Post-Colonial Settlement Strategy 9781474437592

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POST-COLONIAL SETTLEMENT STRATEGY

P OST-C O LO N I A L SE T T L E ME N T STR A TE GY

Ehud (Udi) Eiran

Edinburgh University Press is one of the leading university presses in the UK. We publish academic books and journals in our selected subject areas across the humanities and social sciences, combining cutting-edge scholarship with high editorial and production values to produce academic works of lasting importance. For more information visit our website: edinburghuniversitypress.com © Ehud Eiran, 2019 Edinburgh University Press Ltd The Tun – Holyrood Road 12(2f) Jackson’s Entry Edinburgh EH8 8PJ Typeset in 11/13 Sabon by Servis Filmsetting Ltd, Stockport, Cheshire, and printed and bound in Great Britain. A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978 1 4744 3757 8 (hardback) ISBN 978 1 4744 3759 2 (webready PDF) ISBN 978 1 4744 3760 8 (epub)

The right of Ehud Eiran to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, and the Copyright and Related Rights Regulations 2003 (SI No. 2498).

CONTENTS

List of Tables Preface Acknowledgements

vi vii viii

1 Introduction 1 2 Theory 11 3 The Israeli Settlement Project in the West Bank and Gaza (1967–77) 41 4 The Moroccan Settlement Project in Western Sahara (1975–) and the Indonesian Settlement Project in East Timor (1975–99) 85 5 Negative Cases: India in Goa, Libya in Chad and Mauritania in Western Sahara 130 6 Conclusion 155 Bibliography Index

164 196

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TABLES

1.1 Occupying Expansionists and Settlement Projects 1960–91 8 2.1 Existing Explanations for Strategic Settlement Projects 13 2.2 Territorial Expansion: Forceful Attempts and Outcomes 1960–9122 2.3 Wars and Territorial Redistribution 1651–2000 (50-year periods)26 2.4 Mechanisms for Conferring Legitimacy on Post-1945 Territorial Expansion 38 3.1 New Neighbourhoods in Annexed Parts of Jerusalem 1967–7746 3.2 Jordan Valley Settlements 1967–77 48 3.3 Gaza Settlements 1967–77 48 3.4 Central West Bank Settlements 1967–77 50 3.5 Israeli/Zionist Settlement Activity: Goals and Means 1880–201055 3.6 Israeli Settlements: Budget Allocation between Agencies 1967–7370 3.7 US Veto of Israel-related Resolutions 1967–77 77 4.1 Population Growth in Western Sahara’s Main Provinces 97 4.2 Moroccan Settlers in Western Sahara 98 4.3 Competing Estimates of Indonesian Settlers in East Timor 119 4.4 Transmigration Figures 1950–2000 126 5.1 Summary of Cases, Variables and Outcomes 158

Preface vii

PREFACE

This book explains why and under what conditions states launched ­settlement projects in contested territories they controlled during the era of decolonisation. It suggests that states embarked on these projects in order to secure permanent territorial expansion. Specifically, states launched settlement projects in order to manipulate the outcome of an expected international interaction that was to determine the fate of these contested territories such as a plebiscite or negotiation within an international framework. The book further suggests that states embarked on these projects when they had a legally plausible case for expansion; when a great power benefactor defended the settling state from the international costs associated with these projects; when the settling state had the internal institutional capacity to carry out a settlement project; and when the settling state had a low level of ethnic affinity with the indigenous population. The book offers three main contributions. Firstly, it identifies postcolonial (after 1960) settlement projects as a distinct cluster of cases that warrants its own separate explanation. In doing so, the book breaks with the (limited) existing work on some of these projects that have analysed them as being driven by traditional colonial logics. Secondly, the book advances a rigorous explanation of these cases. With the exception of Lustick’s work, no single study in political science has systematically examined and explained settlement projects of the current era. Thirdly, the book introduces the international environment (its norms as well as the distribution of power) as an important enabling variable, thus breaking with the tradition of explaining these projects mostly as resulting from variables operating at the internal or bicommunal arenas.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As someone who loves the social side of social science, I take great pleasure in recognising all those who contributed to this endeavour. This book began as a dissertation, and so I am grateful to the Brandeis scholars who assisted in its inception and development. Robert J. Art pushed me to shape an interest in a significant policy question into a rigorous political science text; he reviewed, revised and even proofread various drafts. Robert H. Mnookin kindly invited me to be his junior partner in Harvard Law School’s settlement project and taught me well beyond its confines; Kerry A. Chase diligently scrutinised my argument and invested a great deal of effort in making sure it all made sense. Three other Brandeis faculty members were most helpful: Steven L. Burg was the first person who suggested that I look at the settlements question through a comparative lens, and he commented generously on earlier versions of the project. Daniel Kryder stepped in at the right moments and was truly helpful in bringing the project to completion. Shai Feldman has been a constant source of advice and support over the years, long before either of us arrived at Brandeis. Parts of this book were written while I was a fellow at the Program on Negotiation at Harvard Law School, the Belfer Center for Science and International affairs at Harvard’s Kennedy School, and the Schusterman Center for Israel Studies at Brandeis University. I am thankful to my colleagues in all three places for their insights, advice and encouragement. These include, at Harvard Law School: Gabriella Blum, Robert Bordone, the late Roger Fisher, Susan Hackley, Amal Jadou, Melissa Manwaring, as noted earlier, Robert H. Mnookin, Lukasz Rozdeiczer, Jim Sebenius, Guhan Subramanian, Larry Susskind, Dan Shapiro and Nancy Waters. At the Kennedy School: Graham Allison, Boaz Atzili, Michal Ben-Joseph-Hirsch, Rasmus Bertelsen, Philipp Bleek, Jonathan

Acknowledgements ix Caverley, the late Charles C. Cogan, Chuck Freilich, Kelly M. Greenhill, Jill Hazelton, Malfrid Braut-Hagghammer, Michael C. Horowitz, Ulaa Jasper, Eric Kaufmann, Peter Krause, Sean M. Lynn Jones, Martin Malin, Steve E. Miller, John S. Park, Nageen Pegahi, Mahsa Rouhi, Stephanie Rupp, Monica-Toft Steve Walt, Ali Wayne and Micah Zenko. At the Schusterman Center: S. Ilan Troen, Ofir Abu, Gannit Ankori, Motti Inbari and Rachel Fish. All of these organisations, as well as the Tauber Center at Brandeis, provided financial support for this project. I am further grateful for comments and suggestions on the text I received on earlier versions of this book at the Middle East Seminar at the Weatherhead Center at Harvard University, the International Security Program seminar at the Belfer Center at Harvard’s Kennedy School, the seminar in the Department of Political Science at the University of Connecticut, a talk at the Moynihan Institute at the Maxwell School at Syracuse University, the seminar at the Department of International Affairs at the Hebrew University, and at the seminar of the Department of Government at the Interdisciplinary Center at Herzliyya, Israel. There, and in other places, I received valuable feedback from Dima Adamsky, Robert Axelrod, Boaz Atzili, Oren Barak, Richard Betts, Stephen Biddle, Eliot Cohen, Alan Dowty, Ehud Eilam, Nir Eisikovits, Colin Elman, Mimi Elman, Tanisha Fazal, Gary Goertz, Boaz Ganor, Galia Golan, Hein Goemans, Michael C. Horowitz, Yoav Gortzak, Piki Ish-Shalom, Oded Haklai, Ron E. Hassner, Peter Hoffenberg, Herbert Kelman, Scott Lasensky, Ian Lustick, Jeremy Menchik, Alex Mintz, Ilan Peleg, Jeremy Pressman, Jonathan Rynhold, Richard N. Rosecrance, Elton Skendaj, Nadav Shelef, Hendryk Spruyt, Keren Yarhi-Milo and Dov Waxman. I am further thankful to Ann Brash, Pamela Siska and Adam Zenko for editorial assistance. My colleagues at the University of Haifa were equally helpful and supportive. I am grateful in particular to Avi Ben-Zvi, Zach Levey, Uri Bar Joseph, Benny Miller, Ranan Kuperman, Carmela Lutmar, Ben Mor, Aviad Rubin, Daphna Canetti, Israel Waismel-Manor, Doron Navot, Eran Vigoda-Gadot and Nissim Cohen. Two anonymous reviewers at Edinburgh University Press provided a most effective set of suggestions that made this text much stronger. The Press’s staff, in particular Jen Daly, David Lonergan, Joannah Duncan, Sarah Foyle and Zuzana Ihnatova were most helpful (and patient!) in publishing this book. More broadly, I owe much to scholars and mentors who all ­contributed in their own way to my path in academia: Gad Barzilai,

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Avi Ben-Zvi, Ron Harris, Eran Lerman, Ariel (Eli) Levite, Gil Merom, Elyakim Rubinstein and Zvi Stauber. Beyond academia, this project would not have been possible without the support of my family: my parents, Yael and Amos Eiran; my wife, Margot, and our children Ori, Shira and Ella, as well as my brothers Asaf and Jonathan. Ronen Bergman, Gabi Blum, Dan Koller, Scott Lasensky, Shahar Levy, Itai Yonat, Dan Atzmon and Avner and Iris Lushi have been a continued source of support and friendship. Part of the Indonesia section appeared in a chapter I wrote for Oded Haklai and Neophytos Loizides’ edited volume Settlers in Contested Lands: Territorial Disputes and Ethnic Conflicts, which was published by Stanford University Press in 2015 (copyright © by the Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Jr University, all rights reserved). These parts were used with the permission of Stanford University Press. I want to thank the Press for allowing this usage. In the broadest possible sense, therefore, this book took many villages. Thank you, my fellow villagers. May I be able to return this debt.

Introduction 1

1 INTRODUCTION

This book explains why and under what conditions states launched settlement projects in territories that were not under their sovereignty during the era of decolonisation. In analysing state expansion, there are two questions to ask: firstly, why did these states want to expand? Secondly, what were the mechanisms and means used to secure permanent expansion? The book analyses the second question, and explains a specific mechanism used for permanent expansion, settlement projects. It investigates states that chose to expand and secured physical control, but not sovereignty, over a target territory. To buttress the argument, this book also analyses ‘negative cases’, when states occupied a territory and sought permanent expansion there, but did not use settlements as a mechanism for territorial expansion. By ‘settlement projects’, I refer to a sustained cluster of policies by which states strategically plan, implement and support the permanent transfer of some of their nationals into a territory not under their sovereignty. Examples include the various post-1967 Israeli settlement projects in the West Bank and Gaza after the 1967 Six Day War, the post-1975 Moroccan settlement project in Western Sahara, and the post-1975 Indonesian settlement project in East Timor. The book argues that states embarked on settlement projects in order to secure permanent territorial expansion into contested territories that they controlled. Specifically, settlement projects were intended to manipulate interactions in the international arena, such as negotiations or internationally managed plebiscites that were expected to determine sovereignty over the territory in question. Settlements should be understood, then, as a rationalist bargaining strategy, rather than as the fulfilment of some religious or national calling, as they are sometimes depicted. Settlement projects were intended to affect

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c­ onstitutive norms regarding sovereignty, even at the cost of breaching regulative norms, as this activity was generally prohibited in international law after World War II. This book also argues that settlement projects were made possible under the following four necessary conditions: firstly, a legally plausible argument for expansion under international law that created the possibility that expansion would be accepted in the international system; secondly, the presence of a great power benefactor that deflected the costs of the settling state’s breach of the norms against expansion and settlement activity; thirdly, the internal institutional capacity to carry out a settlement project; and fourthly, a low level of collective affinity (the brethren factor) between the expanding state and the indigenous population in the target territory. The book advances and tests these arguments using a number of qualitative case-based methodologies: an analysis of a critical case (Israel in the West Bank and Gaza) and a cross-case analysis of two other cases, Morocco in Western Sahara and Indonesia in East Timor. The book further tests the argument by analysing three negative cases, where states occupied a region, wanted to annex it, and yet did not use settlements. As these chapters show, the lack of one or more variables meant that even in cases when states had control over a territory and indeed sought expansion, they still did not launch a settlement project, as happened for India in Goa, Libya in the Aozou Strip, and Mauritania in Western Sahara. The book makes empirical, methodological and theoretical contributions. Firstly, it identifies post-colonial (after 1960) settlement projects as a distinct cluster of cases that warrants its own separate explanation. As Haklai and Loizides (2015) have pointed out, ‘Thus far, the politics of settlers and settlements in contested territories has not been studied as a principal phenomenon in its own right’ (3). By focusing on post-colonial settlement projects, the book breaks with the (limited) existing work on some of these projects, which generally has analysed them as being driven by traditional colonial logics. For example, Ian S. Lustick’s comparative works on settlement projects (1985, 1993) clustered together medieval and nineteenth-century state-building efforts in the British Isles, colonial-era French expansion into Algeria, and Israel’s control of the West Bank and Gaza. In contrast, the cluster of cases I have identified differs because all cases share a temporal proximity, all occurred under the conditions of the same international

Introduction 3 system and all were launched by similar units in the system in terms of their histories (new states that drew on an ancient heritage) and capabilities (strong regional powers). In all cases, the projects occurred in regions that shared a similar geographic feature: they were all adjacent to the territory of the controlling state. These similarities are important among other reasons because they lead to similar beliefs among the states’ elites. For example, all the states analysed here drew their legitimacy from the post-1945 international norms of self-determination and decolonisation, and they sought similar legitimacy for their newly occupied regions rather than relying on power alone (that is, physical control of the contested territories). Secondly, the book advances a rigorous theoretical explanation of these cases. Scholars generally did not produce a model that systematically examined and explained settlement projects of the current era. A noted exception is Lustick’s insightful work (1985), though he looks also at cases from the colonial era when such behaviour – the creation of settlement projects – was indeed the norm. The excellent volume edited by Haklai and Loizides (2015) offers a comparative look at a large number of cases and makes an important contribution in tying them to conflict. However, the analytical lens used in this volume (to which I contributed a chapter) is mostly comparative. The main effort is to identify common topics across the various instances of the phenomenon and it includes cases of internal as well as colonial settlement projects. Eugene Kontorovich (2016) offers a comparative legal analysis of one aspect of modern settlement projects: the practice bearing on Article 49(6) of the fourth Geneva Convention, the legal source that prohibits the transfer of an occupier’s population to an occupied territory. As noted, this is a legal analysis and it does not offer a broader explanation of the phenomenon. Thirdly, the book introduces an important overlooked variable to the theory: the international environment – specifically, its norms, as well as the distribution of power in the system. This approach breaks with the tradition of explaining these projects as resulting mainly from a state’s internal or bicommunal variables. Settlement projects had a profound effect on conflicts over contested territories (Haklai and Loizides 2015: 1). Settlement projects generally contributed to the prolonging of the conflicts, and they affected their patterns of resolution as well as the stability of the post-conflict environment. As Hassner (2007) has shown, as the

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length of a conflict grows, so does the possibility of resolving it diminish. Settlement projects contributed to the prolonging of conflicts over contested territories for a number of reasons. Firstly, the deployment of settlers led to heightened tensions with the indigenous populations. In most cases, the locals saw the settlers as competing for resources and as a tool being used by the state for social control. In some cases, this tension led to violence between the indigenous population and the settlers. These included cases where the indigenous population tried to halt settlement activity, or protested against the uneven distribution of resources in favour of settlers, including their over-representation in sought-after jobs (Sherlock 1996: 837). Placing settlers in the midst of the indigenous population, further, makes it easy to attack an opposing ethnic group if there is already enmity between the two (Cohen, Berger and Khoury 2017). In other cases, settlers attack locals in an effort to deter the indigenous population from resisting (Eiran and Krause 2018), or as part of an effort to encourage the local population to abandon some of its land. As such, settlement projects eroded trust between locals and the settling state, and created new sources of conflicts. This was the case even when the controlling state and the controlled population were involved in negotiations in an attempt to resolve the fate of the territory. For example, Dennis Ross has suggested that ongoing Israeli settlement expansion in the 1990s was a major reason for the collapse of the Israeli– Palestinian Oslo peace process (Ross 2004: 765). It is not surprising, therefore, that the settlement issue gained enormous significance in any effort to broker an Israeli–Palestinian peace agreement. Secondly, over time, settler communities developed their own preferences, separate from those of the settling state. These preferences constrained the settling state’s ability to shape policies regarding the controlled territory and, in particular, efforts to relinquish control there. In the Israeli case, settlers and their supporters served as veto players, which limited the state’s ability to reach a two-state solution with the Palestinians. As John Mearsheimer pointed out in an April 2010 presentation, when he argued that a two-state solution to the Israeli– Palestinian conflict was no longer viable: There are now about 480,000 settlers in the Occupied Territories and a huge infrastructure of connector and bypass roads, not to mention settlements. Much of that infrastructure and large

Introduction 5 numbers of those settlers would have to be removed to create a Palestinian state. Many of those settlers, however, would fiercely resist any attempt to rollback the settlement enterprise. Earlier this month, Ha’aretz reported that a Hebrew University poll found that 21 percent of the settlers believe that ‘all means must be employed to resist the evacuation of most West Bank settlements, including the use of arms.’ In addition, the study found that 54 percent of those 480,000 settlers ‘do not recognise the government’s authority to evacuate settlements,’ and even if there was a referendum sanctioning a withdrawal, 36 percent of the settlers said they would not accept it. Thirdly, settlement projects created barriers to international efforts to resolve conflicts regarding contested territories. For example, the UN-led referendum regarding the final status of Western Sahara was severely delayed as a result of disagreements between the warring parties over the right of the settlers to vote. Under-Secretary-General of the United Nations Sir Marrack Goulding wrote in 2002: ‘More than a decade had passed since MINORSU was established and there is still no agreement on who may vote on the referendum’ (214). MINORSU stands for the United Nations Mission for Referendum in Western Sahara, and it was created to facilitate a solution in Western Sahara. While settlement projects may prolong conflicts over contested territories, they may also affect both the general pattern as well as the specific details of the arrangements (e.g. agreements, unilateral action) that determine the fate of conflicts over the territories. For example, a massively entrenched project can secure the permanent incorporation of a subordinate territory, as seems to have been the case in Western Sahara. In other cases, as Lustick (1985) argues, the presence of settlers has had the opposite effect, serving as ‘the decisive factor in the failure’ (80) of settling states to incorporate the settled territories. Settlement projects can also determine the specific details of these arrangements, such as border demarcation. For example, Israeli–Palestinian negotiations in the 1990s revealed that the Palestinians and the United States seemed to accept Israeli expansion into the Jewish neighbourhoods in Jerusalem’s vicinity. Similarly, Levine has suggested (1994) that the existence or absence of settler populations in the periphery affected the level of violence during state contraction. A secondary effect here is that the presence of settlements leads to the prolongation of the

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­ egotiations over specific aspects of a resolution between warring n parties. As Newman (1994) has observed regarding the Israeli settlements in the West Bank: The ultimate fate of the Israeli settlers in the West Bank, the Gaza Strip (at present numbering approximately 110,000 excluding East Jerusalem) will be a major obstacle in negotiating a boundary that will ensure their continued existence under Israeli sovereignty, their forced removal and evacuation, or their willingness to remain in their homes under Palestinian control. (264) Finally, settler communities can affect the stability of arrangements that end conflicts regarding contested territories, especially in cases where the settling state retreats from the contested territory. For example, Russian settler communities in the independent states that were once part of the Soviet Union have been an ongoing source of tension between some of these states and Russia. Similarly, the political instability that accompanied the Indonesian withdrawal from East Timor in 1999 had, according to one study, ‘direct links with the [Indonesian] transmigration [settlement] programme’ (Adhiati and Bobsein 2001: 7). This book advances a rigorous and parsimonious explanation for state use of settlement projects as a tool of territorial expansion. This is problem-driven research. Methodologically, the book does not confine itself to a specific school of international relations; rather, it uses arguments from both realist and liberal approaches. Moreover, the book reaches outside the boundaries of the discipline and uses aspects of negotiation theory. In forgoing a commitment to a particular strand of international relations theory, I draw upon the scholarship that advocates for ‘analytical eclecticism’ (Katzenstein and Okawar 2001, Sørensen 2008), as I agree, ‘compelling analyses of empirical puzzles can be built through combining’ all three approaches (Katzenstein and Okawar 2001: 177). I further accept Walt’s notion (1998) that we are moving towards a ‘convergence’ (42) of the three analytical frameworks of international relations. Specifically, my argument offers a negotiation theory approach to explain how international-law norms led states to launch a material-based strategy. This book investigates all cases in which expansionist states used settlers between 1960 and 1991. It further analyses three additional cases

Introduction 7 in which states exerted control over contested territories and sought to expand into them, but did not use settlements. Out of the twenty-three cases of occupation-with-intention-to-annex that produced no settlement projects, I chose the three that had the highest potential to do so mostly by virtue of the length of time they were in control: India in Goa (1961–), Libya in Chad (1972–94) and Mauritania in Western Sahara (1975–9). For a complete list of cases (occupations and settlement projects) between 1960 and 1991, see Table 1.1. The small number of the general population of expansionist ­occupiers (twenty-six), and the even smaller number of those that used settlements (three) excludes the use of any large N methodologies here. By analysing all cases in the data set, I am able to achieve both goals of case study research: insight into causal relationship, and an explanation for the entire population of cases (Gerring 2007: 86). The book draws on the qualitative tradition that Mahoney and Goertz (2006) call ‘causes of effects’. In this tradition, the purpose of the enquiry is to ‘explain outcomes in particular cases’ (231). This approach stands in contrast to methodologies with a statistics-based approach that seeks to explain ‘effects of causes’, that is, the effects of certain stimuli on a large population of cases. Moreover, the richness and detail of the cases allow for the correction of a common problem of the ‘effects of causes’ approach, when the goal of estimating average effects may not be sufficient to explain all specific cases (Mahoney and Goertz 2006: 231). I include, as noted, a chapter with relevant negative cases. The chapter provides correction for the overrepresentation of positive cases, which could bias my results by demonstrating, incorrectly, that the independent variables I presented indeed account for the outcome of a settlement project. As noted, I chose these cases out of the twenty-three cases of expansionist occupations that did not produce a settlement project, based on Goertz and Mahoney’s (2006) ‘possibility principle’ of analysing negative cases ‘where the outcome of interest is possible’ (186). I further applied their rule of inclusion according to which ‘[negative] cases are relevant if their value on at least one independent variable is positively related to the outcome of interest’ (186). The criteria I used to distinguish between the relevant negative cases that I chose, and the irrelevant negative cases that I did not analyse, were the length of time the occupying state held onto the target territory, as well the material feasibility of supporting human habitation. These two criteria comprise

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Table 1.1  Occupying Expansionists and Settlement Projects 1960–91

 1  2  3  4  5  6  7

Year

States (occupying state first)

Territory

1961– 1961 1961 1963–5 1963 1963–4 1964

Goa, Daiman and Diu Pathanistan West Irian Border area Algerian border area North Borneo Eastern Ethiopia and northern Kenya Rann of Kutch Part of Kashmir West Bank, Gaza Strip, Sinai, Golan Small islands of Abu Musa, Greater and Lesser Tunb in Strait of Hormuz Libya/Chad Aozou Strip China/South Vietnam Western Paracel Islands

Settlement project

India/Portugal Afghanistan/Pakistan Indonesia/Netherlands Ghana/Upper Volta Morocco/Algeria Indonesia/Malaysia Somalia/Ethiopia and Kenya 1965 (April) Pakistan/India 1965 (August) Pakistan/India 1967– Israel/Jordan, Egypt and Syria 1971– Iran/United Arab Emirates

No No No No No No No

12 13

1972–94 1974–

14

1975–

South Vietnam

No No (limited number of Chinese garrisons, no indigenous population) No

15

1975–

Western Sahara

Yes

16

1975–9

Western Sahara

No

17

1975–99

East Timor

Yes

18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

1975 1977–8 1977–8 1980 1980–8 1981–2 1982 1985 1990–1

Border region Ogaden Desert Border region Border region Shatt El Arab waterway Chad Falkland Islands Border region Kuwait

No No No No No No No No No

 8  9 10 11

North Vietnam/South Vietnam Morocco/no sovereigna Mauritania/no sovereigna Indonesia/no sovereignb Mali/Burkina-Faso Somalia/Ethiopia Cambodia/Vietnam Uganda/Tanzania Iraq/Iran Libya/Chad Argentina/UK Mali/Burkina-Faso Iraq/Kuwait

No No Yes No

Source: Based on Zacher 2001, modified to fit my definitions; excluded military occupations not intended to generate territorial expansion (e.g. Israel’s control of parts of Lebanon, 1982–2000). a Spain, a departing colonial sovereign, left the territory. b Portugal, a departing colonial power, left the territory.

Introduction 9 the foundation of capacity to carry out a settlement project because a state needs enough time and space to launch a project. As Table 1.1 indicates, nine cases of occupiers that sought expansion held the target territory for more than two years. In three of these cases (Israel, Morocco, Indonesia), states launched settlement projects. Three other of these nine cases are my negative cases: India in Goa (thirty-nine years), Libya in Chad (twenty-two years) and Mauritania (four years). The three remaining longer occupations are ‘negative irrelevant’; that is, they may produce a selection bias towards too many negative cases (Mahoney and Goertz 2006: 180). These irrelevant negative cases are: China’s occupation of the Paracel islands, which is irrelevant because they are geographically too small for the development of any meaningful human habitation; North Vietnam’s control of/reunification with South Vietnam, which is irrelevant because reunification was agreed upon (although through ‘peaceful means’) in the 1973 Paris agreements; and Iran’s control of three small islands in the Persian Gulf, which is irrelevant because its size allows for only a few hundred inhabitants. PLAN OF THE BOOK

In Chapter 2, I present in detail the research question, explore the literature and then offer my argument. In Chapter 3, I analyse in detail the case of the post-1967 Israeli settlement project in the West Bank and Gaza, and I use the analysis of this rich and prototypical case to develop my explanation. Being the longest settlement project in this class of cases, it is not only the richest case in terms of data but also a ‘substantially important case’ as defined by Mahoney and Goertz (2006), in that it possesses a ‘special normative interest because of a current major role in domestic or international politics’ (242). Specifically, the project and its continued development is now the primary variable in determining the viability of a two-state solution to the Israeli–Palestinian conflict (Kerry 2016). In analysing this case, I will use detailed process tracing in order to develop an explanation that is ‘sensitive to the complexities of the historical event’ I use to analyse theory (George and Bennet 2005: 223). In Chapter 4, I conduct a cross-case analysis. I review two of the other major post-1960 settlement projects: the Moroccan project in Western Sahara and the Indonesian project in East Timor. The purpose

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of this chapter is to test, review and refine the explanatory power of my argument. In Chapter 5, I analyse negative cases. As noted, these are cases in which states occupied an adjacent territory with the hope of permanently expanding into these areas, and yet did not launch a settlement project. In these cases the outcome of a settlement project was possible but did not occur, due mostly but not exclusively to high value on the brethren factor and low values in the other variables. The cases covered are the Indian occupation of the Portuguese enclaves of Goa, Daman and Diu in 1961; the Libyan occupation of the Aozou strip in Chad between 1972 and 1994; and the Mauritanian control of portions of Western Sahara between 1975 and 1979. In the concluding chapter, I summarise my findings and explore the theoretical implications and policy-relevant conclusions of my work. Specifically I highlight inferences about the importance of four vari­ ables based on comparisons of cases, both in cases where a variable was high or present, and in the negative cases where variables were low or absent.

Theory 11

2 THEORY

This book asks why and under what conditions states launched settlement projects in territories that were not under their sovereignty, during the era of decolonisation. The launch of these projects, in these times, is puzzling. By the second part of the twentieth century, territorial expansion and colonisation were rarely practised. Indeed, new ­ settlement projects were prohibited under international law. Specifically, Article 49 of the 1949 Geneva Convention prohibits the transfer of civilians from the territory of an occupying state to the occupied territory. Similarly, the 1907 Hague Regulations prohibit the creation of permanent property rights by an occupying state in an occupied territory. As Haklai and Loizides point out (2015): ‘the era matters – a lot. What used to be a common practice during periods of imperial expansion is now highly contentious’ (15). HOW DO SCHOLARS EXPLAIN POST-COLONIAL SETTLEMENT PROJECTS?

One common framing of modern settlement projects is to describe them as colonial or imperial. Ian S. Lustick’s groundbreaking comparative work on settlement projects (1985, 1993), for example, places them next to French Colonial expansion in Algeria. Similarly, Reuveny (2003) and Khouri (2009) describe settlement projects as a form of ‘colonisation’. Cavanagh and Veracini (2017) see them as a sub-category of the settler colonial phenomenon and in line with past projects that span back to antiquity. But the post-1960 Indonesian, Israeli and Moroccan settlement projects differ from traditional settler-colonial, colonial or imperial projects. Firstly, unlike traditional colonial endeavours, a distant (usually

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European) empire did not instigate these settlement projects. Rather, all post-1960 strategic settlement projects were launched by a nonEuropean state, that is, placed next to the area when settlements were created. Moreover, the cases I analyse all occurred in the second half of the twentieth century when most of the land on earth was divided by recognised nation-states. This contrasts with the colonial era, in which much of the territorial expansion and settlement projects that followed were conducted in areas that were deemed terra nullius (land belonging to no one). Furthermore, by the twentieth century there were already, albeit weak, international norms (international law) that attempted to regulate the system and explicitly prohibit certain types of settlement endeavours. Strategic settlement projects are different from imperial settlement projects because, in most cases, they lack the economic rationale that stood at the heart of imperial projects. Moreover, the settlement projects analysed here were not initiated by advanced capitalist states, as some scholarship on imperialism suggests is the case (Fieldhouse 1966: 74–6). Lenin (1929) argued that imperialism was an inherent and unavoidable ‘step in capitalism’ in which the financial sector in great advanced capitalist powers drove territorial expansion in order to create new opportunities for firms that lost their profitability in an economy controlled by monopolies (71–3). Lenin’s analysis was not accepted universally, but even if he was correct, none of the conditions he identified as contributing to an imperial project were in place in the cases of Indonesia, Israel or Morocco. So if these modern settlement projects are not imperial or colonial, what other explanations can there be for their launch? The existing literature on post-1960 settlement projects suffers from a number of shortcomings. Firstly, there are only a handful of studies that attempt to produce explanations of these projects that can be generalised. Even Lustick’s rigorous comparative work on settlement projects does not focus on explaining why states launch settlement projects, but rather on aspects of the projects’ effects. Secondly, the limited number of existing studies use either internal or bilateral/bicommunal (Israeli-Palestinian, Moroccan–Saharawi) variables to explain why states launched these projects. These studies ignore the effect of variables located in the international arena. This is surprising, as the international system played an important role in regulating territorial expansion in the post-World War II era. Finally,

Theory 13 Table 2.1  Existing Explanations for Strategic Settlement Projects Internal

Bicommunal/bilateral

International

Audience costs (Benvenisty 1983, Fearon 1993) Settler-driven (Huberman 2008) Benvenisty 2009

Social control (Weiner 2001)

Affecting outcome of sovereignty (Eiran 2018)

Economic utilisation (Marxism)

the internal or bilateral/bicommunal explanations, usually drawn from colonial logic, do not offer a convincing explanation for the modern cases of settlement projects. For a summary of possible explanations, see Table 2.1. Internal explanations are part of a broader argument that places variables that are inside the state, such as internal barraging, as the main explanation for territorial conflict. Specifically, in analysing the launch of a settlement project, internal explanations include suggestions that settlement projects were: (1) a result of a ‘push factor’, launched and advanced by internal, non-state actors; (2) a government policy intended to create an audience cost that would tie the hands of future governments in order to secure expansion; and (3) determined by an institutional or ideational path established in earlier periods of the settling state’s history. According to this approach, settlers were the main driving force in launching and developing settlement projects. This argument draws on historical insights about territorial expansion, as well as on the field of population studies. According to this approach, expansion was initiated by geographically or politically peripheral groups, rather than by an authority based at the centre of power. John S. Galbraith (1973), for example, explained the nineteenth-century territorial expansion of the British Empire in India, Malaya and South Africa as having been driven not by the economic forces that directed territorial expansion from the empire’s centre but rather by actors on the periphery. Through a detailed historical analysis Galbraith demonstrated how local governors, who were ‘charged with maintenance of order, could not ignore disorder beyond their borders, turbulence that pulled them towards expansion’ (414). In his view, ‘seldom did the London government initiate frontier policy, rather, it reacted to the policies of its governors’ (414). And so, once a governor annexed a new territory in order to

14

Post-Colonial Settlement Strategy

enhance local security, the authorities in London ‘were not disposed to restore conquered territories [to the previous owners]’ (414). Galbraith further explained that this was a self-perpetuating process because ‘governors continued to try and eliminate the disorderly frontier by annexation which in turn produced new frontier problems and further expansion’ (415). Karen Barkey has offered a more nuanced version of the peripherally driven expansion argument in her analysis of the territorial and bureaucratic expansion of the Ottoman Empire in the seventeenth century. In her 1997 book Bandits and Bureaucrats, Barkey demonstrates how the consolidation of the Ottoman state was achieved through an interaction between the state and its peripheral outlaws. She shows how ‘once banditry developed, the state both used it and was drawn into negotiation with its leaders’ (12) in order to consolidate its territory and strengthen its institutions. A number of scholars have applied this logic to settlement projects; Silbey (2005), for example, suggests that the Americans, who settled in Mexican Texas between 1821 and 1845, did so ‘in pursuit of their own economic well-being’ (Silbey 2005: 7). In the Israeli context, the religious-social movement of Gush Emunim (‘the block of the faithful’) was the most dominant non-state actor involved in the development of the settlement project (Aran 1987, Lustick 1988, Friedman 1992, Feige 2002). For them, the project was a path to staking a claim for themselves in the Zionist ethos and the Jewish state’s leadership by heading a land acquisition project, much like the one that gave Labor Zionism the leadership in the Zionist movement from 1933 to 1977. According to the functional argument of Israeli sociologist Baruch Kimmerling, Labor Zionism secured leadership of the Zionist institutions (and later of the state of Israel) because it provided the most efficient means of achieving the movement’s greatest task: securing territorial control. In Zionism and Territoriality, Kimmerling shows that the collectivist land acquisition institutions developed by Labor Zionism were superior in securing land when compared to other options such as private enterprise. Finally, some settling states preferred to argue that settling activity was settler-driven because it allowed the state plausible deniability. The Moroccan government, for example, asserted that many of the settlers entering Western Sahara were nomads who routinely travelled in the Sahara, or were Saharawis who had left the territory in the 1950s and were merely returning home decades later.

Theory 15 Despite these instances, the internal explanation is unsatisfactory. Firstly, the data shows that in most cases settlers were neither organised enough nor committed enough to be truly self-driven. For example, in the Moroccan case, settlers were drawn from low-income sectors. And Indonesian settlers in East Timor were drawn from the ranks of poor farming families in Java. According to some reports, these settlers were not even told about the opposition they would face in the area where they were to settle. Secondly, even in places where settlers were organised, as in the Israeli case, despite the media and political visibility, national religious settlers (the organised sector) account for only 10–15 per cent of the total settler population, and comprised an even smaller percentage in the project’s first decade. One could counter this argument by suggesting that perhaps other settlers led the project, but no other settler group can claim to have had a leadership effect greater than that of the national religious sector. All other groups were less ideological and less organised. Another potential counter-claim is that while they did not constitute the bulk of the settlers, they nevertheless led the project and had an effect on the rest of the settler population. This notion, too, is improbable, in part because the elected leadership of the big towns that constituted the largest numbers of settlers (Ariel, Ma’ale Edomom, Beitar Ilit) tended to have but limited cooperation with the national religious settlers and were not represented, for example, in the YESHA Council. Thirdly, settlement projects entailed public goods, such as land, security and infrastructure development, which only governments can provide. Even in the Israeli case where the national-religious settlers are dominant now, the project was initially launched by the government, not the settlers. As Shafir has noted, ‘Jewish settlement in the West Bank did not start with Gush Emunim, nor has it ended with them’ (1985: 153). At least in part, as noted by Newman (1985), this is because ‘Israel remains a highly centralised country in terms of public control and planning . . . control is achieved through the use of the public purse without which it is virtually impossible to establish any new settlements’ (181). Yisrael Harel, the first leader of the Israeli settlers’ YESHA Council and perhaps the most visible face of the national religious settler movement, wrote in Haaretz in 2008: [T]hose who oppose the settlement movement argue that it was done against the government’s wish. Wrong. It would have been

16

Post-Colonial Settlement Strategy

impossible to develop hundreds of settlements that comprise tens of thousands of dwellings, school buildings, public buildings, and industrial zones, and pave roads to them without the agreement of Israel’s governments and especially without broad public support. The second internal explanation for the choice of the settlements as a tool of territorial expansion is audience costs. While the argument about a self-perpetuated project leaves little room for government agency, the audience-costs argument claims that the government was the main instigator of the project for internal, forward-looking reasons. Based on insights from Fearon (1994), the audience-costs argument suggests that governments placed settlers in disputed areas because they believed that a large settler population would create a set of new interests – those of the settlers and their supporters – that would force future governments to hold on to the territories. Lacina shows (2017), in the Indian context, that local populations are less likely to win autonomy from a central government when their region is also home to electorally influential groups that oppose autonomy. If we continue this logic, governments that seek territorial expansion would want to deploy anti-autonomy groups to restrict territorial contraction in the future. Benvenisti made a similar argument in the Israeli context when he argued in a 1983 piece in the New York Review of Books that the ­settlement policies of the Israeli government reflect a [m]ajor political innovation . . . aimed at creating internal political facts, not geostrategic facts. The Likud estimated correctly that the decision about the future of territories would result from domestic political struggles within the state of Israel rather than from direct military or political pressure. (199) This argument’s explanatory power is limited. The audience-costs argument is based on the assumption that the current government’s calculations are driven by concerns that it may lose power and its existing policies be reversed. But the majority of the governments that launched and advanced settlement projects in post-colonial times were authoritarian. The Indonesian and Moroccan leadership – Suharto and King Hassan – did not expect to lose control and did not therefore plan for such an occurrence. Moreover, the population that was transferred into the contested territories was peripheral and had limited

Theory 17 political power and grassroots support in their countries of origin. The Indonesians moved politically weak and poor farmers from Java to East Timor. Even in the Israeli case, in which the electoral system could have brought about a change in leadership, there is little evidence supporting this explanation. The 1967–77 Labor governments that initiated and led the project during its first decade did not expect to lose power and therefore had no policies in place for such an eventuality. Labor had controlled Jewish political institutions since 1933, was largely credited with the creation of the Israeli state in 1948 and was linked to a series of consecutive military victories in 1948, 1956 and 1967. No wonder the most penetrating scholarly analysis of the party is called Chosen to Govern (Yonathan Shapiro, 1989). In this respect, the Israeli Labor party should be seen as a party credited with gaining independence and state-building like the Congress party in India, the PRI in Mexico  and the ANC in South Africa. Labor had won all elections since 1933, and created and controlled many of the leading political, social and economic institutions in Israel. Moreover, the small number of settlers placed in the West Bank until 1977 (about 4,000, excluding Jerusalem) could not possibly have created a serious block that would prevent any future settler removal. A third explanation suggests that settlement projects were the result of a path established years earlier. The argument takes cultural and institutional forms. Culturally, Shafir and Peled suggest that in the Israeli case Zionism’s ethos of settling the frontier was so powerful that, once a new frontier was opened in 1967, the ethos compelled some sectors of society to embark on a new settlement project (Shafir and Peled 2002: 194). Benvenisti agrees, to an extent, with this argument, and explained in a 2009 interview that the ‘genetic code of a settler society’ moved Israelis to settle in the new territories. Amira Hess has sounded a similar theme, lamenting Israel’s inability to halt settlement activity when it negotiated with the Palestinians, thus missing ‘an opportunity to remove the 1948 acts of dispossession from the institutional and mental chromosomes of our country . . . no wonder that the settlers claim that there is no difference between Bar’am [a Kibbutz in territorial Israel] and Psagot [a settlement in the West Bank]’ (Hess 2009: 1). Similarly, Haim Hanegbi has suggested that ‘Israel can not free itself from its . . . pattern . . . it is a very deep pattern. There is a long historical continuum that goes all the way from Beit Ha’Shita [a pre-1948 Jewish village] to the unauthorized outposts [in the West Bank]’ (2003).

18

Post-Colonial Settlement Strategy

This ‘cultural path’ explanation has limits. Morocco has no tradition of mass population transfers, and while Israel may have had an old ethos of settlement, by the 1960s it was no longer a central theme in the national ideology and practice (Allon 1959: 259–60). Indeed, in 1959 a disappointed Allon wrote that ‘the eyes of the youth today are turned to the ease of life and incorrect values. The pre-1948 frontier had closed with the 1949 armistice lines, and the new state offered numerous statist challenges for its youngsters. Even the specialized military settlement units, the NAHAL corps, were no longer attractive to young Israelis’ (Netzer 2002: 193). The institutional path-dependent explanation suggests that the set of state organisations that handled settlement policy in past instances had an entrenched interest in pursuing this policy in the cases under review. For example, Indonesia had a set of institutions dating back to Dutch colonial times, which moved populations from the central island of Java to the periphery in order to limit population density. The post-colonial Indonesian state used these institutions and conducted a number of settler projects in numerous peripheral territories before using the same tactic in East Timor. In the Israeli case, one can argue that the organisations created by the Zionist movement in the pre-1948 era to develop new settlements found in the post-1967 settlement projected a new rationale for their existence and therefore advanced the project in the new territories. Primary among these organisations is the settlement department in the Jewish Agency. While there is no doubt that the existence of an effective settlement apparatus made the launch of the project easier, this cannot be the sole reason. If the institutions by themselves were the driver of the project, we should have observed settlement activity in other unsettled parts of Israel, most notably its vast (and largely empty) Negev desert and its northern sector, the Galilee. Indeed, during Israel’s first decade (1948–57) the state created 368 new settlements, many in those peripheral regions (Gvati 1981a: 139). Yet, in the following decade (1957–67), the number dropped to only nineteen (Gvati 1981a: 143). The decline in settlement activity led the government to appoint in 1966 the Ben Aharon Commission, which recommended drastically downsizing the institutions that developed settlements, because their functions were no longer in great demand (Ben Aharon 1966: 8). A second type of explanation for a state’s use of settlements as a tool of territorial expansion is a bilateral or bicommunal approach.

Theory 19 According to this approach, governments launched settlement projects to support either social control over the indigenous population or economic utilisation of the controlled territory. Barter and Cote (2015) suggest it is ‘an age-old form of expansion and consolidation’ (62). Weiner and Teitelbaum (2001) have suggested that population transfer ‘as a strategy for establishing . . . control is an ancient practice’ and called it ‘population addition’ (57). Perhaps the earliest record of this strategy dates back to the eighth century bc, when the Assyrian King Saragon II reported in his annals: ‘I transported [King] Amris to Assyria, with his belongings, the members of his ancestors’ families . . . I established some Assyrians, devoted to my government, in their places’ (Oppert 1877). Settling a loyal population in a newly occupied area supported social control in five major ways. Firstly, it buttressed the legitimacy of the occupation by the local population, by virtue of introducing a ‘ready made collaborative class’ (Levine 1994: 41–2). Secondly, settlers served as a ‘natural recruitment pool for staffing for administrative positions within the local state bureaucracy’ (Lustick 1985: 81) – although, as Haklai (2007) shows, settlers that serve in the state apparatus in an occupied region can divert the actions of agencies to serve their own preferences, even if these directly contradict, at times, the state’s preferences. Thirdly, settlements served as bases for local control, both as a haven and an infrastructure for military and police forces (Farsakh 2009). That is, settlers were ‘garrison people’ (McGarry 1998: 616). Fourthly, even when settlers and the settling state did share exactly the same preferences, they participated in socially controlling the occupied peoples through their actions, separate from the state apparatus. Finally, settlements created a physical barrier that intersected the occupied region and made it easier to control. These explanations carry little weight in some of the cases discussed here. Israel, for example, was not faced with any significant challenges to its control over the West Bank and Gaza between 1967 and 1987. Yet the settler population (excluding Jerusalem) numbered almost 100,000 by the latter date. Although the PLO had encouraged resistance to Israeli control since 1967, its actions were limited. David Ronen, who headed ‘social control’ operations for the Israeli Security Agency (Shin Bet) in the West Bank, explained that the ‘Palestinian national movement was unable to attract popular support’ (Ronen 1989: 221). Settlers were therefore not needed for these purposes, and Israel did not use

20

Post-Colonial Settlement Strategy

them in the two brief episodes of armed Palestinian resistance (1967 and 1970–1) for its control (Pundak 2000, Maimon 1993, Ronen 1989). Similarly, in the Moroccan case, while the invading Moroccan forces faced fierce armed resistance from the POLISARIO, Morocco introduced settlers only after the resistance subsided in 1991. A leading explanation for settlement activity in colonial times, the economic argument, suggests that settlers were deployed in order to advance the settling state’s economic objectives in the subordinated territory: the development of markets or industry, the utilisation of a cheap labour force or the extraction of natural resources that would then be shipped back to the controlling state (Levine 1994: 41, Algazi 2006). The economic explanation also has its limits in the case of settlement projects in the post-colonial era. In the Israeli, Indonesian and Moroccan cases, the settling population was not, generally speaking, involved in economic activity that supported the core state. For example, an internal report of the World Zionist Organization shows that the majority of settlers surveyed in the Samaria region were either day workers, who travelled back to territorial Israel, or workers in internal public-service functions (Sherman and Avner 1995: 36–9). Moreover, the investments in acquiring the resources needed for settlement activity (land and security), as well as for the elaborate system of incentives offered to settlers, had weighed on the coffers of all three states. The West Bank and Gaza’s main economic assets were cheap labour and the ability to absorb Israeli products. Because of the short distances between Israel and both regions, none of these activities entailed or, indeed, benefited from settlements. Until the late 1980s, Palestinians worked in Israel daily or weekly. With the first Palestinian intifada limiting these possibilities, Israel moved to developing contained industrial areas that could absorb some of the Palestinian labourers. Most of these areas, however, were in Israel’s territory. Not only does the existing work not fully explain some of the cases, it also lacks in-depth discussion of the effect of the international environment on settlement projects. This is true both for case-specific and for comparative work. For example, all three recent studies of the Israeli settlement project have paid little attention to the international dimension of the Israeli settlement project (Gorenberg 2006, Zertal and Eldar 2005, Huberman 2008). The most comprehensive of the three, Zertal and Eldar’s Lords of the Land, mentions the United Nations on

Theory 21 only three of its 531 pages. This also holds true of the small number of studies that compare settlement projects across time and space. In Ian Lustick’s earliest comparison, his 1985 State Building Failure in British Ireland and French Algeria, he focuses on settler activity in three vastly different international environments (medieval, colonial and postcolonial), yet he does not discuss its effects on the use of settlers. This lack of discussion is unfortunate. A preliminary analysis of the data suggests that the launch of settlement projects is affected by variables located in the international arena. For example, the Moroccan settlement project in Western Sahara began in earnest in 1991, only after the United Nations brokered a peace agreement, which included a referendum that would determine the fate of the territory. Similarly, Israel’s Prime Minister Rabin justified his acceptance of a settlement effort in central Samaria in 1975 as a response to the United Nations General Assembly resolution that equated Zionism with racism (Goldstein 2006: 281), although initially the government was fiercely opposed to these efforts (Huberman 2013: 91–5). Moreover, the lack of analysis of the international arena is surprising because of the growing role of the international community in regulating state expansion in the period after World War II. In 1900, conquest was a commonly practised and legitimate way to expand state territory. Indeed, as Henry Wheaton observed: ‘the title of almost all the nations in Europe to territory now possessed by them . . . was originally derived from conquest’ (Korman 1996: 67). However, within a few decades, force was no longer an accepted route for territorial expansion, and was rarely deployed for this purpose. Scholars have focused on different aspects of this new norm. Atzili (2006) calls it ‘border fixity’; Zacher (2001) defines it as ‘the territorial integrity norm’; and Lalonde (2002) describes it as the ‘inviolability of Frontiers’. Whichever way one describes it, the vast majority of actors in the international system no longer used force to achieve territorial expansion. As Table 2.2 shows, out of the twenty-six attempts between 1960 and 1991 to use force for territorial expansion, only four were successful, and one partially successful. Use of force, including occupation, as a state practice did not disappear, but forceful physical control no longer conferred sovereignty upon the occupier in the occupied region. Therefore, the few states that did seek expansion into regions they occupied had usually to turn to other mechanisms. Settlement projects were one of these mechanisms.

1962–75

1963–5

1963

1963–4

1964

1965 (April)

1965 (August) 1967

 4

 5

 6

 7

 8

 9

10

11

1961 1961 1961

 1  2  3

Year

Israel/Jordan, Egypt, Syria

Pakistan/India

Pakistan/India

Somalia/Ethiopia, Kenya

Indonesia/Malaysia

Morocco/Algeria

Ghana/Upper Volta

North Vietnam/South Vietnam

India/Portugal Afghanistan/Pakistan Indonesia/Netherlands

States (occupying state first)

Highly limited (India 90%, Pakistan 10%) No

No

No

No

No

Yes (?)

Yes No No

Yes (UNSCR 242 left issue open-ended)

No

Yes (British mediation)

Yes (OAU reiterated support for original border) Yes (AOU and Arab League pressure) Yes (deployment of British and Australian forces) Yes (OAU intervention)

Yes (international recognition) No Yes (negotiation, referendum, UN control over territory) No

Occupation Crucial international secured expansion? involvement in outcome (details)

West Bank, Gaza Strip, Sinai, Undecided Golan

Part of Kashmir

Eastern Ethiopia and northern Kenya Ran of Kutch

North Borneo

Algerian border area

South Vietnam, as the latter did not allow a referendum regarding unification as stipulated in 1954 Paris agreements Border area

Goa, Daiman and Diu Pathanistan West Irian

Territory

Table 2.2  Territorial Expansion: Forceful Attempts and Outcomes 1960–91

22 Post-Colonial Settlement Strategy

1972–94 1974 1975–

1975–9

1975–99

1975 1976–80

1977–8 1980 1980–8

1981–2 1982

1985 1990–1

13 14 15

16

17

18 19

20 21 22

23 24

25 26

Mali/Burkina/Faso Iraq/Kuwait

Libya/Chad Argentina/UK

Cambodia/Vietnam Uganda/Tanzania Iraq/Iran

Mali/Burkina/Faso Somalia/Ethiopia

Indonesia/no sovereignb

Border region Kuwait

Chad Falklands/Malvinas

Border region Border regions Shatt El Arab waterway

Border region Ogden Desert

Western Sahara (southeastern sector) East Timor

Mauritania/no sovereigna

Libya/Chad China/South Vietnam Morocco/no sovereigna

Small islands in Strait of Hormuz Aozou Strip Western Paracel Islands Most of Western Sahara

Iran/United Arab Emirates

No No

No No

No No No

No No

No

No

No Yes (?) Undecided

Yes

Yes (UN-administered referendum) Yes (OAU meditation) Yes (OAU committee reviewed case and reiterated commitment to original border) No No Yes (UN Security Council resolution) Yes (OAU sent troops) Yes (UN called for Argentinean withdrawal) Yes (ICJ adjudication) Yes (UNSCR resolution, international force)

Yes (ICJ determination) No Yes (UN peace plan left issue open-ended) No

No

Source: Based on Zacher 2001, modified to fit my definitions; excluded cases where occupation was not meant to lead to territorial expansion; excluded military occupations not intended to generate territorial expansion (e.g. Israel’s control of parts of Lebanon, 1982–2000). a Spain, a departing colonial sovereign, left the territory. b Portugal, a departing colonial power, left the territory.

1971

12

Theory 23

24

Post-Colonial Settlement Strategy

Table 2.2 also shows how the bilateral question of territorial expansion had become ‘internationalised’ as eighteen out of the twenty-six cases of forceful attempts to expand were determined (in varying degrees) by an international intervention. This state of affairs was not always the case. Matthew McMahon opened his dissertation-turned-book Conquest and Modern International Law, which he concluded in April 1939, with the following observation: The proposition that a state may add to its territory and gain title to the ownership or jurisdiction of lands obtained and occupied by conquest is generally recognized as a principle in the modern law of nations. Thus, conquest is an accepted legal mode by which a state may acquire title to land held under the jurisdiction of another state. Classical scholars of international law grounded this rule in a number of separate logics. Vattel suggested that expansion through conquest contributed to the regulation of wars. Specifically, he stated that states would abide by the laws of war if they applied to both parties, regardless of the lawfulness of launching the war in the first place. As part of his argument he suggested that ‘the rights founded in the state of war, the lawfulness of its effects, the validity of acquisitions made by arms, do not . . . depend on the justice of the cause’ (Korman 1996: 20). Grotius accepted forceful territorial expansion as part of his broader defense of the peace treaties that terminated wars. These treaties were deemed crucial in limiting the duration of wars and their totality, and many a time they included the surrender of territory by the defeated party to the victor. In Grotius’s view, ‘all promises made in the course of war . . . for the purpose of terminating it, are valid to the extent that they can not be made void by reason of a fear unjustly inspired’ (Korman 1996: 20). Otherwise, Sidgwick notes, ‘the interest of the conqueror [would be] to crush his enemy completely and relentlessly, as he would no longer be able to trust his engagements’ (21). The second argument in defence of territorial expansion through force similarly drew on a utility logic, one of promoting stability. Vattel explained the need to recognise the legitimacy of territorial expansion through war. Otherwise, he argued, if a war ‘cannot confer . . . any right, no certain possession can be obtained . . . and things so acquired will ever remain liable to be claimed, as property carried off by robbers’

Theory 25 (Korman 1996: 26). A third argument was specifically directed at, and especially relevant to, lands inhabited by non-Christians or ‘less developed’ people. There, expansion-oriented conquest was deemed legitimate as a tool for spreading Christianity and, later, civilisation. American legal scholar James Kent argued in the nineteenth century that: If unsettled and sparsely scattered tribes of hunters and fishermen show no disposition or capacity to emerge from the savage to the agricultural and civilized state of man, their right to keep some of the fairest portions of the earth a mere wilderness, filled with wild beasts, for the sake of hunting, becomes utterly inconsistent with the civilization and moral improvement of mankind. (Korman 1996: 58) The principle and practice of forceful territorial expansion was not unrestricted, nor was it uncontested in the community of scholars of international law. Forceful expansion could occur only once certain conditions were met: annexation should occur only as a result of a war (not other hostilities) and after the war ended. Moreover, the annexing state had to have a clear intention to expand and needed to put into force its sovereign powers in the annexed territory (McHugo 1998: 3). Yet, as McHugo wrote these lines, the norm and practice of territorial expansion through occupation was already in the process of change. Change was driven by the distribution of power over the course of the twentieth century, specifically, the rise of the United States and the Soviet Union to global dominance. It was also a result of the nature of their rivalry, and the evolution of international institutions that reflected this rise of new powers. Changes in basic material conditions, such as the decline in the economic value and military significance of land, also contributed to this new reality. Finally, the change was also a result of the solidification of two international norms during the twentieth century: self-determination and a prohibition on the use of force. Indeed, as Table 2.3 shows, the second half of the twentieth century saw the lowest percentage of wars, which led to territorial exchange, compared to any other period since 1651. As Hathaway and Shapiro suggest (2017): ‘conquest, once the rule, has become the exception’ (329). The change was gradual. First, the principle of inadmissibility of title

26

Post-Colonial Settlement Strategy

Table 2.3  Wars and Territorial Redistribution 1651–2000 (50-year periods) Years

Territorial conflicts

Conflicts resulting in territorial redistributiona

Percentage of conflicts resulting in territorial redistribution

Territorial redistribution per year

1651–1700 1701–50 1751–1800 1801–50 1851–1900 1901–50 1951–2000

14 16 12 13 14 26 37

11 14  8 11 10 23 10

79% 88% 67% 85% 71% 89% 27%

0.22 0.28 0.16 0.22 0.20 0.46 0.20

Source: Zacher 2001. a Includes redistribution of control but not sovereignty.

by conquest was adopted by the major powers in the international system beginning in the last years of World War I. However, in most cases, the major powers did not act upon this principle when it came to dividing the territorial spoils of the war. The 1930s saw a further setback when Germany, Japan and Italy used force to expand their territory while not incurring any significant costs for their actions. Nevertheless, the power arrangements, norms and institutions of the post-World War II international system created severe limitations on forceful expansion, and indeed it has been a rare occurrence between 1945 and today. Some theorists and legal scholars began rejecting the notion that ‘might makes right’ in terms of territorial expansion as early as the eighteenth century, based on the new foundation of popular sovereignty (Atzili 2006: 143). As Strik (2012: 11) notes, by the first part of the nineteenth century legal scholars pointed to the difference between conquest and occupation. Both unfold when one belligerent gains control over another belligerent’s territory following a war. However, in conquest, the belligerent that holds the territory extends his sovereignty into the area he controls with a view that this would be a permanent status. Occupation, on the other hand, means only a ‘temporary authority’ (Strik 2012: 11). This distinction created space for new legal norms that were to govern the behaviour of an occupying military in an occupied territory; most notably, the 1907 Article 43 of the Regulations Respecting the Laws and Customs of War on Land, annexed to Hague Convention (II) of 1899 and (IV) of 1907. Indeed, as Dinstein notes (2004: 1), these regulations are the ‘linchpin of the international law of belligerent occupation’.

Theory 27 However, the first significant move towards the adoption of the norm prohibiting states from expanding by force occurred in the last two years of World War I. It was a swift shift driven by two unexpected changes: the 1917 regime change in Russia, and the United States’ entry into the war. As late as 1916, Britain and France (supported by Russia) signed the Sykes-Picot Agreement dividing between them the territory of their foe, the Ottoman Empire. However, by April 1917, the Russian Provisional Government altered its predecessors’ war aims (which included territorial expansion) and stated that ‘the free Russia does not aim at dominating other nations, at depriving them of their national patrimony, or at occupying by force foreign territories . . . its object is to establish a durable peace on the basis of the rights of nations to decide their own destiny’ (Korman 1996: 136). When the Bolsheviks gained control later that year, this Russian policy was further buttressed. In his Declaration of Peace on 8 November 1917, Lenin stated that ‘peace must be immediate, with no annexations’. Shortly afterward, the Soviets released copies of the secret agreements reached by the Allies earlier in the war for dividing future territorial spoils. Leon Trotsky called the agreements ‘Imperialism, with its dark plans of conquest’ (Korman 1996: 137). Driven by another ideological commitment, one of liberal internationalism, the United States advanced, in effect, a similar approach. Initially, President Wilson signalled that this new principle was merely self-binding. In his 2 April 1917 message to Congress regarding the declaration of war, Wilson explained, ‘We desire no conquest, no domination’ (Korman 1996: 136). By early 1918, these principles had become part of the foundation laid by the president for the post-war architecture as part of his Fourteen Points. Article 10 of the League of Nations’ Covenant stated that ‘The Members of the League undertake to respect and preserve as against external aggression the territorial integrity and existing political independence of all Members of the League’. This norm was further advanced in the 1928 General Treaty of Renunciation of War (Kellogg-Briand Pact) and in the 1931 Stimson Doctrine and the support it received from the League of Nations (Zacher 2001: 220). Hathaway and Shapiro (2017) suggest that the ‘transformation to a world in which conquest is exceptional was set in motion by the peace pact of 1928’ (330). Hathaway and Shapiro show how the Paris treaty led the United States to advance the Stimson Doctrine in the face of the Japanese occupation of Chinese Manchuria

28

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in 1931. The doctrine, named after secretary of state Henry Stimson, stipulated that the United States would not recognise ‘any situation, treaty or agreement which may be brought about by means contrary to the covenants and the obligations of the pact of Paris of August 27, 1928’ (US Department of State as quoted by Hathaway and Shapiro: 167). Non-recognition was the sanction used by the United States, and later, the world community, to punish those who breached the new norm, in a reality in which a unified military response was impossible. Yet the extent and effect of the new norm were limited. Even Wilson limited its effect in respect of colonial lands. When the War ended, the traditional colonial powers, Britain and France, were awarded control of large portions of the territory of the now defeated Ottoman Empire, although the legal source of that control was the League of Nations and its mandate system. Perhaps the greatest limitation of the norm was the inability of the international system to enforce it: Japan, Italy and Germany extended into new territories forcefully, which led, in part, to World War II. The Soviet Union’s ability to retain some of its territorial gains of World War II was the last great breach of the new norm. The second half of the twentieth century saw a solidification of the norm. It was adopted by a set of international institutions, largely followed by most players in the system, and backed, in effect, by both the United States and the Soviet Union – once the latter completed its post-1945 territorial expansion. The norm had become a central feature in some of the institutions that sought to regulate the post-war order. The United Nations Charter states in Article 2(4): ‘All Members shall refrain in their international relations from the threat or use of force against the territorial integrity or political independence of any state, or in any other manner inconsistent with the Purposes of the United Nations.’ The Charter of the Organisation of African Unity states, in Section 3(3), that all members will act with ‘respect for the sovereignty and territorial integrity of each State and for its inalienable right to independent existence’. The following year, the Assembly of the Organisation’s heads of state adopted a statement that called upon all members to respect existing inherited colonial borders (the principle of Uti Possidetis). In 1975 the final act of the Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE) famously stated: ‘They [participating states] consider that their frontiers can be changed, in accordance with international law, by peaceful means and by agreement.’

Theory 29 This normative framework was backed, or perhaps driven, by the structure and process of the manner by which power was distributed in the post-World War II era. The United States and the Soviet Union did not seek direct territorial expansion, preferring to support and advance rules that contributed to stability. With all their armed conflicts being conducted by proxies, both states were careful ‘not to allow the disputes of third parties to embroil them directly’ (Gaddis 1986: 41). Border fixity contributed to these limitations on regional conflicts. The material realities of the era further contributed to the norm. By 1945, land had lost its significance as a means of production and was therefore less sought after (Atzili 2006: 142). The Soviets, who may not have agreed with Atzili, according to some other scholars (Liberman 1996: 144–5), did not need to formally expand their territory because they gained access to the assets in the states under their sphere of influence in the Eastern Bloc without formally expanding into them. Similarly, the post-1945 Soviet expansions curbed any concerns they may have had regarding the need to secure territory on their European front in case of a conventional war. Finally, the development of nuclear weapons and the ability to deliver them from the air also made territory less significant. As the Organisation of African Unity’s charter shows, regional actors had their own interests when it came to adhering to the norm. Haile Selassie explained in 1964 that ‘Africans are virtually unanimous in their agreement that only by acceptance of the frontiers bequeathed to them by the colonialists can permanent peace reign on our continent’. Thus, normative, material and strategic factors all aligned to produce an environment in which the use of force to secure permanent territorial expansion was extremely difficult. As settlement projects are used mostly to secure expansion, we need to develop an explanation for their launch that integrates the international arena. One important instrument that the international system developed, to curb or even end territorial expansion by force, was to hold back on recognising the newly acquired territory as belonging to the occupier, even if the occupier had effective control over the land. This book shows that states launched settlement projects in order to secure permanent territorial expansion into contested territories that they already controlled. In effect, these states adjusted to a new international environment. In the post-1945 world, control over a territory no longer meant that conquest granted sovereignty. This reality forced

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states that sought expansion to secure legitimacy for their claim to sovereignty. But legitimacy was no longer determined solely between two parties based on their power relations, but also by international actors, such as the United Nations and the International Court of Justice. Expansion was based on the implementation of new norms, most notably, the right of self-determination. In this new environment, the establishment of settlement projects was a strategy designed to affect the outcome of an expected international interaction (referendum, negotiation, adjudication) aimed at determining the fate of these contested territories. The new processes required for expansion were lengthy. In fact, even half a century after Israel gained control over the West Bank, Israelis, Palestinians and Americans are still negotiating over the fate of these contested territories. The POLISARIO and Morocco are also still negotiating the final fate of Western Sahara, forty-four years after Moroccan forces moved into the contested region. The combination of a long time horizon and a sufficient level of predictability as to the mechanism that would determine sovereignty shaped the strategies that led to the use of settlement projects. Settlement projects are therefore a result of backwards induction by states, as to what strategy/action would best position them to win sovereignty over a contested territory. Negotiation theorists define these kinds of acts as ‘moves away from the table’, intended to affect the outcome of a negotiation through actions in the external environment rather than at the negotiation table. To affect the outcome of negotiations, the expansionist states had to tailor the tool they would employ to suit the general standard and the specific rules that would determine the territorial outcome of the negotiation. The settlement projects were shaped, therefore, in the ‘shadow of the law’. The ‘law’ was the general standard and specific rule that expansionists believed would be employed: partitioning according to ethnic lines in the case of Israel, and a referendum in the case of Morocco. That is, Israel believed that the general standard would be a form of partition and the specific rule that would affect border demarcation would be the location of Israeli and Palestinian populations. Morocco, Israel and to some extent Indonesia all employed this tool. Settlement projects were a strategy designed to affect the outcome of an expected international interaction (referendum, negotiation) that was to determine the fate of these contested territories. The phenomenon I am trying explain, my dependent variable, is a

Theory 31 settlement project. My independent variables are: (1) a legally plausible argument that the expanding state has a right to the territory; (2) a state’s material and institutional capacity to carry out a settlement project; (3) a great power benefactor that can deflect the international costs of settlement activity; and (4) a low level of ethnic affinity (the brethren factor) between the population in the settling state and the population in the target territory. As noted, all states analysed here sought expansion and gained control over the territory they coveted. A settlement project as a strategy of securing expansion was a result of the following interaction between the four variables. Firstly, a plausible legal argument for permanent expansion created the opportunity for expansionist states to translate physical control in the territory to sovereignty, permanent expansion. Legal plausibility was important, because in the post-World War II era, the international system placed heavy costs on expansion. Indeed, while the number of conflicts between 1951 and 2000 did not decline compared to all other fifty-year periods since 1651, the number of conflicts that ended in expansion was the lowest (see Table 2.3). Settlement projects are therefore an adjustment by states to the new rules of expansion. The second variable is the state’s ability to carry out a settlement project. Modern settlement projects included large-scale population resettlement, into a space only recently acquired by the state. This entailed the ability to appropriate and develop land, the physical transport of settlers and the provision of security and other services to settlers. As the case chapters show, when a state’s ability to deliver these was low, the probability of a project being launched was diminished. But settlement projects had their own costs. Specifically, normative frameworks that evolved in the twentieth century prohibited settlements, and they were carried out within a contentious framework of international conflicts. Therefore, states could proceed with them only when there was an effective shield provided by a great power in the international arena, one that could deflect or at least diminish the costs of breaching international norms. Finally, the last variable, the brethren factor, has a negative correlation with the outcome. As Haklai and Loizides have noted (2015), the national, ethnic or racial composition of the settlers is crucial for the outcome in terms of sovereignty. Therefore, they have suggested, states wanted to make sure that the settlers identified with them, as they strove to expand into a contested

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territory (5). What follows is an inverse argument: in cases where the indigenous population had close ethnic affinity to the population in the settling state, the settling state did not pursue a settlement project. The specific path again goes through international legitimacy. The expansionist state did not see a need to change the composition of the indigenous population, because it believed that the population would exercise its right of self-determination by supporting incorporation into the occupying state. I define a settlement project as a sustained cluster of policies by which states strategically plan, implement and support the permanent transfer of some of their nationals into a contested territory. These policies include, but are not limited to, the creation and implementation of government development programmes for these regions, land acquisition and the deployment of planning and zoning rules, incentives for transferred populations, direct government funding of development, and government supply of security and services to settlers. These projects can be contrasted with internal settlement projects, such as state policies for the permanent removal of a population due to the development of a dam. While in both cases the state transfers its citizens (or creates incentives for doing so), in the cases I investigate, the transfer serves a strategic political goal that is directed outside the state, namely advancing territorial expansion. The dam-related transfer, on the other hand, serves an internal development purpose. Examples of settlement projects, as defined here, are the various post-1967 Israeli settlement projects in the territories that Israel occupied in the Six Day War, the post-1975 Moroccan settlement project in Western Sahara and the post-1975 Indonesian settlement project in East Timor. In this book, I will operationalise settlement projects by: (1) identifying state policies (land acquisition, policing and incentive structures) that allow for the permanent transfer of a state’s nationals to a contested territory; (2) enumerating the number of settlers that permanently moved into a contested territory; and (3) enumerating the number of permanent communities (settlements) that were developed in the contested territory. I use the term ‘non-sovereign territories’ to refer to regions that are outside the internationally recognised sovereign territory of the settling state. I will ascertain this status based on positions taken by international actors, such as recognition by other countries or determinations by an international legal entity (e.g. the International Court of Justice).

Theory 33 By ‘settling state’ I mean the state that deployed the settlers in the contested territory. In all post-colonial cases, the settling state also controlled the target territory and is also the state of origin of the settlers. In this book I will use the terms ‘core state’ and ‘centre’ interchangeably with ‘settling state’. My first independent variable is the existence of a legally plausible case under international law, that the settling state has a claim to the territory. This could be identified through a normative determination (by the United Nations, international judicial entities, international law scholars, or other states in the international system) that sovereignty over a territory may not lie with the power that has physical control over it, but possibly with other actors. These determinations are measured in this book as they appear in formal resolutions (e.g. UN Security Council Resolution, ICJ’s opinions). Sufficient level of legal plausibility is an important variable, as it leads the political elites of the controlling state to believe that expansion is possible. It further reflects the realities of the post-1945 era, in which territorial expansion is deemed to be determined through an international interaction rather than simply by force/control. When I use the term ‘international interaction’ I refer to a process that involves the settling state and an external actor (state or international organisation); the most common interactions are bilateral negotiations, a determination by the United Nations Security Council, adjudication by the International Court of Justice, or UN-supervised referendum. I will operationalise state beliefs about the connection between sufficient level of legal plausibility and the possibility of territorial expansion by analysing public and private statements made by the leadership of these states, as well as any other directives given by the political leadership to relevant state agents. My second independent variable is state capacity to carry out a settlement project. By ‘state capacity’ I mean firstly a state’s effective control over the settled territory, and secondly the existence of specialised agencies that can transfer and/or sustain settlers through the provision of security, infrastructure development and social services. These agencies could be either bodies designed for that task (such as the Indonesian Transmigration Department) or institutions that are designed for other purposes (such as the Moroccan Public Works Administration) but agencies that can provide some of the necessary functions. State capacity operates within a framework of a reasonable time frame to launch a project, and a physical space that can be populated.

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My third independent variable is a ‘great power benefactor’, by which I mean the support granted to a settling state by a great power. For the post-1945 era (to the end of the cold war), the period that my work analyses, I define the great power as either the United States or the Soviet Union. By ‘support’ I refer to public statements by authorised agents of the executive or legislative branches, state-to-state communications, voting patterns in the United Nations and other world bodies, and the transfers of resources such as weapons. My fourth independent variable is the level of ethnic affinity between the population in the settling state and the population in the target territory, the brethren factor. In measuring the level of ethnic affinity I will investigate the ethnic, religious and cultural composition of both locations, and review the ties between the two populations in the past. By developing an explanation for the launch of settlement projects, this book makes two broader contributions. Firstly, it identifies and analyses another type of state action that uses civilian population to affect its security. By doing so, this book contributes to the renewed interest in the field of international security studies in the primordial materials of conflict: territory and population. Like much of the state of the literature on similar phenomenon (ethnic cleansing and engineered forced migration), my project makes foundational contributions of categorising and explaining. Secondly, my explanation of settlement projects weighs into the debate in international relations about what affects states’ behaviour: power/material considerations or international norms. The model I offer shows that in some cases state strategies are both driven by, and include, both power- and norm-based considerations. This book analyses a question that lies at the intersection between international conflict and two areas that have gained renewed attention from political scientists: geography and demography. Earlier works such as Thucydides’ the History of the Peloponnesian War or Hugo Grotius’ Laws of War dealt extensively with the interrelationship between conflict, territorial conquest and the fate of conquered populations. The late nineteenth-century European territorial expansion into Asia and Africa focused the works of international relations scholars of the time on questions of empire, including its territorial aspects (Long and Schmidt 2005) – although, looking back, Doyle argues that even then imperialism was not a significant area of research (1986: 11). Either way, the modern discipline of international security studies

Theory 35 (ISS), the sub-sector of political science most likely to investigate the interrelationship between conflict, geography and demography, did not make these issues a central avenue of enquiry. This was perhaps a result of the era, the context and the driving forces of the sub-­ discipline’s evolution. Shaped largely during the cold war by American scholars, international relations focused on great power politics and the effects of nuclear weapons on global stability (Buzan and Hansen 2009: 50). Both issue areas paid little attention to territorial acquisition and demography. Scholarship, it seems, followed the international environment in which it operated. The United States and the Soviet Union did not prioritise physical occupation and subjugation of lands. After all, by the second half of the twentieth century, territory had lost much of its significance as an economic or strategic asset in the wake of industrialisation and the development of nuclear weapons. This limited interest in territory and conquest may have also been a result of the fact that the cold war did not include an episode of a direct armed conflict between the two great powers. Finally, lack of focus on conflict, territory and population was also a result of the internal developments in political science. While international security studies borrowed extensively from other fields, such as game theory and psychology, it did not draw much from disciplines that investigate territory and populations, such as geography or demographics (Buzan and Hansen 2009: 58). Perhaps this was a result of the fact that the ‘field of demography is seen by political scientists as largely atheoretical’ (Weiner and Teitelbaum 2001: 12). The situation was summarised in 1990 by two geographers, who stated in frustration that ‘frequently it seems that IR researchers have forgotten that interstate conflict does not occur in a spatial vacuum’ (O’Loughlin and Anselin 1992: 12). However, the last few decades have witnessed a slow process of growing interest in the effects of geography on conflict. Again, as in the cold war, events in the international arena drove scholarly interests. Firstly, American ascendance to global dominance, especially since the end of the cold war, led American scholars to investigate the parallels between their nation empire and past empires. This work also included some attention paid to these past empires’ territorial aspects (Doyle 1986, Snyder 1991, Kupchan 1994, Liberman 1996, Spruyt 2005). Secondly, the ethnic civil wars of the 1990s redirected some of the intellectual energies of the sub-discipline to questions about these primordial materials of conflict. Kaufman (1996, 1998) and Sambanis

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(2000), for example, famously merged population transfers, territorial re-design, and conflict by revisiting ideas from the 1920s about ethnic partition and conflict resolution. The last decade saw, perhaps, the next phase of this intellectual development when a new generation of scholars moved to more abstract questions about territory and conflict. Atzili (2006) investigated the connection between the norm of border fixity and the recurrence of civil wars; Fazal (2007) investigated the relationship between the geographic locations of states and their chances to be occupied or annexed. Hassner (2009) and Goddard (2009) analysed religious and social reasons for conflicts over specific spaces like holy cities. The present volume adds, therefore, to this new emerging literature. Though the works described above explore different questions (rather than one or two ‘great debates’), they all attempt to develop explanations for a variety of state policies, within a conflict, which are a result of spatial considerations. Settlement projects are yet another spatial policy in search of an explanation. Yet settlement projects are not only a set of spatial policies. Perhaps, more so, they are about population transfer. Indeed, there is a tradition of intellectual enquiry into various aspects of security-related (from the state’s perspective) population movements, most notably genocide and ethnic cleansing. Genocide has been researched for longer. In the last few decades, work moved beyond historical accounts of specific cases to include comparative analyses of political, international, psychological, sociological and economic causes of genocide (Jongman 1996, Chorbajian and Shirinian 1999, Valentino 2004). Other works analysed the effects of genocide on nation-states and on international law, as well as on moral and political philosophy (Harf 1984). Institutionally, the field expanded to include specialised scholarly journals such as Holocaust and Genocide Studies, published by Oxford University Press, and the Journal of Genocide Research, published by Taylor & Francis. The field further expanded to include university-based academic research centres such as the Center for Holocaust and Genocide Studies at the University of Minnesota; the Center for Holocaust Studies at the University of Vermont; Drew University Center for Holocaust/ Genocide Study; Strassler Family Center for Holocaust and Genocide Studies at Clark University; and the Australian Institute for Holocaust and Genocide Studies at the University of New South Wales The second security-related population-removal strategy is ethnic

Theory 37 cleansing, defined by a UN expert committee as ‘rendering an area ethnically homogeneous by using force or intimidation to remove from a given area persons from another ethnic or religious group’ (UN 1992). The term was coined in the 1990s following events in the former Yugoslavia, but the strategy was used widely during the twentieth century. Research included accounts of specific occurrences, comparative studies and analyses of the relationship between ethnic cleansing and state-building projects. Other studies placed ethnic cleansing in a broader historical context, covering political, sociological and securityrelated causes, as well as a variety of consequences at individual and group levels (Bell-Fialkoff 1993, Bell-Fialkoff 1996, Ther and Siljak 2001). As Gordon and Ram (2016) show, ethnic cleansing and settlement projects can be related, as they can be part of a broader strategy of creating, securing and normalising a new political order in a given territory. Research on forced migration as identified other security-related rationales for the removal of population. Greenhill (2010), for example, analyses the use of coercive engineered migrations as a tool of inducing ‘political, military, and/or economic concessions from a target state or states’ (13). Strategic settlement projects are a fourth set of state strategies aimed at changing the demographic composition of a given territory. Instead of removing a group of people from a region through annihilation or expulsion, as in genocide, ethnic cleansing or coercive engineered migration, an instigator of a settlement project places trusted groups in a specific space. Much like ethnic cleansing, the injection of a population into a controlled region is an old strategy. Yet in the second part of the twentieth century it served new goals that were shaped by the new actors and new processes that legitimated territorial expansion. The introduction of new actors (the international system) and processes (referendum, adjudication) into the legitimate acquisition of territory forced states to adjust their strategies for securing territorial expansion. Post-1945 processes of legitimacy included adjudication, negotiation and referendum (see Table 2.4). The new processes required for expansion also offered new opportunities for states that sought expansion. Most notably, states were provided with more time before a decision regarding the fate of a contested territory needed to be reached. Indonesia controlled East Timor for twenty-five years before a referendum in the territory determined

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Table 2.4  Mechanisms for Conferring Legitimacy on Post-1945 Territorial Expansion

Actors in decision-making Ability of state to affect outcome Principles used Examples

Adjudication

Referendum

Negotiation within an international framework

International institution (ICJ) Low

Indigenous population Medium

States

International law Libya/Chad

Self-determination Western Sahara, East–Timor

Power Israel–Palestine

High

that Jakarta was not the rightful owner of the land. Morocco entered its forty-third year as the possessor of disputed Western Sahara, and Israel entered its fifty-first year in the contested West Bank. States to some extent could also predict what process would determine the fate of the contested territory. For example, the idea that a referendum would be the mechanism to determine the fate of Western Sahara was discussed in the United Nations in the mid-1960s, about twenty-five years before it was adopted by the Security Council and accepted by all parties concerned. The combination of a reasonable time horizon and a sufficient level of predictability as to the mechanism that would determine sovereignty shaped the strategies adopted by states to legitimise their expansion. Negotiation theory is an effective framework to describe and analyse these steps, in part because the final shape of the international mechanisms that were expected to determine sovereignty was indeed negotiated. For example, Morocco, the POLISARIO and the United Nations negotiated various aspects of the referendum before and after the voter verification process was launched. Negotiation theorists define the state actions described in this book as ‘moves away from the table’, a strategy intended to affect the outcome of a negotiation through actions in the external environment rather than at the negotiation table. This approach builds on the insight that ‘moves away from the table . . . can strongly affect negotiation outcomes’ and may have ‘greater influence on the negotiated outcome than sophisticated tactics employed at the table such as clever opening offers or patterns of concessions’ (Sebenius 1992: 27–8). In turn, this insight is based on the phenomenon, summarised by Schelling, that:

Theory 39 There seems to be a widespread belief that negotiation or bargaining is essentially a verbal activity, even a formal one, and that there is no negotiation unless the parties are in direct verbal contact, even face to face . . . The actual talk, especially the formal talk, is only part of this, often a small part, and since talk is cheap it is often deeds and display that matter most. Wars, strikes, tantrums, and tailgating can be bargaining as much as talk can be. (Schelling 1966: 136) In order to affect the outcome of negotiations, the expansionist states had to tailor the tool they would employ to suit the general standards and the specific rules that would determine the territorial outcome of the negotiation. The settlement projects were shaped, therefore, in the ‘shadow of the law’. The idea of negotiating in the shadow of the law was originally developed in the context of negotiation with respect to divorce; it was later developed to analyse the behaviour of parties in inter-communal conflict (Mnookin and Kornhauser 1979, Centiyan 2002). The ‘law’, in our cases, was the general standards and rules that expansionists believed would be employed: partition according to ethnic lines in the case of Israel, and self-determination through a plebiscite in the case of Morocco. That is, Israel believed that the general standard would be a form of partition and the specific rule that would affect border demarcation would be the location of Israeli and Palestinian populations. Both considered other options. For example, Israel’s leaders considered other standards for partition according to ethnic lines. In some meetings population transfers – which were part of the 1937 partition proposals – were discussed and dismissed as impractical. Morocco and Israel, and to some extent Indonesia, all employed, therefore, backwards induction and sought action in the present in order to better position themselves for the expected future event that was to determine the fate of the territories they coveted. Settlement projects were the logical result of this analysis. The state activity described in this book could be understood as yet another data point in the realist–liberal debate in the discipline of international relations. One of the oldest debates in international relations is the question of what affects state behaviour: state interests (usually described in terms of power and material) or international norms and rules (Kenan 1951, Henkin 1968, Slaughter Burley 1993, Mearsheimer 1995, Mearsheimer 2001). The modern discipline of international

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relations was shaped, to a large extent, by this debate. The interwar disappointment from the ‘legalist-moralist’ rule-abiding world, which President Wilson tried to create, was transformed to the dominance of interest-based realism in the discipline. Waltz in Theory of International Politics (1979) provided a new foundation for realism’s dominance, by suggesting that states pursued their power-based interests not because of their inherent desire for power, but as a response to system-wide constraints. This book offers, then, an example of how norms and power interact, both in shaping state behaviour and in the specific details of its actions. Settlement projects are developed within the context of one of the most aggressive policies in the world of nation-states: that of territorial expansion. The projects themselves include a forceful state effort to reshape a material reality in the most basic meaning. They are a spatial policy intended to change the physical and human geography of a given territory. Moreover, I argue that these projects are made possible by power and material variables: great power support and state capacity. Yet the analysis in the book shows that norms, too, are central to understanding state behaviour in the case of settlement projects. Indeed, I argue that the mobilisation of material resources needed for a settlement project is driven by a state’s desire to affect the manner by which certain norms, such as self-­determination, are interpreted. Moreover, great power support is mostly significant when used to deflect the costs that the settling state incurred in institutions that try to enforce the norms of international law, primarily the United Nations. The irony is that the act of settling is, as noted, by itself a breach of specific international norms. However, states breach the prohibitive norms against settlement in order to benefit from the constitutive norms of state expansion.

The Israeli Settlement Project 41

3 THE ISRAELI SETTLEMENT PROJECT IN THE WEST BANK AND GAZA (1967–77)

This chapter uses the argument presented in Chapter 2 to explain the launch of the Israeli settlement project in the West Bank and Gaza (the Territories) after the 1967 Six Day War. The chapter shows that the  project was launched in order to secure permanent territorial expansion into parts of these regions. It demonstrates that the settlements were intended to affect the outcome of a future negotiation within the framework laid out in United Nations Security Council Resolution 242. It further explains that Israel’s decision to launch the project was affected by its understanding that expansion would be legally feasible under international law. Two other conditions were necessary: the state’s material and institutional capacity to launch a settlement project, and the support it received from the United States. Finally, the local population’s low level of affinity with the Jewish state also contributed to Israel embarking on the project. The chapter further argues that the settlement project manifested a number of strategies used by Israel: ‘backwards induction’, or the steps Israel expected would better position it in a future interaction; negotiation moves ‘away from the table’, directed at affecting its outcome at a future negotiation table; and ‘moves in the shadow of the law’, as the settlements were calibrated to fit into the general rule (partition of the land) and the specific standard (ethnic separation) that Israel expected to encounter. Israel’s choice was informed, in part, by its effective deployment of a similar strategy earlier in the twentieth century when faced with the comparable challenge of securing territorial expansion under conditions of uncertainty. The chapter continues as follows: first, I explore why Israel wanted to expand its territory. I then investigate the evolution of the Israeli project between 1967 and 1977. Next, I introduce the four variables

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that contributed to the Israeli decision to launch the settlement project: low level of ethnic affinity with the indigenous population, a legally sufficient case for expansion, the capacity to carry out the project, and a great power benefactor that shielded Israel from the costs of its actions. In the fourth and last section I show how these different variables interacted to produce the outcome of a settlement project. On 10 June 1967, the last day of the ‘inadvertent’ (Maoz 2006: 110) Six Day War, Israel found itself in control of the West Bank and Gaza. The West Bank is a region of some 5,640 sq. km, slightly smaller than Delaware. Partly a barren desert (the Judean Desert), the area is landlocked and borders Israel (307 km) to the north, west and south, and Jordan (97 km) to the east. The Gaza Strip is a sandy Mediterranean coastal plain located between Israel and Egypt. The region is 363 sq. km, slightly more than twice the size of the District of Columbia. The rectangular-shaped area is 6 km wide at its narrowest part and 14 km at its widest part. To the west, Gaza has a 40 km shoreline on the Mediterranean Sea. To the north and east, Gaza borders western Israel’s Negev desert, a stretch of 51 km. To the south, Gaza borders Egypt’s Sinai desert for 11 km. Israel made a special effort to avoid a war with Jordan, which had controlled the West Bank since 1948. In a number of messages in the days preceding the war, Israel committed not to attack Jordan unless provoked, even though Jordan had aligned itself with Egypt and placed its armed forces under Egyptian command (Kam 1974: 62, Zak 1996: 96). Yet, under heavy Egyptian pressure, Jordan paid no heed to the Israeli messages that requested Jordan avoid provoking Israel, and in the war that ensued Jordan lost the West Bank to Israel. Despite the religious significance for Jews of the West Bank (and to some extent Gaza), Israel did not treat either area as an integral part of its territory. Israel did not formally annex them (with the exception of a small sliver of the West Bank in and near Jerusalem) and placed them under temporary military control, within the framework of international law of occupied areas (Benvenisti 1992: 109). Indeed, as Shelef (2010) shows, before the war, by the mid-1960s, even the ideological preferences of Israel’s expansionist party, Herut, evolved in a direction that de-emphasised its commitment to Israeli control over the West Bank. On 19 June 1967, the Israeli cabinet decided formally ‘not to decide’ about the future status of the West Bank and Gaza (Pedatzur 1996: 137,

The Israeli Settlement Project 43 Gazit 1999: 51n4, Goldstein 2003: 581). This decision reflected both strategic and political realities. Politically, not deciding allowed Prime Minister Eshkol to maintain the stability of his coalition and indeed his party. Various factions within both coalition and party had conflicting visions regarding the future of the territories. Strategically, the decision reflected an inability to set a clear preference between the expected benefits of a larger territory and the costs of population heterogeneity. Most cabinet members believed that Israel’s pre-1967 borders were difficult to defend (Allon 1959: 53, Allon 1976: 42). But equally, most of them were concerned that permanent expansion into the West Bank, the occupied hilly ridge that dominated Israel’s narrow central sector, would force the Jewish state to incorporate into its ranks the million Palestinians residing there (Allon 1976: 42, Shalev 1983: 2, Nadel 2006: 52, Goldstein 2003: 580–1, Maoz 2006: 8). Prime Minister Eshkol stated in a cabinet meeting that ‘every 100,000 Arabs [absorbed into Israel] . . . would be another time bomb against Israel’ (Lammfromm 2002: 650). The one exception was the 27 June 1967 cabinet decision to annex the formerly Jordanian portion of Jerusalem and its immediate environment because of the city’s national and religious significance (Narkis 1991: 343). However, new material realities created new preferences. As noted, prior to the 1967 war Israel did not seek territorial expansion. Indeed, in a secret 1966 memo drafted by General Elad Peled those realities defined Israel’s red lines in respect of a possible future war with Jordan, suggesting that even if it occupied the West Bank, Israel’s interests would be best served by handing back all of the West Bank to Jordan (Zak 1996: 43). This position stood in contrast to the political ideology of some parties in Israel’s political landscape, namely Ahdut H’aAvoad and Herut, that saw the West Bank as a ‘homeland territory’ (Shelef 2016). The region was part of the pre-1948 political unit of what constituted now Israel and the West Bank, a part of the homeland territory (Shelef 2016) in the eyes of some sectors in the Israeli political elite. But a few weeks into Israeli control of the new territories, its leadership formed a clearer preference for the future of the West Bank and Gaza. Israeli leaders declared that their country would not withdraw back to the 1949 armistice line (the green line). Prime Minister Eshkol explained in a meeting with the Chiefs of Staff that ‘possibly, this is unavoidable . . . we will need to discuss border changes . . . it will give

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us a reasonable border and this is the most important thing for us now’ (Lammfromm 2002: 605). On 26 July 1967, Minister of Labor Yigal Allon submitted a plan that would become Israel’s unofficial vision regarding the future of the West Bank and Gaza, including the specific details of the regions it wanted to keep (Cohen 1973: 19). Allon later submitted to the cabinet revised versions of his plan on 2 February 1968 and 10 December 1968 (Allon 1989: 15). Between the submission of the two versions, on 14 August 1968, the political committee of the Labor party approved Allon’s plan (Huberman 2008: 37), although the Israeli cabinet never officially approved it. The plan nevertheless served as the government’s primary guideline for future territorial designs until 1977. It therefore also determined the location of most settlements that were created during the period. The Allon Plan had two core elements: firstly, partial Israeli withdrawal from the occupied territories, and secondly, permanent Israeli expansion into areas deemed important for Israeli security. These areas included about a third of the West Bank, as well as those parts of the Gaza Strip that were not heavily populated. Allon’s solution to the tension between territory and population was to advocate for Israeli expansion into under-populated areas, which would still provide security benefits without the loss of population homogeneity. His plan, Allon (1976) wrote, would ‘preserve [Israel’s] Jewish character’ (47) and secure ‘defensible borders’ (49). The first area that qualified under both criteria for expansion was the Jordan Valley, which lay to the east of the West Bank’s hilly ridge. Control over the area, Allon believed, would allow Israel to encircle the West Bank. The valley also offered the advantage of a defensible line buttressed by the natural barrier of the Jordan River. Finally, the area had but a tiny Palestinian population, as some 50,000 of them fled during the war and did not come back (Arieli 2006: 100). With no substantial Palestinian population in the region, Israel was more inclined to settle there. Allon also supported limited expansion into a portion of the western region of the West Bank, in order to widen Israel’s narrow central sector (Harris 1980: 41). Allon’s plan also called for the annexation of parts of the Gaza Strip. Otherwise, he argued, the region might ‘serve Egypt as a bridgehead for an offensive northward and eastwards towards the very heart of Israel, following the historic invasion route from south to north’ (Allon 1976: 46). Finally, Allon supported Israeli expansion to

The Israeli Settlement Project 45 the ‘complete region of Jerusalem’. This was the only element in his programme that reflected an ideational commitment. Allon supported expansion there because of the city’s national and religious importance. Guided by the Allon Plan, the Israeli government settled over 100,000 of its citizens in the newly controlled regions of the West Bank and Gaza between 1967 and 1977. The settlement project was spread across four distinct sub-areas: three areas in the West Bank (Jerusalem, Jordan Valley and central West Bank) as well as Gaza. These areas were not only distinct geographically but distinct also in terms of their desirability, legal status and the level of government involvement in settling activity each region. As noted, Jerusalem, Israel’s formerly divided capital (shared with Jordan until 1967) was the most desirable region. Israel therefore formally annexed it (and its immediate environs) shortly after the war. However, the government did not believe that annexation alone would suffice to guarantee expansion and therefore gave preference to its project in the capital. In contrast, Gaza, central West Bank and the Jordan Valley were never made a formal part of Israel, although Israel indeed planned to expand there. The settlement project in Jerusalem, as well as those in Gaza and the Jordan Valley sub-regions, was led by the government. In contrast, central West Bank settlements were initiated by civil society actors, and in only a small number of cases were they reluctantly approved by the government. JERUSALEM

The formal annexation of Jerusalem made its former West Bank portions part and parcel of Jerusalem’s municipal boundaries. Therefore, in terms of urban planning, the development projects there were neighbourhoods of Jerusalem rather than independent settlements, as were all other sub-regions. See Table 3.1 for a list of the new neighbourhoods. Shortly after the 1967 annexation, Israel embarked on a massive development project in Jerusalem, which placed some 100,000 new Jewish inhabitants in the recently acquired areas of the city within one decade (Choshen 2002: 105). The effort was led by a special ministerial committee and headed by Prime Minister Eshkol (Harris 1980: 186). By March 1970, the cabinet approved a master plan, which gave the municipal government a leading role in the project. A lower-level forum was created in order to expedite planning and zoning processes

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Table 3.1  New Neighbourhoods in Annexed Parts of Jerusalem 1967–77 Name

Year Location established

Ramat Eshkol

1968

Giv’at Shapira (Ha’Giva’a 1971 Hatzarfatit) Giv’at Ha’Mivtar 1971 Ma’alot Daphna

1972

Gilo Neve Ya’acov

1971 1970

Ramot Alon (Ramot) Talpiyot Mizrach (Armon Ha’Natziv) Tzameret Ha’Bira

1974 1973 1972

North-east Jerusalem, part of connecting Mt Scopus to the western city North-east Jerusalem, part of connecting Mt Scopus to the western city North-east Jerusalem, part of connecting Mt Scopus to the western city Northern Jerusalem, built on former no-man’s land Southern Jerusalem, peripheral Northern Jerusalem, peripheral, built near an older Jewish settlement of the same name, occupied by Jordan during the 1948–9 war South-west Jerusalem, peripheral South-east Jerusalem, peripheral North-east Jerusalem, part of connecting Mt Scopus to the western city

Source: Benvenisti 1981.

(Cheshin 1999: 44–5). The city’s mayor, Teddy Kollek, wrote in a 1977 Foreign Affairs piece that the new construction was intended to prevent any future division of the city (701). Israel’s specific goals were to secure an overall Jewish majority in the expanded city limits and to deploy population in physical spaces that were deemed important. In the first phase, Israel built Jewish neighbourhoods that connected the western Jewish side with the Mt Scopus enclave in the eastern side and those along the former no man’s land between the city’s two sections. Next, Israel created new neighbourhoods alongside the previous set in order to give them further depth. In the third and most significant phase, Israel built new neighbourhoods on Jerusalem’s periphery, farther away from built-up parts, mostly in the southern and the northern parts of the city (Dumper 1997: 210, Choshen 2002: 30–1). Within ten years, the city’s Jewish population grew dramatically (Kollek 1977: 706, Gilbert 1996: 300), most of it in the newly acquired areas. Indeed, between 1967 and 1985, 80 per cent of all new residential construction was done in the annexed areas (Dumper 1997: 109).

The Israeli Settlement Project 47 JORDAN VALLEY

Between 1967 and 1977, Israel developed nineteen settlements in the Jordan Valley. See Table 3.2 for the list of settlements. The Jordan Valley settlements were the second largest project the government advanced in the first decade of Israeli control in the West Bank, and settlement in the area reflected Israel’s desire to secure permanent control in the largely unpopulated strip west of the Jordan River, deemed important against a possible future attack from the east. The Settlement Department of the Jewish Agency devised a plan for the development of the region. The department began working on the plan in July 1967, and on 18 August 1967, its chairman, Ra’anan Weitz, presented it to an internal forum of the governing Labor party. His plan called for the settlement of 30,000 Jews in thirty settlements in the Jordan Valley. Minister Allon stated in the meeting, ‘Weitz’s plan is a [specific] interpretation of my plan’ (Pedatzur 1996: 207). All ­settlements in the Jordan Valley were initially set up as military outposts under the NAHAL corps. NAHAL was a specialised military unit that combined infantry service with the creation of new settlements in the periphery since the 1950s. NAHAL outposts begun as fully functioning settlements manned by soldiers, and were later converted to regular civilian settlements. GAZA

The third Israeli settlement effort was launched in the Gaza Strip beginning in 1970. For a list of all Gaza settlements between 1967 and 1977, see Table 3.3. Minister Yigal Allon initiated the Gaza project. On 9 May 1969, he submitted to the cabinet a plan ‘to establish two settlements in the Gaza Strip’ because, he said, ‘these settlements have a supreme significance for the political future of the Strip’ (Admoni 1992: 64). Allon also approached the Settlement Department in the Jewish Agency on 17 July 1969 and asked it to identify possible areas for potential settlement activity (Admoni 1992: 212–13). In the summer of 1969, the armed forces added their support for settlements in Gaza. On 1 August 1969, Brigadier General Shlomo Gazit, Israel’s Coordinator of Activities in the Territories, wrote to the Cabinet Secretary, ‘We have a great interest in creating two s­ ettlements

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Table 3.2  Jordan Valley Settlements 1967–77 Settlement name

Year

MeHola Kalya Argaman Yitav (NAHAL Na’aran) Gilgal Patzael Masua Mitzpe Shalem Hamra Na’aran B’kaot Gitit Mehora Netiv Ha’Gdud Ro’i Ma’ale Ephraim Almog Rimonim Almog

1968 1968 1968 1968 1968 1968 1969 1970 1971 1971 1972 1972 1973 1975 1976 1976 1977 1977 1977

Source: Admoni 1992.

Table 3.3  Gaza Settlements 1967–77 Settlement name

Year

Kfar Darom Netzarim Morag Katif (later Netzer Hazani)

1970 1971 1972 1973

Source: Admoni 1992.

as soon as possible due to their political effect’ (Admoni 1992: 64–5). Support also came from General Ariel Sharon, Commanding Officer of the Southern Command. Sharon devised a ‘five-finger plan’ for Jewish settlements in the region. This plan envisioned five areas of settlements between the main Palestinian towns in the Gaza Strip. In Sharon’s view, a local settlement project would support the military’s COIN strategy in the region in the face of the 1969–70 Palestinian armed resistance there. Specifically, Sharon believed that the settlements would help stem the flow of smuggled arms from Sinai to Gaza. However, settlements in Gaza were finally launched by the Israeli cabinet only in response to events in the international arena. On 19

The Israeli Settlement Project 49 June 1970 the US Secretary of State, William Rogers, presented his peace plan. It called for a negotiated end to Israeli–Egyptian hostilities, including complete Israeli withdrawal from the Gaza Strip (Quandt 2001: 67). Fears that the Rogers Plan might force Israel into a negotiated withdrawal from Gaza led Minister Yisrael Galili to ask the Israeli cabinet to approve the creation of settlements in the Gaza Strip. His proposal was approved on 13 September 1970 (Gorenberg 2006: 213). During that cabinet discussion the Minister of Religion, Zerakh Verhaftig, added another rationale for the settlement project, arguing that it would create a ‘fading opportunity’ mechanism. He argued that the settlements would serve as an incentive for the Palestinians to enter into negotiations as settlement activity (Verhaftig 1998: 293–4). The cabinet was also affected by legacy considerations. The first settlement in Gaza was located close to the site of a 1946 Jewish settlement that fell into Egyptian hands in 1948. Both the old and the new settlements were given the same name, Kfar Darom (Huberman 1994: 31–2). Most ministers who had initially opposed the new settlement were now swayed by security arguments. Minister Gvati, a past opponent of the settlement project, changed his mind and accepted the primacy of the security and expansion rationales (Gvati 1981: 224). CENTRAL WEST BANK SETTLEMENTS

A fourth set of settlements was launched in a small number of locations in the central West Bank. For a list of all settlements in this region see Table 3.4. Unlike the previous three regions, the central West Bank was mostly outside the Allon Plan’s lines because of its large Palestinian population. Settlements in this region, in most cases, were initiated by national-religious civil-society groups and only later approved by the government. Alongside these approvals, in a number of cases, the government also removed groups that tried to initiate even more settlements in this undesirable region. Some of these settlements enjoyed support, both among the general public and among some ministers, because they were located in or near sites of pre-1948 settlements, which had been violently removed by the Arabs (Admoni 1992: 51–3). In some cases, the new settlement was a result of a compromise struck between the government and the national-religious activists. The

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Table 3.4  Central West Bank Settlements 1967–77 Settlement name

Year

Kfar Etzyon Har-Gilo Rosh Tzurim Kiryat Arba Alon Shvut Elon Moreh (Kadum) Elkana T’koa Elazar Migdal Oz Maale Edumim

1968 Gush Etzion 1968 (begun as an educational centre) 1969 Gush Etzion 1970 1970 Gush Etzion 1975 1977 1977 1977 Gush Etzion 1977 Gush Etzion 1977

Source: Admoni 1992.

s­ettlement of Kiryat Arba, for example, was established in order to house a few dozen activists who for weeks refused to vacate an Arab hotel in the city of Hebron that they had rented for Passover festivities (Zertal and Eldar 2005: 38–43). The internal Israeli crisis following the 1973 war further strengthened these activists. In 1974 they created Gush Emunim (‘the block of the faithful’), a civil society group committed to settling Israel’s occupied territories as part of a broader agenda to reinvigorate Zionism. While the Labor government saw partition as the ultimate final status, Gush Emunim wanted the territory in its entirety. The movement viewed the land as sacrosanct, and as a result, as an indivisible. Indeed, in 1982, the group, as well as other actors, actively opposed Israeli withdrawal from the Sinai Peninsula, arguing that this region, too, was part of the ‘holy land’ (Hassner 2009: 165). The new organisational framework extended the effectiveness of the rogue settlement operations. For example, in the case of the settlement of Kadum, security forces removed people of Gush Emunim seven times before the government compromised and allowed them to create a new settlement (Eiran 2009). Israel deployed over 100,000 of its citizens in four distinct newly acquired regions between 1967 and 1977 – how was that possible? The following section analyses the four variables that drove or enabled Israel to pursue a settlement project in the West Bank and Gaza: a legally plausible case for limited expansion into the territories; Israeli institutional capacity; US support to Israel; and the lack of ethnic affinity between the local population and Israeli Jews.

The Israeli Settlement Project 51 INDEPENDENT VARIABLES

Legal Plausibility The Israeli leadership believed that it had a plausible legal base under international law for partial expansion into the West Bank and Gaza regions. This belief rested first on the legal status of the West Bank and Gaza prior to the war. Specifically, Israel believed that the lack of a clear sovereign prior to the Israeli occupation, coupled with the temporary status of the borders between Israel and the West Bank and Gaza, created an opportunity for expansion. Secondly, Israel believed that the circumstances that led to the war provided a legally plausible argument for its expansion into parts of the West Bank and Gaza. The Israeli belief was based in large part on United Nations Security Council Resolution 242, which set the terms of a future agreement in the region and acknowledged, according to Israel, the possibility of limited Israeli expansion. When Israeli forces entered the West Bank and Gaza in June 1967, there had been no internationally recognised sovereign in either region for five decades (Sabel 2003: 75). At the end of the Ottoman Empire’s 400-year rule over Palestine in 1917, the territory was placed under a British Mandate, which drew its authority from the Covenant of the League of Nations. This legal framework legitimised effective control by the British but did not create a permanent sovereign for the land. Article 22 of the Covenant placed three severe limitations on British powers. Firstly, the source of authority for British rule was not London, but rather the League of Nations. Secondly, the British were constrained in applying their authority to the stipulations set in the sources of authority. Thirdly, Britain’s rule was further limited in time to that moment when the local population would be able to rule by itself. The limitations on British rule remained in place, from the perspective of international law, even though the League of Nations ceased to operate effectively in the 1930s, and even after its 1946 formal termination. The demise of the British Empire, London’s inability to develop the territory into an independent state, and armed Jewish resistance all drove the British to end their rule in the area. In 1947 London ­notified the United Nations that it no longer wished to continue its rule over Palestine. On 29 November 1947, the UN decided to partition Palestine within a few months. The UN decision changed the course of the traditional process of decolonisation, replacing the principle of territorial

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integrity with a principle of partition along ethnic lines. Both Gaza and the West Bank were to become part of the Palestinian state. The local Palestinian leadership and, later, all neighbouring Arab states resisted forcefully and invaded Palestine. However, they were largely defeated by the nascent Jewish state, which was declared when the British left on 15 May 1948. No Palestinian state ever assumed sovereignty in the parts allocated to them, not even in the 22 per cent of Palestine controlled by Egypt and Jordan at the end of the war. Egypt made no claim for Gaza and left it under the temporary control of its armed forces. Jordan formally annexed the areas it controlled, the West Bank. However, almost no members of the international community recognised Jordanian sovereignty there. The legal regime set in 1967 in Gaza and the West Bank continued the five-decade-long tradition of legal uncertainty. As noted, Israel did not treat these newly acquired areas as an integral part of its territory, Jerusalem notwithstanding. Israel placed these regions under temporary military control within the framework of international law of occupied areas (Benvenisti 1992: 109). As a practical matter, many aspects of the public sphere including the education and legal systems continued to operate under the previous Jordanian and Egyptian arrangements. Similarly, most local bureaucracies were left intact (Gazit 1985: 62, Gazit 1999: 137). The internal Israeli legal regime regarding the territories continued the uncertainty, as summarised in 2005 by the Israeli Supreme Court: According to the legal perspective of all Israeli governments throughout the years these areas [Gaza and the West Bank] are held by the state of Israel through belligerent occupation. The meaning of this legal framework is a dual one: First, Israeli law, jurisdiction, and administration do not apply to these regions . . . these regions were not annexed to Israel, and are not part of it . . . Second, the legal regime in these areas is determined according to the rules of international public law . . . the nature of a military administration in a held territory . . . in its essence is temporary. (Bagatz 1661/05 2005: 16–22) At the same time, Israel held that its choice to control the territories did not exclude the possibility that at a later point in time it would be awarded partial or full sovereignty over the region. The international

The Israeli Settlement Project 53 community did not accept Israeli control in Gaza and the West Bank as a legitimate source for a claim to the land. However, for most of the first decade of Israeli control, the UN made no clear determination regarding ownership of the land. The most significant Security Council Resolution that governed the United Nations’ position in respect to the consequences of the Six Day War, Security Council Resolution 242 of 22 November 1967, added to the uncertainty. On the one hand, it highlighted (in the preamble, which has no operative meaning) the ‘inadmissibility of the acquisition of territory by war’. On the other hand, it called in the operative part for withdrawal of Israeli forces from ‘­territories . . . occupied in the recent conflict’ rather than the more explicit language (which was proposed) that could have called for complete Israeli ‘withdrawal from the territories it occupies (Lord Caradon et al. 1981: 46). Moreover, the resolution affirmed the right of all states in the region ‘to live in peace within secure and recognized boundaries’. Israel, with American support, argued that the term ‘secure borders’ allowed it to expand its territory because the 4 June 1967 lines were not effective in safeguarding its security. The resolution weakened a potential competitor to sovereignty in the area by affirming only the rights of states and thereby diminishing the Palestinian issue to a ‘refugee problem’. This uncertainty was further enhanced because the borders between Gaza, the West Bank and territorial Israel were not internationally recognised in the period preceding the 1967 war. Rather, they were temporary lines drawn at the end of the 1948–9 war between Israel, Egypt and Jordan. As such, they were not protected by the set of norms that guard the stability of international borders such as border fixity or uti possidetis, the general principle in international law, under which (in its modern usage) states that emerged from decolonisation should respect the stability of borders set by colonial powers. Uncertainty was further heightened because there was no immediate prospect of a negotiated agreement, although Israel assumed that in the long term, negotiations would determine the fate of the territories. In a speech to a party gathering, Prime Minister Eshkol summed up his sceptical perspective regarding immediate negotiation: I know that there are members here that harbor hopes for an agreement with the indigenous Arab population separate from any agreement with Arab nations. I would have liked to share

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their perspective. There were efforts to discuss such an agreement and there will be more of these. However, in my opinion – again, to my great regret – there is no real prospect for it. (Lammfromm 2002: 637) Two separate policy-formulation teams, who both preferred a Jordanian route, affected Eshkol’s position. His office’s Director General, Dr Hertzog, headed one team. The secret services headed the other team (Zak 1996: 152). On 2 July 1967, Dr Hertzog met Jordan’s King Hussein in London. The meeting did not include an in-depth discussion of peace proposals, but it demonstrated the king’s inability to move on to a separate agreement with Israel without support from Egypt (Zak 1996: 153, Ashton 2008: 123). Prime Minister Eshkol alluded to this publicly when he stated in June 1968, ‘Cairo holds the key . . . it indirectly affects the chances for an Israeli-Jordanian peace accord’ (Lammfromm 2002: 637). In a 1968 meeting with the American president Lyndon B. Johnson, Minister Allon was more direct and suggested that the Jordanian king was unable to sign a peace agreement because of ‘Egyptian objections’ (FRUS XIX: 250). In turn, Egypt’s rejection of negotiation was buttressed by the September 1967 decision of the Arab League at a Khartoum conference. In the decision, Arab leaders committed Arabs not to recognise Israel, negotiate with it or reach a peace accord with it (Quandt 2001: 46). Capacity By 1967 the state of Israel and the Jewish Agency had developed elaborate institutions, processes and the human capacity to support the development of new agricultural and urban communities. These development assets reflected the centrality of land acquisition and settlement development in the Zionist endeavour in Palestine (beginning in 1882) and in the era after the state was created in 1948. These assets were further a reflection of an almost one-hundred-year experience of developing settlements in Palestine and later Israel. By 1948, the Zionist movement created, with various degrees of involvement, over 200 settlements in Palestine (Bier 1981: 9). After the state was created in 1948, its institutions and the Jewish Agency developed 403 settlements (‘the new settlements’), all between 1948 and 1967 (Ben Aharon 1966: 1). The first phase (1870–1948) was largely intended to

The Israeli Settlement Project 55 Table 3.5  Israeli/Zionist Settlement Activity: Goals and Means 1880–2010 Years

Main purpose

Land acquisition

1880–1948 1948–67 1967–present

Securing sovereignty Housing solutions for immigrants, food supply Securing sovereignty

Free market State acquisition State acquisition

support the creation of Jewish sovereignty over Palestine. The second phase (1948–67) was intended to provide a housing solution for the over one million immigrants who came to the Jewish state in the years following its creation, and to develop an agricultural infrastructure that could secure food supplies (Weitz 1967: 116). The ‘third wave’ of settlements, the one discussed in this book, is similar in its goals to the first, pre-state phase, rather than to the phase immediately preceding it (1948–67). Both phases (pre-state and post-1967) served a strategic goal of territorial expansion. See Table 3.5 for a summary of the explanation. Settling institutions included the Settlement Department in the Jewish Agency, which was responsible for planning the settlements and implementing their creation and development. The Department was part of the Jewish Agency, a Zionist and not a state organ. The Jewish Agency was an organ of the Jewish national movement and remained so even after the state was created. This structure allowed it to continue to both serve and benefit from its exclusive responsibility towards the Jewish people. The Agency raised funds from Jews residing outside Israel and supported only Jewish causes (rather than a broader civic agenda targeted at all Israeli citizens, including non-Jews). By 1967 the Department was a large bureaucracy with responsibilities for all 403 post-1948 settlements and 141 pre-state settlements (Ben Aharon 1966: 6). It had regional offices and even its own radio communication system (Admoni 1992: 12). The Department’s role was so significant that it served as a major avenue for political careers. As noted, Prime Minister Eshkol led the Department from 1948 until his appointment as prime minister in 1963. Israeli capacity to develop settlements further included an elaborate set of internal legal norms and institutions that supported their construction in two ways. Firstly, as Israel saw itself as a democratic state operating within a law and order framework, it needed to make sure the project occured within this framework. Secondly, a legal framework

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streamlined and centralised a process that in other cases, such as the American expansion to the West, for example, was advanced in a noncoordinated and arguably less efficient way. Great Power Benefactor The Six Day War cemented the informal alliance and formed a ‘special relationship’ between Washington and Jerusalem, a relationship that drew on the decisive blow by Israel to the Soviets’ allies, thus improving Washington’s position in the region. Israel’s territorial gains gave Washington further currency as it became clear to Arab states that the road to receiving their lands back went through Washington. Washington was further drawn into assisting Israel, as the Soviets resupplied Egypt and Syria and deployed thousands of military personnel to their territory. American arms supplies to Israel increased accordingly. In 1968, the administration approved a three-year-old request to supply Israel with F-4 combat planes. The war also served as a reminder that the proxy battles in the Middle East could draw the two superpowers into a global conflict neither of them wished to pursue, providing further impetus for a closer Israeli–American alliance. The 1967 war further created another kind of internal support for Israel in the United States. Concern for Israel before the war, and pride in its achievements after it ended, led numerous Jewish organisations to express their support for Israel in more vocal and effective ways. The decade following the war was the first decade of these newly enhanced relationships. Israel, again, demonstrated its ability to support American interests. In September 1970, it assisted (indirectly) in preventing Syria from toppling the regime in Jordan. Israel was compensated generously. American loans for purchasing military items grew from $30 million in 1970 to $545 million in 1971 (CRS 2006: 3). In 1971 the US Congress created the first earmark for aid to Israel. In 1975 Israel and the United States formalised some aspects of their alliance, with Washington committing to ‘be fully responsive, within the limits of its resources and Congressional authorisation and appropriation, on an ongoing and long-term basis, to Israel’s military equipment and other defense requirements, to its energy requirements and to its economic needs’ (Israel–US Memorandum of Understanding 1975, para. 1).

The Israeli Settlement Project 57 Ethnic Affinity (the Brethren Factor) When Israeli forces gained control over the West Bank and Gaza in the summer of 1967, there was a low level of ethnic affinity between the dominant group in Israel (Jews) and the dominant group in the West Bank and Gaza (Arab-Palestinians, who were mostly Muslims). The small Jewish population that resided in the West Bank was entirely ethnically cleansed during the 1947–9 war by the incoming Jordanian forces. Israel, on the other hand, had some 400,000 Muslim-Palestinians among its citizenry; in addition to the 1.1 million Arab-Palestinians who resided in the territories. Although this minority comprised 14.4 per cent of Israel’s population in 1968, it had limited effect on setting national priorities. Both populations had fought, in effect, a civil war only two decades earlier. Therefore the Arab-Palestinians were ‘hostile to, and suspect by, their Jewish neighbors’ (Byman 2002: 51). The state put in place a variety of social control mechanisms over the minority, most notably placing them under military control between 1948 and 1966 (Byman 2002: 51). The state of Israel, led exclusively by Jews, all of whom adhered to the Jewish national ideology of Zionism, saw no affinity between it and the newly acquired Arab-Palestinian population in the West Bank and Gaza, who were part of the collective that had fought Jewish territorial aspiration in Palestine for decades. FROM VARIABLES TO OUTCOME

How did these four elements – legal plausibility for expansion, internal capacity for settlement creation, great power support and no brethren in the territory – produce the Israeli settlement project in the West Bank and Gaza? As I will show below, Israeli leaders believed that they had a legally plausible case under international law for permanent expansion into parts of the West Bank and Gaza. However, the Israeli leadership knew that the local Palestinian population in the West Bank and Gaza would not support Israeli territorial expansion. After all, Zionists and Palestinians had been fighting over the territory for decades. Israel further identified the international mechanism that would allow it to expand, an internationally sponsored negotiation, and believed that settlement would place it in a favourable position in these negotiations. At the same time, Jerusalem was able to advance the project because it had in place an effective set of institutions, and because the United

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States shielded it from the international costs of launching a settlement project. On 19 June 1967, the Israeli cabinet decided to hand back the two territories it occupied a week earlier and that had a clear sovereign, Sinai and the Golan, to Egypt and Syria respectively. In contrast, the cabinet decided, as noted, ‘not to decide’ regarding the two regions without a clear sovereign, the West Bank and Gaza. Israel’s position that expansion was legally plausible drew on a number of sources. First was the calculation that expansion into a territory with undecided sovereignty would not be severely opposed under international law. Defense Minister Dayan stated, for example, that changing the border again would not ‘shake the foundation of the world’ (Erez and Kfir 1981: 54). Secondly, Israel made a legal distinction between areas with a sovereign and areas without a sovereign. Defense Minister Dayan said, ‘governing the territory [West Bank and Gaza] is not the same as in the other territories’ (Erez and Kfir 1981: 54). Indeed, a decade earlier Minister Yigal Allon had stated, ‘if the Israel Defense Force is ever to cross into sovereign Arab territories for military purposes, there is no doubt that it would need to relinquish control over them . . . [but] the same rule does not apply to Gaza and Alexandria [an Egyptian city]’ (Allon 1959: 82). Thirdly, Israelis thought that the borders between Israel and the territories were malleable because they were merely the ‘line where the 1949 war ended’ (Dayan 1969: 56). Israelis also thought that the decades-long separation between ruler and sovereign led to limited allegiance of the local population to the previous ruler. The local Palestinians, stated Minister Dayan, were ‘not so Jordanian, not so Egyptian, not in the West Bank and not in Gaza’ (Dayan 1968: 57). Israeli leaders insinuated that, as there was no obvious sovereign, Israel had the same right to expand through the use of force as had the previous rulers. Prime Minister Eshkol explained, for example, in a speech to the Knesset on 30 October 1967, that ‘the West Bank and Gaza had been under Jordanian and Egyptian occupations’ and therefore Israel ‘must now seek to set agreed national boundaries’ (Gorenberg 2006: 123). Eshkol repeated this position in an interview with Newsweek in February 1969, when he argued that ‘in 1948 Jordan occupied the West Bank, while breaching a UN resolution, [and] we then occupied it from Jordan’ (Lammfromm 2002: 657). In the 30 October speech

The Israeli Settlement Project 59 Eshkol explained the implications of the legal situation, stating that ‘the areas that were occupied by Jordan and Egypt were held by them only by force, and not based on any right. The source of their control was the 1949 armistice agreements, but these are now void due to Arab ­aggression . . . therefore legally . . . there is full justification for Israel’s position to set . . . secure borders’ (Lammfromm 2002: 596). Israeli hopes for expansion resulted, as well, from the weakness of any potential competitor for Israeli aspirations. Rather, Israeli leaders were encouraged by the fact that external players accepted their view. Reflecting back on US policy after the war, former Assistant Secretary for Near Eastern Affairs Joseph Sisco suggested in a 1981 interview that US policy was predicated on a belief that an Israeli withdrawal to the 4 June 1967 lines was ‘unlikely’ (Lord Caradon et al. 1981: x) While the legal situation created an opening for expansion, cabinet members realised that unilateral Israeli actions of control and even formal annexation would not secure long-term permanent incorporation of these territories into Israel. Rather, the international environment, most ministers believed, would play a crucial role in determining the future of the new territory. Defense Minister Dayan stated, ‘I do not think that a formal act of annexation by the Knesset will change the situation. Even if we demark the border unilaterally, I doubt if this will alleviate [international] pressure on us. Let us not delude ourselves that annexation will end Arab and great power desires regarding these territories’ (Dayan 1969: 93). Foreign Minister Eban held a similar position regarding the role of the international community in determining the fate of the newly acquired regions. In describing the mood in Israel at the time, he wrote years later that after the 1967 war, ‘Israelis . . . believed that soon there would be great international events . . . that would not leave the situation created after the war as is’ (1978: 421). The notion that international actors will determine the fate of the occupied territories was affected by Israel’s ‘traumatic memory’ (Eban 1978: 421) of its forced withdrawal from the Sinai Peninsula in 1956–7 under international pressure. Following a swift Israeli occupation of the region from Egypt in the October 1956 Sinai Campaign, Israel hoped to keep at least part of the region. Yet, within a few days, both the Soviet Union and the US aggressively demanded that Israel withdraw from Sinai. Under this pressure, Prime Minister Ben-Gurion reversed his position and committed that Israel would withdraw, as it eventually did. Israel was also shaken by the threats made towards it by the great

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powers. The Soviets alluded that they might intervene militarily in the conflict, and the Americans hinted that they might place sanctions on Israel. Israel’s Foreign Minister Eban was concerned that it was ‘about to lose’ in the UN ‘what was won on the battle field’ (Eban 1978: 406). More broadly, Israel, and before it, the Zionist movement saw international recognition of its territorial claims as a central pillar of their legitimacy. Launched in the late nineteenth century, the Zionist project tried to secure territory, and title to it, in an area that was controlled, and indeed populated, by others. The movement’s pre-state goal was to secure territorial expansion through an award from the international community. The main challenge of Zionism, wrote Israel’s founding father David Ben-Gurion, was gaining the recognition that ‘the ruler of the territory’ was the Jews, rather than the challenge posed by ‘the resistance of its inhabitants’ (Ben-Gurion 1967: 5). The movement’s first political action plan, the 1897 Basel programme, declared that it sought to establish for the Jewish people a publicly and legally assured home in Palestine. This blueprint was translated by the movement’s founder and first leader, Theodor Herzel, to a strategy ‘almost totally focused on attaining an international charter for the re-creation of Palestine as the Jewish National home’ (Shimshoni 2001: 91). Indeed, modern Zionism highlights (for example, in the state’s declaration of independence) that its sources of authority over Palestine are the British Balfour declaration (2 November 1917) and the United Nations Partition Resolution (29 November 1947). With this perception of world events, Israeli elites were not surprised when it was announced shortly after the war that the UN’s General Assembly would meet on 17 June 1967 for an emergency session regarding the situation in the Middle East. Israel’s leaders assumed that this would be the beginning of the international intervention that would probably lead to pressure on Israel to withdraw from the areas it occupied in the war (Eban 1978: 406, Goldstein 2003: 580). In preparation for the UN meeting, the Israeli cabinet met (in various capacities) over a period of six days (14–19 June 1967) for the longest ever high-level discussions in Israel’s government regarding the fate of the territories. They began with an informal high-level discussion at the home of the prime minister on 14 June 1967, which was followed by two days (14–15 June) of debate in a subset of the cabinet – the ministerial Committee for Security Affairs. After the weekend (16–17 June), the full cabinet met for two more days (Raz 2012: 43).

The Israeli Settlement Project 61 A significant driver for these deliberations was Israel’s desire to coordinate a position with the United States. Prime Minister Eshkol stated that ‘we will not be able to ignore the American position for long’ and added, the ‘United States appears as our ally and so when we discuss our position here, we need to develop answers to questions the Americans may ask us and discuss with us’ (Lammfromm 2002: 579). Defense Minister Dayan shared the same notion and stated that he ‘believed that any Israeli political plan [regarding the future of the territories] will be dependent on the American position’ (Gluska 2004: 402). On 19 June 1967 the cabinet concluded its deliberations on the matter with Resolution 563. The resolution stated that Israel would hand back the Golan Heights to Syria and the Sinai Peninsula to Egypt, in return for a peace agreement. Both regions, after all, were part of the sovereign territories of Syria and Egypt. The cabinet further decided to defer the decision regarding Gaza and the West Bank. These regions – in contrast to the Golan Heights and the Sinai Peninsula – were not internationally recognised sovereign parts of the countries that had held them prior to the war. Avi Raz (2012) argued that the main audience for the decision was the United States, rather than Egypt and Syria. Israel, he argues, wanted to secure a favourable American position (45–7). On 17 June the United Nations General Assembly launched a special emergency session to deal with the situation in the Middle East (UN 1967). Israel made a great effort to affect its outcome via close coordination with the United States. It sent a large delegation headed by Foreign Minister Abba Eban, and considered dispatching Defense Minister Dayan as well (Eban 1978: 422–3). Israel further made an effort to demonstrate that the executive duly represented the spectrum of opinion among Israel’s political elite, including legislatures from a number of parties in the delegation. The international system affected even the one issue on which the Israeli public and its political elite were united: expansion into Jerusalem. On 20 June 1967, the government discussed the city’s potential annexation. The shadow of the international community loomed large in the debate. During the meeting, Israel’s mission to the United Nations was consulted numerous times. Indeed, in the first vote on the matter, the majority of ministers voted against expansion, following a letter from Minister Eban and his fellow delegates, warning against possible international response. Only after the prime minister

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stopped the meeting to talk again to Eban on the phone did the cabinet change its mind (Lammfromm 2002: 573). Even then, Israel made every possible effort to conceal its decision and to mitigate potential international pressure. The cabinet approved minor changes in two existing laws that allowed the government to expand the state’s authority and the municipal borders. The only special law that was legislated stressed the right of people of all persuasions to visit the holy sites, which was meant to mitigate the expected international pressure (Davar, 27 June 1967: 1). By the autumn of 1967, it became clear to Israel’s leaders that the anticipated interaction would take a different form: not a dictate as they feared, but rather a negotiation with Arab parties, within an international substantial and procedural framework. The 22 November 1967 UN Security Council Resolution 242 (UNSC 242) set the broad parameters for determination of sovereignty, both in terms of substance (land for peace) and process (bilateral negotiation within an international framework). Israeli expectations were reinforced by the manner in which international efforts to resolve the Arab–Israeli conflict evolved. In the decade following the war, a United Nations Special Envoy, Gunar Jarring (whose authority was grounded in UNSC 242), and two American Secretaries of State, William Rogers and Henry Kissinger, advanced peace plans that included a determination of the final status of the territories (Bailey 1985: 180–1). Israel believed that the general standard to be applied in these internationally sanctioned negotiations would be a form of partition. Israel also believed that the specific rule that would affect border demarcation would be the location of Israeli and Palestinian populations. Israel’s policy-makers did not intend to wait passively for the international interaction that would determine the territories’ fate. Alongside efforts to affect the framework of future interaction, Israel wanted to change realities on the ground that would affect the outcome of the expected border demarcation. Defense Minister Dayan stated in 1969, ‘we should not simply sit and wait . . . I think that in each territory we need to check what can be done’ (Dayan 1969: 33). The government’s approach was a form of backward induction. In game theory, this form of planning is used in cases where two conditions hold: (1) actors have perfect information about the future, and (2) there is a finite set of actions that could be taken between the present and the horizon. The Israeli government reasoned back from the end stage, a negotiation

The Israeli Settlement Project 63 within an international framework, to the present, and it identified the moves that would maximise the payoff in the final stage of the game (Fudenberg and Tirole 1991: 71–3). First, Israel invested political and diplomatic capital in the autumn of 1967 in order to shape UNSCR 242 in a way that allowed some expansion into the West Bank. However, the government was searching for other moves that would allow it to affect the outcome of this expected future negotiation. In order to do so Israel had to tailor the tool it would employ to the general standard and the specific rules that would determine the territorial outcome of the negotiation. The settlement project was shaped in the ‘shadow of the law’. The ‘law’ in this analogy was the general standard that Israel believed would be employed – partition according to ethnic lines – and the specific rule would be line delineation according to the existing locations of the respective populations. Acting in the shadow of these expectations, Israel launched a settlement project, a set of ‘facts on the ground in order to support the political negotiations concerning this territory’ (Ben-Zadok 1985: 141). The most obvious targets were areas that were largely empty. Placing settlers there, Israel believed, would guarantee future permanent Israeli expansion into these areas. The Allon Plan, the government’s unofficial plan of territorial expansion, followed this rationale and placed settlers in the empty areas in the Jordan Valley, Gaza Strip and Jerusalem. As Ze’ev Tzur, a former official, reflected decades later, ‘the settlements were placed according to the parameters of the Allon Plan lines, a plan that included a decision that the settlements – created by the authorised institutions and following government policy . . . will be under Israeli sovereignty during a negotiation for peace and after an agreement is reached’ (Pedatzur 1996: 13). Yigal Allon stated on 10 December 1968: ‘we had got ourselves, and the world, used to the endeavor of settlement creation as fact of special weight. This thing [creating settlements] is part of the arsenal of our weapons in the struggle . . . everyone will be aware of the meaning [of settlement creation]’ (Allon 1989: 35). In a speech in the Labor party’s conference on 4 August 1969, Allon said, ‘While the government decided not to decide about Israel’s future borders, it did take a number of decisions regarding security-based settlement activity that had already changed our future map’ (Allon 1989: 40). In a similar fashion, Minister Yisrael Galili admitted in an interview: ‘The settle-

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ments created since 1967 were intended . . . to affect border demarcation in the time of peace’ (Pedatzur 1996: 161). In a speech to Israel’s Press Club on 27 December 1968, Minister Dayan stated that while he did not think that from a ‘security perspective there was any special need for settlement activity’, he did believe that the ‘settlements are the most important thing, that carries the most weight, in creating political facts. Assuming – as stated by the prime ­minister – that a place we settle in’ (Dayan 1969: 179) will remain Israeli. Therefore, Dayan said, ‘in creating a map, and in stating our desire for a new map, I see the settlements . . . as the most significant commitment we can make’ (Dayan 1969: 179). A few months later, on 5 March 1969, Dayan argued in a public presentation that Israel should use the ‘interim period’ until the final status of the territories was decided to ‘tie the hands of the other sides . . . [and] create substantial changes’ in these areas. The first steps, according to Dayan, should be ‘the traditional Israeli strategy, settlements’ (Dayan 1969: 163–4). Those who had actually carried out the settlement project had a clear idea of the broad political and international goals. In October 1972, the Israel Defense Force’s history department asked Yair Doar, deputy director of the NAHAL department, to write a report about all settlement activities to date. In explaining the purpose of the project – which was implemented to a large extent by Doar’s department – the Israeli official wrote in the internal document: The [June 1967] cease fire lines are good for us, but they are not permanent and will be debated with Arab countries in a negotiation, when the time comes, regarding permanent [internationally] recognized, and secure borders. The settlement in the territories . . . is one of the main means we have in the struggle in the arena of statesmanship in shaping the future borders and the fate of the territories. Similarly, the deputy mayor of Jerusalem, Meron Benvenisti, in 1981 admitted the following: The decisions of [urban] planning that determined Jerusalem’s shape forever were not made at the drawing table, but at the cabinet table . . . a response to external political pressure. In 1969 the Rogers Plan came into being. Rogers suggested, in terms of

The Israeli Settlement Project 65 US policy regarding Jerusalem, that the city remain united, but that some Jordanian presence in the city should be reinstituted. Israel rejected the plan . . . but its real response was in actions, not statements. The rate of development of neighborhoods that were in the process of development was hastened, but most of all it was decided to immediately develop 25,000 new apartments . . . As the decision was a response to a political pressure, there was no weight to considerations based on urban planning. The new units were to be built beyond the green line. (Benvenisti 1981: 42–3) Israel’s belief reflected a utility-based perspective that ‘it is easier to move borders than people’, as Chaim Kaufman observes (1998: 148). It also reflected lessons learned in prior Zionist experiences in three instances of border demarcation. The first was the 1920–7 British– French detraction of the border between the British (mandatory) Palestine and the French Lebanese (mandatory) state. These borders were affected by the location of Jewish settlements. The effect of Jewish settlements in this instance was perhaps most evident in the central sector. The final boundaries there included more territory to mandatory Palestine, when compared to the original 1916 plan. The change – many in the Zionist establishment believed – was due to the location of Jewish settlements in the territory that was now allotted to Palestine (Ben-Artzi 2007: 155). In the following decades two international determinations in 1937 and 1947 set the principles for the territorial future of mandatory Palestine: the general idea was partition, and the specific details of the boundary delineation would be determined as much as possible along ethnic lines as the specific rule of border-making. The 1937 Palestine Royal Commission Report and the 1947 UN Special Commission on Palestine Majority Report both included these principles. The logic set in the 1937 Report stood firm in 1967 and, some would argue, to date. The Report stated that ‘partition is the only method . . . for dealing with the root of the problem’ (Palestine Royal Commission 1937: 380). The commission also set the standard of partition when it decided that ‘the natural principle for the Partition of Palestine is to separate the areas in which the Jews have acquired land and settled from those which are wholly or mainly occupied by Arabs’ (383). The 1947 report, which served as the basis for the November 1947 Partition Resolution, stated the following:

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The basic premise underlying the . . . proposal is that the claims to Palestine of the Arabs and Jews, both possessing validity, are irreconcilable, and that among all of the solutions advanced, partition will provide the most realistic and practicable settlement, and is the most likely to afford a workable basis for meeting in part the claims and national aspirations of both parties. (111) This general standard of partition was justified later in the report by five other arguments: (1) Arab–Jewish hostility renders any cooperation between the two peoples impossible; (2) partition is the only path that would allow Jewish and Arab ‘conflicting national aspirations’ to ‘find substantial expression’; (3) partition offers ‘finality’ to the conflict, whereas other options (such as a federation) will create incentives for ongoing competition; (4) partition is the only path that will create functioning states because other solutions proposed, such as a federation, will beget a weak and ineffective state; and (5) partition will place ‘political and economic responsibility . . . squarely on both Arabs and Jews’, which would contribute to ‘amelioration’ of tensions (UNSCOP 1947: 111–14). The report further highlighted the specific rule of border delineation: the location of the Jewish and Arab populations (Biger 2001: 216–17). This framework, with the general rule of partition and the specific standard of ethnic line as the key determinant in the specific of border delineation, had a profound effect on Israel’s behaviour and led to the development of the settlements as a means to affect the future ethnically based line. The 1937 recommendations and the 1947 UN resolution created an incentive mechanism for settlement creation. Immediately after the 1937 recommendations were published, the Jewish Agency and the Jewish National Fund (JNF) embarked on an effort to purchase and settle land in areas it had hoped to include in the future in a Jewish state if partition were to occur. Katz (2000) quotes Abraham Granovski, a JNF official, who pointed to the rationale of settlements in a meeting of the organisation’s leadership. Granovski said: ‘just as our settled lands affected border demarcation by the Royal Commission, so would the expansion of our land property now affect the final detraction of the borders’ (124–5). Indeed, in the decade between the two documents (1937–47), the Zionist movement initiated 147 new settlements (Oren 1978: 241–5) with the specific goal of affecting future border delineation (Biger 2001: 209). In some cases, the Jewish settlement effort was

The Israeli Settlement Project 67 directed at a perimeter of a region, to secure its complete inclusion in a future Jewish state, and only later were the internal parts of the perimeter settled (Katz 2000: 128–9). The strategy did indeed lead to the expected results. While the 1937 partition resolution gave the Jews 17 per cent of Palestine, by 1947 Jews were allocated 55 per cent of the territory. Settlements remained a priority even after the Jewish state was created, and during the war that surrounded its creation. Indeed, settlement activities were such a national priority that while the 1947–9 war was ongoing, settlement activity continued and soldiers were even relieved from front-line combat units so they could create new settlements (Tzur 1980: 56–9). During the war, more than twenty new settlements were created. The legacy of settlements as border-makers was now set strong. A decade later, Yigal Allon wrote that the pre-1948 settlements ‘determined the size of Israel’s territory once the British Mandate was over’ (248). Newman (2002) sees in this context a direct line between pre-state settlements and post-1967 settlements when he writes that ‘settlements have played, and continue to play, a major role in the delineation of boundaries between separate Israeli and Palestinian territories, regardless of whether they were established legally’ (635). Maoz (2006) even takes a step forward, suggesting that the notion of settlements as border-makers was ‘a cornerstone of Israel’s security ­conception . . . a pillar of national security’ (16). Settlements were at the heart of national strategy after the state was created in 1948. Again, this was related to border-making. In the early 1950s the great power pressured Israel to hand parts of the Negev Desert to Arab countries. Yet again, Israel’s leaders believed that settlements would affect the border. David Ben-Gurion, Israel’s first prime minister, declared, ‘there is a danger to our [control of] the land when it is unsettled. The Arab nations hold vast areas of desert, but there is no chance that anyone will take it away from them. We cannot hold a desert unsettled for long’ (Ben-Gurion 1954: 403). This Zionist heritage had an effect on Israel’s post-1967 leaders, in part because they played leading roles in it. Prime Minister Eshkol headed the 1943 settlement effort in the Negev Desert that was intended to make sure that the region would be allocated to the Jewish state in a future partition. He then led, as noted, the Settlement Department in the Jewish Agency from 1948 to 1963 and orchestrated the establishment of dozens of Jewish settlements between 1949 and 1952.

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Eshkol’s biographer, Yossi Goldstein, suggested that Eshkol’s decision to launch a settlement project was ‘based on his old approach [. . . Eshkol ordered] the creation of facts on the ground’ (2003: 583). Israel’s leaders indeed continued a tradition of settlements as border-makers. The post-1967 settlements replicated the pre-state purpose of territorial expansion and enjoyed the advantages of the 1949–67 internal Israeli settlement activity of control over the settled territory (see Table 3.5). Prime Minister Eshkol died on 26 February 1969, and was replaced by Golda Meir (Burkett 2008: 5). During her tenure, the Israeli government further institutionalised the process that led to the development of settlements. The cabinet created the ministerial committee for settlements that assumed the authority to initiate the creation of all settlements. The committee identified and allocated resources for the construction of new settlements and also the identity of the political movement that that would lead the development of specific settlement. Allon headed the committee until he was replaced in May 1970 by Yisrael Galili. Although only a minister without portfolio, Galili was Meir’s most trusted minister. With the new committee in place, the Israeli government continued to expand the settlement project. American efforts to reignite Israeli negotiation with Jordan and Egypt created an immediate incentive for the Israeli government, as discussed above, to create a new settlement project in the Gaza Strip in September 1970. During Meir’s tenure, the Labor party tried to revise its approach towards settlement activity in the West Bank and Gaza. Under pressure from Minister of Defense Dayan, the party leadership drafted the ‘Galili Document’, approved by the Party Central Committee on 3 September 1973. The document committed the party to further expansion of settlements but was never approved by the cabinet (Armoni 2008: 88–91, Gorenberg 2006: 247–51). After the trauma of the 1973 Yom Kippur War, Labor returned to the more moderate Allon Plan and amended, in effect, the Galili document (Gorenberg 2006: 263). Another clear sign of Israel’s more moderate approach was the appointment of Yitzhak Rabin as prime minister in June 1974. Although he came from a military background (he was chief of staff of the military between 1964 and 1968), Rabin was a moderate, and his government signed two interim agreements with Egypt (1974, 1975). Rabin also restarted the secret informal dialogue channel with Jordan’s King Hussein (Zak 1996: 20). Moreover, Rabin reiterated, in effect, Labor’s commitment to the Allon Plan (Eiran 2009). During Rabin’s tenure, Israel created sixteen new

The Israeli Settlement Project 69 settlements in the West Bank. Rabin, however, ‘limited their development to settlement blocks’ in areas he saw as shaping Israel’s future map (Goldstein 2006: 280, Shifris 2013: 102). Nine out of the sixteen were in Jordan Valley, two in the Etzion block (south of Jerusalem) and four in the northern vicinity of Jerusalem, near a crucial road that led to the capital (Shifris 2013: 102). Concerns that the international community would object to the settlements, and that settlement activity would create tension with the United States, led the Rabin government to try to keep such activity in a low profile. Indeed, most of the settlements during this time were set as military NAHAL posts (Shifris 2013: 102). Like the launch of the Gaza project in 1970, Rabin’s government also advanced settlement activities when the prospect of negotiation seemed concrete. Following American mediation and direct secret talks with Jordan, Israel believed in 1974 that it would shortly enter into an open negotiation with Amman over an interim arrangement that would include partial Israeli withdrawal from the West Bank. Therefore, in August 1974, the cabinet authorised the creation of a big settlement east of Jerusalem called Ma’ale Edumim (Goldstein 2006: 280), although its actual development occurred later. In November 1977 the Labor party lost the elections for the first time since 1933. A new nationalist and expansionist government came to power and ended a decade of measured settlement activity. Legal plausibility created the possibility of permanent Israeli expansion into parts of the West Bank and Gaza. The contours of the future legal arrangement that would legitimise expansion led to the use of settlements as the main tool in achieving expansion. But it was Israel’s pre-1967 effective settlement apparatus that carried the task. The Settlement Department in the Jewish Agency not only developed the individual settlements, it was also dominant in regional planning and in developing new forms of settlements. Its expertise was even exported by Israel to other developing nations, mostly in Africa. State organs were also part of the process. The Ministry of the Interior, the Ministry of Agriculture and the Ministry of Trade and Industry all had their own planning divisions, which were coordinated with the Settlement Department through the coordinating institution, Ha’Mosad Le’Teum (Weitz 1967: 229, Admoni 1992: 13). As noted, in 1970 the cabinet created a Ministerial Committee for Settlements. It was responsible for the authorisation of each ­settlement,

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Table 3.6  Israeli Settlements: Budget Allocation between Agencies 1967–73 Agency

Expenditure on settlements (in Israeli lira)

Ministry of Housing Settlement Department, Jewish Agency Roads (source of budget unclear) Land works (source of budget unclear) Mekorot and Tahal (water agencies)

250 million 150 million   15 million   36 million   75 million

Source: Ze’ev Tzur to Yisrael Galili, 7 September 1973, YTA 15-75-2-19.

its location, and the identity of the organisation that would be responsible for the development of the settlement (State Comptroller Report 2001: 399, Lein 2002: 20). The committee included representatives of the various ministries that were involved in the bureaucratic process, including representatives of the semi-governmental Settlement Department of the Jewish Agency. The latter, alongside the Agency for Rural Construction in the Ministry of Housing, was responsible for the actual planning and development of the settlements, while the state’s water and road agencies developed these basic elements of infrastructure (Gvati 1981: 61–2, Lein 2001: 20–1). Table 3.6, based on an internal memorandum prepared for Minister Galili in September 1973, shows the financial resources allocated for settlements by the various agencies between 1967 and 1973. The process was further streamlined as many of the political leaders were personally involved in settlement activity in earlier phases of their personal and professional lives. Prime Minister Eshkol, as well as Ministers Dayan and Allon, had all participated earlier in their lives in various leadership positions in small, newly created settlements. Eshkol, as noted, served in a leadership position in the settlement establishment. This familiarity with the issue of settlement made the process more efficient and effective, as ministers could discuss, at cabinet level, technical questions of the location of settlements and their ability to support themselves. These various institutions were also highly adaptive. The Settlement Department, for example, reorganised all its activities in the territories in the early 1970s under another institutional title (the Settlement Division in the Zionist Federation). The change was a result of concerns in the department that US opposition to the settlement project would lead to diminishing contributions in the United States to the Jewish Agency (the department’s original institutional home) because the US

The Israeli Settlement Project 71 federal government might cancel the tax advantage for Americans supporting the agency. Israel also developed a framework for securing land for settlement. For the first twelve years of Israeli control, land acquisition conformed to the rules of international law of occupation. Accordingly, until 1979 all land appropriated for settlement activity (some 50,000 dunams) was ‘temporarily confiscated’ for security purposes in an orderly manner (Arieli 2009). The Israeli Supreme Court blocked this method in 1979, when it ruled that the government could not create permanent settlements on land that was temporarily confiscated for security reasons. In response, the Israeli government moved to further declare some 800,000 dunams as ‘state land’. Together with the 700,000 dunams that were already in this status, Israel had at its disposal, from a legal standpoint, almost 25 per cent of the area of the West Bank (Arieli 2009). These legal manoeuvres highlight an important element of the Israeli capacity: an effort to integrate the project into the existing legal framework in the state, thus ensuring that these acts do not unwind the state’s institutional and normative framework. Those in Israel that oppose the project are critical of this effort and argue that no legal framing could erase the inherent injustice of occupation and settlement activity; and no internal legislative acts could whitewash a breach of international norms. Along with these primary methods of land acquisition, the government authorised the state’s land administration to purchase land directly from owners. Because of the political implications of such transactions, a special committee comprised of the Minister of Defense, Minister Galili, and the Minister of Agriculture was to authorise all land purchases.1 Great Power Support Israel was greatly concerned about the potential international costs of launching a settlement project. In a top-secret memo of 14 September 1967, the legal advisor to the Israeli Foreign Ministry, Dr Theodor Meron, warned his minister and the prime minister that Israel would face international pressure if it were to settle its citizens in the

1

Galili to Dinitz, 16 November 1971, ISA 20/6424.

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­territories.2 In order to deflect such pressure, Israel tried to conceal the project. All settlements in the Jordan Valley and Gaza were set forth as military outposts, which are allowed under international law. Minister Galili, in an October 1967 cabinet meeting, proposed this approach: [B]ecause I am a great supporter of a settlement-based stronghold in the territories . . . I think that we should not burden ourselves . . . in terms of international public opinion. I propose that we decide on one model for settlements, that of a NAHAL outpost, or agricultural military settlements. I see no reason for us to use [long-term/civilian] settlement terminology rather than the more limited military, security-based one . . . [We] should signal that these are military settlements . . . connected to the military, with a flag and a commander; maybe they should even wear uniforms. (Admoni 1992: 69) When asked about Israel’s expansion through settlements by Newsweek magazine in 1969, Prime Minister Levy Eshkol denied that Israel even had settlements and suggested that they were merely ‘agricultural military positions’ (Lammfromm 2002: 657). Similarly, Israel tried to conceal its plans for Jerusalem. National and local government meetings that dealt with plans for development there were kept secret, and documents were classified. Even the language used in these documents was purposely vague (Choshen et al. 1999: 33). But concealment alone was insufficient. It was Israel’s alliance with the United States that allowed it to hold on to the territories, and to launch a settlement project despite the costs of both activities in the international arena. Firstly, the United States’ acceptance of Israel’s argument that it should not be made to withdraw to the 4 June 1967 lines strengthened Israeli beliefs that expansion was possible. Secondly, American support for a negotiated (rather than a dictated) future border delineation, and the absence of a clear American position regarding where that border should be, served as an incentive for Israel to create facts on the ground in order to prejudice the outcome of future negotiations. Moreover, American support for direct negotiations, when the Arab parties were unwilling to engage in such a process, left the question of the future of the territories open even further to the 2

Meron to Yaffe, 19 September 1967, ISA 7921/3.

The Israeli Settlement Project 73 possibility of creating and enlarging settlements. Thirdly, the United States shielded Israel from some of the international costs of engaging in settlement activities, most notably by vetoing all UN Security Council draft resolutions that mentioned Israel’s actions in the territories. Finally, Israel’s leadership felt secure in launching and maintaining the settlement project because it did not impede Israel’s most important foreign policy goal: a relationship with a great power. On 19 June 1967, Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara asked General Earle G. Wheeler, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, to present the Chiefs’ opinion with respect to ‘the minimum territory, in addition to that held on June 4, 1967, that Israel might be justified in retaining in order to permit a more effective defense against possible conventional Arab attack and terrorist raids’ (Wheeler 1967: 1). The memo Wheeler produced in response to McNamara’s request ten days later supported Israel’s claim that it needed to hold on to some territory: ‘From a strictly military point of view, Israel would require the retention of some captured territory in order to provide defensible military borders . . . [Israel should] keep control of the prominent high ground . . . retention of the Gaza Strip would be to Israel’s military advantage’ (Wheeler 1967: 1). Even before Wheeler’s memo, this approach already informed American policy. In a speech on 19 June 1967, President Johnson shared his vision for the region: ‘The nations of the region have had only fragile and violated truce lines for twenty years. What they now need are recognized boundaries and other arrangements that will give them security against terror, destruction, and war’ (Johnson 1967). President Johnson and the special Middle East Task Force headed by McGeorge Bundy wanted to make sure that, in any future arrangement, Israel would enjoy secure borders. This was a cold war calculation intended to strengthen an American client against Soviet proxies. Indeed, in describing the first day of the war, Bundy remembered, ‘The worst worry . . . was that the Israelis may be going to get licked, that we were going to be on the losing side’ (Bundy 1969b: 20). There were other reasons, too: But the President’s [policy], the policy of the United States, the one that [was] the crucial issue in the area, was that the Israelis should not get beaten, and the crucial political issue at home – not because of the sentiments of the Jewish community, but because of the sentiments of the American people – was that they should

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not get licked. There never was an issue where public opinion was more in accord as to who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. (Bundy 1969b: 20–1) At the end of the war, the need to make sure Israel could defend itself became a primary US goal. Secretary of Defense McNamara believed that the ‘lesson to be learned from the 1967 War is the risk to the United States from ambiguous defense commitments to nations which are unable fully to defend themselves’ (McNamara 1975: 35). This approach reflected Washington’s strong preference for Israel to defend itself rather than rely on US military support. American forces were heavily committed to Vietnam, and the administration wanted to avoid any new commitments. Washington felt that a territorially expanded Israel would be better positioned to defend itself. The main arena in which the United States manifested this policy was the United Nations in the autumn of 1967. The foe: the Soviets. Dean Rusk, Secretary of State, summed up the differences: Mr Kosygin [the Soviet Premier] came to the General Assembly of the United Nations dedicated to the point that Israel would first have to withdraw from all Arab territories, and then other elements in the peace conference would have to be discussed. We felt that it was impossible to get Israel to withdraw before the shape of a peace element was apparent, and it was necessary to talk about such things as passage through the Strait of Tiran and passage through the Suez Canal and guaranteed borders. (Rusk 1970 IV: 5) In 1967, from 6 June through to 11 June, the United States mission to the United Nations blocked all Soviet efforts to include an explicit stipulation for Israeli withdrawal as part of the United Nations Security Resolutions (233–6) that led to an Arab–Israeli ceasefire. Three days later, the American delegation to the UN blocked a similar Soviet draft of Resolution 237. In the ensuing General Assembly meeting (17 June to 21 July 1967, and again on 18 September 1967), the Soviets were again prevented from forcing a withdrawal resolution on Israel. Jerusalem’s interpretation was clear: ‘we have secured a permit from the General Assembly to remain in the ceasefire lines until such time when Arab governments will be ready for peace’ (Eban 1978: 435). The debate then moved to the Security Council. American efforts

The Israeli Settlement Project 75 continued and prevented a resolution that called for an unconditional Israeli withdrawal. Arthur Goldberg, the American Ambassador to the UN, said that the ‘return to the prior armistice would not serve the goal of just and lasting peace’ (Lord Caradon et al. 1981: 25). Most notably, this approach informed the American position in the drafting of UN Security Council Resolution 242, which included, as noted above, a call for Israeli withdrawal from ‘territories’ rather than ‘the territories’, meaning Israel did not have to go back to the 4 June 1967 lines. Israel was elated at Washington’s position. A decade later, Abba Eban reflected, ‘this was a major breakthrough. For the first time a great power not only spoke about the need to change the nature of Arab-Israeli relations, but also presented an approach [that accepted] territorial change’ (Eban 1978: 445). The content and extent of the American position changed over time, though the basic principle was accepted. Secretary of State William Rogers, for example, presented a non-paper to Israel that included a narrower version of the American commitment to ‘limited border changes’ rather than the Johnson administration’s commitment to ‘secure borders’ to Israel. President Nixon promised that the United States would veto any Security Council draft resolution forcing Israel to withdraw completely. Nixon also added a letter in which he committed to not asking Israel to withdraw except as part of a formal peace treaty that Israel would deem as guaranteeing its interests (Eban 1978: 461–2). American support was understood by all Israeli leaders to be the most crucial element in safeguarding the state’s territorial achievements in the war. Foreign Minister Eban expressed his opinion: ‘It was clear to me that that if we are to have a chance of holding on to our positions, we must act in a tight harmony with the United States’ (Eban 1978: 429). Indeed, in explaining Israel’s ability to prevent UN-mandated withdrawal in a speech of 6 February 1968, and despite Soviet pressure, Minister of Defense Dayan said that, unlike 1956, this time the Soviet Union did not threaten us . . . it acted against us in the UN Security Council but it did not threaten us . . . I think the main reason for this change in the Soviet position is the United States. In 1956, the Soviet Union acted in tandem with the Americans and could make threats against us, the French, and the British because it realized its threats would not lead to a conflict with the United States . . . this time, the Soviets were cautious not to strain their relationship with America. (Dayan 1969: 65)

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The United States largely supported not only Israel’s substantial claims but also the process it was insisting on: direct negotiation. As noted, Secretary of State Rusk said, ‘We felt that it was impossible to get Israel to withdraw before the shape of a peace element was apparent, and it was necessary to talk about such things . . .’ (Rusk 1970 IV: 5). Jerusalem was listening. Foreign Minister Eban understood the American position to be that ‘withdrawal should not be back to the [1949] armistice lines’ but rather to ‘borders that would be determined in a negotiation’ (Eban 1978: 443). By November 1967, the American position was made clear in the Security Council debates when Ambassador Goldberg stated that the pre-1967 border between Israel and the West Bank and Gaza was temporary and that the final borders had to be defined by the parties themselves in (Eban 1992: 458). Israel wanted direct and public Israeli–Arab negotiations because it believed that they would, in effect, lead to Arab recognition of Israel’s legitimacy. Israel also believed that direct negotiation would allow it to use the assets it had, namely control over territory, more effectively. Israel’s approach was mainly directed at Egypt and Syria, as Jordan’s king was talking in secret to Israel. However, Cairo was the key, as King Hussein made it clear that he would be unable to conclude any negotiation without Egypt doing it before he did. American support strengthened Israeli belief that the fate of the territories would be determined in a negotiation. Gearing to this moment in time, Israel had a strong incentive to try and shape the outcome of these negotiations; the settlements were the tool to do so. American support for Israel in the United Nations extended beyond its involvement in drafting UN Security Council Resolution 242. In the first decade of Israeli control of the territories, the United Sates vetoed all UNSC draft resolutions that dealt with the occupied territories or with the Palestinian issue. The only UN resolutions critical of Israel (in the context of the territories) and not vetoed by the United States were those pertaining to Israel’s decision to annex Jerusalem. In the years 1967–77, the UN Security Council passed fifty resolutions dealing with the Arab–Israeli conflict. None of them dealt directly with the Palestinian issue or the Israeli settlements. Six other resolutions regarding the conflict were vetoed by the United States, including four that dealt with the Palestinian issue. See Table 3.7 for a description of vetoed resolutions. As discussed, Israel was deeply concerned about the UN Security

The Israeli Settlement Project 77 Table 3.7  US Veto of Israel-related Resolutions 1967–77 Date

Meeting

Draft

Reference to Palestinian issue

10 September 1972 26 July 1973

1662

S/10784

No

1735

S/10974

8 December 1975 26 January 1976

1862

S/11898

‘Deplores Israel’s continuing occupation of territories seized in the 1976 conflict and expressed conviction that a just solution to the problem could be achieved only on the basis of respect for the rights of all States in the area and the rights and legitimate aspirations of the Palestinians.’ Additionally, ‘Declares that in the occupied territories no changes which may obstruct a peaceful and final settlement or which may adversely affect the political and other fundamental rights of all the inhabitants in these territories should be introduced.’ No

1879

S/11940

26 January 1976

1899

S/12022

29 June 1976

1938

S/12119

Source: Ross-Nazzal 2008.

Affirms Israel should withdraw from occupied territories and affirms the Palestinian right to establish an independent state in Palestine ‘Deeply concerned further at the measures taken by the Israeli authorities leading to the present grave situation including measures aimed at changing the physical, cultural, demographic and religious character of the occupied territories and, in particular, the City of Jerusalem, the establishment of Israeli settlements in the occupied territories and other violations of the human rights of the inhabitants of those territories. 1. ‘[D]eplores Israel’s failure to put a stop to action and policies tending to change the status of the City of Jerusalem and to rescind measures already taken to that effect’; 2. ‘Calls on Israel, pending the speedy termination of its occupation, to refrain from all measures against the Arab inhabitants of the occupied territories’; 3. ‘Calls on Israel to respect and uphold the inviolability of the Holy Places which are under its occupation and to desist from the expropriation of or encroachment upon Arab lands and property or the establishment of Israeli settlements thereon in the occupied Arab territories and to desist from all other actions and policies designed to change the legal status of the City of Jerusalem and to rescind measures already taken to that effect.’ Affirmed the inalienable rights of the Palestinian people to self-determination including the right to return and national independence and sovereignty in Palestine

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Council resolutions. Expansion in Jerusalem in 1967 was advanced only upon clearance from Israel’s UN mission. Similarly, the American ability to block pressure in the Council lowered the costs for Israeli settlement activity in the territories. Finally, Israel’s leadership felt secure in launching and maintaining the settlement project because it did not impinge upon Israel’s most important foreign policy goal: a relationship with a great power. Since its early days, Zionist diplomacy had relied on an alliance with a great power. This approach was a reflection both of Zionism’s weakness as a nascent movement without a strong territorial base and of the fact that great powers possessed physical control over Palestine until 1948. The founding of the state of Israel in 1948 added new interests that further strengthened the drive to secure an alliance with a great power. The new state faced a hostile regional environment and desperately needed access to advanced weapons systems. Israel suffered from a lack of material and human resources and was committed to a broader ethno-cultural group – the Jewish people – that resided mostly outside Israel’s borders. In 1954 Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion summed up the challenge: ‘Both in the global and regional arena we cannot rely on our force alone. Without [outside] power we will be crushed . . . as an independent state’ (Ben-Gurion 1954: 88). In the 1950s and 1960s, with their interests converging as a result of the challenge posed by Egypt’s Gamal Abdel Nasser, Israel allied with France. The alliance peaked in the joint Israeli–French (and British) attack on Egypt in 1956. The joint war further proved and reminded Israel of the foreign policy significance of relying on a foreign power. Prime Minister Ben-Gurion agreed to move ahead with the joint attack only after France promised to protect Israel’s air space (Armoni 2008: 83). And, during the Suez Campaign, France deployed aircraft to carry out its commitment. But it was the manner in which the conflict ended, not started, that reinforced Israel’s preference for securing an alliance with a great power in matters regarding territorial expansion. Both the United States and the Soviet Union opposed the triple attack on Egypt, and they worked together in the United Nations to pass a set of decisions calling on the parties to withdraw from Egypt’s territory. Separately, the Soviet Union threatened Israel with the use of force if Israel did not withdraw. Israel caved in and left Sinai in March 1957. With the demise of Israel’s relationship with Paris in the 1960s, the

The Israeli Settlement Project 79 slow process of alliance formation with the United States was perceived in Jerusalem as a primary state interest. The new alliance had a decadeold root. Israel proved its usefulness for American strategic goals in 1958, when it allowed the British and the Americans to use its air space to resupply Jordan during the 1958 crisis. The National Security Council’s Planning Board argued in a memo of 19 August 1958, ‘if we chose to combat Arab nationalism and to hold Persian Gulf if necessary, a logical corollary would be to support Israel as the only pro-Western power left in the near East’ (Ben-Zvi 2007: 47). Israel again played a supportive role in guarding the Jordanian regime in the challenges it faced in 1963 from Nasser’s Egypt. In 1962 the United States approved the sale of Hawk Missiles to Israel and a year later entered into a formal security dialogue with Jerusalem. In 1965 the Johnson administration approved the sale of tanks to Israel (Ben-Zvi 2002: 99). In the weeks preceding the 1967 war, Israel communicated with Washington in order to secure American support. When the cabinet realised that there was no viable diplomatic option to resolve the May 1967 crisis, Israel did not launch a pre-emptive attack before it secured American acquiescence to its actions. And when the swift war ended, alliance considerations remained central for Israel. Again, any decision about the territories included a consideration of Washington’s position. As noted, during the 19 June 1967 meeting regarding the future of the territories, Prime Minister Eshkol said, ‘we will not be able to ignore the American position for long.’ He added that the ‘United States appears as our ally and so when we discuss our position here, we need to develop answers to questions the Americans may ask us and discuss with us’ (Lammfromm 2002: 579). Beyond the traditional Zionist and Israeli preference for an alliance with a great power, Israel needed American support for three immediate reasons, described in a letter that Prime Minister Eshkol sent to President Johnson on 23 October 1967. Firstly, the letter began with Eshkol stating, ‘Your government will have a crucial role in shaping the history of our region.’ More specifically, wrote Eshkol, ‘it is crucial to maintain Israel’s deterrent posture’ (Lammfromm 2002: 591). Israel was concerned by Soviet arms deals with its Arab foes. Prime Minister Eshkol reported this concern in a speech to the Knesset on 30 October 1967: ‘Cairo received from the Soviets hundreds of T-54 and T-55 Tanks, and hundreds of artillery pieces. Egypt also received MiG-21, MiG-17, and SU-7 planes . . . Syria and Iraq also gained from Soviet

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largess’ (Lammfromm 2002: 593). Israel wanted, therefore, to secure a source of advanced weapons that would keep its military superiority. Secondly, Israel wanted to secure US support in order to prevent Soviet pressure on Israel. Eshkol wrote that ‘the Soviet Union must be brought to understand that the United States will not accept any [Soviet] actions intended to renew the tension in our region’. Thirdly, Israel saw the Americans as a primary actor in any future effort to resolve the regional conflict and wanted to make sure that Washington took a favourable position. Eshkol wrote: ‘It is crucial that the United States and the United Nations would make it clear to the Arabs that the Arab-Israeli conflict will be resolved only in direct negotiation’ (Lammfromm 2002: 591–2). Other Israeli leaders shared Eshkol’s perspective. In an internal discussion led by Defense Minister Dayan about the future of the territories, the minister stated, ‘the key for any solution in the region is the United States’ (Dayan 1969: 66). Dayan thought that Israel should focus its efforts on securing American support both in respect to the political outcome of the war, and as guarantee that Washington would block any possible Soviet intervention (Pedatzur 1996: 40). As American support grew stronger, Israeli officials gained more confidence in the possibility of territorial expansion and its manifestation through settlement activity. Commenting on his colleague Minister of Defense Dayan, Foreign Minister Eban wrote, ‘Dayan believed that the United States and the Soviet Union are balancing each other in the Middle East . . . under these circumstances, Israel should reshape its map by creating facts on the ground in Judea and Samaria [the Hebrew name of the West Bank]’ (Eban 1978: 481–2). Dayan was also keenly aware of the effect of Israel’s reliance on American arms on his country’s territorial ambitions. In a speech at Tel Aviv’s press club entitled ‘What the Gentiles Say is Important’, Dayan shared his concern: ‘If our policy will not conform to American policy . . . if we continue to hold the territories against American wishes, will the United States continue to supply us with arms, especially planes?’ (Dayan 1969: 68–9). Moreover, Israeli leaders felt insecure about the depth of America’s commitment. In a speech to a party forum, Prime Minister Eshkol said, ‘the United States does not identify with us, as much as the Soviet Union identifies with the Arabs. There are hesitations; there are differences of approach in substance and form’ (Lammfromm 2002:

The Israeli Settlement Project 81 640). The irony was that the United States formally opposed settlement activities, though its specific positions changed a bit over time (Ben-Ephraim 2017). Washington viewed them as damaging a potential peace agreement and, until 1981, as ‘illegal’ under international law. In an 8 April 1968 cable to the embassy in Tel Aviv, the Bureau for Near Eastern Affairs at the Department of State explained, ‘by setting up civilian or quasi-civilian outposts the occupied area the GOI [Government of Israel] adds serious complications to the eventual task of drawing up a peace settlement.’ Moreover, setting up such outposts ‘was contrary to Article 49 of the Geneva Convention’ (FRUS XX: 137). American officials believed that the message was received. And in the cable mentioned above, the State Department declared that its officials were ‘confident there can be little doubt among GOI leaders as to our continuing opposition to any Israeli settlement in the occupied territories’ (FRUS XX: 137). Yet continued Israeli settlement activity did not cast a shadow on the emerging alliance with the United States. As Gorenberg shows, for example, the Nixon administration chose not to raise the issue during its first serious interaction with Israel’s Foreign Minister Eban during his March 1969 visit to Washington (Gorenberg 2006: 189). The internal contradiction between US opposition to the settlement project and unwillingness to follow through with any serious effort to curtail Israel’s actions has a number of sources. As Aaron Miller notes, most US presidents, from Nixon to Clinton, ‘created a small and highly centralized structure to deal with the Arab-Israeli conflict, reporting directly to the Secretary and the President’ (2008: 240). This structure diminished the effect of those sections of the US bureaucracy that were most opposed to the settlements, namely the State Department’s Near Eastern Affairs Bureau (NEA) and the embassies on the ground. Moreover, operating on a long-term ad hoc basis, these specialised units developed biases that led them to assign a lower priority to the settlement issues. The focus of these teams was on reaching a deal between Arabs and Israelis, which led to a pragmatic approach and diminished the probability of a US position based on normative preferences such as international law. This bias was intensified as all these teams had an ad hoc nature, based on the political cycle. Secondly, the teams developed a deeper understanding of the Israeli political system and accepted its limitations. Specifically, US administrations over the years (mostly beyond the period under review here) accepted the Israeli

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argument that halting settlement activity and, even more so, reversing it would extract a high cost, and therefore should be deferred to the final status negotiation (Miller 2009). CONCLUSION

This chapter establishes that the Israeli settlement project in the West Bank and Gaza was launched in order to secure permanent Israeli territorial expansion into portions of the West Bank and Gaza as outlined in the Allon Plan. Specifically, Israel planned to use the project to affect the outcome of a negotiation within the framework of United Nations Security Council Resolution 242. The Israeli government used backwards induction, seeking action in the present in order to better position itself for future negotiation, and identified a set of ‘moves away from the table’ rather than simply preparing for negotiation ‘across the table’ Finally, Israel’s choice of settlements, as the tool for affecting future negotiation, as well as decisions about settlement location, were calibrated according to what Israel believed to be the governing principle of future territorial determination (partition of the land), as well as to the specific rules that would determine the special aspects of partition (ethnic lines). Israel, therefore, directed the settlement project towards the international realm, and not – as commonly argued – towards the local Palestinian population or an internal Israeli constituency. This chapter demonstrates the significance of four variables in the Israeli decision. Firstly, there was no ethnic affiliation between the dominant ethnic group in Israel and the local population in the territories. Secondly, Israel believed that it was legally plausible to make a case for internationally accepted limited expansion into the West Bank and Gaza. Thirdly, American support for Israel allowed Jerusalem to avoid the costs of engaging in an activity that is generally prohibited under international norms. Finally, the chapter also shows how the United States provided this shield, despite the fact that its official policy accepted the description of the settlements as ‘illegal’. Indeed, when the United States chose to lift the shield protecting Israel from the costs of settlement activity, Jerusalem slowed or halted some aspects of settlement. For example, under American pressure to refrain, Prime Minister Begin, who was ideologically committed to a greater territorial expansion, did not create new settlements in the first eighteen months of his government (1977–8). Similarly, the second Rabin government

The Israeli Settlement Project 83 (1992–5), in tandem with US policy, created no new settlements. Finally, in the summer of 2010, expansion of all settlements in the West Bank was formally halted under a nine-month American-enforced moratorium. Comparing the four sub-regions of settlement activity exposes a direct correlation between the level of commitment to territorial expansion and the extent of settlement activity. The largest project, in terms of resources and settlers, was advanced in Jerusalem. The city was also the most sought-after region for permanent territorial expansion. Moreover, the precedent of the 1947 partition resolution (which designated it as an ‘international city’ for a ten-year period that was meant to be followed by a referendum about its future) made its future status highly uncertain. The least advanced project was in the central West Bank, an area the government did not want to keep. Indeed, this was the only region where it did not initiate settlement activity and tried, unsuccessfully at times, to prevent such activity. The chapter further shows that although the settlement project was largely intended to secure expansion through an effect on international negotiation, some of the older rationales had an effect on the decisionmaking process. For example, in 1970, General Ariel Sharon developed his ‘five-finger’ plan for settlements in Gaza, mostly as a tool of social control over the indigenous Palestinian population. But this example also proves the supremacy of my original ‘international’ argument. After all, Sharon’s plan was (partially) adopted at the political level only when Israel was faced with potential American pressure to negotiate a withdrawal from Gaza. Identifying those original drivers of the launching of the settlement project provides a key to understanding the current configuration of Israel’s settlement project. For example, my explanation sheds light on the ‘Oslo Paradox’, in which the number of settlers doubled from 100,000 to 200,000 during the 1990s as Israel negotiated with the Palestinians (Maoz 2006: 473). Another long-term effect resulted from the fact that the project was intended to effect territorial partition along ethnic lines. This policy created a settlement project that valued the separation of populations even when (after 1977) the new right-wing Israeli government no longer wanted to partition the land. But the partition path was set, and by 2010, the exclusionary nature of the project is more evident than ever before. The 500,000 Israelis (including those in the Jerusalem area) lead completely separate lives from those of the

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indigenous population. Contrast this situation to the Moroccan settlement project, discussed in the next chapter, where the government in Rabat wanted to manipulate an international referendum in order to gain control over all of Western Sahara. Concerned only with the voters and not with their spatial arrangement, the Moroccan project has an inclusionary nature. As a result, and beyond the confines of the next chapter, by 2010 Western Sahara boasts a complete intermix of settlers and locals.

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 85

4 THE MOROCCAN SETTLEMENT PROJECT IN WESTERN SAHARA (1975–) AND THE INDONESIAN SETTLEMENT PROJECT IN EAST TIMOR (1975–99) The following chapter uses the argument that I advance in this book to explain the post-1975 launches of the Moroccan settlement project in Western Sahara and the Indonesian settlement project in East Timor. The chapter shows that both projects were designed to secure permanent territorial expansion through a manipulation of the outcome of a future international determination regarding the fate of the territories in question, though the specific paths of each expansion differed. The chapter further explains that the Indonesian and Moroccan decisions to launch the projects were affected by four variables: a legally plausible case that expansion was possible under international law; the material and institutional capacity of the settling states to launch a settlement project; and the support both settling states received from the United States. Finally, both embarked on the projects because the local indigenous population had a low level of affinity with the settling states of Morocco and Indonesia. The section dealing with each case includes four parts. First, I explore why and how both countries sought expansion. I then investigate the evolution of both settlement projects. Next, I introduce the four variables that contributed to the decisions to launch the settlement projects: low level of ethnic affinity with the indigenous population; a legally plausible case for expansion; the capacity to carry out the project; and a great power benefactor that shielded both countries from the costs of their actions. In the last section I show how these different variables interacted to produce the outcome of a settlement project, and I make a few observations that are evident from comparing the two cases.

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Post-Colonial Settlement Strategy CASE 1: MOROCCO IN WESTERN SAHARA

Western Sahara is a territory the size of Italy (some 266,000 sq. km), south of Morocco. Spain claimed Western Sahara as its colonial territory in the 1884–5 Berlin Conference. In part, Spain sought expansion there because Western Sahara was the closest shore to the Spanish Canary islands. Spanish administrative penetration into the region was limited mostly to the coastal trading posts, which slowly turned into towns. In the 1930s General Franco used the Sahara region as a launching pad for his rebellion against the Republican government, adding to the region’s significance as it became a part of his regime’s founding ethos. The 1950s and 1960s brought internal and external challenges to Spanish control over the area. Once Moroccan independence was secured in 1956, sections of the Moroccan Liberation Army turned their efforts against Spanish control in the Sahara and the enclaves of Infi and Tarfaya. Renamed the Sahara Liberation Army (SLA), the organisation comprised both Moroccan and local Saharawi tribesmen. While the Moroccan government supported the SLA, it had only limited influence over it. Spain (supported by France) defeated the SLA in the Infi War (October 1957–February 1958). Following the Spanish success, Rabat and Madrid signed an agreement that regulated their relationship. Spain withdrew from the enclave of Tarfaya but retained control over Spanish Sahara and the enclave of Infi. Spain further made these regions part of metropolitan Spain in 1958. However, this internal administrative move did little to safeguard Spain’s rule in the area. Following the 14 December 1960 United Nations resolution on the ‘Granting of Independence to Colonial Countries and People’, the organisation became the primary arena for efforts to pressure Spain to leave Western Sahara. The matter was dealt with in two UN settings: the General Assembly, and the Special Committee on the Situation with Regard to the Implementation of the Declaration on the Granting of Independence to Colonial Countries and Peoples (known as the Committee of 24). Beginning in 1966, the General Assembly adopted a set of resolutions calling on Spain to award the local population the right of self-­ determination. In 1963 Spanish Sahara was placed on the United Nations’ list of Non-Self-Governing Territories and thus came under the monitoring of the Committee of 24. This special UN committee was

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 87 established in 1961 to monitor and advance the 1960 resolution regarding the Granting of Independence to Colonial Countries and Peoples. Between 1963 and 1973 Spain tried to hold on to its colonial territory, but owing to its growing internal weakness coupled with mounting international pressure, it declared in 1973 that it was willing to begin the ‘necessary preparation’ to start decolonisation (Naylor 1993: 23). With the prospect of the Spanish leaving the region, Morocco and the POLISARIO (an indigenous national liberation movement which was established in 1973 and backed by Algeria) intensified their separate claims to the territory. Morocco and Spain referred the question of the Sahara to the International Court of Justice for an advisory opinion. The Court’s 16 October 1975 non-binding opinion recognised the historical connections between the local tribes and the Moroccan monarchy but suggested that they did not give Morocco sovereignty over the region. Nevertheless, the Moroccan monarchy stated that the Court’s position legitimised their claim. Shortly afterwards, Morocco launched the ‘Green March’. The 350,000 marchers were transported by the Moroccan authorities a few miles into the territory and settled there briefly in tent camps. Spain, in the midst of a power shift, preferred not to confront the marchers; it ordered its forces to abandon their positions near the Moroccan border, disarmed locals that might have resisted the Moroccan advance, and deployed forces on the territory’s short border with Algeria to prevent POLISARIO infiltrations (Kamm 1975: 13). In the ensuing negotiations, Spain, under US pressure, agreed on 14 November 1975 under the ‘Tripartite Agreement’ first to share control of the region with Morocco and Mauritania and then to cede it to them (Jensen 2005: 28). By March 1976, Morocco was in full control of the region. Morocco was able to secure control over the territory, not only because of the end of Spanish sovereignty in the Sahara, but also because of the weakness of the competition, the Saharawi national movement. Saharawi material and ideational resources were inferior to Morocco’s. While Morocco had a population of 17.3 million in 1975 (Area Handbook for Morocco 1978: x), the 1974 Spanish census suggested that there were only 58,000 Saharawis in Western Sahara. The 16,000 Europeans who resided in the territory, and were counted as locals, were expected to leave with the Spanish (Mercer 1976: 15). The Moroccan security forces included more than 100,000 people (Area Handbook for Morocco 1978: xi), while the armed Saharawi

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forces had only a few thousand combatants with little logistical support. While Morocco had been a unified state for centuries, led by elites who shared a joint sense of identity including a recent struggle against French colonial rule, Western Sahara ‘like many African nations . . . had no historical antecedent. The Western Saharawis never constituted a nation in pre-colonial times, and their present-day nationalism was a very recent phenomenon’ (Hodges 1983: 31). Ideational and material forces drove Rabat’s expansion into the region in 1975, drawing on a 1940s nationalistic ideology of a ‘Greater Morocco’. Though abandoned once Morocco gained independence in 1956, the ideology was revived and adopted by the monarchy in the late 1950s, and then again in the mid-1970s when King Muhammad V and King Hassan II both tried to buttress their legitimacy in the face of internal challenges. And, the incorporation of Western Sahara did allow King Hassan II to consolidate his power. The Moroccan claim to the region was part of a broader vision of a ‘Greater Morocco’ advocated by nationalists. Although the monarchy initially did not espouse these territorial designs, both King Muhammad V and his son Hassan II adopted the claim, in varying forms, as a strategy for buttressing their legitimacy in the 1950s and 1970s respectively. Hassan’s ‘Greater Morocco’ included fewer territories compared to his father’s, but unlike Muhammad’s, it was actually translated into real territorial expansion. The idea of a ‘Greater Morocco’ was Rabat’s version of an old regional dream of a ‘Greater Maghreb’ (North Africa). It included claims for territorial expansion of Morocco into Spanish-controlled Western Sahara, the whole of Mauritania, as well as parts of Algeria, Senegal and Mali. The idea was rooted in notions of Moroccan exceptionalism, as the only North African political entity to remain outside the centuries-long control of the Ottomans in the region. It was further buttressed by Morocco’s ability to retain a sense of political centre (the Makhzen), including the monarchy, even under French colonial control (1912–56). The territorial claim drew on a combination of historical and cultural arguments. Firstly, the Moroccans pointed to the actual control of the region by the Marrakesh-based Almoravid Empire, 900 years earlier. Secondly, the Moroccans argued that their claim was supported by the tribute paid to the Moroccan monarchy for centuries by tribal leaders in

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 89 the Sahara; and the International Court of Justice agreed in 1975 that, based on these tribal tributes, Morocco indeed had historical claim to the region. Thirdly, a cultural argument suggested that the Sahara, rather than the urban centres, was the cradle of Moroccan national identity. The most prominent thinker of the nationalist movement, Allal al-Fassi, summed up this argument in a 1957 interview with Time magazine when he stated, ‘Our culture is the culture of the Sahara. Our civilization is the civilization of the Sahara. Our religion is the religion of the Sahara’ (Time 1957). The claim for a Greater Morocco was advanced by an effective agent. Since its creation in 1944, the leading nationalist party, Istiqlal (independence), and its leader Allal al-Fassi, advocated not only independence from French colonial rule (achieved in 1956), reintegration of the Spanish enclaves of Tarfya (achieved in 1958) and Ifni (achieved in 1969), but also territorial expansion into neighbouring countries. The short-lived 1953 ‘alternative government’ formed by Moroccan national parties made the idea of ‘Greater Morocco’ a central pillar of its platform. Upon securing independence from the French, al-Fassi declared: ‘the battle for the Sahara has just begun’ (Seddon 1987: 118). The armed actions taken by the Moroccan Liberation Army (1955–8), a force answerable more to the Istiqlal party than to the monarchy, reflected these territorial aspirations. Various units from the army attacked French and Spanish forces between 1955 and 1958, in Western Sahara, Mauritania and Algeria (Seddon 2000: 200–1). The adoption of al-Fassi’s expansionist vision by the monarchy was a response to its weak position. Its weakness was evident already in the nineteenth century. In effect, the sultan shared his power with other actors, mostly feudal lords. He also faced external pressures from European actors. By the early twentieth century the sultan’s weakness was so great that ‘the question was not whether Morocco [would] retain its independence, but to which European power she would surrender it’ (Halstead 1967: 11). The Moroccan monarchy succumbed finally to the French, and in 1912 it agreed to become a French protectorate under the Treaty of Fez. While the sultan remained the titular head of state, the French exercised control over most aspects of g ­ overnance (Reinhart 1985: 44–5). The struggle for independence after World War II only marginally helped the monarchy’s status. Moroccan nationalism was born

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and shaped by other actors: religious reformers, who resisted French culture; and intellectuals, who were affected by the Arab revival movement. The leading political entity in the struggle for independence was the Istiqlal (Independence) party. While it adopted Sultan Mohammed V as its symbol, it was independent of him. The sultan was conflicted, wavering between supporting the Istiqlal and condemning it under French pressure (Ikeda 2007: 571). By 1952 the sultan sided with the nationalists; as a result he was removed from his throne by the French between 1953 and 1955. However, the sultan’s choice highlighted his weakness. One scholar observed that it was only the sultan’s willingness to accept the nationalistic desire to portray him as a symbol that secured the monarchy; otherwise, ‘Morocco may well be a republic today’ (Waterbury 1970: 144). Moreover, the rise of anti- (or non-) monarchist revolutionary forces in neighbouring Egypt and Algeria limited support for the monarch among nationalist circles, which were influenced by Egypt’s President Nasser and the Algerian Liberation movement. In March 1956 Morocco became an independent state with Muhammad V as its leader. The sultan, soon to assume the title King, faced severe challenges to his political leadership. It was unclear whether he would be able to manage the functional aspects of a modern state. The country was ill-prepared for independence and lacked a substantial professional class. For example, there were fewer than thirty local medical doctors by the time of independence (Landau 1957: 123). While the king enjoyed legitimacy as a religious authority, his political legitimacy was far weaker. His earlier ambivalent position regarding independence, especially as contrasted with the vocal and effective Istiqlal party, hindered his ability to draw on Moroccan nationalism as a source of support. The king further needed to invest resources in order to integrate the Army of Liberation into his newly created Royal Army, and he faced serious challenges when trying to control some of its units that conducted the war in the Sahara against the Spanish. Local power brokers, mostly feudal lords such as the de facto ruler of Marrakesh, El-Gloui, presented a further challenge. Faced with these challenges, the king opted to adopt al-Fassi’s expansionist agenda. In 1958 he declared: ‘[W]e have decided to so orient our activities as to integrate that province [Western Sahara] into the national territory’ (Seddon 1987: 118). Specific internal and external government policies followed. Later that year, the king created a

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 91 Department for Sahara and Frontier Affairs. In 1960 Morocco opposed Mauritania’s independence and acceptance to the UN. The same year, Rabat launched a radio station, the Voice of Moroccan Sahara, to carry the message. In 1963, Morocco and Algeria were engaged in a short war over the Moroccan claim to part of the Algerian Sahara (Seddon 1987: 188, Seddon 2000: 200–1). These new policies allowed the government to outbid and co-opt Istiqlal and al-Fassi, who in 1962 was appointed a minister. In 1961 the king died, and his son became King Hassan II. After the 1963 war with Algeria, Hassan II preferred stability with Spain, Algeria and Mauritania over the pursuit of visions of territorial expansion. He visited Spain four times (1963, 1965, 1969, 1970), and in 1970 he signed agreements with Mauritania and Algeria, ending, in effect, any claims to their territory. Like his father before him, the king suffered from limited internal legitimacy. Prior to his rise to power in 1961, Crown Prince Moulay Hassan (the king’s former name) was unable to substantiate the image of a serious leader. He himself admitted much later that he knew that most observers thought ‘he would not last for six months’ (Hughes 2001: 101). His perceived weakness was a result of both personal and institutional features. While Muhammad V had been a ‘devout, diffident, and dignified’ man, the son’s public image was largely that of an ‘extravagant hedonist’ (Hughes 2001: 101). Moreover, the process by which Hassan had become the crown prince, based on being his father’s oldest son, allowed potential contenders to question his authority. Primogeniture, after all, was a recent tradition and adopted formally into the constitution only after Hassan had become the country’s sovereign. The king further struggled with social unrest stemming from mass internal migration of peasants to the big cities and the state’s inability to respond effectively to unemployment and the provision of other basic needs of the immigrant population. Committed to the traditional landed elite, the king was unable to advance any agricultural reforms, which could have eased the social pressures (Hammoudi 1997: 34). Moreover, some nationalists and military circles felt that ‘corruption had reached unprecedented levels within the Moroccan political elite and that the regime was utterly incapable of reforming itself’ (Damis 1983: 203). With these challenges, Hassan turned to a set of strict measures

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to consolidate his control. In 1965 he dissolved the cabinet and ruled directly from the palace. He strengthened the secret police and adopted harsh measures against opposition forces, such as the assassination of one of its leaders, Ben-Baraka, in France in 1965. But Hassan’s repressive strategies only contributed to a new wave of opposition. In 1971 and 1972 the king narrowly escaped serious attempts on his life that emanated from the armed forces. In July 1971 a 1,400-strong armed force led by an army general attacked the palace during the king’s birthday celebration. Some 100 guests were killed before loyal forces ended the attack. In August 1972, air force jet planes, probably under orders from the Minister of Defense, General Oufkir, fired at the king’s plane and halted only when the royal jet reported deceptively over the radio, ‘The tyrant is dead’ (Oufkir 1999: 92, Cordesman 2002: 56). With repression producing only a backlash, the king turned to his father’s trusted strategy: adopting the expansionist agenda. Constrained by the material conditions and his earlier choices in the international arena, the king focused his effort on one region: Western Sahara. All other territories included in the ‘Greater Morocco’ grand design were under the control of post-colonial sovereign states. Moreover, the king had formally abandoned claims for Algerian and Mauritanian territories earlier in the decade. In its own image, the kingdom’s choice to abandon these claims was not based on ideology; rather, because of ‘internal difficulties [Morocco] was unable to defend its rights in the Algerian Sahara and in Mauritania’ (Rezette 1975: 137). Western Sahara, on the other hand, was held by Spain, a weak colonial state that had already hinted that it would allow the region’s population to express its selfdetermination. The king’s role as defender of Moroccan territory was then woven into the revised 1972 constitution, which stated in Article 19 that the king ‘guarantees the independence of the Nation and the territorial integrity of the Kingdom within its authentic borders’. Hassan’s new territorial designs were translated into diplomatic efforts directed at effecting Spain’s intention to grant the people of the Sahara the right of self-determination. On 4 July 1974, King Hassan sent a letter to Spanish leader Franco, suggesting that Morocco would view ‘unilateral’ Spanish actions in the Sahara as a cause for ‘a deep deterioration in the[ir] relationship’ and would ‘oblige Morocco to defend its legitimate rights’ (Rezette 1975: 138). In a 8 July 1974 speech the king elaborated on his preferred route of Spanish decolonisation as

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 93 a referendum in which ‘the question must be clearly put to the people . . . do you want to remain under the tutelage of the country occupying your land, or do you want to be reintegrated with your mother country?’ (Rezette 1975: 139). Opposition parties were substantially weakened by the king’s move. Like his father before him, Hassan II utilised the Sahara as a tool of hegemony: ‘the new dynamics generated by the struggle for the Sahara resulted in a new consensus, replacing the recourse to oppression that was used until 1973’ (Hammoudi 1997: 34). In 1976 an analyst observed that ‘every political formation, legal and illegal took to the cry . . . strange things were happening . . . formerly lucid Marxists began making statements of the most . . . national-bourgeoisie type’ (Lalutte 1976: 11). Princeton sociologist Abdella Hammoudi assessed two decades later the efficacy of the king’s strategy: The struggle for the Sahara and the successes of the green march – organized single-handedly by the monarch, who received all the credit for it – marked the beginning of a spectacular resurrection of monarchic legitimacy after ten years of battles with opposition parties, characterized by repression and serious social and political upheavals. As the guarantor of territorial integrity, with control over . . . the choice of strategies of the recovery of the Sahara, the monarch skillfully rallied the opposition parties in a context in which the popularity of his actions could only diminish their influence. (20–1) Finally, the king’s choice to lay claim to Western Sahara was not devoid of economic benefits. In the 1960s the Spanish discovered that Western Sahara had large phosphate mines. Morocco being already a large phosphate exporter wanted to make sure it gained control over these mines. This move would not only ensure a larger source of income but would also allow Morocco to control the global prices of its own leading source of income. With Western Sahara under its authority, Morocco enjoyed a position of power over nearly 40 per cent of all phosphate exports worldwide, thereby controlling the largest reserve of this commodity in the world. Income generated by phosphates had important political significance for the monarchy. Mined and exported by ­ government entities, phosphates allowed the king to expand

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patronage through expansion of the civil service. Phosphate income also allowed him to generate economic growth without relying on the centuries-old bourgeoisie, especially the merchant class, thus avoiding the potential political competition that a richer middle class could have generated. Upon Spain’s final withdrawal in February 1976, Moroccan forces completed their occupation of most of the region. A small portion in the south was occupied by Mauritania. The POLISARIO declared an independent Saharawi Arab Democratic Republic (SADR), which had (and still has) effective control in the Saharawi refugee camps in Tinduf, Algeria, which housed refugees that fled the Moroccan forces. SADR also made some diplomatic inroads: it was recognised by over eighty countries (though the number dropped to forty-three by 2007), had thirteen embassies abroad, and was a member of the African Union. The POLISARIO launched an effective war against the Moroccan and Mauritanian forces and in the late 1970s was able to attack both countries on their home territory. Under the POLISARIO’s military pressure, Mauritania withdrew its claim to, and forces from, Western Sahara in 1979. The organisation gained control of the former Mauritanian portion of Western Sahara. Morocco reorganised its military efforts and asset allocation for the war: in the 1980s some 100,000 Moroccan soldiers were deployed in the territory (Durch 1993: 155–7). Rabat further constructed a 2,500 km-long wall (Berm) in the desert between the areas it controlled and the SADR-controlled region. Moroccan costs of the war were estimated in the late 1980s at $300–$400 million a year (Seddon 1987: 22–3, Cordesman 2002: 63). All these efforts led, by the mid-1980s, to a Moroccan military success. The conflict, however, was at an impasse. The POLISARIO was unable to change Moroccan policies, and Rabat’s military dominance did not change the international position that it had no title to the territory. In 1988 Morocco and the POLISARIO accepted a UN–OAU brokered peace plan, which included at its core an end to the hostilities, and a referendum that would determine the region’s future sovereign. In 1991, the proposal’s last version was approved by the United Nations Security Council in Resolution 690. The resolution further created a UN mission (MINURSO) that was entrusted with supporting the ceasefire and assisting in the referendum, including the identification of voters. MINURSO forces are still deployed in the territory.

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 95 Although fighting ended, the referendum was never implemented. First, Morocco refused to negotiate with the POLISARIO. When Rabat reversed its position, it sent pro-Moroccan Saharawis to represent it, leading the POLISARIO to oppose talks. Only in July 1993 did Rabat and the POLISARIO begin to negotiate in earnest. Talks continued in October 1993 and January 1994, but no conclusion was reached. The POLISARIO and Morocco had conflicting approaches as to who should be placed on the voter lists. As a senior UN official stated, the debate was over ‘who should be determining the self in the act of self-­determination’ (Jensen 2005: 13). The POLISARIO supported a restricted list, based on the principle of jus soli (right of the soil), which would allow only those who were in the territory in 1974 and their descendants to vote. The POLISARIO believed that this narrow list, based on the Spanish census from 1974, would be more likely to produce the outcome it preferred. Morocco, on the other hand, based its position on the principle of jus sanguinis (right of blood) and wanted to expand the list to include members of Saharawi tribes who did not reside there in 1974 but had blood ties to its inhabitants. With many members of these tribes residing in Morocco, or moving from there to Western Sahara after 1974, Rabat believed that it would have a greater chance to secure a vote in its favour. The Moroccan position further drew on its broader claim to the territory. Rabat argued that its right to the land was based on tribal allegiance of the Saharawi tribes to Moroccan monarchs over the generations and that strict national borders were an artificial colonial construct and not relevant in a nomadic society. To support its claim, Morocco pointed to some POLISARIO leaders who were actually born in Morocco but saw themselves as Saharawi because of their tribal allegiance. Finally, in the autumn of 1994, both parties agreed to a set of principles set forth by the UN’s secretary-general, Javier Pérez de Cuéllar. The basic principle was the use of the 1974 Spanish census, but the voter list was expanded to include other individuals who satisfied two criteria: they were members of a Saharawi tribe that had an affiliation to the region, and they had Saharawi paternity. The process of determining eligibility included identification by tribal leaders (Jensen 2005: 14–15). In late 1995, the process again came to a halt, when Morocco and the POLISARIO held opposing positions regarding the voter identification process. Morocco wanted to include three tribes identified by the Spanish in 1974 as having members in the region, while the POLISARIO refused to accept them.

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In 1997 both parties signed the Houston agreements, in which they resolved these disputes, and by 2000 the United Nations completed the process of voter identification. However, the 86,363 voters identified never went to the polls. Morocco still did not want to conduct a referendum and was behind many of the 131,038 appeals submitted to the United Nations. In light of the enormous complication in reviewing all the appeals, the United Nations, in effect, had to abandon the identification process. Little information is available about the Moroccan change of heart, but as it coincides with the identification process, it seems that Rabat was no longer confident in its ability to affect a referendum’s outcome. The United Nations envoy, James Baker III, presented a new plan in 2000, which offered a set of three referenda that would lead to a final determination. The plan was not accepted at the United Nations Security Council, as it was deemed too favourable towards Morocco. In 2003, Baker offered yet another plan, which was rejected initially by both parties. However, following an April 2007 Moroccan plan for extended autonomy, Morocco and the POLISARIO resumed their negotiation. However, two rounds of talks in Austria in August 2009 and in New York in February 2010 produced no progress (Bases 2010: 1). Upon gaining control of the region in February 1976, Morocco summarily annexed the new territory, which was equal to about 60 per cent of its pre-1976 area. Rabat then incorporated Western Sahara into its existing administrative structure. The former Spanish colony was dismantled and divided into five separate provinces, some of which were merged with provinces in southern Morocco, to stress the region’s complete integration (Thobhani 2002: 210–11). Rabat then launched an extensive settlement programme of Moroccan citizens. The region’s population grew some 400 per cent from 1974 to 2004, despite the flight of 20,000–100,000 out-migrants who left when the Moroccans invaded and reside today in refugee camps in Algeria (Thobani 2002: 64). By 2008, there were about 400,000 people residing in Western Sahara, of whom about half were settlers. Settlers were housed in Western Sahara’s four urban centres, which underwent massive expansion (see Table 4.1). The 1970s and 1980s saw but a trickle of Moroccans moving to the newly acquired territory. In the early 1990s, when the prospect of a referendum became clearer, Morocco expedited the project. It erected

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 97 Table 4.1  Population Growth in Western Sahara’s Main Provinces Town (name from colonial era)

1974

1994

2004

Layyoune (Al Aiun) Smara Dakhla (Villa Cisnerous) Boujdour (Cabo Boujador)

29,010 ? 5370 ?

136,950  28,750  29,831  15,176

183,214  40,347  57,997  36,843

Source: Kingdom of Morocco 2004.

temporary tent camps near the urban centres where many of the settlers still reside. The settlement project also included a massive Moroccan investment in infrastructure. Since it gained control of Western Sahara in 1975, Morocco invested $2.4 billion in developing basic infrastructure. Efforts were focused on creating modern transportation routes between the new territory and Morocco and between the different towns in the area. According to official Moroccan data, Rabat’s transportation projects included two airports, three airfields and four seaports, as well as a road system of 10,000 km. Other projects included connecting dwellings to electricity and central water systems (International Crisis Group 2007: 12). Morocco also connected Western Sahara to the national Moroccan electric and water grids. By 2001, 92 per cent of the population was connected to the Moroccan national water system and 90 per cent to the national electric grid. These percentages are higher than the Moroccan average of 50 per cent (International Crisis Group 2007: 15). Morocco’s focus on infrastructure allowed it to integrate the region more easily into territorial Morocco. The focus on transportation reflected an effort to ease access to the region from other parts of Morocco and to advance economic activity. The settlement project drew on three separate groups of Moroccans: firstly, Saharawis who had left Western Sahara before Morocco’s 1956 independence and moved back after 1975 once the two areas were connected; secondly, Moroccan members of tribes who were present in Western Sahara, but did not reside there earlier; and thirdly, Moroccans who had no prior affiliation with the region. These groups differ with regard to the incentives that drew them to the region and the level of government involvement in facilitating their transfer (see Table 4.2). The settlers were lured by the Moroccan government to move to the newly acquired area through a set of incentives. These included free

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Table 4.2  Moroccan Settlers in Western Sahara Origin of settlers

Period

Moroccans of Saharawi descent Beginning 1975 Members of tribes present in Mostly after 1991 Western Sahara Other Moroccans Beginning 1975

Government involvement Low to medium High (incentives as well as actual transportation to territory) Medium to high (providing incentives)

or low-cost housing, tax exemptions, subsidies on basic commodities such as oil and flour, and a high rate of access to electricity and running water (Thobani 2002: 105, ICG 2007a 12–13, Elansari 2009). Separately, Morocco made an effort to contain international opposition to its actions. It limited the flow of information about its settlement project through a strict control system that successfully regulated contact between Saharawis and outside visitors. Furthermore, Morocco claimed that most of the settlers were in fact Saharawis, who had relocated from Western Sahara during the colonial times and were now merely coming back to their ancestral land (Kroner 1984: 10–12, Thobani 2002: 103–71). Morocco also used tight control to quash any local resistance and to foster Moroccanisation of the local population. For instance, Saharawis were prohibited from using their own local dialect, and students in the region were forced to dress in traditional Moroccan attire. Contact with the outside world was seriously restricted, including severe limitations on the ability of foreigners to visit the area (Thobani 2002: 242–3). Independent Variables Legal Plausibility: The Moroccan government believed that it had a plausible legal case for expansion into Western Sahara based on two sources: firstly, the government’s interpretation of the 16 October 1975 advisory opinion of the International Court of Justice, and secondly, the prospect of a UN-mandated referendum that could determine that Morocco was the true sovereign. The Court’s 16 October 1975 opinion rejected Morocco’s and Mauritania’s claims, but acknowledged that there were historic ties between the two and Western Sahara. King Hassan was quick to interpret the result in Morocco’s favour. A few hours after the opinion was delivered, the king announced on Moroccan national radio: ‘Since links

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 99 of allegiance unite us to our subjects in the Sahara, we are going to join them by organizing a popular march’ (Giniger 1975: 73). He also stated that the Court ‘gave . . . a judgment in our favour’ (Hassan II 1978: 156). But even prior to the ICJ’s involvement in the mid-1970s, another possible source for expansion lurked: an internationally managed referendum. Indeed, all parties concerned shared, to varying degrees and with different levels of commitment over time, a similar understanding of the principle (self-determination) and the mechanism (referendum) that would end the uncertainty regarding Western Sahara’s fate under international law. Accordingly, the Moroccans, like the Spanish before them, positioned themselves to harness the principle and mechanism in the service of their goal. The settlement project was the cornerstone of their strategy. International institutions were primary actors in decolonisation in the region. Self-determination and a referendum stemmed from the United Nation’s decolonisation efforts, which served as the framework in which Spain gave up control of Western Sahara. The significant role played by the United Nations was a result of Spain’s position as a late decoloniser. Other European colonials had begun dismantling earlier and were driven by other processes, such as the material results of World War II or the moral and political order that had evolved in Western Europe since 1945. Spain, like Portugal, was neutral in the war and was therefore less affected by these processes. As a result, both left their dependencies only in the 1970s, when decolonisation was largely managed by the United Nations. Indeed, Spain’s insistence on holding on to the dependencies in the 1960s pushed it into the sphere in which the UN managed decolonisation. The origin of both the principle and the mechanism for resolving the legal status of Western Sahara was the UN’s 1960 Declaration on the Granting of Independence to Colonial Counties and Peoples. The resolution called on colonial states that controlled dependent territories to ‘transfer all powers to the peoples of those territories . . . in accordance with their freely expressed will and desire . . . in order to enable them to enjoy complete independence and freedom’. Spanish Sahara soon came under the new norm, and Morocco was part of the process. Upon Morocco’s request, the UN placed Spanish Sahara on its list of Non-Self-Governing Territories in 1963. A year later, the UN Decolonization Committee asked Spain to launch a process of decolonising in the territory. In 1965, the UN

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General Assembly adopted a similar resolution (Durch 1993: 154–6). In the following years the governing principle of a ‘freely expressed will’ of the local population regarding the territory’s future was applied to Spanish Sahara in a set of General Assembly resolutions beginning. In 1966, Resolution 2229 (xxi) demanded from Spain that a referendum be set to determine the region’s rightful sovereign. Six more resolutions stressing the need for a referendum were passed by the General Assembly in the coming years. These included UNGA Resolutions 2354 (19 December 1967); 2428 (16 December 1968); 2591 (16 December 1969); 2271 (14 December 1970); 2983 (14 December 1972); and 3162 (14 December 1973). Morocco further stated its commitment to the indigenous population’s right to express its free will, though at the same time, it made statements to the opposite. Yet Morocco’s strategy was enacted within the broader framework of international norm-making through the United Nations and affiliated entities. In September 1974 Morocco announced that it would submit the matter to the International Court of Justice (ICJ) and, by the end of the year, Spain agreed to postpone the referendum in anticipation of the ICJ’s decision. In December 1974 the UN General Assembly (Resolution 3292) voted on the matter and agreed to ask the ICJ for a non-binding advisory opinion in order to ascertain whether the area was Terra Nullius (belonging to no one) prior to colonisation; and if not, what exactly were the ties between the area, Morocco and a Mauritanian entity. Great Power Benefactor: Morocco was able launch the settlement project, in part, as a result of American support of Morocco in general and support of expansion into the Sahara in particular. US–Soviet competition shaped the American approach to this issue. Though the 1970s was the era of détente between Washington and Moscow, the two superpowers nevertheless continued to clash in the third world. Much of this conflict was enacted through proxies in episodes like the 1973 Yom Kippur War and the 1975 (and onward) Angolan Civil War. In this context, North Africa was of strategic interest to the United States as a result both of its location and of the strategic realities that evolved in the 1970s. A 1984 National Security Decision Directive highlighted the region’s significance to the United States as its ‘geo-strategic position opposite NATO’s southern flank’ (NSC 1984: 1). The significance of the region was heightened in the 1970s. From Washington’s perspective,

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 101 the Soviets were making headway on all fronts, especially in Africa. A classified report produced by the Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA), reflecting on the 1970s, stresses Washington’s concerns in Africa: [A] momentum developed as a result of the dissolution of the Portuguese empire, the Ethiopian revolution, and the increased Soviet, Cuban, and East German military, political, and subversive activities. In the 1970s, Moscow was heavily involved in eroding Western influence [in Africa]. (DIA 1984: 5) In this context, the Sahara issue loomed large. The 1984 NSC directive stated: ‘Western Sahara represents the most important factor contributing to the changing balance of power’ (NSC 1984: 2). It involved Morocco, an old and trusted ally, led by an actively anti-communist monarchy. The two countries had a long and amicable relationship oiled by historical symbolism. In 1777 Morocco had been the first nation to recognise the American Republic. The US–Moroccan Treaty of Peace and Friendship (1836) is the longest unbroken treaty relationship in US history. The American delegation’s building in Tangier is the oldest US diplomatic property in the world. It is also the only building outside the United States listed in the US National Register of Historic Places. Morocco’s geographic position near the Strait of Gibraltar and its membership in both the Arab Middle East and Africa were deemed highly valuable for the United States. The United States used Moroccan air bases for its strategic bombers until 1959, and again after 1979, for the newly created American Rapid Deployment (Congressional Budget Office 1983: 1). The Moroccans also supported other US policy objectives in the region. Morocco had had a secret relationship with Israel since the 1960s and was instrumental in Jerusalem’s negotiations with Egypt towards the US-sponsored 1979 peace accord (Segev 2008: 173). As opposed to the friendly Moroccan regime, the POLISARIO was viewed with much suspicion in Washington. Like many other movements of national liberation of the period, the organisation adopted, initially, a constitution that hinted of socialism. Moreover, the POLISARIO was backed by the pro-Soviet Cuba and Algeria. Indeed, in 1975 US Secretary of State Henry Kissinger explained: ‘United States will not allow another Angola in this flank of Africa’ (Kamil 1987: 11). Washington further accepted the Moroccan suggestion that the Sahara issue would strengthen the regime.

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Capacity: By 1975 the Moroccan government had a strong public works institution, Promotion Nationale (PN). The organisation was started in 1961 and was part of the Ministry for Interior. The interior minister, Dris Basri, was the most dominant actor in the implementation of the settlement project. The organisation had extensive experience developing public works for unemployed labourers. By the time the settlement project was launched, the organisation had vast experience in managing low-capital-intensive projects tailored for the needs of the Moroccan labour force. The government assigned great significance to the organisation, in part, because it was one of the most important forms of social protection (Jalal 2006: 3). Lack of Brethren: The population in Western Sahara differed in the mid-1970s from the majority of Moroccans in a number of significant ways. Firstly, the Saharawis were comprised of a group of tribes called Beni Hassan, who all shared a myth of origin separate from that of Moroccans, according to which they had immigrated to the region from Yemen. Secondly, this group of tribes had their own distinct cultural features such as a unique dialect (Hassaniya), dress code, and a way of practising Islam. Unlike Muslims in Morocco, for example, the Beni Hassan did not construct mosques, nor did they encourage pilgrimage to Mecca (Jensen 2005: 22). Thirdly, the Saharawis were mostly nomads, as opposed to living in the villages and urban dwellings that dominated Morocco. Terrain and weather in the Sahara explain, in part, these differences, as the large arid desert created a region that was described by one author as a ‘backwater when compared to its neighbors’ (Norris 1986: 2). After all, Western Sahara is mostly a flat, dry desert covered with sand and rocks, with some mountainous areas in the south and north-east. High levels of dust in the air limit visibility some 60 per cent of the time, and only 0.02 per cent of the region is suitable for agriculture (CIA 2008). Given these conditions, the region did not see a state apparatus evolve. Indeed, for centuries, the region was rarely subject to any central government control (Damis 1983: 9). The one exception was the area’s subjugation to the Almoravid dynasty (1061–1147), which originated in the Sahara and ruled from Marrakesh in what is now Morocco. Primary loyalty as late as the 1970s was to the tribe (gabila), subtribe (fakhd) and family. Inter-tribe conflicts over resources, as well as a caste system among the different tribes, further hindered the development of a core national identity (Hodges 1983:

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 103 32). Many of these features made the Saharawis closer to other tribes in Mauritania, Niger, Chad and southern Morocco than to the dominant Arab-Berber Moroccan population in most of Morocco. Finally, Moroccans and Saharawis were subject to different colonial experience. The Moroccans were shaped, to an extent, by a dominant French colonial establishment. In contrast, the Saharawis were under a minimalist Spanish colonial control that ‘left a limited mark on traditional society’ (Hodges 1983: 35). As late as 1952, the Spanish ran their colonial operation with only 216 civilian employees, 155 of them Saharawi (Hodges 1983: 35). Although some Saharawis joined the SLA in its short-lived war against Spain, this armed opposition was not indigenous but rather imported. Despite the initial limited Spanish rule, the 1960s saw a more pronounced Saharawi proto-nationalism, mostly because of the changes in material conditions. Spanish efforts to exploit the territory’s phosphate depositories led to greater urbanisation. Spain also began investing in the development of a local education network in order to support growing labour demands. Spain changed the pattern of colonial rule. It made the territory a separate entity that reported directly to Madrid; it established locally elected councils and a provincial council (1963), as well as a provincial assembly (1967). All these changes led to a growing awareness among some indigenous elites that the population in the territory shared a ‘distinct colonial experience’ (Hodges 1983: 38–9, Seddon 1987: 113). These early notions of nationalism were further legitimised by signals from the UN, as noted above, that the Saharawis, and not Morocco, should determine their future sovereign. A decade of proto-nationalistic notions, a new generation educated in the Spanish-controlled schools, and support from the United Nations led to the creation of an institutional foundation for Saharawi nationalism. In May 1973 a small group of young Saharawis founded the POLISARIO, the organisation for liberation and self-determination in the territory that would spearhead the effort against Morocco. From Variables to Outcome: Why a Settlement Project? Morocco’s settlement project in Western Sahara was directed primarily towards the impending referendum in the territory regarding its fate. The settlers were meant to affect its outcome in favour of incorporation into Morocco. The attempt to manipulate the right of

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self-­determination and the referendum was not an original Moroccan policy. In fact, concerns about potential Spanish manipulation led the United Nations General Assembly in 1966 to write into Resolution 2229(x) specific clauses in order to prevent such manipulation from occurring. The resolution called for guarantees that only Saharawis, and not local Europeans, would vote in the referendum and pointed to the need to conduct it in a ‘free and impartial’ environment. The resolution also called for the UN secretary-general to appoint a special mission that would prepare the referendum. Spain attempted to use the new principle and mechanism in its favour. In the course of a dozen years (1963–75) it tried a number of strategies in attempting to argue that the population’s free will supported continued Spanish control. In 1963 Madrid gave the indigenous population a vote for the Spanish parliament in line with its policy that the region was not a dependent territory but rather an overseas province. The Spanish position eroded later in the decade. In 1965 Madrid set up a council of elders (the Jama’a) that were to advise the colonial centre in Madrid about the region’s future. In 1966 it held a referendum in which the local population voted in favour of continued Spanish control, though its results were not accepted by the United Nations. In 1970 it declared its intention to allow limited self-rule in the region as part of a process that would lead to self-determination. With the regime in Madrid weakening (these were the last days of the country’s long-serving leader, Franco), and with the collapse of Portugal’s colonial assets, Spain notified the United Nations on 20 August 1974 that it would abide by the organisation’s resolutions and would hold a UN-led referendum by June 1975. Formally, Madrid’s notification was a response to a 1973 suggestion by the Jama’a to hold such a referendum (Ohaegbulam 2002: 89). By the end of 1974, Spain completed a census that should have served as the basis for the voter list. And, although the referendum never took place, by 1974 the region was on a path towards decolonisation in which self-determination and a referendum were key. Morocco accepted, to varying degrees, the United Nations’ decolonisation plan, and as a result, the notion of self-determination and a referendum. Indeed, it played a crucial role in setting Western Sahara decolonisation on a UN-dominated route. It was Morocco’s request that led the UN to place Spanish Sahara on its list of Non-Self-­ Governing Territories in 1963. The list, based on Articles 73 and 74

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 105 (Chapter 6) of the organisation’s charter, had originally been compiled in 1946 in order to facilitate the transformation of these territories to self-­governing ones and to aid in UN monitoring of these areas. As noted, with a referendum appearing imminent, King Hassan II voiced again his support for the process and demanded that it be conducted in an open and fair manner, allowing either incorporation into Morocco or continued Spanish rule. Upon gaining control of the territory, Morocco adopted Spain’s approach towards the commitment to the free will of the local population. It accepted the principle but tried to affect its outcome. First, Rabat argued that it had fulfilled the act of self-determination through a vote of notables. Like Jordan in 1950 (see Chapter 3), and Indonesia in 1975, Morocco convened the local notables in the Jama’a and had them approve the triple agreement that gave it control there. The vote to approve, however, was rejected by the international community (including Spain, who was a party to the agreement) as fulfilment of the right. Morocco then abandoned its earlier acceptance of a referendum and argued that as Western Sahara was a part of Morocco, the principle of territorial integrity applied. In 1981 Morocco changed its position again, and during a meeting of the Organisation of African Unity King Hassan II committed ‘to accept the holding of a referendum in Western Sahara to enable the people of that territory to exercise their right to self-determination’ (OAU 1981: 1). The renewed Moroccan commitment to a referendum was driven, in part, by the belief that it could control its outcome. The following decade saw a fierce desert war, which ended, in effect, with Moroccan dominance. In 1988 Morocco agreed to an OAU–UN plan to hold a referendum, which was followed by a 1991 ceasefire between the warring parties. Dris Basri, the top Moroccan official managing the Sahara issue, explained in 2004 that the king’s renewed acceptance of a referendum in the region was not necessary from an internal Moroccan perspective because the ‘Moroccan official position considered that Western Sahara had been annexed to Morocco’. However, Basri added, ‘in spite of this, King Hassan II accepted [the referendum] in order to fulfill the union in a legal way . . . I mean there are legal international references with which we should deal.’ Basri also admitted: ‘We consider the inhabitants of Western Sahara our Moroccan sons . . . if this area was really Moroccan at 100 per cent, we would not have resorted to

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the United Nations nor to the Organisation of African Unity summit of Nairobi’ (Basri 2004: 1). Basri also testified three decades later that when he questioned the king about the new policy while the two were playing golf, the king responded by saying, ‘Do you think we are devoid of common sense? We would not [have] embark[ed] in a referendum if we were not sure we would win it’ (Basri 2003: 1). But the king did not believe, as he may have in the 1970s, that the region’s population would choose to join Morocco. A UN fact-finding mission reported in 1975 that ‘there is an overwhelming consensus among Saharans within the territory in favor of independence and opposition to integration with any neighboring countries’ (Seddon 1987: 111). Basri understood that he ‘had to do an extraordinary job’. Almost three decades later, Basri looked back with satisfaction, believing that the work he did on Western Sahara ‘was remarkable’ (Basri 2003: 1). Following their great investment in manipulating the referendum’s outcome, Rabat, under Basri’s close watch, made every possible effort to secure a voter list that would guarantee its success. As the UN identification effort was conducted, Basri ordered the state’s representatives in the local government to send him daily reports of the events in identification committees. The reports were far from satisfying for Rabat. In a memo dated 22 January 1998, Basri encouraged his people to allow settlers to be counted and gave detailed orders about how it should be done. The development of the settlement project coincided with the likelihood that a referendum would actually take place. As noted, during the 1980s it advanced at a moderate pace, but once both parties accepted the 1988 UN peace plan, housing development expanded dramatically. Thobani, who visited the region in the early 2000s, reported: ‘Since the adoption of the peace plan, and especially since the acceptance of the Baker plan, which paved the way for the referendum to proceed, the Moroccan authorities have undertaken a special project related to the construction of housing. In each of the four towns I visited and in other locations also, hundreds of new housing units have been constructed’ (131). The Promotion Nationale (PN), the Moroccan public works administration, coordinated actual development on the ground. Shortly after Moroccan forces took control of Western Sahara, the organisation opened a branch there and launched a development project. Within a

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 107 year, the organisation had completed forty-three housing projects in three towns. In the next decade it employed a yearly average of 5,000 people in housing projects, and completed the construction of 5,500 housing units. The Moroccan government spent a significant amount of the PN’s resources on its newly acquired region under a specialised programme called the Saharan Provinces Development Program. For example, between 2002 and 2004, some 19,000,000 working days were spent in the new territory out of a total of 39,000,000 working days in the whole of Morocco (Hind 2006: 17). Moreover, this was the only region-based programme in the agency. Funds allocation further reflects this bias of the programme. The Sahara provinces project was allocated 1.1 billion Moroccan dirhams out of a total budget of 3.1 billion Moroccan dirhams (2002–4). Besides direct investment under the programme, the budgets of some of the other five public works programmes were also directed disproportionately to efforts in the new territory. A 2004 World Bank report stated that ‘some provinces are systematically favored’ in PN’s programmes, referring to provinces that included portions of Western Sahara (99–100). In explaining the preference for Western Sahara, a Moroccan official admitted in a presentation in the United States that: ‘the distribution of PN’s budget seems to target the non-poor urban areas: This phenomenon could be explained by the fact that the PN has a more varied and complex set of objectives and goals that include social, political and security issues’ (Hind 2006: 30). Morocco was able to hold on to the region with strong US support. Publicly, Washington stated time and again that it was neutral in respect of the region’s future. However, its actions, especially around the Spanish withdrawal in 1975, indicate that it was supportive of the Moroccan position. Despite Spain’s commitment to respect the local population’s right of self-determination, the US administration worked to secure Moroccan control of the region once Spain left. Washington also used its leverage to support the Moroccan position in the UN (Kamil 1987: 12). Although the organisation was committed to the right of self-determination for the indigenous population, Washington viewed the conflict as a cold war front, and took active steps to stall any pressure on Morocco. American Ambassador to the UN Daniel Patrick Moynihan admitted in his memoirs that the ‘Department of State desired that the United Nations be utterly i­neffective in ­whatever

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­ easures it undertook. The task was given to me, and I carried m it forward with no inconsiderable success’ (Moynihan 1978: 247). American support further extended to the military realm. With the war in the desert costing Rabat $300–400 million per year (Cordesman 2002: 63), the supply of weapons and technology from the United States and its West European allies during the 1990s helped Morocco to contain the military challenge posed by the POLISARIO (Cordesman 2002: 84). CASE 2: INDONESIA IN EAST TIMOR

In the following section I analyse four issues: how and why Indonesia gained control over East Timor; the basic facts regarding its settlement project; the four variables that explain the launch of the project; and an explanation of how the variables produced the outcome of a settlement project. The island of Timor is located at the eastern end of the Sunda Archipelago in the South Pacific, some 400 miles north-west of Darwin, Australia, and some 1,300 east of Jakarta, Indonesia. In the colonial era, Holland – Indonesia’s colonial master – ruled the island’s western half, and Portugal its eastern part. The political unit of East Timor also includes two small Islands: Atauro, which lies north of Timor, and Jaco on its eastern side. East Timor (as a political entity) further includes the coastal enclave of Oecusse, which lies in the north of East Timor. When Holland departed in 1949, West Timor became Indonesian while Portugal maintained control in East Timor until 1975. On 7 December 1975, the Indonesian military invaded East Timor. The region was mired in a civil war, as Portugal was in the process of ending its 400-year-long control of the territory. From the time of the invasion, Indonesia occupied the region until 1999. As part of its occupation it transferred some 25,000–100,000 settlers into the area. The Indonesian invasion and Jakarta’s plans for permanent territorial expansion reflected its ideational preferences (‘Greater Indonesia’), and its understanding of the regional and global strategic environments in the face of the rollback of the Portuguese colonial project in the region. Ideologically, the invasion and planned permanent expansion into East Timor was based on the vision of ‘Greater Indonesia’. From its outset in the 1940s, the idea of ‘Greater Indonesia’ included the Portuguese-controlled East Timor. The concept originated in 1945 with the Committee Investigating the Preparations for Indonesian

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 109 Independence (BPUPK), which played a foundational role in the Indonesian march towards independence. It was created by the Japanese occupying forces in Indonesia in March 1945, as Tokyo realised that it might have to evacuate the region under the allies’ pressure (Assyaukanie 2009: 59–60). A notable early mention of the idea, including territorial expansion into East Timor, appeared in a May 1945 paper written by the poet and historian Muhammad Yamin that dealt with the territory of the future independent Indonesia. In the paper, prepared for the first meeting of BPUPK, Amin argued that the territory of the future state should expand beyond the confines of Dutch colonial possessions that would serve as the heart of Indonesia. Yamin wrote that the future state should also include the regions that were part of British colonial Malaya (Sarawak and Sabah), areas that later became part of Independent Malaysia, as well as ‘Portuguese Timor’ (Chamberlin 2009: 5–6). Yamin made a three-part case for expanding beyond the colonial entity that would become Indonesia. He stated in his paper that all Malays should share the same sovereignty based on their common ethnicity. He further suggested that they share a common political history under the past regional empires of Majapahit (c. 1290–1520) and Shrivijaya (c. 600–1300). Here again, East Timor is clearly part of the case for expansion, as both empires ruled over the present-day territory (Muljana 1976: 139, Smith 2000: 8, Kahin 2003: 37–8). Although Yamin died in 1962, his argument about Indonesia being the modern incarnation of the Majapahit empire was further buttressed by Indonesia’s president, Suharto (Wood 2005: 49–54). Finally, Yamin hinted at the inclusion of East Timor in the territory of the future ‘Greater Indonesia’ when he rejected the possibility that other political entities – colonial or not – would retain control of small portions of the future Indonesia. Reflecting an organic notion of territory as well as strategic calculations, Yamin – supported by Sukarno (later the president) wrote that the future Indonesia should be a ‘­republic . . . without enclaves’ (Chamberlin 2009: 6, Elson 2008: 108). These territorial demands were born out of the Indonesian experience during World War II: the island of Timor was no longer divided, as Japanese forces ruled both sides of the island. Moreover, the crushing defeat of the colonial European forces led the Indonesians to believe that even after Japan left, the Europeans would not return (Elson 2008: 108). However, once Indonesia gained independence, the new regime

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muted some parts of its territorial aspirations that went beyond the formerly held Dutch regions. Indonesia seemed to accept the newly created post-colonial norm of borders that were set in the colonial era. This meant a focus on these regions that remained in Dutch hands, such as (until 1953) West Irian, while abandoning claims to areas that were not under the control of past colonial masters, such as East Timor. President Sukrano even stated in May 1953 that Indonesia did not wish to expand into East Timor. Even Muhammad Yamin, whose 1945 paper helped shape the idea of a ‘Greater Indonesia’, and who was by then a minister in the government of the newly created state, withdrew his claim on East Timor (Chamberlin 2009: 6). Indonesia highlighted this position in international forums. For example, in a 26 November 1957 meeting of the General Assembly of the UN, the Indonesian representative stated that: [I]n the case of . . . Timor . . . Indonesia has no claims on any territories, which had not been part of the former Netherlands East Indies. No one should suggest otherwise or advance dangerous theories in that respect. (GA official record A/C/SR.912) Despite these formal statements, other Indonesian actions suggested that traces of the ‘Greater Indonesia’ vision remained, including the possibility of expansion into the small Portuguese-controlled Timor. This notion was in part possible because the 18 August 1945 constitution did not include a specific geographic boundary and simply stated in Section 9-A that Indonesia was ‘an archipelago whose borders and rights are laid down by law’. Specifically with regard to East Timor, Sukarno continued to send mixed signals. For example, in a May 1954 visit to the Indonesian part of the island of Timor, the president made a point of touring the ‘Portuguese Frontier’ and publicly receiving petitions from East Timorese requesting incorporation into Indonesia (Chamberlin 2009: 6). These mixed signals reflected both ideological and practical tensions in the making of Indonesia’s foreign policy as well as Sukarno’s leadership style. Indonesia’s move into the non-aligned camp in the mid-1950s led it to publicly add its voice to the calls for a decolonisation process in East Timor with a potential restoration of a pre-colonial territorial arrangement that would include expansion into East Timor. At the same time, anti-colonial rhetoric also included an Indonesian com-

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 111 mitment to the right of the people of East Timor for self-determination. These calls were further advanced by grassroots organisations, in particular the Anti-Colonial Movement of Indonesia (GPKI), which called for a plebiscite in East Timor (‘Whither East Timor?’ 1974: 352). Yet Indonesia’s public embrace of anti-colonial positions was generally not translated into active policy regarding Portuguese East Timor because Sukarno embraced a pragmatic foreign policy. For example, in a 1961 visit to Portugal, President Sukarno assured its leader, António de Oliveira Salazar, that ‘Portuguese rights in Timor would be respected’ (Hiorth 1985: 9). The duality in this approach to East Timor was also a result of the fact that Jakarta’s main immediate ‘anti-colonial’ front was Irian Jaya, which remained under Dutch colonial rule until 1962. Once Irian Jaya was incorporated into Indonesia, regional analysts believed that ‘Timor would be the next object for Indonesian attention’ (Commonwealth of Australia 2000: 116). A report submitted to the Australian cabinet by Minister for External Affairs Garfield Barwick later that month stated that: It was widely believed by the [Australian] administration that Indonesian seizure of the province could not be prevented and was only a matter of time . . . the intention of the Indonesian Government was to take over Portuguese Timor at some stage, and it would be an easy military operation to do so. (Commonwealth of Australia 2000: 116–17) The Portuguese leadership shared a similar perspective. In a 5 March 1963 letter to Australian Prime Minister Menzies, Portuguese Prime Minister Salazar said: Your Excellency is aware that Portuguese Timor cannot constitute an independent nation. Your Excellency is aware that the Republic of Indonesia would never consent to the existence of an independent Timor. (Commonwealth of Australia 2000: 117) In this letter Salazar suggested that East Timor was not viable economically, and that if awarded independence under such conditions, it could lead, as had occurred in recently decolonised African states, to the ‘growing ascendancy . . . of the Communist bloc’ (Commonwealth of Australia 2000: 117). Yet if Indonesia had such intentions, they were

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not publicly articulated. Jakarta was consumed in the 1960s by the internal change of regime and its tensions with Malaysia. Finally, Indonesia’s mixed signals towards East Timor were also a reflection of President Sukarno’s policy-making style. Elson (2008) suggested that the president’s ‘vision for Indonesia was more shaped by happenstance, his own political caution, and negotiation than by reference to any grand master plan’ (199). In 1965 Sukarno was deposed, in effect, by Suharto. Though the former would remain in his formal role until 1968, Suharto was the real power centre and he was to remain in power until 1999. Suharto’s ‘new order’ did not stress territorial expansionism, but other facets of his regime would contribute a decade later to Jakarta’s decision to gain control of East Timor. First, the regime change was coupled with an aggressive attack on the Indonesian Communist party, which, alongside the military, was President Sukarno’s power base. This move affected Indonesia’s future territorial designs in a number of ways: firstly the conservative turn that Suharto took weakened Jakarta’s ideological commitment to the non-aligned, left-leaning, anti-colonial world. Secondly, crashing the Communist party left the military unrivalled in the internal Indonesian policy formation process. Finally, the regime change contributed to closer relations between Indonesia and the United States and its regional ally, Australia. The latent idea of a ‘Greater Indonesia’ and more dominant armed forces crystallised into an overt Indonesian expansionist policy only when an unexpected opportunity structure appeared in the spring of 1974. On 25 April that year in Portugal, elements from the Portuguese armed forces, self-described as the ‘National Salvation Movement’, staged a military coup and ended almost half a century of conservative authoritarian regime there in an event known as the Carnation Revolution. The coup was a complete surprise, and even US intelligence ‘neither predicted nor understood’ the event (Isaacson 1992: 673). The left-leaning officers who assumed power in Lisbon were disgruntled with the heavy burden of their country’s colonial territories and moved quickly to unload the remains of the centuries-old Portuguese empire. This policy was further strengthened in June and July of 1974, when the communists and other anti-colonial actors gained the upper hand in an internal conflict with President António de Spinola over the pace of decolonisation (Maxwell 1995: 89). Although the president preferred a gradual process of ‘decoloniza-

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 113 tion over a generation or so’ (Maxwell 1995: 97), the internal anti-­ colonial coalition secured on 27 July 1974 the passing of Constitutional Law 74-7 at the Council of the Revolution. The law ordered the end of ‘wars in overseas territories’ because they should be settled through a ‘political and not military process’ (ICJ 1991: 33 in annex II.6). The law further stated, in Article 2, that the political principle to be employed was the ‘recognition of the right of self-determination, with all its implications’ including ‘acceptance of the independence of the overseas territories’. In the following months, Portugal began the process of withdrawing from almost all of its dependencies. The dominance of anti-colonials in the new Portuguese government, coupled with the Salazar-era heritage of neglect and the focus on decolonisation in Africa, all led to a speedy Portuguese disengagement. On 8 May 1974, Portugal issued a proclamation allowing the establishment of parties in the territory. In the autumn of 1974 Portugal sent a new governor to the territory that was committed to hastening withdrawal. When the Portuguese colonial state folded, there emerged the Indonesian opportunity for territorial expansion. And so, with the dramatic change of a 400-year policy in Lisbon and its expected withdrawal from East Timor, an opportunity opened up for potential Indonesian territorial expansion. Not only was the colonial power about to leave, but there was no clear institution to replace it and a limited ideational or social framework to beget such institutions. East Timor was comprised of a variety of different ethnic groups, who did not develop, generally, a ‘common identity’ (Fitzpatrick 2002: 27). Low levels of development, and in particular a high rate of illiteracy, created a further barrier to the development of a region-wide identity. Among the small politicised elites, three parties evolved: FRETILIN (the Portuguese acronym for the Revolutionary Front for East Timorese Independence) supported immediate independence. The group viewed itself as part of the international left-leaning struggle against colonialism and had evolved from an earlier group, ASDT (the Portuguese acronym for the East Timor Social Democratic Association). The leadership of both movements drew on East Timor’s small intellectual community, with senior members like Secretary-General José RamosHorta. Ramos-Horta, the foreign-educated son of a Portuguese exiled by the regime in Lisbon, later won the 1996 Nobel Peace Prize and was the president of independent East Timor (2007–12). The Far Eastern Economic Review described the group as ‘a model of

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a third world independence movement . . . a self-important party of Dili’s (the capital) “intellectuals”. . . [that] acquired a FRELIMO [the Marxist liberation movement in Mozambique, another Portuguese colony] type image through a vague collectivist idea’. The second party, UTD (the Portuguese acronym for the Timorese Democratic Union), initially supported an autonomous status for East Timor within a Portuguese federation, and it represented the interests of those elements of Timorese elite with strong ties to Lisbon. The third party, APODETI (the Portuguese acronym for the Popular Democratic Association of Timor), supported incorporation into Indonesia. Its base drew on members of the Timorese elites that had ties to Jakarta, such as traditional leaders from the border areas, as well as a group of former Indonesian officers who had emigrated to Portuguese Timor in the late 1950s (Commonwealth of Australia 2002: 114). In early 1975 FRETILIN and UTD created a coalition that was committed to ‘national independence’, but it broke down in May that year and a short civil war broke out between the three parties (Ramos-Horta 1987: 51–2). Not only was the national movement young, it was also violently divided. Initially, Indonesia tended not to intervene in the crisis, and Jakarta even signalled that it would accept the right of self-determination for the region. Following a June 1974 meeting with Ramos-Horta, foreign minister Adam Malik sent him a letter in which he stated: The independence of every country is the right of every nation, with no exception for the people of [East] Timor . . . whoever will govern in Timor in the future after independence can be assured that the government of Indonesia will always strive to maintain good relations, friendship and cooperation for the benefit of both countries. (Lloyd 2003: 76) Yet even at the meeting that led to this letter, Indonesia retained the possibility of expansion. Ali Alatas, who was a junior participant in the meeting, testified later that although in the meeting Malik stated, ‘We have no claims on East Timor. We will accept any outcome of a good decolonization,’ he also did not rule out expansion, if it was a result of a process in which all parties ‘got the same fair chance to compete’ and he futher stated that ‘whoever won in a clean and just decolonization process we would gladly accept’ (Jenkins 1997).

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 115 Indonesian policies towards East Timor were not, initially, unanimous. In a manner somewhat reminiscent of Sukarno’s earlier statement about Portuguese Timor, the political class continued to send mixed messages about its future designs for the territory. Indonesia’s military intelligence apparatus, on the other hand, supported e­ xpansion in order to prevent the creation of a left-leaning state on the borders of the now conservative Indonesia, while other military actors kept neutral. These conflicted positions reflected the various possible interpretations of the country’s colonial heritage. According to one approach, based in part on Yamin’s writings, the division of Timor between two European nations, Holland and Portugal, was a colonial act that should be erased. This approach also drew on the realities on the ground: the similar ethnic, religious and linguistic patterns between the two parts of the island of Timor; the weakness of an indigenous national liberation movement; the complete dearth of any past history of the territory as an independent entity; and the low level of socio-economic development on the island. The other post-colonial Indonesian approach saw the East Timorese as an independent group entitled to express its own will for self-determination. Initially, Indonesian statements leaned towards the latter view and specifically to non-intervention in the situation. In the autumn of 1974, the statements of the political faction became more pronounced regarding the incorporation of East Timor, although Indonesian leaders still reflected the duality of earlier days. In a 6 September 1974 meeting with Australia’s prime minister, Gough Whitlam, President Suharto said that while Indonesia hoped to incorporate East Timor, its anti-colonial ethos ‘would neither accept colonialism nor allow the Indonesian Government to seek to colonize others’ (Commonwealth of Australia 2000: 122). In the meeting, Suharto reviewed one possibility for achieving both incorporation and adherence to ‘non-­colonization’: an independent state of East Timor within a broader federation with Indonesia. This arrangement, however, would be impossible, said the ­president, due to the internal institutional constraints that emanated from Indonesia’s unitary model. Finally, Suharto shared with his sympathetic Australian host Jakarta’s preferred route for expansion into East Timor: ‘incorporation . . . on the basis of the freely expressed wishes of the people of Portuguese Timor’ (Commonwealth of Australia 2000: 122).

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A month later, on 18 October 1974, President Suharto repeated his position in a meeting with a Portuguese minister in Jakarta when he told his guest that ‘Indonesia had no territorial ambitions in East Timor and was opposed to colonialism in all its forms as was clearly stipulated in its 1945 constitution’. However, said the president, ‘Indonesia would accept Portuguese Timor’s integration with Indonesia’ under two conditions: (1) ‘if this was in line with the wishes of the people’ and (2) if the ‘territory could become a part of the Indonesian unitary state in accordance with the 1945 constitution’ (Republic of Indonesia 1977: 18). The second important actor that led to the transformation of the East Timor opportunity into a plan for territorial expansion was Indonesia’s military intelligence. Beginning in the 1950s, the organisation viewed East Timor as a potential threat to Indonesia’s national security. The nature of this threat, however, changed over time from concerns in the 1950s that the Portuguese-controlled territory would threaten nonaligned, communist-leaning Indonesia, to concerns in the 1970s that the decolonised region would become a hub of revolutionary left-wing activity against the now conservative, western-leaning Indonesia. As tensions mounted between the three parties in the territory, the newly appointed commander of Indonesia’s military intelligence, General Benny Mourdani, was a vocal supporter of intervention. According to some sources, he initially ordered the secret deployment of special forces in the territory (Operation Komodo) in order to ‘destabilize the situation’ (Singh 1994: 75), and when this goal was achieved, Indonesia invaded the region. More favourable accounts of the Indonesian actions described Operation Komodo as geared ‘to prepare all necessary steps and contingencies in regard to an expected political change in Timor’ (Pour 1993: 320). In July 1976, Jakarta formally annexed the territory and made it Indonesia’s twenty-seventh province. The Indonesian Settlement Project in East Timor The Indonesian project included three groups of settlers: Indonesian civil servants (military personnel, teachers, bureaucrats) and their families; migrants who were transferred by the government from the main islands of Java and Bali as part of the Indonesia-wide, decadesold population-dispersal programme, Transmigrasi; and migrants from

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 117 other parts of Indonesia who arrived independently and are referred to as ‘spontaneous transmigrants’ (Pedersen and Arneberg 2000). Civil Service: Following the formal incorporation of East Timor as Indonesia’s twenty-seventh province, Jakarta deployed its state organs in the administrative void left after the withdrawal of the Portuguese colonial state. Indonesian civil servants manned the resulting new institutions. In 1983 there were 8,617 Indonesian civil servants in East Timor (Republic of Indonesia 1984: 10); by 1991 the number had grown to 11,036 (excluding armed forces). These civil servants were deployed in the newly imposed municipal government structure that included, as it did in other regions of Indonesia, a provincial authority led by a governor, thirteen subregions (Kabupatens) led by heads of regions (Bupati) and sixty-four subregional administrative units (Kecamatan) led by subregional heads (Camat). Each subregion included a number of villages, which were governed by village heads (Republic of Indonesia 1984: 7). The body of Indonesian civil servants in the territory included most of the bureaucrats on each level, as well as representatives of national departments and agencies who operated in coordination with the governor. Transmigrasi: Some 25,000–50,000 transmigrants were placed in the territory (Pedersen and Arneberg 1999: 30, Commonwealth of Australia 2000: 80). There were settlers that were ‘recruited, resettled, and supported by the state’ (Barter and Cote 2015: 66). The government facilitated and paid for the transfer of transmigrants. They also, at least as reported by Barter and Cote (2015) regarding Lampung province (which is not in East Timor), were given title for two and half hectares for farming and residence, as well as food supplies for a year (68). Most transmigrants were deployed in East Timor’s two western districts of Bobonaro and Covalima, while small transmigration projects were based in the north-eastern district of Baucau and the south-eastern district of Viqueque. The transmigrants were farmers and were awarded land that was taken from Timorese farmers (Jardine 1996: 401). The official reason for deploying the Indonesian farmers was local development, suggesting that the deployed farmers would serve as ‘model farmers’ in order to better utilise land cultivation (Aditjondro 1994: 63, Pedersen and Arneberg 1999: 30). Government leadership in relocation was important in East Timor (and other locations) because land

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­ wnership models there made it difficult for individual migrants to o secure legal rights to land. Spontaneous Transmigrations: Finally, during the twenty-four years of Indonesian control in East Timor, the government allowed for the movement of spontaneous transmigrants from other Indonesian islands to East Timor. These transmigrants did not enjoy government support, but they were permitted to settle wherever they chose, as opposed to the centralised relocation of population under the transmigration programme. Barter and Cote (2015) distinguish between spontaneous transmigrants, who relied on government support once they arrived, and those who did not receive such support (68). The largest groups that migrated were the Bugis, the Buton and the Makasar, three ethnic groups from Eastern Indonesia that had traditionally high rates of migration. Unlike formal transmigrants, these three groups moved into cities and filled the economic void left by the Chinese and Portuguese business owners, who had departed with the Portuguese in 1975 (Tirtosudarmo 2000: 100). These settlers, especially Bugis traders, were strongly resented by the local population, who even rioted against them a number of times in the 1990s (Barter and Cote 2015: 74). Number of Settlers: During the years of Indonesian control over East Timor, Jakarta facilitated, in varying degrees of intensity, the transfer of tens of thousands of Indonesians into the controlled territory. Indeed, by 1999, East Timor was home for 100,000–200,000 Indonesians (see Table 4.3 for the different estimates). The variation in estimates of the number of settlers is a result of various data collection difficulties. Although the international authority that managed the territory in the years following Indonesia’s departure conducted a number of surveys, an analysis of the existing population does not offer a good indication, as most Indonesians left in 1999 when Jakarta relinquished control over the territory. Simply counting the number of persons that left in 1999 would not provide an accurate figure either, not only because a portion of them were possibly only on temporary assignments in the region, but also because tens of thousands of non-Indonesian Timorese who supported Indonesian control also left in 1999. In addition, post-independence violence, displacement and change of sovereignty all contributed to difficulties in ascertaining the number

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 119 Table 4.3  Competing Estimates of Indonesian Settlers in East Timor Description

Source

Official transmigrants

Indonesian Board   4,453 of Statistics (BPS) 1992: 49 Census 1990  46,682

 0.5%

Reflects 1990 data

 6.2%

Census 1990

 61,560

 8.2%

Reflects 1990 data Reflects 1990 data

Census 1990

 73,800

 8.2%

Reflects 1990 data

Indonesian Board 105,400 of Statistics (BPS) 1990: 15

11.7%

Fixed proportion; assumes no new migrants 1990–9

1990 population not born in East Timor 1990 population not born in East Timor, including an estimated number of children (based on average number of children per family) 1990 population not born in East Timor, including children, adjusted to 1999 Population (fixed proportion, and new migrants) 1990 population not born in East Timor, including children, assuming immigration patterns in 1990-5 were like those of 1986–90 Number of speakers of ndonesian Figure mentioned in other places

Number

Percentage of Comments total population

Indonesian Board  36,453  5.8% of Statistics (BPS) 1990: 42 Carey 1999 180,000– 17%–27% 250,000

Some settlers spoke other languages

Sources: Pedersen and Arneberg 1999: 54, Carey 1999: 88.

and specific location of settlers, most of whom left when Jakarta withdrew. The violence that surrounded those last days of Indonesia in Timor led to the displacement of almost 75 per cent of the territory’s population. Although many of those displaced returned to East Timor, many of those who returned assumed control of property other than that which they had held prior to independence. One source estimated

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that possibly up to 50 per cent of houses in the capital, Dili, were ­occupied in 2000 by people other than their 1999 owners. The inevitable competing land claims in the post-independence years created difficulties in determining ownership of land during pre-independence times, as many current occupants preferred not to admit any right of occupancy by others, including settlers. In turn, the targeted destruction of some 80 per cent of the central land registry records (and the buildings that housed them) by pro-independence militias in 1999 limited the ability to determine past ownership in many areas (Fitzpatrick 2002: 6). The official Indonesian census recorded non-Timorese who resided in the territory, but it did not distinguish between those who relocated to the territory permanently and those who were there on a temporary basis. Moreover, the last Indonesian census was conducted in 1990, leaving researchers with no credible data regarding settlers for 40 per cent of the time that Jakarta was in control of the territory (1990–9). Land ownership, a reasonably accurate indicator of settler activity in other cases, offers little help here because pro-Indonesian militias destroyed the central land registry and many of its records. The massive displacement that year and the ensuing UN effort to repatriate some of the displaced persons and allocate to them abandoned properties created what a UN official in Timor described as the ‘uncertainty of competing claims to land’ (Fitzpatrick 2002: 20). Independent Variables Legal Plausibility: Although Indonesia had had effective control over the territory of East Timor since 1975, much of the international community did not recognise it as the sovereign. From the outset, the Indonesian government tried to secure international recognition for the incorporation of East Timor into its territory. At the heart of the matter stood the right to self-determination for the people of East Timor. As part of the development of the norm of decolonisation in UN, as set forth in General Assembly Resolution 1514, the region was placed on the UN’s list of Non-Self-Governing Territories as early as 1960 (Drew 2001: 656). Jakarta –a pillar in the post-colonial non-aligned movement – believed that international legitimacy would be secured if it would be able to demonstrate that the right of selfdetermination was exercised in the case of East Timor. In describing

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 121 his government’s position in the United Nations in 1986, a senior Indonesian official, Sastrohandoyo Wiryono, stated that his government would ‘respect any decision made by the people of East Timor’ and that in 1975–6 Indonesia only ‘sought assurances from Portugal that the process of decolonization and the act of self-determination would reflect the true aspirations and will of the East Timorese people’ (Indonesia Mirror 1986: 2). The international response to Indonesian occupation of East Timor led the Indonesian government to believe that the international community would eventually recognise Jakarta’s expansion into the territory. However, unlike the Israeli and Moroccan cases, the Indonesian government had only a partial view of how expansion would be legitimised. Indonesia’s close western allies, the United States and Australia, recognised expansion but signalled their reservations about the manner in which it was achieved. For example, in testimony before Congress, John H. Holdridge, Assistant Secretary for East Asian and Pacific Affairs, stated on 14 September 1982 that: US policy regarding East Timor has been consistent through three administrations. We accept the incorporation of East Timor into Indonesia without recognizing that a valid act of self-­determination has taken place there. Our efforts now are concentrated on doing what we can to improve the welfare of the Timorese people. Australia held a similar position, as it had believed long before the Portuguese left that incorporation of Timor into Indonesia would be the final outcome. The Australian cabinet summed up its assessment regarding Indonesia in a Cabinet Decision 632 of 5 February 1963, which stated: In relation to Portuguese Timor, the Cabinet accepted the view that in the current state of world opinion, no practicable alternative to eventual Indonesian sovereignty over Portuguese Timor presented itself. (Commonwealth of Australia 2000: 116–17) The international community failed to exert any effective pressure on Indonesia. From 1976 there were no Security Council Resolutions regarding the Indonesian Occupation, and from 1982, the General Assembly failed to pass a resolution on the topic (Kreiger 1996: 53).

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Jakarta further believed that the weak socio-economic indicators in East Timor, and its ability to show that it was advancing the local population, would allow it secure international acceptance for annexation. Capacity: By the 1970s Indonesia, and before it, its Dutch colonial precursor, had seven decades of experience with relocating populations from the main islands of Java and Bali to peripheral islands. As a result, by the mid-1970s when Indonesia invaded East Timor it had a set of institutions that had both experience and capability in deploying settlers. The Dutch, Indonesia’s previous rulers, launched in 1903 a population resettlement programme called Colonisassi, as part of their ‘ethical policy’ towards their colonies. This ‘ethical policy’ was driven by humanitarian sensibilities, but also by a desire to develop a colonial market for industry in Holland (Tirtosudarmo 2000). The Dutch Commission for Enquiring into Declining Welfare in Java identified limited agricultural production as a significant reason for the region’s underdevelopment, and sought ways to increase productivity. The result was a three-pronged approach that included irrigation programmes, an investment in education and the easing of population pressures on land by relocating farmers from the overly ­populated islands of Java, Bali and (to a lesser extent) Madura to peripheral ones. Between 1903 and 1942, the Dutch colonial state moved more than 300,000 people from the main islands to the outer islands (Tirtosudarmo 2000: 89). When Indonesia replaced Holland, the colonial state, in 1949, it expanded the programme (now called transmigration) and set ever more ambitious goals for it. Though much lower than its initial goals, by 1990, the government of Indonesia had relocated some 3.3 million of its citizens as part of the transmigration programme (World Bank 1994: 1). A large number of state and provincial institutions, as well as the World Bank and other external donors, supported the programme. The World Bank did not, however, support transmigration in East Timor, due to its political nature. A 1994 World Bank study analysing its support for transmigration reported that four ministries and fifty-three other national and provincial agencies were involved in supporting the transmigration project (World Bank 1994: 3). In 1983 the government established a special ministry for transmigration that was meant to streamline the programme. The ministry was awarded authority over all matters relating to transmigration; it became the dominant player in

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 123 the transmigration and executed it quite effectively (Ascher and Healy 1990: 73–4). However, it reflected ‘a continuity of the program’s goals throughout its long period – aims that have varied from time to time in focus but when analyzed present a basically consistent set of objectives’ (MacAndrews 1978: 459). The Indonesian government defined the goals of the programme as intending to ‘improve the lives of the poor and landless families and to develop Indonesia’s many under-­ populated islands by offering land and jobs to people who have neither’ (Government of Indonesia 2009: 1). Over the years, the programme further advanced security-related goals, mostly pacifying areas that were not loyal to the central government, as well as assisting in creating cultural homogeneity in the diverse country. Dutch colonial authorities initiated the permanent removal of farmers from the East Indies for much of the second decade of the twentieth century, initially proposing removal of farmers as part of the ‘ethical policy’ in Dutch colonial management. The commission produced a number of volumes that both explained the reasons for the low levels in major welfare indicators (such as health and education) and made recommendations for their improvement (Blackburn 2004: 39). The commission identified low agricultural production, caused by population pressures, as a major problem. The solution proposed: population removal. Indeed, transmigration had become one of three cornerstones (alongside irrigation and education) of the ethical policy (Furnival 1939: 232). Great Power Benefactor: Much as in the case of Western Sahara, Washington supported territorial expansion of one of its allies, Indonesia, into an adjacent territory. In East Timor, as in Western Sahara, the Americans feared that the implementation of the right of self-determination would lead to the creation of a new state led by a pro-Soviet national liberation movement, and therefore sought to block the competition. American support was especially crucial before the 1975 invasion. Indeed, Indonesia moved into East Timor only after it received what it understood to be a ‘green light’ from Washington during the visit of President Ford and Secretary of State Kissinger to Jakarta in early December 1975. The two men knew already that Indonesia was considering an invasion because Suharto had hinted about the possibility.

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Ford and Kissinger made it clear to Suharto that they would not object to an Indonesian invasion. Ford said: ‘We will understand and will not press you on the issue. We understand the problem and the intentions you have.’ Kissinger, however, stressed that ‘the use of US-made arms could create problems’, but then he added that, ‘It depends on how we construe it; whether it is in self defense or is a foreign operation.’ Kissinger also said: ‘It is important that whatever you do succeeds quickly’ (Burr and Evans 2001). US support continued in earnest after the invasion. For example, the Indonesian armed forces were using American arms in their brutal operation in Timor (and thereby breaking US law). The legal advisor of the State Department stated in a follow-up senior staff meeting on 18 December 1975 that the ‘Indonesians are violating an agreement with us’ by using American arms in East Timor. However, Kissinger responded by stating that the United States should ‘do it [suspend arms deals with Indonesia] for a few weeks, and then open it up’ because the Indonesian attack was a form of ‘self-defense’ against the possibility of a ‘Communist government in the middle of Indonesia’ (Isaacson 1992: 680). As in all previous cases, Washington did not specifically support the settlement project. However, its broader support for the military occupation of the contested territory allowed the occupier to launch a settlement project while deflecting some of the international costs associated with occupation, expansion and settlement. As noted, Washington continued arms supply to Indonesia despite the evidence that it was using them in a way that contradicted the terms of the arms deals. Moreover, US Ambassador to the United Nations Daniel Patrick Moynihan admitted in his memoirs that his instructions were to make sure, regarding East Timor (and Western Sahara), that the ‘United Nations would prove utterly ineffective in whatever measures it ­undertook’. He then reported gleefully that he ‘carried it forward with no inconsiderable success’ (Moynihan 1978: 247). Lack of Brethren: The 1970 Portuguese census counted 610,541 persons in East Timor (Kreiger 1996). The population was highly diverse, with four separate ethnic groups that spoke over thirty separate languages or dialects (Aditjondro 1994: 30–4). Four hundred years of Portuguese colonial rule had an effect on religious preferences as well. In 1989, 81.4 per cent of the population identified as Roman Catholic (Aditjondro

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 125 1994: 30–4). Under these ethnic and religious circumstances there was a low level of affinity between the majority of East Timorese and the largely Javanese, Muslim, Indonesian government. From Variables to Outcome: Why a Settlement Project? The Indonesian settlement project in East Timor was driven by internal and bilateral/bicommunal reasons, but it was framed for an international audience as supporting Jakarta’s claim to sovereignty. Moreover, as Indonesia understood that the route to international legitimacy for annexation would include an international assessment of Indonesia’s ability to control and develop the territory, even the internal reasons for the project had an international aspect to them. Internally, a combination of a ‘push factor’ and an institutional capacity to carry it out led to the implementation in East Timor of the government’s transmigration programme. The programme permanently settled Javanese and Balinese farmers from these two overpopulated main islands on the peripheral islands, including East Timor. Bilateral reasons included the government’s desire to solidify social control and to enhance the economic utilisation of the newly acquired territory. In turn, all of these efforts were used by Indonesia to try to legitimise its control over East Timor in the eyes of the international community. In 1956, Indonesia adopted the Dutch transmigration programme. However, Indonesia expanded the programme’s goals into the realm of strategy. In the first five-year development plan (1956–60), the government described transmigration as an ‘instrument to reduce population pressures in Java, provide labour in sparsely populated provinces, support military strategy and accelerate the process of assimilation’ (Tirtosudarmo 2000: 90). In a 1985 speech at the National Defense Institute, General Mourdani, who headed the 1975 invasion into East Timor, suggested that transmigration was the only economic policy directly tied to national security. He also justified the practice by which the military was consulted regarding the location of transmigration sites, as they were crucial elements of ‘territorial management’ (Tirtosudarmo 2000: 95). As Table 4.4 shows, under Suharto the programme was accelerated, in part because the World Bank supported the programme.

— 100,000 500,000

Source: Adihati and Bobsien 2001: 6.

Target (families) Families actually moved Number of people

1950–69  38,700  36,483 174,000

1969–74

Table 4.4  Transmigration Figures 1950–2000 250,000 118,000 544,000

1974–9 500,000 535,000 2,469,560

1979–84 750,000 230,000 1,061,680

1984–9

550,000 n/a n/a

1989–94

600,000 300,000 1,500,000

1994–9

16,235  4,409 22,000

1999–2000

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The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 127 Transmigration and the International Arena Although the national transmigration programme included the permanent removal of population from Java to East Timor as part of the programme, the Indonesian government framed population removal for international consumption in a way that supported the government’s argument for sovereignty over the disputed region. Jakarta stressed the dire economic situation in the region in order to suggest that its incorporation into Indonesia was the only route to alleviating the desperate circumstances of the Timorese. For example, an official Indonesian document produced for external consumption suggested that ‘East Timor has not even reached the stage of underdevelopment’ (Republic of Indonesia 1976: 10). In an informational document in 1984, Indonesia presented transmigration as intending to help the Timorese: The increase in rice production in the Province of East Timor is . . . due to the increase in the skill of the people of East Timor in farming. In this context, mention must be made of the positive results from the effort made by the government to bring . . . expert farmers from Bali to East Timor. The exemplary farmers were placed alternately among the East Timorese farmers so that the Timorese farmers could learn from the Balinese farmers the right ways of farming. (Republic of Indonesia 1984: 51–2) SUMMARY

Morocco and Indonesia exploited similar situations in 1975 when they occupied the adjacent territories of Western Sahara and East Timor. In both cases, the occupier faced the retreat of an old colonial European power, had weak indigenous competition, and had US support. In both cases, a prior ideology of a ‘greater’ nation in terms of territory manifested itself once a material opportunity arose. Yet both states were not operating solely based on power calculations. They were also responding to the current international norm of self-determination. Both Morocco and Indonesia were committed to this principle, as it legitimised their own political projects of independence. However, in both cases the surge of nationalism that resulted from implementing the right of self-determination also drove territorial expansion. In turn, the expansion was perceived by the

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i­nternational community as denying the self-determination of the indigenous peoples in both occupied territories. Moreover, in both cases, the international entities involved in monitoring and implementing decolonisation, especially the United Nations, were involved in the process long before the occupations occurred. Western Sahara and East Timor were both on the Committee of 24’s list of Non-Self-Governing Territories, and as such, had been subject to UN actions and resolutions since the 1960s. So, faced with such a challenge to the legitimacy of their actions and the possible costs it carried, both Jakarta and Rabat responded to the challenge of self-determination by using settlement projects. In the Moroccan case, the project was directly intended to secure sovereignty through its effect on an anticipated referendum. In the case of Indonesia, the settlement project was driven initially by the traditional reasons of ‘push factor’ and support for social control. Yet Indonesia utilised the transmigration portion of its settlement project to support its effort to portray East Timor as a backward territory which needed imported farmers to elevate it from its extremely underdeveloped state. East Timor’s fate was indeed decided by the implementation of the right of self-determination in the 1999 referendum. Why, therefore, did Indonesia not try to affect its outcome through the settlement project in a more direct way, as Morocco did? Unlike Morocco, Indonesia did not anticipate that a referendum would determine the final sovereignty question in the region. Once it did agree to a referendum, when Suharto was deposed, the government had little time to deploy settlers in large numbers. Moreover, Indonesia used other methods that were readily available. The UN refugee commission team in East Timor estimated that 40,000–60,000 people were ‘internally displaced’ into camps, where they were subjected to propaganda broadcasts urging them to vote for integration with Indonesia (Friend 2003: 440). Its military still deployed 21,000 soldiers (441), and it encouraged local militias to threaten and attack pro-independence supporters (444). Militia violence was intended to impact the referendum in three ways. Firstly, it was intended to create the impression that the East Timorese themselves were divided over the question into two equally important camps, thus reframing the conflict for outside observers not as one of self-determination of colonised people, but rather as a civil war between two factions who envisioned different futures for their territory. Secondly, Indonesia believed that violence could delay the refer-

The Moroccan and Indonesian Settlement Projects 129 endum; and thirdly, Indonesia thought that violence could erode the political base of support for independence (Tanter 2001: 192–3). In summary, both Morocco and Indonesia used settlement projects to affect the outcome of an international determination as to the true sovereignty of territories they occupied. Both relied on an established institutional capacity to carry out the projects; and both enjoyed blanket US support for the expansion in general, which, in effect, also defended their settlement projects. At present, however, they diverge in terms of the outcome: Indonesia parted with its occupied region, while Morocco still retains control over it. This chapter has shown that the pattern identified in Chapter 3 in the case of Israel also occurred (with some variations) in the cases of Morocco and Indonesia: all three used their settlement projects to manipulate the outcome of an international determination of the sovereignty over an occupied region. Based on the previous chapters, one might expect that post-colonial occupiers (who plan to expand their territory) would use settlement projects to secure their gains. However, in the chapter that follows, I explore three cases in which states occupied territory with the intent to keep it, but did not use settlement projects.

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5 NEGATIVE CASES: INDIA IN GOA, LIBYA IN CHAD AND MAURITANIA IN WESTERN SAHARA

In the previous three chapters I showed that, despite the demise of colonialism and the general acceptance of an international norm against it after 1960, a number of states initiated new projects of territorial expansion and settlement beginning in the 1960s. I argued that these expansionist states deployed settlers in their newly acquired territories in order to guarantee that their control over these regions would lead to permanent territorial expansion. I further suggested that a primary reason for the deployment of settlers as a tool for expansion was the desire to manipulate the outcome of an expected international interaction that was to determine sovereignty over these territories, such as a referendum (in the case of Morocco in Western Sahara), or a negotiation within an international framework (as in the case of Israel in the West Bank). This new driver for settlement activity all but replaced the traditional reason for settler deployment – internal push or social control. In this chapter, I turn to three cases from the post-colonial era in which states acted in order to permanently expand into an occupied territory but did not initiate settlement projects. The cases are: India’s expansion into Portuguese Goa, beginning in 1961; the Libyan occupation of Chad’s Aozou strip between 1972 and 1994; and Mauritania’s occupation of portions of Western Sahara between 1975 and 1979. These cases were chosen because in all of them physical control by the potential settling state extended for long periods of time, thus providing for states the temporal foundation needed to launch a settlement project, if so desired. In the section devoted to each case, I first explore the reasons the occupying state expanded its territory and analyse how expansion was achieved. Next, I analyse the part played by the four independent vari-

Negative Cases 131 ables that appeared in the previous chapters: great power support, legal plausibility for expansion, capacity and the level of ethnic affinity (the brethren factor). Finally, I explain why no settlers were deployed. In the conclusion to the chapter, I discuss the implications of my findings on my broader argument. Analysis in this chapter shows two things: when the local population in the target territory had a high level of affinity with the occupying state (the brethren factor), no settlement project was launched; and when a settling state did not possess the capacity to launch a settlement project, no project was launched. CASE 1: INDIA IN GOA

Why Expansion? On 18 December 1961, 35,000–45,000 Indian air, ground and naval forces launched an attack code-named Operation Vijay on the Portuguese enclaves in the Indian subcontinent – Goa, Daman and Diu, hereafter referred to in this chapter as ‘the territories’, or simply ‘Goa’ – and the 3,000 Portuguese soldiers who defended them. Thirty Portuguese soldiers and twenty-three Indian soldiers were killed in the next twenty-four hours, and a few dozen soldiers were wounded (Government of India 1974: 238). On 19 December 1961, General Manuel António Vassalo e Silva, commanding officer of the armed forces in the Portuguese State of India, signed a surrender document for all three enclaves (Desay 1986: 45). This short, armed conflict ended 451 years of Portuguese control (Lawrence 1963: 189). Other issues emanating from this brief military exchange lingered for weeks: in January 1962, India still held 3,412 Portuguese prisoners of war, and Portugal detained over 3,000 Indians in its African colonies (Mezerik 1962: 14, Desay 1986: 45). On 29 June 1962, the Indian constitution was amended (Twelfth Amendment) so as to integrate Goa into India as an autonomous, federally administered territory, a Union Territory (Fernandes 1990: 2). In 1987 Goa (but not the two other former enclaves) became a state in the Republic of India. India’s desire to expand into the 6,000 sq. km, 637,000-peoplestrong territory (Gaitonde and Mani 1956: 5, Sarin 1973: 9) was driven by Indian nationalism both in the Republic of India as well as among

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the largely ethnically Indian population in Goa. Indeed, there were earlier revolts against Portuguese control in the region such as the 1654 Castro revolt, the 1787 Pinto’s Rebellion and the 1852 Rane Revolt (Gaitonde and Mani 1956: 11, Ayar and Sinha 1965: 13). In a 1996 introduction to a commemorative book published on the occasion of the fiftieth jubilee of the Indian expansion, Goa’s (now Indian) Chief Minister, Pratapsingh Rane, wrote that ‘Goa Revolution Day . . . commemorates the call given by Dr Lohia [an Indian, nonGoan, national leader] . . . the clarion call, to rise against the colonial rule, given by Dr Lohia, was the beginning of the final phase of Goa’s freedom struggle. The freedom movement picked up big momentum drawing the attention of prominent national leaders towards Goa’ (Rane 1996: v). In turn, India’s independence in 1947 contributed to national awareness among Goans. In an August 1955 entry in his diary, Goan nationalist leader Madhu Limaye suggested that, ‘while thinking about the past, I realised one thing. The transformation in 1947! Not only from the point of national independence. In my own life. I attended two national conferences . . . I travelled up to Calcutta, Banaras, took the study circle’ (3). Another activist, James Fernandes, reflected back in 1990 on his involvement with Goa’s Liberation movement: ‘Goans did not feel alone in their fight against a mighty power, as they now had the backing of an independent India. In truth, most Goan patriots, though they accepted their responsibility to launch the movement, now considered the freedom of Goa a problem of not Goans alone, but of all Indians too’ (1–2). The first specific Indian demand for expansion into Portuguese Goa was made in the summer of 1946 following the arrest, by the Portuguese, of Indian nationalist Dr Ram Manohar Lohia. In a 30 June 1946 piece in his paper Harijan, Gandhi responded to the Lohia incident by stating his support for Portuguese withdrawal from the territories. Continued colonial control, argued Gandhi, was against the ‘tenor of the times’ when European empires were ending their control. Gandhi further suggested that the enclaves would not be sustainable once the British left because they ‘merely exist on the sufferance of the British government’. Finally, he believed that ‘in a free India, Goa cannot be allowed to exist as a separate entity in opposition to the laws of the free state’ (Ramani 2008: 8–9). These comments led to an exchange between Gandhi and the Portuguese governor of the territories in which Gandhi rejected (in a letter of 11 August 1946)

Negative Cases 133 Portuguese claims that its control was beneficial to the local population. Gandhi added a liberal argument in favour of ending colonial rule by asserting that ‘civil liberties are a rare article in Goa’ (Ramani 2008: 11). Galvanised by the events in Goa and by Gandhi’s position, the Congress party’s executive committee (the Congress Working Committee) summarised the Indian claim as based on notions of Indian territorial integrity because ‘Goa has always been, and must inevitably continue to be, part of India’. The committee further argued that Portugal failed to effectively provide for the economic welfare of the territories’ inhabitants, who were ‘reduced to poverty and degradation’ and resided in territories that were ‘once rich and prosperous and now deserted with . . . people migrating elsewhere in search of a living’. Finally, the committee argued that the territories’ inhabitants had ‘practically no rights, and even the most elementary civil liberties are denied them’ (Ramani 2008: 8). Upon gaining independence in 1947, India’s governing institutions reiterated their commitment to expansion into the foreign-controlled enclaves on the subcontinent. On 19 December 1948, the Indian Congress party passed a resolution stating: With the establishment of independence in India, the continued existence of any foreign possessions in India becomes anomalous and opposed to the conception of India’s unity and freedom. Therefore, it has become necessary for these possessions to be politically integrated in India. (Sarin 1973: 55) The resolution referred to both the Portuguese and the French colonial enclaves. However, driven by an ideological commitment to nonviolence, and taking into account international constraints, the party stated that ‘the Congress trusts that this change [political integration] will be brought about soon by peaceful methods and friendly cooperation of the governments involved’ (Sarin 1973: 55). Upon establishing diplomatic relations between the two, New Delhi pressed Lisbon on the issue. On 20 February 1950, the Indian ambassador to Portugal presented a memo to his host foreign minister ­summarising the Indian position: 3. For over 200 years India was under the domination of European powers. The nationalist movement which . . . succeeded in

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s­ ecuring the transfer of power from British to Indian hands was not, in sentiment and purpose, confined to what were formerly British Indian and Indian states under British suzerainty. It was, within the geographic limits of India, a universal movement and remains so. The historical and cultural unity of India transcends political frontiers such as those that now demark the French settlement of the Portuguese colonies. (Ramani 2008: 19) The Indians further argued that expansion into the territories would fulfil their inhabitants’ right for self-determination as the ‘popular feeling in these territories [is] for union with the new and free India’. They also called upon a precedent, reminding their Portuguese hosts that New Delhi was negotiating in earnest with France with an eye to ending French domination in four enclaves in India. The memo was concluded with a ‘request to an immediate start of negotiations regarding the future of Portuguese colonies in India’ (Ramani 2008: 20). In the following decade, Lisbon rejected the Indian position. Portugal, wrote its leader Salazar in Foreign Affairs, was ‘morally and judicially unable to negotiate the secession of Goa and, consequently, it is duty bound to defend it’ (1956: 426). Salazar also warned that if the Indian claim were granted, an anti-Western wave would sweep Asia and lead to indigenous claims to Australia and New Zealand (428), ultimately creating an opening for communist expansion. The USSR, warned Salazar, ‘offers to aid in the “liberation” of other peoples and takes the lead in the struggle against “capitalism and imperialism”, trying to force into partnership with her those who need that capitalism to live’ (429). But India was not convinced. Its diplomats in Lisbon and in New Delhi continued their efforts to press Portugal. Yet by 1953 India reached the conclusion that ‘its legation in Lisbon has ceased to be of any practical utility’ and that it could ‘see no advantage of keeping the legation if the Portuguese government is unwilling to discuss the future of its possessions in India’ (Ramani 2008: 27). The path towards a nondiplomatic solution was thus established. The first eviction of the Portuguese occurred in the territories of Dadra and Nagar Haveli in 1954. In July of that year, demonstrators forced Portuguese administrators to leave Dadra, and in August the same occurred in Nagar Haveli (Goa League 1957: 5). Portugal was unable to defend these small possessions, as India blocked the

Negative Cases 135 passage of Portuguese security forces from their bases in Daman into the two territories. The two territories would remain formally as independent states until 1961, when they requested to be annexed to India. Encouraged by these achievements, both Goans and their supporters in India staged similar nonviolent efforts in Goa. The Portuguese cracked down forcibly on these efforts, killing twenty-two locals in a single day of demonstration in Goa and wounding more than two hundred others. The tensions that followed led India to end all trade and transportation with the three enclaves, and also to ban further nonviolent direct action from India into the territories (Sarin 1973: 61–9). How Expansion was Achieved Beginning in 1961, India began modifying its Goa policy. It stepped up its public commitment to uniting the region with the Indian Republic, and it signalled that it was considering abandoning the nonviolent policy in achieving this end. This new course was a result of changes in the international environment and in Indian public opinion, as well as a specific dynamic which developed between the spring and the winter of 1961. On the international level, New Delhi was affected by the 1960 General Assembly Decolonization resolution, the strengthening of the new norm of decolonisation and the actual process of decolonisation, mostly in Africa. During a discussion in the Indian Parliament’s lower house, Prime Minister Nehru stated on 7 December 1961 that ‘fact after fact accumulates not only in India . . . it is affected by things happening outside of India . . . what is happening in Africa affects it, what’s happening in the United Nations affects it . . . the United Nations makes a much more positive declaration in favour of the removal of colonial domination from every part of the earth’ (Government of India 1962: 14). Indeed, on the day of the Indian attack its representative to the United Nations defended it as flowing from the new international norm, when he said that: Resolution 1514 [the decolonisation resolution] . . . is the embodiment of that great leap forward in the public opinion of the world on these matters. There can be no getting away from that. Just as the process of decolonization is irreversible and irresistible,

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the embodiment of the principles in resolution 1514, which had been accepted by virtually every member around this table, is ­irresistible. One can not go behind that now. That is the new dictum of international law. (Mezeril 1962: 20) A second international development was NATO’s unwillingness to support Portugal if its control over its colonial dependencies was challenged. Despite the regional limitation in the NATO charter, India was concerned as late as the summer of 1961 that a ‘war with Portugal may mean a war with other countries, and if not war, a complicated situation’ (Government of India 1962: 3). However, in the autumn of 1961, Portugal realised during a NATO conference that its earlier hopes to benefit from NATO support were no longer realistic. The NATO charter clearly limited (in Articles 4 and 5) the organisation’s interventions to the North Atlantic area, north of the Tropic of Cancer. Initially Portugal had hoped, erroneously, based on comments made earlier by Lord Ismay (NATO’s secretary-general), that if Goa came under threat, Lisbon could invoke Article 4 of the charter and call for consultations (Sarin 1973: 89). Finally, the early 1960s saw an Indian effort to secure a higher profile in the international arena. In 1960 India contributed a 3,000strong army unit to the UN forces in the Congo. Prime Minister Nehru believed that a higher profile in the anti-colonial struggle would create further support for Indian leadership in the Afro-Asian ‘non-aligned’ group of states (Rubinoff 1971: 73–4). The internal dynamic began in the summer of 1961, when the local leaders of Dadra and Magar Haveli, recognised until then by the United Nations as independent states, approached the Indian government and asked to be formally annexed to the Indian Union. On 14 August 1961, Nehru endorsed a change to the constitution that would permit their request. In the discussion in the lower house of parliament, the prime minister tied the issue of the two former India-based Portuguese colonies to the three other colonies that were still under Lisbon’s control. Nehru stated that ‘the annexation of Dadra and Magar Haveli represent for the first time the form – legal and constitutional – of the removal of parts of the Portuguese empire in India . . . it is a sign of the shadow of the future to come’ (Government of India 1962: 1). Pressed in the discussion in parliament about the issue of Goa, Nehru suggested that India might indeed take a more assertive

Negative Cases 137 approach: ‘as I have just hinted a time may come when we may even decide to send our armies and when that time comes it will be an open effort of ours and not a secret or furtive one’ (Rubinoff 1971: 75). The following day, Nehru was even more explicit in parliament when he stated: The question of Goa, as far as I can see, can only be dealt with either on a completely peaceful basis or on a fully armed basis. We will do so then . . . if I am asked now to give any kind of assurance that we shall not use armed forces in regard to Goa, I am not in a position to give it. I do not know what we may do at any time, but . . . I cannot rule out . . . using armed forces in regard to Goa. (Rubinoff 1971: 76) By the autumn of 1961, the Indian change of course was further strengthened and clearly tied to the new norm of decolonisation. From 20 October to 24 October 1961, India hosted a seminar about Portuguese colonialism, hosting representatives from other Portuguese colonies as well as from some Africa nations that had already gained independence. The seminar was attended by leading members of Nehru’s cabinet, including the most ardent supporter of nonviolence in the cabinet, Finance Minister Desai. During the seminars the African representatives pressured India to abandon its nonviolent approach with respect to Goa. They highlighted their own sacrifices in the anti-colonial struggle and hinted at their displeasure with India’s refusal to assist their cause by exerting pressure on Portugal over Goa. The Indians realised that armed action would enjoy support from a growing group of states and would better position them as a potential leader of this group. The head of the welcome committee, the chief minister of the state of Maharashtra, Shankarrao Chavan, concluded the seminar by saying: I do not know how long even the Government of India will be able to resist the pressure of popular opinion and stand strictly by its principles . . . even at the cost of being considered passive by our friends in Africa, we have tried to observe the principles we have adopted. But it is impossible to watch the tremendous sacrifice of our friends in the Portuguese colonies in Africa as mere spectators. We refuse to be mere spectators and we have to devise ways

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and means of preventing the extermination of a large number of people. (Rubinoff 1971: 83) Prime Minister Nehru declared in October 1961, in a public rally, that ‘We have been forced into thinking afresh by the Portuguese – to adopt other methods to solve this problem. When and how we will do it cannot be forecast now. But I have no doubt that Goa will be free’ (Ramani 2008: 41). In November 1961, Nehru met Presidents Nasser of Egypt and Tito of Yugoslavia, two prominent figures in the non-aligned movement. According to some reports, during the meetings they both promised him support for armed action (Rubinoff 1971: 85). In the following weeks the Indian press paid special attention to events in Goa and created an atmosphere of public support for an invasion by highlighting Portuguese repression there, as well as minor events such as the single shot fired upon an Indian vessel from a Portuguese port. The Portuguese effort to calm the situation did not affect Indian public opinion. Lisbon’s foreign minister, Ngueira, stated, for example, on 7 December 1961, that the charges in the Indian press ‘are nothing but deliberate lies to create a climate of tensions because the Indian Union is seeking an excuse to take action in Goa’ (Rubinoff 1971: 87). Portugal informed the UN Security Council of Indian military movements near Goa; but India responded on 12 December that these were necessary because: ‘The Government of India has reliable reports that the Portuguese administration has intensified oppression and territories in its Indian possessions and has heavily augmented its armed forces . . . in view of all these, the Government of India has been obliged to move units of the Indian armed forces to vicinity of Goa’ (Mezerik 1962: 13). On 18 December 1961, Indian forces attacked the Portuguese enclaves. Thirty-six hours later, the Portuguese forces in Goa surrendered. Prime Minister Salazar explained a month later in Parliament: The Government’s military policy regarding the problem of Goa has always been based on the following elements: in view of the distance and the overwhelming superiority of the Indian Union we could cherish no hopes of saving Goa from any enemy invasion without the help of allies . . . a handful of 3,500 . . . forced the Indian union to mobilise an army of thirty thousand soldiers. (Lawrence 1963: 148–9)

Negative Cases 139 Independent Variables Capacity: India’s actions in Goa, Diu and Daman in the decade following their occupation demonstrated that, if New Delhi wished, it could easily have launched a settlement project. All the basic conditions for a project were in place: India had full control over the territory and did not need to deal with any opposition to its rule there. In addition, the Indian authorities exerted effective administrative control over the land regime, which could have streamlined land appropriation for settlers, as in the Israeli case. A 1971 India report stated that ‘systematic cadastral survey of the territory was undertaken only after liberation . . . about 300 surveyors are working under a scheme’ (Government of Goa, Daman and Diu 1971: 55). Perhaps even more importantly, the Indian government demonstrated during the first decade of its rule that it was capable of conducting massive public works projects in the region, indicating that it could have managed a population resettlement project should it have wished to. At least in part, the successes of these projects were attributed to the fact that the territories were administered directly by the federal government as a union territory. Public works projects undertaken by New Delhi in Goa included the construction or reconstruction of thirty-one bridges (Government of Goa, Daman and Diu 1971: 102) as well as the development of an electric grid that brought electricity to more than 50 per cent of the population by 1971 (Government of Goa, Daman and Diu 1971: 73). The government also promoted centrally planned construction projects of hundreds of units (Government of Goa, Daman and Diu 1971: 114). Finally, India had developed extensive experience in resettling populations, mostly as a result of the development of projects like hydroelectric dams. According to one study, India was second in the world only to China in the number of citizens relocated for development projects. It was estimated that between 1950 and 1990, New Delhi resettled 18,500,000 of its citizens (Asthani 1996: 1496). Great Power Support: In the decades following Indian occupation of Goa, New Delhi enjoyed a close relationship with the Soviet Union. Moscow supported India, specifically on the Goa, Daman and Diu issues, as part of its anti-colonial agenda and because Portugal was a NATO member. The Soviet–Indian relationship began flourishing in the mid-1950s.

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For the Soviets, India was a gateway to influence on the ‘non-aligned’ Asian and African states that were created in the process of decolonisation. Following the rift with China, beginning in the late 1950s, Moscow perceived a closer relationship with India as a potential balance against Beijing (Stein 1967: 165–6). For India, a closer relationship with the Soviets provided New Delhi with an important ally that supported its aspirations in the global arena. For example, in 1957 and 1962 the Soviets vetoed Security Council draft resolutions critical of India on the Kashmir question (Stein 1967: 171). A closer relationship with Moscow also aided India in its efforts to create a balance against both Pakistan and China. And finally, the Soviets were a source of much-needed material support. By 1961, the Soviet Union had committed to $500 million aid for India’s five-year plan (Stein 1967: 169). The early 1960s also saw the beginning of a close military relationship between the two. In 1962 the USSR agreed to sell India its most advanced military aircraft, the MiG-21, and to allow New Delhi to produce an Indian version of the plane (Graham 1964: 823). This was followed by Indian weapons-licensed production of Soviet arms, including advanced tanks and submarines (Chari 1979: 237). In the 1970s the relationship was further cemented with the 1971 Indo-Soviet Treaty of Friendship and Cooperation and a set of joint commissions that followed (Rao 1973: 793). Within the tenor of the existing relationship, the USSR was supportive of the Indian position regarding Goa. In April 1961, for example, Soviet Deputy Foreign Minister Zorin met a Goan activist in the United Nations and stated that, in support of the Indian position on Goa, his country would boycott Portuguese products (Gaitonde 1987: 144). It is therefore highly likely that had India wished to settle its citizens in Goa, the Soviet Union would have provided the necessary support. Legal Plausibility: India’s expansion into Goa enjoyed international legitimacy. First, the international norm of decolonisation secured the legitimacy of India’s control over the territory. A day after the launch of the Indian attack, on 19 December 1961, an overwhelming majority (90 to 3) of the United Nations General Assembly adopted Resolution 1699 (XVI) condemning Portugal (the side that was attacked) for its colonial policies. Within a few weeks, most states recognised the Indian annexation of Goa (Korman 1996: 270). The norm of decolonisation was powerful enough to deflect any costs for India for its breach of

Negative Cases 141 another significant international norm – the prohibition of the use of force in order to gain control over a territory. These norm-based considerations were central to Indian policy regarding expansion into Goa. Although as early as 1953 India realised that there was no bilateral diplomatic route to gaining control of the territories, only after decolonisation had become a recognised international norm in 1960 did it move to use force. In the debate at the United Nations Security Council, shortly before the attack on Goa, the Indian Ambassador stated: Resolution 1514 [the Decolonization resolution] . . . is the embodiment of that great leap forward in the public opinion of the world on these matters. There can be no getting away from that. Just as the process of decolonization is irreversible and irresistible, the embodiment of the principles on resolution 1514, which has been accepted by virtually every member around this table, is irresistible; one cannot go behind that now. That is the new dictum of international law. (Mezerik 1962: 20) Ethnic Affinity (the Brethren Factor): The official Portuguese census of 1960 found that there were 634,584 persons in Goa. The population consisted of ethnic groups similar to those to nearby states of the Republic on India, including ‘Aryans, Dravidians . . . Rajputs, Marathas, and Punjubis’ (Sarin 1973: 8). The one difference, however, between Goans and their immediate neighbours in the Republic of India was that about 30 per cent of the population was Roman Catholic, although the majority, as in India, were Hindus (Sarin 1973: 9). From Variables to Outcome: Why No Settlement Project? Being ethnically Indian, the majority of the population in Goa wanted to be part of India. Since the mid-1940s, Goans who resided in India had contentiously pressured the Congress party and later the Indian government to ‘free Goa’. Although a third of Goans were Roman Catholic, and although some had served in the colonial government, even some of the senior Portuguese officials in the region realised privately that the majority of the population identified itself as Indian. For example, looking back at his time in Goa, General e Silva (the commanding officer of the Portuguese forces in Goa) admitted that while in

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office he believed that most Goans were ‘pro-Indian’ (Gaitonde 1987: 139). Under these circumstances, and given the political and material resources needed, the Indian government saw no need to manipulate the composition of the population in the region, and therefore no settlement project was launched. CASE 2: LIBYA IN THE AOZOU STRIP (1973–94)

Why Expansion? At an unidentified time between April 1972 and the summer of 1973, Libyan forces entered the Aozou Strip, a 100,000 sq. km region of Chad. There are different accounts regarding the specific date of the Libyan operation. Sicker (1987: 94) suggests April 1972; Wright (1989: 130) suggests mid-1973. Libya held the territory for the next twenty-one years before it left, following a ruling of the International Court of Justice. The expansion was impelled by ideological, strategic and historical reasons, and it was made possible because of Chad’s internal weakness. Ideology Libyan expansion into Chad was driven by the pan-Arab and anticolonial elements of the Libyan regime’s ideology as part of its Third Universal Way (summarised in Muammar el-Qaddafi’s Green Book). The two-decade-long Libyan expansion into Chad remains to date the single greatest manifestation, measured in time and resources, of the regime’s four-decade-long proclaimed commitment to drastic changes in the Arab, Islamic and African arenas. Muammar el-Qaddafi rose to power in 1969, fuelled by a Nasser-like pan-Arab ideology with a vision of a single Arab political entity at its heart. When Nasser died in the autumn of 1970, el-Qaddafi began seeing himself ‘as the self-appointed guardian of Nasser’s legacy’ (Vandewalle 2006: 80). In the following two decades, especially in the regime’s early years, elQaddafi strove to politically unite the Arab world. In December 1969 Libya, Sudan and Egypt signed the Tripoli Charter, which united the three revolutionary regimes into an ‘Arab revolutionary front’ that was meant, in el-Qaddafi’s vision, to lead to political unification. In 1971 Libya, Egypt and Syria created the Tripartite Federation, which later

Negative Cases 143 that year led to the creation of the Federation of Arab Republics (St John 1987: 52–3). In August 1972 Egypt and Libya signed the Benghazi Declaration, in which they both committed to move swiftly towards unification. But inherent differences between the elites that signed these agreements meant that none of the agreements was to survive. Given the difficulties of fulfilling his vision in the Arab Middle East, el-Qaddafi turned his attention to his immediate African environment. Occupying northern Chad allowed el-Qaddafi to advance his ideological preferences in two ways. Firstly, it demonstrated the regime’s commitment to Arab and Islamic unity – the occupied region had been populated predominately by Muslims for generations. Burr and Collins (2006) suggest that ‘el-Qaddafi was convinced that Chad should be the Libyan extension of an Arab, Islamic frontier into the “Sahel”, savanna and forests that stretch from the Sahara to the heart of Africa’ (2006: 75). There was also a clear Islamic element to the Libyan position. In his own image, el-Qaddafi was to ‘continue the historic mission of the Arab on the frontier of Islam. Here in the Sahel, the historic course of Islam, denied by the Christian colonial powers in the nineteenth century, would now prove irresistible in its progress among the Africans in the twentieth century’ (Burr and Collins 2006: 77). Secondly, the Libyans saw their acts as part of their struggle against colonialism. In their own view, they were helping to erase the colonial legacy of an artificial border delineation created by two colonial powers: France controlling Chad, and Italy controlling Libya. It was also an anti-colonial crusade as Chad’s weakness caused it to depend heavily on its former colonial ruler, France. In the early 1970s, France still held a contingent of almost 2,000 soldiers in bases in Chad, and over the next two decades French soldiers would intervene numerous times to protect the regime. Therefore, el-Qaddafi repeatedly stated that fighting Chad would be another form of fighting colonial forces in the region. Strategic Reasons Libya’s Chad adventure was also a reflection of strategic impulses that had driven Libyan calculations for generations: ‘the rulers of Libya – Romans, Greeks, Berbers, Arabs, Turks, the Sanusiyya, and the Italians – all sought to expand their control of the hinterland in order to secure the coast, to protect the trans-Saharan caravan routes for trade and

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to acquire territory for imperial gratification. It was now the turn of Muammar el-Qaddafi’ (Burr and Collins 2006: 83). A foothold in Chad further served strategic goals unique to el-Qaddafi’s regime. Over the years, he had used the Aozou Strip as a base for further penetrations into Chad and other African nations. And, following a report produced by French geologists, el-Qaddafi believed that the territory had large deposits of uranium, which were important to a regime that considered (and indeed advanced) the development of a nuclear weapon. In fact, following the occupation he ordered prospecting for uranium in the Murzuk Depression and founded an Atomic Energy Commission in 1974 (Burr and Collins 2006: 92). How Expansion was Achieved – For a While Libya was involved in the internal Chadian crisis prior to its 1972 invasion. Although King Idris allowed the Chadian Muslim opposition organisation FROLINAT to base its headquarters in Tripoli and recruit young Chadians schooled there, he did not provide military support to the organisation, and he prevented the organisation from using Libya as a base for its armed operations. El-Qaddafi’s ascent to power in 1969 enhanced the extent of Libyan involvement in Chad. As noted, on top of the traditional ties between Tripoli and the population in northern Chad, el-Qaddafi saw actions in Chad as providing an opportunity to advance his revolutionary commitment and support his country’s strategic goals in the region. Initially, el-Qaddafi pursued an aggressive approach against Chad as part of his commitment to an anti-imperialist revolutionary change in the region. His intelligence services supported a coup d’état in August 1971 against Chad’s president. Chad cut diplomatic relations with Tripoli and invited Libyan opposition leaders to use Chad as their base. Libya retaliated by formally recognising FROLINAT and expanding support to the organisation. Libya then intensified its claim to the Aozou Strip and began circulating maps that showed the region as part of Libya. This tactic led Chad’s foreign minister Hassan Baba to warn in a speech at the General Assembly in the United Nations against ‘Libya’s expansionist ideas’ (Wright 1989: 129). Yet in the spring of 1972, the Libyan strategy changed. Tripoli moved to a charm offensive, organised around its desire to curb a Chadian– Israeli relationship, as part of its broader strategy of removing Israeli

Negative Cases 145 influence from Africa. In April 1972, Libya and Chad established diplomatic relations, and Libya committed to end its support for the Chadian Muslim FROLINAT. Tripoli also promised a $920 million aid programme to Chad. In November 1972 Chad terminated diplomatic relations with Israel, and in the following month Chad and Libya signed a ‘friendship agreement’. According to a number of sources, this warmer relationship included direct side payments to Chad’s president, François Tombalbaye (Neuberger 1982: 27–8, Wright 1989: 130). Within the context of this friendlier relationship, Libyan forces moved into the Aozou Strip in late 1972 (ICJ 1992: 301–10). Tripoli moved quickly to integrate the new territory. It established a large Maddrassa (Zawya), a religious, social and educational institution in the region’s largest town, Aozou. Libya further established an air force base in the region and, as noted, represented the Strip as Libyan territory on its maps. In 1976, Libya formally annexed the region (Neuberger 1982: 29–30). In 1975, Chadian president Tombalbaye was assassinated during a coup d’état. The new regime, led by former military chief of staff General Malloum, was composed of other Christian southern generals who legitimised their actions by suggesting that they had punished the late president for his weakness in defending the Aozou Strip (Neuberger 1982: 32). Libyan intervention in Chad’s internal affairs continued for the next fifteen years and included support for a variety of rebel groups (El-Khawas 1986: 144–6). By the late 1980s, the long war had weighed on Libya’s resources, and the regime was ready to change course. In 1989, Libya and Chad approached the International Court of Justice and asked it to determine who was the sovereign of the Aozou Strip. In 1994 the court determined that the region belonged to Chad, and Libyan forces left the territory. Independent Variables Legal Plausibility: Libya’s claim to the territory dated back to the era of the monarchy. King Idris’s claim was based on a border dispute that had its roots in two rounds of colonial border delineation. The first was a disparity between the 1898 British and French divisions of their respective zones in Africa. While the protocol that concluded the division included the present-day Aozou Strip, as part of the British sphere (later Libya), the map that was published in April 1899 and a­ ccompanied the

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agreement included the area in the French region (later Chad). The two parties formally resolved the matter in a post-World War I protocol, signed in 1919, which awarded the region to France (later Chad). The Italians, who controlled Libya after the war, challenged the border delineation and managed to secure its ‘return’ to their possession in the 1935 Laval-Mussolini Agreement. However, the French Parliament did not ratify the agreement, although this did not prevent Libyans from later claiming that it was in force (Sicker 1987: 95–6). Capacity: Libya’s institutional capacity to launch a massive population resettlement project was limited, at least until the late 1970s. A former Libyan planning official, Omar el-Fathali, suggested that el-Qaddafi and his associates had ‘power in their hands but scarcely a clue as to how to go about using it. They had imprisoned or disenfranchised . . . the people who could make commerce, industry, agriculture, or the machinery of government work’ (Cooley 1982: 131). El-Qaddafi specifically targeted the bureaucracy in his 1970s cultural revolution and launched in his five-point plan an ‘administrative revolution’ (Cooley 1982: 137) that led to frequent changes even in mid- and low-level civil service units. In 1978 el-Qaddafi extended his plan for ‘people’s committees’ – embedded in his Third Universal Way ideology – into the public bureaucracy, thus adding further inefficiencies (Sicker 1987: 22). Libya’s massive oil revenues allowed the regime virtually unlimited financial resources. Yet a bureaucratic culture that was subject to such extensive shocks, meant that ‘large scale investments were made without a really coherent plan’ (Sicker 1987: 29). Great Power Benefactor: Libya’s closest international ally was the Soviet Union. But Moscow was cautious and offered no clear support for Libyan expansion into Chad. For example, the communiqué which the Soviets issued following the Libyan leader’s visit to Moscow in 1981 was ‘lukewarm and specifically warned of the dangers inherent in an unstable Sahel’ (Ogunbadejo 1983: 166). Although the Soviets supplied much of the arms requested by Libya, ‘they refrained from further ties with Libya, perceiving it to be a problematic ally’ (Ronen 2008: 93). Soviet support was balanced by American and French efforts to contain Libya. These efforts included French force deployments in Chad, US sanctions on Libya and even limited use of force against Libya in the 1986 bombing of Tripoli and Benghazi (Ronen 2008: 41).

Negative Cases 147 Ethnic Affinity (the Brethren Factor): Although Libya was not a strong state upon gaining independence in 1951, its three regions (Fezzan, Tripolitania and Cyrenaica) shared language, religion, culture and a common recent history (under Italian rule), and all three benefited from oil revenues. Chad, on the other hand, was a far weaker state. Its borders were not shaped around any previous centre, but rather reflected the French colonial administrative choice of creating a single unit from all the regions that were not part of the other flanks of Paris’s African holdings (that is, North Africa, Central Africa). The nascent state was deeply divided between a northern Muslim population and a southern Christian population. French colonial control and development strategies further increased this divide. Paris used a differential strategy, and invested more of its resources in the south where most of the territory’s main commodity, cotton, was produced. These investments included infrastructure development, investment in education and recruitment to the various colonial bureaucracies, including the armed forces. The French also prohibited slavery, thus supporting the southerners against the northern slave owners. In contrast, the French invested far less in the Muslim north. The region offered few economic prospects for the colonial enterprise, and it was populated by a traditional society who opposed French education and institutions. This population was largely committed to local Muslim leaders, who were tied to the centres in present-day Libya, not Chad. France’s differential strategy was also, therefore, a result of the weakness of the southern society, which made penetration and control easier, as opposed to the northern Muslims, who continued to uphold a local political order that rejected western influences (Azevedo and Nnadozie 1998: 40–1). By the time of independence, then, Chad was composed of a newly upwardly mobile, Christian black population (mostly Sera) in the south, who held the most prominent positions in the civil service, armed forces and economic sectors; and a poorer, less educated but more socially cohesive Muslim populace, mostly Tebu, in the formerly dominant north (Wright 1989: 126). Material conditions may have intensified the conflicts – economic, cultural and social differences between these groups, in a resource-deprived environment, as Chad is still one of the poorest, least developed counties in the world, according to UN data (Azevedo and Nnadozie 1998: 67). Independence did not resolve, but rather intensified this internal

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tension between regions. The new regime lacked the French efficacy of controlling the Muslims in the north. Northerners strongly resented the ‘unschooled, inexperienced, and usually corrupt representatives of a southern, Sera-dominated administration, which owed its legitimacy to the French military conquest’ (Wright 1989: 127). These tensions erupted into a set of open civic and military challenges to the regime, including a 1965 tax revolt in the Guera, rebellions in Wadai in 1966 and in Salamat in 1967, and a region-wide rebellion by the Tebu in 1966. The brutal repression of the Tebu further fuelled northern opposition to the Chadian state. By 1969, ‘all northern, eastern, and central Chad was in a greater or lesser state of insurrection’ and the government survived only after France sent armed forces to assist the regime (Wright 1989: 128). As opposed to their weak allegiance to the Chadian state, the inhabitants of the Aozou Strip felt close to Libya. The Strip was settled by the Tebu tribal group, who showed allegiance to Libyan rulers, the religious order of Sanusi (as the Saharawis did to the Sultan of Morocco), who converted them to Islam in the late nineteenth century. Just as in the Moroccan case, Libya claimed that this age-old religion-based allegiance of nomadic tribes to a monarch who was also a religious figure was one legitimate basis for a claim of sovereignty in the age of the nation-state. And, as in the case of the Saharawis in Morocco and Western Sahara, the Tebu maintained their economic and social networks across borders, displaying a disregard for any limitations the nation-state placed on them (Berman 1986: 204). It was not only nomads in Chad who were tied to Libya, but also a large population in the urban centres. Over the centuries, Arabs emigrated south into present-day Chad and created a number of towns. When Chad gained independence in 1960, there were 400,000 Arab Muslims in its territory. While this population intermarried over the generations, their interrelationship with their former land, Libya, remained strong. Large sectors of the Arab population in Chad kept their political and religious allegiance to the Sanusis in Libya, and Libyans were tied to the Chadian hinterland. For example, the Sanusi leaders spent long stretches of time in Chad in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries as they eluded foreign invaders. As late as the 1950s, the governor of Fezzan in Libya had vassals and property in Kenam in Chad (Berman 1986: 205).

Negative Cases 149 From Variables to Outcome: Why No Settlement Project? Like Morocco, Indonesia and Israel (with regard to parts of the West Bank), Libya’s armed occupation of the Aozou Strip in 1972–3 was intended to permanently extend sovereignty into the new territory, as evident from the 1976 formal annexation of the region. Moreover, the Libyan case for expansion was legally plausible based on a colonialera agreement. In fact, Libya felt that its claim was strong enough that despite its image as a global pariah, it was the only post-1960 expansionist occupier that left the final decision about the fate of the desired territory completely in the hands of an international body when it approached the International Court of Justice in the late 1980s. Other expansionist occupiers accepted the role of the international community in determining sovereignty over an occupied region, but all turned to processes over which they had some control. This may also have contributed to the Libyan decision not to launch a project. As it based its claim in the International Court on legal grounds pertaining to past events (allegiance paid to the Sanusis in the nineteenth century and the 1935 French–Italian treaty), there was little manipulation it could have employed. Indeed, as expected, the Libyan focus was on the historical and legal arguments, and Tripoli invested significantly in making the best possible case. Its brief to the court was over 1,000 pages long and was thoroughly detailed and argued. In this sense, Libyan behaviour is in line with my argument; Tripoli’s efforts were directed towards the most relevant international arena, and the tools were calibrated to affect this arena most forcefully. The values on the three other variables clearly contributed to a non-case. As shown above, two of the conditions I identified earlier as driving settlement projects, capacity and great power benefactor, had low values. Even if the Soviets had backed Tripoli on the Chad issue, it is unclear that Libya actually needed an international cover for its actions. After all, Chad did not oppose Libya’s occupation of the region until the late 1970s. Most importantly, the strong ethnic, political and religious affinity between the Strip’s population and Libya, coupled with the former’s alienation from Chad, made any manipulation in the population’s composition unnecessary.

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Post-Colonial Settlement Strategy CASE 3: MAURITANIA IN WESTERN SAHARA

Why Expansion? Mauritania’s claim for all (and later part) of Western Sahara was based on an interpretation of its historical rights, as well as its immediate strategic calculations, mostly an effort to limit the possibility of Moroccan expansion into Mauritania. The strategic rationale for expansion into Western Sahara was rooted in Mauritania’s fears of Morocco’s territorial aspirations. As noted in Chapter 4, Allal al-Fassi’s vision of a Greater Morocco included expansion beyond Western Sahara to include all of Mauritania. Upon adopting this vision, Morocco acted accordingly. It established a Ministry for Saharan and Mauritanian Affairs, lured Mauritanian political activists to support Morocco’s cause, refused to recognise Mauritanian until 1970 and tried to prevent its acceptance into the United Nations. Morocco stated its intentions more than two years prior to Mauritania’s independence, when the Moroccan king invited a delegation of Mauritanian notables to a meeting, where he stated that he welcomed the notables ‘not as foreigners or guests, but to your nation and among your people and kin’ (Sa’d 1960: 16). Mauritania’s leadership was concerned that Moroccan control over Western Sahara would further strengthen Morocco’s inclination to expand into Mauritania. Such an action, Mauritania suspected, would strengthen the principle of Greater Morocco, with Mauritania as the next possible target; and Mauritania was concerned that a Moroccan Western Sahara would create a 1,500 km border between the two, whereas in the 1960s the two had not shared a border at all. Finally, Moroccan control over Western Sahara would provide Morocco immediate access to a Mauritanian economic lifeline, the Nouadhibou– Zouerate Railroad. This railway runs close to the border between Western Sahara and Mauritania and is the route by which 80 per cent of Mauritanian’s main export, iron ore, was transported (Pazzanita 1992: 284). Mauritania’s President Daddah reflected in the early years of his nation’s independence on his concerns about the powerful Morocco: Morocco is, as we are, an African country. A brother country, and a neighbor. It could have, as did Tunisia, played a role of older brother towards us, aiding us to accede to independence and

Negative Cases 151 guiding our first steps. Unfortunately, it did not do so. (Gerteiny 1967: 199) Mauritanian Expansion Mauritania’s claim changed over time. Initially, between independence in 1960 and 1974, Mauritania claimed all of Western Sahara. However, after reaching an understanding with Morocco in 1974, it reduced the claim to only the southern part of the territory. Finally, in 1979, when the burden of the war in the Sahara led to regime change, Mauritania withdrew all its claims to the territory. Moreover, unlike most other cases analysed in this book, Mauritania’s territorial designs did not enjoy broad support beyond the political centre around its first president, Ould Daddah. The southern black population of Mauritania did not share the affinity shared by the northern Arab/Moorish groups of the north and did not want Mauritania to expand and include more Arab/Moorish citizens, which would shift the demographic balance against them. Even among the northern Arab/Moorish tribes, the strong sense of affinity with the tribes in Western Sahara was translated, among some sectors in Mauritania, not as support for territorial expansion but rather as identification with the POLISARIO. Indeed, a few thousand Mauritanians joined the POLISARIO in fighting against the Mauritanian government. Almost a decade of Mauritanian–Moroccan tension ended in 1969 when Morocco recognised Mauritania and withdrew its territorial claims to it (Mohamedou 1996: 79). In 1974 Mauritania joined Morocco and Spain in signing the Madrid Agreement, and in 1975 its forces entered the southern part of Western Sahara. Shortly afterwards, the region was formally annexed to Mauritania. But Mauritania was ineffective in dealing with the POLISARIO’s armed resistance. The war weighed on the regime, and in 1979 the military deposed the president in order to halt the conflict. Later that year, Mauritania abandoned its territorial claims and its forces left the region. Independent Variables Legal Plausibility: Beginning in 1960, Mauritania laid claim, like Morocco, to the entire territory of Spanish Sahara. But unlike Morocco, Mauritania could not point to a past Mauritanian political centre that

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had previously controlled Western Sahara. Like Morocco, Mauritania used a non-Western concept of sovereignty as a basis for its claim. Mauritania laid out its most articulate case for expansion into Spanish Sahara in the submission it made to the International Court of Justice in 1975. In the memo it presented, Mauritania claimed that prior to Spanish and French colonisation of the region there existed a ‘Mauritanian entity’ called Bilad Shinguitty that encompassed both present-day Western Sahara and Mauritania. While not a nation-state in the modern or Western sense, Bilad Shinguitty, argued Mauritania, ‘constituted a distinct human unit, characterized by a common language, way of life, religion . . . and social structure’. This unit was ‘in the eyes both of its own inhabitants and of the Arabo-Islamic ­communities . . . a distinct entity’ (ICJ 1975: 58). Mauritania admitted that Bilad Shinguitty was not ‘endowed with international personality’ but rather was a ‘nation’ or ‘people’ that were united by ‘historical, religious, linguistic, social, cultural and legal ties’ (ICJ 1975: 58). Capacity: Mauritania gained its independence from France in late 1960. Its population of 890,000 was largely nomadic, contributing to the weakness of the central government. The new country suffered from a serious ‘economic upheaval’ and ‘lack of a trained labor force’ (Gerteiny 1967: 187). Bennoune (1978) commented that Maurtiania’s social infrastructure ‘was extremely backward’ (8). For example, he reported that as late as 1957, only 7 per cent of its school-age children attended classes (8). In many other post-colonial nations the armed forces filled this gap in governance, but as late as 1975 Mauritania had only a tiny army of 2,000 people (Jourde 2010: 1). State weakness was also a result of the state’s colonial history. Mauritania was a purely post-colonial creation, as until 1946 it was part of French-controlled Senegal. Even when the French administratively separated the two, the country was still run from Senegal, hindering the development of a strong local bureaucratic class (Gerteiny 1967: 116–17). Great Power Benefactor: Mauritania enjoyed French support from the time of its creation, and it benefited from an ‘extensive French technical assistance program’ (Gerteiny 1967: 204). France expanded its support to direct military contributions to the war in Western Sahara, when French planes provided air support for Mauritania’s ground forces (Handloff 1988).

Negative Cases 153 From Variables to Outcome: Why No Settlement Project? Mauritania did not launch a settlement project in the southern region of Western Sahara (which it had annexed) because of its own perceptions of the loyalties of the population in the target territory, as well as a low value on the capacity factor. As noted above, Mauritania’s leadership believed that the close ethnic affinity between the Arab/Moorish tribes of Mauritania and Western Sahara would lead the latter to vote in favour of unification with Mauritania should a referendum take place (Weddady 2009). Over 80 per cent of Mauritania’s population was comprised of Moorish tribes that extended into Western Sahara, and all shared the same language and culture of Hassaniya (Eagleton 1965: 46). Mauritania also lacked the basic conditions for a settlement project, as it did not have a firm control over the territory it had annexed. Indeed, the POLISARIO was highly effective in conducting desert warfare and was able to operate effectively not only in Western Sahara but also deep into Mauritanian territory. In 1978, the organisation even attacked Mauritania’s capital and shelled the presidential palace with mortar fire (Bennoune 1978: 50). Finally, Mauritania did not have the basic capacity to carry out a settlement project. It was a weak state and had no agencies that could support a population transfer on the scale undertaken by Israel, Morocco or Indonesia. SUMMARY AND IMPLICATIONS

India, Libya and Mauritania all sought permanent territorial expansion into territories they occupied in 1961, 1973 and 1975 respectively. Moreover, just like the three states that did launch settlement projects and have been discussed here – Israel, Indonesia and Morocco – the ‘non-case’ states gained independence in the post-colonial era, and all based their territorial claims on a combination of ‘historical rights’ and strategic realities. Yet, unlike the previous cases discussed in this book, none of them launched a settlement project. One similarity between the three non-cases is their high score on the brethren factor. Goans had a strong affinity to India, Saharawis a strong affinity to the inhabitants of Mauritania, and Chadian citizens, who resided in the Aozou Strip, a strong affinity to Libyans. All three

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occupiers did not need, therefore, to manipulate the composition of the population in the respective target territories. In at least the case of India, the ethnic affinity coincided with the occupier’s effort to adhere to international norms. Not only did India operate within the new norm of decolonisation, but also New Delhi rightly believed that the principle of self-determination would secure its sovereignty over the occupied territory. After all, the local indigenous Indian population in Goa supported Indian expansion and was a primary driver for the removal of Portuguese control and incorporation into India. Values on another variable also add to these states’ decisions not to launch settlement projects. The state of Mauritania was a weak social institution with no capacity to launch a project, and Libya scored low on the variables of capacity and great power benefactor. These findings allow me to add to and refine my argument in a number of ways. Firstly, these three cases demonstrate the significance of the brethren factor. When there was close ethnic affinity between an occupier and the local population, no settlement project was launched. Secondly, these cases support an important element of my argument – post-colonial expansionist states sought international approval to secure permanent expansion. Even Libya, commonly portrayed as an international pariah and the occupier that met with the least resistance from the occupied, admitted publicly that its control over the Aozou Strip did not give it title to the region (ICJ 1992: 301–10). Also, settlement projects are more likely to appear in cases where the acceptable legitimating mechanism offers more opportunities for manipulation. Mechanisms that are largely impervious to manipulation (like adjudication) had a lower likelihood of producing a settlement project. States could still try to manipulate them, but the tools of manipulation would not include a settlement project. One example is the 1973 letter from Chad’s President Tombalbaye to el-Qaddafi, which Libya presented only in the late 1980s, accepting Libya’s annexation of the Aozou Strip. The exceptional circumstances that surrounded the letter led a number of scholars to doubt its authenticity and suggest that Libya had forged this ‘legal’ evidence. With these refinements of my argument in mind, I turn now to the concluding chapter.

Conclusion 155

6 CONCLUSION

Although social scientists prefer to analyse change, this book has investigated continuity. It explains why a small number of states continued a largely obsolete and normatively prohibited practice and, in the second half of the twentieth century, launched new settlement projects in territories beyond their sovereign borders. The book shows that states launched these projects in an attempt to legitimise their territorial expansion into areas they had occupied. During the twentieth century, the norms of sovereignty changed. Forceful occupation and control of the land were no longer sufficient to secure sovereignty. For this to happen, the international community had to accept territorial expansion. States that sought expansion – such as the ones discussed in this book – had to not only gain control of the territory but also take steps that would legitimise their actions in the eyes of the international community. Settlement projects were, therefore, a rationalist bargaining tool to secure legitimacy. The specific mechanisms that states believed would lead to international acceptance of territorial expansion changed from case to case. After fifteen years of occupation, Morocco accepted an OAU–UN plan that called for a referendum to determine the fate of Western Sahara. Its settlement project solution was to inject settlers who would vote in the expected referendum and allow it to secure legitimacy. Israel accepted a UNSCR resolution that created the principle of territorial compromise as the general standard for international legitimacy for its territorial expansion. The specifics were to be hammered out in a negotiation between Israel and Arab countries. Israel’s settlement project, at its outset, was therefore a rationalist bargaining move, aimed at affecting the outcome of the anticipated internationally sanctioned negotiations. Indonesia’s project was aimed at legitimising Jakarta’s control over the region by

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demonstrating to the international community that the settlers played an important role in the development of an under-developed region. In all three cases, past experiences and an understanding of what the international community required affected the choice of a settlement strategy. In choosing settlements Zionists believed that the lines of previous international partitions (in 1937 and 1947) were determined by their settlement strategy. Indonesians turned to the familiar development strategy their state had been employing since its colonial phase, and Moroccans took the right of self-determination seriously as it had led to their independence only a few decades earlier. The book further identifies the four variables that lead to a state’s decision to launch a settlement project, and argues that these are necessary conditions. An absence of one of them meant that even when states sought expansion, they did not launch a settlement project. The first of these conditions is a legally plausible case, grounded in international norms, for the settling state’s claim for sovereignty over the contested territory. The legally plausible case created not only an opportunity for internationally accepted expansion, but also an incentive for the settling states to affect the interpretation or implementation of these norms. Secondly, the choice to launch a project was based on the existence of the material and institutional capacity to carry out large development projects. By the time it launched the settlement project in East Timor, Indonesia had a seventy-year-old institution, the Department of Transmigration, which was created under the Dutch colonial rule and designed to relocate populations from the centre to the country’s periphery. Similarly, Israel benefited from the settlement department of the Jewish Agency, which had decades of experience in developing new settlements on the periphery. Morocco relied on its Department of Public Works or Promotion Nationale (PN) to develop residences for its settlers, and also to provide them with employment opportunities. It seems that the more well-established the institution entrusted with the settlement project, the greater the number of settlers as a portion of the general population. Israel had the strongest set of settling institutions, and indeed by 1977 over 100,000 Israelis, out of some 3,000,0000, relocated to newly developed settlements beyond the 1949 borders. Compare this to the 100,000–200,000 in East Timor in 1999 (out of 205,000,000 Indonesians) and to the 150,000 out of 27,000,000 in Morocco in the mid-1990s. In contrast, states that had a limited capac-

Conclusion 157 ity, most notably Mauritania in Western Sahara, and to some extent Libya, did not launch a settlement project. Thirdly, a great power benefactor which deflected the international costs of settlement activity: in all three cases of projects analysed here, the United States provided the ‘cover’ for the expanding state. Although Washington did not specifically sanction settlement projects, its support for Moroccan, Israeli and Indonesian control over contested occupied territories allowed all three to launch settlement projects in those territories. Later on, the United States actively deflected international efforts against these settlement projects. For example, the book details American vetoes of UN Security Council resolutions condemning Israel for its actions in the West Bank and Gaza. Again, the strength of great power support correlates to the relative size of the settlement project. Israel’s project met the most significant international opposition of the three, yet, because Israel was closest to the United States, compared to Morocco and Indonesia, it managed to develop the largest project. Finally, states launched projects when they had a low level of ethnic affinity (the brethren factor) with the indigenous population in the target territories. Conversely, as the previous chapter shows, a high level of affinity between Mauritania and the Saharawis, between Libya and the inhabitants of the Aozou Strip, and between India and the Goans contributed to the fact that these nations did not launch settlement projects. See Table 5.1. By developing this explanation, the book makes four contributions. Firstly, it identifies post-colonial (after 1960) settlement projects as a distinct cluster of cases that warrants its own separate explanation. In doing this, the book breaks with the (limited) existing work on some of these projects, which generally has analysed them as driven by traditional colonial logics. The book highlights, therefore, that although aspects of these modern settlement projects may look like traditional settler colonial projects, they are different. There are, in fact, two separate sets of motivations at play: a logic of colonialism versus a logic of current settlements. Traditional colonialism was practised (mostly) by established European powers such as Spain, Portugal, Britain, France, Holland, Belgium and Germany between the sixteenth century and the middle of the twentieth century, with Japan joining towards the end of this period. The new category the book identifies occurred after 1945 and relates to newly created states, not great powers – states that

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Table 5.1  Summary of Cases, Variables and Outcomes Legal Capacity US Support Low ethnic Outcome plausibility affinity (the brethren factor) Israel (West Bank, Gaza) Morocco (Western Sahara) Indonesia (East Timor) Mauritania (Western Sahara) Libya (Aozou Strip) India (Goa)

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

Y

N

N

N

N

Y Y

Y Y

N Y

N N

N N

themselves were created by decolonisation. This temporal framework matters, as in the traditional era of colonisation this state behaviour was an accepted international norm. The new logic – the one of postcolonial settlement projects – occurs when the normative framework no longer accepts this behaviour. Moreover, the book argues that as all these projects unfolded they were aimed at affecting the international community, rather than any internal economic or political development. All the states analysed here drew their legitimacy from the post-1945 international norms of self-determination and decolonisation, and all sought similar legitimacy for their newly occupied regions rather than relying on power (that is, physical control of the contested territories) alone. Traditional colonialism was driven by competition for resources, markets and prestige. Post-colonial projects are associated with a state’s desire to expand in the context of newly secured independence, and could be understood as a territorial manifestation of modern post-colonial nationalism. In all cases, this nationalism did harp back to some ancient form of political sovereignty, which was part of their basis of legitimacy as new states. Traditional colonialism occurred in regions far away from the European (and later Japanese) metropolis and the colonial region. Post-colonial settlement projects occurred in the immediate proximity of the metropolis; indeed, in areas adjacent to the territory of the controlling state. In short: post-colonial settlement projects reflect a new logic, a new mode, all conducted by a new set of actors who operate in a new normative environment.

Conclusion 159 Secondly, the book advances a rigorous explanation of these cases. With the exception of Lustick’s work, no single study in political science until now has systematically examined and offered a theory that explains settlement projects of the current era. The volume edited by Haklai and Loizides (2015) presents cases of settlement projects; however, coming from a comparative tradition, the focus of the researchers in the volume (myself included) is on common patterns. My work comes from an IR approach, and aims to offer a broad theory that explains the launch of these projects. Thirdly, the book has introduced the international environment (its norms as well as the distribution of power) as an important independent variable, thus breaking with the tradition of explaining these projects as resulting mainly from a state’s internal or bicommunal variables. Although states move populations internally for a variety of reasons (such as development), in this book I refer to settlement projects as sustained clusters of policies by which states strategically planned, implemented and supported the permanent transfer of some of their nationals into contested territories they controlled. Finally, and in a broader sense, the book serves as reminder of the significance of political demography in understanding political processes. The book echoes calls by others such as Kaufman and Duffy-Toft (2011): ‘demography must be considered a major driver of politics alongside classic materialist, idealist and constructivist perspectives’ (4). While much of the work in the field of political demography focuses on demographic trends and their long-term effects, this book highlights a strategy of population distribution within the context of an international conflict. CAVEATS

The argument advanced in this book needs to be qualified. Firstly, it explains a state’s choice to launch a project, not its further development. The human and material reality of settlement projects, once launched, created new interests and new alliances that had a significant effect on the later evolution of those projects. Beyond the path-dependent nature of the evolution of these projects (Mendelsohn 2016), these new interests, in numerous cases, collided with the interests of the states that initiated the projects. Indeed, at times, settlers directly challenged the state. For example, both in 2001 and 2005, the Moroccan settlers

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rioted against the states that deployed them in Western Sahara in an effort to secure more resources. Similarly, the Jewish settlers in the West Bank developed their own preferences, which led, at times, to direct confrontations with the state and its organs. For example, the Israeli police had to place extra security near the private residences of a number of senior officials that managed Israeli affairs in the West Bank (the civil administration, police and internal security service) when settlers threatened them following a government decision to freeze Israeli settlement activity in the autumn of 2009. This is not to say that states are bound to collide with the settlers they send, as was the case, for example, in the British colonial settlement project in the United States. In some of the strategic settlement projects, settlers develop strategies to ameliorate the challenge they pose to states, as Mendelsohn (2014) has shown regarding the Israeli settlement project. Secondly, my work explains a contained cluster of cases: those that were launched after the UN’s 1960 Decolonization Declaration. Incidentally, in all the cases, the settlement project was launched by post-colonial states. The book does not claim (although it may be able to do so) to explain other types of projects. For example, both China and Russia had large imperial-like settlement projects dating back to the nineteenth century, with some threads (for example, Tibet) continuing today. Perhaps my work can explain parts of these projects, but I suspect that as a result of the different international systems in which these projects were launched, as well as the differences between these old imperial states and post-colonial states, my explanation is limited. The Chinese project of settling Han people in Tibet is somewhat similar to the projects I am describing in this book. However, it began in an era (pre-1960) in which the prohibition against these projects was not as strong. Indeed, some European powers still have colonies. Moreover, China’s size and location in the international system meant that it was far less concerned with securing international legitimacy for its territorial expansion into Tibet. Finally, my book argues that a state’s choice to launch a settlement project was a result of an adjustment to international realities. However, the specific methods chosen by states to develop these projects were affected by local conditions, including past institutional arrangements. For example, Indonesia wanted to highlight its civilising mission in East Timor, and it chose to do so by employing a traditional Indonesian institution: transmigration. The latter allowed Jakarta to show that the

Conclusion 161 farmer settlers were helping the ‘backward’ Timorese farmers to better utilise their lands. Similarly, Israel’s defense minister, Moshe Dayan, shared in a 1969 speech the reservoir from which he took his ideas. In taking action that would affect the outcome of a future negotiation, the first steps, according to Dayan, should be ‘the traditional Israeli strategy – settlements’ (Dayan 1969: 163–4). The Libyan negative cases serve to show that resources, and not only institutional heritage, can affect the strategy adopted in order to secure international legitimacy. Mineral-rich Libya used side payments as an important tool of foreign policy, especially in Africa, and indeed sought to use the same tool in the case of Chad. The question at the heart of this work – why did states launch settlement projects in defiance of international norms and practices? – is a subcategory of the broader issue of compliance in international affairs. As noted, modern-day settlement projects are a breach of a specific regulative norm, the prohibition in Article 49 of the 1949 Fourth Geneva Convention relative to the protection of civilian persons in the time of war, which states: ‘The occupying power shall not deport or transfer parts of its own civilian population into the territory it occupies.’ The explanation offered in this book moves beyond the compliance/ non-compliance dichotomy and offers a third, perhaps more nuanced, possibility. At times, I suggest, states breach a regulative norm (the prohibition on settlement activity) in order to affect the outcome of the implementation of a constitutive norm (determination of sovereignty over a territory). Morocco transferred thousands of its citizens to an occupied region not because of its disregard for international law, but quite the opposite: it did so in order to better position itself in international law. This behaviour is akin to an athlete taking steroids: she is breaking the regulative norms regarding steroid use in order to secure a positive outcome when the norm that constitutes triumph is employed. The book further suggests that territorial expansion is not always a result of a pre-planned nationalist vision. As evident in Israel, Morocco and Indonesia, the state did not initially plan to expand its territory, but rather did so over time as it aligned with forces that emerged during the pre-state era of national liberation. Indonesia’s Sukrano was not interested in territorial expansion, but Suharto’s effective fight against the Communist party, which supported his predecessors, unleashed a nationalist agenda that had been buried since the early days of modern Indonesian nationalism. Similarly, the Moroccan monarchy

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adopted Allal al-Fassi’s expansionist ideas only in moments of crisis (in the 1950s and 1970s). The issue of territorial expansion exposes a tension between the nationalist ideology that propelled the creation of post-colonial states like Israel, Morocco, Indonesia and Libya, and the interests of the states that this nationalism begot. For now, this idea is merely an intuition, but I intend to investigate it further. Thirdly, the book highlights the significance of a better understanding of temporality in international relations. As Hom and Steele have observed recently, ‘the concept of time has only recently begun to receive attention in IR’ (2010: 274). The book opens a path for further enquiry into two temporal questions. The mechanism I identified is triggered by the states’ response to a long time horizon stretching from the moment of occupation of a territory to the moment of final decision over its fate. Further work could explore, for example, how different notions of time (realism’s cyclical time versus religious eschatological time, for example) may have affected decisions about launching settlement projects. A second temporal issue highlighted here is the effect of the time when states were created on their behaviour. All settlement projects discussed here were conducted by post-colonial states within the first two decades of gaining their independence. These are states that had conflicting temporal sources for their legitimacy. On the one hand, they looked back on an ancient, almost mythological, grandiose past, and on the other hand, they drew their legitimacy from the modern norm of self-determination. Further research could explore how these notions of their history, and more specifically, their understanding of the moment in time they were reincarnated (within the post-colonial world) may have affected their decision to expand and to use settlements. Such an enquiry can compare expansionist and settlement projects of post-colonial states to those of more traditional imperial states such as Russia and China. The book also has potential implications for policy. Although territorial expansion contributes less to international conflict than a century ago, it should still be of interest to scholars of international relations. Firstly, there are a number of ongoing conflicts revolving around territorial issues; Israel–Palestine is one of them. Secondly, there is evidence that territorial conflict could still be an important driver of armed conflicts. The demise of the Soviet empire, for example, left a legacy of conflict, and potential conflicts, over territories. The ongoing occupation of parts of Azerbaijan by Armenia, the 2008 Russian–Georgian war

Conclusion 163 and the 2010 internal crisis in Kyrgyzstan are all results of contested Soviet-era border delineations. More generally, global warming may expose parts of the ice caps to interstate territorial conflicts. Assuming, therefore, that interstate territorial conflicts are here to stay, and that settlement projects serve as a barrier to resolving them, I suggest that my insights may help to inform policy regarding settlements. If indeed stimuli from the international system led states to launch settlement projects, then perhaps the same system could produce stimuli that would prevent the launch of projects. Two obvious possible levers that are highlighted in this text are the legally plausible argument for expansion (or lack thereof), and a superpower benefactor. Specifically, if international entities offered a clearer determination regarding sovereignty of a disputed territory, thus annulling any ­possible legal claim for a territory, it would most likely limit the motivation of states to launch settlement projects in these contested regions. Moreover, this could be done, for example, by determining what areas of a specific region could never become part of the territory of an occupying force, and thus at least limiting the areas where occupying countries might consider launching a project. Secondly, the great powers, the United States in our case, have protected settling states from the costs of their actions, thereby enabling them. I have suggested here that in the American case, this was a result of power distribution and superpower rivalry during the cold war. Indeed, since the cold war ended, no new settlement projects have been launched. Under American pressure, Israel has created no new formal settlements since 1992. And the United States has diminished its ‘protection’ of violators of the norm against settlements. Therefore, a sterner opposition from the great powers could minimise this phenomenon.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

ARCHIVES Beit Berl, Israeli Labor Party Archive (BBA) Israel State Archive (ISA) Yad Tabenkin Ha’Kibbutz Ha’Meuhad Archive (YTA) INTERVIEWS AND TRANSCRIPTS Arnon, Michael, Cabinet Secretary (1973), transcript of testimony in front of the Agranat Commission, 17 December 1973. Benvenisti, Meron, Deputy Mayor of Jerusalem (2009), interview, Cambridge, MA, 31 March 2009. Boukhari, Ahmad, POLISARIO representative to the United Nations (2009), New York, 23 April 2009. Bundy, McGeorge, US National Security Advisor (1969a), transcript, Oral History Interview I, 1/30/69, Paige E. Mulhollan, LBJ Library: (accessed 14 December 2008). Bundy, McGeorge, US National Security Advisor (1969b), transcript, Oral History Interview III, 3/19/69, Paige E. Mulhollan, LBJ Library: (accessed 14 December 2008). Eiran, Amos, Director General, Prime Minister’s Office, Israel (2009), interview, Newton, MA, 25 September 2009. Eladr, Akiva, Haaretz journalist (2009), phone interview, 19 November 2009. Elansari, Brahim, Saharawi activist (2009), interview, Syracuse, NY, 25 March 2009. Farsakh, Nizar, Negotiation Support Unit, Palestinian Authority (2009), interview, Cambridge, MA, 25 August 2009.

Bibliography 165 Harel, Yisrael, First Secretary-General, Yesha Council of Settlers (2003), interview, Jerusalem, 13 November 2003. Kerry, John, US Secretary of State (2016), transcript of remarks on Middle East Peace, Washington, DC, 28 December 2016, (accessed 21 October 2018). Khazmo, Wassim, Negotiation Support Unit, Palestinian Authority (2009), interview, Cambridge, MA, 18 December 2009. Liberman, Yehuda, Chairman, Karnei Shomron Regional Council (2003), interview, 14 November 2003. McNamara, Robert S., US Secretary of Defense (1975), transcript, Oral History Interview I, 1/8/75, Walt W. Rostow, LBJ Library: (accessed 14 December 2008). Miller, Aaron David, Advisor to US Secretary of State (2009), interview, Cambridge, MA, 6 May 2009. Rontzki, Avichai, Israeli Chief Military Rabbi (2003), interview, Jerusalem, 15 November 2003. Rusk, Dean, US Secretary of State (1970), transcript, Oral History Interview IV, 3/8/70, Paige E. Mulhollan, LBJ Library: (accessed 18 December 2008). Schneller, Otniel, Director General, Yesha Council of Settlers (2003), interview, Jerusalem, 12 November 2003. Sharon, Omri, member of Knesset and son of Ariel Sharon (2007), interview, Tel-Ha’Shomer, Israel, 17 May 2007. Sofer, Arnon, informal advisor on demography to Ariel Sharon (2007), interview, Haifa, Israel, 15 May 2007. Vaitzen, Yaacov, former assistant to Rabbi Kook (2003), interview, Psagot, West Bank, 20 November 2003. Valerstein, Pinchas, Head of Regional Council Binyamin, Secretary-General Yesha Council of Settlers (2003), interview, Ofra, West Bank, 20 November 2003. Weddady, Nasser, Mauritanian Maghreb activist (2009), interview, Cambridge, MA, 11 October 2009. Zomlot, Husam, UN Office of the Special Coordinator in the Occupied Territories, PLO representative to the UK (2010), interview, Cambridge, MA, 17 February 2010. Two other interviews, one with Libyan officials and one with Indonesian officials, could not be quoted, per their requests. The interviews serve as background only.

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Centre of South Asian Studies, Cambridge University, Oral History Collection, (accessed 21 October 2018). Fischer, Louise (2007), Moshe Sharet Rosh Ha’Memshala Ha’Sheni: Mivhat Teudot Me’Pirkey Hayav 1894–1956 (Moshe Sharet: The Second Prime Minister, selected documents 1894–1956), Jerusalem: Israeli State Archives. Foreign Relations of the United States series, vols XX and XIX (FRUS) (2004), Johnson Administration, Washington, DC: United States Government Printing Office, (acc­ essed 15 December 2008). Government of India (1962), ‘Prime Minister on Goa’, New Delhi, External Publicity Division, Ministry of External Affairs. Gusamo, Xanana (2005), Timor Lives: Speeches of Freedom and Independence, Alexandria, New South Wales: Longueville. Kreiger, Heike (1996), East Timor and the International Community: Basic Documents, International Documents Series, vol. 10, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lammfromm, Arnon, ed. (2002), Levy Eshkol: Rosh Ha’Memshala Ha’Shlishi: Mivhat Teudot Me’Pirkey Hayav (The Third Prime Minister: A Collection of Primary Sources from His Life, 1895–1967), Jerusalem: Israeli State Archives. Modelski, George, ed. (1963), The New Emerging Forces: Document on the Ideology of Indonesian Foreign Policy, Canberra: Department of International Relations, The Australian National University. National Security Archive (2005), ‘A Quarter Century of US Support for Occupation’, (accessed 21 October 2018). National Security Archive (2008), ‘The Indonesia/East Timor Documentation Project’, (accessed 21 October 2018). UN General Assembly, official records: Fifth Emergency Special Session Supplement no. 1 (A/6798), (accessed 21 October 2018). UN Security Council (1967), Resolution 242, 22 November 1967, (accessed 21 October 2018). UN Security Council (1972), S/10784, 10 September 1972, (accessed 21 October 2018). UN Security Council (1973), S/10974, 24 July 1973, (acc­es­ sed 21 October 2018). UN Security Council (1975), Draft Resolution S/11898, 5 December 1975, (accessed 21 October 2018). UN Security Council (1976a), Draft Resolution S/11940, 23 January 1976, (accessed 21 October 2018). UN Security Council (1976b), Draft Resolution S/12022, 24 March 1976, (accessed 21 October 2018). UN Security Council (1976c), United Nations Security Council Draft Resolution S/12119, 29 June 1976, (accessed 21 October 2018). Way, Wendy, ed. (2000), Documents on Australian Foreign Policy: Australia and the Indonesian Incorporation of Portuguese Timor, 1974–1976. Carlton City, Victoria: Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade and Melbourne University Press. DOCUMENTS Jewish Agency Rural Settlement Department and World Zionist Organization, Settlement Department (1987), Be’Mahshava Ahat Kadima: Mif’al Ha’Hityashvut Likrat Atid Batuach Im Pitach, Hakogress Ha’Tziyoni Ha’Olami Ha’Yud Alef (Thinking Ahead: Towards the Settlement Project and a Safer Future with Development), 31st World Zionist Congress, Jerusalem, 6–10 December. Tabenkin, Yitzhak (1967), Ein le’an La’seget (Nowhere to withdraw to), Lemerhav and the Efal Center. Wheeler, Earle G. (1967), ‘Memorandum for the Secretary of Defense: JCMS373-67’, 29 June, Journal of Palestine Studies 13:2 (winter 1984), 122–6. PRESS (HEBREW) Arieli, Shaul (2009), ‘Bli Hithakmuyot’ (No Cheating), Haaretz online, 2 July (accessed 3 December 2017). Gorenberg, Gershon (2008), ‘Rabotai, Historiya Kozeve’ (Gentlemen, History Repeats Itself), Haaretz online, 29 September (accessed 26 October 2008). Harel, Yisrael (2008), ‘Glamim Sh’Kamu Al Yotzram’ (Puppets That Turned Against Their Creators), Haaretz online, 4 December.

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Shavit, Ari (2009), ‘Tishkehu Me’Hatizyonut’ (Forget about Zionism), Haaretz Online, August 5, (accessed 10 December 2009). PRESS (ENGLISH) Aissani, L., and M. Idriss Al Basri Chafa (2004), ‘The Third Way Is a Foreign Idea and Will not Settle the Conflict in Western Sahara’, El Khabar (Algeria), 7 December, (accessed 5 February 2009). Al-Ayam (2003), ‘Interview with Dris Basri’, (accessed 5 February 2009). Algazi, Gadi (2006), ‘Offshore Zionism’, New Left Review 40, (accessed 15 December 2009). Bases, David (2010), ‘UN’s Ban Says Morocco, Polisario Still Deadlocked’, Reuters, 7 April. Canales, Pedro, and Driss Basri (former Moroccan Minister of Interior) (2006), ‘The Men of POLISARIO Are Honest and Faithful to Their Cause’, La-Razon (Spain), 14 April, (accessed 5 February 2009). Cohen, Gili, Yotam Berger and Jack Khoury (2017), ‘Palestinian Stabs Three Israelis to Death during Family Meal in Settlement Home’, Haaretz, 22 July, (accessed 13 December 2017). Giniger, Henry (1975), ‘Moroccans Plan March in Sahara’, New York Times, 17 October. Hanegbi, Haim (2003), ‘Cry, the Beloved Two-State Solution’, Haaretz interview, (accessed 5 November 2018). Hess, Amina (2009), ‘Israel Has Made Settlers of All Its Citizens’, Haaretz, 9 December, Jenkins, David (1997), ‘Alatas Cites History in East Timor Conundrum’, Sydney Morning Herald, 13 September. Kamm, Henry (1975), ‘Morocco’s Big Gamble’, New York Times, 31 October. Khouri, Rami (2009), ‘Zionist Colonialism, Palestinian “Trauma”’, Agence Global, 5 August (accessed 7 August 2009). Maghri, Aniss (2001), ‘Interview with Abdellatif Guerraoui’, L’Economiste, 19 December, (accessed 22 February 2009). Mundy, Jacob (2006), ‘How the US and Morocco Seized the Spanish Sahara’, Le Monde Diplomatique, online English language edition (January), (accessed 4 March 2009).

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Gezel Ha’Karkaot: Mediniyut Ha’Hitnahlut Ba’Gad Ha’Ma’aravit (Land Grab: Israeli Settlement Policy in the West Bank) (2002), Tel Aviv: B’Tselem. Horowitz, Dan (1982), Ha’Kavua Ve’Ha’Mistane Be’Tfisat Ha’Bitahon Shel Yisrael (Change and Continuity in Israel’s Security Doctrine), Policy Paper 4, Jerusalem: The Leonard Davis Institute for International Relations, Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Peace Now (1983), Kol Ma Shelo Ratzita La’Daat Al Ichlus Hagada (Everything You Did Not Want to Know about the West Bank’s Population). Peace Now (1992), Irpul Mehuvan: Sikum Peulut Ha’Memshala Ba’Hitnahluyot Ba’Gada Ha’Maarvit U’Bertzuat Aza Bi’Shnat, 1991 (Intentional Fog: A Summary of the Government’s Activities in the West Bank and Gaza in the Year 1991). Rot, Anat (2005), Sod Ha’Koach: Moetzet Yesha U’Ma’avaka Neged Gader Ha’hafrda Ve’Hatintkut (The Secret of Power: The Yesha Council and Its Struggles against the Separation Fence and the Disengagement), Jerusalem: Israel Democracy Institute, Policy Paper 61. Shalev, Arye (1979), Ha’Otonomya: Beayot Ve’Pitronot Efshariyim (The Autonomy: Problems and Possible Solutions), Tel Aviv: Center for Strategic Studies, Tel Aviv University. Sherman, Neal, and Vered Avner (1995), Medadim Le’Ha’aracht Hatzlahatam Shel Yeshuvim Hadashim (Indicators for the Successes of Rural Settlements), Rehovot: World Zionist Organization. State of Israel (1990a), Hakamat Ha’Yeshuv Beitar (The Development of the Settlement of Beitar), 41st Yearly Report, pp. 155–63. State of Israel (1990b), Ha’Moatzaqm Ha’Mekomit Kiryat Arba (The Local Council of Kiryat Araba), 41st Yearly Report, pp. 860–75. State of Israel (1991), Hevrot Meshaknot Ve’Sidrey Peulatan (Settling Corporations and Their Procedures), 42nd Yearly Report, pp. 173–83. State of Israel (2000), Bikoert Al Hakamat Sh’hunat Tel TzionBa’Yeshuv Kohav Ya’acov (Audit of the Development of the Tel Tzion Neighbourhood in the Settlement of Kohav Ya’Acov), 51st Yearly Report, pp. 398–405. State of Israel, Comptroller (1988), Ha’Mionhal Ha’Ezrahi: Ha’Mahlak Shel Ha’Yoetz Le’Inyaney Aravim (The Civil Administration: The Department of the Advisor for Arab Affairs), 39th Yearly Report, pp. 917–21. State of Israel, Ministry of Interior (1971), Peulot Misrad Ha’Panim (Actions of the Ministry of Interior). SPEECHES, LECTURES, PRESENTATIONS (ENGLISH) ‘East Timor: Land of Home’ (1990), Second Symposium on Timor, President’s Office, Oporto University, 28 April –1 May. Fafo (2000), Social and Economic Conditions in East Timor, seminar, UD, 26 April.

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184

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Admoni, Yehiel (1992), Asor Shel Shikul Da‘at: Ha-Hityashvut me-‘ever la-Kav ha-yarok 1967–1977 (A Decade of Discretion), Tel Aviv: Ha’Kibutz Ha’Meuhad. Allon, Yigal (1959), Masakh Shel Chol (A Curtain of Sand), Tel Aviv: Ha’Kibutz Ha’Meuhad. Allon, Yigal (1989), Ba’Hatire El Ha’Shalom (In Search of Peace), Tel Aviv: Ha’Kibutz Ha’Meuhad. Allon, Yigal (1990), Be’Tahbulot Milhama (Contriving Warfare), Tel Aviv: Ha’Kibutz Ha’Meuhad. Arieli, Shaul (2006), Tafasta Me’rube Lo Tafasta: Gishot Ba’ma’avak Al Gvuloteha Shel Yisrael (Going for ‘All’, Leaving with Nothing: Approaches in the Struggle for the Borders of Israel), Tel Aviv: Karmel. Arieli, Shaul, and Michael Sfrad (2008), Homa U’Migdal: Gader Ha’hafra Bitakhon O Hafrada (The Wall of Folly), Tel Aviv: Yediot Aharonot. Armoni, Ora (2008), Haver Ve’Ish Sod: Shihot Im Sini (A Confidant and a Friend), Tel Aviv: Ha’Kibutz Ha’Meuhad. Aviner, Shlomo (1999), Am Ve’Artzao: Thiyat Ha’Uma Be’Artza (A People in Its Land: The Revival of the Nation on its Land), Bet-El: Sifriyat Hava. Bar-Tal, Daniel (2007), Lihkyot Im Ha’Sikhsukh: Nituakh Psikhology-khevrai Shel Ha’Khevra Ha’Yehudit Be’Yisrael (Living with Conflict: Socio-psychological Analysis of the Jewish Society in Israel), Tel Aviv: Karmel. Bavli, Dan (2002), Chalomot Ve’Hizdamnuyot She’Humetzu (Dreams and Missed Opportunities 1967–1977), Tel Aviv: Karmel. Ben-Gurion, David (1967), Pgishot Im Manhigim Araviyim (Talks with Arab Leaders), Tel Aviv: Am-Oved. Bentov, Mordechai (1971), Yisrael, Ha’Palestinaim, Ve’Hasmol (Israel, the Palestinians, and the Left), Tel Aviv: Sifriyat Poalim. Benvenisti, Meron (1973), Mul Ha’Homah Ha’Sgura: Yeruskhlaim Ha’Hatzuya Ve’Hameuhedet (The Torn City: The Divided and United Jerusalem), Jerusalem: Weidenfeld and Nicolson. Benvenisti, Meron (1981), Yerushalaim Ir U’Beliba Homa (The Peace of Jerusalem), Tel Aviv: Ha’Kibutz Ha’Meuhad. Benziman, Uzi (1973), Yerushalyim: Ir Lelo Homa (Jerusalem: A City without a Wall), Tel Aviv: Schoken. Berda, Yael (2013), The Bureaucracy of the Occupation: The Permit Regime in the West Bank, 2000–2006, Tel Aviv: The Van Leer Institute and Ha’Kibutz Ha’Meuhad. Bier, Aaron (1981), Ha’Hityashvut (The Settlement), Jerusalem: Eli. Biger, Gideon (1983), Moshavat Keter O Bait Leumi: Hashpa’at Ha’Shilton Ha’Brity Al Erezt Yisrael, Bhina Geografit Historit, 1917–1930 (The Crown’s

Bibliography 185 Colony or a National Home: A Historical and Geographical Review of the Effect of the British Rule in Erezt-Yisrael 1917–1930), Jerusalem: Yad Itzhak Ben Zvi. Biger, Gideon (2001), Erezt Rabat Gvulot: Mea Ha’Shanim Ha’Rishonot Shel Tihum Gvulotieiha Shel Eretz-Yisrael 1847–1947 (Land of Many Boundaries: The First Hundred Years of the Delimitation of the New Boundaries of Palestine-Eretz Israel, 1840–1947), Sde Boker: Ben-Gurion University Press. Brawer, Moshe (1988), Gvulot Erezt-Yisrael: Avar, Hove, Atid: Heibetim Geographim Medinatiyim (Israel’s Boundaries: Past, Present, Future: A Study in Political Geography), Tel Aviv: Yavne. Cohen, Yeruham (1973), Tokhnit Allon (The Allon Plan), Tel Aviv: Ha’Kibutz Ha’Meuhad. Dayan, Moshe (1969), Mapa Hadash: Yahaim Hadashim (New Map: New Relationship), Tel Aviv: Ma’ariv. Dayan, Moshe (1976), Avnei Derekh (Moshe Dayan: The Story of My Life), Tel Aviv: Idanim-Dvir. Eban, Abba (1978), Pirkei Haim (Life Chapters), Tel Aviv: Maariv. Elitzur, Yuval (1997), Lohama Kalkalit (Economic Warfare), Tel Aviv: Kineret. Engelman, Lior (2006), Kisufim: Pirkei Hitbonenut Emunit Be’Ikvot Akirat Ha’Yeshuvim Be’Gush Katif (Yearning: Chapters in Emunic Reflection following the Settlement Removal from Gush Katif), Bet El: Hava Press. Erez, Ya’acov, and Ilan Kfir (1981), Sikhot Im Moshe Dayan (Conversations with Moshe Dayan), Givatayim: Masada Books. Feige, Michael (2002), Shtei Mapot La’Gada: Gush Emunim Ve’Itzuv Ha’Merhav Be’Yisrael (One Space, Two Places: Gush Emunim, Peace Now and the Construction of Israeli Space), Jerusalem: The Hebrew University Magness Press. Gal-Nur, Itzahk (1994), Ve;Shavu Banim Le’Gvulam: Ha’hachrato Al Medina Ve’Shtahim Ba’Tnua Ha’tziyonit (Territorial Partition: Decision Crossroads in the Zionist Movement), Sde Boker: Ben-Gurion University Press. Gazit, Shlomo (1985), Ha’Makel Ve’Hagezer: Ha’Mimshal Ha’Yisreali Be’Yhuda Ve’Shomron (The Stick and the Carrot: The Israeli Administration in Judea and Samaria), Tel Aviv: Zmora-Bitan. Gazit, Shlomo (1999), Ptaim Be’Malkodet: 30 Shnot Mediniyut Yisrael Ba’Shtahim (Trapped: 30 Years of Israeli Policy in the Territories), Tel Aviv: ZmoraBitan. Gluska, Ami (2004), Eshkol Ten Pkuda: Tzahal U’Memshelet Yosraerl Ba’Derech Le’Milhemet Sheshet Ha’Yamim 1963–1967 (Eshkol Give the Order: Israel’s Army Command and Political Leadership on the Road to the Six Day War 1963–1967), Tel Aviv: Ministry of Defense Press. Goldstein, Yossi (2003), Eshkol: Biographiya (Eshkol: Biography), Jerusalem: Keter.

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Goldstein, Yossi (2006), Rabin: Biographiya (Rabin: Biography), Jerusalem: Schoken. Gvati, Chaim (1981a), Mea Shnot Hityashvu (A Hundred Years of Settling), Tel Aviv: Ha’Kibutz Ha’Meuhad. Gvati, Chaim (1981b), Sipur Ch’ay (My Life’s Story), Tel Aviv: Ha’Kibutz Ha’Meuhad. Harnoi, Meir (1994), Ha’Mitnachlim (The Settlers), Tel Aviv: Ma’ariv. Huberman, Hagai (1994), Yehudim Be’Aza (Jews in Gaza), Netzarim: The Center for Jewish Heritage in Gaza. Huberman, Hagai (1997), Netzarim: Mediniyut Memshelet Yisrael Be’Hakamt Netzarim Ve’Gush Katif (Netzarim: Israel’s Government Policy in Creating Netzarim and Gusg Katif), Netzarim: Netzarim College. Huberman, Hagai (2008), Keneged Kol Ha’Sikuyim: Sipur Ha’Hityashvut Ha’Yehudit Be’Yehuda, Shomron, Binyamin Ve’Habik’a Tashkav-Tashsav (Against All Odds: The Story of Jewish Settlement in Judea, Samaria, Benjamin and the Valley, 1967–2007), Jerusalem: Netzarim Press. Huberman, Hagai (2013), Hanan Porat: Sipur Hayav (Hanan Porat: A Biography), Tel Aviv: Yediot Aharonot. Kam, Ephraim, ed. (1974), Husayn Poteah Be’milhama (Hussein Opens War), Tel Aviv: Misrad Ha’Bitahon. Kark, Ruth, ed. (1990), Geulat Ha’Karaka Be’Erezt Yisrael: Ra’ayon U’Maase (Redemption of the Land of Israel: Ideology and Practice), Jerusalem: Yad Itzhak Ben Zvi. Katz, John (2006), Ha’Yona Sh’Kashla: Bein Yaring Le’Rogers: Medinay Yisrael Bein Yozmot Ha’Tivuckh Shel Memshelet Artzot Ha’Brit Ve’Ha’Um (The Dove that Failed: Between Jarring and Rogers – Israel between Mediation Initiatives of the US Government and the UN), Tel Aviv: Yaron Golan. Katz, Yossi (2000), Medina Ba’Derech: Ha’Tochniyot Ha’Tziyoniyot Le’Halukat Ha’aretz U’Lehakamat Maedina Yehudit (A State in the Making: Zionist Plans for the Partition of Palestine and the Establishment of a Jewish State), Jerusalem: The Hebrew University Magnes Press. Kimmerling, Baruch (2004), Mehagrim, Mityashvim, Yelidim: Ha’Medina Ve’Hahevra Be’Yisrael Bein Ribuy Tarbuyot Le’Milhemet Tarbut (Immigrants, Settlers, Natives: The Israeli Society between Cultural Pluralism and Cultural Wars), Tel Aviv: Am Oved. Komam, Yitzhak (2003), Haaretz LeGvulotiha Saviv (The Land and Its Boundaries Round About), Jerusalem: Ministry of Education. Maimon, David (1993), Ha’Terror She’Nutzach: Dikuy Ha’Teror Be’Retzuat Aza 1971–1972 (The Vincible Terror: Repressing Terrorism in the Gaza Strip 1971–1972), Stimatzki: Rishon Le’Tzion. Meir, Yedidya and Sivan Rahav-Yedidya (2006), Yamim Ktumim: Ha’Hitnatkut,

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INDEX

A page number in bold indicates a table. Akiva, Eldar, 19 Alatas, Ali, 114 Algeria, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 94 Allon, Yigal, 18, 44–5, 47, 54, 58, 63, 67, 68, 70 Allon Plan, 44–5, 47, 63, 68–9 Anti-Colonial Movement of Indonesia (GPKI), 111 Aozou Strip, Chad ICJ’s ruling on the Aozou Strip, 145, 149 legal plausibility for Libya’s annexation, 145–6, 149 Libya’s expansion into, 142, 145, 149 see also Chad; Libya Atzili, Boaz, 21, 36 Australia, 111, 115, 121 Baba, Hassan, 144 backward induction, 62, 82 Barkey, Karen, 14 Barter, Shane Joshua, 19, 118 Barwick, Garfield, 111 Basri, Dris, 105–6 Begin, Menachem, 82 Ben Aharon Commission, 18 Ben-Gurion, David, 59, 60, 67, 78 Bennoune, Mahfoud, 152 Benvenisti, Meron, 16, 17, 64–5 Bilad Shinguitty, 152 border fixity norm of the Aozou Strip, 146 in the Gaza Strip and West Bank, 53

regional conflicts and, 29, 36 term, 21 brethren factor, 2, 31–2, 34 see also ethnic affinity (brethren factor) British Empire, 13–14 Bundy, McGeorge, 73 Burr, J. Millard, 143 Cavanagh, Edward, 11 Chad Chadian Muslim FROLINAT, 144, 145 ethnic affinity with Libya, 147–8, 149 French differential colonial strategy in, 147 ICJ’s ruling on the Aozou Strip, 145, 149 legal plausibility for Libya’s annexation of the Aozou Strip, 145–6, 149 Libya’s expansion into the Aozou Strip, 142, 145, 149 Libya’s expansion strategy, 144–5 Libya’s ideological motivations for expansion into, 142–3 Libya’s state capacity for expansion into, 146 Libya’s strategic reasons for expansion into, 143–4 regional tensions within, 147–8 relations with France, 143 relations with Israel, 144–5 see also Aozou Strip, Chad; Libya

Index 197 Chavan, Shankarrao, 137–8 Collins, Robert, 143 colonialisation, 12, 20 see also decolonisation Committee Investigating the Preparations for Indonesian Independence (BPUPK), 108–9 Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE), 28 conflict inadmissibility of title by conquest, 26 international prohibition on the use of force for territorial expansion, 25–9 interrelationship with geography and demography, 33–5 popular sovereignty concept and, 26 prolongation of due to settlement projects, 3–5 territorial expansion through force, 21–9, 22–3 wars and territorial redistribution (1651-2000), 26 Cote, Isabelle, 19, 118 cultural path argument, 17–18 Daddah, Moktar Ould, 150–1 Dayan, Moshe, 58, 59, 62, 64, 68, 70, 75, 80 decolonisation border fixity norm and, 53 of East Timor, 110–11, 112–13 General Assembly Resolution 1514, 86, 120, 135–6, 141 international decolonisation norm, 86–7, 99, 120, 135–6, 137, 140–1, 157–8 Libya’s ideological motivations for expansion into Chad, 143 norm of decolonisation and India’s annexation of Goa, 140–1, 154 of Portuguese territories, 112–13 principle of partition for, 51–2 self-determination within, 120–1 of Spanish Sahara, 87, 99–100, 104–5 Dinstein, Yoram, 26 Doar, Yair, 64 Doyle, Michael W., 34 Duffy-Toft, Monica, 159

East Timor Australian stance on, 111, 115, 121 civil servant settlers, 117 decolonisation of, 110–11, 112–13 ethnic makeup of, 113 geography of, 108 Indonesian invasion of, 108 Indonesian military intelligence and, 116 Indonesian settlers in, 116–20 Indonesian sovereignty claims via the transmigration programme, 127 Indonesia’s claim to, 110–12, 114–16 lack of ethnic affinity with Indonesia, 124–5 legal plausibility for Indonesia in, 120–2 numbers of settlers, 118–20, 119 political elite, post-independence, 113–14 political instability following the Indonesian withdrawal, 6 Portuguese East Timor, 108, 110–11, 113 referendum on, 37–8 self-determination and the transmigration programme, 128–9 self-determination in, 120–1 spontaneous transmigrants, 122–3 transmigration programme to, 117–18, 122–3, 125, 126 the US’s stance on Indonesian expansion into, 121, 123–4 Eban, Abba, 59, 60, 61, 75, 80 economic explanations, 12, 20 Egypt Benghazi Declaration, 143 joint Israeli/French/British attack against, 78 relations with Israel, 54 relations with Jordan, 42 return of the Sinai Peninsula to, 61 Rogers Plan for Israeli-Egyptian hostilities, 49 Tripoli Charter, 142–3 Elson, Robert E., 112 Eshkol, Levi, 43–4, 45, 53–4, 55, 58–9, 61, 67–8, 70, 72, 78–9

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ethnic affinity (brethren factor) as independent variable for settlement projects, 31, 34 between India and Goa, 141–2 between Indonesia and East Timor, 124–5 between Israel and the populations of Gaza and the West Bank, 57, 82 and lack of settlement programme, 153–4 between Libya and Chad, 147–8, 149 between Mauritania and the Western Sahara, 151, 153 between Morocco and the Western Sahara, 102–3 settlement projects and, 157 ethnic cleansing, 36–7

possibility of negotiated agreement on, 53–4 sovereignty of, 51–2, 58–9 status after the Six Day War, 42–4, 52–3, 58 Gazit, Brigadier General Shlomo, 47–8 Geneva Convention, Article 49(6), 3, 11 genocide, 35 Ghandi, Mohandas Karamchand, 132–3 Goa annexation of Dadra and Magar Haveli, 136 ethnic affinity with India, 141–2 eviction of the Portuguese from, 134–5 Indian expansion into, postindependence, 131–4 legal plausibility for India in, 140–1 liberation movement in, 132–3 norm of decolonisation and India’s annexation of, 140–1, 154 under Portuguese rule, 131–4 see also India Goertz, Gary, 7, 9 Goldberg, Arthur, 75 Gordon, Neve, 37 Goulding, Sir Marrack, 5 Great Britain, 13–14, 51 great power benefactors French support for Mauritania, 152 as independent variable for settlement projects, 2, 31, 34, 157 Libyan/Soviet relations, 146, 149 the USA and Indonesian expansion into East Timor, 121, 123–4 the USA and Israeli settlement, 56, 71, 72–6, 78–80, 82–3 the USA and Morocco’s expansion into Western Sahara, 100–1, 107–8 Greenhill, Kelly M., 37 Grotius, Hugo, 24, 34 Gush Emunim, 14, 15, 50 Gvati, Chaim, 49

al-Fassi, Allal, 89, 90, 150 el-Fathali, Omar, 146 Fazal, Tanisha, 36 Fearon, James D., 16 Fernandes, James, 132 Ford, Gerald, 123–4 France alliance with Israel, 78 colonial differential strategy in Chad, 147 colonial enclaves in India, 133, 134 relations with Chad, 143 relations with Libya, 146 support for Mauritania, 152 Franco, Francisco, 86, 92 FROLINAT, 144, 145 Galbraith, John S., 13–14 Galili, Yisrael, 49, 63–4, 68, 72 game theory, 62 Gaza Strip under the Allon Plan, 44–5 border status, 53, 58 geography of, 42 Israeli settlement strategy for, 47–9, 63, 68, 83 Israeli settlements in, 47, 48 Israel’s ethnic affinity with the population of, 57, 82 Kfar Darom, 49 legal plausibility for, 51, 69, 82

Hague Regulations (1907), 11, 26 Haklai, Oded, 2, 3, 11, 19, 31, 159 Hammoudi, Abdella, 93 Hanegbi, Haim, 17 Harel, Yisrael, 15 Hassan II, 88, 91–3, 98–9, 105

Index 199 Hassner, Ron E., 3–4, 36 Hathaway, Oona, 25, 27 Hertzog, Dr Yaakov, 54 Herut, 42, 43 Herzel, Theodor, 60 Hess, Amira, 17 Hussein of Jordan, 54, 68 India abandonment of non-violence strategy for Goa, 136–8 diplomatic negotiations with the Portuguese over Goa, 133–4 ethnic affinity in Goa, 141–2 expansion into Goa, postindependence, 131–4 French colonial enclaves in, 133, 134 international profile, 136 lack of settlement programme, 141–2 legal plausibility for in Goa, 140–1 norm of decolonisation and the annexation of Goa, 140–1, 154 Soviet Union as great power benefactor, 139–40 state capacity in Goa, 139 variables and outcomes, 158 see also Goa indigenous populations, 4 Indonesia Anti-Colonial Movement of Indonesia (GPKI), 111 Australia’s stance on the incorporation of East Timor, 111, 115, 121 claim on East Timor, 110–12, 114–16 Committee Investigating the Preparations for Indonesian Independence (BPUPK), 108–9 Dutch colonial resettlement programs, 18, 122, 123, 125, 156 expansionist policy under Suharto, 112 Greater Indonesia ideology, 108–10, 112 impact of Portuguese regime change on territorial expansion, 112–13 institutional capacity, 18, 117 lack of ethnic affinity with the East Timorese, 124–5

legal plausibility for Indonesia in East Timor, 120–2 military intelligence on East Timor, 116 settlers in East Timor, 116–20 sovereignty claims via transmigration programme, 127 state capacity, 18, 117, 122–3 transmigration programme, 117–18, 122–3, 125, 126 the USA’s stance on Indonesian expansion into East Timor, 121, 123–4 institutional capacity as independent variable for settlement projects, 2, 18, 156–7 of Indonesia in East Timor, 18, 117 Israeli settlement projects, 15–16, 18 see also state capacity International Court of Justice (ICJ) adjudication processes, 33, 37, 38 advisory opinion on Morocco’s claims to Western Sahara, 98–9, 100 Mauritanian submission to for sovereignty of Western Sahara, 152 ruling on Libyan annexation of the Aozou Strip, 145, 149 international environment decolonisation norm, 86–7, 99, 120, 135–6, 137, 140–1 and the Israeli settlement project, 20–1, 59–62 legitimacy claims for sovereignty, 30, 155 prohibition on the use of force, 25 self-determination, 25, 30, 92, 120–1, 127–8 settlement projects and, 3, 20–1, 156, 159 state expansion regulation, post-WW II, 21–6 international interaction, term, 33 international law conquest/occupation distinction, 26 force as means of territorial expansion, 24–9 as independent variable for settlement projects, 2, 12, 154

200

Post-Colonial Settlement Strategy

international law (cont.) legal plausibility for India in Goa, 140–1 legal plausibility for Indonesia in East Timor, 120–2 legal plausibility for Libya’s expansion into Aozou Strip, 145–6, 149 legal plausibility for Mauritania in Western Sahara, 151–2 legal plausibility for Moroccan expansion into Western Sahara, 98–100 legal plausibility for settlement projects, 31, 32, 33 legal plausibility for the Israeli settlements, 51–4, 69, 82 international security studies (ISS), 34–5, 38–40 Israel annexation of Jerusalem, 61 internationally sanctioned negotiations and settlement strategies, 53–4, 62–3, 64, 68–9, 72, 74, 76, 80 partition according to ethnic lines possibility, 39, 82, 83–4 political status of the West Bank and Gaza Strip, post-Six Day War, 42–4, 52–3, 58 relations with Chad, 144–5 relations with Egypt, 54 relations with France, 78 relations with Jordan, 42, 43, 54, 68 relations with the Soviet Union, 59–60, 61, 74, 75, 78 Rogers Plan for Israeli-Egyptian hostilities, 49 the two-state solution, 4–5, 9 US policy towards Israel’s border security, 73–4 USA’s veto of UN Security Council drafts on Israeli territories, 73, 74–5, 76–8, 77 variables and outcomes, 158 withdrawal from Sinai, 59–60, 61, 78 Israeli settlements under the Allon Plan, 44–5, 63, 68–9 audience-costs argument, 16–17

bilateral/bicommunal approach, 19–20 budget allocation between agencies (1967-73), 70 cultural path argument, 17–18 economic explanations, 20 Galili Document, 68 Gush Emunim as non-state actor in, 14, 15–16 initial concealment of, 71–2 institutional capacity, 15–16, 18 institutionalisation of, 68, 69–71 the international environment and, 20–1, 59–62 internationally sanction negotiations and settlement strategies, 53–4, 62–3, 64, 68–9, 72, 74, 76, 80 Israeli/Zionist settlement activity, 55 land acquisition framework, 71 legal plausibility for, 51–4, 69, 82 and negotiations over the West Bank boundary, 6 Oslo Paradox and, 83 population movements, 50 settlement as border demarcation strategies, 62–8 as settler-driven expansion, 14, 15–16 settlers as veto players, 4–5 shadow of the law form of, 63–4 state capacity, 54–6 USA as great power benefactor, 56, 71, 72–6, 78–80, 82–3 USA’s formal opposition to, 81–2 see also Gaza Strip; Jerusalem; Jordan Valley; West Bank Israeli-Palestinian Oslo peace process, 4 Jarring, Gunar, 62 Jerusalem under the Allon Plan, 45 annexation of, 45, 61 Israeli development project in, 45–6 Israeli settlement strategy for, 63, 83 Jewish population in, 45, 46 new neighbourhoods, 45, 46, 64–5 the Rogers Plan and, 64–5 Jewish Agency activity in Gaza, 47 early settlement activity, 54–5, 55

Index 201 role in state capacity for settlement activities, 54, 55–6 Settlement Department, 18, 47, 55, 67, 69, 70–1, 70 Johnson, Lyndon B., 54, 73, 78 Jordan relations with Egypt, 42 relations with Israel, 42, 43, 54, 68 Jordan Valley under the Allon Plan, 44 Israeli settlement strategy for, 47, 63 Israeli settlements in, 47, 48, 69 NAHAL corps outposts, 47, 69 Kaufman, Chaim, 35–6, 65, 159 Kent, James, 25 Khouri, Rami, 11 Kimmerling, Baruch, 14 Kissinger, Henry, 62, 123–4 Kollek, Teddy, 46 Kontorovich, Eugene, 3 Lacina, Bethany, 16 Lalonde, Suzanne, 21 League of Nations, 27, 51 Lenin, Nikolai, 11–12, 27 Levine, Alicia, 5 liberal internationalism, 27 Libya Benghazi Declaration, 143 ethnic affinity with Chad, 147–8, 149 expansion into the Aozou Strip, 142, 145, 149 expansion strategy in Chad, 144–5 ICJ’s ruling on the Aozou Strip, 145, 149 ideology for the political unification of the Arab world, 142–3 lack of settlement programme, 149 legal plausibility for annexation of the Aozou Strip, 145–6, 149 relations with the Soviet Union, 146, 149 relations with the USA, 146 state capacity for territorial expansion, 146 strategic reasons for expansion into Chad, 143–4 Tripoli Charter, 142–3

variables and outcomes, 158 see also Aozou Strip, Chad; Chad Limaye, Madhu, 132 Lohia, Dr Ram Manohar, 132 Loizides, Neophytos, 2, 3, 11, 31, 159 Lustick, Ian S., 2, 3, 5, 11, 21, 159 Mahoney, James, 7, 9 Malik, Adam, 114 Maoz, Ze’ev, 67 Mauritania claim to Western Sahara, 94, 150, 151 control of Western Sahara under the ‘Tripartite Agreement’, 87 ethnic affinity between Mauritania and Western Sahara, 151, 153 fears over Morocco’s territorial aspirations, 150–1 France as great power benefactor, 152 lack of settlement programme, 153 legal plausibility for expansion into Western Sahara, 151–2 Morocco’s claims too, 88, 89, 91, 92 POLISARIO and, 151 state capacity of, 152 variables and outcomes, 158 McHugo, John, 25 McMahon, Matthew, 24 McNamara, Robert, 73, 74 Mearsheimer, John, 4–5 Meir, Golda, 68 Meron, Dr Theodor, 71–2 methodological approach, 6–7 Miller, Aaron, 81 MINORSU (United Nations Mission for Referendum in Western Sahara), 5 Morocco bilateral/bicommunal approach, 20 claim to Mauritania, 88, 89, 91, 92 claims to Algerian Sahara, 88, 91, 92 cultural path argument, 18 economic explanations, 20 ethnic affinity with Saharawis, 102–3 Greater Morocco national ideology, 88–9, 150 the Green March, 87, 93 Hassan II’s expansionist policy, 92–3 ICJ’s advisory opinion on claims to Western Sahara, 98–9, 100 income from phosphate exports, 93–4

202

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Morocco (cont.) the international environment and, 21 legal plausibility for expansion into Western Sahara, 98–100 Mauritania’s fears over territorial aspirations of, 150–1 Muhammad V’s expansionist policy, 89–91 negotiations with POLISARIO over the referendum in Western Sahara, 94–6 POLISARIO, 30, 38 state capacity for territorial expansion, 102 USA’s support for expansion into Western Sahara, 100–1, 107–8 US–Moroccan Treaty of Peace and Friendship (1836), 101 variables and outcomes, 158 see also Western Sahara Mourdani, Benny, 116 moves away from the table, 30, 38–9 Moynihan, Daniel Patrick, 107–8, 124 Muhammad V, 88, 89, 91

Newman, David, 6, 15, 67 Nixon, Richard, 75 non-sovereign territories, term, 32

NAHAL corps, 47, 69 Nasser, Gamal Abdel, 78, 90, 138, 142 NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization), 136 negotiations on the Gaza and West bank territories, 6, 53–4 between India and Portugal over Goa, 133–4 internationally sanctioned negotiations and Israeli settlement strategy, 6, 53–4, 62–3, 64, 68–9, 72, 74, 76, 80 as legitimacy process, 37 moves away from the table, 30, 38–9 prolongation of due to settlement projects, 5–6 Rabat-POLISARIO over the referendum in Western Sahara, 94–6 shadow of the law, 30, 39, 63–4 US support for Israel’s direct negotiation policy, 72, 74, 76, 80 Nehru, Jawaharlal, 135, 136–7, 138 the Netherlands, 18, 122, 123, 125, 156

occupation-with-intention-to-annex, 7 Organisation of African Unity (OAU), 28, 29, 94, 105, 106 Oslo Paradox, 83 Ottoman Empire, 14, 27, 51 Palestine border demarcation of, 65–7 British Mandate over, 51 Israeli-Palestinian Oslo peace process, 4 the two-state solution, 4–5, 9 UN’s partition of, 51–2 UN’s Special Commission on Palestine Majority Report (1947), 65–6 Zionist movement settlements in, 54 Peled, General Elad, 43 Peled, Yoav, 17 peripherally driven expansion argument, 13–14 POLISARIO, 30, 38, 87, 94–6, 101, 151 population movements, 35 Portugal the Carnation Revolution, 112 colonial enclaves in Goa, 131–5 decolonisation of its territories, 112–13 NATO’s unwillingness to support over colonies, 136 Portuguese East Timor, 108, 110–11, 113 post-colonial settlement audience-costs argument, 16–17 authoritarian governments and, 16–17 bilateral/bicommunal approach, 13, 18–24 brethren factor, 31–2 case selection, 2–3, 6–9 cultural path argument, 17–18 economic explanations, 20 existing explanations for, 12–13, 13 great power benefactor, 2, 31, 34 institutional path-dependent explanation, 18

Index 203 internal explanations, 13–18, 13 the international environment and, 20–1 lack of economic motivation for, 12 legal plausibility factors, 31, 32, 33 legitimacy claims for sovereignty, 30, 155 mechanisms for conferring legitimacy on territorial expansion, 37–8, 38, 155–6, 157–9 peripherally driven expansion argument, 13–15 state capacity to carry out, 31, 33 as strategic, non-imperialist expansion, 11–12 el-Qaddafi, Muammar, 142–3, 144, 146, 154 Rabin, Yitzhak, 21, 68 Ram, Moriel, 37 Ramos-Horta, José, 113, 114 Rane, Pratapsingh, 132 Raz, Avi, 61 realist–liberal debate, 39–40 referenda East Timor, 37–8 as legitimacy process, 37 time needed for, 37–8 on the Western Sahara, 5, 21, 38, 94–6, 99, 100, 103–6, 128 Reuveny, Rafael, 11 Rogers, William, 49, 62, 75 Rogers Plan, 64–5 Ronen, David, 19 Ross, Dennis, 4 Rusk, Dean, 74, 75 Sahara Liberation Army (SLA), 86 Saharawi Arab Democratic Republic (SADR), 94 Salazar, António de Oliveira, 111, 133, 138 Sambanis, Nicholas, 35–6 Saragon II, 19 Schelling, Thomas C., 38–9 Sebenius, James K., 38 Selassie, Haile, 29 settlement projects as colonialist expansion, 11, 12

defined, 1–2, 32 to ensure legitimacy for territorial claims, 155–6 international environment and, 3 necessary conditions for, 2 occupying expansionist and settlement projects (1960-91), 8 population transfer and, 36–7 prohibition of under the Geneva Convention, 11 prolongation of conflict and, 3–5 prolongation of negotiations due to, 5–6 theoretical explanation, 3–4 see also post-colonial settlement settler communities as barriers to international conflict resolution efforts, 5 counter-claims, 14 in East Timor, 116–20, 121–2 ethnic affinity, 31–2, 34 peripheral actors’ role in territorial expansion, 13–16 presence of and long-term stability of negotiated arrangements, 6 relations with the settler state, 4–5, 159–60 social control of the settled area, 19–20 tensions with the indigenous populations, 4 see also ethnic affinity (brethren factor) settler states relations with the settler communities, 4–5 term, 33 Shafir, Gershon, 15, 17 Shapiro, Scot J., 25, 27 Sharon, Ariel, 48, 83 Shelef, Nadav G., 42 Silva, General Manuel António Vassalo e, 131, 141–2 Sisco, Joseph, 59 Six Day War, 42, 56, 73–4, 78 sovereignty ICJ submission by Mauritania over Western Sahara, 152 and the Indonesian transmigration programme, 127 legitimacy claims on, 30, 155

204

Post-Colonial Settlement Strategy

sovereignty (cont.) territorial expansion and, 26 of the West Bank and Gaza Strip, 51–2, 58–9 Soviet Union (USSR) as a great power, 34 as great power benefactor to India, 139–40 Israel’s withdrawal from Sinai, 59–60, 61, 78 relations in the Middle East, 56 relations with Libya, 146, 149 stance on Israeli settlements, 74, 75 stance on territorial expansion by force, 27, 28 strategic importance of North Africa to, 101 threat of communism in post-colonial nations, 133 Spain, 86–7, 99–100, 103, 104 state capacity as independent variable for settlement projects, 31–2, 33 of India in Goa, 139 of Indonesia in East Timor, 18, 117, 122–3 of Israel, 54–6 of Libya in the Aozou Strip, 146 of Mauritania, 152 of Morocco in Western Sahara, 102 see also institutional capacity Stimson Doctrine, 27–8 Sudan, 142–3 Suharto, President, 112, 115–16, 123–4, 128 Sukarno, President, 109, 110–11, 112 Sykes-Picot Agreement, 27 Syria, 61

USA’s veto of drafts on Israeli territories, 73, 74–5, 76–8, 77 United Nations (UN) the Committee of 24, 86–7, 128 Declaration on the Granting of Independence to Colonial Counties and Peoples, 86, 99 decolonisation efforts, 86–7, 99, 120, 135–6 decolonisation of Spanish Sahara, 99–100, 104–5 General Assembly Resolution 1514 (decolonisation), 86, 120, 135–6, 141 General Assembly Resolution 1699 (XVI), 140 General Assembly Resolution 2229(x), 104 partition of Palestine, 51–2 referendum on Western Sahara, 5, 21, 38, 94–6, 99, 100, 103–6, 128 session on the Middle East (1967), 60, 61 Special Commission on Palestine Majority Report (1947), 65–6 United States of America (USA) adoption of territorial integrity principle, 27–8 formal opposition to Israeli settlement strategies, 81–2 as great power, 34 as great power benefactor for Morocco, 100–1, 107–8 as Israel’s great power benefactor, 56, 71, 72–6, 78–80, 82–3 Israel’s withdrawal from Sinai, 59–60, 61, 78 policy towards Israel’s border security, 73–4 referendum on Western Sahara, 100 relations with Libya, 146 Rogers’ peace plan, 49 stance on occupation via force, 27–8 stance on the incorporation of East Timor, 121, 123–4 Stimson Doctrine, 27–8 strategic importance of North Africa to, 100–1 support for Israel’s direct negotiation policy, 72, 74, 76, 80

Teitelbaum, Michael S., 19 theoretical approach, 6–7, 157–61 Thucydides, 34 Tombalbaye, François, 145, 154 Tzur, Ze’ev, 63 United Nations Charter, 28 United Nations Security Council (UNSC) Resolution 242, 51, 53, 62, 63, 75, 82 Resolution 690, 94

Index 205 tax advantages for Jewish Agency contributions, 70–1 US–Moroccan Treaty of Peace and Friendship (1836), 101 veto of UN Security Council drafts on Israeli territories, 73, 74–5, 76–8, 77 view of POLISARIO, 101 Veracini, Lorenzo, 11 Verhaftig, Zerakh, 49 Weiner, Myron, 19 Weitz, Ra’anan, 47 West Bank under the Allon Plan, 44–5 geography of, 42 Israeli settlement strategy for, 68, 69, 83 Israeli settlements in, 49, 50 Israel’s ethnic affinity with the population of, 57, 82 legal plausibility for Israeli settlements, 51, 69, 82 national-religious civil-society group settlements, 49–50 possibility of negotiated agreement on, 6, 53–4 sovereignty of, 51–2, 58–9 status after the Six Day War, 42–4, 52–3, 58 temporary status of its borders, 53, 58 Western Sahara Bilad Shinguitty, 152 claims to the territory of, 87 concerns over Spanish manipulation of the referendum, 104 decolonisation of Spanish Sahara, 87, 99–100, 104–5 ethnic affinity between Mauritania and, 151, 153 ethnic affinity between Morocco and, 102–3 granting of right of selfdetermination, 92 infrastructure development, 97 legal plausibility for Mauritanian expansion into, 151–2 legal plausibility for Moroccan expansion into, 98–100

Mauritania’s claim to, 94, 150, 151 MINORSU (United Nations Mission for Referendum in Western Sahara), 5 Moroccan settlement project in, 103–4, 106–7, 129 Moroccan territorial claim, 88–9 phosphate mines, 93–4 population growth in, 97 proto-nationalism in, 103 settlement program in, 96–8, 98 settler-driven settlement arguments, 14 shift to Moroccan control of, 87 under Spanish control, 86–7, 92, 99, 103 UN-backed ceasefire with POLISARIO, 94 UN-led referendum on, 5, 21, 38, 94–6, 99, 100, 103–6, 128 weakness of the Saharawi national movement, 87–8 see also Morocco Wheaton, Henry, 21 Wheeler, General Earle G., 73 Whitlam, Gough, 115 Wilson, Woodrow, 27, 40 World Bank, 122, 125 World War I, 27 Wright, John, 148 Yamin, Muhammad, 109, 110, 115 Zacher, Mark W., 21 Zertal, Idit, 20–1 Zionist movement cultural path argument and, 17 great power alliance strategy, 78, 79 Gush Emunim, 14, 15, 50 institutional path-dependent explanation and, 18 international recognition for its territorial claims, 60 Israeli/Zionist settlement activity (1880-2010), 55 Labor Zionism and territorial control, 14 settlements in Palestine, 54 see also Jewish Agency