International Politics in the Arctic: Contested Borders, Natural Resources and Russian Foreign Policy 9781350986855, 9781786732835

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Geir Hønneland is Director of the Fridtjof Nansen Institute in Oslo and Adjunct Professor of Political Science at the Arctic University in Tromsø, Norway. He has published widely in Norwegian and in English on territory disputes and environmental factors in the Polar North, and his books have been translated into several other languages, including Chinese and Russian. He gained his PhD from the University of Oslo in 2000 and is one of the most respected commentators in the field of Arctic Studies.

Praise for Russia and the Arctic (I.B.Tauris, 2016): ‘Hønneland’s personal tone, vast empirical data and the strong theoretical underpinning provide Russia and the Arctic with an identity itself. Apart from the ground-breaking knowledge that this book holds, it is also incredibly fun to read.’ Nikolas Sellheim, Scott Polar Research Institute, University of Cambridge ‘Hønneland’s almost uncanny ability to put us in Russians’ shoes is the most remarkable achievement of this oeuvre. [He] unravels, page by page, layer by layer, the rich cultural fabric underpinning current Russian narratives of the Arctic.’ Martin Mu¨ller, University of Zu¨rich

INTERNATIONAL POLITICS IN THE ARCTIC Contested Borders, Natural Resources and Russian Foreign Policy

GEIR HØNNELAND

I.B. TAURIS Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, I.B. TAURIS and the I.B. Tauris logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2017 Paperback edition first published 2020 Copyright © Geir Hønneland, 2017 Geir Hønneland has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: HB: 978-1-7845-3898-9 PB: 978-0-7556-0111-0 ePDF: 978-1-7867-3283-5 eBook: 978-1-7867-2283-6 Series: Library of Arctic Studies, 3 Typeset in Garamond Three by OKS Prepress Services, Chennai, India To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations Part I

Background

Introduction 1. Identity Formation in the Barents Euro-Arctic Region Introduction: The Creation of the Barents Region The Region-building Approach Self and Other in Identity Formation Alleged We-hood: The Return from a Historical Parenthesis The Fragility of We-hood ‘The Cultural Counter-argument’ ‘The Identity of Contrasts’ Conclusion Part II

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3 8 8 10 11 13 14 17 19 23

Environmental Discourse in the European Arctic

2. Fish Discourse: Norway, Russia and the Northeast Arctic Cod Introduction The Concept of Discourse Analysis The Study of Environmental Discourse Scientific Recommendations and Established Quotas Since 1990 Defining Major Discourses Conclusion

27 27 28 30 33 34 45

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3. East Meets West: Deliberations on the Environment Introduction The Study of Environmental Discourse Environmental Issues in the European Arctic Defining Major Discourses Brokering Scientific Knowledge Storylines and Metaphors Embeddedness and Discourse Classification Conclusion Part III

Implementing International Environmental Agreements in the Russian North

4. From Air Pollution Control to Nuclear Safety: Why Implement? Introduction Implementation: The ‘What’s, ‘Why’s and ‘How’s What’s the Problem? What’s to be Implemented? Implementation Performance and Target Compliance Implementation Activities Discussion Conclusion 5. Implementing Global Nature Protection Agreements Introduction The Global Nature Protection Regimes Implementation of the Agreements in Russia Domestic Implementation Activities Conclusion Part IV

48 48 49 51 53 63 65 66 69

75 75 76 80 83 86 87 93 99 102 102 104 106 113 122

Combating Communicable Diseases in Northwest Russia

6. Western vs Post-Soviet Medicine: Donors and Dilettantes Introduction DOTS in Russia and the Baltic states General Receptiveness to Western Ideas Conclusion

127 127 129 139 146

CONTENTS

7. Patriots, Doctors and Happy Soviets Introduction Interpreting Qualitative Interviews Health Initiatives from the West The Interview Scene: ‘Cast’ and Interpretation Part V

149 149 150 152 153

Russians in the Borderlands

8. How to be a Northerner Borderlands, Identity, Narrative Interview 1: ‘When I told them how I lived, they went all misty-eyed’ Interview 2: ‘If you’d asked me last year, I would have said Murmansk was the best place in the world’ Interview 3: ‘The north is like a bottomless pit dragging you down’ Negotiating Stereotypes about North and South The Vocabulary Available – Identity as Narrative Changing Borders? Conclusions 9. How to be a Russian Introduction Interview 1: ‘Their eyes are always wide open’ Interview 2: ‘As nations, they’re on the decline’ Interview 3: ‘Everything over there predisposes them to equanimity’ Exploring Stereotypes about Scandinavians The Words to Say It – Identity as Narrative New Borderlands? Narrative Juggling Part VI

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165 165 169 172 174 176 181 185 187 190 190 190 191 192 193 201 204 209

Post-Agreement Bargaining in the Barents Sea

10. Making Russia Comply: Bargaining Precautionary Fisheries Management in the Barents Sea Introduction Approaches to State Compliance with International Treaties Post-agreement Bargaining

215 215 217 219

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The Norwegian – Russian Fisheries Management Regime in the Barents Sea Norwegian– Russian Bargaining Experiences Why does Russia Comply? Post-agreement Bargaining Revisited 11. Fishing Field Deliberations An Observer’s Account Russian Fishers’ Accounts in the late 1990s Russian Fishers’ Accounts Ten Years Later Bargaining Dynamics Bargaining Results Post-agreement Bargaining Revisited Part VII

222 225 229 235 237 238 246 250 254 258 262

Arctic Talk, Russian Politics

12. ‘The Global Fight against Canada in the Arctic’ Identity and Foreign Policy All the Way to the Pole ‘The Global Fight’ ‘The Arctic is our Everything’ Our Ocean, Our Future, Our Foes 13. ‘They’ll Squeeze us Out, it’ll be the End’ Endless Negotiations, Big Compromise ‘They’ll Squeeze us Out’ Our Common Kitchen Garden The Principle of Fairness, the Ultimate Betrayal Defending the Other Self In-between Past and Future

267 267 270 274 281 285 292 292 297 307 309 317 321

Notes Bibliography Index

323 375 387

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Figures Figure 4.1 Northwestern Russia

81

Figure 7.1 The ‘Cast’ of our Interview Play

154

Figure 7.2 Interpretation of Interview Data in Line with Rubin & Rubin’s Mediation Forms

160

Figure 13.1 Zone Configuration in the Barents Sea

294

Tables Table 3.1 Main Discourses on the Environment in the European Arctic during the 1990s

68

Table 4.1 Most Important Actors in the Russian Implementation of International Commitments in Fisheries Management, Nuclear Safety and Air Pollution Control

92

Table 4.2 Assessed Explanatory Power of Various Factors Related to Implementation

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PART I BACKGROUND

INTRODUCTION

In August 2009, Russia planted a titanium flag on the seabed at the North Pole. It was accomplished by a Russian scientific expedition collecting data for Russia’s submission to the Continental Shelf Commission – in accordance with the Law of the Sea – but was widely perceived as Russia flexing its muscles in the Arctic. At the same time, the summer ice sheet in the Arctic had shrunk to ominous proportions amid growing interest in the possibility for commercial oil and gas production in the Arctic. Scott G. Borgerson1 famously captured the atmosphere in his seminal article ‘Arctic Meltdown’: ‘The Arctic Ocean is melting, and it is melting fast. [. . .] It is no longer a matter of if, but when, the Arctic Ocean will open to regular marine transportation and exploration of its lucrative natural-resource deposits.’2 But the situation is especially dangerous, he adds, ‘because there are currently no overarching political or legal structures that can provide for the orderly development of the region or mediate political disagreements over Arctic resources or sea-lanes.’3 ‘[T]he Arctic countries are [therefore] likely to unilaterally grab as much territory as possible and exert sovereign control over opening sea-lanes wherever they can. In this legal no man’s land, Arctic states are pursuing their narrowly defined national interests by laying down sonar nets and arming icebreakers to guard their claims.’4 Russia’s flag-planting and Borgerson’s article unleashed a surge of media attention and political interest at the highest levels in the Arctic. To many it looked as if Russia had laid claim on the North Pole itself, a claim one assumed other states would contest. The scramble for the Arctic was allegedly underway, with Russia as the wild card.

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Relations among the other Arctic states – those bordering the polar waters, i.e. Canada, Denmark, (Greenland), Norway and the US – are excellent and sustained strategically moreover by their common membership in NATO. Russia, on the other hand, is the successor state of the erstwhile Soviet Union, NATO’s declared enemy during the Cold War. What happens in the country is often shrouded in mystery – Russia, in Winston Churchill’s characterization of it, is ‘a riddle, wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma’5 – and one aspect of its multihued national identity is also as a state with a stake in the North: who doesn’t think of snow, long winters and endless Siberian forests in connection with Russia? Some expect Russia to do as it pleases in the Arctic, whatever international law and other norms of civilized political behaviour dictate. Much of the ‘Arctic fuss’, then, is about what Russia wants. * Over the past decade or so, I have published a handful of monographs and a number of journal articles about Russia’s relations with the outside world, especially in the Arctic. That work was based on extensive field studies in Russia, hundreds of in-depth interviews and comprehensive media surveys. In addition to general Russian and Arctic politics, I have covered in my work fields such as ocean governance, nature protection, air pollution control, nuclear safety, resource management, health policies – all seen from an international relations (IR) perspective – as well as crossborder cooperation and Russian identity more widely. Likewise, my research questions have been addressed from various theoretical angles, ranging from traditional institutionalist/liberalist perspectives such as regime, implementation and bargaining theory to constructivist approaches like discourse analysis, narrative theory and identity studies. The underlying question has always been how Russia responds to what goes on ‘out there’ – beyond its borders, in the Arctic outside. The present book brings together some of my main contributions to the study of how Russia tackles its relations with the outside world in the Arctic. While earlier versions have been published in academic journals or books, they have been carefully selected from a larger pool, with a view to forming a coherent whole of some sort. Likewise, I have revised each piece in order to avoid too much repetition and to build up a

INTRODUCTION

5

logical argument, again: of some sort, throughout the book. They were written and published at different points in time over the past decade and a half and have not been factually updated. However, they demonstrate how politics has evolved over time, and how the available data at any particular time could be interpreted with varying degrees of confidence. In essence, they show that my interpretations from around the turn of the millennium – at the time considered as anomalies in the still prevailing post-Cold War euphoria – gradually gained recognition before becoming mainstream thinking following the Russian annexation of Crimea in 2014. The reader might become aware of a theoretical discord in my jumping back and forth between constructivist and not-soconstructivist approaches to the study of IR, but that was a conscious choice. Russian identity – mediated through discourse or narrative – takes pride of place. The argument that Russian perceptions of Western collaborative initiatives are characterized by suspicion and often outright paranoia, comes through loud and clear throughout the book – from my early tentative reflections on potential ‘cultural conflicts’ in Chapter 1 (originally published in 1998) to my increasingly well-documented observations of the same in Chapters 2 – 3 (published in 2003 and 2004), Chapters 6 – 7 (published in 2004 and 2005), Chapters 8 – 9 (published in 2010) and Chapters 12 – 13 (published in 2016). However, this representation of reality is supplemented, academically and empirically, by another. Above all, the book aims to show the Janus face of Russian foreign policy, in relation to the Arctic as elsewhere. As demonstrated in Chapters 4– 5 (originally published in 2003 and 2005) and, especially, Chapters 10– 11 (published in 2012), Russia is a nation that works actively to build confidence and find compromises with its Western neighbours; more often than not, Russia also complies with its international obligations. Russia is an actor that can be counted on in most of its dealings with the outside world, an actor which thrives in an atmosphere of pragmatic give and take. The West is the significant Other in Russian foreign policy and, as many would argue, in the Russian world view in general. But that aspect of Russian identity is also many-faceted and dynamic – the West is admired and despised at the same time. This is reflected in Russia’s relations with the outside world in the Arctic, which is again reflected in my own work. All too often,

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social scientists studying Russia find themselves entirely in one camp: liberalists interpret Russian foreign policy as ‘rational’ within specific institutional arrangements and disregard ‘the Russianness of Russia’. Constructivists, for their part – and many area specialists with a deep knowledge of the Russian language and history – tend to focus solely on the idiosyncrasies of Russia and fail to convey what makes Russia ‘a normal country’, after all. What makes me tick is not so much a desire for theoretical refinement – although I do reflect over the relationship between theoretical approaches towards the end of the book. Nor is it the big questions in life, or in Russia – where the country is heading, and all that. What makes me tick is working on the ground, building our knowledge base stone by stone, and above all: the sudden realization of a pattern out there that I didn’t know about. The book is ample with such realizations, and I hope you as a reader will find one of interest here and there. The book is more a collection of ‘short stories’ than a ‘novel’, which can be read separately and in any order. Dare I say: enjoy? Earlier versions of the chapters have appeared as articles in Cooperation & Conflict; Global Environmental Politics; Human Organization; Journal of Communist Studies & Transition Politics; Journal of Environmental Policy & Planning; Journal of International Wildlife Law & Politics and Ocean Development & International Law. A few chapters were adapted from my monographs Borderland Russians: Identity, Narrative and International Relations (2010), Making Fishery Agreements Work: PostAgreement Bargaining in the Barents Sea (2012) and Russia and the Arctic: Environment, Identity and Foreign Policy (I.B.Tauris, 2016). Many thanks to the publishers for allowing me to re-use this material. My colleagues and friends at the Fridtjof Nansen Institute (FNI) have been the alphas and omegas of my research career – the cooperative atmosphere at the institute is indeed exceptional. Many deserve to be mentioned here, but I would like to highlight my three co-authors of chapters in this book: Anne-Kristin Jørgensen (Chapter 4), Jørgen Holten Jørgensen (Chapter 5) and Lars Rowe (Chapters 6 and 7). Thanks for letting me use our joint work in a book published under my name only – and for your friendship. The contributions in the book have benefited from my eagle-eyed language consultants Susan Høivik and Chris Saunders, and my colleague Ida Folkestad Soltvedt tied it all together with a steady hand. I also want to extend my thanks to my

INTRODUCTION

7

commissioning editor at I.B.Tauris, Tomasz Hoskins – his encouragement and continued interest in Arctic affairs are inspiring. Thanks also to production editor Arub Ahmed for her thorough, but swift turnaround of the manuscript. Last, but not least, there’s my family: Kristin, Lavrans, Alva, Leah and Kasper – I know it’s a cliche´, but thank you all for bearing over with my absentmindedness, not least when my academic inspiration is at its highest. References to academic literature and interviews are in the main text, while references to media reports and public documents are in the endnotes. In my transliteration of Russian characters, I generally keep to -y rather than -i for the Russian ‘short-i’ (except following a vowel at the end of a name, such as Nikolai) and the letters -yo, -yu and -ya, and -e instead of -ye for the Russian -e (which is actually pronounced -ye). Hence, Vzglyad rather than Vzgliad and russkie instead of russkiye. I have also omitted the ‘short-i’ at the end of a word when it follows a ‘y’ or a regular ‘i’. I make exceptions, however, for personal names whose English spelling is more or less standardized; hence, I write Yeltsin instead of Eltsin. For the sake of readability, not least for those without a command of the Russian language, I do not use the Russian soft sign in transcription from Russian to English.

CHAPTER 1 IDENTITY FORMATION IN THE BARENTS EURO-ARCTIC REGION 1

Introduction: The Creation of the Barents Region The cessation of the Cold War led to a rethink of the security concept pertaining to the European North. A window of opportunity was presented by the transnational integration in Europe that had been underway since the early 1990s. This move towards greater politico-economic cooperation among regional and local actors from different European nation states – or the building of the so-called Euregional Networks2 – was adopted by security policy makers in the Nordic countries as a tool for re-structuring the security policy of their own states. In the course of 1991– 2, the idea of a Baltic Sea regional cooperation area was elaborated by a loosely coupled epistemic community of social scientists, civil servants and politicians from the various Baltic Sea countries. Norway, for its part, was referred to a quite peripheral position within this collaborative framework, and partly for fear of losing its say in the making of a northern European security policy, officials at the Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs soon began exploratory talks with the research institutes of international relations in Oslo on the creation of a Northern region. Similar thoughts were being elaborated in Finland, but the Norwegians were the first to produce a substantive proposition. After consulting with Norway’s allies and the Russian Foreign Minister Andrey Kozyrev, Norwegian Foreign Minister

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Thorvald Stoltenberg presented his idea for a Barents Region in April 1992. In January 1993, the Kirkenes Declaration formally established the Barents Euro-Arctic Region. This joint venture was originally intended to include the three northernmost counties of Norway, Norrbotten in Sweden and Lapland in Finland, as well as Murmansk and Arkhangelsk Oblasts on the Russian side. At the initiative of Finland and Russia, the plans were amended to encompass the Republic of Karelia in Russia as well. (Later, several new regions have been added in Sweden, Finland and Russia.) The regime has a two-tier decision making structure. At the national level, the Barents Council, consisting of the foreign ministers from the four core states as well as Denmark, Iceland and the European Commission (and a number of states with observer status), assembles at least once a year to make strategic decisions.3 The leaders of the regional entities meet on a more frequent basis in the Regional Council to discuss pressing problems. National secretariats in each state coordinate the activities of the two levels and the four states. The overall objective of the cooperation is to contribute to stability and prosperity in the area. More specifically, its formal goals are embodied in the concepts of normalization, stabilization and regionalization. It also aims at reducing military tension, the environmental threat and the East/ West gap in standards of living in the region. Furthermore, the project ties in with the wider regionalization process underway in Europe and the Arctic, turning previously peripheral border areas into points of contact between states in a transnational network involving many-sided interaction. Functional areas of special focus are environmental problems, regional infrastructure, economic cooperation, science and technology, culture, tourism, health care, and the indigenous peoples of region (the Sa´mi and Nentsy). In order to realize its goals, it is a declared aim to create both a functional and an identity region.4 From a theoretical perspective, geographers usually distinguish between two main types of region, functional and homogeneous.5 Among the latter, one may single out three different types. Natural regions are characterized by shared features related to topography, climate or other natural conditions. The term is largely applicable to the northern periphery of Europe. An identity region is an area where the population has a specific awareness of us inside the region, as opposed to them on the outside. Common language and

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cultural history usually characterize such regions. The Catalan and Celtic areas – or the Scandinavian peninsula, for that matter – are examples of cross-national identity regions in today’s Europe. Homogeneous economic regions are areas with a common basis for economic and industrial activity. As for the northern periphery, the forests of Sweden, Finland, and Russia can serve as examples. Functional regions, on the other hand, are not characterized by internal similarities; rather, they seek to enhance interaction and integration across the borders of the different homogeneous regions. Each of the different parts are meant to supplement each other and establish a functional entity. While homogeneous regions are held together by similarities, what constitutes functional regions is the very absence of such similarities.

The Region-building Approach The concept of region building has evolved in the international relations literature as an alternative to prevailing conceptions of regions as either inside-out or outside-in developed phenomena.6 These approaches to defining regions differ with respect to the weight they assign to internal and external factors. Whereas the former idea explains the existence of a region mainly in terms of linguistic, cultural and social similarities within a specific geographical area, thus underlining the internal ‘centripetal forces’ of the area, the latter primarily views transnational regions as given outcomes of the preferences of hegemonic states. The inside-out and outside-in approaches merge, however, in their focus on regions as given entities (with some kind of common identity or enclosed in wider international power structures, respectively). They seek to explain the existence of regions a priori, leaving little space for individual or collective actors in defining them. Criticizing these traditional orientations for lack of self-reflection, region-building theorists give political actors an opportunity to decide for themselves what should be inside and what outside of a region. Drawing on nation-building literature, they believe politicians, bureaucrats, researchers, artists and others can take part in defining and developing regional entities. On this view, regions are not pre-given either on grounds of cultural similarity or international power structure; they have to be actively formed through a region-building process related to earlier European nation-building projects. ‘When an elite has

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formulated a political programme which hinges on the existence of a nation, it is always possible, to construct for it a prehistory which will embody it in time as well as in space.’7 Applied to regions, political actors are, likewise, believed to be able to define certain historical features as relevant to the construction of a notion of community within the area. Regions may thus be viewed as ‘imagined communities’,8 cognitive outcomes of deliberate political intentions and actions.

Self and Other in Identity Formation Following the region-building approach, decision makers face an urgent challenge in making the populations of the different states in the region feel they have something in common with their neighbours on the other side of the borders. To be more specific, their job is to persuade a maximum number of people in the area to include people from all the states in the region in their notion of political self, that is to say, their identification of belonging to a group with specific common interests, prospects, and threats, as opposed to other groups in society. Region building thus becomes a question of identity politics. The region-building approach involves a view of identity as something flexible,9 a relation rather than a possession, a quality conditional to persons in different situations rather than categorical pertaining to persons as such. A person’s identity may change over time, and he or she may have (or more precisely: be related to) several identities at some point in time. Overlapping identities are not only considered possible; from a security point of view, they are even regarded as desirable. Eriksen is one of the writers who stresses the idea that individuals whose identity is related to several groups in society are less likely to get themselves uncompromisingly involved in conflicts than people whose sense of self is defined in relation to a single group.10 Scholars engaged in this debate have suggested different standards by which identity is thought to be shaped. As Neumann,11 for instance, pointed out, there is a difference between those who attribute identity formation primarily to factors internal to the individual, and those who explain the phenomenon basically in terms of group membership and intra-group relations. Of the former, Bloom relies on behavioural and psychoanalytical psychology in asserting that humans continuously seek – and seek to protect – a common identity with other humans.12

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States accordingly avail themselves of this psychological need to mobilize support for the political entity. While Bloom derives his social and political implications from an essentially biological argument, scholars of the latter category emphasize the inseparability of identity formation and relations between groups.13 If a human collective is to nurture some kind of common identity, it has to contrast that identity with something different, the argument goes. This latter argument takes us to theories of the other and the need for external differentiation in identity politics. The debate about the other has recently found its way into the literature on international relations.14 In challenging both the system stringency of structuralism and the individualism of actor-based perspectives, this literature insists on explaining identity formation in terms of the relation between self and other. The other becomes an epistemological necessity in the definition of the self: the very capacity to experience a self is contingent upon otherness; it is in dialogue with others that the self is shaped.15 Another line of thought on the role of the other in identity formation, is presented by Eriksen.16 Drawing on Sartre,17 he highlights two models of group belongingness, we-hood and us-hood, emphasizing – again – internal and external factors, respectively, as crucial in identity formation. ‘For the members of a group to see themselves as we, they must experience interdependence and internal cohesion by virtue of a shared task. Being us, by contrast, signifies cohesion by virtue of an external agent, Sartre’s Tertius, which is frequently a real or imagined enemy.’18 Related to the Barents Region project, the creation of a common northern identity may be viewed as an instrument designed to encourage economic cooperation while furthering the wider goals of peace and stability in the area. The absence of a transnational feeling of community may in such a perspective prevent or impede the development of the necessary infrastructure and common institutions, both considered essential for the region to function. The possibility of creating an identity region is an empirical question which can only be answered by thorough observations extended over time. Do inhabitants think of populations on the other side of the border as ‘fellow Northerners’ rather than mere foreigners? Pending more extensive empirical evaluations, different narratives on the possible evolution of a transnational northern identity are presented in the following.

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Alleged We-hood: The Return from a Historical Parenthesis In official statements from the Barents Region bodies,19 the similarities between the populations of the northern periphery are emphasized as a force capable of enhancing the process of developing an identity region. People in the area all live in a region known for its harsh climate, vulnerable nature, long distances to national centres, and sparse populations, features which allegedly give them some kind of common world view and mutual understanding of each other’s situation, notwithstanding the state borders in the area. The existence of a natural region is thus believed to encourage the development of an identity region.20 Attention is also paid to the historical contacts between the Nordic countries and Russia, the so-called Pomor trade21 between Norway and Russia, and the traditional sense of community between Finnish and Russian Karelia22 being most frequently mentioned as examples. Since early Middle Ages, the Karelian population area has constituted a disputed border region at the intersection between Nordic and Russian interest spheres, and between Lutheran and Orthodox religious dominance. For most of this time, Karelia has been divided into a western and eastern part, belonging to Finland and Russia respectively. During the Soviet era, the status of eastern Karelia in the hierarchy of ethnically defined entities changed several times. Since November 1991, it has constituted a republic of the Russian Federation. For the past decades, ethnic Karelians have made up approximately 10 per cent of the total population. The Russian– Norwegian Pomor trade lasted for nearly two centuries prior to the Russian Revolution, and mainly involved the exchange of Norwegian fish for Russian grain and wood products from the area around Arkhangelsk. Contacts between Norwegians and Russians took a variety of forms, prompting the creation of a pidgin language of some 400 words to meet the demands of trading and bargaining. The Russian Pomors usually arrived in Northern Norway as soon as the ice had melted in the White Sea, and during summer, trade and social interaction were extensive. Many of the Russians returned to the same communities in Norway every year, thus establishing more or less permanent relationships with the locals. It appears that relations between Norwegians and Russians were generally of a friendly nature.23

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These traditional Norwegian – Russian ties in the north were further strengthened by the Norwegian settlements along the coast of the Kola Peninsula. From around 1850 to the Russian Revolution, many Norwegians, wishing to escape poverty at home, tried their luck as fishermen on the Russian side of the border. Small settlements such as Tsypnavolok, Kildin and Eina were dominated by Norwegians at the time. As the Revolution severed all cross-border interaction, these families lost contact with their relatives in Norway. Many of them experienced political victimization under Stalin and hence attempted to conceal their Norwegian background. Although heavily assimilated into Soviet society, there remained a few old people with a faint knowledge of the Norwegian language and memories of contact with their relatives in Norway, when connections were resumed in the late 1980s. Within a Barents Region context, the traditional cross-border interaction is presented by region builders (i.e. authorities engaged in the cooperation project) as the normal state of affairs in the area, a state of affairs that was challenged and eventually brought to a halt only by the Russian Revolution. According to this view, old connections are now resumed within the framework of the regional cooperation project. A frequently cited statement in this respect is that the area is reverting from the ‘historical parenthesis’ of Soviet isolation in the north back to the ‘normal’ state of flourishing cross-border cooperation. All Northerners are ‘in principle’ very much alike, admittedly with the reservation that 70 years of Soviet rule have left certain marks on the Russians in the area that will have to be adjusted. With the region-building process underway, a transnational northern identity is expected to be developing. The modern inhabitant of Hammerfest will simultaneously perceive of him- or herself as a citizen of Finnmark, Norway and the Barents Region.24

The Fragility of We-hood To what degree are the aforementioned factors in fact capable of bringing about a common identity – or stimulating we-hood – among today’s inhabitants of the region? ‘Centripetal forces’ in terms of a common experience of climate, topography and distance evidently may present a mutual frame of reference to the inhabitants; if people are constantly reminded of this shared experience by the authorities, a notion of some

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‘shared task’ might be created in the population. Still, one may question the relevance of this statement when comparing inhabitants of, say, the Karelian capital of Petrozavodsk and the small fishing villages of Northern Norway. Likewise, we can ask whether the historical references are perceived as relevant to and capable of having an impact on actual people. It is no bold assumption to say that the notion of the Pomor trade occupies a pretty limited place in the consciousness of people today, and it is still an open question whether the majority in the region will eventually embrace the Barents rhetorics and hence perceive the region as a ‘natural’ entity. Furthermore, one can question whether the Pomor trade was perceived as ‘natural’ even at the time. Although the relationship between Norwegians and Russians involved in the trade was of a friendly nature, they clearly conceived of each other as strangers: ‘On the whole, the local inhabitants saw the Russians as strangers, representing a distinctly different culture and religion, inaccessible to Norwegians. It is true that the Pomors, in relations with other Russians, would often underline their Norwegian connections, but in their dealings with Norwegians, they would all the same stress their Russian identity’.25 It should also be noted that in a more extensive historical perspective, relations between the different border populations in the area have often been less than friendly.26 Regarding the Karelian populations of Finland and Russia, the notion of historical contact one intends to revive, is also somewhat blurred. As we have seen, separation has been a more common historical state for the Karelian population than community and interaction. Although separation was more consistent after the Russian Revolution than in the years immediately preceding it, the assumption that the Soviet era represented just a historical parenthesis of separation for the Karelian population, is at best an over-simplification. Another factor which somewhat weakens the prediction of an easily forged – or ready-made – transnational northern identity based on the inherent likeness of all ‘Northerners’, is the fact that Northwestern Russia to a large degree is populated by ‘Southerners’. Most of Murmansk, the biggest city in the Barents Region with its 423,000 inhabitants (as per 1997), was built after the Pomor trade had ceased. Soviet citizens, mainly of Russian, Ukrainian or Belorussian heritage, were moved there after World War I to form a town around this northern

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ice-free port. Gradually, a city was populated with inhabitants from southern parts of the Soviet Union. The heavy military presence in the area has only strengthened this element.27 Thus, a great number of today’s inhabitants of Murmansk and its surroundings probably feel strongly connected to close relatives in more southern parts of Russia or other former Soviet republics. Many also own property here, where they spend part of their time. This is a fact that in itself may weaken their notion of themselves as ‘Northerners’. Consequently, the potential of sharply differentiating between ‘Northerners’ and ‘Southerners’, for the sake of encouraging the establishment of a transnational northern identity, is reduced. Although it can be argued that the cultural gap between East and West in the Barents Region is qualitatively different from the case of various national distinctions within Western Europe (cf. next section), there is no principal difference between the Barents Region project and similar ones between regions in Western European states from a regionbuilding point of view. If there is a difference, it is one of degree rather than of quality. The primary task for the identity formation efforts becomes one of eradicating the sense of otherness which might exist between the different population groups of the area. However, this essentially boils down to a question of creating a sense of we-hood and ushood in the group as a whole. The former has already been hinted at; the latter leaves us with the question of who to use as a contrast to this transnational Barents Region identity. To the extent that external differentiation is involved in the project, the case is more or less consciously made for Southerners as the constituting other. The Barents Region identity is defined in opposition to that of people from any of the four states living in more densely populated areas with a less severe climate and in or close to the national centres. Just as region builders must be careful not to provoke national authorities (which they probably have no desire to do, national authorities themselves being highly involved in the project), this aspect of external differentiation is only slightly accentuated. Compared to the transnational Baltic Sea cooperation, however, the regional aspect is stronger in the case of the Barents Region inasmuch as regional authorities are far more involved in the latter.28 This is reflected in the formal structure and procedures of the cooperation projects, as well as in their identity politics. In the Barents Region project, authorities are

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more apt to contrast the common regional identity with the respective national identities. It might thus be argued that the transnational northern identity to some extent in fact is intended to evolve with Southerners as constituting others.

‘The Cultural Counter-argument’ As far as Nordic and Russian identities go, they have – Nordic identity being treated as part of the general Western European identity – to a large degree evolved in contrast to one another.29 The idea of a specific European identity only acquires meaning when opposed to other ‘cultures’, for centuries most notably that of the Ottoman Empire.30 Highly relevant in this respect, however, is the Western European notion of ‘the Russianness of the Russians’, as expressed through Orthodox Christianity and the heritage of the Mongol invasion (c. 1224– 1480).31 Russians, on their part, have in different historical settings defined their identity in relation to their perception of Europe.32 While there is no unambiguous image of Europe among Russians, the focal point in this context is the fact that their conception of own identity is not separate from – but strongly interrelated with – the existence of a perceived identity of others. If we, however, for a moment listen to the argument that the European North is separated by a cultural dividing line running across Europe from north to south, a quite different narrative of the Barents Region identity emerges. According to such a view, the entire regionbuilding process is rooted in the erroneous assumption that Nordic and Russian inhabitants in the area are only separated historically and culturally by 70 years of Communism in Russia. This banal, but remarkably widespread presumption among politicians, researchers and ordinary people, has led to the naive ‘prediction’ that East and West in the European North will merge more or less with the necessity of a law of nature as a result of the fall of the Iron Curtain. The main point of ‘the cultural counter-argument’ is that cultural differences between East and West in the area were no less significant before than after 1917. While we can only speculate about the implications of the different religious orientations on other aspects of social life, they are hardly without effect on the more general worldview of people in East and

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West, respectively. The inwardness and mysticism of the Orthodox Church, its refutation of trivial everyday life, and its contention that contemplation may give us a glimpse of heavenly glory already in this life, are all essential foundation stones in the formation of Russian identity. The religious mentality of Russians is reflected, for example, in the Soviet version of Marxism. When Khrushchev in 1961 stated that the communist paradise was ‘just beneath the horizon’ – that it would materialize somewhere in the early 1980s – it was an echo of the old Orthodox prophecies. Seventy years of Communism in many respects only represented an extension of ancient Russian governance: an autocratic form of rule where the czar was replaced by the general secretary of the Party, the Bible by Marxist ideology, and paradise by the ideal Communist society of the future. Furthermore, characteristics of the Orthodox Church help us understand why the Soviets, paradoxically, managed to send people to the Moon when they were hardly capable of building televisions that work. Grandiose dream-like projects such as space programmes, gigantic constructions projects or ambitious objectives in sports and art presumably strike a chord of recognition in Russian mentality. The neglect of more trivial social tasks, likewise, is not only typical of the Soviet period. The experiences of Western visitors to Russia in earlier centuries are strikingly similar to those of people who visited the country in the Soviet period.33 The apparent disinterest of Russians in minor tasks – such as keeping the environment tidy or of producing sustainable consumer goods – is not only a result of the Soviet command economy’s failure to value work properly, as widely assumed in the West. Rather, it has been observed by foreigners in Russia for centuries and must, at least to some extent, find its explanation elsewhere. Here is the crux of the matter: the historical transnational identity outlined in ‘the Barents rhetoric’ has never existed. The Russian Pomors and Norwegian coastal population of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries were just as strange to each other as people in the same area were at the end of the Cold War. The average inhabitant of today’s Murmansk will probably feel culturally closer to a Serb than to an inhabitant of Tromsø; the latter might, on his part, feel a greater sense of community with an Australian than with fellow Barents Region citizens in Petrozavodsk. The historical transnational community in the area is a

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myth; the new northern identity so far a castle in the air; the Barents citizen an illusion.34

‘The Identity of Contrasts’ The most striking characteristic of the new northern identity is perhaps its richness in nuances, contrasts and apparent paradoxes. It should, in fact, be possible to find empirical data to support both ‘the Barents rhetoric’ and ‘the cultural counter-argument’. Decision makers, researchers, journalists and others will, from various points of departure, construct different versions of reality from the specific matter. The lack of systematically collected empirical data makes it difficult to place the variety of narratives in an overarching context. Having experience mostly of Norwegian and Russian politics and media, it is the impression of this author that the first years of the Barents Region were dominated by ‘the Barents rhetoric’ as a more or less exclusive ideological/theoretical point of departure for both politicians, bureaucrats and journalists. The result was the so-called ‘Barents euphoria’ with its impassioned tales of brotherhood in the North, to which many have now developed a certain ironical distance. ‘The cultural counter-argument’ has, however, come ever more into use recently, for example, as an explanation as to ‘why things failed’ in the commercial relations between Nordic and Russian firms.35 At least in the Norwegian press, ‘atrocity stories’ have to a large extent taken over ‘the Barents euphoria’ line. As an illustrating example, the biggest Norwegian tabloid, VG, on 29 March 1997 had an extensive article on the Barents Region with the title: ‘Oddrun’s fiasco’ (referring to Oddrun Pettersen, the leader of the Barents secretariat in Kirkenes and former minister from the Labour Party). Its main argument was that hundreds of millions have been spent on the project while only one new work place has been established. What such comments overlook is the fact that the Barents Region is basically a security concept, not a labour market initiative. The interesting point is, however, that negative accounts – often stressing ‘the cultural gap’ – are steadily pushing the enthusiasm initially surrounding the project to one side. Furthermore, the point I want to make is that the one and only true story about the Barents Region identity most likely cannot be found. Here, however, is one of several stories, that of a relationship between

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the Nordic and Russian populations in the region characterized by contrasts and paradoxes:36

‘The Barents generation’ – the new multi-cultural European north One of the most striking features of the changes that have taken place in the East–West relations in the European North since the end of the Cold War, is the massive flow of people across the borders in both directions, both on a temporal and permanent basis. Tourism between East and West has risen dramatically; political and business delegations frequently visit partners on the other side of the border; a range of exchange students stay in other countries of the region for longer or shorter periods; and finally, most towns on the Nordic side of the border now have Russian settlements of various sizes. Many Russians have married on the Nordic side and hence received a permanent residence permit; others have come through the numerous exchange programmes under the auspices of the Barents Region cooperation and subsequently acquired a temporary residence and work permit on account of their special skills. This is ‘the Barents generation’, young aspiring – often quite ambitious – Russians skilled in Nordic languages and Western business and administration practices. Some hope to stay in the West; others plan to return home after some time; something they share, however, seems to be a sense of belonging to a new multi-cultural European North – or the Barents Region. Not only have their language and cultural skills allowed them to cross the cultural gap outlined above. To a large extent, their careers and more general pattern of life have been determined by the Barents Region as a political project. Inhabitants of the Nordic parts of the region are correspondingly experiencing an ever smaller sense of remoteness when visiting Northwestern Russia. At least in the capitals of the subregions on the Russian side of the border, foreigners are no longer a rare sight. A ‘Barents generation’ of Scandinavians is, admittedly, not as apparent as that of young aspiring Russians. There is, however, a growing though somewhat more fragmented community of Nordic politicians, bureaucrats, students and, above all, businesspeople who relatively frequently travel to Northwestern Russia. If you visit hotel Polyarnye Zori or the hamburger bar on the Lenin Prospekt in Murmansk a few times, you will get to see many of the same Nordic faces.

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The identity of a minority? If the Barents Region project has paved the way for economic security and higher social status for a relatively limited group of young Russians, and guided to some degree the business orientation of a good handful of Nordic entrepreneurs, it is nevertheless doubtful whether the majorities of the populations of both Northwestern Russia and the northern parts of Norway, Sweden and Finland conceive of the Barents Region as a natural source of identification. Even in the absence of extensive empirical documentation, it is not particularly bold to assert that the Barents Region as a political project is a relatively distant concept for the great mass of Northwest Russians. First, the average Russian has had to concentrate increasingly on simply earning a living in recent years. Rising prices, delayed wages and insecure jobs probably dampen reflections on cross-border relations, and render the Nordic way of life quite remote. Second, although the East – West approach of recent years can hardly have escaped the attention of most people, it is my impression that the media profile of the Barents Region concept is somewhat lower in Northwestern Russia than in the Nordic parts of the region, at least in Norway. I have myself talked to several Russians (inhabitants of the Barents Region) who had not even heard of it. A poll in the journal N66 – Culture in the Barents Region where inhabitants of Arkhangelsk were asked their opinion of the Barents Region, typically led to answers such as: ‘I don’t know much about it, I am not involved in politics.’ ‘I heard the name Barents, but I don’t know what kind of organization it is.’ ‘I don’t think a lot about these things because I have a family [to care for].’37 Also as far as the Nordic part of the region is concerned, one can question whether the policy of creating a transnational frame of reference is in the process of being achieved. As a lecturer in international relations in the European North at the University of Tromsø, I have repeatedly been surprised at the lack of knowledge on the Barents Region even among students of political science. A number of them – perhaps a majority – seem to have only a vague conception of the Barents Region before they embark on studies with a particular focus on it. Most seem to see the Barents Region as a loose geographical label, some kind of ‘modern’ version of the more sturdy North Calotte, the established crossborder cooperation between Norway, Sweden and Finland in the north. Others associate the concept mainly with the management of the Barents

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Sea fish resources, which, by definition, is not a responsibility of the Barents Region cooperation since it is already taken care of by a bilateral Russian– Norwegian regime. ‘The ice massifs of the Polar Ocean’ is one of the more extreme variants proposed to describe what the Barents Region is. If this were indicative of the conception of the project among educated people within the region (in this case even in the social sciences), it seems all the more appropriate to ask whether the new transnational northern identity relates only to a very limited group of entrepreneurial people with particular interests in developing connections on the other side of the border.

A new contrasting between East and West? One of the main goals of the Barents cooperation is to de-accentuate the mutual sense of remoteness that formerly existed between East and West in the area. While the Russian and Nordic populations have undoubtedly reached out to each other, this very contact seems to some extent to have had the effect of creating new contrasts that are presently visible on both sides of the East– West border. In Norway, for instance, Russians are no longer welcomed with the same enthusiasm as they were only half a decade ago, when they came as ‘liberated Soviets’, or something nearly exotic. Many Russians now complain of being treated as second-class humans by their Nordic neighbours. On the other hand, Norwegians complain that Russians only bring trouble: they steal, whore, smuggle and even smell bad. (A recent article in a Northern Norwegian newspaper reported that school children in Kirkenes spat at Russian fishermen in the street because they didn’t like their odour.) It is the custom in the small fishing villages of Northern Norway that people lock their doors and put their cars in the garage when Russian vessels come to deliver fish. These examples are not unique; to an ever greater extent, Russians are being depicted as everything one would not like to have in a community. Another outcome of this new contrast is the image of Russians as needy and the Nordic populations as the good helpers. It is a fact that Northwestern Russia is in need of investment, and that some segments of the population live in poor conditions. The image of Russians as needy seems, however, to have been blown out of all proportion by numerous Nordic politicians, businessmen and journalists. There seems to be a growing tendency to assume that whenever a Russian arrives in one of

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the Nordic countries, it is to learn how to be ‘like us’. Countless newspaper headlines have stated that ‘Russians have come to learn from us’, while the Russians themselves assume they are there to exchange mutual experiences with their Nordic neighbours. One trivial example: Every time Norwegian and Russian fishery inspectors meet at seminars – which has happened annually since 1993, when Norwegian and Russian Barents Sea control bodies officially began working together – Norwegian journalists have wanted pictures of a Norwegian inspector measuring the mesh size of a trawl net with his Russian colleague looking on. The message is that ‘Ola teaches Ivan how to measure a mesh size’, which is of course a gross underestimation of the latter’s skills. A similar lack of modesty has reportedly ruined many attempted joint business ventures between Russian and Nordic firms. A further indication of the new contrast between East and West is the recently observable sense of bitterness felt by Russian politicians, bureaucrats and businessmen from dealing with their Nordic neighbours. This seems to be the result of disillusionment regarding the achievements of the Barents cooperation so far. During several visits to Murmansk in the course of 1997, conducting interviews with the mentioned categories of people, I was repeatedly instructed to go back to Norway and report on their considerable disappointment. The message was as follows: ‘You’ve done nothing to help us, so don’t send more delegations! We are sick and tired of your endless talk – please, leave us alone!’

Conclusion These narratives may all contribute to an understanding of the identity formation process in the Barents Region. From a quasi-empirical point of view, the following conclusions seem to stand out at this stage of the process. First, an identity region will not evolve out of nothing. ‘Barents rhetoric’ is – not surprisingly – nothing but rhetoric, an argumentative instrument in the hands – or should we say mouths? – of authorities aimed at creating an ‘imagined community’ of East and West in the area. Second, ‘the cultural counter-argument’ – while it too can shed some light on the identity formation process – should not be understood as a variant of ‘East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet’; ‘the Barents generation’ is a good example of the opposite.

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Perhaps even more ‘Barents rhetoric’ is needed to extend the experience of the ‘Barents generation’ to further layers of the population? If we continue to tell people in the region’s Eastern and Western parts how similar they are, maybe they will eventually believe us. More than anything, however, the narrative of ‘the identity of contrasts’ is evidence of how close the identity question is connected to the other declared policies of regional cooperation, most notably that of creating a functional region characterized by extensive business interaction between East and West. Russian disappointment with Norwegian talk and absence of real interest in the Nordics to invest in Northwest Russian trade and industry, shows how difficult it is to establish a sense of community without any form of common destiny. A parallel in the same area is the result of the Soviet liberation of Finnmark in 1944 –5. People’s gratitude towards the liberators made it impossible to subsequently regard the Soviets as the others here, as far as this was the case in the rest of Norway during the Cold War. In much the same manner, the Nordic countries now have the opportunity to secure a similar sense of obligation from one of the losers of the Cold War, the population of Northwestern Russia. The solution appears to be some sort of massive aid or investment programme in the region, rather than further talk. Although they are too modest to tell their Nordic counterparts: Russians are tired of ‘Barents bullshit’.

PART II ENVIRONMENTAL DISCOURSE IN THE EUROPEAN ARCTIC

CHAPTER 2 FISH DISCOURSE:NORWAY, RUSSIA AND THE NORTH-EAST ARCTIC COD 1

Introduction Can discourse analysis help explain why decision makers suddenly stopped listening to scientific advice and set quota levels that seriously threatened the viability of an up to then successfully managed fish stock? Discourse analysis has a particular focus on language and seeks to trace patterns of how a given object of study is talked and written about by different subjects. It is often a major goal of this approach to reveal the societal features, for instance values prevailing among a specific group of people at a given time, that produce particular verbal or written representations of reality. In the study of environmental politics, this often takes the form of tracing the context of this particular sector of policy; is the environmental discourse, for instance, embedded in other, and more general discourses in society? Further, the question is asked whether tendencies to talk (or write) about the environment in a specific way contribute to shaping actual policy choices. The Northeast Arctic cod stock, the commercially most important fish stock of the Barents Sea fisheries in northern Europe, has since the mid-1970s been managed bilaterally by the Soviet Union/Russian Federation and Norway. The two countries set total allowable catch (TAC) for the stock and share it 50– 50. A striking feature of the management process towards the end of the 1990s was the increasing

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tendency of decision makers to set TACs far above the scientific recommendations. The chapter tells the story of how the Joint Russian– Norwegian Fisheries Commission (in the following referred to as the Joint Fisheries Commission) established the TACs of Northeast Arctic cod in the years 1999– 2001, attempting to elucidate the context in which decisions were made. Why were some proposed solutions chosen and not others? How did the framing of the problem influence the selection among available ‘solutions’? To what extent were choices determined by factors external to the regulatory regime? First, a brief overview is given of the concept of discourse analysis and how this theoretical approach has been used to study the relationship between humans and the environment. Second, scientific recommendations and the establishment of TACs of the Northeast Arctic cod since the latter half of the 1990s are investigated in more detail. Third, the major discourses on quota settlement are defined, discussing how discourses of a more overarching nature in society influence fish discourse. Finally, the genealogy of the discourse is summed up and some careful observations made regarding the relationship between discourse and power in the Barents Sea fisheries management. The main objective of the chapter is to ‘extract’ explanation value from discourse analysis, not to evaluate this perspective against other theoretical approaches or provide an all-embracing list of explanatory factors that could be derived from alternative approaches. Methodologically, the chapter builds on (participant) observation by the author during the 1990s,2 numerous interviews with scientists and civil servants in Russia and Norway during the period 1994–2002,3 as well as reviews of Russian and Norwegian media, particularly in the period 1999–2002.4

The Concept of Discourse Analysis In his textbook on discourse analysis, Neumann lists a number of definitions of the term, describing discourse as ‘a process reflecting a distribution of knowledge, authority, and social relationships, which propels those enrolled in it’, ‘a system for the formation of statements’ and ‘practices that systematically form the objects of which they speak’.5 Add to the list definitions that present a discourse as ‘the totality of things written and read, spoken and heard’,6 ‘a shared way of apprehending the world’7 and ‘a specific ensemble of ideas, concepts, and categorizations that are

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produced, reproduced, and transformed in a particular set of practices and through which meaning is given to physical and social realities’.8 Hence, discourse is perceived of as, among other things, a system that produces something, a process of something being produced or reflected, practices that either produce or reflect something, that which is produced or reflected, or frames of viewing the world. More important than this divergence in categorizing the discourse as a source or reflection of something is the conception of what this ‘something’ contains and what are its effects. Discourses are most often thought to produce or reflect specific ideas, concepts or statements. These, in turn, are believed to affect those producing (or reflecting) them or their context; as mentioned above, they ‘propel those enrolled in it’, ‘form the objects of which they speak’ and ‘give meaning to physical and social realities’. Hence, discourses are ‘something’ that affects the way ‘someone’ conceives of and talks about ‘something’. Discourses can, in line with Foucault’s conception of the intertwining of discourse and power, be regarded as practices or networks (or whatever) that compel subjects to view and speak of the world in specific ways.9 Not all subscribe to the notion of discourse and power as inseparable from each other, but the main point here is that subjects – as a result of power use or not – are at any time entangled in discourses that define the limits of how it is acceptable or ‘natural’ to perceive and refer to the physical and social environment. As far as definitions are concerned, I adhere to the one Litfin employs in one of the major works on environmental discourse. In her view, discourses are ‘sets of linguistic practices and rhetorical strategies embedded in a network of social relations’.10 This definition emphasizes the linguistic and rhetorical aspects of that ‘something’ going on. Also, it links this linguistic ‘something’ specifically to a social ‘something’. A main premise of social science discourse analysis is the assumption that linguistic practices have something to say about the social world (which they either reflect or contribute to shaping). In line with this assumption, a major objective of this type of discourse analysis becomes to reveal what ‘linguistic practices and rhetorical strategies’ have to tell us about the social world. In general, discourse analysis has an epistemological rather than ontological objective. Hence, it does not primarily aim at telling us about the world as it is, but rather it aims at revealing how our understanding of the world is created, maintained and

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reproduced. The challenge lies in pointing to the social ‘something’ that brings forth, affirms and preserves specific modes of understanding. Some would also be concerned about the consequences of particular modes prevailing at particular times.

The Study of Environmental Discourse The existing literature on environmental discourse is highly diverse in empirical scope, theoretical ambition and methodological refinement. Some works with titles indicating analysis of ‘environmental discourse’ do not live up to the expectations of those interested in this particular type of theoretical investigation. The term ‘discourse’ is here often used in a more everyday sense similar to ‘discussion’ although such works occasionally refer to the theoretical debate on discourses. Other works flash Foucault and the rest of the post-structuralist classics, but empirically consist of rather ‘traditional’ analysis of political processes. A few works stand out in their theoretical clarity and empirical richness, among them Litfin’s analysis of the formation of the global ozone regime and Hajer’s on ecological modernization in the Netherlands and the United Kingdom (with a main empirical focus on acid rain regulation).11 In her study on the formation of the global ozone regime, Litfin focuses particularly on the relationship between science and politics.12 Placing herself in the context of a reflectivist approach to environmental politics, in which she includes the epistemic communities literature, studies of social learning processes and negotiation-analytic modelling, she criticizes the existing contributions to this literature for ignoring the relational aspects of science’s influence on politics. For instance, she claims that the epistemic communities literature views science as standing outside of politics and knowledge as divorced from power.13 According to Litfin, it suffers from a simplistic assumption of scientific consensus necessarily leading to political consensus. She views it as part of the ‘rationality project’ of ‘rescu[ing] public policy from the irrationalities and indignities of politics’.14 She claims that, contrary to the belief in a sharp dividing line between science and politics, political arguments are often formulated in scientific terms. Questions about values are phrased as questions about facts. Facts, in turn, have to be expressed in language and are subjected to interpretation. ‘Facts’ are then

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chosen selectively by actors depending on their particular interests and audience. Knowledge brokers – typically operating at low or middle levels of governments or international organizations – function as mediators between the original producers of the scientific knowledge and the political actors who use that knowledge but have neither the time nor training to absorb it in its original form. They are allowed to frame and interpret scientific knowledge and hence represent a substantial source of political power, especially under conditions of scientific uncertainty so typical of environmental problems. Empirically, Litfin’s study challenges the prevailing view that science provided a body of objective and value-free facts from which the ozone regime emerged. Instead, this knowledge was ‘brokered’ or ‘framed’ by knowledge brokers.15 She criticizes Haas for overestimating the role of information producers and underestimating the role of information framers.16 Likewise, she emphasizes the role of contextual factors more strongly than Haas, particularly the discovery of the Antarctic ozone hole. Discourses, understood by Litfin as sets of linguistic practices and rhetorical strategies embedded in a network of social relations (see above), ‘define the range of policy options and operate as resources which empower certain actors and exclude others’.17 Environmental problems are hence ‘not simply physical events; they are discursive phenomena that can be studied as struggles among contested knowledge claims, which become incorporated into divergent narratives about risk and responsibility’.18 Hajer’s point of departure is the claim that most analyses of environmental politics aim to explain how various political interests stand in the way of a real ‘ecological turn’.19 By contrast to this account of fixed actor interests and political outcomes, he draws particular attention to how environmental problems are defined through discourse and how the specific structuring of a problem in turn influences the formation of public politics. Although his empirical focus is somewhat broader than Litfin’s – aiming in general at the shaping of public politics within a field rather than the formation of a specific regime – they share a preoccupation with how environmental problems are defined or ‘framed’, and how this affects politics. Hajer argues that human interaction is related to ‘subject positions’ rather than roles. The concept of roles usually implies that a person can always be distinguished from the role he or she assumes. Alternatively, a ‘subject

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position’ refers to a person’s location in a specific discourse, a position he or she cannot go in and out of as desired. Actors can only make sense of the world by drawing on the terms of the discourses available to them, the argument goes. Hence, persons are constituted by discursive practices. Nevertheless, Hajer – like Litfin – has a conception of active agency; persons can actively select, adapt and create thoughts, admittedly within the limits provided by discourses. Hajer contends that what causes change and permanence is social practices, ascribing both to ‘active discursive reproduction or transformation’.20 He takes up Davies and Harre´’s concept of storylines as a main mechanism in this respect, defining the concept as ‘a generative sort of narrative that allows actors to draw upon various discursive categories to give meaning to specific physical or social phenomena’.21 A storyline catches certain aspects of a problem complex in a simple and understandable manner. The argument is that people draw on such simplified representations of ‘reality’ rather than complex systems of knowledge in creating a cognitive comprehension of a subject matter. Storylines play a key role in positioning subjects in a discourse. They re-order people’s understanding of problems and hence cause political change. Finding the appropriate storyline hence becomes an important mechanism of political agency. Once a storyline has been established in a discourse, it settles as ‘the way one talks around here’. The disciplinary force of discursive practices often lies in the implicit assumption that others will express themselves within the same discursive frame. Even when their objective is to challenge a dominant storyline, people are expected to position themselves in terms of known categories. Society is hence reproduced in a process of interaction between active agents and constraining structures that constantly reinvents the social order. Language is seen not as a medium for subjects to express their preferences, but as a communicative practice which influences actors’ perception of interests. Language in use can create new meanings, new subject positions and new politics. In addition to storylines, the notion of discourse coalition is put forward as a middle-range concept to show how discursive orders are maintained and transformed. A discourse coalition is defined as ‘the ensemble of (1) a set of storylines; (2) the actors who utter these storylines; and (3) the practices in which this discursive activity is based’.22 Discourse coalitions differ from traditional political coalitions in several respects: first, their basis is

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formed by storylines, not interests; second, they broaden the scope for political actors by emphasizing the settings where storylines are produced (e.g. the media and science).

Scientific Recommendations and Established Quotas Since 1990 We now leave the theoretical discussion for a moment and turn to our case study. Since the early 1960s, management recommendations on the Northeast Arctic cod stock have been given regularly by the International Council for the Exploration of the Sea (ICES). The first TAC for this stock was introduced in 1975; until then no effective management measures were in place for demersal fish in the area.23 At the end of the 1970s, catches of cod and haddock were declining, and the rates of exploitation were far above advised levels. The Barents Sea capelin stock collapsed in the mid-1980s, which led to a lack of food for the cod and haddock stocks in the area. In 1990, the total yield from the area was at its lowest point since 1945.24 During the 1990s, the Northeast Arctic cod stock fluctuated from a state of near collapse at the beginning of the decade, through a period of intensive growth in the mid-1990s, and back again to near collapse at the end of the decade. There was a tendency throughout the period to set higher TACs than advised by ICES. While TACs quickly increased to levels far above recommendations as soon as the stock started to recover (1992 – 3), the quotas were set in the immediate vicinity of the recommended levels during the ‘prosperous’ years of the mid-1990s (1994 – 8). When signs of crisis again emerged at the end of the decade, decision makers did not take immediate action. The situation was particularly critical when the quota for 2000 was to be set in the autumn of 1999. ICES had provided an ‘all time low’ recommendation of 110,000 tonnes, down from a recommended 360,000 tonnes and a TAC of 480,000 tonnes for 1999. Only after a breakdown in negotiations lasting several days did the Joint Fisheries Commission agree on a TAC of 390,000 tonnes for 2000, i.e. a quota almost four times higher than the scientific recommendations. One year later, ICES increased its quota recommendations slightly, and the Joint Fisheries Commission for the first time agreed to set a three-year quota, at the level of 395,000 tonnes.

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In addition to the discrepancy between recommended and established TACs comes the fact that the quotas recommended by ICES for the Northeast Arctic cod were for most of the years based on too high estimates of spawning stocks. The annual assessments for cod underestimated fishing mortality and overestimated stock numbers. In other words, fish were removed from the stock at a higher rate than the scientists bargained for on the basis of their analyses at the time the advice was given.25

Defining Major Discourses This section sums up the main findings of my empirical investigation in what I have chosen to call the ‘sustainability discourse’, the ‘Cold Peace discourse’, the ‘seafaring community discourse’ and the ‘pity-theRussians discourse’. For each discourse, its basic assumptions, the basic entities forming it, its main discursive coalitions and storylines are defined. The storylines that are presented as typical of each discourse are direct quotes from or slightly paraphrased versions of the interview material and media extracts. I do not claim that these concrete storylines have had the tangible and immediate effects on their respective discourses that Hajer asserts that storylines often do.26 Rather, I believe they capture central aspects of the discourse regardless of whether this was the first time they were uttered or not. Hence, similar utterances are believed to have had an effect or given direction to the discourse in question when they were first produced although their authors are unable to point out the exact time at which this took place.

The ‘sustainability discourse’ The Norwegian discourse on the management of the Barents Sea fisheries has above all evolved around the issue of ‘sustainability’: has the establishment of quotas been sustainable or in accordance with the precautionary principle? Within this more general discourse, two ‘discourse coalitions’ are discernible, sharing some basic assumptions but diverging as far as the prescribed solutions are concerned: the ‘official’ and the ‘critical’ sustainability discourse. Both variants of the ‘sustainability discourse’ maintain that disputes about quota settlement are mainly disputes about sustainability. This is what the debate is about: should the cod quota be set at 200,000 tonnes or 500,000 tonnes

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or at any other proposed level? Which alternative is most sustainable and sufficiently precautionary? Discussions about interest and institutional set-up are seemingly subordinate to this overarching question: are current management practices ‘sustainable’ or ‘unsustainable’? Solutions related to whose interests should be favored or which institutional arrangements are most suitable follow from the answer to the question concerning whether the observed management practice is sustainable or not. The ‘official’ and the ‘critical’ sustainability discourse also concur in their main objects of discussion: both focus on the future of fishers’ households and coastal communities as the main human (or ‘non-fish’) objectives of a sustainable fisheries management. The two variants of the ‘sustainability discourse’ diverge when it comes to how the above questions should be answered. The ‘official’ variant says that quota settlements have been sustainable, one has only chosen to build up the cod stock at a slightly lower pace than that proposed by ICES scientists.27 On the other hand, the ‘critical’ version of the discourse says that management practices in the 1990s have brought the Northeast Arctic cod stock to the verge of extinction. It might have been ‘necessary’ to depart from the scientific recommendations in the quota settlements, for example, in order to maintain the bilateral regime with Russia, but management practices have definitely not been sustainable.28 The discourse coalition forming the ‘official’ sustainability discourse is made up of the ruling political parties, bureaucrats and the main fishers’ organizations in the management process, that is, the Norwegian Fishermen’s Association and the Norwegian Association of Shipowners.29 Although occasionally indulging in cautious criticism of the tendency to set quotas far above the scientific recommendations – blaming the Russian party for the ‘necessity’ to do this – this discourse coalition by and large maintains that last years’ quotas do not represent any significant harm to the Northeast Arctic cod stock. Politicians and bureaucrats tend to emphasize how actual management practice accords with internationally acclaimed principles of sustainability and precaution – the rebuilding of the cod stock is only taking a bit longer than the ICES opinion would like to see. Fishers and their representatives tend more to question the ‘correctness’ of the recommendations coming out of ICES and claim that it would not have been ‘right’ to be as cautious as ICES recommends.

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The ‘critical’ discourse coalition, on the other hand, maintains that quota settlements have not met the criteria of sustainable and precautionary fisheries management. The discourse is composed of representatives of the coastal fishers – mainly those organized in the ‘alternative’ Norwegian Association of Coastal Fishers, the only fraction of Norwegian fishers that has chosen to stand outside the Norwegian Fishermen’s Association – environmental NGOs, parties on the political left and to some extent also scientists. The most conspicuous trait of the ‘sustainability discourse’ is, however, its tendency to answer all questions – whether related to issues of interests or institutions – in terms of sustainability or nonsustainability. Representatives of the ‘official’ discourse coalition could in principle have claimed that the relatively high cod quotas in recent years have saved the Norwegian fishing industry from difficult distribution battles between various fleet groups at the national level and therefore represented good political handiwork. But it would not have been as ‘politically correct’ as maintaining that the quotas have been ‘sustainable’, thus, in a way, avoiding the more traditional interestbased explanation. (I shall return to this issue in the concluding section.) Likewise, adherents of the ‘critical’ discourse coalition could simply have stated that they do not like trawlers and range the vitality of small coastal communities above the opportunities for large ship-owners to accumulate even more capital. Reference to widely acclaimed principles of sustainability and precaution, however, adds greater momentum to their arguments. For instance, when Norwegian authorities in April 2001 chose to break with two decades of established practice and decided to arrest a violator in the Fishery Protection Zone around Svalbard,30 the Russians, overly critical of and not so little surprised at this change in direction, were met by a unanimous ‘sustainability chorus’ in Norway: the arrest was necessary to ensure sustainable fisheries management. What this ‘chorus’ did not mention, was that similar violations, no less dangerous to the area’s fish stocks, had been committed more or less regularly for decades, without provoking graver responses from the Norwegian Coast Guards than written warnings. Hence, it could be said that ‘sustainability’ seems to have become a sort of mantra for Norwegian fishery authorities when seeking to justify ‘difficult questions’ in the country’s fishery politics vis-a`-vis neighbouring states. I will return to this topic too in the concluding section.

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The ‘Cold Peace discourse’ Whereas the Norwegian ‘sustainability discourse’ focuses on the conflicting interests between various sub-groups of society, the Russian discourse on the establishment of TACs for the Barents Sea cod is strictly state-centred. Where the former speaks of short- vs. long-term interests of different types of vessels and regions, the latter views quota settlements – quota settlements that by definition are divided on a 50 – 50 basis between Norway and Russia – as a battle of national importance between the two states involved. First, the two states are the basic units in the discourse. Second, both the ‘Russian’ and the ‘Norwegian’ interests in the issue are seen as stable and unitary, rather than fluctuating and multifaceted. Third, the ‘opponent’, i.e. Norway, is seen as a strictly rational actor, capable of calculating the value of its own interests precisely and minutely (because it knows exactly what its best interests are), cf. the following extract from an article in the Russian fisheries press: Right from the start, the Norwegian delegation pursued a hard line based on ICES’ recommendations which, to put it politely, are ‘a bit more precautionary than necessary’ as far as the assessment of the cod stock is concerned. Here, it should be observed that a range of experts do not exclude the possibility that one of the factors behind the stipulation of these recommendations, with all due respect for this indisputably very respectful organization, have been the interests of Norway and the EU countries, whose representatives constitute the majority of the members of ICES’ working groups. And it is quite possible that the Norwegian delegation’s strong demands for reductions in the cod catches are aimed at maintaining the high price of the country’s fish export commodities. [. . .] This is the third year in a row that the Norwegian party attempts to achieve a reduction in the cod quota, and it is absolutely possible that this insistence is based on the fact that Norway has started artificial breeding of cod. In two to three years’ time, the quantity of this fish may reach 180 – 200,000 tonnes a year, that is, practically equivalent to their share of the quota of ‘wild’ cod. And in order to maintain the price for the future, they wish to ‘freeze’ this amount of catch. 31

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Fourth, the interests of the two states are considered to be mutually opposed and the establishment of TACs a zero-sum game: one party can only gain what the other loses. Consequently, states are believed to be incessantly seeking to destroy other states in never-ending attempts to maximize their own interests. A few quotes speak to this effect: ‘it is always like this: when one state is temporarily weakened, its neighbours will try to take advantage;’32 ‘there is nothing special about this – every country defends its own interest with the means available to it.’33 Or, as expressed by a Russian fisheries researcher in an interview, pinpointing the Russian perception of the quota establishment exercise as a zero-sum game: ‘Of course, it’s in Norway’s interest to ruin Russia. This is simple economic theory.’34 The Russian discourses on marine living resources in the Barents Sea during the 1990s form part of a general Russian discourse on the country’s relations with the West: what I will here label the ‘Cold Peace discourse’. The term refers to the mounting sense of disappointment in the West felt by many Russians from the early and mid-1990s, as it became increasingly clear that the political and economic reforms were not bringing the results many had hoped for. Combined with a sense of resentment against NATO expansion eastwards, and the 1999 NATO intervention in Kosovo, many Russians became convinced that the cooperative attitude of the West at the end of the 1980s and the beginning of the 1990s was false, a way to press reforms on Russia that it was known would not work in the Russian setting in any event. The motive of Western powers was allegedly to weaken Russia even further while, at the same time, taking the advantage to boost own military and economic power. The process was conducted under ‘positive’ slogans such as ‘democratization’ and ‘introduction of market reforms’, but many Russians came to see it as little more than a continuation of the Cold War East–West struggle, a situation that gave rise to the term ‘Cold Peace’.35 By the end of the decade, many had become disillusioned with the West and instead sought answers in ‘traditional’ patriotic values. As expressed by the leader of the Murmansk regional duma commission for patriotic upbringing in 1999: ‘After some years of liberal reform [. . .], the concept [of patriotism] is again attracting lively interest. To an increasing extent, the columns of patriots are joined by those who only recently were ignoring the national interests of the state, and instead tried to convince us of the priority of certain abstract universal human values.’36

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In Northwestern Russia, growing distrust in the West was given further sustenance by disappointment in the results of the Barents EuroArctic regional cooperation venture, established in 1993. The Nordic countries had held out expectations of large investments in Northwestern Russia when they launched this regional initiative in 1993, expectations it proved very hard to live up to. Add to this the resentment in Northwestern Russia towards the fact that most of the Barents Sea cod caught by Russian vessels has since the early 1990s been delivered in Norway and other Western countries. This has been a disaster for the land-based fish-processing industry in Murmansk, once the largest fish industry in the entire Soviet Union. Although it is Russian captains on fishing vessels who choose to deliver their catches abroad – the main reasons being proximity to fishing grounds and less bureaucratic delivery procedures than in Murmansk – most Russians interpret the development as ‘Norwegians stealing our fish’. Hence, the establishment of cod quotas at the turn of the millennium took place in an environment characterized by increasing Russian suspicion regarding the intentions of Western countries in their dealings with Russia. When Norway ‘demanded’ a drastic decrease in cod quotas based on scientific opinion, which the Russian party did not find altogether legitimate, it was seen as yet another attempt by a Western neighbour to take advantage of Russia’s floundering economic situation. When the Norwegian Coast Guard for the first time arrested and penalized a Russian fishing vessel in the Svalbard Zone, it was taken as confirmation of Norway’s intention to ‘squeeze our fishers out of the area’37 and ‘force us to leave the island’.38 The Norwegian chants of ‘sustainability, sustainability’ made little sense to the Russians, fuelling instead Russian suspicions that its Western neighbours were up to no good with their hidden agenda. The ‘Cold Peace’ discourse provided an arena for speculation: did the Norwegians want to reduce the quota in order to keep cod prices high on the world market, or was their intention to ‘ruin Russia’? As expressed by an inhabitant of Murmansk in an interview: ‘Norway does everything it can to destroy the Russian fishing industry. And that’s good. That’s how it should be. It’s just a pity the Russian state isn’t strong enough to defend the interests of its inhabitants in the same manner’.39 Storylines such as ‘every country defends its own interests with the means available to it’, ‘Norway does everything it can to destroy the Russian fishing industry, and that’s how

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it should be’ and ‘of course, it’s in Norway’s interest to ruin Russia; this is simple economic theory’ provided ready explanations to complex and otherwise incomprehensible situations.

The ‘seafaring community discourse’ There is considerable scepticism among fishers on both sides of the border towards the stock assessments made by marine scientists. A common theme in this scepticism is directed at scientists’ apparent inability to assess stocks correctly because of their ‘absence from the sea’. According to this view, fishers are in a better position to have a qualified opinion about the situation in the sea since they are observing it all the time. The scientists, for their part, spend only part of their time at sea, sitting otherwise in their comfortable offices in large cities, engaging in academic calculations on the size of the stocks: ‘everyone who works at sea can see what’s going on and that the scientists are wrong’;40 ‘contrary to the scientists, who go out at sea a couple of times a year, we follow activities at sea every day throughout the year – we know what we are doing.’41 There is the further perception that whatever the scientists say, the actual situation is the opposite: ‘there have never been such large amounts of accessible fish of exactly those species that the scientists can hardly find at all’;42 ‘never have the cod been so easy to catch, and never were there such large amounts of them.’43 At the same time as the scientists see a severe crisis looming, fishers see ‘bumps in the ocean of fish of all sizes’44 and ‘so much saithe that we can’t manage to keep the trawl net away from them’.45 Such comments are more a reflection of traditional distrust of scientific experts among fishers, and more generally, of urban experts set to tell them about conditions at sea. In my discussion on compliance in the Barents Sea fisheries,46 I observed that, contrary to what many would expect, both Russian and Norwegian fishers had a very high degree of trust, even a sense of ‘comradeship’, with the Coast Guard inspectors. This sense of comradeship can be illustrated by the following interview extracts: ‘it’s impossible to be a fisher and at the same time be against the Coast Guard’ (Norwegian fisher); ‘we have a good relationship, the inspectors are polite, we respect each other here at sea, we all have a hard job’ (Russian fisher). There appears to be a mutual respect among ‘those at sea’, for a sense of comradeship across functional roles based on traditional maritime values among fishers and others who have their

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occupation at sea. In contrast to the scientists, who only spend a week or two at sea every now and then, the Coast Guard inspectors work under the same conditions as the fishers themselves. What is more, they are not ‘academic wise guys’ claiming to have knowledge about the fish stocks that the fishers do not have. They all belong to the same ‘seafaring community’.47 Expressions of a common sense of fellowship are never far off when distrust in scientific estimations and scepticism towards urbane scientific experts are voiced.

The ‘pity-the-Russians discourse’ The gap between the Russian and Norwegian positions on the cod TAC in the Joint Fisheries Commission became evident for the first time in 1999, when scientists recommended a drastic reduction in the quota. The negotiations broke off for several days and talks resumed not until the evening before the parties were to leave for home. The Norwegian delegation agreed to set a quota that was far closer to the Russian position than the Norwegian one on condition that the following statement – extraordinary in such a context48 – be included in the protocol from the session: ‘The Norwegian party notes that the level of the cod quota is alarmingly high in consideration of available stock assessments and the recommendations of ICES. Taking into account the difficult conditions of the population of Northwestern Russia [. . .], Norway has nevertheless found it possible to enter into this agreement.’49 The keywords in this statement are ‘the difficult conditions of the population of Northwestern Russia’. The message is that Norway feels ‘compelled’ to go in for a quota far above the scientific recommendations for humanitarian purposes; a reduction in the quota would have meant too heavy a burden on an already distressed population. We find replicated here the predominating Norwegian discourse on Northwestern Russia during the 1990s, what I have chosen to call the ‘pitythe-Russians’ discourse. The essence of this discourse is that the population of Northwestern Russia is suffering from deep poverty and is in constant need of help from its wealthy neighbours in the West. In the early 1990s, the environmental problems of Northwestern Russia – the danger of nuclear radiation and the results of air pollution – were at the heart of Norwegian media interest and political initiatives towards Russia. The social problems of the area claimed greater attention from

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the mid-1990s. The portrayal of Northwest Russians as ‘needy’ culminated during the economic crisis in Russia in autumn 1998. Hordes of Nordic journalists descended on the Kola Peninsula in search of ‘disaster stories’. In the event, they found only a few old people in the countryside – Murmansk Oblast is one of the most heavily urbanized regions of Russia – who could give substance to their stories of people ‘on the verge of starvation’. Some shops did in fact run out of some types of food because people had started hoarding in early September. This does not mean that they were emptied, however. Moreover, even though there was reduced availability, the situation stabilized in the course of a few weeks. As in the rest of Russia, large segments of the population were experiencing serious wage arrears towards the end of the 1990s, and many were hit by the increase in prices after the rouble’s drop in value in mid-August 1998. Nevertheless, there were no signs of mass starvation in the Kola Peninsula. Even public institutions such as orphanages and hospitals continued to receive foodstuffs although they were not always able to pay for them. A particularly interesting point is the difference in which ‘the crisis in Northwestern Russia’ was perceived in Norway and Russia. The Norwegians designated it a catastrophe and called for immediate action. In Murmansk, however, the Scandinavian humanitarian aid had been given a jaundiced welcome for a long time by large segments of the population – such aid had been forthcoming long before the 1998 crisis. For most Russians, the mere fact of humanitarian aid coming from the outside is enormously humiliating. In the Murmansk regional administration, there were complaints about the quality of some of the donated commodities.50 Medicines and food had passed their sell-by dates; clothes and shoes were worn out and useless. Further, Norwegian concerns about hunger in Murmansk Oblast and plans to accept 50,000 refugees were given short shrift. This is what a journalist in Polyarnaya pravda wrote of a trip she made to Norway at the time: The well-worn phrase that ‘we feel sorry for Russia’ comes automatically, in particular when you’re assaulted with questions from those worried Norwegians. Every Russian-speaking person is apparently to be interrogated: is it true that there is hunger in your country? And then they go on to say that they have built refugee camps on the border for 50,000 people. Assurances that there is

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neither hunger nor prospects of any mass emigration do not deter the foreigners from sending us humanitarian aid.51 For most Russians, the idea of migrating to Norway sounds as ridiculous as it is incomprehensible. It should be mentioned, however, that Norwegian plans to house 50,000 Russians had been prepared several years ahead with a nuclear incident in the area in mind; this aspect was initially not mentioned either by the Norwegian or Russian media. In addition, however, Governor Yuri Yevdokimov was clearly engaged in some kind of duplicity: when in the Nordic countries, he humbly asked for humanitarian aid, describing the situation as catastrophic. At home, however, he said that Murmansk Oblast could cope on its own, implying thereby that foreigners who wanted to lend a hand were pretty naive: ‘There is no tragedy, there is no catastrophe in our region. There is no reason to expect 50,000 refugees on Norwegian territory. We can cope without their humanitarian aid. It only helps us to cope more quickly.’52 The image of starving and impoverished Northwest Russians continues to be a staple of Norwegian media and politics. During the winter 2001 – 2, the Norwegian Red Cross ran a television campaign to raise funds for soup stations in Northwestern Russia. ‘For only [a very small sum of money] a day, you can give a child in Northwestern Russia a portion of soup,’ announced Thorvald Stoltenberg on the television. Stoltenberg was Minister of Foreign Affairs when the Barents Euro-Arctic Region was established and was president of the Norwegian Red Cross at the time of the television campaign. He might be perfectly right in asserting that a meal of soup can be purchased for the given sum of money and that the Norwegian Red Cross has the infrastructure to serve this soup to children in Northwestern Russia. It is probably also correct that there are children in Murmansk who experience hunger, but the same can also be said about Oslo, London or New York. The point is that the Red Cross television campaign serves to reproduce a discourse which says that starvation is a normal thing for little children in Murmansk. In connection with an evaluation of media and competence projects financed by the Barents Euro-Arctic Region Programme,53 the author interviewed the leader of the Barents Press office in Murmansk, the aim of which is to further cooperation between journalists from the East

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and West in the Barents Euro-Arctic Region. She complained that Nordic journalists are only interested in writing ‘disaster stories’ about Northwestern Russia, and mentioned the Kursk incident, environmental degradation and social problems. On occasion, she had succeeded in attracting the interest of foreign journalists to other types of stories, but their editors back home cut the stories because they were not ‘saleable’. Put differently: those types of reports did not interlock with the prevailing discourse and might therefore not have been ‘understood’ by the Norwegian public. What the editors needed, was what people expected from Northwestern Russia, i.e. tragedies and calamities. Hence, the decision of the Norwegian delegation to the Joint Fisheries Commission in 1999 to comply with Russian demands not to reduce the quota significantly took place at a time when the impression of Northwestern Russia to be gained from the Norwegian media and politics was one of impoverishment and starvation. While I will not in this context speculate further as to the motives of the Norwegian delegation – obviously, it had to choose between two evils54 – it can be argued that the ‘pity-the-Russians discourse’ in the Norway society provided a ‘pretext’ for setting aside scientific opinion: ‘sorry, but the lives of small children are more important than sustainability of the cod stock.’ However, apart from the fact that the image of an impoverished population in Northwestern Russia is exaggerated beyond recognition, the ‘increase’ (or actually: the non-reduction) in the cod quota has not measurably benefited people in the area either. First, Murmansk Oblast is no social ‘disaster area’; it is one of the richest regions of the Russian North and one of the few subjects of the entire federation that is a net donor to the state budget. Second, the Barents Sea cod is one of the natural resources in the area from which society receives the least revenue since it is mainly delivered abroad. An ‘increase’ in the cod quota mainly serves to benefit the shipowners in Murmansk, i.e. to make the richest layer of the population even richer. The image of the ‘starving children’ went right home with the Norwegian public, and was probably also a ‘reality’ from the point of view of the Norwegian negotiators. The storyline saying that ‘the difficult circumstances of the Northwest Russian people necessitate a high cod quota’, renders possibly unsustainable management practices more defensible. The ‘pity-the-Russians’ discourse makes an otherwise unacceptable political solution legitimate.

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Conclusion The Norwegian discourse on fisheries management in the Barents Sea has been a very vocal rehearsal of the ‘sustainability chorus’. Whatever the issue, i.e. disregard for scientific opinion or stricter Norwegian enforcement in the Svalbard Zone, excuses have calmed ruffled feathers with the refrain ‘it’s still within sustainable limits’ and explanations evoked ‘the need for sustainability’. When the Norwegians started arguing in 1999 in the Joint Fisheries Commission that quotas must be cut, and that the issue was one of sustainability, Russian suspicion was aroused. The Russians generally think that cod stock indications are not really too bad, and that ICES reference points are consequently too high. The establishment of cod TACs is certainly not an issue of sustainability in their eyes, which is why they nurture suspicions of a hidden agenda behind the Norwegian stance. The dominant ‘Cold Peace discourse’ in Russia provides an arena for speculation. Seen through the lens of this discourse, states are ceaselessly at loggerheads over material resources, and it is always in one state’s interest to damage the interests of another (even without seeing any immediate gains oneself). In addition, the Russians have ‘observed’ that the West has been consciously trying throughout the 1990s to ruin Russia under the cover of ‘democratization’ and ‘economic restructuring’. The Norwegian ‘sustainability chorus’ is easily recognizable as a foil for defending Western national interests, whether in the form of maintaining high world market prices for cod or simply damaging Russia as a competitor. Storylines such as ‘every country defends its own interests with the means available to it’ and ‘Norway does everything it can to destroy the Russian fishing industry’ give sense to otherwise unclear motivations. At the same time, the ‘seafaring community discourse’ feeds on distrust on both sides of the border of the scientists’ pessimistic prognoses for the Barents Sea cod stock. The discourse portrays the science as fundamentally out of step with the experiences of the men at sea, fishers and other types of sea folk. Scientific language is viewed with disdain, and the ‘seafaring community discourse’ grabs any opportunity to exaggerate claims that the science is wrong. Its main objective is to underpin the notion that fishing should be left to the fishers; experts are not needed. Its most important consequence is to weaken the view from science that the Barents Sea cod stock is in danger

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of overfishing by inflating the margins of uncertainty that always accompany scientific prognoses. Its purpose, in other words, is to weaken the arguments of the ‘sustainability discourse’ and strengthen the conclusions (if not the arguments) of the ‘Cold Peace discourse’. At this point, divergent management views seem to have reached deadlock: the Norwegian ‘sustainability discourse’ and the Russian ‘Cold Peace discourse’ are based on incompatible premises. The ‘seafaring community discourse’ supports Russian argumentation, reducing, as it does so, the abilities of the Norwegians to win support. Then the ‘pitythe-Russians discourse’ offers a way out of the deadlock: the Norwegians are ready to give in on (unreal but probably sincerely felt) humanitarian grounds; the ‘difficult circumstances of the Northwest Russian people’ means that all good sustainability intentions must be dropped. The result is a type of management that, by definition, infringes the internationally recognized precautionary approach. So who is the winner in the fisheries management battle over the Barents Sea fish stocks? Norway or Russia? The ocean-going trawlers or the Norwegian coastal boats? The fishing industry or environmental conservationists? The issue of power is not at the heart of the discussion of this chapter. Its aim is to show how language practices influence politics, not to provide a complete answer to all questions related to redistributive outcomes and power relations. A few remarks in that area are nevertheless not out of place. At first glance, it might seem as if Russia ‘won’ the quota battle during the period 1999– 2001: the Barents Sea cod TACs were set at levels far closer to the Russian than to the Norwegian position. Likewise, it seems as if the arguments purveyed by the Norwegian ocean-going fleet have prevailed over those of the country’s coastal fleet and environmentalists. These might be correct conclusions, and the outcomes could possibly be explained by other approaches than discourse analysis (such as more traditional interest or power-related approaches). The point in this connection is that prevailing discourses in society provided ‘windows of opportunity’ for the given outcomes: the Russian ‘Cold Peace discourse’ made it possible for wealthy ship-owners in Murmansk – and Russian fisheries bureaucrats who, according to popular belief, get their piece of the quota revenue cake – to assert that Norway’s wish to reduce the quotas was nothing else than yet another Western attempt to take advantage of Russia’s disrupted economic situation. The ‘seafaring community

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discourse’, prevalent among fishers in both Norway and Russia, proved a useful assistant in this context. The Norwegian ‘pity-the-Russians discourse’ showed a way out of the deadlock, at the same time securing the interests of the Norwegian fishing industry and relieving Norwegian politicians and bureaucrats of difficult redistribution dilemmas. The Norwegian ‘sustainability discourse’ seems pretty futile in the quota settlement context, but it has probably secured Norwegian power interests in questions related to enforcement in the Svalbard Zone. After more than two decades of cautious and rather sensitive management of the zone, Norwegian enforcement policy took on a bolder face at the turn of the decade. The Norwegian – and more generally, Western – ‘sustainability discourse’ provided the arguments necessary to ensure at least internal support for this bolder approach and reduce Russian chances to gain external support in its dispute with Norway.

CHAPTER 3 EAST MEETS WEST: DELIBERATIONS ON THE ENVIRONMENT1

Introduction The study of environmental discourse is one in many ways of approaching the relationship between humans and the environment.2 It may not be the most prolific so far in terms of empirical richness or theoretical maturity, but it has gained considerable momentum during the last decade, drawing to a large extent on more comprehensive insights from other parts of the social sciences than those traditionally preoccupied with environmental politics. Discourse analysis has a particular focus on language and seeks to trace patterns of how a given object of study is talked and written about by different subjects. It is often a major goal of this approach to reveal the societal features, for instance values prevailing among a specific group of people at a given time, that produce particular verbal or written representations of reality. In the study of environmental politics, this often takes the form of tracing the context of this particular sector of policy; is the environmental discourse, for instance, embedded in other, and more general discourses in society? Further, the question is asked whether tendencies to talk (or write) about the environment in a specific way contribute to shaping actual policy choices. Management of natural resources and the environment has in recent years become one the most important institutional interfaces between East and West in the European Arctic. This is commonly held to be the

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result of increased awareness of environmental issues in general as well as the obstructive environmental legacy of the Soviet Union becoming ever more apparent towards the end of the 1980s. Russia has, on the one hand, displayed an increasing willingness to participate in international cooperative arrangements on management of natural resources and the environment. On the other hand, the Russians, due to financial constraints, have been ‘forced’ to accept foreign assistance to clean up their environmental disasters to an extent that was unthinkable only a little more than a decade ago. The main theme of this chapter is how these interfaces or linkages between Russia and the West in the environmental sphere are spoken and written about in Russia and Norway, respectively. Are there any differences between the predominant discourses on these issues in the Russian and Western part of the European Arctic? How are environmental discourses embedded in more overarching discourses in society in Russia and Norway? Management of marine living resources, nuclear safety and industrial pollution are used as case studies. The main objective of the chapter is to ‘extract’ explanation value from discourse analysis, not to evaluate this perspective against other theoretical approaches or provide an allembracing list of explanatory factors that could be derived from alternative approaches. Methodologically, the chapter builds on (participant) observation by the author during the 1990s, numerous interviews with scientists and civil servants in Russia and Norway during the period 1994–2002, as well as reviews of Russian and Norwegian media, particularly in the period 1999–2002. (See previous chapter for details.) The chapter starts out with a brief overview of how discourse analysis has been employed in the study of environmental affairs, before a survey is made of environmental problems in the European Arctic. Then follow summaries of the three case studies, focusing on the genealogy of each cluster of discourses. The chapter continues to discuss how knowledge brokerage and the employment of storylines and metaphors affect discourses, and how environmental discourses are embedded in more general discourses in society.

The Study of Environmental Discourse Discourse analysis has increasingly been used to study relationships between humans and the environment and natural resources. In her

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study on the formation of the global ozone regime, Litfin focuses particularly on the relationship between science and politics.3 She claims that, contrary to the belief in a sharp dividing line between science and politics, political arguments are often formulated in scientific terms. Questions about values are phrased as questions about facts. Facts, in turn, have to be expressed in language and are subjected to interpretation. ‘Facts’ are then chosen selectively by knowledge brokers – typically operating at low or middle levels of governments or international organizations – depending on their particular interests and audience. Knowledge brokers function as mediators between the original producers of the scientific knowledge and the political actors who use that knowledge and hence represent a substantial source of political power, especially under conditions of scientific uncertainty so typical of environmental problems. Hajer argues that people draw on simplified representations of ‘reality’ rather than complex systems of knowledge in creating a cognitive comprehension of a subject matter.4 A main concept in this respect is that of storylines: ‘a generative sort of narrative that allows actors to draw upon various discursive categories to give meaning to specific physical or social phenomena’.5 A storyline catches certain aspects of a problem complex in a simple and understandable manner. Finding the appropriate storyline hence becomes an important mechanism of political agency. Dryzek gives an overview of major environmental discourses throughout the last century.6 He is more oriented towards categorization of the main arguments within the various discourses than, like Litfin and Hajer, towards meticulous case-study description of empirical events and embedding his discussion in larger theoretical frameworks. Most importantly, Dryzek contrasts environmental discourse, i.e. environmentally oriented discourse, with the long-dominant discourse of industrial society, which he calls industrialism. Industrialism is characterized by a general commitment to economic growth and increase in the material well-being of a society and its inhabitants. In this chapter, I explore how, in Litfin’s words,7 discourses ‘define the range of policy options’ in environmental management. I draw on the theoretical perspectives of the three authors reviewed above, focusing on how scientific knowledge is brokered and storylines are established, and on how discourses can be classified as either environmental or

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industrial. Further, I focus on the embeddedness of environmental discourses in more overarching discourses in society.8 It is to be assumed that environmental issuess are perceived, talked and written about in familiar categories by subjects both in Russia and Norway, and I will explore how well-established discourses in society are activated in new thematic areas.

Environmental Issues in the European Arctic If we were asked to characterize the eastern part of the European Arctic in one or two phrases, we would have to highlight its extremely bountiful natural resources but also grave environmental problems, particularly in the Russian part of the region. The area owes the existence of its human settlements largely to the extraction of natural resources. In the southern parts of the region, mainly in Sweden and Finland and Arkhangelsk Oblast of the Russian Federation, forestry has for centuries constituted the foundation for life. In the more barren Murmansk Oblast in Russia, which geographically corresponds to the Kola Peninsula, fisheries and mining provided the industrial starting point for the buildup of large human settlements after World War I, rendering the region the most densely populated area of the Circumpolar Arctic during the last half of the twentieth century. The fishing grounds of the adjacent Barents Sea are among the most productive in the world, and the mineral deposits of the Kola Peninsula, mainly iron ore, nickel and apatite, are remarkable for their richness. From the 1920s onwards, massive fishing fleets were built up in the region and, at the time of the break-up of the Soviet Union, Murmansk had the largest fish-processing factory of the entire Union. Town names such as Nikel and Apatity, for their part, indicate the importance of the mining and metallurgical complex of the region. However, the extraction of natural resources and the accompanying military build-up have taken place at the expense of the environment. Since the late 1980s, Northwestern Russia has become more renowned for its environmental degradation than for its abundant resources. Ever since Western journalists gradually gained easier access to this heavily militarized region from the mid-1980s, the black tree stumps of the dying forests around Nikel and Monchegorsk came for many in the West to symbolize the calamitous state of the environment in Russia. The

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nickel smelters of these two towns had virtually killed off the forests surrounding them and represented sources of pollution also for the neighbouring Nordic countries and other parts of Russia.9 ‘Stop the death clouds!’ was the slogan of environmental organizations in the Nordic countries in the early 1990s. The Nordic countries planned enormous assistance programmes to clean up production processes in the mining and metallurgical complex of Northwestern Russia, but it was only in 2001 that an agreement on the modernization of the Pechenganickel smelter was concluded between Norway and Russia. Financial hardships have forced the factories to reduce their activities in recent years, but Russian air pollution is still alarmingly high in the European Arctic. Throughout the 1990s, another environmental threat in the region upstaged air pollution as a focus of public concern, namely the danger of radiation from nuclear installations, discarded nuclear vessels, radioactive waste and spent nuclear fuel. The fire on board the Russian Northern Fleet’s nuclear submarine Komsomolets and subsequent sinking of the vessel south-west of Bear Island in the Barents Sea in April 1989 was a rude awakening for the European public to the danger of nuclear radiation from nuclear-powered vessels stationed in Northwestern Russia. Towards the end of 1990, rumours emerged that the Soviet Union had dumped radioactive material in the Barents and Kara Seas.10 The rumours were officially confirmed in a Russian parliamentary report a few years later.11 A major problem in the latter half of the 1990s was the build-up of radioactive waste and spent nuclear fuel in Northwestern Russia. Existing storage facilities were full, and no safe vehicles were available to transport the radioactive material out of the region for reprocessing or permanent storage. Moreover, financial problems forced the Northern Fleet to decommission large quantities of nuclear-powered vessels in recent years.12 Rumours also circulate about unsafe functioning of vessels still in service.13 The Kursk accident in August 2000, albeit mainly a human tragedy, was a reminder of the potential dangers to the environment of the Northern Fleet’s nuclearpowered vessels. Although radiation levels in the region are low at present, there are hazards associated with unsatisfactory storage of radioactive waste, decommissioned nuclear submarines awaiting dismantling and the continued operation of unsafe nuclear power installations, notably the Kola nuclear power plant at Polyarnye Zori.

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Finally, signs of resource depletion have recently become evident in the region, most notably in the Barents Sea fisheries. These fisheries, managed bilaterally by Russia and Norway since the mid-1970s, had for many years been seen as a management success.14 At the turn of the millennium, however, the Northeast Arctic cod stock, by far the commercially most important species in the area, appears to be in severe crisis. Some would have it that the situation is similar for the management system itself due to the dire state of its main object of regulation. There are indeed reasons for such an allegation: scientists are uncertain as to the size of the stock; managers do not follow the advice of the scientists in the establishment of quotas; and the enforcement system, at least on the Russian side, seems inadequate to keep track of actual catch levels and avoid fishing of juvenile specimens.

Defining Major Discourses Discourses on marine living resources The management of the Barents Sea fish stocks is a bilateral responsibility shared by Russia and Norway. Since the mid-1970s, the Joint Russian– Norwegian Fisheries Commission (referred to in the following as the Joint Fisheries Commission) has established total allowable catches (TACs) for the three joint stocks in the area: cod, haddock and capelin. Of these, cod is by far the commercially most important. Towards the end of the 1990s, the cod stock was declining at an alarming pace. At the same time, the internationally acknowledged precautionary principle – which says that lack of scientific certainty should not be used as a reason not to undertake management measures that could prevent degradation – was formally accepted by the scientific community in the International Council for the Exploration of the Sea (ICES) and the Joint Fisheries Commission. The marine scientists recommended drastic reductions in the Barents Sea cod quota, but the Joint Fisheries Commission annually established quotas far above these recommendations. The Russian party to the Commission strongly opposed the need for implementing quota reductions. The Norwegian party generally supported the scientific recommendations although opinions varied within the Norwegian fishing industry. Four major discourses pertaining to the Barents Sea fisheries management can be singled out: the ‘sustainability discourse’ and the

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‘pity-the-Russians discourse’ on the Norwegian side, the ‘Cold Peace discourse’ in Russia, and the ‘seafaring community discourse’, which is found on both sides. The Norwegian discourse on fisheries management in the Barents Sea has been a very vocal rehearsal of the ‘sustainability chorus’. Whatever the issue, i.e. disregard for scientific opinion or stricter Norwegian enforcement procedures, excuses such as ‘it’s still within sustainable limits’ have calmed ruffled feathers and explanations have evoked ‘the need for sustainability’. As expressed by the Norwegian Minister of Fisheries in autumn 2001: ‘This is sustainable politics. The Labour Party [. . .] has consideration for both society and biology – in line with the precautionary principle.’15 After a change in government, the new conservative Minister of Fisheries followed up a few months later: ‘That next year’s cod quota is above the recommendations from ICES does not mean that it’s necessarily unsustainable. There is still no danger for the cod stock.’16 When the Norwegians started arguing in 1999 in the Joint Fisheries Commission that quotas needed to be cut, and that the concern was one of sustainability, Russian suspicions were aroused. The Russians generally think that cod stock indications are not too bad, and that ICES quota recommendations are consequently too low. The establishment of cod TACs is certainly not a matter of sustainability in their eyes, which is why they suspect a hidden agenda in the Norwegian stance. The dominant ‘Cold Peace discourse’ in Russia provides an arena for speculation.17 Seen through the lens of this discourse, states are ceaselessly at loggerheads over material resources, and it is always in one state’s interest to damage the interests of another (even when no immediate gains for oneself are apparent). Storylines such as ‘every country defends its own interests with the means available to it’, ‘Norway does everything it can to destroy the Russian fishing industry’ and ‘of course, it’s in Norway’s interest to ruin Russia; this is simple economic theory’ are produced to give sense to otherwise unclear motivations.18 At the same time, the ‘seafaring community discourse’ feeds on distrust on both sides of the border of the scientists’ pessimistic prognoses for the Barents Sea cod stock. The discourse portrays the science as fundamentally out of step with the experiences of the men at sea, fishers and other types of sea folk. As expressed by a Russian fisher: ‘Contrary to the scientists, who go out at sea a couple of times a year, we

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follow activities at sea every day throughout the year. We know what we are doing!’19 For typical ‘seafaring community’ presentations of scientists and bureaucrats by Norwegian fishers, see, e.g., Fiskeribladet December 2001,20 where bureaucrats are criticized for only seeing the world ‘from their nice offices in Oslo’, and Fiskeribladet September 2001,21 where the Norwegian Minister of Fisheries is said to have visited the fishing fields ‘in patent-leather shoes’. Scientific language is viewed with disdain, and the ‘seafaring community discourse’ seizes any opportunity to put out claims that the science is wrong. Its main objective is to give credence to the notion that fishing should be left to the fishers; experts are not needed. Its most important consequence is to weaken the scientific view that the Barents Sea cod stock is in danger of overfishing by inflating the margins of uncertainty that always accompany scientific prognoses. Its purpose, in other words, is to weaken ‘sustainability discourse’ arguments and strengthen the conclusions (if not the arguments) in the ‘Cold Peace discourse’. Divergent views on how to manage the fishery seem to have reached deadlock: the Norwegian ‘sustainability discourse’ and the Russian ‘Cold Peace discourse’ are based on incompatible premises. The ‘seafaring community discourse’ supports Russian argumentation, reducing, as it does so, the chances of the Norwegians to win support. The ‘pitythe-Russians discourse’ – feeding on the Norwegian perception of Russians as ‘poor’ – offers a way out of the deadlock: Only after a breakdown in negotiations lasting several days did the Joint Fisheries Commission agree on a TAC almost four times higher than the scientific recommendations. While the Russians propagated a TAC at this level or higher, Norway eventually agreed to this only when the following statement was included in the protocol from the session: The Norwegian party notes that the level of the cod quota is alarmingly high in consideration of available stock assessments and the recommendations of ICES. Taking into account the difficult conditions of the population of Northwestern Russia [. . .], Norway has nevertheless found it possible to enter into this agreement.22 We find replicated here the predominant Norwegian discourse on Northwestern Russia during the 1990s. The essence is that the

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population of Northwestern Russia is suffering from deep poverty and is in constant need of help from its wealthy neighbours in the West. In the early 1990s, the environmental problems of Northwestern Russia – the danger of nuclear radiation and the results of air pollution (see below) – were at the heart of Norwegian media interest and political initiatives towards Russia. The social problems of the area claimed greater attention from the mid-1990s. The portrayal of Northwest Russians as ‘needy’ culminated during the economic crisis in Russia in autumn 1998. Hordes of Nordic journalists descended on the Kola Peninsula in search of ‘disaster stories’. In this case, the ‘non-reduction’ in the cod quota primarily served to make wealthy ship-owners even wealthier, not to help the poorer layers of the Northwest Russian population. The result is a type of management which, by definition, flouts the internationally recognized precautionary approach.

Discourses on nuclear safety Radioactive pollution in Russia and Eastern and Central Europe has been designated one of the major environmental and security policy challenges in the European Arctic region in the post-Cold War period. There is widespread nuclear activity in the area, both civilian and military, particularly in Northwestern Russia. Hazards stem from unsatisfactory storage of large quantities of radioactive waste, decommissioned nuclear submarines awaiting dismantling, and the continued operation of unsafe nuclear power plants. Extensive Western efforts, in particular from Norway and the US, have aimed at reducing the threat of the potential spread of radioactive pollution from Northwestern Russia since the early 1990s. Five major discourses can be defined: the ‘nuclear disaster discourse’ and the ‘Barents euphoria discourse’ on the Norwegian side, the ‘nuclear complex discourse’ and the ‘Cold Peace discourse’ on the Russian side, and the ‘environmental blackmail discourse’, which has emerged in various forms on both sides. A Norwegian Plan of Action for nuclear safety in Northwestern Russia (assigned some NOK 500 million by 2000) was established in 1995. It was conceived at a time of optimism concerning the possibilities of solving the environmental problems of the area. The key word in the ‘Barents euphoria discourse’ was infrastructure. It was believed to be the practical remedy necessary to clean up the European Arctic, a prime political objective of Western

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governments from the early 1990s. And putting infrastructure in place required investing in numerous assistance programmes. The Barents Euro-Arctic Region (BEAR) cooperation effort between Norway, Sweden, Finland and Russia was established in 1993 and includes cooperation in a range of functional areas, mainly at the regional level, but environmental issues are supposed to permeate the regime as a whole. The general sense of optimism surrounding the BEAR initiative facilitated the launching of the Plan of Action, as did the ‘nuclear disaster discourse’, hinging on the idea of a ‘ticking time bomb’ in Norway’s immediate vicinity to the east. Norwegian media and environmental NGOs, primarily the Bellona Foundation, have since the early 1990s presented the nuclear complex of the Kola Peninsula as a ‘ticking time bomb’. Apart from the nuclear power plant at Polyarnye Zori, there is, according to scientific information, only a very limited danger of nuclear contamination reaching Norwegian territory from sources in Northwestern Russia. Nevertheless, labelling the nuclear complex on the Kola Peninsula as a ‘ticking time bomb’ leaves people with the impression that Lepse (the nuclear-powered icebreaker fleet’s old storage vessel for damaged radioactive fuel), the radioactive waste and submarines awaiting dismantlement are indeed a threat to health and environment in Norway. This helps explain why the Norwegian parliamentarians, in establishing the Plan of Action, were so eager to be seen to be ‘doing something’ about the Kola nuclear complex in the early 1990s. The complex was ‘talked about’ as a threat. The politicians had an opportunity to show that they could respond with determined action by assigning large sums of money to the elimination of that ‘threat’. The contaminated storage vessel Lepse became a symbol of man-made nuclear pollution and the flagship project of the Norwegian Plan of Action, admittedly a ‘constructed nuclear threat’ as far as the danger to Norway was concerned: ‘It wouldn’t have been a problem for us [in Norway] if Lepse had sunk in Murmansk harbour. This is a local problem, but Lepse became a focal case for Norway’.23 Cf. also the interview with Norwegian researcher Edvard Stang in Aftenposten, January 1996, where he refers to the Lepse as a ‘constructed nuclear threat’.24 The Norwegian ‘nuclear disaster discourse’ clashes fundamentally with the prevalent Russian ‘nuclear complex discourse’ whose main assumption is that issues of nuclear safety should be left to the experts, not charlatans, environmental fanatics or the general public: ‘I don’t

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understand all this Norwegian fuss about our nuclear complex. There’s nothing to worry about. Our experts know what they are doing’.25 An officer at the Murmansk department of the Bellona Foundation tells about his first meeting with the organization: ‘when they first came to Murmansk in 1991 –2, with offensive slogans on large banners displayed on their ship, as a Russian citizen I experienced this extremely negatively. It was such maximization (maksimalizm)’.26 Russians thinking in terms of the ‘nuclear complex discourse’ tend to perceive many of the Norwegian assumptions and initiatives as hysterical and offensive. [The joint scientific expeditions to the Barents and Kara Seas were] necessary for the Norwegians. Our experts knew that the ocean was clean, that the sites had been carefully selected for dumping, and that the surrounding ocean area was continuously monitored. But that was not enough for the Norwegians.27 They also show little understanding of the wish of Norwegian project managers to take part in the projects, viewing them instead primarily as donors. We have so many problems with the donors. They don’t see the full extent of things, but jump right to individual solutions. There has to be a vertical structure. The main problem is not on the Russian side. We have settled the problems we have had in our organization. With the donors, it’s much more difficult.28 Criticism of the Russian– Norwegian projects mounted around the turn of the century, eventually causing the Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs to admit that the Plan of Action had been largely unsuccessful: The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is strongly critical of how Norwegian nuclear safety projects – at a price of NOK 500 million so far – have been carried out in Russia. Few of the projects have been successful. Most of the 111 projects in the Plan of Action for nuclear safety [in Northwestern Russia] have, according to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, progressed in an unsatisfactory manner or had unsatisfactory results.29

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Several projects were also criticized by the Storting’s Standing Committee on Control and Constitutional Matters in its comments on the Auditor General’s Plan of Action evaluation in March 2002.30 This ‘inter-discursive transfer point’ took place a couple of years after a similar change had occurred in the ways the BEAR initiative was spoken of among politicians in Norway and society at large.31 A leading storyline regarding both initiatives was that ‘the Russians are taking advantage of us’, a statement typical of the ‘environmental blackmail discourse’.32 A typical presentation related to the Norwegian – Russian cooperation is the following extract from a feature article by the Norwegian researcher Edvard Stang: The Lepse is probably known to most people as ‘that heap of rust in Murmansk’. Large quantities of high-reactive nuclear waste is stored on board, and the vessel should never have been anchored in the harbour of a large city like Murmansk. As is known, more suitable military quay structures do exist in the Kola Peninsula. But the shipowner Atomflot has discovered there is much foreign currency to be had in inviting foreign experts, television teams, well-meaning environmental activists and parliamentarians to ‘inspect’ this constructed nuclear threat. The director of Atomflot gladly poses for Norwegian television cameras on Lepse’s deck, dressed in a camel hair coat and Italian silk ties: ‘Very, very bad. If you don’t help us, we will have a disaster here. Unfortunately, we have no money.’ There is no reason that Lepse should cost Norwegian tax payers a single penny as long as Atomflot is using the population of Murmansk as ‘disaster hostages’ in order to profit financially. Norway has nothing to win from giving in to Russian threats of a [pending] nuclear disaster. Norwegian authorities should long ago have informed the Russians that moving Lepse from the Murmansk harbour is a prerequisite for further Norwegian assistance.33 There was widespread disappointment at the Russians’ failure to keep their promise not to prolong the life of the Kola nuclear power plant, a precondition for Norwegian support. In 2000, the Russian Ministry of Atomic Energy decided to prolong the life of the plant, saying in justification that the Norwegian assistance to secure the facility had

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made such an extension possible. The decision led to a reduction in Norwegian assistance to the power plant. The Storting’s Standing Committee on Control and Constitutional Matters said in its response to the Auditor General’s evaluation of the Plan of Action that prolonging the life of the plant had led to an irreconcilable conflict of objectives.34 It was also critical of further Norwegian financing of measures at the plant before an agreement had been reached on its closure. Likewise, there was mounting concern when a treatment facility for liquid radioactive waste in Murmansk, financed by Norway and the US, was not finalized in time and cost considerably more than planned. In January 2001, the waste treatment facility was referred to as a ‘Norwegian nuclear crisis in Murmansk’ by the Norwegian newspaper Aftenposten.35 During our interviews for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ evaluation of the Plan of Action,36 several Russians involved in other Russian– Norwegian projects referred to the waste treatment facility project as ‘too golden’, indicating that the abundant flows of money diminished desires on the Russian side to finalize it. Accusations of ‘environmental blackmail’ were already widespread on the Russian side. Participants in the bilateral projects with Norway warned that other people on the Russian side were only interested in ‘milking’ the Norwegian public purse for as much as possible. The ‘Cold Peace discourse’ is found also in matters related to nuclear safety in the European Arctic, but is less prevalent than in the management of marine living resources in the Barents Sea. Primarily, this discourse serves to obscure Norwegian motivations in the eyes of many Russians: why should Norway spend large sums of money to help solve local nuclear safety problems in Northwestern Russia if the real objective is not somehow to destroy Russia?37 The closure of the Kola nuclear power plant, required by the Norwegian side, can also be viewed from this angle: such a closure would be a serious blow to the local population and regional economy, a situation which would – allegedly – serve to secure Norwegian interests (‘the loss of one state is always to the gain of other states’).

Discourses on industrial pollution The two nickel smelters on the Kola Peninsula – the Pechenganickel Combine at Zapolyarny/Nikel and the Severonickel Combine at Monchegorsk – emit large quantities of sulphur dioxide (SO2), causing

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considerable acid precipitation on the Kola Peninsula and in the neighbouring Nordic countries.38 Emissions decreased during the 1990s as the result of a general slump in industrial output, but that considerable areas around the smelter towns have been irreversibly damaged by the pollution is incontestable. While current emission levels are in accordance with Russia’s international obligations, industrial pollution from the Kola Peninsula nickel smelters is still considered by Western governments to be a major environmental challenge in the European Arctic. Large modernization projects have been planned for the smelters from the Nordic side since the mid-1980s. It was not until 2001 that agreement was reached between Norway and Russia on a project that will involve a 90 per cent reduction in emissions of SO2 and heavy metals, scheduled to be finalized in 2006–7. Two new discourses can be defined in this case study: the ‘death clouds discourse’ in Norway and the ‘anti-hysteria discourse’ in Russia. In addition, two of the discourses found in relation to nuclear safety were encountered also here: the ‘Barents euphoria discourse’ combined with the ‘sustainability discourse’ on the Nordic side, and the ‘environmental blackmail discourse’, found on both sides of the border. The issue of industrial pollution from the Kola Peninsula nickel smelters features, above all, in the interface of the Nordic ‘death clouds discourse’ and the Russian ‘anti-hysteria discourse’. The Kola Peninsula is, as far as the Nordic public is concerned, a catastrophe zone, a ‘moon landscape’, ‘nuclear war zone’ or ‘black desert’. The most famous metaphor is that of the ‘death clouds’, which can be ascribed to the citizen action campaign ‘Stop the Death Clouds from the Soviet Union’, founded in the late 1980s in Kirkenes, the Norwegian town closest to the Soviet/Russian border. Although Russians generally acknowledge that the nickel smelters cause considerable pollution, they tend to give it a lower place in their ‘hierarchy of problems’ than their Nordic neighbours. First, they emphasize that the Kola Peninsula is for the most part a pristine corner of the world, blessed with many natural assets and the purest water and second, they tend not to ‘go all hysterical’ about the pollution that does exist. They admit that it is a bad thing, but point to the fact that there are many other bad things in life and, moreover, new problems would be created if the smelters were forced to close down. The ‘Barents euphoria discourse’ of the early and mid-1990s – combined with the ‘sustainability discourse’ permeating the entire

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BEAR venture – resulted in something of a song and dance about ‘our common future’ and so on. In the proposed joint work on cultural matters for the period 1995– 7, for instance, the by far single largest project was devoted to environmental issues, ‘Environmental Challenges in the Barents Region – also a Question about Culture’. The project involved a variety of cultural activities, from exhibitions to puppet shows about people and the environment. In hindsight, the combining of environmental concerns with cultural activities seems rather contrived. It was, however, ‘the way one spoke around here’ in the early and mid-1990s. The euphoria eventually faded, but while the dancers and singers still dance and sing (the cultural cooperation has continued), it is no longer about the environment. The Russians have finally managed to devise a cleaning scheme for the Pechenganickel smelter that has convinced the Norwegians to pay out some of the money they had set aside for modernization purposes as early as 1990. However, the ‘environmental blackmail discourse’ had already taken hold in the mind of the Norwegian public, and the early enthusiasm for this grand environmental measure is now largely replaced by a nagging idea that the money will go to the stockholders of the nickel smelters, and that as well-running a company as Norilsk Nickel – the mother company of the two smelters on the Kola Peninsula – should be made to pay for its own modernization. As expressed in an editorial in a local newspaper in Finnmark, the Norwegian county bordering on Murmansk Oblast: We think it would have been more sensible to use the money on other environmental measures in the western parts of the Kola Peninsula. Prime Minister Jens Stoltenberg has been to Russia with a check of NOK 270 million. The money is meant to clean up the emissions from the nickel smelter. Several people are critical of the fact that the Norwegian government is giving these millions to a company that last year ran with a surplus of 28 billion NOK. The management of the Norilsk Nickel Combinate could pay a dividend of nearly 17 billion NOK to its limousinedriving stock holders. [. . .] What will now happen, is that the smelter’s life will be prolonged indefinitely, the owners are not willing to do anything about the pollution – even if the

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Norwegian million kroner gift is placed in an account in a Russian bank. Because that money can easily be spent on other initiatives, initiatives that have nothing to do with the environment.39

Brokering Scientific Knowledge Managing marine living resources, nuclear safety and industrial pollution are all ‘trans-scientific problems’, i.e. problems that require scientific knowledge, but cannot be solved by science alone.40 The application of scientific knowledge varies across the three case studies presented here. In nuclear safety and industrial pollution, science played a part primarily by confirming that there was indeed a problem, or, alternatively, that the problem in question was not as grave as anticipated. For instance, the scientific investigations carried out under the auspices of the Arctic Monitoring Assessment Programme confirmed the extent of forest-death, as well as less serious environmental degradation, as a consequence of the sulphur emissions from the nickel smelters on the Kola Peninsula.41 Likewise, several scientific projects under the Norwegian Plan of Action for nuclear safety in Northwestern Russia stated the current level of radiation at sites where radioactive waste or spent nuclear fuel was stored. On the other hand, joint Russian– Norwegian scientific expeditions to the Barents and Kara Seas to investigate radiation levels in areas where the Russians had dumped radioactive material, served to reassure those who had feared nuclear pollution in the marine environment. These scientific data were ‘brokered’ to some extent in the ensuing process: Norwegian and Russian authorities used data from the Barents and Kara Seas expeditions in their efforts to convince the market that Barents Sea fish was ‘clean’. It was further decided to leave the submerged material where it was (finding in the scientific data support for the view that costly efforts to raise the material were unnecessary). Data about industrial pollution were, for their part, ‘brokered’ by finding that the planned modernization of the Pechenganickel smelter was indeed justified. However, scientific studies were not really necessary in this case; everyone could see that large areas around the nickel smelters had suffered from the emissions. Moreover, the decisions to launch massive assistance programmes from Norway in both the nuclear safety and industrial pollution sectors can be explained more by other factors than

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scientific knowledge, cf. the discussion below on storylines and metaphors, as well as the embeddedness of discourses on the environment in more overarching discourses in society. The continuous production and interpretation of scientific knowledge is far more prevalent in the management of marine living resources in the Barents Sea. This follows from the nature of the problem: the Joint Fisheries Commission sets annual catch quotas on the basis of recommendations from the scientific organization ICES. It seems obvious that scientific knowledge – based here on something very close to complete agreement among scientists – was not crucial in determining the level of catch quotas; the TAC for Northeast Arctic cod was quite systematically set far above the scientific recommendations around the turn of the century. Moreover, the data were clearly ‘brokered’ by various interest groups in Norway and Russia and hence served to ignite both active and dormant discourses. For the Norwegian coastal fishing fleet, environmental NGOs and parts of the political left, the ICES recommendations were seen as implying that the trawler fleet was far too effective and probably also engaging in massive violations of the fishery regulations. This activated the critical variant of the ‘sustainability discourse’. For many fishers in both Russia and Norway, the pessimistic scientific assessments were simply ‘proof’ that marine science is totally out of sync with the actual situation at sea, cf. the assumptions of the ‘seafaring community discourse’. Likewise, large segments of the Northwest Russian population saw in ICES’s recommendations nothing but yet another indication that international organizations dominated by the West were ready to harm Russia, thus igniting the ‘Cold Peace discourse’. As in the cases of nuclear safety and industrial pollution, however, the effects of scientific knowledge on the management of the Barents Sea fish stocks seem to be closely linked to the embeddedness of case-specific discourses in more general discourses. Moreover, the embeddedness of discourses on marine living resources in other discourses propels conflicts of interest and diverging views on institutional arrangement on the basis of how the scientific knowledge is ‘brokered’. How scientific data are interpreted also affects how interests and institutional concerns are framed. The prevalent Russian ‘Cold Peace’ discourse, which views ICES recommendations as more or less dictated by powerful Western governments, also sees the ‘quota distribution game’ as a battle between the states involved, i.e. Norway

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and Russia. Consequently, the Joint Fisheries Commission is discredited as the major international institutional arrangement in the area’s fisheries management. In Norway, the placement of subjects in either the ‘official’ or ‘critical’ versions of the ‘sustainability discourse’42 as a result of how scientific data are brokered, also determines one’s views in questions of interests and institutions. Or the other way around.

Storylines and Metaphors Storylines and metaphors have quite similar functions in a discourse, catching certain aspects of a problem in a simple and understandable manner and establishing ‘the way one speaks around here’. In my case studies, metaphors proved to have a strong effect in areas of nuclear safety and industrial pollution. Calling the Kola Peninsula a ‘black desert’, the clouds drifting from Russia into Scandinavia ‘death clouds’ and the Northwest Russian nuclear complex a ‘ticking time bomb’ – largely the achievement of the media, NGOs and environmentallyoriented politicians – had a substantial effect on the general public in Norway and, in turn, its political establishment and government. Emerging in the late 1980s and the early 1990s, the ‘nuclear disaster discourse’ and the ‘death clouds discourse’, centring around the mentioned metaphors, were routinely reproduced as the established way of talking about the environment of the European Arctic. Other discourses, primarily the ‘environmental blackmail discourse’, have questioned the legitimacy of the Norwegian assistance schemes for Russia in the areas of nuclear safety and industrial pollution, but the premises of the ‘nuclear disaster discourse’ and the ‘death clouds discourse’ remained basically unquestioned – thanks, to a large extent, to the enormous effect of the ‘disaster metaphors’. As an example from the Russian side, the metaphor of the Kola Peninsula as a pristine corner of the world supposedly had the effect of tempering the feeling that ‘something needs to be done’, expressed by the Norwegians. Not all storylines mentioned above had an equally strong impact within the discourse in question, and not all the discourses were of equal importance in the discourse genealogy of the subject matter. Moreover, some of the storylines had a strong influence in their own right on the overall discourse, inaugurating new, offshoot discourses in the field in question. Others I selected as examples of prevailing storylines within a

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discourse, though not necessarily as the statements that introduced a new discourse or changed the direction of an established one. The best example of the former is probably the announcement that Norway ‘forced’ the Joint Fisheries Commission to make in 1999: ‘the difficult circumstances of the Northwest Russian people necessitate a high cod quota.’ The announcement initiated the ‘pity-the-Russians discourse’ in matters of fisheries management in the Barents Sea. Until then, quota establishment had been an issue of sustainable management or lack of the same (in Norway), and of a battle between two coastal states (from the Russian point of view). Suddenly, fish quotas became a question of solidarity with a ‘suffering’ neighbouring people. The image of Northwest Russians as poor and deprived was easy to identify with for people in Norway and made sense of an otherwise illegitimate management practice. Although there is good reason to believe that the non-reduction in the cod quotas primarily served to make Russian nouveaux riches even richer, the storyline activated an already wellestablished discourse in society in a new thematic area (fisheries management), and its premises were not even questioned. Examples of storylines whose first appearance I cannot ascertain, and hence evaluate the immediate effects of, are those referred to in the Russian ‘Cold Peace discourse’, e.g., ‘of course, it’s in Norway’s interest to ruin Russia; this is simple economic theory.’ I assume, nevertheless, that similar statements must have been made by various actors within the defined discourse coalitions which had the effect of ‘clarifying’ various phenomena – primarily the motivations of the Norwegians – that until then had remained incomprehensible for them. Somewhat differently, the storylines I referred to in the ‘nuclear complex discourse’ and the ‘anti-hysteria discourse’ – ‘our experts know what they are doing’ and ‘yes, we do have a pollution problem, but what good does it do going all hysterical?’ – reproduced a well-known narrative practice, i.e. gave meaning to what otherwise appeared as incomprehensible Norwegian ‘hysteria’.

Embeddedness and Discourse Classification Environmental discourses are embedded in more widespread social discourses. The examples above of knowledge brokerage and the effects of storylines and metaphors are mostly related to this embeddedness of

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discourses. Existing discourses are activated in new functional settings when knowledge is brokered or storylines or metaphors evoked. The best example is perhaps the clear embeddedness of the major Russian discourse on the Barents Sea fisheries management, the ‘Cold Peace discourse’, in a similar overarching discourse on relations between Russia and the West after the cessation of the Cold War. Another example is the incorporation, mentioned in the preceding section on the effect of metaphors and storylines, of the ‘pity-the-Russians discourse’ into the complex of discourses on marine living resources in the Barents Sea. Since the early 1990s, the Norwegians had been bombarded, by the media, politicians, NGOs and others, with stories of calamities and suffering in Northwestern Russia. The ‘pity-the-Russians discourse’ was there, ready to be activated in a new functional field. The influence of the general ‘Barents euphoria discourse’ on environmental discourses is more indirect; it developed parallel to the ‘nuclear disaster discourse’ and the ‘death clouds discourse’ and fuelled enthusiasm to help out the Northwest Russian population. Table 3.1 lists the main discourses as defined in the three case studies. Instead of Dryzek’s classification into ‘industrial’ and ‘environmental’ discourses, I use the terms ‘eco-centric’ (Dryzek’s ‘environmental’) and ‘techno-centric’ (Dryzek’s ‘industrial’)43 discourses (inspired by Benton & Short’s ‘ecological’ and ‘technological metadiscourse’).44 The overarching discourses in society are, hence, labelled ‘non-environmental’ (i.e. not primarily oriented towards matters of the environment), and those specifically directed at various aspects of environmental management are named ‘environmental’. As expected, eco-centric discourses predominate in the West; technocentric ones are mainly found on the Russian side. The ‘sustainability discourse’, with its emphasis on concepts such as ‘sustainable development’ and the ‘precautionary principle’, is the typical ecocentric discourse among those singled out in the three case studies. It resembles Dryzek’s archetypical sustainability discourse, which foresees imaginative attempts at solving the conflicts between environmental and economic concerns, but only in a reformist way.45 The ‘nuclear disaster discourse’ and ‘death clouds discourse’ are less based on a scientific or theoretical-principal fundament. They reflect more the ideas and values of eco-centric discourses in general. Probably, it would be more correct to understand them within the frame of what

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Table 3.1 Main Discourses on the Environment in the European Arctic during the 1990s Non† ‘Pity-the-Russians discourse’ (Norway/marine living environmental: resources) † ‘Cold Peace discourse’ (Russia/marine living resources) † ‘Barents euphoria discourse’ (Norway/nuclear safety and industrial pollution) † ‘Environmental blackmail discourse’ (Norway and Russia/ nuclear safety and industrial pollution) Environmental: Eco-centric discourses:

Techno-centric discourses:

† ‘Sustainability discourse’ † ‘Seafaring community (Norway/marine living discourse’ (Norway and resources and industrial Russia/marine living pollution) resources) † ‘Nuclear disaster discourse’ † ‘Nuclear complex discourse’ (Norway/nuclear safety) (Russia/nuclear safety) † ‘Death clouds discourse’ † ‘Anti-hysteria discourse’ (Norway/industrial (Russia/industrial pollution) pollution)

Dryzek calls ‘green radicalism’, seeking imaginative departures from the status quo in a radical way. The three Russian discourses grouped together under the heading ‘techno-centric discourses’ in Table 3.1 – the ‘seafaring community discourse’ (admittedly also found on the Norwegian side), the ‘nuclear complex discourse’ and the ‘anti-hysteria discourse’ – are all variations over the same theme. They reflect the typical Soviet-type belief in economic and social progress through the conquering of the natural environment, and a corresponding neglect of possible negative consequences of industrial activity. The fishing fleet, nickel smelters and the nuclear power plant on the Kola Peninsula are symbols of (Soviet) man’s conquest of the natural world, bringing food, electricity, employment and economic gain to the local community, the region and the Union (today: Motherland). The labelling of the three discourses as the ‘seafaring community discourse’, ‘nuclear complex discourse’ and ‘anti-hysteria discourse’ is somewhat haphazard, or at least dependent on the concrete and time-specific situation depicted here. One could easily

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have labelled all three of them variations over the ‘industrial complex discourse’. A ‘fisheries complex discourse’ is discernible within the somewhat wider ‘seafaring community discourse’, which also embraces ‘fish folk’ beliefs and values among Norwegian fishers and departs from the general ‘industrial complex discourse’ in its time-specific scepticism towards scientific knowledge. The ‘anti-hysteria discourse’ related to industrial pollution, in turn, resembles what could have been referred to as the ‘nickel complex discourse’. In order to retain certain nuances of the fisheries discourse (notably the ‘we know best’ argument and the sense of fellowship between Norwegian and Russian groups of fishers in this situation) and the discourse on industrial pollution (the lack of ‘hysteria’ compared to the Norwegian discourse), I have chosen to emphasize slightly different aspects of the three discourses. With a few modifications, however, they can all be regarded as variations of a more general ‘industry complex discourse’. Some of the Norwegian discourses are also variations of the same theme. Notably, the nuclear disaster discourse’ and the ‘death clouds discourse’, albeit here referred to as ‘environmental’ discourses due to their preoccupation with specific environmental matters (see Table 3.1), can be understood as slight modifications of a more encompassing ‘pitythe-Russians discourse’. Northwestern Russia has generally been spoken about in terms of calamities and suffering in Norwegian society since the late 1980s, and this has crystallized as the established way of talking also in matters of the environment. Interview data point to the fact that Norwegian journalists have difficulties selling other types of stories about the Kola Peninsula than those relating to the Kursk accident, the ‘ticking time bombs’ of the nuclear complex, environmental degradation and suffering communities.46 If the ‘industry complex discourse’ can encapsulate the most important aspect of Russian environmental discourse related to the European Arctic since the late 1980s, the prevailing discourse on the Norwegian side has been an overarching ‘pity-the-Russians discourse’, or, perhaps, rather: ‘pity-the-Russians (and-pity-us-who-live-so-close-to-them) discourse’.

Conclusion Can any lessons of a more general nature be extracted from the case studies? In addition to the theoretical remarks made in the preceding

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sections about the interconnectedness of knowledge brokerage, employment of storylines and metaphors and the embeddedness of discourses, a few words about the East–West interface in environmental affairs seem appropriate. First, and not very unexpectedly, the Russian discourse seems rooted in a techno-centric metadiscourse, and the Norwegian in an eco-centric metadiscourse – at least in their modes of talk. The Norwegians maintained an ear-splitting ‘sustainability chorus’ in the management of the Barents Sea fisheries, even after the quota for several years had been established at a level far above what scientists considered to be in accordance with the precautionary principle. In the BEAR collaboration, the ‘sustainability chorus’ permeated the entire venture with its constant chants of ‘sustainable development’ – even puppet theatres were given money to spread the good word. The Russians, for their part, seem mainly to act within an ‘industry complex discourse’, emphasizing the positive effects of the fishing fleet, nuclear complex and nickel smelters of the area. These are viewed as contributing primarily to development and wealth in the region, rather than to the degradation of the environment and health. Second, the leading discourses on the Norwegian side, at least within the areas of nuclear safety and industrial pollution, seem to be founded on ‘disaster metaphors’ more than on scientific facts and internationally acknowledged principles.47 The Norwegian ‘nuclear disaster discourse’ and ‘death clouds discourse’ clash fundamentally with the nuclear and nickel variants of the Russian ‘industry complex discourse’, which in turn puts a premium on expert opinion and scientific knowledge. The close links between ‘media hysteria’ and political action in Norway – politicians obviously have to ‘do something’ when demanded by public sentiment – lead to what from the Russian side must sometimes appear as ‘tabloid politics’. A few general remarks are in their place at this point. Some of the typical Norwegian ‘modes of talking’ about the environment are not so widespread in Russia. Techno-centric discourse, partly a relic of the past in the West, is still prevalent in Russia. Moreover, the ‘hysteria’ of Western ‘tabloid politics’ founded on ‘disaster metaphors’ is often not taken seriously by leading players in Russia – ‘this is an issue for our experts, not for the narod (people)!’ When Western politicians, nevertheless, steadily pursue politics filled with ‘sustainability slogans’ – the Murmansk-based newspaper Polyarnaya pravda once talked of

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‘fanatic democrats’ – or keep referring to the need to do something to ease the nervous narod, many Russians tend to become insecure about the real motivations of Western governments. This, in turn, activates familiar categories depicting the West as interested in little else than destroying Russia. The story of quota establishments in the Barents Sea from 1999 is telling: the establishment of cod TACs is certainly not an issue of sustainability in the eyes of the Russians, such actions simply fuel suspicions of a hidden agenda in the Norwegian stance. Likewise, the Russians consider the motives behind some of the projects under the Norwegian Plan of Action for nuclear safety in Northwestern Russia as distinctly unclear. In both cases, the dominant Russian ‘Cold Peace discourse’ provides ready answers: the Norwegians are affluent enough to abstain from fishing quotas only if doing so means dealing the final blow to the Russian fishing industry. Their ‘good neighbours’48 are ready to donate new infrastructure for the Kola nuclear power plant if the Russians only promise to shut down according to schedule and hence strangle a local community and the energy supplies for an entire region; the loss of one state is always to the benefit of other states. The aim of this chapter has been to investigate how the way we talk about the environment influences politics in the field, not to evaluate the results of these politics. Hence, I am not giving recommendations as to how the West should organize its relations with Russia in environmental policy – or the other way around. The Norwegian experience recounted here might, nevertheless, have some relevance for other Western governments involved in environmental cooperation with Russia. First and foremost, variants of the prevailing Norwegian eco-centric discourse do not always fit well with the Russian (techno-centric) ‘industry complex discourses’. What people in the West see as stirring metaphors and timely insistence on important principles, is often seen by the Russians as examples of environmental ‘hysteria’ and ‘fanaticism’. With the Russians so strongly positioned in the ‘Cold Peace discourse’ – or in a more timeless higher-order discourse whose main premise is that states are persistently in conflict with each other – Western motivations tend to be interpreted in the worst possible way. This tendency escalates further if Russians feel that Western motives are unclear or simply ‘too altruistic to be true’. On the other hand, one could speculate whether it would be easier for Russians to take advantage of Western goodwill – in line with the ‘environmental blackmail discourse’ – if they thought

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there was a fair chance that the ultimate Western goal – concealed behind smoke screens of good intentions – was nevertheless to ruin Russia. In that case, one recommendation for Western governments would hence be to make their intentions as explicit as possible for the Russians. Further, Western motives would need to be ‘translated’ into Russian preconceptions to enhance understanding. In particular, one should be aware that environmental ‘hysteria’, ‘euphoria’ and other forms of ‘fanatical democracy’ are not always easily ‘bought’ by the Russians; pure national self-interest is, however, a language understood by people situated in the state-centric metadiscourse. Western assistance to Russia should, perhaps, include introducing social sciences that depict international relations as more than ‘simple economic theory’.

PART III IMPLEMENTING INTERNATIONAL ENVIRONMENTAL AGREEMENTS IN THE RUSSIAN NORTH

CHAPTER 4 FROM AIR POLLUTION CONTROL TO NUCLEAR SAFETY: WHY IMPLEMENT?1

Introduction In the literature on international environmental agreements, processes at the domestic level are receiving increased attention.2 After an initial main focus on regime formation,3 the literature has in recent years come to be dominated by studies of regime effectiveness and the implementation, including processes at the domestic level, of provisions laid down by international regimes.4 Although there has been a certain amount of attention on the implementation of international environmental agreements in so-called transition economies, there has been little systematic study of such implementation processes in Russia. This chapter presents a review of case studies from fisheries management, nuclear safety and air pollution control in Northwestern Russia.5 This region is a good case in point since it, in many respects, represents a microcosm of the Russian Federation. Most important in this context, it epitomizes an ‘exaggerated’ version of Russia as a whole with its abundant natural resources and extremely grave environmental conditions. The chapter first provides a brief theoretical backdrop to the study of implementation of international environmental agreements, focusing in particular on the interface between the concepts of ‘implementation’, ‘compliance’ and ‘effectiveness’. An overview is next given of the environmental problems of Northwestern Russia and some of the most

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important international agreements aimed at their solution. Implementation performance and target compliance in fisheries management, nuclear safety and air pollution control is briefly reviewed before we give an account of implementation activities undertaken in the three case studies. Finally, the results are discussed in relation to our initial hypotheses. Methodologically, the investigation builds on numerous interviews with government and industry actors in Murmansk, Arkhangelsk and Moscow, mainly during the period 1997–2001.6

Implementation: The ‘What’s, ‘Why’s and ‘How’s What is implementation? Whether vague and declaratory or explicit and binding, international commitments generally imply some sort of behavioural changes at the national level, which will ideally lead to the fulfilment of those commitments. Domestic implementation refers to the steps undertaken nationally in order to induce these changes. This process includes the translation of international commitments into national legislation, as well as administrative and other measures adopted by relevant authorities in order to induce target groups to comply. It may also include activities undertaken by NGOs or the target groups themselves. List and Rittberger thus identify several levels of implementation activity.7 Transformation of international agreements into national law takes place at the national normative level. De facto implementation by state activity and by private actors, as well as state supervision and stimulation of private actors, takes place at the national factual level. Sometimes, domestic implementation is conceived of as a much narrower concept. For instance, Weiss and Jacobson take implementation to refer only to national legislative activities (i.e. the national normative level), while subsequent activities are understood in terms of compliance or non-compliance.8 This understanding of implementation renders the concept a stylized and rather dull thing to study. Moreover, while accords between states are necessarily concluded at the international level, implementation primarily takes place within the individual states, i.e. at the national and sub-national levels. Hence, we understand by implementation the measures undertaken at the national and sub-national levels to bring the behaviour of target groups into accordance with the particular state’s international commitments.

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We assume that national and sub-national authorities as well as NGOs and target groups can be involved in implementation activities. Moreover, we assume that implementation is sometimes carried out jointly by national groups and members of other states; this is referred to as joint implementation.9 The concept of implementation is intimately tied to that of effectiveness: if international commitments are not followed through at the national level, the agreement in question will have little effect, since the activities to be regulated are normally of a domestic character. The effectiveness of an international regime is often connected to either the achievements of the stated objectives of the regime or the solution of the problems that led to the establishment of the regime.10 Effectiveness is sometimes seen as primarily related to compliance. However, as suggested by e.g. Victor and colleagues,11 the degree of implementation may be a more trustworthy measure of effectiveness than the degree of compliance. In cases where commitments are less ambitious, states may achieve perfect compliance with the formal provisions of a given agreement with very little behavioural adaptation.12 Compliance may also be accidental, while implementation is by definition instrumental. In accordance with this view, we are interested in the active steps taken by authorities and other actors within the state in focus to bring the behaviour of target groups into line with the state’s international commitments. Compliance by target groups is considered relevant to the extent that it is believed to be the result of implementation efforts. The study does not pretend to say anything about the solution of the problems in question or other aspects of regime effectiveness. To a large extent, the development of concrete regulatory measures takes place at the interface between obligations following from international agreements and federal standards to be applied also in other parts of the Russian Federation. This makes it difficult to judge whether a particular measure emanates from the international regime or would have appeared through the national regulatory process independently of the state’s international obligations. Hence, we are more concerned with whether the necessary ‘implementation measures’ have actually been taken in the Russian Federation (focusing on implementation), than with the extent to which these measures are in effect the result of the international regime (which would have been an indicator of the regime’s effectiveness).

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Why study implementation? Implementation of international environmental regimes is, perhaps surprisingly, often a very difficult task. If our subject of study were, say, international cooperation in the field of disarmament, it might be argued that the process of attaining agreements would warrant more interest than their subsequent implementation, since the former could be expected to be the most difficult part of the process. Once an agreement on reducing, for example, the number of nuclear warheads is in place, the state in question will usually have little difficulty in carrying out that commitment – providing, of course, that it intends to honour the agreement. In contrast to this, recent studies indicate that failure on the part of states to implement environmental commitments is often unintentional, in the sense that it is a result of real and often unexpected difficulties encountered during the implementation process, rather than a conscious choice to refrain from implementation.13 Successful implementation of international commitments is contingent upon both the will and the ability of states to influence activities at the domestic level. Environmental problems are a sideeffect of legitimate activities, and environmental policies tend to penetrate deeply into other policy areas.14 Regulating the behaviour leading to, for example, pollution, often involves constraining the actions of many actors or groups of actors – from certain sectors of the economy down to the individual citizen. Moreover, precisely because of the ‘intrusive’ character of environmental politics, its implementation is seldom left to the environmental authorities alone. Just like the ‘problem’ activities, the regulative efforts typically involve many actors: environmental authorities as well as industrial ministries, along with agencies at the central, regional and local levels. Moreover, ‘the costs of environmental protection tend to be certain, immediate, and concentrated to specific sectors of the economy, while the benefits will appear, by comparison, to be diffuse, uncertain, collective, and something that can be harvested only in a more or less distant future’.15 Thus, successful implementation may be highly dependent on a given state’s capacity to govern, and on its ability to design policies to overcome such potential problems as the danger of vertical disintegration, whereby a vast number of micro-decisions lead to unexpected and contrary aggregate outcomes.

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Analysing implementation processes in post-communist states Weiss and Jacobson have specified a number of variables that are believed to affect the chances of successful implementation of international environmental agreements.16 The characteristics of the activity to be governed imply that some activities are of greater economic value to the state than others, that some are easier to monitor than others, and that the process of implementation has more side-effects related to some activities than to others. Another important issue is the nature of the agreement. What is the scope of the agreement – in other words, how much behavioural adaptation does it require by states? Are its provisions precise or general? Are they binding or non-binding? Moreover, a state’s implementation efforts are presumably affected by the encompassing international environment. Have other states taken action to implement the agreement in question? Is it possible to be a free rider under the accord? Finally, the social, cultural, political and economic characteristics of the implementing country are assumed to influence implementation and compliance. This chapter focuses on Russian implementation activities related to the international commitments outlined below. By implementation activities we understand the active steps initiated by Russian authorities, and presumably carried out in cooperative efforts between federal and regional authorities, target groups and other non-state actors (and sometimes also in cooperation with other states), in order to bring the behaviour of target groups in line with international commitments. Compliance with international agreements is here not seen as the most interesting thing in itself. One particular reason for this in the present context is the tendency of post-Communist states to show ‘compliance without implementation’, i.e. compliance is the result of reduced industry activity and not of active implementation measures.17 However, compliance is viewed as relevant to the extent that the observed behaviour of target groups can be causally linked to implementation activities. Therefore, an overview of target group compliance is presented in the discussion of implementation performance below as a basis for the discussion of how implementation measures have affected target groups’ behaviour. A point of departure for this chapter is the lesson drawn in previous studies that implementation failure is often unintentional; the result of difficulties encountered during the implementation process rather than a

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conscious choice by the state in question to refrain from implementation. This can be assumed to be the case for post-Communist states, although it is hard to say whether they would have had the necessary ‘will’ had the ‘capacity’ been in place. During the so-called transition period, these states have experienced devolution of power – lengthening the previous chain of implementation – weakened fiscal strength and control over target group activities, a slow legislative process, a tendency for sanctions to be ineffective and have only a brief history of independent enforcement agencies. Hence, this study has a particular focus on Russia’s ‘capacity to govern’. Here this is taken to mean capacity to initiate and coordinate the necessary organizational and policy-related measures necessary to bring the actions of target groups in accordance with the country’s international commitments. We ask – in line with the hypotheses of Weiss and Jacobson – to what extent the observed level of compliance in each case study can be explained by the nature of the problem and agreements at hand, and by the implementation activities of public authorities and target groups.18

What’s the Problem? The north-western part of the Russian Federation can be characterized as a region both blessed with extremely bountiful natural resources and, at the same time, bedevilled by grave environmental problems. The region, a northern periphery partly located north of the Arctic Circle, owes the existence of its human settlements largely to the presence of natural resources. In the southern parts of the region, mainly in today’s Arkhangelsk Oblast, forestry has for centuries constituted the foundation for life. In the more barren Murmansk Oblast, which geographically corresponds to the Kola Peninsula, fisheries and mining provided the industrial foundation for the creation of large human settlements after World War I, rendering the region the most densely populated area of the Circumpolar Arctic during the last half of the twentieth century. The fishing grounds of the adjacent Barents Sea are among the most productive in the world, and the mineral deposits of the Kola Peninsula, mainly iron ore, nickel and apatite, are remarkable for their richness. From the 1920s onwards, massive fishing fleets were built up in the region and, at the time of the break-up of the Soviet Union, Murmansk had the largest fish-processing plant in the entire Union.

Figure 4.1 Northwestern Russia Source: Fridtjof Nansen Institute

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Town names such as Nikel and Apatity, for their part, indicate the importance of the mining and metallurgical complex in the region. The extraction of natural resources and the accompanying military build-up have, however, taken place at the expense of environmental considerations. Throughout the last decade, Northwestern Russia has been more renowned for its environmental degradation than for its abundant resources. Since Western journalists were gradually given easier access to this heavily militarized region from the mid-1980s, the black tree stumps of the dying forests around Nikel and Monchegorsk have come to symbolize the sullen environmental state of Russia to many in the West. The nickel smelters of these two towns had virtually killed the forests surrounding them and served as sources of pollution also for the neighbouring Nordic countries and other parts of Russia. ‘Stop the death clouds!’ became the slogan of environmental organizations in the Nordic countries in the early 1990s. The Nordic countries had plans for gigantic assistance programmes to reduce the pollution spewing out of the production plants of the mining and metallurgical complex of Northwestern Russia, but nothing has come of these plans so far. Financial hardship has forced the plants to cut back on activities in recent years, though without affecting the alarming rate of air pollution in the European Arctic to any significant extent. Throughout the 1990s, another environmental threat in the region upstaged air pollution as a focus of public concern, namely the danger of radiation from nuclear installations, discarded nuclear vessels, radioactive waste and spent nuclear fuel. Towards the end of 1990, rumours emerged that the Soviet Union had been dumping radioactive material in the Barents and Kara Seas. The rumours were officially confirmed in a Russian parliamentary report a few years later.19 A major problem in the latter half of the 1990s was the build-up of radioactive waste and spent nuclear fuel in Northwestern Russia. Existing storage facilities were full, and there were no safe vehicles to transport the radioactive material out of the region for reprocessing or permanent storage. Moreover, financial constraints have forced the Northern Fleet to decommission large quantities of nuclear-powered vessels in recent years. Rumours are also circulating about the unsafe functioning of vessels still in service. The Kursk accident of August 2000, albeit mainly a human tragedy, functioned as a reminder of the potential dangers residing in the Northern Fleet’s nuclear-powered vessels, not least to the environment.

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Although radiation levels in the region are at present low, there are considerable risks connected with the unsatisfactory storage of radioactive waste, decommissioned nuclear submarines awaiting dismantling and the continued operation of unsafe nuclear power installations, notably the Kola Nuclear Power Plant at Polyarnye Zori. Finally, signs of resource depletion have recently been emerging in the Barents Sea fisheries. These fisheries, managed bilaterally by Russia and Norway since the mid-1970s, had for many years been seen as a management success. At the turn of the millennium, however, the Northeast Arctic cod stock, by far the most commercially important species in the area, appeared to be in severe crisis. Some would have it that the situation is similar for the management system itself due to the dire state of its main object of regulation. There are indeed reasons for such an allegation: scientists are uncertain as to the size of the stock; managers do not follow the advice of the scientists in the establishment of quotas; and the enforcement system, at least on the Russian side, seems poorly fit to keep track of actual catch levels and discourage fishing of juvenile specimens.

What’s to be Implemented? The environmental problems of Northwestern Russia are directly or indirectly addressed by a number of international treaties, agreements, regimes and other cooperative arrangements. Some of these are global instruments that happen to have implications for the particular problems of the region; others are specifically aimed at solving them. In some cases, specific arrangements are linked to more general instruments at the global level. Moreover, some are ‘hard’, legally binding arrangements and others ‘softer’ approaches of a more programmatic character. The major global instrument underlying systems for marine fisheries management throughout the world is the 1982 Law of the Sea Convention (LOSC), which entered into force 16 November 1994. Most important for fisheries management is the introduction of the principle of 200-mile exclusive economic zones (EEZ). This implies that coastal states are given sovereign rights for the purpose of exploring and exploiting, conserving and managing the natural resources in these zones. With the rights follows the obligation to secure reasonable

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exploration, exploitation, conservation and management of the resources. For instance, fish stocks are to be maintained at a level that can produce maximum sustainable yield (MSY), i.e. the level at which the greatest quantity of fish can be caught annually without the total size of the stock being reduced. Moreover, coastal states are required to promote the objective of optimum utilization of the living resources of its EEZ, and to establish total allowable catches (TACs) for each fish stock within its EEZ. Finally, coastal states are obliged to cooperate in the management of shared stocks.20 In the Barents Sea, both Norway and Russia established their EEZs in 1977. This led to a transition from multilateral negotiations for the Barents Sea fisheries under the auspices of the Northeast Atlantic Fisheries Commission (NEAFC) to bilateral negotiations between coastal states with sovereign rights to fish stocks. To formalize these mutual fishing rights and establish a common management regime suitable to secure the fish stocks of the area, Norway and the Soviet Union entered into several bilateral fishery cooperation agreements in the mid-1970s.21 The Norwegian – Russian management regime for the Barents Sea fish stocks defines objectives and practices for cooperative management between the two states within the fields of research and regulations, and, since 1993, also enforcement. The Joint Russian – Norwegian Fisheries Commission establishes TACs for the joint fish stocks. A Permanent Russian – Norwegian Committee for Management and Enforcement Cooperation within the Fisheries Sector administers enforcement cooperation and functions as a forum for discussion and clarifications between the parties in the periods between sessions in the Joint Commission. The threats of nuclear radiation emerge from several different sources in the region: dumped radioactive materials, decommissioned nuclear submarines, nuclear waste and spent nuclear fuel, as well as the unsafe functioning of nuclear installations. Hence, the handling of these various problem complexes is regulated by different instruments at different levels. The 1972 London Convention22 is the main instrument of the global dumping regime, banning the disposal at sea of hazardous waste, defined in terms of toxicity, persistence and tendency to bioaccumulate in marine organisms. Two regional instruments stand out as relevant for nuclear safety issues in Northwestern Russia: the AMEC and CTR programmes in connection with discarded nuclear submarines and

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storage of spent nuclear fuel and other nuclear wastes. The Declaration on Arctic Military Environmental Cooperation (AMEC)23 was signed in 1996 by Norway, the Russian Federation and the USA.24 Norway and the USA pledged their support in providing the Russians with technological and other assistance to help them de-fuel nuclear submarines removed from service, and to develop safe storage facilities for spent nuclear fuel and other nuclear wastes. In 1998, US authorities decided to link AMEC with the Nunn–Lugar Cooperative Threat Reduction Program.25 The CTR Program was created by the US Congress in 1991 as a mechanism to assist the Soviet Union in complying with its obligations of arms reductions with the START I Agreement, and hopefully also new commitments under START II. It has provided more than $2 billion to former Soviet states since 1991. One of the goals of the CTR Program was to scrap 30 Russian ballistic missile submarines by 2001. The Russians currently have the capacity to scrap only a handful of submarines per year, the major obstacle being the de-fueling process and dealing with the resulting waste and spent nuclear fuel. By linking AMEC and CTR, US authorities were able to provide a ready source of cash and indemnification from liability. Finally, various bilateral activities of a programmatic character exist in the field of nuclear safety between Russia and other countries. The most comprehensive bilateral cooperation programme is the one with Norway, organized under the Joint Russian – Norwegian Nuclear Safety Commission since 1998. By far the most important international instrument related to the air pollution of Northwestern Russia is the 1979 UN Economic Commission for Europe Convention on Long-range Transboundary Air Pollution (LRTAP).26 It addresses problems in Europe and North America concerning airborne pollutants, notably acid rain, and establishes a framework for coordinating pollution control measures and common emission standards.27 Five substantive protocols have been negotiated under the regime: on NOX;28 volatile organic compounds;29 sulfur;30 heavy metals;31 and persistent organic pollutants.32 The Soviet Union/Russian Federation has been an active partner in the LTRAP regime. Traditionally rather reserved towards cooperation with the West during the Cold War, in the late 1970s the Soviet Union was enthusiastic in its support of the LRTAP process, regarding it more in terms of ‘high politics’ than from an environmental point of view.33

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At present, Russia has ratified the Convention itself and the NOX Protocol and signed, but not ratified, the Sulfur Protocol.

Implementation Performance and Target Compliance Northwest Russian fisheries can, during the 1990s, be described in terms of three main features, each partly issuing from the others: the diffusion of management responsibility, the degeneration of implementation performance and the reduction in target compliance. Notably, Russian authorities were, towards the end of the 1990s, no longer able to perform effective monitoring and enforcement in the Russian EEZ in the Barents Sea. According to anecdotal evidence, this greatly increased the propensity of fishers to cheat.34 However, the indication of reduced performance implies that Russian authorities had previously scored better on implementation performance and target compliance. Indeed, the Soviet Union had a system for fisheries research, regulation and enforcement – not to mention the production plans of the command economy – which enabled the country to manage fisheries in its exclusive economic zone in accordance with the principle of maximum sustainable yields, to establish total allowable catches for each fish stock within the exclusive economic zone, to cooperate with other coastal states in the management of shared stocks, and to promote compliance with fishery regulations among all vessels under the Soviet flag.35 The extent to which the existence of this regulatory system reflects the determined implementation of international obligations is disputable; probably, the national system for fisheries management developed in parallel with Soviet adjustment to the country’s international fisheries obligations. Target compliance decreased during the 1990s, mainly as a result of changes in the targets’ incentive structure brought about by the end of the command economy; suddenly, it became profitable for Russian fishers to cheat. At the same time, bureaucratic controversies seriously reduced the management system’s ability to monitor and enforce regulations (see below). In comparison with fisheries management, the nuclear safety sector is more complex both with regard to issues to be covered and actors involved. Most of the Russian nuclear safety obligations date from the post-Soviet period and several of the same problems have been

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encountered in their implementation as with the fisheries obligations. In particular, bureaucratic controversies – notably between the ‘hard’ and ‘soft’ regulatory agencies at the federal level – have clearly hampered implementation. For instance, the 40-tonne casks commissioned under AMEC were not finalized in time due to disagreement between Minatom and Gosatomnadzor (see below) as to which had the right to license them. Moreover, foreign assistance has come to dominate the implementation game of Russia’s international nuclear safety commitments during the post-Soviet period. Some of the most serious problems encountered in the implementation can be ascribed to the interface between Russia and the Western donor states, i.e. problems related to indemnity against liability, access to nuclear sites, personnel immunity and tax exemptions. While there is at the moment some progress in the implementation of Russia’s international nuclear safety commitments, it is slow and fumbling. The productivity of Russian industry decreased to such an extent during the 1990s that the country’s LRTAP commitments were achieved without any evident effort. In accordance with the 30 per cent reduction target of the first Sulfur Protocol, SO2 emissions from European Russia had by 1993 decreased by more than 50 per cent from their 1980 level. Moreover, Russia was already in compliance with the second Sulfur Protocol when it was signed in 1994 and SO2 emissions from the Kola Peninsula smelters have continued to fall since then. As far as implementation in national legislation is concerned, the situation varies in the three case studies. The Federal Assembly of the Russian Federation has been working on a fisheries act since the early 1990s, but not yet succeeded in getting it in place. In nuclear safety, on the other hand, a rather well-elaborated set of legal acts at the level of law – some with explicit reference to the country’s international obligations – was set up during the 1990s. Russian air pollution control, for its part, is still regulated in accordance with a Soviet law from the early 1980s.

Implementation Activities More interesting than the extent to which Russian environmental obligations have been complied with or not concerns the steps Russian authorities have taken in order to induce such compliance by target

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groups. A brief summary is given in the following of implementation activities taking place in fisheries management, nuclear safety and air pollution control.

Fisheries management The implementation of the international fisheries obligations of the Soviet Union was the responsibility of the Soviet Ministry of Fisheries. In connection with the dissolution of the Soviet Union and establishment of the Russian Federation, the federal fisheries agency had its status reduced to that of a state committee. During the 1990s, the State Committee for Fisheries repeatedly had to fight off ‘intrusions’ from other federal bodies of governance. These attempts were only partly successful. On the one hand, the Committee succeeded in sustaining its status as an independent administrative body (except for the period 1997–8, when it was placed under the Ministry of Agriculture and Foodstuffs). On the other hand, it was compelled to relinquish responsibility for enforcement at sea to the Federal Border Service and to accept the introduction of a system of quota sales proposed by the Ministry of Economy. The federal agencies are only partly involved in implementation activities aimed directly at target groups; these are predominantly carried out by federal agencies in the region in cooperation with regional authorities. The most important federal agencies in the region are the enforcement body Murmanrybvod, the remnants of the former ‘industry complex’ of Sevryba and the newly established (1998) Murmansk State Inspection of the Arctic Regional Command of the Federal Border Service. While Sevryba has lost most of the powers it enjoyed in Soviet times as the ‘extended arm’ of the Ministry of Fisheries, it has not lost its role in the regulatory process altogether. Until recently, its general director led the TechnicalScientific Catch Council, which distributes quota shares among the federal subjects of the Northwestern Russia. Also, Sevryba has retained some management tasks related to the practical regulation of fishing activities. More than anything, important decisions related to the management of Northwest Russian fisheries seem to be made by a somewhat diffuse corporate leadership of the area’s ‘fishery complex’, consisting of representatives of regional authorities (a fisheries department was established under the regional administration in 1993), the various

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federal authorities located in the region, research institutes and target groups.36 Such a constellation is visible in the bodies responsible for quota allocation at the inter-regional and regional levels, for instance the Technical-Scientific Catch Council and the regional fishery councils, which distribute quotas between ship-owners in each federal subject. The main reason for the drop in target compliance in Northwest Russian fisheries in recent years – apart from the change in the fishers’ incentive structure – seems to be the negative consequences of the transfer of responsibility for enforcement at sea from Murmanrybvod to the Border Service. The latter so far has a poor record of presence at sea; for several months on end not a single enforcement vessel was present in the Russian zone of the Barents Sea. This, it is believed, allowed a massive subsequent catch of undersized fish to take place. However, despite this flaw in enforcement – admittedly a necessary link in the implementation chain – there is nevertheless a system in place that takes care of the new and specific obligations continuously emanating from various international agreements and cooperative regimes, mainly the bilateral Russian– Norwegian regime. In other words, there is a ‘capacity to govern’ in the Russian system for fisheries management although reorganizations forced upon the existing system from the outside have reduced this capacity.

Nuclear safety In the nuclear safety sector, the Ministry of Atomic Energy (Minatom) is the organizational heavyweight, responsible for the implementation of most of Russia’s international agreements in the field. To some extent, Minatom delegates the implementation of concrete projects to the socalled Inter-branch Coordination Centre Nuklid, which forms part of the ‘Minatom system’. In the military-environmental collaboration under AMEC, the Ministry of Defence is the responsible partner on the Russian side. The Federal Inspectorate for Nuclear and Radiation Safety (Gosatomnadzor) was established in 1991 to control and license activities related to the application of nuclear energy. This agency has also had an important role in the implementation of Russia’s international nuclear safety obligations. There is a limited measure of horizontal integration between the various federal agencies involved in the implementation process. There is also a rather high degree of tension between the ‘hard’ agencies of Minatom and Nuklid on the one hand and

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Gosatomnadzor on the other. The two former have gradually expanded their sphere of influence at the expense of the latter. Murmansk regional authorities have created a department for nuclear safety within their structure, but have seen their role as mainly to co-ordinate the various regional, national and, above all, international attempts at ensuring nuclear safety in the oblast. It has also had a certain ‘negative’ sway, halting projects planned by the federal authorities. The federal agencies located in the region are of less importance in the nuclear safety area than in fisheries management. Implementation failure or delay has mainly been caused by bureaucratic controversies at the federal level – primarily between Minatom/Nuklid and Gosatomnadzor – or by inadequacies in interstate agreements with foreign donors. As was the case in the fisheries management, Russia does have the ‘capacity to govern’ also in the sphere of nuclear safety, but new patterns of joint implementation with other states have created new challenges that so far have yet to be overcome.

Air pollution control Soviet implementation of the country’s international obligations related to air pollution control was ensured by an interdepartmental commission charged with overseeing such implementation as well as the incorporation of the requirements of the obligations in national industrial production plans. The interdepartmental commission was led by the State Committee for Hydrometeorology and Environmental Monitoring (Goskomgidromet) (presently the Federal Service of Hydrometeorology and Environmental Monitoring, or Rosgidromet). A State Committee for Environmental Protection was created in 1988 and elevated to ministerial status three years later. The responsibility for coordinating Soviet implementation of international air pollution control requirements was transferred from Goskomgidromet to the new State Committee once it was established. The old implementation system disintegrated through this reform because the new governmental structure was not given the political authority and financial muscle that the interdepartmental commission had previously enjoyed. The Ministry of Environmental Protection came under increasing pressure from other federal authorities in the mid-1990s. In 1996, its status was again reduced to that of a state committee and in 2000 it was disbanded

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altogether and its remnants incorporated into the Ministry of Natural Resources as a department for environmental protection. Unlike the cases of fisheries management and nuclear safety, the Murmansk regional administration has not established a department for environmental protection within its structure. Rather, the regional representation of the Department for Environmental Protection (under the Ministry of Natural Resources) functions as an implementing agency not only for federal head office in Moscow, but also for the regional administration. The regional administration determines environmental policies for the oblast by elaborating programmes, action plans and concrete regulations. Hence, although the Murmansk regional administration has established departments for fisheries management and nuclear safety, though not for environmental affairs, it is more active in regulative measures in the latter area than in the two former (where such measures are almost exclusively set out by federal authorities). Relations with the federal agencies in the region also differ in the three cases. In the fisheries management, relations have at times been quite confrontational while the most important decisions have continued to be made at the federal level. In the field of nuclear safety, the regional authorities have aimed only at a coordinative role, preferring not to contest seriously the authority of federal agencies. In the area of air pollution control and environmental management more generally, there has indeed been a certain devolution of powers to the regional level. However, the regional administration has not found it necessary to establish a department for environmental protection, but has continued its traditionally close cooperation with the regional environmental committee, which represents the federal authorities in the region. As the Soviet system for implementation of the country’s international environmental obligations (led by the interdepartmental commission) disintegrated, as the federal environmental agency gradually lost its authority, and as public authorities increasingly lost control of industry enterprises, the enterprises themselves became more important actors in the Russian implementation game. There is little evidence that the various managements of the Kola Peninsula smelters have been overly concerned with implementation of air pollution regimes. Hence, the case of Russia and the LRTAP regime is clearly one of ‘compliance without implementation’. The Russian commitments ‘implemented themselves’, rendering ‘implementation activities’ on the

Table 4.1 Most Important Actors in the Russian Implementation of International Commitments in Fisheries Management, Nuclear Safety and Air Pollution Control37 Fisheries Management Federal authorities

† †

Regional authorities † Federal agencies in the region

Target groups

Nuclear Safety

State Committee for Fisheries † Federal Border Service † † † † Fisheries departments at the † regional administrations

† Murmanrybvod † Murmansk State Inspection of the Arctic Regional Command of the Federal Border Service † (Sevryba) † Individual fishing companies

Air Pollution Control

† † †

Minatom Nuklid Ministry of Defence Gosatomnadzor Rosgidromet Nuclear safety department at the Murmansk regional administration Minatom Gosatomnadzor Rosgidromet

†

† † †

Northern Fleet † Murmansk Shipping Company † Kola Nuclear Power Plant

†

Department for Environmental Protection (Ministry of Natural Resources) Rosgidromet

†

Regional administrations (no specific departments for environmental protection) † Department for Environmental Protection (Ministry of Natural Resources) (‘regional environmental committees’) † Rosgidromet Pechenganickel Severonickel

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part of public authorities, target groups and others superfluous. The LRTAP regime contributed to certain behavioural changes domestically in the Soviet Union, mainly in planning, research and monitoring activities, but had little effect on actual emissions. It is also an open question to what extent Russian authorities during the 1990s would have been either capable or willing to actively contribute to the implementation of the country’s commitments under the LRTAP regime had emissions not been reduced to acceptable (according to the commitments) levels by exogenous factors. First, the federal environmental agency was seriously weakened during the 1990s, culminating in its total dissolution and the incorporation of its remnants under the Ministry of Natural Resources – a typical ‘user agency’ – in 2000. Second, the regional administration of Murmansk Oblast – although having significantly increased its political authority since Soviet times – would be expected to prioritize further industrial activity in the mono-industrial towns of the oblast (contributing both employment and considerable revenues for the regional budget) over environmental issues. Third, public authorities’ chance to influence the workings of private enterprises declined significantly during the 1990s. Finally – and partly related to the latter circumstance – it is doubtful whether the authorities’ compliance mechanisms (here: fines) are compelling enough to induce compliance among the nickel plants on the Kola Peninsula. In sum, while Russia can show a high degree of formal compliance with its LRTAP commitments in the 1990s, its record of implementation efforts during the same period is correspondingly poor. Table 4.1 gives an overview of the most important actors in the Russian implementation of international commitments in fisheries management, nuclear safety and air pollution control. The relative strength of the agencies at the various levels is discussed in the next section.

Discussion How have these political processes affected implementation? We observed above that an important lesson drawn from previous studies is that implementation failure is often unintentional, being the result of difficulties encountered during the implementation process rather than a conscious choice by the state not to implement the commitment in

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question. In the following, we systematically review our conclusions in relation to our hypotheses about how the nature of the problem, the nature of the international commitments, implementation in national legislation, implementation activities performed by public authorities and others have affected implementation in our cases.

Nature of the problem The problem areas within our three case studies can, on the one hand, all be characterized as relatively ‘malign’ in an implementation perspective: the fishery, nuclear and mining and metallurgical complexes are cornerstone activities in the Northwest Russian economy. In the hard economic climate of post-Soviet Russia, one would expect authorities to prioritize employment and tax revenues on the basis of continued resource extraction (as in the case of fisheries), risk behavior (as in the nuclear complex) and polluting activities (from the mining and metallurgical combines) over environmental and natural resource protection. This would clearly be assumed to reduce the potential for successful implementation of international commitments that restrict industrial activities or resource extraction. Further, public control over target groups has declined since the major enterprises in at least the fisheries and air polluting sectors have been privatized. On the other hand, the chances for monitoring target activity range from ‘relatively good’ in fisheries management to ‘very good’ in nuclear safety and air pollution control. The targets of the two latter are mostly stationary; and while fishing vessels, nuclear ice-breakers and submarines and surface vessels of the Northern Fleet admittedly move over a considerable ocean area, they are at least easier to control than a million cars. Moreover, the targets are themselves largely the main ‘losers’ if implementation fails – at least in the long-term perspective. Adding to the relative ‘benignity’ of the problem is the keen Western interest in solving the problems under scrutiny here. Clearly, the role of fisheries, nuclear power and industry production companies as cornerstone enterprises in the region has influenced the propensity of public authorities not to give priority to environmental and natural resource protection concerns. In the fisheries sector, this has been most obvious in the Russian positions vis-a`-vis various international negotiations. For instance, the Joint Russian –Norwegian Fisheries Commission from the late 1990s established cod quotas far

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above the scientific recommendations of ICES, mainly as a result of Russian pressure within the Commission. But despite the importance of fisheries to the Northwest Russian economy, it has not led to a determined effort to implement international obligations once they are established.38 Likewise, while authorities would probably have been reluctant to accept or implement international obligations that seriously impeded further industrial activity in the mono-industrial towns of the Kola Peninsula, it is hard to argue that this factor accounts for the problems found in the implementation of Russia’s international nuclear safety and air pollution control commitments in the north-western region of the country. However, the loss of control over fishing and air polluting companies as a result of the privatization of these enterprises seems to have hampered implementation, at least in the cases of fisheries management and air pollution control. Finally, the relatively good opportunities to monitor target group behaviour have improved the prospects of successful implementation, but cannot by themselves serve as a main explanation for the achieved implementation. In sum, factors related to the nature of the problems at hand can partly account for implementation performance, but hardly constitute any decisive element in this context.

Nature of the commitments The hypothesis on the varying influence of commitments on implementation performance is that agreements that are binding upon the signatories, contain precise obligations for the parties, and require a large degree of adjustment in the behaviour of target groups, are more difficult to implement than accords that are non-binding, vague and demand only minor or no efforts on the part of target groups. Of our case studies, air pollution control is the one in which the nature of the commitments can obviously explain much of the actual implementation efforts taking place, or more correctly, not taking place. As a result of reduced industrial activity, the commitments more or less fulfilled themselves. In nuclear safety, the situation is the opposite: the international accords are so demanding upon the Russian party – requiring restructuring of certain elements of the Northwest Russian nuclear power complex to a so-far unforeseen extent – that it can largely explain much of the trouble encountered in the implementation process. In both cases, the nature of the commitments proves an important explanatory factor in accounting for

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implementation success or failure. This is not the case in fisheries management. The commitments following from the bilateral Russian– Norwegian regime, reflecting the parties’ commitments in accordance with regional and global agreements, are binding, precise and generally require significant changes on the part of target groups. But even this does not account for implementation failure observable in the Barents Sea fisheries.

Implementation in national legislation Is the implementation of international commitments in national legislation (for implementation at the national normative level) a prerequisite for their further successful de facto implementation at the national level? The elaboration of a national, and, to some extent, also regional legislation at the level of law has been quite successful in the areas of nuclear safety and air pollution control. Russia does not yet have a law on fisheries although the Federal Assembly has been working on such a law for nearly a decade. Hence, the incorporation of international commitments in national legislation at the level of law does not seem to be a prerequisite for successful implementation of Russia’s international fisheries agreements.39 There is little reason to assume that the situation related to air pollution control would be much different had a law on environmental protection not been adopted in the early 1990s, i.e. that Russian authorities would have been able to pursue more or less the same air pollution policy as today in the absence of this law. It should also be observed that the existing law on air pollution is from the Soviet era. In nuclear safety, the situation might be a bit different, although this is mere speculation. One might at least imagine that public management of Russia’s vast nuclear complex – with the conflicting public agencies involved – would have proven more difficult had not a legal framework at the level of law been in place. Implementation by public authorities The lengthening of the previous chain of implementation has clearly been an obstacle to effective implementation in our case studies. Not only was Soviet implementation of the country’s international commitments ensured by the incorporation of these commitments into national production plans; the Soviet Union also possessed administrative systems in areas such as fisheries management, nuclear safety and air pollution control that were indeed ‘capable of governing’.

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When we claim the decreased implementation performance and target compliance in Northwest Russian fisheries in recent years to be the result of the disintegration of the previous enforcement system, this is clearly an example of ‘unintentional’ implementation failure. Rather than ‘Russia’ as a rational unitary actor deciding that ‘from this moment on we will no longer adhere to our international fisheries commitments and therefore dissolve the existing enforcement system’, the reorganization was partly the result of genuine suspicion on the part of the presidential administration that the existing fishery inspection was incapable of performing its tasks,40 and partly of more common bureaucratic battles over budget shares (which depend on areas of formal responsibility). The delays in the implementation of some of the international nuclear safety projects reflect intra-agency conflict between Minatom and Gosatomnadzor rather than an overarching Russian unwillingness to implement the projects. Likewise, some implementation processes in nuclear safety have reportedly been delayed by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs ‘displaying political strength’ to compensate for its lack of financial gain from international cooperation. We should also avoid the Western tendency to perceive the Russian ‘hard’ agencies as necessarily ‘the bad guys’ and the ‘soft’ ones as always ‘the good guys’. While there is ample evidence of Minatom attempting to curb the independent nuclear safety protection agency, it is possible at least to imagine that Gosatomnadzor may ‘be more meticulous than necessary’ in its licensing activities, thus hampering the implementation of Russia’s international agreements, in order to legitimize its own existence as an independent agency. Some would say that this is what happened when the 40-tonne cask developed under AMEC was denied a license.41 The point is that the devolution of power to new agencies – while being desirable either to ensure independent environmental control or to increase the influence of regional authorities or stakeholders – often involves the cost of lengthening the chain of implementation and hence reducing implementation effectiveness, at least in the short run. It should be observed in this context that delegation of power to the regional level has not hampered implementation. Quite the contrary, the coordinating role generally assumed by regional authorities in our case studies has evidently furthered rather than obstructed successful implementation. In sum, implementation efforts by public authorities at both the federal and regional level can generally explain the failure or success of

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the individual cases of implementation. On the negative side, most of the problems found in all our three case studies can be accounted for by the high level of conflict between federal agencies. On the positive side, much of the successful implementation activity that is taking place can be ascribed to the existence of pretty well-functioning systems for environmental and natural resource management (i.e. well-functioning as long as they are protected from interference from other bodies of governance). Moreover, the inclusion of regional authorities and federal agencies located in the regions in some of the implementation processes seems to have had a positive effect on implementation performance.

Implementation by others Participation by actors other than public authorities in the implementation process is sometimes believed to enhance chances of success. In particular, the participation of target groups, research communities and NGOs is assumed to bestow legitimacy on the process and increase the knowledge base for implementation. Participation by such other actors is generally limited to target groups in our case studies. In addition, scientific institutes are also to some extent included in implementation activities, mainly in fisheries management. Where participation by target groups and researchers is observed, primarily in fisheries management, but partly also in nuclear safety, it has contributed positively to those aspects of the implementation process that have proven effective. But, again, this has not been a decisive element in explaining implementation performance. An assessment of the explanatory power of the various factors we have reviewed in relation to implementation performance is given in Table 4.2. The nature of the problem seems to have had a moderate effect in explaining implementation performance in all three case studies. Most importantly, the fact that major target groups have been privatized during the 1990s has quite seriously hampered implementation. The nature of the commitments proved an important explanatory element in the areas of nuclear safety and air pollution control, but not in fisheries management. The air pollution control commitments constituted no real challenge for the Soviet Union/Russian Federation, while the nuclear safety accords require behavioural changes so far-reaching that, it may be argued, complete compliance should not be expected for some time yet. Based on the results in the fisheries sector, implementation of

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Table 4.2 Assessed Explanatory Power of Various Factors Related to Implementation42 3: high importance; 2: some importance; 1: little importance

Nature of the Problem Nature of the Commitments Implementation in National Legislation Implementation Activities by Public Authorities Implementation Activities by Others

Fisheries Management

Nuclear Safety

Air Pollution Control

(2) (1) (1)

(2) (3) (2)

(2) (3) (1)

(3)

(3)

(3)

(2)

(2)

(1)

international commitments in national legislation at the level of law is no prerequisite for further implementation activities. The performance of public authorities is a major explanation to implementation success or failure, while implementation activities of others, mainly target groups and partly also scientific communities, play a certain role. In sum, the implementation performance in the case of fisheries management can be explained mainly by both positive and negative elements in public authorities’ implementation efforts. In air pollution control, the nature of the commitments, i.e. the lack or very limited need of behavioural changes, is the main explanation of implementation performance. Finally, the picture is a bit more complex in the case of nuclear safety where all the factors reviewed have had a moderate or considerable effect on implementation performance.

Conclusion The break-up of the Soviet Union and establishment of a new Russian state in the early 1990s was accompanied by a green wave of environmental concern in the population and the reorganization of the state structure to incorporate independent agencies for environmental protection and monitoring. The State Committee for Environmental Protection, created in 1988, was elevated to the status of a ministry in 1991. An independent control agency for nuclear safety, Gosatomnadzor,

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was established the same year. A contrary trend followed in the second half of the decade: the federal agency for environmental protection lost its ministerial status in 1996 and its status as an independent agency four years later. Gosatomnadzor has so far maintained its independence, but has seen its powers and areas of responsibility constrained by Minatom. Similarly, the State Committee for Fisheries lost its independent status temporarily in 1997 and has since been under constant attack from other federal agencies, notably the Federal Border Service and the Ministry of Economy. Ironically, some of the present tensions at the federal level in Russia concerning the management of the environment and natural resources are the outcome of reorganizations encouraged by the West, partly even spurred by binding agreements with Western countries. Had Russia not established an independent agency for nuclear safety control, these tasks may very well have been performed successfully by Minatom and the difficulties encountered in the implementation of CTR and AMEC would not have occurred. If responsibility for fisheries enforcement at sea had not been transferred to the Federal Border Service – a reorganization completely in line with the ‘Western’ view that such control should be performed by agencies with limited affiliation with their target groups – our Barents Sea fisheries case study might very well have had excellent implementation performance and target compliance. While we do not intend to imply that Gosatomnadzor should not have been established – or that the transfer of enforcement powers to the Federal Border Service was necessarily a mistake in a long-term perspective – we would like to repeat that Russia in some areas of the management of the environment and natural resources has a considerable ‘capacity to govern’ as part of its Soviet heritage. This is particularly obvious in the management of fisheries. Hence, while the general climate surrounding the protection of the environment and natural resources is not very promising in Russia at the turn of the millennium, our case studies have also revealed patterns of governance at the regional, federal and international level that do not bode too badly for the future. First, there is the established ‘capacity to govern’, often overlooked by well-meaning Westerners loaded with good intentions to ‘teach the Russians’. Lack of knowledge of existing structures of governance in Russia might well lead to the destruction of systems that already work quite well. Second, the recent history of

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Northwestern Russia gives a certain hope for the future as far as the role of regional authorities in the implementation process is concerned. Apart from some initial confrontations in the fisheries management, regional authorities have in all three cases taken upon themselves a coordinating role that has clearly had a positive effect on implementation performance. Third, most joint implementation initiatives have had a similarly positive effect, not only on implementation problem-solving, but also in overcoming structural difficulties created by the lack of integration and high level of conflict between various Russian agencies of governance. In both fisheries management and nuclear safety, bilateral cooperation with Norway has ‘forced’ representatives of conflicting Russian agencies – e.g., the Federal Border Service and the ‘traditional’ fisheries complex, and Minatom and Gosatomnadzor and the State Committee/Department for Environmental Protection – to join forces, which, in turn, has had positive effects on Russian implementation efforts. Based on these conclusions, our main recommendation for the establishment of future environmental agreements with Russia would be to take into consideration the specifics of Russian political culture in drawing up implementation plans for the agreements. Moreover, the potential that lies in joint implementation at the micro level and in involving regional authorities in implementation processes should not be overlooked.

CHAPTER 5 IMPLEMENTING GLOBAL NATURE PROTECTION AGREEMENTS 1

Introduction The growing literature on the implementation of international environmental agreements gives only limited space to implementation in the Russian Federation. The few articles and books that have been published on the topic tend to focus on agreements concerning atmospheric pollution and nuclear safety. This chapter aims to fill a gap in the existing literature by discussing Russian implementation of the ‘softer’ international environmental accords: the agreements to protect species of flora and fauna. We focus particularly on the three global nature conservation treaties that came about around the time of the 1972 UN Conference on the Human Environment Conference in Stockholm: the 1971 Convention on Wetlands of International Importance especially as Waterfowl Habitat (Ramsar Convention); the 1972 Convention for the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage (World Heritage Convention); and the 1973 Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES Convention). We also discuss Russian implementation of the wider and more comprehensive Convention on Biological Diversity that came in 1992. Following the ‘greening’ of international politics in the 1970s, a body of literature on international environmental politics emerged in the

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1980s and grew substantially during the 1990s. Initially focusing on the conditions for regime formation, it has since given more attention to regime effectiveness, implementation and compliance. Implementation usually refers to the steps taken by national governments to induce actors to effect whatever measures are needed to bring the state into conformity with its international obligations. This process includes the translation of international commitments into national legislation and administrative measures by relevant state authorities to induce target group compliance. Implementation may be a more trustworthy measure of regime effectiveness than compliance. Where commitments are less ambitious, states may achieve perfect compliance with the formal provisions of a given agreement with very little behavioural adaptation. Compliance may also be accidental, while implementation is by definition instrumental. Studies indicate that failure on the part of states to implement environmental commitments is often unintentional, a result of difficulties encountered during the implementation process rather than a conscious choice to refrain from implementation.2 Successful implementation is contingent upon both the will and the ability (‘capacity to govern’) of states to influence activities at home. This chapter investigates to what extent Russian authorities possess the will and/or the capacity to implement the following conventions: CITES, the World Heritage Convention, the Ramsar Convention and the Convention on Biological Diversity. After describing the accords in question, we give an account of Russian status on each agreement in terms of steps Russia has taken as a result of the agreement and the extent to which Russia is in compliance with its obligations under the agreement. We then move on to discuss possible explanations for the observed status. We investigate the actions taken by the Russian government (federal authorities), non-governmental organizations (NGOs), and regional authorities or federal agencies located in the region. In addition to written documentation, the study builds methodologically on 37 semi-structured in-depth interviews with civil servants and NGOs in Moscow, Northwestern Russia and western Siberia, conducted from November 2003 to September 2004.3 Our main focus was on federal Russian politics. Since we do not cover the entire Russian Federation, our material from Northwestern Russia and western Siberia

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should be regarded as examples of developments at the regional level. Unless indicated, the material presented builds on our interviews.

The Global Nature Protection Regimes The CITES Convention was the first accord aimed at the global protection of endangered species. Although a treaty of this kind had been negotiated for years, agreement was reached only in the aftermath of the Stockholm Conference. The Convention seeks to protect endangered species from over-exploitation through a system of import and export permits issued by national management authorities. Appendix I of the Convention offers the highest protection, prohibiting the commercial international trade in species threatened with extinction. It includes nearly 600 animal species and more than 300 plant species. Appendix II assigns the responsibility to exporting states of regulating trade in endangered species, and covers nearly 4,100 animal species and more than 22,000 plant species. As of September 2004, 166 states were party to the CITES Convention. The secretariat, which is part of the United Nations Environmental Programme (UNEP) in Geneva, reviews national reports, assists member states in the implementation of the Convention, and organizes training activities for officials in developing countries. The World Heritage Convention was drafted at the same time as countries prepared for the Stockholm Conference, deriving from different initiatives to conserve cultural and natural sites for future generations. The centrepiece of the Convention is the World Heritage List, to which parties can nominate natural and cultural sites. Parties to the Convention are obliged to protect sites on their own territory and refrain from damaging those of other countries. As of May 2004, 178 states were party to the Convention, 788 properties were inscribed on the list, with 611 cultural, 154 natural and 23 mixed properties in 134 state parties. The secretariat of the Convention is located with the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) in Paris. The World Heritage Fund provides means for enabling countries (mainly developing countries) to prepare applications, maintain properties and restore them in case of damage. Monitoring is the responsibility of the state on whose territory the listed site is located.

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The Ramsar Convention encourages the conservation and wise use of wetlands, in particular those serving as bird habitats, through local, regional and national action as well as international collaboration. The List of Wetlands of International Importance is the core of the Convention. Parties to the Convention shall work to establish wetland nature reserves, cooperate in the exchange of information and train personnel for wetlands management. There are 141 contracting parties to the Ramsar Convention, and 1,387 sites on the list, as of September 2004. As with CITES and the World Heritage Convention, monitoring is based on national reports. The Ramsar Convention’s Small Grants Fund offers financial assistance to developing countries to help them comply with their obligations under the Convention. The CITES Convention, the World Heritage Convention and the Ramsar Convention are cornerstones in the international regime for nature conservation. The two former are integrated in the UN system, and they all enjoy virtual global coverage. In terms of monitoring and compliance, they rely mainly on national reports and, to some extent, on financial assistance and capacity-building initiatives. There is a certain coercive element in the threat to remove a site from the World Heritage List or ban international trade with a species. Compliance has been unsatisfactory, and there have been flaws in reporting to the secretariats. However, the situation has generally improved since the early 1990s as monitoring and compliance were placed higher on the agenda. The secretariats have paid special attention to strengthening field management in member states. A more far-reaching global accord in nature conservation came with the Convention on Biological Diversity in 1992. The objective of the Convention is threefold: conservation of the world’s biological diversity; the sustainable use of its components; and the fair and equitable sharing of the benefits arising out of the utilization of genetic resources. The Convention opened for signature at the Rio Summit in 1992. There are 188 parties to the Convention as per September 2004. The contracting parties are obliged to develop national strategies for the conservation and sustainable use of biological diversity, and integrate biodiversity considerations in all relevant sectors. Further, they shall monitor biological diversity on their territory and take action when it is threatened. As with the other nature conservation accords, the monitoring of the Convention on Biological Diversity is based on

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national reports. The Global Environment Facility (GEF) channels support from the World Bank, UNEP, the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) and others to assist developing countries in complying with their obligations under the Convention. The GEF had allocated more than US$1.7 billion towards this end through 2003. Finally, the Convention on Biological Diversity incorporates the precautionary principle, which has become a leading device in international environmental politics since the Rio Summit. In short, the precautionary principle demands that states take regulatory action even in the absence of incontrovertible scientific evidence of environmental degradation.

Implementation of the Agreements in Russia The four international conventions looked at in this chapter are only partially incorporated into Russian law, but the Russian Constitution gives a high priority to international agreements in general: ‘The universally-recognized norms of international law and international treaties and agreements of the Russian Federation shall be a component part of its legal system.’ Furthermore, it underlines that ‘[i]f an international treaty or agreement of the Russian Federation fixes other rules than those envisaged by law, the rules of the international agreement shall be applied.’4 In principle, then, the international environmental agreements are legally implemented into Russian law. In the following, we describe Russia’s actions in relation to the four conventions in more detail.

World Heritage Convention Although the World Heritage Convention was adopted in 1972 and came into effect in December 1975, it took another 13 years before the Soviet Union signed and ratified it in 1988. Some believe the Soviets hesitated so long because they were ill-inclined to take on the obligations that came with designating sites as ‘global treasures’; others suggest it might have sprung from a fear that ‘non-Russian nationalists might use designation of sites for their own purposes rather than as a way of celebrating the Soviet Union’.5 With the coming of glasnost, this fear was transformed into a positive motivation to use that same Convention to promote natural and cultural sites in the Union. Starting in 1990

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with the inclusion on the World Heritage List of the Moscow Kremlin, the historic centre of St Petersburg and the Kizhi Pogost in Lake Onega, a number of new sites were added by the Russian Federation throughout the 1990s. The first natural monument to be included was the Virgin Komi Forests in 1995. Eight natural sites have later been added, and make, if the listing of sites is any indicator of willingness to protect the natural environment, Russia one of the most conservation-minded countries in the world. Two sites are shared with other states: the Uvs Nuur Basin with Mongolia and the Curonian Spit with Lithuania. In addition, at least eight sites are currently being prepared for inclusion in the World Heritage List.6 Since 2000, the Russian leadership has increasingly seen the list of natural sites – as opposed to cultural sites – as a burden, and thus not in accordance with Russia’s national interests. As Russia’s economic recovery is primarily based on the extraction of natural resources, nature conservation is under pressure from economic actors, both private and state, and efforts have been made to change current site borders. For example, in the Virgin Komi Forests in northern Russia, extraction of gold was initiated with the blessing of the head of the Komi Republic. Other examples include the building of a recreational skiing complex within the borders of the Western Caucasus site and mining on the territory of the Kamchatka volcano site. Remarkably, none of these initiatives have been reported to the World Heritage Convention secretariat, in clear violation of both the Convention and the federal law on protected natural territories, which requires the reporting and assessment of any activity likely to affect the environment in the prescribed area. In Lake Baikal, which was included on the Heritage List on the precondition that five nature-protection steps were taken to ensure better conservation, discharges rose between 1998 and 2002, mostly due to the operations of Baikalsk Pulp and Paper Mill. Another concern is a projected oil pipeline that will traverse the water storage basin of Lake Baikal. Again, the Russian Government has failed to inform the secretariat about the potentially critical environmental impact that might follow. Due to the environmental threats, Lake Baikal is considered for inclusion on the World Heritage in Danger List. Major problems remain regarding the management of the sites. Their borders in several cases are still under question, and work on management plans and the legal status of the sites is progressing slowly,

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if at all. Management of most sites is therefore conducted through the already existing system of protected natural territories, which, despite financial shortages, continues to function. It should be noted, though, that the borders of the protected natural territories do not necessarily coincide with heritage site borders, and a single site may thus include a number of protected territories of various status. For instance, the Lake Baikal World Heritage site includes two biosphere reserves, one nature reserve and two national parks. The lack of management plans for World Heritage sites does not necessarily mean there is no protection, but rather that it follows pre-existing protection regimes. In addition, because new rules permit the inclusion of only one new site each year, there may be more time and resources to attend to the proper management of existing sites.

CITES CITES is a convention closely related to West– East de´tente in the 1970s, and the Soviet Union signed it at the time of its adoption in 1974.7 In the purview of the USSR, CITES was in line with a Soviet tradition of conservation and concern for species preservation. The USSR Red Book, describing declining and endangered flora and fauna species, was first published in 1974, that is the same year CITES was signed. Trade or utilization of any species listed in the Red Book is illegal in Russian law, unless under a special permit. As such the Red Book helps ensure compliance with CITES. The Red Book follows the system of categorization employed by the World Conservation Union (IUCN).8 Compliance with CITES was a rather easy task for the authoritarian Soviet system with only a marginal private sector. For Russia, compliance has proven much more complicated. First, political authority and state control was severely diminished with the collapse of the USSR. Second, the number of actors multiplied overnight. And third, what used to be of purely domestic concern within the Soviet Union, became a matter of international relations in 1992, and thus liable to CITES rules. Adding to the problem are the still partly open borders between Russia and other Commonwealth republics, many of which still are not party to CITES and thus have no CITES authority. Russia is therefore in the unique position of being obliged to issue permits for trade in endangered species in parts of the former USSR that are now outside Russian territory.9

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The Soviet Union had developed a detailed system for issuing trade permits, on which Russia still relies. In order to obtain a trade permit, a declaration must be sent to the management authority, with a copy to the scientific authority. For import from a non-party State, permission from the scientific authority in Russia is required. To catch up with the changes since the Soviet days, the Russian government issued a Resolution on 13 September 1994 ‘[o]n measures to ensure implementation of the obligations of the Russian side, following from CITES’, amended in 1998, 1999 and 2001. The Resolution’s provisions were given detailed expression in a 1995 governmental decree.10 The Ministry of Natural Resources (until 2000 the State Committee for Environmental Protection) is the responsible administrative CITES organ – that is, it issues certificates and permits, except for sturgeon, which is the responsibility of the Federal Fisheries Agency. The data provided by the Ministry of Natural Resources to the CITES secretariat are detailed and conform to CITES standards, though frequently reported in an untimely manner. The primary problem is thus not Russian regulations regarding trade with endangered species, but rather that legislative practice does not correlate with reality. For example, although export permits for noncommercial use are being issued with increasing regularity, such statistics should be treated with care, as supposedly scientific permits often cover illegal commercial activities. Poaching has increased dramatically since Moscow lost its near total control, and in many cases state agencies and officials participate in illegal trade. Leaking borders and economic realities create enormous incentives for smuggling. According to Zimmerman and colleagues,11 in 1992 a game warden would have earned the equivalent of $15 a month in salary doing his ordinary job. Offered as much as US$15,000 for a tiger skin, the results are predictable. Corruption has increased dramatically, and poaching of various endangered species has attracted the attention of organized crime. The growing affluence of East Asian states has increased the demand for exotic pelts, horns, and parts of endangered animals and plants enormously, contributing to a rapid growth of illegal trade in flora and fauna between Russia and China and Russia and Taiwan.12 In the Caspian Sea area, which before 1991 accounted for 95 per cent of world caviar production, illegal sea harvest is believed to be 10 to 12 times higher than official quotas allow. As a consequence, recorded sturgeon catches in the Caspian Sea dropped from 22,000 tonnes in the late 1970s

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to 1,100 tonnes in the late 1990s.13 Crime is pervasive, with wardens and border guards being killed on duty while trying to prevent illegal harvesting. CITES parties responded by listing all sturgeon species in CITES appendix II in 1997, going so far as to halt trade in sturgeon products altogether in June 2001. Russia and the other post-Soviet Caspian Sea states agreed to cooperate on a scientific survey of stocks and a common management plan within one year. Although the situation is still critical, the CITES resolutions have, at least, induced cooperation between Russia and the other Caspian Sea States. Trade has subsequently been resumed.14 Functioning law enforcement at the borders is essential for the implementation of CITES. There is still a long way to go here too: customs officers are often unaware of how to deal with endangered species, what to look out for, and how to recognize and identify the various species. Modern identification equipment is in serious shortage. A few training schemes for customs officers have been conducted in a pilot phrase. It is hoped that indicator booklets will help customs officials do a better job. Training of dogs to search for species has been tried in the Far East, apparently with impressive results. Another question is how to deal with internal trade in endangered species within Russia. There is still no law regulating commerce in CITES-listed species within the country, which means that endangered species may, for instance, easily and legally be sold at any pet market in Russia. Only the city of Moscow and the Jewish Autonomous Region have passed regional laws regulating internal trade with endangered species, and outside Moscow a centre for confiscated species has been founded. Efforts to draft a federal law in this context have purportedly commenced.

Ramsar Convention The Soviet Union became a party to the Ramsar Convention in 1975, and thereafter designated 12 wetland sites of international importance within its territory. After the disintegration of the USSR, only three sites were left within the borders of the Russian Federation. Federal policy on nature protection in the early 1990s was committed to improving that picture, and on 13 September 1994, the Russian government passed Decree No. 1050 which reconfirmed the remaining three sites and designated 32 new sites, bringing the total area of protected wetlands of international

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importance up to 10.7 million hectares.15 The implementation of the Decree required the enactment of special wetlands legislation to be enacted to ensure adequate protection of the sites, including the development of management plans for each site. A strategy for wetland conservation was developed under the Ecology for Russia programme. In addition, a shadow list of wetlands has been prepared, listing 77 sites; the goal is to eventually include these sites in the Ramsar list proper. The wetland strategy seemed unrealistically ambitious. Due to financial constraints, implementation of the strategy has only partially been fulfilled. Regulations determining the borders and protection regimes are not provided for most sites, and financing under the federal budget for wetland conservation has shrunk to a minimum. The strategy has been restricted to a few limited capacity building actions and local projects. Most sites are on the map only. In Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug, no directives or recommendations from Moscow have ever reached the regional environmental bureaucrats and wardens regarding their Ramsar sites, let alone financial support. Consequently, no actions on the implementation of the Convention have been taken on behalf of the regional authorities. Others have enjoyed some attention, such as the lower Volga delta, where certain conservation and restoration measures have been put in place. When it comes to formal procedures, that is, documentation and reporting to the Ramsar secretariat, Russia is complying reasonably well. Russia submitted its national reports to the secretariat for the meetings of the Conference of the Contracting Parties in 1995, 1997 and 2002, and sent representatives to each of the meetings. It should, however, be noted that Russian participation in RAMSAR meetings is rather passive. The Russian Federation has never put forward any resolutions for consideration at the meetings of the Contracting Parties; Russia’s only international Ramsar initiative was the CIS Agreement on Conservation and Wise Use of Migratory Birds and Mammals and their Habitats (1994). The agreement has never been implemented.16

Convention on Biological Diversity The Russian Federation signed and ratified the Convention on Biological Diversity in 1992 and 1995, respectively. As far as reporting is concerned, Russia submitted detailed, though belated, national reports in 1997 and 2003. In addition, Russia has voluntarily sent to the

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Convention secretariat the Russian National Biodiversity Strategy and Action Plan. The objectives of the Convention on Biological Diversity are, as noted above, threefold: conservation of the world’s biological diversity; the sustainable use of its components; and the fair and equitable sharing of the benefits arising out of the utilization of genetic resources. One of the requirements is to establish a system of protected areas or areas where special measures need to be taken to conserve biological diversity. In this respect, Russia had, with its comprehensive system of protected natural territories, complied well with the convention half a century before its signing. Detailed plans on biodiversity conservation have been developed, among them the Russian National Biodiversity Strategy and its Action Plan. However, whereas the former does an excellent job in describing the state of biodiversity in Russia, as a strategy it is weak and unclear as to what is to be done. The latter is better in terms of actions to be taken, but does not prescribe any time frame. Russia’s Red Book of endangered species, though not a result of the Convention, is a central tool for conserving biological diversity. The Red Book is legally binding, and species listed enjoy protection on the basis of five different levels of threat. Any species in the International Red Book or the Red Book of CIS, as well as species protected by international agreements, is automatically included in the Russian Red Book. Utilization of Red Book species is strictly forbidden without special permission of the Ministry of Natural Resources, and is accorded only in the most exceptional cases. Russia’s system of protected areas is central to the country’s biodiversity strategy. Scientific research and maintenance of breeding, reproduction, and reintroduction of endangered and rare species of wildlife clearly have a direct link to biological diversity. 90 per cent of the amphibians, 55 per cent of the birds and fish, and 40 per cent of the mammals listed in the USSR Red Book were conserved and reproduced in the national parks. This has resulted in the recovery of certain endangered species and populations of many valuable types of wild animals, including sable, river beaver, elk, and wild boar, all of which increased during the 1980s.17 Although constantly strapped financially, the Russian natural reserves play a vital role in conserving endangered species, often in cooperation with environmental NGOs. An encouraging, though hardly typical, example is the Amur tiger. In the 1990s, this species was in danger of extinction from poaching and,

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more seriously, uncontrolled logging, which decreased the tiger’s habitat dramatically. The Federal government issued several – apparently insufficient – decrees on the conservation of the tiger in the 1990s, and in 1997 launched a federal strategy programme for the conservation of the Amur Tiger. However, the crucial element in the recovery of the species was the involvement of other actors. Through the joint efforts of the natural reserves, environmental NGOs, and, not the least, zoological parks worldwide, the tiger population is currently increasing. Despite some effective projects, Russia’s record on the implementation of the Convention of Biological Diversity is not that encouraging. As mentioned above, budget allocations to nature protection are hardly sufficient for staff salaries, and the environmental protection authorities lack both the financial resources and personnel to counter the pressures from economic actors. The Convention on Biological Diversity institutionalized the precautionary principle, giving the benefit of the doubt to the environment: no actions shall be undertaken unless the actor has proved that his actions will not bring harm to the environment. There still seems to be a long way to go before this principle governs all areas of practice in Russia. For example, deforestation is considered an urgent priority by environmentalists in Russia, but hardly by the authorities. Forty-five per cent of Siberia is forestland, ranging from tundra forest in the north to rich mixed forests in the south. These diverse forests provide a home to many species of plants and animals, including the Amur tiger, Far Eastern leopard, the Himalayan bear, and the musk deer. The Amur-Sakhalin region shelters more types of plants and animals than any other temperate forest in the world, and many of these species exist only here. Illegal logging by both Russian and international companies is a primary contributor to deforestation, endangering not only the species mentioned above, but myriad others. At the same time, no new national parks or natural reserves that could help save the forests have been introduced since 2000. This is the first four-year period for several decades without new protected territories coming on line.

Domestic Implementation Activities Government The late 1980s and early 1990s witnessed increasing awareness about nature conservation and environmental issues in Russia. The newly

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founded Ministry of Environmental and Natural Resources Protection worked actively to create new nature reserves and national parks, and the Russian government was eager to cooperate with foreign countries on issues affecting the environment. From its inception, the Russian Federation insisted on meeting Soviet obligations to international environmental agreements, and was among the first to sign the Convention on Biological Diversity in 1992. In 1993, the number of wetlands of international importance multiplied more than tenfold, from 3 to 35, and over the following two to three years the Government issued a number of decrees and resolutions concerning CITES and the Convention on Biological Diversity. Comprehensive plans and strategies for the conservation of biological diversity were developed in the following years, and in 1995 the first Russian natural site, the Virgin Komi forests, was added to the World Heritage List, with eight additional sites designated in the interim. The willingness of the Russian leadership to comply with Russia’s international obligations was not matched by financial investment. For example, the real value of the budget on Russia’s system of protected nature reserves had fallen by about 90 per cent from 1989 to 1992, deteriorating even further in the 1990s.18 Russia’s 1994 federal budget allocated about 0.6 per cent to the environment, or about 0.15 per cent of GNP. At that time, only about one tenth of the environmental programmes of the Ministry of the Environment received funding.19 Ten years later, the situation had not improved: in 2004, spending on the environment accounted for 0.7 per cent of federal budget planned expenditures.20 As a result, most environmental programmes are plans on paper only, and the management of many natural reserves is on the verge of collapse. Conservation activities inside the reserves have fallen sharply or halted altogether. Poaching and illegal logging are on the increase, frequently with the direct participation of wardens, who see no other means of making a living. Clearly, this has a devastating effect on Russia’s capacity to comply with environmental agreements. Our interviews with environmental protection authorities in Moscow demonstrated that there was no shortage of will to implement the agreements. The problem was financial. In Soviet times, international environmental obligations were generally met by including the commitments in the sector ministries’ five-year production plans. There was no one governmental body in

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charge of the country’s environmental policy as a whole. The first step in designing an independent, though strictly technical, environmental body was the establishment of the State Committee for Hydrometeorology and Environmental Monitoring (Goskomgidromet) in 1978. During the years of perestroika, as environmental issues attracted wider attention, one response was the appointment of the State Committee for Environmental Protection in 1988. In 1992, it was turned into the Ministry of Environmental and Natural Resources Protection. This period marked the apex of environmental awareness and action in Russia. By 1996, however, the Ministry again saw its status reduced to that of a state committee. Although enjoying independence from other ministries and the right to propose bills, its chair had no seat in the Government. And things got worse. In 2000, shortly after being elected president, Putin disbanded the State Committee for Environmental Protection altogether. The ever-smaller remnants of the environmental protection authorities were absorbed into the Ministry of Natural Resources (formerly the Ministry of Geology) as the Department for Environmental Protection. This reshuffling was a serious blow, as the Ministry’s main task, and source of income, is the licensing of natural resources. Indeed, it was like letting the fox guard the hen house. For the ministry as a whole, utilization, not protection, is the main pillar of natural resources policy. The economic situation has not improved either. Despite poor budget allocations, environmental protection investments in the 1990s were secured through the so-called ecological funds, financed by pollution fees. Since 2000, the federal fund and most regional funds have been closed down, seriously limiting new ecological investments. In 2004, President Putin reshuffled the federal executive again.21 Most ministries, of those remaining, were now partitioned into a ministry proper, responsible for policy forming, a service (sluzhba), responsible for monitoring and control, and an agency (agenstvo), responsible for technical implementation of ministry decisions. A new Federal Service for Surveillance in Ecology and Resource Use was organized, supposedly independent in its day-to-day work but politically under the thumb of the Ministry of Natural Resources. Further, a Federal Service for Ecological, Technological and Nuclear Survaillance was established on the basis of the former Radiation Protection Agency, Gosatomnadzor. This organization is directly

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subordinate to the Russian Government. It remains to be seen how these structures will work, but staff numbers and finance have shrunk even more. There is great uncertainty as to who is responsible for what, although it seems that the former service (under the Ministry of Natural Resources) will remain responsible for nature protection, while the latter (directly under the Government) will monitor pollution. Some suggest that all these reorganizations are the real reason for the absence of a coherent and viable environmental protection policy in Russia.22 As a consequence of the continuing reorganization of the Ministry’s structure, many of its specialist workforce have left in indignation, and others have been fired. According to some sources, only 25 per cent of the original staff remain, others put the figure at only one in ten. For example, the ministerial section for international environmental cooperation has only five or six civil servants left, down from more than 40. At the ministerial All-Russian Scientific Research Institute for Nature Protection, which is responsible for scientific questions related to the agreements, the situation is no better. When it comes to international forums, such as conferences of the conventions’ parties, Russian participation is low. Standard operational procedures limit official travel to a minimum. As one of our interviewees put it, ‘civil servants should not spend their time going on shopping trips abroad’. Following this principle, the Russian delegation arrived late to the meeting of the parties of the World Heritage Convention in June 2004, and left early, even before the questions dealing with the Russian sites were raised. According to our interviewees, the rationale behind this is economic. President Putin’s aim is to double Russia’s GNP by 2010. It is believed that the costs associated with environment protection will interfere with this objective. President Putin has therefore deprioritized environmental issues and censured environmental activists. In his 2004 address to the Federal Assembly, President Putin attacked the country’s NGOs, claiming that ‘[f]or some of them, the priority is to receive financing from influential foreign foundations’.23 Five years earlier, as head of the FSB, he justified crackdowns on environmentalists, saying to the daily Komsomolskaya pravda that ‘[s]adly, foreign secret services [. . .] very actively use all sorts of ecological [. . .] organizations [for espionage against Russia]’.24 Indeed, some activists were brought before the courts on various charges and given long prison sentences in cases strongly

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criticized by human rights activists and foreign governments. In October 2004, the State Duma adopted new amendments to the Federal Tax Code, further complicating the granting system. That said, President Putin admitted on World Environment Day in June 2003 that the elimination of the State Committee for Environmental Protection had been a mistake: ‘We’ve had a lot of reorganizations lately, but a system based on assigning the same department both the functions of official environmental control and the management of the economic use of those natural resources is disadvantageous.’25 The establishment of two new federal supervisory services may be an attempt to improve the relationship between control and management of natural resources. And the small remaining staff at the Department of Environmental Protection at the Ministry of Natural Resources have retained some optimism. As some of them confessed in informal conversations with the authors, ‘of course things could be better, of course the reorganizations have not been for the better, and of course we would prefer a more generous budget, but we are doing what we can, and we still haven’t lost hope for a better future.’

Social pressure and NGOs On occasion, social pressure for action to be taken to ensure a better environment has been strong in Russia. In fact, the first mass protests against the Soviet authorities were the result of a growing concern for the state of the environment. The first concerned Lake Baikal. That was followed by protests in the Baltic republics, and the organization of mass movements throughout the USSR. These movements would eventually topple the entire Soviet Union. Environmental NGOs sprang up like mushrooms following perestroika, and for some time they were able to keep up the pressure on the government. Some NGOs were purely regional or local, concerned primarily with issues such as the pollution from local factories, drinking water quality, the conservation of certain natural territories, and the like. Others had a national agenda. For example, the All-Russian Association of Nature Protection, an organization from the Soviet times, is primarily engaged in environmental education and other issues that are not perceived of as threatening by government authorities. Another national NGO is the Socio-Ecological Union, an umbrella organization covering most regional NGOs. It is possibly the strongest

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environmental NGO in Russia today. A few Moscow-based NGOs have managed to stay active throughout the country. One is the Biodiversity Conservation Centre, conducting applied projects on environmental protection and biodiversity. Another is the Centre for Russian Environmental Policy, headed by former President Boris Yeltsin’s environmental adviser Aleksey Yablokov. Most of the other NGOs are rather weak, and it has to be said that the environmental movement has lost what it once had in terms of influence. For most people, questions of personal economy and even surviving have become much more important than nature conservation or pollution control. Still, the number of environmental NGOs in Russia is impressively high. According to the Ministry of Natural Resources, Russia has more than 630 environmental NGOs of various sizes and levels of activity.26 This is, however, more a sign of weakness than of strength. The extreme fragmentation means that most environmental NGOs are hopelessly small; many have only a few members and are in constant lack of everything from pencils to offices. The Russian branches of international organizations constitute a distinctive group of environmental NGOs. A few of them have been very active with respect to the agreements discussed here. In fact, Greenpeace (in Russia since 1989) under a special agreement with the environment authorities, has been responsible since 1994 for the planning and establishment of natural sites for the World Heritage List. Likewise, the Russian branches of the World Wildlife Fund (WWF, in Russia since 1994) and IUCN work actively with the conservation of natural territories, endangered species and biological diversity. TRAFFIC27 does a great deal in relation to CITES, and Wetland International has an important role in the implementation of the Ramsar Convention. The impact of branches of international environmental NGOs in Russia has increased steadily. The international NGOs enjoy two important advantages that most Russian NGOs lack: money and the backing of strong parent organizations. As the authors learned during conversations with officers in the various organizations, they are mostly financed from abroad – by their parent organizations, and, to a lesser degree, by foreign governments, the World Bank, the European Union, and other international bodies, and under some of the conventions. NGOs tend to work closely with, and with the blessing of, the Ministry of Natural Resources and other government bodies, especially

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in terms of capacity building. For example, WWF is engaged in training personnel of the Russian Custom Service, and has issued indicator booklets helping to identify endangered species under CITES. TRAFFIC has, in relation to the same agreement, founded and financed a centre outside Moscow for confiscated species. Greenpeace, as mentioned above, has been in charge of preparing the inclusion of new sites on the World Heritage List. Only a few projects come under the rubric of the Convention on Biological Diversity. Still, as one WWF employee pointed out, most environment projects are more or less in line with the Convention on Biological Diversity. For example, WWF has a global programme for the development of so-called ecology regions, capturing (or so is it claimed) 95 per cent of the Earth’s species. Nineteen of these regions are located, partly or wholly, in Russia, and project plans are developed for two of them.28 It is hoped that these regions will facilitate better management of the environment and thus ensure the conservation of biological diversity. IUCN has been engaged in projects to protect endangered species. Finally, Wetland Internationals, financed by the Dutch Ministry of Agriculture, is engaged in capacity building in the management of the Ramsar sites. Management plans have already been developed for some selected sites, and are to be developed for the remaining territories. In addition, the NGOs are constantly calling the government to task. Greenpeace has been the most confrontational of the international NGOs in this respect, in line with its activist profile. In a number of cases, Greenpeace has sued state authorities, including the Government, for alleged violations of federal law as well as the World Heritage Convention. For example, they won a case against the Russian Government in the Russian High Court in 2004, where the Court stated that a governmental decree to transfer parts of the Sochi zapovednik (nature reserve), a part of the Western Caucasus World Heritage Convention site, to the less protected Sochi zakaznik, was illegal and should be annulled.

Regional authorities and agencies of the state After the dissolution of the State Committee for Environmental Protection in 2000 its branches at the regional level became departments of environmental protection under the regional offices of the Ministry of Natural Resources, directly under Moscow’s control. For two reasons,

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not all regions were happy with this reform. First, according to the constitution, utilization of natural resources is a common responsibility of the Federation and the federal subjects. For regions rich in natural resources, it was important to establish a counterweight to the influence of the federal authorities. Second, it soon became clear that the new Ministry of Natural Resources would not, from the point of view of the regions, be paying sufficient attention to the protection of the environment – if at all. Even regional ministry officials admit that their budgets for environmental protection are far from adequate, and that they therefore are unable to fulfil their duties properly. Remarkably, some Russian regions have chosen to establish structures paralleling the federal authorities. In Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug, a region rich in oil, the administration set up a regional nature conservation department that is responsible, among other things, for the management of regionally established protected natural reserves. It also allocated some resources to the poorly financed federal reserves in the region. There are two Ramsar sites in the region – Upper and Lower Dvuob’ye. Neither the federal nor the regional authorities have taken any practical steps to manage them, apart from the issuing of maps indicating their borders. However, the federal Yelizarovskiy zakaznik is situated within the Upper Dvuob’ye wetland and is strongly protected by federal law and the ten wardens working there. With only marginal financing from the federal budget, the zakaznik receives some additional funds from the regional department of natural protection. Thus, within the zakaznik borders, one could claim that the Ramsar Convention is being implemented, though not as a result of the Convention. One could easily assume that regions in general tend to be more responsive to environmental concerns than central authorities, simply because most people have a natural wish to live in a clean environment. In Khanty-Mansi, the regional authorities were clearly more environmentally active in the region than their federal colleagues. However, as our study has shown, other regions may have other priorities. In the Komi Republic, the head of the regional department of natural protection expressed anger about the federal environmental laws: ‘In the 1990s, our euphoric environmentalists had the initiative. As a result, 14 per cent of the Republic’s territory is protected by federal law. And we have no legal means to start logging there!’ The head of the

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republic tried to legalize gold extraction inside the Komi Virgin Forests World Heritage site in the late 1990s, and only desisted after loud protests from Greenpeace and others, and a judicial review. The reversal was a tactical move, however, and gold extraction on the site has now resumed. In the Caucasus, the Adygea Republic’s authorities were eager to change the status of parts of the Caucasus zapovednik to attract investors in the tourist industry. The fact that this would violate both federal law and the World Heritage Convention did not seem to bother the authorities. These examples show that regional authorities do not necessarily pay greater attention to environmental protection and that their attitude has less to do with geographic proximity, and more to do with who is likely to benefit from the use of natural resources. Oil is regarded as federal property and most revenues from oil extraction consequently go to Moscow, which might explain the Khanty-Mansi regional authorities’ concern for the state of the environment. Forestry, which is the main source of income in the Komi Republic, is regarded primarily as a regional asset, under the authority of the republic; consequently republic authorities are at best reluctant to protect valuable resources under their jurisdiction. In some cases, regions have taken action under international conventions even without an economic reason to do so, and without being legally bound by federal law. CITES states that every party shall take steps to ensure the confiscation of endangered species in illegal trade within their borders. As mentioned, Russia has so far no federal laws to effectuate this, but the city of Moscow and the Jewish Autonomous Region have both passed laws.29 Other regional branches of government seem at best unaware or uninterested in international environmental agreements; at worst they are obstructing their implementation. The Customs Service, though not too actively engaged, does accept capacity building help from WWF to train its officials with regard to CITES, but at the same time it has prohibited its regional branches from providing premises for the storage of endangered species. In Kalmykia in southern Russia, the population of the Saiga antelope, whose horns are highly valued in oriental medicine, was once a hundred thousand strong. The population has decreased to around 20,000 individuals due to illegal poaching. Due to resistance from the hunting department of the Ministry of Agriculture,

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the Saiga has not been included in the Russian Red Book and thus is under no protection.

Conclusion Implementation of the four ‘soft’ environmental agreements discussed in this chapter is not a priority of the Russian leadership. Apart from the issuing of some resolutions for implementation of the respective conventions, only very modest steps have been taken by the government. In some cases, government actions have actually violated its commitments. Implementation of international agreements depends on at least two factors: will and ability.30 There was a good deal of political will to implement environmental commitments in the Russian government in the early 1990s. Russia accepted from the very beginning all international obligations undertaken by the Soviet Union, and was first in line to sign the Convention on Biological Diversity. For all conventions, governmental resolutions and decrees have been issued with detailed guidance as to what should be done by federal and regional authorities in order to comply. However, federal resolutions are far less concrete in prescribing specific measures to be taken to comply with and implement the agreements. And due to the severe economic crises Russia underwent throughout the 1990s, initial ambitions were never backed by adequate funding. Lack of ability, rather than will, hampered implementation during those years. For that reason, international environmental NGOs proved important in that they had the will and resources to assist the progress of a wide selection of tasks. They were therefore embraced for the most part by governments during that period. Some of them, for example, Greenpeace, entered into official agreements with the State Committee for Environmental Protection. The reforms of 2000 were a blow to Russia’s environmental management in general, and nature protection in particular. Without an independent environmental protection body in the government, the Ministry of Natural Resources could easily ignore environmental concerns. Lip service is still being paid, and there are still environmentalists working in the ministerial Department for Environmental Protection, but their chances of winning an argument with the much stronger ‘geologists’ at the Ministry are slim at best. With President

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Putin’s exclusive prioritizing of economic growth, there is little or no room for environmental concerns. If Russia earlier had the will, but lacked the capacity to govern, now the country also lacks the will. What is more, the main violator of the four conventions is the state itself. Without an independent state organization for the protection of the environment, this is, indeed, not particularly surprising. Having said all this, the picture is not totally discouraging. Russia is next only to Canada in terms of total area protected under the Ramsar Convention. If the sites of the so-called shadow list are added, Russia will be the leading Ramsar partner in terms of km2 protected land. Russia is also in the front line in terms of listing natural sites on the World Heritage List. Between 1995 and 2004, nine sites were listed, with others in the pipeline. Important work on capacity building has been conducted under CITES, and there are many projects supporting, in one way or another, the Convention on Biological Diversity. Yet little of this is attributable to government efforts; the government appears happy for others to foot the bills, and is in some ways sceptical and distrustful of international NGOs, arguing that they are serving foreign interests. With or without Moscow’s support, and sometimes with Moscow’s participation, regional authorities have violated internationally protected environmental sites. Elsewhere, regional authorities work to strengthen the protection of environmental sites, but also endangered species. In Khanty-Mansi, regional authorities were eager to emphasize that they were solely responsible for environmental protection in the region. They had no illusions about either the federal government or the Moscow-based international environmental NGOs. After all, there are limits to the NGOs’ capacities. Crucially, however, we find at the core of environmental protection activity in Russia neither the NGOs nor the regional authorities, and certainly not the international conventions. Most sites on the World Heritage list and the Ramsar Convention are in territories already protected, partly or wholly, by federal law. The federal nature reserves are better protected under Russian law than the sites covered by the conventions discussed in this chapter. The protection of the environment is by and large the result of Russian environmental standards rather than international ones. In fact, to the extent that Russia does comply with the conventions, it can mostly be explained by Russia’s own traditions. There is little in Russia that has changed

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because of the conventions. On the other hand, the agreements, despite all of their shortcomings, do make a difference to Russian policy. When conflicts related to environmental protection arise, it is easier to argue against the government if you are backed by a legally binding international convention. And the agreements have, indeed, increased the attention given to environmental issues. Finally, the international conventions help justify the work of the environmental NGOs, helping them to build their capacity and credibility in civil society.

PART IV COMBATING COMMUNICABLE DISEASES IN NORTHWEST RUSSIA

CHAPTER 6 WESTERN VS POST-SOVIET MEDICINE:DONORS AND DILETTANTES1

Introduction Is Western assistance to former Soviet areas sufficiently sensitive to the recipient countries’ tradition and culture? Do such efforts take into account that Russia and other post-Soviet areas have a history, and consequently a current situation, which differs markedly from what is found in a typical developing country? Questions like these are becoming increasingly important as the former Soviet states are getting back on their feet. The early 1990s euphoria, which was often mixed with admiration for anything Western, has given way to a sense of pride and higher self-esteem among professionals in the former East Bloc countries, accompanied by an increasingly critical assessment of Western solutions to their transitional problems. In this chapter, we discuss the antagonism between Western aid and Eastern pride in medical collaboration. The principal basis for the chapter is a major study of the Task Force on Communicable Disease Control in the Baltic Sea Region, a programme initiated by the Council of the Baltic Sea States in 2000, as well as a smaller study of the Barents Health Programme, established in 1999 in the European Arctic.2 More than 120 interviewees from Russia and the Baltic states have informed the studies.3 What describes the encounter of Western ideals and principles with post-Soviet medicine?4 The chapter starts out with the story of WHO’s

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tuberculosis treatment strategy in Russia and the Baltic states. We pay special attention to this issue since it is a compelling illustration of both resistance to and receptiveness of Western medical ideals in the postSoviet area. The remainder of the chapter is devoted to a general discussion of perceptions of Western health-care principles and procedures, as introduced by Western initiatives, among project participants in the recipient countries. Among the questions to be asked are how Russian and Baltic project participants perceive the heavy emphasis on marginalized groups such as prisoners and prostitutes in many projects initiated by the West, and whether post-Soviet patriotism or anti-Western sentiments have impeded the implementation of such projects. In many ways, this boils down to the classic discussion about Russia’s relations with the West. While the Baltic states are eagerly seeking to confirm their historical cultural ties with Western Europe, Russia has for centuries been engrossed in a philosophical discussion concerning whether the country is actually ‘European’ or not. It is carried over in the post-Soviet Russian political debate pursued by ‘reformers’ and ‘patriots’ of various sorts. A principal question in Russian political discourse is whether Russia should take after the West or find its own way, based on the country’s political, cultural and social heritage.5 After a period of expansive political and economic reforms in the first half of the 1990s following the collapse of the Soviet Union, Russian disenchantment with the West grew as it became increasingly clear that the reforms were not delivering the results many had hoped for. Combined with a sense of resentment at NATO’s expansion eastwards and the 1999 NATO intervention in Kosovo, many Russians became convinced that the West’s commitments at the end of the 1980s and the beginning of the 1990s were false. They were seen as a way to press reforms on Russia, which had no chance of working in the Russian setting in any event. The motive of Western powers was allegedly to weaken Russia even further while, at the same time, taking advantage of Russian confusion to boost their own military and economic power. The process was conducted under ‘positive’ slogans such as ‘democratization’ and ‘introduction of market reforms’, but many Russians came to see it as little more than a continuation of the Cold War struggle between East and West, a situation that gave rise to the term ‘Cold Peace’.6 By the end of the decade, disillusionment with the West was firmly entrenched and answers were sought instead in ‘traditional’ patriotic values.

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The heritage of Soviet medical science may also influence perceptions of Western initiatives in the post-Soviet area. Krementsov describes the pressure on Soviet scientists to conduct their research in accordance with certain ‘patriotic’ guidelines and, in particular, the dichotomy between ‘patriotic’/Soviet and ‘all-human’/‘non-patriotic’ science, upheld by Soviet authorities since the late 1940s.7 After a couple of years with relatively active contacts between Soviet and Western scientists immediately following World War II, the concept of a ‘single world science’ was abandoned when ‘the patriotic campaign’ set in around 1947 – 8. Soviet scientists were no longer to let themselves be influenced by Western bourgeois science,8 and Western scientists (not to mention intelligence services) should not be allowed to take advantage of the scientific achievements of the Soviet Union. To this end, a ban was put on the publication of Soviet scientific journals in foreign languages and on the translation of abstracts and tables of content into English or other languages, common practice up to then. More importantly in this context, patriotism and antiWesternism became irretrievably linked to Soviet science.9 Likewise, anybody who failed to display the necessary patriotic values in their research was accused of ‘slavishness and servility (nizkopoklonstvo i rabolepiye) to the West’, a standard epithet at the time.10 Although the Cold War is over, and Russia’s strained post-Cold War relations with the West have generally improved since the 11 September 2001 terrorist attacks, it is still pertinent to ask whether Western aid, and in our case Western health interventions, are perceived in a Cold War or a ‘Cold Peace’ perspective. Does the Russian medical establishment perceive the West’s interest in health collaboration as yet another ploy aimed at humiliating Russia even further, or at least a reflection of Western disregard of traditional Russian knowledge? Is there still a tendency to label those who embrace Western science as ‘slavish and servile’?

DOTS in Russia and the Baltic states Tuberculosis proliferation in Russia rose from around 30 per 100,000 population in the early 1990s to approximately 80 per 100,000 at the end of the decade. Death rates rose from 8.1 per 100,000 population in 1991 to 20.4 per 100,000 in 2000.11 Incidence was much higher in

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prisons, with reported notification rates among inmates ranging from 820 to 7,000 per 100,000 population.12 In the north-western region, Kaliningrad Oblast and Nenets Autonomous Okrug were at the Russian average, while incidence was only half the average in Murmansk and Arkhangelsk Oblasts. Among the Baltic states, the situation was more or less the same in Latvia and Lithuania as in Russia, while Estonia was better off. The resurgence of tuberculosis has been linked to the widening crisis affecting the Soviet Union’s health service that started in the 1980s, and, more importantly, to the dramatic reduction in living conditions following the economic reforms of the early 1990s. Multi-drug resistant tuberculosis prevalence in the civilian population in Russia was in 2000 estimated to occur in about 7 per cent of cases.13 The lack of a constant supply of first-line drugs is the main reason for the development of multi-drug resistant strains of tuberculosis in the former Soviet Union. This has, in particular, been a problem in prisons. Difficulties were compounded by the compartmentalized character of post-Soviet bureaucracy: a range of federal agencies have their own tuberculosis services, which have little, if any, contact with the ‘civilian’ health authorities, under the Ministry of Health. Most importantly, prison health administration is under the Ministry of Justice.

Background: The WHO strategy The DOTS (Directly Observed Treatment with Short Course Chemotherapy) strategy has been promoted by the WHO since the early 1990s. It consists of five elements: (1) government commitment to sustained tuberculosis-control activities; (2) case detection by sputum smear microscopy among symptomatic patients self-reporting to health services; (3) standardized treatment regimens lasting at least six to eight months for all confirmed sputum smear-positive cases, with directly observed treatment for the initial two months; (4) a regular, uninterrupted supply of all essential anti-tuberculosis drugs; and (5) a standardized recording and reporting system that allows assessment of treatment results for each patient and of the tuberculosis-control programme overall.

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Based on several decades’ experience, but conceptualized as a strategy in its current form in 1994, DOTS is considered one of the most effective and cost-effective interventions in global public health ever. Its average cure rate is nearly 80 per cent, ranging between 70 and 95 per cent, and epidemiological models indicate that DOTS could cut global tuberculosis incidence in half in 10–15 years.14 Its low cost per patient and effectiveness without hospitalization means it is a feasible approach even for poor countries. Without DOTS, the annual tuberculosis rates were expected to rise by 41 per cent from 1998 to 2020 (from 7.8 million to 10.6 million cases per year); achievement of WHO targets would prevent 23 per cent or 48 million cases in the period 1998–2020.15 Further, DOTS provides the best known defence against the development of multidrug resistant strains of Mycobacterium tuberculosis.16 Although the effectiveness of DOTS is unquestionable, it is not a panacea. With the diagnostic and treatment tools currently available, tuberculosis cannot be eradicated globally. In the most optimistic scenario, more than 20 per cent of the global tuberculosis burden may survive even the most rigorous and complete application of DOTS.17 The development of multi-drug resistant tuberculosis is particularly alarming. Multi-drug resistant tuberculosis is curable, but requires extensive chemotherapy that takes up to two years and is more toxic to patients than first-line drugs.18 ‘Second-line drugs’ are often prohibitively expensive, though without them patients with multidrug resistant tuberculosis are deemed incurable. In 1998, the WHO conceived a strategy for the management of multi-drug resistant tuberculosis, which it labelled DOTS-Plus.19 DOTS-Plus embraces the five tenets of the DOTS strategy, but addresses additionally urgent needs in high-prevalence areas, notably the use of second-line anti-tuberculosis drugs. DOTS-Plus is intended as a supplement to the regular DOTS strategy and is only introduced in areas where DOTS is already well established. In 1999, the WHO set up a working group on DOTS-Plus for multi-drug resistant tuberculosis.20 The group identified poor access to second-line drugs for low and middle-income countries as a major obstacle to the implementation of DOTS-Plus. Working with the group, members of the pharmaceutical industry agreed to offer preferential prices for DOTS-Plus pilot projects that meet the standards set out by the working group’s scientific panel. A so-called Green Light Committee was set up to review applications for such drugs.

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The Soviet tuberculosis heritage An extensive tuberculosis-control programme existed in the Soviet Union; it was a bulky vertical structure with an elaborate network of tuberculosis hospitals, dispensaries and sanatoria. The first steps in developing the system were taken in 1918, when the tuberculosis dispensary system was established.21 In 1993, there were more than 120,000 beds and around 100,000 doctors employed in Russia’s tuberculosis sector.22 The system comprised the following five elements: (1) yearly mass population screening by chest radiography for detection of active cases, with subsequent reliance on radiography for the follow-up and determination of cure for those identified; (2) long-term hospitalization and patient isolation, leading to unintended but associated social stigmatization of tuberculosis cases; (3) continued pre-chemotherapy era reliance on surgery as a primary treatment modality in addition to the use of long-term multidrug regimens administered through individualized approaches; (4) repeated vaccination with BCG until conversion of the tuberculin skin test among children; and (5) twice-yearly treatment with isoniazid as prophylaxis against relapse for certain pulmonary cases.23 Thus, the main difference between the traditional Russian approach to tuberculosis detection and treatment and DOTS is that the former pursues active case finding through mass screening of the population (instead of passive case finding based on sputum smear microscopy among self-reporting patients); hospitalization and isolation (instead of out-patient treatment); long-term, individualized multi-drug approaches (instead of short-course standard cure); and the use of surgery no longer employed in the West. According to Russian thinking, diagnosis based on bacteriology is a diagnosis made too late, so radiography is the main method of diagnosis.24 The use of hospitalization as a substitute for out-patient treatment is largely the result of more general principles for the organization of the Soviet health-care sector, still in operation in contemporary Russia. For instance, funding is allocated on the basis of hospitalization figures rather than simply treatment figures. Hence, it can be argued that the Russian tuberculosis effort is financially dependent on in-patient care.25

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There are also financial incentives that favour surgical over non-surgical therapy.26 On the other hand, some of the DOTS elements have been practised in Russia for a considerable time, e.g., supervised treatment. According to Western experts, without improvements in case detection and cure the incidence of tuberculosis in Russia is expected to rise by about 10 per cent per year, i.e. a doubling every seven years. The introduction and expansion of DOTS is expected to halt the rise, and by 2015 a 10 per cent annual decline in incidence is predicted to occur if DOTS is widely implemented.27 We have seen that DOTS departs from the traditional Russian approach to tuberculosis detection and treatment in several important ways, and that structural barriers remain to be dealt with. The questions to be explored in the following are fairly simple: have the Russians (and the Balts) introduced DOTS? What kind of obstacles are met in attempts at doing so?

Russian and Baltic implementation of DOTS To start out with the general picture: no, DOTS has not been adopted as a general policy towards tuberculosis control in Russia. At the same time: yes, DOTS programmes have been implemented in a number of Russian regions, and official Russian tuberculosis policy after the turn of the millennium is broadly similar to DOTS with its various components. In the Baltic states, DOTS has been integrated into the countries’ national tuberculosis programmes. A conspicuous feature regarding the Russian introduction of DOTS is that the initiative has almost without exception come from regional authorities collaborating with Western organizations, including WHO, and not from federal Russian authorities. The first steps were taken in 1994, when MERLIN (the Medical Emergency Relief International) established a collaborative project with the regional authorities of Tomsk Oblast in Siberia.28 By 2003, DOTS had been introduced in 26 of Russia’s 89 federal subjects.29 Population coverage by DOTS increased from 15 per cent at the end of 2001 to 27 per cent a year later.30 Treatment success is lower than expected from DOTS on a global level (68 per cent), with high rates of death (6 per cent), failure (13 per cent) and default (9 per cent).31 The first federal subject to introduce DOTSPlus to combat multi-drug resistant tuberculosis was Tomsk Oblast in 1999, again in collaboration with MERLIN.32 Smaller DOTS-Plus projects were implemented in Ivanovo Oblast (with USAIDS and

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Centers for Disease Control and Prevention) and Kemerovo Oblast (with Me´decins sans Frontie`res).33 According to WHO, these are still the only three federal subjects in Russia where DOTS-Plus has been implemented.34 In interviews with tuberculosis experts in Arkhangelsk Oblast in September 2003, we were told that the region’s DOTS-Plus proposal had been approved by the Green Light Committee in April that year. Among the Baltic states, DOTS projects in 2001 covered 100 per cent of the population in Estonia and Latvia, and 51 per cent in Lithuania.35 DOTS-Plus is being implemented in Estonia and Latvia.36 Parallel to this development, Russian federal authorities have strengthened their efforts to combat tuberculosis. In the period from 1999 to 2002, the federal budget for tuberculosis control increased from $3 million to $50 mill.37 In 2003, Russia received a $100 million World Bank loan for federal tuberculosis programmes. The Russian Government pledged to match the loan with $134 million in new money over five years for tuberculosis and HIV/AIDS.38 A high-level working group, comprising representatives of the Ministry of Health, the Ministry of Justice, the Russian Academy of Medical Science, the Council of Europe and the WHO, adopted a five-year plan for tuberculosis control in 2002. Political commitment to tuberculosis control is further demonstrated by new legislation passed in 2001 aimed at empowering administrative mechanisms.39 Our Russian interviewees insist nevertheless that while their tuberculosis-control system is quite similar to DOTS, ‘it should not be termed DOTS’, as one of them puts it. But why not?

Russian opposition to DOTS One of the leading Russian experts on tuberculosis control, Mikhail Perelman, articulates Russian opposition to DOTS in an article from 2000.40 His argument is largely twofold: first, he claims that certain aspects of the DOTS regime are not applicable in the Russian setting; second, he opposes the use of the acronym DOTS in general, and to signify something different from traditional Russian tuberculosis control in particular. The thrust of his argument is that hospitalization cannot be fully substituted by ambulatory treatment because patients with chronic or drug-resistant tuberculosis need to be treated in hospitals, and because in many parts of Russia it is more cost-effective than ambulatory treatment. The same argument applies to tuberculosis

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patients with subsidiary conditions such as alcoholism and ‘anti-social behaviour’. He also points to the disagreement between DOTS and the traditional Russian method concerning laboratory diagnosis, and the Russian insistence on surgery as part of tuberculosis treatment. Concerning the latter, he states that: ‘We anticipate an increase in the number of surgical interventions to achieve higher cure rates among the increasing numbers of chronic and drug-resistant cases’.41 Perelman’s objection to the acronym DOTS goes as follows: [F]rom our perspective, the western acronym DOTS merits some special comment. Our colleagues from the WHO and from other international organizations have attempted to integrate DOTS into Russian phthisiatry. Direct translation of DOTS (directly observed therapy, short course) into Russian is ‘treatment with short course under direct observation’, or ‘controlled treatment with short course’. For the following reasons the DOTS acronym is considered unacceptable by many Russian phthisiopulmonologists, as well as by the author of this article. (1) DOTS correctly reflects the meaning of only one of four principles of the antimicrobial therapy of tuberculosis, namely that it has to be controlled to ensure consistent drug administration. (2) Two other important principles are not reflected in this acronym at all: one is the combined use of several drugs, another is the two phases of therapy, intensive and continuation. (3) The emphasis on ‘short course’ is misleading. As opposed to other infectious diseases, the treatment of tuberculosis, in order to achieve good results, needs to be very long. The idea about fast cure through ‘short course’ chemotherapy (usually understood as a few days or weeks) is misleading and counterproductive, especially when taking into account the psychology of tuberculosis patients. The concept of directly observed therapy is well known to Russian physicians, and this principle has been implemented into routine practice for a long time. Therefore, the ‘new’ western acronym for this well-known principle of therapy has not been well received.

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According to a recent statement by Hans Kluge, WHO manager for tuberculosis in Russia, the WHO and the Russian institutions have reached an agreement that in Russia the terms DOTS and DOTSPlus will no longer be used.42 As we see, opposition to DOTS embraces more than medical issues, and despite the differences between the WHO-sponsored approach and traditional Russian position (primarily with regard to the use of hospitalization, radiology and surgery), the tone in which the article is couched expresses a sense of indignation on behalf of Russia and traditional Russian (or Soviet) medicine. More than anything, it seems that Perelman wants to show that WHO has not invented the wheel with its DOTS strategy. This sentiment is reflected, for instance, in his reference to ‘the “new” Western acronym for this well-known principle of therapy’. Throughout the discussion, he also refers to DOTS as explicitly ‘Western’ (not merely ‘foreign’), and to the ignorance of ‘Western’ experts of traditional Russian tuberculosis control. There is also a sense of national pride in other passages of the article, as when he states that ‘Russian phthisiologists have often been disappointed at the scientific level of presentations given by foreign lecturers’.43 Distrust of ‘magic formulas’ from the West is widespread in postSoviet Russia. From the point of view of Russian tuberculosis experts, Russia has a proud heritage of tuberculosis control. The system has experienced problems since the break-up of the Soviet Union, but Russia is no developing country starting from scratch in its battle with the disease. Both the fact that DOTS is generally used in developing countries, and the simplicity with which it is often presented by WHO, seem to exasperate Russian experts. In the West, particularly among international organizations such as WHO, it is often a point in itself to ensure that information is provided as simply and accessibly as possible. The risk here is that Russian experts may feel they are being treated like amateurs and look for inconsistencies in the Western approach to flag their credentials. Hence Perelman’s insistence on the DOTS acronym not covering all therapeutic aspects, and that a six-month course of treatment is ‘not a short course, but a long course’. His mention of the disappointment of Russian specialists with the scientific simplification of Western experts reflects the same sentiment: Russian scientists are not supposed to communicate in a simple and understandable manner; they

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are expected to ensure that their material is accurate and of the requisite complexity. In sum, Perelman’s scepticism to DOTS is not only an expression of patriotism or anti-Western sentiment (‘we oppose DOTS because it comes from the West’), but a combination of national (or possibly institutional or personal) pride and a reaction to the way in which the alternative to the traditional Russian approach has been presented, i.e. as a completely different approach which cannot be implemented only partly or adjusted to local requirements. From the point of view of WHO, it is either all DOTS or no DOTS at all.44 In some of our interviews, ‘WHO arrogance’ was offered as an explanation of Russian resistance to DOTS.45 Given this background, why was DOTS implemented in Russia at all?

‘This is where the others call me an old communist’ – DOTS alone is not enough The more or less ferocious resistance to anything related to DOTS presented by Perelman is by no means representative of the post-Soviet tuberculosis treatment apparatus. A noticeable feature is that the Baltic states and the Russian rim regions in the Northwest have embraced the WHO strategy wholeheartedly, while central tuberculosis experts in the Russian ‘capitals’ of Moscow and St Petersburg display opposition in line with that of Perelman. On the question of DOTS in Russia, a major Russian tuberculosis expert, located in one of the ‘capitals’, stated in an interview with us: Ah, this is where [my Western collaboration partners] call me an old Communist. You know, DOTS consists of five elements. [. . .] We’re not in any way against any of them. No sensible person would be. And we’re grateful to the West for bringing it here. As a result, tuberculosis has become an important issue in Russia. But we do have a tradition in Russia, and not everything about it is bad! She went on to speak about how unfair it is that regions adopting the DOTS strategy suddenly find themselves in a much more favourable situation financially than regions that retain the traditional Russian method: ‘Once you declare your intention to introduce DOTS, your laboratory is redone up to Western standards and you receive a lot of financial support. It is rather unfair. Tuberculosis is a problem

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elsewhere, too.’ She also emphasized that DOTS is not the solution to the tuberculosis problem: Tuberculosis is a social disease. If we solve the social problems, we also solve the problem of tuberculosis. We have to think about why people don’t want to recover. This is a problem that is not solved by DOTS. DOTS isn’t adapted to the Russian reality. Look at other countries, like Sweden, Finland and Norway. They have solved the social problems and they don’t have tuberculosis, but they never used DOTS. Very much like Perelman, she seems primarily to dislike the way DOTS is profiled as some sort of ‘magic formula’ with the implicit assumption that none of the good things about DOTS are found in the traditional Russian approach. She underscores the ‘logical’ basis of her scepticism and distances herself from those who reject DOTS on more nationalistic grounds: ‘Many Russian doctors reject DOTS without really knowing what it is. [That’s not right, but] the West should have presented the same contents without calling it DOTS.’ As already mentioned, neither the Baltic states nor the north-western rim of Russia are as dismissive of DOTS. The general picture drawn by our interviewees in these regions is encapsulated in the following paraphrased statement: ‘The Finns [or Norwegians, or Swedes, or whatever] arrived, convinced us, and everything is going so much better now’. Representatives of the Russian regions that have introduced DOTS, in this case Arkhangelsk Oblast, complain not about the West, but about the Russian tuberculosis establishment: ‘In Russia, [DOTS] came from the regions (s regionov shlo). The problem lies with our Russian experts. They have to rid themselves of certain prejudices. The stereotypes have to be changed.’ Another regional tuberculosis expert, from Murmansk Oblast, expressed moral indignation at the national establishment: ‘As doctors, we are supposed to help people where we can. We promised that when we took the [Hippocratic] oath’. What she seems to be saying is that those who dismiss a proven strategy such as DOTS for unscientific, for instance patriotic reasons, behave immorally. So was DOTS introduced in a number of Northwest Russian federal subjects simply because people from the West succeeded in convincing the Russians about the excellence of this strategy? There are other

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elements to the story. The relevance of the centre– region conflict is obvious: the DOTS issue is used by representatives of the Russian regions to oppose the superiority of the centre, understood as the federal capital of Moscow and the ‘north-western capital’ of St Petersburg. The financial aspect, in turn an important component of centre –region relations, might also be more significant than immediately apparent. As expressed by one of our informants, a civil servant from the Republic of Karelia: Before, we received strict orders ( prikazy) from the centre. The orders were always followed by money, and we always complied with the orders. Suddenly, around 1998, there were the same federal orders, but no money. What were we to do? Then foreign organizations appeared with their DOTS projects. We decided to give it a try.

General Receptiveness to Western Ideas Among our Baltic and Russian interviewees, two distinctly different perceptions of the Western ideas emerged. On the one hand, a substantial majority of the Baltic and Russian informants expressed agreement with their Western partners about basic medical and health-care principles.46 On the other hand, a number of the interviewees expressed serious doubts about Western endeavours, emphasizing instead the proud heritage of Soviet medicine. Representatives of the more extreme variant of this view tend to be of a very specific category: male Russian civil servants of a certain age. As the overview below shows, however, there is a quite widespread tendency in the post-Soviet area – even among those generally positive to Western ideals and trans-national collaboration – to stress that the problems addressed are ‘not really theirs’, and to find the focus on certain marginalized groups in society hard to defend.

‘Why are they so interested in us?’ – the ‘Cold Peace’ perspective There is a huge gap separating the general satisfaction with medical collaboration expressed by most of our interviewees and the fundamental distrust of the West declared by other project participants. In one of the interviews, the distrust in such collaboration projects was apparent as soon as the interviewee started to explain the background to his project

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(a standard opening question in our interviews). Our interviewee, a St Petersburg-based civil servant and medical expert, explained how his first professional contacts with foreigners had been quite disappointing: the Finns had not shown due respect for Russian expertise, which he found ‘rather humiliating’, and little came out of the plans. He seemed to think that international cooperation was a nuisance and was pleased to continue alone, but soon thereafter ‘along came the Swedes’. Although they also had a ‘degrading attitude’ to the Russians, this time around he ‘accepted’ the project proposed by the foreigners. However, he asked himself: ‘Why are they so interested in us? What is their hidden agenda?’ He indicated the direction of his suspicions by saying: ‘Every country’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs is a legal intelligence agency.’ He refused to elaborate on this, but we interpret him here – together with the general spirit of the interview – to the effect that he regarded Western medical initiatives in a ‘Cold Peace’ perspective: the Western states were attempting to invade yet another arena, in this case the health service, to exploit Russian (or Soviet) expertise and press reforms on Russia. He also indicated that figures on communicable diseases in Russia were boosted to attract money from the federal budget or foreign sponsors: ‘[the high figures are] just a little lie for the politicians (malenkaya lozh dlya politikov)’.47 Similar views were expressed by senior officials, although generally more discretely. For instance, one high-ranking official in the federal Russian health bureaucracy was dismayed by the way Western donor countries at a meeting he attended had ‘carved up’ the Russian regions among themselves:48 ‘it evoked a feeling of amusement (chuvstvo yumora) in me, – it is, after all, our country (eto zhe nasha strana)!’ The way he recounted this story, however, reflected exasperation rather than amusement. Despite the ambiguity in his tone, he clearly resents Westerners coming to Russia and ‘doing as they like’. Representatives of different Western countries quarrelling over which Russian regions are ‘theirs’ is a good illustration of this. A similar sense of resentment arose during DOTS’ introductory phase when Westerners were seen as lumping Russia together with developing countries (DOTS was originally a ‘developing-country strategy’), though this particular grudge was rarely mentioned in other connections. One exception concerned a discussion that allegedly had taken place on a CIA report about HIV/AIDS at a meeting attended by one of our Russian

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informants. The report – and the Western representatives at the meeting – expressed concern about the development of HIV/AIDS in, among other countries, India, Ethiopia and Russia. ‘They compared us with these countries!’ was the Russian reaction, combined with exasperation that the HIV/AIDS threat from the USA ‘never’ seems to be an issue. Our Russian interviewee, also from the federal health bureaucracy, concluded that all Western physicians are ‘too open to [American] influence’. Finally, a topic raised by a few of our interviewees concerned the general ignorance of the foreigners who come to Russia with a view to reform its post-Soviet health sector. As expressed by an NGO representative in St Petersburg: ‘The Americans walked in – no, they trampled in – without the slightest knowledge about how things work here.’ As an answer to our questions at the beginning of this chapter: yes, there are people in the Russian administration – even at high levels – who tend to regard Western initiatives from a ‘Cold Peace’ perspective. There is in some instances suppressed – in others quite outspoken – irritation at Western experts ‘entering the country and acting as they please’. We met no outright allegations that the West is doing this to ‘ruin Russia’ (as the extreme variant of the ‘Cold Peace’ discourse proclaims), but there is a lurking suspicion aired that the West is interested in ‘exploiting’ Russian expertise and ‘forming Russia in its own image’.

‘Not really ours’ – distancing oneself from stigmatizing problems A remarkable feature of our interviews was the tendency of the Russian and Baltic project participants to make comments, without being asked, about the origin of the threat posed by communicable diseases. A regional Russian HIV/AIDS specialist began the presentation of his project by pointing out that HIV came to the Russian Republic of Kalmykia in the late 1980s, when a Soviet sailor returned home from a visit in Angola. Discussing the HIV/AIDS problems in Kaliningrad Oblast with us, another Russian civil servant was at pains to emphasize that the virus had not originated there: ‘it’s actually from Poland’. In Arkhangelsk Oblast, we were informed that the virus was ‘imported’ from the Vologda and St Petersburg areas, so the region itself was originally ‘clean’. Our interviewees in the Baltic countries generally identified Russia as the source of most of the problems connected with

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communicable diseases. They also said that some of the underlying issues contributing to the spread of communicable diseases had been ‘imported’ to the post-Soviet area from outside. Drug addiction is an obvious example, frequently referred to in our interviews. The interesting thing here is not so much whether it is ‘true’ that a problem is imported. It is widely known that HIV did not originate in the Soviet Union, and that social problems like drug use and HIV have flowed into the Baltic states in recent years from the Kaliningrad and St Petersburg areas in Russia. The interesting thing is that many of the people in Russia and the Baltic states who are involved in communicable disease projects want to distance themselves from the problems addressed by Western initiatives of this sort. Not only do Western governments and organizations occasionally ‘ride roughshod over Russia and the Baltics’ (often with simplistic ‘magic formulas’ and little knowledge of Russian and Baltic society, at that), they stigmatize the countries in their references to them as ‘AIDS-ridden’ and ‘overflowing with drugs and prostitution’. The general reaction seems to be something like ‘ok, we do have a problem at the moment, but it is not really something that is intrinsic to our society. We got them when the old borders were opened; they were never really ours’. Both these and the ‘Cold Peace’ attitudes discussed above have several points in common. When our interviewees ask ‘Why are they so interested in us?’ they are alluding first to the putative interest of Western governments to exploit Russia or damage its competitiveness, second, to the perception in the West of Russia as a country particularly needy of aid. We encountered various degrees of such displeasure with Western aid in our interviews. Especially in the Baltic states, we occasionally met slight indifference combined with something akin to surprise that the Nordic countries had got it into their heads to address these problems. At a more conscious level, many project participants seem to be ambivalent about accepting this aid. On the one hand, they recognize they have a problem with communicable diseases in their country, and that the collaborative projects might help. There is also the pecuniary side as they often profit financially from such projects (either personally or as institutions). On the other hand, they do not like being recipients of foreign aid, and see it as a reflection of Western arrogance to focus on problems in Russia as long as similar or even greater problems are found in the West. A recurrent argument in our interviews was that

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HIV/AIDS is a huge problem also in the US, ‘but nobody speaks about that.’49 Many interviewees changed back and forth from expressing gratitude and satisfaction with particular collaborative efforts, say, with Scandinavian countries, to scolding the West for singling out Russia as a ‘problem area’ and not seeing its own problems.

‘I can hear the voice of the people!’ – prisoners & prostitutes There is another set of ‘problems’ in the implementation of a number of Western health projects. It pertains to issues that Russian and Baltic project participants in principle agree should be addressed, but which they either do not think appropriate or have trouble ‘selling’ at home. In the first case, the Russian and Baltic informants find these projects worthwhile in general, but problematic in this particular setting. Their resistance is more rationally founded and less passionate than in some of the cases reviewed above (where the Russians tend to question the intentions of Western governments). In the second case, the project participants are personally in favour of the projects, but protest that it is difficult for the Russian or Baltic publics and their own superiors to understand the priorities. The typical example of the first of these types of problems is the priority given to prisons in many projects initiated by Western donors (concerning, e.g., tuberculosis or HIV/AIDS). In particular, physical reconstruction has been performed to prevent the spread of communicable diseases: isolates have been built, and cells, kitchens, laundries and other prison facilities have been renovated. Our interviewees tend to understand the rationale behind these projects, i.e. they do not think their Western partners have suspicious intentions or are insensitive to the situation. They probably also understand that the health gains might be considerable. However, some of them display exasperation at the fact that this part of society is singled out for financial assistance from the West. As expressed by one high-ranking Russian official in the federal health bureaucracy: We do not understand why prisons are given priority. In Russia, we have always given priority to women, pregnant women, children and the elderly. The prisoners are bandits! In official meetings [with Western partners], the Russian [representatives] do not object, but many of them really don’t understand the

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priority given to prisons. It is also difficult to explain this to the public. For example, in Murmansk a lot of money is given to an isolate in a prison colony, while there is little to give to civilian tuberculosis institutions. People don’t understand this. I can hear the voice of the people [this can’t be right]! Another example: In Petrozavodsk, there were problems with the town’s water pipes. The same problem was found in their prisons, but after [our Western partners] were there, conditions in the prison are better than in the town! Others aired similar doubts about prison projects, though they emphasized that they themselves were favourably disposed towards them. For instance, some of our Baltic interviewees argued that opposition to prison projects could be explained by these countries’ Soviet heritage (and thus was ‘not really Baltic’). An official in the Estonian Ministry of Social Affairs says: ‘The mentality was such [in the Soviet Union] that society did not have to take care of prisoners. For many people, it is very difficult to understand why prisoners should get more financial support per capita than the unemployed.’ Other Baltic informants, again, blame opposition to the closed nature of the prison sector during the Soviet era. A representative of the Estonian Ministry of Justice states: The real problem is that people are not used to having prisons, not to say prison hospitals, in their neighbourhood. Estonia is a very ‘new’ society. We are used from Soviet times for prisons to be very closed. Nobody knew what was going on in the system. Now the prisons have become part of society, but it takes time for people to get used to this. People don’t understand why prisoners should be given good conditions. This is a process of familiarization which will take time. Typical examples of the second category of problems discussed in this section, where project participants in the recipient countries agree on the particular action but find it difficult to ‘sell’ to the post-Soviet public, concern information campaigns for safe sex and harm-reduction measures targeted at intravenous drug users. ‘Parents have a tendency to dislike this kind of information, they find it unnecessary and feel it

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does more harm than good’, a Russian medical worker noted on efforts to provide safe sex information for schools. Likewise, some of our interviewees mention problems associated with harm-reduction projects aimed at prostitutes and intravenous drug users. There is a tendency among Russian officials, they say, to think that drug abuse, and in particular prostitution, are not really widespread in their country. Some of our interviewees observed that officials tended to ‘close their eyes’ to drug abuse, often because they simply do not know how to tackle it. As far as prostitution is concerned, it might be not so much that officials do not think it exists but, as a male-dominated bureaucracy, they silently ‘approve’ of it and therefore resent foreign interference. Somewhat along the same lines, we were told that the police or other governmental officials even work as pimps for street prostitutes. They would obviously have no interest in any clamp down. Finally, our interviewees also suggested that drug addicts in Russia and the Baltic states are generally regarded as criminals, more deserving of punishment than assistance. This has in some instances impeded the implementation of projects to distribute clean needles to intravenous drug users.50 In one Northwest Russian city, permission was obtained from the police to run a ‘needle bus’, but when it started up (the police had been informed of the opening date in the application), the police came and arrested the drug users.51 The result, in all these cases, is that project participants in the post-Soviet countries carry out their tasks in a partly hostile environment, without the understanding or support of the authorities or the public. Sometimes there is outspoken criticism of the priorities made by the Western partners. One of our Baltic interviewees said that the needle-exchange project seemed more a goal in itself than a means, as it should be in his opinion. He is saying, in other words, that the Western insistence on culturally sensitive projects such as needle exchange is somewhat ‘contrived’. A Russian civil servant (Moscowbased) expressed his opinion on this issue in the following way: The [Westerners] must understand Russian political reality. [. . .] The Ministry of Health [of the Russian Federation] cannot distribute needles to drug addicts. It is actually illegal in Russia. [Before starting such projects] you should come to us and learn how things are done here the legal way [ po zakonu ].

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Conclusion Whether Russia should learn from the West or seek its own historical path is one of the fundamental dilemmas facing Russian discourse about the country’s place in the world, and has for centuries been at the forefront of Russian foreign-policy thinking. While the Soviet period reinforced isolationist tendencies in Russian politics, the post-Cold War period has seen a massive upsurge in contacts with the West, but accompanied by a renewal of ‘patriotic’ fervour and anti-Western sentiments since the late 1990s. Western political and economic principles have been either eagerly taken on board (especially in the early 1990s) or blatantly rejected (especially in the latter half of the decade) because they are ‘Western’ (and hence either praiseworthy or despicable, depending on your ideological point of view). In the medical sphere, the attempts by WHO and various Western organizations from the mid1990s to introduce the DOTS tuberculosis diagnosis and treatment formula in Russia is the most prominent illustration. While the strategy has encountered fierce resistance within the Russian tuberculosis establishment, it has been embraced by regional authorities in a number of Russian federal subjects, among them many in the north-western region. Russian resistance to DOTS is widely considered to be connected with national, institutional and personal pride, which obviously counts for a large part of the explanation. In addition, it was probably unfortunate that WHO arrived on the scene with the DOTS initiative when Russian disappointment with the West was at a high-point (in the late 1990s). The way DOTS was presented to the Russian medical community probably caused many hackles to rise too. It seems to have been done rather simplistically with an emphasis on its extraordinary record of success and cost-effectiveness. To Russian ears it probably sounded like a ‘magic formula’, which failed to take into account the practicalities on the ground where it was supposed to be implemented. Russian experts immediately saw that elements of the strategy would be difficult to implement and hence contested the idea of DOTS as a panacea. Second, the lack of flexibility on the part of WHO regarding DOTS implementation (‘we cannot compromise on DOTS’) probably annoyed many Russians (‘we do have a tradition in Russia, and not everything about it is bad’). Third, Russian tuberculosis experts acknowledge the value of parts of the DOTS programme but disliked the

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Western medical community taking credit for treatment procedures already in use in Russia. On the other hand, several Russian federal subjects, and the three Baltic states, have carried the DOTS strategy forward. The reason given here is the greater openness of these regions and countries to Western ideas than would be found in the medical establishments of Moscow and St Petersburg. Again, we acknowledge this generally proposed explanation, but would like to add that these events should also be understood from a centre–region perspective (or from a post-Soviet foreign policy perspective, as far as the Baltic states are concerned). In particular, the financial aspects should not be overlooked: in the late 1990s, transfers of money from the federal authorities to the Russian regions trickled nearly to a halt, then ‘the foreign organizations appeared with their DOTS projects – we decided to give it a try’. More generally, our interviewees say that most ideas and principles introduced by their Western partners have been embraced with a good amount of enthusiasm. The majority of project participants in the recipient countries view the projects as very welcome in a situation still characterized by financial hardship. Not all agree. Some interviewees felt that collaborative projects of this sort are either a nuisance to be avoided (initiated by foreign Ministries of Foreign Affairs, which are ‘legal intelligence agencies’), or extremely difficult to implement (since the foreigners seldom acknowledge the value of Russian expertise). Furthermore, our interviewees emphasized time and again that the problems addressed by the West were ‘not really theirs’. Many also found it pertinent to remind us that similar problems are found in the West, notably in the US, ‘but nobody mentions them’. Clearly, a number of Russian (and some Baltic) project participants acknowledge the joint projects as a welcome contribution to their health-care services, but find the problems addressed slightly exaggerated by the West. This schism in the approach to Western medical assistance is particularly apparent when stigmatized groups such as prisoners and prostitutes are addressed. Partly, the Russian and Baltic project participants agree on the feasibility of the projects, but regret the difficulties arising from the clash of cultures (‘I can hear the voice of the people!’). Partly, they express dismay at the particular issues chosen for joint action, though they acknowledge that they seldom communicate such disagreement to their Western partners (‘before entering such projects, you should learn how things are done here the legal way’).

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It is too early to evaluate the achievements of the Western initiatives in medical terms. Since the turn of the millennium, tuberculosis incidence has stabilized in Northwestern Russia and decreased slightly in the Baltic states. While this development cannot necessarily be ascribed to Western programmes, some positive results of these initiatives are indisputable. Most importantly, sustainable networks have been created between medical workers in the East and West, between the Baltic states and Russia (which had largely been interrupted by the break-up of the Soviet Union), and between Russian regions (which did not always exist prior to the Western interventions). An important lesson for future initiatives would be to avoid lumping Russia together with developing countries, and to pay sufficient attention to the expertise that does exist in the country, even if the objective is to eventually try to convince post-Soviet experts that new expertise is necessary. In particular, ‘magic formulas’ from the West will most likely meet resistance, at least as long as Soviet experts are still in office.

CHAPTER 7 PATRIOTS, DOCTORS AND HAPPY SOVIETS 1

Introduction Health has increasingly become an issue of international politics, in the academic literature as in real life. The emergence of new and reemergence of old infectious diseases since the early 1990s has attracted scholarly interest from various fields of investigation: international relations theorists are beginning to view global health as a relevant field of study, and students of public health are increasingly turning to the trans-national and international aspects of health politics.2 In the European context, the dramatic rise in tuberculosis and HIV/AIDS in some of the former East Bloc countries has caused particular concern. To combat this emerging threat, the Council of Baltic Sea States (CBSS) launched in 2000 the Task Force on Communicable Disease Control in the Baltic Sea Region (the Task Force). During the period 2001– 4, the Task Force implemented approximately 200 projects in areas such as tuberculosis, HIV/AIDS and public health reform in the north-western parts of Russia and the Baltic states. Whether Russia should learn from the West or seek its own historical path is one of the fundamental dilemmas facing Russian discourse about the country’s place in the world, and has for centuries been at the forefront of Russian foreign-policy thinking. While the Soviet period reinforced isolationist tendencies in Russian politics, the post-Cold War period has seen a massive upsurge in contacts with the West, but accompanied by a renewal of ‘patriotic’ fervour and anti-Western

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sentiments since the late 1990s. The Baltic states, on their part, have chosen a distinctly Western identity after the break-up of the Soviet Union. A body of literature is developing on how Western aid programmes are perceived in the post-Soviet area, with an emphasis on how Western principles such as ‘democracy’ and ‘market economy’ have failed in the Russian setting and therefore are no longer met with the same enthusiasm as in the early 1990s.3 In the medical sphere, the World Health Organization (WHO) and Western governments have from the mid-1990s engaged in attempts to reorganize the post-Soviet health care systems. Particular emphasis has been placed on the introduction of the DOTS (Directly Observed Treatment with Shortcourse chemotherapy) tuberculosis diagnosis and treatment formula. The introduction of DOTS was at the heart also of the Task Force under scrutiny here. In this chapter, we discuss our application of qualitative interviews to analyse the perception of the Task Force projects in Russia and the Baltic states, in particular those projects related to the introduction of DOTS in the recipient countries.4 After a methodological note and a brief summary of the conclusions of our empirical study, we outline the ‘cast’ of our interview scene and the interpretation of our data. The aim is to show how we went about the interpretation process after the interviews. But as the other chapters of this book show, this is as much about coming to grips with Russia as it is about understanding international health cooperation.

Interpreting Qualitative Interviews Reaching an authentic understanding of people’s experiences is at the heart of qualitative interview research. Kvale mentions post-modern construction, hermeneutic interpretation and phenomenological description as the philosophical sources of qualitative interviewing.5 In everyday language, interpretation is probably a keyword. The interview is not only a source of factual information, but a setting that is influenced by both the interviewer and the interviewee which requires interpretation by the interviewer. Not only the interviewee, but also the interviewer, find themselves in a socially demanding situation, in which he or she are supposed to have a meaningful conversation with, most often, a total stranger. As socially adaptable

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human beings, both sides of the table will want to make the experience a pleasant one, which in short means to keep the conversation going on an amicable level. This might prohibit in-depth analysis of problematic issues that otherwise would have been of great interest to the interviewer, but also open up for information unattainable by the interviewer through other research methods. A practical example of how qualitative interviewing can be approached is Rubin & Rubin’s discussion of cultural interviews.6 They argue that researchers should attempt to achieve an in-depth understanding of why people do the things they do, their general outlook, norms, values and rules that are taken for granted, in order to find explanations that are normally hidden to the subjects themselves.7 The overall aim is to gain an understanding of how and why whole cultures are developed and maintained. The authors single out different mediation forms by which information can be conveyed from interviewee to interviewer: a narrative gives facts about when, why and how a specific event took place, while a story additionally mediates some kind of moral or indication of the subject’s world view. Myths express important norms and values in the community to which the subject belongs, whereas accounts are explanations that serve to justify a specific behaviour. A front represents the picture that subjects give of what they think is expected of them. Finally, themes are repeated descriptions of real or desired behaviour. Researchers can gain valuable information about the interviewees and their ‘cultures’ by analysing interview data according to the mediation forms used in the various parts of the interview. Approximately 100 interviews were conducted for the present study, mainly in Russia and the three Baltic states.8 We talked to people who were central in the establishment of the Task Force, who represented the various countries on its decision making bodies, and who were involved in the implementation of projects in the fields of tuberculosis, HIV/AIDS, prison health and primary health care. Most interviews were carried out at the workplace of the interviewee and normally lasted from an hour to an hour and a half, although some were completed quicker and others took several hours.9 All interviews were conducted without an interpreter; most importantly, all interviews with Russians were conducted in Russian.10

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Health Initiatives from the West The DOTS strategy encountered fierce resistance within the Russian tuberculosis establishment, but has been embraced by the Baltic states and by regional authorities in a number of Russian federal subjects. Russian resistance to DOTS is widely considered to be connected with national, institutional and personal pride. In addition, it was probably unfortunate that WHO arrived on the scene with the DOTS initiative in the late 1990s, when Russian disappointment with the West was at a high-point. Also, DOTS was presented to the Russian medical community rather simplistically, with an emphasis on its extraordinary record of success and cost-effectiveness. To Russian ears it probably sounded like a ‘magic formula’, which failed to take into account the practicalities on the ground where it was supposed to be implemented. Russian experts immediately saw that elements of the strategy would be difficult to implement and hence contested the idea of DOTS as a panacea. Second, the lack of flexibility on the part of WHO regarding DOTS implementation probably annoyed many Russians. A representative of the WHO Moscow office said in an interview with us that ‘We cannot compromise on DOTS. For us, this is a political matter.’ Third, Russian tuberculosis experts acknowledge the value of parts of the DOTS programme but disliked the Western medical community taking credit for treatment procedures already in use in Russia. Neither the Baltic states nor the north-western rim of Russia are as dismissive of DOTS as the Russian tuberculosis establishment of Moscow and St Petersburg. The general picture drawn by our interviewees in the Baltic states and the Northwest Russian regions is encapsulated in the following paraphrased statement: ‘The Finns [or Norwegians, or Swedes, or whatever] arrived, convinced us, and everything is going so much better now’. Representatives of the Russian regions that have introduced DOTS complain not about the West, but about the Russian tuberculosis establishment: ‘In Russia, [DOTS] came from the regions (s regionov shlo). The problem lies with our Russian experts. They have to rid themselves of certain prejudices. The stereotypes have to be changed.’ Another regional tuberculosis expert expressed moral indignation at the national establishment: ‘As doctors, we are supposed to help people where we can. We promised that when we took the [Hippocratic] oath’. What she seems to be saying is that

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those who dismiss a proven strategy such as DOTS for unscientific, for instance patriotic reasons, behave immorally. More generally, our interviewees say that most ideas and principles introduced by the Task Force projects have been embraced with a good amount of enthusiasm. The majority of project participants in the recipient countries view the projects as very welcome in a situation still characterized by financial hardship. Not all agree. Some interviewees felt that collaborative projects of this sort are either a nuisance to be avoided (initiated by Western Ministries of Foreign Affairs, which are ‘legal intelligence agencies’), or extremely difficult to implement (since the foreigners seldom acknowledge the value of Russian expertise). Furthermore, our interviewees emphasized time and again that the problems addressed by the Task Force were ‘not really theirs’, for example, HIV came from the Soviet Union from Africa or to the Baltic States from Kaliningrad or St Petersburg. Many also found it pertinent to remind us that similar problems are found in the West, notably in the US, ‘but nobody mentions them’. Clearly, a number of Russian (and some Baltic) project participants acknowledge the joint projects as a welcome contribution to their health-care services, but find the problems addressed slightly exaggerated by the West. This schism in the approach to Task Force projects is particularly apparent when stigmatized groups such as prisoners and prostitutes are addressed. Partly, the Russian and Baltic project participants agree on the feasibility of the projects, but regret the difficulties arising from the clash of cultures. Partly, they express dismay at the particular issues chosen for joint action, though they acknowledge that they seldom communicate such disagreement to Western members of the Task Force. One high-ranking Russian official says in his interview with us that the high priority of prisoners in Task Force projects are difficult for many Russians to comprehend: ‘In Russia, we have always given priority to women, pregnant women and the elderly. The prisoners are bandits! [. . .] I can hear the voice of the people [: this can’t be right]!

The Interview Scene: ‘Cast’ and Interpretation In this section, we first give an outline of the main ‘types’ or categories of interviewees we encountered during our investigation.11 Practically all of them belong to one of the two ‘leading roles’ we sketch below; some

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additionally partake of one or more of the three ‘supporting roles’ of the ‘cast’. Next, we try more systematically to subject the interview data to interpretation, comparing interview statements with Rubin & Rubin’s mediation forms.12 The aim is to put flesh on the bone regarding the interviewees’ norms and values in order to better understand why they produce specific statements in the interview. If not otherwise indicated, citations are from our interviews, some slightly paraphrased.

The ‘cast’ There are two ‘leading roles’ on our interview stage, two voices that sound louder, more resonant and distinct than the others: they are the ‘dedicated medical worker’ and the ‘patriot’; see Figure 7.1. This is not to say that a ‘dedicated medical worker’ cannot be patriotic, or that a ‘patriot’ is not dedicated in his medical work. The terms are simply used to delineate the two most distinct categories of informants we encountered during our investigation, and to highlight certain features of these categories. The ‘dedicated medical worker’ is a category into which we can place the vast majority of our interviewees. She – most of them are women – meets the interviewers with a professional and ‘business-like’ (what the Russians call delovoy) attitude, immediately understanding the purpose

The leading roles: •

the ‘dedicated medical worker’

•

the ‘patriot’

The supporting roles:

Figure 7.1

•

the ‘happy Soviet’

•

the ‘fervent project defender’

•

the ‘slightly disinterested bureaucrat’

The ‘Cast’ of our Interview Play

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of the interview and answering our questions efficiently and to-thepoint. She appears to be deeply engaged in her medical work and happy to be able to develop professional contacts with colleagues from the West. Not too concerned about who finances the collaborative project, she nevertheless expresses her gratitude to the Western donor for taking upon himself this responsibility at a time of financial hardship in the post-Soviet area. She sometimes criticises representatives of the postSoviet medical establishment for not taking on new ideas more actively, implicitly or explicitly indicating that national, institutional or personal pride may be the reason. It was one of the ‘dedicated medical workers’ who, talking about the introduction of DOTS in Russia, referred to the Hippocratic oath and doctors’ obligation to help where they can. Further, the ‘dedicated medical worker’ generally appears to be more ‘open’ than average with her subordinates (most of our interviewees had some kind of executive position), often assembling them around her for the interview with us so they could have their say as well. The conversations would typically be two-way dialogues and mutually clarifying for both interviewers and interviewees, as, indeed, some of our interviewees actually acknowledged: ‘it’s good to have a talk like this from time to time; it makes you see things clearer.’ The ‘patriot’ is a rather different breed. He – this time we are talking mostly of male interviewees, generally of a rather advanced age – meets the interviewers with a mixture of scepticism and paternal indulgence. More than anything, he regrets Russia’s ‘slavishness and servility to the West’ – an old Soviet slogan used to brand non-patriotic scientists13 – represented by the attitudes of the post-Soviet medical establishment to the Task Force. The more extreme variant of the ‘patriot’ ‘hate[s] it when foreigners try to speak Russian’ and complains about Westerners’ lack of respect for Soviet medical traditions. While he may see some usefulness in collaborative projects such as those found under the Task Force, he emphasizes that he only ‘accepts’ them when they meet the necessary scientific standards (which they do not always do in his opinion). He scolds the West for targeting Russia – the ‘patriot’ tends to be Russian rather than Baltic – as a ‘problem area’ while failing to admit that it has problems of its own with communicable diseases: ‘communicable diseases are a huge problem in the US, too, but nobody speaks about that’. In contrast to the ‘communicative’ style of the ‘dedicated medical worker’, the ‘patriot’ seems more enamoured of the

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traditional Soviet hierarchical style of leadership. While the former, as mentioned, might assemble her colleagues for the interview to let as many voices as possible be heard, the latter would meet us alone, preferring the interview to take place at a cafe´ or our hotel instead of at his office, possibly reflecting a sense of discomfort about being seen socializing with people from the West. We identified three ‘supporting roles’ in our interview ‘cast’: the ‘happy Soviet’, the ‘fervent project defender’ and the ‘slightly disinterested bureaucrat’; see Figure 7.2. The ‘happy Soviet’ is a variant of the ‘dedicated medical worker’, and aspects of this category are most often a predominant part of the thinking found among the ‘patriots’. The ‘happy Soviets’ are, as the label suggests, concerned with maintaining practices that gave meaning to everyday working life during the Soviet era, especially those that involved encouraging the public to lead healthy and morally upright lives. And they seem very happy to perform this kind of work. In our Task Force context, the ‘happy Soviet’ enthusiastically recounts how he or she picked the best schools and libraries in the region to organize ‘AIDS propaganda’ campaigns, and how impassioned the students are to ‘spread the good word’ and over-fulfil performance targets. The ‘happy Soviets’ sound very much like the pioner and komsomol leaders of former days. Unlike the ‘dedicated medical worker’ and the ‘patriot’, they do not seem to care much that the projects are financed by the West. While the former welcomes assistance from Western governments and the latter condemns it, the ‘happy Soviet’ hardly gives a thought to where the money comes from. To them, the Task Force (or taksfors, as many tend to call it since this is easier to pronounce in Russian) is just another ‘grant giver’ (grantodatel), at best. Generally, they would find it ‘difficult to say’ what the Task Force actually is. In our interview situations, the ‘happy Soviet’ tended to be slightly more ceremonial than the rest: we would hear speeches about ‘good neighbourhood’ (dobrososedstvo) and perhaps be offered a glass of champagne ‘for the occasion’. The ‘fervent project defender’ is anxious to present his project in as good a light as possible and avoid the interviewers, or ‘auditors’ as they often saw us, getting wind of any difficulties. He or she would generally adopt a persuasive strategy for the interview, overloading the interviewers with information about why a particular project is necessary, how well it has been implemented, and how essential it is to

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keep up the financing. Account books were brought along to show that the funds had been used on legitimate outlays, which was quite beyond the purpose of our mission. Unlike the interview setting with the ‘dedicated medical worker’, there was little room for two-way dialogue in interviews with ‘fervent project defenders’. These were the least useful of our interviews, a point we return to in the next section. Finally, the ‘slightly disinterested bureaucrat’ is most often not directly involved in the Task Force projects and therefore has limited knowledge of them and, evidently, also limited interest in them. The ‘slightly disinterested bureaucrats’ would meet us for a quick talk in their office, and their concern for the projects would be far less passionate – in either a positive or negative direction – than that of the other categories listed above. There were more people of this category in the Baltic countries than in Russia. The reasons may be firstly that the Baltic states, unlike Russia, hardly have any positive regard for the Soviet period and hence feel little need to defend the heritage of Soviet medicine. Secondly, these countries are generally more affluent than Russia, have fewer problems, and are better able to cope on their own. With EU membership imminent, initiatives such as the Task Force also became relatively less important here than for the Russian health-care service.

The interpretation of data A large number of statements produced by our interviewees can be categorized as narratives according to Rubin & Rubin’s exposition of various mediation forms:14 straightforward descriptions of when, why and how specific events took place. Such narratives were useful for us, particularly in the early stage of interviewing, in the sense that they gave us insight into the design and practical implementation of Task Force projects. As the actual implementation of individual projects was not included in the study remit, however, the narratives were actually less important for us than the interviewees probably assumed. What did prove more important to our efforts to understand the impact of contextual factors on the Task Force were the stories, i.e. narratives which additionally contain a moral or indication of the subject’s world view. One example: when one of our ‘patriot’ interviewees recounted how the Finns and then the Swedes arrived with their project ideas, neither of whom showed due respect for Soviet medical traditions, the interesting thing was not the chronology of events, it was what the story told us

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about the world view of the interviewee himself, that he is fundamentally sceptical to collaborating with the West. Projects like these are a concrete reflection of the disdain of the West for Soviet medicine and the stigmatization of Russia as a ‘problem area’. Even more obviously, when a ‘patriot’ says that ‘Every country’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs is a legal intelligence agency’ or that ‘If we had still lived in the Soviet Union, all the [Task Force] projects would have been implemented in a jiffy’, the important thing is what it says about the informant’s world view. Whether ministries of foreign affairs are in fact intelligence agencies, and whether the Task Force projects would have been implemented more quickly under Soviet administrative rule, is actually beside the point. Similarly, when a ‘patriot’ claims that the high disease figures used to legitimize interventions run by the Task Force are ‘just a little lie for the politicians’, it is a moot question whether this should primarily be interpreted as a ‘fact’ or an exposition of a particular world view. The most important question we want to ask regarding the interpretation of the interview data pertains to their validity: did our interviewees tell the truth, or were we simply fooled? In terms of Rubin & Rubin’s mediation forms, it seems particularly pertinent to ask if parts of what we heard should be interpreted as accounts, explanations that serve to justify a given behaviour, or as fronts, something the informant says just to ‘please’ the interviewer.15 Hypothetically, everything we were told about well-founded and successfully implemented projects could have been a smoke screen aimed at disguising collaboration problems and distrust among project workers. Informants could do this to minimize the risk faced by the more problematic projects of losing financial backing. Indeed, we do think that some descriptions of wellfunctioning projects should be treated as fronts, or possibly accounts, notably those which the ‘fervent project defenders’ provided for our consumption. In the end, we found them to be of very limited use. These informants seemed so preoccupied with painting a happy picture of their projects and so little interested in two-way communication concerning the pros and cons of a particular type of project that it was hard to tell whether the happy picture they were painting was in fact true or mainly aimed at ‘pleasing’ the interviewer, i.e. a front. On a few occasions, we were informed about a particular project’s difficulties before the interview and tried to elicit further information

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from the interviewee during our conversation. But they fervently denied the existence of any problems at all. In other instances, we were told about a project’s problems after the interview, which helped explain the behaviour of the interviewee. For instance, after one interview we learnt that our interviewee had reportedly used some of the project money for other purposes than intended (buying data equipment instead of arranging a planned English course for the employees), which might explain her emphatic insistence on how well the project money had been spent and the actual infrastructure benefits that had accrued from it (and the more than average ‘happy Soviet’ hospitality we were subjected to, for that matter). We could probably view this as an account, serving to justify a particular behaviour. When our interviewee emphasized the exceptional functionality of some building structure, it could have been a way of saying that spending the money on English lessons would indeed have been a waste. At a more general level, the fact that we as interviewers ‘represented’ the main Task Force donor country may have encouraged respondents to paint it in carefree colours – out of a desire to be perceived as ‘courteous’, if nothing else. Interview statements could, as a result of this, be interpreted as fronts. Our overall interpretation, however, is that, apart from a few extreme cases (provided by the ‘fervent project defenders’), we believe that the descriptions we heard were quite sincere and ‘true’. The comparison we made of the information obtained from the different interviews with written reports from other outside observers, supports this conclusion. Were there any recurrent themes in the interviews? One striking example was the tendency among all categories of interviewees, from the ‘dedicated medical worker’ to the ‘patriot’, to emphasize that the problems addressed by the Task Force were ‘not really theirs’, i.e. did not really originate in their home country or region. This was all the more conspicuous as we never asked about these things or in other ways attempted to steer the conversation in that direction. We were repeatedly told how HIV had come to the Soviet Union from Angola, to the Baltic states from Russia, to Kaliningrad from Poland, to Northwestern Russia from the central parts of the country, and so on and so forth. The common theme is that whatever it is, it is not ‘from here’. This is a ‘talking mode’ that was rather unfamiliar to us. As Norwegian citizens, we cannot remember having heard stories about ‘how HIV came to Norway’, ‘where HIV came from’ or ‘by whom it

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spread from Oslo to the rest of the country’. Again, the interesting thing about these accounts or themes is not so much whether it is true that HIV took the alleged path to and within these countries. The interesting thing is that so many Task Force project workers clearly dislike being made to feel that the spread of communicable diseases is their fault and therefore found it necessary to emphasize that they originated from the outside. Now this may be a way of compensating for all the ‘fuss’ caused by, e.g., the Task Force’s highlighting of the problems. Another related theme, though less widespread (largely confined to the category of ‘patriots’), was that despite communicable diseases being a considerable problem in the West also, ‘nobody speaks about that’. We would assume that many people on the donor side of the Task Force, or among the general public in the West for that matter, find this attitude a bit surprising: shouldn’t the Russians be happy to get help to solve their problems? Evidently, there arises a conflict of perception. On the one hand, we find an ungrateful and critical recipient, who fails to fully appreciate good solutions to his problems. On the other hand, we find a seemingly arrogant but wealthy donor who fails to respect the tradition he is trying to cooperate with. The result is a climate that may impede communication and cooperation.

• narratives (description of events): chronological descriptions of project development • stories (statements reflecting moral or world view): expression of patriotism • myths (statements reflecting norms or values of the wider community): statements reinforcing Russian identity • accounts (statements to justify specific behaviour): heavy emphasis on some aspects of the project to ‘compensate’ for what went wrong • fronts (statements aimed at ‘pleasing’ the interviewer): fervent project defence for fear of losing financial backing; interviewers treated courteously • themes (repeated meaning-bearing statements): claims that Russia and the Baltic countries should not be held responsible for the problems addressed by the Task Force

Figure 7.2 Interpretation of Interview Data in Line with Rubin & Rubin’s Mediation Forms

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Finally, all the talk concerning the Task Force’s targeting of stigmatized groups such as prisoners and prostitutes can in this connection be regarded as a myth, sentiments expressing and possibly reinforcing key norms and values in the community to which the subject belongs. Claiming that ‘we Russians cannot understand why you target prisoners instead of pregnant women and the elderly’ is a way of reinforcing the interviewees’ Russian identity, ringfencing what is acceptable behaviour without sacrificing their sense of identity. Pointing out how foreigners loaded with unorthodox ideas come to Russia to solve the country’s problems also offers an opportunity to elaborate on the specificities of being Russian. On mentioning the prison-reform projects to a Moscow taxi driver, who showed an interest in our work, he told us a joke in return: ‘God made an offer to a Russian. He promised to do anything the Russian asked, but his neighbour would get the same twice over. The Russian replied: Tear out one of my eyes!’ A Russian acquaintance of ours, also commenting of this particular theme from our interviews, told us about Russians who burn down their neighbour’s dacha if it seems better than their own.16 All these stories are told with a mischievous smile, indicating that ‘this is how you can tell a Russian from a non-Russian’. While our interviewees may disagree about targeting prison reform (i.e. some may actually be in favour of it), all seemed to agree that ‘it is not very Russian’ to do so.

PART V RUSSIANS IN THE BORDERLANDS

CHAPTER 8 HOW TO BE A NORTHERNER1

Borderlands, Identity, Narrative Boundaries, borders, frontiers and borderlands are known as edge concepts in geography and indicate dividing lines or zones between geographical areas, especially states. Boundaries are the lines that demarcate where one state ends and another begins. Border usually refers to the restricted sections of the boundary where crossings take place. A frontier, in turn, traditionally refers to the transition zone between two states where the boundary is not fixed. Today we use it for the zone in one state that leads up to the boundary to another state. The borderland is the entire area around the border, boundary and frontiers on both sides.2 Their primary features are revealed in the dialectic between boundaries as political demarcations and regions as geographical entities that resist the artificial divisions imposed by political borders.3 As Konrad and Nicol note,4 The boundary fades to a degree, and the cross-border region gains in substance to a degree. The result is a spatial construct which has extent or area beyond the substance of the borderline. There exists an area in which people have characteristics of land and life in common across the nation-state boundary.5 Since the 1980s, border studies have grown from relative obscurity as a speciality of geography to engage a widening circle of social scientists and humanists. Again, to quote Konrad and Nicol,6 ‘Boundaries, borders, borderlands and other geopolitical edge concepts have emerged

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from loosely defined terms in the public discourse, and over-defined concepts in the traditional geographical literature, to become more precise and carefully defined elements in global analysis.’ As a result of the globalization process, borders are taking on new meanings. Where they once divided almost everything between the two adjacent states, they now differentiate only the essential elements of sovereignty that define the core identity of each country; they act increasingly as transition zones enabling the flow of cultural, political and economic influences in both directions. The modern ‘permeable border’ is an arena of ‘cultural-symbolic borrowing rather than cross-border othering’, and when both processes are at work, the result is ‘a complex and richly layered archaeology of separation and integration at the border’.7 Houtum and colleagues remind us of Latour’s metaphor that a key can transform a door into a border for some, but a pass-through for others.8 And further: ‘[. . .] a territorial b/order is a normative idea, a belief in the existence and continuity of a territorially binding and differentiated power that only becomes concrete, objectified and real in our own everyday social practices’.9 If we accept borderlands as areas for ‘separation and integration at the border’, we obviously need to ask whether borders actually promote integration or maintain separation. And if people perceive them as gateways for cross-border contact, would it affect their sense of belonging to the region and to their nation state? Do people feel a spirit of community with their neighbours on the other side? Does the proximity to the border make them identify less with their own nation state? We are approaching the complex question of identity, discussed in all areas of the social sciences, to capture the essence of what constitutes people’s self-conception. Both human geography and international relations have seen an upsurge in interest in identity since the end of the Cold War. As the maps of Eastern Europe and Central Asia were redrawn – at the same time as globalization took off and the European Union was effectively dismantling national borders in Western Europe – it was no longer possible to view identity as unitary, fixed and given by an individual’s nationality. Identity has come to be viewed as a relation rather than a possession, a quality conditional to persons in different situations rather than categorical pertaining to persons as such. Identities are ‘emergent and constructed (rather than fixed and natural), contested and polymorphic (rather than unitary and

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singular), and interactive and process-like (rather than static and essence-like)’.10 Goff and Dunn do not take such claims for granted, but set out to study empirically whether identities are in fact constructed (as opposed to given by belonging to, e.g. race, ethnic group or political entity), multiple (as opposed to singular), fluid (as opposed to static) and relational (as opposed to autonomously defined).11 Not unexpectedly, their conclusions are not unequivocal. Identities are fluid, but not constantly changing. Identities are relational, but the effect of the process of othering differs according to the situation. Likewise, the propensity of individuals to move back and forth between multiple identities varies with the context. And finally, ‘Even though identity is a social construction, it is not whatever we want it to be. A limited reserve of discursive resources constrains the ways in which identities evolve [. . .]’.12 This resonates with theories on the narrative constitution of identity. Somers13 argues convincingly for a reconfiguration of the study of identity formation through the concept of narrative.14 Leaning on recent criticism of the traditional conception of narrative as simply a mode of representation, she claims ‘it is through narrativity that we come to know, understand, and make sense of the social world, and it is through narratives and narrativity that we constitute our social identities’.15 And further, ‘[We] come to be who we are (however ephemeral, multiple, and changing) by being located or locating ourselves (usually unconsciously) in social narratives rarely of our own making’.16 There are two important claims here. First, narratives – i.e. the stories people tell17 – are not just reflections about the world, but rather constitutive of the self. Hence, narratives acquire an ontological dimension in addition to their traditional epistemological one. They give expression to the outside world about who people are, but they also contribute to making people who they are. Second, narratives are ‘rarely of our own making’. Gergen claims that ‘[people] do not author their own lives’; instead ‘stories serve as communal resources’ that people avail themselves of when they construct their life stories.18 Ambruster and Meinhof refer to Taylor’s concept of ‘webs of interlocution’ – the social frame within which individuals define their self-identification – and to Benhabib’s concept of ‘webs of narrative’, understood not only as a shared language, but as more or less endurable stories about the big things in life (e.g. race, gender and God),19 as well as the smaller ones: ‘These narratives may be

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micro-scale stories within a family or macro-scale myths about the nation; they are retold, nourished and transformed by various “defining communities” and, quite importantly, people are born into them’.20 Or in Benhabib’s words, ‘We become who we are by learning to be a conversation partner in these narratives’,21 and she goes on, ‘[Our] agency consists in our capacity to weave out of those narratives and fragments of narratives a life story that makes sense for us, as unique individual selves’.22 In Gergen’s words:23 By using these narrative conventions we generate a sense of coherence and direction in our lives. They acquire meaning, and what happens is suffused with significance. Certain forms of narrative are broadly shared within the culture; they are frequently used, easily identified, and highly functional. In a sense, they constitute a syllabary of possible selves [italics added]. Somers identifies four dimensions of narrative: ontological, public, conceptual and meta-narratives.24 Ontological narratives are the stories that individuals use to make sense of their lives; they ‘process events into episodes’ in their everyday life.25 Public narratives are the intersubjective frames, attached to cultural or institutional formations larger than the single individual (typically family, workplace, local community or nation), which sustain and transform narrative over time. The third dimension of narrativity refers to the ‘master narratives’ in which we are embedded as contemporary actors in history: epic dramas such as Capitalism vs. Communism, the Individual vs. Society, the Emergence of Western Civilization and the Rise of Nationalism or Islam. Finally, conceptual narratives are the concepts and explanations that we construct as social researchers. * This chapter discusses, based on an interview investigation from 2004–6, how inhabitants of the Kola Peninsula in Northwestern Russia talk about themselves as northerners, distinguishing themselves from people in the south of Russia.26 I start with reports from three ‘key interviews’,27 and continue with a more general discussion, illustrated by other interviews, observations and the scholarly literature.

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Among the questions I raise are what characterizes prevailing stereotypes about northerners and southerners. How is narrative used to shape the northern identity, and to what extent does proximity to the Nordic countries affect perceptions of northernness in the north-western corner of Russia? Does northernness serve to strengthen a sense of Russianness, or is it rather the other way around, a means of distancing oneself from what is typically Russian? If the latter is the case, is there evidence that the opening of the borders with Scandinavia has accelerated this process? All important in this respect is the vocabulary available to Northwest Russians to express their perception of themselves as northerners. How must narratives about Russian northernness be structured in order to make sense?

Interview 1: ‘When I told them how I lived, they went all misty-eyed’ This interview takes place over a long evening dinner at a Soviet-style restaurant where husband and wife Anton and Marina are joined by a young man, Ivan, and myself, the interviewer. The interviewees are in their early to late thirties. Anton is an officer in the Northern Fleet, and lives with his wife in one of the closed towns on the Kola Peninsula. Marina commutes to Murmansk where she works for a private business. Ivan, who holds an advanced university degree, is a civil servant. Although Anton and Marina had met Ivan before, they are only vaguely acquainted. Both Ivan and Marina have visited Scandinavia – Ivan for several longer periods, Marina just briefly. Marina’s is clearly the leading voice of this interview. Her father was an army officer and she has lived ‘all over the USSR’, though she spent her teens in Ukraine, where her parents still live. As an adult, she has always lived in military towns on the Kola Peninsula. Anton is also from the south; Ivan claims to be a ‘real northerner’. Marina and Anton recall their stunning first impressions of the north. Anton was amazed by the midnight sun, and Marina was struck by people’s friendliness. It was incredible (diko, literally: ‘wild’), she remarked, to find that people didn’t snap at her in the shops or for jaywalking, and were ‘ready to help at the drop of a hat’. Her explanation (which she admits is only a guess) is the northern climate. It must be the harsh climate and the dramatic changes in the weather that make people

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more considerate, she says, without expanding on the causal connection. Including her husband in the exchange, she goes on to stress the intelligence and skills of northerners. Children have a lot of common sense (again hinting at the climate as an explanation; the children probably read a lot since it is too cold to be outside most of the time), the education system ‘is really something round here’; above all, the education level is higher than in the south. In short, she highlights the orderliness, self-composure and considerateness of northerners. After praising northerners, the south – encompassing the southern stretches of the former USSR – is brutally invoked as a constituting other. Marina is shocked whenever she visits her parents in Ukraine; she probably should not feel like that, she admits, but simply cannot help it, ‘the things that go on there, awful things’. As opposed to the good manners of the northerners, southerners ‘steal and swindle’. Ivan, for his part, seems to position himself as the Westernizer, claiming he has no knowledge of the post-Soviet backwoods Marina is referring to. He has been ‘more or less everywhere in Norway, but never made it to the south of Russia’. Marina picks up on this, comparing her own perception of the Russian south with how she believes foreigners see Russia: ‘They’re really shocked with the chaos everywhere.’ She is quite vehement in her characterization of southerners: ‘There’s so much rudeness there. People are evil.’ She admits that the northern climate is probably not good for one’s health – her husband mentions its effect on people’s eyesight – but everyone wants to return to the north after a stay in the south, she maintains. Something pulls them back. Lots of people have a flat they’ve been allocated in the south, but remain in the north, unable or unwilling to cut the ties. When the interviewer asks Marina whether she feels Ukrainian, she swiftly answers no, arguing that the life she has created for herself – with two sets of qualifications, two children and two flats combined into one (giving her the luxury of three bedrooms and two bathrooms) – would have been impossible had she stayed in Ukraine. She describes the ‘misty-eyed’ reaction of former classmates to her description of life in the north at a 20-year school reunion in Ukraine. ‘When I compare myself to the others. . . well, no, comparison’s out of the question.’ Why the north is better is explained by Marina at length. The buildings are dreadful in the south. There is no street lighting. It’s filthy (although they are used to it down there). In the north, everything is so lovely and clean!

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And when she tells her southern friends about how kids in the north can travel abroad on exchange programmes, they simply cannot believe it. Again, Ivan takes the opportunity to mention his Scandinavian experience when Marina touches on the Barents collaboration. Instead of giving a traditional, elaborate Russian toast at a function where this was probably expected of him, he just uttered the Norwegian drinking toast ‘ska˚l!’ After a brief intermezzo about Scandinavians,28 the three dinner guests ponder the possible influence of St Petersburg on society on the Kola Peninsula. Ivan takes the initiative. After a word about Moscow as the Russian capital, he likes Piter [slang for St Petersburg], he adds, because it is ‘more civilized’. He likes how people there read books all the time, or at least pretend to. The scientists who built up Apatity and the officers and crews of the Northern Fleet came from St Petersburg (or Leningrad, as the city was called at the time), he maintains. And that was all an advantage for the new communities on Kola. ‘We’re well organized, and that’s thanks to Piter.’ Even the Kola dialect is Piterish, ‘good, normal, human Russian’. Ivan ridicules the long ‘a’ of the Moscow dialect, possibly hinting at a perception of Moscow as an inwardlooking, ‘eastern’ or ‘southern’ peasant community, as opposed to the civilized, intellectual, ‘western’ and ‘northern’ old Russian capital of St Petersburg. We shall return to this later in the chapter. In the concluding part of the interview, the interviewer asks how they feel about the environment. Marina admits – after a long silence – that her feelings are rather negative, but again she reverts to the advantages of life in the north. The children have to spend more time indoors because of the climate, but then again people can afford to pay for transport and after-school activities for the children because wage levels are higher in the north. Actually, she argues, there is so much for kids to do, they hardly have any time to spend outdoors anyway. Perhaps anticipating a response citing the health benefits of fresh air, as far as she is concerned, she goes on, she was always ill when she lived in the south, but felt much better the minute she moved up north. When the interviewer finally asks what sort of future they see for themselves in the north, Ivan again invokes his connections with Norway. Probably referring to his personal experience of various exchange programmes (and possibly the Norwegian interviewer’s numerous visits to the Kola Peninsula), he jokes about having ‘annexed’ Norway and made it part of Murmansk

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Oblast, or even the ninetieth federal subject of the Russian Federation.29 Marina, for her part, continues listing evidence of northern prosperity, now in the form of a skyrocketing Severomorsk birth rate the previous year, the only town in Russia, she contends, where births exceeded deaths. Yes, it is really very nice with all these healthy children, she muses. You don’t have to drag suitcases full of fruit and vegetables with you anymore when you return home from holidays in the south. The picture is complete: we have everything we could possibly need here in the north.

Interview 2: ‘If you’d asked me last year, I would have said Murmansk was the best place in the world’ Nastya and Sergey are a married couple in their late twenties, both with university degrees and juggling academic careers with work in private business. They meet the two Norwegian interviewers in their apartment for an evening meal. Both speak of themselves as Ukrainian. Nastya was three when the family moved to Murmansk. Both parents are Ukrainian. Sergey was born in Murmansk. His father is Ukrainian, his mother from Murmansk. Nastya’s father used to live in the Moscow metropolitan area and accepted the offer of a flat in Murmansk, hoping it would speed up his return to Ukraine. ‘He has been here for thirty years,’ she says. Nastya and Sergey begin by listing some of the positive attributes of the north noted by Marina in the previous interview: northerners are intelligent, well-educated and friendly. They are ‘not talkative, nor emotional’. Nastya gives a vivid account of the difference in practice between northerners and southerners by comparing train rides between Murmansk and Moscow, and Moscow and Ukraine. On the first stretch, from Murmansk to Moscow, it is quiet and civilized (kulturno). From Moscow to Ukraine, on the other hand, there’s a lot of noise as people enjoy each other’s company. Interestingly, she says nothing dismissive of the south, unlike Marina. For Nastya, southern chaos equals ‘never a dull moment’. While north and south are both ok, at the same time they’re ‘like night and day’. Only when she is urged to expand does she express her preference for the Murmansk–Moscow part of the journey. Like Marina, however, she speaks about the poverty of the south, which partly explains why people are prone to ‘make a spectacle of themselves down south’: ‘People tend to lose their manners when they’re unhappy.’

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The same is happening in the north, as the economic climate worsens: ‘People are hard up and not as well behaved as before.’ When Sergey hints that northerners are a bit cold, his wife objects and tells the story about a lady who was treated with unexpected courtesy and friendliness in a Murmansk shop.30 They let her exchange a bag of apples she was about to pay for with fresher ones that had just arrived – and they even said ‘be my guest’. People in Ukraine refused to believe it, said Nastya, which goes to show that people are more civilized in the north, despite the fact that southerners might appear friendlier at first sight. Nevertheless, both agree that many people would move south if they had the opportunity. They describe how mobility programmes are fraught with corruption, so that people are trapped in the north despite governmental financing of new flats for them in the south. At some point in the interview, Nastya loses her ability to speak only positively of life in the north. If we had asked her a year before, she would have called Murmansk the best place on earth, she says. But last winter was difficult. ‘The polar night, it made me ill, really ill.’ A sense of gloom seemed to invade her, without her understanding why. Perhaps it was the swings in temperature or atmospheric pressure? She complains about life in general. What’s the point of beautiful scenery if all you get to see is your flat and office? After some gloomy remarks about the risk of nuclear radiation in the region, Sergey tries to clear the atmosphere: ‘I’d like to pick up on that question about the environment. What’s so brilliant about the north is its uniquely beautiful natural environment, that’s the first thing I want to say.’ Does he feel his wife’s picture of the region is too depressive? This does not prevent him, however, from commenting himself on the negative effects of the northern climate on the human body. If younger people tend not to think too much about it, it is only because they lack the experience. It is obviously not good for the organism, he contends. Although it gets worse with age, even children succumb. When he was a kid himself, for instance, his eyesight was worse in the north, but picked up again on long holidays in the south. Notably, Nastya and Sergey look to the natural environment for explanations of problems with their health. Nastya wonders whether wide and sudden differences in temperature or atmospheric pressure can explain last winter’s depression. Sergey admits to not knowing exactly why his sight was so poor in the north when he was a child, but he seems

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convinced that the northern climate in general is not good for the human organism, including eyesight. All in all, however, Nastya and Sergey’s account is more balanced than Marina, Ivan and Anton’s in our first interview (and of participants in our next interview, too). It becomes apparent when they look at photos of Murmansk and Ukraine after the interview. ‘Oh, the sea! [Akh, more! ]’, they say with longing in their voices looking at pictures from the south. ‘Oh, the greenery! [‘Akh, zelen!’], they sigh to pictures of the north, obviously with a certain pride.

Interview 3: ‘The north is like a bottomless pit dragging you down’ In this interview, we meet a married couple in their mid-fifties. Elana and Nikolay came to Murmansk with their two-year old daughter some 30 years ago. They have both worked at the same small business for many years and put in a lot of hours. Elena and Nikolay meet our Russian interviewer at their apartment. The conversation proceeds in a warm, homely atmosphere although the subject matter is far from cheerful. Both interviewees were briefed beforehand about the likely questions, and are clearly apprehensive. For Elena and Nikolay, they touched a sensitive nerve. The interview starts in a far from comfortable tone. Elena imitates the interviewer when asked if they enjoy living in the north: ‘Enjoy, enjoy. We’re hostages of the north.’ The couple had imagined staying a few years at first, but are still here 30 years on. The atmosphere takes an ominous turn when Nikolay recalls what a children’s nurse predicted: ‘You’ll never move anywhere else, mark my words when you give your daughter away in marriage in Murmansk. The north is like a bottomless pit dragging you down.’ Elena is clearly very distraught. The north, she says, is ‘the affliction of [her] life’; she has been dreaming for 30 years of ‘one day being free’. She feels she has spent her whole life in darkness and permafrost. They thought they had their whole lives ahead of them when they arrived, but life evaporated without them noticing it. Elena is well into her fifties and misses the south more than ever. Opportunities to live a more comfortable life in the north were passed over. They could have exchanged their flat for a larger one, for instance, or redecorated the

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one they had. But no, they would be leaving soon enough, they reminded themselves. Nikolay tries to comfort his wife by reminding her of the good things about living in the north (‘we’ve had our share of good things, too’), as Sergey did in our last interview, but at a far more serious level. For a moment, amusing stories about picnics in the countryside with friends seem to distract Elena. There is a sense of cosiness, but also of solidarity among northerners, all trying to make the best of things under harsh climatic conditions. Elena speaks of the need for good food and drink – even in the most uncomfortable settings – as a distinct marker of Russianness (‘We are Russians after all!’). Nikolay joins in. Food cooked on an open fire in the countryside tastes good whether it is burned, underdone or overdone – even in the north. But these nice things cannot make up for what they have suffered in the north, Elena interjects. When Nikolay again tries to calm her down, she protests. They were asked their opinion, she says, and now she wants to answer. ‘Living here is really hard. Your whole system gets worn out, like you drive a car till it falls apart.’ She starts criticizing the Russian authorities who, she thinks, have let northerners down (and probably the Russian people at large): ‘The government don’t care about us. People at the top have other concerns. And to think we gave our youth and health to the state. It doesn’t count. You’ve only got yourself to rely on.’ Nikolay draws a comparison with other countries (‘abroad’). They have a social contract between the state and its citizens. You work while you are young and relax when you get old. In Russia, the authorities have no such contract with the people. Or rather, they did in Soviet times, but no longer. The most interesting part of the interview is Elena and Nikolay’s attack on the usual stereotypes of northerners and southerners. First, they remind us, it is all too easy to categorize people. Second, if you still want to define northerners and southerners, the least you can do is look at things from the other side’s point of view as well. While northerners tend to view themselves as kind, sympathetic and reliable, southerners would perceive them as cold, dull and buttoned-up. This does not prevent Elena from giving a rather categorical description of people in the Russian capital: ‘Muscovites think they’re the bees’ knees. Everything was created for their benefit. The rest of us are rubbish.’ Her point, however, is that northern complacency – ‘we’re better than those southerners’ – is no better than Muscovite complacency.

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Echoing Nastya’s views above, Elena links northern considerateness to the region’s healthy economy: ‘If they withdrew all the perks we northerners enjoy and cut off our mazut [heating oil], you’d see how kind and honest we are.’ There are differences between different regions, of course, but one should avoid stereotyping. At the end of the day, stereotypes can be used to ignite national conflicts. As for herself, she doesn’t seem to like what she takes as the prevailing upbeat image of the north. Much like Marina, Elena seems eager to round off the interview by restating her main point (which is the opposite of Marina’s), though the conversation has now turned to another theme: ‘Anyway, young people who want healthy children shouldn’t live here.’

Negotiating Stereotypes about North and South These interviews illustrate the stereotypes in use by and of Russian northerners: well educated, hardworking, calm, considerate and friendly. To Marina, that is how Russian northerners actually are, unlike the southerners (i.e. inhabitants of the southern belt of the former Soviet Union31), whom she denigrates: uneducated, uncivilized and mean. Nastya repeated Marina’s list of positive attributes about northerners, but also saw some good sides to southern ‘noisiness’. Nevertheless, she too called southerners mean, uncivilized even, though they cannot be blamed for it: ‘People tend to lose their manners when they’re unhappy. That’s why people make a spectacle of themselves down south.’ Elena and Nikolay go even further and criticize northerners’ complacency. By cultivating a selfimage as better than people in the south, northerners are no better than haughty Muscovites. And however good northerners might be, it’s thanks to comfortable standards of living. Without the perks and mazut, ‘you’d soon see how kind and honest we are’. The interesting thing is that while the interviewees in this chapter disagree about how northerners actually are (or at least about how they would have been without the perks), the discussion revolves around the same basic traits. It seems generally accepted that this is how northerners are believed to be. The same thing is evident in the rest of my interviews. Some interviewees confirm conventional wisdom, others challenge it, or at least try to nuance it. But all seem to take the same stereotypes as given. First, the interview transcripts are full of adjectives like competent, calm

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and kind of northerners and the exact opposite of southerners. Some even rival Marina in their characterizations: ‘Southerners are simply very envious. They always count other people’s money’ (female, mid-forties). ‘Even Rottweilers are kinder here [in the north]’ (female, mid-fifties). ‘[Southerners] are by nature disposed towards gossip’ (male, late fifties). Several interviewees (like Nastya in our second interview) disagree with the conventional perception of southerners as open-hearted, indicating that this is just on the surface of it, that northern kindness is deeper and more genuine. In the following interview extract, Maria (mid-twenties) ridicules the myth of southern openness, while her husband Sergey (around thirty) tells a story about genuine northern kindness. Interviewer:

What do you think, is there any difference between northerners and southerners? Sergey and Maria: [as if in one voice] Of course, there is. Obviously. Interviewer: Could we try and see what the differences are? Sergey: Northerners are more considerate, polite. Southerners are hot-tempered, but openminded. Maria: Well, in my opinion, northerners are really, really nice. Really nice! [She says this emphatically, as if to ward off expressions of disbelief.] Southerners are alright in their way, but they’re so uptight. [brief spell of silence] [to Sergey] Are you saying southerners are open? I don’t think they are! What I think is . . . southerners are ‘nice’ and open on the surface. [Maria jumps out of her chair and mimics a southerner.] ‘Hi!’ [She exclaims in a loud voice, opens her arms and gives an imaginary friend a triple hug and kiss in Russian style.] ‘How’s things? How’s life treating you? When did you get here? And tra la la, tra la la. . .’ But in reality they’ve

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forgotten you as soon as they asked how you are and probably never registered your response, anyway. The northerner is more reserved – he’s not given to tittle-tattle. And he’s more genuine by a factor of about a hundred. Southerners – they’re just putting on an act. Northerners are different. Last summer, we were travelling home after the holidays, and my wife was carrying little Dashka [their daughter] in a bag. And there was me, loaded like a pack-ass, dragging bags, rucksacks, suitcases – everything my wife and daughter needed for a three month holiday. I can tell you, by then I was pretty fed up. And on the underground, this woman comes up to us – this was a woman [pauses, in turn looking the others in the eye] – and says: ‘Excuse me, won’t you let me give you a hand?’ We thanked her but said we’d manage. But the bags were really heavy, so we changed our mind and accepted her offer, and she helped us all the way to the station. And d’you know something? [dramatic pause] It turned out she was FROM MURMANSK!

Here we find a story, as a sub-category of narrative. According to Czarniawska,32 stories are distinguished by the existence of a plot that brings the recounted events into a meaningful whole. Sergey’s last narrative would have had little meaning for us without the last sentence (except as an illustration of the widespread practice among Russian northern men to send their wives and children to the south for at least three months a year). It would have related a series of events about how a family struggles to get their holiday luggage from the underground to the railway station, the husband ‘loaded like a pack-ass’, and a kind woman who insists on helping them. Then comes the endpoint which brings meaning to the events: it turns out – why had they not understood this before? – that the woman is from Murmansk! As Gergen

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points out, endpoints in stories are typically saturated with value.33 In this case, it serves to underscore the kindness of northerners. The woman is even from their own home town of Murmansk, and the couple’s joy at the kindness of a stranger is reinforced by pride in the good human qualities of their fellow citizen.34 Many of my interviewees grew up in southern parts of the USSR and moved north because of their qualifications. Some of them equate northern life with ‘life as led by specialists and highly educated people’, while the south remains a place for people without more ambition than growing fruit trees or running a small business.35 It is reflected in the following brief extract from our interview with Viktor (about fifty) and Anna (about thirty). They are both technical experts and from the south. Interviewer: You know a lot about people from the south and the north in our country from firsthand experience. Are there any differences between them? Viktor: Well, so that we get our terminology right from the outset, I want to say I consider myself a northerner, despite being born in Crimea. Anna: Me too, I’m one too [seemingly happy to play along]. Here – that is here in the north – there’s a higher level of education because there’s nothing else to do apart from getting qualifications. But the southerners, their mindset is more. . . [obviously thinking hard to find an appropriate expression] more of a dacha-and-orchard level thing (ogorodnodachny). Others are more eager to challenge conventional wisdom, or at least underscore that they do not simply reproduce myths; their opinions of northernness are based on their own observations. One young man started the interview in the following way, ‘You probably think we’re going talk about how kind and honest northerners are and how nervous and uptight southerners are. [Pause] And that’s how it’s going to be! [Pause] No, I’m just kidding, just kidding. Let’s get started!’ (male, early thirties). He went on to describe northern orderliness (referring to a well-known saying, ‘my police force protects me’) and the anarchy of the south (‘It’s completely lawless there. Everything can be

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bought and sold. It doesn’t even count as corruption. It’s just the way things are.’) – all in line with conventional wisdom, and without any attempt at substantiation beyond statements like ‘this is how we are, and that is how they are’. This interviewee plays with conventions while reproducing them. As a young woman remarked, people don’t always live up to the stereotypes. ‘People are different, everywhere. You can find altruists and skinflints in the south and the north. My mother, for example, is a native of Murmansk and my grandparents have always lived in Murmansk. One shouldn’t discuss one’s parents, but mamma, she’s so emotional and impulsive, she’s more southern than the southerners. And she’s good at counting the money’ (female, early twenties). Implicitly, this interviewee confirms the myth of southerners as emotional, impulsive and stingy, but her point is that also northerners can be like that. To some interviewees, the once clear differences between north and south are receding into the background: ‘Earlier, the dividing lines were clear. Northerners were friendly, southerners were not. Northerners were quiet and calm, southerners were noisy and hottempered. Northerners were rich and unselfish, southerners were envious and greedy.36 And so on. But now the dividing lines are becoming blurred’ (female, mid-forties). The other interviewee at this session blamed this development on the increasingly difficult economic climate in the north: ‘Of course [the differences] are blurred. Social conditions in the north have deteriorated, which explains a lot. Wage differences are smaller, and they’ve removed perks, but the perception of the rich northerner persists still’ (female, mid-forties). According to these two women, economic developments in the post-Soviet era have shown northerners ‘life as it is’, i.e. without the ‘artificial’ conditions created by Soviet authorities: ‘[Southerners] think northerners are naı¨ve. That’s not good, the way I see it. People need to be wary. In that department, southerners are better adjusted to life. They’re smarter, in a positive way.’ ‘I agree. We’re like chickens used to the warmth of an incubator. But then they suddenly turned the lights out and everybody fell ill, and now we’re all in danger of perishing. We’re obviously defenceless against outside forces and changes.’37 Another interviewee poignantly describes the balancing act required of a northerner in post-Soviet Russia. What do northerners do? They’ve all got a regular job. Nobody makes money from a smallholding. And relations are usually miles

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away. You can’t expect anyone to come and help you. If you can’t make it in the normal way – you’re lost. You’ll freeze slowly but surely to death [Tikho zamerz i vse¨ ]. A southerner, on the other hand, can exist on the margins. If you get laid off, you’ve still got your little farm, and if the harvest is a failure, you can rely on a big extended family, and if you’re evicted – at least it’s warm on the streets. And so on and so forth. (Female, around forty)

The Vocabulary Available – Identity as Narrative The labels used by my interviewees to characterize Russian northerners resonate more with the ideals of the Soviet conquest of the north than with romantic images of the north as the ‘real’, indigenous Russia. My interviewees centre their narratives on the Arctic myth of the early Communist period, with the taming of the northern wilderness. Forced labour kept the wheels turning before World War II in the Kola Peninsula; after the war, economic incentives attracted workers. Those incentives were probably real enough, as the following extract shows: ‘D’you remember what Lena told us about her husband being relocated from Ukraine to Murmansk, with a promise of 150 roubles a month? And she had replied, “What on earth are we going to do with all that money?”’ (female, late thirties). But people obviously also took pride in being part of the ‘conquest of the north’. According to one of the few published studies about identities on the Kola Peninsula (albeit in Russian), this is the case even today, see Razumova.38 The field of ‘local cultural studies’ (kraevedenie) in the Kola Peninsula, Razumova says, is particularly advanced. In her interviews, she found several stereotypes featured in historical and popular literature about the region. ‘On the Kola Peninsula, you can find the whole of Mendeleev’s periodic table’; ‘the conquest of the north’; ‘the storming of the Khibiny [mountains]’; ‘the towns grew before our eyes’; and ‘it was necessary to survive the harsh climatic conditions of the north’. ‘The concept of the history of the region can be defined as “the myth of the north”, subjugated by Man, the creator of civilization’, she writes.39 The main public narrative in my interviews is ‘the good life in the north’.40 Standards of living have ‘always’ been higher than further south, although the gap has allegedly narrowed in recent years. In Soviet times, the authorities paid the northern population so well, people ‘did

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not know what to do with all the money’. Although incentives do not exist to the same extent today, wages are still generally high and job opportunities relatively good for people with academic (especially technical) qualifications, and people continue to improve their qualifications because ‘there is little else to do’ (as Anna remarked above). ‘The good life in the north’ is summed up by Marina’s ‘2 þ 2 þ 2’: she has two sets of qualifications, two children and two combined apartments – all inconceivable in the south, she claims. And with financial and material security come good manners. When you know you and your family will be taken care of, you don’t have to ‘make a spectacle of yourself’ the way people often do down south. The level of education, the high living standards and the harsh northern climate (see discussion below)41 are represented by the four Cs of Russian northernness: Competent, Cultured, Calm and Considerate. The category of northerner is not static; ‘becoming a northerner’ definitely makes sense. And it is not restricted by happenstance such as place of birth, or open to happenstance such as present location (although one must have lived for a time in the north obviously). Northernness can only be acquired by merit, depending on one’s ability to fulfil the four Cs. One has to live in a specific place, but it demands something in addition. You are not a northerner the moment you move to the north. Both time and adjustment seem to be needed. It is absolutely an attractive category of which to be a member, cf. how Viktor above found it appropriate to stress his perception of himself as a northerner despite being born in Crimea, and how Anna – obviously with a far shorter period of residence in the north – is eager to be included: ‘Me too, I’m one too.’42 Just because she lives in Murmansk, she seems to be saying, her northern credentials might not be obvious. On reflection, though, she feels she deserves to be called a northerner, too. Another prominent public narrative mentioned only in passing so far, is to explain how you react, mentally and physically, by phenomena in the natural environment. We remember how Nastya sought for an explanation of last winter’s gloom in the different temperatures and changing atmospheric pressure,43 and how her husband Sergey – despite painting a generally happy picture of life in the north – believed it is not good for ‘the organism’ (a word very frequently used in the interviews in discussions about how the northern climate affects one).44 On a similar

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note, one interviewee explains how the northern environment influences her: ‘If your organism is one of those that’s immune to changes in the weather, living here is obviously good. When I was young, I didn’t notice anything either. Today, though, I can feel it when the pressure falls and [getting through] the dark days of winter is hard, it’s, er, everything . . . [waves her arms around]’ (female, mid-40s). Another interviewee blames other natural phenomena for northerners’ health problems: oxygen discharges and magnet storms, ‘Ah, let’s see. Well, to start with, the north itself affects people most of all. Often because of changes in the air pressure, oxygen discharges, and all sorts of magnetic storms. The effect grows as you get older – and we’re not getting any younger [smiles knowingly to her friend]’ (female, around 40). Another interviewee also points the finger at magnetism and, moreover, to the lack of oxygen in the north. ‘Whatever’s in store for us here it’s unpleasant. Murmansk is a magnet, twice as strong as Sochi [on the Black Sea]. There’s 20 per cent less oxygen, and the temperature fluctuates wildly from one day to the next’ (male, about 50). A dentist (male, around 40) and his assistant (female, late 20s) explain how the northern climate even affects their work: Interviewer: So what kind of effect does the climate have on you? Dentist: Well, since I’m a doctor, I have to say it’s clearly unhealthy living in the north. The winters wear the organism down, and it becomes increasingly difficult to get one’s strength back for every passing year. Assistant: And it’s not only us – we can see it in our patients. For instance, when people have teeth removed, the organism gets back to normal more quickly in the autumn because of the vitamins one has absorbed during the summer. One shouldn’t pull teeth at all in the spring. Immunity is at a low, and one’s strength is declining. [She smiles and begins to sing ‘Strength fails when wounds bleed’ – a verse from a popular song.] The most interesting part of this extract is arguably the dentist’s opening line, where he uses his academic credibility (‘since I’m a

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doctor, I have to say. . .’) to state beyond any doubt (‘clearly’, literally: konechno or ‘of course’) that it is unhealthy to live in the north. Similar formulations are found in many of my interviews – we already heard Sergey’s concern in our second interview extract – but here it is given added weight as an objective fact put forward by a doctor (albeit a tooth doctor).45 It is presented as the baseline, the point of departure for any further discussion. We can go on and on about good and bad things about life in the north until we’re blue in the face, but one thing is beyond discussion: healthy it is not! This puts a serious dent in the happy picture of life in the north presented above. Yes, we are competent, cultured, calm and considerate, we northerners, but it is our destiny to live in a place where people were never meant to live. The Soviet experiment involved building a human incubator in the Arctic wilderness, but the lights have gone out, and those who have not left yet for lack of courage or money, run about like demented hens in the dark and cold. Elena and her like are fear-stricken and blame the Russian authorities for not taking care of the people of the north anymore. Others criticize the idea of populating the Russian north in the first place. Viktor, who we saw was eager to stress his northern credentials, called building a city for a population of half a million north of the Polar Circle a crime. On the whole, letting people live in the north is ‘inhumane’ [stresses in-hu-mane ].46 Even among those who are less categorical, a distance to the northern environment is visible. People watch the colours of the changing seasons with admiration (as many interviewees reportedly do), but sort of from the side. They are not unconditionally ‘inside’ their natural environment, like people who have lived for generations in the same place (especially indigenous people) are generally believed to be. Elena noted how she was never able to walk for long in the forests in the autumn, ‘The ground isn’t firm enough. You’re walking along, and everything seesaws under your feet.’ On a similar note, another woman told us, When I moved to Murmansk from Bashkiria, it took ten years before I visited the countryside. The forests didn’t seem like forests to me, and the wet ground sank under my feet. But now I can’t get enough of it all. I hug the trees, devour them so to speak, and I feel the better for it. (Female, mid-forties).

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Changing Borders? Does northernness strengthen people’s sense of Russianness, or is it rather a way of distancing oneself from what is typically Russian and opening up for relations with the West? Has the opening of the border with Scandinavia had any influence in this respect?47 In the next chapter, we will see what impression people have of their Scandinavian neighbours in general; here are just some notes about how some of my interviewees weave observations about the Scandinavian countries into their narratives about Russian northernness. In our first interview, Marina comes across as a fierce and consistent defender of northern virtues, as we saw. Her opinions of Scandinavia, however, lead in different directions. She speaks about the BEAR collaboration in positive terms, saying how much her Ukrainian friends envied the opportunities children in the north have to visit Norway and Finland on exchange programmes. Asked about her impression of Scandinavians, she hesitates before giving a rather faltering answer. This isn’t what she personally thinks, she says, but what people in general think about Scandinavia. That is, it’s quiet and clean, but rather boring.48 The Norwegians one comes across in Murmansk are not very cultured,49 but perhaps people from southern Norway are, she wonders. She sees in Scandinavia the same positive attributes as the Russian north (both are quiet and clean), but in Norway these virtues are more likely to be found in the region around the capital; northern Norwegians are the uncivilized crowd there. A bit later, when everyone is pondering ‘the Piter factor’, she interrupts, as if she feels a point has been missed, with a harsh description of the Norwegian education and health systems. There is a Russian girl she knows who married a Norwegian (a typical consequence of the opening of the border). Contrary to popular belief in the West that Russian girls are eager to marry Western men in order to live in the West, this particular girl, Marina assures us, was not keen on moving to Norway at all. Why? Because she wanted her children ‘to go to a normal kindergarten, where they could learn something’. Marina then comments that the Norwegian school system, which allegedly produces ‘subnormal’ (degenerirovannye, literally: ‘degenerate’) children; obviously the children don’t learn very much at school. She recites a litany of problems supposedly connected with living in Scandinavia,50 ‘And the health service there! I wouldn’t trust the medical system in

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Norway if you paid me!’ After another round of allegations against Norwegian schools, she concludes (she ‘lands’ her litany) with the words, ‘That’s just how it is.’51 Marina, while consistently categorical in her depiction of Russian northerners and southerners, is sometimes inconsistent when she speaks about life on the other side of the border. She might have hesitated because the interviewer is Norwegian and she does not want to appear impolite. Or she might simply be ambivalent about her Nordic neighbours and interaction with them. Clearly, she is proud when she can tell her Ukrainian friends about the exchange programmes in the Barents region. But this does not mean, she seems to want to say, she is uncritical of whatever the opening of the border implies. She obviously has some information, or has heard rumours, about Norwegian schools and hospitals and their standards52 and is adamant that Russians have nothing to learn from their Nordic neighbours in that department. For Marina, then, the opening of the border seems, if anything, to have made her more conscious or proud of her Russianness, not the other way around.53 Even more interesting for the topic of this chapter, Marina does not ascribe the same good qualities to northerners on the other side of the border as she does to Russian northerners. Actually, she likens the Russian north to Scandinavia as such, but with the northern parts of Scandinavia (i.e. those that are engaged in cross-border collaboration with Northwestern Russia) as a possible exception! Marina’s fellow interviewee, Ivan, thinks along similar lines. Unlike Marina, he says not one deprecatory word about Scandinavians at this interview, but despite his apparent wish to appear knowledgeable about cross-border schemes under the Barents programme, he has not one positive word to say about them either. Explicitly, he promotes a specific form of northernness – which is neither that of Polar romanticism or harsh Stalinism, nor of outspoken Westernism, for that matter. No, his idea of northernness is the mild, ‘civilized’ version springing out of St Petersburg, Russia’s ‘northern capital’ and ‘window on Europe’.54 He openly declares his admiration for St Petersburg; and what goes for Piter by and large also goes for Murmansk, he insists (‘we’ve always relied on Piter’; ‘even our dialect is Piterish’).55 Implicitly, he draws a connection between this desirable form of northernness and that which is developed at the border in the Barents region (‘we’ve annexed Norway as part of Murmansk Oblast’, i.e. into the Piterish Russian north).56 More than anything, Ivan’s rather acute comments in this interview point to a

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specific form of northernness that is open to Europeanness, but not the West per se. His opinions are similar to those of Mu¨ller’s respondents,57 Moscow IR students who engage selectively with European signifiers. Identifying oneself in some situations as European does not mean relinquishing one’s Russianness (as identification with Westernness would probably require), although it acts as a foil to ‘ordinary’ Russianness. This is exactly what Ivan and his friends do when they speak pejoratively about Russian southerners, but also aim some blows at the West. They probably would have spoken negatively about southerners even in the absence of cross-border partnerships in the north, but the latter presumably serve to give their sense of northernness yet another pillar to rest on. Engaging selectively with some Scandinavian attributes while discarding others strengthens their feeling of Piterish northernness. Although someone has to state – as Marina did clearly and loudly – it does not mean slavishly adopting Western ideals. We will return to this in the next chapter.

Conclusions Prevailing stereotypes of what it means to be a northerner – competent, cultured, calm and considerate – fill out the dominant public narrative I term ‘the good life in the north’. A high level of education and material wealth ensure good manners, orderliness and civilized relations among people. There is a strong element of othering in this narrative: southerners are uncivilized, stingy and mean, at best ‘fun to be around, but oh so superficial’. Then there is a competing narrative of life in the north as fundamentally ‘unnatural’. Even doctors say that life in the north is, beyond any shadow of scientific doubt, not good for the organism, and most people seem to agree. We hear them worry about the affliction called Arctic eyesight, about winter depressions and a general lack of physical well-being; and we hear them blame the problems on magnetic storms, atmospheric pressure and lack of oxygen. We see them admire the northern landscape, but from a distance, as something almost unreal (‘the forests were not forests’). And we hear them say that building a city like Murmansk north of the Polar Circle was a crime and liken it to an unlit incubator, where you risk slowly perishing from cold if you forsake the conventions. This alternative narrative hardly figured at all in the interview with Marina. It was

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breaking through the surface in Nastya’s story, and had taken over the entire picture of ‘the good life in the north’ for Elena. As mentioned several times already, there is a conspicuous tendency for interviewees to alternate between sets of opinions or attitudes. Obviously, one can call Murmansk the best city in Russia and at the same time call its construction a criminal act without contradicting oneself. The same applies to the wish to be a northerner, and believing people should not be living in the north. Is ‘being a northerner’ essentially a way of distinguishing oneself from the uncultured, dachaand-orchard mentality of southerners – thanks to Anna for this wonderful expression! – or simply from ‘ordinary’ Russianness? Nor is there any obvious opposition between enthusiasm over cross-border cooperation and dismay over what the other side has to offer. The first interview in this chapter took place in an amicable atmosphere, though the interviewees held highly divergent opinions. Ivan subtly boasted about his visits to Norway, while Marina performed something close to a character assassination of the same nation. The interesting thing was the absence of an argument; everyone smiled and nodded at each others’ comments, signalling agreement. Marina and Ivan leaned in different directions, but there seemed to be no fundamental disagreement between them. Could each of them perhaps have used the other’s more extreme arguments (i.e. Marina praising and Ivan scolding Norwegians)? In this case, I can confirm that not only could they, they did. (I have interviewed them both on other occasions.) I’ve heard Ivan deride Norwegians for lack of culture and Marina praise Norwegians for orderliness and competence. What do they really think, then? Ok, they might be picking selectively from the ‘syllabary of possible selves’ available to them, but do they have no core identity that ensures consistency on a subject?58 Or is it meaningless to search for an inner conviction, a central ‘truth’? Is ‘truth’ being true to narrative conventions? Is it simply so that these conventions – in this particular case – give individuals flexibility to switch between positions as long as these positions are of a certain type? In this chapter, we identified a specific set of narrative resources available to Northwest Russians related to northernness and southernness. These resources can be used selectively, we found, depending on the situation; they do not require internal logical consistency. Actors behave rationally as long as they draw from the set of stereotypes about Russian northernness, but these

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stereotypes can be played with, tested out, twisted and torn apart. Perhaps the closest we can get to defining Kola northernness is engagement, in some form or other, with these stereotypes. That said, we should not lose sight of the fact that the majority of my interviewees still embrace, or rather do not question, the conventional wisdom of northerners as competent, cultured, calm and considerate. Hence, the two competing narratives on life in the north might present reality in very different ways, but the distance between them is not insurmountable, to say the least. Who would have thought it, that the first one to travel south of this chapter’s interviewees would be Marina? Shortly after my interview with her, she left her double flat in Severomorsk for good and took her three children (she was pregnant when the interview took place) and Anton with her to settle on the shores of the Black Sea. She continues to complain about southerners, though.

CHAPTER 9 HOW TO BE A RUSSIAN1

Introduction Now we turn to a discussion about how the inhabitants of the Kola Peninsula distinguish themselves from people on the other side of the East–West border in the region. What’s their opinion about the Nordic countries, what do they know about people there and how they live? How are they different from Russians? Which stereotypes exist, and what narrative resources are at hand for Northwest Russians to define themselves as Russian as opposed to Scandinavian northerners. And what has the opening of the border implied in this respect?

Interview 1: ‘Their eyes are always wide open’ Again we meet a married couple, this time one in their mid-forties. The interview takes place in the office of the female spouse Larisa after working hours. She is a technical specialist and teaches at the university. Born in Russia’s middle belt, she married a military man, Andrey. They lived in one of the closed military towns on the Kola Peninsula for about a decade, but they have lived in Murmansk for nearly as long. Larisa and Andrey, like many of my interviewees, have little experience of foreigners and do not really know what they think of them. Based on what she has seen, Larisa is impressed with how self-assured and out-going Scandinavians are. They are obviously not afraid of foreign countries, even if they do not know the language. They seem to feel at home everywhere. But perhaps they look a bit naı¨ve; ‘you can

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easily tell a foreigner: their eyes are always wide open’. Asked whether she would like to travel abroad herself, Larisa would like to have a look, she says, but not move to another country – she would feel awkward not knowing the language. Andrey tells his wife to get rid of her complexes, but agrees that moving abroad is not for them, ‘that’s for the young; it’s too late for us’. Larisa and Andrey seem slightly apprehensive, preoccupied with language-related problems. They would have felt uncomfortable abroad without being able to converse normally with people. They are impressed with Scandinavians who come to Murmansk not knowing Russian, and obviously not ashamed of it or restrained by it. But are Scandinavians considered ‘simple’ because they don’t seem embarrassed?

Interview 2: ‘As nations, they’re on the decline’ Both of my next interviewees are psychologists. They used to work together and are still friends. Ashot, fiftyish, was born and raised in Armenia, but has lived in Murmansk for many years. Natalya, a woman in her early forties, grew up in one of the closed military towns on the Kola Peninsula and is married to a serviceman from the south. They live in Murmansk now as well. The interview takes place at Natalya’s flat and proceeds in a friendly, easy atmosphere. Natalya and Ashot are witty, articulate and amusing. Note, for instance, how Natalya weaves together various myths about the Russian south, ‘They’re so eccentric and tense – puts me off the fruit altogether.’ Most of the interview concerns differences between northerners and southerners; northerners, says Ashot, tend to be internationalists. (‘In the north, all nations merge into one.’) With a question about their experience with foreigners, the interview atmosphere becomes suddenly tense and forced. After brushing away the question with a coquettish ‘Oh my God, my God! I just have to learn English!’, Natalya admits she has never been abroad, and regrets, like Larisa in our first interview, not being able to speak with people in other countries in their own language. Ashot believes travelling abroad should be left to the younger generation, echoing what Andrey said in our first interview. When the interviewer asks him to say something at least, he doesn’t mince his words. Scandinavians, he says, are helpless and extraordinarily naı¨ve. It’s as if they live in an incubator, Natalya adds. And as nations, they are on

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the decline, Ashot follows up. ‘True, true’, Natalya responds, ‘There’s something seriously wrong with the blood over there. They’re all brothers and sisters. If they’d only let some fresh blood in . . .’ Then they start talking about Scandinavians who marry Russian girls, ‘and insult us in the process’, Ashot says. ‘We’re better than these foreigners!’ The atmosphere clears when Natalya says she understands girls who marry foreigners – they’re looking to improve their living standards. ‘I would have gone myself – just don’t tell my husband!’ Which gives Ashot an opportunity to mock Natalya; ‘wizened old women’, he says, are probably not exactly what they’ve got in mind. Becoming serious again, he agrees that she might think of a foreign husband for her daughter. Natalya sounds sincere when in the last lines of the interview she says that if that is what her daughter wants, she will not interfere.

Interview 3: ‘Everything over there predisposes them to equanimity’ This interview is with a group of three women in their mid-forties. Tamara and Olga are colleagues at a firm in the private sector, and Vera is their friend. The interview takes place inside during the lunch break. Since the weather is bad, no one is interested in going outside anyway. They are not pressed for time, and are well disposed towards being interviewed. As it turns out, one of them is particularly well qualified to have an opinion of the opening of the East–West border. What do they think of Scandinavians, the interviewer asks. Tamara sets the scene by declaring that ‘people are people everywhere, even in Africa – if you’re nice to them, they’ll be nice to you’. Then it turns out Olga has a daughter who is married to a Norwegian, and she gladly shares her experience. She mentions her daughter’s wedding as a ‘particularly conspicuous example’ of how Russians and Scandinavians differ: after the wedding ceremony, the groom’s parents needed to rest, even though the wedding was not over yet. The bride’s family were shocked. (‘You could have knocked me down with a feather!’) These Norwegians only cared about their health – in the middle of their son’s wedding! And now, after five years of marriage, Olga’s daughter is like all those ‘Ibsens and Amundsens’,2 ‘she lies down and doesn’t lift a finger if she doesn’t have to!’ Olga is not judgmental; she is happy for her daughter, and she sort of likes Norwegian calmness, although it requires

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some getting used to. But ‘everything over there predisposes them to equanimity’, Vera says, without further explanation. (Based on the other interviews and conversations, though, I assume she is referring to what Russians suppose is the comfortable life in the West, where people do not have to toil like Russians do to make ends meet.) On the other side of the border, even the animals are cool and collected, and unafraid of people. Wild animals are treated so well. Vera reminds Olga of a picture of her daughter and son-in-law feeding sardines to a fox in the forest. ‘Where would you see something like that in Russia, I ask you?’ Tamara adds a story of a fox which used to live in the Russian – Finnish borderlands. The Finnish border guards used to feed it, but the Russians shot it. Vera is ashamed of the Russians’ behaviour. The interview rounds off as the company comments on how typically northern it is to sit and have a nice conversation about Scandinavia, ‘We’ve all got ties in that direction, or we know people who have’. In short, these women seem to admire the gentleness and humanity they have observed in Scandinavians, and they take pride in the geographic and cultural proximity to them.

Exploring Stereotypes about Scandinavians In two of these three interviews, we meet people who say they have little or no experience of Scandinavians, or of foreigners in general. They try to avoid saying what they feel about their Nordic neighbours. Leave that to the younger generation, they say (despite most of them being only in their forties). One of the couples, Andrey and Larisa, describe Scandinavians with some admiration as a fearless lot, but perhaps a bit naı¨ve. To the two psychologists Natalya and Ashot, Scandinavians are ‘extraordinarily naı¨ve’. But their explanations and conclusions are less nuanced than Larisa and Andrey’s. ‘As nations,’ we are told, ‘they’re on the decline, especially Scandinavia, but Europe as well’. ‘There’s something seriously wrong,’ moreover, ‘with the blood over there – they’re all brothers and sisters’. They feel ‘insulted’ by Scandinavians who ‘marry our girls’, and consider themselves ‘better than these foreigners’. Nevertheless, Natalya would have married a foreigner herself, and if her daughter wants to she won’t stand in her way. Ashot seems to agree. For our last interview, we had ‘come to the right place’ if we wanted firsthand experiences of Scandinavians; Olga’s daughter is married to a Norwegian. Olga is struck

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by the tranquillity of Norwegians, which she and her friends link to the comfortable life over there. Further, people are more considerate; even animals are treated with respect. If we compare these observations about Scandinavians with what we heard about southerners in the previous chapter, what strikes us is the wider range of adjectives used to describe the former. Not only do most interviewees have far less to say about Scandinavians than about southerners;3 to a lesser extent do they seem to have a common pool of characteristics to give structure to the discussion. Many seem unsure of what to say or how to respond. Some are categorical, but don’t really say very much. (Nor do they have much firsthand experience from which to draw conclusions.) A few – those with personal experience – describe Scandinavians using a richer, more balanced vocabulary. While many interviewees have no personal experience of Scandinavians, they have watched them in the streets of Murmansk or heard stories about them. They tend to characterize them as ‘different’, even ‘strange’, based on physical appearance or reported behaviour. In many instances, interviewees talk first about the difference in appearance before rehearsing their assumptions about ‘how they are over there’.4 Aleksandr and Tatyana (both in their early thirties), who are colleagues and personal friends, touch upon clothes, roads, Scandinavian dullness5 and respect for the law6 in this brief extract: Interviewer: Aleksandr:

Tatyana:

What do you know about our northern neighbours? How would you describe the difference between people in Russia and people in Scandinavia? I wouldn’t live there for love or money. It’s excruciatingly dull [skukotishcha u nikh tam zhutkaya ] in my opinion. And the roads are so narrow! As an experienced driver, I’m amazed to see how enormous transport vehicles negotiate the roads [moves some glasses around on the table to illustrate his point]. On the other hand, vehicles stop if you’re at a zebra crossing to let you over. [Addressing Aleksandr] As a driver, you form your own opinions, but I look at it from the pedestrian’s point of view. It’ll never be like that here.

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What about the people over there, what d’you think of them? Frost-resistant [laughs]! We wear fur, they wander round in casuals, jackets undone. This is an example from everyday life. They’re also extremely honest. They don’t like getting involved in anything fishy [afera ]. Best not to even try, because they are also extremely law-abiding. It wouldn’t occur to them to try and con anyone. Anything goes wrong, they give themselves up, intestines and all.

Viktoria and Julia, two women in their late twenties, blame Scandinavians’ poor posture and inability to dress on the welfare state: Viktoria: There’s no two ways about it – they’re pofigists [ pofigisty, people characterized by indifference to and disregard for the feelings and opinions of others]. And their clothes are dreadful. You can spot them a mile away from the clothes they’re wearing. Even though everything is available in the shops, they still can’t dress properly. Julia: It’s because they don’t have a clothes cult. You said yourself they’re all ‘pofigists’ [impersonates Viktoria]. And it’s really true, they sort of lumber around all floppy like. The government’s given them everything, so they don’t have to keep fit. Not like here. Elena and Nikolay, the elderly couple we met in the previous chapter who felt they were hostages to the north, have similar thoughts on the subject and tell a story purporting to illustrate the different ways Russians and Scandinavians tackle everyday challenges. Interviewer: Elena: Nikolay:

Since we’re on the subject of abroad, what do you know about your northern neighbours? Are the people who live in Scandinavia like us? Well, I think their life’s a lot easier than ours. They don’t need to use up all their energy on all

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sorts of everyday problems. Living there’s more enjoyable. But to get back to the question, hear what Zadornov says. [M. Zadornov is a humorist specializing in making fun of foreigners, especially Americans. His most trenchant statement so far regarding the latter is: ‘Well, they’re stupid’ – in contrast to Russians who are intelligent and inventive]. They’re wilting under all that wealth. Here, it’s like this: if you can’t find a screwdriver, you use whatever you’ve got at hand. They call the local service station. Ay, d’you remember what our friends told us? Some foreigners came here with flies to fish with, probably Finns or Norgs.7 They board this helicopter, and off they fly to the tundra. They’d brought along a piece of Swiss cheese, but forgotten the knife. [Parodying the fishermen, she throws out her arms in an expression of helplessness] A disaster! One of our boys, the helicopter mechanic, seeing their horrified expressions thought something really serious had happened. So what does he do? He cuts a length of wiring, fixes a piece of wood at either end, and uses this contraption to carve up the cheese. He’d probably never felt more proud of his own people than at that moment.

One of the most conspicuous features of the interview material – totally unfamiliar to Norwegian discourse (if not insulting to me as a semi-northern Norwegian) – is the reference to ‘the blood factor’ (see interview with Natalya and Ashot), i.e. there has been too little mixing of blood in the northern parts of Norway. My first experience of this metaphor was during my own interview with Nastya and Sergey (see Chapter 8). I failed at first to understand what Nastya was referring to, ‘There’s a widely held view here in Murmansk that there’s been too little mixing of the blood in the Scandinavian countries, they’ve been very shut off and haven’t had the infusion of fresh blood. The towns are small, the communities over there.’

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A rather extreme variant is found in our interview with Tolik, Kolya and Genya, three colleagues and workers at a private enterprise, all in their early thirties: Interviewer: What do you think about foreigners then? Tolik: Once more – let’s clarify what we’re talking about. What foreigners are you interested in? Kolya: Indians or Ukrainians? They’re all foreigners to us nowadays anyway. Interviewer: Let’s stick with Scandinavia. Tolik: They’re the most ludicrous countries. Even their flags are idiotic. Interviewer: Could you expand a little on that? Tolik: Yes. In Norway, for example, you’re better off saying you come from Russia than from Northern Norway. Kolya: How’s that? Tolik: Some friends showed me a picture once of eight people. Only one of the faces had the merest glimpse of intelligence. The others, some had disproportionately large heads, others disproportionately small. It wouldn’t be insulting to call them completely deformed. Kolya: And the intelligent-looking guy, he wasn’t Russian by any chance? Tolik: Precisely! Didn’t I say? But you’re right. It was the first time I saw the photo. Since then it’s been explained to me scientifically. To put it briefly, population density in Northern Norway is extremely low, so there’s a particular blend of blood and what have you. Genya: Well, they’ll probably do something about it now, what with technological progress. Tolik: And which technology did you have in mind [smiling]? Genya: Well, cars, ’planes – was that what you were thinking [general laughter]? They use ’planes over there like we use taxis.

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Kolya: Tolik:

But conversely, it costs a lot more to take a taxi there! Mmm, but something has to be wrong with them too.

This is reminiscent of what Ries refers to as the ‘mischief tale’, which she identifies as a typical male speech genre in Russia.8 Shocking comments, bragging and exaggeration are typical features of mischief tales. ‘If shopping tales were a predominant genre of stories told by and about Russian women (and used to define Russian women), mischief tales were the outstanding genre through which the identity and nature of the Russian male was exposed, explored, and enjoyed’.9 I will return to this below. Then there are the more nuanced accounts from those who have personal experience with Scandinavians. Valeria (female, around forty) and Katya (female, early twenties) work at the international department of an institution of higher education and have visited the Nordic countries on a number of occasions. Interviewer:

Valeria:

Katya:

Valeria:

Both of you know a lot about foreigners from personal experience. Could you tell me what you think about the differences between people living in Russia and Scandinavia respectively? Well, I mix with foreigners mainly out of interest. It’s always interesting to learn new things about people living nearby. They’re sort of next door [pointing in the general direction], but their worldview couldn’t be more different. In the very beginning, after I’d started going around with foreigners, a lot of things shocked me. For instance, what I found weird was normal to them. You’re right, but after you’ve met a few of them and got to know them, you realize they’re human just like us. And you start accepting these foreign bodies as they are instead of trying to get them to be like us. But that’s something you learn from experience . . . [exhales audibly, as if she is thinking of something with regret]. So many thoughts whirling around . . .

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To start with you think everything here is just how it’s supposed to be – and not there. But then everything seems good there, but not here [gestures right and left as she speaks]. I’ll tell you about the washing machine – all my friends know this story. [Recounts the story with great passion.] I’d been dreaming about buying a washing machine, because I DIDN’T HAVE ONE. Finally I managed to buy one – I’m pleased as Punch and tell a Finn. I mean, I tell him how much time I’m saving, and how my hands will benefit etc . . . Then he asks me twice in a row, ‘so you’ve bought a dishwasher’. And I say ‘not a dishwasher, no, not me nor any of my friends or acquaintances – that’s a luxury for us’. So he says, ‘I can’t imagine how anybody can live without a dishwasher. Whenever ours stops working I call the repair man immediately or have to go and get a new one. Otherwise there’ll be mountains of dirty dishes in the house.’ I can tell you, I felt really, really put out! On the one hand – in what way am I worse [ ¼ this is unfair! ], and on the other – how can you not wash dirty dishes for days on end? Precisely. That’s how they raise their kids too. And it’s not right! Well, let’s get back to the question, what’s right and what’s wrong. What is it about this ‘right’ [Gde ono eto ‘pravilno’? ]? Aaaah. That’s just the way it is over there. They’ve progressed faster than us over the past forty years. Perhaps you’ll find yourself saying to some underdeveloped African in forty years: What??? You don’t say you haven’t got a dishwasher! How awful! How d’you manage without one [smiles]? I’d like to talk more about the children. Abroad, the way they raise children is less dramatic than here, they don’t go round shouting and screaming. They leave their children to get on with their own

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affairs. Here it’s the opposite. We keep on looking after them till we’re old and grey. Other people’s children too – on the street, in the shops. You’re so right. Children in other countries go shopping on their own and choose their own clothes. I’ve seen it with my own eyes! There was this small kid of about ten, and he picked a pair of trousers and bought them himself. I thought they were absolute awful, but he wouldn’t have anything else. Children over there are allowed to make choices from a young age. Here, on the other hand, some mothers are still buying clothes for us – and yes, I’m referring to myself here. But there’s more to it than that. Take my kids, for example. They were supposed to be going to the sea. Their dad gave them 13,000 roubles [she explains she doesn’t live with the children’s father]. They went and blew the lot. What d’you think they bought? They came home with a suitcase full of clothes. All sorts of Chinese T-shirts and pants in a livid scarlet hue. And all in a style which they’ll grow out of in six months. They’re just not ready to manage a budget, and us parents can’t afford to give them things, because there’s no money left over. Just you wait till you get children yourself. You’ll soon find out.

Valeria and Katya switch back and forth, describing Scandinavians first in a positive light, then a negative one. You start off thinking everything is better at home, Valeria says, before changing your mind, and everything is suddenly better abroad. The truth, she seems to be implying, lies somewhere in between. Foreigners ‘are human beings just like us’, Katya adds. Once you’ve realized this, you can start accepting them as they are and not try to fit them into a Russian mould. Valeria recounts her story about the washing machine, and how a Finn thought she was talking about a dishwasher and couldn’t understand how anyone could survive without one. But dishwashers are luxury items, says Valeria, and neither she nor any of her friends could afford one. But the

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episode was not all fun – she actually felt quite put out by the Finn’s remarks. What made him think he could speak to her like that? How is he better than her? Katya supports her friend, ‘it just isn’t right!’ Then they wonder what ‘right’ means, and they discuss the pros and cons of the way children are brought up in Russia and abroad. Russian-style parental care is preferable to Western ‘freedom’, they agree. Interviewees with little firsthand experience of the Nordic countries, almost always speak of them as prosperous. Viktor, who said it was a crime to build a city like Murmansk (see previous chapter), continues to lament the state of Russia, which he compares to Scandinavia: The whole country is so pathetic. I can’t stand those old houses. In Saratov, for instance, there are some barns. You’re travelling along the road, and there they are, weather-beaten barns [extends his arms to indicate both sides of the road]. It’s not like Scandinavia – looked after, respectable small houses, a light in every window and a proper drive to the front door.

The Words to Say It – Identity as Narrative As we have seen, my interviewees entertain a wide range of views of Scandinavians. Scandinavians are either different and strange; they are alright when you get to know them; they’re gentle and naı¨ve. At the other end of the scale, they’re considered mentally and physically impaired. Among these different descriptions, one discerns an underlying theme, a common thread in almost all of the narratives in my sample. It is the idea of ‘the good life in the West’. Many interviewees are explicit about what they believe is the prosperity of the Nordic countries. People over there are positively ‘wilting under all that wealth’; they ‘live in an incubator’, are ‘given everything by the state’ and ‘don’t lift a finger if they don’t have to’. Even the least impressed interviewees seem to imagine Scandinavians as a rich and comfortable lot. The three young men who found hardly a trace of intelligence in the Nordic faces portrayed in the photograph, for instance, believe their Western neighbours ‘take ‘planes like we take taxis’. They state that ‘something has to be wrong with them too’, indicating that by and large Scandinavians are pretty well off. And the psychologists Natalya and Ashot, according to whom the Scandinavian countries are on the decline

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from lack of fresh blood, agree that it would be a good idea to settle there if one had the chance. But while ‘the good life in the north’ portrayed in the previous chapter was an ideal to strive for (or an idealized reality they had been promised by Soviet authorities), the ‘good life in the West’ is a good life in quotation marks for my Kola inhabitants. It is a hollow ‘good life’, like a horror film, the heaven you don’t want to end up in, a disinfected Barbie world where all the pretty people are gone, leaving ghastly, deformed hobbits behind, so heavy they’re hardly able to carry the weight of their own bodies. And with so much in-breeding, they’re all sisters and brothers. It is indeed a ‘life in plastic, it’s fantastic’10 – with high levels of personal wealth and highly organized, but with no soul.11 It is a place of ‘extraordinary dullness’ and monotony, where parents can’t even endure the wedding of their own children, where people eat for the sake of nutrition and not for pleasure,12 where schools produce ‘degenerated children’, where you can hardly tell the difference between a man and a woman, where people are incapable of handling unexpected situations – like how to divide the cheese when you’ve forgotten your cheese knife, or what to do with the dirty dishes when the dishwasher breaks down. Just watching people move shows you how weak they have become. But they don’t have to keep in shape because the state literally supports them. What they need is a strong dose of Russian zest, initiative and spirituality. While ‘the good life in the north’ is well within the bounds of accepted Russianness (although it also offers a means to distinguish oneself from outright ordinary Russianness, characterized by a lack of kulturnost, the alleged bane of the south), ‘the good life in the West’ is the exact opposite of what is considered to be the essence of the good Russian, i.e. the shirokaya dusha, or ‘wide soul’ comprising passion, generosity, open-mindedness, hospitality, unlimited kindness and a certain amount of recklessness.13 ‘The good life in the West’ is, in this sense, a representation of ‘Anti-Russia’ – for better (a certain amount of law and order is acceptable at times), but most of all for worse (it’s not worth it if a soulless society is the alternative). Sergey from our second interview in the previous chapter explains: ‘Scandinavians, Norwegians . . . they’re widely believed to be pretty unemotional, very calculating, no unnecessary movements, a bit niggardly’. And his wife adds, ‘Scandinavians are generally believed to be physically robust, they can

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wear casual clothes, like I’ve got to wear a fur [in the winter], but you can manage in a jacket’. See also Aleksandr’s characterization above of Scandinavians as ‘frost-resistant’: ‘We wear fur, they wander round in casuals, jackets undone.’ Is it a case of ‘Scandinavia is nature, Russia is culture’? But there is another narrative, a modified version of the ‘life in plastic þ hobbits’ image of Scandinavia. Of my interviewees with experience of personal contact with Scandinavians, almost all were surprised by what they saw as the unruffled temperament and tranquillity expressed in these people’s behaviour. Olga, who has the Norwegian son-in-law, was taken aback by the slow pace of life in Norway. Nevertheless, ‘that’s something we should learn from them’, she said. Her friends admire Finns’ and Norgs’ treatment of wild animals. And Valeria relates how parents in Scandinavia bring up their children ‘without shouting and screaming’. In the following interview with two young women, Tanya and Sveta (both in their early twenties), they compare different approaches to the disabled: Interviewer: What do you know about our northern neighbours? Tanya: They’re clever, in the sense of having a more advanced culture than ours. They don’t throw rubbish all over the place and they keep to the traffic rules, you know . . . Sveta: I’d also mention their attitudes towards people with disabilities. Wherever I’ve been, Norway, Finland, England, they don’t treat the disabled as though they’re not fully human. Unlike in our country. This is important for me. [Sveta has a child with a congenital disability.] I may start thinking someday about trying to give my child a future abroad, because disabled people are human just like everyone else. Interviewer: How do your initial impressions of Scandinavians compare with your current opinions, now that you’ve had some experience of them and been abroad? Sveta: The differences were much greater I thought at first, but I’ve friends in Norway and Finland now.

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They’re just ordinary people. Like to enjoy themselves, love their children, they’re not mean or nasty. And they have fewer problems in their lives than we do. My opinion hasn’t changed so much. I think they’re bored in their own countries and visit us for the adrenalin kick. Which we’ve got enough of here.

On the whole, my interviewees are less inclined to define themselves by othering westwards than southwards. Everybody seems to have a very distinct idea of what it means to be a Russian northerner, and how that identity differs from that of southerners. My interviewees have a harder time nailing down the Scandinavians – some have nothing to say at all, some opinions are quite categorical but lack the supporting evidence; only a few know enough from firsthand experience to be in a position to put flesh on the bone. Hence, narratives about life in Scandinavia might serve to shape Northwest Russian identity by confirming already established images of Russianness, though presumably with less force than narratives about southerners. Even in my scattered sample, a thread runs through the interviews, an image of relatively wealthy Scandinavians, but a spiritually impoverished bunch in comparison with the Russians. The othering westwards might be less outspoken than southwards, but the conclusion is no less clear: even those who say they would have settled in the Nordic countries if they had the chance (which quite a few of them do, actually), express the same sentiment: ‘this is not what we want for Russia.’14

New Borderlands? How has the open border with Scandinavia influenced Northwest Russians’ perceptions of themselves as Russians?15 I said above that othering westwards is less pronounced than southwards, but if the border had not been opened at all,16 people would probably have had far fewer reference points in the western direction. Until the early 1990s, foreigners were a rare sight in the streets of Murmansk – and Russians in Tromsø, Lulea˚ and Rovaniemi.17 There was no Internet, and media coverage of events on the other side of the border was presumably not very common. So 15 or so years before I conducted my interviews, the

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chances of people on the Kola Peninsula having any personal experience of Scandinavians would have been slim. Most people would only know what they were taught in school. By the mid-2000s, the majority of the inhabitants of Murmansk would have at least seen foreigners (in most cases Scandinavians) with increasing regularity in public places. A substantial number would have met Scandinavians through their work, had friends and acquaintances in one of the Nordic countries or known people who did. Finally, a large proportion of the Northwest Russian population is in touch with Scandinavians on a more or less permanent basis either because they have lived abroad themselves, have worked or had personal relationships with Scandinavians. In my interview sample, these three categories are represented fairly evenly. One notices a difference between interviewees who deal with Scandinavians, either sporadically or regularly, and those that do not. Almost without exception, the former group has at least something positive to say about their Nordic neighbours. Hardly any of them accept uncritically everything that goes on on the other side of the border (although some say they did so in the beginning), but they agree that ‘there are things there I hadn’t thought of before, they’re not all that stupid after all’. They may have noticed Scandinavians’ interest in other people, their temperament, respect for wild animals, the well-kept gardens, respectful treatment of people with disabilities or the amount of freedom children enjoy in Scandinavia compared to what is usual in Russia.18 Some have only seen Scandinavians from a distance – in public places, in the media or through hearsay. Although these interviewees also spoke of Scandinavians as materially affluent, they were much quicker to criticize them than people who actually know Norwegians, Swedes or Finns themselves. They direct their criticism at the bad manners, poor posture, lack of style, practical helplessness and unintelligence, and invoke ‘the blood factor’ as an explanation. In practical terms, their reference group tends to be Norwegian tourists in Murmansk, mainly comprising middle-aged and elderly men in search of women and booze. As Sergey from our previous chapter said, ‘A lot of the people who’ve hardly ever met a Norwegian think they come here for the vodka rather than to do business. This is because the vodka is cheap and they can be anonymous in Murmansk.’ Then he goes on to tell a story about a Norwegian delegation of feminists visiting Murmansk, who, ‘on their

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last night here, got well and truly sloshed and had to be literally manhandled onto the bus and sent home the day after; they didn’t even pay their bill – we had to do it for them.’ So in Norway even feminists get sloshed – at least they do when they visit Murmansk.19 Finally, there are a few people in my sample with practically nothing to say about Scandinavians (apart from remarks about Scandinavian affluence). One was a housewife in her mid-fifties. ‘I know absolutely nothing about them, so there’s nothing really I can say – nothing of interest at least. I only know what they say on the telly: “They live for themselves and have no worries” [Russian saying].’ Larisa in the first interview of this chapter belongs in this category, although she has met a few foreigners. She has nothing particularly negative to say about Scandinavians, but is palpably curious about them. A bit paradoxically, then, it does not seem as if the opening of the border has had unequivocally positive effects in terms of bringing people on either side of the border closer together. Yes, those of my interviewees who have had dealings with Scandinavians on a more or less regular basis understand them better and seem to have a relatively balanced view. But those with more limited contact – who have watched their neighbours from the side, so to speak – are more inclined to have a negative opinion than those without any such experience at all. To generalize a bit, then, crossborder contact seems to actually worsen mutual perceptions, until a certain point where it starts to improve them beyond the point of departure. East –West collaboration in the European north – notably the BEAR partnership, but also the different institutional arrangements set up to protect the northern environment – is mainly intended to improve Russian know-how in various areas. See also how Browning more generally speaks of how Europe has taken upon itself the ‘self-endowed role of civilising the barbarian learner, or European apprentice, not quite fully European but on the way to getting there – as long as it attends the lessons and does its homework’.20 Interestingly, the possibility of learning from one another is virtually absent from my interviews. As the discussion above suggests, what Russians think about being taught by the Nordic countries comes through loud and clear: ‘thanks, but no thanks.’21 Perhaps training is not what first comes to mind when you are used to counting ‘competence’ as one of your attributes as a Russian northerner (cf. the discussion in the previous chapter), especially not, one might add, when what you see on the other side of the border is a not

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particularly inviting mixture of drunkards and spineless hobbits. Without concluding whether the East–West collaboration has been successful or not, it might be worth noting that learning from the West does not seem to be an element of the narrative repertoire of ordinary Northwest Russians (while on the Nordic side it looms large). This might have to do with people’s opinions of Scandinavians, or there might be a more general explanation. Ries argues that ‘practical problem solving’ is not a speech genre to the same extent in Russia as it is in the West:22 Just as improper or odd grammatical constructions would call forth the criticism, ‘that is not Russian’, so might unusual discursive genres seem to be ‘not Russian’. I had the experience many times of having my remarks during conversations completely ignored, or met with strange looks, as if I had mangled pronunciation or syntax. [. . .] The more I learned and practiced not just proper language but proper genres, the more I was able to participate fully in conversations with Russians and the more I was able to belong. This does not mean, however, that I was able to communicate everything I wanted to say. My adoption of Russian speech genres meant putting aside certain key attitudes, ideas, and approaches to life which American speech genres supported and contained, but which Russian genres did not. One particularly American genre of speaking to which I was inclined could be termed ‘practical problem-solving’. For example, in conversations about food shortages (a very popular topic, since shortages kept getting worse and worse at this time), I tended to ask questions about how Soviet food-distribution systems are operationally structured, assuming that it would be interesting to try to imagine (although, of course, in very crude ways) how these might be improved. I eventually realized that my Russian interlocutors did not find my question appropriate for discussion. They seemed more interested in impressing and astonishing each other with increasingly dire accounts of shortages and tales of how difficult it was becoming to buy anything. My genre not only did not fit in with theirs – in fact it contradicted their genre and threatened to deflate it if they engaged it seriously; this they

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managed to avoid by ignoring it altogether in ritualized speech settings.23 The narrative resources available to Northwest Russians for describing their Nordic neighbours are not as rich as those available for descriptions of southerners, but are probably growing as contact between the nationalities increases. Othering southwards was seemingly a central component of the Kola identity as it was constructed in Soviet times, but the leading narrative of ‘the good life in the north’ arguably lost some of its hold on the northern population with the financial and social crises of the 1990s. At the same time, the opportunity for increased othering westwards – but also of identification with the Nordic countries – arose with the opening of the border and more extensive East– West contact. As the discussion in this chapter suggests, my interviewees do identify (or wish to identify) with the Nordic countries to some extent, but the general picture is one of othering. Unlike othering southwards, however, this othering is multisided, less categorical. Othering southwards is fluid in that established truths of the good life in the north can be played with, turned inside out and fragmented (just like interviewees alternate between admiration for and contempt of Scandinavia), but the pool of such accepted truths is very limited (i.e. rich in detail, but limited in scope). The corresponding pool of ‘truths’ about Scandinavians is more diverse, although some common ground exists here too. In short, my interviewees’ general impression of Scandinavia is that it is everything Russia is not. On the one hand, Scandinavia represents orderliness, gentleness (‘humanity’), law and order, which Russia does not (although the Russian north to some extent does). On the other hand, the Nordic countries lack the ‘wide soul’ of the Russians, implying generosity, excitement, inventiveness and fun. One is tempted to ask how this impression has come about. Is it based on a careful examination, or does it involve logical inference from more scattered observations? (If something over there is the exact opposite of how it is at home, then it must be so on a general basis?) Is it an example of how a narrative base can fuel the production of recordable opinions? When Natalya and Ashot exclaim that the Scandinavian countries are on the decline because there’s a shortage of fresh blood, is it a considered opinion, or something they say ‘off the cuff’ in lack of such an opinion? Must they then resort to one of the ‘social voices’ available to them, but which do not necessarily

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reflect any particular personal point of view? Is there something in the speech situation – two competent and eloquent people and dear friends cultivating the art of conversation – that calls for yet another cutting or penetrating remark? In a similar vein, when Tolik, Kolya and Genya say ‘shocking’ things about Scandinavians’ physical attributes, is it primarily a reflection of ‘male bonding’, something they wouldn’t have said in a different interview situation, for instance with their sisters or wives? I can’t say therefore whether Natalya means this or Tolik means that, but nor is that the point. The interesting thing is that images of deformed heads and decadent nations (both ascribed to ‘the blood factor’) are aspects of the narrative repertoire of Northwest Russians when the Nordic countries are the topic of discussion. Activating the repertoire presumably helps boost people’s feeling of Russianness. Interesting also is the observation (though I am aware of the problems of generalization) that othering in the western direction is most intense among people with some, but not much experience of Scandinavians (having seen them only from afar in public places). Those with no experience seem less prejudiced, while those with close, lasting ties with Scandinavians avoid the most extreme criticism of the Nordic physique and intellectual capacity. (But again, are they only adapting to a Scandinavian speech mode when they are interviewed for a Norwegian research project?) The most sustainable conclusion we can draw on the basis of this chapter, however, is that the ‘wide soul’ occupies a central place as signifier of Russianness in the Northwest Russian narrative repertoire. My interviewees need the wide soul attributes to survive, they say, and this is something they do not see on the other side of the border. Nobody seems interested in trading Russian excitement and soulfulness for Nordic welfare, law and order.

Narrative Juggling One main finding of my investigation is the freedom with which my interviewees seem to jump back and forth between seemingly incongruous conclusions. A person who says Murmansk is the best place on earth may later call it a crime to have built a city of half a million people north of the Arctic Circle. One can praise the human qualities of northerners, but say that people should not be living in the north. Most notably, one can express admiration and loathing of the

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Scandinavian countries, even when one and the same Scandinavian quality is the topic of discussion. Scandinavian orderliness, for instance, can be a symbol of lifesaving diligence (like at the nuclear power plant) and, almost simultaneously, utter, soulless boredom (in everyday life). Western wealth can be desirable, but despicable. Ashot says above: ‘we’re better than these foreigners’, but urges his friend Natalya to send her young daughter abroad. It is certainly no novelty that people can express diverging opinions,24 so the interesting thing is whether there is a regularity in a person’s alternating between seemingly incompatible points of view. There seems to be a continuum in my interview material where Soviet, or possibly old Russian, stereotypes are contrasted with or balanced against ‘post-Cold War’ stereotypes. I am referring to the tendency in early post-Soviet Russia to turn old truths about the world on their head. Communism was good. Now it’s capitalism. Democracy is good, even if it means the press can print lies with impunity. Isn’t that democracy, many Russians would ask laconically, letting the papers write whatever they want. If some old truths were supposed to be turned upside down, did that imply that none of the old truths were valid anymore? In the old days, people took pride in being northerners. Most say they still do, but some have started to doubt this attitude as they see that the state is no longer prepared to take care of the northern population. Back then, people were not supposed to admire the West (and probably only a few did; if there was envy it was of Western material wealth). Suddenly they are all expected to imitate Western behaviour and adopt Western ideals – market economy, democracy, trash culture. What are people supposed to believe? I contend that the narrative base of Northwest Russians grew substantially with the fall of the Iron Curtain. Old truths still form the basis – whether about the good life in the north or the so-called good life in the West – but ‘new truths’ have also appeared. Open admiration of the West is legitimate, as is continued contempt of Western values. This narrative base is fuelled by the old Russian dichotomy between Slavophilism and Westernism. In the late Soviet era, Westernism was largely limited to a small circle of intellectuals in Leningrad and Moscow. In all probability, it would not have been widely supported in the militarized and technocratic Kola society. With the end of the Cold War, not only were Russian official values turned on their head; the Kola

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Peninsula itself became a spearhead of regional cooperation between Russia and Western Europe. The region is still heavily militarized – even more so in the late 2000s than it was in the 1990s – and has remained open towards collaboration with the Nordic countries (despite, as we have seen, a cooling off since the early 2000s). Could it be that the narrative base of Kola inhabitants in the mid-2000s contained both elements to such an extent that many people found it natural to juggle pro- and anti-Western positions, as well as traditional and modern positions about life in the north? Could the opening of the border in fact have given the positions a sharper definition, making them more accessible to people, but without coalescing into a single repertory? Take for instance Marina, who we saw in the previous chapter recommend the student exchange programmes in the north to her Ukrainian friends, but criticize the Scandinavian health and education systems in front of the Norwegian interviewer. Before the border was opened, she would probably not have had anything to either praise or criticize in this respect. Working with Scandinavians showed her something of Scandinavian life, and she seems more confident in her opinions whether she speaks about how bad Norwegian schools are or how good it is that Russian students have a chance to attend them.25 Both narrative options are open to her. Speaking to Russian southerners, the new climate in cross-border cooperation gives her a platform to cultivate her sense of northernness; speaking to people from the Nordic side, she can now emphasize her Russianness with more authority. This tells me the Russians have a narrative repertoire that allows for more variation, more juggling, than Scandinavians do. As I concluded in the previous chapter, actors behave rationally as long as they draw from a definite set of stereotypes about Russian northernness, but these stereotypes can be played with, tested out, twisted and torn apart. The important thing is not whether northerners are cultured or not, whether Scandinavia is boring or not, or whether there is something wrong with the Kola environment or not – but that your opinion is drawn from a specific set of recognizable narratives.

PART VI POST-AGREEMENT BARGAINING IN THE BARENTS SEA

CHAPTER 10 MAKING RUSSIA COMPLY: BARGAINING PRECAUTIONARY FISHERIES MANAGEMENT IN THE BARENTS SEA 1

Introduction Why do states sometimes abide by the agreements they conclude with other states and sometimes not? Do states have a moral or ethical sense? Do they fear shaming or retaliation from other states if they fail to keep their commitments? What strategies can states apply to get other states to stick to their promises? This chapter looks into these questions by focusing on the management of one international fishery. The setting is the Barents Sea, home to some of the most productive fishing grounds on the planet, including the world’s largest cod stock. Since the 200-mile exclusive economic zones (EEZs) were introduced in the mid-1970s, Norway and the Soviet Union/the Russian Federation have managed the major fish stocks in the area together, through the Joint Norwegian – Russian Fisheries Commission (the Joint Commission).2 Nearly four decades later, this bilateral management regime appears to be a successful exception to the rule of failed fisheries management: stocks are in an exceptionally good shape, moreover, institutional cooperation is expanding and takes place in a generally friendly atmosphere. Both parties present their accomplishments in the Barents Sea as an example for emulation.

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Compliance by the parties with the bilateral agreements has, on the whole, been acceptable. Nevertheless, unsatisfactory compliance by Russian fishers has been a topic for the Joint Commission since the early 1990s. Norway has repeatedly claimed that the Russians have overfished their quotas and has engaged in various negotiation strategies to get Russian authorities to take the problem seriously. Norway has also continuously pressed Russia to agree on regulatory measures that would increase the parties’ compliance with the internationally-recognized precautionary approach to fisheries management. This chapter will explore what kinds of strategies Norway has employed, how the Russian side has perceived them, and what have been the results.3 The departure is the bilateral fisheries agreements between Norway and Russia, negotiated and signed in the mid-1970s.4 These are framework agreements that began with little prescriptive substance and have been filled in at the annual sessions of the Joint Commission. Hence, what is analysed is whether, and why, Russia has complied with the measures fixed in the protocols arising from the Commission and to what extent this compliance is the result of Norwegian bargaining. This also involves drawing into the discussion Russia’s obligations according to the law of the sea. To a large degree, the obligations emanating from these various levels merge into the overarching demand to conduct sustainable fisheries management, and, since the mid-1990s, fisheries management that is in accordance with the precautionary approach. The discussion will not be limited strictly to compliance bargaining, which can be understood as a sub-group of post-agreement bargaining. Jo¨nsson and Tallberg define post-agreement bargaining as ‘all those bargaining processes which follow from the conclusion of an agreement’.5 They understand compliance bargaining as ‘a process of bargaining between the signatories to an agreement already concluded, or between the signatories and the international institution governing the agreement, which pertains to the terms and obligations of this agreement’.6 Included are Norway’s efforts to influence Russian views on scientific recommendations and technical regulation. This is normally seen as related, not to the law abidingness of a fishery, but to fisheries management more widely. It is a matter of interpretation whether this can be understood as ‘pertain[ing] to the terms and obligations of [the] agreement’. To indicate the slightly broader approach taken here, the concept of ‘post-agreement bargaining’ rather than ‘compliance bargaining’ will be employed. On the other hand,

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following the standards set for precautionary fisheries management by the International Council for the Exploration of the Sea (ICES) and the Joint Commission is also a matter of compliance with international fisheries law, as the precautionary approach is operationalized at the regional level by ICES and at the bilateral level between Norway and Russia in the Joint Commission. An overview of approaches to state compliance with international treaties is first provided, followed by the presentation of one approach – the theory of post-agreement bargaining – in more detail. This is followed by the results of an empirical investigation of the Norwegian– Russian negotiation experiences and then an analysis of why Russia has entered into the many agreements on fisheries regulation proposed by Norway and stuck with them.7

Approaches to State Compliance with International Treaties In his typology of theories of compliance with international law, Burgstaller differentiates among realist, institutionalist and normative approaches, largely replicating the major perspectives in the study of international relations.8 Realists view states as rational unitary actors that behave mainly to maximize self-interest. Military and economic power are viewed as the main determinants in international politics. Realists have not regarded state compliance with international obligations as a particularly interesting issue. It is assumed that states generally comply with such obligations. In the frequently cited words of the famous realist Hans Morgenthau, ‘The great majority of the rules of international law are generally observed by all nations’.9 In essence, observed compliance merely reflects one of the following three situations: (1) a hegemonic state has forced or induced a less powerful state to comply; (2) the treaty rules codify the existing behaviour of the parties; or (3) the treaty resolves a coordination game in which no party has any incentive to violate the rules once a stable equilibrium has been established.10 Burgstaller divides contemporary realist theories into three groups: offensive, defensive and neoclassical realism.11 Offensive realism views

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international conflict as the result of the anarchy of the international system, not of human nature per se,12 as classical realists such as Morgenthau assumed. Security is scarce and states try to achieve it by maximizing their relative advantage. They comply with international obligations when this is seen as serving their interests, their relative capabilities and external environment taken into account. Defensive realism, by contrast, argues that international anarchy is more benign. Security is often plentiful rather than scarce, and states can normally afford to be more relaxed in their pursuit of relative advantages than offensive realists assume.13 Accordingly, compliance with international treaties can occur in certain situations, even if this is not, seen in isolation, in the strict military or economic interest of the state in question. Finally, also neoclassical realists maintain that states fundamentally seek to shape their external environment; however, they claim that international anarchy is neither Hobbesian nor benign, but rather murky and difficult to read, and recognize that a state’s foreign policy is constrained by both international and domestic demands. It is difficult for states to see whether security is plentiful or scarce and they must interpret their environment as they move along.14 In the words of Wendt, ‘Anarchy is what states make of it’.15 Institutionalists oppose the realist view that non-compliance occurs only (or even primarily) because it is in the interest of a particular state to act in that way. Instead of viewing non-compliance as the result of a deliberate maximization of interest, institutionalists argue that many instances of non-compliance are caused by institutional imperfections in the regime in question, such as ambiguity and indeterminacy of treaty language and limitations on the capacity of parties to carry out their obligations.16 They further argue that bureaucratic processes often favour compliance over noncompliance. In national bureaucracies, economy counts in decisions to comply with a treaty as a matter of standard operating procedure, rather than weighing the costs and benefits each time an issue of compliance arises. Gathering information and securing inter-agency agreement are high-cost activities and can be performed only on relatively important questions.17 In a similar vein, continuous attempts at persuasion and justification contribute to making compliance the natural choice of behaviour, according to institutionalists. ‘[T]he fundamental instrument for maintaining compliance with treaties at an acceptable level

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is an iterative process of discourse among the parties, the treaty organization, and the wider public’.18 In order to increase treaty compliance, institutionalists have recommended transparency in the workings of regimes or treaties, mechanisms for dispute settlement, as well as technical and financial assistance to states that have practical problems with complying.19 In essence, ‘Instances of apparent non-compliance are treated as problems to be solved, rather than as wrongs to be punished. In general, the method is verbal, interactive, and consensual’.20 Normative theories on compliance also assume that states generally obey international law, but this is ascribed to the moral and ethical obligation of states, derived from considerations of natural law and justice.21 Norms are believed to affect the behaviour of states due to their internal normative nature. The norm itself has certain qualities based on its origin, content and operation in practice that makes states take it seriously. For instance, Franck in The Power of Legitimacy among Nations argues that state compliance with international law mainly follows from the ‘compliance pull’, or legitimacy, of the specific rule.22 Legitimacy, in turn, is dependent on the determinacy of the rule (its ability to convey a clear message), its symbolic validation in society (the degree to which cultural signals are used as cues to elicit compliance), its coherence with the principles underlying other rules, and its adherence to a normative hierarchy that springs out of an ultimate systemvalidating rule. Straddling the normative and instrumentalist approaches are theorists who argue that norms determine compliance, but that this is modified through institutional practice. Koh, for instance, sees a state’s propensity to comply as the result of how the state has been influenced by other states, normatively and otherwise, in the transnational discursive legal process.23 Similarly, liberal theory views norms as one of the building blocks of states’ interests, and one of many factors that determine their foreign policy, including their willingness to comply with international law.24

Post-agreement Bargaining An important institutionalist argument in the compliance debate is that negotiation does not end with the conclusion of a treaty. Compliance may be induced through negotiations after a treaty has been concluded.

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The procedures employed may range from simple bilateral negotiations to formal arbitration. Using the term ‘post-agreement negotiation’, Spector and Zartman explore the intersection of negotiation theory and regime theory in order to explain how international regimes evolve through a process of continual negotiation. Regimes are born through negotiation processes, and they evolve through postagreement negotiation processes. [. . .] If regimes are an approach used by international actors to resolve mutually troublesome problems, postagreement negotiation is the process that keeps those regimes vital and alive, renewing and revising them as knowledge, problems, interests, norms, and expectations change.25 Jo¨nsson and Tallberg attempt to bridge the gap between the compliance literature and bargaining theory in international relations by introducing the concept of ‘post-agreement bargaining’.26 Understanding this as a generic term that refers to all the bargaining processes that follow after the conclusion of a treaty (of which compliance bargaining is a subcategory), they argue that traditional conceptions of both compliance and bargaining must be revised in view of this widespread but largely ignored practice. The literature has seen compliance either as an enforcement problem (realist or neoclassical theory) or a management problem (institutionalist theory), while negotiation theory has been preoccupied with the processes leading up to the signing of an agreement. The literature on compliance focuses on member-state actions in the postagreement phase, while neglecting dynamic processes like bargaining. Negotiation theory, on the other hand, emphasizes processes, but fails to extend this attention to the post-agreement phase. Admittedly, institutionalism (or the ‘management school’, the term that the authors use to contrast this approach with the realist or neoclassical ‘enforcement school’) captures the elements of persuasion and iteration, but: [. . .] as much as aspects of compliance bargaining are caught in the inductive sweep of the management school, these bits and pieces do not resemble anything close to an elaboration of the phenomenon. While touching upon explanations of compliance bargaining (e.g. ambitious treaty texts), the process of compliance bargaining

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(e.g. persuasion, iteration) and the effects of compliance bargaining (e.g. levels of compliance), the management school does not weld these observations into an elaborate conception of the phenomenon as such.27 The enforcement school, in turn, disregards compliance bargaining due to its level of abstraction. Compliance requires the threat and use of sanctions to an extent that outweighs the expected benefits of free riding. What matters to the enforcement school is the level of enforcement, not the means by which it is carried out: ‘Whereas the management school catches elements of post-agreement bargaining thanks to its wide, inductive sweep of international treaty compliance, the enforcement school misses those same elements owing to its deductive and highly parsimonious approach’.28 Jo¨nsson and Tallberg propose three basic questions that should be asked in studies of post-agreement compliance bargaining:29 (i) What is the essence of compliance bargaining? (ii) What are the causes of compliance bargaining? (iii) What are the effects of compliance bargaining? They argue that there are two main causes of compliance bargaining: established violations and treaty ambiguity.30 States may violate their obligations because of lack of will or capacity. The signing of an agreement creates a new bargaining situation, where the underlying structure of cooperative and conflictual elements remains intact but where the specific premises may still change. For instance, depending on the relative bargaining power in the pre-agreement phase, the interests of different states may be unequally reflected in the agreement. In the post-agreement phase, these powers, or states’ interests, may change. Ambiguity, in turn, may be unintentional or wilful. Sometimes a ‘veil of uncertainty’ leaves the text open to different interpretations, necessary at the time of treaty conclusion to get all parties on board. Agreement on specific rights and obligations of states is then postponed to the post-agreement phase. As the title of Spector and Zartman’s book suggests, post-agreement bargaining is all about ‘getting it done’.31 Compliance bargaining is about ‘getting it complied with’. At the theoretical level, postagreement bargaining theory crosses the dividing lines between the

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different schools. It basically does not ask ‘why it’s done’, but ‘how it’s done’. It encourages empirical studies, but also claims theoretical relevance – understanding how it’s done may shed light also on the question about why it’s done.

The Norwegian –Russian Fisheries Management Regime in the Barents Sea Establishment and early years Since the 200-mile EEZs were introduced in the mid-1970s, Norway and the Soviet Union/the Russian Federation have managed the major fish stocks in the Barents Sea together, through the Joint Norwegian– Russian Fisheries Commission. The Commission was established by agreement between the two parties signed in Moscow in April 1975.32 When the first session of the Commission took place in January 1976, the parties had already agreed to manage jointly the two most important fish stocks in the area, cod and haddock, sharing the quotas 50– 50. In 1978, they agreed to treat capelin as a shared stock and split the quota 60– 40 in Norway’s favour. When Norway and the Soviet Union declared their EEZs in early 1977,33 the bilateral cooperation agreement from 1975 was supplemented by a separate agreement on mutual fishing rights.34 During the 1980s, a specific quota exchange scheme developed between the parties, whereby the Soviet Union gave up parts of its cod and haddock quotas in exchange for several other species found only in Norwegian waters. These species, especially blue whiting, were found in large quantities but were of little commercial interest to Norwegian fishers. In the Soviet plan economy, volume was more important than (export market) price, so the arrangement was indeed in the mutual interest of both parties. Enforcement and technical regulation After the dissolution of the Soviet Union and the introduction of market economy in Russia, Russian fishing companies began to deliver cod and haddock abroad, primarily to Norway. For the first time, Russian fishers had a real incentive for overfishing their quotas, while Russian enforcement authorities lost control of Russian catches, since quota control had traditionally been exercised at the point of delivery. Norwegian fishery authorities in 1992 –3 suspected that the Russian

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fleet was overfishing its quota and took steps to calculate total Russian catches based on landings from Russian vessels in Norway and at-sea inspections by the Norwegian Coast Guard. Norway claimed that Russia had overfished its quota by more than 50 per cent. The Russian side did not dispute the figure and the two parties agreed to extend their fisheries collaboration to include enforcement as well.35 This involved an exchange of catch data, notably the transfer by Norwegian authorities to their Russian counterparts of data on Russian landings in Norway. The successful establishment of enforcement collaboration was followed throughout the 1990s by extensive coordination of technical regulations (such as conversion factors for fish products and procedures for closing and opening fishing grounds) and joint introduction of new measures (like selection grids and satellite tracking).36 Around the turn of the millennium, a new landing pattern emerged. Russian fishing vessels resumed the old Soviet practice of delivering their catches to transport ships at sea. Instead of going to Murmansk with the fish, however, these transport vessels now headed for other European countries: Denmark, the United Kingdom, the Netherlands, Spain and Portugal. Norway again took the initiative to assess the possibility of overfishing, but now encountered a less cooperative Russian stance. Norway took unilateral measures to calculate overfishing in the Barents Sea and presented figures that indicated Russian overfishing from 2002, rising to nearly 75 per cent of the total Russian quota in 2005, gradually declining to zero in 2009. The Russian side never accepted these figures, claiming they were deficient at best, and an expression of anti-Russian sentiments at worst. ICES, however, used them in its estimates of total catches in the Barents Sea during the 2000s, thereby providing these figure with some level of approval.37

Quota establishment Another issue of contention between Norway and Russia has been disagreement about total allowable catch (TAC) levels, especially in the years around the turn of the millennium. When scientists in 1999 recommended a drastic cut in the TAC for cod, Norway took an explicit precautionary stance and argued in favour of following this advice.38 As a response to Russian unwillingness to reduce the TAC, Norway in 2000 proposed a three-year quota for the period 2001–3.39 The fishing industries of Norway and Russia were given better opportunities to plan

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for the immediate future and those who feared for the health of the cod stock were given assurances that the TAC would not increase unless management objectives had been achieved. The conditions attached to the three-year quota (regarding stock situations that might induce a revision of the quota) were formalized in a harvest control rule in 2002. The rule consisted of three elements: (i) average fishing mortality should be kept below the target reference point for each three-year period; (ii) the TAC should not change by more than 10 per cent from one year to the next for cod and 25 per cent for haddock; but (iii) exceptions could be made when the spawning stock was below the target reference point.40 Again both biological viability and economic predictability were addressed. Fishing mortality was to be within the precautionary reference point on average for any three-year period and the fishing industry was secured against large fluctuations in the TAC as long as the spawning stock was above the precautionary reference point. The harvest control rule was evaluated by ICES in 2005 and found to be in agreement with the precautionary approach and again in 2010 following modifications by the Joint Commission.41

Scientific methods The collaboration between Norwegian and Russian marine scientists is often referred to as the core of the bilateral regime as there has been formalized cooperation between the Norwegian Institute of Marine Science and Russian federal and regional research institutes for ocean research since the 1950s.42 Around the mid-2000s, a schism in Russian fisheries science became evident, through attacks by the federal fisheries research institute VNIRO on ICES and PINRO, the regional institute in the Russian Northwest. Russia’s regional fisheries research institutes became formally independent of VNIRO in the early 1990s, though their scientific work was still reviewed by the federal institute. At the same time, PINRO’s relations with the Norwegian Institute of Marine Research expanded, in line with relaxed East– West relations in the European Arctic more widely – and substantial Norwegian funds to

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support a ‘starving’ bureaucracy in Russia’s north-west. VNIRO had not become part of the ICES scientific community to the same extent as PINRO (and had not received financial support from Norway as the regional institute had), and now VNIRO scientists began to question the scientific credibility of the models ICES employed in assessing fish stocks of the Barents Sea. They presented new methods and models that indicated that the amount of cod was two to three times higher than predicted by ICES models, which would serve to increase the TAC significantly. The schism is not mentioned in the protocols from the Joint Commission, but was a topic of discussion for several years.43 In a letter dated 13 October 2006, the Russian Federation requested ICES to re-evaluate its Northeast Arctic cod assessment in view of new information that had become available since ICES last evaluated the stock a few months earlier.44 This information included data on Russian transhipments at sea – and the synoptic method for estimating the stock size. A group of scientists from Poland, the Netherlands and France were appointed for the task, with designated Norwegian and Russian scientists available to assist. According to ICES Advice 2006, there was ‘good agreement between the reviewers’, and they ‘supported the ICES June 2006 advice as they did not find the basis for the “new” stock estimate sufficiently strong to reject the [Arctic Fisheries Working Group] assessment’.45 In other words, the new methods proposed by Russia were rejected.

Norwegian –Russian Bargaining Experiences Norway has tried to get Russia to take overfishing seriously on two occasions, first in the early 1990s, and then in the mid-2000s. On the first occasion, the Russian side was quickly convinced that overfishing constituted a problem and entered into new collaborative arrangements with Norway on enforcement. This mainly involved the exchange of catch and landing data. In the 2000s, however, the Russian response was lukewarm. Initially, the Russians were interested in investigating possible overfishing, but this interest vanished when it became clear that Norway defined this more or less exclusively as a Russian problem.46 Nevertheless, agreement was reached in 2009 on a joint method for assessing the total catch from the Barents Sea.47 In the meantime, the 2007 North East Atlantic Fisheries Commission (NEAFC) port-state control regime had

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largely solved the problem of overfishing in the Barents Sea,48 although Russia remained unwilling to present basic documentation about Russian transhipments to Norway and there was uncertainty about Russian readiness to prosecute violators.49 Norway had more success in getting the Russians on board when it came to the coordination of technical regulations, the joint introduction of new regulations and the ‘automatization’ of the setting of the TAC. While it cannot be absolutely certain that these decisions were right, at least they brought the management of the Barents Sea fish resources closer to the standards around which international science and politics converge. This was possible because Norway did not leave implementation of Russia’s international commitments to Russia itself, but engaged actively in post-agreement bargaining. As a point of departure, one might expect such bargaining to take place between the parties ‘over the table’, in this case, at plenary sessions of the Joint Commission. In practice, there were two other main tracks of Norwegian negotiation efforts: from bargaining at lower levels to approval within the Commission; and bargaining by the two heads of delegation, with decisions subsequently anchored in the respective delegations.50 Many issues have been negotiated and agreed upon in the Permanent Committee under the Commission, which was established in 1993 to take care of pressing issues between the sessions of the Commission, before being presented to the Commission itself for final approval. This was the case with the establishment of enforcement collaboration in 1993, the harmonization of technical regulations and joint introduction of new regulatory measures throughout the 1990s, as well as with more recent initiatives like the joint method for estimating total outtake of fish from 2009. In these cases, the challenge of reaching agreement between the two states was handed over to technical experts (civil servants at lower levels or scientists). If the role of the Commission was not formally reduced to rubber-stamping, in practice the agreements reached at lower levels were routinely accepted by the Commission. In a somewhat related manner, the scientific collaboration between PINRO and the Norwegian Institute of Marine Research functioned as a buffer against the introduction of the new Russian methods for estimation of fish stocks that were advocated by VNIRO but did not meet ICES standards for precautionary fisheries management. Here fundamental agreement on scientific principles had evolved over many years between Norwegian and Russian scientists under the auspices of ICES.

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Norway had intensified its support to PINRO, including financially, after the break-up of the Soviet Union. Whereas the Norwegian intentions were altruistic, ensuring Russia engagement in the international scientific community, this investment could be ‘cashed in’ by leading Russian scientists showing support in the Joint Commission for Norway’s position on new methods of stock assessment. But there were also risks associated with the efforts to influence the lower levels of the Russian bureaucracy. The ease with which the Permanent Committee reached agreement allegedly led to suspicions in Moscow: were these scientists and civil servants defending Russian interests, or were they becoming too friendly with the Norwegians? Similarly, PINRO was, at least indirectly, suspected of running the errand of Western interests and found itself squeezed financially and challenged scientifically by VNIRO.51 The other main track of argumentation was direct communication between the two heads of delegation – mostly with their respective interpreters, or sometimes just the two of them, and on occasion in the Commission’s inner circle, including a few additional top civil servants and scientists from the respective delegations. The TAC has always been handled at this level and not in plenary sessions. The same goes for many other important decisions, such as the introduction of new procedures, although, as seen, some new procedures were introduced through agreement at lower levels and then approved by the Commission.52 Around the turn of the millennium, the Norwegians worked consistently to prepare the ground for a harvest control rule, which was introduced in 2002. First, they arguably yielded a lot in the difficult negotiations in 1999 in order to ‘keep the Russians happy’. Next, they got the Russians to agree on a three-year quota in 2000, an arrangement that included elements of the ensuing harvest control rule. In the final stages before the harvest control rule was adopted, the Norwegian delegation leader and the Norwegian Director of Fisheries, most likely the true father of the harvest control rule, ‘worked on’ the Russian delegation leader, first at a preparatory meeting, then in the Commission itself, to get him to accept the new rule. Once the rule was adopted, the head of the Russian delegation credited it to his own scientists, presumably to reduce any impression of the harvest control rule was a Norwegian invention.53 Norwegian interviewees, who were high-ranking members of the Norwegian delegation to the Joint Commission and the Permanent Committee, agree that Norway had been the leading force in the

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collaboration, at least after the break-up of the Soviet Union: ‘We have always been the proactive ones. The initiatives have always come from the Norwegian side. We’ve taken up the things we felt were wrong’.54 As a result, they saw the need to create ownership of the proposed measures by the Russian side. This was done by meticulous and persistent arguments (no short cuts), and by taking things ‘in several rounds’, from lower levels to the Commission itself.55 The introduction of selection grids (grids attached to the trawl to select out small fish) was an example of a step-by-step process that gradually bound the Russians, if not formally, then in practice. First, selection grids were introduced in the shrimp fishery, which was mainly a nuisance to the Norwegian fishers, since they were more involved in that fishery than the Russians. This, however, sparked the interest of Russian scientists and technical experts in the grid technology and talks ensued about the possible use of grids also in the cod fishery. Practical exploration of the technology followed.56 By the time the technical experts had agreed first in a subgroup to the Permanent Committee, then in the Committee itself, the Russians had allegedly ‘come too far’ to pull out. This turn of events might have been unintended from the Norwegian side, but it serves to fill in the picture of negotiation dynamics in the Norwegian– Russian fisheries relations. My interviewees described the negotiation atmosphere as fundamentally good: ‘open and relaxed’, as expressed by the head of the Norwegian delegation to the Joint Commission.57 A prominent member of the Norwegian delegation to the Permanent Committee characterized working relations in the Committee as generally amicable: ‘Even though we’ve hit them on a sore point [alleged Russian overfishing], I have never heard one single unpleasant word’.58 But relations at this level deteriorated after the turn of the millennium, apace with the Norwegian documentation of Russian overfishing. As seen from the Norwegian side, the obstacle was the Russian civilian enforcement body, subordinate to the Federal Fisheries Agency. ‘It’s like sitting in a rowboat: as long as we’re together, we row in the same direction; but when our ways part, they row like mad in the opposite direction’.59 The Federal Fisheries Agency allegedly even withheld from the Russian Federal Border Service data about landings from Russian vessels in Norway received from the Norwegian Directorate of Fisheries according to the data exchange scheme established in 1993. The Joint Commission in 2009 agreed on

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common Norwegian– Russian procedures for estimating total catches from the Barents Sea, and there was no longer any documented overfishing, but working relations remained difficult in the sub-groups of the Joint Commission and the Permanent Committee on enforcement and economic crime. ‘There’s been a bit of a tug-of-war and bad atmosphere’, as one interviewee put it.60

Why does Russia Comply? Russian compliance with a number of the country’s international commitments in the Barents Sea fisheries was the result of Norwegian post-agreement bargaining. This claim does not, however, fully explain why Russia complied. Did Norwegian bargaining efforts help Russia to conclude that adherence to the relevant international obligations was indeed in Russia’s own interest? Were there some common underlying norms invoked in the bargaining process? Or were there institutional features in the bilateral management regime that favoured compliance? The traditional realists (classical and offensive realists) hold that states comply with their international commitments since these commitments reflect their interest. The underlying assumption is that states enter into only those agreements that can help to further their (military or economic) interest. Can this point of departure help to understand Russian compliance with international fisheries agreements in the Barents Sea? Taking the 1995 UN Fish Stocks Agreement as an example, a central feature is arguably that it introduced the precautionary approach in international fisheries law.61 Russia is party to the Fish Stocks Agreement, but the precautionary approach has been systematically shunned in Russian fisheries law and seems to enjoy no legitimacy in the Russian fisheries bureaucracy. The director of VNIRO claimed in an interview that the Fish Stocks Agreement was ‘written by Greenpeace with money from the CIA’ and designed to harm Russian interests.62 It is not important why Russia signed and ratified the Fish Stocks Agreement in the first place, but it is problematic to argue that the Joint Commission’s gradual adaptation to the precautionary approach and ICES’ operationalization of the principle through the precautionary reference points can be explained by Russia adapting its behaviour to its declared best interest (other than the possible interest in appearing cooperative towards other states). Nor is it plausible to argue that Norway has exerted military or economic power

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over Russia to make the latter comply. Norway may, in some respects, be categorized as an economic power (and in fact did support the Russian fisheries bureaucracy financially during the 1990s), but Russia has considerable economic clout and is still a military power. If military or economic capabilities were decisive, one would expect Russia to press its primary preferences and not compromise or even accept solutions explicitly against its interests. Defensive realists and neoclassical realists are less categorical in their assumptions about the relationship between interest and compliance and prone to view compliance as either more accidental or the result of diverse factors. As seen above, defensive realists claim that security is more abundant than assumed by offensive realists, so that states can be more relaxed in their pursuit of relative advantages. As a consequence, compliance follows when this is not in the immediate interest of the state in question. Neoclassical realists emphasize that a state’s environment is murky and difficult to read and this includes both international and domestic constraints. The environment must be interpreted as states ‘move along’, so decisions about compliance may be rather ‘accidental’ or not always ‘right’ in the sense of corresponding to the state’s interests. Here, Russian compliance with international fisheries commitments can, as argued, not be explained by the immediate concurrence between one overarching material Russian interest and a specific compliant behaviour. For one thing, the Russian interest is not an unequivocal entity. Various different interest groups have been involved in fisheries management cooperation with Norway: scientists, technical experts, the fishing industry and civil servants at many levels. If states are less coordinated in their foreign policy than is often assumed,63 this has certainly been the case with post-Soviet Russia. Institutional conflict has characterized Russian fisheries management since the early 1990s64 and the Russian bureaucracy, like the Soviet predecessor, for that matter, has traditionally been strictly compartmentalized. As a glaring example, there was no contact between the two Russian fisheries enforcement bodies – the civilian inspection service and the Federal Border Guard Service – until they were forced together in the Permanent Committee, together with the corresponding bodies of governance from the Norwegian side.65 There have also been strong disagreements between PINRO and VNIRO. Thus, it is hardly surprising that the aggregate Russian interest is difficult to identify for

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the decision making authority, for instance, the head of the Russian delegation to the Joint Commission. It might have been difficult to interpret the external environment and different domestic interest groups had their respective agendas. It might have been rather accidental who got his way, or at least more the result of domestic power struggle, or corruption,66 than of Russia as a state assessing its best interest. Another example of a decision with which Russian dissatisfaction was widespread in hindsight concerned the introduction of mandatory selection grids in the Barents Sea fisheries. The various factors that can explain why Russia accepted this move in the Joint Commission in the late 1990s have been noted, despite the general (later) verdict by Russian fisheries actors that this was not in Russia’s interest.67 Russian technical experts had become excited about the grid technology, and when the issue reached the Joint Commission for final approval, the Russians had by then come too far to pull out. This opens up the possibility that a state may enter into an agreement, and later complies with an agreement, that is not in its strictly defined interest. However, it does not say anything about the mechanisms through which this takes place. How about normative theory? We saw above that theorists with this perspective claim that state compliance with international law generally follows from the legitimacy of the specific rule. Have the Russians adapted their position and politics in the Joint Commission mainly because they have deemed the Norwegian initiatives legitimate? There are many indications that this is not so. Both the precautionary approach (which stands out as the ‘heading’ of all Norwegian initiatives in the bilateral fisheries management regime since the mid-1990s) and the introduction of selection grids (which is an example of a specific management measure) were widely rejected in Russian fisheries circles after they were adopted and implemented. Moreover, it is generally argued in Russia that the ICES stock estimates are deflated, that the TACs in the Barents Sea could have been higher, and there is widespread displeasure with the restraints posed by the harvest control rule. Also seen is that the Russian side rejected the Norwegian initiative to document total catches (to reveal overfishing) after the turn of the Century, and Norwegian assessments of Russian overfishing were routinely dismissed. Admittedly, some of the derogatory statements about the Norwegian initiatives might have been aimed at pleasing specific interest groups in Russia, but more positive judgments have

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rarely been voiced, even in direct communication with the Norwegians. So, legitimate solutions? Hardly. The Russians have continued to accept the Norwegian initiatives (although more falteringly after the turn of the millennium than in the 1990s), but then they routinely dismiss them after the fact. Why? If the Russians do not view the Norwegian proposals as particularly legitimate, there is one other possible normative explanation – there exists a normative community between these two coastal states in the Barents Sea and this furthers the development of agreement between them on specific issues. Geographical proximity is one thing, shared functional dependence – and tradition – is something else. The head of the Norwegian delegation to the Joint Commission reflected in an interview: ‘Seamen are used to helping each other when the need arises, and we see this in the Commission as well. And our neighbourly relations are important [. . .]. There is an underlying recognition of the closeness of reality’.68 What he was hinting at was, that in addition to the neighbourly relations, there were the norms of the seafaring community with one central seafaring norm being that people at sea help each other when this is necessary, even if this is not in one’s own interest and without regard to nationality. He said outright that this spilled over from the fishing grounds to the negotiation venues of the Joint Commission. Most Commission members, both Norwegian and Russian (but especially the Russians)69 have personal experience at sea, where they can be expected to have adopted traditional seafaring norms, such as that of solidarity among seafarers of all nationalities. So when the Joint Commission convened, the meeting was not just between representatives of two different states, but also one between seafarers from different nations.70 This arguably makes the parties to the Commission more disposed towards compromise, national interest and legitimacy aside. This comes the closest to an understanding of the dynamics that, to put a point on it, have led Russia to accept several Norwegian initiatives that they at the same time openly dismiss. But one major perspective on state compliance with international law, the institutional perspective, needs to be assessed. As seen above, institutionalists maintain that the organizational form of an international arrangement, or regime, has a separate influence on state compliance. Non-compliance, it is claimed, may be the result of imperfection in the international regime itself or its

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member states. For instance, states may have a limited capacity to carry out their international obligations, in which case technical or financial assistance can be provided in order to enhance compliance. In the Barents Sea fisheries management, this was what Norway did in the 1990s (and to some extent also later). Russia was perceived to have ‘a broken back’, and Norway came to the rescue. This included the provision of landings data from Russian vessels in Norway, technical and financial aid to PINRO and Russian enforcement bodies, and reimbursement of all expenses in connection with meetings in the Permanent Committee, its sub-groups and the joint seminars for fishery inspectors. Did this improve compliance? The landing data were allegedly never used,71 and the Russian enforcement bodies developed into the most fervent opponents to Norwegian precautionary initiatives. The joint inspector seminars may have had some long-term effect. For instance, inspectors who attended these seminars in the 1990s later climbed to higher positions in their respective fisheries hierarchy, which laid the foundations for potentially fruitful collaboration at these levels. By and large, however, the technical and financial assistance to Russia in the 1990s ricocheted on Norway, with Russians charging that Norway was trying to ‘invade’ the Russian fishery bureaucracy. The most successful assistance initiative was arguably that which was provided to PINRO, but this hit back on PINRO itself, with financial constraints from Moscow and allegations of unpatriotic work. In sum, the assistance might have had some effect, but it came at a price. It cannot be considered as a significant contribution to explaining Russian compliance. Institutionalists further argue that bureaucratic processes often favour compliance over non-compliance. Bureaucratic capacity does not normally allow for weighing the costs and benefits of compliance versus non-compliance in every specific case. So some kind of standard operating procedure is usually established, deliberately or as a matter of practice. Chayes and Chayes accentuate iteration in itself: compliance is sometimes the result of inter-state bureaucratic procedures established through iteration over time. 72 Compliance with the parties’ international obligations has become an explicit standard operating procedure. If compliance in itself has not become a standard operation procedure, then there has been a drive towards agreement, or towards compromise, in the Joint Commission, visible since its establishment in the mid-1970s, but accelerating with time. The foundation for the

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bilateral management regime was the 1975 agreement that split cod and haddock quotas 50– 50 between the two parties. Then followed the sharing of the capelin quota (60 –40 in Norway’s favour) a few years later, and the mutually beneficial quota exchange arrangements between the parties (granting extra cod and haddock to Norway in return for some exclusively Norwegian species to the Soviet Union) from the late 1970s to the early 1990s. With the 1990s came a rush of new agreements on enforcement and technical regulation, negotiated in the Permanent Committee and its sub-groups and subsequently adopted by the Joint Commission. The pace of accords slackened a bit after the turn of the millennium, but agreement was now reached on far more important issues, notably the automatization of the TAC setting in accordance with ICES precautionary reference points. After some difficult years with Norwegian allegations and Russian denials of overfishing, compromise was reached on a joint method for estimating overfishing in 2009.73 The same year the parties agreed to treat Greenland halibut as the fourth joint stock in the Barents Sea, after several years of scientific exploration and political bargaining.74 Furthermore, in that year the Commission also resolved one of its longest outstanding issues – joint minimum allowable mesh size and fish length for the entire Barents Sea – again through compromise. On top of this, and with far wider implications, came the agreement between Norway and Russia on the delimitation of the Barents Sea in 2010.75 In the Norwegian public, the Agreement was generally hailed as an expression of the ability of the two neighbouring states to reach compromise.76 It is asserted that reaching agreement has become a separate goal in the fisheries relations between Norway and Russia, something similar to an institutional guideline for the Joint Commission and its sub-groups. At the various levels of collaboration, there is an awareness that the higher levels expect agreement to emerge. Therefore, the focus is on the room for compromise. In the Joint Commission, the parties take pride in their ability to reach agreement. Compromise has become the modus operandi of the Joint Commission. Another related but somewhat different example of how institutional factors have affected agreement and indirectly Russian compliance with the precautionary approach was the gradual introduction of selection grids. In this case, agreement between Norway and Russia was reached not only because of the general ‘rush towards compromise’, but more

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specifically because the established procedure gradually came to bind the parties. It had become customary after 1993 to let the Permanent Committee, and soon also sub-groups appointed by the Committee, to explore possible new matters for collaboration between the parties. The coordination of established regulatory measures and the introduction of new ones often took several years, from the first initiative until the measure was formally adopted by the Joint Commission. During this time, the technical experts in the sub-groups routinely reported to the Permanent Committee and the Committee to the Joint Commission. Working relations between the parties were exceptionally good during the 1990s, and the higher levels seldom had objections to what was presented from below. As long as there was agreement at the expert level, the administrative level (and partly political level, to the extent that the heads of national delegations consulted with politicians at home) approved of going further. Finally, when the issue was presented to the Joint Commission after agreement had been reached first in the subgroup, then in the Permanent Committee, after several years of preparation, the Commission saw no reason to halt an initiative. It should be noted that technical regulation was not accorded high priority in the Commission. Until the harvest control rule came in 2002, the heads of delegation spent most of their time during Commission sessions agreeing on the TAC and the exchange of quotas. Proposals from the Permanent Committee were dealt with quickly, in practice, adopted without much discussion. So with the selection grids, agreement between Norwegian and Russian experts in the sub-group on selection technology and in the Permanent Committee was pivotal. If there was any scepticism among the higher levels of the Russian delegation to the Joint Commission, the established procedures raised the threshold for the blocking of a formal agreement. Again, it had become standard operating procedure for the Commission to adopt measures that had been agreed in the Permanent Committee.

Post-agreement Bargaining Revisited Norway had considerable success in its attempts to influence Russian behaviour in the Joint Commission through post-agreement bargaining, largely through bargaining at lower bureaucratic (or technical or scientific) levels and in direct contact between the heads of delegation.

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Why the Russian side so often adapted its behaviour to Norwegian initiatives, which brought Russia closer to the precautionary standards of international fisheries law, was discussed above. It is difficult to explain Russia’s behaviour through realist models, although defensive realist and neoclassical realist approaches allowed for ‘accidental’ behaviour not necessarily in the declared interest of the state in question. Normative factors like traditional seafaring norms might have prepared the ground for compromise. Nevertheless, institutional factors best explain Russian compliance behaviour. Russia in particular found itself in an institutional web of more elaborate decision making procedures, geared largely towards compromise, that might have overshadowed strictly defined national interests, or at least led the parties to interpret such interests as positively as they could, weighing them up against the possibility of reaching agreement. Post-agreement bargaining was the practical tool employed by Norway to get new measures, such as selection grids, and procedures, such as the harvest control rule, implemented. In line with Chayes and Chayes,77 instances of apparent non-compliance were regarded as ‘problems to be solved, rather than as wrongs to be punished’. Post-agreement bargaining, between technical experts, by the heads of delegation in private and around dinner tables, was used, deliberately or by accident, to activate norms and establish standard operating procedures that furthered precautionary fisheries management. Post-agreement bargaining emerges not as a source of compliance, but as a means to activate such sources: interest, norms or institutional features.

CHAPTER 11 FISHING FIELD DELIBERATIONS 1

We now move away from the negotiation venues of the Joint Commission and its Permanent Committee to the fishing fields of the Barents Sea; from meetings between Norwegian and Russian scientists and civil servants to encounters between Norwegian Coast Guard inspectors and Russian fishers. These meetings take place on the open sea, when inspectors board the fishing vessels to check catches, fishing gear, holds and documentation, such as the catch log. All this takes several hours, so there is plenty of time to discuss matters related to the inspection as well as other things. There is also radio communication between Coast Guard vessels and the fishing fleet. Well into the 1990s, the Coast Guard had Russian interpreters on its staff – and I was one of them – but in recent years the Russian captains’ command of English has improved to such an extent that interpreters are considered unnecessary. The Coast Guard carries out fishery inspections on behalf of the Ministry of Fisheries, and inspection data are fed into the quota control performed by the Directorate of Fisheries. But the Coast Guard is more than a watchdog: it is also responsible for search and rescue; it occasionally assists the fishing fleet in changing of crew, transport of material and ice-breaking; it can provide medical assistance and other services connected with the wellbeing of the seafaring community. In short, it is the state’s representative in these vast areas – it takes two days for a fishing vessel to get from Svalbard to the mainland. This chapter provides accounts of the relationship between Norwegian Coast Guard inspectors and Russian fishers from two different sources: my own observations from the Coast Guard and

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interviews with Russian fishers, first in the late 1990s and then a second round of interviews ten years later.2 The main focus is on the dynamics between inspectors and fishers during inspection. What do the inspectors try to achieve, apart from the obvious checks of catch and documentation? How do they try to influence the fishers’ behaviour? How do the fishers react? Do they adapt their behaviour? How is the work of the Norwegian Coast Guard generally perceived? I also bring in other topics from the interviews to place my main question in a context. For instance, when the fishers say something about their experience with the Russian enforcement authorities, this is probably their most important frame for comparison and should hence be treated as relevant for interpreting what they say about their perceptions of Norwegian inspectors as well. Without aiming to assess the general level of compliance in the Barents Sea fisheries, I occasionally refer what my interviewees say about this – again, in order to place what they say about the Coast Guard in a context. I use the generic term ‘fisher’ for any crew member of a fishing vessel. Obviously, inspectors from the Coast Guard are mostly in contact with the vessels’ captains and other high-ranking members of the crew, such as those responsible for fishing operations, factory and holds. Most of my interviewees were captains or next in command, but some were rank members of the crew. The difficult question of who makes decisions on board a fishing vessel is largely left untouched here. It is widely assumed that the ship-owners give general directions about fishing operations, but that the captains enjoy considerable room for manoeuvre. Captains, in turn, do not make their decisions in a vacuum. They might be influenced by interactions with the rest of the crew – and with outsiders such as Coast Guard inspectors.

An Observer’s Account The Norwegian Coast Guard patrols the areas of the Barents Sea where fishing activity is most intense. In winter and early spring, this is outside the coastline of Northern Norway, in summer and autumn mostly farther north, in the Svalbard Zone. Sometimes Coast Guard vessels shift between different fishing fields, inspecting a few vessels in one field before moving on to another one (and, as mentioned, they have other tasks than fishery inspections). Other times the enforcement vessels may

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lie in the same position for several days while the inspectors try to cover as many fishing vessels as possible. On occasion, the Coast Guard may use helicopters, so that inspectors can descend on fishing vessels for surprise inspections. Otherwise, inspectors approach the vessels via a small boat, and then climb up a ladder that has been lowered. I started my engagement in the Norwegian Coast Guard as interpreter and was also used as a witness at fishery inspections. Then I was trained as a fishery inspector and could conduct inspections on my own. During my five years in the Coast Guard, I was probably involved in around 150 inspections of Russian vessels, and a somewhat lower number of inspections of vessels from Norway and third countries. I would always be part of an inspection team which normally consisted of two people (one inspector and one witness), sometimes more. Once on board the fishing vessel, we would usually be welcomed by the captain or another senior crew member and invited to the bridge or the captain’s cabin to take a first look at the catch log and get some initial impressions of the vessel’s recent fishing activities. We would normally board the vessels around half an hour before the trawl was supposed to be on deck; this allowed us to be present when the fish was unloaded from the net and spread on the deck. There we would make the necessary checks of the fish from the last haul and the fishing gear: measure the mesh size and the trawl’s round straps, count the amount of by-catch (of other species than the target fish) and measure a sufficient amount of specimens of the target fish (sometimes the entire catch) to find out the proportion of the catch that was smaller than minimum allowable length. After catch and gear inspection, we would either continue our paperwork, take a look at the factory on board (where fish from last haul would already be under processing) or go to the holds, where the processed fish was stored, normally in frozen form. Hold inspections were a real challenge: the inspection team had to calculate the exact amount of fish products on board. If the vessel had not started the trip recently, the hold would be filled up with boxes of finished fish products. We would make sample tests of the contents of some boxes: did the boxes marked with haddock really contain this species? Or was it the more valuable cod, concealed as haddock? Was it possible to assess the size of the fish (which depends on its degree of processing)? More importantly, the total number of boxes had to be counted – which could be really difficult if the hold was so full that there were boxes several meters below the surface, and if the hold

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had slanting walls, which was usual. Spot checks would also be made of the weight of the boxes: did they contain the indicated number of kilos? Paperwork would then continue on the bridge, or, more often, in the captain’s cabin. The inspection team would have to calculate the amount of fish products on board, multiply this by the relevant conversion factor (see previous chapter) of the fish product in question, and see if the total amount corresponded to the amount of fish entered in the catch log (which is always done in round weight, i.e. the weight of the fish before it is processed). The inspection ended with the inspector and the captain signing the inspection form, which would conclude with either ‘nothing to remark’, an oral warning (for minor violations), a written warning (for more serious violations) or arrest (for very serious violations).3 It should follow from the above that an inspection was not a straightforward affair. There was plenty of room for disagreement on how the revealed facts should be interpreted against the legal framework, and whether the figures arrived at were correct. The easiest part was document control. Russian catch logs were meticulously filled in; I never came across a Russian vessel with serious faults in the catch log.4 My fellow inspectors – with more experience than myself from inspections of vessels from other countries – would often comment that nobody keeps as good logbooks as the Russians do. One recurrent theme of discussion, however, was the Norwegian requirement that data from each haul must be entered in the catch log immediately after the fish was moved from the deck to the factory, based on the captain’s best judgment. It was then possible to make corrections after the fish had been processed. The Russians, for their part, would often wait until the fish had been processed, multiply the weight of fish products by the relevant conversion factor and then enter the necessary data in the catch log. The Russian fishers often argued that it was ‘illogical’ to make loose estimates when the exact amount could be supplied only a few hours later. The Norwegian inspectors could only explain that this was Norwegian law; the underlying principle was that actual catches should not be calculated ‘backwards’, from finished product to round weight. During inspection on deck, there would usually not be any argument as long as the inspectors found that the fish and the gear were in compliance with requirements. If the first check revealed smaller mesh size than allowed, the captain would ask the inspector to measure in another part of the trawl, which the inspector would then normally do. If the result

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was still negative, the captain might complain that the inspector had measured incorrectly, for instance by putting too little weight on the measuring device. Disagreement could then be sorted out by the inspector adding a piece of lead that gave the exact weight required by Norwegian law. If a sample count of by-catch revealed more than allowed, the inspector would count the entire catch – and similarly measure the entire catch if a spot check revealed too much undersized fish. On deck, it would nearly always be possible to ‘reach agreement’, though. If the entire catch had been counted and measured and found not in compliance with Norwegian by-catch and fish length regulations, there was little the captain could do. This did not result in a warning, however, as the captain could not be punished for having the ‘wrong’ kind of fish in just one haul. But it required him to change fishing position, which he would then normally do. Inspection of the hold involved more room for serious disagreement. If the inspection team calculated the actual catch on board as being significantly larger than what followed from the catch log (on which reports to the Norwegian Directorate of Fisheries were based), the captain would protest: ‘this cannot be right.’ Then the inspector would have to go through the whole operation once more, and often the captain would argue that it was impossible to count the exact number of boxes with processed fish in a more or less filled hold. It was necessary to rely on the information in the catch log. If the inspector maintained that there was a discrepancy between reported and actual catch, the result would be either a written warning or arrest. In the latter case, the fishing vessel would have to accompany the Coast Guard vessel to a Norwegian port, where the entire catch would be unloaded so that a more exact calculation could be performed. If the divergence was less severe, the inspection would end with a written warning to the captain. Then the captain would often complain that it is impossible to be 100 per cent correct and ask about the tolerance or flexibility allowed – which the inspector, for his part, was not allowed to reveal. Normally, he would reply that there was zero tolerance.5 So far, I have described the series of events that constituted an inspection, and have mentioned a few frequent topics of dispute between inspector and captain. However, inspections were more than that: they were also social events. Russian fishing vessels spent several months at sea without changing the crew, and I would assert that hospitality is a

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central aspect of Russian culture. When Norwegian inspection teams boarded Russian fishing vessels, then, the situation had a touch of ‘a visit’. ‘When you visited us last time . . .’ the Russians would say, instead of ‘during your last inspection’. These ‘visits’ were opportunities to bring out the best food (before my time, allegedly also the best drink), take a break from the ordinary routines, exchange opinions, stories and souvenirs. We ate dinners and listened to the life stories of Russian captains, were shown pictures of their wives, children and home towns, and discussed all conceivable topics, from coffee prices to world politics and literary classics. The relationship between inspectors and captains was much more nuanced – and generally better – than one might expect between a watchdog and his objects of investigation. At the very least, this created an atmosphere in which I got the impression that the Russian fishers wanted to do their best to meet the requirements of the Norwegian Coast Guard – within the bounds set by Russian legislation. Yes, the Russians did refuse to sign the inspection forms in the Svalbard Zone (since Russia did not recognize this area as Norwegian), but that was often accompanied by an apologetic smile and a comment along the following lines: ‘I would have liked to sign, but you know this is a case for our governments. You and me, we’re both sailors and don’t want conflict, but the politicians always find things to fight over.’ And yes, the Russians did fish with nets of smaller mesh sizes than allowed by Norwegian rules in the Svalbard Zone (again: Russia did not recognize this area as Norwegian, so Russian fishers used the same trawl nets as in Russian waters, where smaller mesh size was allowed). Almost always, however, they changed to nets of Norwegian standard when requested to do so. (They would have such nets on board since they also fished in the Norwegian EEZ.) And apologies for not complying with Norwegian law in the first place (only with Russian law) were often accompanied by praise of the Coast Guard: one captain said he wished he could have signed, because without the Coast Guard there would have been no order in the Barents Sea.6 The Coast Guard’s distinct institutional identity among the Russian fishers was emphasized by the fact that they almost always referred to it by the Norwegian designation, Kystvakt (the – y pronounced as in the Cyrillic alphabet, as – u), instead of the Russian translation Beregovaya okhrana. Kystvakt was one thing, (their own) Beregovaya okhrana another.7

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The efforts of the Coast Guard to avoid fishing in areas with much juvenile fish deserve special attention. In the Norwegian EEZ, the Directorate of Fisheries could close such areas, but in the Svalbard Zone – where the intermingling of fry was most prevalent – the Directorate could only request fishers to stay away (once again: due to the jurisdictional disagreement about this ocean area). The Coast Guard would then board the fishing vessels in the area and present the captains with their calculations of the amount of small fish that was caught. The inspectors would try to convince the captains that continued fishing would do disproportionate harm to the stock, taking into account the limited value of small fish (although my impression was that the appeals were more aimed at the fishers’ conscience and concern about the biological viability of the fish stocks, than at their immediate economic prospects). Further, my impression was that compliance with such requests depended on how well-founded the Coast Guard’s argument was. Sometimes the evidence was overwhelming, and then compliance was quite immediate. Other times the Russians would ask for further test hauls or even present the Coast Guard with additional information from their own fishing activities, or from Russian research vessels in the area. For instance, they could agree that there was too much intermingling of undersized fish in an area, but only at specific fishing depths. In several instances, the Coast Guard modified its requests according to such information from the Russians. The following extract from one of my own reports after a trip with a Coast Guard vessel illustrates a typical situation: Inspections in the Storfjord Trench concerned mainly by-catches of fry (cod, haddock, red-fish). We undertook catch-control of 10 kg capelin on all vessels. The capelin was generally of good size, but on all vessels we found fry of the above-mentioned species. The Russians repeatedly maintained that they had not had bycatches of fry previously; they also tended to ‘confuse’ cod with polar cod [a smaller fish related to, but distinct from, Northeast Arctic cod]. On average, our inspections revealed between 10 and 15 fry. On the morning of 7 November 1991 we were informed that the Directorate of Fisheries would request the Russians to stop capelin fishery in the area from N7600 to N7730, and from E1700

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to E2200; further, that Sevryba [the former state union of fishery companies and organizations in Northwestern Russia] had already been advised of this by telefax. Before receiving this signal [electronically transmitted message], we had inspected the MB0129, Polesye, and had taken the opportunity to ask the captain how he thought the Russians would react to such a request. He replied that they would stop fishing in the area if they were so instructed from land, but that this could only take place after the weekend, since 7 and 8 November are national holidays in the Soviet Union (in connection with celebrations of the revolution, held for the last time this year). Until Monday 11, there would be no staff in the Sevryba offices who could take a stand on the telex from the Directorate of Fisheries. Immediately before the capelin fleet’s [radio] catch report at 1930B, I broadcast the request to the fleet. In return came several comments indicating that they could not understand that we had data that could justify closing off such a large area. In the catch report right after this, the ‘fleet chief’ [the coordinator for the Russian vessels] said that he had contacted the authorities on land, and would inform the fleet as soon as he had received a response. The ‘fleet chief’ was then aboard the MA-0060, Kapitan Telov; and at 2100B hours that same evening we went on board that vessel. At first he seemed rather terse, but gradually loosened up and made a highly sympathetic impression. When we had presented to him our calculations on how much fry was being taken by the entire fleet in the course of a day, he agreed that it would be unreasonable to continue fishing. He had sent a telex to Murmansk, informing them of the request from the Directorate of Fisheries, but explained to us that there would only be telegraph operators on duty, and that it would be difficult to get hold of higher-ranking staff because they were likely to be out, celebrating. However, he promised to phone the next morning, since there would be operative personnel in place then. [. . .] I contacted the ‘fleet chief’ the next day. He informed me that he had been instructed to send a search vessel to the eastern part of the area in question, and let this vessel undertake

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a few hauls before the authorities would take a stand on the Norwegian request. Later that same day we inspected one Russian and one Latvian vessel, and found a dramatic increase in the proportion of fry in the catches. (On the latter inspection we found 76 cod, 27 haddock, 115 red fish and 2 herrings in 10 kg of capelin.) The ‘fleet chief’ was immediately contacted and informed of the results of our latest inspections. We repeated our request that the fishery be halted at once. He promised to telephone the authorities on land once again. Shortly afterward, he called to tell us that all vessels would stop fishing at midnight. 8 Social interactions could be important also in these situations. If the arguments of the Coast Guard were not immediately accepted by the fishers, inspectors might spend many hours on board fishing vessels explaining the rationale behind the request, calculating the amount of undersized fish being caught, arguing that it would be in the long-term interest of everybody to halt the fishery. The inspectors would dine with the Russians, relax over a cup of coffee, and sometimes even nap inbetween spells. And the Norwegian argument did not always prove to be the most well-founded. Nor were Norwegian authorities unwilling to take into account information from the Russian side. During one rather difficult inspection – the Russian captain disagreed sharply with the arguments of the Norwegian inspector, but, on the other hand, did not have to go far to get out of the closed area – it was decided, more or less in earnest, to resolve the disagreement through a game of chess. Arguments continued to cross the table throughout the game. The Russian won, and he stayed in the area. That same evening, the delimitation lines of the closed area were amended according to the argument of the Russian captain. I argue that the Coast Guard is part of a seafaring community, where actors have their clearly defined functional roles, but to a large extent depend on each other and maintain social relations across functional lines. This sense of community is certainly not weakened by the fact that the interaction unfolds in the most spectacular Svalbard scenery and surrounded by a certain amount of polar romanticism. There is arguably a spontaneous spirit of community between people who earn their daily living in these isolated areas, under extreme climatic conditions.

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When inspector and fisher meet in the polar night and, over a cup of coffee, start talking about when the ice will come drifting in from the east, the situation is more reminiscent of a meeting between polar sea colleagues than of one between a watchdog and a potential criminal. On a more critical note, the relationship between the Coast Guard and Russian fishers is not as close as that between the Coast Guard and Norwegian fishers. Language and cultural barriers are obviously present.9 Also, my observations were done in the late 1980s and early 1990s, a period when relations with the Norwegian Coast Guard were possibly better than earlier, when the bilateral management regime was less mature, and Soviet fishers to a larger extent fished in other parts of the world, and better than they reportedly became from the late 1990s, when Russian fishery authorities accused Norway of discriminating against Russian fishers in their enforcement activities. Finally, the reader might rightfully suspect me of only remembering the ‘sunshine stories’ from my time the Barents Sea some 20 years later, or – even worse – of ‘selecting in’ what fits my theory and ‘selecting out’ what does not. To this, I can say that my observations preceded my preoccupation with compliance theory. From my very first moments in the Barents Sea, I was struck by the friendly atmosphere that characterized relations between fishers and inspectors, in particular the general willingness to listen respectfully to the other party’s arguments. Towards the end of my time in the Coast Guard, I had reached the master level as a student of political science, and on the reading list was Ju¨rgen Habermas’ theory of communicative action, ‘that type of speech in which participants thematize contested validity claims and attempt to vindicate or criticize them through argumentation’.10 Lifting my eyes from the books to the encounters between inspectors and fishers, I thought that this was communicative action – in action.11

Russian Fishers’ Accounts in the late 1990s The most striking feature in my interview data from the late 1990s is the near-unanimous acclamation of the Norwegian Coast Guard as a desired and even necessary actor on the fishing grounds. Some interviewees reported disagreement with Coast Guard inspectors on specific issues. In particular, they expressed irritation at the fact that the inspectors did not accept the scales used on board Russian fishing vessels, but insisted

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on using their own (which sometimes gave different results). More generally, some said they viewed Norwegian enforcement efforts as a bit ‘exaggerated’ – or ‘offensively high’, as one captain expressed it. Another one argued that, compared to the Russian enforcement body, the Norwegian Coast Guard was excessively preoccupied with revealing violations and not sufficiently helpful in finding the fish:12 ‘Norway has decided to find all violators and punish them. It’s not the right thing to do!’13 Nevertheless, there was agreement within nearly the entire interview sample that the Coast Guard performed its duties to the general benefit of the Norwegian and Russian fishing communities. Most interviewees expressed the opinion that the Coast Guard performed a strict and just enforcement of regulations, and that its inspectors had an open and understanding attitude towards the fishers. When asked about their impression of Coast Guard inspectors, many interviewees started out with a general remark about the importance of personal qualities: ‘Everything depends on human qualities; the first meeting reveals it all.’ Then an overall positive impression of the Coast Guard inspectors was, in most cases, presented: ‘I have never seen anything in the behaviour of a Norwegian inspector that contradicts common sense.’ Predictability and integrity seemed to be valued. Typical words used to characterize inspectors were kulturny (‘cultured’) and gramotny (‘literate’ or ‘enlightened’, in practice: well-educated). The message seemed to be that the Norwegian inspectors were fair and incorruptible, as opposed to what Russian fishers were used to at home: ‘They act “culturedly” [kulturno ], in a strict, but humane fashion. They stick to the framework of the law.’ Similarly, ‘the inspectors don’t go beyond their authority.’ Further, the human quality of politeness was emphasized: ‘They don’t get coarse [ne grubyat ].’ Another fisher referred to the mutual respect of seamen: ‘We have a good relationship. The inspectors are polite. We respect each other here at sea. We all have hard work.’ One interviewee even placed his attitude to the Coast Guard in the context of a general respect for Norway as a northern nation: Norwegians are energetic, tough, they live under harsh conditions. To survive, you cannot tolerate the slightest deviation from the law. It’s different in Africa, where bananas just fall down from the trees. That’s why I respect Norwegian law. I understand that it’s necessary [to comply with it]. I respect the people of Norway.

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There seemed to be general agreement among the interviewees that the existing enforcement regime was sufficiently strict; surveillance was sufficiently extensive, inspection frequency sufficiently high and sanctions sufficiently severe. Some fishers even said they were uneasy about fishing in the Norwegian EEZ because of the ‘strict regime’ there. Often conditions in the Barents Sea were compared to the state of affairs in other ocean areas where Russian fishers were active: ‘It’s a very risky thing to cheat here in the north.’ This fisher was comparing the north to the east – the Pacific Ocean or Russia’s far eastern fishery basin. Some explicitly contrasted Norwegian order to Russian chaos: ‘You have order, we don’t.’ Moreover, although a few, as indicated above, said the inspection frequency was too high, there seemed to be a distinct attitude among interviewees that the existing degree of enforcement was desirable: ‘Control is necessary. There would have been more violations without control.’ A few referred to morality as a possible explanation of compliant behaviour: ‘The law is the law. It must be complied with.’ Finally, most of my interviewees expressed respect for the role of marine science in the Barents Sea fisheries management: ‘Of course it’s necessary to do research on the fish stocks. [. . .] The specialized research vessels do a very good job, but commercial vessels with researchers on board don’t. Their main job is to fish. The specialized research vessels do what they’re supposed to do. They’re important, necessary . . .’ Another fisher remarked: ‘I have a positive attitude towards [marine scientists]. The Barents Sea is not inexhaustible. It’s quite right that the quantity of fish is checked. The fish has to be preserved for future generations. I’m not competent to assess whether their estimates are right; this is a specific science.’ I have earlier subjected this interview material to interpretation using Rubin & Rubin’s theories about ‘cultural interviews’.14 We recall from Chapter 7 that these authors single out various mediation forms by which information can be conveyed from interviewee to interviewer: A narrative gives facts about when, why and how a specific event took place, while a story additionally mediates some kind of moral or indication of the subject’s worldview. Myths express important norms and values in the community to which the person belongs, while accounts are explanations that serve to justify a specific behaviour. A front represents the picture that subjects give of what they think is expected of them in the interview situation. Finally, themes are repeated descriptions of real or desired behaviour.

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By and large, my Russian interviewees stressed order as the main characteristic of the Barents Sea fisheries. Some captains even said they feared fishing there, because of the strict enforcement regime in place. This was also reflected in the descriptions of Coast Guard inspectors as ‘cultured’ and ‘competent’. The main theme of these interviews can be paraphrased as follows: ‘We don’t dare cheat. There is order in the Barents Sea fisheries. Norwegian inspectors are strict and incorruptible, but they are fair and behave in a cultured and enlightened fashion.’ It might be appropriate to interpret the tendency to emphasize the effectiveness of the Norwegian Coast Guard inspectors as a front: the interviewees were praising the fellow countrymen (and former colleagues) of the interviewer. Or claims that inspection frequency was ‘offensively high’ can be treated as accounts, for instance as justifications that one must be allowed to cheat a little bit from time to time. There is, however, more to this. The notion that Russia lacks order ( poryadok) and has to import it from the outside is a central myth in Russian history. It dates back to the legend of how Russia acquired its first emperor in the ninth century. According to mediaeval chronicles, the following message was sent to the Scandinavian Vikings: ‘Our land is wide and powerful, and very fertile, but we have no order. Can you rule us?’ This line of reasoning is recognizable in the nineteenth century philosophical orientation of Westernizers and post-Cold War politicians alike. It is also reflected in everyday life in Russia. Most foreigners who have spent some time in the company of Russians will recognize similar statements: ‘Oh, us Russians! We have all thinkable good qualities and the best of intentions, but we have no order!’ Hence, the interview statements can very well be interpreted as stories, representing central norms and values among the interviewees, or as widespread myths in the interviewees’ culture. Myths have been repeated so often that they have been accepted as truth, and communicate a set of social expectations for behaviour. In this case, it is the expectation of Russian fishers that in Russian waters there is no order, while in the West there is. In my study of Northwest Russian narrative and identity,15 ‘order’ was a key word. It was the concept around which discussions about Russia and the West and about (Russian) north and (Russian) south evolved: north meant ‘order’, south ‘disorder’; ‘West’ was synonymous with ‘order’, Russia with ‘chaos’. Nancy Ries similarly claims that stories of calamities associated with living in Russia form a major speech genre in Russia.16

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This is the story of Russia as a mythical land where everything is geared towards going wrong: a gigantic theme park of inconvenience, disintegration and chaos. ‘You know what this country is, Nancy?’, one of the interviewees asks her. ‘This country is anti-Disneyland!’17 It was the punch line of a conversation in which people traded examples of social chaos and absurdity in late-Soviet Russia. ‘Our fairy-tale life’ is another metaphor used by her respondents, referring to the monstrous political projects of the Soviet state.18 Laments about Russian fairly-tale life typically ended with the following statement, ‘Such a thing is only possible in one country – here, in Russia’.19 However, Ries argues, ‘AntiDisneyland’ also carries positive cultural value for Russians. Even when the ‘Russia tales’ had tragic elements, they were appreciated for their fascinating, amusing and astonishing epic. They made people feel personally part of the intense Russian drama.20 Russians may feel ashamed of their country when they are abroad, but, as one of her respondents puts it, ‘within themselves they are all very proud that they are Russians, that they come from such a country, which has such a strange history’.21 In brief, there might be reason to take the Russian praise of the Norwegian Coast Guard with a pinch of salt. The interviewees might have been just polite or apologetic about their own shortcomings. Or they might have been expressing their own norms and values more than facts, or repeated widespread myths in Russian society. But – might it also be so that narrative dictates action? May the expectation that ‘in the West, there is order’ in fact influence the Russians’ behaviour – law-abidingness in Norwegian waters, unrestrained cheating at home?

Russian Fishers’ Accounts Ten Years Later My more recent interview material is more diverse than my data from the 1990s, for several reasons. There are more interviews, and they were performed partly by me and my colleague in various Norwegian ports and partly by a Russian researcher in Murmansk, on behalf of us. However, the statements from the interviewees were rather similar, although there are also some tendencies pointing in different directions. Again, most fishers painted a picture of the Norwegian enforcement system as effective and Norwegian inspectors as strict, thorough and incorrupt. A few examples: ‘The Norwegian system is rather effective; it works well. We’re trying to get [our system] to where the Norwegians

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were more than 20 years ago.’ ‘Their system, well, it’s very effective. They have assembled all functions under the state, and everywhere you have to stand strictly to account. All catch logs and documents are stamped; you cannot make a replica. It’s not like in Russia, where you can keep three books at the same time.’ ‘The Norwegian control is effective because it’s systematic and precise. They fight for their resources. Good job!’ Some fishers painted a rather rosy picture of their relations with Norwegian inspectors. One said that the inspections take place ‘in calm forms’. Another one: ‘Top grade! They know their stuff and control without prejudice. They act with fingerspitzengefu¨hl. When the inspectors come on board, it’s like they get a hunch about how things are, right away. If they find anything [wrong], they behave in a “stiff” and formal manner. But if everything is in order, they can talk with you, man to man, and drink tea with you.’ More common in this round of interviews, however, were statements to the effect that Norwegian inspectors are too demanding, non-communicative and discriminatory. Such statements were also coupled to the image of Norwegian fisheries enforcement as ‘effective’, only now with the Russian fishers as ‘victims’ of an oppressive state policy. Nevertheless, some of these statements were also accompanied by conciliatory remarks, for example about the fact that strict systems produce good results, or that human qualities can qualify the strictness of the system. Here are a few examples: I don’t know how the Norwegians monitor Norwegian fishers, but with us they’ve always been – how can I put it? – demanding. They usually act without wasting any words. And if they find anything, they won’t listen to our explanations. They’re only interested in their own work. For instance, they always examine just the catch log. What’s in the vessel log doesn’t interest them at all. I can’t attempt to assess their work in a broader, global context, but they do work hard and that probably is of some value. The inspectors are very strict; you hardly dare crack a joke with them. They’re strict in their control and are hard to please. Sometimes they do everything to catch an infringement – even the slightest minor point. Maybe their bosses have instructed them to do this,

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or maybe they’re simply so thorough themselves – I don’t know. But they carry out control strictly, and very often. They work well. The inspectors are always very exact. Sometime they can behave in an extremely formal way. For example, when they measure mesh size: if the mesh is even a tiny bit smaller than what’s allowed, they immediately define it as a violation. That’s probably the reason for the widespread view that it’s hard to please the Norwegians. But it’s individual. After all, the Norwegians are human beings just like us. Yes, the Norwegians work – but how? They pat their countrymen on the back, but try to keep us down. Just as in my interviews in the 1990s, marine science was almost without exception referred to with respect. Typical labels were ‘very good’, ‘very advanced’, ‘very necessary’ and ‘very serious stuff’. Several interviewees now – just as in the previous round of interviews – said they were not really competent to offer assessments: ‘I’m not a scientist . . .,’ they would start. Russian inspectors, however, were presented in a bad light, and in very vivid language. One captain, asked about how effective he assessed the Russian enforcement system to be, exclaimed: ‘It’s not even worth asking such a question!’ Some said they had never ever been inspected in the Russian EEZ, ‘never even heard of anyone who has ever been’. Another noted: The [Russian] Border Guard spends little time at sea. You can check the weather by them: if they put out to sea, it means the weather is going to be nice; if a storm is coming in, they’re the first to leave the place. For them, going out to sea is an event, something that could be written about in the newspapers and shown on TV. Many complained about the lack of qualifications of Russian inspectors, ridiculing the fact that the Border Service is staffed by people with no fisheries competence but with experience from other branches of the FSB (of which the Border Service is part): ‘Unfortunately, many inspectors cannot distinguish one species of fish from another, especially

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the military inspectors [from the Border Service]. [. . .] One of them is a colonel who used to be the conductor of a military orchestra!’ Another fisher said about the inspectors: ‘Fish they only know from restaurants!’ Many referred to corruption among inspectors, and this was often woven into accounts of Russian chaos, ‘Russian mentality’ or ‘Russian worldview’; see section on Russian ‘calamity stories’ above. As one fisher said: ‘A Russian person does not like to comply with the law. Russians even write laws just to have something to violate’ [laughs]. Most respondents agreed that overfishing had taken place by Russian vessels, but claimed that it had now been reduced.22 Most of them also maintained that overfishing was not a problem solely among Russian fishers. Asked whether overfishing in the Barents Sea was caused primarily by Russian fishers, one respondent exclaimed: ‘What are you talking about?! The norgs23 are also stealing! But they steal in the smart way, not like us: in the wild way.’ The management collaboration between Norway and Russia in the Joint Commission was generally mentioned in positive terms. Several respondents spoke of Norway as a ‘leader’ in the collaboration with Russia. One of them said: ‘I think Norway has worked very actively . . . been active in initiating [regulation and enforcement] arrangements. There hasn’t been such an initiator in the [Far] East. Japan hasn’t been very active.’ As noted in the introduction to this section, there were many similarities between my interviews with Russian fishers in the late 1990s and ten years later. The big picture that was offered was one of Norwegian order and Russian chaos. As discussed in the previous section, we may rightfully wonder whether such statements are reflections of the interviewees’ sincere experience of the outer world, or simply ‘what people usually say’ on these topics – reflecting myths, in Rubin and Rubin’s terminology.24 I was a bit surprised at the force and vividness in the derogatory descriptions of Russian fishery inspections, coupled with the claim that Russian enforcement vessels were hardly ever put to sea. How could the fishers have such massive and apparently genuine experience of Russian fishery inspectors when they had barely met then, if at all? I raised this question with my Russian interviewer, who replied that she had been thinking along the same lines. She said something to the effect that ‘this is how we Russians usually talk about our authorities, especially inspection bodies; we simply take for granted that they are incompetent and corrupt.’25

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On this background, some caution should be exercised in treating my respondents’ presentation of Norwegian enforcement as ‘true’ or genuine. Is it just a reflection of the ‘myth’ that in the West there is order? If we, nevertheless, accept these statements as more or less sincere – if nothing else, they are the best indication we have about how Russian fishers experience Norwegian control in the Barents Sea – two main themes emerge. The first one goes approximately like this, similar to the main theme I identified in my interviews from the 1990s: ‘Norwegian enforcement is effective; the inspectors are fair and incorrupt. They treat you with respect. If everything is in order, they even sit down to chat and drink tea with you, man to man.’ Then there is a second theme, somewhat related, but with a different emphasis: ‘Norwegian enforcement is effective, but it comes at a price. The inspectors are hard to please, and if they discover anything suspicious, they don’t want to listen to your arguments. You’d better stay on the right side of the law!’ These two statements share the assessment of the Norwegian Coast Guard as effective. Implicitly, they also share the judgment that everything is fine as long as the inspectors do not find anything to put their finger on – but they are constantly searching to find exactly that. The second theme was far more prevalent in my second round of interviews than in the first one. This is not surprising, given the complaints presented by Russian authorities and Russian media since the late 1990s that Norway is discriminating against Russian fishers in Barents Sea enforcement (see Chapters 2 and 13).

Bargaining Dynamics From my own observations in the Norwegian Coast Guard, I reported a good deal of communication – and some measure of bargaining – between inspectors and fishers in the Barents Sea. The prime example of effective bargaining, supported by extensive communication, were the Coast Guard’s endeavours to persuade Russian fishers to stop fishing in areas with too much intermingling of fry (primarily in the Svalbard Zone, an ocean area where coercive measures could not be employed). The main instrument was argumentation, at the scientific and practical levels. The inspectors appealed to the fishers’ conscience, to perceptions of their own long-term interests, but most of all to their common sense. The fishers were urged to change fishing position not because

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continuing in the same place would have been a violation of the law, but simply because ‘it doesn’t make sense’ to take up so much fry. And communication was two-way: the Coast Guard (with the Norwegian Directorate of Fisheries, which made the formal decisions on these issues) was ready to take the Russians’ practical experience into account. If the Russian fishing or research vessels had more exhaustive data and more compelling arguments, for instance about intermingling of fry at different depths, the Norwegians would modify their initial request. The actual ‘request areas’ – the areas that fishers were requested to stay out of – thus emerged as the result of fact-based bargaining between the Norwegian enforcement body and the Russian fishing fleet. There was not much room for actual bargaining during inspection, but there was plenty of communication, explanation and justification. The inspector was generally ready to explain the rationale behind a Norwegian rule and the procedures that he was following during inspection. If the first spot check of the mesh size indicated violation, he would be willing to measure again, if necessary adding a metal weight for control. If there proved to be too much undersized fish or by-catch of other species in a sample of the catch, he would measure or count the entire catch so that the exact percentage of intermingling could be identified. If discrepancies emerged between reported catch and the inspector’s calculation of actual catch in the hold, he would go through his calculations once more, in the captain’s presence. And the inspections were social events as well. As I have argued, communication was not limited to catch, documentation and fishing gear, but crossed over into the private sphere. More generally, there was a sense of community between those who had their occupation in these distant areas with tough climatic conditions. Further, the generally good atmosphere between the Norwegian enforcement body and the Russian fishing fleet made the fishers more inclined to follow requests from the inspectors, within the limits set by Russian authorities.26 But there were, as indicated, limits to bargaining. As far as I observed, the inspectors would never deliberately ignore a violation, however minor it might be. All measurements of catch and gear were reported in the inspection form. So were smaller violations that were not directly connected to the fishing operations. For instance, if incorrect flag was used, or there was a broken rung in the ladder that the inspectors used to board the fishing vessel, an oral warning would be given

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(and noted in the inspection form). The same goes for minor errors in filling out the logbook, with no direct consequences for fisheries management. Nor would the inspectors give way in rather trifling requirements, such as the obligation to fill in last haul’s catch in the catch log right away, based on the captain’s best estimate, rather than wait until the catch had been processed to get a more exact weight. This was a source of much frustration among the Russian captains. There were limits not only to bargaining, but also to communication. The inspectors would not reveal the allowable tolerance between reported catch and actual catch on board, not even admit that there was such flexibility, much to the fishers’ irritation. Some of my interviews with Russian fishers confirmed my own observational data, but most of them painted a less positive picture of relations between Norwegian inspectors and the Russian fishing fleet. Most respondents characterized the inspectors as competent, fair and predictable, some of them even as reasonable, guided by common sense. My main impression, especially from the last round of interviews, was that the Norwegian inspectors were perceived as ‘hard to please’. This seemed to involve a relentless search for violations (‘they do everything to catch an infringement’), lack of flexibility (‘if the mesh is even a tiny bit smaller than what’s allowed, they immediately define it as a violation’) and unwillingness to listen to the Russians’ arguments (‘they usually act without wasting any words – and if they find anything, they won’t listen to our explanations’). Most annoying to the Russian fishers were obviously situations when the inspectors were not able – in the Russians’ eyes – to give plausible explanations for the Norwegian rule (e.g. the rule that the weight of last haul’s catch must be estimated right away, before it has been processed and a more exact weight can be established). The Norwegian enforcement system was generally characterized as effective, but, as many respondents claimed, ‘that comes at a price’. The price here was obviously lack of flexibility. The situation was assessed differently by different individuals: some saw the stringent control as a problem (‘it’s not the right thing to do!’), others as a matter for emulation (‘good job!’).27 So what is the situation on the Barents Sea fishing grounds actually like? Is there a brotherhood of polar seamen – or East– West antagonism and broken communication? There is no inconsistency here; I assume that both exist, or at least they have existed. There are good reasons to

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assume that my ‘happy picture’ of the Barents Sea fishing grounds in the late 1980s and early 1990s is less representative of the situation some 20 years on. Fisheries relations between Norway and Russia soured in the late 1990s, among other things after Norway for the first time attempted to arrest a Russian vessel in the Svalbard Zone in 1998, and for the first time carried out such an arrest three years later. According to Russian media and Russian higher fishery officials, Russian fishers started to feel they were discriminated against by the Norwegian Coast Guard. This sentiment was confirmed in my interviews – it hardly featured in the first round of interviews (before the alleged discrimination started), but was quite prevalent in the second round. Furthermore, it is possible that the communication between the Norwegian Coast Guard and the Russian fishing fleet was more open and ‘effective’ when the Coast Guard had interpreters among its staff (also until the late 1990s). Russian captains are probably more proficient in English now than they were 20 years ago, but providing Coast Guard staff knowledgeable in Russian language and culture might well have been perceived by the Russian fishers as an extra service, one which both eased communication and made the fishers more accommodating to the Coast Guard’s requests. As we have seen, lack of justification for specific rules was among the things that frustrated Russian fishers the most. At least, interpreters can facilitate communication in situations when such a need arises. There is a great potential for fruitful communication in the perception among the fishers of a seafaring community, where people at sea respect each other across functional lines (‘you and me, we’re both sailors . . .’). This potential is utilized by the Norwegian Coast Guard in its efforts to make fishing vessels stay out of areas with too much intermingling of undersized fish. However, that seems to be where the bargaining ends. The Norwegian inspectors are trained to behave correctly and respectfully towards the fishing fleet, but they have no formal room for negotiation when it comes to violations that are uncovered. Nor did I ever see this taking place (surreptitiously or without legal foundation) in my own observations. I have argued elsewhere that the Norwegian Coast Guard has a strong organizational culture that promotes meticulous inspection and reaction ‘according to the book’.28 Letting one’s personal judgment influence a decision is similarly an organizational taboo. Likewise, Norwegian fisheries legislation leaves little room for differing grades of punishment;

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even trifles are reported on the inspection form if the law so requires (although fines are increased for repeated violations). The unwillingness of inspectors to disclose the level of actual tolerance or leeway – the expressed denial that there even is such a thing – fills in the picture of an enforcement system with little flexibility, and minimal room for negotiation (at least during inspection).

Bargaining Results Thus, bargaining results by the Norwegian Coast Guard on the Barents Sea fishing grounds are generally limited to reducing the fishing pressure on fry and other undersized fish, especially in the Svalbard Zone. But this achievement should not be underestimated. These northern areas of the Barents Sea contain large amounts of small fish, and the fishers would arguably have little incentive to stop fishing in such an area unless the intermingling of fry became so great that it totally overshadowed the ‘useable’ catch – which it hardly ever did. So if we do a counterfactual move and imagine the fishing grounds of the Barents Sea without the initiatives of the Norwegian Coast Guard to halt the fishing of undersized fish as early as possible, large amounts of fish would have been taken out of the sea long before it could be used for human consumption. Most likely, the small fish would simply have been thrown overboard, although this is illegal according to both Norwegian and Russian fisheries legislation (but this is a violation that it is possible for inspectors to discover only when they are actually on board a fishing vessel). I am not competent to evaluate the consequences in scientific terms, but this would obviously have contributed to unsustainable use of fish resources; it would also have interfered with the scientific models for stock assessment, since the discarded fish would not have been recorded in any statistics. Moreover, this part of the Coast Guard’s enforcement activity is little known outside the Norwegian fisheries regulation system, since it seldom creates media-attractive episodes. In sum, it is a prime example of day-to-day bargaining between an enforcement body and fishing vessels.29 What of the room for bargaining during inspection? I have stated that there is no formal room for negotiation on the part of Norwegian inspectors, and concluded that also in practice this hardly ever takes place, supported as it is by an organizational culture that furthers

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discipline and ‘doing things by the book’. I did report one example that might look like a bargaining situation, a rather informal one at that: the inspector who suggested resolving a dispute through a game of chess. It should be noted that this took place in the Svalbard Zone, where the Norwegian Coast Guard could not resort to coercive measures (or at least did not do so until the turn of the millennium). Moreover, the situation was rather a-typical, and the inspector did not have much to lose (apart from his reputation as a ‘serious’ inspector), since arrest of the fishing vessel was not an option. But the episode gives us a glimpse of another counterfactual situation: what if the Coast Guard inspectors were given slightly freer rein? More on this below. * The literature on compliance in fisheries has emerged from stylized deterrence models which claim that people comply with the law when this is in their economic interest.30 In recent decades, however, this approach has been supplemented by the ‘enriched’ model of compliance, which basically claims that compliance is a far more complicated issue than assumed in the ‘formal’ deterrence-based models. Young, Sutinen and colleagues and Tyler have brought in normative issues such as the individual’s personal morality, peer pressure and the legitimacy of rules and procedures.31 Gezelius has refined the ‘enriched’ model of compliance in fisheries by focusing on the interdependence between norms and deterrence.32 For instance, he found that in one empirical setting formal enforcement was necessary for informal social control.33 He has called for greater attention to the Durkheimian compliance mechanism, which emphasizes the symbolic meaning of enforcement, as opposed to the Hobbesian and Habermasian mechanisms, with their emphasis on deterrence and rational communication.34 We do not have detailed information about Russian fishers’ compliance in the Barents Sea. The statistics of the Norwegian Coast Guard indicate that most fishers comply with most regulations most of the time: less than 20 per cent of inspections (of vessels of all nationalities) reveal violations of some sort, less than 5 per cent reveal serious violations (rough estimate based on the Coast Guard’s annual reports). On the other hand, Norwegian authorities partly documented, partly estimated Russian overfishing of some 50 per cent of the national

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Russian cod quota in the Barents Sea both in the early 1990s and around the mid-2000s. If these estimates are correct, far more than 5 per cent of the Northwest Russian fishing vessels must have been involved in overfishing. The main reason why this is not reflected in the statistics of the Norwegian Coast Guard is probably the fact that the vessels involved in overfishing would fish primarily in the Russian EEZ and the former Grey Zone, both beyond the mandate of the Norwegian Coast Guard. There is also some doubt as to the ability of Norwegian inspectors to reveal underreporting (which is an indication of overfishing), since physical inspection of a fishing vessel’s holds is an extremely challenging affair. So the question of why Russian fishers comply must be somewhat diluted: why do most Russian fishers appear to be in compliance with Norwegian law when they are inspected by the Coast Guard? In my interviews with Russian fishers, the message came through loud and clear: they simply do not dare to cheat, because of the strict enforcement regime in Norwegian waters. Above all, the meticulous inspection procedures of the Norwegian inspectors, their competence and incorruptibility were emphasized. This points in the direction of a deterrence-based explanation, which I will not dismiss. However, there might be more to it. With the possible exception of a few fishers who focused primarily on the discriminatory nature of Norwegian inspections (‘if the mesh is even a tiny bit smaller than what’s allowed, they immediately define it as a violation’), the Norwegian Coast Guard seemed to enjoy a rather high degree of legitimacy among Russian fishers. Even those who criticized the Coast Guard inspectors for not listening to the Russian arguments characterized the Norwegian enforcement regime as ‘effective’. Most of them would also conclude that ‘this is the right thing to do’. Among the spontaneous replies to my questions about how the Russian fishers assessed the work of the Norwegian Coast Guard were the following: ‘Good job!’ and ‘Top grade!’ Several interviewees presented the Norwegian enforcement system as a case for emulation for the Russian enforcement bodies, which my interviewees, almost without exception, dismissed as incompetent and corrupt. Related to this, many interviewees hinted at normative factors such as the perceived need to preserve the fish stocks for future generations. The very positive descriptions given of the work of marine science filled in this picture. So did the hints at the existence of a ‘seafaring community’: ‘We respect each other here at sea. We all have hard work.’

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As discussed above, we cannot be sure whether the accounts offered by the Russian fishers in interviews are in fact ‘genuine’. Were the descriptions of an effective Norwegian enforcement system and of utterly incompetent Russian enforcement bodies merely reproductions of old myths about Western order and Russian chaos? Were my interviewees just playing the ‘saying all the right things’ game when they ‘innocently’ spoke of the need to think of future generations? From my own observations and several hundred interviews in Russia (for other research projects), I would say that the answer lies somewhere in-between. I think there are in most interviews glimpses of actual experience, and genuine perceptions. But I also think that many interviews to some extent reflect the ‘standard operating procedures’ – or socially established narratives – of the interview situation, or talk on these themes more widely. The best I can do with the present interview material is to conclude cautiously that Russian fishers seem to comply with Norwegian law partly because of the strict enforcement regime (deterrence) and partly because it is seen as ‘the right thing to do’ (norms). Somewhat similar to Gezelius’ assumption that formal enforcement is necessary for (informal) social control, 35 I believe that the formal enforcement regime in the Norwegian waters in the Barents Sea is a precondition for (‘conservationist’ or seafaring) norms to influence fishers’ behaviour. Knowing that violations will most likely be discovered and punished presumably makes it easier to settle for a ‘lawful bargain’ oneself – to let one’s own norms about right and wrong, or about proper fisher behaviour, come to the foreground of consciousness. In a different situation, with no effective control on the Norwegian side in the Barents Sea, I can imagine it would have been easier for many fishers to ‘forget about the norms’ and instead focus solely on their own short-term economic gains. Whether this explanation is deterrence- or norm-based is a matter of interpretation; I wish to emphasize the interrelationship between the two. At least in this specific empirical setting, it would have been difficult to rely on norms alone (unlike many small-scale fishing situations), but legitimacy and communication serve to support the deterrence pillar of the enforcement system. The potential gain from communication (or bargaining) is particularly evident in the Coast Guard’s efforts to reduce fishing in areas with much small fish.

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Post-agreement Bargaining Revisited In the previous chapter, I concluded that Norway had considerable success in its attempts to influence Russian behaviour in the Joint Fisheries Commission through post-agreement bargaining, largely through bargaining at lower bureaucratic (or technical or scientific) levels and in direct contact between the heads of delegation. I then took a slight detour in discussing why the Russian side so often adapted its behaviour according to Norwegian initiatives, which brought Russia closer to the precautionary standards of international fisheries law. Russia unwillingly followed suit, with Norway at the wheel. It was difficult to explain Russia’s behaviour through realist models, although defensive realist and neoclassical realist approaches allowed for ‘accidental’ behaviour not necessarily in the declared interest of the state in question. Normative factors like traditional seafaring norms might have prepared the ground for compromise, but I argued that institutional factors could best explain the Russian compliance. In particular, Russia found itself in an institutional web of increasingly more elaborate decision making procedures, geared largely towards compromise. Post-agreement bargaining was the practical tool employed by Norway to get new measures (such as selection grids) and procedures (such as the harvest control rule) implemented. In line with Chayes and Chayes, 36 instances of apparent non-compliance were regarded as ‘problems to be solved, rather than as wrongs to be punished’ (‘we’ve taken up the things we felt were wrong’). Post-agreement bargaining – between technical experts, by the heads of delegation in private, around dinner tables and in Russian banyas – was used, deliberately or by accident, to activate norms and establish standard operating procedures that furthered precautionary fisheries management. Post-agreement bargaining, then, emerges not as a source of compliance, but as a means to activate such sources: interest, norms or institutional features. Intentionally or not, Norway activated Russian (or seafaring) norms and created institutional arrangements suited for precautionary fisheries management through post-agreement bargaining.37 Theoretically, my study provides support for the normative and institutionalist perspectives on compliance and shows the potential of post-agreement bargaining to activate norms and develop standard operating procedures that further the objectives of the regime in question.

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At the individual level, I concluded that Russian fishers mostly comply with Norwegian law when fishing in the Norwegian waters of the Barents Sea for two main reasons: they fear sanctions, and they see the Norwegian enforcement arrangement as just. Here we see reflected the symbolic role of enforcement, accentuated by Gezelius.38 Enforcement has a role beyond deterrence: it acts to reassure citizens that law and order reigns. As also argued above, legitimacy and communication support the deterrence pillar of the enforcement system. The apparent success of the Norwegian Coast Guard in persuading the Russian fishers to stay out of the ‘request areas’ of the Svalbard Zone shows the potential of argumentation – or bargaining: the inspectors were also willing to listen to the Russians’ arguments. Here the inspectors appeared as politicians, in Kagan and Scholz’ theoretical framework.39 In the inspection situation, however, the Russian fishers obviously perceived the Norwegian inspectors as policemen, geared only towards the disclosure and sanctioning of violations. We see hardly any trace of the inspectors as consultants aimed at solving practical problems, or as politicians, who, according to Kagan and Scholz should have the competence ‘to suspend enforcement, to compromise, to seek amendments to the regulations’.40 (Post-agreement) bargaining was a central element of the Coast Guard’s working relations with the fishing fleet (directly to influence fishers’ behaviour in specific situations, and indirectly to affect their norms and perceptions of an effective enforcement system) – except during actual inspection. We see a conspicuous difference in how the potential of postagreement bargaining is applied in the Barents Sea fisheries at state and at individual levels. At the state level, Norwegian scientists, technical experts and civil servants have indeed acted as ‘politicians’ and ‘consultants’, aiming at compromise and practical problem-solving (‘we have consciously tried to show understanding for their problems, always’). However, according to the Russian fishers that I interviewed, such openness was not what characterized their contact with Norwegian enforcement bodies during inspection (‘they act without wasting any words – and if they find anything, they won’t listen to our explanations’). It could be argued that this comes as no surprise: civil servants act on behalf of politicians, while inspectors carry out police authority. However, my observation of the interaction between the Norwegian Coast Guard and the Russian fishing fleet in defining areas

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suitable for fishing demonstrates the potential for ‘political’ or ‘consultative’ work also at this level. The sustainable practice of staying out of areas with too much fry would arguably not have materialized without the open and constructive dialogue between inspectors and fishers. While more flexibility on the part of the Coast Guard regarding minor violations is probably not compatible with current Norwegian law, a stronger focus on practical problem-solving during inspection might in fact have enhanced compliance. More generally, international fisheries collaboration and national fisheries enforcement have a great untapped potential in traditional seafaring norms, the ‘deeply rooted sense of belonging which can hardly be ascribed reason alone’.41 Activating this potential through postagreement bargaining may contribute significantly to making fishery agreements work.

PART VII ARCTIC TALK, RUSSIAN POLITICS

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Identity and Foreign Policy The international relations (IR) discipline has seen an upsurge in interest in identity since the end of the Cold War.2 The maps of Eastern Europe and Central Asia were being redrawn, the European Union was effectively dismantling national borders in Western Europe, and globalization was picking up speed; it was no longer feasible to view identity as a unitary, fixed and given substrate derived from an individual’s nationality. Identity came to be viewed as a relation rather than a possession, a quality conditioned by changeable, fluid situations rather than rock solid categories. Identities, wrote Lapid in 1996, had become ‘emergent and constructed (rather than fixed and natural), contested and polymorphic (rather than unitary and singular), and interactive and process-like (rather than static and essence-like)’.3 Jørgensen categorizes the study of identity, which he considers a generic term rather than a specific theory, within the post-positivist tradition.4 Post-positivists have primarily used identity, he notes, to explain where interests come from. Instead of assuming the existence of an externally given or geographically determined national interest (such as realists and geopolitically oriented theorists do), post-positivists search for the origins of interest. In this perspective, the question is not whether interests or identity determine politics, but how specific identities cause specific interests and, in turn, how these interests translate into policy making. As a prominent example, Wendt claims

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that the international system is created and recreated in processes of interaction, where identities are not given (although relatively stable), but continuously developed, sustained and transformed by intersubjectively grounded practice.5 The behaviour of states is not reducible to where they stand in the distribution of power in the international system,6 or to the maximization of their material interest. States have selves that colour their interaction with other states, and are themselves shaped, maintained or modified in this very interaction. There is an ongoing struggle within the state about which of the many stories of the self should be activated at any specific time. Browning elaborates a theory of foreign policy analysis in which action is explained as the result of state interest determined by narratively constructed identities.7 In his view, action only becomes meaningful in the process of narrating a constitutive story of the self: ‘By establishing a linear story from whom we were in the past up until the present a narrative framework is created within which experiences become intelligible to ourselves and to others, and future action becomes meaningful.’8 It is only by telling stories about who we are that it becomes possible to say what we want. Interestingly, Browning claims, although advocates of the narrative approach have criticized rational, materialist accounts for assuming implicitly that identities as pre-given, this is probably how identities must be presented by state authorities to resonate with the population.9 Ringmar proposes a narrative theory of action which, he argues, under certain circumstances explains states’ behaviour towards other states as a defence not of their interests, but of their identity:10 ‘It is through the stories that we tell that we make sense of ourselves and our world, and it is on the basis of these stories that we act’.11 The stories we tell define not only what we want, but also who or what we are like. The narratives through which our selves are constituted are always the more fundamental; stories of selves are preconditions for stories told about interests. ‘Interests’ can only be someone’s interests and the establishing of this ‘someone’ is of course precisely what the action in question is designed to accomplish. The action does not seek to maximise utility or minimise loss, but instead to establish a standard – a self – by which utilities and losses can be measured. These are

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consequently not ‘rational actions’, but instead actions undertaken in order to make rational actions possible. We act, as it were, in ‘self-defence’ in the most basic sense of the word – in defence of the applicability of our descriptions of our selves.12 Ringmar emphasizes the importance of recognition for persons’ and communities’ identity, including that of states. It is through our quest for recognition that our identity is established. Identity is a precondition for interest, and in certain situations identity-driven explanations of foreign policy can substitute for interest-driven explanations altogether. This can happen when a state has experiences a loss of recognition under humiliating circumstances (‘lost face’), or at ‘formative moments’ when new metaphors are launched and individuals tell new stories about themselves, and new sets of rules emerge through which identities are classified – in short, ‘when the very definition of the meaningful is up for grabs’.13 Meanings are contested and fought over, through, for instance, propaganda and other forms of rhetoric. Old identities can prevail, be defeated or revised. ‘Formative moments, we could say, are characteristically periods of symbolic hyper-inflation – times when new emblems, flags, dress codes, songs, feˆtes and rituals are continuously invented’.14 At these moments, there is an urgent need to have one’s constitutive stories recognized. In a later work, Ringmar shows how Soviet policy towards the West was a constant quest for recognition, first of Soviet Russia as a legitimate state, then as a great power, subsequently as a superpower and finally under Gorbachev as a legitimate inhabitant of the ‘Common European Home/House’.15 Studying Soviet foreign policy as the outcome of given material interests would equal the assumption that ‘world politics is a game played by players without faces’; the fact that Russia is Russia and not any other state ‘makes all the difference in the world’.16 Most IR studies of identity presuppose some form of othering, either externally (towards other states), internally (within the state) or historically (in relation to previous and future selves). While the role of external othering clearly dominates the IR debate on identity, ontological security theory focuses instead on internal othering through the construction of autobiographical narratives that draw on national histories and experience in order to create continuity to a state’s identity.17 Wæver likewise argues that the Other may also be a former

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incarnation of the self – he mentions the EU as an example, the primary ambition of which has been the ‘never again’ of European wars. And the Other need not, according to Berenskoetter, be the ‘foreigner’, an ‘enemy’; recognition can also be sought from ‘friends’.18 As we saw in Chapter 9, narratives may be distinguished by the presence of a plot, the means by which events are brought together into a meaningful whole. Indeed, as Nishimura notes, in international relations, ‘[p]lotting is political action sui generis’. Only after being plotted in a meaningful order, can experience make sense to the state’s self (and make the state ready for action).19 Ringmar contributes a particularly refreshing addition to his earlier work through his study of conflicting stories of the Iraq war, using literary theory to categorize decision makers into different types of story-tellers.20 Romances usually involve a hero whose task is to save the world. They are recounted by people who ‘believe that evil can be defeated, that the world can be made into a better place, and usually also that they are the very instruments chosen by God, Providence or History to carry out this task’.21 Tragedy provides a completely different plot structure. Here the hero rebels against the established order but is himself destroyed in the process. He follows his own mind, ‘proud, passionate or obsessed with some fanciful idea’.22 The comedy is ‘an account of oppositions and misunderstandings which in the course of the narrative are resolved thanks to some fortuitous intervention’. The comic element lies in the twists and turns taken by the plot as the narrative gradually comes to a happy end. Finally, there is satire, which assumes an ironic distance to the world. It is ‘parasitic on other narrative forms’23, as its strategy is to ‘turn other plot structures inside-out, upside-down, or to deconstruct and reassemble them in unrecognizable patterns’.24

All the Way to the Pole The 1982 UN Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS) had introduced economic zones and explained how governments should go about establishing them. Economic zones could only extend 200 nautical miles from the shore line. In the case of continental shelves, the rules are different. All states have a right to a continental shelf of 200 miles; the rules governing shelves and water columns follow one another. The principles underlying the determination of the boundaries are also

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the same: governments shall attempt to find an equitable solution. In certain circumstances, however, states can claim sovereignty over their continental shelf beyond the 200 nautical mile line, but only if the extended shelf is a natural prolongation of the area within the 200-mile limit – which is what a shelf is, i.e. the relatively shallow basin between land and the deep ocean floor, the abyssal plain. There is an opportunity under UNCLOS for states to acquire jurisdiction to explore, extract and manage the natural resources on their continental shelf within 350 nautical miles, or 100 nautical miles beyond the 2,500-metre isobath (a line connecting points of equal underwater depth). In contrast to the economic zones and the continental shelf within 200 miles, however, permission is not granted automatically. Governments must file a claim with the international Commission on the Limits of the Continental Shelf in New York, along with scientific evidence that the area beyond 200 miles is, in geological terms, a prolongation of the landmass. The members of the Continental Shelf Commission are scientists and technology experts. They assess the scientific merits of the documentation provided by governments to substantiate their claims – hence, the Commission is neither a political body nor a court of law. Russia was the first Arctic state to file a claim with the Continental Shelf Commission, as early as 2000. Considered lacking in several respects, it was quickly rejected. The Russians had included large areas of the continental shelf between the eastern and western sector lines. Part of the area went all the way to the North Pole. After their submission was rejected – which the Russians accepted without orchestrating a political protest – they intensified their exploration of the Arctic shelf. During a scientific expedition in August 2007, the research team lowered a mini-submarine to the seabed at the precise point of the North Pole, and planted a metal Russian flag into the ground. The event attracted the attention of the worldwide media and political circles – Russia, it was said, is laying claim to the North Pole. In the event, it proved the starting shot for the ‘race for the Arctic’. The media tended to depict the Arctic as a no man’s land, beyond the reach of international law where governments could do as they liked while the world’s reserves of oil and gas elsewhere were running dry. According to estimates drawn up by the US Geological Survey (USGS), the Arctic could hold as much as 25 per cent of the world’s undiscovered oil and gas deposits. This naturally provided added sustenance to the story of the race to the Arctic.

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At the political level, Canada, a country with significant designs on the Arctic itself, was particularly annoyed. ‘You can’t go around the world these days dropping flags somewhere. This isn’t the fourteenth or fifteenth century,’ the Canadian foreign minister, Peter MacKay, was reported as saying.25 However the Arctic continental shelf is divided in the end – the Continental Shelf Commission has still not had its final say – the biggest winner will be Russia. The question is how much more the Russians will get than everyone else. Russia has everything to gain from cementing the application of the Law of the Sea in the Arctic. * Russia adopted its first Arctic policy document in 2001, back when the Arctic was still not much of an issue in international politics. The document focused mainly on the region as a potential zone of conflict among great powers. As global interest escalated, the Arctic powers all put together their own Arctic strategies. Russia’s Fundamentals of the State Policy of the Russian Federation, published in 2008, was the second to be issued by a member of the ‘Arctic Five’, a couple of years after Norway had unveiled its High North Strategy in 2006. Canada and the US followed suit in 2009, Denmark in 2011. The main objective of the Russian strategy is to transform the Arctic into the country’s most important strategic natural resource base by 2020, and to preserve Russia’s role as a leading Arctic power. It calls for the development of the Russian Arctic in a number of fields, most notably resource extraction, transport (primarily the Northern Sea Route) and other forms of infrastructure, but also ‘softer’ policy areas such as science and environmental safety. It presupposes a new Russian continental shelf claim by 2015, and also the formation of a new Arctic military unit for use in combating terrorism, smuggling and illegal immigration. While the Russian strategy is considered somewhat ‘harder’ than those of the other Arctic states, with its explicit emphasis on national interests and sovereignty, it downplays the potential for international tension in the Arctic, at least compared to the Russian policy plan of 2001. The need for international collaboration to preserve the Arctic as a zone of peace is among the priorities in the strategy. A follow-up strategy appeared in 2013, covering more or less the same priorities as the 2008 strategy, but

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as assessed by Zysk, it appears to be somewhat more realistic and dispassionate than its predecessor.26 Acknowledging that Russia is not capable of effectively exploring the energy resources in the Arctic by itself, the document recognizes Russia’s need for domestic and foreign private sector investment and experts to develop the country’s northern regions. The political leadership in Russia have generally emphasized the need to follow the rules of international law in the Arctic, and have usually downplayed threats from other countries in the region. However, senior Russian officials have expressed fear of other states’ intentions in the Arctic. FSB director Nikolai Patrushev, for example, is quoted as saying that ‘the United States, Norway, Denmark, and Canada, are conducting a united and coordinated policy of barring Russia from the riches of the shelf.’27 Artur Chilingarov, famous polar explorer and the President’s special envoy on Arctic affairs, stated after the episode of the Russian flag planting – he was leader of the expedition and on board the submarine when the flag was planted – ‘we have exercised the maritime right of the first night.’28 Two years later he added, ‘we will not give the Arctic to anyone.’29 Even President Medvedev, who was usually inclined to emphasize the cooperative aspect of international Arctic politics, made similar statements on occasion: ‘Regrettably, we have seen attempts to limit Russia’s access to the exploration and development of the Arctic mineral resources . . . This is absolutely inadmissible from the legal viewpoint and unfair given our nation’s geographical location and history.’30 References to Russian history and territory were key features of many of the statements of President Medvedev and Prime Minister Putin around this time. In 2009, Putin was appointed head of the trustees of the Russian Geographical Society and in his address to the Society’s congress introduced the topic of the Arctic as follows: ‘When we say great, a great country, a great state – certainly, size matters . . . When there is no size, there is no influence, no meaning.’31 Medvedev, in turn, in his first address as chairman of the national Security Council in 2008, entitled ‘Defending Russia’s National Interests in the Arctic’, made the following remark: I want to especially underline that this is our duty, this is simply a direct debt [we owe] to those who have gone before us. We must

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firmly, and for the long-term future [of our country], secure the national interests of Russia in the Arctic.32

‘The Global Fight’ Laruelle argues that there are two different Russian strategies for the Arctic:33 the ‘security first’ and the ‘cooperation first’. The former – supported by the Security Council (which produced the Arctic policy document), the military complex and security services – views the Arctic as a territorial arena where Russia can revive its former status as a great power. Security comes first in this strategy, and foreign presence must be curbed. The second approach – reflecting primarily the objectives of the Ministry of Natural Resources – is motivated by economic concerns and is pragmatic in its views of how best to achieve its goals: In order to develop the northern regions, Russia must be open to foreign cooperation through investments and sharing of expertise. Private businesses, both Russian and foreign, must be given greater roles in the development of the Arctic; the Russian state cannot do this alone. In addition to the revival of Russian greatness on the international scene, the ‘security-first’ variant is viewed as having a more immediate domestic aim: to reassert Russian patriotism in order to secure the legitimacy of the political establishment. Since 2008 –9, however, Moscow has also sought external recognition by creating an ‘Arctic brand’ with Russia portrayed as a responsible and highly cooperative state that takes a leading role in the development of law and policy in the Arctic. When Putin speaks of ‘our common Arctic home’,34 he clearly alludes to Gorbachev’s ‘common European home’, the incarnation of modern Russian willingness to work with the West. The Russian media sometimes frames the Arctic in the context of foreign relations; at other times as a domestic issue. The boundary between them is not impermeable, however. A common theme in the foreign-policy oriented newspaper articles is the perception that the other Arctic states are ‘actively flexing their muscles’,35 and that Russia must necessarily respond. The debate mainly centres on Canada’s intentions in the Arctic. Canada is largely depicted as the ‘aggressor’ in the region. Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper is said to operate under the slogan ‘Conquer [the Arctic] or you’ll lose it’,36 and is reported to have said: ‘The Arctic is our country, our property and our ocean.

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The Arctic belongs to Canada.’37 In brief, Russia’s mission is to engage in ‘the global fight against Canada in the Arctic’.38 The alleged discrepancy between Canada’s assurances of no aggressive intentions in the Arctic, and the country’s simultaneous aggregation of military forces in the region, is another recurrent theme in the Russian press. Reporting from a meeting between the Canadian and Russian ministers of foreign affairs in September 2010, Rossiyskaya gazeta questions the Canadian assurance that the country only has peaceful intentions in the Arctic.39 Canada has, according to the article, recently constructed new military bases in the Arctic; it has also launched new ice-going patrol vessels for use in the region. The Canadians also conduct annual Arctic military exercises. ‘All this forces Canada’s partners in the “Arctic five” to question the sincerity of the Canadian party’s statements [about peaceful cooperation].’ While Russia is here grouped together with the three remaining ‘Arctic five’, Russia’s position as the only nonWestern state among the five is also at issue in the article. ‘One of the most burning issues for the “Arctic five”’, the article states, is ‘NATO’s interest in the region’. The Russian prime minister gives vent to a certain irritation: ‘I don’t think NATO behaves in an appropriate manner when it reserves for itself the right to decide who should make decisions in the Arctic’, though he does not say exactly how this inappropriate behaviour takes place. Another feature article on the same meeting asks whether Foreign Minister Cannon will succeed in melting the ice of mistrust that has developed in the country’s relations with Russia due to ‘the Canadians’ ambitious view on the ownership of the Lomonosov Ridge’.40 Harper had recently been speaking, ‘in harsh words’, about Canada’s ambitious programme ‘Steering North’ and about preserving ‘the true North’ strong and free, so it’s ‘no wonder Ottawa [subsequently] sent the minister of foreign affairs [to Russia] to clarify’. The feature writer notes that despite the ‘optimistic tone’ of the lecture Cannon gave to Russian politicians, journalists and academics, not everything he said sounded particularly friendly to Russian spectators: ‘“The Arctic has always been a part of us, it still is and always will be”, Cannon said, seemingly forgetting for a moment that no country has exclusive rights in this zone.’ Cannon goes on, ‘again without even wavering’, to state that ‘there are territories that belong to us, where the continental shelf must be prolonged, for instance the Lomonosov Ridge, as an extension of our territory’. Thus it was that

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Cannon managed to ‘[destroy] the good atmosphere of the meeting’. The reporter was not at all convinced of Canada’s peaceful intentions in the Arctic. The other Arctic states are not only fighting to defend their own rights in the Arctic, they are actively mobilizing to wipe Russia off the board. In an article with the rather peculiar heading, ‘Without fighting penguins’ [sic!],41 – the idea being that the establishment of a new Russian Arctic military unit does not signify the militarization of the region – ample evidence is provided to the effect that ‘USA, Norway, Denmark and Canada are pursuing a unified and coordinated policy to prevent Russia access to the riches of the continental shelf’, and that ‘the USA and its partners in NATO are striving to extend their economic presence in the northern waters, and to achieve internationalization of the Northern Sea Route and, as a result, press Russia out of the region’. As proof of this development, the journalist refers to a document obtained from the Security Council’s press service showing that foreign intelligence bureaus are intensifying their activities in the border areas with Russia. Norwegian research vessels are being recruited to carry out intelligence work. International NGOs are also used, especially environmental NGOs. There are foreign scientists in the areas around Novaya Zemlya and the White Sea, where Russian submarines perform military exercises. In Norway, there’s talk about changing Svalbard’s demilitarized status, and about a new policy of using the national armed forces in the Arctic.42 An article entitled ‘Cold NATO’43 claims that NATO is ‘breaking into the Arctic’ and that ‘the question about when the Polar bears will see American hangar ships is of more than just rhetorical character’ – but Russia’s response to the world will be: ‘We will not give the Arctic to anyone!’ By declaring the Arctic as ‘strategically important for the alliance’, NATO is meddling in the ongoing diplomatic conversations among the ‘Arctic five’, adding to them an element of power and thus increasing the risk that diplomacy will give way to military demonstrations. At the same time, the US is criticized for trying to ‘internationalize most of the Arctic problems, enabling them to subsequently penetrate the region by means of international law and multilateral forces’.44 To illustrate this ominous situation, Rossiyskaya gazeta states that the first Russian submission to the Commission on the Continental Shelf was rejected ‘not without pressure from the US, Norwegian and Canadian side’.45 As noted above,

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the UN Continental Shelf Commission is neither political body nor tribunal; it is a commission of scientists, such as geologists, hydrographers and geophysicists. There is an abundance of resources in the Arctic, the article ‘Hot Arctic’46 notes, and ‘the USA has already counted them’. It also reminds the reader of how the US around 1990 tried to take advantage of Russia’s political weakness to acquire more of the Bering Sea. There was even talk of ceding Chukotka to the Americans, the environmental project ‘Bering Park’ being geared to that aim. The article ‘On slippery ice’ similarly warns readers that the Canadians are prepared to use all underhand methods to grab what’s legally not theirs in the Arctic, including ‘finelooking environmental plans’ that extend sailing routes a further 100 nautical miles from the shore.47 And ‘Ice War No. 2’ takes the rise in US monitoring of cruise traffic in the ‘newly ice-free areas’ of the Polar Ocean as yet more proof that the West is planning to start ‘a tactical ice war’ with Russia.48 The Secretary of the Security Council, Nikolai Patrushev, concludes: ‘If we do not act immediately, time will be lost, and then it will simply be too late – they will have squeezed us out.’49 Interspersed with these accounts of Western aggression we find stories depicting Russia as a peace-loving nation, one that is ‘categorically against any militarization of [the Arctic]’,50 refuses to be pulled into ‘what is referred to as a conflict about access to resources’,51 and insists that ‘questions about ownership must be decided exclusively by the mechanisms [provided] under UNCLOS’.52 Even the Commander in Chief of the Russian parachute forces assures us that while he plans to put parachute troops on the North Pole, they will be ‘peaceful paratroopers’.53 In an article named ‘A slice of a Polar bear fur’, the Russian Minister of Foreign Affairs comes across as more peace-loving than his Canadian colleague: Most of the journalists are less inclined to abandon the idea of a new world conflict unfolding in the third millennium. They asked whether the war in the Arctic was over, and Canada’s representative said it was. Lavrov quickly corrected this remark. There had never been any war in the Arctic. Fellow journalists smiled, while the slightly bemused Canadian nodded his agreement.54

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Occasionally, the straightforward narrative of ‘the world is against us, but we just want peace’ is interrupted. The article ‘Strike below the pole’ from Kommersant a couple of weeks after the flag planting episode is an example. It starts in recognizable form with a description of East– West antagonism and Russian heroism, but ends up by questioning Russian greatness – I discuss this further in the concluding section of this chapter. For now, let’s just hear the story in its entirety. The sensational achievement of the ‘Arktika-2007’ expedition in planting the Russian flag in the seabed at the North Pole was greeted with joy by the Russian people, while our adversaries in marine matters slunked off in a huff. A completely natural response, says Vlast commentator Shamir Idiatullin. It’s just the latest expression of the celebrated Russian national idea, known to everybody. Last week, the expedition team of the difficult ‘Arktika-2007’ voyage returned home. The expedition was led by the famous polar explorer, member of United Russia, and member and deputy speaker of the State Duma, Artur Chilingarov. Two bathyscaphes were lowered by the team to a depth of more than 4 kilometres, where they planted a Russian flag of titanium on the seabed, and returned with a bucket of sediment and two containers of water. Not only was this the first time anyone had descended all the way down to the seabed at the geographical Pole, the ‘Arktika-2000’ team explained, but they had also collected material that would help Russia prove that its continental shelf extended as far north as the Pole itself. In other words, Russia owns most of the unbelievable reserves of oil and gas concealed in the eastern parts of the Arctic Sea. The US expressed doubts as to this conclusion, Canada said the North Pole was Canadian, and the world’s media blew hot and cold about Moscow’s scandalous act of annexation. In reality, Chilingarov did not remonstrate in the Amundsen Sea (because it is precisely in these waters – a good distance from the Lomonosov ridge and, in consequence, the presumed Russian shelf – through which the earth’s axis passes) to support [the idea of] an extension to Russia’s Arctic Siberia, but rather to promote his party political, propaganda and entertainment agenda, only lightly camouflaged as economic expediency. We must not,

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however, believe that the conquest of the polar deep was the brainchild of some amateur Arctic explorers. The lowering of the bathyscaphes Mir I and Mir II was a move on the part of the Russian elite (and a relatively successful one) at the shrine of the national idea. The doctrine of sovereign democracy – you can bake it with poison – only beguiles particularly disingenuous party officials. You can’t get it to a Russian ideal. On the other hand, there is an ideal that’s dependable and appreciated, a large, powerful country able to accomplish anything anywhere. This country is not loved, naturally; it is feared. But, first, we’re not exactly a jewel in your crown; second, fear equals respect; third, we have already lived in a country like that, when the trees were higher and the water wetter. And it’s a complete waste of time to create a new one by installing a proletarian dictatorship, with industrialization and collectivization, root and branch purges and everything else out of which the superpower emerged. The old saying is refuted by reality: if you say the word ‘halva’ enough times, your mouth fills with a sweet taste, and a small country can look big by putting on the airs of the superpower. It all began in 1999 or thereabouts, this pretence, when Primakov’s plane, flying over the Atlantic, turned back and Russian paratroopers were dropped over Pristina. The logic of empire was directed outwards; the Soviet ideologues believed it was possible to find lasting happiness for the state on Freedom Island, in the black continent, Antarctica – on Mars even. The Soviet Union sat firmly on the coupons and stood ankle-deep in shit – on the other hand, the country was dispatching food aid and construction workers to Asia and Africa. Russia learned a lesson. Last year, when Yakutia was paralyzed by impassable roads, a detachment of military construction workers was sent to repair roads in Lebanon. And this year, firemen were shipped to Greece and Montenegro in response to the fires in the selfsame Yakutia, not to mention Sakhalin, Chita and Chukotka (sure, it wasn’t free, but that’s not the issue). The latest advances are blatant copies of Soviet advances – such as the Olympic Games, doomed to be a celebration of Russian sports, friendship among nations, and the eviction of local

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inhabitants, replaced by people from other places. The achievement of the polar explorers is even more touching, because this, my boys, this is Captain Tatarinov, the SS Chelyuskin’s ice floe, Schmidt’s beard, Papanin’s Mauser and Chkalov’s non-stop flight. Mercifully, most of the cost of this propaganda exercise in promoting Russian ambitions would be footed by the Swede and Australian onboard bathyscaphe number two. You may just as well get used to the idea of foreign assistance: if Russia is incapable of developing the Shtokman field itself, you can hardly expect the country in the space of fifty years or so to recover and transport even more distant and much less accessible Arctic riches. Unless, of course, quantity morphs into quality and the revival of the Soviet exploits in the form of construction troops (mentioned by Prime Minister Fradkov recently), acceleration of the space programme and all manner of changes to GTO [Soviet sports norms/sports badges] and Osoaviakhim [a civil society organization that promotes the interests of the defence industry] do not transform the country into a great-and-powerful something or other. It’s not just general aesthetic considerations one can use as a pretext for speeding up the transformation – the activities of the Arctic rivals, led by the United States, who happily subscribed to the Russian idea of the polar shelf, can as well. Anyone with an inkling of American tendencies and opportunities can assume that Washington will shortly be able to discover its own continental shelf in every ocean accessible to the country – and to scientifically justify not only that the Arctic belongs to USA’s natural sphere of interest but Eurasia, Africa and Australia too. After this, the discussion about spheres of interest can return to the level that was typical of the 1950s and 1960s. To the delight of people who remember those years as a golden epoch in the homeland’s history.55 To return to the ‘security-first’ and ‘cooperation-first’ approaches in Russian Arctic policy, both are reflected in the public debate, more or less simultaneously, supporting rather than contesting each other. The debate, if we can call it a debate at all, is more descriptive than normative. Instead of discussing how Russia should angle its Arctic

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policies, the newspapers tell their readers ‘how the world is’. By and large, it is a world where NATO is surreptitiously preparing for the rush for the Arctic, while Russia insists on international cooperation and open dialogue. Canada is the main villain, with its harsh rhetoric and alleged unilateralism. There might be an underlying normative message here that says cooperation doesn’t work when your partners are not reliable and should hence be abandoned as Russia’s main strategy, but it is seldom openly expressed in the debate.

‘The Arctic is our Everything’ In post-Soviet Russia, the Arctic is both a ‘forgotten’ (economically neglected and politically marginalized) and a ‘future’ (the country’s most important reserve, economically and spiritually) region. It is plagued with ‘everything from bad roads to the notorious Russian propensity to drink’.56 It is home to ‘mythical and half-mythical resources’;57 to a nuclear icebreaker fleet, ‘which exists only in our country’58 and is a ‘convincing testimony to man’s success in the duel with the ice masses’;59 to ‘the legendary Northern Sea Route’, ‘the Arctic’s longest road’, in itself ‘the most genuine of ministries’,60 but desperately in need of ‘a new life’ – not to earn money from international transport (as often assumed in the West, and not quite unlikely), but to ‘maintain life and activity in the Russian North’.61 Certain exclamations recur in the debate: ‘The Arctic is our everything’, and ‘The Arctic always has been and always will remain Russian’. They often turn up without further elaboration – as in the article ‘Northern lights’, where the latter formulation is immediately followed by a prosaic statement that ‘Russian scientists worked on oil and gas extraction projects before the Norwegians even thought about it’.62 And there’s talk about the ‘rebirth’ of the Arctic63 – and countless stories of the heroic ‘snow man’, Artur Chilingarov, ‘Hero of the Soviet Union, Hero of the Russian Federation’.64 Two hundred journalists and thirty TV channels were waiting at the Vnukovo-3 airport terminal when he stepped onto Russian soil after the North Pole flag planting, ‘trembling with excitement’, and declaring – yes, you’re right: ‘the Arctic always has been and always will remain Russian.’ Two flags were used to mark the event: the flag of the international Polar Year and the Abkhazian flag. Since Chilingarov was

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‘an old friend of Abkhazia’, the Georgian province became the second nation on the North Pole after Russia [a year ahead of the Georgian war], beating ‘far more powerful, reputable and prosperous pretenders to the riches in the Polar continental shelf’.65 Hence, Russian Arctic policies are linked here to territorial disputes along the country’s southern borders. The notions of ‘Arctic boom’ (the promising future) and ‘Arctic doom’ (the dreary present) are combined in an article in Argumenty i fakty (AiF), from autumn 2008, named ‘Once again the Russian flag is waving in the Arctic’.66 The article tells the story of the journalist’s trip with the border patrol vessel Anadyr to the Chukchi Sea. Why sail in the Arctic? A correspondent from AiF-Kamchatka accompanied a coastguard patrol vessel in the eastern sector of the Arctic, and was informed by the commander that they hadn’t patrolled the area since 1993: ‘It was a successful demonstration of the Russian flag. But the main thing is we showed our flag not just for the USA, but for our citizens living in Chukotka. They were no less surprised than the Americans. . . .’ Has anything changed in Russian policy on the Arctic? Yes, it has. The Arctic is of enormous economic interest to Russia in the form of the richest natural resources, of which oil and gas on the continental shelf are the most important. The Russian Arctic has been thinly populated for some time, and for this reason our neighbours have been eyeing the area; envy and lust light up in their greedy eyes. America is dreaming about turning the Chukotka Sea into an open area for economic exploitation. Canada, USA, Norway and Denmark would have liked to split the Arctic four ways and push Russia out, and keep it inside the boundaries of its continental shelf. Even China wouldn’t say no to a tiny piece. But Russia is not surrendering yet and has – thank God – started taking action. The President has given his approval to a programme to utilize and protect the Arctic, and there are many references in this document to border forces as guardians of the state’s economic interests. [. . .]

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An astounded Chukotka [The correspondent describes how the vessel ‘not only displayed the Russian flag’, but also investigated the area to make the journey easier for the next patrol. Then follows an account of Chukotka itself: In his time as governor, Roman Abramovich organized the building of lightweight modular homes, three to seven TV channels, installation of telephones, etc. But... The problem isn’t just the lack of industry; unemployment is rife, especially among the indigenous peoples. The hunting of seals and marine mammals together with reindeer husbandry employ only a few, and every time a ship comes in, people dash to the harbour in case there are tourists who want to buy hides or souvenirs of walrus teeth.] When they heard a Russian border guard boat had arrived, the good people of Chukotka were amazed at its might and beauty. They couldn’t believe Russia had military ice-rated ships capable of navigating the Arctic. And Chukotka made an impression on the border guards with its primeval and wild beauty. The sea here proved literally to boil with whales. Every day, pod after pod, they swam alongside the boat. When Anadyr moved into the ice-covered areas, walrus and seal turned up as well. And precisely on Sailors’ Day, a Polar bear came swimming, scenting the aroma of shashlik rising from the helipad. It was impossible not to be astonished at the swimmer’s dexterity – around us the sweep of the open sea – it was 20 miles to the nearest ice. They served with honour! [Short interviews with a couple of the crews are reported here. A seaman from Ussuriysk:] ‘We were fortunate on this extended trip’, he said sincerely. ‘Before this, we were patrolling the Sea of Okhotsk, by the Kuril and Komandor islands, but the Arctic left a special impression. And here, I’ve finally settled on a career – I’m staying onboard as a contracted border guard.’ [The head of the electro-technical team Ruzvelt [ ¼ Roosevelt!] Gadzhimuradov also sees the voyage as an extraordinary event:]

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Obviously, the natural surroundings made an impression, but the harsh life of the people here made an even deeper one. In my opinion, the state has to take this territory seriously, the people of Chukotka deserve better. [The correspondent talks about the many high points of the voyage – various exercises and target shooting practice.] It’s been misty and cold, the sea has been calm and it has been rough. The people were tired, but invigorated by their impressions, they threw themselves into it body and soul. It was the first time any of them had been to the Arctic, and they fell in love with it. [On plans for the future: A new boat will soon replace the Anadyr, and the area will be patrolled on a regular basis.] And Cape Schmidt – it’s absolutely not the last stop in the new patrol area. Go further west along the Arctic Ocean! Much further! Because today the whole of Russia is thinking about the Arctic. This story inscribes itself firmly into the Russia-against-the-rest narrative. The other Arctic nations are ready to divide the region among themselves (even to the extent of giving China a small piece), so Russia needs to remain vigilant. Surely, ‘our neighbours have been eyeing the area; envy and lust light up their greedy eyes.’ But more than anything, the article is an ode to the Arctic as a Russian ‘homeland’, and to Russia as the Arctic’s patron and guardian. Anadyr’s voyage to these northern waters implies a ‘welcome home’ both to the chukchis – the motherland does care after all – and to the young sailors who have never set foot on this genuinely Russian soil before. The local population is struck by the ‘might and beauty’ of the patrol vessel, the sailors by the ‘primeval and wild’ beauty of Chukotka; they all fell in love with the Arctic. But not only did the natural surroundings make an impression – the harsh life of the local people made an even deeper one: ‘The state has to take this territory seriously, the people of Chukotka deserve better.’ The Russian North has been neglected for one and a half decades (even though Abramovich set up TV channels and modular homes there), but it is ripe with natural resources: whales and walruses, oil and gas. So now the whole of Russia is talking about the Arctic: ‘Go further west along the Arctic Ocean! Much further!’

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Our Ocean, Our Future, Our Foes The Russian media debate about the Arctic progresses under headings such as ‘Cold NATO’, ‘Hot Arctic’, ‘Strike below the pole’, ‘Ice War No. 2’ – and with stories of a Canada hungry for new territories: ‘A Polar Bear went out to hunt.’67 The ‘Russia vs. the West’ question looms large.68 It is not in itself a question about Westernism vs. Slavophilism (whether Russia should learn from or distance itself from the West), nor, as already mentioned, about ‘security first’ or ‘cooperation first’ (whether Russia should prepare for conflict in the Arctic or seek international cooperation). The ‘debaters’ might be advocates of one camp or another, but here they are mostly the journalists themselves, not the interviewees. The frame of the debate is rather based on the ontological premise that states are always at loggerheads, and on the more practical premise that Russia is vulnerable to NATO’s efforts in the Arctic. Western conflictoriented intentions are taken for granted, whose ultimate aim is to get Russia out of the Arctic once and for all. The NATO countries are ‘breaking into the Arctic’69 and ‘flexing their muscles’, while ‘envy and lust light up their greedy eyes’. And, ‘[f]urther into the future, it will be simply too late, they will drive us away from here’. That no one appears to be urging Russia to strengthen its military presence in the region is striking. Yes, some want to see the FSB playing a bigger role in the Arctic and the Northern Sea Route and other infrastructure in the region upgraded – and there is the underlying message that ‘Russia needs to remain vigilant’. But hardly anyone is urging the authorities to increase the military defence of the Russian Arctic in order to respond to Western aggression.70 It is Russian policy that the division of the Arctic shelf should be decided by means of negotiation in international fora and in accordance with the procedural and material rules of international law. Unlike NATO, Russia is ‘categorically against any militarization of the Arctic’. The debate also features depictions of the Arctic as a specifically Russian ‘homeland’ or site of a ‘national idea’: The Arctic belongs to Russia, and Russia belongs in the Arctic – the North Pole flag was planted ‘at the shrine of the national idea’. Laruelle claims that the major Russian narrative of the Arctic can take a geopolitical, a domestic or a mythical nature – and, of course, a combination of the three.71 The geopolitical variant – which shares an interface with the

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‘Russia vs. the West’ narrative – is multifaceted. It speaks of the Arctic as something that, by its very nature, belongs to Russia: ‘the Arctic always has been and always will remain Russian’; but also as something that needs to be conquered: ‘rightful compensation for the hegemony lost with the disappearance of the Soviet Union’.72 Note, moreover, the somewhat peculiar link to the disputed republic of Abkhazia – over which Russia a year later would find itself at war with Georgia – cited in the report about Chilingarov’s happy return from the North Pole. Russian and Abkhazia were the two first ‘nations’ on the Pole, creating a link between two regions Russia, in some way or other, is claiming as its own. The domestic narrative, in turn, calls for a reverse of the ‘Arctic doom’ to the ‘Arctic boom’ idea: The Russian North has been neglected since the end of the Cold War and desperately needs a new commitment and new investments. Indeed, ‘the people of Chukotka deserve better’. The mythical narrative takes ‘the primeval and wild beauty’ of the Arctic as its base point, while raising it to a metaphysical level when speaking of Arctic ‘rebirth’, the Arctic as ‘a promised land of abundance and freedom’,73 ‘a new political and spiritual continent’, ‘the Arctic’s ’mythical and half-mythical resources’, and Russia’s ‘cosmic destiny’.74 Or how about this one: ‘From the [Russian] North comes God himself’.75 These sub-narratives are often interlinked, explicitly or implicitly: the Arctic needs to remain Russian (or be conquered) because it belongs to (or should belong to) Russia in a legal or political sense (by customary law, for instance), but also because it reflects the true spirit of Russia; it is a place where salvation can be found and the Russian nation can be reborn. The Russian North must be materially restored – both decaying Soviet settlements and ‘the legendary Northern Sea Route’ – not just because ‘the people of Chukotka deserve better’, but because North is good and genuine; it is ‘the last empire of paradise’, ‘the northern Eden’,76 the ‘bell, sounded long ago’.77 Indeed, the coherence of this narrative is striking: the way geopolitics, domestic northern policies and mythical aspects are combined into one story about Russia and the Arctic as congenital twins. Most interesting, however, is how the story is linked to territory and time, and how these, in turn, are connected with the ideas of ‘pure Russia’/’holy Russia’ and the Russian ‘wide soul’. ‘When there is no size’, Putin says, ‘there is no meaning’. Russian territory is larger than that of

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other countries in the world; Russia is going higher in the universe and farther north than anyone else.78 ‘Go further west along the Arctic Ocean!’ the journalist from Argumenty i fakty exclaims after his voyage with the Anadyr, ‘much further!’ Space itself is often used as a powerful metaphor for and expression of Russianness. The ‘boundless territory’, the ‘land with no edge’, the ‘flatness that curves around the horizon’ – that is what makes Russia Russia.79 And like the open territory, Russia is itself the ultimate expression of openness: openness of mind and openness of heart. The Russian landscape is wide, and so is the Russian soul, full of passion, generosity and recklessness ‘in the constant need for a break-out’.80 The North is ‘forgotten’ and ‘future’, as we have seen; neglected and promising at the same time. It faces an imminent ‘rebirth’, which speaks of past glory and hopes of a bright future. ‘Time’ looms large in the Russian debate about the Arctic. ‘This is our duty, says Medvedev, ‘this is simply a debt we owe directly to those who have gone before us. We must firmly, and for the long-term future, secure the national interests of Russia in the Arctic’.81 The Anadyr welcomes Chukotka back into the Russian fold, and Russia back into the Arctic’s. And the quintessence of the debate: ‘The Arctic always has been and always will remain Russian.’ The Russian Arctic offers ‘the ultimate test of our path towards timelessness’.82 It is the ‘land with no edge’, in territory and in time. Only rarely are these ‘master narratives’ challenged; the article in Kommersant titled ‘Strike below the Pole’ is one example, however. It reports the planting of the flag at the North Pole a couple of weeks after it had taken place. It starts by referring to ‘the sensational achievement’ of the ‘Arktika-2007’ expedition, ‘the latest expression of the celebrated Russian national idea’. It reviews the scientific purpose of the voyage before the author remarks that Mr Chilingarov did not plant the flag to demonstrate support for Russia’s claim to wider jurisdiction in the Arctic, ‘but rather to promote his party political, propaganda and entertainment agenda, only lightly camouflaged as economic expediency’. It was not a one-man show, however; it was staged by the Russian elite to illustrate the idea of Russia as an immense, powerful country that can do whatever it wants, wherever it wants. It is not a country it is easy to like (‘not exactly a jewel in your crown’), so it has little alternative but to stoke fear in the international community in

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order to gain respect. And then suddenly: ‘we have already lived in a country like that, when the trees were higher and the water wetter’ – and there’s nothing to strive or yearn for. Reality will catch up with you anyway: ‘if you repeat the word “halva” enough times, your mouth fills with a sweet taste, and a small country can look big by putting on the airs of a superpower.’ The Soviet Union had global ambitions, but ended up ‘ankle-deep in shit’. Recent events in Putin’s Russia are ‘blatant copies of Soviet advances’, such as the Sochi Olympics, where ‘friendship among nations’ led to the expulsion of local inhabitants – in the mythical land where everything is built to go wrong. Oh, and Russia’s old achievements in the Arctic are so touching – the SS Chelyuskin’s ice flow, Schmidt’s beard, Papanin’s Mauser and Chkalov’s non-stop flight – but would they have landed on the North Pole seabed had it not been for the Swede and the Australian on board the bathyscaphes? And how likely is it that Russia will have the capacity to exploit the riches of the High Arctic when it isn’t even able to develop the Shtokman field in the Barents Sea without foreign assistance? The truth is, the emperor has no clothes. This is Russia the miserable, the country plagued by ‘everything from bad roads to the notorious Russian propensity to drink’. According to the nineteenth-century writer Nikolai Gogol, Russia is beset by two misfortunes: fools and bad roads. It is Anti-Disneyland and all that, but centre stage here is the foolish boldness, the lack of a sense of reality, the insistence on persuading oneself that one is something that one is not, and the desperate need to be that other. Russia is not even capable of learning from its mistakes. It repeats the grandiose gesturing of the Soviet Union in Sochi, at the North Pole, on Mars even. This is the backside of the happy-go-lucky, the here-today-gone-tomorrow, the unbounded urge to plunge beyond the horizon, the wild ride through territory and time. * The Russian debate about the Arctic is constituted by at least two major meta-narratives, which in Somers’ typology are the epic dramas in which we are embedded as contemporary actors in history.83 It is ‘Russia vs. the West’, and ‘Russia and the Arctic’. The two are not mutually exclusive, indeed, they are mutually reinforcing. Adjoined to the imagery of

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‘Russia and the Arctic’ are the more subtle narratives (which can arguably be categorized as meta-narratives, too) of what it means to be Russian across space and time. It is the sense of vastness, recklessness, timelessness – in Hellberg-Hirn’s words, ‘soil and soul’.84 Then there are the far less frequent ‘counter narratives’, stories that question the premises of the ‘master narratives’.85 Kommersant’s ‘Strike below the Pole’ ridicules Russia’s Arctic ambitions specifically, and the country’s inability to accomplish anything in the world more widely. It starts out as a public narrative, an account of the story-teller’s cultural or institutional surroundings – here, contemporary Russian politics – but evolves into a meta-narrative of Russia’s eternal fate. The author refers to Soviet grandiosity and misery, to Russian pride and unwillingness to learn from past mistakes – explanations of why Russia will always remain the land of ‘fools and bad roads’. Othering takes different but not necessarily incompatible paths in the various narratives. The most conspicuous act of othering we find in the narrative ‘Russia vs. the West’. Naturally, this goes in one direction only: the Other is the West. But there are nuances in the intensity of the othering. Journalists almost exclusively portray the West as the aggressor in the Arctic, with Russia being ‘categorically against any militarization’ of the region. But the West is interchangeably talked about as ‘Cold NATO’ and ‘our neighbours’; when these foreign powers seek to maximize their interests in the Arctic, it is referred to either as a natural thing – what any reasonable state (or alliance) would do – or as outright offensive, reflecting the impudent behaviour of foreigners in Russia’s backyard, or, rather, the country’s core area. The latter clearly dominates the debate. Likewise, the ‘soil and soul’ narrative by its very nature places the West, or in principle anything non-Russian, in the position of the Other. Russia points the finger of righteous indignation at the Canadians in response to the latter’s ‘harsh words’ as in ‘The Arctic has always been a part of us, it still is and always will be’ and ‘The Arctic is our country, our property and our ocean. The Arctic belongs to Canada.’ Heard that before? The established Other is ridiculed for statements that sound strangely like one’s own – the subconscious othering of oneself perhaps? In the ‘Russia and the Arctic’ narrative, othering westwards is only indirect, implicit. If the Arctic is ‘our all’, how can it also be somebody else’s all? What are they doing here? It’s not that we suspect their

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intentions, they’ve probably just not got it right – they’ve gone astray, but we will help them get back home. The real othering in this narrative takes place in time: The past of the Russian North is proud and its future bright – so why did we end up in this miserable situation? The Other is the present time itself, the ‘here and now’. It took time to get here, and it will take time to get back on track. This is the slow ride home, the boring passage through time. The ‘fools and bad roads’ narrative picks up the thread: there’s a reason the Arctic has been neglected, like all other assets in the country. The reason is Russia itself, its never-failing ability to ruin everything that is good. Things are not the way they are because of accidental neglect, but by destined default. The Other is the hideous monster looking back at yourself in the mirror. The Other is also the picture of yourself that you present to the outside world; the image of Russia as a large, powerful country that can do whatever it wants, wherever it wants; the mirage on the horizon, your wishful thinking. * The dominant plot structure in the Russian media’s tales about the Arctic lies somewhere between Ringmar’s ‘romance’ and ‘tragedy’.86 Russia is the hero determined to ‘save the Arctic’, although perhaps more for its own than the (global) common good. The ‘romance’ does not necessarily speak of an end to the story; it is the process that matters, the hero’s journey spreading benevolence and good deeds. In the ‘tragedy’, the hero rebels against the established order but is himself destroyed in the process. In the Arctic, tragedy is looming, with signs of NATO arming up to take control – but Russia is intent on continuing the good fight: to avoid an armaments race in the High Arctic. Russia is the romantic hero that tries to pour cold (Russian) water onto hot (Western) blood. Russia is the one that has to remind the world that not only is there no war in the Arctic, or the war has been brought to an end; there never really was one. The plots of the ‘Russia and the Arctic’ and ‘soil and soul’ narratives conform to the structures of the romance. Russia has a special mission in the world as the defender of the true faith, spirituality and goodness. It believes that peace can be maintained in the Arctic, and the prosperity of the Russian North restored, if only the Russians are given free reigns to put their sensitivity, morality and greatness to use for the good cause.

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The ‘fools and bad roads’ narrative takes the form of the satire. Parasitic on the other forms of narrative, it reverses the plot structures, deconstructs and reassembles them into new structures. The ‘sensational achievement’ of the team that planted the North Pole flag is here turned into a reflection of Soviet megalomania, incompetence and inferiority complex. Chilingarov’s heroic deed is mere propaganda and showing off. The Russian heroic deed was in reality performed by a Swede and an Australian. Past achievements might have had a veneer of success, but they actually left the Soviet Union ‘ankle-deep in shit’. Holy Russia is not a country it is easy to like; it is not exactly god’s gift to the world. The ultra-simple plot of the story is: Hey, we’re Russia. And let’s face it – reality’s going to catch us up anyway.

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THEY'LL SQUEEZE US OUT, IT'LL BE THE END' 1

‘What can Putin do to get the Barents Sea back?’ ran the headline of an article printed in several Russian newspapers in late winter 2013.2 The author wanted the border between Norway and Russia in the Barents Sea, established by treaty in 2010, revoked forthwith. What’s more, it’s time the international community stood up to Norway and its management of the waters around Svalbard. The article attracted a lot of attention in the Norwegian media, too, as winter progressed into spring. It just goes to show, some said, we still have a Russian bear as a neighbour – it’s best to be on our guard and expect the worst. The viewpoints expressed in the article were pretty eccentric, commentators suggested, but an anomaly, even a misunderstanding. What more could you say about such obvious absurdities? Let’s be clear, the Norwegian – Russian maritime delimitation treaty is a binding agreement between two sovereign states. It was entered into in accordance with the principles of the Law of the Sea – it’s not something you withdraw from at the drop of a hat. So the issue is not so much what Putin should do to recover the Barents Sea, but why the critics of the delimitation line want him to.

Endless Negotiations, Big Compromise When Norway and the Soviet Union established their respective 200mile zones in the winter and spring of 1976– 7, the parties were already

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known to differ on how the boundary between their respective zones should be determined. They had been talking several years previously on ways of dividing the continental shelf in the Barents Sea, that is the seabed and whatever lay below it. They agreed to base initial discussions on the 1958 Continental Shelf Convention. The Convention provided a three-stage rocket of rules regulating how governments should go about determining the border between their respective parts of a continental shelf. First, states can freely determine the boundary by agreement. This may sound patently obvious, but the point was to highlight the contractual freedom that applied in this area too, that is that parties can adopt whatever arrangement suits them best without worrying about external parties claiming the agreement is invalid, or indeed, unfair or biased. Second, if the parties cannot agree on a dividing line the median line principle will apply, that is a method whereby the dividing line offshore is determined by the direction of the boundary on land. More technically, a median line is a series of points at sea whose distance from land on both sides of the border is the same. Third, if special circumstances were to obtain, the Shelf Convention allows states to depart from the median line. Norway pushed the median line principle in talks with Soviet representatives; the Soviets argued against it, referring to special circumstances. The special circumstances were the area’s strategic importance to the Soviet Union – its largest naval fleet, the Northern Fleet, was stationed there with access to the Barents Sea. And there was a significant disparity in population numbers on either side of the border. By then, the Kola Peninsula had over a million inhabitants, more than ten times the number in Finnmark county on the Norwegian side. Moreover, the Soviets had claimed all the islands (and later waters) between the sector lines in the east and west of the Arctic Ocean as early as 1926. A sector line is a line of longitude that starts from the terminus of the land boundary and intersects the North Pole. This, then, was the Soviet Union’s official stance vis-a`-vis Norway. Put simply, Norway held to the median line principle, the Soviet Union to the sector line principle. Not surprisingly, the principle Norway preferred would give Norway a larger wedge than the Soviet Union, and vice versa. Recognizing that an immediate solution was not likely, Norway and the Soviet Union agreed to an interim arrangement in parts of the disputed area – quickly baptized in Norway as the Grey Zone

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(in Russian colloquially referred to as the Joint Area). Within the Grey Zone, Norway could inspect Norwegian boats and third-country vessels with a Norwegian fishing license; the Soviets could control their own vessels and again third-country vessels to which they had given permission to fish. The Grey Zone is often confused with the disputed area, but it was simply a way of organizing the supervision of the two countries’ fishing activities; it had nothing to do with oil and gas. Further, the Grey Zone and the disputed area were not coextensive

Figure 13.1 Zone Configuration in the Barents Sea Source: Fridtjof Nansen Institute

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geographically. Admittedly, the Grey Zone did overlap most of the southern parts of the disputed area, but a small wedge extended into undisputed Norwegian waters to the west (i.e. west of the sector line) and a smaller part into the undisputed Soviet waters to the east (east of the median line). This was primarily because Norway and the Soviet Union wanted the Grey Zone to cover the natural fishing grounds, that is, whole fishing banks without splitting them up. Following the establishment of the economic zones, the maritime boundary became an item in the negotiations on the division of the shelf in the Barents Sea.3 For years, Norway and the Soviet Union held talks on the Barents Sea border in deepest secrecy; there was no publicity nor leaks of importance to the media (at least right up until the home straight). All the same, it was widely known that the talks had been moving forward in the final years of the Soviet era, but had stalled again when the Soviet Union fell apart. In an extremely rare public statement from any political source, President Mikhail Gorbachev mentioned the delimitation negotiations when he visited Oslo in June 1991 to receive the Nobel Prize awarded to him the year before. A Norwegian journalist asked him at a press conference how the maritime delimitation talks were going. The parties, he said, had agreed on 80– 85 per cent of the delimitation line; only the southernmost part of the line, down to the coast, remained in contention. In other words, the parties had drawn a boundary somewhere between the median line and sector line – a sort of compromise, which is what negotiating is all about. Progress was slow over the next 10 to 15 years, that is until a new coalition government took over in Norway in autumn 2005. The Labour Party’s rising star Jonas Gahr Støre was appointed foreign minister and immediately declared the High North as his highest priority. December 2005 saw the start of a new round of boundary talks in Moscow; and it was announced this time in the media. There was no attempt to conceal that talks had recommenced. While the publicity could be construed as tempting fate, it also indicated that an agreement was a distinct possibility. * At around midday on 27 April 2010, prime ministers Dmitri Medvedev and Jens Stoltenberg, catching most people off guard, announced during an Oslo press conference that Norway and Russia had reached agreement

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on the maritime delimitation of the Barents Sea and the Arctic Ocean: ‘We have agreed now on every aspect of this 40-year-old issue: the maritime delimitation line’,4 said Stoltenberg. ‘The agreement will be based on international law and the Law of the Sea. It is evenly balanced, and will serve both countries.’ ‘The essence of our policy,’ Stoltenberg continued, ‘is not speed racing, but cooperation and mutual achievement, and today our two nations have reached an understanding in this regard.’ Medvedev added: ‘This has been a difficult issue and made cooperation between our countries difficult. Today we have reached agreement. We need to live with our neighbours in friendship and cooperation. Unresolved issues are always a source of tension.’ How had they managed to keep news of the delimitation treaty secret, Medvedev was asked. ‘In Russia, as you know, the conspiracy traditions are deeprooted [laughter] and well-practised.’ On 15 September 2010, the Treaty on the Maritime Delimitation and Cooperation in the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean was duly signed in Murmansk by foreign ministers Sergei Lavrov and Jonas Gahr Støre in the presence of Medvedev and Stoltenberg.5 It was a compromise and divided the disputed area into two equal parts while also establishing a single common boundary to the continental shelf and economic zones. Entering into force 7 July 2011 it consists of three parts: the border agreement and two annexes on fisheries and ‘transboundary hydrocarbon deposits’, both of which are integral parts of the treaty. The fisheries appendix broadly commits the parties to the continuance of the Joint Norwegian– Russian Fisheries Commission. On a more specific note, the 1975 agreement between Norway and the Soviet Union on cooperation in the fishing industry, and the 1976 agreement concerning mutual relations in the field of fisheries, will remain in force for 15 years after the entry into force of the delimitation treaty. At the end of that period, both agreements will remain in force for successive six-year terms, unless one of the parties notifies the other at least six months before the expiry of the six-year term of its intention to terminate one or both of them. In the previously disputed area within 200 nautical miles from the Norwegian or Russian mainland, the technical regulations concerning, in particular, mesh and minimum catch size, set by each of the parties for their fishing vessels, shall continue to apply for a transitional period of two years from the treaty’s entry into force. The appendix concerning transboundary hydrocarbon deposits provides instructions for so-called unitization in

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the exploitation of transboundary hydrocarbon deposits whereby such deposits shall be exploited as a unit in a way that both parties have agreed on.

‘They’ll Squeeze us Out’ ‘In their talks with Norway, the Russian delegation failed to invoke Russia’s preferential right to a coastline under the 1920 Svalbard Treaty, or to mention the historic borders of Russia’s Arctic areas determined in 1926’, writes Vyacheslav Zilanov, the author of ‘What can Putin do to take the Barents Sea back’; he is former Soviet deputy fisheries minister and now a prominent political commentator in Northwestern Russia. The agreement, in other words, is seen as the result of negotiations between more or less equal parties – and the Russian side was under no compulsion when it signed over waters rightfully belonging to Russia. The effect of this ‘outrageous’ treaty could easily be to close off the entire western part of the Barents Sea where the biggest fish stocks are to the Russian fishing industry, leaving it to fish in the much poorer waters further east. It would also allow Norway to tighten the thumbscrews on Russian fishing vessels within the fisheries protection zone around Svalbard, a zone Norway unilaterally put in place in 1977 and Moscow has never officially recognized. Not only will the delimitation agreement in the Barents Sea Treaty cost the Russians a great deal of money, according to Zilanov – the agreement is patently unfair. He wants a ‘roadmap for the President’, with instructions on how to ‘repossess the Barents Sea’. It should include the appointment of a commission of Russian and foreign experts to assess whether the treaty can be said to be reasonable in the sense of Law of the Sea requirements. When the commission presents its conclusions, the President may then consider whether to have the treaty modified or amended, or even annulled. There should be a new ‘Spitsbergen Conference’ of the original signatories to the Svalbard Treaty with a view to assessing the validity of Norway’s fisheries protection zone around Svalbard. Both ideas are controversial from the Norwegian point of view, to put it mildly. The delimitation treaty is, as mentioned, a binding agreement based on the principles of international law on the delimitation of areas of sea between states. Of course, national parliaments do not always ratify treaties, but to go so far as to annul one

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is virtually unheard of. Nor are commissions usually appointed to consider an agreement’s soundness in light of international law. States can agree to whatever boundaries they like, but once the agreement is in force they have to respect it. If being bound by the treaty becomes a cause of concern to one of the signatories, it can withdraw from the agreement if the procedures for doing so are in place. The usual option, however, is simply not to ratify the treaty rather than taking the trouble to annul it. In the event of interpretative disputes, the parties can bring the case before an international court, assuming both agree – either for this particular dispute or by prior agreement – to let a court, such as the International Court of Justice at the Hague, decide the issue. It is the courts which decide whether an agreement complies with the guidelines in international law, not an international commission of experts of the sort Zilanov proposes. And to call for a new ‘Spitsbergen Conference’ is also a radical ploy politically speaking, even though opinion is divided on whether the treaty applies to the waters around Svalbard. Former president and current Prime Minister Dmitri Medvedev is the implied villain of the piece. The article starts by noting that the agreement ‘which was signed during the presidency of Dm. Medvedev in 2010’, meant that Russia lost ‘huge fishing grounds to Norway’. ‘The document’, the article continues, ‘which was approved by Dm. Medvedev, fails to satisfy the basic principles [under the Law of the Sea] of justice and fairness’ (emphasis in original). Vladimir Putin, Russia’s strong man over the past 15 or so years, you are needed. ‘Putin, clear up the mess Medvedev left behind!’, the article suggests. To an untrained eye, what the article says about Putin and Medvedev is a mixture of fact and ordinary political opinion. Medvedev happened to be president when Russia and Norway signed the agreement. Putin is in charge now. It was a bad deal for Russia – end of story. But to an eye trained in observation of Russian affairs, there’s more to it. The article’s author need not have mentioned the presidents by name, or at least to repeat their roles as if to emphasize a point. Medvedev was not personally involved in the negotiations, apart possibly from the run-up to the signing in Oslo a few days in spring in April 2010. The author could have asked the Russian government to look at the agreement again without calling on Putin himself. Medvedev and friendly relations with the West (represented here by Norway) are linked together in the article; reading between the lines, Medvedev comes across as at best naı¨ve, at

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worst a traitor – weaknesses to which Putin, apparently, does not succumb. True, many Russians, it is alleged, prefer having a ‘strong man’ at the helm – macho Putin against brainy, flabby Medvedev – but there is more to it than that. Putin is a ‘real Russian’ – indeed, many would call him an ‘ideal Russian’, echoing the sentiments of a song performed by a female singer during Putin’s first term as president. Russian men are hopeless, she sings, ‘What I want is a man like Putin, a man like Putin, full of strength, a man like Putin, who keeps off the bottle’.6 Now, Medvedev is not known to be a drunkard either, but many Russians do feel there is something indefinably alien about him. Like the last Soviet leader, Mikhail Gorbachev, he is a man the West could ‘do business with’. Can the Russians trust someone who gets on so easily with foreigners? Is he really one of them? * ‘So what d’you think? Is he having us on – or is he serious?’ a colleague of mine had noted on a printout of a piece in a Russian newspaper that he had put in my pigeon hole a month after the signing of the agreement. ‘They’ll elbow us out eventually’, predicted the article’s headline in the business paper Vzglyad.7 My colleague knew that Vyacheslav Zilanov, the primary source of the story of Norwegian plans to despatch the Russians from the Barents Sea, was an acquaintance of mine and was wondering if I could explain what it all meant. A prank, perhaps? Or a massive misunderstanding? ‘We’ve lost 90,000 km2 and the opportunity to fish in the western parts of the Barents Sea’, said Zilanov, now deputy head of the Federal Russian Fisheries Agency’s public chamber (a public committee all Russian federal authorities are obliged to have), and vice president of the All Russian Association of Fishing Enterprises and Fish Exporters (VARPE). Zilanov was exasperated with Russia’s surrender of half of the previously disputed area with Norway and concerned about the huge losses to the Russian fishing industry as a result. While 210,000– 215,000 tonnes are fished annually on average in the area east of the dividing line, 300,000–315,000 tonnes are taken in the area to the west. What’s more, Zilanov protests, the waters around Svalbard – under the terms of the delimitation agreement – will all fall under Norwegian jurisdiction. ‘We have lost territory, 60,000– 90,000 km2.

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We have lost the chance of fishing in the whole of the western Barents Sea – if not today, then tomorrow. They’re going to force us out. It will be the end.’ Interviewer:

Did I understand you properly [when you said] the Svalbard Treaty is still in force, but only Norway can specify the fishery rules? That’s to say, the Norwegians can easily ‘throttle’ our fisheries by, for example, banning ‘outdated’ fishing methods used by our Russian fishermen? Zilanov: We don’t use ‘outdated’ methods. We use different methods to catch ground fish and pelagic fish in the Barents Sea: bottom and pelagic trawls, long lines and nets. The fisheries of Russia and Norway are asymmetric. What does that mean? Russia catches 95 per cent of its fish with bottom trawls and 5 per cent by line. The Norwegians use lines to catch 70 per cent; trawling only accounts for 30 per cent. So of course the Norwegians can introduce new rules on trawlers and say ‘this isn’t discriminatory because they apply to Norwegian fishermen as well’. But our fishing fleet will bear the brunt. That was the first example. Example number two: Norway could ban bottom trawls in its waters. That would be the end of the Russian fisheries. [. . .] Interviewer: The agreement is hailed in Norway as a huge victory over Russia. Do you have any comments? Zilanov: I wouldn’t put it like that, that Norway has triumphed over Russia. We’re not an easily vanquished country. Let me put it like this. What Norway has done in the negotiations with the Russian Foreign Ministry is a glittering diplomatic, political and economic achievement. [. . .] No one with any practical experience was included in the Russian delegation, only officials who don’t know the difference between Novaya Zemlya and Bear Island. [. . .] And there’s another thing.

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This important intergovernmental document contains palpable grammatical and substantive errors. It feels like somebody was a bit unlucky with the translation – I don’t know from what language – or the more likely explanation, it was all done by unprofessional people who had no conception of what they were signing. Zilanov, in a later interview, expanded on his criticism of the treaty’s language.8 When the agreement speaks of mesh size – ‘mesh size of what exactly’, Zilanov wonders, ‘trawls or nets?’ And when it refers to ‘the minimum [size of catches]’,9 he parries, ‘minimum of what exactly – whales, fish, shellfish, crabs?’ He also asks why the agreement fails to specify the coordinates of the disputed area. ‘Are we supposed to get together with fishermen to solve the puzzle? “Oh no,” the Norwegians are going to say, “you’ve got it all wrong; you’re getting it completely back to front, this is the mesh size for drift nets, nor for trawls.” I’ve discovered multiple examples of this kind of mumbo jumbo.’ The points Zilanov is making here exemplify a long-standing difference between Norwegian and Russian legal prose. The Russians have predilection for minutiae, the Norwegians prefer brevity – and as simply phrased as possible with a view to helping ordinary people understand legal complexities. And anyway, why would one want to include the coordinates of a once disputed area in the treaty now that a new border was in place? * In the first few days following the signing of the agreement, the Russian media carried reports of the Oslo press conference with Medvedev and Stoltenberg and analysed the background to the settlement. The gist of the analysis was: Norway was desperate to acquire new oil fields, and Russia wanted to get Norwegian support in its fight for the Arctic shelf, primarily against Canada (see previous chapter) – hence the settlement. Some of the first comments on the delimitation treaty in the Russian newspapers refer to discord between Norway and Russia on fishery-related matters. Kommersant, for instance, writes: ‘Completely unexpectedly, the leaders of Russia and Norway announced on 27 April

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that they had resolved an old dispute that has cost Russian fishermen “quantities of blood [sic!], not to mention frayed nerves.”10 Having explained that the dispute over the boundary had caused no significant problems historically, the quarrel, alleges the paper, ‘did eventually lead to the wilful arrest of Russian fishing vessels in the disputed area’, often for ‘trivial offenses’ as a result of ‘the obstinacy of the Norwegian border protection service’. (For the record, Norwegian authorities have never arrested Russian vessels in the disputed area, so the author must be mixing the situation in the disputed area with the Svalbard zone.) Norwegian and Russian fishery regulations are beset by ‘numerous inconsistencies’, writes Rossiyskaya gazeta in its 28 April edition (an unfounded allegation as it happens; most monitoring and control procedures were harmonized in the 1990s). These contradictions include the 135 mm mesh size required by Norway against Russia’s 125 mm. (Russia and Norway split the difference in 2009; 130 mm is the size required by both countries.) Norway even arrests Russian vessels for using nets with a width of 125 mm (also not correct).11 But the article is not entirely negative. It mentions some of the more positive things Russian fishermen can expect from the boundary agreement. For example, by adopting ‘a uniform set of regulations for the fisheries [which had in fact nothing to do with the boundary agreement; a common set of regulations evolved over many years] the Norwegian Coast Guard will no longer be able to fine Russian fishermen significantly more than Norwegian fishermen for the same offence, a system which has been benefiting the Norwegian fishing industry no end.’ The tone sharpened around the time of the signing of the treaty. ‘Today’, declared the title of an article from the news agency Regnum on 15 September, the day the agreement was signed, ‘Russia is giving Norway a chunk of the Barents Sea.’12 In its 22 September edition Argumenty i fakty fired off the following salvo: ‘Right up to the last minute, Norway did not believe the agreement would be signed, but Russia took this step which today is being described as a gigantic capitulation, even indeed an act of treachery.’13 Vyacheslav Zilanov tells the newspaper, ‘Seventy per cent of the Russian fishing fleet’s annual catch is taken in waters where Norway from now on will have jurisdiction. Our fishing fleet will be consigned to an ice-filled backwater in the most eastern part of the Barents Sea.’

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Like so many others, Vasili Nikitin, Director General of the Fishing Industry Union of the North, draws attention to the Soviet sector declaration from 1926 to explain the actual meaning of jurisdiction in the Barents Sea. The old declaration has still ‘not been formally revoked’, but with the treaty in hand, the Norwegians have all the ‘leverage’ they want to run Russian fishermen off the most abundant fishing grounds in the Barents Sea. Referring to the idea that the Russian fleet will never be able to meet the stringent Norwegian requirements, he concludes in some style, ‘They will say to us: “We’re not throwing you out, you’ve just got to be tall, well-built and fair-haired!”’14 Only Nordics, in other words, may apply. * In an extensive piece in the 29 September 2010 edition of NordNews, Zilanov offers a more detailed account of his take on the delimitation line and management of the Barents Sea fisheries.15 The article’s title is ‘Lavrov and Støre’s great breakthrough in the Barents Sea: A carbon copy of the Baker–Shevardnadze breakthrough in the Bering Sea.’ He is referring to the 1990 Soviet–US Maritime Boundary Agreement establishing the boundary in the Bering Sea between the US and the Soviet Union. Most view it in Russia as an act of betrayal by Soviet foreign minister (and native of Georgia) Eduard Shevardnadze in agreeing to waive the sector line principle. There was no time to ratify the treaty before the Soviet Union collapsed, and it has not been ratified since by the Russian authorities. Zilanov attacks the boundary agreement first under the paragraph heading ‘The devil’s in the details’. But what are these details, he asks. Well, Why don’t the boundary agreement and appendices say anything about the fate of the fishing grounds that fall within the scope of 1920 Spitsbergen Treaty? Why is there not a single word about the fate of the borders of Russia’s Arctic Ocean dependencies from 1926, which no one has annulled and which are on every map, not only Russian but foreign as well? ‘I myself’, Zilanov goes on, ‘have defended my homeland’s fishery interests as a member of more than 35 years’ standing of the Russian

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delegation to the delimitation talks’. However, ‘the precipitate events of the past five years have occurred without the participation of fishermen, experts or practitioners in Russia’s northern fishery basin’. From his time as a negotiator he remembers Norway presenting from the start an ‘extraordinarily covetous median line proposal’ even though they ‘were well aware of the borders of our Arctic Ocean dependencies of 1926’, and knew the Soviets ‘would insist on the principle of fairness’. In the following years Norwegians let it be known ‘in the corridors’ that they would be going for a 50 –50 division of the disputed area, which the Soviet leadership and the Russian Federation’s first two presidents – Boris Yeltsin and Vladimir Putin – had the nerve to reject. [By the early 1970s] it was obvious to me that the Norwegian team had a well-defined, long-term national goal, namely to win acceptance for the median line principle as the basis for how the division of the continental shelf and the exclusive economic zones (which we then called fishery zones) should proceed. Their goal was to get the median line principle adopted in some document or another, if only informally and temporarily. And it can’t be denied, they succeeded beyond belief [with the Grey Zone Agreement of 1978]. They are harvesting the fruits of this approach with their policy statement on the delimitation line: 50 – 50 split. So the question is, ‘What area exactly is to be divided?’ As it turns out, it is the area [measured] from the median line. There is something suspicious about the Russian leadership, Zilanov seems to be hinting, for even accepting the Norwegian demand to base negotiations on the median line principle. (His annoyance would have been more understandable if the Russians had accepted the median line as the outcome of the negotiations.) The Norwegians are acting increasingly unilaterally in the Joint Fisheries Commission, Zilanov adds. The creation of a fisheries protection zone around Svalbard is a special case (an area to which he consistently refers as that ‘covered by the Spitsbergen Treaty of 1920’). Acting on its own again, Norway increased the minimum size of mesh and fish in 1990; until then the parties had been content to have a uniform regulatory approach in the Barents Sea. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Norwegian policy has increasingly aimed at ‘impeding the work of the Russian fleet in the

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western Barents Sea and around Svalbard’. Under the headline ‘Iraq syndrome in Russian overfishing’ he takes issue with Norwegian allegations of Russian overfishing in the years 2002–8. Just as the Iraq war was in vain because the Americans found neither nuclear nor bacteriological weapons in Iraq, Norwegian allegations of Russian overfishing proved unfounded.16 Russian fishermen were ‘whipped monstrously’ during these years, and inquiries were made at the highest level in Russia: ‘Get those criminal fishermen out!’ During the space of seven years Russian fishermen were supposed to have overfished their quotas by as much as 760,000 tonnes; in money terms between one and one and a half billion dollars. So why hadn’t the market reacted? If the allegations of massive overfishing had been correct, prices would have fallen immediately. But they didn’t. And apart from that, how would the fish stocks have survived this level of overfishing? The scientists say the cod population has grown consistently throughout the period during which this overfishing apparently took place. The seminal question is why the Norwegians wanted to start the debacle in the first place. It was obviously to ‘compromise the Russian fishing industry in the eyes of the European market, making it difficult for our fishermen to sell their products. This is what’s known as getting rid of a rival by means of “squeaky clean” methods.’ * Criticism of the treaty was not a flash in the pan; it rumbled on and effectively delayed Russian ratification. The arguments noted above were rehearsed in an open letter to Foreign Minister Lavrov, 17 May, and to President Medvedev, 8 September. ‘The coastal population in Russia’s regions’, warned the writers of the letter to Medvedev, ‘will suffer harshly, socially and economically’, if something isn’t done to renegotiate the deal so that the interests of Russian fishermen are better protected. ‘Revered Dmitri Anatolevich, do not forget the astute saying “measure seven times, cut once”, nor the first commandment of our fishing fleet captains: “danger is never far away”.’17 In October 2010, the Committee on Natural Resources Use and Agricultural Sector of the Murmansk Regional Duma discussed the delimitation treaty. The event was reported by NordNews, 18 October.18 Several specialists from the regional fisheries were in attendance and

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repeated their arguments against ratification. In support of the alleged Norwegian plot to eject Russian fishermen from the western part of the Barents Sea, the lessons of the Bering Sea were mentioned. Although Russia has not ratified the Baker–Shevardnadze Agreement, Washington has used it to justify a number of unilateral measures, the effect of which has been to consign Russian fishermen to the worst fishing grounds, leaving them with only ‘memories of fishing’. The same thing happened when Canada established its economic zone in 1976. They didn’t actually throw the Soviet fishermen out, but the new regulatory regime was so rigorous, it just didn’t pay to fish in Canadian waters. They are apprehensive the same thing could happen in the Barents Sea – indeed, there are tendencies in that direction already. Norway is pulling its own fishermen out of the Russian zone of the Barents, says Vasili Nikitin, Director General of the Fishing Industry Union of the North; it’s only a matter of time before they tell the Russians to leave the Norwegian zone. Within two to three years, the Joint Norwegian–Russian Fisheries Commission will have lost its raison d’eˆtre. To back his argument, Nikitin points to the success of the ‘greens’ campaign in Norway to get the government to consider outlawing bottom trawling. Igor Saburov, member of the Murmansk Regional Duma, remains uncommitted and asks the experts to say whether the Russian vessels can start using the long line method instead. In response, Andrei Ivanov, chair of the Committee on Natural Resources Use and Agricultural Sector, says converting the ships to line catching would cost half a billion dollars. Moreover, long line fishing has problems of its own, says Yuri Lepesevich, research director at the Knipovich Polar Research Institute of Marine Fisheries and Oceanography (PINRO). More small fish are caught and it has an adverse effect on seabirds and marine mammals. Nikitin is anxious: Norway could decide to relocate an established control point on the Norwegian–Russian border (where foreign fishermen have to report before fishing in the respective economic zones) closer to Tromsø, the city where ‘Russian fishermen are taken by the Norwegian Coast Guard to face legal proceedings’. As they see it, Norway wants to ‘streamline’ the prosecution of Russian fishermen. It does not augur well, according to board chairman Vitali Kasatkin of the Fishing Industry Union of the North, ‘these expressions of elation on the part of the Norwegians after the signing of the boundary agreement [. . .] as could be seen at the session of the Joint Norwegian– Russian

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Fisheries Commission’. The Duma committee then adopted a resolution urging the State Duma and Federation Council (the two chambers of the Federal Assembly, Russia’s parliament) not to ratify the delimitation treaty. In the Regional Duma itself, the proposal also won a majority – but not unanimity.

Our Common Kitchen Garden On the same day the delimitation agreement was announced, former governor of Murmansk Oblast, Yuri Yevdokimov, draws a generally sympathetic picture of Norwegian – Russian relations in an article titled ‘This is Russia and Norway’s promising kitchen garden’:19 ‘Now that Russia and Norway are doing such a lot of things together, like extracting deposits in the Shtokman field [which was still a preparatory stage, and eventually did not materialize] and the global nuclear safety measures, God himself has commanded us to get rid of the inconsistencies in the Grey Zone.’ (‘Grey Zone’ is used incorrectly here for the disputed area; as we have seen, the two are not wholly co-extensive.) Yevdokimov admits he is not conversant with the details of the agreement and its likely impact, but he is confident the Russian negotiators have done what they can to defend Russian interests in the best possible way. Asked by a journalist whether Russia might not have got a better deal if they had played on the fact that Norway has practically run out of oil, Yevdokimov says, No, that’s not how I see it. The Norwegians are our neighbours – indeed, our very good neighbours – even if they do belong to a different defence alliance. They have extensive experience of working on the shelf. They have the gear and the technology. We don’t. The sooner we can benefit from their lead, the better it will be for both countries. Apart from that, it was important for Russia and Norway to reach an agreement at this point in time. Many countries are looking at the disputed areas of the shelf, even countries with no connections to the sea. Everyone has something they would like to do there. In reality, the Barents Sea is our kitchen garden, useful today and promising for the future, because we are the only ones who border these immensely prolific waters.

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Now we have agreed that we alone can operate like rulers here, and we alone can set the rules of the game. One month after the Murmansk Regional Duma had adopted a declaration that urged the Russian federal parliament not to ratify the delimitation agreement with Norway, the declaration was quietly withdrawn ‘without explanation’, according to NordNews.20 When a reporter asked what the reason was, Zilanov said, ‘I can only tell you what I think. The federal government, Moscow, may have leaned [on the Regional Duma]. Besides, the voting in our State Duma makes it clear where the pressure came from.’ He is probably referring to the decision of the presidential party United Russia, which had a majority in the Duma, which voted for a retreat. In a long interview with Murmanski vestnik, 18 November 2010, Evgeni Nikora, then Speaker of the Murmansk Regional Duma, his deputy and United Russia faction leader, Igor Saburov, and Andrei Ivanov, chair of the Committee on Natural Resources Use and Agricultural Sector, are lavish in their praise of the boundary agreement.21 Two months have passed, the article begins, since the agreement was signed. ‘Passions have died down, and we can reflect more deeply about what the deal, after all, can give us.’ ‘The agreement’, says the Speaker, ‘is historic in character’; a ‘serious step in a positive direction [and] a new platform for cooperation’, his deputy adds. ‘While Russians need to keep a close eye on how the Norwegians behave’, says Igor Saburov, they ‘should not anticipate anything untoward’. Last month’s resolution by the Regional Duma was premature. Further delays in ratification would only give the Norwegians ‘unhealthy food’ to bring up in the talks ahead. ‘Let’s see how the agreement works in practice before we do anything’, is the advice. The chair of the Committee on Natural Resources Use and Agricultural Sector explains why he changed his mind: Having had several important meetings in Moscow, I came to the conclusion that fishing is not the most important thing in this respect, not by a long way. The big issue is the division of the Arctic shelf; the ‘race for the Arctic’ has a lot of competitors already. We also need to remember the implications on the strategic national interests of the whole country, and our children and grandchildren will hopefully be grateful for the decisions we

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make today. The agreement will, of course, be ratified, but the work of correcting it is already in progress. We and Norway ‘breathe in sync’ in many areas. We understand each other, just as the residents of the [Soviet] communal apartments [kommunalki; council tenements where several families shared the same kitchen and bathroom] would argue and then make up again. If a broken gas valve needed replacing, they pulled together – because if the flap fell out, none of them would be safe. I don’t think we should worry too much whether the Norwegians are going to institute particularly draconian measures. They are a reasonable people and would never do anything like that. * The State Duma ratified the delimitation treaty on 25 March 2011. Three hundred and nine Duma members (all of whom were members of United Russia) voted in favour of ratification, while the 141 representatives from other parties abstained.

The Principle of Fairness, the Ultimate Betrayal Two very different perceptions of what constitutes Russia’s relations with its north-western neighbour are reflected above; let me use Vyacheslav Zilanov and Yuri Yevdokimov, both long-time observers of joint Norwegian– Russian ventures in the North, as representatives of the respective approaches. Zilanov has been involved in the joint Russian– Norwegian fisheries management system since it began in the mid-1970s. He led the Soviet delegation to the Joint Commission for several years in the 1980s and has since been a fisheries advisor to the Federation Council and the Governor of Murmansk. He has retained close ties with the Norwegian fisheries community, and visits Norway regularly. Yevdokimov, for his part, was the first elected Governor of Murmansk Oblast. That was in 1996, but he was re-elected three times before President Medvedev fired him in 2009. Various reasons were given by the president’s administration and party United Russia, but he was mainly accused of being too chummy by half with the Scandinavian countries. Medvedev had allegedly given him ‘one last warning’ and told him to concentrate on domestic problems instead of ‘fooling around

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abroad’.22 Yevdokimov had indeed spent time and effort promoting cooperation with the Nordic countries in the Barents region, and was even appointed Commander of the Royal Norwegian Order of Merit by Norwegian King Harald in 2007. According to Zilanov, the delimitation agreement was bad for Russia. First, because the Russian leaders had given ocean territory to Norway that rightly belonged to Russia. Second, the treaty would effectively banish the Russian fishing fleet from the richest fishing grounds in the Barents Sea, leaving them with the ‘ice-filled backwaters’ in the eastern part of the sea. The first allegation is demonstrably incorrect; the second disputable at best. The bit of the Barents Sea Norway got as a result of the delimitation treaty did not belong to Russia; it was internationally recognized as disputed territory, and both countries accepted that the disagreement could only be solved by negotiation. Zilanov disregards this fact, preferring instead to cite a declaration from 1926 delineating Soviet Arctic possessions to prove that the waters east of the sector line were Russian. Disregarding subsequent dramatic developments in the Law of the Sea, he refers to the sector principle as the principle of fairness, unknown for what reason. The claim that Russia will lose fishing grounds as a result of the agreement is unfounded. Norway has the legal right to bar foreign fishing boats from the Norwegian economic zone, but it has no interest in doing so. The mature cod are found in the western parts of the Barents Sea and it is clearly in Norway’s interest that as much as possible is fished here rather than in the ice-filled eastern waters, where the fish are much smaller. In addition, it is better for Norway if the Russians fish in the Norwegian zone because Norway can keep an eye on what they are doing. In the Russian economic zone, policing and enforcement of the regulations are believed to be less stringent.23 Be that as it may, the point is that the delimitation agreement has not changed any of this; it merely adds a small slice of water to the Norwegian economic zone (as indeed it does to the Russian zone, too). Norway could have expelled the Russians from the Norwegian zone any time in the past, but never did. Russian fishermen have depended on Norwegian ‘good will’ for nearly 40 years to operate in the best fishing areas of the Barents Sea, areas which are much larger and richer than the part of the disputed area which is now Norwegian.24 Finally, Zilanov seems to be implying that Norway’s ‘victory over Russia’ in the delimitation question has given Norway the confidence to act in the disputed

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protection zone around Svalbard as it sees fit. As one of the participants in the debate put it, Norway doesn’t have to close off the Svalbard zone to foreign fishing vessels, it can simply require fishermen to be ‘tall, well-built and fair-haired’ – a metaphor for what Russians see as an overly precautious regulatory environment. As long as the talks went on, Russia had a card up its sleeve. ‘If you tighten the screw in the protection zone, we’ll pay you back in the delimitation negotiations.’ In this sense, the dividing line could actually be seen as making a difference. But even that idea depends on Norway wanting to act unilaterally and without consideration. Zilanov inscribes himself into a narrative in which Russia is always pitted against shrewd, calculating Westerners. The plot of the story is that incompetent Russian negotiators fell prey to the clever Norwegians, and the Russians will therefore be wiped off the strategically and economically important part of the Barents Sea map. It is a ‘tragedy’ in Ringmar’s sense, where the narrator assumes the role of the hero who – proudly and passionately – rebels against the established order (the current political leadership in Russia; Russia’s pragmatic approach to the West) and relentlessly fights for his country’s interests, only to see himself marginalized in the political play.25 Even his likeminded comrades in the Regional Duma saw their views on the delimitation agreement turned upside-down after a quick trip to Moscow; he and his allies are forcefully driven back. The West is established as the significant Other, but the external othering westwards is not of a particularly malign character. Norway is presented as a foreign country that simply pursues its own economic interests; what they did in the delimitation talks with Russia was ‘a glittering diplomatic, political and economic achievement’. It is what any country would strive for, rather than a palpable act of evil. There are other forms of othering here, too, internal othering and othering in time. Zilanov repeatedly draws a line between the new delimitation agreement and the old Soviet declaration of its Arctic possessions. Implicitly, he ‘others’ the entire time span between these two events, a period during which the Law of the Sea changed considerably, especially from the late 1950s and, in particular, the mid1970s – developments he himself has witnessed, and participated in. He forgets to mention Russia’s global commitments under the 1958 Continental Shelf Convention and the 1982 Law of the Sea Convention;

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instead, he refers to the unilateral Soviet declaration of 1926 which established what he calls the principle of fairness. Since subsequent events are by implication unfair, Zilanov has tasked himself with the restoration of the old order. It is a quest for a certain form of Russian identity, a national self-image of Russia as independent, prepared and proud, as opposed to weak, unpatriotic and subservient to or envious of the West. It might not be a conscious, calculated strategy – or even a genuine fear that Norway will go mad in its desire to dominate the Barents Sea – but in its reference to past pride and future doom, the story about the big compromise between Russia and the West is given a recognizable and meaningful coherence, assembled with the various pieces available in this narrative toolbox, for this specific place, at this specific time. Zilanov’s argumentation includes moreover a strong internal othering, implicating other Russian interest groups, other Russian individuals. Former president Medvedev is the big villain of the story, Putin the hero, the saviour. Medvedev gave territory away; Putin will hopefully get it back. Medvedev’s name is irrevocably linked to the cession of land, the ultimate betrayal. Behind Medvedev stands a line of incompetent Russian negotiators – notably from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs – who ‘don’t know the difference between [Russian] Novaya Zemlya and [Norwegian] Bear Island’, are capable of ‘palpable grammatical and substantive errors’, mutter all kinds of ‘mumbo jumbo’, and had ‘no conception of what they were signing’. In Russian politics, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs is considered, not unsurprisingly, to be one of the most outward- (and westward-) looking political institutions in the country, as opposed to, for example, the power structures, where the Eurasian outlook dominates.26 The Russian fisheries establishment is also believed to be rather ‘inward-looking’, concerned, among other things, with reducing the export of Russian fish and increasing supplies to the home market.27 The internal othering in this specific case is more malign than the external othering. While Norway’s behaviour is fully understandable, the Russian negotiators either would not or could not defend Russian interests (the former, of course, being the far more suspicious of the two) and instead orchestrated ‘a gigantic capitulation’. Beware of foreigners, beware of the new times; this narrator speaks Russia ‘inwards, backwards’. *

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Former Governor Yevdokimov calls the Barents Sea ‘Russia and Norway’s common kitchen garden’, where ‘God himself commanded us to get rid of inconsistencies’. The Norwegians are ‘our good neighbours – indeed, our very good neighbours’. Upon their return from Moscow where they were whipped into line, members of the Murmansk Regional Duma praise the delimitation treaty. It is ‘a serious step in a positive direction’, they say, and ‘a new platform for cooperation’. There is no reason to ‘anticipate anything untoward’ from the Norwegians; they are not going to ‘institute particularly draconian measures’; they are ‘a reasonable people’. In fact, Russians and Norwegians ‘breathe in sync’, and understand each other like the residents of the Soviet kommunalka, where people fight but make up, where they are acutely aware of how much they depend on each other, and offer help when necessary. The plot of the story is that ‘we thought our negotiators had betrayed us and we initiated this incredible hullabaloo in the Regional Duma, but we were fooled by our emotions and luckily our leaders in Moscow cleared up the misunderstanding – our grandchildren will be grateful to us for that’. The plot structure is that of the comedy, where oppositions and misunderstandings are resolved in the course of the narrative thanks to some fortuitous intervention, where the different twists and turns eventually lead up to a happy ending. The common good prevailed, the catastrophe averted. In hindsight, back from Moscow, cool-headed and relaxed – ‘we count ourselves lucky and can laugh about what happened’. The specific kind of Russianness reflected in this narrative is the image of Russians as playful, unpredictable, emotional and game for a lark, as opposed to the boring rationality of the West. The ‘kitchen garden narrative’ is rather weak in its othering. It goes with the genre; comedy ridicules, but more subtly. This specific comedy is light-hearted; there are the mellow Moscow heroes, who gently intervene when misunderstandings reach a level of absurdity, but there are no real villains. Yet the Norwegians are not unconditional ‘friends’ either. Yes, they are good neighbours – very good neighbours even – but they ‘do belong to a different defence alliance’. And while nothing untoward should be expected, ‘Russians need to keep a close eye on how the Norwegians behave’. The West is not an enemy here and now, but they cannot be fully trusted. But is it really a comedy, this story about the naughty Duma members from Murmansk who were summoned to Moscow to be

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reprimanded by the headmaster? Isn’t the unexpected praise for the treaty a bit ‘over the top’? The agreement isn’t just ‘ok after all’, according to the reborn Duma members; it is suddenly ‘historical in character’. Might the unexpected level of praise for the delimitation treaty, and the story about how the Duma members changed their opinion overnight, actually be a satire, a genre that assumes an ironic distance to the world, turns plot structures inside-out, upside-down? One possible interpretation is that the Regional Duma members dared challenge the political establishment in Moscow, but quickly realized they had nothing to show against Putin and his men, and returned home with their proverbial tails between their legs. Instead of expressing their (assumed) frustration or (any amount of) remaining doubt upon return home, they engage in a convulsive tribute to muscovite wisdom. Well aware that regional authorities enjoy practically no authority in Putin’s Russia, and that their own Duma seats in reality depend on federal goodwill, there is no other narrative option than hallelujah and applause, the implicit satire. Continued protest isn’t just against the interest of individual Duma members; it is something there is (practically) no word for. This is also a story of Russian absurdity, just like the comedy, but of a more malign sort. It is the story of Russian lawlessness, lack of democratic values and respect for the individual’s (including the politician’s) autonomy. It is the story of a Russia where criticism isn’t tolerated, at least if you have even the modest level of political ambition; where lying in public isn’t condemned (either by the narrator or the audience), but expected. It is the story of the country where everything that can go wrong, will go wrong. The satire, in turn, isn’t necessarily (and in our case probably isn’t) an open and conscious ridicule. As I imagine it, the regional politicians seem neither explicitly or implicitly disillusioned when they inform the local press about the happy news from Moscow; that would be a breach with narrative convention. * There is no material reason why Russian fishers would oppose the delimitation agreement with Norway; it doesn’t change the quota ratios or any other important aspect of the bilateral fisheries management regime. It only gives Norway the opportunity to inspect Russian fishing vessels in a marginally larger area of the Barents Sea than before – and Russia to inspect

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Norwegian vessels in an equally larger area. By repeating the story of the dismantling of old Soviet practices, how the Cold War never really came to an end, ‘Soviet’ identity is re-created and maintained in the form of a tragedy. The post-Soviet period has been a ‘formative moment’ in Russian history when new metaphors have been launched, when new stories have been told about Russia’s place in the world, when what passes as meaningful is ‘up for grabs’ – and, some would say, Russia has lost face geopolitically. Zilanov and his companions perform a forceful defence of traditional Russian (at least Soviet) identity, in the face of radical change: Something’s wrong – we don’t know exactly what, but it’s something about the new times, things going too fast. To come to grips with this fluidity, the opponents of the delimitation agreement – consciously or subconsciously knowing how a story is expected to be composed – read into the plot a structure that it, strictly speaking, does not have, crafting a story that hangs together, makes sense and gives your actions credibility; narrating a sense of meaningfulness here and now, in-between past and future. The comedy-slash-satire is less prevalent in the public debate about the delimitation treaty; it is also ‘lighter’ and less tangible than the forceful tragedy. The story of the Duma members who happily return from Moscow with new insight about a bright future, is more difficult to grasp. The explicit shorthand plot of this story is the same whether we understand it as a comedy or a satire: ‘misunderstandings cleared up, everything fine now’. The implicit plot of the satire variant is, ‘Hey, this is Russia, you know how it is.’ Inherent here are different expressions of Russian absurdity, either good or bad.28 It is the Russia where people are able to, and sometimes forced to, change position at the drop of a hat; where black and white predominate the narrative platter; where narrative convention fosters categorical expression rather than doubt and nuance – though the inherent plot of the story is that in Russia reality is never what meets the eye. It is a Russia where everything is seen through a veil, where the colours are unclear, where black is white and right is wrong, where stories circulate at ever-greater speed. Where you can’t do anything but freeze the frame, live in the present, raise the glass. Societal fluidity is tackled at a distance, as it were, but in recognizable patterns. The narrated sense of meaningfulness is, in fact, a Russia of meaninglessness. *

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As we saw in the previous chapter, most IR studies of identity presuppose some form of othering, either external (of other states), internal (within the state) or historical (in relation to previous and future selves). In our case, external othering comes through loud and clear. In the debate about general Arctic politics, ‘a Polar bear went out to hunt’ – and it was not Russia. Canada is Russia’s quintessential Other in the Arctic, with the other NATO countries lined up behind. In the debate about the delimitation line and resource management in the Barents Sea, Norway is the obvious Other, again with NATO indiscreetly lurking in the background. But the West is not a uniform and static Other – I will have more to say on that below. Internal othering is limited here, although there is an explicit othering of Moscow in regional criticism of the delimitation line. More pronounced is the othering in time: we are not what we used to be, and we will strive to become someone else than who we are now (in practice return to our former self). And, most conspicuously, we find an ‘inverted’ othering: the Other is actually ourselves. I have repeatedly referred to Ringmar’s literary categories of romance, tragedy, comedy and satire.29 Only in one instance did I find the plot structure of the romance, but that was in the most fundamental story about Russia and the Arctic. Russia is the hero who is determined to ‘save the Arctic’; Russia believes peace can be maintained in the region if only Russians are given free reigns to use their sensitivity, morality and greatness for the greater good. The most forceful narrative, however, takes the form of the tragedy. It is less prevalent in the general story about Russia and the Arctic, where Russia is still proactive, but all the more powerful in the stories about Russia and Norway in the Barents Sea region, where Russia has been referred to a more defensive role. This is somewhat ironic since Norway is at the same time spoken of as the good neighbour, the most trustworthy of the ‘Arctic five’, all of which (except Russia, of course) are members of NATO. The comedy is not very prevalent in my narratives, but there are subtle reflections of this genre in the stories of Russian absurdities, the blurred line between good and bad, the unexpected twists and turns. Satire does not occur frequently either, but it is blatant and noisy when it does: hey, who do we think we are really: God’s gift to the world, or what? In brief, tragedy and satire dominate – that sums up the story about Russia.

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Defending the Other Self The discussion in this and the previous chapter says something about the narrative environment in which Russian Arctic politics is formulated, but it provides only bits and pieces of the analytical framework needed to explain Russian foreign policy. Theory on narrative and international relations is actually quite simple – it claims that the available narratives form state identities, which in turn determine state interest, which then determines action. Alternatively, ‘interest’ is left out of the equation: in some situations, states simply act in defence of their identity, without explicitly considering whether it is in their ‘interest’ to do so. Typically, such actions take place at the expense of apparent political and economic gain. It could arise, for example, if Russia decided to flout the recommendations of the Continental Shelf Commission and unilaterally establish the limits of Russia’s Arctic shelf. It would certainly lead to economic sanctions (in some form or other) and raise tensions between East and West. (Needless to say, we’re already there since Russia’s annexation of Crimea and involvement in the conflict in Ukraine from 2014 on, but unilateral action in the Arctic would not improve the situation.) An ‘annexation’ of the Arctic would clearly not be in Russia’s political or economic interest – yes, it would secure Russian jurisdiction over potential reserves of oil and gas in the High Arctic shelf, but these resources are practically inaccessible and at least not economically viable to extract at the moment. (Most of the Arctic’s hydrocarbon resources are on land and on the shelf within 200 nautical miles from the baselines, and therefore much easier to extract). And the foreign experts Russia needs to develop even the most accessible resources beneath the shallow waters close to land would leave the country (which they have already done in response to the Ukrainian crisis, but it would reduce the chances of Western companies to resume their work on the Russian shelf). Such an action would have nothing to do with political or economic interests – it would be an action, perhaps more spontaneous than considered, performed in defence of the self: what would Russia be without (dominance in) the Arctic? Russia would not be Russia. We must act to ensure the survival of who we are, whatever the cost. The stories people tell about Russian heroism in the Arctic (ranging from the great eighteenth-century Arctic expeditions to the Soviet conquest of the North) must be kept alive. Only action can do this (and that is even more

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important since one of the other constitutive stories, that of Russia the great power, evaporated with the dissolution of the Soviet Union). By acting, one makes ‘the constant attempt to surmount time in exactly the way the story-teller does [. . .] to dominate the flow of events by gathering them together in the forward-backward grasp of the narrative act’.30 We change the events, by acting, to accommodate the story. As we saw in the previous chapter, Ringmar emphasizes the importance of recognition for state identity.31 Identity is a precondition of interest, and in certain situations identity-driven explanations of foreign policy can substitute for interest-driven explanations altogether. This can happen, for instance, when a state has experienced loss of recognition under humiliating circumstances (‘lost face’), or at ‘formative moments’ when new metaphors are launched and individuals tell new stories about themselves, and new sets of rules emerge through which identities are classified – in short, ‘when the very definition of the meaningful is up for grabs’.32 At these moments, there is an urgent need to have one’s own constitutive stories recognized. Needless to say, Russia lost face when the Soviet Union (or the old Russian Empire) fell apart. It lost face, domestically and abroad, when it lost its capacity to take care of its Arctic possessions: infrastructure disintegrated and the population fled. New stories about the self were in the air – about a ‘new Russia’ totally different from the old – but things didn’t work out, and the old stories provide a safe heaven, away from contemporary chaos. So far, however, Russia has opted for the opposite strategy in the Arctic: openness to the outside world, strict adherence to the rules of international law and other norms of good political behaviour. As we have seen, this is not in opposition to the narrative where the West is out to get Russia in the Arctic. Incorporated in this narrative is the idea of Russia as the guarantor of law and order in the region. One might speculate whether the political elite actually wanted to add a new layer to the old narratives in order to ensure popular support for the chosen policy: to act responsibly in the Arctic despite overt Western aggression. The scales could easily have tipped, with the other variant of this overarching narrative determining the actions of the President: the West is out to get us, they cannot be trusted, so we should shun them. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is generally outward-looking while the power structures in Russia tend to be more inward-looking. In Arctic

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affairs, the hardliners have been rewarded by increased security investments in the region. But the views of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs have determined action: strict compliance with the country’s international obligations (which was Putin’s more general foreign policy outlook up to the Ukrainian crisis). The power structures are not necessarily against this, but they would probably be less concerned were Russia to pull out of the international club. The same goes for the Barents Sea delimitation agreement. In the opinion of almost all the public debaters, it was a bad deal for Russia, and it was largely seen through the lens of East– West conflict. And this is not just a debate that emerged with the conclusion of the delimitation line agreement – stories about Norwegian aggression in the Barents Sea have flourished for years. But action went against the (implicit) recommendations of these stories: Norway was to be trusted, according to the country’s leadership, and a compromise was warranted. The accepted explanation in the Western foreign-policy literature is that Russia agreed to the delimitation line in order to further strengthen the status of the Law of the Sea in the Arctic.33 By acting according to the principles of the Law of the Sea in establishing a delimitation line with a neighbouring state (following the guidelines of the Law of the Sea Convention to find equitable solutions, in practice a compromise), it would be harder for other states to challenge these principles in the establishment of the shelf’s outer limits (i.e., the political costs would be higher the stronger the international norm). Interestingly, this explanation was not mentioned in my media material; slightly reminiscent, though, is the claim that the agreement was necessary in order to ensure Norwegian support to the future primacy of the existing Law of the Sea in the Arctic. Similarly, the dominant narrative has not determined Russian action in the Barents Sea fisheries management. While the anti-Western narrative is clearly dominant in the public debate, Russian behaviour has been markedly accommodating. Russia is a constructive participant on the International Council for the Exploration of the Sea, the Northeast Atlantic Fisheries Commission and, not least, the Joint Norwegian – Russian Fisheries Commission. Even in the contested Svalbard zone, Russian authorities let the Norwegian Coast Guard inspect their vessels. They have also stopped protesting against Norwegian arrests of Russian vessels in the area.

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Where does all this land us, in theoretical terms? Is my study a refutation of the claim that narrative equals identity equals (interest and) action? Of course not; reality is never that simple, nor is the theory. Narrative doesn’t operate alone – a full explanation of a state’s foreign policy requires a variety of theoretical tools, including, not least, a study of internal power struggles at the domestic level. Moreover, narrative theory’s fundamental claim that narratives define (or at least contribute to defining) identities and that understanding who we are influences our understanding of what we want, can hardly be refuted. This is not only for epistemological reasons (how can it be falsified?), but also ontologically most IR theorists would arguably agree that identities (possibly determined narratively) can influence interest and action (even hardcore realists would agree; they just have their analytical focus elsewhere). The question is what explanatory force it has. And even constructivists, among whom narrative theorists are normally grouped, would stop short of claiming that foreign policy can be explained by discourse, identity or narrative alone. Realists are normally content to explain a few important things in international politics (often state security and international economy), and leave the rest of the international relations field to others. Constructivists, on the other hand, have no intention of taking over the whole field, but of enriching it, filling in the nooks and crannies overlooked by the ‘grand theories’ and, perhaps, of modifying their conclusions. The lack of apparent congruence between the dominant narratives and actual politics makes for two further comments. First, there is the temporal aspect: a narrative that maintains its force over time will not necessarily display a high ‘impact’ on action (here: foreign policy) incessantly – it will fluctuate. And the impact of an emergent narrative can be either immediate or gradual, if it has any effect at all. Second, and this is one of my main points: acting (consciously or subconsciously) in opposition to a particular (e.g. dominant) constitutive story of oneself may imply acting consciously in defence of another (e.g. challenging or declining) constitutive story. Not playing by the rules of anti-Western rhetoric in the Arctic, Putin has acted in defence of another story about Russia: we’re not the backyard of Europe; we’re a normal country. In any event, actors in international politics are not, as Ringmar reminds us, faceless. That Russia is exactly Russia makes all the difference in the world.34

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In-between Past and Future I have identified four meta-narratives in the Russian public debate about the Arctic (see the previous chapter): ‘Russia vs. the West’, ‘Russia and the Arctic’, ‘soil and soul’ and ‘fools and bad roads’. Most conspicuous is the story of NATO chasing Russia in the Arctic, fiercely, persistently and often surreptitiously. Othering westwards is omnipresent, but it grows in strength as the topics under discussion become more specialized and less highly profiled. In the general debate about the Arctic, with the imminent division of the Arctic continental shelf as the main issue, the Western states – especially Canada – are accused of acting improperly. The Russian response, however, is more righteous indignation than outright anger. When the Canadian Minister of Foreign Affairs said at a press conference the Arctic war was now over, his Russian colleague corrected him. There had never been any war in the Arctic. ‘Fellow journalists smiled, while the slightly bemused Canadian nodded his agreement.’35 Othering of the West is more distinct, and possibly harsher, in the public debate about the Barents Sea delimitation agreement, but it is still milder than the internal othering of those in Moscow responsible for the agreement (primarily the Ministry of Foreign Affairs). Norway does what it can to take advantage of Russian incompetence – that’s natural; it’s Russia’s President Medvedev who has committed the ultimate act of treachery. In the debate about the management of marine resources in the Barents Sea, the tone is even sharper. Norway conducts raids on behalf of NATO with the purpose to break Russia’s neck. All forms of subterfuge are allowed; the rules are those of the intelligence world, not petty international law. The anti-Western position reflected in the ‘Russia vs. the West’ narrative is taken for granted as a point of departure for further discussion, but it can be reproduced, nuanced or challenged. The point is, it is here the story starts, whether the conclusion is in line with this narrative or in opposition to it. You can praise the Barents Sea delimitation agreement or Norwegian diligence in managing the marine resources for the good of future generations, but you first have to refer to the prevailing truth about NATO-Norway and its determination to get you, and actively distance yourself from it. The West is the axis around which Russian identity production revolves, just as it has been for centuries. But it is not a fixed entity. As we saw in Chapters 8 and 9:

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Everyday Russian chitchat about Scandinavian neighbours is a cheerful genre, a blissful mix of comedy’s aha-moments and satire’s playfulness. It is a place where you can throw out exaggerations, absurdities, whatever comes to mind in the situation, twist and turn established truths, laugh and provoke. It is a joyful commonplace for the cultivation of Russianness. The Other is the West, loud and clear. But it is not a fixed entity; it changes with circumstance, evades definition. It’s not actually so important who the Other is, it just has to be someone. And the West is always there to play with. * ‘Russia and the Arctic’ represents a temporary low, between a glorious past and a promising future – ‘fools and bad roads’ are Russia’s eternal fate. ‘Russia and the Arctic’ is the story of the Arctic as the shrine of Russia’s national idea, where ‘Arktika-2007’ planted the titanium flag. It is a new political and spiritual continent, a promised land, Russia’s cosmic destiny. Russia is the land with no limit, territorially or temporally. It stretches infinitely, it lasts eternally. The Russian landscape is wide, and so is the Russian soul – full of passion, generosity and recklessness. Russia is the ultimate expression of openness: openness of space and openness of heart – ‘soil and soul’. The Arctic is all that; the Arctic is more Russian than Russia itself. The Arctic is the picture you present of yourself to the outside world, your wishful thinking: Russia as a great power that can do whatever it wants, wherever it wants. But the Arctic is also the monster returning your gaze in the mirror: hubris and escapism – rubbish, decay. This is the ‘fairy-tale life’, the noisy existence of extremes incessantly flying through the air: brutally categorical, nothing in-between. This is Russia the Janus-faced, the obscure, where reality is never what meets the eye, but the choices are few and deceitful. So you move along the plain, exhilarated and numb at the same time, always part of the intense Russian drama.

NOTES

Introduction 1. Scott S. Borgerson, ‘Arctic meltdown: The economic and security implications of global warming’, Foreign Affairs 87 (2008), pp. 63– 77. 2. Ibid., p. 63. 3. Ibid., p. 73. 4. Ibid., pp. 73 – 4. 5. Winston S. Churchill, The Gathering Storm (London: Cassell, 1948), p. 449.

Chapter 1

Identity Formation in the Barents Euro-Arctic Region

1. This chapter is a revised version of Geir Hønneland, ‘Identity formation in the Barents Euro – Arctic Region’, Cooperation and Conflict 33 (1998), pp. 277– 97. 2. Joseph L. Soeters, ‘Managing euregional networks’, Organization Studies 14/5 (1993), pp. 639– 56. 3. The Council may also include other ministers from the four states, e.g. ministers of environment when environmental issues are on the agenda. Furthermore, ministers from other states may attend the meetings as observers. 4. See, e.g., the Kirkenes Declaration (1993) or the Barents Programme (1994 –5). 5. For a further discussion of these concepts in relation to the Barents Region, see Hallgeir Aalbu, Regionbygging pa˚ Nordkaalotten, NF working paper 1003/95 (Bodø: Nordland Research Institute, 1995), or Geir Hønneland, ‘Northerners: Common identity or worlds apart?’, in M. Dahlstro¨m, H. Eskelinen & U. Wiberg (eds), The East –West Interface in the European North (Uppsala: Nordisk Samha¨llsgeografisk Tidskrift, 1995), pp. 29 –44. 6. Iver B. Neumann, ‘A region-building approach to Northern Europe’, Review of International Studies 20 (1994), pp. 53– 74.

324

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7. Ibid., p. 58. 8. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1983). 9. See, e.g., Pertti Joenniemi, ‘Regionality in the new Europe: The Baltic and Barents Sea projects’, in G. Baecklund (ed.), Common Security in Northern Europe after the Cold War (Stockholm: Olof Palme International Center, 1994), pp. 25–34. 10. Thomas H. Eriksen, ‘We and us: Two modes of group identification’, Journal of Peace Research 32 (1995), pp. 427– 36. 11. Iver B. Neumann, ‘Identity and security’, Journal of Peace Research 29/2 (1992), pp. 221– 6. 12. William Bloom, Personal Identity, National Identity and International Relations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990). 13. E.g. Michael A. Hogg & Dominic Abrams, Social Identifications: A Social Psychology of Intergroup Relations and Group Processes (London: Routledge, 1988). 14. Cf. Iver B. Neumann & Jennifer Welsh, ‘The other in European self-definition: An addendum to the literature on international society’, Review of International Studies 17 (1993), pp. 327 – 48; Iver B. Neumann, Russia and the Idea of Europe: A Study in Identity and International Relations (London: Routledge, 1996). 15. Cf. Michael Holquist, Dialogism, Bakhtin and His World (London: Routledge, 1990). 16. Eriksen, ‘We and us: Two modes of group identification’, pp. 427– 36. 17. Jean-Paul Sartre, L’eˆtre et le ne´ant (Paris: Gallimard, 1943). 18. Eriksen, ‘We and us: Two modes of group identification’, p. 427. 19. Cf. e.g. the Kirkenes Declaration (1993) or the Barents Programme (1994 –5). 20. Or rather, the existence of a natural region is more or less equated with the existence of an identity region. 21. Cf. Einar Niemi (ed.), Pomor: Nord-Norge og Nord-Russland gjennom tusen a˚r (Oslo: Gyldendal Norsk Forlag, 1992); Jens P. Nielsen, ‘The Barents region in historical perspective’, in O. S. Stokke & O. Tunander (eds), The Barents Region: Cooperation in Arctic Europe (London: SAGE Publications Ltd., 1994), pp. 87–100; Jens P. Nielsen, ‘The Norwegian–Russian neighbourhood in the North 1814–1917’, in J. A˚. Dellenbrant & M. O. Olsson (eds), The Barents Region: Security and Economic Development in the European North (Umea˚: CERUM, 1994), pp. 40–54. 22. Heikki Eskelinen, Jukka Oksa & Daniel Austin (eds), Russian Karelia in Search of a New Role (Joensuu: University of Joensuu, Karelian Institute, 1994). 23. Niemi, Pomor: Nord-Norge og Nord-Russland gjennom tusen a˚r. 24. It can be argued that much of the social science literature on the Barents Region has itself played a role in the region-building efforts (see, e.g., Heikki Jussila, Lars O. Persson & Ulf Wiberg (eds), Shifts in Systems at the Top of Europe (Stockholm: FORA, 1993); Olav Stokke & Ola Tunander (eds), The Barents Region: Cooperation in Arctic Europe (London: SAGE Publications Ltd., 1994); JanA˚. Dellenbrant & Ulf Wiberg (eds), The Barents Region: Security and Economic Development in the European North (Umea˚: CERUM, 1994) and Margareta Dahlstro¨m, Heikki Eskelinen & Ulf Wiberg (eds), The East-West Interface in the

NOTES

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325

European North (Uppsala: Nordisk Samha¨llsgeografisk Tidskrift, 1995). This literature can roughly be divided into four main categories: (i)

articles that present the historical background to the project and thus embody it in time as well as in space; (ii) discussions of possible consequences of the cooperation project for different functional areas, such as transport, business, research, security, and more; (iii) general descriptions of Northwestern Russia; and (iv) contributions on the European aspect of the cooperation. By pointing to the historical interrelations in the area and developing visions of results of future cooperation, the literature adds the notion of the region as a ‘natural’ entity. The general descriptions of Northwestern Russia have a mission in this context by increasing available information on the area, thus making it less unfamiliar to the Nordic side of the region, to whose readers the bulk of the literature is directed. 25. Nielsen, ‘The Barents region in historical perspective’, p. 88. 26. John Kristen Skogan, ‘Norge, Russland og betydningen av Kola-halvøya i historisk lys’, Internasjonal Politikk 51 (1993), pp. 37– 59. 27. There are, for instance, six closed towns on the Kola Peninsula that are directly subordinated to federal authorities and thus constitute some kind of an ‘archipelago of federal islands’ in the region. They do not seem to have become significantly more integrated into the political, economic and social life in the region than they were in Soviet times (Hønneland, Geir & Anne-Kristin Jørgensen, ‘Closed Cities on the Kola Peninsula: From Autonomy to Integration?’, Polar Geography 22 (1998), pp. 231–48). 28. Bo Svensson, ‘National interests and transnational regionalisation – Norway, Sweden, and Finland facing Russia’, in M. Dahlstro¨m, H. Eskelinen & U. Wiberg (eds), The East-West Interface in the European North (Uppsala: Nordisk Samha¨llsgeografisk Tidskrift, 1995), pp. 57 –70. 29. Iver B. Neumann, ‘Russia as Central Europe’s constituting other’, East European Politics and Societies 7 (1993), pp. 349– 69; Neumann, ‘A region-building approach to Northern Europe’, pp. 53 – 74. 30. Neumann & Welsh, ‘The other in European self-definition: An addendum to the literature on international society’, pp. 327– 48. 31. Samuel P. Huntington (‘The clash of civilizations?’, Foreign Affairs 72 (1993), pp. 22– 49) refers to the encounter of Protestant/Catholic and Orthodox nations as one of the main clashes of civilization that can be identified within a global perspective. 32. Neumann, Russia and the Idea of Europe: A Study in Identity and International Relations. 33. See e.g., Peter Normann Waage, Russland er et annet sted (Oslo: Aventura, 1990). 34. This stance is not explicit in the social science literature on the Barents Region. Cultural differences between East and West in the area are, however, discussed

326

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19 –28

in both Robert Bathurst (‘Where cultures cross: Old Russia in a new north’, in O.S. Stokke & O. Tunander (eds), The Barents Region: Cooperation in Arctic Europe (London: SAGE Publications Ltd., 1994), pp. 45 – 46) and Hønneland (‘Northerners: Common identity or worlds apart?’) and are the subject of a dedicated volume (Jan A˚. Dellenbrant & Ulf Wiberg Euro-Arctic curtains (Umea˚: CERUM, 1997)). 35. Also as far as functional cooperation is concerned, there is a lack of systematically collected empirical data. A general impression seems, however, to be that results are meagre. 36. This narrative, seemingly claiming to be empirical in nature, can at best be said to build on qualitative interviews with a range of inhabitants in the region, general awareness of the empirical phenomena in question and the experience of numerous visits to the Norwegian and Russian parts of the Barents Region in connection with various research projects. At worst, the information can be classified as quasi-empirical; if so, let it at least function as part of a loosely coupled line of argumentation based on a general knowledge of various functional fields in the area. 37. ‘Arkhangelsk Poll’ (1997) N66 – Culture in the Barents Region, Haparanda, No. 3/97.

Chapter 2 Fish Discourse: Norway, Russia and the Northeast Arctic Cod 1. This chapter is a revised version of Geir Hønneland, ‘Fish discourse: Russia, Norway, and the Northeast Arctic Cod’, Human Organization 63 (2004), pp. 68– 77. 2. I worked as a Russian-language interpreter during the period 1988– 2000, primarily for Norwegian fishery authorities, but also for governmental agencies and businesses within other areas of environmental governance. 3. As a researcher at NORUT Social Science Research (1994 – 5) and the Fridtjof Nansen Institute (from 1996), I have conducted a range of investigations on the management of marine living resources, nuclear safety and more general environmental problems in the region. My interviewees include representatives of public authorities at both national and regional level in Norway and Russia, of industries causing the environmental problems, NGOs, scientific institutes, target groups (e.g. fishers) and others. The section on nuclear safety builds largely on interviews conducted for an evaluation of the Norwegian Plan of Action for nuclear safety in Northwestern Russia (Geir Hønneland & Arild Moe, Evaluation of the Norwegian Plan of Action for Nuclear Safety. Priorities, Organisation, Implementation. Evaluation Report 7/2000 (Oslo: Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 2000). The names of the interviewees and the exact dates of the interviews are not disclosed in order to protect my interviewees from potential problems at home.

NOTES TO PAGES 28 –31

327

4. Several Russian and Norwegian newspapers were systematically read in search of articles on fisheries management, nuclear safety and industrial pollution issues. Discourses were defined by me on the basis of the total picture emanating from observation, interviews and media reports. While I maintain that the selected discourses provide a representative picture of the environmental interface between Russia and Norway during the 1990s, other researchers might have arrived at different discourses or categorized them differently. Only a summary of the findings is given in this chapter. More abundant empirical material (including more detailed references) can be found in Geir Hønneland, Russia and the West: Environmental Co-operation and Conflict (London: Routledge, 2003). 5. Iver B. Neumann, Mening, materialitet, makt: En innføring i diskursanalyse (Bergen: Fagbokforlaget, 2001), p. 17 (emphasis added). 6. George Myerson & Yvonne Rydin, The Language of Environment: A New Rhetoric (London: UCL Press, 1996), p. 4 (emphasis added). 7. John S. Dryzek, The Politics of the Earth: Environmental Discourses (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), p. 8 (emphasis added). 8. Maarten A. Hajer, The Politics of Environmental Discourse: Ecological Modernization and the Policy Process (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), p. 44 (emphasis added). 9. Michel Foucault, Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings (New York: Pantheon, 1980). 10. Karen T. Litfin, Ozone Discourses: Science and Politics in Global Environmental Cooperation (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994), p. 3. 11. Ibid; Hajer, The Politics of Environmental Discourse: Ecological Modernization and the Policy Process. 12. Litfin, Ozone Discourses: Science and Politics in Global Environmental Cooperation. 13. See, e.g., Peter M. Haas, ‘Do regimes matter? Epistemic communities and Mediterranean pollution control’, International Organization 43 (1989), pp. 377 – 404; Peter M. Haas, ‘Introduction: Epistemic communities and international policy coordination’, International Organization 46 (1992), pp. 1 – 36. 14. Deborah A. Stone, Policy Paradox and Political Reason (New York: Harper Collins, 1988), p. 4; cited in Litfin, Ozone Discourses: Science and Politics in Global Environmental Cooperation, p. 4. 15. Richard Elliot Benedick, Ozone Diplomacy: New Directions in Safeguarding the Planet (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1991); Peter M. Haas, ‘Banning chlorofluorocarbons: Efforts to protect stratospheric ozone’, International Organization 46 (1992), pp. 187– 224. 16. Haas, ‘Banning chlorofluorocarbons: Efforts to protect stratospheric ozone’, International Organization 46 (1992), pp. 187– 224. 17. Karen T. Litfin, ‘Framing science: Precautionary discourse and the ozone treaties’, Millennium: Journal of International Studies 24 (1995), pp. 251–77, p. 253. 18. Ibid., p. 254. 19. Hajer, The Politics of Environmental Discourse: Ecological Modernization and the Policy Process.

328 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

28.

29. 30.

NOTES

TO PAGES

32 –36

Ibid., p. 56. Ibid. Ibid., p. 65. Odd Nakken, ‘Past, present and future exploitation and management of marine resources in the Barents Sea and adjacent areas’, Fisheries Research 37 (1998), pp. 23– 35. Ibid. Ibid. Hajer, The Politics of Environmental Discourse: Ecological Modernization and the Policy Process. As expressed by the Norwegian Minister of Fisheries in autumn 2001: ‘this is sustainable politics. The Labour Party [. . .] has consideration for both society and biology – in line with the precautionary principle’ (Fiskeribladet, 21 August 2001, p. 13). After a change in government, the new conservative Minister of Fisheries followed up a few months later: ‘that next year’s cod quota is above the recommendations from ICES does not mean that it’s necessarily unsustainable. There is still no danger for the cod stock’ (Nordlys, 14 November 2001, p. 37). The leader of the Norwegian delegation to the Joint Fisheries Commission the same year said after the two countries had signed the quota agreement for 2002: ‘we have made sustainable decisions’ (Fiskeribladet, 14 November 2001, p. 4). The following editorial from the largest newspaper in northern Norway sums up the criticism: ‘Today, the results of the Norwegian– Russian [negotiations] will emerge from a negotiation climate, which, seen from outside, is far milder and less troubled than the sea from which the fish is to be caught. Nevertheless, there are stormy clouds over the Barents Sea. These clouds come not from Our Lord, but from those who have been given the responsibility to lay the foundations of a management system which should also take into consideration those generations of fish that have not yet been hatched and those generations of people that have not yet been born. Such a long-term perspective seems only partly to have guided [the decisions made by the Joint Fisheries Commission]. [. . .] This is gambling with the resource base, and Norway should oppose it with everything we have of expertise and weight. [. . .] Instead of being a good and safe guarantor of continued life both in the sea and ashore, politics has become perhaps the most dangerous enemy of life. Politicians, whether Russian or Norwegian, let themselves be influenced by a trawler fleet that is far too big and far too effective and over the years has showed itself incapable of taking responsibility’ (Nordlys, 16 November 2001, p. 2). The latter is actually a member of the former but often maintains its own positions in questions of fisheries management. On issues of quota settlement, the positions of the two associations have generally concurred in recent years. The Fishery Protection Zone around Svalbard in the northern parts of the Barents Sea, established by Norway in 1977, is not accepted by any other states that conduct fishery in the area. In order to avoid provocation, Norway had until 2001 refrained from arresting violators in this area (an exception would be

NOTES TO PAGES 36 – 41

31. 32. 33. 34. 35.

36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

48.

49.

329

vessels with no quota for the Barents Sea in general). See Geir Hønneland (‘Compliance in the Fishery Protection Zone around Svalbard’, Ocean Development and International Law 29 (1998), pp. 339 – 60; Coercive and Discursive Compliance Mechanisms in the Management of Natural Resources: A Case Study from the Barents Sea Fisheries (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2000)) for a discussion of fisher compliance in the Svalbard Zone. Rybatskiye novosti, No. 3 – 4, 2001, p. 1. Nordlys, 12 June 2001, p. 3. Rybatskiye novosti, No. 3 – 4, 2001, p. 1. Interview with Russian scientist, October 2000. A Western critique of the reforms inspired by the West is found in Stephen F. Cohen (Failed Crusade: America and the Tragedy of Post-Communist Russia (New York: W.W. Norton and Company, 2000)), who refers to the events as a ‘failed crusade’. Cohen coined the term ‘Cold Peace’ in an article first published in 1992. In a postscript to the article printed in Cohen (Ibid., p. 104), he says: ‘I do not claim a patent on the term cold peace, and am not even certain I was the first to use it in this context, but it subsequently began to appear frequently in the US and Russian press – and remarkably even in a statement by Boris Yeltsin.’ Polyarnaya pravda, 10 March 1999, p. 2. Fiskeribladet, 17 October 2000, p. 2. Rybnaya stolitsa, No. 24 2001, p. 1. Interview with inhabitant of Murmansk, April 2001. Fiskeribladet, 15 September 2000, p. 20. Fiskeribladet, 23 November 1999, p. 3. Fiskeribladet, 14 December 2001, p. 6. Fiskeribladet, 19 November 1999, p. 5. Fiskeribladet, 14 December 2001, p. 6. Interview with Norwegian fisher, August 1998. Hønneland, Coercive and Discursive Compliance Mechanisms in the Management of Natural Resources: A Case Study from the Barents Sea Fisheries. For typical ‘seafaring community’ presentations of scientists and bureaucrats, see, e.g., Fiskeribladet (14 December 2001, p. 6), where bureaucrats are criticized for only seeing the world ‘from their nice offices in Oslo’, and Fiskeribladet (11 September 2001, p. 13), where the Norwegian Minister of Fisheries is said to have visited the fishing fields ‘in patent-leather shoes’. Cf. also the statement by the leader of the Norwegian Association of Coastal Fishers: ‘for a period now, we must bear over with the cries of distress from ship-owners and bank directors echoing in the mountains’ (emphasis added) (Nordlys, 13 November 1999, p. 8). It is extraordinary because protocols from sessions of the Joint Fisheries Commission usually contain only the conclusions of its discussions – e.g. the TACs agreed upon – and do not reveal anything about the positions of the two parties. Ministry of Fisheries, Protokoll for den 28. sesjon i Den blandede norsk-russiske fiskerikommisjon (Oslo: the Ministry of Fisheries, 1999), p. 2.

330

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42 –52

50. Interview with representative of the regional committee coordinating receipt of humanitarian aid in Murmansk Oblast, September 1998. 51. Polyarnaya pravda, 23 September 1998, p. 1. 52. Ibid., p. 1. 53. Geir Hønneland & Anne-Kristin Jørgensen, Over grensen etter kunnskap? Evaluering av 13 prosjekter innenfor satsingsomra˚det kompetanse og utdanning finansiert over Barentsprogrammet (Lysaker: The Fridtjof Nansen Institute, 2002). 54. The other evil being ‘non-agreement’ with Russia, which would have challenged the legitimacy of the entire bilateral management regime of the Barents Sea fisheries.

Chapter 3

East Meets West: Deliberations on the Environment

1. This chapter is a revised version of Geir Hønneland, ‘East meets west: Environmental discourse in the European arctic’, Journal of Environmental Policy & Planning 5 (2003), pp. 181– 99. 2. Discourses can be understood of as ‘sets of linguistic practices and rhetorical strategies embedded in a network of social relations’ (Karen T. Litfin, Ozone Discourses: Science and Politics in Global Environmental Cooperation (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994)), p. 3. 3. Ibid. 4. Maarten A. Hajer, The Politics of Environmental Discourse: Ecological Modernization and the Policy Process (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995). 5. Ibid., p. 56. 6. John S. Dryzek, The Politics of the Earth: Environmental Discourses (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997). 7. Karen T. Litfin, ‘Framing science: Precautionary discourse and the ozone treaties’, Millennium: Journal of International Studies 24 (1995), pp. 251–77, p. 253. 8. Iver B. Neumann, Mening, materialitet, makt: En innføring i diskursanalyse (Bergen: Fagbokforlaget, 2001). 9. AMAP, Arctic Pollution Issues: A State of the Arctic Environment Report (Oslo: Arctic Monitoring and Assessment Programme, 1997); AMAP Assessment Report: Arctic Pollution Issues (Oslo: Arctic Monitoring and Assessment Programme, 1998). 10. Olav Schram Stokke, ‘Nuclear dumping in arctic seas: Russian implementation of the London Convention’, in D. Victor, K. Raustiale & E.B. Skolnikoff (eds), The Implementation and Effectiveness of International Environmental Commitments: Theory and Practice (Cambridge: the MIT Press, 1998), pp. 475 – 518; ‘Radioactive waste in the Barents and Kara Seas: Russian implementation of the global dumping regime’, in D. Vidas (ed.) Protecting the Polar Marine Environment: Law and Policy for Pollution Prevention (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 200 – 20. 11. A. V. Yablokov, V. K. Karasev, V. M. Rumyanstsev, M. E. Kokeev, O. Y. Petrov, V. N. Lystsov, A. M. Emel’yanenkov & P. M. Rubtsov, Facts and Problems Related

NOTES TO PAGES 52 –60

12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36.

331

to Radioactive Waste Disposal in Seas Adjacent to the Territory of the Russian Federation (Moscow: Small World Publishers, 1993). Thomas Nilsen, Igor Kudrik & Aleksandr Nikitin, The Russian Northern Fleet: Sources of Radioactive Contamination. Bellona Report No. 2 (Oslo: The Bellona Foundation, 1996). Geir Hønneland & Anne-Kristin Jørgensen, Integration vs. Autonomy: CivilMilitary Relations on the Kola Peninsula (Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing, 1999). Geir Hønneland, Coercive and Discursive Compliance Mechanisms in the Management of Natural Resources: A Case Study from the Barents Sea Fisheries (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2000). Fiskeribladet, 21 August 2001, p. 13. Nordlys, 14 November 2001, p. 37. Stephen F. Cohen, Failed Crusade: America and the Tragedy of Post-Communist Russia (New York: W.W. Norton and Company, 2000). See Chapter 2, notes 33, 34 and 39, for references. Fiskeribladet, 23 November 1999, p. 3. Fiseriblandet 14 December 2001, p. 6. Fiskeribladet 11 September 2001, p. 13. Ministry of Fisheries, Protokoll for den 28. sesjon i Den blandede norsk-russiske fiskerikommisjon (Oslo: the Norwegian Ministry of Fisheries, 1999), Art. 5.1. Interview with Norwegian civil servant, Oslo, March 2000. Aftenposten, 24 January 1996. Interview with Russian researcher, February 2000. Interview with an officer at the Murmansk department of the Bellona Foundation, Murmansk, February 2000. Interview with Russian civil servant, February 2000. Ibid. Aftenposten, 24 January 2001, cited from an unpaginated copy of the article; on file with the author. Stortinget, Innst. S. nr. 107. Innstilling fra kontroll- og konstitusjonskomiteen om Riksrevisjonens undersøkelse av regjeringens gjennomføring av Handlingsplanen for atomsaker (Oslo: Stortinget, 2002). Hajer, The Politics of Environmental Discourse: Ecological Modernization and the Policy Process, p. 60. Robert G. Darst, Smokestack Diplomacy: Cooperation and Conflict in East-West Environmental Politics (Cambridge: the MIT Press, 2001). Aftenposten, 24 January 1996, cited from an unpaginated copy of the article; on file with the author. See Chapter 3, note 11. Aftenposten, 11 January 2001, p. 4. Geir Hønneland & Arild Moe, Evaluation of the Norwegian Plan of Action for Nuclear Safety. Priorities, Organisation, Implementation. Evaluation Report 7/2000 (Oslo: Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 2000).

332

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60 –71

37. Cf., e.g., ‘Murmansk a Hotbed of Foreign Spies’, RFE/RL Newsline 30 December 2000. 38. AMAP, Arctic Pollution Issues: A State of the Arctic Environment Report; AMAP Assessment Report: Arctic Pollution Issues. 39. Finnmarken, 23 June 2001, p. 2. 40. Litfin, Ozone Discourses: Science and Politics in Global Environmental Cooperation. 41. AMAP, Arctic Pollution Issues: A State of the Arctic Environment Report; AMAP Assessment Report: Arctic Pollution Issues. 42. The two variants of the ‘sustainability discourse’ concur on the assumption that issues of quota settlement are primarily issues of sustainability or not. They diverge in their answers to the question whether recent years’ management practice has in fact been sustainable. The ‘official’ version, dominated by ruling political parties and the nearly all-embracing Norwegian Fishermen’s Association, says that this is the case while the ‘critical’ variant, composed of coastal fishers, environmental NGOs and parties on the political left, would answer this question in the negative. 43. Dryzek, The Politics of the Earth: Environmental Discourses. 44. Benton, Lisa M. & John R. Short, Environmental Discourse and Practice (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1999). 45. According to Dryzek (ibid.), environmental discourses depart from the terms set by industrialism. This departure can be reformist or radical and it can be prosaic or imaginative, forming two dimensions for categorizing environmental discourses. Prosaic departures take the political and economic conditions of industrial society as more or less given. Environmental problems are seen as requiring action, but not in terms of rearranging the entire political-economic chessboard of society. Action can be dramatic and far-reaching, but is confined to the solutions proposed and tools defined by industrialism, mainly through science and administrative bureaucracies. By contrast, imaginative departures seek to redefine the chessboard. Environmental concerns are seen as not necessarily opposed to economic ones, but potentially in harmony. They are perceived as intrinsic to a society’s cultural, moral and economic systems and not as difficulties found outside these systems. Like prosaic departures, changes can be either radical or reformist. 46. Geir Hønneland & Anne-Kristin Jørgensen, Over grensen etter kunnskap? Evaluering av 13 prosjekter innenfor satsingsomra˚det kompetanse og utdanning finansiert over Barentsprogrammet (Lysaker: The Fridtjof Nansen Institute, 2002). 47. This is not to say that environmental NGOs, for instance, do not have any scientific foundation for their recommendations. My point is that it is not the scientific facts, but the ingratiating metaphors and storylines that gave the ‘nuclear disaster discourse’ its magnitude and power. 48. The Northwest Russian press avails itself from time to time of the term ‘our good neighbours’ (in quotation marks) when referring to Norwegians, especially if the angle has something to do with perceived environmental ‘hysteria’ or humanitarian efforts coming out of Norway (the gumanitarka).

NOTES

Chapter 4

TO PAGES

75 –76

333

From Air Pollution Control to Nuclear Safety: Why Implement?

1. This chapter is a revised version of Geir Hønneland & Anne-Kristin Jørgensen, ‘Implementing international environmental agreements in Russia: Lessons from fisheries management, nuclear safety and pollution control’, Global Environmental Politics 3 (2003), pp. 72 – 98. 2. See, for example, Kenneth Hanf & Arild Underdal, ‘Domesticating international commitments: Linking national and international decision making’, in A. Underdal (ed.), The Politics of International (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1998), pp. 149 – 70; and Arild Underdal & Kenneth Hanf, International Environmental Agreements and Domestic Politics: The Case of Acid Rain (Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing, 2000). 3. See, e.g., Oran R.Young, ‘The politics of international regime formation: Managing natural resources and the environment’, International Organization 43 (1989), pp. 349– 75; Oran R. Young, ‘Political leadership and regime formation: On the development of institutions in international society’, International Organization 45 (1991), pp. 281– 308; Peter M. Haas, Saving the Mediterranean: The Politics of International Environmental Cooperation (New York: Columbia University Press, 1990); Richard Elliot Benedick, Ozone Diplomacy: New Directions in Safeguarding the Planet (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1991); Oran R. Young & Gail Osherenko (eds), Polar Politics: Creating International Environmental Regimes (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1993). 4. See, for example, Peter M. Haas, Robert O. Keohane & Marc A. Levy, Institutions for the Earth: Sources of Effective International Environmental Protection (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1993); David G. Victor, Kal Raustiala & Eugene B. Skolnikoff (eds), The Implementation and Effectiveness of International Environmental Commitments: Theory and Practice (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1998); Jørgen Wettestad, Designing Effective Environmental Regimes (Cheltenham: Edward Elgar Publishing, 1999); and Young (ed.), The Effectiveness of International Environmental Regimes: Causal Connections and Behavioural Mechanisms. Another important volume is Edith B. Weiss & Harold K. Jacobson (eds), Engaging Countries: Strengthening Compliance with International Environmental Accords (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1998), which focuses particularly on treaty compliance, but understands this concept as part of those processes we define as implementation. 5. Here understood as Murmansk and Arkhangelsk Oblasts, and, to some extent, also the Nenets Autonomous Okrug. The main reason for the selection of the case studies examined here was that fisheries management, nuclear safety and air pollution control are among the most important environmental and resource issues for the region, as will be argued below. 6. In order to protect our interviewees from untoward repercussions, the concrete interviews are not indicated in the text. 7. Martin List & Volker Rittberg, ‘The role of intergovernmental organizations in the formation and evolution of international environmental regimes’,

334

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10. 11.

12.

13.

14.

15. 16. 17.

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in A. Underdal (ed.), The Politics of International Environmental Management (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1998), pp. 67 – 81. Weiss & Jacobson (eds), Engaging Countries: Strengthening Compliance with International Environmental Accords. We are aware that the concept ‘joint implementation’ has a more limited meaning when speaking about, for instance, the global climate regime. Nevertheless, we have chosen to use it here referring to all kinds of joint initiatives between Russia and other states that aim to facilitate implementation of Russia’s international obligations. See, for example, Weiss & Jacobson (eds), Engaging Countries: Strengthening Compliance with International Environmental Accords. David G. Victor, Kal Raustiala & Eugene B. Skolnikoff, ‘Introduction and overview’, in D. G. Victor, K. Raustiala & E. B. Skolnikoff (eds), The Implementation and Effectiveness of International Environmental Commitments: Theory and Practice (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1998), pp. 1 – 46. This is, of course, very much a question of how effectiveness is defined. Arild Underdal (‘The concept of Regime “Effectiveness”’, Cooperation and Conflict 27 (1992), pp. 227– 40) points out that effectiveness may be understood either in terms of relative improvement, or in terms of the distance to a defined optimal state of affairs. The scope of implementing activities carried out may give a better indication of relative improvement, while compliance rates may say rather more about the distance to the optimal state. Abram Chayes & Antonia Handler Chayes, ‘On compliance’, International Organization 47 (1993), pp. 175–205; Abram Chayes & Antonia Handler Chayes, The New Sovereignty: Compliance with International Regulatory Agreements (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995); Ronald B. Mitchell, ‘Regime design matters: Intentional oil pollution and treaty compliance’, International Organization 48 (1994), pp. 425–58; Ronald B. Mitchell, Intentional Oil Pollution at Sea: Environmental Policy and Treaty Compliance (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1994); Weiss & Jacobson (eds), Engaging Countries: Strengthening Compliance with International Environmental Accords; Victor, Raustiala & Skolnikoff (eds), The Implementation and Effectiveness of International Environmental Commitments: Theory and Practice. Kenneth Hanf, ‘The problem of long-range transport of air pollution and the acidification regime’, in A. Underdal & K. Hanf (eds), International Environmental Agreements and Domestic Politics: The Case of Acid Rain (Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing, 2000), pp. 21– 48. Hanf & Underdal, ‘Domesticating international commitments: Linking national and international decision making’, p. 157. Weiss & Jacobson (eds), Engaging Countries: Strengthening Compliance with International Environmental Accords. Kal Raustiala & David G. Victor, ‘Conclusions’, in D. G. Victor, K. Raustiala & E. B. Skolnikoff (eds), The Implementation and Effectiveness of International Environmental Commitments: Theory and Practice (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1998), pp. 659– 708, p. 670.

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18. Weiss & Jacobson (eds), Engaging Countries: Strengthening Compliance with International Environmental Accords. 19. A. V. Yablokov, V. K. Karasev, V. M. Rumyanstsev, M. E. Kokeev, O. Y. Petrov, V. N. Lystsov, A. M. Emel’yanenkov & P. M. Rubtsov, Facts and Problems Related to Radioactive Waste Disposal in Seas Adjacent to the Territory of the Russian Federation (Moscow: Small World Publishers, 1993). 20. More recent global fisheries agreements include the 1995 Fish Stocks Agreement and two FAO documents: the FAO Compliance Agreement of 1993 and the FAO Code of Conduct for Responsible Fisheries of 1995. There is not room for a specific discussion of these agreements here. 21. See Report to the Storting No. 86 1974– 75, on the consensus to conclude an agreement between Norway and the Soviet Union on cooperation in the fishing industry, available at the Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs; and Report to the Storting No. 74, 1976 – 77, on the consensus to ratify an agreement between the Government of the Kingdom of Norway and the Government of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics on mutual fishery relations, available at the Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. 22. The London Convention on the Prevention of Marine Pollution by Dumping of Waste and Other Matter, International Legal Materials, Vol. 11, pp. 1291ff. (Washington, 13 November 1972). The Convention entered into force on 30 August 1975. It has been signed and ratified by the Russian Federation. 23. See Plan of Action for the Implementation of Report No. 34 1993– 94 to the Storting on Nuclear Activities and Chemical Weapons in Areas Adjacent to Our Northern Borders (Oslo: The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 1995). 24. See Steven G. Sawhill, ‘Cleaning-up the Arctic’s Cold War legacy: Nuclear waste and military environmental cooperation’, Cooperation and Conflict 35 (2000), pp. 5– 36; and Sawhill & Jørgensen, Military Nuclear Waste and International Cooperation in Northwest Russia. FNI Report 12/2001 (Lysaker: The Fridtjof Nansen Institute, 2001), for a description and assessment of the AMEC cooperation. 25. See Agreement between the United States of America and the Russian Federation Concerning the Safe and Secure Transportation, Storage and Destruction of Weapons and the Prevention of Weapons Proliferation (Washington: US Department of State, 1992); Agreement between the United States of America and the Russian Federation Concerning Cooperation in the Elimination of Strategic Offensive Arms Washington (Washington: US Department of State, 1993); and Sawhill, ‘Cleaning-up the Arctic’s Cold War legacy: Nuclear waste and military environmental cooperation’. 26. See Convention on Long-Range Transboundary Air Pollution (Geneva: UN Economic Commission for Europe, 1979). 27. See, for example, Kenneth Hanf, ‘The problem of long-range transport of air pollution and the acidification regime, in A. Underdal & K. Hanf (eds), International Environmental Agreements and Domestic Politics: The Case of Acid Rain (Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing, 2000), pp. 21 – 48, for an overview of how the acid rain regime evolved.

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28. See Protocol to the Convention on Long-Range Transboundary Air Pollution concerning the Control of Emissions of Nitrogen Oxides or their Transboundary Fluxes (Geneva: UN Economic Commission for Europe, 1988). 29. See Protocol to the Convention on Long-Range Transboundary Air Pollution concerning the Control of Emissions of Volatile Organic Compounds or their Transboundary Fluxes (Geneva: UN Economic Commission for Europe, 1991). 30. See Protocol to the Convention on Long-Range Transboundary Air Pollution on Further Reduction of Sulphur Emissions (Geneva: UN Economic Commission for Europe, 1994). The Protocol follows the former Sulfur Protocol adopted in Helsinki 8 July 1985. 31. See Protocol to the Convention on Long-Range Transboundary Air Pollution on Heavy Metals (Geneva: UN Economic Commission for Europe, 1998). 32. See Protocol to the Convention on Long-Range Transboundary Air Pollution on Persistent Organic Pollutants (Geneva: UN Economic Commission for Europe, 1998). 33. Vladimir Kotov & Elena Nikitina, ‘Implementation and effectiveness of the acid rain regime in Russia’, in D. G. Victor, K. Raustiala & E. B. Skolnikoff, The Implementation and Effectiveness of International Environmental Commitments: Theory and Practice (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1998), pp. 94 – 123. 34. Official violation statistics do not exist. 35. Data on the functioning of the Soviet system for fisheries management are poor, but it seems fair to assume that management agencies were relatively well endowed in terms of competence and material resources to perform their tasks satisfactorily. Moreover, target compliance was probably quite high since the command economy implied a high degree of control over the activities of the target groups and the latter had low incentives to cheat. 36. Admittedly, important decisions have to be sanctioned by federal authorities, but the State Committee for Fisheries does not interfere to any extent in the day-to-day management of Northwest Russian fisheries. 37. The table is not meant to be exhaustive. It includes those agencies and enterprises that are given most attention in the book’s case studies. 38. Another question is whether the decisions of the Joint Russian – Norwegian Fisheries Commission reflect the parties’ obligations as set out in the global fisheries agreements. 39. This is not meant to imply that the implementation of Russia’s international fisheries agreements has been completely successful. However, to the extent that it has not been successful, it has not been a result of lacking incorporation of international commitments in national legislation. It could also be argued that the absence of a law on fisheries does not mean that the management of Russian fisheries takes place in a legal vacuum. Legal documents at lower judicial levels are constantly being issued. Further, the definition of ‘incorporation in national legislation’ is not obvious (e.g. how about a fax sent from Murmanrybvod to a fishing vessel?), so we limit ourselves here to concluding that such incorporation

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at the level of law does not seem necessary to spur further implementation efforts. 40. Added to this picture of a lack of conscious effort to avoid implementation of its international fisheries commitments in the Barents Sea comes the fact that the original impetus behind the reorganization process came from events in the Far Eastern fishery basin, where rumours of corrupt fishery inspectors were far more widespread than in the northern basin. 41. Another example, this time from the area of fisheries management is the following. Towards the end of the 1990s, it became increasingly difficult for Norwegian and Russian marine researchers to get permits from Russian authorities to conduct joint scientific cruises in the Russian part of the Barents Sea. From the Norwegian side, it was generally believed that some of the ‘bad guys’ (the ‘power agencies’) were behind the refusals. While we will not contest that this had an effect, we were once told by a Russian fisheries civil servant that the main obstacle was in fact the State Committee for Environmental Protection – by Norwegians generally perceived as a ‘good guy’ par excellence in Russian environmental politics. According to our source, the Committee felt obliged to increasingly spread its tentacles into new areas of governance in order to justify its existence. 42. These assessments are made on the basis of contra-factual exercises: based on the experiences of the fisheries management, it is assumed that the incorporation of international commitments in air pollution control, and, to a degree, also nuclear safety, is not a prerequisite for their successful de facto implementation. Furthermore, it is assumed that the high level of conflict among federal agencies would have hampered implementation of Russia’s international air pollution requirements had they not implemented themselves through the reduction in industry productivity.

Chapter 5 Implementing Global Nature Protection Agreements 1. This chapter is a revised version of Jørgen Holten Jørgensen & Geir Hønneland, ‘Implementing global nature protection agreements in Russia’, Journal of International Wildlife Law & Policy 9 (2006), pp. 33 –53. 2. Ronald B. Mitchell, Intentional Oil Pollution at Sea: Environmental Policy and Treaty Compliance (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1994); Abram Chayes & Antonia Handler Chayes, The New Sovereignty: Compliance with International Regulatory Agreements (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995); Edith B. Weiss & Harold K. Jacobson (eds), Engaging Countries: Strengthening Compliance with International Environmental Accords (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1998); David G. Victor, Kal Raustiala & Eugene B. Skolnikoff (eds), The Implementation and Effectiveness of International Environmental Commitments: Theory and Practice (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1998).

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3. Eleven interviews were conducted in Moscow, four in Murmansk, six in Petrozavodsk, eight in Syktyvkar, five in Khanty-Mansiysk and three in Tyumen’. All interviews took place in Russian without interpreter. 4. Constitution of the Russian Federation (1993), Article 15.4. Available at: http:// www.constitution.ru/en (accessed October 2004). 5. William Zimmermann, Elena Nikitina & James Clem, ‘The Soviet Union and the Russian Federation: A natural experiment in environmental compliance’, in E. B. Weiss & H. K. Jacobson (eds), Engaging Countries: Strengthening Compliance with International Environmental Accords (Cambridge: the MIT Press, 1998), pp. 291– 326, p. 293. 6. The inclusion of these sites on the list might be time consuming, however, as new World Heritage Convention rules prescribe the addition of one site only – cultural or natural – in any one country year on year. 7. Zimmermann, Nikitina & Clem, ‘The Soviet Union and the Russian Federation: A natural experiment in environmental compliance’, p. 292. 8. That is until 1990, the International Union for the Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources. Work on the Russian Red Book is now the responsibility of the Ministry of Natural Resources. Information on species, their localities and level of threat is updated continuously, and the Red Book is issued at least every 10 years; Aleksandr S. Shestakov (ed.), Zakonodatelstvo Rossi ob ispolzovanii i okhrane biologicheskogo raznoobraziya (2001). 9. Zimmermann, Nikitina & Clem, The Soviet Union and the Russian Federation: A natural experiment in environmental compliance’, p. 294. Belarus became a Convention party in 1995; others followed later: Georgia (1996), Uzbekistan (1997), Azerbaijan (1999), Ukraine (2000) and Moldova (2001). Other CIS republics are still not registered as Convention parties. (See the CITES secretariats web-site for updated information: http://www.cites.org/eng/disc/ parties/chronolo.shtml) (accessed October 2004). 10. Shestakov (ed.), Zakonodatelstvo Rossi ob ispolzovanii i okhrane biologicheskogo raznoobraziya, p. 283. 11. Zimmermann, Nikitina & Clem, The Soviet Union and the Russian Federation: A natural experiment in environmental compliance’, p. 312. 12. Ibid., p. 310. 13. See Caviar Crisis Spurs Caspian Sea Summit, National Geographic News (2001). Available at: http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2001/06/0613_caviar. html (accessed October 2004). 14. See Caspian Sea States to Resume Caviar Trade. CITES Press Release, 6 March 2002. Available at: http://www.cites.org/eng/news/press/020306_caviar_resum ption.shtml (accessed October 2004). 15. See Decree of the Government of the Russian Federation No. 1050, 13 September 1994. 16. See Wetlands International, Strategy for Wetland Conservation in Russia (2000). 17. Zimmermann, Nikitina & Clem, The Soviet Union and the Russian Federation: A natural experiment in environmental compliance’, p. 308.

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18. Michael P. Wells & Margaret D. Williams, Russia’s protected areas in transition: The impacts of perestroika, economic reform and the move towards democracy’, Ambio 27 (1998), pp. 198– 206. 19. Vladimir Kotov & Elena Nikitina, ‘To reduce, or to produce? Problems of implementation of the Climate Convention in Russia’, in J. B. Poole & R. Guthrie (eds), Vertification Yearbook 1996 (Boulder: Westview Press, 1996), pp. 339– 358. 20. See the State Duma’s web site: http://www.duma.gov.ru/cgi-bin/yandmarkup? HndlQuery¼ 1782572560&PageNum ¼ 0&g ¼ 2&d ¼ 0#YANDEX_42 (accessed October 2004). 21. For details, see presidential decree no. 314 of 9 March 2004, O sisteme i strukture federalnykh organov ispolnitelnoy vlasti. Available at: http://www. pravitelstvo.gov.ru/data/static_text.html?st_id¼7637&he_id ¼ 783 (accessed October 2004). The reorganization is discussed in greater detail in Geir Hønneland & Jørgen Holten Jørgensen, ‘Federal environmental governance and the Russian north’, Polar Geography 29 (2005), pp. 27 – 42, and in Geir Hønneland & Jørgen Holten Jørgensen, ‘The ups and downs of environmental governance’, in H. Blakkisrud & G. Hønneland (eds), Tackling Space: Federal Politics and the Russian North (Lanham: University Press of America, 2006), pp. 143–61. 22. See, for instance, Shestakov, (ed.), Zakonodatelstvo Rossi ob ispolzovanii i okhrane biologicheskogo raznoobraziya, p. 363. 23. See President Putin’s Address to the Federal Assembly of the Russian Federation, 26 June 2004. Available at: http://president.kremlin.ru/eng/text/speeches/2004/ 05/26/1309_type70029_71650.shtml (accessed October 2004). 24. J. Michael Waller, ‘Portait of Putin’s Past’, Perspective 3 (Institute for the Study of Conflict, Ideology, and Policy, 2000). 25. Cited from Bellona foundation 5 June 2003. Available at: http://www.bellona. no/en/international/russia/envirorights/info_access/29815.html (accessed October 2004). 26. See The Ministry of National Resources, http://www.mnr.gov.ru/part/?act¼ more&id¼1874&pid¼1237 (accessed October 2004). 27. A global wildlife trade monitoring network, it is a joint programme of WWF and IUCN. 28. Shestakov (ed.), Zakonodatelstvo Rossi ob ispolzovanii i okhrane biologicheskogo raznoobraziya, p. 17. 29. Ibid., p. 283. 30. Coercion may also be a factor, but does not seem to be of importance in the case of the four agreements discussed here. There is some potential to impose sanctions under the World Heritage Convention, which may take decisions of removing a site from the list in case the site has suffered grave violations of convention rules. CITES may ask member states to ban trade with specific species. For species of high value, e.g. the Caspian sturgeon, this might be perceived as coercion.

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Chapter 6 Western vs Post-Soviet Medicine: Donors and Dilettantes 1. This chapter is a revised version of Geir Hønneland & Lars Rowe, ‘Western versus post-Soviet medicine: Fighting tuberculosis and HIV in North-West Russia and the Baltic states’, Journal of Communist Studies and Transition Politics 21 (2005), pp. 395– 415. 2. From 2000 to 2004, Geir Hønneland and Lars Rowe conducted the so-called contextual evaluation of the Task Force on Communicable Disease Control in the Baltic Sea Region. The study resulted in the book Health as International Politics: Combating Communicable Diseases in the Baltic Sea Region (Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing, 2004). In 2002, Geir Hønneland and Arild Moe produced Evaluation of the Barents Health Programme – Project Selection and Implementation. FNI-report 7/2002 (Lysaker: The Fridtjof Nansen Institute, 2002). 3. Interviews were conducted in Moscow in December 2002 and November 2003, Tallin, Riga and Vilnius in March 2003, St Petersburg in June 2003, Murmansk and Arkhangelsk in June 2002 and September 2003 and Petrozavodsk in November 2003. Most interviews were carried out at the workplace of the interviewee and lasted from an hour to an hour and a half. All interviews were conducted without interpreter; most importantly, all interviews with Russians were conducted in Russian. We chose not to reveal the identity of our interviewees, but indicate their position and location (e.g. ‘civil servant from the Republic of Karelia’). 4. ‘Medicine’ is here understood in a broad sense, as the entire organization of the country’s health-care services. No separate presentation of the Soviet health-care sector is given; particular principles and structures of the Soviet era are referred to in the context in which they happen to appear (i.e. in the encounter with Western principles). For overviews of Soviet medicine, see Mark G. Field, Soviet Socialized Medicine: An Introduction (New York: the Free Press/CollierMacmillan, 1967) and Michael Kaser, Health Care in the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe (London: Croom Helm, 1976). 5. For a discussion of the impact of the old controversy between the Westernisers and the Slavophiles on post-Soviet Russian international politics, see Iver B. Neumann, Russia and the Idea of Europe: A Study in Identity and International Relations (London: Routledge, 1996). 6. A Western critique of the reforms inspired by the West is found in Stephen F. Cohen, Failed Crusade: America and the Tragedy of Post-Communist Russia (New York: W.W. Norton and Company, 2000). Cohen coined the term ‘Cold Peace’ in an article first published in 1992. 7. Nicolai Krementsov, Stalinist Science (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997), pp. 144ff. 8. The most infamous response to this policy was agronomist Trofim Lysenko’s attack on Western (or ‘unpatriotic’) genetics. In line with the official view that a new breed of humans – the ‘Soviet man’ – could be created, he argued that acquired characteristics in a species could be inherited.

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9. Krementsov (Stalinist Science, pp. 287ff) argues that the direction Soviet science took in the late Stalin era was largely a result of the Cold War and remained in force until swept away by the political reforms of the 1980s. 10. Ibid., p. 298. 11. Richard J. Coker, B. Dimitrova, F. Drobniewski, Y. Samyshkin, Y. Balabanova, S. Kuznetsov, I. Fedorin, A. Melentsiev, G. Marchenko, S. Zakharova & R. Atun, ‘Tuberculosis control in Samara Oblast, Russia: Institutional and regulatory environment’, International Journal of Tuberculosis and Lung Disease 7 (2003), pp. 920– 32, p. 920. 12. P. Spradling, E. Nemtsova, T. Aptekar, M. Shulgina, L. Rybka, C. Wells, G. Aquino, H. Kluge, W. Jakubowiak, N. Binkin & B. Kazeonny, ‘Antituberculosis drug resistance in community and prison patients, Orel Oblast, Russian Federation’, International Journal of Tuberculosis and Lung Disease 6 (2002), pp. 757– 62, p. 757. 13. Coker, Dimitrova, Drobniewski, Samyshkin, Balabanova, Kuznetsov, Fedorin, Melentsiev, Marchenko, Zakharova & Atun, ‘Tuberculosis control in Samara Oblast, Russia: Institutional and regulatory environment’, p. 920. 14. Arata Kochi, ‘Tuberculosis control – is DOTS the health breakthrough of the 1990s?’, World Health Forum: An International Journal of Health Development 18 (1997), pp. 225– 32, pp. 225– 6. 15. Christopher Dye, Geoffrey P. Garnett, Karen Sleeman & Brian G. Williams, ‘Prospects for worldwide tuberculosis control under the WHO DOTS strategy’, Lancet 352 (1998), pp. 1886– 91, p. 1886. 16. Kochi, ‘Tuberculosis control – is DOTS the health breakthrough of the 1990s?’, p. 228. 17. Ibid. 18. See World Health Organization, DOTS-Plus & Green Light Committee: Improving Access to Second-Line Anti-TB Drugs, WHO/CDS/TB/2000.283 (Geneva: the World Health Organization, 2000), p. 1. 19. Paul Farmer & Jim Young Kim, ‘Community based approaches to the control of multidrug resistant tuberculosis: Introducing “DOTS-Plus”’, British Medical Journal 317 (1998), pp. 671– 74, p. 674. 20. See http://www.who.int/gtb/policyrd/DOTSplus.htm, [accessed 28 October 2003]. 21. Michail I. Perelman, ‘Tuberculosis in Russia’, International Journal of Tuberculosis and Lung Disease 4 (2000), pp. 1097– 1103. 22. C. Mawer, N. V. Ignatenko, D. F. Wares, A. K. Strelis, V. T. Golubchikova, G. V. Yanova, T. V. Lyagoshina, O. E. Sharaburova & N. Banatvala, ‘Comparison of the effectiveness of WHO short-course chemotherapy and standard Russian antituberculosis regimens in Tomsk, Western Siberia’, Lancet 358 (2001), pp. 445– 49, p. 445. 23. Michael E. Kimerling, ‘The Russian equation: An evolving paradigm in tuberculosis control’, International Journal of Tuberculosis and Lung Disease 4 (2000), pp. S160– 7, p. S161.

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24. Ibid., p. S162. 25. Coker, Dimitrova, Drobniewski, Samyshkin, Balabanova, Kuznetsov, Fedorin, Melentsiev, Marchenko, Zakharova & Atun, ‘Tuberculosis control in Samara Oblast, Russia: Institutional and regulatory environment’, p. 927. 26. According to Coker, Dimitrova, Drobniewski, Samyshkin, Balabanova, Kuznetsov, Fedorin, Melentsiev, Marchenko, Zakharova & Atun (‘Tuberculosis control in Samara Oblast, Russia: Institutional and regulatory environment’, p. 930) tuberculosis dispensaries in Samara Oblast receive 6,987 roubles for uncomplicated tuberculosis cases treated non-surgically, and from 10,361 to 24,189 roubles for cases treated surgically. 27. Richard Coker, ‘Control of tuberculosis in Russia’, Lancet 358 (2001), pp. 434 – 35, p. 435. 28. Mawer, Ignatenko, Wares, Strelis, Golubchikova, Yanova, Lyagoshina, Sharaburova & Banatvala, ‘Comparison of the effectiveness of WHO shortcourse chemotherapy and standard Russian antituberculosis regimens in Tomsk, Western Siberia’, pp. 445–6. 29. See World Health Organization, Global Tuberculosis Control: Surveillance, Planning, Financing, WHO/CDS/TB/2003.316 (Geneva: the World Health Organization, 2003), p. 105. 30. Ibid. 31. Ibid. 32. Nick Banatvala, ‘Deal Struck for Russians with Tuberculosis’, Lancet 354 (1999), p. 54. 33. Nick Banatvala, S. Matic, M. Kimerling, P. Farmer & A. Goldfarb, ‘Authors’ reply’, Lancet 354 (1999), p. 1036. 34. See http://www.who.int/gtb/policyrd/DOTSplus.htm, [accessed 28 October 2003]. 35. See World Health Organization, Global Tuberculosis Control: Surveillance, Planning, Financing, p. 171. 36. See http://www.who.int/gtb/policyrd/DOTSplus.htm, [accessed 28 October 2003]. 37. See World Health Organization, Report on the WHO European Region Interagency Coordinating Committee (ICC) – 2nd Meeting Focusing on Tuberculosis. Report on a WHO Meeting, Copenhagen, Denmark, 19–20 February 2003 (Copenhagen: the World Health Organization, Regional Office for Europe, 2003), p. 3. No overview exists of tuberculosis-control funding at the regional level, but the total sums spent by Russia’s 89 federal subjects surely exceed federal funding by a large margin. One estimate is that nearly 80 per cent comes from the regional level, 20 per cent from the federal level and a small percentage from the local level. 38. Paul Webster, ‘World Bank approves loan to help Russia tackle HIV/AIDS and tuberculosis’, Lancet 361 (2003), p. 1355.The World Bank insists that the loan be closely tied to a control strategy based on recent outcomes from 19 pilot projects introducing DOTS in Russia. 39. See World Health Organization, Global Tuberculosis Control: Surveillance, Planning, Financing, 2003, p. 105.

NOTES 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46.

47.

48.

49.

50.

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Perelman, ‘Tuberculosis in Russia’. Ibid., p. 1101. Ibid., p. 1102. Ibid., p. 1098. This is reflected in our interview with an employee of the Moscow office of WHO: ‘We cannot compromise on DOTS. For us, this is a political matter.’ It should be observed that this ‘arrogance’ refers back to the late 1990s when WHO first started its efforts to introduce DOTS in Russia; we have no evidence that this is the general perception of WHO today. There are methodological challenges associated with statements like this, which will not be explored here since we focus on the more problematic areas of collaboration. Suffice it to say that project participants might wish to appear ‘polite’ to two interviewers from a major Western donor country. He was not referring to Russian statistics as such – ‘we have the most accurate statistics in the world’ – but to the tendency to argue that official statistics show just ‘the tip of the iceberg’. However, it is unclear what exactly he meant by ‘our statistics’. Russia has a long tradition of producing one set of ‘official’ statistics and one set of ‘departmental’ (vedomstvennaya) statistics for internal use. Russian ‘hyper-diagnosis’ of communicable diseases was also mentioned by other Russian interviewees, primarily in connection with the difficulty of making a correct diagnosis with outdated technology. This is a well-known fact in East– West cooperation in northern Europe after the Cold War. For instance, Finland has particularly close historical and cultural ties with the Republic of Karelia in Russia and focuses therefore efforts on this federal subject. Norway, for its part, shares borders with Murmansk Oblast and is hence most interested in that region. Likewise, the Western countries around the Baltic Sea have tended to have ‘their own’ Baltic state, with which contacts have been particularly close. Interviewees indicated related problems in the US: ‘Sexually transmitted diseases are a huge problem in the United States. Syphilis is rampant among women and children there’. Implicitly: ‘Why are you so interested in us when problems are huge also in the West?’ Again, it should be emphasized that these problems are not representative of the situation more generally. Our interviews left us with the impression that problems with needle-exchange programmes were most intense in their early phases, but that some sort of settlement with the police was reached in most cases. This story was told to us by an informant who had no direct involvement in this particular project. When we later interviewed the Russian manager of the project in question, we hoped to have him confirm this information. However, as he seemed extremely eager to emphasize the good things about his project and downplay any problems, we did not press him on this issue. All attempts to approach the episode in conversation met with an insistence that ‘we have a very good cooperation with the police’. We assumed he was afraid that talking about implementation problems might reduce the chances of further project financing.

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Chapter 7 Patriots, Doctors and Happy Soviets 1. This chapter is a revised version of Geir Hønneland & Lars Rowe, ‘Conclusions’, in Health as International Politics: Combating Communicable Diseases in the Baltic Sea Region (Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing, 2004), pp. 91 – 102. 2. See, for example, Dyna Arhin-Tenkorang & Pedro Conceicao, ‘Beyond communicable disease control: Health in the age of globalization’, in I. Kaul, P. Conceicao, K. Le Goulven & R.U. Mendoza (eds), Providing Global Public Goods: Managing Globalization (New York: Oxford University Press/the United Nations Development Programme, 2003), pp. 484 – 515; Martin McKee, Paul Garner & Robin Stott (eds), International Co-operation in Health (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001); Richard Smith, Robert Beaglehole, David Woodward & Nick Drager (eds), Global Public Goods for Health (Oxford: Oxford University Press/the World Health Organization, 2003); and Mark W. Zacher, ‘Global epidemiological surveillance: International cooperation to monitor infectious diseases’, in I. Kaul, I. Grunberg & M.A. Stern (eds), Global Public Goods. International Cooperation in the 21st Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press/the United Nations Development Programme, 1999), pp. 266 – 83. 3. See, for example, Stephen F. Cohen, Failed Crusade: America and the Tragedy of Post-Communist Russia (New York: W.W. Norton and Company, 2000). 4. The investigation is published as Geir Hønneland & Lars Rowe, Health as International Politics: Combating Communicable Diseases in the Baltic Sea Region (Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing, 2004). 5. Steinar Kvale, InterViews: An Introduction to Qualitative Research Interviewing (Thousand Oaks: SAGE Publications Ltd., 1996), pp. 38ff. 6. Herbert J. Rubin & Irene Rubin, Qualitative Interviewing: The Art of Hearing Data (Thousand Oaks: SAGE Publications Ltd., 1995), pp. 23 – 26. 7. As opposed to topical interviews, which seek out explanations of events and descriptions of processes. 8. Interviews were conducted in Moscow in December 2002 and November 2003, Copenhagen in February 2003, Tallin, Riga and Vilnius in March 2003, St Petersburg in June 2003, Arkhangelsk and Murmansk in September 2003 and Petrozavodsk in November 2003. A number of interviews were carried out in Oslo in 2002 and 2003. 9. We chose not to use a tape recorder for fear of intimidating our interviewees, but took care to note down as accurately as possible all important statements. That we were two interviewers at most of the interviews allowed us to compare notes, which was obviously an advantage. It should be noted, nevertheless, that the interview extracts are not word-for-word renditions of what was actually said, particularly in the case of our interviews with Russian informants. One thing is the omission of small nuances (at best) because the interviewer is unable to keep up with the flow of words. Another is the fact that our interviews in Russia were conducted in Russian (by native Norwegians!) and subsequently translated into English. For a discussion of pros and cons of using a tape recorder in qualitative

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interviews, see Rubin & Rubin, Qualitative Interviewing: The Art of Hearing Data, pp. 125– 8. Interviews with people from the Baltic states were conducted mostly in English, some in Russian. Interviews with Scandinavians were conducted in the internally very similar Scandinavian languages, while those with people from non-Scandinavian Western countries involved in the Task Force were conducted in English. The crucial point here is that it was not necessary to use an interpreter and that interviews with Russians – who constituted the majority of our interviewees and generally are not very fluent in English – were conducted in their mother tongue. We limit ourselves here to a discussion of our Baltic and Russian interviewees, because they are the most relevant to our discussion on the influence of contextual factors, such as cultural and political differences between the post-Soviet area and the West, on the implementation of the Task Force. Furthermore, the vast majority of our interviewees were people from Russia and the Baltic states. Rubin & Rubin, Qualitative Interviewing: The Art of Hearing Data. Nicolai Krementsov, Stalinist Science (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997). Rubin & Rubin, Qualitative Interviewing: The Art of Hearing Data, pp. 23– 6. Ibid. Admittedly, these stories by ‘ordinary Russians’ do not quite precisely reflect the scepticism of our Task Force interviewees. While the interviewees refer to the perception of prisoners’ role in Russian society, our ‘ordinary Russians’ speak more generally about envy among Russians. However, reference to resistance to prison-reform efforts sparked an immediate and enthusiastic response from ‘ordinary Russians’: ‘yes, this is what it’s like being Russian!’.

Chapter 8 How to be a Northerner 1. This chapter is a revised version of Geir Hønneland, ‘How to be a northerner: Distinguishing north from south’, in Borderland Russians: Identity, Narrative and International Relations (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), pp. 51 – 79. Most of the theoretical framework is left out here, as well as most of the longer interview extracts. 2. A detailed introduction to the concepts is provided by Victor Konrad & Heather N. Nikol, Beyond Walls: Re-inventing the Canada – United States Borderlands (Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing, 2008), pp. 23ff. My own brief summary is based on their definitions. 3. The argument is made by Lauren McKinsey & Victor Konrad, Borderlands Reflections: The United States and Canada (Orono: University of Maine Press, 1989), p. 2, cited.by Konrad & Nicol, Beyond Walls: Re-inventing the Canada – United States Borderlands, p. 31. 4. Konrad & Nicole, Beyond Walls: Re-inventing the Canada – United States Borderlands, p. 31.

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5. The concept of borderland could be said to involve some sort of integration of the border regions (or frontiers) of either side of the boundary: ‘Borderlands appear to be a matter of degree, that is, borderlands may be seen on a continuum from border regions with little evidence of integration to fully developed, interactive zones which show substantial linkage in trade, cross-border policy integration, institutional alignment and cultural belonging’ (Ibid., p. 33). 6. Ibid., p. 21. 7. Ibid., p. 22. 8. Henk van Houtum, Oliver Kramsch & Wolfgang Zierhofer, ‘Prologue’, in H. van Houtum, O. Kramsch & W. Zierhofer (eds), B/ordering Space (Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing, 2005), pp. 1 – 13, pp. 2 – 3; Bruno Latour, La Clef de Berlin et Autres Lecons d’un Amateur de Sciences (Paris: La Decouverte, 1993). 9. Houtum, Kramsch & Zierhofer, ‘Prologue’, p. 3. 10. Yosef Lapid, ‘Culture’s ship: Returns and departures in international relations theory’, in Y. Lapid & F. Kratochwil (eds), The Return of Culture and Identity in IR Theory (Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 1996), pp. 3 – 20, p. 8. 11. Patricia M. Goff & Kevin C. Dunn (eds), Identity and Global Politics: Empirical and Theoretical Elaborations (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004). 12. Patricia M. Goff & Kevin C. Dunn, ‘Conclusion: Revisiting the four dimensions of identity’, in P. M. Goff & K. C. Dunn (eds), Identity and Global Politics: Empirical and Theoretical Elaborations (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), pp. 237– 47, p. 244. 13. Margaret R. Somers, ‘The narrative constitution of identity: A relational and network approach’, Theory and Society 23 (1994), pp. 605–49. 14. Barbara Czarniawska (Narratives in Social Science Research (London: SAGE Publications Ltd., 2004), p. 17) defines a narrative as ‘a spoken or written text giving an account of an event/action or series of events/actions, chronologically connected’. Kenneth Gergen (‘Self-narration in social life’, in M. Wetherell, S. Taylor & S. J. Yates (eds), Discourse Theory and Practice: A Reader (Thousand Oaks: SAGE Publications Ltd., 2001), pp. 247 – 60, p. 248) uses the term selfnarrative to refer to ‘an individual’s account of the relationship among selfrelevant events across time’. 15. Somers, ‘The narrative constitution of identity: A relational and network approach’, p. 606. 16. Ibid., emphasis in the original. 17. Czarniawska (Narratives in Social Science Research, p. 19) views stories as a subcategory of narratives, distinguished by the existence of a plot, understood as ‘the basic means by which specific events, otherwise represented as lists or chronicles, are brought into one meaningful whole’ (ibid., p. 7; my emphasis). More specifically, she refers to Todorov’s (The Poetics of Prose (Oxford: Blackwell, 1977), p. 111) definition of a ‘minimal plot’: ‘[It] consists of the passage from one equilibrium to another. An “ideal” narrative begins with a stable situation which is disturbed by some power or force. There results a state of disequilibrium; by the action of a force directed in the opposite direction, the equilibrium is re-established; the

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second equilibrium is similar to the first, but the two are never identical.’ In turn, narrative can be viewed as a sub-category of the term ‘discourse’, defined by the linguist Deborah Cameron as ‘language above the sentence’ or ‘language in use’ (Deborah Cameron, Working with Spoken Discourse (Thousand Oaks: SAGE Publications Ltd., 2001, pp. 10ff)). The term is widely used throughout humanities and the social sciences and its meaning varies with academic discipline and epistemological stance. See Anna de Fina, Deborah Schiffrin & Michael Bamberg (eds), Discourse and Identity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006) for a thorough discussion of discourse and identity. Kenneth Gergen, ‘Self-narration in social life’, in M. Wetherell, S. Taylor & S. J. Yates (eds), Discourse Theory and Practice: A Reader (Thousand Oaks: SAGE Publications Ltd., 2001), pp. 247– 60, p. 249. Heidi Armbruster & Ulrike H. Meinhof, ‘Working identities: Key narratives in a former border region in Germany’, in U. H. Meinhof (ed.), Living (with) Borders: Identity Discourses on East – West Borders in Europe (Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing, 2002), pp. 15– 32, pp. 18ff; Charles Taylor, Sources of the Self: The Making of Modern Identity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989); Seyla Benhabib, ‘Sexual difference and collective identities: The new global constellation’, Signs 24 (1999), pp. 335– 61. Armbruster & Meinhof, ‘Working identities: Key narratives in a former border region in Germany’, p. 19. Benhabib, ‘Sexual difference and collective identities: The new global constellation’, p. 344. Ibid. Gergen, ‘Self-narration in social life’, p. 253. Somers, ‘The narrative constitution of identity: A relational and network approach’, p. 617ff. Ibid., p. 618. The investigation involved some 25 in-depth interviews with small groups of inhabitants of the Kola Peninsula conducted between 2004 and 2006, partly by myself and partly by two researchers at Murmansk State Technical University. See Geir Hønneland, ‘How to be a Russian: Distinguishing East from West’, in Borderland Russians: Identity, Narrative and International Relations (New York, Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), pp. 80 – 104, for details. In Hønneland, ‘How to be a northerner: Distinguishing north from south’, in Borderland Russians: Identity, Narrative and International Relations, extracts from these three interviews are presented largely uncut. I discuss this section later in the chapter. There were 89 federal subjects in the Russian Federation at the time when the interviews were conducted. Since then, several federal subjects have merged. At the time of writing, the number is 83. Nancey Ries (Russian Talk: Culture and Conversation during Perestroika (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997), p. 37) lists ‘shopping tales’ as a typical Russian female speech genre. She also describes the expected behaviour of shop

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attendants in a way that explains Nastya’s surprise, ‘The oft-remarked brusqueness of Russian saleswomen was, in fact, a genre of this scolding variety. Foreigners encountering it for the first time usually interpreted it as pure rudeness stemming from the fact that there is no incentive to be polite in the absence of free market competition. In fact, the saleswomen’s way of speaking to customers was a mark of social class and category, an expressive genre which in many ways was an essential part of the entire sport of shopping’ (ibid., p. 72). Many interviewees were not concerned with trying to define ‘the south’ in political or geographical terms. Of those who did raise the question, most seemed above all curious to know whether the former Soviet republics that are now independent states should be included, such as Ukraine and the South Caucasus. The Russian ‘middle belt’ also seemed to be perceived as the south by the interviewees – Smolensk, Penza and Samara were referred to as southern cities, among others. For one interviewee, south meant ‘at least south of Piter’. Czarniawska, Narratives in Social Science Research, p. 19. Gergen, ‘Self-narration in social life’, p. 250. Elements of the story recall what Ries (Russian Talk: Culture and Conversation during Perestroika, pp. 51ff) identifies as tales of female sacrifice and heroism in Russia. The sex of the victim – female – appears to add weight to the story. Would Sergey have bothered to tell the story if it had been a man who had helped them? In any event, by reiterating the gender of the person who came to their aid, he obviously wants to attract attention to what he considers an important detail. Some point to the flow of people in the other direction today (still with the same perception of northern attributes), ‘I’ve noticed a tendency here. I may be wrong, but I get the impression that the people who move from the north to the capital are leaders, people in advertising, programmers, doctors etc. And from the south waiters, bartenders and secretaries. But I couldn’t say why’ (female, early twenties). Interestingly, the alleged openness and sociability of southerners goes together with stinginess, while northerners are characterized as extravagant and generous, albeit calm and cultured. In neighbouring Norway, the northerner is generally believed to be open, sociable and generous, while the stereotype of a southerner is calm and cultured (at least more cultured than the northerner), but stingy. As we will see in the next chapter, similar ways of talk as these women use to describe themselves as Russian northerners, are also used by my interviewees to portray Scandinavians. ‘Incubator’ seems to be a rather popular word. Irina Razumova, ‘Sotsialisticheski gorod v pamyati zhiteley’, in N. Baschmakoff, P. Fryer & M. Ristolainen (eds), Texts and Communities: Soviet and Post-Soviet Life in Discourse and Practice, Aleksanteri Series 4/2007 (Helsinki: Aleksanteri Institute, 2007), pp. 145–58, p. 146. Ibid., p. 147 [my translation].

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40. Somers, ‘The narrative constitution of identity: A relational and network approach’ (see above). 41. These are the main positive attributes of the northern character according to my interviewees. Razumova (‘Sotsialisticheski gorod v pamyati zhiteley’, p. 145) offers a slightly different, though related, explanation. Claiming that Kirovsk is more civilized than its immediate neighbour Apatity (both belong to the same conurbation), one of her interviewees argues that people are more cultured in the towns that were built by political prisoners (like Kirovsk in the 1930s) than by volunteers (which Apatity was in the 1960s). The political prisoners of the early Communist period were people of principle, hardy from the ordeals of life, while the volunteers moving up north after World War II were simply people who ‘could not find anywhere else to settle down’ [my translation]. Interestingly, also Razumova’s discussion revolves around the kulturnost of Russian northerners. 42. See also the interview with Ashot from Yerevan in the next chapter. 43. One wonders why she does not simply state that she suffered a depression, which happens to many people from time to time, but so eagerly connects it to the ‘large phenomena’ of the outer environment: temperature and pressure. In one of our key interviews in the next chapter, the interviewees – two psychologists – claim that until recently you did not speak openly about depression in Russia. One of them did a study 15 years earlier about the impacts of living in the north, showing a high degree of sickliness, especially among children, but was not allowed to publish the results. His colleague claims that the constant whiteness (belizna) makes northerners depressed, ‘It’s a scientific fact, though you would not hear it officially. It’s been a virtual state secret since Soviet times’ (female, early forties). If Nastya has not heard about the whiteness problem, changes in temperature and atmospheric pressures are part of the vocabulary available to her when she is trying to understand the changes in her state of mind. In neighbouring Norway, there is some focus in the media about so-called winter depression among northerners. The main scientific explanation given is lack of light during the polar night, and strong lamps are provided for both prophylaxis and treatment. Neither whiteness, temperature changes or atmospheric pressures are part of the public discourse on winter depression in Norway. 44. We also remember how Marina linked the kindness of northerners to climatic conditions without explicating the causal connection. Another interviewee explains, ‘Southerners are different from us temperamentally, they are more active, emotional. We are compelled by the climate to be more conservative, even-tempered. Because of the weather we’ve learned to put up with the way things are, so we’re more patient than southerners’ (female, mid-forties). Her conversation partner adds, after being asked by the interviewer how these differences can be ascribed to natural conditions, ‘It’s not very hot up here, so people try to spread a bit of warmth in their personal relations’ (male, midforties). As an exception, one young woman relates the good manners of

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northerners to other things than climate and money, ‘Broad-minded, that’s my impression of northerners. Because ALL sorts came from ALL OVER, and they had little choice but to find a modus vivendi’ (female, early twenties). It is also an argument I have heard countless times during other research projects on the Kola Peninsula, and from simply talking to people there. For instance, during a study of public child care in the region in the late 1990s, I often heard child welfare officials express dismay at the idea of letting children grow up under Arctic conditions. It isn’t natural, they protested. But there wasn’t the money to let children in care spend the summer months from May to September in sunnier climates, something they used to do. Many officials at residential care homes cited the ‘unnatural’ climatic conditions as a main cause of illness among children. (Industrial pollution and its probable effect on the children’s health were not mentioned once.) At one institution (notably for healthy, rather than ill or disabled children), the director told us that close to half of her wards were officially designated ‘sickly’. Asked which diseases predominated, she replied ‘Arctic sight’, i.e. reduced vision as a result of the long polar night. It was mentioned by both Anton and Sergey in first and second interview extracts – and by many others in my sample – and seems to be well known to Kola inhabitants. In Finnmark, on the Norwegian side of the border, I doubt if many people have ever heard of it. In any event, it is not part of public discourse there. This combination of negative attitudes to life in the north and eagerness to be considered a northerner strengthens my assumption of a close connection between being a northerner and certain acquirable attributes (the four Cs) rather than a matter of geographical location alone. Viktor, I believe, would continue to think of himself as a northerner even if he returned to his native Crimea. Switching back and forth between seemingly positive and negative opinions on the subject of discussion (be it the north, southerners or Scandinavians) is another striking feature of many interviews – a point I will also discuss further. Viktor, who believes it was a crime to build a city of half a million people north of the Polar Circle and in-hu-mane to let people stay there, also commends Murmansk as ‘the best city in Russia’. He is reminded by his fellow interviewees of what he had said a few days earlier. To which he responds: ‘I take it all back. Best in Russia, maybe, but it’s just that I want to live abroad – it’s better there.’ There follows a heated discussion about problems with life in the north, leading to the ‘crime conclusion’. More inconsistencies – or is he just picking selectively among the various narrative resources available to him, all constituent parts of Russian northern identity? We return to this in the conclusion. My study is not longitudinal, so it is not possible for me to say much about how things were before the border was opened. I can only show how people comment on the established cross-border relations and relate this to their assumed feeling of northernness and Russianness. More about this in Chapter 9.

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49. More about this, too, in Chapter 9. 50. Ries, Russian Talk: Culture and Conversation during Perestroika, pp. 84ff. 51. Ries (ibid., p. 87) understands litanies as ‘ritual elevations’ of Russian speech which create ‘generalized social bonds’ between members of a moral community, or a community of shared suffering. Unlike Ries’s respondents, who generally complained about the fate of Russia at a time of social upheaval, Marina’s litany creates a ‘community of shared Russianness’ at a time when the significance of national borders is receding. Although she moaned about southerners earlier in the interview, she only reaches the elevated state of litany speech (raised voice, in turn looking all her conversation partners in the eye after each rhetorical exclamation) at this point. Interestingly, Ivan does not object to Marina’s sarcastic comments about Norwegian education and health care, as one might have expected since he is so keen to demonstrate his Norwegian experience. Instead he joins in with a comment about the prerogatives of the Russian school. The trio agree about the hopelessness of the Russian south, but also seem to agree – perhaps with some moral purpose in mind – about protecting their sense of Russianness despite cross-border contacts. 52. I am not surprised by their criticism of the Norwegian education system, which is obviously less centred on facts and skills, and more on helping students develop a critical, reflective faculty and become active citizens. The criticism of Norwegian health care is more unexpected and not immediately comprehensible to me. Having visited a number of Russian health care institutions (and a few Norwegian), it seems absurd for a Russian to say she would not trust the medical service in Norway for anything in the world. Did Marina get carried away by her own litany, or has she really heard criticism of Norway’s health care? Is there a general scepticism towards things from the other side of the border? Hopefully we will be able to flesh these issues out in the next chapter. For now, the most interesting thing is perhaps the combination of enthusiasm for crossborder collaboration and disdain about what the other side has to offer. 53. Strictly speaking, whether she has become ‘more’ conscious is difficult for me to state as a fact since I did not interview her before the border was opened (and, of course, since I can only report what she says, not what she thinks), and even if I had interviewed her then (and had access to her thoughts), there would have been the problem of proving causalities between the opening of the border and her sense of Russianness. I can, however, point to the fact that she uses descriptions of post-opening-border phenomena (cross-border marriages) to fervently defend features of Russian society and criticize those same features in Scandinavia. In any case, she is not overly positive to how things are done on the other side of the border, open or not. 54. St Petersburg was built by Peter the Great in the early eighteenth century as a gateway to the more advanced societies of Western Europe. ‘White nights’ and other northern specialities are often ascribed to St Petersburg. As Ivan’s narrative shows, the city also cultivates an ‘intellectual’ image. Another interviewee said, emphasizing both northernness and intellectualism, ‘Many say

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northerners are better than southerners. It follows logically then [sic], people in Leningrad [using the Soviet name for the city] are better than Muscovites’ (female, late thirties). As Ivan noted, the Kola Peninsula had been mostly ‘built by people from Piter’. The region was administered as an okrug (‘district’) of Leningrad Oblast from 1927 to 1938, the year Murmansk Oblast was established. It was part of Arkhangelsk Gubernia for more than two centuries before becoming a gubernia in its own right for a brief period, 1920 – 7. A few of my other interviewees mention the relationship between St Petersburg, the Kola Peninsula and Scandinavia, ‘Northern Russia looks more to St Petersburg, while the south looks to Moscow. With regards to other countries, northerners look to Scandinavia and other European countries, while the south, I believe, look more to the Baltic countries’ (female, early twenties). According to most interviewees, St Petersburg and the Kola community are linked by mutual bonds of affection, ‘The young up here in the north all can’t wait to get out. You don’t need to go far to find examples. More than half of our fellow students live in Piter today. They’ve set up home, have a job and are very content with their life. And they try to tempt the rest of us to join the “Piter diaspora”’ (female, early twenties). ‘There’s a demand for our students in our capital cities. As long as you’re not without talent completely, you’ve got an 80 per cent chance of getting a good job. My husband asked recently about our students at the head office of a Petersburg-based business. It’s like this in Piter. If you have a choice between a southerner and a northerner, you’ll choose the northerner. On the one hand, it’s got to do with better education opportunities here, on the other on capacity for work. Northerners are usually honest, and ready to work for wages which newly qualified students from Moscow would turn down’ (female, early twenties). Martin Mu¨ller, ‘Situating identities: Enacting and studying Europe at a Russian elite university’, Millennium: Journal of International Studies 37 (2008), pp. 3 – 25. Gergen, ‘Self-narration in social life’, p. 253.

Chapter 9

How to be a Russian

1. This chapter is a revised version of Geir Hønneland, ‘How to be a Russian: Distinguishing East from West’, in Borderland Russians: Identity, Narrative and International Relations (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), pp. 80 – 104. 2. Henrik Ibsen (1828– 1906), Norwegian playwright; Roald Amundsen (1872 – 1928), Norwegian Polar explorer. 3. This seems to be the case whether the interviewer was Norwegian or Russian, and whether questions about Scandinavians came early or late in the interview. 4. Judging on the basis of my interviews and wider experience of life in the Kola Peninsula, Murmansk folk tend to notice the appearance of Scandinavians, their clothing, how they walk etc. Like Larisa above, many are struck by foreigners’

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gaze, expressing curiosity and interest (as opposed to Russians who stare at a fixed point in front of them). Foreigners seem to walk slowly and apparently aimlessly (as opposed to Russians needing to get from point A to point B without dawdling). Foreigners are helpless when it comes to dressing. They dress inappropriately for the weather (go without a fur hat in winter, for instance) and for the occasion (they don’t wear suit and tie when it is expected of them). They seem incapable of observing even the simplest rules of proper dress, like buttoning up your jacket (‘jackets undone’, as several of my interviewees observe). A female colleague of mine was once scolded by a Russian scientist for breaching the dress codes. She had bought a winter coat at the inexpensive, but rather modish Swedish chain store Hennes & Mauritz. She was sauntering around downtown Murmansk (probably with her ‘eyes wide open’ and no particular aim in mind) when a Russian scientist of her acquaintance rushed up to her exclaiming: ‘[Name], is that you?! When I saw a woman from afar wearing an awful, cheap winter coat I assumed she was one of our bomzhy (bag ladies). But what do I discover on closer inspection? It was you! [Name], you just can’t dress like that in Russia. That coat’s only fit for bomzhy! Go and get yourself a respectable fur coat!’ The subject of Scandinavian women’s dress would fill a chapter; according to many Russians they do not even look like women. A Kolabased female scientist – a declared feminist – once told me: ‘When I’m at the University of Tromsø [northern Norway], the way the women dress is simply unbearable: big sweaters, shapeless shoes, no make-up – not the slightest trace of femininity!’ 5. In my experience, ‘boring’ is arguably how most Northwest Russians think about life in the Nordic countries. I have heard it said countless times, by friends, taxi drivers, newspaper articles and lectures (on how the Russian diaspora in Norway perceive life there). It also looms large in my interviews; cf., e.g., Marina’s opinion quoted in the previous chapter, ‘We’ve heard it’s quiet, clean but, you know, a bit boring perhaps [skuchnovato ]. Yeah, that’s what they say, that Norway’s boring [skuchno ].’ 6. The Russians’ liberal attitude to compliance with the law is key to their selfperception, according to Svetlana Boym (Common Places: Mythologies of Everyday Life in Russia (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1994), p. 289). Eating ice cream on the underground is not approved of, but driving through red lights is (though the latter is proscribed in law, not the former). Boym tells a story about the Russian critic Mikhail Epstein who joined a march in the United States against the first Gulf War. He was astounded to see the protesters after the rally – still beating drums and shouting slogans and insults about President Bush – stop at a red light even when there were no cars at the crossing! ‘For an American, the protest and the stopping at the red light were both part of the democratic ritual; in fact both his protest and his everyday behaviour were lawful. For a Russian accustomed to routine violations of everyday prohibitions and cynical about the laws because they were part and parcel of the official order, this combination of simultaneously protesting and observing the rules is nearly

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inconceivable’ (ibid., p. 289). The Russian inclination to violate everyday regulations whenever they have the opportunity is infamous. For instance, many Russians don’t attach their safety belts when driving because it would be doing what the authorities tell them to do. To avoid fines, however, they hold the seat belts in place, but without fastening them! I once took the bus in Murmansk together with a political science lecturer at one of the city’s universities. Smiling, he told me that on principle he never paid for the bus. His mother had lost all her savings in the inflation that followed the economic reforms of the early 1990s, and this was his silent way of protesting, not paying the state for riding on the bus. The usual Russian word for Norwegian is norvezhets. Norg is slang for Norwegians, slightly derogatory but very common in Northwestern Russia in recent years. Nancy Ries’s (Russian Talk: Culture and Conversation during Perestroika (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997)), pp. 65ff. Ibid., p. 65. Line from the late 1990s’ international hit Barbie Girl by the Scandinavian (i.e. Danish – Norwegian) pop group Aqua. One of my interviewees (female, around forty) in fact likened Scandinavia to the classic American soap opera Santa Barbara, notorious for its glamorous but empty characters and the ‘slow motion’ of its plot. Scandinavians, one of my interviewees (male, around forty) says, find no pleasure in picking and eating wild mushrooms. They prefer to stuff themselves [davitsya, indicating lack of pleasure] with mushrooms bought in the shop. Russians tend to have a low opinion of the Norwegian kitchen, in my experience. Those dry open sandwiches can’t be compared with the vast riches of the Russian table. This is a slightly paraphrased version of a statement by Elena Hellberg-Hirn (‘Ambivalent space: Expressions of Russian identity’, in J. Smith (ed.), Beyond the Limits: The Concept of Space in Russian History and Culture (Helsinki: Finnish Historical Society, 1999), pp. 49–69, p. 56). A poignant description of the Russian perception of soul is given by one of Ries’s (Russian Talk: Culture and Conversation during Perestroika, p. 30). interviewees, a Russian philosopher, ‘The Russian people think they have soul and they doubt that anyone else has. Russians have dusha [soul] because they are moral. Being moral – it is not just to be kind, generous, it is basically some kind of connection between individual and community and nature. So there is a feeling that you yourself are not that important, but you are important through the community of which you are a part, and through nature, and this always made Russian soldiers so good, because they thought nothing of sacrificing themselves for their motherland. So even though the feeling of individual value is weakened, the feeling of community is completely strengthened . . . so that is dusha, which is the mechanism of this. Dusha is basically a mechanism of involvement, maybe not direct involvement, but a mechanism of association of oneself with a broader set – narod [the people].’

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14. There are a few possible exceptions. Viktor has no reservations in his admiration for Scandinavian orderliness and dismay over Russia’s lack of the same; Sveta wants a future for her disabled child abroad. Neither of them suggest, however, that Russia should learn from the Nordic countries. Of course, this might have to do with assumptions that Russia is unlikely to change in their lifetime. 15. I can only speculate about what the ‘opening’ of the border has implied since I have only interviewed people – and talked to people in Murmansk more generally – after the border was opened. 16. The border was not completely ‘closed’ prior to the fall of Communism, nor is it completely ‘open’ subsequent to it. 17. The largest cities in northern Norway, Sweden and Finland, respectively. 18. They may simultaneously lament Scandinavian dullness, lack of spirituality or taste – but that is another story. 19. This reminds me of a story an experienced Russian– Norwegian interpreter (a Russian native living in Norway) once told me. She was used to accompanying Norwegian delegations to Murmansk. On the flight over, Norwegians often moaned, she said, about ‘all that vodka we’ll have to drink over the next days!’ And when she was with the Russian delegation, they would sigh, ‘Oh, those Norwegians! Now we have to drink for days on end again!’ Norwegians and Russians seem caught up in myths about each other’s drinking habits. 20. Christopher S. Browning, ‘The region-building approach revisited: The continued othering of Russia in discourses of region-building in the European north’, Geopolitics 8 (2003), pp. 45 – 71, p. 58. 21. Admittedly, there is an addendum: ‘there might be something there, though, worth considering.’ By and large, however, no one speaks of reconstructing Kola on a Scandinavian model, e.g. a Scandinavian-type welfare state. On the contrary, of the interviewees with an opinion, most are highly opposed to the welfare state because it cripples personal initiative. A notable exception is when interviewees talk about Russia’s poor treatment of its pensioners (see previous chapter). 22. Ries, Russian Talk: Culture and Conversation during Perestroika, pp. 35ff. 23. Ibid., pp. 35– 6. She continues, ‘In more prosaic contexts, of course, my Russian friends were far more expert than I could ever be at devising intricate and ingenious solutions to the problems of everyday existence. In a sense, their lamentation of structural challenges allowed them simultaneously to celebrate their own highly developed but impromptu coping skills’ (Ibid, p. 36). This is reflected in my own material as well. There are few, if any, suggestions in my interviews as to how the structures and practices of Russian society could be improved. But as far as the practical challenges of everyday life are concerned, Russians pride themselves on their coping skills, cf. Elena’s story about the helicopter mechanic who constructed a cheese knife for the snooty foreigners on the tundra. 24. It is generally assumed by many qualitatively oriented social scientists that people express different opinions in different contexts. In his introduction to

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ethnographic research in IR studies, Hugh Gusterson (‘Ethnographic research’, in A. Klotz & D. Prakash (eds), Qualitative Methods in International Relations: A Pluralist Guide (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), pp. 93 – 113, p. 105) writes, ‘Researchers who subscribe to more positivist understandings of the world than I do assume that research subjects have stable “values,” “preferences,” “beliefs,” “ideologies,” or “cultures” and that it is the researcher’s job to find out what they are as clearly as possible [. . .]. But I soon noticed that subjects I interviewed more than once might contradict themselves in interesting ways, or that some interviewees presented themselves quite differently to journalists and to me. Positivists would see such fluctuations as “noise” to be eliminated in order to ascertain what the informant “really” thinks. I came, instead, to see these instabilities of discourse as themselves part of informants’ cultural identities.’ 25. Yes, there is a contradiction here. However, she may dislike Norwegian schools, but approve of the more general insight Russian students get about life in Norway while attending them.

Chapter 10 Making Russia Comply: Bargaining Precautionary Fisheries Management in the Barents Sea 1. This chapter is a revised version of Geir Hønneland, ‘Compliance and postagreement bargaining in the Barents Sea fisheries’, Ocean Development & International Law 45 (2014), pp. 186– 204. 2. The Joint Commission was established by an agreement on cooperation in the fishing industry between Norway and the Soviet Union in 1975; see ‘Avtale mellom Regjeringen i Unionen av Sovjetiske Sosialistiske Republikker og Regjeringen i Kongeriket Norge om samarbeid innen fiskerinæringen’ (‘Agreement between the Government of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and the Government of the Kingdom of Norway on Co-operation in the Fishing Industry’), in Overenskomster med fremmede stater (‘Agreements with Foreign States’) (Oslo: the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 1975, pp. 546 –9). 3. This is not to say that the Russians should necessarily learn from Norwegian fisheries management practices. The point of departure is the empirical observation that Norway has sought to influence Russian behaviour in the Barents Sea management regime, referring to the parties’ international obligations, bilaterally between them and in relation to global fisheries agreements. 4. See agreement between Norway and the Soviet Union on cooperation in the fishing industry from 1975 (Chapter 10, note 2). A separate agreement on mutual fishing rights was signed in ‘Avtale mellom Regjeringen i Kongeriket Norge og Regjeringen i Unionen av Sovjetiske Sosialistiske Republikker om gjensidige fiskeriforbindelser’ (‘Agreement between the Government of the Kingdom of Norway and the Government of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics on Mutual Fishery Relations’), in Overenskomster med fremmede stater

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8.

9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

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(‘Agreements with Foreign States’) (Oslo: the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 1977, pp. 974– 8). Christer Jo¨nsson & Jonas Tallberg, ‘Compliance and post-agreement bargaining’, European Journal of International Relations 4 (1998), pp. 371–408, p. 372. Ibid. The empirical presentation builds mainly on protocols from the Joint Commission and its Permanent Committee, and interviews with participants in these two forums. I also draw on my own participation in the Joint Commission and its Permanent Committee intermittently during the period 1993– 2005, first as an interpreter, then as a participating observer. The discussion expands on material presented in Geir Hønneland, Making Fishery Agreements Work: PostAgreement Bargaining in the Barents Sea (Cheltenham, Edward Elgar Publishing, 2012). Markus Burgstaller, Theories of Compliance with International Law (Leiden: Martinus Nijhoff, 2005). Institutionalism and liberalism are often used interchangeably. The former emphasizes the influence of institutions on international relations, the latter the complex interdependence among states. Normative theory is usually placed in the wider category of post-modernism, although as a very mild variant of it. See Knud Erik Jørgensen, International Relations Theory: A New Introduction (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010). Hans J. Morgenthau, Politics Among Nations: The Struggle for Power and Peace (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1948), p. 229. Ronald B. Mitchell, ‘Regime design matters: Intentional oil pollution and treaty compliance’, International Organization 48 (1994), pp. 425– 58. Burgstaller, Theories of Compliance with International Law. John Mearsheimer, The Tragedy of Great Power Politics (New York: Norton, 2001). See, for instance, Stephen Walt, ‘International Relations: One World, Many Theories’, Foreign Policy 110 (1998), pp. 29– 45. Burgstaller, Theories of Compliance with International Law, pp. 98 – 9. Alexander Wendt, ‘Anarchy is what states make of it: The social construction of power politics’, International Organization 46 (1992), pp. 391– 425, p. 391. Abram Chayes & Antonia Handler Chayes, The New Sovereignty: Compliance with International Regulatory Agreements (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995); Mitchell, ‘Regime design matters: Intentional oil pollution and treaty compliance’, pp. 425 – 58; Ronald B. Mitchell, Intentional Oil Pollution at Sea: Environmental Policy and Treaty Compliance (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1994). Abram Chayes & Antonia Handler Chayes, ‘Compliance without enforcement: State behavior under regulatory treaties’, Negotiation Journal 7 (1991), pp. 311–30. Chayes & Chayes, The New Sovereignty: Compliance with International Regulatory Agreements, p. 25 [my italics]. Walt, ‘International Relations: One World, Many Theories’; Chayes & Chayes, ‘Compliance without enforcement: State behavior under regulatory treaties’; Mitchell, ‘Regime design matters: Intentional oil pollution and treaty

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compliance’, Intentional Oil Pollution at Sea: Environmental Policy and Treaty Compliance; Edith B. Weiss & Harold K. Jacobson (eds), Engaging Countries: Strengthening Compliance with International Environmental Accords (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1998). Chayes & Chayes, The New Sovereignty: Compliance with International Regulatory Agreements, p. 109 [my italics]. Burgstaller, Theories of Compliance with International Law, p. 101. Thomas M. Franc, The Power of Legitimacy among Nations (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990). Harold Hongju Koh, ‘Why do nations obey international law?’ Yale Law Journal 106 (1997), pp. 2599– 659. Burgstaller, Theories of Compliance with International Law, pp. 102, 165ff. Bertram Irwin Spector & I. Wiliam Zartman (eds), Getting it Done: PostAgreement Negotiation and International Regimes (Washington: United States Institute of Peace Press, 2003), p. 4. Jo¨nsson & Tallberg, ‘Compliance and post-agreement bargaining’, p. 372. Ibid., p. 375. Ibid., p. 376. Ibid., pp. 378ff. Ibid., pp. 382 – 84. Spector & Zartman (eds), Getting it Done: Post-Agreement Negotiation and International Regimes. See agreement on cooperation in the fishing industry between Norway and the Soviet Union (Chapter 10, note 2). Norway declared an economic zone 17 December 1976. The Soviet Union declared a 200-mile fishery zone 10 December 1976. See agreement between Norway and the Soviet Union on mutual fishing rights (Chapter 10, note 4). Protokoll for den 21. sesjon i Den blandede norsk – russiske fiskerikommisjon (‘Protocol for the 21st Session of the Joint Norwegian – Russian Fisheries Commission’) (Oslo: Ministry of Fisheries, 1992), Art. 11.2. These events are set out in detail in Geir Hønneland, ‘Enforcement co-operation between Norway and Russia in the Barents Sea fisheries’, Ocean Development & International Law 31 (2000), pp. 249– 67. For a detailed discussion, see Geir Hønneland, Kvotekamp og kyststatssolidaritet: Norsk – russisk fiskeriforvaltning gjennom 30 a˚r (Bergen: Fagbokforlaget, 2006). Protokoll for den 28. sesjon i Den blandete norsk-russiske fiskerikommisjon (‘Protocol for the 28th Session of the Joint Norwegian – Russian Fisheries Commission’) (Oslo: Ministry of Fisheries, 1999). Protokoll for den 29. sesjon i Den blandede norsk-russiske fiskerikommisjon (‘Protocol for the 29th Session of the Joint Norwegian – Russian Fisheries Commission’) (Oslo: Ministry of Fisheries, 2000).

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40. Protokoll for den 31. sesjon i Den blandete norsk-russiske fiskerikommisjon (‘Protocol for the 31st Session of the Joint Norwegian – Russian Fisheries Commission’) (Oslo: Ministry of Fisheries, 2002). 41. Protokoll for den 40. sesjon i Den blandete norsk-russiske fiskerikommisjon (‘Protocol for the 40th Session of the Joint Norwegian – Russian Fisheries Commission’) (Oslo: Ministry of Fisheries, 2011). 42. See Tore Jakobsen & Vladimir K. Ozhigin, The Barents Sea: Ecosystem, Resources, Management – Half a Century of Norwegian – Russian Cooperation (Trondheim: Tapir Academic Press, 2011). 43. For a thorough discussion, see Bente Aasjord & Geir Hønneland, ‘Hvem kan telle «den fisk under vann»? Kunnskapsstrid i russisk havforskning’, Nordisk Østforum 22 (2008), pp. 289– 312. 44. See ICES Advice 2006. Book 3: The Barents and the Norwegian Seas (Copenhagen: International Council for the Exploration of the Sea, 2006), p. 28. 45. Ibid. 46. Interview with civil servant at the Norwegian Directorate of Fisheries, June 2011. 47. Protokoll for den 38. sesjon i Den blandete norsk-russiske fiskerikommisjon (‘Protocol for the 38th Session of the Joint Norwegian – Russian Fisheries Commission’) (Oslo: Ministry of Fisheries, 2009), Attachments 3 and 10. 48. See Olav Schram Stokke, ‘Trade measures and the combat of IUU fishing: Institutional interplay and effective governance in the Northeast Atlantic’, Marine Policy 33 (2009), pp. 339–49. 49. Interview with civil servant at the Norwegian Directorate of Fisheries, June 2011. 50. This observation is based on my participation in the Joint Commission and its Permanent Committee over several years. 51. Aasjord & Hønneland, ‘Hvem kan telle «den fisk under vann»? Kunnskapsstrid i russisk havforskning’. 52. This negotiation track was used not only in the Commission, but also in the Permanent Committee, albeit more seldom. A member of the Norwegian delegation to the Committee said of one particular Russian delegation leader: ‘He was rather difficult. We often had to take him in the back room.’(Interview with civil servant at the Norwegian Directorate of Fisheries, Bergen, June 2011.) 53. These events were explained in an interview with the head of the Norwegian delegation (June 2006): In 1999, we gave rather much on the Norwegian side in order to get a solution. It wasn’t irresponsible, but we had wanted a lower quota. We had had a meeting with the scientists beforehand and took their advice with us to the Commission. The Norwegian goal was already then to achieve long-term management strategies, to get the setting of the TAC ‘automatized’. This first led to the three-year quota; the Russians accepted that, we had a good discussion about it. In order to move forward from there we established the Basic Document Working Group, which was given a concrete assignment [in 2001]. Their report

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[from 2002] gave indications, but no answers. [The Norwegian Director of Fisheries] and I decided to give it a try. We made the formula and spent several hours talking with [the Russian delegation leader]. He eventually succeeded in getting [the harvest control rule] anchored in the [Russian] group. He gave [a prominent Russian scientist] credit for this. 54. Interview with civil servant at the Norwegian Directorate of Fisheries, June 2011. 55. Interviews with two Heads of the Norwegian delegation (1989– 98 and 1999– 2011), June 2006. 56. Interview with civil servant at the Norwegian Directorate of Fisheries, June 2006. 57. Interview with head of Norwegian delegation to the Joint Commission, June 2006. 58. Interview with civil servant at the Norwegian Directorate of Fisheries, June 2011. 59. Ibid. 60. Ibid. 61. Agreement for the Implementation of the Provisions of the UN Convention on the Law of the Sea relating to the Conservation and Management of Straddling Fish Stocks and Highly Migratory Fish Stocks, 4 December 1995. 62. Interview with director of VNIRO, December 2007. 63. Graham T. Allison & Philip D. Zelikow, Essence of Decision: Explaining the Cuban Missile Crisis (New York: Longman, 1999). 64. See Geir Hønneland, ‘Fisheries management in post-Soviet Russia: Legislation, principles and structure’, Ocean Development & International Law 36 (2005), pp. 179– 94. 65. When the Federal Border Service took over responsibility for enforcement in the Russian EEZ in 1998, the FBS was immediately given two seats in the Russian delegation to the Permanent Committee. However, the representatives were shunned by the rest of the Russian delegation. The relationship with the rest of the Russian fisheries complex gradually improved, but the institutional struggle continued. According to one interviewee, the Federal Border Service was never given access to the data about Russian landings in Norway that the Norwegian Directorate of Fisheries had been forwarding to the Russian civilian fisheries enforcement body since 1993. 66. At the 1999 session of the Joint Commission (Murmansk, November 1999), when ICES had recommended a sharp reduction in the TAC and Russia refused to follow this advice, I was told by one member of the Russian delegation that the fishing industry had ‘bought control of’ the Russian delegation. 67. See, for example, Murmanski vestnik, 18 September 1999, where a former head of the Soviet delegation to the Joint Commission argued that the Russians did not know what they agreed to when they accepted the Norwegian proposal to introduce mandatory use of selection grids.

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68. Interview with head of Norwegian delegation to the Joint Commission, June 2006. 69. There has traditionally been a strong sector identity in Russia. See Geir Hønneland, Russian Fisheries Management: The Precautionary Approach in Theory and Practice (Leiden: Martinus Nijhoff, 2004). Until recently, most people had the same educational background (mostly as fishery biologists) and alternated between different positions in the fisheries complex (science, regulation, enforcement or the fishing industry). After the turn of the millennium, there has been a tendency to place people from the country’s ‘power structures’ in the top positions of the fisheries management system, but most civil servants have still climbed the ladder of the fisheries complex and this includes having service at sea. 70. The seafaring theme is also present at the Commission as a social and cultural arena, with delicious seafood dinners, boat trips and maritime excursions, as well as cultural programmes with a nautical twist. 71. Interview with civil servant at the Norwegian Directorate of Fisheries, June 2011. 72. Chayes & Chayes, The New Sovereignty: Compliance with International Regulatory Agreements. 73. Protokoll for den 38. sesjon i Den blandete norsk-russiske fiskerikommisjon (‘Protocol for the 38th Session of the Joint Norwegian – Russian Fisheries Commission’) (Oslo: Ministry of Fisheries, 2009), Art. 12.1. 74. Ibid., Attachments 3 and 10. 75. Treaty between Russia and Norway concerning Maritime Boundary Delimitation and Cooperation in the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean, 15 September 2010 (Oslo: Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 2010). See Øystein Jensen, ‘The Barents Sea: Treaty between Norway and the Russian Federation concerning maritime delimitation and cooperation in the Barents Sea and the Arctic Ocean’, International Journal of Marine and Coastal Law 26 (2011), pp. 151– 68, for a discussion. 76. Several prominent members of the national delegations to the delimitation negotiations were also members of the Joint Commission. Perhaps the ‘rush for compromise’ spilled over from the Commission to the delimitation negotiations? 77. Chayes & Chayes, The New Sovereignty: Compliance with International Regulatory Agreements, p. 109.

Chapter 11 Fishing Field Deliberations 1. This chapter is a revised version of Geir Hønneland, ‘Post-agreement bargaining at individual level’, in Making Fishery Agreements Work: Post-agreement bargaining in the Barents Sea (Cheltenham: Edward Elgar Publishing, 2012), pp. 101– 22. 2. Fresh empirical data were collected through interviews with Russian fishers (most of them captains) in 2009 – 10. The interviews were conducted by myself and my colleague Anne-Kristin Jørgensen (some by Anne-Kristin alone) in

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various Norwegian ports where the Russian fishing vessels had come to deliver fish or have repairs done. We would get in touch with some of the captains through their Norwegian agents (who handle practical matters for them while they are in Norwegian port) or mutual acquaintances; some we would contact directly – on the docks, in the streets or by simply climbing on board their vessels. We had conducted similar interviews with Russian captains in Norwegian ports in 1997– 8; also these interviews are used here. It proved far more difficult to get the Russian captains to talk to us this time than in the late 1990s. In fact, most of those we approached refused to speak with us, saying that the shipowner had forbidden them to ‘talk with journalists’. In order to get a good amount of interviews, we therefore instigated a separate round of interviews, to be carried out by a Russian researcher in Murmansk. She sought out captains and other crew members on fishing boats from acquaintances and business contacts in the city’s fishing industry. All in all, around 50 people in this category were interviewed. Approximately the same number of scientists and civil servants (including representatives of Russian fisheries enforcement bodies) were consulted during the period 2006 – 9. 3. As mentioned in the introduction to this chapter, it is not my aim here to assess the level of compliance in the Barents Sea fisheries, but it is generally high. My own investigations from the 1990s (Geir Hønneland, ‘Compliance in the Fishery Protection Zone around Svalbard’, Ocean Development and International Law 29 (1998), pp. 339– 60; Coercive and Discursive Compliance Mechanisms in the Management of Natural Resources: A Case Study from the Barents Sea Fisheries (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2000)) indicated that on average 12 per cent of inspections in the Norwegian EEZ and 15 per cent in the Svalbard Zone resulted in a reaction of some sort (oral or written warning or arrest; warnings for lacking reports in the Svalbard Zone not counted). Only 4 per cent of inspections in the Norwegian EEZ and 0.5 per cent in the Svalbard and the internal waters of Svalbard resulted in arrest. In 2010, 18 per cent of the Coast Guard’s inspections led to reaction, 3 per cent to arrest; see Aftenposten, 27 December 2010. 4. However, as one of my interviewees noted, the idea of keeping multiple logbooks is not alien to the Russians. The one presented to Norwegian inspectors would have to reflect actual catch on board, since the Coast Guard calculated the catch in the vessel’s holds. In theory, they could use another catch log for presentation to the Russian authorities, who keep quota control of Russian vessels. Presumably this became more difficult when the Norwegian authorities started to forward data about landings from Russian vessels in Norway in 1993 (see Chapter 10), but only if Russian authorities actually used the information from Norway in their quota control. According to my interviewees at the Norwegian Directorate of Fisheries (interview in Bergen, June 2011), there are indications that this was not the case. 5. If there was a tolerance, discrepancies within it were not documented, presumably so as not to reveal the level of latitude accepted. If, for instance, a

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10. 11.

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(randomly selected) divergence of 3 per cent was allowed, revealed discrepancies of 1 or 2 per cent would not be documented in the inspection form, since the fishers would then understand that this was within the established level of tolerance. Instead, the inspectors would simply record that no discrepancy had been found. I found this formulation in one of my own reports from the Coast Guard. This captain was probably not the only one to express such an opinion. It was only after the Federal Border Service took over control in the Russian EEZ in 1998 that the term Beregovaya okhrana became used with some frequency; the change of name has since been formalized. Tolkerapport (K/V Sta˚lbas – 011191 – 141191), on file with the author. In my interviews in the late 1990s, Norwegian fishers and fisher representatives reported similarly good impressions of the Coast Guard and its inspectors as my Russian interviewees did (see next section). One fisher said: ‘I have been in this profession since the late 1960s, and it was us who wanted the Coast Guard; some things may be worth of criticism, but we take it up with them and sort things out together.’ And another one: ‘[The inspectors] are nice fellows, they sit and chat with us, they do.’ To a larger extent than the Russians, the Norwegians would also express familiarity with the Coast Guard as an organization, its administration and leadership (Hønneland, Coercive and Discursive Compliance Mechanisms in the Management of Natural Resources: A Case Study from the Barents Sea Fisheries; ‘Compliance in the Barents Sea fisheries: How fishermen account for conformity with rules’, Marine Policy 24 (2000), pp. 11 – 19). One fisher representative said about the staff at the Coast Guard’s northern headquarters at Sortland: ‘I often ring them just to have a chat about conditions at sea.’ And a fisher noted: ‘We have a very good relationship with the base at Sortland. [The head of command] is a very fair chap.’ Ju¨rgen Habermas, The Theory of Communicative Action (Boston: Beacon Press, 1984), p. 18. I went on to write my MA thesis about power and communication in the enforcement of the Barents Sea fisheries (Geir Hønneland, Fiskeren og allmenningen; forvaltning og kontroll: Makt og kommunikasjon i kontrollen med fisket i Barentshavet (Tromsø: University of Tromsø, Department of Social Science, 1993)). At that time, I leaned more on ‘big’ Habermasian theory than on the emerging issue-specific literature on compliance in fisheries. In Russia, both scientific and enforcement vessels have traditionally had a role in assisting the fishing fleet in locating promising concentrations of fish; see Geir Hønneland, Russian Fisheries Management: The Precautionary Approach in Theory and Practice (Leiden: Martinus Nijhoff, 2004). I do not indicate where or when my interviews with Russian fishers took place, apart from the fact that it was in various Norwegian ports during 1997 and 1998. This is done to secure the anonymity of interviewees and those who helped me arrange the interviews.

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14. Herbert J. Rubin & Irene Rubin, Qualitative Interviewing: The Art of Hearing Data (Thousand Oaks: SAGE Publications Ltd., 1995); Hønneland, Coercive and Discursive Compliance Mechanisms in the Management of Natural Resources: A Case Study from the Barents Sea Fisheries, pp. 143– 51. 15. Geir Hønneland, Borderland Russians: Identity, Narrative and International Relations (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010). See also Chapters 8 and 9. 16. Nancy Ries, Russian Talk: Culture and Conversation during Perestroika (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997). 17. Ibid., p. 42. 18. Ibid., p. 43. 19. Ibid., p. 49. 20. Ibid., pp. 49 – 55. 21. Ibid., p. 50. 22. While we cannot exclude the possibility that my interviewees were in fact well-informed about the ups and downs of Russian overfishing at the aggregate level (which I actually doubt they were, given the limited attention to the issue in the Russian public), the similarity between their stories might in fact reflect narrative convention, rather than reality. Kenneth Gergen (‘Selfnarration in social life’, in M. Wetherell, S. Taylor & S. J. Yates (eds), Discourse Theory and Practice: A Reader (Thousand Oaks: SAGE Publications Ltd., 2001), pp. 247 – 60, pp. 254 – 255) claims that in order to maintain intelligibility in the culture, the story one tells must employ the commonly accepted rules of narrative construction. As an empirical example of how life stories are constructed, he refers how American adolescents characterize their life stories according to narrative conventions – happy at an early stage, difficult during the adolescent years, but now on an upward swing – conventions that do not necessarily reflect actual events in their lives, or their perception of them: ‘In these accounts there is a sense in which narrative form largely dictates memory. Life events don’t seem to influence the selection of the story form; to a large degree it is the narrative form that sets the grounds for which events count as important’ (ibid., p. 255). 23. The usual Russian word for Norwegian is norvezhets. Norg is slang for Norwegian, slightly derogatory but very common in Northwestern Russia in recent years. 24. Rubin & Rubin, Qualitative Interviewing: The Art of Hearing Data. 25. Again, this can be a case of narrative convention, rather than personal experience, dictating how an issue is presented. 26. This implied that they could change nets to satisfy Norwegian mesh-size requirements even in the Svalbard Zone (which was, strictly speaking, not against Russian law), but they would not sign the inspections forms there, since that would not have been acceptable to the Russian authorities. 27. Those who saw it as a case for emulation could, for instance, see the Norwegian enforcement system as contributing to the long-term interest of the Norwegian and Russian fishing communities, which was a good thing even though – as an

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30. 31.

32.

33. 34. 35. 36. 37.

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unavoidable side-effect of an effective enforcement system – some fishers had their rights slightly infringed here and now. Hønneland, Fiskeren og allmenningen; forvaltning og kontroll: Makt og kommunikasjon i kontrollen med fisket i Barentshavet, pp. 93 – 8. In the previous section, I raised the question of whether my observational data paint an overly rosy picture of the situation on the Barents Sea fishing grounds. By this, I did not imply that this type of bargaining between the Norwegian Coast Guard and the Russian fishing fleet ended in the 1990s – only that the conditions for successful bargaining became more difficult. Gary Becker, ‘Crime and punishment: an economic approach’, Journal of Political Economy 72 (1968), pp. 169– 217. Oran R. Young, Compliance and Public Authority: A Theory with International Applications (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1979); Jon G. Sutinen, Alison Rieser & John R. Gauvin, ‘Measuring and explaining noncompliance in federally managed fisheries’, Ocean Development and International Law 21 (1990), pp. 335–72; Tom R. Tylor, Why People Obey the Law: With a New Afterword by the Author (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006). Stig S. Gezelius, ‘Do norms count? State regulation and compliance in a Norwegian fishing community’, Acta Sociologica 45 (2002), pp. 305– 14; ‘Food, money, and morals: Compliance among natural resource harvesters’, Human Ecology 32 (2004), pp. 615– 34; ‘Monitoring fishing mortality: Compliance in Norwegian offshore fisheries’, Marine Policy 30 (2006), pp. 462– 69; ‘Three paths from law enforcement to compliance: Cases from the fisheries’, Human Organization 66 (2007), pp. 414– 25. Gezelius, ‘Food, money, and morals: Compliance among natural resource harvesters’. Gezelius, ‘Three paths from law enforcement to compliance: Cases from the fisheries’. Gezelius, ‘Food, money, and morals: Compliance among natural resource harvesters’. Abram Chayes & Antonia Handler Chayes, The New Sovereignty: Compliance with International Regulatory Agreements (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995), p. 109. The Norwegians undoubtedly had some intention of influencing Russian behaviour, but they might not have been overly aware of which mechanisms – or sources of compliance – they activated. The gradual introduction of selection grids is an example of a process that was probably unintentional from the Norwegian side: the Norwegians did not introduce selection grids in the shrimp fishery in order to make it easier for Russia to accept grids in the cod fishery some years later. Similarly, the stepwise adoption of new regulatory measures – from joint exploration in technical sub-groups via discussions in the Permanent Committee to formal adoption in the Joint Commission – was definitely applauded by the Norwegians, but hardly devised deliberately to make it easier to get it their way vis-a`-vis the Russians.

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38. Gezelius, ‘Three paths from law enforcement to compliance: Cases from the fisheries’. 39. Robert A. Kagan & & John T. Scholz, ‘The “criminology of the corporation” and regulatory enforcement strategies’, in K. Hawkins & J. M. Thomas (eds), Enforcing Regulations (Boston: Kluwer-Nijhoff Publishing, 1984), pp. 67 – 95. 40. Ibid., p. 68. 41. Gezelius, ‘Do norms count? State regulation and compliance in a Norwegian fishing community’, p. 313.

Chapter 12 ‘The Global Fight against Canada in the Arctic’ 1. This chapter is a revised version of Geir Hønneland, ‘The rush for the North Pole’, in Russia and the Arctic: Environment, Identity and Foreign Policy (London: I.B.Tauris, 2016), pp. 43–70. My former student Torstein VikA˚rhus collected the media material through the search engine Meltwater News and the websites of selected national and regional media. Regional media in Northwest Russia included the regional editions of Argumenty i fakty, the digital news agencies NordNews, Murmanskie Biznes-Novosti and the regional radio and TV station GTRK Murman. At national level, the newspapers Izvestia, Kommersant, Moskovski komsomolets, Nezavisimaya gazeta, Novaya gazeta and Rossiyskaya gazeta, as well as the news agencies Lenta.ru, Gazeta.ru, Regnum.ru and Vzglyad, were chosen. This covers a mix of official, business, independent and openly critical media. The systematic search included the words ‘Arctic’ and ‘Norway’ (as much of Russian Arctic politics has been directed at this country) and covered the period 2005–10. More occasional searches were made from 2011 to 2014. I have opted for an ‘easy’ reference system in this and the next chapter. When I quote the same source several times, reference is provided just the once appended to the first quotation. The source of a nonreferenced direct quote can be found in the immediately preceding endnote. 2. Typically, recent commentators on identity tend to start with a declaration such as, ‘Culture and identity are staging a dramatic comeback in social theory and practice at the end of the twentieth century’ (Yosef Lapid, ‘Culture’s ship: Returns and departures in international relations theory’, in Y. Lapid & F. Kratochwil (eds), The Return of Culture and Identity in IR Theory (Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 1996), pp. 3–20, p. 3); ‘Identity [. . .] has become a major watchword since the 1980s’ (Anssi Paasi, ‘Region and place: Regional identity in question’, Progress in Human Geography 27 (2003), pp. 475–85, p. 475; ‘Identity is back. The concept of identity has made a remarkable comeback in the social sciences and humanities’ (Patricia Goff & Kevin C. Dunn, ‘Introduction: In defence of identity’, in P. M. Goff & K. C. Dunn (eds), Identity and Global Politics: Empirical and Theoretical Elaborations (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), pp. 1–8, p. 1); and ‘Research on language and identity has experienced an unprecedented growth in the last ten years’ (Anna de Fina, Deborah Schiffrin & Michael Bamberg, ‘Introduction’, in A. de Fina, D. Schiffrin & M. Bamberg (eds), Discourse and Identity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), pp. 1–23, p. 1).

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3. Yosef Lapid, ‘Culture’s ship: Returns and departures in international relations theory’, in Y. Lapid & F. Kratochwil (eds), The Return of Culture and Identity in IR Theory (Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 1996), pp. 3 – 20. 4. Knud Erik Jørgensen, International Relations Theory: A New Introduction (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), pp. 173 –74. 5. Alexander Wendt, ‘Anarchy is what states make of it: The social construction of power politics’, International Organization 46 (1992), pp. 391– 425. 6. This does not mean that students of identity disregard the role of power in international relations. Nau (Nau, Henry R., At Home Abroad: Identity and Power in American Foreign Policy (Ithaca: Cornell University Press 2002)), for instance, holds national power and identity as two separate and independent factors defining national interests and influencing foreign policy behaviour. 7. Christopher S. Browning, Constructivism, Narrative and Foreign Policy Analysis: A Case Study of Finland (Bern: Peter Lang, 2008). 8. Ibid., p. 46. 9. Ibid., p. 275. 10. Erik Ringmar, Identity, Interest and Action: A Cultural Explanation of Sweden’s Intervention in the Thirty Years War (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1996). 11. Ibid., p. 66. 12. Ibid., p. 83. 13. Ibid., p. 85. 14. Ibid. 15. Erik Ringmar, ‘The recognition game: Soviet Russia against the west’, Cooperation and Conflict 37 (2002), pp. 115 – 36; The Russian word for ‘house’ and ‘home’ is the same: dom. 16. Ibid., p. 131. 17. Will K. Delehanty & Brent J. Steele, ‘Engaging the narrative in ontological (in) security theory: Insights from feminist IR’, Cambridge Review of International Affairs 22 (2009), pp. 523– 40. 18. Ole Wæver, ‘Insecurity, security and asecurity in the West European non-war community’, in E. Adleer and M. Barnett (eds), Security Communities (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 69–118; Felix Berenskoetter, ‘Friends, there are no friends? An intimate reframing of the international’, Millennium – Journal of International Studies 35 (2007), pp. 647–76. 19. Kuniyuki Nishimura, ‘Worlds of our remembering: The agent – structure problem as the search for identity’, Cooperation and Conflict 46 (2011), pp. 96– 112, p. 105. 20. Erik Ringmar, ‘Inter-textual relations: The quarrel over the Iraq War as conflict between narrative types’, Cooperation and Conflict 41 (2006), pp. 403– 21. 21. Ibid., p. 405. 22. Ibid. 23. Ibid., p. 406. 24. Ibid.

368

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25. See, for example, ‘Russia plants flag on North Pole seabed.’ The Guardian, 2 August 2007. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2007/aug/02/ russia.arctic (accessed 20 June 2017). 26. Katarzyna Zysk, ‘Russia turns north, again: Interests, policies and the search for coherence’, in L. C. Jensen & G. Hønneland (eds), Handbook on the Politics of the Arctic (Cheltenham: Edward Elgar Publishing, 2015), pp. 437 –61. 27. ‘Arkticheskie territorii imeyut strategicheskoe znachenie dlya Rossii’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 30 March 2009. Cited from Marlene Laruelle, Russia’s Arctic Strategies and the Future of the Far North (Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 2014), p. 10. 28. ‘Shelf vzyat! V Moskvu: Uchastniki rossiyskoy arkticheskoy ekspeditsii vernulis s pobedoy’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 8 August 2007. 29. ‘Arkticheskie territorii imeyut strategicheskoe znachenie dlya Rossii’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 30 March 2009. Cited from Laruelle, Russia’s Arctic Strategies and the Future of the Far North, p. 10. 30. Ibid., p. 11. 31. Cited from Stephen J. Blank, (ed.), ‘Russia in the Arctic’, Strategic Studies Institute Monographs (Carlisle: Strategic Studies Institute, 2011), p. 16. 32. Cited from Steven J. Main, ‘If spring comes tomorrow . . . Russia and the Arctic’, Russian Series (Swindon: Defence Academy of the United Kingdom, 2011), p. 10. 33. Laruelle, Russia’s Arctic Strategies and the Future of the Far North, pp. 7ff. 34. Ibid., p. 12. 35. ‘Vozrodit rossiyski sever: Atomny ledokolny flot est tolko u nashey strany’, Kommersant, 11 February 2011. 36. ‘“Bely medved” vyshel na okhotu: Kanada nachala voennye uchenia v Arktike’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 18 August 2009. 37. ‘Neft na dvoikh’, Vzglyad, 4 February 2010. 38. ‘Rossiya i Norvegiya podpishut soglashenie o razdele arkticheskogo dna’, Vzglyad, 15 September 2010. 39. ‘Na shirotnuyu nogu: Glava MID Rossii uznal plany Kanady i Ukrainy’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 17 September 2010. 40. ‘Udar po khrebru Lomonosova: Glava MID Kanady vyskazal v Moskve svoi Vzglyady na Arktiku’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 16 September 2010. 41. ‘Bez boevykh pingvinov: Rossiya sozdaet arkticheskuyu gruppu voysk bez militarizatsii regiona’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 30 September 2009. 42. For the record, there has been no discussion of ‘changing Svalbard’s demilitarized status’ in Norway; to do so would infringe international law as the 1920 Svalbard Treaty, which gives Norway sovereignty over Svalbard, stipulates that no military bases can be installed on the archipelago and that it may not be used for military purposes. Nor is there in Norway ‘a new policy’ of using the national armed forces in the Arctic. Debate has centred on the need not to reduce, and possibly increase, the Coast Guard’s presence in the Barents Sea. The Coast Guard is a branch of the Norwegian Navy, though its tasks are mainly civilian. Its instructions come from the Ministry of Justice and the Ministry of Industry and Fisheries. And its presence in the Barents Sea (which isn’t actually in the High Arctic either) is not ‘new’.

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43. ‘Kholodnoe NATO: Alyans prinyal reshenie o “vtorzhenii” v Arktiku’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 16 January 2009. 44. ‘Novoe osvoenie Arktiki’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 12 February 2009. 45. ‘Razdel shkury belogo medveda: Strany Arkticheskogo basseyna sobirayutsya “zabyvat kolyshki” na rossiyskikh mestorozhdeniyakh’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 7 August 2007. 46. ‘Goryachaya Arktika: Za chetvert mirovykh zapasov nefti i gaza Rossii predstoit srazitsya s SShA, Daniey i Kanadoy’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 10 October 2008. 47. ‘Po skolskomu ldu: Kanada rasshiraet predely sovey yurisdiktsii v Arktike’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 29 September 2008. 48. ‘Ledovy boy nomer dva: Arktika stanovitsya arenoy takticheskikh srazheniy Rossii i Kanady’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 20 May 2008. 49. ‘Artur Chilingarov razrabotal proekt o Severnom Morskom Puti’, Kommersant, 12 February 2009. 50. ‘Rossiyu zatknuli za polyus’, Kommersant, 8 August 2009. 51. ‘Severny Polyus prevrashchaetsya v goryachuyu tochku’, Kommesant, 27 March 2009. 52. ‘Bezkhrebetnye: Kanada i SShA vystupili s rezkimi zayavleniyami po povodu rossiyskikh pretensii na Arktiku’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 4 August 2007. 53. ‘Rossiyu zatknuli za polyus’, Kommersant, 8 August 2009. 54. [No title], Rossiyskaya gazeta, 29 May 2009. 55. ‘Udar nizhe polyusa’, Kommersant, 13 August 2007. 56. ‘Arkticheski peredel: Napoleon nazyval Rossiyu “imperiey Severa”’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 26 September 2005. 57. ‘Severnoe siyanie’, Kommersant/Ogonyok, 27 September 2010. 58. ‘Vozrodit rossiyski sever: Atomny ledokolny flot est tolko u nashey strany’, Argumenty i fakty, 11 February 2011. 59. ‘Severnoe siyanie’, Kommersant/Ogonyok, 27 September 2010. 60. Reference is probably made here to the elaborate system of transportation of supplies to the Russian North through the Northern Sea Route in Soviet times, the severny zavoz, organized by the State Committee for the North (Goskomsever). 61. ‘Sevmorput – eto samoe nastoyashchee ministerstvo’, Kommersant/Ogonyok, 27 September 2010. 62. ‘Severnoe siyanie’, Kommersant/Ogonyok, 27 September 2010. 63. ‘Vozrodit rossiyski sever: Atomny ledokolny flot est tolko u nashey strany’, Argumenty i fakty, 11 February 2011. 64. ‘Snezhny chelovek: Artur Chilingarov – o vkuse studnya iz stoyarnogo kleya, pro smertelnye riski vo Idakh i glubinkakh, a takzhe o tom, zachem geroyam inogda vydayut pistolety’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 17 September 2010. 65. ‘Shelf vzyat! V Moskvu: Uchastniki rossiyskoy arkticheskoy ekspeditsii vernulis s pobedoy’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 8 August 2007. 66. ‘Rossiyski flag snova v Arktike’, Argumenty i fakty, 8 October 2008.

370

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285 –289

67. ‘“Bely medved” vyshel na okhotu: Kanada nachala voennye uchenia v Arktike’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 18 August 2009. 68. Summing up the narratives in this section, I present them in truncated form, defined mostly by just a couple of words. I understand a narrative as a stretch of talk about specific events, so when I refer to the major narrative of this chapter as ‘Russia vs. the West’, it therefore includes the stories laid out in the preceding sections, for instance about how the other Arctic states are behaving and that behaviour is perceived in Russia. 69. For the rest of this section, and in the concluding sections of the following chapters, I do not repeat the reference for newspaper articles that have already been cited above, only citations by other authors. 70. Admittedly, there are general calls for ‘action’ (‘before it’s too late’), but most often not specified as military action. See, e.g., ‘Artur Chilingarov razrabotal proekt o Severnom Morskom Puti’, Kommersant, 12 February 2009. 71. Laruelle, Russia’s Arctic Strategies and the Future of the Far North, p. 39. 72. Ibid., p. 40. 73. Elena Hellberg-Hirn, ‘Ambivalent space: Expressions of Russian identity’, in J. Smith (ed.), Beyond the Limits: The Concept of Space in Russian History and Culture (Helsinki: Finnish Historical Society, 1999), pp. 49 – 69, p. 54. 74. Laruelle, Russia’s Arctic Strategies and the Future of the Far North, p. 40. 75. Otto Boele, (The North in Russian Romantic Literature (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1996), p. 252) referring the eighteenth/nineteenth century writer Maksim Nevzorov. 76. Ibid. 77. Franklyn Griffiths (Arctic and North in the Russian Identity (Toronto: Centre for Russian and East European Studies, University of Toronto, 1990) p. 53) referring to the ‘countryside writer’ Valentin Rasputin. 78. Laruelle, Russia’s Arctic Strategies and the Future of the Far North, p. 39. See also presentation of Russia’s ‘geographical meta-narratives’ above. 79. Emma Widdis, ‘Russia as space’ in S. Franklin & E. Widdis (eds), National Identity in Russian Culture: An Introduction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 30 – 49, pp. 33, 39 (paraphrased). 80. Hellberg-Hirn, ‘Ambivalent space: Expressions of Russian identity’, p. 56. 81. Main (paraphrased), ‘If spring comes tomorrow . . . Russia and the Arctic’, p. 10. (All italics in this paragraph are mine.) 82. Yuri Slezkine, ‘Introduction: Siberia as history’, in G. Diment & Y. Slezkine (eds), Between Heaven and Hell: The Myth of Siberia in Russian Culture (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1993), pp. 1 –6, p. 5 (edited for UK spelling). 83. Margaret R. Somers, ‘The narrative constitution of identity: A relational and network approach’, Theory and Society 23 (1994), pp. 605 –49. 84. Hellberg-Hirn, ‘Ambivalent space: Expressions of Russian identity’, pp. 49 – 69. 85. I use the term ‘master narrative’ to indicate a narrative that dominates the debate. This is not to be confused with ‘meta-narratives’ (Somers, ‘The narrative

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371

constitution of identity: A relational and network approach’), a category that reflects the contents of the narrative (‘epic dramas’), not the frequency of its occurrence. 86. Ringmar, ‘Inter-textual relations: The quarrel over the Iraq War as conflict between narrative types’, pp. 403 –21.

Chapter 13

‘They’ll Squeeze us Out, it’ll be the End’

1. This chapter is a revised version of Geir Hønneland, ‘Delimitation of the Barents Sea’, in Russia and the Arctic: Environment, Identity and Foreign Policy (London: I.B.Tauris, 2016), pp. 71– 102. 2. See for example, ‘Kak Putinu vernut Barentsevo more?’ Tikhookeanski Vestnik, 13 February 2013. 3. The Grey Zone agreement was in force one year at a time and renewed annually until the delimitation treaty came into effect in 2011, making the Grey Zone agreement redundant. Contrary to popular belief, the Grey Zone agreement worked perfectly from start to stop. 4. See https://www.nrk.no/norge/–historisk-losning-av-delelinjen-1.7098938, 27 April 2010, (accessed 25 May 2015). 5. For a detailed examination, see Øystein Jensen, ‘The Barents Sea: Treaty between Norway and the Russian Federation concerning maritime delimitation and cooperation in the Barents Sea and the Arctic Ocean’, International Journal of Marine and Coastal Law 26 (2011), pp. 151– 68. 6. Takogo kak Putin, Poyushchie vmeste (pop group), 2002. 7. ‘Postepenno nas vydavyat ottuda’, Vzglyad, 27 October 2010. 8. ‘Vyacheslav Zilanov: – Rossiya budet vynuzhdena vesti rybolovstvo, kak eto delalos v 50 – 60-gody proshlogo veka’, NordNews, 23 November 2010. 9. The adjective promyslovy occurs quite frequently in Russian fisheries terminology. Strictly speaking it means ‘catch’ where we in English would say ‘fishery’. 10. ‘Rossiya i Norvegiya dogovorilis o razgranichenii morskikh prostranstv’, Kommersant, 27 April 2010. 11. ‘More po-polam: Rossiya i Norvegiya dogovorilis o demarkatsii granits’, Rossiyskaya gazeta, 28 April 2010. 12. ‘Segodnya Norvegiya poluchit ot Rossii chast Barentseva morya’, Regnum, 15 September 2010. 13. ‘Murmanski proryv: Glavy Norvegii i Rossii reshili problemu, desyatiletiya oslozhnyavshuyu otnosheniya’, Argumenty i fakty, 22 September 2010. 14. ‘Dogovor o delimitatsii v Barentsevom more pozvolit Norvegii nas vyzhit: rossiyskie rybaki’, Regnum, 28 October 2010. Vysoki stroyny blondin is translated rather broadly as ‘tall, strapping blonds’ by A˚rhus (A˚rhus Torstein Vik, Maritim mistru og petroleumspartnarskap: Ein diskursanalyse av russiske reaksjonar pa˚ norsk nordomra˚depolitikk, MA thesis (Oslo: Department of European and American Studies – Russian Studies, University of Oslo, 2012)). Blondin is the masculine form of the noun derived from the adjective ‘blond’ (the feminine

372

15. 16.

17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

23. 24.

25. 26.

NOTES

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303 – 312

form is blondinka). While his variant is flamboyant – I considered using it myself – I ended up with a more literal translation. ‘Barentsevomorski proryv Lavrova-Stere – klon beringomorskogo proryva Beykera-Shevardnadze’, NordNews, 29 September 2010. Around the turn of the millennium, Russian fishing vessels resumed the old Soviet practice of delivering their catches to transport ships at sea. Instead of going to Murmansk with the fish, however, these transport vessels now headed for other European countries: Denmark, the UK, the Netherlands, Spain and Portugal. Norway took the initiative to assess the possibility of overfishing, but the Russians were unwilling. Thereupon Norway took unilateral measures to calculate overfishing in the Barents Sea, and presented figures that indicated Russian overfishing from 2002, rising to nearly 75 per cent of the total Russian quota in 2005, gradually declining to zero in 2009. The Russian side never accepted these figures, claiming they were deficient at best, and an expression of anti-Russian sentiments at worst. The International Council for the Exploration of the Sea (ICES), however, used them in their estimates of total catches in the Barents Sea during the 2000s, thereby providing these figure with some level of approval. For details see Geir Hønneland, Making Fishery Agreements Work: Post-Agreement Bargaining in the Barents Sea (Cheltenham: Edward Elgar Publishing, 2012), pp. 73–6. ‘Podpisanie Dogovora o razgranichenii morskikh prostranstv v Barentsevom more i Severnom Ledovitom okeane prezhdevremennoe i pospeshnoe’, NordNews, 10 September 2010. ‘Pritormozit ratifikatsiyu dogovora po razgranicheniyu morskikh prostranstv’, NordNews, 18 October 2010. ‘Eto nash s Norvegiey perspektivny ogorod’, Vzglyad, 27 April 2010. ‘Vyacheslav Zilanov: – Rossiya budet vynuzhdena vesti rybolovstvo, kak eto delalos v 50 – 60-gody proshlogo veka’, NordNews, 23 November 2010. ‘Sosedski mir luchshe konfrontatsiy: V Moskve ponimayut trevogi rybakov i gotovy pomogat’, Murmanski vestnik, 18 November 2010. BarentsObserver, 5 March 2009. Other reasons suggested for Yevdokimov’s removal were economic circumstances and the fact that he had supported a mayor candidate in Murmansk city who did not belong to the presidential party United Russia. Of course, different factors can have played together here. See Hønneland, Making Fishery Agreements Work: Post-Agreement Bargaining in the Barents Sea. When Zilanov talks about how much fish the Russians are ‘losing’, he is talking about everything caught on the western side of the new delimitation line – including in the Norwegian economic zone and the Svalbard zone – not just the part of the old, disputed area which became Norwegian with the signing of the treaty. Erik Ringmar, ‘Inter-textual relations: The quarrel over the Iraq War as conflict between narrative types’, Cooperation and Conflict 41 (2006), pp. 403– 21. Jeffrey Mankoff, Russian Foreign Policy: The Return of Great Power Politics (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 2012).

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27. Geir Hønneland, Russian Fisheries Management: The Precautionary Approach in Theory and Practice (Leiden: Martinus Nijhoff, 2004); Anne-Kristin Jørgensen, ‘Recent developments in the Russian fisheries sector’, in E. W. Rowe (ed.), Russia and the North (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2009), pp. 87 – 106. 28. Cf. also President Medvedev’s cheerful remark that in Russia conspiracy traditions are deep-rooted and well-practised. 29. Ringmar, ‘Inter-textual relations: The quarrel over the Iraq War as conflict between narrative types’. 30. David Carr, Time, Narrative, and History (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986), pp. 61 – 2. 31. Erik Ringmar, Identity, Interest and Action: A Cultural Explanation of Sweden’s Intervention in the Thirty Years War (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1996). 32. Ibid., p. 85. 33. See, for instance, Arild Moe, Daniel Fjærtoft & Indra Øverland, ‘Space and timing: Why was the Barents Sea delimitation dispute resolved in 2010?’, Polar Geography 34 (2011), pp. 145– 62. 34. Erik Ringmar, ‘The recognition game: Soviet Russia against the west’, Cooperation and Conflict 37 (2002), pp. 115– 36. 35. [No title], Rossiyskaya gazeta, 29 May 2009.

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INDEX

Ministries are Russian unless otherwise stated. Italics are for figures and tables. accounts, 238– 45, 246– 54, 261 acid rain, 60– 1, 85 activities, 87– 93 air pollution, 75, 90– 3, 99 ambitions, 287– 8 Ambusher, H., 167– 8 analysis, 79–80, 151 Anderson, B., 11 Arctic hydrocarbon deposits, 317 – 18 international law, 273 Law of the Sea, 319 NATO, 321 natural resources, 277, 282 politics, 286 Russia, 3, 271– 2, 281– 4, 318 – 19, 322 Russian discourse, 288– 9 Russian media, 285 security, 318– 19 sovereignty, 272 –3 Treaty on Maritime Delimitation and Cooperation in the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean (2010), 309 Arctic cod, 27– 8, 33 – 4

‘Arctic meltdown: The economic and security implications of global warming’, 3 Arctic Monitoring Assessment Programme, 63 Arctic policy, 272 – 4, 280– 1 Arctic Regional Command, 88 Arkhangelsk Oblasts, 80, 130, 134, 138, 141, 333n.5 awareness, 113, 117 Baltic Sea Region, 8, 127 Baltic states communicable diseases, 141 – 2 DOTS (Directly Observed Treatment with Short Course Chemotherapy), 133 – 4, 137, 152 tuberculosis, 129 – 30, 148 Western ideas, 139 Western identity, 150 Western ties, 128 Barents euphoria discourse, 56 – 7, 61 Barents Euro-Arctic Region (BEAR) Barents Council, 9 Barents Region, 9 business, 21

388

INTERNATIONAL POLITICS IN THE ARCTIC

capacity building, 233 collaboration, 206– 7 cooperation, 57 culture, 16 goals, 22 identity formation, 17, 185 imagined communities, 23– 4 Kirkenes Declaration (1993), 9 migration, 20 multiculturalism, 20 Norway, 59 Orthodox Christianity, 17 political project, 21 populations, 13, 15 – 16 Russia, 39 sustainability discourse, 70 Barents generation, 20 Barents Health Programme, 127 ‘Barents rhetoric’, 19, 23 – 4 Barents Sea closed fishing grounds, 243– 5 cod stocks, 54 – 5, 215 continental shelf, 293– 4 enforcement, 237, 249 fish stocks, 222 fisheries management, 84, 294, 319 fishing grounds, 80 monitoring, 86 NATO, 321 North East Atlantic Fisheries Commission (NEAFC), 225– 6 Norwegian Coast Guard, 238 overfishing, 228– 9 post-agreement bargaining, 263 Putin, Vladimir (President Russian Federation, 2000– 8 and 2012– present), 292 radioactive pollution, 82– 3 resource management, 316 Russian fishers, 263 Russian media, 302 surveillance, 248 total allowable catch (TAC), 231

Treaty on Maritime Delimitation and Cooperation in the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean (2010) 309– 11 Yevdokimov, Yuri (Governor Murmansk, 1997– 2009) 313 zone configuration, 294 bargaining, 216, 225 – 9, 234, 254 – 7, 258–61, 263 Bellona Foundation, 57 – 8 bilateral relations agreements, 215 bilateral agreements, 216 bilateral projects, 60 cod stocks, 53 environmental agreements, 77, 101 fisheries management, 234 historic contacts, 14 Norway, 307 – 8 Norway and Russia, 15, 19 nuclear safety, 85 perceptions, 206 Russia, 39 Russia and Europe, 128 trade, 22 treaties, 292 Treaty on Maritime Delimitation and Cooperation in the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean (2010) 296– 301, 313 – 14 borderlands, 165–9, 185– 7, 190, 204–9 Borgerson, S. C. Arctic meltdown: The economic and security implications of global warming, 3 Browning, C. S., 206, 268 bureaucracy, 87, 90, 230, 233 Canada Arctic, 272, 277, 289– 90, 321 Arctic policy, 274 – 5 Arctic politics, 316 international relations, 4 military presence, 275 – 6

INDEX Russia, 301 Russian media, 285 Cannon, Lawrence, 275– 6 capacity building, 119, 123, 233, 288 capelin stocks, 53 cast 154, 155– 7 changes, 204– 9 Chayes, A., 233, 236, 262 Chayes, A. H., 233, 236, 262 Chilingarov, Artur, 273, 278–9, 281– 2, 287, 291 China, 109 Chukotka, 283– 4, 286 classification, 66– 9 closed fishing grounds, 243– 5 cod stocks, 53, 54 – 5, 83, 215 Cold Peace discourse fisheries management, 54 nuclear safety discourses, 60 Russia, 37– 40, 45, 56 – 7, 71 – 2 scientific knowledge, 64 seafaring community discourse, 46 Western ideas, 139 – 41 Western powers, 128 collaboration Arctic policy, 272 – 3 Barents Euro-Arctic Region (BEAR), 206– 7 collaborative health projects, 153, 158 credit, 227– 8 enforcement, 226, 264 fisheries management, 234, 253 Northwestern Russia, 211 Russian– Norwegian Fisheries Commission, 233 scientific knowledge, 224– 5 total allowable catch (TAC), 223 Commission on the Limits of the Continental Shelf (New York), 271, 276– 7 commitments, 95– 6 Committee on Natural Resources Use and Agricultural Sector

389

Murmansk Regional Duma, 305 –7, 308 – 9 communicable diseases, 143 – 4, 159 –60 communication, 254 – 6, 261, 263 compliance bargaining, 221 bilateral agreements, 216 compromise, 262 enforcement, 221 environmental agreements, 76 fisheries management, 259 inspections, 248 International Council for the Exploration of the Sea (ICES), 217 negotiation, 219– 20 Russia, 229– 35, 236 Russian fishers, 261, 263 compromise, 234, 262, 292– 7, 312 conflict, 98, 160, 210, 230 constructivism, 6, 320 continental shelf, 293– 4, 304 Continental Shelf Commission, 3 Continental Shelf Convention (1957), 293, 311 Convention for the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage (World Heritage Convention, 1972), 102, 103, 104, 106 –8 Convention on Biological Diversity (1992), 102– 3, 105– 6, 111–13, 114, 123 Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES Convention, 1973), 102, 103, 104, 108 – 10, 114, 123 Convention on Long-range Transboundary Air Pollution (LRTAP, 1979), 85 – 6, 87, 91, 93 Convention on Wetlands of International Importance especially as Waterfowl Habitat

390

INTERNATIONAL POLITICS IN THE ARCTIC

(Ramsar Convention, 1971), 102, 103, 105, 110– 11 cooperation, 8, 16– 17, 110, 210– 11, 226, 274 corruption, 109, 253, 260 Council of the Baltic Sea States (CBSS), 127, 149 credit, 227– 8 crime, 109– 10 culture, 16, 17– 18, 20, 62 data, 157– 61 death clouds discourse, 61, 65 Declaration on Arctic Military Environmental Cooperation (AMEC, 1996) 84– 5, 89 Denmark, 4, 9, 276 discourse analysis Barents Euro-Arctic Region (BEAR), 27–9 classification, 66– 9 knowledge brokers, 31 language, 48 marine living resources, 53 – 6 Neumann, I. B., 28 storylines, 65– 6 discourse coalition, 32– 3 disillusionment, 128–9 DOTS (Directly Observed Treatment with Short Course Chemotherapy) implementation, 133– 4, 146 – 7 opposition, 134– 7 resistance, 137– 9, 152 Russia, 150 tuberculosis treatment strategy, 130–1 DOTS-Plus, 131, 133 Dryzek, J. S., 50, 67– 8 dynamics, 254– 8 economic activities, 94 power, 128, 230, 282 recovery, 107 region, 10, 94

education, 170, 182, 187 effectiveness, 77, 254 enforcement Barents Sea, 249 collaboration, 226, 264 compliance, 221 effectiveness, 254, 260 fisheries management, 234 inspections, 248 lack of flexibility, 257– 8 legitimacy, 261 symbolic role, 263 total allowable catch (TAC), 222–3 environmental agreements, 75, 76 – 80, 83– 6, 101 environmental blackmail discourse, 56– 7, 59, 61, 65 environmental degradation, 51 – 2, 82 environmental discourse Barents Euro-Arctic Region (BEAR), 49 culture, 62 definitions, 29 discourse analysis, 28 European Arctic, 68 increased awareness, 113 social discourses, 66 study, 30 – 3, 48, 49 – 51 environmental issues, 51 –3 environmental legacy, 49 environmental policies, 78 environmental problems, 41, 80 environmental protection, 78, 114– 15, 119–22, 123 –4, 272 Eriksen, T. H., 11, 12 Estonia, 130, 134, 144 Europe, 8, 17, 128, 149 European Arctic Barents Health Programme, 127 environmental discourse, 68 environmental issues, 51 – 3 industrial pollution, 61 Plan of action for nuclear safety in Northwestern Russia, 56– 7

INDEX pollution, 52, 82 radioactive pollution, 56 European Commission, 9 European Union, 166, 270 Euroregional Networks, 8 exclusive economic zones (EEZs) Arctic, 276 Barents Sea, 215 fisheries management, 83 – 4, 222 Northwestern Russia, 86 UN Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS, 1982), 270– 4 Zilanov, V., 304 failure, 79–80, 93– 4 federal agencies, 98, 122, 123, 134 Federal Border Service, 88, 89, 100 Federal Inspectorate for Nuclear and Radiation Safety (Gosatomnadzor, established, 1991), 89 – 90, 97, 99– 100 Federal Service of Hydrometeorology and Environmental Monitoring (Rosgidromet), 90 Finland, 8, 9, 13, 21 fisheries management Barents Sea, 294 bilateral relations, 234 cod stocks, 83 compliance, 259 conflict, 230 discourse analysis, 54– 5 implementation, 99 implementation activities, 88– 9 Law of the Sea Convention, 1982 (LOSC), 83– 4 Northwestern Russia, 75, 86 Norway, 45 Norwegian– Russian management, 222– 5 precautionary approach, 262 Russia, 92 Russian fishers, 253 Russian media, 302

391

scientific knowledge, 248 sustainability discourse, 53– 4, 70, 216 fishery inspections, 239– 46 foreign aid Arctic, 288 implementation, 87 industrial pollution, 62– 3 PINRO (Knipovich Polar Research Institute of Marine Fisheries and Oceanography), 233 priorities, 145 Russia, 43 Western ideas, 142 foreign policy, 5 – 6, 267– 70, 272 – 4, 320 foreigners, 205 – 6 Franck, T. M. Power of Legitimacy Among Nations, The, 219 Fundamentals of the State Policy of the Russian Federation (2008), 272–3 funding DOTS (Directly Observed Treatment with Short Course Chemotherapy), 139, 147 lack of, 122 Task Force on Communicable Disease Control, 153 tuberculosis, 132 – 3, 134, 137– 8 Gergen, K., 167, 168, 178– 9 Gezelius, S. S., 259, 261, 263 global nature protection agreements, 102, 104– 6 globalization, 166, 267 governance, 100, 230 government, 113 – 17 Grey Zone, 294–5 Habermas, J., 246, 259 Hajer, M. A., 30, 31, 32, 50 health care strategies, 128, 150, 153 health care system, 186

392

INTERNATIONAL POLITICS IN THE ARCTIC

health concerns, 183– 4 health initiatives, 152– 3 health service, 130 Hellberg-Hirn, E., 289 High North Strategy (Norway, 2006) 272 HIV/AIDS, 141, 149 hydrocarbon deposits, 296– 7, 317 identity borderlands, 165– 9 foreign policy, 267 – 70 narratives, 181– 4, 201–4, 320 recognition, 269 Russia, 321 stereotypes, 176– 81 identity formation Barents Euro-Arctic Region (BEAR), 13, 18– 19, 21 international relations, 12, 317 interview data, 169– 76 Kola Peninsula, 208 narratives, 167, 169 perceptions, 161 regional cooperation, 24 Russia, 312 self, 11 – 12 transnational integration, 14 Treaty on Maritime Delimitation and Cooperation in the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean (2010), 315 weakened, 16 identity politics, 11, 12 identity region, 9 – 10, 12 illegal logging, 114 impact, 118, 320 implementation activities, 87– 93 analysis, 79– 80 bureaucracy, 87 commitments, 95–6 Convention on Biological Diversity (1992), 112– 13

Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES Convention, 1973), 110 DOTS (Directly Observed Treatment with Short Course Chemotherapy), 133– 4 environmental agreements, 75, 76 – 80, 83 – 6 factors, 99 failure, 79 – 80, 93– 4 fisheries management, 92 global nature protection agreements, 103, 106 – 13 health care strategies, 128 performance and target compliance, 86 – 7 public authorities, 96 – 8 Russian Federation, 102 implementation activities, 88– 9, 113 –22 indigenous peoples, 9 industrial pollution, 60– 3, 65 influence, 46, 118, 120, 235, 238, 262 –4 information, 145, 151 infrastructure, 56 – 7, 272, 318 inspections, 237, 248, 314– 15 institutionalism, 218 – 19, 232 – 3, 236, 262 instrumentalism, 219 integration, 8, 14, 166 international agreements, 76, 106, 123 –4 International Council for the Exploration of the Sea (ICES) compliance, 217 precautionary approach, 229, 234 Russia, 231, 319 scientific knowledge, 64 seafaring community discourse, 40 – 1 total allowable catch (TAC), 33– 4, 45, 53, 223

INDEX international law, 217 – 19, 262, 273, 285, 297 international NGOs, 118– 19, 122 international relations Arctic, 4 commitments, 95–6 cooperation, 8 environmental agreements, 75, 83 global health, 149 identity, 166, 267, 320 Ministry of Atomic Energy (Minatom), 89 other, 12 othering, 316 post-agreement bargaining, 219 – 22 region building, 10 Russia, 4 – 5, 128 state compliance, 217– 19 theory, 317 treaties, 292 international treaties, 217– 19 interpretation, 153– 6, 157– 9, 160, 161, 216 interpreting qualitative interviews, 150– 1 interview data, 160, 169 – 76, 190 – 201 investment, 24, 114, 273, 274 Ivanov, Andrei (member, Murmansk Regional Duma), 308

393 continental shelf, 293– 4 cooperation, 210– 11 identity formation, 168, 208 industrial pollution, 61 mineral deposits, 80, 82 natural resources, 80 Nordic countries, 190 nuclear waste, 59 poverty, 42, 56 Soviet Union, 181 St Petersburg, 171 stereotypes, 189

Jacobson, H. K., 76, 79 joint implementation, 77 Jo¨nnson, C., 216, 220– 1 journalists, 43–4, 56, 69

language, 46, 48, 50, 55, 191 Laruelle, M., 274, 285 – 6, 287 Latvia, 130, 134 Lavrov, Sergey (Foreign Minister, Russia, 2004– present), 277, 296 law enforcement, 110 Law of the Sea, 3, 292, 296, 297, 310, 319 Law of the Sea Convention, 1982 (LOSC), 83, 311 legislation, 96, 98 – 9, 109, 111 legitimacy, 260, 261, 263 liberalism, 6, 219 List of Wetlands of International Importance, 105 Litfin, K. T., 29, 30 –1, 32, 50 Lithuania, 130, 134 London Convention on the Prevention of Marine Pollution by Dumping of Waste and Other Matter (1972), 84

Karelia, 13, 15, 139 Kirkenes, 61 Kirkenes Declaration (1993), 9 knowledge brokers, 31, 50, 63 – 5, 67, 70 Kola Peninsula air pollution, 93 Bellona Foundation, 57– 8 bilateral relations, 14

management cod stocks, 53 fisheries management, 226 marine living resources, 63 natural resources, 48 – 9, 75, 100, 271, 316 scientific knowledge, 64 wetlands, 111 World Heritage List sites, 107 – 8

394

INTERNATIONAL POLITICS IN THE ARCTIC

marine living resources, 53 – 6, 63, 64, 248, 271 medical collaboration, 127, 139 Medvedev, Dmitry (President Russia, 2008– 12) Arctic, 287 Arctic policy, 273– 4 maritime delimitation agreements, 295 – 6 Russian media, 301 Treaty on Maritime Delimitation and Cooperation in the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean (2010), 298– 9, 321 Zilanov, V., 312 migration, 20, 43 military power, 128, 230 military presence Arctic, 275– 6, 285, 289 environmental degradation, 51 – 2 Northwestern Russia, 82, 211 Russia, 276 mineral deposits, 80, 82 Ministry of Atomic Energy (Minatom), 89, 97, 100 Ministry of Defence, 89 Ministry of Economy, 100 Ministry of Environmental and Natural Resources Protection (created, 1991), 90– 1, 99, 114, 115 Ministry of Fisheries (Norway), 237 Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 97, 312, 318 – 19 Ministry of Health, 130 Ministry of Justice, 130 Ministry of Natural Resources Arctic policy, 274 Convention on Biological Diversity (1992), 112 Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES Convention, 1973), 109 Ministry of Environmental Protection (created 1991), 91

NGOs, 118– 19 othering, 321 State Committee for Environmental Protection (created 1988), 119 – 20 Morgenthau, H., 217–18 multi-drug resistant tuberculosis, 131 Murmansk Arctic cod, 39 Convention on Long-range Transboundary Air Pollution (LRTAP), 93 DOTS (Directly Observed Treatment with Short Course Chemotherapy), 138 environmental agreements, 333n.5 environmental protection, 91 Federal Border Service, 88 identity, 173 natural resources, 80 nuclear safety, 90 nuclear waste, 59 prisons, 144 tuberculosis, 130 narratives Arctic, 282 – 3, 285– 6, 290 forms, 270 identity, 165 – 9, 181– 4, 201 – 4, 268, 320 identity formation, 167, 169 impact, 320 juggling, 209 – 11 mischief tales, 197 – 8 Northwestern Russia, 182– 3, 187 – 8, 207– 9 other, 289 qualitative interviews, 157– 8 Russian discourse, 288– 9 stories, 178 theory, 317 Treaty on Maritime Delimitation and Cooperation in the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean (2010), 313– 14

INDEX NATO Arctic, 275, 276, 289, 321 Barents Sea, 316 membership, 4 Norway, 321 Russia, 128, 285 natural resources Arctic, 271– 2, 277, 282 Arctic policy, 272 economic recovery, 107 extraction, 51 management, 48– 9, 75, 271, 316 Northwestern Russia, 80 Russia, 100 negotiation, 219–21, 228, 292– 7 Nenets Autonomous Okrug, 130, 333n.5 Neumann, I. B., 10– 11, 28 NGOs Arctic, 276 capacity building, 124 Convention on Biological Diversity (1992), 112– 13 environmental protection, 117– 19, 122 implementation, 77, 98 medical collaboration, 141 Nikitin, Vasili (Director General Fishing Industry Union of the North), 303, 306 Nordic countries, 13, 82, 190, 201 normative theories, 219, 231, 259, 262 North East Atlantic Fisheries Commission (NEAFC), 84, 225– 6, 319 North Pole, 3, 271 Northwestern Russia air pollution, 90– 3 DOTS (Directly Observed Treatment with Short Course Chemotherapy), 152 economic region, 94 education, 170 environmental agreements, 75

395

environmental degradation, 82 environmental problems, 80 fisheries management, 86 health concerns, 183– 4 implementation, 101 Kola Peninsula, 168 map, 81 military presence, 211 narratives, 182– 3, 207 – 9 nuclear activity, 56 nuclear safety, 86 – 7, 89 – 90 perceptions, 202 poverty, 41 – 3, 55 – 6 radioactive pollution, 82– 3 Russianness, 209 scientific knowledge, 226– 7 stereotypes, 187– 9 Task Force on Communicable Disease Control, 149 tuberculosis, 130, 148 Zilanov, V., 304 Norway Arctic, 276 Arctic cod, 27 –8 Baltic Sea, 8 Barents Council, 9 Barents Sea, 316 Barents Sea borders, 295 bargaining, 225– 9 bilateral relations, 14, 15, 307– 8 compromise, 262 continental shelf, 293– 4 death clouds discourse, 61 Declaration on Arctic Military Environmental Cooperation (AMEC, 1996), 85 environmental blackmail discourse, 59 environmental discourse, 49 fisheries management, 45, 216 identity formation, 21 international relations, 4 migration, 43 military power, 230 NATO, 321

396

INTERNATIONAL POLITICS IN THE ARCTIC

Northwestern Russia, 42 – 3 nuclear activity, 56 nuclear disaster discourse, 58 perceptions, 186 PINRO (Knipovich Polar Research Institute of Marine Fisheries and Oceanography), 227 post-agreement bargaining, 229 Russia, 229– 30 Russian media, 292 scientific knowledge, 226– 7 stereotypes, 194 sustainability discourse, 34– 5 Svalbard Zone, 47 total allowable catch (TAC), 46 Treaty on Maritime Delimitation and Cooperation in the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean (2010), 319 Yevdokimov, Yuri (Governor Murmansk 1997– 2009), 313 Norwegian Coast Guard Barents Sea, 249 bargaining, 254– 6 effectiveness, 254 interpreters, 257 overfishing, 260 perceptions, 238, 250– 1 post-agreement bargaining, 263 Russia, 319 Russian fishers, 237, 246, 254– 6 social interactions, 245 Treaty on Maritime Delimitation and Cooperation in the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean (2010), 302 Norwegian fishers, 246 Norwegian Institute of Marine Research, 226 Norwegian– Russian Fisheries Commission see Russian – Norwegian Fisheries Commission Norwegian– Russian management see Russian –Norwegian Fisheries Commission nuclear activity, 56

nuclear complex discourse, 56– 8 nuclear disaster discourse, 56– 7, 58, 65 nuclear radiation, 52, 84 nuclear safety bilateral relations, 85 foreign aid, 87 implementation, 99 Northwestern Russia, 75, 82, 86 – 7, 89 – 90 scientific knowledge, 63 storylines, 65 nuclear safety discourses, 56– 60 nuclear waste, 59 Nuklid, 89 –90 Nunn-Lugar Cooperative Threat Reduction Program (CTR, 1998), 85 observers, 238– 46 organized crime, 109 – 10 Orthodox Christianity, 17, 18 other Barents Euro-Arctic Region (BEAR), 17 identity, 269– 70 identity formation, 11 – 12, 16 Kola Peninsula, 208 narratives, 289, 321 Norway, 311 Zilanov, V., 312 overfishing, 225 – 6, 228– 9, 231, 234, 253, 260 Patrushev, Nikolai (Director FSB, 1999–2008), 273, 277 perceptions bilateral relations, 309 conflict, 160 Europe, 187 foreign aid, 142– 3 health care system, 186 identity, 169, 176 – 81 Nordic countries, 191–3 Norwegian Coast Guard, 238, 250–1

INDEX Russian Coast Guard, 252– 3 Scandinavia, 205 Western health care, 128 Western ideas, 139 – 45 Perelman, M., 134– 7 performance and target compliance, 86– 7 PINRO (Knipovich Polar Research Institute of Marine Fisheries and Oceanography), 226, 227, 230, 233, 306 pity-the-Russians discourse, 41 – 7, 54, 55, 69 Plan of action for nuclear safety in Northwestern Russia, 56– 7, 58, 60, 63, 71 poaching, 114, 121 policies, 27– 8 political agency, 32 discourse, 128 project, 21 self, 11, 12 politics, 5, 30, 31, 46, 267, 286 pollution, 52, 82, 84, 117 – 18 Pomor trade, 13, 15 populations, 13, 15 – 16, 21, 133, 318 post-agreement bargaining, 219 – 22, 226, 229, 235– 6, 262– 4 poverty, 41 – 2, 55 – 6, 130, 172 Power of Legitimacy Among Nations, The, 219 precautionary approach, 216, 229, 234, 262 prisoners, 143– 5 prisons, 130 privatization, 94–5, 98 prosperity, 201, 290–1 prostitutes, 143– 5 public authorities, 96 –8 public debate, 280– 1 Putin, Vladimir (President Russian Federation, 2000– 8 and 2012– present)

397 Arctic, 286 Arctic policy, 273 Barents Sea, 292 environmental protection, 115, 116 – 17, 122– 3 Russia, 320 Treaty on Maritime Delimitation and Cooperation in the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean (2010), 298– 9, 314 Zilanov, V., 312

qualitative interviews, 150– 1, 153, 154, 155 – 61 quotas, 222, 223– 4 radioactive pollution, 56, 82– 3 realism, 217 – 18, 229, 230, 262, 320 Red Book, 112 regimes, 104– 6, 220– 1 region building approach, 10 – 11 regional authorities, 119– 22, 123, 133 regional cooperation, 24 religion, 17 – 18 representation, 22 – 3 research, 150– 1 resistance, 137 – 9, 152 results, 258– 61 Ries, N., 198, 207– 8, 249– 50 Ringmar, E. international politics, 320 narratives, 268, 290, 316 Soviet Union, 269 state identity, 318 stories, 270 Rubin, H. J., 151, 157, 158, 248, 253 Rubin, I., 151, 157, 158, 248, 253 Russia see also Russian Federation anti-hysteria discourse, 61 Arctic, 278– 80, 281 – 4, 317– 18, 322 Arctic cod, 27 –8 Arctic policy, 272– 4 Barents Euro-Arctic Region (BEAR), 9

398

INTERNATIONAL POLITICS IN THE ARCTIC

bargaining, 225– 9 bilateral projects, 60 bilateral relations, 14, 15, 307– 8 Canada, 301 capacity building, 123 capacity to govern, 80 Cold Peace discourse, 37 –40 Commission on the Limits of the Continental Shelf (New York), 271, 276– 7 compliance, 229– 35, 236, 262 Continental Shelf Convention (1957), 311 Convention on Long-range Transboundary Air Pollution (LRTAP), 91, 93 Declaration on Arctic Military Environmental Cooperation (AMEC, 1996), 85 DOTS (Directly Observed Treatment with Short Course Chemotherapy), 133– 4, 152 environmental agreements, 75 environmental discourse, 49 environmental issues, 51– 2 fisheries management, 92, 319 flag, 3 foreign policy, 5 – 6 global nature protection agreements, 106– 13 historic contacts, 13 identity, 321 identity formation, 21, 312 implementation, 97 industrial pollution, 60– 3 industry complex discourse, 70 information campaigns, 145 International Council for the Exploration of the Sea (ICES), 231 international relations, 4 – 5, 128 migration, 43 military power, 230 military presence, 276

Ministry of Atomic Energy (Minatom), 89 NATO, 321 natural resources, 100 North Pole, 271 Northwestern Russia, 42– 3 nuclear safety discourses, 56– 60 opposition to DOTS (Directly Observed Treatment with Short Course Chemotherapy), 134– 7 Orthodox Christianity, 17 other, 290 productivity, 87 stories, 249– 50 sustainability discourse, 71 total allowable catch (TAC), 45, 46 Treaty on Maritime Delimitation and Cooperation in the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean (2010), 319 tuberculosis, 129 – 30 Russian Coast Guard, 252– 3, 260 Russian Constitution, 106 Russian discourse, 146, 288 Russian Federation Convention for the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage (World Heritage Convention 1972), 103 Convention on Biological Diversity (1992), 111 – 13 Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES Convention 1973), 103, 108– 10 Convention on Wetlands of International Importance especially as Waterfowl Habitat (Ramsar Convention 1971), 103, 110– 11 environmental protection, 122 Federal Service of Hydrometeorology and Environmental Monitoring (Rosgidromet), 90 fisheries management, 88 implementation, 102

INDEX implementation activities, 113– 22 tuberculosis treatment strategy, 146– 7 Western aid, 127 World Heritage List, 107 Russian fishers accounts, 246– 54, 261 behaviour, 238 compliance, 260, 263 Norwegian Coast Guard, 237, 254– 6 perceptions, 250– 1 Treaty on Maritime Delimitation and Cooperation in the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean (2010), 314– 15 Russian identity, 5, 18, 21 Russian media, 274, 281, 285, 290, 292, 299– 302 Russian North, 286 – 7, 290– 1 Russian– Norwegian Committee for Management and Enforcement Cooperation, 84 Russian– Norwegian Fisheries Commission Arctic cod, 28 Barents Sea, 84, 215 collaboration, 233 discredited, 65 fisheries management, 222– 5 management, 53 post-agreement bargaining, 235 – 6 privatization, 94– 5 Russia, 319 Russian fishers, 253 total allowable catch (TAC), 33 – 4, 66, 227 UN Fish Stocks Agreement (1995), 229 Zilanov, V., 304, 309 Russian– Norwegian Nuclear Safety Commission, 85 Russian Revolution, 14, 15 Russianness, 209 Russians, 22 –3

399

Saburov, Igor (member, Murmansk Regional Duma), 306, 308 Scandinavia, 193 –200, 201 – 4, 205 –6 scepticism, 158 science, 30, 33– 4, 44, 45– 7, 55 scientific knowledge Arctic, 276 collaboration, 226 Commission on the Limits of the Continental Shelf (New York), 271 discourse analysis, 69 knowledge brokers, 63– 5 marine living resources, 248 Russian fishers, 252 Soviet Union, 129 total allowable catch (TAC), 223 scientific methods, 224– 5 seafaring community discourse, 40 –1, 45– 7, 54 – 5, 64, 232 security, 8, 19, 230, 318 –19 Security Council (Russia), 274, 276 Sevryba, 88 social pressures, 117 – 19 Somers, M., 167, 168, 288– 9 southern Russia, 172 sovereignty, 3, 166, 271, 272 Soviet Union ambitions, 287 – 8, 291 Barents Sea borders, 295 break up, 99 continental shelf, 293– 4 Convention for the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage (World Heritage Convention 1972), 106 Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES Convention 1973), 108– 9 Convention on Long-range Transboundary Air Pollution (LRTAP), 93

400

INTERNATIONAL POLITICS IN THE ARCTIC

Convention on Wetlands of International Importance especially as Waterfowl Habitat (Ramsar Convention 1971), 110 environmental legacy, 49 environmental protection, 114– 15 exclusive economic zones (EEZs), 222 fisheries management, 88 foreign policy, 269 health service, 130 HIV/AIDS, 141 implementation, 96 Kola Peninsula, 181 medical science, 129, 139, 158 prisons, 144 Russia, 4, 318 scientific knowledge, 129 State Committee for Hydrometeorology and Environmental Monitoring (Goskomgidromet), 90 total allowable catch (TAC), 86 tuberculosis, 132– 3 Spector, B. I., 220, 221 St Petersburg, 171 State Committee for Environmental Protection (created 1988), 90, 99, 109, 115, 119– 20, 122 State Committee for Fisheries, 88, 100 State Committee for Hydrometeorology and Environmental Monitoring (Goskomgidromet), 90, 115 state compliance, 217– 19, 221, 233 states, 12, 165, 268, 318 stereotypes conflict, 210 identity, 176 – 81 interview data, 190– 201 Nordic countries, 190 Northwestern Russia, 187– 9, 211 Scandinavia, 193– 201 Stoltenberg, Jens (Norwegian Prime Minister 1990– 3), 62 – 3, 295 –6, 301

Stoltenberg, Thorvald (Norwegian Foreign Minister 1990– 3), 8– 9, 43 Støre, Jonas Gahr (Norwegian Foreign Minister 2005– 12), 295, 296 stories, 178 – 9, 268– 9 Storting’s Standing Committee on Control and Constitutional Matters (Norway), 59, 60 storylines, 32, 34– 6, 50, 65– 6 study, 30 – 3, 48, 49– 51 sustainability discourse fisheries management, 53 – 4, 216 industrial pollution, 61 Norway, 45, 70 scientific knowledge, 64 storylines, 34 –6 Svalbard Zone bargaining, 254– 6, 258, 263 closed fishing grounds, 243 – 5 Norway, 47 Russia, 319 Russian media, 292 status, 276 Treaty on Maritime Delimitation and Cooperation in the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean (2010), 297 Sweden, 9, 21 Tallberg, J., 216, 220 – 1 Task Force on Communicable Disease Control, 127, 149, 150, 153, 157 total allowable catch (TAC) agreements, 234 Arctic cod, 28, 33 – 4 cooperation, 226 enforcement, 222 – 3 exclusive economic zones (EEZs), 84 management, 53 pity-the-Russians discourse, 41– 7, 55 Russia, 37, 45, 46, 231 Russian – Norwegian Fisheries Commission, 66, 227

INDEX scientific knowledge, 64 scientific methods, 224– 5 Soviet Union, 86 trade, 22, 24 Treaty on Maritime Delimitation and Cooperation in the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean (2010) bilateral relations, 296– 301 criticism, 305– 12 Murmansk Regional Duma, 313 – 14 othering, 321 Russia, 319 Russian fishers, 314– 15 tuberculosis, 129– 30, 132– 3, 148, 149, 152 tuberculosis treatment strategy, 127– 8, 146 UN Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS 1982), 270–4, 277 UN Economic Commission for Europe, 85 – 6 UN Fish Stocks Agreement (1995), 229 United Nations, 105 United States of America Arctic, 276 communicable diseases, 155 Declaration on Arctic Military Environmental Cooperation (AMEC, 1996), 85 international relations, 4 natural resources, 277

401 nuclear activity, 56 Nunn – Lugar Cooperative Threat Reduction Program (CTR, 1998), 85

VNIRO, 226, 227, 229, 230 Weiss, E. B., 76, 79 Wendt, A., 218, 267– 8 Western aid, 127, 143– 5, 152– 3 Western health care, 128 Western ideas, 139 – 45 Western identity, 150 World Health Organisation (WHO), 127 –8, 130– 1, 150 World Heritage List, 104, 107– 8, 114 Yevdokimov, Yuri (Governor Murmansk, 1997– 2009), 43, 307–8, 309– 10, 313 Zartman, W., 220, 221 Zilanov, V. delimitation line, 303 – 5 identity, 315 othering, 312 perceptions, 309–12 Treaty on Maritime Delimitation and Cooperation in the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean (2010), 297– 301, 302, 308 zone configuration, 294