Inclusion, exclusion and the governance of European security 9781847792396

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INCLUSION, EXCLUSION AND THE GOVERNANCE OF EUROPEAN SECURITY

EUROPE in change

SERIES EDITORS :

The formation of Croatian national identity

T HOMAS C HRISTIANSEN

AND

E MIL K IRCHNER

ALEX J. BELLAMY

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Committee governance in the European Union THOMAS CHRISTIANSEN AND EMIL KIRCHNER (EDS) Theory and reform in the European Union, 2nd edition

DIMITRIS N. CHRYSSOCHOOU, MICHAEL J.

TSINISIZELIS, STELIOS STAVRIDIS AND KOSTAS IFANTIS

German policy-making and eastern enlargement of the EU during the Kohl era STEPHEN D. COLLINS The transatlantic divide

OSVALDO CROCI AND AMY VERDUN

Germany, pacifism and peace enforcement

ANJA DALGAARD-NIELSEN

The European Union and the Cyprus conflict The changing European Commission Supranational citizenship

THOMAS DIEZ

DIONYSSIS DIMITRAKOPOULOS (ED.)

LYNN DOBSON

Reshaping Economic and Monetary Union The time of European governance

SHAWN DONNELLY

MAGNUS EKENGREN

An introduction to post-Communist Bulgaria Mothering the Union

EMIL GIATZIDIS

ROBERTA GUERRINA

Non-state actors in international relations: the case of Germany The new Germany and migration in Europe Turkey: facing a new millennium

AMIKAM NACHMANI

Europolis: constitutional patriotism beyond the nation state The changing faces of federalism

ANNE-MARIE LE GLOANNEC

BARBARA MARSHALL

PATRIZIA NANZ

SERGIO ORTINO, MITJA Z ˇ AGAR AND VOJTECH MASTNY (EDS)

The road to the European Union Volume 1 The Czech and Slovak Republics JACQUES RUPNIK AND JAN ZIELONKA (EDS) Volume 2 Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania VELLO PETTAI AND JAN ZIELONKA (EDS) Democratising capitalism? The political economy of post-Communist transformations in Romania, 1989–2001 LILIANA POP Europe and civil society: movement coalitions and European governance Constructing the path to eastern enlargement

CARLO RUZZA

ULRICH SEDELMEIER

Two tiers or two speeds? The European security order and the enlargement of the European Union and NATO JAMES SPERLING (ED.) Recasting the European order

JAMES SPERLING AND EMIL KIRCHNER

Political symbolism and European integration Rethinking European Union foreign policy

TOBIAS THEILER

BEN TONRA AND THOMAS CHRISTIANSEN (EDS)

The European Union in the wake of Eastern enlargement Democratic citizenship and the European Union The emerging Euro-Mediterranean system

AMY VERDUN AND OSVALDO CROCI (EDS)

ALBERT WEALE

DIMITRIS K. XENAKIS AND DIMITRIS N. CHRYSSOCHOOU

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M ARK W EBBER

INCLUSION, EXCLUSION AND THE GOVERNANCE OF EUROPEAN SECURITY

MANCHESTER UNIVERSITY PRESS Manchester

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© Mark Webber 2007 The right of Mark Webber to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Published by Manchester University Press

Altrincham Street, Manchester M1 7JA, UK www.manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data applied for ISBN

978 0 7190 6148 6 hardback

First published 2007 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 09 08 07

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The publisher has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for any external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

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In memory of Golda Barnett and Betty Brent

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CONTENTS

List of tables and figures Acknowledgements List of abbreviations

1 European security and the inclusion/exclusion dynamic

page viii ix x

1

2 Inclusion, exclusion and the international politics of the Cold War

27

3 Security community and security governance: a framework of inclusion and exclusion

48

4 NATO: ‘a just and lasting peaceful order in Europe’

76

5 The European Union: ‘overcoming the divisions of Europe and restoring the unity of the continent’

107

6 Russia: ‘included out’

141

7 Turkey: ‘neither in nor out’

175

8 Conclusion

210

Select bibliography Index

216 220

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TABLES AND FIGURES

Tables 1.1 1.2 1.3

Referendums on EU membership NATO partnerships (2006) EU partnerships (2006)

6 10 11

Figures 1.1 5.1 7.1

Participation in European security organisations Steps towards European Union enlargement Turkey and the institutionalisation of European security

8 115 188–9

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book was conceived under the auspices of a research project entitled ‘Security Governance in the New Europe’ funded by the ‘One Europe or Several?’ programme of the Economic and Social Research Council (ESRC). The research and writing of the book would not have been possible without the ESRC’s financial support (under Project Grant L213252008) supplemented, in its later stages, by a Leverhulme Research Fellowship. My greatest intellectual and professional debt, however, is owed to Stuart Croft, Jolyon Howorth, Terry Terriff and Elke Krahmann, my co-researchers on the ‘Security Governance’ project with whom I have shared many words and many enjoyable research trips. In addition, I have been lucky enough to work within a very supportive academic environment at Loughborough University. Staff within the Department of Politics, International Relations and European Studies and particularly the current and previous heads, Dave Allen and Mike Smith, provided endless encouragement and space without which the book would probably never have been completed. Numerous individuals provided other forms of support. Roy Allison, Derek Averre, Adrian Hyde-Price, Ruth Kinna, Emil Kirchner, Alex Pravda, Helena Rytövuori-Apunen, James Sperling either read parts of the text or gave me the opportunity to present works-in-progress to academic audiences. Bezen Coskun, Emilian Kavalski and Vasilis Margaras provided valuable research assistance. While much of the research for the book is open source, it has nonetheless benefited enormously from a series of interviews conducted at North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO) HQ in Brussels, NATO Allied Joint Forces Command (Naples), meetings with officials in the European Commission and the Council, and two research visits to Moscow. My thanks go to all the officials who gave their time in these meetings as well as the good-will of those such as Artur Demchuk, Chris Donnelly, Mark McGuigan, Tony Mason and Robert Wright who either helped to organise them or provided local comfort. As ever, my family had to put up with my periods of absence and endless hours chained to the home computer. Della, Eddie and Theo all, therefore, deserve a special mention for their patience and love. Finally, the writing of the book coincided with the deaths of two dear relatives and so is dedicated to their memory.

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ABBREVIATIONS

AKP APM BiH CFE CFSP CIS CJTF CMEA CSBM CSCE CSTO CTR EA EAPC EC EEA EEC ECE EDA EFTA EMP EMU ENP EP EPU ESDI ESDP EU EUFOR FSU GDP G8 IFOR INF

Adalet ve Kalkinma Partisi (Justice and Development Party) Anti-Personnel Mines Bosnia-Herzegovina Conventional Forces in Europe Common Foreign and Security Policy Commonwealth of Independent States Combined Joint Task Force Council for Mutual Economic Assistance confidence and security building measure Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe Collective Security Treaty Organisation cooperative threat reduction Europe Agreement Euro-Atlantic Partnership Council European Community European Economic Area European Economic Community East-Central Europe(an) European Defence Agency European Free Trade Area Euro-Mediterranean Partnership Economic and Monetary Union European Neighbourhood Policy European Parliament European Political Union European Security and Defence Identity European Security and Defence Policy European Union Althea European Union Force former Soviet Union gross domestic product Group of Eight (NATO) Implementation Force Intermediate Nuclear Forces

A BBREVIATIONS

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IR ISAF JHA KFOR MAP MFA MHP NAC NACC NATO NRC NRF OSCE PACE PCA PFP PJC PPC QMV RoC SAA SAP SFOR TACIS TCA TEU TNW TRNC UN UNPROFOR UNSC WEAG WEU WTO

International Relations International Security Assistance Force Justice and Home Affairs (NATO) Kosovo Force Membership Action Plan Ministry of Foreign Affairs (Russia) Milliyetçi Hareket Partisi (Nationalist Movement Party) North Atlantic Council North Atlantic Cooperation Council North Atlantic Treaty Organisation NATO–Russia Council NATO Response Force Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe Partnership and Cooperation Agreement Partnership for Peace Permanent Joint Council Permanent Partnership Council qualified majority voting Republic of Cyprus Stabilisation and Association Agreement Stabilisation and Association Process (NATO) Stabilisation Force Technical Aid to the Commonwealth of Independent States Trade and Cooperation Agreement Treaty on European Union tactical nuclear weapon Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus United Nations Uniter Nations Protection Force United Nations Security Council Western European Armaments Group Western European Union World Trade Organisation

xi

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1 European security and the inclusion/exclusion dynamic

For those fortunate to live in a prosperous democratic state in the first decade of the 2000s, the politics of inclusion seems a natural state of affairs. It is indeed one of the most powerful legitimating claims of democratic political life. The ability to deliver welfare, prosperity and security to all citizens is the premise of successful electoral politics. Similarly, at the international level, the politics of Europe is increasingly the politics of cooperation. The latter, although sometimes taken for granted, might be regarded as truly historic. The history of Europe during the ‘short twentieth century’ was, after all, that of revolution, war and ideological antagonism, bookended by the First World War and, between 1989 and 1991, the triple collapse of the Cold War, communism and the Soviet Union. With the passing of this ‘age of extremes’ in Eric Hobsbawn’s phrase, a Europe of possibilities was opened up.1 This brought with it certain intimations of catastrophe, not least Yugoslavia’s violent collapse, but it also permitted, in the words of another prominent historian, a fundamental rethink of both ‘the common European past’ and ‘a common European future’.2 This was by no means a comfortable process, for it implied that the relatively prosperous West Europeans (and their American allies) would have to come to terms with the uncertain and vulnerable status of their Eastern neighbours, states no longer sectioned off by the Cold War divide and now as important to the future of the continent as they had been before 1939. An important part of the response has been to extend eastward (and latterly, southward) those forms of organisation which had for many decades defined Europe’s Western half and indeed ‘the West’ more broadly. The upshot, the enlargement of both the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO) and the European Union (EU) had, by the mid-2000s, proceeded to a point where the idea of European unity could, without seeming irony or exaggeration, be talked about as an achievable prospect.

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The inclusiveness which this claim implied has, however, been contested. Here it is worth noting a simple but very important point: relations of inclusion, unless they are universal, presuppose some form of simultaneous exclusion. Exclusion, Andrew Linklater has argued, is ‘constitutive of all forms of life [. . . and] all social systems are constructed from the complex webs of inclusion and exclusion’.3 This is an insight that applies as much to gangs as it does to political parties; to clans, citizenship and ethnic groups as much as military alliances and international organisations. What this book seeks to do is to consider one important aspect of the relationship between inclusion and exclusion, namely how it has been played out in the sphere of international security, how the organisation of security on a European level has developed since the Cold War watershed and what enduring forms of exclusion have remained. While inclusion is important, it is this exclusionary dimension which is given a more prominent treatment, not least in order to provide a corrective to some of the more overblown claims concerning the prospects of European unification. Part of the purpose of this first chapter is to sketch out some of the themes which ground the book and also to summarise its content. Equally, and by way of orientation, it provides a schematic overview of the book’s central analytical focus. In the following section, two ‘ideal types’ of inclusion and exclusion will be presented as alternative representations of Europe’s security relations. The relationship between these two will then be considered.

Security inclusion The discourse of inclusion The historical significance of the end of the Cold War was, in large measure, appreciated by its contemporaries. The Charter of Paris for a New Europe signed by some thirty-four states from across the continent in November 1990 declaimed that ‘[t]he era of confrontation and division of Europe has ended’.4 And at that historical juncture grand visions were elaborated of a unified Europe made possible by the disintegration of the Iron Curtain. For President George Bush Sr this was a Europe ‘whole and free’; for his Soviet counterpart, Mikhail Gorbachev, ‘a common European house’ and for the West German Foreign Minister HansDietrich Genscher, a ‘pan-European cooperative security order’. What was not readily apparent at the time was that this vision would come to centre on NATO and the EU. However, as the Cold War ended, both bodies laid claim to a pan-European vision (see Chapters 4 and 5) and this would continue to be held as enlargement proceeded. The year 2004 was thus a watershed year in Europe. In March, NATO admitted seven new member states (Bulgaria, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Romania, Slovakia and Slovenia) – ‘[a]n event’, according to Italian Foreign Minister Franco Frattini, ‘that will stand out in the history of [. . .] Europe’ as confirming ‘that the divisions of the past have been overcome’. Or, in the words of Frattini’s Bulgarian counterpart, Solomon

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Passy, one that brings ‘us ever closer to [a] united democratic Europe without dividing lines’.5 The EU, meanwhile, in May formalised its own ‘big bang’ enlargement with the accession of ten new members (the Czech Republic, Cyprus, Estonia, Hungary, Latvia, Lithuania, Malta, Poland, Slovakia and Slovenia). On this occasion the President of the European Commission Romani Prodi was moved to declare that the event would ‘go down in history as the day of the continent’s unification; when Europe’s decades-long divide was healed; when a dream was realised and a tragic historical absurdity laid to rest’.6 Enlargement (and accompanying forms of partnership with non-members), moreover, had a particular security relevance. A NATO publication in 2002 argued that the organisation was changing from ‘a tightly-knit alliance with responsibility for [the] collective defence [of its members]’ to ‘the dynamo at the hub of a profound new set of security relationships’, ‘an inclusive framework for the Euro-Atlantic area as a whole’.7 Statements emanating from the EU have carried a similar message. Agenda 2000, published by the European Commission in 1997, argued that enlargement would help ‘form Europe into an area of unity and stability’.8 Commenting on the 2004 enlargement Romani Prodi suggested that the EU, founded with the ‘overriding objective’ of eradicating war, had consolidated and extended a ‘Union for peace’ in Europe.9 The demand for inclusion The credibility of the claims made on behalf of the EU and NATO rest on enlargement and partnership and, in security terms, the functional competence of these two organisations in addressing post-Cold War concerns. What has mattered equally is perceptions held of the organisations. How, in other words, they have been seen by aspirant members as a means of satisfying their security needs. At the outset, it is worth noting that the power of attraction has been a truly pan-European phenomenon. In the case of NATO, to the seven entrants admitted in 2004 one can add three earlier acceding states (the Czech Republic, Hungary and Poland), three (Albania, Croatia and Macedonia) within the Membership Action Plan (MAP) and a further four (Azerbaijan, Georgia, Moldova and Ukraine) who had by 2004 made a clear political commitment to accession. As for the EU, to the enlargement of 2004 one can add the three states (Austria, Finland and Sweden) involved in the ‘northern’ enlargement of 1995, Bulgaria and Romania who signed accession treaties in 2005, Croatia and Turkey who initiated accession negotiations later the same year, the states of the Western Balkans (Albania, Bosnia-Herzegovina [BiH], Macedonia and SerbiaMontenegro) whose accession has been recognised as a possibility by the EU, and a handful of states (Georgia, Moldova and Ukraine) in the former Soviet Union (FSU) who have made a case for admission. The differences between these states, coupled with the often overt distinction they have drawn between the attractions of NATO and the EU, mean it is difficult to generalise on the pull of enlargement. Indeed, a wide range of factors has

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motivated the candidate and new members. Membership has been desired for reasons of economic benefit, political stabilisation and regime consolidation. These factors have a particular resonance for the large number of former communist states all of which have faced profound social, economic and political transition, although even this commonality has only a very general application – the transition in say the East-Central European (ECE)states being very different from that in the Western Balkans, in turn, different from that in the Baltics. And one should bear in mind that transition is not simply a post-communist phenomenon – Turkey since the late 1990s has experienced a transformation arguably as far-reaching as that in many former communist states. Yet what all these states share is a preoccupation with the insecurities of internal transition. Equally important have been issues of external security. It would be stretching the analysis to argue that the variety of states listed above share the same security problems or that they have a common appreciation of how to address them. The largest group has joined, or has sought to join, both the EU and NATO. Others (Austria, Sweden, Finland, Cyprus, Malta and SerbiaMontenegro) have joined the former (or, in the case of Serbia-Montenegro, aspire to join it) but have not made any movement towards the latter. Turkey, meanwhile has sought to join the EU while already a long-time member of the Alliance. The basic point to be made here, however, is that even allowing for such variety, security broadly understood has been an additional but nonetheless compelling factor behind these different patterns of accession. In this light, what has been the security context facing these states? Here, the end of the Cold War is crucial. This is a theme we shall return to throughout the text, however, briefly stated, this historical juncture had a profound effect on the security situation of states globally and most notably on Europe’s periphery. For those not already members of NATO and the EU at the Cold War’s end, the effects were particularly urgent. According to Christian Haerpfer and others, during the early 1990s ‘[t]he stability provided by the Cold War [was] replaced by the threat of confusion, disintegration and chaos’, and this was a problem that mattered as much for states such as ‘traditionally neutral Austria as [it did] for the newly emerging [post-communist] democracies’.10 There was, in other words an abundance of insecurity that stretched throughout Central, Eastern and SouthEastern Europe, the South Caucasus (Armenia, Azerbaijan and Georgia), the Baltic region and the Western FSU. This involved at its worst civil war, state collapse and ethnic cleansing in the former Yugoslavia and the South Caucasus, fears of domination by an over-bearing neighbour (be this Germany in the cases of Poland and the Czech Republic, Turkey in the case of Bulgaria, or Russia in the case of Georgia, the Baltic states and Ukraine) and exposure to a multiplicity of security ‘risks’ relating to the emergence of new inter-state borders, the status of national and ethnic minorities, unchecked migration, transnational crime, environmental degradation and terrorism.11 These concerns were, in turn, compounded by what might be called status insecurity, an uncertainty stemming from geopolitical location, the demands of

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foreign policy reorientation and detachment from international institutions. This condition has taken different forms at different moments in time. Among the ECE states, the anxieties it spawned were at their height in the early 1990s. At this point, the region was characterised as occupying a security vacuum or ‘grey zone’, under-institutionalised and lacking in security guarantees. This zone, moreover, fell within Zwischeneuropa – a ‘Europe in between’ located at the edge of competing spheres of influence (Russian–German traditionally and Soviet–Western after 1945) exposed to invasion, domination and subjugation, and subject, according to Sergei Medvedev, to a ‘geopolitical identity [. . .] based on a cultural duality [. . .] the hope of being accepted into the West and the fear of being dominated by the East’.12 With varying degrees of emphasis, this condition of separation and consequent insecurity has applied throughout the post-communist world, and indeed to most of Europe beyond its integrated Western part. The practical response to these various security predicaments has (as noted above) been a movement toward the EU and NATO. For some, this orientation has been associated with a historical even philosophical claim – the notion of a ‘return to Europe’ articulated in ECE and the Baltic states. For the vast majority it also represents the absence or weakness of meaningful alternatives – be this military self-sufficiency, neutrality (the official stance of Ukraine throughout the 1990s), sub-regional security cooperation (developed to varying degrees in ECE, the Baltic region, the Balkans and the FSU) or a strengthening of the pan-European Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE). As for views of the organisations themselves, those seeking membership have appreciated NATO and the EU in somewhat different ways. Joining NATO, for instance, is regarded as affirming the transatlantic link to the US, as providing a ‘hard’ collective defence guarantee and as offering a route to defence modernisation and security sector reform. The EU, meanwhile, as the site of a sophisticated and multilayered set of cooperative policies, has been perceived as the best method to address myriad ‘soft’ security challenges and increasingly, via the Common Foreign and Security Policy (CFSP) and its offshoot the European Security and Defence Policy (ESDP), as a means of tackling sources of regional instability.13 These specific roles, moreover, have a wider significance, accession being what Hungarian Foreign Minister Laszlo Kovacks referred to in 1995 as ‘an indispensable condition of [. . .] security [and] stability’14 or what the Czech President Vaclav Havel noted in 2002 as a guarantee of entry into the ‘common Europe’ of ‘peace, stability and prosperity’.15 The demand for inclusion has not simply been an elite project. The path towards the EU and NATO has enjoyed widespread support within those states which acceded in 2004 (and, indeed, earlier in 1995). This has been apparent from opinion poll data16 and, in the case of the EU, from national referenda (see Table 1.1). Among the post-2004 aspirants, opinion has been more varied. Consistent majorities have been in favour of EU membership in Bulgaria, Romania, Turkey and Macedonia as well as in potential candidates

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Table 1.1 Referendums on EU membership

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Date Norway Austria Finland Sweden Malta Slovenia Hungary Lithuania Slovakia Poland Czech Republic Estonia Latvia Cyprus

November 1994 June 1994 October 1994 November 1994 March 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 May 2003 June 2003 June 2003 September 2003 September 2003 no referendum

In favour (per cent) 47.5* 66.6 56.9 52.3 53.6 89.6 83.7 90.0 92.4 77.5 77.3 66.9 67.0 –

Turnout (per cent of adult population) 88.6 81.0 74.0 83.0 91.0 55.4 45.6 63.5 52.1 58.9 55.2 63.0 72.5 –

Note: * Referendum rejected membership

Serbia-Montenegro, Albania, Moldova and Georgia. Opinion, however, has been split in Croatia and Ukraine.17 Support for NATO has been strong in Macedonia and Albania with opinion divided in Croatia and a majority against accession in Ukraine.18 An inclusive concept of ‘security’ in Europe The enlargement of the EU and NATO has clear security purposes. In general terms, it can be seen as part and parcel of the extension of security community on a potentially pan-European basis. As such, this is a fundamental switch from how security was both conceived and organised in Europe during the long period of the Cold War. This theme is taken up in more detail in Chapter 2, but briefly stated, during the Cold War security was associated with military threats directed against the state and against which the state was obliged to respond with strong counter-measures, be this armed defence, espionage, subversion and so on. Further, while the Cold War contained a strong ideological flavour, its most pressing material component was that of the nuclear arms race matched by high levels of conventional forces. This is not to say that other ways of looking at security were entirely absent. Even such a stalwart of the ‘traditional’ agenda as Henry Kissinger was moved to argue in the mid-1970s that for the US and the West more generally issues of energy, the environment and population were of increasing relevance.19 ‘Alternative’ defence thinking, meanwhile, gained ground during the 1970s and 1980s and in the academic world the beginnings of an intellectual reconsideration of security was in motion.20 Encouraged by the end of the Cold War, a veritable cottage industry sprang up dedicated to elaborating

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the concept still further. This analysis has made much of what are seen as securityrelevant threats beyond the purely military (economic, environmental, social, demographic and others) and has identified ‘referents’ or subjects other than the state against which such threats are directed.21 These conceptual shifts were not initially reflected in the practical management of security in Europe, however. Only with the winding down of the Cold War in the latter half of the 1980s was there a marked move away from strictly military preoccupations amongst national governments. Subsequently, through the 1990s and 2000s, official outlooks have become attuned to a changing security agenda. National governments (in Western and much of Eastern Europe, at least) and international organisations have elaborated positions which accord security a fluid and multifaceted meaning. In this sense, issues related to transnational crime, unregulated trans-border migration, weapons proliferation, environmental degradation, disease pandemics, terrorism and regional conflict management are as germane to security in the post-Cold War period as was the fixation with territorial defence and deterrence prior to the Cold War’s end.22 This, moreover, has been accompanied by a public commitment to broad and extensive cooperation embracing Europe in its widest sense. This has been apparent in NATO and EU documentation, but its broadest meaning can be found in statements of the OSCE. The Charter for European Security signed by the fifty-four OSCE participating states in November 1999 notes the goal of creating a ‘common, comprehensive and indivisible security and a common security space free of dividing lines’.23 This, according to the instructively named Lisbon Declaration for a Common and Comprehensive Security Model for the Twenty-First Century, should be based on ‘the widest cooperation and coordination among participating States and European and transatlantic organisations’ in turn underpinned by an ‘allegiance to shared values, commitments and norms of behaviour’.24 As the 2003 OSCE Strategy to Address Threats to Security and Stability suggested ‘[n]o single state or organisation can, on its own, meet the challenges facing us today. Coordination of the efforts of all [. . .] organisations and institutions that are concerned with the promotion of comprehensive security within the OSCE area [. . .] the UN [United Nations], EU, NATO and the Council of Europe’ is therefore essential.25 The inclusive organisation of security in Europe At face value, OSCE documentation suggests that the organisation of efforts to address Europe’s post-Cold War security challenges has been both multifaceted and inclusive in nature. There is some substance to this position if one considers formal structures of security management centred, for example, on institutional affiliation, the application of treaties and conventions and participation in conflict management activities. Taking the first of these, organisational membership is outlined in Figure 1.1. The OSCE takes in all of continental Europe and the FSU, thus making it the world’s largest and most comprehensive regional organisation. This body’s broad

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reach is, however, a historical accident, a consequence of its former inter-bloc character during the Cold War. It has, moreover, developed only fitfully as a security provider and lacks the substantive forms of political and security integration apparent in the EU and NATO.26 In this light, the enlargement of the latter two bodies takes on a particular significance. As Antonio Missiroli has

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OSCE Andorra Bosnia-Herzegovina Holy See Liechtenstein Monaco San Marino Serbia-Montenegro Switzerland

NATO

Albania

EU Croatia Macedonia Bulgaria Romania Turkey Canada Iceland Norway United States

Belgium Czech Republic Denmark Estonia France Germany Greece Hungary Italy Latvia Lithuania Luxembourg Netherlands Poland Portugal Slovakia Slovenia Spain United Kingdom

Austria Cyprus Finland Ireland Malta Sweden

CIS Azerbaijan

Georgia

Moldova

Ukraine

Turkmenistan

CIS Collective Security Treaty Organisation Armenia Belarus Kazakhstan Kyrgyzstan

Russia

Tajikistan

indicates candidate or acceding country status

Figure 1.1 Participation in European security organisations

Uzbekistan

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noted, as of 2004 NATO had come to ‘encompass 26 members and the EU 25, 19 of which [ . . . are] in common: the level of overlap is unprecedented and may rise even further with the likely accession to the EU of Bulgaria and Romania in 2007 and, possibly, Turkey later on. Taken together, the two organisations will cover almost all of continental Europe and represent a majority within the OSCE.’27 Further, the significance of NATO and the EU cannot simply be viewed in terms of their enlarging membership, as important as that is. Both organisations have developed a range of partnership activities (many with an explicit security purpose) which have extended their reach and influence across Eurasia and beyond. These are considered in Chapters 4 and 5, but are summarised here in Tables 1.2 and 1.3. Turning to treaties and conventions with a security relevance, these include formal arms control agreements of which the 1990 Conventional Forces in Europe (CFE) Treaty is the most important. Originally applicable to the states of NATO and the Warsaw Pact, its post-Cold War adaptation means that CFE provisions have come to apply to a total of thirty states. The 1992 CFE-1A Treaty on military personnel levels has a similar coverage. Other notable texts include the Chemical Weapons Convention, the Biological and Toxic Weapons Convention, the Anti-Personnel Mines Convention, and the Nuclear NonProliferation Treaty. These have a global relevance but have been signed by the vast majority of European states. As well as arms control, other key documents concern Europe-wide confidence and security-building measures (CSBMs), most notably the four Vienna Documents (of 1990, 1992, 1994 and 1999) and the 1992 Treaty on Open Skies. As for conflict management activities, these have acquired their most inclusive quality in the Balkan region. The Stability Pact for South Eastern Europe launched at the EU’s initiative in June 1999 has come to involve eight states of the region, all member states of the EU, interested states such as Russia, Turkey and the US, as well as a number of international organisations (the UN, NATO, the Council of Europe and the OSCE), international financial institutions and subregional bodies. International efforts in BiH and Kosovo, more specifically, have involved similar coordination among an equally wide range of actors, including also in these cases several NGOs. Peacekeeping in the region, meanwhile, has been conducted under the auspices of three organisations – the UN, NATO and the EU, and has had a broad multinational character. UNPROFOR, the UN mission in Croatia and BiH between 1992 and 1995 involved thirty-two contributing nations, twenty of which were European. SFOR the NATO-led stabilisation force in BiH entailed contributions from a total of thirty-six NATO members or NATO Partnership for Peace (PFP) states. The EU successor mission, EUFOR was, as of 2005, made up of personnel from twenty-two EU states and eleven other contributing nations. In Kosovo, finally, NATO’s KFOR mission in Kosovo, has entailed contributions from thirty-two NATO and partner states. In light of the above, two characteristics are particularly noteworthy. First, commitment and cooperation has occurred on a clearly pan-European basis, in

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Table 1.2 NATO partnerships (2006) Special relationships

Membership Action Plan (MAP)

Partnership for Peace (PFP)

Euro-Atlantic Partnership Council (EAPC)

Mediterranean Dialogue

Istanbul Cooperation Initiative

Operations

Russia Ukraine

Albania Croatia Macedonia

Albania Armenia Austria Azerbaijan Belarus Croatia Finland Georgia Ireland Kazakhstan Kyrgyzstan Macedonia Moldova Russia Sweden Switzerland Tajikistan Turkmenistan Ukraine Uzbekistan

Albania Armenia Austria Azerbaijan Belarus Croatia Finland Georgia Ireland Kazakhstan Kyrgyzstan Macedonia Moldova Russia Sweden Switzerland Tajikistan Turkmenistan Ukraine Uzbekistan

Algeria Egypt Israel Jordan Mauritania Morocco Tunisia

Bahrain Kuwait Qatar United Arab Emirates

Afghanistan Bosnia* Eastern Mediterranean Iraq Kosovo Macedonia Sudan

Note: * SFOR, NATO’s peacekeeping operation in Bosnia ran from 1996–2004, when it was replaced by an operation under the auspices of the EU’s ESDP. With this transfer, NATO continued to maintain a defence headquarters in Sarajevo to assist the Bosnian authorities with defence reform

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Table 1.3 EU partnerships (2006) ‘Strategic partnerships’

Partnership and Cooperation Agreements (PCAs)

Euro-Mediterranean Partnership (Barcelona Process)

Stabilisation and Association Process

European Neighbourhood Policy

Accession partnerships

Russia Ukraine

Armenia Azerbaijan Belarus* Georgia Kazakhstan Kyrgyzstan Moldova Russia Tajikistan Turkmenistan* Ukraine Uzbekistan

Algeria Egypt Israel Jordan Lebanon Libya* Morocco Palestinian Authority Syria Tunisia Turkey

Albania Bosnia-Herzegovina Croatia Macedonia Serbia-Montenegro

Algeria Armenia Azerbaijan Belarus* Egypt Georgia Israel Jordan Lebanon Libya* Moldova Morocco Palestinian Authority Syria* Tunisia Ukraine

Bulgaria Croatia Romania Turkey

Note: * Suspended or inactive

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the process cutting across the old East–West division of the Cold War. Second, security cooperation has involved a wide range of actors – a large collection of states, a variety of international organisations and, in some situations, non-state actors also.

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Security exclusion The rhetoric and practices of inclusion detailed above would seem to suggest that the development of security in Europe after the Cold War has followed a seamless path of community building. This is a misleading assumption. Enlargement, the most important expression of community, does belie a certain vision and purpose. However, to regard it as the consummation of a process of inclusion is to be guilty of what Herbert Butterfield in very different circumstances pejoratively referred to as ‘Whig history’: a view of the present as the inevitable outcome of the march of progress with its organisational forms the height of political development and the product of an unchallenged consensus.28 Elements of a more complex process will be apparent throughout the text. As a first corrective, it is worth briefly surveying three instances of exclusion of relevance to post-Cold War Europe: security differentiation, discourse and organisation. Security differentiation As noted above, the meaning of security in both conceptual and policy terms has broadened since the Cold War. How one understands and interprets security has come to depend on working through a wealth of different meanings and allusion to a range of security actors and subjects. To simplify matters somewhat, here we accept the analytical centrality of the state although this is done with some important caveats. First, one must note that subjects of security other than the state (individuals and social groups, for instance) are not unimportant; the state, in other words, is not the only ‘referent’ which may face threats and thus experience insecurity. Second, ‘new’ security actors (NGOs and private security firms) have assumed a certain role in security provision – for example in postconflict situations, in monitoring treaty compliance and in countering transnational problems of disease and trafficking.29 Third, and contrary to traditional security studies, threats to security arise, as already noted, in multiple ways; security is not simply about inter-state competition and conflict. Indeed, in terms of the widened agenda of threats, the main protagonists are either nonstate actors (terrorist or criminal networks, computer hackers) or abstract entities (the Aids or flu virus, carbon emissions and so on). Given these qualifications, how can we justify retaining the state as our analytical focus? In short, according to Edward Kolodziej, because it remains ‘the principal unit of political organisation’ both for domestic and international purposes.30 The security of the state is in some senses an abstract, a schematic step that diverts attention away from both the security of those who reside within

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its boundaries and the commonalities of interest that people and groups share across its borders. Yet in practical terms it holds two clear advantages as an ‘instrument’ of security.31 The first is material. Only the state possesses the depth and variety of resources (armies, border guards, police forces, intelligence agencies, government ministries, finance and so on) necessary for countering multiple threats. The state is thus the primary agent of policy. The security and welfare of individuals and groups largely depends upon the organising framework of governmental action, while the ancillary role played by other ‘new’ security actors is usually made possible only by the facilitative environment of state agency. Certainly this is a matter of degree. While states in general can be viewed as the principal and most resourceful security actor it is rare for individual states to act alone. Some attempt to do so because they have a global or regional sway or entertain notions of greatness (as in the cases of the US, China and Russia) or because they suffer a condition of isolation and regional exceptionalism (as in the cases of North Korea, Cuba and until the early 1990s, South Africa). But historically, and particularly in the European context, the norm is for states to pool resources in forms of inter-governmental cooperation. These multilateral forms are crucial security instruments in their own right and sit above purely national responses; they are nonetheless products of the state that remain their dominant component parts and, particularly in the security field, their legitimators of action.32 The second advantage enjoyed by the state is political – the authority, in other words, which falls to the state and its governing agents to make and execute policy, an authority that may be based on an electoral mandate, a legal or constitutional position or a moral and ethical claim. Political status here is crucial for it allows policy-makers to prioritise threats and determine the appropriate response. If we accept an analytical focus on the state we can make an important further assumption, namely that the security situation of states is unequal or differentiated. Again, at the risk of simplification, security defined as ‘the pursuit of freedom from threat’33 suggests a condition that exists to different degrees in both time and place. Historically speaking in Europe, insecurity has been a common condition owing to the prevalence of war up until 1945 and the overarching condition of Cold War for the four and a half decades thereafter. But while war or the threat of war was a genuinely pan-European phenomenon, in the post-Cold War period, actual and potential conflicts (be these inter- or intra-state) have become localised. War is highly unlikely in the West European ‘zone of peace’, but has been visited upon the ‘zones of conflict’ in the Balkans and the South Caucasus as well as in Russia, Moldova and Turkey.34 The Eastern Mediterranean, meanwhile, is the site of periodic Greek–Turkish tension and the unresolved problem of Cyprus. Further, while the broadened agenda of security touches all states, the intensity of threat various considerably. As Sherman Garnett has argued, the most reliable pointer in this respect is state capacity. States which are weak (in other words, corrupt, financially bankrupt, inefficient and lacking reliable structures of domestic governance) are that much more likely to be the

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sites of civil strife, ethnic disturbance, overbearing criminal networks and social collapse. Weak states are, by the same token, the least capable of providing counter-measures to these and other security challenges. While one might accept that the state is, in general terms, an effective security instrument, in particular cases its ability to carry out security functions has been severely degraded. As Garnett points out, this is largely a product of post-communist transition coupled with the legacy of federal state collapse. There is thus a clear distinction to be drawn in Europe’s ‘security environment’ between weak states, which emerged from the ruins of the former socialist federations of Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union, and the more viable post-communist states in ECE.35 Another way to look at security differentiation is in terms of perception. Security, as Arnold Wolfers argued many years ago, has both an objective and subjective quality.36 Objectively, it can relate to the existence of threats ‘out there’ in the ‘real world’ but subjectively to the manner in which threats are filtered mentally, articulated in discourse and, in the hands of political elites, translated into policy responses. This process, what Ole Wæver has referred to as ‘securitisation’,37 has a bearing on all manner of state practices in all manner of states. Even in the more secure parts of Europe it finds expression in the rising pitch of political attention given to the threats of terrorism, drug trafficking and migration, as well as the contagion effects of unstable neighbouring regions.38 As Wæver suggests, to securitise an issue is to lift it ‘above normal politics’ and occurs in response to what is perceived as a security problem that ‘threaten[s] the sovereignty or independence of a state in a particularly rapid or dramatic fashion [. . . and which] in turn, undercuts the political order. Such a threat must therefore be met with the mobilisation of the maximum effort.’39 The manner of securitisation will not simply depend on the intensity of threat, however, but will be conditioned also by particular cultural, political and historical circumstances. Security discourse in Russia and Turkey, for example, has occurred against a background of multiple threats but has been heavily influenced, in turn, by perceptions of international status and identity, historical insecurities (syndromes born of ‘betrayal’ and encirclement) and an emphasis on the primacy of sovereignty at the domestic level. The upshot has been processes of securitisation that have placed an emphasis on coercive measures and a privileged role for the military. Securitisation, further, can be affected by institutional context at the regional level. In the Europe of the EU and NATO, securitisation is channelled by multilateral cooperation, frameworks which can ultimately contribute to the ‘descuritisation’ of a problem – its removal, in other words, into the more prosaic and predictable realm of everyday politics. Because the EU and NATO serve these purposes, distance from the two organisations itself becomes a source of insecurity, adding to existing perceptions of isolation and beleaguerment. Clearly this is not a uniform process. The perception of insecurity is that much more acute among governing elites in Georgia, for example, than it is in Romania or even BiH. Georgia is a state wracked by civil fragmentation with no prospect of EU or NATO membership and access to only

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limited EU, NATO (and UN) assistance. Romania by contrast, has experienced a range of security concerns but has obtained NATO membership and is due to join the EU in 2007. BiH, meanwhile, having experienced a security catastrophe worse than Georgia’s, has at least been offered the long-term prospect of EU membership (however remote) and has been stabilised by a concerted NATO, EU (and UN) effort. The discourse of exclusion As we have seen, a theme of inclusion has been very apparent in European security discourse since the end of the Cold War. This has not, however, been universal – in three senses. First within EU/NATO Europe there have been powerful political messages emanating from political elites relating to the limits of inclusion. As we shall see in later chapters, these political preferences are especially clear in debates among existing member states on the wisdom and scope of institutional enlargement and/or forms of association. Surveys of public opinion indicate strong popular expressions on similar themes. In the case of the EU, for example, a 2005 Eurobarometer poll showed a split in opinion on enlargement among EU publics (49 per cent in favour and 39 per cent against) alongside differing views regarding individual potential members (clear majorities favoured Switzerland, Norway and Iceland; small majorities were in favour of Croatia and Bulgaria; opinion was evenly divided on the merits of Romania, Ukraine, Macedonia and BiH; and clear majorities were against the accession of SerbiaMontenegro, Albania and Turkey).40 Second, a sense of exclusion is obvious among popular and elite views in those states not part of EU/NATO Europe, particularly where membership is an unfulfilled foreign policy ambition. Here, two processes have been apparent. The first concerns the so-called ‘Yalta syndrome’, an allusion to the post-Second World War settlement and a consequent fear of abandonment by the West. This was a perception commonplace in the early to mid-1990s in ECE when EU and NATO enlargement seemed stalled.41 As enlargement has proceeded and more states have acceded to both the EU and NATO, another, related, dynamic has come to the fore. Now inclusion appears as a historical trend and to be outside seems increasingly anomalous. As Dov Lynch has noted, in states where membership is unlikely, a ‘psychological fear’ of exclusion is generated. Here the understanding of relations with the EU (and NATO) is coloured by reductionist perceptions of accession – ‘if a state is not “in” or on the way “in”, that state is “out”, irrevocably and completely [. . .] there is accession [. . .] and there is an oubliette. Exclusion is absolute.’42 Prior enlargement thus induces anxiety at being left out, reinforces demands for inclusion among existing candidates and prompts those previously indifferent or laggardly on the issue to bolster their case. A third qualification to the theme of inclusion concerns a particular discourse of exclusion apparent within those states who have viewed NATO and EU predominance as, at worse, an actual source of threat and, at best, a source of structural disadvantage. The portrayal of the EU and NATO within elite opinion

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as well as in significant strands of public and media opinion in Russia, Belarus and Serbia-Montenegro under Milosevic all fall into this category.43 The existence, simultaneously, of discourses of inclusion and exclusion can be viewed as a structural consequence of the very nature of security. Security as we have seen is premised on the notion of threat. This has a crucial bearing on the relationship between inclusion and exclusion. As Harald Müller explains: the notion of security [. . . relies] on a sharp polar differentiation between ‘self’ and ‘other’. [. . .] This distinction is one of inclusion – that which belongs – and exclusion – that which is alien [. . .] The included is seen in a positive light: the internal structure offers order, stability, safety, security. The external disorder [. . .] vibrates with threat, risk and danger.44

This self/other distinction is a highly complex one and has been used to explore among other things, issues of identity, cooperation and integration. With respect to the first of these, Iver Neumann has argued that representations of the Other have been instrumental in European identity formation. The ‘Russian Other’ or the ‘Turkish Other’, he argues, stand out in this respect as markers against which a European identity has developed over several centuries.45 In the case of Russia it is seemingly straightforward to regard its ‘otherness’ as influencing not just European identity, but also a European security identity. The formation and development of NATO and the European Community (EC) during the Cold War was a concrete response to the material capabilities of Soviet power, but in so far as each laid claim to the defence of European or Western values, both organisations could be viewed as having an identity function also, one in ideational juxtaposition to that of Soviet communism. In the post-Cold War period, Russia’s status as Other is less clearly defined in Western Europe, but has remained sharp in the Baltic region and ECE where it has conditioned the ‘return to Europe’ (or, in other words, a move away from an ‘unEuropean’ and formerly captive status under Soviet/Russian tutelage). Yet for all this, Russia (as we shall see in Chapter 6) is no longer a surrogate threat for the Soviet Union and, indeed, post-Cold War security discourses within and among NATO and the EU states offer no clear identification of the Other against which the unity and purpose of these bodies might be defined. This is a consequence of the multiplicity of security threats which have confronted postCold War Europe, the fact that these threaten national societies to differing degrees and the fact also that the threat cannot be traced to a source against which counter-measures might be taken. Terrorism, migration, transnational crime and so on may evoke targeted responses (and with this all manner of discursive ‘otherings’ relating to asylum seekers, migrants, criminal gangs, ethnic and religious minorities and so on) but ‘overcoming the enemy’ so to speak is a near impossibility given that unlike the Soviet threat of the Cold War it cannot be reduced to a common, known and identifiable adversary. Occasions when such an adversary can be detected and acted upon (Serbia in the war over Kosovo in

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1999) are obviously important but do not shape security discourse and identity in the same enduring and totalising way that the Soviet Union did during the Cold War. In this light, what has been of arguably greater importance in post-Cold War security identity is perceptions of Self rather than of Other; identity generated primarily from within the community of NATO/EU states rather than by reference to what is outside it.46 This too is not unproblematic. The contours of a European identity are notoriously difficult to pin down and while the task is made somewhat easier by narrowing the focus to security, it remains subject to complications. How, for instance, do we conceptualise the relationship between ‘Europeanness’ and national identity, and how do we accommodate the fact that national discourses often appear incompatible, or that European integration, according to different versions of Euroscepticism, is itself often construed as a threat? Such arguably irresolvable questions can, in turn, be seen reflected in the conundrums of policy. In relation to the EU, they combine in the common observation that the organisation’s direction and purpose is crippled by endemic division (both between member states themselves and also between member state governments and their publics) and in relation to NATO, in the sometimes difficult balance between national and allied defence prerogatives and fears (most obviously apparent in France) that the Alliance’s Euro-Atlantic basis is as much about US domination as it is the safeguarding of shared values. One way of providing focus in this conceptual maze is to circumvent the conceptual problem of defining a European security identity as such and to focus instead on the identities of its dominant organisational and discursive forms. In this sense, ‘EU identity’ or ‘NATO identity’ can act as proxy forms for a broader European category. There are two possible ways in which we might understand these twin identities. The first is to consider the make-up of their constituent units, the assumption here being that ‘the identity of an international organisation [is . . .] a reflection of the (common traits of the) identities of the states that form this organisation’.47 Given that the EU and NATO are routinely seen as communities of democratic states, it has been argued, therefore, that democratic group identity conditions external action – be this democratic conditionality in the case of enlargement or the humanitarian justification given for military intervention (in the case of NATO against Serbia in 1999).48 By the same token, states which do not share these values are seen as outsiders. Here, however, there are shades of grey. In Europe, regimes such as Milosevic’s Serbia, Franco Tudjman’s Croatia, Belarus under Aleksandr Lukashenko, Ukraine under Leonid Kravchuk and Slovakia under Vladimir Meciar have all been subject to EU and NATO sanctions (and, in the case of Serbia, armed intervention) owing to democratic and human rights deficiencies. Democratic standards, meanwhile, have been much more ambivalently applied in the cases of Russia and Turkey – the latter indeed, remaining a member of NATO despite the overt military subversion of domestic government (including an episode as recent as 1997).

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The second pointer of NATO and EU identities concerns the principles which hold the two organisations together; the ways in which relations are organised between their member states. Acceptance of these principles and their reiteration in practice is essential to the effectiveness and long-term durability of the organisation concerned. Without this there would be no predictability of outcomes and no assurance that commitment among members would be reciprocated. Of course, both the EU and NATO have been plagued by problems of internal decision-making and equally by periodic internal crises. However, such episodes have proven significant precisely because they have been prompted by perceived departures from established principles and practices.49 They are the exceptional cases which prove just how significant are the underlying bases of institutionalised cooperation. Given this, what then are the principles of note? In the case of NATO, Helen Sjursen has suggested that the identity of the organisation rests less on the sometimes questionable democratic character of its member states and rather on its multilateral character. That is, a multilateralism based on particular organising principles (the indivisibility of threat and unconditional response i.e. a joint defence commitment) as well as expectations of proper procedure (consultation, equality, non-hierarchical decision-making, transparency and consensus).50 As for the EU, it is a particularly intense form of multilateralism, ‘a unique multilateral and legal order’, according to Frank Schimmelfennig, in which the ‘density and strength of the generalised rules governing the relations between the EU members as well as their delegation and pooling of sovereignty are unparalleled by other multilateral organisations’.51 Division and the organisation of European security Exclusive practices are commonplace in the field of security. Surveying Europe one might point to the roles of the United Nations Security Council (UNSC), the Group of Eight (G8) and the Contact Group in relation to the former Yugoslavia; defence cooperation between Europe’s two nuclear powers, the UK and France, and the US; informal and usually unacknowledged inner sanctums of organisational influence (the ‘Quad’ within NATO, for example); ‘minilateral’ policy coordination (as in the case of the EU’s ‘big three’ – France, Germany and the UK or periodic summits of Russia, Germany and France); and historical privileges (that the top military positions in NATO are held by Americans). These practices share the common characteristic that they centre on different forms of organisation, however informal these may be. The most substantive organisational marker, however, is that of access to membership itself. On this basis, it has often been suggested that Europe’s real division following enlargement is between those inside the EU and NATO and those outside.52 According to Anatol Lieven, the principal question which then arises is how will the relationship develop between a ‘Europe’ defined by the EU and NATO ‘and the countries excluded from it’.53 This ‘insider versus outsider problem’ has, Julie Smith has argued, three potentially destabilising aspects. First, a demarcation based on organisational membership ‘can damage security if outsiders feel that

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the insiders are part of a security club [thereby] raising the spectre of a Hobbesian relationship in which insiders and outsiders are mutually suspicious’. Second, those left outside may re-evaluate their relationship with the EU and NATO leading to either to less cooperative policies or, worse, balancing behaviour (specifically through a Russian-centred grouping of states). And third, distinctions based on membership can harden further owing to the erection, quite literally, of new physical borders, as in the case of the EU Schengen common immigration and border policy.54

Inclusion or exclusion? As ideal types, the surveys of inclusion and exclusion above depart in some senses from the actuality. Neither exists alone; rather, both coexist in modified form. This is, in one sense, a logical inevitability, for as already noted inclusion presupposes a parallel condition of exclusion. Yet this need not be a binary condition; a blurring of distinctions is, in fact, the complex reality. Such a fuzzy relationship can be seen in a number of ways in European security. The first has already been alluded too – namely, the presence of all manner of partnership and association activities alongside the EU and NATO’s formal membership. These have been expressly justified by reference to their inclusive qualities – what in the case of NATO a one-time US ambassador referred to as ensuring a ‘razor thin’ distinction between members and partners.55 In parts of the Western Balkans at least (in BiH, Albania, Macedonia and Kosovo) these activities have become a pervasive influence on national and regional development. Second, the membership border itself has not been static. Enlargement, in other words, has not been a one-off event. Enlargement episodes were preceded by convergence based on conditionality and this remains the case for NATO and EU candidates post-2004. This has meant the extension of governance across the boundaries of formal membership.56 Third, Europe has not experienced a division in the postCold War period based on competing forms of integration. As already noted, the enlargement of the EU and NATO has occurred in the absence of, or because of the weakness of, institutional alternatives whether this be the pan-European OSCE, sub-regional forums or the option of neutrality. The alternative model posed by Russian-led integration in the FSU, meanwhile, has so far been nascent and conditional upon Russia’s own ambivalent attitude toward European integration. In effect, NATO and the EU have subsumed the alternatives either because they have acted as the more dominant poles of attraction or because they have neutered (through engagement in the case of Russia or coercion in the case of Serbia) awkward states. In a sense then, the notion of a blurred distinction between inclusion and exclusion can be viewed as premised on the extension of a form of order by NATO and the EU rather than, that is, the insulation of these organisations from Europe’s unstable periphery. Yet here we confront a contradiction between the EU and

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NATO’s internal and external security functions. Promoting the security of an enlarging membership still requires some differentiation of relations with non-members, however entwined the latter may have become through partnership and association. This suggests both a physical distance – e.g. the socalled ‘Schengen wall’ of the EU – and a political one – the distinction offered by membership, in other words, remains of real substance, not least in the view of those who don’t possess it. Membership of NATO and the EU provides diplomatic entreé, political status and operational advantages. It also, crucially, denotes formal and informal security guarantees and reassurance, the movement away from status insecurity. But membership has neither been sought nor obtained by all European states. This poses two analytical issues: what is the status of the EU and NATO as the core of European security relations and what is the relevance and impact of those states that remain outside these two bodies? Put another way, what is the relationship between these enlarging but not fully pan-European organisations and ‘excluded’ states? This, in a nutshell, is the central concern of this volume. The examination rests on certain core assumptions, some of which have already been apparent. These are worth reiterating here, placing them also in the context of the organising themes of the book. A central claim is that the EU and NATO are at the heart of Europe’s security relations and thus the crucial determinants of inclusion and exclusion. Why these two organisations remain central can be seen as a consequence of the manner in which the Cold War ended. This event had profound and lasting consequences and, in the European context, the historical watershed of 1989–91 continues to be more important than other assumed points of transition. This watershed is seen as crucial in marking a shift from a politics of exclusion to a more dynamic situation of inclusion/exclusion. For these reasons Chapter 2 spends some time delineating the nature of exclusion during the Cold War and the manner of the Cold War’s termination. The claim of NATO and EU centrality has not gone uncontested, for at least three reasons. First, both organisations have, in the eyes of some, been progressively weakened in recent years as a consequence of functional overstretch, enlargement, internal division and lack of commitment by leading states (including, in the case of NATO, the US). Second, it might be argued that other more important distinctions exist than those reducible to the EU and NATO: boundaries premised on economic and democratic development; the division between ‘old’ and ‘new’ Europe proclaimed by US Defence Secretary Donald Rumsfeld during the 2003 Iraq crisis; or the civilisational boundary described by Samuel Huntington between Western Christianity, on the one hand, and Orthodox Christianity and Islam on the other.57 And third, NATO and the EU themselves cannot be regarded as the expression of a single community: their memberships, organising principles, functional purpose and geographic foci are all different. Chapters 4 and 5, which concentrate on NATO and the EU, will directly or indirectly address each of these arguments. These chapters will also

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consider why the EU and NATO remain fundamental to European security and in so doing will give added point to themes of the present chapter. In short, it will become clear that the inclusion/exclusion relationship is, in security terms, played out by reference to these two bodies. The analysis of NATO and the EU relies on a framework set out in Chapter 3. This chapter elaborates the notion of ‘security governance’, itself seen as related to the more familiar concept of security community. The point here will be to show how the defining qualities of security governance, referred to as region, institutionalisation and compliance, help shed light on the limits of enlargement (and thus inclusion). Both Chapters 4 and 5 will be concerned with enlargement’s exclusionary consequences and the variety of initiatives which NATO and the EU have pursued in order to modify the membership boundary. Chapters 6 and 7 move to a consideration of two important ‘excluded’ states: Russia and Turkey. That these two have been selected requires a brief justification. There are, after all, other examples which may have been pursued. Exclusion from NATO and/or the EU takes many forms. Cases such as Switzerland, the EU ‘post-neutrals’ of Austria, Finland, Ireland and Sweden, or the obviously European NATO non-EU members (Iceland and Norway) are discounted here on the grounds that these states already enjoy enviable levels of security and stability as well as high levels of political, economic and, in some cases, institutional integration with NATO and the EU. Their foreign policy orientation and domestic political discourse is also largely untroubled by perceptions of exclusion. A second set, is centred on the former Yugoslavia/Western Balkans, but is also not considered at length. Slovenia has joined the EU and NATO, and Croatia and Macedonia are candidates for both organisations. The remaining states of Albania, BiH and Serbia-Montenegro are formally excluded but, as noted above, EU and NATO influence is extensive. This is particularly noteworthy in the case of Serbia-Montenegro. Serbia/Federal Republic of Yugoslavia enjoyed during the 1990s an obvious pariah status under the regime of Slobodan Milosevic. It was subject to UN and EU-backed sanctions for its role in the war in BiH and in 1999 experienced a sustained NATO air campaign over its actions in the province of Kosovo. Within Serbia itself, this was mirrored in nationalist rhetoric on the part of the ruling regime – ‘a romantic notion of Serbia standing alone’ against outside forces determined to bring the country to its knees.58 Since Milosevic’s removal, however, Serbia (or, more properly the still extant state of Serbia-Montenegro) has experienced a process of international rehabilitation including re-entry into the OSCE (having been suspended in 1992) and talks on entry into the EU’s Stabilisation and Association Process (SAP). It is also part of the EU’s vision, announced at the EU–Western Balkan summit in June 2003, on the Balkans ‘in the EU’.59 There is every possibility that the realisation of this vision will be a long time in coming and will be complicated if not confounded by the uncertain legal and political status of Kosovo as well as of SerbiaMontenegro itself. In this sense, Serbia-Montenegro will continue to appear anomalous in light of integrationist trends elsewhere in the region. It is unlikely,

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however, post-Milosevic to have either the will or the wherewithal to openly challenge EU and NATO predominance in the region.60 A third set of excluded states involves those situated in the so-called ‘common neighbourhood’ of the EU/NATO and Russia. This includes an obvious outsider such a Belarus – a state routinely described as ‘Europe’s last dictatorship’ and one which under President Aleksandr Lukashenko (who came to power in 1994 and was still in office at the time of writing) has pursued a pro-Russian, antiWestern foreign policy. Public sentiment in the country has been much more varied, but a significant minority, according to Leonid Zaiko, perceive ‘a new barrier being created right at their doorstep [thereby strengthening] their feeling of estrangement from Europe’.61 This region also includes the states of the South Caucasus as well as Moldova and Ukraine. As noted above a number of these states have made a clear pitch for NATO and EU admission, even though none enjoys formal candidate status. Ukraine, is the most notable given its size, geopolitical position, economic and military resources and, particularly in the case of NATO, a well-developed institutional and military-tomilitary relationship stretching back to the mid-1990s. Ukraine could well have served as a case-study in its own right but like all other states in this category has been overshadowed by its neighbour Russia. Russia has maintained a presumption of international leadership in the region and has actively interfered in the domestic affairs of neighbouring states. Its presence and interests, meanwhile, have placed a limit on the activities and ambitions of both the EU and NATO. Russia, then, has a considerable importance. Despite some clear differences with Turkey (the other case-study country chosen), there are some very important similarities. The first is of size and scale. Russia and Turkey are Europe’s largest states territorially, are among its major military powers and diplomatic players, and possess respectively its first and third biggest populations as well as Europe’s second and sixth largest economies.62 Internal diversity as well as location, second, mean both are faced with a multiplicity of security issues ranging from terrorism, regional stability and proliferation through to separatism and the stability of energy supplies, all of which have a direct bearing on the Europe to their west. Third, both Russia and Turkey have exhibited an ambivalent attitude towards a Europe whose dominant political expression has been associated with ‘Western’ values and organisational forms. In this connection, both are conditioned by their Eurasian location and their position as heirs to empires and once influential centres of power. This has engendered notions of international status and forms of European identity that are both ambiguous and contested within their domestic settings as well as under-appreciated and misunderstood outside – hence, on the latter count, the commonplace assumption in Europe of Turkish and Russian distance or otherness (see above). These factors influence the manner and degree of integration with Europe. While Russia and Turkey are markedly different in their orientation towards the manner in which post-Cold War security governance has developed, both

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nonetheless present qualitatively significant tests of the notion of an inclusive Europe. The fact that Russia is in neither the EU or NATO is particularly important here – a state of affairs rendered much more complex by Russia’s own eschewal of membership ambition and the problematic nature of its postcommunist transition. Russia, as William Wallace has argued, is seemingly ‘too important to exclude, too large to include’.63 The story of Russia’s postCold War relations with Europe, therefore, has meant the fashioning of all manner of all forms of accommodation but little attention to the issue of membership itself. Turkey poses questions of a somewhat different sort but equally stark. Its membership of NATO seemingly fixes the country firmly within the Western security community and, by that very fact, extends that community beyond the supposed civilisational fault lines dividing Christianity and Islam. Yet Turkey’s absence from the EU (despite a long-suffering campaign for admission) suggests a more truncated and exclusive EU tier to this community. This raises issues concerning both the proper relationship between the EU and NATO and, more broadly, about the very nature and limits of the EU’s security role. Taken together, then, Russia and Turkey stand apart as cases of exclusion and, equally, as illustrating the dynamic relationship between exclusion and inclusion. In short, according to Wallace, ‘[their] importance [. . .] to European stability [. . . renders] the question of how to accommodate these two states as in many ways the most difficult issue to face in constructing a stable post-Cold War European order’.64 The book, in summary, then proceeds through historical background, the elaboration of an analytical framework and then the examination of four thematic cases (NATO, the EU, Russia and Turkey). Its conclusion (Chapter 8) will reiterate some of the book’s central themes and posit these against what might be regarded as important qualifying assumptions. Notes 1 2 3 4 5

6 7 8

E. Hobsbawn, Age of Extremes: The Short Twentieth Century, 1914–1991 (London: Penguin, 1994), pp. 3–7. T. Judt, Postwar: A History of Europe Since 1945 (London: William Heinemann, 2005), pp. 750–1. A. Linklater, The Transformation of Political Community (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1998), pp. 113–14. www.hri.org/docs/Paris90.html [5 January 2006]. Speeches on the Occasion of the Accession of Seven New Members to the Alliance, NATO HQ, Brussels, 2 April 2004 at: www.nato.int/docu/speech/2004/s040402e.htm [5 January 2006]. Speech in Barcelona, 11 May 2004 at: http://europa.eu.int/rapid/pressReleases [5 January 2006]. Understanding the New NATO: An Introduction for Partners (Brussels: NATO Office of Information and Press, n.d.), pp. 2, 6. ‘Agenda 2000 for a Stronger and Wider Union’, Bulletin of the European Union, Supplement 5/97, p. 34.

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Romani Prodi, speech at the University of Ulster, 1 April 2004 at: http://europa.eu.int/ comm/archives/commission_1999_2004/prodi/speeches/20040401.htm [21 October 2005]. C. Haerpfer, C. Milosinksi and C. Wallace, ‘Old and New Security Issues in PostCommunist Eastern Europe: Results of an 11 Nation Study’, Europe-Asia Studies, Vol. 51(6), 1999, p. 990. D.N. Nelson, ‘Post-Communist Insecurity’, Problems of Post-Communism, Vol. 47(5), 2000, pp. 31–8. S. Medvedev, ‘“Zwischeneuropa”: Historic Experiences, National Views and Strategic Alternatives’, UPI Working Papers, No. 6, 1998 (The Finnish Institute of International Affairs), p. ii. C. Bretherton, ‘Security Issues in the Wider Europe: The Role of EU-CEEC Relations’, in M. Mannin (ed.), Pushing Back the Boundaries: The European Union and Central and Eastern Europe (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1999), pp. 192, 199; T. Edmunds, ‘NATO and Its New Members’, Survival, Vol. 45(3), 2003, pp. 145–66. Cited in L. Valki, ‘Hungary and the Future of European Security’, in S.J. Blank (ed.), European Security and NATO Enlargement: A View from Central Europe (Carlisle, PA: Strategic Studies Institute, 1998), p. 96. V. Havel, ‘A Tortured Path to a Common Europe’, Wall Street Journal Europe, 12 December 2002. A. Caplanova, M. Oriviska and J. Hudson, ‘Eastern European Attitudes to Integration with Western Europe’, Journal of Common Market Studies, Vol. 42(2), 2004, pp. 271–88. See opinion poll data available at the European Commission enlargement web page at: http://europa.eu.int/comm/enlargement/opinion/index.htm [24 October 2005]; Candidate Countries Eurobarometer reports available at: http://europa.eu.int/comm/ public_opinion/cceb_en.htm [24 October 2005]; and Gallup Europe data for 2003 and 2004 as reported by Euroactiv.com at: www.euractiv.com/Article?tcmuri=tcm:29–139606 –16&type=News [24 October 2005]. J. Maksymiuk, ‘Ukraine: Government Faces Uphill Battle in Achieving NATO Aspirations’, RFE/RL Feature Article, 15 November 2005, at: http://www.rferl.org/features article/2005/11/5a09882d-d2bb-4e03–8e13–7bc2ac90cf00.html [5 January 2006]. T. Salmon, ‘The Nature of International Security’, in R. Carey and T. Salmon (eds), International Security in the Modern World (New York: St Martin’s Press, 2000), pp. 1–2. See especially B. Buzan, People, States and Fear: The National Security Problem in International Relations (Brighton: Wheatsheaf Books, 1983). See especially B. Buzan, O. Wæver, and J. de Wilde, Security: A New Framework for Analysis (Boulder, CO and London: Lynne Rienner, 1998). A Secure Europe In a Better World – The European Security Strategy (adopted by heads of state and government at the Brussels European Council, 12 December 2003) at: http://ue.eu.int/cms3_fo/showPage.ASP?id=266&lang=EN&mode=g [5 January 2006]; The Alliance’s Strategic Concept (approved by the heads of state and government, North Atlantic Council (NAC), Washington, DC, 23–24 April 1999) at: www.nato.int/docu/ pr/1999/p99–065e.htm [5 January 2006]; Charter for European Security (adopted by heads of state and government of the OSCE, Istanbul, November 1999) at: www. fas.org/nuke/control/osce/text/charter_for_european_security.htm [5 January 2006]. Ibid., paragraph 2. Paragraphs 4 and 6. The Declaration is contained in the Lisbon Document (adopted by OSCE heads of state and government, Lisbon, December 1996) at: www.osce.org/ documents/mcs/1996/12/4049_en.pdf [5 January 2006]. Paragraphs 52 and 54 at: http://194.8.63.155/documents/mcs/2003/12/4175_en.pdf [5 January 2006]. This argument is returned to in more detail in the concluding chapter (Chapter 8).

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A. Missiroli, ‘Two Enlargements and a Devolution’, Newsletter (Paris: EU Institute for Security Studies), No. 5, January 2003. H. Butterfield, The Whig Interpretation of History (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1973) (originally published, 1931) at: www.eliohs.unifi.it/testi/900/butterfield/ [5 January 2006]. E. Krahmann (ed.), New Threats and New Actors in International Security (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2005). E.A. Kolodziej, Security and International Relations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), p. 26. B. McSweeney, Security, Identity and Interests: A Sociology of International Relations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 86–7. This is most obviously the case in NATO and true also of the EU where security cooperation either under CFSP, ESDP or Justice and Home Affairs (JHA) auspices is inter-governmental in character, mainly based on consensus decision-making and the exercise of national vetoes, and allows for minimal influence on the part of the supranational bodies such as the Commission and the European Parliament (EP). Buzan, People, States and Fear, p. 11. O.P. Richmond, ‘Emerging Concepts of Security in the European Order: Implications for “Zones of Conflict” at the Fringes of the EU’, European Security, Vol. 9(1), 2000, pp. 41–67. S.W. Garnett, ‘Troubles to Come: The Emerging Security Challenges in the Balkans and the Former Soviet Union’, Nations in Transit 2002 (New York: Freedom House, 2002), pp. 31–3. See his Discord and Collaboration: Essays on International Politics (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1962), p. 150. O. Wæver, ‘Securitisation and Desecuritisation’, in R. Lipschutz (ed.), On Security (New York: Columbia University Press, 1995), pp. 48–55. O. Wæver, ‘The Constellation of Securities in Europe’, in E. Aydinli and J.N. Rosenau (eds), Globalisation, Security and the Nation State: Paradigms in Transition (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2005), pp. 162–8. Wæver, ‘Securitisation and Desecuritisation’, p. 54. Standard Eurobarometer 64 (December 2005), pp. 29, 31 at: http://europa.eu.int/comm/ public_opinion/archives/eb/eb64/eb64_en.htm [20 March 2006]. See, for instance, Andrzej Karkoszka, Deputy Defence Minister of Poland, cited in International Herald Tribune, 17 March 1997. D. Lynch, ‘The New Eastern Dimension of the Enlarged EU’, in ‘Partners and Neighbours: A CFSP for a Wider Europe’, Chaillot Paper, No. 64 (Paris: EU Institute for Security Studies, September 2003), p. 39. S. White, I. McAllister, M. Light and J. Löwenhardt, ‘A European or a Slavic Choice? Foreign Policy and Public Attitudes in Post-Soviet Europe’, Europe-Asia Studies, Vol. 54(2), 2002, pp. 181–202. H. Müller, ‘Security Cooperation’, in W. Carlsnaes, T. Risse and B.A. Simmons (eds), Handbook of International Relations (London: Sage, 2002), p. 383. I. Neumann, Uses of the Other: ‘The East’ in European Identity Formation (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1999), Chapters 2 and 3. On this process of identity formation from ‘inside’ see A. Wendt, Social Theory of International Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 73–4. U. Sedelmeier, ‘Collective Identity’, in W. Carlsnaes, H. Sjursen and B. White (eds), Contemporary European Foreign Policy (London: Sage, 2004), p. 126. R.R. Moore, ‘NATO’s Mission for the New Millennium: A Value-Based Approach to Building Security’, Contemporary Security Policy, Vol. 23(1), 2002, pp. 1–34; F. Schimmelfennig, The EU, NATO and the Integration of Europe: Rules and Rhetoric (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), pp. 92–108.

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The crisis in NATO over Iraq in 2003 and American approaches to NATO since 9/11 are cases in point here, the US being characterised as ‘opting in and opting out of the alliance framework’ and ‘breaking with the principles of multilateralism’. See H. Sjursen, ‘On the Identity of NATO’, International Affairs, Vol. 80(4), 2004, p. 702. Ibid., pp. 698–700. Schhimmelfennig, The EU, NATO and the Integration of Europe, p. 84. C.R. Whitney, ‘The New East–West Divide’, New York Times, 28 November 2004. A. Lieven, ‘Conclusions: The Pangs of Disappointed Love? A Divided West and Its Multiple Peripheries’, in A. Lieven and D. Trenin (eds), Ambivalent Neighbours: The EU, NATO and the Price of Membership (Washington, DC: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, 2003), p. 306. J. Smith, ‘Introduction’, in J. Smith and C. Jenkins (eds), Through the Paper Curtain: Insiders and Outsiders in the New Europe (London: Blackwell and the Royal Institute of International Affairs, 2003), pp. 2–3, 12. Robert Hunter cited in D. Yost, ‘The New NATO and Collective Security’, Survival, Vol. 40(2), 1998, p. 141. L. Friis and A. Murphy, ‘The European Union and Central and Eastern Europe: Governance and Boundaries’, Journal of Common Market Studies, Vol. 37(2), 1999, pp. 211–32. S. Huntington, The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order (London: Simon and Schuster, 1996). F. Bieber, ‘Serbia after the Kosovo War: The Defeat of Nationalism and Change of Regime’, in F. Bieber and Z. Daskalovski (eds), Understanding the War in Kosovo (London and Portland, OR: Frank Cass, 2002), p. 327. See Chapter 5. J. Batt, ‘The Question of Serbia’, Chaillot Paper, No. 81 (Paris: EU Institute for Security Studies, August 2005), p. 72. L. Zaiko, ‘Belarus: Give a Dog a Bad Name’, in Lieven and Trenin (eds), Ambivalent Neighbours, p. 98. Based on gross domestic product (GDP) at current prices, purchasing power parity in US Dollars. Figures derived from UN Economic Commission for Europe, Trends of Europe and North America, 2005, at: www.unece.org/stats/trends2005/economy.htm [5 January 2006]. W. Wallace, ‘Europe after the Cold War: Interstate Order or Post-Sovereign Regional System?’, Review of International Studies, Vol. 25(special issue), 1999, p. 215. Ibid., p. 222.

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2 Inclusion, exclusion and the international politics of the Cold War

In a volume intended to have a contemporary bearing, it may seem idiosyncratic to devote an entire chapter to the Cold War. There are, after all, other more recent episodes which could be said to have shaped international politics and to which connections can be drawn with the book’s central concerns of inclusion/exclusion and security. Yet security relations in Europe, both at present and for the foreseeable future, will be shaped more by the legacies of the Cold War than by any other set of circumstances. In global terms and even more so in the European context, the end of the Cold War continues to be more important than other assumed historical turning points, be this the 1999 Kosovo war, ‘9/11’, or the 2003 Iraq crisis. To none of the latter can we attach the sort of description Adam Roberts levelled at the late 1980s and early 1990s – a point at which a ‘new era of international relations’ was ushered in and a shift occurred to ‘a time which is fundamentally different from all past eras’.1 None of this is to minimise the profound impact of these other points of change. For instance, 9/11 has been seen as making the world a ‘different place’. It fundamentally altered American foreign policy (contributing in response to foreign policy change in a range of other states), marked a shift in the regional politics of Central and West Asia and the Middle East, and invigorated worldwide, debates on human rights, globalisation and global justice.2 Yet 9/11 could not be said to have altered the international order in quite the same way that the end of superpower rivalry, in parallel with the fall of communism and the collapse of the Soviet Union did in the two short years between late 1989 and the end of 1991.3 These events overturned a system of international relations which had appeared to most observers as permanent and which had shaped international (and domestic) political, economic and cultural structures for over four decades. The suddenness of this shift, the fact that it had occurred in the

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absence of war, and the ideological and political consequences it entailed meant a truly historic juncture had been passed.4 The events of 9/11 also had much less of a European focus. In Europe, the end of communism and the Soviet Union ushered in a wave of state creation and regime change throughout the continent’s Eastern half. Bloc rivalry also disappeared taking with it some international institutions and forcing upon others fundamental questions of purpose and relevance. The manner in which this reconfiguration occurred is covered below but it is preceded by a consideration of the bloc logic of the Cold War. The purpose here is to consider how Europe’s security relations shifted from a politics of exclusion during the Cold War to one with a more inclusive dynamic; an inclusiveness, however, based on the particular circumstances of power and the weight of international institutions at the Cold War’s end.

The Cold War and exclusion The term ‘Cold War’ has multiple meanings and, according to who you read, different periodisations.5 Without entering here into debates on the Cold War’s origins, specific duration, or who was responsible for its persistence, it is nonetheless possible to identify one of its basic defining qualities, namely a fundamental division between two rival blocs. According to John Lewis Gaddis, this amounted to ‘the most remarkable polarisation of politics in modern history’. ‘It was as if’, Gaddis continues, ‘a gigantic magnet had somehow come into existence (in the international system), compelling most states, often even movements and individuals within states, to align themselves along fields of force thrown out from either Washington or Moscow’.6 This division had global consequences; it was, however, most keenly apparent in Europe. Here superpower ‘overlay’ was at its most pronounced – Europe was, to quote Barry Buzan et al., ‘the nut in the nutcracker of a global rivalry’.7 This division has been viewed in various ways: as a clash of social systems, reinforced in turn by ideological incompatibilities; as a geopolitical contest between two great powers; as the outcome of the nefarious intentions of individual leaders (Joseph Stalin, in particular); or as the unintended consequence of misinterpretation and escalatory action–reaction cycles of behaviour.8 What all these interpretations hold in common, however, is a notion that the Cold War was characterised by mutual antagonism. This was at its most profound in the decade up until the mid-1950s, giving way thereafter to the coexistence but not the elimination of irreconcilable difference. What was ruled out was the acceptance by one side of the other’s claims in the international system or its assertions of superiority in domestic political and economic organisation. In this sense, truly mutual security was illusory. Whether based on misperception or a misconstruing of the other side’s intentions, policy was driven in these circumstances by an assumption that the best that could be obtained was a modus

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vivendi between blocs in which each side nonetheless viewed the other as rival and potential aggressor.9 Bloc logic The existence of two competing political–military blocs was reflected in the consolidation of spheres of influence. These were characterised by intense relations among their members and the exercise of leadership by a dominant state (respectively, the US and the Soviet Union); relations between blocs meanwhile were limited. The demarcation of these spheres was apparent in Europe in a very physical sense – the ‘iron curtain’ ran through Central Europe, divided Germany, and prevented the movement of peoples across the continent from east to west. Overlapping this physical division was an institutional one. Western Europe was organised around NATO (thus ensuring a solid attachment to North America), the EC/European Economic Community (EEC)10 and, to some degree, the Council of Europe. Eastern Europe, meanwhile, was shaped by the Warsaw Pact and the Council for Mutual Economic Assistance (CMEA). Of these various institutions, military alliances were the most salient form of East–West competition. The formation of NATO in 1949 and of the Warsaw Pact in 1955 solidified Europe’s political division and bloc leadership, and grafted on to it a profoundly important military-cum-strategic element. These alliances did not embrace the entire continent but between them took in up to twenty-four states. Their formation served, in part, a straightforward military purpose by adding to the assets of the two superpowers. But equally, alliances served an exclusionary function: to limit the room for expansion of the other power into those regions considered of vital interest. Once the bloc system had become established in the mid-1950s it was assumed that territorial encroachment would be met by massive retaliation, if necessary involving a recourse to nuclear weapons. Of course, this was a far from straightforward strategy. It did not rule out brinkmanship, as in the case of Soviet moves during the Berlin crises of 1958–62, nor did it pass without controversy within the alliances themselves, hence the periodic debates within NATO over nuclear control and deployment. These strategic considerations did, however, make very clear the material consequences of the antagonism and, through a logic of deterrence, in effect, stabilised the bloc system. In effect, a tacit but mutual recognition developed over the status of spheres of influence. During the initial post-war years there had been some uncertainty in this regard. Franklin D. Roosevelt and Winston Churchill were both of the view that the Soviet Union had legitimate security interests in Eastern Europe. By contrast, Roosevelt’s successor, Harry Truman was publicly opposed to a Soviet sphere of influence but the large Soviet military presence in Eastern Europe ruled out an active strategy to reverse communist gains. US policies such as the Marshall Plan, the Truman Doctrine and support for the formation of NATO were thus premised not on overturning Soviet influence but, rather, containing it. Throughout the 1950s Western politicians did talk of the ‘roll-back’ of

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communism but the reluctance of the US, or indeed any of the NATO powers, to exploit anti-Soviet insurgencies in East Germany in 1953 or Hungary in 1956 demonstrated, according to Mark Mazower just ‘how uninterested the West was in challenging the prevailing balance of power’.11 Thereafter, a competition for spheres of influence only seriously applied to the East–West antagonism in areas outside of Europe. Thus, the West stood by at the time of the 1968 Soviet intervention in Czechoslovakia and also during the imposition of martial law in Poland in 1981. Not until the advent of the Reagan administration in the US in 1981 was the legitimacy of communist rule and of Soviet influence in Eastern Europe seriously questioned. Yet it was not a topic of superpower summits and Western states refrained from sponsoring debates on the matter in forums such as the UN. None of this meant that the West explicitly welcomed Soviet rule, only that the pragmatic judgement was followed that very little could be done to remove it. Subversion did, of course, take place in the murky world of espionage and through the broadcasting operations of stations such as Radio Free Europe, but the ‘basic decisions’ taken by governments, were essentially based on the maintenance of a ‘primitive international system’ geared to the avoidance of nuclear war. Deterrence, crisis management, and the existence of spheres of influence themselves were all material to this end.12 The maintenance of this system required, of course, acquiescence on the Soviet side. The Soviet Union emerged from the Second World War as a victorious but exhausted power. Military and political presences in Eastern Europe were ‘the facts on the ground’ of its defeat of Nazi Germany. This presence Stalin sought to maintain because it accorded with the ideological imperatives of a socialist state, the realpolitik calculations of balancing Anglo-American influence and the strategic desire to establish a buffer against any future threats to Soviet security (including, the defeat of Nazism notwithstanding, revanchism in Germany). But Stalin was cautious in extending Soviet influence beyond those areas of Europe in which the Red Army had a presence, a circumspection born of losses during the war and the American determination to protect Western Europe. The Soviet Union thus gave only very limited support to the communist side in the Greek civil war and refrained from using force against the Titoist deviation in Yugoslavia. Moscow was, however, determined to consolidate existing positions. This was evidenced by the formation of the Cominform and the articulation of the ‘two-camp’ thesis (both in 1947), the sovietisation of Czechoslovakia and the Berlin blockade (1948), and the creation of CMEA (1949). Soviet policy after Stalin’s death did not deviate in its fundamentals from this bloc logic. In 1955 Moscow recognised the Federal Republic of Germany (and thus de facto the division of Germany) and was the moving force behind the formation of the Warsaw Pact (a response, in part, to the decision taken in 1954 by the Western allies to arm West Germany and see it enter into NATO). In fact, by this point ‘bloc formation had reached its [. . .] internal limits on both sides

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[. . .]. Both sides had secured their spheres of influence and neither was able to coerce the other against its will on important issues [. . .].’13 The existence of exclusive spheres of influence did not mean that Europe was divided in a clear-cut fashion. A first qualification to note in this regard was the difference between the spheres of influence themselves. The Soviet bloc was imposed, created to service the interests of Moscow and offered very little room for manoeuvre for those within it. Exceptions did occur. Yugoslavia managed to avoid entanglement in the Warsaw Pact and CMEA altogether; Albania, a founding member of both organisations, exited the former in 1968 and ceased participation in the latter in 1961; and Romania, while retaining its membership, was able from the late 1960s to pursue a semi-autonomous foreign and security policy. Yet where Soviet interests were considered vital, any signs of independence were smothered (as in the cases of Hungary, Czechoslovakia and Poland noted above). The Western bloc was of a very different order. While NATO bore the imprint of US leadership, this was a leadership that was welcomed, indeed even encouraged by the Europeans.14 Further, within NATO American leadership was not contrary to fundamental West European security interests and the Europeans were able to influence the Americans to some degree even on military matters. Where differences were apparent (over nuclear weapons policy, for instance) the US was sometimes openly challenged, even though the fundamental existence of the alliance with Washington remained unquestioned. Finally, there was a clear contrast between Eastern and Western Europe as blocs in terms of the manner in which economic integration proceeded and the strategic considerations which flowed from this. Under Soviet aegis, economic relations organised through CMEA were intended to benefit the hegemonic power even though in practice, the East European states became an increasing burden to Moscow. In the case of the West Europeans, economic integration was supported by the US but did not directly involve it other than during its early stages. From the time of the Marshall Plan, through American support of the European Steel and Coal Community and subsequently the EC, the US viewed integration as desirable for a variety of reasons. It conformed to an American model of free markets and democracy and was a tool both for containing the Soviet Union and integrating West Germany amongst its neighbours. American support cooled from the late 1960s as European integration began to pose challenges to American economic and political leadership of the West, but these basic calculations nonetheless remained.15 A second qualification concerns those parts of Europe formally outside the bloc structure of the Cold War. The relevant states in this regard included, first, the neutrals (namely Austria, Finland, Ireland, Sweden and Switzerland), and second the somewhat exceptional cases of Yugoslavia and Albania. All these states, in some senses counted themselves as separate from the continent’s two organising blocs, even if the motives and circumstances of this detachment were different in each case. Their position blurred only slightly, however, the basic bloc division. In each case, domestic political and economic systems were clearly

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recognisable as falling into one or other camp and, in the case of the neutrals, this was reflected additionally in external economic relations. In strategic terms also a form of bloc orientation was at least implicit during the Cold War. With the possible exception of Finland, NATO strategy assumed a defence of those states adjacent to the Soviet bloc (i.e. Austria and Sweden) even though they were outside of alliance membership. The military planning of the neutrals themselves was geared, in part, to an awareness of this eventuality.16 As for Yugoslavia and Albania, these two held an initial allegiance to Moscow, subsequently broke with the Soviet Union, yet at the same time retained a socialist system and refrained from moving closer diplomatically to the West. A third qualification relates to the tentative development of pan-European forms of organisation These were, almost by definition, in contradiction with the bloc logic of the Cold War and, by that very fact, were circumscribed in how far they could develop. The nature of this contradiction was evident from the very earliest point of the Cold War. The ‘Declaration on Liberated Europe’ adopted at the Yalta conference in 1945 and the four-power responsibility for Germany agreed shortly after at Potsdam, could be interpreted as ‘the basis of a new European order’ stretching throughout the continent based upon democracy, free elections, the rule of law and quadripartite cooperation among the four wartime powers of France, Britain, the US and the Soviet Union. It was precisely the descent of the continent into spheres of influence and Cold War antagonism from the late 1940s which put paid to this vision.17 Thereafter, initiatives ostensibly aimed at cross-bloc cooperation occurred periodically. A brief period of East–West rapprochement blossomed during the mid-1950s (one lasting product of which was the withdrawal in 1955 of the occupying powers from Austria and the signing of the Austrian State Treaty). During the 1960s the French President Charles De Gaulle pursued a friendly policy towards Moscow, placing this within a vision of a Europe ‘from the Atlantic to the Urals’. West Germany under Chancellor Willy Brandt, meanwhile sought an improvement in relations with both Moscow and its Eastern neighbours. This Ostpolitik saw the signing of a non-aggression treaty with the Soviet Union (1970), a treaty of normalisation with Poland (1970) and treaty of mutual recognition with East Germany (1972). In parallel, a quadripartite agreement on the status of Berlin was signed in 1971 between the four wartime powers. During the early 1970s two broader developments also occurred. The first was the launch of the Mutual and Balanced Force Reduction talks in Vienna in 1973 between NATO and the Warsaw Pact; the second was the Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE), which took place between July 1973 and August 1975 in Helsinki. The latter was a truly pan-European occasion, involving as it did thirty-two European states (with the exception of Albania) plus Canada and the US, and culminating in the signing of the Helsinki Final Act. Thereafter, the CSCE lived on in periodic follow-up meetings. The main significance of the CSCE ‘process’, as it came to be known, was that it provided a permanent channel of communication between states of the Eastern and Western blocs (as well as the

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neutrals), a code of conduct on inter-state relations (contained in ‘Basket One’ of the Final Act) and a programme of security cooperation (notably in the field of confidence-building measures). It can also be credited with placing issues on the agenda of East–West relations that had previously been taboo. This included human rights most notably; the CSCE was thus an effective instrument of norm diffusion into Eastern Europe during the Cold War, thereby bolstering societal opposition to communist rule. Together, these efforts of the late 1960s and early 1970s amounted to a process of détente, notable not only for the relaxation of tension in East–West relations but also for witnessing European-led initiatives and a multilateralisation of relations on the continent. In retrospect, this period may well be judged as a harbinger of later patterns of relations after the Cold War. At the time, however, the perception was that the bloc nature of the continent remained firmly in place even if the two sides had made a significant step away from confrontation. Détente in Europe, and the CSCE process more specifically, was viewed with some suspicion in the US and, indeed, for the Soviet Union, its major achievement was precisely to obtain Western recognition of the political status quo. The Helsinki Final Act did allude to the possibility of changes in borders and, as such, it implied the possibility of both German unification and a weakening of Soviet hegemony in Eastern Europe. However, this possibility seemed a distant prospect in the mid-1970s and if anything détente suggested a continuing toleration in the West of a Soviet sphere of influence.18 A fourth qualification to Europe’s Cold War division relates to the interpenetration of the two blocs. The existence of the iron curtain did not mean that the Western and Eastern halves of Europe were completely sealed. Sporting competition took place across the divide from the very earliest days of the Cold War and, although limited, migration, tourism and cultural and academic exchanges also occurred. One product of détente was to increase these movements, most symbolically within divided Berlin and between East and West Germany. In the economic sphere, meanwhile, détente witnessed an upsurge of East–West trade and Western investment in communist states. The effect of these trends was to link the planned economies of CMEA closer to the market economies of the West. This was not a process, however, that did much to offset the basic dependence of Eastern Europe on the Soviet economy. Neither did it amount to much in the way of pan-European integration. From the early 1970s a number of bilateral agreements were reached between the EC and individual CMEA countries (commonly concerned with trade), but there was very little in the way of EC–CMEA inter-bloc cooperation and, notably, no formal political relations between the two bodies. The four qualifications above indicate that the East–West division was not as stark as some of the rhetoric of the Cold War might have suggested. However, none of these qualifications detract from the basic condition under discussion – the existence of two competing blocs and thus the existence of processes of mutual exclusion in continental Europe. The bloc configuration of the Cold War ruled

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out, by definition, the development of truly inclusive pan-European processes of political, economic and military integration (the CSCE for all its merits did not provide this). European states, in turn, enjoyed very little freedom of movement in their external orientation and their position within the respective blocs once established was pretty well irreversible. Movement out was rare, while movement between blocs was impossible. Among West European states either manoeuvre was, in any case, inconceivable. Among East Europeans, on the other hand, it was of some hypothetical interest. First because of the Albanian and Yugoslav experiences, and second because geographic position and geopolitical and cultural legacies meant that a more Western orientation was not unnatural for certain states of the region. Yet this hypothetical possibility aside, for a period of some forty years Europe was, to cite William Wallace, ‘divided between two international orders [. . .] involving two military alliances, two sets of international institutions, two patterns of economic development and interdependence’.19 These orders were, moreover, based on two very different sets of organising principles. In the West among the core states of North America and Western Europe, an order developed after 1945 (and it had roots which go back to 1919) that involved, domestically, pluralistic liberal-capitalist forms of political and economic exchange, and internationally, economic openness, a diffusion of power (that remained consistent with American leadership) and cooperative institutionalisation and integration.20 As will be discussed in Chapter 3, this approximated what Karl Deutsch and others referred to as early as the mid-1950s as a ‘pluralistic security community’, or group of states sharing core values and common institutions, the political elites of which possess a growing sense of shared identity. The subtleties of Deutsch’s formulation need not detain us now, but its key aspect is worth stressing, namely that such a community is premised on ‘dependable expectations of peaceful change’.21 The Euro-Atlantic order was thus characterised by the development of NATO and of European integration, the solidity of an American stake in Europe and the eradication of the blight of interstate war. This security community was not shared with Europe’s Eastern half. The prerequisite of common values was missing, and even if the period of the Cold War has been described as the ‘long peace’,22 the operating assumption on both sides was that the other constituted a material threat. Neither could a security community be said to have cohered within Europe’s Eastern half. The structures of the Warsaw Pact and CMEA could not disguise a lingering popular antipathy to Soviet (i.e. Russian) sway in much of Eastern Europe and significantly, the occasions of Warsaw Pact intervention during the Cold War were not directed against the West but against the Warsaw Pact’s own members. In so far as the socialist bloc held together at all this was the consequence of enforced ideological conformity, a subordination to Soviet interests, and an institutional binding dependent on mutual relations between ruling communist parties. These features allowed little scope for local particularities and were not premised on popular

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support. Soviet coercive oversight, in other words, was the main explanation for the durability of the European communist order.23 Ideology If the division of the Cold War was derived from the existence of two competing systems of order, then this basic difference was affirmed through ideologically influenced strategic discourse. By ideology is meant here the set of principles and precepts held by public officials which together served as a broad guide to state actions.24 Just how important this clash of ideologies was in explaining the Cold War has been the subject of some debate. Yet as Mark Kramer has argued, ideology, even if insufficient is clearly a necessary part of any explanation. Superpower rivalry between the US and the Soviet Union might have arisen in any case, but the ideological divide between liberal-democratic capitalism and Soviet-style Marxism–Leninism helps account for the scale and intensity of that rivalry.25 Following the more dangerous phase of the Cold War up to the 1950s, ideological discourse did develop some subtleties. In the Soviet case, the ‘twocamp’ thesis gave way to a notion of peaceful coexistence under Nikita Khrushchev and during the 1970s Soviet official thinking under Leonid Brezhnev was capable of ideologically incorporating détente. However, up until the Gorbachev period, the Soviet leadership was wedded to a vision that saw international politics as being divided irreconcilably between socialist and capitalist countries. Coexistence was not ruled out but a permanent reconciliation was impossible owing to the fundamentally different social (i.e. class) character of the two sides.26 With distance, these assumptions now appear clumsy. However, as a wealth of archival and memoir material now shows, ideology did matter to the Soviet leadership, shaping the manner in which foreign policy was formed and implemented.27 Ideological prescriptions help to account for the high level of Soviet militarisation (as a counter to what was regarded as the inherently aggressive nature of capitalist imperialism), the highly regulated nature of Soviet involvement in the global economy, and Soviet defence of socialism in Eastern Europe (if necessary by armed intervention). This type of ideological thinking reinforced more obvious strategic assessments. In official Soviet and East European parlance, NATO in general and the US in particular were unambiguously identified as the principal military threat to the Warsaw Pact.28 This position was not unwavering throughout the Cold War. Nuance and qualification were apparent depending on changes in the global ‘correlation of forces’,29 changes in American administrations and the development of Soviet military (especially nuclear) capability. However, what is instructive is just how deep-seated this basic strategic position was. Even allowing for propagandistic exaggeration, Soviet leader Konstantin Chernenko’s 1984 assessment that the US had ‘pretensions to world domination’ and had converted Western Europe ‘into a launching pad for US nuclear missiles targeted on the USSR’ was hardly different in its essential sense of suspicion and mistrust from

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some of the more lurid descriptions of American and NATO intent current during the Stalin period.30 Western thinking was far less monolithic in nature. The US position was consistently more anti-communist than that of European political elites and, indeed, under certain presidents (Ronald Reagan, most notably) was almost evangelical in its ideological distaste of communist rule. There is no simple explanation for this position, but in essence American political culture and domestic political practice was hardly compatible with that of Soviet-style socialism. The same could have been said about the US and contrasting varieties of authoritarian rule around the world. Yet in practice, during the Cold War the US was able (as were a number of West European states) to conduct perfectly amicable relations with such regimes. The same arguably could have been the case with communist states (and indeed, the US from the early 1970s maintained decent relations with China). Yet what separated communism out (and its Soviet branch more especially), was the perceived commitment on its part to projecting its values abroad, something that helped harden strategic assessments of Soviet power in the West.31 Among (and sometimes within) American and West European governments, assessments of the Soviet ‘threat’ were not uniform and occasionally amounted to open disagreement. Yet whatever the differences of emphasis, certainly among the states of NATO, the threat was considered real, and, indeed, formed the strategic basis of the Alliance’s rationale throughout the Cold War.32 To summarise so far, the juxtaposition of two versions of order during the Cold War did not rule out coexistence and, indeed, periodic tensions notwithstanding, both sides had an interest in stabilising their rivalry in Europe. What this juxtaposition clearly did make impossible, however, was the ascendancy of one version of order without first the substantive revision of the other. As they stood, the underlying principles of international and domestic organisation in the Eastern and Western halves of the continent were irreconcilable. The precondition of the Cold War’s end between 1989–91 could, therefore, only be the moderation of the antagonism in favour of one side.

The end of the Cold War and the possibilities of inclusion Just as the beginning of the Cold War has no one point of departure, so too its ending has no single point of termination. However, the markers of its demise in Europe were perfectly clear: the collapse of Soviet rule in Europe (heralded by the political transitions of 1989 and formalised by the dissolution of the Warsaw Pact and CMEA in 1991); the unification of Germany and the entry of the unified state into NATO in 1990; and the politically significant signing of the Charter of Paris for a New Europe by the CSCE participating states in November 1990. Linked to these fundamental trends, Europe also witnessed agreement on a range of confidence and security building measures (CSBMs), as well as the beginnings of

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a process of nuclear and conventional disarmament, involving the 1987 Soviet–American Intermediate Nuclear Forces (INF) Treaty, and the 1990 CFE Treaty, which would regulate conventional armaments levels between the member states of NATO and the (then still extant) Warsaw Pact. Finally, the disintegration of the Soviet Union, while coming after these events, nonetheless confirmed the irreversibility of the Cold War’s end. In the heat of the moment, it seemed that a new period of historic opportunity had opened up, one which would allow of more inclusive structures of security than those permitted during the Cold War. One of the key voices in this respect was that of the last Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev. Gorbachev’s instrumental role in ending the Cold War has been hailed in many quarters and it is inconceivable that without Soviet acquiescence the Cold War would have ended quite the way it did.33 Under Gorbachev’s watch Soviet foreign policy jettisoned many long-held assumptions, not least that the Soviet Union should retain an indefinite presence in Eastern Europe, that Germany’s division was irreversible and that a heavy reliance should be placed on military instruments of security. A number of explanations have been forwarded to account for this fundamental shift.34 What most of these share is a view that Soviet policy changed because of some very real material pressures, pressures that had been straining the Soviet regime for years and which by the early 1980s had reached a point of near crisis. A rapprochement with the West has thus been variously seen as: (1) a response to Soviet economic decline and a means of integrating the Soviet economy into an increasingly globalised economy; (2) a capitulation in the face of a more assertively militaristic and anti-communist foreign policy on the part of the first Reagan administration, a retreat made all the more necessary by the sheer strain that military spending was placing on the Soviet economy; and (3) a practical way out of the foreign policy dead ends which Gorbachev’s successors had arrived at and which had seen over-commitment in the Third World, strained relations with China, a severe downturn in relations with the US and, in Europe, the demise of détente. That Gorbachev was compelled to respond to these factors is obvious. More difficult to explain is the nature of that response. Gorbachev could have chosen (as did his immediate predecessors) a course of retrenchment and hostility or, alternatively, a course of rapprochement modelled on détente in which the basic status quo would be retained. Further, whatever the condition of the Soviet system and communist rule in Eastern Europe, combined Warsaw Pact forces still enjoyed a considerable advantage over NATO and Gorbachev could have used this to exercise a veto over change in 1989–90. That he chose not to reflected less a surrender in the face of a Western resolve than a judgement that a certain reconfiguration of European security was both necessary and desirable. This was a judgement born of some very practical concerns (not least, the diminishing strategic significance of the region for Soviet security) but, as several studies have convincingly shown, it was informed also by a veritable revolution in the ideational and ideological bases of Soviet foreign policy.35

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That ideological change may have simply rationalised material necessity is a fair point. However, as noted above, ideology did have a more autonomous influence during the Cold War and certainly within the Soviet system it exercised a powerful effect upon the political, even intellectual outlook of its leadership. In the case of the political circle around Gorbachev, ideological revision occurred through a number of intellectual routes. This is not the place to rehearse the full body of ideas associated with what became known as ‘the new political thinking’. In short, however, it recognised two significant anomalies that challenged Soviet ideology: first, the continuing economic vitality of the capitalist system (and related to this the fact that capitalism was not inherently aggressive) and second, socialism’s inability to confront capitalism in a revolutionary struggle because of the danger of nuclear annihilation. Ever since the death of Stalin, the Soviet leadership had been aware of these tensions, but had not drawn the dramatic conclusions of Gorbachev, namely that socialism was not, after all, a superior form of social organisation that would eventually triumph over its capitalist rival. Gorbachev’s volte-face meant that in one fell swoop the fundamental ideological antagonism that lay at the heart of the Cold War was removed.36 From this a basic foreign policy consequence followed – that the Soviet Union’s best course lay in a deepening of cooperation with the West rather than a continuing and steadfast opposition to it. The shift in Soviet ideology was significant not only because of its impact in helping end the Cold War but also because the new political thinking posited a more inclusive approach to the international politics of Europe, to East–West relations and to issues of security in general. This may have had a hackneyed and imprecise feel at times (the notions of ‘interdependence’ and ‘pan-human values’, for instance). Yet it was based on a compromise with a set of values and a vision of order in Europe that was more Western than Soviet (or socialist) in inspiration. It is unimaginable, for instance, that any of Gorbachev’s predecessors would have signed the Paris Charter given its endorsement of pluralistic democracy and economic liberalism, as well as its assertion that friendly relations between states rested upon the consolidation of democracy. Similarly, it is hard to imagine any Soviet Foreign Minister other than Eduard Shevardnadze (who served under Gorbachev) declaring that the Soviet Union’s status as a ‘civilized country’ depended on its successful construction of a ‘law-ruled and democratic state’, and its participation in ‘the creation of an integral European economic, legal, humanitarian, cultural and ecological space’.37 On this basis, a clear connection existed between the new political thinking, Soviet policy concessions and actual developments in European security. Consider the following: ‘mutual security’, ‘defensive defence’ and ‘reasonable sufficiency in defence’ (linked to the INF and CFE Treaties plus unilateral Soviet troop reductions in Eastern Europe); ‘freedom of choice’ (Soviet non-intervention to prevent the removal of communist rule in Eastern Europe and acceptance of German unification); and the ‘common European home’ (the revamping of the CSCE in 1990 and the establishment by Moscow of ties with the Council of Europe).38

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There were, however, limits to how fast and how far the Gorbachev leadership was prepared to go. A unified Germany in NATO was neither foreseen nor desired. That it was accepted reflected intellectual consistency on Gorbachev’s part (an extension of the ‘freedom of choice’ principle to the German case), but equally the persuasive effects of German and American economic blandishments and strategic assurances.39 Similarly, Gorbachev was not prepared for the removal of communist rule in Eastern Europe and judged that more popular forms of socialism could be introduced into the region. When this was proven wrong he remained committed to the survival of the Warsaw Pact, if not as a military bloc of the Cold War variety, then as a political organisation able to maintain existing Soviet links with the region. This might suggest that Gorbachev, for all his boldness, remained wedded to bloc thinking. However, underlying his position was a hope (expressed during 1990) that changes in the Warsaw Pact would be mirrored in NATO and, with the Cold War over, that these ‘existing security mechanisms and structures in Europe’ would be preserved only until the ‘establishment of new all-European structures of collective security’, based preferably on the CSCE.40 This stance was, in turn, premised on the assumption that the Soviet Union itself would continue to play a shaping role in Europe and that its status as a great power (albeit one premised as much on a claim to a new moral leadership as much as military power) would be maintained.41 Given the decline of the Soviet position after 1989, these expectations may have seemed misguided. They were, however, encouraged by other authoritative voices. In France, President Francois Mitterand outlined in December 1989 a vision of a ‘European Confederation’ that would ‘associate all the states of our continent in a common organisation with permanent exchanges of peace and security’.42 In West Germany, Foreign Minister Hans-Dietrich Genscher argued during 1990 in favour of a ‘pan-European co-operative security order’ oriented around the CSCE that would ‘bring about more stability for the whole of Europe [. . . and would] take account of the Soviet Union’s legitimate security interests’. This would, moreover, entail cooperation between the Warsaw Pact and NATO and these two alliances would be first ‘overarched’ and eventually ‘absorbed’ within a new order.43 New post-communist governments in Eastern Europe also trailed similar positions. A Czechoslovak proposal of March 1990 envisaged the creation of European Security Commission (again based on the CSCE) that would see the ‘gradual integration’ of Eastern Europe into ‘all-European integration processes’ and with this a withering away of the two alliances ‘which until now have divided Europe’.44 Institutional developments also suggested a more cooperative period of European security was being ushered in. German unification, achieved during 1990, removed one defining feature of the Cold War. NATO, meanwhile, in its London Declaration of July 1990 asserted that the Alliance and the Warsaw Pact were ‘no longer adversaries’ and that it would extend to the countries of the east ‘the hand of friendship’. More specifically, the Declaration pledged to reduce NATO’s reliance on nuclear forces, scale back conventional forces and work with

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a CSCE that ‘should become more prominent in Europe’s future’. Reflecting these shifts, the Alliance also foresaw a broadening of the European security agenda. NATO would continue to provide for common defence but at the same time it was suggested that security could no longer be seen as laying ‘solely in the military dimension’; conflict resolution and support for ‘the structures of a more united continent’ were also of increasing importance.45 Moscow, for its part, had undertaken a fundamental reappraisal of the Alliance. Shevardnadze visited NATO HQ in December 1989 and referred to its stabilising role in Europe, while Gorbachev viewed the Alliance as a means of anchoring a unified Germany. Capping this rapprochement, NATO and the Warsaw Pact issued a joint statement at the CSCE summit in Paris that affirmed ‘the end of the era of division and confrontation’ and looked forward to ‘a continuing process of cooperation’.46 Thus, the winding down of the Cold War seemed to expand the range of institutional possibilities. This was true first and foremost for the CSCE. As many of the comments above suggest, this organisation was the receptacle of all manner of proposals for empowerment, and some of these were, in fact, realised with the establishment of permanent institutional structures and new missions at the CSCE’s Paris summit in November 1990. The Council of Europe, for its part, extended special guest status to the Soviet Union, Poland, Hungary and Yugoslavia in June 1989. In 1990, Hungary became the first former communist state to attain full membership, and Czechoslovakia and Poland followed in 1991. The EC was also affected. The end of the Cold War galvanised discussion in Western Europe on the role of the Community in promoting pan-European structures, engaging the Soviet Union and its erstwhile allies, and developing an institutionalised European competence in security and defence.

The end of the Cold War and the limits of inclusion The Cold War ended in Europe owing in large part to shifts in Soviet thinking and policy, reciprocated, in turn, by an abandonment in the West of an image of Moscow as ‘an ideologically committed permanent adversary’.47 This rapprochement found practical expression in a series of policy initiatives which seemingly foreshadowed an inclusive post-Cold War security order. These efforts reached a high-point at the end of the 1990 with German unification, the CSCE summit in Paris and the signing of the CFE Treaty. Thereafter, however, the limitations of this new ‘security architecture’ (as it was dubbed at the time) became increasingly apparent. Most notably, during 1991 both the CSCE and the EC were tested and found wanting in Yugoslavia. Neither organisation fared any better in dealing with the mass exodus of refugees from Albania to Italy. The unfolding disintegration of the Soviet Union, meanwhile, posed a raft of uncertainties for Western states and organisations: whether or not to provide economic assistance, how far to cultivate relations with Russian President Boris Yeltsin, how to deal with Soviet republics on the verge of independence, how to

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assess the fate of the Soviet military, how to ensure the implementation of arms control and other agreements and so on. These developments severely dampened the pan-European notions of the previous year and not only because Gorbachev, one of its ostensible advocates, was politically beleaguered. East European states tempered their enthusiasm for the CSCE in favour of links with NATO and the EC, and in certain Western states (the US and the UK, most notably, but also in the Netherlands, Denmark and Portugal) the case for NATO-centrism was strengthened. The emergence of this more qualified version of pan-European security also had much to do with policy preferences pursued by the US (and supported with differing degrees of enthusiasm by other NATO states). As Simon Nuttall has argued, the US at this juncture decided to remain a power in Europe and was that much more agile in responding to the changes spreading across the continent than European governments (whether acting alone or in concert through the EC).48 In its public statements, the American leadership held to a vision that was ostensibly inclusive. President George Bush Sr spoke during 1989–90 of an emerging Europe that would be ‘whole and free’. As he later explained, this ought not to have ‘come at the expense of other nations. It had to come with and through them – both East and West. We could not cast the changes around us in terms of winners and losers.’49 Brent Scowcroft, Bush’s National Security Advisor, suggested similarly, that American policy was aimed at ‘developing a common vision [. . .] the kind of post-Cold War Europe not only that we and our allies would want to see emerge, but also one in which the Soviets would recognise their own stake [. . .].’50 Just how far the Soviet stake was taken into account is, however, a moot point. The American vision was, after all, premised on the decline of communist rule in Eastern Europe and the retreat of Soviet power. The Bush administration was compelled by a need to rationalise a strategy of active engagement in a changing Europe, while at the same time making the most of a new-found position of influence to push its own policy preferences – simultaneously advertising these as for the good of European states (or, in the case of the Soviet Union, at least a tolerable alternative). In so doing, it was mindful of a certain dissension within the Alliance (voiced by France most notably and, at times by the West German Foreign Minister), a need to accommodate (even balance) an increasingly assertive EC, and growing opportunities for engagement with Eastern Europe. The result was a set of policies through 1989–91 geared towards the preservation of a US military presence in Europe, the continuation of NATO as the West’s principal instrument of security, the achievement of a unified Germany in NATO, and a continuous dialogue with Moscow in order to exploit the opportunities provided by the Gorbachev leadership.51 These objectives meant that US policy was prepared to accord an important role to both the EC and the CSCE but nonetheless sought to deflate pan-European sentiments emanating from Moscow, Paris, the West German foreign ministry and parts of Eastern Europe. These views could not be ignored altogether given

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their broad (if momentary) support and the fact that, in the shape of an emphasis on the CSCE, they had one important thing in common.52 The US, however, held deep reservations about the CSCE owing to its large membership, rules of consensus, and absence of permanent political institutions. On these grounds, during 1990 it resisted Soviet suggestions that the body be a forum for discussing the German question. Equally emphatically, the US opposed any suggestion that it supplant NATO.53 The CSCE was, however, useful for other purposes. In a speech in December 1989, Secretary of State James Baker referred to it as one element of ‘a new (security) architecture for a new era’ that also embraced NATO, the EC and the Council of Europe. At a CSCE conference on the ‘human dimension’ in June 1990, Baker labelled it the ‘conscience of the continent’ and noted the CSCE’s potential role in spreading democratic values and, more practically, monitoring free elections.54 One month later, NATO’s London Declaration was adopted. This was based on an American draft and contained a section on a ‘more prominent’ CSCE that foresaw the establishment of permanent bodies dedicated to conflict prevention, confidence-building measures and election monitoring.55 These, in effect, were the proposals adopted at the organisation’s Paris summit later that year.56 These reforms afforded a CSCE, however, that fell short of the ambitions of some in Europe. US policy (tacitly endorsed by NATO) had effectively blocked the development of the organisation as a security body of military consequence and had limited its new missions to political, economic and ‘soft’ security matters. These were not unimportant and, moreover, the CSCE had retained its unique pan-European quality. Yet for all this, its new functions were delimited so as not to encroach upon NATO’s prerogatives; the CSCE would, in the words of NATO’s 1991 Strategic Concept, be ‘complementary’ (that is, not in contradiction) with the aims of the Alliance.57 American advocacy of NATO also meant an assertion of the Alliance above the EC as Europe’s principal security actor. Yet on this score, the process of institutional realignment was less clear-cut. The US had viewed European integration throughout the Cold War as reinforcing the transatlantic alliance and Baker’s notion of European architecture was premised on a strengthened US–EC relationship with the latter playing a central role ‘in shaping the New Europe’.58 Within Europe also at this juncture there was, as already noted, the emergence of debate on the EC’s political and security roles. Yet during the crucial years of 1989–90, this debate was to some extent crowded out by the attention devoted to other concerns more urgent for EC member states, not least the implications of German unification and internal matters such as the introduction of the single market and the inter-governmental conferences on monetary and political union. What these developments did mean, however, was that amidst the turmoil of the Cold War’s end, the EC was undergoing its own quiet revolution. This theme will be developed further in Chapter 5, but for now the crucial point is that as well as a US-sponsored NATO, the EC was also set to play a significant (albeit at this stage, uncertain) role in shaping the wider post-Cold War Europe.

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The Cold War settlement The end of the Cold War has been likened to two other concluding moments of global war in the twentieth century: 1919 and 1945.59 The comparison has its limitations. The main protagonists after 1989 tended to avoid the language of victory and defeat; the complicity of the ‘defeated’ Soviet Union was, after all, essential in framing the terms of the Cold War’s end. Further, the Cold War did not conclude in a formal peace settlement as such – there was no peace treaty, no document outlining the spoils of the victor. Yet in 1989–91, just like 1919 and 1945, there was an effort on the part of the victorious states to institute a peace and to entrench the values which guided their ‘wartime’ efforts. Ian Clarke has referred to this process as entailing a ‘distributive settlement’, a settlement which marked ‘the changes consequent upon the new distribution of power, and the material/territorial embodiments of that new situation’. While this settlement has only become fully apparent as the post-Cold War period has unfolded, its essential features were laid down in the short period after 1989 and, as such, involved a united Germany in NATO, the end of the Warsaw Pact and the dissolution of the Soviet Union.60 The end result of these developments, according to Clark, was clear: [s]overeignty over territory was redistributed; existing spheres of influence and tutelage were abrogated; deployments of military power were fundamentally shifted; and the economic and political complexion of many states was radically transformed [. . .] There can scarcely be any better example of a ‘hegemonic war’ that has so [. . .] fundamentally redrawn the international balance of power.61

This settlement did not involve a process of new institutional creation akin to the establishment of the League of Nations after the First World War or the UN after the Second World War. What it did rather was to entrench the position of those institutions (NATO and the EC particularly) which serviced the winning coalition of the West. This was made possible by the extent of the power differential which the West enjoyed in Europe and attractive because of the functional benefits and institutional assets which these bodies already possessed.62 NATO and the EC were not entirely complementary, in the sense that they represented two different parts of the Western coalition and two different (although not necessarily competing) visions of the new Europe. However, both shared the common feature that at the Cold War’s end, they excluded, by definition, the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe. The institutional balance of Europe, in other words, was not comprehensive (a state of affairs reinforced by the waning of the CSCE option). The place of the East within this new configuration was either increasingly marginal (as in the case of the Soviet Union) or the subject of engagement and co-option by the West on its terms. In a Europe dominated by one side of the Cold War, inclusion could thus occur only by joining the winning side.63

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As well as its distributive component, the end of the Cold War was also occasioned by what Clarke has referred to as a ‘regulative settlement’. This comprised the ongoing march (into ex-communist states) of the norms associated with the global market economy, a reformulation of the meaning and practices of security, and the ‘continued assertion of a liberal rights order’.64 The latter reflected the dénouement of the ideological contestation of the Cold War and, indeed, arguably marked one of the decisive historical outcomes of the twentieth century. In the northern hemisphere, liberal democracy as a form of political, military and economic organisation had proven itself superior not just to communism, but to autocratic monarchy and fascism also.65 This seeming triumph led to a good deal of hyperbole at the time, expressed not least in President Bush’s notion of a ‘new world order’ and, in a more intellectual fashion, in the idea of the ‘end of history’.66 These notions were consequently criticised, even ridiculed, for over-optimistically anticipating a new dawn of international cooperation. Put more modestly, however, the end of the Cold War did see confirmed those organising principles which had cemented Western Europe and North America for the previous four decades. The constitutional marker of this position was the documents adopted by the CSCE during 1990–91. The Charter of Paris was significant because of its emphasis on a recognisably Western version of democracy, human rights and the rule of law.67 The final document of the CSCE’s Moscow conference on the human dimension in October 1991, meanwhile, affirmed that such values framed the participation of states in international society; they ‘do not’, the document asserted, ‘belong exclusively to the internal affairs of the state concerned’.68 What made these documents doubly significant, moreover, was their comprehensive endorsement, every state then extant in North America and Europe (with the sole exception of Albania in the case of the Charter of Paris) being a signatory. This state of affairs, then, could be taken as holding out the potential for inclusiveness in so far as it seemingly reflected an emerging convergence of values across the continent. Such a view, however, needs to square with the fact that this was an uneven outcome. The triumph of liberal, ‘Westernistic’ values reflected the material and ideational balance of power at the Cold War’s end. As such, these values justified the conservation of political order in the West, while at the same time marking out the criteria by which this order would be extended to embrace those who had previously been outsiders.69 Taken as a whole, the distributive and regulative settlements of the Cold War made possible new debates on the scope and meaning of Europe as a political entity, the place and role of existing institutions within it, and the values against which state behaviour in Europe (both domestically and externally) would be judged. These three processes were to hold important implications of inclusion and exclusion in the post-Cold War period, as we shall see in the next chapter.

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Notes 1 2

3

4 5

6 7 8

9 10

11 12

13 14 15 16 17

18 19

20

A. Roberts, ‘A New Age in International Relations?’, International Affairs, Vol. 67(3), 1991, p. 509. F. Halliday, ‘A New Global Configuration’, in K. Booth and T. Dunne (eds), Worlds in Collision: Terror and the Future of Global Order (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002), pp. 234–41. These three broad historical processes made up the ‘composite phenomenon’ of the end of the Cold War. See F. Halliday, Rethinking International Relations (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1994), p. 218. E. Hobsbawm, Age of Extremes: The Short Twentieth Century, 1914–1991 (London: Michael Joseph, 1994), p. 256. As a basic characteristic of international and specifically European politics the Cold War in this volume is regarded as extending from the breakdown of post-War Soviet–Allied cooperation (roughly in 1946–47) to the years 1989–91 when the essential features of Cold War rivalry were dismantled. J.L. Gaddis, We Now Know: Rethinking Cold War History (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), p. 26. B. Buzan, M. Kelstrup, P. Lemaitre et al., The European Security Order Recast: Scenarios for a Post-Cold War Era (London and New York: Pinter, 1990), p. 31. O.A. Westad, ‘Introduction: Reviewing the Cold War’, in O.A. Westad (ed.), Reviewing the Cold War: Approaches, Interpretations, Theory (London and Portland, OR: Frank Cass, 2000), pp. 1–26. R. Jervis, ‘Was the Cold War a Security Dilemma?’, Journal of Cold War Studies, Vol. 3(1), 2001, p. 58. For analytical convenience, this chapter refers to the EC. The EU only came into existence, legally speaking, with the coming into force of the Maastricht Treaty in 1993, that is, after the historical period covered here. M. Mazower, Dark Continent: Europe’s Twentieth Century (London: Penguin Books, 1998), p. 249. Hobsbawm, Age of Extremes, p. 228; G.A. Craig and A.L. George, Force and Statecraft: Diplomatic Problems of Our Time (Third edition, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), p. 105. W. Loth, The Division of the World, 1941–1955 (London: Routledge, 1988), p. 299. G. Lundestad, ‘Empire by Invitation? The United States and Western Europe, 1945–1952’, Journal of Peace Research, Vol. 23(3), 1986, pp. 269–72. G. Lundestad, ‘Empire’ by Integration: The United States and European Integration, 1945–1997 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), especially pp. 1–28. H. Hakovirta, East–West Conflict and European Neutrality (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988), pp. 48–51. G-H. Sotou, ‘Was there a European Order in the Twentieth Century? From the Concert of Europe to the End of the Cold War’, Contemporary European History, Vol. 9(3), 2002, pp. 341–3. C. Bell, The Diplomacy of Détente: The Kissinger Era (London: Martin Robertson, 1977), pp. 108–9. W. Wallace, ‘Rethinking European Order: West European Responses, 1989–97 – Introduction’, in R. Niblett and W. Wallace (eds), Rethinking European Order: West European Responses, 1989–97 (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2001), p. 1. D. Deudney and G.J. Ikenberry, ‘The Nature and Sources of Liberal International Order’, Review of International Studies, Vol. 25(2), 1999, pp. 179–96; G.J. Ikenberry, ‘The Myth of Post-Cold War Chaos’, Foreign Affairs, Vol. 75(3), 1996, pp. 79–91.

46 21 22 23

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24 25 26 27 28 29 30

31

32 33

34 35 36 37

38 39

40

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K.W. Deutsch, S.A. Burrell, R.A. Kann et al., Political Community and the North Atlantic Area (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1957), p. 5. J.L. Gaddis, The Long Peace: Inquiries into the History of the Cold War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987). A.C. Janos, ‘From Eastern Empire to Western Hegemony: East Central Europe under Two International Regimes’, East European Politics and Societies, Vol. 15(2), 2001, pp. 224–31. M. Kramer, ‘Ideology and the Cold War’, Review of International Studies, Vol. 25(4), 1999, p. 540, note 7. Ibid., p. 573. C.D. Blacker, Hostage to Revolution: Gorbachev and Soviet Security Policy, 1985–1991 (New York: Council on Foreign Relations Press, 1993), pp. 14–17. Kramer, ‘Ideology and the Cold War’, passim. V. Mastny, ‘The New History of Cold War Alliances’, Journal of Cold War Studies, Vol. 4(2), 2002, pp. 80–1. This related, among other things, to how the global influence of Moscow was affected by relations with China and by revolutionary developments in the Third World. The Chernenko quote is from R.L. Garthoff, The Great Transition: American-Soviet Relations and the End of the Cold War (Washington, DC: The Brookings Institution, 1994), p. 170. Compare this with leading Soviet official Andrei Zhdanov’s reference to ‘the expansionist programme of the United States’ and ‘bid for world supremacy’ in a speech given in 1947 cited in Gaddis, We Now Know, p. 46. J. Mueller, ‘The Impact of Ideas on Grand Strategy’, in R. Rosencrance and A.A. Stein (eds), The Domestic Bases of Grand Strategy (Ithaca, NY and London: Cornell University Press, 1993), pp. 50–1. V. Mastny, ‘Did NATO Win the Cold War? Looking over the Wall’, Foreign Affairs, Vol. 78(3), 1999, pp. 176–89. O. Njølstad, ‘Introduction: The Cold War in the 1980s’, in O. Njølstad (ed.), The Last Decade of the Cold War: From Conflict Escalation to Conflict Transformation (London and New York: Frank Cass, 2004), p. xiii. These are summarised in M. Webber, The International Politics of Russia and the Successor States (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1996), Chapter 1. For example, V.M. Zubok, ‘Why Did the Cold War End in 1989? Explanations of “The Turn”’, in Westad (ed.), Reviewing the Cold War, pp. 343–67. C. Wallander, ‘Lost and Found: Gorbachev’s “New Political Thinking”’, Washington Quarterly, Vol. 25(1), 2001, p. 118. Cited in N. Malcolm, ‘New Thinking and After: Debate in Moscow about Europe’, in N. Malcolm (ed.), Russia and Europe: An End to Confrontation? (London: Pinter/ Royal Institute of International Affairs, 1994), p. 160. R. Craig Nation, Black Earth, Red Star (Ithaca, NY and London: Cornell University Press, 1993), Chapter 8. T. Risse, ‘The Cold War’s Endgame and German Unification’, International Security, Vol. 21(4), 1997, pp. 159–85. See also M. Gorbachev, Memoirs (London: Bantam Books, 1997), pp. 666–91. ‘On Directives for the Negotiations of the Minister of Foreign Affairs of the USSR with US President G. Bush and Secretary of State J. Baker’ (April 1990) as cited in Garthoff, The Great Transition, p. 612; Gorbachev, Memoirs, p. 683. D.W. Larson and A. Shevchenko, ‘Shortcut to Greatness: The New Thinking and the Revolution in Soviet Foreign Policy’, International Organisation, Vol. 57(1), 2003, pp. 96–7. Le Monde, 2 January 1990, reprinted in V. Mastny (ed.), The Helsinki Process and the Reintegration of Europe, 1986–1991: Analysis and Documentation (London: Pinter Publishers, 1992), pp. 203–4.

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52 53

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60 61 62

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Speech in Potsdam, February 1990, reprinted in A.D. Rotfeld and W. Stützle (eds), Germany and Europe in Transition (Oxford: Oxford University Press/Stockholm International Peace Research Institute, 1991), pp. 20–9. Reprinted in ibid., pp. 138–41. London Declaration on a Transformed Atlantic Alliance, reprinted in ibid., pp. 150–1. Joint Declaration of Twenty-Two State, in ibid., pp. 217–19. R. Garthoff, ‘Who is to Blame for the Cold War?’, in K. Booth (ed.), Statecraft and Security: The Cold War and Beyond (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), p. 65. S. Nuttall, European Foreign Policy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), pp. 40, 55–6. G. Bush and B. Scowcroft, A World Transformed (New York: Vintage Books, 1998), p. 231. Ibid., p. 230. R.L. Hutchings, American Diplomacy and the End of the Cold War: An Insider’s Account of US Policy in Europe, 1989–1992 (Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson Center Press, 1997), pp. 150–4. P. Zelikow and C. Rice, Germany Unified and Europe Transformed: A Study in Statecraft (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997), p. 443, note 105. This position was also firmly supported by the Thatcher government in Britain, and by the NATO Secretary General Manfred Woerner. It was somewhat less firmly backed by West German Chancellor Helmut Kohl and his Defence Minister Rudolph Stoltenberg. Hutchings, American Diplomacy, pp. 163–4, 194–5. Rotfeld and Schültze (eds), Germany and Europe in Transition, p. 152. Hutchings, American Diplomacy, p. 285. The Alliance’s Strategic Concept (November 1991), paragraph 4 at: http://www. nato.int/docu/basictxt/b911108a.htm [5 January 2006]. Baker cited in Nuttall, European Foreign Policy, p. 62. R. Steel, ‘Prologue: 1919–1945–1989’, in M.F. Boemke, G.D. Feldman and E. Glaser (eds), The Treaty of Versailles: A Reassessment after 75 Years (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 21–34. I. Clark, The Post-Cold War Order: The Spoils of Peace (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 78–82. Ibid., p. 84. G.J. Ikenberry, After Victory: Institutions, Strategic Restraint and, and the Rebuilding of Order after Major Wars (Princeton, NJ and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2001), pp. 70–2. Clark, The Post-Cold War Order, p. 247. Ibid., p. 78. B. Buzan, ‘The Present as a Historic Turning Point’, Journal of Peace Research, Vol. 30(4), 1995, pp. 387–8. See T.B. Miller, ‘A New World Order?’, The World Today, Vol. 48(1), 1992, pp. 7–9; F. Fukuyama, ‘The End of History’, National Interest, No. 16, summer, 1989, pp. 3–18. On the ‘constitutional’ significance of the Charter of Paris for a New Europe see P. Bobbitt, The Shield of Achilles: War, Peace and the Course of History (London: Allen Lane, 2002), pp. 636–8. Cited in Hutchings, American Diplomacy, p. 298. Clark, The Post-Cold War Order, pp. 246–7; O. Wæver, ‘European Security Identities 2000’, in J.P. Burgess and O. Tunander (eds), European Security Identities: Contested Understandings of EU and NATO (Oslo: International Peace Research Institute, 2000), pp. 43–4.

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3 Security community and security governance: a framework of inclusion and exclusion

The purpose of Chapter 1 was to consider a variety of forms of inclusion and exclusion. Here we are more concerned with how these relate to a broader system of security relations in post-Cold War Europe. In so doing, this chapter utilises the notion of ‘security community’ introduced in Chapter 2. It was noted there that during the Cold War, the Europe of the West (and indeed the Euro-Atlantic area more broadly) had come to be characterised as a ‘pluralistic security community’. The end of the Cold War opened up the possibility that this community could be extended eastwards as a means of promoting peaceable order, albeit on terms dictated by the regulative settlement that unfolded in Europe in 1989–91. Delineating a security community is not entirely straightforward. While its defining characteristic is the absence of war, the state actors to which this fundamental condition applies may exhibit differing degrees of integration and mutual relations. Further, the boundaries of a security community are not hard and fast; the distinction between inclusion and exclusion may, therefore, be a blurred one. However, a security community does have features deducible from its core characteristic of regulated peace. These the chapter considers as a form of ‘security governance’ at the international level and governance of this type is evidenced by reference to the categories of region, institutionalisation and compliance. These categories help in delineating relations of governance within the security community itself and, equally, help to conceptualise the ‘fuzzy’ boundary between that community and its external environment.

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War, conflict and post-Cold War Europe Characterising Europe’s security relations during the Cold War was relatively straightforward. The historical survey of the previous chapter saw a continent divided militarily, politically and economically. It was, in other words, subject to the global bipolar competition conducted between the two superpowers. The configuration of its security relations thus reflected what Barry Buzan and Ole Wæver have referred to as ‘overlay’. This is a situation in which ‘great power interests [. . .] come to dominate a region so heavily that the local pattern of security relations virtually ceases to operate’.1 Overlay suppresses local security dynamics including those of a conflictual nature. In Europe this included relations between Hungary and Romania, the Franco-German rivalry, Polish–Russian antipathy, Turko-Greek animosity and so on. Consequently, when overlay is lifted the possibility of ‘fragmentation’, or a return to the dynamics of inter-state rivalry and balancing, re-emerges.2 Thus, John Mearsheimer writing at the cusp of the Cold War’s end argued that bipolarity had maintained the peace in Europe for the previous forty-five years; its demise would return the continent ‘back to the future’, a situation akin to pre 1945 in which inter-state rivalry would escalate and ‘the prospects for major crises and war [. . . would] increase markedly’.3 War certainly did return to Europe but not in the way Mearsheimer imagined. Crises in the war-prone Balkans and South Caucasus had an interstate dimension, but equally have been characterised by intra-state conflict. Further, the general pattern of inter-state security relations in Europe has been more that of cooperation than conflict. The inaccuracy of Mearsheimer’s prediction stems from the logic of his theoretical starting point, that of neorealism. For Mearsheimer states exist in an international system that is anarchic in the sense that there is an absence of world government. Given the lack of order and reassurance which government can provide, states are suspicious of one another, are preoccupied with survival and eschew cooperative strategies in favour of bolstering their military capabilities. Relations between states, and particularly between the great powers, are consequently typified by ‘fear, selfhelp and power-maximization’.4 Neo-realist analysis is not entirely out of place in post-Cold War Europe. It can provide insight into the sub-regional dynamics of inter-state rivalry and also has something to say on inter-state security cooperation. On the latter, in so far as neo-realism allows for cooperation, this is usually seen in terms of different types of alignment: states typically ‘balance’ (they group together in order to counter the dominant power of another state or group of states) or ‘bandwagon’ (they combine with the stronger side instead of countering it).5 Of these two options, balancing is central to Mearsheimer’s analysis. NATO and the EC developed during the Cold War because they reflected a form of balancing against the Soviet Union. With the end of Soviet power, this common purpose has disappeared. By this logic, one would expect, therefore, the EC (now the EU) and NATO to turn inward, and for previously suppressed divisions and suspicions to

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re-emerge. As we shall see in Chapters 4 and 5, division has indeed been apparent. However, post-Cold War Europe has also been characterised by a prevalence of security cooperation, in turn, accompanied by a high incidence of trust among a majority of states. Rather than arming to fend off threats from one another, these states continue to pool defence resources in NATO and have engaged in new forms of security cooperation within the EU. To take account of this, neo-realism asserts that balancing of other sorts has occurred. In regard to NATO, for instance, enlargement is seen as the consequence of new members balancing against the threat posed by post-Soviet Russia.6 This, however, can only be a partial account. It has some merits in explaining the motives of Poland and the Baltic states but hardly applies to the aspirations of the states of the Western Balkans. Balancing of this sort also has little applicability to the continued cooperation of the more established members of the Alliance, many of whom hold a much more benign view of Russia (see Chapter 6). As for the EU, here the balancing proposition is much more difficult to apply and has been done so only tentatively. Security cooperation, and notably the ESDP, has not been viewed as engineered to balance a specific military threat to Europe. Neo-realists have made the entirely credible claim that ESDP was initiated in the late 1990s as a means of overcoming European over-reliance on American military resources, particularly in the Balkans.7 But this is not the same as balancing against the US; not even the most avowed ‘offensive’ realist regards the US as a military threat to Europe to which nascent European defence autonomy is the response.8 In so far as the EU is a means of balancing the US, this is seen in ‘soft’ terms – the ‘use [of] nonmilitary tools to delay, frustrate, and undermine aggressive unilateral U.S. military policies’.9 Yet ‘soft balancing’ is not a strategy pursued by the EU as a whole (its main proponent has been France joined temporarily in the Iraq crisis by Germany, Luxembourg and Belgium); neither is it a credible description of the gamut of security functions that the EU has developed in the post-Cold War period. An alternative neo-realist view of cooperation centres on hegemony, the idea that the organisation of relations among states reflects the preferences of a dominant power. There are a number of variations on this theme. Christopher Layne, for instance, has argued that Western Europe during the Cold War was integrated militarily through NATO to serve US goals of balancing Soviet power, in the process holding West European military ambitions in check and ensuring their subordination to American oversight. The latter, it was calculated, would both prevent the inter-state rivalries that had sparked two world wars and dragged the US into Europe, and further American global ambition by preventing the rise of a countervailing bloc centred on Europe. The US, by this logic, accorded priority to NATO as the expression of an American-led Atlantic community and was prepared to support European economic integration through the EC only in so far as it did not run counter to its geostrategic aims. After the Cold War, Layne continues, American support for NATO and a lack of enthusiasm for European defence and political integration can be seen as a continuation of these policies.10

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Kenneth Waltz, meanwhile, has also considered the survival of NATO as linked to US policy. Having expected the Alliance to ‘dwindle at the Cold War’s end’ given the disappearance of its former adversary, Waltz argues that NATO’s ‘survival and expansion’ reflects, quite simply, its utility ‘as a means of maintaining and lengthening America’s grip on the foreign and military policies of European states’.11 Security cooperation, by this view, is thus a function of hegemonic power with the hegemon seeking to organise regional security arrangements to suit its own purposes. The hegemony proposition is no better an explanation of security cooperation in Europe than balancing. In the first place, the exercise of American leadership does not account for security cooperation within the EU. Second, while it alerts one to the indisputable observation that the US has a dominant position within NATO and is able to decisively shape its internal decision-making (see Chapter 4), the concentration on what drives the hegemonic power marginalises the reasons why other states of the Alliance engage in institutionalised cooperation. Some of these derive from their relationships with the US, but not all. Indeed, as G.J. Ikenberry has argued, the willingness to follow the US has declined with the Cold War’s end and with it the ability of the US to ensure coherence within NATO. ‘[T]he fact’, he suggests, ‘that post-Cold war relations among the Western industrialised countries have remained stable and open, and institutionalized cooperation in some areas has actually expanded, is a puzzle that can only be explained by going beyond neorealism’.12

Security cooperation and peace in post-Cold War Europe In post-Cold War Europe, security integration has been of greater consequence than security fragmentation. As noted in Chapter 1, security differentiation means that not all the continent is peaceful, but the prevalence of peace and cooperation is sufficiently widespread and durable to give it a continent-wide character. How might we explain this state of affairs? And how does any explanation help us to characterise the nature of Europe’s security relations? There are numerous theoretically informed explanations for security cooperation leading to interstate peace. Harald Müller has categorised these into (neo)-realist, neoinstitutionalist, liberal and constructivist accounts.13 Having, commented on neo-realism above, this section will briefly survey the remaining approaches. Neo-institutionalism Beginning with neo-institutionalism, this approach emphasises the beneficial impact of ‘institutions’, a term with a rather elastic meaning in international affairs, but for the sake of simplicity regarded here as embracing: (1) formal intergovernmental organisations; and (2) international law and regimes with the latter understood as ‘sets of rules, created by explicit agreements among states’ themselves, in turn, often managed by international organisations.14 Institutions

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are a pervasive feature of international politics. Since 1945 the number and scope of international organisations and regimes has increased markedly, a phenomenon particularly marked in Western Europe and, since the 1990s in Europe as a whole. As noted in Chapter 2, during the Cold War, Europe’s institutions conformed, by and large, to the continent’s division. The end of the Cold War saw the elimination of the main institutions associated with the former communist half of the continent and with the exception of the OSCE,15 the institutions which persisted are Western in origin. At this point, Western Europe was highly institutionalised and, according to Robert Keohane and Joseph Nye, ‘state behaviour was to a considerable extent governed by rules’.16 This institutionalised framework has been gradually extended eastwards through enlargement of bodies such as the EU, NATO and the Council of Europe. States across Europe have invested considerable effort and resources in these institutions and the institutions, in turn, have had a determining effect upon foreign policies and inter-state cooperation. How then do international institutions promote cooperation and peace? To begin with, one ought to recognise that they are of little use when states hold security interests that are totally at odds; for instance, in situations in which an expansionist power is present, there are competing claims to territory, and the use of force is perceived as effective and of low cost. Here a reliance upon power and unilateral measures is the norm.17 Such a state of affairs, however, approximates only particular parts of Europe (the former Yugoslavia and the South Caucasus), and is far from typical of the continent as a whole. That said, institutions may still be the arenas of competition rather than cooperation. Access to institutional fora, in other words, may encourage rather than dampen disputes and serve also as the repository of the particular interests of powerful states.18 Yet this need not be the only outcome. According to Celeste Wallander, ‘[a]lthough institutions cannot force states to cooperate or act contrary to their interests, they [do] enable states to cooperate when it is difficult yet in their interests to do so’. Institutions, she continues, offer opportunities ‘to solve different kinds of obstacles to security, such as the need for monitoring and sanctioning others’ behaviour, coming to mutually acceptable agreements, increasing transparency about security interests and intentions, and creating incentives for cooperation when it is costly in the short term’.19 Wallander has in mind here situations where states begin from a position of distrust. In fact, much institutionalised cooperation in Europe proceeds from a point beyond this. Within the EU and NATO, for instance, institutionalised security cooperation in most instances rests on a mutuality of interests built up, in some cases, over several decades. The benefit of the institutional framework is, on the one hand, largely functional, the promotion of inter-operability, the reduction of transaction costs, the pooling of expertise and so on. However, by virtue of this prosaic, day-to-day interchange a longterm process of trust, transparency and reciprocity has accumulated. This, in turn, has two effects. First, it engenders mutual restraint or ‘security co-binding’

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whereby states are tied ‘down into predictable and restrained patterns of behaviour’ and thus locked into cooperation.20 Second, functional cooperation becomes so routine and inherent in state behaviour that a deeper set of relationships arises in which a state’s interests are inextricably bound up with and, to some degree, defined by its institutional commitments and the broader purposes of the institutions of which it is part.21 Liberal theory Turning to liberal theories, this school of thought is very broad and, in many ways, difficult to summarise. At its core, according to Andrew Moravcsik, is the assumption that ‘the configuration of state preferences matters most in world politics – not, as realists argue, the configuration of capabilities and not, as institutionalists [. . .] maintain, the configuration of information and institutions’.22 State preferences are rooted in political and economic constellations of power at the domestic level and so, for Harald Müller, ‘different domestic structures will cause different preferences in security policy, notably variations in the inclination to enter security cooperation’. By this logic, ‘security cooperation [is] the result of a convergence of benign, cooperation-prone national preferences, engendered by domestic coalitions for which such cooperation obtains priority’.23 In essence, this boils down to saying that security cooperation is more likely among states whose domestic political structures are democratic.24 One application of this position is provided by the ‘democratic peace’ thesis, which simply put, argues that democratic states do not wage war with one another. This concise proposition has been the subject of considerable attention and as an empirical observation has been shown to be almost beyond question.25 The issue of causation, however, is a little more complex and here a wide variety of factors have been forwarded. Summarising broadly, these can be seen to fall into three broad categories. The first considers structural factors and focuses on the limitations elected leaders face in the exercise of power and thus how accountability to domestic institutions and to the electorate reins in war-prone behaviour. The second relates to normative constraints and points to the pervasive influence of values such as tolerance, compromise and accommodation over and above the options of force and imposition; these values, common in domestic politics, are, in turn, translated into the way in which democracies conduct relations with each other. The third explanation, finally, is concerned with the pacifying effects of economic interdependence.26 What each of these explanations takes for granted is that democratic states behave towards one another in a generally benign fashion. Dispute and dissension is not ruled out – indeed it may be commonplace. The US and the democracies of Europe were in often profound disagreement during the 1990s over Bosnia and Kosovo, and in the 2000s over Iraq. During the Cold War, similarly, the unifying effect of the Soviet threat did not rule out disputes over matters such as nuclear strategy and the scope of external intervention (hence, the 1956 Suez crisis).

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However, what characterises relations among democracies is that differences do not result in war and that these differences are, reluctantly and painfully perhaps, accommodated, tolerated or sunk in institutional bargaining. These sorts of arguments have a clear implication for Europe’s security relations, one that has been explicitly made among policy-makers. The spread of democracy, characteristic of Europe after the Cold War, is the best guarantee of stability among states and in so far as existing bodies of inter-state democratic cooperation such as the EU and NATO help to stabilise nascent democratic government then, so it is argued, these bodies should be enlarged.27 Taken together, democratisation and enlargement have thus helped stabilise Europe’s east in the 1990s and 2000s just as they did its south in the cases of Spain, Portugal and Greece in the 1970s and 1980s. However, other corollaries also follow from the democratic peace thesis. First, while democracies may not fight one another, they historically have shown little restraint in fighting non-democracies. The American-led intervention against Iraq in 2003 and, in a European context, the NATO campaign against Serbia in 1999 are evidence of this. Second, while democracy promotes cooperation and peace, these habits are less assured among democratising states or, indeed, among states which have stabilised into some form of semi-democratic condition.28 Security cooperation between established democracies and these less consolidated forms (and indeed with nondemocracies) is not ruled out but it occurs at lower qualitative levels (it may be temporary, under-institutionalised and bilateral rather than multilateral) than cooperation among democracies themselves. In terms of patterns of relations in Europe, this is an important contention. While post-Cold War democratic consolidation has occurred in much of post-communist ECE, as Chapter 1 noted, weak states have typified much of the FSU and parts of the Western Balkans. These states, in turn, tend to be ‘hybrid regimes’ exhibiting minimal democratic features alongside some distinctly authoritarian characteristics. And it is not just weak states which exhibit this semi-democratic character – Russia, Belarus and, outside of the former communist region, Turkey also arguably fall into this category.29 Social constructivism Social constructivism, according to Alexander Wendt, is ‘analytically neutral between conflict and cooperation’. It seeks to explain war as much as it does peace.30 Social constructivism as a body of scholarship is also very broad and consists of several different versions. However, as an approach to the study of security, Edward Kolodziej has extrapolated a number of ‘shared constructivist tenets’.31 First, for social constructivists, ‘all knowledge is socially constructed’. In other words, human relations, including international relations, consist essentially of thoughts and ideas and not just of material conditions or forces. Second, and linked, relations between humans and at the international level between states are imparted meaning through social interaction. As Wendt explains, the condition of anarchy which for a realist results in fear, insecurity and

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conflict is for a social constructivist a social structure and this may well be an ‘anarchy of friends’ as much as it is ‘one of enemies’.32 Third, the character of human relations, be this between individuals, groups or states, reflects interests derived from identities and not the reverse as ‘rationalist’ approaches (in other words, all those covered in the sections above) would have it. For Ted Hopf, this has important implications for cooperation. Where identities are shared (where, in other words, the actors ‘have developed an understanding of each other as partners in some common enterprise’) then cooperation will be initiated and will persist.33 Identity, of course, is a slippery concept. For Wendt, it is a ‘set of meanings that an actor attributes to itself [and] that enable [it] to determine “who I am/we are”’ in relation to others. Identities thus ‘lead actors to see situations as calling for taking certain actions and thus for defining their interests in certain ways’. As Wendt continues, state identities are, in part intersubjective. The identities of the US and the Soviet Union, for instance, were during the Cold War shaped by their interaction as global competitors.34 Wendt’s version of social constructivism has been criticised because identities and state behaviour are seen as derived from such interchanges rather than say from economic, scientific and technological globalisation or from internal and transnational forces such as nationalism and ideology.35 As a corrective, some social constructivists have imported liberal assumptions into their analysis and so have argued that state identity and inter-state interaction are also a reflection of domestic society. Thus the conflictual nature of American and Soviet identities can also be interpreted as a consequence of the existence of these two states as liberal-democratic and socialist opposites. By the same token, when domestic society gives rise to shared identities then cooperation can be fostered. As Thomas Risse-Kappen argues, this has a particular relevance if these identities are democratic. ‘[D]emocracies’, he suggests, ‘appear to infer external behaviour from the values and norms governing the domestic decision-making processes. These norms insure the non-violent resolution of conflicts. Together with the publicity of the democratic process, they reduce uncertainties about peaceful intentions. Democracies then view each other as peaceful, which substantially reduces the significance of the “security dilemma” among them and, thus, removes a major obstacle to stable security cooperation.’36 More profoundly, ‘[t]he democratic character of one’s domestic structures then leads to a collective identification process among actors of democratic states’. This is a process that is unlikely to occur between either democracies and nondemocracies (where identities will be disharmonious) or among a group of non-democratic states (where ‘nothing in their values [. . .] would prescribe mutual sympathy, trust and consideration’). Cooperation when it does occur in these cases will be based on more narrowly defined self-interest and thus less durable and involved.37 To its detractors, social constructivism has been criticised further because it wrongly downplays material concerns of relative power and uncertainty in generating conflict.38 Even in the European context, this criticism arguably has

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some purchase. For a constructivist, suspicion of Russia, or perceptions of Turkey as alien, may well be the consequence of discursive practices of ‘othering’ – the construction of a European identity against which these two states sit uncomfortably (see also Chapter 1). Equally, however, this discomfort may reflect the sheer economic, military and geographical weight which these states bring to bear, something which gives them an unusual potential to act as destabilising influences. Yet the constructivist position is not without merit; the identities of both Russia and Turkey themselves have arguably been shaped by their interchange with Europe and notably the interchange with a ‘Europe’ defined by the values of its dominant institutions. Indeed, it is with regard to the latter that social constructivism has made a significant contribution to scholarship. Here, some social constructivist analysis has taken further the notion that democracies have a predisposition toward cooperation by arguing that this finds expression within institutions, institutions furthermore that are identity based rather than simply functionally oriented. Institutions within democracies are thus at the same time the reflection of the (democratic) state identities of their members and also the repositories of values, norms and rules of a democratic character. Institutions, by this view, have a powerful influence. First, they can develop an autonomy over and above states, in the process defining and undertaking roles in service of a supposed collective interest. And second, they can socialise states into cooperative forms of behaviour. Institutions, in sum, are the vehicles for the aggregation and projection of state identities and interests, and at the same time ‘constitutive’ of states themselves (regulating state behaviour and shaping state identities and interests). They are, to cite Frank Schimmelfenning, both ‘community representatives’ and ‘community-building agencies’.39 This type of account has been applied to integration and enlargement in the cases of both the EU and NATO. Two qualifications, however, seem to be in order. First, as noted in Chapter 1, the ‘democratic’ identity of both the members and of these organisations themselves should not be taken for granted. Second, as social constructivists themselves recognise, even an international institution as densely organised and as identity conscious as the EU (and, to a lesser extent, NATO) is still subject to national identities and discourses and thus is at best a framework within which these identities and discourses can ‘coexist uneasily side by side’ with more expressly ‘European’ versions.40

Europe as a security community Having briefly surveyed approaches to understanding security cooperation and peace in post-Cold War Europe how do we derive a workable characterisation of Europe’s security relations? It was noted above that inter-state peace and cooperation has assumed a durable and continent-wide character. Extrapolating from this and the observations of the previous two chapters, we can posit Europe’s security situation as being characterised by the following:

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Security threats in Europe are more multifaceted than during the Cold War. Inter-state rivalry and a concern with territorial defence centred on Europe’s bipolar division has given way to an attention (in both policy and analysis) to a more diverse range of security threats. The intensity of threats varies thus giving rise to a security differentiation in which some states enjoy a relatively stable and manageable security situation while others are subject to a much more demanding environment of both internal and external threats. The Cold War security division of Europe premised on bipolarity, ‘overlay’ and regional organisations with relatively static memberships has been replaced by a process of institutional enlargement and partnership. This is seen as an inclusive process. Europe’s security relations are densely institutionalised. These institutions have a pan-European quality but the central bodies – NATO and the EU – are still defined by exclusive membership, notwithstanding various partnership and association activities. This is seen as an exclusionary process. The centrality of NATO and the EU reflect the distributive and regulative settlements of the Cold War’s end. Each is an embodiment and vehicle for the projection of ‘Westernistic’ norms.

In view of these characteristics, is it possible to assert that any one of the theoretical approaches considered above has a greater relevance? The position adopted here is that none provides an adequate stand-alone account and thus no single approach is taken as capable of guiding our analysis. This may be regarded as theoretically slack, however, the purpose of this volume is not, in Michael Sullivan’s phrase, to ‘walk through the trenches’ of debate between contending theories of International Relations (IR).41 To make sense of its central subject (security relations of inclusion and exclusion) the book adopts a middle path – an attempt, in Robert Merton’s words to pursue a course ‘intermediate to the minor working hypotheses evolved in abundance during the day-by-day routine of research, and the all-inclusive speculations comprising a master conceptual scheme’.42 Such a course involves drawing upon more than one theoretical perspective. This, as Terry Terriff and others have argued, seems especially appropriate in the study of international security, a subject which, owing to the lack of fixed certainties in international politics, as well as the intellectual vibrancy and fragmentation of the IR discipline, seems ‘disaggregated and bewildering’. Establishing ‘points of commonality’ between approaches, therefore, can be regarded as a legitimate and useful way to progress discussion and argument.43 On this basis, what then do we take forward from the approaches surveyed above? First, and building on a point made in Chapter 1, security, analytically speaking, continues to position the state at centre stage. This is a view shared by a number of approaches, although each draws different inferences from it. In the European context, the neo-realist assumption that powerful states shape security relations remains valid, although processes central to neo-realist analysis

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(balances of power, bandwagoning, hegemony, great power concerts and so on) do tend to simplify the complex processes of inter-governmentalism which characterise NATO and, even more so, the EU, an institution which lacks hegemonic leadership. The proliferation of institutions in Europe, meanwhile, and the enduring proclivity of a large number of its states to engage in multilateral forms of cooperation, alerts us to the importance of institutions in aggregating and sometimes moderating state preferences while simultaneously providing the format for achieving mutually acceptable, but otherwise unobtainable functional results. That such cooperation is much more enduring and far-reaching among democratic states, in turn, suggests that domestic regime type matters. Why it matters is, from a liberal perspective, seen as due to the elevation of domestic practices to the international level. But of some significance also is the manner in which states expound certain shared norms and values as a premise for cooperation. Following from this, what is needed is a conceptualisation of Europe’s security relations that emphasises a clear tendency towards cooperation and peace among states, premised on institutionalisation, domestic democratic government and the emergence of shared values and, by extension, a shared identity. The notion of security community offers such a synthetic approach. Defining security community Security communities are rare. Other than North America, ‘[Western Europe] is the only region in the world that can be unproblematically labelled as a security community’.44 Given that the North American situation is essentially a bilateral relationship between the US and Canada, Western Europe is thus even more unique. With its origins in the Cold War (see Chapter 2) it has developed as the world’s only multilateral security community. Western Europe conforms to Karl Deutsch and associates’ now oft-cited definition of a security community as a condition ‘in which there is real assurance that the members of that community will not fight each other physically, but will settle their disputes in some other way’.45 Deutsch distinguished between ‘amalgamated’ security communities where a formal merger of units had occurred (as in the United States) and ‘pluralistic’ security communities involving ‘separate governments’. The latter concerns us here. Emanuel Adler and Michael Barnett, define a pluralistic security community as ‘a transnational region comprised of sovereign states whose people maintain dependable expectations of peaceful change’ in their relations.46 As Ole Wæver notes, this amounts to saying that such a community is characterised by the absence of war: it is a ‘non-war community’.47 Insecurities continue to bedevil the states of this community. Western Europe, for instance, remains exposed to the wide range of security threats noted in Chapter 1. It is also the case that inter-state relations continue to be characterised by rivalry. What matters, however, is that conflicts of interest among these states do not escalate into war and that expectations of war and planning for its eventuality are absent. Spain and the UK, for example, disagree about the status of Gibraltar and until it dropped

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its nominal territorial claim, the Republic of Ireland disagreed with the UK over the status of Northern Ireland. Neither of these disputes, however, has led to inter-state violence. This basic condition of non-war is a gain of considerable historical moment in its own right given that Europe up until the late 1940s had a record ‘second to none’ in the scale and regularity of organised inter-state violence.48 It is also a precursor to myriad forms of security cooperation. The knowledge that inter-state war is inconceivable permits states to divert their energies into tackling, often together, other security problems. The above can be regarded as the ‘security’ aspect of security community. The ‘community’ aspect49 meanwhile refers, according to Deutsch, to a shared belief in the desirability of peaceful change and, more substantively to what he calls ‘mutual sympathy and loyalties [. . .] “we-feeling”, trust and mutual considerations [. . .] partial identification in terms of self-images and interests [. . .] mutually successful predictions of behaviour and of cooperative action [. . .]’ all of which renders war ‘unimaginable’ among its members.50 In a similar formulation, Adler and Barnett refer to members of a community having ‘shared identities, values, and meanings [. . .] many-sided and direct relations [and a commitment to] reciprocity that expresses some degree of [shared] long-term interest and perhaps even altruism’.51 Identity is, arguably, the most analytically elusive quality of security communities. For Wæver, ‘we-feeling’ or community identity exists side by side with national identities in a symbiotic relationship. Thus, in Europe national identities remain primary but their articulation, both during the Cold War and more so after it, occurs in such a way that the interests of a nation state (France, Germany, the UK etc.) are ‘redefined by an inclusion of “Europe”’. ‘[T]he overall foreign policy line’, he continues, ‘must be explainable as to where this leaves “us”: what kind of future for “France”/”Germany” [. . .] in what kind of Europe’.52 For Michael Williams, identity in security community is about the mutual recognition of its members as being alike, a process, he argues that is intrinsic to democratic states given their shared values.53 On this basis, security communities are essentially democratic security communities. As Deutsch noted in his original study, security integration requires ‘a compatibility of the main values held by the relevant strata of all the political units involved’. [One] of these values, clearly, is basic political ideology [and specifically] “constitutionalism” and “democracy”’.54 Drawing the security and community aspects together, it is possible to give a fuller overview of security community. As a description of inter-state relations, it proceeds from the condition of non-war and expectations of peaceful change, in turn, reflective of high levels of trust and shared identity. On this basis, a security community can then be conceived as having differing levels of development. Adler and Barnett have referred to these as ‘nascent’ ‘ascendant’ and ‘mature’. Western Europe is usually regarded as falling somewhere between the second and third categories. A mature security community, in turn, can take two possible forms, being either loosely or tightly coupled. These two share the following characteristics: an emphasis on practices of multilateralism, unfortified

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borders between states of the community, military planning that does not involve scenarios of war with neighbouring democratic states and a discourse of threat that locates the main security challenges as residing outside the security community. All these features are applicable to post-Cold War Western Europe. Specific features applicable to a tightly coupled community only include the following: high levels of military integration, free movement of populations and an internationalisation of authority apparent in a coordination and harmonisation of domestic laws.55 Again this fits with the West European experience. Having outlined its defining characteristics, two other aspects of security community are worth noting. The first concerns institutions. On these, analysts of security communities are equivocal. On the one hand, it is suggested that relations of trust between states and the knowledge and beliefs they hold of one another matter more than the particular institutional arrangements they partake in.56 On one level, this may be true. However, in many cases it is very difficult to separate out these inter-state relationships from their institutional setting. Can one, for instance, understand the post-war transformation of the FrancoGerman relationship as a bilateral process distinct from the embedding of these two states within NATO and the EC? In fact, the literature of security communities gives considerable causal weight to ‘community-building institutions’ such as NATO, the EU, the Council of Europe and the OSCE, and indeed, to some degree, conflates the existence of security community with processes of institutionalisation.57 The roles which institutions perform here are viewed along largely constructivist lines: they are ‘sites of socialisation and learning’, they ‘are conducive to the formation of mutual trust and collective identities’, and they promote a ‘regional “culture” around commonly held attributes’.58 But equally, their more functional purposes are also deemed to be important. Thus, institutions for Deutsch were seen as having an integrationist impact premised on a neo-functionalist logic of trust-building derived from communication, cooperation and transaction. The second aspect concerns power. Adler and Barnett argue that ‘power plays a major role in the development and maintenance of security communities’ because of the ability of core states ‘to nudge and occasionally coerce others to maintain a collective stance’, and because such states embody practices and values which other states wish to emulate.59 This conventional material understanding of power can also be usefully supplemented by a notion of ideational power. The West European security community, for instance, embodies a particular set of values of domestic and international order, the affirmation and ascendancy of which stem from the manner of the Cold War’s end (see Chapter 2). Both understandings of power have important links to institutions. The US, for instance, operates in many ways as the core state of NATO, and the ‘big three’ of France, Germany and the UK do likewise in the EU. Further, the EU and NATO are the institutional expressions of ideational power. These two bodies have, in the post-Cold War period, claimed to embody liberal democratic values and have

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used this normative claim as a basis for extending the West European security community through institutional enlargement.60 The limits of Europe’s security community If security community is a defining characterisation of inter-state security relations in part of Europe is it possible to pinpoint its borders, to distinguish an inside and outside and thus a relationship of inclusion and exclusion? This is by no means straightforward. There are, in the first place, some awkward cases to take account of. The Greece–Cyprus–Turkey triangle, for instance, is one in which expectations of peaceful change are still not entrenched and this is the case despite the fact that the first and third of these states have been jointly in NATO since the 1950s. Which, if any, of these states resides outside a security community? Or, put another way, can we agree with the claim that ‘Turkey is not yet part of the Western European security community’?61 Second, how do we regard seemingly overlapping communities? In Europe at least, the EU and NATO with their largely coinciding memberships can be regarded as reinforcing parts of the same security community. The important exceptions, however, are Canada and, more importantly, the US. Membership of NATO suggests that both these states enjoy an attachment to the West European security community and that this, in turn, is part of a broader EuroAtlantic community. Whatever ‘transatlantic drift’ has occurred between some states in Europe and the US over Iraq, Iran, the Arab–Israeli dispute, policy towards Russia and, during the 1990s, over the former Yugoslavia, the basic condition of non-war and expectations of peaceful change has persisted. This, moreover, continues to be accompanied, despite all these differences, by considerable institutionalised cooperation and (evidence of mounting public distrust of post-Iraq US foreign policy notwithstanding), a continuing convergence of political values. As Ronald Asmus has suggested, differences within the Euro-Atlantic region should not be minimised but these pale in comparison to the gap that exists between this region and the world outside it.62 Yet for all this, the US (and Canada) while attached to the European security community are not fully of it, being geographically distant and institutionally cut off from its major integrationist body, the EU. A further question is posed by relations across the border, that is between states of the security community and those generally regarded as outside it. Are relations with Russia, for instance, not yet premised on ‘dependable expectations of peaceful change’? If the answer to this question has to be, logically speaking, in the affirmative63 then the community border seems much too stark and absolute. The likelihood of war between Russia and Western Europe (and, by extension, the US) may still inform some war-planning scenarios among European defence ministries and, in view of NATO enlargement, is still entertained as a possibility in Russian military doctrine. The probability of this scenario, however, is remote and hardly informs the day-to-day foreign policy concerns of either Moscow or West European capitals and Washington. Even if

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relations are not always amicable, unlike the Cold War period, the absence of war is a working assumption. This particular boundary issue is complicated still further by institutional enlargement. Enlargement of the EU and NATO brings new members, for all intents and purposes, into the (West) European security community, but imports into that same community states (for example, Poland, Latvia and Estonia) in which sections of the political elite and population retain very suspicious attitudes towards Russia. Enlargement thus broadens the security community, but simultaneously hardens its edges. Taken together, these various qualifications suggest that the security community boundary cannot simply be reduced to the possibility or probability of war. War may, indeed, be more likely among states outside than inside the community (inter-state war is still conceivable in the Balkans and the South Caucasus and arguably in Russia’s relations with some its neighbours – Georgia and Moldova, for instance, have faced more than one war scare since the early 1990s) but interactions across the boundary are not primarily judged by reference to the possibility of war. In this light, while the existence of a security community remains, as noted above, a foundational feature of Europe’s security relations, the presumed status of some states outside it ought to be regarded as a matter of degree and, moreover, subject to change – both because relations across the boundary can be constructed in a cooperative fashion and because the community itself is subject to enlargement. In order to highlight this more dynamic inclusion/exclusion relationship, the concept of security community requires some further refinement.

Security community and security governance As its proponents readily admit, the security community concept is concerned more with how such communities arise and develop and ‘less with identifying their practices and mechanisms of reproduction after they [have come] into existence’.64 That said, according to Adler and Barnett, ‘[p]luralistic security communities can be categorized according to their depth of trust, the nature and degree of institutionalisation of their governance system, and whether they reside in a formal anarchy or are on the verge of transforming it’.65 In terms of the practice of a security community, governance can be regarded as the crucial quality here. Governance in the realm of security is, first and foremost, the regulation of cooperative and peaceable inter-state relations based on trust, an acceptance of shared goals and an adherence to collectively held norms. This can be seen as a largely voluntary process and not the consequence, principally, of ‘enforcement mechanisms from above’.66 Governance, in other words, is distinct from government understood as ‘centralised authority, vertical and hierarchical forms of regulation, and an ability to impose policy preferences, by coercive means if

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necessary’.67 In international life this distinction is of considerable significance given the absence of an ‘overarching governmental authority’ yet the existence of ‘a modicum of order [and] of routinised arrangements [that] sustain global life’.68 As this reference to ‘arrangements’ suggests, voluntarism is not by itself enough. The practice of inter-state relations, in other words, requires direction. Governance, thus involves both structure and process. As I and others have written elsewhere, ‘[i]n structural terms, governance involves institutions [. . .] and these entrench particular forms of behaviour among their participants by prescribing rules of entry, norms of interaction and constraints on behaviour. In terms of process, governance is concerned with policy outcomes and the manner in which actors interact to define and achieve these.’69 Given that security community permits rivalry, we would expect this interaction to involve, on occasion, the aggregation of similar preferences but equally, in some instances, a contestation of preferences in which powerful states are more likely to get their way. Bringing all this together, James Rosenau has defined governance as ‘the purposive activities of any collectivity that sustain mechanisms designed to insure its safety, prosperity, coherence, stability, and continuance’. Governance, he continues, is about ‘the maintenance of collective order, the achievement of collective goals, and the collective processes of rule through which order and goals are sought’.70 Security governance, meanwhile, can be defined as follows: an intentional system of rule, dependent on the acceptance of a majority of states that are affected, which, through regulatory mechanisms (both formal and informal), governs activities across a range of security and security-related issue areas. This [. . .] in turn, implies other important elements: directedness (the pursuit of clearly defined goals); resources and thus a capacity to act; and a variegated set of power relations. This latter feature may, at first sight, seem incongruous, however, a system of governance does allow for differentiation among its constituent parts. What is important, however, is that governance is suggestive less of strict hierarchy, imposition and coercion than of negotiation, coordination and participation.71

Security governance can be understood as the practical manifestation (or the ‘system’) of security community. This suggests, in turn, that relations of inclusion and exclusion with regard to the latter can be posited against features of the former. On this basis, three core aspects of security governance will be outlined below; these will then frame the studies of NATO, the EU, Russia and Turkey in ensuing chapters. These aspects are, first, a notion of region; second, institutionalisation; and third, compliance (and related to this, processes of socialisation). The second and third are selected on the basis that they connect to both the structure and process of security governance. The first, meanwhile, is both a conceptual and a pragmatic choice. While security community and security governance are ‘not limited to a specific geographic place’72 and can exist across regions (the Euro-Atlantic community was noted

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above and an ‘Anglo-Saxon’ security community is sometimes said to exist between the UK, the US, Australia, Canada and New Zealand), the assumption here is that community relations are more intense and security interdependencies and governance structures more evident in geographically circumscribed regions, even though the location of these regions may, as we shall see below, be difficult to fix. More pragmatically, region is important because the EU and NATO, the main institutions of European security governance, are themselves premised on a self-conscious regional identity and, furthermore, articulate their membership entry requirements (and thus the scope for extending governance and thereby community) by reference to a regional criterion of Europeanness. In using these three categories, it will become apparent that none offers a hard and fast demarcation of inclusion and exclusion and that the inclusion/exclusion relationship is a matter of degree. Matters of degree, however, are not insignificant. They carry weight in the perceptions of those inside and more so, those outside. Region In discussing the notion of ‘region’ we are confronted with a definitional minefield. Marie-Claude Smouts has referred to ‘region’ as ‘an indefinable category’. Smouts goes on to say that region can denote any number of ‘disparate aggregates’, be this a locality, a ‘sub-national formation’ between the local and national levels (e.g. a canton in Switzerland, a county in the UK or a commune in France), or various sub-continental zones (sub-Saharan Africa, North America, the Pacific region or Europe).73 Other ‘aggregates’ could also be identified – for instance, sub-regions embracing a number of states but still small enough to ‘cover a geographically coherent area’ or the much larger geostrategic or transcontinental regions straddling entire continents so beloved of geostrategic thinkers. This is quite a variety and the only thing these different ‘regions’ seem to have in common is that they are distinct from the global level. Once the relevant aggregate or region has been chosen, further complexity arises in trying to ascertain its defining qualities. According to Björn Hettne, the inherent features of a region can include one or more of the following: a distinct geography ‘delimited by more or less natural physical barriers’; a social system of ‘translocal relations’ involving interaction between its constituent units on say political, economic or security matters; ‘organised cooperation in [. . .] cultural, economic, political or military fields’ (region thus equates to the membership of a formal regional organisation); a civil society premised on an organisational framework that leads to a ‘convergence of values’ via a shared cultural tradition; and finally, a supranational political entity or ‘regionstate’ involving the region as actor via a comprehensive and sophisticated organisational and decision-making structure (of which the EU is the closest approximation).74 Similarly, Raimo Väyrynen has noted a physicalfunctional distinction, the former referring to ‘territorial, military, and economic spaces’ and the latter to culture and the market. Over and above this, Väyrynen

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notes, regions are social constructs ‘shaped by the collective perception of identities and meanings with blurred and ever shifting boundaries’.75 Yet whichever of these degrees of ‘regionness’ is chosen for analysis, all imply issues of inclusion and exclusion. This is clear if we take the seemingly most straightforward, that of physical geography and the position of states within geographic space. Following Joseph Nye, region here can be understood as ‘a limited number of states linked together by a geographical relationship and by a degree of mutual interdependence’.76 When applied to Europe, a first complication is that state and geography do not always sit comfortably together. Even if we assume that Europe can be geographically positioned, its physical boundaries often do not accord with political convenience. Europe as a region is commonly referred to as a peninsula of the Asian landmass. Its northern and western outlines are defined by extensive coastline but to the east, exactly where Europe ends and Asia begins has long been a vexed matter. Since the eighteenth century, the Ural mountains have constituted a physical border, yet this has placed Russia part in Europe and part in Asia. To the south-east, the border presented by the Bosporus Straits places Turkey in a similarly straddled position. Indeed, the whole Eastern flank of Europe has a ‘fuzzy’ character. It contains a number of geographic sub-regions – the Balkans, the South Caucasus and the Carpathians – which have historically been regarded as the outer limits of Europe and as a consequence influenced as much by Asia in cultural, religious and historical terms. One step removed and, in historical terms occupying a similarly ambiguous position, have been the states of Zwischeneuropa (Poland, the Czech and Slovak Republics, Bulgaria, Romania, and the Baltic states) states whose ‘return to Europe’ has been in a sense about relocating themselves at the centre of Europe rather than at its edge (see also Chapter 1).77 What these examples suggest is that geography is an unreliable marker of region. Other approaches throw up similarly ambiguous outcomes. The historian Norman Davies, for instance, considers concepts of Europe in terms of a cultural community, a political ideal, a civilisational process and shared historical experience.78 William Wallace, similarly, has considered definitions of Europe by reference to ‘history, or historical geography [. . .] observed patterns of social, economic and political interaction [. . . and] in terms of values, culture, and psychological identity – or perceived community’.79 None of these criteria, however, is fully inclusive; thus Davies concludes his summary with the observation that ‘diversity [. . . is] Europe’s prime characteristic’.80 Indeed, the claim that Europe is united by any common characteristic can be disputed. As Richard Rose has argued, ‘[a]ny attempt to reduce contemporary Europe to a single idea is bound to fail for Europeans differ about almost everything imaginable’. There are, he continues, striking differences between countries as well as within them and the common and devastating occurrence of war and division (as in the Cold War, for instance, when two competing Europes existed) is ample testimony to this.81

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In short, according to William Wallace, ‘there can be no continent-wide agreement on where Europe ends, or where its centre lies – or what geographical features, values, religious beliefs or claimed ethnic origins define the extent and limits of Europe’.82 The real problems arise, however, when this imprecision obtains political expression. This occurs in all manner of ways. First, national discourses can often be divisive – in domestic politics when positing proEuropeanism against its various alternatives, be this Euroscepticism, nationalism or affinity with outside regions (Atlanticism, pan-Turkism, pan-Slavism, Eurasianism etc.). Second, national discourses themselves are endlessly varied. Views of what it means to be European will be different in Germany from what they are in say France and the UK; views in Russia, similarly, will be different from those in Ukraine, Belarus and Moldova, but perhaps more different still from views in Germany, the UK and France. Third, the meaning of Europe can, and indeed has, obtained a political dominance at the regional level. In post-Cold War Europe, this stems directly from the circumstances considered in the latter part of Chapter 2, such that an ‘official Europe’ has consolidated, premised on the ascendancy of ‘Westernistic’ norms and the predominance of the EU and NATO. This is a version of Europe in counterpoint to the pan-European visions that were in circulation at the Cold War’s end and, indeed, to visions of a longer historical pedigree (De Gaul’s Europe from the Atlantic to the Urals, for instance), and one which contrasts also with notions of a civilisational Europe based on a claimed ‘cultural unity [that] transcends political divisions’.83 This has important effects quite simply because both NATO and the EU have premised enlargement on whether or not an applicant is ‘European’. In neither case is Europe properly defined but, nonetheless, the elevation of this criterion means, as William Wallace has observed, that ‘the idea of “Europe” is [thereby] institutionalised into statements about political inclusion and exclusion’.84 Institutionalisation Institutionalisation, in straightforward terms, can refer to the density of institutions in a given setting, measured in terms of the number of organisations, regimes and so on, and the complexity of their formal arrangements for cooperation. This ‘macro-institutional architecture’ is well developed in Europe. Indeed, the level of regional institutionalisation here is unique in global terms.85 As noted in Chapter 1, initiatives such as the CFE and CFE 1A treaties, CSBMs and the work of the OSCE have an inclusive and pan-European quality. These initiatives are not insignificant. Yet it is NATO and the EU which stand apart. It is these organisations which have provided what Buzan and Wæver refer to as the ‘institutional centredness’ of Europe, something which in turn has meant that security relations on the continent have tended towards a security community rather than integration under the aegis of a dominant power.86 The significance of each organisation will be considered in Chapters 4 and 5 respectively. Briefly, what is key in the case of both NATO and the EU is the enlargement of membership and the multiplication of function. The former has allowed the claim

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of pan-European relevance to be articulated, a claim reinforced by the development of extensive partnership and association activities. As for the latter, NATO and the EU have both undertaken considerable diversification in response both to the end of the Cold War and, latterly, to the post-9/11 counter-terrorism agenda. Each organisation thus acts as a multi-functional security actor in its own right. The centrality of NATO and the EU means that for the reasons noted in Chapter 1 membership of these two organisations remains the key marker of inclusion and thus exclusion in European security governance. In this light, it is worth considering institutionalisation in two further senses. The first relates to how developments internal to an institution distinguish it from its external environment, in the process reinforcing the inclusion/exclusion boundary. In that institutions can have both functional and normative effects, institutionalisation can, according to Michael E. Smith, be regarded as ‘the cumulative impact of decisions regarding cooperative outcomes’ and the ‘process by which norms, or shared standards of behaviour, are created and developed’.87 What this means in practice is that members of an institution will be subject to ‘bounded’ institutional effects and will thus behave in ways that are ‘qualitatively different’ from actors outside that institution. As institutionalisation develops it will involve, Smith suggests, increasing complexity such that the ‘collective behaviors and choices are more detailed and closely linked [and apply] to more situations’. This, furthermore, becomes more and more subject to norms and thus behavioural obligations.88 Smith’s analysis is made with reference to foreign and security policy cooperation within the highly institutionalised setting of the EU. While one might take issue with his assumptions in regard to what is, for many, a still halting and sometimes ineffective process of inter-governmental cooperation, the basic point that institutional cooperation is bounded is here a significant one. Boundedness suggests that membership (or, one step removed, the process of accession to an organisation) is a key indicator of a state’s international orientation and the nature of its commitments. Hence, the second sense in which to consider institutionalisation relates to the criteria of membership itself. Here it is worth referring to the well-worn distinction between global (or universal) and regional organisations. The former have no geographic criteria of membership and while bodies such as the World Trade Organisation (WTO) hold to functional criteria, the UN, the universal organisation par excellence, entertains no serious obstacles to membership among the world’s recognised states. This state of affairs contrasts with regional (and sub-regional) bodies. These are premised on a definition of region (however unclear that may be) and in many cases other qualifications for membership. In the European context, the OSCE and the Council of Europe have, in this respect, been much less exacting than the EU and NATO. The latter pair has elaborated a lengthy set of demanding entry criteria. Both, in addition, allude to the fact that enlargement should be conditional on the absorption capacity of the respective

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organisation’s institutional mechanisms. Logically speaking, therefore, the organisation in question should maintain a high admission price, both to keep out awkward cases and to ensure that those who gain entry are up to the job of collective endeavour.89 This is a logic that has relevance to the EU and NATO, albeit in different ways. In the case of the EU, the issue of absorption has been as much about making the organisation fit for enlargement as it has making the candidates fit for membership. As for NATO, the ‘digestion’ of new members has been set against both functional criteria and the Alliance’s altered strategic purposes. Compliance In international politics, states comply with international law, regimes and norms to a remarkable extent. Compliance can be explained in a variety of ways. One approach is to suggest that it arises out of the rational calculations states make in the face of material inducements.90 States comply because they benefit economically from trade regimes, politically from the formalisation of diplomatic conventions or, in security terms, from the operation of arms control treaties. Material inducements may be married with external pressure on the part of international organisations or other states. This may take the form of conditionality, whereby a state is rewarded if it pursues certain recommended political, economic, diplomatic or other policies. More coercive forms of external pressure also exist and may take the shape of diplomatic isolation, economic sanctions, political destabilisation and, ultimately, military intervention. South Africa, Cuba, Iraq, North Korea, the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia and other socalled pariah states have all been subject to such actions. Rational calculation seems an intuitively sensible way of understanding compliance. It is, however, an incomplete explanation, for it overlooks the wider setting in which states operate – that is, ‘the context of internationally held norms and understandings about what is good and appropriate’.91 In this regard, there are three levels at which norms can be seen to operate. To begin with, norms apply at the level of the international system. This is a state of affairs akin to Hedley Bull’s notion of ‘international society’ which is said to exist where states see themselves as bound by ‘a common set of rules’ that comprise inter alia mutual recognition, the honouring of agreements, limitations on the use of force, and cooperation in the working of international law, the machinery of diplomacy and international organisations.92 The very notion of sovereign statehood is sustained by these norms. Very few states reject international society outright, and those that do find themselves in a state of painful isolation (as in the case of the Soviet Union after 1917, China after 1949 or Iran after 1979) and subject to an increasingly irresistible process of participation in its diplomatic, legal and institutional workings.93 Derived from these general norms, ‘principled’ norms are also at work. These correspond to dominant discourses of a preferred international order and thus can be associated with the ‘regulative settlement’ of the Cold War noted in Chapter 2 and are encapsulated further in the European

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setting in differing forms of multilateralism centred on the EU and NATO (see Chapter 1). The second level at which norms apply is at the level of the sovereign state. In the European context, an increasing diffusion of power and authority to external bodies has occurred alongside the articulation of raft of formal treaties and less formal political principles. Robert Cooper has referred to this collection of commitments as a ‘post-modern’ state system in which the distinction between domestic and foreign affairs breaks down and ‘[t]he legitimate monopoly on force that is the essence of statehood is [. . .] subject to international – but selfimposed constraints’.94 States, in other words, willingly subject themselves to considerable external jurisdiction and are prepared to do so precisely because they reside in an environment in which territorial ambition and war has been expunged. This state of affairs is at its most advanced where the EU and NATO impinge upon states. To a lesser degree, it is also apparent in the intrusive requirements of the CFE Treaty and CSBMs as well as the recognised right of the OSCE and the Council of Europe to pass judgement on the conduct of government and the quality of political and human rights.95 The third, and related, level refers to the domestic context of politics, and in post-Cold War Europe this is defined by the universal claims of a liberal version of democracy and, stemming from this, the rule of law and the sanctity of human rights. As the signatories to the 1990 Paris Charter put it ‘[w]e undertake to build, consolidate and strengthen democracy as the only system of government of our nations’.96 None of this is to argue that the Cold War’s end ushered in a unidirectional transition to liberal democracy throughout Europe or that the liberaldemocratic version is itself an unproblematic form of domestic governance. What matters in the current context, however, is that a particular model of political rule with associated assumptions concerning liberal interpretations of the rule of law and economic management has assumed an ideational dominance. This has been apparent in the explicit conditionality and models of good governance promoted by external bodies (be this the EU, NATO, the Council of Europe, the OSCE or, indeed, a raft of economic organisations such as the International Monetary Fund, the World Bank and the Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development) and the narrow range of possibilities for domestic governance which states wishing to join or affiliate with these organisations have been permitted to entertain. As these examples suggest, the importance of norms is directly related to the processes of institutionalisation noted in the previous section. According to Martha Finnemore, international organisations can act as vehicles for the propagation of norms and under certain circumstances ‘socialise’ states so that they come to accept new norms, alter their perceptions of interest and thus behave in ways they would otherwise not.97 This process of international socialisation can be seen to take place in two distinct ways. First, within the organisation as the representatives of member states (new entrants particularly) adjust their expectations and behaviour to fit organisational procedures and culture, and also

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adjust policies in light of processes of bargaining and persuasion.98 Second, socialisation takes place by organisations – and worthy of note in this regard is the process of conditionality already referred to above, whereby target states are required to change policy practice in line with externally set standards. While this was posited above as a compliance-inducing process involving material calculation of benefit, it does have a deeper normative dimension. Thus, in the case of accession criteria, the relevant candidate countries may attempt to meet conditions of entry for what are largely instrumental purposes (access to economic, political and security benefits). However, more substantive normative diffusion can also follow, resulting in changes in attitudes and values among leading government, military and other policy-relevant elites.99 In the European context, the direction of norm projection and socialisation has clearly been one way from the West European security community to postcommunist Europe. In its most potent and obvious form it has been a process associated with the accession conditionality applied by the EU and NATO. Both organisations can be seen to embody the three levels of norms described above. Both encapsulate a preferred view of international order; the workings and membership requirements of both have implications for state sovereignty; and both are premised on domestic democratic governance and free markets. Both bodies, moreover explicitly emphasise the order-generating effects of these norms and practices. By aiming to reproduce the domestic political (and market) systems of existing members the assumption is that domestic-level similarity will foster cooperation. Similarly, by making accession explicitly conditional on foreign policy reorientation and ‘good-neighbourly’ relations, a related assumption is that regional cooperation will be encouraged and zones of instability set on a path to stabilisation.100

Conclusion This chapter has argued that security relations in Europe after the Cold War can be understood in terms of the development of a security community. Locating the boundaries of this community and thus ascertaining a dynamic of inclusion and exclusion is not easily done by reference only to its core properties of peace and expectations of peaceful change. Consequently, the systemic qualities of security community have been elaborated, centred on the notion of security governance. The latter, in turn, has been viewed by reference to the categories of region, institutionalisation and compliance. Whole none of these provide clear distinctions each, nonetheless, carries connotations of inclusion and exclusion which, in turn, carry with them clear implications concerning foreign policy, perceptions among the ‘excluded’ and, ultimately, normative connotations relating to European order. In policy terms, institutional enlargement is the clearest manifestation of the expansion of security governance and thus, indirectly, of the boundary of security

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community. As we have seen, the EU and NATO are central to discussions of region, processes of institutionalisation and the projection of norms. The following two chapters thus consider the EU and NATO in more depth. We then move on to two chapters which undertake a detailed treatment of how Russia and Turkey relate to security community/governance. All four of these chapters utilise the categories developed here as a route to considering a dynamic of inclusion/exclusion. Notes 1 B. Buzan and O. Wæver, Regions and Powers: The Structure of International Security (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), pp. 61–2. 2 Ibid., p. 65. 3 J.J. Mearsheimer, ‘Back to the Future: Instability in Europe after the Cold War’, International Security, Vol. 15(1), 1990, p. 6. 4 J.J. Mearsheimer, The Tragedy of Great Power Politics (New York and London: W.W. Norton, 2001), pp. 30–2. 5 H. Müller, ‘Security Cooperation’, in W. Carlsnaes, T. Risse and B.A. Simmons (eds), Handbook of International Relations (London: Sage, 2002), p. 371. 6 Mearsheimer, The Tragedy of Great Power Politics, p. 370. 7 B. Posen, ‘ESDP and the Structure of World Power’, International Spectator, Vol. 39(1), 2004, pp. 5–17. 8 See Mearsheimer, The Tragedy of Great Power Politics, p. 391. 9 R.A. Pape, ‘Soft Balancing against the United States’, International Security, Vol. 30(1), 2005, p. 10. 10 C. Layne, ‘America as European Hegemon’, National Interest, No. 72, Summer 2003, pp. 17–29. 11 K. Waltz, ‘Structural Realism after the Cold War’, International Security, Vol. 25(1), 2000, pp. 20–1. 12 G.J. Ikenberry, After Victory: Institutions, Strategic Restraint and the Rebuilding of Order after Major Wars (Princeton, NJ and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2001), p. 13. 13 Müller, ‘Security Cooperation’, pp. 371–85. 14 R.O. Keohane and C.N. Murphy, ‘International Institutions’, in M. Hawkesworth and M. Kogan (eds), Encyclopedia of Government and Politics. Volume 2 (London and New York: Routledge, 1992), p. 871. 15 Until January 1995 known as the CSCE. 16 R.O. Keohane and J.S. Nye, ‘Introduction: The End of the Cold War in Europe’, in R.O. Keohane, J. Nye and S. Hoffmann (eds), After the Cold War: International Institutions and State Strategies in Europe, 1989–1991 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993), p. 2. 17 C.A. Wallander, Mortal Friends, Best Enemies: German-Russian Cooperation after the Cold War (Ithaca, NY and London: Cornell University Press, 1999), p. 20. 18 R.R. Krebs, ‘Perverse Institutionalism: NATO and the Greco-Turkish Conflict’, International Organisation, Vol. 53(2), 1999. 19 Wallander, Mortal Friends, Best Enemies, p. 5. 20 D. Deudney and G.J. Ikenberry, ‘The Nature and Sources of Liberal International Order’, Review of International Studies, Vol. 25(2), 1999, pp. 182–3. 21 C.A. Wallander, H. Haftendorn and R.O. Keohane, ‘Introduction’, in H. Haftendorn, R.O. Keohane and C.A. Wallander (eds), Imperfect Unions: Security Institutions over Time and Space (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), pp. 10–11.

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22 A. Moravcsik, ‘Taking Preferences Seriously: A Liberal Theory of International Politics’, International Organisation, Vol. 51(4), 1997, p. 513. 23 Müller, ‘Security Cooperation’, p. 376. 24 Moravcsik, ‘Taking Preferences Seriously’, pp. 535–6. 25 B. Russett, Grasping the Democratic Peace: Principles for a Post-Cold War World (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993), p. 16. 26 M. Sheehan, International Security: An Analytical Survey (Boulder, CO and London: Lynne Rienner, 2005), pp. 36–8. 27 Chapters 4 and 5 on NATO and the EU will consider this in detail. See also N.P. Gleditsch, ‘Democracy and the Future of European Peace’, European Journal of International Relations, Vol. 1(4), 1995, pp. 539–71. 28 E.D. Mansfield and J. Snyder, ‘Democratization and the Danger of War’, International Security, Vol. 20(1), 1995, pp. 5–38. 29 A. Karatnycky, ‘Nations in Transit 2002: A Mixed Picture of Change’, in Nations in Transit, 2002 (New York: Freedom House, 2002), pp. 17–18. 30 A. Wendt, ‘Constructing International Politics’, International Security, Vol. 20(1), 1995, p. 76. 31 E. Kolodziej, Security and International Relations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 268–9. 32 Wendt, ‘Constructing International Politics’, p. 78. 33 T. Hopf, ‘The Promise of Constructivism in International Relations Theory’, International Security, Vol. 23(1), 1998, p. 191. 34 A. Wendt, ‘Collective Identity Formation and the International State’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 88(2), 1994, pp. 385–6. 35 Kolodziej, Security and International Relations, pp. 297–9. 36 T. Risse-Kappen, Cooperation among Democracies: The European Influence on US Foreign Policy (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995), p. 30. 37 T. Risse-Kappen, ‘Democratic Peace – Warlike Democracies? A Social Constructivist Interpretation of the Liberal Argument’, European Journal of International Relations, Vol. 1(4), 1995, pp. 505–6. 38 S.D. Krasner, ‘Wars, Hotel Fires, and Plane Crashes’, Review of International Studies, Vol. 26(1), 2000, p. 135. 39 F. Schimmelfennig, The EU, NATO and the Integration of Europe: Rules and Rhetoric (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), p. 70. 40 J.T. Checkel, ‘Social Constructivisms in Global and European Politics’, Review of International Studies, Vol. 30(2), 2004, p. 237. 41 M.P. Sullivan, Theories of International Relations: Transition vs. Persistence (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002), p. 229. 42 R. Merton, Social Theory and Social Structure, excerpts at: http://www.mdx.ac.uk/www/ study/xmer.htm [5 January 2006]. 43 T. Terriff, S. Croft, L. James and P. Morgan, Security Studies Today (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1999), pp. 187–8. 44 A.J. Bellamy, Security Communities and their Neighbours: Regional Fortresses or Global Integrators? (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), p. 63. 45 K.W. Deutsch, S.A. Burrell, R.A. Kann et al., Political Community and the North Atlantic Area: International Organization in the Light of Historical Experience (New York: Greenwood Press, 1957), p. 5. 46 E. Adler and M. Barnett, ‘A Framework for the Study of Security Communities’, in E. Adler and M. Barnett (eds), Security Communities (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), p. 30. 47 O. Waever, ‘Insecurity, Security and Asecurity in the West European Non-war Community’, in Adler and Barnett (eds), Security Communities, p. 69.

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48 Gleditsch, ‘Democracy and the Future of European Peace’, pp. 539–43. 49 This security/community distinction is derived from E. Kavalski, ‘Peace in the Balkans: The Influence of Euro-Atlantic Actors in the Promotion of Security-Community Relations in Southeastern Europe’, PhD thesis, Loughborough University, 2005, pp. 33–4. 50 Deutsch, Burrell and Kann et al., Political Community and the North Atlantic Area, p. 36; K.W. Deutsch, Political Community at the International Level: Problems of Definition and Measurement (New York: Doubleday, 1954), p. 41 as cited in E. Adler, ‘Condition(s) of Peace’, Review of International Studies, Vol. 24 (special issue), December 1998, p. 171. 51 Adler and Barnett, ‘A Framework’, p. 31. 52 Wæver, ‘Insecurity, Security and Asecurity’, p. 94. 53 M.C. Williams, ‘The Discipline of the Democratic Peace: Kant, Liberalism and the Social Construction of Security Communities’, European Journal of International Relations, Vol. 7(4), 2001, pp. 525–53. 54 Deutsch, Burrell and Kann et al., Political Community and the North Atlantic Area, pp. 123–4. 55 Adler and Barnett, ‘A Framework’, pp. 55–7. 56 Bellamy, Security Communities, p. 10. 57 Adler and Barnett, ‘A Framework’, pp. 53–5. 58 Ibid., pp. 42–3. 59 Ibid., pp. 39–40. 60 This is taken up in Chapters 4 and 5. For the general point see Schimmelfennig, The EU, NATO, pp. 99–100. 61 Bellamy, Security Communities, p. 9. 62 R. Asmus, ‘A Dissenting Voice on the Values and Interests Gap’, in M. Zaborowski (ed.), Friends Again? EU–US Relations after the Crisis (Paris: EU Institute for Security Studies, 2006), p. 59. See also B. Buzan and A. Gonzalez-Palaez, ‘“International Community” after Iraq’, International Affairs, Vol. 81(1), 2005, pp. 48–50. 63 For a discussion of such logic see Bellamy, Security Communities, p. 10. 64 Adler and Barnett, ‘Studying Security Communities in Theory, Comparison and History’, in Adler and Barnett (eds), Security Communities, p. 428. 65 Adler and Barnett, ‘A Framework’, p. 30. 66 Ibid., p. 35. 67 M. Webber, S. Croft, J. Howorth et al., ‘The Governance of European Security’, Review of International Studies, Vol. 30(1), 2004, p. 5. 68 J. Rosenau, ‘Governance, Order and Change in World Politics’, in J. Rosenau and E.-O. Czempiel (eds), Governance without Government: Order and Change in World Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), p. 7. 69 Webber, Croft and Howorth et al., ‘The Governance of European Security’, p. 8. 70 J. Rosenau, ‘Change, Complexity and Governance in Globalising Space’, in J. Pierre (ed.), Debating Governance (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), pp. 171, 175. 71 M. Webber, ‘Security Governance and the Excluded States of Postcommunist Europe’, in A. Cottey and D. Averre (eds), New Security Challenges in Postcommunist Europe: Securing Europe’s East (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 2002), p. 44. This definition, in turn, builds upon R. Rhodes, ‘The New Governance: Governing without Government’, Political Studies, Vol. 44(4), 1996, p. 664; J. Rosenau, Along the DomesticForeign Frontier: Exploring Governance in a Turbulent World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), p. 146; and M.-C. Smouts, ‘The Proper Use of Governance in International Relations’, International Social Science Journal, No. 155, 1998, p. 86. 72 E. Adler, ‘Imagined (Security) Communities: Cognitive Regions in International Relations’, Millennium: Journal of International Studies, Vol. 26(2), 1997, p. 253. 73 M.-C. Smouts, ‘The Region as the New Imagined Community’, in P. LeGalès and C. Lequesne (eds), Regions in Europe (London and New York: Routledge, 1998), pp. 30–1.

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74 B. Hettne, ‘Globalisation and the New Regionalism: The Second Great Transformation’, in B. Hettne, A. Inotai and O. Sunkel (eds), Globalism and the New Regionalism (Basingstoke: Macmillan Press, 1999), pp. 10–11. 75 R. Väyrynen, ‘Regionalism: Old and New’, International Studies Review, Vol. 5(1), 2003, p. 27. 76 J. Nye (ed.), International Regionalism (Boston: Little Brown & Co., 1968), p. vii. 77 J. Hagen, ‘Redrawing the Imagined Map of Europe: The Rise and Fall of the “Center”’, Political Geography, Vol. 22(5), 2002, pp. 489–517. 78 N. Davies, Europe: A History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), pp. 7–16. 79 W. Wallace, The Transformation of Western Europe (London: Pinter/Royal Institute of International Affairs, 1990), pp. 9–10. 80 Davies, Europe: A History, p. 16 (emphasis in original). 81 R. Rose, What is Europe? A Dynamic Perspective (New York: Harper Collins, 1996), p. 2. 82 W. Wallace, ‘Where Should EU Enlargement Stop?’, in R. Lindahl (ed.), Whither Europe? Borders, Boundaries, Frontiers in a Changing World (Göteborg: Göteborg University, 2003), p. 7. 83 R. Sakwa, ‘The Keystone in the Arch: Inclusion, Democracy Promotion and Universalism in Central and Eastern Europe’, in Cottey and Averre (eds), New Security Challenges, pp. 134–9. 84 Wallace, ‘Where Should EU Enlargement Stop?’, p. 12. 85 Y.J. Choi and J.A. Caporaso, ‘Comparative Regional Integration’, in Carlsnaes, Risse and Simmons (eds), Handbook of International Relations, pp. 492–3. 86 Buzan and Wæver’s analysis revolves around the notion of ‘security complex’ defined as a regionally-based cluster of intense security interdependencies between states. For these authors, a security community is one manifestation of security complex, one in which relations are typified more by amity than enmity and also by an aggregation of security concerns. The analysis of this volume concentrates on the dynamics of security community more directly than do Buzan and Wæver, but would not take issue with their broader assumptions regarding the status of much of Europe as a ‘centred security complex’ given the gravitational effect they see as being provided by the EU. Unlike Buzan and Wæver, however, this volume also stresses the significant role played by NATO. See their Regions and Powers: The Structure of International Security (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003, pp. 54–7. 87 M.E. Smith, Europe’s Foreign and Security Policy: The Institutionalisation of Cooperation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 26. 88 Ibid., p. 27. 89 B. Koremenos, C. Lipson and D. Snidal, ‘The Rational Design of International Institutions’, in B. Koremenos, C. Lipson and D. Snidal (eds), The Rational Design of International Institutions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 23. 90 A. Chayes and A.H. Chayes, ‘On Compliance’, International Organisation, Vol. 47(2), 1993, pp. 179–85. 91 M. Finnemore, National Interests and International Society (Ithaca, NY and London: Cornell University Press, 1996), p. 2. 92 H. Bull, The Anarchical Society: A Study of Order in World Politics (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1977), p. 13. 93 D. Armstrong, Revolution and World Order: The Revolutionary State in International Society (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993). 94 R. Cooper, The Breaking of Nations: Order and Chaos in the Twenty-First Century (London: Atlantic Books, 2003), p. 27. 95 Ibid., pp. 26–37. 96 Charter of Paris for a New Europe (Paris: November 1990), p. 3 at: www.osce.org/ documents/mcs/1990/11/4045_en.pdf [5 January 2006].

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97 Finnemore, National Interests, pp. 5–13. 98 J.T. Checkel, ‘International Institutions and Socialisation in the New Europe’, ARENA Working Papers, No. 11, 2001 at: www.arena.uio.no/publications/wp01_11.htm [15 July 2001]; J.T. Checkel, ‘Persuasion in International Institutions’, ARENA Working Papers, No. 14, 2002 at: www.arena.uio.no/publications/wp02_14.htm [20 August 2002]. 99 T. Risse and K. Sikkink, ‘The Socialisation of International Human Rights Norms into Domestic Practices: Introduction’, in T. Risse, S.C. Ropp and K. Sikkink (eds), The Power of Human Rights. International Norms and Domestic Change (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 10. 100 E.R. Kavalski, ‘The International Socialisation of the Balkans’, Review of International Affairs, Vol. 2(4), 2003, pp. 71–88.

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4 NATO: ‘a just and lasting peaceful order in Europe’

In this chapter, NATO’s relevance is seen in terms of how it has contributed to a dynamic of inclusion and, in parallel, of exclusion in European security. Further, the chapter highlights two fundamental developments which flowed from NATO’s strategic response to the end of the Cold War and which have been reinforced by the impact of 9/11. These are, first, an extension of geopolitical remit, and second, a widening of purpose. The first of these informed debates on NATO’s persistence in the immediate aftermath of the Cold War and has been carried forward through processes of liaison, partnership and enlargement. The second has informed the manner in which NATO has acted as a vehicle of security provision and, linked to this, the implicit, and sometimes explicit, message it has projected as to where the threats to security reside.

NATO – a death foretold? NATO’s post-Cold War development has been a central feature of the governance of European security. Yet this seemingly straightforward suggestion requires some justification at the outset in view of the deep crises that have beset the Alliance over the last two decades. NATO has experienced two major episodes which have given rise to questions not just about its purpose but also about its very survival. The first episode occurred at the seeming high-point of the Alliance – the end of the Cold War and the disappearance of its presumed adversary, the Soviet Union. Since its foundation in 1949, the purpose of NATO had been about more than simply countering the Soviet threat. The reality of massive Soviet/Warsaw Pact conventional and nuclear forces, however, provided the most potent reason for its existence. The need for unity in the face of Soviet power, in turn, had a

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disciplining effect on intra-Alliance politics. Various existential divisions developed during the Cold War (over France’s withdrawal from NATO’s integrated military command during the late 1960s, détente and burden sharing in the 1970s, and nuclear strategy and missile defence in the 1980s) but each was finessed on the basis of ‘an underlying consensus on both sides of the Atlantic on the need for NATO and on its central purpose’.1 Despite the acknowledged achievements of NATO during the Cold War in staving off Soviet military preponderance, providing a shield for West European integration, harnessing German power and ensuring US commitment, once it became clear that the Soviet Union was in retreat from Europe and that the continent was on the verge of significant strategic alterations the view was increasingly articulated that the Alliance faced the possibility of ‘spontaneous disintegration’.2 One future American Deputy Secretary of State, for instance, suggested in 1990 that NATO was due for retirement.3 John Mearsheimer, similarly, argued that with an American abandonment of Europe more than likely, NATO’s relapse into obsolescence would almost inevitably follow.4 Yet in spite of such scepticism, NATO did not wither away. Under American guidance, the Alliance asserted itself against the CSCE alternative during 1990 (see Chapter 2) and in the following two years a French preference for a European defence structure oriented around the EU/Western European Union (WEU) was effectively stalled by American and British opposition. The possibility of ‘a common defence policy’ noted in the Maastricht Treaty on European Union (TEU) was politically significant but did nothing at this point to materially detract from the Alliance. The nascent European Security and Defence Identity (ESDI) was, in fact, to develop within NATO rather than autonomous of it. On this basis, one analyst was able to claim that by 1995, ‘European security was once again dominated by the NATO alliance and US leadership, perhaps to a greater extent than even in the last years of the Cold War’.5 During this period NATO’s continued relevance was premised upon enlargement, partnership and a role in regional stabilisation. On the latter, NATO weathered a series of internal rifts relating to policy in the former Yugoslavia, first over the merits of intervention in Bosnia in the mid-1990s and subsequently over the wisdom and conduct of the bombing campaign against Serbia during the 1999 Kosovo crisis. Both occasions were controversial and tested to the limit NATO’s claim to be the upholder of stability in Europe. In both cases, however, the charge that NATO was paralysed by division and indecision was eventually countered by decisive US-led military action followed by the installation of largescale peacekeeping forces under NATO operational command. The ethical and operational justification of these interventions remained open to question. They also prompted a search for European alternatives to reliance on US military and diplomatic preponderance, most notably with the launch in 1999 of the EU’s ESDP accompanied by the creation of the office of High Representative for the CFSP. Yet while highly problematic for NATO, Bosnia and Kosovo taken together did not prompt the sort of soul-searching that had occurred at the end of the

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Cold War. Depending on one’s perspective, 1999’s Operation Allied Force was either a ‘perfect failure’ or a case of NATO prevailing in the defence of its founding values.6 However, the debates which both Kosovo and Bosnia occasioned were essentially about the correctness of Alliance action, not the survival of NATO itself.7 The issue of NATO’s future was raised, however, much more starkly within the context of the 2003 Iraq crisis. This was dubbed NATO’s ‘near death experience’8 on account, first, of a clear divide between the allies on the wisdom of US-led military action and, second, because the crisis entailed a specific NATO controversy in the shape of a dispute over the provision of allied military assistance to Turkey (see Chapter 7). What made this particular crisis in the Alliance so much more significant was that it marked the low point of a fresh period of doubt that had begun with the September 2001 (9/11) attacks on the US mainland. On this occasion, NATO took the symbolically significant step of invoking the collective-defence clause (Article V) of the North Atlantic Treaty in support of the US. The allies also took a series of measures aimed at bolstering US retaliatory action in Afghanistan, safeguarding US airspace and enhancing NATO naval forces in the Eastern Mediterranean. Yet in spite of these measures, 9/11 was seen as marking a decisive waning of NATO. First because the US was viewed as largely indifferent to the organisation (Article V had been invoked at the initiative of the NATO Secretary General not at American request, and the campaign against the Taliban regime in Afghanistan was conducted outside of NATO structures precisely because Washington wanted to avoid the constraints it had faced in the ‘war by committee’ conducted over Kosovo), and second because 9/11 marked a decisive shift toward a security agenda dominated by terrorism and proliferation, challenges for which NATO was ill-prepared and arguably ill-suited to tackle.9 Taken together, developments from 2001–3 marked the second (more extended) episode where serious doubts were raised concerning NATO’s future. In the midst of the Iraq crisis, Secretary of State Colin Powell argued that NATO was ‘breaking itself up’ because of an inability to ‘meet its responsibilities’.10 Chancellor Schröder, for his part, was to subsequently argue that the transatlantic partnership embedded in NATO was ‘insufficiently’ up to the task of addressing global security challenges and no longer served as ‘the primary venue where transatlantic partners discuss and coordinate strategies’.11 On the basis of the above, it is clear that NATO has faced ongoing uncertainty since the end of the Cold War. That the NATO of the Cold War is a thing of the past no-one would dispute. What is at issue, however, is whether or not these challenges have brought the Alliance to a fatal impasse beyond which it will gradually wither away into military and political insignificance. The view here is that such a point has not been reached and that NATO’s has retained an enduring political and military utility for its members. The debate on NATO’s future has tended to generate more heat than light. As Stuart Croft has pointed out, the case against NATO is too often stated in

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absolute terms. A conventional wisdom has built up in commentary ‘that NATO faces immediate obsolescence’. Partly in response, the case for NATO as articulated by the Alliance’s own public diplomacy (the speeches of its Secretary Generals most notably) has promoted a completely opposite ‘meta-message’ of transformation, success and resolve. Perceptions of NATO are thus shaped by two mutually reinforcing but exaggerated assessments of its role.12 Further, these two positions tend to be played out by reference to challenges which are wrongly seen as representative of NATO’s many functions. Negative assessments of NATO have tended to focus on the relevance of the Alliance in the face of global security challenges, the place of American leadership and NATO’s role ‘out-of-area’. All of these are significant in their own right, but each should be seen in context. In reference to the first, one may well claim that NATO has responded poorly. But responded it has. The limited nature of Alliance efforts immediately after 9/11 is not surprising given that the incident was largely unexpected and offered no precedents for Alliance action. Since then, NATO has unveiled a string of measures (headlined at its 2002 and 2004 summits in Prague and Istanbul) including a new Military Concept for Defence against Terrorism which reflect its conceptual adjustment and operational transformation to a security environment of wide-ranging risks.13 This has led one observer to claim that among the vast majority of its members NATO continues to be viewed as an organisation that can ‘meet the challenges of twenty-first century security [and prove] to be both militarily and politically indispensable’.14 The jury is still out on this claim, but significantly the US is among those states which have pushed the development of the Alliance. This was true during the 1990s and early 2000s over enlargement and relations with Russia and it has been the case equally after 9/11 in the Bush administration’s advocacy of a NATO with global scope.15 Such a position is contingent upon NATO’s subordination to American national interests. Nonetheless, the US has taken the lead in the reshaping of NATO’s command structure, in pushing for capability improvements and in the launch in 2002 of a NATO Response Force (NRF). That the US continues to regard NATO as a body of substance accords with a historical trend. Throughout its existence, the Alliance has been the principal institutional vehicle of American influence and leadership in European security affairs. Alternative frameworks exist (the UNSC, EU–US dialogue, bilateral relations with individual European powers), but NATO offers to the US the benefit of familiarity, multilateral scope (made that much more extensive with enlargement) and, simply put, membership.16 The latter gives to the US a presence it will never have in the EU and it is via NATO that the US has been able to exert influence over European-oriented defence initiatives be these the WEU, ESDI or, more recently, ESDP. Whatever troubles the US has had with NATO decision-making and whatever the gap that exists in European and American capabilities, the convenience to it of an organisation with a vast experience of routine cooperation, interoperable capabilities and force planning nonetheless remains.17

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As for the ‘out-of-area’ issue, the 2003 Iraq crisis was the high-point of dispute on this in the post-Cold War period, but disagreement over the conduct of military operations beyond Europe has bedevilled the Alliance throughout its history. The Suez crisis, French involvement in Indochina in the 1950s, and the Vietnam War in the 1960s and 1970s, while not NATO responsibilities, all served to infect intra-Alliance politics. NATO’s post 9/11 adaptation did mark a shift towards acceptance in principle of out-of-area operations18 and NATO’s takeover in August 2003 of command, coordination and planning of the International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) in Afghanistan marked NATO’s first fully fledged mission outside the European theatre. This was, in turn, followed by more limited missions in Sudan and Pakistan. That said, disagreement has continued over Iraq (with a NATO role after the 2003 crisis limited to officer training and logistical support for new member Poland) and, more broadly, an acceptance of out-of-area missions has raised equally controversial questions concerning scope, resources and the political sustainability of a ‘global’ NATO.19 Hence, for instance, German and French reluctance to endorse a meaningful NATO role in Iraq and problems in obtaining allied contributions for ISAF in Afghanistan. NATO, security governance and security community If we assume that NATO has done more than merely survive, what role does it occupy in Europe’s security governance? Interestingly, the most pointed questions on NATO’s role since 9/11 have been posed by reference to its role outside of Europe. That this has happened reflects the fact that responsibilities ‘in-area’ have been taken for granted. Having weathered the end of the Cold War and reconfigured its military posture away from countering the Soviet threat, NATO has come to assume a diminished but nonetheless still consequential position in Europe. One way to think about this is to consider NATO as both a military organisation and a political one. In terms of the former, the Alliance has shifted away from what Martin Smith dubs the ‘high NATO’ of dense military integration typical of Cold War defence to a ‘middle NATO’ that retains ‘core elements of military integration’ such as multinational force planning, integrated command, joint training, standardisation and, in sum, continuing interoperability.20 NATO, thus, remains the main organisational vehicle and template for military cooperation and joint operations between allies as well as the principal military framework linking ‘all the European Allies, new and old [. . . in a] tangible and permanent fashion to the United States (and Canada)’.21 This has a particular significance inside Europe as well as outside it. NATO has been the framework within which peacekeeping and peace support operations were launched in Albania, BiH, Kosovo and also subsequently in Macedonia. ESDP has taken over responsibility in the second and fourth of these, but it has done so through a close coordination with NATO under the so-called ‘Berlin-plus’ arrangements finalised between the two organisations in March 2003. Further, while the importance of traditional territorial defence has declined, NATO continues to be seen by the vast

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majority of its members as the principal vehicle for contingencies of this sort – and for new members in the Balkan region, the Baltics and ECE, this is a contingency that is not simply regarded in the abstract (see Chapter 1). Within the EU the possibility of a mutual defence arrangement has been raised but this has not seriously encroached upon the Alliance. The notion of a European Security and Defence Union remains a distinctly minority position and among its supporters perhaps only France has regarded it as a long-term substitute for NATO.22 Thus, the mutual defence clause of the putative EU Constitutional Treaty (Article I-41[7]) signed by member states in October 2004, was followed by the important caveat that any such commitment be ‘consistent with commitments under’ NATO for those EU states within that organisation, and that NATO itself ‘remains the foundation of their collective defence and the forum for its implementation’.23 As for NATO’s political role, this has often been seen as either secondary to more visible military tasks and, when it has been acknowledged, as evidence of NATO’s lessening importance as a security actor. NATO has, however, throughout its history stressed a political dimension. During the Cold War this was premised on two claims elaborated at length by the Committee of Three on Non-Military Cooperation in 1956. First, that ‘cooperative and close’ relations among members were essential if they were to discharge the military tasks of deterrence and defence; and second, that political cooperation was part and parcel of NATO’s longer term aim, namely ‘the development of an Atlantic Community whose roots are deeper even than the necessity for common defence’.24 In the post-Cold War period, these claims continue to be made25 and remain central to the notion of NATO as a community of democratic states, something explored below. What is noted here, however, are the more practical political aspects in so far as these indicate NATO’s continuing role in Europe’s security governance. NATO’s political importance continues to reside in an extensive institutional and organisational presence. This includes, first and foremost, the vast network of military-to-military contacts among members and, as part of this the extension to acceding members, candidate states and partners, advice, training and other forms of collaboration.26 There is also, in addition, a set of more varied politicalcum-military arrangements (see Table 1.2). Some of these (ties with Russia and Ukraine and the MAPs for NATO aspirants) have a very precise and practical focus, while others (the NATO Parliamentary Assembly, the Mediterranean Dialogue, the Euro-Atlantic Partnership Council (EAPC), PFP) are much more expansive in geographic coverage but more limited in effect. It is probably overstating the case to suggest that taken together, these various relationships reflect NATO’s successful projection of ‘soft power’ throughout the Euro-Atlantic area.27 A more sober and more accurate description is provided by Richard Whitman, who suggests that NATO has, since the end of the Cold War, emerged as the primary organisation for wider European and transatlantic military security relationships. NATO is now the

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Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe in coverage (or camouflage), embracing states in different forms of relationship from the Atlantic to Vladivostok, and an infrastructure for military security dialogue that is unsurpassed in European history [. . .] it is a NATO in which military operations are now an adjunct to its political and diplomatic functions.28

How does all this relate, more directly, to security community? Here it is worth noting some fundamental points often overlooked in the debates on NATO’s role. To begin with, the Alliance, simply put, has yet to see a single member withdraw its membership. The trend has demonstrably been in the other direction in the shape of enlargement. Lawrence Kaplan concludes a history of division in the Alliance by noting that the absence of such a move, coupled with the lack of any open debate on winding up the organisation, remains ‘the most compelling sign of transatlantic solidarity’.29 Put somewhat differently, Celeste Wallander has argued that during the Cold War, NATO developed a range of ‘organisational assets’ (transparency, consultation procedures, integrated command structures, interoperability etc.) designed to foster cooperation against the Soviet threat. Such assets at the same time served to manage problems among the allies, including the more serious such as the recurrent tensions between Greece and Turkey. After the Cold War, they proved adept in furthering NATO’s new tasks and, at the same time, in preserving habits of consultation and trustbuilding.30 The practices of multilateralism within NATO noted in Chapter 1 have thus endured and, however strained these have been at times, their deeper worth lies in ensuring that disagreement retains an institutional outlet and are thus channelled within tolerable limits. Equally significant, NATO has been a block to the post-Cold War renationalisation of defence. This is an achievement trumpeted by NATO officials and member states alike.31 But it is not a uniform trend. The US as the overwhelmingly dominant military power has arguably always enjoyed a latitude of defence autonomy not available to others, and at various times and in various ways France, Spain and Greece have absented themselves from NATO military structures. That said, the level of joint effort accompanied by intra-Alliance transparency has meant that the drawbacks of renationalisation (costly duplication, sub-optimum specialisation, a lowered collective action capability and ultimately a relapse into the security dilemma of self-help, suspicion and rising insecurity) have been avoided. In parallel, a process of ‘denationalisation’ among NATO’s new entrants has also occurred. This has been achieved through the military conditions of accession involving the internationalisation of defence planning. The result has been a redirecting of an early and potentially destabilising trend in some post-communist states toward defence self-sufficiency and national(ist) defence strategies.32 Denationalisation has, in turn, reinforced the emergence of ‘goodneighbourly’ relations among the accession states. At the beginning of the 1990s there was considerable concern that old animosities among former communist states would resurface and could plunge the region into conflict. As noted in

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Chapter 3 this prediction has been borne out in both the former Yugoslavia and the South Caucasus. Among NATO accession states, however, the trend has been towards a diffusion of animosities whether these be between Hungary and Slovakia, Hungary and Romania, Bulgaria and Romania, or Bulgaria and (existing NATO member) Turkey. NATO’s role in this process has not necessarily been the most important contributor to peace. EU conditionality and domestic political changes have been equally important.33 It has, however, reinforced an existing trend. As Charles Krupnick has observed, in post-communist Europe, ‘[d]espite several potential military concerns, one hears little about relative military advantage or the need for power balancing to maintain stability. Instead, the language of multilateral cooperation and regional solutions to strategic problems is prevalent within military establishments’.34

Inclusion, exclusion and Alliance purpose NATO’s post-Cold War development has, on the evidence so far, been farreaching. The organisation has an ongoing significance in Europe, contributing to the development of a security community and standing as a key component of security governance. Given this presence and role, NATO’s continued importance raises issues of inclusion and exclusion. This theme is taken up in the remainder of the chapter. NATO’s persistence in the initial years after the Cold War owed much to an appreciation of its potential benefits among key member states. The end of the Cold War inaugurated strategic uncertainties against which the Alliance was regarded as the best hedge. NATO, its advocates suggested, had served a range of functions for its member states during the Cold War. Rather than entertain the costs of constructing a new organisation to replace it, some member states (and the US most significantly) soon resolved that the best course was to build upon existing organisational and military assets and adjust the Alliance to an altered strategic environment.35 As a number of observers suggested at the time, however, the issue was not simply ensuring NATO’s survival but rather maintaining its relevance.36 NATO’s response to this predicament was a process of internal ‘transformation’ (a restructuring of defence posture and discussions on ‘the European pillar’) launched during 1990–91 and at the same time a claim that it should assume pan-European responsibilities that would transcend the division of the Cold War. The latter, it was claimed, was a vision that had long informed the organisation. The 1967 Harmel Report, The Future Tasks of the Alliance, most notably, had posited a twofold approach for NATO of credible defence married to détente and political dialogue. The combined purpose was, in the words of the Report, ‘a just and lasting peaceful order in Europe’ and an end to ‘the unnatural barriers between eastern and western Europe’.37 On this basis, NATO developed a theme which was to become a mainstay of its post-Cold War policy narrative: a pan-European responsibility premised on

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inclusiveness. Thus, NATO’s 1991 Strategic Concept asserted that in light of the retreat of Soviet power, members of the Alliance ‘together with other nations’ (my italics) were in a position ‘to pursue the development of cooperative structures of security for a Europe whole and free’.38 A decade later, the 2002 Prague Summit Declaration outlined in similar terms the Alliance’s ‘common goal’ as ‘a Europe whole and free, united in peace and by common values’.39 This discourse of inclusion was reinforced by two defining security crises of the post-Cold War period. The Kosovo crisis of 1999, exemplified for then Secretary General Javier Solana, the existence of divisions in Europe that had still to be overcome, something that provided justification not just for enlargement and partnership, but also the integration of South-East Europe and the extension of ‘NATO’s zone of stability’.40 Equally significant has been the ‘changed security environment’ of the post-9/11 world.41 Here, according to Solana’s successor George Robertson, ‘new threats to security’, (terrorism and the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction most notably) must be viewed as indivisible, affecting not just the member states of the Alliance, but the broader ‘Euro-Atlantic family of nations’, indeed, the entire ‘international community’.42 This is a world in which old foes such as Russia can no longer be conceived as a threat but are instead ‘an indispensable part of the solution’.43 In this light, there is, according to Robertson, a ‘logic of inclusiveness’ involving NATO’s cooperation with all possible partners, a process that renders irrelevant any distinction between the ‘ins’ and ‘outs’ of membership.44 NATO at the end of the Cold War could have remained an exclusive body with a limited membership and a tight focus on the security of Europe’s Western half. The fact that it has emphasised inclusiveness is thus a matter of both principle and purpose. Yet in making inclusiveness a central legitimating claim, this has become a standard against which NATO’s relevance can be judged. Leaving aside the clear (but problematic) implication that NATO has arrived at an inclusive internal consensus on mission and role, there remain other necessary qualifications. In practice, NATO has undertaken tasks which suggest the pursuit of priorities. The insecurity to which it has responded in the Balkans has not been mirrored by a similar effort in the troubled South Caucasus. Specially tailored relations with some implies second-class status for others. Further, the distinction between partnership and membership remains one of real substance.

Partnership and enlargement Liaison NATO’s post-Cold War claim to pan-European relevance was first pursued through a number of initiatives aimed at engaging the large number of new postcommunist states. At the London summit in July 1990, the then Warsaw Pact states were invited to establish ‘regular diplomatic liaison’ with the Alliance in order to share ‘thinking and deliberations in this historic period of change’.45

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This step was necessarily tentative, part of a process of discovery on NATO’s part as it set about adaptation at a time when its member states faced equally pressing problems elsewhere, not least the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait, the conclusion of the CFE Treaty and delicate negotiations involving the Soviet Union over the unification of Germany. One year later it had become clear that liaison was no answer to the increasing demands for engagement among the states of ECE. NATO itself, however, was divided on the issue. The administration of George Bush Sr had come to the conclusion that NATO ought to play a more active role in the region, but this was not a view shared by all. France wanted this role to be played more by the EU than NATO, while a majority of NATO members counselled caution on the grounds that any moves might entail the beginning of a route to membership and thus the extension of firm security guarantees. Given this predicament, NATO responded with the creation in December 1991 of a new consultative body, the North Atlantic Cooperation Council (NACC). These initiatives were innovative but the NACC nonetheless lagged behind expectations. Its inaugural meeting gathered together the member states of NATO, the Soviet Union, the three Baltic states as well as the states of the former Warsaw Pact. Following the dissolution of the Soviet Union, it also came to embrace all the Soviet successor states. With Albania, this brought its total membership by June 1992 to thirty-six states. This was certainly inclusive, but in that the body amounted to ‘little more than a forum for communicating ideas’,46 inclusiveness was itself a drawback, courting the danger that the NACC would become ‘neutralised in the manner of the United Nations or the CSCE’.47 The lack of differentiation among its members, moreover, was resented by those states which felt a close affinity to NATO. As a Polish official explained in March 1993, ‘NACC remains what it is: a consultative body without any executive powers composed of deeply disparate states [. . .] Because of this fact, Poland cannot consider NACC as a substitute for direct cooperation with NATO especially in the military area.’48 Partnership The limitations of the NACC led during 1992–93 to an increased attention to new proposals for engagement. In Germany and the US this meant a growing acceptance of the possibility of enlarging NATO’s membership even if this was accompanied by a continuing scepticism among the majority of member states. NATO as a whole, then, continued to face the predicament of relevance that had surfaced with the end of the Cold War. If engagement via the NACC was an insufficient response and enlargement still lacked a consensus, then a middle path had to be found. The answer was the PFP programme proposed by the US Secretary of Defense Les Aspin in December 1993 and formally adopted at NATO’s summit in Brussels in January 1994. As the champions of PFP were keen to point out, the programme marked a concrete step forwards from the NACC – a shift from dialogue to cooperation.

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This entailed inter alia extensive in-country military-to-military contacts, joint force planning and the promotion of interoperability, the holding of NATO/ partner exercises, and the cultivation of a multinational peacekeeping capability which made possible partner participation in NATO-led peacekeeping operations.49 Enhancements to PFP were made at NATO summits in Madrid in 1997 and Washington in 1999. The latter in its summit communiqué, referred to ‘partnership’ as one of the ‘fundamental security tasks’ of the Alliance.50 For all its practical innovation, the political context of PFP was also important. When first proposing the initiative, Les Aspin referred to its advantages in largely non-technical terms. PFP would, he claimed, avoid a re-division of Europe, promote the values of democracy and free markets, protect NATO’s central role in European security affairs and provide a means for aspirants to prove their worth as potential NATO members.51 Two years into the initiative, the NATO Secretary General Javier Solana was even more euphoric, suggesting that PFP marked ‘the beginnings of the first truly pan-European security system since the [nineteenth century] Concert of Europe’.52 Like the NACC initiative from which it sprang, PFP did have a good claim to inclusiveness. Indeed, PFP attracted the attention not just of former communist states (including Russia), but also the European neutrals of Austria, Finland, Ireland, Sweden and Switzerland. Within two years of its launch a total of twenty-seven states had signed the PFP Framework Document and of these, seventeen were involved in individual partnership programmes. PFP, if nothing else, was judged a success because it had attracted ‘such a large number of countries, from a wide geographical area and with very different security traditions’.53 Inclusiveness did, however, have its limits. Some states (Russia and Belarus, for instance) participated in a half-hearted and begrudging manner. Others were limited in their ability to do so by financial constraints. Further, PFP could not be detached from the politically vexing issue of enlargement. American officials up to Secretary of State Warren Christopher and US President Bill Clinton did make a link between PFP and NATO membership54 but the official NATO line avoided this. As one NATO official noted, PFP did not mean the establishment of an official ‘pre-enlargement relationship with NATO that would definitely identify a country as heading for [. . .] membership’.55 Indeed, that no official connection existed was apparent from the large number of states who partook in PFP while eschewing any desire to join the Alliance. For advocates of enlargement in ECE this was PFP’s greatest failing. In the US, Republican Senator Richard Lugar famously referred to PFP as ‘a policy for postponement’. Bruce George MP, the Vice-Chair of the British House of Commons Select Committee on Defence, saw it as capitulation in the face of Russian pressure, while the Secretary General of the NATO-affiliated North Atlantic Assembly considered that the deferral of enlargement as well as the absence of any firm security guarantees in PFP risked the establishment of ‘a no-man’s land of permanent instability and insecurity’.56

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Membership For all their purported merits, the NACC and PFP were, in part, about deflecting enlargement. Among many NATO states a distinct lack of enthusiasm surrounded the issue. France worried that enlargement would broaden NATO (and thus the US’s) geographic remit in Europe while at the same time shifting the European centre of gravity in the Alliance toward Germany. The British, meanwhile, argued that enlargement would alienate Russia, drag the Alliance into dangerous disputes in ECE and the Balkans, and dilute the integrity of NATO’s decision-making procedures and collective defence functions. As for the US, in both the Pentagon and the State Department the point was made that enlargement would mean extending new security guarantees, would bring with it financial costs (of integrating new members) and would be a provocation to Russia.57 Despite these reservations, a shift toward clearer advocacy of NATO enlargement occurred during the course of 1994. As noted above, this was a policy led by the US and Germany. For the former, it sprang from a variety of factors: mounting demands from ECE states, Congressional advocacy, the influence of the Polish ethnic lobby, and a growing recognition that enlargement would affirm NATO’s continuing relevance at a time, moreover, when the descent into war in Yugoslavia had made the Alliance instrument all the more necessary.58 As for Germany, Defence Minister Volker Rühe had been an early and persistent supporter of enlargement. During 1994 his case that NATO needed to stabilise a potential security vacuum in ECE close to German borders obtained support within the German cabinet.59 By the end of 1994, a consensus of sorts was engineered among NATO member states in favour of an ‘evolutionary’ enlargement that ‘would be part of a broad European security architecture based on true cooperation throughout the whole of Europe’.60 Two and a half years later at its summit in Madrid, the Alliance invited the Czech Republic, Hungary and Poland to start accession negotiations. These were duly completed and the three states in question joined NATO formally in March 1999. The period between 1994 and 1999 (and 1995–97 particularly) was one in which the Alliance and its member states sought to publicly justify the case for enlargement. This task was made the more difficult by the fact that some of the arguments used in favour of caution in the early 1990s arguably still retained their relevance, not least the opposition of Russia. A raft of reasons were thus forwarded. The authoritative Study on NATO Enlargement published by the Alliance in September 1995 viewed the benefits of the process as impacting first, on both new and aspirant members (by encouraging democratic reforms and civilian control over the military), second, on regional relations (by promoting good-neighbourly ties, military transparency and common defence) and third, on NATO itself (by ‘broadening the Trans-Atlantic partnership’ and ‘[s]trengthening the Alliance’s ability to contribute to European and international security’).61 Of some note also was the claim that enlargement would be an inclusive process. This position had a number of elements. First, as a US State Department report asserted, ‘NATO enlargement [was] one part of a much broader,

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post-Cold War strategy to help create a peaceful, undivided and democratic Europe’.62 Second, the process was not, in principle, foreclosed to any European democracy so long as it met the conditions of membership.63 And third, not to enlarge was seen as entrenching a division in Europe and, more particularly, perpetuating the geopolitical schism of the Cold War. This was viewed as politically and morally untenable given the transitions in the countries concerned, at odds with NATO’s claim to be an agent of democratic values, and potentially destabilising given that indications of a limit to enlargement would consign certain aspirant states to a second-class security status. The latter was viewed as especially harmful as it would cancel incentives to beneficial domestic and regional trends and thus create, in the words of US Secretary of State Madeleine Albright, ‘a permanent source of tension and insecurity in the heart of Europe’.64 Having reasoned in this fashion, NATO’s invitation to three ECE states in 1997 could not logically be regarded as setting a permanent limit; the case for avoiding dividing lines implied that enlargement would have to be continuous. If this was the case, states disappointed at not obtaining an invitation to accession in 1997 had to be reassured in some manner. One approach was to beef-up existing partnership arrangements. The Madrid summit saw the transformation of the NACC into the EAPC, and both the Madrid summit and that in Washington in April 1999 saw enhancements to the PFP and a clearer connection drawn between active participation in that programme and ‘the ongoing enlargement process’.65 At Washington NATO also launched a new initiative, the MAP. Yet for all this, there was very little enthusiasm for a further enlargement within the Alliance at this point.66 Politically, the 1999 enlargement had damaged relations with Russia and opened up disagreements within the Alliance, while militarily the task of ‘digesting’ the three new members posed a daunting task. During 1999–2000, NATO was also increasingly preoccupied with issues of greater priority, not least transatlantic discussions over National Missile Defense, the ramifications of ESDP, and the stabilisation of the Balkans. Further, NATO’s Operation Allied Force against Serbia held implications for enlargement. The military deficiencies on display during the campaign added to the case for improvements in capabilities among European allies. This, in effect, heightened the threshold of military competence that aspirant states needed to display in order to enter NATO while simultaneously lessening the enthusiasm among existing members for the hard task of integrating them.67 However, as the aspirant states were keen to point out, their continuing exclusion was at odds with the principles upon which the enlargement in 1999 had gone ahead. This first postcommunist enlargement, as well as the ‘open door’ rhetoric that accompanied it, created expectations of future actions against which NATO would be judged. In this sense, the Alliance was entrapped within its own rhetorical claims.68 The upshot of these contradictory pressures for much of the two years after 1999, was a public commitment to enlargement but at the same time a deferral of concrete decisions on candidates and timing.

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It took until the middle of 2001 for this holding position to be revised. NATO’s recent and ongoing engagements in BiH, Kosovo and Macedonia illustrated the Alliance’s strategic evolution away from the static defence characteristic of the Cold War – a position reinforced still further by the terrorist attacks of 9/11. The ensuing debate on Alliance relevance (see above) had an impact on the enlargement issue. A number of European states feeling the need to demonstrate the continued worth of the Alliance turned their attention to the issue. The main impetus, however, came from Washington and the new administration of George W. Bush. As well as the continued demands for membership from the candidates themselves, a preference for enlargement here reflected a continuing belief in the power of the US to shape Europe’s future. And to this political notion was coupled a new strategic calculation: 9/11 and its aftermath added to the case for a broad enlargement in that this was seen as reinforcing the US-led coalition in the so-called ‘war on terror’.69 While the military contributions potential NATO members could bring to bear in this regard were limited, some offered ‘niche’ capabilities and/or important geostrategic assets. In this sense, the credentials of a number of aspirants (notably Bulgaria and Romania) were enhanced after 9/11 given a demonstrative willingness to assist US operations in first Afghanistan and subsequently Iraq.70 Whether having these states formally within NATO was a prerequisite of such help and whether NATO itself had a prominent role to play as an organisation in such contingencies were moot points. Yet these caveats aside, membership of NATO was seen by the US as useful both as a reward for the granting of assistance and as a means of promoting the interoperability, standardisation and transparency (beyond that already inherent in PFP and the MAP) that would facilitate long-term cooperation with American forces in regional crises.71 While some combination of these various factors drove the process of enlargement in 2001–2, it continued to be informed also by the theme of inclusion. Under Clinton, the case in this regard had been conditioned by a neoWilsonian belief in the value of spreading democracy and thus stability and peace.72 The Bush administration held to similar views (if by instinct rather than intellect), but approached the issue with much less deference to Russia. As National Security Advisor Condoleeza Rice argued in June 2001, ‘there should be no red lines, geographic or historic, that eliminate any country as a fait accompli, and [. . .] we believe that there can be no veto by any country over NATO enlargement’.73 Reflecting this, NATO’s Prague summit in November 2002 invited seven states (Bulgaria, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Romania, Slovakia and Slovenia) to begin accession negotiations a process completed in March 2004 with their formal entry into the Alliance. The 2004 enlargement seemed to suggest that NATO had grasped some of the logical drawbacks of successive limited enlargements. By embracing seven states in one go, NATO minimised the number of disappointed candidates, averted future diplomatic expenditure in dealing with a long list of applicants, and maintained the credibility of the so-called ‘open door’ and MAP processes. Yet a

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logic of entrapment remained. This applied, in some senses to the manner in which the decision unveiled at Prague was constructed. Once the US had made its preference for a broad enlargement known in mid-2001, this initiated a bidding process among existing NATO members as to their preferred candidates. Unlike in 1997 when the entry of the three ECE states was a relatively straightforward compromise, no comparable position existed in 2002 other than the much less acceptable ‘Slo-Slo’ option of Slovenia and Slovakia. One way out of this predicament was to accept all the preferred candidates, which, in effect, meant sidelining only Albania, Croatia and Macedonia. Further, the strategic case that had been made in favour of Bulgaria and Romania diverted attention from the fact that these two were among the least qualified under the MAP and other conditions for entry.74 To invite them thus set the entry threshold rather low and meant it was impossible to omit the five other states who were better positioned by these more objective criteria but of less consequence strategically. This, in turn, stored up other tricky issues. The strategic considerations which had favoured Bulgaria and Romania applied in some manner to other states not invited at Prague, all of whom were politically much more problematic. This was the case not just with the official MAP states of Albania, Croatia and Macedonia (the entry of which, could be construed as a stability factor in the Balkans) but also with the aspirants of Azerbaijan, Georgia and Ukraine, whose adjacency to the Black and Caspian Seas is significant both geoeconomically (the Caspian being a major source of oil) and geostrategically (acting as a link between NATO/US forces in the Balkans, Turkey and Central Asia).

Inclusion, exclusion and the limits of enlargement NATO’s search for relevance in post-Cold War Europe has entailed it reaching out to a large number of states many of which were formerly regarded as adversaries. Liaison and partnership have been component parts of this process, but its most significant aspect has been an enlargement of membership. PostCold War enlargement has essentially travelled through three stages. The first, in 1990, was linked to German unification and saw the territory of the former East Germany fall under NATO responsibility. The second entailed the accession of three ECE states in 1999. The third completed in 2004, extended the enlargement process to a further seven states. Taken together, this has been rationalised as an inclusive process of pan-European consequence and a vindication of NATO’s flexibility, purpose and staying power after the Cold War.75 There is some substance to this claim, but whether enlargement can be considered the outcome of a coherent vision is much more contentious. It has progressed, equally, as a consequence of persistent demands among the aspirants, shifting American political and strategic priorities, and intra-Alliance bargaining. The inter-play of these factors, further, has given rise to a logic of inclusion which has entrapped the Alliance requiring it to give concrete substance to its rhetorical claims.

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The assertion of an inclusive basis to enlargement has not, however, eliminated issues of exclusion. These have arisen because an enlarging Alliance has, almost inevitably, left states outside of membership. Following the 2004 enlargement, a number of different categories of state are relevant in this regard: •

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States with a history of neutrality such as Austria, Finland, Ireland, Sweden and Switzerland. These states have not officially sought membership. In some, (Austria, Finland and Sweden) debate has gathered steam since the late 1990s on its merits and there is an appreciation among NATO members and the NATO bureaucracy that should membership be pursued the political and military integration of these states would be relatively straightforward. Those states which have been involved in formal structured dialogue on NATO membership. This includes, most importantly, the three MAP states of Albania, Croatia and Macedonia. The Intensified Dialogue with Ukraine launched in April 2005 has been seen as a rung below MAP but nonetheless premised on a membership perspective. Aspirants such as Azerbaijan and Georgia (both of which were offered special Individual Partnership Action Plans at the 2004 Istanbul summit). Neither state enjoys a formal membership perspective. Opponents of NATO enlargement – Russia most significantly, but also Belarus (during the period of rule of Aleksandr Lukashenko) and the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (under Slobodan Milosevic). States who have not aspired towards membership, but who have not opposed it in principle. This includes the five Soviet successor states of Central Asia as well as Armenia and Moldova. These states have all partaken in PFP and the NACC/EAPC. The special case of BiH, a state with a special connection to NATO given the presence of a NATO-led peacekeeping force (IFOR/SFOR) in the country between 1994 and 2004, but whose fragile civil and military situation has ruled out membership. Island and micro states such as Andorra, Cyprus, Malta, Liechtenstein and Monaco none of whom have pursued membership.76

This variety has confronted NATO with two essential problems. First, to address the disappointment of those who have failed to obtain membership. And second, to confront the anxieties of those who oppose enlargement and view its onward march as both a threat and a source of marginalisation. The latter has a specific relevance to Russia and will be considered in Chapter 6. As for the former issue, this was throughout the 1990s the subject of considerable attention. The failure to countenance any but a handful of states in ECE as credible candidates prior to 1999 was widely lambasted. An open letter to President Clinton signed by some fifty prominent academic and diplomatic figures argued that ‘NATO expansion will draw a new line of division between the “ins” and the “outs”, foster instability and ultimately diminish the sense of security of those countries not

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included’.77 The argument was also made that exclusion from an enlarging NATO threatened to perpetuate the security grey zone feared by many post-communist governments, effectively leaving states as far apart as the Baltics, Ukraine and Belarus ‘as buffer states between NATO and Russia’.78 While these arguments led some critics to oppose enlargement in any form, others drew the seemingly logical conclusion that what was wrong with enlargement was its selective nature. If the process really was about overcoming the division of Europe then it should be readily accessible to all European states, Russia included.79 NATO’s ‘open door’ policy and the enlargements of 1999 and 2004 partly countered this argument. Yet, as was noted above, a basic problem of exclusion has remained. Conceivably, invitations for Albania, Croatia and Macedonia might be forthcoming in subsequent years (the aspirations of all three were commended in the Prague and Istanbul summit communiqués) but this would still leave NATO having to deal with a range of other aspirant states. As one American journalist has put it, the ‘spectre’ thus continues to exist of a ‘velvet curtain [. . .] descending around the in-group and closing out everyone else’.80 However broad its post-Cold War purposes, NATO and its member states have been imprecise on exactly how far enlargement will extend and have avoided any concrete discussion as to the strategic endpoint of the process: where, when and how it will be concluded. Yet unless NATO’s membership is to become global in spread (something that not even its most ardent advocates envisage) then the process presumably has to stop somewhere. Judging where this point might end up is not easy. What can be inferred from NATO’s post-Cold War transformation is that the scope of enlargement has not been guided by a collective defence imperative. Unlike the Cold War, there is no identifiable adversary around which NATO as a collection of states has gathered. Fears of a future, resurgent Russia appear to have been one motive behind the membership drives of Poland and the Baltic states and partly explain Ukraine and Georgia’s aspirations. Yet while Russia may be a latent threat to some of its (actual and aspirant) member states, collectively for the Alliance, it also stands as a partner (see Chapter 6). For all this, Russia does still pose a problem for enlargement. In 2004 NATO crossed the ‘red line’ and accepted membership of the Baltic states despite Russian protests. Whether this is a precedent for Ukraine and Georgia is unclear. Like the Baltic states, both lie within Russia’s self-declared sphere of vital interests. Their accession, would, however, be a more precipitous step given the much more profound historical connection between Russia and Ukraine (as well as all manner of economic, cultural and military inter-dependencies) and in Georgia’s case, a recent history of active Russian military interference. While these strategic issues may be relevant considerations, understanding NATO enlargement as a process and its relationship to security governance, requires a more systematic treatment. It is to this that we now turn using the three categories outlined in Chapter 3 – those of region, institutionalisation and compliance.

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Region Upon its formation, the Alliance did not limit itself to Europe, indeed, the 1949 North Atlantic Treaty was meant to apply, as both its title and preamble suggest, to the ‘North Atlantic area’. Reflecting the vital North American contribution to allied victory in the Second World War and the emerging circumstances of the Cold War, both the US and Canada were founding members. However, Article 10 of the North Atlantic Treaty made it clear that future accessions would be geographically delimited, confined that is to ‘any [. . .] European state in a position to further the principles of [the] Treaty and to contribute to the security of the North Atlantic area’.81 The boundaries of Europe were not defined but the states that originally acceded to the Treaty in 1949 either bordered on the North Atlantic or were located in North-Western Europe (Ireland and Sweden, which also fell into these categories, were invited to accede but declined). The only exception to this was Italy, and Italian accession had initially been opposed by the UK, Canada, Belgium, Luxembourg, Norway and the US Senate in part because it would have extended the Treaty’s remit into the Mediterranean and would have provided a precedent for the accession of Turkey and Greece. Future candidates under the terms of Article 10 did not preoccupy the talks on the Treaty in 1948–49 but at this point the probable objects of enlargement were limited to Austria, Germany and Sweden.82 That said, Greek and Turkish membership followed shortly after in 1952. This should be seen against the deepening of the Cold War and was a consequence of particular strategic considerations concerning stability in the Balkans and the utility of Turkish forces and facilities in military contingencies against the Soviet Union (see Chapter 7). Neither Turkey nor Greece were ‘Atlantic’ countries and the former’s part-Asian location required a modification to Article 6 of the Treaty (which defined the territorial limits to be defended by the Treaty’s parties) because Turkey was deemed not to fall within its reference to ‘Europe or North America’.83 What these early developments suggest is that the membership coverage of the Treaty was not rigidly fixed. In the post-Cold War period, similarly, the European stipulation of Article 10 has been maintained but with a continuing reluctance to define the region concerned. Other official NATO documentation, meanwhile, has kept to the stock phrase (or variations thereof) that enlargement is aimed at the achievement of ‘a Europe whole and free’. Figures in leading NATO states have been only a little more illuminating. The Clinton administration saw the principal rationale of enlargement as ‘the evolution of a peaceful, undivided, and democratic Europe’ that would include Russia, ‘the other former Soviet states and Europe’s other new democracies’.84 NATO enlargement was only one element of a strategy toward this end (it included also the provision of economic assistance, conventional and nuclear disarmament, support for the OSCE etc.) and so it was easy to avoid the issue of what the proper scope of that enlargement was meant to be. A similar imprecision surrounded the statements of the Bush administration. In a speech in Warsaw in June 2001 Bush referred to all states

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‘from the Baltic to the Black Sea’ as being open to consideration. This at least permitted the conclusion that the Central Asian states of the FSU were ruled out, but left open the hypothetical possibility of membership for Belarus, Moldova, the states of the South Caucasus, Ukraine and even Russia.85 The UK position has been similarly vague. The Foreign Secretary Jack Straw when asked about the limits of NATO enlargement shortly before the Prague summit replied that this depended on how ‘the boundaries of Europe’ were defined.86 Yet while the borders of Europe are left unclear, no public effort has been made by NATO states to go beyond a ‘European’ territorial base-mark whatever that may mean. This is the case despite the existence of hypothetical candidates – Australia, Japan and Israel have all been mentioned owing to their close military links to the US and political support for the ‘war on terror’. Yet membership for these states, as well as the more inconceivable cases of China, India, Pakistan, states in Central Asia, the Persian Gulf, the Middle East and North Africa has not been a ‘live’ issue. The states in question have shown no desire to join (some, such as China, have viewed enlargement with suspicion), and even if such a request was made it is hard to see what criteria for entry would be applied. Enlargement of such scope would also require NATO adopting a new name, a new treaty and undertaking a more exacting and precise commitment to ‘out-of-area’ responsibilities.87 Institutionalisation In Chapter 3 it was noted that institutionalisation relates to bounded processes occurring among members of an organisation and to the formal manner in which entry into an organisation occurs. Here we wish to concentrate on the latter in so far as it relates most directly to enlargement. In this connection, there are two points worth noting: first, the criteria of membership and second, enlargement’s recognised costs. In terms of the conditions of entry, while NATO documentation avoids express reference to official criteria of membership, de facto these are fairly extensively laid out in the 1995 Study on Enlargement and documents relating to the MAP process. The logic of conditionality for NATO is clear. Militarily, a functioning alliance requires common standards and procedures, levels of military interoperability and a pool of shared experience built up through cooperative exercises and engagements. In practice, this means that a member ‘must be able to contribute to its own defence [. . .] must be able to contribute assets to assist in an Article 5 mission in defence of another member [. . . and] must be able to contribute to NATO peace-keeping operations’.88 Politically, NATO has required of its members an ability to submit to consensus decisionmaking, transparent and multinational mechanisms of political–military integration, and civilian democratic control of armed forces.89 These may seem daunting conditions especially for post-communist states confronted with a legacy of Warsaw Pact military planning and limited resources to devote to military restructuring. If applied strictly, they could be regarded as a severe limit

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to enlargement. In actuality, however, NATO’s own standards have been flexibly applied. The Czech Republic, Hungary and Poland were admitted in 1999 even though it was recognised that they still had to undergo ‘a transition of several years before [. . . meeting] the required level of compliance with NATO military standards’.90 The 2004 accession states, meanwhile, were all admitted despite being even less well-prepared militarily than those who entered in 1999.91 Yet while NATO has welcomed armed forces not entirely ready for membership this does not mean that entry criteria are unimportant. Albania, Croatia and Macedonia have been denied an invitation partly because they still face deepseated problems of defence organisation.92 Problems of military reform in Azerbaijan, Georgia and Ukraine, meanwhile is one reason why these states have not yet reached the MAP stage, let alone accession.93 Turning to the costs of enlargement, here it was argued (see Chapter 3) that absorption costs can set a limit on enlargement. For the existing members of NATO these can be said to apply in three ways. The first set of costs is economic. On this score, force modernisation has been paid for by the acceding states but ‘common budget’ costs have fallen to NATO as a whole. Costs, second, are strategic in nature and include ‘force thinning’ in order to defend longer, more exposed borders and the absorption of greater levels of risk as new members bring into the organisation their own security predicaments. The third type of cost, finally, relates to political matters, notably the practicalities of intelligence sharing, transaction costs relating to increases in the size of decision-making structures and problems of deadlock as greater numbers can confound the manufacturing of consensus.94 Considered dispassionately, these three costs provide benchmarks against which to judge the appropriate scope of enlargement. The problem, however, is that their application is difficult to quantify. The economic costs of enlargement, for instance, have given rise to a statistical minefield of competing interpretations as to overall expenditures, affordability and burden sharing. Further, such costs do not stand alone, but have to be offset against the economic gains of membership and, less quantifiably against the political and strategic advantages which accrue, in different ways, to all allies. In this light it is difficult to fix what material price is worth paying for enlargement.95 Consequently, analysis has tended to reach conflicting judgements. Todd Sandler and Keith Hartley argued in a 1999 study that ‘NATO should be cautious about opening the flood gates to new members until more is known about expansion costs and benefits and how they compare’, a view largely repeated in a 2003 study.96 A report of NATO’s Parliamentary Assembly, by contrast, noted that the projected economic cost of integrating the Czech Republic, Hungary and Poland over a twelve year period was as low as $1.4 billion in total, with estimates for integrating the seven new members of 2004 ‘in the same range’.97 In a similar conflict of views, Sean Kay writing in November 2002 argued that few of the candidates were prepared for the obligations of membership. Enlargement would thus ‘result in a NATO that is politically unmanageable, militarily ineffective, and irrelevant to

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contemporary security challenges’.98 Terry Terriff and others, meanwhile, argued shortly prior to the 2004 enlargement that the costs of a selective enlargement (in the form of disappointed aspirant states backtracking on NATO-induced political and military reforms) were much greater than those associated with a ‘big bang’ one, the process should thus involve as large a number of candidates as possible.99 One way to moderate this controversy is to consider the impact of enlargement retrospectively. This can be viewed in both military and political terms. With regard to the 1999 enlargement, studies of the military ‘digestion’ of new members have pointed out just how difficult the process was. Military restructuring did not attract the necessary financial resources and political will prior to accession, and the states concerned backslided once membership had been obtained.100 The scale of this initial problem could hardly be hidden from NATO given the intrusive nature of its partnership programmes and thus the judgement has to be reached that membership was granted in the face of recognised military deficiencies. Military criteria reside, however, within a broad political and strategic context. And so, according to one assessment written shortly after accession the three new members respectively [have] made a major contribution to NATO’s goals [. . .] On the military side, despite doubts and critical remarks at certain elements of the overall picture, in the most important instances and areas – force contributions to missions, intelligence sharing, strengthening the transatlantic link and NATO cohesion, critical decision-making points – the newest allies clearly have established themselves as contributors and delivered on their commitments.101

As for the 2004 enlargement, a view expressed within NATO is that despite ongoing problems of military integration, such costs are seen as tolerable in so far as membership involves a continuation of military and defence reforms already achieved through the MAP process, extended, in turn, through the capability improvement programme agreed at the Prague summit.102 Further, the broader context is again important. One US official, justifying the accession of the seven, argued that these states had already acted as ‘de facto allies’ in Afghanistan and the Balkans. All, he continued, had politically supported the US on Iraq.103 The rationale in letting in states with poorly integrated militaries, in other words, rests on either a political imperative or, alternatively, strategic considerations (held in particular by the US) concerning NATO’s post 9/11 role.104 Turning to related issues of political digestion, here enlargement has prompted attempts to streamline NATO’s burgeoning committee structure and to give greater discretion to the Secretary General in routine managerial and budgetary decisions. More significantly, in May 2003, the US Senate in voting in favour of the upcoming enlargement carried an amendment that called upon NATO to consider revising the provision for decision-making by consensus. To its defenders, this principle is ‘the heart of the Alliance’,105 and thus central to

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NATO’s institutional character as an inter-governmental body of sovereign states. It ensures that no state can be forced to agree to anything against its fundamental national interests and thus ensures that all decisions are an expression of collective will. Consensus, moreover, can be flexibly applied. In practice, it does not require assent to an action (hence, NATO bodies do not undertake votes) only the absence of active opposition. Consequently, throughout its history NATO has managed to consider and implement numerous divisive measures and at the same time accommodate allies (such as France, Greece, Turkey, Germany and others) which have a known predisposition against aspects of Alliance strategy and policy. Further, even if it is a sometimes cumbersome procedure, alternatives to consensus such as majority voting are seen as even more problematic and divisive.106 While other things being equal, the addition of new members makes consensus arithmetically more difficult, debate on the decision-making procedures has not, in fact, been led primarily by enlargement. Rather, it has stemmed from a perceived need for greater flexibility and speed in relation to NATO’s new tasks, and second, the political problems which have arisen between the US and some long-time European allies. On the latter, the consensus rule delayed (but did not prevent) NATO assistance to Turkey during the Iraq crisis, has been seen as a potential brake on future deployment of the NRF and has effectively meant putting off work on a new, post-Iraq strategic concept or successor to the Harmel Report.107 On all these issues, major disagreement within the Alliance has been among established members and has not stemmed from the incorporation of new member positions.108 To summarise, institutionalisation has not been overly prohibitive to the enlargement process in either military or political terms. In one sense, this could be down to the political will and strategic calculations of the US; the priority the Clinton and Bush administrations have attached to enlargement has overridden more practical judgements relating to the preparedness of new members. Equally, however, it reflects NATO’s own more flexible remit following the Cold War (which means it is capable of accommodating a large and varied range of states with differing levels of preparedness) as well as the impact of PFP and the MAP process, both of which in some cases have promoted military and political integration. That said, institutionalisation does matter to some degree – MAP states Albania, Croatia and Macedonia were referred to in 2005 by NATO and US officials as still not ready for membership. Similar judgements have also been passed on NATO aspirants Ukraine, Georgia and Azerbaijan. Compliance Membership of an international organisation usually requires compliance with certain conditions of entry. The geographic and institutional factors noted above have been important but inexact markers in this respect. What other conditions, then, has NATO stressed? As we have seen in previous chapters, the importance of norms and specifically those derived from liberal premises was highlighted as

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central in post-Cold War Europe. More specifically, in Chapter 3, we noted the importance of democratic norms and domestic democratic government in underpinning security community and security governance. In this light, it is thus worth considering NATO’s position as upholder and vehicle of democratic standards and, related to this, how such standards frame the limits of inclusion. From its inception, one seemingly important requirement of membership was to uphold ‘the principles of democracy, individual liberty and the rule of law’ outlined in the preamble to the North Atlantic Treaty.109 As the 1956 Report of the Committee of Three suggested, in countering the Soviet threat, NATO was defending ‘the common cultural traditions, free institutions and democratic concepts of its members’. ‘There was’, the Committee continued, ‘a sense of Atlantic Community, alongside the realisation of an immediate common danger’.110 Yet during the Cold War, while NATO’s members were, in the main, established democracies, democracy was not a hard and fast condition of membership. Among NATO’s founding members both France and Italy had uncertain democratic credentials and the Alliance also embraced authoritarian Portugal, then under the dictatorship of Antonio Salazar.111 The latter was particularly unpopular among some members (Canada especially), but the strategic importance of the Azores carried the argument in Portugal’s favour. Similarly, a relapse from democracy was not cause sufficient to eject a member. In fact, no mechanism for suspension or expulsion on any grounds is outlined in the North Atlantic Treaty. Greece and Turkey (two states whose democratic credentials were also questionable at the time of their admission in 1952) both experienced periods of military rule during the Cold War (on three separate occasions in the case of Turkey) but were not subject to any sanction by the Alliance. The conclusion is easily reached, therefore, that what mattered ‘when considering rules for membership [was] geostrategic needs [rather than NATO’s] stated institutional norms and principles’.112 In that such needs were in service of defence against the perceived Soviet threat, they did overlap with the protection of a Western way of life broadly understood (see Chapter 2), but the exigencies of the Cold War meant that this could be equated with anti-communism (something the regimes of Portugal, Greece and Turkey had in common with the established democracies of NATO) rather than a principled commitment to democratic government as such. With the end of the Cold War, NATO made the democratic standard much more explicit as a condition of membership.113 As Bill Clinton was to assert, ‘[c]ountries with repressive political systems, countries with designs on their neighbours, countries with militaries unchecked by civilian control, or with closed economic systems need not apply’.114 The record of enlargement partially confirms this stance. First, NATO has through pre-accession assistance (PFP and MAP) made a conscious effort to socialise military and political elites in candidate countries into the norms of democracy, particularly in regard to civil–military relations.115 Second, democratic criteria have influenced accession decisions. The

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three entrants of 1999 were, at the time, among the most advanced along the path of post-communist political transition. In 2002 NATO refrained from inviting Albania, Croatia and Macedonia, three aspirant states with uncertain democratic credentials. Further, the NATO Secretary General as well as the US Ambassador to NATO both suggested during 2002 that Slovakia could be denied an invite should the allegedly authoritarian Movement for a Democratic Slovakia of Vladimir Meciar be returned to government. However, NATO’s record is not clear-cut. Of the seven states invited in 2002, not all held reliable democratic credentials or a decent record of good governance. The US State Department in its country reports on human rights practices for 2001, reported that both Bulgaria and Romania were characterised by judicial corruption, uneven human rights records, limits on freedom of religion and association, and undue government influence over the media.116 Even if we accept that the normative basis of a democratic NATO is shaky, there remains a second way in which democracy is important. This is linked to a point made in the previous chapter, namely that democratic states are both more peaceable toward one another and more cooperative. NATO’s emphasis on democracy is thus a pragmatic not a principled stance; according to Helen Sjursen, ‘[e]ncouraging democratic rule may simply be considered the most costeffective security strategy in Europe after the end of the Cold War’.117 Democracy is beneficial both for regional inter-state peace and the Alliance’s own internal functioning. As Celeste Wallander has noted, NATO works as a ‘military alliance because its members share a common heritage of transparent and just government and military professionalism in the service of civilian authority’. If NATO included among its number authoritarian states then, according to Wallander, ‘[it] would lose not only its political coherence but also its capacity for joint military action in support of consensus-based alliance policy. Whatever NATO’s military future, it must be based on a common political commitment.’118 Democracy is thus a minimal requirement of NATO membership and regional peace in Europe, and because NATO’s influence on the latter requires the incentive of the former, the two go hand in hand. What seems to be at issue, however, is the quality of democracy. The enlargement of 2004 cast doubt on the democratic standard but it remains the case that ever since West German accession in 1955 enlargement has been premised on the fact that the states concerned have experienced a democratic transition of some sort (however incomplete) away from a prior authoritarian condition. NATO does not define what sort of democracy is required for membership and one might reasonably argue that the hurdle has been set rather low. Yet whether considering the 1999 or the 2004 enlargement (or, for that matter, the entry of Spain in 1982) all the new members had made demonstrable political progress prior to accession. Generally speaking, they had also advanced in democratic terms to a point more advanced than the states left outside, be this the remaining MAP states (Albania, Croatia and Macedonia) or Ukraine, Azerbaijan and Georgia.119

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Conclusion NATO’s role during the Cold War was determined by an appreciation of what the Alliance stood against as much as what it stood for. The threat of the Soviet Union and the Warsaw Pact provided clear guidance to NATO’s purpose and clearly identified those states which were opposed to and, therefore, outside it. NATO’s response to the disappearance of this distinction has been to articulate new tasks and a new pan-European, even global, purpose. NATO has been able to reconcile this more inclusive posture with its defining character as an exclusive military alliance by emphasising tasks of collective security over those of collective defence. Thus, according to David Yost, NATO has championed ideas drawn from the collective security tradition (military transparency, democratisation, partnership and the indivisibility of security in Europe), has taken on appropriate ‘non-Article 5 missions’ (intervention in conflicts and peacekeeping outside of member state territories), and has engaged in institutional adaptation away from traditional defence concerns (PFP, NACC/EAPC, partnerships with Russia and Ukraine, institutional links and cooperation with the EU, the UN and the OSCE).120 This defence/security distinction is an important one. As Henry Kissinger has noted ‘[a]n alliance defines a casus belli, a dividing line and a specific set of obligations; it assumes an unambiguous threat. Collective security organisations define the threat from case to case and negotiate the method of resistance, if any.’121 NATO’s doctrinal evolution charted through the Strategic Concepts of 1991 and 1999 as well as the 2002 Military Concept for Defence against Terrorism reflect its move away from ‘defending a geopolitical dividing line’ premised on an identifiable adversary to protection of its members against a broader spectrum of ‘multidirectional’ threats. Less often articulated, but equally important, it has also contributed to the continuing ‘desecuritisation’ of relations among its enlarging membership.122 NATO’s move towards collective security can thus be seen as part and parcel of its contribution to security governance and the rationalisation of a more inclusive presence in Europe. A number of imponderables, however, remain. The boundaries of NATO Europe when reduced to the ins and outs of membership have not been hard and fast, mainly because enlargement has been so extensive. The categories of region, institutionalisation and compliance suggest a flexibility in NATO’s approach, but this has not removed a lingering inclusion/exclusion dilemma. Albania, Croatia and Macedonia are arguably poised for membership given their inclusion in the MAP, but this may well end up a semi-permanent way station given the military and political difficulties of these countries and NATO’s ongoing attention to digesting the 1999 and 2004 rounds. Even bigger issues lie further east. There seems no prospect of Moldova or any of the states of the South Caucasus joining the Alliance. Ukraine, meanwhile, despite a long-term relationship with NATO is divided domestically on the issue and, despite the

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‘Orange Revolution’ of 2004, is still a long way off satisfying NATO conditions politically and militarily. The strategic consequences of membership in the face of Russian opposition and lingering Russian–Ukrainian military, economic and political interdependencies have also contributed to a distinct lack of enthusiasm for membership within NATO Europe and a studied caution in the US, enlargement’s arch-advocate.123 Given also the detachment and at times outright opposition to NATO on the parts of Russia and Belarus, the development of a NATO membership space covering much of continental Europe but with far less gravity inside the FSU (the Baltic states excepted) is already apparent. What makes this line of division more significant is that it largely overlaps with the development of the EU, and as a Romanian delegate to the NATO Parliamentary Assembly has suggested, access to the ‘commodity’ of security is as dependent upon the EU as it is upon NATO.124 It is to this relationship that we turn in the next chapter. Notes 1 A. Cottey, ‘NATO: Globalization or Redundancy?’, Contemporary Security Policy, Vol.25(3), 2004, p. 392. 2 F. Heisbourg, ‘Can the Atlantic Alliance Last Out the Century?’, International Affairs, Vol. 63(3), 1987, p. 413. 3 S. Talbott in Time, 1 January 1990, p. 40. 4 J.J. Mearsheimer, ‘Back to the Future. Instability in Europe after the Cold War’, International Security, Vol. 15(1), 1990, p. 52. 5 K. Schake, ‘NATO after the Cold War, 1991–1995: Institutional Competition and the Collapse of the French Alternative’, Contemporary European History, Vol. 7(3), 1998, p. 381. 6 M. Mandelbaum, ‘A Perfect Failure: NATO’s War against Yugoslavia’, Foreign Affairs, Vol. 78(5), 1999, pp. 2–8; J. Solana, ‘NATO’s Success in Kosovo’, Foreign Affairs, Vol. 78(6), 1999, pp. 114–20. 7 L.S. Kaplan, NATO Divided, NATO United: The Evolution of an Alliance (New York: Praeger, 2004), pp. 116–21, 124–31. 8 US Ambassador to NATO, Nicholas Burns, ‘NATO Has Adapted: An Alliance with a New Mission’, International Herald Tribune, 24 May 2003. 9 A. Toje, ‘The First Casualty in the War against Terror: The Fall of NATO and Europe’s Reluctant Coming of Age’, European Security, Vol. 12(2), 2003, pp. 73–4. 10 Cited in T.G. Carpenter, ‘The Bush Administration’s Security Strategy: Implications for Transatlantic Relations’, Cambridge Review of International Affairs, Vol. 16(3), 2003, p. 518. 11 Speech to the 14th Munich Conference on Security Policy, 12 February 2005 at: www. securityconference.de/konferenzen/rede.php?menu_2005=&menu_konferenzen=&spra che=en&id=143& [5 January 2006]. 12 S. Croft, ‘Reports of NATO’s Death are Somewhat Exaggerated . . .’, paper presented to the conference of the International Studies Association, Montreal, March 2004. 13 S. Renning, NATO Renewed: The Power and Purpose of Transatlantic Cooperation (Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), pp. 170–4. 14 P. Cornish, ‘NATO: The Practice and Politics of Transformation’, International Affairs, Vol. 80(1), 2004, p. 65.

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15 E. Rhodes, ‘The Good the Bad, and the Righteous: Understanding the Bush Vision of a New NATO Partnership’, Millennium: Journal of International Studies, Vol. 33(1), 2004, pp. 123–43. 16 W. Hopkinson, ‘Enlargement: A New NATO’, Chaillot Paper (Paris: Institute for Security Studies, Western European Union), October 2001, pp. 25, 43. 17 See ‘Statement by Ian Brzezinski, Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defence for European and NATO Affairs’, Senate Foreign Relations Committee, 27 March 2003 at: http:// foreign.senate.gov//testimony/2003/BrzezinskiTestimony030327.pdf [5 January 2006]. 18 This is apparent in the keynote summit communiqués issued at the Prague and Istanbul summits even if the phrase ‘out-of-area’ is avoided. See Prague Summit Declaration, 21 November 2002 especially paragraph 4 at: www.nato.int/docu/pr/2002/p02–127e.htm [5 January 2006] and Istanbul Summit Declaration, 28 June 2004 passim at: www. nato.int/docu/pr/2004/p04–096e.htm [5 January 2006]. 19 This is covered in Cottey, ‘NATO: Globalization or Redundancy?’. 20 M.A. Smith, ‘Conclusion: Where Is NATO Going?’, Contemporary Security Policy, Vol. 25(3), 2004, pp. 548–9. 21 Political Committee of the Assembly of the Western European Union, New Challenges for Transatlantic Security Cooperation, Document A/187, December 2004, paragraphs 37–8. 22 Germany had also supported the idea under Gerhard Schroeder. Significantly, Angela Merkel who succeeded Schröder as Chancellor in November 2005, reversed this position, arguing in favour of a strengthened NATO. See, for instance, speech to the Wehrkunde Conference, Munich, February 2006 at: http://euobserver.com/9/20841 [9 February 2006]. 23 ‘Treaty Establishing a Constitution for Europe’, in EU Security and Defence Vol. V. Core Documents 2004 (Paris: EU Institute for Security Studies, 2005), p. 388. 24 Text of the Report of the Committee of Three on Non-Military Cooperation in NATO, Brussels, 13 December 1956, paragraphs 9 and 28 at: www.nato.int/docu/basictxt/ b561213a.htm [5 January 2006]. 25 Speech by NATO Secretary General, Jaap de Hoop Scheffer, Warsaw, 16 February 2006 at: www.nato.int/docu/speech/2006/s060216a.htm [20 March 2006]. 26 T. Edmunds, ‘NATO and Its New Members’, Survival, Vol. 45(3), 2003, pp. 145–66. 27 R. Moore, ‘NATO “Bruised but Resolute”?: A Post-Prague, Post-Iraq Assessment of NATO’s Political Dimension’, paper presented to the conference of the International Studies Association, Montreal, March 2004, p. 31. 28 R. Whitman, ‘NATO, the EU and ESDP: An Emerging Division of Labour’, Contemporary Security Policy, Vol. 25(3), 2004, p. 440. 29 Kaplan, NATO Divided, p. 150. 30 C. Wallander, ‘Institutional Assets and Adaptability: NATO after the Cold War’, International Organisation, Vol. 54(4), 2000, pp. 705–35. 31 See, for instance, speech by NATO Secretary General Lord Robertson, New York, 31 January 2002 at: www.nato.int/docu/speech/2002/s020131a.htm [5 January 2006]. 32 R.A. Epstein, ‘NATO Enlargement and the Spread of Democracy’, Security Studies, Vol. 14(1), 2005, pp. 66, 74–5, 105. 33 D. Reiter, ‘Why NATO Enlargement Does Not Spread Democracy’, International Security, Vol. 25(4), 2001, pp. 49–50. See also Chapter 5. 34 C. Krupnick, ‘NATO and Security Sectors in Central and Eastern Europe’, in C. Krupnick (ed.), Almost NATO: Partners and Players in Central and Eastern European Security (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2003), p. 303. 35 S. Lunn, ‘The Future of NATO’, in O. Pick (ed.), The Cold War Legacy in Europe (London: Pinter Publishers, 1992), pp. 7–9. 36 S.R. Sloan, ‘NATO’s Future in a New Europe: An American Perspective’, International Affairs, Vol. 63(3), 1990, pp. 495–511.

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37 www.nato.int/docu/comm/49–95/c671213b.htm [5 January 2006]. 38 The Alliance’s Strategic Concept (November 1991), paragraph 18 (emphasis added) at: www.nato.int/docu/basictxt/b911108a.htm [5 January 2006]. 39 Prague Summit Declaration, paragraph 2. 40 J. Solana, ‘A Defining Moment for NATO: The Washington Summit Decisions and the Kosovo Crisis’, NATO Review, Vol. 47(2), 1999, pp. 3–8. 41 Statement on Combating Terrorism: Adapting the Alliance’s Defence Capabilities (issued by the NAC in Defence Ministers Session, Brussels, 18 December 2001), paragraph 1 at: www.nato.int/docu/pr/2001/p01–173e.htm [5 January 2006]. 42 Opening statement by the Secretary General, Meeting of the Council in Ministerial Session, Reykjavik, 14 May 2002 at: www.nato.int/docu/speech/2002/s020514b.htm [5 January 2006]; speech in Athens, 17 April 2002 at: www.nato.int/docu/speech/2002/s 020417a.htm [5 January 2006]. 43 Speech in Moscow, 9 December 2002 at: www.nato.int/docu/speech/2002/s021209a.htm [5 January 2006]. 44 Remarks by Lord Robertson to the EP, 19 February 2002, at: www.nato.int/docu/ speech/2002/s020219a.htm [5 January 2006]; Speech in Berlin, 1 October 2001 at: www. nato.int/docu/speech/2001/s011001a.htm [5 January 2006]. 45 London Declaration on a Transformed North Atlantic Alliance, 5–6 July 1990, paragraph 7 at: www.nato.int/docu/comm/49–95/c900706a.htm [5 January 2006]. 46 M. Mihalka, ‘Squaring the Circle: NATO’s Offer to the East’, RFE/RL Research Report, Vol. 3(12), 1994, p. 2. 47 J. Simon, ‘Does Eastern Europe Belong in NATO?’, Orbis, Vol. 37(1), 1993, p. 32. 48 A. Karkoszka (Director of the International Security Department of the Polish Ministry of National Defence) cited in G.B. Solomon, The NATO Enlargement Debate, 1990–1997: Blessings of Liberty (Washington, DC: Centre for Strategic and International Studies/Westport, CT: Praeger,1998), p. 18. 49 N. Williams, ‘Partnership for Peace: Permanent Fixture or Declining Asset?’, Survival, Vol. 38(1), 1996, pp. 98–110. 50 An Alliance for the Twenty First Century (Washington, DC: April 1999), paragraph 6 at: www.nato.int/docu/pr/1999/p99–064e.htm [5 January 2006]. 51 Solomon, The NATO Enlargement Debate, pp. 34–5. 52 Speech to the Wehrkunde Conference, Munich, February 1996 at: www.nato.int/docu/ speech/sp1996.htm [5 January 2006]. 53 Williams, ‘Partnership for Peace’, p. 99. 54 J.M. Goldgeier, Not Whether But When: The US Decision to Enlarge NATO (Washington, DC: The Brookings Institution, 1999), pp. 46, 55. 55 Cited in Williams, ‘Partnership for Peace’, p. 105. 56 These quotations are all taken from J. Borowski, ‘Partnership for Peace and Beyond’, International Affairs, Vol. 71(2), 1995, pp. 238–9. 57 M.E. Brown, ‘The United States, Western Europe and NATO Enlargement’, in G.G. Burwell and I.H. Daalder (eds), The United States and Europe in the Global Arena (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1999), pp. 20–3. 58 Goldgeier, Not Whether but When, pp. 45–76. 59 J. Eyal, ‘NATO’s Enlargement: Anatomy of a Decision’, International Affairs, Vol. 73(4), 1997, pp. 703–4. 60 Final communiqué, ministerial meeting of the NAC, 1 December 1994, paragraph 5 at: www.nato.int/docu/comm/49–95/c941201a.htm [5 January 2006]. 61 Study on NATO Enlargement, paragraph 3 at: www.nato.int/docu/basictxt/enl-9502.htm [5 January 2006]. 62 Report to the Congress on the Enlargement of the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation: Rationale, Benefits, Costs and Implications (released by the Bureau of European and

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68 69

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Canadian Affairs, US Department of State, 24 February 1997) at: www.state.gov/www/ regions/eur/9702nato_report.html [13 March 2001]. Madrid Declaration on Euro-Atlantic Security and Cooperation, 8 July 1997, paragraph 8 at: www.nato.int/docu/pr/1997/p97–081e.htm [5 January 2006]. M. Albright, ‘Enlarging NATO: Why Bigger is Better’, Economist, 15 February 1997, p. 22. Madrid Declaration, paragraph 8, indent 2. Exceptions included new entrants Poland and the Czech Republic, both of which favoured enlargement as a way of stabilising their own geopolitical environment. B. Koenders (rapporteur), NATO Enlargement, Draft Interim Report, Political SubCommittee on Central and Eastern Europe, NATO Parliamentary Assembly, April 19, 2001, paragraph 8; interviews conducted at NATO HQ, Brussels, November 1999. K.M. Fierke, ‘Dialogues of Manoeuvre and Entanglement: NATO, Russia and the CEECs’, Millennium: Journal of International Studies, Vol. 28(1), 1999, pp. 27–52. Address by Deputy Secretary of State Richard Armitage to the Bucharest meeting of the ‘V10’, 26 March 2002, at: www.usembassy.ro/Documents/ArmitageAddrressV10.htm [28 March 2002]. Romania and Bulgaria’s case was strengthened further by other geostrategic considerations. These two states had rendered logistical assistance to NATO during Operation Allied Force in 1999 and to NATO’s subsequent KFOR operation. They also offered a southern dimension to NATO, a Balkan bridge between Hungary and Turkey and Greece. See B. Stefanova, ‘NATO’s Mixed Policy Motives in the Southeast-European Enlargement: Revisiting Balkan Geopolitics’, Journal of Contemporary European Studies, Vol. 13(1), 2005, pp. 39–58. I. Traynor, ‘America’s Ambitions Fuel Alliance’s Expansion to the East’, Guardian, 19 November 2002. R.D. Asmus, Opening NATO’s Door: How the Alliance Remade Itself for a New Era (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002), p. xxv. US Federal News Service, 6 June 2001 as carried on NATO Enlargement Daily Brief, 7 June 2001 at: www.topica.com/lists/nato [10 June 2001]. See UK House of Commons, Select Committee on Defence, The Future of NATO, Seventh Report of Session 2001–2 (London: The Stationary Office, July 2002), pp. 26–7. Speech of the Secretary General, Lord Robertson, Berlin, 20 November 2002 at: www.nato.int/docu/speech/2002/s021120a.htm [5 January 2006]. In the case of Cyprus, this is of some convenience to NATO, given the Turkish–Greek dispute over the island. This letter of 26 June 1997 is reprinted in full in R.W. Rauchhaus (ed.), Explaining NATO Enlargement (London: Frank Cass, 2001), pp. 203–6. What made this position particularly pertinent was that Clinton himself had once subscribed to it. Speaking in January 1994 he had suggested that opening NATO up to new members would give ‘the impression that we’re creating another dividing line in Europe after we’ve worked for decades to get rid of the one that existed before’. Cited in Goldgeier, Not Whether but When, p. 55. J. Clarke, ‘Replacing NATO’, Foreign Policy, No. 93, 1993/4, p. 29. J.L. Gaddis, ‘History, Grand Strategy and NATO Enlargement’, Survival, Vol. 40(1), 1998, p. 150. T. Lindberg, ‘Reach Out and Touch Someone. Motley Group of Ten Nations Aspire to Join the NATO Fold’, Washington Times, 9 July 2002. NATO Handbook (Brussels: NATO, Office of Information and Press, 2001), p. 529. E. Reid, Time of Hope and Fear: The Making of the North Atlantic Treaty, 1947–1949 (Ottawa: McClelland and Stewart, 1977), pp. 200–2. F.A. Váli, Bridge Across the Bosporus: The Foreign Policy of Turkey (Baltimore and London: The John Hopkins Press, 1971), pp. 116–18. Report to Congress on the Enlargement of the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation.

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85 www.whitehouse.gov/news/releases/2001/06/20010615–1.html [5 January 2006]. 86 See evidence to UK Foreign Affairs Select Committee Hearings, 14 November 2002, paragraphs 40 and 92 at: www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm200203/cmselect/cmfaff/ uc066-i/uc06602htm [9 November 2002]. 87 R.J. Art, ‘Creating a Disaster: NATO’s Open Door Policy’, Political Science Quarterly, Vol. 113(3), 1998, pp. 394–8; Cottey, ‘NATO: Globalization or Redundancy?’, pp. 403–4. 88 D. Price (rapporteur), Invited NATO Members’ Progress on Military Reforms, NATO Parliamentary Assembly, Report 146 DSCFC 03 E, 2003, paragraph 9. 89 C. Wallander, ‘Institutional Assets’, p. 716. 90 B. Koenders (rapporteur), NATO Enlargement, Report of the NATO Parliamentary Assembly, Political Sub-Committee on Central and Eastern Europe, October 2001, section IIA. 91 S. Woehrel, J. Kim and C. Ek, NATO Applicant States: A Status Report, Congressional Research Service, Report for Congress, April 25 2003, p. 40. 92 See the views of US Deputy Assistant Secretary of State Kurt Volker and NATO Secretary General Jaap de Hoop Scheffer cited in Southeast European Times, 22 September 2005 at: www.setimes.com/ [5 January 2006]. 93 On Ukraine, see interview with NATO Assistant Secretary General for Political Affairs and Security Policy, Ambassador M. Erdmann, 27 July 2005 at: www.nato.int/docu/speech/ 2005/s050727a.htm [5 December 2005]; on Georgia see Eurasia Daily Monitor, 1 February 2006 at: www.jamestown.org/edm/article.php?article_id=2370727 [6 February 2006]; on Azerbaijan, see ‘Endnote’, in Newsline (Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty), 2 February 2006 at: www.rferl.org/ [6 February 2006]. 94 K. Hartley, ‘The Costs of Expansion’, Envision, No. 1, 2003 at: www.eastlant.nato.int/ Eastlant/pages/update/envision_1_03/1_03_enlargement.htm [5 January 2006]. 95 These various issues are discussed in G.L. Geipel, ‘The Costs of Enlarging NATO’, in J. Sperling (ed.), Two Tiers or Two Speeds? The European Security Order and the Enlargement of the European Union and NATO (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1999), pp. 160–78. 96 T. Sandler and K. Hartley, The Political Economy of NATO: Past, Present, and into the 21st Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 88; Hartley, ‘The Costs of Expansion’. 97 Price (rapporteur), ‘Invited NATO Members’, paragraph 6. 98 S. Kay, ‘Don’t Make NATO Enlargement Too Easy’, Wall Street Journal, 22 November 2002. 99 T. Terriff, S. Croft, E. Krahmann et al., ‘“One In, All In?” NATO’s Latest Enlargement’, International Affairs, Vol. 78(4), 2002, pp. 451–67. 100 Z. Barany, ‘NATO’s Peaceful Advance’, Journal of Democracy, Vol. 15(1), 2004, pp. 68–70. 101 Z. Martinusz, ‘NATO Enlargement: Lessons from the 1999 Round’, in T. Valasek and T. Hitchens (eds), Growing Pains: The Debate on the Next Round of NATO Enlargement (Washington, DC: Centre for Defense Information, 2002), p. 58. 102 Interviews at NATO HQ, Brussels, July 2004. 103 Testimony by Robert A. Bradtke, Deputy Assistant Secretary of State for European and Eurasian Affairs, before the House International Relations Committee, 29 April 2003 at: www.usembassy.org.uk/nato179.html [5 January 2006]. 104 C.M. Jones, ‘Is a Broader NATO a More Secure NATO? The Impact of Enlargement on Military Effectiveness’, paper for the annual meeting of the International Studies Association, Montreal, March 2004; W. Jacoby, ‘Military Competence versus Policy Loyalty: Central Europe and Transatlantic Relations’, in D.M. Andrews (ed.), The Atlantic Alliance under Stress: US–European Relations after Iraq (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 232–55. 105 Off-the-record comment to author by high-ranking national delegation official, NATO HQ, Brussels, July 2003.

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106 L.G. Michel, ‘NATO Decisionmaking: Au Revoir to the Consensus Rule?’, Strategic Forum, No. 202, August 2003, pp. 1–3, 8. 107 B. Koenders (rapporteur), Securing NATO’s Role and Relevance, NATO Parliamentary Assembly, report 175 PC 06 E 2005 annual session, paragraphs 11–12. 108 Off-the-record comment to author by high-ranking national delegation official, Rome, September 2004. 109 NATO Handbook, p. 527. 110 Text of the Report of the Committee of Three. 111 The reference to France here might seem controversial. For the argument that the Fourth Republic in the late 1940s ‘was not a liberal democracy in inspiration nor had it become one in practice’ see D.G. Haglund, ‘The Case of the Missing Democratic Alliance: France, the “Anglo-Saxons” and NATO’s Deep Origins’, Contemporary Security Policy, Vol. 25(2), 2004, pp. 234–41. 112 S. Kay, NATO and the Future of European Security (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 1998), p. 29. 113 The Study on Enlargement notes in paragraph 69 that prospective new members would be expected to conform to the principles of ‘democracy, individual liberty and the rule of law’. It should be noted here, that membership is our focus. NATO’s partnership activities also allude to the desirability of promoting democratic standards but such standards are not a condition of participation in partnership activities. Thus, the involvement of outrightly authoritarian states such as Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan and Belarus in both PFP and the EAPC. 114 Cited in F. Schimmelfennig, ‘NATO Enlargement: A Constructivist Explanation’, Security Studies, Vol. 8(2/3), 1998/99, p. 225. 115 A. Gheciu, ‘Security Institutions as Agents of Socialization? NATO and the “New Europe”’, International Organisation, Vol. 59(4), 2005, pp. 973–1012. 116 www.state.gov/g/drl/rls/hrrpt/2001/eur/8238.htm and www.state.gov/g/drl/rls/hrrpt/ 2001/eur/8327.htm [5 January 2006]. 117 H. Sjursen, ‘On the Identity of NATO’, International Affairs, Vol. 80(4), 2004, p. 695. 118 C.A. Wallander, ‘NATO’s Price: Shape Up or Ship Out’, Foreign Affairs, Vol. 81(6), 2002, p. 4. 119 According to Freedom House data, and taking 1989–90 as a base year, by 1999 the Czech Republic, Hungary and Poland had all moved from a status of ‘partly free’ to ‘free’ in terms of political freedoms and civil liberties. All seven accession states of 2004, similarly, had by the time of their invitations in 2002 moved from a status of ‘not free’ or ‘partly free’ to ‘free’. By comparison, as of 2005 only Croatia of the three MAP states was ranked as ‘free’ (Albania and Macedonia, both seen as ‘partly free’). Of the other three aspirants, Ukraine was rated ‘free’ for the first time in the 2005 Freedom House survey. Georgia, meanwhile, was ranked as ‘partly free’ and Azerbaijan as ‘not free’. See successive reports of Freedom in the World and Nations in Transit available at: www.freedomhouse.org/ [5 January 2006]. 120 D. Yost, ‘The New NATO and Collective Security’, Survival, Vol. 40(2), 1998, pp. 136–60. 121 H. Kissinger, ‘NATO’s Uncertain Future in a Troubled Alliance’, San Diego UnionTribune, 1 December 2002. 122 Krupnick, ‘NATO and Security Sectors’, p. 303. 123 Speech of Daniel Fried, US Assistant Secretary for European and Eurasian Affairs, Washington, DC, 10 March 2006 at: www.state.gov/p/eur/rls/rm/63000.htm [20 March 2006]. See also F.S. Larrabee, ‘Ukraine and the West’, Survival, Vol. 48(1), 2006, pp. 99–100, 103–4. 124 I. Mircea, Towards a Common European Political and Security Space, Report of the NATO Parliamentary Assembly, Sub-Committee on NATO Enlargement and the New Democracies, November 1998, paragraphs 5–8.

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5 The European Union: ‘overcoming the divisions of Europe and restoring the unity of the continent’ As noted in Chapter 2, at the Cold War’s end, it was uncertain whether the then EC would be able to assume a lead role in European security. While the period 1985–91 is usually associated with the tenure of Mikhail Gorbachev as Soviet leader and the final phase of the Cold War, this was also a period of extraordinary change within the EC. Having seemingly overcome a period of ‘Eurosclerosis’ in the early 1980s, these years witnessed the accession of Spain and Portugal (in January 1986), the entry into force (in July 1987) of the Single European Act with its target of a single European market by 1992, and the initiation in December 1990 of intergovernmental conferences on Economic and Monetary Union (EMU) and European Political Union (EPU). This period was capped in December 1991 by agreement at Maastricht on a framework TEU that incorporated EMU and EPU and provided for a new security and defence dimension for the soon-to-be EU.1 Taken together, this package amounted to the most significant reform of the EC/EU since the late 1960s and thus afforded a renewed optimism regarding its future in post-Cold War Europe.2 Yet as the Cold War ended, a reinvigorated role for the EU required of its leaders a major political, even intellectual readjustment. Prior to 1989, the EC had enlarged on three occasions. To the original six members of the then EEC (France, Italy, West Germany, Belgium, the Netherlands and Luxembourg) were added Denmark, Ireland and the United Kingdom in 1973, Greece in 1981 and, five years later Spain and Portugal. These enlargements were, however, entirely consistent with the Cold War division of the continent. Understandably, at no point prior to 1990 was any serious thought devoted to a meaningful embrace of the continent’s Eastern portion. Such a state of affairs reflected the seemingly permanent condition of Europe’s division and the fact that integration during the

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Cold War was spurred precisely by ‘the goal of distinguishing and defending the West from the East’. The EC, in short, lacked a truly ‘European policy’.3 The subsequent ability of the EU to assume a leading role in Europe’s security governance reflects a geographic move away from its original West European foundations, but equally an extension and development of the EU’s role as a security actor.

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The EU, security governance and security community From its inception, the process of European integration has been explicitly informed by a desire among the governments of Europe to preserve peace on the continent. The aim of fostering peace is spelt out in the 1957 Treaty of Rome which established the EEC and even more emphatically in the 1951 Treaty of Paris, which created the European Coal and Steel Community. By resolving ‘the German question’, facilitating multilateral integration, blunting nationalism and creating a sense of common purpose among political elites and the broader population, the EU developed (along with NATO) as the institutional expression of Western Europe’s post-War security community.4 Among EU members the tight network of shared interests rendered military conflict an almost inconceivable possibility. Significantly also, the EU that developed during the Cold War had almost entirely rid itself of territorial disputes, one of the major causes of war. While this security community had an internal logic (specifically, an avoidance of the rivalries that had resulted in two world wars), during the Cold War its development was also facilitated by the external impetus of Soviet power. With the end of the Cold War, new security ‘externalities’ presented themselves, emanating from instabilities in the former Yugoslavia and the FSU. In this context, the EU had two basic options which fell within the so-called ‘deepening’ versus ‘widening’ debate of the early 1990s. The first involved ‘[putting] up the shutters and [. . .] preserving and where possible deepening [. . .] the established security community’. The second option meant opening up the institution to those states which resided in or near to zones of instability in order to pacify and stabilise such regions – extending the existing security community in other words.5 As it turned out, this was a false dichotomy, for the EU has pursued both deepening and widening simultaneously. It has developed an increasingly sophisticated system of internal governance, politically, socially and economically, and this has increasingly been extended to the security sphere. It has also undertaken policies of both association and enlargement. The EU, in other words, is a mainstay of Europe’s security governance. Using categories suggested by Ole Wæver, in this regard the EU can be seen to operate on three levels. First, through multiple process of integration, it has a gravitational effect among its members; ‘keeping the core intact’ and ensuring that competing centres do not emerge. Second, the EU has a disciplining effect upon its

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neighbours; states which wish to join the EU adapt their domestic structures and foreign policies in a manner that is consistent with the cooperative habits of the existing member states. And third, the EU has developed specific and institutionalised security instruments. These may be geared to ‘external’ security in the shape of the CFSP and the ESDP, or to ‘internal’ security issues as covered within JHA cooperation.6 This chapter is mainly interested in the first and second of these, although the third will be examined below by specific reference to the EU’s self-declared ‘Area of Freedom, Security and Justice’. Because enlargement is the exemplar of the inclusion/exclusion dynamic, the chapter’s focus will be on the security logic and consequences of this process. The relationship between security and enlargement has become increasingly specific in EU discourse since the early 1990s and the details of this will be covered below. However, at the outset it is worth establishing the main frame of reference. At the end of the Cold War, the EU’s model of security community building was of continuing relevance in Europe’s Western part and also, it was then argued, in its adjacent post-communist regions.7 Yet, as noted above, the EU at this juncture had little institutional history of involvement to its east and so had to stake out a position on the emerging and highly uncertain post-Cold War landscape. While major differences existed between the EU’s influential players (France, Germany and the UK as well as the Commission under its President Jacques Delors8), the EU collectively faced a challenge of relevance. This resulted in three central claims on its part. First, that the EU would act with renewed determination to help overcome ‘the divisions of Europe and restor[e] the unity of the continent’.9 Second, that it held a special position of attraction – ‘the point of reference for the countries of Central and Eastern Europe’.10 And third, that the EU had at its disposal certain instruments which might assist reform and anchor stability in the East. In making such claims, the EU was able to draw upon a residue of liberal pan-European sentiment that had survived during the Cold War. Such sentiment was rarely articulated at the time, yet in the circumstances of change after 1989, it provided a ready-made rhetorical formula from which to draw. As such, its implications were profound, suggesting a responsibility on the EU’s part for an inclusive engagement across the continent.

Partnership and enlargement Whatever the external pressures weighing down upon the EU after 1989, this period was also one in which it had to attend, as noted above, to a weighty internal agenda. These efforts, culminating in the Maastricht Treaty, were a major distraction from the development of the EU’s role in a wider European order. During the watershed years of 1989–91, apart from the exceptional case of the former East Germany, the issue of enlargement into post-communist Europe was thus deliberately avoided. As the European Commission noted in December 1989 ‘it would be inappropriate for the Community – which is itself undergoing

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major changes while the whole of Europe is in a state of flux – to become involved in new accession negotiations at this stage’.11 The demand for enlargement, however, was compelling. Claims to membership emerged during the early 1990s and between March 1994 and June 1996 ten former communist states lodged formal applications. In so doing, they joined Cyprus and Malta whose applications had been pending since 1990, and Turkey whose application had been submitted in 1987. Not counting Austria, Finland and Sweden, who were to join the EU in 1995, this, therefore, meant a total of thirteen active applications by the mid-1990s. Association and partnership As enlargement was off the agenda, the EU’s initial response to the end of the Cold War was to emphasise economic assistance and new forms of partnership. Prior to 1989, the EU had well-established relations with several non-member states. In the Mediterranean region, forms of association had been developed with Greece and Turkey since the early 1960s, and with Malta and Cyprus since the early 1970s. As for communist states, relations had developed with Yugoslavia but in the case of Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union were, except for matters of trade, all but non-existent. It was not until June 1988 that formal political relations were established between the then EC and CMEA. In response to the changes in the communist bloc, West European states initially pursued bilateral lines towards that region and Moscow. Greater coordination, however, was forged from 1989 as the scale of change became increasingly evident. Thereafter, the EU assumed a position of ‘architect and principal protagonist of the West’s response to the changes in Eastern Europe’ and the FSU.12 The policy lines that developed were broad in scope, in some senses comprehensive in their coverage, but at the same time marked an emerging differentiation in the manner in which non-EU Europe was to be treated. The first initiative built on, but effectively superseded, the1988 EC–CMEA Declaration. Between September 1988 and October 1990 the Community concluded Trade and Cooperation Agreements (TCAs) with the six East European members of CMEA as well as with the Soviet Union. In parallel, initiatives were pursued to extend financial and technical assistance. The most extensive of these was the PHARE programme13 adopted in December 1989. This was intended to support economic reform in the target countries but, in turn, had a political purpose: to ‘help [. . .] establish democratic societies based on individual rights’ and thus support ‘the development of a larger democratic family of nations within a prosperous and stable Europe’.14 At its outset, PHARE allocations were directed towards Hungary and Poland. During 1990, the programme was extended to Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, East Germany (up until German unification), Romania and Yugoslavia. In 1991, Albania and the three Baltic states of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania joined the recipients, while Yugoslavia was dropped. In 1992, Slovenia joined, to be followed in by two other Yugoslav successor states (BiH and Macedonia15), and in 1993 following the

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division of Czechoslovakia, separate programmes were initiated for the Czech Republic and Slovakia. PHARE stood as one component of the EU’s differentiated approach to the former communist states. PHARE excluded the successor states of the Soviet Union (the Baltics excepted), these being placed instead under the Technical Aid to the Commonwealth of Independent States (TACIS) programme. TACIS, however, was less generous and unlike PHARE did not come to assume the status of a pre-accession instrument. A similar differentiation could also be seen in a legal sense. In the case of much of Eastern Europe, relations with the EU were developed within a context of ‘association’ based on Europe Agreements (EAs). These agreements were premised on locking Eastern Europe into a relationship that would foster ‘a system of stability’ in Europe ‘with the Community as one of its cornerstones’.16 The EAs built upon the earlier TCAs and the initial signatories included Czechoslovakia,17 Hungary and Poland in December 1991. Subsequent agreements were signed with Romania (February 1993), Bulgaria (March 1993), the three Baltic states (June 1995) and Slovenia (June 1996). The EAs were initially viewed as an alternative to EU membership, but this position shifted at the June 1993 Copenhagen European Council (see p. 112–13) where they were elevated to an instrument of accession. At the December 1997 Luxembourg Council, the EU decided that a new arrangement, the Accession Partnership, would become the key instrument of enlargement. In 2000, meanwhile, the SAP for the Western Balkans was inaugurated. This opened up to Albania, BiH, Croatia, Serbia-Montenegro and Macedonia the possibility of reaching Stabilisation and Association Agreements (SAAs). In 2001 SAAs were signed with Croatia and Macedonia. At the EU–Western Balkans summit in June 2003, the EU unambiguously declared that ‘the future of the Balkans is within the European Union’18 and introduced also a new instrument, the European Partnership for states of the region. In October 2005 Croatia became the first of the SAP countries to enter into accession talks with the EU. In December Macedonia was granted EU candidate status. The network of association and partnership arrangements laid down in the 1990s and 2000s has come to embrace almost all of non-EU Europe (see Table 1.3). Yet the differentiated quality of these networks has, above all else, modified their inclusive character. It is telling that the formal association arrangements – EAs, the SAAs (as well as the Association Agreement with Turkey and arrangements with the states of the European Economic Area [EEA]19) – all acknowledge the possibility of EU membership even if in some cases this is a distant prospect. This contrasts with the quite separate set of Partnership and Cooperation Agreements (PCAs) signed during the 1990s with Russia, Ukraine and a number of other Soviet successor states. These did not formally qualify as a type of association with the EU and, in effect, presented an alternative to, rather than a route towards, membership.20 In this light, the PCA states were viewed from an early stage as separate, belonging to an ‘outer ring’ of relations between the EU and non-members.21 This group was itself differentiated – Russia and

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Ukraine being attached to the EU within the framework of EU Common Strategies or latterly ‘strategic partnerships’. Yet this qualification notwithstanding, the PCAs have shared a common feature. According to Michael Smith, they ‘have been hard-fought, influenced by geopolitical and geoeconomic imperatives, perceptions of threat on both sides and the possibility of sanctions’. Despite the cooperation they have inaugurated, the PCAs have, therefore, been as much ‘about boundaries [and] about the discontinuities between systems and territories’.22 Differentiated relations have, in part, been the consequence of EU decisions, but equally reflect circumstances in the non-EU partner. The institutional distance of the Balkans from the EU during the 1990s reflected the political and economic instability of the region and what were for the EU unpalatable regimes in Croatia and in Serbia-Montenegro. The continuing absence of a membership perspective for Albania, BiH and Serbia-Montenegro, meanwhile, is a consequence of ongoing political fragility and, in the case of the latter, unresolved issues regarding the relationship between Serbia and Montenegro, and the status of Kosovo. On the basis of our discussion so far, it would be fair to say that an inclusion/ exclusion dynamic has become a significant feature of the EU’s interaction with non-EU Europe. Association and partnership illustrate this dynamic well (and we shall return to it later in a discussion of the European Neighbourhood Policy [ENP]), but as we shall see in the next section, it is the related process of enlargement that exemplifies it best. Membership Partnership and association might be regarded as a ‘thin’ form of EU external governance.23 More significant in terms of the EU’s position at the centre of European security governance has been formal enlargement. It was noted above that the enlargement of the EU occurred on successive occasions during the Cold War. The Cold War’s end had the effect of providing an added impetus to this process. This entailed, first, the inclusion of the former East Germany as a consequence of German unification in 1990. Second, the EU was faced by entirely credible applications on the parts of Austria, Finland and Sweden – three states which had reassessed their policies of neutrality in Europe’s altered post-Cold War circumstances. All three countries were prosperous liberal democracies and did not present much of a burden to the EU or presage any fundamental alteration in the functional character of the organisation. Much more challenging was the possibility of a further enlargement southward (following that of Greece, Portugal and Spain) to embrace Cyprus, Malta and Turkey, and, of even greater moment, an advance into the former communist parts of Europe. The principle of including former communist countries was formally accepted at the Copenhagen European Council in 1993. This limited the possibility of membership to associated countries which had signed EAs and this, in turn, was made contingent upon stringent conditions of entry – the so-called

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‘Copenhagen criteria’ of stable democratic institutions, a functioning market economy compatible with the competitive pressures within the EU, and an ability to take on in full the political and economic obligations of membership. The reasons why the nettle of enlargement was grasped at this point are complex and include the policy advocacy of the Commission, the persistent demands of the East Europeans, and the bargaining and preferences of the member states themselves. Important in this context was the framing of enlargement as a security issue. Among both the member states and European institutions (the Commission most notably) enlargement became subject to ‘securitising moves’, rationalised as a means of stabilising the EU’s periphery and thus securing the EU itself.24 Thus, in a communication of May 1993 the Commission argued that enlargement to embrace the EA states would both strengthen the determination of these countries to see through domestic reform and, equally, would ‘provide an element of stability against the background of continuing turbulence in the former Soviet Union and the tragedy unfolding in the former Yugoslavia’. This regional security benefit, moreover, was much needed precisely because of the ‘absence of a viable security structure’. A ‘greater sense of belonging to the process of European integration’, it was argued, would ‘reduce feelings of insecurity and consequent tensions [. . .] with gains for overall security and cooperation’.25 Accession, moreover, would be to the advantage of the existing EU. The Commission’s 1997 document, Agenda 2000, having made the case that the EU had developed as ‘a real Community of security’ over the preceding four decades, suggested that this ‘basic achievement of the European project’ be extended to new member states.26 More specifically, the conditions of accession, Agenda 2000 intimated, would provide a strong incentive for candidate countries to address security relevant issues, particularly the vexed matters of border disputes and the treatment of ethnic minorities. By such means, conditionality was aimed both at resolving disputes currently outside the EU and at ensuring that these problems were not imported into the Union once accession occurred. The recommendations of Agenda 2000 formed the background to the decision of the Luxembourg European Council in December 1997 to begin accession negotiations with six candidate countries. A further six candidates, meanwhile, were given the go-ahead to by the Helsinki European Council in December 1999 (see Figure 5.1). This followed a Commission recommendation that accordance with the full Copenhagen criteria should no longer be necessary to trigger negotiations on entry – accordance with the first, the political criterion, would be enough. This loosening of the requirements was specifically aimed at Bulgaria and Romania, states which had made relatively slow progress on the economic criteria. As the Commission document made clear, this amended position was a direct consequence of considerations regarding the Kosovo crisis of 1998–99. In its wake the Commission argued that there was ‘a greater awareness of the strategic dimension of enlargement’. To prevent future crises and to consolidate peace and security, the EU had to encourage the development of

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‘democracy and the rule of law, growth and the foundations of prosperity’. Enlargement, it continued, is ‘the best way to do this’.27 Thus, speaking in 2004, Enlargement Commissioner Günter Verhuegen viewed the accessions of that year as ‘more than just another stage in the history of European integration. It is a great commitment for the future, a commitment for a Europe of peace, stability and security [. . .] a Europe which offers its inhabitants a secure homeland and represents assistance and hope for other nations.’28 A perspective on post-2004 enlargement has been informed by similar considerations. This relates to Bulgaria, Romania and Turkey but, of considerable significance, to the SAA states of the Western Balkans also. The latter have been the target of a range of EU instruments aimed at conflict management supplemented, as noted above, by a recognition of the possibility of membership. As a Commission report of April 2002 explained, by 2000 ‘EU leaders [had] decided that a policy of emergency reconstruction, containment and stabilisation was not, in itself, enough to bring lasting peace and stability to the Balkans: only the real prospect of integration into European structures would achieve that.’29 Chris Patten, the EU’s External Relations Commissioner, argued similarly that just as ‘the prospect of EU membership [had] helped to maintain stability in central and eastern Europe after the collapse of the Soviet Union, so it has become a critical factor in the still fragile Balkans’. Membership for the countries of the region, he continued, would project security and stability into one of the missing pieces of the European ‘jigsaw’.30 While a seemingly compelling case has thus existed for enlargement, the process itself has sometimes been hostage to intra-EU affairs. During the 1990s, the move towards enlargement coincided with an already involved process of internal reform that took in two inter-governmental conferences (in 1997 and 2000) and two major revisions of the TEU (resulting in the Treaties of Amsterdam and Nice). Indeed, up to the Luxembourg European Council there was an influential strand of thinking that (the case of the 1995 enlargement aside) institutional adaptation should be completed before enlargement could proceed.31 Even with the beginning of accession negotiations in March 1998, the view was held by some (notably Germany) that the process of enlargement not be too hasty lest its financial burden weigh too heavily on existing member states. The formal structure of accession negotiations reflected this hesitancy. These talks were to be based on the so-called ‘regatta’ approach whereby each of the candidates would start from the same point, but would enter the Union at different times depending on how speedily they satisfied the conditions of entry. The seemingly hard-headed attitude of the member states meant that throughout the 1990s the EU was criticised both by the candidate countries and outside observers for having a defensive policy on enlargement, one still imprisoned within an exclusive, even Cold War notion of Europeanness.32 The EU, it seemed, could permit the entry of the post-neutral states but in the guise of conditionality placed insuperable obstacles in the way of the former communist states. The dilemma the member states faced, however, was an acute one. While

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the practicalities may have counselled caution, the basic case for enlargement was strong. In addition to the security argument and the issue of precedent (the 1995 and pre-1990 enlargements), the member states have been influenced by a variety of motives and differing degrees of commitment. As Grabbe and Hughes have argued: ‘[M]ember States’ interests in enlargement [have varied] according to their proximity to potential areas of instability on the peripheries of the EU, their

January 1995

Accession of Austria, Finland and Sweden

December 1997 Luxembourg European Council decides to begin negotiations with Cyprus, Hungary, Poland, Estonia, the Czech Republic and Slovenia ‘on the conditions for their entry into the Union’ and to speed up ‘the preparation of negotiations with Romania, Slovakia, Latvia, Lithuania and Bulgaria.’ December 1999 Helsinki European Council decides to convene ‘bilateral intergovernmental conferences in February 2000 to begin negotiations with Romania, Slovakia, Latvia, Lithuania, Bulgaria and Malta on the conditions for their entry into the Union and the ensuing Treaty adjustments.’ Turkey is formally recognised as a candidate country although accession negotiations are not initiated. December 2002 Copenhagen European Council concludes accession negotiations with ten states: Cyprus, the Czech Republic, Estonia, Hungary, Latvia, Lithuania, Malta, Poland, the Slovak Republic and Slovenia. May 2004

The Copenhagen ten formally enter the EU

April 2005 Treaties of Accession signed with Bulgaria and Romania October 2005 December 2005 to Macedonia.

Croatia and Turkey begin accession negotiations Brussels European Council accords candidate status

Figure 5.1 Steps towards EU enlargement Source: Presidency conclusions, Luxembourg European Council (Decmeber 1997); Presidency Conclusions, Helsinki European Council (December 1999) at: www.consitium.europe.eu/cm3_applications/newsRoom/loadBook.asp?BID=76&LANG=1 &cmsid=347 (5 January 2006)

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economic integration with [Central and Eastern Europe] and their historical links with particular countries.’33 Further, because enlargement has been set within a normative context of European unity, stability and the promotion of democracy, this has made it next to impossible for existing members to oppose the process as a matter of principle. In this sense, the EU (in much the same way as NATO) had, during the course of the 1990s, become entrapped by the logic of its own position.34 The length of time that transpired between acknowledging the desirability of enlargement (at Copenhagen in 1993) and completing accession negotiations with the ten candidates (at Copenhagen in 2002) is thus explained not by reference to debates over matters of principle but by more pragmatic and practical issues over how best to manage the process.

Inclusion, exclusion and the limits of enlargement The simultaneous accessions of ten candidates in 2004 meant that enlargement occurred in a manner quite the opposite of the boat-racing metaphor suggested by the regatta approach. Why this was the case can be partly explained by reference to the drawbacks of staggered entry by the ten candidates. This would have involved the existing member states in ratifying several, successive accession treaties, but perhaps more problematic, achieving on more than one occasion the necessary consensus within the EU for an enlargement which welcomed some favoured candidates but put up obstacles to others. Germany, for instance, may have been reluctant to endorse any enlargement that did not include Poland, while Greece may have had similar reservations if Cyprus were to be omitted.35 Whatever the reasons, the EU in 2004 underwent its own ‘big bang’ enlargement comparable to that experienced by NATO in the same year. This was the largest single increase in membership in the EU’s history. The ten new members added a further 75 million persons to the Union and increased the combined territory of its member states by some 23 per cent. Because the new members were, without exception, poorer than the EU average, the boost to combined EU GDP was estimated at less than 1 per cent. Nonetheless in 2004 the EU stood at twenty-five member states, accounting for some 450 million people and with a combined economic weight almost equivalent to that of the US.36 What concerns us here is how inclusive the process has been. Certainly, the widespread demand for EU membership and, by 2004, the ability of the Union to match it would suggest a credible case can be made for inclusiveness. Within the EU, enlargement has, to some degree, been seen in these terms. The Commission, in one of its earliest statements on the issue, argued that enlargement was taking place in a continent no longer divided by the Cold War. The EU, the Commission continued ‘has never been a closed club, and cannot now refuse the historic challenge to assume its continental responsibilities and contribute to the development of a political and economic order for the whole of Europe’.37 Agenda 2000 similarly claimed that enlargement was ‘an inclusive

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process’ which held out the possibility of a ‘continent-wide application of the model of peaceful and voluntary integration’.38 On this basis, Commissioner for Enlargement Günter Verheugen thus welcomed enlargement in 2004 as the single most important political event in Europe since the end of the Second World War.39 Sentiment in the Commission has tended to run ahead of the more cautious member states. Yet once the accession process had begun, its wider implications were drawn. The Luxembourg European Council of December 1997 noted that the decision to open negotiations on accession marked ‘a moment of historic significance for the future of the Union and of Europe as a whole. With the launch of the enlargement process we see the dawn of a new era, finally putting an end to the divisions of the past.’ It continued by stating that ‘enlargement is a comprehensive, inclusive and ongoing process’.40 These themes were repeated in the Athens Declaration issued in April 2003 on the occasion of the signing of the Treaties of Accession by the ten candidates. This noted the ‘collective desire’ of the member states to develop ‘an inclusive Union’ and looked forward to a Europe which ‘belongs to all its citizens, without exceptions or exclusions’.41 The enlargement of 2004, however, was an unprecedented and probably not to be repeated event. While the cause for some self-congratulation, it also gave rise to what has been dubbed ‘enlargement fatigue’. At this juncture, falling levels of popular support for enlargement were apparent among European publics42 and such sentiment contributed to the rejection of the putative Constitutional Treaty by both the French and Dutch electorates in the referenda of May–June 2005. At the political level, disillusionment was evident in the view, expressed even by its advocates in the Commission, that enlargement had tested the capacity of the Union.43 Scepticism among the member states, meanwhile, was most explicit in France – the French Foreign Minister Phillippe Douste-Blazy deriding in late 2005 what he regarded as ‘an irreversible process of continuous enlargement’.44 Reflecting these reservations, accession terms have become more exacting, a position already apparent in the double conditionality applied to the SAP states45 and evident also in the tough mandates for accession negotiations opened with Croatia and Turkey in October 2005.46 As Sedelmeier and Wallace have thus argued, ‘whatever decisions the EU takes about enlargement, it will certainly not switch to a policy of open-ended inclusiveness for all those European countries that have aspirations to join the European family’.47 An inclusion/ exclusion dynamic thus remains relevant and in this respect, several groups have been important: •

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Accession and candidate countries. Bulgaria and Romania will enter the EU in 2007. Croatia and Turkey both opened accession talks during 2005. A Commission official noted in November 2005 that Croatia’s ambition to join the EU by 2009 was ‘too ambitious’.48 Turkey’s membership talks, if completed, are expected to take at least a decade. The states of the Western Balkans, all of whom remain distant from membership. In November 2005, the Commission recommended that

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Macedonia be granted formal EU candidate status but that it had not reached sufficient compliance with membership criteria to justify opening accession talks. It was noted of Albania that it was close to fulfilling the conditions for the framing of a SAA and thus obtaining the status of ‘potential candidate’ (a step far removed from actual candidate status). Serbia-Montenegro was further behind having only opened talks with the EU on a possible SAA in October 2005. BiH at the same juncture was still subject to EU monitoring as to the feasibility of a SAA. States with PCAs which have referred to EU membership as a policy goal. This category includes Ukraine, economically and geopolitically the most significant Soviet successor state after Russia and a state which has made a clear pitch for membership following the ‘Orange Revolution’ of December 2004. While some new EU members (Poland most notably) have advocated a long-term membership perspective for Ukraine, the position of most member states as well as the Commission has been highly cautious.49 With varying degrees of enthusiasm and sincerity, Azerbaijan, Armenia, Belarus, Georgia and Moldova have also indicated an interest in EU membership but none is seriously regarded as a possible future candidate. The member states of the European Free Trade Area (EFTA), Iceland, Liechtenstein, Norway and Switzerland. These four states are prosperous and enjoy a high degree of integration with the EU through the EEA. Switzerland does not participate in the EEA but has more bilateral agreements in place with the EU than any other non-member. Iceland and Norway, meanwhile, are associated with the EU’s Schengen regime on border controls. Accession to the EU for these states has been regarded as relatively straightforward should formal applications be pursued. Norway applied for membership as early as 1962 but its electorate has rejected the idea in two domestic referendums (in 1972 and 1994). Switzerland applied in 1992, but following a rejection of the EEA in a popular referendum that same year the application was withdrawn. The micro states of Andorra, Monaco, San Marino and the Holy See. All but the latter have special arrangements with the EU, but none have shown any disposition to seek entry into the Union.

On the basis of these groupings one can imagine an EU of between thirtythree and thirty-seven members sometime in the second decade of the century. This would mean taking in Iceland, Liechtenstein, Norway and Switzerland, Romania and Bulgaria as well as possibly Croatia and Macedonia. The higher figure would require the accession of Turkey and all five states of the Western Balkans. This would certainly add substance to the EU’s claims to inclusiveness. As noted above, some of these cases are still long-chance propositions and may not materialise as full members, lingering perhaps indefinitely within the field of special or privileged partnerships. However, even accepting the possibility of an ongoing and expansive enlargement along these lines, the EU would still not be truly pan-European. Significantly, it would not include Russia or Ukraine, two

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states of considerable geopolitical importance, and would also not count among its membership states located in the former Soviet Eastern Europe (Belarus and Moldova) and the South Caucasus (Armenia, Azerbaijan and Georgia). As Alina Mungiu-Pippidi has noted, therefore, EU enlargement while a defensible policy in the sense of extending the benefits of membership to a greater number of countries inevitably creates problems in its wake, solidifying a ‘common European border’ that cuts between ‘a wealthy “in-group” and an ill-fated “outgroup”’, with the latter condemned to the ‘wilderness’ of exclusion.50 In this light, how are the limits of enlargement to be gauged and how do these relate to security governance? In pursuing this issue we will again refer to the categories of region, institutionalisation and compliance. Region Only six signatures were attached to the 1957 Treaty of Rome establishing the EEC. Article 237, however, left the way open to membership for ‘[a]ny European state’.51 Such a formulation was, in one sense, an unhelpful tautology – would one not expect a European organisation to open its membership to European states? Even so, in the Cold War context, the phrase did carry the important implication that East European states were not beyond the pale of consideration at some future, undefined point in time. Such pan-European sentiment occasionally surfaced in other guises. The formula used in the Treaty of Rome is repeated in Article 8 of the Single European Act, while the Davignon Report adopted by the foreign ministers of the EC in 1970 referred to a ‘united Europe’ as a ‘fundamental aim’ of the Community.52 The meaning of Europe in this context went undefined, a consequence in part of its irrelevance to policy during the Cold War. Intellectualising on the meaning of ‘Europe’ may have implicitly challenged the legitimacy of communist rule and Soviet hegemony but it would have had little practical effect given the hard geostrategic limit placed on enlargement during this period. For the most part, the geographic choices the EU had to face during the Cold War were straightforward. All six states which entered the Community prior to 1990 were unambiguously European in the geographic sense even if their inclusion meant excursions southward (towards Greece and the Iberian peninsular) or off the continental mainland (to the UK and Ireland). That said, the process wasn’t an entirely tidy one. The Danish accession in 1973 brought Greenland (as part of the Kingdom of Denmark) into the Community, although this island territory left following a referendum on EC membership in 1982. Under the terms of Portugal’s accession, the Atlantic islands of the Azores and Madeira entered the EC as part of Portuguese territory. The Canary Islands, as part of Spanish territory, fell into a similar category as did Ceuta and Melilla, autonomous regions of Spain situated on the Mediterranean coast of Morocco. These cases weren’t entirely exceptional, precedent being provided by the French overseas départements of Réunion in the Indian Ocean, the Caribbean islands of Guadeloupe and Martinique, and Guyana off the north-east coast of South America. That said,

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none of these examples meant the EU taking on a formal extra-European character, as all were adjuncts to members more properly situated in geographic Europe. The opportunity afforded by the end of the Cold War did not lead to greater precision. Article 49 of the TEU (as amended by the Treaty of Nice) refers to geographic eligibility for membership in essentially the same terms as the Treaty of Rome. The EU has, in fact, been unwilling to define the borders of Europe (and thus by extension the limits of its own enlargement). This is, in part, a consequence of the complexities of the exercise itself – defining ‘Europe’, as we noted in Chapter 3, is no easy matter. As a document of the Commission noted in 1992: [Europe] combines geographical, historical and cultural elements which all contribute to the European identity. The shared experience of proximity, ideas, values, and historical interaction cannot be condensed into a single formula, and is subject to review by each succeeding generation [. . .] it is neither possible or opportune to establish now the frontiers of the European Union, whose contours will be shaped over many years to come.53

A Commission document adopted some eleven years later noted that ‘debate on the ultimate geographic limits of the Union’ had still to be resolved.54 Definitions also have political connotations. An inability to define Europe’s geographic limits may simply be the consequence of different conceptions among and within the existing member states. A telling example of this occurred at the European Council meeting of June 2003. Here, the Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi suggested that his ‘vision of the future Europe’ included Russia, Turkey and Israel as members of the EU, a suggestion dismissed as ‘absurd’ by officials within the French delegation.55 Statements on the boundaries of Europe are also contentious because of what they imply about those seemingly left outside. Sensitivity on this score is well illustrated by the reaction to the rare occasions in which EU officials have attempted to delineate the limits of enlargement. Interviewed in October 2002, President of the Commission Romani Prodi remarked that ‘the ultimate border of Europe’ was ‘quite clear’ – the countries of the Balkans and Turkey would be welcomed in the European family of the EU whereas Ukraine, Russia and Moldova as well as the states of the Southern Mediterranean and Israel, would not.56 As one Ukrainian commentator pointed out, this was a stance not based any cogent notion of what constituted Europe but rather a political position that amounted to ‘an attempt to localise the European idea’.57 Finally, an eschewal of territorial definitions may reflect a political philosophy engrained within the history of the EU which has shunned territorial-based conceptions of order. To avoid a relapse into war, the very inception of post1945 West European integration was premised on a need to blunt the power of competing national sovereignties. The subsequent development of the European integration project has clearly not eradicated the nation state. However, the nature

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of the EU’s long-term development has meant the creation of a political and legal order with elements of pooled sovereignty and supranational governance as well as a highly integrated economic space that cuts across national borders. As such, it approximates a polity in which aspects of governance are shaped not by the definition, protection and rule of a fixed territory, but rather by the application of ‘process and activity’ in the political, social, economic and cultural spheres which are most apparent in, but are not necessarily confined to, the member states.58 For a variety of reasons, then, EU documentation offers no clear definition of what constitutes the Europe which the EU has sought to unite. The creation of an ‘ever closer Union among the peoples of Europe’ is, according to the TEU, the principal objective of the Union, but exactly who these peoples are and where they reside is not specified. Enlargement is a process left to vague allusions – embracing ‘Europe as a whole’ or having an application that is ‘continent-wide’.59 Given this imprecision, the territorial outlines of EU Europe have to be based partly on inference. First in this regard, the EU has made it pretty clear that the states of the Southern Mediterranean are beyond consideration. In 1987, Morocco expressed an interest in membership only to be immediately rebuffed. Under the ‘Barcelona Process’ launched in 1995, the EU instigated a ‘EuroMediterranean Partnership’ (EMP) with twelve states situated to the south and east of the Mediterranean Sea. The phraseology applied to most of this group of states tends to place them in non-European locations. Six (Egypt, Israel, Jordan, Lebanon, the Palestinian Authority and Syria) are situated in the Mashrek region and a further three (Algeria, Morocco and Tunisia) are referred to as part of the Maghreb.60 ‘According to a 2003 Commission document on the Wider Europe, the membership issue for these ‘non-European Mediterranean partners’ has been resolved and accession ‘has been ruled out’.61 EU documentation also makes reference to the geographic status of other categories. EU statements regarding the states of EFTA, the EEA, the SAP as well as Russia, Ukraine, Belarus and Moldova all unambiguously refer to these as European in one way or another. Similar references, however, are absent from documents relating to the other PCA states of the FSU. In the cases of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan this is uncontroversial given their clear Central Asian location. The geographic status of the three states of the South Caucasus, however, is less clear cut and the EU has tended to regard these as forming a ‘neighbouring region’ to Europe.62 Yet whatever inferences one may draw from these examples, in practice strictly geographic criteria for membership are open to flexible interpretation. This is the case most controversially with Turkey (see Chapter 7). Equally, a European Commission profile of new member Malta refers to the country as at a ‘crossroads between Europe and Africa [. . .] at the southern tip of the European continent [. . .] in the heart of the Mediterranean’.63 As for Cyprus, the positive opinion of the Commission in 1993 on the Cypriot application to the EU did note that the country had a European identity, in part because of its ‘geographical

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location’.64 A later Commission profile, however, referred much more ambiguously to the location of Cyprus ‘at the crossroads between Europe, Asia and Africa’.65 Indeed, as William Wallace has pointed out, this is a country ‘as far south as Tunisia, as far east as Crimea [and] closer to Syria and Lebanon than [it is] to mainland Greece’.66 While imprecise, a geographic limit to enlargement has been retained by the EU. That this is so suggests that for the foreseeable future the EU will remain fixed on Europe, however that region is defined. The EU is not about to become a Eurasian or a Euro-Mediterranean Union. Such imprecision, by its very nature, has an inclusive character because any state with a claim (however loose) to a European location can make a case for membership. Inclusion on this basis has not, however, been the main mechanism of entry into the Union. As a functioning institution, rather than simply an expression of geography, the EU has adopted other standards against which ‘Europeanness’ and fitness for membership have been judged. Institutionalisation The scale of the 2004 enlargement was acknowledged as bringing with it certain problems of institutional digestion. Even prior to its occurrence, Agenda 2000 had noted that enlargement would result in a ‘greater heterogeneity [ . . . in] the Union’ and would ‘present the Union with institutional and political challenges far greater than ever before’.67 Many of these issues are economic and concern resourcing and the distribution of benefits among a larger membership. The focus here, however, is on more narrowly focused institutional consequences in the security sphere. Enlargement, it has been argued, threatens unwelcome internal consequences – acceding states ill-prepared for the obligations of membership might undermine EU policy-making as well as complicate the functioning of EU institutions which had originated in a Community of far fewer states.68 A report for the European Commission published in March 2003 put these sorts of problem in a wider context. Its author, the former Dutch Prime Minister Wim Kok, noted that the questions posed by enlargement ‘go deeper than governance, or the mechanisms for decision-making’. They relate, in fact, to issues of common interest and a willingness to cooperate – in short, a commitment to the EU’s collective project of economic and political integration69 and thus, by extension, its centrality to European security governance. Foreboding on this issue was made that much worse by the EU’s own problems of institutional adaptation. Both the Treaty of Amsterdam and the Treaty of Nice had been aimed at reshaping EU institutions in light of enlargement and both introduced institutional and decision-making reforms. Overall, these affected all institutions and most importantly the EP, the Commission and the Council of Ministers. Taken together these changes have been seen as just enough to allow enlargement to go ahead but insufficient to allow the Union to work more expeditiously and efficiently.70 More specifically, the Treaty of Nice enshrined complex voting procedures for a Council of

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Ministers of up to twenty-seven members (i.e. including both the 2004 and 2007 enlargements) as well as a modest extension of areas open to qualified majority voting (QMV). Further reforms were envisaged in the 2004 Constitutional Treaty but these remained unimplemented given that Treaty’s non-ratification. The Nice provisions soon became the subject of considerable speculation with one of the most comprehensive analyses concluding that the system made Council decision-making efficiency worse rather than better.71 The areas of explicit EU security competence (CFSP, ESDP and JHA) are a special case, however, given that these are inter-governmental rather than community based. Here, decisionmaking remains premised on unanimity albeit subject to procedures for abstention, ‘enhanced cooperation’ and QMV in certain specified circumstances. Yet in these cases also, a commonly voiced fear was that decision-making would be subject to frequent paralysis.72 There are several qualifications to this pessimistic picture. First, while the Nice provisions may have been regarded as overly cumbersome, through changes in voting weights in the Council, their net effect has been to increase the influence of large states and ‘reduce small state influence over EU security affairs’. Coupled with the diplomatic and military weight which states such as the UK, France, Germany, and to a lesser degree Italy and Spain, hold in both CFSP and ESDP, this means that with the possible exception of Poland, no state entering the EU in 2004 or 2007 would thus be able to act as a spoiler in EU external affairs.73 Second, and reflecting the marginality of the accession states, CFSP, ESDP and JHA have all exhibited a certain policy-making flexibility. Groups of lead nations from among the established member states have taken the initiative in shaping both decision-making and implementation, thereby lessening the problems of action for an EU ‘at 25’.74 Third, the process of accession has been subject to an important provision noted in the Copenhagen criteria, namely ‘the Union’s capacity to absorb new members, while maintaining the momentum of European integration’.75 Unlike some existing members which had negotiated ‘opt-outs’ from EU obligations at Maastricht, or Sweden which had opted out of EMU when joining the EU in 1995, accession for those who joined in 2004 thus required absolute conformity to the whole of the EU’s acquis communitaire, including the Schengen regime on border control, the single market, EMU, the CFSP and so on. With regard to the latter, the rate of alignment with CFSP positions increased as membership drew closer. The CFSP negotiating chapter proved largely unproblematic for accession states while limited problems with ESDP (the concerns of Poland as to the EU–NATO relationship) were resolved at a relatively early stage. As such, this could be said to reflect both a rational logic of membership conditionality as well as a process of social learning whereby the accession countries, through lengthy and intense interaction in structures linking them to the EU, became aware of what was expected of them politically and adjusted their policies accordingly. This elite induction into the EU foreign/ security policy culture has been documented for most EU member states and seems also to apply to the recent accession states, though it does take considerable

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time.76 Major divisions did emerge during the 2003 Iraq crisis with the majority of the accession countries siding with the US and thus against France and Germany, but this was not a problem of enlargement per se. There was, after all, no consensus on Iraq among established member states – with the main line of division being between the UK, Spain and Italy on the one hand, and France, Germany and Belgium on the other. The same has also been true post-2004. The accession states have brought to the EU sometimes distinct foreign policy preoccupations. They share a generally Atlanticist orientation and have been concerned more ‘with territorial defence and regional security than with global challenges and the security risks and threats as outlined in the [EU’s 2003] European Security Strategy’.77 This has not, however, rendered either CFSP or ESDP more difficult. As Milada Vachudova has argued, because the new members are so diverse, they tend to act as a bloc only on economic issues concerning the terms of their accession. In other respects, their influence is much more diffuse, adding to coalition politics within the EU and, in most cases, falling within the spectrum of existing member state positions.78 Indeed, the entry of new members has, arguably, been beneficial as it has ‘uploaded’ their concerns into a more focused EU policy. Polish influence, for instance, has helped with policy on Ukraine, while the Baltic states have helped bring greater attention to the South Caucasus.79 Further, enlargement has not prevented new important initiatives in both CFSP and ESDP. With regard to the latter, for example, in July 2004 the Council of Ministers decided to launch the largest ESDP mission to date (in BiH). Since enlargement, ESDP operations have also been launched in Georgia, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, the Palestinian Territories, the Aceh region of Indonesia, and Iraq. What this suggests, therefore, is that the institutional limits of enlargement depend substantially on the preparedness of the candidates and the ability of the EU, in parallel, to implement institutional reform and pursue pragmatic policy adjustments. That said, enlargement went ahead in 2004 (and is likely to go ahead in 2007) on the basis of a limited and sub-optimal institutional adjustment. Other, more important, calculations were thus seemingly important. As the Dehaene Report to the European Commission put it in 1999, ‘enlargement is an objective of such political and historical importance, both for the Union and the candidate countries, that it cannot be delayed or postponed because institutional reform is incomplete’.80 Whether such a judgement will continue to influence the course of enlargement after 2007, however, is an open question. Here, two considerations are worth bearing in mind. First, the sinking of the 2004 Constitutional Treaty suggests that the EU’s traditional method of institutional and treaty adaptation to accommodate enlargement may have become exhausted. The Nice provisions survive but were worked out with a view to a Union of twenty-seven. Thus ‘[b]efore any country becomes the twenty-eighth member, whether it be Croatia, Turkey or Albania, the European Union must [. . .] reform its institutional structure’ once more.81 The absence of such reform was one reason cited by the French government in December 2005 in initially opposing candidate status for

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Macedonia.82 Second, the smoothing out of decision-making problems in EU security areas has been facilitated by the fact that the enlargement of 2004 (and 2007) entailed the assimilation of small states in the main. Large states bring arguably more muscular national interests and foreign policy traditions as well as a greater formal role in influencing EU decision-shaping. Poland after 2004 has thus been the most influential new member state, albeit one increasingly socialised into EU procedures. For the EU, this offers a more optimistic message when considering the small states of the Western Balkans, but a much less welcome one in regard to Turkey or hypothetical candidate Ukraine. Compliance The EU is often characterised as a community of democratic states – a Union, according to Article 6(1) TEU, ‘founded on the principles of liberty, democracy, respect for human rights and fundamental freedoms, and the rule of law’.83 This emphasis has, however, evolved over time. The promotion of democracy was not an aim proclaimed in the founding treaties of the original communities and a democratic government was not specified in these texts as a condition of membership. Compliance with such standards could be inferred as a necessary prerequisite, however, in that the original members were all democratic (albeit in the cases of Italy and West Germany, relatively infant ones). Similarly, the Association Agreements signed with Greece and Turkey in the early 1960s were curtailed in view of these states’ relapses into dictatorial rule; and the EC maintained only limited relations with authoritarian Spain and Portugal prior to the fall of their respective authoritarian regimes in the mid-1970s. Membership negotiations with Greece, Portugal and Spain were only opened in the mid–late 1970s once these states had embarked upon a course of democratisation. Compliance with democratic norms became a much more overt standard after 1989. The demise of communism demonstrated the ascendancy of liberal democratic values and it was precisely reference to these that underpinned both the EU’s case to be the political model for post-Cold War European order and its purported affinity with the aspirations of new elites in emergent post-communist states. The subsequent development of democratic conditionality has not, however, simply been the consequence of idealism. The promotion of democratic government in prospective member states has been geared towards, first, consolidating domestic political stability and avoiding a relapse to communism, and second, spreading regional prosperity and security given that democratic states are held to be better at market economics, attentive to the interests of their neighbours and more able to deal with internal disturbances. A democratic premise to enlargement has also served the EU’s internal needs of cohesion and good governance; democratic members, simply put, are more likely to ‘play by the rules’.84 The elevation of these standards has led to charges of inconsistency given the ‘democratic deficit’ in the EU’s methods of decision-making and the weakness of mechanisms for internal scrutiny.85 That said, as Eriksen and others have argued,

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‘the emphasis on democratic principles as a condition for membership has had a feedback effect on the EU’s own treaties’.86 Hence, the introduction of a membership suspension mechanism in the Treaty of Amsterdam and the proclamation in December 2000 of the Charter of Fundamental Rights. Even so, the level of democratic standards has been that much more demanding for potential as opposed to actual members. A democratic requirement is clearly laid down in Article 49 TEU. This extends the formula of the Treaty of Rome to suggest that membership is possible for any state that is both European and which respects the principles laid down in Article 6(1) (see above).87 The Copenhagen criteria, meanwhile, refer to the desirability of stable ‘institutions guaranteeing democracy, the rule of law, human rights, and respect for and protection of minorities’.88 The EAs and the SAAs also contain similar provisions. Through the incentive of membership, coupled with democracy assistance programmes and a range of specific recommendations (contained, for instance, in the Commission’s regular reports on enlargement candidates), the EU has been, according to a number of observers, the single most important external agent of democratic consolidation in post-communist Europe.89 The pattern of enlargement clearly demonstrates that states admitted to negotiations on membership then subsequently invited to accede to the EU have obtained such status, in part, because they have been judged to be in compliance with the democratic norms of the Union. Democratic performance posed no problems for the 1995 enlargement and is hardly likely to be an issue should the remaining EFTA countries make a bid for membership. It has, however, been an issue for other candidate countries. The EU has avoided a working definition of democracy (in much the same was that it has shied away from a definition of Europe), but a view of appropriate democratic credentials does help explain the time lag between the signing of EAs and the opening of accession negotiations in 1997–99. In the case of Turkey, problems with democratic norms help account for the twelve-year gap between its application for membership in 1987 and its acceptance as a candidate in 1999, as well as subsequent delays in the opening of formal membership negotiations (see Chapter 7). Democratic conditions, then, can provide an effective obstacle to membership. As well as Turkey, this also appears to be the case in the FSU. With the exception of the Baltic region, here democratic transition appeared to have stalled by the early 2000s. By 2005, all the states of the region were experiencing a level of democratic performance below that enjoyed by the 2004 entrants at the point they were invited to enter negotiations with the EU in 1997–99.90 While, the ‘colour revolutions’ in Georgia and Ukraine (in 2003 and 2004, respectively) suggest democratic stagnation is not inevitable, academic opinion has generally viewed the prospects for long-term democratic consolidation in the region as limited.91 This would, in effect, rule out almost indefinitely not just membership but candidate status as well. The picture in the Balkans is more mixed. The SAP states had during the 2000s experienced a marked democratic improvement

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compared to the 1990s but with the exception of Croatia again lagged far behind the democratic condition of the 1997–99 invitees. Commission progress reports of 2005 noted in all cases the long-distance yet to travel in terms of democratic consolidation.92

Enlargement and security Enlargement of the EU has its limits, even if these are expressed in an often vague and ambiguous manner. The fact that the Union has eventually embraced an expansive enlargement does not make the limits of this process any less significant for those left outside. The EU is the single most important institutional marker of European identity and it is thus a symbol of outsider status for states whose ‘Europeanness’ is uncertain.93 How far this matters depends on whether membership is a serious policy objective and whether or not non-membership is compensated for by other assumed attributes of status. Being outside the EU, is not, at face value, a major blow to Russia, but it is a source of alienation for Turkey and cause for increasing anxiety among political elites in Ukraine and the states of the Balkan region. In more practical terms, to be in the EU confers upon member state populations freedom of movement and freedom to work within the Union, legal protection provided by the European Court of Justice and expectations of stable economic growth integration. To be outside is to be denied these benefits.94 Enlargement thus perpetuates economic and political differentiation in Europe and this, ultimately, has security consequences. Security and the inclusion/exclusion dynamic Security considerations have not been the only rationale behind enlargement; they have, however, played an important role. Such concerns have informed Commission advocacy and, in parallel, have helped overcome a certain reluctance on the issue among member states. With the accessions of 2004, these concerns have helped to keep attention focused on enlargement, notably by reference to the Balkan region. Yet enlargement has also presented security problems of its own. The EU’s own internal security could be jeopardised as it takes in states with recent histories of territorial disagreement and internal conflict. This is a problem, most obviously, in the former Yugoslavia but applies throughout Eastern Europe and the Baltics, as well as in relations between Greece and its neighbours, Macedonia and Turkey. The EU has been especially sensitive to these issues and the protection of minority rights has been a central condition attached to the operation of the EAs, the PCAs and the SAAs, and to the disbursement of funds under PHARE, TACIS and (in the Western Balkans) the CARDS programme. A range of EU-led initiatives in the former Yugoslavia (the ‘Royaumont’ process for democracy and civil society in South-eastern Europe, the Stability Pact for Southeastern Europe launched in 1999 and the SAP) is also premised on minority

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protection and the related matter of fostering ‘good-neighbourly’ relations. The EU’s influence on these matters has been greatest when improvement has been a condition of membership and consequently an express object of attention in pre-accession strategies and negotiations. Thus, the EU has exercised positive leverage in the Baltic region (Polish–Lithuanian relations) and among the acceding states of Eastern Europe (Hungarian–Romanian relations).95 In the former Yugoslavia, conditionality and an explicit membership perspective has encouraged regional cooperation following the conflicts of the 1990s. Indeed, according to one Croatian official the reduced possibility of ‘military conflict in the Balkans is mainly due to the EU’s pressure on all the countries of the region to stabilise internally. This pressure comes in various forms [. . .] All these, however, lead to a realisation that externally, in their relations with neighbouring countries, the involvement [of the Balkan states] in further conflicts would be harmful to their development.’96 Enlargement also brings the EU into closer proximity to what the European Security Strategy has referred to as ‘troubled areas [. . .] to the East of the European Union and on the borders of the Mediterranean’.97 As a report of the Commission noted in 2000, enlargement may make an immense contribution to stabilising Europe, but at the same time it runs the risk of moving the external borders of the Union and thereby establishing a potential ‘new fault line separating stability and prosperity on one side from instability, conflict and development lags on the other’.98 These security risks are certainly regarded with some seriousness among EU member states. A range of civilian instruments and quasi military instruments have been developed to address them at source. Indeed, in the case of the Western Balkans, ESDP has come to sit alongside NATO and the UN as the third leg of political–military stabilisation.99 What all of this suggests is that enlargement and accession entrenches a security distinction. As Christopher Hill has noted, when considering the security implications of enlargement, ‘almost everything comes down in the end to the question of where the borders settle down, and who is included/excluded’.100 The external border of the EU is not, however, a hard-and-fast demarcation with the outside world. The Union possesses different categories of border. Those with rich adjacent states such as Iceland and Norway are ‘as if’ borders that are, in effect, open to EU states owing to association with the Schengen common immigration and border policy.101 There are also transitional borders – those with the accession states of 2004 and 2007, which entail the relaxation of visa restrictions prior to entry and the progressive incorporation into the Schengen system thereafter. Much firmer borders exists between member states of the EU, on the one hand, and non-members on the other. The EU’s predominantly maritime border with the Southern Mediterranean states of North Africa and the Middle East is a ‘hard’ frontier of this sort as is the land border between EU states and those outside in either the Western Balkans or the FSU. This demarcation is intimately linked to the so-called ‘Area of Freedom, Security and Justice’ of the EU.

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The ‘Area of Freedom, Security and Justice’ Central to the EU’s role in meeting security challenges is the JHA policy area developed under the so-called ‘third pillar’ created by the TEU (Maastricht). JHA activities encompass a considerable array of activities but their core purposes are clearly set out in the TEU (Nice), namely ‘to provide citizens with a high level of safety within an area of freedom, security and justice by developing common action among the Member States’. That objective, the Treaty continues, ‘shall be achieved by preventing and combating crime, organised or otherwise, in particular terrorism, trafficking in persons and offences against children, illicit drug trafficking and illicit arms trafficking, corruption and fraud’ through cooperation by police, customs and judicial authorities.102 The development of JHA reflects two important processes. The first is the ‘securitisation’ of new dangers other than the conventional military threat to the state. These threats emanate both within the Union but also, significantly, from outside. Hence JHA has been driven by post-Cold War security challenges such as transnational crime and drug trafficking, terrorism, and immigration and refugees. The second is the interrelationship between the concepts of ‘freedom’ and ‘security’. The ‘Area of Freedom, Security and Justice’ is premised on a notion of freedom that entails unhindered movement by citizens of EU member states across internal borders and, in addition, the ability of these same citizens ‘to live in a law-abiding environment’ guaranteed by the actions of national and EU authorities aimed at effective law enforcement and access to justice.103 This, in some respects, is a profound development. The disappearance of internal borders is not only a signifier of EU economic and social integration but also goes to the very heart of its status as part of the European security community. The removal of contestation over borders has been taken a step further by the development of cross-border communities, and for those living and working within the Union the borders have increasingly obtained a virtual quality. For those outside the Union, however, things appear rather different. As Jorg Monar has pointed out, the EU’s internal preoccupation has a major external implication for ‘[i]t implies a fundamental distinction between a “safe(r) inside” and an “unsafe(r)” outside with the EU’s frontiers as the dividing line and law enforcement as the key instrument to maintain and further enhance this distinction’.104 The single-most important instrument in this regard is the Schengen system. Schengen dates from 1985 when a group of five EU member states agreed to lift border controls among themselves. A Protocol to the Treaty of Amsterdam incorporated the by-now extensive Schengen acquis into the EU (albeit with special opt-out provisions for the UK and Ireland) and required that acceding members would have to accept the Schengen acquis in full. Progress in this field became a major concern of enlargement negotiations, in turn given added emphasis by the tightening of restrictions on travel following 9/11. For the 2004 and 2007 EU entrants, ‘internal’ borders with existing EU member states would become more porous but in parallel these states have been expected to reinforce

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their external borders with non-EU states. These borders have consequently become the EU’s new ‘front line’.105 This is problematic on a number of grounds. Border controls may be ineffective (criminal gangs can easily circumvent them), counter-productive (hindering the legitimate flow of asylum seekers and migrant workers), and divisive (detaching groups resident outside the Union or curtailing intercommunal relations of groups who straddle its external borders).106 In certain cases, the EU has tried to modify this situation through the negotiation of specific visa and entry requirements; such arrangements have been agreed with Croatia, Russia and Ukraine. Overall, however, for non-EU neighbouring states, having to contend with ‘hard’ EU borders, many of which were formerly open, creates negative perceptions of European integration and a clear feeling of exclusion from it. The following examples illustrate these sorts of issue: •

•

•

Since 2001, the EU has maintained Schengen visa ‘white’ and ‘black’ lists. Nationals of countries on the latter require a visa to enter the EU. Despite their increased ties with the EU, the Western Balkan states of Albania, BiH, Macedonia and Serbia-Montenegro have been placed on the black list. This reflects an appreciation within the EU of the security risks emanating from the region and specifically illegal migration and transnational crime. The EU has also sought to assist these states in upgrading their border management systems. However, within the region the visa requirements are seen as expensive and overly restrictive, discouraging legitimate travel from groups (students, the media, business, government officials etc.) capable of fostering the region’s wider integration. The upshot, according to one assessment, is the entrenchment of a sense of isolation in the Balkans with the attendant risk of a relapse into extreme nationalism, religious intolerance and the civil conflicts of the 1990s. A visa regime premised on insulating the EU from one set of security threats could thus have the inadvertent effect of encouraging security problems of a more destructive nature.107 Ukraine borders on the new EU states of Hungary, Slovakia and Poland as well as the accession state of Romania. For much of the 1990s, these borders were largely open thus encouraging transit trade and the re-establishment of inter-communal contacts severed during the communist period. The tightening of border controls and new visa regimes in the 2000s have led to concerns in Ukraine that a new ‘paper curtain’, in former President Leonid Kravchuk’s words, could come to replace the Berlin Wall of the Cold War.108 These fears have also been shared among Ukraine’s neighbours. The Polish government, for instance, has complied with Schengen requirements despite reservations concerning the status of the large Polish minority in Ukraine, the possibility of Ukraine’s post-communist ‘Europeanisation’ being reversed and heightened tensions along the border regions.109 Moldova will from 2007 share a border with EU state Romania. These two countries have intimate historical ties. A large part of present-day Moldova

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was incorporated within Romania during the inter-war years and some twothirds of contemporary Molodova’s population is Romanian-speaking. By the beginning of 2000, approximately 300,000 Moldovans held joint Romanian citizenship. In July 2001, Romania introduced passport controls along the border with Moldova. A visa system will operate from 2007. Under Schengen procedures, Moldovans also face increasing difficulty in travelling to near EU neighbours Hungary and Slovakia. While for the EU these restrictions have been justified by reference to problems such as large-scale people-trafficking, there are also wider repercussions. One Moldovan study suggested in 2001 that the consequence would be to isolate Moldova still further from the states to its west and encourage a process of reintegration with the Russian-led Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS). Such a turn would also be a barrier to European diplomacy on Moldova’s transDniester conflict.110 In broad terms, the hardening of the EU’s external border can be seen as a response to the new security threats of the post-Cold War period. Yet while this gives some credence to the enhanced security role of the EU, it has been perceived as a negative development on two grounds. First, it inhibits the free movement of persons and thus reverses one of ‘the unquestionable achievements’ of the end of the Cold War.111 Second, it is a process driven principally by the perceived security needs of existing EU member states. These are, in turn, imposed upon acceding and candidate countries and fuel tension and a sense of isolation among neighbouring states in the FSU and the Balkans. On this basis the EU’s ‘Area of Freedom, Security and Justice’ can hardly be regarded as a ‘security and stability factor’ for Europe as a whole.112 The ENP The border issue illustrates in stark form the disadvantaged status of those ‘left over’ or ‘left out’ of enlargement113 and thus the importance for the EU of fashioning relations with its extended neighbourhood. In this respect a clear distinction has emerged in the EU’s approach between, on the one hand, those states with accession and candidate status (Bulgaria, Romania, Croatia, Macedonia and Turkey) or a long-term possibility of membership (the SAA states of the Western Balkans) and ‘neighbouring countries’ on the other, ‘that do not currently have the perspective of membership of the EU’.114 This distinction, always implicit in the process of enlargement (see the discussion of the PCAs above), was from 2003 articulated much more explicitly within the framework of the ENP. This policy has come to apply to the states of the western FSU (Belarus, Moldova and Ukraine115), the South Caucasus, and the Mediterranean states already grouped under the EMP. ENP is derived from what even the European Council has referred to as the adverse consequences of enlargement and the possibility of ‘new dividing lines in Europe’.116 The Commission’s first major communication on ENP referred to the EU’s ‘interest in enhancing relations with the new neighbours’. ‘Over the

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coming decade’, it continued, ‘the Union’s capacity to provide security, stability and sustainable development to its citizens will no longer be distinguishable from its interest in close cooperation with the[se] neighbours’.117 ENP was thus seen as building upon existing EU initiatives such as the Barcelona Process, the Northern Dimension launched in 1999, and the Common Strategies toward Ukraine, Russia and the Mediterranean. More specifically, ENP foresaw EU developing initiatives in regard to ‘lawful migration’ and border cooperation, ‘common security threats’ (terrorism, transnational crime etc.), and ‘conflict prevention and conflict management’, building upon the CFSP and ESDP.118 A subsequent communication focused in greater detail on cooperation along the external borders of the enlarged Union. In the first instance (2004–6) this would entail an extension of existing instruments to promote cross-border economic, social, transport and energy development, common action against security challenges and the promotion of local “people-to-people” contacts.119 From 2007 a ‘new Neighbourhood Instrument’ would be developed ‘allowing for a mix of cross-border and regional cooperation activity to be developed around the external border’.120 As for its impact in terms of inclusion and exclusion, ENP can be considered in three senses. The first concerns its overarching security relevance. Here, the initiative does have some merit. It is, according to Sven Biscop, ‘a valuable attempt to implement [a] comprehensive approach to security’ in line with the European Security Strategy and to ‘integrate the military, economic, political and social dimensions of the EU’s external policies’.121 That said, ENP adds to but does not replace existing initiatives such as the PCAs and thus its ‘value-added’ is difficult to extrapolate from these other well-established formats of association. Further, given the geographic magnitude of the EU’s neighbourhood and the multiplicity of problems that reside there, effective implementation of EU initiatives requires local cooperation and thus becomes subject to all manner of obstacles that stem from the indifference, weakness and even hostility of national governments and the complicating effects of broader international developments (the regional conflicts in Moldova and the South Caucasus, for instance). Second ENP can be considered by direct reference to issues arising from the EU’s external borders, and on this count it does very little to alter the sorts of demarcation noted above. All but one ENP state (Israel) is included on the Schengen visa black list. Individual Action Plans with ENP partners do make reference to cooperation on visa policy, immigration and border management and, as noted above, ENP potentially offers a framework for bringing together existing but disparate initiatives relevant to cross-border cooperation. So far, however, this has had little practical impact beyond cataloguing existing forms of dialogue. Ukraine is a limited and partial exception – negotiations on relaxing visa requirements for Ukrainians were launched in late 2005 (Ukraine itself having lifted visa restrictions on EU citizens earlier that year). Third, ENP itself is premised on differentiation, with varying levels of cooperation determined, in part, by the aspirations of the partner and, in part,

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by the scope for development in existing EU–partner relations. A state like Ukraine, for instance, has sought to take fuller advantage of ENP given its longterm membership aspirations than have say Syria or Belarus given their much more fraught relations with the EU and its member states. ENP, however, does not in itself provide a ladder to membership even for those states who are geographically eligible and who pursue intensive forms of cooperation. The best the ENP offers is a transition from Individual Action Plans to undefined European Neighbour Agreements to replace the PCAs.122 On this basis the policy has garnered mixed reactions. The states of the South Caucasus, for instance, were initially aggrieved that they had been left out of the initiative altogether. Their belated inclusion in 2004 was welcomed in all three states of the region although Georgia since the ‘Rose Revolution’ of 2003 has set its sights higher towards membership. Ukraine, since the 2004 ‘Orange Revolution’ has adopted a similar position. Yet in so doing, both states have resented ENP’s implicit status as an alternative to, rather than a path toward, membership.123

Conclusion Having surveyed its post-Cold War role (and building on our earlier categorisation – see pp. 108–9), the contribution of the EU to European security governance can be seen to occur in four ways. The EU’s core function has been to continue the process of European integration and thereby preserve peaceable relations – a security community among its member states. The second has involved the extension of security effects through conditionality and the ‘magnet’ of membership. The third has been the development of specific security instruments within the CFSP, ESDP and JHA fields. A further potential but still diffuse role of ‘anchor’ along and outside the European periphery has also been apparent in the EU’s relations with its neighbours, developed through preaccession instruments, association and partnership, and latterly the ENP. This chapter has demonstrated that while multiple pressures have contributed towards enlargement, a growing appreciation has developed of how the process relates to security. As noted in Chapter 1 security has long been a motivating factor among the states wishing to join the Union. Further, the leading judgement among the member states and the Commission appears to be that enlargement ‘is a security policy in itself’.124 This process has brought a multiplicity of states into the Union’s security community while creating powerful incentives for others still to follow a similar route. Having been criticised for tardiness during much of the 1990s, the waves of enlargement achieved by the EU in first 1995 and much more sweepingly in 2004 (and 2007), might thus be regarded as a laudable contribution on the part of the EU to the wider stability of Europe. The EU’s engagement with the Western Balkans during the 2000s through a variety of instruments may, in turn, be a precursor to a future enlargement and long-term pacification of this most troubled region of Europe.

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Issues of exclusion remain, however. The EU’s contribution to the stabilisation and integration of Europe has, through the logic of enlargement, come to define ever more acutely a border issue – in a very material sense according to the Schengen system, and also politically by reference to the status of non-members. Notwithstanding the commitments the EU has entered into, the scale of enlargement renders the position of existing candidate and aspirant states that much more exposed – exposed to the increased leverage of the EU through even tougher conditionality and exposed also to a growing scepticism on enlargement among European publics and governments. This is a situation that much of the Western Balkans will face for the foreseeable future and one Turkey has already faced for decades. More stark is the position of those states effectively beyond the purview of the enlargement process. In this connection, the nonBaltic FSU, whatever the ambitions of Ukraine or Georgia, seems stuck in a permanent intermediate position of partnership but not membership. This existence of this diverse group of states poses major challenges to the EU, which the ENP and other forms of partnership have only begun to address and which, given the status and peculiarities of Russia in particular, suggest that an inclusion/exclusion dynamic will persist in the enlarging EU’s relationship with the expansive region to its east.

Notes 1 The EU, legally speaking, did not come into existence until the implementation of the Maastricht Treaty in 1993. The terms EEC, EC and EU have specific historical (and under the TEU, institutional) applications. However, unless a specific meaning is intended, this chapter will generally refer to the EU as a label of convenience. 2 N. Nugent, ‘The Deepening and Widening of the European Community: Recent Evolution, Maastricht and Beyond’, Journal of Common Market Studies, Vol. 30(3), 1992, pp. 311–28. 3 U. Sedelmeier and H. Wallace, ‘Policies towards Central and Eastern Europe’, in H. Wallace and W. Wallace (eds), Policy-Making in the European Union (Third edition, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), p. 354. 4 A. Hyde-Price, Germany and European Order: Enlarging NATO and the EU (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 2000), pp. 176–8. 5 M.A. Smith and G. Timmins, Building a Bigger Europe: EU and NATO Enlargement in Comparative Perspective (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000), p. 160. 6 O. Wæver, ‘Insecurity, Security, and Asecurity in the West European Non-War Community’, in E. Adler and M. Barnett (eds), Security Communities (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 99. 7 A.G.V. Hyde-Price, European Security beyond the Cold War: Four Scenarios for the Year 2010 (London: the Royal Institute of International Affairs and Sage Publications, 1991), p. 113. 8 D. Allen, ‘West European Responses to Change in the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe’, in R. Rummel (ed.), Toward Political Union: Planning a Common Foreign and Security Policy in the European Community (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1992), pp. 115–34. 9 Presidency Conclusions, Extraordinary European Council, Dublin, April 1990, Bulletin of the European Communities, 4, 1990, p. 7.

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10 Strasbourg European Council, December 1989, Declaration on Central and Eastern Europe, at: http://europa.eu.int/rapid/pressReleasesAction.do?reference=DOC/89/3& format=HTML&aged=1&language=EN&guiLanguage=en [5 January 2006]. 11 Commission of the European Communities, Commission Opinion on Turkey’s Request for Accession to the Community, Brussels, 20 December 1989, Sec. (89) 2290 final/2,paragraph 10. The document pertained to Turkey’s request for accession, but the ‘general considerations’ drawn in the document make it clear that this view applied to enlargement writ large. 12 D. Kennedy and D.E. Webb, ‘The Limits of Integration: Eastern Europe and the European Communities’, Common Market Law Review, Vol. 30(6), 1993, p. 1101. 13 PHARE is the French acronym for Poland and Hungary Assistance for Economic Restructuring. 14 These phrases were used in the initial PHARE contracts with individual East European states. 15 In 2001, these two states plus Albania were transferred from PHARE provisions to the CARDS programme (Community Assistance for Reconstruction, Development and Stability in the Balkans). 16 These objectives are laid out in the preambles of the EAs. The reference here is to that with Poland in Official Journal of the European Communities, 31 December 1993, No. L.348/2. 17 Separate EAs were subsequently signed with the Czech Republic and Slovakia in October 1993. 18 EU–Western Balkans Summit, Thessaloniki, 21 June 2003: Declaration, at: www.eu2003. gr/en/articles/2003/6/23/3135/index.asp [5 January 2006]. 19 Iceland, Liechtenstein and Norway. 20 C. Hillion, ‘Institutional Aspects of the Partnership between the European Union and the Newly Independent States of the Former Soviet Union: Case Studies of Russia and Ukraine’, Common Market Law Review, Vol. 37(5), 2000, p. 1217. 21 M. Mannin, ‘Policies toward CEEC’, in M. Mannin (ed.), Pushing Back the Boundaries: The European Union and Central and Eastern Europe (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1999), p. 37. 22 M. Smith, ‘Negotiating New Europes: The Roles of the European Union’, Journal of European Public Policy, Vol. 7(5), 2000, p. 815. 23 S. Lavenex, ‘EU External Governance in “Wider Europe”’, Journal of European Public Policy, Vol. 11(4), 2004, pp. 680–700. 24 A. Higashino, ‘For the Sake of “Peace and Security”? The Role of Security in the European Union Enlargement Eastwards’, Cooperation and Conflict, Vol. 39(4), 2004, pp. 347–68. 25 Commission of the European Communities, Towards a Closer Association with the Countries of Central and Eastern Europe SEC (93) 648, 18 May 1993, p. 3. 26 Commission of the European Communities, ‘Agenda 2000. For a Stronger and Wider Union’, Bulletin of the European Union Supplement 5/97, p. 34. 27 Composite Paper. Reports on Progress towards Accession by Each of the Candidate Countries, October 1999 at: http://europa.eu.int/comm/enlargement/report_10_99/pdf/en/ composite_en.pdf [5 January 2006], p. 4. 28 Speech in Szczecin, Poland, 4 March 2004 at: http://europa.eu.int/comm/archives/ commission_1999_2004/verheugen/pdf/04.03.04szczecinEN.pdf [5 January 2006]. 29 Commission of the European Communities, The Stabilisation and Association Process for South East Europe First Annual Report, Brussels, 4 April 2002, COM (2002), 163 final, p. 4. 30 C. Patten, ‘The Last Piece in Europe’s Jigsaw Puzzle’, Guardian, 19 June 2003. 31 France, Belgium and Italy had made a declaration to this effect in September 1997. 32 G. Falkner and M. Nentwich, ‘Enlarging the European Union. The Short-Term Success of Incrementalism and Depoliticisation’, in J. Richardson (ed.), European Union: Power and Policy-Making (Second edition, London and New York: Routledge, 2001), pp. 260–82.

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33 H. Grabbe and K. Hughes, Enlarging the EU Eastwards (London: the Royal Institute of International Affairs, 1997), p. 5. 34 F. Schimmelfennig, ‘The Community Trap: Liberal Norms, Rhetorical Action and the Eastern Enlargement of the European Union’, International Organisation, Vol. 55(1), 2001, pp. 47–80. 35 J. Smith, ‘An Ever Larger Europe?’, Briefing paper (Royal Institute of International Affairs, European Programme), new series, No. 14, May 2000, p. 4. 36 New York Times, 14 December 2002. 37 Commission of the European Communities, ‘Europe and the Challenge of Enlargement’, Bulletin of the European Communities, Supplement 3/92, pp. 9–10 (emphasis added). 38 Commission of the European Communities, ‘Agenda 2000’, pp. 13, 57. 39 Newsline (Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty) 16 April 2004, at: www.rferl.org/ [5 January 2006]. 40 Luxembourg European Council, 12–13 December 1997, Presidency Conclusions, Introduction and paragraph 2, at: www.europarl.eu.int/summits/lux1_en.htm#enlarge [15 April 2003]. 41 Informal European Council: Athens Declaration, 16 April 2003, at: www.europa-web. de/europa/03euinf/10counc/athendec.htm [5 January 2006]. 42 For detail see U. Buechsenschuetz, ‘EU Welcomes New Members, But Where is the Enthusiasm?’, Endnote, Newsline (Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty), 30 April 2004, at: www.rferl.org/ [5 January 2006]. 43 O. Rehn, Commissioner Designate for Enlargement, Introductory Statement, Hearing of the European Parliament, 4 October 2004 at: http://europa.eu.int/rapid/press Releases Action. do?reference=SPEECH/04/437&format=HTML&aged=0&language=EN&gui Language=en [5 January 2006]. 44 Douste-Blazy suggested on this basis that any future enlargement would be subject to a referendum in France. Press conference, 13 December 2005, as reported at: www. serbianna.com/news/2005/02245.html [5 January 2006]. 45 These states have to satisfy progress within the SAP programme as well as the Copenhagen criteria before membership talks can begin. 46 D. Phinnemore, ‘Accession Conditionality after 2004: A Case of Moving Goalposts?’, CFSP Forum, Vol. 3(2), 2005. 47 Sedelmeier and Wallace, ‘Policies towards Central and Eastern Europe’, p. 454. 48 Southeast European Times, 15 November 2005 at: www.setimes.com/ [5 January 2006]. 49 F.S. Larrabee, ‘Ukraine and the West’, Survival, Vol. 48(1), 2006, pp. 96–7. 50 A. Mungiu-Pippidi, ‘Beyond the New Borders’, Journal of Democracy, Vol. 15(1), 2004, pp. 49–50. 51 www.bmdf.co.uk/rometreaty.pdf [5 January 2006]. 52 ‘European Parliament, Committee on Institutional Affairs’, Selection of Texts Concerning Institutional Matters of the Community from 1950 to 1982 (Luxembourg, European Parliament, 1983), p. 147. 53 Commission of the European Communities, ‘Europe and the Challenge of Enlargement’, p. 11. 54 Communication from the Commission to the Council and the EP, Wider Europe – Neighbourhood: A Framework for Relations with our Eastern and Southern Neighbours, Brussels, 11 March 2003, COM (2003), 104 final, p. 5. 55 New York Times, 22 June 2003. 56 La Stampa, 15 October 2002 at: www.lastampa.it/redazione/Interni/prodi2.asp [19 June 2003]. 57 O. Shusko, Ukrainian Monitor, October 2002 at: www.foreignpolicy.org.ua/eng/topic/ index.shtml?id=562 [31 October 2002]. 58 J. Caporaso, ‘The European Union and Forms of State: Westphalian, Regulatory or PostModern?’, Journal of Common Market Studies, Vol. 34(1), 1996, p. 47.

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59 Commission of the European Communities, The European Union: Still Enlarging (Luxembourg: Office for Official Publications of the European Communities, 2001), p. 3; Commission of the European Communities, ‘Agenda 2000’, p. 13. 60 See ‘The Euro-Mediterranean Partnership: Overview’, web site of the Commission at: http://europa.eu.int/comm/external_relations/euromed/index.htm [4 June 2003]. 61 Communication from the Commission to the Council and the EP, Wider Europe – Neighbourhood, p. 5. 62 This term is used in the preambles of the PCAs with Armenia, Azerbaijan and Georgia. 63 European Commission, Enlargement website, ‘Malta: Country Profile’ at: http://europa. eu.int/comm/enlargement/malta/index.htm [4 June 2003]. 64 See ‘Commission Opinion on the Application by the Republic of Cyprus for Membership – Extracts’ (issued 30 June 1993), at: http://europa.eu.int/comm/enlargement/cyprus/ op_06_93/ [4 June 2003]. 65 European Commission, Enlargement website, ‘Cyprus: Country Profile’ at: http://europa. eu.int/comm/enlargement/cyprus/index.htm [4 June 2003]. 66 W. Wallace, Opening the Door: The Enlargement of NATO and the European Union (London: Centre for European Reform, 1996), p. 10. 67 Commission of the European Communities, ‘Agenda 2000’, pp. 13, 47–51. 68 These sorts of problem were acknowledged within the EU itself. See Declaration on the Future of the European Union, Annex I, Presidency Conclusions, Laeken, 14–15 December 2001 at: http://europa.eu.int/comm/laeken_council/index_en.htm [5 January 2006]. 69 W. Kok, Enlarging the European Union: Achievements and Challenges, Report to the European Commission, European University Institute, Robert Schuman Centre for Advanced Studies, March 2003, pp. 67–9. 70 N. Nugent, The Government and Politics of the European Union (Fifth edition, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), p. 506. 71 R. Baldwin and M. Widgrén, ‘Winners and Losers under Various Dual-Majority Voting Rules for the EU’s Council of Ministers’, Policy Brief (Brussels: Centre for European Policy Studies), No. 50, April 2004. 72 D. Von Kyaw, ‘Don’t Stretch Europe’s Promised Land’, Financial Times, 7 November 2003. 73 A. Wivel, ‘The Security Challenge of Small EU Member States: Interests, Identity and the Development of the EU as a Security Actor’, Journal of Common Market Studies, Vol. 43(2), 2005, p. 402. 74 This includes mini-summits of the EU’s large states, the ‘EU-3’ of the UK, France and Germany which deals with Iran and the ‘G-5’ (these same three plus Italy and Spain) who cooperate on counter-terrorism. See C. Grant, ‘Can Variable Geometry Save EU Enlargement?’, CER Bulletin, Issue 44, October/November 2005. 75 European Council in Copenhagen, 21–22 June 1993, Conclusions of the Presidency, Section 7A iii at: www.europarl.eu.int/summits/copenhagen/co_en.pdf [5 January 2006]. 76 M.E. Smith, ‘Conforming to Europe: The Domestic Impact of European Foreign Policy Cooperation’, Journal of European Public Policy Vol. 7(8), 2000, pp. 613–31; E. Regelsberger, ‘The Impact of EU Enlargement on the CFSP: Growing Homogeneity of Views among the Twenty-Five’, CFSP Forum, Vol. 1(3), 2003, pp. 3–7. 77 G. Edwards, ‘The New Member States and EU Foreign Policy Making’, CFSP Forum, Vol. 3(6), 2005, pp. 13–14. 78 M. Vachudova, Europe Undivided: Democracy, Leverage, and Integration after Communism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), pp. 239–40. 79 Edwards, ‘The New Member States’, p. 13. 80 R. von. Weizsäcker, J.-L. Deheane and D. Simon, The Institutional Implications of Enlargement, Report to the European Commission Brussels, 18 October 1999, p. 3 at: http://europa.eu.int/igc2000/repoct99_en.pdf [5 January 2006].

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81 U. Guérot, ‘The EU Can Continue to Unite Without a Constitution’, European Affairs, summer 2005 at: www.europeanaffairs.org/current_issue/2005_summer/2005_summer_ 05.php4 [5 January 2006]. 82 Prime Minister Dominique de Villepin press conference, 13 December 2005 at: www.serbianna.com/news/2005/02245.html [5 January 2006]. 83 Consolidated TEU, Title I, Article 6.1 reprinted in The Treaty of Nice in Perspective, Volume Two: Consolidated Treaty on European Union (Stroud: British Management Data Foundation, 2001), p. 6. 84 M. Mannin, ‘Democratic Governance in CEE: the Conditions for Change’, in Mannin (ed.), Pushing Back the Boundaries, p. 98. 85 A. Williams, ‘Enlargement of the Union and Human Rights Conditionality: A Policy of Distinction?’, European Law Review, Vol. 25(6), 2000, pp. 601–17. 86 E.O. Eriksen, J.E. Fossum, and H. Sjursen, ‘Widening or Reconstituting the EU? Enlargement and Democratic Governance in Europe’, paper presented to 43rd convention of the International Studies Association, New Orleans, March 2002, p. 10. 87 Consolidated TEU, The Treaty of Nice in Perspective, p. 19. 88 European Council in Copenhagen, 21–22 June 1993, Conclusions of the Presidency, Section 7A iii at: www.europarl.eu.int/summits/copenhagen/co_en.pdf [5 January 2006]. 89 Vachudova, Europe Undivided, pp. 3–4. 90 See the data in Freedom House, Nations in Transit 2005 at: www.freedomhouse.org/ research/nattransit.htm [5 January 2006]. 91 T. Carothers, ‘The End of the Transition Paradigm’, Journal of Democracy, Vol. 13(1), 2002, pp. 5–21; M. McFaul, ‘Transitions from Postcommunism’, Journal of Democracy, Vol. 16(3), 2005, pp. 5–19. 92 These reports are available at: http://europa.eu.int/comm/enlargement/report_2005/ index.htm [5 January 2006]. 93 S. White, I. McAllister and M. Light, ‘Enlargement and the New Outsiders’, Journal of Common Market Studies, Vol. 40(1), 2002, pp. 135–53. 94 N. Winn, ‘In Search of Europe’s Internal and External Borders: Politics, Security, Identity and the European Union’, Perspectives on European Politics and Society, Vol. 1(1), 2000, p. 29. 95 M. Wohfeld (ed.), ‘The Effects of Enlargement on Bilateral Relations in Central and Eastern Europe’, Chaillot Paper (Paris: EU Institute for Security Studies), No. 26, June 1997; G. Pentassuglia, ‘The EU and the Protection of Minorities: The Case of Eastern Europe’, European Journal of International Law, Vol. 12(1), 2001, pp. 3–38. 96 Ms Pejcinovic-Buric, the Croatian State Secretary of European Integration, cited in E. Kavalski, ‘Peace in the Balkans: The Influence of Euro-Atlantic Actors in the Promotion of Security Community Relations in the Balkans’, PhD thesis, Loughborough University, 2005, p. 120. 97 J. Solana, A Secure Europe In A Better World: European Security Strategy (adopted by the European Council, Brussels, December 2003) (Paris: EU Institute for Security Studies, 2003), pp. 12–13. 98 Commission of the European Communities, ‘Strategic Objectives 2000–05, “Shaping the New Europe”’, Bulletin of the European Union (Supplement 1/2000), p. 20. 99 As well as the major peacekeeping operation in BiH (a continuation of NATO’s SFOR mission) already noted, a European Union Police Mission was established in BiH in January 2003 and in March of that year a peacekeeping operation was begun in Macedonia. 100 C. Hill, ‘The Geopolitical Implications of Enlargement’, in J. Zielonka (ed.), Europe Unbound: Enlarging and Reshaping the Boundaries of the European Union (London and New York: Routledge, 2002), p. 115, note 5. 101 M. Anderson with E. Bort, The Frontiers of the European Union (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2001), pp. 115–16.

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102 Treaty of Nice, Title VI Art 29, The Treaty of Nice in Perspective, p. 13. 103 ‘Action Plan of the Council and the Commission on How Best to Implement the Provisions of the Treaty of Amsterdam on [the] Area of Freedom, Security and Justice’, January 1999, Official Journal of the European Communities, C/19/04 (1999). 104 J. Monar, ‘Justice and Home Affairs in a Wider Europe: The Dynamics of Inclusion and Exclusion’, Working Paper 07/00 (2000), (Economic and Social Research Council ‘One Europe or Several?’ Programme), pp. 4–5. 105 H. Grabbe, ‘The Sharp Edges of Europe: Extending Schengen Eastwards’, International Affairs, Vol. 76(3), 2000, p. 527. 106 G.W. Rees and M. Webber., ‘Fighting Organised Crime: The European Union and Internal Security’, in A. Crawford (ed.), Crime and Insecurity in Europe (Tiverton: Willan Publishers, 2002), pp 77–101. 107 ‘EU Visas and the Western Balkans’ (International Crisis Group), Europe Report, No. 168, 29 November 2005. 108 Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, Daily Magazine,13 September 1999, at: www.rferl. org/nca/features/1999/09/F.RU.990913131055.html [28 July 2003]. 109 K. Wolczuk and R. Wolczuk, ‘Poland’s Relations with Ukraine: A Challenging “Strategic Partnership”’, in J. Smith and C. Jenkins (eds), Through the Paper Curtain: Insiders and Outsiders in the New Europe (London: Blackwell, 2003), pp. 88–92. 110 ‘EU Enlarged, Schengen Implemented – What Next? – Political Perspectives’, Institutul de Politici Publice (Chisenau) at: www.ipp.md/print.php?l=ro&pl=proj&id=13 [5 January 2006]. 111 J. Boratynski and G. Gromadzki, ‘The Half-Open Door: The Eastern Border of the Enlarged European Union’, Policy Papers (Stefan Batory Foundation, Warsaw), No. 2, March 2001, p. 7. 112 A. Mungiu-Pippidi, ‘Facing the “Desert of Tartars”. The Eastern Border of Europe’, in Zielonka (ed.), Europe Unbound, p. 69. 113 J. Van Oudenaren, ‘The Changing Face of Europe: EU Enlargement and Implications for Transatlantic Relations’, Policy Report (The American Institute for Contemporary German Studies, The John Hopkins University, Baltimore), No. 6, 2003, p. 45. 114 Communication from the Commission to the Council and the EP, Wider Europe – Neighbourhood, p. 4. 115 This group does not include Russia, which has preferred to develop relations through a ‘strategic partnership’ with the EU. See Chapter 6. 116 Presidency Conclusions, Copenhagen European Council, 12–13 December 2002, paragraph 22 at: http://ue.eu.int/ueDocs/cms_Data/docs/pressData/en/ec/73842.pdf [5 January 2006]. 117 Communication from the Commission to the Council and the EP, Wider Europe – Neighbourhood, p. 3. 118 Ibid., pp. 11–12. 119 As the communication noted, as well as the ENP states this would also involve the states of the Western Balkans as well as Bulgaria and Romania even though these ‘fall outside the political scope’ of ENP. Cooperative initiatives listed included (1) individual frameworks in the JHA field with PCA states (for instance, the EU–Ukraine JHA Action Plan of 2001), (2) PHARE and TACIS cross-border cooperation programmes, and (3) the INTERREG IIIA programme (2000–6) which includes projects along Greece’s borders with Albania and Macedonia, Sweden and Finland’s borders with Russia, and with more particular reference to ENP states, projects involving regions of Ukraine and Belarus that border with Poland, and Ukrainian regions bordering Hungary and Slovakia. See Commission of the European Communities, Paving the Way for a New Neighbourhood Instrument, Brussels, 1 July 2003, COM (2003), 393 final. 120 Ibid., p. 11.

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121 S. Biscop, ‘The EU, the OSCE and the European Security Architecture: Network or Labyrinth?’, paper presented to the Helsinki Monitor conference, Vienna, September 2005 at: www.irri-kiib.be/papers/lecture-OSCE-090905.htm [5 January 2006]. 122 Commission of the European Communities, European Neighbourhood Policy: Strategy Paper, Brussels, 12 May 2004, COM (2004), 373 final, p. 3. 123 Speech of Foreign Minister Boris Tarasyuk, Dublin, 8 February 2006 at: www.iiea. com/images/managed/events_attachments/UkrFMrapp. pdf [20 March 2006]. 124 A. Missiroli, ‘Conclusions’, in A. Missiroli (ed.), ‘Bigger EU, Wider CFSP, Stronger ESDP? The View from Central Europe’, Occasional Paper (Paris: the European Union Institute for Security Studies), No. 34, April 2002, p. 58.

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6 Russia: ‘included out’ 1

Is Russia part of the European security community? What is its relationship to the structures of European security governance? Partial answers to these questions were given in Chapter 3. There it was suggested that Russia occupies an ambiguous position – related to but not fully part of this community or its system of governance. This chapter elaborates this theme in greater detail. It first sets out in broad terms the nature of Russia’s exclusion. This is followed by an examination of Russia’s relationship with Europe in terms of a search on both sides for a more inclusive relationship. The possibilities and parameters of this relationship are then examined looking at the long-term prospects of Russian integration into the EU and NATO and, more schematically, its standing in relation to the core features of security governance.

Russia and the problem of exclusion The prominence of the EU and NATO in post-Cold War Europe has created an unavoidable sense of exclusion among those states left outside the process of enlargement. Here, Russia is of particular significance. For a variety of reasons, the sense of marginalisation and exclusion within the country is especially marked and Russia’s foreign policy has, in one sense, been a prolonged and sometimes painful exercise in compensating for this position. Russia’s situation of exclusion in Europe’s security affairs is, as we shall see, not absolute. However, two broad processes have left it in a disadvantaged position. The first of these relates to the nature of the Cold War settlement detailed in Chapter 2. The ‘distributive’ component of this, the dissolution of the Warsaw Pact, the collapse of the Soviet Union and the truncation of

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Soviet/Russian military power, meant an attenuation of the instruments of force which had both provided Moscow with presence and influence in Eastern Europe and the means by which it had compelled the attention of the West. The emergence of sovereign states in what had been the Soviet Union’s western Union republics (Belarus, Moldova, Ukraine and the three Baltic states), moreover, meant that Russia was placed at still further remove from Europe. The ‘regulative’ aspects of the Cold War’s end were equally problematic for Russia. The ascendancy of the values of liberal democracy and market economics were not entirely unwelcome, at least among the political elite that had gathered around Russia’s first post-Soviet President Boris Yeltsin. However, despite both the rise of Yeltsin and the programme of domestic restructuring or perestroika undertaken by the last Soviet leader, Mikhail Gorbachev, Russia found itself in 1991 on the wrong side of Europe’s political divide. Russia’s political and economic systems were at this juncture far removed from the features of democratic government seen as axiomatic in Europe’s Western half and at various points of emergence in Eastern Europe. The second broad process relates to developments consequent to the Cold War’s end and specifically the ascendancy and enlargement of NATO and the EU. Enlargement has entailed the ‘westward march’ of former Soviet satellites and a number of Union republics, and renders irreversible the loss of Russian influence.2 It is, moreover, a process over which Russia has no control and little influence. Russia has been forced to take on the role of an interested but impotent onlooker, looking askance as the main processes of European integration have occurred without its direct involvement. The leaderships of both Yeltsin and his successor Vladimir Putin have based their foreign policy on a claim to Russia’s continuing great power status, a presumption that is clearly challenged in Europe by the position of NATO and the EU. Both Gorbachev and Yeltsin’s acquiescence to some key developments in European security at the Cold War’s end (the INF Treaty of 1987, the CFE Treaty of 1990, the unification of Germany, the disbanding of the Warsaw Pact, the retreat of Soviet/Russian military forces, and the transition from communism in Eastern Europe) was premised on the view that Moscow’s cooperation in these matters would lead to its full participation in the ‘European security architecture’ as it was dubbed in the early 1990s (see Chapter 2). However, during the 1990s a number of events were construed as amounting to a deliberate marginalisation of Russia. NATO enlargement was the most significant, but other grievances, with a specifically European focus, related to the failure of Russia’s preferred body, the OSCE, to establish itself as Europe’s premium security forum, American and NATO military action in ending the Bosnian conflict, the tough negotiating stance taken by the NATO member states on renegotiating the CFE Treaty and, to cap the growing estrangement, NATO’s Operation Allied Force against Serbia in the spring of 1999. Domestic developments too were placed in this context. The Russian financial crash of 1998 was seen by many in Russia as the culmination of a decade of misguided economic reform inspired by Western models and advice, while criticism of Moscow’s

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second military campaign against Chechen separatism (launched in 1999) was viewed as unwarranted interference in its domestic affairs.3 Reflecting Russia’s predicament, its political elite had engaged from the mid1990s in a fulsome debate on foreign policy, something which saw the discrediting of the pro-Western views associated with Foreign Minister Andrei Kozyrev. Emblematic of the consequent shift of opinion (and of policy) was Yeltsin’s appointment in January 1996 of Yevgeny Primakov (a formerly high-ranking Soviet official) as Foreign Minister and the elevation of the notion of ‘multipolarity’ to official state policy. For Primakov, multipolarity was a means of reversing Russia’s ‘excessive leaning [. . .] toward the West’.4 Thus, while cooperation would remain, it was to be premised on the correction of an unfavourable situation. As the 1997 Russian National Security Concept pointed out, ‘Russia’s influence on resolving cardinal questions of international life [had . . .] decreased significantly’ and ‘a number of states’ had sought deliberately ‘to weaken Russia’s positions in the political, economic and military spheres’. In Europe specifically, the weakness of the OSCE as well as the Russian-led CIS meant that a system of ‘general and all-embracing security for Europe’ which might better serve Russian interests had failed to develop.5 Primakov’s successor, Igor Ivanov, writing in 2000, suggested similarly that a logic of ‘NATO-centrism’ and unipolarity had taken hold in Europe.6 Enlargement, he argued, threatened ‘new lines of division’ on the continent and was ‘in blatant disregard for Russia’s national interests’.7 Under Putin, the most vociferous criticisms in this respect have emanated from the military who continue to view enlargement as a direct threat to Russia despite NATO’s post Cold War and post-9/11 transformation.8 A significant minority of Russian public opinion also holds to this view.9 The civilian leadership, meanwhile, has regarded the process somewhat more pragmatically, influenced, in part, by a realisation that Russia is powerless to prevent it. Moscow nevertheless objected to the 2004 round (being especially sensitive to membership for the Baltic states) and remains opposed to future accessions especially involving neighbours such as Ukraine and Georgia. Enlargement, it is admitted, poses no direct military threat to Russia but is instead opposed on the grounds that it is, according to Putin, an irrelevant distraction from the need to tackle the ‘modern threats’ of terrorism and proliferation.10 For Russian Foreign Minister Sergei Lavrov, NATO enlargement also detracts from the need to build ‘together, on a collective and equal basis [. . .] a united Europe without the longing for old dividing lines and without the malicious hopes of creating new ones’.11 What such statements imply is a Russian concern at isolation rather than any fear of NATO’s military capabilities. A similar view is also expressed regarding other NATO initiatives. PFP links with the South Caucasus and Central Asia, for instance, have been criticised as drawing these states toward NATO military standards and thus undermining CIS military cooperation involving Russia.12 EU enlargement has also been viewed with increasing concern. Igor Ivanov, for one, has claimed that the EU has created ‘closed oases of prosperity’ and

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precluded the possibility for ‘all European states to play an active part in the political and economic life of the continent’.13 Finland’s accession to the EU in 1995 as well as that of the three Baltic states in 2004, furthermore, has meant the replacement of inter-state borders with Russia by the new outer borders of the EU. This has led President Putin to refer to a ‘Schengen Wall’ separating Russia from Europe,14 something which has a particular significance for Kaliningrad, a Russian enclave sandwiched between Lithuania and Poland and, by one view, ‘the most controversial [territorial] entity in post-Cold War Europe’.15 Other EU initiatives are also viewed with concern. The enlargement of 2004 means the EU and Russia now sit astride a ‘shared neighbourhood’ of Soviet successor states, two of which (Ukraine and Georgia) have declared their firm intention to seek entry into the EU. Expressions of support for Ukraine’s European aspirations among some new EU and NATO members (Poland most notably) have led senior Russian officials to claim that a deliberate strategy exists aimed at tearing Russia away from its neighbours and isolating it from Europe.16

Russia, Europe and the search for inclusion Russia–Europe The legitimacy of Europe’s post-Cold War order has thus not been entirely accepted in Moscow. Yet Russia has not behaved in the manner of a revisionist power. It has sought a coexistence with a European order dominated by NATO and the EU rather than pursue a course of outright opposition and subversion. Indeed, throughout the post-Cold War period Russia has placed a great emphasis on a full engagement in international life. This derives in part from an appreciation of the functional benefits of integration and cooperation but, in part also, from a desire to ‘advertise’ Moscow’s international credentials, to affirm in the face of doubts to the contrary that Russia remains an indispensable power.17 The upshot is a foreign policy outlook that demands a ‘right’ of involvement (and thus influence) and which is sensitive to perceived incidences of marginalisation. Indeed, the prominence of these themes in official Russian discourse has led one commentator to suggest that ‘inclusion/exclusion [. . . stands] as the chief meaning/organising concept guiding Russia’s position in relation to particular institutions or countries’.18 In Europe specifically, Russia faces multiple opportunities for partnership and cooperation, but does so within a setting not of its own making. Its participation, consequently has tended to be broadly cooperative but, nonetheless, conditional. In his 2003 state of the nation address, President Putin suggested that a ‘broad rapprochement [. . .] with Europe’ offered to Russia the prospect of a stable international environment for domestic reform and an avenue of escape from international marginalisation.19 Yet at the same time, Russia has resisted certain of its institutional obligations in Europe, has eschewed

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membership of the EU and NATO and has complained when others have sought to join these bodies. Such equivocation has been compounded by the particular form of Russia’s identity politics. Whether Russia is predominantly European, Asian or some unique amalgam of the two is a question that has vexed its political and intellectual elites for centuries. This is, in part, a function of simple geography. Russia is the planet’s largest country and three-quarters of its territory lies to the east of Europe’s commonly accepted geographic border, the Ural mountains. Yet in the remaining third reside three-quarters of Russia’s population and its major metropolitan centres – Moscow, St Petersburg and Nizhniy Novgorod. While the consequences of ‘Russia’s enormity’ are deep-seated in its politics and culture, a basic presumption has nonetheless endured among the majority of Russians that they enjoy a cultural or civilisational affinity with Europe, even if this has been bound up with a view that Russia’s Europeanness has uniquely Slavic or Eurasian characteristics.20 Further, Europe has been viewed in Russia as part of a broader construct of ‘the West’ and this is a construct which has generated ambivalent images. According to O’Loughlin and others, two broad views of the West are popular among Russians. The first views it as a community of states in international affairs from which Russia is separate, a view in turn reinforced by the decline of Russia’s post-Soviet international status. The second views the West as a successful model of socio-economic organisation, the achievements of which highlight Russia’s own failings while also impressing upon its population and leadership the necessity of catching up through accelerated economic development. According to O’Loughlin neither of these broad views are ‘necessarily antagonistic [and] oppositional’ toward the West (indeed the second suggests a certain positive identification) but neither can they be said to be indicative of any natural affinity.21 Taken together, these issues of status and identity have had a significant effect on Russian foreign policy. The emergence of multipolarity under Yeltsin was an attempt to accommodate Russia’s multiple regional priorities, as well as its unresolved debate on national identity. Yet rather than providing clarity and a sense of direction, this approach was, in fact, too multifaceted and imprecise. According to Bobo Lo, during the Yeltsin period ‘the country of multiple identities appeared to metamorphose into a nation of no particular identity: not European, nor Asian, nor even Eurasian and certainly not global’.22 Further, policy framed in these terms tended towards confrontational assertions of Russia’s international status. The last months of Yeltsin’s presidency were thus characterised by neo-Cold War warnings of Russia’s nuclear might, a willingness to side with China against the US and an imperviousness to European and American criticisms of its policy in Chechnya.23 The deterioration of Russia’s domestic and international position provided the context for Vladimir Putin’s assumption of the presidency in December 1999.24 The Putin leadership has subsequently steered Russian foreign policy towards a more committed, if still guarded, engagement with the West. At one

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level, this has been seen as stemming from an explicit acknowledgement by Putin of Russia’s cultural and political affinity with Western values – a position reinforced by the international watershed of 9/11. This event, and the subsequent US-led ‘war on terror’, presented Russia, according to Lo, with an opportunity to ‘accelerate the process of repackaging Russian identity in the contemporary world’, a means by which Russia would ‘shed its outsider status and once again enter [. . .] the mainstream of the West’.25 The civilisational choice taken in September 2001 has, in turn, been seen as part of a broader alignment with European values, what Putin has referred to as Russia’s development within the ‘boundaries of European humanism’.26 Given that Putin has placed a greater (and more articulate) emphasis on Russia’s European character than that of Yeltsin, there has been a consequent assumption that under his leadership, Russia has pursued a ‘Euro-centric’ foreign policy.27 This has been reinforced by other more obviously material factors. Simple geographic proximity was noted above. Economics is also important. Throughout the 1990s and the 2000s, Russian indebtedness to Western creditors increased to the point where some observers were able to suggest that Russia had become ‘a hostage of the West’.28 This is probably overstating the case. However, post-Soviet Russia’s economic transition had clearly increased its economic dependency. The EU has become Russia’s major trading partner. Of particular note here are energy exports (Russia’s major source of hard currency earnings). In 2003 58 per cent of Russian oil exports and some two-thirds of its natural gas exports went to the EU.29 The EU (as well as the European Bank for Reconstruction and Development) has also been a modest but not insignificant source of financial and technical assistance, has championed the cause of Russia’s entry into the WTO, and EU member states have been significant sources of foreign direct investment. Europe is also germane for Russia’s security. This in the first place concerns the security challenges which face the country. The habit of viewing Europe as a source of threat has clearly been modified by the end of the Cold War. In Russia, whatever the rhetoric levelled against NATO, the appreciation of threat (among both military and civilian circles) is much more acute in relation to problems elsewhere. These are partly internal (socio-economic stabilisation, political order, terrorism and separatism), and also partly external (the presence of failed or weak states on Russia’s periphery, Islamic militancy and terrorist networks in the South Caucasus, Central Asia and Afghanistan, the rise of China and the encroachments upon Russia’s geostrategic and geoeconomic interests in Central Asia and the Caspian region, principally by the US).30 Further, Russia in the 2000s has endured several major terrorist incidents, the worst, the Beslan massacre of September 2004, sometimes referred to as its own 9/11. This has meant a growing emphasis on counter-terrorism in Russia’s internal and external security policies and, as part of this, a willingness to exploit every avenue of international cooperation on the issue, be this the UN, the CIS, the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation (that includes Russia, China and a number of Central Asian states) or, indeed, the EU and NATO.31

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Europe is not, therefore, Russia’s principal security challenge. Indeed, the dense network of institutionalised security relations there presents Russia with considerable opportunities for substantive cooperation. Here, however, is the rub, for the dominant institutional actors of security formally exclude Russia. Among Russians, greatest attention in this regard has tended to be levelled at NATO, but the EU too has come to be viewed as increasingly important with one keynote Russian document going so far as to suggest that it stands as a potential ‘pole’ of power to balance NATO and American influence in Europe.32 This, according to Dov Lynch, is the consequence of ‘two revolutions’ within the EU itself.33 The first, as already noted, is enlargement. The second relates to the EU’s external activities – the ESDP, the CFSP, as well as the adoption of the European Security Strategy (see Chapter 5). Many in Russia government remain unconvinced of the EU’s international weight outside of Europe but these initiatives do mean, according to Lynch, that Moscow has become ‘keenly aware of the emergence of a new actor in world affairs, one that is willing to act on behalf of its interests and is increasingly able to do so’.34 To summarise, the variety of factors noted in this section have made for a continuity in Russian foreign policy in favour of cooperative but conditional engagement with the West and, more specifically, with Europe. Putting this in a somewhat larger historical context, a comparison of sorts can be made with the late Soviet period. Gorbachev’s notion of the ‘Common European Home’ and Leonid Brezhnev’s promotion of détente in the early 1970s both reflected a search for a system of comprehensive European security that would be inclusive of Russian interests. Yeltsin and Putin, meanwhile, have had to adjust to more straitened circumstances in which the role of post-Soviet Russia is far less significant. As a result, Moscow has had to balance sometimes contradictory demands: the necessity of accommodation, on the one hand, with a striving for autonomy and status on the other. The essence of this approach was laid out by Putin in a speech to the Russian Foreign Ministry in July 2004: The latest wave of EU and NATO expansion has created a new geopolitical situation on the continent, and the task now is not so much to adapt ourselves to it as, first, [to] minimise the potential risks and damage to Russia’s [. . .] interests and, second, to find here advantages for ourselves and turn them to good account. Here [. . .] there is no alternative approach but to build up equal cooperation with the European Union and the North Atlantic Treaty Organization.35

Europe–Russia Western policies towards post-Soviet Russia have, broadly speaking, been characterised by conditional inclusion in which the Cold War themes of threat and security preparedness have been replaced by a language of cooperation and opportunity. This more sanguine position is not uniformly held within the US and Europe (and new members of NATO and the EU, most notably, have a less trusting inclination towards Moscow) but, at least in public pronouncements, it has come to be regarded as pretty much the ‘official’ line.

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With regard to the Alliance, the key texts are the NATO-Russia Founding Act on Mutal Relations, Cooperation and Security between NATO and the Russian Federation of May 1997 and the Rome Declaration on NATO-Russia Relations: A New Quality signed in May 2002. The message of both is seemingly clear. The first refers to ‘the determination of NATO and Russia to give concrete substance to their shared commitment to build a stable, peaceful and undivided Europe, whole and free, to the benefit of all its peoples’.36 The latter, meanwhile, asserts a ‘determination to build together a lasting and inclusive peace in the Euro-Atlantic area on the principles of democracy and cooperative security and the principle that the security of all states in the Euro-Atlantic community is indivisible’.37 While these are texts agreed with Russia, both could be taken as reflective of a positive sentiment within NATO on the cooperative possibilities of dealing with Moscow. As NATO Secretary General Lord Robertson claimed in a speech in Volgograd in November 2001, ‘[w]e in the West are now sure that Russia [. . .] wants to be a contributing part of the European family, rather than living in hostility or isolation [. . .] Russia and NATO are both essential security players in Europe. Neither can be ignored. Neither can be marginalised.’38 A similar message emerges from EU documentation. A Strategy for Future EU/Russia Relations, adopted by the European Council in December 1995, makes clear that the Union is ‘committed to establishing a substantial partnership with Russia in order to [. . .] avoid new dividing lines in Europe and to achieve the full integration of Russia into the community of free and democratic nations’. The document adds that ‘[t]he evolution of the European security architecture must reflect the comprehensive, indivisible and cooperative character of security in Europe and full recognition of Russia’s place in it’.39 The Common Strategy of the European Union on Russia adopted in June 1999, meanwhile, avers to the dangers of excluding Russia. The document’s opening sentence states that ‘[a] stable, democratic and prosperous Russia, firmly anchored in a united Europe [. . .] is essential to lasting peace on the continent’.40 Consistent with these statements, EU officials have pointed to Russia’s European character, its ‘European choice’ in foreign policy, and the ‘common responsibilities’ of the EU and Moscow in European and global affairs.41 Yet for all this high-flown sentiment, Western policy has nonetheless exhibited a degree of hesitancy, uncertainty and inconsistency when it comes to Russia. Recognition of Russia’s importance, during the 1990s at least, may simply have been a matter of engrained habit. The urgency and immediacy of attending to the Soviet Union during the Cold War created in Western capitals (and among dissidents in Eastern Europe who would later form post-communist governments) a keen appreciation of Moscow’s abiding importance. The Soviet Union’s collapse and the termination of the Cold War led to a revision of this judgement but did not result in its elimination. With the end of the Cold War, many leading Western politicians (Helmut Kohl in Germany, John Major in the UK, Bill Clinton in the US and Jacques Chirac in France) still proceeded, to some degree, from assumptions derived from the superpower status of Russia’s Soviet predecessor.

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Yet the passage of time means that the Soviet factor is of less and less influence. Other more enduring considerations have had a bearing on the sense of importance attached to Russia. In largely negative terms, Russia is seen to matter for the following reasons: •

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It remains a major military power. Russia’s conventional strengths have been seriously degraded as a consequence of underfunding and stuttering reform efforts but it retains a major nuclear arsenal. This is far less a threat than it was during the Cold War, even though Russia has made clear its ongoing reliance on strategic nuclear weapons as a means of national defence. Other objects of concern relate to proliferation, the safety of Russia’s military (and civilian) nuclear infrastructure (nuclear-powered submarines, power stations etc.) and the status of Russia’s biological and chemical weapons capability. Russia is the source of a variety of ‘soft’ security threats: arms and drugs smuggling, people trafficking, money laundering, the spread of HIV/Aids, and environmental degradation. In this respect, Kaliningrad has been a particular concern owing to high levels of organised crime, HIV infection and pollution. Russia remains a regional hegemon in its neighbourhood even if it has been challenged by increasing European, American, Turkish and Chinese influence. Moscow has claimed special rights in respect of the Soviet successor states. This has been of especial significance as a factor motivating Baltic accession to both NATO and the EU. European states have been critical of Russian interference and military presence in Georgia and Moldova as well as Moscow’s support of the authoritarian Lukashenko regime in Belarus. Russia is the leading state within the CIS Collective Security Treaty Organisation (CSTO) body posited in Moscow as a counterweight to increasing US and NATO influence in Central Asia and elsewhere in the FSU. Russia is a potentially disruptive influence because of its veto power in the United Nations Security Council (UNSC), its ties to pariah states such as Belarus, Iran and North Korea, and its role as a major arms exporter. Russia’s domestic political and economic transition has proven much more problematic than the majority of states in Eastern Europe. An early assumption that Russia might be anchored in the Western community of liberal democracies has thus been replaced by a view that domestic stability and order (the promise of the Putin administration) is the best alternative. Russia has presented the highest profile objections to the defining characteristics of Europe’s post-Cold War security governance, not least NATO enlargement and NATO’s use of force in Bosnia and over Kosovo.

In opposition to these negative positions, Russia has also been perceived in a much more positive light. This stems from the following considerations: •

Russia has dispensed with ideology in its foreign policy. The resort to national interests, foreign policy pragmatism and great power sentiment may still fuel competition with the West, but these factors are viewed as much less

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intransigent and, therefore, much more manageable than the ideological presumptions that partially fuelled the rivalry of the Cold War. Russia’s attenuated military capabilities mean it is no longer regarded as an immediate threat in most of Europe. Thus, while NATO enlargement has involved the modernisation of military infrastructure (tracking radar, airfields and military bases) in new members this has not been directed at Russian-related contingencies and has not involved significant local reinforcement by either conventional or nuclear means. Russia is a partner in dealing with common challenges to security. This is an assumption that has survived disruptions in relations over Bosnia, Kosovo as well as NATO and EU enlargement. In one sense, it has persisted because Russia is an unavoidable interlocutor given its position in the UNSC, its expert knowledge in areas relating to proliferation, terrorism and defence industries, and its regional influence in non-EU/NATO Europe as well as in trouble spots outside of Europe such as Afghanistan and the Korean peninsular. Russia’s neighbours to the west (Ukraine, Moldova and Belarus) and south (Armenia, Azerbaijan and Georgia) also constitute the new neighbourhood of the EU and NATO. This has provided plenty of scope for disagreement and competition but also opportunities for cooperation – for instance involving joint diplomacy and possibly peacekeeping. As already noted, Russia is a major source of fossil fuels, supplying prior to the 2004 enlargement some 22 per cent of the EU’s imported oil and 32 per cent of its natural gas.42 Cooperation with Russia in the energy field is thus regarded as essential ‘in enhancing the energy security of the European continent’.43

That Russia matters for Europe is thus self-evident and from this has followed the assumption that it must be engaged. Relations with Russia have developed through a variety of routes including the construction of bilateral ties (those on the part of the US, the UK, France, Italy and Germany being especially important), as well as a plethora of institutional and military arrangements, but central to the whole process has been the engagement of Moscow by the EU and NATO. This sets an important limitation however, both because of reservations in Moscow on enlargement and, as we shall see below, because the rise to prominence of these two organisations has entailed a lesser status for the OSCE and the UN, two institutions which Russia has at various times favoured. Can Russia be included? Membership of NATO and the EU On the basis of the above, are we led to the conclusion that Russia is destined to be semi-detached from Europe’s prevailing security arrangements? One counter to such a line of reasoning is to consider the possibility of Russian membership of NATO and/or the EU. Such a possibility has rarely been addressed as a serious

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policy issue, either within the organisations themselves or in Russia. Yet in the case of NATO there are at least grounds for its consideration. In the context of NATO’s first post-communist enlargement, much was made in academic circles of historical parallels: the need to embrace a defeated nation and avoid the pitfalls of a Versailles-type settlement, the success of NATO’s embrace (and subsequent restraint) of West Germany after the Second World War, and (as in cases such as Spain) the transformative impact of membership upon nascent democracies. On this basis, NATO enlargement, it was argued, should logically include Russia.44 A Russia in NATO, moreover, would be the logical fulfilment of NATO’s panEuropean vocation, would help neuter Russia’s great power thinking and would break a cycle of mistrust between Moscow and NATO’s old and new members.45 During the 1990s the force of these arguments was, to some degree, appreciated by the US, NATO’s leading power. The concept of enlargement held by the Clinton administration was one which, according to Deputy Secretary of State Strobe Talbott, ‘always included [. . .] the idea of Russia’s eventual eligibility and indeed its entry’. As Talbott argued, to rule out the country as a matter of principle would be both ‘[a] gratuitous insult to Russia and would belie [any] claim that NATO enlargement served the larger cause of inclusive integration’.46 Yet this view has been a minority one. The Bush administration retreated markedly from the position articulated under Clinton and in Europe only Germany has explicitly backed Russian entry.47 Other established NATO members, meanwhile, have tended towards non-committal ambiguity,48 while many of the newer members have been openly hostile.49 This reflects, in part, a lingering suspicion of Russian intentions, but perhaps more pertinently, the fact that absorbing Russia would require a serious reconsideration of the way the Alliance functions politically and militarily. Official views in Russia have also been ambivalent. Both Presidents Yeltsin and Putin have on occasion alluded to the possibility of Russian entry and as Dmitri Vassiliev has argued, a Russia in NATO offers numerous attractions to Moscow – admission to one of Europe’s premier security institutions, affirmation of Russia’s post-communist political and economic development and ‘an identification with the North American and Western European establishment “mainstream” [. . .] standing in opposition to the “Asiatic” and “underdeveloped” world’.50 Further, as Yeltsin had explained in 1994, Russian accession to what he referred to as ‘the political part’ of the Alliance would mean that it would ‘not be kept apart from the issues which all European countries will be discussing if they all suddenly become members of NATO’.51 Yet Russian gestures have been neither as insistent as the demands for membership in Eastern Europe nor as committed to the processes of military transformation and transparency required as conditions of entry. Russian membership is not supported by the military establishment, and as for the civilian leadership it is questionable whether it would be prepared to subordinate issues of defence and national security to Alliance consensus. Finally, there is an appreciation that Russia’s geostrategic situation is unique and consequently that

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NATO is an unreliable tool. As a former British Ambassador to Moscow has pithily noted, ‘Russian generals laugh at the idea that NATO might help to defend Russia’s frontiers in the Far East’.52 If Russia’s circumstances render NATO membership unlikely, then entry into the EU is well nigh impossible. This is not to say that the idea is without support. Ira Strauss has argued that the EU ought to at least acknowledge the possibility, for to rule it out (because of Russia’s size, geography or political system) would condemn the country to the status of permanent outsider, fuelling in the process a Russian national identity at best disinclined, and at worse antagonistic, towards processes of European integration.53 Others, however, have argued that precisely because the scale of integrating Russia is so daunting, then the EU ought to avoid encouraging false expectations. Referring to the hypothetical possibility of admission would pose the dilemma for the EU of having either to make the case for Russia’s exclusion on the grounds of conditionality or disregarding (and in the process discrediting) its own terms of entry.54 And in the unlikely event that Russia should meet the conditions of accession, further problems would be encountered. A state as large as Russia led by a political elite self-consciously upholding Russia’s great power credentials could, according to some observers ‘seriously unbalance the working of the EU political system’ to the point that it would be rendered inoperative.55 For both technical and political reasons, then, official circles in the EU and among its member states have been reluctant to raise the issue of Russian membership – and when it is, the matter has tended to be viewed in negative terms. One notable exception in this respect was the Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi’s remarks in July 2003, that Russian entry into the EU would be ‘a solution to the vision of Europe’. Tellingly, no other EU member state supported this position (see Chapter 5). Opinion within the Commission (which oversees enlargement) has, meanwhile, been uniformly ill-disposed. In Russia itself, EU membership has some support among liberal intellectuals. Dmitri Trenin, for one has argued that Russia’s ‘progressive marginalisation’ in the face of enlargement can only be corrected by a ‘conscious [. . .] decision in favour of Europe’. Accession to the EU may require ‘the efforts of two generations’ of Russians’ in order to implement structural economic reform, to integrate Russia’s transportation system with that of its EU neighbours and to effect a foreign policy reorientation away from anti-integrationist great power thinking.56 However, accession to the EU carries little credibility in public opinion57 and official circles rarely contemplate the possibility. The MediumTerm Strategy for Developing Relations between the Russian Federation and the EU outlines an ambitious approach to the EU up to 2010 premised on ‘strategic partnership’, enhanced political dialogue, ‘an effective system of collective security in Europe’, and ‘a pan-European economic and legal infrastructure’. It expressly rules out, however, ‘an officially stated objective of Russia’s accession to or [even] “association” with the EU’.58 Interviewed in October 2003, President Putin noted that within the visible ‘historic horizon’ he could not envisage ‘the

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full-fledged, formal entry of Russia into the EU’ and that it would be ‘up to a new generation of decision makers in Russia to see to it how the relationship between Russia and the EU [. . .] developed’.59 This approach reflects, in part, a sober assessment of the preconditions of accession but also an aversion to the supranational qualities of the EU. Membership would curtail domestic decisionmaking autonomy in the economic and social spheres, as well as in the area of JHA and, to some degree in foreign and security policy. As the Medium-Term Strategy makes clear, such infringements upon sovereignty remain incompatible with Russia’s status as a world power, ‘its freedom to determine and implement its [own] domestic and foreign policies’. Given that Russian membership of both NATO and the EU is unlikely, how else might the limits and extent of its inclusion in European security governance be judged? In exploring this question, the following analysis relies on the threefold characterisation of security governance elaborated in Chapter 3 looking at region, institutionalisation and compliance. Region Russia’s European credentials stemming from the attributes of geography, selfidentity and economic interdependence have already been noted. In addition, Russia has made an undoubted cultural contribution to a European canon and has, since at least the end of the eighteenth century been a major actor in European affairs. This was apparent through first, its impact on the continent’s major wars from the Napoleonic onward; second, its involvement in various arrangements of attempted European order (the Concert of Europe of the nineteenth century and, during the Soviet period, the Yalta settlement of 1945 and the détente process of the 1970s); and third its participation in European-based alliances (the nineteenth century Holy Alliance, the Triple Entente of 1907, the Nazi–Soviet pact and the post-war Warsaw Pact). It is also clear that the end of the Cold War in Europe was heavily dependent upon the acquiescence of the Soviet leadership (see Chapter 2). These factors do not, however, mean that Russian foreign policy is predominantly European in orientation. Its civilisational and cultural inclinations may be more towards Europe than Asia, but as Vladimir Baranovsky has argued, geopolitically speaking Russia is ‘undoubtedly in between the two [continents]’.60 This is an obvious consequence of Russia’s geographic expanse. Russia enjoys proximity not just to Europe but to the Indian sub-continent, the Pacific Rim region and the Far East also. The circumstances of Soviet dissolution also mean that it has significant security, economic and political interests (not least the circumstances of a well-spread Russian diaspora) in Central Asia, the South Caucasus and the Caspian Basin. On this basis, the official Foreign Policy Concept has suggested that Russia ought to pursue a ‘balanced’ foreign policy, one ‘predicated on [ . . . Russia’s] geopolitical position as a major Eurasian power’. This, the concept continues, ‘requires an optimal mix of efforts in every direction’61 or what, under Putin, came to be known as a ‘multi-vector’ or

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‘multi-dimensional’ foreign policy. This has a less competitive edge than the multipolarity of the Yeltsin period but retains an emphasis on the importance of the UN, regional structures in Asia and good relations with China, India and other regional powers.62 In line with this, Putin, like Yeltsin, has also sought to maintain a privileged relationship with the US even in the face of sometimes major disagreements (the Iraq crisis, for instance). The search for balance does not, however, preclude a problem of preference. As already noted, Russia has been ineluctably drawn towards the West owing to its relative economic and political strengths. This has involved some differentiation between the US and Europe, and the latter has been viewed as an essential component of Russian foreign policy in its own right. Yet how far a pragmatic engagement with Europe opens up the possibility of integration is another matter. This is an issue amply illustrated through the medium of institutionalisation. Institutionalisation Russia’s position as the Soviet Union’s ‘continuing state’, its aspirations to great power status and a desire to avoid marginalisation in the practical management of European security affairs has compelled Moscow towards engagement with a wide range of institutional arrangements. In the first place, Russia has been involved in a substantive body of arms control initiatives. The nuclear aspect of this has a clear bilateral connection to the US in the shape of the 1991 and 1993 Strategic Arms Reduction Treaties, and the 2002 Strategic Offensive Reductions Treaty. But outside of the strategic nuclear balance, Russia has participated alongside the US in nuclear initiatives which have a European focus. During the early–mid-1990s Russia helped secure (with the active cooperation of the US) the removal of former Soviet nuclear warheads from Ukraine and Belarus. This, in turn, facilitated the accession of these two states to the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty. Russia also oversaw the removal of tactical nuclear weapons (TNWs) from Eastern Europe and a number of former Soviet republics. A more comprehensive regime for TNW disarmament has subsequently failed to develop – however presidential initiatives taken by the Soviet and American presidents in 1991, followed by announcements by Russian President Yeltsin in 1992, did form the basis for cuts in the Russian TNW arsenal as well as American TNW forces earmarked for NATO. In the absence of a formal legal framework, the survival of this informal regime has been open to question. However, according to one authoritative source both Russia and the US have exercised restraint with no new systems deployed or developed and sizeable (but unverified) reductions of TNWs having occurred since the early 1990s.63 In parallel with these nuclear disarmament efforts, Russia has been the beneficiary of an extensive programme of cooperative threat reduction (CTR) assistance, provided principally by the US and the EU and aimed at the safe storage of nuclear, chemical and biological materials within the country. The US CTR programme dates back to 1991; the EU programme got underway in the

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mid-1990s and has been supplemented by the Northern Dimension Environmental Program, aimed at cleaning up radioactive waste in North-West Russia. While numerous technical and funding problems have been encountered, a political commitment on both sides has prevailed and for Russia an otherwise unavailable source of expert advice and finance has helped it to secure an extensive and, in some cases, unstable non-conventional infrastructure as well as assisting it in meeting its commitments under the Biological and Chemical Weapons Conventions. In terms of conventional weapons, Russian disarmament has been framed by the CFE Treaty. Under its terms, Russia has been liable for the largest burden of reductions of any of the thirty CFE state-parties. As of mid-2003 it had destroyed or converted 14,500 items of treaty-limited equipment representing over a fifth of the treaty’s total reductions.64 These reductions were necessitated by budgetary cuts as much as by the terms of the CFE Treaty itself. What remains noteworthy, however, is their scale and swiftness, and the fact that Russia has adhered to commitments entered into by a previous (Soviet) regime under very different security circumstances. That said, Russia’s compliance with the Treaty has not been free of difficulty. Under the terms of special provisions negotiated in 1996 and developed further in the 1999 CFE Adaptation Agreement, Russia was permitted a special dispensation in the so-called ‘flanks’ of the Treaty’s zone of application. In the northern flank (which includes the St Petersburg Military District, Kaliningrad and the Pskov region bordering the Baltic states and Scandinavia) no major problems of compliance have been encountered. In the southern flank, which includes Russia’s North Caucasus region, Russia had breached its limits as a consequence of deployments in and around Chechnya although in July 2002 NATO officially indicated that it recognised Russian compliance with its flank-zone commitments. The then nineteen members of the Alliance, however, continued to withhold ratification of the Adaptation Agreement on the grounds that additional Russian commitments (entered into at the 1999 OSCE summit in Istanbul) concerning military equipment and troops deployed in Georgia and Moldova were not being met. Upon enlargement in 2004 the matter was further complicated by the fact that four new NATO members (Slovenia and the Baltic states) not only shared this interpretation of Russia’s obligations but were themselves outside the CFE process, having never signed the original treaty. To add to these vexed issues, Moscow itself has questioned the terms of the CFE regime. In February 2004, the Russian Minister of Defence, Sergei Ivanov, argued that NATO enlargement had rendered the Treaty obsolete and no longer capable of upholding ‘stability and the balance of interests’ in Europe.65 The annual ministerial conferences of the OSCE in December 2003, 2004 and 2005 all failed to agree closing political declarations owing to the exercise of a Russian veto over the inclusion of references to its unfulfilled CFE commitments. Whatever the problems with the CFE regime, Russia’s institutional engagement has nonetheless been maintained. The Treaty has developed

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mechanisms for discussing issues of disagreement in the shape of periodic Review Conferences and a Joint Consultative Group. While Moscow has questioned the utility of the Treaty, it has not withdrawn from it. Sergei Ivanov’s complaint, significantly was accompanied by a demand to review the CFE regime and begin negotiations within the framework of ‘Russia–NATO partnership’ on a ‘new system of arms control and confidence-building measures’66. The Russian State Duma ratified the CFE Adaptation Agreement in July 2004. The Third CFE Review Conference convened in May 2006. Turning to involvement with more formal international organisations, a first category of significance for Russia concerns global bodies which have a bearing on Europe and which, from a Russian perspective, uphold its claim to great power status. This includes the G8, a body which Russia formally entered in 1998 and which Moscow subsequently argued ought to play a greater role in security affairs. G8 foreign ministers drafted a peace plan for Kosovo in June 1999, while the Kananaskis summit of the G8 in 2002 saw agreement on a Global Partnership against the Spread of Weapons and Materials of Mass Destruction with Russia as one of its major beneficiaries. Russia assumed the rotating presidency of the G8 for the first time in January 2006. Even more important is the UNSC where Russia enjoys permanent membership and veto power. Russia’s Foreign Policy Concept clearly argues that this body is a necessary counter to ‘restricted-membership Western institutions’.67 In this respect, Russia has posited the Security Council as a restraint on the unilateral use of force and as the best mechanism of conflict prevention and peacekeeping (as opposed to NATO-led missions). In actual fact, Russia’s record on these matters has been mixed. Attempting to uphold the relevance of the UN has involved Moscow in an uneasy mix of disagreement and cooperative actions. In the former Yugoslavia, for instance, it prevented the UK and the US from obtaining UN authorisation for Operation Allied Force, but then supported UNSC Resolution 1244 which established Kosovo as a de facto NATO protectorate. Earlier in Bosnia, Russia had condemned NATO air-strikes against Serb positions in 1994–95 but had previously, in 1992, supported resolutions setting up NATO-policed ‘No-Fly Zones’.68 A second set of organisations includes the OSCE and the Council of Europe. Both have been attractive to Russia because of their pan-European memberships and thus their potential as counterweights to a more exclusive ‘official Europe’ represented by the EU and NATO.69 Moscow waged a diplomatic campaign throughout the 1990s to elevate the position of the OSCE to that of a coordinating structure for the work of other European organisations including NATO. This was, however, a largely fruitless effort as the vast majority of OSCE members were hostile to Moscow’s position. In line also with the pragmatic appreciation of the staying power of the EU and NATO, Moscow has also moved away under Putin from grandiose schemes centred on the OSCE. This has been reinforced, in turn, by a view of that body as overly influenced by the bloc of EU/NATO member states and preoccupied with an agenda of human rights monitoring.70 Moscow

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nonetheless has continued to argue that no single organisation, be it NATO or the EU, can ‘give a full-format answer to the entire range of security risks and challenges’ or ought to ‘claim a monopoly in safeguarding security in Europe’. Rather, ‘equal cooperation’ ought to be promoted ‘among all European and EuroAtlantic organisations’, with a reformed OSCE continuing to play a leading role.71 As for the Council of Europe, Russia’s main achievement may simply be the acquisition of membership. This was granted in 1996 having been delayed owing to reservations in the Council’s Parliamentary Assembly over Russian conduct in Chechnya. Russia had made accession a touchstone of its inclusion in European structures and had complained that other post-communist states were being admitted to the organisation before it. Entry has, however, brought with it certain obligations. Council of Europe members are subject to scrutiny, complaint and redress (most notably through rulings of the European Court of Human Rights). Russia, significantly, has incorporated the European Convention on Human Rights into its domestic legal codes and has pursued other legal and political reforms (including a moratorium on capital punishment) prompted by Council of Europe commitments, even if on the issue of Chechnya it has remained in open defiance of opinion within the Parliamentary Assembly. The third set of international organisations is the most important in the European setting and relates to NATO and the EU. As noted above, NATO– Russia relations have a somewhat contradictory character. Neither side has, in principle, ruled out membership for Russia, but little effort has been taken to promote it. Yet an appreciation of each side’s importance has required that enlargement be accompanied by efforts to establish a meaningful partnership. The institutional aspects of this were first hammered out in the mid-1990s. For NATO this was meant to compensate Russia for enlargement while at the same time implicitly winning its acquiescence to that policy. For Russia, meanwhile, the relationship was intended to provide some sort of special status not enjoyed by any other non-NATO member. The upshot was a not always comfortable mix of the practical and the honorific. In June 1994 Russia signed up to the PFP programme having negotiated a separate protocol with NATO which recognised its ‘weight and responsibility as a major European, world and nuclear power’.72 Negotiations lasting a further year ensued before Russia presented its individual programme of cooperation under PFP. This was accompanied by a document on enhanced NATO–Russia dialogue which instituted consultations on a ‘sixteen plus one’ basis (i.e. the sixteen allies plus Russia). Later that year Russia signed up to participation in the NATO-led peacekeeping operation in Bosnia on condition that special arrangements be instituted which avoided placing Russian troops under direct NATO command. The ‘sixteen plus one’ format met fairly frequently but offered little in the way of practical substantive cooperation. Its main structural drawback, according to one observer, was that almost by definition it ‘presupposed that Russia was an institutional outsider’.73 ‘Sixteen plus one’, in other words, equated to ‘sixteen versus one’. The NATO–Russia Permanent Joint Council (PJC) established in

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1997 under the terms of the NATO–Russia Founding Act was a step forward in this respect. For two years the PJC engaged in seemingly useful discussions on issues ranging from civil emergency planning and search and rescue at sea, to theatre-missile defence and peacekeeping. Yet this body also laboured under certain drawbacks. Some were purely procedural (how PJC meetings were to be chaired) but others were more substantive. In negotiations on the Founding Act, Russia had demanded that the PJC should permit Moscow the ability to ‘block decisions [within NATO] that are unacceptable to it’.74 This was expressly ruled out in the Founding Act itself and Russia, in President Clinton’s phrase, would only be permitted a ‘voice in, but not a veto over, NATO’s business’.75 Despite this, Moscow continued to invest the PJC with an importance that was not shared among NATO members. It was particularly critical of NATO’s decision to launch Operation Allied Force without any prior notification or discussion (and temporarily suspended its participation in the PJC as a consequence). Yet Russia itself often frustrated the work of the PJC. NATO officials bemoaned the tendency of Russian officials to adopt set positions, for creating procedural difficulties and for seeking to upset Alliance solidarity. NATO states, in turn, responded by adopting pre-cooked positions prior to meetings. The working of the PJC thus returned to the unproductive format of ‘sixteen versus one’ (‘nineteen versus one’ from March 1999).76 An assessment of the state of NATO–Russia relations published in 2002 concluded that ‘the potential [. . .] contained in the Founding Act and the PJC [. . .] is far from fulfilled [. . .] The PJC has certainly so far proved to be insufficient to deal effectively with some crucial challenges to security or adequately to seize opportunities for cooperation. The NATO-Russia relationship of the last five years has thus not lived up to the expectations and hopes of either side.’77 The May 2002 Rome Declaration was a conscious effort to breathe new life into the relationship in view of these difficulties, but also to shift the agenda of cooperation. The declaration envisaged ‘cooperative efforts’ in crisis management, non-proliferation, arms control, search-and-rescue at sea, military reform, civil emergencies and so-called ‘new threats and challenges’. ‘[T]he struggle against terrorism’ was also given far more prominence than the brief reference to it in the Founding Act. In order to pursue cooperation, a new NATO–Russia Council (NRC) was established to replace the PJC. Like its predecessor, the NRC afforded Russia no influence over internal NATO business but it was to involve new methods of decision-making, moving away from ‘nineteen plus one’ in favour of ‘joint action at twenty’ (or twenty-seven following the 2004 enlargement). There would not, in other words, be a set NATO position presented to the NRC.78 This initially aroused some concern because it seemingly increased the possibilities for the thwarting of agreement by consensus. Not only might Russia jeopardise consensus but so too might one of the allies. Indeed, an informal principle of ‘retrievability’ by which any NATO member could pull an item off the NRC agenda offered the additional problem that some of NATO’s newer, more Russophobic, members might condemn the NRC to paralysis. The

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more equitable formula of the NRC also raised the question of how Russia would react to being just one of twenty-seven, having equal rights not just with major players like the US, France, Germany and the UK but also with Luxembourg, Iceland and the former Soviet Baltic states. The operation of the NRC has, in part, confounded such dire expectations. Deadlock has been avoided, retrievability has been rarely employed and in a major step forward from the PJC, the NRC has developed what two respected observers have referred to as ‘a continual, quotidian interaction’ among officials – a bureaucratic network involving a high-level preparatory committee, seventeen sub-committees and sub-groups (as compared with the two attached to the PJC), as well as the regular ministerial and ambassadorial-level meetings of the NRC itself.79 Within these formats, the NRC has managed to discuss the CFE Treaty and the situations in Iraq, Afghanistan, Georgia, Kosovo and Bosnia. It has also provided a vehicle for practical cooperation. Admittedly, Russia withdrew its contingents from NATO peacekeeping operations in Bosnia and Kosovo in the summer of 2003 but in February 2005 a specialised Russian brigade was declared operational whose purpose was to work with NATO and other foreign militaries on peacekeeping and counter-terrorist operations. The Defence Ministers’ meeting of the NRC in June 2005, meanwhile, was able to report the recent signing of a NATO–Russia status of forces agreement, the conclusion of an NRC Action Plan on Terrorism, preparations for Russian participation in counter-terrorist maritime patrols under NATO’s Operation Active Endeavour in the Mediterranean, as well as cooperation in defence reform, inter-operability, theatre-missile defence, non-proliferation and data exchange. The cooperation plan for 2005 envisaged over 200 events including fifty joint exercises.80 These positives aside, the achievements of the NRC in other respects look much more modest. In many areas, including the political significant ones of theatre-missile defence, counter-terrorism and non-proliferation, cooperation has amounted to exercises, seminars, consultations and feasibility studies, but little practical cooperation where this would involve intelligence sharing, technology transfer or substantive financial commitment.81 Further, NATO– Russia interaction has struggled to keep up with NATO’s own internal transformation agenda. Issues relating to expeditionary forces, defence modernisation and standardisation, and communications and surveillance might be construed as NATO’s own business, however, for NATO and Russia to work together at an operational level, their joint development is essential.82 These areas have, of course, challenged NATO’s own members and the NRC framework has at least identified them as issues of attention, even if practical movement remains a limited prospect.83 A further limitation concerns the possible divergence of NATO and Russian priorities. NATO, for instance, has rebuffed calls by Moscow for formal ties with the CSTO on the grounds that this would mean implicit recognition of a Russian sphere of influence. Russia, for its part, has opposed extending Operation Active Endeavour to the Black Sea for fears of NATO influence building there.

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Turning to the EU, here up until the mid-1990s, the focus of attention was almost entirely on economic issues of trade and technical assistance. A number of policy documents – the PCA, the EU Strategy for Future EU/Russia Relations and an EU Action Plan for Russia (May 1996) – did envisage a broader relationship. Not until the adoption of the so-called ‘Northern Dimension’ in 1997, and more so the adoption in 1999 of the EU’s Common Strategy on Russia did these other aspects obtain concrete form. Latterly, Russia has rejected inclusion within the ENP (see Chapter 5) on the grounds that its special status elevates it above the other ENP partners. Instead, EU–Russian relations have been officially designated as falling within four ‘common spaces’ (economic; freedom, security and justice; external security; and research and education), with each subject since May 2005 to agreed ‘Road Maps’ delineating specific areas of cooperation. The second and third of the ‘common spaces’ pertain quite explicitly to matters of security. Within the ‘space’ of freedom, security and justice, activities have included dialogue on the Schengen arrangement (including a relaxation of visa requirements agreed in October 2005), the use of special transit and visa provisions concerning Kaliningrad (introduced in 2003), an Action Plan on Organised Crime (agreed in 2000) and an agreement (2003) between Russia and Europol. As for external security, this has involved dialogue (up to the level of heads of state and government) on matters such as counter-terrorism, nonproliferation, international crises such as Iraq, Afghanistan and the Israeli– Palestinian question, and conflict resolution in the Balkans, the Middle East and parts of the FSU (Moldova and Georgia, for instance). Russia has also developed a tentative involvement in ESDP (Russian officers joined the EU policing mission in Bosnia in 2003 and discussions have been held on EU access to Russian air-lift and satellite capabilities) building on links established with the WEU going back to the mid-1990s. The organisation of relations more generally has been headed by twice-yearly summits and since 1998 a ministerial-level Cooperation Council (replaced in 2004 by a Permanent Partnership Council [PPC]). At a more functional level, the PPC has met in special session on foreign affairs, JHA matters and energy, and there also exists a Cooperation Committee (whose work is supported by nine sub-committees), special arrangements for consultation with Russia on ESDP, various meetings between the EU troika and Russian officials to further political dialogue and, from 2004, high-level meetings between the Commission and the Russian government (led by its Prime Minister). There has thus been a clear development in the ambition and institutionalisation of the EU–Russia relationship. Yet for all this, doubts remain as to its real significance. In early 2004, the Commission reported that on a host of issues (border agreements with Latvia and Estonia, cooperation with the EU Galileo satellite project, maritime and nuclear safety) the EU and Russia were in disagreement.84 The EU External Relations Commissioner Chris Patten noted in a speech in February 2004 that ‘five years of increasingly intensive cooperation’

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with Russia had given rise to less than positive results.85 A May 2005 report of the EP noted ‘Russia’s potential as a special strategic partner for providing peace, stability and security, and fighting international terrorism and violent extremism, as well as addressing “soft security” issues such as environmental and nuclear hazards, drugs, arms and human trafficking and cross-border organised crime in the European neighbourhood’. The report went on to note, however, that progress in the two ‘common spaces’ relating to security had lagged behind the others and that there was a need to do more to move towards ‘real convergence on sensitive issues’.86 Part of the blame for this state of affairs has been laid at the door of the EU itself, owing to what Chris Patten referred to in 2004 as a ‘lack of co-ordination between policies defined at an EU level and the approach of individual Member States’.87 Others have pointed to problems on the Russian side – a poor knowledge of EU procedures, an absence of proper coordination among ministries, and a lingering reluctance to regard the EU as such (as opposed to its important member states) as a worthy interlocutor.88 But underlying the relationship, arguably, is a more deep-seated condition of difference. As the EU has assumed the status of Europe’s core international institution so its relations with non-EU Europe have been premised on an assumption of superiority. Whether through the ENP, or forms of association and partnership, relations are set on the EU’s terms with an assumption that it is non-EU Europe that needs to learn and adapt. For a state such as Russia, led by a political elite suffused with notions of Russia’s specialness and great power credentials this is difficult to accept. To summarise broadly, the range of Russia’s institutional integration is hardly insubstantial and has borne some practical results. The hard work of institutionalising European–Russian security once undertaken helps to set up a reliable even routine method of interaction and, at a minimum, generates familiarity, trust and transparency. This may not remove disagreement but it does provide a route to its management and a method for overcoming obstacles to cooperation. Yet it is clear also that institutional cooperation is not without problems. Some are of a distinctly political nature. Russia’s great power aspirations and the willingness of the EU and NATO to accommodate them have often deflected dialogue into matters of symbolism rather than substance. Moscow, furthermore, has tended to approach Europe’s formal organisations with an ambivalent attitude, elevating some (the OSCE) to unfeasible heights, while only belatedly ascribing those that do matter (the EU and NATO) their due importance. Moscow has also had difficulty in recognising that in Europe at least a bilateralism, which deals with individual European countries (or, for that matter, the US) rather than the organisations of which they are part, no longer constitutes the routine of engagement. The occasional preference which Russia has shown for high-level contacts may provide temporary dividends (as in Franco-German-Russian dialogue over Iraq in 2003) but assists little in the hard work of concrete integration.89 Russia is both a source of security problems as well as a potentially constructive partner. The challenging nature of the issues

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that surround it mean that the substance of cooperation is bound to be obtained only incrementally and with considerable difficulty. Compliance Institutionalisation thus has its limits. Indeed, as Hiski Huakkala has argued, institutions may simply reproduce rather than resolve differences. In these circumstances it is tempting to view the problem as one of institutional design rather than any fundamental incompatibility of interest. Appropriate action, therefore, might appear to be to the creation of new institutions or the adaptation of existing ones. Such a pattern has been all too obvious in Russia’s case, but might itself be of limited value in view of two broader considerations. The first concerns the material interests which underpin the relationship. Clearly if these are fundamentally at odds then institutions will deliver little. The assumption of this chapter is that there are indeed important differences of interest between Russia and Europe although these have, to some extent, been modified by a growing interdependence. The second consideration relates to values. Shared values facilitate cooperation and, by extension, promote inclusion. Where values diverge, cooperation and inclusion will be much more problematic.90 In respect of values, Russia occupies a largely unique position in Europe. This is, in part, because of its cultural, historical and political characteristics. These are often seen as evidence of an exceptionalism on Russia’s part, something that implies an inherent difficulty in including the country in a larger (European) whole.91 Yet Russia here is not alone. As noted in Chapter 3, Europeanness is not incompatible with difference and diversity, and other ‘difficult’ cases (Germany and Spain, for instance) once regarded as outside of the European mainstream have successfully moved within it.92 The difficulty, however, concerns the particular manner in which values have been asserted in Europe in the post-Cold War period. As noted in Chapters 2 and 3, if not a uniformity then an ascendancy of values has emerged, centred around the liberal norms associated with the regulative peace that marked the end of the Cold War. Here, Russia occupies a distinctive position, being the offspring of the Soviet Union, the very state which had undertaken an ideological surrender in the face of these values. In distancing itself from the Soviet Union, the Russian leadership had, in the early 1990s, proclaimed an affinity with the Western community of states. By doing so, Vladimir Baranovsky has argued, Russia may have ostensibly moved itself closer to Europe but ‘the factors for certifying its participation in the family of “civilised” countries [. . . became] a critical test – a test that the country [has] experienced serious difficulties in passing’.93 How does this matter in practical terms? Demanding forms of political conditionality have been missing because Russia has not sought EU and NATO membership. In NATO’s case there is also no overt political conditions attached to partner relations with Russia. The EU has been a little more exacting. The very first ‘strategic objective’ of the Common Strategy on Russia was the promotion in Russia of ‘a stable, open and pluralistic democracy’. However, as

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the Commission noted in its 2004 communication on Russia, the EU has not always been sensitive enough to stressing the importance of ‘shared European values [as . . .] the basis for deepening relations’ even when Russia’s domestic practices ‘raise questions about [its] commitment and ability to uphold core universal and European values and pursue democratic reforms’.94 Indeed, at a bilateral level individual European states – Italy, the UK, Germany and France most notably – have generally refrained from any form of political linkage in relations with Moscow. Yet this does not mean then that values are unimportant. Even when values take second place to interests, a normative gap can nonetheless open up, something which, according to one Russian analyst, has meant that Russia occupies at best an ‘intermediate position’ in Europe.95 In order to explore this state of affairs in somewhat more detail, the issue of compliance will be considered using the three levels of analysis introduced in Chapter 3: the domestic, the state and the international. The domestic level The Russian leadership under both Presidents Yeltsin and Putin have referred to the establishment and pursuit of democratic government as hallmark achievements of the post-Soviet period. Progress here, moreover, has been seen as indicative of Russia’s acceptance into what Putin described in 2001 as a European civil and cultural community united by common democratic principles.96 The record of Russia’s post-Soviet political development has not, however, been one of steady and progressive democratic consolidation. In common with the majority of post-communist societies, Russia was presented in its early years with multiple challenges of transition: making a break with an entrenched communist legacy, engaging in state- and nation-building simultaneous with economic transformation, and coping with an upsurge of ethnic, communal and regional demands. In Russia, these problems were made that much worse by the entrenched nature and longevity of the Soviet system, the political uncertainty and economic crisis occasioned by Russia’s emergence from the Soviet Union and a near absence of prior exposure to democratic values. In these circumstances Russia could be said to have posted some notable achievements.97 Yet by the mid-1990s it had become clear that in Russia a hybrid political system was developing, one that mixed ostensibly democratic characteristics (the staging of elections most notably) with neo-authoritarian features (presidential centralisation, restrictions on the media and civil society, politically inspired prosecutions of government critics, and the manipulation of electoral outcomes by the incumbent power) and a questionable human rights record, apparent not least in the pursuit of two vicious wars in Chechnya. President Putin himself has adopted a highly conditional view of democracy, premised upon the delivery of power and order. As he pithily put it in 2003, democracy is not desirable if it leads to chaos and ‘the dissolution of the state’.98 For many outside observers, Russia’s political system has consequently come to be seen as in democratic retreat. In its

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2005 annual report of political rights and civil liberties, Freedom House rated Russia as ‘Not Free’ for the first time in the post-Soviet period.99 Statements of the EP and the Council of Europe’s Parliamentary Assembly have reached similar judgements.100 If the institutions of democracy have taken only shallow root, a similar picture also emerges when one considers the spread of democratic values. For some, Russians have been viewed as labouring under a set of values (a desire for order and predictability, for example) that predispose them as much towards authoritarianism as democracy.101 These values have, if anything, been reinforced by post-Soviet political uncertainty and economic decline, experiences which have been associated with a misguided attempt to emulate democracy of the Western variety. Thus, survey evidence presented by Timothy Colton and Michael McFaul has suggested that while Russians support the notion of democracy in principle, their preferred choice of political system is an idealised version of the Soviet Union. In short, they conclude that democracy has an uncertain future in Russia. Public attitudes alone are not straightforwardly antidemocratic but neither are they unambiguously democratic. And even if they were, they have provided little in the way of resistance to a much more authoritarian current among Russia’s political elite.102 Mirroring these trends, the accolades of democratic progress lavished upon Russia by European (and American) governments in the 1990s have, during the 2000s, been replaced by a growing recognition of a ‘values gap’ and an assumption that policy towards Russia while not punitive will be increasingly influenced by the direction of its political development.103 The state level Modern states are characterised by increasing encroachments upon their sovereignty, a process at its most advanced in Europe. Here an increasing diffusion of power and authority to external bodies (the EU and NATO) has occurred alongside the articulation of raft of formal treaties (for instance, CFE) and less formal political principles (embodied, for instance, in OSCE documentation). As noted in Chapter 3, this collection of commitments has been characterised as a ‘post-modern’ state system. Russia is not fully of this postmodern world. Its rebirth from the ashes of the Soviet Union and its subsequent tumultuous political development mean that a considerable emphasis is still placed on the traditional attributes of statehood and sovereignty: a resistance to integrationist measures and externally imposed norms of behaviour, and a jealous defence of territory. This often works against cooperation with the outside world. The EU’s Northern Dimension, for instance, has required a level of cross-border cooperation and autonomy for Russian regions which has run counter to the centralising tendencies of the Putin administration. The problems, however, are best illustrated by the prosecution of war in Chechnya. The federal authorities in Moscow have undertaken two military campaigns against this breakaway republic – the first in 1994–96 and the second beginning

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in 1999. Both have been characterised by massive use of force and systematic abuses of human rights (admittedly by Chechen as well as by Russian forces). The resort to force for the purposes of preserving territorial integrity is not unknown in Europe. However, among democratic states, the use of counterterrorist measures to this end (whether in Northern Ireland or the Basque country) has been on a far lesser scale and accompanied by a political process of negotiation. It is the scale of brutality and the use of military measures in preference to political ones that mark out Russia’s actions in Chechnya. In the first Chechen war, Moscow’s actions were largely justified by reference to the dangers of separatism and lawlessness. The second war has been more explicitly linked to terrorism and Islamic radicalism. This has been accompanied by a vigorous defence of the methods of warfare and a denial of the right of external agencies to either criticise Russian conduct or to involve themselves in the search for a political settlement.104 The war has not led to a fundamental disruption of relations between Russia and Europe. Certainly, relationships have been strained. As noted above, Russia’s accession to the Council of Europe in 1996 had been delayed by the first Chechen war and the voting rights of the Russian delegation its Parliamentary Assembly were temporarily suspended in 2000–1. The EP, meanwhile, in 1995 suspended ratification of the EU–Russia PCA and in 1999 the European Council imposed limited economic sanctions on Russia and threatened to review the operation of the PCA and the Common Strategy. As for the OSCE, this body has provided a forum of criticism of Russian actions and the scene of occasional stormy disagreement – President Yeltsin dramatically walking out of the OSCE summit in November 1999, for instance. European governments, in the main, while accepting Russia’s right in principle to defend its territorial integrity have been unwilling either to sanction Russia’s use of force or to accept at face value many of the connections Putin has drawn between Chechen separatism and international terrorism.105 That said, international actions have been reserved and restrained. Indeed, as suggested by the institutional connections outlined in the previous section, Russia has actually managed to enhance its engagement with Europe irrespective of the Chechen war. This contrasts markedly with Serbia whose comparable actions in Bosnia and Kosovo led to the imposition of sustained economic sanctions, near total diplomatic isolation and ultimately military intervention. The reasons for this contrast are not hard to discern and boil down to Russia’s size, importance and the need not to disrupt the broader agenda of cooperation. The late British Foreign Secretary Robin Cook put this at its crudest when remarking that Europe could not ‘go to war with Russia’ over Chechnya.106 But neither have European states taken other forms of meaningful action: no interstate complaint has been filed at the European Court of Human Rights, economic sanctions have been minimal and temporary (the EU has thus maintained its support for Russian entry into the WTO), and no limit has been placed on the political and institutional relationship with the EU. Whatever the moral claims

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that European states have made in the conduct of their foreign policies, the strategic partnership with Russia has resulted in a policy of accommodation over the issue of Chechnya. To do otherwise and to isolate Russia would, according to the logic of this position, ultimately be self-defeating – having no impact on Chechnya itself and encouraging Russian hostility to, and distance from, Europe.107 These important points aside, there has, nonetheless, been a sense in which Russia’s Chechen war represents for it a backwards step from Europe. In the first place, the use of force has reinforced, for East Europeans especially, a number of prejudices concerning Russian behaviour and these they have taken with them into NATO and the EU. Second, however hypothetical, the case for Russia’s inclusion in NATO and the EU is clearly undermined by such actions. Third, the elevation of the OSCE which Russia has posited as an alternative to NATOcentrism is itself ill-served. Moscow has not only been reluctant to permit the organisation a fuller role in conflict resolution efforts but also, via the consensus rule, has blocked discussion of the issue. Fourth, and perhaps most fundamentally, Chechnya suggests Russia’s distance from the values of Europe’s security community. This is not so straightforward as it may at first seem. Russian actions in Chechnya have, according to Heinze and Borer, a parallel in the enforced unification of both the American and British state (as in the American civil war and the subjugation of Scotland and Ireland)108 and in Russia itself a more modern parallel has been drawn between Chechnya, on the one hand, and NATO’s Operation Allied Force and the US-led military campaigns in Afghanistan and Iraq, on the other. Indeed, the case could well be made that the cause of anti-terrorism and the defence of humanitarian norms used (and abused) in justifying these campaigns are remarkably similar. Is there, then, a difference? The answer to this lies partly in the nature of the coalition undertaking the action. Actions against Serbia, Iraq and Afghanistan have been taken by a coalition of states which already reside within the European (or Euro-Atlantic) security community and which derive their normative claims, in part, from the regulative settlement of the Cold War. This hasn’t made the actions any less controversial nor prevented deep political disagreement among states of that community. The normative claims upon which this coalition draws have, however, sustained a common purpose of sorts and, in the cases of Operation Allied Force and Afghanistan, permitted a formal multilateralisation of action through NATO (see Chapter 4). The Russian case is different in that its actions against Chechen separatism have been taken single-handedly without any effort to harness multilateral efforts and with little success in attracting outside sympathy (as opposed to passive toleration) for its normative claims. They are also crucially within its own borders and thus, in principle, subject to democratic and human rights norms and conventions to which Russia has committed itself through membership of the OSCE and the Council of Europe. Moscow’s claim that the conflict in Chechnya is a solely internal affair and that human rights issues there are beyond the purview of external concern is at odds with

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commitments it has itself freely entered into. These include the 1994 OSCE Code of Conduct on military activity, landmark political texts such as the European Convention on Human Rights, the Helsinki Final Act and the Geneva Protocols, and more specific political conditions attached to the PCA and commitments entered into at the point of Russia’s accession to the Council of Europe. Against these yardsticks Russia has been found severely wanting, thus leaving open to question the substance of its claim to be part of a European civil and cultural community.109 The international level As we saw in Chapter 2, during the Cold War a situation of mutual exclusion existed reinforced by mutually incompatible ideological views of the international system. The tradition of Soviet ideological projection has not been continued by Russia. However, perceptions of lingering greatness and an appreciation of Russia’s exceptionalism has meant the articulation in Moscow of a preferred view of the international system, which stresses the rights of great powers, the prerogatives of state sovereignty and the leading role of the UN as the arbiter of international security.110 In practical terms, this has led Moscow to criticise NATO and US unilateralism in Bosnia, Kosovo and, outside of Europe, in Iraq, on the grounds that territorial integrity, national sovereignty and the rule of law should take precedence over the use of force. As Richard Sakwa has noted, whatever the merits of Russia’s arguments in regard to specific cases, by elevating the issue to one of principle, Russia has set its face against the notion of humanitarian intervention, one of the more progressive trends of international politics since 1945.111 Russia’s ‘anti-humanitarian’ agenda and guardianship of the UN system should not, however, be viewed as a principled strategy of opposition to the West. Whatever the purported values upon which it is premised, its inspiration is as much political as ethical, designed to appeal to states such as China and India who are equally ill-disposed to outside interference in domestic territorial matters. Yet such a strategy has its limits. Russia quite simply lacks the reserves of attraction that would allow the construction of an enduring counter-hegemonic bloc to the West. Indeed, one lesson of the Soviet period for the Russian leadership is that such a course, ultimately, is self-defeating. All of this suggests that Russia’s view of the international system is not per se an impediment to close involvement with Western and European partners, but it is one which has its limits. Indeed, this point is relevant to the issue of compliance and socialisation more generally. Richard Sakwa has suggested elsewhere that the course of Russia’s domestic and foreign policy development has been ‘a middle way between uncritical Westernism and xenophobic nationalism’. This does not sit easily with ‘official Europe’ but is not incompatible with pan-Europeanism or ‘civilisational Europe’.112 There is thus a certain affinity with European models of political and economic development but an intolerance of external prescription and a rejection of the claims of the EU and NATO as the

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definitive embodiments of the values of democracy or the upholders of the standards of international community.113 The EU and NATO may have been magnets of ideational attraction for many states in Europe, but this has not been the case with Russia.

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Conclusion Russia has obtained a significant degree of involvement with the structures of European security governance. Its absence from NATO and the EU means it is excluded from important decision-making procedures and initiatives but Russia’s position in Europe approximates at least a situation of incorporation if not integration.114 The institutional engagement of Russia has, moreover, avoided the danger that a Russia completely excluded from Europe would be a Russia that develops in opposition to it. Russia’s engagement has certainly given rise to deep disagreement (on Chechnya, NATO enlargement and Kosovo), but the tendency towards cooperation has been just as compelling, if not more so than that of confrontation.115 More, fundamentally, the perception of mutual threat has changed. As Frank Möller has pointed out, Russia no longer constitutes the principal ‘negative reference point’ against which the security policies of most European states are framed.116 Yet the relationship still bears significant features of distance. This has been the case, and is likely to remain so, owing to three enduring factors. In the first place, while there is a coincidence of security interests in some respects, there are also obvious differences. In Russia, politics is still preoccupied with fundamental issues of order and security. These relate to internal problems of political, economic and social cohesion and stability as well as external challenges such as failed or weak states on Russia’s periphery, the spread of Islamic fundamentalism and the rise of China. This may occasion a certain convergence of interests and consequent cooperation with the EU and NATO but the urgency and proximity of these issues for Russia (as well as the continuing influence of the military and the security services in Russian decision-making) means its attention is much less fixed on those other ‘soft’ security issues (migration, transnational crime, the environment) that concern Europeans. The security culture of Russia, in other words, is somewhat different from that of most of Europe. A second factor concerns institutions. In Europe, the development of security governance has been shaped by the enlargement of a Western community of states focused in Europe through the enlargement of its major institutional forms – NATO and the EU. The Yeltsin and Putin leaderships have gradually shed the assumption that Russia is able to stand aloof from or even balance against this community and have, in parallel, promoted a view of Russia as a European country with genuine interests in partnership. Yet at the same time they have resisted the notion that Russia should somehow shed its great power aspirations and partake in this community as just another state. NATO and the EU, for their

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part, have sought to engage Russia in a manner that recognises but is not in awe of its unique qualities. The Russia–Europe relationship is thus one in which two tendencies have obtained an uneasy balance: a Russian demand for recognition and a process of European accommodation with, but not deference to, Russian interests. This uneasy state of affairs is reinforced by a third factor, one that relates to values. To suppose that Russia’s problematic political transition or its features of cultural and historical exceptionalism render it un-European and beyond the pale of cooperative efforts is simplistic and misleading. However, ‘Europe’ as an organisational entity is suffused with values with specifically Western and liberal associations. The leading elite in Russia has found accommodation with these values but it does not fully identify with them. This is mirrored in a lingering view in European governments that however much Russia is involved in formal structures and institutions, it is still not made up of ‘people like us’.117 The Russia–Europe relationship is thus premised more on a meeting of short- and medium-term interests than it is on the trust and collectively held norms which are the more important underlying bases of a security community.118

Notes 1 A paraphrase of an editorial in the Guardian, 19 February 1997. 2 D. Trenin, The End Of Eurasia: Russia on the Border Between Geopolitics and Globalisation (Washington, DC and Moscow: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, 2002), p. 143. 3 J.L. Black, Vladimir Putin and the New World Order (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2004), pp. 3–22. 4 Interview with Yevgeni Primakov, Rossiskaya gazeta, 10 January 1997. 5 Diplomaticheskii vestnik, No. 2, 1998, pp. 3–4. 6 I. Ivanov, ‘Russia and the World at the Boundary of Millenniums’, International Affairs (Moscow), Vol. 46(3), 2000, p. 3. 7 I. Ivanov, The New Russian Diplomacy (Washington, DC: The Brookings Institution, 2002), pp. 12, 94. 8 ‘The Priority Tasks of the Development of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation’, drafted by the Russian General Staff in October 2003 refers to the Alliance as having an ‘offensive’ and ‘anti-Russian’ character. See Newsline (Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty), 3 October 2003 at: www.rferl.org [5 January 2006]. 9 S. White and J. Korosteleva, ‘NATO: The View from the East’, paper presented to the annual conference of the British International Studies Association, University of St Andrews, December 2005. 10 Interview with the French television company France 3, 7 May 2005 carried in Documents and Materials of the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MFA), 7 May 2005, at: www.ln.mid.ru/bul_ns_en.nsf/kartaflat/en01 [20 June 2005]. 11 Interview carried in Documents and Materials of the Russian MFA, 17 June 2005, at: www.ln.mid.ru/bul_ns_en.nsf/kartaflat/en01 [7 July 2005]. 12 A. Kelin (Deputy Director, European Cooperation Department, Russian MFA), ‘RussiaNATO: Towards a New Stage of Interaction?’, International Affairs (Moscow) Vol. 51(1), 2005, p. 39.

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13 I. Ivanov, ‘Russia and Today’s World’, Nezavisimaya gazeta, 20 January 2000, translated in Current Digest of the Post-Soviet Press, Vol. 52(3), 2000, p. 10. 14 BBC News Europe, 31 May 2003, at: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/low/world/europe/ 2951980.stm [5 January 2006]. 15 S. Huisman, ‘The Future of Kaliningrad’, Newsletter, No. 1, February 2002 (Paris: EU Institute for Security Studies). 16 Interview with Minister of Foreign Affairs Sergei Lavrov carried in Documents and Materials of the Russian MFA, 2 January 2005 at: www.ln.mid.ru/bul_ns_en.nsf/kartaflat/ en01 [20 June 2005]. 17 On the notion of ‘great power advertising’ see H. Adomeit, ‘Russia as A “Great Power” in World Affairs: Images and Reality’, International Affairs, Vol. 71(1), 1995, p. 35. 18 A. Kassianova, ‘Russia: Still Open to the West? Evolution of the State Identity in the Foreign Policy and Security Discourse’, Europe-Asia Studies, Vol. 53(6), 2001, p. 837. 19 ‘Russian President Vladimir Putin’s State of the Nation Address to the Federal Assembly’, 11 May 2003 at: www.ncsj.org/AuxPages/051903Putin_SOTN_address.shtml [5 January 2006]. 20 S. Medvedev, ‘Power, Space and Russian Foreign Policy’, in T. Hopf (ed.), Understandings of Russian Foreign Policy (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1999), pp. 15–56. 21 J. O’Loughlin, G. Ó Tuathail and V. Kolossov, ‘A “Risky Westward Turn”? Putin’s 9–11 Script and Ordinary Russians’, Europe-Asia Studies, Vol. 56(1), 2004, pp. 5–6. 22 B. Lo, Vladimir Putin and the Evolution of Russian Foreign Policy (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing/London: the Royal Institute of International Affairs, 2003), p. 15. 23 The National Security Concept adopted in January 2000 (replacing the 1997 version) reflected this new climate. It was notable for its greater emphasis on the types of external threat facing Russia and a more pessimistic assessment of the development of a system of international organisation and law that might accord a proper role for Russia. See J.M. Godzmirski, ‘Russian National Security Concepts, 1997 and 2000: A Comparative Analysis’, European Security, Vol. 9(4), 2000, pp. 73–91. 24 Yeltsin resigned that month and Putin (then Russian Prime Minister) took over as acting President. He was elected in March 2000. 25 Lo, Vladimir Putin, p. 127. 26 Speech to German Bundestag, Berlin, 25 September 2001 at: http://english.pravda.ru/ main/2001/09/26/16209.html [5 January 2006]. 27 D. Danilov, ‘European Choice of Russia’, International Affairs (Moscow), Vol. 51(5), 2005, pp. 145–7. 28 G. Derluguian, ‘Recasting Russia’, New Left Review, No. 12, November–December 2001, p. 29. 29 http://europa.eu.int/scadplus/leg/en/lvb/l27055.htm [5 January 2006]. 30 M de Haas, Putin’s External and Internal Security Policy (Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst: Conflict Studies Research Centre), Russian Series 05/05, February 2005. 31 D. Lynch, ‘“The Enemy is at the Gate”: Russia after Beslan’, International Affairs, Vol. 81(1), 2005, p. 149. 32 See the official Medium-Term Strategy for Developing Relations between the Russian Federation and the EU, October 1999, paragraph 1 at: http://europa.eu.int/comm/ external_relations/russia/russian_medium_term_strategy/ [5 January 2006]. 33 D. Lynch, ‘Russia’s Strategic Partnership with Europe’, Washington Quarterly, Vol. 27(2), 2004, pp. 101–2. 34 Ibid., p. 102. 35 Documents and Materials of the Russian MFA, 13 July 2005 at: www.ln.mid.ru/ bul_ns_en.nsf/kartaflat/en01[7 July 2005].

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www.nato.int/docu/basictxt/fndact-a.htm [5 January 2006]. www.nato.int/docu/basictxt/b020528e.htm [5 January 2006]. www.nato.int/docu/speech/2001/s011121a.htm [5 January 2006]. Bulletin of the European Union, No. 5, 1996. Official Journal of the European Communities, L 157/1, 24 June 1999. External Relations Commissioner, Chris Patten, speech in Moscow, 28 May 2002 at: http://europa.eu.int/commm/external_relations/news/patten/sp02_235.htm [5 January 2005]; Javier Solana (High Representative for the CFSP), ‘The EU-Russia Relationship at the Start of the New Millennium’, Kommersant, 14 January 2000 at: http://ue.eu.int/ solana/details.asp? BID=108&DocID=61420 [29 September 2003]. http://europa.eu.int/scadplus/leg/en/lvb/l27055.htm [5 January 2006]. Delegation of the European Commission in Russia, ‘EU/Russia Energy Dialogue: State of Progress’, Moscow, June 2003, p. 3. J.L. Gaddis, ‘History, Grand Strategy and NATO Enlargement’, Survival, Vol. 40(1), 1998, pp. 145–51. I. Straus, ‘Western Common Homes and Russian National Identities: How Far East Can the EU and NATO Go, and Where Does That Leave Russia?’, European Security, Vol. 8(4), 2001, pp. 16, 32. S. Talbott, The Russia Hand: A Memoir of Presidential Diplomacy (New York: Random House, 2002), pp. 131–2. German Chancellor Gerhard Schroeder as cited in the Washington Post, 8 December 2001; interview with the German Minister of Defence Peter Struck as carried on Johnson’s Russia List, No. 8009, 12 January 2004 at: www.cdi.org/russia/johnson/ [5 January 2006]. In response to a question on the possibility of Russian membership, the British Foreign Secretary Jack Straw answered that the issue was not worth speculating on. See Minutes of Evidence, House of Commons, Select Committee on Foreign Affairs, 14 November 2002 at: www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm200203/cmselect/cmfaff/66-i/2111401. htm [5 January 2005]. V. Havel, ‘An Alliance with a Future’, Washington Post, 19 May 2002. D. Vassiliev, ‘The Views of the Russian Elite Toward NATO Membership’, PONARS Memo, No. 126, April 2000 at: www.csis.org/ruseura/ponars/policymemos/pm_0126.pdf [5 January 2006]. Cited in R. Asmus, Opening NATO’s Door: How the Alliance Remade Itself for a New Era (New York: Colombia University Press, 2002), p. 326, note 106. R. Braithwaite, Russia in Europe (London: Centre for European Reform, 1999), p. 43. Straus, ‘Western Common Homes’, passim. D. Gowan, How the EU Can Help Russia (London: Centre for European Reform, 2000), pp. 43–4. B.Ardt and J. Gower, ‘Relations between Russia and the EU’, PSBF Briefing (London: Royal Institute of International Affairs, 1996), No. 10, p. 2. Trenin, The End Of Eurasia, pp. 290–2. S. White, I. McAllister and M. Light, ‘Enlargement and the New Outsiders’, Journal of Common Market Studies, Vol. 40(1), 2002, pp. 142–3. See the official Medium-Term Strategy (October 1999), paragraph 1. Interview with President Putin, New York Times, 5 October 2003. V. Baranovsky, ‘Russia: A Part of Europe or Apart from Europe?’, International Affairs, Vol. 76(3), 2000, p. 446. The Foreign Policy Concept of the Russian Federation, June 2000 at: www.fas.org/ nuke/guide/russia/doctrine/econcept.htm [5 January 2006]. S. Lavrov (Russian Minister of Foreign Affairs), ‘A Different Russia: A Challenge or New Opportunities for Partnership?’, Wall Street Journal, 1 April 2004.

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63 N. Zarimpas, ‘Tactical Nuclear Weapons’, SIPRI Yearbook 2002. Armaments, Disarmament and International Security (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), pp. 568–84. 64 Z. Lachowski and M. Sjögren, ‘Conventional Arms Control’, SIPRI Yearbook 2004: Armaments, Disarmament and International Security (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), pp. 716–17. 65 Speech to the Munich Conference on Security Policy, 7 February 2004 at: www. securityconference.de/konferenzen/rede.php?menu_2004=&menu_konferenzen=&spra che=en&id=126& [5 January 2006]. 66 Ibid. 67 The Foreign Policy Concept. 68 M. Bowker, ‘The Wars in Yugoslavia: Russia and the International Community’, EuropeAsia Studies, Vol. 50(7), 1998, pp. 1550–5. 69 R. Sakwa, ‘The Keystone in the Arch: Inclusion, Democracy Promotion and Universalism in Central and Eastern Europe’, in D. Averre and A. Cottey (eds), Securing Europe’s East: New Security Challenges in Postcommunist Europe (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 2002), pp. 134–6. 70 Interview with Russian Foreign Minister Serge Lavrov in Documents and Materials of the Russian MFA, 4 December 2005 at: www.ln.mid.ru/brp_4.nsf/english?OpenView& Start=1 [5 January 2006]. 71 Speech by Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs, Vladimir Chizhov, Berlin, 23 February 2004, Documents and Materials of the Russian MFA, 24 February 2004 at: www. ln.mid.ru/brp_4.nsf/english?OpenView&Start=1 [12 May 2004]. 72 Cited in M. Mihalisko, ‘European-Russian Security and NATO’s Partnership for Peace’, Research Report (Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty), Vol. 3(33), 1994, pp. 44–5. 73 M.A. Smith, ‘A Bumpy Road to An Unknown Destination? NATO-Russia Relations, 1991–2002’, European Security, Vol. 11(4), 2002, p. 65. 74 Yeltsin’s foreign policy aide, Dmitri Ryurikov, cited in OMRI Daily Digest, Vol. 3(62), 28 March 1997 at: http://archive.tol.cz/Publications/DD/RUS.html [3 December 2003]. 75 www.cnn.com/ALLPOLITICS/1997/05/14/clinton.nato/ [5 January 2006]. 76 W. Matser, ‘Towards a New Strategic Partnership’, NATO Review, Vol. 49(4), 2001, pp. 19–21. 77 R.E. Hunter, S. Rogov and O. Oliker, NATO and Russia: Bridge-Building for the 21st Century (Santa Monica, CA: RAND, 2002), p. 12. 78 NATO-Russia Relations: A New Quality, Rome: May 2002 at: www.nato.int/docu/ basictxt/b020528e.htm [5 January 2006]. 79 See R.E. Hunter and S.M. Rogov, Engaging Russia as Partner and Participant: The Next Stage of NATO-Russia Relations (Santa Monica, CA: RAND, 2004), p. 3, fn. 6 and p. 7. 80 Statement: Meeting of the NATO Russia Council at the Level of Ministers of Defence, 9 June 2005 at: www.nato.int/docu/pr/2005/p050609-nrce.htm [7 July 2005]. 81 R. Weitz, ‘Revitalising US-Russian Security Cooperation’, Adelphi Paper, No. 377, 2005, pp. 59–73. 82 Hunter and Rogov, Engaging Russia, pp. 8–12. 83 Y. Grigoryeva, ‘We Have Reached a Ceiling’, Izvestiya, 11 February 2005 accessed via World News Connection at: http://wnc.fedworld.gov/ [7 July 2005]. 84 Communication from the Commission to the Council and the European Parliament on Relations with Russia, COM (2004), 106, 9 February 2004, p. 5. 85 Speech to the EP, 26 February 2004 at: http://europa.eu.int external_relations/news/ patten/speech04_99.htm [7 July 2005]. 86 C. Malmström (rapporteur), Report on EU-Russia Relations, Committee on Foreign Affairs, EP, Session 2004–9, document A6–0135/2005 (Final), 4 May 2005, paragraphs 6–7.

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87 Speech to the EP, Brussels, 24 February 2004 at: www.chrispatten.org.uk/speeches/ ru260204.htm [5 January 2006]. 88 T. Forsberg, ‘The EU-Russia Security Partnership: Why the Opportunity Was Missed’, European Foreign Affairs Review, Vol. 9(4), 2004, pp. 259–60. 89 P. Baev, ‘Putin Reconstitutes Russia’s Great Power Status’, PONARS Policy Memo, No. 318, November 2003, p. 4 at: www.csis.org/media/csis/pubs/pm_0318.pdf [5 January 2005]. 90 H. Haukkala, ‘A Problematic “Strategic Partnership”’, in D. Lynch (ed.), ‘EU-Russian Security Dimensions’, Occasional Paper, No. 46, July 2003 (Paris: European Union Institute for Security Studies), pp. 17–19. 91 M. Mendras, ‘Russia and the West: To Belong or Not to Belong?’, in J. Zielonka and A. Pravda (eds), Democratic Consolidation in Eastern Europe. Volume 2 – International and Transnational Factors (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 504–9. 92 I. Neumann, Russia and the Idea of Europe: A Study in Identity and International Relations (London and New York: Routledge, 1999), pp. 194–210. 93 V. Baranovsky, Russia’s Attitudes Towards the EU: Political Aspects (Helsinki: Finnish Institute of International Affairs, 2002), p. 16. 94 Communication from the Commission to the Council , p. 4. 95 S. Novoprudsky, ‘As Ye Sow So Shall Ye Reap’, Izvestiya, 5 April 2000 as translated in Current Digest of the Post-Soviet Press, Vol. 52(14), 2000, p. 5. 96 Vladimir Putin, press conference at Russia–EU summit, Stockholm March 2001, Foreign Broadcast Information Service, FBIS-SOV-2001–0323, 23 March 2001 via World News Connection at: http://wnc.fedworld.gov/ [22 June 2003]. 97 M.S. Fish, ‘Democracy Begins to Emerge’, Current History, October 1995. 98 Guardian, 30 October 2003. 99 Freedom House, Freedom in the World 2005 at: www.freedomhouse.org/research/ freeworld/2005/Spain-Zimbabwe.pdf [5 January 2006]. 100 EP, Committee on Foreign Affairs, Draft Report on EU-Russian Relations, 16 March 2005 at: www.europarl.eu.int/meetdocs/2004_2009/documents/pr/560/560592/560592en.pdf [5 January 2006]; report of the Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe (PACE) on Russia’s fulfilment of its Council of Europe commitments as summarised in Eurasia Daily Monitor, 27 June 2005 at: www.jamestown.org/edm/ [5 January 2006]. 101 G. Vainshtein, ‘The Authoritarian Idea in the Public Consciousness and Political Life of Contemporary Russia’, Journal of Communist Studies and Transition Politics, Vol. 11(3), 1995. 102 Timothy J. Colton and Michael McFaul, ‘Are Russians Undemocratic?’, Post-Soviet Affairs, Vol. 18(2), 2002, pp. 91–121. 103 Perceptions of Russia: A Survey among European and American Elites (Berlin: The Aspen Institute, 2005) at: www.opinionsonrussia.com/presentations/pdfs/handout.pdf [19 December 2005]; D. Lynch, ‘Misperceptions and Divergences’ in D. Lynch (ed.), ‘What Russia Sees’, Chaillot Paper, No. 74, January 2005 (Paris: EU Institute for Security Studies), pp. 17–18. 104 There are some marginal exceptions on this score. An OSCE mission was established in Chechnya in 1995, although Russia declined to renew its mandate in early 2003. Russia has also permitted a number of UN humanitarian operations and Council of Europe delegations to visit Chechnya. 105 D. Trenin, ‘Russia and Anti-Terrorism’, in Lynch (ed.), ‘What Russia Sees’, pp. 103–6. 106 Cited in Guardian, 9 December 1999. 107 R. Fawn, ‘Correcting the Incorrigible? Russia’s Relations with the West over Chechnya’, Journal of Communist Studies and Transition Politics, Vol. 18(1), 2002, pp. 1–19. 108 E.A. Heinze and D.A. Borer, ‘The Chechen Exception: Rethinking Russia’s Human Rights Policy’, Politics, Vol. 22(2), 2002, pp. 86–94.

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109 See J. Moll and R. Gowan, Losing Ground? Russia’s European Commitments to Human Rights (London: The Foreign Policy Centre, 2005). 110 S. Lavrov (Russian Foreign Minister), ‘Democracy, International Governance, and the Future World Order’, Russia in Global Affairs, No. 1, 2005 at: http://eng.globalaffairs.ru/ numbers/10/818.html [23 May 2005]. 111 R. Sakwa, ‘Putin’s Foreign Policy: Transforming “the East”’, in G. Gorodetsky (ed.), Russia between East and West: Russian Foreign Policy on the Threshold of the Twenty-First Century (London: Frank Cass, 2003), p. 183. 112 Sakwa, ‘The Keystone in the Arch’, p. 132. Speech by Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs, Vladimir Chizhov, Berlin, 23 February 2004, Documents and Materials of the Russian MFA, 24 February 2004 at: www.ln.mid.ru/brp_4.nsf/english?OpenView&Start=1 [12 May 2004]. 113 Hence, the Russian Deputy Foreign Minister Vladimir Chizov’s assertion that Russia will not be ‘an object of “civilizational influence” on the part of other states or their associations’. See Chizhov (note 71). 114 O. Schuett, ‘Russia and Europe: Balancing Cooperation with Integration’, Discussion Papers in German Studies, No. IGS98/1, 1998 (Institute for German Studies, University of Birmingham), p. 29. 115 See M. Webber (ed.), Russia and Europe: Conflict or Cooperation? (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 2000). 116 F. Möller, ‘Searching for the Intangible: A Response to Mouritzen’, Security Dialogue, Vol. 34(3), 2003, p. 335. 117 See Lo, Vladimir Putin, pp. 111–12. 118 For a similar view see J.M. Godzimirski, ‘Russia and NATO: Community of Values or Community of Interests?’, in J. Hedenskøg, V. Konnander, B. Nygren et al. (eds), Russia as a Great Power: Dimensions of Security under Putin (London: Routledge, 2005), p. 75.

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7 Turkey: ‘neither in nor out’ 1

The question of Turkey’s relationship to Europe’s security community is, in one sense, a seemingly superfluous one; the country has, after all, been a member of NATO for decades. Yet in a post-Cold War Europe where security community and European security governance are increasingly linked to the EU as much as the Alliance, the question has seemed more and more pertinent. Turkey’s exclusion from the EU, moreover, sits alongside other controversial and sometimes fraught issues: the question of Cyprus, relations with Greece, a difficult democratic transition and, in broad terms, the matter of Europeanness. These, and other matters, have on occasion pitted Turkey against both public and elite opinion in Europe and, indeed, have caused division within Turkey itself. On these grounds, the issue of inclusion and exclusion has been a live one in Turkey’s relationship with Europe for decades, if not centuries. Given the continuity of the modern Turkish state, this chapter takes a somewhat more historical approach than the previous one on Russia, where the starting point was essentially the transformative break of the Soviet Union’s dissolution. The thematic structure nonetheless is essentially the same, although with a somewhat different emphasis given Turkey’s decades-long experience of integration in NATO and its membership ambitions with regard to the EU.

Turkey and the problem of exclusion Perceptions of Turkey, both inside and outside the country, are heavily conditioned by questions relating to its ‘European’ credentials. This is an age-old and essentially irresolvable debate in which the legacy of history bears a particular influence. Turkey’s predecessor, the Ottoman Empire, enjoyed a long and

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fluctuating relationship with Europe. One influential view suggests, the main currents of European civilisation (the Renaissance, the Reformation and the Enlightenment) had passed the Ottoman Empire by, but that following the French Revolution a decisive turn was taken towards Westernisation, ‘a sustained and determined effort to adopt and apply the European way of life in government, society, and culture’ according to Bernard Lewis.2 While the clarity of this historical break may not be so clear-cut, the conscious adoption of European cultural and political practices, first by Ottoman reformers and subsequently (and much more vociferously) by the Turkish Republic under the leadership of Kemal Atatürk (1923–38), is undeniable. Westernisation aligned to the principles of Kemalism (secularism, republicanism, populism, nationalism, etatism, reformism) consequently became an almost unchallenged leitmotif of Turkish development. This, in turn had important international consequences. Kemalist foreign policy had initially placed some emphasis on neutrality as a way of consolidating Turkish sovereignty but the exigencies of the Cold War were to place Turkey squarely in the Western camp. The Cold War, in many ways, simplified Turkey’s position. Although there was some dispute over the terms of its entry into NATO (see below), once achieved, this both provided Turkey with security reassurance and helped to allay long-standing fears of abandonment and territorial loss stemming from the circumstances surrounding the Ottoman collapse and the Independence War of 1921–22. Turkey’s relations with its Alliance partners were not without friction (crises over Cyprus in 1963/64 and 1974, for instance, placed a considerable strain on relations with the US, the UK and, of course, Greece), however membership of NATO allowed Turkey to claim that it made a major contribution to European security and thus deserved to be recognised as ‘European’. NATO, moreover, offered compensation for Turkey being outside the then EC. During the 1970s resentment was felt in Ankara at the terms of its association with the EC and this was subsequently compounded by the entry into the organisation of Turkey’s Mediterranean neighbours (Greece, Portugal and Spain). This was one reason for Turkey’s belated application for membership, lodged formally in 1987. Yet even then the circumstances were not perceived as urgent, as exclusion from the EC was obscured behind an assumption that NATO still stood as the more important body of the (West) European state system. 3 In this light, the end of the Cold War had far-reaching implications. Certainly it altered Turkey’s security position. The collapse of the Soviet Union removed at a stroke Turkey’s position as the southern bastion of NATO and required its political leadership to pay much greater attention to regional concerns. Issues pertaining to the Middle East, the Gulf and the Eastern Mediterranean had not been absent from Turkish foreign policy in previous years. Indeed, during the 1970s, Greece, Iraq and Syria came in the eyes of the Turkish military to represent threats to national security as significant as the Soviet Union. Yet, it was during the early 1990s that Turkey developed, according to Ian Lesser, an ‘expanded concept of [its] security space’.4 In both policy and in public debate, events in the

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Balkans, the South Caucasus and the Gulf loomed large, exemplified by Turkey’s supportive role in the 1990–91 Gulf War, involvement in NATO, UN and later EU peacekeeping missions in the Balkans, and a leading position in regional initiatives in the Black Sea, the Caspian basin and Central Asia. These initiatives allowed Ankara to argue that it remained an indispensable ally of the West, albeit now with a greater focus on the Middle East. Here, it was a counter to Syrian, Iranian and Russian influence, a barrier to Middle Eastern threats to European security, a model of secular and democratic governance in the Islamic world and an energy bridge linking Europe with the natural resources of the Caspian basin and Central Asia.5 A similar logic was also applied later in the 2000s. The events of 9/11 allowed Turkey to justify its own ‘war on terror’ (in the shape of Kurdish separatism), to align itself with the US-led campaign against the Taliban regime in Afghanistan and to re-emphasise its political, economic and intelligence ties in the region stretching from the Middle East to Central Asia.6 From a Turkish perspective, then, developments surrounding the end of the Cold War and 9/11 have helped ‘foster her place in Europe and the West’.7 That this claim is so insistently voiced, however, reflects fears of perceived marginalisation. Such concerns relate, in part, to NATO. Here, Turkey has faced something of a dilemma. On the one hand, it has been wary of moves to revise the tasks of the Alliance, fearful that this would dilute NATO’s collective defence commitment (for which, read an American commitment to Turkish defence) and thus leave it exposed to hostile and well-armed neighbours such as Syria, Iraq and Iran. Yet, on the other, NATO’s strategic transformation has been viewed as a positive gain for Turkey in that activities such as peacekeeping, counterproliferation, counter-terrorism and partnership (specifically the South-East Europe Initiative and the Mediterranean Dialogue) have meant a shift in NATO’s geographical focus towards the southern periphery of Europe. A similar juxtaposition has also been evident over enlargement. NATO’s enlargement in 1999, while not opposed, was not met with enthusiasm by either the Turkish government or parliament on the grounds that the move into ECE might ‘reduce the significance of the Southern Flank and [thus] shrink Turkey’s role in the Alliance’.8 The enlargement in 2004 was more reassuring given its inclusion of Romania and Bulgaria thereby consolidating NATO’s presence in the Balkan and Black Sea regions. Turkish concerns regarding NATO have paled against the anxieties felt at the continuing exclusion from the EU. Ankara has seen the EU embrace Malta, Cyprus and also much of post-communist Europe. This, moreover, has been accompanied by a shift during the 1990s towards more normative conditions of inclusion. The norms associated with the Cold War’s regulative settlement noted in Chapter 2 formed the basis upon which the East Europeans could claim their ‘return to Europe’. The readiness of these states to undertake the reforms required for membership as well as their success in stressing cultural and political affinity with ‘European’ values has contrasted with the difficulties Turkey has experienced in moving in a similar direction. In fact, the history of Turkey’s relations with the

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EU has been punctuated by a series of perceived rebuffs. The application of 1987 was rejected in February 1990 by the Council of Ministers on the basis of a negative opinion of the European Commission. On this occasion sentiment in Turkey could at least be consoled by the fact that the Commission’s view was premised on a general indisposition toward enlargement (see Chapter 5). No such consolation could be found in the decision of the Luxembourg European Council in December 1997 to exclude Turkey from the list of ten countries with which the EU was prepared to negotiate accession. The official reasons for the EU’s stance related to problems in the spheres of economic and political reform. However, as Ziya Önis¸ has suggested, many Turks inferred a more deep-seated motive – ‘that Turkey was not considered by the Europeans as being part of the collective European identity’.9 The Turkish government thus described the decision as indicative of a Union ‘which defines and limits itself on the basis of discrimination and intolerance’.10 The EU’s position was reversed at the Helsinki European Council two years later, at which Turkey was at last recognised as a membership candidate. At the Brussels European Council in December 2004, the EU decided to open negotiations with Turkey, and these commenced in October 2005. The lengthy and unusual conditions attached to the Negotiating Framework agreed just prior to the start of talks and the scepticism of some European leaders as to their success nonetheless sustained a view among the Turkish government (and more so among its political opposition) that the negotiations would be both prolonged and could eventually stop short of membership.11

Turkey, Europe and the search for inclusion Turkey–Europe Since the formation of the Turkish Republic, Turkey has experienced a turbulent political history. The twenty-seven year rule of the People’s Party was ended in 1950. A decade-long period of Democratic Party government followed but was terminated in 1960 by a military coup. Civilian government was restored in 1961 but the influence of the military remained crucial. A series of weak coalition governments gave way to a more stable administration under Süleyman Demirel (1965–71), but 1971 saw a further military intervention and the return of weak coalition or minority governments. This period was ended in 1980 with the military once again taking power. Elections were held in 1983 and resulted in an eight-year period of relative stability under Prime Minister (and later President) Turgut Özal’s governing Motherland Party. The 1990s and early 2000s, by contrast, witnessed a return to unstable coalition administrations and a so-called ‘post-modern coup’ in 1997 whereby the armed forces orchestrated the removal from office of Turkey’s first avowedly Islamist Prime Minister, Necmettin Erbakan and the banning of his Refah (Welfare) Party. Elections in 2002 saw an end to this period of uncertainty with the landslide victory of

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the Justice and Development Party – Adalet ve Kalkinma Partisi (AKP) led by Recep Erdog˘ an. Throughout these political changes there has, however, been a consistent trend in foreign policy. With few exceptions Turkey has, since the Second World War, followed a Western orientation and has maintained a particular identification with Europe.12 This has by no means been unqualified. According to Yücel Bozdag˘ liog˘ lu, Turkey belongs to many regions and lies at ‘the threshold of different cultures’. Consequently ‘Turkish national identity has three distinctive elements [. . .] Turkish, Islamist, and European. Since the establishment of the Turkish Republic, these three identities have always been in conflict with each other because each urges to follow different types of action in both Turkey’s foreign and domestic politics.’13 These attributes have meant for Turkey an inescapable need to construct a ‘multi-regional’ foreign policy and this has, on occasion, been posited as an alternative to Europe even among parties of government.14 Such was the case during the early 1990s following rejection of Turkey’s EU application and occurred in a particularly marked form during the Erbakan premiership of 1996–97. Indeed, within Turkey there has also been a healthy body of Eurosceptic opinion. Such views have influenced both Refah and the Nationalist Movement Party – Milliyetçi Hareket Partisi (MHP), the latter having participated in coalition government between 1999 and 2002. Many in the AKP, were also on record as holding anti-EU sentiments prior to their assumption to power in 2002. Sceptical attitudes toward the EU (and, indeed, Europe more broadly) can be seen to emanate from three strands of thinking: Islamist, radical nationalist and a particular form of security discourse. The first is personified by Erbakan but also extends to other Islamist intellectuals. It posits Islamic and European (i.e. Christian) civilisation as ultimately estranged, and in so far as the EU represents a civilisational project, Turkey as an Islamic country ought rightfully to keep its distance.15 The radical nationalist view, meanwhile, extends across modern Turkish history and has found a vehicle of expression in the MHP following its formation in the 1960s. This party has viewed the conditions of Turkish accession (including a peaceful resolution of the Kurdish and Cyprus issues) as an unwarranted interference in Turkish affairs and an expression of Greek interests. Turkey, the MHP has suggested, has a wide perspective of the ‘Turkish world’, one which extends to the Balkans, the Caucasus and the Middle East but which does not include the Europe of the EU.16 The security perspective, finally, influential among some in the military elite, holds that the interests of the EU and Turkey are not necessarily harmonious. A Turkey in the EU would be required to compromise its decision-making autonomy in both the domestic and foreign policy spheres, thereby undermining the ability of the state to pursue its legitimate security interests. By this perspective, Turkey would be forced to defer to an EU agenda on issues such as Cyprus and the Aegean more favourable to Athens than to Ankara.17 Such views, in turn, reflect an overly pessimistic threat-based security culture18 as well as long-standing feelings of betrayal and suspicion in Turkey

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going back to the Treaty of Sèvres of 1920.19 Consequently, there has been periodic resentment in Turkey at the perceived unreliability of European allies. During the 1990–91 Gulf crisis, Turkey requested the defensive deployment of NATO air forces to its territory but (with the exception if British and American forces) was disappointed at the lacklustre response, particularly that of Germany. In the runup to the 2003 Iraq war, meanwhile, three NATO allies (France, Germany and Belgium) opposed an American initiative (supported by Ankara) to begin NATO contingency planning to protect Turkey in the event of an Iraqi counter-attack and agreement was only reached after a month-long dispute.20 For all these reasons, then, Turkey cannot be regarded as having pursued an unambiguous course towards Europe. A European orientation has, however, been the most visible and determining trend of its foreign policy. In putting the case for entry into the Council of Europe and NATO in the late 1940s/early 1950s, the Turkish government argued that while it had important interests in Asia and the Middle East, Turkey was a European state with a foreign policy whose ‘centre of gravity [. . .] is the Western world’. In this sense, according to the Turkish Foreign Minister Necmettin Sadak, ‘culture and civilisation [. . .] play a much greater role than geography’.21 The case for entry into the EU has been put in similar terms. Following the signing of the Ankara Agreement in 1963, which gave Turkey associate membership status, the Vice Prime Minister Turhan Fevzioglu remarked that the agreement ‘confirms that Turkey shares the same destiny with the free West and that European borders are drawn through Eastern and Southern Turkey’.22 Some thirty-six years later, the decision of the 1999 Helsinki Europe Council was referred to similarly as securing Turkey’s rightful place in the European project.23 And an official synopsis of Turkish foreign policy released in 2005 argued that ‘[t]he pioneering project of European integration would be incomplete without Turkey’s membership’. Accession to the Union, the document continued, was the first priority of Turkish foreign policy.24 Among political elites in Turkey, Europe has long been equated with modernisation, and while this perception has sometimes been questioned, it has nonetheless persisted. In the face of manifest political and economic turbulence in the 1990s, the governmental response, interestingly, was not to adopt nationalist solutions but rather to reaffirm even more clearly the course of Westernisation.25 There are deep-seated reasons for this position: Islam has developed in Turkey in such a way that it has regulated personal life but not public affairs; Turkey’s predecessor the Ottoman Empire was never colonised by Europeans and its defeats on the battlefield were regarded as exemplifying a European strength to be emulated; Turkish economic development has required an increasing integration into a globalising economy in which the European region is crucial; and simple proximity has led to considerable cultural, political and human interchange (witness the large number of Turks who have settled in Europe).26 All of this, moreover, has a specific security relevance. A European orientation crowned by the objective of EU accession connects to the long-term

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political project of successive Turkish governments. As Nathalie Tocci has argued, ‘[t]he Turkish establishment has long viewed EU accession as the natural corollary of the modernisation and Westernisation movement, pioneered by the founder of the Republic, Kemal Atatürk. In other words, the very concept of membership has been internalised to become the ultimate destination of a secure and prosperous Turkey.’27 By this account, EU membership would mean a victory for Turkey’s Westernised/secular elite and would banish the challenge periodically posed to it by radical Islamist and nationalist alternatives. It would also provide a means of neutering military intervention and of ensuring the endurance of civilian administration.28 To these internal security functions of a European orientation, one might add important external dynamics. As we have seen, during the Cold War, the West in the shape of NATO stood with Turkey against the shared security challenge of the Soviet Union. In the post-Cold War period, the situation is much messier as the concept of the West has been disaggregated. The dispute over assistance to Turkey during the 2002–3 Iraq crisis was one manifestation of this. Interestingly, the support which Ankara received from the US but not from some in Europe, did not give rise to any reinforcement of Turkish–American relations. Indeed, at the height of the crisis the Turkish parliament refused to endorse a request only tepidly supported by the AKP government to station US troops in Turkey for use against Iraq. Turkey had long supported Anglo-American forays from Turkey to police the no-fly zone in northern Iraq (see below) but this request was seen as a hazardous escalation of Turkey’s involvement. This episode also had a wider significance. Turkey’s relationship with the United States is premised on hard strategic calculation. This may permit, according to Bacik and Aras, ‘coalitions for specific purposes’ but the relationship lacks the cultural, economic and political influence of Europe.29 Further, while Turkey may obtain specific security benefits by cooperating with individual and powerful partners such as the US (or, for that matter, Israel), there is a longer-lasting benefit to be had from the EU. Among some in the Turkish armed forces a view has grown that membership could help transform Turkish security culture away from its over-emphasis on imminent threat and, specifically, provide a vehicle for helping to solve the seemingly intractable Turko-Greek and Cyprus conflicts.30 A similar sentiment has been present in the Erdog˘ an administration, which has argued that the European project’s establishment of peace and stability on the continent could be extended to Turkey and the Eastern Mediterranean.31 Europe–Turkey Up to the end of the Cold War, Turkey’s relations with the West were heavily influenced by geostrategic considerations, although in this respect a clear distinction was apparent between the priorities of the US and those of Western Europe. From the unveiling of the Truman Doctrine in 1947 (of which Turkey was a major beneficiary) up to Turkish entry into NATO in 1952, US policy was led, according to Melvyn Leffler by an appreciation of Turkey’s strategic assets in

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both regional and Cold War contexts. The country possessed a large army, shared a long land border with the Soviet Union, controlled access between the Black and Mediterranean Seas (and thus the passage of the Soviet navy between the two) and could help secure Middle Eastern energy resources.32 Such considerations compelled Washington to support Turkish entry into NATO and in the process to persuade doubting allies in Europe of the benefits of such a course.33 Alterations in the focus and intensity of American–Soviet rivalry over the ensuing decades meant that such considerations were periodically modified – a trend, in turn, reinforced by regional developments and Turkey’s own actions. Thus, for instance, a deterioration in Turkish–American relations during the mid–late 1970s occasioned by the 1974 Cyrus crisis was reversed after 1979 following the Iranian Revolution and the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. What remained constant, however, was the priority the US accorded to strategic considerations – a position reflected in large levels of US economic and military assistance to Turkey, an extensive US-cum-NATO basing infrastructure in the country, and a lenient attitude towards the periodic interventions of the Turkish military in domestic politics.34 To some extent, American considerations were shared in Europe. The 1963 Ankara Agreement was, in part, a strategic consideration born of the Cold War. Turkey (along with Greece, which was offered a similar agreement), was a ‘frontline state’ whose economy and political stability needed to be promoted.35 Yet in Europe the strategic imperative was much less compelling. Certainly, the UK, France, Germany and Italy with their dual roles in the EC and NATO attached considerable importance to Turkey, however, for the purposes of the EC–Turkey relationship, economic and political considerations were by the 1970s and 1980s much more important and these Turkey fell increasingly foul of owing to its erratic economic performance and heavy military influence. Further, with the accession of Greece in 1981 the EC acquired an increased interest in the Eastern Mediterranean. Turkey, in other words, was now located within a regional setting where for the EC the straightforward choices of Cold War bipolarity had become muddied; Athens’ security disputes with Ankara offsetting Turkey’s value in the competition with the Soviet Union. As the Cold War came to an end, the strategic relationship with Turkey was subject to further change. Turkey’s geopolitical and geoeconomic settings as well as its peculiar institutional position (in NATO but not in the EU) assumed a critical but increasingly controversial quality. Attention to Turkey thereafter has been spasmodic and divisive, a state of affairs complicated still further by America’s role as advocate of Turkey’s European aspirations. The one thing on which European views of Turkey tend to converge is that the country is geopolitically exceptional – ‘the largest and strategically most important country ever to apply for membership’ according to one observer.36 Where opinion divides, however, is whether this is to be regarded as an asset or a problem. Typical of more positive views, the former NATO Secretary General Lord Robertson has suggested that

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[Turkey, with] strong historical, cultural and economic links to Central Asia and the Middle East [. . .] is a vital bridge to project security in these areas. As a secular and democratic country, it is a unique model for the Muslim World. And as a European country integrated into Euro-Atlantic structures all along, it is uniquely placed to play a mentor’s role for those countries of Central Asia, the Caucasus and others who want to draw closer to us.37

At a more practical level, Turkey has been seen as a partner in countering the threats of terrorism, weapons proliferation and regional conflicts. It also shares land borders with several states (Iraq, Iran, Syria, Armenia and Georgia) that are of intense concern to European diplomacy. Turkey has opposed nuclear proliferation in Iran and Syria, and has provided valuable intelligence on the two states. During the 1991 Gulf War it provided essential air base and other forms of logistical and military support, and was the major entry point for the FrancoBritish-US-led Operation Provide Comfort mounted in the war’s aftermath. Turkey’s Incirlik air base was also a key staging point for British and American air patrols over the northern Iraq no-fly zone during the 1990s and for mounting supply operations into Iraq in support of Anglo-American military operations in Iraq during and after the 2003 offensive. The geoeconomics of Turkey’s position are also worth noting. The Bosporus Strait, which connects the Black and Mediterranean Seas, carries significant tanker traffic and is one of the world’s busiest waterways. Further, as John Roberts has argued, Turkey itself is important as a transit country for oil and gas supplies to Europe. Indeed, with respect to the latter it has the potential (should pipeline projects reach fruition) to become Europe’s ‘fourth main artery’ alongside Russia, the North Sea and North Africa. Up to ten gas-producing countries (representing a third of global reserves), according to Roberts, have an interest in delivering gas to Europe via Turkey – in the process enhancing European energy security and offsetting a growing (over) dependence on Russian supplies.38 More negative views of Turkey, by contrast, have accepted the country’s geopolitical and geoeconomic importance and its involvement in a multiplicity of security issues, but have, on this basis, drawn more qualified and in some cases critical judgements. Some of these matters (Cyprus, the Kurds, relations with Greece and NATO–EU relations) are taken up below but all have informed a view of Turkey as a destabilising influence. In addition, Turkey also has major problems with Syria (over access to water resources, Syrian support of Kurdish separatism, Turkey’s military ties with Israel and Syrian claims to the Turkish region of Hatay) and with Armenia (see below). Further, rather than acting to counter threats, Turkey for many has acted as a conduit for security problems. This relates partly to illegal immigration, the focus here often being the large numbers of Kurds who fled Turkish military action during the 1980s and 1990s, as well as Turkey’s status as a transit country for irregular migrants and trafficked persons into Europe from the FSU, Iran, Iraq and the Middle East. It relates also

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to smuggling. Turkey has been described as ‘the principal transit route [into Europe] for drugs originating in Afghanistan’39 and as a major transit point for smuggled radiological materials emanating from Russia and Kazakhstan.40 This rather mixed balance sheet has informed how Turkey is viewed among both European governments and publics. Specifically, it has an important bearing on the issue of Turkey’s possible membership of the EU.

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Can Turkey be included? Turkey is, in many ways, already well integrated into European institutions, not least through NATO. It is crucially absent, however, from the EU. Of all the candidate countries for membership, Turkey has been the most long-standing and the most controversial. The opening of formal membership negotiations in October 2005 has failed to resolve the debate on Turkey’s relative merits. French President Jacques Chirac, for one, noted shortly after the December 2004 European Council which agreed to open talks that ‘[n]egotiations do not mean accession: the road will be long. This process will last ten to fifteen years and you can’t write in advance what the result will be.’41 This qualified position reflects the fact that elite and public opinion in Europe has been divided over Turkey’s relative merits. The run-up to the December 2004 European Council saw the governments of Germany, the UK, Spain and Portugal in favour but strong reservations voiced on the part of Austria, Luxembourg, Denmark and Cyprus. The governments of Italy and France, meanwhile, were split on the issue. The European Commission and EP (which would have to endorse accession by majority vote) have been similarly divided.42 As for public opinion, polls published in 2004 and 2005 suggested relatively high levels of public support for Turkish membership in Hungary, Italy, Poland, Spain and Sweden but clear opposition in Austria, Cyprus, France, Germany and Greece. A Eurobarometer survey in the autumn of 2005 found that among the combined publics of the EU twenty-five member states, 31 per cent of respondents were in favour of Turkish membership and 55 per cent against.43 While the opening of negotiations in October 2005 indicated that at the inter-governmental level at least, European views had been capable of compromise, a future reversal remained a possibility, not least because both France and Austria had made it clear that their ultimate decision on Turkey would be determined by national referendums. Debate over Turkey has usually been viewed by reference to its economic and political credentials. For the opponents of Turkish membership, the country is simply ‘too big, too poor, too agricultural, too authoritarian, too nationalist, and too Muslim to qualify’.44 For the proponents of membership, by contrast, Turkey stands as a potentially dynamic economic asset, and a state whose continued democratic consolidation is best anchored within the EU.45 Yet there is also an important security dimension to these arguments. The positive and

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negative assessments of Turkey’s security situation detailed above have been mirrored in contrasting assessments of how beneficial Turkish accession to the EU would be in specifically security terms. Among the most forthright advocates in this respect is the UK government. The Foreign Secretary Jack Straw, for one, has argued that the ‘strategic importance’ of Turkish accession would be ‘to demonstrate that Western and Islamic cultures can thrive together as partners in the modern world’, thereby confounding the desire of international terrorists to foment a ‘clash of civilisations’.46 More specifically, Kemal Dervis¸, Michael Emerson and others have argued that Turkey’s accession would enhance the credibility of EU policies towards the wider set of Middle East, Central Asia, Caucasus, Balkans and Mediterranean regions [and . . .] contribute to a rebalancing of the Union’s focus towards its southern and southeastern neighbourhood [something . . .] entirely in line with the EU’s emerging security strategy, since this is where the EU’s manifest security threats now come from.47

Turkey, moreover, has concrete military, linguistic and diplomatic capabilities to offer. A Turkey within the EU would help extend the reach of the ENP, would provide material assets and a forward base for ESDP and would enhance EU involvement in regional cooperation initiatives. Turkey’s integration within the EU’s JHA policy domain, meanwhile, would promote vital cooperation on counter-terrorism, migration and asylum, as well as a strengthening of Turkey’s external borders.48 The security case against Turkish accession, by contrast, rests on a completely different set of assumptions. Some of these are rooted in populist perceptions of Turkish national character and fears that migrating Turks will overwhelm Europe.49 It is also argued that Turkey’s security-promoting assets have largely been oversold. Turkey carries little weight among its Arab neighbours (given its Ottoman history and secular politics) and the record since the 1990s suggests that the country has neither the material resources nor the sense of political and economic attraction to sustain any influence in the South Caucasus and Central Asia. Turkey’s strong links to Israel, meanwhile, would prove a hindrance to EU efforts at mediation in the Middle East. There is also a fear that it could import unresolved disputes into the Union and that the overly militaristic and nationalist manner in which Turkey conceives of its security is at odds with the more multifaceted approach of the EU. In short, the argument runs, the EU as an indispensable part of the European security community cannot permit Turkey membership of the Union without contradicting both the cohesion and internal logic of that community.50 These two positions are difficult to reconcile although in some senses exaggeration makes them appear further apart than they actually are. The image of Turks swamping European labour markets, for instance, seems especially misplaced given the near certainty that Turkish accession to the Union would be accompanied by permanent safeguards to inhibit freedom of labour movement.51

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Nonetheless, the debate does reveal real uncertainty and, in order to bridge the differences, the EU has kept close to the formal conditions of accession, offering no special dispensations by virtue of Turkey’s assumed security status.52 There is an opinion within the EU, to use the words of one-time German Chancellor Gerhard Schröder, that ‘the strategic and security policy argument is decisive’.53 Yet Germany, as well as other member states such as the UK supportive of Turkish accession, have rejected any assumption that security considerations should usurp the Copenhagen criteria.54 What Dietrich Jung has referred to as the ‘security bargain’ of membership – a reinterpretation of the conditions of entry for Turkey on the basis of some assumed security imperative – has thus not been struck.55 In this light, just how significant is the broader context of Turkey’s security relationship with Europe – the dynamics of inclusion and exclusion which run in parallel with but are not solely defined by the relationship with the EU? Given the uncertain outcome of the EU–Turkey negotiations (and even the most optimistic scenario views Turkey entering the EU at least a decade from the opening of talks in 2005) then this broader context is clearly of enduring significance. The following sections consider it in some detail. Region Demarcating Europe’s borders, it was noted in Chapter 3, is an indeterminate process. To the south-east, the most commonly accepted physical boundary between Europe and Asia runs through the Sea of Marmara connected at either end by the straits of the Dardanelles and the Bosporus. This boundary cuts through Turkey itself (and, indeed, divides Istanbul its largest city) thereby rendering it a ‘transcontinental nation’. ‘European’ Turkey constitutes as little as 3 per cent of the county’s territorial area and a minority (some 16 per cent) of its population. Physically, this uneven divide makes Turkey a country that is more Asian than European and thus, for some, ineligible for EU membership.56 For others, Turkey’s European territory carries considerable political significance. As one Turkish scholar has noted, ‘Turkey’s European part is small relative to its size, but larger and more populous relative to any old and new member states of the EU’. This, it is claimed, gives it a geographic status superior to some existing members, namely ‘Cyprus and Malta, two island states [. . .] who are not part of Europe defined on the basis of geography’.57 Crucially, Turkey’s European credentials have been accepted de facto by Atlantic and European institutions. This is true given Turkish membership of both NATO and the Council of Europe58 and by virtue of the particular nature of its relationship with the EU. Indeed, at an official level the question of Turkey’s Europeanness was resolved at an early stage. Speaking on the occasion of the signing of the Ankara Agreement in 1963, then President of the Commission Walter Hallstein noted that ‘Turkey is part of Europe. This really is the ultimate meaning of what we are doing today. It confirms incomparably in topical form a truth which is more than the summary expression of a geographical concept or of a historical fact that holds good for several centuries.’59 Turkey’s achievement

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of EU candidate status in 1999 reaffirmed this position. According to CFSP High Representative Javier Solana, Turkey ‘had booked a place in Europe [. . .] no one can [now] challenge it [. . .] on the grounds of geography’.60 Combined with the later decision to open membership talks, this step meant that the existing EU membership had formally and irrevocably accepted Turkey as a European state – ‘that train has left the station’ to use the colourful language of one Commission official.61 Geography, however, is not the only arbiter of ‘Europeanness’. Differing interpretations of Turkish (and Ottoman) history, culture and religion have all been relevant in this regard and carry with them powerful and competing narratives of Turkey’s development. Turkey, in this connection, can be viewed in three ways. First, as an integral part of a contemporary Europe defined by diversity and multiculturalism, enjoying historical, sociological and political similarities with other more commonly accepted European states.62 Second, and opposing, as Europe’s ‘Other’, ‘an external or at best marginal presence in Europe’, part indeed of a binary relationship: ‘Europe versus Turkey; Christianity versus Islam; West versus East’.63 And third, as a country riding both European and Asian influences – ‘torn’ between the two according to some or a fascinating hybrid according to others.64 These differing positions have been alluded to in much of the foregoing analysis and are clearly difficult to reconcile. The next two sections shed some further light on the debate by considering first, the nature of Turkey’s formal institutional integration and second, its adherence to ‘European’ values. Institutionalisation As suggested in Chapter 3, institutionalisation provides both a measure and mechanism of integration and is a core characteristic of security governance. Even in the absence of EU membership, Turkey, often with the support of European leaders, has long claimed that its multiple institutional affiliations, participation in multilateral activities and embrace of interdependence and collective responsibility in international affairs mark it out as firmly European and part of the Western world.65 Indeed, as Figure 7.1 indicates, Turkey’s institutional involvement in Europe’s security affairs is long-standing and extensive. Two aspects of this are worth dwelling on: Turkey’s role in NATO and certain aspects of its association with the EU. Turkey’s strategic significance to NATO has already been noted. In addition, it has made a sizeable material contribution to the Alliance. When measured as a percentage of GDP, Turkey was between 2000 and 2004 NATO’s largest military spender.66 After the US, Turkey also has the largest land-based army in the Alliance (even though a sizeable portion is accounted for by conscripts). Turkish forces have been amongst the largest contributors to NATO missions in Kosovo, Bosnia-Herezegovina (BiH) and Afghanistan (where it was the lead nation in the second half of 2002) and are central to Operation Active Endeavour launched in October 2001 – a maritime counter-terrorist effort in the Eastern Mediterranean and the longest continuous

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OSCE Member. Of ten OSCE field operations extant in 2003, Turkey contributed personnel to five (Macedonia, Georgia, BiH, Kosovo, Serbia-Montenegro). Turkey is a member of the OSCE’s Minsk Group dedicated to mediating the conflict between Armenia and Azerbaijan over the disputed enclave of Nagorno-Karabakh. Turkey hosted the summit meeting of the OSCE in November 1999.

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NATO Member since 1952. EU Turkey was recognized as a candidate for membership in 1999. Accession talks began in October 2005. Western European Union (WEU) and ESDP Turkey became an associate member of the WEU in 1992, a status accorded to the six European states in NATO but not then in the EU. The WEU was subsequently merged within the European Security and Defence Policy (ESDP) launched by the EU in 1999. Specific provisions for involvement in ESDP have been elaborated for non-EU European NATO states, and Turkey has participated in ESDP military and police operations in Macedonia and BiH. In May 2005, Turkey agreed to participate in an ESDP joint ‘battlegroup’ alongside Italy and Romania. Armaments cooperation Turkey was a full member of the WEU’s Western European Armaments Group (WEAG) and following the WEAG’s closure in May 2005, it established links with the newlyestablished European Defence Agency (EDA) of the EU. Turkish defence industries are part of the AeroSpace Industries Association of Europe launched in 2004. In the 2000s. Turkey has been involved with European and American partners in a number of prestigious (and costly) joint production projects, such as the A400m airbus and the Joint Strike Fighter/F35 programme. The CFE Treaty As of January 2004 Turkey’s holdings were below permitted ceilings in all five categories of Treaty Limited Equipment (TLE) and significantly below in three (artillery, aircraft and helicopters). Figure 7.1 Turkey and the institutionalisation of European security

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Territory in southern Turkey was excluded from the treaty owing to Turkish concerns regarding Syria and Iraq. As of May 2004, Turkey had hosted 200 inspections on its territory. The CFE 1A Treaty Signed in July 1992, the Treaty places limits on conventional forces’ military personnel of the states parties to the CFE Treaty. As of 2003 Turkey’s limit was 530,000 and its actual holding was 364,136. The Chemical Weapons Convention Entered into force in April 1997. Turkey has signed and ratified but has not declared stocks of chemical weapons. The Biological and Toxic Weapons Convention Entered into force in 1975. Turkey has signed and ratified and is one of the 152 states parties to the Convention. Confidence and Security-Building Measures (CSBMs) Since 2000 Turkey and Greece have agreed CSBMs under NATO auspices relating to Cyprus and the Aegean. However, the 2004 SIPRI Yearbook described the measures as ‘symbolic’ and contributing little ‘to reducing the recurrent tension between the two countries.’ Turkey has been involved in naval CSBMs with Black Sea littoral states since 2002. During the 1990s it signed bilateral CSBMs with Bulgaria, Albania and Macedonia. Multilateral weapon and technology control regimes Turkey is a member of the Zangger Committee, the Nuclear Suppliers’ Group, the Australia Group, the Missile Technology Control Regime and the Wassenaar Arrangement Anti-Personnel Mines (APM) Convention entered into force in 1999. Turkey had initially been reluctant to join on the grounds that its security situation required APM deployment. However, the position was reversed and the Turkish parliament ratified instruments of accession in March 2003. Turkey is now among the 141 signatories.

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military operation in NATO’s history.67 In terms of broader Alliance transformation, Turkey has provided an extensive range of training for NATO partners under the PFP, Mediterranean Dialogue and South East Europe Initiative programmes. It has also engaged in NATO’s defence modernisation programmes, hosted the first exercise of the NRF in 2003 and has cooperated with the Netherlands, the US and Germany in joint missile defence. Following the decision to overhaul NATO’s command structure in 2003, Izmir in Turkey was designated as one of two air component commands of NATO’s new single operational command, Allied Command Operations.68 The level of engagement has been undeniably extensive, but what concerns us here is the broader implications that can be drawn. For instance, does, as is sometimes claimed, the Turkish–NATO relationship provide a precedent for accession to the EU? There are at least two ways of looking at this question. The first is to note the often difficult balance between cooperation and controversy that has characterised Turkey’s membership of the Alliance. During the Cold War period, disputes involving Ankara went to the very heart of Alliance solidarity. Indeed, in the depths of the Cold War, the US in 1964 made it known to Turkey that it would not support a Turkish intervention in Cyprus and that NATO could not be counted on to side with Turkey should its action provoke Soviet interference. Following Turkey’s intervention in Cyprus in 1974, the US Congress terminated military aid and arms sales, to which Turkey responded by forcing the US to renegotiate access to Turkish military bases. Greece, meanwhile, withdrew from military cooperation within NATO in 1974 in protest at the failure of the Alliance to act during the crisis. Its subsequent attempts to re-enter were vetoed by Turkey until reintegration in 1980. During this period, in Turkey itself a thoroughgoing debate was underway among political and military elites on the utility of NATO membership. As for the post-Cold War period, Turkey was during the mid–late 1990s at the centre of disputes involving the restructuring of NATO’s southern command, the status of its associate membership of the WEU, and the elaboration of an operational nexus between the WEU and NATO through the Combined Joint Task Forces (CJTFs) concept. More controversially, the development by the EU from 1999 of ESDP resulted in a three-year diplomatic wrangle over the terms of Turkish participation. Ankara used its position within NATO to block agreement between the EU and the Alliance on the grounds that the institutional arrangements for the EU–NATO link did not provide sufficient weight to the role of non-EU European NATO states. These examples need, however, some qualification. The instances of controversy in the post-Cold War period have largely involved debate over institutional design, from which Turkey has admittedly derived a sense of disadvantage, but which ultimately have been the subject of compromise.69 Further, Turkey’s troubles within NATO do not mark it out as exceptional. Throughout the history of NATO, a number of members have openly questioned their commitment to the organisation. France left NATO’s integrated military

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command in 1967, and Spain too remained outside this structure until 1999, some seventeen years after joining the Alliance. In the post-Cold War period, Turkey has had a direct interest and involvement in what have arguably been NATO’s most acrimonious controversies – over Bosnia, Kosovo and Iraq. Whereas each led to Alliance-wide debates over the validity and purpose of NATO, successive Turkish governments nonetheless remained committed to the organisation. And this was the case even in the face of NATO equivocation on Turkish positions – be this support for tougher action against Serbia over Bosnia or the matter of Alliance assistance to Turkey during the 2002–3 Iraq crisis (see above). The second way to consider the question of precedent posed above is to suggest that cooperation within the NATO framework has been so extensive as to make the security rationale of EU accession superfluous. From a functional point of view this rests on two related assumptions. First, that the EU has a security importance inferior to NATO and second, that whatever security assets the EU does possess, Turkey can access these through a relationship short of membership. This first assumption one can discount by reference to the argument of Chapters 3 and 5 that the EU is a central component of Europe’s security governance, sometimes distinct, sometimes complementary to NATO. The second assumption is central to the case often made in favour of Turkey having some form of privileged partnership with the EU. This idea is returned to in the chapter’s Conclusion below, but the Turkish experience in NATO would already seem to indicate its limitations. Turkey’s position within NATO has bestowed upon it recognition and influence, qualities which have promoted cooperative integration over the long term. These qualities are less developed in Turkey’s relationship with the EU precisely because membership is missing. This then, brings us to the institutions of the EU–Turkey relationship itself. Turkey’s association with the EU is the longest-standing of all non-members and dates back to the Ankara Agreement of 1963, later supplemented by the Additional Protocol of 1970, the 1995 Customs Union Agreement, and the 2001, 2003 and 2005 Accession Partnerships. The institutional framework of the relationship has historically been overseen by the EU–Turkey Association Council supplemented by an Association Committee, Customs Union Committee and Joint Parliamentary Committee. In 2000 this framework was upgraded following recognition of Turkey’s status as an EU candidate. This resulted in the initiation of political dialogue meetings and eight EU–Turkey sub-committees to examine the harmonisation of Turkish legislation with the acquis communautaire. The accession negotiations which opened in October 2005 are overseen by an EU–Turkey Intergovernmental Conference. In addition, Turkey participates as a partner in ESDP (see Figure 7.1) as well as the EMP (launched in 1995), and also cooperates in the work of a number of EU/Community programmes and agencies including Europol and the European Environment Agency. How significant are these ties? Simply by reference to the 1995 Customs Union, one Turkish analyst has observed that Turkey enjoys the ‘closest [. . .]

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relationship between the EU and any non-member country’.70 Until the early 2000s, however, the relationship rested on a fundamental tension, its institutions were interpreted on the EU side as a form of containment, while on the Turkish side as a route to membership. Turkey’s refusal to participate in the work of the Association Committee for three years after the EU’s Luxembourg decision clearly reflected these divergent views. The revival of ties after 2000 was much more obviously premised on a membership perspective, however, and has consequently brought with it institutional and thematic innovation. Turkey’s movement towards accession has also brought with it debates with a specific institutional focus. One issue in this regard is the impact of Turkey upon EU decision-making. Given that Turkey’s possible accession is projected to be somewhere around 2015, EU decision-making rules at that point are hard to judge. When accession negotiations commenced in 2005, these rules were based on the 2001 Treaty of Nice. On this basis, Turkey’s large population (bigger than all EU member states with the exception of Germany) means that it would have a sizeable impact as a member in view of provisions for QMV in the EU Council of Ministers. A particular concern, however, has been in respect of those areas – such as CFSP/ESDP and police and judicial cooperation under JHA – where unanimity remains the norm. This is not an argument against Turkey as such, for any new entrant, other things being equal, lengthens the probability of unanimity (see Chapter 5). What makes Turkey specifically problematic, however, are two further considerations. First, it has a deep-seated animosity towards an existing EU member state (the Republic of Cyprus [RoC]) and long-standing disagreements with another (Greece); and second, its record of alignment with CFSP positions and actions is, according to the Commission, worse ‘than other acceding and associated countries’.71 Turkey’s departure from EU positions is particularly marked in areas related to its neighbourhood (Iraq, Azerbaijan, Georgia and the Middle East).72 The consequent possibilities for disagreement within the EU involving Turkey would, so the argument continues, constrain CFSP/ESDP and JHA activities and, in the process, undermine the EU’s ability to be an effective security and foreign policy actor.73 These are very real concerns given the highly problematic nature of the Greek–Cyprus–Turkey triangle and precedents drawn from Turkish–Greek relations in NATO. By the time of possible entry, however, Turkey’s troublemaking potential may well have diminished. As discussed below, progress on problems with Greece and Cyprus is a condition of accession. It is possible also that the scope of unanimous decision-making will be further reduced under Treaty alterations even if the national veto remains in important areas. Turkey’s alignment within the JHA and CFSP policy areas, moreover, has formed part of the European Commission’s monitoring of Turkey’s progress towards accession begun in 1998. Each also constitutes a separate negotiating chapter under the October 2005 Negotiating Framework and thus Turkey has a powerful incentive towards cooperation. In the JHA field, for instance, Turkey is required to take steps towards strengthening visa policy and border controls, combating illegal

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immigration, aligning its policy on asylum with that of the EU and extending law-enforcement cooperation in the areas of drug and people trafficking, as well as organised crime. Under CFSP, the conditions are less specific (alignment with EU joint actions, common positions, declarations etc.) but the precedent of the 2004 accession states might be instructive (see Chapter 5). On this basis, one would expect Turkey’s patchy record of alignment to improve progressively so long as the accession negotiations remained on track. Compliance Opposition to Turkish entry into the EU has often been voiced in terms of presumed differences between European and Turkish values. At its starkest, this view holds that the very survival of the Union is incompatible with Turkish accession. This position is now infamously associated with former French President Giscard D’Estaing. Interviewed in November 2002, while holding the position of President of the Convention on the Future of Europe, he alluded to Turkey’s Muslim population and high birth rate. Turkey, he continued, had ‘a different culture, a different approach, a different way of life’; if admitted ‘it would be the end of Europe’.74 This was, in fact, an echo of the view expressed by Helmut Kohl and Wilfried Martens, erstwhile premiers of Germany and Belgium, that Europe was a ‘civilisational project’ in which Turkey could play no part.75 Pope Benedict XVI as well as eminent centre-right politicians in France, Germany, Poland and elsewhere have all expressed similar opinions.76 Officially, however, a specifically religious or cultural basis of membership has been rejected by the EU and its formal, agreed position is that Turkey is to be judged ‘on the basis of the same criteria as applied to the other candidate States’.77 Aware that cultural or religious standards would be to its own disadvantage, Turkey’s rulers too have willingly accepted this position.78 The formal conditions in this respect are the Copenhagen criteria (as noted in Chapter 5, these cover inter alia ‘democracy, the rule of law, human rights, and respect for and protection of minorities’) supplemented, according to the 2005 Negotiating Framework, by additional stipulations relating to good neighbourly relations and Cyprus. Given explicit conditionality of this sort, judging Turkey’s compliance with ‘European’ values is a seemingly much more straightforward affair than in the Russian case. That said, the categories used for Russia will be applied here also, derived as they are from the features of security governance noted in Chapter 3. This will help to provide a sense of comparison and a context that includes but is wider than EU conditionality alone. The levels of consideration are the domestic (focusing here on democratisation and related issues of human rights), the state (considering the Kurdish issue) and the international (with a focus on Cyprus). The domestic level Enlargement and the development of an EU security community are both premised on democratic government. Speaking in June 2005, EU Enlargement Commissioner Olli Rehn noted that a stable, democratic Turkey was in the

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strategic interest of the EU.79 This democracy–security link is, in the Turkish case, relatively recent and has not always been a condition of its inclusion into European structures. A limited process of democratisation was underway at the point of Turkish entry into NATO but, as noted in Chapter 4, subsequent relapses into military rule were tolerated within the Alliance owing to the strategic exigencies of the Cold War. Perhaps more remarkably, Turkey joined the Council of Europe, a body specifically dedicated to upholding democracy and human rights, nearly a year before holding its historic first free and fair general elections in 1950. In this respect, however, Turkey was not alone. Italy, Greece and West Germany, all nascent democracies, entered around the same time and what mattered in all cases was their Western orientation in the emerging Cold War. Even the military coup of 1981 did not lead to a severing of ties. Turkey’s participation in the PACE was only suspended; it was expelled neither from this body nor the Council of Europe’s inter-governmental arm, the Committee of Ministers. Such leniency has been less apparent in the case of the EU. While Cold War considerations fashioned the initial relationship, even during this early period normative concerns were apparent; negotiations on associate membership, for instance, being suspended in the wake of the 1960 military coup. The coup of 1980, meanwhile, led to a suspension of aid and the effective freezing of official relations within the framework of the Ankara Agreement. Statements of the EP, the Commission and EU foreign ministers all made it clear that normalcy would only be resumed following a restoration of democracy. This position had some bearing on the generals’ retreat in 1983 and exercised an even greater influence thereafter on the Özal administration’s pursuit of democratisation.80 Turkey’s 1987 application to join the EU was followed shortly after by free elections and in 1988 relations were fully normalised when the EP voted to reactivate the Ankara Agreement. From this point on the EU began to demand more exacting political conditions of Turkey. This was true of both the negotiations leading to the framing of the 1995 Customs Union as well as the terms of the various Accession Partnerships. This picture of conditionality does require some qualification. First, the approach within the EU has been differentiated; the EP has historically been much more critical of Turkey than other key institutions (the Commission and the Council). Similarly, the member states have often been divided. Some (the UK, Germany, France and Italy) on occasion being more lenient towards Turkey than others (Greece, the Netherlands, Denmark). Second, the EU’s political treatment of Turkey during the latter 1980s and much of the 1990s involved a degree of accommodation; political reform was demanded but progress in relations occurred despite continuing reservations on Turkey’s progress. A trade-off of this type was possible, however, only so long as Turkey lacked a credible membership perspective. With the granting of candidate status in 1999, political conditionality was taken much more seriously by both parties. In this context, then, two broad and related themes are worth brief consideration: the

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development of Turkish democracy, and how this process has been viewed as a benchmark of Turkish accession to the EU. As already noted, Turkey has since the late 1940s experienced a cyclical political development with bursts of democratisation and reform punctuated by military intervention. Writing in 1996, one Turkish analyst described Turkey as an unconsolidated democracy, exhibiting clear democratic characteristics (regular open elections and party competition, an independent judiciary, a free press) alongside less democratic traits (continuing military influence on civilian government and public opinion, the infringement of human and minority rights, the rise of anti-system parties).81 Other ambiguities have also endured. What ought to be regarded as a boon to democracy, namely a competitive party system, has in the Turkish case been a mixed blessing, often delivering (as in the 1990s) weak, unrepresentative governments and a fractious parliament. Conversely, what would normally be considered of clear detriment to democracy – military intervention – has taken a peculiar character in Turkey. The Turkish military has exercised a determining influence over the country’s administration and foreign policy, yet it has also claimed to be acting in order to both save Turkish democracy from the excesses of civilian government and to protect secular rule from the danger of Islamism. The former, at least, is a common and self-serving claim of militaries when taking political action, but unusually in the Turkish case, the military has retreated from power after short periods of rule and has not sought the construction of a lasting authoritarian regime. It has also enjoyed consistently high levels of public support.82 The questions raised by Turkey’s political development became even more salient with the election of the AKP. Its period in office witnessed the adoption as of 2005 of over 500 reform bills aimed at ‘improving the most-criticised aspects of Turkish [politics], such as limits to freedom of speech and expression, freedom of association, torture and mistreatment along with the strong influence of the military on domestic politics’.83 This programme has been met with scepticism by some, but more positive assessments have seen the AKP as the custodians of a ‘conservative democracy’ involving a commitment to democratic norms and the accommodation of Islam with secularism in public affairs.84 By this view, the AKP is seen as continuing Turkey’s traditional preoccupation with modernisation. However, it is the case also that political reform has been strongly influenced by EU conditionality.85 The EU in this regard acts as the most important external referee of how far reform has progressed.86 The first judgement of note in this context was the Commission’s Opinion on Turkey’s 1987 request for accession. This noted democratic progress since the 1980 military coup but not at a level that would justify opening accession negotiations.87 Not until 2004 was this position formally revised. A Commission recommendation of October 2004 noted ‘substantial [. . .] convergence in Turkey towards European standards’. Turkey, it continued, ‘sufficiently fulfils the political criteria’ and so accession negotiations should be opened. The document, however, also noted that the implementation and ‘irreversibility of the reform process’ would

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need to be confirmed over an unspecified ‘longer period of time’ and that the practice of annual reviews instituted in 1998 would continue once negotiations were underway. Negotiations could be suspended in the event of ‘a serious and persistent breach’ of political freedoms.88 The 2005 Negotiating Framework repeated this formulation. The seemingly open-ended nature of political conditionality raises the question of whether or not Turkey has been treated fairly. Certainly conditionality is tougher than for the 2004 entrants, none of whom were subject, as Turkey (and Croatia) has been, to suspension clauses on domestic political performance. But in broader terms, the formalities have been similar, with accession talks being opened only once EU political (and other) criteria have been satisfied. In this light, how does Turkey compare? According to Freedom House data on political rights and civil liberties, at the beginning of negotiations (for the 2004 acceding states these started in either March 1998 or January 2000) each EU candidate was rated as ‘free’. Croatia was ranked as ‘free’ also at the point it opened talks in 2005. Turkey at the same juncture was rated as ‘partly free’, from which one might infer that it has been treated relatively sympathetically.89 Yet such sympathy is only a matter of degree and in comparative terms, the conditionality applied to Turkey has been stern. Two points are worth making in this connection. First, Turkey is not the only candidate to have been treated leniently. This has been true of Romania (which signed an accession treaty in 2005 despite deep-seated corruption and problems with the rule of law), as well as of Estonia and Latvia, both of which acceded to the EU in 2004 despite the inability of large sections of their Russian-speaking populations to vote in national elections.90 Indeed, using the most recent POLITY IV data rather than that of Freedom House, Estonia was ranked in 2003 (the year it signed an EU accession treaty) as less democratic than Turkey.91 Unlike these two countries, however, sympathy for Turkey has only extended to the opening of accession talks and not so far to accession itself; indeed there is no presumption that during the negotiations any such latitude will be granted. Second, of the ten acceding countries in 2004 only two (the RoC and Malta) could be said to have enjoyed long-term democratic government. The remaining eight, all post-communist states, had obtained a level of democratic performance (at least by reference to Freedom House scores) more advanced than Turkey, but had done so over a relatively short period of time. Accession may have been a reward for this, but equally there was an assumption that long-term democratic consolidation was best guaranteed within, rather than outside, the EU – an assumption from which Turkey has not benefited. Political conditionality is an inescapable part of accession to the EU. In broad terms, Turkey has had to face the same criteria as other candidates, but the EU has been sterner in applying these conditions in the Turkish case. The real test, then, is yet to come – how Turkey develops politically during the period of negotiation and how consistently and fairly the EU applies its own political criteria within this context.

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The state level The Turkish Republic formed following the Independence War was required to undertake a process of state- and nation-building aimed at incorporating a diverse range of ethnic groups. This task was influenced by Turkey’s narrow escape from dismemberment under the terms of the Treaty of Sèvres. Consequently, the political course pursued from the 1920s and continued in its essentials by all successive governments has been to deny the importance of ethnicity as the basis of nationhood and instead to erect a civic ‘Turkish’ identity premised on assimilation and an integrated polity. Here, minority rights and decentralisation have been viewed as inimical to Turkey’s territorial integrity. Turkey has adopted a restrictive approach to minority rights that permits minority status to nonMuslim groups (small numbers of Greeks, Armenians and Jews) under the terms of the 1923 Treaty of Lausanne but effectively denies it to others. This approach has had a particular significance for Turkey’s large Kurdish population. While itself internally differentiated and, in some cases, well-integrated into Turkish society, Kurdish aspirations have lain behind violent uprisings in the 1920s and 1930s and a de facto civil war in Turkey’s south-east during the 1980s and 1990s. Given also that Kurdish populations straddle Turkey’s borders with Syria and Iraq, the threat of Kurdish separatism has thus loomed large in Turkish security culture.92 Turkey has been particularly sensitive to external championing of minority rights. During the Kurdish insurgency of the 1980s and 1990s it rejected efforts by external actors to either mediate in the conflict or to hold Turkey accountable for alleged human rights abuses committed in the course of the campaign. Turkey, of course, made much of its unusual circumstances, rebuffing outside interest on the grounds that it was engaged in an internal fight against terrorism, the scale of which was beyond the experience of any European democracy. Such a position, however, ran counter to the obligations of Turkey’s membership of both the OSCE and the Council of Europe. In regard to the latter, Turkey had accepted the jurisdiction of the European Court of Human Rights and in 1987 ratified Article 25 of the European Convention on Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms which allowed for petition by individuals to the Council of Europe’s Commission on Human Rights. This opened the way for a large number of applications from within Turkey, many of which were related to Kurdish issues. 93 On this basis, Turkey was constantly criticised for its failure to carry out adverse judgements and for continuing human rights abuses. As a result, in 1996 it was subjected to the monitoring procedure of the PACE. As for the EU, Turkey made some limited concessions on Kurdish issues to ensure EP ratification of the Customs Union Agreement and in the run-up to the Helsinki European Council. However, despite a growing attention to the issue during the 1990s, ‘the EU impact on the Kurdish issue was’, according to one observer, ‘virtually nil’.94 This state of affairs changed fundamentally with EU candidate status. An enhancement of Kurdish rights, in fact, formed part of the AKP’s reform programme and while these reforms were made possible only

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within a permissive environment of a military victory over Kurdish separatism led by Kurdistan Workers Party (Partiya Karkerên Kurdistan or PKK), EU conditionality has provided an important additional incentive.95 How far have these reforms enhanced Turkey’s standing? Writing in 2000, one Turkish analyst argued that the Kurdish issue ‘impedes [. . . Turkey’s] acceptance by, integration into, and identification with Europe and the West’.96 Some four years later in 2004 bodies associated with both the Council of Europe and the EU issued reports which welcomed the formal legal extension of greater cultural, language and political rights, and the cessation of emergency rule in Turkey’s Kurdish-populated south-east. Both, however, noted ongoing discrimination, and obstacles to the exercise of rights in practice.97 An EP conference on the issue held in September 2005 noted that the Kurdish issue was one of the main obstacles to membership. President Chirac of France, similarly, has suggested greater freedom for Turkey’s Kurds is part of the ‘cultural revolution’ Turkey needs to undergo in order to enter the EU.98 The Kurdish issue illustrates well the often uncomfortable balance between politics and security within the Turkish–EU relationship. Even under the reformist AKP, the Kurdish question has continued to be seen in Turkey primarily as an issue of security rather than one susceptible to political accommodation. This has both obstructed reform and ensured a heavy military influence over the matter. The EU itself has given some credence to this position; statements on the Kurdish issue tend to be accompanied by condemnations of separatist terrorism and support for Turkey’s territorial integrity. Nonetheless, the view has also been articulated that these matters are best dealt with politically. This gap between the Turkish and EU positions has narrowed somewhat in the 2000s but the rigour of EU political conditionality suggests that it will remain a continuing obstacle to Turkey’s pursuit of membership. The international level As a state which has made a conscious European and Western choice in its foreign policy over several decades, Turkey has not presented an alternative or revisionist view of international order. Turkey has both welcomed and sought integration within the system of post-Cold War security governance underpinned by NATO and the EU. In this sense, it is much more of an insider than is Russia. The analysis of this chapter also suggests that on a range of issues ranging from Iran and the Balkans to ESDP, Turkey has accommodated itself to EU and NATO positions. That said, a number of international issues remain which have served as potential obstacles to Turkey’s European integration. Two of these concern Turkey’s bilateral relations with Armenia and Greece. Relations with the former have been strained over Turkish support for Azerbaijan in the Azeri–Armenian dispute and Turkey’s refusal to recognise claims of genocide against Armenians by Ottoman Turks in 1915–17. These issues have on occasion been the focus of European (and American) attention. They are not, however, regarded as a pressing issue in Turkey’s relations with either NATO or the EU.99

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Relations with Greece, meanwhile, have involved periodic tension since the 1950s over Cyprus (see below) and maritime and air space claims in the Aegean. In 1987 and 1996 the two sides came perilously close to military confrontation. The Turkish–Greek relationship is an anomaly given that both states are longtime members of NATO, a body premised on peaceable security community relations among its members.100 Greco-Turkish relations have, however, improved dramatically since 1999, in part owing to a Turkish view that rapprochement would enhance its EU prospects and a parallel Greek view that the best way to normalise relations is to integrate Turkey within the Union.101 The accession process will, in fact, be a test of these assumptions. The Negotiating Framework requires of Turkey an ‘unequivocal commitment to good neighbourly relations and [to resolving . . .] any outstanding border disputes’.102 The one issue above all others which has signified Turkey’s deviation from received international opinion is that of Cyprus. The conflict over the island amounts to one of the most protracted and difficult problems of Europe’s international politics. In essence, this is a dispute between the island’s predominant Greek-speaking population and the Turkish-speaking minority overlain by the external partisanship of Greece and Turkey. The dispute goes back to the terms of independence in 1960 but has been manifest most obviously in the island’s division into two zones following the occupation by Turkish forces of the northern third of the island in 1974. The RoC constitutes the officially recognised government, while the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC) is recognised only by Turkey. Ankara justified its initial intervention by reference to the discriminatory treatment that had been meted out to Turkish Cypriots since independence and the threat of pan-Hellenism or enosis (a union of Cyprus with Greece). The possibility of the latter subsequently receded following Greece’s accession to the EU in 1981. However, the consolidation of the RoC led Turkey to dig in and strengthen its links to the TRNC. This culminated in November 2001 with the Turkish Prime Minister Bülent Ecevit suggesting that Turkey would support the ‘total annexation’ of the TRNC in the event of the RoC joining the EU.103 Underlying the Turkish position are profound feelings of nationalism and identity, allied to a perception that Cyprus is crucial to Turkey’s own strategic and political fortunes. Cyprus, in other words, is indicative of the threat-based security culture noted above – it is seen (at least by the military) as possessing intrinsic strategic benefits for Turkey’s defence and at the same time has been regarded both by Turkish government and majority public opinion as a test of Turkish resolve.104 The Turkish position crucially has often been at odds with the views held by external actors. These actors, moreover, have not been passive bystanders to the conflict. The UK retains sovereign military bases on the island and the US has extensive communication and intelligence gathering facilities. The Cyprus problem (and with it Greek–Turkish rivalry) has also been regarded by the US as a threat to NATO cohesion and a source of instability in the Eastern

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Mediterranean – a region which has been accorded a raised profile since 9/11 and the 2003 Iraq war. The US consequently has (alongside the UN, the main mediating body) been a periodic mediator in the conflict since the 1960s. As for the EU, it opposed both the Turkish intervention and the island’s subsequent division. However, it was not until the late 1990s that the EU was forced to confront the Cyprus issue. This was a consequence of three factors: first, the progress of the RoC toward accession (negotiations opened in March 1998), second the recognition of Turkey as a candidate in 1999 and third, the revival of UN mediation that same year aimed at a comprehensive settlement. Conditionality on the Cyprus issue, however, was not applied to the RoC given its status as the legal government; the perception within the EU has been that the biggest obstacles to a solution have been the positions of Turkey and the TRNC.105 Indeed, the EU has drawn an explicit link between ‘a settlement of the Cyprus problem [. . . and] Turkey’s [EU] membership aspirations’.106 The EU’s 2005 Negotiating Framework stipulates that Ankara give its ‘continued support [. . . to] efforts to achieve a comprehensive settlement of the Cyprus problem within the UN framework’.107 Without such progress, Turkey’s admission would, in all probability, be subject to vetoes by Greece and the RoC as well as by the EP. Linkage of this sort was rejected by Turkey throughout the 1980s and 1990s but was finally accepted by the AKP. This contributed to a more accommodating Turkish position, apparent in 2003–4 during UN-led negotiations. This in effect, placed Turkey alongside the UK, Greece, the US and the EU in supporting the socalled Annan Plan (named after the UN Secretary General) aimed at the reunification of Cyprus on the basis of a bizonal federation.108 Having made this step, many argued that Turkey had demonstrated considerable flexibility and that the prospect of accession would help to sustain its cooperation on the issue.109 A further condition requires that Turkey normalise its relations with the RoC and, as part of this, extend the provisions of the Turkey–EU Association Agreement and Customs Union. In July 2005 Ankara signed a Protocol to this effect but issued simultaneously a declaration stating that its signature in no way implied diplomatic recognition of the RoC, an entity which, it claims, does not represent the two sides of the island.110 Turkey also continued to refuse entry to RoC registered ships and planes on the grounds that sanctions were still unfairly applied to the TRNC.111 The EU, in turn, issued a counter-declaration noting that Turkish recognition of all EU member states is ‘a necessary component of the accession process’.112 This deferred the issue to a point in the accession negotiations and made Turkish entry contingent upon either a reversal of its position or, much less likely, the achievement of a unified Cypriot state which Ankara would be prepared to recognise. The Cyprus issue thus remained as a potentially insurmountable obstacle to Turkish membership. Addressing the question of Turkey’s ‘Europeanness’ means taking into account a complex and contested historical, regional and political setting. The analysis above hardly resolves the debate on this but it does indicate how misleading is the assumption held by some that Turkey and Europe are

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fundamentally incompatible. That said, Turkey remains an awkward or incomplete European judged in terms of region, institutionalisation and compliance. How this relates to European security governance and more specifically Turkey’s relationship with the EU is taken up in the chapter’s Conclusion.

Conclusion: privileged partnership? Turkey is already well integrated into European structures of security governance. This, however, brings with it a tension between inclusion and exclusion. Throughout the entire post-War period, the consistent position of successive Turkish governments has been that their country has a demonstrable European orientation and commitment to integration. Its roles in the Council of Europe, the OSCE and particularly NATO give it good cause for entry into the EU, the one vital but missing part of the institutional jigsaw. Turkey, so the argument continues, also has a proven track record in promoting Europe’s security. According to Foreign Minister Abdullah Gül, ‘[a]t the time of the Cold War [Turkey was] defending Europe when some of the countries in the EU today were on the other side of the fence’.113 In the post-Cold War period successive Turkish governments have noted their contribution to dealing with ‘multi-directional risks, threats and uncertainties’, something that is already an asset for NATO and could equally be for the EU.114 Yet as we have seen, for all manner of reasons, Turkey’s accession to the EU has been the subject of debate and open resistance with scepticism deep-seated among European public opinion and some of its governing elite. The conundrum of Turkish membership of the EU has been addressed, politically, in three ways. The first, is the formal and agreed view of the EU, namely that Turkey will accede should the conditions of accession be properly met. The second, largely unspoken view is that the conditions of membership are so exacting (and deliberately so) that accession is unlikely. The third view is that some other option has to be offered to Turkey. Often portrayed as a ‘privileged partnership’, this takes two guises. The first is as a desired alternative to membership from the outset, one interpretation of the position adopted in 2005 by the Austrian government and by Angela Merkel prior to her election as German Chancellor. The second, adopted by supporters of Turkey such as the UK, is that privileged partnership is a second-best method of keeping Turkey engaged with the EU, should negotiations on membership fail. The 2005 Negotiating Framework attempts to reconcile these two positions by noting ‘if Turkey is not in a position to assume in full all the obligations of membership it must be ensured that Turkey is fully anchored in the European structures through the strongest possible bond’.115 This phraseology implies that such a bond involves not just the EU but also Turkey’s broader relations with Europe. However, given Turkey’s already

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extensive engagement with European structures, it is the possibilities pertaining to the EU which are open to conjecture. The advantages to the EU of privileged partnership have usually been seen in terms of alleviating the weight of Turkey on the ‘absorption capacity’ of the Union’s institutions and resources.116 Partnership of this type also has a particular security dimension. It could entail a Turkey more fully associated with the CFSP and ESDP but, in the absence of a membership perspective, free of obligations on Cyprus, Armenia, the Kurdish issue and Greece that touch upon its security interests. This would have the advantage, according to Barry Buzan and Thomas Diez, of allowing Turkey to continue its ‘leading role in the regional security dynamics that surround it’ while acknowledging Turkey’s vital role in those areas such as the Black Sea and the Eastern Mediterranean ‘which occupy a central place in the EU’s relations with its neighbours’.117 The disadvantages, however, are equally clear. Most obviously, privileged partnership has been consistently rejected by the Turkish political leadership who have viewed it as an opportunistic political fix, offering nothing of substance over and above already long-standing association arrangements, while also reneging on commitments to Turkish accession going back to the 1963 Ankara Agreement.118 By this view, a privileged partnership offers no privileges at all and amounts to a terminus in Turkey’s European aspirations. As such it implies that Turkey is different after all, and that, according to Fadi Hakura, ‘it should not be judged by the values of democracy, human rights, good-neighbourly relations and cultural diversity’.119 The sense of consequent exclusion could well result in an uncooperative and alienated Turkey and, in parallel, a re-emphasis on security prerogatives and unilateralism in Turkey’s domestic and foreign policies. Progress on the Cyprus and Kurdish issues as well as Greek–Turkish relations, all addressed within the context of EU–Turkish relations, would simply fall away. The debate on Turkey is thus a profound one and likely to continue for over a decade or more as its accession talks with the EU unfold. Given the long-term nature of this process, three broad contextual points are worth making in conclusion. The first is that the EU will itself have changed considerably by the time Turkey might eventually join. The development of a differentiated EU was already apparent before the 2004 enlargement (opt-outs and differing levels of participation in the Schengen arrangements, ESDP, EMU and so on) and it will be accelerated further by the accession of Romania and Bulgaria in 2007 and states of the Western Balkans possibly thereafter, not because these states are excused their obligations, but because as the EU’s membership becomes larger and more diverse so pressure will mount to decelerate the trend towards greater and closer integration. This will, arguably, make Turkey that much easier to accommodate.120 Turkish membership is itself, moreover, premised on all manner of derogations and opt-outs with regard to freedom of movement, structural funds and agricultural subsidies121 which might eventually mean the distinction between membership and privileged partnership is more symbolic than real. The death of the EU’s Constitutional Treaty at the hands of French and

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Dutch referendums in 2005 is also significant if, as some have argued, this portends the ‘high-water mark of EU integration’. Thus, according to Chris Morris, ‘[a] more loosely structured EU in the future – perhaps even a two-tier Union – could be the perfect solution. It would be much easier to accommodate Turkey in an outer rim of EU nations which could include heavyweights like Britain, and much easier to join [an EU . . .] in which ambitious talk of political union was a thing of the past.’122 Second, Turkey too will continue to change. While European integration has been a preoccupation of almost all post-war Turkish governments, the most decisive progress has occurred since 2002 under the AKP. This, however, has been facilitated by some unusual circumstances not least, a substantial parliamentary majority for the governing party and a quiescent military. Neither of these conditions can be guaranteed to continue. However, apart from the exceptional cases of Switzerland and Norway (see Chapter 5), every state that has commenced formal negotiations on membership has eventually entered the EU; the process of accession itself creates a virtuous circle of conditionality, domestic reform and movement towards accession. The circle, however, is virtuous only if domestic sacrifice results in perceptible progress towards membership rather than something less attractive. The third point of context relates to Turkey’s security position. Throughout the Cold War, and indeed much of the post-Cold War period, views of Turkey have been coloured by a view of the country as a security barrier or ‘insulator’ from threats adjacent to the Europe of NATO and the EU.123 This appellation is suggestive of Turkey as a protective outer, a state attached to but not fully engaged with the European security region.124 Because it carries the implication of being on the periphery, Turkish politicians have, however, rejected the label.125 Indeed, Turkey’s integration in NATO has long meant that the ‘insulator’ image is a not entirely accurate one. A related point can be made concerning the EU. As Thomas Diez has argued, the EU, both through the accession of Greece and Cyprus and its relationship with Turkey, has intensified European and Turkish security interactions126 at the same time as Turkey has come to be seen as increasingly important for core European security concerns – be this stability in Iraq and the Eastern Mediterranean or cooperation on issues of counter-terrorism, migration and transnational crime. This state of affairs has not made Turkish membership of the EU any more certain but it does suggest that it is and will remain a defining issue of European security governance. Notes 1 Paraphrased from T. Christiansen, F. Petito and B. Tonra, ‘Fuzzy Politics Around Fuzzy Borders: the European Union’s “Near Abroad”’, Cooperation and Conflict, Vol. 35(4), 2000, p. 408. 2 B. Lewis, The Emergence of Modern Turkey (London: Oxford University Press, 1961), p. 479.

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3 H.T. Og˘ uzlu, ‘Turkey and the European Union: The Security Dimension’, Contemporary Security Policy, Vol. 23(3), 2002, p. 68. 4 I.O. Lesser, ‘Turkey in a Changing Security Environment’, Journal of International Affairs, Vol. 54(1), 2000, p. 184. 5 Nezihi Çakar, ‘A Strategic Overview of Turkey’, Perceptions: Journal of International Affairs (Ankara), Vol. 3(2), 1998, at www.mfa.gov.tr?MFA/Publications/MFAPublications/ Periodicals/Perceptions [5 January 2006]. 6 H. Bagci and S. Kardas, ‘Post-September 11 Impact: The Strategic Importance of Turkey Revisited’, paper prepared for the CEPS/IISS European Security Forum, Brussels, 12 May 2003 at: www.eusec.org/bagci.htm [5 January 2006]. 7 Speech of President Süleyman Demirel transcribed in Foreign Policy (Ankara), Vol. 24(1–2), 2000, p. 8. 8 A.L. Karaosmanoglu, ‘NATO Enlargement and the South: A Turkish Perspective’, Security Dialogue, Vol. 30(2), 1999, p. 215. 9 Z. Önis¸ , ‘Luxembourg, Helsinki and Beyond: Towards an Interpretation of Recent Turkey-EU Relations’, Government and Opposition, Vol. 35(4), 2000, p. 464. 10 Statement of the Turkish Government Regarding the Conclusions of the Luxembourg European Council, December 14, 1997, at: www.mfa.gov.tr/MFA/PressInformation/ PressReleasesAndStatements/pressReleases1997/December/December_14_1997_Stateme nt_The+Conclusions+Of+The+Luxembourg+European+Council.htm [20 April 2005]. 11 Turkish Foreign Minister Abdullah Gül cited in Turkish Daily News, 5 October 2005 at: www.turkishdailynews.com.tr/article.php?enewsid=25131 [10 October 2005]. 12 D. Jung and W. Piccoli, Turkey at the Crossroads: Ottoman Legacies and a Greater Middle East (London and New York: Zed Books, 2001), pp. 134–43. 13 Y. Bozdag˘ liog˘ lu, Turkish Foreign Policy and Turkish Identity: A Constructivist Approach (New York and London: Routledge, 2003), p. 162. 14 S. Sayari, ‘Turkish Foreign Policy in the Post-Cold War Era: The Challenges of Multi Regionalism’, Journal of International Affairs, Vol. 54(1), 2000, pp. 169–82. 15 B. Duran, ‘Islamic Redefinition(s) of European and Islamic Identities in Turkey’, in M. Ug˘ ur and N. Canefe, Turkey and European Integration: Accession Prospects and Issues (London and New York: Routledge, 2004), pp. 127–9, 138. 16 N. Canefe and T. Bora, ‘The Intellectual Roots of Anti-European Sentiments in Turkish Politics: The Case of Radical Turkish Nationalism’, in A. Çarkog˘ lu and B. Rubin (eds), Turkey and the European Union: Domestic Politics, Economic Integration and International Dynamics (London and Portland, OR: Frank Cass, 2003), pp. 135–7. 17 Ogˆuzlu, ‘Turkey and the European Union’, pp. 69–73. 18 H. Kösebalaban, ‘Turkey’s EU Membership: A Clash of Security Cultures’, Middle East Policy, Vol. 9(2), 2002, pp. 130–46. 19 The Treaty provided for the partition of much of the Ottoman Empire by France, Italy, Britain and Greece, as well as the carving out of independent Kurdish and Armenian territories. Its provisions were reversed by the 1923 Treaty of Lausanne following Turkey’s Independence War. 20 P.H. Gordon and J. Shapiro, Allies at War: America, Europe and the Crisis over Iraq (New York: McGraw-Hill, 2004), pp. 136–41. 21 Cited in S¸ . Çalis¸ , ‘Turkey’s Integration with Europe: Initial Phases Reconsidered’, Perceptions: Journal of International Affairs (Ankara), Vol. 5(2), 2000 at www.mfa. gov.tr?MFA/Publications/MFAPublications/Periodicals/Perceptions [5 January 2006]. 22 Cited in Bozdag˘liog˘lu, Turkish Foreign Policy and Turkish Identity, p. 69. 23 B. Ecevit (Turkish Prime Minister), ‘1999: A Year of Reform Crowned with Europe’, at: www.mfa.gov.tr/MFA/PressInformation/InterviewsAndArticles/InterviewsAndArticles1 999/1999_A+Year+of+Reform+Crowned+with+Europe+by+Bulent+Ecevit+Prime+Mi nister+of+Turkey.htm [20 April 2005].

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24 Republic of Turkey, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, ‘Synopsis of the Foreign Policy’, at: www.mfa.gov.tr/MFA/ForeignPolicy/Synopsis/ [20 April 2005]. 25 C. Keyder, ‘Whither the Project of Modernity? Turkey in the 1990s’, in S. Bozdog˘an and R. Kasaba (eds), Rethinking Modernity and National Identity in Turkey (Seattle and London: University of Washington Press, 1997), p. 47. 26 D. Kushner, ‘Self-Perception and Identity in Contemporary Turkey’, Journal of Contemporary History, Vol. 32(2), 1997, pp. 219–33. 27 N. Tocci, ‘Conflict Resolution in the Neighbourhood: Comparing the Role of the EU in the Turkish-Kurdish and Israeli-Palestinian Conflicts’, CEPS Working Document, No. 221, 2005 (Brussels: Centre for European Policy Studies), p. 14. 28 This was an argument made by Turgut Özal during the 1980s and by the AKP after 2002. 29 G. Bacik and B. Aras, ‘Turkey’s Inescapable Dilemma: America or Europe?’, Alternatives: Turkish Journal of International Relations, Vol. 3(1), 2004, p. 69. 30 P. Bilgin, ‘Turkey’s Changing Security Discourses: The Challenge of Globalisation’, European Journal of Political Research, Vol. 44(1), 2005, p. 194. 31 Duran, ‘Islamic Redefinitions’, p. 135. 32 M.P. Leffler, ‘Strategy, Diplomacy, and the Cold War: The United States, Turkey, and NATO, 1945–1952’, Journal of American History, Vol. 71(4), 1985, pp. 823–4. 33 The most vociferous opponents were Norway and Denmark, both of which feared that NATO’s northern responsibilities would be compromised by the admission of Turkey (and Greece). France and the UK also initially opposed membership. 34 Ö. Karasapan, ‘Turkey and US Strategy in the Age of Glasnost’, Middle East Report, September–October 1989, pp. 4–10, 22. 35 A. Eralp, ‘Turkey and the European Community in the Changing Post-War International System’, in C. Balkir and A.M. Williams (eds), Turkey and Europe (London and New York: Pinter Publishers, 1993), p. 28. 36 H. Grabbe, ‘From Drift to Strategy: The Case for Turkey’s Accession’, in K. Barysch, S. Everts and H. Grabbe, Why Europe Should Embrace Turkey (London: Centre for European Reform, 2005), p. 20. 37 Speech in Ankara, 23 October 2003 at: www.nato.int/docu/speech/2003/s031023a.htm [5 January 2006]. 38 J. Roberts, ‘The Turkish Gate: Energy Transit and Security Issues’, Turkish Policy Quarterly, Vol. 3(4), 2004, at www.turkishpolicy.com [5 January 2006]. 39 C. Boutin (rapportuer), Organized Crime – Drug and Human Trafficking in Europe (NATO Parliamentary Assembly, Committee Report, 141 CCDG 03 E, 2003), paragraph 61. 40 L. Ibrügger (rapportuer), Technology and Terrorism (NATO Parliamentary Assembly, Committee Report, AV 200 STC/MT(02)4, 2002), paragraph 18. 41 Quoted in The Times, 18 December 2004. 42 On divisions within the Commission see the Guardian, 30 June 2005. The EP, meanwhile, in a vote of December 2004 on opening accession talks was split 407 in favour and 262 against. 43 The Times, 18 December 2004; ‘Athens and Ankara Strengthen Ties’, BBC News online, 16 December 2004 at: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/4100871.stm; Standard Eurobarometer 64, December 2005 at: http://europa.eu.int/comm/public_opinion/ archives/eb/eb64/eb64_en.htm[20 March 2006], pp. 29, 31. 44 A view paraphrased in P. Kubicek, ‘Turkish Accession to the EU in Comparative Perspective’, Occasional Paper, No. 1/04, May 2004 (South East European Programme, St Antony’s College, Oxford), p. 4. 45 J. Steele, ‘After Years of “Yes If”’, Guardian, 23 October 2004; P. Preston, ‘We Need a Tiger in Our Tanks’, Guardian, 20 December 2004. 46 Speech at the Institute of Public Policy Research, London, 8 September 2005 at: www.fco.gov.uk/ [5 January 2006]. A similar view was also articulated during 2004–5 by Joschka Fischer, the then German Foreign Minister.

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47 K. Dervis¸, M. Emerson, D. Gros et al., The European Transformation of Modern Turkey (Brussels: Centre for European Policy Studies, 2004), p. 45. 48 Ibid., pp. 27–46. 49 M.S.Teitelbaum and P.L. Martin, ‘Is Turkey Ready for Europe?’, Foreign Affairs, Vol. 82(3), 2003, p. 102. 50 G. Dorronsoro, ‘The EU and Turkey: Between Geopolitics and Social Engineering’, in R. Dannreuther (ed.), European Union Foreign and Security Policy: Towards a Neighbourhood Strategy (London and New York: Routledge, 2004), p. 51; D. Jung, ‘Turkey and Europe: Ongoing Hypocrisy?’, COPRI Working Paper No. 35, 2001, pp. 11–14. 51 See the Negotiating Framework for Turkey, paragraph 12, at: http://europa.eu.int/comm/ enlargement/docs/pdf/st20002_en05_TR_framedoc.pdf [5 January 2006]. 52 The US position, by contrast, has favoured Turkish membership for largely strategic reasons. Yet American influence is not decisive on this issue. After pressing the case for Turkey (perhaps tellingly at NATO’s summit in Istanbul in June 2004), President Bush was publicly rebuked by French President Jacques Chirac for encroaching ‘on to territory which is not his own’. Guardian, 29 June 2004. 53 As cited in ‘Turkey News: October 5–11 2004’, Turkish Industrialists’ and Businessmen’s Association (TUSIAD-US), at: www.tusiad.us/specific_page.cfm?CONTENT_ID=494 [5 January 2006]. 54 Jack Straw (Foreign Secretary) in evidence to the House of Commons Select Committee on Foreign Affairs, 13 March 2002 at: www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm200102/ cmselect/cmfaff/606/2031308.htm [5 January 2006]. 55 Jung, ‘Turkey and Europe’, p. 14. 56 See interview with Nicolas Sarkozy, Head of France’s ruling Union pour Mouvement Populaire in Turkish Weekly, 21 May 2005 at: www.turkishweekly.net/interview.php? id=79 [5 January 2006]. 57 S. Alpay, ‘Borders of Europe: A Turkish Perspective’, in R. Lindahl, Whither Europe? Borders, Boundaries, Frontiers in a Changing World (Göteborg: Göteborg University, 2003), p. 77. 58 In the months preceding Turkey’s entry into the Council of Europe in 1949, debate among existing members echoed later discussions surrounding Turkey’s relations with the EU. Then too Turkey’s membership was questioned owing to presumed cultural, political and religious differences with what the body’s founding statute referred to as ‘[t]he spiritual and moral values which are the common heritage of [European] peoples’. Once membership was granted, a British diplomat noted that ‘[i]n the past, Turkey was an Asiatic state in Europe, but now it is a European state in Asia’. See Çalis¸ , ‘Turkey’s Integration with Europe’. Much later, Resolution 1247 (1994) of the Council of Europe’s Parliamentary Assembly noted that the Council of Europe should ‘base itself on the generally accepted geographical limits of Europe’ and that membership was open to states ‘whose national territory lies wholly or partly in Europe’. Accordingly, all existing member states (including Turkey) were to be regarded as European. 59 Cited in N. Eren, Turkey, NATO and Europe: A Deteriorating Relationship? (Paris: Atlantic Institute for International Affairs, 1977), pp. 49–50. 60 Cited in Alpay, ‘Borders of Europe’, p. 76. 61 J. Davidson (Senior Advisor to the European Commission Delegation to the US), address to the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life, Washington, DC, 13 January 2005 at: http://pewforum.org/events/prin.php?EventID=66 [5 January 2006]. 62 K. Nicolaidis, ‘Turkey is European . . . for Europe’s Sake’, in Turkey and the European Union: From Association to Accession? (Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Netherlands, The Hague, January 2004) available at www.irri-küb.be/paper/050404Turquie-ALM-BVP.pdf [5 January 2006].

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63 I.B. Neumann, Uses of the Other: ‘The East’ in European Identity Formation (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1999), pp. 39–64; K. Robins, ‘Peculiarities of the EuropeTurkey Border’, European Studies, Vol. 19, 2003, p. 234. 64 S. Huntington, The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order (London: Touchstone Books, 1998), pp. 144–9; C.V. Findley, The Turks in World History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), p. 237. 65 Foreign Minister A. Gül, speech at Bilgi University, Istanbul, 25 August 2005 at: www.mfa.gov.tr/MFA/HomePageTopPart/Address25August2005.htm [2 October 2005]. 66 Figures calculated from ‘NATO-Russia Compendium of Financial and Economic Data Relating to Defence’ (Brussels: NATO International Staff, June 2005), Table 3, at: www.nato.int/docu/pr/2005/p050609.pdf [10 June 2005]. 67 O. Babaoglu, ‘US–Turkish Cooperation against New Maritime Threats in the Mediterranean Basin’, Policy Watch, No. 924, 7 December 2004 (The Washington Institute for Near East Policy). 68 M. Emerson and N. Tocci, ‘Turkey as a Bridgehead and Spearhead. Integrating EU and Turkish Foreign Policy’, EU–Turkey Working Papers, No. 1, 2004 (Brussels: Centre for European Policy Studies), p. 32. 69 On the WEU and CJTFs see H. Kramer, A Changing Turkey: The Challenge to Europe and the United States (Washington, DC: Brookings Institutions, 2000), pp. 215–17. On ESDP see B.B. Aykan, ‘Turkey and European Security and Defence Identity/Policy (ESDI/P): A Turkish View’, Journal of Contemporary European Studies, Vol. 13(3), 2005, pp. 1–30. 70 Ö. Erdemli, ‘Chronology: Turkey’s Relations with the EU’, in Çarkog˘lu and Rubin (eds), Turkey and the European Union, p. 5. 71 Commission of the European Communities, Issues Arising From Turkey’s Membership Perspective, Brussels, SEC (2004) 1202, p. 10. 72 Commission of the European Communities, 2004 Regular Report on Turkey’s Progress towards Accession, Brussels: SEC (2004) 1201, pp. 152–3. 73 Dorronsoro, ‘The EU and Turkey’, p. 51. 74 Cited in Teitelbaum and Martin, ‘Is Turkey Ready for Europe?’, p. 97. 75 Cited in C. Dahlman, ‘Turkey’s Accession to the European Union: The Geopolitics of Enlargement’, Eurasian Geography and Economics, Vol. 45(8), 2004, p. 560. 76 This includes French Prime Minister Dominique de Villepin, Edmund Stoiber the Premier of the German state of Bavaria and Angela Merkel, Head of the Christian Democratic Union and from October 2005 German Chancellor. 77 Helsinki European Council, Presidency Conclusions, December 1999, paragraph 12, at: http://europa.eu.int/council/off/conclu/dec99/dec99_en.htm#enlargement [5 January 2006]. 78 Foreign Minister Abdullah Gül, speech at Maastricht, 5 April 2004 at: www. mfa.gov.tr/MFA/Ministry/TheMinister/SpeechesofMinister/Turkey_And_The_EU_ Looking_Beyond_Prejudice_April_5_2004.htm [6 September 2005]. 79 Speech to the European Policy Centre, Brussels, at: http://europa.eu.int/comm/ commission_barroso/rehn/speeches/speeches_en.htm [5 January 2006]. 80 M. Müftüler-Bac, Turkey’s Relations with a Changing Europe (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1997), pp. 78–84. 81 E. Özbudun, ‘Turkey: How Far from Consolidation?’, Journal of Democracy, Vol. 7(3), 1996, pp. 123–38. 82 A. Mango, The Turks Today (London: John Murray, 2004), pp. 135–9. 83 S. Aydin and E.F.Keyman, ‘European Integration and the Transformation of Turkish Democracy’, EU-Turkey Working Papers, No. 2, 2004 (Brussels: Centre of European Policy Studies), p. 16. 84 S. Tepe, ‘Turkey’s AKP: A Model “Muslim-Democratic” Party?’, Journal of Democracy, Vol. 16(3), 2005, pp. 69–82; V. Nasr, ‘The Rise of “Muslim Democracy”’, Journal of Democracy, Vol. 16(2), 2005, pp. 13–27.

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85 M. Müftüler Baç, ‘Turkey’s Political Reforms and the Impact of the European Union’, South European Society and Politics, Vol. 10(1), 2005, pp. 17–31. 86 A comparable role is also played by the Council of Europe through monitoring reports of the PACE and the judgements of the European Court. These are undeniably authoritative and, in turn, influence EU bodies. The EU itself, however, has greater leverage, owing to the carrot of accession. 87 Commission of the European Communities, Commission Opinion on Turkey’s Request for Accession to the Community, Brussels, SEC (1989)2290 final/2, paragraph 7. 88 Commission of the European Communities, Recommendation of the European Commission on Turkey’s Progress towards Accession, Brussels: COM (2004) 656 final, pp. 3, 6. 89 S. Repucci, ‘Turkey, the EU, and Freedom in the World: An Examination of EU Accession through the Lens of Data on Political Rights and Civil Liberties’, Insight Turkey, Vol. 6(3), 2004, pp. 66–78; Freedom House, Freedom in the World – 2006: Selected Data from Freedom House’s Annual Global Survey of Political Rights and Civil Liberties, at: www. freedomhouse.org/template.cfm?page=5 [8 February 2006]. 90 See chapters on Romania, Estonia and Latvia in Freedom House, Nations in Transit 2005: Democratization from Central Europe to Eurasia, at: www.freedomhouse.org/research/ nattransit.htm [5 January 2006]. 91 M.G. Marshall and K. Jaggers, ‘POLITY IV Country Reports 2003’, at: www.cidcm. umd.edu/inscr/polity/report.htm [13 September 2005]. 92 B. Park, ‘Turkey’s Policy towards Northern Iraq: Problem and Perspectives’, Adelphi Paper, Vol. 374, June 2005, pp. 11–16. 93 Thus, as of 2004, 1,500 applications had been lodged on issues relating to internally displaced persons in Turkey, the vast majority by Kurdish complainants. See A.B. Çelik, ‘Transnationalization of Human Rights Norms and Its Impact on Internally Displaced Kurds’, Human Rights Quarterly, Vol. 27, 2005, pp. 984–7, 991. 94 Tocci, ‘Conflict Resolution’, p. 13. 95 Ibid, pp. 12–14. 96 D. Ergil, ‘The Kurdish Question in Turkey’, Journal of Democracy, Vol. 11(3), 2000, p. 122. 97 Commission of the European Communities, 2004 Regular Report, pp. 47–51; Honouring of Obligations and Commitments by Turkey (PACE Document 10111, 17 March 2004), paragraphs 213–53, at: http://assembly.coe.int/Documents/WorkingDocs/doc04/EDOC 10111.htm [3 May 2005]. 98 A. Lobjakas, ‘Turkey: EU Conference Highlights Continued Repression of Kurds’, Feature Article (Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty), 20 September 2005 at: www.rferl.org/ featuresarticle/2005/09/97618727–009f-4ac3–8449-d062f5d982e7.html [15 October 2005]; comments of French President Jacques Chirac, 18 December 2004, reported on KurdistanObserver.com, at: http://home.cogeco.ca/~kurdistan5/18-12-04chirac-tkymust-obey-rights.htm [10 October 2005]. 99 The EP did adopt a resolution on 28 September 2005 which asserted that Turkish recognition of the Armenian genocide be a prerequisite for accession. The issue did not, however, figure in the EU Negotiating Framework for Turkey. 100 F. Moustalis, The Greek–Turkish Relationship and NATO (London: Frank Cass, 2003), p. 86. 101 T. Oguzlu, ‘Is the Latest Turkish–Greek Détente Promising for the Future?’, European Security, Vol. 12(2), 2003, pp. 45–62. 102 Negotiating Framework for Turkey, paragraph 6. 103 Milliyet, 4 November 2001 at: www.members.tripod.com/discover_turkey0/Ecevit.htm# annex [5 January 2006]. 104 A. Kaliber, ‘Securing the Ground through Securitized “Foreign” Policy: The Cyprus Case’, Security Dialogue, Vol. 36(3), 2005, pp. 324–7.

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105 N. Tocci, ‘EU Intervention in Ethno-political Conflicts: The Cases of Cyprus and SerbiaMontenegro’, European Foreign Affairs Review, Vol. 9(4), 2004, pp. 553–61. 106 Council of the EU, Presidency Conclusions – Brussels, 12/13 December 2003, paragraph 40, at: http://ue.eu.int/ueDocs/cms_Data/docs/pressData/en/ec/78364.pdf [5 January 2006]. 107 Negotiating Framework for Turkey, paragraph 6. 108 The plan was killed off having been rejected by a majority of Greek Cypriots in a binding referendum in April 2004. 109 Turkey was praised by Secretary General Annan in his official report on the talks. See Report of the Secretary-General on His Mission of Good Offices in Cyprus (UNSC, S/2004/437, 28 May 2004), paragraph 78. 110 Enlargement Newsletter, 7 September 2005 at: http://europa.eu.int/comm/enlargement/ docs/newsletter/latest_weekly.htm [28 September 2005]. 111 Comments of Prime Minister Erdogan, reported by Turkish Daily News, 7 October 2005 at: www.turkishdailynews.com.tr/article.php?enewsid=25265 [10 October 2005]. 112 BBC News online, 22 September 2005 at: http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/1/hi/world/ Europe/4271778.stm [28 September 2005]. 113 International Herald Tribune, 5 October 2005. 114 T. Çiller, ‘Turkish Foreign Policy in its Dynamic Tradition’, Perceptions, Vol. 1(3), 1996; Foreign Minister A. Gül, speech in Vilnius, Lithuania, 13 September 2004 at: www.abdullahgul.gen.tr/EN/news.asp?193 [7 October 2005]. 115 Negotiating Framework for Turkey, paragraph 2. 116 See Austrian Foreign Minister Ursula Plassnik, cited in Turkish Daily News 1 October 2005 at: www.turkishdailynews.com.tr/article.php?enewsid=24821 [7 October 2005]. 117 B. Buzan and T. Diez, ‘The European Union and Turkey’, Survival, Vol. 41(1), 1999, p. 54. 118 Prime Minister Erdogan and Foreign Minister Gül cited in the Guardian, 3 September 2005. 119 F. Hakura, ‘Partnership Is No Privilege. The Alternative to EU Membership Is No Turkish Delight’, Briefing Paper, September 2005 (London: Chatham House, European Programme), p. 5. 120 T.G. Ash, ‘How the Dreaded Superstate Became a Commonwealth’, Guardian, 6 October 2005. 121 These are explicit in the Negotiating Framework for Turkey. 122 C. Morris, The New Turkey: The Quiet Revolution on the Edge of Europe (London: Granta Books, 2005), p. 247. 123 B. Buzan and O. Wæver, Regions and Powers: The Structure of International Security (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), pp. 391–5. 124 Hence, Frits Bolkestein, the EU Commissioner for the single market, argued in 2004 that Turkey should remain outside the EU and act as a ‘buffer’ protecting the Union from Syria, Iran and Iraq. See Financial Times, 8 March 2004. 125 Prime Minister Tansu Çiller, ‘Turkey and NATO: Stability in the Vortex of Change’, NATO Review, Vol. 42(2), 1994, pp. 3–6. 126 T. Diez, ‘Turkey, the European Union and Security Complexes Revisited’, Mediterranean Politics, Vol. 10(2), 2005, p. 173.

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8 Conclusion

The politics of ‘Europe’ is rarely articulated in grand terms either by the people who live there or by the political elites who presume to govern its affairs. In so far as debate exists on the governance of Europe in the early twenty-first century it is conducted in parochial terms. Rarely in political discourse does one hear of the sorts of vision which circulated at the end of the Cold War (or, for that matter, the end of the Second World War) or the articulation of competing schemes of pan-European order. In this sense, the ‘architecture’ debate has ended. The controversy surrounding the EU Constitutional Treaty and associated discussions conducted through the medium of the Constitutional Convention meant a temporary reprise during 2004–5 of debate on Europe’s future, but this was ultimately a technical discussion on the structures of the EU: a discussion effectively suspended, moreover, by the national considerations of publics in just two member states. The narrowness of debate, in many ways, reflects the settled nature of European order. This is the order that emerged from the settlement of the Cold War and which has been consolidated through the adaptation and enlargement of the EU and NATO. These bodies do not represent the totality of Europe’s security governance nor are they the sole expression of the broader phenomenon of a European security community. Yet they are, without doubt, among its most important defining features, to which there is now ‘no serious revisionist challenge’.1 Such a view has guided the analysis of this book, but lest it be taken as too easy an assumption, in this the concluding chapter, it will be considered briefly by reference to two broad qualifications.

C ONCLUSION

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(1) NATO and the EU are not the best organisations of security governance compared to possible alternatives. There is, arguably, a more inclusive basis to Europe’s security governance than that provided by the extension of what might be regarded as its ‘Westernistic’ components. This is an argument first encountered in Chapter 1. A pan-European regime such as the CFE Treaty might be one candidate. One of the more successful manifestations of security cooperation in post-Cold War Europe, this is nonetheless too functionally specific to stand as an alternative in its own right. The OSCE with its comprehensive membership, multiple functions and emphasis on cooperative security could be seen as more credible. The problem with the OSCE, however, is obvious, namely its lack of support among European governments. Its predecessor, the CSCE, enjoyed a brief moment in the sun at the end of the Cold War, but it was marginalised soon after in favour of what was perceived as the more concrete ability to act embodied within the EU and NATO. This was the consequence, in part, of an Anglo-American strategy to restrict the CSCE’s development, but crucially, one-time advocates such as Germany dampened their enthusiasm too, as did the majority of post-communist states. The OSCE, thereafter, has not been without consequence. An OSCE-mandated Eminent Persons’ Report on the organisation published in mid-2005 noted the organisation’s ‘comparative advantages’ in early warning and conflict prevention, the elaboration and implementation of confidence and security building measures, and post-conflict rehabilitation.2 Yet that very same panel was itself set up because of perceived organisational shortcomings and a fundamental disagreement over the organisation’s purpose between, on the one hand, a small group of states led by Russia and, on the other, an EU/NATO bloc. Indeed, the irony here (noted in Chapter 6) is that Russia, once the major advocate of the OSCE as a proto pan-European security framework, had under President Putin, emerged as one of the organisation’s most forthright critics, seeing the body now as just another instrument of Western policy ‘east of Vienna’.3 Further, the comparative advantages claimed for the OSCE have not been sufficient to generate a politically sustainable case for replacing either NATO or the EU. No government other than Russia has put forward an OSCE-first position with any conviction since the mid-1990s and Moscow’s own arguments have, in any case, been undermined by what Richard Sakwa has referred to as its ‘inability to move beyond old-fashioned geopolitical thinking’ in favour of a ‘genuine universalism’.4 In fact, by the mid-2000s the main debate surrounding the OSCE was how it could maintain its relevance. As one long-standing OSCE official has noted, there is plenty left to sustain the organisation (providing a forum for engaging Russia, channelling US and Canadian involvement in European and Eurasian affairs, and acting alongside NATO and EU efforts at conflict prevention, mediation and democratisation in the former Soviet Union). On this basis, the OSCE remained ‘an important means through which [s]tates can promote better relations among themselves and ensure conditions in which their

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people can live in peace’. Yet, as he conceded, this was a role which the OSCE has increasingly had to play out in a Europe dominated by the EU and NATO with the OSCE’s credibility resting on its ability to complement the efforts of these two organisations.5

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(2) NATO and the EU have entrenched a new division of Europe. In terms of the book’s themes, this is the most telling point. Talk of Europe’s division has passed through a number of stages in the post-Cold War period. In the early 1990s, debate centred on the consequences of an absence of enlargement and thus the re-creation of a division along Cold War lines. Once enlargement was accepted in principle, debate shifted to its practical consequences. The issues here concerned possibly discordant enlargements on the part of NATO and the EU and the establishment of a new line of division marked by these organisations’ new members. The dual enlargement of 2004 deflated this issue somewhat as both NATO and the EU boosted their respective memberships in a manner quite unexpected throughout the previous decade. Yet the issue of exclusion did not disappear. An enlarging EU entrenched through the Schengen provisions what some regarded as a new ‘paper curtain’. Further, disappointed ‘left-outs’ remained after enlargement in relation to both NATO and the EU, some of which, notably Turkey and Ukraine, loomed large in Europe’s international relations. The perennial issue of how to deal with Russia also persisted. Neither NATO nor the EU will enlarge to encompass all of Europe. And following the ‘big bang’ enlargement of 2004, enlargement will decelerate markedly as both the eligible candidates dry up and enthusiasm diminishes among both governments and publics of the existing member states. This suggests limits to pan-European integration and to the extension of the type of pluralistic security community (in turn, overlain by forms of security governance) considered in Chapter 3. The absence of a truly pan-European community of this sort ought not to come as a surprise, having no precedent in modern European history. That it has not developed and is unlikely to do so qualifies some of the more idealistic rhetoric which has accompanied enlargement. It also ensures the establishment of what may come to be permanent features of Europe’s security relations – the entrenchment of the types of security differentiation noted in Chapter 1. Here, an enlarged NATO/EU-based security community exists that is, to some extent, internally differentiated and which still faces daunting security challenges. Yet this community shares the benefits of an underlying stability of inter-state relations of trust, mutual responsiveness and deep cooperation. What is the position of this community within the broader European setting? As argued in Chapter 3, the borders of Europe’s security community are blurred. The assumption that this community is centred on NATO and the EU has some considerable substance, and these bodies can be seen as the most significant manifestation of that community’s system of governance. Yet while the categories

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of region, institutionalisation and compliance used to examine security governance in many ways approximate the EU/NATO boundary, to some degree they also extend beyond it. This fuzzy border, in part, simply reflects the process of pre-accession (candidates and aspirants conform to EU and NATO expectations through accession conditionality), but other dynamics are also at play. Initiatives such as PFP (for some of the states involved) and ENP (for all the states involved) have, in fact, been a form of association that is expressly not about membership. Further, there are forms of institutionalisation that bear no formal connection to either NATO or the EU and so further blur the security community border. While, as noted above, these may not be credible bases of pan-European security governance in their own right, formats such as the OSCE and intrusive regimes such as the CFE Treaty and CSBMs do nonetheless serve specific and significant functions. Further, neither NATO nor the EU can simply be characterised as practising a politics of exclusion. The expectation of some in the early 1990s that these two bodies would put up the shutters and insulate their members from the new, unstable East has proven largely unfounded. A ‘regional fortress’6 approach to security has taken shape in some respects (the Schengen regime, for instance), but, in broad terms, enlargement, partnership and association have typified an equally important politics of inclusion. This is a politics that is not without its problems as has been clear from the studies of Russia and Turkey. Equally, one could point to the awkward status of Ukraine, Moldova and Belarus, and the problems of engaging the more insecure states of the Western Balkans and the South Caucasus. NATO and EU initiatives, coupled with other forms of pan-European institutionalisation, do not remove the elevated status of membership but they do compensate for some of the negative consequences of what has been an extensive but still partial enlargement. This, in turn, helps to modify the distinction between integration that occurs inside the EU/NATO security community and patterns of relations that occur outside it. This distinction is qualified also by virtue of the type of security politics developed by the EU and NATO. Both have developed discourses of threat in the post-Cold War period but these have been articulated in the language of norms and values rather than in the language of realism (i.e. balances of power).7 This has not removed a sense of political or normative discord with those states who have found it difficult to accommodate the EU and NATO’s position as the expression of liberal political and economic order – or, put another way, of Westernisation and Europeanness. Crucially, however, an avoidance of balancing has averted damaging cycles of hostility. This can be most clearly seen in the case of Russia. Here is a state with no intention or desire to join either NATO or the EU; a state with principled objections to the post-Cold War predominance of these organisations; and one which has pursued (fitfully, admittedly) its own course of regional integration through the CIS. Few states in NATO and the EU, however, regard Russia as a threat in the traditional sense. And in Russia itself, the once largely hostile view of NATO as an unreconstructed military bloc has

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significantly moderated. Consequently, the one line of division which could have marked the development of competing and ultimately hostile political-cumsecurity blocs in Europe has not materialised. Thinking of Europe in this schematic manner does not mean an escape from policy. The development of NATO and the EU, as well as the challenge of dealing with the ‘left-outs’ or ‘outsiders’ of enlargement, will remain fundamental issues for years to come. In conclusion, it is worth noting four long-term shaping influences of relevance here. The first is a continuation of the network or ‘cobweb’ of relations centred on the EU and NATO. To take the EU, this cobweb extends out via the ENP, the SAAs, the strategic partnership with Russia, accession partnerships with Croatia, Turkey and possibly other future membership candidates. NATO, similarly, retains PFP, EAPC, the MAP process and specially tailored relations with Ukraine and Russia. These, amount, in effect to thin forms of security governance in their own right, even if these are not as developed as the governance ‘system’ of security community noted in Chapter 3.8 The second concerns the nature of NATO and the EU’s internal differentiation. Such processes have developed over the last decade even though they sit alongside the absolute requirement of new members to meet a full set of admission criteria. If internal differentiation accelerates then this could lead to a revision of the demand for enlargement (why join if the full benefits of membership are not available?) and a blurring of the distinction between members and those already enjoying well-developed forms of partnership. As noted in Chapter 7 this may, in the long-term, be the determining influence on Turkey’s relationship with the EU and conceivably it could also apply to NATO and Ukraine and perhaps even NATO and Russia. This might require the formality of membership (a development, in other words, beyond the privileged partnerships already in existence) but it would be a membership couched by all manner of safeguards and exclusions.9 The point here would be to further inclusiveness while minimising the dangers of institutional overcommitment. The third shaping influence relates to the US. As argued in Chapter 4, American engagement in NATO will continue. The logic of Chapter 3, meanwhile, is that a Europe centred on the EU will not develop as an alternative pole to a US-led NATO with all the implications this would have for NATO–EU discord. That said, the US vision of NATO is less and less about Europe and more about global contingencies. The practical manifestation of this has been a creeping EU peacekeeping role in the Balkans to replace the Alliance. NATO, however, retains critical functions in Europe and ultimately is a fundamental guarantor of security transparency and trust, and a barrier to the renationalisation of defence. These functions will persist irrespective of American objectives on NATO’s wider canvass. What remains unclear, however, is the nature of American commitment to enlargement. Washington has been the main advocate of the process (under both Democrat and Republican presidents), but since 2004 has been largely

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silent on the issue. Without its advocacy, it is difficult to imagine any other NATO member or coalition of members driving policy in the same way. Over and above these long-term trends, a final, more speculative, point concerns the nature of security itself. The framework of this book, that of security community, may seem outmoded to some, wedded as it is to a concern with interstate peace at a time when transnational challenges of terrorism and environmental collapse are routinely viewed as of much greater concern. Peace in Europe, however, is a signal achievement in its own right. It is also the prerequisite to European cooperation (within and beyond the security community) on these wider problems. As Zygmut Bauman has written: The ongoing institutional unification of Europe may be seen as [. . .] a defensive move prompted by the impulse to defend Europe’s ‘is’ (its relatively peaceful niche amidst deepening planetary turmoil [. . .]) against the ‘ought’ of its challenging, uncomfortable yet planetary responsibilities. But it may also be a preliminary step towards taking up those responsibilities: a sensible attempt to gather resources, force and will, all necessary to tackle the tasks of supracontinental, planetary dimensions.10

Notes 1 2 3 4

5 6 7 8 9

10

I. Clark, The Post-Cold War Order: The Spoils of Peace (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), p. 253. Common Purpose: Towards a More Effective OSCE, June 2005 at: www.osce.org/ documents/cio/2005/06/15432_en.pdf [5 January 2006]. Russian presidential spokesperson cited in Hesingin Sanomat (international edition), 2 August 2005 at: www.hs.fi/ [5 January 2006]. R. Sakwa, ‘The Keystone in the Arch: Inclusion, Democracy Promotion and Universalism in Central and Eastern Europe’, in A. Cottey and D. Averre (eds), New Security Challenges in Postcommunist Europe: Securing Europe’s East (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 2002), p. 141. W. Kemp, ‘The OSCE: Entering a Third Phase in Its Third Decade’, Helsinki Monitor, Vol. 15(4), 2004, p. 264. This phrase is derived from A. Bellamy, Security Communities and Their Neighbours: Regional Fortresses or Global Integrators? (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004). Ibid., p. 184. See also M. Emerson, The Wider Europe Matrix (Brussels: Centre for European Policy Studies, 2004). In the case of Turkey, these are already built in to the Negotiating Framework and could be extended to other areas of EU cooperation such as CFSP. In Russia’s case, it might involve an extension of the retrievability principle as already operative in the NRC, the use of consensus minus one decision-making in the NAC, and Russia’s exclusion from aspects of defence and nuclear planning. Z. Bauman, Europe: An Unfinished Journey (Cambridge: Polity, 2004), pp. 36–7.

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INDEX

9/11, 27–8, 76, 78, 84, 88, 129, 177, 200 see also NATO Adalet ve Kalkinma Partisi (AKP), 179, 181, 195, 203 Adler, Emmanuel, 58–60, 62 Aegean Sea, 189 Afghanistan, 10, 78, 80, 89, 96, 146, 150, 159, 160, 166, 177, 182, 184, 187 Agenda 2000, 3, 113, 116–17, 122 Albania, 3, 6, 8, 10, 19, 31, 32, 34, 40, 44, 80, 85, 90, 91, 92, 94, 97, 99, 100, 110, 112, 118, 124, 130, 189 Albright, Madeleine, 88 Algeria, 10, 11, 121 anarchy, 49 Andorra, 8, 91, 118 Anti-Personnel Mines Convention, 9 see also Turkey Arab-Israeli dispute, 61, 160 Aras, Bulent, 181 Area of Freedom, Security and Justice, 129–31 Armenia, 4, 8, 10, 11, 91, 118, 119, 150, 188 see also Turkey Asia, 65, 122, 153, 154, 180, 186 Asmus, Ronald, 61 Aspin, Les, 85 Atataurk, Kemal, 176, 181 Atlanticism, 66 Australia, 64, 94 Austria, 3, 4, 6, 8, 10, 21, 31, 32, 86, 91, 110, 112, 115, 184 Austrian State Treaty, 32 Azerbaijan, 3, 4, 8, 10, 11, 90, 91, 94, 97, 99, 118, 119, 151, 188, 192, 198 Azores, 98, 119 Bacik, Gokhan, 181 Bahrain, 10

Baker, James, 42 balancing, 49–50, 58, 213 Balkans, 13, 21, 50, 62, 81, 84, 87, 90, 96, 112, 116, 131, 134, 160, 177, 179, 185, 198, 214 see also Western Balkans Baltic states, 4, 16, 50, 65, 81, 85, 92, 111, 124, 126, 143, 144, 149, 155, 159 bandwagoning, 49, 58 Barcelona Process see EuroMediterranean Partnership (EMP) Barnett, Michael, 58–60, 62 Baranovsky, Vladimir, 153, 162 Basque country, 165 Bauman, Zygmunt, 215 Belarus, 8, 10, 11, 16, 22, 54, 66, 86, 91, 92, 101, 118, 119, 131, 142, 149, 150, 154, 213 Belgium, 8, 50, 93, 107, 124, 180, 193 Berlin blockade, 30 Berlin wall, 130 Berlusconi, Silvio, 120, 152 Beslan, 146 Biological and Toxic Weapons Convention, 9 see also Turkey Biscop, Sven 132 Black Sea, 90, 94, 159, 177, 189, 202 Borer, Douglas, 166 Bosnia-Herzegovina, 3, 8, 9, 10, 11, 14–15, 19, 21, 53, 77–8, 80, 89, 91, 110, 112, 124, 188 Bosporus Straits, 65, 183, 186 Bozdag˘liog˘lu, Yücel, 179 Brandt, Willy, 32 Brezhnev, Leonid, 35, 147 Britain, 32, 203 see also United Kingdom

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Bulgaria, 2, 4, 5, 8, 11, 65, 83, 89, 90, 99, 110, 111, 113, 114, 115, 117, 131, 177, 189, 202 Bull, Hedley, 68 Bush, George H.W, 2, 41, 44, 85 Bush, George, W, 89, 93–4, 97, 151 Butterfield, Herbert, 12 Buzan, Barry, 28, 49, 66, 202 Canada, 8, 32, 58, 61, 64, 80, 93, 98 Canary Islands, 119 Carpathians, 65 Caspian, 90, 146, 153, 177 Central Asia, 90, 91, 94, 121, 143, 146, 149, 153, 177, 183, 185, 195 Ceuta and Melilla, 119 CFE Treaty, 9, 38, 40, 66, 69, 85, 142, 155, 164, 211, 213 see also Russia; Turkey CFE 1A Treaty, 9, 66 see also Turkey Charter for European Security, 7 Charter of Paris for a New Europe, 2, 36, 38, 44, 69 Chechnya, 143, 145, 163, 164–6, 168 Chemical Weapons Convention, 9, 155 see also Turkey Chernenko, Konstantin, 35 China, 13, 36, 68, 94, 145, 146, 154, 167, 168 Chirac, Jacques, 148, 184, 198 Christianity, 23 Christopher, Warren, 86 Churchill, Winston, 29 Clark, Ian, 43–4 Clinton, Bill, 86, 89, 91, 93, 97, 98, 148, 151 Cold War, 1, 4, 8, 13, 49 end of as historical watershed, 20, 27, 36–44, 48, 210 exclusion, 28–36 settlement of, 43–4, 69, 141–2, 210 spheres of influence, 29–34 Collective Security Treaty Organisation (CSTO), 149, 159 Colton, Timothy, 164 Combined Joint Task Forces (CJTFs), 190 Common Foreign and Security Policy (CFSP), 5, 77, 109, 123, 124, 132, 133, 147, 192, 193, 202 Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS), 8, 131, 143, 149, 213 compliance, 63, 68–70 see also EU; NATO; Russia; Turkey

Concert of Europe, 86, 153 conditionality, 69, 70 see also EU; NATO Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE), 32–4, 39–44 passim, 77, 85, 211 confidence and security building measures (CSBMs), 9, 36, 66, 69, 189, 213 Constitutional Treaty, 81, 117, 123, 124, 202–3, 210 Contact Group, 18 Conventional Forces in Europe Treaty see CFE Treaty Cook, Robin, 165 Cooper, Robert, 69 Copenhagen European Council, 111, 112, 115 Council of Europe, 7, 29, 52, 60, 67, 69 see also Russia; Turkey Council for Mutual Economic Assistance (CMEA), 29, 30, 31, 34, 36, 110 Croatia, 3, 6, 8, 9, 10, 11, 17, 21, 90, 91, 92, 94, 97, 99, 100, 111, 112, 117, 124, 126, 128, 130, 131, 196, 214 Cuba, 13, 68 Cyprus, 3, 4, 6, 8, 13, 61, 91, 110, 112, 115, 116, 121–2 see also Turkey Czech Republic, 3, 4, 6, 8, 65, 87, 95, 111, 115 Czechoslovakia, 30, 31, 39, 110, 111 Davies, Norman, 65 De Gaulle, Charles, 32, 66 Dellors, Jacques, 109 Demeril, Süleyman, 178 democracy, 55, 58, 59 democratic peace, 53 Democratic Republic of the Congo, 124 Denmark, 8, 41, 107, 119, 184, 194 Dervis¸, Kemal, 185 D’Estaing, Giscard, 193 détente, 33, 77, 153 deterrence, 30, 81 Deutsch, Karl, 34, 58–60 Diez, Thomas, 202, 203 Douste-Blazy, Phillippe, 117 east central Europe, 4, 14, 16, 81, 85, 87, 116 Eastern Mediterranean, 10, 13, 78, 176, 181, 182, 187, 202, 203 Ecevit, Bülent, 199

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222 Egypt, 10, 11, 121 Emerson, Michael, 185 Enlightenment, 176 Erbakan, Necmettin, 178, 179 Erdog˘an, Recep, 179, 181 Eriksen, Erik, 125 Estonia, 2, 3, 6, 8, 89, 110, 115, 160, 196 EU borders, 130–1 central to Europe’s security relations, 20, 57, 66, 71, 108–9, 112, 141, 210, 212 compliance, 125–5 conditionality, 70, 83, 114, 125, 128, 133, 162–3 Copenhagen criteria, 113, 123, 126, 186, 193 decision-making, 123 deepening versus widening, 108 end of Cold War, 42–3, 108–9 enlargement, 1, 9, 15, 52, 54, 62, 66–7, 107–8, 110, 112–16, 119–28, 210, 212 exclusion, 119, 128, 134, 213 ideational power, 60 identity of, 17–18 inclusion, 67, 116–18, 122, 128, 134, 214 institutionalisation, 122–5 multilateralism, 18, 58, 69 multifunctional security actor, 67 norms, 70 referendums on membership, 6 region, 119–22 security community, 60–1, 108–9, 133–4, 193, 210, 212, 213 security governance, 64, 67, 108–9, 112, 133–4, 168, 191, 210, 212–13 see also Russia; Turkey Eurasianism, 66 Euro-Atlantic area, 48, 81, 148 Euro-Atlantic community, 61, 63, 148, 166 Euro-Atlantic Partnership Council (EAPC), 10, 81, 88, 91, 10, 214 Euro-Mediterranean Partnership (EMP), 11, 121, 131, 191 Europe, 64–6 European Bank for Reconstruction and Development (EBRD), 146 European Defence Agency (EDA), 188 European Free Trade Area (EFTA), 118, 121 European Neighbourhood Policy (ENP), 11, 112, 131–3, 161, 185, 214 European Security and Defence Identity (ESDI), 77, 79

I NDEX European Security and Defence Policy (ESDP), 5, 10, 50, 77, 79, 80, 88, 109, 123, 124, 128, 132, 133, 147, 160, 185, 188, 190, 191, 192, 198, 202 European Security and Defence Union, 81 European Security Strategy, 124, 128, 132, 147 European Union see EU Europeaness, 17, 114, 162 exclusion, 12–19, 70, 212 see also EU; NATO; Russia; Turkey Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, 21, 68, 91 Fevzioglu, Turhan, 180 Finland, 3, 4, 6, 8, 10, 21, 31, 32, 86, 91, 110, 112, 115, 144 Finnemore, Martha, 69 former Yugoslavia, 4, 18, 21, 52, 61, 68, 77, 83, 108, 113, 127, 156 France, 8, 17, 18, 32, 50, 59, 60, 64, 66, 77, 81, 82, 85, 87, 97, 98, 107, 109, 123, 124, 148, 150, 159, 163, 180, 182, 184, 190, 193, 194, 198 Frattini, Franco, 2 Freedom House, 164, 196 Gaddis, John Lewis, 28 Garnett, Sherman, 13–14 Genscher, Hans-Dietrich, 2, 39 George, Bruce, 86 Georgia, 3, 4, 6, 8, 10, 11, 14–15, 62, 90, 91, 92, 94, 97, 99, 118, 119, 124, 126, 133, 134, 144, 149, 150, 155, 159, 160, 183, 188, 192 German unification, 33, 36, 40, 85, 90 Germany, 8, 18, 50, 59, 60, 66, 87, 93, 97, 99, 107, 109, 114, 116, 123, 124, 125 see also West Germany Gibraltar, 58 Gorbachev, Mikhail, 2, 37–9, 107, 142, 147 governance, 19 Grabbe, Heather, 115 Greece, 8, 54, 61, 82, 93, 97, 98, 107, 112, 116, 119, 122, 125, 127, 182, 190, 194, 200 see also Turkey Greenland, 119 Guadeloupe, 119 Gül, Abdullah, 201 Gulf War, 177, 183

I NDEX

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Haerpfer, Christian, 4 Hakura, Fadi, 202 Hallstein, Walter, 186 Harmel Report, 83, 97 Hartley, Keith, 95 Havel, Vaclav, 5 hegemony, 50–1, 58 Heinze, Eric, 166 Helsinki European Council, 113, 115, 178, 180, 197 Helsinki Final Act, 32–3 Hettne, Björn, 64 Hill, Christopher, 128 Hobsbawn, Eric, 1 Holy Alliance, 153 Holy See, 8, 118 Hopf, Ted, 55 Huakkala, Hiski, 162 Hughes, Kirsty, 115 humanitarian intervention, 167 Hungary, 3, 6, 8, 31, 83, 87, 95, 110, 111, 115, 128, 130, 131, 184 Huntington, Samuel, 20 Iceland, 8, 15, 21, 118, 128, 159 identity, 16–17, 55, 56, 58, 59 ideology, 35 Ikenberry, G. John, 51 inclusion, 2–12, 70, 211 see also EU; NATO; Russia; Turkey India, 94, 154, 167 Indonesia, 124 institutionalisation, 58, 60, 62, 63, 66–8, 69, 213 see also EU; NATO; Russia; Turkey Intermediate Nuclear Forces (INF) Treaty, 37, 38, 142 international institutions, 51–3, 56, 58, 60 International Monetary Fund, 69 international order, 70 international society, 68 Iran, 61, 68, 182 Iraq, 10, 20, 27, 53, 54, 61, 68, 78, 80, 89, 97, 123, 124, 154, 159, 160, 161, 166, 167, 176, 177, 180, 181, 183, 189, 191, 192, 197, 200, 203 Ireland, 8, 10, 21, 31, 59, 86, 91, 93, 107, 119, 129, 166 Islam, 23 Israel, 10, 11, 94, 120, 121, 132, 181, 183, 185

223 Istanbul Cooperation Initiative, 10 Italy, 8, 40, 93, 98, 107, 123, 124, 125, 150, 163, 182, 184, 188, 194 Ivanov, Igor, 143 Ivanov, Sergei, 155, 156 Japan, 94 Jordan, 10, 11, 121 Jung, Dietrich, 186 Justice and Home Affairs (JHA), 109, 123, 129, 133, 185, 192–3 Kaliningrad, 144, 160 Kaplan, Lawrence, 82 Kay, Sean, 95 Kazakhstan, 8, 10, 11, 121, 184 Kemalism, 176 Keohane, Robert, 52 Kissinger, Henry, 6, 100 Kohl, Helmut, 148, 193 Kok, Wim, 122 Kolodziej, Edward, 12, 54 Kosovo, 9, 10, 16, 19, 21, 27, 53, 77–8, 80, 84, 89, 112, 113, 149, 150, 156, 159, 165, 167, 168, 187, 188, 191 Kovacks, Laszlo, 5 Kozyrev, Andrei, 143 Kramer, Mark, 35 Kravchuk, Leonid, 17, 30 Krupnick, Charles, 83 Krushchev, Nikita, 35 Kurds, 177, 183, 197–8, 202 Kuwait, 10, 85 Kyrgyzstan, 8, 10, 11, 121 Latvia, 2, 3, 6, 8, 89, 110, 115, 160, 196 Lavrov, Sergei, 143 Layne, Christopher, 50 League of Nations, 43 Lebanon, 11, 121, 122 Leffler, Melvyn, 181–2 Lessor, Ian, 186 Lewis, Bernard, 176 liberal theory, 53–4, 58 Libya, 11 Liechtenstein, 8, 91, 118 Lieven, Anatol, 18 Linklater, Andrew, 2 Lisbon Declaration, 7 Lithuania, 2, 3, 6, 8, 89, 110, 115, 128, 144 Lo, Bobo, 145–6 London Declaration, 39–40, 42

224

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Lugar, Richard, 86 Lukashenko, Aleksandr, 17, 22, 91 Luxembourg, 8, 50, 93, 107, 159, 184 Luxembourg European Council, 111, 113, 114, 115, 117, 178, 192 Lynch, Dov, 15, 147 Macedonia, 3, 5, 8, 10, 19, 80, 89, 90, 91,92, 94, 97, 99, 10, 110, 111, 115, 118, 124, 127, 130, 131, 188, 189 Madeira, 119 Major, John, 148 Malta, 3, 4, 6, 8, 91, 110, 112, 115, 1 21, 177, 186, 196 Marshall Plan, 29, 31 Martens, Wilfred, 193 Martinique, 119 Marxism-Leninism, 35 Mauritania, 10 Mazower, Mark, 30 McFaul, Michael, 164 Mearsheimer, John, 49, 77 Meciar, Vladimir, 17, 99 Mediterranean, 93, 110, 119, 121, 128, 131, 132, 159, 182, 183, 185, 200 Mediterranean Dialogue, 10, 81, 177, 190 Medvedev, Sergei, 5 Membership Action Plan (MAP), 3, 10, 81, 88, 89, 91, 94, 96, 97, 214 Merkel, Angela, 201 Merton, Robert, 57 Middle East, 94, 128, 185 Milosevic, Slobodan, 16, 17, 21, 91 Missiroli, Antonio, 8 Mitterand, François, 39 Moldova, 3, 6, 8, 10, 11, 13, 22, 62, 66, 91, 100, 118, 119, 120, 130–1, 132, 142, 149, 150, 155, 160, 213 Möller, Frank, 168 Monaco, 8, 118 Monar, Jorg, 129 Moravcsik, Andrew, 53 Morocco, 10, 11, 119, 121 Morris, Chris, 203 Müller, Harald, 16, 51, 53 Mungiu-Pippidi, Alina, 119 Mutual and Balanced Force Reduction talks, 32

I NDEX Nagorno-Karabakh, 188 National Missile Defence, 88 NATO 9/11, 78–9 central to Europe’s security relations, 20, 57, 66, 71, 76, 141, 210, 212 Cold War, 29, 32, 34, 49, 50, 76–7, 80,81, 82, 98, 100 compliance, 63, 68–70 conditionality, 70, 94–5, 162 crisis in, 76–80 decision-making, 96–7 democracy, 98–9 end of Cold War, 39–44 passim, 77–8 enlargement, 1, 9, 15, 52, 54, 61–2, 66–7, 84, 87–100, 151, 210, 212, 214–15 exclusion, 84, 91–2, 100, 213 ideational power, 60 identity of, 17–18 inclusion, 67, 83–4, 90–1, 100, 214 institutionalisation, 94–7 multifunctional security actor, 67 multilateralism, 18, 58, 69, 82 norms, 70 out-of-area issue, 79–80, 94 region, 93–4 security community, 60–1, 80–3, 210, 212, 213 security governance, 64, 67, 76, 80–3, 100, 168, 210, 212–13 see also Russia; Turkey; US Nazi-Soviet Pact, 153 neo-institutionalism, 51–3 neo-realism, 49–51, 57–8 Netherlands, 8, 41, 107, 190, 194 Neumann, Iver, 16 New Zealand, 64 norms, 7, 44, 55, 56, 58, 62, 63, 66, 67, 68, 69–71, 97–8, 125, 126, 162, 164, 166, 169, 177, 195, 213 North Africa, 94, 128, 183 North America, 58, 64, 93 North Atlantic Cooperation Council (NACC), 85, 88, 100 North Atlantic Treaty, 78, 93, 98 North Atlantic Treaty Organisation see NATO North Korea, 13, 68, 149 Northern Dimension, 132, 155, 160, 164 Northern Ireland, 59, 165

I NDEX

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Norway, 6, 8, 21, 93, 118, 128, 203 Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty, 154 nuclear weapons, 31, 35 Nuttal, Simon, 41 Nye, Joseph, 52, 65 O’Loughlin, John, 145 Önis¸, Ziya, 178 Operation Allied Force 78, 88, 142, 156, 166 Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development, 69 Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE), 5, 7–8, 19, 52, 60, 66, 67, 68, 100, 164, 211–12, 213 see also Russia; Turkey Ostpolitik, 32 ‘othering’, 56 ‘overlay’, 49, 57 Özal, Turgut, 178 Pacific, 64, 153 Pakistan, 80, 94 Palestinian Authority, 11, 121, 124 pan-Slavism, 66 pan-Turkism, 66 Partnership for Peace (PFP), 9, 10, 85–7, 91, 97, 100, 143, 190, 213, 214 Passy, Solomon, 2–3 Patten, Chris, 114, 160–1 Persian Gulf, 94 Poland, 3, 6, 8, 30, 31, 50, 65, 80, 87, 95, 110, 111, 115, 116, 118, 123, 124, 128, 130, 144, 184, 193 POLITY, 196 Pope Benedict XVI, 193 Portugal, 8, 41, 54, 98, 107, 112, 125, 176, 184 post-modern state system, 69, 164 Potsdam conference, 32 Powell, Colin, 78 power, 60 Primakov, Yevgeny, 143 Prodi, Romani, 3, 120 public opinion EU enlargement, 15 Turkey, 184 Putin, Vladimir, 142, 143, 144, 145, 147, 151, 152, 153, 163, 168, 211 Qatar, 10

225 Reagan, Ronald, 36 realism, 213 see also neo-realism Reformation, 176 region, 63, 64–6 see also EU; NATO; Russia; Turkey Renaissance, 176 Réunion, 119 Rice, Condeleeza, 89 Risse-Kappen, Thomas, 54 Roberts, John, 183 Robertson, George, 84, 148, 182–3 Romania, 2, 5, 8, 11, 14–15, 31, 65, 83, 89, 90, 99, 101, 110, 111, 113, 114, 115, 117, 128, 130, 131, 177, 188, 196, 202 Rose, Richard, 65 Rosenau, James, 63 Roosevelt, Franklin D, 29 Rühe, Volker, 87 Rumsfeld, Donald, 20 Russia, 4, 8, 9, 10, 11, 13, 14, 16, 17, 19, 21–3, 50, 54, 61, 66, 198, 211, 213 compliance, 162–8, 193 Conventional Forces in Europe (CFE) Treaty, 155–6, 159 Council of Europe, 157, 164, 165, 166–7 democracy, 163–4 end of Cold War, 141–2 energy, 146, 150, 183 EU, 111, 118, 120, 127, 130, 132, 142, 143–4, 147, 148, 152–3, 160–1, 165–6, 168–9, 212, 213 Europe, 144–7, 149–50 European country, 145, 153–4, 162, 168 Europe’s other, 56 exclusion, 141–4, 168–9 Foreign Policy Concept, 153, 156 great power, 142, 144, 149, 161, 168 identity, 145–6 inclusion, 144, 144–69 passim institutionalisation, 154–62 military doctrine, 61 military power, 149–50, 213 National Security Concept, 143 NATO, 61, 86, 87, 88, 91, 92, 101, 142–3, 148, 150–2, 157–9, 167, 168–9, 212, 213–14 OSCE, 142, 155, 156–7, 161, 165, 166–7, 211 political system, 163–4 region, 153–4

226

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regional location, 65 Schengen system, 144 security community, 61, 71, 141, 166, 169 security culture, 168 security governance, 71, 141, 153 security threats, 149, 168 United Nations, 156, 167 US, 145–50 passim, 154, 156, 159, 161, 166, 167 values, 162–3, 164, 169 Sadak, Necmettin, 180 Sakwa, Richard, 167, 211 Salazar, Antonio, 98 Sandler, Todd, 95 San Marino, 8, 118 Schengen, 19, 118, 128–31, 132, 134, 202, 212 Schimmelfennig, Frank, 18, 56 Schröder, Gerhard, 78, 186 Scotland, 166 Scowcroft, Brent, 41 Sea of Marmara, 186 securitization, 14, 129 security, 2–19 passim, 57–8, 215 security co-binding, 52–3 security community, 6, 21, 34, 48, 56–71, 98, 212–13 see also EU; NATO; Russia; Turkey; US; Western Europe security dilemma, 55 security governance, 21, 48, 62–71, 98, 211, 212 see also EU; NATO; Russia; Turkey Sedelmeier, Ulrich, 117 self/other distinction, 16 Serbia-Montenegro, 3, 4, 6, 8, 11, 16, 17, 19, 21, 88, 112, 118, 130, 188 Shanghai Cooperation Organisation, 146 Shevarnadze, Eduard, 38, 40 Sjursen, Helen, 18, 99 Slovakia, 2, 3, 6, 8, 17, 65, 83, 89, 90, 99, 111, 115, 130, 131 Slovenia, 2, 3, 6, 8, 89, 90, 110, 111, 115, 155 Smith, Julie, 18 Smith, Martin, 80 Smith, Michael, 112 Smith, Michael E, 67 Smouts, Marie-Claude, 64 social constructivism, 54–6, 60 socialisation, 56, 69–70

I NDEX Solana, Javier, 84, 86, 187 South Africa, 13, 68 South Caucasus, 4, 13, 22, 52, 62, 65, 83, 84, 100, 119, 121, 124, 131, 132, 133, 143, 146, 153, 177, 185, 213 South-East Europe Initiative, 177, 190 Southern Mediterranean, 120, 121, 128 sovereignty, 14, 18, 70, 121, 153, 164, 167, 176 Soviet Union, 1, 14, 16, 28, 29, 33, 35, 38–44 passim, 68, 76, 85, 100, 141, 142, 148, 154, 162, 163, 164, 175, 176, 181, 182 Spain, 8, 54, 58, 82, 99, 107, 112, 123, 124, 125, 151, 162, 176, 184, 191 Stabilisation and Association Process (SAP), 11, 21, 111, 117, 121, 126 Stability Pact for South-Eastern Europe, 9 Stalin, Joseph, 28, 30 state, 12–13, 57–8, 69, 164 statehood, 68 Strauss, Ira, 152 Straw, Jack, 94, 185 sub-Saharan Africa, 64 Sudan, 10, 80 Suez crisis, 53, 80 Sullivan, Michael 57 Sweden, 3, 4, 6, 8, 10, 21, 31, 32, 86, 91, 93, 110, 112, 115, 123, 184 Switzerland, 8, 10, 15, 21, 31, 64, 86, 91, 118, 203 Syria, 11, 121, 122, 133 see also Turkey tactical nuclear weapons, 154 Tajikistan, 8, 10, 11 Talbott, Strobe, 151 Taliban, 78, 177 Terriff, Terry, 57, 95 terrorism, 13, 16, 89 Tocci, Nathalie, 181 Treaty of Amsterdam, 114, 122, 126, 129 Treaty of Lausanne, 197 Treaty of Maastricht, 77, 107, 109, 123, 129 Treaty of Nice, 114, 120, 122, 124, 129, 192 Treaty of Paris, 108 Treaty of Rome, 108, 119 Treaty of Sèvres, 180, 197 Treaty on Open Skies, 9

227

I NDEX

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Trenin, Dmitri, 152 Triple Entente, 153 Truman doctrine, 29, 181 Truman, Harry, 29 Tudjman, Franjo, 17 Tunisia, 10, 11, 121, 122 Turkey, 3, 4, 5, 8, 9, 11, 13, 14, 16, 17, 21, 54, 90, 212, 213, 214 Anti-Personnel Mines Convention, 189 Armenia, 183, 198, 202 Biological and Toxic Weapons Convention, 189 CFE Treaty, 188–9 CFE 1A Treaty, 189 Chemical Weapons Convention, 189 Cold War, 176, 181–2, 190, 201 compliance, 193–201 Council of Europe, 180, 186, 194, 197, 201 Cyprus, 175, 176, 181, 199–201 democracy, 193–6 end of Cold War, 176–7 energy, 183 EU, 11, 112, 114, 115, 117, 118, 120, 124, 125, 126, 127, 131, 134, 175, 176, 177–8, 180–1, 184–6, 190–3, 194–5, 198, 201–3, 214 European orientation, 179–81, 198 Europeaness, 175–6, 187, 200 Europe’s other, 56, 187 Euroscepticism in, 179 exclusion, 175–8 Greece, 82, 127, 175, 181, 184, 189, 198–9, 202, 203 inclusion, 178–201 passim institutionalisation, 187–93 Iraq crisis, 78, 180, 181, 183, 191 NATO, 83, 97, 98, 175, 176, 177, 181–2, 184, 186, 187, 190–1, 198, 201 OSCE, 188, 197, 201 region, 186–7 regional location, 65, 186–7 security, 184–6 security community, 61, 71, 175 security culture, 179–80, 181 security governance, 71 strategic significance, 181–4, 184–6, 203 Syria, 176, 177, 183, 189, 197 US, 176, 177, 181, 182, 183, 190, 199–200 Turkmenistan, 8, 10, 11, 121

UK see United Kingdom Ukraine, 3, 4, 5, 8, 10, 11, 17, 22, 66, 90, 91, 92, 94, 97, 99, 100–1, 111–12, 118, 120, 124, 125, 126, 127, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 142, 143, 144, 150, 154, 212, 213, 214 United Arab Emirates, 10 United Kingdom, 8, 32, 41, 58–9, 60, 64, 66, 87, 107, 109, 119, 123, 124, 129 see also Britain United Nations (UN), 7, 9, 15, 21, 30, 43, 67, 85, 100, 128, 146, 150, 154, 156, 167, 177, 200 United Nations Security Council (UNSC), 18, 79, 149, 150, 156 United States see US Ural mountains, 65 US, 8, 13, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 35, 36, 50–1, 53, 58, 80, 211, 214–15 NATO, 50–1, 60, 79, 87, 101, 151, 214–15 security community, 58, 61, 64 see also Russia; Turkey Uzbekistan, 8, 10, 11, 121 Vachudova, Milada, 124 Vassiliev, Dmitri, 151 Väyrynen, Raimo, 64–5 Verhuegen, Günter, 114, 117 Vienna Documents, 9 Wæver, Ole, 14, 49, 58, 66, 108 Wallace, Helen, 117 Wallace, William, 23, 34, 65–6, 122 Wallander, Celeste, 52, 82, 99 Waltz, Kenneth, 51 war on terror, 89, 94, 146, 177 Warsaw Pact, 29, 30, 31, 34–7 passim, 39, 76, 84, 85, 94, 100, 142, 153 Wendt, Alexander, 54–5 West Germany, 30, 31, 32, 33, 39, 107, 124, 151, 194 see also Germany Western Balkans, 3, 4, 19, 50, 54, 114, 117–18, 120, 128, 130, 133, 134, 202, 213 see also Balkans Western Europe, 29, 30, 31, 34, 35, 40, 44, 50, 52, 83, 151, 181 security community, 58–62, 108

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228

I NDEX

Western European Armaments Group (WEAG), 188 Western European Union (WEU), 77, 188, 190 Whitman, Richard, 81 Wolfers, Arnold, 14 World Bank, 69 World Trade Organisation (WTO), 67, 146

Yalta settlement, 153 ‘Yalta syndrome’, 15 Yeltsin, Boris, 40, 142, 145, 146, 151, 154, 163, 165, 168 Yost, David, 100 Yugoslavia, 1, 14, 21, 30, 31, 32, 40, 87, 110 see also Federal Republic of Yugoslavia; former Yugoslavia

Yalta conference, 32

Zaiko, Leonid, 22