Romantic Narratives in International Politics: Pirates, Rebels and Mercenaries [Illustrated] 0719095298, 9780719095290

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Romantic narratives in international politics

Romantic narratives in international politics Pirates, rebels and mercenaries Alexander Spencer

Manchester University Press

Copyright © Alexander Spencer 2016 The right of Alexander Spencer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Published by Manchester University Press Altrincham Street, Manchester M1 7JA www.manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data applied for ISBN 978 0 7190 9529 0 hardback First published 2016 The publisher has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for any external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Typeset by Out of House Publishing

To Sophie

Contents

  List of figures   List of tables  Acknowledgements  Abbreviations Introduction: once upon a time …

viii ix x xi 1

1 Narrative analysis as an approach in IR

13

2 German narratives of the pirate in Somalia

45

3 British narratives of the rebel in Libya

91

4 US narratives of private military and security companies in Iraq

125

Conclusion: the end

178

 References  Index

189 216

Figures

1.1  1.2 2.1 2.2

Narrative components Elements of a narrative Pirate images Number of articles in major German newspapers including the term ‘terrorist’, ‘pirate’ or both 4.1 Major US newspaper articles on the killing of civilians by Blackwater employees, September 2007 4.2 Major US newspaper articles on the killing of Blackwater employees, March 2004

17 25 58 76 153 153

Tables

1.1 Features of a romantic narrative 2.1 What comes to mind when you hear the word ‘pirate’? 2.2 Romantic elements of the pirate image

43 59 60

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank a number of important people who helped in the completion of this story. Above all I would like to thank my wife Judith Renner, our daughter Sophie and our dog Anton for all their love, support and encouragement. Furthermore I would like to thank my parents Monika and Mike Spencer, as well as my close friend Stefan Beeck. This book is the result of my Habilitation at the Ludwig-Maximilians-University Munich and has greatly benefited from tremendous feedback from a number of critical as well as inspiring people in and around the political science department including:  Bernhard Zangl, Berthold Rittberger, Anna Geis, Mathias Albert, Rainer Hülsse, Andreas Kruck, Tine Hanrieder, Christian Kreuder-Sonnen, Benjamin Braun, Renate Strassner, Anna Stetter, Helena Schwarzenbeck, Moritz Weiss, Dovilé Rimkuté, Nina Guérin and Stefan Jagdhuber. Some material from Chapter 2 has been published as ‘Romantic Stories of the Pirate in IARRRH: The Failure of Linking Piracy and Terrorism Narratives in Germany’, International Studies Perspectives, 15(3) (2014), 297–312, and is reprinted with the permission of John Wiley and Sons. Parts of Chapter  4 have been published as ‘Contested Stories of Commercial Security:  Self- and Media Narratives of Private Military and Security Companies’, Critical Studies on Security, 1(3) (2013), 326–346, with Andreas Kruck, and is reprinted with the permission of Taylor & Francis. I would also like to thank Manchester University Press for their support, assistance and patience in seeing this project through to its completion. All mistakes, omission and opinions expressed in this book are my own.

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Abbreviations

CDU

Christian Democratic Union

CSU

Christian Social Union

FDP

Liberal Democratic Party

IR

International Relations

MEP

Mission Essential Personnel

OEF

Operation Enduring Freedom

PMSC

Private military and security company

SPD

Social Democratic Party

UNCLOS

United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea

Introduction: once upon a time …

Everyone tells stories. From a very early age we are introduced to stories and they accompany us from our childhood, through our teenage years to adulthood and, ultimately, to our death-bed. While the content of our stories may change from child- to adulthood, the story as a tool of expression and comprehension remains constant. This book is a story about the importance of stories for International Relations (IR). It holds that telling and listening to stories is a fundamental part of human existence and can be found in every culture in the world. Humans comprehend the social world around them in the form of stories, or rather narratives, from which they draw identities and which guide their actions (Sarbin 1986; White 1973, 1978, 1987). Narratives not only reflect the world but influence how it is understood and made. Narratives are an essential part of how we make sense of the environment around us. This holds true not only on the individual level but also on a collective and international political level. The primary concern of the story told in this book is to show how political science and IR might benefit from adopting a narrative perspective taken from literary studies by indicating how certain understandings of the world become and remain dominant while others fail to have a significant impact. It illustrates a concept of narrative already used in some areas in the study of history, in particular by Hayden White, and shows that narratives are not only fundamental for human communication and cognition but that they play a major role in the comprehension of the world and the constitution of identity both on the individual as well as the community level. It is through narratives that humans make and comprehend the world and thereby they offer a means of understanding behaviour and action. The present book proposes a method of narrative analysis for the investigation of political phenomena which give us insights into how particular understandings gain dominance and others are marginalized.

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Romantic narratives in international politics

In particular the research has two aims. Firstly, the book takes an interdisciplinary approach merging literary studies and history with political science and IR to show that narratives, as a sense-making, identity-constructing and behavioural guide, are essential not only on the individual and social level, but greatly influential on the international political level as well. The book introduces the study of narrative into IR by incorporating insights from literary studies and history and presenting what narrative analysis as a method has to offer for the analysis of international political phenomena and showing how particular understandings of the world become dominant while other are marginalized. So far the concept of a ‘narrative’ has been used extensively in IR. However, this has happened on a very superficial level, by using the term as synonym for discourse, rhetoric or simply for everything said, written, viewed or heard. There have been few attempts to go to the roots of narratives and see what the experts in the field of literary studies have to say and what these insights might bring into IR. The discipline of history and the insights provided by Hayden White (1973) are among the few exceptions where the social sciences and the humanities have made such an attempt. The book will build on these insights in history and outline a new method of narrative analysis useful for IR which concentrates on three fundamental elements of a narrative: 1.  Setting: the location or surrounding environment in which the narrative is set. 2.  Characterization: the description of the actors involved. 3.  Emplotment: the way setting, characters and events are (temporally and causally) connected to each other. Secondly, the book focuses on narratives about increasingly important private transnational actors including pirates in Somalia, rebel movements in Libya and private military companies (PMSCs) in Iraq and how a (attempted) narrative romanticization of transnational actors such as pirates, rebels and PMSCs found in the cultural, media and political discourses influences perceptions and ultimately political reactions to such actors in the UK, Germany and the US. In the case of pirates and rebels the book argues that romantic media images embedded in cultural narratives can also be found on the level of the political elite in parliamentary debates and speeches and that these widespread images influence our understanding of these actors and thereby frame what we believe pirates or rebels to be like. This romantic image of the poor former fisherman pirate or the freedom loving rebel prevents other highly negative narratives such as a link between terrorism and piracy in Somalia or human rights violations by rebels in Libya from gaining political and media dominance. In contrast, in the case of

Introduction

3

PMSCs the absence of such culturally embedded romantic narratives makes it difficult for such actors to successfully narrate themselves as romantic heroes to the public. The overall argument of the book is that narratives cannot be freely changed or manipulated by narrators, but that narratives have to conform or at least connect to or overlap with previously existing ones. While there is room for new narratives, and actors can tell new stories, their success in front of a public audience depends very much on narratives this audience has previously heard and is embedded within. The acceptance of narratives is contingent on the intertextuality of the narratives being told and those embedded amongst the audience. In order to be accepted, new narratives have to refer and link themselves to established narratives to some extent. There has to be some degree of intertextual narratability (Kristeva 1980; Bakhtin 1986; Hansen 2006). The following empirical chapters will apply the method of narrative analysis outlined in Chapter 1 and indicate this intertextuality in the German discourse on piracy, the British discourse on rebels and the US discourse on PMSCs through the extensive use of direct quotations from cultural, media, political and academic texts. As the reader will notice, rather than simply paraphrasing the content of the different articles, the suggested form of narrative analysis relies on the citation of numerous words (adjectives, verbs and nouns) and phrases in order to create a narrative collage structured by the three narrative elements of setting, characterization and emplotment. This, although at times hindering readability thanks to extensive endnotes, makes the presentation of the narrative elements transparent and verifiable. However, it is important to note that by creating a collage of a vast number of quotations, this book is itself a narrative. This narrative is inherently subjective. Yet through transparency and verifiability and by showing the extensiveness of the narrative elements, the book aims at making the subjective story intersubjective. In the following paragraphs this introduction will briefly embed such a narrative analysis in a wider field of discursive approaches in IR, then elaborate on the role of the media and cultural artefacts in the articulation of stories in international politics and finally outline the structure of what is to follow in the remaining chapters.

Discourse analysis and the narrative turn While discourse analysis was considered the realm of post-structuralists sitting at the fringes of IR in the 1990s, it has since then transgressed its marginal status

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and has become an accepted method which can be found in most textbooks on methodological approaches in international politics (Klotz and Prakash 2009; Wiener and Diez 2004). While discourse analysis has become mainstream, at least in Europe, it is important to stress that there is no one method of discourse analysis but a vast range of very different perspectives (Milliken 1999; Holzscheiter 2014; Herschinger and Renner 2014). This book will follow a tradition of discourse analysis which holds that discourse does not only reflect reality but actively takes part in its construction. Here the world, be it material, ideational or behavioural, gains meaning only through discourse. Rather than being simply a tool of communication with the purpose of seeking truth through the exchange of better arguments (Risse 2000; Deitelhoff 2009), discourse is understood as a ‘structure of meaning-in-use’ (Weldes and Saco 1996: 373) or a ‘differential system of signification’ (Milliken 1999:  231). It is therefore not so much interested in the truthfulness of discourse or if some articulations are better than others, but it concentrates on how discourse constitutes the world. As Nicholas Onuf (1998: 59) points out, ‘saying is doing: talking is undoubtedly the most important way that we go about making the world what it is’. Social reality is considered a discursive construction, and the central task of research is to find out how reality gets constructed in discourse. The book here argues that narratives play an essential part in the way discourse is structured. Narratives are a means of structuring discourse. Correspondingly, the following empirical chapters on pirates, rebels and mercenaries are interested in the structural power of discourse. Drawing on Michel Foucault, the book shares an understanding of discourse that is ‘above’ individual discourse-participants. In contrast to many approaches used in critical discourse analysis, where there is extensive agency over discourse and where discourse is actively used by agents in pursuit of their interests (Fairclough 1992, 2003; Jackson 2005), this book argues that there is little agency over discourse and that power lies not in the agents but in discourse itself. Discourse constitutes actors and structures what they can meaningfully say or do. Rather than being able to use words intentionally and manipulate discourse to further the speaker’s own purposes, the speaker and the audience are inextricably bound up with discourses that leave them little room for individuality. Discourse and its narrative structure limits what agents can meaningfully say and do rather than vice versa (Doty 1993; Campbell 1998a; Hansen 2006; Hülsse and Spencer 2008). Despite the continuing rise of different discourse analytical approaches the concept of narrative is still viewed with some suspicion in large parts of political

Introduction

5

science and IR as there is continued scepticism about how insights from literary studies are supposed to help answer important questions of (international) politics. As Margaret Somers points out, narrative analysis is not easily integrated into the social sciences as it ‘has long fulfilled the role of social science’s “epistemological other” – a mode of representation that was, apparently, discursive, rather than quantitative; non-explanatory, rather than conditionally propositional; and non-theoretical, rather than one of the theoretically-driven social sciences’ (Somers 1994: 606). At first, criticism of narratives was widespread. For example, in the case of sociology Read Bain (1935: 486) claimed that a discipline which did not focus on statistics and numbers would be ‘forever a bastard discipline’ as it would be made up only of ‘a hodgepodge of pretentious words, random observations, speculations, opinions, pious hopes and fears, attitudes, wishes, sophistical logic, and literary purple patches’. Yet, with the overall rise of post-structural ideas negating the existence of ultimate truth and knowledge, the analysis of narrative has reached a number of disciplines including history, psychology, anthropology, marketing, artificial intelligence and ludology (Kohler Riessman 1993; Ochs and Capps 2002; Zartman 2003; Bringsjord and Ferrucci 2000; Murray 1997). Together with the general post-structural trend, this turn has also reached political science and IR (Roe 1994; Browning 2008; Miskimmon et al. 2013). Some therefore talk of a ‘narrative turn’ (Ryan 2007: 22) or even a ‘narratological industry’ ( Jahn and Nünning 1994: 300) in most disciplines including the humanities and social sciences as there is now a growing awareness that narratives are not only a literary phenomenon but ‘a basic human strategy for coming to terms with time, process, and change’ (Herman 2009a: 2; Hyvärinen 2008a: 449). Narratives do not only offer alternatives to reality but actively take part in the constitution of reality. Narratives offer humans a way of comprehending our environment. Narratives are ‘natural to human consciousness’ (White 1987: 26) and are therefore essential as they not only form an important part of human communication, but are a vital pillar of creating societies (Shenhav 2005b: 315). This book holds that narratives are a subtype or part of a discourse (Brockmeier and Harré 2001: 42). While discourse includes a vast number of different representations and it is unclear where to draw a line delimiting discourse, narratives include a number of key elements which offer anchor points for the empirical analysis. As the following chapter will elaborate in more detail, narratives are a ‘mode of verbal representation’ (White 1987: 26) that include the elements of setting, characterization and emplotment. The

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Romantic narratives in international politics

analysis of narratives as ‘a procedure of discovery’ (Genette 1980:  265)  or method can give us insights not only into the technical makeup of existing narratives but into the dominance of values, beliefs and ideologies in politics and how people and communities view the self in relation to the other. ‘The narrative thus becomes an invaluable tool for political scientists concerned with how such issues as identity – group or individual – influence behavior’ (Patterson and Renwick 1998: 317). Furthermore, although social narratives are very rarely single authored, the analysis of narratives can nevertheless be considered as an investigation into social action and agency. Some such as Somers have suggested that social life is itself storied and that narrative is an ontological condition of social life. Their research is showing us that stories guide action; that people construct identities (however multiple and changing) by locating themselves or being located within a repertoire of emplotted stories … and that people are guided to act in certain ways, and not others, on the basis of the projections, expectations, and memories derived from a multiplicity but ultimately limited repertoire of available social, public, and cultural narratives. (Somers 1994: 613–614, emphasis in original)

It is important to stress that this book is not a story which seeks to outline the true nature of pirates, rebels or PMSCs. Narratives cannot establish universal truths. ‘Narratives create the very events they reflect upon. In this sense, narratives are reflections on – not of – the world as it is known’ (Denzin 2000: xiii). So some may reasonably ask why they should bother to continue reading this story. If there is no way of judging competing narratives, what is the point? The question such research is often confronted with is the question of ‘how can we judge between competing interpretations?’ (Campbell 1998a:  41)  or ‘how can a constructivist persuade his reader that his constructs are worth more than others?’ (Palan 2000: 594). The point is not so much proving the correctness of one narrative over another but to empirically show the discursive struggle and the persistence of widely accepted, culturally embedded dominant narratives over marginalized ones (Browning 2008: 158–159).

Political elite, media narratives and the role of culture This book is not only interested in culturally embedded narratives and their implications in general but has a fascination with the romantic. After all,

Introduction

7

‘[n]‌obody would walk into a book-store and ask for “a narrative,” because what matters to us are individual narrative genres’ (Ryan 2007: 32), such as tragedy, comedy or in this case romance. To show the intertextuality and persistence or relative absence of narratives and in particular romantic narratives, the empirical chapters of this book will focus on three realms of political narrative in Germany, Britain and the United States of America. This will include the narratives told by the political elite in parliamentary debates and speeches, media narratives found in print news media as well as cultural literary texts and films. While the analysis of the narratives of the elite and the media are common, as their importance for and interconnectedness with politics is widely accepted, the relevance of cultural artefacts such as poems, novels, movies and video games is in comparison less well established. However, with the rise of constructivism and acceptance of ideas, identities, norms and language as important elements of IR and in particular with the cultural turn in IR, the analysis of cultural texts, practices and symbols has become increasingly widespread. This interest in (pop) culture in IR has included diverse studies on traditional IR topics such as war, security, foreign policy and political economy as well as research on ideology, identity constructions and gender roles (Weber 2006b; Weldes 2003a; Dodds 2008; Hall 2011; Engelkamp and Offermann 2012; Spencer et al. 2011; Unger and Sunderland 2007). Despite the diverse range of empirical topics as well as diverse cultural sources ranging from poems, songs, literature, TV series, movies and video games (Bleiker and Hundt 2010; Franklin 2005; Holden 2003; Erikson 2008; Weber 2006a; Engert and Spencer 2009; Robinson 2012), most are in agreement that culture can be understood as a realm which gives meaning to experiences and behaviour and helps people make sense of the worlds in which they live (Tomlinson 1991). For the narrative analysis which is to follow in the next couple of chapters, ‘cultural texts and images are seen as storage places for meaning in a particular society’ (Neumann and Nexon 2006:  13). Therefore the analysis of cultural representations is important for IR, as it not only offers reflections of world politics but it actively takes part in its constitution. Culture is not separate from politics but culture is fundamentally political (Der Derian 2001; Shapiro 1999, 2008; Weber 2006b; Weldes 2003a). The ‘low data’ of culture provides the background of meaning in front of which narrative struggles and the constitution of politics unfolds (Weldes 2006) and culture is itself political as ‘it is here that we make sense of the world by producing coherent narratives, which in turn serve as the basis for any sense of community and political action’ (Bronfen 2006: 21–23). Culture is a site of political struggle ‘where

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Romantic narratives in international politics

power, ideology and identity are constituted, produced and/or materialised’ (Grayson et al. 2009: 155–156). While some hold that there is no fundamental difference between politics and culture or between the analysis of political speeches by President Obama and cultural treasures such as Pirates of the Caribbean, this book holds that it is important to look both at ‘high’ and ‘low data’ (Weldes 2006) or what Neumann and Nexon (2006:  7)  refer to as first- and second-order representations. The book aims to incorporate both the analysis of first-order representations such as speeches by the political elite and media news reporting which make explicit claims to real-world truths as well as second-order representations such as poems, novels and films which make no such claim of authenticity. By starting with second-order narratives the following empirical chapters want to illustrate that much of the first-order narratives gain prominence only through their references to the second order. The underlying questions of morality, legitimacy and identity are shaped not only by the narratives told by the political elite and by the media but are influenced by an underlying, embedded cultural story. This story makes certain understandings and behaviours appropriate while marginalizing others, in other words it reflects and creates a common sense (Weldes 1999; Debrix 2008). It is within this culture ‘that morality is shaped, identities are produced and transformed, and effective analogies and narratives are constructed and altered’ (Neumann and Nexon 2006: 6). The empirical chapters will not so much talk about cultural narratives causing certain policy or state behaviour but will argue that they provide common knowledge which is resorted to when considering political issues. They produce a joint moral grammar (Weber 2006b) and provide recognizable and plausible narrative elements on which political narratives have to be based to be able to gain dominance over other stories. These embedded cultural narratives are needed for acceptance of political narratives. For political or media narratives to gain dominance there has to be a certain level of intertextuality so that there is no fundamental break with the known. ‘Political speeches are full of allusions to narratives already known to the public. By relying on familiar narratives, politicians draw analogies that make their positions intuitively plausible to their audience’ (Neumann and Nexon 2006: 18). As Jutta Weldes argues with regard to the link between culture and (international) politics and the importance of intertextuality: Official representations thus depend on the cultural resources of a society. So too do the ways in which they are understood. The plausibility of official representations depends on the ways in which publics understand world politics and the locations and role of their own and other states and actors in it.… Plausibility

Introduction

9

comes, at least in part, from the structural congruence between official representations and people’s everyday experiences. This explicitly implicates popular culture in providing a background of meanings that help to constitute public images in world politics and foreign policy. (Weldes 2003b: 7)

Structure of the book In the following chapters the book will indicate this intertextuality by elaborating in particular on culturally embedded romantic stories. The book focuses on the three non-state actors of pirates, rebels and PMSCs in Germany, the UK and the US, as these are among the most important non-state actors which show elements of (attempted) romanticization in these countries. While the focus on Germany, the UK and the US is down to the cultural and linguistic embeddedness of the author in these countries, which greatly aids the process of analysing cultural, media and political narratives, the combination of the state and the non-state actor (Germany and pirates; UK and rebels; US and PMSCs) is due to the level of engagement with the actor and the relative size of the narratives found on the empirical level. The US employs by far the most PMSCs in Iraq; the UK was one of the most active players in the rebellion in Libya; and Germany, while not involved in Iraq or Libya, has taken on an active role against piracy in Somalia. Specifically, the story this book tells will unfold as follows: Chapter 1 outlines in detail a method of narrative analysis which is to be employed in the following three empirical chapters on pirates, rebels and PMSCs. It begins by reflecting on the concept of narrative in literary studies and narratology, the theory of narrative, and outlines some of the key elements which distinguish a narrative from other forms of representation. This includes the notion of a setting in which the story unfolds, the characterization of actors in the story and the idea of temporal and most importantly causal emplotment which elaborates on how events, settings and characters are connected to each other. The chapter then considers how these understandings have been incorporated into other disciplines such as psychology and history by outlining the overlap of cognitive narratology and narrative psychology as well as the insights gained in narrative history by Hayden White with regard to (hi-)story telling in the form of different genres, such as tragedy or romance. From this, the chapter moves on to the role of narratives in political science and IR and draws out, based on the insights of psychology and history, two key reasons for the importance of narratives in (international) politics: the cognitive importance of narratives for the human thought process

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and the cultural importance of narratives in community identity building. The chapter then embeds the narrative elements of setting, characterization and emplotment into key constructivist theoretical foundations including the social construction of reality (setting), the constitution of identity (characterization) and the co-constitution of agents and structure (emplotment). Following this, Chapter 1 reflects on the consequences of narratives and deeper question of causality as well as the reasons for narrative dominance and marginalization, including the importance of intertextual narratability in which narratives have to link to previously existing ones in order to be able to gain acceptance. The final part of the chapter turns to the genre of romance and, from the existing literature on romanticism, indicates some of the narrative elements of a typically romantic story, including an exotic and emotional setting, a brave, heroic yet human character and an adventure emplotted as a struggle for an ideal in an asymmetrical conflict against a more powerful and unjust order. Chapter  2 analyses German narratives of the pirate in Somalia. It sets off by tracing the historical romantic stories about pirates from the early eighteenth century and the golden age of piracy to current history writing on piracy, including references to the democratic and egalitarian setting of pirate society, the frightful yet courageous character of pirates and their emplotment in an a struggle against the exploitation of the poor and downtrodden by the rising capitalist system. The chapter goes on to show that these early romantic elements persist into Byron’s poem ‘The Corsair’, Robert Louis Stevenson’s novel Treasure Island and pop-cultural understandings of the pirate in representations such as the film Pirates of the Caribbean. The following section shows that this dominant Western popular image of the romantic pirate, visible also in public opinion, persists in the reporting of contemporary piracy in the German news media. Employing the method of narrative analysis the chapter retells a romantic story of the pirate in Somalia set in an exotic location and revolving around brave pirates who are forced into piracy not of their own free will but because of circumstances beyond their control such as illegal fishing or the dumping of toxic waste by more powerful Western companies and states. The next part turns to alternative stories told by some scholars and think tanks which try and tell a very different, highly negative, narrative which links piracy and terrorism by pointing to similarities between the two, the potential of cooperation, the use of pirate tactics by terrorists and political nature of piracy. The chapter finally illustrates the marginalization of this story despite the potential truthfulness and the persistence of the romantic story in both the German media and elite political discourse found in parliamentary debates on Somalia.

Introduction

11

Chapter 3 examines British narratives of the rebel in Libya during the conflict in 2011. It begins by outlining the interconnectedness of rebellion, revolution and romance not only historically but within political and literary writing. Referring to cultural narratives found in the work of poets such as Byron and Shelley it shows how much of romanticism is rebellious and revolutionary and how rebels and revolutions are frequently romantic. It stresses, however, that not all stories of rebellion and revolution have to be told romantically, but holds that they can be told that way. Continuing from these classic romantic narratives of rebellion the chapter further emphasizes the ambiguous nature of the rebel story by turning to the portrayal of the orientalist and romantic Arab in pop-cultural representations including the film Lawrence of Arabia and focusing on the narrative element of setting, characterization and emplotment. Part three of the chapter then engages with the media narrative of the rebel in the Libyan conflict found in British newspapers between February and October 2011. Employing the method of narrative analysis outlined in Chapter 1, it shows a predominantly romantic story of the rebel in Libya in which one encounters an emotional setting, unprofessional, brave and young rebels emplotted to be fighting for the ideal of freedom and democracy in an asymmetrical conflict against a brutal and unjust Gaddafi. These findings are mirrored in part four, which examines the narratives on rebellion in Libya of the political elite found in parliamentary debates and speeches by leading politicians. The final part of the chapter examines marginalized narratives which do not fit the story of the romantic rebel such as crimes, human rights violations and a linkage between rebels and al-Qaeda terrorists. One does encounter some media and political elite narratives which elaborate on these highly negative stories to some extent. However, the romantic stories remain the most prominent, as counter-stories, despite their potential plausibility, are marginalized by being silenced, relativized, ridiculed, explicitly refuted or portrayed as morally justified and understandable. Chapter 4 investigates US narratives about PMSCs in Iraq. In contrast to the previous chapters on pirates and rebels this chapter will indicate the cultural absence of romantic stories about PMSCs. The first part retraces the historical development of the anti-mercenary narrative from Machiavelli via Clausewitz, Rousseau and the American Declaration of Independence to representation of mercenaries in international law texts, such as the Geneva Convention. The persistence of this anti-mercenary narrative is then shown in literary texts on mercenaries by examining Sir Walter Scott’s novel A Legend of Montrose and Frederick Forsyth’s novel The Dogs of War. The second part of the chapter turns to the US media narratives on PMSCs and shows the

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persistence of these negative elements found in the previous anti-mercenary narratives in which the PMSC is constituted as a reckless mercenary working in an unregulated and chaotic setting in which his monetary motivation is considered morally illegitimate. The third part of the chapter engages with romantic stories PMSCs tell about themselves. By examining the narratives found on the websites of PMSCs, the chapter illustrates how these actors try to tell a romantic story by constituting themselves as brave patriots and noble humanitarians. The final part of the chapter then illustrates the narrative struggle and the marginalized status of these romantic stories and the persistence of the highly negative anti-mercenary narratives by examining the story told in US print news media, among the political elite in both the Senate and in the House of Representatives, in international institutions as well as in pop-cultural representations in films and video games. The conclusion of the book summarizes the main findings and reflects on some of the marginalized stories not mentioned throughout the book, including the role of the narrator for the process of dominance and marginalization of narratives. Furthermore, it contemplates some potential avenues for future research on other narratives genres in international politics beyond romance.

1

Narrative analysis as an approach in IR

Humans are storytelling animals. The human can not only be described as Homo sapiens, Homo oeconomicus or Homo sociologicus, but also as Homo narrans (Mumby 1993; Ewick and Silbey 1995; Hutto 2007). It is this ability to tell and comprehend stories which sets us apart from other living things on this planet. It is something uniquely human and as research into artificial intelligence has shown, it is something even the most sophisticated computers have tremendous difficulty with (Herman 2002: 1). As Hayden White famously pointed out: ‘so natural is the impulse to narrate, so inevitable is the form of narrative for any report of the ways things really happen, that narrativity could appear problematic only in a culture in which it was absent’ (White 1987: 1). Yet despite the continuing rise of discourse analytical approaches the concept of narrative is still viewed with some suspicion in large parts of political science and IR, as there is continued scepticism about how insights from literary studies and narratology are supposed to help answer important questions of (international) politics (Mildorf 2006: 43). Narrative analysis is still widely considered not to be serious scientific research. As Theodore Sarbin points out: Because storytelling is commonly associated with fiction, fantasy and pretending, some critics are sceptical about the use of the narrative as a model for thought and action. For the serious scientist, storytelling is related to immaturity and playfulness. To regard storytelling as the exclusive property of childhood is consistent with a world view that places a high value on positivism, technology, and realism and a low value on imagining and ludic behavior. (Sarbin 1986: 12)

This chapter seeks to show that political science and IR might benefit from adopting a narrative perspective from literary studies and narratology by showing how certain understandings of the world become and remain dominant while others fail to have a significant impact. It will illustrate a narratological concept of narrative and show that narratives are not only fundamental for human

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communication and cognition but that they play a major role in the comprehension of the world and the constitution of identity both on the individual as well as the collective political level. It is through narratives that humans make sense of the world and thereby offer a means of understanding behaviour and action. In pursuit of this the chapter is structured as follows: the first part illustrates the concept of narrative and outlines how narratives have permeated from literary studies and narratology to psychology and history. The second part will show how narratives fit into a constructivist understanding of IR by incorporating the three narrative elements of setting, characterization and emplotment into a constructivist theoretical framework, which stresses the social construction of reality, identity and the co-constitution of agent and structure. The third part reflects on questions of ‘causality’ and on reasons for the success and failure of particular narratives, while part four outlines what one may consider particular elements of romantic narratives. The conclusion summarizes the main findings and illustrates how this will be applied to the empirical narratives in the following chapters.

The concept of narrative and a story of its travel In this section the chapter outlines the concept of narrative within literary studies and narratology, the theory of narrative coined by Tzvetan Todorov (1969), and considers how these conceptions have been incorporated into other disciplines such as psychology and history. It thereby shows that the travel and the incorporation into other areas of the human and social sciences has made narratives and their analysis something political science and IR can gain insights from with regard to the dominance and marginalization of particular understandings of political actors such as pirates, rebels and private military and security companies which are to be analysed in the chapters to follow.

Literary studies and narratology Literary studies and narratology commonly stress that narratives can be found in almost every realm of human life where someone tells us about something. As Arthur Berger (1997: 1) highlights, ‘[w]‌e seldom think about it, but we spend our lives immersed in narratives. Every day, we swim in a sea of stories and tales that we hear or read or listen to or see (or some combination of all of these), from our earliest days to our death.’ Narratives involve a number of different text types (written, oral and visual), ranging from literary texts such as novels and

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poems, commonly considered the home turf of narrative analysis, to films, TV reports, newspaper commentary, school and university textbooks and conversations in our daily life (Fludernik 2009: 1). ‘Our lives are ceaselessly intertwined with narrative, with the stories that we tell, all of which are reworked in that story of our own lives that we narrate to ourselves’ (Brooks 1984: 3). In fact, one may argue that we are currently in the middle of a narrative, in our case a narrative about the importance of narrative. As Roland Barthes has pointed out: Among the vehicles of narrative are articulated language, whether oral or written, pictures, still or moving, gestures, and an ordered mixture of all those substances; narrative is present in myth, legend, fable, tale, short stories, epics, history, tragedy, drame [suspense drama], comedy, pantomime, painting … stained-glass windows, movies, local news, conversations. Moreover, in this infinite variety of forms, it is present at all times, in all places, in all societies; indeed narrative starts with the very history of mankind; there is not, there has never been anywhere, any people without narrative; all classes, all human groups, have their stories.… Like life itself, it is there, international, transhistorical, transcultural. (Barthes 1975: 237)

However, it is important to point out that not all text, language or communication activity is a narrative:  ‘narrative is everywhere, but not everything is narrative’ (Kohler Riessman 2008: 4). As Catherine Kohler Riessman (2008: 5) points out: ‘Developing a sequenced storyline, specific characters, and the particulars of a setting are not needed in many verbal and written exchanges, nor are they present in many visual images. Storytelling is only one form of oral communication; other discourse forms include chronicles, reports, arguments, and questions and answer exchanges.’ Narratives all rely on a very similar structure or possess similar structural elements (Van Peer and Chatman 2001: 2). While some simply understand a narrative as ‘someone telling someone else that something happened’ (Herrenstein Smith 1981: 228), others stress the purpose of this telling: ‘Somebody telling somebody else on some occasion and for some purpose(s) that something happened’ (Phelan 2005: 18). In both these understandings the central characteristic of a narrative is the (re-)production of an event, but these events do not occur in a vacuum but with a particular environment or setting: ‘Narratives are about people acting in a setting’ (Bruner 1991: 7). At the same time there has to be some sort of order to and connection between the events within the setting. As Gérard Genette (1982: 127) points out: ‘One will define narrative without difficulty as the representation of an event or of a sequence of events.’ As this

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indicates, it is not only the event which is important but the time or sequence in which it occurs (Prince 1982: 1; Van Peer and Chatman 2001: 2). Michael Toolan (2001: 6) here adds the notion that time does not necessarily have to be linear but that the (time) sequence of the events has to have some sort of causality to it, as narratives are ‘a perceived sequence of non-randomly connected events’. However, there is more to a narrative than the retelling of (non-random) events, as, for example, a list of chronological occurrences is not (yet) a narrative (Rimmon-Kenan 2006). The notions of causality and time are commonly linked to the notion of plot, as stories can be plotted in different ways, thereby displaying different understandings of sequence and causality (Abbot 2002: 40). As Paul Ricoeur (1981: 167, emphasis in original) illustrates: ‘A story is made out of events to the extent that plot makes events into a story.’ However, a plot does not have to follow the chronological order of the story as it can be reversed, jump back and forth or expand or repeat certain times of the story and collapse others. Plot is a teleological sequence of events connected by some concept of causation (Richardson 2005: 167). Narrating a subject’s story means to organize time and space around him in the shape of a plot. The plot structures the narrative. In contrast to a mere chronological order of events, a plot does not simply add single events upon another. Instead events are brought into a causal structure and organised around a central subject, which is the social centre of the story…. Through the plot and the social centre, the story gets coherence. Each event functions as a cause or an effect and thus carries an essential meaning for the course of the story. (Horelt and Renner 2008: 12)

A narrative centrally involves some sort of disruption or speciality, something which makes it worth telling. The events or the sequences and causes of these events are considered noteworthy as they carry some sort of meaning (Van Peer and Chatman 2001: 2). ‘We do not narrate all the details of any circumstances; what we choose to narrate is generally noteworthy because it stands out by posing a problem or exception. The point of the narrative is to resolve the imbalance or uncertainty of the problem and to restore equilibrium’ (Patterson and Renwick 1998: 320–321). Narratives provide ‘violations of the expected’, they violate what is considered normal and therefore narratives are always normative to a certain extent (Olson 2012: 606; Bruner 1991: 15). Apart from an event and the requirement that this event has to be of some interest, narratives involve some sort of actor, a human or human-like agent.

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‘Narrative roots itself in the lived, felt experience of human or human-like agents interacting in an ongoing way with their cohorts and surrounding environment’ (Herman 2009a: 21). Or as Monika Fludernik (2009: 6) puts it: ‘A narrative … is a representation of a possible world in a linguistic and/or visual medium, at whose centre there are one or several protagonists of an anthropomorphic nature who are existentially anchored in a temporal and spatial sense and who (mostly) perform goal-directed actions (action and plot structure).’ Apart from defining or at least characterizing a narrative, narratology generally makes a distinction between narrative, story and narrative discourse. Based on the early Russian formalists of the 1920s, the distinction of story and discourse is often referred to as fabula and sjuzhet and sometimes as histoire and discours (Abbot 2007: 41). The difference between story and discourse is that the story is understood as a basic outline of the fundamental events of what happened in a chronological order together with a very brief description of the characters involved (Genette 1980). ‘A fabula [story] is a series of logically and chronologically related events that are caused or experienced by actors’ (Bal 2009: 5). The story which outlines the event and characters with only very limited attention to elaborative issues such as settings, evaluations of character or moral judgments can be considered the skeleton of narratives. In other words the story represents the ‘what’ (see Figure  1.1). In contrast the narrative discourse (sjuzhet or discours) includes all elements which the author of a text uses to present the basic story, in other word the ‘how’ (Gennette 1980; Hyvärinen 2008b; Kreiswirth 2000).1 As H. Porter Abbott (2002: 16, emphasis in original) points out:  ‘Narrative is the representation of events, consisting of story and narrative discourse, story is an event or sequence of events (the action), and narrative discourse is those events as represented.’ The idea is that the same stories can be told in very different ways by different narrators.

Story (‘what’)

Narrative Narrative Discourse (‘how’)

Figure 1.1  Narrative components

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From literature studies and narratology the concept of narrative has spread to a number of other disciplines, including cultural studies, law, anthropology, sociology, psychology and history, and has become an interdisciplinary research subject (Phelan and Rabinowitz 2005: 2; Shenhav 2005a: 76).2 As Matti Hyvärinen claims, ‘Narrative is no doubt one of the great academic travellers of the last forty years’ (Hyvärinen 2006: 1). While some refer to this rise in the interest in narratives as a ‘narrative revolution’ (Lieblich et al. 1998: 1), others see it as the result of a demise of positivism within the human and social sciences as part of the interpretative, discursive or post-structuralist turn (Kohler Riessman 1993: 1). The point of departure of the new narrative interest in the human [and social] sciences seems to be the ‘discovery’ in the 1980s that the story form, both oral and written, constitutes a fundamental linguistic, psychological, cultural, and philosophical framework for our attempts to come to terms with the nature and conditions of our existence. (Brockmeier and Harré 2001: 40)

So while narratives were rejected as ‘ambiguous, particularistic, idiosyncratic, and imprecise way of representing the world’ (Ewick and Silbey 1995: 198) in the 1930s and 1940s, the social sciences have started to accept narratives as means of ‘opening up new horizons for interpretative investigations which focus on social, discursive and cultural forms of life, as opposed to a futile search for universal laws of human’ (Brockmeier and Harré 2001: 39, emphasis in original). In this narrative turn, the two disciplines of psychology and history are of particular importance as they indicate why and how narratives become interesting for political science and international relations. The following two sections will briefly illustrate the role narratives have taken in the two disciplines in order to then integrate these understandings into a constructivist perspective on narratives.

Narrative psychology and cognitive narratology Within narratology, the sub-discipline of cognitive narratology has developed ‘as the study of mind related aspects of storytelling practices’ (Herman 2009b: 85), where narratives can be understood as ‘cognitive schemes’ (Rimmon-Kenan 2006: 14). The assumption here is that humans have a natural tendency to think in narratives and that there is a nexus between narrative and mind in any kind of storytelling media. They assume that narrative comprehension is one of the first abilities of the mind to appear in a child and is a form of organizing complex experiences which is exclusive to humans (Bruner 1991: 9; Stedman 2008: 7). While some argue that narratives are a way of thinking (Bruner 1986), others

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stress that narratives are ‘indispensable to human cognition generally’ (Turner 1996:  5). Here humans not only organize their experiences and memories in narrative form (Bruner 1991: 4; Erl 2009: 213), but narratives are said to ‘provide evidence for the nature of the mind’ (Chafe 1990: 79). Wallace Chafe sees ‘narratives as overt manifestations of the mind in action: as windows to both the content of the mind and its ongoing operations’ (Chafe 1990: 79). The central idea is that narratives are an essentially human activity which reduces complexity and is needed to make sense of the world in which one lives and is thereby a fundamental instrument of thought (Heinen 2009: 196). Narratives are said to guide but also constrain behaviour as pre-existing narratives embedded in culture offer means of interpreting phenomena and thereby explicitly or implicitly give advice on how one should react (Chafe 1990: 81). As William Sewell points out: ‘All people develop a sense of themselves as subjects in part by thinking of themselves as protagonists in stories – of love and marriage, of success, of stoic self-sacrifice, of family obligation, of collective struggle, of religious renewal’ (Sewell 1992: 483).3 Psychology has taken up some of these points and argues that humans think about and perceive the world around them in a narrative form and give meaning to their actions and choices through narrative structures. As Sarbin holds: ‘Present two or three pictures, or descriptive phrases, to a person and he or she will connect them to form a story, an account that relates the pictures or the meanings of the phrases in some patterned way’ (Sarbin 1986: 8). Sarbin points to a number of psychological experiments that have shown that humans make up stories about random experiences and thereby create causality. For example, after viewing randomly moving coloured geometrical figures such as rectangles or circles, participants assigned meaning to the movements by spinning a story with plots about the relationship between the various shapes, for example by saying that one shape was scared of the other or that the shapes represented a three-way relationship between a woman and two rival men (Heider and Simmel 1944; Michotte 1963). ‘These studies point up the phenomenon of emplotment, and that human beings are ready to make use of plots to give meaning to meaningless movement’ (Sarbin 1986: 14). While scholars within narratology have become interested in the cognitive side of narrative use, psychologists have become interested in how humans narrate their lives and give them meaning through narratives. Both ultimately focus on the link between narrative and human cognition, as narratives are considered to be reflective of as well as constitutive for the cognitive processes within the human brain and thereby structure human experience. Narratives are therefore

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crucial not only for human behaviour at the individual level, but also insightful when applied to the societal and international level of human behaviour more commonly analysed in political science and IR, especially in its role in influencing ideology and political identity through a common understanding of history (Shenhav 2006).

Historical narratives Unsurprisingly story has become part of history and narratives have also found their way into the realm of historiography. One of the most influential scholars to bring the narrative turn to the subject of history is Hayden White (Vann 1998; Korhonen 2006; Ankersmit et al. 2009; Doran 2013). White has stressed since the late 1970s that the writing of history, as a basis for cultural identity construction, generally takes on a narrative form. For White historical narratives are ‘verbal fictions, the contents of which are as much invented as found and the forms of which have more in common with their counterparts in literature than they have with those in the sciences’ (White 1978: 81). This narrative form of representing the historical past is the result of a human desire to give coherence, sequence and causality and thereby meaning to events which might as well be random and unconnected (White 1987: 24). In connection to the psychological literature mentioned above, White considers narratives to be a natural and inevitable part of human behaviour: ‘narrative is a meta-code, a human universal on the basis of which transcultural messages about the nature of a shared reality can be transmitted’ (White 1987: 1). White goes beyond the individual level and argues that narratives are not only fundamental to the individual human thought process but to humanity in general: ‘To raise the question of the nature of narrative is to invite reflections on the very nature of culture and, possibly, even on the nature of humanity itself ’ (White 1987:1). White’s central argument is that there is no means of objectively presenting history as it really happened but that historians always produce ‘only’ an interpretation of history. On the one hand, this means excluding certain aspects from the telling, as the historian decides which elements are important and deserve to be told while others are sidelined or not mentioned at all. On the other hand, the historian has to interpret the events and offer explanations for why things happened as they are narrated with only very limited material to judge, ‘filling in the gaps in his information on inferential or speculative grounds’ (White 1978: 51). As he points out: ‘A historical narrative is thus necessarily a mixture

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of adequately and inadequately explained events, a congeries of established and inferred facts, at once a representation that is an interpretation and an interpretation that passes for an explanation of the whole process mirrored in narrative’ (White 1978: 51). He argues that events are made into a story by highlighting and suppressing certain narrative elements and techniques such as ‘characterization, motif repetition, variation of tone and point of view, alternative descriptive strategies, and the like – in short, all of the techniques that we would normally expect to find in the emplotment of a novel or play’ (White 1978: 84). White (1978: 84–85) argues that most historical events and their sequence can be emplotted in different ways and thereby offer different interpretations of these events and give them different meanings. He considers emplotment as essential for understanding a historical event in a particular way and making sense of the past both on an individual and societal level (Ehrenhaus 1993: 80). In his book Metahistory White shows how historical events such as the French Revolution can be told in very different ways with little indication of a true or a false version of history (White 1973). Within the discipline of history this suggestion was met with much scepticism and hostility as narratives were considered non-scientific and had the potential of undermining the reputation of history as a rigorous science in pursuit of unmasking the truth about what really happened (Korhonen 2006: 15; White 1978: 82; White 1987: 168). ‘“Narrative history” represented everything that social science history was not: it was soft rather than hard, impressionistic rather than rigorous, and literary rather than scientific’ (Sewell 1992:  480). For many critics historical narratives are the opposite of objective science and simply another term for opinion. Many considered the turn to narratives as a turn towards historical relativism in which all historical narratives are equally valid (Vann 1998). In response White argued that although relativism seems tempting, there is a pattern of four different returning plot structures. Following in the footsteps of Northrop Frye, White argues that there are different ways of emplotting historical events and thereby making them into a particular kind of story. These different modes of emplotment include tragedy, comedy, satire and romance. ‘How a given historical situation is to be configured depends on the historian’s subtlety in matching up a specific plot structure with the set of historical events that he wishes to endow with a meaning of a particular kind. This is essentially a literary, that is to say fiction-making, operation’ (White 1978: 85). The limited number of modes of emplotment are said to be recognizable and appealing to the reader as a plausible representation of events as they

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are embedded on a given culture and are a widespread way of understanding the world. The original strangeness, mystery, or exoticism of the events is dispelled, and they take on a familiar aspect, not in their details, but in their functions as elements of a familiar kind of configuration. They are rendered comprehensible by being subsumed under the categories of the plot structure in which they are encoded as a story of a particular kind. (White 1978: 86)

While historians are free to emplot historical events such as the French Revolution as tragedy, comedy, satire or romance, the acceptance of this interpretation depends very much on the ability to match elements of a historical event with the ‘pre-generic plot-structures’ and the convention of what is considered part of such a kind of emplotment (White 1978: 58). For example, as White (1978: 84–85) points out, it would be difficult to sell the life of President Kennedy as a comedy as the historical event of his assassination would not fit to the culturally embedded understanding of comedy. ‘In other words, the historian must draw upon a fund of culturally provided mythoi in order to constitute the facts as figuring a story of a particular kind, just as he must appeal to that same fund of mythoi in the minds of his readers to endow his account of the past with the odor or meaning or significance’ (White 1978: 60). As the empirical chapters on pirates, rebels and PMSCs will show, romantic narratives of these actors have to link themselves to previously existing, culturally embedded narratives in the same way in order to gain acceptance.

Narrative analysis and constructivism in IR On its travels the concept of narrative has also reached political science and IR, albeit with some delay. The concept of narrative has been used in connection to a vast range of different political phenomena and ranges from the issue of power (Clegg 1993; Cornog 2004) to investigating public policy issues such as global warming (Roe 1994), explaining individual state behaviour in particular situations (Bacon 2012), the use of political narratives in (international) organizations (Mumby 1987) or its role in humanitarian intervention (Orford 2003), to name only a very few. As outlined in the introduction to this book, many have used the concept of ‘narrative’ as a synonym for concepts such as argument, discourse or frame (Büthe 2002; Ruback 2010; Shenhav 2005a). Very little attention has been paid to the insights one may gain from the travels of narrative from its origins within narratology through other disciplines such as psychology or history.

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Narratives clearly have a political effect. ‘Narratives do political work’ (Kohler Riessman 2008: 8) as they play an important role in the constitution of norms, identities and ideologies and are fundamental to the construction of not only the individual and past historical world but also the current political world (Ewick and Silbey 1995; Shenhav 2004, 2005b). Apart from the key insights that not only individual or historical experiences but also politics is commonly structured in a narrative form, the two fields of psychology and history offer two overlapping reasons for why and how narratives are important for political science and IR: a cognitive perspective based on the insights from narrative psychology and a cultural perspective inspired by research into historical narratives. The cognitive perspective emphasizes that narratives are a fundamental part of human cognition. Narratives here are considered to be part of human mental activity or cognition and give meaning to experiences (Sommer 2009: 88; Brockmeier and Carbaugh 2001). ‘As research is showing increasingly clearly, the human brain is constructed in such a way that it captures many complex relationships in the form of narrative structures’ (Fludernik 2009: 1). Similar to metaphors or analogies, already adopted into the realm of politics and IR (Lakoff and Johnson 1980; Beer and de Landtsheer 2004; Zashin and Chapman 1974; Oppermann and Spencer 2013), narratives illustrate a cognitive process of making sense of the world through narration, as humans generally consider their life as a more or less coherent story. As Mark Turner (1996: 4–5) in The Literary Mind points out:  ‘Narrative imagining  – story  – is the fundamental instrument of thought.… It is a literary capacity indispensable to human cognition generally.’ From the second perspective, narratives are a culturally embedded phenomenon which is part of every society. Myths and stories of the past and thereby information about our forebears are an essential, not necessarily intentional, part of all forms of community, nation or state building where the constitution of a common identity is sought. ‘Thus, it is only through constructing a narrative from the past through to the present that it becomes possible for us to understand the situation we face today and to tell ourselves what kind of person we were, are and will be’ (Browning 2008: 47). Groups, be they local or regional communities, nation states or (international) organizations, narrate and renarrate events of the past in order to establish shared values and norms and constitute a shared cultural identity (Erll 2009: 212). ‘Hence there is no way to give us an understanding of any society, including our own, except through the stock of stories which constitute its initial dramatic resources’ (MacIntyre 1981: 201). Cultural memory is above all made up of different narratives which provide ‘us

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with a fundamental epistemological structure that helps us to make sense of the confusing diversity and multiplicity of events and to produce explanatory patterns for them’ (Fludernik 2009: 2). Taking these two perspectives together, one can argue that individuals as well as communities make sense of themselves and of the social world around them through narratives which constitute their identities. As Brockmeier and Carbaugh point out narratives can be understood as a ‘central hinge between culture and mind’ (Brockmeier and Carbaugh 2001: 10). The most impressive thing about the near-universal adoption of ‘narrative’ as a central principle of understanding in so many areas of human concern is that it is regarded as equally powerful at every scale, from the most inward and individual conceptions of selfhood and identity outwards, layer by layer, through small relational areas, social institutions, group identity an ethnic histories, [to] national histories. (Partner 2009: 100)

The analysis of narratives is of relevance particularly for political science and IR as it is relevant to our understanding of political reality and therefore essential for explaining or understanding political behaviour on all levels of political life in a community, such as the family, the state or the international organization. By placing oneself or a community (not necessarily consciously) in a particular narrative and thereby constituting identity, narratives guide action (Somers 1994: 606–607). Since these narratives help us understand ourselves as political beings, narrative becomes an invaluable tool in navigating the myriad of sensations that bombard us daily. Insofar as narrative affects our perceptions of political reality, which in turn affect our actions in response to or in anticipation of political events, narrative plays a critical role in the construction of political behavior. In this sense, we create and use narratives to interpret and understand the political realities around us. We do this as individuals and we do it as collective units, as nations or groups. (Patterson and Renwick 1998: 315–316)

These thoughts are not fundamentally new for political science or IR and are very much in line with the cultural, discursive or post-positivist turn and a constructivist understanding of politics in which reality is constituted through discourse (Brockmeier and Carbaugh 2001: 9; Heinen 2009: 199). In contrast to a positivist understanding of social science in which there is an effort to establish a universal truth similar to the natural sciences, discourse-orientated constructivists highlight the subjectivity of knowledge and deny the existence of an absolute

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truth (Lieblich et al. 1998: 2; Hinchman and Hinchman 1997). Unsurprisingly one comes across the concept of narrative most commonly in constructivist and post-structuralist work on, for example, identity constructions of self and other and the drawing of borders (Ringmar 1996; Campbell 1998a; Reeves 2004; Hansen 2006; Browning 2008; Hønneland 2010), the influence of cultural narratives (Nexon and Neumann 2006; Lacassagne et  al. 2011) or the use of Hayden White’s insights into historical narratives and explanations (Suganami 2008; Roberts 2006). Yet despite the widespread use of the concept very little attention has been paid to the roots or rather home turf of narratives, namely the field of narratology. Overall in IR the concept of narrative has frequently been used as a synonym for discourse or frame and has not focused on the specific characteristics of what constitutes a narrative. Narratology offers concrete categories for the empirical analysis of narratives through the established consensus of what elements are necessary for making something a narrative. The following sections will illustrate how narratives fit to constructivist IR theory by linking the narrative elements of setting with the theoretical idea of a socially constructed reality, characterization with the construction of identity and emplotment with the belief in the co-constitution of agent and structure. Furthermore, they will illustrate how these narrative elements are embedded in analytical steps which are to be applied in the following chapters.

Setting

Narrave Characterization

Figure 1.2  Elements of a narrative

Emplotment

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The construction of social reality and the notion of setting While there is not one coherent constructivist theory of IR, one may identify some fairly common, yet not universal, elements which can be found in many constructivist approaches. As already indicated above, one of these central assumptions of constructivism in IR is the notion of a socially constructed reality which is very much in line with what narratology refers to as ‘world-making activity’ (Nünning 2001: 210; Bruner 1987: 11), of which the idea of setting is a central element. Constructivist approaches argue that the social world of (international) politics is not a physical or material object which exists on its own but is a social construction made up of understandings and meanings as well as a set of norms which have developed within a particular historical context. It is these understandings which matter and not so much the material objects within the social world. As Alexander Wendt (1992: 136–137) points out, ‘a fundamental principle of constructivist social theory is that people act towards objects, including other actors, on the basis of the meaning that the objects have for them’. In a socially constructed world all social phenomena and relations depend on a web of meaning and practices which constitute them (Kratochwil 1989). Narrative can here be understood as reflective and constitutive of this web of meaning and practices, narrative ‘is constitutive of that which it represents’ (Ewick and Silbey 1995: 199). The social world is considered not something given by nature, as it does not exist outside of human thought and independently of people’s ideas and in particular their narratives. ‘As a symbolic structure, the historical narrative does not reproduce the event it describes; it tells us in what direction to think about the events and charges our thought about the events with different emotional valences’ (White 1978: 91, emphasis in original). ‘[N]‌arratives are the means through which social and cultural life comes into being’ (Brockmeier and Carbaugh 2001: 8), as narratives do not simply reflect an external reality but actively take part in the construction of that reality (Heinen 2009: 199; Viehöver 2011: 197). However, as Friedrich Kratochwil (2000: 91) notes, ‘hardly anyone … doubts that the “world” exists “independently” from our minds. The question is rather whether we can recognize it in a pure and direct fashion … or whether what we recognize is always already organized and formed by certain categorical and theoretical elements.’ Constructivism would not question the possibility of thought-independent existence of things but it would question their language-independent observation of these things. In this view, ‘“things” do not have meaning in and of themselves, they only become meaningful in discourse’ (Wæver 2004: 198). And put in narrative terms, ‘we do not have access to reality,

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including the reality of our own lives, if that reality is not intrinsically narrative’ (Brockmeier and Carbaugh 2001: 14–15). It is through discourse that humans constitute the world around them and it is narratives that offer a way of making sense of the world as they are so natural as a way of translating knowing into telling (Kohler Riessman 1993: 3). Narratives are a specific mode of representing and constituting the world as they encapsulate ‘what is coherent and plausible within a given culture’ (Brockmeier and Harré 2001: 51). Through narratives humans constitute subjective understandings of the world they consider to be actual (Nünning 2001: 209). ‘What counts as a socially meaningful object or event is always the result of an interpretive construction of the world out there’ (Guzzini 2000: 159). Within narratives this constitution of reality is often aided in the creation of a specific setting. The idea is that, as in a stage play or a film, the background or location in front of which the story unfolds is of importance for the narrative as a whole. As Michael Toolan (2001: 41) argues: ‘The locations [or settings] where events occur are … given distinct characteristics and are thus transformed into specific places.’ We all want to know where a story plays and we consciously or unconsciously look for indicators of the surroundings as they give us a clue to the kind of story we are about to indulge in. ‘We like in our reading of narrative, to know where we are, and look for clear spatiotemporal indications of just where and when a thing happened’ (Toolan 2001: 91). While the setting of a film is generally apparent, as the viewer can see for him or herself what is going on behind the actors and actions, this is not so much the case in written texts. Here the setting has to be illustrated or at least indicated explicitly, as it is the only means for the reader to construct a background. Having said that, however, it is also important to note that readers compose their own background which they consider appropriate to the characters and the action taking place. For example, when reading a text about cowboys most people would make up a Wild West setting with desert towns, horses, guns, whisky, saloons, bar fights, a certain degree of lawlessness and the obligatory tumbleweed. Similarly, reading about pirates makes people come up with the idea of the sea, ships, beaches and treasure islands. Though these settings are individually and subjectively constituted, they draw on culturally embedded story genres which are commonly shared throughout society and are thereby intersubjective. A setting is, however, never complete, as it cannot show or describe the whole ‘story world’ or universe in which the story is taking place. It always has to leave spaces which can be filled by the reader’s or viewer’s imagination.

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In addition, the setting is not only a passive background picture which provides the colourful backdrop for the actions and the characters. The setting itself can become part of the action and provide a reason or indication of why the story develops the way it does. It offers an insight into why characters are the way they are and why they pursue their actions in a particular fashion. In some cases the setting mirrors the character of the main protagonists. Settings can thereby give very helpful insights into the reasons or justifications for actions as they set the limits of appropriate behaviour in a given context. In summary, the narrative element of setting provides the essential discursive anchorage needed for the construction of social reality. It gives the reader, listener or viewer clues to the context of the story and thereby automatically involves guidelines for what the audience is supposed to consider as appropriate behaviour in that situation.

The constitution of identity and characterization Apart from the construction of social reality, the understanding of self and other as an integral part of identity is central to constructivist approaches in both IR and narratives. Again, very similarly, constructivism would hold that identities of actors are constituted by the institutionalized ideas and norms of the social environment in which they exist and act, while narratology would add that these institutionalized ideas and norms or the social environment are embedded and only become visible in narratives. As David Campbell points out: ‘the narrativizing of reality is integral to the performative constitution of identity’ (Campbell 1998a: 34). Similar to social reality mentioned above, identities of actors and their inherent interests are not given. As we have seen in the section on narratives in psychology and history, identities, be they individual or collective, are constituted through narratives as they offer a means of articulating common features among actors and hold the potential of creating a feeling of likeness which goes beyond the individual to include and create a community (Hutto 2007). ‘This is to say that in a disparate and confusing world beyond our individual or collective control it is only through narrative stories of ourselves and others that it becomes possible for us to establish a sense of belonging, order and security vis-à-vis our social environment’ (Browning 2008:  46). Within discourse-orientated constructivism, identity is commonly constituted through a dichotomous relationship between self and other, where the constitution of the not-self via the other is central for the construction of the self, as it offers a means of creating common features in

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opposition to something else. This kind of construction of self and other has become a central theme of discourse analysis in IR (Campbell 1998a; Hansen 2006; Renner and Spencer 2013). Narratives here add the possibility of breaking up a purely dichotomous understanding of identity via self and other by offering an understanding in between. ‘Whilst it is tempting to look for radicalized others in constructing subjectivity, it is important to remember that others are not simply enemies but can also be friends and partners’ (Browning 2008: 50). Interestingly, most scholars concerned with narratives within narratology would not so much talk of the constitution of the other, so commonly referred to in more critical approaches to IR, but rather would use the term alterity. Although very similar, the idea of alterity is more concerned with the constitution of self in contrast to and in combination with the ‘other’ or rather the agent, event or setting in the text. In contrast to the negative connotations embedded in the understanding of the concept of ‘other’, alterity is also concerned with the imagination of the self as or in the other (Fludernik 2007). The immersion in narratives about strange, far-away places and times including adventurous characters such as pirates leads us to consider these characters and places not as a negative other, but as something we partly desire to be. So the concept of alterity offers not only the possibility of constitution of self and other in a positive–negative dichotomy, but also the possibility of imagining a positive image of the other of which we want to be part. In other words, it not a question of us versus the other but a combination of partly-us and partly-other. Closely connected to the notion of identity is the aspect of interests, behaviour and action which is said to be reflective of a certain identity as well as constitutive of it. While rationalists in IR would hold that interests are exogenously determined prior to social interaction, constructivist approaches generally believe that interests are endogenous to interaction. Interests here are the consequence of actors’ identities. While rationalists would see society or international politics as a place in which to pursue one’s interests rationally, in other words as a strategic realm, constructivists consider it to be a constitutive realm in which actors are generated as social and political agents. With regard to narratives, Ringmar points out: ‘Since no action can make sense except in the context of a narrative, then there can be no interest outside of stories; only as that character which appears in the stories that we tell about ourselves can we have, or not have, an interest in doing one thing rather than another’ (Ringmar 1996:  73). As Wendt (1992:  397)  argues, actors acquire identities through the participation in collective meaning. While rationalists consider interests to be exogenously determined, in other words actors have a set of pre-existing

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preferences, constructivists are interested in how certain interests develop on the basis of certain identities. For them, ‘[i]‌dentities are the basis of interests’ (Wendt 1992: 398) and it is essential to understand that ‘actors acquire identities – relatively stable, role-specific understandings and expectations about self – by participating in … collective meanings’ (Wendt 1992: 397). While in rationalism subjects are said to be guided in their behaviour by a logic of consequences in which rational actions are supposed to maximize the interests of the actor, in constructivism actors are guided by a logic of appropriateness (March and Olson 1989) and focus rather on what they consider to be legitimate behaviour, in conformity with norms and shared understandings. Narratives constitute not only identity as a static picture of the self but importantly narratives include what we consider appropriate behaviour in a given situation. Narratives are prescriptive of right and wrong behaviour as they are inherently normative. There is always some sort of lesson about how to do things the right way. ‘Where, in any account of reality, narrativity is present, we can be sure that morality or a moralizing impulse is present too’ (White 1987: 24). Normative or ideational structures embedded in narratives shape the behaviour of social and political actors such as individuals and states. Narratives are ‘guides for action in the present by framing what we value, what constitutes acceptable and moral behaviour, and by setting the parameters of the “legitimate” stories that can be told about the self ’ (Browning 2008: 55). Within narratives the constitution of identity is frequently based on the characterization of actors within the narrative. As pointed out in the section on narratives in literary studies, the human(-like) character endowed with a particular identity is a crucial element of a narrative. ‘One criterion of what makes a narrative a narrative is the requirement of having a human or human-like (anthropomorphic) protagonist at the centre’ (Fludernik 2009: 6). ‘The actors are provided with distinct traits. In this manner they are individualized and transformed into characters’ (Toolan 2001: 41). Yet it is not so much a one-off description of an agent which is of most importance for the characterization of him/her/it, but the small continuous predications which slowly build an agent into a character with a particular identity. ‘The adjectives and adverbs used in the course of a text often contribute more extensively to characterization than a detailed, one-off description of a person’s appearance or disposition such as those we regularly find at or near novel openings’ (Fludernik 2009: 46). Similar to the element of setting, the characters involved are only partly constituted by the text itself. Not only is the description of character never complete, as the reader or viewer is left to fill in the blanks not explicitly described in

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text, but the meaning we associate with particular signs of character (for example an earring) depends partly on our individual experiences, but even more so on other narratives embedded in society’s cultural knowledge. We, as adults, never encounter a story as a neutral observer for the very first time, but already possess a vast knowledge from other narratives which we apply to the current story being read or viewed. At the same time the current story alters or confirms other embedded narratives read or viewed in the past and influences those to be encountered in the future. ‘What this amounts to saying is that, in our making sense of any particular text, we have extensive resources of knowledge (sometimes called extratextual knowledge, or knowledge of the world), which we can bring to bear on our interpretation of the text under scrutiny’ (Toolan 2001: 87). And the same is ‘true’ vice versa. We will return to this point in the section on intertextuality below. There are, nevertheless, a number of ways in which the characterization and identity of an actor in the story can be influenced. The first, and the most simple, is giving the agent a name or label rather than simply referring to him, her or it by their occupation or the role they play in the story. The giving of a name personalizes the relationship between the reader/viewer and the agent in the story. Secondly, an agent is characterized by being placed in relation to others. For example, this can involve hierarchical relationships such as in the family (mother–child) or in society (king–servant) or more equal relations such friends, lovers or (business) partners (Fludernik 2009:  44–45). A  third means of characterization involves the description of the agent’s physical attributes such as clothes or outer appearance, including facial expression. As most of these are considered to be a deliberate choice of the agent and under his or her control they are thought to provide an insight into the character. As Toolan (2001:  90)  points out:  ‘powerful cultural and biological traditions associate appearance with identity and character, the immediately “readable” former being taken as to some degree indicative, expressive and even constitutive of the latter’. A  fourth possibility of characterizing an agent is through his/her/its thought process or direct speech. What the character thinks or says greatly influences our perception of what that agent is like and how he/she/it becomes a character. The language and thought process of a character are indicative of his/her/its ideological belief system. While the narrator of a story is fully responsible for suggesting the thought of characters, the direct speech in newspaper commentaries or other media channels is not under the full control of the narrator, even though a bias remains as the narrator is responsible for the selection or omission of particular direct speech quotations (Herman and Vervaeck 2007: 227). Apart

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from the name giving, the relationship to others, the description of appearance and direct speech, a final very important implicit aspect of characterization is the way in which the agent acts. Ultimately the behaviour, as indicated above, has an important effect on what we perceive the character to be like (strong, weak, brave, cowardly, etc.). In summary, the narrative element of characterization is an essential part of how humans constitute their own and other identities by ascribing particular characteristics to the actors involved in the narrative. It is on the basis on these that the audience is able or unable to identify with others and thereby form opinions on their actions.

The co-constitution of agent and structure and the role of emplotment A third feature of constructivism which is also part and parcel of the understanding of narratives presented here is the co-constitution of agent and structure which can be embedded in what narratology understands as emplotment, as it offers an understanding of how the context, actors and events of a story hang together. Emplotment provides an overarching context and makes events, characters and their behaviour coherent and intelligible, as it offers an explanation or reason for why settings or characters are the way they are and why they behave in the way they do (Ryan 2004: 9; Ewick and Silbey 1995: 200). At the same time the setting, characters and their behaviour contribute to a particular kind of emplotment and thereby offer explanations or reasons for the further development of the narrative as they provide the grounds on which the future story can be emplotted. Many constructivist approaches generally assume that structure (the institutions and collective meanings that make up the context of international actions), and agents (those who operate as actors in this context) are mutually constituted.4 In other words, ideational structures condition the identities and therefore the interests of actors, but these structures would not exist if actors did not act out the practices these structures prescribe in interaction with other actors. Institutionalized ideas ‘define the meaning and identity of the individual actor and the patterns of appropriate economic, political, and cultural activity engaged in by those individuals’ (Meyer et  al. 1987:  12), and it ‘is through reciprocal interaction that we create and instantiate the relatively enduring social structures in terms of which we define our identities and interests’ (Wendt 1992: 406). The co-constitution of agents and structure in constructivist approaches means that actions by actors contribute to the making of institutionalized ideas and norms

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of the international system, while these ideas and norms contribute to socializing, defining and influencing the actors in this system. ‘Both the institutions and the actors can be redefined in the process’ (Hurd 2008: 304). From a narrative perspective it is by emplotting an actor in settings that actions become meaningful. ‘[N]‌arratives bridge the gap between daily social interaction and large-scale social structure:  language organized temporally to report a moral reflects and sustains institutional and cultural arrangements at the same time as it accomplishes social action’ (Ewick and Silbey 1995: 198). Actions and events and their meaning through their emplotment are essential for a narrative, as one cannot have a narrative composed only of settings and characters. The characters in a story have to do something for a reason. As Fludernik (2009: 5) holds: ‘Such a mutually interdependent relationship between story and action is, for the most part, the norm – in most narratives the story is concerned with chains of events.’ The action or the happening does not necessarily have to be the direct consequence of action by characters, but the happening or rather event understood as an action has to lead to more action. So the events do not stand on their own, they have to be placed in relation to others events or actions (Baker 2010: 353). Here narratology distinguishes a temporal and a causal dimension in relation to events and action. Considering the element of time, Teresa Bridgeman (2007:  52)  points out:  ‘Narratives unfold in time, and the past, present, and future of a given event or action affects our interpretation of that action, while the characters who populate narrative texts move around, inhabit and experience different spaces and locations, allowing readers to construct complex worlds in their minds.’ When considering the temporal dimension one can differentiate between order, duration and frequency (Genette 1990). Order here refers to the sequence of events presented in the text as well as the logical order of events in time. ‘Events are rarely recounted in the order in which they took place, especially in the media, and the way in which time, sequence and spatial setting are used to construct a narrative is therefore meaningful in its own right’ (Baker 2010: 353). This departure in the sequence of presentation in the text and the order in which they logically happened is often referred to as anachronies or simply flashbacks (analepses) or flashforwards (prolepses), while descriptions of events happening at the same time are considered simultaneities. ‘An anachrony is any chunk of text that is told at a point which is earlier or later than its natural or logical position in the event sequence’ (Toolan 2001: 43). Order or sequence as part of the emplotment is important and relevant also for IR as ‘[a]‌ll reading is a combination of memory and anticipation. Our focus

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on whatever moment in the text we have reached will invariably be colored by our memory of what has gone before and our anticipation of what is to come. The order in which events are presented in the text is therefore crucial to our temporal experience of narrative’ (Bridgeman 2007: 57; Goodman 1981). As Patterson and Renwick (1998: 316) argue: ‘How the speaker organizes events to give meaning to them is what becomes important, for it is the process of organization that reveals much about the speaker’s mind.’ In contrast to order, the temporal dimension of duration is concerned with the extent of time an event is supposed to logically take and the amount of space given to the presentation of that event in the text. As Herman and Vervaeck (2007: 223) point out: The difference between the two is significant for the study of ideology. For instance, an event that was important and took a long time on the level of the story may go unmentioned in the narrative. This is called an ellipsis, and it many have various ideological meanings. It may indicate a narrator’s hypocrisy or alternatively his or her reticence.

So the focus on duration can not only give us an insight into the emphasis, but also on the silences and untold aspects of a narrative. Finally, the aspect of frequency refers to the relationship between ‘how often something happens in story compared with how often it is narrated in text’ (Toolan 2001: 43). Overall the temporal elements of a narrative are important as they emphasize or foreground certain events and limit or silence other happenings. ‘The accelerations, decelerations, ellipses, and pauses which one observes, in the most diverse mixtures … are subject … to the narrator’s sense of the relative importance of moments and episodes’ (Genette 1990: 760–761). In comparison to the temporal dimension of events and actions the causal dimension is more obviously of interest to scholars of IR as we are not only interested in the sequence, duration or frequency of events, but in the causal relationship between agents, events and action be it in the form of direct causation or ‘causally necessary conditions’ (Carroll 2001:  28). What has commonly been termed ‘causal emplotment’ elaborates the relationship between the elements of a story mentioned above (Patterson and Renwick 1998). It is through the emplotment of events and the actions of characters in front of a setting that they gain a narrative meaning. Emplotment ‘allows us to weight and explain events rather than just list them, to turn a set of propositions into an intelligible sequence about which we can form an opinion’ (Baker 2006:  67, emphasis in original). The notion of causal emplotment illustrates how events

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hang together. ‘Plot can thus be seen as the logic or syntax of narrative’ (Somers 1994: 617). In summary, the narrative element of emplotment allows the audience to understand the relationships between the setting, characters and events by outlining how and why things happened the way they did. Only through the establishment of this relationship is the audience able to form an opinion on the actions of characters in a particular setting.

Practical application of narrative analysis How can these theoretical insights on the narrative elements of setting, characterization and emplotment be translated and applied to the empirical analysis which is to follow in the next chapters? How does one practically go about conducting a narrative analysis? A first step would be to identify the subject of interest (here pirates in Somalia, rebels in Libya and PMSCs in Iraq). Following this, one has to decide the realm of analysis, for example, school books, the news media or speeches by the political elite, as well as the time period one is to analyze. This depends very much on the claims the research wishes to make. If one hopes to paint a broad picture of an overall perception one will have to aim to include a wide range of sources representative of the realm one wishes to represent such as the media, political elite and/or cultural texts or a combination of these. Thirdly, as argued above, narrative analysis offers the researcher three fundamental categories in the form of setting, characterization and emplotment which are then used to structure the analysis of the material selected. In the analysis the text material selected is then dissected into individual words or phrases which fit into the three categories. Following several rounds of dissection, the researcher will start to gain an insight into the dominance of certain representations within each category.5 Fourthly, having filled the categories, the analyst identifies the main and dominant elements found in the texts and engages to retell the story by using the quotations as a collage.

The consequences of and reasons for narratives In connection to the question of causality or causal emplotment within narratives one is pressed to consider the aspect of consequences of narratives themselves as well as the related question of why certain narratives become dominant while others are less successful in establishing themselves. In the following two sub-sections the chapter will rearticulate the points raised in the sections above and consider the question of narrative ‘causes’ and ‘causes’ of narratives.

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Narrative consequences and the question of causality As we have seen from the insights from narratology and its adaptations within psychology and history, narratives have consequences as they construct a particular understanding of the world including the self and thereby make certain behaviour appear appropriate and sensible. ‘Narratives explain action and practices by reference to the beliefs and desires of actors’ (Bevir 2006: 285), they open up cognitive and cultural spaces in which behaviour becomes possible. The ‘causality’ between narrative and consequence or behaviour is again mirrored in the extensive discussion of the notion of causality within constructivist discourse analysis in IR (Wendt 1998; Kurki 2006; Holland 2013). While some such as Patrick Thaddeus Jackson (2006a: 43) argue in favour of an ‘adequate causality’, others, such as Lene Hansen (2006: 26), reject the possibility of causation on the level of discourse as one would need to be able to observe independently and separate the independent from the dependent variable, something that is impossible from a constructivist perspective, where structures and agents are constituted by discourse and vice versa.6 When talking about the consequences of discourses or narratives it appears more adequate to talk about constitution rather than causation. The loose link between intentional states and subsequent action is the reason why narrative accounts cannot provide causal explanations. What they supply instead is the basis for interpreting why a character acted as he or she did. Interpretation is concerned with ‘reasons’ for things happening, rather than strictly with their ‘causes’. (Bruner 1991: 7)

Considering the arguments made in the sections above, narratives can be understood as a means of constituting actors and structuring what they can meaningfully say and do both on an individual cognitive and collective cultural level. Narrative analysis offers a means of investigating these narratives and reflecting on how they constitute ‘reality’ (Doty 1993; Campbell 1998b; Milliken 1999; Wæver 2004; Hansen 2006; Hülsse and Spencer 2008). By constituting reality, narratives can define the limits of common sense, what is considered possible and logical and what is placed outside of the sensible or acceptable. In Roxanne Lynn Doty’s words: ‘What is explained is not why a particular outcome obtained, but rather how the subjects, objects, and interpretive dispositions were socially constructed such that certain practices were made possible’ (Doty 1993: 298, emphasis in the original). ‘How possible’ questions, as Doty (1993, 1996) points out, generally focus on the constitution of meaning and the production of spaces of (im)possibility for political action. In contrast

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to ‘why’ questions, which ‘generally take as unproblematic the possibility that a particular decision or course of action could happen’ (Doty 1993:  298; see also Doty 1996: 4), ‘how possible’ questions investigate the process of meaning construction ‘which constitutes particular interpretive dispositions which create certain possibilities and preclude others’ (Doty 1993:  298). While narrative analysis cannot explain why a particular course of action was taken, it can ‘lay out the context and the structure of acceptable and available meanings that made certain courses of action likely and possible in the first place’ (Browning 2008: 69).

Reasons for narrative dominance and marginalization Apart from the question of narrative ‘causality’ in the form of emplotment and the question of constitution between narratives and action, one needs to consider the reasons for the establishment of particular narratives. In other words, why are some narratives dominant while others fail to gain prominence? This question is important because, as indicated in the section above on the constitution of reality, there is never only one narrative of a particular happening. ‘There is never just one story to tell of a social group, frequently many stories are available and in contestation as different individuals and groups attempt to secure the right to narrate on behalf of the we, whilst at the same time trying to either co-opt or exclude and marginalize competing discourses’ (Browning 2008: 53). So why do some stories prevail while others fail? As in the case of the focus on agent or structure within constructivist approaches, narratology points to the level of the narrator and story in order to reflect on the reasons for success and failure. With regard to the narrator some argue that the success of a narrative is down to the ability and power of the narrator telling the story. Here powerful political narrators are able to tell their story the way they like in order to further their interests and consolidate their position of power (Mumby 1987: 114; Shenhav 2005a: 90). Critics of such an approach, however, point out that actors have only a limited amount of agency over narratives as they are unable to freely manipulate narratives to further their interests, since they are inextricably bound by the narratives which surround them. Furthermore, the narrator quickly loses his or her limited agency over the narrative once it has been told, and there are clear limits to what a narrator can say and what an audience will accept (Browning 2008: 59; Van Peer and Chatman 2001: 4). Rather than the level of the narrator they point to the narrative itself as the level on which the reasons for its success or failure can be understood. Some

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in narratology call for particular criteria for establishing what makes a good or bad story (Van Peer and Chatman 2001: 2). So far there is very little consensus on the issue, as Bruner points out: ‘In contrast to our vast knowledge of how science and logical reasoning proceed, we know precious little in any formal sense about how to make good stories’ (Bruner 1986: 14). Some here point to particular ‘content rules’ (Ewick and Silbey 1995: 207) or ‘rules of configuration’ (Rabinowitz, cited in Mackey 2011: 45) such as repetition, concrete and vivid detail or particularity, common sense and most importantly verisimilitude, without which a story would be considered boring, chaotic, unbelievable or incomprehensible. ‘Unlike the constructions generated by logical and scientific procedures that can be weeded out of falsification, narrative constructions can only achieve “verisimilitude”. Narratives then, are a version of reality whose acceptability is governed by convention and “narrative necessity” rather than by empirical verification and logical requiredness’ (Bruner 1991: 4). It is not the truthfulness of the story which they stress as important for the acceptance of narratives, as a result of the ‘fact’ that from a constructivist and a narratological perspective in which the world is discursively constructed, success or failure cannot be down to the truthfulness of a story as there is nothing outside of discourse by which to judge it. In order to achieve verisimilitude narratives need to follow certain pre-existing expectations held by the audience and embedded in existing cultural narratives. As Chafe points out: ‘The mind is at the same time guided and constrained by schemas:  pre-packaged expectations and ways of interpreting that are already available to it’ (Chafe 1990: 80). These expectations are part of the encompassing culture in general and are expressed and informed in particular by previous narratives (Carroll 2001: 39; Mackey 2011: 43). So in order for narratives to be accepted, they have to connect to already existing narratives, and even seemingly new narratives on new phenomena or events are shaped and made familiar through implicit and explicit reference to previous narratives. ‘Even the most personal of narratives rely on and invoke collective narratives  – symbols, linguistic formulations, structures, and vocabularies of motive – without which the personal would remain unintelligible and uninterpretable’ (Ewick and Silbey 1995: 211–212). Narrators find themselves in a situation of narrative interdependence which can be linked to the concept of intertextuality where narratives do not exist in isolation but always relate to, or are even part of other already existing narratives (Bakhtin 1986; Kristeva 1980). As Lene Hansen notes with regard to intertextuality, ‘the inimitability of every individual text is always located within a shared textual space, all texts

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make reference, explicitly or implicitly, to previous ones, and in doing so they both establish their own reading and become mediations on the meaning and status of others’ (Hansen 2006:  55). (Re-)adopting this idea into the realm of narrative analysis, this implies that narratives cannot be freely changed or manipulated by narrators, but that their narratives have to conform or at least connect to or overlap with previously existing ones (Sarbin 1986: 15; Viehöver 2011: 200–201). While there is room for new narratives, and actors can tell new stories, their success in front of the audience depends very much on narratives the audience has previously heard and is embedded within. The acceptance of narratives is contingent on the intertextuality of the narratives being told and those embedded amongst the audience. In order to be accepted, new narratives have to refer and link themselves to established narratives to some extent. There has to be some degree of intertextual narratability.

Romantic narratives As pointed out by Hayden White, there are a number of different ways of telling a story, including genres such as tragedy, comedy, satire and romance (White 1973). The genre of romance has been picked up by a number of scholars as a realm of constructing the setting of the narrative world, the characterization of the agents involved and the emplotment which holds the story together (Frye 2006; White 1973; Jacobs and Smith 1997; Ku 1999).7 And even in the social sciences the notion of romanticization is not alien as it has been applied to a number of diverse actors including the poor in the global south (Karnani 2009), local indigenous actors in East Timor (Richmond 2011), small rural agricultural farms in the European Union (Lauring 2005) or the Samurai in Japan (Lee 2011). Nevertheless there are vast differences in the conceptualization of a romantic story, especially in different periods and cultures, and the concept of a romantic story has adapted to the spirit of the time. As Hermann Fischer argues: As is well known, the word romance has a succession of different meanings in the course of history, which only shows how vague it is as the name of a genre. Originally all it referred to was the Romance vernacular language, but subsequently it came to mean a story in this language, then the narrower concept of the court novel inverse, followed by the bourgeois minstrel form of this court novel and the prose version of it, and finally any fictional story in prose or verse. (Fischer 1991: 25)

While or maybe because ‘[r]‌omance is one of the oldest and most enduring of literary modes which survives today’ (Radford 1986:  8), there is no

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agreement on the concept of ‘romance’. It includes such distinct articulations as Greek romance in the first century AD such as Chaereas and Callirhoë, medieval romance such as the Lancelot-Grail (early thirteenth century), the romantic period of Scott, Byron and Shelley and more recent incarnations found in novels such as The Flame and the Flower (1972) and films such as Casablanca (1942) or The English Patient (1996). This has led to a debate over the validity and usefulness of the concept of ‘romantic’ or ‘romanticism’. Critics such as Arthur Lovejoy (1924: 232) note: ‘The word “romantic” has come to mean so many things that, by itself, it means nothing.’ Lovejoy therefore argues in favour of using the concept of romanticism only in the plural, as even the time period of romanticism at the end of the eighteenth century consisted of very different movements in Germany, France and Britain. In any case, each of these so-called Romanticisms was a highly complex and usually an exceedingly unstable intellectual compound; each in other words, was made up of various unit-ideas linked together, for the most part, not by any indissoluble bonds of logical necessity, but by alogical associative processes, greatly facilitated and partly caused, in the case of the Romanticisms which grew up after the appellation ‘Romantic’ was invented, by the congenital and acquired ambiguities of the word. (Lovejoy 1924: 236)

Others such as René Wellek (1949, 1963) strongly disagree with Lovejoy and hold that there are very basic yet fundamental particularities of romanticism which contrast it to other terms such as ‘classical’ or ‘realistic’. The following sections will briefly illustrate some of these basic aspects in the form of a general understanding of ‘romance’ taken to be essential for such a genre in the context of this book. This does not mean that the elements mentioned below are the only way of understanding a romantic story, but that these elements are visible in the existing literature as well as being applicable to the political phenomena such as pirates, rebels and PMSCs. In order to mirror the sections above, the focus will be on the notion of setting, characterization and emplotment, although many of these categories overlap to a certain extent.

Romantic settings There are a number of elements of a romantic setting which are important for the analysis which is to follow in the next three chapters. Firstly, as Fischer points out, ‘the romance concentrates on far-away, foreign and exotic settings’ (Fischer 1991:  25). Secondly, this setting offers the background for the characteristic

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adventure or quest in a romantic narrative which involves some sort of conflict involving two antagonistic sides (Frye 2006:  179). Thirdly, while a romantic narrative is generally an exciting and entertaining story involving conflict, and importantly adventure, it is also a sentimentally emotional story. Above all a romantic story is one of sentimentality and emotions (Radford 1986: 8; Fischer 1991: 31). Finally, in contrast to the myth, the romance is concerned with the world in which we live, it ‘takes place in, or at any rate primarily concerns, our world’ (Frye 2006: 174). This does not mean that the setting of a romantic story has to be situated in the present, but the problems and issues raised in the story are concerns we are faced with in our existence. The problems are of a ‘less comprehensive scope’ than for example in an epic and the story and its setting are less grand and impressive (Fischer 1991: 27).

Romantic characterization The main character in a romantic narrative also displays a range of characteristic features. Firstly he or she is said to be a strong, brave and courageous, and more importantly truthful, upright, proud and honourable, character who follows certain ideals (Ku 1999: 71; Hansen 2006: 100). He or she is often considered a hero engaged in a dialectic conflict with an opponent. In the conflict the hero is characterized into the underdog position in the adventure, struggling against the odds, facing an opponent in an economically or physically stronger yet morally weaker position (Fleisher Feldman 2001: 133). Secondly, in connection with this it is important to stress that the ‘hero’ is not perfect and divine while the opponent is pure evil. ‘The enemy is associated with winter, darkness, confusion, sterility, moribund life, and old age, and the hero with spring, dawn, order, fertility, vigor, and youth’ (Frye 1957: 187). While there is dichotomy, it is less extreme, as the hero, as well as the opponent, remain human (Fischer 1991: 21). ‘We have distinguished myth from romance by the hero’s power of action: in the myth proper he is divine, in the romance proper he is human’ (Frye 2006: 175). Although ‘no one can indicate the moment at which poetry ceases to be heroic because it is too romantic’ the hero in romance is less heroic than in an epic (Dixon 1912: 18). Thirdly, partly through the humanness of the character we are able to identify with him or her. This is further strengthened through insights into the private side of the character, such as his or her beliefs, thoughts, emotions, human reactions and ‘true-to-life dialogue’ (Fischer 1991:  28)  we consider to be realistic and understandable. In a romance the character becomes likable and there is a strong identification between the reader and the hero

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(Cawelti 1976). A romantic narrative ‘describes a human fate in such a way that the reader can identify with it’ (Fischer 1991: 30), it ‘is fundamentally a drama of self-identification’ (White 1973: 8).

Romantic emplotment Again in the case of emplotment there are a number of romantic elements which should be highlighted as they will play a role in the chapters to follow. Firstly, as mentioned above, the romantic story is about a sequential adventure or quest (Parker 1979: 4; Frye 1963: 16). As Frye points out, ‘the quest for buried treasure has been a central theme of romance from the Siegfried cycle to Nostromo, and is unlikely to be exhausted yet. Treasure means wealth, which in mythopoeic romance often means wealth in its ideal forms, power and wisdom’ (Frye 2006:  179). Secondly, a romantic narrative commonly involves some sort of conflict between two antagonistic sides in which the reader/ viewer/listener identifies with the hero of the story ( Jameson 1975: 138). As Frye holds: ‘The central form of romance is dialectical: everything is focused on a conflict between the hero and his enemy, and all the reader’s values are bound up with the hero’ (Frye 2006:  174). This conflict is frequently one involving a kind of asymmetry in which the hero is facing an uphill struggle against the odds. He or she has to overcome a far larger, a more powerful opponent and thereby resists and challenges the existing order. As Agnes Ku points out, this sometimes also takes the form of a conflict between periphery and centre so that ‘[n]‌ationalist struggles and social movements usually take the form of romance’ (Ku 1999: 63). Frye argues that such an adventure or conflict has three main stages: [T]‌he stage of the perilous journey and the preliminary minor adventures; the crucial struggle, usually some kind of battle in which either the hero or his foe, or both must die; and the exaltation of the hero. We may call these three states respectively, using Greek terms, the agon or conflict, the pathos or death struggle, and the anagnorisis or discovery, the recognition of the hero, who has clearly proved himself to be a hero even if he does not survive the conflict. (Frye 2006: 179)

Thirdly, the causes of the conflict in a romantic narrative are situated in some form of injustice within the established order. The hero is not so much in the situation as a result of his or her own faults but because of existing illegitimate structures or behaviour by the opponent. He or she is forced to do what he/she is doing. So the hero does not pick a fight for the fun of it or only for his or her own personal benefit but because of circumstances beyond individual control.

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Table 1.1  Features of a romantic narrative Setting

Characterization

Emplotment

far-away foreign exotic background exciting entertaining emotional

heroic but human courageous upright honourable likable underdog identification

adventure asymmetrical conflict resistance to the unjust order fight for liberation, justice, love struggle for an ideal struggle against the odds

Finally, and related to this, the hero is fighting for some kind of ideal or sacred value such as liberation, justice, freedom, democracy, love, etc. ‘Romanticism, as a kind of narrative culture, presents itself as a strong conviction in the spirit and conduct of combating for the ideal’ (Ku 1999: 65). In the case of love, the emotions involved do not necessarily have to be towards another character in the story but can be towards a family, community or country (Cawelti 1976). ‘The romance is nearest of all literary forms to the wish-fulfilment dream’ (Frye 2006: 173) as there is a certain level of idealism in the emplotment in which the hero is seeking a kind of utopian future ( Jameson 1975: 138; Radford 1986: 9; Jacobs and Smith 1997:  68). ‘The perennially childlike quality of romance is marked by its extraordinarily persistent nostalgia, it search for some kind of imaginative golden age in time or space’ (Frye 2006: 173).

Conclusion The chapter has set the stage for the rest of the book by firstly outlining the concept of a narrative and emphasizing its essential elements of setting, characterization and emplotment. It has shown how the analysis of narratives has travelled from its natural habitat in literary studies via psychology and history to the political sciences and IR. Thereby it has tried to indicate how IR can benefit from narrative analysis by embedding its key features in constructivist IR theory to show that narratives are important for the social construction of the world, the constitution of identity and relationship between agent and structure. Furthermore, it has reflected on the question of causality and argued that narratives do not cause policy but open and close room for manoeuvre. The analysis of narratives can therefore indicate how policies become a possibility in the first place while others remain outside of the options considered appropriate. At the same time the chapter has considered why particular narratives gain prominence while others remain marginal. Here, rather than pointing to the attributes of the narrator,

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it has emphasized the necessity of intertextual narratability in which narratives have to link or overlap with previously existing ones in order to be able to gain a dominant position. Finally it has considered romance as a particular narrative genre and outlined some basic elements commonly attributed to romance such as an exotic and emotional setting, likable, brave and heroic characters, as well as an asymmetric conflict over an ideal. In the following chapters the book will apply many of these insights to three narratives on violent non-state actors. By focusing on literary, media and political sources these chapters will analyse German narratives of piracy in Somalia, British narratives of rebellion in Libya and US narratives on private military and security companies in Iraq. Thereby it will focus on the narrative elements of setting, characterization and emplotment to show the persistence in the case of pirates and rebels as well as the absence in the case of PMSCs of romantic narrative elements in literary, media and political discourse on these actors.

Notes 1 Some now make a further distinction within the level of discourse between the ideas of text and narration. However, as Michael Toolan (2001: 12) points out: ‘Two-level analysts, who find the story/discourse bifurcation complicated enough, will always counter with the claim that types of narration, and strategies of speech and thought-presentation, are aspects of the manner of presentation, part of a single domain of discourse.’ 2 Examples of this interdisciplinary research are the Centre for Interdisciplinary Narratology at the University of Hamburg; Centre for Narrative Research at the University of East London; Columbia University’s Program in Narrative Medicine; Project Narrative at Ohio State University (Herman 2009a). 3 For criticism of a narrative approach to human experience see Strawson (2004). 4 For more on the extensive debate on the relationship between agent and structure see Wendt (1987); Dessler (1989); Jackson (2004). 5 This analysis is greatly aided by the use of software programs such as MAX QDA, which allows the reader/analyst to mark segments of the text and assign categories for each quotation. Alternatively, one is able to conduct this analysis using simple marker pens and an Excel spreadsheet to gather the mass of quotations encountered for each category. 6 For a more nuanced discussion on the distinction between the neo-positivist causation offered by King et al. (1994) and ‘singular causal analysis’ based on Max Weber, see Jackson (2006b). 7 In particular Hayden White, as indicated in the section above on historical narratives, has illustrated how different historical events such as the French Revolution can be told in very different literary forms, such as a tragedy, comedy, satire as well as romance (White 1973).

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German narratives of the pirate in Somalia

We all love pirates and stories about pirates. When asked many years ago, most of us would have probably preferred to have become a pirate rather than follow the occupation we ended up in. Even Per Steinbrück, the former German finance minister and former leader of the German Social Democrats, according to the Süddeutsche wanted to become a pirate rather than finance minister.1 We used to play with pirate ships or pirate board games or we pretended to be brave, adventurous pirates on our bunk-bed pirate ship. Our children now do the same. We send them to fancy dress or Halloween parties dressed as pirates with an eye-patch, sword and a large, flamboyant captain’s hat. ‘Piracy has always been romanticised by writers and film-makers and many people often harbour visions of bearded renegades sailing seas of endless blue, something akin to a maritime “Robin Hood” of sorts’ (Abhyankar 2006:  1). As adults our fascination with pirates continues and is reflective and constitutive of a dominant Western cultural narrative of the pirate. In many countries, including Germany, there is a fascination with pirates such as Blackbeard or Klaus Störtebeker, whose stories have become the subjects of films,2 popular festivals3 and beer.4 One may argue that this is indicative of a wider dominant Western cultural romanticized narrative of the pirate. We name baseball teams for example the Pittsburgh Pirates or vote for political parties called the Pirate Party, we buy clothes with pirate motifs and watch Pirates of the Caribbean. ‘Reason tells us that pirates were no more that common criminals, but we still see them as figures of romance. We associate them with daring deeds on the Spanish Main, with rakish black schooners and tropical island and sea chests overflowing with gold and silver coins’ (Cordingly 2006:  xiii). We have this romantic image despite knowledge of the fact that pirates in reality were not actually very nice and were considered ‘hostes humani generis’ as they spent at least some of their time robbing, murdering, plundering

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and raping innocent civilians. While some may now be interested in asking why pirates were romanticized in the first place (Cordingly 2006:  242; Bond 2010: 309) this chapter is interested in showing the persistence of romantic narrative elements and their implications for our understanding of piracy today. As Mel Campbell (2011:  22)  points out:  ‘By interweaving fact and fiction, and transforming villain into anti-hero, a common maritime criminal has become a figure of enduring popular fascination. So, the spectacle of pirate chic in contemporary popular culture may irritate the historian with its “inaccuracy”, but its aesthetic appeal does not diminish its importance.’ It is now fairly established in IR, at least in constructivist circles, that cultural phenomena, rather than simply reflecting international politics, influence how international politics is made (Weldes 2003; Nexon and Neumann 2006; Grayson et  al. 2009; Lacassagne et al. 2011). This chapter is predominantly interested in the cultural phenomenon of the pirate or rather the narratives about piracy, how pirates are narratively constructed.5 It holds that our image of the Johnny Depp-like pirate embedded in a large number of cultural narratives greatly influences our perception of contemporary maritime piracy in places such as Somalia, thereby limits what we believe modern piracy to be like and marginalizes alternative narratives. The chapter’s main aim is to show how the cultural narrative of the romantic pirate developed from early historical records via historical, literary and pop-cultural narratives to media narratives and political elite discourse in Germany on contemporary pirates in Somalia. By illustrating how many of the romantic elements found in previous narratives can also be found in the contemporary news narratives on piracy in Somalia the chapter stresses the role of intertextual narratability in which narratives have to relate to previously existing ones in order to gain prominence. The first part of the chapter will investigate the development of a romantic pirate narrative from early historical records such as Charles Johnson’s book on the history of pirates from 1724, via literary works such as Lord Byron’s The Corsair or Stevenson’s classic Treasure Island to the current narrative visible in pop-cultural narratives such as Pirates of the Caribbean and show the intertextual nature of the romantic elements in setting, characterization and emplotment. Because there are very few German key works on pirates the focus is on Anglo-American sources as these proved to be the most influential on the discourse in Germany. The second part will examine German media narratives on piracy in Somalia and thereby show that a number of the narrative elements found in the cultural narratives of the romantic pirate are also visible in the media news commentary today. The third part will then consider alternative marginalized narratives to this romantic story and examine a

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narrative told by some think tanks and academics which links pirates to terrorists, while the fourth part shows that despite the logic of the arguments made, this narrative has difficulty in gaining prominence in the media and amongst politicians in Germany as it stands in too stark a contrast to dominant romantic understandings. An analysis of parliamentary debates on the issue of piracy shows that while the terrorism–piracy link was briefly mentioned in 2008 it quickly disappeared, while romantic elements and in particular narratives which emplot piracy as an understandable response to illegal fishing and waste dumping, though contested, continued circulating.

Romantic narratives of the pirate The following three sections will indicate the persistence of the romantic image of the pirate in history writing, literary sources, pop culture and public opinion. In contrast to the rebel in the following chapter, the romantic story, while being widely apparent, is nevertheless surprising considering that the pirate would be generally considered part of the ‘other’ rather than the ‘self ’. Yet he or she is romanticized from a very early stage.

Historical romantic stories of the pirate The amount of historical books on pirates is vast, yet many of these accounts are based on or reflect insights from one of the most important works on piracy during the golden age: A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the most notorious Pyrates published in 1724 by a Captain Charles Johnson ( Johnson [1724] 1999). Although the authorship of the book remains unclear as Johnson is widely considered to be a pseudonym, the book had and still has a large influence on the historical and literary pirate narrative (Cordingly 2006:  xx; Ford 2008). The book outlines biographies of over thirty-two famous and not so famous pirates ranging from flamboyant Captain Teach aka Blackbeard and Captain Kidd to a captain called John Smith. It is widely considered the primary source of much of the knowledge about pirates in the golden age of piracy between around 1650 and 1730 (Rediker 2004). As Talissa Ford points out, ‘even now, nearly 300 years after its publication, Captain Johnson is the source of nearly all our pirate tales. He is responsible for the fear and reverence with which pirates are (and were) held on the popular consciousness: his pirates are fierce and fearless, swashbuckling and sexy, mysterious, alluring, and sometimes even noble’ (Ford 2008: 54).

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In line with the arguments made by Hayden White about history as subjective narrative outlined in Chapter 1 and despite the existence of this one important source, the book has been used to write very different histories of piracy. It ‘has been seen both as a diatribe against piracy and as a source for libertarians seeking heroes’ (Pennell 2001: 5). One is able to tell a number of different stories about piracy, many of which claim to represent a, if not the, truth about the setting in which pirates lived, their characterization and their emplotment within the larger context. Apart from a tragic story depicting the pirate as a vile and evil actor, a frequently noted narrative story genre tells the story of the pirate as a romance. This romance is generally a fusion of the three narrative elements suggested in the previous chapter. Firstly, this involves the alternative democratic and egalitarian setting of pirate society (Kuhn 2010; Rediker 1987). Much of the writing on the history of piracy, both at a scholarly and a more popular level, makes reference to the democratic nature of life on board a pirate ship (Linebaugh 2003: 150; Rediker 1995a: 126; Earle 1998: 181). Not only was the captain elected by the crew from their midst, but he could also be disposed in a similar fashion. Every member of the crew received an equal vote in the affairs of the ship and an equal share of the booty (Rediker 1987: 262; Osborne 1998). As Marcus Rediker points out, pirates ‘abolished the wage, established a different discipline, practiced their own kind of democracy and equality, and provided an alternative model for running the deep-sea ship’ (Rediker 2004: 176). The crews of pirate ships were said to be multicultural, disregarding nationalities and even integrating former black slaves into the crew (Botting 1979: 48; Platt and Chambers 1995: 35; Bolster 1997:  12–13). Scholars also point to a kind of health insurance under which pirates who were injured or crippled were compensated (Richie 1986: 59, 258; Rediker 1987: 264). For example, under pirate Captain Bartholomew Roberts all this was codified in a kind of pirate charter signed by the crew. According to Johnson, Article 1 stated: ‘Every Man has a Vote in Affairs of Moment; has equal Title to the fresh Provisions, or strong Liquors, at any Time seized, and may use them at Pleasure, unless a Scarcity … make it necessary, for the Good of all, to vote a Retrenchment’ ( Johnson [1724] 1999: 211). Article 9 states that ‘No Man to talk of breaking up their Way of Living, till each had shared a 1000 l. If in order to this, any Man should lose a Limb, or become a Cripple in their Service, he was to have 800 dollars, out of the publick Stock, and for lesser hurts, proportionally’ ( Johnson [1724] 1999: 212).6 Many authors stress this setting as it stands in stark contrast to the prevailing conditions of poverty and starvation which sailors and other workers faced in the service of royal (merchant)

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navies, having been press-ganged into serving an exploitative system of slavery and colonialism (Ritchie 1986:  128–134; Rediker 1987:  258). Pirates were said to be ‘democratic in an undemocratic age’, ‘egalitarian in a hierarchical age’, ‘class-conscious and justice-seeking’ (Linebaugh and Rediker 2000: 162–163). Secondly, with regard to the characterization of the pirate a number of scholars point out that our picture of what a pirate looks like and how he or she acts was again vastly influenced by Johnson’s General History (Campbell 2011; Turley 1999; Cordingly 2006). As Campbell points out, ‘Johnson builds a detailed picture of how pirates look and act that initially suggests an unnerving but alluring spectacle’ (Campbell 2011: 13). She argues that through the persistent referral to particular elements of characterization such as missing limbs, pistols and the pirate flag Johnson aestheticizes the pirate. ‘In the General History, these “pirate aesthetics” form a universal visual code for piracy that is instantly identifiable by readers’ (Campbell 2011: 14). The most famous and flamboyant characterization of a pirate in Johnson’s book is Captain Edward Teach alias Blackbeard. This Beard was black, which he suffered to grow of an extravagant Length; as to Breadth, it came up to his Eyes; he was accustomed to twist it with Ribbons, in small Tails, after the Manner of our Ramilies Wiggs, and turn them about his Ears: In Time of Action, he wore a Sling over his Shoulders, with three Brace of Pistols, hanging in Holsters like Bandaliers; and stuck lighted Matches under his Hat, which appearing on each Side of his Face, his Eyes naturally looking fierce and wild, made him altogether such a Figure, that Imagination cannot form an Idea of a Fury, from Hell, to look more frightful. ( Johnson [1724] 1999: 84–85)

Despite their frightful looks and their brutality, the narrative of pirates also includes emphasis on courage and heroic actions. Regarding Blackbeard’s death in his final battle, Johnson holds: ‘Here was an End of that courageous Brute, who might have pass’d on the World for a Hero, had he been employ’d in a good Cause’ ( Johnson [1724] 1999: 82).With the reference to Blackbeard as a ‘courageous Brute’ the two narratives of romance and tragedy become visible in the shortest of phrases. Blackbeard becomes the ‘romanticized antihero par excellence’ (Turley 1999: 3). ‘[P]‌irates are not inexplicable evil villains: they are anti-heroes who operate under a different moral code’ (Campbell 2011: 14). Thirdly, concerning the emplotment and related to the characterization, the romantic aspects within the pirate narrative are further elaborated, as pirates are often considered non-conformist ‘rebels’ with ‘high ideals’ who ‘challenged, in one way or another, the conventions of class, race, gender, and nation’ (Rediker 2004:  176). Some consider the pirate narrative as one in which they are

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considered the poor and downtrodden fleeing oppression in the search of freedom (Lucie-Smith 1978; Mackie 2005). In Johnson’s General History the pursuit of freedom is frequently presented ‘as a positive and noble personal choice’ (Campbell 2011: 15). In an honest Service, say he, there is thin Commons, low Wages, and hard Labour; in this, Plenty and Satiety, Pleasure and ease, Liberty and Power; and who would not balance Creditor on this Side, when all the Hazard that is run for it, at worst, is only a sower Look or two at choaking. No, a merry Life and a short one, shall be my Motto. (Captain Roberts, cited in Johnson [1724] 1999: 244)

Piracy is here concerned with a utopian form of unrestricted liberty and freedom of action which stood in stark contrast to the prevailing conditions of the middle and lower classes at the time and in the present. As Angus Konstam points out ‘pirates are a recognizable and emotive image that represents a freedom of action that is denied to most law-abiding modern citizens’ (Konstam 1999:  188). Others add to this by telling the story of pirates as a romantic struggle against the odds in which pirates are revolutionaries or ‘heroic proletarian rebels fighting the brutal oppression of the emerging capitalist world order’ (Osborne 1998). ‘Piracy represented for many of the poor the opportunity to get out of an unavoidable life of deprivations and misery, taking control over their lives bravely and with pride’ (Poier 2009: 43). Pirates are considered as what Eric Hobsbawm refers to as ‘social bandits’ (Hobsbawm [1969] 2009; Kuhn 2010: 118–124). The point about social bandits is that they are peasant outlaws whom the lord and state regard as criminals, but who remain within peasant society, and are considered by their people as heroes, as champions, avengers, fighters for justice, perhaps even leaders of liberation, and in any case as men to be admired, helped and supported. (Hobsbawm [1969] 2009: 20)

In line with this, some hold that pirates were an important part of the revolutionary politics in Britain and America (Linebaugh and Rediker 1990: 230; Patton 2008; Woodard 2007) and as they plundered not only for their own wellbeing but also stole from the rich in order to give to the poor, could be considered ‘egalitarian avengers’ (Hill 1984: 20; see also Rediker 1987: 294; Wilson 1995: 57). Historians such as Christopher Hill consider pirates to be political radicals (Hill 1984), ‘seventeenth-century Soviets on water’ (Linebaugh, cited in Osborne 1998) or ‘anarchists because they raided the rich, and rejected capitalist forms of accumulation’ (Pennel 1998: 75). These narratives are again commonly based on insights from Johnson’s General History. The statement by Captain Bellamy to

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the captured Captain Beer, whose ship the pirates had just taken over, is indicative of this romantic narrative of the rebel pirate engaged in a struggle against the rich and powerful. I am sorry they won’t let you have your sloop again, for I scorn to do any one a Mischief, when it is not to my Advantage; damn the sloop, we must sink her, and she might be of Use to you. Tho’, dawn ye, you are a sneaking Puppy, and so are all those who will submit to be governed by Laws which rich Men have made for their own Security, for the cowardly Whelps have not the Courage otherwise to defend what they get by Knavery; but damn ye altogether: Damn them for a Pack of crafty Rascals, and you, who serve them, for a Parcel of hen-hearted Numskulls. They vilify us, the Scoundrels do, when there is only this Difference, they rob the Poor under the Cover of Law, forsooth, and we plunder the Rich under the Protection of our own Courage; had you not better make then One of us, than sneak after the A---s of those Villains for employment? ( Johnson [1724] 1999: 587)

Following Captain Beer’s refusal, Bellamy continues: You are a devilish Conscience Rascal, d---n ye. I am a free Prince, and I have as much Authority to make War on the whole World, as he who has a hundred Sail of Ships at Sea and an Army of 100,000 Men in the Field; and this my Conscience tells me; but there is no arguing with such snivelling Puppies, who allow Superiors to kick them about Deck at Pleasure. ( Johnson [1724] 1999: 587)

Not only was the General History an essential element and source for the romantic narrative amongst historians, but the book was also hugely influential with regard to storytelling within literature. ‘It publicized a generation of villains, and gave an almost mythical status to men like Blackbeard and Captain Kidd, who subsequently became the subject of ballads and plays’ (Cordingly 2006:  xx). This is interesting, as the book is not only a serious source of facts and knowledge on pirates but at the same time is considered partly fictional. Apart from the detailed reported speech, which the author surely took some liberties with regarding the detail, the chapter on Captain Mission is said to have been made up entirely (Rediker 1995b). It is ‘through his use of fact and fiction, [that] Johnson began the process that turned the pirate into the romanticized antihero twentieth-century readers are familiar with’ (Turley 1999: 3). The book is thus a perfect example of what Hayden White (1973, 1978, 1987) refers to as narrative history, in which much of history is a story in which blanks are filled and explanations offered by narrators subjectively interpreting the past. In summary, the historical narrative of pirates tells a story in which the setting among pirates is constituted as democratic and egalitarian. Pirates are

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characterized as courageous rebels. They are said to be the typical romanticized anti-hero who is emplotted as struggling against the rich and powerful in pursuit of freedom.

The literary pirate Following the decline of piracy around 1830, the romantic pirate story became more and more dominant as it started to establish itself as a widely shared narrative within Western culture through poems, literature and film. As Gerassi-Navarro points out: ‘European romantics saw the pirate as their ideal hero: independent, audacious, intrepid, and rebellious. Defying society’s rules and authorities, sailing off to the unknown in search of treasures, fearing nothing, the pirate became a symbol of freedom’ (Gerassi-Navarro 1999a: 2). This chapter holds that amongst the vast range of literary stories about pirates which have fascinated the reader, three stand out as particularly influential in the Western cultural sphere, including Germany, as they reflect as well as contribute to the continuing process of romanticization: Lord Byron’s poem The Corsair (1814), the novel Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson (1883) and to a lesser extent the character of Captain Hook in the book Peter and Wendy (Peter Pan) by J. M. Barrie (1911). Lord Byron’s poem The Corsair is one of the first literary works to pick up many of the elements found in Johnson’s General History.7 It was highly successful at the time, selling its entire 10,000-copy first run on the first day,8 and has remained one of the most influential works to shape the romantic image of the pirate (Moore 2011: 3–4). The image of the pirate as an anti-hero visible in Johnson’s General History is very much in line with the characterization of the main pirate character, named Conrad. As Campbell points out, ‘The Corsair epitomizes the trope of the pirate as anti-hero that is first evident in Johnson. Neither hero nor villain, he is a morally ambiguous personality to be admired but never understood’ (Campbell 2011: 12). He knew himself a villain – but he deem’d The rest no better than the thing he seem’d; And scorn’d the best as hypocrites who hid Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. He knew himself detested, but he knew The hearts that loath’d him crouch’d and dreaded too. Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt From all affection and from all contempt. (Byron 1814: 14)

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In the poem Conrad is considered a Byronic hero or anti-hero because he operates ‘outside the legal and moral constraints of mercantile bourgeois society’ or setting (Campbell 2011:  15). He is characterized as ‘defiant, alienated and misanthropic (and misogynist), yet also sensitive, honourable and faithful. For Byron, Conrad is heroic because he realizes and accepts his own worst nature’ (Campbell 2011: 15). Apart from Byron’s The Corsair, one of the most influential works to reflect and contribute to the romanticization of the pirate was Robert Louis Stevenson’s novel Treasure Island. Published in 1883, it became hugely successful and has since been translated into a vast number of languages. It is often considered a romance or ‘popular romance’ (Letley 2008:  ix–x; Thomson 2011:  215)  and Treasure Island is considered by some the ‘founding text in the revival of quest romance’ (Fraser 1998: 26). Stevenson himself makes reference to the romantic narrative and what this book has referred to as intertextual narratability in his short introductory stanzas ‘To the Hesitating Purchaser’ at the beginning of Treasure Island by referring to an ‘old romance, retold’. If sailor tales to sailor tunes, Storm and adventure, heat and cold, If schooners, islands, and maroons And Buccaneers and buried Gold, And all the old romance, retold Exactly in the ancient way, Can please, as me they pleased of old, The wiser youngsters of to-day. (Stevenson [1883] 2008: xxx)

The book retells the romantic narratives already visible in Johnson and Byron and elaborates on them to create the popular romantic image of the pirate still dominant today, including the aesthetics such as wooden legs, parrots, maps, treasure, tropical islands and the gentleman pirate both feared and admired (Cordingly 2006: xiv). As Campbell argues, Treasure Island ‘takes on the Romantic project of aestheticizing piracy’ (Campbell 2011: 22). For example, one encounters the romantic setting of the far-away tropical island and a democratic pirate society with rules and a council where the captain can be elected and deposed by a vote of the crew (Stevenson [1883] 2008: 154–158). Furthermore, a pirate such as Long John Silver is characterized as a charming and eloquent adventurer and a better-educated gentleman pirate with morals (Stevenson [1883] 2008:  54, 158). While he is feared by Jim (the main protagonist of the story), Jim also admires him for his bravery and coolness (Stevenson [1883] 2008: 182). He is

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not considered good nor evil but is in line with the Byronic or anti-hero mentioned above. As Pennell points out, through the novel ‘Long John Silver became the most notorious pirate hero’ (Pennell 2001: 3). Similarly, Captain Hook in J. M. Barrie’s novel on Peter Pan is also considered a Byronic hero (Blake 1977: 169) as he is a ‘man of loneliness and mystery’ (Byron 1814: 10) and a ‘not wholly unheroic figure’ (Barrie [1911] 2005: 132). Like Conrad and Long John Silver, Hook as the Pirate Captain is characterized as a well-educated gentleman and as a ‘grand seigneur’ (Barrie [1911] 2005: 49) who is set apart from his crew: ‘[Hook] never felt more alone than when surrounded by his dogs. They were socially so inferior to him’ (Barrie [1911] 2005:  117). As Nina Gerassi-Navarro points out:  ‘Sword in hand, eye-patch, with a hyperbolic mustache and lascivious smile, Captain Hook is perhaps the most obvious image – though burlesque – of the dangerous fictional pirate’ (Gerassi-Navarro 1999b: 133).

The popular pirate Many of these romantic elements have continued into the cultural image of the pirate today and are visible in a number of TV series and films and some point to a number of conventions in the pirate genre (Parish 1995: 3). For example, in the case of the setting this includes not only the visual beauty of the surrounding ocean or tropical islands but the setting is made up of egalitarian rules and is ‘reflected in the racial mix of the crew’ (Taves 1993: 27; Bond 2010: 316), who follow a ‘special code of honour governing their sea-bound life’ (Parish 1995: 2). In popular culture pirates have a ‘commitment to democratic decision making’ (Bond 2010: 309). As Jonathan Gutoff points out: ‘One characteristic common to most pirate movies is the seemingly democratic nature of the pirate band’ (Gutoff 2000: 645). In the case of the pirate’s character in movies, one frequently encounters references to his/her courageous nature. Pirates are ‘bold, if ruthless, ‘“heroes”’ (Parish 1995: 2), who nevertheless ‘are not as clean living, patriotic, or moral’ (Taves 1993: 27) as the perfect divine hero of other genres. The emplotment in films is also reminiscent of the narratives mentioned above, where the piracy is synonym for rebelliousness and freedom and pirates refuse ‘to submit to any outside domination’ (Taves 1993: 26). Pirate are said to have little choice in becoming what they are as they are ‘alienated because of an injustice, or exiled by a dictatorial regime’ (Taves 1993: 27). Pirates are emplotted as ‘defenders of the oppressed’ (Bond 2010: 312) against tyranny and dictatorship. Therefore piracy is a ‘legitimate form of political action’ and pirates are

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‘morally and politically legitimate agents operating in an illegitimate world’ (Bond 2010: 310–312). In Disney’s Pirates of the Caribbean many aspects of the setting, Johnny Depp’s character Captain Jack Sparrow and the emplotment of the film are intertextually linked to the narratives found in Johnson, Byron, Stevenson and Barrie mentioned above. As Grace Moore points out: ‘As the popularity of recent movies like Pirates of the Caribbean demonstrates, our appetite for pirate tales remains as hearty as ever’ (Moore 2011: 1). In the first instalment of Pirates of the Caribbean  – The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)  – one encounters, for example, a number of romantic elements visible in the earlier narratives outlined above. Apart from the setting of a multicultural crew with European, African and Asian members who also integrate handicapped people such as mutes and persons of short stature, the democratic and egalitarian setting is most visible in the film’s emphasis on the pirate code. Throughout the film all pirate groups make references to a pirate codex which influences their behaviour and is applicable to all pirates, regardless of rank. For example, consider the scene in which Captain Barbossa and his crew assault Port Royal and two pirates called Pintel and Ragetti have cornered the governor’s daughter Elizabeth Swann (Keira Knightley) in a cupboard: Elizabeth: Parley! Ragetti: What? Elizabeth:  Parley. I invoke the right of parley. According to the Code of the brethren, set down by the pirates Morgan and Bartholomew, you have to take me to your Captain. Pintel:  I know the code. Elizabeth:  If an adversary demands parley you can do them no harm until the parley is complete. Ragetti:  To blazes with the code. Pintel:  She wants to be taken to the Captain. And she’ll go without a fuss. We must honor the Code.9

So even when there is suggestion that one may break the code (Ragetti:  ‘To blazes with the code’) or when the code is violated, for example by physically hitting Miss Swann, this behaviour is considered inappropriate:  ‘And ye not lay a hand on those under the protection of parley.’10 The pirate has to ‘Keep to the code’.11 Furthermore, in the scene mentioned above between Elizabeth and the two pirates one can see explicit intertextuality in the film’s reference to Captain Bartholomew Roberts described in Johnson’s General History ([1724] 1999: 194–287).

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Concerning the characterization, many of the physical attributes mentioned in Johnson’s General History are very much part of the pirate aesthetics of the film, especially when comparing the picture of Blackbeard and the very first image of Jack Sparrow12 with, for example, a twisted beard with ribbons mentioned by Johnson. More importantly the pirate in Pirates of the Caribbean remains an anti-hero. Jack Sparrow rescues Elizabeth from drowning13 but also cheats or uses unconventional methods when fighting Will Turner and trying to escape Port Royal.14 Despite what Will considers to be ‘cheating’ the pirate remains honourable as all pirates throughout the film stick to their words: ‘So we’re all men of our word really except for Elizabeth who is, in fact, a woman.’15 As Jack Sparrow makes explicit: ‘Me? I’m dishonest. And a dishonest man you can always trust to be dishonest. Honestly. It’s the honest ones you want to watch out for, because you can never predict when they’re going to do something incredibly stupid.’16 He then goes about doing precisely that, by unsheathing a sword and throwing it to Will so he can free himself and fight Barbossa’s crew. Even Barbossa does not so much cheat but uses loop holes in the agreement. For example, when negotiating with Elizabeth over the medallion they agree that in exchange for handing over the medallion he and his crew will leave Port Royal. He abides by the agreement but does not take Elizabeth back to shore: ‘your return to shore was not part of our negotiations nor our agreement so I must do nothing’.17 Similarly when Will negotiates with Barbossa over the release of Elizabeth and his crew, Barbossa makes Elizabeth walk the plank: Will:  Barbossa, you lying bastard! You swore she’d go free! Barbossa:  Don’t dare impugn me honor, boy. I agreed she’d go free, but it was you who failed to specify when or where.18

The pirates are characterized as neither pure good nor evil. Throughout the film there are continuous references to the pirate being both a ‘Good man. Good pirate.’19 There are also references to the romantic emplotment visible in many of the other pirate narratives. The notion of freedom sought by the crew is one example and Jack Sparrow explicitly refers to his ship the Black Pearl as freedom: ‘What the Black Pearl really is, is freedom.’20 Challenging the existing order of what is considered acceptable behaviour, Sparrow states: ‘The only rules that really matter are these, what a man can do and what a man can’t do.’21 In the final scene of the film the romantic emplotment is made most explicit by Governor Swann: ‘Perhaps on the rare occasion pursuing the right course demands an act of piracy, piracy itself can be the right course?’22

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The romantic pirate narrative has continued to this day as stories about the pirate have been told and retold over and over again. There is a high level of intertextuality as texts have made continuous reference to previous ones, blending both factual and fictional works into a romantic narrative which has greatly influenced our current image of the pirate. Very similar romantic settings, characterizations and emplotments can be found in historical texts from the eighteen century to movies of the twenty-first century. As David Cordingly points out: ‘The picture which most of us have turns out to be a blend of historical facts overlaid with three centuries of ballads, melodramas, epic poems, romantic novels, adventure stories, comic strips, and films’ (Cordingly 2006: xiv). Yet these narrative elements are not only part of explicit written or scripted narratives but are also visible in other textual forms such as products and merchandising. ‘The shelves of supermarkets are full of pirate-themed commodities ranging from confectionery and bottles of rum to pyjamas, Lego models, underpants and socks’ (Land 2007: 169). While the emphasis so far has been on providing a qualitative rearticulation of the dominant pirate narratives, others have taken up more quantitative means of assessing the romantic narratives of pirates. They hold that this intersubjective romantic narrative is visible not only in history or cultural texts but also in public opinion. A study by Russel Skowronek (2006) indicates that despite the large number of cases of modern piracy the romantic pirate image is still very dominant. In his study participants were ‘asked to write down or state during interviews the first things that came to mind with the words “pirate” and “piracy”’ (Skowronek 2006: 290). The study showed that a romanticized image of the pirate is entrenched in the imagination of Western society, as a large proportion of the replies referred to things such as Treasure Island, eye-patches, skull and crossbones, peg-legs, headscarves and hooks. ‘Stereotypically they are one-legged, one-handed, one-eyed, parrot-toting, treasure-burying, “arrrggghh”saying, jolly English rogues who can be scary but usually are misunderstood, with a heart of gold’ (Skowronek 2006: 293). Similar results were visible in a preliminary poll conducted among 200 students of political science at the University of Munich, Germany in 2011 in which they were asked to note words they associated with the word ‘pirate’. Although by no means a representative sample of the overall population in Germany, it does give some insight into a widely spread understanding of the ‘pirate’.23 In order to obtain the most spontaneous and off-the-top-of-the-head responses participants were given three minutes to write down all the concepts they thought of connected to the concept of ‘pirates’. Following this, they were asked to fill out an information sheet about themselves including their gender, date of birth, year

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Romantic narratives in international politics Romanc pirates

Contemporary pirates

Internet pirates

Figure 2.1 Pirate images

of study, degree type, party-political orientation, amount of news they take in via TV news broadcasts and newspapers and how often they go to the cinema or read a novel. The aim was to find out what image students have of pirates and what variables correlate with a certain image. So for example one would be able to assess whether men or women have a more romanticized image of pirates or whether the political orientation or the amount of news intake has an influence on the understanding of pirates. Interestingly, hardly any of the variables covered by the questionnaire proved to be significant. So regardless of their age, year of study, gender, political orientation or amount of news or cultural intake most students shared a similar image of the pirate. In particular the poll showed that the participants had three different kinds of ‘pirate’ in mind: the ‘romantic pirate’, the ‘contemporary pirate’ and the ‘internet pirate’ (see Figure 2.1).24 The ‘internet pirate’ received the least number of mentions. The semantic field constituting this category included words and phrases such as the ‘Pirate Party’, ‘internet’, ‘downloading’ of ‘music’ or ‘software’ via ‘Pirate Bay’. The semantic field of the ‘contemporary pirate’ included concepts such as ‘Somalia’, ‘Horn of Africa’, ‘Atalanta’, the ‘Bundeswehr’ or ‘failed state’. The ‘romantic pirate’ was, however, the most dominant category with a large amount of intertextual references to the historical and literary pirate narratives mentioned above. For one, this included explicit references to historical characters such as ‘Blackbeard’, ‘Störtebeker’, ‘Errol Flynn’, ‘Captain Morgan’ or ‘Sir Francis Drake’ as well as a historical setting including the ‘East India Trading Company’, the ‘British Empire’, ‘Hanse’ or ‘colonies’. At the same time there were references to literary and (pop-)cultural narratives such as ‘(pirate) books’, ‘literature’, ‘fairy tales’ and ‘legends’ as well as ‘(pirate) films’ made by ‘Disney’ in ‘Hollywood’. In particular there was very high number of references

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Table 2.1  What comes to mind when you hear the word ‘pirate’?

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

Romantic pirate

Contemporary pirate

Internet pirate

Pirates of the Caribbean (58) Eye-patch (33) Johnny Depp/Jack Sparrow (31) Treasure (23) Skull and crossbones (20) Parrot (19) Peg-leg (15) Rum (14) Fancy dress/carnival (12) Pirate flag (11)

Somalia (86) Bundeswehr (15) (Horn of) Africa (13) Atalanta (11) Ransom (8) Hostage taking (7) Danger (6) Tanker/cargo ship (6) Weak or failed states (5) Straits of Malacca (5)

Pirate Party (58) Internet (13) (Illegal) downloads (10) (Pirate) copy (5) Data protection (4) Product piracy (3) Pirate Bay (1) Black market (1) Chaos Computer Club (1) Direct democracy (1)

to the film ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ and ‘Johnny Depp’ as the actor playing the pirate (Captain) ‘Jack Sparrow’, as well as mentions of his ship the ‘Black Pearl’ and the pirate stronghold of ‘La Tortuga’. There were also references to other literary characters such as ‘Captain Hook’, ‘Peter Pan’, ‘Pippi Longstocking’ or ‘Robinson Crusoe’ as well as cartoon narratives such as ‘Asterix’, ‘Southpark’, ‘Captain Sharky’, ‘One Piece’, or ‘Vicky the Viking’. There were also some mentions of ‘pirate songs’ such as ‘Fifteen Men on the Dead Man’s Chest’ (see Table 2.1). Examining the elements mentioned in the survey in more detail, one is able to reconstruct a narrative made up of a setting, characterization and emplotment which closely mirrors the elements found in the narratives outlined in the sections above. Considering the setting, the poll frequently returned romantic elements describing the background as ‘idyllic’ scenery such as ‘treasure islands’, ‘palm trees’, ‘sand’, ‘caves’, ‘the ocean’, ‘shipwrecks’, ‘sunken treasure’, ‘galleons’, ‘cannons’, ‘naval battles’ and ‘gun smoke’, as well as the smaller stage props such as the ‘Jolly Roger’ ‘pirate flag’, ‘gold’ ‘treasure’, ‘treasure maps’ and ‘letters of marque’. Concerning the characterization, the pirate’s appearance mirrors many of the elements mentioned in both the historical and literary narratives. Pirates are considered to wear ‘pirate hats’, ‘bandanas’, ‘striped trousers’, ‘ear-rings’, a ‘beard’ and have a ‘cutlass between the teeth’ and a ‘parrot’ or ‘monkey’ on the shoulder. Although the pirate is said to have a number of disabilities in the form of a ‘peg-leg’, ‘eye-patch’ and a ‘hook’, he is considered an ‘adventurer’ and ‘freedom-loving’ ‘hero’, a ‘libertine’ who is ‘clever’ and ‘cool’ and ‘honourable’. Regarding the emplotment, the responses were more limited, yet also indicative of this intertextual romantic narrative. The story is considered a ‘legitimate’ ‘adventure’ in pursuit of ‘freedom’ where the pirate ‘distinguishes himself from society’ (see Table 2.2).

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Table 2.2  Romantic elements of the pirate image Setting

Characterization

Emplotment

‘idyllic’ ‘treasure islands’; ‘island’; ‘palm trees’; ‘sand’; ‘caves’; ‘the ocean’; ‘nature’; ‘shipwrecks’; ‘sunken treasure’; ‘galleons’, ‘cannons’; ‘naval battles’; ‘gun smoke’; ‘undiscovered parts of the world’; ‘gallows’; ‘Jolly Roger’ ‘pirate flag’; ‘gold’; ‘diamonds’; ‘treasure’; ‘gold treasure’; ‘treasure maps’; ‘letters of marque’; ‘skull’; ‘doubloon’; ‘alcohol’; ‘rum’

‘pirate hats’; ‘bandanas’; ‘striped trousers’; ‘ear-rings’; ‘(cool) beard’; ‘kerchief ’; ‘boots’; ‘grappling hook’; ‘cutlass between the teeth’; ‘parrot’; ‘monkey’; ‘peg-leg’; ‘eye-patch’; ‘hook’; ‘wooden eye’; ‘one eye’; ‘ugly’; ‘tooth gap’; ‘poor dental hygiene’; ‘scruffy’; ‘dirty’; ‘primitive’; ‘uneducated’; ‘adventurer’; ‘freedom loving’; ‘hero’; ‘libertine’; ‘clever’; ‘cool’; ‘honourable’; ‘arrr’

‘legitimate’; ‘adventure’; ‘freedom’; ‘distinguished from society’

The study is very much in line with the study conducted by Skowronek (2006) and fits well to the story indicated in both the historical and the literary narrative. ‘When we imagine pirates, more often than not we conjure up fashion plates: dashing rogues waving Jolly Rogers and sporting puffy shirts, parrots, rakish bandannas, gold earrings, wooden legs, eye patches and velvet coats’ (Campbell 2011: 11). Interestingly, one counter-intuitive result of the poll was that participants who read a lot of newspapers had a slightly more romantic picture of pirates than those who read fewer newspapers. Yet, there was no significant difference between those who went to the cinema a lot or who read many novels and those who watched a lot of news on TV. Overall the romantic narrative was present in most of the answers given by the participants regardless of their gender or their political orientation. The romantic narrative appears to be widespread. As Lawrence Babits et  al. (2006:  272)  point out:  ‘Popular imagery is fairly consistent in showing a pirate leader as a flawed gentleman and his crew as tarred, sunbronzed, tattooed, hook-armed, wooden-legged, eyepatch-wearing seadogs.’ While there is awareness of contemporary piracy in Somalia the romantic elements of the pirate narrative were found to be still very dominant.

German media narratives on piracy The intertextual references concerning the romantic pirate narrative can also be found in German media narratives on contemporary piracy in Somalia. In order to illustrate this point, the following section will conduct a narrative analysis of the three major political news magazines in Germany, Der Spiegel, Der Focus and

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Der Stern, and show that much of the narrative discourse which elaborates on the basic elements of the story found in the media narratives on contemporary piracy are reflective of a culturally shared romantic image of the pirate found in the historical, literary and popular narratives outlined above. After an initial citing of all the 107 articles found using Nexis, which mentioned the concept of ‘pirates’ and ‘Somalia’ in the three news magazines during the most active period of piracy in Somalia in 2008 and 2009, the chapter conducts a detailed narrative analysis of the twenty most relevant articles (according to Nexis) as these provided the necessary text length and elaborated in detail on the setting, characterization and emplotment of the narrative. The following analysis shows how the romantic elements are again very much part of the story.25 There are some news magazine articles which explicitly link narratives of the historical and (pop-)cultural pirate with piracy in Somalia. Pointing to a setting of a ‘caring system of booty distribution’,26 a characterization of pirates as the ‘best and bravest seamen’27 or an emplotment in which the pirate was also a ‘freedom fighter’28 in a ‘revolt against the patricians’,29 one article notes: Pirates broke with authority and subordination, with despotism by the gentry and with the greediness of the merchants and with a religion which taught patient baring. Thus they sailed through the times and oceans into the dreams of the children and cinemagoers. Dreams of fierceness and freedom – ‘God’s friend and the whole world’s enemy’. For decades the myth continued on the screen. Believed to be dead the real buccaneers have reappeared in a world of radar and satellite positioning.30

There appears to be some awareness of this intertextuality in the German news media. The pirate is ‘charged with heroic myths’.31 Pirates are ‘not evil’ but rogues with ‘a romantic myth stuck to them, conveyed in stories such as those of Störtebeker, in novels such as “Treasure Island” or in countless films from Hollywood’.32 One article even makes a tongue-in-cheek reference to the possibility of making similarly romantic films about Somali pirates. On the whole everything is fine with the Somali pirates. They look familiarly swashbuckling and an attack of a cockleshell with an outboard motor on a giant tanker would make a real impression on CinemaScope. If cast well, the next Hollywood pirates could become similarly popular as Errol Flynn as Peter Blood; Burt Lancaster as the Crimson Pirate or Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow. Will Smith would surely look great as a pirate from Somalia.33

Many of the following articles, however, make more implicit reference to the narratives mentioned above by constituting similar settings, characterizations and kinds of emplotment.

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Setting The overall setting in the pirate narrative is often metaphorized as a kind of game, described as a ‘crazy game’34, ‘strange poker’35 or ‘pirate poker’.36 The hijacking story of the ‘BBC Trinidad’ is a model case for modern piracy. It was playfully easy for the heavily armed pirates to take control of the modern freighter worth 23 million US dollars. The haggling which lasted for weeks was like wage negotiations; it was a game of poker, there were tricks and the threat of abandonment.37

The physical setting or scene is set in a run-down ‘looted, ungoverned’38 ‘no man’s land’39 called Somalia. In the form of a boomerang Somalia is stuck on the eastern edge of the continent. The country is as big as France, offers little more than desert and thorny savannah  – drought, flood and sand storms. There is said to be plenty of oil but nobody has had the courage to extract it. Eighteen years of civil war have created a country in which everything is possible which would be considered wrong elsewhere. The results are distressing records: the top spot on the corruption index, the largest refugee camp – the failed state par excellence. While Mogadishu was once ‘the pearl of the Indian Ocean’, today it is a ghost town.40

Considering the setting in more detail, for example in one article the reader encounters a ‘barren stone desert’ scene with ‘a bumpy dirt road’ in ‘no man’s land’ with a ‘couple of abandoned camels’ and ‘armed figures’ in ‘flickering heat’. The ‘light green Indian Ocean’ and the contours of ‘large cargo ships’ are visible in the distance.41 Similar to the romantic narratives of piracy, the pirate here also does not have an easy life. Similar to the tropical (treasure) islands, he lives in an inhospitable often dangerous place which nevertheless has a particular beauty to it. Similarly, pirate homes are at first described as ‘semi-derelict’ huts next to ‘mighty palm trees’ with ‘sheep wandering around’.42 Once they gain riches, this is transformed into a place of celebration lasting days and which includes excessive indulgence in drink, food and women (see the section on characterization below). Again this is very reminiscent of pirate strongholds such as Tortuga in stories like Pirates of the Caribbean, which is understood to be dilapidated, with goats and chickens running around but where pirates squander all their gold on drink, drugs and women after their successful raids. The egalitarian setting noted in the romantic narratives is also visible as the ransom money is fairly divided amongst the pirates.43 Every pirate ‘who participated in the action got his share’.44 ‘The pirates shared the money, stashed it in 18 bags – presumably in order to give it to the 18 different clans.’45

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Characterization The characterization of the pirate actor in the media narratives on Somalia shares a number of the romantic features visible in the previous narratives. The names and labels given to pirates are reflective of two ways of linking romantic elements of the pirate narrative to piracy in Somalia. The first links the contemporary pirate in Somalia with romantic narratives by referring to him by other historical and literary names such as ‘corsair’46 or ‘buccaneer’.47 The second attaches labels to the pirate which trivialize his deeds and make him seem harmless, such as ‘barefoot pirate’48 or ‘sea crook’.49 Similarly, the pirates’ appearance is not predominantly menacing but fairly harmless. They are characterized as a little run-down and ragged, as ‘dark-skinned’,50 ‘scraggy figures’51 wearing ‘old sweatshirts’52 as a turban like a pirate hat and wearing ‘flip-flops’.53 Like the romantic pirates, these pirates are not armed with ‘deadly’ weapons but they are described as being ‘rusty’,54 similar to the rusty sword of the sun-tanned advantageous pirate in novels. Their boats are similarly harmless and described as ‘small’55 or ‘plastic boats’56 with ‘battered outboard motors’57 rather than lean, fast and deadly. When using their small boats against large tankers, their actions are considered ‘brave’58 and ‘self-confident’59 as they remain ‘unimpressed’60 by the large warships from the industrialized countries. ‘Somalia’s barefoot pirates remain unimpressed by the naval deployment at their coast.’61 There is a level of ‘respect’62 for them as they are willing to ‘risk’63 their lives in their attacks on colossal tankers.64 Like Captain Roberts in Johnson ([1724] 1999: 244), pirates are reported saying that ‘there is no fear’65 amongst them and that ‘everybody dies only once’.66 ‘The seamen did not show any fear. They “remained unimpressed by our [German soldiers’] orders, lit cigarettes and chatted to each other”’.67 The pirate leader in Somalia shares some of the characteristics of the romantic noble pirate captain as he is said to be a ‘proud’68 man who is ‘honourable’69 and ‘eloquent’.70 The hijacking of ships is constituted not as a brutal violent raid on innocent sailors, but as something that always goes off without bloodshed as an affair of honour. As in the romantic pirate narratives, there seems to be a pirate code of honour which pirates abide by: ‘With him [the pirate boss] everything goes off without bloodshed. That is an affair of honour for all Somali pirates.’71 The violence of pirates is relativized, as the narratives argue that pirates ‘wanted to frighten, not kill us’.72 While the story goes that victims of piracy ‘were not beaten but constantly threatened with death’,73 these ‘threats belong to the ritual’.74 In cases where physical violence does occur, pirate leaders ‘later

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apologize for the misunderstanding’.75 In the situation where a captain of a cargo ship did die from heart failure, ‘[t]‌he Somalis did not simply throw his corpse overboard’,76 but the pirates put his body in the ship’s freezer ‘so his relatives could bury him’:77 ‘Faina Captain Wladimir Kolobkow died shortly after the attack, apparently of heart failure. The Somalis keep the body in a freezer. His relatives should be able to bury him with dignity.’78 This sense of honour and social responsibility is further visible in their acts when they do not unload the weapons shipped in the Faina: Unloading the weapons of the cargo ship is out of the question. ‘Since we don’t want to kill anyone’, the speaker assures us, ‘our country is already suffering enough under the destruction and the many weapons. We want to protect our coast and prevent further suffering.’ The sea-gangsters started as a small self-help group.79

The description of pirates’ behavior shares two elements which both fit the romantic pirate narratives. The first considers them and especially their leaders or pirate captains to be highly ‘professional people’80 and ‘reliable business partners’81 who during the negotiations ‘guarantee the security of the boat bringing the money’.82 Professionals have their standards; they follow their routines, no matter in which country, in which trade. ‘As soon as we board a ship’, Sugule Ali, the pirate from Somalia, said, ‘we normally do something we call the inspection:  we search through everything.’83

At the same time, the crew is also characterized as ‘chaotic’84 and ‘clueless’;85 as ‘there is no consistent command structure amongst the pirates, everybody can fire their guns when they want to’.86 ‘The pirates fired their guns around the deck as they pleased.’87 The crew are generally characterized as more undisciplined, working-class rogues with an inclination for drink, drugs and women:  ‘The abundantly compensated [pirates] are ensnared by prostitutes. “I once got 1,000 dollar for a night from a pirate”, one of them says, “the bosses fork out 3000”.’88 They can be considered not heroic but rather more as anti-heroes with human flaws. For example, there is constant reference to pirates chewing khat89 and being ‘spaced out on the drug’.90 ‘It is not a problem to find booty out there if one has time and a sack of khat leaves. Pirates love this drug, it makes you high, euphoric then depressed, but new leaves in the cheek can help against that.’91 Pirates are reported to be ‘stoned, but friendly’92 and once on board the pirates ‘enjoy themselves with a nice drop of drink’.93 In one instance ‘[t]‌he pirates were so off their heads from the narcotic drug khat that they did not feel able to receive the millions’94 of dollars in ransom. So pirates are said to amuse themselves: ‘The

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pirates forced open containers on board. They were especially amused by the Red Cross’s second hand clothing for Africa. The hijackers also put on women’s dresses and had great fun.’95 So there is even a slightly comical side to pirates often found in more pop-cultural narratives. In Harardere, 100 kilometers south of Hobyo, an older pirate chief in a back room gets a bundle of money out of a wooden chest stuffed with approximately a million dollars. ‘Those who boarded get 30,000’, one of the group says, ‘those who kept an eye out on the coast get 20,000.’ One, who had 5,000 deducted for disobeying an order, curses: ‘That’s illegal.’ The gaffer replies: ‘Even the 15,000 you are getting are illegal, it is all stolen.’96

To a certain extent the reader can identify with the pirate in the media narrative on Somalia as he remains likeable. While we accept that the pirate is seen as a ‘folk hero’97 and considered a ‘decent [man]’98 in Somalia, we believe that ‘[t]‌he whole coast benefits from his sudden wealth’.99 ‘They build stone houses; take on a second or third wife. The children are well fed; their mothers wear nice clothes – in hungerland Somalia a sign of prosperity.’100 In the case of the hijacking of the Faina, which was loaded with tanks and heavy weapons heading for Sudan in September 2008, this admiration and an almost normative support is visible very nicely. Ali’s little gangsters with their trainers have climbed on to the world stage where normally only the big ones play. A drama is being performed in which it is unclear who the good and who the bad guys are, even if the good guys might not be featuring. The pirates in this piece appear like pick-pockets who foolishly stole the briefcase of a Mafia godfather.… Officially the T-72s from the Ukraine were destined for Kenya. But now there is increasing evidence that the tanks of the ‘Faina’ should be smuggled through Kenya to the war zone in Sudan. That would have been embarrassing for the Ukraine and devastating for Kenya, whose President likes to pose as the peacemaker. It anyhow looks as if the pirate Ali and his men scuppered the deal.101

When the pirate gets caught and put in jail, we empathize with him by considering the awful condition in Kenya’s prisons. At the end of the trip they will likely land in a Kenyan high-security prison – in ‘Shimo la Tewa’, the notorious jail of Mombasa, where already eight further pirates are awaiting their trial which begins the beginning of April. Three and a half thousand prisoners reside there, it’s humid and hot, a large number of the inmates sleep on the floor, at night rats and cockroaches crawl over the legs of the prisoners, the drinking water is salty and malaria is common.102

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Emplotment With regard to the emplotment of the narrative of piracy in Somalia one encounters a number of the romantic elements outlined in previous chapters which constitute the story as a an adventure of an asymmetric conflict or a struggle against the odds in which there is resistance against an unjust order. Pirate attacks are considered ‘adventurous showdowns’103 in which ‘the upgraded military and police apparatus of the industrial nations has to again capitulate to determined pirates from Somalia’.104 ‘With their small plastic boats the pirates are embarrassing the great powers of the world.’105 There is an asymmetry in the conflict as pirates are considered in a far weaker position with their battered plastic boats than the powerful West with its ‘Armada’106 of ‘warships bristling with weapons’.107 It is considered a struggle between David and Goliath: ‘High-tech Goliath against a tattered David who used to be a fisherman, who got his AK-47 rifle from a warlord and who chews khat leaves in order to stimulate himself.’108 ‘The pirates with their battered outboard motors and Kalashnikovs are not impressed. It is a fight of David against Goliath.’109 The reasons for piracy in Somalia also fit to the romantic elements of emplotment which constitute the conflict as one against an unjust order. One frequently encounters narrative elements which tell the tale of actors who suffered injustice and who turned to piracy out of necessity and a lack of alternatives. Narratives on piracy in Somalia employ a causal emplotment where pirates are considered poor former fishermen who had to resort to piracy because other industrialized countries started to illegally fish or dump toxic waste in Somalia’s territorial waters leaving the fishermen with no fish. We used to be honest fishermen, but since strangers deplete our oceans we have to look for other ways of surviving.… We are not pirates but coast guards. Those who illegally deplete the fish in our ocean, dump their rubbish and transport weapons through our waters are the pirates.110

The causal emplotment for the event of hijacking by pirates is not only provided by the pirate’s direct speech but also by the narrative of the journalist and a combination of both: ‘Fishermen were defending themselves against foreign fishing fleets and the ocean dumping of toxic waste in their region.’111 Around 20 years ago, when the governmental order collapsed fishing fleets from all over the world appeared and helped themselves without consideration for law and justice in the Somali territorial waters. ‘At nights the ocean looked like the skyline of Manhattan’, a local fishery expert said. Brightly lit and equipped with huge

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nets the trawlers looted the fishing grounds and hammered the coral reefs using heavy equipment in order to flush out the shellfish. The noise echoed over the water like thunder. Ships from Norway and ‘even from far away Japan’ left ‘with a big haul’; the fishermen from Eyl or Hobyo, however, returned more and more often with empty nets.112

Apart from the depletion of fish by foreign fishing fleets and dumping of toxic waste in Somalian waters, the setting of a chaotic and lawless Somalia offers elements for the causal emplotment of the piracy narrative. The vacuum is since used by unscrupulous businessmen from Europe and the rest of the world: some discard toxic waste and possibly nuclear waste in the ocean off Somalia. Others loot the fish stocks of the Somalis with fishing fleets – ‘a disaster for the Somali coast, the environment and the population’, says Ahmedou Ould-Abdallah, the UN Special Representative for Somalia. Angry Somali fishermen soon drove off foreign boats with Kalashnikov fire.113

Rather than the free choice of greedy pirates, the setting of a failed Somalia and ‘severe unemployment’114 offers an explanation of piracy: A ‘solution to the problem is only foreseeable if the clan-dominated Somalia is superseded by “the existence of a kind of state”’.115 This kind of emplotment, where the setting of a failed state of Somalia as well as the plundering and polluting of its waters by industrialized nations are the causes of piracy today, is similar to the romantic understanding of pirates being in their present position not predominantly from free choice, but because of circumstances beyond their control. Given the situation or context in which the pirate lives, his character and behaviour and ultimately the causes of piracy become understandable: ‘All you need is a boat, three guys and soon you are a millionaire.’116 The ‘golden goose’ of the ‘tanker with its low sides at midship’ is simply and humanly ‘too tempting’.117 So overall the emplotment is indicative of a continuing romantic narrative of the pirate already mentioned in the characterization as honourable in which ‘the pirate of today, according to Indhabur, is predominantly an employer of an impoverished coastal population, therefore a good guy, a Klaus Störtebeker of our time. Taking from the rich and giving to the poor.’118

An alternative story: linking piracy and terrorism As the previous two sections have shown, there is a continuous linkage between the different pirate narratives in history, literature and film and this book holds

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that narratives, in order to become widely accepted, have to link themselves to previously existing ones. This notion of intertextual narratability is able to illustrate not only the intertextual elements of dominant narrative but may also offer a possible reason for why other narratives have greater difficulty in making themselves heard. This part of the chapter will illustrate such a marginalized narrative and examine a narrative which links piracy and the ‘evil’ crime of terrorism and which stands in stark contrast to the romantic pirate narrative told in the previous sections. It will show that despite the plausibility of the linkage between piracy and terrorism, this narrative has not managed to establish itself and penetrate the discourse of the political elite and the media, and it has not found its way into the discussion regarding anti-piracy measures in Germany. The chapter argues that this marginalization is not so much down to the ‘real world’ absence of a connection between piracy and terrorism, but that such a linkage is made difficult by the dominant romantic pirate narrative. The widely shared romantic narratives of piracy found in history, literature, pop culture and seemingly meaningless practices such as dressing our children up as pirates for a fancy-dress party, have greatly shaped our perceptions of contemporary piracy and ultimately influence and limit what we consider plausible in connection to it. The chapter thus wants to indicate that there are clear limits to the strategic use of narratives. In the past, a number of different dangers such as weapons of mass destruction (WMDs), money laundering or drug trafficking have been narratively linked to terrorism (Falkenrath 1998; Hülsse 2007; Newman 2004; Schneckener 2004). It is considered possible that terrorists might obtain and use WMDs, failed states are said to provide a breeding ground for terrorists and the financing of terrorism is considered to be aided by money laundering. These arguments have been fairly successful in convincing politicians and the media, not only in the US but also in Germany, that these phenomena are indeed a threat which is to be taken seriously (Bush 2007; Merkel 2007; Neuneck 2002). Similar to the linkage between WMDs, money laundering or drug trafficking and terrorism there is an ongoing debate on whether piracy and terrorism is somehow linked. As Mark Valencia (2006: 84) points out: ‘Regarding conflation of piracy and terrorism, opinions continue to be sharply divided.’ On one side some disregard a linkage between piracy and terrorism as unlikely (Skogan 2007) or even as pure speculation lacking evidence (Dragonette 2005; Murphy 2007a, 2007b). They point to the main established difference between pirates and terrorists, their motivation, and argue that while a pirate is motivated by personal greed, a terrorist has a political agenda (Young and Valencia 2003a).

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On the other side a number of researches and policy advisers hold that there is an possible connection between pirates and terrorists. One encounters a number of different concepts which try and link the notion of piracy with the idea of terrorism. While some are less explicit and suggest the notion of ‘maritime terrorism’ (Raymond 2006) or ‘sea terrorism’ (Stankiewicz 2005) others suggest concepts such as ‘political piracy’ (Valencia 2005) or ‘terror-piracy’ (Baumann 2007). These discursive constructions are based on four interrelated narratives linking piracy with terrorism: The first focuses on the similarities between piracy and terrorism, the second points to the possibility of cooperation between the two, the third stresses that terrorists use piratical tactics and the fourth illustrates the political nature of piracy and thereby addresses the central counter-argument: piracy is motivated by personal greed while terrorists are political.

Similarities between piracy and terrorism The first kind of linkage simply argues that piracy can be characterized as a form of terrorism: ‘the activities of pirates menacing the world historically are analogous to those of international terrorists menacing the world today’ (Puchala 2005: 1). Here a number of authors point to a range of similarities and ‘overlaps’ between piracy and what many refer to as ‘maritime terrorism’ (Young and Valencia 2003a). Some argue that the setting or ‘the conditions, which allow them to thrive, for example, poverty, political instability, permeable international boundaries, and ineffective enforcement’ (Valencia 2006) are similar with regard to piracy and terrorism. Donald Puchala (2005: 3), for example, compares terrorism today with piracy in the past and points out that: Pirates preyed mainly upon unarmed, innocent people. They murdered ruthlessly, indiscriminately and often senselessly and in so doing provoked fear and insecurity throughout their theatres of operation. Among potential victims, word of pirates heightened anxiety; their appearance at sea or along coasts evoked terror. For example, 19 January 1671 must have been for the Spanish colonists of Panama City what 11 September 2001 was for the people of New York. It was on this day that a band of pirates, led by the much-romanticized Henry Morgan, entered, sacked and then incinerated the entire city. A large part of the population was massacred.

Both acts are characterized as international crimes (Ong 2005; Sakhuja 2002) perpetrated by sub-state actors using similar methods and tactics such as hijackings and seizures of vessels at sea with the use of light weapons (Young and

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Valencia 2003a; Snoddon 2007). Authors such as Douglas Burgess (2008) believe that pirates are a ‘species’ of terrorist: ‘Both crimes involve bands of brigands that divorce themselves from their nation-state and form extraterritorial enclaves; both aim at civilians; both involve acts of homicide and destruction.’ Some argue that both piracy and terrorism use organized, extreme violence against civilians: ‘the escalation of piracy towards greater violence, to the point where the word “terror” has become increasingly invoked’ (Ong 2005: 46). In other words pirates ‘terrorise’ (Hopper 2008) a ship’s crew, passengers, ship owners or even a whole region (Sinai 2004) and thereby sow a ‘social climate of fear/terror’ similar to terrorism (Ong 2005).

Cooperation between pirates and terrorists A second narrative linkage between the behaviour of pirates and terrorists suggests that there is some sort of cooperative connection between pirates and terrorists. While some simply refer to a ‘growing nexus’ (Banlaoi 2005) where piracy ‘involves’ terrorists (Winn and Govern 2008) or where pirates and terrorists are ‘interconnected’ without specifying the nature of the connection (Sinai 2004), other authors are more specific. Here one can identify three specific kinds of interconnected cooperation narratives in the discourses on piracy. The first narrative argues that piracy funds terrorism (Renwick and Abbott 1999). As Dana Dillon (2005:  162)  points out:  ‘The terrorists are using the money raised through piracy and other trans-national crimes to finance their operations against the government.’ And Gal Luft and Anne Korin (2004: 62–63) add that ‘in the face of massive international efforts to freeze their finances, terrorist groups have come to view piracy as a potentially rich source of funding’. With regard to Somalia, Burgess (2008) believes that ‘Somali pirates hand over a part of their millions in ransom money to Al Shabbab, the Somali rebel group that has been linked to Al Qaeda.’ A second narrative suggests that pirates are working together with terrorists. For example, Arabinda Acharya (2007:  83, emphasis added) argues that ‘[t]‌oday’s pirates are not the romantic, swash-buckling characters of the movies, but highly trained guerrillas, rogue military units or former seafarers working for modern and technologically sophisticated crime and terror organizations’. Similarly Peter Chalk (cited in Acharya 2007: 84) believes that ‘pirates could “contract out” their services to hijack ships which could then be used to smuggle weapons and personnel or cause a collision to block shipping lanes in the Strait of Malacca – a plot consistent with Osama bin Laden’s economic warfare

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strategy against the Western capitalist system’. So some experts ‘believe that the pirates are increasingly working hand-in-hand with Islamists, who are allies of Osama bin Laden’s al-Qaida. It’s a terrifying alliance: The pirates supply money and arms, while the Islamists have troops and the power on land.’119 A third narrative argues that pirates are teaching terrorists how to hijack and use ships as weapons (Murphy 2007b). ‘It has been suggested that in those parts of the world where piracy is prevalent pirates might deliberately help terrorists by teaching them the tricks of their trade, or unwittingly aid them by enabling preparations for terror attacks to look like incidents of ordinary piracy’ (Murphy 2007a: 7).

The use of pirate tactics by terrorists Relating to the third narrative just mentioned and the overlap in tactics suggested in the paragraph on similarities, a third type of linkage between piracy and terrorism found in the discourse suggests that terrorists could adopt piratical tactics. In particular, authors point to incidents such as the attack on the USS Cole in 2000, the attack on the French oil tanker Limburg in 2002 or to groups in Southeast Asia such as the Free Aceh Movement, Moro Islamic Liberation Front, Moro National Liberation Front and Abu Sayyaf Group linked to al-Qaeda which use piratical tactics such as hijacking vessels and kidnapping a ship’s crew (Eklöf 2006a; Chen 2007; Banlaoi 2007). In addition, experts such as Acharya (2007: 78) argue that: There is much apprehension that terrorists could team up with pirates to hijack a commercial vessel or a cruise liner and use it as a floating bomb to ram against a maritime target to cause widespread death and destruction or sink a big ship in a choking point in the Strait of Malacca to disrupt global trade and commerce.

Here one can identify two potential scenarios involving ‘terrorist pirates’: one where they sink a ship to block important sea lanes, and a second where they use a hijacked ship as a floating bomb. Considering the first, Gal Luft and Anne Korin (2004: 66) point out: Were terrorist pirates to hijack a large bulk carrier or oil tanker, sail it into one of the choke-points, and scuttle it to block the sea-lane, the consequences for the global economy would be severe: a spike in oil prices, an increase in the cost of shipping due to the need to use alternate routes, congestion in sea-lanes and ports, more expensive maritime insurance, and probably environmental disaster.

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With regard to the second scenario, Rommel Banlaoi (2005: 64) believes that groups such as al-Qaeda ‘could adopt pirate tactics of stealing a ship, which they could blow up or ram into another vessel or port facility, to sow fear’ similar to the use of planes on 9/11. As evidence for both possibilities experts point to an incident in 2003 when terrorists supposedly hijacked the Dewi Madrim chemical tanker in order to practise steering and manoeuvring such a ship and train for a future terrorist attack. ‘In other words, attacks like that on the Dewi Madrim are the equivalent of the al-Qaeda hijackers who perpetrated the September 11th attacks going to flying school in Florida.’120

Political piracy A fourth narrative addresses the main argument often made against such a nexus of piracy and terrorism: the emplotment in the form of political motivation. Opponents of the piracy-terrorism nexus argue that piracy and terrorism are different in that one is motivated by economic greed and the other is inherently down to political motivation (Young and Valencia 2003a; Valencia 2005). As Carolin Liss (2003: 64) points out: ‘While the pirate is acting primarily for selfish, personal reasons, the terrorist believes that he is serving a “good” cause designed to achieve a higher good for a wider constituency.’ And this distinction was enshrined in Article 101 of the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS)121 in 1982, which defines piracy as follows: Piracy consists of any of the following acts: (a) any illegal acts of violence or detention, or any act of depredation, committed for private ends by the crew or the passengers of a private ship or a private aircraft, and directed: (i) on the high seas, against another ship or aircraft, or against persons or property on board such ship or aircraft; (ii) against a ship, aircraft, persons or property in a place outside the jurisdiction of any State; (b) any act of voluntary participation in the operation of a ship or of an aircraft with knowledge of facts making it a pirate ship or aircraft; (c) any act of inciting or of intentionally facilitating an act described in subparagraph (a) or (b). Although this seems to be an insurmountable difference between piracy and terrorism and the strongest argument against a linkage, a number of scholars confront this remaining distinctiveness. Some criticize the UNCLOS definition as too narrow and instead favour the definition by the International Maritime

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Bureau,122 which does not require the act of piracy to be committed for private ends: ‘An act of boarding or attempting to board any ship anywhere with the apparent intent to commit theft or any other crime and with the apparent intent or capability to use force in the furtherance of that act’ (Keyuan 2005). Graham Gerard Ong (2005: 60) points out that the ‘private ends clause’ in the UNCLOS was severely criticized from the outset and that countries such as Czechoslovakia emphasized the need to include political ends in the convention as well. Others such as Douglas Guilfoyle (2008: 693) argue that the phrase ‘for private ends’ has to be understood broadly. It is commonly and mistakenly presumed that these words must exclude all politically motivated violence. In fact, the words ‘for private ends’ simply denote that the violence involved is not public and were originally included to acknowledge the historic exception for civil-war insurgencies who attacked only the vessels of the government they sought to overthrow. All acts of violence lacking State sanction are acts undertaken ‘for private ends’.

Similarly Ong (2005:  60)  thinks that the issue of private end is downs to interpretation, as terrorism could also be seen as motivated by private ends in the sense that their ideology is not shared by the state or the majority of the public. A second kind of argument with regard to emplotment which goes beyond the concept of ‘private ends’ can be divided into two related political arguments which appear particularly appropriate in the case of Somalia:  The first argues that piracy is connected to (Islamist) politics within a country of origin. As Peter Lehr (2009:  31)  argues, some pirate groups were formed at the beginning of the 1990s after the collapse of the central government and the disintegration of the official Somali navy by warlords in control of parts of the cost. It is therefore likely that pirates are ‘commanded by a group of Somali local politicians’ (Keyuan 2009: 328). A second argument stresses that piracy itself is political or at least has political undertones (Eklöf 2006b; Sinai 2004; Hong and Ng 2010) and that the distinction between economic and political reasons becomes difficult to maintain if, for example, financial demands following a hijacking are combined with demands for the release of captured pirates (Lehr 2009: 30). So while some warn of possible political ambitions pirates may develop in the future, others argue that pirates are already political. For example, one can point to the political grievances such as illegal fishing and the dumping of toxic waste in Somali waters that some pirates voiced in the aftermath of a hijacking. And the names of some of the pirate groups, such as ‘National Volunteer Coastguard of Somalia’ or ‘Somali Marines’, do indicate a political underpinning (Lehr 2009). Some even view the pirates in

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Somalia as ‘mujahideen’ who are defending ‘the coast against Allah’s enemies’.123 As Luft and Korin (2004: 61) argue: ‘Unlike the pirates of old, whose sole objective was quick commercial gain, many of today’s pirates are maritime terrorists with an ideological bent and a broad political agenda.’

The marginalization of the ‘terror-pirate’ story Overall, the section above has shown that it is theoretically possible to link piracy and terrorism. The point was not to convince the reader that piracy really is linked to terrorism, but that there is a narrative which discursively does so and has the potential of being convincing. Similarly there are arguments for why both the news media and the political elite in Germany could have an interest in linking piracy and terrorism. One may argue that in the current political climate after 9/11 the label ‘terrorism’ stands a better chance of catching the public’s attention. It may therefore be to the advantage of certain interest groups within the shipping industry to advocate a link between piracy and terrorism in order for the violence and dangers they face from piracy to be taken more seriously. ‘Mentioning the “T-word” usually proves enough to put a problem on the international (Western) agenda’ (Lehr 2009: 29). It will surely be easier to advocate counter-measures and argue for a stronger response by states against piracy if one is able to connect that issue of piracy to other dangers. ‘There are some who would prefer piracy to be labelled as maritime terrorism because it allows government funds to be channelled into funding maritime security projects that otherwise would have to be funded by a law-enforcement budget’ (Snoddon 2007: 226). As Herbert-Burns and Zucker argue, ‘calling a crime an act of “terrorism” instead of “piracy” is more likely to resonate with an indifferent public and draw media attention, political support and funding’ (Herbert-Burns and Zucker, cited in Skogan 2007: 178). So, firstly it will be easier for the state to convince its own public that anti-piracy measures are necessary if it is linked to the widely accepted threat of terrorism, and secondly, ‘it may be in the interest of maritime powers to conflate piracy and terrorism to help persuade reluctant developing countries to let maritime powers pursue pirates and terrorists in their territorial and archipelagic water’ (Young and Valencia 2003b). Linking piracy to terrorism may therefore be used as a tool for gaining further allies in the ‘war on terror’. As a result of these interests, some may hold that narratives on piracy and terrorism can and should be actively manipulated or shaped into conflating piracy and terrorism. As Graham Gerard Ong-Webb (2006: xiv) argues:

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In the end, the terms ‘terrorists’ and ‘pirates’ are – like all social and legal conventions – constructed and determined by governments and societies, not by the perpetrators themselves. In this case, it is all a matter of how we perceive these threats and perceptions can be changed. If we adopt the view that threats to security are socially constructed, then a path can be opened towards demolishing the distinction between terrorism and piracy under the present circumstances. Crucially, it will be found that the distinction between terrorism and piracy is based, to a large degree, upon extraneous assumptions. With some exception to the role of political ideology and financial gain, there is nothing in the letter of the law that distinguishes an act of maritime terrorism from piracy except for the notion of ‘private ends’, a matter of arguable interpretation despite the staunch defence for its exclusivity with regards to piracy.

In such an understanding of narratives actors have full agency over them and manipulate them at will (Thorup 2010). Narratives are said to be strategically used to further particular political goals and maintain power as they work for someone or something. They are deliberately and meticulously told by the political elite or certain interest groups to achieve a number of key political goals, purposes and interests (Fairclough 1992: 194; Charteris-Black 2004: 29; Jackson 2005: 19). Yet, despite the potential logic of the narrative of linking piracy and terrorism and the political rationale behind such a story, the linkage does not seem to have gained prominence in the media or among the political elite. Beginning with the media level and the discourse on piracy in German newspapers one notes that there are only a very small number of articles which include both the term ‘terrorist’ and the concept of ‘pirate’. Figure 2.2 shows all the articles found between 1998 and 2009 in the major German newspapers which include the word ‘terrorist’ or ‘pirate’ as well as all the articles which include both terms. As the figure indicates, even in the years which saw a terrorist attack on a ship such as the attack on the USS Cole in 2000 or the French oil tanker Limburg in 2002 which would most likely lead to a connection of the two concepts, the number of articles including both ‘terrorist’ and ‘pirate’ remains very low. The struggle of narratives which associate piracy with terrorism and the arguments outlined above are more visible in German parliamentary debates. In 2008, at the height of piracy activity in Somalia, one does encounter a number of arguments which try and link piracy and terrorism. For example, when discussing the German mandate for Operation Atalanta, Peter Struck of the Social Democrats argued that ‘[t]‌he use of the military for the fight against

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76 4500 4000 3500 3000 2500

Terrorist

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Pirate

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Both

1000

2011

2010

2009

2008

2007

2006

2005

2004

2003

2002

2001

2000

1999

0

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Figure 2.2  Number of articles in major German newspapers including the term ‘terrorist’, ‘pirate’ or both Source: The following newspapers were searched using the Nexis database: Financial Times Deutschland; Frankfurter Rundschau; Hamburger Abendblatt; Rheinische Post ; Tagesspiegel; Die Tageszeitung ; Die Welt; Die Zeit, dated between 1998 and 2012.

violence and terrorism on an international level is sometimes indispensable. That is true for the pirates on the coast of Somalia as well as for the terrorists and their supporters in Afghanistan.’124 Similarly, others point out that the ‘secret services had information that there is a connection between al-Qaeda and the pirates … in which case the problem becomes a lot larger and more threatening’,125 as they are said to be potentially ‘working together’.126 While some remain in the realm of the possible scenario (‘One should not imagine what would happen if pirates got involved with al-Qaeda’127), others, such as Birgit Homburger of the Liberal Democratic Party (FDP), go as far as stating that ‘cross-border international terrorism is no longer distinguishable from piracy and organized crime’.128 Yet there is also strong contestation of this story:  ‘Pirates, dear Mrs Homburger, are not terrorists. We should not construct an al-Qaeda phenomenon.’129 In an enquiry submitted to the German government by the FDP opposition in 2008, the following question was posed: ‘Is the government aware of connections between piracy and international terrorism? If so, which?’ The German government gave the following answer: ‘According to the knowledge of the government piracy and international terrorism are, on account of their motivation and their goal, different phenomena. While piracy intends to illegally obtain a material advantage, international terrorism follows ideologically

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motivated goals.’130 The German government also makes a clear distinction between the fight against piracy and the fight against terrorism on the policy level. This is visible in the clear separation of Operation Enduring Freedom (OEF) and Operation EU NAVFOR Atalanta: ‘While Operation EU NAVFOR ATALANTA has been assigned with the task of fighting piracy, OEF is being conducted the framework of the international fight against terrorism.’131 The German government also clearly states: ‘The fight against piracy is not designated in the mission for OEF.’132 ‘As the German mandate allows solely for the combating of international terrorism, these rules of engagement do not include authorisation for combating piracy.’133 ‘The current mandate of the German Bundestag limits the involvement of German armed forces in the fight against piracy to Operation EU NAVFOR ATALANTA.’134 Increased cooperation between Operation Enduring Freedom and Operation Atalanta is not planned.135 Similarly, when examining the website of Operation Atalanta one encounters almost no reference to terrorism, even though such a link would surely be helpful in further legitimizing the military response.136 And the same can be said about the resolutions on piracy in Somalia of the United Nations Security Council. While one here encounters links to concepts such as money laundering or other crimes, terrorism is not mentioned in any of the ten resolutions.137 Michael Struett and Mark Nance (2013: 19) point out something similar with regard to the United States: ‘In an author interview (Nance) with a U.S. Treasury Department official, the official confirmed that the U.S.  government does not believe there is any specific credible evidence to date of direct links between pirate activity and known terrorist groups.’ Interestingly, this narrative struggle is only visible at the beginning of the piracy debate, as the pirate-terrorism narrative begins to fade and disappear from the debates in the following years. In contrast, certain elements of the romantic narrative can be consistently found in parliamentary debates on piracy. Most of these relate to the causal emplotment of piracy in Somalia by pointing to a chaotic and lawless setting in which the (honourable) fisherman character is left with few alternatives in order to feed his family. In particular the narratives which emplot piracy as an understandable response to illegal fishing and toxic waste dumping by other industrialized states are persistent while also being contested.138 On the one hand members of the Bundestag argue that Somali fishermen only became pirates because international fishing fleets depleted the waters off Somalia.139

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Romantic narratives in international politics Even the Maritime Security Center created by the EU names over-fishing of Somalia’s waters by international, often illegal fishing fleets as well as the dumping of toxic waste as triggering factors for the piracy around the Horn of Africa. So Somali fishermen lose a further part of their livelihood. Let us make it concrete: There is a fisherman, he has to care for his wife and children. He does not catch anything anymore as the ocean has been depleted of fish or the fish have been poisoned. How is he or his family going to survive tomorrow? So piracy for some tragically seems a way out. Of course piracy is a crime, but so is the destruction of the livelihoods of 10,000 fishermen.140

On the other hand, in response to a statement which argued that the situation in Somalia was so bad that joining a pirate organization was the only way out, the parliamentary protocol records outcries from the Christian Democratic Union/Christian Social Union (CDU/CSU): ‘What a load of rubbish.’141 While Hans-Christian Ströbele stated it is ‘this fish depletion of these previously fish rich waters which is one of the reasons why also fishermen became pirates’,142 Ingo Gädechens (CDU/CSU) replied: Mr Ströbele, I do not misjudge the problems of fishing trawlers, of large fish factory ships which are depleting the fish in international waters far off the coast of Somalia. There surely is a connection, but I do not see a direct connection because the Somali fishermen conducted inshore fishing. I could now go into a large excursion on the problems our Baltic Sea fishermen and our North Sea fishermen are having. They did not become pirates.143

Another statement by Ströbele144 provoked similar reactions:  ‘To believe that because poor fishermen do not have any fishing grounds anymore and that they became pirates because of this is simply pretty naïve.’145 Some statements even critically and explicitly address the romanticization of piracy: ‘I would like to – and this is my last point – here clearly speak out against the romanticisation of the piracy problem. These pirates are not penniless fishermen who have lost their means of existence and are now attacking merchant vessels with their boats out of desperation.’146 There seems to be an awareness of the widespread romantic narrative, its influence on public perception and therefore its importance both on the domestic and the international political level and maybe even the notion of intertextual narratability: When we think about pirates, we have the Caribbean, palm trees, white beaches, coconuts, picturesque pirate village on the Mediterranean or the pirate ship on the children’s playground in mind. But all this has nothing to do with piracy. Piracy is a brutal, organized crime like drug dealing, human trafficking and extortion.147

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Digital pirates apparently have nothing in common with real pirates. But in a particular way our perceptions of the two are similar. The often romanticized picture of the maritime pirate has in a way transferred itself onto the digital pirates in that one disapproves of their actions in principle but on the quiet one does sympathize with them.148

So while not uncontested, romantic narrative elements persist as ‘our own fishing fleets are creating the ground for social problems which drive humans into piracy’.149 And even members of the FDP who argued in favour of linking piracy and terrorism point out that that the problem of piracy ‘arose because in Somalia state order has been missing for over fifteen years. This lawless situation was exploited by Asian but also by European states by dumping illegal waste in Somali territorial waters and for example by massively reducing the fish stock whereby declining the chances of Somali fishermen feeding their families.’150 Similarly, members of the ruling CDU/CSU noted: More than 700 foreign fishing fleets a year, according to statements by the WHO, are decimating the fish stock off the coast of Somalia and thereby taking away the livelihoods of local fishermen. This is one of the reasons for piracy. In addition there is the pollution of local coastal waters through dumping of chemicals, poverty and the collapse of systems of security.151

On the policy level, there are indications of the romantic narrative in the official document of the German mandate for Operation Atalanta although in a less explicit manner. For example the first and all the subsequent renewals of the mandate from 2009 onwards make explicit reference to the aspect of illegal fishing off the coast of Somalia.152 Furthermore the pirate actor is considered to be in the situation he is in not so much from personal choice but as a result of circumstances beyond his control. This is visible in the section on the rationale behind the mandate which combines elements of setting and emplotment: ‘Public order has collapsed in large parts of the country. Assertive state structures are missing. This, together with the lack of legal means of making a living, are the background for the piracy off the Somali coast.’153 In response the German mandate outlines a large number of policies implemented in order to alleviate the situation in Somalia and help the population find alternative means of feeding themselves. ‘This [the reconstruction of state structures] is also concerned with the building-up of functioning state structures for the control and administration of fishing off Somalia.’154

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Conclusion This chapter has shown the persistent existence of romantic narrative elements about the pirate from early historical text via historical and literary writing to pop culture and media narratives. Furthermore it has shown that alternative narratives which constitute a link between piracy and terrorism seem to have difficulty in gaining dominance in the media or the political elite in Germany despite the possible logic of the story. The chapter has suggested that the possibility of narratively linking piracy to terrorism may be hampered if not prevented by the romanticized notion of the ‘pirate’ embedded in culturally dominant narratives. In contrast to a focus on the narrator, this book wants to suggest a different kind of understanding of narrative, an understanding of narrative which is above the individual narrator. Here, the acceptance of a narrative by an audience is influenced by the intertextuality of the told narrative to previously existing narratives on the topic. Accordingly, actors have a limited agency. Rather than being fully and independently able to use words intentionally and manipulate narratives to further their own purposes, the notion of intertextual narratability will limit the possibilities of establishing a narrative. The intertextual culturally embedded narrative defines the limits of common sense, the limits of what is considered possible and logical, while limiting certain stories from becoming accepted or dominant. Narratives do not determine concrete policies, but may give an indication of why certain understandings such as the piracy-terrorism link seem to be less dominant. As Rediker points out: ‘In truth, pirates were terrorists of a sort. And yet we do not think of them this way. They have become, over the years, cultural heroes, perhaps antiheroes, and at the very least romantic and powerful figures in an American and increasingly global popular culture’ (Rediker 2004: 81). Our culturally embedded narrative of a ‘pirate’ does not fit our understanding of a ‘terrorist’ and therefore concepts such as ‘terror-piracy’ are less likely to establish themselves. The political implications of this are that potential threats suggested in the piracy-terrorism linkage are not taken seriously, thereby risking the lives of sailors and devaluing their trauma and suffering sustained while being held hostage. Furthermore, governments will find it increasingly difficult to justify expensive policy solutions to their populations if these do not believe in the seriousness of the threat.

Notes 1 See Jürgen Koppelin (FDP), Deutscher Bundestag, 16. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 188. Sitzung, 25 November 2008, p. 20255.

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2 See www.imdb.com/title/tt1259615/ or www.imdb.com/title/tt0489564/ (accessed 1 August 2013). 3 See http://stoertebeker.de/ (accessed 31 May 2013). 4 See www.stoertebeker.com/ (accessed 31 May 2013). 5 For work on the social construction of contemporary piracy see Gould (2013) and à Campo (2003). 6 Interestingly, the articles also regulated the playing of music in Article 11: ‘The Musicians to have Rest on the Sabbath Day, but the other six Days and Nights, none without special Favour’ ( Johnson [1724] 1999:  212). For other examples of pirate codes see ibid.: 307–308, 342–343. 7 Obviously it is not the only one, as other important literary works which romanticize the pirate include Sir Walter Scott’s The Pirate (1821) and Gilbert and Sullivan’s opera The Pirates of Penzance (1879). 8 See Steve King, ‘Byron’s Corsair’, Today in Literature, www.todayinliterature.com/stories. asp?Event_Date=2/1/1814 (accessed 19 April 2013). 9 Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl, dir. Gore Verbinski, Disney, 2003, DVD 2006, 33:00–33:28. 10 Ibid., Captain Barbossa, 36:42–36:48. 11 Ibid., Jack Sparrow, 1h05:09–1h05:12; Gibbs, 1h13:23–1h13:25. 12 Ibid., 08:32–08:47. 13 Ibid., 14:29–16:07. 14 Ibid., 21:41–25:43. 15 Ibid., Jack Sparrow, 1h40:44–1h40:49. 16 Ibid., Jack Sparrow, 1h47:28–1h47:44. 17 Ibid., Captain Barbossa, 39:04–39:08. 18 Ibid., 1h29:05–1h29:15. 19 Ibid., Jack Sparrow, 47:09–47:12; Will Turner, 2h02:45–2h02:48; Gibbs, 1h37:02–1h37:03. 20 Ibid., Jack Sparrow, 1h33:39–1h33:48. 21 Ibid., Jack Sparrow, 47:47–47:54. 22 Ibid., Governor Swann, 2h04:48–2h04:59. 23 One may even be able to argue that political science students are a hard case as they should be more aware of the current situation regarding piracy in Somalia compared to the average person. 24 In cases where words or phrases were too general to fit into only one semantic field, they were placed in two or in all three categories. So for example, the concept of ‘gold’ was clearly placed in the romantic category, while ‘money’ can be placed in all three. Similarly, the concept of the ‘sea’ or the ‘coast’ can be both part of the ‘romantic’ as well as the ‘contemporary’ image. 25 All the following quotations have been translated by the author. The original can be found in brackets in the notes, together with the individual references for that word, phrase or passage. 26 ‘Mythos Freibeuter’, Stern, no. 49, 27 November 2008, p. 39 (‘fürsorglichen System der Beuteverteilung’). 27 Ibid. (‘Die besten und kühnsten Seefahrer’). 28 Ibid. (‘Freiheitskämpfer’).

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29 Ibid. (‘Aufstand von Rebellen gegen die Patrizier’). 30 Ibid. (‘Die Piraten brachen mit Autoritäten und Unterordnung, mit Adelswillkür und Kaufmannshabsucht und mit einer Religion, die geduldiges Ertragen lehrte. So segeln sie durch die Zeiten und Ozeane mitten hinein in die Träume der Kinder und Kinobesucher. Träume von Wildheit und Freiheit – “Gottes Freund und aller Welt Feind”. Jahrzehntelang lebte der Mythos nur auf der Leinwand fort. Tot geglaubt tauchen die realen Freibeuter ausgerechnet in einer Welt von Radar- und Satellitenortung wieder auf ’). 31 ‘Wir Piraten’, Spiegel, no. 3, 12 January 2009, p. 130 (‘Aufgeladen mit heroischen Mythen’). 32 Ibid. (‘Es sind überdies nicht irgendwelche Schurken, sondern Piraten, also jene Schurken, an denen ein romantischer Mythos klebt, überliefert in Geschichten wie jener von Störtebeker, in Romanen wie “Die Schatzinsel” oder in unzähligen Filmen aus Hollywood’). 33 Ibid. (‘Mit den somalischen Piraten ist soweit alles in Ordnung. Sie sehen gewohnt verwegen aus, und so ein Angriff einer Nussschale mit Außenbordmotor auf einen Riesentanker macht in Cinemascope eine Menge her. Wenn gut gecastet wird, können die nächsten Hollywood-Piraten eine ähnliche Popularität gewinnen wie Errol Flynn als Peter Blood, Burt Lancaster als Roter Korsar oder Jonny Depp als Jack Sparrow. Auch Will Smith würde sicherlich eine gute Figur machen als Seeräuber aus Somalia’). 34 ‘Terror und Angst’, Spiegel, no. 28, 6 July 2009, p. 34 (‘verrücktes Spiel’). 35 ‘Explosives Geschacher’, Spiegel, no. 38, 15 September 2008, p. 42 (‘eigenartiges Poker’). 36 ‘Schwimmender Jackpot’, Spiegel, no. 33, 10 August 2009, p. 36, or ‘Mission Impossible’, Spiegel, no. 22, 4 May 2009, p. 22 (‘Piratenpoker’). 37 ‘Explosives Geschacher’, Spiegel, no.  38, 15 September 2008, p.  42 (‘Die Entführungsgeschichte der “BBC Trinidad” ist ein Musterfall der modernen Piraterie. Für die schwerbewaffneten Seeräuber war es spielerisch einfach, den modernen 23 Millionen US-Dollar teuren Frachter unter ihre Kontrolle zu bekommen. In dem wochenlangen Geschacher danach ging es zu wie bei Tarifverhandlungen; es wurde gepokert, getrickst, mit Abbruch gedroht’). 38 ‘Die Verbrecher der Meere’, Focus, no. 47, 17 November 2008, p. 186 (‘ausgeplünderten, regierungslosen’). 39 ‘Große Blockade’, Spiegel, no. 27, 30 June 2008, p. 46 (‘Niemandsland’). 40 ‘Somalia: “Psychoterror rund um die Uhr”’, Focus, no. 33, 10 August 2009, p. 102 (‘In Form eines Bumerangs klebt Somalia am östlichen Rand des Kontinents: Das Land, so groß wie Frankreich, bietet wenig mehr als Wüste und Dornsavanne – Dürre, Flut und Sandstürme. Reichlich Erdöl soll es zwar geben, aber niemand hat bislang den Mut, es zu fördern. 18 Jahre Bürgerkrieg haben ein Land geschaffen, in dem alles möglich ist, was anderswo als Unrecht gilt. Das Ergebnis sind traurige Rekorde: Der Spitzenplatz auf dem Korruptionsindex, das größte Flüchtlingslager-der gescheiterte Staat schlechthin. Wurde Mogadischu einmal als “Perle am Indischen Ozean” bezeichnet, ist es heute eine Geisterstadt’). 41 ‘Früher waren wir ehrliche Fischer’, Stern, no. 49, 27 November 2008, pp. 30–44 (‘karge Steinwüste’; ‘holperige Piste’; ‘Niemandsland’; ‘herrenlose Kamele’; ‘bewaffnete Gestalten’; ‘flirrende Mittagshitze’; ‘blassgrün der Indische Ozean’; ‘große Frachtschiffe’). 42 Ibid. (‘halb verfallen’; ‘mächtige Palmen’; ‘überall Schafe umhertrotten’). 43 See ‘Duell am Tor der Tränen’, Spiegel, no. 48, 24 November 2008, p. 22; ‘Schwimmender Jackpot’, Spiegel, no. 33, 10 August 2009, p. 36. 44 ‘Immer diese Schreie, immer diese Todesangst’, Stern, no. 35, 20 August 2009, pp. 26–37 (‘Jeder, der an der Aktion beteiligt war, bekam seinen Anteil’).

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45 ‘Explosives Geschacher’, Spiegel, no. 38, 15 September 2008, p. 42 (‘Die Piraten teilen sich das Geld, verstauen es in 18 Taschen – vermutlich um damit 18 unterschiedliche Clans zu bedienen’). 46 ‘Die Verbrecher der Meere’, Focus, no. 47, 17 November 2008, p. 186; ‘Piraten: Trophäen im Gerichtssaal’, Focus, no. 15, 6 April 2009, p. 28 (‘Seeräuber’). 47 ‘Kakerlaken und Kalaschnikows’, Spiegel, no. 34, 30 March 2009, p. 34; ‘Die Verbrecher der Meere’, Focus, no. 47, 17 November 2008, p. 186 (‘Freibeuter’). 48 ‘Duell am Tor der Tränen’, Spiegel, no. 48, 24 November 2008, p. 22; ‘Schwimmender Jackpot’, Spiegel, no. 33, 10 August 2009, p. 36 (‘Barfuß-Piraten’). 49 ‘Piraten: Trophäen im Gerichtssaal’, Focus, no. 15, 6 April 2009, p. 28 (‘See-Ganoven’). 50 ‘Früher waren wir ehrliche Fischer’, Stern, no.  49, 27 November 2008, pp.  30–44 (‘dunkelhäutig’). 51 ‘Schwimmender Jackpot’, Spiegel, no. 33, 10 August 2009, p. 36 (‘hagere Gestalten’). 52 ‘Früher waren wir ehrliche Fischer’, Stern, no. 49, 27 November 2008, pp. 30–44 (‘altes Sweatshirt’). 53 ‘Duell am Tor der Tränen’, Spiegel, no. 48, 24 November 2008, p. 22 (‘Badelatschen’). 54 ‘Früher waren wir ehrliche Fischer’, Stern, no. 49, 27 November 2008, pp. 30–44 (‘rostig’). 55 ‘Schwimmender Jackpot’, Spiegel, no. 33, 10 August 2009, p. 36 (‘klein’). 56 ‘Duell am Tor der Tränen’, Spiegel, no. 48, 24 November 2008, p. 22 (‘Plastikboote’). 57 ‘Ruf nach Rache’, Spiegel, no.  17, 20 April 2009, p.  100 (‘zerschrammelten Außenbordern’). 58 ‘Somalia: Krieg gegen die Piraten’, Focus, no. 17, 20 April 2009, p. 136 (‘kühn’). 59 ‘Ruf nach Rache’, Spiegel, no. 17, 20 April 2009, p. 100 (‘selbstbewusst’). 60 ‘Kakerlaken und Kalaschnikows’, Spiegel, no. 34, 30 March 2009, p. 34 (‘unbeeindruckt’). 61 ‘Ruf nach Rache’, Spiegel, no. 17, 20 April 2009, p. 100 (‘kaum beeindruckt’). 62 ‘Immer diese Schreie, immer diese Todesangst’, Stern, no. 35, 20 August 2009, pp. 26–37 (‘Respekt’). 63 ‘Somalia:  “Psychoterror rund um die Uhr”’, Focus, no.  33, 10 August 2009, p.  102 (‘nehmen das Risiko in Kauf ’). 64 ‘Duell am Tor der Tränen’, Spiegel, no. 48, 24 November 2008, p. 22. 65 ‘Die Beute der Piraten’, Spiegel, no. 41, 6 October 2008, p. 132 (‘es gibt keine Angst’). 66 Ibid. (‘jeder stirbt nur einmal’). 67 ‘Kakerlaken und Kalaschnikows’, Spiegel, no. 34, 30 March 2009, p. 34 (‘Angst ließen die Seemänner nicht erkennen. Sie “zeigten sich von unseren Anweisungen unbeeindruckt, steckten sich Zigaretten an und unterhielten sich”’). 68 ‘Früher waren wir ehrliche Fischer’, Stern, no. 49, 27 November 2008, pp. 30–44 (‘stolz’). 69 Ibid. (‘ehrbar’). 70 Ibid. (‘eloquent’). 71 Ibid. (‘Bei ihm gehe immer alles ohne Blutvergießen ab. Das sei Ehrensache für alle Piraten Somalias’). 72 ‘Immer diese Schreie, immer diese Todesangst’, Stern, no. 35, 20 August 2009, pp. 26–37 (‘Die wollten uns erschrecken, nicht töten’). 73 Ibid. (‘Wir wurden nicht geschlagen, aber ständig mit dem Tode bedroht’). 74 ‘Terror und Angst’, Spiegel, no. 28, 6 July 2009, p. 34 (‘Die Drohung gehörte zum Ritual’). 75 ‘Immer diese Schreie, immer diese Todesangst’, Stern, no. 35, 20 August 2009, pp. 26–37 (‘hat sich später für das Missverständnis entschuldigt’).

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76 ‘Die Beute der Piraten’, Spiegel, no. 41, 6 October 2008, p. 132 (‘Seine Leiche haben die Somalier nicht einfach über Bord gekippt’). 77 Ibid. (‘Sie haben den toten Kapitän in ein Kühlfach gelegt. So werden seine Angehörigen ihn noch bestatten können’). 78 ‘Früher waren wir ehrliche Fischer’, Stern, no.  49, 27 November 2008, pp.  30–44 (‘“Faina”-Kapitän Wladimir Kolobkow starb kurz nach dem Unfall, wie es heißt an Herzversagen. Die Leiche verwahren die Somalier in einem Kühlfach. Seine Angehörigen sollten ihn später einmal mit Würde bestatten können’). 79 Ibid. (‘Die Waffen von dem Frachter zu entladen komme nicht in Frage. “Wir wollen ja niemanden töten”, beteuert der Sprecher, “unser Land leidet schon genug unter der Zerstörung und den vielen Waffen. Wir wollen unsere Küste schützen und weiteres Leid verhindern.” Begonnen haben die See-Gangster als kleine Selbsthilfegruppen’). 80 ‘Duell am Tor der Tränen’, Spiegel, no. 48, 24 November 2008, p. 22 (‘professionelle Leute’). 81 ‘Mission Impossible’, Spiegel, no. 22, 4 May 2009, p. 22 (‘verlässliche Geschäftspartner’). 82 ‘Duell am Tor der Tränen’, Spiegel, no. 48, 24 November 2008, p. 22 (‘garantieren für die Sicherheit des Schiffes, das das Geld bringt’). 83 ‘Die Beute der Piraten’, Spiegel, no.  41, 6 October 2008, p.  132 (‘Profis haben Ihre Standards, sie folgen ihrer Routine, egal in welchem Land, in welchem Gewerbe. “Sobald wir ein Schiff geentert haben”, sagt Sugule Ali, der Pirat aus Somalia, “machen wir normalerweise das, was wir die Kontrolle nennen: Wir durchsuchen alles”’). 84 ‘Die Jungen wollten uns töten, die Älteren unser Geld’, Stern, no. 39, 18 September 2008, pp. 28–36 (‘chaotisch’). 85 Ibid. (‘ahnungslos’). 86 ‘Terror und Angst’, Spiegel, no.  28, 6 July 2009, p.  34 (‘Es gibt keine einheitliche Kommandostruktur bei den Piraten, jeder schießt, wann er will’). 87 ‘Immer diese Schreie, immer diese Todesangst’, Stern, no. 35, 20 August 2009, pp. 26–37 (‘Die Piraten feuerten auf dem Deck herum, wie sie lustig waren’). 88 ‘Früher waren wir ehrliche Fischer’, Stern, no. 49, 27 November 2008, pp. 30–44 (‘Die üppig Entlohnten werden von Prostituierten umgarnt. “Für eine Nacht habe ich schon mal 1000 Dollar von einem Piraten bekommen”, sagt eine von ihnen, “die Chefs rücken 3000 raus”’). 89 ‘Terror und Angst’, Spiegel, no. 28, 6 July 2009, p. 34; ‘Duell am Tor der Tränen’, Spiegel, no. 48, 24 November 2008, p. 22; ‘Signal der Stärke’, Spiegel, no. 32, 4 August 2008, p. 24. 90 ‘Ruf nach Rache’, Spiegel, no. 17, 20 April 2009, p. 100 (‘drogenumnebelt’). 91 ‘Duell am Tor der Tränen’, Spiegel, no. 48, 24 November 2008, p. 22 (‘Es ist kein Problem, da draußen Beute zu finden, wenn man Zeit hat und einen Sack Kat-Blätter. Seeräuber lieben diese Droge, sie macht high, euphorisch, dann depressiv, aber dagegen helfen wieder neue Blätter in der Backe’). 92 ‘Terror und Angst’, Spiegel, no. 28, 6 July 2009, p. 34; ‘Schwimmender Jackpot’, Spiegel, no. 33, 10 August 2009, p. 36 (‘bekifft, aber freundlich’). 93 ‘Signal der Stärke’, Spiegel, no. 32, 4 August 2008, p. 24 (‘sich mit edlen Tropfen vergnügt’). 94 ‘Somalia: “Psychoterror rund um die Uhr”’, Focus, no. 33, 10 August 2009, p. 102 (‘Die Piraten waren von der Rauschdroge Khat so zugedröhnt, dass sie sich zur Annahme der Millionensumme nicht in der Lage fühlten’). 95 ‘Immer diese Schreie, immer diese Todesangst’, Stern, no. 35, 20 August 2009, pp. 26–37 (‘Die Piraten brachen auch Container an Board auf. Besonderes Vergnügen bereiteten Altkleidersammlungen des Roten Kreuzes für Afrika. Die Entführer streiften sich auch Damenkleider über und hatten dabei großen Spaß’).

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96 ‘Früher waren wir ehrliche Fischer’, Stern, no. 49, 27 November 2008, pp. 30–44 (‘In Harardere, 100 Kilometer südlich von Hobyo, holt ein älterer Chefpirat in einem Hinterzimmer Geldbündel aus einer zusammengenagelten Holzkiste, die vollgestopft ist mit schätzungsweise einer Million Dollar. “Wer draußen mit beim Entern war, bekommt 30 000”, sagt einer aus der Gruppe, “wer am Ufer aufpasst, kriegt 20 000.” Einer, der wegen Missachtung eines Befehls 5000 abgezogen bekommt, flucht: “Das ist illegal.” Der Alte gibt zurück: “Selbst die 15 000, die du kriegst, sind illegal, ist doch alles geklaut”’). 97 Ibid. (‘Volkshelden’). 98 ‘Die Beute der Piraten’, Spiegel, no. 41, 6 October 2008, p. 132 (‘anständige Menschen’). 99 ‘Früher waren wir ehrliche Fischer’, Stern, no. 49, 27 November 2008, p. 30–44 (‘Die ganze Küste profitiert von ihrem plötzlichen Reichtum’). 100 Ibid. (‘Sie bauen Steinhäuser, leisten sich Zweit- und Drittfrauen. Die Kinder sind wohlgenährt, ihre Mutter trägt schöne Kleidung – im Hungerland Somalia Zeichen von Wohlstand’). 101 ‘Die Beute der Piraten’, Spiegel, no.  41, 6 October 2008, p.  132 (‘Denn Alis kleine Gangster sind in ihren Turnschuhen auf die Weltbühne geklettert, wo sonst nur die Großen spielen. Gegeben wird ein Drama in dem unklar ist, wer die Guten sind und wer die Bösen, auch weil Gute vielleicht gar nicht mitspielen. Die Piraten wirken in diesem Stück wie Taschendiebe, die dummerweise einem Mafia-Paten die Aktentasche geklaut haben.… Offiziell waren die T.72 aus der Ukraine für Kenia bestimmt. Aber nun mehren sich hinweise darauf, dass die Panzer der “Faina” durch Kenia ins Kriegsgebiet des Sudan geschleust werden sollten. Das wäre peinlich für die Ukraine und verheerend für Kenia, dessen Präsident gern den Friedensstifter gibt. Es sieht jedenfalls so aus, als hätten der Pirat Ali und seine Männer den Deal zum Platzen gebracht’). 102 ‘Bürokraten gegen Piraten’, Spiegel, no. 11, 9 March 2009, p. 111 (‘Am Ende dieser Fahrt werden sie voraussichtlich in einem kenianischen Hochsicherheitsgefängnis landen – in “Shimo la Tewa”, dem berüchtigten Knast von Mombasa, wo schon acht weitere Seeräuber auf ihren Prozess warten, der Anfang April beginnt. 3500 Häftlinge hausen dort, es ist schwül und heiß, der größte Teil der Insassen schläft auf dem Boden, nachts kriechen Ratten und Kakerlaken über die Beine der Gefangenen, das Trinkwasser ist versalzen und Malaria verbreitet’). See also, ‘Piraten: Trophäen im Gerichtssaal’, Focus, no. 15, 6 April 2009, p. 28; ‘Kakerlaken und Kalaschnikows’, Spiegel, no. 34, 30 March 2009, p. 34. 103 ‘Die Beute der Piraten’, Spiegel, no.  41, 6 October 2008, p.  132 (‘abenteuerliche Showdown’). 104 ‘Somalia: “Psychoterror rund um die Uhr”’, Focus, no. 33, 10 August 2009, p. 102 (‘Der hochgerüstete Militär- und Polizeiapparat der Industrienationen musste erneut vor den entschlossenen Seeräubern aus Somalia kapitulieren’). 105 ‘Ruf nach Rache’, Spiegel, no. 17, 20 April 2009, p. 100 (‘Mit ihren kleinen Plastikbooten blamieren die Seeräuber die Großmächte der Welt’). 106 ‘Die Verbrecher der Meere’, Focus, no. 47, 17 November 2008, p. 186 (‘Armada’). 107 ‘Somalia:  Krieg gegen die Piraten’, Focus, no.  17, 20 April 2009, p.  136 (‘waffenstarrenden Kriegsschiffen’). 108 ‘Mission:  Piratenjagd’, Stern, no.  7, 5 February 2009, pp.  24–31 (‘Hightech-Goliath gegen einen zerlumpten David, der mal Fischer war, sein AK-47-Gewehr von einem Warlord bekommen hat und Qat-Blätter kaut, um sich aufzuputschen’).

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109 ‘Ruf nach Rache’, Spiegel, no. 17, 20 April 2009, p. 100 (‘Aber die Seeräuber mit ihren zerschrammelten Außenbordern und Kalaschnikows lassen sich davon überhaupt nicht beeindrucken. Es ist ein Kampf David gegen Goliath’). 110 ‘Früher waren wir ehrliche Fischer’, Stern, no.  49, 27 November 2008, pp.  30–44 (‘“Früher waren wir ehrliche Fischer, aber seit Fremde unser Meer leer fischen, müssen wir nach anderen Wegen suchen, um zu überleben”, “Wir sind keine Seeräuber, sondern Küstenwächter. Piraten sind für uns diejenigen, die illegal unser Meer leer fischen, ihren Müll hier verklappen und Waffen durch unsere Gewässer transportieren”’). 111 ‘Somalia:  “Psychoterror rund um die Uhr”’, Focus, no.  33, 10 August 2009, p.  102 (‘Fischer wehrten sich gegen fremde Fangflotten und Verklappung von Giftmüll in Ihrem Revier’). 112 ‘Früher waren wir ehrliche Fischer’, Stern, no. 49, 27 November 2008, pp. 30–44 (‘Vor knapp 20 Jahren, als in Somalia die staatliche Ordnung zusammenbrach, tauchten Fangflotten aus aller Herren Länder auf und bedienten sich ohne Rücksicht auf Recht und Gesetz in den somalischen Hoheitsgewässern. “Nachts sah es draußen auf dem Meer aus, als schwämme da die Skyline von Manhattan”, sagt ein einheimischer Fischereiexperte. Hell erleuchtet und mit riesigen Schleppnetzen ausgerüstet hätten die Kutter die Fischgründe geplündert und mit schwerem Gerät auf die Korallenbänke eingehämmert, um Krustentiere aufzuscheuchen. Wie Donner hallte der Krach übers Wasser. “Mit fetter Beute” seien Schiffe aus Norwegen und “sogar aus dem fernen Japan” davongefahren, die Fischer aus Eyl oder Hobyo hingegen seien immer öfter mit leeren Netzen zurückgekommen’). 113 ‘Die Beute der Piraten’, Spiegel, no. 41, 6 October 2008, p. 132 (‘Das Vakuum nutzen seither auch skrupellose Geschäftemacher aus Europa und dem Rest der Welt:  Die einen versenken im Ozean vor Somalia Giftmüll und womöglich Atomschrott. Die anderen räubern mit Fangflotten in den Fischbeständen der Somalier – “ein Desaster für Somalias Küste, die Umwelt, die Bevölkerung”, sagt Ahmedou Ould-Abdallah, der Uno-Sonderbeauftragte für Somalia. Aufgebrachte somalische Fischer vertrieben früh ausländische Boote mit Kalaschnikow-Feuer’). 114 ‘Wir Piraten’, Spiegel, no. 3, 12 January 2009, p. 130 (‘hohe Arbeitslosigkeit). 115 ‘Die Verbrecher der Meere’, Focus, no. 47, 17 November 2008, p. 186 (‘Eine Lösung des Problems sei erst absehbar, wenn an Stelle des von Clans dominierten Somalia “eine Art Staat existiert”’). 116 ‘Duell am Tor der Tränen’, Spiegel, no. 48, 24 November 2008, p. 22 (‘Alles, was man braucht, ist ein Boot, drei Jungs, und schon ist man Millionär’). 117 ‘Somalia:  “Psychoterror rund um die Uhr”’, Focus, no.  33, 10 August 2009, p.  102 (‘Goldene Gans’; ‘Frachter mit seinen niedrigen Bordwänden mittschiffs’; ‘zu verlockend’). 118 ‘Wir Piraten’, Spiegel, no. 3, 12 January 2009, p. 130 (‘der Pirat von heute, nach Indhabur, vor allem Arbeitgeber einer verarmten Küstenbevölkerung, also ein guter, ein Klaus Störtebeker unserer Zeit. Den Reichen nehmen, den Armen geben’). 119 ‘Terror on the high seas:  Somali pirates form unholy alliance with Islamists’, Spiegel Online, 20 April 2009, www.spiegel.de/international/world/0,1518,620027,00.html (accessed 21 August 2010). 120 ‘Peril on the sea’, Economist, 2 October 2003, www.southchinasea.org/docs/ Economist%20Article-Peril%20on%20the%20Sea.pdf (accessed 12 June 2010).

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121 UNCLOS is available at www.un.org/Depts/los/convention_agreements/texts/unclos/unclos_e.pdf (accessed 20 August 2010). 122 See www.icc-ccs.org/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=27&Itemid=16 (accessed 20 August 2010). 123 ‘Terror on the high seas:  Somali pirates form unholy alliance with Islamists’, Spiegel Online, 20 April 2009, www.spiegel.de/international/world/0,1518,620027,00.html (accessed 21 August 2010). 124 Peter Struck (SPD) Deutscher Bundestag, 16. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 189. Sitzung, 26 November 2008, p. 20350 (‘Der Einsatz von Militär zur Bekämpfung von Gewalt und Terrorismus auf internationaler Ebene ist manchmal unabdingbar. Das gilt für die Piraten vor der Küste Somalias ebenso wie für die Terroristen und ihre Unterstützer in Afghanistan’). 125 Dr Rainer Stinner (FDP) Deutscher Bundestag, 16. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 195. Sitzung, 17 December 2008, p.  21060 (‘Geheimdienste hätten Informationen, dass Verbindungen zwischen al-Qaida und den Piraten bestehen.… Wenn das der Fall ist, wird das Problem noch viel größer und bedrohlicher’). 126 Birgit Homburger (FDP) Deutscher Bundestag, 16. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 197. Sitzung, 19 December 2008, p. 21343 (‘zusammenarbeiten’). 127 Ulrich Adam (CDU/CSU) Deutscher Bundestag, 16. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 197. Sitzung, 19 December 2008, p. 21355 (‘Man darf sich gar nicht vorstellen, was passierte, wenn sich Piraten mit der al-Qaida einlassen würden’). 128 Birgit Homburger (FDP) Deutscher Bundestag, 16. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 197. Sitzung, 19 December 2008, p.  21344 (‘Grenzüberschreitender internationaler Terrorismus ist von Piraterie und organisierter Kriminalität oft nicht mehr zu unterscheiden’). 129 Kurt Bodewig (SPD) Deutscher Bundestag, 16. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 197. Sitzung, 19 December 2008, p.  21354 (‘Piraten, liebe Frau Homburger, sind keine Terroristen. Wir sollten hier auch kein al-Qaida-Phänomen aufbauen’). 130 ‘Antwort der Bundesregierung auf die Kleine Anfrage der Abgeordneten Dr.  Rainer Stinner, Birgit Homburger, Elke Hoff, weiterer Abgeordneter und der Fraktion der FDP’, Drucksache 16/9286, p.  5 (‘Besitzt die Bundesregierung Kenntnisse über Zusammenhänge zwischen Piraterie und internationalem Terrorismus? Wenn ja, welche? Nach Erkenntnissen der Bundesregierung handelt es sich bei Piraterie und internationalem Terrorismus nach Motivation und Zielrichtung um zwei unterschiedliche Phänomene. Während bei der Piraterie die illegale Erlangung von materiellen Vorteilen beabsichtigt ist, verfolgt der internationale Terrorismus ideologisch motivierte Ziele’), http://dip21.bundestag.de/dip21/btd/16/092/1609286.pdf (accessed 14 June 2012). 131 ‘Antwort der Bundesregierung auf die Kleine Anfrage der Abgeordneten Hans-Christian Ströbele, Agnes Malczak, Dr. Frithjof Schmidt, weitere Abgeordneter und der Fraktion Bündnis 90/Die Grünen’, Drucksache 17/1287, p.  13 (‘Während die Operation EU NAVFOR ATALANTA mit der Pirateriebekämpfung beauftragt ist, wird OEF im Rahmen des internationalen Kampfes gegen den Terrorismus durchgeführt’), http:// dip21.bundestag.de/dip21/btd/17/012/1701287.pdf (accessed 14 June 2012). 132 ‘Antwort der Bundesregierung auf die Kleine Anfrage der Abgeordneten Dr. Norman Paech, Paul Schäfer (Köln), Monika Knoche, weitere Abgeordneter und der Fraktion

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Die Linke’, Drucksache 16/11453, p. 3 (‘Die Bekämpfung der Piraterie ist im Auftrage für OEF nicht vorgesehen’), http://dipbt.bundestag.de/dip21/btd/16/114/1611453. pdf (accessed 13 June 2012). 133 ‘Antwort der Bundesregierung auf die Kleine Anfrage der Abgeordneten Winfried Nachtwei, Kerstin Müller (Köln), Omid Nouripour, weiterer Abgeordneter und der Fraktion Bündnis 90/Die Grünen’, Drucksache 16/11382, p.  11 (‘Da das deutsche Mandat ausschließlich die Bekämpfung des internationalen Terrorismus vorsieht, beinhalten diese Einsatzregeln keine Befugnisse zur Pirateriebekämpfung’), http://dipbt. bundestag.de/dip21/btd/16/113/1611382.pdf (accessed 11 June 2012). 134 See ‘Antwort der Bundesregierung auf die Kleine Anfrage der Abgeordneten Hans-Christian Ströbele, Agnes Malczak, Dr. Frithjof Schmidt, weitere Abgeordneter und der Fraktion Bündnis 90/Die Grünen’, p. 8 (‘Das aktuelle Mandat des Deutschen Bundestages beschränkt die Beteiligung deutscher Streitkräfte am Kampf gegen Piraterie auf die Operation EU NAVFOR ATALANTA’). 135 Ibid. 136 See www.eunavfor.eu/ (accessed 14 June 2012). 137 See the United Nations Security Council resolutions S/Res/1816 (2008); 1838 (2008); 1846 (2008); 1851 (2008); 1897 (2009); 1918 (2010); 1950 (2010); 1976 (2011); 2015 (2011); 2020 (2011), www.un.org/Depts/los/piracy/piracy_documents.htm (accessed 14 January 2013). 138 For the debate on the ‘truthfulness’ of the illegal fishing and toxic waste narrative in academia see Weldemichael 2012; Schneider and Winkler 2013; or Hansen 2011. 139 Dr Norman Paech (Die Linke) Deutscher Bundestag, 16. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 195. Sitzung, 17 December 2008, p.  21063, see also Dr Norman Paech (Die Linke) Deutscher Bundestag, 16. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 227. Sitzung, 18 June 2009, p. 25193. 140 Niema Novassat (Die Linke) Deutscher Bundestag, 17. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 11. Sitzung, 16 December 2009, p. 854 (‘Selbst das von der EU ins Leben gerufene Maritime Security Center benennt die Überfischung somalischer Gewässer durch internationale, oft illegale Fischfangflotten sowie die Giftmüllverklappung als auslösende Faktoren für die Piraterie am Horn von Afrika. So wird den somalischen Fischern jeden Tag ein weiteres Stückchen ihrer Existenzgrundlage entzogen. Machen wir es konkret:  Da ist ein Fischer, der muss Frau und Kinder versorgen. Fangen tut er nichts mehr; denn das Meer ist leergefischt oder die Fische sind vergiftet. Wovon sollen er und seine Familie morgen leben? So erscheint Piraterie einigen tragischerweise als ein Ausweg. Natürlich ist Piraterie ein Verbrechen, die Zerstörung der Existenzgrundlage von Zehntausenden Fischern aber ebenfalls’). See also ‘Erklärung nach § 31 GO der Abgeordneten Hans-Christian Ströbele, Winfried Hermann, Monika Lazar und Dr. Wolfgang Strengmann-Kuhn (alle Bündnis 90/Die Grünen) zur Abstimmung über die Beschlussempfehlung:  Fortsetz ung der Beteiligung bewaffneter deutscher Streitkräfte an der EU-geführten Operation Atalanta zur Bekämpfung der Piraterie vor der Küste Somalias’, Deutscher Bundestag, 17. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 78. Sitzung, 2 December 2010, p. 8713. 141 Christine Buchholz (Die Linke) Deutscher Bundestag, 17. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 74. Sitzung, 24 November 2010, p. 8174 (‘So ein Quatsch!’). 142 Hans-Christian Ströbele (Bündnis 90/Die Grünen) Deutscher Bundestag, 17. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 78. Sitzung, 2 December 2010, p. 8624 (‘das Leerfischen dieser ursprünglich

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sehr fischreichen Gewässer eine der Ursachen ist, warum auch Fischer zu Piraten geworden sind’). See also ‘Erklärung nach § 31 GO der Abgeordneten Hans-Christian Ströbele, Winfried Hermann, Monika Lazar und Dr.  Wolfgang Strengmann-Kuhn (alle Bündnis 90/Die Grünen) zur Abstimmung über die Beschlussempfehlung:  Fortsetzung der Beteiligung bewaffneter deutscher Streitkräfte an der EU-geführten Operation Atalanta zur Bekämpfung der Piraterie vor der Küste Somalias’, Deutscher Bundestag, 17. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 78. Sitzung, 2 December 2010, p. 8713. 143 Ingo Gädechens (CDU/CSU) Deutscher Bundestag, 17. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 78. Sitzung, 2 December 2010, p.  8624 (‘Herr Ströbele, ich verkenne nicht das Problem der Fischtrawler, der großen Fischfangfabrikschiffe, die in internationalen Gewässern weit vor der Küste Somalias die Meere leerfischen. Es gibt sicherlich einen Zusammenhang, aber ich sehe keinen direkten Zusammenhang, weil der somalische Fischer Küstenfischerei betrieben hat. Ich könnte jetzt einen großen Exkurs über die Probleme, die unsere Ostseefischer und unsere Nordseefischer haben, vortragen, Die sind auch nicht Piraten geworden’). 144 Hans-Christian Ströbele (Bündnis 90/Die Grünen) Deutscher Bundestag, 17. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 74. Sitzung, 24 November 2010, pp. 8170–8171. 145 Guido Westerwelle (FDP) Deutscher Bundestag, 17. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 74. Sitzung, 24 November 2010, p. 8171 (‘weil die armen Fischer keine Fischgründe mehr haben und sich deshalb als Piraten organisieren, ist, ehrlich gesagt ziemlich naiv’). See also Thomas Kossendey (Parl. Staatssekretär beim Bundesminister der Verteidigung) Deutscher Bundestag, 17. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 74. Sitzung, 24 November 2010, pp. 8173–8174. 146 Burkhardt Müller-Sönksen (FDP) Deutscher Bundestag, 17. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 78. Sitzung, 2 December 2010, p.  8618 (‘Ich möchte mich hier  – dies ist mein letzter Punkt  – ganz deutlich gegen die Romantisierung des Problems Piraterie aussprechen. Es handelt sich bei diesen Piraten nicht um mittellose Fischer, denen die Existenzgrundlage entzogen wurde und die nun in ihrer Verzweiflung mit ihren Booten Handelsschiffe angreifen’). See also Philipp Mißfelder (CDU/CSU), Deutscher Bundestag, 17. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 74. Sitzung, 24 November 2010, p. 8177. 147 Markus Grübel (CDU/CSU) Deutscher Bundestag, 17. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 12. Sitzung, 17 December 2009, p. 1001 (‘Wenn wir an Piraten denken, dann kommen uns Karibik, Palmen, weiße Strände, Kokosnüsse. Malerische Piratennester am Mittelmeer oder das Piratenschiff auf den Kinderspielplätzen in den Sinn. Aber mit all dem hat Piraterie überhaupt nichts zu tun. Piraterie ist ein brutales, organisiertes Verbrechen wie Drogenhandel, Menschenhandel und Schutzgelderpressung’). 148 Dr Günter Krings (CDU/CSU) Deutscher Bundestag, 16. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 155. Sitzung, 11 April 2008, p. 16320 (‘Digitale Piraten haben offenbar wenig mit echten Piraten gemeinsam. Aber auf eine bestimmte Weise ähnelt sich unsere Vorstellung von beiden wohl doch. Das oft romantisierende Bild des Piraten zur See hat sich in der Weise auf den digitalen Piraten übertragen, dass man zwar sein Tun in Grundsatz missbilligt, aber dann klammheimlich doch mit ihm sympathisiert’). 149 Omid Nouripour (Bündnis 90/Die Grünen) Deutscher Bundestag, 16. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 221. Sitzung, 13.5.2009, p. 24187 (‘dass unsere eigene Fischfangflotten den Boden für soziale Probleme bereiten, die die Menschen in die Piraterie treiben’). See also Trittin 2011: 355–359.

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150 Birgit Homburger (FDP) Deutscher Bundestag, 16. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 197. Sitzung, 19 December 2008, p. 21343 (‘Es ist entstanden, weil Somalia seit über 15 Jahren einen staatliche Ordnung fehlt. Dieser rechtslose Zustand wurde durch asiatische, aber auch durch europäische Staaten ausgenutzt, indem in somalischen Hoheitsgewässer illegal Müll verklappte wurde und beispielsweise die Fischbestände massiv reduziert wurden, wodurch auch die Chancen somalischer Fischer auf Ernährung ihrer Familien gesunken sind’). 151 Wolfgang Börnsen (CDU/CSU) Deutscher Bundestag, 16. Wahlperiode, Protokoll der 195. Sitzung, 17 December 2008, p. 21068 (‘Wenn nach Aussage der WHO jährlich gut 700 ausländische Fangflotten vor der Küste Somalias die Fischbestände dezimieren und damit den Fischern vor Ort die Existenzgrundlage nehmen, stößt man auf einen der Ausgangspunkte für die Piraterie, Hinzu kommen die Verseuchung der dortigen Küstengewässer durch verklappte Chemikalien, Armut und der Zusammenbruch der Sicherheitssysteme’). 152 See 3(g) in ‘Deutscher Bundestag, Antrag der Bundesregierung, Fortsetzung der Beteiligung bewaffneter deutscher Streitkräfte an der EU-geführten Operation Atalanta zur Bekämpfung der Piraterie vor der Küste Somalias’, 9 December 2009, Drucksache 17/179, p.  2, http://dipbt.bundestag.de/dip21/btd/17/001/1700179.pdf (accessed 17 July 2013). 153 Ibid., p.  7 (‘Die öffentliche Ordnung ist in weiten Teilen des Landes kollabiert. Es fehlt an durchsetzungsfähigen staatlichen Strukturen. Dies sowie der Mangel an legalen Erwerbsmöglichkeiten ist Hintergrund für die Piraterie vor der somalischen Küste’). See also ‘Deutscher Bundestag, Antrag der Bundesregierung, Fortsetzung der Beteiligung bewaffneter deutscher Streitkräfte an der EU-geführten Operation Atalanta zur Bekämpfung der Piraterie vor der Küste Somalias’, 18 April 2012, Drucksache 17/9339, p. 6, http://dipbt.bundestag.de/dip21/btd/17/093/1709339.pdf (accessed 17 July 2013) or ‘Deutscher Bundestag, Antrag der Bundesregierung, Fortsetzung der Beteiligung bewaffneter deutscher Streitkräfte an der EU-geführten Operation Atalanta zur Bekämpfung der Piraterie vor der Küste Somalias’, 10 November 2010, Drucksache 17/3691, p. 6, http://dipbt.bundestag.de/dip21/btd/17/036/1703691.pdf (accessed 17 July 2013). 154 Deutscher Bundestag, ‘Antrag der Bundesregierung, Fortsetzung der Beteiligung bewaffneter deutscher Streitkräfte an der EU-geführten Operation Atalanta zur Bekämpfung der Piraterie vor der Küste Somalias’, 9 December 2009, p. 7 (‘Dies betrifft auch die den Aufbau von funktionierenden staatlichen Strukturen zur Überwachung und Verwaltung des Fischfangs vor Somalia’).

3

British narratives of the rebel in Libya

This chapter will retell a romantic story of rebellion by indicating the persistence of a romantic story about the rebel from the period of romanticism via romantic representations in movies such as Lawrence of Arabia to more current media reporting and parliamentary debates on rebels in the Libyan conflict in 2011. The romanticization of the rebels in Libya is somewhat unsurprising as they represent actors who are considered to be fighting on the same side as the Western ‘us’ against an evil Gaddafi ‘other’. Yet, the romantic narrative of rebellion in Libya remains important as it is connected to the marginalization of other more negative stories about rebels in the conflict including stories about crimes, human rights violations and links to al-Qaeda terrorism. The chapter thus emphasizes the importance of cultural stories for the current perception of rebel movements. The concept of the ‘rebel’ is ambiguous, as one can imagine both positively romantic stories of a heroic struggle for freedom against oppression as well as highly negative stories involving brutal and fanatical rebels perpetrating the mass killing of civilians. While the culturally embedded stories of the ‘rebel’ are not predominantly romantic, it is nevertheless possible to tell a romantic story about rebels as there are culturally embedded popular romantic narratives on the rebel, be they factitious characters such the teenage rebel Jim Stark played by James Dean in Rebel without a Cause, real-life actors such as Che Guevara or something in between such as Lawrence of Arabia which current narratives can link themselves to. There is thus a possibility of intertextual narratability. The chapter is structured as follows. The first part reflects on the historical as well as literary linkage between romanticism, rebellion and revolution. Employing the method of narrative analysis outlined in Chapter 1 and focusing on setting, characterization and emplotment, the second part then emphasizes the romantic side of an ambiguous and partly orientalist narrative about

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the Arab rebel in movies such as Lawrence of Arabia. Following this, the third part of the chapter shows the persistence of these romantic elements in British news media reporting on the rebellion against the Gaddafi regime in Libya in 2011, and the fourth part mirrors this by examining the romantic narratives found in British parliamentary debates and political speeches of leading politicians. The final part of the chapter outlines the marginalization of alternative negative stories about rebellion in Libya by focusing on the notions of crimes, human rights violations and the linkage between rebel forces and al-Qaeda terrorists.

Rebellion, revolution and romance Romanticism, rebellion and revolution are deeply intertwined on the levels of history, poets and content. On the level of history it is important to note that romanticism has not only something to do with narrative genre but also that it denotes a movement or attitude during a period between the end of the eighteenth and the middle of the nineteenth century in which social, cultural as well as political upheavals such as the French, American and Irish revolutions were a dominant feature of current affairs and (political) discourse in general (Haywood 2006; Duff 1994; Stauffer 2005). While much of the political writing during this revolutionary time was littered with romantic images, much of the romantic writing was full of revolutionary elements. In particular English romanticism was greatly influenced by many of the political ideals central to the beginning of the French Revolution such as equality, democracy and opposition to absolutism, as these were incorporated into the literature of numerous writers in Britain and thereby into domestic political debate and politics. At the time, romanticism was considered a political language (Klancher 1989: 491) and still is. As Northrop Frye (1963) points out: ‘Romanticism is primarily a revolution in poetic imagery … it is not only a revolution but inherently revolutionary, and enables poets to articulate a revolutionary age.’ Many of the English romantic poets, such as William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and Robert Southey, were attracted to numerous arguments underlying many of the rebellions at the time and were also initially sympathetic towards the French Revolution. Yet it is important to note that there was no unified romantic movement in Europe or even in England at the time, as the English romantics and romanticism as a label was an invention of their

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Victorian critics. ‘The “English romantics” did not know themselves as such until the later nineteenth century posthumously invented them’ (Klancher 1989: 471). While the British romantics included more conservative writers such Walter Scott and liberals such as Wordsworth and Coleridge who wrote romance to ‘escape from the pressure of political affairs and everyday life’ (Duff 1994: 3), other more radical romantics such as the rebellious Byron and the revolutionary Shelley embraced many ideas of the revolution to criticize the government in London. Romantic writers were considered fundamentally social and political poets, a ‘junction between the Revolutionary and the romantic movement’ (Klancher 1989: 471). Byron and his writings, for example, are said to include ‘“elements of the revolutionary spirit,” so that, from the Bastille to the 18th Brumaire, the French Revolution becomes “a microcosm of the Byronic epos”’ (Klancher 1989: 474). Yet while some hold that the ‘“Byronic Hero” and “Romantic Rebel” have become virtually synonymous’ (Bone 1983: 168) and that Byron was a ‘hero in the cause of Liberty’ (Perrie 1983: 142) and a ‘poet of liberty’ who loved freedom (Beatty 2008: 1), others are more sceptical and hold that his aristocratic status prevented him from truly embracing egalitarianism. They point to many of the inconsistencies in his writing and the notion that while he may have been a revolutionary abroad he remained conservative with regard to political struggles in England (Cronin 2000: 160, Perrie 1983: 145; Cronin 2002). Others go even further to claim that Byron as a political revolutionary is a myth. As Cochran points out: ‘In the Byronic myth, Byron died heroically, assisting the Greeks in their anti-imperialist struggle against the Turks. Nothing in the historical record supports this nonsense’ (Cochran 2011: 19). So while Byron financed and personally took part in the fight for Greek liberation and against Turkish oppression, his writing is commonly considered more rebellious and not as explicitly political and revolutionary as the work by Percy Bysshe Shelley, who, according to Marx, ‘was a revolutionary through and through’ (Marx, cited in Aveling and Marx-Aveling 1888). David Duff argues that Shelley’s poem Queen Mab (1813), as a revolutionary romance, is ‘the most radical and outspoken of all his poems, [which] establishes a direct and conscious link with the revolutionary culture of the 1790s’ (Duff 1994: 4). Similarly, Prometheus Unbound (1820) shares many notions of revolutionary idealism such as goodness, hope, free will and an opposition to oppression. Shelley’s rebellious and revolutionary notions become apparent in the Epilogue of Prometheus Unbound:

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Romantic narratives in international politics To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite; To forgive wrongs darker than death or night; To defy Power, which seems omnipotent; To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates From its own wreck the thing it contemplates; Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent; This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free; This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory. (Shelley [1820] 2012: 129)

The notion of revolution appears interwoven with the language of ­romance and the same can be said vice versa. As Frye points out, romantic writing is inherently revolutionary on account of its utopian nature, its uncompromising idealism and its ‘polarizing between two worlds, one desirable and the other hateful’ (Frye 1976: 163). Similarly, Howard Jones holds that (English) romanticism is at least rebellious if not outright revolutionary as ‘romanticism tends to imply some sort of radical break with some sort of current conventions, and often makes references to an idealized world, compared to which the present condition of mankind is unsatisfactory’ ( Jones 1974: 367). The characterizations of the rebel fit the notion of the romantic hero, as he or she is said to reject social conventions and courageously engage in an asymmetrical conflict against a stronger yet unjust oppressive order for the benefit of a larger group. This is not to say that a story about a rebel can be told only in a positive ­romantic fashion. In fact one can imagine stories in which the rebels are said to be evil, bloodthirsty killers responsible for genocide, fighting against a more legitimate order. As reports and research on rebel groups such as the Revolutionary United Front in Sierra Leone, the Lord’s Resistance Army in Uganda or the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia in Colombia show, narratives on rebellion do not have to be presented in a romantic fashion to gain prominence (Van Acker 2004; Gberie 2005; Shifter 1999). The important point this chapter wants to make is, however, that stories of rebels, in contrast to stories about terrorists or mercenaries, can be told romantically. There are culturally embedded narratives of the romantic rebel which new stories can link themselves to. In other words there is a possibility of intertextual narratability. To illustrate this ambiguous nature of the rebel story the following section will tell both a negative as well as a romantic story of Arab rebellion in the movie Lawrence of Arabia. This sets the stage for the empirical analysis of media and political narratives of rebellion in Libya in order to

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show both the consistency of romantic story elements and the possibility of alternative stories which in the case of Libya remain marginalized.

The romantic Arab rebel? How do the romantic images of the rebel fit to the story of a romantic Arab or Middle Eastern rebel? Western stories about the Middle East and the Arab in the context of the ‘War on Terror’ have generally not been very romantic. Here the Arab is not the hero but the villain, as the narratives widely construct the setting of the Middle East as threatening, with the Arab character being considered a potential terrorist who is emplotted to be fighting against freedom rather than for it ( Jackson 2005; Spencer 2010, 2012). Many of these highly negative representations are based on what Said refers to as orientalist structures of knowledge which diametrically oppose the Western/European ‘us’ with the Oriental/Arab ‘other’ (Said 1978). By employing a Foucauldian notion of discourse, orientalism constitutes the Arab as backward, dangerous, threatening, violent, cruel, hostile, prone to despotism, gullible yet cunning, irrational, depraved, childlike and generally different. The ‘evil, totalitarian and terroristic Arabs’ (Said 1978: 27) are the exact opposite of and ultimately inferior to Europeans: ‘On the one hand there are Westerners, and on the other there are Arab-Orientals; the former are (in no particular order) rational, peaceful, liberal, logical, capable of holding real values, without natural suspicion; the latter are none of these things’ (Said 1978:  49). Said argues that orientalism is a ‘cultural enterprise’ in which there has been a considerable theoretical and material investment, in other words a ‘project whose dimensions take in such disparate realms as the imagination itself ’ (Said 1978: 4). Orientalism is therefore not only visible in the discourses of the political elite but in many Western cultural, literary and artistic representations of the Arab world. Yet, while Said’s orientalism predominantly focuses on the negative attributions associated with the Arab, there is also a more positive romantic side to orientalism, as Said himself mentions the ‘mysterious’ Orient as a ‘place of romance’ full of ‘exotic beings’ and ‘oriental splendour’ and ‘sensuality’ (Said 1978: 1–28). A number of critics of Said have pointed in this direction and have argued that texts on the Middle East and the Arab world can also be read differently and are far more ambivalent than Said would suggest (Irwin 2006; Warraq 2007; Varisco 2007). Therefore texts on the Orient are able to question these negative images of the Arab and even tell a positive story of identification in which the reader not only sympathizes with but wants to be like the Arab. This would involve,

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as Homi Bhabha points out, a shift away from the Orient being the ‘other’ to it being the ‘alter’: ‘Where the originality of this pioneering theory loses its inventiveness, and for me its usefulness, is with Said’s reluctance to engage with alterity and ambivalence’ (Bhabha 1983: 24). This notion of alterity and the ambiguous reading of texts on Arabs is clearly visible in many of the literary narratives on the Orient in the early twentieth century which focus on romance and rebellion, including novels of the desert romance genre and sun-and-sand films (Hodson 1995; Purinton 2008). Novels such as Edith Maude Hull’s The Sheik (1921) or The Son of the Sheik (1926) as well as more recent incarnations of the desert romance genre such as Barbara Faith’s Desert Man (1994) involve ambiguous narrative elements which portray the Orient as an ‘exotic-yet-harsh desert setting’ or ‘a faraway, dreamy setting for fantasy or escape’ ( Jarmakani 2010:  994–995). The Arab is characterized as cruel as well as exciting and the story is emplotted as a fantasy of (sexual) submission and freedom (Bach 1997; Taylor 2007; Teo 2012; Jarmakani 2011). The oriental setting was laden with sensuality for early twentieth-century viewers, some of it titillatingly perverse:  belly-dancing harem girls; depraved and sinister Sheiks; and the white slave trade-captivity theme common to romances set among ‘native’ peoples. The view that Arabs were cruel and repressive, living by the sword, while at the same time exotic and sexually exciting, was also well entrenched. (Hodson 1995: 66)

One of the most famous cultural artefacts which build on many of these early representations and which combines elements of ambiguous orientalism with notions of political rebellion and romance is the story of Lawrence of Arabia. Both the book by T. E. Lawrence (1935), Seven Pillars of Wisdom, as well as the film Lawrence of Arabia (1962) by David Lean and Robert Bolt tell a story of the First World War in which the British encouraged and supported the Arab rebellion against Ottoman rule. Both are clear examples of orientalist texts (Said 1978:  241; Macfie 2007:  78; Long 2009) which, however, can be read in an ambiguous fashion in which the story includes many elements of not only the cruel, inferior Arab ‘other’ but of a heroic Arab ‘alter’ struggling against oppression in a romantic rebellion. While there are undeniably negative orientalist elements to the story, there are also positive romantic elements which not only criticize imperialist rule but also constitute the Arab as heroic and the rebellion as a romantic struggle against oppression (Caton 1999; Macfie 2007; Hodson 1995; Anderegg 1982). In particular, on examining the film Lawrence of Arabia by Lean against

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the notions of setting, characterization and emplotment the movie tells a rather ambiguous story. Considering the setting, there are two distinct and ambiguous representations of the surrounding desert in which the narrative unfolds. One the one hand, you have the setting, especially in the second half of the film, which is ‘harsher, rocky, flat, full of dust, war, slaughter, suffering, death, and flies’ (Kennedy 1994: 166). On the other hand, you have the widely acclaimed, Oscar winning shots of the setting constituting ‘[a]‌vast romantic landscape of sand, rock and blue sky’ (Bolt 1962: 22), a setting which portrays the desert as ‘a clean, heroic landscape full of challenge and beauty’ (Kennedy 1994: 166). ‘The setting that Lean has thoughtfully created and emphasized for Lawrence’s deed is so magnificent and noble that his very audacity at stepping somewhat hesitantly into the role of an epic and romantic leader is sanctioned by his awesome surrounding’ (Pratley 1974: 158). With regard to the characterization of Lawrence, played by Peter O’Toole, one also encounters this ambiguity. On the one hand, he is constituted as the romantic hero and charismatic leader, the ‘uncrowned Prince of Mecca, a modern Arabian knight’ who is resourceful, determined and courageous (Anderegg 1982: 285; Kennedy 1994: 162; Macfie 2007: 77). He is the ‘romantic genius’ who inspired and led the Arab rebellion against Ottoman rule (Caton 1999: 175). Lawrence is said to be ‘courageous, dashing magnetic Oriental Lawrence, Prince of Mecca, uncrowned King of Arabia, bravely enduring torture, thirst, hunger, and hundreds of other miseries and discomforts in a noble cause’ (Anderegg 1982: 286–287). At first sight this fits to Said’s orientalist reading of the story. As Anderegg (1982:  290)  points out:  ‘By presenting Lawrence as a kind of god to the Arabs, the film seems to re-enact one of the hoariest clichés found in Hollywood films sets in “primitive” cultures and among “savage” tribes.’ Yet on the other hand, Lawrence is characterized at times as tormented, sexually deviant, masochistic, mentally unstable, cold-blooded, fascist, vain and childish (Anderegg 1982: 292; Caton 1999: 176). As Macfie (2007: 85) points out: Lean and Bolt, far from identifying Lawrence as the typical, Western masculine hero, and the Arab as the necessarily effeminate other, as the orientalist paradigm requires, actually represent him as sexually deviant (possible a homosexual), a sadist and a masochist, albeit one who succeeds at the cost of his mental stability in transforming himself into a successful man of action.

He is constituted as a rebel who rebels against hierarchy and the rigid conventions of the British Empire and who does not conform to the mould of Western

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‘self ’ and oriental ‘other’. He is said to be subversive and ‘a maverick in the military ranks and rebellious’ (Caton 1999: 146). He is portrayed as an outcast and different from the normal British ‘self ’: Tafas:  [talking of Britain] Is that a desert country? Lawrence:  No: a fat country. Fat people. Tafas:  You are not fat? Lawrence:  No. I’m different.1

Similar ambiguities become visible when analysing the characterization of the Arab rebel. In parts the characterization of the Arab fits Said’s orientalism. Arabs are portrayed as passive, divided, quarrelsome, incapable of self-government and therefore have to be led by Lawrence and the British (Anderegg 1982: 296). They are labelled as ‘a nation of sheep stealers’,2 ‘bloody savages’3 or ‘bloody wogs’.4 ‘The Arabs are considered illiterate (because most read no English), barbaric, undisciplined, and dirty’ (Kennedy 1994: 175). They are characterized as a tribal society which is greedy and violent (Caton 1999:  158). As Lawrence himself deplores after the shooting of his guide Tafas (a member of the Beni Salem tribe) by Sherif Ali (a member of the Harith tribe) at Masturah Well for drinking from his tribe’s well: ‘So long as the Arabs fight tribe against tribe, so long will they be a little people. A silly people! Greedy, barbarous, and cruel – as you are!’5 At the same time there are also very different and ambiguous portrayals of the Arab visible in the characterization of Prince Feisal, Auda Abu Tayi and Sherif Ali. ‘These three characters embody the range of stereotypes one may hold of Arabs. Feisal is sage, calm, softspoken, prophetlike; Auda is childish, excitable, vain, avaricious  – all emotionalism and sensuality; Ali incorporates elements of both, while additionally contributing attractive exoticism and “Oriental” glamour’ (Anderegg 1982:  294). Furthermore, the Arab is romanticized by characterizing him as noble, honourable, resourceful, strong, loyal, hospitable and courageous in the fight against a far stronger enemy (Anderegg 1982: 289; Kennedy 1994: 176; Caton 1999: 157). He, in contrast to Lawrence, even shows empathy and compassion for the Turkish enemy during the intense bombardment of Turkish-held Damascus: Ali:  God help the men who lie under that. Lawrence: They’re Turks! Ali:  God help them.6

While the Arab rebel ceases to be seen as the fundamental other and rather becomes a similar alter, ‘the representations of the Turks in this movie are more

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Other than those of the Arabs’ (Caton 1999: 195) as they are characterized as ‘cruel and beastly, murderous and rapists’ (Macfie 2007: 84). With regard to emplotment, Lawrence of Arabia can be read as a story about imperialism and the perpetuation of the status quo, or as a story about revolutionary, almost utopian change. As Macfie points out: Said’s analysis of Lawrence’s orientalism appears, at first sight, very convincing. But it does, I think, give rise to two problems, both of which Said almost certainly recognized. First, the events of the Arab Revolt which Lawrence describes in the Seven Pillars of Wisdom are almost certainly concerned with change and not with stagnation as the orientalist paradigm would require. (Macfie 2007: 79)

On the one hand, we have Lawrence working for the British Empire in the knowledge that the promised independence for the Arabs will not be forthcoming after the end of the First World War (Kennedy 1994: 169; Macfie 2007: 77). On the other, we have Lawrence who is genuinely fighting for the freedom of the weaker Arabs against the strong and brutal oppression of the Ottoman Empire in an asymmetric conflict: Bentley:  Before I return to the fleshpots, which I shall be very glad to do, may I put two questions to you straight? Lawrence:  I’d be interested to hear you put a question straight, Mr Bentley. Bentley:  One. What in your opinion do these people hope to gain from this war? Lawrence:  They hope to gain their freedom.[Bentley looks bewildered] Lawrence:  [pronouncing it very slowly so the reporter can note it down] Freedom. Bentley:  ‘They hope to gain their freedom.’ Pfff … There’s one born every minute. Lawrence:  They’re going to get it, Mr Bentley. I’m going to give it to them.7

We see the emplotment of a ‘Lawrence who wants to lead an oppressed people from bandage to freedom, who loves the East, the desert nights, the strength and courage of his Bedouin comrades’ (Anderegg 1982: 287). Allenby:  So you hold bound the Turkish desert army? Lawrence: Yes. Allenby:  With a thousand Arabs? Lawrence:  A thousand Arabs, means a thousand knives. Delivered anywhere, day or night. It means a thousand camels. That means a thousand packs of high explosives and a thousand crack rifles. We can cross Arabia while Johnny Turk is still turning round. I’ll smash his railways; while he mends, I’ll smash them somewhere else. In 13 weeks I can have Arabia in chaos. Allenby:  You are going back then? Lawrence:  Yes. Of course I’m going back.

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Allenby:  Well, if we can see it, so can the Turk. If he finds he’s using four divisions to fend off a handful of bandits he’ll withdraw. Lawrence:  He doesn’t withdraw. Arabia’s part of his empire. If he gets out now, he’ll never get back again. Brighton:  I wonder who will? Lawrence:  No one will. Arabia’s for the Arabs now.8

As this section has shown, the story of rebellion in Lawrence of Arabia including the setting, the characterization and the emplotment of the rebel can be told both negatively and in a positive romantic fashion, as taking place in an exotic, far-away setting and involving courageous rebels in a struggle against a brutal and oppressive regime. The following section will focus on narratives of rebellion in Libya in 2011 and illustrates the consistence of the romantic story elements. This will be followed by an indication of marginalized narratives which portray the rebel in a highly negative fashion by linking him to crime, human rights violations and terrorism.

British media narratives on rebellion in Libya In order to gain a rough insight into the narratives being told about rebels during the conflict in Libya I  used the Nexis (formerly Lexis Nexis) news database to search for the concepts of ‘Libya’ and ‘rebel’ in the Guardian, The Times and the Sun newspapers from the beginning of the conflict (17 February 2011) until its official conclusion (31 October 2011). Out of these the analysis focused on ninety of the, according to Nexis, most relevant articles. The newspapers were selected as they cover both the left and the right of the political spectrum as well as offering a more popular tabloid story about rebellion in Libya.

Setting While the narrative of rebellion is set in the wider context of the Arab Spring, there are only few material or scenic indications of a romantic setting which constitute the narrative as one set in an exotic, far-away and foreign desert which is very different from the setting of the everyday in the West. Occasionally one does encounter references and scenes which play in a desert with ‘sand dunes’,9 ‘blue sky’,10 ‘palm trees’11 and an ‘oasis’12 where the ‘sun sets’13 on rebel positions. The exciting and emotional side to the romantic setting appears far more prominently. While the emotion at first includes fear of Gaddafi, this is

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transformed into joy as ‘[p]‌eople are not afraid’14 anymore. While the civilian population was at first ‘deeply fearful of Gaddafi’,15 the ‘fear barrier is broken’:16 ‘As word spread, Tripoli’s streets filled with honking vehicles and soon thousands upon thousands of people were converging on a compound that had previously filled them with dread. Their fear gone, they poured through the broken walls even as bullets and shells whistled overhead.’17 The emotion of fear is replaced after victories with an ‘explosion of joy’,18 ‘joyous scenes’19 and ‘ecstatic celebrations’20 as the rebels are enthusiastically embraced and ‘greeted by civilians lining streets, cheering and waving rebel flags’.21 The rebels are ‘cheered’,22 civilians ‘flashed the V for victory sign’23 and residents ‘celebrate wildly’:24 ‘Delighted residents were seen pouring into the streets to celebrate and greet the rebel fighters as they advanced through the suburbs towards the centre.’25 As the narrative element of characterization will show in more detail, the rebel is said to be on the side of the people of the street against an oppressive regime.

Characterization With regard to characterization the rebel side of the conflict is commonly labelled as comprising ‘revolutionaries’26 or ‘revolutionary forces’.27 Furthermore, one encounters a number of labels such as ‘liberation force’;28 ‘pro-democracy fighters’29, ‘freedom crusader’,30 ‘freedom campaigners’31 or most commonly ‘freedom fighters’,32 which link aspects of emplotment with characterization by including causal motivations and goals underlying the struggle. Individual rebels are characterized not as professional fighters but as ‘young’,33 ‘teenager’34 or ‘25-year-old’35 ‘civilians’36 who have taken up arms against Gaddafi. ‘The rebel army is mostly ordinary young people, often well educated, who have had enough of their lives being destroyed by a dictator.’37 Emphasizing their civilian character, many of the depictions of the rebels include references to their former occupation, such as ‘engineer’,38 ‘pharmacist’,39 ‘dentist and lab technician’,40 ‘cashier’,41 ‘house decorator’,42 ‘teacher’,43 ‘student’44 and even an ‘owner of a Liverpool takeaway’.45 Like many of those reading the story, the rebel is a normal human being one is able to identify with through similarity. With reference to the physical appearance of the rebel, he is said to be a ‘T-shirt-wearing fighter’,46 ‘[w]‌earing mismatched, second-hand American uniforms, or tracksuits and T-shirts’.47 The ‘teacher-turned-fighter’48 rebel has ‘no qualifications to be a soldier’49 and is by no means an elite fighter but is rather characterized as an underdog in

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the conflict. The rebels are ‘ill-trained’,50 ‘under-trained and under-manned rebel forces’51 or ‘untrained youngsters hopelessly manning the front’,52 whose ‘weapons handling and marksmanship left a lot to be desired’.53 They are said to be ‘amateur fighters’54 who have a ‘lack of military experience’55 or ‘inexperienced rebel fighters, many of whom had not handled a weapon until a few days ago’.56 Furthermore, the rebels are said to be ‘illarmed’57 and ‘ill equipped’,58 as they ‘lack the firepower and military discipline’.59 They take on a number of the stereotypical features of rebelliousness, as the rebel forces are characterized as ‘disorganized’,60, ‘poorly’61 or ‘undisciplined’62 and ‘not interested in orders’.63 They are a ‘motley collection of rebels’,64, a ‘chaotic’65 and ‘rabble’66 ‘rag tag rebel army’67 who do not have tanks and fighter aircraft like a real army but rely on a ‘automobile armada’:68 ‘The endless procession of cars carrying eager fighters into a grim unknown sometimes looked like the Wacky Races.’69 Despite this characterization the rebels remains impressive: ‘There has been a consistent tendency to underestimate the rebel leadership, a tendency to dismiss them as a rabble or a bunch of Islamists. At almost every turn thus far, they have surpassed expectations.’70 So while the rebels are characterized as former civilians who lack military skills and who are ill equipped and undisciplined, they are also considered ‘brave men’71 in a ‘heroic uprising against Libya’s murderous tyrant Colonel Gaddafi’.72 ‘Most of the revolutionaries are not trained soldiers but the spirit and bravery to fight is there.’73 The rebels are said to be ‘daring’74 and ‘fearless’,75 they are ‘plucky fighters’76 who have ‘courage’:77 ‘Today the towns are largely deserted except for a few thousand men who have defended them with ingenuity and courage.’78 The rebels are said to be ‘eager’,79 ‘optimistic’,80 ‘zealous’81 and ‘enthusiastic’82 in ‘pursuit of a vision’.83 They have a big heart84 and ‘idealism but lacked military training’.85 They are fighting for admirable and honourable causes such as their people and homes86 or in ‘pursuit of freedom’.87 The revolution involves ‘truly inspiring individuals: doctors, teachers, lawyers and engineers willing to die for their freedom’.88

Emplotment With regard to emplotment the event of war in Libya is constituted as an asymmetrical conflict in which the righteous weaker rebels are struggling against a stronger and unjust enemy in the form of the Gaddafi regime. As already indicated in discussing characterization, the emplotment of the conflict in Libya emphasizes the asymmetrical nature of the conflict, in which the ‘rebels were

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heavily outnumbers and outgunned’:89 ‘As the sun set, the rebels were perched behind the few anti-aircraft guns they hold, their thin turrets pointing towards an empty black sky.’90 The conflict is emplotted as a struggle against the odds, in which the rebels have only ‘sparse forces’91 and ‘Colonel Gaddafi’s forces have better weapons’.92 ‘The regime has a huge military advantage’93 as ‘[i]‌ts elite units – particularly the Khamis Brigades led by one of Gaddafi’s sons, are far better trained and equipped than the often disorganized rebel forces’.94 The ‘undisciplined rebel militias [are] no match for Gaddafi’s forces’.95 Nevertheless the underdog rebel forces, remarkably, win against all odds as ‘we witnessed this volunteer force  – armed with a hotch-potch of AK-47s and rocket-propelled ­grenades – stand firm against a much better equipped army’.96 The resistance from the rebels – from all the people in Misrata – seems remarkable given their limited armoury and experience. That they have managed to keep Gaddafi’s forces to one side of the city seems a miracle, or at least a masterclass in guerrilla warfare.97

Despite being outnumbered, ‘fired by their hunger for freedom and dignity’98 ‘the rebel fighters sent Gaddafi’s troops packing’.99 Against all odds and expectations, despite all the reports of splits and stalemates, they and their ‘ragtag army’ have with Nato’s help routed one of the world’s most enduring, vicious and best-armed police states. They are justifiably proud of that astounding victory and will not readily surrender their hard-won freedom to any other form of tyranny.100

Apart from the asymmetry, the conflict is emplotted as an act of resistance against an unjust order which ‘terrorised its inhabitants’,101 ‘systematically maltreated the civilian population’102 and where ‘people suffered from the repression and brutality of Colonel Muammar Gaddafi’.103 The unjust order, run by an ‘crazed tyrant’,104 who, interestingly, is said to employ ‘mercenaries’105 against his own population (see Chapter 4), is constituted as a ‘murderous’,106 ‘cruel and destructive regime’107 responsible for ‘indiscriminate shelling’108 and ‘atrocities’109 and ‘the most brutal response to the Arab Spring’.110 ‘The eccentric, narcissistic and murderously unpredictable Libyan leader had not only ruthlessly oppressed his own people but had also become a dangerous sponsor of violent instability around the world.’111 Therefore, the narrative involves a struggle for an ideal, a fight for liberation and an illustration of love for a country and its people. Rebels are quoted: ‘We love our country. We love each other.’112 As already indicated in the section on characterization, the narrative constituted the cause of the conflict as a ‘burning

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desire for freedom’113 and democracy.114 The conflict is a ‘fight for democracy’115 and the rebels ‘are fighting for freedom’.116 Rebels ‘remain utterly convinced of the justness of their cause, and that they will ultimately see a united democratic Libya with Tripoli as its capital’117 and their direct speech is quoted: ‘We are just young people who want democracy.’118 ‘We just want freedom.’119 ‘Every one of these brave men that I met is proudly Muslim – but proudly fighting for democracy and freedom.’120 As in the case of characterization, the reader in the UK can identify with the rebels as they ‘want freedom and democracy, just like we have in Britain’.121 They ‘are fighting for Western ideals of democracy and freedom’.122 ‘They are students, engineers, teachers and doctors who came together through Twitter and Facebook. They want freedoms people in Britain and the West take for granted.’123 Overall the British media narrative of rebellion in Libya is told as a romantic story in an emotional setting in which the rebel is characterized as a young and brave underdog fighting against a brutal and oppressive regime for ideals such as democracy and freedom. As the following section will show, many of these romantic elements are also clearly visible in discourse of the political elite.

Romantic narratives on Libya among the political elite The narrative analysis of British parliamentary debates and political speeches on Libya by leading politicians indicates the salience of similar romantic narrative elements with regard to the setting, characterization and the emplotment of the rebel. The following romantic elements are based on the analysis of all the parliamentary debates in the House of Commons on the situation in Libya and on UN Security Council Resolution 1971 between 17 February 2011 and 31 October 2011. This is further supplemented by a number of public speeches by Prime Minister David Cameron.

Setting In contrast to the characterization and emplotment, the setting seems to play a less central role in the narrative on rebellion in Libya of the political elite. Nevertheless one does come across some references which indicate an exotic location which is different from everyday Britain by stressing the conflict setting of the Libyan ‘desert’:124 ‘At the meeting Nicholas Sarkozy hosted in Paris, we

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made the right choice: to draw a line in the desert sand, and to halt his murderous advance by force.’125 The conflict is placed in the overall context of the Arab Spring and there are references to the exciting and emotional side of the story such as celebration, fear, hope and drama:126 ‘This has been the most dramatic episode of what has been called the Arab Spring.’127 ‘Where there was fear, now there is hope and an optimism and belief that is truly inspiring.’128

Characterization Many of the romantic narrative elements of characterization are also present in the discourse of the political elite. While one does encounter a number of fairly unromantic labels for the actors involved, such as ‘opposition groups’,129 other labels such as ‘the Libyan people’130 or ‘anti-Gaddafi forces’131 indicate sympathy towards them from a British perspective. At the same time the narrative includes more clearly romantic labels such as ‘pro-freedom rebels’132 or ‘free Libyan fighters’.133 Yet these fighters are not considered to be professional soldiers but ‘ordinary Libyans from all walks of life’134 who are no match for Gaddafi’s troops: Ordinary Libyans from all walks of life came together and showed incredible resilience and bravery as they rose up and drove out Qadhafi. The people of Benghazi who rose up against a cruel regime. The brave fighters of Misrata, who held on in the face of an almost medieval siege. The people of Zawiyah, who fought till they were out of ammunition, and returned to liberate their city. The warriors from the Nafusa mountains, who defied Gaddafi’s shells from inside their ancestors’ caves, before going on to help free Tripoli.135 Ordinary Libyans from all walks of life came together and rose up against Gaddafi. From the villages of the Nafusa mountains to the tower blocks of Misrata, the alleyways of Zawiyah and the streets of Benghazi, the Libyan people fought with incredible courage.136

In this struggle the rebels are characterized as being ‘brave’137 and having ‘courage’138 as they are ‘fighting the dictator with their bare hands’.139 They are said to have ‘determination’,140 ‘resilience’141 and ‘resolution’142 in the face of overwhelming odds. They have successfully ‘liberated themselves’143 and are ‘taking their destiny into their own hands’.144 Therefore, ‘we should also pay a tribute to the bravery and resilience of the Libyan people themselves. This has been their revolution and none of it could have happened without them.’145 Let me join him in paying tribute to the courage of the Libyan people, because this is their uprising. They knew the price that might be paid if they rose up against

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the regime to claim a better future and yet they found the courage to do so and to win through. We on the Opposition Benches salute their bravery and sacrifice.146

There is a ‘tremendous admiration for the courage and tenacity of the Libyan people – men, women and children’147 as they ‘rise to the challenge’,148 ‘eager to get on with reclaiming their country, writing themselves a new chapter of freedom and democracy’.149 ‘When I went to Benghazi I was impressed by the progress being made, by the sense of optimism, and by the belief in a democratic future that I heard about from ordinary Libyans and the leaders of the national transitional council.’150 Similarly one is able to identify with the rebels as they are said to be fighting for an understandable cause such as freedom and democracy. The rebel force ‘consists predominantly of ordinary Libyans from all walks of life who want freedom, justice and democracy – the things we take for granted’.151 They ‘want the sort of freedoms that we take for granted in this country’.152

Emplotment Many of the elements indicated in the characterization of the rebels also reappear in the emplotment of the event as an ‘popular uprising’153 or a ‘revolution’.154 Again the conflict is constituted as an asymmetrical struggle against an unjust order, where the regime is ‘attacking peaceful protestors’,155 ‘using the full might of his armed forces, backed up by mercenaries’.156 Gaddafi responded to protest by ‘unarmed demonstrators’157 by ‘using heavy weapons, aircraft, helicopter gunships and naval forces’.158 ‘Gaddafi –aided by mercenaries – responded by turning the full might of his military against this own people.’159 This unjust order is constituted as a ‘brutal’160 and ‘murderous regime’161 in which the people of Libya are suffering from ‘murderous brutality’162 and ‘obviously barbaric attacks by Gaddafi’163 and his own people are being ‘brutally crushed’.164 Gaddafi is emplotted as a ‘despot’165 and ‘tyrant’,166 who is ‘cruelly’167 committing ‘barbaric acts against the Libyan people’,168 ‘murdering’169 ‘his people indiscriminately’.170 The rebels are suffering under an unjust order in which Gaddafi is ‘brutalising his own people in response to the demand for democratic change’171 with ‘no mercy and no pity shown’.172 Part of the narrative is emplotted as a struggle for a utopian future in which everything will be much better. The people of Libya are fighting for a ‘better future’,173 a ‘democratic future’174, a ‘peaceful and prosperous future’175 or a ‘peaceful, successful and democratic future’:176 ‘Today is about a new beginning for Libya – a future in which the people of Libya can determine their own destiny, free from violence and oppression.’177

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Importantly, as already indicated in relation to characterization, the rebels’ struggle against an unjust order is pursued for noble ideals, as Libyans are said to be ‘struggling for democracy and freedom’.178 The desire for ‘openness’,179 ‘freedom’180 and ‘democracy’181 are said to be the understandable cause of the conflict with the Gaddafi regime. These values are explicitly linked to British values and are, like elements in the characterization of the rebels, a means of understanding and identifying with the righteousness of the struggle for ‘freedoms that people in Britain take for granted’.182 Freedom of expression, a free press, freedom of assembly and the right to demonstrate peacefully are basic rights – they are as much the rights of people in Tahrir Square as they are of people in Trafalgar Square. They are not British or western values, but the values of human beings everywhere.183

Very similar to the romantic narrative elements found in the British media, the story of rebellion in Libya is said to involve an emotional setting in which the young underdog rebel is bravely fighting a far stronger, brutal and oppressive Gaddafi regime in an asymmetric conflict for a better, almost utopian future and the noble ideals of freedom and democracy.

Alternative yet marginal stories of rebellion While these stories of the romantic rebel who is struggling for noble ideals against an unjust and more powerful order are very much present in both the media and political coverage of the conflict in Libya, other, less amicable narratives exist only at the margins despite their potential truthfulness. The following section will briefly illustrate two such narratives, one which tells a story in which rebels are responsible for war crimes and human rights violations during and after the conflict and one in which the rebels fighting Gaddafi have links to extremists and terrorist organizations such as al-Qaeda.

The marginalization of crimes and human rights violations by rebels While it is widely accepted that Gaddafi’s regime is responsible for a large number of crimes, attacks on civilians and human rights violations, stories accusing the rebels of perpetrating such crimes are rare. This does not mean that the rebel side of the conflict simply did not commit such acts, as there are a number of actors who try and emphasize that members of the rebels were indeed responsible for human rights violations. For example, Amnesty International stated in its report on the conflict in Libya that, although not on the same scale as the

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Gaddafi regime, members of the opposition ‘have also committed human rights abuses, in some cases amounting to war crimes’.184 Rebels and their supporters are said to have ‘shot, hanged and otherwise killed through lynching dozens of captured soldiers and suspected foreign “mercenaries” – and did so with total impunity’.185 Overall nine pages of the report on the conflict are dedicated to crimes and human rights violations by rebels. Rebels and their supporters are said to ‘have abducted, arbitrarily detained, tortured and killed former members of the security forces, suspected al-Gaddafi loyalists, captured soldiers and foreign nationals wrongly suspected of being mercenaries fighting on behalf of al-Gaddafi forces’.186 Similarly Human Rights Watch tells a story in which ‘[r]‌ebel forces also committed human rights and humanitarian law violations during the armed conflict’.187 Rebels are here accused of ‘revenge attacks’188 against suspected Gaddafi loyalists as well as ‘arbitrary arrests’,189 ‘serious abuses’,190 ‘mistreatment’191 and ‘torture in detention, in some cases leading to death’.192 ‘In the western mountains, rebel forces engaged in revenge attacks in some towns they captured, including looting, arson, and some physical violence.’193 As NTC forces took control of western Libya in late August, local militias arbitrarily arrested hundreds, if not thousands, more sub-Saharan migrant workers and dark-skinned Libyans from the south, accusing them of being mercenaries. In some cases, the militias subjected these detainees to physical abuse and forced labor in detention.194

The most prominent case of human rights violations includes accusations of ‘revenge killings’195 and in particular the suspected revenge execution of fifty-three Gaddafi supporters: Three days after Gaddafi’s death, Human Rights Watch found 53 bodies of apparent Gaddafi supporters outside the Mahari Hotel in Sirte, where rebel forces from Misrata had been based. Some of the victims had their hands bound behind their backs; they all seemed to have been shot at that location.196

Few of these stories are taken up in the media197 or in debates in parliament and at times the existence of violations by rebels is denied. All I can say about the opposition forces and the danger of civilian deaths from their activities is that, so far, we have no record of their being engaged in attacks on civilians. For one thing, they have not made frontal attacks on civilian areas and for another, where they have managed to gain territory they have generally been welcomed by the local people.198

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Interestingly, crimes by rebels are emplotted as understandable in the given setting. Most of the rebels fighting in Misrata are untrained civilians. They have seen friends and relatives killed by indiscriminate artillery bombardments. Foreign mercenaries, particularly black Africans, have been blamed by rebels for committing the most heinous crimes, including gang rape. It seems astonishing then, in the heat of battle, with a friend just killed, that the rebels did not murder the youth from Chad. Instead, they took him to a hospital and he was treated alongside their friends.199

Similarly, in relation to the looting committed by rebels their acts become understandable as the loot is not really stolen. They filled cars and pick-up trucks with loot, though in truth it did not seem much like looting as most of the treasures they carted away were acquired with wealth stolen from the Libyan people. By the same token it did not seem much like Ramadan, traditionally a time of mercy and compassion, but the people’s hatred of the regime was far too deep for that.200

Even when the rebels do loot they are characterized as honourable as they give the loot to those who have suffered under the regime: ‘The looter, who called himself Mr al-Windy, was sagging under Colonel Gaddafi’s gold chain of office and held in his hand an extravagantly plumed peacock feather fly-swat, topped with a gold elephant. “I am going to give this to my dad as a present,” he said, “because he suffered a lot from Gaddafi.”’201 In the case of Gaddafi’s killing by rebels, there are a number of voices in the media which emphasize the brutal and criminal nature of the act202 and its implications for the human rights situation in Libya203 and which stress that Gaddafi should have been put on trial:204 ‘His executioners are as bad as he was, demonstrating complete ignorance of human values.’205 Similarly, a number of other actors such as Amnesty International206 and the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights207 criticized the killing of Gaddafi and called for an investigation.208 Other counter-narratives by actors such a Hugo Chávez, President of Venezuela, go beyond the ‘little bit stained’ accusation of Defence Secretary Philip Hammond: ‘They assassinated him. It is another outrage. We shall remember Gaddafi our whole lives as a great fighter, a revolutionary and a martyr.’209 In contrast, however, the majority of media narratives do not tell the story of Gaddafi’s death as a crime or a human rights violation but include a number of the romantic elements outlined above, including the asymmetric conflict with an underdog heroic rebel fighting for liberation: ‘Death came to Muammar

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Gaddafi, the man who dubbed himself the King of Kings, at the hands of a youth wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap and a T-shirt emblazoned with the word Love.’210 And after all the waiting, the killing and the tears, the wheel of history turned inexorably, and all who watched knew it would never turn back. The Arab spring had claimed another infamous scalp. The risky western intervention had worked. And Libya was liberated at last.211

Furthermore, the killing of Gaddafi is said to be justified as ‘[t]‌he murderous tyrant got the fate he deserved’:212 ‘Tyrannical Colonel Gaddafi called Libyan people rats when they rose up against him – but he died like one himself yesterday after being cornered in a stinking drain.’213 Alternatively, Gaddafi is said to have got off too lightly as ‘[k]illing him on the spot was an easy way out for him’ and victims ‘felt cheated that the dictator had escaped justice’.214 Before his death I  had hoped that Gaddafi would be brought to justice. He brought suffering to tens of thousands of people and I wanted to see him at the International Criminal Court in The Hague hearing their stories. Gaddafi was notorious for dodging any form of justice; once again, for one final time, he has cheated it.215

Other media reports stress that the killing of Gaddafi was a necessary step to ‘help stabilise the position of Libya’s new leaders, particularly if his followers now gave up the fight’.216 [I]‌f he had been taken alive this would have hung over the processes of reconciliation and transition. Gaddafi could potentially have acted as a lightning rod for resistance to the new government.… Viewed from a ‘realpolitik’ perspective, this was the best possible outcome for the country, its present rulers and those optimistic enough to believe that Libya can eventually be transformed into a vibrant democracy.217

In the story, the person responsible for the death of Gaddafi is not only a killer but a ‘Libyan hero’:218 ‘Why all the fuss about who killed Gaddafi? The man who shot him should be given a medal.’219 At the same time, some of the more critical voices on the killing of Gaddafi are attacked and delegitimized: ‘I don’t believe it! Gaddafi is dead but the UN is calling for an inquiry into his death. Why? Who cares? Certainly not the families of the thousands of his own people he ordered to be slaughtered.’220 Gaddafi has finally got what was coming to him and the first thing out of the UN is, ‘We must have an inquiry into exactly how he died.’ What did they do to help the good people of Libya overcome this tyrant during the past 40 years? Nothing!221

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In contrast to the stories told in the media, some amongst the political elite in Britain, such as Defence Secretary Philip Hammond, were a ‘little’ more sceptical about Gaddafi’s death: ‘The Libyan revolutionaries’ image had been “a little bit stained” by Gaddafi’s death, Hammond told the BBC. “It’s certainly not the way we do things. We would have liked to see Colonel Gaddafi going on trial to answer for his misdeeds.”’222 Similarly, Foreign Secretary William Hague noted that he would have preferred for Gaddafi to be captured alive: ‘We would have preferred him to be able to face justice at the International Criminal Court or in a Libyan court for his crimes. We don’t approve of extrajudicial killings.’223 However, he goes on to stress that ‘[a]‌t the same time we are not going to mourn him. This and the fall of Sirte and Bani Walid is a major opportunity for Libya to be able to move on to what they’ve fought for all this year, into a free and democratic future.’224 David Cameron was less hesitant, as he ‘hailed Gaddafi’s death as a step towards a “strong and democratic future” for the north African country’.225

The marginalization of a link between rebels and al-Qaeda As in the case of accusations of crimes and human rights abuses, the linkage between rebels and Islamist terrorist organizations such as al-Qaeda is rare in the media. The linkage is brought up most clearly when referring to and reporting on claims by Colonel Gaddafi or his regime ‘that the rebellion is an al-Qaeda operation’:226 ‘The regime maintains that rebels fighting in Misrata and the east of the country are being driven by al-Qaida and Hezbollah militants.’227 Yet while the media do quote some regime sources and Gaddafi himself telling a story in which rebels are characterized as ‘hardcore al-Qaida fighters’228 or where the ‘town of Ajdabiya has been cleared of mercenaries and terrorists linked to the al-Qaida organisation’,229 these claims are largely ‘dismissed as propaganda’230 by the media and presented as ‘bizarre’ and ‘loony’.231 Gaddafi claimed the revolutionaries who stood up to him were al-Qaeda radical Islamists. It couldn’t be further from the truth. The rebel army is mostly ordinary young people, often well educated, who have had enough of their lives being destroyed by a dictator. They are students, engineers, teachers and doctors who came together through Twitter and Facebook. They want the freedoms people in Britain and the West take for granted.232 Gaddafi’s claim that these rebels are al-Qaeda is nonsense. Every one of these brave men that I met is proudly Muslim – but proudly fighting for democracy and freedom.233

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Overall the narrative which links al-Qaeda terrorism and the rebellion in Libya and constitutes the rebels as ‘radical Islamic fighters’,234 ‘jihadist elements’235 or ‘local al-Qaeda gunman’236 remains fairly marginal.237 When the media do mention the possibility of a terrorism link with the rebellion the relationship between rebel and terrorist is mainly based on either infiltration or exploitation. ‘The rebels are believed to have been infiltrated by al-Qaeda fighters, battle-hardened in Iraq and Afghanistan’238 or ‘Al-Qaeda terrorists are said to be exploiting the conflict to smuggle missiles into strongholds in nearby countries  – while picking up shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles from Libya.’239 So the rebel is not generally constituted as a member or even supporter of al-Qaeda, but al-Qaeda is said to be potentially able to infiltrate and exploit the poor rebels. There is, inevitably, a lot of worry whether the Arab spring, in Libya, as elsewhere, will not result in freedom but be exploited by al-Qaeda and Islamic extremists. I have no doubt that there are al-Qaeda activists and sympathisers in Libya. Sadly, we have seen that there are some in Birmingham and Manchester, so it would be odd if there were none in Tripoli or Benghazi. But there is no evidence that they have any significant following and the freedom fighters in Libya have been calling for liberty and the rule of law, not the return of a medieval caliphate.240

Similarly, in the realm of the political elite the linkage between rebels and Islamist terrorists remains marginal. While intelligence sources did point to the existence of ‘flickers’241 or ‘strains of al-Qaeda among the rebels’,242 many politicians, especially in Britain, denied such a linkage. ‘Mr. Hague said there was no substantial evidence that that was the case. He said he believed that the rebel council was “sincere” in its wishes for a democratic Libya and urged others to “take them at face value”.’243 In response to questions regarding a possible linkage between rebels and al-Qaeda, William Hague argued: ‘As I say, it would be most accurate to place the accent on the positive and democratic side of the opposition in Libya rather than on any other side.’244 David Cameron rejected such a linkage to Islamist al-Qaeda even more explicitly: I think that she is right to draw attention to what people are doing in Libya, where they are showing extraordinary bravery. As we have seen across north Africa and the middle east, this is not an Islamist revolution but a people’s revolution. People want the sort of freedoms that we take for granted in this country.245 People aren’t in Tahrir Square in Cairo and Freedom Square in Libya for an Islamist caliphate, but for a job, a voice and a future. And we must heed their call. For their freedom and for the security of us all.246

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This revolution was not about extreme Islamism; al-Qaeda played no part in it. It was about people yearning for a voice and job, and it is our duty to get behind them and help them to build that new country.247

Despite the evidence of crimes and human rights violations by rebels and their link to terrorism these stories remained largely on the margins of the narratives being told about rebellion in Libya. While some of these alternative narratives were silenced, ridiculed and explicitly refuted, others were justified and presented as understandable.

Conclusion This chapter has illustrated the historical and literary connection between romanticism and rebellion. By employing a method of narrative analysis it has shown the persistent existence of a romantic story of the rebellion, including an exotic and emotional setting, brave rebels and a noble cause. The chapter has argued that narratives of the rebel are ambiguous and do not always have to be told in a romantic fashion. However, as the analysis of parts of the British news media as well as British parliamentary debates and speeches by the politicians has shown, the narratives of rebellion in the Libyan conflict in 2011 were predominantly told as romance. Many of the romantic narrative elements outlined in pre-existing cultural stories such as Lawrence of Arabia, including an emotional, exotic desert setting of the heroic and brave young rebel and an asymmetric and almost utopian struggle for ideals such as freedom, were also present in the narratives on rebellion in Libya. Beyond the mere existence of such romantic story elements, the chapter has argued that these dominant understandings marginalized and silenced other more negative narratives on crimes, human rights violations and linkages between rebels and al-Qaeda terrorists despite their potential ‘truthfulness’. What political implications does this have? While narratives or other discursive structures do not cause certain policy outcomes in a positivist sense, they do open and close space for political behaviour. In the case of the romantic narratives outlined in this chapter, one is able to point to two kinds of behavioural implications for British governmental policy. Firstly, the romantic narratives of rebellion contribute to legitimization of British military intervention in Libya against the Gaddafi regime. Telling romantic narratives of the underdog heroic rebels struggling against an unjust and more powerful order for an identifiable ideal such as freedom will contribute to the public support of measures said to help the struggling rebel. The vast majority of opinion polls suggest that the

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British population was more supportive of British military intervention in Libya than in other conflicts such as Iraq or Afghanistan, where romantic rebel narratives are far less evident (Clements 2013). Secondly, the marginalization of the negative counter-narratives also has implications for political behaviour. On the one hand, the marginalization of the link between terrorists and rebels has contributed to Western blindness to extremism in Libya and thereby has aided the recruitment of groups such as Islamic State as well as increased the threat of terrorism in the region. On the other hand, the marginalization of narratives on human rights violations by rebels reduces the necessity for a strong condemnation and sets a bad precedent for the role of human rights in the narrative of post-conflict Libya.

Notes 1 Lawrence of Arabia, dir. David Lean, Columbia Pictures, 1962, DVD rerelease 2009, Sony Pictures Home Entertainment, 20:58–21:14, disc 1. 2 Ibid., 12:58, disc 1. 3 Ibid., 35:38, disc 1. 4 Ibid., 43:21, disc 2. 5 Ibid., 32:16–32:29, disk 1.  As Caton (1999:  159)  points out, this statement is highly ironic considering that Lawrence is fighting in the most brutal war the world has ever seen. 6 Lawrence of Arabia, dir. David Lean, Columbia Pictures, 1962, DVD rerelease 2009, Sony Pictures Home Entertainment, 54:40–54:49, disc 2. 7 Ibid., 18:35–19:08, disc 2. 8 Ibid., 2h.09:04–2h.10:08, disc 1. 9 ‘Front: A few steps forward, many back on the long road west to Tripoli’, Guardian, 22 March 2011, p. 1; ‘Libyarators: Daring escape from bloodbath of Libya’, Sun, 28 February 2011, pp. 4–5. 10 ‘Just 30 miles from Tripoli, the defiant town that dares to humiliate Gaddafi’, The Times, 7 March 2011, pp. 6–7; ‘Desert gunners let rip on the road to Sirte but opt not to push their luck too far’, The Times, 31 August 2011, p. 13. 11 ‘Why 1941 Desert Rats are the key to defeating Mad Dog today’, Sun, 2 April 2011, pp. 42–43. 12 ‘Libya can stay united after Gaddafi has gone’, The Times, 31 March 2011, p. 18. 13 ‘Libya:  The rebels gather their sparse forces for the battles ahead’, Guardian, 1 March 2011, p. 14. 14 ‘Libya:  “The fear barrier is broken”:  volunteers flock to join the rebels’ drive-in war’, Guardian, 9 March 2011, p. 16. 15 ‘Front:  The graveyards are filling up in Misrata’s unexpected war’, Guardian, 22 April 2011, p. 1. 16 ‘Libya:  “The fear barrier is broken”:  volunteers flock to join the rebels’ drive-in war’, Guardian, 9 March 2011, p. 16.

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17 ‘The fall of Tripoli’, The Times, 24 August 2011, pp. 1, 3. 18 ‘Gaddafi, you are history’, Sun, 24 August 2011, pp. 8–9. 19 Ibid. 20 ‘Don’t you know right from wrong?’, Sun, 22 October 2011, pp. 6–7. 21 ‘He’s buggied off ’, Sun, 26 August 2011, pp. 6–7. 22 ‘Gaddafi, you are history’, Sun, 24 August 2011, pp. 8–9. 23 ‘Libya rebels take key city to “start march” on Tripoli’, Guardian, 15 August 2011, p. 15; ‘Middle East:  Libya:  Gaddafi’s options running out as jubilant Libyan rebels reach Tripoli’s oil rich doorstep’, Guardian, 19 August 2011, p. 24. 24 ‘Libya: Defiant Gaddafi promises he will “fight to the last drop of blood”’, Guardian, 22 August 2011, p. 4. 25 ‘Front: Endgame: rebels take Tripoli’, Guardian, 22 August 2011, p. 1. 26 ‘Libya:  Rebels retreat as Gaddafi regains strategic oil base’, Guardian, 11 March 2011, p.  20; ‘Front:  The graveyards are filling up in Misrata’s unexpected war’, Guardian, 22 August 2011, p. 1; ‘“We beg the West for a no-fly zone before Gaddafi’s jets destroy us all”’, Sun, 15 March 2011, p. 14. 27 ‘Libya: Rebel push reveals devastating impact of allied air strikes’, Guardian, 28 March 2011, p. 4. 28 ‘4p off petrol if Gaddafi goes’, Sun, 23 August 2011, pp. 6–7. 29 ‘30 killed by Gaddafi’s mercenaries in bloody battle for control of rebel-held stronghold’, The Times, 5 March 2011, pp. 8–9. 30 ‘“We beg the West for a no-fly zone before Gaddafi’s jets destroy us all”’, Sun, 15 March 2011, p. 14. 31 ‘Blast days of Gaddafi’, Sun, 29 March 2011, pp. 12–13. 32 ‘Rebels struggling to flip the power switch despite a detailed blueprint’, The Times, 25 August 2011, pp. 6–7; ‘“We beg the West for a no-fly zone before Gaddafi’s jets destroy us all”’, Sun, 15 March 2011, p. 14; ‘It’s a buzz fighting Gaddafi … but I do miss Emmerdale’, Sun, 10 March 2011, pp. 10–11; ‘Don’t you know right from wrong?’, Sun, 22 October 2011, pp. 6–7; ‘He’s buggied off ’, Sun, 26 August 2011, pp. 6–7; ‘I played on Mad Dog’s teacup ride’, Sun, 25 August 2011, pp. 6–7. 33 ‘Front:  Libya:  “They are professional soldiers. And they are guarding someone”’, Guardian, 26 August 2011, p. 4; ‘Apache strikes aim to break deadlock and allow rebel advance on Tripoli’, The Times, 6 June 2011, p. 6. 34 ‘Gaddafi, you are history’, Sun, 24 August 2011, pp. 8–9. 35 ‘Rebels close in on Gaddafi’, The Times, 15 August 2011, pp. 1, 8, 9; ‘Front: The graveyards are filling up in Misrata’s unexpected war’, Guardian, 22 April 2011, p. 1; ‘Front: Libya: “It is a symbolic victory. Gaddafi is still free. The game is not over yet”’, Guardian, 24 August 2011, p. 2; ‘Front: Shattered heart of Gaddafi’s government’, Guardian, 25 August 2011, p. 1. 36 ‘Front:  The graveyards are filling up in Misrata’s unexpected war’, Guardian, 22 April 2011, p. 1. 37 ‘“We beg the West for a no-fly zone before Gaddafi’s jets destroy us all”’, Sun, 15 March 2011, p. 14. 38 ‘Front: The graveyards are filling up in Misrata’s unexpected war’, Guardian, 22 April 2011, p. 1; ‘Expats return from UK for rebel assault on Tripoli’, The Times, 2 July 2011, p. 45. 39 ‘Front:  The graveyards are filling up in Misrata’s unexpected war’, Guardian, 22 April 2011, p. 1.

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40 ‘Front: Shattered heart of Gaddafi’s government’, Guardian, 25 August 2011, p. 1. 41 ‘Front: Libya: “It is a symbolic victory. Gaddafi is still free. The game is not over yet”’, Guardian, 24 August 2011, p. 2. 42 ‘The battle of Qasr al-Haj’, The Times, 11 June 2011, p. 39. 43 ‘Rebels close in on Gaddafi’, The Times, 15 August 2011, pp.  1, 8, 9; ‘Another senior Gaddafi aide defects as air raids intensify’, The Times, 8 June 2011, p. 28. 44 ‘Apache strikes aim to break deadlock and allow rebel advance on Tripoli’, The Times, 6 June 2011, p. 6; ‘Expats return from UK for rebel assault on Tripoli’, The Times, 2 July 2011, p. 45. 45 ‘Expats return from UK for rebel assault on Tripoli’, The Times, 2 July 2011, p. 45. 46 ‘Apache strikes aim to break deadlock and allow rebel advance on Tripoli’, The Times, 6 June 2011, p. 6. 47 ‘Expats return from UK for rebel assault on Tripoli’, The Times, 2 July 2011, p. 45. 48 ‘Rebels close in on Gaddafi’, The Times, 15 August 2011, pp. 1, 8, 9. 49 ‘Its a buzz fighting Gaddafi … but I do miss Emmerdale’, Sun, 10 March 2011, pp. 10–11. 50 ‘Front: Blow to Gaddafi as Libyan foreign minister defects and flies to UK’, Guardian, 31 March 2011, p. 1. 51 ‘Armed westerners “seen on ground with Libya rebels”’, Guardian, 31 May 2011, p. 20. 52 ‘Front: Britain urges Arab countries to train rebels’, Guardian, 7 August 2011, p. 1. 53 ‘Expats return from UK for rebel assault on Tripoli’, The Times, 2 July 2011, p. 45. 54 ‘Rebels close in on Gaddafi’, The Times, 15 August 2011, pp. 1, 8, 9. 55 ‘Front: Blow to Gaddafi as Libyan foreign minister defects and flies to UK’, Guardian, 31 March 2011, p. 1. 56 ‘Libya:  “The fear barrier is broken”:  volunteers flock to join the rebels’ drive-in war’, Guardian, 9 March 2011, p. 16. 57 ‘Muammar Gaddafi:  Brutal and unpredictable Libyan leader whose regime ended in bloody civil war after 42 years in power during which he had squandered his country’s oil revenues on weaponry, international terrorism and grandiose projects’, The Times, 21 October 2011, pp. 74–76. 58 ‘Road to Benghazi beckons for Gaddafi as Libyan revels retreat under rain of rockets’, Guardian, 14 March 2011, p. 17. 59 ‘Britain and France “using Qatar to arm Libyan rebels”’, The Times, 25 June 2011, pp. 16–17. 60 ‘Front: Blow to Gaddafi as Libyan foreign minister defects and flies to UK’, Guardian, 31 March 2011, p. 1; ‘Front: Britain urges Arab countries to train rebels’, Guardian, 7 August 2011, p. 1; ‘National: Libya: dice rolled kindly to turn high-risk venture into Cameron’s lucky war’, Guardian,14 October 2011, p. 24; ‘Front: Libya: Military: Gaddafi’s jets slow rebel advance on Sirte’, Guardian, 8 March 2011, p. 5. 61 ‘Front: Blow to Gaddafi as Libyan foreign minister defects and flies to UK’, Guardian, 31 March 2011, p. 1. 62 ‘Libya:  Rebels:  faltering military campaign puts pressure on leadership’, Guardian, 4 April 2011, p. 7; ‘Libya: Armed but not advancing: undisciplined rebel militia no match for Gaddafi forces’, Guardian, 31 March 2011, p. 16. 63 ‘Libya:  “The fear barrier is broken”:  volunteers flock to join the rebels’ drive-in war’, Guardian, 9 March 2011, p. 16. 64 ‘Its a buzz fighting Gaddafi … but I do miss Emmerdale’, Sun, 10 March 2011, pp. 10–11.

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65 ‘Muammar Gaddafi:  Brutal and unpredictable Libyan leader’, The Times, 21 October 2011, pp. 74–76; ‘Libya: Rebels: faltering military campaign puts pressure on leadership’, Guardian, 4 April 2011, p. 7. 66 ‘Anti-Gaddafi forces are stuck in the stony desert’, The Times, 14 April 2011, pp. 6–7; ‘I stood rooted to the spot as jet bombed us’, Sun, 11 March 2011, pp. 10–11. 67 ‘Hit by a Tornado’, Sun, 28 March 2011, pp. 12–13; ‘Its a buzz fighting Gaddafi … but I do miss Emmerdale’, Sun, 10 March 2011, pp. 10–11; ‘Mad Max v Mad Dog’, Sun, 9 March 2011, pp. 10–11. 68 ‘Gaddafi, you are history’, Sun, 24 August 2011, pp. 8–9. 69 ‘Front: Is this the start of civil war?’, Guardian, 3 March 2011, p. 1. 70 ‘National:  Special report:  Cameron’s war:  why PM felt Gaddafi had to be stopped’, Guardian, 3 October 2011, p. 13. 71 ‘Its a buzz fighting Gaddafi … but I do miss Emmerdale’, Sun, 10 March 2011, pp. 10–11; ‘“We beg the West for a no-fly zone before Gaddafi’s jets destroy us all”’, Sun, 15 March 2011, p. 14; ‘Rebels brave snipers and rockets to take aim at Libya’s oil supplies’, Guardian, 18 August 2011, p. 21; ‘The fall of Tripoli’, The Times, 24 August 2011, pp. 1, 3. 72 ‘“We beg the West for a no-fly zone before Gaddafi’s jets destroy us all”’, Sun, 15 March 2011, p. 14. 73 Ibid. 74 ‘Rebels close in on Gaddafi’, The Times, 15 August 2011, pp. 1, 8, 9. 75 ‘Gaddafi, you are history’, Sun, 24 August 2011, pp. 8–9. 76 ‘Anti-Gaddafi forces are stuck in the stony desert’, The Times, 14 April 2011, pp. 6–7. 77 ‘Another senior Gaddafi aide defects as air raids intensify’, The Times, 8 June 2011, p. 28; ‘Libya:  “The fear barrier is broken”:  volunteers flock to join the rebels’ drive-in war’, Guardian, 9 March 2011, p. 16. 78 ‘The battle of Qasr al-Haj’, The Times, 11 June 2011, p. 39. 79 ‘Front: Libya: rebels hold huge armoury, ready for march on capital’, Guardian, 2 March 2011, p. 12. 80 ‘Front:  Libya:  fierce fighting and “dirty tricks” as Gaddafi forces defend home city’, Guardian, 29 March 2011, p. 4. 81 ‘Women and children killed in the bloody battle for Zawiya’, The Times, 10 March 2011, pp. 6–7. 82 ‘Expats return from UK for rebel assault on Tripoli’, The Times, 2 July 2011, p.  45; ‘Front:  Britain urges Arab countries to train rebels’, Guardian, 7 August 2011, p.  1; ‘Libya:  “The fear barrier is broken”:  volunteers flock to join the rebels’ drive-in war’, Guardian, 9 March 2011, p. 16. 83 ‘Anti-Gaddafi forces are stuck in the stony desert’, The Times, 14 April 2011, pp. 6–7. 84 ‘Front:  The graveyards are filling up in Misrata’s unexpected war’, Guardian, 22 April 2011, p. 1. 85 ‘Obituary: Gen Abdel Fatah Younis: military leader and Gaddafi’s trusted aide until he defected to Libyan rebel forces’, Guardian, 1 August 2011, p. 32. 86 ‘Front:  The graveyards are filling up in Misrata’s unexpected war’, Guardian, 22 April 2011, p. 1. 87 ‘Libya:  “The fear barrier is broken”:  volunteers flock to join the rebels’ drive-in war’, Guardian, 9 March 2011, p. 16; ‘The battle of Qasr al-Haj’, The Times, 11 June 2011, p. 40. 88 ‘Beware. Libya could easily tip over the edge’, The Times, 30 August 2011, p. 20.

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89 ‘The battle of Qasr al-Haj’, The Times, 11 June 2011, p. 39. 90 ‘Libya: The rebels gather their sparse forces for the battles ahead’, Guardian, 1 March 2011, p. 14. 91 Ibid. 92 ‘Women and children killed in the bloody battle for Zawiya’, The Times, 10 March 2011, pp. 6–7. 93 ‘Front: Gaddafi takes back key cities as Nato squabbles over action: rebels retreat from Ras Lanuf and Zawiya’, Guardian, 11 March 2011, p. 1; ‘Libya: Rebels retreat as Gaddafi regains strategic oil base’, Guardian, 11 March 2011, p. 20. 94 ‘Front: Gaddafi takes back key cities as Nato squabbles over action’, Guardian, 11 March 2011, p. 1. 95 ‘Libya:  Armed but not advancing:  undisciplined rebel militia no match for Gaddafi forces’, Guardian, 31 March 2011, p. 16. 96 ‘I stood rooted to the spot as jet bombed us’, Sun, 11 March 2011, pp. 10–11. 97 ‘Front: The graveyards are filling up in Misrata’s unexpected war’, Guardian, 22 April 2011, p. 1. 98 ‘The battle of Qasr al-Haj’, The Times, 11 June 2011, pp. 39–40. 99 Ibid. 100 ‘Libya forecast: Good, enlightenment spreading’, The Times, 14 September 2011, p. 25. 101 ‘Hit by a tornado’, Sun, 28 March 2011, pp. 12–13. 102 ‘Libya: Rebel push reveals devastating impact of allied air strikes’, Guardian, 28 March 2011, p. 4. 103 ‘The fall of Tripoli’, The Times, 24 August 2011, pp. 1, 3. 104 ‘Hit by a tornado’, Sun, 28 March 2011, pp. 12–13; ‘Blast days of Gaddafi’, Sun, 29 March 2011, pp. 12–13. 105 ‘30 killed by Gaddafi’s mercenaries in bloody battle for control of rebel-held stronghold’, The Times, 5 March 2011, pp. 8–9; ‘Expats return from UK for rebel assault on Tripoli’, The Times, 2 July 2011, p.  45; ‘4p off petrol if Gaddafi goes’, Sun, 23 August 2011, pp. 6–7; ‘Libyarators’, Sun, 28 February 2011, p. 19; ‘Libya: Fierce day of raids and clashes signals shift to civil war’, Guardian, 5 March 2011, p. 18; ‘Libya: The rebels gather their sparse forces for the battles ahead’, Guardian, 1 March 2011, p. 14. 106 ‘National: Libya: dice rolled kindly to turn high-risk venture into Cameron’s lucky war’, Guardian, 14 October 2011, p. 24; ‘Where is Gaddafi?’, Sun, 21 March 2011, pp. 4–5; ‘Shock and air force’, Sun, 21 March 2011, pp. 4–5. 107 ‘Muammar Gaddafi:  Brutal and unpredictable Libyan leader’, The Times, 21 October 2011, pp. 74–76. 108 ‘Front: The graveyards are filling up in Misrata’s unexpected war’, Guardian, 22 April 2011, p. 1. 109 ‘Don’t you know right from wrong?’, Sun, 22 October 2011, pp. 6–7; ‘Arm us … we’ll defeat Gaddafi in Days’, Sun, 30 March 2011, pp. 12–13. 110 ‘National:  Special report:  Cameron’s war:  why PM felt Gaddafi had to be stopped’, Guardian, 3 October 2011, p. 13. 111 ‘Muammar Gaddafi:  Brutal and unpredictable Libyan leader’, The Times, 21 October 2011, pp. 74–76. 112 ‘Libya:  “The fear barrier is broken”:  volunteers flock to join the rebels’ drive-in war’, Guardian, 9 March 2011, p. 16.

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113 ‘Mad Max v Mad Dog’, Sun, 9 March 2011, pp. 10–11. See also ‘Rebels to Gaddafi: Zero hour is here’, Sun, 22 August 2011, p. 2. 114 ‘Britain’s message of solidarity with the fight for democracy in Libya’, The Times, 22 August 2011, pp. 6–7. 115 Ibid. 116 ‘Libyarators’, Sun, 28 February 2011, p. 19. 117 ‘Anti-Gaddafi forces are stuck in the stony desert’, The Times, 14 April 2011, pp. 6–7. 118 ‘Its a buzz fighting Gaddafi … but I do miss Emmerdale’, Sun, 10 March 2011, pp. 10–11. 119 ‘Mad Max v Mad Dog’, Sun, 9 March 2011, pp.  10–11. See also ‘Rebels close in on Gaddafi’, The Times, 15 August 2011, pp. 1, 8, 9. 120 ‘Mad Max v Mad Dog’, Sun, 9 March 2011, pp. 10–11. See also ‘National: Libya: dice rolled kindly to turn high-risk venture into Cameron’s lucky war’, Guardian, 14 October 2011, p. 24. 121 ‘Its a buzz fighting Gaddafi … but I do miss Emmerdale’, Sun, 10 March 2011, pp. 10–11. 122 ‘“We beg the West for a no-fly zone before Gaddafi’s jets destroy us all”’, Sun, 15 March 2011, p. 14. 123 Ibid. 124 William Hague, Statement in the House of Commons, 7 March 2011, www.publica tions.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110307/debtext/110307-0001. htm#11030711000002 (accessed 4 March 2014); David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 28 February 2011, www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/ cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110228/debtext/110228-0001.htm#11022819000002 (accessed 5 March 2014). 125 David Cameron, Speech at the London Conference on Libya, London, 29 March 2011, www.newstatesman.com/2011/03/libya-help-humanitarian (accessed 4 March 2014). 126 Luciana Berger, Statement in the House of Commons, 28 February 2011, www. publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110228/debtext/110228-0001. htm#11022819000002 (accessed 5 March 2014). 127 David Cameron, Speech to the UN General Assembly, New York, 22 September 2011, www.newstatesman.com/global-issues/2011/09/arab-world-region-libya-act (accessed 4 March 2014). 128 Ibid. 129 William Hague, Statement in the House of Commons, 7 March 2011. 130 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 5 September 2011, www. publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110905/debtext/110905-0001. htm#1109054000001 (accessed 4 March 2014); William Hague, Statement in the House of Commons, 7 March 2011; David Cameron, Speech, ‘The action we are taking will protect the Libyan people’, 18 March 2011, www.conservatives.com/ News/Speeches/2011/03/David_Cameron_Speech_to_Scottish_Conservative_ Conference.aspx (accessed 4 March 2014). 131 Douglas Alexander, Statement in the House of Commons, 15 March 2011, www. publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110315/debtext/110315-0001. htm#11031569000027 (accessed 4 March 2014). 132 Peter Bone, Statement in the House of Commons, 19 June 2011, www.publications. parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110719/debtext/110719-0001.htm (accessed 4 March 2014).

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133 David Cameron, Statement on Libya, 10 Downing Street, 22 August 2011, www. newstatesman.com/politics/2011/08/arab-libyan-step-today-support (accessed 4 March 2014); David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 5 September 2011. 134 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 21 March 2011, www.publica tions.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110321/debtext/110321-0001. htm#1103219000002 (accessed 5 March 2014). 135 David Cameron, Speech to the UN General Assembly, New York, 22 September 2011. 136 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 5 September 2011. 137 David Cameron, Speech to the UN General Assembly, New York, 22 September 2011; Edward Miliband, Statement in the House of Commons, 5 September 2011, www. publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110905/debtext/110905-0001. htm#1109054000001 (accessed 4 March 2014). 138 Nicholas Soames, Statement in the House of Commons, 5 September 2011, www. publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110905/debtext/110905-0001. htm#1109054000001 (accessed 4 March 2014); David Cameron, Speech at the London Conference on Libya, London, 29 March 2011, www.newstatesman.com/2011/03/ libya-help-humanitarian (accessed 4 March 2014); Edward Miliband, Statement in the House of Commons, 5 September 2011; Nigel Dodds, Statement in the House of Commons, 5 September 2011, www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/ cmhansrd/cm110905/debtext/110905-0001.htm#1109054000001 (accessed 4 March 2014). 139 Ann Clwyd, Statement in the House of Commons, 28 February 2011, www.publica tions.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110228/debtext/110228-0001. htm#11022819000002 (accessed 5 March 2014). 140 David Cameron, Speech at the London Conference on Libya, 29 March 2011; William Hague, Statement in the House of Commons, 7 March 2011. 141 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 5 September 2011. 142 Nicholas Soames, Statement in the House of Commons, 5 September 2011. 143 David Cameron, Speech to the UN General Assembly, New York, 22 September 2011; David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 5 September 2011. 144 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 18 March 2011, www. publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110318/debtext/110318-0001. htm#11031850000007 (accessed 5 March 2014). David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 21 March 2011. 145 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 5 September 2011. 146 Edward Miliband, Statement in the House of Commons, 5 September 2011. 147 Ann Clwyd, Statement in the House of Commons, 28 February 2011. 148 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 5 September 2011. 149 David Cameron, Speech to the UN General Assembly, New York, 22 September 2011. 150 William Hague, Statement in the House of Commons, 14 June 2011, www.publica tions.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110614/debtext/110614-0001. htm#11061453000028 (accessed 4 March 2014). 151 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 21 March 2011. 152 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 28 February 2011. 153 Edward Miliband, Statement in the House of Commons, 5 September 2011.

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154 Jo Swinson, Statement in the House of Commons, 5 September 2011, www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110905/debtext/110905-0001. htm#1109054000001 (accessed 4 March 2014); David Cameron, Speech to the UN General Assembly, New York, 22 September 2011. 155 David Cameron, Speech, ‘The action we are taking will protect the Libyan people’, 18 March 2011. 156 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 5 September 2011; David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 18 March 2011. 157 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 21 March 2011. 158 David Cameron, Speech, ‘The action we are taking will protect the Libyan people’, 18 March 2011. 159 Ibid. 160 David Cameron, Speech at the London Conference on Libya, 29 March 2011; David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 21 March 2011. 161 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 28 February 2011. 162 David Cameron, Speech at the London Conference on Libya, 29 March 2011. 163 Bob Russell, Statement in the House of Commons, 21 March 2011, www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110321/debtext/110321-0001. htm#1103219000002 (accessed 5 March 2014). 164 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 18 March 2011. 165 Tom Brake, Statement in the House of Commons, 18 March 2011, www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110318/debtext/110318-0001. htm#11031850000007 (accessed 5 March 2014). 166 Sam Gyimah, Statement in the House of Commons, 21 March 2011, www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110321/debtext/110321-0001. htm#1103219000002 (accessed 5 March 2014). 167 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 21 March 2011. 168 William Hague, Statement in the House of Commons, 30 March 2011, www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110330/debtext/110330-0001. htm#11033062000003 (accessed 5 March 2014); David Cameron, Speech at the London Conference on Libya, 29 March 2011. 169 David Winnick, Statement in the House of Commons, 28 February 2011, www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110228/debtext/110228-0001. htm#11022819000002 (accessed 5 March 2014); David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 21 March 2011. 170 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 18 March 2011. 171 Edward Miliband, Statement in the House of Commons, 18 March 2011, www. publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110318/debtext/110318-0001. htm#11031850000007 (accessed 5 March 2014). 172 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 18 March 2011. 173 David Cameron, Speech, ‘The action we are taking will protect the Libyan people’, 18 March 2011; William Hague, Statement in the House of Commons, 19 June 2011, www. publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110719/debtext/110719-0001. htm (accessed 4 March 2014). 174 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 18 March 2011.

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175 William Hague, Statement in the House of Commons, 30 March 2011. 176 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 18 March 2011. 177 David Cameron, Speech at the London Conference on Libya, 29 March 2011. 178 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 21 March 2011. 179 William Hague, Statement in the House of Commons, 30 March 2011. 180 John McDonnell, Statement in the House of Commons, 18 March 2011, www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110318/debtext/110318-0001. htm#11031850000007 (accessed 5 March 2014). 181 William Hague, Statement in the House of Commons, 30 March 2011; David Cameron, Speech to the UN General Assembly, New York, 22 September 2011; David Cameron, Statement on Libya, 10 Downing Street, 22 August 2011; William Hague, Statement in the House of Commons, 19 June 2011. 182 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 28 February 2011; Edward Miliband, Statement in the House of Commons, 28 February 2011, www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201011/cmhansrd/cm110228/debtext/110228-0001. htm#11022819000002 (accessed 5 March 2014); David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 18 March 2011. 183 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 28 February 2011. 184 Amnesty International, ‘The Battle for Libya. Killings, Disappearances and Torture’, 13 September 2011www.amnesty.org/en/library/info/MDE19/025/2011/en (accessed 19 August 2014). 185 Ibid. 186 Ibid., p. 70. 187 Human Rights Watch, ‘World Report 2012: Country Summary on Libya’, p. 598, www. hrw.org/sites/default/files/reports/wr2012.pdf (accessed 7 March 2014). 188 Ibid., pp. 595, 599. 189 Ibid., pp. 598–599. 190 Ibid., p. 598. 191 Ibid., p. 595. 192 Ibid., pp. 598–599. 193 Ibid., p. 598. 194 Ibid. 195 Ibid. 196 Ibid., p. 599. 197 For exceptions see ‘Rebels tightening grip on Tripoli but the tyrant still eludes them’, The Times, 26 August 2011, p. 8; ‘Mercy and justice for Gaddafi’s army dupes’, The Times, 21 May 2011, pp. 40–41. 198 William Hague, Statement in the House of Commons, 30 March 2011. 199 ‘Mercy and justice for Gaddafi’s army dupes’, The Times, 21 May 2011, pp. 40–41. 200 ‘The fall of Tripoli’, The Times, 24 August 2011, pp. 1, 3. 201 Ibid. 202 ‘A squalid death’, The Times, 26 October 2011, p. 2; ‘No need to find Gaddafi killer’, Sun, 25 October 2011, p. 41; ‘What’s now for Libya?’, Sun, 24 October 2011, p. 43. 203 ‘Arab Spring:  Gaddafi’s death:  decaying bodies normally repel  – in Misrata, they do exactly the opposite’, Guardian, 24 October 2011, p. 3.

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204 ‘National: Death of Gaddafi: legal process: few Libyans will mourn lost opportunity to see dictator face court’, Guardian, 21 October 2011, p. 5; ‘What’s now for Libya?’, Sun, 24 October 2011, p. 43. 205 ‘No need to find Gaddafi killer’, Sun, 25 October 2011, p. 41. 206 ‘National: Death of Gaddafi: on show in a meat locker’, Guardian, 22 October 2011, p. 4. 207 ‘Don’t you know right from wrong?’, Sun, 22 October 2011, pp. 8–9. 208 ‘Gaddafi’s killer: “You can have him now”’, The Times, 22 October 2011, pp. 1, 5; ‘Arab Spring: Gaddafi’s death: decaying bodies normally repel – in Misrata, they do exactly the opposite’, Guardian, 24 October 2011, p. 3; ‘New Libya struggles to bury its past’, The Times, 24 October 2011, p. 3. 209 ‘A tyrant meets his end’, The Times, 21 October 2011, pp. 1, 3. 210 ‘A hundred legends are in the making, but all end with a bullet’, The Times, 21 October 2011, pp. 4–5. 211 ‘Front: The wheel of history turned yesterday: it won’t turn back: Gaddafi was a liar, murderer and cheat’, Guardian, 21 October 2011, p. 1. 212 ‘Rot in hell with Hitler’, Sun, 21 October 2011, pp. 8, 9. See also ‘National: Death of Gaddafi: view from Tripoli’, Guardian, 22 October 2011, p. 4. 213 ‘Here lies the rat. Tyrant’s reign of terror finally at end’, Sun, 21 October 2011, pp. 4–5. 214 Both quotations from ‘Rot in hell with Hitler’, Sun, 21 October 2011, pp. 8–9. 215 ‘Gaddafi is gone. Now for the difficult bit’, The Times, 21 October 2011, p. 40. 216 ‘National: Death of Gaddafi: path ahead’, Guardian, 21 October 2011, p. 2. 217 ‘National: Death of Gaddafi: legal process: few Libyans will mourn lost opportunity to see dictator face court’, Guardian, 21 October 2011, p. 5. 218 ‘Gaddafi’s killer: “You can have him now”’, The Times, 22 October 2011, pp. 1, 5. 219 ‘No need to find Gaddafi killer’, Sun, 25 October 2011, p. 41. 220 Ibid. 221 Ibid. 222 ‘Arab Spring:  Gaddafi’s death:  decaying bodies normally repel  – in Misrata, they do exactly the opposite’, Guardian, 24 October 2011, p. 3. 223 ‘A tyrant meets his end’, The Times, 21 October 2011, pp. 1, 3. 224 Ibid. 225 ‘Front:  Death of a dictator:  Gaddafi killed by rebels in wake of French air strike’, Guardian, 21 October 2011, p. 1. 226 ‘Arms for the rebels could end up in al-Qaeda hands’, The Times, 31 March 2011, pp. 18–19. See also ‘It’ll be a bloodbath if you try to invade, Gaddafi tells West’, The Times, 3 March 2011, p. 7; ‘Women and children killed in the bloody battle for Zawiya’, The Times, 10 March 2011, pp. 6–7. 227 ‘Arab Spring: Libya’ government forces batter Misrata hours after claiming siege put on hold for tribal talks’, Guardian, 25 April 2011, p. 20. 228 ‘Libya: Allied jets destroy plane and tanks near key Gaddafi target’, Guardian, 25 March 2011, p. 26. 229 ‘Front: Libya braced for battle of Benghazi as rebels retreat’, Guardian, 16 March 2011, p. 1. See also ‘Women and children killed in the bloody battle for Zawiya’, The Times, 10 March 2011, pp. 6–7; ‘Ga-Daffy: Rebels are on drugs’, Sun, 25 February 2011, p. 11; ‘Libya: Gaddafi minister claims UN breach over Nato team sent to aid rebels’, Guardian, 20 April 2011, p. 24.

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230 ‘Arms for the rebels could end up in al-Qaeda hands’, The Times, 31 March 2011, pp. 18–19. 231 ‘“We beg the West for a no-fly zone before Gaddafi’s jets destroy us all”; Rebel leaders plea to Sun man’, Sun, 15 March 2011, p. 14. 232 Ibid. 233 ‘Mad Max V Mad Dog; Men meet the rebels fighting Gaddafi armed to the teeth’, Sun, 9 March 2011, p. 10–11. 234 ‘“We beg the West for a no-fly zone before Gaddafi’s jets destroy us all”; Rebel leaders plea to Sun man’, Sun, 15 March 2011, p. 14. 235 ‘Libyan rebels must weed out the jihadists now’, The Times, 11 July 2011, p. 20. 236 ‘“We beg the West for a no-fly zone before Gaddafi’s jets destroy us all”’, Sun, 15 March 2011, p. 14. 237 ‘Tread carefully. That means no ground troops’, The Times, 8 April 2011, p. 26; ‘Arms for the rebels could end up in al-Qaeda hands’, The Times, 31 March 2011, pp. 18–19. 238 ‘Arms for the rebels could end up in al-Qaeda hands’, The Times, 31 March 2011, pp. 18–19. See also ‘Front: Libya: role of Nato: alliance ready to help, but won’t put troops on ground’, Guardian, 25 August 2011, p. 7. 239 ‘Gaddafi turns our weapons on rebels’, Sun, 5 April 2011, p. 4. 240 ‘There’s no chance of Libya being another Iraq’, The Times, 25 August 2011, p. 31. 241 ‘Arm us … we’ll defeat Gaddafi in days’, Sun, 30 March 2011, pp. 12–13; ‘Front: Coalition ready to arm rebellion if Gaddafi clings on to power’, Guardian, 30 March 2011, p. 1; ‘Arms for the rebels could end up in al-Qaeda hands’, The Times, 31 March 2011, pp. 18–19; ‘Hague and Clinton join forces as loyalists halt rebel advance’, The Times, 30 March 2011, pp. 6–7. 242 ‘Gaddafi’s son: I’ll take control in Libya’, The Times, 4 April 2011, p. 3. 243 Ibid. 244 William Hague, Statement in the House of Commons, 30 March 2011. 245 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 28 February 2011. 246 David Cameron, Speech to the UN General Assembly, New York, 22 September 2011. 247 David Cameron, Statement in the House of Commons, 5 September 2011.

4

US narratives of private military and security companies in Iraq

While many of us wanted to be a pirate in our childhood or had sympathies with rebels such as Che Guevara in our teenage years, very few people wanted to be a mercenary or private military and security company (PMSC) operative when they were young. And still nobody seems to like PMSCs. As Kateri Carmola (2010: 9) points out, ‘whatever they are, we do not like them’. At least since reports broke out of several fatal shootings in post-invasion Iraq – including the killing of seventeen civilians by employees of the most notorious PMSC Blackwater (now Academi) in Baghdad’s Nisour Square in 2007 – PMSCs face not only heightened public attention but also a massive image problem. And PMSCs are aware of, and care about, their (bad) image. What is more, they are trying to actively change this story. PMSCs go to considerable lengths to improve their blemished reputation and to influence the broader public’s view of what they ‘really’ are and what they do. This is reflected in PMSCs’ hiring of large public relations (PR) firms and high-level individual consultants such as Kenneth Starr, professional advertisements in industry magazines, numerous interviews with industry representatives in TV and print media, the creation and support of charities for veterans as well as local communities in countries in which PMSCs operate, the sale of merchandising products such as T-shirts and coffee-cups with the firm’s logo on them and, last but not least, the telling of a positive narrative about themselves on their websites. Thus, PMSCs attempt to tell narratives and constitute certain images of themselves and communicate these to an outside world. In particular they try and tell romantic stories about themselves in which they strategically employ romantic settings, characterizations and emplotments. In contrast to the chapter on pirates in which the romanticization was not so much down to the strategic employment of particular stories but was rather

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embedded in a wider cultural narrative of the pirate, this chapter is interested in a more strategic perspective in which the agent attempts to tell certain stories to the world but is nevertheless limited in his or her ability to convince a wider audience as a result of the relative absence of shared cultural romantic narratives on mercenaries to which one is able to connect. So far, the research on PMSCs has mainly focused on descriptive overviews of the industry (Singer 2003), the causes for the use of PMSCs (Krahmann 2010:  21–83; Petersohn 2010), the consequences of PMSCs’ boom (Avant 2005; Avant and Sigelmann 2010; Deitelhoff 2010; Deitelhoff and Geis 2010; Krahmann 2008; Leander 2005a) as well as the problems and shortcomings in the regulation of PMSCs (Chesterman and Lehnhardt 2007; De Nevers 2009; Leander 2010). Yet, recently an increasing number of scholars have shown interest in how PMSCs influence discourse. For example Anna Leander has shown how PMSCs have gained power to influence security discourses and frame common understandings on security issues. She argues that through measures such as lobbying, the privatization of intelligence, training and consultancy PMSCs are placed in a position where they are able to produce or at least significantly influence security discourse and the common understandings of other security actors such as governments and militaries. ‘They provide a growing share of the information that forms the basis of decisions on whether or not something is a security concern’ (Leander 2005b: 813). More recent research has turned to PMSCs’ (self-)construction of their multiple identities and the implications these constructions may have. Scholars have started to investigate how PMSCs see themselves (Franke and von Boemcken 2011a), which identities they constitute (Berndtsson 2012; Higate 2012a; Joachim and Schneiker 2012a; Schneiker 2007; Schneiker and Joachim 2012a), which gender roles they construct (Higate 2012b; Joachim and Schneiker 2012b) and what effects these (self-)constructions of PMSCs’ identities may have on their legitimacy, the (blurring) distinction between public and private actors in security governance as well as the nature and quality of security provision (Cutler 2010; Krahmann 2012). This turn in the private security literature towards PMSCs’ image- and identity management has opened new perspectives and generated important insights on widespread self-images of PMSCs (see especially Joachim and Schneiker 2012a; Schneiker and Joachim 2012a; Franke and von Boemcken 2011a). The main aim of this chapter is to show the narrative struggle around romantic narratives and how the strategic romanticization of PMSCs is made difficult by the persistence of a culturally embedded anti-mercenary narrative. In pursuit

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of this aim, the first part of the chapter will retell an anti-mercenary narrative, starting with a brief insight into the historical narrative dislike of mercenaries from Machiavelli to the American Revolution. The first part of the chapter then turns to the story told about mercenaries in international law and literature to highlight many of the persistencies in the anti-mercenary narrative. The second part will show how many of the narrative elements already present in these stories can also be found in US newspaper narratives of PMSCs’ setting, characterization and emplotment in Iraq. The third part will outline an opposing and marginalized romantic story about PMSCs. In particular this includes romantic stories PMSCs tell about themselves on their websites, again with a focus in their setting, characterization and emplotment. The chapter goes on to argue that these romantic narratives are marginalized because of a lack of readily available, culturally embedded positive narratives that the companies could build on. It shows that the romantic narratives are not taken up in the media, in international laws or institutions or in popular culture, as the setting, characterization as mercenaries and emplotment found in the anti-mercenary narrative prove to be fairly consistent and resilient to attempts at strategic telling of romantic stories.

Anti-mercenary narratives In the following the anti-mercenary narrative will be retraced by examining key historical texts on mercenaries and international laws and conventions on mercenaries, as well as important classic and more current literature in which the mercenary takes centre stage. By examining such diverse sources the aim is to illustrate the widespread nature of the narrative and the role of intertextuality through consistency of the story regardless of the realm in which it is told.

A historical narrative dislike of mercenaries While mercenaries were considered to be a normal part of almost every conflict up until the French and American revolutions (Singer 2003: 19–39), they have never been very popular. Many of the negative narrative elements which make up the story we know today are visible already in the writings of Machiavelli in 1532: Mercenaries and auxiliaries are useless and dangerous. If a prince bases the defence of his state on mercenaries he will never achieve stability or security. For mercenaries are disunited, thirsty for power, undisciplined, and disloyal; they are brave among their friends and cowards before the enemy; they have no fear of

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God, they do not keep faith with their fellow men; they avoid defeat just so long as they avoid battle; in peacetime you are despoiled by them, and in wartime by the enemy. The reason for all this is that there is no loyalty and inducement to keep them on the field apart from the little they are paid, and this is not enough to make them want to die for you. They are only too ready to serve in your army when you are not at war; but when war comes they either desert or disperse. (Machiavelli [1532] 1999: 39)

They are characterized as undisciplined, unorganized, disloyal, cowardly and useless in achieving their main reason for employment, namely security and stability. In the setting of war they desert or disperse and the emplotment of the character in the setting is one of an inferior financial motivation. For Machiavelli ‘mercenaries bring nothing but loss’ (Machiavelli [1532] 1999: 40). Even those, such as Frederick the Great, who employed mercenaries in the eighteenth century were not very enthusiastic about the character of their mercenaries as they have ‘neither the courage, nor loyalty, nor group spirit, nor sacrifice, nor self-reliance’ (Frederick the Great, cited in Singer 2003: 33). Similarly, Clausewitz believed that mercenaries such as the condottieri were ‘an expensive and therefore small military force. Even smaller was their fighting valued: extremes of energy or exertion were conspicuous by their absence and fighting was generally a sham’ (Clausewitz [1832] 1984:  587.) Rousseau was also sceptical about the value of mercenaries and saw them as one of the reasons for the fall of the Roman Empire. [T]‌he mercenaries, whose merit we may judge of by the price at which they sold themselves, proud of their own meanness, and despising the laws that protected them, as well as their fellows whose bread they ate, imagined themselves more honoured in being Caesar’s satellites than in being defenders of Rome. As they were given over to blind obedience, their swords were always at the throats of their fellow-citizens, and they were prepared for general butchery at the first sign. It would not be difficult to show that this was one of the principal causes of the ruin of the Roman Empire. (Rousseau 1755)

These negative narrative elements were not only a growing feature of political narratives on mercenaries in Europe but were also visible in North America at the time of the American Revolution. Following a republican tradition, there was a strong belief amongst American revolutionaries that citizen soldiers were decent, honourable and brave as well as morally superior to mercenaries. In contrast, the use of mercenaries was considered heinous and uncivilized, and while citizen soldiers were motivated by duty to their country or ideals such as

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freedom and liberty, mercenaries were motivated by money and greed (Percy 2007b: 123–126). With regard to narrative intertextuality, Sarah Percy explicitly links this to Machiavelli: ‘Americans were putting into practice a republican programme descended from Machiavelli, and so could not possibly approve of the use of inappropriately motivated fighters’ (Percy 2007b: 124). One may argue that the founding narrative of the US was intertextually connected to the emerging anti-mercenary narrative. The use of German mercenaries, often referred to as Hessians, by the British in the War of Independence (1775–1783) contributed to the continued rise of the anti-mercenary narrative. ‘The British use of Hessians was so disliked that it convinced both, neutral citizens and even citizens with loyalist inclinations to support the rebels, and provided a useful source of propaganda’ (Percy 2007b: 126). As George Washington noted in 1776 in response to the employment of German mercenaries by the British in the War of Independence: The Eyes of all our Countrymen are now upon us, and we shall have their blessings, and praises, if happily we are the instruments of saving them from the Tyranny meditated against them. Let us therefore animate and encourage each other, and shew the whole world, that a Freeman contending for Liberty on his own ground is superior to any slavish mercenary on earth.1

As Singer points out, the use of mercenaries and their ‘barbarity in the early fighting in New  York’ very much contributed to the outrage in the American colony, incited the Declaration of Independence and united the colonists against Britain (Singer 2003: 33). These characterizations of mercenaries and the anti-mercenary narrative were also explicitly inscribed into the Declaration of Independence (1776): He [the King of Great Britain] is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & Perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation.2

So by the end of the eighteenth century, a significant negative narrative of the mercenary, or what some refer to as a strong anti-mercenary norm (Thomson 1994; Avant 2000; Percy 2007b), had established itself across Europe and North America. This anti-mercenary narrative has continued and was enshrined in both national and international laws and UN conventions. For example the United States passed the Neutrality Act in 1794, which made it illegal for citizens and inhabitants of the US to enlist in a foreign military service or to ‘prepare

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the means for any military expedition or enterprise … against the territory or dominions of any foreign prince or state with whom the United States are at peace’ (Garcia-Mora 1958: 313). Most leading states of the international system followed and implemented some kind of restriction on mercenarism. As Janice Thomson points out: ‘Between 1794 and 1938, forty-nine states enacted some form of permanent legal control over their citizens of subjects’ foreign military service’ (Thomson 1994: 81). She argues that the illegitimacy of using mercenaries, or what she refers to as a norm against mercenary use, became widely accepted, as ‘no state has attempted to reinstate eighteenth-century practice by reversing or challenging the norm’ (Thomson 1994: 97). ‘Today real states do not buy mercenaries’ (Thomson 1994: 96). Percy here draws attention to the fact that ‘the mere absence of mercenaries from the international stage does not indicate that there is a norm against mercenary use’ (Percy 2007a:  372). She rather points to the global condemnation of the activities of small mercenary groups when they reappeared in conflicts in Africa during the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s and the specific definition of mercenarism in legal texts.

Mercenaries in international law From the 1960s onward there was a large increase in the number of international resolutions and law making with regard to mercenaries, many of which also include some the narrative elements already mentioned above. Percy points out that there are a large number of UN resolutions criticizing mercenaries, and she holds that ‘[t]‌he actions of the main UN bodies demonstrate that the international community perceived the reappearance of mercenaries as violating norms of international behaviour and demonstrating significant international commitment to the anti-mercenary norm’ (Percy 2007a: 374). Apart from a number of UN resolutions condemning particular incidences of mercenarism, there are four main international legal documents which reflect and constitute the anti-mercenary narrative. Firstly, this includes Article 47 of the Additional Protocol I  of the Geneva Convention adopted in 1977. The article characterizes the mercenary as follows: 1. A mercenary shall not have the right to be a combatant or a prisoner of war. 2. A mercenary is any person who: (a) is specially recruited locally or abroad in order to fight in an armed conflict; (b) does, in fact, take a direct part in the hostilities;

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(c) is motivated to take part in the hostilities essentially by the desire for private gain and, in fact, is promised, by or on behalf of a Party to the conflict, material compensation substantially in excess of that promised or paid to combatants of similar ranks and functions in the armed forces of that Party; (d) is neither a national of a Party to the conflict nor a resident of territory controlled by a Party to the conflict; (e) is not a member of the armed forces of a Party to the conflict; and (f) has not been sent by a State which is not a Party to the conflict on official duty as a member of its armed forces.3 In the setting of war, the mercenary is characterized as a foreign actor (‘neither a national nor a resident of the involved territory’) involved in fighting (‘direct part in the hostilities’) but importantly is not part of the armed forces of any party involved in the conflict. Therefore the actor is separated and excluded from the protections given to other participants in the conflict, as the mercenary ‘shall not have the right to be a combatant or a prisoner of war’. Not only is the emplotted motivation of the actor said to be the ‘desire for private gain’ but mercenaries are said to receive ‘material compensation substantially in excess of that promised or paid to combatants of similar rank’. So, consistent with the anti-mercenary narratives discussed earlier, the motivation and the reason for fighting are considered to be highly illegitimate. As Percy points out, ‘Article 47 undermines the basic thrust of the rest of the Protocol, which is predicated on the idea that fighters should not be discriminated against on the basis of their motivation and undermines the idea that international humanitarian law ought to be universal and apply to all those in a theatre of war’ (Percy 2007b: 178). Percy therefore argues that the ‘law’s focus on motivation may well be practically unworkable, but it reflects a profound belief that it is wrong to be motivated by money rather than an appropriate cause, and that an inappropriate motivation is what makes a mercenary’ (Percy 2007b: 179). Similarly, in the OAU Convention for the Elimination of Mercenarism in Africa (1977) a mercenary is characterized in Article 1 as a person who: (a) is specially recruited locally or abroad in order to fight in an armed conflict; (b) does in fact take a direct part in the hostilities; (c) is motivated to take part in the hostilities essentially by the desire for private gain and in fact is promised by or on behalf of a party to the conflict material compensation;

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(d) is neither a national of a party to the conflict nor a resident of territory controlled by a party of the conflict; (e) is not a member of the armed forces of a party to the conflict; and (f) is not sent by a state other than a party to the conflict on official mission as a member of the armed forces of the said state.4 Mirroring parts of the narrative found in the American Revolution, the OAU Convention tells of a setting of a post-colonial Africa where the mercenary is considered to pose a ‘grave threat’ to ‘the independence, sovereignty, territorial integrity and harmonious development of Member States of the Organisation of African Unity’.5 The character of the mercenary is illegitimate as he poses a threat, standing as he does in contrast ‘to the legitimate exercise of the right of African People under colonial and racist domination to their independence and freedom’.6 The emplotment and ultimate motivation of the mercenary actor is considered to be the desire for private gain. The mercenaries’ behaviour is characterized as a ‘subversive’ activity, a ‘scourge’ and an ‘international crime’7 and the ‘crime of mercenarism’ is said to be committed by not only the actor outlined in Article 1 but also by the actor who ‘[s]‌helters, organises, finances, assists, equips, trains, promotes supports or in any manner employs bands of mercenaries’.8 The definition of a mercenary offered in the International Convention against the Recruitment, Use, Financing and Training of Mercenaries (1989) shows a number of similarities with the previous two and is further indicative of the widely held anti-mercenary narrative. Article 1 states: 1. A mercenary is any person who: a. Is specially recruited locally or abroad in order to fight in an armed conflict; b. Is motivated to take part in the hostilities essentially by the desire for private gain and, in fact, is promised, by or on behalf of a party to the conflict, material compensation substantially in excess of that promised or paid to combatants of similar rank and functions in the armed forces of that party; c. Is neither a national of a party to the conflict nor a resident of territory controlled by a party to the conflict; d. Is not a member of the armed forces of a party to the conflict; and e. Has not been sent by a State which is not a party to the conflict on official duty as a member of its armed forces.

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2. A mercenary is also any person who, in any other situation: a. Is specially recruited locally or abroad for the purpose of participating in a concerted act of violence aimed at: i. Overthrowing a Government or otherwise undermining the constitutional order of the State; or ii. Undermining the territorial integrity of a State; b. Is motivated to take part therein essentially by the desire for significant private gain and is prompted by the promise or payment of material compensation; c. Is neither a national nor a resident of the State against which such an act is directed; d. Has not been sent by a State on official duty; and e. Is not a member of the armed forces of the State on whose territory the act is undertaken. In addition to many of the elements found in Article 47 of Protocol I  of the Geneva Convention, the International Convention against the Recruitment, Use, Financing and Training of Mercenaries establishes the mercenary act as well as other related activities such as recruitment, financing or training as an international offence. While the protocol did not specify any actions against mercenaries, the convention obliges states to sanction mercenary related activity. Similarly, the convention considered it to be an offence to be an ‘accomplice’ to any such acts.9 Interestingly, the setting is expanded from war and armed conflict to situations such as the overthrowing of a government and the undermining of the territorial integrity of a state. Overall, the mercenary character is said to ‘violate principles of international law’ and their behaviour is ‘unlawful’, an ‘offence of grave concern’ and a ‘nefarious’ activity.10 The illegitimate mercenary is placed in opposition to the legitimate state system in which mercenary activities ‘violate principles of international law such as those of sovereign equality, political independence, territorial integrity of States and self-determination of peoples’.11 As already indicated in the Convention against the Recruitment, international law has continued to tell a story about the mercenary in which he or she opposes the established international state system and the sovereignty of legitimate states. This becomes even more prominent, especially with regard to the struggle against colonialism, in the UN General Assembly Resolution on the use of mercenaries as a means of violating human rights and impeding the exercise of the right of people to self-determination. This resolution, which has been passed on an annual basis since 1986 (2005 being the exception), recognizes

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that the activities of mercenaries are contrary to fundamental principles of international law, such as non-interference in the internal affairs of States, territorial integrity and independence, and seriously impede the process of self-determination of peoples struggling against colonialism, racism and apartheid and all forms of foreign domination.12

The resolution considers mercenaries to be a ‘threat to international peace and security’ and explicitly links mercenaries to the violation of human rights. It characterizes mercenaries as an ‘increasing menace that the activities of mercenaries represent for all States’ and ‘[d]‌enounces any State that persists in the recruitment, or permits or tolerates the recruitment, of mercenaries and provides facilities to them for launching armed aggression against other States’.13 Throughout its almost thirty-year lifetime, the resolution has evolved and continuously reflects an increasingly established anti-mercenary narrative. For example, while the first resolution in 1986 only ‘recognised’ that mercenarism is a threat to international peace and security the resolution in 1992 is ‘convinced’ of this. Moreover, the 1992 resolution begins linking mercenaries with other narratives such as drug trafficking: ‘Profoundly alarmed at the continued international criminal activities of the mercenaries in collusion with drug traffickers …’.14 From being a ‘menace’, mercenaries become identified with ‘offences of grave concern’: ‘the use of mercenaries and their recruitment, financing and training are offences of grave concern to all States and violates the purpose and principles enshrined in the Charter of the United Nations’.15 In addition to these four main documents which reflect and constitute the anti-mercenary narrative, there are a large number of other international documents and agreements which strengthen this anti-mercenary narrative. These include a considerable number of resolutions condemning individual acts of mercenarism in conflicts in for example Congo,16 Benin17 and Seychelles,18 as well as resolutions on the struggle against colonialism. Here, for example, the General Assembly [d]‌eclares that the practice of using mercenaries against movements of national liberation and independence is punishable as a criminal act and that the mercenaries themselves are outlaws, and calls upon the Governments of all countries to enact legislation declaring the recruitment, financing and training of mercenaries in their territory to be a punishable offence and prohibiting their nationals from serving as mercenaries.19

Furthermore, the Declaration on Principles of International Law concerning Friendly Relations and Co-operation among States20 notes that states should

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refrain from using mercenaries, the UN General Assembly Resolution 3314 on the Definition of Aggression21 considers the sending of mercenaries an act of aggression and the Draft Code of Offences against the Peace and Security of Mankind points out that ‘[m]‌ercenarism is a crime which, by reason of its objective (threatening the sovereignty and integrity of a State), constitutes an offence against the peace and security of mankind’.22 As Percy illustrates, the ‘anti-mercenary feeling was embedded in other documents and associated with other ideas, allowing it to flourish. The repeated mention of anti-mercenarism in UN documents and in documents of international law, including the Draft Code, had a further institutionalizing effect’ (Percy 2007b: 239).

Mercenaries in literature In contrast to the chapter on pirates, there are remarkably few literary classics which revolve around a mercenary as the central character. The German audience will remember in particular Friedrich Schiller’s Wallenstein trilogy (1799) for its portrayal of intrigue, power politics and the downfall of General Wallenstein rather than the characterization of a typical mercenary (Schiller [1799] 2004; Schiller [1799] 2003). Though mercenaries play a vital role in the armies of the Thirty Years War, they play only a very minor role in the three dramas Wallenstein’s Camp, The Piccolomini and Wallenstein’s Death, as mercenaries are frequently simply labelled as ‘soldiers’ or ‘troops’. In the one scene in which one does encounter the characterization of ‘soldiers of fortune’ (‘Soldaten der Fortuna’) in the final part of the trilogy, they nevertheless again emphasize the financial motivation for action, and acquire a negative connotation, as the two soldiers of fortune Macdonald and Deveroux murder the main sympathetic character, Wallenstein. Deveroux:  Soldiers of fortune are we – who bids most he has us. Macdonald:  ’Tis e’en so!(Schiller [1799] 2003: 117)23

In contrast, Sir Walter Scott’s novel A Legend of Montrose (1819) does explicitly refer to the concept of the mercenary.24 While officially not the main character of the story, which is concerned with a love-triangle relationship during the Civil War in Scotland (1644–1645), the mercenary Dugald Dalgetty does nevertheless play an important role in the novel. At the beginning of the novel Scott includes many of the narrative elements outlined above to characterize a mercenary.

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A cavalier of honour, in search of his fortune, might, for example, change his service as he would his shirt, fight, like the doughty Captain Dalgetty, in one cause after another, without regards to the justice of the quarrel, and might plunder the peasantry subjected to him by the fate of war with the most unrelenting rapacity. (Scott [1819] 2002: 6) I think this fellow Dalgetty is one of those horse-leeches, whose appetite for blood being only sharpened by what he has sucked in foreign countries, he is now returned to batten upon that of his own. Shame on the pack of these mercenary swordmen! they have made the name of Scot through all Europe equivalent to that of a pitiful mercenary, who knows neither honour nor principle but his month’s pay, who transfers his allegiance from standard to standard, at the pleasure of fortune or the highest bidder. (Scott [1819] 2002: 47)

Dalgetty himself makes quite clear that his motivations for fighting are financial. When asked whose side he will choose in the conflict, he responds: ‘Simply upon two considerations, my lord.… Being, first, on which side my services would be in most honourable request; – And, secondly, whilk is corollary of the first, by whilk party they are likely to be most gratefully requited’ (Scott [1819] 2002: 42). At the same time Dalgetty is frequently characterized, often by himself, with a concept of honour. However, this explicit reference to honour can be found throughout the novel, as all sides to the conflict claim to be fighting for an honourable cause such as loyalty or liberty. Overall Dalgetty is portrayed more as a comic character who follows professional standards and self-interest and reveals to the reader the different cultural and temporal notions of honour (Makie 1915; Devlin 1968; Garside 1974). As Dalgetty pronounces: I have heard enough since I  came here, to satisfy me that a cavalier of honour is free to take any part in this civil embroilment whilk he may find most convenient for his own peculiar. Loyalty is your pass-word, my lord – Liberty, roars another chield from the other side of the strath – the King, shouts on war-cry – the Parliament roars another – Montros, for ever, cries Donald, waving his bonnet – Argyle and Leven, cries a south-country Saunders, vapouring with his hat and feather. Fight for the bishops, says a priest, with his gown and rochet – Stand stout for the Kirk, cries a minister, in a Geneva cap and band. – Good watchwords all – excellent watchwords. Whilk cause is the best I cannot say. But sure am I, that I have fought knee-deep in blood many a day for one that was ten degrees worse than the worst of them all. (Scott [1819] 2002: 41–42)

In the 1960s and 1970s, mercenaries featured in a number of novels and films. And while they began to acquire a least a certain level of romanticization

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(Taulbee 1998: 146) they never gained the same popularity and cultural dominance as pirates or rebels. Two popular examples of the relatively small mercenary romantic hero genre are the film The Wild Geese (1978) starring Richard Burton, Roger Moore, Richard Harris and Hardy Krüger and the novel The Dogs of War (1974) by Frederick Forsyth (Nossal 1998: 17). Examining one of the more positive narratives of mercenaries in more detail, however, it becomes clear that many of the narrative elements mentioned above do still permeate the overall story. For example, in The Dogs of War the setting of the story is constituted as a chaotic and lawless African state and the mercenary is told to be ‘raw boned’, ‘ruthless’ and ‘reckless’ ‘outlaw’ who, like most mercenaries, ‘preferred it the rougher the better’ (Forsyth [1974] 2012: 12, 104, 151, 13, 197). ‘So for the last six years he had lived as a mercenary, often an outlaw, at best regarded as a soldier for hire, at worst a paid killer. The trouble was, once he was known as a mercenary there was no going back’ (Forsyth [1974] 2012: 97). Mercenaries are characterized as aggressive, violent and not very sophisticated:  ‘The lieutenant, who a year ago had been a recruit with the rank of private and had been promoted for his ability to fight rather than eat with a knife and fork, nodded sombrely, taking in the instructions’ (Forsyth [1974] 2012: 13). ‘They said you could tell a bar where Tiny Mac had become playful by the number of artisans it needed to put it back together again’ (Forsyth [1974] 2012: 18). With regard to the causal emplotment, the story at first constitutes the prime motivation for actions as personal financial gain and a total disregard for the wellbeing of the (African) population at large. With regard to the character of the mercenary in literature, Erik Simpson holds that ‘[l]‌ike the definition of the mercenary in the Geneva Protocol, the notion of the mercenary match requires not only the promise of an unusually large amount of money but also that money be the primary incentive of the mercenary party’ (Simpson 2010: 13). The mercenary in The Dogs of War is employed and paid well by scrupulous businessmen in order to stage a coup d’état and install a new (ruthless) leader so that the businessmen can gain access to precious natural resources of the country. Mercenaries ‘fight for whoever pays them, and pays them well’ (Forsyth [1974] 2012:  94). Interestingly, the reader’s sympathy for and identification with the mercenaries grows only in the final stages of the book, when the mercenary betrays his employer and reveals that his motivation is not only down to personal financial gain. The financial motivation is replaced or rather paralleled with other motivations such as the quest for adventure half-way through:

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Julie: Why do you live the way you do? Why be a mercenary and go around making wars on people? Shannon: I don’t make war. The world we live in makes wars, led and governed by men who pretend they are creatures of morality and integrity, whereas most of them are selfseeking bastards. They make the wars, for increased profits or increased power. I just fight the wars because it’s the way I like to live. Julie: But why for money? Mercenaries fight for money, don’t they? Shannon: Not only money. The bums do, but when it comes to a crunch the bums who style themselves mercenaries usually don’t fight. They scarper. Most of the best ones fight for the same reason I do; they enjoy the life, the hard living, the combat.(Forsyth [1974] 2012: 220–221)

Yet, the true unmercenary like motivation is revealed only on the final pages in which the mercenary Shannon explains his actions and why he chose to cross the businessman’s plans: ‘It’s not really the money. It was never for the money’ (Forsyth [1974] 2012: 438). I watched between half a million and a million small kids starved to death because of people like you and Manson. It was done basically so that you and your kind can make bigger profits through a vicious and totally corrupt dictatorship, and it was done in the name of law and order, of legality and constitutional justification. I may be a fighter, I may be a killer, but I am not a bloody sadist. I worked out for myself how it was done and why it was done, and who were the men behind it. Visible up front were a bunch of politicians and Foreign Office men, but they are just a cage full of posturing apes, neither seeing nor caring past their inter-departmental squabbles and their re-election. Invisible behind them were profiteers like your precious James Manson. That’s why I did it. (Forsyth [1974] 2012: 433)

Yet as James Taulbee points out, despite these few exceptions the mercenary narrative remains largely negative, as the ‘dark side rather than the romantic side has dominated perceptions’ (Taulbee 1998:  154). ‘In the public imagination, they are the men depicted in such films as “The Wild Geese” or “The Dogs of War” – freelance soldiers of no fixed abode, who for large amounts of money, fight for dubious causes. The very word “mercenary” has certainly acquired an unflattering connotation. In the general psyche, to be “mercenary” [was and] is to be inherently ruthless and disloyal’ (Singer 2003: 40). While some argue that it has become ‘impossible to recover the term “mercenary” from its pejorative place in the language’ (Nossal 1998: 33), this chapter holds that it has become increasingly difficult to tell an alternative romantic narrative about mercenaries and other actors likened to them such as PMSCs.

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Overall, the anti-mercenary narrative visible in historical narratives, international legal documents and literature considers the mercenary in a setting of armed conflict to be useless, undisciplined, unreliable, unlawful and a grave concern for the international community. Above all, however, he or she is considered to be illegitimate as a result, predominantly, of the underlying emplotment of his/her existence and action. In contrast to the accepted motivation of patriotism and ideology, fighting for personal monetary profit is considered morally wrong (Percy 2007a:  371; Singer 2003:  31). As Simpson points out, the pejorative connotation of the term mercenary is down to the idea that the ‘mercenary embodies a kind of anti-ethical principle serving the basest needs of the self ’ (Simpson 2010: 2). Lynch and Walsh add that ‘[i]‌t is not that they do things for money, but that money is the sole or the dominant consideration in their practical deliberation’ (Lynch and Walsh 2000: 136, emphasis in original). While the motivations of pirates, as outlined in Chapter 2, are also considered to be financial, there are nevertheless other parallel motivations such as the pursuit of freedom or the escape of an unjust system where the pirate is left with few alternatives in order to ensure his/her survival which make the act of piracy more susceptible to romanticization than mercenarism.

US media narratives on PMSCs This anti-mercenary narrative continues up until today and is visible in media reporting about private military and security companies (Kruck and Spencer 2013). The chapter next examines the key narrative elements found in 183 of the most relevant articles concerned with PMSCs during the height of the Iraq War in three large US newspapers (New York Times, Washington Post and USA Today) between 2004 and 2011.25

Setting Considering the setting of the narrative on PMSCs, US newspapers often note the chaotic and unregulated sphere in which PMSCs operate. The setting is a ‘rule-free zone’26 and reports deplore the ‘lack of accountability’27 or ‘lack of control’28 of the ‘unaccountable’29 private security contractors. PMSCs are said to be ‘[o]‌perating free of the restraints of military rule and ethics’30 in a ‘murky legal space’31 or ‘legal gray area’.32 They ‘operate in a sometimes ambiguous legal area’33 and are set in a ‘culture of lawlessness’:34 ‘Blackwater appears to have fostered a culture of shoot first and sometimes kill, and then ask the questions.’35

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The setting in Iraq is constructed as a chaotic ‘lawless frontier’36 or ‘Wild West chaos’,37 where spending has set off a ‘gold rush’38 with an ‘unacceptable lack of clarity’39 in which PMSCs leave behind a ‘bloody mess’.40

Characterization With regard to characterization, one finds a number of the elements mentioned already in Machiavelli and the subsequent anti-mercenary narrative outlined above. For example, PMSCs are considered to be ‘menacing’41 brutes:  ‘The scene of Blackwater guards moving throughout Baghdad became a familiar, menacing sight.’42 Their ‘arrogant’43 behaviour is portrayed as ‘heavy-handed tactics’,44 ‘aggressive machismo’,45 ‘bullying’46 and ‘muscle-bound showiness’47 or ‘bravado’.48 They are said to be ‘aggressive’49 and ‘obnoxious, with a tendency to wave guns as if in a Rambo movie’.50 As Jutta Joachim and Andrea Schneiker point out, ‘PMSCs are portrayed as mega-masculine Rambos and trigger-happy brutes’ ( Joachim and Schneiker 2012b: 496). At the same time as being menacing, PMSCs are also considered to be useless and incompetent. They are often labelled as ‘gunslingers’51 or ‘cowboys’52 and use ‘cowboy tactics’53 and who are ‘trigger-happy’54 and have a ‘quick draw image’55 (Higate 2012a). They are characterized as a ‘hodgepodge’56 of ‘out-ofcontrol contractors’57 who ‘act irresponsibly’58 and are ‘reckless’59 and ‘careless of Iraqi lives’.60 ‘At worst you’ve got cowboys running almost unchecked, shooting at will or just plain O.T.F. (Out There Flappin’).’61 Their ‘recklessness’62 is visible in their indiscriminate shooting ‘with impunity in a burst of “spray and pray”’63 and is ultimately down to inappropriate training: ‘But among the rank and file of security contractors, Blackwater guards are regularly ridiculed as cowboys who are relentless and pointlessly aggressive, carry excessive weaponry and do not appear to have top-of-the-line training.’64 So PMSCs are not considered professional soldiers but ‘amateurish’65 ‘putative warriors’66 or ‘military washouts, ex-cons, gunmen fired from other contractors and the utterly unqualified’.67 Rather than employing well-trained professionals, PMCs rely on questionable selection and recruitment procedures that lead to the hiring of unqualified and incompetent staff. Very few of the mercenaries in Iraq had made it through full military careers.… Even many of the former special-operations personnel hired by firms such as Blackwater either left the military because they ultimately didn’t measure up or simply got out to grab the contractor money (a sin of the first magnitude to

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honorable soldiers). The gulf between those who wear our country’s uniform and mercenaries is at least as wide as the gap between good cops and criminals.68

Thus, employees of PMSCs are characterized as ‘poorly prepared’,69 ‘poorly trained’70 and incompetent ‘misfits’71 who do ‘shoddy’72 or ‘sloppy’73 work and do ‘stupid stuff ’.74 The gunmen  – some illiterate  – come from the United States, Britain, South Africa, Australia, Peru, Uganda, Nepal and various other countries. Many of the Western hires were dysfunctional characters who could make it in neither the military, with its demands for emotional stability and discipline, nor the civilian world.75

Not only are they characterized as incompetent but in line with much of the anti-mercenary legislation mentioned above they are portrayed as criminal gunmen (Livingstone and Hart 2003: 165).76 Security contractors are thus labelled as ‘dangerous’77 ‘shadowy security contractor’,78 ‘outlaws’,79 ‘(corporate) thugs’,80 ‘desperados’81 or ‘renegades’82 committing ‘criminal acts’83 for their clients. They are said to display ‘lawless behavior’84 including ‘bribery’,85 ‘weapons smuggling’86 and ‘rogue operations’.87 They are ‘misfits, thugs and outright psychotics who kill with impunity under corporate flags’.88 They are ‘mistreating civilians’89 and committing ‘violent felonies’90 and ‘murder’91 and trying to ‘cover up’92 their ‘misdeeds’93 and ‘abuses’.94 By far the most common label associated with PMSCs is that of the ruthless mercenary. Here PMSCs are not considered professional soldiers but are described as modern or unaccountable ‘hired guns’,95 ‘soldiers-of-fortune’96 or simply as ‘mercenaries’:97 ‘those who perform security or intelligence functions are hired guns – and hired guns are mercenaries’.98 And, yes, the so-called private security contractors are mercenaries. They are heavily armed. They carry out military missions, but they’re private employees who don’t answer to military discipline. On the other hand they don’t seem accountable to Iraqi or U.S. law, either. And they behave accordingly.99

The companies are referred to as ‘mercenary outfits’,100 ‘mercenary forces’101 or ‘mercenary private contractors’102 who conduct ‘mercenary action’.103 Furthermore, PMSCs are characterized as ‘trigger-happy mercenaries’,104 ‘gun-toting mercenaries’105 or ‘reckless mercenaries with little regard for Iraqi life’.106 They are considered to have an illegitimate background, with PMSC employees having formerly worked for Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet or

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the apartheid regime.107 Some of the articles even make an explicit reference to the Hessian mercenaries during the American Revolution: Faced with a similar dilemma last year, when it launched a war against Iraq, the Bush administration produced its own brand of Hessians by hiring 20,000 civilians to serve in a quasi-military force. Though the people employed in this force have commonly been referred to as ‘contractors’, they are, in fact, mercenaries.… But unlike the Hessians, who were the well-trained troops of German aristocrats, the security contractors employed by the Pentagon in Iraq are a hodgepodge of soldiers of fortune.108

The media are fully aware that the PMSCs object to being characterized as ‘mercenaries’ and that they are trying to ‘cloak themselves as contractors’,109 but nonetheless in the media PMSCs remain ‘our contemporary euphemism for mercenaries’.110 ‘Mercenaries, soldiers of fortune. Whatever you call them, hired guns in wars are usually bad news. And they are usually associated with Rambo-style adventures in godforsaken places.’111

Emplotment With regard to the causal emplotment, PMSCs’ financial motivation is considered morally illegitimate (Livingstone and Hart 2003:  167). A  very common media narrative on PMSCs portrays them as ‘war profiteers’112 that have made tremendous profits and received ‘munificent payments’.113 Thus, PMSCs are ‘driven by money’,114 as some PMSC employees are quoted as saying:  ‘Some people will tell you they’re here for Mom and apple pie.… That’s bull. It’s the money.’115 PMSCs and their ‘lucrative trade’116 are explicitly or implicitly condemned for war profiteering, that is, for immorally ‘cashing in’ on terrorism, insecurity and conflict and ‘driving up profits’.117 For employees of PMSCs ‘money was a big draw’,118 as they receive ‘dangling salaries of $200,000 per year’119 and are responsible for exorbitant security costs. In the US media, fighting for the sake of money is denounced: ‘As the nonpareil war profiteer in Iraq, Blackwater Worldwide keeps outdoing its own mercenary record.’120 The profit-making motive of PMSCs is said to run counter to the US motivations in Iraq. ‘Many American officials now share the view that Blackwater’s behavior is increasingly stoking resentment among Iraqis and is proving counterproductive to American efforts to gain support for its military efforts in Iraq.’121 The resulting conflicts of interests are frequently underlined, to the extent that PMSCs are becoming counterproductive to the overall effort of the governments paying them. As the

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direct speech of a PMSC employee indicates: ‘Our mission is to protect the principal at all costs. If that means pissing off the Iraqis, too bad.’122 Most articles are critical about PMSCs’ ‘waste and fraud’123 and a frequently mentioned aspect of this war-profiteering element is that PMSCs have ‘defrauded the U.S. government of tens of millions of dollars’124 as they are being ‘double-billed’.125 The Congressional investigation found that Blackwater charges the government $1,222 per day for each private military operative  – more than six times the wage of an equivalent soldier. And still it uncovered instances of overcharging. It reported that an audit in 2005 by the State Department’s Inspector General found Blackwater was charging separately for ‘drivers’ and ‘security specialists’ who were, in fact, the same people.126

In summary, the media tell a story of a reckless and ruthless mercenary in an unregulated and chaotic setting in which his monetary motivation is considered morally illegitimate. As Volker Franke and Marc von Boemcken hold, ‘media reports portrayed contractors as money-grabbing, gun-toting, thrill-seeking Rambo-type mercenaries with little to no moral inhibition or concern for ethical conduct and called for increasing regulation of the industry’ (Franke and van Boemcken 2011a: 6).

Marginalized romantic stories about PMSCs The strong objection to PMSCs visible in the media is most apparent in the narrative linkage between PMSCs and mercenaries in which mercenarism and making profit from the conflict is considered to be illegitimate (Steinhoff 2008). As Deane-Peter Baker points out: ‘It is generally assumed that there is something deeply immoral about mercenarism, to the extent that “mercenary” is unquestionably one of the more offensive descriptions we can give of a fellow human being’ (Baker 2008: 31). PMSCs are aware of the anti-mercenary narrative and try and distance themselves from mercenaries by telling alternative stories about themselves. As Ken Livingstone and Jerry Hart point out: ‘Within the private security sector, there is widespread recognition that its popular representations are predominantly rare or negative and that it has an urgent need to seek a more positive defining image’ (Livingstone and Hart 2003: 162). PMSCs are trying to challenge the old narratives which constitute them as ethically dubious and tell a story in which they are positive, attractive and ultimately legitimate actors (Baker 2008:  30; Herbst 2013:  287; Joachim and Schneiker 2012a:  365). As

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Tim Spicer, founder of the now defunct PMSC Sandline and former CEO of Aegis Defence Services, stated: Sandline is a private military company. We are not mercenaries. Whilst I do not object to the Oxford English Dictionary definition of the word, I do take issue with the image it conjures up in peoples [sic] minds, which is the distinction, as far as we are concerned. We don’t like the ‘Rambos’, the psychopaths, the killers. In the conflicts in which we become involved they actually work for the other side. (Spicer 1999: 165)

PMSCs have tried to spread these alternative narratives by giving media interviews, producing publications, employing PR and lobbying companies (Leander 2005b: 822), forming professional trade and advocacy associations such as the International Stability Operations Association or the British Association of Private Security Companies (Østensen 2011:  379)  and, importantly for this book, by telling stories on their public websites. The websites of PMSCs are here understood, in Joachim and Schneiker’s terms, as ‘instruments through which PMSCs can shape and influence their public image’ ( Joachim and Schneiker 2012b: 500). The creation of a setting in which PMSCs operate, a characterization of themselves and their emplotment on their websites is a means for PMSCs to frame or rather tell a story about themselves to the world. The websites are considered to not only serve the marketing of their services but also give an insight into PMSCs’ self-narratives (Schneiker and Joachim 2012a: 48). The following analysis covers the websites of over fifty of the largest PMSCs127 and concentrates in particular on the ‘About Us’ section of the individual websites. Despite focusing only on the US media, I  chose to include both major British and North American companies, as companies from both regions are employed by the US, played major roles in Iraq and were mentioned in the media narratives. The overall aim was to draw out some of the narrative elements in order to learn what stories PMSCs tell about themselves. An analysis of the websites shows that PMSCs, apart from stories about business expertise and professionalism, tell romantic stories about themselves in which they are patriotic humanitarians in a lawless setting working for the good of mankind. As a number of scholars have pointed out, PMSCs try and construct a number of different images including one of military or technical security expertise and business professionalism (Leander and van Muster 2007; Berndtsson 2012; Joachim and Schneiker 2012b; Higate 2012). As Livingstone and Hart argue: ‘The emergence of the relatively new figure of the “professional security

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manager” is a good example of an image the industry has embraced and wishes to promote’ (Livingstone and Hart 2003: 162). With regard to technical security expertise, the PMSC characterizes itself as ‘an international technology-enabled intelligence and information management company’128 which offers ‘the most advanced security solutions technology available in the market today’129 and ‘trusted intelligence and scalable technology solutions that help companies, investors and governments address business and legal risks’.130 Such firms stress their ‘ability to combine know-how and technology quickly and effectively to create the solutions our customers need’131 in the setting of a ‘rapidly changing world of technology’.132 ‘Whatever the level of protection, you can be assured that your total safety rests in the skilled hands of the world’s most experienced craftsmen and security technicians.’133 Similarly, the websites highlight that a large number of PMSCs strongly emphasize a ‘de-militarized’ image of themselves as highly professional business enterprises which avoid militaristic jargon, operate in challenging but essentially civilian business settings and claim to be a far cry from the commonplace image of mercenary firms. They provide ‘government services’,134 ‘effective and efficient operations’,135 ‘targeted services’ and ‘total solutions’136 which ‘enhance our customers’ effectiveness  – anytime, anywhere’.137 PMSCs characterize themselves as competent, reliable, trustworthy and responsive partners who ‘deliver solutions and services of superior value that meets or exceeds our customers’ expectations’138 because they truly care about and understand their clients’ needs. They offer an ‘exceptional customer service’139 and emphasize flexibility and cost-efficiency as key assets: ‘Our daily preoccupation is providing the most cost-effective, responsive and personalized possible customer care.’140 Moreover, they stress that they ‘provide the best value products and services’141 and ‘develop innovative solutions and provide customer value’.142 For that purpose, PMSCs claim to rely on ‘world-class professionals led by some of the strongest leaders in the business’143 and ‘highly qualified management staff ’.144 As Åse Østensen points out in this respect: Detachment from the troublesome mercenary association seems crucial to boosting PMSC moral legitimacy. This may be done by downplaying combat associations and constructing a business image and appearance of a business venture ‘like any other’. For these purposes, symbolism in marketing is frequently used to create a non-military company profile, instead placing operations within the vague field of ‘risk management’. (Østensen 2011: 378)

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In contrast to this cold, technological business narrative, however, one also encounters a large amount of narrative elements which indicate a more romantic narrative. Here the PMSCs try to confront many of the elements found in the anti-mercenary narrative and try and constitute themselves as romantic heroes in two different stories, one about PMSCs as brave patriots and one about them as noble humanitarians combining again elements of setting, characterization and emplotment.

A story about PMSCs as brave patriots The setting in this romantic patriot story is one in which PMSCs are at home in zones of conflict and war; they are part of a ‘Real.World.Adventure’.145 They consider war or armed conflict to be a fact of the ‘real’ international world in which PMSCs take responsibility and help states deal with the given situation. They provide ‘Real.World.Firepower’146 or ‘Real Training … For Real Capabilities … For The Real World’.147 The world post-9/11 and the ‘Age of Global terrorism’148 are set as a dangerous place or ‘hostile environment’149 in which PMSCs serve to protect their country: ‘Today’s changing security climate demands innovative solutions’150 which only PMSCs can provide. There is a certain level of asymmetry, as Western states and in particular the US are facing substantial dangers and ‘high-threat’.151 So PMSCs are struggling against the odds. The characterization of the PMSCs in the romantic patriot story further strengthens this narrative by trying to make themselves likable by stressing many of the traditional characteristics of the nation’s armed forces such as bravery, honour, loyalty, expertise and discipline (Schneiker and Joachim 2012a:  49). They want people to be able to identify themselves with PMSCs in a similar way as they do with their own armed forces. Company leaders are characterized as ‘a proven, experience-forged senior leader in military and international affairs’ and ‘epitome of a warrior, a powerful leader of men, and a living example of a moral, ethical life in action’.152 They characterize themselves as brave and honourable: In the Age of Global Terrorism we need people to take responsibility. We need people who leave personal matters behind in order to take the initiative and accept risks. We need people who place the interests and lives of others before their own. This is what we trained to do. This is what we do.153

PMSCs stress this romantic image and stress their loyalty by linking themselves to the nation’s armed forces by emphasizing that they are staffed by ‘former military personnel’154 or ‘ex-members of the Armed Forces’155 who have extensive ‘military qualifications’,156 ‘military experience’157 and ‘military decorations’.158

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Some PMSCs highlight that they are a ‘veteran owned’159 company which was founded by ‘retired … military officers’:160 ‘At DynCorp International we recognize the experience and dedication that veterans contribute to our business, as employees, business partners and suppliers.’161 PMSCs are proud of this narrative association: ‘Hiring military personnel is an important part of our strategy. We are proud to partner with military organizations to put these heroes to work.’162 Some PMSCs provide extensive lists of their military and governmental clients, such as ‘US Army, Marine Corps, Navy, Air Force, National Guard, Joint Units and Unified Commands as well as Federal Agencies’, which the PMSC has ‘successfully served’.163 They refer to ‘a proven track record with over twenty-five hundred government agencies served around the globe’.164 These references are occasionally backed up by quoting evaluative statements from armed forces officials praising the quality of the PMSC’s services.165 For example, ICI of Oregon quotes praise from the US Department of State for ‘your competency in military operations, your ability to analyze the motives of the warring factions, your exceptional personnel, and your resourcefulness in meeting unforeseen work requirements’.166 Furthermore, they emphasize their expertise and characterize their employees as ‘hand-picked’,167 ‘highly qualified, and highly skilled’168 former members of what many consider to be heroic ‘special forces’,169 ‘elite forces’170 or ‘security elite’:171 ‘Our personnel are experienced, educated professionals from the most elite units in the world. There are none better.’172 Accordingly, one frequently encounters references to extensive experience in US special forces such as ‘Delta’, ‘SEALs’173 and ‘Force Recon’.174 Hired employees include ‘Naval Special Warfare Operators, Marine Corps Special Operations personnel, Army Special Forces, Homeland Defense and Security Officials and combat doctors & medics’.175 In the case of British PMSCs, references to experience in the ‘British SAS’176 or the ‘Royal Marine Commandos’177 are common: ‘As Neptune Maritime Security’s directors we have more than 30  years experience operating with, and selecting and training candidates for the world’s most elite maritime regiment – the United Kingdom’s Special Boat Service.’178 The emplotment of the romantic patriot story revolves around the notion of love for one’s country, as already indicated by the characterization as former soldiers. As Franke and von Boemcken highlight in their survey of PMSC employees, 96 per cent of them considered their work as security contractors as a ‘calling’ where they served their country (Franke and von Boemcken 2011b:  732). Here, the motivation and reasons for action are contrasted to the established emplotment in the anti-mercenary narrative which stresses the pursuit of excessive monetary gain as their sole reason for action. In striking

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contrast to the commonplace view of mercenaries as private armed forces fighting for whoever pays them, some PMSCs explicitly stress their loyalty towards their home country which they wish to serve,179 their commitment to further its national interests by delivering ‘superior performance to the U.S. government [and] our allies’180 and their pride in contributing to ‘ensure the security and freedom of our nation and its allies’.181 Emphasizing the setting and its role in the emplotment, PMSCs point out: ‘America’s missions are our missions. For more than 45 years we have been driven by a company-wide commitment to support our nation’s vital national priorities and to serve as a trusted national asset.’182 A strong visual element in the self-construction of (US) PMSCs as proud patriots is the display of US flags on their main websites and in videos that can be downloaded.183 And even their names, typically part of their characterization, are indicative of a romantic and patriotic employment. The name of the PMSC SOC is meant to signify ‘Securing our Country’, for instance.184 Furthermore, PMSCs present themselves as proud patriots by paying tribute to the services rendered by the (public) armed forces of their home-country. For example, the company H3 ‘supports our troops’185 and ‘Gryphon training saves American warfighters’ lives’.186 They strongly identify with them, praise their heroism in the defence of national security and pledge to support their cause. But no matter what we are able to contribute, we never forget that warfighting remains the duty of the brave men and women in uniform. They are the people that we work so hard to support. They are the ones, in the end, who do the fighting. They are the ones, ultimately, who risk their lives, so that the rest of us can live in a free nation. They are our country’s newest generation of heroes.187

Supporting charities for (wounded) veterans is another related way to demonstrate patriotic emplotment:  ‘Operation IMPACT (Injured Military Pursuing Assisted Career Transition) is a Northrop Grumman initiative that provides career transition support to military service members and their families who have been severely injured in the global war on terror.’188

A story about PMSCs as noble humanitarians The story of the PMSC as a humanitarian caretaker has been indicated by a number of scholars (Berndtsson 2012; Joachim and Schneiker 2012a). As Joachim and Schneiker point out: The humanitarian frame helps companies to distance themselves from the image of the social outcast. Contrary to the mercenary frame that dominates the

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media coverage about PMSCs, has negative connotations and is associated with profit-driven, lawless, unscrupulous, trigger-happy individuals, humanitarianism, by contrast, brings to mind committed, responsible, selfless do-gooders. ( Joachim and Schneiker 2012a: 386–387)

The setting of the humanitarian caretaker narrative found on the websites of PMSCs is one in which PMSCs operate in a local community. Here they try and alleviate the ills and suffering of conflict for the poor local people and communities. ‘As a company that spans a world of cultures, we convey the worth due all human beings, with constant regard for the challenges they face.’189 PMSCs underline their role in aiding local communities,190 for example by ‘employing local staff where possible and investing in local projects of benefit to the community such as schools and medical facilities’191 or through ‘a readiness to recruit, train, develop and embed local talent and capabilities in the services we offer’.192 As Blue Hackle points out:  ‘Our approach begins and ends with consultation with and respect for local people.’193 ‘[U]‌tilizing collaborative methodology and building local capacity’,194 others highlight the importance of ‘cultural awareness’, ‘sensitivity’195 or that they are ‘culturally sensitive, socially responsible’:196 ‘For the communities in which we live and work, we always observe the local laws and respect local customs, act as a concerned and responsible neighbor and reflect all aspects of good citizenship.’197 With respect to characterization, PMSCs, in addition to the empathy for and cultural sensitivity towards local communities mentioned above, place great emphasis on their humanitarian image. This takes the form of emphasizing ‘support’ of or ‘respect for human rights’198 of the company in question and its employees as part of their ‘ethos’:199 ‘All actions start with the principle that respect for and the protection of human rights is a core principle of our service provision, in any society with which we interact.’200 Similarly, ‘Control Risks respects the full range of human rights, and will not neglect or downplay any aspect of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.’201 PMSCs emphasize their support for human rights also, for example, through various levels of participation in certain schemes such as the Voluntary Principles on Security and Human Rights,202 the International Code of Conduct for Private Security Service Providers (ICoC),203 the Montreux Document204 or ‘supporting’205 or ‘signing’206 the UN Global Compact and stressing that they will ‘never be complicit in human rights abuses’.207 Since our inception, we have helped set the standard throughout the industry with our stringent training and exacting code of ethics. As a founder signatory

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of the International Code of Conduct, we are fully compliant with government regulations, industry protocols and international law.208

Many companies also emphasize their ‘Code of Ethics and Business Conduct’,209 their ‘ethical standards’210 or ‘ethical approach’.211 They consider ‘ethical behavior’ as a ‘guiding principle’.212 ‘Pax Mondial adheres to the highest standards of moral, ethical and socially responsible behavior.’213 Mission Essential Personnel (MEP) publicly urges its employees that ‘each of us has a moral compass. Use that compass to seek the truth and stay on the right path; to choose the hard right over the easy wrong; and to set the e­ xample – even when nobody is watching’214 (see also Franke and von Boemcken 2011a: 26). Some PMSCs even allude to the existence of ethical training programmes for employees, an ‘Ethics Hotline’215 or ‘Ethics Help Line’,216 ‘the option of reporting a suspected violation online’,217 an ‘Ethics Officer’218 or an internal ‘ethics committee’ ‘to ensure our working practices and accountability are always beyond reproach’.219 Others illustrate their humanitarian character by emphasizing their relationship to the organizations for which they provide their services, including ‘human rights organisations’,220 ‘humanitarian and non-governmental organisations’,221 ‘humanitarian operations’,222 ‘humanitarian and disaster relief ’ bodies,223 Oxfam, MSF, Red Cross,224 USAID or the United Nations225 (see also Herbst 2013: 287; Singer 2006; Spearing 2008: 364). Companies such as TOR International, for example, emphasize that they are ‘at the forefront of humanitarian aid assistance’.226 As Daniel Hellinger argues in this respect, PMSCs ‘recognize not only an opportunity to do business in humanitarian operations and peacekeeping, they believe such operations would help legitimate their business. The latter motive is important for a sector that periodically gains notoriety for servicing unsavoury clients or for undertaking freelance adventures of their own’ (Hellinger 2004: 193, see also Singer 2003: 82–83; Gómez del Prado 2011: 40). Furthermore, the characterization of PMSCs as noble humanitarians is further strengthened through the support of ‘charitable organisations’,227 often by combining this with the community setting and even linking it to the notion of environmental protection: ‘Together with our employees, we strive to enhance the lives of people in the places we serve through community service, charitable contributions and fundraising efforts.’228 Similarly, ‘Saladin’s Southern Sudan subsidiary is contributing a proportion of profits towards building a new school in Bor. It also has an active policy of reintegrating wounded war heroes into private employment.’229

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The emplotment again strongly contrasts the greedy mercenary story indicated in the anti-mercenary narrative, as it emphasizes the motivations and reasons for action as the desire to help people and regions in need around the world.230 PMSCs tell a story in which they ‘help individuals take charge of their future’ and ‘make the difference’ ‘whenever and wherever there’s a need’ in the setting of a local community.231 ‘What we do makes the difference. For People. For Communities. For Nations. For the World.’232 They see themselves as a ‘force for good wherever we operate’.233 PMSCs ‘Enable Human Freedom’ and ‘Empower People’,234 as their ‘overarching goal is to help individuals and institutions build safe, stable and productive societies’.235 They work for a ‘better tomorrow’,236 a ‘better future’.237 PMSCs want ‘to make the world a better place’.238

The persistence of the mercenary link in the media, politics and pop culture Despite these efforts to tell romantic stories about themselves, public narratives of PMSCs remain highly influenced by the anti-mercenary narrative. PMSCs seem to have great difficulty of distancing themselves from the mercenary story and convincing people of their alternative romantic narrative. As Percy points out:  ‘The modern private military industry has, despite its best efforts, been dogged by accusations that its personnel are merely mercenaries in a modern guise’ (Percy 2007c: 11). Despite being used by governments and even humanitarian NGOs in zones of conflict the negative image of PMSCs persists (Baker 2008: 30; Spearing 2001: 29; Percy 2007b: 206–207; Carmola 2010: 26–27). The following sections will indicate this persistence of the negative story about PMSCs by examining the dominance of the mercenary narrative in four interrelated discursive arenas including (1) the media, (2) the political elite in the US, (3) international law and institutions and(4) common language and popular culture.

The mercenary narrative in the US media As indicated in the second part of this chapter the media generally pick up many of the narrative elements of the anti-mercenary narrative. This is not to say that this is the only narrative being told in the media, as one can encounter narrative elements which portray the PMSC as a military or technical expert or as a normal

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professional business (Kruck and Spencer 2013). Yet, the romantic stories told by PMSCs about themselves are largely absent in the media narratives on PMSCs. In the few cases in which one does encounter romantic elements in US newspapers, they are either written by representatives of the PMSC industry239 or family members240 or they are reflected in direct quotations from PMSC employees.241 [A]‌ll of Blackwater’s deploying professionals, both U.S. and third-country nationals, undergo extensive training in core values, leadership and human rights before they deploy. Each of them is issued a copy of the U.N.’s Universal Declaration of Human Rights in their native language to carry with them and remind them of their commitment to legal, moral and ethical standards.242

The media is aware that PMSCs do not like the mercenary narrative but nevertheless continue to tell the embedded anti-mercenary story (Nossal 1998: 32–33). PMSCs continue to be considered ‘our contemporary euphemism for mercenaries’.243 Despite the attempts at romantic storytelling, the PMSC is not considered a hero. Maybe it’s because you’re not allowed to wear government-issue camouflage; maybe it’s because – when all is said and done – you’re going to war for the money. But if you’re a private military contractor fighting on foreign soil, you might as well be a cowboy looking for payday, and you won’t convince anyone you’re a hero.244

Even in situations in which one would expect sympathy with PMSCs in the media, this anti-mercenary narrative remains dominant. For example, in order to illustrate the dominance of the anti-mercenary narrative one may examine and compare two distinctive narratives of events involving Blackwater in Iraq: Firstly, the killing of Blackwater employees by insurgents in Fallujah on 31 March 2004, a narrative in which one would expect that Blackwater most likely will be characterized as the victim. Secondly, the killing of seventeen Iraqi civilians by Blackwater employees on 16 September 2007 in Baghdad, a narrative in which one would expect Blackwater to be characterized as the perpetrators.245 The expectation would be that the narratives in which Blackwater employees were the victims would characterize the agents far less as ‘mercenaries’ in comparison to the narratives where Blackwater was the perpetrator. Interestingly, the percentage of articles including the terms ‘mercenary’ and ‘Blackwater’ were very similar (19 per cent in 2007 and 17 per cent in 2004), regardless of whether they were the victims or the perpetrators (see Figures 4.1 and 4.2). So, even in cases where members of PMSCs are killed, there appears to be little sympathy and they continue to be characterized as mercenaries: ‘when these men died, their families suffered, but society did not’.246

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Blackwater & mercenary (52) Blackwater (221)

Figure 4.1  Major US newspaper articles on the killing of civilians by Blackwater employees, September 2007 (showing number of articles)

Blackwater & mercenary (14)

Blackwater (68)

Figure 4.2  Major US newspaper articles on the killing of Blackwater employees, March 2004 (showing number of articles) And the danger out-of-control military contractors pose to American forces has been obvious at least since March 2004, when four armed Blackwater employees blundered into Fallujah in the middle of a delicate military operation, getting themselves killed and precipitating a crisis that probably ended any chance of an acceptable outcome in Iraq.247

As a result of the anti-mercenary narrative, the death of a mercenary is considered by many to be ‘ungrievable’. As Simpson argues: That is, the difference between the mercenary’s ungrievable life and the lives of other war casualties lies in the perception that the mercenary has chosen to participate, like a volunteer, but has made the choice in a marketplace of allegiances rather than according to the natural dictates of conscience, ethics, or sympathy. The assumption that mercenaries perform actions for money that good people would not perform underlies the centuries-old understanding of ‘mercenary’ as a pejorative adjective. (Simpson 2010: 6)

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The mercenary narrative in US political debate Some of these romantic elements can be found in the narratives of the US political elite. For example, in the House of Representatives and the Senate, PMSC employees are said to be ‘doing their best to help maintain security for the reconstruction of Iraq’248 and they ‘provide incredibly valuable services for our military’.249 ‘These employees do extremely difficult jobs under very difficult circumstances. They risk their lives to protect Americans who are doing work in Iraq.’250 At times PMSC employees are said to ‘have dedicated their lives to this service and are risking their lives in the process, and their courage and bravery to step up is something that should be acknowledged and never diminished’.251 When talking about PMSC employees who have died in Iraq a small number of the members of Congress wish to ‘show a little respect for the 41 men and women in Blackwater who have lost their lives’252 and ‘honor the services and the sacrifice of contractors and contracting firms that have worked in the war zone’.253 ‘These are men and women who have given their lives for our country and to protect other Americans.’254 Nevertheless, these romantic elements remain fairly marginal, as one also encounters many of the elements of the anti-mercenary narrative. With regard to the setting of the PMSC narrative, there is said to be a ‘culture of recklessness’255 in which they operate outside the law: ‘These contractors operate outside U.S. and Iraqi law, raising animosity towards Americans in the field and losing us hearts and minds in Iraq.’256 The ‘netherworld of contracting’257 is ‘unaccountable’:258 ‘Blackwater have possibly created a shadow military of mercenary troops that are not accountable to the United States Government or to anyone else.’259 Similar to the media narratives on PMSCs and reflective of the anti-mercenary narrative, PMSCs are also characterized as ‘inept’,260 as actors ‘who don’t understand the language, who don’t show the kind of respect that our soldiers do, who get paid almost three times what our soldiers get paid’.261 They are performing ‘armed, dangerous and complex tasks, often with little to no formal or military training’.262 Their behaviour is considered to be ‘reckless’263 and their actions show the ‘incompetence and the ineptitude that is so rank and so disturbing’.264 The PMSC is contrasted to the state’s own well-trained military troops: ‘Blackwater is not the only defense contracting firm operating irresponsibly in lieu of our well-trained and well-respected military.’265 The PMSC is said to employ ‘excessive force’266 and have a ‘shoot now and ask questions later’267 attitude: ‘Blackwater-Xe is synonymous with abuse, unprovoked violence, and a “shoot first” attitude.’268 While Blackwater is singled out, ‘[t]‌he problem of

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trigger-happy contractors isn’t confined to one company; it applies to all private contractors’.269 Not only are they characterized as incompetent, but as ‘hired guns’270 and criminal ‘murderers’271 who act with ‘impunity’272 and commit ‘abuses’.273 Furthermore, in the narrative of the political elite, PMSCs or ‘so-called contractors’274 are also often characterized as ‘soldiers of fortune’275 or ‘mercenaries’:276 ‘Private military contractors:  the weapon-carrying, for-profit security companies – mercenaries – who have become integral and counter-productive actors in our war efforts.’277 As one member of Congress states: ‘Let us call them what they really are, they are mercenaries.’278 They are labelled as ‘mercenary forces’279 and a ‘shadow military of mercenary troops’280 and there is an explicit reference to the use of Hessian mercenaries during the American Revolution when PMSCs are called ‘these contractors, these mercenaries, these Hessians’.281 Considering the causal emplotment, the motivation for PMSCs is considered to be the ‘egregious’282 pursuit of personal profit. For example, the narratives portray the PMSC as ‘raking in’283 huge profits:  ‘Blackwater, a company that has reaped over $110 million from the tax-payers since 2006 in U.S. contracts, offers one of the most egregious examples of what is wrong with our occupation of Iraq.’284 The motivation is considered to be illegitimate: ‘It just isn’t right for executives at Blackwater or anywhere else to make their fortune of war profiteering.’285 PMSCs’ reasons for being in Iraq are criticized: ‘Mr. Speaker, this is not honor. It is not duty. It is not God. And it certainly is not country. It is money. It is adventure. It is pleasure.’286 The illegitimate monetary reason for being in Iraq is contrasted to the legitimate and noble motivations of professional soldiers, such as duty and honour. [T]‌hose soldiers of fortune are not bound by the same values of duty and honor like those brave young men and women serving in our regular forces and those contracted forces are paid astronomically more than our regular forces.… [T]he private contractors in Iraq all too often are rogue elephants, operating beyond the command and control system of our U.S. military. It is time to restore the time-heralded tradition of regular forces of this U.S. military, committed to duty, honor and country, not bounty.287

This struggle between the romantic and the anti-mercenary narrative on the level of the political elite is visible most explicitly in a letter sent by the attorney of Erik Prince to Congresswoman Jan Schakowsky, accusing her of issuing false and defamatory statements and demands that she should ceases and desist from further public statements against his company. The letter

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is interesting not only as it opposes the anti-mercenary narrative, but also because it again tries to tell the two romantic stories in which the PMSC is a patriot helping the US or a humanitarian aiding the poor of the world. The letter states: Mr. Prince has answered his country’s call to serve both in military uniform and civilian life. Mr. Prince served his country with honor as a commissioned officer in the United States Navy SEALs. He deployed with SEAL Team 8 to Haiti, the Middle East, and the Balkans. Mr. Prince’s support for human rights around the world is well established, from funding famine relief in Somalia and the Sudan, to contributing to the building of hospitals, schools, orphanages and churches and mosques in the Middle East and Asia.288

The mercenary narrative in international law Similarly, in international law and institutions these romantic narratives do not seem to gain much influence, as much of the anti-mercenary narratives embedded in international agreements from the 1960s onwards has evolved to explicitly refer to PMSCs as mercenaries. This is especially visible in the General Assembly Resolution on the use of mercenaries as a means of violating human rights and impeding the exercise of the right of people to self-determination, which has been passed almost every year since 1986. PMSCs were explicitly mentioned the first time in the resolution passed in 2003 and have continuously been featured ever since. For example, the resolutions requested the Special Rapporteur for mercenaries ‘to pay particular attention to the impact of the activities of private companies offering military assistance, consultancy and security services on the international market on the right of people to self-determinations’.289 More explicitly, the General Assembly states that it is ‘[c]‌oncerned by the new modalities of mercenarism, and noting that the recruitment of former military personnel and ex-policemen by private military and private security companies to serve in their employ as “security guards” in zones of armed conflict seems to be continuing’.290 Furthermore it ‘[e]mphasizes its utmost concern about the impact of the activities of private military and security companies on the enjoyment of human rights, in particular when operating in armed conflicts, and notes that private military and security companies and their personnel are rarely held accountable for violations of human rights’.291 It is also ‘[c]oncerned at the alleged involvement of mercenaries, as well as employees of some private military and security companies with mercenary-related activities, in serious human rights violations, including

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summary executions, enforced disappearances, rape, torture, cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment, arbitrary arrests and detentions, arson, pillaging and looting’.292 In addition, this persistence of the anti-mercenary narrative and its linkage to PMSCs is visible in the narrative told by the UN Special Rapporteur on mercenaries and later by the UN Working Group on the use of mercenaries. The Special Rapporteur on the use of mercenaries as a means of impeding the exercise of the right of people to self-determination was appointed by the UN Commission on Human Rights in 1987. While at first concerned only with mercenaries in their traditional form, the Special Rapporteur Enrique Bernales Ballesteros in 2002 noted the rise of ‘international military security companies’. Yet although the link, the manner and the nature of the activity in which mercenaries participate may change, that does not change the mercenary status of those who take part in illicit acts, offering and selling their professional skills for pay, well knowing that it is not for a noble cause, but to kill and destroy outside any licit or ethically permissible context.293

In 2004 the UN Commission on Human Rights then expanded the Special Rapporteur’s mandate to include PMSCs and requested the Special Rapporteur to continue taking into account in the discharge of his/her mandate that mercenary activities are continuing to occur in many parts of the world and are taking new forms, manifestations and modalities and, in this regard, requests him/her to pay particular attention to the impact of the activities of private companies offering military assistance, consultancy and security services on the international market on the right of people to self-determination.294

In response, PMSCs have tried to counter this intertextual narrative by complaining about the Rapporteur’s consistent use of the term ‘mercenary’ and the inherent linkage between mercenaries and PMSCs. In light of the fact that PSCs are frequently employed by UN Member States and the UN own [sic] entities, we strongly recommend that the UN re-examine the relevance of the term ‘mercenary’. This derogatory term is completely unacceptable and is too often used to describe fully legal and legitimate companies engaged in vital support operations for humanitarian peace and stability operations.295

In 2005 the Commission established the Working Group on the use of mercenaries as a means of violating human rights and impeding the exercise of the right of

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people to self-determination. The group was made up of five experts from different regions of the world as the Commission was ‘convinced that notwithstanding the way in which mercenaries or mercenary-related activities are used or the form they take to acquire some semblance of legitimacy, they are a threat to peace, security and the self-determination of peoples and an obstacle to the enjoyment of human rights by peoples’.296 In addition to monitoring mercenaries, it was established ‘to monitor and study the effects of the activities of private companies offering military assistance, consultancy and security services’, thereby incorporating PMSCs into the anti-mercenary narrative (Gómez del Prado 2009: 430). Again, the struggle of the narrative becomes apparent when representatives of PMSCs respond to and refute the intertextual linkage between PMSCs and mercenaries. As Doug Brooks, head of the International Peace Operations Association, the PMSC industry trade group, stated in an open letter to the UN Working Group on Mercenaries: The Working Group’s continued use of ‘mercenary’ is perceived as derogatory and presents a significant obstacle to exactly the kind of cooperation vital to successfully addressing the key issues.… IPOA recommends that the Working Group remove the word ‘mercenary’ from both its name and mandate. A change to ‘the UN Working Group on Stability Contractors’ (or something similar) will … reflect the true nature of the industry.297

Yet the Working Group has retained its name and has remained persistent in its conflation of PMSCs and mercenaries in its reports (Carmola 2010:  13). Furthermore, members of the Working Group have been quite vocal in their intertextual linkage between mercenaries and PMSCs as well as highly critical in respect to their legitimacy: ‘Neither civilians nor combatants, these “private soldiers” are in fact “unlawful combatants”. Paramilitaries and terrorists could claim the same legitimacy as these “private soldiers”’ (Gómez del Prado 2009: 436). As Percy points out, the work by the General Assembly and the Working Group, ‘in addition to the development of international law in the 1970s and 1980s, strongly institutionalized dislike of mercenaries on moral grounds within some bodies of the UN’ (Percy 2007c: 25). This again indicates the persistence of an anti-mercenary narrative and the opposition to the romantic stories PMSCs try to tell about themselves.

The mercenary narrative in language and culture This anti-mercenary narrative as well as the linkage between mercenaries and PMSCs and the relative absence of romantic stories about mercenaries/PMSCs

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is also visible in common knowledge, language usage and popular culture. As Livingstone and Hart argue with respect to private security companies: Indeed, beyond the techniques of news construction, fictional images of certain elements are so deeply ingrained in our culture that they play a major part in our interpretation of news and other sources of information. They are fundamental to any understanding of a world that often remains either hidden, distasteful or of little interest if presented in any other context. (Livingstone and Hart 2003: 160, emphasis in original)

If one considers stories about mercenaries/PMSCs in the realm of the everyday, dictionary definitions and the development of common language are a good starting point. Here one source which is indicative, not of a truth about a topic but about a common use of language and with it an intersubjectively accepted understanding of actors or events, is Wikipedia. User-generated encyclopaedias can be useful as they give an insight into a widespread understanding of a particular issue, as they can be written or altered by anyone on the internet. As there is a lot of discussion about the truthfulness of Wikipedia articles, one can suggests that the articles will over time converge to a consensus understanding shared by a majority of the users (Pentzold 2007:  45–58; Schlieker and Lehmann 2007: 255–257). Through this almost organic growth and merging of subjective understandings of the individual users, one can gain insights into an intersubjective understanding of the mercenary/PMSC story shared by a wider public (Spencer 2011: 55). Wikipedia refers to a ‘private military company’ as follows: A private military company (PMC), or private military or security company, provides military and armed security services. These combatants are commonly known as mercenaries, though modern-day PMCs euphemistically prefer to refer to their staff as security contractors, private military contractors or private security contractors, rather than as mercenaries, and refer to themselves as private military corporations, private military firms, private security providers or military service providers.298

And if one enters the search term ‘private military contractors’ one is redirected to ‘mercenary’. Wikipedia or rather the user-generated intersubjective story here states that: The private military company (PMC) is the contemporary strand of the mercenary trade, providing logistics, soldiers, military training, and other services.… Private paramilitary forces are functionally mercenary armies, not security guards or advisors; however, national governments reserve the right to control the number,

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nature, and armaments of such private armies, arguing that, provided they are not pro-actively employed in front-line combat, they are not mercenaries.299

In other user-generated webs of knowledge one finds similar characterizations. For example, in the Urban Dictionary one finds the same cross-reference to mercenary when entering the term ‘private security contractor’ and one can even encounter new uses of language or slang expressions which further indicate this negative embedded understanding. For instance, when entering ‘Blackwater’ one finds a verb ‘to blackwater’, meaning: ‘the act of firing at anything that moves with high-powered firearms, even if the target happens to be a slow-moving vehicle full of innocent civilians; to be utterly unconcerned about the loss of human life while engaging in highly questionable behavior’. And as an illustrative examples one finds:  ‘Damn, that street gang just blackwatered that poor family.’300 Overall, there are very few popular cultural narratives which portray PMSCs the way they portray themselves, especially if we consider the stories about noble humanitarians or proud patriots. In blockbuster movies, PMSCs are commonly not considered the heroes. For example, in the film The A-Team Hannibal Smith and his team are never referred to as mercenaries. In fact, they are dishonourably discharged from the US military and sent to prison as a result of the deceit and treason of a PMSC called Black Forest. Interestingly, the PMSC is characterized in a very similar fashion to the historical and media narratives illustrated above.301 They are characterized as criminal ‘thugs’ or incompetent ‘cartoon characters’.302 As Hannibal states:  ‘They’re not soldiers. They’re frat boys with trigger fingers.’303 In a conversation between Hannibal and Pike, the leader of the Black Forest contractors, PMSC employees are characterized as immoral, incompetent, greedy, cowardly and stupid. Pike: I understand you and your grunts are stealing my gigs. I don’t like that. Hannibal: I figured you Black Forest guys would be busy installing a dictatorship or overthrowing a democracy somewhere. Pike: It’s still the weekend, yet. That’s nine-to-five stuff, pops. Hannibal: Look at you clowns. You’re not soldiers. You’re assassins in polo shirts. Pike: We’ll make in a week what you guys make in a year. Hannibal: Cash don’t buy guts, kid. Or brains. And you’re short on both.304

Throughout the film, the PMSC and its employees, especially Pike, are characterized as disloyal and ruthless. As Pike himself states in a conversation with Captain Sosa after his arrest:

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Sosa: The German police have your entire team in custody in the Königsbank tower. Pike: I don’t do teams, babe. That’s Smith’s bag. It’s strictly a solo act. I like to travel light. Stuff like loyalty doesn’t fit into the overhead bins.305

Some of the romantic narrative elements visible in the PMSCs’ self-narratives can also be found in the Xbox 360 video game Blackwater which was fully endorsed and supported by the founder of the real Blackwater PMSC, Erik Prince, who hoped that the game would be a franchise.306 The game’s website states: ‘Blackwater is an intense cinematic shooter experience unlike anything you’ve ever played before. Lead a team of Blackwater Operators protecting a fictional North African town, battling dangerous warlords and fighting back two opposing militia forces.’307 In the game the player takes over the role of one of four different Blackwater employees in a mission in which they have to escort aid convoys or protect aid workers and members of the UN, again mirroring many of the self-characterizations found on the PMSC websites outlined above. In contrast to the other narratives outlined above, where it is difficult to grasp audience reactions to PMSCs, let  alone their attempts at self-narration, this video game as a PR tool and attempt at self-characterization did produce explicit reactions in the form of reviews and internet blogs and comments. Most of the blog comments were highly negative and mirror many of the characterization found in the media narratives mentioned above. A game made about legal murderers … wouldn’t play it even if it’s free.308 The existence of this game is disgusting. I know, lets make a concentration camp simulator! Surely that will be better.309 A game about a company that killed countless number of innocent Iraqi people. Shocking this!310 Ah, yes! Give glory to men who are hired to kill for money.311 Blackwater – those guys need to be tried for war crimes.312

The reviews reflect the same narrative characterizations as the media narratives on PMSCs. I pity the writer who had the unenviable task of trying to make these killers-for-hire likable. It’s an impossible job and to be completely honest, the overly nice, heroic tone of the characters is unconvincing and utterly forced.… If the aim of the game was to make Blackwater more appealing to the general public, then as a piece of digital propaganda it has failed miserably. What it has done instead is paint Blackwater to be simple, inaccurate, uncoordinated idiots. Ohhh … so maybe the game has got it spot on after all.313

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Conclusion This chapter has shown the narrative struggle between an established anti-mercenary narrative and the opposing romantic narrative told by PMSCs themselves in which they try to tell a story in which they are heroic patriots or humanitarians motivated by love for their country or the wellbeing of poor local communities. These romantic stories, however, remain marginal. The public audience shares very few positive connotations which the narratives the PMSCs tell about themselves can link themselves to. There is nothing on which such narratives could build, they cannot link themselves to existing cultural narratives on, for example, the heroic mercenary fighting for the honour of the poor and downtrodden, as these are not widely shared in other cultural realms such as literature, films or video games. Such a narrative stands in too stark a contrast to the dominant negative mercenary narratives. There is a lack of readily available positive images of PMSCs in society which the companies could link to. As narratives cannot stand on their own, they have to refer to other existing narratives in order to be adopted and convincing. The political implications of this will, on the one hand, seem quite positive for those sceptical of the role of PMSCs in conflicts such as Iraq, as PMSCs are not able to mask over their failings by spending a lot of money on PR. On the other hand, the existence and strength of the anti-mercenary narrative has tarnished PMSCs with a very broad brush and has devalued some of the good work being done by a number of PMSCs working in Iraq.

Notes 1 See www.pbs.org/georgewashington/collection/other_1776jul2.html (accessed 25 November 2013). 2 See www.archives.gov/exhibits/charters/declaration_transcript.html (accessed 25 November 2013). 3 Protocol Additional to the Geneva Conventions of 12 August 1949, and relating to the Protection of Victims of International Armed Conflicts (Protocol I), 8 June 1977, www. icrc.org/applic/ihl/ihl.nsf/Article.xsp?action=openDocument&documentId=9EDC509 6D2C036E9C12563CD0051DC30 (accessed 31 October 2013). 4 OAU Convention for the Elimination of Mercenarism in Africa, Organisation of African Unity, CM/817 (XXIX) Annex II Rev. 1, p.  2, www.african-court.org/en/images/documents/Other_Relevant_Instruments/OAU%20Convention%20on%20Elimination%20 of%20Mercenary.pdf (accessed 31 October 2013). 5 Ibid., p. 1. 6 Ibid. 7 Ibid.

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8 Ibid., p. 2. 9 Articles 2 and 4 of the UN International Convention against the Recruitment, Use, Financing and Training of Mercenaries, A/RES/44/34, 72nd Plenary Meeting, 4 December 1989, www.un.org/documents/ga/res/44/a44r034.htm (accessed 14 September 2012). 10 Preamble to the UN International Convention against the Recruitment, Use, Financing and Training of Mercenaries. 11 Ibid. 12 UN General Assembly, Resolution on the use of mercenaries as a means to violate human rights and to impede the exercise of the right of peoples to self-determination, A/RES/41/102, 97th Plenary Meeting, 4 December 1986, www.un.org/documents/ga/ res/41/a41r102.htm (accessed 21 November 2013). 13 Ibid. 14 UN General Assembly, Resolution on the use of mercenaries as a means to violate human rights and to impede the exercise of the right of peoples to self-determination, A/RES/47/84, 89th Plenary Meeting, 16 December 1992, www.un.org/documents/ga/ res/47/a47r084.htm (accessed 21 November 2013). 15 Ibid. 16 UN Security Council Resolution 161, 21 February 1961, S/4741, http://unscr.com/en/ resolutions/doc/161 (accessed 6 November 2013). 17 UN Security Council Resolution 419, 24 November 1977, 2049th Meeting, http:// unscr.com/en/resolutions/doc/419 (accessed 6 November 2013). 18 UN Security Council Resolution 507, 28 May 1982, 2370th Meeting, http://unscr.com/ en/resolutions/doc/507 (accessed 6 November 2013). 19 General Assembly Resolution 2465 (XXIII), Implementation of the Declaration on the Granting of Independence to Colonial Countries and Peoples, 1751st Plenary Meeting, 20 December 1968, http://daccess-ods.un.org/TMP/4892338.514328.html (accessed 6 November 2013). 20 UN General Assembly Resolution 2625 (XXV), Declaration on Principles of International Law concerning Friendly Relations and Co-operation among States in accordance with the Charter of the United Nations, A/RES/25/2625, 24 October 1970, 25th Session, www.un-documents.net/a25r2625.htm (accessed 6 November 2013). 21 UN General Assembly Resolution 3314 (XXIX), Definition of Aggression, 14 December 1974, 2319th Plenary Meeting, http://daccess-dds-ny.un.org/doc/RESOLUTION/ GEN/NR0/739/16/IMG/NR073916.pdf (accessed 6 November 2013). 22 Draft Code of Offences against the Peace and Security of Mankind, in United Nations Yearbook of the International Law Commission, Documents of the 36th Session, 1984, vol. 2, Part 1, p. 98, http://legal.un.org/ilc/publications/yearbooks/Ybkvolumes%28e%29/ ILC_1984_v2_p1_e.pdf (accessed 6 November 2013). 23 ‘Wir sind Soldaten der Fortuna, wer Das meiste bietet, hat uns.’ ‘Ja, so ist’s.’ Translation by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ‘The Death of Wallenstein’, Kindle Edition. 24 For more on the role of the mercenary in Scott and Byron see Simpson (2010: 90–129). 25 Articles on PMSCs in Iraq were found using the Nexis database and searching for ‘private military’, ‘private security’, ‘security contractor’, ‘Blackwater’ and ‘mercenary’. In total 183 of the most relevant articles on PMSCs in Iraq according to Lexis Nexis were analysed between 20 March 2003 and 18 December 2011. Considerations of space

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mean that the following references to individual articles provide only a couple of the most prominent examples where the narrative element can be found. 26 ‘Waging war with private force’, New York Times, 28 May 2006, p. 9. 27 ‘Blackwater guards fired at fleeing cars, soldiers say: First U.S. troops on scene found no evidence of shooting by Iraqis: incident called “criminal”’, Washington Post, 12 October 2007, p. A01. See also ‘U.S. contractors are targets overseas’, Washington Post, 16 October 2003, p. A17; ‘Security companies: shadow soldiers in Iraq’, New York Times, 19 April 2004, p. 1; ‘Iraq archive: Private gunmen fed turmoil: with no uniforms and lax oversight, contractors menaced all sides in war’, New York Times, 24 October 2010, p. 1. 28 ‘Warnings unheeded on guards in Iraq: Despite shootings, security companies expanded presence’, Washington Post, 24 December 2007, p. A01. 29 ‘Role of security companies likely to become more visible’, USA Today, 2 April 2004, p.  4A. See also ‘State Dept. plans tighter control of security firm’, New  York Times, 6 October 2007, p. 1; ‘Chief of Blackwater defends his employees’, New York Times, 3 October 2007, p. 8. 30 ‘Interrogation for profit’, New York Times, 12 June 2008, p. 30. 31 ‘Iraq bans security contractor: Blackwater faulted in Baghdad killings’, Washington Post, 18 September 2007, p. A01; ‘U.S. security contractors open fired in Baghdad’, Washington Post, 27 May 2007, p. A01. 32 ‘Blackwater guards tied to secrete raids by C.I.A.’, New  York Times, 11 December 2009, p. 1. 33 ‘Private security contractors’ role grows in Iraq: Number of incidents in which civilians fired shots nearly doubles’, USA Today, 4 September 2007, p. 7A. 34 ‘Blackwater guards fired at fleeing cars, soldiers say: First U.S. troops on scene found no evidence of shooting by Iraqis: incident called “criminal”’, Washington Post, 12 October 2007, p. A01. 35 ‘Blackwater: “We acted appropriately”: company’s guards were attacked in Iraq, chairman tells House committee’, USA Today, 3 October 2007, p. 10A. 36 ‘Modern mercenaries on the Iraqi frontier”, New York Times, 4 April 2004, p. 5. See also ‘Secrete soldiers lost in the perilous jungle’, Washington Post, 23 May 2010, p. B06. 37 ‘Iraq archive: Private gunmen fed turmoil: with no uniforms and lax oversight, contractors menaced all sides in war’, New York Times, 24 October 2010, p. 1. 38 ‘Spending on Iraq sets off gold rush’, Washington Post, 9 October 2003, p. A01. 39 ‘U.S. increases spending on contractors in Iraq: Tab for private protection likely to pass $1.2b’, USA Today, 28 August 2008, p. 9A. 40 ‘Sure, he’s got guns for hire. But they’re just not worth it’, Washington Post, 7 October 2007, p. B01. See also ‘A whitewash for Blackwater?’, Washington Post, 9 December 2008, p. A19. 41 ‘Building Blackwater:  Founder seeks “better, smarter, faster” security as history, Iraq shape the firm’s fortune’, Washington Post, 13 October 2007, p. A01. 42 Ibid. 43 ‘Subcontracting the war’, New  York Times, 1 October 2007, p.  24; ‘Legal loopholes in Iraq’, New York Times, 5 November 2007, p. 24; ‘How Blackwater sniper fire felled 3 Iraqi guards’, Washington Post, 8 November 2007, p. A01. 44 ‘Grand jury to probe shooting by guards’, Washington Post, 20 November 2007, p. A10. 45 ‘The deadly game of private security’, New York Times, 23 September 2007, p. 1.

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46 Ibid. 47 Ibid. 48 ‘Iraq archive: Private gunmen fed turmoil: with no uniforms and lax oversight, contractors menaced all sides in war’, New York Times, 24 October 2010, p. 1. 49 ‘Blackwater faulted in military report from shooting scene’, Washington Post, 5 October 2007, p.  A01; ‘Reports says firm tried cover-ups after shootings’, New  York Times, 2 October 2007, p.  1; ‘5 Guards face U.S.  charges in Iraq deaths’, New  York Times, 6 December 2008, p. 1. 50 ‘Private “Rambos” in Iraq warrant greater scrutiny’, USA Today, 28 September 2007, p. 14A. 51 ‘Blackwater guards tied to secret raids by C.I.A.’, New York Times, 11 December 2009, p. 1. 52 ‘Grand jury probes Blackwater shootings; Iraqis testify about incident’, Washington Post, 28 May 2008, p. A03; ‘Private security puts diplomats, military at odds: Contractors in Iraq fuel debate’, Washington Post, 26 December 2007, p. A01; ‘State department struggles to oversee private army’, Washington Post, 21 October 2007, p. A01 53 ‘Blackwater founder moves to Abu Dhabi, records say’, New  York Times, 18 August 2010, p. 10. 54 ‘Subcontracting the war’, New  York Times, 1 October 2007, p.  24; ‘Legal loopholes in Iraq’, New York Times, 5 November 2007, p. 24; ‘Reports says firm tried cover-ups after shootings’, New York Times, 2 October 2007, p. 1; ‘Iraq archive: Private gunmen fed turmoil: with no uniforms and lax oversight, contractors menaced all sides in war’, New York Times, 24 October 2010, p. 1. 55 ‘Iraq contractors in shooting case makes comeback’, New York Times, 10 May 2008, p. 1; ‘5 guards face U.S. charges in Iraq deaths’, New York Times, 6 December 2008, p. 1. 56 ‘Census counts 100,000 contractors in Iraq’, Washington Post, 5 December 2006, p. D01. 57 ‘Sinking in a swamp full of Blackwater’, New York Times, 3 October 2007, p. 25. 58 ‘Require strict guidelines for private contractors’, USA Today, 8 October 2007, p. 12A. 59 ‘Waxman sinks teeth into watchdog role:  Chairman of House oversight committee is called “tenacious” and grandstanding’, USA Today, 8 October 2007, p. 8A; ‘Ex-Blackwater guards must leave Iraq, officials say’, Washington Post, 11 February 2010, p. A04. ‘Census counts 100,000 contractors in Iraq’, Washington Post, 5 December 2006, p. D01; ‘Private security puts diplomats, military at odds:  Contractors in Iraq fuel debate’, Washington Post, 26 December 2007, p. A01; ‘Negligence cited in suits filed against security firms’, USA Today, 11 May 2007, p.  14A; ‘Reports says firm tried cover-ups after shootings’, New York Times, 2 October 2007, p. 1; ‘5 guards face U.S. charges in Iraq deaths’, New York Times, 6 December 2008, p. 1. 60 ‘Mr. Obama’s true realism’, Washington Post, 27 July 2008, p. B06. 61 ‘The other army’, New York Times, 14 August 2005, p. 29. 62 ‘Blackwater chief defends firm: Former Seal calls allegations against employees’ baseless’, Washington Post, 3 October 2007, p. A18; ‘The deadly game of private security’, New York Times, 23 September 2007, p. 1; ‘Security contractors in Iraq under scrutiny after shooting’, Washington Post, 10 September 2005, p. A01. 63 ‘The private sector’s tramping in Iraq’, New  York Times, 24 March 2008, p.  22. See also ‘A whitewash for Blackwater?’, Washington Post, 9 December 2008, p.  A19; ‘Interrogation for profit’, New  York Times, 12 June 2008, p.  30; ‘Lies in Iraq shooting unpunished: Records: embassy officials didn’t want to lower moral’, USA Today,

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2 April 2009, p.  1A; ‘Blackwater faulted in military reports from shooting scene’, Washington Post, 5 October 2007, A01; ‘Grand jury to probe shooting by guards’, Washington Post, 20 November 2007, p.  A10; ‘Iraq archive:  Private gunmen fed turmoil:  with no uniforms and lax oversight, contractors menaced all sides in war’, New York Times, 24 October 2010, p. 1; ‘U.S. did little to restrict guards’, USA Today, 2 October 2007, p. 1A. 64 ‘Iraqi report says guards for Blackwater fired first’, New  York Times, 19 September 2007, p. 12. 65 ‘Iraq archive: Private gunmen fed turmoil: with no uniforms and lax oversight, contractors menaced all sides in war’, New York Times, 24 October 2010, p. 1. 66 ‘These guns for hire’, New York Times, 22 May2006, p. 21. 67 ‘Hired guns:  A  little-known story of outsourcing and atrocities’, Washington Post, 21 December 2008, p. BW04. 68 Ibid. 69 ‘Private guards take big risks, for right price’, New York Times, 2 April 2004, p. 1. 70 ‘Have guns, will travel’, New York Times, 21 July 2003, p. 15. 71 ‘Hired guns:  A  little-known story of outsourcing and atrocities’, Washington Post, 21 December 2008, p. BW04. 72 ‘Watchdog agency to audit 4 reconstruction firms: Companies’ Iraq contracts worth total of $3.3 billion’, USA Today, 23 May 2007, p. 7A; ‘Contractors rarely held responsible for misdeeds in Iraq’, Washington Post, 4 November 2006, p. A12; ‘Iraq rebuilding slows as U.S. money for projects dries up’, USA Today, 10 October 2005, p. 1A. 73 ‘U.S. military will supervise security firms’, New York Times, 31 October 2007, p. 1. 74 ‘The deadly game of private security, New York Times, 23 September 2007, p. 1. 75 ‘Hired guns:  A  little-known story of outsourcing and atrocities’, Washington Post, 21 December 2008, p. BW04. 76 ‘Armed guards in Iraq occupy a legal limbo’, New York Times, 20 September 2007, p. 1. See also ‘Cutting costs, bending rules, and a trail of broken lives’, Washington Post, 29 July 2007, p. A01. 77 ‘Require strict guidelines for private contractors’, USA Today, 8 October 2007, p. 12A. 78 ‘Stand, duck and cover in the new “Blackwater” video game’, USA Today, 6 September 2011, p. 3D. 79 ‘Hired guns:  A  little-known story of outsourcing and atrocities’, Washington Post, 21 December 2008, p. BW04. 80 ‘Interrogation for profit’, New  York Times, 12 June 2008, p.  30. See also ‘Hired guns: A little-known story of outsourcing and atrocities’, Washington Post, 21 December 2008, p. BW04. 81 ‘Sinking in a swamp full of Blackwater’, New York Times, 3 October 2007, p. 25. 82 ‘Hired guns:  A  little-known story of outsourcing and atrocities’, Washington Post, 21 December 2008, p. BW04. 83 ‘Mercenaries fill U.S. void in Iraq’, USA Today, 11 May 2004, p. 13A; ‘Blackwater guards fired at fleeing cars, soldiers say: First U.S. troops on scene found no evidence of shooting by Iraqis: incident called “criminal”’, Washington Post, 12 October 2007, p. A01; ‘From Texas to Iraq, and center of Blackwater case’, New York Times, 19 January 2008, p. 4. 84 ‘Blackwater tied to clandestine CIA raids: Firm’s personnel were drawn into operations on ad-hoc basis’, Washington Post, 11 December 2009, p. A02.

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85 ‘Contractors rarely held responsible for misdeeds in Iraq’, Washington Post, 4 November 2006, p.  A12; ‘Bribery at issue as inquiry looks into Blackwater’, New  York Times, 1 February 2010, p. 1. 86 ‘Blackwater said to pursue bribes to Iraq after 17 died’, New York Times, 11 November 2009, p. 1.; ‘Security firm faces criminal charges in Iraq’, New York Times, 23 September 2007, p. 1. 87 ‘Blackwater said to pursue bribes to Iraq after 17 died’, New York Times, 11 November 2009, p. 1. 88 ‘Hired guns:  A  little-known story of outsourcing and atrocities’, Washington Post, 21 December 2008, p. BW04. 89 ‘U.S.  contractors spent 766M on security in Iraq, GAO says’, USA Today, 29 July 2005, p. 7A. 90 ‘Contractor’s boss in Iraq shot at civilians, workers’ suit says’, New  York Times, 17 November 2006, p. 16. 91 Ibid.; ‘Hired guns: A little-known story of outsourcing and atrocities’, Washington Post, 21 December 2008, p. BW04. 92 ‘Other killings by Blackwater staff detailed:  State Dept. papers tell of coverup’, Washington Post, 2 October 2007, p. A01. See also ‘Blackwater said to pursue bribes to Iraq after 17 died’, New York Times, 11 November 2009, p. 1. 93 ‘Contractors rarely held responsible for misdeeds in Iraq’, Washington Post, 4 November 2006, p. A12. 94 ‘Blackwater tied to clandestine CIA raids: Firm’s personnel were drawn into operations on ad-hoc basis’, Washington Post, 11 December 2009, p. A02; ‘Waging war with private force’, New  York Times, 28 May 2006, p.  9; ‘CACI to open probe of workers in Iraq’, Washington Post, 3 May 2004, p. A16. ‘Iraq archive: Private gunmen fed turmoil: with no uniforms and lax oversight, contractors menaced all sides in war’, New York Times, 24 October 2010, p. 1. 95 ‘U.S. security contractors open fired in Baghdad’, Washington Post, 27 May 2007, p. A01. 96 ‘Modern mercenaries on the Iraqi frontier’, New  York Times, 4 April 2004, p.  5; ‘Mercenaries fill U.S. void in Iraq’, USA Today, 11 May 2004, p. 13A; ‘Bar the mercenaries’, USA Today, 12 December 2008, p. 12A; ‘Chief of Blackwater defends his employees’, New York Times, 3 October 2007, p. 8. 97 ‘Privatized war, and its price’, New York Times, 11 January 2010, p. 16; ‘Letters: Angry voices: torture, Iraq, the veto’, New York Times, 5 October 2007, p. 24; ‘Nation builders for hire’, New York Times, 22 June 2003, p. 32; ‘Hired gun fetish’, New York Times, 28 September 2007, p. 29; ‘Subcontracting the war’, New York Times, 1 October 2007, p. 24; ‘Iraq denies legal immunity to U.S. troops after 2011’, New York Times, 5 October 2011, p. 4; ‘They’re mercenaries’, Washington Post, 28 August 2009, p. A24; ‘Legal loopholes in Iraq’, New  York Times, 5 November 2007, p.  24; ‘What exactly happened that day in Fallujah?’, USA Today, 11 June 2007, p. 13A; ‘Bar the mercenaries’, USA Today, 12 December 2008, p. 12A. 98 ‘Mercenaries fill U.S. void in Iraq’, USA Today, 11 May 2004, p. 13A. 99 ‘Hired gun fetish’, New York Times, 28 September 2007, p. 29. 100 Ibid. 101 ‘Blackwater: “We acted appropriately”: company’s guards were attacked in Iraq, chairman tells House committee’, USA Today, 3 October 2007, p. 10A; ‘Sure, he’s got guns for

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hire. But they’re just not worth it’, Washington Post, 7 October 2007, p. B01; ‘Building Blackwater: Founder seeks “better, smarter, faster” security as history, Iraq shape the firm’s fortune’, Washington Post, 13 October 2007, p. A01. 102 ‘Interrogation for profit’, New York Times, 12 June 2008, p. 30. 103 ‘Judge halts award of Iraq contract’, Washington Post, 2 June 2007, p. D01. 104 ‘Flexing muscle, Baghdad detains U.S.  contractors’, New  York Times, 16 January 2012, p. 1. 105 ‘Legal loopholes in Iraq’, New York Times, 5 November 2007, p. 24. 106 ‘Guards kill two women in Iraq: Australian-run firm’s convoy fires on vehicle’, Washington Post, 10 October 2007, p. A01. 107 ‘Role of security companies likely to become more visible’, USA Today, 2 April 2004, p. 4A; ‘Need an army? Just pick up the phone’, New York Times, 2 April 2004, p. 19. ‘Iraq work awarded to veteran of civil wars’, Washington Post, 16 June 2004, p. E01. 108 ‘Mercenaries fill U.S. void in Iraq’, USA Today, 11 May 2004, p. 13A. See also ‘Modern-day Hessians’, Washington Post, 9 April 2004, p. A18. 109 ‘Mercenaries fill U.S. void in Iraq’, USA Today, 11 May 2004, p. 13A; ‘For security in Iraq, a turn to British know-how’, Washington Post, 24 August 2007, p. D01. 110 ‘Hired guns:  A  little-known story of outsourcing and atrocities’, Washington Post, 21 December 2008, p. BW04. 111 ‘Bar the mercenaries’, USA Today, 12 December 2008, p. 12A. 112 ‘Building Blackwater:  Founder seeks “better, smarter, faster” security as history, Iraq shape the firm’s fortune’, Washington Post, 13 October 2007, p. A01. 113 ‘Blackwater’s rich contracts’, New York Times, 3 October 2007, p. 24; ‘U.S. pays millions in cost overruns for security in Iraq’, Washington Post, 12 August 2007, p. A01. 114 ‘Private security workers living on edge in Iraq: Downing of helicopter shows heightened risks’, Washington Post, 23 April 2005, p. A01; ‘Soldiers of misfortune: Fighting a parallel war in Iraq, private contractors are officially invisible even in death’, Washington Post, 1 December 2008, p. C01. 115 ‘The other army’, New York Times, 14 April 2005, p. 29. 116 ‘Contractor’s boss in Iraq shot at civilians, workers’ suit says’, New  York Times, 17 November 2006, p. 16. 117 ‘Contractors rarely held responsible for misdeeds in Iraq’, Washington Post, 4 November 2006, p. A12. 118 ‘Private security workers living on edge in Iraq: Downing of helicopter shows heightened risks’, Washington Post, 23 April 2005, p. A01. 119 ‘Bomb specialists highly valued, highly needed’, USA Today, 1 August 2005, p. 6A. 120 ‘The private sector’s tramping in Iraq’, New York Times, 24 March 2008, p. 22. 121 ‘Blackwater tops all firms in Iraq in shooting rate’, New  York Times, 27 September 2007, p. 1. 122 ‘Sure, he’s got guns for hire. But they’re just not worth it’, Washington Post, 7 October 2007, p. B01. 123 ‘Contractors rarely held responsible for misdeeds in Iraq’, Washington Post, 4 November 2006, p.  A12. See also ‘Blackwater chief defends firm:  Former Seal calls allegations against employees “baseless”’, Washington Post, 3 October 2007, p.  A18; ‘Have guns, will travel’, New York Times, 21 July 2003, p. 15; ‘Spending on Iraq sets off gold rush’, Washington Post, 9 October 2003, p. A01.

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124 ‘Contractors, army office fell short, audit finds: Report examines reconstruction in Iraq’, Washington Post, 23 April 2005, p. E01. 125 ‘Sure, he’s got guns for hire. But they’re just not worth it’, Washington Post, 7 October 2007, p.  B01. See also ‘Nation builders and low bidders in Iraq’, New  York Times, 15 June 2004, p. 23; ‘State Dept. official resigns from Blackwater probe’, USA Today, 15 November 2007, p. 5A. 126 ‘Blackwater’s rich contracts’, New York Times, 3 June 2007, p. 24. 127 The list of analysed websites and PMSCs includes the firms 3D Global Solutions Inc.; Academi (formerly Blackwater/XE); Aecom; Aegis Defence Services; Airscan Inc.; AKE Group; AlliedBarton Security Services; American Security Group; Armor Group; Assured Risks Ltd; AYR Group; Blue Hackle; CACI International Inc.; Centurion Risk Assessment Services Ltd; Control Risks Group; Cubic Defense Applications; DynCorp; Edinburgh International; EOD Technology; Erinys International; GardaWorld; General Dynamics Information Technology; GlobalEnforce Inc.; Global Security Services; Global Strategies Group; Golan Group; Gryphon Group; Gurkha Security Guards; H3 High Security Solutions LLC; Hart Security Limited; HSS-International; ICI of Oregon; KBR; Kroll Inc.; L-3 Communications; Military Professional Resources; MineTech International; Mission Essential Personnel (MEP); MVM Inc.; Neptune Maritime Security; Northrop Grumman; Olive Group; Overseas Security & Strategies, Inc. (OSSI); Pax Mondial; Pilgrims Group; Reed; Ronco; Saladin Group; Sandline International; SCG International Risk; Spartan Consulting Group; Special Operations Consulting Security Management Group (SOC-SMG); Steele Foundation; TOR International; Track24; and Triple Canopy. 128 Kroll Inc., www.kroll.com/about/history/ (accessed 12 February 2012). 129 Golan Group, www.golangroup.com/company.shtml (accessed 13 March 2012). 130 Kroll Inc., www.kroll.com/about/ (accessed 12 February 2012). 131 L-3 Communications, www.l-3com.com/about-l-3/message-from-the-ceo.html (accessed 13 March 2012). 132 Cubic Corporation, www.cubic.com/Solutions (accessed 13 April 2012). 133 Both from Golan Group, www.golangroup.com/company.shtml (accessed 12 March 2012). 134 KBR, www.kbr.com/About/Company-Profile/ (accessed 13 March 2012). 135 Reed, www.reedinc.com/web/page/554/interior.html (accessed 11 March 2012). 136 GardaWorld, www.garda-world.com/whatwedo/services/ (accessed 9 April 2012). 137 EOD Technology, www.eodt.com/AboutUs/ (accessed 14 March 2012). 138 General Dynamics Information Technology, www.gdit.com/about/aboutus.aspx?id=3458 (accessed 14 April 2012). 139 Global Security Services, www.globalsecurityservices.com/component/option,com_ frontpage/Itemid,1/ (accessed 13 April 2012). 140 Steele Foundation, www.steelefoundation.com/index.php?option=com_content&task =view&id=12&Itemid=276 (accessed 12 April 2014). 141 General Dynamics Information Technology, www.gdit.com/contact_us/contactus. aspx?ekfrm=3460 (accessed 14 April 2012). 142 GardaWorld, www.garda-world.com/whoweare/about/ (accessed 9 April 2012). 143 General Dynamics Information Technology, www.gdit.com/about/aboutus.aspx?id=2746 (accessed 14 April 2012).

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144 Reed, www.reedinc.com/web/page/554/interior.html (accessed 11 March 2012). 145 H3 High Security Solutions LLC, www.grouph3.com/ (accessed 13 April 2012). 146 Ibid. 147 Gryphon Group, www.gryphonsecurity.com/index_2.htm (accessed 13 April 2012). 148 GlobalEnforce, Inc, www.globalenforce.org/about.html (accessed 15 May 2012). 149 Assured Risks, www.assuredrisks.com/about_assured_risks.html (accessed 14 March 2012). 150 Academi, www.academi.com/pages/about-us (accessed 15 April 2012). 151 Ibid. 152 All quotations from Gryphon Group, www.gryphonsecurity.com/index_2.htm (accessed 13 April 2012). 153 GlobalEnforce, Inc, www.globalenforce.org/about.html (accessed 15 May 2014). 154 AEGIS Defence Services, www.aegisworld.com/index.php/about-us-2 (accessed 14 March 2012). 155 Saladin Security, www.saladin-security.com/about-us.php (accessed 14 March 2012) or Gurkha Security Services, www.gurkhasecurityservices.co.uk/ (accessed 14 March 2012). 156 Centurion Risk Assessment Services, www.centurionsafety.net/About.html (accessed 14 March 2012). 157 Assured Risks, www.assuredrisks.com/index.php (accessed 14 March 2012); 3D Global Solutions Inc., http://3dglobalsolutions.net.p2.hostingprod.com/ (accessed 15 March 2012). 158 Control Risks Group, www.controlrisks.com/aboutUs/SitePages/Our%20People.aspx (accessed 14 March 2012). 159 Assured Risks Ltd, www.assuredrisks.com/index.php (accessed 14 March 2012); 3D Global Solutions Inc., http://3dglobalsolutions.net.p2.hostingprod.com/ (accessed 15 March 2012); OSSI, http://ossiinc.com/about/ (accessed 12 March 2012). 160 Airscan Inc., www.airscan.com/about.php (accessed 15 March 2012). 161 DynCorp, www.dyn-intl.com/about-us/commitment-to-veterans.aspx (accessed 12 March 2012). 162 Allied Barton Security Services, www.alliedbarton.com/ (accessed 15 March 2012). 163 Gryphon Group, www.gryphonsecurity.com/currentclients.htm (accessed 14 April 2012). See also L-3 Communications, www.l-3com.com/about-l-3/company-profile. html (accessed 13 March 2012). 164 H3 High Security Solutions LLC, www.grouph3.com/index.php?option=com_content &view=article&id=134&Itemid=45 (accessed 13 April 2012). 165 Gryphon Group, www.gryphonsecurity.com/aarmenu.htm (accessed 13 April 2012). 166 ICI of Oregon, www.icioregon.com/index.htm (accessed 12 April 2012). 167 Pilgrims Group, www.pilgrimsgroup.com/about.php (accessed 14 March 2012). 168 Reed, www.reedinc.com/web/page/587/interior.html (accessed 11 March 2012). 169 Olive Group, www.olivegroup.com/about.htm (accessed 14 March 2012)  or Hart Security Limited, www.hartsecurity.com/aboutus_whoweare.asp (accessed 14 March 2012). 170 Assured Risks, www.assuredrisks.com/about_assured_risks.html (accessed 14 March 2012). 171 Pilgrims Group, www.pilgrimsgroup.com/about.php (accessed 14 March 2012).

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172 SCG International Risk, www.scginternational.com/services.html (accessed 13 April 2012). 173 Ibid. 174 Ibid. 175 Ibid. 176 TOR International, http://torinternational.com/about/ (accessed 14 March 2012). 177 Assured Risks Ltd, www.assuredrisks.com/about_assured_risks.html (accessed 14 March 2012), or Centurion Risk Assessment Services, www.centurionsafety.net/ About.html (accessed 14 March 2012). 178 Neptune Maritime Security, www.neptunemaritimesecurity.com/Neptune%20 Maritime%20Security%20In%20Summary.pdf (accessed 15 March 2012). 179 Gryphon Group, www.gryphonsecurity.com/currentclients.htm (accessed 13 April 2012). See also L-3 Communications, www.l-3com.com/about-l-3/company-profile. html (accessed 13 March 2012). 180 L-3 Communications, www.l-3com.com/about-l-3 (accessed 13 March 2012). 181 Northrop Grumman, www.northropgrumman.com/corporate-responsibility/ethics/ our-vision-values-and-behaviors.html (accessed 24 March 2012). 182 CACI International Inc., www.caci.com/about/mission_lv.shtml (accessed 15 March 2012). 183 Gryphon Group, www.gryphonsecurity.com (accessed 13 April 2012). 184 SOC-SMG, http://soc-smg.com/page/home (accessed 12 March 2012). 185 H3 High Security Solutions LLC, www.grouph3.com/ (accessed 13 April 2012). 186 H3 High Security Solutions LLC, www.grouph3.com/ (accessed 13 April 2012). 187 CACI International Inc., www.caci.com/about/mission_lv.shtml (accessed 15 March 2012). 188 Northrop Grumman, http://careers.northropgrumman.com/operation_impact.html (accessed 24 March 2012). 189 MEP, www.missionep.com/company/vision (accessed 16 March 2012). 190 MineTech International, www.minetech.co.uk/who-we-are/ (accessed 14 March 2012). 191 Saladin Security Ltd, www.saladin-security.com/corporate-social-responsibility.php (accessed 14 March 2012). 192 Erinys International, www.erinys.net/#/the-erinys-approach/4531403039 (accessed 15 March 2012). See also Hart Security Limited, www.hartsecurity.com (accessed 14 March 2012). 193 Blue Hackle, www.bluehackle.com/en-GB/Community_Engagement_and_Outreach/ (accessed 15 March 2012). 194 Ronco, www.roncoconsulting.com/services/erw-uxo-demining (accessed 14 April 2012). 195 TOR International, http://torinternational.com/about/ (accessed 14 March 2012). See also Hart Security Limited, www.hartsecurity.com (accessed 14 March 2012). 196 Pax Mondial, www.paxmondial.com/how-we-operate/ (accessed 13 March 2012). 197 Triple Canopy, www.triplecanopy.com/philosophy/ (accessed 15 April 2012). 198 AEGIS Defence Services, www.aegisworld.com/index.php/our-approach-ethos-2 (accessed 14 March 2012). See also Hart Security Limited, www.hartsecurity.com (accessed 14 March 2012)  or Edinburgh International, www.edinburghint.com/ about-us/csr/ (accessed 14 March 2012).

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199 AEGIS Defence Services, www.aegisworld.com/index.php/our-approach-ethos-2 (accessed 14 March 2012). 200 Edinburgh International, www.edinburghint.com/about-us/csr/ (accessed 14 March 2012). 201 Control Risks Group, ‘Human Rights Policy’, www.controlrisks.com/~/media/ Public%20Site/Files/PDF/Humanrightspolicy.pdf (accessed 14 March 2012). 202 See ‘Voluntary Principles on Security and Human Rights’, http://voluntaryprinciples. org/files/voluntary_principles_english.pdf (accessed 14 March 2012). 203 See www.icoc-psp.org/ (accessed 14 March 2012). 204 See www.icrc.org/eng/assets/files/other/icrc_002_0996.pdf (accessed 14 March 2012). 205 Edinburgh International, www.edinburghint.com/about-us/csr/ (accessed 14 March 2012). 206 Control Risks Group, www.controlrisks.com/aboutUs/SitePages/Ethical%20And%20 Independent.aspx (accessed 14 March 2012). 207 Hart Security Limited, www.hartsecurity.com/aboutus_codeofconduct.asp (accessed 14 March 2012). 208 Triple Canopy, www.triplecanopy.com/company (accessed 15 April 2012). 209 DynCorp, www.dyn-intl.com/about-us/values-code-of-conduct.aspx (accessed 12 March 2012). 210 3D Global Solutions Inc., http://3dglobalsolutions.net.p2.hostingprod.com/ (accessed 15 March 2012); CACI International Inc., www.caci.com/about/mission_lv.shtml (accessed 15 March 2012). 211 Control Risks Group, www.controlrisks.com/aboutUs/SitePages/Ethical%20And%20 Independent.aspx (accessed 14 March 2012). 212 Academi, http://academi.com/pages/about-us/guiding-principles (accessed 15 March 2012). 213 Pax Mondial, www.paxmondial.com/how-we-operate/ (accessed 13 March 2012). 214 MEP, www.missionep.com/company/vision (accessed 14 April 2012). 215 DynCorp, www.dyn-intl.com/about-us/values-code-of-conduct.aspx (accessed 12 March 2012). 216 SOC-SMG, http://soc-smg.com/page/home (accessed 14 March 2012). 217 SOC-SMG, www.integrity-helpline.com/SOC.jsp (accessed 14 March 2012). 218 General Dynamics Information Technology, www.gdit.com/about/aboutus.aspx?id=4246 (accessed 18 March 2012). 219 Control Risks Group, www.controlrisks.com/aboutUs/SitePages/Our%20Reputation. aspx (accessed 14 March 2012). 220 Centurion Risk Assessment Services, www.centurionsafety.net/About.html (accessed 14 March 2012). 221 Hart Security Limited, www.hartsecurity.com (accessed 14 March 2012). 222 MineTech International, www.minetech.co.uk/who-we-are/ (accessed 14 March 2012). 223 Track24, www.track24.co.uk/about_approach/ (accessed 14 March 2012). 224 AYR Group, www.ayrgroup.co.uk/ (accessed 15 March 2012). 225 TOR International, http://torinternational.com/about/ (accessed 14 March 2012). 226 Ibid. 227 Olive Group, www.olivegroup.com/about.htm (accessed 14 March 2012).

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228 Triple Canopy, www.triplecanopy.com/philosophy/corporate-social-responsibility/ (accessed 15 April 2012). 229 Saladin Security Ltd, www.saladin-security.com/corporate-social-responsibility.php (accessed 14 March 2012). 230 Interestingly, the main trade association of PMSCs is called the International Stability Operations Association (ISOA). As Østensen points out: ‘These labels are clearly not fully illustrative; rather, they seem part of an effort to create a morally sound identity and a moral justification for the industry’s existence’ (Østensen 2011: 378). In other words they are part of a narrative PMSCs wish to tell about themselves. 231 All quotations from Military Professional Resources, www.mpri.com/web/ (accessed 13 March 2012). 232 Ibid. 233 Edinburgh International, www.edinburghint.com/about-us/csr/ (accessed 14 March 2012). 234 Both from MEP, www.missionep.com/company/vision (accessed 14 April 2012). 235 Pax Mondial, www.paxmondial.com/ (accessed 13 March 2012). 236 DynCorp, www.dyn-intl.com/ (accessed 12 March 2012). 237 AEGIS Defence Services slogan, www.aegisworld.com/index.php/new2 (accessed 14 March 2012). 238 DynCorp, www.dyn-intl.com/index.aspx (accessed 12 March 2012). 239 See for example ‘Don’t sideline contractors’, USA Today, 12 December 2008, p. 12A; ‘U.S.  contractors banned by Iraq over shooting’, New  York Times, 18 September 2007, p. 1. 240 See for example ‘Yes, he was a contractor. And a hero’, Washington Post, 30 November 2008, p. B03. 241 See for example ‘A security contractor defends his team, which, he says, is not a private army’, New York Times, 29 April 2007, p. 4. 242 Gary Jackson, President of Blackwater, cited in ‘A security contractor defends his team, which, he says, is not a private army’, New York Times, 29 April 2007. 243 ‘Hired guns:  A  little-known story of outsourcing and atrocities’, Washington Post, 21 December 2008, p. BW04. 244 ‘Secret soldiers lost in the perilous jungle’, Washington Post, 23 May 2010, p. B06. 245 I chose to examine one month of coverage in the Nexis database including all ‘major US newspapers’. Here, I searched for the term ‘Iraq AND Blackwater’ and ‘Iraq AND Blackwater AND mercenary’. 246 ‘Hired guns:  A  little-known story of outsourcing and atrocities’, Washington Post, 21 December 2008, p. BW04. 247 ‘Hired gun fetish’, New York Times, 28 September 2007, p. 29. 248 Mr Akaka, ‘Security contractor practices in Iraq’, Senate, Congressional Record, 16 December 2005, S13775. 249 Mr Price, ‘MEJA Expansion and Enforcement Act of 2007’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 3 October 2007, H11216. 250 Ibid., H11217. 251 Mr Durbin, ‘Private security contractors in Iraq’, Senate, Congressional Record, 18 September 2007, S11618.

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252 Mr Price, ‘MEJA Expansion and Enforcement Act of 2007’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 3 October 2007, H11217. 253 Ibid. 254 Mr Shays, ‘MEJA Expansion and Enforcement Act of 2007’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 3 October 2007, H11218. 255 Ms Schakowsky, ‘Stop Outsourcing Security Act’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 30 November 2011, H7934. 256 Mr Hall, ‘Private security contractors in Iraq’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 3 October 2007, H11177; Ms Schakowsky, ‘Contractor accountability’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 16 September 2008, H8139. 257 Mr Blumenauer, ‘MEJA Expansion and Enforcement Act of 2007’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 3 October 2007, H11219. 258 Mr Hall, ‘Private security contractors in Iraq’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 3 October 2007, H11177. 259 Mr Cummings, ‘Improper oversight of Blackwater and the passage of H.R. 3087 is a step in the right direction to responsibly redeploy our troops from Iraq’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 2 October 2007, H11131. 260 Ibid., H11132. 261 Mr Moran, ‘MEJA Expansion and Enforcement Act of 2007’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 3 October 2007, H11220. 262 Ms Kaptur, ‘Outsourcing military to soldiers of fortune’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 12 July 2005, H5716. 263 Ms Schakowsky, ‘Stop Outsourcing Security Act’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 9 November 2007, H13416. 264 Mr Delahunt, ‘Iraq Watch’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 5 May 2004, H2649. 265 Ms Kaptur, ‘Blackwater’s operating license is revoked’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 18 September 2007, H10498. 266 Ms Schakowsky, ‘Urging support for H.R. 4102, Stop Outsourcing Security Act’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 14 November 2007, H13867. 267 Mr Cummings, ‘Improper oversight of Blackwater and the passage of H.R. 3087 is a step in the right direction to responsibly redeploy our troops from Iraq’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 2 October 2007, H11131. 268 Mr Moran, ‘Blacklist Blackwater’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 3 March 2010, H1035. 269 Ms Schakowsky, ‘Urging support for H.R. 4102, Stop Outsourcing Security Act’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 14 November 2007, H13867. 270 Ms Kaptur, ‘Blackwater’s operating license is revoked’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 18 September 2007, H10498; Ms Schakowsky, ‘Stop Outsourcing Security Act’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 30 November 2011, H7934. 271 Ms Woolsey, ‘MEJA Expansion and Enforcement Act of 2007’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 3 October 2007, H11220. 272 Mr Moran, ‘MEJA Expansion and Enforcement Act of 2007’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 3 October 2007, H11220.

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273 Ms Schakowsky, ‘The State Department should not have renewed Blackwater’s contract’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 17 April 2008, H2456. 274 Mr Kucinich, ‘U.S.  needs to get out of Iraq’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 10 May 2005, H3063. 275 Ms Kaptur, ‘Outsourcing military to soldiers of fortune’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 12 July 2005, H5715–16. 276 Ms Waters, ‘The Iraq War’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 22 October 2007, H11824; Mr Filner, ‘The Mercenary Training Control Act (September 19, 2007)’, Congressional Record, Extensions of Remarks, 25 September 2007, E1974; Ms Woolsey, ‘MEJA Expansion and Enforcement Act of 2007’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 3 October 2007, H11220; Ms Schakowsky, ‘Stop Outsourcing Security Act’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 9 November 2007, H13416. 277 Ms Schakowsky, ‘Stop Outsourcing Security Act’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 30 November 2011, H7934. 278 Mr Delahunt, ‘Iraq Watch’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 5 May 2004, H2649. 279 Ms Kaptur, ‘Blackwater’s operating license is revoked’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 18 September 2007, H10498. 280 Mr Cummings, ‘Improper oversight of Blackwater and the passage of H.R. 3087 is a step in the right direction to responsibly redeploy our troops from Iraq’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 2 October 2007, H11131. 281 Mr Delahunt, ‘Iraq Watch’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 5 May 2004, H2651. 282 Mr Moran, ‘It’s time to hold defense contractors accountable for their actions’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 3 October 2007, H11176. 283 Mr Murphy, ‘Disclose salaries of certain government contractors’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 23 October 2007, H11853. 284 Mr Moran, ‘It’s time to hold defense contractors accountable for their actions’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 3 October 2007, H11176. See also Ms Kaptur, ‘Blackwater’s operating license is revoked’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 18 September 2007, H10498. 285 Mr Murphy, ‘Disclose salaries of certain government contractors’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 23 October 2007, H11853. 286 Ms Kaptur, ‘Outsourcing military to soldiers of fortune’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 12 July 2005, H5716. 287 Ms Kaptur, ‘Blackwater’s operating license is revoked’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 18 September 2007, H10499. 288 Ms Schakowsky, ‘Stop Outsourcing Security Act’, House of Representatives, Congressional Record, 30 November 2011, H7934. 289 General Assembly Resolution, Use of mercenaries as a means of violating human rights and impeding the exercise of the right of peoples to self-determination, 74th Plenary Meeting, 20 December 2004, A/RES/59/178, p. 3. 290 General Assembly Resolution, Use of mercenaries as a means of violating human rights and impeding the exercise of the right of peoples to self-determination, 76th

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Plenary Meeting, 18 December 2007, A/RES/62/145, p. 2. See also General Assembly Resolution A/RES/63/164, p. 2. 291 General Assembly Resolution, Use of mercenaries as a means of violating human rights and impeding the exercise of the right of peoples to self-determination, 71st Plenary Meeting, 21 December 2010, A/RES/65/203, p. 3. 292 General Assembly Resolution, Use of mercenaries as a means of violating human rights and impeding the exercise of the right of peoples to self-determination, 60th Plenary Meeting, 20 December 2012, A/RES/67/159, p. 2. See also General Assembly Resolutions A/RES/66/147, p. 2. 293 Report on the questions of the use of mercenaries as a means of violating human rights and impeding the exercise of the right of peoples to self-determination, submitted by Mr Enrique Bernales Ballesteros, Special Rapporteur, pursuant to Commission resolution 2001/3, UN Doc/E/CN,4/2002/20, 10 January 2002, p. 16, www.unhchr. ch/Huridocda/Huridoca.nsf/0/0c57ee35e2f8913bc1256b84005cd103/$FILE/ G0210072.doc (accessed 8 November 2013). 294 See www.ohchr.org/EN/Issues/Mercenaries/SRMercenaries/Pages/SRMercenariesIndex. aspx (accessed 8 November 2013). 295 See the communication of ‘peace and security companies’ at the conclusion of the meeting with the Special Rapporteur (London, 27–28 June 2005), in Annex II of Report of Ms Shaista Shameen, Special Rapporteur of the Commission on Human Rights on the question of the use of mercenaries as a means of violating human rights and impeding the exercise of the right of peoples to self-determination, UN General Assembly document A/60/263, 17 August 2005, p.  21, http://daccess-ods.un.org/access.nsf/ Get?Open&DS=A/60/263&Lang=E (accessed 8 November 2013). 296 See UN Document A/HRC/21/L.17, http://ap.ohchr.org/documents/E/HRC/d_ res_dec/A_HRC_21_L17.doc (accessed 8 November 2013). 297 Doug Brooks, cited in Carmola 2010: 13. 298 See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Private_military_company (accessed 15 June 2013). 299 See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Private_military_contractors (accessed 15 June 2013). 300 See www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=blackwater (accessed 15 June 2013). 301 See www.imdb.com/title/tt0429493/ (accessed 15 June 2013). 302 The A-Team, dir. Joe Carnahan, 20th Century Fox, 2010, DVD 2010, 24:05. 303 Ibid., 23:56. 304 Ibid., 26:00–26:33. 305 Ibid., 1h:18:41–1h:19:07. 306 ‘Stand, duck and cover in new “Blackwater” video game’, USA Today, 9 June 2011. 307 See http://blackwatergame.com/ (accessed 17 August 2013). 308 Comment by spitfirez89 on ‘Blackwater  – official trailer (Xbox)’, YouTube, www. youtube.com/all_comments?v=fqIjEdCtvsk&page=1 (accessed 17 June 2013). 309 Comment by Jordy216 on ‘Official Blackwater video game trailer’, YouTube, www. youtube.com/watch?v=DyaKfisoMy4 (accessed 17 June 2013). 310 Comment by LOLMAN22 on ‘Blackwater – official trailer (Xbox)’, YouTube, www. youtube.com/all_comments?v=fqIjEdCtvsk&page=1 (accessed 17 June 2013).

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311 Comment by ValkyrieOneNiner on ‘Blackwater  – official trailer (Xbox)’, YouTube, www.youtube.com/all_comments?v=fqIjEdCtvsk&page=1 (accessed 17 June 2013). 312 Comment by IamSoulSurvivor on ‘Blackwater – official trailer (Xbox)’, YouTube, www. youtube.com/all_comments?v=fqIjEdCtvsk&page=1 (accessed 17 June 2013). 313 Review by Platform32 of ‘Blackwater, the video game’, www.youtube.com/watch?v=U4 iZHUaMn1Q&feature=related (accessed 18 June 2013).

Conclusion: the end

As the reader will have noticed, this book is itself a narrative. And like all narratives, the story told here requires an end. This conclusion will begin by briefly summarizing the main arguments of the book before turning in the second part to alternative reasons for the dominance and marginality of certain (romantic) narratives which stand in contrast to the main argument of the book, which have stressed the role of intertextual narratability. Finally, the third part will argue that narratives may also be helpful in the analysis of other political phenomena outside of the romantic story genre.

The story of the book The theoretical and methodological contribution of this work has been to illustrate the narrative nature of international politics. The book has argued that the idea of a narrative adopted from literary studies and narratology is helpful as it offers both an explanation for why narratives matter in the first place as well as providing a conceptual framework for the empirical analysis of narratives. Narratives are important for international politics from both a cognitive and a cultural perspective. From a cognitive perspective narratives are an essential means of human cognition generally. Narratives are considered to be part of the human thought process in the way that the brain captures many complex relationships in the form of narrative structures. From a cultural perspective narratives are considered culturally embedded phenomena which are part of every society regardless of geographic location. Stories of the past, present and future are an essential part of all forms of community building where the constitution of a common identity is sought. Therefore narratives are used both by individuals and collective actors to constitute identities of self, other and alter in world politics. They are an essential means of comprehending the social and international political world.

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With regard to the conceptual framework, literary studies and narratology offer a clear definition of ‘narrative’ that includes a number of elements which can be used to guide the empirical analysis. This comprises the setting of a story, the characterization of agents as well as the causal and temporal emplotment of events. The idea of a narrative setting is that, as in a stage play or a film, the background or location in front of which the story unfolds is of significance for the narrative as a whole. Similarly, how the agent is characterized is of vital importance for the reception of the whole narrative. This involves a number of elements such as personalization, placing agents in relation to others, the description of an agent’s physical attributes, what he/she/it says or thinks and how he/she/it acts. With regard to narrative emplotment, it is important to note that action is essential for a narrative, as one cannot have a narrative composed only of settings and characters. In particular the causal dimension in relation to events and action is of importance here. What has commonly been termed ‘causal emplotment’ elaborates the relationship between the other elements of a story. Emplotment allows us to weigh and explain events rather than just list them. The notion of causal emplotment illustrates how events hang together and why actions happen in the way they are described. In particular, the book has addressed romantic narratives. Based on the work of Hayden White, it has argued that the romantic narrative genre is constituted by a number of particular features including, for example, a far-away, exotic and emotional setting, the characterization of actors as heroic and human and the emplotment of the action as an asymmetric struggle for ideals such as freedom, justice or love. The book illustrates these narrative genre elements by examining the cultural, media and political representations of pirates, rebels and mercenaries/PMSCs in Germany, the UK and the US. Beyond the mere description of the culturally embedded romantic narrative elements of these three non-state actors, or the lack of these elements, it holds that the dominant or marginal romantic narrative is the result of a discursive struggle between opposing forces over the interpretation of the given actor. These romantic narratives are by no means simply a passive reflection of dominant perceptions. Rather, these romantic narratives are fundamentally political and active in the sense that they contribute to the marginalization of other narratives. For example, in Chapter  2 the book argues that in the case of the pirate the culturally embedded narrative of the romantic pirate found in historical, literary and cultural texts and films such as Treasure Island and Pirates of the Caribbean is so dominant that it influences the narratives found in the German media and political discourse on contemporary piracy in Somalia. By stressing

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the intertextuality of the romantic pirate narrative from culture to media and political discourse it holds that alternative narratives which do not conform to this dominant telling, such as a possible linkages between pirates and terrorists, are marginalized despite the potential plausibility of the claims. Similarly, Chapter 3 argues that the romantic narrative of the rebel found in the British cultural realm as well as in British media reporting and parliamentary debates on the rebellion in Libya have marginalized other narratives which draw attention to crimes and human rights violations committed by rebels in the conflict. With respect to this narrative struggle, Chapter 4 in contrast holds that PMSCs have great difficulties in telling romantic stories about themselves as there is a lack of culturally embedded romantic narratives to which they could link their story. The book holds thus that narrative dominance and marginality are closely linked to the idea of intertextual narratability. What is tellable in a narrative is limited to the previously told. Narratives have to conform to previously existing ones in order to gain acceptability from an audience. The world cannot be objectively observed but is constituted by a pre-existing set of dominant narratives. This, however, does not mean that new narratives can never be told, but that they at least have to conform to a certain extent to culturally embedded narratives. Even when encountering new empirical phenomena and actors in world politics, existing narratives guide our understanding of them. ‘Prepackaged models of the world are supplied for us above all by our cultures; they are what a culture is all about. Religions, ideologies, folklores, systems of educations – all provide us with ready-made models we can use for dealing with new experiences’ (Chafe 1990: 81).

Marginalized and dominant narratives on romanticization So far, a well-established coherent story about the reception of political narratives amongst their relevant audiences does not exist. Consequently, there appears to be a lack of ready-made theoretical approaches to why certain romantic narratives or narratives in general may succeed or fail to gain prominence. The story told in this book proposes the importance of intertextual narratability for understanding the dominance and marginalization of particular (romantic) narratives. In the following, the conclusion will consider alternative approaches about why certain romantic narratives gain dominance while others remain marginal. It will briefly examine different levels of narrative engagement, including the level of the narrator and the level of the story, before returning to the level of the audience and the concept of intertextual narratability. These approaches

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are informed by several strands of literature including, most importantly, narratology in literary studies, but also PR and branding research in economics and IR, framing approaches in political science, constructivist theories on culturally embedded understandings of politics and media and communication studies. The ambition here is not to propose a comprehensive and fully elaborated theory of narrative ‘success’ or dominance. Rather, this conclusion wants to set the stage for a more detailed investigation into the relationship between and importance of the narrator, the structure and the audience of a story.

Narrator-based approaches From the perspective of narrator-based approaches, properties of the narrator play a crucial role for the plausibility and reception of a story. Thus, the dominance or marginality of romantic or other narratives in the media or in political discourse might be connected with the strengths and weaknesses of the narrator. This view reflects a conventional actor-centred and resource-based understanding of discursive power (Baldwin 1979; Fuchs 2005: 79–80; Holzscheiter 2005: 727–729). Here, the capacity of political actors to shape media and public narratives according to their goals depends on their control over relevant material and immaterial resources and their diligent use. Relevant resources of the narrator include PR budgets, specialized expertise, skills and strategies (Aronczyk 2008: 51–52; Hülsse 2009: 306) as well as their credibility as narrators. The latter aspect is stressed by a variety of studies which consider the personal credibility and reliability of the narrator as important for the credibility of a story (Booth 1983; Chatman 1978; Gordon 2011; Holvland and Weiss 1951; Rimmon-Kennan 2002; Sharman 2007; van Ham 2008). Here, narratives can be understood as ‘an important analytical tool for exposing a speaker’s political values and persuasion’ (Shenhav 2005a: 90) and their use can be considered a ‘politically motivated production of a certain way of perceiving the world which privileges certain interests over others’ (Mumby 1987: 114). Others within a narrator-based approach might argue that the existence or absence of powerful political opponents or counter-narrators has implications for which side of the narrative struggle gains the upper hand. A narrator-centred approach could draw attention not only to the narrator but also to the capabilities of the protagonist’s political opponents. The argument here would be that if there are several political narratives and narrators that compete for discursive hegemony, the success of narrators in establishing their narrative as predominant interpretation of social realities is heavily influenced by the distribution

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of material and immaterial power between the narrators of competing stories (Payne 2001: 44; Chong and Druckman 2007: 112–117). With regard to the romantic narratives examined in this book, such a narrator-based account does not seem all that convincing in all three empirical narratives. If one looks at the media as narrators and considers the argument that romantic stories sell more newspapers than unromantic stories, it remains unclear why there are different levels of romanticization across the three stories on piracy, rebels and PMSCs. With regard to the political elite as narrators and, for example, the story of the romantic rebel told in the UK, a narrative-based story does seem plausible, as the British government has a clear interest in and ability to tell the story of rebellion in Libya in a romantic fashion in order to gain support for military intervention. However, when considering the examples of piracy and PMSCs, the role of the narrator as the central driving force behind the dominance or marginality of the romantic narrative appear less credible. In both cases the interest of the political elite runs counter to the dominance of the romantic narrative. In the story on piracy in Somalia told in Germany, the pirate is not part of or allied to the self like the rebel in Libya. Rather, the pirate is considered the opponent by the government and it is difficult to come up with interests the German government might have in romanticizing piracy in Somalia. Similarly, in the case of PMSCs the role and importance of the narrator for the dominance of the narrative remains questionable. At least large PMSCs have made considerable efforts and acquired specialized expertise in the area of image management, and yet they were not successful in establishing a romantic narrative of themselves. While there are no publicly available figures on PMSCs’ PR expenditures, it is clear that PMSCs have hired large and prominent PR firms such as Burson-Marsteller and individual specialists such as Mark Corello, a former chief spokesman for US Attorney General John Ashcroft, and Kenneth Starr, former investigator into the Clinton–Lewinsky affair. Industry representatives like Erik Prince (former CEO of Blackwater) have given numerous media (TV and newspaper) interviews, among others to CBS, CNN, NBC, PBS and the Washington Post (Kruck and Spencer 2013). Thus, like the German government, PMSCs seem to dispose of a sufficient resource base and make enough efforts to potentially be able to counter or tell a romantic story. In contrast, pirates in Somalia as narrators of their own story do not possess the same political and material power as PMSCs or Western governments. Although their stories are reproduced in the media they do not have the same level of access and ability to shape public opinion as other narrators involved. Nevertheless their romantic stories persist.

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With regard to powerful political support or opponents of narrators, it is also difficult to pinpoint empirical examples. In the case of piracy, the suggestion of a powerful pro-piracy-in-Somalia-interest-group seems amusing and farfetched. In the case of PMSCs one might examine the existence and power of political actors such as watchdog NGOs or critical scholars or activists who pursue a political agenda against PMSCs and seek to establish their counter-narratives on PMSCs in the media. The more legitimate and credible and the better organized the critics of PMSCs are, the more one should be able to find their negative narratives on PMSCs in media reports. But, empirically, there is actually a lack of broad-based and organized civil society opposition to PMSCs. There is no large-scale anti-PMSC civil society campaign whose counter-narratives might be picked up by the media. NGOs engage in remarkably little naming and shaming of PMSCs (Schneiker and Joachim 2012b), and accordingly counter-narrators from the political realm are scarce. Overall, a narrator-based approach on the dominance and marginalization of romantic narratives that focuses on narrators’ and their opponents’ discursive power resources would help in the understanding the romantic rebel in Libya but would have difficulties in comprehending the dominance of a romantic pirate narrative and the marginality of the romantic PMSC.

Story-based approaches Another way to understand the dominance or marginality of romantic or other narratives is to focus on the narratives themselves rather than the narrators. From such a story-structure-based account, it all comes down to the questions: what makes a ‘good’ story? This includes both the content of a story as well as the structure and way in which the content is organized. With regard to content, the argument of the story is that particular genres or types of story prove to be more popular than others. Here some point to a bias in the media’s selection of stories. In that view, even quality media tend to focus on bad news and scandals in their reporting, as ‘bad news is good news’ (Bohle 1986; Galtung and Ruge 1965). However, more recent research in media and communication studies casts doubts on the claim that an overriding preference for bad news and a negative characterization of protagonists in political news stories really exists (O’Neill and Harcup 2009). As the examples in this book indicate, not all reporting on political actors is uniformly negative; rather, some political actors (e.g. pirates and rebels) are portrayed and evaluated more positively and romantically than others (e.g. PMSCs). Even seemingly similar scandals, such as human rights violations by rebels and PMSCs, are treated quite differently.

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Apart from the content of the story, the structure and organization of a narrative may also be of importance. The argument is that the organization of a story has implications for its possibility of gaining dominance in discourse. More precisely, what is structurally necessary to make a plausible, attractive and ‘authentic’ story that resonates well with an audience? Studies in political science (on framing and narrative analysis), economics (on PR and branding) and literary studies have come up with numerous proposals to answer the question of how a ‘good’ story is organized (Rimmon-Kenan 2002: 123–5; Snow and Benford 1988:  205–210; van Ham 2002:  266–267). What seems clear from most of these diverse approaches is that coherence and consistency are important determinants for the credibility, intuitiveness and stickiness of stories that purport to provide authentic representations of particular characters and events. Others here point to the importance of particular linguistic figures such as analogies or metaphors (Lakoff and Johnson 1980; Spencer 2010) or, as this book has highlighted, the influence of the narrative structure including the combination of setting, characterization and emplotment. In the empirical application on pirates, rebels and PMSCs, a story-based approach, as in the case of the narrator-based account of narrative dominance and marginality, appears questionable as both dominant (romantic pirates and rebels) as well as marginal narratives (romantic PMSC) employed metaphors and both were structured in a narrative fashion including the elements of setting, characterization and emplotment.

Audience-based approach In contrast to the focus on narrator or story structure, an audience-based approach, as suggested throughout this book, holds that the dominance or marginality of certain narratives, including romantic narratives, can be understood with reference to the presence of pre-existing culturally embedded narratives among the audience. The possibility of dominance and marginality are linked to the audience’s dominant understandings about actors that are in turn embedded in widely shared and accepted cultural narratives. While some simply refer to this phenomenon as the ‘verisimilitude’ of the narratives being told and argue that success and failures of narratives is down to an audience’s preconceptions of the given actor such as pirates, rebels or PMSCs (van Ham 2008: 133; van Ham 2002:  262), others, myself included, have argued that the dominance of certain narratives is grounded in inter-subjective understandings of the audience. More precisely, narratives on pirates, rebels and mercenaries find themselves in a

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situation of narrative interdependence which can be best understood with reference to intertextuality (Kristeva 1980; Bakhtin 1986; Hansen 2006). The underlying argument is that the success or failure of narratives depends on what may be called intertextual narratability. Narratives, this book included, do not exist in isolation but always relate to, or are even part of, other already existing narratives. Narratives have to conform to cultural expectations not only in their organizational form but in their canonicity. Narratives cannot be freely changed or manipulated by narrators such as governments, media outlets or organizations such as PMSCs. We as storytellers are ‘shackled’ by the stories ‘culturally available to our telling’ (Ewick and Silbey 1995:  212), in the way that new narratives have to conform or at least connect to previously existing ones. While there is room for new narratives, and actors can tell new stories, their success in front of the audience depends very much on narratives the audience has previously heard and is embedded within. The acceptance of narratives is contingent on the intertextuality of the narratives being told and those embedded amongst the audience. In order to be accepted, new narratives have to refer and link themselves to already existing and established narratives to some extent. As the empirical part of the book has shown, while there are large amounts of culturally embedded romantic narratives on pirates and rebels, the public audience shares very few positively connoted embedded narratives of PMSCs to which PMSCs’ self-narratives can link themselves. There is a lack of readily available positive images in society on which PMSCs’ self-romanticization could build. They cannot connect to cultural narratives on, for example, the heroic mercenary fighting for the honour of the poor and downtrodden. Such positive images are not widely shared in other cultural realms such as legal discourse, literature, films or video games where negative mercenary narratives are dominant.

Beyond the romantic story: the tragedy of disaster While this book has focused on romantic narratives and their role in international politics, the method of narrative analysis is not only suited to investigating the idea of romanticization in world politics but might also prove fruitful in the analysis of other situations involving discursive struggles in genres such as comedy, satire or tragedy. In particular, tragedy in connection to disasters, mistakes and fiascos in international politics and foreign policy appears worthy of research. As I suggest elsewhere, narrative analysis can provide insights into the question of why certain political events or foreign policies are constituted

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as fiascos while others are not, despite the similarity of empirical ‘reality’ (Opperman and Spencer 2016). So far, the research on policy disasters and fiascos has been mainly interested in analysing why such tragedies happen and how one can avoid them in the future. By focusing on a number of theories for policy disasters including work on cognitive biases and misperceptions ( Jervis 1976), the emotions of individual decision-makers (McDermott 2004), socio-psychological dynamics in small decision-making groups ( Janis 1982) or bureaucratic politics and the overreliance on organizational routines (Allison and Zelikow 1999), these objectivist perspectives have in common that they take the assessment of a foreign policy episode as a ‘disaster’ or ‘fiasco’ for granted. They do not problematize such assessments but take them as starting points for their explanations of policy failures and for the conclusions to be drawn from these explanations. According to this objectivist perspective, policy failures are facts that can be independently identified and verified (Howlett 2012; McConnell 2010). Thus, policies count as a failure if they fall short of certain objective criteria or benchmarks for success. Some critics have, however, pointed out a number of difficulties: Firstly, many initiators of policies, including foreign policy, do not formulate easily measurable objectives at the start. Judgment according to preset objective becomes difficult when objectives are frequently vague, diverse and conflicting and may have been formulated more for their strategic or symbolic functions than as a realistic guide to policy making. Secondly, ‘failure’ is not an inherent attribute of policy, but can be considered a judgment about policy. Policy outcomes do not speak for themselves, but only come to be seen as successful or unsuccessful because of the meaning attributed to them in political debate and discourse. This viewpoint is the main point of departure for an interpretivist strand in policy evaluation studies, which conceives of policy fiascos as an ‘essentially contested’ concept. As, for example, Mark Bovens and Paul t’Hart (1996), but also Arjen Boin and others (2009), point out, there are frequently no fixed or commonly accepted criteria for the success or failure of a policy, and therefore judgments are likely to be subjective and open to dispute. There will be a struggle between competing claims, which either attribute the ‘fiasco’ label to policy decisions or reject such a label. Such a struggle is likely to take on a narrative form and therefore the method of narrative analysis suggested in this book may prove helpful in analysing how and why some tragic disaster constructions are more convincing for the public audience than others. In particular the idea

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of setting, characterization and emplotment could prove useful in the analysis of the construction of tragedy and disasters in foreign policy. In a tragic narrative of disaster the setting would give insights into what would be considered appropriate behaviour in such circumstances. The representation of the setting in a disaster narrative would indicate the set of norms and values which are suitable in the given situation. In particular narratives on foreign policy, fiascos would involve settings which allow for the possibility of alternatives and different behaviour. Narratives in which agents are left with no alternative but to act as they did are generally not told as a fiasco. With regard to the characterization one could note that the narrative construction of foreign policy disasters and fiascos is frequently driven by characterizations of decision-makers which cast doubt on their competence, credibility and sincerity, including characterizations of inexperience, weakness, dishonesty or arrogance. On a collective level the characterization could also focus on deficient process characteristics of policy making found in institutions such as the relevant government departments. Prime examples of such deficiencies could include undue haste, excessive informality, biased information processing, ineffective checks and balances and lack of broader consultation. In the case of a disaster or fiasco narrative, the emplotment would start out with the simple labelling of an event or action as a fiasco, mistake, disaster or similar concept. Thus, a foreign policy is being linked to gross violations of core interests or norms. The event or policy which is constituted as a fiasco and its consequences would be described as highly negative. What is more, the emplotment of fiasco narratives would involve the explanation of why a failure has occurred (causal emplotment) and importantly who is to blame for it (normative implications). So the narrative would include the establishment of a causal link between the actions or non-actions of one or more agents and the policies or consequences which are described as undesirable. Connected to such an explanation, such a narrative would also involve the allocation of responsibility and blame in the social construction of tragedy. This book is a story about stories in international politics. It hopes to have increased the reader’s awareness of the role of narratives in international politics. It has argued that we comprehend international politics in the same way we understand stories such as ‘Hansel and Gretel’ or ‘Snow White’: we grasp them in a narrative form. It has illustrated not only the way narratives reflect and constitute the social world, but also raised questions about why certain narratives gain dominance while others remain marginal. Overall it has shown that there is a clear need for more research on narratives in international politics, and in

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particular on both the role and interconnection between the levels of the narrator, narrative structure and the audience of a narrative. Rather than an end to the story, this conclusion should be considered a beginning and a call for more research on narratives and romance and other narrative genres in the portrayal of international politics.

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Index

Academi 125 see also Blackwater adventure 10, 41–43, 53, 57, 59, 60, 66, 137, 142, 146, 155 aesthetics 49, 53, 56 Afghanistan 76, 112, 114 agency 4, 6, 37, 75, 80 agent and structure 10, 14, 25, 32–35, 37, 43 A Legend of Montrose 11, 135–136 see also Scott, Sir Walter al-Qaeda 11, 71, 72, 76, 91, 92, 107, 111–113 see also bin Laden, Osama; terrorism American Revolution 127, 128, 132, 142, 155 Amnesty International 107, 109 anthropology 5, 18 anti-hero 46, 49, 51–53, 54, 56, 64 see also Byronic hero anti-mercenary feeling 135 legislation 141 narrative 11, 12, 126–132, 134, 139, 140, 143, 146, 147, 151–158, 162 norm 129, 130 story 152 Arab 11, 92, 95–98, 99, 100 rebellion 94, 96, 97 Spring 100, 103, 105, 110, 112 armed forces 77, 106, 131, 132, 133, 146–147, 148 asymmetrical conflict 10, 11, 43, 94, 102 audience 3, 4, 37

Barrie, J. M. 52, 54, 55 bin Laden, Osama 70, 71 see also al-Qaeda; terrorism Blackbeard 45, 47, 49, 51, 56, 58 Blackwater 125, 139, 140, 142, 143, 152–155, 160–161 see also Academi; Prince, Erik Britain 7, 40, 50, 92, 98, 104, 107, 111, 112 British Empire 58, 97, 99 government 113, 182 media 100, 104, 107, 180 military intervention 113, 114 narratives 11, 44 parliamentary debates 92, 104, 113 Byron, George Gordon 10, 11, 40, 46, 52–55, 93 Byronic hero 53, 54, 93 see also anti-hero Cameron, David 104, 111, 112 see also comedy capitalist system 10, 71 Captain Barbossa 55–56 Hook 52, 54, 59 Kidd 47, 51 Roberts 48, 50, 55, 63 causality 10, 14, 16, 19, 20, 35, 36–37, 43 characterization 2, 25, 28–32, 41–43, 56, 59, 60, 63–65, 97–102, 105–106, 140–142, 146–147, 149–150 see also emplotment; setting Che Guevara, Ernesto 91, 125

Index Clausewitz, Carl von 11, 128 cognition 1, 14, 19, 23, 178 cognitive narratology 9, 18 colonialism 49, 133, 134 comedy 7, 15, 21, 22, 39, 44, 185 see also Cameron, David communication 1, 4, 5, 14, 15, 176 studies 181, 183 community 1, 7, 10, 23, 24, 28, 43, 130, 139, 149, 150, 151, 178 concept of narrative 1, 4, 9, 13, 14, 18, 22, 25 Congress 154–155 see also Senate consequences of narrative 10, 35–37 constructivism 7, 22, 26–27, 28–30, 32 constructivist 6, 10, 14, 18, 24–26, 28–30, 32, 36–38, 43, 46, 181 corsair 10, 46, 52–53, 63 cultural artefacts 3, 7, 96 texts 7, 35, 57, 179 culture 1, 6–9, 13, 19, 20, 22, 24, 27, 38, 43, 52, 93, 97, 139, 154, 158, 180 popular 9, 46, 47, 54, 68, 80, 127, 151, 159 Declaration of Independence 11, 129 Depp, Johnny 46, 55, 59, 61 see also Jack Sparrow; Pirates of the Caribbean disaster 67, 71, 150, 185–187 discourse analysis 3–4, 29, 36 discursive struggle 6, 176, 185 Disney 55, 58 see also Hollywood dominance 1, 2, 6, 8, 12, 14, 35, 80, 137, 151, 152, 178, 180–184, 187 narrative 10, 37, 180, 184 dumping of toxic waste 10, 66, 67, 73, 78 emplotment 2, 25, 32–35, 42–43, 56, 60, 66–67, 99–100, 103–104, 106–107, 142–143, 147–148, 151 see also characterization; plot; setting Europe 4, 67, 92, 128, 129, 136 fiction 13, 20, 21, 46, 51

217

films 7, 8, 12, 15, 40, 45, 54, 57, 58, 61, 96, 97, 136, 138, 162, 179, 185 see also Hollywood; movies; TV series Forsyth, Frederick 11, 137–138 Foucault, Michel 4 Frederick the Great 128 freedom 2 fighter 61, 101, 112 pursuit of 50, 51, 58, 59, 139 French Revolution 21, 22, 44, 92, 93 Gaddafi, Muammar 11, 91, 92, 100–103, 105–111, 113 gender 7, 49, 57, 58, 60, 126 Geneva Convention 11, 130, 138 genre 10, 39, 40, 44, 48, 54, 92, 96, 137, 178, 179, 183, 185 German government 76, 77, 182 media 10, 46, 60, 179 narratives 10, 44, 45 newspapers 75–76 Germany 2, 7, 9, 40, 45–47, 52, 57, 60, 68, 74, 80, 179, 182 Hague, William 111, 112 heroes 3, 41–42, 48, 50, 54, 80, 146–148, 150, 160 Hessians 129, 142, 155 hijacking 62, 63, 65, 66, 69, 71, 73 history 1, 2, 5, 9, 10, 14, 15, 18, 20–23, 28, 36, 39, 43, 46–48, 51, 67, 68, 92, 110 Hobsbawn, Eric 50 Hollywood 58, 61, 97 see also Disney House of Commons 103 House of Representatives 12, 154 humanitarians 12, 144, 146, 148, 150, 160, 162 humanities 2, 5 human rights violations 2, 11, 91, 92, 100, 107–111, 113, 114, 156, 180, 183 Human Rights Watch 108 identity 1, 2, 6–8, 10, 14, 20, 23–25, 28–32, 43, 126 see also norms; values

218

Index

ideology 6, 7, 8, 20, 34, 73, 75, 139 illegal fishing 10, 47, 73, 77–79, 88 images 2, 7, 9, 15, 58, 92, 95, 125, 144, 159, 162, 185 International Code of Conduct for Private Security Service Providers 149–150 International Convention against the Recruitment, Use, Financing and Training of Mercenaries 132–133 International Peace Operations Association 158 intertextuality 3, 7, 8, 9, 31, 38–39, 55, 57, 61, 80, 127, 129, 180, 185 intertextual narratability 3, 10, 39, 44, 46, 53, 68, 78, 80, 91, 94, 178, 180, 185 Jack Sparrow 55, 56, 59, 61 see also Depp, Johnny; Pirates of the Caribbean Jolly Roger 59, 60 Kratochwil, Friedrich 26 language 7, 15, 31, 33, 39, 53, 92, 94, 138, 151, 152, 154, 158–160 Lawrence of Arabia 11, 91, 92, 94, 96–100, 113 legitimacy 8, 126, 145, 158 liberation 43, 50, 93, 101, 103, 109, 134 literary studies 1, 2, 5, 9, 13, 14, 30, 43, 178, 179, 181, 184 texts 7, 11, 14 literature 7, 10, 18, 20, 40, 51, 52, 58, 67, 68, 92, 126, 127, 135, 137, 139, 162, 181, 185 see also novels Long John Silver 53–54 low data 7–8 Machiavelli, Niccolò 11, 127–128, 129, 140 marginality 178, 180–184 see also marginalization marginalization 10, 12, 14, 37, 68, 74, 91, 92, 107, 111, 114, 179, 180, 183

see also marginality media narratives 6, 7, 8, 11, 46, 60, 61, 63, 80, 100, 109, 139, 144, 152, 154, 160, 161 method of narrative analysis 1, 2, 3, 4, 9, 10, 11, 22–25, 91, 113, 185, 186 money laundering 68, 77 Montreux Document 149 movies 7, 15, 54, 55, 57, 70, 91, 92, 160 see also films; Hollywood; TV series narratology 9, 13, 14–18, 19, 22, 25, 26, 28, 29, 32, 33, 36–38, 178, 179, 181 narrator 3, 12, 17, 31, 37, 39, 43, 51, 80, 180–183, 184, 185, 188 news media 7, 10, 12, 35, 61, 74, 92, 113 norms 7, 23, 26, 28, 30, 32, 130, 187 see also identity; values novels 7, 8, 14, 40, 57, 60, 61, 63, 96, 136 see also literature OAU Convention for the Elimination of Mercenarism in Africa 131–132 Onuf, Nicholas 4 Operation Atalanta 58, 59, 75, 77, 79, 88 Enduring Freedom 77 orientalism 95–96, 98, 99 Oxfam 150 parliamentary debates 2, 7, 10, 11, 47, 75–80, 91, 92, 104–107, 113, 180 patriots 12, 146–148, 160, 162 Peter Pan 52, 54, 59 see also Barrie, J. M. Pirates of the Caribbean 8, 10, 45, 46, 55–56, 59, 62, 174 see also Depp, Johnny; Disney; Hollywood; Jack Sparrow plot 16–17, 21–22, 35, 70 see also emplotment poems 7, 15, 52, 57, 93 political elite 2, 6–8, 11, 12, 35, 46, 68, 74, 75, 80, 95, 104–111, 112, 151, 154–156, 182

Index poll 57–60 see also public opinion post-structuralist 3, 18, 25 power 4, 8, 22, 37, 41, 42, 50, 71, 75, 94, 126, 127, 135, 138, 181, 182, 183 Prince, Erik 155, 156, 161, 182 psychology 5, 9, 14, 18–20, 22, 23, 28, 36, 43 public opinion 10, 47, 57, 182 see also poll Red Cross 150 revolution 11, 18, 21, 22, 91, 92–94, 102, 105, 106, 112, 113 romance 7, 9, 10–12, 21, 22, 39–43, 44, 45, 48, 49, 53, 92–94, 95–96, 113, 188 see also genre; romanticism; romanticization romanticism 10, 11, 40, 43, 91–94, 113 romanticization 2, 9, 39, 52, 53, 78, 91, 125, 126, 136, 139, 180, 182, 185 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques 11, 128 Said, Edward 95–96, 99 satire 21, 22, 39, 44, 185 see also comedy; genre Schiller, Friedrich 135 Scott, Sir Walter 11, 40, 93, 135–136, 163 see also A Legend of Montrose Senate 12, 154 see also Congress sequence 15–17, 20, 21, 33, 34 setting 2, 25, 26–28, 40–41, 43, 55, 59, 60, 62, 97, 100–101, 104–105, 139–140, 146, 149 see also characterization; emplotment Shelley, Percy Bysshe 11, 40, 93–94 social bandit 50 social sciences 2, 5, 14, 18, 39 sociology 5, 18 speaker 4, 34, 64, 181 see also narrator speeches 2, 7, 8, 11, 35, 92, 104, 113 Stevenson, Robert Louis 10, 46, 52, 53, 55 see also Treasure Island

219

Störtebeker, Klaus 45, 58, 61, 67 terrorism 2, 10, 47, 67–74, 75–77, 79, 80, 91, 100, 112–113, 114, 142, 146 see also al-Qaeda; bin Laden, Osama The Dogs of War 137–138 see also Forsyth, Frederick The A-Team 160–161 see also films; Hollywood; movies; TV series think tanks 10, 47 tragedy 7, 9, 15, 21, 22, 39, 44, 49, 185–187 see also genre; romance Treasure Island 10, 46, 52, 53, 57, 61, 179 see also Stevenson, Robert Louis TV series 7, 54 see also films; movies UK 2, 9, 104, 179, 182 see also Britain UN Commission on Human Rights 157 General Assembly Resolution 133, 135, 156 Global Compact 149 High Commissioner for Human Rights 109 Resolution 103 Security Council 77, 104 Special Rapporteur on mercenaries 157 Working Group on the use of mercenaries 157 Universal Declaration of Human Rights 149, 152 US Department of State 147 media 11, 139–143, 144, 151 narratives 11, 44, 125 newspapers 139, 152, 173 utopian future 43, 106, 107 values 6, 23, 42, 95, 107, 109, 152, 155, 181, 187 see also identity; norms video games 7, 12, 161–162, 185

220 Voluntary Principles on Security and Human Rights 149 Washington, George 129 Wendt, Alexander 26, 29, 30, 32, 36, 44

Index White, Hayden 1, 2, 5, 9, 13, 20–22, 25, 26, 30, 39, 42, 44, 48, 51, 179 Wikipedia 159 WMDs 68