, and the Palestinians) in its internal affairs, serves as the starting point for the discussion of the evolution of the SLA. In particular, the emergence of the SLA should be seen in the context of the growing political vacuum that has emerged in Southern Lebanon, where the Palestinian factions have established their armed activity since the mid-​ ­1960s. When this activity threatened to destabilize Lebanon as a whole, an Egypt-​­led coalition of Arab countries intervened to pressure the Palestinians to reach a settlement. This led to the signing of the Cairo Agreement in 1969 between the Fatah leaders and the Lebanese government. Yet although this agreement was intended to regulate the Palestinian organizations’ armed activity in Lebanon, it in fact further diminished the sovereignty of the Lebanese government in Southern Lebanon and created a de facto Palestinian “state within a state” in the area (Goria 1985: 179). The events of Black September in Jordan were another important landmark in this process. In September 1970, King Hussein of Jordan ended the ongoing instability in his country by militarily confronting the Palestinian organizations on its premises. Following these violent clashes, the Fatah leaders were banned from Jordanian territory. They found an alternative base in Southern Lebanon, which was used to target the residents of the local Christian towns and villages along the Lebanese-​­Israeli border as well as Israeli civilians across the border (Nisan 1999: 23–​­24). The internal political and ethnic unrest in Lebanon reached its peak in the spring of 1975. Following a political crisis triggered by a Muslim demand for further representation, the country has deteriorated into a prolonged civil war. This intrastate conflict paralyzed the Lebanese state apparatus, particularly the Lebanese army, which has begun to disintegrate into its geographic and ethnic elements (Barak 2009: 4–​­5). The toll of the fifteen-​­year-​­long Lebanese civil war has included an immense number of casualties and massive material damage to Lebanese infrastructure. In addition, this intrastate conflict soon attracted external actors, such as Syria and Israel. Their involvement increased the chaos in Southern Lebanon and strengthened the Palestinian organizations in the area (Barak and Cohen, this volume; Harris 2006: 152–​­74).

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The Strategic Context for the Emergence of the SLA: The Israeli­-​­Maronite Axis The emergence of the SLA should also be analyzed within the broader strategic context of the Israeli-​­Maronite cooperation that has evolved since the mid-​­1970s.7 This cooperation was a result of a growing understanding in the Christian-​­rightist camp in Lebanon—​­especially among the Lebanese Phalanges Party, a Maronite-​­led faction headed by the Gemayel family—​­that a strong external ally was needed in order to overcome their internal enemies. Consequently, a secret channel was established in 1976 between leading figures of the Christian camp8 and Israel’s security agencies representatives (Lahad 2004: 56–​­57). These initial ties quickly evolved into direct military cooperation between Israel and Bashir Gemayel’s Lebanese Forces (LF), the militia of the Phalanges, which at that period emerged as an independent actor. This cooperation included a growing Israeli supply of arms to LF militiamen fighting in Beirut and the nearby Palestinian refugee camps. In addition, Israeli ships carrying weapons to the Lebanese port of Jounieh also carried Lebanese fighters from Gemayel’s militia back to Israel for military training (Hamizrachi 1988: 63–​­67). The Southern Lebanese-​­Israeli Channel The main Israeli-​­Lebanese channel of cooperation was complemented by a separate, although interrelated, Southern Lebanese-​­Israeli channel. This latter was established following a mutual realization that the inhabitants of Southern Lebanon have common strategic interests with Israel, and that such cooperation could hamper the Palestinian armed activity in the area. Thus, regardless of Israel’s initial reluctance to take responsibility for the fate of the Christians in the area (Sela 2007: 59), when representatives of a local armed group of former Maronite officers in the Lebanese army, returning to the village of Kliea following the disintegration of their army units in 1975, approached the Israeli border fence and requested to meet with formal Israeli delegates,9 their request was granted by the Israeli political and military establishment. These covert ties, controlled on the Israeli side from a small apartment in Metula, evolved soon after into a vast Israeli-​­led civic and military system of collaboration with the local inhabitants along the Israeli-​­Lebanese border, institutionalized in what was later referred to in Israel as “the good fence” (Lahad 2004: 56–​­57; Schiff and Ya’ari 1984: 51).

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These developments coincided with the evolving Israeli conception of the necessity of an Israeli security zone in Southern Lebanon. It was thought that this kind of physical barrier would broaden Israel’s security depth while at the same time push the conflict further away from the Israeli public eye. Consequently, when the Syrian army marched into Lebanon and became an active actor in the ongoing Lebanese civil war, Israel, while secretly agreeing with the Syrian move, also made it clear that any Syrian activity in the area stretching approximately forty kilometers from the Israeli-​­Lebanese border would be seen as a direct offense on its strategic interests (Sela 2007: 59).10 The Immediate Origins: The Haddad Militia and the “Lebanese Free State” Following these developments, Israel decided to reorganize the local force in Kliea. Saad Haddad, a low-​­ranking and relatively inexperienced Greek Catholic major in the Lebanese Army originally from the Southern Lebanese town of Marjayoun, was recalled from Beirut and appointed as the commander of this force in November 1976 (Hamizrachi 1988: 1). Shortly after, the local force began to expand the territory under its control, backed by Israeli support. The “Litani Operation” in March 1978 served as another major point of reference in the evolution of this force. Following an attack by Palestinian organizations based in Southern Lebanon on two Israeli buses near Tel Aviv, which caused the deaths of more than thirty civilians, Israel launched an extensive military operation in Lebanon targeting the Fatah infrastructure in the area and quickly approached the Litani River. The Israeli military campaign ended with the adoption of the UN Security Council resolution 42511 and the withdrawal of the Israeli forces from Lebanon, yet it also created a territorial continuum between the Christian enclaves in Southern Lebanon (Sela 2007: 59–​­60). This area now included various Shi‘i, Sunni, and Druze villages, in addition to its large Christian population. Major Haddad encouraged the local population to join his militia and appointed Christian governors to control their municipalities. His isolationist aspirations reached a peak in 1979, with his proclamation of the “Lebanese Free State” in the area under his control. Although this entity did not receive international recognition, Haddad’s symbolic act, which was unique even in the harsh circumstances of the Lebanese conflict, exacerbated the alienation between his militia and the Lebanese gov-

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ernment (Tzafrir 2006: 126). Thus, while the Lebanese government initially paid the salaries of some of the former Lebanese officers in Haddad’s militia, it refrained from doing so following these developments, and Israel has become the only direct funding source of this militia (Peled 1993: 334; Amir 2001: 164–​­65). The SLA in the Israeli Security Zone Despite Haddad’s separationist aspirations, prior to 1982 his militia had only about 1,000 members, who mainly performed defensive tasks. The SLA was hence formally established only following the First Lebanon War (Operation “Peace for the Galilee”), launched by Israel in June 1982. This war, highly contested in Israel’s internal sphere, led to an Israeli siege on the Palestinians in West Beirut and to the expulsion of the Fatah leaders from Lebanon. Israel experienced many casualties in Lebanon, mainly on account of attacks by Lebanese factions. In January 1985, the Israeli government adopted a resolution according to which Israel would withdraw from Lebanon and redeploy its forces along the Israeli-​­Lebanese international border, while maintaining a security zone in Southern Lebanon where local Lebanese forces would operate backed by Israel Defense Forces (IDF) support (Bar-​­Siman-​­Tov 1997: 12; Tzafrir 2006: 127). This resolution led to over a quarter of a century of Israeli presence in Southern Lebanon. At this stage, the SLA emerged as an organized, hierarchical militia with an IDF-​­like structure,12 and underwent a considerable process of institutionalization and professionalization. It acquired its own symbols, uniform, and ranks, and was organized into two brigades, arranged on a territorial basis into six regiments. In 1984, after the death of Major Haddad, General Antoine Lahad, a retired Maronite senior officer in the Lebanese army, was appointed as SLA commander. In addition, the Christian Maronite enclave of Jezzine was eventually annexed to the area under SLA control (Bar-​ ­Siman-​­Tov 1997: 15). This new stage in the evolution of the Southern Lebanese militia also marked its full and direct subordination to the Israeli security establishment, under the close supervision of the Israeli Liaison Unit to Lebanon (known by its Hebrew acronym, Yakal). By August 1986, the SLA had grown to include 2,500 members, a number that remained fairly stable until the year 2000. By the late 1980s this militia had established itself as the strongest military force in the area, gaining local victories over its enemies, which initially included

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Amal, the more moderate Shi‘i faction, and later Hizbullah, which took on itself the aim to drive Israel out from the area (Erlich 2001: 151–​­56). Despite frequent Israeli estimates of the SLA’s relative weakness, as well as the pro-​­Syrian Lebanese government’s psychological propaganda (initiating arrest warrants against SLA members based on indictments of treason), the SLA has maintained its relatively stable position in the area over the years. However, it remained largely dependent on the assistance of the IDF for its survival. In addition, various voices within the Israeli political and military establishment had at times questioned the loyalty of the SLA members, raising the possibility that they would join forces with Hizbullah in the future (Erlich 2001: 151–​­56). The SLA in Israel: From a Militia to a Diasporic Community By the end of the 1990s, mounting Israeli casualties accelerated civic pressures within Israel to end its prolonged stay in Lebanon (Sela 2007: 70–​­71). Following Ehud Barak’s election campaign promise in 1999 to “bring the boys home” within a year, the Barak government unilaterally withdrew the Israeli forces from Southern Lebanon in May 2000. On May 24, as the IDF withdrawal was close to completion, some 7,500 people—​­including former and serving militia members and their families, as well as the larger civic and military “supporting circles” of the SLA—​­gathered with their families by the closed gates of the Israeli-​­Lebanese border. Following intense governmental consultations, Israel decided to open the gates to let them in. This group included a majority of Maronite Christians, as most of the SLA Shi‘i and Druze members had remained in Southern Lebanon and joined their larger communities.13 In Israel, then, began the long journey of the SLA members to find their place. Within the first two years of their arrival, around 2,500 mostly lower-​ ­rank SLA members and their families gradually returned to Lebanon, typically paying ransom or being briefly imprisoned and later set free. Another approximately 2,500 SLA members sporadically emigrated from Israel to Western countries such as Germany, France, and Canada, mostly to join existing diasporic networks of Christian-​­Lebanese in these countries (Gazit 2011: 78). The remaining 2,500 former members who stayed in Israel were granted the status “temporary residents.” Following a prolonged public campaign, they were granted full citizenship in a special law in 2004 (the SLA law). In recent years, several government resolutions have addressed various

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aspects of their lives in Israel. Yet, although public debates over the Second Lebanon War in 2006 have temporarily brought them back to the center of public attention, the SLA community in Israel largely remains on the social, economic, and political margins of Israeli society.

The SLA as a Militia: Syncretic Identity, “Ethical Discourse,” and Semipermeable Boundaries This section, based on fieldwork done among former SLA members in Israel in 2006–​­2010 (see Gazit 2011: 29–​­34), analyzes the identity of SLA members as it has evolved within a militia—​­an internal nonstate actor in the intrastate Lebanese conflict. Accordingly, I will discuss two aspects of their collective identity in the Israeli security zone in Southern Lebanon: first, the Israeli­-​ ­Lebanese syncretic identity of a military kind that has emerged among SLA members within this area since the late 1970s; and second, the “ethical discourse” they adopted as a means for coping with their conflicted structural position in-​­between Israel and Lebanon. Finally, I will argue that special attention should be given to the ambiguous and semipermeable social boundaries of this militia. The Israeli Security Zone as an Extraterritorial “Lifeworld” From the late 1970s onward, a complex and multilayered system of civic and military collaboration evolved between Israel and the residents of the Lebanese villages near the Israeli-​­Lebanese border. This system was characterized by multiple formal and informal ties and intertwined relations. In effect, approximately every family in this area was involved in some way in this vast system of collaboration with Israel, including local villagers who were employed as daily workers in Israel; locals who were employed by the Israeli civic administration in Southern Lebanon; residents who worked with the Israeli security and intelligence agencies in the area; and formal members of the SLA. The latter were thus a part of a larger and multilayered social fabric. This vast Israeli-​­Lebanese collaborative system created a unique social reality. The local villagers, some very young at the time, depict this reality as overarching and all-​­inclusive. They portray their daily lives as constantly intertwined with the Israeli presence in the area. Moreover, for many the Israeli state was perceived as a “mother” figure, as one of them depicts:

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My father was an SLA member, and so was my brother. My whole family was somehow connected to Israel. I worked in Israel, in a hotel in Tel Aviv . . . ​I grew up with the Israeli presence, and since I was nineteen years old I lived both in Israel and in Southern Lebanon. Today I am thirty seven . . . ​so basically all my life I have known Israel, even better than I know Lebanon. Israel was like my mother. It took care of all of my needs, it helped me when I needed help. I felt committed to Israel and loved her—​­it was the only state I knew.14 As this quote illustrates, Israel played a major role in the daily social realities of the local Southern Lebanese villagers. This role was both material, as a supplier of jobs and a source of livelihood, and emotional, as a mother figure caring for her offspring. This close system of reciprocal relations has rapidly evolved into what might be seen as a form of patronage (Eisenstadt and Roniger 1984: 48–​­49; Sela 2007: 59), based on the asymmetrical exchange of material, instrumental, and political resources, coupled with joint promises for mutual support and loyalty.15 The overarching and holistic meaning attached to the Israeli military presence in the area led to the locals’ perception that this system is a unique and extraterritorial universe, out of the Lebanese and Israeli central authorities’ reach, embarking on its own set of values, norms, and rules of conduct. This separate social universe in effect served as what might be seen, for the purpose of this chapter, as an autonomous “lifeworld.”16 I use this Habermasian concept here in its “thin” and pragmatic meaning in order to grasp the overarching subjective interpretation ascribed to the social structure that has evolved in Southern Lebanon by the local inhabitants of the security zone. It is in this social context that the collective identity of the members of the SLA should be interpreted. An Israeli-​­Lebanese Syncretic Identity In particular, in this lifeworld a distinct form of an Israeli-​­Lebanese syncretic identity of a military kind has gradually evolved, which in turn facilitated development of a unique set of local practices. The daily encounters with the Israeli security agencies in the Israeli-​­Lebanese border-​­zone had a direct influence on the evolution of this identity. With their encouragement, SLA members incorporated Israeli national symbols into their identity. This was expressed, among other things, in joint elements from the Israeli and

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Lebanese flags, which appeared frequently in formal joint ceremonies of the IDF and the SLA. SLA members also incorporated Israeli and Jewish cultural and national symbols, such as the Star of David, into their home and work environments, and added them to their own national symbol of the cedar of Lebanon, as well as to other national, local, and religious symbols. But beyond these symbolic and relatively “soft” aspects of identity, this syncretic Israeli-​­Lebanese sense of belonging was woven into the daily life experiences of the members of the SLA. As one of them states: It’s hard to explain this, but I felt Israeli and Lebanese at the same time. I was born Lebanese, I love Lebanon, I feel part of this culture and of the Lebanese nation, but . . . ​Israel is everything I knew since I remember myself. Like Tarzan, who opened his eyes in the jungle, and the only thing he knew were the local animals, such as his monkey. He loved his monkey, because that is the only friend he really knew. This is how I feel with Israel. I opened my eyes, and all I knew was Israel. They gave me shelter, they gave me food, they gave me life. I fought with the Israeli soldiers every day, shoulder to shoulder. Their officers felt at home in my house, and I knew their families. I felt part of the Israeli culture, I visited Israel many times within my military training and travelled around—​­in Eilat, in Tel Aviv, everywhere. I knew these places by heart long before I was forced to leave Lebanon. Lebanon was our home and we loved it, but I loved the Israelis. I spoke Hebrew. When I was injured, I was saved by Israeli doctors in an Israeli hospital . . . ​I am a Lebanese-​­Israeli soldier. This is just who I am. As this excerpt shows, within the lifeworld of the security zone Israeli and Lebanese sentiments, identifications, and physical experiences were woven together into a unique social reality, in which a syncretic sense of national and cultural belonging has evolved. This syncretic identity was facilitated by the evident asymmetrical military relations between the SLA and Israel, as well as by the SLA members’ utilitarian interest in survival within the Southern Lebanese conflictual border-​­zone. Partially lip-​­service to the Israelis—​­in what might also be interpreted as a retroactive reading of the past in the face of their present effort to blend into Israeli society—​­this syncretic identity is at the same time very much part of their inner worlds and social realities. Furthermore, I argue that these widespread and repeated syncretic expressions serve as a valid part of the SLA members’ complex and contradictive

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collective identity, no less than their material and strategic interests.17 Thus, these militia members experienced themselves as what might be portrayed as a unique type of “Israeli-​­Lebanese subjects” of a military kind long before they set foot in Israel as refugees in May 2000. The SLA’s Ethical Discourse The second prominent and complementary aspect of the SLA members’ identity as it has emerged in the Israeli lifeworld of the security zone might be framed as an ethical discourse of loyalty and betrayal, blame and shame. This discourse was part of their ongoing effort to settle their contradictive position as members of a Lebanese militia collaborating with an enemy state. In particular, this discourse included a constant justification of their position in-​ b ­ etween Lebanon and Israel in moral terms. This was expressed, among other things, in what could be framed as “the SLA ethos”—​­their common pattern of presentation of the SLA’s military and political goals, interests, and motivations. This ethos is based on four interrelated claims: first, we have turned to Israel out of a necessity of self-​­defense; second, we have not turned against the Lebanese government but served as its proxy in the name of the true Lebanese national interest; third, we serve as a model for ethnic coexistence in Lebanon since we fought together, Christians, Shi‘is, Sunnis, and Druze; and fourth, our overall goal was to promote the peaceful relations between Israel and Lebanon. As one SLA former officer explains: I am not saying we fought only for the safety and well-​­being of the Israeli residents of the Galilee. No. But we had three, let’s say, goals: first, to protect our villages from the Palestinians and those who are threatening to kill us. Then, to protect the civilians in Northern Israel. And our third goal was to bring peace, to do good, to create a peaceful relationship among neighbors and set an example for Lebanon and others in the Middle-​­East, to teach them how to work together—​­Muslims, Druze and Christians—​­in order to bring peace. Now, you see, many people say, “You are to blame, you are traitors.” Then no, we are not traitors and not collaborators. I didn’t betray anyone. I was sent in the name of my Lebanese government, to protect my people. . . . ​They say I should be ashamed of myself. I am not ashamed! My cause is just. I spent twenty-​­five years of my life fighting for my country. I gave my

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blood and my soul to Lebanon. If anything, the Lebanese government betrayed me, since it didn’t protect me when the Palestinians came to kill me. They should be ashamed of themselves! I am a traitor? I fought for creating a country in which all citizens can live in dignity, and anyone who says otherwise—​­he is a traitor himself! Several aspects stand out in this quote. The members of the SLA portray themselves as delegates of peace, rejecting the notion of being an armed mercenary militia renting its services to an enemy country out of utilitarian self-​ i­nterests. In addition, this “ethos” refers to their perception of the initial betrayal of the Lebanese government, who they believe has abandoned them to their fate in Southern Lebanon. At the same time, they advance a narrative of the SLA as the representative of the “true” Lebanese national interest, thus posing themselves as the “real” Lebanese patriots as opposed to other factions in the Lebanese intrastate conflict. But beyond these evident aspects, what stands out the most is this quote’s more subtle “music,” which might be seen as a sui generis latent factor resonating beyond its particular content. This music is characterized by a constant moral discourse of self-​­justification, deeply embedded in questions of guilt, blame and shame, loyalty and trust, while constantly referring to their structural position in-​­between two “significant others”—​­Lebanon and Israel. In this respect, the SLA members continuously seem to reject claims of treason and a stigma of traitors, while tossing these labels upon different generalized “others.” The collective “they,” portrayed in their discourse as blaming the SLA for their betrayal, is constantly contrasted with their self-​­justification as the only true Lebanese “loyalists,” resisting their perceived stigma and fighting to clear themselves from the accusations they perceive are constantly leveled at them. Within this process, the SLA members struggle with emotions of shame and guilt, seeking alternative, and what at times may also seem as contradictive, moral justifications for their actions. As we shall see, the ethical discourse of these members transformed later on, during their stay in Israel, to include new elements within this continuous “chain of betrayals.” The Semipermeable Social Boundaries of a Militia Before discussing the SLA members’ identity change, a final remark is necessary regarding the internal dynamics of the SLA as a militia. Following this

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chapter’s emphasis on a nuanced dynamic perspective in the analysis of nonstate actors, I argue that the study of SLA identity within the Israeli security zone might also sharpen our understanding of the ambiguous nature of the social boundaries of militias more generally. As some of the findings in this section suggest, the SLA members were in effect part of a larger vibrant and continuously evolving Southern Lebanese community caught in similar circumstances. Since the late 1970s and up to the year 2000, a majority of these local inhabitants—​­Christians, Druze, and Muslims18 alike—​­were involved to some extent in diverse patterns of collaboration with Israel through different channels, either civic or military. Furthermore, it was not rare for members of the SLA to join the militia for a short period of time (to help fulfill the family quota required in order to enable other family members to receive an Israeli work permit), thus creating a separate group of former members of this militia who still preserved some type of weak affiliation to it. There were also those members of the local “security forces,” who although partially subordinated to the central SLA military command, also served as a separate autonomous unit working under the direct control of Israeli security agencies. I thus argue that a nuanced understanding of the SLA as a nonstate actor, and perhaps of militias more generally, might include their depiction as social entities with semi-​­permeable social boundaries. Although these actors maintain a distinct identity of their own, at the same time they constantly interact with their larger social and political constituencies in a dynamic process of ongoing social transformation. Perhaps the most visible expression of these semipermeable boundaries was manifested in the moment of the Israeli withdrawal from Southern Lebanon. As the remaining IDF forces pulled out of the security zone overnight, the members of the SLA, although partially aware of these plans in advance, were caught in deep shock and collective trauma. They quickly gathered their close families and some of their immediate belongings and fled toward the Israeli border. While the Israeli authorities expected only a handful of some hundred high-​­ranking SLA officers to arrive there, Israel’s military and political establishment found itself facing a vast and diverse group of people with a variety of affiliations with Israel. In other words, the Israeli authorities found themselves in May 2000 facing a complex system of collaboration they had cultivated in the area for over twenty-​­five years. This system, in order to preserve its extraterritorial qualities,19 included not only the military core of the SLA militia, but also an array of broader, loosely related civic and military circles. Thus one can argue that

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on the verge of this group’s entry into the Israeli state—​­and as the latter was opening its borders to this rowing flow of Southern Lebanese refugees—​­a new civic, more well-​­defined, and stable category of the SLA came into being.

The SLA as a Diasporic Community: Neoliberal Rights Discourse, Multisited “Identity Work,” and Transnational Diasporism I now turn to the major transformations that occurred in the collective identity of the SLA members following the Israeli withdrawal from Southern Lebanon. This unilateral Israeli act transformed the SLA practically overnight into a new type of nonstate actor: a diasporic community living on the premises of its previous ally, situated on the verge of its homeland yet unable to physically return or to directly influence its internal dynamics. I will specifically focus on two interrelated aspects. The first is the changing nature of the SLA members’ ethical discourse, which takes the novel form of a neoliberal “rights discourse” in Israel. Second is the reconfiguration of their Israeli-​­Lebanese syncretic identity through processes of identity reconstruction vis-​­à-​­vis various “old” and “new” centers of belonging, which include not only Lebanon and Israel, but also alternative points of reference that might be seen as “global” or transnational. Finally, I will argue that the SLA members in Israel are ultimately unable to free themselves from their initial, and fundamentally “national,” structural conflict in-​­between Lebanon and Israel, originating from their previous position as militia members within the Israeli-​­Lebanese border zone. From an Ethical Discourse to a Neoliberal Rights Discourse An old-​­new ethical discourse. While maintaining elements of continuity, the identity of the SLA members in Israel has also undergone profound and deep changes. The collective trauma caused by the abrupt disintegration of the Israeli-​­Lebanese security zone, previously encompassing all aspects of their lives and serving as their taken for granted social reality, left them in extreme shock and grief. At the same time, moving from the transitory status of “temporary residents” to a status of full citizens, they gradually began to comprehend that their condition had become increasingly permanent. During this period, it might be claimed that the SLA completed its transition from an

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armed militia to a civic diasporic category “Israeli Lebanese,” labeled and managed by Israel’s bureaucratic agencies. Consequently, former SLA members have constructed their identity via their interaction with these state agencies, as well as with other social groups within the Israeli context. It could thus be contended that the changing circumstances forced them to redefine their group boundaries as yet another non-​­Jewish diasporic community within Israel’s diverse cultural mosaic.20 In this respect, despite some transformations Israeli society has undergone in recent years, there remain two fundamental formal ethnonational categories that stand at the basis of its societal structure: “Jewish” or “Arab.” Former SLA members perceive themselves as fitting neither category. Within this context, they have begun to construct an adjusted version of their old ethical discourse. Two new modes of betrayal have consequently been added to the “chain of betrayals” through which they perceive their identity: first, the Israeli withdrawal from Southern Lebanon, which they portray as abandoning them to their fate; second, the Israeli governmental resolution21 that followed soon after, which divided the former SLA members in Israel into two groups, one made up of previous high-​­ranking officers who received substantial socioeconomic benefits under the auspices of the Israeli security agencies, and the other that includes the majority of former SLA members who received a minimum benefit package from the Israeli Ministry of Immigrant Absorption (MIA).22 An SLA lieutenant who is part of this unprivileged majority group described it: Of course, we knew that something was going on, but we couldn’t believe that Israel would actually abandon us. Look, I am a true Lebanese, but Lebanon abandoned me a long time ago. This is why I turned to Israel. We gave our blood, and fought shoulder to shoulder with the Israelis for over twenty five years, and then they just throw us to the dogs and stab a knife in our backs? . . . ​This is a violation of trust. It is not the way to treat your ally, your brother. . . . ​But you know what? This is just part of the story. True, I was loyal to my country, loyal to Israel, but the worst thing is that Israel turned her back on me once again after I arrived. . . . ​Why should my commander get everything, and real soldiers like me, those who gave their bodies and souls in the battlefield, receive nothing? We fought together, we have the same heart, the same blood. How come he gets money to buy a house and a

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fancy car and I don’t? Why do his kids get private tutors and university tuition, while we have no food, no jobs, no nothing?! I don’t even know how I will pay my rent! I trusted Israel, but she betrayed me once again. As this quote illustrates, SLA members have added new aspects to their ethical discourse, referring to the Israeli authorities, who, going even further than their withdrawal from Southern Lebanon, implemented a “divide and rule” policy and left them without sufficient economic and social aid in Israel. One significant consequence of this division was a growing internal split between these two new socioeconomic strata. The large unprivileged group affiliated with the Israeli MIA thus begun to develop a separate collective perception of itself as dispossessed and discriminated against. This new evolving class consciousness, and the antagonistic feelings that accompanied it, were directed partially toward the Israeli government, but also to a certain extent inward, toward the privileged former SLA members. Thus, the Israeli governmental act triggered an internal identity dynamic within the SLA veterans’ diaspora in Israel, transforming the elite group of privileged senior officers into a new “significant other” toward which the majority of this diaspora construct their identity. A neoliberal rights discourse. The majority of former SLA members in Israel also began to formulate their moral discourse in a new, neoliberal legal language of “rights” and “duties” vis-​­à-​­vis the Israeli state. This type of human rights discourse presupposes a set of fundamental universal individual rights, which the state has a legal duty to secure. This discourse, which holds its own unique line of argumentation and reasoning, has been prevalent in many Western liberal democracies in the past decades (Gavison 2010: 11–​­18). In Israel as well, some scholars point to a growing tendency among longtime oppressed minorities, such as the Palestinian Arabs, to frame their collective claims of institutional inequality in terms of legal individual rights, and to conduct political and legal campaigns to pursue these rights. Critical observers further ascribe this trend to Israel’s growing embracement of market-​­based capitalist economic policies and accelerated processes of privatization in all sectors of Israeli society, gradually replacing an alternative discourse of “state duties” based on the social responsibility of the state to supply the basic material and social needs of all of its citizens (Gutwein 2003).

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The former SLA members in Israel have adopted a similar rights discourse, as an excerpt from an open letter23 to the Israeli government by members of the second generation of the SLA community in Israel illustrates: With the completion of the Israeli withdrawal from Lebanon in May 24th . . . ​Israel has taken upon itself a moral obligation to stand by its allies, the SLA soldiers, who were uprooted and fled to Israeli territory, and to assist them in their full integration in Israeli society. Yet former Israeli governments have authorized the division of the SLA into two separate groups . . . ​the second group, that does not include the generals and high-​­ranking officers, does not receive the aid it is entitled to receive . . . ​we see it as our duty to remind the Israeli government that the SLA is one body, with one identity and one fate for all . . . ​a resolution aimed at solving the SLA’s housing predicament will soon be voted upon in the Israeli government. . . . ​We, the second generation of the SLA, the ambassadors of peace, loyal to Lebanon and to our second Israeli home, call upon you . . . ​to support this resolution . . . ​in order to erase the stain of the division of the SLA into two separate camps, as if we were members of two separate peoples, families and blood. While this letter strongly resonates with initial “SLA ethos,” it also frames it in a new manner by depicting Israel’s moral obligation toward the SLA as the state’s duty, which is based on the former SLA members’ right to an appropriate standard of living. It also exemplifies their translation of the initial ethical discourse into a political campaign designed to pressure the Israeli government to grant them concrete material rights. This translation of what the SLA members perceive as Israel’s moral obligation into a discourse of legal rights has been further expressed in other contexts. Approximately five years after their arrival, individual SLA members began to submit a growing number of petitions to the Israeli High Court of Justice and to civic courts, relying on legal claims of discrimination and on their constitutional right to a minimum standard of living in dignity.24 These actions were accompanied by the adoption of political practices aimed at promoting their cause in the public sphere in Israel, both on the municipal and the state levels (Gazit 2011: 156–​­58).

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Multisited “Identity Work” and Transnational Diasporism? Beyond former SLA members’ immediate material incentive, one possible way to understand their legal and political campaign in Israel could be to see it as part of their broader struggle to preserve some kind of recognition of their “old” role as a militia, and hence of their previous contribution to Israeli society. This struggle was exacerbated in a direct proportion to the fact that as time went by, the “Israeli-​­Lebanese affair” drifted further away from the Israeli collective consciousness. As one former SLA member vividly describes: Two years ago we were demonstrating [in support of the SLA law] near the prime-​­minister’s office. Suddenly a young IDF officer passed by and asked me: “Who are these people?” I answered: “These are the members of the SLA.” “Who?” he asks, and adds this gesture with his hand as if he doesn’t understand. Then I said: “Are you an IDF officer?” “Yes,” he said. “And don’t you know who are the SLA?” “No,” he said. “Then you should be ashamed of yourself!” . . . ​You see [he turns to me], isn’t it a disgrace that an officer in the IDF doesn’t know what is the SLA? And don’t you think it is humiliating that in the book in honor of Israel’s sixtieth anniversary it says: “In the year 1982 Israeli forces marched into Lebanon, and in the year 2000 they left,” without one word mentioning the SLA? And that from the Negev to the Galilee there isn’t one memorial or tablet mentioning the SLA’s contribution to Israel, while near every traffic light you can find a memorial for someone dead in a car accident? Aren’t you ashamed? It’s not money, it’s a matter of honor and memory . . . ​Don’t you think it is wrong to erase us? In a couple of years no one will even remember who we were, and then what will we be here in Israel? Nobody, we will be nothing. Thus, beyond this struggle’s reference to the Israeli “politics of memory,” it might be understood as an effort of the SLA members to maintain some kind of imprint on what they perceive as the Israeli ethos of bravery: to leave a mark and be remembered in their previous form, as a militia supporting the Israeli cause. At the same time, this discourse paradoxically serves as part of their broader effort to become an integral part of the Israeli society, coming to terms with the permanent aspect of their existence in Israel, and articulating their “old” syncretic Israeli-​­Lebanese identity in new terms via the

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performance of “boundary work”25 in relation to other subgroups within the Israeli society. Two points of reference in their performance of boundary work stand out in this respect: the Jewish majority, with which the former SLA members hope to fit in (although some of the Israeli Jews, on their part, are suspicious of them, and either perceive them as part of the Arab minority or folklorize them as representatives of “the exotic culture from across the border”);26 and the Palestinian Arab minority, which rejects them and which they aim to distinguish themselves from in order to fit in with the larger Jewish society. In addition, they continue to portray themselves as Lebanese subjects, committed to their original cause of restoring the Christian-​­dominated political order in Lebanon. This commitment is translated into specific practices aimed at furthering their parochial political interests in Lebanon from their current diasporic position. This is done through the mobilization of the international media (especially on occasions when the Israeli-​­Lebanese conflict receives worldwide attention). It is also achieved through the activities of a public nonprofit civic association of the SLA in Israel, through which they continue their efforts to further their cause in the Lebanese domestic sphere, cultivating ongoing contacts with prominent Christian political and religious figures in Lebanon. This effort is also expressed through local enterprises, such as an Israeli-​­supported Christian radio station that broadcasts their political agenda to the people of Southern Lebanon from the Israeli side of the border, and which they portray as “the continuation of our struggle in other means.” Beyond the Israeli and Lebanese arenas, the former members of the SLA also conceptualize their identity in Israel in a novel way as a branch of the worldwide Christian-​­Lebanese diaspora. As one SLA member states: We as Christian-​­Lebanese are renowned all over the world for our free spirit and high intellectual skills. Wherever you look, you will find a successful high-​­achieving Lebanese, in every sphere. . . . ​Since I’ve received my Israeli citizenship, wherever I go, all over the world, I feel at home. I’m proud to be a Lebanese Christian. My Jewish friends here in Israel tell me: “You know, when we look you in the eyes we don’t see an Arab,” And I tell them: “Guys, it’s very simple: I’m not an Arab, I’m a Lebanese”27 . . . ​like the wandering Jew, we Lebanese feel at home wherever we go. We don’t need a country, the world is our home. In Germany, in Canada, in Brazil, in the U.S.—​­you name it. Because all

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of our lives we were free, we know what it means to be free, to think independently, we don’t mind land at all . . . ​I am proud to be a Christian-​­Lebanese. As this recurring theme suggests, the former SLA members in Israel portray themselves as part of the Christian Lebanese diaspora, and thus as free and global citizens of the world, regardless of land and national borders. Hence, the SLA members’ identity in Israel is simultaneously shaped via multiple centers of belonging: Israel; Lebanon; and a third evolving sphere that might be depicted as transnational, aimed at transcending their original national position in-​­between Lebanon and Israel. Yet this depiction of themselves as global citizens of the world is conand fundamentally stantly challenged on the ground by their original—​­ ­national—​­position as former residents of the Israeli-​­Lebanese border-​­zone. The tension between these three centers of belonging is exemplified continuously in their daily life experiences in Israel, yet it is especially evident in extreme situations, as illustrated in the following excerpt: During the Second Lebanon War [in 2006] it was very difficult for us. We were in Israel, running to find shelter when our home in Naharia was bombed by Nasrallah [the leader of Hizbullah], but at the same time worried about our family on the other side of the border, and the Israeli missiles that fell on their homes. . . . ​You see, we are here, and at the same time our heart is there. We have shelter, but they don’t have anything—​­no food, no water, nothing, and we can’t do anything about it. We can’t just divide ourselves this way, it hurts. It is as if my heart is split into two hearts. One heart is with Lebanon. Not this Lebanon that you see on the news, but the real Lebanon, that we fought for twenty-​­five years of our lives. Our parents are still there, our brothers and sisters, our homes. You can’t just shut this down as you shut down your TV or your computer. And the other heart is with Israel. Although she betrayed us, and even if we are in pain, we still love her. What can we do? As these words sharply depict, while their transnational dimension of identity seems to have the potential to free them somewhat from their initial structural position in-​­between Israel and Lebanon, the SLA members’ identity in Israel remains above all shattered, and their existence is characterized

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first and foremost by deep and continuous—​­and fundamentally national—​ ­split and ambivalence.

Conclusion Within the all-​­encompassing social reality of the lifeworld of the Israeli security zone in Southern Lebanon, the members of the SLA have incorporated Israeli elements into their identity, while constantly justifying their conflicted position in-​­between Israel and Lebanon through an ethical discourse of betrayal and loyalty, blame and shame. Yet following the Israeli withdrawal from Lebanon, they have adapted to the changing circumstances of the Lebanese conflict—​­the end of the civil war, the collapse of the security zone, and their removal from their homes in the Lebanese-​­Israeli border area—​­and reframed their previous ethical discourse as a neoliberal rights discourse in their new host society, Israel. While this could be seen as a mere shift in content within an existing national identity category, their reconstruction of identity in Israel as citizens of the world, although ultimately interpreted here as partial, might be further understood as a novel transnational dimension of identity standing in its own right. This identity in turn opens up new possibilities of action for the members of the SLA community in Israel, now also holding de facto an Israeli passport, freeing them from their initial position in-​­between Lebanon and Israel as they have experienced it within the Southern Lebanese border-​­zone. Interestingly, the interaction between the SLA and the Israeli state, as well as the role of the imagined state of Lebanon as former SLA members continue to perceive it from abroad, all take part in the ongoing process of their identity construction in Israel. Moreover, internal dynamics within the SLA community have simultaneously played a significant role in this process, as the former SLA members have begun to construct their identity through their perception of a new internal “significant other”—​­their former high-​­ranking officers who were granted a favorable socioeconomic status by the Israeli authorities. In this sense, this identity change was triggered by the interaction between the SLA and the Israeli state, occurring as a reaction to what they perceive as Israel’s divide and rule policy toward them, yet at the same time it has evolved via intra-​­organizational dynamics between the newly established socioeconomic strata among the SLA members in Israel. In addition, it could be

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argued that while intentionally adopting practices to improve their situation via a civic struggle for their legal and political rights, an unintentional consequence of this process was the evolution of an alternative channel of identity construction vis-​­à-​­vis their own senior members, in turn putting into question their previous SLA ethos, which could no longer hold in face of these new realities. As these multilayered dynamics of identity change reveal, the identity of nonstate actors is neither stable and fixed nor unified. Instead, it constantly evolves across time and space through the social meanings their respective members attach to their intra-​­organizational social dynamics, to the structural circumstances and institutional realities of the conflict in which they are embedded, and to the actions taken by other actors involved in this conflict toward them. However, it could be contended that this chapter ultimately implies a structural and somewhat deterministic analysis of identity change. To some extent this is true, but I argue that this structural inclination is case-​­dependent. An “experience near” phenomenological account of the case of the SLA, as presented in this chapter, indeed implies that in extreme social and political circumstances, social structures tend to shape the identity of individuals. Other comparable case studies in this respect, in which a similar structural inclination might prove valid, are the Algerian Harkis in France, who collaborated with the French forces in the Algerian civil war (1954–​­1962) and later fled to France in fear of their fellow nationals’ reprisal (Crapanzano 2011: xi–​­xii; Dudai and Cohen 2007: 53–​­54; Enjelvin 2006: 113–​­17), as well as the Hmong refugees from Laos, who collaborated with the U.S. forces during the Vietnam war (1959–​­1975) and later found shelter in American territory (Fadiman 1997: 5). Yet in other cases an agent-​­based model of identity change might better explain these dynamics. Thus, while this chapter focused on one case study in order to begin to unravel the complex identity dynamics of nonstate actors, future studies dealing with alternative national settings and focusing on militias, rival factions in civil wars, or other nonstate actors in the context of intrastate conflicts, are in need to broaden and deepen our understanding of these multifaceted processes.

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Chapter 8

Domestic-​­Regional Interactions and Outside Intervention in Intrastate Conflicts: Insights from Lebanon Avraham Sela and Oren Barak

The two decades since the end of the Cold War have witnessed numerous intrastate conflicts (especially in the Balkans, Africa, and the Middle East) and various forms of outside intervention (particularly military intervention and mediation) designed to ameliorate them. Yet most of these conflicts (e.g., in Somalia, Iraq, and Sudan) turned out to be difficult if not impossible for external forces to cope with. The overall record of outside intervention in these conflicts shows more failures than successes; and political settlements reached due to outside efforts seem fragile and temporary.1 At the same time, attempts by students of International Relations to explain the success and failure of outside intervention in these conflicts by focusing on the intervening parties, their motivations, modes of organization, coordination, and legitimacy have reached a deadlock. This is best represented through the growing criticism of the very concept of international intervention as a method for coping with the challenges posed by intrastate conflict.2 This chapter aims to shift the focus of interest from the international to the domestic-​­regional arena as the primary context for explaining the success or failure of outside intervention in intrastate conflict. We argue that in “zones of conflict”—​­namely, developing regions characterized by permeable state borders, robust substate and supranational identities, underdeveloped economy and weak or absent regional institutions3—​­the complex and largely

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informal interactions between domestic actors such as ethnic groups (or communities), clans, tribes, and geographical regions, on the one hand, and regional actors (sovereign states, regional organizations, and VITNAs), on the other hand, have a significant impact on the success or failure of outside intervention in intrastate conflicts. Drawing on insights from the fields of international security, ethnic conflicts, and political sociology (especially regarding the role of social networks and patron-​­client relationships), the chapter elucidates the nature of these shifting domestic-​­regional interactions and their influence on outside intervention in intrastate conflicts. Assuming that domestic and regional actors are the first to be affected by outside intervention and are thus likely to respond according to perceived and fluctuating opportunities and constraints, we identify the conditions under which such actors would incline to support or reject attempts to reach a political settlement to an intrastate conflict. By calling attention to this critical factor, the chapter challenges existing theories of international intervention in intrastate conflicts that explain the success and failure of these efforts mainly in neorealist systemic terms. In order to substantiate our thesis, we provide a detailed examination of the Lebanese conflict (1975–​­1990). This intrastate conflict was marked not only by high levels of violence and massive involvement by Lebanon’s neighbors and by global forces (especially the United States and the UN), but also by complex interactions between various types of domestic and regional actors. A major factor accounting for the success or failure of consecutive outside interventions in this conflict was the support for, or resistance to, these efforts by these changing domestic-​­regional alignments. The Lebanese conflict, which has not yet been explored from this angle, is illustrative due to its protracted and intensive nature, the varied forms of outside intervention that characterized it, and the two decades that elapsed since its successful termination, which allow for a reconsideration of how it is commonly perceived. In the first part of the chapter, we discuss the post-​­Cold War debate on international intervention in intrastate conflicts, which is still characterized by an overly formal approach that overlooks the complex interactions between domestic and regional actors and their impact in these contexts. We then focus on the nature of these domestic-​­regional interactions in zones of conflict, particularly in the Middle East. In the third section, we zoom in on the Lebanese conflict, analyzing its causes and the factors behind its protracted nature. In regional interactions in particular, we emphasize the role of domestic-​­

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obstructing the process of elite accommodation and exacerbating centrifugal tendencies in Lebanon in the mid-​­1970s. We then focus on the three major crises that erupted during the conflict—​­in 1975–​­1976, 1982–​­1984, and 1988–​ ­1990—​­which were characterized by the use of massive military force and intensive diplomatic efforts by outside forces. As we show, the success or failure of these efforts hinged, first and foremost, on the extent to which key domestic and regional actors agreed to play along.

International Intervention in Intrastate Conflicts: The Debate What determines the outcome of outside intervention in intrastate conflicts? The main debate in International Relations is between internationalists, who maintain that the international system is the key factor determining the behavior of all (local, global, and regional) actors, and regionalists, who give precedence to the specificities of domestic and regional arenas, their common social and economic structures, and their shared regional identities.4 When it comes to explaining success or failure of international intervention in intrastate conflicts, however, much of the International Relations literature still concentrates on the intervening regional or global actors and institutions—​­their motivations, modes of organization, cooperation and coordination, and ­legitimacy—​­and only few studies are attentive to the significance of domestic factors in these context.5 Without attempting to resolve this ongoing debate, there is ample evidence that domestic and regional factors are more critical than international (i.e., global) ones when accounting for the success or failure of outside intervention in intrastate conflicts both during and after the Cold War. In the period 1945–​­1990, the superpowers were mostly unwilling to get involved in regional conflicts (including intrastate conflicts) that had little or no effect on their interests. When they did intervene, their efforts at times failed or resulted in outcomes different than they had intended, demonstrating their limited capacity to affect regional security processes.6 Since the early 1990s, the limitations of global factors in affecting war and peace, especially in zones of conflict, have been further underlined, and outside intervention has proved to be dependent on favorable domestic and regional social and political factors, which tended to be autonomous from global inputs. The limits of outside intervention in intrastate conflicts have been especially salient when

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these conflicts—​­often accompanied by humanitarian crises, mass displacement, and even genocide (e.g., in Rwanda and Sudan)—​­took place in regions of no substantial interest for global powers. Notwithstanding these apparent constraints, the post-​­Cold War eruption of intrastate conflicts and the challenges they posed to the “new world order” underpinned a new version of the concept of collective security: international peacemaking by military intervention designed to make up for the state’s failure to live up to its moral and legal duties to protect its citizens from atrocities by applying the international community’s responsibility to protect those citizens.7 Peacemakers thus began pursuing ambitious mandates, ranging from conflict management to regime-​­and state-​­building, and adopted a host of strategies including restraining disputants, conducting elections, and building new political, bureaucratic, and security institutions. Yet peacemaking operations since the early 1990s (e.g., in Somalia, Bosnia, Afghanistan, and Iraq) have often failed to live up to these idealistic goals, underlining a major gap between international human rights conventions and actual international relations, hence the growing criticism of this concept on both practical and normative grounds.8 The current debate on international intervention in intrastate conflicts, which presents normative arguments and evaluations of actual cases, also exregionalist dichotomy.9 Thus, hibits the aforementioned internationalist-​­ while internationalists call for global efforts to ameliorate intrastate conflicts and criticize their regionalization, regionalists emphasize the regional context of security and the relative advantages of regional organizations and coalitions of willing states in conflict management, especially when operating under a UN mandate. According to these authors, regional actors can decrease misunderstandings because they are already familiar with the subregion and its culture and have intimate knowledge of the parties to the conflict (Goulding 1999: 156; cf. Howard 2008: 2). As far as the historical record is concerned, it seems to support the claims of the regionalists: several interventions of regional (and occasionally global) powers in domestic conflicts (e.g., Nigeria in Western Africa in the 1990s and Britain in Sierra Leone in 2000, respectively), sanctioned ex post facto by the UN or by the relevant regional organization, underline the latter’s practical role in preserving regional security, which is recognized by the UN Charter.10 At the same time, international peacemaking (including military) operations (e.g., in Somalia, Haiti, Bosnia, Kosovo, Afghanistan, and Iraq) that lacked a significant regional dimension have encountered insurmountable obstacles,

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especially when they sought to rebuild the political community, and have resulted in staggering human casualties and material costs.11 What is striking about this debate, however, is its near total disregard of the impact of the interactions between domestic and regional actors on the success and failure of outside intervention in intrastate conflicts. Indeed, though several authors ask why outside actors (mostly neighboring states) intervene in these conflicts and whether this decision stems from realist considerations or ethnic ties with the target state (Carment et al. 2006: 206; Roy 1997: 303; Saideman 2001: 2), the exact nature of these domestic-​­regional interactions and their impact on the success and failure of outside intervention receive meager attention. This despite the fact that in numerous relevant cases, domestic actors, often in collaboration with regional ones, have exercised effective veto power on the implementation of political settlements mediated by international actors (Stedman 1997: 7–​­12, 2001: 741).12 Furthermore, students of intrastate conflicts often adopt a rather patronizing approach by prescribing radical solutions to intrastate conflicts with little or no attention to their practical meaning or to social and cultural preferences of the parties concerned. Hence, “failed states” should be left alone,13 warring ethnic groups be relocated, and disputed states partitioned into separate political units (Byman 1997: 1–​­5; Kaufman 1998: 155–​­56); or conversely, social and political institutions should be reinstated, civil society built, and democratization effected (Crocker 2003: 40; Fearon and Laitin 2004: 12–​­13). 14 The dearth of attention to these domestic-​­regional interactions and their impact is doubly surprising in view of the growing awareness in recent years that intrastate conflicts ought to be treated in accordance with their specific origins, structure, protagonists, and external environment. Indeed, the last two decades have witnessed an increased emphasis on history, culture, social and political identities, state-​­to-​­nation congruence, economic grievances, and social psychology as key elements for better understanding of, and coping with, these conflicts, thus challenging neorealist and other state-​­centered approaches.15 This chapter suggests that in zones of conflict, the complex interactions between domestic and regional actors play a critical role in affecting the outcomes of international intervention. But before we substantiate our thesis by analyzing the Lebanese case, let us explain the significance of these domestic-​ ­regional interactions in intrastate conflicts and their crucial impact on outside efforts to cope with them in zones of conflict such as the Middle East.

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Domestic-​­Regional Interactions in Intrastate Conflicts To assess the impact of the complex interactions between domestic and regional actors on the success and failure of outside intervention, there is a need to examine (1) the domestic actors, which may include members of the various ethnic groups (or communities), large families (or clans), tribes, and geographical regions that are involved in the conflict; (2) the regional actors, which may include sovereign states, and especially the state’s neighbors (which are affected by the conflict occurring on their doorstep and respond to it in different ways), regional organizations, and VITNAs; and (3) the exact nature of these domestic-​­regional interactions. Let us discuss each of these elements in more detail. In addition to mobilizing their own societal sectors, the protagonists in intrastate conflicts often appeal to external forces, and particularly to neighboring states, for military and financial aid, diplomatic backing, and, if needed, for military intervention on their behalf. Appeals for support often aim to mobilize support of kin-​­groups and political movements in the neighboring states as a conduit for pressuring their governments to associate with the domestic group in conflict. At the same time, the domestic actors can appeal to VITNAs that reside in the state or outside its borders, and these, too, can come to their aid. By inducing regional involvement, domestic actors seek to “equalize” their opponents’ superior power both in the material sense and in terms of their legitimacy. This often entails manipulation of regional actors, according to the local actors’ changing needs and interests. Regional actors, too, may conceive of intrastate conflicts in neighboring states as opportunities to enhance their material power and legitimacy both domestically and externally. However, since these conflicts are costly for some regional actors, and especially for states, they may find it more useful to forge alliances with domestic actors than to intervene in them directly. VITNAs, on the other hand, are attracted to intrastate conflicts that provide them with a territorial base and a “worthy cause.” It should be emphasized that the resultant domestic-​ ­regional interactions are not hierarchical but can be best characterized as a constant push-​­and-​­pull between the domestic client and its regional patron, where each side seeks to maximize its gains and the patron is sometimes maneuvered into intervention on the client’s behalf and not vice versa. We posit that these domestic-​­regional interactions can have a major impact on the success and failure of outside intervention in intrastate conflicts. When domestic and regional actors support outside intervention in the

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conflict, they can facilitate it and add to its legitimacy. But when both types of actors are opposed to the outside intervention, they can join hands to thwart it by attempting to delegitimize it as foreign meddling in the state’s internal affairs and by launching or supporting terrorist attacks against the intervening forces. The other two possible scenarios—​­namely, when the domestic actor opposes the outside intervention and the regional player supports it, or vice versa—​­are also potentially disruptive for the outside efforts. In the first scenario, the regional player must effectively coerce or co-​­opt the domestic actor but at the same time is susceptible to delegitimization because of its “defection.” In the second scenario, it is the domestic actor that becomes the subject of pressures by the regional player, which can range from violence to attempts to discredit it for “collaborating” with foreign “schemes.” As we shall see, these domestic-​­regional interactions were manifest in the Lebanese conflict. But before we elaborate on this case, let us present the major characteristics of the Middle East regional system, which helped determine the choices of the relevant domestic and regional actors. Traditionally, the Middle East has been portrayed as a zone of conflict: namely, as a tumultuous, unpredictable, and violent region, and hence lacking international norms of collective security.16 This volatile image is further augmented by a long history of outside intervention by the great powers (most recently by the United States) often justified as necessary to save the region from itself. Apart from consecutive Arab-​­Israeli wars, Palestinian guerrilla operations against Israel, and Israeli military retaliations, the Middle East was haunted by inter-​­Arab rivalries as a result of repeated interventions in one another’s domestic affairs not least through the support of VITNAs (Kerr 1971: 1–​­25; Sela 1998: 27–​­30). Since the 1980s, Islamic militant groups have become a major factor shaping social and political behavior on both domestic and regional levels, though until the events of the “Arab Spring,” they remains largely under control of the region’s secular authoritarian regimes. In recent years, Arab-​­Iranian and Israeli-​­Iranian tensions added to this volatile situation. Nonetheless, a growing body of literature presents a more nuanced view of the Middle East, indicating, among other things, an unmistakable transformation of interstate relations from conflict to a form of security-​­type relations. The decline of the region’s conflict proneness17 is explained by the aggregate effect of material costs of long-​­lived conflicts coupled with weakened economies, and the dialectic of growing state power and autonomy and the decline of pan-​­Arab nationalism.18 All this has led to increased mutual

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respect of the sovereignty and territorial integrity of the region’s states and avoidance of interference in each other’s internal affairs. While the above-​ ­mentioned international norms have been more evident in inter-​­Arab relations (Barnett 1995, 481–​­82, 1998: viii–​­ix; Sela 1998: 5–​­8), the dialectic with the subsiding fierceness of the region’s core conflict between the Arab states and Israel cannot be ignored (Ben-​­Dor 1983: 185–​­227; Lebovic 2004: 170–​­71; Sela 1998: 342). Noticeably, even neorealist authors admit that Arab-​­Israeli relations had shifted from one of zero-​­sum game and deterrence to a mixed pattern of relationships that could also be described as a security regime, to reduce tensions and prevent undesired confrontation, though not to serve as a means for collectively addressing regional security problems.19 One obstacle in identifying the transformation of the Middle East regional system, especially over the long term, is the overemphasis on regional institutions of collective security. In the Middle East these are represented by the Arab League, which excludes pivotal non-​­Arab regional actors (Israel, Turkey, and Iran) and lacks inherent and derivative power to resolve conflicts among its members or to affect collective Arab security.20 Still, precisely because of its image as a symbol of common Arab identity and, possibly, of an all-​­Arab unity, the Arab League Charter of 1945 and the organization’s historic record clearly demonstrate that it effectively functioned, albeit loosely and with limited success, as a regional framework committed to safeguarding the sovereignty and territorial integrity of its member states, preventing intervention in each other’s affairs, and enhancing collective action on common interests.21 Moreover, despite its weak powers, the Arab League proved to be relatively efficient in managing inter-​­Arab conflicts, especially territorial ones (Zacher 1979: 200). In particular, the decline of pan-​­Arabism enabled the Arab League (especially in summits attended by heads of state) to serve as an all-​­Arab core forum to which Arab actors appealed regarding their mutual or regional security concerns, underlining its status as the supreme source of collective Arab legitimacy. In addition to mediation in conflicts, the Arab League adopted formal and informal mechanisms to promote this same goal, including trade-​­offs of collective legitimacy and diplomatic and financial aid, which were utilized in handling both inter-​­and intra-​­Arab conflicts and forging coalitions in support of newly defined rules concerning regional security that eventually acquired normative meaning (Sela 1998: 341–​­50). As we shall see, these roles were manifest in the Lebanese conflict. A no less important factor that has helped promote regional order in the Middle East was the adoption by the region’s states of a number of informal

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practices. First, many of these states attempted to suppress, co-​­opt, or include domestic actors such as political movements representing suprastate ideologies, ethnic groups (or communities), tribes, large families (or clans), and geographical regions, all of which posed a challenge to domestic stability.22 Applying the same line of action with regard to VITNAs was more complex, however, particularly (though not exclusively) in the context of the Palestine conflict. Especially after their defeat in the 1967 war, Arab states openly competed for support of the Palestinian factions in their struggle against Israel as a means to boost their legitimacy and acquire leverage over other Arab actors. Practically, however, stronger states such as Egypt and Syria (and as of 1971, Jordan) managed to prevent Palestinian military activity on their soil, forcing these VITNAs to concentrate in Lebanon, with Syria serving as their logistical base.23 These cross-​­border state to nonstate alliances notwithstanding, the region’s states, including those supporting VITNAs, persistently sought to control and restrain (and even eliminate, if needed) these actors, which they saw as obstacles to the process of state formation and/or as inducing conflicts with their neighbors.24 As we shall see, both modus operandi were manifest in the Lebanese conflict, with some states oscillating between support of VITNAs and attempts to restrain them. A second informal mechanism adopted by Middle Eastern states, especially between several Arab states and Israel (and which was also demonstrated in the Lebanese conflict), was tacit cooperation in security matters, which reflected a common interest in regional stability despite their conflictual relations.25 The tacit nature of these arrangements was dictated by the compelling pan-​­Arab identity that constrained the Arab states’ ability to act autonomously, particularly toward Israel, especially in the early decades of their independence.

The Lebanese Conflict The Lebanese conflict (1975–​­1990) stemmed from internal factors that were exacerbated by external ones and profoundly destabilized not only Lebanon but also the regional system in the Middle East.26 From the early stages of the conflict, Lebanon became a battleground in which domestic and regional actors created a web of constantly shifting domestic-​­regional interactions. This section analyzes the impact of these interactions on the success and failure of outside intervention in the conflict, providing a more nuanced view of the conflict.27

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Three major factors were behind the Lebanese conflict and its longevity: first, the state’s weak institutions, which could not sustain its political system or quell the altercations among its leaders; second, the immobilism of Lebanon’s power-​­sharing settlement, and especially its inability to reflect the profound socioeconomic (including demographic) changes that had taken place since the National Pact of 1943; and third, the behavior of Lebanon’s political leaders, who jettisoned the process of elite accommodation and used violence and appeals for foreign assistance to get their way. These problems were exacerbated by several developments in Lebanon’s close environment. The first of these was the strengthening and growing involvement of VITNAs, particularly the Palestinian factions, which not only penetrated into Lebanon and stepped up their armed activities against Israel, but also became involved in Lebanon’s politics. The second was Israel’s retaliatory operations against these VITNAs and Lebanon since the late 1960s, which weakened the state.28 A final development was Syria’s growing involvement in Lebanon since the Assad’s regime in early 1970s, following the stabilization of Hafez al-​­ Damascus. One important consequence of these domestic and regional developments was that by the mid-​­1970s members of most major sectors of Lebanese society (communities, clans, and regions) had become militarized, forging alliances with VITNAs such as the Palestinian factions and several Middle Eastern states. These VITNAs, in turn, provided these Lebanese factions with military and financial assistance and political backing. Thus, when violence erupted in Lebanon in 1975, a host of regional actors intervened in the conflict hoping to make quick strategic gains, thus effectively exporting their rivalries to its territory. These included primarily Lebanon’s close neighbors—​­the PLO, Israel, and Syria—​­but also other Middle Eastern states such as Egypt, Iraq, and Libya, and, to a lesser extent, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, and Iran. In the next subsections, we elaborate on the impact of domestic-​­regional interactions on outside intervention in the three major crises in the Lebanese conflict. But before we discuss each of these episodes, let us emphasize their cumulative significance. All these crises—​­Syria’s intervention in Lebanon in 1976, Israel’s invasion in 1982, and the period 1988–​­1990, when Lebanon’s partition seemed imminent—​­threatened to push Lebanon into the abyss and escalate into a regional conflagration. However, they each also represented an unmistakable effort by some domestic and regional actors to preserve the state and prevent spillover and regional instability. This was accomplished through attempts of domestic-​­regional alignments to restrain VITNAs and

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other revisionist actors, contain the violence, and reach a political settlement that would address the interests of both domestic and regional actors, facilitate Lebanon’s reconstruction, and preserve regional stability, with all those involved coming to terms with both the limits and possibilities of their power (for a summary, see Table 3).

Table 3. Domestic-Regional Interactions in the Lebanese Conflict First crisis (1975–76)

Second crisis (1982–84)

Third crisis (1988–90)

Causes of crisis

Lebanon’s “failure”; intervention by VITNAs (mainly PLO); indirect involvement by regional states: Syria, Egypt, Israel, Iraq & Libya

PLO threat to Israel’s security from Lebanon’s territory; Israeli invasion and confrontation with PLO & limited confrontation with Syria

“Constitutional vacuum” in Lebanon; massive Iraqi & PLO support to Maronite actors and particularly Aoun’s military government

Potential risks to Lebanon

Breakup of formal institutions; partition; takeover of South Lebanon by Israel and VITNAs (mainly PLO)

Further instability; growing Israeli entanglement in favor of Maronite militias; Israeli takeover of additional territories

Breakup of remaining formal institutions; partition

Regional context

Egyptian-Israeli peace process; EgyptianSyrian tensions; opportunity for comprehensive Middle East peace process

Inter-Arab fragmentation; IranIraq war; Possible resumption of Middle East peace process; Fahd Plan; Reagan Plan

End of Iran-Iraq War; Egypt’s return to Arab fold; Iraqi invasion of Kuwait and Arab opposition to Iraq

Potential risks to regional stability

Spillover of tensions into Syria; escalation of Iraqi-Syrian & Israeli-Syrian tensions

Escalation of Palestinian problem & Arab-Israeli war; challenge to Syrian hegemonic role in Lebanon; escalation of Syrian-Lebanese tensions

Challenge to Syrian hegemony in Lebanon; escalation of Iraqi-Syrian & Israeli-Syrian tensions

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First crisis (1975–76)

Second crisis (1982–84)

Third crisis (1988–90)

Domesticregional interactions

LNM-PLO alliance supported by Syria (initially), Iraq and Libya; Israeli support to Christian factions in border area

PLO entrenchment in South & Beirut and alliance with domestic factions; Israeli alliance with Maronite factions; Syrian alliance with Shi‘i & Druze militias

Iraqi support to Aoun government; Syrian support to Hoss government, Amal & PSP

Outside intervention: strategies and instruments

Informal SyrianIsraeli agreement (“red lines”) enabling Syrian military intervention against LNM-PLO alliance; Arab summits & ADF deployment to pacify Lebanon

Israeli ultimatum to PLO, tacit Arab cooperation in Israeli and Syrian ousting of PLO; Arrival of MNF; Israeli-Lebanese agreement and Syrian efforts to thwart it with local factions & VITNAs

Arab mediation between Lebanese factions and Syria towards a political settlement; U.S. & Israeli consent for Syrian military action against opponents of agreement (Aoun)

Outcome of outside intervention in conflict

Unsuccessful termination of conflict and state reconstruction; regional stability

Unsuccessful termination of conflict and state reconstruction; regional stability

Successful termination of conflict and state reconstruction; Syrian hegemony in Lebanon (until 2005); Hizbullah military presence in South Lebanon; regional stability

The First Crisis (1975–​­1976) The major domestic protagonists in the first crisis in the Lebanese conflict were the Lebanese National Movement (LNM), Lebanon’s Muslim-​­dominated opposition (supported by the PLO, and initially also by Syria) on the one hand, and the Christian-​­led Lebanese Front on the other hand. Its cause was escalation of the conflict leading to paralysis of the state’s institutions, and especially the presidency and the army. This development raised the specter

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of Lebanon’s partition into a revolutionary pan-​­Arab entity supported by Libya and Iraq and a Maronite Christian entity, with Israel taking over the Lebanese-​­Israeli border area. The crisis in Lebanon had grave implications on the regional level, too, especially as the Egyptian-​­Israeli peace process that was moving forward provided an opportunity for comprehensive Middle Eastern peace process. Spillover of intercommunal tensions into Syria could have destabilized it and Iraqi-​­Syrian and Israeli-​­Syrian tensions could have escalated into war, not least because of these actors’ conflicting interests in Lebanon and the support they extended to the protagonists in the conflict. Indeed, during the first year of the conflict, Syria made discernible efforts to mediate a settlement among the main warring parties (the Constitutional Document), combining diplomacy and indirect military support to its LNM allies to prevent their defeat and maintain its bargaining position—​­all of which resulted in further escalation of intra-​­Lebanese hostilities. Other regional actors, such as Jordan, were deeply concerned by these developments, and with the backing of a global power (the United States) mediated an informal Syrian-​­Israeli agreement, the “red lines,” which enabled Syria to launch a massive military intervention aimed at curbing the PLO-​ ­LNM alliance in June 1976. The red lines aimed at preventing military collision between Syria and Israel and, by delineating their spheres of influence in Lebanon, effectively formed a security regime there (Evron 1987: 34–​­56). At the same time, the agreement reaffirmed Lebanon’s sovereignty and territorial integrity, and, except for brief intermissions when Israel and Syria clashed in Lebanon during the Missile Crisis in 1981 and in the early stages of the 1982 war, its stipulations have been observed ever since. It should be noted, however, that the red lines also turned South Lebanon into a primary battleground for domestic and regional actors, because it became a safe haven for VITNAs such as the Palestinian factions, and from 1985, for the Lebanese group Hizbullah.29 The Syrian intervention in Lebanon faced a tenacious resistance, resulting in a long and agonizing entanglement. Worse still, although this operation was presented as a response to an official Lebanese request, Syria was strongly criticized by Egypt, Iraq—​­ which also massed forces on their common ­border—​­Libya, and even Syria’s patron, the USSR. Eager to restore their cooperation with Syria, Egypt and Saudi Arabia skillfully manipulated Syria’s difficulties in Lebanon by patronizing the PLO and forging a wide Arab coalition that pressured Syria to accept Arab League mediation. Syria agreed to

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cooperate with the Arab League to dilute criticism and gain time until it could subdue the LNM-​­PLO alliance. This strategy paid off, and in late October 1976, just before the Arab summit meeting in Cairo, Syria launched two swift offensives that gave it a decisive advantage over its rivals. The all-​­Arab plan adopted by the Cairo summit called for a cease-​­fire and for the creation of an Arab Deterrence Force (ADF) in Lebanon, the first Arab peacekeeping force since the Kuwait crisis in 1961. The ADF, which included 10,000 Syrian troops together with small units from Sudan, Saudi Arabia, North Yemen, and the UAE, was to supervise the end of hostilities, dismantle barriers and positions, collect the combatants’ heavy arms, and reactivate public services. The summit expressed support for Lebanon’s unity and sovereignty and called for strict implementation of the Cairo Agreement from 1969 and its annexes by the PLO to be observed by an inter-​­Arab committee. Inspired by Egypt and the Gulf monarchies, these decisions were marked by an emphasis on a state-​­based order in the Middle East. Indeed, though Syria was granted a temporary mandate to pacify Lebanon, its actions would have to abide by these principles and be subject to Arab League supervision. On the interstate level, the Cairo summit represented a deal in which Egypt and Syria exchanged intangible concessions to promote their individual interests at the expense of the PLO, Iraq, Libya, and their Lebanese nationalist-​­leftist protégées. Syria agreed to take part in the diplomatic process in the Middle East under Egypt’s leadership in return for all-​­Arab recognition of its hegemonic position in Lebanon. Saudi Arabia and Kuwait used their wealth to stabilize the Arab subregional system by bridging the gap between Egypt and Syria and by forging a formula for a settlement to the Lebanese conflict. Hence, while Egypt and Syria showed support for the PLO’s diplomatic stance, they and their regional allies were equally concerned with suppressing this VITNA’s revisionist tendencies and military capabilities. This pattern of conflict management reiterated the Arab League’s crucial role in sanctioning collective action, especially because containing the Lebanese conflict was necessary for shifting collective Arab efforts to the peace process with Israel. Despite these efforts, by late 1977 hopes for a settlement to the Lebanese conflict had faded because the Lebanese government was unable to impose the Cairo Agreement on the PLO while Egypt and Syria were eager to avoid a clash with the PLO at a time of intense effort to advance the Middle East peace process. Israel’s growing involvement in South Lebanon and its military

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clashes with the PLO were further obstacles to implementing the Cairo summit resolutions, justifying the continued Palestinian presence in the Lebanese-​­Israeli border area, which became a zone of statelessness and a source of violence that affected the entire region. Finally, Egyptian president Sadat’s visit to Jerusalem in November 1977 and the consequent rift between Egypt and Syria removed the regional restrictions on the renewal of the Lebanese conflict. Syria sought to mobilize the PLO—​­the symbol of the Arab conflict with Israel—​­against Egypt, and was willing to turn a blind eye to its role in and vis-​­à-​­vis Lebanon. In March 1978, following a Palestinian attack on Israeli civilians, Israel launched the Litani Operation, its deepest and longest raid ever in South Lebanon, resulting in UN Security Council resolutions (425, 426) that called for its withdrawal and the deployment of an international peacekeeping force (UNIFIL) there. Yet, by now, Israel had effectively established a buffer zone in the Lebanese-​­Israeli border area and—​­together with its local client, the Christian militia—​­prevented UNIFIL from carrying out its tasks and the Lebanese army from deploying in the area. The complex interactions between domestic actors, the neighboring states, and VITNAs such as the PLO, which came at the expense of Lebanon—​­the weakest party in the conflict—​­thus underlined the limits of outside intervention in the conflict. The Second Crisis (1982–​­1984) The second crisis in the conflict resulted from Israel’s invasion of Lebanon in June 1982, its following confrontations with the PLO and Syria, and its long siege of Beirut, which sought to eliminate the autonomous Palestinian base in Lebanon, establish a pro-​­Israeli government there, and expel Syria (Schiff and Ya’ari 1984: 31–​­44). Israel’s actions put the Arab commitment to the PLO to the test, and in fact paved the way for other regional actors, chiefly Syria, to curb its influence. Divided by the Egyptian-​­Israeli peace treaty and weakened by the Iraq-​ ­Iran War (in which Syria supported Iran) the Arab states responded to Israel’s moves with acquiescence and, later, with tacit cooperation. They thus effectively capitalized on the opportunity provided by Israel—​­and facilitated by the United States—​­to eliminate the anomalous Palestinian “state within a state” in Lebanon. Israel’s lengthy siege of Beirut and strict demand for the exit of the PLO—​ effectively endorsed by the United States and Lebanese President Elias ­

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Sarkis—​­combined with Moscow’s inaction all explain the inclination of most Arab states to collaborate with the U.S. mediation effort to resolve the crisis. An Arab League committee of foreign ministers was established to ostensibly expedite the implementation of the UN resolutions on a ceasefire and Israeli withdrawal. In practice, the committee served as a legitimizing “umbrella” for inter-​­Arab diplomacy conducted by King Fahd, following which Riyadh could submit to the U.S. mediator the Arab response to Israel’s ultimatum. Israel’s invasion led to active U.S. involvement in the crisis advocating a settlement based on the withdrawal of all foreign forces from Lebanon, the establishment of a strong Lebanese government, and security arrangements on the Israel-​­Lebanon border. In July the United States began advocating the deployment of a multinational force in Beirut to supervise the Palestinian evacuation. Syria initially rejected any linkage between the PLO’s departure and a peacemaking plan that would stipulate the withdrawal of all foreign forces from Lebanon. Insisting on Israeli withdrawal and arguing that Lebanon and the Arab League had sanctioned its own military presence, Syria in fact turned the PLO’s evacuation into a bargaining chip vis-​­à-​­vis Riyadh and Washington. Syria’s eventual assent to this move signaled its interest in improved relations with the United States and indeed expedited American diplomacy in the Middle East, in conjunction with the Arab League. The latter accounted for obtaining the PLO’s agreement to its removal from Beirut on certain conditions: namely, that Israel withdraw its forces and lift the siege on the Lebanese capital and that international observers would ensure the local population’s well-​­being. Yet, despite the elimination of the PLO’s armed presence in most of Lebanon and the arrival of a Multinational Force (MNF) in Beirut, U.S. and Israeli efforts to stabilize Lebanon failed. The main reason was that the newly announced Reagan Plan, efforts to reconstruct Lebanon and restore its sovereignty, and U.S. tacit support for Israeli patronage over Lebanon—​­reflected in the May 17, 1983, agreement signed between the two states under U.S. auspices—​­all but overlooked the interests of domestic actors (chiefly the Shi‘i and Druze communities) and Syria. Syria responded by entrenching its grip on those parts of Lebanon that it regarded as crucial for its security and, together with domestic actors and VITNAS that were also opposed to the agreement, successfully thwarted the Israeli and U.S. plans. In February 1984, after Shi‘i and Druze militias defeated units of the Lebanese army loyal to President Amine Gemayel and a series of suicide bombings led to the MNF’s withdrawal from Lebanon, Gemayel was left with one option: abrogating the

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Lebanese-​­Israeli agreement and accepting Syria’s hegemony. Syria thus remained the only external actor with significant influence in Lebanon (with the exception of South Lebanon, which remained under Israeli control), but it failed to impel all domestic actors, especially the Maronite Christian factions, to agree to a settlement to the conflict. Like the first crisis, the second crisis did not result in a settlement of the Lebanese conflict, mainly because of the disagreements between domestic actors. Still, by the end of the crisis, some of the prerequisites for such a settlement were in place. First, Israel’s invasion of Lebanon, for all the devastation it brought with it, pressured most PLO units—​­the major VITNA operating in Lebanon—​­to leave Beirut, and in 1983 other PLO units were forced to evacuate Tripoli after a showdown with the Syrian army. In addition, in 1985 Israel, which severed its ties with the major Maronite Christian factions, withdrew to a narrow self-​­defined “security zone” in South Lebanon, which soon came under attack, this time by Shi‘i Lebanese militias. In addition, Amal, the Shi‘i militia, acting as a de facto state agent, besieged the Palestinian refugee camps in Lebanon (with Syrian assistance) and further diminished the PLO position there. Finally, in 1987 the Lebanese parliament, inspired by Syria, annulled the Cairo Agreement between Lebanon and the PLO.30 Despite the specific motivations of all these actors, their actions combined to produce one significant systemic outcome: the removal of the PLO, the major VITNA in Lebanon, which hindered the state’s resuscitation not least because of its interactions with domestic factions. The Third Crisis (1988–​­1990) The third crisis in the Lebanese conflict stemmed from the emergence of a constitutional vacuum in the highest office of the state—​­the presidency. Since no candidate acceptable both to the Maronite Christians (the legitimate holders of this post) and to Syria could be found, two rival governments emerged in Lebanon, each with its own bureaucracy and security forces. The only state institutions that remained intact were the parliament and the central bank. The crisis soon assumed a dangerous regional dimension when army commander Michel Aoun (Maronite Christian), who was appointed premier by outgoing president Amine Gemayel in disregard of the pro-​­Syrian cabinet headed by Salim el-​­Hoss (Sunni Muslim), declared a “war of liberation” against Syria’s “occupation” in Lebanon. Iraq, which had ended its war with Iran, was eager to settle scores with Syria, Iran’s only Arab ally, and supported

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Aoun (the PLO supported him as well). Indeed, the ongoing Arab debate over Syria’s continued military presence in Lebanon provided Iraq with a sound excuse for supporting Syria’s domestic rivals. The new crisis, marked by unprecedented massive Syrian bombardments of the Christian areas and generous Iraqi aid to Aoun, was the turning point for most local and foreign actors, intensifying regional efforts to end the war. Alarmed by the danger of Syrian-​­Iraqi confrontation and renewed Israeli involvement, the Arab League stepped up its mediation efforts, culminating in an emergency Arab summit in Casablanca. The meeting, marked by Egypt’s return to the Arab fold after a decade of isolation following its peace treaty with Israel, paved the way for a new peacemaking effort. Now that VITNAs such as the PLO and Israel were not directly involved in the conflict and the Iran-​­Iraq War was over, most Arab states were willing to compromise Iraq’s interests in Lebanon and comply with Syria’s hegemony while preserving Lebanon’s sovereignty and territorial integrity. Though Syria objected to “Arabizing” the crisis, it eventually agreed to a mediation committee composed of the heads of state of Saudi Arabia, Algeria, and Morocco. The summit’s failure to condemn Syria resulted in Iraqi consent to provide Aoun with tactical ground-​­to-​­ground FROG missiles capable of reaching Damascus, but Jordan and Egypt prevented their shipment through ‘Aqaba and the Suez Canal (New York Times, July 5, 1989). It was not until another round of fighting that the Arab mediators finally managed to persuade the warring parties to allow the remaining members of the Lebanese parliament (elected in 1972) to convene outside Lebanon to discuss a document of political reform that would facilitate an end to the conflict. The culmination of these talks in the Ta’if Agreement of October 1989 largely reflected the awareness of most domestic and foreign actors that an agreed upon settlement to the conflict in Lebanon was the only alternative to escalation and, possibly, to the state’s partition. The Ta’if Agreement, which was “at once a return to and a restructuring of the National Pact of 1943” (Picard 1996: 156), was the first formal expression of several reform plans that had been discussed among local actors and in contacts with Syria through inter-​­Arab and U.S. mediation. The agreement redefined Lebanon’s character and introduced significant reforms in its regime, including a more balanced relationship among its societal sectors, while enhancing its sovereignty. In order to end the prevailing ambiguity, the Lebanese army was subordinated to the cabinet, which was also authorized to declare a state of emergency, war and peace, ordering mobilization, and

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supervising all government agencies. In addition, a National Reconciliation Government was to devise a plan for imposing state control over all of Lebanon’s territory and all local militias and VITNAs were to be dismantled. Given Lebanon’s low level of stateness both before and during the conflict, these clauses were groundbreaking, as proved by the following events. At the same time, and based on a prior agreement between the Arab League mediators and Syria, which the convening Lebanese MPs were not allowed to change, the Ta’if Agreement emphasized Lebanon’s “distinctive” relations with Syria and prohibited Lebanon from becoming a source of threat to Syria. This stipulation, which underpinned the “Agreement of Fraternity and Cooperation” signed between Syria and Lebanon in 1991, and the ambiguous provisions on Syrian withdrawal, ostensibly created a Syrian “protectorate” in Lebanon, compromising its sovereignty in return for reconstruction (Harris 1997: 262–​­66). But Syria’s hasty withdrawal from Lebanon under combined domestic-​­external pressures in 2005 disproved these claims. The Lebanese conflict finally came to an end in October 1990, when, following the election of a new president, Syrian and Lebanese troops defeated Aoun’s forces, thus eliminating the last bastion of resistance to the Ta’if Agreement. Yet, Syria could act only after the United States consented to its operation as a trade-​­off for Syria’s joining the U.S.-​­led international coalition formed after Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait and after Israel acquiesced. Again, tacit regional cooperation was directed against a threat to Lebanon’s reconstruction—​­albeit this time from a domestic actor with certain regional backing—​­but without compromising Lebanon’s territorial integrity. The road was now paved to implementing the Ta’if Agreement. A new Lebanese government was formed, including most militia leaders as ministers of state, and reconstruction began. The government reaffirmed Lebanon’s sovereignty over most of its territory, forcing most militias to surrender their weapons. Strict restrictions were imposed on VITNAs operating in the state, and in 1991 the Lebanese army deployed in formerly Palestinian-​­controlled areas (excluding the refugee camps, which remained controlled by Palestinian factions). This time the regional system backed Lebanon’s stance, in line with its efforts to turn the PLO into a “statist” actor. A noted exception was, however, the Shi‘i party-​­militia Hizbullah, which initially engaged in resistance against Israel’s military presence in South Lebanon but later became a VITNA due to its growing activities outside Lebanon and its connections to Iran and Syria. However, after Israel’s withdrawal from Lebanon in 2000, Hizbullah’s unique position in Lebanon came under

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challenge. This was manifest in July–​­August 2006, when following mounting domestic and external pressures to disarm, Hizbullah activists crossed the Israeli-​­Lebanese border and attacked an Israeli patrol, abducting two soldiers, and Israel responded with a massive military operation against Hizbullah and Lebanon (Barak 2009: 187–​­96; Norton 2007: 132–​­35). The confrontation, which exposed Lebanon’s weakness and carried the risk of Israeli-​­Syrian entanglement, in addition to its negative impact on Arab states’ domestic affairs, resulted in Arab condemnation of Hizbullah (on the part of Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and Jordan) and Arab League mediation to reach a solution. Although the crisis was ultimately diffused through UN Security Council Resolution 1701, which called for the deployment of the Lebanese army along the Israeli-​­Lebanese border supported by a stronger and reempowered UNIFIL, its domestic-​­regional dimension was significant. Faced with growing regional tensions resulting from the U.S.-​­led invasion of Iraq, the UN investigation of Syria’s alleged involvement in the assassination of former Lebanese PM Rafiq al-​­Hariri in 2005 and Iran’s nuclear program, most Arab states were prepared to tacitly endorse Israel’s efforts to tame Hizbullah and to strengthen Lebanon’s sovereignty through yet another security arrangement in the Lebanese-​­Israeli border area that came at this VITNA’s expense.

Conclusion This chapter has explored the impact of domestic-​­regional interactions on outside intervention in intrastate conflicts. Without ignoring the mutuality and interactivity between domestic and foreign actors, whether formal or informal, we suggest that outside intervention in intrastate conflicts, and especially the attempt to reach a peaceful settlement, ought to be perceived as a unit of research in which domestic actors—​­and local conditions generally—​ ­play a primary role in shaping external actors’ policies and, ultimately, in determining the effectiveness of their actions. Indeed, regardless of how limited the power exercised by domestic actors, the total sum of their capability is crucial in translating outside inputs into the state’s successful resuscitation. Alternatively, these actors can thwart peacemaking efforts by joining hands with regional actors opposed to a political settlement in order to outmaneuver rival local and regional efforts, as well as global ones, that support it. Shifting the focal interest from the international (especially the global)

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arena to the domestic arena as a key to successful outside involvement in intrastate conflicts seems indispensable in these contexts. In the Lebanese case, external involvement proved to be a bitter and costly experience and forced all actors to choose between entering alignments and accepting tacit or overt arrangements with other actors—​­including their rivals—​­or quitting the Lebanese “quagmire” without attaining their goals. This is also vindicated by the lessons that the U.S. military seems to have learned from its bitter experience in Afghanistan and Iraq, where it is increasing its efforts to bring in members of all ethnic groups, tribes, and regions to cope more effectively with rampant terrorism, crime, and mass human rights violations. Contrary to the assumption of much of the post-​­Cold War International Relations literature, our analysis clearly demonstrates that even in zones of conflict, actors can act together to promote regional stability. In Lebanon, the regional challenge stemmed from the state’s “failure” and possible partition, the unfettered activities of VITNAs in and from its territory, and the security dilemmas of both domestic and regional forces. In this context, regional intervention had two clear advantages over all other options. First, some regional actors (e.g., Egypt and Syria) had already engaged in mediation in Lebanon in the past, giving them an edge over global actors (chiefly the United States). Second, Lebanon’s close neighbors, the PLO, Israel, and Syria, gradually came to terms with their own limits and had to modify their objectives, including abandoning revisionist strategies that proved to be untenable. More remote regional actors, in their turn, played a constructive role by engaging in mediation and assuring domestic actors that Lebanon would not be swallowed by an external Leviathan (cf. Byman 1997: 11; Walter 2002: 3–​­7). Indeed, though Syria acquired a hegemonic position in postwar Lebanon, its role there was subject to domestic, regional, and international constraints, and when Syria impinged on Lebanon’s sovereignty in the period 2004–​­2005, its military presence there—​­though not its overall influence—​­came to an abrupt end.

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Notes

Introduction 1. On the domestic level, scholars have identified particular characteristics of states, especially outside the West (mainly in Africa and the Middle East), that underlie these conflicts, such as “state weakness,” “state failure,” and, in extreme cases, state disintegration. See Crocker 2003: 34–​­37; Fearon and Laitin 2003: 88; Posen 1993a: 34–​­35; Rotberg 2003, 2004; Saikal 2000: 39–​­45; Snyder and Bhavnani 2005: 567–​­73. For criticism of the “failed states” literature see Bilgin and Morton 2004: 169–​­70. For criticism of the concept of the intrastate “security dilemma” engendered by state disintegration see Roe 1999: 188–​­92. Research has also highlighted the role of armed organizations (or militias), which are made up of members of various societal sectors (ethnic groups, clans, tribes, geographical regions, or ideological groups) who are mobilized before or during the conflict; see Mulaj 2010: 1–​­6; Ahram 2011: 7–​­24. On the international level, students of intrastate conflict have discussed the actual and potential role of outside forces, including the state’s immediate neighbors, other interested states, and regional and international organizations (UN, World Bank, etc.). See, e.g., Doyle and Sambanis 2006: 6–​­10; Howard 2008: 1–​­2. Whereas some observers have expressed support for external intervention in these conflicts, others are more skeptical—​­some going so far as to suggest that warring parties be allowed to reach equilibrium without foreign interference. On this debate, see the chapter by Barak and Sela in this volume. 2. See especially Thomson 1994: 3–​­4; Löwenheim 2007: 3–​­11. 3. See especially Jackson 1990: 21–​­26; Zacher 2001: 245. 4. It is worth adding that in cases when the latter type of actors arrive in the disrupted state one can, in fact, speak of “hybrid” domestic-​­external nonstate actors. There are, of course, other types of nonstate actors that can be mentioned in this context (e.g., crime organizations, NGOs), but these require separate treatment. 5. Such hypotheses have been raised by Kirschner 2009: 23–​­46 and Malet 2009: 53–​­58. 6. See http://davidmalet.com/The_Foreign_Fighter_Project.php, accessed June 21, 2012. 7. Malet 2009: 317 expresses reservations about coding the number of fighters

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because, in his words, the natural source for these figures—​­the fighters themselves—​­is the source most prone to lying. 8. Fearon and Laitin 2003: 81, for instance, hypothesize that diasporas’ financial contributions, as well as aid from foreign governments, facilitate insurgencies. Due to issues of measurement, the authors do not test the hypothesis directly (82). 9. Woodwell 2004: 206–​­7 uses several data sources, including Vanhanen 1999; Gurr’s Minorities at Risk project (1999); CIA World Factbook 2000; and Grimes and Grimes Ethnologue 2001 to account for the influence of size of ethnic diasporas in neighboring countries on the likelihood of interstate—​­rather than intrastate—​­conflicts during the Cold War. We suggest extending the scope of both data collection and analysis. 10. See World Bank Page on migration and remittances, http://web.worldbank.org/ WBSITE/EXTERNAL/TOPICS/0,contentMDK:21924020~pagePK:5105988~piPK:360 975~theSitePK:214971,00.html. 11. A more nuanced version of this measure could be used to examine whether stateless ethnic diasporas are more likely to be involved in homeland conflicts, an argument raised by Sheffer in his chapter in this volume. To do this, one would have to obtain information on stateless diaspora remittances to their state-​­aspiring communities in their desired homeland and compare it to other diasporas’ remittances. Obtaining it would require a more subtle examination of diaspora remittances by international bodies. 12. Noted examples are Herbert Kelman and Edward Azar, two leading American scholars specializing in intergroup conflicts who organized informal interactive workshops to promote a peaceful resolution of the conflicts in Israel/Palestine and Lebanon respectively. Chapter 1. The “Modern Sherwood Forest”: Theoretical and Practical Challenges 1. See Abrahms 2008: 96–​­101; Crenshaw 1988: 13–​­26, 1990: 10–​­20; Kydd and Walter 2002: 264–​­65; 2006: 50–​­51; McCormick 2003: 480–​­95; Pape 2003: 345–​­47, 2005: 20–​­24; Pedahzur and Perliger 2006: 1988–​­89; for critiques, see Mousseau 2002–​­2003: 5–​­6; Abrahms 2008: 82–​­93. 2. See Adamson 2006: 190–​­96; Crocker 2003: 34–​­37; Klare 2004: 117–​­25; Rabasa et al. 2007: xv–​­xix; Rotberg 2003: 5–​­6. Such a connection is mentioned in the National Security Strategy of the United States of America from September 2002: “Together with our European allies, we must help strengthen Africa’s fragile states, help build indigenous capability to secure porous borders, and help build up the law enforcement and intelligence infrastructure to deny havens for terrorists.” 3. See Almond et al. 2003: 234–​­37; Fox and Sandler 2004: 63; Huntington 1996: 252–​­54; Sheffer 2003: 255, this volume. 4. On this important distinction, see Lichbach 1997: 244–​­53. 5. Already in 2002, historian Bernard Lewis (2002, August 23) suggested that Osama Bin Laden’s popularity in the eyes of many Muslims and Arabs is based on his image as

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a “latter-​­day Islamic Robin Hood, defending the poor and the downtrodden against a distant tyrant [the U.S.] and his nearby henchmen [the Arab rulers].” 6. See Leiner 2007: 8–​­23; Löwenheim 2007: 1–​­20; Mendelsohn 2005: 53–​­66; Puchala 2005: 1–​­5, 2007: 2–​­16. 7. Recent examples include Pirates of the Caribbean, the film trilogy that gained worldwide success in 2003–​­2006; an award-​­winning 2007 BBC television series on Robin Hood; and the 2007 film The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, which depicted the famous American outlaw as a Robin Hood-​­like hero. 8. See also Tilly 1985: 181–​­83; 1990: 1–​­2. 9. For a detailed discussion see Rotberg 2003, 2004. 10. Two examples in this context are the Jewish Agency and Jewish National Fund, which attest to Israel’s incomplete process of state formation. 11. Although the first type of Modern Sherwood Forests clearly preceded the second type, the former did not end when the latter commenced. In addition, these two types of Modern Sherwood Forests are not mutually exclusive: some of the cases here include elements of both. 12. Some have also been motivated by national ideologies and materialist values. 13. The Philhellenes established Greek committees in Russia, North America, and many European countries, sent money and supplies to the Greek government, organized relief for Greek refugees, and pressured their governments to support the Greeks. See Brewer 2001: 135–​­44. 14. According to Simons and Tucker 2007: 388–​­89, functioning authoritarian states and not failed states generated most transborder terrorists in the last decades. 15. See also Barak 2007: 469. Chapter 2. Framing to Win: The Transnational Recruitment of Foreign Insurgents 1. A number of recent works have attempted to analyze the origins and motives of foreign fighters in the Iraq War, but there have not been cross-​­case studies determining whether the recruitment mechanisms of transnational insurgents in Iraq are unique to that specific conflict or are comparable to those for foreign fighters in other civil wars. Recent examples include Krueger 2007, Hafez 2007, Felter and Fishman 2007, and Watts 2008. Moore and Tumelty 2008 examine the fielding of foreign fighters in Chechnya. 2. Later works on ethnic conflict (Saideman 1997) indicated that foreigners are inclined to cross into neighboring states on behalf of their coethnics. 3. Emperor Henry IV, for example, had a number of peasants who rallied to his cause during an invasion castrated afterward to reinforce this division. 4. Saudi Arabia has taken a slightly different approach in attempting to redefine the identity of its citizens who have become jihadis through rehabilitation programs. These include counseling with religious authorities who attempt to persuade prisoners that they have been engaging in a misguided pursuit of Islam (Johnsen and Boucek 2008). 5. Southworth Spanish Civil War Collection, Mandeville Special Collections Library, Geisel Library, University of California at San Diego.

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6. In fact, the editor of the English translation noted that ‘Azzam was not exhorting recruits to join a caravan on its way to Afghanistan, but one of martyrs on their way to the afterlife. 7. Senyor, a twenty-​­year-​­old from Jeddah who died in September 1985, was reportedly the first Saudi killed in Afghanistan (Burke 2004: 74). Chapter 3. State, Society, and Transnational Networks: The Arab Volunteers in the Afghan War (1984–​­1990) 1. Roy 1986: chaps. 11–​­13; Rubin 1997: 179–​­206; Kepel 2002: 144–​­48; Rashid 2001: chap. 10; Roy 2004: 291–​­302. 2. Guanaratna 2003: 1–​­8; Jacquard 2002: 20–​­26; Raphaeli 2002: 1–​­22; Coll 2004: 9–​­10, 152–​­58, 162–​­64; Randall, 2004, 8–​­14, 85–​­98: Sageman 2004: 34–​­45; Wright 2006: 99–​­144; Gerges 2005: chaps. 3–​­6. 3. Sageman 2004: vii–​­viii; Sageman 2008: especially chaps. 1, 8; Hegghammer 2006a: 11–​­32; Hegghammer 2006b: 39–​­60; Lia 2008: especially chaps. 4–​­10; Mendelsohn 2009: especially chaps. 5–​­8. 4. Sivan 1998: 171–​­94; Cook 2005: 128–​­61; Gerges 2005: 43–​­79; Habeck 2006: especially 107–​­60; Kepel 2004: 70–​­107; O. Roy 2004: 41–​­54; Kepel and Milelli 2008: esp. chaps. 1–​­3. 5. Darraz 1989: esp. 1–​­66; Darraz 1993: 27–​­108, 141–​­56; Salah 2001: 41–​­104; Sharaf al-​­Din 2002: 9–​­199; Tawil 2007: 13–​­97; Jamahi 2008: 162–​­82, 266–​­318. For informative memoirs of Arab Afghan fighters, see Anas 2002: 9–​­83; Faraj 2002; Hamid 2006b: esp. 44–​­295; Hamid 2006b: 11–​­42. 6. Hegghammer 2006a 11–​­32; Hegghammer 2010–​­2011: 53–​­94; Sageman 2008: esp. chap. 4; Hussein 2005: esp. 173–​­213. 7. Keck and Sikkink 1998: 1–​­38; Arquilla and Ronfeldt 1999: 193–​­206; Tarrow 2005: chap. 1; Langhorne 2005: 331–​­39. 8. Sageman 2004: 137–​­73; Metcalf 1996: 1–​­27; Anderson 1991: 1–​­7; Deiter and Stein 2002:1–​­14; O. Roy 2004: chap. 4. 9. Migdal 1988: primarily chaps. 2–​­3; Jackson 1990: 1–​­31; Mitchell 1991: 77–​­96; Migdal 2001b: chap. 1. 10. Khoury 1983: 215; Wickham 1994: chap. 5; Migdal 2001b: 109; Talmud and Mishal 2002: 176–​­207. 11. Hinnebusch 1985: 198–​­206; Gaffney 1997: 257–​­93; Salah 2001: 25–​­40; Kepel 2002: 81–​­88. 12. Former U.S. national security advisor Zbigniew Brzezinski to Le Nouvel Observateur, January 15–​­21, 1998, 76. 13. For a comprehensive domestic perspective of the U.S. role in the project, see Crile 2003. 14. Coll 2004 gives the most thorough account of the logistical/operational assistance to the Afghan mujahidin. 15. Lamb 1989. The total Saudi financial aid to the Afghan mujahidin (1980–​­1989) is estimated at $3 billion (Maliah and Shai 2009: 78).

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16. 302 members of Islamic jihad, including Ayman al-​­Zawahiri, were arrested and tried, some of them sentenced to death or long imprisonments (Ayubi 1991: 79). On the war between the state security forces and the radical Islamists in the 1990s, see Tal 2005: 80–​­111. 17. Sivan 1990: 23–​­24; Sivan 1998: 171, 178, 191; O. Roy 2004: 41; Gerges 2005: 4. 18. Jurgensmeyer 2003: 3–​­15, 61–​­84; Kepel 1984: 192–​­204; 2004: 87; O. Roy 2004: 295. 19. O. Roy 2004: 295; Kepel and Milelli 2008: chap. 2; 2004: 87; Hamid 2006b: 239–​ ­42. For ‘Azzam’s pre-​­Afghanistan biography, see Maliah and Shai 2009: 22–​­33; Kepel and Milelli 2008 chap. 3; Abou Zahab and Roy 2005: 14. 20. Many national liberation movements, including Fateh, the Palestine Liberation Movement, adopted the idea (Sayigh 1997: 91). 21. Hence his efforts to import hundreds of Wahhabi preachers to Afghanistan (Azzam 1985: 37, 55–​­57; Anas 2002: 37–​­39; Jamahi 2008: 19). 22. Azzam 1985, 49–​­51; Kepel 2004: 84; Randal 2004: 92; Jamahi 2008: 10. 23. One author explains ‘Azzam’s assassination in 1989 as an attempt to put an end to his jihad enterprise (Hamid 2006a: 255). 24. For surveys of this literature, see Gupta 2008: 11–​­31. Wickham 2004: 11, Wiktorowicz 2004a, and Sageman 2008: esp. 65–​­72, discuss it in relation to Islamic movements. See also Hegghammer 2010–​­2011: 65–​­71. 25. These biographies appeared mainly in al-​­Jihad magazine. For short personal profiles of Arab Afghan fighters see also Darraz 1989: 74–​­99, Tawil 2007: esp. 39–​­47, 66–​­69, 320–​­28, 342, 383–​­84, Anas 2002: 14; Faraj 2002: 21, 32–​­36, 44–​­59, 114–​­23. 26. Ayubi 1991: 81; Roy 2004, 61; Sageman 2004: 95–​­135; Wiktorowicz 2004: 85; Gerges 2005: 34–​­35. 27. Quoted from Wiktorowicz 2004b: 34. See also Wickham 2004: 6–​­8. 28. Some estimates reach 30,000, even 100,000. See Wickham 2004: 75, 105; Federation of American Scientists 1994; Rashid 2002: 44; O. Roy 2004: 297–​­98; Bruce 1995: 175. In 1989 ‘Azzam estimated the number of Arab volunteers who actually fought in Afghanistan at 7,500–​­8,500 (Maliah and Shai 2009: 44). Anas 2002: 88 maintains the lowest figures: only 2,000, most of whom served in logistical capacities in Peshawar. 29. By early 1988 the magazine was distributed by agencies in 45 countries throughout the world in the scope of 50,000 copies. See al-​­jihad (Issue of January 1988); Maliah and Shai 2009: 68. 30. al-​­Hayat, March 8, 1993; al-​­Wasat, March 8, 1992; Sharaf al-​­Din 2002: 95–​­96, 157–​­58, 231; al-​­Quds al-​­‘Arabi, March 19, 2005, March 20, 2005. 31. Darraz 1993: 35–​­36, 61, provides a list of semiofficial and social Islamic relief associations. 32. Quoted from Jacquard 2002: 20, 22. See also Coll 2004: 79–​­82; Coll 2008: 294–​ ­96; Maliah and Shai 2009: 76–​­77. 33. Quoted from Wright 2006: 97. See also Coll 2008: 481–​­82. 34. Ahl al-​­Hadith Party, a blend of Arab volunteers and native Afghan converts to

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Wahhabiyya, received no official Saudi money but was well funded by private “religious donations.” See Newell 2001; Tefft 1990: 1; Coll 2004: 67, 82–​­84, 131–​­37. 35. Emerson and Levin 2003: 12, 17, 34, 37–​­38; Rashid 2001: 130, 134; Kepel 2004: 83, 172; Levitt 2002: 56; Wright 2006: 97. 36. Raphaeli 2002: 7; Kepel 2004: 87; Gerges 2005: 88; Tawil 2007: 40. 37. As the case of Abu Mus‘ab al-​­Zarqawi, leader of Al ​­Qaeda in Iraq in 2004–​­2006 (Hussein 2005). 38. According to Darraz (1993: 93), in 1988 Pakistan ordered the closure of Maktab al-​­Khidamat, following which bin Laden established the Bayt al-​­Ansar, which fulfilled functions similar to the former. See also Randal (2004: 90–​­91). 39. Especially Hamid 2006a. No explanation is based on evidence. See O. Roy 2004: 296; Coll 2004: 204, 263; Wright 2006: 143; Hegghammer 2008: 96–​­97. 40. Bin Laden 1998; Ranstorp 1998: 321–​­30; al-​­Quds al-​­‘Arabi, March 23, 2005; Tawil 2007: 290–​­91. 41. Al Qaeda leaders reportedly justified the embassy attacks, in part, as retaliation for the U.S. government’s secret rendition to Egyptian authorities of members of a militant cell led by Zawahiri’s brother in Albania (Mayer 2008: 114). For more on the U.S. policy of “outsourcing torture,” see ibid, chap. 6. Chapter 4. A Conceptual Framework for Understanding the Roles of Diasporas in Intrastate Conflicts 1. On transnationalism in general and its applications to certain dispersals in particular, see Smith 1986: 114–​­19; Glick Schiller et al. 1992; Vertovec 2004: 573–​­82; Brubaker 2005: 1–​­13. 2. See, for example, Glick Schiller 2007: 63–​­65. 3. See Sheffer 2003: 76–​­83; for similar profiles see, e.g., Safran 1991: 83–​­84; Cohen 1997: ix; Shuval 2000: 41; Butler 2001: 189–​­94. 4. For a more detailed profile, see Sheffer 1996: 39; 2003: 9–​­10. 5. See the information provided by the CDI in the United States, http://www.world securityinstitute.org/showorganization.cfm?name=2.htm. Chapter 5. Turkey’s Dual Problem: Between Armenia and the Armenian Diaspora 1. For a detailed overview see Chalk and Jonassohn 1990: 249–​­62; Dadrian 2003: 269–​­79; Suny 2004: 31–​­41; Akçam 2004; 158–​­79; Bloxham 2009: 44–​­96; and Dixson 2010: 469. 2. This essay is not intended to debate whether the mass killings of Armenians at the hands of the Ottoman Empire can be defined as genocide. The starting point for the discussion is that there was indeed a genocide. 3. At the same time, however, Turkey is willing to call the Armenian experience during the World War I a “tragedy” and is more accepting of the word “massacre.” This is because these terms indicate contingency—​­they describe an episode that was not planned but still happened—​­whereas genocide implies planning. Depicting the events

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of 1915 as a tragedy thus frees Turkey of responsibility for them, pointing the finger instead at individuals acting on their own initiative. 4. The protocols can be found at http://www.armeniaforeignministry.com/ pr_09/20091013_protocol1.pdf. 5. The memory of the Armenian genocide remains the hub of diaspora identity and a major source for joint diasporic actions. Third and even fourth generation descendants of genocide survivors cannot trust Turkey (Iskandaryan 2010: 45). Thus, in February 2012 members of the Armenian diaspora residing in France almost succeeded in passing a law that forbids the denial of the Armenian genocide. The suggested bill, which was supported by the French president, Nicolas Sarkozy, has caused Turkish-​­French relations to deteriorate. Turkey has imposed economic sanctions because of the bill and also withheld political and military cooperation with France. In February 2012 the French Constitutional Council ruled against this bill. See Sayare (2012). 6. Arguments and disagreement can characterize different diasporic groups of the same ethnicity. Still, we can “view diasporas as moral and political communities that can in certain contexts be mobilized towards certain common goals” (Pirkkalainen and Abdile 2009: 9). 7. Suny 2004: 33, 36; Akçam 2006: 27; see also Bloxham 2005: 16, 45; Chalk and Jonassohn 1990: 252–​­53. 8. Shain and Barth 2003: 450; Smith 2007: 10; Bercovitch 2007: 17; Pirkkalainen and Abdile 2009: 5; Lindenstrauss 2010b: 3–​­6. 9. According to Vertovec 2001: 578, “large numbers of people now live in social worlds that are stretched between, or dually located in, physical places and communities in two or more nation-​­states.” Therefore, they have multidimensional identities. 10. Safran 1991: 83–​­84, 87; Suny 1999–​­2000: 157; Lyons 2007: 532; Lindenstrauss 2010b: 9. 11. For the sake of analytical simplification, and since most of the diasporic groups objected to the protocols (Lindenstrauss 2010b), I relate here to the Armenian diaspora as a unitary actor. 12. On perceiving the “other” as enemy, rival, or friend, see Wendt 1999: chap. 6. 13. This perception is different from the well-​­known realist view of security as physical survival (Waltz 1979: 129). 14. Under Section 306 of the Penal Code (passed in 2003), open discussion of the genocide can lead to a maximum of ten years imprisonment. Moreover, under Article 301, referring to the genocide can be deemed an insult to “Turkishness” (Nobles 2008: ix). 15. Terror attacks were used by other stateless diasporas. Notable among them is the Palestinian diaspora, a product of the Israeli-​­Palestinian conflict in 1947–​­1949, which the Palestinians see as their great calamity or disaster (Nakba). Indeed, the Palestinian resistance movement embodied the aspirations of the Palestinian diaspora in its struggle against Israel (Bamyeh 2007: 94). 16. Lobbying activities also constitute a prominent characterization of the American

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Jewish diaspora. Israeli vulnerabilities, which came to the fore in the October War of 1973, convinced the Jewish lobby to play a key role in shaping U.S. Middle East policy (Shain 2002: 123). Its involvement in the Israeli-​­Palestinian conflict is focused on attempts to influence all the positions of the relevant parties. Israel, aware of the benefits it produces from the Jewish diaspora’s diplomatic support, occasionally asks AIPAC (the American Israel Public Affairs Committee) to lobby on its behalf (Sheffer 2007b: 84). 17. The “Dashnak” was the leading political organization of the diaspora in the period 1921–​­1988 (Tölölyan 2007: 112). 18. According to Shain 2002: 117, 120, diasporic communities identify themselves as part of the homeland national community. This notion thrives when the homeland is a new and weak state. In this case, the diaspora often “holds in trust” the national identity and affected homeland policies because it has achieved transnational economic and political power. Weak states are more receptive to diasporic involvement: they need this help to survive (Shain and Barth 2003: 464–​­65). 19. Nagorno-​­Karabakh is the ethnic Armenian enclave located within the Republic of Azerbaijan, Turkey’s ally. Armenia has a special relationship with Nagorno-​­Karabakh and asserts that the people of Karabakh have a right to self-​­determination. It has extended Nagorno-​­Karabakh economic, military, and political support (Goshgarian 2005: 3–​­4). When the conflict erupted, Turkey sided with Azerbaijan. 20. I suggest that the national narrative rigidly adopted by Turkey with regard to the Armenian genocide was motivated by several factors: (1) the need to disassociate the new state, the Republic of Turkey, from the Ottoman Empire and what was perceived as its shameful past; (2) the need to Westernize Turkey; (3) the characteristic of the Turkish identity as exclusive; (4) Muslim loss versus Christian victory in World War I; (5) the desire that the nation’s founders who were involved in the genocide be perceived as heroes and not criminals; (6) a strong link between the Armenian massacre and the establishment of the Turkish Republic; and (7) the importance of having a positive international reputation. 21. Brooks 1999: 3–​­11; Barkan and Karn 2006; Gibney et al. 2008; Kampf and Löwenheim 2012: 43–​­60. Chapter 6. Turkey, the Kurds, and Turkey’s Incursions into Iraq: The Effects of Securitization and Desecuritization Processes 1. In October 1992, Turkey dispatched 20,000 troops into Northern Iraq; in 1995, 35,000; in May 1997, an estimated 50,000 and in September an even slightly larger number. However, only a few thousand soldiers participated in the February 2008 and October 2011 incursions. 2. During the Iran-​­Iraq war in 1983, and in an extended manner in 1984, Iraq and Turkey formally agreed that both states can cross the other’s border to pursue illegal Kurdish forces (Hale 2007: 35). However, only Turkey made use of this right. Iraq, preoccupied with the Iran-​­Iraq war, made this agreement in the hope that Turkish actions might help to restrain the Iraqi Kurds.

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3. See the widely used definitions of military interventions of Pearson and Baumann (1974: 273), Macfarlane (1985: 3), and Vertzberger (1998: 114–​­15). 4. Bull 1984: 2; Cooper and Berdal 1993: 134–​­35; Esman 1995: 117–​­18; Morgenthau 1967: 427. 5. See, for example, Carment et al. 2006: 17–​­24; Ryan 1988: 171. Criticism of the narrow instrumental view refers to the discussion of security in a broader context—​­and also more specifically in the field of ethnic studies (Kaufman 2001: 7–​­9; Roe 2005: 1–​­4; Saideman 2001: 22–​­29). For comprehensive reviews on the controversy surrounding attempts to redefine the security concept, see Krause and Williams (1997: vii–​­xvi) and Miller (2001a: 26–​­27). 6. According to this thesis, a state’s own vulnerability to internal ethnic problems and secessionist/irredentist trends will make it less likely to get involved in foreign ethnic strife since it might serve as a precedent for other states to intervene in its own problems; see for example Herbst 1989: 676–​­77, 689–​­90. 7. See the seminal work of Buzan et al. 1998, esp. 1–​­47. 8. Desecuritization is seen in the literature in many respects to be a desired outcome because it might lead to more effective solutions and because of its contribution to a more just and democratic society (Roe 2004: 283–​­84). 9. See also Buzan and Wæver’s (2003: 489) definition of desecuritization. 10. This argument is closely related to Buzan, Wæver, and de Wilde’s claim, in their discussion of secessionist groups, that the “very nature of would-​­be states, and their position in the international system, means they are frequently objects of military interest and action and therefore of securitization” (1998: 53). 11. Of these, 5,600 were from the Turkish military, police forces, and Kurdish forces armed by the government; 5,300 were civilians; and 19,000 were PKK fighters (Hale 2007: 70). 12. The “Semdinli incident” illuminates the tensions in Turkey among the different public sectors. In November 2005, a local public prosecutor in the city of Van accused the army’s high command of involvement in the bombing of a bookstore in the mainly Kurdish town of Semdinli and of provoking tensions in the Kurdish areas in general. Although the prosecutor was later barred from the legal profession and the accusations dropped, the incident raised for some the fear of covert operations, initiated by the army, to destabilize the Kurdish inhabited regions and to obstruct any reforms with regard to the Kurdish population (Cizre 2008: 152). 13. These reforms included allowing some use of the Kurdish language, lifting the ban on Kurdish names, and allowing limited Kurdish TV broadcasts (Peterson 2007a). 14. This speech created uproar in Turkey, and Erdoğan was criticized by the opposition and nationalist groups of being a traitor (Kalin 2008). AKP foreign minister at the time, Abdullah Gül, in a similar (although subtler) manner stated, “Making compromises over democracy in the name of fighting terrorism” was “a trap that should not be contemplated” (Economist 2007). 15. One of the AKP leaders stated, “Uniting around our common Islamic identity is

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the only way to solve the Kurdish problem . . . ​Islam bound us in Ottoman times and during the war of independence, why not today?” (Economist 2008). 16. The AKP won almost 47 percent of the votes in the 2007 parliamentary elections (compared to 34.3 percent in the 2002 elections). Due to the addition of another party into parliament, the number of seats the AKP won in 2007 was slightly lower than in 2002 (340 of the 550 seats in parliament), but its majority still enabled it to form a single-​ ­party government. 17. Thus, for example, a senior government minister was quoted in March 1987 as saying, “Is there such a thing as a Kurd?  . . . ​The only people prepared to call themselves Kurds are militants, tools of foreign ideologies” (McDowall 2007: 433). 18. Following the defeat of the Ottoman Empire in World War I, Turkey was forced to sign the Treaty of Sèvres, which included harsh territorial concessions on the part of the Turks. The treaty was annulled as a result of Turkish war of independence, and a more favorable treaty for Turkey, the Treaty of Lausanne, was later signed. While Turkey managed to successfully resist the Sèvres Treaty, the conviction remained that the great powers wished to weaken Turkey and revitalize the treaty in the future (Benli Altunışık 2004: 71). 19. While I discuss the changes that occurred following the first Gulf War, it should be noted that during the Iran-​­Iraq War, Iraq’s control over its Kurdish population had already weakened, and this raised concerns in Turkey similar to those following the first Gulf War. 20. The opposition parties were able to raise this concern most notably when the question of renewing the mandate to use the Turkish İncirlik air base for Operation Provide Comfort was brought for approval by the Turkish parliament. 21. Not only was the Iraqi central government losing control over what was happening in Northern Iraq, but by the mid-​­1990s tensions were growing among the Kurdish factions within Iraq itself. Although this development could postpone emergence of an independent Kurdish state in Northern Iraq, both Turkey and Iran feared it would allow rebellious Kurdish groups from their states to more easily find shelter and an operating ground there. This could explain the frequent Turkish military operations against the PKK fighters throughout the 1990s, as well as Iran’s actions in 1996 of sending forces across the Iraqi border in pursuit of members of the Kurdish Democratic Party of Iran (KDP-​­I) (Hale 2007: 77). 22. The estimates are that the Kurdish (Turkish) diaspora number one million people, half of which are in Germany (ICG 2011: 27) 23. The Kurdish (Turkish) diaspora has lobbied in European countries for that pressure be exerted on Turkey to stop the violations of human rights and ease the violent struggle against the PKK (Kuniholm 2001: 39). 24. These illicit activities include drug trafficking, smuggling of arms, illegal workers and goods, extortions, robberies, and money laundering (Roth and Sever 2007: 906). 25. The improvement of relations between Turkey and Syria, and to some extent between Turkey and Iran, should also be seen in the context of the “Zero Problems”

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policy initiated by Ahmet Davutoğlu, chief foreign policy advisor to Prime Minister Erdoğan, according to which Turkey should devote efforts to solve problems with its near neighbors (Aras 2009: 6, 9). 26. Who will hold the province of Kirkuk is an extremely contentious issue for Turkey, since it sits on 40 percent of Iraqi oil reservoirs. Kirkuk, if included in a Kurdish state, would give the state financial independence. But beyond concerns over control of the oil, the Turks claim that the Ottoman Empire has a historic connection to Kirkuk and argue that the Turkmeni minority in the region must be protected (Barkey 2005: 9). 27. Public opinion polls at the time showed that around 90 percent of the Turkish public opposed a U.S.-​­led war with Iraq and Turkish participation in such a war (Benli Altunisik 2007: 77). 28. On the events surrounding this failure, see Robins (2007: 294–​­95); Yavuz (2009: 232–​­34). 29. See also Spiegel Online 2008. It should be noted that the Turkish government’s decision to withdraw so soon from Iraq was criticized as caving in to U.S. demands (ICG 2008: 10). 30. An interesting quote in this respect came from a parliament member of the (Kemalist) Republican People’s Party (CHP): “Finding a political solution to the Kurdish problem in Turkey before eradicating the PKK means giving one-​­sided concessions to the terrorist organization. . . . ​The PKK did not launch a fight against Turkey to improve Kurds’ socio-​­economic and cultural situation. If we fail to understand their real plan, we will pay a huge price: the territorial integrity of Turkey” (ICG 2008: 3). 31. Others have made the claim that in contrast to Turkish opposition to the U.S. actions of 2003, Turkish support of Operation Provide Comfort caused the United States to turn a blind eye to some of Turkey’s military operations in Iraq at the time (Hale 2007: 78). 32. The Turks were well aware of the U.S. apprehensions about Turkish military action in Northern Iraq, but they presented it as inescapable. During Turkish Prime Minister Erdoğan’s critical meeting with U.S. president Bush in Washington prior to the launching of the Turkish offensive, Erdoğan stated, “Our visit comes at a time when [Turkish-​­U.S.] relations are undergoing a serious test.  . . . ​We have run out of patience with the terrorist attacks being staged from Northern Iraq” (Yavuz 2007). 33. It is interesting to note that the proposed agreement to allow U.S.-​­led forces to attack Iraq from its territory would have included Turkey’s right to deploy up to 60,000 troops in Northern Iraq (Hale 2007: 110). Furthermore, prior to the 2008 operation, the AKP emphasized achieving such international and in particular U.S. consent. Davutoğlu wrote regarding this effort (albeit with some exaggeration), “Owing to the correct timing of diplomacy and military strategy, there was no piece in the Arab or Western Media that disfavored Turkey . . . ​compared to Turkey’s bitter experience in the 1990s, when its military actions came under heavy international criticism, the recent developments indicate a remarkable success on Turkey’s part” (2008: 87). Several prominent Turkish press commentators also praised this diplomatic effort (Akyol 2007; Birand 2007). 34. For example, the efforts to forestall the referendum on the future of Kirkuk were

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chiefly diplomatic. Also, the deepening economic relations between Turkey and KRG led to the suggestion of using economic leverage to pressure the KRG to operate according to Turkey’s preferences (ICG 2008: 5). 35. Thus for example, the chief of staff of the Turkish army, Yaşar Büyükanıt, stated already in April 2007 that a cross-​­border operation into Iraq would be “useful” and “necessary” (Schleifer 2007). 36. This rift between the AKP leaders and the military on the issue of whether or not to intervene in Iraq was evident in Prime Minister Erdoğan’s statement in June 2007: “The Security forces should deal first with the 5,000 terrorists inside Turkey before dealing with 500 of them in Northern Iraq” (Kibaroğlu 2007: 6). A day later, he corrected the figures to 1,500 terrorists in Turkey and 3,500 in Northern Iraq, but this confusion over numbers indicated the mistrust between the AKP leaders and the army. 37. Thus, for example, in November 2007 Prime Minister Erdoğan emphasized that the priority was not to launch a military offensive into Iraq but to make the terrorists lay down their weapons. He also stated, “We are not cowboys with guns in our hands” (Akyol 2007). Chapter 7. From a Militia to a Diasporic Community: The Changing Identity of the South Lebanese Army 1. Jaysh Lubnān al-​­Janūbi in Arabic and Tzadal in Hebrew. 2. Barak 2010: 163–​­64; Bar-​­Siman-​­Tov 1997: 12–​­15; Hamizrachi 1988: 63–​­67; Sela 2007: 53–​­54. 3. Todd 2005: 444, for example, analyzes modes of identity change in post-​­1998 Northern Ireland, a society experiencing radical change in sociopolitical structures. 4. Discourse is considered here as the sum of the spoken and unspoken gestures, attitudes, figures of speech, narratives, and perceptions one attributes to one’s social surroundings. 5. For a further discussion of the analytical tension between individual and collective identity see Snow and McAdam 2000: 42–​­53. 6. The term “security zone” came into being only after the 1982 war. Before then this area was referred to as the “South Lebanon Area” (ADAL), and the SLA as the “Haddad militia.” 7. Early contacts between Maronite Christian factions and the Zionist movement date to the Yishuv period (Zisser 1995: 889–​­90), although in the 1970s they grew into a more intensive and close type of political relationship. 8. Such as Camille Chamoun, leader of the National Liberal Party—​­another Maronite-​­led faction. 9. An alternative claim is that Israeli intelligence units operating in Lebanon have contacted these Southern Lebanese officers beforehand, and encouraged them to approach Israeli officials at the border (Hamizarachi 1988: 64–​­65). 10. These informal understandings between Israel and Syria were also referred to as the “red line.”

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11. This resolution, adopted on March 19, 1978, during the first days of the Litani Operation, called for the immediate withdrawal of all foreign forces from Lebanon, and established the UN Interim Force in Lebanon (UNIFIL). 12. In addition to its organizational similarity to the IDF, an interesting feature of the SLA was its division into ethnic units. In this respect it resembled the Lebanese Army during the civil war (but not before or after it), and might be seen as a hybrid Israeli-​­Lebanese entity in the organizational sense as well. 13. There were, however, some Shi‘i and Druze SLA families who arrived in Israel. While the Shi‘i families suffer great cultural and religious isolation, the Druze were absorbed in Israeli Druze villages such as Daliyat al-​­Karmel. 14. This and further quotes were translated from Hebrew by the author. The italics within the quotes represent the subject’s emphasis as noted by the author. 15. A major actor facilitating this system was Israel’s informal security network. See Barak and Sheffer 2006: 253–​­55; and Gazit 2011: 105–​­6. 16. For further discussion of the broader philosophical and phenomenological origins of this concept see Husserl 1970: 172–​­74; Schutz 1973: 352; and Habermas 1981: 70. 17. This is based on a methodological stance that furthers the notion that, at least to some extent, subjects indeed mean what they say, and what they say is indicative, though in a complex and tangled manner, of their social world and experience (Illouz 2007: 95). 18. Especially Shi‘is, the largest community in the area. 19. Similar to other “gray areas” in between societies and states, such as Northern Iraq, this also included semilegal and illegal networks of trade, crime, drug traffic, and other forms of corruption that were an inseparable part of the social reality that has evolved in this area. 20. This mosaic also includes non-​­Jewish groups such as migrant workers and asylum seekers, as well as non-​­Jewish migrants from the FSU and Ethiopian Falas-​­Mura, whose Jewishness is questioned by the orthodox religious establishment in Israel (Anteby-​­Yemini 2004: 144–​­46). 21. Government resolution 720, adopted September 9, 2001. 22. The responsibility for this majority group was later transferred to other ministries, including the Ministry of Industry, Trade, and Labor. 23. The letter was published on the website Lebanese in Israel, http://www.lebane seinisrael.com/X/?p=20444. 24. See, e.g., High Court of Justice Appeal 1766/07, Boulos Haddad, and Others v. The Israeli Government. 25. “Boundary work” refers to the constant process of negotiation that occurs surrounding the perceived collective boundaries of a social group, determining who is “in” and who is “out” (Lamont 2000: 3). 26. An interesting point is the SLA members’ utilitarian use of this Jewish-​­Israeli perception of them in order to sell and distribute products that are perceived as authentically Lebanese, in what seems a subtle use of the Israeli-​­Lebanese syncretic elements of identity as they have evolved in the Israeli security zone (Gazit 2011: 175–​­76).

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27. Beyond its racial implications, this quote also resonates with SLA members’ self-​ p ­ erception as non-​­Arab descendants of the ancient Phoenician people of the Fertile Crescent, originating from the early Canaanite kingdom. Chapter 8. Domestic-​­Regional Interactions and Outside Intervention in Intrastate Conflicts: Insights from Lebanon 1. Two recent studies that discuss the causes for the success and failure of international peacebuilding and peacekeeping in intrastate conflicts are Doyle and Sambanis 2006: 1–​­26 and Howard 2008: 1–​­20. 2. On this debate see Brown 1996: 22–​­24 and Hoffman 2001: 275–​­82. For anti-​ ­interventionist arguments, see Fleitz 2002: 186–​­88; Gholz et al. 1997: 5; Herbst 2004: 316; Luttwak 2001: 265. For pro-​­interventionist arguments see Crocker 2003: 43–​­44; Fearon and Laitin 2004: 41–​­43. The changing foci of interest in the field and inconclusive lessons drawn since the end of the Cold War are well indicated in the three volumes published by the United States Institute of Peace (Crocker et al. 1996; Crocker 2001, 2007). 3. Ayoob 1995: xiii–​­xiv; Holsti 1996: 99–​­122; Jackson 1990: 21–​­26; Singer and Wildavsky 1993: 6–​­7, 36–​­38. 4. See Buzan and Wæver 2003: 3–​­14; Collard-​­Wexler 2006: 427–​­28; Gause 1999: 11–​­12. 5. See Doyle and Sambanis 2006: 4; Howard 2008: 1–​­2. 6. Halliday 2005: 130–​­64; Miller 2000: 181–​­82, 2001b: 200–​­202, 2003: 153; Väyrynen 2003: 28–​­29. 7. International Commission on Intervention and State Sovereignty 2001: xi; Roberts 2004: 81–​­83; Schabas 2001: 605. 8. Doyle and Sambanis 2006: 17–​­18; Fleitz 2002: 1–​­18; Roberts 2004: 86–​­95; Talentino 2005: 49–​­56. 9. Bellamy and Williams 2005: 160–​­61; Crocker 2001: 229–​­48; Jackson 2000: 58–​­60. 10. Adebajo 2000: 185; Bellamy and Williams 2005: 157–​­58; Peck 2001: 561–​­62. 11. Evaluations of the effectiveness of regional organizations as collective security instruments by their formal powers and level of institutionalization single out NATO as the only realistic “regional option” (Crocker 2001: 241; Hurrell 1995: 46, 70). Hence, the potential role of weaker and less institutionalized regional organizations such as the Arab League is ignored or underestimated (Barnett and Solingen 2007: 212–​­20; Peck 2001: 563; Solingen 2007: 759, 2008: 279–​­84). 12. A telling case are the Saudi-​­Egyptian efforts to put an end to the civil war in Yemen, which repeatedly failed because of their Yemeni clients (Sela 1998: 71–​­72). For similar examples in the Lebanese case, see below. 13. See note 2 above. 14. That domestic actors in developing regions are perceived mainly as passive subjects of external outputs may well represent typically Western perceptions of non-​ E ­ uropean others as “receivers” of Western norms and values, see Wallerstein 2006.

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15. Crocker et al. 2001 ; Kelman 1997: 61–​­63; Levy 2001: 20–​­21; Miller 2007: 3–​­7; Miall et al. 1999: 1–​­4; Stein 2001: 189–​­90; Wæver 1995: 46–​­54; Zartman 1995: 225–​­50, 2005: 1–​­5. Domestic factors appear to be crucial in the concept of “ripeness” for shifting from hostility to peacemaking. See Kleiboer 1994: 115; Rothstein 1999: 227–​­30; Zartman 1995: 228–​­30. 16. Buzan and Wæver 2003: 187; Maoz 1997: 26; Solingen 2007: 757–​­58. 17. Ben-​­Yehuda and Sandler (2002: 11–​­19) conclude that the involvement of states in conflicts with their neighbors has declined considerably in both quantitative and qualitative terms. 11; Brynen 1991: 605–​­ 7; Picard 1990: 192–​­ 97; Sela 1998: 18. Ajami 1981, 8–​­ 341–​­50. 19. Ben-​­Yehuda and Sandler 2002: 99; Evron 1995: 153, 169; Inbar and Sandler 1995a: 174–​­76, 1995b: 174; Kober 2002: 141–​­50. 20. Barnett and Solingen 2007: 180–​­81; Solingen 2007: 774, 2008: 281–​­84; Zacher 1979: 165. 21. Hilal and Matar 1983: 58; Sela 1998: 12; Tripp 1995: 287–​­89; Zacher 1979: 165. 22. Examples include the repression of the Muslim Brotherhood movements in Egypt and Syria; the co-​­optation of the Baath Party by Syria and Iraq into their political systems; and the military suppression of the Kurds by Saddam’s Iraq and, on a more limited scale, by Turkey. 23. Syria continues to support nonstate actors as proxies serving its own regional interests such as the Palestinian Hamas and the Islamic Jihad, as well as Lebanon’s Hizbullah, which also receives aid from Iran. 24. Examples include Jordan’s efforts to curb the activities of the PLO in its territory in 1970–​­1971 (“Black September”) and its expulsion of Hamas representatives in 2000, and Lebanon’s attempts to restrain the PLO (see below). 25. Examples include the cooperation between Israel and Jordan long before the peace treaty of 1994, and the Syrian-​­Israeli “red lines” agreement discussed below. 26. For details on the Lebanese conflict (1975–​­1990), see Barak 2003: 305–​­39. 27. By contrast, most studies on outside intervention in the Lebanese conflict emphasize its disruptive nature. See, e.g., Deeb and Deeb 1991: 90–​­94; Seaver 2000: 258. 28. As mentioned earlier, Lebanon did try to suppress the PLO in 1968–​­1969 and 1973, but was restrained by its domestic allies and by Arab leaders eager to enhance their legitimacy. 29. See the chapter by Barak and Cohen in this volume. 30. In the Cairo Agreement of 1969, the PLO recognized Lebanon’s sovereignty while Lebanon agreed to Palestinian armed presence on its soil, albeit within defined areas.

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Contributors

Oren Barak is Associate Professor at the Departments of Political Science and International Relations at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, working on the relationship between the state, society, and the military in the non-​ ­Western regions and ethnic and national relations. His recent book is The Lebanese Army: A National Institution in a Divided Society. He also edited Existential Threats and Civil-​­Security Relations and Militarism and Israeli Society (both with Gabriel Sheffer). Chanan Cohen is a Ph.D. candidate in Political Science at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. In his dissertation he examines the effect of local interethnic violence on the politicization of ethnicity in Israel’s ethnically mixed cities. His M.A. thesis is on the onset of civil wars in Latin America. His research interests include ethnicity and nationalism, ethnic politics, political violence, and political methodology. Robert A. Fitchette received his B.A. from Colgate University and is pursuing graduate studies in international security and economic policy at Columbia University’s School of International and Public Affairs. Prior to entering Columbia he held positions in the U.S. Senate and as a management consultant. Orit Gazit is a Nazarian postdoctoral fellow at the International Institute and the Department of Sociology, both at the University of California, Los Angeles. She earned her Ph.D. in International Relations and Sociology and Anthropology, as well an LL.B. from The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Her work is placed on the interface between sociology and International Relations, and focuses on international migration and diasporas, citizenship and transnationalism. She edited Collective Identities, States and Globalization:

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Essays in Honour of S.N. Eisenstadt (with Gad Yair) and coauthored an article in Security Dialogue (with Oded Löwenheim). Gallia Lindenstrauss is a Research Associate at the Institute for National Security Studies, Tel Aviv University, and lectures at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem and the Interdisciplinary Center, Herzliya. Her main field of study is Turkish foreign policy. She completed her Ph.D. in the Department of International Relations at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Her dissertation deals with military interventions of neighboring states in ethnic conflicts. During 2009–​­2010 she was a postdoctoral fellow at the Leonard Davis Institute for International Relations at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. She is author of Mediation and Engagement: A New Paradigm for Turkish Foreign Policy and Its Implications for Israel. Nava Löwenheim is a Lecturer at the Department of Politics and Communication, Hadassah Academic College Jerusalem, and a teaching fellow at the Department of International Relations at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. She holds a Ph.D. in International Relations from The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. She was an Orzan postdoctoral and a research fellow at the Department of International Relations The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, an Arie Shachar postdoctoral fellow at the Munk School of Global Affairs at the University of Toronto, and a postdoctroal fellow at the Leonard Davis Institute for International Relations at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. She also worked as a researcher at the Research and Information Center in the Knesset (the Israeli Parliament). Her areas of interest are conflict dynamics, collective identity change processes, collective memory, public diplomacy, and political apologies. She published articles in Review of International Studies and Security Dialogue (with Zohar Kampf). David Malet is a Lecturer in International Relations at the University of Melbourne. Previously he taught political science at Colorado State University-​ ­Pueblo, where he served as the founding Director of the Center for the Study of Homeland Security, and then as the inaugural Director of the University Honors Program. He received his Ph.D. in Political Science from George Washington University. Prior to that, he served as a defense and foreign policy aide to U.S. Senate Majority Leader Tom Daschle. His research concerns transnational security issues the transformation of warfare, identity politics, and tensions between national security and human security. His book,

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Contributors 235

Foreign Fighters, is forthcoming. He has published in venues including Journal of Diplomacy, Orbis, Social Science Journal, Studies in Conflict and Terrorism, and Small Wars Journal. Dan Miodownik is a Senior Lecturer in the Departments of Political Science and International Relations at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. He earned his Ph.D. in Political Science from the University of Pennsylvania. He studies the emergence, unfolding and regulation of anti-​­regime mobilization, protest behavior, ethnic polarization, and civil wars. He also has significant interest in the development of computer simulation (Agent-​­Based Modeling in particular) to assist comparative political analysis of these and other complex social phenomena. His work has been published in journals such as American Political Science Review, Journal of Conflict Resolution, Comparative Politics, Studies in Comparative International Development, Nationalism & Ethnic Politics, Social Science Computer Review and Journal of Artificial Societies and Social Simulations. Maayan Mor is a graduate student at Department of Political Science at the University of Wisconsin-​­Madison. She holds a M.A. degree in political science from The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Her M.A. thesis explores the evolution of intra-​­ethnic norms and collective tension in ethnically mixed cities.  Her research interests are ethnic conflicts, social identities and political methodology. Avraham Sela is the A. Ephraim and Shirley Diamond Chair in International Relations at the Department of International Relations at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. He specializes in Middle East politics, especially inter-​­Arab and Arab-​­Israeli relations in regional and historical perspectives, and in Palestinian politics and society. His current research project focuses on Arab-​ ­Muslim foreign fighters in intrastate conflicts in comparative perspective. His most recent books are The Decline of the Arab Israeli Conflict: Middle East Politics and the Quest for Regional Order and The Palestinian Hamas: Vision, Violence and Adjustment (with Shaul Mishal). He also edited The Continuum Political Encyclopedia of the Middle East. Gabriel (Gabi) Sheffer is Professor Emeritus of Political Science at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. His current research foci are Israeli politics and ethnic politics, with special emphasis on ethnonational diasporas and

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civil-​­military relations. He has published numerous books, edited volumes, journal articles, and chapters in edited volumes. His most recent book is Diaspora Politics: At Home Abroad (Cambridge University Press, 2003). He also edited An Army That Has a State? (with Oren Barak and Amiram Oren), Existential Threats and Civil-​­Security Relations (with Oren Barak), and Militarism and Israeli Society (with Oren Barak). Omer Yair is a Ph.D. student in Political Science at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. He holds a M.A. degree in political science from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. His M.A. thesis explores the effect of youthful populations on the onset of different types of civil wars. His research interests are comparative politics, political demography (in particular the effect of youth on different social and political phenomena), civil wars, and social capital.

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Index

‘Abd al-­Rahman, ‘Omar, 70 Abdul Nasser, Gamal, 63, 65, 69 Afghanistan, 1, 12, 13, 15, 29, 31, 34, 37, 45, 47, 48, 169, 186, 190nn6, 7; Afghanistan War (1979–92), 4, 5, 15, 23, 28, 48, 53–59, 63–83, 191nn21, 28; Arab Afghans, 2, 12, 23, 28, 56, 57, 58, 73, 79, 80, 81; War in Afghanistan (2001–), 2, 23, 28 Africa, 19, 28, 30, 88, 100, 140, 166, 169, 187n1, 188n2 African National Congress (ANC), 38 Ain el-­Hilweh, 13 Al Qaeda, 2, 13, 16, 20, 23, 28, 29, 47, 54, 56, 69, 70, 80–83, 88, 89, 97–100, 192n41 Al-­Assad, Bashar, 138 Al-­Assad, Hafez, 175 al-­Dinniyeh, 12 al-­farida al-­gha’iba (The Missing Duty), 70 al-­Gama‘a al-­Islamiyya (Islamic Group), 70, 75 Algeria, Algerians, 13, 38, 40, 54, 55, 66, 74, 79–81, 96, 99, 165, 183 al-­Hariri, Rafiq, 185 al-­Mawdudi, Abu al-­A‘la, 69 al-­Qawuqji, Fawzi, 13, 25, 27 al-­Zarqawi, Abu Mus ‘ab, 192n37 al-­Zawahiri, Ayman, 12, 69, 76, 78, 80, 81, 191n16, 192n41 Aoun, Michel, 176, 177, 182–84 Arab League, 53, 65, 173, 178, 179, 181, 183– 85, 200n11 Arab Liberation Army, 27 Arab Spring, 2, 135, 172 Armed Islamic Group (GIA), 80, 99 Armenia, 7, 8, 85, 101, 106–24, 193nn4, 11, 194n19; Armenian Diaspora, 8, 106–8, 110, 111, 113–23, 193nn5, 11; Armenian genocide, 8, 106–11, 113–16, 118–24,

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192nn2, 3, 193nn5, 14, 194n20; Armenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia (ASALA), 116. See also Turkish-­Armenian conflict Asia, 25, 30, 67, 88, 98 Assimilation, 87, 91–93, 121 Asylum seekers, 87, 99, 199n20 ‘Azzam, ‘Abdullah, 53, 54, 70–72, 74–80, 82, 190n6, 191nn19, 23, 28 Balkans, 41, 166 Beirut, 19, 147–49, 177, 180–82 bin Baz, ‘Abd al-­‘Aziz, 71 Bin Laden, Osama, 12, 16, 53, 69, 72, 74, 76, 77, 80, 81, 188n5, 192n38 Bolívar, Simón, 24 Bosnia, 13, 15, 31, 36, 45, 47, 54, 79, 169; war in (1990s), 15, 23, 28 Britain, 25, 27, 30, 42, 68, 95, 109, 110, 133, 169; British colonies in North America, 15, 21, 22, 24; British forces in Palestine, 1, 13, 22, 25, 27, 145; London bombing in 2005 (“7/7”), 20; Secret Intelligence Services (SIS), 68 Byron, Lord, 13, 25 Chechnya, 13, 54, 189n1; war in (1990s), 4, 15, 23, 28, 31 Christians, 19, 23, 25–27, 45, 98, 109, 110, 140, 145–50, 154, 156, 162, 163, 177, 178, 180, 182, 183, 194n20, 198n7 Civil war, 6, 9, 34, 144, 165 Client, 66, 109, 141, 167, 171, 180, 200n12 Cold War, 39, 67, 100, 116, 120, 125, 128, 166–69, 186, 188n9, 200n2 Collaboration, 44, 56, 58, 59, 62, 67, 69, 76, 78, 147, 151, 156, 170

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238 Index Collective memory, 111, 113, 118 Collective trauma, 112, 113, 156, 157 Collier-­Hoeffler model, 6, 9, 36 Colombia, 20, 24 Communalism, 93 Communism, 17, 49, 51; anti-­communism, 22, 26, 31 Conflict: intercommunal, 106; interstate , 38, 92, 95, 119, 127, 142, 143, 172, 188n9; intrastate, 1, 2, 4–11, 34–39, 43, 45, 48, 50, 53–55, 84–86, 89, 92, 95, 97, 104, 106, 112, 126–29, 136, 138, 139, 141–44, 146, 151, 155, 165, 166–71, 185, 186, 187n1, 188n9, 200n1 Copenhagen School (in International Relations), 128 Denial, 108, 111, 115, 116, 118, 120, 121, 124, 193n5 Deprivation, 73, 95, 104 De-­territorialized, 59, 89 Devereux, John, 24 Diasporas: funding, 9, 10; impact on intrastate conflicts, 7–11, 95–104, 111–13, 120, 121, 188n11; influence on homeland politics, 7, 8, 10, 84, 86, 87, 92, 93, 95, 96, 112; diasporic community, 140–42, 145, 150, 157, 158; diasporic networks, 100, 150; ethno-­national-­religious diasporas, 84, 85, 87–99, 104; stateless ethnonational diasporas, 8, 84–86, 93, 94, 96, 98, 99, 100, 105, 188n11, 193n15; victim diaspora, 108, 112, 118 Discrimination, 95, 96, 104, 109, 160 Dispersals, 85, 86, 89, 91, 93, 98, 99, 192n1 Drug cartels, 18, 20, 101, 196n24, 199n19 Druze, 25, 145, 148, 150, 154, 156, 177, 181, 199n13 Ecuador, 24 Egypt, 28, 32, 62–66, 68–70, 74–76, 78–81, 99, 146, 174–76, 178–80, 183, 185, 186, 192n41, 200n12, 201n22; Egyptian Medical Association, 74; peace treaty with Israel, 64, 65, 180, 183 el-­Hoss, Salim, 177, 182 Erdoğan, Recep Tayyip, 131, 195n14, 197nn25, 32, 198nn36, 37 Ethical discourse, 151, 154, 155, 157–60, 164 Ethiopia, 51, 67, 95, 199n20

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Ethnographic fieldwork, 141, 151 Existential threat, 6, 34, 35, 65, 128, 130, 136 Extraterritorial, 151, 152, 156 Fahd Plan, 176, 181 Failed state (state failure) 4, 13–15, 32, 33, 83, 135, 170, 186, 187n1, 189n14 Fanon, Frantz, 71 Faraj, ‘Abd al-­Salam, 70 Fascism, fascist, 13, 26, 31, 38, 52; anti-­ fascism, 22, 26, 31, 44, 49, 51 Fatwa, 70, 71, 81 Foreign fighters, 4, 6, 7, 34, 35, 37, 39, 40, 42, 43, 46–48, 52, 55, 189n1 Foreign volunteers, 1, 4–7, 10, 11, 21, 22, 24, 25, 29, 30, 32, 34, 35, 37; recruitment of, 4–7, 34–55; in Spanish civil war, 4, 26, 27, 30, 47, 49, 51, 52; Arab and Muslim, 2, 5, 12, 13, 22, 23, 25, 27–29, 42, 53–55, 56–82, 191nn28, 34; Jewish in Palestine (Machal), 1, 2, 4, 23, 27, 52, 53 Four-­player game, 108, 115, 119–22 Framing, 6, 34, 35, 45, 47, 51, 139 France, 2, 21, 25, 26, 29, 38, 52, 95, 96, 109, 110, 119, 120, 133, 145, 150, 165, 193n5 Franco, Francisco (General Franco), 13, 26, 27 Freemasons, Freemasonry, 26, 49 Gemayel, Amine, 181, 182 Genocide, 169. See also Armenian genocide Germany, 26, 52, 117, 150, 162, 196n22; German revolutionary cells, 23, 28 Globalization, 19, 55, 57, 91, 98 Gran Colombia War of Independence, 22, 24 Greece, 87, 99, 148; “Philhellenes,” 24, 25, 42, 47, 189n13; war of independence (1821– 33), 13, 15, 22, 24, 25, 29, 31 Greenpeace, 19 Gulf monarchies, 9, 65, 66, 76–78, 179 Haddad, Saad, 148, 149 Haiti, 169 Hama, Islamic Rebellion of (February 1982), 65 Harkis, 165 Hemingway, Ernest, 13, 26 Hitler, Adolf, 27 Hizbullah, 23, 28, 61, 95, 99, 140, 150, 163, 177, 178, 184, 185, 201n23. See also Lebanon

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Index 239 Hmong, 165 Homeland, 5, 7–11, 14, 27, 37, 53, 79, 84– 105, 108, 110–13, 120, 121, 157, 188n11, 194n18 Host-­land, 8, 9, 84, 86–90, 92–98, 100, 102–4, 108, 111, 115, 116, 120–23 Hybridity, 89, 91, 92, 112 Ibn Saud, 64 Ibn Taymiyya, 69 Identification, 16, 41, 89, 90, 93, 144, 153 Identity, 5, 17, 30, 35, 36, 40–42, 44, 45, 47, 48, 51, 55, 59, 61, 64, 67, 87, 90, 93, 97, 108, 110–19, 121–23, 129–32, 141–45, 151–65, 173, 174, 189n4, 193n5, 194nn18, 20, 195n15, 198n3, 199n26; collective identity, 44, 73, 118, 121, 151, 152, 154, 157, 198n5; flexible identity, 113, 122; identity change, 140–45, 155, 164, 165, 198n3; identity conflict, 107, 112–15, 119; identity construction, 143, 144, 157, 164, 165; identity work, 157, 161; rigid identity, 8, 107, 112, 113, 118, 119, 123; social identity theory, 41; syncretic identity, 151–53, 157, 161, 199n26 Ideology, 17, 20, 35, 38, 44, 110, 117; jihadist, 57, 58, 62, 66, 69, 72, 74, 77, 81–83; universal or transnational, 5, 13, 14, 17, 20, 24 Imperialism, 63; anti-­imperialism, 17, 22, 23, 31 Indonesia, 13, 74, 99 Insurgents, insurgency, 5, 28, 34–39, 46–49, 54, 56, 99, 111, 134, 189n1 Integration, 9, 17, 49, 93, 160 International Brigades, 4, 22, 26, 38, 47, 49, 51. See also Spain Iran, Iranian, 20, 28, 65–67, 78, 88, 95, 98, 99, 101, 125, 133–35, 172, 173, 175, 176, 180, 182–85, 196nn21, 25, 201n23; Iran-­Iraq war (1980–88), 125, 176, 183, 194n2, 196n19 Iraq, 1, 2, 8, 13, 25, 31, 35, 36, 42, 45–48, 53, 55, 79–81, 83, 95, 98, 99, 106, 125, 126, 129, 131, 133–39, 166, 169, 175–79, 182, 183, 185, 186, 192n37, 194n1, 196n21, 197nn26, 27, 29, 31, 32, 33, 198nn35, 36, 37, 199n19, 201n22; Baath Party in, 65, 201n22; First Gulf War (1991), 131, 133, 137, 138, 184, 196n19; Iran-­Iraq war (1980–88), 125, 176, 180, 183, 194n2,

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196n19; Iraqi army, 25; Iraqi opposition groups in Iran, 20; Kurds in Iraq, 201n22; Saddam Hussein’s regime, 20, 201n22; war in (2003), 2, 4, 6, 15, 20, 23, 28, 29, 34, 35, 48, 58, 135, 137, 185, 189n1 Ireland, 7, 22, 24, 26, 87, 95, 98, 99, 101, 112, 198n3 Islam, 22, 23, 25, 27, 28, 41, 42, 56, 61, 63–65, 69–83, 88, 98, 189n4, 196n15 Islamic Jihad (organization), 57, 72, 99, 191n16 Israel Defense Forces (IDF), 149, 150, 153, 156, 161, 199n12 Israel, 4, 8, 20, 28, 37, 49, 52, 63, 68, 81, 85, 95, 99, 102, 103, 117, 123, 140–65, 172–86, 188n12, 189n10, 193n15, 194n16, 198nn9, 10, 199nn12, 13, 15, 20, 23, 26, 201n25; “Peace for the Galilee” operation, 149; cooperation with South Lebanese Army, 8, 140, 141, 147, 149–54, 156–65; peace treaty with Egypt, 64, 65, 180, 183; withdrawal from Lebanon (May 2000), 8, 140, 142, 148, 150, 156, 157–60, 164, 184; Israeli-­ Lebanese border, 15, 28, 140, 145–54, 156, 157, 163, 164, 178, 180–82, 185, 198n6, 199n26; Litani Operation, 148, 180, 199n11; war of independence (1947–49) (1948 War, First Arab-­Israeli War, Palestine War), 1, 4, 15, 22, 23, 27, 31, 47, 48, 52, 53, 176 Italy: fascist regime in, 13, 26; invasion of Ethiopia (1935), 27 Jahiliyya, 69–71 Jama‘at al-­takfir wal-­hijra, 70 Japanese Red Army, 23, 28 Jeddah, 77, 190n7 Jerusalem, 180 Jewish Agency, 189n10 Jewish National Fund, 189n10 Jihad (holy war), 12, 13, 15, 17, 23, 28, 29, 31, 40, 42, 45, 47, 53–59, 62–83, 99, 189n4, 191n23 Jordan, 25, 70, 80, 146, 174, 175, 178, 183, 185, 201nn24, 25; ”Black September,” 27, 146, 201n24; Palestinian armed factions in, 20, 27, 146, 201n24 Justice and Development Party (AKP), 130– 33, 138, 194n14, 195n15, 196n16, 197n33, 198n36

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240 Index Kabul, 79 Kanj, Bassam Ahmand, 12, 13, 26 Kashmir, 79, 99 Khomeini, Ayatollah, 65 Khost Tunnel Complex, 77 Kirkuk, 135, 197n26, 197n34 Kliea, 147, 148 Kościuszko, Andrzej Tadeusz, 13 Kosovo, 21, 37, 99, 169 Kurdish Democratic Party of Iran (KDP-­I), 134, 196n21 Kurdish question, 125, 126, 130, 132, 134, 138, 139, 196n15, 197n30 Kurdish Regional Government (KRG), 135, 136, 198n36 Kurdish worker party (PKK), 8, 20, 99, 125, 130–32, 134–39, 195n11, 196n21, 197n30 Kuwait, 80, 176, 179, 184 Lahad, Antoine, 149 Latin America, 24, 30, 101 League of Nations, 25 Lebanon, 12, 13, 25, 31, 201nn23, 24; ”Lebanese Free State,” 148; ”good fence” with, 147; Amal (Shi‘i militia), 150, 177, 182; Arab Deterrence Force (ADF) in, 177, 179; Cairo agreement, 27, 146, 179, 182, 201n30; Haddad militia, 148, 149, 198n6; Israeli withdrawal from (May 2000), 8, 140, 142, 148, 150, 156–60, 164, 184; Israeli-­Lebanese border, 15, 28, 140, 145– 54, 156, 157, 163, 164, 178, 180–82, 185, 198n6, 199n26; Lebanese army, 13, 145– 49, 180, 181, 183–85, 199n12; civil war in (1975–90), 15, 19, 23, 27, 28, 141, 146, 148, 164, 165–68, 170, 174–86, 199n12, 201n26; Lebanese Diaspora, 8, 95, 140, 162, 163; Lebanese National Movement (LNM), 177–79; ”red lines” in, 28, 177, 178, 201n25; Lebanese Parliament, 182, 183; Maronites, 140, 145, 147, 149, 150, 176, 177, 178, 182, 198nn7, 8; Multinational Force (MNF) in, 177, 181; National Pact of 1943, 175, 183; Palestinian armed factions in, 20, 23, 27, 28, 146–49, 154, 155, 174, 175, 178, 180–82, 184, 201n30; Reagan Plan, 176, 181; Second Lebanon War (2006), 151, 163; South Lebanese Army (SLA), 8, 140–42, 145–47, 149–65, 198n6, 199nn12, 13, n26, 200n27; South Lebanon,

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8, 140–42, 145–53, 155–59, 162, 164, 176– 80, 182, 184, 198nn6, 9; Ta’if Agreement (October 1989), 183, 184. See also Hizbullah Levant, 25 Libya, 1, 79, 81, 175–79 Lifeworld, 151–54, 164 Lobby, lobbying, 10, 97, 103, 104, 116, 123, 134, 193n16 Mahdi (messaiah), 70 Malacca Straits, 20 Malaysia, 20 Marjayoun, 148 Mecca, 65, 69, 78 Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders), 19 Mercantile companies, 18, 20, 30 Mercenaries, 3, 18–21, 24, 30, 36–38 Middle East, 1, 2, 5, 28, 56, 64, 65, 102, 140, 145, 154, 166, 167, 170, 172–76, 178, 179, 181, 187n1, 194n16 Migrants, 9, 41, 65, 84, 87, 90, 94, 101, 158, 199n20 Militia, 3, 8, 13, 140–42, 144, 145, 147–51, 154–58, 161, 165, 176, 177, 180–82, 184, 187n1, 198n6 Missionaries, 18, 19 Modern Sherwood Forest, 5, 12, 14–16, 18, 20–22, 24, 25, 27–33, 189n11 Morocco, 46, 183 Mubarak, Husni, 68, 78 Mujahidin, 2, 12, 28, 49, 56, 62, 66–69, 71, 74, 76, 77, 79, 80, 190nn14, 15 Muslim Brotherhood, 62–66, 68–71, 74–77, 83, 201n22 Muslim World League (Rabitat al-­‘Alam al-­ Islami), 64, 78 Mussolini, Benito, 27 Nagorno-­Karabakh, 107, 117, 118, 194n19 Nazism, Nazi, 13, 26; anti-­Nazism, 22, 26, 31 Neoliberalism, 91, 157, 159, 164 Nigeria, 20, 38, 101, 169 Nonstate actors, 1–5, 10, 11, 14–18, 22, 30, 32, 59, 83, 108, 112, 114, 120, 123, 141–44, 156, 165, 187n4, 201n23 North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), 200n11

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Index 241 Öcalan, Abdullah, 130, 134, 135, 137 Ontological security, 114, 115, 117–19, 122 Orwell, George, 13, 26, 30 Ottoman Empire, 13, 22, 25, 106, 109, 110, 111, 192n2, 194n20, 196n18, 197n26; breakup of, 24; Ottoman army, 13, 25 Özal, Turgut, 130, 137 Páez, José Antonio, 24 Pakistan, 12, 13, 32, 42, 56, 67–69, 74, 77–80, 83, 85, 87, 88, 99, 192n37; Pakistani intelligence service (ISI), 68; Islamic Coordination Council, 77 Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO), 27, 28, 38, 66, 175–84, 186, 201nn24, 27, 30 Palestinians,46, 53, 70, 71, 76, 85, 87, 89, 95, 96, 98, 99, 101–3, 123, 146, 154, 155, 159, 162, 172, 174, 176, 193n15, 194n16; Arab Palestinian Revolt (1936–39), 1, 15, 22, 25; armed factions in Lebanon, 20, 23, 27, 28, 146–49, 154, 155, 174, 175, 178, 180–82, 184, 201n30; first Arab-­Israeli War (1947– 49), 1, 4, 15, 22, 23, 27, 31, 47, 48, 52, 53, 176; Hamas, 61, 99, 100, 201nn23, 24; Islamic Jihad, 99, 201n23; Fatah, 99, 146, 148, 149; refugee camps, 13, 147, 182, 184. See also Palestine Liberation Organization Panama, 24 Pan-­Arabism, 64, 173 Patronage, 152, 181 Peace, 2, 64, 65, 95, 109, 112, 113, 123, 154, 155, 160, 168, 176, 178–80, 183, 201n25; peace-­breakers, 112; peacemakers, 7, 10, 48, 112, 120, 169, 185, 201n15; peace-­ wreckers, 7, 113 Persecution, 95, 104 Peshawar, 74–78, 191n28 Pirates, 3, 16, 18, 20, 21, 30 Poland, 24 Portugal, under Salazar, 26 Private security firms, 3, 18, 20, 21 Privateers, 18, 20, 21, 30 Prospect theory, 35, 43 Pulaski, Casimir, 24

Sadat, Anwar, 63–66, 68, 69, 78, 180 Sarkis, Elias, 180, 181 Saudi Arabia, 25, 28, 32, 63–67, 71, 72, 77, 78, 98, 175, 178, 179, 183, 185, 189n4, 200n12 Securitization, 8. 10, 35, 46, 125, 126, 128–31, 136, 139, 195n10: desecuritization, 8, 125, 126, 128–32, 137–39, 195nn8, 9 Şemdinli incident, 195n12 Serbia, 28, 45, 54 Services Bureau (Maktab al-­Khidamat), 74, 75, 78, 80 Sèvres Syndrome, 133 Shari‘a, 63, 64, 71 Shukri, Mustafa, 70 Sierra Leone, 169 Silence, 8, 111, 115, 116, 122 Singapore, 20 Social meaning, 141, 165 Somalia, 20, 83, 166, 169 Soviet Union (USSR), 2, 12, 15, 23, 27, 28, 50, 53, 54, 56, 58, 59, 65–67, 70, 72, 73, 75, 77–79, 95, 100, 107, 178 Spain: 2004 Madrid train bombing (“11-­M”), 20; civil war, 4, 13, 15, 22, 25, 26, 27, 31, 38, 44, 47, 48, 49. 51; Spanish crown in Latin America, 24; demise of empire in the Americas, 24 Sudan, 1, 7, 79, 81, 101, 166, 169, 179 Suez Canal, 183 Syria, 1, 2, 25, 28, 53, 55, 58, 65, 83, 95, 106, 133–38, 146, 148, 150, 174–86, 196n25, 198n10, 201nn22, 23, 25; Baath Party, 65, 201n22 Taliban, 81 Territorial Integrity Norm, 3, 30 Territory, 3, 14, 46, 60, 70, 73, 78, 83, 126, 134–36, 138, 140, 146, 148, 160, 165, 175, 176, 184, 186, 197n33, 201n24

Qur’an, 54, 55, 69, 71 Qutb, Sayyid, 69, 70, 82 Rapprochement process, 108, 115, 118, 120–23

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Red Cross, 78 Refugees, 13, 76, 147, 182, 184 Rights discourse, 157, 159, 160, 164 Robin Hood, 12, 14, 16, 18, 21, 30, 31, 32, 189nn5, 7 Romania, 22, 26, 52 Russia, 22, 24, 26, 28, 99, 101, 110, 189n13; Bolsheviks, 27; civil war (1917–22), 27; Russo-­Finish war (1939–40), 27 Rwanda, 169

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242 Index Terrorism, 29, 31, 42, 57, 73, 78–82, 85, 88, 90, 96–101, 116, 130, 135, 137, 142, 144, 172, 186, 188n2, 193n15, 195n14, 197n32, 198nn36, 37; international , 4, 14, 16, 18, 20, 33, 57, 189n14; networks and organizations, 3–5, 13, 14, 18, 99, 100, 137, 142, 197n30 Texas Revolution, 37, 48–50, 54, 55 Third World, 32, 58, 60, 61, 166, 200n14 Tourists, 81, 86, 99 Transnational: communities, 34, 43, 44, 46, 86, 87, 89, 91, 104; diasporism, 88, 98, 157, 161; ideologies, 5, 13, 14, 17, 20, 24; networks, 5, 56, 58–60, 81, 83, 89–91, 98 Treason, 150, 155 Treaty of Lausanne (1923), 111, 196n18 Triangular relations, 8, 96, 107, 108, 111, 113–15, 119–21, 123 Trust, 100, 109, 155, 158, 159, 193n5, 194n18 Turkey 8, 25, 95, 106–8, 110, 111, 125, 126, 129–39, 173, 192n3, 194nn2, 19, 20, 195n12, 196nn18, 19, 21, 23, 25, 197nn26, 30, 33, 198nn34, 36, 201n22; armed incursions into northern Iraq, 8, 125, 126, 129, 136–39, 194n1; Turkish-­Armenian conflict/relations, 8, 106–24; Turkish-­ Armenian 2009 protocols, 107, 108, 114, 117, 118, 119, 121, 193nn4, 11. See also Turkish-­Armenian conflict Uganda, 72 ul-­Haq, Zia, 67 United Arab Emirates (UAE), 179 United Nations (UN), 1, 167, 169, 181;

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Partition Plan of Palestine (November 1947), 27; Security Council, 148, 180, 185; UNIFIL (UN Interim Force in Lebanon), 180, 185, 199n11 United States of America, 12, 27–30, 32, 41, 42, 49, 51, 56, 67, 68, 76, 77, 81, 91, 95, 96, 99, 102, 103, 110, 112, 119, 120, 133, 135, 137, 138, 167, 172, 178, 180, 181, 184–86, 188n2, 192n5; 9/11 attacks, 2, 13, 16, 20, 28, 57, 83, 135; Revolutionary War (1775– 83), 13, 15, 21, 22, 24, 30; Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), 29, 68, 77; filibusters, 18, 20, 21; forces in Iraq, 15, 20, 29, 136, 138; “War on Terror,” 16 Venezuela, 24 Veterans, 27, 47, 53, 54, 73, 79–81, 159 Vietnam, 67, 165 Violent transborder nonstate actor (VITNA), 13–22, 28–31, 127, 134, 137, 167, 171, 172, 174–86 Wahhabism, 64, 67, 68 Weak states, 4, 117, 194n18 World War II, 27, 53, 117 Wrongdoing, 106, 115, 116 Yemen, 13, 47, 74, 77, 80, 81, 83, 179, 200n12; South Yemen, 66, 67 Yugoslavia, 23, 28, 72 Zionists, 13, 27, 46, 53, 198n7 Zones of statelessness, 5, 13–15, 17–22, 24– 26, 28–30, 32, 180, 186

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Acknowledgments

The editors wish to thank the Leonard Davis Institute for International Relations at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem for its generous support to this project. In particular, we are grateful to the Institute’s director, Alfred Tovias, and to the members of its administrative staff, Anat Illouz and Hani Mazar. We are also indebted to our colleagues Ravi Bhavnani, Jennifer Brinkerhoff, Derick W. Brinkerhoff, Lars-​­Erik Cederman, Hyun Jin Choi, Petra Hendrickson, Richard Snyder, Cameron Thies, and Nils B. Weidmann, who commented on early drafts of several of the chapters included in this book. However, none of them are responsible for any remaining errors in the text. At the University of Pennsylvania Press, we are grateful to our editors, Bill Finan and Peter Agree, and to the series editor, Brendan O’Leary, for their continuous encouragement and support. We also thank the anonymous reviewers, who read the manuscript and provided us with helpful feedback, and to Colette Stoeber, Alison Anderson, and Roseann Staplins for editing it. Dan Miodownik wishes to particularly thank Lilach Nir his beloved wife, friend, and colleague for her love, advice, and endless encouragement. Oren Barak thanks his family—​­Orna, Paz, Guy, and Roy—​­for their love and patience. This book is dedicated to the memory of a dear colleague and friend, Joseph (Yossi) Kostiner, who encouraged us to launch this project and played an active part in it, but who passed away before it reached its final stages.

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