The Evolution of the Common Security and Defence Policy: Critical Junctures and the Quest for EU Strategic Autonomy (St Antony's Series) 3030991571, 9783030991579

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ST ANTONY’S SERIES

The Evolution of the Common Security and Defence Policy Critical Junctures and the Quest for EU Strategic Autonomy Marilena Koppa

St Antony’s Series Series Editors Dan Healey St Antony’s College University of Oxford Oxford, UK Leigh Payne St Antony’s College University of Oxford Oxford, UK

The St Antony’s Series publishes studies of international affairs of contemporary interest to the scholarly community and a general yet informed readership. Contributors share a connection with St Antony’s College, a world-renowned centre at the University of Oxford for research and teaching on global and regional issues. The series covers all parts of the world through both single-author monographs and edited volumes, and its titles come from a range of disciplines, including political science, history, and sociology. Over more than forty years, this partnership between St Antony’s College and Palgrave Macmillan has produced about 400 publications. This series is indexed by Scopus. More information about this series at https://link.springer.com/bookseries/15036

Marilena Koppa

The Evolution of the Common Security and Defence Policy Critical Junctures and the Quest for EU Strategic Autonomy

Marilena Koppa Panteion University Athens, Greece

ISSN 2633-5964     ISSN 2633-5972 (electronic) St Antony’s Series ISBN 978-3-030-99157-9    ISBN 978-3-030-99158-6 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-99158-6 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

To Nikos, Giorgos, Vasilis. As always.

About the Book

On February 24, 2022, Russian troops invaded Ukraine. The war that followed and is still raging altered all our assumptions about European Security, NATO’s role in the twenty-first century and the future of conflict at the global level. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine is a watershed moment for European Security and Defence, as war has returned to the continent after nearly 75 years. The on-going war is changing Europe, is changing NATO and will define the new European Security Architecture that will emerge. I finished this book at the beginning of 2022, before the war erupted; so, at the time of writing, I did not have the possibility to take on board the enormous consequences of what is unfolding before our eyes. Undeniably, the Russian invasion will be the next critical juncture in the evolution of CSDP. In any case, this might be the subject of another book. May 3, 2022

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Contents

1 Introducing the Foundational Role of Trust in European Security and Defence  1 Background to This Book   3 The Structure of the Project   5 Reference   7 Part I Theorising an Institutionalist Approach to European Defence and Security   9 2 Theorising European Security Policy 11 The Anglo-French Foundational Tension  12 Between Radical and Incremental Change  13 The Added Value of Institutionalism  14 Path-Dependent Theorising Versus Neorealism  16 Constructivism Versus Functionalism  18 References  21 3 Defining Critical Junctures 25 What Is a Critical Juncture?  25 Critical Junctures in Context  26 Policy as the Cumulative Result of Crisis-Management  28 References  29

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4 “Global Europe” and the Quest for a European Strategic Culture 31 A Call for a Paradigmatic Shift in Europe’s Defence Agenda  32 The Euro-Atlantic Legacy  33 The Unipolar Moment  35 Towards a European Strategic Autonomy  37 The Strategic Culture Debate  39 The Methodological Relevance of the Term “European Strategic Culture”  41 References  43 5 Agents of Change in an EU Context 49 Institutional Perspectives  50 The Executive Path to Defence Europeanisation  50 The Legislative Path to Defence Europeanisation  53 The Institutional State of Play  55 Critical Junctures: Crises Awaiting Resolution  55 References  58 Part II Critical Junctures and the Evolution of CSDP  63 6 Critical Juncture: The Shock of the Yugoslav Wars 65 The Yugoslav Crisis and Europe’s Collective Security Vacuum  66 Yugoslav Wars and the Western European Union  70 Kosovo and the Anglo-French Understanding  72 Europe Forges a Credible Claim to a Collective Security Mandate  75 References  78 7 The Iraq War: Addressing European Fragmentation 83 The European Security Strategy (2003)  84 The Scope for European Defence Autonomy  87 The “Soft” European Security Mandate  89 The Lisbon Treaty: The Elusive Quest for Hard Power  90 Institutional Perspectives on Common Security Policy  94 Conclusion  96 References  97

 Contents 

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8 The New Resonance of European “Holistic Security”105 The Libya Crisis and the Capabilities Vacuum 107 Ukraine and the Challenge of Collective Deterrence 110 Institutional Implications: Libya 113 Institutional Implications: Ukraine 115 References 118 9 Fusing Domestic and International Security Agendas: The 2015 Migration Crisis123 Reconceptualising Security in the EU 124 Security Reforms in Context: From Arab Spring to the Syrian Crisis 126 The Political Framing of the European Refugee Crisis 127 Securitising Migration 129 The Difficulty of Militarising Migration Management 132 Migration Crises and Institution-Building 135 References 138 10 The Rupture of the Anglosphere145 The Rupture of Britain 146 The Comeback of American Isolationism 148 Transatlantic Insecurity 149 The Anglosphere Looks to the Pacific 151 The Persistent Question of British Anchorage to Europe 153 European Security After Brexit: The EU Global Strategy 155 European Defence Policy Post-Brexit 158 Britain as a Third Country and EU Defence Capability 163 References 164 Part III Building Collective Security in Europe. Lessons Learnt 179 11 Negotiating a European Defence Framework181 Reviewing Lessons Learnt 182 Negotiating Security Policy 185 What Is Strategic Autonomy 187 Beyond the Intergovernmental Versus Communitarian Divide 191 References 193

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12 In the Union We Don’t Trust199 Recognising the Expectations Gap 200 Mindful of the Gap 201 Bridging the Gap 202 Spending Money Without the Brits 203 Reaching to the Other Side 207 The Quest for Elusive Trust 209 References 211 Epilogue215 Index223

About the Author

Marilena Koppa is Associate Professor of Comparative Politics at the Department of European, International and Area Studies of Panteion University. She has authored a number of books and articles on minority issues, democratisation, nationalism and European politics. She is an Athens Law school graduate. She obtained her PhD in Comparative Politics at Paris–X Nanterre University (1991). For years she worked as a special adviser to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs on issues pertaining to European Integration and enlargement. She served as a Member of the European Parliament from 2007 to 2014. She was the Coordinator of the S&D Group at the Subcommittee on Security and Defense and the Parliament’s rapporteur “On the implementation of the CSDP based on the Annual Report from the Council to the EU on the Common Foreign and Security Policy” (2013) and on “Enlargement: policies, criteria and the EU’s strategic interests” (2012). She was Deputy Chairperson of the EU-Turkey Joint Parliamentary Committee. She has also been a member of the Committee on Foreign Affairs, the Committee on International Trade and others.

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Abbreviations

AFSJ Area of Freedom, Security and Justice ALDE Alliance of Liberals and Democrats for Europe BG Battlegroups CARD Coordinated Annual Review on Defence CCDP Civilian Capability Development Plan CDP Capability Development Plan CFSP Common Foreign and Security Policy CIVCOM Committee for Civilian Aspects of Crisis Management CJEF Combined Joint European Forces CMPC Civilian Military Planning Cell CMPD Crisis Management and Planning Department Commission European Commission CPCC Civilian Planning and Conduct Capability CSDP Common Security and Defence Policy DG DEFIS Directorate General for Defence Industry and Space DG RELEX Directorate General for External Relations DRC Democratic Republic of Congo DSACEUR Deputy Supreme Commander Europe (NATO) EBCG European Border and Coast Guard EC European Community ECAP European Capability Plan EDA European Defence Agency EDAP European Defence Action Plan EDF European Defence Fund EDIDP European Defence Industrial Development Plan EDTIB European Defence Technological and Industrial Base EDU European Defence Union xv

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ABBREVIATIONS

EEAS EFSM EI2 EMU ENISA EP EPC EPF EPP ESDI ESDP ESM ESS EU CROC EU EUAM EUBAM EUCAP EUCO EUFOR EUGS EUISS EUJUST EULEX EUMC EUMM EUMS EUMSS EUNAVFOR EUPOL EUROCORPS Europol EUSSR EUTM FAC FPA GDP HG 2010 HHG HR-VP IOM

European External Action Service European Financial Stabilization Mechanism European Intervention Initiative European Monetary Union European Network and Information Security Agency European Parliament European Political Cooperation European Peace Facility European Popular Party European Security Defence Identity European Security and Defence Policy European Stability Mechanism European Security Strategy European Union Crisis Response Operation Core European Union European Union Advisory Mission European Union Border Assistance Mission European Union Capacity Building Mission European Council European Union Force European Union Global Strategy European Union Institute for Security Studies European Union Rule of Law Mission European Union Rule of Law Mission European Union Military Committee European Union Monitoring Mission European Union Military Staff European Union Maritime Security Strategy European Union Naval Force European Union Police Mission European Corps European Police Office European Union mission in support of Security Sector Reform European Union Training Mission Foreign Affairs Council Framework Participation Agreement Gross Domestic Product Headline Goal 2010 Helsinki Headline Goal High Representative for Foreign Affairs and Security Policy and Vice President of the Commission International Organization on Migration

 ABBREVIATIONS 

ISIL ISIS JCPOA JHA KFOR MEP MFF NAC NATO NDPP NIP NIS PA PADR PESCO PSC QMV R&D S&D SEDE SFOR SHAPE TEU TFEU TPP UNSC WEU WWII

Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant Islamic State of Iraq and Syria Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action Justice and Home Affairs Kosovo Force (NATO) Member of European Parliament Multiannual Financial Framework North Atlantic Council North Atlantic Treaty Organization NATO Defence Planning Process National Implementation Plan Network Information Systems Participation Agreement Preparatory Action on Defence Research Permanent Structured Cooperation Political and Security Committee Qualified Majority Voting Research and Development Socialists and Democrats in the European Parliament Security and Defence Sub-committee Stabilization Force (NATO) Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe (NATO) Treaty on European Union Treaty on the Functioning of the EU Trans Pacific Partnership United Nations Security Council Western European Union Second World War

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CHAPTER 1

Introducing the Foundational Role of Trust in European Security and Defence

Security, like community, is about trust. When the fundamental certainties of a community are challenged, the sense of community is in crisis. In the twenty-first century, Europe is renegotiating its security architecture on a pathway marked by “crises milestones”, where each certainty is questioned and renegotiated. The path is not linear, and the course is not pre-set; there is no sense of destiny. The world is no longer organised in a polycentric system—from core to periphery—rotating around the global West, where Europe and the United States lie at its core. The United States is looking to the Pacific to define its role in the emerging geopolitical context, where the Atlantic is no longer the global centre of economic gravity. For Europe, that is a cataclysmic transformation. The Continent was the centre of geopolitical gravity in the twentieth century and “what comes next” is unclear. Two world wars were fought globally—in the Atlantic and the Pacific—for the privilege to define a new world order, first and foremost in Europe. The “American Century” was very much a European century, as the harnessing of a European Alliance was the most crucial aspect of the West, engulfing all former imperial foes—UK, France, Netherlands, Italy, Spain, Portugal—within a single economic and military community. The term “community” implies a commitment to values and a sense of trust that supersedes the historical fragility of institutional arrangements. Community, in this sense, is the trust required to build institutions. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 M. Koppa, The Evolution of the Common Security and Defence Policy, St Antony’s Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-99158-6_1

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The bedrock of intra-European trust was American power, military and political, and the sense that there was in Europe a self-styled benevolent hegemon, backing Europe with economic and military power sufficient for Europeans to put down their guard and focus on rebuilding the Continent without fear of each other, but with common resolve against the “Soviet other”. In turn, anchoring Western Europe into an American sphere of influence ensured that the United States contained the most industrialised region in the world: its know-how, its research and development dynamism, its global and cosmopolitan worldview, its networks and financial acumen. Europeans thrived as a community largely because of the American independent variable. This was not a match made in heaven all the time. There are no blueprints for global governance, and the interplay of special interests, national interests and political aspirations were not aligned across the two sides of the Atlantic. From an American perspective, the Soviet independent variable was as significant, and the sudden and unpredictable collapse of the USSR in the 1990s created a vacuum of certainties. The American presence in Europe, the identity of the West as a community, and all the institutions that articulated these certainties were under renegotiation. Institutions are a window to the “archaeologist of ideas” because they are designed to produce standard answers to standard questions. When nothing is standard, they accommodate or drift into irrelevance and perish. The fundamental questions for European security since the turn of the century are, firstly, how Europe fits in the conception of “the West” as defined during the Cold War and, secondly, whether the term “Europe” can be understood as a community outside the framework of American certainties. These two questions have institutional implications for how Europe perceives itself as a security actor, frames security challenges, allocates institutional mandates to address them and negotiates the distribution of the cost entailed. Following the collapse of the Berlin Wall, Europeans no longer have a self-evident sense of purpose, as a community, and therefore a shared sense of threat to the community. This renegotiation has institutional implications both for relations between European states and for these states’ “special relationship” with the United States. In the early 2000s, there was a sense of American “unipolar multilateralism”, a moment in which Washington confidently embarked on transforming global governance to consolidate a regime cemented by institutions that now have no communist equivalent or rival. There is no COMECON, no Warsaw Pact and no parallel system of credit and

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investment. Western institutions have for some time been the only game in town. There is but one “Rome”, and multipolar governance cements a single normative regime: the International Monetary Fund, the World Trade Organisation, and also the North Atlantic Treaty and the European Union. The Western unipolar moment has come and gone. Millennials are born into a world where the role of the European Union, NATO, the United States, emerging economies—Russia, China, Turkey and others— have been dramatically transformed. The Cold War security framework, founded on the certainty of assured mutual destruction, has been in a state of limbo for over three decades: not entirely irrelevant but not entirely in tune with emerging realities. Europe largely remains a “security consumer” but Washington insists on burden sharing and European states speculate as to the level of American commitment to Europe. Their calculations are diverging, politics matter more, and there is a sense of crisis-driven strategic fluidity, where momentary decisions have a more profound effect. American power itself is contested, not only by ambitious “Europeanists”—who feel that there is some room for “autonomy”—but also by Americans who urge gradual disengagement.

Background to This Book Seth Johnston’s (2017) study on the transformation of the Euro-Atlantic partnership since the 1950s poses the question of how “critical junctures” force the North Atlantic Treaty to accommodate and thereby transform. This project broadens the lens of collective security analysis, including the European Union, restating the question of how Europe reconsiders its fundamental certainties about power and security, one crisis at a time. The focus on Common Security and Defence Policy (CSDP) is not an exercise in making much out of very little. It is clear that the European Union is an emerging security community, uncertain of its security mandate, competence and capacity. However, this institutional path that is not linear or progressive but somewhat exploratory, reactive and fluid opens a window to a broader discussion about the project of European integration. The discussion about European security and defence—more than any other policy—is a discussion about the future of Europe in a world where the role of the United States and the cohesion of the West—as a community of trust—can no longer be taken for granted.

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The European Union was designed to “lock-in” member states’ interdependence to make cooperation irreversible. Whereas NATO is an intergovernmental organisation that very much depends on the assumption of overwhelming American power, the EU has a unique hybrid nature, being a constellation of supranational and intergovernmental institutions, often in a precarious balance between them. In Common Security and Defence Policy, intergovernmentalism prevails. However, the changing nature of security—that is no longer about policy but about governance—opens a window of opportunity to supranational institutions such as the European Commission and the European Parliament to shape security discourse and mould policy. Conflict is less about the battlefield and increasingly about the ability to project disruptive violence through militias, terrorist acts, social media and trade barriers. In this scheme, all policies have a security variable. The question is how one frames their institutional mandate as “guardians of public goods”. As a former Member of the European Parliament (2007–2014) and a coordinator of the European Subcommittee on Security and Defence for the S&D Group (SEDE), my perspective on this book is institutional. This project tries to infuse existing academic literature with personal policy insights without overstating the significance of individual political actors. However, personal experience does have a methodological impact on this study in that it enabled greater access to parliamentarians involved in the SEDE and AFET committees. During my sabbatical year (2018–2019) in Brussels, I had the opportunity to meet and revisit key actors in security policy—diplomats, national representations, NATO officials, and functionaries in the Commission, the European External Action Service and the European Defence Agency. In an atmosphere of frankness, liberated from a policy agenda but with an insider’s experience, I was able to conduct a series of interviews that yielded several valuable insights. In this project, institutions are seen as the stage on which different political stakeholders act out their roles, during a turbulent period in which scripts keep changing and everyone, honestly, needs to improvise. As a MEP, I could closely follow the competition between transinstitutional networks spanning across the Council, the Commission, and the Parliament, as different constellations of national, sectoral and ideological interest groups were trying to define what European collective security

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should be about. As these groups often lack the formal mandate of an institution, they rely on values and collective historical memories in a process in which “trust” weighs more than we care to discuss. Over time, I had the opportunity to follow the policy cycle in negotiations that range from agenda-setting to budgeting, evaluation and public communication; at each stage, institutional certainties were a soothing factor in a world of overwhelming information, where defining “a role” was a challenge. During the same period, I often held certain things as “self-evident”, not least being Greek, a Social Democrat, a woman and a European hailing from a small European country that is not a “net contributor” to the EU budget. Significant events, such as the uncoordinated collapse of defence budgets during the 2008 financial crisis, presented the whole policy spectrum with different litmus tests. Mandates and resources were the epicentres of every policy negotiation, while public opinion focused on output and effect. That experience, one feels, must be somehow helpful. In advance of the December 2013 European Council that relaunched the debate on the framing and purpose of European security, I was the Parliament’s Rapporteur for the Implementation of CSDP. My remit was to articulate the significance of institutional decisions on security policy for different policy stakeholders and negotiate possible directions of travel that would address pressing challenges. Living through the crises, the efforts, the defeats, the hopes, and the shortcomings of this process, I tried to reflect on its broader political significance. EU security is negotiated between member states, between institutions and with NATO. In the parliamentary dimension of this negotiation, what is important is not merely the policy outcome—the question, the report, the open letter, the statement, the communication—but also the question of who comes together to achieve what objective. That negotiation that shapes—and is shaped by—the temporal context is the key personal experience that informs this project. This project was an opportunity to revisit the same scene with a different role.

The Structure of the Project With a bird’s eye view, EU Security and Defence is a policy area that has plurinational (bilateral, trilateral, etc.) and multilateral dimensions. Member states cooperate as governments and en bloc. To anyone who has

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lived in Brussels, each dimension of this negotiation is part of “the Community”, a bubble whose actors are deeply rooted in their national origins but are bound by a common space of common processes. The ambition, scope and substance of EU cooperation are constantly negotiated with NATO—also part of a parallel “Brussels bubble”—that works together in policy networks that are transnational and transinstitutional. Trust makes or breaks the policy development process. Taking stock of the research on Common Security and Defence Policy, the book’s underlying question is how institutions undergoing a litmus test accommodate the challenge, inviting members of a “community” to change the way they work together. Essentially, this is a question of how policy stakeholders take a leap of faith or fail to do so. The book is divided into three parts. The first part reviews existing institutionalist literature to define key operational terms and justify methodological assumptions. This theoretical map does not drift too profoundly into an epistemological territory, trying instead to situate this project on the current theoretical debate on European security. The state-of-the-art literature review lays the theoretical and empirical foundations for the methodological matrix employed, enabling the reader to follow the significance of case studies (“critical junctures”) and build, through their appreciation, an understanding of their institutional significance. In this scheme, the first part of this book elaborates on the concept of strategic culture as an institutional negotiating space, where abstract concepts such as “values” and “trust” have a tangible effect on decision-­ making. The concept of institutional “change”—by dramatic bursts of innovation or imperceptible repurposing of existing policy instruments— lies at the heart of this project. The main question is how temporal events and historical legacies shape policy practice. The second part reviews six historical critical junctures that presented European security institutions with a litmus test, forcing upon them a process of innovation or drastic accommodation: the Yugoslav Wars; the Second Gulf War; the Libyan campaign; the Ukrainian crisis; the Syrian crisis; the rupture of the Anglosphere, which refers to the combined effect of the UK’s referendum on EU membership and the coming to office of Donald J Trump in the United States. The third part tries to bring together the institutional insights from this case-study analysis, looking particularly at how this analysis weighs on the understanding of the new mantra of European Defence, namely the term

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“Strategic Autonomy”. That conversation links back to the original question of trust, as we examine its foundational significance on the perception of security and community in Europe, whether that is framed in Euro-­ Atlantic or strictly European terms.

Reference Johnston, S.  A. (2017). How NATO Adapts. Strategy and Organization in the Atlantic Alliance Since 1950. Johns Hopkins University Press.

PART I

Theorising an Institutionalist Approach to European Defence and Security

CHAPTER 2

Theorising European Security Policy

Although we are living in a period of unprecedented change, our understanding of change is very inferior to our understanding of fundamental long- term regularities. (Keohane 2008: 710) Common Security and Defence Policy is first and foremost linked to the need for Europe to act as a security provider, leaving behind its traditional identity as a US-dependent security consumer. The security mandate of the EU is not apparent. That mandate can be inferred if one sees security as the need to streamline public procurement competition in the defence sector, or the need to guarantee online civic liberties or the need for Europe to step in to fill vacuums of power to avoid disruptive phenomena such as piracy or mass migration. However, there is a difference between Europe shouldering a more significant share of responsibility for its own security and becoming an independent security actor that is not reliant on US strategic assets. CSDP is the product of an Anglo-French compromise that enabled the Union to play a role in security provision, such as peacekeeping operations and conflict prevention in its periphery: the Balkans, Africa, the Black Sea, Central Asia and, recently, the Pacific. The grand compromise between the former imperial powers concerns the end vision, namely whether to aim for limited cooperation where

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 M. Koppa, The Evolution of the Common Security and Defence Policy, St Antony’s Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-99158-6_2

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the Euro-Atlantic framework is inactive or to aim for a European Security Community that becomes the default hub for security governance. Europe’s emerging and developing collective security narrative articulates the need for accommodation to a changing security landscape. Notable changes requiring Europe to develop new capacity are numerous. They include the merger of “home affairs” and “national security” considerations, the shift of US priorities from the Atlantic to the Pacific, climate change and state failure proliferation. Change has always been inevitable across the policy spectrum, but through incremental steps and moments of crisis, the EU is emerging as a security actor, which is historically unprecedented. That is still a contested ambition, and the significance of institutional dynamics in this process cannot be overstated. CSDP is both a policy and a historical process of distinctly European political integration.

The Anglo-French Foundational Tension The first historical legacy of institutional significance in the context of CSDP is the weight of Anglo-French strategic tension over the scope of European Collective Security. France and Britain have different priorities. Both nation-states carry the historical legacy of “great powers”, able to project global power. Both nation-states view themselves as catalysts, if not leaders of “Europe”, but with a different “end game” in mind. The two countries are at the heart of the Euro-Atlantic consensus we refer to as “the West” in foreign and security policy. Both powers were on the winning side of two world wars; both were committed to Western collective security within an Atlantic framework during the Cold War and in its aftermath. Both hold a permanent place in the UN Security Council and are members of the elite nuclear deterrent club. Significantly, both countries have, for decades, maintained the two biggest defence budgets in Europe—in absolute terms—and have world-class competitive defence industrial complexes. However, their respective vision for collective security diverges now as it diverged in the aftermath of the Second World War. For Britain, European “collective security” is but a means to an end. The UK has historically anchored itself behind the “special relationship” with the United States, seeking to carry Europe as added value to its primary security partnership with the “Anglosphere” or the “Five Eyes community”. Arguably, this makes part of a larger tradition of sceptical British engagement in European security dating back to the nineteenth century, with the admission that Britain engages in “continental affairs” to ensure that there is no threatening consolidation of interests on the Continent,

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without an appetite for political integration, particularly in matters of defence that undermine London’s self-perception as a Great Power. France, on the contrary, commits to the Euro-Atlantic partnership to ensure collective security vis-à-vis perceived external foes. However, the Atlantic framing of Europe’s collective security is seen as a historical compromise on the way to a self-referential security identity. That ambition can be seen as subtly hegemonic as Paris assumes that France is the only power with the historical credibility to articulate the vision of Europe as an independent security agent, assuming Germany has lost the historical right to do so, and Britain is not interested. When it comes to security cooperation, France paradoxically balances between the primacy of national interest with its claim to European leadership. As an institutional apparatus, CSDP carries the legacy of this Anglo-­ French compromise between powers that seek to cooperate but by no means assimilate their security capacity.

Between Radical and Incremental Change Taking an institutional approach to analysing Europe’s collective security identity means describing security institutions as so-called moral or cognitive templates for interpretation and action (Hall & Taylor, 1996). In this scheme, historical power relations between Britain and France are institutionalised factors that underpin the process and scope of security cooperation in Europe. European supranational bureaucracies have learnt to balance Atlantic-leaning security cultures and those advocating for a European self-referential approach. As British and French security cultures interacted, it became clear that CSDP missions were possible or desirable when and where NATO member states did not have the political will to intervene. NATO’s failure or unwillingness to act created room for a European initiative when the perception of significant security threats with no apparent remedy became impossible to ignore. Without acknowledging it openly, the balance is often articulated in terms of an incremental “division of labour” that does not recognise underlying strategic friction. The European Union can be seen as a constellation of tested institutionalised practices that negotiates small incremental steps or is forced through catalytic crises to make leaps forward. Starting as early as the Empty Chair crisis in the 1950s, political stakeholders deal with day-to-­day challenges that offer tactical compromises to strategic questions until “do or die” challenges demand radical action. “Empty chairs” challenged the

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ability of supranational institutions to deliver on policy, challenging their raison d’être, and forcing a culture of accommodation by inducing a crisis. That is a historical pattern that is all too familiar: a bureaucratic apparatus with a specific mandate tries to frame the process of political negotiation by limiting the scope of possible outcomes until that is no longer an option. When the constituent political stakeholders refuse to abide by the logic of this process, the institution faces an existential threat. Supranational entities like the European Commission, the European People’s Party, or the European Stability Mechanism know that if stakeholders refuse to accommodate change, they directly question their institutional instrumentality. Institutions that are not helpful become irrelevant. The crisis then dictates a new balance founded on incrementally developing mandates: new policy instruments must develop and/or budgetary priorities set. Alternatively, a crisis may require nothing short of a new institution and an altogether new blueprint for action. In sum, “historical institutionalism” is an admission that governance is a historical process driven by trial and error, incremental accommodation and productive conflict. Across the policy spectrum, the process of European Integration cannot be reduced to a clash of member state interests (Pierson, 1994) in a sequence of effectively predictable events that one may call “game theory”. First of all, the scope for foresight calculations on the basis of national interests is limited; the context of the negotiation weighs on both process and outcome (Saurugger, 2014: 79). Supranational formations ranging from the informal Franco-German axis or the Visegrad Group, to formal European political families (EPP, S&D, Renew Europe, Greens, etc.) are well aware that to be relevant, one needs to be useful. One can induce a crisis to steer towards a specific kind of accommodation or to cause a fundamental policy rethink, challenging the mandate of the institution as such. Empty chairs may be removed or refilled, begging the question of how and when institutional change is inescapable (Fioretos et al., 2016) and how temporal processes challenge conventional wisdom leading to institutional transformation. In hindsight, the answer is always comprehensible, but one cannot suggest that the process is from the outset predictable.

The Added Value of Institutionalism In the historical context of the Cold War, the project of European Integration was seen as the socioeconomic pillar of the West, next to NATO, with security and economic development being compartmentalised. In the high days of unipolarism and the “End of History” ethos of

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the 1990s, the process of European Integration was considered a linear, fully perspective, and almost evolutionary project synonymous with liberal democratisation. That confident narrative of liberal democratisation and the neat compartmentalisation of the West in distinct economic and security pillars— EU and NATO—are now untenable. Furthermore, the rise of anti-globalist political powers in EU members states calls for “exceptions” to the foundational three freedoms of the Common Market: movement of people, capital and goods. The defence of what has been created increasingly requires hard security instruments. In this historical context, there is a growing need for a new language of security analysis. In this scheme, a Historical Institutionalist approach to security policy strikes a balance between the motivation of policy stakeholders in European security and their “structural limitations” when acting within existing institutional frameworks. Member states’ historical legacies weigh heavily on the nature of such debates as well as on policy outcomes. For instance, Washington’s unilateral decisions to withdraw from the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA, 2018) and Afghanistan (2021) have changed perceptions in Europe over the nature of American commitment to the North Atlantic Treaty as a community. In turn, this changes the perception of “European security” and calls into question the compartmentalised notion of security as a policy area that is quintessentially Euro-Atlantic. Historical institutionalism crosses the dividing line between structure and agency without eliminating the distinction between the two (Katznelson, 2009). To the extend institutions are carriers of ideas or “blueprints for action” (Fioretos et al., 2016), one can see how institutions limit the scope for political action. Hall and Taylor define (1996) historical institutionalism as essentially a method for the management of uncertainty. A focus on critical junctures of institutional transformation over a lengthy period offers a deeper analysis of policy relevant agency. As we observe the direction of change, we understand the internal dynamics of EU institutions, the power struggles that underpin their structures, including the conflict of various national interests, the struggle for control over budget and mandate on a supernational level and the resonance of historical legacies on decision-making. In this analytical framework, political action is not seen as the inescapable conclusion of a rationally evolving mechanistic plot, but as a more complex scenario in which the interplay of cultural, perceptual, emotional, ideological and power variables informs

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the negotiation that yields a policy outcome. Therefore, critical junctures reveal a menu of possible outcomes highlighting the uniqueness of a specific outcome rather than seeking to retrospectively affirm its predictability, as is often the case with rationalist approaches. In August 2021, when Theresa May MP asked Prime Minister Boris Johnson in Parliament ‘where is Global Britain in the streets of Kabul’, she was essentially questioning his ability to manage the “special relationship”. Nevertheless, no one in London would dare imagine a British foreign policy or “Global Britain” concept that is not founded on the special relationship. In that sense, British foreign policy is very much “path-­ dependent”, limited by institutional traditions that date back decades.

Path-Dependent Theorising Versus Neorealism Path dependence is one of the central concepts of Historical Institutionalism (Pierson, 1993, 2000; North, 1990; Thelen, 1999; Hall & Taylor, 1996) and refers to a social process of institutional transformation indebted to the economic concept of ‘increasing returns’ (Pierson, 2000; Mahoney, 2001; O’Donnell et  al., 1986; Stepan & Linz, 1996; Bruckner, 2012). The idea is that once institutions invest in a specific blueprint for action, the system becomes self-reinforcing (Pierson, 1993), limiting the scope for radical change in the future (Thelen, 1999; Tilly 1984:14; North 1995). Individuals and organisations learn by doing, expending human and material resources and benchmarking their response to achieve efficiency. Therefore, institutional change is a costly, difficult and unattractive investment (North 1990). In fact, the longer a core idea informs political culture as a “blueprint for action” or “a path”, trailblazing becomes more difficult, in what we may define as a ‘lock-in’ effect (Pierson, 2004:21; Pollack, 2009). That is how Winston Churchill’s ‘three circles’ allusion survives as the dominant blueprint for action, prioritising actions that benefit first and foremost the Special Relationship, then relations with the Commonwealth and only then the relationship with the Continent (Deighton, 1995). This blueprint has become a cultural inclination that has outlived cataclysmic developments in Europe’s security landscape and may, out of context, be seen as “irrational”. Europe is filled with similar perceptions of irrationality, which are perfectly intelligible when placed in context. Facing the facts, the founders of European Integration promoted and defended a culture of

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accommodation in this difficult environment, not least by setting high barriers to reform, chiefly by instilling the principle of unanimity. That principle is a warning sign for technocrats and politicians alike not to rock the boat, unless that is unavoidable, a cultural trait that weighs across the EU policy spectrum (Pierson, 1993, 2000). What follows is an analysis of the interplay between incremental and radical reform of CSDP policy over the last 25 years, distinguishing between incremental accommodation and crisis-­induced “trailblazing” institutional reforms. The challenge is not to feed the illusion that change is predictable but to articulate the dynamics of change in a manner that empowers policymakers to manage inescapable uncertainty (Hall & Taylor, 1996). In this institutionalist analytical framework, foreign policy actors (“agency”) remain pivotal in lending meaning to a sequence of events. Clearly, national interest, political calculations and economic aspirations remain critical explanatory factors in rationalising action. However, the analytical outcome is unintelligible without the institutional context in which motivational forces rally behind the objective of specific policy outcomes yielding measurable change (Fioretos et  al., 2016). Institutional analysis bridges motivational “why” and structural “how” questions in foreign and security policy. By focusing on catalytic events in the evolution of foreign and security policy, we observe how conventional wisdom and established “action blueprints” can accommodate emerging challenges incrementally or force a more radical transformation of institutions. Historical events such as the end of the Cold War matter, as they shape or fail to shape political choices, policies and outcomes (Pollack, 2009). What is distinctive in an institutionalist approach is the emphasis on temporality, the admission that earlier events have a bearing on the latter in a historical continuum that substantively shapes institutional development and policy (Pierson, 2000; Tilly, 1984:14). Contrary to Neorealism, which considers institutions as vessels of the state’s interests, this approach recognises the power of institutions to shape interest narratives and mould identities, thereby limiting, channelling political action (Solingen & Wan, 2016). Foreign and security analysis is more policy relevant when it recognises that institutions often suffer when trying to accommodate to changing circumstances (Pierson, 2000). Institutionalist policy prescriptions focus on scenario-building, incorporating contextually informed contingencies (Mahoney, 2000) and lessons learnt from critical junctures in the evolution of a policy framework (Capoccia & Keleman, 2007). This approach is

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well established. The second generation of historical institutionalists (Streeck & Thelen, 2005; Thelen & Conran, 2016; Thelen, 2004) downplay the emphasis on exogenous shocks—ruptures or crises—presenting institutions as ‘arenas of conflict’ constantly reshaped by those engaged in the fight. Change is incremental, the cumulative residue of action over long periods rather than the result of a singular rupture. The focus of such analysis is the underlying motivational forces that trigger conflict, seeking to describe the role of different agents in a specific policy negotiation (Buthe, 2016; Pierson 2015; Thelen, 2004:30). A further refinement of the theory on critical junctures is presented by Soifer (2012), who distinguishes between ‘permissive conditions’ that ‘represent the easing of the constraints of structure and make change possible’ and the productive conditions ‘that produce the outcome’. These two conditions are separately necessary and jointly sufficient for change to occur. The general assumption is that all policies are about motivation to action and constraints on choice (Kay, 2005). Policies usually point towards the desired state of affairs or a broad set of objectives that are pursued through institutional resources. In identifying the “path dependencies” or institutional constraints to CSDP, we look at policy not as a set of decisions, but as the interplay of means and ends, motivational forces and structural limitations, in an analysis that is less about means and ends and more about the interplay of “why” and “how” questions (Saurugger, 2014: 152). That means that accommodation to changing circumstances is not somehow preordained, systemically necessary, unidirectional or evolutionary.

Constructivism Versus Functionalism Constructivist analysis of this kind entered EU studies at the end of the 1990s and has since developed to encompass institutional and policy analysis (Egeberg 2006; Lindner & Rittberger, 2003; Rittberger, 2005). In policy terms, the core idea is that human agents construct social reality through daily practice (Berger & Luckmann, 1966). In institutionalist approaches, the focus is on goal-oriented bureaucratic practice, accomplishing routine tasks and dealing with emerging challenges. The way these bureaucratic institutions go about this daily activity is influenced by the legacy of historical experiences and cultural traits and, therefore, foreign policy is shaped by international events but framed by domestic experience (Wendt, 1999: 246).

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Neorealist tradition points to the rationalisation of foreign and security policy in a vacuum (Risse, 2009), imagining states as rational individuals. This kind of rationalisation claims to be rooted in empiricism; however, it cannot withstand empirical scrutiny, as decision-making processes often appear unintelligible or “irrational” unless they are examined in their socialinstitutional context. The elusive parameter of such explanatory frameworks is that they fail to account for the fluidity of interest articulation and political identity, constantly under revision and change (Agius, 2016). Institutions are social structures that impact the way in which political actors become self-aware policy stakeholders (Sandholtz, 1996; Risse, 2009), imbuing action with normative significance—adherence to rules— besides articulating specific interests. In this scheme, national identity and the articulation of national interests are not replaced by a European identity and superseded by European interests. Instead, in a European polity, the national interest is negotiated in a European context, with national and European political identities complementing each other (Risse, 2009). These identities can exist side by side, overlap or fuse like a marble cake (Risse, 2001). When it comes to security policy, one should expect tension to rise between national and European dimensions of political identity for two reasons: first, because the monopoly of violence has, for centuries, been one of the defining monopolies of the nation-state (Weber, 2004) and, secondly because military cooperation in the West has been compartmentalised into a Euro-Atlantic institutional framework. After the end of the Cold War, there was a debate on the possibility of constructing a post-national civic identity, overcoming individual national identities, founded on loyalty to the Constitution or the Treaties (Habermas, 2001). In some respects, this debate was indebted to the idea that “national” and “European” were two distinct categories, juxtaposing the civic-rational appeal of the European project with the organic-­ emotional appeal of nationalism and the nation-state. However, consecutive crises in Europe have created a crisis of legitimacy for “Europe”, undermining the notion of civic demos that do not require emotional commitment. Often, security issues and the discourse of “us versus them” are vital in delineating the national from the European dimension of political identity. Traditional or functionalist political discourse is, in this context, unable to assimilate seemingly irrational comparisons between the EU and the USSR, particularly in Central Eastern Europe and the Baltic States.

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Neo-functionalism has been the dominant paradigm of European Studies for decades, building on the work of Ernst Haas (1958) that seeks to capture the dynamic of European Integration employing an essentially mechanical metaphor. The idea is that states take initiatives towards economic integration in an economic process with social and political ‘spillovers’—or ‘byproducts’—that propel integration (Moravcik, 2005; Lindberg, 1963; Scheingold, 1964; Lindberg & Scheingold, 1971). Hass distinguished between a ‘functional spillover’ where cooperation in one sector created pressure for cooperation in another—from industry to trade—and ‘political spillovers’, where cooperation empowers supranational actors to expand their political role (Nugent, 2001). Neo-functionalist theorists, paradoxically, project both an expectation of purposeful unidirectional and teleological evolution towards an ever-­ closer union—in line with the expectation of the advent of liberal democracy—and a very much institutionalist narrative that underscores the agency of institutions in political change. In his 1958 introduction to Uniting of Europe, Haas recognised that continuous, unobstructed integration is not always fully perspective and ‘spill-backs’ are as likely as spillovers. After all, he was part of the generation that experienced the demise of the Weimar Republic. Viewing Europe’s institutional trajectory through the lens of his lived experience, Haas was convinced of the shift from the polarisation of the interwar period towards the byproduct of Europeanisation rather than the other way round. The neo-functionalist tendency is to think of Europe as an emergent project, “becoming” rather than being. Once policy cooperation takes off, the thinking goes, the unintended policy feedback is the primary driver of integration (Moravcik, 2005). The distinguishing feature of this tradition is the notion that technocratic practice is more significant than ideological commitment. Critics would say that this theory fails to account for significant ruptures that shaped the project of European integration, such as Gaullism and the Empty Chair crisis (Kenealy & Kostagiannis, 2013). Furthermore, committed neo-functionalists fail to account for the inability of Foreign and Security Policy to emerge truly communitarian, as policy stakeholders resist the institutional spillover (Risse, 2005). However, if we take an institutionalist approach, we can see that for the member states that joined the EU after 2004, the project of European Integration was primarily about reinstating national foreign and security policy prerogatives after decades

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of Soviet satellisation. In this historical context, their commitment to the Euro-Atlantic defence community is integral to the affirmation of being “Western”, a term with both modernising and emanicipatory connotations. Therefore, the question is not how individual national political cultures irrationally resist the emergence of a communitarian political discourse on foreign and security policy. Instead, one can contextualise this resistance as perfectly rational in the context of a historical legacy in which “European” security identity without American guarantees has been experienced as a hegemonic project. Traditionally, Europe is divided between ardent Euro-­Atlanticists and Europeanists. An integral element of this division is that Europeanisation can be perceived as a covert attempt to create a tributary relationship with other European powers that is historically grounded.

References Agius, C. (2016). Social Constructivism. In A.  Collins (Ed.), Contemporary Security Studies. Oxford University Press. Berger Peter, L., & Luckmann, T. (1966). The Social Construction of Reality. A Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge. Anchor Books. Bruckner, M. (2012). Economic Growth, Size of Agricultural Sector and Urbanization in Africa. Journal of Urban Economics, 71(1), 26–36. Buthe, T. (2016). Supranationalism. In O. Fioretos, T. G. Falleti, & A. Sheingate (Eds.), The Oxford handbook of Historical Institutionalism. Oxford. https:// doi.org/10.1093/oxfordhb/9780199662814.013.29 Capoccia, G., & Keleman, D. (2007, April). The Study of Critical Junctures: Theory, narrative and counterfactuals in Historical Institutionalism. World Politics, 59(3), 341–369. Deighton, A. (1995). Britain and the Three. In A.  Varsori (Ed.), Europe 1945–1990s. The End of an Era? Southampton Studies in International Policy (pp.  155–169). Palgrave Macmillan. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-­1­349-­23689-­3_1 Egeberg, M. (2006). Balancing Autonomy and Accountability: Enduring Tensions in the European Commission’s Development. In Multilevel Union Administration (pp. 31–50). Palgrave Macmillan. Fioretos, P., Falleti, T. G., & Sheingate, A. (2016). Historical Institutionalism in Political Science. In Fioretos et al. (Eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Historical Institutionalism. Oxford University Press.

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Haas, E. (1958). The Uniting of Europe: Political, Economic and Social Forces. Stevens. Habermas, J. (2001). The Post National Constellation, Political Essays. Polity press/Blackwell. Hall, P.  A., & Taylor, R. (1996). Political Science and the Three New Institutionalisms. Political Studies, 44(5), 936–957. Katznelson, I. (2009). Strong Theory, Complex History. Structure and Configuration in Comparative Politics revisited. In Lichbach & Zuckerman (Eds.), Comparative Politics: Rationality, Culture, and Structure (pp. 96–116). Cambridge University Press. Kay, A. (2005). A Critique of the Use of Path Dependency in Policy Studies. Public Administration, 83(3), 553–571. Kenealy, D., & Kostagiannis, K. (2013). Realist Visions of European Union: E.H.  Carr and Integration. Millennium: Journal of International Studies. 41(2), 221–246. Keohane, R. O. (2008). Big Questions in the Study of World Politics. In C. Reus-­ Smit & D.  Snidal (Eds.), The Oxford Handbook of International Relations (pp. 708–715). Oxford University Press. Lindberg, L. N. (1963). The Political Dynamics of European Economic Integration. Stanford University Press. Lindberg, L. N., & Scheingold, S. A. (1971). Regional Integration. Theory and Research. Harvard University Press. Lindner, J., & Rittberger, B. (2003). The Creation, Interpretation and Contestation of Institutions  – Revisiting Historical Institutionalism. Journal of Common Market Studies, 41(3), 445–474. Mahoney, J. (2000). Path Dependence in Historical Sociology. Theory and Society, 29(4), 507–548. Mahoney, J. (2001). Legacies of Liberalism: Path Dependance and Political Regimes in Central America. John Hopkins University Press. Moravcik, A. (2005). The European Constitutional Compromise and the Neofunctionalist Legacy. Journal of European Public Policy, 12(2), 349–386. North, D. (1990). Institutions, Institutional change and Economic performance. Cambridge University Press. North, D. (1995). Five Propositions About Institutional Change. In J. Knight & I.  Sened (Eds.), Explaining Social Institutions (pp.  15–26). University of Michigan Press. Nugent, N. (2001). The European Commission. Palgrave Macmillan. O’Donnell, G., Schmitter, P.  C., & Whitehead, L. (1986). Transitions from Authoritarian Rule: Comparative Perspectives. The Johns Hopkins University Press. Pierson, P. (1993). When Effect Becomes Cause: Feedback and Political Change. World Politics, 45(4), 595–628.

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Pierson P. (1994, October 25). The Path to European Integration: A Historical Institutionalist Perspective (Program for the Study of Germany and Europe, Working Paper No 5.2). Pierson, P. (2000). Increasing Returns, Path Dependence and the Study of Politics. American Political Science Review, 94(2), 251–267. Pierson, P. (2004). Politics in Time: History, Institutions and Social Analysis. Princeton University Press. Pierson, P. (2015). Power and Path Dependence. In J.  Mahoney & K.  Thelen (Eds.), Advances in Comparative-Historical Analysis. Strategies for Social Inquiry (pp.  123–146). Cambridge University Press. https://doi. org/10.1017/CBO9781316273104.006 Pollack, M. A. (2009). The New Institutionalisms and European Integration. In A.  Wiener & T.  Diez (Eds.), European Integration Theory (2nd ed., pp. 125–143). Oxford University Press. Risse, T. (2001). A European Identity? Europeanisation and the Evolution of Nation-State Identities. In C.  M. Green, J.  Caporaso, & T.  Risse (Eds.), Transforming Europe (pp. 198–216). Cornell University Press. Risse, T. (2005). Neo-functionalism, European Identity and the Puzzles of European Integration. Journal of European Public Policy, 12(2), 291–309. Risse, T. (2009). Social Constructivism and European Integration. In A. Wiener & T.  Diez (Eds.), European Integration Theory (2nd ed.). Oxford University Press. Rittberger, B. (2005). Building Europe’s Parliament. Democratic Representation Beyond the Nation State. Oxford University Press. https://doi. org/10.1093/0199273421.001.0001 Sandholtz, W. (1996). Membership Matters: Limits of the Functional Approach to European Institutions. JCMS: Journal of Common Market Studies, 34(3), 403–429. Saurugger, S. (2014). Theoretical Approaches to European Integration. Palgrave Macmillan. Scheingold, S. A. (1964). Antitrust Law in the European Communities: The Path of the Schuman Plan. Journal of Public Law, 13, 135–161. Soifer, H. D. (2012). The causal logic of critical junctures. Comparative Political Studies, 45(12), 1572–1597. Solingen, E., & Wan, W. (2016). Critical Junctures, Developmental Pathways, and Incremental Change in Security Institutions. In Fioretos et  al. (Eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Historical Institutionalism. Oxford University Press. Stepan, A., & Linz, J. (1996). Problems of Democratic Transition and Consolidation: Southern Europe, South America and Post-Communist Europe. The Johns Hopkins University Press.

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Streeck, W., & Thelen, K. (2005). Introduction: Institutional change in advanced political economies. In W.  Streeck & K.  Thelen (Eds.), Beyond Continuity: Institutional Change in Advances Political Economies (pp.  1–39). Oxford University Press. Thelen, K. (1999). Historical Institutionalism in Comparative Politics. Annual Review of Political Science, 2(1), 369–404. Thelen, K. (2004). How Institutions Evolve: The Political Economy of Skills in Germany, Britain, the United States, and Japan. Cambridge University Press. Thelen, K., & Conran, J. (2016). In O. Fioretos, T. G. Falleti, & A. Sheingate (Eds.), “Institutional Change” in The Oxford handbook of Historical Institutionalism. Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/oxfor dhb/9780199662814.013.3 Tilly, C. (1984). Big Structures, Large Processes, Huge Comparisons. Russell Sage Foundation. Weber, M. (2004). The Vocation Lectures: Science as a Vocation/Politics as a Vocation. Hackett Publications. Wendt, A. (1999). Social Theory of International Politics. Cambridge University.

CHAPTER 3

Defining Critical Junctures

“Critical Juncture” is a term that articulates moments of profound policy transformation, presenting institutions with a litmus test of credibility. These are big events with big consequences (Pierson, 2000), inducing institutions to trailblaze and go beyond conventional wisdom or risk losing their relevance. These junctures are ‘critical’ because significant changes entail risk, an unavoidable leap into uncharted territory with unpredictable consequences (Pierson, 2004:135). The response to newly emerging challenges varies from accommodation to revolution, but the result is not entirely predictable.

What Is a Critical Juncture? The central precept of institutionalist analysis is that modern bureaucratic governance responds to sociopolitical challenges routinely through time-­ tested mechanisms. The commitment to such routines (path dependency) is challenged when the institutions spend more resources to affirm their relevance and ensure their survival, than dealing with the challenges inherent to their mission statement. Think of states that see their constituent regions secede or demand independence referenda. In such critical moments, conventional wisdom does not apply and ensuing vacuums of power create opportunity for profound institutional change: new policy

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instruments, the redistribution of human and material resources or the realignment of political loyalties (Capoccia & Keleman, 2007). Such moments do not trigger uniform responses. The common denominator between such moments is the perception of how crisis creates opportunity for a political party, a government, the European Parliament or the European Commission. These “crises” are necessarily short periods that test institutional resilience, such as war, mass migration, climate change or bank runs. Initial responses to such events leave lasting legacies as success or failure is likely to set a new policy trend. According to Collier and Collier (1991: 31–34), critical junctures generate legacies that can reproduce themselves without the presence of the causes that created them, initiating path-dependent processes. Consider the impact of the 1929 financial crisis on economic governance, the legacy of the Second World War on security cooperation in Europe, 9/11 on the relationship between national security and home affairs and the 2015 mass migration crisis on border management. Each of these crises disrupted the ability of political institutions to deal with emerging challenges, routinely posing a “do or die” question. In such periods of fluidity, the main question is whether the balancing act will tilt towards status quo maintenance or dramatic reform.

Critical Junctures in Context Generally speaking, the European Union exhibits resilience in critical junctures: institutions have a bounce-back ability, adjusting or leaping forwards to maintain the overall integrity of the project of European Integration (Hall and Taylor, 1996). This resilience can be tested by endogenous or exogenous factors (Thelen & Conran, 2016; Capoccia, 2016). Historically, the principle of unanimity is clearly an endogenous “stress factor”, allowing France to leave NATO’s political wing or Britain to leave the EU; in this scheme, an exogenous “stress factor” would be an armed conflict along Europe’s periphery, from Syria and Libya to Georgia and Ukraine. The common denominator of these moments is their effect on CSDP, as short periods of “institutional fluidity” that we call “crises” are followed by longer periods in which newly emerging practices, policies and political economies are negotiated and tested (Capoccia, 2015; Capoccia & Keleman, 2007). The aftermath of the Cold War reversed the integrative process of European security. The Yugoslav Wars undermined the principle of

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political consensus, as NATO assumed missions that were more about regime change than collective security, with the consent of selective majorities rather than a basis of political unanimity. The political rupture between European allies became more pronounced during the war in Iraq, a conflict in which NATO failed to rally its allies and created a rift between the Anglo-Sphere (London/Washington), New Europe (member states from the Baltics and Central Eastern Europe) and continental powers (France, Germany). The 2011 Libyan crisis, the 2014 Ukraine crisis, the 2015 migration crisis, Brexit and the impact of the Trump administration cemented this rift. The cumulative result of these events was the proliferation of diverging strategic visions among the members of the Euro-Atlantic community. These events are singled out due to the political dynamic they unleashed, which has long-lasting effects in the way the EU deals with Security and Defence. Not only did these events influence the direction and the content of ESDP/CSDP, they also presented the EU with new dilemmas, related to its self-perception and aspirations, contributing to its transformation. The receding ability of the Euro-Atlantic community to frame debates and act as one is the cumulative result of gradual institutional and political developments. It is increasingly harder for Euro-Atlantic partners to rally behind a common response to major events as their security concepts diverge. This cleavage is not between Washington and Brussels alone, but primarily between EU member states: Britain and the Franco-German axis, the Franco-German axis and what Secretary Rumsfeld called ‘New Europe’ (former Soviet Republics or members of the Warsaw Pact). Needless to say, Brexit can only deepen this rift. Over time, the framing of ESDP/CSDP has become the institutional context of renegotiating a strategic vision that is less pan-European and encompassing, and more plurinational, resembling the fluidity of Alliances in Europe of the last quarter of the nineteenth century. In this scheme, CSDP is substantially self-referential, scoping defense and security policy development cooperation between EU member states in a manner that can significantly diverge from Euro-Atlantic priorities. Europe is gradually shifting from an all-encompassing security multilateralism to selective security plurilateralism that challenges the status quo of what for generations we recognised as “the West”. Each of the aforementioned crises was catalytical, bringing to the fore the inability of existing security structures to respond to emerging security

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challenges. In that sense, the direction of travel for CSDP/SCDP has been incremental but not necessarily evolutionary, as there is no fully elaborated narrative on where Europe is heading as a geopolitical actor. The renegotiation of European security is perhaps delimited by the normative possibilities afforded by the Treaty of Lisbon, but the negotiation extends far beyond what European leaders understand as legitimate security cooperation in Europe. The conventional wisdom that Europe is a “security consumer” is called into question, as member states face challenges that require the Union to consolidate transnational capacity to defend common interests (counter-­ terrorism, border control, cybersecurity) and act as a security provider (piracy, peacekeeping, state-building). The question is no longer simply one of European states “shouldering” greater responsibility for collective security within the context of a Euro-Atlantic partnership, but indeed to imagine a distinctly European security and defence identity that can encapsulate challenges emerging from the Arctic Circle to the Eastern Mediterranean that NATO cannot address. However, as of now, there is no Brussels consensus to replace Washington’s lack of consensus. Critical junctures occur when there is generalised uncertainty as to whether governing institutions can govern. At this moment of unquestionable fluidity, this reflective analysis on European agency—specifically regarding Security and Defense Cooperation—is germane because institutional developments are likely to leave long-lasting legacies weighing on future policy paths. Europe is by necessity trailblazing: from Home Affairs cooperation (border controls, cybersecurity, data sharing) to national security (military procurement, research and development, power projection). The direction of travel is unpredictable, with so-called political entrepreneurs seizing the moment to project their vision, trying to rally national voters, mobilise European resources and deal with challenges of global significance.

Policy as the Cumulative Result of Crisis-Management Europe’s institutional fluidity appears to be primarily triggered by exogenous factors: the economic point of gravity moves from the Atlantic to the Pacific; China competes for global economic primacy, and liberal democracy is challenged, head-on by state-capitalist absolutism; the ‘America

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First’ slogan appears to articulate a culture that cuts across the political spectrum in Washington and is more enduring than President Trump’s single term in office. Naturally, there are also endogenous factors such as Brexit that put into question the very existence of the Union and thus make radical change at the level of security and defence inevitable. More broadly, the ability of national stakeholders to respond to security challenges is limited by contextual factors such as national political parties that demand self-reliance or a clash of coalition partners over the age-old “butter or guns” question. CSDP is then the outcome of responses to endogenous and exogenous pressures. The policy develops as European actors fail to address emerging security threats through traditional Euro-Atlantic policy instruments. In Part II, we review critical junctures in the development of CSDP, underpinning periods of institutional fluidity, opening up the possibility of policy transformation. Such ruptures affect the way we perceive, frame and address security threats, a process that is, in and of itself, an important institutional legacy (Blyth, 2002, 2007; Schmidt, 2008, 2010). The argument put forward is that the development of the CSDP consisted of crises and ruptures that affect incremental practice. Therefore, individual crisis managers matter, as policy responses in critical junctures leave lasting institutional footprints. In this framework, security institutions are subsequently invested in their decisions as they reflect on lessons learnt in these critical junctures (Capoccia, 2016; Blyth, 2002, 2007; Schmidt, 2008, 2010).

References Blyth, M. (2002). Great Transformations: Economic Ideas and Institutional Change in the Twentieth Century. Cambridge University Press. Blyth, M. (2007). Institutionalisms, Reflexivity and the Ideational Account of Institutional Change. International Studies Quarterly, 51(4), 761–777. Capoccia, G. (2015). Critical Junctures and Institutional Change. In J. Mahoney & K. Thelen (Eds.), Advances in Comparative Historical Analysis in the Social Sciences (pp. 147–179). Cambridge University Press. Capoccia, G. (2016). Critical Junctures. In O.  Fioretos, T.  G. Falleti, & A.  Sheingate (Eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Historical Institutionalism. Oxford. https://doi.org/10.1093/oxfordhb/9780199662814.013.29 Capoccia, G. (2016). When Do Institutions ‘Bite’? Historical Institutionalism and the Politics of Institutional Change. Comparative Politics Studies, 1–33. https://doi.org/10.1177/0010414015626449

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Capoccia, G., & Keleman, D. (2007). The Study of Critical Junctures: Theory, Narrative and Counterfactuals in Historical Institutionalism. World Politics, 59(3), 341–369. Collier, R. B., & Collier, D. (1991). Critical Junctures and Historical Legacies. In Shaping the Political Arena: Critical Junctures, the Labor Movement and Regime Dynamics in Latin America. Princeton University Press. Hall, P.  A., & Taylor, R. (1996). Political Science and the Three New Institutionalisms. Political Studies, 44(5), 936–957. Pierson, P. (2000). Increasing Returns, Path Dependence and the Study of Politics. American Political Science Review, 94(2), 251–267. Pierson, P. (2004). Politics in Time. Princeton University Press. Schmidt, V. (2008). Discursive Institutionalism: The Explanatory Power of Ideas and Discourse. Annual review of Political Science, 11, 303–326. Schmidt, V. (2010). Taking Ideas and Discourse Seriously: Explaining Change Through Discursive Institutionalism as the Fourth ‘New Institutionalism’. European Political Science review, 2(1), 1–25. Thelen, K., & Conran, J. (2016). Institutional Change. In O. Fioretos, T. G. Falleti, & A.  Sheingate (Eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Historical Institutionalism. Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/oxfordhb/978019966 2814.013.3

CHAPTER 4

“Global Europe” and the Quest for a European Strategic Culture

Political culture is a framework of negotiation defined by norms, individual attitudes and values embedded in the political system. Capturing the process of security culture transformation requires the articulation of a cultural shift. In the aftermath of the Second World War, it was clear that Empires like France, the Netherlands, Belgium and Great Britain could no longer claim the ability to project power globally. While Italy and Germany were made to violently accommodate to the realities of a military defeat, former imperial powers were faced with the mounting pressure of national movements and public debt, unable to sustain a claim to global power, making way for the “American Century”. In this historical context, retaining strategic relevance required accommodation. The emergence of a call for a distinctly “European” defence identity was in some respects a French political project that sought to accommodate to emerging strategic realities by rallying European resources under a single foreign and security banner. Following the collapse of the USSR in the 1990s, Europe revisited the vision of strategic consolidation, not least because Washington’s commitment to European security was uncertain and unpredictable. The idea was to look beyond national security arrangement and NATO to create a different kind of European security that is more politically consolidated, strategically autonomous and effective. That debate is ongoing.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 M. Koppa, The Evolution of the Common Security and Defence Policy, St Antony’s Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-99158-6_4

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A Call for a Paradigmatic Shift in Europe’s Defence Agenda Emmanuel Macron’s famous Sorbonne speech on September 26, 2017 (Macron, 2017), set a new agenda for European political consolidation. Clearly, the French President was not only appealing to Chancellor Merkel but also to European citizens across the bloc. For all French Presidents “European reforms” rely on the political initiative of Paris and the economic weight of Berlin. Macron reached out to Chancellor Angela Merkel, like his predecessor, but also tried to tilt the political balance in the European Parliament by creating a new liberal political alliance, “Renew Europe” (replacing  ALDE), attracting support from both the Social Democrats (S&D) and the European People’s Party (EPP). No major political breakthrough of this kind was achieved. The Franco-German axis remains vital, but Macron could not follow through with a bottom-up political initiative. Macron’s overall message was that Europe needed to learn from the 2008 financial crisis and consolidate a political “Europe” that would be substantially sovereign: tax, invest, apply monetary instruments, redistribute and pursue a foreign policy that is credibly founded on military capacity. Economic integration would lay the foundation for Europe as a democratically accountable foreign and security policy actor. In sum, Macron called for nothing less than the forging of a common strategic culture. ‘What Europe, Defence Europe, lacks most today is a common strategic culture. Our inability to work together convincingly undermines our credibility as Europeans. We do not have the same cultures, be they parliamentary, historical or political, or the same sensitivities. And that cannot change in a day. But I propose trying, straight away, to build that common culture…’ (Macron, 2017)1

The French vision placed the EU in a policy trajectory that adhered to Germany’s Ordoliberal tradition (Beck & Kotz, 2017) of a space of common rules, provided that its policy outcome was credible security. However, his proposal was badly timed as Chancellor Merkel was weaker and 1  For an analysis, Nicholas Vinocur, “Macron Calls for a New Strategic Culture”, Politico: September 26, 2017 https://www.politico.eu/article/eu-international-diplomacy-armymacron-calls-for-strategic-culture/

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campaigning for her last term in office, struggling to hold together an increasingly fractious Christian Democratic Movement (CDU/CSU) (Mateos & Lago, 2018). Indeed, the German Chancellor echoed Macron’s call for strategic autonomy and common defence capability but failed to carry with her the Christian Democrats. Defence Minister Ursula von der Leyen dismissed Macron’s plan as too long term (“not an imminent project”), while her successor, Annegret Kramp Karrenbauer, dismissed the notion of European defence “autonomy” as illusory (Franke, 2020). In sum, Germany remained committed to a Euro-Atlantic framing of security culture. The notion of European strategic autonomy remains hotly contested, even as there is now historically an unprecedented budgetary commitment to European defence capacity development. The Rome Declaration of March 2017 (Council of the EU, 2017) emphasised the need for an integrated defence industry, focusing on economies of scale and the need to maximise the impact of public procurement in Europe. The launch of the European Defence Fund in June 2017 was in line with the Rome Declaration and pointed towards a bottom-up approach to creating strategic autonomy. The Multiannual Financial Framework (2021–2027) placed on the table €8 billion, a sum negligible when compared to annual expenditure in military procurement in France or the UK, but substantial when this firepower focuses on the innovative capacity of the technological and industrial base of European defence to bolster strategic autonomy. The emergence of an autonomous action and decision-making mandate was borne out of a sense of receding commitment by the United States, calling into question Europe’s presumptive security umbrella. The bottom-up rationale of consolidating defence value chains and limiting the diversity of European weapon systems would not be possible without a commitment to the stated objective of foreign policy capacity that very much resonates with the strategic objective stated by France. The German Chancellor was nodding even if not echoing French intentions, ‘My goal is that the world knows: In foreign policy, Europe speaks with one voice’, Merkel noted (Hanke Vela, 2018).

The Euro-Atlantic Legacy The call for a European defence capacity is not unprecedented; nevertheless, the precedent was not positive. The plan drafted by the French Prime Minister René Pleven in 1950 sought the creation of a supranational

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military force that at once addressed the fear of German rearmament, alongside an efficient framework for collective defence. Perhaps more significantly, establishing a European Defence Community was about pooling together sovereignty in a manner that would challenge the nation-state (Smith, 2002; Nuttall, 1992: 30–37).2 Indeed, the Treaty establishing the EDC was signed by all Members of the European Coal and Steel Community in 1952 and was ratified by all partners except France. The French parliament rejected the plan tabled by the French government in August 1954, undermining the credibility of Paris to set the security agenda on the Continent. While a common capacity spoke to the need for economies of scale and efficiency, the project stumbled on national ambition and the fact that defence lies at the heart of sovereignty. In that respect, the difference between the strategic situation in post-­ war Europe and the more recent circumstances is that the Euro-Atlantic umbrella can no longer be taken for granted. The engagement of US forces in the two world wars transformed Europe by making Washington not merely a security provider, but the power-brokering guarantor of European peace, achieving a balance of power that has eluded the Continent since the Napoleonic Wars. Through the European Recovery Program (Marshall Plan), the United States sponsored European economic cooperation while ensuring that Soviet influence would be kept at bay (Truman Doctrine), particularly in countries where communist parties had wide appeal (Greece, Italy and France). This Western strategic discourse was embodied in the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO). NATO went beyond the logic of piecemeal military assistance extended to allies, seeking to create a system of Euro-Atlantic collective security, or indeed a community. Politically, that was a cultural leap for both sides of the Atlantic. Institutionalising the American presence in Europe could not be taken for granted, much like the French commitment to supranational projects has at times been half-hearted, even when the political initiative comes from France. The United States had a strong isolationist tradition: one should recall that President Wilson failed to ratify the Treaty of Versailles (1919) and President Roosevelt was indebted to Hitler for a declaration of war in December 1941, enabling him to circumvent isolationists in Washington. In the post-war period, the French, the British, the Italians and the Germans counted on American support to rebuild their 2

 For further analysis, Interview of Egon Bahr, 10 June 2006.

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economies and keep the Russian threat at bay. The tacit admission of American primacy was not wholly unproblematic as it undermined European claims to Great Power status, a point of friction the Suez Crisis made abundantly clear (1956). However, the golden rule is often that he who has the gold makes the rules, and Washington’s commitment to Europe’s collective security was premised on trans-European cooperation sponsored by the American taxpayer. American conditionality preceded European as a mechanism for integration, both in terms of sticks and in terms of carrots. The logic of Euro-Atlantic integration was straightforward. In the words of NATO’s first Secretary-General, Lord Ismay, the point of the Euro-Atlantic Alliance was to ‘keep the Russians out, the Americans in, and the Germans down’. Keeping the Russians out was of catalytic significance. Under Article V guarantees—stipulating that an armed attack on one member is an attack on all members—America’s role as a European power was institutionalised. The fact that an American Supreme Allied Commander in Europe is also the commander of US forces in Europe— accountable first and foremost to the US President—makes clear that Washington has the final word on every collective military initiative in no uncertain terms. While the role of the European Secretary-General is to build consensus, Washington has effective veto power over operational matters. Decades of military cooperation within NATO gave rise to a new strategic culture in which foreign and security policy was debated in Europe until Washington made a binding decision. This American primacy in foreign and security policy infused two generations of policymakers across the West, creating a new security policy milieu (Gray, 1986: 36–7) whose values, attitudes and behaviours (Booth, 1990) towards European security were shaped by American initiative. America’s presence in Europe is an integral part of Europe’s security culture (Johnston, 1999; Biava et al., 2011).

The Unipolar Moment For decades Washington overstated its role as a “security provider” and understated its role as an intra-European powerbroker, which was of equal significance. The significance of Washington’s role in Europe was evident as the USSR began contemplating a strategic withdrawal from Eastern Europe. Chancellor Helmut Kohl and his Foreign Minister, Hans-Dietrich

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Genscher, carved a path towards German reunification within the European framework of economic-political unification and a Euro-Atlantic security framework. In his programme for the reunification of November 28, 1989 (James & Stone, 1992), Kohl promised that Germany would remain part of NATO (Kohl, 1992). The implicit assertion was that Berlin could reanimate German sovereignty whose envelopment in the Euro-­ Atlantic relationship would tame any hegemonic ambition (Gerbet, 2016). Germany’s partners were not convinced. As the prospect of German unification became tangible, British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher feared that Berlin would rekindle defence assertiveness and vehemently opposed reunification (Quinn, The Guardian, 28.8., 2019). French President François Mitterrand echoed British fears, but he was more worried about Berlin decoupling itself from the project of European Integration. The French President proposed making the political project irreversible through a European Monetary Union (Blitz, FT, 9.9., 2009), enveloping German political will in a European framework. Washington stepped in to appease Russia and brush aside British scepticism while Germany nodded towards Paris. Finally, President Bush promised Gorbachev that NATO would not enlarge towards the East. At a press conference at NATO headquarters in December 1989, Bush presented London and Paris with a fait accompli, asserting that the future of Germany should be decided by popular vote (Elbe & Kiessler, 1996; Zelikow & Rice, 1995)3 as opposed to a conference of European powers. In time, NATO would lead the process of European integration, affirming American strategic initiative in Europe. The Alliance eventually engaged former Warsaw Pact members and led a process of Euro-Atlantic integration with NATO still being seen as the lobby to EU membership. This reinstitutionalisation of Europe’s collective security architecture was gradual and entailed the creation of the North Atlantic Cooperation Council (NACC), then the Partnership for Peace (PfP), then the Euro-­ Atlantic Partnership Council (EAPC), and from 1997 onwards, full membership was extended to Hungary, Poland and the Czech Republic. By 2004 only six EU member states were not members of NATO, and seven NATO members were not EU member states. The correlation was more akin to the traditional perception of NATO and the EU as two pillars of a

3  See also John Kornblum, in Politico, “How George HW Bush Made Modern Europe”, December 1, 2018.

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single construct. The obvious question was the purpose of this unity that could no longer be justified by reference to the USSR.

Towards a European Strategic Autonomy The crumbling of the Berlin Wall called for a radical reflection on NATO’s raison d’être. Keeping Russia “out” was no longer a workable foundation for European collective security, as Moscow was dealing with a socioeconomic freefall, stripping Europe from the unity of a common security threat (Elliott & Hall, 1999). Keeping the “Germans down” seemed out of place: Europe’s powerhouse was irreversibly linked to the project of European Integration through monetary unification, while the cost of reintegrating East Germany held any appetite for rearmament at bay. Keeping America “in” entailed a cost that needed justification in Washington and Europe. America’s moment of unipolarity in the late 1990s and early 2000s was underpinned by Fukuyama’s The End of History (Fukuyama, 1992) narrative that viewed liberal democratisation as inevitable. As the sole superpower, the United States articulated a language of global governance whereby opposition to liberal democracy was seen as more of a “civilisational” than a political phenomenon. Samuel Huntington’s (1993) Clash of Civilisations articulated a new cultural reductionism whereby the challenge of the “other” could be encapsulated in the word Islam and the language of “othering” stripped the opponent of the dignity of social, political or institutional context. Academia moved from Area Studies to Transition Theory, reflecting confidence in a fully perspective, linear and semi-evolutionary political transformation. Paradoxically, that is the period in which the term “strategic culture” becomes more akin to other areas of political analysis (Hudson, 2014; Johnston, 1995b; Katzenstein, 1996; Longhurst, 2004, Lantis,  2009; Meyer, 2005). As Johnston noted (1995a), a new generation of analysts was looking at ‘shared assumptions and decision rules that impose a degree of order on individual and group conceptions of their relationship to their social, organisational or political environment’. There were two drivers to this intellectual current. First, 9/11 blurred the distinction between Home Affairs and national security, while sizable chunks of the military effort were passing to an emerging industry of private contractors. Secondly, the nature of American power in Europe was changing, begging the question of the Alliance’s sense of direction.

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NATO’s intervention in Yugoslavia moved the Alliance from deterrence to peacebuilding and peacekeeping. Combined Joint Task Forces (CJTF) were able to react quickly in regional conflicts: IFOR and SFOR (in Bosnia), KFOR in Kosovo and Operation Essential Harvest in North Macedonia. In parallel, we have the emergence of an EU Common Foreign and Security Policy-CFSP (1998), responding both to a US demand that Europe assumes a more significant share of responsibility for its own security and reflecting an ambition that political integration could go deeper as well as further. In the NATO Washington Summit Communiqué (April 24, 1999), the United States hailed the EU ambition for developing autonomous military capacity ‘where the Alliance as a whole is not engaged’. The process was militarily driven by France and the UK. Following the St. Malo meeting in December 1998, Paris and London agreed to develop a common defence policy backed up by credible military forces. That agreement paved the way for the Nice European Council Meeting (December 2000), creating a more strictly European dimension to collective defence. Giving this capacity a face, the EU established the High Representative for Common Foreign and Security Policy office, initially occupied by former NATO Secretary-General Javier Solana, underscoring the harmony between Washington and Brussels. Solana talked of the need for ‘… a strategic culture that fosters early, rapid, and when necessary, robust intervention’ (Council of the EU, 2003), fostering Europe’s ability to act as a single actor. EU/NATO member states go to great lengths to underline the continuity of strategic culture, even when recognising security challenges that are no longer the remit of the Alliance. Undeniably, there was a rift between security cultures on the two shores of the Atlantic, which became evident with the invasion of Iraq in 2003, when the United States failed to form a policy consensus, diving a wedge through Europe between the “willing”—Britain, Denmark, Italy, Spain, Portugal  and East European allies—and the “unwilling”, namely France and Germany. That rift between the European and the Atlantic pillars of the Alliance may be attributed to the changing nature of American power. Towards the end of the Bush Administration and as the Lehman Brothers came crumbling down in 2007, the discussion around Europe’s defence identity became more contested in three respects. First, the world appeared open to a renewed diversity of strategic cultures, with China, Turkey and Russia articulating increasing assertiveness, challenging the notion that the United States is a superpower

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among “regional powers”. The financial crisis and the emergence of China as the most significant growth market for the global economy, including Europe and the United States, called for a rethink of the postSecond World War status quo. Germany was seeking a place in the UN Security Council, while the urgency of encapsulating Berlin’s global economic might in a European shell was ever more relevant. Amidst the sovereign debt crisis, the “enveloping” of German might could no longer be seen as straightforwardly benign. There were voices in Europe and the United States fearing that European macroeconomic and trade policy was too responsive to German rather than European priorities (Kollaman et al., 2014). Secondly, the global economy’s shift challenged both American and European political thinking, with Secretary Hillary Clinton articulating the legendary call for a pivot to the Pacific (Clinton, 2011). That meant the EU was now forced to shoulder greater responsibility for its own security and even rise to the challenge of becoming a security provider. The issue at hand was to prepare Europe for a world in which America’s security guarantees could not be taken for granted. Since the NATO Summit in Wales (2014), the United States has been demanding the benchmarking of military and security spending in Europe to 2% of GDP. That 2% benchmark became a symbol of strategic rupture during the Trump Administration, as Washington’s long-buried ideological current of isolationism resurfaced. Thirdly, the annexation of Crimea and the emergence of a security landscape in which all countries that deviated from Russia had a “no man’s land” established in their sovereignty—Abkhazia, South Ossetia, Transnistria, Crimea—suggested that the old perception of a common security threat was regaining relevance. This perception was divisive within the EU, as Germany and France have advocated for deeper engagement with Russia that will create an economic lever that can be used in Moscow, while Central Eastern Europe and the Baltic States are keen to regiment the deterrence capacity of the Union.

The Strategic Culture Debate Such exogenous events matter as they have an ‘ideational’ spillover (Risse, 2001, 2005), affecting political identity on both executive and civilian level. On a civilian level, the resonance of European ‘constitutional

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patriotism’ (Habermas, 1998, 2004) as the foundation of a new security culture is tested in action. Whether or not Europe is able to put boots on the ground depends on whether there are European institutions with the mandate, the resources and the legitimacy to mobilise human and material resources. Αt the beginning of the millennium, analysts argued that the fragmented nature of the international system is the logical, natural and inescapable articulation of diverging geopolitical positions (Faure, 2015) standing on the way of articulating a substantially European strategic culture. Insisting that strategic culture stems from the core of national sovereignty, realists argue that the only credible agent of security policy remains the nation-state or “Great Powers”, namely France, Germany and Great Britain (Lindley-French, 2002; Rynning, 2003; Freedman, 2004).4 In fact, there is a tendency towards enhanced military cooperation in bilateral or trilateral frameworks (Rynning, 2003) rather than Europe-wide cooperation. One way to address this challenge is to focus on the quality of power. In 2002, Ian Manners described Europe as a normative power, in the sense that the EU is neither a military, nor a civilian power but a union promoting the norms and rules that remove the state from the central position in international affairs: a power that creates international rules and has the ability to impose them. According to this view, the most important is not what the EU does, but what it is. Commissioner Benita Ferrero-Waldner (2004–09) borrowed Nye’s concept of “soft power” (2004) to describe a quintessentially civilian authority with normative-­ economic muscle (Ferrero-Waldner, 2006).5 However, this does not respond to Hedley Bull who argued in 1982 that the EU cannot be seen as an international security actor unless it acquires military competence. As the EU developed a security mandate and capacity that defied and transcended state-centred Westphalian norms (Smith, 2000; Whitman, 2002; Stavridis, 2008; Larsen, 2002), another approach claimed that Europe was ‘an empire’ (Zielonka, 2008).

4  For the more general debate at the beginning of the millennium, see Rynning (2003), Howorth (2002), Longhurst (2004). 5  Mentioned by Nielsen K.L. (2013).

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Constructivists do not circumvent the challenge at hand,6 describing European strategic culture as an emergent process that dates back to the Helsinki European Council in December 1999 (Cornish & Edwards, 2001; Howorth, 2002). In this scheme, the institutionalisation of European security is about the institutional confidence ‘to manage and deploy military force as part of the accepted range of legitimate and effective policy instruments’. This means that the EU is a forum for negotiating between national strategic cultures (Meyer, 2006: 1–2) that eventually converge into a plan of action that responds to a crisis. The overall driving force of this transformation is the changing nature of conflict and the changing nature of American engagement in Europe.

The Methodological Relevance of the Term “European Strategic Culture” In a typically institutionalist approach, what is challenged is not the bearing of national security considerations on the development of European defense capability. Instead, the how question becomes an integral part of the why question. How the mandate for a European military force is institutionally contested shapes outcome. In sum, focusing on the constellation of “national interests” risks missing the plot, as the negotiation of a strategic culture takes place in a specific context that shakes strategic certainties. As Meyer (2011) notes, ‘strategic cultures are generally stable as they are links to identity conceptions and narratives of a given community…’. Dramatic exogenous events challenge existing power arrangements because available policy instruments are incapable of dealing with them. These “critical junctures” affect the self-perception of actors who seek to consolidate lessons learnt, a process that is formative and leaves a lasting legacy (Longhurst, 2004). This process of transformation is difficult to capture as the EU is both an actor—in the realist understanding of a singular, unitary, interest articulating stakeholder—as well as a forum where strategic culture is negotiated on normative and ideational level, as policymakers strive to accommodate to external challenges (Meyer, 2005, 2011).

6  One of the most important books of the 1990s is the Culture of National Security (Katzenstein, 1996).

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Institution-building is, in this sense, a process of accommodation or socialisation (Mérand, 2006) to emerging realities that call for the gradual redefinition of institutional objectives and a new cultural consensus. Critical junctures have a profound effect on the balance between national, European and Euro-Atlantic defense identities (Mérand, 2006). In this scheme, the EU’s emergent ambition to become a global foreign and security policy actor relates to an incremental process in which Home Affairs and National Security challenges merge and, therefore, the defence of the Common Market requires common security capacity. However, this process is subsequent to major events, that is critical junctures unveiling the insufficiency of existing policy instruments in addressing emerging threats, shaking deeply ingrained “independent variables” in security analysis and pointing towards a new security vision. For instance, the election of President Trump has called into question Europe’s ability to count on the American conventional power vis-à-vis a perceived Russian threat in Eastern Europe. The Global Europe vision reframes the negotiation of European security threats calling for a new policy toolbox, focusing on both the civilian and the military aspects of CSDP (Meyer, 2011; Biava et al., 2011). At the end of the day, what matters is not a perceptual consensus but, as Norheim-­ Martinsen notes (2011), the ability of the EU to pursue strategic interests ‘even in the absence of a clear consensus over security interests’. Culture is not a decision but a process of negotiation. The question of a common European foreign and security policy identity is not geared towards a conclusive resolution; instead, the negotiation is over an institutional security mandate, the recognition that a military dimension to Europe’s power is both necessary and legitimate, infusing Europe’s security identity (Biscop, 2019). Therefore, the issue at hand is not the succession of national strategic cultures by a European one, but the convergence towards an upgraded and active European culture (Howorth, 2000, 2004), keeping in mind that there are always the national reflexes determined by history and geography. In fact, it is about the scope for joint action that is more than the sum of its national constituent parts and cannot be wholly enveloped as a detail in an overall Euro-Atlantic narrative. In other words, a forum for the negotiation of a European strategic culture emerges when and where the need for a security response cannot be national and will not be dealt with in a Euro-Atlantic framework. That forum is now more significant because challenges of this kind are ever more frequent. The emergence of

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a common strategic mandate takes hold when the articulation of European interests resonates with the interests of a significant plurality rather than a majority of policy actors, intercontextually, creating a space for the accommodation of diverse values and objectives: national, European, industrial or political. Ever since the early 2000s, the Union has taken steps to add military strength behind its economic and political interest articulation (Deighton, 2002; Smith, 2000). This process has proceeded gradually since the Anglo-French compromise of 1998 (St. Malo) and accelerated since Brexit. There is consensus that the Union needs hard power, even if there are profound disagreements about the political significance of this capacity. Ultimately, the critical question is not a timeless mandate for an EU security infrastructure, but the ability of institutions emerging from a crisis to respond to challenges, bolstering their credibility and resilience. Resilience is a term that features 36 times in the 2016 EU Global Strategy reference document, denoting the Union’s collective capacity to address emerging challenges in line with citizens’ expectations. The focus is on the ‘expectations-capabilities gap’ (Hill, 1993) that cuts across the national and supranational level. When nation-states cannot respond to citizens’ expectations, they look to the EU, even on hard security issues.

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CHAPTER 5

Agents of Change in an EU Context

The Common Security and Defence Policy framework is fundamentally intergovernmental. However, the balance between member states and the EU in setting the political agenda and developing common policy in a sector that lies at the core of national sovereignty has been gradually changing since the Treaty of Lisbon; arguably, this was the cumulative result of a series of crises that called for a paradigmatic transformation of what member states could do as a Union. As a policy forum, the EU Common Foreign and Security Policy engages European governments, legislators, diplomats, civil servants and military personnel. Although the hard power remit of the Union remains limited in scope, this forum can be of incremental significance for crisis management and conflict prevention. Under an EU mandate, there have been peacemaking and state-building missions against piracy, arms smuggling and human trafficking. Increasingly, EU hard power is more than the sum of its parts, as dynamically evolving policy mandates give ground for a debate on common means: budgetary, strategic and tactical.

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Institutional Perspectives The institutional vein of this analysis adds a layer of depth, as functionalist links between political stakeholders do not emerge “naturally”, nor is policy development an automated and fully perspective evolutionary process stemming from supply and demand. There is nothing “fully perspective” in the direction of travel of EU institutions, even when the security challenge at hand is inescapably common. Instead, there is an institutional battle at both national and supranational level to define the political challenge, negotiate an institutional mandate, commit the resources and develop specific policy instruments to address them. The framing of a political challenge as a matter of national security can divide national governments, polarise parliaments and entrench corporate interests. The knee-jerk institutional reaction is to apply tested responses to recurring problems. Nevertheless, there are moments when institutions face a litmus test that can unveil the impotence of existing institutional arrangements. Assuming that the emergence of the common challenge will automatically lead to a common policy response does not always square with experience. But who is in charge during pivotal moments in the development of the CSDP is the question at hand. The hybrid nature of the EU results in a multiplicity of stakeholders with a bearing on what happens during critical junctures. For years we believed that, while member states’ preferences are dominant during periods of stability, periods of crisis usually result in an enhanced role for the Commission. The sovereign debt crisis proved this wrong, as an omnipotent European Council played a key role in building consensus among member states, creating at the same time new specialised institutions such as the EFSM and the ESM, to deal with the new reality. However, the tension between intergovernmentalism and supranationalism becomes much more obvious during these periods. Security and defence are yet to be tested by a comparable crisis.

The Executive Path to Defence Europeanisation The European Commission was, for years, excluded from military and defence issues, as the Europeanisation of defence alarmed most of the member states (Riddervold, 2015, 2016;  Zandee, 2016). However, in 2009, the Commission seized upon its mandate as the guardian of the Single Market to carve out a role in security. Specifically, the Commission

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introduced two notable normative milestones: first, the 2009/43 Directive on intra-EU transfer of defence-related items and, secondly, the 2009/81 Directive on public procurement. The cumulative effect was European competition for defence contracts, incentivising mergers and acquisitions to compete in the Single Market and beyond as “European champions”. Creating a market-driven demand for the Europeanisation of defence has often failed both on a regulatory and an industrial level. On a regulatory level, one is reminded of the failure by Germany, Denmark, the Netherlands and Sweden to implement export bans to countries sponsoring the proxy war in Yemen, as defence conglomerates were able to use European subsidiaries to circumvent national sanctions. On an industrial level, the attempt by Fincantieri to take over its French rival, Chantiers de l’Atlantique, thereby creating a European shipbuilding “champion” was fiercely resisted by Paris: President Macron nationalised the French shipyards to prevent the takeover, and the merger collapsed with mutual accusations of countries prioritising national interests. The lack of symmetrical accountability—a European regulator for a European market—clearly presents security challenges, but these are not necessarily dealt with through a European policy framework. The Lisbon Treaty (2007) did not challenge the status quo that dictated the primacy of national over European security considerations on security affairs. There is little doubt that an institutional spillover calls on EU institutions to seize on their mandate and consolidate European defence policy; however, assuming a functional or mechanical link between demand and supply for security has proved to be naïve. There is a range of historical and institutional obstacles that prevent Europe from leaving behind its “path-dependent” culture of national security, particularly as the United States is withdrawing from its traditional role as an intra-­ European power broker. The CSDP remains fundamentally an intergovernmental policy, where the vast majority of decision-making requires unanimity; so, the recognition of a common challenge and the signing off on a joint policy response can only be achieved in the European Council, an admission that defines what some authors refer to as ‘new intergovernmentalism’ (Bickerton, Hodson, Puetter, 2015; Smith, 2015). The term ‘new’ refers to an emerging political process in which policies are not merely contested by member states but there is a more complex process of consensus-­building (Puetter, 2015). This ‘institutionalization of deliberation and

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consensus-seeking’ is identified by Puetter (2012, 2014) as ‘deliberative intergovernmentalism’. In the context of security policy, Smith (2015) argues that the traditional view of intergovernmentalism is not relevant anymore as the expansion of collective tasks—missions and operations—force the EU to devise a new set of institutional rules and bodies to deal with the new reality. Closely related is the idea that member states tend to opt for the delegation of authority to specialised de nuovo intergovernmental agencies rather than the Commission (Puetter, 2015; Bickerton  et  al., 2015; Peterson, 2015), such as the European Defence Agency that coordinates joint military projects. However, intergovernmentalism can be overstated. The increased frequency of European Council meetings indicates a crisis rather than a shift of power to national governments. As we found out during the sovereign debt crisis and Brexit, open-ended European Councils are treacherous affairs that no government desires. There is little evidence to suggest that the European Commission views the authority of the European Council as a competitive force. The President of the Commission participates in the European Council, arbitrating between member states, having an ex officio privileged overview of political and national positions. The school of new intergovernmentalism argues that the Commission is not necessarily “hard-wired” for the pursuit of an ever-closer Union (Peterson, 2015), focusing instead on policy outcomes. The powers of the Commission’s presidency grew significantly under Barroso and Juncker (Kassim et al., 2017; Becker et al., 2016). This “presidentialisation” of the Commission allowed the EU executive to choose its battles, focusing strategically and programmatically on concrete policy areas where the ‘general interest of the Union’ is uncontested (Crespy & Menz, 2015). Notably, the European Commission is shifting attention away from merging national capabilities to developing common capacity where national competition is not entrenched. Starting with baby steps, the Commission initially championed the allocation of 90 million Euros for Preparatory Action on Defence Research (PADR: 2017–19), and 500 m Euros to lay the foundations for a European Defence Industrial Development Program (EDIDP: 2019–2020). These steps paved the way for the European Defence Fund, with a multi-billion-euro budget; this game-changing development (Haroche, 2020) creates a more viable supranational dynamic as reflected in the establishment of the new Directorate-General for Defence Industry and Space (DG DEFIS).

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The Legislative Path to Defence Europeanisation It is often suggested that this dominant intergovernmental dimension of defence policy renders it more transparent and open to public pressure (Fiott, 2019). However, the “communitarian” remit of the European Parliament (EP) in defence and security policy affects policy development both indirectly, through budgetary policy (Csernatori & Latici, 2020; Riddervold & Rosen, 2016; Meissner & Schoeller, 2019) and directly, through the co-decision mechanism instituted by the Lisbon Treaty. Historically, the EP’s budgetary leverage has limited practical significance on common security and defence as  community action largely depends on member states’ resources and assets. Certain political groups in the EP unsuccessfully made the case for the full incorporation of the CSDP budget within the EU budget,1 emulating the German institutional model that renders the military accountable to Parliament rather than the executive (Horsak, 2011). This approach has failed to reach political consensus. However, budgetary leverage is increasingly significant as the EU invests more in common defence expenditure. For the first time in the latest Multiannual Financial Framework (2021–27), there is a 14.9 bn euros game-changing investment allocated to Security and Defence (European Commission, MFF, 2021–27) that could tilt the interinstitutional balance. This budgetary commitment would have been greater still if Europe was not facing an unprecedented economic challenge induced by the Covid-19 pandemic. As Rosen and Raube note (2018), the EP does use its power over the budget to influence the EU executive and this level of commitment sets a new institutional milestone. The EP is also significant as a policy platform. Since 2004, the Subcommittee on Security and Defence of the Foreign Affairs Committee (SEDE) has been the forum to elaborate on CSDP policy while the Union’s High Representative must consult biannually with the EP in plenary. While these processes do not drive policy development, they do provide a space where national and sectoral policy “red lines” are publicised, scrutinised and held to account (Gourlay, 2004;  Bajtay, 2015). Public scrutiny has two significant functions. On the one hand it affirms, contests or maximises the institutional mandate of the Commission and the Council over foreign and security policy (Pollak & Slominski, 2015). On the other, 1

 From interviews in the EP, during the period 2009–2014.

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parliamentary scrutiny is an integral element of public communication of policy (Rosen & Raube, 2018), rendering the European Commission and the Council responsive to political pressure (Wisniewski, 2013; Meissner Schoeller, 2019) while also enhancing their legitimacy. This process also allowed the emergence of transinstitutional and transnational networks that cemented the European policy development process. A notable example is the so-called Kangaroo Group, a network that emerged unofficially in 1979 with the participation of MEPs, academics, and business groups, and is now a registered non-profit group advocating for common defence projects and the consolidation of European defence industry. In that respect, the EP’s informal authority is as important as its formal co-decision power over the EU budget (Rosen, 2015; Rittberger, 2005; Heritier et al., 2019). By delaying a decision, issue-linking, building alliances and mobilising public opinion, MEPs can bend formal rules to substantially influence policy (Héritier, 2007; Meissner & Schoeller, 2019). As Heritier et al. (2019) point out, this power is not always used to supranationalise a policy; MEPs can and often do make the case that specific policies should be the competence of national authorities (Heritier et al., 2019). In sum, the EP plays an important consensus-building role, balancing national governments and EU institutional interests, civil society and industrial interest (Csernatori & Latici, 2020). This became obvious in the creation of the European External Action Service (EEAS) (Wisniewski, 2013), an institution that was created by the Council and the Commission but integrated into the EU policy bubble through the European Parliament, as MEPs insisted on budgetary accountability. As noted by MEP Roberto Gualtieri, the Parliament turned a consultation process envisaged by the Treaty of Lisbon to a co-decision process.2 Indeed, the role and power of the EP after Lisbon Treaty are evolving beyond the frame of what is known as “new intergovernmentalism”. The so-called toothless consultation chamber has evolved into a powerful legislative institution (Hix & Hoyland, 2013), not least because the EP is the forum where political stakeholders articulate their interests in communitarian rather than national terms, rendering the political battle lines among pan-European interest groups transparent, delimiting the political fault lines that divide governments (Riddervold and Rosen, 2016).

2

 Agence Europe 101065, 23-6-2013.

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The Institutional State of Play EU institutions are not engaged in a zero-sum game on foreign and security policy, where the balance tilts either towards Europeanisation or nationalisation. The role of the Council, the Commission, and the Parliament is evolving, and formal rules are continuously renegotiated. There is a consensus over the need for a new language of collective security that allows Europe to articulate interests in a foreign policy environment in which the Euro-Atlantic framing of collective security is less comprehensive. At the same time, powers like Russia, China and Turkey aspire to an enhanced role in the Continent. To the question “who is steering integration” (Schmidt, 2016), the answer is contextually nuanced: there are no clearly defined political camps divided along the lines of intergovernmental or supranational political aspirations (Sjursen, 2011). More often than not, political stakeholders have policy-specific objectives rather than grand visions for the European project as such. The Treaty of Lisbon provides a different range of competencies to the European Council, the European Commission and the European Parliament. These competencies do not in themselves tilt the balance towards national or communitarian approaches. However, following Brexit and the declining engagement of Washington in European affairs, the pressure to develop policies that allow member states and the EU to project global power is mounting. The promise of a “Geopolitical Commission” by President Ursula von der Leyen is indicative of how pressing this challenge has been.

Critical Junctures: Crises Awaiting Resolution The institutional evolution of Europe from a strictly Euro-Atlantic framework of collective defence to a more autonomous security identity is paved with critical junctures. Such incidents forcibly open the debate for security reform, catalysing institutional adaptation to emerging challenges (Collier & Collier, 1991; Capoccia & Keleman, 2007). In the post-Cold War period, EU member states articulated a national security response to emerging challenges premised on an overarching American security umbrella. This umbrella allowed EU member states to depend on American Deus ex Machina strategic capability and ensured the presence of a powerbroker that would contain hegemonic aspirations on the Continent. In that historical context, NATO Summits were the proper

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institutional venue to arbitrate national security concepts and negotiate Europe’s geopolitical position. Pooling national resources together—fostering “interoperability”—was first and foremost a discussion that gravitated around tactical military cooperation. On a strategic level, Europe was primarily a security consumer. The first mandate for a Common Foreign and Security Policy (CFSP) is defined in the Maastricht Treaty of the European Union (TEU, 1992). In broad stroke terms, the objective of CFSP was to consolidate the gains of European Integration and widen the European normative matrix across the Continent. In normative terms, the Union set out to create a pan-­ European regime, entrenching human rights and regulatory benchmarks to bolster the Single Market as a community of norms and values. In sum, economic liberalisation and political democratisation were seen as co-­ extensive to European Integration as a peacebuilding project. The Yugoslav wars threatened the proliferation of failed states, pointing towards developing a European security concept that had distinct added value. Conflicts on the doorstep of the Single Market meant that the Union needed peacebuilding and peacekeeping capability that was beyond the scope of Euro-Atlantic cooperation. Put another way, American administrations were unwilling to commit this kind of capability to Europe indefinitely. In the short run, the concern was that changing borders was a process that could create dangerous precedents. When states disintegrate, the ensuing power vacuum creates a plethora of security spillovers ranging from trafficking in small arms, drugs and humans to terrorism. Europe was waking up to a period of profound transformation requiring agile forces, burden sharing and far-sighted state-building strategies that the Euro-Atlantic partnership was not designed to address. The need for this European dimension of security was cemented by the Treaty of Amsterdam (1997), as EU members prepared for more extensive and more diverse membership, moving away from the principle of consensus to the principles of constructive abstention and qualified majority voting (QMV). The quest to act as a single security actor posed the challenge of developing a European security mandate. In 1999 the Council created a security “arbiter in chief” between foreign and security policy stakeholders, called the CFSP “High Representative”. This officer would consult with the member states to broker a common position. Building on this aspiration, the 2001 Treaty of Nice provided CFSP with a Political and Security

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Committee (PSC), whose job was to go beyond a policy synthesis and provide a sense of strategic direction and political accountability. These institutional arrangements carried the Union beyond the 2004 “big bang” enlargement and the incorporation of Romania and Bulgaria (2007). This parallel enlargement of NATO and the EU meant that the United States retained the role of a systemic guarantor that “common defence” would not degenerate into a single hegemonic project. However, the Iraq War was a litmus test for this Euro-Atlantic consensus, shaking Europe’s confidence in the overall strategic blueprint of the Alliance. By dividing the Alliance between “willing” and “unwilling” partners, the sense of a Western community gave way to a more transactional relationship whereby the American security umbrella incurred a cost. The Treaty of Lisbon (2007) turned Europe’s foreign policy chief into a double-hatted High representative/Vice-President of the Commission while creating an institution equivalent to the Foreign Office known as the European External Action Service (EEAS). This need for political flexibility was preparing the Union for a tumultuous period of intense polarisation, with member state governments experiencing domestic pushbacks on policies of disruptive integration across the board: monetary governance, enlargement, labour market consolidation, freedom of movement and Europe’s strategic orientation. This has been a period of profound crisis and institutional fluidity. The functionalist premise of fully perspective integration suffers across the board. On an economic level, Europe was staring at the abyss of a full-­ blown sovereign debt crisis. On a strategic level, Central and Eastern Europe viewed with apprehension the proliferation of Russian-backed non-state regimes in Eastern Partnership countries—Abkhazia, South Ossetia, Transnistria and eventually Crimea—while major security players consistently failed to cement a strategic consensus over major security challenges, beginning with the 2011 Libyan crisis. The emergence of “coalitions of the willing” within Europe meant that Washington was no longer a political power broker of a single security narrative in Europe. The Syrian conflict and the migration crisis that followed created a heightened sense of fusion between Home Affairs and National Security challenges. The European Union securitised migration discourse while Turkey weaponised its position as a migratory hub for Iraqis, Syrians and Afghans. At the same time, ISIS forces were able to lever social media and asymmetrical tactics to feed Europe’s political polarisation. States began suspending freedom of movement while the depiction of refugees as

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hordes ready to invade Europe fuelled UKIPs Leave campaign in Britain and the far-right across Europe. Europe was faced with a common challenge that did not point towards functional integration but threatened structural implosion. The election of President Donald Trump meant the Union could no longer take the American security umbrella for granted, let alone count on American strategic leadership in Europe. In that respect, Mogherini’s 2016 EU Global Strategy plan was a red line in the sand, mandating the Union to develop the capacity to protect its territory and its citizens, as well as respond to regional security crises (EP, Factsheet, 2021). That cry for foreign and security policy integration suffered successive blows: American trade sanctions, the US unilateral withdrawal from the Joint and Comprehensive Plan of Action with Iran—threatening EU member states with secondary sanctions—the threat of withdrawing US forces from Germany and the unilateral withdrawal from Syria point towards an American retreat from Europe. In this context, the credibility of Article V guarantees was called into question: in 2019 President Macron pronounced NATO ‘brain dead’, calling on Europe to ‘wake up’ and learn to think for itself strategically (Economist, 7.11.2019).

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Puetter, U. (2012). Europe’s Deliberative Intergovernmentalism: The Role of the Council and European Council in EU Economic Governance. Journal of European Public Policy, 19(2), 161–178. https://doi.org/10.1080/1350176 3.2011.609743 Puetter, U. (2014). The European Council and the Council. New Intergovernmentalism and Institutional Change. Oxford University Press. Puetter, U. (2015, August). The European Council. In C.  J. Bickerton, D. Hodson, & U. Puetter (Eds.), The New Intergovernmentalism: States and Supranational Actors in the Post-Maastricht Era. Oxford Scholarship Online. https://doi.org/10.1093/acprof:oso/9780198703617.001.0001. Riddervold, M. (2015). The Commission Exerts Far More Influence over EU Foreign and Security Policy Than Is Commonly Recognized. LSE Blog. https:// blogs.lse.ac.uk/europpblog/2015/09/10/the-­commission-­exerts-­far-­more-­ influence-­over-­eu-­foreign-­and-­security-­policy-­than-­is-­commonly-­recognised Riddervold, M. (2016). (Not) in the Hands of the Member States: How the European Commission Influences EU Security and Defence Policies. Journal of Common Market Studies, 54(2), 353–369. Riddervold, M., & Rosen, G. (2016). Trick and Treat: How the Commission and the European Parliament Exert Influence in EU Foreign and Security Policies. Journal of European Integration, 38(6), 687–702. Rittberger, B. (2005). Building Europe’s Parliament. Democratic Representation Beyond the Nation State. Oxford University Press. https://doi. org/10.1093/0199273421.001.0001 Rosen, G. (2015). EU Confidential: The European Parliament’s Involvement in EU Security and Defence Policy. Journal of Common Market Studies, 53(2), 383–398. Rosen, G., & Raube, K. (2018). Influence Beyond Formal Power: The Parliamentarisation of European Union Security Policy. The British Journal of Politics and International Relations, 20(1), 69–832. Schmidt, V. (2016, May). The New EU Governance: New Intergovernmentalism, New Supranationalism, and New Parliamentarism. Governing Europe, Research Paper. Centro Studio sul Federalismo. Sjursen, H. (2011). Not So Intergovernmental After All? On Democracy and Integration in European Foreign and Security Policy. Journal of European Public Policy, 18(8), 1078–1095. https://doi.org/10.1080/1350176 3.2011.615194 Smith, M. E. (2015, August). The New Intergovernmentalism and Experiential Learning in the Common Security and Defence Policy. In C.  J. Bickerton, D. Hodson, & U. Puetter (Eds.), The New Intergovernmentalism: States and Supranational Actors in the Post-Maastricht Era. Oxford Scholarship Online: https://doi.org/10.1093/acprof:oso/9780198703617.001.0001.

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The Economist. (2019, November 7). Emmanuel Macron Warns Europe: NATO Is Becoming Brain-Dead. https://www.economist.com/europe/2019/11/07/ emmanuel-­macron-­warns-­europe-­nato-­is-­becoming-­brain-­dead. Accessed 21 Nov 2019. Treaty of Lisbon Amending the Treaty on European Union and the Treaty Establishing the European Community, Signed at Lisbon. (2007, December 13). https://eur-­lex.europa.eu/legal-­content/EN/ TXT/?uri=OJ:C:2007:306:TOC. Accessed 10 Sept 2010. Treaty on European Union. (1992). Maastricht. https://europa.eu/european-­ union/sites/default/files/docs/body/treaty_on_european_union_en.pdf. Accessed 10 May 2021. Treaty on the European Union, Treaty of Amsterdam. (1997). https://europa. eu/european-­union/sites/default/files/docs/body/treaty_of_amsterdam_ en.pdf. Accessed 10 May 2021. Treaty on the European Union, Treaty of Nice. (2001). https://eur-­lex.europa.eu/ legal-­content/EN/TXT/?uri=CELEX%3A12001C%2FTXT. Accessed 10 May 2021. Wisniewski, E. (2013). The Influence of the European Parliament on the European External Action Service. European Foreign Affairs Review, 18(1), 81–101. Zandee, D. (2016, December). New Kid on the Block. The European Commission and European Defence. Policy Brief, Cligendael.

PART II

Critical Junctures and the Evolution of CSDP

CHAPTER 6

Critical Juncture: The Shock of the Yugoslav Wars

The Yugoslav crisis unfolded with a Democratic President of the United States at the helm, Bill Clinton. His administration faced the challenge of legitimising sustained US presence in Europe in the absence of a Soviet threat, consolidating liberal democracy in Eastern Europe, while also containing voices in Europe that talked of the need for foreign and security policy autonomy. Secretary of State Madeleine Albright boasted at the time that the United States was ‘the indispensable nation’1 for the consolidation of liberal democracy. Furthermore, throughout the Yugoslav crisis, Albright made clear that access to American military assets came hand in hand with American security leadership (Hanhimaki et al., 2012: 145). Indeed, American military assets were indispensable for complex combined operations that required integrated communications, precision strikes and global logistical capabilities. Such assets were only available through NATO.

1  “…if we have to use force, it is because we are America; we are the indispensable nation. We stand tall and we see further than other countries into the future, and we see the danger here to all of us”. Secretary of State Madeleine Albright (1998).

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 M. Koppa, The Evolution of the Common Security and Defence Policy, St Antony’s Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-99158-6_6

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The Yugoslav Crisis and Europe’s Collective Security Vacuum As the winner of the Cold War, the United States enjoyed in the 1990s an absolute “unilateral moment”. At the time, Washington affirmed its commitment to the UN framework as a forum for global governance, seeing in NATO a more motivated policy instrument that could spearhead the consolidation of a liberal Washington consensus in Europe. NATO’s preponderance was unquestioned, to the point that certain member states saw the Euro-Atlantic collective security umbrella as a substitute for national military capability, allowing member states to spend less on defence. This attitude did not sit well in Washington, with a Republicancontrolled Congress and a Budget Appropriations Committee that still sought the elusive post-Cold War “peace dividend” for the American taxpayer. Hence, the White House and State Department were increasingly more vocal in demanding defence burden sharing with Europe. Burden sharing under American leadership was not necessarily controversial. When Iraq invaded Kuwait in 1990, the international community responded in a manner US president George H.W. Bush would herald as an example of the New World Order. Freed of Cold War balance of power constraints and able to use the United Nations to legitimise armed intervention, US diplomacy mobilised and directed an impressive 35-state military coalition, including Belgium, Denmark, France, Greece, Italy, Netherlands, Spain, Sweden and the UK. Saddam Hussein’s enormous Soviet-equipped army was destroyed with only minor Coalition losses. Kuwait’s independence was restored. However, for many Europeans, this demonstration of overwhelming military, diplomatic and political superiority was problematic in a European context. With the absence of a Soviet threat, this degree of political influence in Europe was hard to justify. In sum, developing collective security was not merely about burden sharing, but also about political symmetry between the two pillars of the Euro-Atlantic community. However, such symmetry or a degree of European defence autonomy could not do without the political reframing of a European collective defence framework. The UK historically preferred a Euro-Atlantic framework than any attempt to federalise collective security; France aspired to community initiatives it could lead; and Germany saw the Euro-Atlantic framework as a guarantor of its own position at the heart of the project of European Integration.

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In sum, it was hard to build a purely European defence framework in the absence of a common vision for the future of Europe. In 1991, the European Union was negotiating the deeply controversial Treaty on European Union, which dealt simultaneously with the consolidation of the Single Market and the idea of Europe as a community with foreign policy and security interests. The European Union was seeking to assert its ability to articulate and defend European interests. As the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia began to unravel, some political stakeholders saw a historical opportunity for a new European mandate in foreign and security policy to be forged through an instrumentally significant crisis. The Chair of the EC Foreign Affairs Council, and Foreign Minister of Luxembourg, Jacques Poos declared in May 1991: ‘The hour of Europe has dawned’ (The Washington Post, 26.3.1995). A month later, on the 28th of June 1991 he stated: ‘This is the hour of Europe, not the hour of the Americans’. As the Yugoslav Federation was disintegrating, the only point of consensus was that it should not be allowed to vanish. However, it soon became clear that the status quo could not be maintained. On the 25th of June 1991, Croatia and Slovenia proclaimed their independence from the Yugoslav Federation. The secession of outlying, relatively homogenous Slovenia prompted minor armed incidents. However, the secession of an independent Croatia, with 600,000 ethnic Serbs living inside its borders, could not be accomplished without bloodshed. During the summer of 1991 the Yugoslav National Army (JNA), controlled by Serbia, attacked Slavonia and Dalmatia in Croatia. The UN Security Council imposed an arms embargo (UNSCR 713), which had little effect since the Serbs were already well equipped with arms and ammunition inherited from the Yugoslav People’s Army (JNA). In September 1991, the EC convened a Conference on Yugoslavia in a failed attempt at a diplomatic solution. In October, Serbia put under siege the medieval city of Dubrovnik. As hostilities continued into November 1991, the EC suspended aid, closed the door to a range of Yugoslav exports and urged the UN to intervene in the region. EU member states were deeply divided in their responses to Yugoslavia’s rapid descent into chaos (Cohen, 1995): Germany and Austria supported immediate recognition of the two countries, evoking a common shared past in the Hapsburg Empire. The zeitgeist of German reunification in 1990 favourably predisposed public opinion towards Croatian and Slovene self-determination. The UK and France were opposed and made the case for a remodelled Yugoslav Federation (Radeljic, 2010). Italy took an

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intermediate position (Belloni & Morozzo della Rocca, 2008). Fearing the deterioration of security in Southeastern Europe, Greece wanted to maintain the territorial status quo, particularly since the breakup of federal Yugoslavia reopened an issue that had been dormant for decades, namely the existence of a non-Greek state using the ancient name of Macedonia. In this context, no European diplomatic initiative could stop the violence, as the European Council members could not agree on what political solution ought to be imposed. The Dutch Presidency, supported by France and Germany, proposed to send a Western European Union (WEU) intervention force to Yugoslavia. The UK together with Denmark and Portugal vetoed the idea which, from the outset, seemed unworkable. While the EU deliberated on how to address emerging security challenges, member states were vulnerable to German assertiveness (Woodward, 1995). Ethnic cleansing continued in Serbia and Croatia as warring parties were trying to create a fait accompli, seeking to enter future negotiations with de facto control over as much territory as possible. Germany made clear that in the absence of common EC decision, Berlin would unilaterally recognise the independence of the Yugoslav republics. EU foreign ministers succumbed to German pressure and, in December 1991, agreed to recognise the independence of Slovenia and Croatia, effective from January 15, 1992. It became obvious that without a common foreign policy, there was clear danger that German assertiveness could resurge, creating chaos and undermining the global status of the EU. France and the UK had serious concerns over the early recognition of Croatia and Slovenia and the decision caused quite a stir in Brussels. As Slovenia and Croatia were presented as German protégés, a common stance became impossible. Europe was unable to act in its own name, and future peace efforts would be led by the UN, under former US Secretary of State Cyrus Vance as the Secretary General’s Personal Envoy. A 15,000-strong UN peacekeeping force, UNPROFOR, was created in February 1992 to be deployed in Croatia. Under UN auspices, EU countries were relatively generous. The two largest troop contributors to UNPROFOR were France and the UK, with EU member states providing 39% of the 39,500 peacekeepers, police and observers eventually deployed to Yugoslavia under UN auspices. Once again, it became clear that European unity was elusive without American leadership. Worse yet, European political initiatives that were not backed by convincing military assets probably encouraged those seeking a military resolution.

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The focus of attention was protecting Bosnia-Herzegovina, with its mixed population of four million: Bosnian Muslims (44%), Serbs (31%) and Croats (17%). The EC’s Yugoslav Peace Conference chair, Lord Carrington, and Portuguese representative José Cutileiro presented a plan that accepted the independence of the republics as a fait accompli but made their de jure recognition conditional to minority rights’ guarantees and the recognition of a special status for ethnic enclaves. The leaders of Bosnia, Croatia and Serbia tentatively agreed to a plan that would reconfigure Bosnia as a patchwork of cantons. However, Serbia’s true intentions soon emerged. Bosnia’s declaration of independence in March 1992 was countered by a Bosnian Serb declaration of their own separate state. In April 1992, Serbia and Montenegro proclaimed the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia with a declared objective to incorporate all Serb-populated enclaves in the federation. Soon the Bosnian capital Sarajevo was besieged by Bosnian Serbs armed by the Yugoslav People’s Army (JNA). The response of the international community was underwhelming. UN economic sanctions on Serbia failed to affect the well-equipped Serbian Army, while the violation of sanctions by NATO member states polarised Europe. The failure was crushing for Europe’s self-perception as an international actor. This was not just the first armed conflict in Europe after the end of the Second World War, but also a relatively unprecedented global news event, attracting 24-hour satellite news coverage. Events entered living rooms like never before: the destruction of Mostar’s medieval bridge in November 1993, the mortar attack on the Markale market in February 1994, and the three-year-long siege of Bihac dominated airwaves across Europe and the United States. The most significant event by far was the siege of Sebrenica, lasting until the beginning of 1996. The UN response was to declare six “safe areas” to be defended by UNPROFOR, focusing mainly on locations with a substantial Muslim civilian population inside the territories controlled by the forces of the Republika Srpska. Three were on the eastern part: Srebrenica, Zepa and Gorazde. These “safe areas” were militarily untenable. In July 1995, lightly armed Dutch UNPROFOR troops felt helpless to prevent the slaughter of 8000 Bosniak men and boys in Srebrenica. This would be the biggest war crime on European soil after the Holocaust, recognised by the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia in 2004 and the International Court of Justice in 2006 as a genocide. This was also a major failure for Dutch peacekeepers

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casting a long political shadow over the Netherlands for years to come (Zimmermann, 1996). Following the tragic failure of UNPROFOR to enforce peace, the UN formally invited NATO to intervene. Two days after the second massacre in Sarajevo’s Markale Market on August 20, 1995, NATO’s Deliberate Force saw the bombing of selected Serbian positions in coordination with Croatian and Bosniak ground forces. The campaign did reverse some of the territorial gains of the Serbian leaders in Bosnia. Hostilities came to an end in December 1995 with the Dayton Peace Agreements (Holbrooke, 1998; Daalder, 1997, 1999) that still constitute the base of the functioning of the Federal Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Throughout this European crisis, Europe was largely irrelevant.

Yugoslav Wars and the Western European Union While Yugoslav civil strife was unfolding, Europe needed to choose whether to upgrade the WEU with a new raison d’ être or opt for a truly independent security and defence arm for Europe that could make a difference on the ground. At the Maastricht European Council meeting of December 9–10, 1991, Europe chose reform rather than remake. Member states affirmed that the ‘… WEU will be developed as the defence component of the European Union and as a means to strengthen the European pillar of the Atlantic Alliance’ (Bailes, 1998). The Maastricht WEU Declaration became an official annex to the Treaty on European Union signed in February 1992. Article J4.2 confirmed that the WEU was entrusted with providing the military resources to implement EU policy decisions that had defence implications (Bailes, 2005). Now this advance needed to be operationalised. On June 19, 1992, the WEU Council of Ministers met at the Petersberg Hotel outside Berlin to sign the Petersberg Declaration, spelling out the range of WEU’s remit, namely crisis management, peacebuilding and humanitarian assistance. The main concern was for the WEU not to antagonise NATO, taking on the unenviable tasks that American jetfighters were unable to deal with. In this sense, the Maastricht Treaty was a compromise. The British were willing to get onboard due to a complex formula that envisioned the creation of a European Security Defence Identity (ESDI) within the Alliance (Howorth, 2014, 2017) rather than an autonomous institutional entity. For their part, European federalists were assured by the Maastricht

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Treaty, which stipulated that the EU ‘aspires to a common defence policy which might lead to a common defence’ (J4.1), implying an institutional autonomy that could lead to a collective defence identity that could go beyond NATO. However, the absence of clarity of the WEU’s mandate was anything but constructive, as conflicting expectations were a litmus test that undermined the WEU’s raison d’être. The division of labour between the EU, the UN and NATO was unclear. Amidst the unfolding Bosnian crisis, there was no question of the EU taking the lead, having tried and failed to create a European Defence Community.2 The only defence and security vehicle in place was the Western European Union (WEU), an organisation of mutual defence guarantees with no precedents of military missions or access to military assets. In sum, the WEU could not fill the European security vacuum (Bailes & Messervy-Whiting, 2011).3 The sole contribution of the EU in peacekeeping was limited to the civil administration of Mostar, following a joint Croatian-Bosnian invitation. EUAM governed Mostar from 1994 to 1996.4 The results were mixed and underwhelming. According to the European Court of Auditors, the decision-making and management structure in place was ‘too diffuse to be effective’ and ‘the Court considers that it is essential for an effective permanent structure to be established for managing joint actions under the common foreign and security policy’ (European Court of Auditors, 1996). The question was whether Europe could reflect on its own 2  European Defence Community: the Pleven Plan of 1950 aimed to soften the political impact of the admission of West Germany to the Western Alliance. It envisioned a European Defence Community (EDC) with a European Army that would include, envelop and thereby constrain Germany’s military might. The French government failed to ratify the EDC Treaty in the French Parliament. As a substitute, the Modified Brussels Treaty (MBT) of 1954, which created the WEU as the symbol of a European military identity, brought Germany and Italy into the framework of European mutual defence guarantees. 3  The WEU was a bridge between the EU and NATO but was not an actual “European pillar” of collective defense. During the Cold War the WEU had no capabilities of its own and was largely inactive, contributing mainly to the smooth integration of the Federal Republic of Germany in NATO, not least by addressing French fears of German rearmament. Its institutional relevance in the 1990s was that all member countries of the WEU were also members of both NATO and the European Union. 4  EU  Advisory  Mission gave the WEU the opportunity to activate its peacekeeping and peacebuilding remit, mobilising a police contingent in Mostar. In time, the WEU also mobilised an advisory police element in Albania (Multiannual Advisory Police Element-MAPE, 1997–2001) and provided mining clearance assistance to Croatia 1992–2001 (cvce.eu, 2021).

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impotence and develop an institutional apparatus of relevance to European collective security. The Treaty of Amsterdam (1997) led to the consolidation of a European security pillar within the Alliance through the merger of the WEU into ESDI and ultimately CSDP: ‘The Western European Union (WEU) is an integral part of the development of the Union providing the Union with access to an operational capability…’ (TEU art.17). The problem is that this capability was not entirely operational. The Treaty of Amsterdam opened up the discussion on ‘common strategies’, creating a mandate for the European Council to ‘define the principles of and general guidelines for the common foreign and security policy’ (TEU, 13.2). These strategies would be adopted by unanimous vote of the European Council. Once adopted, they would be implemented through common actions validated by qualified majority vote (QMV). This two-level approach, it was hoped, would allow for the articulation of common foreign and security policy. However, there was no model or normative framework for such strategies. In effect, each member state retained a national veto  (Art.  23.2)  and European defence and security policy was as polyphonic as ever.

Kosovo and the Anglo-French Understanding This polyphony became evident during the Kosovo crisis. The breakdown of the Rambouillet negotiations in March 1999, and the new phase in the development of the Kosovo crisis made clear that a place on the negotiating table could only be secured in the battlefield. Dayton failed to address the issue of the Albanian majority in Kosovo; consequently, Kosovars abandoned the peaceful resistance strategy pursued by their leader, Ibrahim Rugova, for a more assertive policy that would force the Serbian forces to negotiate. In March 1998 fighting broke in Kosovo; by mid-­ October the North Atlantic Council reached a fragile consensus on the necessity of airstrikes that would compel Serbia to end its military operations in Kosovo. At this point, the question of whether Europe was able to step up to the plate was significant to Washington. Operating through a UN mandate required Russian consensus. In the second half of the 1990s Washington was facing renewed Russian opposition within the UN Security Council; therefore, securing a mandate for Operation Allied Force seemed unlikely. At the same time, EU member states were not able to forge a consensus

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on foreign and security policy either.5 The WEU was a bystander as NATO’s European Security and Defence Identity expeditions were limited to small-scale non-Article V missions. To the extent Kosovo was a test case for the emerging ESDP, the experience was a failure (Howorth, 2014). Recognising the political deadlock both in the UN and the EU, British Prime Minister Tony Blair met the French President Jacques Chirac at St. Malo, France. The two men shared pro-Atlantic leanings, were newly elected and were keen to leave their mark during their first term. The assumption was that when it comes to defence, where Paris led, Berlin would inevitably follow. The objective was to forge an understanding that would address the perennial European failure to articulate common security objectives, let alone deploy military assets (Bailes & Messervy-­ Whiting, 2011). The ensuing St. Malo Anglo-French Declaration was carefully worded but its import was unmistakable: the UK was lifting its veto in the articulation of a common European Security and Defence policy. ‘The European Union needs to be in a position to play its full role on the international stage’, it was noted. In line with the Treaty of Amsterdam, this was a British greenlight on activating Title V of the Treaty on European Union: ‘The Union must have the capacity for autonomous action, backed up by credible military forces, the means to decide to use them, and a readiness to do so, in order to respond to international crises’ (Joint Declaration on European Defence, 1998). For France, ending the British veto was vital to delineating European strategic autonomy (Menon, 1994, 1996; Grant, 1996), which required British consent. Having come to power in 1995, the Atlanticist Chirac clearly understood that the slogan “Europe-puissance” could not stand the test of reality: geopolitical changes and globalisation meant sustained cooperation with the United States was a strategic imperative (Whitman, 1999; Shearer, 2000). Having withdrawn from NATO’s military command structures in 1966, France risked being isolated in an era of swift geopolitical transformation. Having supported an exclusively European Security and Defence Policy since 1996 (Andreani, 1998, 2000; Bailes, 5  The first European “common strategy” as defined by the Treaty of Amsterdam was adopted on Russia, drafted during the German EU presidency, with a notional four-year term. Two subsequent strategic documents on Ukraine and on the Mediterranean would follow in December. None of these led to agreement on any specific common action; though full of laudable aspirations, they were too vague to constitute a usable strategy (Biscop & Andersson, 2008; Missiroli, 2001).

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1996), France was now ready to consider interinstitutional consultation between the EU and NATO (Gegout, 2002; Shearer, 2000). The St. Malo Declaration affirmed that ‘the EU will also need to have recourse to suitable military means’. For the first time the UK saw positively the prospect of developing European Military capability outside of NATO. The change of the British position was not a complete surprise: Tony Blair had come to power in 1997 with a clear commitment to make Britain more European. However, the St. Malo Declaration was not a legally binding document. As a political declaration it simply announced that the UK would no longer block the development of autonomous EU capabilities outside of NATO, which was clearly a ground-breaking development (Howorth, 2014), carving out a space for a substantial debate on an EU defence identity that could be conceived as something more than a European Security Defence Identity (ESDI) within NATO (Smith, 2017). In opening the capability agenda, the Anglo-French understanding paved the way for the Helsinki European Council of 1999 (Clarke, 1998; Cornish, 1997). The December 1999 Helsinki Headline Goal of creating an EU rapid reaction force can be seen as a direct result of the failure to deploy in Yugoslavia. The Helsinki Council called for a 50–60,000 Rapid Reaction Force by 2003, able to deploy within 60  days for a campaign extending for at least a year, capable of undertaking missions covering the whole range of Petersberg Tasks. Not everyone was on board with this vision. Sweden and Finland were troubled by what they perceived as the militarisation of the EU. Due to their pressure at the Helsinki European Council, a non-military crisis management mechanism was created in December 1999. At the Feira European council in June 2000, the decision was taken to institutionalise a framework for mobilising civilian assets, and the EU Civilian Crisis Mechanism came into being. The new instrument focused on civil protection, the promotion of the rule of law, the strengthening of civilian administration and the development of police capacity (Smith, 2017). The discussion on European security autonomy was now entrenched. The former Spanish Foreign Minister who served successfully as NATO’s Secretary General since 1995, Javier Solana, was selected as the first High Representative of the Common Foreign and Security Policy. In this case, the individual mattered. Solana enabled the Kosovo intervention by rallying sufficient EU support and was ideally placed to dismiss fears of “duplication” in collective security between the EU and NATO. Solana had intimate knowledge of both EU and NATO institutional cultures. His

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presence from October 1999 to December 2009 would contribute significantly to legitimising the new EU institution on both sides of the Atlantic. At the end of 2000 the European Parliament approved a key report, focusing on the issue of democratic legitimacy (Brok & Gresch, 2004): the objective of the Lalumière report was to build consensus over the need to carry forward the Helsinki Headline Goal (HHG) for the creation of a Rapid Reaction Force (Lindstrom, 2002). The report served to thwart political resistance to the so-called militarisation of the EU6 articulated by former neutral states (Finland, Sweden), and affirm the predominantly intergovernmental nature of foreign and security policy.

Europe Forges a Credible Claim to a Collective Security Mandate The 1998 St. Malo compromise between France and Britain formalised the possibility of creating a European defence identity to the extent that this could remain enveloped within the Euro-Atlantic partnership. The Alliance was omnipresent in the setting of the Continent’s security agenda and the EU failed to define substantial security autonomy, which Washington continued to oppose. During the 1999 Washington Summit, Secretary Albright underscored the 3D American veto narrowing the scope for a European security mandate: non-duplication, non-­ discrimination (against non-EU NATO members) and non-decoupling (between EU and NATO’s security frameworks (Albright, 1998). Washington has since dismissed CSDP as ‘irrelevant’ or ‘unworkable’ (Howorth, 2014; Hamilton, 2002), despite vehemently protesting European states’ reluctance to invest in defence and security. The 3D arrangement was formalised in the conclusions of NATO’s Washington Summit and consolidated through the so-called Berlin Plus agreements (2003).7 6  Brok and Gresch mention that it was only the parallelism between the development of civilian instruments of conflict prevention and crisis management, and the goal of establishing a rapid military intervention force for Petersberg-type operations that permitted a consensus to be achieved (2004). 7  “Berlin Plus” is the name for a comprehensive package of agreements between NATO and EU, from 1999 to 2003, based on conclusions of the NATO Washington Summit in 1999. All parts are tied together through the so-called Framework Agreement, which consists essentially of an exchange of Letters between SG/HR and SG NATO, of March 17, 2003. Elements of this agreement remain classified but include cooperation on planning

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The principle that European collective action by EU member states required the consent of NATO states—where membership did not overlap—was already institutionalised within the WEU. Rather than addressing the range of political issues this arrangement presented, Europe pigeonholed the problem at hand by creating three additional types of engagement: i. Observers: EU member states not in NATO (Austria, Finland, Sweden and Ireland), plus Denmark that opted out of CSDP in its ratification of the Maastricht Treaty. ii. Associates: EU candidates for accession (Iceland, Norway and Turkey; later, Poland, Hungary and the Czech Republic until their EU accession). iii. Associated Partners that were aspirant members of EU and NATO (the four Baltic States, Bulgaria, Romania, Slovakia and Slovenia). From 1998 onwards WEU tasks were gradually transferred to the newly established European Security and Defence Policy (ESDP), later to become Common Security and Defence Policy. From the moment the WEU was assimilated into the EU apparatus by the Treaty of Amsterdam (1997), it was already on a path towards institutional irrelevance; by 2011 the organisation was defunct. The Nice Treaty (2001) laid the foundations for EU security crisis management by the Council (Cornish & Edwards, 2001). Thereafter, the Union’s Common Foreign and Security Policy was steered through a Political Security Committee (PSC), bringing together member state diplomats based in Brussels, thereby adding continuity and consistency in foreign policy development. In parallel, there was an EU Military Committee (EU MC) comprising of Chiefs of Staff serving as the Union’s supreme military body (Smith, 2017:30). EUMC focused on ‘early warning, situation assessment and strategic planning for Petersberg Tasks including identification of European National and multinational Forces’ (Nice European Council Conclusions, January 2001). The EUMC had the support of EU Military Staff (EUMS), consisting of military and civilian personnel from the Council and member states (Rutten, 2001). The Nice European Council (Presidency Conclusions, 2000)  set the stage for the Union’s first military institutions and brought some notion of a strategic culture (Bailes, 2005). This was the first time that the EU capabilities, intelligence sharing and access to military assets  (NATO-EU declaration on ESDP, 2002; The NATO-EU Strategic Partnership, 2004). https://www.nato.int/cps/en/ natolive/official_texts_19544.htm

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decided to develop military capabilities with multinational forces and to create a military component within the EU structure. Politically, this was a milestone for the Union. Nevertheless, given the lack of ambition and tangible returns for EU countries, only a few member states raised their defence budgets in the following years (Haine, 2003), and even fewer dedicated more resources for research and development. At the 2002 Copenhagen European Council, the two pillars of the Euro-Atlantic community issued the “NATO-EU Declaration on ESDP”, setting the stage for a “Framework Agreement” (March 2003), addressing strategic issues such as the exchange of classified information and the terms under which EU-led operations had access to NATO planning, capabilities, assets and infrastructure. This policy framework ensured that Washington would never need to veto the development of a distinct and autonomous European identity for three reasons. First, Washington could count on the British, the Danes, the Dutch and the new members that joined NATO and were soon to join the EU to shield the Euro-Atlantic partnership from any Continental aspiration of autonomy. Secondly, the tension between Turkey and Greece limited the scope of ESDP-NATO operations. Thirdly, the most prominent advocate for distinct European defence identity, France, was not a member of NATO’s military wing and could not advocate for a distinctly European security mandate within the Alliance. The French “anomaly” was resolved in 2009 when President Sarkozy reintegrated France into the Allied military command structure. Now, the main “elephant in the room” was Turkey, a formidable NATO member state without EU membership. The country did not want a strategic rival, Greece, to play a role in European security in a framework where Ankara had no lever. When Cyprus joined the European Union in 2004, this contradiction was more pronounced. In this context, Turkey would veto the use of NATO capabilities for  ESDP purposes if Cyprus participated. Cyprus, in turn, prevented Turkey from participating in EU missions and operations. The unresolved Greek-Turkish disagreement over the Aegean also complicated NATO exercises in the eastern Mediterranean (Keukeleire & Delreux, 2014). However, Europe could at last present a credible process to define a mandate for collective security missions. In January 2003, the EU launched the EU Police Mission (EUPM) in Sarajevo, taking over law enforcement responsibility from the UN. Although this two-year EUPM-BiH operation (2003–2005) was the most extended ESDP mission, it was not of a

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military nature and did not rely on NATO assets. Perhaps more significantly, in March 2003, the EU launched its first military peacekeeping mission, Concordia, in the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia (now North Macedonia). Its objective was to maintain a secure environment for implementing the 2001 Ochrid Agreement, ending a serious dispute with North Macedonia’s Albanian minority. The EU mission took over NATO’s peacekeeping operations, a mandate in line with the Berlin Plus framework. The operation extending from March to December 2003 featured 350 personnel from 27 countries that relied on NATO assets, which would make it an archetypical if not entirely unproblematic mission (Smith, 2017). Missions in the Democratic Republic of Congo ensued.8 In December 2004, EUFOR Operation Althea was launched in Bosnia-­ Herzegovina (European External Action Service, 2020) to oversee the military implementation of the Dayton Peace Agreement. The operation took over from NATO’s Stabilisation Force (SFOR) and Implementation Force (IFOR) operations, holding on to the Alliance’s assets in line with the Berlin Plus framework. In sum, the Yugoslav legacy did yield a workable European collective security framework.

References Albright, M. (1998). Interview on NBC-TC “The Today Show.” 19 Feb 1998. Andreani, G. (1998). La France et l’OTAN après la guerre froide. Politique étrangère, 1, 77–92. Andreani, G. (2000). Why Institutions Matter. Survival, 42(2), 81–95. Bailes, A. (1996). European Defence and Security. Security Dialogue, 27(1), 55–64. Bailes, A. (1998, September 24–25). The Relationship Between the EU, WEU and NATO. In The Future of the EU’s CFSP. ISIS Europe Conference Report. Bailes, A. J. K. (2005, February). The European Security Strategy. An evolutionary history. SIPRI Policy Paper no 10.

8  Operation Artemis (June 2003–September 2003) would be the first in a long line of EU civilian and military missions supporting UN peacekeeping mandates. This autonomous ESDP / CSDP military operation had the advantage of deployment outside of Europe, which meant there was no issue of competition to a NATO mandate. The key agents for taking the initiative were France and the UK, following a request by UN Secretary-General Koffi Anan for international assistance to stabilise the city of Bunia in eastern DRC. With a mandate by the UN Security Council, the operation involved no more than 2000 troops, testing the EU’s “frame nation concept”, developed by the WEU in 1997 and adopted in July 2002 under French leadership.

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Bailes A. J. K., & Messervy-Whiting, G. (2011, May). Death of an Institution. The End of the Western European Union, a Future for European Defence? (Egmont Paper 46). Egmont Royal Institute. Belloni, R., & Morozzo della Roca, R. (2008). Italy and the Balkans: The Rise of a Reluctant Middle Power. Modern Italy, 13(2), 169–185. Biscop, S., & Andersson, J. J. (Eds.). (2008). The EU and the European Security Strategy. Forging a Global Europe. Routledge. Brok, E., & Gresch, N. (2004). Contribution to N. Gnesotto (Ed.). EU Security and Defence Policy. The First Five Years. EU Institute for Security Studies. Clarke, M. (1998). British Security Policy. In K. A. Eliassen (Ed.), Foreign and Security Policy in the European Union. SAGE Publications. Cohen, L. J. (1995). Broken Bonds: Yugoslavia’s Disintegration and Balkan Politics in Transition. Westview Press. Cornish, P. (1997). Partnership in Crisis. The US, Europe and the Fall and Rise of NATO (p. 37). Pinter. Cornish, P., & Edwards, G. (2001). Beyond the EU/NATO Dichotomy: The Beginnings of a European Strategic Culture. International Affairs, 77(3), 587–603. Council of the European Union, Gothenburg European Council, Presidency Conclusions. (2001, 15–16 June). https://www.consilium.europa.eu/ media/20983/00200-­r1en1.pdf. Accessed 15 May 2021. Council of the European Union, Helsinki European Council. (1999, December 10–11). Presidency Conclusions. http://aei.pitt.edu/43338/1/ Helsinki_1999.pdf. Accessed 12 Jan 2021]. Council of the European Union, Nice European Council, Presidency Conclusions 7. (2000, December 8 and 9). https://www.consilium.europa.eu/uedocs/ cms_data/docs/pressdata/en/ec/00400-­r1.%20ann.en0.htm. Accessed 23 June 2021. Court of Auditors. (1996). Special Report, No 2/96 Concerning the Accounts of the Administrator and the European Union Administration, Mostar (EUAM) Accompanied by the Replies of the Commission and the Administrator of Mostar (96/C 287/01). Official Journal of the European Communities. https://ec.europa.eu/commission/presscorner/detail/en/ECA_96_2. Accessed 28 Sept 2021. CVCE.EU (2021). Les opérations de l’UEO dans les Balkans, 1992–2001. Université de Luxembourg. https://www.cvce.eu/obj/les_operations_de_l_ ueo_dans_les_balkans_1992_2001-fr-48c3f4cd-9139-4752o4f0-1b7d4823cdbe.html. Accessed 21 April 2021 Daalder, I. (1997). Bosnia after SFOR. Options for Continued US Engagement. Survival, 39(4), 5–18. Daalder, I. (1999). Getting Dayton. The Making of America’s Bosnian Policy. Brookings Institution.

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European External Action Service (2020 19 October). EU CSDP missions and operations. https://www.eeas.europa.eu/eeas/eu-csdp-missions-and-operations_en. Accessed 10 July 2021 Gegout, C. (2002). The French and British Change in Position in the CESDP: A Security Community and Historical Institutionalist Perspective. Politique Européenne, 4 (8): 62–87. https://www.cairn.info/revue-­politique-­ europeenne-­2002-­4-­page-­62.htm. Accessed 25 June 2021. Grant, R.  P. (1996). France’s New Relationship with NATO. Survival, 38(1), 58–80. Haine, J. Y. (2003). Force Structures. EU Institute for Security Studies. Hamilton, D. (2002). American Views on European Security and Defence Policy. In E.  Brimmer (Ed.), The EU’s Search for a Strategic Role: ESDP and Its Strategic Implications for Transatlantic Relations. Centre for Transatlantic Relations. Hanhimaki, J. M., Schoenborn, B., & Zanchetta, B. (2012). An Introduction. In Transatlantic Relations Since 1945. Routledge. Holbrooke, R. (1998). To End a War. Random House. Howorth, J. (2014). Security and Defence Policy in the European Union (2nd ed. (1st ed., 2007)). Palgrave Macmillan. Howorth, J. (2017). EU-NATO Cooperation: The Key to Europe’s Security Future. European Security, 26(3), 454–459. 10/1080/09662839. 2017.1352584. Accessed 3 May 2019 Joint Declaration on European Defence Issued at the Franco-British Summit at St Malo. (1998). https://www.cvce.eu/content/publication/2008/3/31/ f3cd16fb-­fc37-­4d52-­936f-­c8e9bc80f24f/publishable_en.pdf. Accessed 12 Apr 2021. Keukeleire, S., & Delreux, T. (2014). The Foreign Policy of the European Union (2nd ed.). Macmillan International Higher Education. Lindstrom, G. (2002). The Headline Goal. Institute for Security Studies. Menon, A. (1994). France. In A. Moens & C. Anstis (Eds.), Disconcerted Europe: The Search for a New Security Architecture. Westview Press. Menon, A. (1996). Defence Policy and Integration in Western Europe. Contemporary Security Policy, 17(2). https://doi.org/10.1080/ 13523269608404138. Accessed 19 Aug 2021 Missiroli, A. (ed.) (2001 June). Coherence for Security Policy. Debates, Cases, Assessment. WEU Institute for Security Studies. Occasional Paper no 27. NATO-EU Declaration on ESDP of 16 December 2002. https://www.nato.int/ cps/en/natolive/official_texts_19544.htm. Accessed 2 Feb 2021. The NATO-EU Strategic partnership (2004). https://www.nato.int/docu/ comm/2004/06-istanbul/press-kit/006.pdf. Accessed 10 July 2021

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Radeljic, B. (2010). Europe 1989–2009: Rethinking the Breakup of Yugoslavia. European Studies, 9(1): 115–127. http://aei.pitt.edu/13910/1/ Radeljic,_B.,_Rethinking_the_Breakup_of_YU_(European_Studies).pdf. Accessed 15 Aug 2021. Rutten, M. (Ed.). (2001). From St Malo to Nice: European Defence Core Documents (Chaillot Paper 47, EUISS). Shearer, A. (2000). Britain, France and the Saint-Malo declaration: Tactical Rapprochement or Strategic Entente? Cambridge Review of International Affairs, 13(2), 283–298. https://doi.org/10.1080/09557570008400316 Smith, M.  S. (2017). Europe’s Common Security and Defence Policy. Cambridge University Press. Treaty of Amsterdam, European Union. (1997). https://europa.eu/european-­ union/sites/default/files/docs/body/treaty_of_amsterdam_en.pdf. Accessed 1 Sept 2021. Treaty on European Union. (1992). Maastricht. https://europa.eu/european-­ union/sites/default/files/docs/body/treaty_on_european_union_en.pdf. Accessed 1 July 2021. Whitman, R. G. (1999). Amsterdam’s Unfinished Business: The Blair’s Government Initiative and the Future of Western European Union. (WEU-ISS, Occasional Paper 7). Woodward, S.  L. (1995). Balkan Tragedy: Chaos and Dissolution after the Cold War. Brookings Institution Press. Zimmermann, W. (1996). Origins of a Catastrophe: Yugoslavia and Its Destroyers – America’s Last Ambassador Tells What Happened and Why. Times Books.

CHAPTER 7

The Iraq War: Addressing European Fragmentation

The Second Iraq War of 2003 (Draper, 2020; Kashmeri, 2008; Shawcross, 2004; Hallenberg and Karlsson, 2006; Gartner and Cuthbertson, 2005; Lee, 2011; Allawi, 2007; Ricks, 2007; Keegan, 2003) presented Europe with a different kind of American vision that was less about collective security and more about hegemony. The 9/11 attacks triggered the first ever evocation of ΝΑΤΟ’s Article V guarantees, bringing the Alliance together. In fact, the initial US retaliatory response against the Taliban regime had the backing of Russia and offered the possibility of collective action at the UN level, transcending traditional security polarities in Europe. However, the subsequent instrumentalisation of the global “war on terror” in Iraq was politically polarising. When President George W. Bush claimed that Saddam Hussein harboured nuclear ambitions and manufactured weapons of mass destruction, the Euro-Atlantic Alliance suffered a lasting rupture. The argument was weak on intelligence and proved to be untrue. The Bush Administration pushed ahead with a “Coalition of the Willing”, defying the UN Security Council to invade Iraq, without credible evidence of chemical, biological or nuclear weapons programmes. This unilateral stance alienated several EU member states and, even in countries willing to stand shoulder to shoulder with Washington, public opinion was divided. The two founding countries of ESDP—France and the UK— were once again in opposing camps, with Britain leading the camp of

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“willing” and France the “unwilling”, to the detriment of a common European foreign and security narrative. Incidentally, Iraq also created a lasting political rupture across European polities, irreparably damaging Tony Blair’s personal profile, dividing the British Labour Party and paving the way for the lasting resurgence of Conservative Eurosceptic governments in the UK. London was not alone in standing by the Bush Administration. The British position on Iraq carried the support of Italy, Denmark, Portugal, Spain, Hungary, the Czech Republic and Poland. The solidarity of the willing with Washington was articulated in the “United We Stand” open letter published in Europe and the United States on January 30, 2003. While public opinion in Europe was broadly against the war in Iraq (Toje, 2005), even in the UK, many governments saw this polarising event as an opportunity to ferment a special relationship with Washington. This bilateral consideration outweighed any commitment to a common EU position, underscoring the American primacy over foreign and security policy in Europe. However, France and Germany were significant absentee signatures on the United We Stand position letter. This critical juncture was defining in two respects. First, it revitalised the call for European strategic autonomy. Secondly, in his attempt to build bridges in a politically ruptured Union, High Representative Javier Solana articulated the first-ever European Security Strategy (2003), initiating a period of institutional fluidity, culminating in the 2007 Lisbon Treaty.

The European Security Strategy (2003) The Treaty of Amsterdam (1997) introduced the idea of ‘common strategies, to be implemented in areas where the member states have important interests in common’ (Art J.3 TEU). Common strategies of this description were adopted in 1999 and 2000 on Russia, Ukraine and the Mediterranean, yielding minor policy effects1 (Biscop and Andersson, 2008). The underlying impression was that EU engagement lacked an overall vision, and a vacuum eventually filled by the European Security Strategy (ESS), a document drafted by the High Representative for Foreign and Security Policy Javier Solana and adopted by European Council in December 2003.

1  On Russia, 1999/414/CFSP, on Ukraine, 1999/887/CFSP and on the Mediterranean 2000/998/CFSP.

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The ESS was intended to be the equivalent of a National Security Strategy published by the United States, the UK, France and Russia. The very title of the document is a claim to geopolitical relevance, a long-held French aspiration. The Treaty of the European Union (1992) referred to Europe as a “global actor” 22 times (Wessels, 2002). At the same time, it can be seen as a document responsive to the American call for burden sharing and the consolidation of a European pillar within the Alliance. In any event, the document radiates ambition. ‘Europe has never been so prosperous, so secure, nor so free’, reads the ESS preamble (Quille, 2004), going on to frame a broad definition of security and policy instruments through which common European challenges can be meaningfully pursued. In defining security in Europe, the ESS signalled five priority threats: international terrorism, preventing the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction, addressing regional conflicts, dealing with challenges stemming from failed states and organised crime. In sum, EU priorities reflect American prioritisation but were not linked to specific military instruments. When it came to European security policy, Javier Solana used diplomatic terms such as “constructive engagement” and “effective multilateralism” without specific references to military instruments (Toje, 2008). Circumventing the question of military capability was a direct consequence of the legacy of the Iraq War, which divided Europe among those willing to follow the American lead and those who were hesitant. The ESS “manifesto” for Common Foreign and Security policy did not spell out the security challenges lying beyond Europe’s remit. The document avoids presenting a choice between military and economic power that speaks to the political substance of the Union. Instead, the ESS points towards missions to which Europe can deliver within the existing institutional framework. Turning necessity into a virtue, the text advocates for a “holistic approach” to security that could integrate all policy instruments (Biscop and Andersson 2008): aid, trade, military involvement and diplomacy. That was a logical approach because Albright’s 3D red line—non-­ duplication, non-discrimination, non-decoupling—meant the ESS would be inconsequential if it were meant to underpin a constrained European security identity (Albright, 1998). Overall, the ESS fails to link objectives with military or economic means and does not entail a plan of action. In fact, the ESS makes no reference to the possibility of European military force, with one exception: ‘In failed states military instruments may be needed to restore order’ (European Security Strategy, 2003: 9). Significantly, however, the ESS commits the EU to effective multilateralism, a centrepiece of the strategic framework

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that can be read as a call for broader coalitions with the United States but potentially also Russia, China and India (Telò 2007). Some analysts (Biscop and Anderson, 2008:3–12) note that the ESS is more of a foreign policy than a security strategy. The Director-General on Politico-Military Affairs at the Council of the EU, Robert Cooper, described the ESS as ‘a conception of Security’, ‘a vision’, or ‘a political declaration of intent’.2 That is not a trivial point. Unlike every national security strategy, the ESS does identify common threats and does outline a common approach to addressing these challenges. What is absent is the credible ability to mobilise military assets without the consent of third parties. While the Euro-Atlantic scoping of the ESS is undeniable, the effect of the document on European strategic culture needs to be evaluated in a broader historical context. The ESS makes an explicit reference to enlargement as a peacebuilding instrument, a notion that maintains the prospect of parallel Euro-Atlantic expansion and integration but also threatens to alienate Russia (Dannreuther, 2013; Cameron, 2007; Mearsheimer, 2017). It is worth noting that while the ESS was a European Council initiative, Commissioner Benita Ferrero Waldner, responsible for External Relations and Neighbourhood Policy, often paid tribute to its instrumentality as a strategic reference document (Ferrero-Waldner, 2006; Gowan, 2008). The ESS was now an open and working document, which encapsulated a European position on global security challenges. As a collective identity-­ building exercise (Marsh and Rees, 2012), the ESS defined EU interests and called for capability development to address common threats, making limited reference to values that could be divisive. In this sense, this is a foundational document for articulating an emergent European strategic culture (Cornish and Edwards, 2001). Subsequent reviews of the document involved a process of consultation with the Commission, the European Parliament and numerous specialised agencies precisely because of the ESS holistic legacy (Dover 2013), which means that every policy instrument was brought to bear on policy and, therefore, the European Commission and European Parliament were legitimate political stakeholders. In that sense, the ESS overcomes the lowest common denominator framing of ESDP/ CSDP, creating the necessity for a more encompassing synthesis and dynamic accommodation that indeed articulates EU 2  From a hearing in the House of Lords, UK, on the review of the ESS.  See, https:// publications.parliament.uk/pa/ld200708/ldselect/deucom/190/19004.htm

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interests (Hyde-Price, 2007; Delcourt and Remacle, 2017). Prior to the ESS, there was no obvious process of consolidating publicly a common European strategic worldview. At the time of its publication, the objective may have been to bridge the gap between opposing sides in the Iraq War debate, rebuilding confidence and trust between partners and pushing forward with a contextually appropriate notion of a European security agency. One may appreciate the seeds of strategic autonomy lying therein, especially if ESS is compared to the American national security strategy at the time (The National Security Strategy of the United States of America, 2002). The ESS emphasised deterrence instead of the more American concept of “pre-emption”, which could be used to justify unilateral action (Bailes, 2005). By underscoring multilateralism, the ESS can also be seen as appeasing those European powers that objected to the American unilateralism exhibited in Iraq and elsewhere during the Bush Administration. In sum, the ESS projects a distinct and value-based understanding of legitimate use of force (Bailes, 2005), which echoes the debate on Iraq. Clearly, the ESS does not articulate a strategic culture that is reactive or antagonistic to NATO. In one of his first speeches, NATO’s Secretary-­ General, Jaap de Hoop Scheffer (2004), called for a more robust “European pillar” in the Euro-Atlantic Alliance. NATO has historically supported the intensification of European participation in missions and operations around the globe, mainly where the scope of the mission is geared towards peacekeeping and peacebuilding. This kind of niche or auxiliary expertise is in-itself an element of EU strategic culture.

The Scope for European Defence Autonomy However, the ESS does pave the way for the consolidation of a “grand strategy” that may point towards substantive autonomy that may politically deviate from American priorities. Specifically, focusing on the policy effect of cooperation in Europe, the ESS clears the way for industrial policy cooperation between member states. The General Affairs Council of 22 November 2004 established the European Defence Agency (EDA), aiming to improve member states’ military capability within ESDP. The EDA was a Franco-British initiative following the Le Touquet Summit (‘Declaration on Strengthening European Co-operation in Security and Defence’, February 2003). intended to promote the development of a European Defence Technological Industrial Base (EDTIB) and to enhance global competitiveness (Béraud- Sudreau, 2020; Reynolds 2006; Keohane 2004).

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As an institution, the EDA was meant to circumvent the Commission, allowing member states to coordinate defence expenditure policy, to unleash funds for research and development (Reynolds, 2006), and to make European contribution to security more significant in terms of output. This space for industrial cooperation in the context of the Single Market, inevitably opened the door for the more active involvement of the European Commission and the European Parliament as policy stakeholders. When the European Council called on Secretary-General/High Representative Javier Solana to review the ESS working document (Council of the EU, 2007), the political context was markedly different. The EU and NATO had consolidated a parallel “big bang” expansion towards Central Eastern Europe and the Baltic States, a process heading for completion with the accession to the EU of Romania and Bulgaria (2007). Sweden was less concerned about the militarisation of the EU, while Prime Minister Karl Bildt opened the discussion on NATO membership. Finally, French President Sarkozy reintegrated France into the Alliance’s command structure. As France was about to assume the EU Council Presidency, common defence featured high on the agenda. There was new momentum for a European pillar within the Alliance that would be more integrated and project real military power. Solana’s ESS review document entitled ‘Report on the Implementation of the European Security Strategy-Providing Security in a Changing World’ (Council of the EU, Conclusions of the European Council, December 2008), advocated for incremental progress rather than paradigmatic reform, for which there was no political appetite. The focus on terrorism as a common security threat resonated with public opinion in the aftermath of bloody attacks in Madrid, even as the discussion was taking place while Russian troops advanced into Georgia (August 2008). Nuclear proliferation remained a concern, as North Korea acquired nuclear capability and Iran threatened to follow suit. The 2008 review of the ESS echoed the 2003 version of the document, calling for the EU to develop as a ‘more active, more coherent and more capable’ global player, without advancing the discussion on the means to articulate this agency (Quille, 2004). This new version of the ESS addressed the same threats with the same instruments (UK Parliament, 2008, 2008a); however, the challenges at hand were now “more complex” and “more serious” (Executive Summary, Report on the Implementation). However, the different circumstances between 2003 and 2008 were clear for all to see. The Bush Administration left behind a freefalling American economy and two regional wars with no apparent end in sight. Russia’s military comeback affirmed its ability to challenge NATO and

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claim exclusive strategic influence over the region it called “the Near Abroad”. China appeared to be circumventing the economic crisis, emerging as an instrumental market for the EU economy, massively expanding its foreign direct investment and, in many respects, finalising Washington’s unilateral moment by presenting EU member states with concrete policy alternatives. In that respect, the Report on the implementation of the ESS ignored emerging challenges, paid little more than rhetorical homage to the Euro-Atlantic status quo and did little to justify the title “strategic”. Solana’s ESS review does not spell out how Europe viewed itself in a transforming geopolitical order.

The “Soft” European Security Mandate The emergence of ESDP was in many respects a reflection on the experience of the Yugoslav wars, pointing to diverse conclusions in a political context polarised by the American decision to invade Iraq. Affirming the pre-eminence of Euro-Atlantic institutions, the EU articulated European foreign and security challenges, but the scope for common military action remained within the boundaries defined by the Petersberg tasks, focusing on crisis management and peacebuilding rather than deterrence and peacemaking. Over time and after the 9/11 events, the interpretation of the Petersberg Tasks was widened to include the fight against terrorism. This strategic shift, articulated in the Lisbon Treaty, echoed American security priorities and resonated with the European experience after the attacks in Madrid. However, the question of strategic planning emanating from this security concept remains highly contested. The European Council of June 2004 mandated the creation of a civilian/military cell within the EU military staff, pointing towards a concept of comprehensive civil-military planning (Biscop and Andersson, 2008:16). Unsurprisingly, the UK objected to the creation of an operations centre that could be seen as a standing HQ for a European Army, creating a sense of equivalence with NATO’s Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe (SHAPE). While the UK resisted the establishment of EU military headquarters, the ESDP acquired a “Civilian Planning and Conduct Capability” (2007), which later became the Crisis Management Planning Directorate (CMPD). For over a decade, small civilian missions focusing on monitoring, capacity building and consulting have become standard practice. These valuable instruments of soft power projection in the European neighbourhood fall short of the expectation for joint military operations. However, the

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European Parliament and the European Commission are now legitimate policy actors in foreign policy development. EU military operations were still run by the national HQs of the individual member states contributing to specific ESDP/ CSDP operations. This created interinstitutional tension, particularly since the Berlin Plus agreements (Serrano, 2020) provided for the use of NATO HQs (Annex 1, Presidency Conclusions, 17–18 June 2004). The issue was finally resolved by the Brexit referendum, which rendered the British opposition irrelevant. However, the UK was not alone in seeking to limit the scope for ESDP military operations, with numerous member states viewing the civilian dimension of ESDP as the precondition for accepting the prospect of common military action (Serrano, 2020). In keeping European power projection “soft”, there was an unintended consequence. The pursuit of strategic objectives by civilian means blurred the distinction between home affairs and national security. Strategic objectives construed as security challenges expanded to include phenomena such as mass migration and climate change, encouraging the engagement of community institutions and agencies in security policy, while also creating a market for private stakeholders/contractors offering transition and development consulting (Juncos, 2017, 2020).

The Lisbon Treaty: The Elusive Quest for Hard Power In sum, the politically divisive invasion of Iraq created a space for the articulation of a new kind of international agency by EU institutions. In the political debate leading to the Treaty of Lisbon, there was increasing focus on the ability of the EU to project and protect global interests through both civilian and military instruments. In this context, some political circles advocated for a neater division of labour, leaving soft power to the EU and making hard military power NATO’s exclusive remit. The question then was whether all EU member states could live with the idea of further curtailing common scope for common military action to an even narrower range of tasks defined by the Petersberg Tasks. The answer was “no”, particularly since the Second Gulf War, which made clear that a political and strategic alignment between the two sides of the Atlantic could not be taken for granted.

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The Lisbon Treaty (2007) rebranded ‘European Security and Defence Policy’ as ‘Common Security and Defence Policy’. However, there were also substantive institutional innovations contributing to the coherence and consistency of EU external action. Given the context of bold EU enlargement in Eastern Europe, clarity and simplicity were seen as key to the resilience of the EU. In this context, the Lisbon Treaty was building on the ESS foundation, providing the EU with full legal personality (47 TEU), and introducing a new range of institutional instruments. The Lisbon Treaty provides solidarity (222 TFEU) and mutual assistance (art. 42.7 TEU) clauses, the latter echoing NATO’s Article V guarantees. Furthermore, the Treaty provides for Permanent Structured Cooperation (PESCO-art. 42.6 and protocol 10), paving the way for closer defence cooperation based on qualified majority voting rather than unanimity. Finally, the Treaty formalises the role of the European Defence Agency (EDA: 45 TEU) as an institution dedicated to the development of joint defence systems. It should be noted that on the countdown to the Lisbon Treaty, Europe’s strategic debate became more responsive to “communitarian” arguments in the European Parliament. The European Parliament called for a European Defence Technological and Industrial base (EDTIB) long before the European Commission took the policy initiatives in that direction. In 2002 the EP submitted a resolution on the need to develop European defence industries (TA(2002)0172) followed by the 2003 Queiro Report on ‘European Defence-industrial and market issues-­ towards an EU Defence Equipment Policy’ (European Parliament, Report Quiero, 2003). These ideas precede the ESS, the creation of EDA and the 2009 European Commission Directives to create a Common Market for defence systems. However, one should not assume that a parliamentary debate always leads to a case for the “federalisation” of common security policy. The debate over the Union’s mandate for common international actions is moulded by intergovernmental negotiation and, often, MEP groups will echo prevailing national positions. Unquestionably, however, the Lisbon Treaty broadens the spectrum of Petersberg tasks (43.1) to include elements of peacemaking and crisis management. Specifically, the Union now expects member states to cooperate on ‘… disarmament operations, humanitarian and rescue tasks, military advice and assistance tasks, conflict prevention and peacekeeping tasks, tasks of combat forces in crisis management including peacemaking and post-conflict stabilisation’. In

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theory, there was now greater scope for hard security operations, but rarely in practice. Hard power deployment was limited by the reliance on member states’ resources (Keukeleire and Delraux 2014: 174–5). Article 44 of the TEU notes that ‘the Council may entrust the implementation of a task to a group of member states which are willing and have the capabilities needed to carry out… an operation’, thus giving the power to the Council to take military action and launch an emergency operation by a group of willing states (De Langlois and Ara, 2015). More generally, the Lisbon Treaty allows for enhanced cooperation between at least nine member states (art. 20 TEU) across the policy spectrum, as a form of ad hoc differentiation (Martenczuk, 2013). Rather than bolstering military cooperation, perhaps the greatest contribution of the Treaty of Lisbon was the streamlining and consolidation of decision-making processes. The Treaty creates a new arbiter between the Commission and the Council on Foreign and Security Policy. Europe’s foreign policy chief is now wearing a double hat: High Representative and Vice President of the Commission (HR/VP). This new institutional status quo is cemented with the provision that establishes the European External Action Service (2019) as equivalent to a foreign ministry: merging the Departments on External Relations of the Union in the Council and the Commission and incorporating staff seconded from member states’ diplomatic services. Developing military capacity was about defining collective objectives and capacity (Biscop and Coelmont, 2012). Without specific missions and operations, CSDP was little more than an inconsequential theoretical debate. The deployment ability had to be linked to specific military assets: troops trained and ready to deploy that can achieve specific results (Mattelaer and Coelmont, 2013). As Haine notes (2003), the main practical challenge in that respect was the interoperability of national contingents within combined forces. Outside of NATO, there was no interoperability. In that respect, the Helsinki Headline objective (EC: 10/11 December 1999) of a force comprising of 60,000 troops, 100 ships and 400 aircrafts, deployable in 60 days and sustainable for one year proved too ambitious. In June 2004, the European Council adopted a more timid Headline Goal (Headline Goal 2010), committing the Union to developing a crisis-­ response force of 6000 men (EUISS, 2005, 296). Following the success of Operation Artemis in the DRC in the summer of 2003, France,

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Germany and the UK proposed the creation of “Battlegroups”: a battalion-size force of 1500 to 2000 soldiers that could be deployed within 15 days and sustainable for 30-to-120 days (Howorth, 2014). These formations were indented to reinforce rather than duplicate NATO’s Response Force (NRF). There was a sense of urgency. Between 2003 and 2004 three out of five EU operations were of a military nature. However, from 2004 onwards, the balance shifted towards civilian missions (Meyer, 2020) until 2007, when the EU would launch nine CSDP missions and operations in Europe, the Middle East, sub-Saharan Africa and Asia. Operations became increasingly more complex, developing expertise in a range of missions from the rule of law to security sector reform missions (EEAS, 2019; Smith, 2017: 128–173).3 By 2008 member states were considering a wide range of scenarios that would allow the EU to deploy troops (European Council, 11-12 December 2008, Conclusions): the 2010 Headline objective was ‘6000 men, in 60 days’, but there was a broader range of options for a range of operations: emergency evacuations of EU nationals, maritime or air surveillance/ interdiction missions, civilian-military humanitarian assistance operations and others. Deploying either civilian personnel and/or Battlegroups in concurrent missions was the policy focus. In 2008 the EU launched its first naval military operation, EUNAVFOR Somalia- Operation Atalanta (2008) with extensive executive authority to deter, prevent and repress acts of piracy and robbery at sea, including within Somali territorial waters. Unlike other military operations, it did not involve crisis management (Meyer, 2020; Smith, 2017:221).4 However, there was a sense that the EU was not fulfilling its own expectations, even in terms of its civilian missions. As long as the EU remained singularly dependent on member states for ESDP/CSDP missions, its impact as an international actor (Civilian Power-Europe) was limited. As noted by Korski and Gowan (2009), ‘Ten years after the creation of ESDP, most EU missions remain small, lacking in ambition and strategically irrelevant’. To date, no Battlegroups have ever been used. As Keukeleire  and Delreux note (2014), the failure to use Battlegroups does not mean the 3  See operations EUJUST Themis in Georgia (2004), EUJUST LEX Iraq (2003), EULEX Kosovo (2006), EUPOL Kinshasa (later renamed EUPOL DRC, (2005), EUSSR Guinea Bissau (2008) (EEAS, 2019). 4  In 2012 Operation Atalanta was complemented with EUCAP Nestor, with a mandate to develop regional security systems to fight piracy and other maritime crimes.

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EU has no hard power instruments. The EU has “Europeanised” NATO forces in the Western Balkans and mandated ad hoc operations (ex EUFOR DRC, EUFOR CHAD-RCA) for missions that may even go beyond the formal scope of the CSDP framework, such as the 2011 Anglo-French deployment in Libya. In sum, EU member states can facilitate plurinational cooperation outside of NATO, although this capacity falls short of a European military capacity (Korski and Gowan, 2009).

Institutional Perspectives on Common Security Policy The ESS was an initiative of the European Council strongly supported by the Commission and the European Parliament. Initially, the Commission was competing with the Council’s initiatives related to ESDP missions, operating in the same regions using its own instruments.5 For their part, national governments were wary of engaging in a public debate about the significance of ESS, fearing pushback by public opinion and national parliaments (Giegerich and Wallace, 2004). Throughout these negotiations, political cleavages were more issue-specific than ideological. In the formative period for the development of ESDP leading to the Lisbon Treaty, there was, at times, interinstitutional competition between the Council, the Commission and the European Parliament over the scope of common security and defence policy (Smith, 2001). In a 2006 report on the implementation of the European Security Strategy (European Parliament, 2006), one of the founding members of the Kangaroo group, Karl von Wogau (EPP), urged EU Member States to support ESDP parliamentary oversight (para 8, 51), while acknowledging that there were ‘grey areas’ over the institutional remit of the Commission and the Council (para 22). What von Wogau prescribed was a security and defence union (51) with its own budget for both civilian and military aspects of security (52) that would be accountable to Parliament. However, the focus was not on democratic legitimacy per se but the creation of economies of scale for the European defence industry. In 2009, the European Commission tried to carve out a role of its own in CSDP through its control of the internal market: two landmark Directives entered into force, known collectively as the ‘Defence Package’: 5  According to a series of interviews at the Commission - Directorate General for External Relations (DG RELEX), on 5, 6 and 7 November 2009.

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one in June and the other in August 2009: the first (Directive 2009/43/ EC) ‘on intra-EU transfers of defence related products’ defined a ‘European License System’ for defence-related products within the EU; and the second (Directive 2009/81/EC) entered into force on August of the same year, aiming to contribute to the consolidation of a European Defence Market (EUISS, 2010, 232–3). Again, the European Commission was not seeking to define a foreign policy narrative, but rather, to create a market with significant multiplier effects for Europe’s global competitiveness and regulatory leadership. The introduction of EU standards for defence and security contracts allowed the Commission to emerge as a substantial stakeholder in policy development. Member states still could use article 296 TEU to ensure the Commission would not monitor specific defence and security procurement contracts, but this was now on a case-by-case basis and had to be justified. To date, European defence is characterised by inefficiency and fragmentation (Ioannides, 2020): a plurality of defence systems that diverts resources away from research, development, innovation and global competitiveness. The Commission makes the case for consolidation by pointing towards the need to increase “productivity” in expenditure geared towards collective security. The normative regime that emerged from the Lisbon Treaty also bestows on the European Parliament the power to hold the European Commission and the European Council to account over security policy. There is the obvious institutional innovation of the European Parliament holding hearings for the Commissioner-designate with the implicit “nuclear” option of rejecting the Commission’s nomination. More specifically on defence, the 6th Parliamentary term (2004–2009) witnessed the establishment of a Subcommittee on Security and Defence (SEDE). This development was followed by the 2002 Interinstitutional agreement giving the Council the option—rather than obligation—to share classified information with a small group of MEPs (Gourlay, 2004,190). The European Parliament was not merely a passive recipient of an institutional mandate bestowed by the Council and the European Commission; it has developed a significant role as a forum for foreign and security policy. In March 2003 the EP released the Morillon report on the new European Security and Defence architecture, addressing the issue of Europe’s alliances, on which the experience of Iraq War had an obvious bearing. Paragraph 5 underlines that only a Union with clear foreign policy objectives, credible military capabilities, as well as a range of crisis prevention and management instruments could be regarded as a reliable

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partner in world affairs. Building a foreign policy consensus was a precondition to military engagement; however, it was clear that Europe’s failure to develop modern military capabilities could in time prove a liability for the United States (Brok and Gresch, 2004). The question of armaments and of a European Defence Technological and Industrial base (EDTIB) was raised by the EP as soon as 2002, in a joint resolution calling for the need to develop European Defence industries (European Parliament, Brok Report, 2002) and the Queiro Report ‘… on European Defence - industrial and market issues - Towards an EU Defence Equipment Policy’ (European Parliament, Quiero report, 2003). Throughout this formative period, the EP supported the development of the defence industry but also the idea of the creation of a European armaments agency, an idea sowing the seeds for the European Defence Agency in 2004. MEPs did not rally behind an institutional cause that reflected an esprit de corps but rather sought to engage on specific policy issues motivated by political, ideological, national and sectoral-industrial special interests. The issue of CSDP legitimacy emerged in principle in the context of specific debates. As always, the debate was informed by reflections on the general malaise of the EP seating on the side-lines of a political debate where governments were driving the decision-making process. Before the Lisbon Treaty, MEPs were at best informed and consulted, and only had budget oversight of civilian missions and operations. Military missions were not funded by the EU budget and were not accountable to Parliament. The Foreign Affairs Committee was at best a forum for dialogue between the Council, the Commission and the military (Gavrilescu, 2004).

Conclusion The Iraq War of 2003 initiated a chain of events that led to the first-ever security strategy of the EU and a renewed determination to create the institutional and legal framework for the advancement of Europe in the world. The missions and operations, both civilian and military, made CSDP visible, despite their small size. Still, for more than a decade, the EU failed to fulfil headline goals for military capability, specialising instead on soft power projection, mainly through civilians means. Since 9/11, there has been a global blurring between home and national security affairs, including micro and macro security. The focus was on crisis management, peace consolidation and, on rare occasions, peacebuilding. Although this was also true for NATO, it was more

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pronounced in an EU context. The lasting legacy of Europe’s Security Strategy, first published in 2003—in the context of Iraq—is that the EU primarily articulates its power in non-combative terms, as an actor with moral, regulatory and trade power. Since the early 2000s, most security threats in Europe stem from the failure of states on its periphery to maintain prosperity and the rule of law. This gives rise to a new generation of security crises that the EU has been addressing through various instruments, including limited military means. But the EU has failed to develop authentically European military capacity. The need for small and agile forces ready to deploy on short notice has been a strategy pursued within the context of NATO, allowing the Alliance to operate, at times, under an EU mandate. However, the ability to deploy troops with an EU mandate has remained elusive for more than a decade. The War in Iraq pressed the question of whether it is appropriate for EU member states to bestow their trust exclusively on a Euro-Atlantic security framework, as Washington made it clear that it would pursue unilateral action without UN backing. The heated debate led to the adoption of the first European Security Strategy (ESS), a document that has led to genuine advances in EU foreign policy but not military capability. The ESS is immensely consequential because it widens the range of foreign and security policy development stakeholders. The CSDP does not in any way challenge Europe’s commitment to NATO in effect, if not in principle. While Europe is failing to develop common military instruments that can be deployed at will and concurrently around the world, there is now a range of successful precedents for plurinational military action. Despite the failure to act en bloc, the EU is moving forward with the gradual integration of defence value chains, which indicates the potential to emerge as a power with internationally competitive military capacity and an increasingly common “security output”. In that sense, the Iraq War opened the way for an incrementally developing and open-ended process of defence consolidation, although that is by no means fully perspective or evolutionary.

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CHAPTER 8

The New Resonance of European “Holistic Security”

During the Obama Administrations (2009–2017) European defence capability was renegotiated in a more coherently multilateral framework. The scars of Iraq began to heal, while the Euro-Atlantic partnership seemed more symmetrical as the United States engaged with Europe with a more consensus-building attitude. From the question of preventing Iran from developing nuclear capability to climate change, Washington invested in a European consensus. Throughout this period, Europe and the United States revisited the subject of the division of labour between the European and Euro-Atlantic pillars of collective security. This political momentum favoured a narrative of institutional complementarity that was disrupted by the Snowden scandal (Ryan Maness, 2018) and the Libyan crisis. Within the framework of the Petersberg consensus, there were two significant events that shook the foundations of European security architecture, namely the Libyan campaign (2011) and the Russian invasion of Ukraine (2014). Both conflicts are distinctly European. The Libyan campaign was an Anglo-French initiative that tested the political and military capacity of the Continent in delivering on peacemaking capability, along with more traditional crisis management and peacekeeping tasks. In important respects, the campaign succeeded militarily but failed politically: the EU failed to act as a single actor, failed to consolidate peace in Libya and failed to project power in its vicinity. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 M. Koppa, The Evolution of the Common Security and Defence Policy, St Antony’s Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-99158-6_8

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Washington had no immediate security interests in Libya. In enabling the Anglo-French campaign, the United States was investing in the credibility of the Euro-Atlantic partnership as a community that is not underpinned by a strictly transactional relationship. After Iraq and Afghanistan, Washington was giving Europe the benefit of the policy initiative. This was in the spirit of the 5+1 negotiating framework with Iran, which yielded the Joint and Comprehensive Plan of Action in July 2015. American foreign policy now carried Germany, France, the UK, the EU as well as Russia to build lasting commitments. While this was the summit of symmetrical Euro-Atlantic multilateralism, the Libyan campaign did little to infuse the Euro-Atlantic Alliance with credibility. However, Libya affirmed the political consensus over the absolute strategic imperative of “keeping the Americans in”. That was affirmed by the invasion of Ukraine and the annexation of Crimea. Much like Libya, the Ukrainian experience underscored the political division of Europe into geographical groups that did not share the same security perspective. While the Union appeared unable to act as one, the Russian tactical use of information technology side-by-side conventional military instruments brought to the fore a new kind of warfare for which Europe was clearly unprepared. Europe did not have the cyberwarfare capability or the institutional arsenal to act resolutely, en bloc, to address collective security and foreign policy interests. This failure is more consequential because technological evolution in digital governance, artificial intelligence and robotics, the internet of things, and mass communication, had an effect on how security threats are perceived. The need to rethink the existing linear security paradigm demands a more holistic approach that addresses challenges to critical networks: electricity, water, logistics, the mass deployment of paramilitary forces and the integration of public media campaigns as an integral dimension of the war effort. Turning necessity to virtue, one could argue that this new generation of threats resonates better with the EU’s holistic or comprehensive approach to security that tends to project power by incorporating normative and economic dimensions of security. In that respect, the legacy of the European Security Strategy (2003) has been immensely consequential because it widens the range of foreign and security policy development stakeholders. In the age of hybrid warfare, the ESS is central to defence governance as opposed to narrowly scoped security policy.

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The cumulative effect of Libya and Crimea has led to a realistic reassessment of the American role in Europe, while crash-testing Europe’s collective capability to act as one, politically and militarily. These two conflicts, or critical junctures, trigger a number of incremental and paradigmatic institutional transformations. On the level of security culture, the most profound effect is a renewed attention to the future nature of war as a hybrid affair that necessitates political as well as military solidarity.

The Libya Crisis and the Capabilities Vacuum The Libyan crisis of 2011 was a litmus test for Common Security and Defence Policy. While the Alliance was fighting two open-ended regional wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, there was little appetite in either Brussels or Washington for a third regional war against a Muslim country. However, both Paris and London were eager to demonstrate Europe’s capacity to take the lead in security matters in Europe’s periphery, either to affirm security autonomy (France) or the ability of the European pillar of the Alliance to share in the burdens of collective security (UK). This was the first time since the Kosovo War that Europe had the opportunity to show the capacity to project military power to protect civilian populations. Unlike Kosovo, the Libyan campaign had a clear international mandate. UN Security Council Resolution 1973/2011 called for the enforcement of a non-fly zone over Libya, mandating member states to take ‘all necessary measures to protect civilians…while excluding a foreign occupation’. This UN Resolution was significant in that it was the first time the Responsibility to Protect (R2P) principle evoked in Kosovo would be activated in a UN framework, with a view to preventing an ‘imminent massacre’. At the time, the Director of Human Rights Watch, Tom Malinowski, hailed the response to the Libyan crisis as ‘the most rapid multinational military response to any impeding human rights crisis in history’ (Malinowski,  New Republic, 2011). However, this UN resolution was controversial in that it was an Anglo-French initiative, with the reluctant backing of the United States and the abstention of Russia and China. The Council of the EU actively supported UN Security Council Resolution 1970/2011 in implementing an arms embargo against Libya, while moving en bloc to introduce targeted sanctions and an asset freeze against members of the Libyan regime (Council Decision 2011/137/ CFSP, 28.2.2011). However, the military aspect of the UN Security Council mandate was contested and polarising in Brussels: 18 of the 27

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EU member states objected to the R2P principle and refused to participate in any effort to enforce a non-fly zone. Politically and strategically, the most consequential abstention was that of Germany. Libya offered the UK and France the opportunity to articulate global leadership ambitions. However, the Anglo-French initiative could only materialise as a NATO operation, as neither Britain nor France had the necessary air-to-air refueling capacity (BBC, 10.3. 2011) which was key to the operation: the vastness of Libya and the lack of suitable airfields close to the no-fly zone increased the transit time and made nearly all assets reliant on air-to-air refuelling. It should be recalled that the Obama administration was literally dragged into the Libyan campaign, with Secretary of Defence Robert Gates advising against the establishment of a no-fly zone over Libya as that was not in the vital interest of the United States (Greenleaf, 2013). While the President backed the operation, he did so with the understanding that US support would be limited and the responsibility for post-conflict management would be bestowed on London and Paris. Paris and London were able to call the shots, a fact that was later dubbed America’s ‘leadership from behind’ (Lizza, 2011), while Barack Obama called it the biggest mistake of his Presidency (The Guardian, 12.4. 2016) and, on at least one occasion, he was quoted using a less kind term (Hamid, 2016). The EU did continue to operate en bloc, eventually authorising the EUFOR Libya operation, with the mandate of assisting UN personnel in the distribution of humanitarian assistance. Furthermore, the EU earmarked a €158,7 million assistance package (ECHO, 2012), becoming the single biggest humanitarian donor on the ground. Two years later, the EU launched EUBAM Libya with the explicit mandate to disrupt the flow of migrants through Libya’s porous borders in the south (Council decision May 22, 2013). In sum, the EU stepped in to act en bloc in crisis management and capacity building. However, the Union could not master the political consensus to act en bloc in strategically significant peacemaking operations. The Union’s two foremost military powers took the lead in regime change, succeeding in tilting the balance on the ground against the Qaddafi regime. Their mandate to do so was contested by Russia and China and only reluctantly endorsed by the United States. Paris and London even failed to carry the full weight of the European Union behind them. In principle, the Obama Administration strongly favoured an EU mandate rather than a bilateral intervention in Libya, backing the

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militarily credible Anglo-French initiative as the second-best option. From an American perspective, the effect mattered more than the framework. The Anglo-French Combined Joint Expeditionary Force (CJEF) was the most credible alternative framework for joint military action by European powers. The CJEF is the result of the 2010 Lancaster House treaties  (Lancaster House Treaty, 2010), an Anglo-French commitment to bilateral strategic, military and industrial cooperation taking place within the Euro-Atlantic framework and outside the EU. The term ‘European strategic autonomy’ had little to do with an Anglo-­ French security framework. At the time of the intervention in Libya, despite the progress achieved through the European External Action Service (EEAS), CSDP remained largely incoherent and unable to arbitrate a common foreign policy position (Koenig, 2011). There is reasonable doubt as to whether strategic autonomy could materialise in an EU framework and, therefore, this bilateral framing was tested in Libya as a substitute. If the EU was unable to act en bloc, the CJEF offered a more traditional bilateral instrument towards the same end. Traditionally, the UK and France are regarded as great powers: both the UK and France are permanent members of the UN Security Council, articulate global interests, have large and globally competitive national defence industries and comparable active-duty personnel capability. While their security priorities diverged, London and Paris saw in Libya the opportunity for a “trial by fire” of a cooperative framework that could advance their claims to global power status (Pannier, 2020). Britain never associated its global status aspirations with the EU, while France failed to take the lead in creating a European Defence Community. CJEF was a second route towards common objectives. In essence, it was obvious that the principles of unanimity and intergovernmentalism were an impediment to any form of common defence policy, in the sense that on “hard core” security questions (Hanhimaki et  al., 2012:147) most countries followed quasi-independent foreign and security policies. Especially the big countries which were not ready to accept an overriding authority in Brussels. Clearly, the Libyan campaign had little to do with European political consensus, reflecting instead a strong bilateral Anglo-French resolve to impose a specific security agenda. Perhaps as significantly, Europe’s Anglo-French engagement in Libya showed that even when European powers do reach a consensus, they are unable to deliver due to their lack of critical tactical capacity. Capacity remains key, and to reach globally competitive levels of deterrence, there

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may be no alternative to a deeper and wider integration of European industrial resources. The Libyan experience was formative in that it underscored the incoherence of the CSDP, and the EU’s inability to arbitrate a common political position on key issues of foreign policy.

Ukraine and the Challenge of Collective Deterrence While Libya affirmed that Europe did not have the capacity to project power around Europe, the  Russian invasion of Ukraine and the consequent annexation of Crimea confirmed the resurgence of Russia as a collective security threat. The Ukrainian crisis that culminated with the annexation of the Crimean Peninsula began with the Eastern Partnership Vilnius Summit in November 2013. The EU had branded the event as the ‘delivery summit’ for the EU’s Eastern Partnership policy, a 2009 Swedish-Polish initiative designed to create closer ties with five post-Soviet states in Eastern Europe: Armenia, Azerbaijan, Belarus, Georgia, Moldova and Ukraine. Through the Eastern Partnership, the EU extended to the post-Soviet space anchorage to the Single Market. Rather than enlargement, which was a politically contested objective, the EU offered association agreements, which included a package of deep and comprehensive free trade agreements, visa liberalisation regimes, and funding for capacity building and infrastructural development. Facing the reasonable suspicion that this choice would alienate or aggravate the Kremlin, this was not an offer all states in New Eastern Europe were willing to take. However, the expectation was that the so-­ called Vilnius three—Moldova, Georgia and Ukraine—were ready to sign up. Ukraine’s President Victor Yanukovych had been sending mixed messages. Having built his political base in a region that was Russophone and economically integrated in CIS value chains (Commonwealth of Independent States), he prioritised his economically indispensable relationship with Russia. Ukraine at the time was dealing with a profound economic crisis: in 2011 the Ukrainian GDP collapsed by 14.5% (World Bank, 2021). But in turning his back on the EU, the Ukrainian President triggered pro-EU protests in Kyiv, leading to a political crisis, culminating to Yanukovych fleeing the country in February 2014, eventually finding refuge in Russia (Japaridze & Roubanis, 2014).

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In February 2014 Europe witnessed the first hybrid war in its history. Russian forces entered the territory of Ukraine with their distinctive arms and hardware, but without military credentials. The Russian troops called themselves “self-defence groups”, claiming to be members of the eight million-strong Russophone Ukrainian minority. The Russian media underreported the Ukrainian incursion and referred to the troops as ‘volunteers’, ‘polite men’ and ‘little green men’, a term later attributed to the residents of Crimea. Ukrainian media picked up the misnomer, which they used interchangeably with the term ‘Russian invaders’ (BBC, 11.3.2014). Proxy warfare had precedents in Moldova (Transnistria) and Georgia (Abhazia, South Ossetia). But a hybrid war against a sizable state with theoretically sophisticated defence systems was a novelty. There were two parallel battles: in the field, where Ukraine was fighting to assert its sovereignty, and cyberspace, where Ukraine was fighting to define the conflict as war. The lines between external and internal security, reality and perception, fact and fiction were blurred and contested everywhere (Fiott & Parkes, 2019; Parkes, 2019). And there was another novelty. Rather than simply creating another non-state regime, Russia went beyond the recognition of the political autonomy of de facto seceding territories to break a post-Second World War taboo and formally annex the Crimean Peninsula (Dickinson, 2021). The Russian incentives for this incursion have been the subject of numerous debates. From a security perspective, it is hardly ever disputed that the Crimean Peninsula is critical for the Russian Black Sea Fleet. The discourse of parallel Euro-Atlantic enlargement provided the Russian regime with an opportunity to forcefully demarcate the region the Kremlin refers to as ‘the Near Abroad’, a term that denotes the 14 successor states of the USSR other than Russia where Moscow demands the prerogative to veto EU and NATO enlargement. NATO’s Bucharest Summit in  2008 announced the intention of the Alliance to bring in Georgia and Ukraine, although the extension of a Membership Action Plan was vetoed by Germany. This strategic rift has divided the Alliance not merely between the United States and Europe, but also by entrenching the divisions within Europe first encountered in Iraq. The subsequent polarisation of the Alliance over the future of the post-­ Soviet space was accentuated by a Russian online campaign that went beyond traditional media platforms. In Russian discourse, the fight between “little Green men” and the Ukrainian Army was framed as a Great Patriotic War between Russians and “fascists”. The experience of

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the Russian campaign throughout the Ukrainian conflict popularised the term hybrid warfare—or “non-linear” warfare, according to Moscow— which refers to a blurring of lines between different tactics in order to exploit identities and allegiances for example, the use of psychological, economic, political and cyber tactical instruments (Ball, 2019) side by side military tactics. This strategy is founded on the concept of total war that exploits the dynamic relationship between public communication, identity, political mobilisation and military power previously employed by guerilla movements. Accompanying Russian tanks were state-sponsored hackers that attacked Ukraine’s IT systems. On the eve of Ukraine’s post-Yanukovych elections, hackers broke into Ukraine’s Central Election Commission network and released malware disrupting the process. Subsequently, Russia-­ linked hacking crews targeted the country’s electricity grid, turning the lights off in Kyiv (Politico, 14.2. 2019). Hybridity opened new frontiers to the concept of total war. As Dickinson notes, Russia set the benchmark for cyber warfare by targeting everything: elections, health systems, political parties and essential infrastructure (2021). All aspects of state and society ‘can be operationalized in hybrid warfare so they must all be utilized to win’ (Merendith III, 2019). The impact of this Russian campaign was not confined to Ukraine but extended to the EU (Masters, 2020). At the time, Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia and Sweden reported numerous incidents of Russian misinformation campaigns, ranging from political character assassination to undermining state institutions. Beyond cyberattacks, Russia was playing a careful game of divide and rule: for instance, amid a severe sovereign debt crisis in the EU, Russia declared its readiness to lift a blanket retaliatory embargo of food imports for Greece, Hungary and Cyprus, who were facing an uphill economic battle. In sum, the experience of the Ukrainian conflict was formative both strategically and politically. On a strategic level, Europe’s underspending and increasing dependence on the perceived American security umbrella came to the fore. In its immediate neighbourhood—and perhaps beyond—the European capacity to dissuade Russia by sheer show of force was not credible. The cumulative effect of the Libyan campaign and the Ukrainian crisis—two profoundly European affairs wrapped in a Euro-Atlantic security blanket—was that any claim to EU security autonomy was discredited (Major & Molling, 2020).

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On the level of political solidarity, Europe’s “holistic approach” to security should have prepared the Union to address this new form of hybrid warfare. That was not the case. The Ukrainian crisis evolved amidst an economic crisis, which polarised Europe, a division that Russia did attempt to weaponise with some success. The Russian funding and online support for political parties of the far-right across Europe—Austria, Italy, France, Hungary and Germany (Weiss, 2020; Ivanova et al., 2019; Gerulli, 2019)—presented a challenge that was not merely strategic but also systemic. Subsequent efforts to influence the American presidential elections in 2016 (Snyder, 2018) drove home the strategic significance of ideological discourse, forever undermining the notion of an inevitable and fully perspective vindication of liberal democracy. Political pluralism is being exploited as a tactical weakness, presenting Europe with a challenge that fuses home and national security considerations on a profound level. The test for European security was one of resilience. The ability to defend civilian targets—networks, strategic infrastructure, institutions—as well as balancing political pluralism and national security considerations is a litmus test for democracy. This new conscience is instrumental in the  operationalisation  of  the concept of “resilience” as a strategic risk-­ mitigating principle in European security discourse (Pawlak, 2017; 2015; Drent et al., 2015).

Institutional Implications: Libya The Libyan crisis (2011) pressed the point that Europe did not have the military means to project power matching its foreign policy aspirations in the European neighbourhood. It is no accident that 2013 was a year dedicated to Europe’s collective reflection on the question of defence. Following a prolonged institutional impasse, while the Union’s political integrity was tested by the sovereign debt crisis, the European Council decided to dedicate its 2013 December Summit to a discussion on European Defence, under the slogan ‘Defence matters’. The discussion would be organised around three clusters: visibility of the CSDP, military capabilities and European Defence Technological and Industrial Base-EDTIB. In view of the Summit, the High Representative presented two important documents: the Review of the organisation and the functioning of the European External Action Service in July 2013 and, in October, her proposals on the future of CSDP. During the year, the European Parliament

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intervened in the dialogue that had been initiated with three reports: the ‘Report on EU’s military structures: state of play and future prospects’ (Giannakou, 2012); the ‘Report on the implementation of CSDP’ (Koppa, 2013); the ‘Report on the European industrial and technological base’ (Gahler, 2013). All three reports advanced the necessity for pooling and sharing of capabilities to address military shortfalls, informed by the Libyan litmus test. The focus on defence capacity legitimised a new initiative by the Commission, which sought to incentivise cooperation across the bloc’s major defence industrial clusters. The two 2009 Directives on intracommunity transfers and defence procurement opened up an incremental process that could, in time, deliver the prospect of strategically significant capacity. The political challenge was to overcome the diversity of defence systems in Europe, encouraging sectoral trans-European consolidation. The thinking was that economies of scale would make defence spending more productive, unleashing valuable resources for research and development. Indeed, the emergence of the MBDA missile defence consortium— bringing together Matra Defence (France) and Aerospatiale (Airbus: France, Germany, Italy, Spain)—justified the expectation of common globally competitive systems. Following this line of thinking, the Internal Market Commissioner Michel Barnier presented in July 2013 a cluster of proposals pointing ‘Towards a more competitive and efficient European defence and Security Sector’, that sought to consolidate lessons learnt, opening the way for a deeper integration on the demand side (procurement) to accelerate integration of value chains on an industrial level. That point was reinforced by the Libyan campaign. Libya provided a new impetus on Anglo-French defence systems cooperation that paves the way for both exclusively bilateral and European value chain integration. The UK and France have been developing strategic capability in anti-ship missile systems (Anti-Navire Léger/Sea Venom) and the Future Combat Air System (FCAS) programme that is spearheading wider sectoral trans-European cooperation, while also staying the course on more exclusively bilateral projects, such as the coordination of their nuclear deterrent capability and the construction of air carriers. The experience of Libya pressed home a further point, namely that operations needed to be evaluated on output. The noble ambition of creating a European force that could bring 27 member states to act under an autonomous and cohesive military umbrella continues to stumble against

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differences in threat perceptions and strategic culture among member states. The successful Libyan campaign made clear that output- oriented plurinational initiatives—the Anglo- French Joint Expeditionary Force, Eurocorps, the European Air Transport Command, the Movement Coordination Centre for Europe—could effectively deliver strategic agility and political flexibility. “Coalitions of the willing” between a few member states were preferable to the inability to act militarily as a bloc. The European Council of December 2013 did push forward with EU defence integration, bringing to the fore the question of how to fund CSDP, the future of agile Battlegroup formations and a cohesive overview of military planning. But the emerging conventional wisdom was that the EU would be moving at various speeds, both in developing common defence capacity and in operation readiness. In this context, CSDP was mostly output-oriented, with success or failure being the cumulative assessment of missions (Ricci, 2014). In Libya, the Union launched a typical civilian operation (EUBAM) following a formal invitation by Libyan authorities focused on mentoring, advising and training, in the interest of strengthening border services. Libya is a key conduit for sub-Saharan African migration to Europe, and the operational focus of EUBAM resonates with the political objective of stemming migration flows, a challenge now framed as a security dilemma, blurring the line between home affairs and national security. Tellingly, due to the security operation in Libya, EUBAM has been operating from Tunisia since August 2014.

Institutional Implications: Ukraine Part of the Russian tactics employed during the invasion of Ukraine was the weaponisation of political cleavages between the 28 member states. The difficulty of formulating a common position on issues of hard security was substantial even on a plurinational level. In February 2014, the Foreign Ministers of the Weimar Triangle—France, Germany and Poland—met in Kyiv to project EU resolve to stand by Ukraine. Beyond condemning the invasion of Ukraine and the annexation of Crimea “unambiguously”, the Weimar partners made no reference to the EU as a security actor. Instead, the partners hailed the role of OSCE initiatives and made no reference to the so-called Weimar Battlegroups established by Germany, France and Poland in 2013. Clearly, the EU would not contemplate military deployment in Ukraine.

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The Weimar framework was informed by persistent Polish calls to be included in Franco-German consultations over Eastern Europe, particularly since the East Partnership was a Polish-Swedish initiative. However, as soon as Germany and France did resolve to play a more active role in managing the crisis in Ukraine, they retreated to the more exclusively bilateral Normandy format, reflecting a clearer alignment of foreign policy visions. In line with Polish demands, the EU did sign an association agreement with Ukraine, including establishing a Deep and Comprehensive Free Trade Area—DCFTA) in March 2014 and put together the European Union Advisory Mission to Ukraine (December 2014). EU missions focused on micro security and state-building: law-enforcement capacity building and the strengthening of rule of law institutions. No one pretended these missions were of strategic significance. The more profound link between the Ukrainian experience and Europe’s self-perception as a security actor was the strategic revaluation of cybersecurity threats. In 2015, the European Council tasked the HR/VP to submit an action plan on strategic communications. One of the consequent proposals was the creation of the East StratCom Task Force to address Russia’s ongoing disinformation campaigns in the EU’s Eastern neighbourhood. Taking a more integrated perspective that sought to assimilate the lessons learnt by the Ukrainian crisis, the EU adopted, in 2013, its first cybersecurity strategy (Joint Communication) and, in 2016, the European Commission formulated a ‘Joint Framework on Countering Hybrid Threats’ (2016), moving to both define threats and present an action plan to address them centrally and on member state level. This was soon followed by a Directive on ‘the security of networks and information systems’ (EU 2016/1148) that was to be transposed in all EU member states by May 9, 2018. To address current threats as they emerge, the European Commission presented a Recommendation (2017/1584) on ‘coordinated response to large-scale cybersecurity incidents and crises’. Addressing the long-term issue of a comprehensive strategic narrative on cybersecurity, in June 2018, there was a joint communication by the Commission and the High Representative under the title ‘Increasing resilience and bolstering capabilities to address hybrid threats’, followed by an action plan in December. The action plan prioritised three policy areas: protection of critical infrastructure, disinformation and territorial attacks

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(Fiott & Parkes, 2019).1 This was followed by the publication of an ‘EU Hybrid Playbook’, laying out the framework of coordinated responses to hybrid attacks. The cumulative effect was the Cybersecurity Act (Regulation, 2019/881) designed to bolster the mandate of the EU Agency for Cybersecurity (ENISA).2 The aforementioned executive initiatives either stemmed from or were reflected on parliamentary debate. At the time, political and national positions on the matter were crystallised in the EP which brought together all the stakeholders involved. The political mood following the Ukrainian crisis is reflected in a number of EP Resolutions that have been calling for increased attention on Cyberdefence.3 The unique feature of the Ukrainian experience is that the EU was not facing a security challenge for which member states or NATO had a ready-­ to-­deploy capacity. Europe was not merely facing a new threat, but a new kind of threat for which there were no institutional blueprints in place. The experience also affected NATO which subsequently moved to add a cybersecurity dimension in every military exercise, as military power alone would no longer suffice (Pindjak, 2014). This need for a holistic approach to security that incorporates non-military responses affirmed the historical significance of interinstitutional cooperation between the EU and NATO, raising the possibility that the EU, in this context, may have “strategic assets” that NATO required to operate. In July 2016, the EU and NATO issued a joint declaration (Joint EU-NATO Declaration, 2016), outlining new areas of cooperation in cybersecurity and strategic communications, moving in December to endorse 42 actions in implementation of the Warsaw Declaration (July 2016), introducing a monitoring mechanism to 1  The EU has since published the reviewed EU Cybersecurity Strategy 2020–25, with the ambitious objective of preparing the EU for an era of digital conflict (European Commission/ HR, 2020a, b). 2  On a tactical level, one of the tangible institutional legacies of the Ukrainian experience is the EU Hybrid Fusion Cell tasked with the analysis of both classified and open-source information on hybrid threats (Wigel et al., 2021). 3  The Resolution of 23 November 2016 on EU strategic communication to counteract propaganda against it by third parties (2016/2030-INI), pointed to the new reality and the need for the EU to readapt in order to face it. The Resolution on the implementation of the CSDP in 2016 (2016/2067-INI) underlined the need to “deepen cyber defence cooperation and ensure full cyber resilience of CSDP missions”. Finally, the Resolution of 12 March 2019, on “Security Threats connected with the rising Chinese technological presence in the EU and possible action on the EU level to reduce them”, (2019/2575-INI) called for broadening the scope of the NIS Directive (Negreiro, 2021).

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report on an annual basis; a new common set of 34 actions were endorsed in 2017, in several priority areas: hybrid threats, cybersecurity, capacity building, operational cooperation, maritime issues, defence capabilities, defence industry, research and exercises across the security spectrum. The concrete outcome was the creation of the European Center of Excellence for Countering Hybrid Threats, launched in October 2017 under the joint auspices of the EU and NATO, and tasked with a 1.5-­million-euro budget. Hosted in Finland, a non- NATO EU member, it was an unprecedented level of cooperation between the two organisations. A second Joint Declaration was signed in 2018, also designed to enhance cooperation between the two organisations (Joint EU–NATO Declaration, 2018), insisting on ‘coherent, complementary and interoperable capability development’.

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EEAS European External Action Service, EU CSDP missions and operations for human Security, 2019.

NATO Joint Declaration on EU-NATO Cooperation (2018) by the President of the European Council, the President of the European Commission, and the Secretary General of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, 10 July. https:// www.nato.int/cps/en/natohq/official_texts_156626.htm. Accessed 10 Mar 2019. Brussels Summit Declaration (2018), Issued by the Heads of State and Government Participating in the Meeting of the North Atlantic Council, 11–12 July. Joint declaration (2016) by the President of the European Council, the President of the European Commission, and the Secretary General of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, 8 July https://www.nato.int/cps/en/natohq/official_ texts_133163.htm. Accessed 10 Mar 2019.

Others BBC. (2011, March 20). Libya: US, UK and France Attack Gaddafi Forces. https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-­africa-­12796972. Accessed 21 Aug 2021. Politico. (2019, February 14). How Ukraine Became a Test Bed for Cyberweaponry. https://www.politico.eu/article/ukraine-­cyber-­war-­frontline-­r ussia-­malware-­ attacks/. Accessed 10 July 2021. The Guardian. (2016, April 12). Barack Obama says Libya was ‘worst mistake’ of his presidency. https://www.theguardian.com/us-­news/2016/apr/12/ barack-­obama-­says-­libya-­was-­worst-­mistake-­of-­his-­presidency. Accessed 10 July 2021. World Bank, Annual GDP Growth: Ukraine. https://data.worldbank.org/indicator/NY.GDP.MKTP.KD.ZG?locations=UA. Accessed 5 June 2021. Joint Statement by the Ministers for Foreign Affairs of the Weimar Triangle (France, Germany and Poland) – Jean-Yves Le Drian, Heiko Maas and Zbigniew Rau (Paris, 15 October 2020), https://www.diplomatie.gouv.fr/en/country-­ files/germany/the-­weimar-­triangle/article/joint-­statement-­by-­the-­ministers-­ for-­foreign-­affairs-­of-­the-­weimar-­triangle. Accessed 2 Feb 2021.

CHAPTER 9

Fusing Domestic and International Security Agendas: The 2015 Migration Crisis

Two EU flagship projects were launched in 1999: Common Security and Defence Policy (CSDP) and the Area of Freedom, Security and Justice (AFSJ). These two projects signalled a paradigm shift in security policy with the blurring of the lines between home affairs, and internal and international security (Parkes, 2020). The emergence of a single security policy platform with greater overlap between policing and military functions has been building up in three successive waves since the collapse of the Berlin Wall. The first wave is linked to socioeconomic dislocation induced by economic reforms and state formation in Eastern Europe, giving rise to new substate security threats, not least wars of secession. Yugoslavia was a point of rupture. The second wave was the emergence of movements challenging the nation-state head-on; Jihadism capitalised on emerging vacuums of power—failed states—to launch attacks designed to shock and awe, undermining confidence in pluralist societies: 9/11 was a point of rupture in the United States, followed by attacks in Madrid (11/03/2004), London (07/07/2005) and Paris (2015). The third wave came with the exploitation of cyberspace as a fourth dimension of warfare—beyond land, air and sea—to develop hybrid warfare tactics that can be used both by

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state and non-state actors. The point of rupture in that respect was the invasion of Ukraine by “little green men” and, in parallel, the unprecedented rise of ISIS in the Levant. The cumulative result of this security transformation is the ‘globalisation of insecurity’ (Bigo, 2006), pointing towards the unification of the security process as domestic and international challenges become two sides of the same coin. The 2015 refugee crisis was a security tsunami that combined all of these successive trends. The social devastation of Iraq—following two successive wars—subdued the ruling Sunni elite to the status of an ethnic minority. Armed with state-of-the-art American arsenal captured in Mosul, ISIS militants captured swathes of Syrian and Iraqi territory in a blitzkrieg campaign that took the world by surprise. Putting newfound resources to good use, ISIS took advantage of transnational online communities to mobilise people and resources across Europe—from Moscow to Madrid— to create a dystopian state in the Levant. There was a gradual transition from organised state-sponsored conspiracies, modelled after 9/11, to ISIS-inspired, low-intensity, lone-wolf attacks that turned every “other” in Europe into a possible suspect, testing the institutional and social resilience of EU member states. This emerging reality fused challenges of policing, rule of law, peacekeeping and peacebuilding.

Reconceptualising Security in the EU The challenge for EU institutions was to address domestic security challenges by taking action abroad. The seeds for an integrated framework that links foreign policy to Justice and Home Affairs (JHA) were sown in the conclusions of the European Council of Tampere in 1999, where the need for “stronger external action” in the field of Justice and Home Affairs is acknowledged (Presidency Conclusions, Tampere, 15–16 October). Just before the turn of the century, the EU introduced the principle of taking action outside the Union to guarantee security within the Union. This was not merely a discussion about military operations with a humanitarian mandate—a “responsibility to protect”—but, rather, the idea that the Union would leverage the Single Market to remould its periphery. To do so, the EU went beyond the big-bang expansion of the Union in 2004 and 2007 to commit to enlargement in Southeast Europe, start accession negotiations with Turkey and extend the prospect of Association

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Agreements to five post-Soviet Republics: Armenia, Azerbaijan, Belarus, Georgia and Ukraine. The 2003 European Security Strategy explicitly referenced the need for coordination between justice, home affairs and external relations. The institutional impetus stems, in part, from the evolution of the Schengen Treaty from a plurinational framework in the 1980s, to an integral part of the Amsterdam Treaty (1997). The elimination of internal borders within the EU bolstered the opportunity for transnational crime, calling for corresponding capabilities in the fight against it. This led to institutional innovations such as the European arrest warrant (EAW). The December 2005 Council made an institutional leap by noting the need for involvement of JHA agencies in third countries to address domestic security challenges (Trauner, 2011: 12). The ‘Strategy for the External Dimension of JHA: Global Freedom, Security, Justice’ frames this third-­ country intervention in both transactional and transformational terms. The EU can form “partnerships” or apply “conditionality” to secure a mandate to intervene in third countries. Furthermore, the EU’s Internal Security Strategy adopted in February 2010 noted that ‘internal and external security are inseparable’ (Council of the EU, 25 February 2010). When it comes to border controls, the challenge was to balance the Union’s high rule of law standards—including human rights benchmarks set by the European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR)—with the need to safeguard the three fundamental freedoms underpinning the Single Market: freedom of movement, goods/services and capital. In this scheme, there were two security policy frames: the first was civilian in nature, deploying development and capacity building civilian missions; the second was military, deploying troops under a CFSP/CSDP mandate (Trauner, 2011). The June 2016 EU Global Strategy referred explicitly to the migration crisis as an experience informing one of the core priorities of CSDP. In the Spring of 2018 High Representative Federica Mogherini presented a concept paper on civilian CSDP (Council, 8084/18), referring extensively to the need for cooperation with JHA (paragraphs 6 and 8), followed by a Civilian Capability Development Plan in September 2018. The Civilian CSDP Compact presented in November of the same year detailed how the Union would respond to emerging security challenges, such as irregular immigration, cybersecurity, hybrid threats, maritime security, violent extremism and border management. The latter emphasis on immigration,

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no doubt also reflected the rise of populism in member states where migration was framed as a security threat (Pietz, 2018). Consequently, the Council agreed to ‘cooperate where appropriate with the Commission services and JHA actors with a view to tackling threats and challenges across the internal-external nexus’ (Conclusions, 19 November 2018), reinforcing cooperation and synergies between JHA and CSDP (Dijkstra, 2018); although it resisted calls for the streamlining of EU missions with civilian, military and police elements to operate under a single Head of Mission (Pietz, 2018). In July 2020 the European Commission presented a new EU Security Union Strategy (Commission 2020/605) where the focus on safeguarding the Union’s external borders is unambiguous.

Security Reforms in Context: From Arab Spring to the Syrian Crisis The Arab Spring of 2011 and the subsequent chain reaction across the region brought with it social, economic and political dimensions that Europe could not afford to ignore. In January 2011, an unemployed university graduate living in the town of Sidi Bouzid set himself on fire, sparking popular unrest in Tunisia. This led to the collapse of the Ben Ali regime. Riots ensued in Algeria, Egypt, Jordan, Libya and the rest of the Arab World. The revolts coincided with an explosion in global commodity prices, creating explosive conditions in the most food-dependent region in the world, in the most demographically explosive region in the world. The confluence of poverty and youth proved a toxic combination, to the detriment of authoritarian regimes that had endured for decades. The collapse of the Libyan regime (2011–2012) allowed for the dissemination of weapons from North Africa to Mali, where former Tuareg tribesmen used them to stage their own uprising. The conflict in the Sahel established a lasting pattern. Every militia builds its brand by investing in a “global terrorist”—a personality cult—evoking terrorist brands such as the Islamic State or Al Qaeda (Hammerschlag, 2020). While their Takfiri radical discourse gives them their declared raison d’être, these groups depend, for their sustenance, on organised crime: trafficking in people, weapons, substances, precious metals, etc. In turn, these regular financial

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flows fund access to modern communications technology, which enables them to produce and release their propaganda.1 In an environment where commercial and terrorist operations are often indistinguishable, these post-national conflicts create a unique geopolitical situation. Borders are porous, while astute militias exploit ethnic divisions and intercommunal disputes to expand their influence. For instance, when Malian or the Burkinabe military forces mindlessly attack a community, militias soon step in to offer protection, gaining control over gold mines and forging alliances with prosecuted ethnic groups. The victims become the victimisers. In Syria, the pro-democracy demonstrations in Deraa (March 2011) were met with deadly military force, which triggered an armed response by the Assad regime. Soon, various militia groups, operating under different Jihadi brands, found sponsors and recruited volunteers from all around Europe, Russia and Central Asia. Hundreds of rebel groups sprung up, before the Assad regime turned to Russia for support. The region was walking into an Arab winter, with the implosion of states and institutions, opening vacuums of power for the proxy encounter of regional powerhouses—the United Arab Emirates, Saudi Arabia, Turkey and Qatar—all of whom had stakes in the regional redistribution of power.

The Political Framing of the European Refugee Crisis These historic currents combined explosively in Syria, with the unravelling of the rule of law, leading to the destruction of some of the oldest and most prosperous urban centres in the Near East, triggering mass population displacement. During the initial phase of the Syrian refugee crisis, Turkey pursued an open-door policy. Everyone seeking shelter and safety—irrespective of whether they held a valid passport—was entitled to humanitarian aid in the camps built in one of Turkey’s border towns. For Syrians, this open-­door policy was complemented with the right to non-refoulement and indefinite residence (Kaya, 2020; Kaya & Nagel, 2020; Özden, 2013). This policy 1  As for example, “ISIS video appears to show the beheading of a US journalist”, https:// www.youtube.com/results?search_query=isis+youtube+beheading, or “New ISIS video shows English-speaking boy beheading man” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZR asTCSevtQ

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was founded on the assumption that the war in Syria would soon come to an end, and refugees would return. Starting from mid-2012, the flow of Syrian refugees was disrupted (Togral, 2015), and international NGOs began reporting formal denials of entry (Human  Rights  Watch, 2012; Dinçer et al., 2013). Turkey eventually became the country that hosts the largest number of Syrian refugees. Out of more than four million refugees living in Turkey, 3.5 million are Syrians living under temporary protection. During the long summer of 2015, according to UNHCR (2015), more than 911,000 refugees and migrants reached European shores, while 3550 people died trying. Nearly 850,000 people reached Greece from Syria via Turkey (IOM, 2016). The majority were Syrians, followed by Iraqis and Afghans. A few months prior to the peak of the Aegean route crisis, Europe was facing a challenge in the Central Mediterranean, with people making their way from sub-Saharan Africa, via Libya, to the Mediterranean coast, primarily Italy. The combined people streams strained the resources of the European Union, polarising political systems and dividing Europe among first-entry countries, and the more affluent EU countries where the migrants were heading. The lamentable situation in the camps of Lesbos (Amnesty International, 2019) and Lampedusa (Amnesty International 2015, 2015a, 2015b) called for a European response. There were roughly two responses from Brussels: first, more funding for the accommodation of immigrants in Greece and Italy and, secondly, an attempt to find a formula for the sharing of the responsibility to host asylum seekers across the Union (Carrera et al., 2015; Collett & Le Coz, 2018). Member states welcomed the extra funding and, following the publication of pictures of a drowned three-year-old boy, Aylan Kurdi, on the coast of Lesbos, there was a massive wave of public support and solidarity. This mass explosion of empathy, allowed European governments to rethink the strict implementation of the Dublin II Regulation, stipulating that people on the move can only apply for asylum at the point of entry. In September 2015, the news of a fridge truck found next to a highway with 71 dead people inside focused minds and triggered justified collective shame. Thousands of demonstrators took to the streets in Austria to protest against the country’s stringent asylum policy. The crowds made their way to the Westbahnhof station to welcome trains from Budapest en route to Munich. People were giving asylum seekers money, food and clothes, while the Archdiocese of Vienna opened its parishes to asylum seekers in need. In Munich, German authorities were asking the public to stop bringing donations, as the public stormed the Hauptbahnhof station in

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Munich with everything they could carry. Images of solidarity quickly reverted to a time-tested securitisation discourse linking migrants with the demise of the welfare state and terrorism (Gonzales and  Sigona, 2017; Hartwig, 2020; Huysmans, 2000; Bigo, 1994, 1996). What ensued were clashes among EU member states over the distribution of asylum seekers and the need to stem the flow of migrants (De Genova, 2016). This securitisation (Buzan et al., 1998; Bigo, 2006) of a humanitarian issue through the social construction of a “cultural invasion” in Europe, was instrumentalised by populist governments all around Europe, and had an impact on all EU member states. In the autumn of 2015, Chancellor Angela Merkel called for the proportionate distribution of asylum seekers in Europe, with Germany taking the most significant number of refugees. Indeed, by the end of 2015, 1.1 million migrants arrived in Germany, and the pressure to stem the flow was impossible to ignore (Kroet, 2016). Subsequently, the German chancellor experienced the worst political pushback in her career as chancellor, particularly from the President of the Christian Social Union, Horst Seehofer.

Securitising Migration From the summer of 2015 to the first quarter of 2016, the public discourse around asylum seekers grew more hostile. The November 13 attacks in Paris marked a turning point: the perpetrators were EU citizens that had been to Syria and returned back with fake passports. On November 17, 2015, France reacted, invoking for the first time the mutual assistance clause (42.7) of the Lisbon Treaty, asking for aid and assistance from the other EU member states. On November 20, the Justice and Home Affairs Ministers’ Council met in Brussels to discuss the bloc’s collective response to what was regarded as Europe’s 9/11 moment. At the ensuing press conference, Luxemburg’s Internal Security Minister, Etienne Schneider, reiterated ‘the time to act is now’, conveying a sense of urgency. The French Interior Minister, Bernard Cazeneuve, characteristically noted that everyone should ‘speed up or lose Europe’. The agenda of the meeting boiled down to one item: data sharing (DW, 20.11.2015). The December 2015 Council took place in a dense political climate, amidst ongoing investigations in Belgium and France, with terrorists looming at large. Christiane Taubira, the French Minister of Justice, praised existing EU instruments: the European Arrest Warrant, Police

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Joint Investigations Teams and the ECRIS (the European Criminal Records Information System). In reference to the Council’s 2008 Framework Decision (2008/913/JHA), Taubira urged for a broader definition of terrorism so that there would be greater scope for data sharing. Bernard Cazeneuve insisted on the need to monitor return-fighters from Syria, which necessitated data sharing.2 Tragically, the flow of migrants within the Schengen Area did offer opportunities for terrorist activity, although all individuals involved in the Paris and Brussels attacks were, in fact, EU citizens using fake Syrian passports. The first challenge was the return migration of EU citizens from Syria and Iraq; the second challenge was a Single Market and travel area without unified means of safeguarding them. In regulatory terms, migration and freedom of movement were intrinsically linked. You could not have controlled movement within the Schengen Area and checks on the border. Terrorist attacks in Brussels and Paris provided an operational justification for the suspension of freedom of movement, but there was now a call for regulation that would allow the policing of the Schengen Area. After long and heated debates, on April 27, 2016, the European Parliament and Council adopted a Directive on the use of passenger name record (PNR) data3 for the prevention, detection, investigation and prosecution of terrorist offences and serious crimes. This partly addressed the issue of how to regulate freedom of movement but did little to dissuade and appease public fear of terrorism coming through Syria and Iraq to Europe, even if this was an issue of repatriation of homegrown terrorists rather than migration. Governments around Europe tried to tame or harness popular fear, and there was more and more “wall-building”, within Donald Trump’s political discourse. The Schengen Area was crumbling. Barbed wire fences, initially erected along the Greek and Bulgarian borders with Turkey, were now erected by Hungary’s Victor Orban along the border with Croatia. Slovenia and Croatia erected their own walls. On January 4, 2016, Sweden and Denmark were tightening border controls, disrupting the daily commute of 8600 cross-border workers between Copenhagen and Malmö.4  From an Interview at the Council of the EU, March 2019.  https://eur-lex.europa.eu/eli/dir/2016/681/oj 4  Sweden had taken in 300,000 asylum seekers, with a population of merely 9.5 million. Denmark received merely 18,000 but proceeded with a historically unprecedented set of anti-immigration measures, legislating to allow border guards to seize migrants’ belongings to pay for the cost of their accommodation. From a normative perspective, Denmark was 2 3

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Denmark closed its borders with Germany, checking the IDs of anyone passing, for the first time in 50 years. By March 2016, Austria was sending police officers to North Macedonia to seal off the borders with Greece: a Schengen state was cooperating bilaterally with a third country to seal off the border of a Schengen member state with the intention of disrupting the flow of migrants. Focusing on the short-term crisis at hand, Commissioner Avramopoulos pledged closer cooperation with Turkey, referring to Ankara as a ‘necessary partner’ in the crisis.5 To fortify the external borders of EU territory against refugees—and perspective terrorists—the European Commission linked border management with Turkey’s EU accession hopes (İçduygu, 2007). In sum, the EU internalised the terrorist threat in Syria, externalising the challenge of migration to Turkey, establishing a long-lasting pattern (Brandao, 2015). In the spirit of political urgency, the EU and Ankara adopted a Joint Action Plan (JAP) in November 2015, with Brussels inducing Ankara to cooperate institutionally and transactionally. The plan was followed by the Joint Statement of March 2016, committing Turkey to work with EU member states and other third countries to stem the flow of illegal migration. As of March 20, 2016, irregular migrants arriving in EU territory would be readmitted by Turkey: for each readmitted Syrian refugee, a Syrian living in Turkey would be resettled in the EU (EU-Turkey Statement, 2016). The agreement did entail a transaction: while Turkey committed to retaining its refugee population, the EU pledged to financially assist Turkey to accommodate and integrate newly arrived Syrians (Kaya, 2020). From Libya to Belarus, the instrumentalisation of migrant flows to force the EU into a transactional relationship is a pattern many regimes on Europe’s periphery emulate.

not, in fact, suspending Schengen regulation, having an Area of Freedom, Security and Justice (AFSJ) opt out. However, the country was abiding by Schengen regulation on an intergovernmental basis although there were serious doubts as to whether Denmark was upholding the ECHR obligations. 5  “The EU needs Turkey and Turkey needs the EU. This relationship is part of a longer shared history and partnership, but most importantly, of a common perspective” (Avramopoulos, 15.6.2016).

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The Difficulty of Militarising Migration Management The EU’s response to common migration crises suggests an inability to foster strategic coherence, a fact with tactical implications in any military operation. In the absence of a European response to the security vacuum along Europe’s periphery—from Morocco to Turkey—stems a plethora of frequently competing national responses. The UK, France, Germany, Italy and Spain have often failed to foster a common position vis-à-vis regimes in the region, as national security policy reflects distinct member states’ geopolitical considerations. The Commission’s attempt to create a settlement-­ sharing mechanism for the settlement of asylum seekers— based on member state population and GDP—missed the point. EU member states sought primarily to avoid asylum settlement amid an increasingly toxic political environment in which migration discourse was securitised. The ability of the EU to respond as a bloc has been politically untenable. The Dublin II Regulation was discredited as countries on the periphery of the EU could not deal with the volume of asylum applications from hundreds of thousands of migrants in a short period of time. At the same time, EU institutions were required to uphold human rights standards prescribed by the European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR) that could not be squared with their tactical priority of stemming migration flows. According to a 2016 Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe Report (PACE), the migration management regime that emerged during 2015 in the EU ‘at best strains and at worst exceeds the limits of what is possible under European and international law’. The EU’s reference to an ‘exceptional situation’ was dismissed as problematic: temporary was the erection of borders in the Schengen Area; the assertive diversion of migrants was a permanent feature of European security culture. The strategic tension between upholding human rights standards and being responsive to domestic political considerations was obvious. Soon, this tension became apparent on a tactical level as well. In May 2015, the EU was pressed for a response to the surging flow of migrants via the Central Mediterranean route: from sub-Saharan Africa via Libya to Italy. Rome needed assistance, not only in the management of the humanitarian crisis that ensued following the collapse of Qadhafi regime, but also assistance with an unfolding humanitarian crisis as more and more lives were lost at sea. Following the Commission’s ‘European Agenda on Migration’

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(May 2015), and in response to the loss of 700 lives off the coast of Lampedusa (April 2015), the European Council concluded that it would ‘mobilise all efforts at its disposal to prevent further loss of life at sea and to tackle the root causes of the human emergency’. Operating off the coast of Libya while the country was plunged into civil war, presented a number of challenges. Since the Anglo-French intervention in Libya there was no political consensus in Europe or indeed at the United Nations on who was ultimately responsible for crisis management. Paris, Rome, London and Berlin were not necessarily aligned when it came to dealing with warring factions on the ground. The only consensus was on the need for the EU to strengthen its presence at sea. The response was a Council Decision (CSDP 2015/778) mandating the deployment of a military naval operation: EUNAVFOR MED. The operation’s model was undeniably inspired by EUNAVFOR Operation Atalanta off the Horn of Africa (Blockmans, 2016; Brandao, 2015). However, from the outset, the deployment of military instruments to deal with a civilian crisis (framed in security terms), presented a number of challenges (Bosilca et al., 2021). The first issue at hand was the question of a mandate, as the EU operation did not have a UNSC backing or an invitation from the Libyan state. Therefore, EU vessels could only operate in international waters. That operational limitation was of strategic significance. Article 1 of the Council Decision states that EUNAVFOR MED was meant to undertake systematic efforts to ‘identify, capture and dispose of vessels and assets used or suspected of being used by smugglers or traffickers’ off the coast of Libya. In practice, EU vessels could not disrupt the flow of migrants. According to a report compiled by the British House of Lords and published in May 2016, the EU’s mission did not ‘deter the flow of migrants, disrupt the smugglers’ networks, or impede the business of people-smuggling on the central Mediterranean route’. That is because 30 odd miles off the coast of Libya, one does not engage in activity that could put lives at risk. Migration could only be stemmed in cooperation with the Libyan regime and an international mandate. On September 28, 2015, the CSDP mission was renamed Operation Sophia, after a baby girl born aboard one of the mission’s ships off the coast of Libya. On June 14, 2016, the UNSC adopted resolution 2292/2016, authorising the inspection of suspected embargo-breaking vessels off Libya’s coast. This provided EU vessels in the region with a mandate to

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enforce the embargo through intelligence gathering, patrols and inspections, but only in international waters. Without a legal basis (UNSC Resolution or an agreement with the internationally recognised government of Tripoli), it was impossible to operate in Libyan territorial waters or the territory of Libya. On June 20, 2016, the Council extended the mandate of the operation until July 27, 2017, adding two more tasks: the training of Libyan coast guard and navy, and contributing to the implementation of the UN arms embargo on the high seas, off the coast of Libya.6 Of great significance however was the scope of the mandate of Operation Sophia: it was a potentially coercive mandate, as it involved enforcement actions that went far beyond crisis management. That was a game-­changing development, as the EU added a ‘peace enforcement’ dimension to its operational mandate (Tardy, 2015), widening the scope for CSDP missions to include intervention beyond EU borders. Tensions that occurred during the objective of stemming migration and the use of military assets could also be observed during the Syrian refugee crisis in the East Mediterranean. As migrants were transiting through Turkey to the EU border with Greece in the autumn of 2015, Ankara would not cooperate with a Frontex-headed response effort as a “third country”. Prioritising the stemming of the migrant flow, Germany, Greece and Turkey proposed in February 2016 that NATO extended maritime assistance, a decision authorised by NATO Ministers of Defense on February 11, 2016. The scope of NATO’s Standing Maritime Group 2 (SNMG2) mission was to provide real-time intelligence to the Greek and Turkish coastguards and FRONTEX, enabling timely intervention to disrupt the passage of vessels from Asia Minor to the islands of the Aegean Archipelago (NATO, 2016). NATO stressed that its participation was in support of member states’ efforts, and this did not constitute a militarisation of Europe’s response to the refugee crisis (Drent, 2018). That argument was not entirely convincing. NATO’s 2010 Strategic Concept refers to ‘illegal trafficking of people’ as one of the security challenges for the Alliance (NATO, 2019). By July 2016, the SNMG2 6  On March 29, 2019, the Council extended the mandate of operation EUNAVFOR Sophia, until March 2020. However, due to Italian reactions the operation was to cease maritime patrols, relying exclusively on air patrols and coordination with Libya (Mantini, 2019). In 2020 it was replaced by EU NAVFOR Irini (Council, 2020).

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operation in the Aegean was codenamed ‘Operation Sea Guardian’ and was linked to the Active Endeavour counter-terrorism mission in the Mediterranean, making an explicit link between people on the move and terrorism. Secretary-General Jens Stoltenberg habitually referred to the operation’s success by celebrating the reduction in migrant arrivals rather than the arrest of smugglers.7 Again, strategic incoherence led to an incoherent interpretation of what constituted military success.

Migration Crises and Institution-Building EU maritime responses to successive migration surges in the Central and Eastern Mediterranean routes made clear that the EU needed a more reliable and cohesive response to a challenge that was not likely to subside. During the Libyan crisis, DG Home commissioned a feasibility study on an EU-wide integrated border management system (Jeandesboz et  al., 2013; Unisys, 2008). This study underpinned the European Commission’s proposal for the development of fully operational EU border force presented in December 2015 (European Border and Coast Guard System). The Commission’s plan envisaged an agile and self-sufficient border force with the competence to support joint return operations and rapid interventions outside the EU. The proposal was debated, amended and finally approved by the European Parliament on July 6, 2016. Frontex was indeed invested with a substantially expanded budgetary facility and a 1500-strong rapid reserve pool of border guards. In November 2019 the Council and the Parliament adopted a new resolution on the EBCG that increased even further the 7  The statement of the Secretary General reads as follows: “Thanks to our joint efforts, together with Greece and Turkey, the flow of migrants has decreased substantially” (Ekathimerini. com, 27.10.2016). There was however plenty of additional subtext in EU-Turkish cooperation within NATO. Beyond the feel-good factor of Greek-Turkish cooperation in the Aegean Sea, there was an implicit contribution to deterrence. In November 2015, a Su-24 jet fighter plane was gunned down by two Turkish F16s in Syria. Turkey claims the Russian jetfighter violated Turkish airspace; Russia claimed this never happened. The two sides never agreed on a common version of events. What is known is that one of the Russian pilots ended up in the hands of the Nusra Front militia, an Al Qaeda affiliate that Moscow claimed was Turkey-sponsored. The pilot’s assassination triggered an unprecedented crisis between Ankara and Moscow. It was thought that a NATO operation in the region could provide forward warning on Russian activity around Latakia, Syria. Moreover, a maritime escalation of the standoff between Turkey and Russia would be avoided, given the presence of NATO assets in the region.

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agency’s autonomy and powers, while it reduced operational dependency on member states.8 The agency would now have its own statutory staff: by 2027, a standing force of 10,000 border guards should be in place, forming the EU’s first uniformed Service, and turning FRONTEX from a powerless agency to a significant actor (Hartwig, 2020). The Agency is now tasked with the responsibility to support members’ activities on border control and cooperation with third countries (Regulation EU 2019/1896). Following successive reforms in 2016 and 2019, Frontex is now responsible for evaluating the “vulnerability” of a particular hot spot along the periphery of the EU and submit an action plan to address the perceived crisis. Cooperation with the concerned member state is no longer entirely voluntary. If the member state that is seen as vulnerable, disputes the framing of the situation or contests the action plan, the Agency can refer the matter to the Council, which, based on a Commission’s Proposal and after consultation with the Agency, may decide to take urgent action. However, the concerned member state or any other member state has the power to block this decision (Schotel, 2021). The Commission’s original proposal on the European Border and Coast Guard in 2016 involved the possibility of the agency being deployed, at the behest of the Commission, on the territory of a member state, even against the wishes of that state, thereby rendering the agency and its reserve force at its disposal (Hartwig, 2020; European Commission, 2016). The Commission tried again to introduce the “right” to intervene in the 2019 Regulation, but without success (Regulation 2019/1896). This request came when certain Greek islands were nearly sinking under the pressure of tens of thousands of people while the backlog from processing asylum applications was mounting in Western Europe. The Council insisted that such competence should remain at an intergovernmental level, although the institutional remit of Frontex did substantially expand. The uncontested leap forward was the new power of Frontex to deploy its reserve pool abroad (Regulation 2016/1624) in ‘joint operations with neighbouring third countries’.9 The European Border and Coast Guard 8  Most recently, in 2020, the agency was granted a €5.6 billion budget, the largest of any EU agency. This is matched by the ability to acquire and lease its own equipment (vessels, vehicles, airplanes, drones, radars etc.), putting an end to the agency’s dependency on contributions from EU member states. (https://corporateeurope.org/en/lobbying-fortress-europe) 9  “In cases where it is envisaged that teams will be deployed to a third country in actions where the team members will have executive powers, or where other actions in third coun-

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Agency (Frontex), based in Warsaw, is managed by an Executive Director and technical intergovernmental subcommittees who meet regularly to discuss various areas of cooperation, which include data sharing, empowered with new surveillance and communication services, analysing operational challenges and emerging risks in the maritime domain (FRONTEX website).10 The somewhat unregulated relationship between AFSJ and the CSDP is evolving through overlapping actions, resources and mandates (Parkes, 2019: 8). The policy instruments of AFSJ and CSDP co-exist (Arteaga, 2017), despite the Lisbon Treaty abandoning Maastricht’s three-pillar system. The reason is partly institutional. The EU seems to prefer a more case-by-case approach in dealing with its two operational arms. The normative and intellectual appeal of a joined-up approach between the civilian CSDP, the Commission and the JHA (Faleg, 2020) did not initially tally with the multicentric political nexus. The demand for a standard EU toolbox for crisis management and integrated response to external crises could only result from catalytic crises (Parkes, 2019). Fighting its corner, the Commission has tried and failed to carve out direct competence over hard security power, which the Council prefers to keep strictly intergovernmental or assign to an independent agency. Parliamentary sources suggest that MEPs favour ASFJ operations that are more integrated with EU structures and are, therefore, more parliamentary accountable.11 During the 2015 crisis, which was much more than a migration crisis, the EU was forced to mobilise a range of security instruments—intelligence gathering and operational activities (Statewatch, 2019)—with the Brussels power nexus waking up to the need for new policy instruments. The inability to respond cohesively, accentuated polarisation and undermined crisis-response capacity and counter-terrorism policy. This critical juncture initially pushed forward the fusion of the domestic-international security agendas, catalysing a call for the merging of mandates, instruments and capabilities.

tries require it, a status agreement shall be concluded by the Union with the third country concerned. The status agreement shall cover all aspects that are necessary for carrying out the actions. It shall in particular set out the scope of the operation, civil and criminal liability and the tasks and powers of the members of the teams. The status agreement shall ensure the full respect of fundamental rights during these operations”. 10  https://frontex.europa.eu/we-support/european-cooperation 11  Interview with three Members of SEDE Subcommittee, 28.3.2019.

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The decision to combine external and internal security instruments took the form of ‘conversion’ (Streeck & Thelen, 2005; Mahoney & Thelen, 2010), namely the transformation of existing institutions through broadening mandates, exemplified in the case of Frontex. The political leap forward proceeded from a rupture that unveiled the sterility of existing institutional arrangements, or a “critical juncture”. The flow of migrants and refugees from Syria and sub-Saharan Africa made the EU reconsider the institutional division of labour, initially gravitating towards practical and “on the spot” solutions, later reverting to more long-term institutional and military responses to emerging hybrid security challenges (Drent & Zandee, 2016). Operation Sophia was the first CSDP operation that fused internal policy and external security challenges (Tardy, 2015), calling for a policy instrument with both domestic and international competitions that were not in place. Responses required the piloting of new cooperative frameworks between the member states and the Commission, NATO and the EU, FRONTEX and Europol, FRONTEX and NATO, member states and third states. The subsequent emergence of the European Border and Coast Guard under the regulations of 2016 and 2019 can be seen as consolidating civil-military “lessons learnt” in an institutional network. Interestingly, the European Parliament has a more significant influence in the definition of the different JHA agencies’ structures and tasks: The new institutional mandate of Europol, Eurojust or Frontex and their operations are presented, debated and contested in the European Parliament, holding agencies to account for activity both inside and outside the Union, much more than in any CSDP military mission (Trauner, 2011). On the other hand, the Commission, on several occasions, tried to influence the mandate and tasks of the EBCG, with limited success. As Lebow notes (2000), ‘actual change depends upon contingency, catalysts and actors’.

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CHAPTER 10

The Rupture of the Anglosphere

In 2016 Europe woke up to a world in which ideology mattered, strategically. The United States and the UK were articulating a language of strategic detachment from Europe. The question was how far-reaching that detachment would be and what would be the effect on Europe’s security architecture. As the UK voted to leave the European Union, enlargement lost one of its most fervent advocates, as did the idea of humanitarian intervention enforced in Kosovo and Libya. Furthermore, the EU was losing one of only two nuclear powers in Europe, one of only two military forces with an expeditionary force able to project power globally, a permanent member of the Security Council, and a country able to assimilate game changing technologies that are changing the nature of warfare, including satellite communications, unmanned vehicles, artificial intelligence and robotics. At the same time, the UK’s exit means that France’s strategic significance in the Continent is unmatched, and there is less significant resistance to the concept of European Strategic autonomy. This British retreat was combined with the return of American isolationism, a political current absent from Washington since the end of the Second World War. With the election of President Trump, it was now conceivable that Europe would not be able to count on the American security umbrella. The crisis was a long time coming, as Washington was engaged in two open-ended conflicts—Iraq and Afghanistan—exhausting © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 M. Koppa, The Evolution of the Common Security and Defence Policy, St Antony’s Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-99158-6_10

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the country’s resilience. Having sacrificed people and treasure without achieving tangible strategic results, the ability of the United States to engage in international security affairs was strained. During the Obama administration, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton made the case for redirecting American energy from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Meanwhile, Republican candidate Donald Trump campaigned on a promise to either make Europe pay for protection or just withdraw from NATO. This kind of transactional discourse focused minds. The EU needed to prepare for a world in which the Americans would be disengaging from the European security system, while the UK would take a political back seat in strategic leadership.

The Rupture of Britain In the early 2000s, the UK played a leading role in Common Security and Defence, with a key presence in operations Concordia (Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia), EUFOR Althea (Bosnia-Herzegovina) and later on with EUNAVFOR Atalanta (Horn of Africa) (Soder, 2010). The driver of such cooperation was bilateral cooperation with France. However, when France and Germany refused to follow the United States in Iraq (Heisbourg, 2018; Biscop, 2012), British commitment to EU defence cooperation waned. In effect, Britain ceased to invest politically in ESDP after the Iraq War of 2003, when it became clear that the EU could not be relied upon to contribute to an American-led security order (Heisbourg, 2016). Despite being one of the big three of CSDP, along with Germany and France, the UK had been systematically obstructing any effort for further integration in the area of defence. London blocked any move towards the creation of a European Operational Headquarters, vetoing the activation of the Lisbon Treaty’s  provisions on Permanent Structured Cooperation (PESCO), while also blocking further funding of the European Defence Agency (EDA) (Howorth, 2017b). By default, the departure of CSDP’s “spoiler in chief” meant that Brexit was an accelerant of the process of security policy integration (Biscop, 2018; Mix, 2015). Articulating American concerns, as early as 2012, the British Defence Secretary Philip Hammond had been admonishing NATO member states for their failure to spend 2% of their GDP on defence. The UK’s military spending accounted for 22.4% of NATO’s, its armed forces represented 12% of the combined force and contributed 21% of troops deployed in

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NATO operations (Biscop, 2012). In an EU framework by contrast, the UK’s personnel contribution to CSDP missions and operations accounted to just 2.3% of member states’ contributions. Still, the UK contributed 15% of the budget of civilian missions and 17% of the military missions’ common costs (House of Lords, 2018). Overall, Britain added to the credibility of European collective security. While London would not underwrite a security framework that was “European” rather than Euro-Atlantic, London did play a leading security role in the Continent. The UK provided the operational HQ for the ATALANTA anti-piracy operation off the Horn of Africa and the country’s contribution in intelligence, counter-terrorism, conflict prevention, defence spending and military capabilities were second to none. That contribution came hand in hand with a quasi-permanent British veto on security and defence cooperation in a European framework. Following the UK’s exit, that veto was obsolete, unleashing potential for cooperation between EU member states, as was originally envisaged by the Lisbon Treaty. Cameron was the fifth consecutive leader to face a make-or-break challenge to his leadership over the question of Europe. John Major angered the Eurosceptic wing of the party by forcing through Parliament the Maastricht Treaty, rupturing the party, and losing the 1997 general elections. Under the ‘save the pound’ banner, William Hague won the campaign for the leadership of the Conservative Party from the pro-European Ken Clarke, only to lose the 2001 UK general elections. Iain Duncan Smith won again the leadership contest over Ken Clarke, only to lose again the UK general elections. While Cameron came to office with the promise to stop talking about Europe, in reality, he kept appeasing the Eurosceptic wing of his party. One of his first concessions was to leave the centre-right European People’s Party (EPP) and stand shoulder to shoulder with the far-right Alternative for Germany (AfD) and the Polish Law and Justice Party (PiS). In 2011 he conceded a referendum on EU membership and tried to secure a British exception on freedom of movement, that would address his party’s anti-­ immigration sentiment. The Leave campaign was all about housing, social services, schools or, in a word, migrants. The language of British detachment from the EU gravitated around the slogan ‘take back control’, with campaigners explicitly or implicitly linking the movement of people with terrorism and poverty, housing, declining levels of social services, access to housing, etc.

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Moreover, mass migration from Syria and Iraq and the Paris attacks created a toxic background. During the campaign, Prime Minister David Cameron and Home Affairs Secretary Theresa May had made the case for “Remain” by reference to domestic security considerations: the European Arrest Warrant, intelligence sharing and access to important databases (2016). Their views were echoing the British security establishment (Niblett, 2016), including former Chiefs of Staff, senior military officers and Foreign Secretary Philip Hammond (Wither, 2017). That was the Conservative view. However, the Leave campaign was pointing to Turkey’s potential EU membership while linking the Paris attacks to migration, making the ‘take back control’ slogan a question of national security. On the 23rd of June 2016, the UK voted to leave the EU. It is interesting to note that all sides of the debate on British EU membership liked to quote Winston Churchill. A Remain campaigner would evoke the ‘United States of Europe’ quote, while Leave campaigners would lean towards the ‘we are in Europe but not of it’. The referendum result was narrow: 52% voted Leave against 48% Remain. The debate had little to do with a cost-­ benefit analysis of the UK’s 47-year engagement with the project of European integration. This was a heated campaign that was driven by emotional engagement.

The Comeback of American Isolationism The election of Donald Trump to the presidency of the United States in November 2016 was something of a sequel to the Brexit campaign. He was the fifth President of the United States to win the Electoral College but lose the overall popular vote. While none of these facts delegitimised his victory, this fact accentuated a sense of domestic polarisation. Echoing the Leave campaign in the UK, President-elect Trump had campaigned on calls for selective immigration that would ban Muslims and a promise to build a wall along the southern border with Mexico. From a historical perspective, the most worrying aspect of the campaign of the 45th President was a sense of déjà vu, as he was borrowing a campaign slogan that had been deployed by the 30th President, Calvin Coolidge (1923–1929). Coolidge was known for his 1921 ‘Whose Country Is This?’ article in which he called for selective immigration that would welcome Nordics and North Europeans and exclude Chinese, Japanese, South Europeans and Polish Jews. ‘Our first duty is to our own

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people’, Coolidge argued, calling for ‘American jobs for American workmen’. Trump’s ‘America First’ slogan was not remarkable for its innovation but for its historical roots (Dearstyne, 2019). Worryingly, President Trump’s views were not marginal, even if they were extreme. Successive polls made clear that his views on race and immigration were part of the Republican mainstream, even if they did not represent what Europeans recognised as the Republican establishment. But the new generation of Republican leaders was not culturally worlds apart from the Republican nominee. Texas Governor Ted Cruz was vehemently condemning the prospect of receiving asylum seekers from Syria, a political line echoed by numerous governors. When President Trump came to office, appointing Steve Bannon as his Chief Strategist, the links between European and North American alt-right became more explicit. Trump’s entourage could be linked directly to Geert Wilders, Marine Le Pen and Nigel Farage (Wolf and Elgot, 2016). In sum, President Trump was part of a movement that was committed to the demise of the project of European integration. The Trump and Brexit campaigns were mutually reinforcing, while the nationalist rhetoric of both campaigns had tangible effects on European security arrangements. The United States elected a President who campaigned on Reagan’s ‘Make America Great Again’ motto and came to office with an ‘America First’ inaugural speech. On the campaign trail, Donald Trump was critical of European defence spending and called into question NATO’s Article V guarantees (Feliu, 2016). Placing the Alliance in a more transactional framework, candidate Trump was inviting Europeans to forget the American security umbrella unless they paid their bills (NBC, 21.7.2016). In some instances, candidate Trump even spoke of the possibility of pulling the United States out of NATO altogether. ‘I think NATO may be obsolete’, he said on the campaign trail. Days before his inauguration, in a joint interview with the Times of London and Germany’s Bild tabloid, he confirmed that in his view, ‘NATO was obsolete because it was designed many, many years ago’.

Transatlantic Insecurity Conventional wisdom suggests that Conservatism is about the preservation of traditional values and the socioeconomic status quo. A Conservative choice is meant to be an establishment choice, or an aspirational choice focusing on opportunity rather than social disruption. That view of

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Conservatism was changing both in the UK and the United States. The Leave and Trump movements were dimensions of a disruptive transformation in Conservative politics that could have profound implications for security discourse. One of the common denominators between the Leave and Trump campaigns was the innovative use of so-called psychosocial targeting, utilising social media data to instrumentally engage voters with social anxieties (Merrill & Goldhill, 2020; Bennett & Lyon, 2019). These two anti-­ establishment populist campaigns, called into question the legitimacy of liberal democratic institutions, articulating a language of authoritarian values infused with the centrality of anti-migrant discourse (Norris & Ingleheart, 2019). The two campaigns shared technological crews, funders, media platforms, intellectual leadership and ideological traits. It was unclear how significantly disruptive these movements would be for European security. What was clear was that both campaigns vilified multilateralism and favoured sovereigntist politics with transparent and largely transactional international relations. As Theresa May was forming her post-Brexit cabinet, Foreign Secretary Boris Johnson was seeking to ease concerns in Europe over the UK’s commitment to European collective security. ‘We are leaving the EU, not Europe’, Johnson told the House of Common’s Foreign Affairs Committee in 2016, framing the Brexit mandate as a call to restore control over the British border (BBC, 14.10.2016). The Prime Minister echoed this message in her communication with Europe. In her Florence speech of September 2017, Theresa May repeated the term ‘security’ 34 times, while trade got only 24 mentions (Wasowicz, 2017). The idea was that a focus on security cooperation would resonate politically across the Continent and at home (UK Government, Florence Speech, 2017). The British Conservative Party remained divided over Europe. May’s stewardship of Brexit negotiations was seen as illegitimate, as she was essentially a Remain campaigner yielding the benefits of a Leave victory. Eurosceptic conservatives were seeking a cleaner break with the EU (Hughes, 2017), leaving behind a “declining” Single Market to explore global opportunity, primarily with the United States.1 That appetite for rupture became more pronounced in June 2017, when Theresa May led a catastrophic campaign that shrank her majority in the House of Commons,

1

 http://www.voteleavetakecontrol.org/briefing_trade.html

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making her dependent on the support on the Democratic Unionist Party of Northern Ireland and the hard-line European Research Group. The balance was tilting to the extremes. Trump’s appointment of General Jim Mattis as Secretary of Defence initially opened speculation of an “adult in the room” that would reign over the President’s inclination for a Euro-Atlantic rupture. Mattis shared Trump’s concern about the rise of China, although, unlike the President, he also saw Russia as a security threat (O’Hanlon, 2018). In hiring Mattis, the Trump administration appeared committed to NATO (VOX, 12.12.2018). However, there was mixed messaging: The 2017 US National Security Strategy referred to the international world order as a ‘competitive arena’ rather than a ‘community of nations’.2

The Anglosphere Looks to the Pacific To the last breath of its EU membership, the UK aspired to be the leader and advocate of Atlanticists in Europe. From the informal EU Defence Ministers’ Council in Bratislava in September 2016, Sir Michael Fallon underscored that the UK would continue to oppose any duplication of NATO. In a speech at the London School of Economics, the President of the European Parliament, Martin Schulz made clear that the UK no longer had a place around the negotiating table over the future of European Defence (Politico, 23.9.2016). Meanwhile, American neo-isolationism would not subside. Senior Trump administration officials were leaking to the press the President’s intention to withdraw from the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, which he saw as a drain on US resources. Defence Secretary Jim Mattis and national security adviser John R. Bolton resisted the President, making the case that this would dramatically reduce Washington’s influence in Europe and embolden Russia (The New York Times, 14.1.2019). With his conviction unphased, the President continued to undermine key partnerships. Perhaps the most public event was when President Trump called on Angela Merkel to raise defence expenditure immediately, suggesting that Germany was ‘totally controlled by Russia’ (New Yorker, 17.9.2018). The only solace for European leaders was that any executive initiative in Washington was likely to be resisted by Congress and the Senate, as it often was. Trump’s transactional approach to international relations was 2

 trumpwhitehouse.archives.gov/2017

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not merely a matter of erratic behaviour. The US withdrawal from the Join Comprehensive Plan of Action in May 2018 and subsequent credible threats of secondary sanctions against EU member states had a tangible strategic effect (Roubanis, 2021), particularly when set against the background of an escalating trade war (Haass, 2020). Like the Conservative movement led by Boris Johnson, the Republicans vilified multilateralism, withdrawing from the Trans-Pacific Partnership (TPP), the Paris Climate Accord and UNESCO, while leading the court of the World Trade Organisation to an institutional standstill. What President Trump did was to undermine America’s security contract with Europe, questioning the unconditional security guarantees that legitimised American leadership of the Western world. In June 2020 the Trump administration announced the withdrawal of 9500 American soldiers stationed in Germany, without prior consultation with Berlin. That animosity against Germany was welcomed in Warsaw. Poland saw a foreign policy opportunity, as cracks in transatlantic relations are also intra-­ European cracks (Puglierin, 2019). Warsaw wanted to see the redirection of American troops from Germany to a “Fort Trump” in Poland, a security service for which the Poles would pay $2 billion (Reuters, 10.6.2020). In sum, Washington was no longer the arbiter of European unity in Europe. The need to contain such centrifugal powers added to the urgency of European defence integration (Brattberg & Valasek, 2019). It should be noted that the broader strategic question had been looming since the Obama administration. It was not Donald Trump but Secretary of State Hillary Clinton that first made the case for an American Pivot to the Pacific, to face up to the emerging threat of China (Clinton, 2011). In some respects, a Conservative Britain now looked to the Pacific to imbue the “special relationship” with new meaning (Crabtree, 2021). In her Lancaster House Speech, the former Prime Minister, Theresa May launched the slogan of ‘Global Britain’, claiming that the British people have decided ‘to leave the Union and embrace the world’ (January 2017). That global Britain vision has been articulated in the first post-­ Brexit review of Britain’s security policy concept. “Global” in this context is a reference to the Pacific, as, in some respect, a conservative Britain looks to that part of the world to imbue the ‘special relationship’ with new meaning. Institutionally, Britain invests in the traditional concept of the Anglosphere, a security concept that harks back to Winston Churchill’s four-volume History of the English-Speaking Peoples (Langworth, 2013).

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The ‘Anglosphere’ is not merely an ideological construct but a cluster of security institutions whose origins can be traced back to the 1942 Pacific campaign against Japan. These institutions developed uninterrupted through the Cold War, the War on Terror, and are gaining new resonance as the Pacific emerges as the new global centre of geopolitical rivalry. Australia, Canada, New Zealand, the UK and the United States share security institutions that bind them together tighter than NATO member states. The ‘Jewel in the Crown’ in this partnership is the Fives Eyes, the most advanced intelligence alliance in the world. Since the 1940s, the five nations have been working systematically on the standardisation of military equipment between their armed forces, while honing their interoperability in the military, the navy, the Air Force, communications and research and development (FT, 15.10.2021). Their government institutions and legal systems owe much to the British imperial legacy. In February 2021, the UK has also applied for membership of the Comprehensive and Progressive Trans-Pacific Partnership (CPTPP). The most recent episode is the AUKUS security agreement of September 2021, between the United States, the UK and Australia for the Indo-­ Pacific, to the detriment of Australia’s relationship to France. This agreement will undeniably alter the regional balance of power and not only that. There is little doubt that the United States have changed strategic priorities. The question is whether this means that Washington’s commitment to collective European security will continue to erode, or whether there is some substance to Biden’s claim that “America is back”. Another related question is how Britain’s vision for a pivot to the Pacific can transcend the economic and security limitations of its actual geopolitical condition. Britain remains anchored in Europe, as an Atlantic power, of Europe even if not in Europe.

The Persistent Question of British Anchorage to Europe As a representative of traditional British Conservatism, Theresa May realised that the UK cannot sail away to the Pacific. She advocated for continuity of security arrangements with the EU, albeit in a language of “mutual interests”, which tends to circumvent the fact that this is not a bilateral frame, as in the other side of the relationship are 27 member states. Be that as it may, most security analysts predicted that the EU and

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the UK would come to a strategic partnership arrangement with the EU (Whitman, 2018; Dijkstra, 2016; Biscop, 2018, 2018a; Howorth, 2017), which would cover both security and defence. That kind of arrangement would reflect the UK’s weight in European security and would continue to provide London with some degree of leverage over the Continent, which is indispensable to the special relationship with Washington as well. British ambition for a strategic relationship with the EU resonated in Brussels. In a speech at the EU Institute for Security Studies in May 2018, the EU’s Chief Brexit Negotiator Michel Barnier, underscored the need for an ‘ambitious partnership’ between the UK and the EU on foreign and security policy. Days later, the British government responded to Barnier’s invitation with a proposal on EU-UK security and defence cooperation (‘Framework for the UK-EU Security partnership’) that repeated the wish for a ‘new, deep, and special relationship with the EU’, stressing that ‘no existing security agreement between the EU and a third country captures the full depth and breadth of our envisaged relationship’. The UK was seeking to retain some form of engagement with institutions such as Europol, as well as data sharing and legal cooperation on an associate membership status (HM Government, May 2018). May wanted an exceptional arrangement to reflect an exceptional relationship (May, July 2018), underpinned by an EU-UK Treaty (Whitman, 2018). However, Theresa May’s support for a future EU-UK partnership (PM’s Florence Speech 2017) disappeared under Boris Johnson. From the outset, Johnson’s premiership disrupted and discontinued negotiations over a strategic alliance on foreign and security policy (Whitman, 2020; Bond, 2020). The October 2019 Political Declaration accompanying the UK’s Withdrawal Agreement refers vaguely to security cooperation, without framing this partnership institutionally (Bond, 2020). Subsequently, any reference to the 2018 British proposal has been purged from bilateral negotiation documents (UK, HM Government, 2020) and the ‘Global Britain in a competitive age’ (2021) security concept. The current British security narrative (Global Britain, 2021) touches upon the EU-UK relationship in generic terms, prioritising bilateral relations with member states.3 This attitude is reflective of the dominant ideological current in the Conservative Party (Whitman, 2020).

3  “We will strengthen bilateral relationships – particularly, but not solely, with our key allies, the United States, France (via the Lancaster House treaties and the CJEF) and Germany – as

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London’s strategic distance from the EU naturally complicates the efforts for a consistent and coherent CSDP policy framework. Since then, there has been differentiated cooperation both within and outside EU structures; CSDP is now one among many policy frameworks in which collective security stakeholders produce and develop policy in Europe (Grevi et al., 2020). Losing a nuclear power and a defence systems’ powerhouse undermines the legitimacy, capability and credibility of European collective security arrangements. Meanwhile, the UK remains a member of the G7 club and has the economic resources to maintain a unique expeditionary force capacity, able to project power globally (Giegerich & Molling, 2018; Heisbourg, 2018). The fact that France is now the only nuclear power in the EU is an additional systemic challenge for Europe’s collective security. The unchallenged political primacy of Paris can raise fears of hegemonic dominance within the EU, potentially alienating member states ranging from the Netherlands to Poland. In this sense, engaging the UK is significant for the EU not only to maintain the transatlantic partnership but also to guarantee the systemic integrity of the EU. Finally, there are good reasons for the EU to encourage engagement and integration rather than disengagement from the British defence industry (Besch, 2018; Barrie et al., 2018). It has been argued that Brexit will make it even more necessary to find a constructive combination of European partnerships and transatlantic engagement.

European Security After Brexit: The EU Global Strategy Federica Mogherini presented the EU’s Global Security Strategy (EUGS) to the European Council on June 28, 2016, one day after the Brexit referendum. The Council ‘welcomed the presentation’ knowing fully well that Brexit would change everything, as would President Trump’s election a few months down the line. The EUGS made clear that ‘the purpose, even existence of our Union is being questioned’ and was rather timid and reserved in articulating common interests and objectives. The key priority now was resilience, referring to the ‘capacity to absorb and recover from any type of stress or shock’ (Introduction, in Gaub & well as multilateral groupings such as the Joint Expeditionary Force, which comprises the UK, Denmark, Estonia, Finland, Latvia, Lithuania, the Netherlands, Norway and Sweden.”

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Popescu, 2017), as the EU was facing a new generation of threats that tested social and, therefore, institutional integrity. The institutional capacity to adjust and bounce back from such challenges is a looming litmus test, argued Mogherini, calling for new capabilities, procedures, instruments and mechanisms that would allow the EU to address the challenges of a changing geopolitical environment, imbuing with substance the term ‘strategic autonomy’. The aspiration of the EUGS was first and foremost to build consensus, to articulate a European strategic narrative that would be inclusive, pointing towards a cohesive strategic toolbox (Howorth, 2016; Higgott & Reich, 2021; Smith, 2016; Biscop, 2016). However, it provides just a general framework of vague objectives and priorities without clear hierarchisation (Arteaga, 2017). All in all, the Global Strategy was more of a foreign policy concept than a coherent ‘grand strategy’ (Novotna, 2017) that could guide military planning. In line with the Petersberg understanding, the EUGS pointed towards familiar lines of action: peace enforcement, conflict prevention, stabilisation, support for capacity building, humanitarian assistance, and search and rescue missions (Barrie et al., 2018). Arguably, Brexit and Washington’s disengagement added a sense of urgency to having an EU global strategy that could be more ambitious for two reasons: first, Washington could no longer be relied upon to be Europe’s power broker within the Union; secondly, outside the Union, the UK could undermine Europe’s common strategic narrative by lending its backing to alternative visions of security. Clearly, East, West and South of the EU, there have been different threat perceptions. Britain’s exit from the EU makes it much harder to broker a strategic synthesis (Bendiek, 2017). While the Anglosphere looked to the Pacific, Europe’s ability to set common objectives and jointly deploy forces was now a strategic imperative. ‘In challenging times, a strong Union is one that thinks strategically, shares a vision and acts together’, Mogherini noted in 2016 (Mogherini, 2016). This imperative nurtured the ambition of strategic autonomy (Tocci, 2016). In that respect, the most institutionally significant element of the EUGS is the operationalisation of the principle of a multi-speed Europe. The introduction of concepts such as ‘principled pragmatism’ and the need for an ‘integrated approach’ reflected the need to create coalitions of the willing within Europe, particularly in the aftermath of the

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2004 big-bang expansion. Moving towards a European security concept was instrumentally significant for Berlin, in that an EU framing would envelop French hegemonic ambitions while appeasing historical fears of Germany. Historically, Britain was the most fervent advocate of enlargement—“further rather than deeper”—precisely because broader membership undermined consensus and federative aspirations across the policy spectrum. However, in 2016 there was renewed impetus for an EU strategy: an assertive Russia, the emergence of hybrid threats, the annexation of Crimea, the security vacuum in Libya, a surge in terrorist attacks in France, Belgium and the Netherlands, and Brexit. Naturally, the call for a coherent EU position in world affairs remained aspirational and the EUGS could in no way fill the policy vacuum (Arteaga, 2017; Lehne, 2016). However, by making “resilience” the key security aspiration, the intention was to downplay transformative ambitions in the European neighbourhood that could estrange Russia and divide EU member states. Mogherini was setting the stage for a more output-oriented and credible foreign policy that would be focused on a security agenda that did enjoy policy consensus, particularly crisis management. The notion of substantive European “strategic autonomy” would have to wait until the effect of the Anglosphere’s rupture could be fully assessed, which was not possible in December 2016.4 The EU Global Strategy (EUGS) document presented in summer 2016 was a litmus test of consensus-building in the Council, as the Anglosphere— both London and Washington—were leaving behind the notion that the EU is the second pillar of the Euro-Atlantic community. In the consultation process leading to the EUGS context, in April 2016, the European Parliament passed a Resolution entitled ‘The EU in a changing global environment—a more connected, contested and complex world’, calling on the Union to play a more active role in its wider neighbourhood, south and east of the EU.  Beyond aspirations, the report underscored the significance of EU-NATO cooperation, while calling on the Commission to create a five-year periodic strategic review, that would accommodate to changing circumstances in a manner that resembles national security concepts.

4  https://www.consilium.europa.eu/en/press/press-releases/2016/11/14/ conclusions-eu-global-strategy-security-defence/

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European Defence Policy Post-Brexit The rupture with the Anglosphere opened several institutional options at the level of security and defence. The 2016 paradox was clear: Brexit reduced the credibility of Europe as a security actor because the UK accounted for 20% of the EU’s military capabilities and 40% of its defence-­ industrial capabilities (Mix, 2015). At the same time, the UK’s departure emphasised the urgency of asserting the credibility of the CSDP (Biscop, 2018). Less than four days following the UK’s vote to leave the EU, France, Germany and Italy issued a joint statement affirming the need to build on CSDP (WSJ, 27/06/2016). That statement echoed a nine-page strategic document entitled ‘A Strong Europe in a World of Uncertainties’, in which the Foreign Ministers Jean-Marc Ayrault (France) and Frank-Walter Steinmeier (Germany), presented their vision on the future of the Union and declared their intention to accelerate the process of common defence integration (Ayrault & Steinmeier, 2016). On September 11, 2016, the French and German defence ministers issued a position paper calling for joint military headquarters, a single EU budget for military research and the consolidation of procurement.5 Following its publication, Germany’s Steinmeier and Italy’s Pinotti called for nothing less than a ‘Schengen of Defence’ (Le Monde, 10/8/2016; Gentiloni, 15/9/2016; euobserver. com, 12 September 2016), while a German White Paper went as far as to envision a European Defence Union (White Paper on German Security Policy, 2016; Arteaga, 2017; Koenig & Walter-Franke, 2017). For years, French strategic culture fluctuated between ‘political-­military bilateralism and diplomatic eurolateralism’ (de France, 2019). Following Brexit, it was clear that the Anglo-French bilateral relationship cannot drive collective security in Europe. Consequently, France was seeking to create credible alternatives either by adding a military dimension to the Franco-German axis or through broader plurinational frameworks. In his famous Sorbonne speech in September 2017, Macron invited Germany to enter an ever-closer partnership with France: ‘At the beginning of the next decade, Europe needs to establish a common intervention force, a common defence budget and a common doctrine for action’ (Macron, 2017). What Paris proposed was a European intervention initiative, that is, a force that 5  “Revitalizing CSDP towards a comprehensive, realistic and credible Defence in the EU”, September 2016.

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would circumvent cumbersome consultation processes inherent to an EU or NATO policy framework (Mills, 2019). In June 2018, Paris led an EU initiative for the creation of an expeditionary force, reuniting the most capable and willing European countries that could deploy rapidly in crises situations (Letter of Intent of the EI2, 2017; Mills, 2019).6 In this scheme, EI2 was seen as a French reaction to the all-inclusive character of PESCO. The French initiative was initially resisted by Germany for two reasons: first, it was seen as politically divisive (Lazarou & Friede, 2018); secondly, there was a fear that it duplicated the German-led Crisis Response Operation Core (CROC), a PESCO project designed to create an EU quick response expeditionary capability. However, at the end, Germany joined (Koenig, 2018). One of the reasons France had sought over the years to bypass the EU framing of collective security was consistent British obstructionism to any security cooperation framework that advanced European security autonomy. In that sense, Brexit bolstered the chances of EU “strategic autonomy”, fuelling the Franco-German political unity. In his State of the Union Speech of September 2016, the President of the European Commission Jean-Claude Juncker underscored the need for a Europe that protects, empowers and defends (European Commission, Juncker speech, 2016) a goal shared by the Council (FAC, 14.11.2016) and the European Parliament (Report on the “European Defence Union”, 2016/2052 INI). The credibility of this vision was entirely dependent on military capability. Indeed, a Defence Package was presented to the European Council in December 2016, consisting of the Implementation Plan of the EUGS, the European Defence Action Plan (EDAP) (European Commission, 30.11.2016/ 950) and a range of proposals on EU-NATO cooperation. Following European conventional wisdom, the focus was on uniting the industry before uniting the policy. EDAP’s primary objective was the consolidation of a public procurement market, pointing towards the need for ‘member states’ joint acquisition, development and retention of the full spectrum of land, air, space and maritime capabilities’ (EDAP, introduction). As the custodian of the Single Market, the European Commission openly lamented the fact that 80% of national security procurement and more that 90% of research was run within national borders (euractiv, 15/5/2018). 6  Belgium, Denmark, Estonia, Germany, Italy, the Netherlands, Portugal, Spain and the UK were invited to join. Finland, Germany and Sweden joined later raising the total number of participant countries to 13.

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The main idea is that European interests can only be served by a European budget. The 2016 European Defence Action Plan rested on two distinct financial instruments or “windows” (EDAP): a research window and a capability window. The Research dimension of the EDAP was launched in 2017 with a budget of 90 million Euros to fund collaborative EU defence systems research; the instrument was referred to as Preparatory Action on Defence Research (PADR). The Capability window (the EU Defence Industrial Development Program—EDIDP) was launched in 2019 with a 500 million Euros budget to support joint defence capabilities. These two programmes were piloted during the 2014–2020 MFF period, paving the way for further consolidation with the launch of the European Defence Fund (COM 2017/295). Through the new Multiannual Funding Framework (MFF) 2021–2027, the EDF will, for the first time, fund cooperative research and/or co-finance member states’ research projects. To build up its position as a significant stakeholder in defence systems development, the EU multiplied its budgetary commitment with a view to creating European added value. In fact, as the UK was voting to leave the EU, the Single Market was consolidating a common procurement space in which British industry can now only engage as a rule-taker rather than a rule-maker. Through the EDF, the Commission is now gaining influence where supranationalism was practically inexistant. Therefore, the Commission will now weigh on CSDP policy development in a way that will go beyond its formal institutional remit, a process we could describe as a ‘functional spillover’ (Haroche, 2020) from economy to defence. The other side of the coin in this process is that as the EU is taking steps to create a common procurement space—seeking to overcome the diversity of defence systems that undermine operational effectiveness—the European military complex is becoming a stakeholder in shaping EU security and defence policy (De France et al., 2017). This kind of incremental supranationalism would not have been possible with the participation of the UK. Because political guidance on common defence policy is the remit of the High Representative, while regulatory oversight is the remit of the Commission’s Directorate General for Defence Industry and Space (DG DEFIS), strategic considerations do not necessarily feed into research and development policy. This format paves the way to a dual leadership on defence policy, or even an ‘industrial-strategic gap’ (Molina & Simon, 2019).

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To bolster strategic oversight and prevent the fragmentation of security policy, the EU Council approved, in May 2017, the idea of a Coordinated Annual Review on Defence (CARD). The hope was that over time this consultation process would lead to the ‘synchronization and mutual adaptation of national defence planning cycles and capability development practices’ (Interview with EEAS, May 16, 2019). The first full CARD cycle was launched in autumn 2019, while the 2020 CARD report provided the first comprehensive overview of the European Defence landscape.7 CARD is now regarded as the sole defence priority-setting mechanism in the EU (Serrano de Haro, 2019; Serrano, 2020), and could become a primary reference for PESCO and EDF, as well as for the Capability Development Plan (CDP). However, engagement with CARD remains entirely voluntary and depends on trust among member states that cannot always be taken for granted. Furthermore, Brexit means that this planning does not take into account the strategic capability of a leading military force in Europe. However, Brexit finally allowed the Union to activate the dormant provisions of the Lisbon Treaty (art. 42.6, 46 and Protocol 10) on PESCO (Permanent Structured Cooperation). The focus of PESCO is developing joint capability, which resonates with the French ethos of output-­driven security policy. The participating 25 members are now committed to jointly invest, plan and deploy EU missions (Serrano de Haro, 2019). The Council Decision establishing PESCO (2017/2315) was adopted by consensus, even if Qualified Majority Voting would be sufficient. Significantly, as article 46(3) TEU replaces the consensus-driven process in PESCO with QMV, the process has a greater chance to lead to a coherent strategic narrative.8 The process was completed in March 2018 with the adoption of national implementation plans (NIPs), detailing the development of military capabilities from research to manufacturing and operational testing. Theoretically, once a state submits a NIP, there is an institutional lock-in to common objectives, although it is unclear what happens if a 7  Fragmentation of the EU defence sector is a permanent trait. Whereas the United States has one main battle tank, Europe has 16. In Europe, there are 30 different types of corvettes, frigates and destroyers, compared to 4 surface battleships’ classes in the United States (HV J Borrell’s blog, 20/11/2020), [accessed 10 April 2021]. 8  “… Enhanced cooperation [in defence] should be explored in this domain. If successful and repeated over time this might lead to a more structured form of cooperation, making full use of the Lisbon’s Treaty potential” (EUGS, 2016:48).

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member state fails to live up to a commitment (Fiott et al., 2017; Novaky, 2018; Blockmans & Macchiarini, 2019; Béraud-Sudreau et  al., 2019; Fiott, 2019). Evidently, the power of these new Europeanisation initiatives lies in their complementarity (De France et al., 2017): PESCO, CARD and EDF could be seen as stepping  stones towards a substantial defence union. However, the question remains whether EU member states and national defence industrial champions can maintain this Europeanisation momentum without an American ‘arbiter in chief’ (Serrano de Haro, 2019). A culture of non-compliance is the main policy fault line the EU has failed to address (Biscop, 2020a). At the end of the day, the fundamental question is whether the 47 PESCO projects address EU’s capability shortfalls and add credibility to Europe’s collective defence capacity. Thus far, there is no groundbreaking initiative that meets such aspirations (Biscop, 2020); for several member states, NATO remains Europe’s main security framework (Blockmans, 2018; Biscop, 2020). PESCO is a major political test for CSDP, balancing the French inclination to demand political authority commensurate with its military capability and the German inclination to prefer an all-inclusive process that leaves no room for hegemonic aspirations (Major & Molling, 2019). Alienated by the inclusive character of PESCO, French engagement in the first batch of projects was timid. This changed in the second batch, where the French presence raised the level of ambition of the projects. What is more, EU investment was now more targeted in projects that fill strategic EU capability gaps and are more impactful, such as the MALE PRAS (Euro drone) (De France, 2019). Still, for France the value of PESCO lies less on itself than on its political importance, considering it a stepping stone towards the ultimate goal of creating a defence union (Howorth, 2017a). However, French ambitions are not quite “enveloped” in PESCO. France maintains a nexus of close bilateral security ties with the UK (Lancaster House Treaties9) and takes the lead on a number of plurinational initiatives with

9  Lancaster House Treaties are two treaties on defence cooperation between the UK and France that were first signed in 2010 and complemented in 2015. The first is a broad treaty on Defence and security cooperation, while the second focuses on nuclear cooperation. The objective is to create stronger defence relationships between the two countries and include: joint development of a Combined Joint Expeditionary Force (CJEF), developing a joint military doctrine, training programmes and a stronger defence industrial technological basis,

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EU member states but outside the EU framework, such as the European Intervention Initiative.

Britain as a Third Country and EU Defence Capability The relationship with Britain remains a litmus test for European defence autonomy. There are two paths to British engagement: bilateral cooperation with EU member states or engagement in the Common Procurement Area as a “third country”. Engaging the UK as a third country could be significant, as the British centrality to European defence value chains cannot be overstated. The UK is home to the biggest defence industrial complex in Europe, while the British contribution to strategic capacity programmes such as ‘Galileo’10 and ‘Copernicus’ has been of strategic significance (Besch, 2018). However, third-country participation in programmes supported by the European Defence Fund (EDF) is severely limited (Regulation 2021/697). Third parties may be included in consortia but are not entitled to EU funding, access to sensitive classified information, or unconditional use of intellectual property developed in common projects (COM 2018/ 476) (Wessel, 2019; Besch & Scazzieri, 2020; de Ojeda, 2019). In 2020, the European Commission and the Council opened access to third countries in PESCO programmes (Council Decision, CFSP, 2020/1639), provided they share the values of the Union, and their contribution adds value to the programme. This approach could open a window of opportunity for the UK, although the clause will continue to bar China, Russia and perhaps even Turkey. In June 2020, the Commission presented 16 pan-European defence industrial projects, plus the three related to disrupted technologies that were to be financed by the two precursors of the EDF, PADR and EDIDP with 250 million euros, with the extending bilateral cooperation on the acquisition of equipment and technologies (Gov. UK, 2015). 10  In December 2018 the UK announced its intention of building its own Global Navigation System (UK Government, 2020) and, as of January 1, 2021 the UK ceased participation in the Galileo and the European Geostationary Navigation Overlay Service— EGNOS (Brexit transition: new rules for 2021). By contrast, UK membership in the European Space Agency is not affected, as the ESA “is not an EU organization” (idem). The UK will also continue to participate in the Copernicus component of the EU Space Program as a third country for 2021–27.

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participation of companies from Canada, Japan and the United States (European Commission, Press Release, 15/6/2020). The absence of the UK is notable. On the 6th of May 2021, the Council approved Norwegian, Canadian and US requests to participate in the PESCO ‘Military Mobility’ project,11 paving the way for other “third countries”, such as the UK (Maulnay & di Bernardini, 2019). The second avenue of engagement for the UK is bilateral cooperation. Franco-British industrial cooperation has made leaps forward in the development of strategic capacity such as the Future Combat Air System (FCAS) system, aircraft carriers and anti-ship missile systems (Parliament UK, 12.12.2018). Given that the cumulative defence budget of the two countries amounts to 40% of the combined defence expenditure in Europe and more than 80% of research and development spending, this is a game-­ changing strategic relationship. Through Franco-British cooperation, the UK remains very much an associated member of the European defence space, both operationally and in terms of value chains (Bond, 2018; Santopinto & Villafranca, 2018). However, possible friction could lead to an incremental process of disengagement. As an outsized third country in the European periphery, the UK could eventually act to undermine joint security cooperation, potentially antagonising key stakeholders such as France and Germany. If the UK does not engage with European value chains and instead competes, the question is whether it can undermine the consolidation of European defence industry. Should the UK be totally excluded from European defence systems value chains, questions of strategic significance may be raised. While it is true that the UK is the foremost Atlanticist power in Europe, the British disengagement from European defence undermines the special relationship with the United States. In sum, the question remains whether the UK is too big to be excluded from European defence consortia.

References Arteaga, F. (2017, February). European Defence Between the Global Strategy and Its Implementation. Working Paper 4, Elcano Royal Institute.

 It concerns the swift and unobstructed movement of troops throughout the EU.

11

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Media BBC. https://www.bbc.com/news/world-­44717074. Accessed 12 Nov 2017. BBC. (2016a, October 13). Boris Johnson: ‘We Are Leaving the EU, Not Europe’. Boris Johnson: 'We are leaving the EU, not Europe' -­BBC News. Accessed 12 Apr 2019. BBC. (2016b, September 27). Michael Fallon: UK Will Oppose Plans for EU Army. https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-­politics-­37482942. Accessed 12 Apr 2019. Business Insider. (2020, 15 July). Trump Says the European Union Was ‘Formed in Order to Take Advantage of the United States’. https://www.businessin-

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sider.com/donald-­t rump-­s ays-­e uropean-­u nion-­f ormed-­t ake-­a dvantage-­ united-­states-­2020-­7. Accessed 12 Aug 2021. CNBC. https://www.cnbc.com/2017/07/06/trump-­us-­stands-­firmly-­behind-­ nato-­article-­5.html. Accessed 12 Nov 2017. Financial Times. (2017, September 22). Theresa May’s Florence Speech Annotated. https://ig.ft.com/theresa-­may-­florence-­speech-­annotated/12. Accessed 12 Aug 2021. Times of London. (2017, January 16). Full Transcript of Interview with Donald Trump. Full transcript of interview with Donald Trump | News | The Times. Accessed 8 Aug 2021. The Atlantic. (2017, 25 May). Trump Declines to Affirm NATO’s Article 5. https://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2017/05/trump-­ declines-­to-­affirm-­natos-­article-­5/528129. Accessed 12 Nov 2017. The Wall Street Journal. (2016, 27 June). EU Leaders Vow New Priorities After Brexit Vote. https://www.wsj.com/articles/germany-­says-­u-­k-­shouldnt-­let-­ uncertainty-­over-­brexit-­drag-­out-­1467028584. Accessed 17 June 2019. Science Daily. (2018, March 8). Regional Levels of Fear Associated with Trump and Brexit Votes, Psychology Study Shows. https://www.sciencedaily.com/ releases/2018/03/180308190807.htm. Accessed 25 Aug 2021. Barnes, J. E., & Cooper, H. (2019, January 14). Trump Discussed Pulling U.S. from NATO, Aides Say Amid New Concerns Over Russia. The New  York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2019/01/14/us/politics/nato-­president-­trump. html. Accessed 20 Jan 2020. Glasser, S. B. (2018, December 17). How Trump Made War on Angela Merkel and Europe. New Yorker. https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2018/12/24/how-­t rump-­m ade-­w ar-­o n-­a ngela-­merkel-­a nd-­e urope. Accessed 9 Dec 2020. Ganesh, J. (2021, October 15). The Truth About the Anglosphere. Financial Times. https://www.ft.com/content/6dddefeb-­6b5a-­41f7-­b252-­ f4e192a7f983. Accessed 20 Oct 2021. Gadwallard, C. (2018, March 18). ‘I Made Steve Bannon’s Psychological Warfare Tool’: Meet the Data War Whistleblower. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/news/2018/mar/17/data-­war-­whistleblower-­christopher-­ wylie-­faceook-­nix-­bannon-­trump. Accessed 8 July 2021. Vinograd, C. (2016, July 21). Donald Trump Remarks on NATO Trigger Alarm Bells in Europe. NBC. https://www.nbcnews.com/politics/2016-­election/ donald-­trump-­remarks-­nato-­trigger-­alarm-­bells-­europe-­n613911. Accessed 7 Apr 2021. Leave EU: Psychographic Targeting for Britain, Cambridge Analytica/Scl Group, https://www.parliament.uk/globalassets/documents/commons-­

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committees/culture-­m edia-­a nd-­s port/BK-­B ackground-­p aper%2D%2D-­ Cambridge-­A nalytica-­p roposals-­t o-­L eave-­E ldon-­G oSkippy-­U KIP.pdf. Accessed 19 Aug 2021. Media Reports of Violence and Donald Trump’s Presidential Campaign. (2016). https://ballotpedia.org/Media_repor ts_of_violence_and_Donald_ Trump%27s_presidential_campaign,_2016. Accessed 12 June 2019. http://www.voteleavetakecontrol.org/briefing_trade.html. Accessed 11 Aug 2021. https://trumpwhitehouse.archives.gov/wp-­content/uploads/2017/12/NSS-­ Final%2D%2D18-­2017-­0905-­2.pdf. Accessed 12 June 2019.

PART III

Building Collective Security in Europe. Lessons Learnt

CHAPTER 11

Negotiating a European Defence Framework

EU integration has always been a mix of incremental and radical change (Riddervold et al., 2021a, 2021b, 2021c), an observation that also applies to common security and defence policy (Juncos and Pomorska, 2021). Pursuing a historical-institutional approach, we identified a series of collective security challenges in Europe, or critical junctures, which present institutions with a litmus test, calling for accommodation to new realities (Falleti and Mahoney, 2015). Otherwise framed, institutional change is the residual result of short-term reactions and more reflective long-term responses to challenges as they emerge, rather than a linear and fully perspective evolutionary process. The critical junctures discussed have been the Yugoslav Wars, the Second Gulf War, the Libyan campaign, the annexation of Crimea, the Syrian crisis, and the combined effect of Brexit and the election of America’s first isolationist President for three generations, namely Donald J. Trump. The six crises discussed may also be usefully distinguished between exogenous and endogenous drivers to defence cooperation (Capoccia, 2016). Exogenous are crises that undermine the integrity of EU institutions and challenge the interinstitutional balance. The only endogenous crisis of similar significance is Brexit. In these historical turning points, Europe is presented with policy challenges that established institutions were not designed to address. Covering the transformation of Europe’s collective security architecture for nearly a generation—from the Yugoslav © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 M. Koppa, The Evolution of the Common Security and Defence Policy, St Antony’s Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-99158-6_11

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Wars to Brexit—we review challenges that required the accommodation of institutional collective security arrangements in Europe. The tension in the renegotiation of Europe’s collective security framework stems from two sources: I. Firstly, defence is primarily driven by national assets and resources and, therefore, policy is primarily accountable to national parliaments. However, each critical juncture or “crisis” has advanced the case for pooling together foreign and security policy resources in Europe, civilian and military. As the rupture of the Anglosphere indicates, one should not assume that an ever-closer Union is inevitable. Several states have similar or comparable reservations to the UK. There is no risk-free evolutionary process in the history of European integration. II. Secondly, collective security in Europe after the Second World War has been primarily defined as Euro-Atlantic. The call for “Europeanisation” or the realisation of the EU as an autonomous security actor has been partly driven by necessity, namely the American demand that Europe assumes a more significant share of the material burden for its security. However, this project is also driven by Europe’s aspiration to project power in its periphery, in defence of both collective and individual member state interests. In this respect, the rupture of the Anglosphere raises the bar of what Europe needs to do as a security provider, politically and operationally.

Reviewing Lessons Learnt The wars of Yugoslavia prepared Europe for the future of conflict: for the next two decades, in and around Europe, wars would be fought on a sub-­ state level, even if that involved state-sponsored militias. These conflicts required a new kind of European capability that could manage and contain the effects of conflict, particularly spillover effects that threatened the Union. From Operation ‘Deliberate Force’ in Bosnia-Herzegovina in1995 to NATO’s Operation ‘Allied Force’ in Serbia in 1999, the EU could not play a substantial role in either crisis management or peacemaking. In this historical context, Europe is invited to develop its security policy partly in response to “burden-sharing demands” and, more sparsely, in the quest for “autonomy”.

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NATO’s Washington Summit and the European Council  of  1999  in Helsinki articulated the Franco-British St. Malo Conference ambition (1998) that Europe should be able to deploy a force that would convincingly and legitimately address emerging security threats. However, the so-­ called Helsinki Headline Goal was undermined by the Washington insistence that European defence should remain a Euro-Atlantic affair. The Atlanticist demand for non-decoupling, non-duplication and non-­ discrimination meant that institutional progress towards autonomy is stalled for two reasons: first, European joint action may be conditional to the consensus of security actors outside the Union, motivated to spoil what they cannot control, such as Turkey, for example; secondly, member states continuously fail to reach a threat-perception consensus, enabling the Union to plan jointly, budget and deploy a joint expeditionary force, namely Battlegroups. The second critical juncture in Europe’s collective defence was the 2003 decision to invade Iraq without a UN Security Council mandate. The experience saw a rupture between Britain and the United States on the one hand, and continental Europe on the other. While the 9/11 attacks in New  York appeared to bolster tighter political and military cooperation in Europe—with even Russia brought closer to the pack— Iraq was a divisive conflict. The subsequent articulation of a European Security Strategy (2003) initiated a consensus-building process founded on benchmarking and lowest common denominators. This document emulated national security concepts in form but not in substance, as it fell short of prioritising security threats and outlining rules of military engagement. Instead, the document, in effect, underscored the necessity of American power as a security interlocutor in Europe. The Libyan campaign affirmed the primacy of the Anglo-French bilateral partnership in setting the European security agenda, creating the first in a series of bilateral or, at best, plurilateral framings of nominally “European” operational instruments. Even as Germany opposed the campaign against the Qaddafi regime, Paris and London moved forward with the support of the United States under a NATO umbrella. Not wishing to enter into another war with a Muslim state, the Obama administration was reluctantly forced to heed French and British demands. At the same time, the experience unveiled Europe’s dependency on Washington for strategically fundamental capabilities—such as air-to-air refueling—while underscoring the inability of the bloc to articulate policy consensus, failing to draw Germany into this European-led “Alliance of the willing”.

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The Ukrainian crisis was triggered by forcing Kyiv to make a mutually exclusive political choice between Russia and the Single Market that its location, economy and political system could not accommodate. The failure of former President Yanukovych to sign an Association Agreement with the EU led to the collapse of his government. The country’s “non-­ invasion” by Russian troops that operated under the guise of implausible deniability as a state-sponsored paramilitary force caught Europe unprepared. The annexation of Crimea suggested that Europe was not ready for “total conflict”—regime versus regime—which was consequential for Europe’s ability to articulate security interests en bloc, even in its immediate neighbourhood. The experience called for a reflection on how the EU and NATO could share emerging online challenges—infrastructure protection, disinformation campaigns, etc.—but there is no institutional breakthrough in articulating a strategic vision, prioritising threats and deploying capability. The subsequent Syrian crisis in the long summer of 2015 called into question the ability of the Union to protect freedom of movement—one of the three pillars of the Single Market—as, one by one, member states reinstated border controls. The process was accelerated because of the ability of ISIS to treat freedom of movement and online pluralism as security liabilities. The implosion of Afghanistan, Libya, Iraq and Syria combined to generate an unprecedented flow of migrants towards the European Union. These events presented migration management regimes with a litmus test that went beyond far-right populism. Mass waves of refugees enabled the return migration of European jihadists, who could shift weapons, take hold of fake documents, find safe houses and strike at the heart of Europe, including in Paris and Brussels. The Syrian experience allowed conservative political forces around Europe to create a toxic perception that causally linked migration and terrorism, polarising political systems in member states, while undermining the ability of the Union to form policy consensus. The securitisation of migration discourse dominated the political agenda, setting the stage for a toxic referendum campaign in the UK. Following the UK’s decision to leave the EU and the coming to office of President Donald J. Trump, the rupture between Anglosphere and Europe questioned the assumption of collective deterrence—primarily against Russia—that has been historically formative.

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I. The rupture of the UK from the Single Market undermined the Good Friday Agreement, disrupted cross-border cooperation in the fight against transnational terrorism and organised crime, and questioned the political viability of the Anglo-French bilateral military partnership in the long run. II. The blitz of unprecedented events that followed the election of Donald J. Trump undermined the credibility of traditional American commitment to European security. After all, it was the threat of secondary sanctions against European corporates invested in Iran, the institutional “sabotage” of the World Trade Organisation and the withdrawal from the Paris Agreement that made abundantly clear that Washington’s commitment to multilateralism or “the West” was not entirely reliable. The cumulative effect of this Anglosphere rupture was to instil a sense of urgency in the discussion over European defence “autonomy”. Anglo-­ French military cooperation is no longer the engine of European security cooperation, while Germany cannot simply replace the UK for historical, political and institutional reasons. The result of the endogenous crisis caused by Brexit has been the activation of previously dormant normative policy instruments—notably Permanent Structured Cooperation—that theoretically enables the Union to operate en bloc, while France is exploring a series of plurinational security framings with an output-oriented focus on capability. To date, however, the projection of credible military power is entirely dependent on national resources and NATO assets.

Negotiating Security Policy The six successive crises discussed catalysed security cooperation in Europe. Security has been transformed from a single policy locus to an independent variable across governance. The distinction between “domestic” and “international” security considerations is blurred. The fight against transnational terrorism is linked both to state failure in Europe’s periphery and the need to protect the Single Market. In sum, safeguarding the Single Market requires transnational cooperation—ranging from joint procurement policy to data sharing—because the public goods defended have a transnational scope. This normative dynamic opens an ever-widening policy window for supranational institutions—the Commission and the

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European Parliament—to engage in European security policy, as transnational needs are served by transnational institutional mandates. Still, we cannot grasp the process of institutional transformation without describing the interplay of temporal conditions with the institutional framing of decision-making processes (Ikani, 2018). In every security crisis we analysed, the security agenda is set at the Council level, as national governments maintain control over key security instruments. The Commission will often emerge as an arbiter of common European interest. For instance, in the autumn of 2015, the European Commission proposed an asylum distribution programme that was not strictly in line with the Dublin II regulation but balanced the interests of countries of entry (Greece, Italy) and destination countries (Germany, Sweden, etc.). There are several incremental changes underneath easily observable ruptures. As opposed to disruptive change, incremental change is driven by events that ‘hit at the heart of the existing policy area, exposing its deficiencies’, opening new policy trajectories (Ikani, 2018). The Council’s inability to make a binding decision that does not enjoy a political consensus underpins an incremental process we have referred to as ‘drifting’ (Streeck and Thelen, 2005; Mahoney and Thelen, 2010; Fiorettos, 2011). The Yugoslav wars made abundantly clear that Europe needed to fill security vacuums from the Balkans to the Mediterranean to avoid unwanted (in)security spillovers. The joint institutional instrument that was supposed to spearhead crisis management, peacemaking and peacekeeping were Battlegroups. Battlegroups are the Union’s elusive expeditionary instrument, ever-developing and never deployed. These multinational units are set to sail and then “drift” towards oblivion, as member states persistently fail to form an actionable threat-perception consensus or agree on a binding and accountable political process that will commit community resources. Another incremental process known as ‘conversion’ (Streeck and Thelen, 2005; Mahoney and Thelen, 2010; Fiorettos, 2011) is the transformation of an institution or of its mandate. The institution persists but is turned to different uses. FRONTEX, for instance, has been converted from an agency facilitating piecemeal intergovernmental cooperation to a quasi-supranational security agency, having at its disposal the Union’s first uniformed force. The mandate to deploy European border control agents across the Union (and beyond) was the cumulative result of the Libyan campaign and the Syrian crisis, which allowed a series of threat perceptions to converge into a single institutional mandate.

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Again, temporality is key. The European Parliament would not consider blocking provisions for data sharing demanded by the Council in the aftermath of the Paris attacks in December 2015, while the suspects were still at large. However, ‘post-crisis reform periods can be moments in which sudden change, gradual change and no change can all occur concurrently’ (Stark, 2017). The fact that the EU has developed policy instruments to stem migration flows but has failed to consolidate a single migration regime is an obvious example. One helpful concept introduced by the ‘second wave’ of historical institutionalists is ‘plasticity’ (Hall, 2016; Capoccia, 2016), which refers to the interplay between structure and agency. In broad terms, the point made is that specific political actors interpret institutional roles, while an institutional script limits their scope for action. For instance, Chancellor Angela Merkel turned the inevitable flow of migrants to Germany—the most significant and fastest-growing economy in the EU—into political capital by articulating the willingness of the German government to accept asylum seekers in numbers proportionate to the size of the country. This decision gave the German government a moral high ground when negotiating the “Europeanisation” of migration management regimes in the sense of burden sharing. Because border control management was an essentially national policy locus, it was difficult for Angela Merkel to either impose the principle of burden sharing in the European Council or even secure the backing of the EPP. Most policy outcomes are the result of a political struggle without predictable political outcomes. Chancellor Merkel in essence led by example, taking an initiative and challenging other member states to contest the precedent. Many did.

What Is Strategic Autonomy Even if security policy is driven by intergovernmental initiative, national interest articulation does not render the policy outcome effectively predictable. In what has been called a “Westless” world, where the Euro-­ Atlantic community is neither cohesive nor the sole geopolitical centre of gravity (Munich Security Report, 2020), temporal and institutional factors weigh more significantly than ever before. Russia’s deployment in Syria, the annexation of Crimea, the expansion of the Belt and Road Initiative in Southeastern Europe suggest that Europe no longer operates in geopolitical vacuum. In sum, Europe needs security even when it lacks policy consensus.

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Rather than limiting their options, EU member states have been striving to accommodate changing circumstances by developing several institutional options: Euro-Atlantic, plurinational, trilateral and bilateral frameworks of security cooperation. President Biden’s claim that ‘America is back’ suggests an aspiration for the resurgence of a Euro-Atlantic multilateralism. That is a tall order. The “drifting” away of Turkish national security policy, the decoupling of the UK from the EU, and the widening cleavage of threat perceptions from the south to the north flank of the Alliance limit the level of commitment to Euro-Atlantic security. CSDP could be Europe’s second chance at acting en bloc. Following Brexit, institutions such as PESCO are reanimated, enabling Europe to develop a more authentically autonomous security framework. However, this EU framework lacks an American power interlocutor. The fear of German rearmament, the rekindling of French hegemonic ambitions and the Polish Three Seas vision come into play. While the EU is failing to develop convincing military capability, there are several plurinational (EI2, NORDEFCO), trilateral (Weimar Battlegroups), and bilateral (Anglo-French, Franco-German, Greek-French) security frameworks that are output-oriented, putting forward a more cohesive threat delimitation, with operational credibility taking precedence over political vision. The emerging multi-institutional map of Europe’s security landscape sets the stage for friction. The Franco-Greek Strategic Partnership on Defence and Security  signed in  2021 (Nikas and Nussbaum, 2021) violates the spirit of the Washington principles (1999) as this is the first time two NATO member states pledged to support one another from an attack originating inside the Alliance (Psaropoulos,  Al Jazeera,  07/10/2021). That is just one example of how diverse threat perceptions lead to diverging security arrangements. For decades, the debate over Europe’s security identity is open-ended and defies policy consensus. European allies should seek ‘strategic responsibility’ but not aim for stand-alone ‘strategic autonomy’ for collective defence, said Ambassadors Douglas Lute and Nicholas Burns in 2019 (Lutte and Burns, 2019). ‘The EU efforts on defence should not compete, not duplicate, not substitute NATO’, echoed Secretary-General Jens Stoltenberg (Stoltenberg, 2021) Restating the Washington Summit principles sounded hollow, redundant and “rich” when uttered under the shadow of the 45th American President. After all, the American assault on multilateral governance, the threats of American troop withdrawal and the reframing of Euro-Atlantic “community” into a cost-benefit analysis made the question of European defence autonomy urgent.

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Jean Claude Juncker’s State of the Union speech in 2017 (Juncker, 2017)  articulated the aspiration for strategic autonomy—a European Defence Union to match the European Monetary Union—in the context of explicit American isolationism  (see also European Parliament, 2016). Following Brexit, it is now possible to envision a Union that buys together, jointly develops defence systems, and, however infrequently, deploys together (Tocci, 2018). However, the aspiration of a European Defence Union still lacks credibility (Zandee et  al., 2020), as the notion of a defence union requires a highly coordinated, multinational, jointly and tightly integrated defence capacity guided by unity of purpose (Howorth, 2017b; Anghel et al., 2020). The terms ‘strategic autonomy’ (Tocci, 2021; Michel, 2020) or ‘strategic sovereignty’ are far from clear cut (Riddervold et al., 2021a, 2021b, 2021c; Schimmelfennig et  al., 2015; Anghel et  al., 2020; Leonard and Shapiro, 2019). HR Josep Borrell understands the term (2020a, 2020b, 2020c) ‘autonomy’ as the ability to articulate European values and interests (Bargues, 2021). Autonomy in this sense would signify the ability to intervene when vital European interests are at stake without any reliance on US capabilities (Biscop, 2019a, 2019c). Conversely, ‘autonomy’ can merely refer to Europe’s timid ‘self-reliance’ within a Euro-Atlantic framework (Howorth, 2017a). The EU’s Strategic Agenda (Council, 2019–24) does not clarify the precise end-vision of autonomy, not least because such a vision defies policy consensus. Even the Franco-German axis, which traditionally drives the process of European integration, does not appear to agree over what autonomy actually means. For President Macron, autonomy is nothing less than the quest for emancipation, the affirmation of a ‘European Sovereignty’ that complements national sovereignty (Macron, 07.2.2020). Autonomy in this sense means that NATO is an option rather than a necessity or, perhaps more realistically, that Europe can forge an autonomous and more symmetrical pillar within the Alliance (Macron, 2020; Koenig, 2020a, 2021; Koenig and Wernert, 2021; Fiott, 2021). For Germany’s former defence minister, Annegret Kamp Karenbauer, European strategic autonomy outside a Euro-Atlantic framework is an illusory vision (Politico, Kramp-Karrenbauer, 2020). While Germany supports the development of CSDP as the solitary institutional vehicle for security cooperation, Berlin sees no substitute for NATO. Besides, any attempt to push through security integration under French or German leadership is likely to trigger Eurosceptic and anti-hegemonic pushback

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from Warsaw to Copenhagen (Svendsen, 2021; Schimmelfennig et al., 2015). The EU resists formulating an “autonomous” security vision, mainly because states do not share a common threat perception and do not trust their ability to act together. The inability of the Union to mobilise Battlegroups created over two decades ago suggests that even when institutions are founded on what is a perceived “necessity”, their credibility does not pass the test of time and facts. The fact is that even Europe’s most significant military powers—France and the UK—were reliant on American operational capacity during the Libyan campaign. While different member states may envision security autonomy, in important ways, Europe remains a security consumer. To overcome the Union’s inability to formulate common, binding, and democratically accountable executive decisions, President Macron has put forward the idea of a European Security Council (Coelmont, 2020; Kaim and Kempin, 2019; Menon, 2021; Anghel et al., 2020). The ESC would balance between intergovernmental control and the ability to act together. Emulating the UN Security Council—with permanent and non-­permanent members—the Union would also go some way to recognising the unequal distribution of power, matching capabilities with decision-making rights (Scazzieri, 2019). The process could even be extended to include the UK, although the Union would probably aim to substitute the stalemate of intergovernmental consensus, relinquishing veto powers and opting for qualified majority voting (Coelmont, 2019). Various elements of this proposal have found support in Germany (Whineray, 2020), as an ESC would advance decision-making beyond the lowest common denominator. Recognising the lack of EU military credibility, the November 2016 Council decided to match the EU Global Strategy doctrine with concrete actions, addressing further ‘Europe’s current and future security and defence needs, enhance its strategic autonomy and strengthen its ability to cooperate with partners’ (Council of the EU, 2016). In June 2020, EU Defence Ministers adopted a two-year exercise codenamed ‘Strategic Compass’ that is meant to operationalise the Union’s strategic vision, defining strategic threats, reviewing crisis management and resilience procedures, and developing the necessary capability and partnerships (Koenig, 2020b; Puglierin, 2020; Biscop, 2019c; Scazzieri,

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2020; Fiott, 2020; Molling and Schutz, 2020).1 This two-year policy cycle focuses on the ‘capacity to act’2 and is meant to lend the terms ‘autonomy’ and ‘sovereignty’ with operational credibility (Major and Molling, 2020), moving away from a “theological debate”. The process has yielded some results, beginning with the presentation of a threat analysis (November 2020) and was to be followed by a strategic dialogue (EEAS, 6.5. 2021; EEAS, 20.11. 2020).

Beyond the Intergovernmental Versus Communitarian Divide It should be noted that policy debates on defence centre around specific issues; “in principle” debates such as the proverbial clash between intergovernmentalism and supranationalism are only incidental to interest articulation. CSDP was conceived as a fundamentally intergovernmental policy in which the role of the Commission and the European Parliament was limited. In time, the changing nature of security challenges meant that the Commission—as a guarantor of the Single Market—needed to influence security policy either formally or informally (Howorth, 2012; Sjursen, 2011; Newsome and Riddenvold, 2019). As the guardian of the Single Market, the European Commission gradually acquired a formal mandate in security and defence governance. Public procurement, research and development, and the identification of security threats to the Single Market clearly fall within the EU’s executive remit. In this policy debate there is no neat collision between Brussels and the nation-state. In the debate over defence policy, the Commission is entirely reliant on a symbiotic relationship with the European Parliament, as the recognition of a European security threat and the deployment of EU resources needs to reference a democratically legitimate political process. Without a reference to European Parliament consultation and deliberation, the Commission has “no leg to stand on” when it proposes joint action. In the 2020 EP report on the implementation of CSDP, there were extensive references to the Strategic Compass as a process that guides, defines and develops the process of bridging strategic vision with operational capability (EP Report, A9-0265/2020, 15.12. 2020). That report 1  It did not however appear in the State of the Union speech in the EP by Commission’s President Von der Leyen on 16 September 2020. 2  The “capacity to act” refers also to capability development.

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reflected the policy consensus among member states and in Brussels over what constitutes actionable European security objectives. In other words, although the Council does make binding decisions, the EP is where various national stakeholders come together to draw “European” political fault lines that the Commission must address through a “European” regulatory initiative (Farrell and Héritier, 2003; Rosen, 2015; Interviews with MEPs: January–March 2020). Through Parliament, both the Council and the Commission will be contesting for political credibility and legitimacy. The Council does drive the decision-making process in security policy, not least because the Union is operationally dependent on national security assets. However, the onus to contradict European interests now lies with the member states. Open-ended Council meetings where member states face-off with each other are rare occasions. More often than not, national stakeholders strive towards effective predictability of meetings, influencing the consultation process through networks spanning across the Commission, the European Parliament and the Council. The policy flow is more transinstitutional than neatly polarised along national interest lines. Politics remains crucial. The declining influence of centrist political forces—the European People’s Party and the Socialists & Democrats— reflects a broader political trend in Europe that may not be conducive to joint capacity development. Specifically, “broad church” parties of the political centre are finding it harder to hold on to their voters; constituent party members of the EPP and the S&D are losing electoral influence, while their cohesion is often gained by pandering to their most extreme factions. Although the Commission does not depend on parliamentary majorities in a manner directly equivalent to a national government, the Brussels executive does depend on MEPs and party delegations as national influencers (Muller et  al., 2019). This kind of transinstitutional policy consensus is now harder to carry. The departure of the British Conservatives from the European People’s Party and the inclusion of Hungary’s Fidesz are examples with an obvious bearing on security discourse, as Brexit and the Syrian crisis suggest (Ripoll, 2018). For instance, the criticism of ‘Operation Sophia’ for failing in its “security mandate” to stem migration—rather than “merely” conducting search and rescue operations—was first articulated in the British House of Commons and then picked up by Italian MEPs at the European Parliament. Coextensively, the criminalisation and militarisation of border policy (Schilde and Goodman, 2021) stemmed from the conversion of

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right-wing parliamentary discourse in Brussels: from Denmark to Greece and from the Netherlands to Poland. During the long summer of 2015, the European Commission could no longer lean on “responsible” political forces to forge a balance that would carry consensus in the Council. The strengthening of FRONTEX/EBCG was virtually the only uncontested security policy in a generation. The majority of political parties represented in the European Parliament conceded to the equation of migration management as border management, massively expanding the mandate and the budget of the European border control force. In that sense, parliamentary actors went quite beyond the baseline script of power distribution in Brussels (Newsome and Stenberg, 2021). Paradoxically, the more politically polarised Europe becomes, the more central is the role of the European Parliament, because political consent is the only alternative to zero-sum politics. Pushing through with policy initiatives is theoretically possible, but often such initiatives come at too great a cost and, as we know only too well, a successful policy may lie dormant for decades unless institutions master the political capital to implement it. Public consent is both harder to carry and more necessary to achieve in a politically polarised environment.

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CHAPTER 12

In the Union We Don’t Trust

The end of the Cold War presented the Union with greater expectations on developing security policy and acting as a security provider in the European neighbourhood. The Union has repeatedly failed to meet its stated expectations, not to speak of the plurality of conflicting expectations of its member states. In defence, the EU is an institutional giant but a capability dwarf (Hill, 1993; Bendiek and Bossong, 2019). Often, the “consensus-expectations gap” under consideration (Toje, 2008) is reduced to the diverging interests of the political stakeholders seeking consensus, which drives and limits the evolution of EU foreign and defence policies. It is argued that there is a lack of decision-making procedures capable of overcoming dissent that makes the EU an incoherent actor. In this scheme, the rule of unanimity is the main culprit, as only six member states favour an extension of QMV to CFSP (Koenig, 2020). It is undeniable that the insistence of member states on unanimity is related to the existential question of sovereignty, as the lack of credible defence policy could signal the end of a nation-state. Smaller states object to subsuming national interests, while bigger states fear their ambition may be diluted. As opposed to the Anglosphere, all continental powers have been invaded and occupied at some point or another. If defence policy cannot remove this possibility, then anything else it can provide is of secondary significance.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 M. Koppa, The Evolution of the Common Security and Defence Policy, St Antony’s Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-99158-6_12

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Defence capability is politically significant, as it is often key to cementing political support domestically. The Eurosceptic movement could feed off the call for European defence autonomy if anyone, for any reason, could make the case that the quest for common defence is, in effect, a stealthy hegemonic project. Similar arguments have been made in the case of the European Monetary Union. Trust in Europe is not an abundant resource. At the same time, enveloping German power in an EU framework is the only answer to subduing the threat of hegemonic ambition, short of an American guarantee to keep Germany down. A European Defence Union did come close to becoming an institution in 1954, failing in France rather than Germany. The question was whether the EDC was primarily betrayed by French fear of Germany or French great power aspirations. Perhaps the more pertinent question today is whether the reasons that undermined this institutional trajectory remain relevant: does Europe have the trust and the confidence to become a defence community?

Recognising the Expectations Gap The rupture of the Anglosphere from the EU revived the possibility of the EU becoming an autonomous security community, either as a second pillar to the Euro-Atlantic partnership or as a separate pole in the increasingly fragmented global geopolitical landscape. To the dying breath of the UK’s EU membership, any notion of an EU defence identity distinct from NATO was impossible. The coming to life of three milestone political processes—the Permanent Structured Cooperation (PESCO), the Coordinated Annual Review on Defence (CARD) and the European Defence Fund (EDF)—promised to force upon the Union the obligation to think and act strategically: to go beyond the recognition of the need to act together and develop joint capability; to go beyond setting objectives but also to plan how to achieve them. The bar of expectations is set higher than historically has been the case. In June 2020, EU Defence Ministers set out for a deep institutional powwow—a Strategic Compass—that would last two years, leading to a legal-­ political agreement by 2022. The Strategic Compass process was about squaring the circle: acknowledging that EU member states have diverging threat perceptions and set a common ground. Beginning from an acknowledgement of red lines, the plan was to move beyond them with a threat prioritisation plan that everyone could live with. This consultation

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process kicked off during the 2020 German Council Presidency and was meant to bridge ambition and reality. The deliverable of this process—the “Strategic Guidance”—included an intelligence report identifying the threats to the EU for the next five to ten years. The second deliverable was an action plan in the form of a pact. The final text was adopted by the European Council in March 2022, during the French Presidency, nearly a month after the Russian invasion in Ukraine (A Strategic Compass for Security and Defence, 2022).

Mindful of the Gap The  Strategic Compass is  a  plan to strengthen the EU’s security and Defence Policy by 2030, making the Union an assertive and decisive security provider. The main themes of the Compass  follow the “three neys” logic of the Washington Summit of 1999 regarding relations with NATO: no-decoupling, non-duplication and non-discrimination. The text acknowledges ‘the return of power politics in a contested multipolar world’ and is explicit on NATO’s role in collective defence of EU territory and the requirements for EU strategic autonomy and resilience. The Compass then proceeds with a long list of deliverables: for example, the establishment of a strong EU Rapid Deployment Capacity of up to 5000 troops, decisions on  investing in new technologies, boosting EU’s intelligence capacities, reinforcing strategic relations with NATO and other Partnerships, enhancing military mobility and making use of the European Peace Facility to support partners. It was obvious from the start that the Compass process could not fully deliver on the expectations of either member states or special interest groups, achieving consensus. If the scope for consensus was obvious, the EU would not need a strategic compass. Mogherini’s EU Global Strategy of 2016 aspired to serve a community that holds certain things to be self-evident, the most obvious of which being a commitment to multilateralism, peace and stability. Articulating a cohesive geopolitical worldview that can be called “European” would be a milestone. That is nowhere near the equivalent of an American, Russian or Chinese National Security Concept, as it does not define interests that may conflict or collide with the interests of other powers in a multipolar world. Furthermore, without a cohesive articulation of EU interests to which member states can relate—economic, technological, political/ideological—the EU cannot claim to be a geopolitical actor. Put otherwise: if member states cannot rely on the Union to achieve geopolitical objectives,

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they will have to look elsewhere. Reading the EUGS document, it is clear that member states need to hedge their bets. The ambition of the EU to become a more geopolitically aware actor entails the vision of a strategy that would guide action to compete with other major powers. “Autonomy” and “sovereignty” are relational concepts. They entail within them the element of cooperation but also competition and, most profoundly, the call for credible capacity. The EU is made up of nation-states that, following two world wars, have realised that neither a hegemonic project nor an independent foreign policy will suffice in a global world order. They seek ways to bundle their power: economically, this has been pursued through the EU and militarily through NATO, with the critical caveat that the two organisations’ memberships have significant overlaps and discrepancies. The terms “autonomy” and “sovereignty” mean very little unless these discrepancies are acknowledged. That has been a long list of expectations from a single process. However, this is the first security concept that has not been outlined by a nation-­ state, or a defence alliance. France and Germany, Germany and Poland, the  Visegrad group and the Weimar group, the Atlanticists and the Europeanists all together have managed to agree on a first-ever EU threat assessment and adapt to today’s more challenging security environment. In this framework, the European Peace Facility (EPF), an off-budget fund for military missions adopted by the Council in March 2021 (Council of the EU, 2021), can be a game changer, as it could be instrumental in supporting partners, as it has been the case with Ukraine. Furthermore, the strategic compass opens up the way for capability projects that will include the UK and Norway, building Europe’s pillar in the Euro-Atlantic partnership. However, geopolitical ambitions require some claim to “creative rupture”: this is the bitten track of compromise and incremental change that the EU often takes. Compromise does not always lead to practicable action plans and Europe is flooded with “drifting” security initiatives that have little or no relevance to security. This type of “creative rupture” is not present in the Compass. 

Bridging the Gap There is no hiding behind the Washington “three neys” or a UK veto. The EU will need to spell out the tasks the Union should take on as a geopolitical actor and a security community. One way of doing this will be to

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match institutional mandates with a taxonomy of conflict. If the EU takes on the task of peacebuilding, peacekeeping and crisis management in and around Europe—as a second pillar of the Alliance—this will leave NATO with precious little to do. Until  Russia’s  invasion of  Ukraine, virtually every conflict since 1989 has been substate and militia-led. Poland, for instance, has integrated the concept of militias fighting shoulder-to-­ shoulder with its regular troops (Balkaninsight.com, 2020; Reuters, 2020). So, the question is whether the EU will have the capability to choose its battles. The chances are that France will be ambitious, Germany frugal, Poland sceptical, while everyone is busy building policy networks and alliances that will give them something they did not have at the beginning of the process. One area of cooperation that will advance is cybersecurity. The Union has a Single Market, which goes hand in hand with transnational energy, transport and communications’ infrastructure. A Single Market also goes hand in hand with transnational crime networks, which often work with ideologically motivated terrorist networks. Finally, the Single Market goes hand in hand with freedom of movement—of people, goods and services—the kind of liberty and pluralism that foreign powers and terrorist groups may regard as security liabilities. From data sharing to communication monitoring, the EU will have to strike a grand bargain between its human rights benchmarks—set by the European Convention on Human Rights-ECHR  (1953) and the Charter of Fundamental Rights of the European Union  (2012)—and the ability to deliver security. Third parties will be interested in how this “sovereign space” is delimited, monitored and defended. In this context, “autonomy” costs trillions to foes and allies alike. Looking beyond the Single Market, the balance between strategic compass and national defence planning processes is not for the faint at heart. Brussels will choose its battles. Clearly, without a national buy-in, the bloc cannot operate as a bloc. The question in this institutional process is how the compromising game is played out, how transinstitutional networks fight their political corner, and how “third parties”—NATO, London, Washington—weigh in to disrupt or channel the process to their perceived benefit.

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Spending Money Without the Brits Money talks. The level of ambition will eventually be limited by the resources the Union commits as a bloc, the resources outsourced to allies (NATO) and the resources committed by significant member states. However, the process and institutional memory matter too. Influence is proportional to affluence, a principle that is rarely acknowledged. Germany cannot spend on weapons and invest in capability without triggering fear. France will not invest in processes that do not add value to its global power ambition. Member states like Greece or the Baltic States will not divert limited resources away from existential security threats. Member states decide on budgeting, reviewing and reporting cycles that match national political cycles and threat perceptions. In setting a European budget plan, there will be many devils hiding in the detail, with states engaged in public affairs’ campaigns to show themselves more or less committed to the national interest, the Euro-Atlantic identity, European autonomy, the fight against climate change, world peace and other considerations that are often related to nation-branding rather than geopolitics. To address the issue of branding defence expenditure as “European”, one important question is budgeting. Commitment to European missions would be more significant if the EU were to bolster the European Peace facility. Earmarking “European funds” without substantiating European added value of their allocation is essentially a carte blanche, which very few governments are willing to sign. A formative battle is the decision-making process that will sign off European expenditure. If, as it has been suggested, the process errs towards qualified majority voting rather than consensus, then security in the EU will have to be articulated in very civilian terms. Strictly military deployments will require consensus. That brings us to the question of a European army that would not be on the table had the UK been around. The first question is whether EU member states want an army, now that the UK is not around to veto the discussion. That question does not have a straightforward answer. Originally, the CSDP was conceived as a military activity providing the EU with an operational capacity. After a first period that lasted until 2008, the civilian component became more significant. Missions focused on training, capacity building and anti-piracy (Fiott, 2020). There have been 37 CSDP missions and operations on three Continents, of which 17

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are still ongoing, deploying 5000 personnel (EEAS, 2020). Most of these missions are small, with a narrow mandate and timid objectives, deploying military and civilian personnel (Juncos, 2020). Thus far, there are more EU civilian missions that military ones. Member states are keen to engage but less keen to foot the bill, as “costs lie where they fall” in military operations; they fall on the lap of the taxpayer of the country participating. Budgets reflect priorities. Article 42(2) of the TEU alludes to the prospect of a Defence Union, an aspiration articulated by Jean-Claude Juncker that carries the “wish-deadline” of 2025. However, the term Defence Union has never been used by the European Council, contrary to its adoption by the Commission and the Parliament. The “Union brand” is not substantive unless it is founded on common enough objectives to justify the unevenly distributed expenses. The question will be why France or Germany should not opt for a plurinational Plan B, several of whom already exist, are tested efficient and allow them to “call the shots” when they pay the bill. One answer is that Plan B is actually Plan A. There are concrete capability challenges for which plurinational European cooperation is a likely prospect. Europe’s Future Combat Air System (FCAS) brings to the table €300 billion to be spent by 2040 on the research and development of systems that can make or break Europe’s global geopolitical relevance. Launched by France and Germany in 2017, it has since pulled in Spain (2019). This trilateral framework could yet widen to engulf more member states, paving the way towards industrial consolidation of the aeronautical industry in an incremental process the EU has proved can lead (Mori, 2020). Again, this says little about the bloc’s development as a security community or a defence union. Industrial cooperation requires a “buy-in” that is not metaphorical but rather literal. Such an industrial consolidation is much harder to achieve in the small arms industry, where investing in “common capability” makes little sense. The 2020 crisis over arms exports to Saudi Arabia and the UAE exposed the well-known fact that the EU does not have an effective common arms exports policy mainly because it does not have a single defence systems’ industrial policy (Besch, 2019). The Saudi crisis exposed the lack of EU geopolitical vision to bolster the credibility of a common arms export policy (Koppa, 2020). Realistically speaking, a common export policy requires the bundling of European corporate capacity and European regulatory

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oversight  (European Parliament, 2020). Neither of the two applies in most defence system sectors. It is no accident that the EU’s Multiannual Financial Framework (2021–27)  (European Commission, 2021) primarily focuses on the Union’s “added value” for net contributors, primarily in research and development, as well as a military “Erasmus program” facilitating mobility and enabling interoperability among national military forces. There is also investment in the brand of “European autonomy” that should enable more European troops to deploy in European missions, in suits or uniform. But this is clearly a vision of auxiliary capability of tactical significance rather than capacity of strategic significance. The COVID-19 crisis trimmed European ambition on research and development from an EDF budget of 13bn in May 2018 to 7,95bn in 2021,1 from €6,5bn on military mobility to just €1,7bn, from €10bn on the European Peace Facility to just under €5,5bn (European Commission, 2021a, 2021b; Molenaar, 2021). Still, amidst the most profound economic crisis in a generation and Brexit—which hit the EU budget hard— the EU is substantially bolstering its commitment to European defence. The ambition for common expenditure is there, not least because the EU knows better than to rely on national resources. EU member states commit in principle, but later down the line refuse to foot the bill. Signs are pointing towards a communitarian direction of travel. In an open letter to the High Representative in May 2021, 14 member states called for the creation of “rapid military response units” for early interventions in international crises, sporting 5000 troops that would set the basis for future First Entry Force Capabilities (Euractiv, Reuters, 6.5.2021). That is part of a broader reflection that is taking place on a reinvigorated Battlegroup concept, brought again at the EU Military Council under General Claudio Graziano in May 2021. This reheated version of the Battlegroup concept, ever-planned and never-deployed, may bring to mind Einstein’s definition of insanity as “doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results”. This kind of discourse unveils the true value of NATO. The Euro-­ Atlantic framework is good in deploying existing assets in specific 1  This sum is divided in 5,3bn for collaborative capability development and in 2,7bn for collaborative research for 2021–27. With a total budget of 1,2bn, the first 23 EDF calls for proposal have been published on the 30 of June 2021. The total sum for Security and Defence in MMF 2021–27 is 14.9bn.

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situations; the EU designs ideal units that will never be deployed in real situations. In making this admission, one needs to explore how the EU can budget and plan without Washington. Part of the answer to why France, Germany, Italy, the Netherlands, Poland, the Czech Republic or Spain would commit serious resources in a European project could lie within the idea of a European Security Council. That would provide a mechanism that acknowledges that member states bring unequal resources to the table, institutionally, providing significant players with a concrete motive to invest in a process that can reliably deliver capability that cannot otherwise be achieved outside the EU policy framework. The compass process could have guided the ESC debate or pointed towards institutional arrangements that achieve a similar objective. In the absence of an American interlocutor, the Europeans need to link PESCO, CARD and EDF in a manner that goes beyond the ritualistic approach of the Capability Development Plan  (European Defence Agency, 2021), which, thus far, is the only mechanism for setting strategic priorities (Fiott, 2018; Major, 2019; Major and Molling, 2020). Bolstering the European Peace Facility budget to finance military operations would be crucial for the engagement of more EU member states in the project of common EU defence. If that is achieved, the debate will take a different course, as it is easier to widen the scope of an EU mandate on defence than create it out of thin air. That commitment will go some way in creating trust, as European defence is about operational capability, which needs to address existential threats, and member states will only “buy-in” if they know collective political commitments can deliver security.

Reaching to the Other Side To sum up, the strategic compass had to face the challenge of accommodating national defence strategies. Ultimately, that is a matter of building trust. For the EU initiatives to be effective, there should be a clear and coherent legal framework “locking-in” political capital by ensuring common objectives match a minimum benchmark of national insecurities, earmarking a convincing EU budget, and spelling out what the Union can do together that is not already done by NATO or national capitals.  The Strategic compass is a contractual agreement—a pact—and should, therefore, instil trust between contracting parties. In order to be helpful, the project had to be disappointing to most but engaging to all. Commitments

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made by the bloc must be first and foremost reliable, withstanding the test of time and facts. The PESCO Strategic Review (Council Conclusions, 20.11.2020) affirms the policy menu available over the next planning period (2021–2025). The objective is nothing short of a so-called Full Spectrum Force Package. The idea is to match strategic objectives with a capability review and an implementation action plan. The review celebrates the fact that under the PESCO institutional umbrella there are 26 projects of plurinational cooperation that are expected to deliver new operational capability by 2025. The door is still open to the UK, as a third party, although London is demoted to a rule-taker rather than a rule-maker. The question is not whether the UK will be engaged but if anyone else will do anything more significant than nod and do nothing. The Council’s assessment is that PESCO needs a sense of direction. The shortfalls are obvious: there is a ‘culture of non-compliance’ (Biscop, 2020; Strategic Review, 2020), as member states commit but do not deliver and when they do, the output is of doubtful value. The Strategic Review notes that of the 46 PESCO projects under implementation, 38 addressed NATO rather than EU priorities, whereas only a few entail industrial collaboration between member states (Molenaar, 2021; EDA, PESCO projects, 2021). The distinction between Euro-Atlantic added value and European added value may or may not be clarified by the compass process. What is clear from the 2020 CARD Review (2020) is that European “added value” needs European budgeting, as in a world in which 80% of defence investment is spent nationally—and is accountable to national authorities—Europe is low on the list of policy priorities. At the same time, the “failure” of member states to deliver on expectations of cooperation is partially systemic. The ambition to “overcome fragmentation in defence planning” and increase the “availability of forces for operational engagement” point towards theological principles unless resources and assets are committed. As in the case of the Battlegroups, the Union may wish for these elements for another two decades or to address the reasons member states are not forthcoming. Consolidating industrial value chains seems to be Europe’s best bet in driving a vision of strategic consolidation. The process is voluntary. A certain degree of participation is necessary for the project’s credibility, but in opting out of an initiative, one always runs the risk of being a rule-taker.

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Often, however, powerful enough states make their own rules and have been known to betray trust. According to the TEU (346b), the development of defence systems remains a national competence, although there is a Common Council Position (2008) setting eight “binding” criteria on arms exports, which, in effect, have not proved all that binding. The question of collaboration is all about added value. Politics matters. Unveiling the normative gap between “principles of common exports” and actual practice has been the work of the European Parliament, particularly the Neumann report (Greens/EFA:09/2020), spelling out the link between EDTIB and efforts to regulate arms exports policy. Still, the industry will abide only by the norms it is forced to abide by, as its first responsibility is to shareholders rather than parliaments. The European Parliament has, thus far, failed to make individual governments accountable, to the point that their export policy weighs on their political cost-benefit analysis, except for Germany, where the issue did damage the credibility of Chancellor Angela Merkel.

The Quest for Elusive Trust In some respects, consolidating a shared defence vision is balancing decision-­ making processes with budgeting priorities. What is missing between member states is trust. During an interview with a German diplomat in Brussels in 2013, as I was preparing my EP Report on the Implementation of CSDP (Koppa, 2013), I was assured that pooling resources is easy. ‘What is difficult is sharing’, the interviewee said, making the case that one needs to trust his partners if one is to give up on the acquisition or production of national capability, believing that, in case of need, these partners will provide it for you. Trust is, in this sense, the reduction of complexity (Luhmann, 1979), as institutions seek to produce predictable responses to predictable demands. To show trust, it is argued, is to predict the future (Luhmann, 1979: 10). Put another way, trust is the residual outcome of a process whose participants regard it as effectively predictable because everyone’s interests, values and objectives are transparent. If it does not work, it cannot substitute something that does. The case has been made that the challenge for European Defence institutions is not only the management of complexity but also the institutionalised absence of trust. Historically, NATO relies on Washington acting as a powerbroker to accommodate historical distrust for Russia and Germany.

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Trust increases the ‘tolerance of uncertainty’ (Luhmann, 1979; Fukuyama, 1996) because it is founded on the illusion that the output is predictable once institutional principles are established, and resources are well spent. That concept of trust echoes the definition of social capital (Coleman, 1988; Rothstein, 2005), understood as the ability to work together for a common purpose in groups and associations. In other words, it is about the “ability to associate”, emanating from the prevalence of trust in a community. The very concept of a “European strategic culture” is essentially intended to provide this much needed social capital. The question is whether Europeans can craft a mechanism that can instil mutual trust on defence cooperation, between member states that have been fighting for centuries, including in two devastating world wars.2 The EC was a voluntaristic effort to overcome the enmities of the past while controlling (and preventing) the rearmament of Germany. However, in the immediate aftermath of the Second World War, the project of European Integration itself was seen as an American “conditionality package” that entailed economic assistance in exchange for pooling economic resources that would reduce the communist influence in Europe. Trust is not given and, historically, the American presence in Europe is part of the project. Distrust between member states is part of Europe’s security culture, which is often historically or politically determined by collective memory (Rothstein, 2005: 13). The theory of collective memory and its impact on the actions of social groups was first explored by Maurice Halbwachs in 1925, who argued that individual memories are only understood within the context of a group, unifying the nation or community through time and space. Halbwachs also noted that collective memory is always selective and, in this sense, a political construct (Halbwachs, 1952; Halbwachs and Coser, 1992). Governments often act as arbiters of collective will and national destiny; showing trust towards historical “prime others” runs contrary to their role as guardians of national security. For instance, allowing for German militarisation that will not be accountable to a European Parliament or held in check by an American superpower is a threatening prospect for most EU member states, including Germany. 2  Rothstein notes that the concept of ‘social trap’ was first used by John Platt in 1973 and it denotes a number of strategic situations in which social actors find themselves where the central element is that their behaviour is determined by the assessment of the future action of others. What people do, depends on what they believe others will do (Rothstein, 2005: 13).

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Beyond Germany’s institutionalised pacifism, trust is difficult to attain in defence policy because strategic discourse masks motivations that render operational maneuvers transparent and effectively predictable. The logic of accumulating social capital—rendering motivations transparent and predictable—runs contrary to strategic culture. Plans for industrial consolidation, if articulated, could trigger fears of hegemonic dominance over Europe. From this point of view, communicative activity towards the public for legitimation and deliberation is a crucial dimension of institutional change. Institutions change not only when interests and norms change, but also through public opinion’s reconceptualisation of their role (Schmidt, 2008, 2010; Rothstein, 2005). The rupture of the Anglosphere has left a significant institutional legacy in European defence policy, as there is now a sharper distinction between member states and “third country allies” in the Anglosphere. The rupture of the Euro-Atlantic partnership demands EU member states to  invest either in cultivating trust between each other or restoring relations with the United States. The middle-of-the-road path is an investment in European defence policy with the prospect of a more symmetrical Euro-­ Atlantic partnership that will not be defined in terms of security “provision” and “consumption”. The idea of this new ‘transatlantic bargain’ (Besch and Scazzieri, 2020) is currently gaining ground.

References Balkanisight.com. (2020). https://balkaninsight.com/2020/11/05/poland-­ mobilises-­controversial-­weekend-­warriors-­for-­pandemic-­response/ (Accessed 21 Aug 2021). Bendiek, A., & Bossong, R. (2019). Shifting boundaries of the EU’s foreign and security policy. SWP Research paper 12, SWP, September. Besch, S. (2019). The European Commission in EU defence industrial policy. Carnegie Europe, October. Besch, S., & Scazzieri, L. (2020). European Strategic Autonomy and a new transatlantic bargain. Policy Brief, Centre for European Reform/Konrad Adenauer Stiftung, 11 December, https://www.cer.eu/publications/archive/policy-­ brief/2020/european-­strategic-­ autonomy-­and-­new-­transatlantic-­bargain (Accessed 17 Jan 2021). Biscop, S. (2020). European Defence and PESCO: Don’t waste the chance, Policy Papers, 1, EU Integration and Differentiation for Effectiveness and Accountability (EU.IDEA), 5 May.

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CARD Report. (2020). Executive summary. https://eda.europa.eu/docs/ default-­source/reports/card-­2020-­executive-­summary-­report-­pdf (Accessed 5 Jun 2021). Charter of Fundamental Rights of the European Union. (2012). https://eur-­lex. europa.eu/legal-­content/EN/TXT/?uri=CELEX:12012P/TXT (Accessed 12 Jun 2019). Coleman, J. (1988). Social capital in the creation of human capital. American Journal of Sociology, 94, S95–S120. Council Common Position 2008/944/CFSP, of 8 December 2008, defining common rules governing control of exports of military technology and equipment, (OJ L 335 13.12.2008, p.  99) https://eur-­lex.europa.eu/legal-­ content/EN/TXT/?uri=CELEX%3A02008E0944-­20190917 (Accessed 17 Aug 2019). Council of the EU. (2020). Council conclusions on the PESCO strategic review 2020 (13188/20), November, https://data.consilium.europa.eu/doc/document/ST-­1318-­2020-­INIT/en/pdf (Accessed 6 Feb 2021). Council of the EU. (2021). Outcome of the Council Meeting. Foreign Affairs. Defence Issues, 8527/21, 6 May. EEAS. (2020 December). EU Missions and Operations. https://www.b2eu-­ consulting.eu/news-­detail/eu-­missions-­and-­operations-­eu-­common-­security-­ and-­defence-­policy-­csdp (Accessed 16 Jul 2021). European Commission. (2021). EU Budget, Multiannual Financial Framework, 2021–2027. Heading 5. https://ec.europa.eu/info/strategy/eu-­budget/ long-­t erm-­e u-­b udget/2021-­2 027/spending/headings_en#heading-­5 -­ security-­and-­defence (Accessed 15 Apr 2021). European Commission. (2021a). The long- term EU budget 2021–2027, h t t p s : / / e c . e u r o p a . e u / i n f o / s t r a t e g y / e u -­b u d g e t / l o n g -­t e r m -­e u -­ budget/2021-­2027/spending/headings_en (Accessed 23 Aug 2021). European Commission. (2021b). The European defence fund, https://ec.europa. eu/defence-­industry-­space/eu-­defence-­industry/european-­defence-­fund-­edf_ en (Accessed 23 Aug 2021). European Convention on Human Rights. (1953). https://www.echr.coe.int/ documents/convention_eng.pdf (Accessed 12 Jan 2018). European Defence Agency. (2021). Capability development plan, https://eda. europa.eu/what-­w e-­d o/all-­a ctivities/activities-­s earch/capability-­ development-­plan/ (Accessed 28 Jul 2021). European Parliament. (2020). Report, on Arms Exports export: implementation of Common Position 2008/944/CFSP(2020/2003(INI)), Rapporteur Hannah Neumann, A9–0137/2020. Fiott, D. (2018). EU defence capability Development: Plans, priorities, projects. EUISS, June.

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Fiott, D. (Ed.). (2020). The CSDP in 2020. The EU legacy and ambition in security and defence. EUISS. Fukuyama, F. (1996). Trust. The social virtues and the creation of prosperity. Free Press paperback. Halbwachs, M. (1952). Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire. Presses Universitaires de France. Halbwachs, M., & Coser, L.  A. (1992). On collective memory. University of Chicago Press. Hill, C. (1993). The capability- expectations gap or conceptualizing Europe’s international role. Journal of Common Market Studies, 31, 3. Juncos, A. (2020). Beyond civilian power? Civilian CSDP two decades on. In D. Fiott (Ed.), The CSDP in 2020. The EU legacy and ambition in security and defence. EUISS. Koenig, N. (2020). Qualified majority voting in EU foreign policy: Mapping differences. Policy Brief, Hertie School, Jacques Delors Centre, 10 February. Koppa, M. (2013). Rapporteur. Report on the implementation of the Common Security and Defence Policy (based on the Annual Report from the Council to the European Parliament on the Common Foreign and Security Policy), A7–0360/2013, 2013/2105 (INI), 31 October, https://www.europarl. europa.eu/doceo/document/A-­7-­2013-­0360_EN.html?redirect (Accessed 21 May 2014). Koppa, M. (2020). The Common Defence and Security Policy (CSDP) and arms exports. Contradiction in terms? Strasbourg Policy Centre/Institute of International Relations. Luhmann, N. (1979). Trust and power. John Wiley and Sons. Major, C. (2019). The role of capabilities in the Transatlantic Defence Development: Carnegie Europe, 30 October, https://carnegieeurope. eu/2019/10/30/role-­of-­capabilities-­in-­transatlantic-­defence-­relationship-­ pub-­8021 (Accessed18 Jun 2021). Major, C., & Molling, C. (2020). The EU’s military legacy. Over-institutionalised, under-equipped and strategically divided. In D. Fiott (Ed.), The CSDP in 2020. The EU’s legacy and ambition in security and defence. EUISS. Molenaar, A. (2021). Unlocking European Defence. In search of the long overdue paradigm shift. IAI, IAI Papers 21, 01, January. Mori, S. (2020). From ‘Global Strategy’ to ‘Strategic Compass’: The EU in search for a security [policy and Italy’s responsibilities]. In Sabatino E., Fiott D., Zandee D. et al. (2020). The quest for European Strategic autonomy; A collective Reflection, IAI, Documenti IAI, 20:22, December. Reuters. (2020). https://www.reuters.com/article/us-­poland-­nationalism-­ militia-­idUSKCN1MS1OP (Accessed 21 Aug 2021).

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Rothstein, B. (2005). Social traps and the problem of trust. Cambridge University Press. Schmidt, V. A. (2008). Discursive institutionalism: The explanatory power of ideas and discourse. Annual Review of Political Science, 11, 303–326. Schmidt, V. A. (2010). Taking ideas and discourse seriously: Explaining change through discursive institutionalism as the fourth ‘new institutionalism’. European Political Science Review, 2(1), 1–25. A Strategic Compass for Security and Defence (2022 March). EEAS. https:// www.eeas.europa.eu/sites/default/files/documents/strategic_compass_en3_ web.pdf (Accessed 28 March 2022). Toje, A. (2008). The consensus–expectations gap: Explaining Europe’s ineffective foreign policy. Security Dialogue, 39(1), 121–141.



Epilogue

The term polycrisis was coined by European Commission President JeanClaude Juncker, denoting parallel threats to the project of European Integration (European Commission, 2016). The term is useful in understanding the state of play in the framing of European defence policy. Between the twin pillars of the Common Security and Defence Policy (CSDP) and the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO), Europe accommodates multiple uncertainties. Its relationship with the United States, China, Russia, Turkey and every major power around the Union is under negotiation. The notion of “the West” as a community is under negotiation. The notion of European defence identity is subsequently under negotiation: all fundamental “us and them” questions defy certainty. Defence is in search of community. The CSDP is a process in the making, as is the whole EU project. Change is a process of accommodation through sudden bursts of innovation or incremental transformation. While change is inevitable, the current circumstances point to a “polycrisis”, in the sense that there is no strategic compass, no sense of direction, no sense of inevitable or even desirable common destiny. Challenges that present a litmus test to existing institutional arrangements on security are increasingly frequent. The speed of European reforms across the policy spectrum is almost un-European. What is at stake is no longer “a policy” but European governance. The need to address “common challenges” can no longer be seen as an © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 M. Koppa, The Evolution of the Common Security and Defence Policy, St Antony’s Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-99158-6

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inevitable drive towards integration. The demand to “take back control” and, therefore, to unbundle European competencies suggests that one policy crisis cannot be contained in one policy sector. More and more crises are of systemic significance. In this context, the discussion over strategic autonomy, strategic sovereignty or European strategic culture can only be understood in their temporal context.

The Pandemic as a Critical Juncture During the Covid-19 crisis, the EU faced the prospect of an economic crisis, a sovereign debt crisis, a public health crisis and a civil emergency crisis (Giegerich et al., 2021). From a security perspective, the EU had to limit and regulate freedom of movement, share new kinds of data, prevent online attacks on public infrastructure, monitor the implementation of public gathering restrictions and manage disinformation. In sum, Europe faced a spectrum of new generation security threats that European security and defence policy instruments should address. There were multiple dimensions of institutional innovation, not least “European borrowing”, in what is perhaps the boldest step towards a federal Europe in a generation. The litmus test was the collapse of “growth” as an economic necessity. Against this challenge, the EU broke a policy taboo, allowing the European Commission to issue “sovereign bonds”, mutualising debt, making the big step towards federative politics. In Autumn 2020 the Commission calculated a drop of 7.2% in member states’ aggregate GDP (European Commission, 2020). It is difficult to assess how profound the effect of this new critical juncture on European defence will be. Once again, the transformation of security challenges from litmus tests for policy instruments to systemic threats to governance presses the need for 360 degrees security concepts. Increasingly, there are European security-economic-political polycrises that can make or break the EU. The Covid-19 pandemic also poses questions about the EU as a global actor, its relationship with the developing world, its ability to ensure that the virus does not continue to spread and mutate, returning with a vengeance to “democratise” the security threat of illness. Europe is discovering yet another fusion between domestic and international security crises, requiring from the Union to act as one, on procurement, on development policy, on economic crisis management, on industrial production and on

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distribution. Covid-19 has been a litmus test on the EU’s aspiration to be a rule-maker and act as a global sovereign actor (Koenig and Stahl, 2020). On a capability level, the pandemic unveils the need to develop dual-­ use digital technologies that can address civilian and military threats, which begs the question of intellectual ownership, as the dissemination of military-grade online capability presents a profound security challenge. Health is yet another “policy challenge” that can evolve into a geopolitical or systemic security challenge by state, state-sponsored or non-state security actors. This hybrid nature of emerging security threats also begs the question of budgeting for deterrence and defence, with the immediate response of any economic crisis being a reduction in military budgets. Europe may yet again limit the ambition and effectiveness of PESCO and EDF flagship initiatives rather than reform their mandate. Institutions in Europe prioritise butter over cannons reflexively, even as new crises pose new security threats. Compartmentalising security challenges is difficult even without weakening defence budgets.

Crises of the West Meanwhile, what “European” defence identity is remains a fluid question. In August 2020 the former British Prime Minister Theresa May criticised Boris Johnson’s government for its ‘incomprehensible’ failure to bring together an ‘alternative alliance’ to prevent the collapse of the Afghanistan administration after the US withdrawal. ‘We boast about Global Britain, but where is Global Britain on the streets of Kabul?’, Theresa May said in the House of Commons, criticising American unilateralism. While carefully pointing the finger at President Trump and his agreement with the Taliban in Doha, Theresa May wondered what the fall of Kabul said about NATO’s claim to multilateralism. In a speech, a former British prime minister who led Brexit negotiations insinuated that the UK should form an “alternative” to the US alliance (Independent, 18/8/ 2021). That is unprecedented and a call for some kind of strategic autonomy that would seem too bold even for a French President. The withdrawal of the American troops from the last war that carried the West as a community has a profound effect on European security. Confidence in the West as a guarantor of democracy everywhere lost credibility as the comeback of the regime responsible for the 9/11 attacks is, in some respects, an admission of systemic defeat. The ensuing willingness by China and Russia to open diplomatic channels with the Taliban further

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undermines the notion of the West as the rule-making community that drives global governance. In the Middle East, in the Pacific, and in Europe, there are now regions governed without consultation with the West, if and when the evocation of the term “West” is meaningful. The fragmentation of the West, particularly between Europe and the Anglosphere, suffered another blow on September 2021, when France recalled its ambassadors to the United States and Australia for consultations sparked by Canberra’s surprise decision to cancel an order for French-built submarines amid its growing security alliance with Washington and London. The explicit challenge was a cancellation of a €70bn defence contract between Australia and France—to the benefit of the United States—but the more strategic message was that America’s eldest European ally did not deserve forward warning and was not included in America’s Pacific strategy as a partner. France Foreign Minister Le Drian referred to the trilateral deal between the UK, Australia and the United States as a ‘stab in the back’.

The Question of Foresight Through innovation and accommodation, crisis leads to institutional development. For the moment, the European Union is caught in an institutional deadlock, as Europe prioritises the consolidation of political resolve rather than moving forward with developing a strategic capacity of global ambition. The question of capacity is pressing, as President Trump’s ideological commitment to isolationism appears to be succeeded by Biden’s pragmatic strategic disengagement from regional conflicts and, potentially, European affairs. The polarisation of American politics means that all US administrations are finding it hard to master the bipartisan consensus required for international engagement. Even if committed to NATO ideologically, the ability of President Biden or any of his successors to deliver in a European crisis is no longer an “independent variable” of European strategic culture. That is an apparent rupture with the Euro-Atlantic strategic culture and a definite departure for Cold War certainties. There is now a question of trust between Euro-Atlantic partners. A strong EU remains an American interest, but the Euro-Atlantic partnership will evolve beyond provision-consumption or institutionally wither. The litmus test is likely to be the stance of the Euro-Atlantic partners towards China and Russia.

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Europe increasingly becomes a region where China will compete with the United States. China is already a major stakeholder in European economy and the most dynamically developing export market for European products. Pressed between two regulatory ecosystems—value chains, physical and online infrastructure—Europe may very well be the field where two Pacific powers face off. Whether the Union will manage to be an independent player or pick a side is an open question. However, it is now clear that the question of “autonomy” is no longer theological. In this context, the question of credible capacity is vital. Europe’s plurinational security initiatives are centred almost exclusively around France, the last remaining EU power with global power projection capability. France is eager to focus on output-oriented initiatives, plurinational but all-inclusive, pursuing the model of multi-speed integration that was initiated after the Treaty of Maastricht and was applied both in the consolidation of a Single Travel Area (Schengen) and the European Monetary Union. European defence is not likely to proceed en bloc but through “Unions of the willing” who will be rule-makers. From an institutional perspective, the question that will tilt the balance of credibility is Germany’s willingness to remilitarise through a Franco-­ German axis. That is a relationship infused with trust, tested by time and is relatively symmetrical. However, whether Germany can transcend its pacifism to become a European military power with global ambition in a European framework is a question that resists certainty. Keeping Germany down is both a European and a German reflex. At the same time, the question of capacity in Europe is pressing. When it comes to research and development, the logic of industrial consolidation provides scope for institutional innovation and accommodation. The Commission’s new Directorate-General for Defence Industry and Space is a clear example of how German companies can be engaged despite the German government (Major, 2019). However, political polarisation could reverse this momentum. Eurosceptic political forces are holding their ground in several member states and polarisation hinders consensus.1 The “communitarian” dimension of security and defence policy that carries the Union as a bloc will no doubt persist. Today, Europe’s defence capabilities are limited to capacity that addresses “soft” security challenges. From cybersecurity to wildfires blazing across Europe, these challenges are profound, often unprecedented, but the question of an institutional 1

 From a discussion with Janis Emmanouilidis, EPC, 14 May 2019.

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mandate is not significant. Incremental institutional development is likely to suffice. Conversely, challenges that require “hard power” are controversial and will require an innovation leap. The old idea of a neat institutional division of labour between hard (NATO) and soft (EU) power persists but is increasingly unconvincing. PESCO and the EDF are in their nascent development steps, while the question of “non-duplication” with NATO is likely to hold back European hard power. Politically, the notion of American leadership in hard power has proved problematic in Afghanistan, the Pacific, Syria and Iraq. America has lost trust. In many respects, the future of the West hangs on the ability of institutions to affirm, retain and develop trust. While it was possible to foresee that a Europe of the 27 would have difficulties operating with resolve, the breakdown of Euro-Atlantic trust is perhaps the most profound rupture. This development strips Europe from the certainty of available capacity and an American playmaker in European power politics. As Washington pivots to the Pacific, the West is no longer a single defence and security community. Although there are joint projects, intergovernmental alignment of purpose and capacity can no longer be taken for granted. Litmus test is imminent. NATO is redefining its strategic concept, a process mirroring the EU’s strategic compass. Whether these two visions will remain compatible is a profound institutional litmus test.

References European Commission. (2016). Speech by President Jean Claude Juncker at the Annual General Meeting of the Hellenic Federation of Entreprises (SEV), Press Corner, 21 June, https://ec.europa.eu/commission/presscorner/detail/en/ SPEECH_16_2293 (Accessed 19 Aug 2020). European Commission. (2020). Autumn 2020 Economic Forecast: Rebound interrupted as Resurgence of Pandemic deepens Uncertainty, 2 November, https://ec.europa.eu/commission/presscorner/detail/en/ip_20_21 (Accessed 23 Aug 2021). Giegerich, B. et  al. (2021). The geo-economics and geopolitics of COVID-19: implications for European Security, IISS/ Hans Seidel Stiftung, March. Independent. (2021). ‘Where was Global Britain in the Streets of Kabul?’: Theresa May condemns UK failure to form an alternative alliance after US withdrawal, 18 August, https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/politics/afghanistan-­ theresa-­may-­boris-­johnson-­b1904502.html (Accessed 23 Oct 2021).

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Koenig, N., & Stahl, A. (2020). How the coronavirus pandemic affects the EU’s geopolitical agenda. Policy Paper, Hertie School, Jacques Delors Centre, 24 April. Major, C. (2019). “The role of capabilities in the Transatlantic Defence Development”, Carnegie Europe, 30 October, https://carnegieeurope. eu/2019/10/30/role-­of-­capabilities-­in-­transatlantic-­defence-­relationship-­ pub-­8021 (Accessed 13.6.2021].

Index1

A Abhazia, 111 Active Endeavour, 135 Aegean route, 128 Aegean Sea, 135n7 Afghanistan, 15, 106, 107, 145, 184, 217, 220 Agency, 15, 17, 20, 28, 52, 86–88, 90, 96, 125, 136–138, 136n8, 186, 187 Albright, Madeleine, 65, 65n1, 75, 85 Algeria, 126 Alliance of Liberal and Democrats for Europe (ALDE, parliamentary group), 32 Alliance of the willing, 183 Al Qaeda, 126, 135n7 Alternative for Germany (AfD), 147 America First, 28–29, 149 Amsterdam Treaty, 56, 72, 73, 73n5, 76, 84

Anglo-French, 11–13, 43, 72–75, 94, 105–109, 114, 115, 133, 158, 183, 185, 188 Anglosphere, 6, 12, 145–164, 182, 184, 185, 199, 200, 211, 218 Anti-ship missile systems, 114, 164 Arab Spring, 126–127 Arab World, 126 Area of Freedom, Security and Justice (AFSJ), 123, 131n4, 137 Article V (NATO), 35, 58, 83, 91, 149 al-Assad, Bashar, 127 Asylum, 128, 132, 136, 186 asylum seekers, 128, 129, 130n4, 132, 149, 187 Atlantic, 1, 2, 12, 13, 28, 34, 38, 75, 90, 146, 153 Atlanticists, 151, 164, 183 AUKUS (security agreement), 153 Australia, 153, 218

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

1

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 M. Koppa, The Evolution of the Common Security and Defence Policy, St Antony’s Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-99158-6

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INDEX

Austria, 67, 76, 113, 128, 131 Autonomy, 3, 33, 65, 66, 71, 74, 75, 77, 87–89, 107, 111, 112, 136, 163, 182, 183, 185, 188–191, 200, 202–204, 206, 219 strategic autonomy, 7, 33, 37–39, 73, 84, 87, 109, 145, 156, 157, 159, 187–191, 216, 217 Avramopoulos, Dimitrios (Commissioner), 131, 131n5 Ayrault, Jean-Marc, 158 B Baltic States, 19, 39, 76, 88, 204 Bannon, Steve, 149 Barnier, Michel, 114, 154 Barroso, Emmanuel, 52 Battlegroups (BG), 93, 115, 183, 186, 190, 206, 208 Belarus, 110, 125, 131 Belgium, 31, 66, 129, 157, 159n6 Belt and Road Initiative, 187 Ben Ali, 126 Berlin Plus agreement(s), 75, 75n7, 78, 90 Berlin Wall, 2, 37, 123 Biden, Joe, 153, 188, 218 Big three, 146 Bihac, 69 Bilateral, 5, 40, 84, 108, 109, 114, 116, 146, 153, 154, 154n3, 158, 162–164, 163n9, 183, 185, 188 Bilateral framework(s), 40, 188 Bildt, Karl, 88 Blair, Tony, 73, 74, 84 Bolton, John R., 151 Border control, 28, 125, 130, 136, 184, 186, 187, 193 Border countries, 136 Border guards, 130n4, 135, 136

Border management, 26, 125, 131, 135, 193 Borders, 56, 67, 108, 115, 125–127, 130–132, 134, 135, 148, 150, 159, 192 Bosnia-Herzegovina, 69, 70, 78, 146, 182 Bosniaks, 69, 70 Bosnian Croats, 69 Bosnian Muslims, 69 Bosnian Serbs, 69 Brexit, 27, 29, 43, 52, 55, 90, 146, 148–150, 155–159, 161, 163n10, 181, 182, 185, 188, 189, 192, 206, 217 Britain, 12, 13, 26, 27, 38, 58, 74, 75, 83, 108, 109, 146–148, 152, 153, 156, 157, 163–164, 183 British Conservative Party, 150 British Conservatives, 192 British veto, 73, 147 Bucharest Summit (2008), 111 Bulgaria, 57, 76, 88 Bull, Hedley, 40 Burden sharing, 3, 56, 66, 85, 182, 187 Burns, Nicholas, 188 Bush, H.W., 36, 66 Bush, W. Junior, 83 C Cameron, David, 147, 148 Canada, 153, 164 Capability Development Plan (CDP), 161, 207 Carrington, Lord, 69 CDU/CSU, 33 Central and Eastern Europe, 57 Chantiers de l’Atlantique, 51

 INDEX 

China, 3, 28, 38, 39, 55, 86, 89, 107, 108, 151, 152, 163, 215, 217–219 Chirac, Jacques, 73 Churchill, Winston, 16, 148, 152 Civilian Capability Development Plan (CCDP), 125 Civilian Compact, 125 Civilian Planning and Conduct Capability (CPCC), 89 Clarke, Ken, 147 Clinton, Bill, 65 Clinton, Hillary, 39, 146, 152 Cold War, 2, 3, 12, 14, 17, 19, 26, 66, 71n3, 153, 199, 218 Collective security, 3, 4, 12, 13, 27, 28, 34–37, 55, 66–70, 72, 74–78, 83, 95, 105–107, 110, 147, 150, 155, 158, 159, 181, 182 Combined Joint Task Forces (CJTF), 38 Combined Joint Expeditionary Forces (CJEF), 109, 154n3, 162n9 Commission/European Commission, 4, 14, 26, 50, 52–55, 57, 86, 88, 90–92, 94–96, 114, 116, 126, 131, 132, 135–138, 157, 159, 160, 163, 164, 185, 186, 191–193, 191n1, 205, 206, 215, 216, 219 Common Foreign and Security Policy (CFSP), 38, 49, 56, 71, 72, 74, 76, 85, 107, 125, 163, 199 Common Security and Defence Policy (CSDP), 3–6, 11–13, 17, 18, 26–29, 42, 49–51, 53, 72, 75, 76, 78n8, 86, 90–94, 96, 97, 107, 109, 110, 113–115, 117n3, 123, 125, 126, 133, 134, 137, 138, 146, 147, 155, 158, 158n5, 160, 181, 188, 189, 191, 204, 209, 215

225

Common strategies, 72, 73n5, 84 Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS), 110 Communitarian, 20, 21, 53–55, 91, 191–193, 206, 219 Comprehensive and Progressive Trans-Pacific Partnership (CPTPP), 153 Comprehensive approach, 106 Consensus-expectations gap, 199 Constitutional patriotism, 39–40 Constructivism, 18–21 Constructivist, 18, 41 Conversion, 138, 186, 192 Coolidge, Calvin, 148, 149 Coordinated Annual Review on Defence (CARD), 161, 162, 200, 207, 208 Copenhagen European Council, 77 Copernicus, 163, 163n10 Covid-19, 53, 206, 216, 217 Crimea, 39, 57, 107, 111 annexation, 39, 106, 110, 115, 157, 181, 184, 187 Crimean Peninsula, 110, 111 Crisis management, 28–29, 49, 70, 74, 75n6, 76, 89, 91, 93, 96, 105, 108, 133, 134, 137, 157, 182, 186, 190, 203, 216 Crisis Management and Planning Directorate (CMPD), 89 Crisis Response Operation Core (CROC), 159 Critical junctures, 3, 6, 15–18, 25–29, 41, 42, 50, 55, 65–78, 84, 107, 137, 138, 181–183, 216–217 Croatia, 67–69, 71n4, 130 Cruz, Ted, 149 CSDP missions and operations, 92, 93, 96, 147, 204 Cutileiro, José, 69 Cyberattacks, 112

226 

INDEX

Cyberdefence, 117, 117n3 Cybersecurity, 28, 116–118, 125, 203, 219 cybersecurity strategy, 116 Cyberwarfare, 106, 112 Cyprus, 77, 112 Czech Republic, 36, 76, 84, 207 D Dalmatia, 67 Data sharing, 28, 130, 154, 185, 187, 203 Dayton Peace Agreement, 70, 78 December 2013 Summit, 113 Defence cooperation, 91, 146, 147, 154, 162n9, 181, 210 Defence Package, 94, 159 (de) Hoop Scheffer, Jaap, 87 Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), 78n8, 92 Democratic Unionist Party of Northern Ireland, 151 Denmark, 51, 66, 68, 76, 84, 130, 130n4, 131, 159n6, 131n4, 193 Differentiated cooperation, 155 Directive 2009/43 on intra EU transfer of defence related items, 95 Directive 2009/81 on public procurement, 51 Directorate General for Defence, Industry and Space (DG DEFIS), 52, 160, 219 Directorate General for External Relations (DG RELEX), 94n5 Dublin II, 128, 132, 186 Dubrovnik, 67 Duncan Smith, Iain, 147

E Eastern Mediterranean, 28, 77, 135 Eastern Partnership, 57, 110 East StratCom task force, 116 Effective multilateralism, 85 Empty chair crisis, 13, 20 Endogenous, 26, 29, 181, 185 Enhanced cooperation, 92, 161n8 Enlargement, 57, 86, 91, 110, 111, 124, 145, 157 EPP (parliamentary group), 14, 32, 94, 114, 147, 187, 192 EU Advisory Mission (EUAM), 71, 71n4, 116 EUBAM Libya, 108 EU Border Assistance Mission (EUBAM), 115 EU Capacity Building Mission (EUCAP), 93n4 EU Civilian Crisis Mechanism, 74 EU Defence Industrial Development Program (EDIDP), 52, 160, 163 EUFOR Althea, 146 EU Force (EUFOR), 78, 94 EUFOR CHAD-RCA, 94 EUFOR Crisis Response Operation Core (EUFOR CROC), 159 EUFOR DRC, 94 EUFOR Libya, 108 EU Global Security Strategy (EUGS), 155–157, 159, 161n8, 202 EU Hybrid Fusion Cell, 117n2 EU Military Committee (EUMC), 76 EU Military HQs, 89 EU Military Staff (EUMS), 76, 89 EU Police Mission (EUPM), Bosnia-­ Herzegovina, 77 Euro-Atlantic community, 27, 66, 77, 157, 187 Euro-Atlanticists, 21 Euro-Atlantic Partnership Council (EAPC), 36

 INDEX 

Eurocorps, 115 EUROJUST, 138 European Arrest Warrant (EAW), 125, 129, 148 European Border and Coast Guard (EBCG), 135, 136, 138, 193 European Community (EC), 67–69, 92, 93, 210 European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR), 125, 131n4, 132, 203 European Criminal Records Information System (ECRIS), 130 European Defence Action Plan (EDAP), 159, 160 European Defence Agency (EDA), 4, 52, 87, 91, 96, 146, 208 European Defence Community (EDC), 34, 71, 71n2, 109, 200 European Defence Fund (EDF), 33, 52, 160–163, 200, 206, 206n1, 207, 217, 220 European defence industry (EDI), 91, 94, 96, 164 European Defence Technological and Industrial base (EDTIB), 87, 91, 96, 113, 209 European Defence Union (EDU), 158, 159, 189, 200 European External Action Service (EEAS), 54, 57, 78, 92, 109, 113, 161, 191 European Financial Stabilisation Mechanism (EFSM), 50 European Geostationary Navigation Overlay (EGNOS), 163n10 European identity, 19, 77 European Integration, 3, 14, 15, 20, 26, 36, 37, 56, 66, 148, 149, 182, 189, 210, 215

227

European Intervention Initiative (EI2), 158, 159, 163, 188 Europeanisation, 20, 21, 50–55, 162, 182, 187 Europeanists, 3, 21 European Monetary Union (EMU), 36, 200, 219 European Operational Headquarters, 146 European Parliament (EP), 4, 26, 32, 53–55, 53n1, 58, 75, 86, 88, 90, 91, 94–96, 113, 117, 130, 135, 138, 151, 157, 159, 186, 187, 191–193, 191n1, 209, 210 European Peace Facility (EPF), 202, 204, 206, 207 European pillar, 70, 71n3, 85, 87, 88, 107 European Research Group, 151 European Security and Defence Identity (ESDI), 28, 70, 72–74 European Security and Defence Policy (ESDP), 27, 73, 83, 87, 89–91, 93, 94, 146, 216 European Security Community, 12 European Security Council (ESC), 190, 207 European Security Strategy (ESS), 84–88, 94, 97, 106, 125, 183 European Sovereignty, 189 European Stability Mechanism (ESM), 14, 50 European strategic culture, 31–43, 86, 210, 216, 218 European Union Agency for Cybersecurity (ENISA), 117 European Union Naval Force (EUNAVFOR), 93, 133, 134n6, 146 EUROPOL, 138, 154 EU Security Union Strategy, 126

228 

INDEX

EU-Turkey Statement 2016 (EU), 131 Exogenous events, 39, 41 Expectations-capabilities gap, 43 External security, 125, 138 F Fallon, Michael, 151 Farage, Nigel, 149 Feira European council, 74 Ferrero-Waldner, Benita, 40, 86 Fidesz, 192 Financial crisis, 5, 26, 32, 39 Finland, 74–76, 118, 155n3, 159n6 Five Eyes, 12 France, 1, 12, 13, 26, 27, 31, 33, 34, 38–40, 66–68, 73–75, 77, 78n8, 84, 85, 88, 92, 106–109, 113–116, 129, 132, 145, 146, 153, 154n3, 155, 157–159, 162, 162n9, 164, 185, 190, 202–205, 207, 218, 219 Franco-German axis, 14, 27, 32, 158, 189, 219 Franco-Greek Strategic Partnership on Defence and Security, 188 FRONTEX, 134–138, 186, 193 Fukuyama, Francis, 37, 210 Functionalism, 18–21 Functionalist, 19, 50, 57 Future Combat Air System (FCAS), 114, 164, 205 G Gahler report, 114 Galileo, 163, 163n10 Gaullism, 20 Genscher, Hans-Dietrich, 36 Geopolitical Commission, 55 Georgia, 26, 88, 110, 111, 125

German reunification, 36, 67 Germany, 13, 27, 31–33, 36, 38–40, 51, 58, 66–68, 71n2, 84, 93, 106, 108, 111, 113–116, 129, 131, 132, 134, 146, 147, 149, 151, 152, 154n3, 157–159, 159n6, 164, 183, 185–187, 189, 190, 200, 202–205, 207, 209–211, 219 Giannakou report, 114 Global Britain, 16, 152, 154, 217 Global power, 12, 31, 55, 109, 204, 219 Good Friday Agreement, 185 Gorazde, 69 Gorbachev, Michael, 36 Greece, 34, 66, 68, 77, 112, 128, 131, 134, 186, 193, 204 Greens, 14, 209 H Haas, Ernst, 20 Hague, William, 147 Hammond, Philip, 146, 148 Hard power, 43, 49, 90–94, 220 Headline Goal 2010, 92 Helsinki European Council, 41, 74 Helsinki Headline Goal (HHG), 74, 75, 183 High Representative for CFSP, 56 High Representative/Vice President of the Commission (HR/VP), 57, 92, 116 Historical Institutionalism, 14–16 Historical Institutionalist approach, 15 Hitler, Adolf, 34 Holistic security, 105–118 Home Affairs, 12, 26, 28, 37, 42, 57, 90, 115, 123, 125 Horn of Africa, 133, 146, 147

 INDEX 

Humanitarian assistance, 70, 93, 108, 156 Hungary, 36, 76, 84, 112, 113, 130, 192 Huntington, Samuel, 37 Clash of Civilisations, 37 Hybrid war, 111 Hybrid warfare, 106, 112, 113, 123 I Iceland, 76 Implementation Force (IFOR), 38, 78 Increasing returns, 16 Incremental change, 13–14, 186, 202 Incremental reform, 17 India, 86 Indispensable nation, 65, 65n1 Indo-Pacific, 153 Institutional change, 14, 16, 25, 181, 211 Institutional fluidity, 26, 28, 29, 57, 84 Integrated approach, 156 Intergovernmental, 4, 49, 51–53, 55, 75, 91, 131n4, 136, 137, 186, 187, 190–193, 220 Intergovernmentalism, 4, 50, 52, 109, 191 Intergovernmentalism new, 51, 52, 54 Internal security, 111, 138 International Court of Justice (ICJ), 69 International Criminal Tribunal on Yugoslavia (ICTY), 69 International Monetary Fund (IMF), 3 International Organization on Migration (IOM), 128 Interoperability, 92, 153, 206 Iraq, 27, 38, 66, 83–97, 105–107, 111, 124, 130, 145, 146, 148, 183, 184, 220

229

Ireland, 76 Islamic State of Iraq and Syria/Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant (ISIS/ISIL), 57, 124, 184 Ismay, Lord, 35 Isolationism, 39, 145, 148–149, 189, 218 Italy, 1, 31, 34, 66, 67, 71n2, 84, 113, 114, 128, 132, 158, 159n6, 186, 207 J Johnson, Boris, 16, 150, 152, 154, 217 Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA), 15 Jordan, 126 Juncker, Jean Claude, 52, 159, 189, 205, 215 Justice and Home Affairs (JHA), 124–126, 130, 137, 138 K Kangaroo Group, 54, 94 Kohl, Helmut, 35 Koppa report, 114 Kosovo, 38, 72–75, 107, 145 Kosovo crisis, 72 Kosovo Force (KFOR), 38 Kosovo war, 107 Kramp-Karrenbauer, Annegret, 33 Kurdi, Aylan, 128 Kuwait, 66 L Lalumière report, 75 Lampedusa, 128, 133 Lancaster House Speech, 152 Lancaster House Treaties, 109, 162, 162n9

230 

INDEX

Latvia, 112, 155n3 Law and Justice Party (PiS), 147 Leave campaign, 58, 147, 148 Le Pen, Jean Marie, 149 Lesbos, 128 Libya, 26, 94, 105–110, 113–115, 126, 128, 131–134, 134n6, 145, 157, 184 Libyan crisis, 27, 57, 105, 107, 113, 135 Lisbon Treaty, 51, 53, 54, 84, 89–96, 129, 137, 147, 161 Lithuania, 112, 155n3 Little green men, 111, 124 Lock-in effect, 16 Lute, Douglas, 188 Luxembourg, 67 M Maastricht Treaty, 56, 70–71, 76, 147 Macron, Emmanuel, 32, 33, 51, 58, 158, 189, 190 Major, John, 147 MALE PRAS (Euro drone), 162 Manners, Ian, 40 Markale market, 69, 70 Marshall Plan, 34 Mattis, James (General), 151 May, Theresa, 16 Mediterranean migrants, 128 Mediterranean route, 135 Mediterranean Sea, 135 Merkel, Angela, 32, 129, 151, 187, 209 Migration crisis, 26, 27, 57, 123–138 Militarisation, 74, 75, 88, 134, 192, 210 Military mobility, 164, 206 Misinformation, 112 Mitterrand, Francois, 36 Mogherini, Federica, 58, 125, 155–157, 201 Montenegro, 69

Morillon report, 95 Mostar, 69, 71, 71n4 Multiannual Financial Framework (MFF), 33, 53, 160, 206 Mutual assistance clause, 129 N National implementation plan (NIP), 161 National security, 12, 26, 28, 31, 37, 41, 42, 50, 51, 55–57, 85–87, 90, 96, 113, 115, 132, 148, 151, 157, 159, 183, 188, 192, 210 NATO defence planning process (NDPP), 203 NATO’s Response Force (NRF), 93 Near Abroad, 89, 111 Neo-functionalism, 20 Neorealism, 16–18 Netherlands, 1, 31, 51, 66, 70, 155, 155n3, 157, 159n6, 193, 207 Network Information System (NIS), 117n3 Nice Treaty, 76 NIS Directive, 117n3 Non-linear warfare, 112 Normative power, 40 North Atlantic Cooperation Council (NACC), 36 North Atlantic Council (NAC), 72 North Atlantic Treaty, 3, 15 North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), 3–6, 13–15, 26–28, 31, 34–39, 55, 57, 58, 65, 66, 69–71, 71n3, 73–78, 75n7, 78n8, 87–92, 94, 96, 97, 108, 111, 117, 118, 134, 135n7, 138, 146, 147, 149, 151, 153, 159, 162, 182–185, 188, 189, 200–204, 206–209, 215, 217, 218, 220 North Macedonia, 38, 78, 131 Norway, 76, 155n3, 202

 INDEX 

O Ochrid Agreement, 78 Operation Allied Force (NATO), 72, 182 Operation Concordia, 146 Operation Deliberate Force (NATO), 182 Operation Essential Harvest (NATO), 38 Operation EUNAVFOR Atalanta, 93, 133, 146 Operation EUNAVFOR MED, 133 Operation Irini, 134n6 Operation Sea Guardian (NATO), 135 Operation Sophia, 133, 134, 138, 192 Orban, Victor, 130 Ossetia Southern, 39, 57, 111 P Pacific, 1, 11, 12, 28, 39, 146, 151–153, 156, 218–220 Pacifism, 211, 219 Paris Climate Accord, 152 Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe (PACE), 132 Partnership for Peace (PfP), 36 Passenger name record (PNR), 130 Path dependency, 25 Path-dependent, 16–18, 26, 51 Peacebuilding, 56, 86, 96, 124 Peacekeeping, 11, 105, 124 Peacemaking, 49, 89, 105, 108, 182, 186 Permanent Structured Cooperation (PESCO), 91, 146, 159, 161–164, 185, 188, 200, 207, 208, 217, 220 Permissive conditions, 18 PESCO Strategic Review, 208 Petersberg Declaration, 70 Petersberg tasks, 74, 76, 89–91 Pinotti, Roberta, 158

231

Piracy, 11, 28, 49, 93, 93n4 Plasticity, 187 Pleven Plan, 71n2 Plurinational, 5, 27, 94, 97, 115, 125, 158, 162, 185, 188, 205, 208, 219 Polarisation, 20, 57, 111, 137, 148, 218, 219 Police joint investigation teams, 130 Political and Security Committee (PSC), 57, 76 Political declaration, 74, 154 Poos, Jacques (Poland), 67 Portugal, 1, 68, 84, 159n6 Pre-emption, 87 Preparatory Action on Defence Research (PADR), 52, 160, 163 Procurement, 11, 28, 33, 51, 95, 114, 158–160, 185, 191, 216 Productive conditions, 18 Psychological targeting, 112 Q Qatar, 127 Qualified majority vote (QMV), 56, 72, 161, 199 R Radical change, 16, 29, 181 Radical reform, 17 Rambouillet negotiations, 72 Rapid military response units, 206 Rapid reaction force, 74, 75 Refugees, 57, 124, 127–129, 131, 134, 138, 184 Renew Europe (parliamentary group), 14 Republika Srpska, 69 Research and development (R&D), 2, 28, 77, 88, 114, 153, 160, 164, 191, 205, 206, 219

232 

INDEX

Resilience, 26, 43, 91, 113, 116, 117n3, 124, 146, 155, 157, 190 Responsibility to Protect (R2P), 107, 108, 124 Romania, 57, 76, 88 Rome Declaration, 33 Rugova, Ibrahim, 72 Russia, 3, 36–39, 55, 73n5, 83–86, 88, 106–108, 110–113, 116, 127, 135n7, 151, 157, 163, 183, 184, 187, 209, 215, 217, 218 S Sahel, 126 Sarkozy, Nicholas, 77, 88 Saudi Arabia, 127, 205 Schengen of Defence, 158 Schengen regulation, 131n4 Schengen Area, 130 Securitisation, 129, 184 Security, 1–7, 11–21, 26–29, 31–43, 50–53, 55–58, 65–78, 83–97, 105–107, 109–113, 115–118, 123–138, 145–157, 162n9, 164, 181–193, 199, 200, 202–205, 207, 210, 211, 215–220 Security guarantees, 39, 152 Security umbrella, 33, 55, 57, 58, 66, 112, 145, 149 Socialists and Democrats (parliamentary group), 192 Soft power, 40, 89, 90, 96 Solidarity clause, 91 Southeastern Europe, 68, 187 Standing Maritime Group 2 (SNMG2), 134 Steinmeier, Frank-Walter, 158 Stoltenberg, Jens, 135, 188 Strategic Agenda, 189 Strategic Compass, 190, 191, 200–203, 207, 215, 220

Sub-Saharan Africa, 93, 115, 128, 132, 138 Supranational, 4, 13, 14, 20, 33, 43, 52, 55, 185 Supranationalism, 50, 160, 191 T Taliban regime, 83 Tampere European Council, 124 Temporality, 17, 187 Terrorism, 56, 85, 88, 89, 129, 130, 135, 147, 184, 185 Terrorist, 4, 126, 127, 129–131, 157, 203 Thatcher, Margaret, 36 Total war, 112 Transactional discourse, 146 Transactional framework, 149 Transactional international relations, 150 Transnistria, 39, 57, 111 Trans-Pacific Partnership (TPP), 152 Treaty of Versailles, 34 Truman Doctrine, 34 Trump, Donald, 6, 27, 29, 39, 42, 58, 130, 145, 146, 148–152, 155, 181, 184, 185, 217, 218 Trust, 1–7, 87, 97, 161, 190, 199–211, 218–220 Tunisia, 115, 126 Turkey, 3, 38, 55, 57, 76, 77, 124, 127, 128, 130–132, 131n5, 134, 135n7, 148, 163, 183, 215 U UKIP, 58 Ukraine, 26, 27, 73n5, 84, 105, 106, 110–113, 115–118, 124, 125 Unanimity, 17, 26, 27, 51, 91, 109, 199

 INDEX 

UNESCO, 152 UNHCR, 128 Unilateral moment, 66, 89 Unipolarism, 14 Unipolarity, 37 Unisys, 135 United Arab Emirates, 127 United Kingdom (UK), 1, 6, 12, 33, 38, 66–68, 73, 74, 78n8, 83–85, 86n2, 89, 90, 93, 106–109, 114, 132, 145–148, 150, 151, 153–156, 155n3, 158, 159n6, 160, 162–164, 162n9, 163n10, 163n9, 182, 184, 185, 188, 190, 200, 202, 204, 208, 217, 218 United Nations Security Council (UNSC), 12, 39, 67, 72, 78n8, 83, 107, 109, 133, 134, 183, 190 United Nations (UN), 66–73, 77, 78n8, 83, 97, 107, 108, 133, 134 UNPROFOR, 68–70 UNSCR 713, 67 US National Security Strategy, 151 USSR, 2, 19, 31, 35, 37, 111 V Vance, Cyrus, 68 Vilnius three, 110 Visegrad, 14

233

Von der Leyen, Ursula, 33, 55, 191n1 W Warsaw Declaration, 117 Warsaw Pact, 2, 27, 36 Washington Summit, 75, 75n7, 183, 188, 201 Weimar Triangle, 115 Western European Union (WEU), 68, 70–73, 71n2, 71n3, 71n4, 76, 78n8 Wilders, Geert, 149 Wilson, Woodrow (President), 34 World Trade Organisation (WTO), 3, 152, 185 Y Yanukovych, Victor, 110, 184 Yemen, 51 Yugoslav crisis, 65–70 Yugoslav Federation, 67 Yugoslavia, 38, 67–69, 74, 123 Yugoslav National Army (JNA), 67, 69 Yugoslav Wars, 6, 26, 56, 65–78, 89, 181–182, 186 Z Zepa, 69