Proxy War Ethics: The Norms of Partnering in Great Power Competition 3031504577, 9783031504570

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PSIR · PALGRAVE STUDIES IN INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS

Proxy War Ethics: The Norms of Partnering in Great Power Competition

C. Anthony Pfaff

Palgrave Studies in International Relations

Series Editors Knud Erik Jørgensen, Aarhus University, Aarhus, Denmark J. Marshall Beier, Political Science, McMaster University, Milton, ON, Canada Katrina Lee-Koo, Monash University, Melbourne, Australia

Palgrave Studies in International Relations provides scholars with the best theoretically-informed scholarship on the global issues of our time. The series includes cutting-edge monographs and edited collections which bridge schools of thought and cross the boundaries of conventional fields of study. Knud Erik Jørgensen is Professor of International Relations at Aarhus University, Denmark, and at Ya¸sar University, Izmir, Turkey.

C. Anthony Pfaff

Proxy War Ethics: The Norms of Partnering in Great Power Competition

C. Anthony Pfaff Strategic Studies Institute US Army War College Carlisle, PA, USA

ISSN 2946-2673 ISSN 2946-2681 (electronic) Palgrave Studies in International Relations ISBN 978-3-031-50457-0 ISBN 978-3-031-50458-7 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-50458-7 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover credit: @ ilbusca This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland Paper in this product is recyclable.

Preface

As this book was submitted for publication, Hamas conducted a devastating attack on Israel, where its militants murdered civilians, took hostages, and committed other atrocities (New York Times 2023). Many were quick to blame long-time Hamas supporter Iran, who likely, at a minimum, supplied much of the weapons and other equipment Hamas used. However, in the aftermath of the attack, there was evidence that Tehran had not expected it (Entous, et al 2023). That uncertainty has created policy confusion regarding how to respond to Iran’s involvement and expressions of support for Hamas’s actions. Under international law, supporting actors are generally responsible for the actions of those they support only if they direct it or ties to the supported actor are so close they are indistinguishable from the supporting actor (Hathaway et al. 2017, 9). Thus, Iran may not be legally responsible despite the fact it provided equipment and training used in the attack. As proxy relationships like Iran and Hamas proliferate, there is increasing urgency to resolve this gap in accountability. Sponsorship alters a proxy’s calculations encouraging the resort to war. Even where sponsor and proxy respect jus ad bellum conditions, the proxy relationship risks corrupting those calculations. The intervention of a sponsor will not make an unjust cause just; an illegitimate authority legitimate; or a wrong intention right. However, it can make the disproportionate proportionate; alternatives to fighting less appealing; and affect a proxy’s calculations regarding its chances for success. v

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Even when actors account for the potential negative effects of sponsorship, the relationship still risks moral hazard. These hazards arise because sponsor and proxy interests, will, and capabilities often vary. These variations can lead to divergent interests and overly optimistic estimates about the actual cost of war that can drag both parties into a conflict they might otherwise have avoided. Even if one cannot prevent the conflict, introducing a proxy relationship can motivate others to join the fight, thus escalating it. Moreover, once the fighting has started, the proxy’s failure to abide by jus in bello norms can implicate the sponsor in war crimes and other atrocities. Finally, these moral hazards can impact well after the conflict is over as military equipment no longer needed for the fight diffuses into other militant and criminal hands, making conflict more likely or more brutal elsewhere. Proscribing proxy relationships, however, is not likely a useful way forward. The proxy dynamic features in many supporting-supported relationships where actors’ interests and commitment diverge. Moreover, the imperative of national security entails that actors will always seek to minimize risks when confronting adversaries and other threats. Given the enduring nature of these relationships, what is needed is a better understanding of how to govern them and the political will to do so. Perhaps Iran did not intend the atrocities Hamas committed; however, had it not been for their support they likely would not have happened, at least not on that scale. Accountability in international competition often rests on precedent. On this point, consensus has been lacking. The legal precedent that established the requirement for direct control arose from the Nicaraguan government’s case against the United States for its support to the Contras, who also committed war crimes (ICJ 1984). As the history of proxy war clearly shows, even well-intentioned actors often find themselves in positions where current norms do not provide guidance on balancing competing imperatives. The result is a great deal of tragedy that could have been avoided. So, without some consensus on such norms, the path forward to accountability will be difficult, if not impossible. Establishing and promulgating such norms would be a step forward to such a consensus. This book hopes to be a starting point for this path. Fairfax, USA

C. Anthony Pfaff

PREFACE

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References Entous, Adam, Julian E. barnes, and Jonathan Swan. “Early Intelligence Shows Iranian Leaders Surprised by Hamas Attack, U.S. Says.” New York Times. October 11, 2023. https://www.nytimes.com/2023/10/11/us/pol itics/iran-israel-gaza-hamas-us-intelligence.html “Hamas Leaves Trail of Terror in Israel.” New York Times. October 10, 2023. https://www.nytimes.com/2023/10/10/world/middleeast/isr ael-gaza-war-hamas-deaths-killings.html “Military and Paramilitary Activities in and against Nicaragua (Nicaragua v. United States of America. International Court of Justice. November 26, 1984. https://www.icj-cij.org/case/70/judgments.

Acknowledgments

This book began as a discussion at the U.S. Naval Academy’s Stockdale Center for Ethical Leadership post-doctoral seminars, where I was invited to give a presentation on the ethics of proxy warfare. At the time, proxy governance was relatively unexplored territory. I greatly benefitted from the discussion and the continued engagement of Dr. Ed Barrett, Research Director at the Stockdale Center, who encouraged me to continue to pursue this subject further. I also need to thank Mitt Regan from the Georgetown Law Center who helped me publish an early version of this work in the Journal of National Security Law and Policy. I would also like to thank Dr. Carol Evans, Director of the Strategic Studies Institute (SSI), for her support in providing me the space and time to work on this project. COL George Shatzer, Research Director for SSI, had previously studied proxy wars and provided encouragement and advice on how to engage the complexities of this topic. No work of this scope can be done alone, so I would also like to thank Brad Marston, Derek Viator, Kellen Hansen, and Shirley Chavarria, who provided critical research and editing assistance. Most importantly, I would like to thank my wife, Julia, whose keen mind and rigorous intellect were essential to completing this project. The opinions expressed in this book are those of the author and not necessarily those of the United States Government.

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Contents

1

The Nature of Proxy Relationships and Their Ethics Introduction Terms of Reference: Allies, Partners, and Proxies Allies Partners Proxies Morals, Ethics, and Normativity Methodology Against Realism: Why Ethics Matters Conclusion References

1 1 5 5 10 13 21 27 29 35 36

2

A Brief History of Proxy Warfare Part I: Ancient to Modern Introduction The “Evolution” of Proxy Wars The Peloponnesian War Analysis Rome and the Foederati Analysis Mercenaries and the Hundred Years War (1337–1453) Analysis The French Wars of Religion Analysis

45 45 46 48 51 53 54 55 59 60 62 xi

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CONTENTS

Colonial Period and the British East India Company Analysis The Hungarian Revolution (1848–1849) Analysis Conclusion References

63 66 66 69 71 71

3

A Brief History of Proxy War Part II: The Cold War Introduction The Vietnam War (1955–1975) Analysis African Decolonization Angolan Civil War (1975–2002) Analysis Ogaden Plateau Analysis The Soviet-Afghan War (1979–1989) Analysis Latin America The Nicaraguan Civil War (1979–1990) Analysis The Salvadoran Civil War (1979–1992) Analysis Conclusion References

77 77 78 84 86 87 89 90 91 91 95 96 97 102 104 108 109 110

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Jus Ad Bellum and the Implications for Proxy Warfare Introduction: Jus ad Bellum and Proxy Wars Just Cause State-Defense Paradigm Interventions Counter-intervention Resolving the Ethical Impasse Proportionality Legitimate Authority Public Declaration Right Intention Last Resort Reasonable Chance of Success Jus Post Bellum and a Better State of Peace

117 117 120 121 126 127 129 132 136 141 143 146 147 150

CONTENTS

xiii

Conclusion References

151 155

5

Mitigating the Moral Hazards of Proxy Warfare Introduction Diverging Interests Under-Estimating Costs and Risks of Violence Escalation Diffusion Dirty Hands Conclusion References

159 159 160 162 164 168 169 178 181

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Conclusion: Applying the Proxy Moral Framework Introduction: A World Order in Transition Great Power Competition in Africa Asymmetric Power Competition in the Middle East The Yemen Civil War Iranian-Backed Proxies in Iraq Proxy War in Europe: The Epic of Ukraine Russian Support for Separatists in Ukraine (2014) U.S. and NATO Support for Ukraine Transnational Non-State Actors ISIS Al Qaeda Lebanese Hezbollah Conclusion: The Future of the Ethics of Proxy Wars Sponsor-Proxy Obligations Sponsor Obligations Beyond the Proxy References

183 183 187 192 192 197 201 202 207 213 213 214 215 218 219 221 222

Index

235

List of Figures

Fig. 1.1 Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig.

1.2 1.3 1.4 4.1 5.1

Allies, partners, and proxies structure and relationship to risk Differences between allies, partners, and proxies Jus ad bellum principles Jus in Bello principles Sponsor Obligations under Jus and Bellum Managing moral hazards

6 21 24 26 153 179

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The Nature of Proxy Relationships and Their Ethics

Introduction In the spring of 2014, Russian President Vladimir Putin launched a quiet, deniable, but very real invasion of Ukraine. Inserting Russian special operations forces—“little green men”—to organize and supply separatists in the region, Putin was able to seize Crimea and establish the pro-Russian “Donetsk and Luhansk People’s Republics” in the east (ICG 2019). The international response was muted outrage. While the United States and its NATO allies imposed sanctions and suspended Russia’s membership in the G8, they initially provided little in the kind of lethal military assistance Ukraine would need to defeat separatist forces and retake the province (TCS 2019). By portraying Russia’s intervention as assisting a suppressed minority, Putin claimed Ukrainian territory and left it open whether he could acquire more under the Minsk Accords. However, Russia’s intervention by proxy did not bring Kyiv in line with Moscow, as Putin likely hoped. While the Russians consolidated power in Crimea and eastern Ukraine, the Ukrainian government increased its ties with the West, especially NATO (CFR 2023). In response, Putin exchanged his proxy war for a real one, and on February 24, 2021, invaded Ukraine with the apparent intent to occupy the country and establish a pro-Russian government. Sending in nearly 150,000 troops and thousands of tanks, Russia did more than provoke the system; he © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 C. A. Pfaff, Proxy War Ethics: The Norms of Partnering in Great Power Competition, Palgrave Studies in International Relations, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-50458-7_1

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shook it to its core (Jones 2022; Sabbagh 2023). As NATO General Secretary Jens Stoltenberg stated, “We now have war in Europe, on a scale and of a type we thought belonged to history” (NATO 2022). In response, the United States and NATO began providing Ukraine significant amounts of lethal military assistance that escalated as the conflict dragged on (CRS 2023). This assistance has been critical to Ukraine’s ability to halt the invasion; however, it has also raised concerns of an expanded and more direct conflict between Russia and NATO. Whether those concerns are founded, Russia has seized this narrative and has portrayed Ukraine as a proxy for the West. In late April 2022, Russian Foreign Minister Sergei Lavrov accused NATO of exploiting Ukraine to wage a “proxy” war against Russia. Hinting that doing so would lead to broader conflict, he added ominously, “war means war” (Livingston 2022). While it is easy to dismiss Lavrov’s claim, the charge of “proxy war” puts Ukraine’s partners on the moral defensive. Lavrov’s comments reflect the widely held view that proxy relationships are inherently exploitive. Invoking them brings up Cold War memories of superpowers abandoning partners to their fates once supporting them no longer served their interests, as the United States did with Vietnam. Lawrence Freedman, commenting on Lavrov’s charge, takes up this point. As he puts it, characterizing Ukraine as a proxy robs its government of its agency, suggesting it is subordinating its interest in settlement so that NATO can continue to weaken the Russian military. However, as evidence that Ukraine is not a proxy, Freedman further points out that the country is free to pursue its interests, even when those are not the ones NATO would prefer (Freedman 2023). For Freedman, proxy relationships place the sponsor in charge, making little room for bargaining in more equal relationships. However, proxy relationships are not necessarily, as Freedman also puts it, that of puppet to puppeteer. Actors in proxy relationships can, and often do, pursue competing and divergent aims. Remarking on U.S. Secretary of Defense Lloyd Austin’s comments that the United States wants Russia weakened to the point it cannot aggress again, Freedman rightfully points out that nothing in what Secretary Austin said entails pressuring Ukraine to fight beyond its aims or interest (Freedman 2023; Ryan and Timsit 2022). From an ethical perspective, what matters is whether actors pursue potentially divergent aims at the expense of the other.

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However, while it is certainly true that the United States is not pressuring Ukraine to continue fighting beyond what it believes is in its interest, the incentive to do so nonetheless exists. Moreover, so does the incentive to cease support once the supporting actors decide it is no longer worthwhile for them to do so. These potentials expose both supported and supporting actors to moral harm and hazard. For Ukraine, NATO support can make settlement less attractive and less likely. By itself, there is nothing wrong with that. Given Russia’s aggression, any settlement would be a compromise of justice. However, the potential for a protracted conflict suggests an imperative to determine how much destruction is worth how much justice. For the United States and NATO, the fact that Ukraine does retain agency and control creates the potential to be dragged into a broader conflict that is not entirely within their interests but from which there may be no easy escape. Of course, one actor supporting another is not enough to establish a proxy relationship. The alliance that defeated the Axis powers in World War II shared a commitment to victory and a similar willingness to confront the enemy. This point does not entail that allied interests must completely align. For example, President Harry Truman’s concern that the Soviet Union would turn its attention to Japan once Nazi Germany was defeated drove him to use the atomic bomb to hasten the war’s end (Gallichio 2020, 20). However, this decision did not deny the shared importance of Japan’s defeat nor Russian entry into the Pacific theater. Instead, it simply recognized that divergent interests after the war would transform the relationship with the Soviet Union into something more adversarial that required action while the alliance was still in effect. Contrast this shared view with relations before the war. As Andrew Mumford points out, before it entered the war, the United States’ interest was to remain neutral and, failing that, buy time to rearm. To facilitate that end, the U.S. Congress passed a series of “Neutrality Acts” prohibiting the direct provision of military assistance to other nations at war. In 1940, however, President Franklin D. Roosevelt used loopholes in these acts, and the Lend-Lease Bill passed in March 1941 to provide billions of dollars’ worth of military equipment. Doing so effectively made Britain and Russia U.S. proxies (Mumford 2013, 32). This is an important point. As I will take up later, proxy relationships are not “all-or-nothing,” or necessarily static. Actors’ interests and political will often overlap. When that overlap is significant, referring to the relationship as an alliance, coalition, or partnership may make sense.

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However, because overlap may not be complete or the value of a particular interest is inconsistent among actors, even alliances and partnerships can have aspects of proxy relationships. Thus, partnering well demands understanding and managing those aspects, even if the label proxy does not entirely fit. The context for this discussion is what is generally referred to as “great power competition.” Here, “great powers” refers to actors who are powerful enough to influence, if not determine, the conditions of the international order (Boroff 2020). However, as Michael J. Mazarr argues, twenty-century great power competition is very different from the past. Great power competition of previous centuries was characterized by a multipolar order where actors, unencumbered by rules or norms, compete primarily for power, influence, and status through political and military means. Today, state competition is mediated by a “dense network of organizations, treaties, informal processes, and many other constraints” and plays out more in political, cultural, and informational venues (Mazarr 2019). Within this milieu, norms matter. How actors uphold or violate international norms impacts their ability to make and sustain alliances and achieve their goals. Viewing current relations through the lens of past great power competition can also obscure essential differences in the challenges adversaries present. For example, where Russia seeks to disrupt the current U.S.-led order, China seeks more to replace the United States as its leader. It is essential to adequately grasp those distinctions to avoid wasting resources on an overstated threat, ignoring existing institutions, rules, and norms’ role in mediating conflict, and diminishing the importance of non-military means to shape adversary choices. It also obscures moral asymmetries between democratic and authoritarian actors useful to achieving legitimacy and influence (Mazarr 2019). While Mazarr may be right that the great power competition of the present is not the same as the great power competition of the past, it is still the case that stronger powers compete against each other and often enlist weaker powers to do so. In this context of international competition, determining how and to what extent the label “proxy” fits a relationship requires first understanding the alternatives. In international competition, relationships generally take the form of ally, partner, or proxy. Each of these relations has its own structure reflecting actors’ choices about managing risks associated with particular threats. In alliances, risk is evenly distributed and directed at a common threat. Partnerships are more limited, reflecting

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a common concern that actors may share. In these relationships, risk is limited, and cooperation is transactional. Proxy relationships are a kind of principal-agent relationship where a sponsor supports a proxy to obtain an indirect benefit. In these relationships, risk is unevenly distributed and often directed at divergent threats (Fig. 1.1).

Terms of Reference: Allies, Partners, and Proxies While this book focuses on proxies, its broader purpose is to describe the norms associated with establishing cooperative security relationships in international competition. As mentioned above, those relationships can come in several forms; however, I break them down into alliances, partners, and proxies for this discussion. Doing so does not exclude the fact that adversaries—who are not in this space—can cooperate. However, ad hoc or occasional cooperation does not make a relationship cooperative, so that we can exclude it from discussion here. To better understand the nature of proxy relationships, this discussion will first examine what they are not: alliances and partnerships. In that discussion, I will address the unique structure of each relationship and how that structure gives rise to specific moral challenges. In examining how these relationships work, I will focus on structural aspects such as symmetry of actors, alignment of interest, nature of contributions, and means of control to differentiate these relationships and illustrate how the practical requirements of these relationships can inform the moral ones. Allies In The Origin of Alliances, Stephen Walt defines an alliance as “a formal or informal arrangement for security cooperation between two or more sovereign states” (Walt 1987, 12). In his view, state actors may either align to balance a particular threat or “bandwagon” with the source of the threat, where aligning with a stronger power improves their security. Whatever the motivation, alliances assume a level of commitment and a commensurate benefit that makes it in all member’s interests to participate (Walt 1987, 3). Several features stand out in this relationship. First is the symmetry of the actors’ agency. Being sovereign infers equality and independence that places actors on equal footing. Being equals, actors are free to enter and withdraw from an alliance as their interests dictate. When they do

Proxy 1

Low

Enemy

Enemy

Proxy

Proxy: Principal-agent relationship where interests diverge, and benefits are indirect. The interaction of two proxy relationships further complicates decisions regarding the resort to war. Undertaken to mitigate risk associated with addressing a particular threat.

Proxy

Sponsor

Risk

Actor B

Partnership

Partnerships: Temporary, limited quid pro quo relationship, where partners cooperate to attain some benefit that improves security. Undertaken when partners willing to assume equal risk, though that risk may be low.

Benefit

Fig. 1.1 Allies, partners, and proxies structure and relationship to risk

Proxy

Sponsor

Principal-Agent

Actor A

Quid Pro Quo

Sponsor

Partnership

Proxy 2

Two Principals and Two Agents

Enemy

Actor B

Alliance

High

Alliances: Enduring, open-ended relationships intended to address a common threat. Generally undertaken to address high-risk threats.

Actor A

Alliance All for one and one for all

Actor C

6 C. A. PFAFF

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so, they generally incur no additional obligations or moral hazard beyond the alliance’s terms or the potential loss of security leaving the alliance entails. While in the alliance, however, equality and independence establish a shared responsibility that establishes an obligation to optimize one’s contributions. This point does not mean that actors’ actual military capabilities are equal, only that their status in the relationship is. The second is the alignment of interest. Alignment in this context refers to how satisfying the interest of one actor satisfies the interest of others in the relationship. Since allies face a common threat, interests should closely align. When the threat is defeated or contained for one member of an alliance, it should be defeated or contained for the others. As discussed, alliances form around particular security concerns. NATO, for example, was initially established not just as a response to the Soviet Union but also to prevent any revival of nationalist militarism in Europe and encourage European political integration. Over time, its members agreed to take on peacekeeping and counter-terrorism operations as the threat to its members evolved (NATO 2022). The salient point here is that while the threat may change, what matters to an alliance is that whatever the threat is, it is shared. When it is not, the alliance may come under stress as NATO did when Turkey increased its cooperation with Russia in 2020, or the alliance failed to comprehensively address Syrian refugees in 2011 because they were not of equal concern to all members (Dempsey 2020; Baev and Kirisci 2017, 2). Third, member contributions in alliances are typically nontransactional. As noted above, allies have a shared responsibility that obligates members to collectively optimize their contributions to address the common threat. Optimizing, however, does not mean actors make the same contributions. Symmetry of agency does not entail symmetry of capability. So, some members of an alliance may be less capable than others and thus may contribute less. Still, there is an expectation that relative to their capabilities, their contributions are in some sense proportional to the contributions of others. Thus, alliances ideally take an “all-for-one-one-for-all” form where there is an expectation that actors are entirely—or at least equally—committed to contributing to the collective good of deterring, or failing that, defeating a common threat (Rondeaux and Sterman 2022, 22). Even in alliances, however, there are limits to what members may be reasonably expected to do independently of what other members contribute. NATO, for example, requires members to spend 2% of

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gross domestic product (GDP) on military forces (Martinez 2023). The fact that most members do not make such a contribution points out that alliances can survive as long as members meet a threshold, even an informal one, that ensures the alliance is capable enough to make members better off for joining. Because security is a collective good and collective goods are indivisible, where they exist, they exist for all. Thus, it can be challenging to establish, much less enforce, a precise quid pro quo for member contributions. Even non-NATO members, for example, benefitted from a more secure Europe. This point raises a fourth distinguishing feature: control. Control refers to leverage actors have to influence another actor’s behavior. As William H. Mott IV argues, control in security cooperation can be measured in two ways. First is the responsivity of one actor to another. Second, in the case of military assistance, is the ability of a donor to determine how a recipient utilizes any weapons or equipment provided. The first addresses how security cooperation represents an alignment of interests and a willingness of actors to accommodate others’ demands. The second applies specifically to donor-recipient relationships and the ability of a donor to ensure any assistance is used in ways that do not align with its interests. In both cases, control can be expressed in terms of relational norms and the costs and benefits actors can impose. As Mott further points out, in the context of security cooperation, a relationship “creates its own worldview, its own structural and behavioral norms, and its own set of rewards, punishments, values, and incentives” (Mott 2002, xii, 21). Alliances illustrate how structural aspects of a particular relationship give rise to particular norms and how such norms can provide a measure of control. As noted above, collective goods can encourage free riding, or in the case of NATO, “discount-riding,” since all members partially meet the spending requirement. To the extent a common good—like security—can be realized without all members’ support, some will be incentivized to reduce or eliminate their contributions. The only way to incentivize compliance is to exclude free riders from the good (Taylor 1995, 6–7). In the context of security, such exclusion may be impractical, mainly where member contributions, as little as they may be, still facilitate the realization of the good. Thus, while alliances may promote an “all-for-one-and-one-for-all” ethic in the ideal, they incentivize satisficing rather than fully satisfying the conditions of the alliance. To the extent that satisficing enables the alliance to fulfill its purpose, there is little members should rationally do

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to enforce full compliance, as expelling members undermines an alliance’s ability to deter and defend. Moreover, expelled members may be incentivized to realign with an adversary to meet their security needs (Zagare 2019, 132; Walt 1987, 19–21). Finally, it is worth pointing out that the U.S. Department of Defense defines an alliance as a formal arrangement established by treaty that Walt does not include in his definition (DOD 2019). As noted above, for Walt, alliances may be informal or formal. By adopting this broader scope, he seeks to capture political alignments where actors may be reluctant to sign formal treaties. For example, the United States and Israel have never signed a formal defense treaty; however, the United States has frequently demonstrated its commitment to Israel’s security. Even with a treaty, there may not be a relevant security commitment. As he also points out, the 1971 Soviet-Egyptian “Treaty of Friendship and Cooperation” was a sign of growing tension, not commitment to each other’s security (Walt 1987, 3). Walt’s approach, however, may include too much. For example, he classifies the 1978 Camp David Accords that established peace between Egypt and Israel as a formal alliance. However, the relational dynamic between parties to this treaty seems different than those between NATO members, for example. In the case of the Camp David Accords, the United States offered Egypt $2.4 billion to incentivize Egypt to sign (Mott 2002, 157–158). Since then, it has provided over $50 billion in military assistance to incentivize Egypt to maintain the agreement (State Department 2022). Thus, on the surface, the relationship seems more transactional and interests more divergent. So, while there is cooperation, the commitment evidenced in this arrangement seems different than the “all for one, one for all” alliance structure. To capture this difference in kind, I will employ the term “partner” to characterize those relationships that do not entail quite the same unity of interest or commitment to invest as alliances but do not exhibit the characteristics of a principle-agent relationship. These relational features—power asymmetry, unity of interest, the divisibility of the good realized, and the means of control available— require governing. So, from a normative perspective, we can describe an alliance as a formal agreement among equals that obligates them to share equally the responsibility of confronting a common threat. Since security in this context is not divisible, the only effective means of control are norms against free riding sanctioned by expulsion or less effectively by other political pressure.

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Partners DOD defines partnerships as a less formal, generally temporary arrangement that provides participants with some exchange of benefits (DOD 2019). In this regard, partnerships often manifest as quid pro quo relationships where partner activities involve an exchange of material, funds, or expertise. The DOD description of partners highlights military-tomilitary exchanges as the norm of partnership activities. While nothing is inherent in the partnering relationship that precludes symmetry among actors, nothing else requires it. So, most of the activity that falls under the DOD category involves security cooperation with less developed militaries, not so much to address a common threat but to exercise the relationship. The reasons for exercising a relationship can also vary. As Mott observes, U.S. military assistance since the end of World War II can be characterized as inconsistent responses to immediate concerns typically undertaken when nothing else worked (Mott 1999, 5–8). Under such conditions, temporary arrangements make sense so that assistance does not outlast the problem it was intended to solve. Unlike alliances, there is nothing necessary to a partnership regarding alignment of interest, nor do partnerships need to be directed at a common threat. As the example of the Camp David Accords illustrates, Sadat’s interest in signing the accords—and the subsequent peace treaty in 1979—had more to do with military and economic assistance than peace with Israel. While signing the accords may have reduced tensions with Israel, it increased them in the rest of the Arab world, leading to Egypt’s isolation and Sadat’s eventual assassination. Egypt remained isolated even as other Arab states moved closer to the United States, motivated partly by the benefits Egypt received from the United States (Walt 1987, 135–139; Hourani 1991, 420–422). For its part, the U.S. government offers multiple rationales for security cooperation, including access to military bases and facilities, increasing regional stability, promoting American values, institutions, and policies, and advancing economic and other interests (Clarke et al. 1997, 2). This diversity of rationales does not mean partnering cannot serve a common purpose. As Derek S. Reveron observes, security cooperation allows a country to balance against its adversaries. Activities like “weapon sales and transfers, intelligence and logistic support, and military advisors” allow the receiving actor to address its security deficits while the providing actor increases its influence (Reveron 2016, 19–27, 121).

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What is missing here is a mutual commitment to the other’s security found in alliances. It is one thing to provide a partner with weapons and equipment; it is another to promise to commit oneself to the partner’s defense. Thus, instead of independent actors working toward a common goal, partnering is better characterized by dependency, where actors exchange security benefits without commensurate or necessary commitment to mutual defense. As such, partnering relationships are more transactional than those found in alliances. This point does not mean indirect benefits may not be found in partnering relationships. While Egypt and the United States directly benefitted from the exchange over the Camp David Accords, the United States additionally benefitted from the reduced Soviet influence its strengthening relationship with Egypt entailed (Mott 2002, 157–159). The presence of indirect benefits in an otherwise direct exchange raises an important point. The categories of relationships under discussion here are ideals. Differentiating them aims to illustrate the moral and ethical concerns each can raise. However, in practice, any relationship may exhibit qualities of all three, as the example of Egypt and the United States illustrates. Where those features arise, those concerns may arise as well. For example, coalitions, which are generally more limited than alliances, and often manifest as hybrid organizations with features of alliances and partnerships. The U.S.-led coalition that invaded Iraq comprised allies, like the United States and Britain, who were fully committed, and partners like Japan, who sent a small contingent to assist with reconstruction and other non-military functions (Reuters 2004). Control in partnering relationships functions differently than in alliances. Because benefits are transactional and generally short-term, there must be more space for appeals to a common threat. Many U.S. security cooperation partners also accept assistance from U.S. adversaries. Arguably one of the United States’ staunchest Middle East allies, Kuwait also purchases weapon systems from China and Russia (Teslova 2019; Global Security 2023). Moreover, few of the United States’ Persian Gulf partners backed sanctions or any meaningful measure against Russia for its invasion of Ukraine despite the decades of security cooperation (Katz 2022). There also may be less room for free riding. A partner may not live up to its side of the bargain; however, the stakes are generally low enough that the other partner can walk away without assuming excessive risk.

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However, unlike alliances, where control is primarily a function of expulsion, actors in a partnership actors have more options. For example, actors can establish logistic controls that can constrain partners’ ability to employ any weapons or equipment provided. Actors can also establish political and operational controls that increase costs to partners when they are not living up to the terms of the partnership (Mott 2002, 13). Because benefits are temporary, stakes are generally lower, and thus, it is easier for actors unsatisfied with partner contributions to walk away. Thus, unlike alliances, the gap between satisficing and satisfying conditions will likely be much smaller. While partners may have more options for control, the ability to walk away can also reduce the space to use them. Partnerships establish a dependency to the extent that the benefits exchange addresses a security concern. Here is where the asymmetry of actors can matter. To the extent one actor has greater utility in a partnership than the other and to the extent that utility relates to a vital interest or significant security deficit, the actor with the greater utility may develop a dependence its partner does not share. In such situations, the less-dependent partner has the greater leverage. In fact, the greater the disparity in interest, the greater leverage the less-dependent actor has. To the extent the benefit of an agreement is marginal to one actor but existential to the other, the marginal actor is in a position to control the relationship and even demand concessions that go beyond the nature of the original agreement. Thus, a normative description of a partner relationship is a formal or informal contract to conduct limited cooperation regarding a specific interest that obligates actors to fulfill their part of a transaction. When actors fail to fulfill their part of an agreement, other partners are morally enabled to walk away from theirs. Where there is a strong dependency on the part of one actor and not another, the potential for exploitation exists. As I will discuss in the next section, partnerships between asymmetric actors introduce moral concerns similar to those in proxy relationships. What differentiates them is the temporary and transactional nature of the relationship, coupled with the directness of the benefit, which gives actors greater control over the relationship, minimizing opportunities for exploitation.

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Proxies While the “explosion” in the literature on proxy war has probably not outpaced the proliferation of such conflicts, the increasing role of proxies in international conflict has prompted increased academic scrutiny in recent years. Most of these works seek to understand proxy warfare as a growing phenomenon (Ahram 2011; Mumford 2013; Hughes 2014; Groh 2019; Innes 2012; Bergen et al. 2022; Krieg and Rickli 2019; Moghadam et al. 2023). While all these works provide valuable insights into proxy relationships, a consistent view has not yet emerged. Thus, it seems fair to say that these relationships, and consequently the norms that should govern them, are poorly understood. Part of the reason for this inconsistency and consequent confusion is, as Freedman’s discussion illustrates, and as Tyrone L. Groh observes, the term “proxy war” is “overused and underspecified” (Groh 2019, 27). As the previous discussion suggests, “proxy” is frequently invoked as a pejorative to describe adversaries’ security commitments. Labeling actors as proxies portrays them as victims of exploitation and their supporters as the exploiters. This concern does not just apply to Ukraine. Kurds in Iraq and Syria, despite close cooperation with the United States since the early 1990s, have resisted being identified too closely with U.S. interests for fear of being labeled a proxy. This fear arises not because interests do not align as much as the label undermines their narrative of independence and may encourage attacks by U.S. adversaries like Iran (Iddon 2019). Changing the political label, however, does not change the moral reality. As evident in the previous discussion, different kinds of partnerships entail different dynamics, resulting in different moral concerns and hazards. Failure to account for those differences results in policy confusion apparent in the debate over supporting Ukraine, where some argue for escalation, others for withdrawal, while the United States and NATO struggle to determine how much support to provide (Hass and Kupchan 2023). If proxy relationships were hierarchical, where sponsors have puppet-master-like control over the proxy, as Freedman suggests, proxies would be no different—or at least not much different—than a state’s armed forces and thus would not pose unique ethical challenges. For proxies, asymmetry is reflected in the different roles and interests sponsors and proxies have. Proxy relationships are a kind of principalagent relationship where one actor’s welfare (the principal) depends on what another actor (the agent) does (Pindyck and Rubinfield 2005, 627).

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Principal-agent relations differ from those in alliances and partnerships because principals empower agents to act on their behalf. So rather than cooperation toward a common end or exchange of benefits, principals delegate authority and often resources to an agent to provide some good or service (Shapiro 2005, 271). Principal-agent theory was initially developed to better understand management-labor relationships, especially where employee expertise or access made it difficult, if not impossible, for employers to assess the employee’s performance. In these relationships, information regarding actor interest is decentralized, so principals cannot know if agents act in the principal’s interests. While principals can observe what the agent does, they cannot know if agents took other factors into account or whether those factors may have led to outcomes not fully aligned with the principal. This misalignment creates conditions for the agent’s adverse action against the principal’s interest and moral hazard (Laffont and Martimort 2002, 2). It can also incentivize principals to withhold information from agents, creating mistrust. Not all principal-agent relationships are proxy relationships. Any subordinate agency in a state’s government can be both principal and agent (Shapiro 2005, 267). For example, the U.S. Department of Defense is an agent of the executive branch and principal for the military services. However, it would make no more sense to consider these agencies as proxies than to consider one’s hand a proxy for one’s brain. As Rondeaux and Sterman argue, one thing that differentiates proxies from other kinds of agents is that they lie outside sponsors’ constitutional structure and thus are subject to different controls than entities within that structure (Rondeaux and Sterman 2022, 27). This point is relatively obvious regarding state actors as proxies for other state actors, less so when considering non-state actors such as militias and private military security companies (PMSC). This constitutional condition provides helpful clarification regarding how PMSCs fit into this discussion. Many government-PMSC relations resemble the kinds of partnerships described above. Relational benefits are temporary, contingent, and transactional. They are also generally direct. However, PMSCs, unlike partners who can walk away, can generally be held accountable under domestic law to fulfill their contracts. Where that is the case, PMSCs are best not considered proxies but relatively close enough to a state’s constitutional structure that similar costs, benefits, and incentives would apply.

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To illustrate this point, contrast the roles Blackwater and Halliburton played in Iraq with the role the Wagner Group has played globally on behalf of the Russian government. In 2003, the U.S. State Department hired Blackwater to augment its diplomatic security forces. In contrast, the Department of Defense hired Halliburton to provide various services, such as sanitation, laundry, and food services, augmenting the U.S. military’s logistic capabilities. Both organizations were accused of acting against U.S. interests. For its part, Blackwater employees reportedly used excessive force in ways that generated increased resistance to the U.S. occupation, for which some of its employees were convicted in U.S. court. Halliburton was accused of overcharging the U.S. government for services and had to repay the government $27.4 million (Singer 2007; Burnett 2003; Center for American Progress 2004; DOJ 2014). In both cases, the fact of a legal and binding contract not only effectively assimilated them into the United States government but also allowed the government to hold them accountable. That accountability may not have been as efficient as it may have been in the case of a permanent subordinate organization; however, the ability to apply the law as opposed to incentives makes such relationships meaningfully different from proxies that fall outside the sponsor’s constitutional makeup. In this way, their relationship with the government was not too different from that of the Diplomatic Security agent or U.S. soldier. While the social contract may remove the profit motive and place additional burdens of risk on agents and soldiers, their potential to act against U.S. interests and engage in corrupt activities is no more or less than that of the PMSC. As such, their employment under these conditions is no more ethically problematic than those who are more clearly part of the government. Now consider the Wagner Group’s sometimes bizarre and contentious relationship with the Russian government. For example, in 2018, elements of the Wagner Group attempted to seize an oil field held by U.S. Special Operations and Syrian Defense Forces (SDF). In this fight, the Russian government denied involvement in the attack and eventually shut down surface-to-air missile systems protecting the Wagner Group troops. As a result, U.S. aircraft and ground forces successfully defended against the attack, killing significant numbers of Wagner troops (Maurer 2023). While it is unclear that the Russian government directed the assault, the group’s support for the Syrian government certainly benefitted Russian objectives. However, the separation between Wagner and the Russian government allowed Putin to test U.S. resolve without risking a direct

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confrontation. If one accepts the Russian story that Wagner was acting independently, their control method reflected an inability to hold them formally accountable, preferring instead to “hang them out to dry.” Further illustrating the proxy-like relationship between the Wagner Group and Russian armed forces, in 2023, the group’s leader, Yevgeny Prigozhin, presumably upset over poor treatment by Russia’s military leadership, led a putative “mutiny” against Putin that bizarrely ended in Prigozhin’s “exile” in Belarus, and later his likely murder by a Russian air defense missile (Trevelyan 2023; Litvinova 2023). Thus, whatever the Wagner Group’s relationship with the Russian government was and whatever it is now, it would be difficult to categorize it as “constitutional,” even if he was ultimately held accountable. How he was held accountable illustrates this point: within a constitutional structure, murder, like hanging out to dry, is generally the least preferred means. Of course, simply falling outside a constitutional structure does not make an actor a proxy. What further differentiates proxies is the nature of those interests and the ability of principals to hold agents accountable when agents act against principal interest. In cases like Blackwater and Haliburton, as external agents, their interests are not fundamentally different from the internal agents they augment. This is certainly true for their employees whose interest is much like their government counterparts: fulfill the conditions of their employment for the salary and benefits their employer has agreed to. This is not to say there are no important moral and ethical issues regarding hiring PMSCs. Perhaps most important among them is the effect profit has on the willingness of the PMSC to accept risk and cost. These are concerns; however, that may be accounted for in the contract by ensuring the benefit derived from the PMSC is compatible with the risks and costs they have to bear to provide it (Pfaff and Mienie 2019). Divergent interests are also generally a feature of proxy relationships. However, divergence is not simply a function of difference. Different interests can be better aligned than the same ones. For example, NATO allies generally share a similar view of Russia as a threat but, as evidenced by the differences in military spending, have different views of the costs necessary to deter it, causing friction among alliance members (Gray and Siebold 2023). On the other hand, North Vietnam’s victory over the South realized—at least—the Soviet interest in containing U.S. influence in Indochina.

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This divergence can emerge as much from the structure of these relationships as it does from any particular actor’s intent. Frank C. Zagare points out that in cases where there is a supporting and supported actor, there are conditions under which the supporting actor benefits from the supported actor’s concession when confronted by an adversary. Where the supporting actor does not share the interest at stake with the supported actor, the supporting actor risks getting dragged into a confrontation in which—other than the relationship—it has little at stake. Thus, it prefers the supported actor to concede. Even where both actors share the interest, different associated values can incentivize the supporting actor to withhold assistance. Should that be the case, the supported actor may also be incentivized to concede the interest and realign with the adversary (Zagare 2019, 132–133). Divergent interests do not fully differentiate proxy relationships from others. There is a difference between relationships where benefits are direct and their realization verifiable and those where benefits are indirect and the agent’s efforts to realize them uncertain. The U.S.-Egypt partnership illustrates how a single relationship can exhibit aspects of both. When it comes to maintaining the peace treaty with Israel, the U.S. benefit is direct: military assistance in exchange for abiding by the terms of the agreement. Moreover, to the extent Egypt abides by the treaty’s terms, the fact of possible hidden information poses no additional ethical concern for the United States. However, to the extent this military assistance diminished Soviet influence, the benefit for the United States was less direct, and Egypt’s intentions regarding its relationship with the Soviets were more relevant. So, unlike alliances and partners, the benefit from proxy relationships is generally both transactional and indirect. Mumford defines proxy war as “indirect engagement in a conflict by third parties wishing to influence its strategic outcome” (Mumford 2013, 11) “Indirect,” in this context, means the substitution by the proxy of forces or other capabilities that the sponsor would otherwise have to commit to achieve the intended interest. This indirect nature of the sponsor’s involvement distinguishes, in part, a proxy relationship from alliances or partnerships (Mumford 2013, 21– 22). This point does not suggest that direct action by the sponsor is incompatible with proxy relationships. These relationships can augment overall sponsor capabilities in ways that allow it to take direct action to pursue the same objective. As Mumford observes, the international coalition that

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ousted Libyan President Muammar Gaddafi conducted direct action in the air against Gaddafi’s forces and employed proxies on the ground. So, while air strikes contributed to Gaddafi’s defeat, the Coalition limited its risk and costs by supporting proxies that acted as a surrogate for ground forces it would have otherwise had to commit. Using surrogates to replace, rather than augment, sponsor assets or capabilities characterizes the proxy relationship (Mumford 2013, 25–26). Proxy relationships, like alliances and partnerships, must also be intentional. Mumford, for example, characterizes the 2003 U.S. invasion of Iraq as the United States acting as a proxy for Iran since the toppling of Saddam was in the Iranian interest. As he states, “The fulfillment of a strategic goal by proxy does not necessarily have to be a “conscious or deliberate act” (Mumford 2013, 17). In a practical sense, that point may be valid. The U.S. invasion of Iraq did serve Iranian interests by removing a dangerous and committed enemy. However, in a moral sense, it confuses judgments about what right or wrong was actually committed. Of course, one can ethically assess the U.S. invasion of Iraq; however, since Iran did not provide assistance nor did the United States take Iranian interests into account when deciding to invade, there seems little, from the perspective of a proxy relationship, for which to hold either actor accountable. Intentionality is essential to ethical analysis because it is critical to determining moral responsibility. While one can hold another responsible for unintended outcomes from intentional action, what kind of blame one assigns depends on what the actor intended to do and whether he or she should have reasonably foreseen the outcome. For example, consider that the defeat of Al Qaeda in Iraq by the combined efforts of U.S. and Iraqi forces in 2009 created a power vacuum among Islamist groups in Iraq that the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria (ISIS) later filled. While U.S. and Iraqi forces may have had a causal role in ISIS’s rise, it would make little sense to hold them accountable for the atrocities ISIS would later commit. One might, however, hold the U.S. and Iraqi security forces responsible for these subsequent ISIS atrocities if they intended that taking out Al Qaeda would benefit other Islamist Groups, who, for whatever reason, were preferable to Al Qaeda. It would not be difficult to modify the story to include corrupt counter-terrorism commanders who select targets based on what will create opportunities for the group they favor. If this were the case, we might judge even legitimate arrests as morally wrong since they are intended to contribute to future terrorist activity.

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The intentionality requirement means that the sponsor must intend to assist the proxy, and the proxy must, in turn, intend to take advantage of this assistance. The point here is that intent applies not just to the act but also to any relationships acting on that intent establishes. So, in the context of the U.S. invasion of Iraq, to the extent that Iran provided no support for the U.S. invasion, it would be hard to say that a proxy relationship existed. If no proxy relationship existed, then it does not make any more sense to criticize the U.S., qua proxy, for benefitting Iran than it does to criticize honest commanders in the example above for benefitting other terrorist groups by eliminating one. A strict consequentialist would still want to hold the U.S. (or any actor) responsible for any outcomes they should have reasonably foreseen. However, even then, the actor would be judged good or bad not just based on the wrong outcomes but whether any alternatives, including not acting at all, resulted in a better, or at least less bad, outcome. This point does not suggest that U.S. officials might not be open to criticism for failing to fully account for the second-order consequences of the Iraq invasion. It just does not make sense to criticize them as a matter of proxy war ethics. An ideal example of a proxy relationship would be the U.S. relationship with South Vietnam prior to 1966, where it provided weapons, equipment, and advisors to the South Vietnamese military to support its fight against the Viet Cong and the North as a means to counter the expansion of Soviet influence. Of course, the deployment of large numbers of U.S. forces to South Vietnam in 1966 eventually led to the U.S. carrying the primary burden for direct action, transforming the relationship from proxy to ally (Mott 1999, 198–201). One could even argue that at the point the U.S. military took over the burden of fighting the North Vietnamese so that the South Vietnamese military could handle domestic issues, the U.S. became the proxy. Not all would agree that the United States could be a proxy for South Vietnam. Another critical feature of proxy relationships is the asymmetry associated with principal-agent relationships. As Eli Berman and David A. Lake describe it, the principal in a proxy relationship is a more powerful actor interested in avoiding some disturbance, and the agent is a weaker actor who has some capability to suppress the disturbance (Berman and Lake 2019, 11). Similarly, Geraint Hughes specifies that a proxy is a “non-state paramilitary group receiving direct assistance from an external power” (Hughes 2014, 11). While he does not exclude the stronger actor

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in a relationship from being a proxy, that asymmetry is entailed when the sponsor is a state actor. Limiting the scope of proxies to non-state actors, principally insurgent and terrorist groups, is also common. Like Hughes, Michael Innes limits his examination to non-state organizations as agents for state actors, as more relevant since the end of the Cold War (Innes 2012, xiii-xvi). Groh echoes this point, arguing that focusing on state-non-state actor relations is helpful because of the difficulty proving state actors can engage in principal-agent relationships. He reasons that state actors, as sovereign, independent actors, are not likely to recognize their dependence on another state actor (Groh 2019, 27). The difficulty with Groh’s view is that it conflates an asymmetry in roles with an asymmetry in power. In a principal-agent relationship, as described above, the principal incentivizes an agent to do something on the principal’s behalf. In proxy relationships, that dynamic manifests as a sponsor supporting a proxy to benefit from what the proxy does with that support. Nothing in that description entails or infers asymmetry in power, just the direction in which power flows. So, nothing inherent in that description precludes states from being proxies for other states. Others, like Andreas Krieg and Jean-Marc Rickli, may broaden the scope of what counts as a proxy too wide. In their view, surrogates are anything that externalizes the burden of warfare. Thus, proxies may be not only non-state or state actors but also autonomous weapons or cyber capabilities (Krieg and Rickli 2019, 4, 18–19). To the extent surrogate is synonymous with proxy, the difficulty with Krieg’s and Rickli’s approach, at least for this analysis, is that the machines and capabilities they include cannot be subject to ethical analysis because, if for no other reason, they cannot form intent and are thus not moral agents. Moreover, unlike surrogate organizations, surrogate means do not have diverse interests from those who employ them. This point does not mean they do not raise unique ethical concerns or that some of those concerns might apply to proxy relations. However, with surrogate means, those concerns are generally limited to risk reduction and transfer, which only raise ethical concerns when applied to humans. So, in this view, proxy relationships are principal-agent relationships, where the principal indirectly benefits by proxy activity that replaces capabilities it would otherwise have to commit. These relationships are further

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Ally

Partner

Proxy

Symmetry

Equal

Quid pro quo

Principal-Agent

Interest alignment

Common Threat Enduring

Mutual Temporary

Divergent Conditional

Benefit

Non-transactional

Transactional

Indirect

Control

Satisficing

Withdrawal

Witholding

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Fig. 1.2 Differences between allies, partners, and proxies

characterized by decentralized information, potentially divergent or nonaligned interests, and transactional relations. This description makes it easy to see how moral concerns can arise (Fig. 1.2). Morals, Ethics, and Normativity Before addressing these moral concerns, it will help to clarify how the concepts of morality, ethics, and their relationship to international norms apply. Philosophers, for the most part, employ terms like “morals” and “ethics” interchangeably. Such interchangeability can make much sense. Both moral and ethical principles are action-guiding and offer ways to assess whether behavior is good or bad or right or wrong. Thus, there is little utility in adhering to a strict distinction in those contexts. However, as Simon Blackburn points out, there is a difference between a sense of the good and an evaluation of specific behaviors as right or wrong (Blackburn 2002, 3–4). For example, people can believe that human life is sacred but have different beliefs regarding whether abortion, as a policy, should be permitted. Reasons for such differences may not themselves be ethical. In the abortion debate, differences depend more on metaphysical notions regarding what counts as a human person than ethical ones regarding how one should treat those persons. Thus, for this discussion, it makes sense to differentiate between what counts as the good and the policies one should follow in its pursuit, partly because actors may agree on norms but from very different conceptions of the good. Both Kant and Aristotle would generally agree that making lying promises is wrong; however, Kant would argue that from

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the perspective of the target of the lie, whose autonomy has been compromised, and Aristotle from the perspective of the liar, whose lousy character prevents their flourishing (Kant 1964, 70–71; Aristotle 1985b, 109–112). So, to eliminate the potential for confusion, I will use “morals” to refer to beliefs about the good and “ethics” to refer to those policies and norms individuals or communities adopt to apply those moral beliefs (Lee 1928, 455–456). I will employ the Just War Tradition to embody the moral and employ applications of the tradition like policies, conventions, treaties, customary international law, or informal norms to embody the ethical. As philosopher Michael Walzer points out, the Just War Tradition is a valuable source for moral intuitions regarding war as it acknowledges the reality of state interest but seeks to temper its application. As he puts it, the Just War Tradition makes war morally possible in a world where it is sometimes necessary. Evidence of its success can be found in its long history, stretching back two millennia when Aristotle first coined the term in the West, and in its breach, as those who would violate it often use its language to mask their crimes (Walzer 2004, 3–4). However, the most important manifestation of this tradition is its reflection in international law, which started with Grotius but took hold when Swiss banker Henry Dunant, horrified by the aftermath of the Battle of Serafino, convinced European states to sign the first Geneva Convention in 1864. That codification of just war principles accelerated after World War II, with the establishment of the United Nations Charter, which prohibited acts of aggression against member states and the adoption of additional conventions governing the use of force (Orend 2006, 9–23). However, as Walzer also points out, the Just War Tradition also found a voice in American politics after the Vietnam War, when those most affected by the war questioned why and how it was fought. Initially, neither side was as concerned with ethics as with interest; however, justice concerns gradually infiltrated the discourse as sides tried to find reasons the other might accept (Walzer 2004, 6–7). Creating such space is perhaps the tradition’s greatest utility: it provides a common language to adjudicate conflicts of interest. In this context, Russian President Vladimir Putin’s most resonant narrative is that of NATO encroachment as a threat to Russian sovereignty. However, most suspect his actual casus belli was the reclamation of empire and the status that comes with that (McGlynn 2023). The Just War Traditions differentiates the justice of war (jus ad bellum), which governs reasons to go to war; justice in war (jus in bello),

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which governs conduct in war; and justice of war settlements ( jus post bello). Increasingly, theories of just war are finding ways to account for the justice of terminating a just war short of achieving a just cause ( jus ex bello), which may have implications for proxy relationships, especially where sponsors have to consider the justice of supporting what appears to be an unwinnable conflict, but for which there is benefit to them from the fighting (Coleman 2013, 67–69). I will cover these concerns more in detail in Chapter IV; however, at this early stage in the discussion, it is worthwhile to briefly describe these aspects of the Just War Tradition and their basic principles. As noted above, jus ad bellum identifies the conditions necessary for a just war. First is just cause, generally understood as self-defense, defense of another, or humanitarian intervention. Second, it requires that the expected destruction caused by fighting is proportional to the good achieved. Third, it only grants legitimate authorities, generally understood as heads of state, to declare war. This point will come up later in the discussion of nonstate actors. Fourth, it requires those authorities to publicly declare war so that putative enemies can address the wrong and their citizenry to assess whether the fight is worth it. Fifth, it also requires those authorities not just to consider but to seek alternatives to fighting such that war is a last resort (Coleman 2013, 71–84). Fifth, and more controversially, some Just War theories require the right intention, though recognizing that assessing intent in this context may not always be possible and occasionally not be relevant. Sixth, and equally difficult to assess, is a reasonable chance of success. A reasonable chance of success requires that any fighting not be futile since it makes little moral sense to impose suffering on others if nothing is to be gained (Christopher 1999, 85) (Fig. 1.3). Jus in bello requires soldiers to use discriminate and proportionate force when fighting. Discrimination requires that soldiers only attack legitimate targets, which generally include enemy combatants and infrastructure that has an exclusively warfighting function, such as munitions plants. Proportionality requires that the value of the military target exceed the harm caused by its destruction. Complicating matters is that where military necessity is a function of a just cause, there is also a moral imperative associated with conducting attacks that contribute to victory. Thus, while many theories of just war treat the conduct of military operations as a permission given an act of aggression, it is experienced by those conducting such operations as a moral imperative.

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Condition

Definition

Just Cause

Permits self-defense, defense of others, humanitarian intervention.

Proportionality

Obligates that the good obtained from victory exceeds expected destruction.

Legitimate Authority

Obligates that only heads of state, or other constitutional entity or process entitled to act on behalf of a population declares war.

Public Declaration

Provides enemy chance to redress wrong, public to weigh costs and risks.

Last Resort

Obligates all sufficiently just peaceful alternatives considered before resorting to war.

Right Intention FigureObligates undertaken for the sake of the just cause, 1.3: Jus adwar Bellum not some other interest.

Reasonable Chance Prohibits inflicting suffering in vain. of Success

Fig. 1.3 Jus ad bellum principles

Thus, military ethical decision-making is better thought of as the interaction of the imperatives of necessity, discrimination, and proportionality that effectively makes these decisions about how to balance risk. Necessity exposes combatants to risk when they conduct attacks. Thus, while soldiers are obligated to accept that risk, their leaders take on the responsibility to ensure those risks are not in vain. Discrimination and proportionality limit what risks they can transfer to noncombatants using less risky but generally less precise means. Depending on the value of the military objective, soldiers could plausibly justify discriminate and proportionate uses of force that still cause many noncombatant casualties. Therefore, combatants must take additional risks to minimize collateral harm. There are limits to how much risk, however, that they are required to accept. They are not expected to take on so much risk that the mission will fail, or they will be unable to continue the fight (Walzer 2015, 158; Pfaff 2016, 87–88). Jus in Bello, especially as manifested in International Humanitarian Law (IHL), also prohibits certain weapons and specific targets, regardless of necessity. There are several such prohibitions. For example, international law prohibits weapons that are indiscriminate in nature, intentionally

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cause unnecessary suffering, or cause widespread, long-term, and severe damage to the environment or modify the environment, resulting in consequences prohibited by the war convention (Boothby 2019, 37). The list of prohibited targets is extensive but includes medical-related personnel, materials, and facilities; monuments and other items of cultural value; and agricultural infrastructure (Dinstein 2012, 156–193). For a good rule of thumb, as Walzer argues, there is a difference between what soldiers need to fight and what they need to live. To the extent a target falls under the former category, it is likely a legitimate target. To the extent it falls under the latter, it likely is not (Walzer 2015, 146). For example, a farm that feeds military personnel would still be prohibited because food production meets basic necessities (Fig. 1.4). Jus post bellum recognizes that the proper goal of a just war is a better state of peace, or as the Just War Theorist A.J. Coates put it, “the vindication of the international community and the rights of its members” (Coates 2016, 287–288). The vindication conditions entail a return to the status quo, which will need to be sufficiently just since those status quo conditions led to war in the first place. Nor does it necessarily entail the complete satisfaction of the just belligerent’s objectives. Instead, it simply entails that the subsequent peace is more enduring than before the war started. Vindicating a victim’s rights, as philosopher Brian Orend argues, requires, at a minimum, the aggressor must publicly end hostilities, exchange prisoners of war, apologize, demilitarize at least to the point it cannot renew hostilities, and be held accountable for war crimes. Without meeting these minimum conditions, grievances will fester while the aggressor’s capability to renew violence is preserved, if not strengthened. Orend also points out that in addition to these minimal conditions, one may pursue a retributive settlement, which makes the defeated aggressor worse off than before the war to deter future aggression. One may also pursue a rehabilitative settlement, where one makes the defeated aggressor better off than before the war, as a means to incentivize peaceful cooperation (Orend 2018, 271–280). With this admittedly cursory review of the Just War Tradition and its expression in international law, I will now turn to how one can apply it to proxy wars. Doing so first requires considering whether such norms are possible and second whether they are desired. Regarding the first consideration, I will consider the realist claim that it is not appropriate to apply

Prohibits destruction in excess of the value of the military objective

Prohibits weapons that are indiscriminate, cause unnecessary suffering, damage the environment in ways that cause indiscriminate suffering.

Discrimination

Proportionality

Prohibited weapons

Risk to Force

Risk to Noncombatants

Equilibrium

Necessity

Fig. 1.4 Jus in Bello principles

Necessity obligates soldiers to take risk and their leaders to mitigate that risk. Discrimination and proportionality limit how much risk mitigation increase risk to noncombatants. That risk transfer is limited: soldiers are not required to assume so much risk that operations will fail or they will not be able to continue the war effort.

Prohibited Targets Prohibits targeting noncombatants and civilian material and infrastructure necessary for basic needs.

Definition

Permits only targeting enemy combatants, equipment, and facilities necessary for warfighting.

Norm

26 C. A. PFAFF

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much in the way of norms to international actors. Regarding the second, I will consider whether constraining proxy wars is morally self-defeating.

Methodology Most contemporary works on proxy war focus on assessing proxies’ function and utility; however, few address the accompanying ethical concerns. Exceptions include Rondeaux and Sterman, who rightly point out that the proliferation of proxies has the potential to shatter norms of international conduct; however, they offer little in the way of remedy. Andreas Krieg and Jean-Marc Rickli, in Surrogate Warfare: The Transformation of War in the Twenty-First Century, dedicate a chapter addressing justice concerns regarding the employment of surrogates. These include the relationship between sponsor and surrogate causes, what is a legitimate authority, how surrogates affect proportionality calculations, and sponsor responsibility for surrogate misconduct. As raised, these concerns are more employed to assess the moral nature of surrogate use than to offer principles for their governance. Daphne Richemond-Barak and Laurie R. Blank usefully cover the application of international law to interventions by proxy in their chapters in the Routledge Handbook of Proxy Wars. Richemond-Barak argues that international law is still suited only for the post-World War II conventional confrontations between great powers and has yet to catch up with the use of proxies by those powers. In her chapter, Blank provides additional clarity on how the law, as it currently is, could apply to the provision of lethal assistance and intervention but makes it clear those applications are inadequate to govern the concerns proxy relationships raise. It needs to be clarified that such ethical analysis is necessary. Not every aspect of international competition benefits from governance. For example, there are few—if any—international regulations regarding espionage because international actors want the freedom to conduct such operations free of sanction and are willing to extend the same courtesy even to adversaries (Fang et al. 2023). The desire for that freedom is motivated, in part at least, by the fact that effective espionage can promote international stability. To the extent actors have good information on adversaries’ intents and capabilities, they are both likely to avoid misinterpreting simple provocations as possible acts of war. They are also in a better position to develop their capabilities to deter those provocations in

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the first place. Whether proxy relationships fit into this category remains to be determined. Establishing which approach best fits an ethic for proxy wars requires assessing how they fit with other moral commitments. Thus, whatever approach one settles on it should be coherent with other beliefs. Coherence, as used here, does not justify specific norms because any set of beliefs can be coherent and still contain falsehoods (Scanlon 1998, 70– 71). For example, one can believe, as Aristotle did, that enslaving Greeks was morally wrong; however, enslaving “barbarians” (non-Greeks) was permissible because doing so represented the best way for these uncivilized persons to fulfill their potential (Aristotle 1985a, 2116). However, as philosopher David Copp also points out, better moral codes facilitate coordination and cooperation. To the extent that code justifies conflicting duties, it creates conflicting moral obligations that undermine actors’ ability to coordinate and cooperate, making the considered approach self-defeating in practice, if not in concept (Copp 1995, 212). One achieves coherence through reflective equilibrium. As Nelson Goodman, who first articulated the idea as a way of justifying inductive inferences, “A rule is amended if it yields an inference we are unwilling to accept; an inference is rejected if it violates a rule we are unwilling to amend” (Goodman 1983, 64), emphasis in the original). John Rawls, of course, famously applied Goodman’s conception of reflective equilibrium to ethics (Rawls 1971, 20; 2001, 29–32). In Rawl’s view, at least the narrow version, one revises one’s moral beliefs until arriving at a level of coherency where not only are all beliefs compatible, but in some cases, they explain other beliefs (Rawls 1971, 48–51). For example, a belief in human dignity may explain a further belief in prohibitions against torture cruel, and inhumane treatment (Rawls 2001, 30). So, to the extent that subsequent ethical judgments about proxy relationships do not violate other accepted norms, one can judge it as a plausible revision to the Just War Tradition. There are different strategies one may employ when conducting such a revision. To avoid incoherence, one might keep one’s set of norms small, as a realist approach might. However, as evidence of the inadequacy of such a strategy, consider Mearsheimer and Jeffrey D. Sachs’s views on Ukraine. Both have argued that NATO expansion provoked Russia’s invasion of Ukraine and justifies that invasion (Mearsheimer 2022; Sachs 2023). While it may be reasonable to disagree whether NATO expansion or Putin’s revanchism is the reason for the war, it is another to accept that

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violently responding to NATO expansion or a desire to restore past glory are adequate justifications for war. To the extent one wants to hold decisions regarding war to a higher moral threshold, it is not only reasonable to reject realism but also necessary to build a more coherent set. In what follows, I will first consider whether it makes sense to govern proxy relationships. I will show that arguments that reject a significant role for moral concerns require actors to accept actions beyond moral consideration that, for many, would undermine the coherency of their— and more importantly perhaps, their community’s—more extensive set of moral beliefs. I will also consider why a radical moral approach that finds proxy relationships inherently unethical can undermine international norms’ coherency. I will then show how and why the Just War Tradition can be a good starting point for developing a more comprehensive ethic for proxy relationships. Against Realism: Why Ethics Matters In his argument against realism in Just and Unjust Wars, Walzer points out that war “is distinguishable from murder and massacre only when restrictions are established on the reach of battle” (Walzer 2015, 42). Walzer argues that realism essentially reduces decisions about war to necessity. Illustrating this point, he recounts Thucydides’ “Melian Dialogue,” which begins with two Athenian generals explaining to the citizens of Melos, a neutral former Spartan colony, why they must submit to Athenian rule. Because their independence would make Athens look weak, it could inspire others to rebel. Thus, as they argue, they have a choice but to force it to submit. As Walzer also points out, the appeal to necessity denies the autonomy necessary for moral decision-making and further infers that moral argument in this context is meaningless (Walzer 2015, 7–10). Ultimately, there is not much one can say about such a claim. One can consistently hold that necessity is the only meaningful constraint in war as long as one is willing to accept similar treatment from others. Even if one can live within the space of tit-for-tat morality at the moment, that may not be possible, or at least preferable, in the future. Things that seem necessary at the moment are often sources of regret later on. The list of such things is long: the internment of U.S. citizens of Japanese descent during World War II, indiscriminate bombing of German and Japanese

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cities, and the introduction of enhanced interrogation techniques after the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, to name a few. It can be a short time for such judgment to occur. At the end of World War II, for example, Bomber Command and its commander, Arthur “Bomber” Harris, were denied the recognition given to others for their war effort because of Bomber Command’s indiscriminate tactics. During World War II, Harris adopted a deliberate policy of indiscriminate area bombing of German cities, whereas U.S. bombers employed more discriminate tactics (Paskins and Dockrill 1979, 21). After the war, Harris was denied a peerage, and those he commanded were left out of a memorialization of the air war at West Minister Abbey, which only featured the sacrifices of fighter command (Walzer 2015, 324–325). When the British government tried to rectify that dishonor by raising a statue of Harris in 1992, there were protests in England and Germany (Wallace 1992). So, while some realists may believe “in times of war, the law falls silent,” Cicero, who originated that claim, did not. In On Duties, Cicero writes that justice in warfare is an integral part of public affairs and recommends extending mercy to enemies who fought without cruelty or savagery (Cicero 2013, 14–15). Perhaps more to the point, Rome, for all its brutality, also followed the rules for declaring and fighting wars that illustrated sensitivities to norms associated with cause and last resort (Orend 2006, 11). The point here is that war, precisely because of its urgency and costs, inspires, if not demands, moral judgment to its cause and practice. However, while this point may hold for the practice of war, it must be clarified that the same is true for proxy war. Nothing is incompatible with insisting that proxies observe the law of armed conflict but place few restrictions on the who, what, when, and how regarding sponsors who support them. Thus, even if one accepts that there are norms governing war, one must further consider what additional norms might apply to those who support those otherwise engaged in a just war. Arguments against unique norms governing proxy relationships take at least two forms. First is the realist argument that national interest is the only principle that should govern international relations. A second objection to governing proxy relationships rests on the claim that some aspects of international competition, for example, espionage mentioned earlier, are best not governed. The first claim rests on the assumption that states exist in an anarchic Hobbesian “state of nature” where no higher authority holds states accountable. Under such conditions, moral

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obligation reduces to one: maximize state interest and, by extension, the society the state serves. Thus, realism is not amoral but relies on a kind of consequentialism that differentiates political from personal ethics. Realists can recognize that under a social contract, individuals have diverse obligations to each other, and their government has diverse obligations to them (Amstutz 2008, 47–48). Outside the social contract, however, that obligation reduces to maximizing vital interests, allowing space for those more diverse interactions to occur. As a consequentialist ethic, several criticisms could apply. The first would be its incompleteness. As the philosopher Louis Pojman points out, while consequentialism is correct to promote the general good, it can do so in ways that counter-intuitively undermine considerations of justice (Pojman 1999, 115–116). These counter-intuitive outcomes arise because consequentialism does not rule out any particular kind of act. Murder, theft, cheating, and so on could be justified under a consequentialist ethic as long as it maximized some good. Moreover, because such acts could be permitted in some circumstances and not others, it becomes difficult to create general policies governing those acts. Suppose theft is permitted in some cases but not others. In that case, ethical policy reduces to calculus, which, as I will discuss shortly, is difficult, if not impossible, to do under most circumstances. A corollary to the point about incompleteness is that it needs to be clarified that realism best accounts for the world as it is. As Bruce Bueno de Mesquita and David Lalman remark, if the world was an anarchic environment of autonomous actors, they ask why it is not more in line with Hobbes’ vision of a brutish state of nature. Instead, even among competitors, significant “trade, investment, monetary, organizational, and even military” cooperation suggests realism does not provide a complete account of what should go into decisions regarding international relations (de Mesquita and Lalman 1992, 100). This point does not refute realism or its consequentialist ethic. However, it does point out that accepting both requires one to accept outcomes one may have other reasons to avoid. Drawing on another episode in Thucydides’ account of the Peloponnesian War, Walzer, for example, observes that after the Athenians punished the rebellious city of Mytilene by murdering adult males and enslaving women and children, they came almost immediately to regret those acts as excessive. That regret arose, Walzer point out, not just because of the scale of the atrocity but also because of its cruelty (Walzer 2015, 9–11). This point seems to

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underscore de Mesquita and Lalman’s that even in a harsh international environment, sometimes, at least, morals matter. A second criticism concerns calculations of utility. Consequentialist judgments are judgments about an act’s future utility (Pojman 1999, 109). Predictions, however, can be challenging, especially in complex environments involving multiple actors. This concern is amplified when one takes long-term consequences into account. For example, a consequentialist ethic would justify dropping the two atomic bombs on Japan that ended World War II. Doing so not only saved the Allied lives but also the Japanese ones as well, given the Allied aim of unconditional surrender. Japanese casualties, in fact, were expected to be higher than Allied ones. Thus, under a consequentialist ethic, dropping the bombs was morally preferable to invasion (Giangreco 2017, 127). However, the decision did not consider the proliferation of such weapons after the war (Kort 2007, 96). These future possibilities raise additional ethically relevant concerns. Had the United States and Soviet Union engaged in nuclear war, for example, would that change the justification of their use in World War II? If Russia uses nuclear weapons in Ukraine to stave off defeat, would that justification still stand? It seems odd to have an ethic guiding national policy where moral assessment is rarely, if ever, fully resolved. It is easy to see why such an ethic may not reflect our judgments regarding proxy relationships. While a consequentialist ethic generally promotes a resolute commitment between sponsor and proxy, that commitment is contingent. Either actor might decide the value of the commitment is not worth the cost and betray the other. Moreover, those actors could miscalculate the value and costs of the relationship, which would lead to a wrongful betrayal, even by consequentialist standards. Even if they got the calculations right, universalizing a consequentialist could reasonably undermine trust between sponsor and proxy, making these relationships self-defeating. Further complicating calculations is a third criticism of consequentialism: the commensurability of goods and harms. For utility calculations to be meaningful, goods and harms must be measurable in ways that can be compared (Pojman 1999, 116–117). For example, how many proxy soldier lives are worth the war’s deterrent effect on a sponsor’s adversary? This incommensurability makes it challenging to determine which variables have priority when they conflict. The inability to adequately resolve this question suggests a caution when acting on calculations involving the two.

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In the context of proxy relationships, a strict consequentialist ethic would also place weaker proxies at the mercy of stronger sponsors, which can violate intuitions regarding fairness. Generally speaking, it would be in the sponsor’s interest to benefit the proxy enough to incentivize participation in the relationship. However, it is not hard to imagine a situation where a weaker proxy is incentivized to accept unfair terms from a sponsor because the severity of its conflict, coupled with the sponsor’s level of support, crosses a threshold where it is in the proxy’s interest to do so. This point suggests that both sponsor and proxy should accept norms regarding minimally moral commitment regarding the level of support and resolution of that commitment. The point here is not to refute realism, that is not possible. It is, however, to point out that accepting realism may mean accepting things inconsistent with other beliefs and concerns. Given the coherence requirement, the reflective policymaker has a choice: abandon those other beliefs and concerns or abandon realism and seek a more coherent approach to ethical decision-making. Getting to such an approach requires a better understanding of how coherence can be applied. However, coherence also requires any fruitful approach to retain the central realist insight: governments should work to maximize the interests of those they govern. Governments have positive obligations regarding the security and safety of their citizens that do not apply outside their borders as a realist might. However, those governed possess diverse and sometimes conflicting values that inform how they perceive the legitimacy of acts their government commits on their behalf. These concerns likely would not reduce to simple interest and can include principles, values, and other considerations derived from other philosophical approaches, culture, or religion. The numerous U.S. congressional interventions regarding military assistance to abusive and authoritarian regimes, which I will discuss in Chapter III, underscore that the norms and values that might be brought to bear on foreign policy decisions may be quite complex. Thus, in seeking equilibrium, one should seek a set of norms that includes state security as its moral imperative. It is simply that I may not be the only one. The second objection does not reject the possibility of moral norms beyond those prescribed by consequentialism. It simply observes that some practices benefit from little to no governance. Such a position could easily be compatible with the reflective equilibrium described above that accounts for principles and considerations derived from other ethical

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approaches. As noted above, the paradigm case is espionage, for which few international norms govern its practice. There are rules, especially in wartime, that specify what counts as espionage to differentiate it from other forms of information collection, but nothing that interferes with the act of spying itself (Dinstein 2010, 241–245). In this view, these actors have engaged in something like a football game where one may not prefer to be tackled, but one consents to the possibility by taking the field. Here, actors have a right to waive normative considerations because they are the ones who (mostly) bear the cost of doing so (Pfaff and Tiel 2004, 5). Moreover, there is an other-regarding utility in doing so. To the extent effective spying allows for a more accurate understanding of adversary intentions and actions, it reduces the likelihood of miscalculation and accidental escalation. It also enables actors to make better decisions about the kinds of deterrent threats to employ, making escalation to war more likely. There are some obvious parallels to the use of proxies. Proxy relationships are helpful because they allow “war on the cheap,” where sponsors can reduce the political and economic costs of action by exploiting the proxy’s willingness to take on risks (Mumford 2013, 40). These relationships may be even more attractive to the extent that these relationships allow sponsors to diminish attribution or avoid it altogether. Where proxy relationships allow stronger powers to avoid direct conflict, which they arguably did during the Cold War, then allowing for few restrictions in exchange for avoiding a nuclear Armageddon seems reasonable. This view does not mean that proxy relations would not entail ethical obligations; it just means that they would not entail any additional obligations outside those established by traditional ethics of war. The difficulty with this view is that there are structural aspects of proxy relationships that arguably force both sponsor and proxy into positions that could undermine the coherency of the traditional ethic. As previously discussed, proxy relationships are principal-agent relationships where both actors can be incentivized to betray the other because of the complex interaction of interests. It is also a feature of any principle-agent relationship that principals may need to be able to fully evaluate agent efficacy, which works to benefit the agent. Agents are thus incentivized to withhold information to retain some freedom of action to pursue their interests (Pindyck and Rubinfield 2005, 627). Furthermore, when agents pursue their interests outside the principal’s observation, principals can incur costs for

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which they cannot account. Such divergence also creates space for an agent to act against the interests of the principal, but which the principal may not observe. Complicating matters are cases where no third party can adjudicate conflicts when they arise from the first two concerns, which is typically the case in proxy relationships (Laffont and Martimort 2002, 5). Such dynamics contribute to the anarchy that the establishment of international norms seeks to avoid. This divergence in interest and incentives to withhold information is reason enough to suggest some additional normative analysis necessary to address the moral concerns of proxy relationships. However, the concerns do not all belong to the agent. Proxy relationships differ from principleagent relations because the potential sponsor involvement can undermine already established norms. Adding a sponsor in an otherwise local conflict raises the stakes for local actors and can change the stakes for non-local ones. As the stakes change, so does the willingness of these other actors to get involved and become sponsors. As they get involved, divergent local, national, and international interests come into play, making favorable resolution of a conflict difficult, if not impossible. Moreover, entering into such relationships creates massive opportunities for moral failure. These opportunities arise because the introduction of the sponsor complicates already complex and somewhat subjective decisions regarding the resort to war and, by diffusing the costs of conflict, introduces a potentially corrupting influence that risks distorting the reasons that drive those decisions. Because sponsors are the ones who bring these moral complications, they bear the greater burden of addressing them. However, we need to say more about what those burdens entail. It also does not follow from this point that proxies have no responsibilities. It does mean that most moral decisions regarding proxy wars are often in the hands of the sponsor, without whom there would be no proxy relationship to judge.

Conclusion As the history of proxy wars suggests, their moral reality is complex. U.S. efforts to contain Soviet expansion through support to the South Vietnamese government led to a disastrous escalation, resulting in large-scale direct engagement by U.S. forces. In the 1980s, U.S. support for Islamist proxies in Afghanistan led to the widespread distribution of donated weapons, including Stinger anti-aircraft missiles, at least some of which

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have since been used in other conflicts. Moreover, this support stimulated the emergence of Islamist militants capable of global terrorist operations. While successfully ending the conflict with the government, NATO’s support for rebels in Libya resulted in an ongoing intractable civil war. More recently, U.S. military support for Saudi Arabia and Iraq’s fight against ISIS has risked implicating the United States in war crimes, as the armed forces associated with both these countries have directly targeted civilian populations and may have committed other gross human rights violations (Mazetti and Almosawa 2016). These outcomes raise the question: Can sponsoring a proxy ever be morally permissible? This concern lies at the heart of James Pattison’s assertion that proxy war “is generally impermissible and only exceptionally morally permissible” and only when significant human rights concerns are at stake (Pattison 2015, 455–456). While observing that the emerging international order is likely to give rise to more proxy wars, Seyom Brown also argues that “the temptation to rely on military action by proxies should be resisted” precisely because they reinforce the kind of world order that makes proxy strategies attractive (Brown 2016, 455–456). To better account for how proxy wars work, I have chosen a historical approach over trying to identify one theory of proxy relationships as others have done (Hughes 2014; Groh 2019; Krieg and Rickli 2019). Proxy wars, like war itself, are a diverse phenomenon that may have a common nature but a constantly changing, if not evolving, character. If true, this point suggests that one over-arching theory will be illusive and likely useless. I have already described that common nature as a principalagent relationship. This shared nature does establish standard features relevant to moral analysis. Its character, however, can be sensitive to externalities whose effects may be hard to generalize. This point does not mean that efforts to generalize about proxy wars are not without utility. They may be limited in application. Those differences are helpful to test the application of the principles that derive from their common nature.

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Sovereignty, Edited by Daniel R. Brunstetter and Jean-Vincent Holeindre. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Paskins, Barrie, and Michael Dockrill. 1979. The Ethics of War. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Pattison, James. 2015. “The Ethics of Arming Rebels.” Ethics and International Affairs. 29 (4): 455–471. https://doi.org/10.1017/S089267941500043X. Pindyck, Robert S., and Daniel L. Rubinfield. 2005. Microeconomics. 6th ed. New York: Prentice Hall. Pfaff, Anthony C. 2022. “Coercing Fluently: The Grammar of Coercion in the Twenty-First Century.” United States Army War College Press, August 3. https://press.armywarcollege.edu/monographs/952/. Pfaff, Anthony C. 2016. “Fighting Irregular Wars Well.” The Strategy Bridge, February 16. https://thestrategybridge.org/the-bridge/2017/2/ 16/fighting-irregular-wars-well. Pfaff, Anthony C., and Edward Mienie. 2019. “Strategic Insights: Five Myths Associated with Employing Private Military Companies.” United States Army War College Press, May 4. https://press.armywarcollege.edu/articles_editor ials/3/. Pfaff, Tony, and Jeff Tiel. 2004. “The Ethics of Espionage.” Journal of Military Ethics 3 (1): 1–15. Pojman, Louis P. 1999. Ethics: Discovering Right and Wrong. Belmont, CA: Wadsworth Publishing. Rawls, John. 1971. A Theory of Justice. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Rawls, John. 2001. Justice of Fairness: A Restatement. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. “Rebels Without a Cause: Russia’s Proxies in Eastern Ukraine.” 2019. International Crisis Group. https://www.crisisgroup.org/europe-central-asia/eas tern-europe/ukraine/254-rebels-without-cause-russias-proxies-eastern-ukr aine. Reveron, Derek S. 2016. Exporting Security: International Engagement, Security Cooperation, and the Changing Face of the U.S. Military. 2nd ed. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Rondeaux, Candace, and Daniel Sterman. 2022. Twenty-First Century Proxy Warfare. In Understanding the New Proxy Wars: Battlegrounds and Strategic Reshaping the Greater Middle East, edited by Peter Bergen, Candace Rondeaux, Daniel Rothenberg, and David Sterman. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Roulo, Claudette. 2019. “Alliances vs. Partnerships.” U.S. Department of Defense, March 22. United States Government. https://www.defense.gov/ News/Feature-Stories/story/Article/1684641/alliances-vs-partnerships/#: ~:text=Alliances%20are%20formal%20agreements%20between,the%20other% 2C%20particularly%20during%20war.

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Ryan, Missy, and Annabelle Timsit. 2022. “U.S. Wants Russian Military ‘Weakened’ from Ukraine Invasion, Austin Says.” The Washington Post, April 25. WP Company. https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/2022/04/25/rus sia-weakened-lloyd-austin-ukraine-visit/. Sabbagh, Dan. 2023. “Russian Army Has Lost Up to Half of Key Battle Tanks, Analysts Estimate.” The Guardian, February. https://www.theguardian. com/world/2023/feb/15/russian-army-has-lost-up-to-half-of-key-battletanks-analysts-estimate-ukraine. Sachs, Jeffrey D. 2023. “The War in Ukraine Was Provoked—And Why That Matters to Achieve Peace.” Common Dreams, May 23. https://www.com mondreams.org/opinion/the-war-in-ukraine-was-provoked-and-why-thatmatters-if-we-want-peace. Scanlon, T.M. 1998. What We Owe Each Other. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press. Shapiro, Susan P. 2005. “Agency Theory.” Annual Review of Sociology 31 (1): 263–284. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev.soc.31.041304.122159. “A Short History of NATO.” 2022. North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), June 3. https://www.nato.int/cps/en/natohq/declassified_139 339.htm#:~:text=In%20the%201950s%2C%20the%20Alliance,of%20new%20p artners%20and%20Allies. Singer, Peter W. 2007. “The Dark Truth About Blackwater.” Brookings, October 2. Brookings Institution Press. https://www.brookings.edu/art icles/the-dark-truth-about-blackwater/. Taylor, Michael. 1995. The Possibility of Cooperation. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Teslova, Elena. 2019. “US Allies Continue Buying Weapons from Russia.” Anadolu Ajansı, November 24. AA News Broadcasting. https://www.aa.com. tr/en/politics/us-allies-continue-buying-weapons-from-russia/1653985. “Totaling Up U.S. Assistance to Ukraine Since 2015.” 2019. Taxpayers for Common Sense. https://www.taxpayer.net/national-security/totaling-up-usassistance-to-ukraine-since-2015/. Trevelyan, Mark. 2023. “What Does Yevgeny Prigozhin’s Presumed Death Mean for Vladimir Putin?” Reuters, August 25. Thomson Reuters Corporation. https://www.reuters.com/world/europe/presumed-death-prigozhinremoves-one-problem-may-create-new-ones-putin-2023-08-24/. “U.S. Relations with Egypt—Bilateral Relations Fact Sheet.” 2022. U.S. Department of State, April 29. https://www.state.gov/u-s-relations-withegypt/#:~:text=U.S.%20assistance%20to%20Egypt%20has,%2430%20billion% 20in%20economic%20assistance. Wallace, Anne. 1992. “Peace Activists Protest Monument to ‘Bomber’ Harris— UPI Archives.” United Press International (UPI), June 1. https://www.upi. com/Archives/1992/06/01/Peace-activists-protest-monument-to-BomberHarris/5197707371200/.

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Walt, Stephen. 1987. The Origins of Alliances. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Walzer, Michael. 2015. Just and Unjust Wars (5th ed.). New York, NY: Basic Books. Walzer, Michael. 2004. Arguing about War. New Haven: Yale University Press. Wong, Kristina. 2015. “US Aim for ‘Zero Civilian Casualties’ Draws Criticism.” The Hill, June 26. Nexstar Media Group Inc. https://thehill.com/policy/ defense/policy-strategy/245932-us-aims-for-zero-civilian-casualties-in-warvs-isis/. Zagare, Frank C. 2019. Game Theory, Diplomatic History, and Security Studies. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press.

CHAPTER 2

A Brief History of Proxy Warfare Part I: Ancient to Modern

Introduction Proxy wars are nothing new. Neither is wrestling with moral concerns that are unique to them. In its first military excursion beyond the Italian peninsula, Rome struggled with whether to support the Mamertines, mercenary rulers of Messana, in exchange for Mamertines opposition to the Carthaginian presence in Sicily. Despite their unique position to check Carthaginian encroachment, the Mamertines had taken Messana by force and killed a number of its inhabitants to solidify their control. This fact posed a political, as well as moral, problem for the Roman senate. A short time before, Roman legionnaires had taken over the city of Rhegium, which the senate had sent them to protect. However, the city’s wealth was too tempting, and they seized control. Because such a seizure undermined trust in Roman alliances, the senate ordered an expedition to seize Rhegium and bring surviving legionnaires back to Rome to face execution (Polybius 2010, 6–10). Not only did the senate not want to validate Mamertine rule, but they also did not want to appear as hypocrites to a population that witnessed the public beheadings of the renegade Roman force. Ultimately, the threat from Carthage was too severe, and the senate set aside its concerns and provided the Mamertines the requested assistance. In doing so, they brought Rome into a wider conflict with Syracuse, which had previously © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 C. A. Pfaff, Proxy War Ethics: The Norms of Partnering in Great Power Competition, Palgrave Studies in International Relations, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-50458-7_2

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sought to drive the Mamertines out (Polybius 2010, 10–11). The result was the First Punic War, which lasted 23 years. While Rome was victorious, that victory came at a significant cost and set in motion events that eventually led to the Carthaginian general Hannibal’s invasion of the Italian peninsula (Le Glay et al. 1996, 81–82). As noted in the previous chapter, proxy relationships’ dynamics pose moral concerns beyond escalation and cost. The intervention of a sponsor will not make an unjust cause just, an illegitimate authority legitimate, or a wrong intention right. On the other hand, the sponsor’s involvement can make the disproportionate proportionate, making alternatives to fighting less appealing and thus impacting what counts as a last resort. Moreover, it can affect a proxy’s calculations regarding its chances for success. Compounding these concerns is the fact that proxy relations are useful in managing escalation because they allow sponsors to avoid attribution. However, this ability to avoid attribution risks violating the jus ad bellum condition of public declaration, whose purpose is to prevent war in the first place. Thus, the logic of proxy relationships incentivizes actors in ways that make wars more likely, more devastating, and more challenging to resolve. The history of proxy wars illustrates that this logic often bears out in practice. However, the practice persists because, in moments of crisis and insecurity, it is typically, as Groh points out in the title of his book, the “least bad option.” The following chapter will examine proxy wars from ancient times up to the Cold War to afford a better understanding of the conditions that give rise to the moral concerns and hazards I will consider in Chapters IV and V.

The “Evolution” of Proxy Wars The utility of proxies closely tracks how great powers compete. The decision to engage a proxy begins with the perceived need to intervene. Where intervention is costly, whether in absolute terms or relative to the interest in conflict, proxies can efficiently manage those costs. While this point is generally valid for proxy relationships, the underlying world order can significantly affect a proxy’s utility. For Groh, that utility closely aligns with the polarity of the world order (Groh 2019, 41). In a multipolar order, great powers use proxies to avoid direct confrontation as they balance against each other. In a bipolar order, the need to avoid direct confrontation increases, especially where the powers

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are nuclear armed. As with a multipolar order, proxy wars become an essential means for seeking advantage; however, under a bipolar order, the greater powers have more incentive to engage in proxy relationships given the high cost of direct confrontation. As a result, there is increased pressure on weaker actors to choose sides. In the unipolar world, the hegemon has less need for proxy relationships, using them only to manage the costs of maintaining hegemony, especially in regions where it may be weak. Where the hegemon is especially weak, in what Groh refers to as a “quasi-unipolar order,” the hegemon must either concede to regional powers or find cheaper ways to confront them. Under these conditions, proxy warfare is especially attractive to sustainably manage multiple regional challenges where the hegemon has few vital interests (Groh 2019, 49–52). Polarization is not the only way to think of world order. As Michael Mazarr observes, polarity ignores the complicating role not only other “lesser” actors can play but also how “greater” actors shape one’s choices beyond simply balancing power (Mazarr 2019). Thus, as Seyom Brown argues, the current world order may be better described as “polyarchic,” where different kinds of actors, including states, terrorist networks, subnational groups, transnational religions, multinational enterprises, and global and regional institutions, compete against each other for resources and loyalty of members. Thus, power is no longer in the hands of a few strong state actors but also diffused to numerous state and non-state actors. In such an order, proxy relationships are attractive because even the strongest actors will no longer be able to bear the entire burden of responding to the full range of challenges they face (Brown 2016, 244). Competition in a polyarchic order is further complicated because members can belong to different and competing entities. Insisting on absolute loyalty under such conditions may mean one has no allies at all (Brown 2015, 6–7). The resulting cross-cutting relationships can make it difficult for stronger powers to escalate to war, making it challenging to organize and sustain multilateral cooperation. Such an order also makes it challenging to prevent or respond to potentially destabilizing events such as terrorist attacks, subnational conflicts, economic crises, or transnational criminal activity. Balancing power has little effect in such an order because actors are not unidirectionally aligned (Brown 2016, 29–33). It is easy to see how, in this environment, proxy relationships might proliferate and be hard to control.

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While it makes no more sense to generalize human history’s first thousand years than its last thousand years, one can see how changes in the global order have impacted the utility, and thus proliferation, of proxies. Ancient proxy wars were generally conducted under multipolar conditions, where proxies were frequently employed to disrupt the ability of greater power’s adversaries to wage war. Because of limits in communication and transportation, proxies also facilitated the reach of an empire, as the Ghassanids, an Arab tribe from Yemen who migrated north, did for Byzantium. In the Middle Ages, after Europe had broken up into fiefdoms, conditions reflected more the polyarchic order described by Brown. There, proxies and sponsors could be feudal lords, the kings who nominally ruled them, and the Church. As power consolidated at the national level during the subsequent Renaissance and Enlightenment periods, many actors employed mercenaries to settle their disputes. This practice became so widespread and harmful that it created a bias against mercenaries that persists today. As technological developments during the Renaissance and Enlightenment periods enabled European powers to colonize, proxies became useful for balancing power and maintaining empire. That continued until the twentieth century when the subsequent bipolar order that emerged consolidated sponsorship amid decolonization after World War II. The result was the proliferation of proxy wars in Africa and Asia, exacerbated by the Cold War, which will be the subject of Chapter 3. What follows will more closely examine specific proxy wars that illustrate how actors’ asymmetries, alignment of interests, and ability to exert control can give rise to moral good, harm, and hazard. The point of doing so is first to illustrate the complexity of proxy relations and second how failure to address the moral concerns they raise and manage the moral hazards they create can make the practice self-defeating.

The Peloponnesian War The Peloponnesian War (432–404 BCE) was a long-fought conflict between the ancient Greek city-states of Athens and Sparta and their respective allies and proxies in the Delian and Peloponnesian Leagues (Merrit 1971, 97). The large, shifting, and varied blocs that coalesced around Athens and Sparta drew from an earlier Pan-Hellenic alliance formed in 481 B.C. to combat Persian influence (Kagan 1987, 31–32). After defeating the Persians in 479 B.C., the bonds among these allies

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became strained and approached the breaking point when Greeks still under Persian rule in Ionia rebelled (Rahe 2019, 9). Sparta’s response was to resettle the Greeks in areas that were easier to defend because it felt it could not guarantee their long-term security. For its part, Athens had colonies in the region, which it wanted to defend. When Athens successfully laid siege to the Persian stronghold at Sestus, Sparta saw the Athenian victory as a challenge to their hegemony that emerged after the defeat of Persia. Thus began a slow slide to war (Kagan 1987, 34–35). Sparta’s view regarding Athens’ challenge was more than just a matter of perception. After Sestus, Athenians began building a system of fortifications ostensibly to protect themselves against the Persians, limiting Sparta’s coercive capability. Sparta may have ignored that assertion; however, Athens’ former rivals, likely Aegina, Megara, and possibly Corinth, urged Sparta to confront the Athenians and compel them to take down the fortifications. While the rationale they gave the Athenians was implausible—the Persians might be able to use those fortifications should they invade again—their concern about Athenian assertiveness was apparently reasonable. After they finished their walls, the Athenians declared themselves an equal in the Pan-Hellenic League and independent of Sparta (Kagan 1987, 35–37). Against these rising tensions, the Athenians’ concern relative to Melos that Walzer described becomes clearer. The threat from Melos was not so much a potential alliance with Sparta; instead, as a former colony, their simple defiance of Athenian rule indirectly benefited Sparta by making Athens appear weak. Thus, simply by virtue of their history and circumstances, they were a proxy despite apparently lacking the intent to be so. Analysis of intent, however, can admit of degrees and nuance. Melos may not have intended to align with Sparta explicitly; however, they must have been aware of the benefit their defiance of Athens provided. This point does not justify the Athenian response, nor does it ascribe blame to the Melians. However, it does illustrate how, as a relationship takes on the character of proxy, it changes how actors can relate to the others. This point suggests that from the perspective of prudence, actors should pay attention to the indirect benefits their policies and actions provide. The example of Melos is one of many instances of the pitfalls of being even a potential proxy. Approximately two years before the breakout of war between Athens and Sparta in 433 BCE, Corcyra and Corinth went to war over the Corcyran colony of Epidamnus in 433 BCE. When fighting broke out, the Corcyrans appealed to the Athenians for assistance. In

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their appeal, they pointed out that Corinth, an ally of Sparta, sought to defeat Corcyra to weaken Athens’ coalition. While Athens considered its options, a Corinthian delegation underscored Corcyra’s argument—if accidentally—by pointing out that supporting Corcyra would be seen as an act of aggression against the Spartan-dominated Peloponnesian league (Kagan 1987, 222–233). Athens ended up deciding in favor of Corcyra, which had the second largest navy, Athens having the largest. Given the importance of maritime security to Athenian security, risking Corcyra aligning itself to Sparta was a risk Athens could not take. Their arrangement, however, was limited: Athens would only intervene on behalf of Corcyra if Corinth attacked. Its location also facilitated maritime travel to Italy and Sicily, adding to the incentive to support. Even then, Athens’s initial contribution was small—just ten ships, which it held back from the fight until it was clear Corinth would be decisively defeated (Kagan 1987, 235–247). Even that was insufficient, and it is on this basis that Corcyra was more proxy than ally. While Athens did supply some direct support, it did so in a way to mitigate Athenian risk and cost. They were perfectly content for the Corcyran’s to win on their own. Interestingly, even the Athenians saw a problem with such a halfhearted commitment, even at the time. Athenian leadership had come under criticism by those who believed ten ships were too few to help Corcyra but too many not to provoke their enemies. It is unclear whether that discussion included the concern that it also might provoke Corcyra’s enemies. However, rather than withdrawing them to avoid entanglement, Athens decided to commit more fully. Dramatically, as Corinthian forces were about to deliver the final blow to a beleaguered Corcyran navy, Athenian reinforcements of twenty triremes appeared and convinced the Corinthians to retreat, believing there would be even more coming (Kagan 1987, 248). War finally came in 431 BCE when Plataea successfully sought Athenian assistance against a Theban incursion (Hammond 1992, 112). Sparta demanded that Plataea withdraw from its alliance with Athens, which it refused (Hammond 1992, 146). Following this rebuttal, Sparta and Thebes weighed their options for a period; however, by 427 BCE, they had razed Plataea, and the Peloponnesian War was well underway (Shrimpton 1984, 295). Drug into conflict by proxies, at least in part, Sparta ended the war by becoming one. In 405 BCE, Sparta sought and gained Persian sponsorship, and with that support, Sparta rebuilt its navy

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and defeated the Athenian fleet at the Battle of Aegospotami, forcing Athens to surrender (Nation 2010, 112). By sponsoring Sparta, Persia managed to exact revenge for Athens’s victory at Sestus, more than seven decades before, which had blocked Persian expansion into Greece. That victory at Sestus set in motion an escalatory process accelerated by proxies that transformed former allies into enemies and brought about one of the more destructive wars in the ancient world. Analysis The Peloponnesian War aptly illustrates how asymmetric actors with shared, but not fully aligned, interests can drag other actors into conflicts they may have otherwise wished to avoid. This point applies to both stronger and weaker actors. In the bipolar context of Greek city-state relations at this time, it was the case that stronger actors forced weaker ones to take sides, and when they did, those stronger actors got embroiled in local conflicts that escalated into a wider war. It also illustrates how the fact of indirect benefits can place an actor into a proxy relationship they may not have explicitly intended. As long as Corinth and Corcyra remained at peace, Athens had little concern regarding Corcyra. However, once Corinth, as an ally of Sparta, placed pressure on Corcyra and Corcyra asked for Athenian assistance, the Athenians had little choice but to say yes. Had the Athenians refused to support Corcyra, the Corcyrans would have had little reason to align with the Athenians in the more significant confrontation with Sparta. Even if they did not immediately align with Sparta, the fact of their large navy, under pressure to realign with an adversary, and with no alternative would have constrained the Athenians in their options to confront Sparta. The possibility of losing their maritime advantage would have, or at least should have, limited the risks they should take and, thus, the options that they had. Sparta had a similar problem. Plataean resistance to Spartan demands had the same effect Melian defiance had with Athens. Even a neutral Plataea provided Athens with an indirect benefit, which is intolerable if security depends on the balance of power and any challenge makes one vulnerable relative to an adversary. While the ancient world may have been multipolar, the contest in the Hellenes was clearly bipolar, at least until the Persians intervened on behalf of the Spartans. Thus, there was pressure on all weaker actors to

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take sides. This dynamic raises critical ethical considerations. First, it is not clear to what extent superpowers in a bipolar order are obligated to constrain seeking advantage—especially in the form of proxies—to maintain stability. In his classic history of the Peloponnesian War, even Donald Kagan asks whether Athens should have convened an international conference to encourage some compromise between Corinth and Corcyra. However, he also recognizes that such conferences were unprecedented at the time (Kagan 1987, 241). His point, however, is an important one. Such a compromise may have denied Athens an advantage, but increasing stability may have mitigated any risk that posed. The point here, however, is not whether that would have been the case as much as it is to ask whether there was not an obligation to try before engaging in a proxy war. The example of the Peloponnesian War provides additional clarity and granularity regarding the role intent plays in moral evaluation. As explained in the previous chapter, intent is not so much a condition for a proxy relationship as it is for moral analysis of proxy relationships. As the examples of Melos and Plataea demonstrate, it is possible to provide an indirect benefit without intending to do so. However, to the extent that such indirect benefits are features of the existing order, there is a question of awareness. Should the Melians have known their resistance provided an indirect benefit to Sparta? That was the argument the Athenians made—if not explicitly—but there is no evidence that the Melians recognized their actions this way. Furthermore, if they did know, it may be the case that knowledge placed obligations on them to find other ways to address Athenian security need? At this point in the discussion, the answer needs to be clarified. The distinction between intending and knowing features prominently in jus in bello considerations regarding the use of force. For example, the doctrine of double effect permits soldiers to use force in ways that they knowingly harm noncombatants as long as they do not intend that harm. In this case, knowledge is insufficient to ascribe moral blame. This permission, however, rests on the further conditions that force is necessary and that soldiers take extra risks to avoid harming noncombatants. The condition of necessity suggests that the use of force serves a just cause and that there are no less harmful alternatives. The just cause limits the obligation to take extra risks. As previously mentioned, one does not need to take so much risk that one would fail or be unable to continue the fight. By analogy, knowledge that one even unintentionally benefits another

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actor’s adversary does impose some prudential obligations to consider that actor’s security needs.

Rome and the Foederati The Roman foederati were one of the best-known and probably most systematic employment of proxies in the ancient world. The word “foederati” had multiple meanings. In some cases, it could refer to nonRomans who joined the Roman military as individuals, communities that eventually integrated into the empire, or communities that agreed to fight on Rome’s behalf in exchange for some support. Those in this last category were generally allowed to govern their territories. When fighting for Rome, they usually fought independently, serving as auxiliaries or protecting the frontiers where they were located. Thus, while some foederati were best considered allies or partners, some took on the qualities of proxies. Before the end of the fourth century, Rome had several foederati arrangements with Goths and other Germanic tribes west of the Danube. Mostly, these tribes guarded the frontier and provided Rome with other military services. However, under pressure from invading Huns, the Visigoths (western Goths) crossed the Danube, asking permission to settle in Roman territory. The Roman emperor Valens agreed, hoping to fill military ranks that had been depleted fighting the Persians. However, the Visigoths revolted mainly because of poor treatment by the Roman Army and corrupt local officials. After defeating Roman forces at the Battle of Adrianople in 378 CE, they reached a settlement with the Romans that allowed them to remain east of the Danube in exchange for providing troops to support Roman campaigns (Lenski 1997, 129–143). Not long after the settlement, the Visigoths took advantage of Roman weakness and marauded throughout the Balkan Peninsula, eventually sacking Rome in 410 CE. Visigoths did, however, sometimes fulfill their part of the bargain. In 416 CE, for example, they supported a Roman invasion of Spain, and later, in the mid-fifth century, they and other foederati played a critical role in driving the Huns out of Gaul (Sivan 1987, 764). That alignment, however, did not last. When the Huns finally withdrew from the Western Roman Empire after the death of their leader, Attila, these tribes carved up the territory into Germanic kingdoms independent of Roman rule (Ferrill 1986, 168–169).

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As the Roman Empire collapsed in the west, the rest of Europe descended into the Dark Ages. During this time, the practice of establishing foederati spread east as Byzantium came into conflict with Persia and later the Umayyads (Demichelis 2021, 3). By the sixth century C.E., the Byzantine and Persian Empires engaged more sedentary tribal leaders to keep nomadic tribes away from settled areas. Over time, the supported tribal leaders established more stable and capable political organizations and extended the territory they could control. Eventually, the Ghassanids, who aligned with Byzantium, emerged from these proxy arrangements, and Lakhmids, who aligned with Persia, consolidated control over the frontier (Hourani 1991, 11–12). Somewhat ironically, both were Christian Arab tribes who migrated from Yemen, but their relationships with the competing empires placed them in mortal conflict (Demichelis 2021, 3–6). Despite this conflict, these proxies had a generally stabilizing effect. Not only did they control the borders and deter conflict between the two empires, but they also defended and administered trade routes and served as a conduit for customs, traditions, and practices filtered into nomadic cultures (Garraty and Gay 1972, 258–259; Demichelis 2021, 3–4). These relationships persisted until the Ghassanids and Lakhmids were assimilated into the expanding Islamic Empire (Hourani 1991, 24). Analysis The Roman employment of foederati demonstrates the attractiveness of proxy relationships for both sponsor and proxy. While the threat was common, interests often diverged. Rome engaged in proxies because it could, but its proxies accepted Roman support because they had little better alternatives. The relationship was symbiotic for most of their history; the sponsor enjoyed greater security, and the proxy prospered. Moreover, when foederati acted against Roman interests, they did so more because of corruption and abuse than divergent interests or other aspects of proxy relationships. On occasion, barbarian attacks were actually a function of how well integrated into Roman politics. Often, competitors for the Roman throne would engage barbarian proxies to attack their rivals. Even when that competition was settled, Roman emperors would tolerate a certain level of Gothic plundering because defeating the Goths earned the emperor status and gave reason to levy more troops for other ventures (Mathisen 2020, 267–268).

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The example of the foederati illustrates how the divergence of features like identity and culture introduces other divergent elements into proxy relationships. Rome and the Germanic tribes it engaged shared a common threat; however, that was not enough to build a full-fledged alliance. Differences in relative strength, political organization, and prejudice made the Romans uneasy about allowing them to settle within the empire. They also placed limits on the kind of support they would receive. The Roman foederati also provided a lesson on control. Generally, Rome employed more carrots than sticks. Foederati were bound to Rome using foedera (sing. foedus ), formal treaties specifying the terms under which non-Romans would support and be supported by the empire. In the case of the Goths, the terms of the many treaties signed were transactional: payment, land, and autonomy in exchange for military service. Moreover, this military service was not unlimited and was usually confined to a single campaign (Mathisen 2020, 265). In other cases, Romans would use foedera as a means to integrate other communities into the Roman empire and place them on a path to full citizenship (Baronowski 1988, 172; Sivan 1987, 761; Heather 1995, 19–20).

Mercenaries and the Hundred Years War (1337–1453) Meanwhile, the demise of the Western Roman Empire continued to set conditions for the proliferation of proxy relationships. As power devolved from emperor to feudal lord, the opportunity, as well as the availability, of proxies increased. The result was a more polyarchic order where political authority had fragmented into small kingdoms, duchies, principalities, and city-states. Under the resulting feudal system, local leaders had considerable autonomy over their territories. However, they would owe loyalty and military service to higher-ranking lords who would, in turn, owe allegiance to the monarch. The Roman Catholic Church also wielded considerable political power, often competing and cooperating with secular authorities. In a sense, the political order of the early Middle Ages was an order of proxies (Garraty and Gay 1972, 367–380). Small communities with limited resources but significant security requirements can unlikely sustain adequate forces to ensure their protection. This dynamic creates a market for outsourcing those requirements that incentivize the creation of mercenary forces happy to fight for the highest bidder. Sarah Percy observes that armies during this feudal era were undisciplined and ill-trained. As a result, sovereigns preferred more

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experienced and better-trained mercenaries to do their fighting (Percy 2007, 70). The result was predictably disastrous. When out of work, mercenaries frequently marauded the countryside, pillaging villages and extorting protection money. Their destabilizing effects reached a point where the Roman Catholic Church, at the Lateran Council of 1179, excommunicated mercenaries who were not under the control of a noble (Percy 2007, 59; Council Fathers 2023). Despite this condemnation, the practice persisted. For example, during the Hundred Years War, actors on all sides employed mercenaries to augment their less-capable national armies (Montross 1960, 169). The polyarchic order of the Middle Ages set the stage for the Hundred Years War, which is better thought of as a series of conflicts that originated over competing claims to the French throne, including one by the king of England, Edward III. It is a feature of polyarchic orders that identities can overlap, cross-cut, and reinforce in complex ways, setting the stage for cooperation and conflict. For example, though King of England, Edward III was also a Norman duke with authority over Aquitaine in southwest France, simultaneously making him both sovereign and vassal (Green 2014, 56). These relationships also enabled his claim to the French throne, though others—because of similar complicated relationships—had similar and more compelling claims. Moreover, proxy relations had a role in triggering the conflict. Since 1173, it had been standard practice for France and Scotland to call on each other for support when at war with England. This relationship was formalized in 1295 when Scotland and France signed the “Auld Alliance.” Under this treaty, both parties agreed not to make a separate peace with England. Over time, support took the form of mutual military assistance formalized in 1326 when France’s King Charles IV signed a treaty with Scotland’s Robert the Bruce affirming that France, as a loyal ally of Scotland, was obliged to “provide aid or advice, in time of peace or war, against the King of England and his subjects” (Bonner 1999, 12). While referenced as an alliance, the relationship may be better described as one between mutual proxies, as how the alliance manifested into action reflected divergent interests. For example, France did not come to Scotland’s aid during their conflict with Edward I. However, France did grant refuge to the infant Scottish king, David II, who had to flee after Scotland’s disastrous defeat by Edward I at Halidon Hill in 1333. Additionally, Phillip VI insisted that negotiations over the status

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of Gascony, part of Edward III’s duchy, would have to take the status of Scotland into account (Green 2014, 60). During the war, Scotland did accept funding from the French to fight the English, generally ending in disaster for the Scottish. Later, Scottish mercenaries would join French forces, and in 1419, the Scots sent a large contingent of approximately 6,000 to fight alongside the French. While Scotland did not secure its independence, their attacks against England and support on the continent allowed the French to reverse English victories and eventually win the war (Bonner 1999, 13–15). It is unclear if the mercenaries who participated in the war provided similar benefits. During a ten-year pause in the fighting, unemployed mercenary companies marauded the French countryside, extorting protection money from local authorities who were thus forced to raise taxes from a public already impoverished by mercenary plundering. At one point, the Free Companies—so-called because they operated independently of political control—controlled sixty fortresses and a large part of central and eastern France (Percy 2007, 81). When French forces tried to assert control, they were defeated by a superior mercenary force. Thus, after the truce in 1360, mercenaries employed to defend France became its most significant security problem (Green 2014, 66). The problem did not stay in France. Mercenaries who found themselves out of work in France moved to Italy, attracted by wealthy, antagonistic city-states looking for advantage and to settle scores (Montross 1960, 200; Percy 2007, 75). Unfortunately for their patrons, these mercenaries were the only ones who seemed to profit. Under these conditions, mercenaries were incentivized to prolong campaigns rather than resolve them, mainly where they could stage a convincing battle without risking any real military resources. If impressing potential or future clients failed to gain sufficient business, these mercenaries would often resort to extortion. In one case, a company of 7000 soldiers and 2000 crossbowmen demanded protection money from cities from Pisa to Florence (Montross 1960, 200–201). By presenting themselves as both problem and solution, mercenaries in Italy managed to maintain a rough balance of power among the city-states. Because they were unwilling to take excessive risk, few citystates decisively defeated another, and, in some way, destruction remained limited (Montross 1960, 201). However, extortion had its consequences. For example, a company of mercenaries extorted so much from the city of Siena that it eventually declined from a position rivaling Florence to being

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a provincial backwater (Percy 2007, 75). An exception to this dysfunctional dynamic was the Swiss, whose best advertisement oddly was their defeat. At the Battle of St. Jacob in 1444, a Swiss mercenary corps fought French forces 15 times their size. At the end of the battle, the Swiss had all been killed but left twice as many dead Frenchmen. Contrasted to the mercenaries in Italy, this act bolstered the idea that Swiss soldiers were worth hiring (Montross 1960, 203). Despite this experience, the use of mercenaries persisted even after the end of the Hundred Years War. Not only had mercenaries become critical to the Swiss economy, but the Germans also began raising their own competing “Landsknechts,” who gained a reputation as an effective infantry force for keeping up with changes in tactics and the use of firearms. Their employment, however, created a kind of security dilemma. As in Italy, the availability of these forces increased tensions among neighbors, forcing many to hire mercenaries on a continual basis as a deterrence. Doing so placed political authorities in a bind. While mercenaries were not always worth the cost, failure to pay them could lead to mutiny and disorder these communities could ill-afford (Montross 1960, 204). It should be no surprise that even those who profited from the practice still had moral concerns. Swiss mercenaries, for example, were criticized at home because they fought for money and not a just cause. Many felt it diminished Swiss moral standards. Others, like the Swiss priest Huldrych Zwingli, objected to the practice because it amounted to the sacrifice of young men for money. Zwingli, who had accompanied Swiss mercenaries as a chaplain, was present at the Battle of Marignano, where the Swiss lost 10,000 men, but those who sent them kept the money. The Italians raised similar concerns. For them, the use of mercenaries undermined the civic spirit. Even where the mercenaries’ cause was just, by fighting, they prevented citizens from having to support their state (Percy 2007, 75). Addressing these moral concerns was, in part, a matter of control. From the Church’s point of view, only nobles had the authority to use force, and non-nobles could only use force in service to the appropriate noble. Because mercenaries were essentially non-nobles who fought for themselves, they upset this order. That is why the Lateran Council of 1179 only excommunicated those mercenaries not fighting for an appropriate authority. When the threat of excommunication alone failed to reign in mercenary abuse during the pause in the Hundred Years War, Pope Urben

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further intervened and not only excommunicated rampaging mercenaries but also offered indulgences to those who resisted them. He also forbade anyone from assisting them and tried to restrict the payment of protection money. He then tried a more positive approach by channeling mercenary energy into crusades, first to the Balkans and second to Moorish Spain. The first campaign was poorly organized and offered little incentive to the mercenaries, so it predictably ended in disaster. The second, directed at the wealthier Moors, was better organized and thus achieved better results, at least from the perspective of the Pope (Percy 2007, 79– 83). Whether the Pope’s employment of these mercenaries in this manner is best understood as cynical exploitation or a recognition that even when proxies outlive their usefulness some sponsor obligations remain is impossible to determine. However, this example does illustrate the perils of abandoning proxies to their own fate once their utility has expired as well as the need to be circumspect regarding how one fulfills the obligations that remain. Overall, these measures to constrain mercenary practices had an effect. The moral and spiritual sanctions caused several mercenaries to disband. Redirecting mercenary efforts to crusading also provided some relief. However, they were not enough. Only when sovereigns established standing armies that paid reasonable wages were European mercenaries finally brought under control. For France’s part, Charles VII dealt with the problem by appointing officers who would take the best of the Free Companies and integrate them into permanent units while disbanding the rest (Percy 2007, 82–83). The English, for their part, relied more on a sense of civic duty in the yeoman class coupled with reasonable conditions that motivated participation in a standing army (Montross 1960, 169). Analysis The first thing to note from this period is the effect of the polyarchic order on the demand and supply of proxies. Here, complex aristocratic relationships brought actors into conflict they may not have otherwise joined. Given that few were strong enough to defeat the other alone, these relationships created a market for military capabilities. Thus, additionally, a kind of proxy—mercenaries—proliferated when they might not have otherwise. Under such conditions, control is critical. Otherwise, engaging proxies as a practice becomes self-defeating. The lesson of the Hundred Years

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War, however, is that the increased need for control can come when an actor is not in a position to exert it. Actors often engage proxies because they are both weak and in crisis. That is why these mercenary groups could hold much of Europe hostage for so long. What eventually brought these groups under control was an emerging norm against their use, reinforced by contemporary moral authorities, and a sustainable alternative that met the demand these groups filled but without the dysfunctional incentives. Even with these controls, the use of mercenaries persisted, though their use was not as destabilizing as before. However, as the Middle Ages transformed into the Renaissance, sovereigns began to gain a monopoly on the use of force, transforming a polyarchic order into a more multipolar one. However, the Roman Catholic and Protestant churches shared in this polarity, whose interests cut across national ones. This cross-cutting role set conditions for conflict and created opportunities for particularly complex proxy warfare.

The French Wars of Religion The French Wars of Religion (1562–1598) was a series of eight wars fought between French Catholics and Protestants (Tulchin 2014, 841– 850). The primary cause of the wars was a dispute about succession to the French throne, exacerbated by a divisive political environment in which Catholics and Protestants jockeyed for power and influence within France (Tulchin 2014, 857). Apart from the ongoing religious dispute, another primary source of contention between these groups was the role French representative institutions such as the Estates General would play in limiting the monarchy’s power (Parrow 1993, 5). Protestants favored an expanded role for popular representation, while Catholics aligned themselves with the monarchy and sought to retain their traditional positions of power in French society (Tulchin 2014, 857). These domestic tensions drew the interest of other regional powers, such as England and the Netherlands, who supported the Protestants. In contrast, Spain and the Duchy of Savoy supported the French Catholics (Jensen 1974, 23; Knecht 2016, 94). In this respect, the French Wars of Religion were characterized not just by civil war but also by proxy warfare. Moreover, these relationships were unstable and contributed to the conflict’s intractability as they shifted. Every treaty signed would cause

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a reorientation of relationships, generating a new balance of power that could support conflict (Nexon 2009, 238). For example, in the hopes of regaining sovereignty over Calais, Elizabeth I of England provided financial backing to French Protestant forces in the early stages of the wars. However, following the Treaty of Hampton Court in 1562, Elizabeth sent English forces to occupy Le Havre and Dieppe, only to be met in 1563 by the Catholic and Protestant forces of Catherine De Medici, Queen Regent of France. When the city was sacked, Elizabeth reacted strongly to this betrayal and refused to come to the aid of French Protestants when Catherine was later persecuting them (Knecht 2016, 94). The Protestant Dutch—seeking to shift the regional balance of power in their favor—acted as a proxy, fighting Spanish Catholics to diminish their ability to support French Catholics later (Spielvogel 2021, 396–397). Spain’s and Savoy’s interests were much more complex. For Spain’s part, Phillip II prioritized support for the Catholic cause; however, he saw instigating internal divisions in France—even among Catholics— as a means to limit France’s ability to engage abroad, especially with the protestant Netherlands. The Duke of Savoy’s primary interest was expanding territory rather than ideology. Both supported actors in France who played both sides of the Catholic-Protestant struggle. For example, Spain and Savoy supported Henri Duc Montmorency, the governor of Languedoc, because of his anti-protestant stance. Montmorency, for his part, maintained that stance only until the French king relieved him of his governorship, and he needed protestant support to sustain it. Despite his alignment with the protestants, Spain continued its support until Montmorency’s Catholic rival fell in line for the French throne. Then, Phillip II shifted to support the rival instead. Interestingly, the Roman Catholic Church was constrained from intervening since Montmorency was the unofficial protector of papal lands. Moreover, Pope Gregory XIII welcomed Montmorency’s contacts with the protestants since it allowed him to negotiate to retrieve lands they had previously seized (Davies 1990, 870–892). In the last years of the war, the people of France were ready for peace. The country had been ravaged by conflict, climactic shifts had caused a poor harvest, and the armies operating throughout had accelerated the spread of plague and disease (Knecht 2016, 266). After raging on and off for over forty years, the French Wars of Religion ended with the signing of the Edict of Nantes in 1598 (Treasure 2013, 224). The

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edict deliberately avoided questions of religion or doctrine and focused on integrating the Protestants into French society; however, it was far from even-handed. It granted Catholics greater religious freedoms than protestants and promoted France’s Catholic identity (Knecht 2016, 279). Even then, not all Catholics welcomed the edict, and, in fact, many, including Pope Clement VIII, were staunchly opposed to it since it represented a compromise with heretics. After its publication, French Catholic clergy opposed it from the pulpit, arguing for further bloodshed (Baumgartner 1978, 525–536). Nonetheless, it put an end to the war. After this tumultuous chapter in European history, France’s monarchy and Catholic faction retained control over the French state. In this sense, the machinations of foreign Protestant forces proved unsuccessful in France, as the balance of power remained essentially unchanged. However, there were windows of opportunity for Protestant-friendly reform throughout the conflict. Unfortunately for the Protestants, many attempts at reform were unsuccessful. A notable example of the Protestant faction’s failure to influence the French state was their ineffective advocacy in the Estates General, where the assembly failed to approve new taxes or pass realistic legislation (Tulchin 2014, 858). In this sense, for all the suffering they wrought, the Wars of Religion did little to increase the standing of Protestants in France. Analysis While the conflict owed much of its length and severity to religious fervor and weak French monarchs (Tulchin 2015, 1698), external intervention played a critical role. Phillip II, for example, offered Montmorency money to disrupt a peace treaty in 1576 (Davies 1990, 874). However, as Allan Tulchin observes, conflicts also perpetuate when there is too much uncertainty regarding enemy capabilities (Tulchin 2015, 1698). If one knows one is outmatched, one is more likely to be willing to find compromise. Proxy relationships complicate these calculations because a proxy can never be sure how much support they will receive and for how long. In the context of the French religious wars, the fact that self-interest motivated duplicitous constantly shifting alignments made such calculations even more difficult.

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Colonial Period and the British East India Company As the French settled their religious differences, major European powers, including the French, extended their empires abroad, colonizing the Americas, Africa, and Asia. Much like the Romans and Persians, they employed proxies to extend their ability to administer these far-flung territories. However, in some cases, the character of these proxies was different. While the Europeans employed local factions to act in their interests, many European states also established commercial enterprises to manage their colonial interests (Nierstrasz 2022). By allowing these actors to outsource the need to raise capital and take on the risks associated with long voyages and competition with trading rivals, this innovation allowed these powers to keep conflict in the colonies from spreading to the continent (Gelderblom et al. 2013, 1051). Notable among these innovations was the British East India Company, which effectively colonized on the Crown’s behalf for almost 300 years, aptly illustrating the dynamic.1 The Company essentially comprised a group of London merchants and their investors who were granted exclusive rights to trade with the East Indies by Queen Elizabeth I on December 31, 1600. To enforce its monopoly, its charter from the Crown authorized it to seize other English merchant ships and cargo that violated its monopoly (Keay 1993, 3–4) (Dalrymple 2019, 8–9). Over time, the Company would transform from a semi-autonomous commercial entity whose purpose was to advance trade to a semi-sovereign actor capable of waging war, seizing territory, and governing colonies. Initially, Queen Elizabeth I granted a modest charter that gave the Company a monopoly on trade in the East Indies for 15 years (Dalrymple 2019, 8–9). Before that time was up, in 1609, King James I granted the Company a new charter that extended its monopoly indefinitely. It also granted the Company authority over British ships that might pass through the Indies from other regions (Keay 1993, 39). In 1661, when the Company faced liquidation, it restructured and was granted a new charter by King Charles II that affirmed previous rights and permitted the Company to colonize and fortify its posts in India (Keay 1993, 128). These powers were expanded again when King James II further granted 1 I owe much of this discussion to George R. Shatzer, who shared unpublished research that assisted with this discussion on the British East India Company.

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the Company the power to arrest interlopers as well as to wage war against the local Mughal authorities (Keay 1993, 171–177). In 1716, the Mughal Empire itself granted the Company legal, territorial, and commercial status equal to that of its local governors and administrators, effectively legitimating its right to levy taxes, administer the territory, and defend its interests (Keay 1993, 228). Predictably, as a proxy, the interests of the Company did not always align with the Crown. Initially, the Crown’s interest was opening markets, improving trade, and growing its economy while minimizing costs and risks. Colonization was more means than priority, and the British government originally had few qualms about letting the Company determine what arrangements facilitated that economic end (James 1994, 53; Dalrymple 2019, xxxi). However, as it perceived a need to expand its influence, increase profits, and improve the security of its operations, it came into conflict with other European powers and was entangled in internal Indian affairs. First, by levying taxes and eventually becoming the civil government for many parts of India, the Company viewed itself as advancing English ideals and exercising imperial rule rather than just running a business as the Crown whittled away at its monopoly (James 1994, 123). The British government’s efforts to compartmentalize competition this way did not always work. In 1623, the Dutch attacked an East India Company trading station, which triggered a series of conflicts between England and the Netherlands between 1652 and 1674. In these conflicts, the British and Dutch sought to gain control of main sea routes out of Western Europe, not just to the east, but to Eastern Europe, the Mediterranean, North America, and Africa. Generally speaking, the British did not fare well, losing access in West Africa, Surinam, and temporarily New York (Ferguson 2002, 17). Sometimes, the dynamic worked the other way around, where, in 1753, the Company was negotiating a nonaggression pact with the French East India Company that would have essentially made India a free trade zone. Not wanting to cede anything to the French, the English Parliament intervened, forcing the Company to decline the pact. The resulting Carnatic Wars—named for the area where it was fought—continued until 1761, becoming part of the global contest between Britain and France known as the Seven Years War (Dalrymple 2019, 55–58). Over time, Company failures, excesses, and entanglements motivated the British government to seek more control over the Company. In

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response to the Company’s other financial crisis, Parliament passed the Regulating Act of 1773, giving it access to all Company correspondence dealing with revenue, political, and military matters and its established increased government oversight (Keay 1993, 384–386). These measures did little to improve the Company’s situation. So, in 1784, Parliament passed another act that made the Company’s Governor-General post a royal appointee and established a body of commissioners in London to oversee the Company. The effect of these measures was to remove Company directors in London from the ability to control government functions in India. It also made the Company’s organization more aligned with the British government (Keay 1993, 390–391). In 1813, in response to concerns that governing an empire was not best left to non-resident merchants, Parliament passed the Charter Act, which abolished the Company’s trade with the East and claimed sovereignty over Company possessions. Doing so did not abate Parliament’s concerns. By 1825, there was growing opposition to the Company’s existence out of concern that it would compete more with than complement the government. In 1833, Parliament passed the East India Charter Bill, which abolished the Company’s right to trade, effectively turning it into a governing corporation (Dalrymple 2019, 388–389) (Ferguson 2002). However, the end would not come until 1857, when the Company publicly humiliated several Sepoy soldiers who refused to use cartridges rumored to be greased with a blend of pork and beef fat, which offended both Muslims and Hindus. The act sparked a widespread rebellion, quickly becoming a brutal civil war (James 1994, 226–229). While portrayed mainly as a response to Britain’s attempts to Christianize India, the rebellion, which came to be referred to as the Indian Mutiny in Britain and the First War of Independence in India, was also a response to the Company’s corrupt, incompetent, and discriminatory practices (Dalrymple 2019, 390) (Ferguson 2002, 123). After crushing the rebellion nine months later, the Company executed tens of thousands of suspected rebels, shocking the Crown and Parliament’s consciences alike. In 1858, Parliament nationalized the Company’s remaining possessions, disbanded its navy, and transferred its army to British government control. The Company would linger on for another 15 years until its charter expired in 1874 (Dalrymple 2019, 390–392; Keay 1993, 392).

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Analysis The most obvious lesson from Britain’s experience with its East India Company is managing shared but misaligned interests. In this case, misalignment was more a function of the execution than the interest itself. Unlike the kind of self-interest the Duke of Savoy exhibited when he assisted Catholics in France, Crown and Company sought profit. Moreover, both adopted a mercantilist view of the world that saw global trade as a zero-sum game and conflict with rivals as a necessary outcome (Dalrymple 2019, 28). By outsourcing that conflict to a commercial entity, the British government implicitly adopted a model of risk-taking that prioritized profit over other concerns. For example, the conflicts with the Dutch and French occurred where conflict was one’s worst outcome and the other’s only way forward. The Company had no choice but to confront the Dutch if it were to open markets, even though the British government would not benefit from the resulting expanded conflict. On the other hand, where the Company wanted to minimize its losses, the government’s political concerns drove it to keep fighting, even though that was unprofitable. Another important lesson to learn is the moral limits of externalizing risk. Just like the Swiss eventually came to see the export of mercenaries as a taint on their society, the British came to a similar view of the operations of the Company. Moreover, they came to this view long before the Indian Mutiny and even took steps to reign in particularly malign behavior. For example, in 1788, Parliament impeached Warren Hastings, then Director of the East India Company, for corruption and abuse of the Indian population. Unfortunately, mainly due to prosecutorial mismanagement, Hasting was eventually cleared of all the charges. The trial did, however, reinforce the Company’s accountability to Parliament, which eventually did assume control of its operations, ending the proxy aspects of the relationship.

The Hungarian Revolution (1848–1849) The Hungarian Revolution illustrates the complexity of proxy relationships and how common cause can create pressure for intervention at the expense of other moral and prudential concerns. In 1848, Hungarians sought greater independence from Austria when Vienna was sensitive to its hold on the empire, and Russia sought to expand its influence

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(Horvath 1934, 633). The roots of the conflict began in March of 1847 when the Hungarian parliamentarian Lajos Kossuth formed a nationalist government and initiated several democratic reforms and policies of home rule. This naturally concerned the Austrians, who feared Transylvania, Croatia, and the military frontier districts might align with the Hungarians and undermine their grip on the empire (Szenczi 1939, 556–558). The Russians watched these developments with interest, eager to preserve Austria’s friendship, strength, and unity. They also saw the revolt as an opportunity to expand their influence and challenge Ottoman control over border provinces that had been the subject of considerable dispute and occasional military action. Perhaps more importantly, they saw Hungarian independence as a destabilizing precedent that might inspire the Polish revolutionaries, threatening their hold on Polish territory. The Russians exploited the Polish birth of a Hungarian general to conflate Hungarian independence as a threat to Russia (Horvath 1934, 631–640). Gradually, as concerns about the scope of Hungary’s intentions grew, the Austrians made overtures to the Russians for military assistance. At the same time, they tried to undermine Hungarian solidarity by exploiting ethnic divides among the Hungarians (Magocsi 2018, 78; Deak 1992, 1041–1063). While the Hungarian’s democratic constitution made them natural affiliates of the British, then Foreign Secretary Lord Palmerston’s more pressing concern was that a weakened Austria created opportunities for Russia to expand its influence. After the Hungarians established a new government in Budapest, Russia moved troops into the nearby provinces of Galicia and Bukovina, empowering Vienna to send an ultimatum to the Hungarian government, followed by almost immediately by troops to Buda and Pest (Horvath 1934, 632–633). These dynamics placed Britain in the position of choosing between two proxies—Austria to balance Russia or the Hungarian revolutionaries to promote governance more favorable to Britain on the continent. After a series of clashes, the Imperial authorities in October 1848 ordered the Hungarian government to dissolve, declared those who opposed Vienna as rebels, and formally named Croatian Josip Jelacic, who led Austrian forces against the Hungarians, as their military commander in Hungary. With the constitutional government in Hungary formally dissolved by the Imperial government, Kossuth’s faction assumed power as the revolutionary National Defense Committee set about organizing

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Hungary’s defenses. In December of 1848, Franz Joseph I ascended to the Austrian throne. However, the Hungarians refused to accept his authority, and the Austrian court subsequently ordered the Austrian army to invade Hungary (Kann and Zdenek 1984, 345). The Imperial forces first captured Buda in early January of 1849, then fought eastward to capture Kápolna before being defeated in April by the Hungarians. In the same month, the Hungarian diet at Debrecen declared Hungary an independent republic under Kossuth’s leadership. Subsequently, the Austrian emperor accepted an offer of further military assistance from the Russian tsar. In mid-June of 1849, Russian and Austrian troops descended on Hungary, moving quickly across the country until the Hungarians surrendered at Világos on August 13, 1849 (Magocsi 2018, 78). Throughout the conflict, the British position on the Austro-Hungarian question was a primary outstanding variable, watched closely by all involved. In December 1848, the Hungarian Minister in London, Ladislas Szalay, made overtures for official recognitions, but Palmerston flatly refused. After several unsuccessful attempts, the Hungarian government abandoned its quest for official recognition, turning instead to a public influence campaign headed by Ferenc Pulszky, designed to win the British public to the Hungarian cause. Pulszky arrived in late February of 1849 and immediately penned influential editorials in fourteen of England’s most-read newspapers, winning over essential figures in the academy and parliament who would go on to carry his message (Szenczi 1939, 565–566). By May of 1849, the British public had been stirred. On July 26th, Parliament took up a bill considering immediate de facto recognition of Hungary “for reasons of justice, policy, commerce, and humanity” (Szenczi 1939, 567). Nonetheless, days prior, in parliamentary sessions discussing the renewed Russian invasion, Lord Palmerston had delineated his intended stability policy, outlining how British intervention to ensure the separation of Hungary from Austria would fundamentally alter the balance of power in Europe and negatively affect British interests. Acknowledging the popular Pro-Hungarian sentiment, Palmerston instead hinted at a British-mediated settlement that would prevent Austria’s dismemberment and Hungary’s destruction by Austro-Russian forces while also emphasizing that any measures Britain took should not antagonize other countries, which everyone understood as a reference to Russia. Members of the Pro-Hungarian lobby in Parliament doubted

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Palmerston’s nod toward mediation, and these doubts were confirmed when the Foreign Secretary waited until August 1st to make any attempt. The Hungarian military situation was hopeless (Szenczi 1939, 566–569). On the 21st of August, news of the Hungarian surrender reached Lord Palmerston in London. The next day, he wrote Viscount Ponsonby, British Ambassador in Vienna, saying, “I must own I am glad that it is over, for though all our sympathies in this country are with the Hungarians, yet it was scarcely in the nature of things that they should be able, against such superior forces to hold out long enough to compel the allies to treat with them on equal terms.” In a different section of the same letter, Lord Palmerston goes on to express his hope that the Austrian government will make “just and generous use of the success which has been gained”; however, brutal Austrian reprisals would soon leave he and his colleagues disappointed on this matter (Szenczi 1939, 569–570.) For its part, Austria’s war aims were largely achieved, as the revolution had been defeated and power had been re-consolidated in Vienna (Nemes 2009, 46). Russia also emerged as a victor. Although having contributed little in the way of support, it had come to the rescue of the beleaguered Austrians in their hour of greatest need and now stood ready to accept the benefits of a strengthened alliance (Horvath 1934, 612). Despite widespread support for the Hungarians, Britain was ambivalent about the outcome, and the general view of the British foreign policy elite reflects Palmerston’s sentiments, quoted above. Hungary was the biggest loser of the conflict and suffered greatly at the hands of a vengeful Austrian state, with many of Kossuth’s supporters emigrating from the country (Nemes 2009, 46; Szenczi 1939, 570). Analysis The Hungarian Revolution, particularly the British deliberations over intervention, clearly illustrates the tension between justice and peace or, put another way, illustrates that unity of interest does not entail unity of purpose. While the Hungarians’ cause may have been just, a British direct military intervention would have certainly sparked a broader and more costly conflict. Of course, the possibility of escalation does not entail taking the risk is unethical. Some causes are worth the cost. The question is whether Hungarian independence is one of them. The Just War Tradition, and international law for that matter, recognizes states’ rights to sovereignty and territorial integrity but not necessarily a people’s.

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Given that the revolutionaries’ decision to fight would drag innocent and perhaps uninterested persons into the conflict, it is reasonable to ask what gives them the right to do so. Answering this question, which I will do more fully in the Chapter 4, is essential to understanding the limits to the obligations a proxy’s cause can impose on a sponsor’s decision to intervene. First, the fact of an injustice does not entail a right to resort to violence. So, while a people may have a right to independence, that right alone does not justify the resort to force, especially if there are reasonable alternatives. Second, even if a people have a right to resort to force, it does not follow that an external party must come to their aid. Since an external party’s intervention would arguably also place its people and resources at risk, there needs to be an additional standard to establish a duty to intervene. Of course, actors may choose to reduce those risks by intervening less directly. To the extent that doing so serves an interest other than the just cause, such support effectively establishes a proxy relationship. This point raises a few concerns. First, does the nature of their interest matter? Does the fact that the British did not intervene because a strong Austria was a helpful proxy against Russia morally taint that decision? Had the British intervened on behalf of the revolutionaries because of economic incentives instead of or in addition to common cause, would that affect the justice of doing so? As noted above, under the Just War Tradition, actors suffering an act of aggression do not need to give an additional accounting for their reasons to fight beyond meeting jus ad bellum conditions. Moreover, those coming to their defense can also give an accounting if that support reflects a commitment to win. In such an alliance, allies share the burden of risk more or less equally or are subject to criticism if they shirk. Thus, an ally’s willingness to commit to the fight the same way as other allies seems to align them with the cause well enough that further accounting is unnecessary. In a proxy relationship, the sponsor effectively, if not explicitly, limits that commitment, ensuring the proxy bears the more significant burden. Given the limited commitment and unequal risk, an accounting might be warranted. Further, since sponsor support can enable fighting that would not have otherwise happened, sponsors should account for how and why their interests justify limiting their commitment and possibly risking more proxy lives. Walking away from such situations, even when prudent, involves its own moral concerns. As the British learned in Hungary and the United

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States and NATO are experiencing with Ukraine, failure to come to another’s defense, especially when there is a common cause, can feel like a moral shortcoming. Standing by while others suffer, even where intervention would likely lead to increased suffering for uncertain or limited gain, also needs an accounting. That accounting requires establishing ethical standards that tie proxy cause and sponsor interest into a coherent whole.

Conclusion This multipolar order continued effectively until World War II, with a brief interlude for World War I, where the demands of fighting in Europe precluded a significant role for proxies. That said, the conflict provided opportunities for sponsors and proxies to advance their interests. The most obvious example is T.E. Lawrence’s employment of Arab raiders to tie down Ottoman troops, which played a crucial role in their defeat. For the Arabs, aligning with the British was a path to independence, made possible or more likely by the war in Europe. In Africa, German Lieutenant Colonel Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck led a small unit of the German Army, augmented by 4600 indigenous soldiers, hoping to force the British to divert soldiers from the European theater, which would contribute (hopefully) to a German victory. While he could tie down 160,000 British forces, his effort failed because most of those troops were Boers, who would not fight in the European theater (Asprey 1975, 251–271). After World War II, the United States and the Soviet Union emerged as nuclear-armed superpowers. As Groh points out, the result was intense competition but with high barriers to direct intervention, given the potential for escalation to nuclear war (Groh 2019, 54). Since direct conflict was both powers’ worst outcome, they had to find alternative ways to balance power. Thus, the superpowers had to engage each other on the margins, bringing the use of proxies to a whole new level. In what follows, I will discuss how the deeply bipolar order of the Cold War proliferated proxy conflict worldwide.

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Meritt, Benjamin D. 1971. “The Chronology of the Peloponnesian War.” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 115 (2): 97–124. http:// www.jstor.org/stable/985851. Montross, Lynn. 1960. War Through the Ages. New York: Harper and Row. Nation, R. Craig. 2010. “Thucydides and Contemporary Strategy.” In Volume I: Theory of War and Strategy, edited by J. Boone Bartholomees, 107–120, 111. Strategic Studies Institute, U.S. Army War College. http://www.jstor. org/stable/resrep12114.11. Nemes, Robert. 2009. “The Revolution in Symbols: Hungary in 1848–1849.” In Constructing Nationalities in East Central Europe, edited by Pieter M. Judson and Marsha L. Rozenblit, 1st ed., 37–49. Berghahn Books. https:// doi.org/10.2307/j.ctt1x76fbj.10. Nexon, Daniel H. 2009. The Struggle for Power in Early Modern Europe: Religious Conflict, Dynastic Empires, and International Change. Princeton University Press. http://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt7rx8f. Nierstrasz, Chris. 2022. “East India Companies.” EGO. Leibniz Institute of European History. http://ieg-ego.eu/en/threads/europe-and-the-world/ economic-relations/chris-nierstrasz-east-india-companies. Parrow, Kathleen A. 1993. “From Defense to Resistance: Justification of Violence during the French Wars of Religion.” Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 83 (6): i–79.https://doi.org/10.2307/1006512. Percy, Sarah. 2007. Mercenaries: The History of a Norm in International Relations. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Rahe, Paul. 2019. “[Part I Introduction].” In Sparta’s First Attic War: The Grand Strategy of Classical Sparta, 478–446 B.C., 9–22. Yale University Press. https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctvmd857x.5. Shrimpton, Gordon S. 1984. “When Did Plataea Join Athens?” Classical Philology 79 (4): 295–304. http://www.jstor.org/stable/269669. Sivan, Hagith. 1987. “On Foederati, Hospitalitas, and the Settlement of the Goths in A.D. 418.” The American Journal of Philology 108 (4): 759– 772.https://doi.org/10.2307/294799. Szenczi, N. J. 1939. “Great Britain and the War of Hungarian Independence.” The Slavonic and East European Review 17 (51): 556–570. http://www.jstor. org/stable/4203520. Tanner, Norman. 2023. “The Third Lateran Council.” Papal Encyclicals. https://www.papalencyclicals.net/councils/ecum11.htm Treasure, Geoffrey. 2013. The Huguenots. Yale University Press. http://www. jstor.org/stable/j.ctt5vm0ht. Tulchin, Allan A. 2014. “Church and State in the French Reformation.” The Journal of Modern History 86 (4): 826–861.https://doi.org/10.1086/ 678920.

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Tulchin, Allan A. 2015. Ending the French Wars of Religion. The American Historical Review 120 (5): 1696–1708. Waterfield, Robin, and Polybius. 2010. “Histories of Polybius.” Translated by Robin Waterfield. The Classical Review 3 (10): 445–449. Oxford. https:// doi.org/10.1017/s0009840x00196167.

CHAPTER 3

A Brief History of Proxy War Part II: The Cold War

Introduction The development of nuclear weapons revolutionized warfare but did not create the bipolar order that followed World War II. They did, however, reinforce it and dramatically change the means available to pursue interests and maintain a balance of power. Before the Nuclear NonProliferation Treaty of 1968, five countries—the United States, Britain, Soviet Union, France, and China—had developed nuclear weapons (US State Department Historian 2023). The world may have maintained a more multipolar order except for two things. First, these countries were already roughly aligned into two camps differentiated primarily by commitments to particular political and economic orders, with democratic capitalists in one and authoritarian Communist regimes in the other. Second, only the United States and the Soviet Union had the interest and resources to develop nuclear arsenals so large that direct conflict was unthinkable. Mumford observes that the use of proxies grew significantly after 1945 because no major power wanted to risk a direct confrontation and possibly trigger nuclear war (Mumford 2013, 40). It was easier and cheaper to let others do the fighting. However, the high stakes and limits on escalation resulted in pairings that belied a more complex moral reality than characterized by binary distinctions like “capitalist” and “communist.” Despite © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 C. A. Pfaff, Proxy War Ethics: The Norms of Partnering in Great Power Competition, Palgrave Studies in International Relations, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-50458-7_3

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its democratic ideals, the United States often backed brutal, authoritarian regimes, as in Vietnam and El Salvador. Despite Marxism’s empowerment of the proletariat, the Soviet Union sometimes aligned itself against indigenous groups who posed no threat as it did in Afghanistan. For the most part, Cold War proxy relationships followed a familiar pattern. After World War II, several liberation and nationalist movements arose due to decolonization. These conflicts presented the United States and the Soviet Union either an opportunity to advance their interests or an imminent threat that needed to be contained. As a result, both parties would engage, often covertly at first, and increase their involvement as necessary to maintain their influence. In some cases, like Vietnam for the United States and Afghanistan for the Soviet Union, proxy failure may lead them to intervene directly. Even then, the war would often exceed the cost the sponsor was willing to pay, resulting in quagmire and, eventually, betrayal. For the most part, the following cases fit some element of that pattern and thus serve as good examples of proxy relationships’ moral and ethical pitfalls. Vietnam and Afghanistan exemplify escalation, quagmire, and betrayal. Proxy wars in Africa, especially in Angola and Latin America, illustrate how maintaining peace among great powers contributes to war among the lesser ones. What is interesting in each of these cases is that actors seemed to be aware of the moral concerns these conflicts raised and often took measures to address them. Their mixed success provides a reasonable basis for assessing the potential for norm-governed proxy relationships, which will be the subject of the following two chapters.

The Vietnam War (1955–1975) The Vietnam War is the paradigmatic proxy conflict of the Cold War and a classic lesson in quagmire. The war was fought between North Vietnam, backed by the Soviet Union, and South Vietnam, supported by the United States (Cuddy 2003, 356). The war had its roots in the Viet Minh liberation movement that followed World War II to free Vietnam from French control. During that war, the United States provided the French with significant assistance while the Soviets, for their part, were essentially observers (Rearden 2012, 277; Gaiduk 1996, 4–5). This First Indochina War ended with French troops withdrawing from Indochina after their defeat at Dien Bien Phu. Afterward, the Geneva Accords split the country along the 17th parallel, effectively creating a

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Communist-aligned north and a non-Communist-aligned south. Subsequently, President Dwight D. Eisenhower replaced the French with U.S. forces, mostly military advisors, and made South Vietnam a “zone of American responsibility” (Gelb 1971, 159). Even then, the Soviets did not immediately escalate military assistance, being more preoccupied with their relations with China, which had frayed over Mao’s “Great Leap Forward,” which threatened to put China on a path to independence from Soviet influence (Parker 1976, 94). While the Geneva Accords split Vietnam in two, that split was supposed to be temporary as the Accords called for general elections in 1956 that would establish a single government. With support from the United States, South Vietnamese leader Ngo Dinh Diem canceled the election in the South, and the division remained (Cuddy 2003, 355). Expecting a “Korea-style” invasion from the North, with the help of the Chinese, the United States contemplated committing significant U.S. forces to deter an attack. One study estimated that sufficient power would require eight U.S. divisions, a Marine landing force, at least two tactical air wings, and a carrier task force to repel an invasion from the north. However, limiting the size of general-purpose forces imposed by President Eisenhower and a sense of war weariness on the American public meant deploying such a force would be impractical (Rearden 2012, 277–278). Deterrence would have to come at a discount. After Diem canceled the elections, resistance groups associated with the Viet Minh, who were left behind in the South after the end of the First Indochina War, protested loudly at first. Still, as they gathered strength, they conducted a terror campaign to undermine security in South Vietnam and force unification (Asprey 1975, 852; Tompkins 2012, 472). These groups originally represented a diversity of groups who had varied grievances with Diem’s regime and operated more or less independently, though with the encouragement of Hanoi. Collectively, they became known as the “Viet Cong,” a pejorative term coined in the South. In 1960, after a coup attempt against Diem, Ho formalized Hanoi’s relationship with the Viet Cong under the umbrella of the “National Liberation Front of South Vietnam” (Asprey 1975, 854–855; Gaiduk 1996, 5). Their purpose was to conduct a proxy war on behalf of the North to mobilize the South Vietnamese to overthrow the Diem regime and reunite the country. Even then, Moscow was somewhat half-hearted

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at the prospect of sponsoring the North’s proxies, being more preoccupied with China and its growing influence in the region (Gaiduk 1996, 4–5). Meanwhile, South Vietnamese President Ngo Dinh Diem escalated tensions with the North by waging a ruthless campaign of antiCommunist repression within his borders. In addition to campaigning against communism, the Diem regime initiated unpopular land reforms, suppressed village councils, alienated Buddhists, and diverted foreign aid to the military, bypassing critical economic development needs (Cuddy 2003, 356). The conflict intensified as the Diem regime put down a spate of internal uprisings by the Binh Xuyen, Hoa Hao, and Cao Dai rebel groups. In October 1957, the U.S. Military Assistance Advisory Group (MAAG) and U.S. Information Service (USIS) personnel in Saigon were injured by attacks carried out by North Vietnamese-directed guerilla forces, and, in 1959, several US MAAG personnel were killed in another Viet Cong attack on Bien Hoa air base (Chronology 1965, 18–19; Guan 2000, 601–607). The US strategic objective in Southeast Asia was the containment of communism in the Indo-Pacific region. While the U.S. leadership did not generally place any strategic importance on its relations with East Asian countries, there was a general sense that U.S. prosperity depended on global stability, which in Asia manifested as a need to maintain the cease-fire in Korea, while containing Communist insurgencies in Vietnam, Philippines, Malaya, Burma, and Indonesia (Mott 2002, 209). This thinking gave rise to the “domino theory,” which held that the fall of Indochina would deteriorate American security around the globe. However, as Leslie Gelb argues, a containment policy only requires one not to lose (Gelb 1971, 140–143). Thus, given Southeast Asia’s limited strategic importance but the perceived need to remain credible, led U.S. leadership to unintentionally pursue quagmire as their best strategic option. Between 1959 and 1961, the United States doubled its advisory group as South Vietnamese guerillas, sometimes supported by North Vietnamese forces, escalated attacks. In response to the escalation, President John F. Kennedy committed the United States not letting the South fall to Communism (Chronology 1965, 20–21). However, despite the persistent threat of South Vietnamese insurgents, U.S. assistance to the South Vietnamese prioritized building a force designed to fight external threats, not the internal ones that were arguably the larger ones (Karlin

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2018, 106). The failure to adequately address internal divisions in the South would haunt Diem and U.S. policymakers when Buddhists, whom Diem’s government had repressed, engaged in widespread protests. These protests were dramatic, including demonstrations, hunger strikes, and self-immolation. The result was the fall of Diem’s regime and strong domestic and international disapproval directed at the United States government for supporting it (Toong 2008, 62). What may be ironic about the “Buddhist Crisis” is that it occurred as the U.S. military advisors were reporting operational success. Probably the most dramatic of these protests was the self-immolation of Thich Quang Duc, a Buddhist monk, in 1963. This act not only grabbed international attention but also boosted the Communist cause. Moreover, the press at the time quickly picked that point up. The New York Times opined that “the crisis (in Vietnam) is worth about 15 major battlefield victories to the Communists.” At the same time, the Washington Post’s David Halberstam went as far as to conclude that “the United States backed the wrong man.” Reactions in the global press were not much better, with the Ceylon Observer quipping that the US was “committed to the cynical view that it matters not whom it hires to engage the enemy in the outlying marshes if they help to keep Fortress America safe” (Toong 2008, 62–65). By November 1963, President Diem was removed in a coup before being assassinated (Fahrenkrug 2006, 11). President Kennedy was assassinated that same month, and President Johnson assumed office. While Kennedy’s commitment was sincere, he had been reluctant to authorize more than military advisors and covert operations supporting the South. Still, this support was enough that Hanoi concluded it needed external help to unite the South. Unfortunately, its primary sponsors, China and the Soviet Union, were experiencing a growing rift, which complicated the conditions under which they would provide support. For example, the North Vietnamese sent a delegation to Moscow seeking additional assistance; however, the Soviets conditioned any further support on Hanoi siding with them over China, which the North Vietnamese refused to do. While China had also provided assistance, Hanoi rejected a similar offer of an additional one billion yuan conditioned on North Vietnamese refusal of any Soviet aid (Guan 2000, 614). To underscore the divide with the Soviets, Mao denied the Soviets access to Chinese land routes they were using to get supplies to Vietnam,

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forcing the Soviets to supply the North Vietnamese by sea (Parker 1976, 97). In 1964, the Gulf of Tonkin incident changed how Moscow would perceive its interests in Indochina. F. Charles Parker argues that the incident allowed Moscow an opportunity to address its rift with China. The Soviets reasoned that if increased assistance could force a U.S. escalation, the Chinese might perceive the resulting greater U.S. force presence as a threat, incentivizing closer relations and cooperation with the Soviet Union (Parker 1976, 94). Russian scholar Ilya Gaiduk argues a more complex rationale. While Moscow was aware of the benefit tying down the U.S. in southeast Asia might provide, it had little interest in increasing military assistance to North Vietnam, which it considered an unreliable partner motivated more by nationalism than Communist ideology (Gaiduk 1996, 13–18). This point resonates with Robert B. Asprey’s contention that Moscow preferred to provide a “self-sustaining revolution” out of the belief that the central direction of a guerilla movement is always tricky and sometimes impossible (Asprey 1975, 851). What changed Moscow’s mind was likely several factors. Recognizing that escalation between the United States and North Vietnam was inevitable, Moscow was forced to balance its prestige as the leader of the Communist world with its limited strategic interests in Indochina and its interest in maintaining détente with the United States. However, if the Soviet Union did not assist the North, they would open themselves to Chinese criticism, allowing Beijing to fill the resulting leadership vacuum, exacerbating the rift and giving the upper hand to the Chinese. Also, by portraying the United States as an unreliable partner, Moscow also hoped to improve relations with pro-U.S. countries Thailand, Malaysia, and the Philippines (Gaiduk 1996, 17–18). Thus, not only could assisting North Vietnam strengthen its relations with China, but failure to do so would arguably make them worse. Even before this assistance would significantly impact, by 1964, the situation in the South had deteriorated to the point where the Joint Chiefs believed that the United States should either pull out of Vietnam or commit to South Vietnam’s long-term defense. Choosing the latter, the Joint Chiefs offered a ten-point plan to the President that “amounted to a virtual take-over of the war” (Rearden 2012, 281–282). So, by 1965, the conflict in Vietnam had transformed from a proxy war into a broader conflict that would see the first U.S. defeat since World War II,

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with 60,000 U.S. soldiers killed and 300,000 wounded (Anderson 2002, 50–51, 54; Parker 1976, 98). Despite the slow drift to war, it seems apparent in retrospect that rather than stumbling into an escalation, the Eisenhower, Kennedy, and Johnson administrations understood the implications of their decisions and foresaw the quagmire into which their choices would lead (Gelb 1971, 140). Why they allowed this drift to such a tragic outcome had much to do with the confluence of the United States’ general containment strategy and domestic politics. Neither Kennedy nor Johnson wanted U.S. involvement in Asia to distract from their domestic agendas. Thus, when responding to Communist success in 1965, Johnson recognized that he would not have sufficient support for his agenda at home if he were not seen as a president who could defend U.S. interests abroad (Anderson 2002, 44). All the policy of containment required was for the United States not to lose, thus allowing him and the presidents before him to commit the least possible to keep the South Vietnamese in the fight. Thus, Johnson’s decision to escalate and effectively take over the war when the South was on the brink of defeat may have been the most rational decision he could have made. Despite the escalation, doing “just enough to avoid defeat” would remain U.S. policy until its withdrawal in 1973 (Anderson 2002, 50). Quagmires happen when the cost of fighting is not worth the gain, but the price of withdrawal is too high (SchulhoferWohl 2020, 4). Had the United States been forced to choose between direct intervention and a Communist victory, the Vietnam War may never have happened. However, the initial proxy relationship underwrote the cost of fighting for both the United States and South Vietnam, which placed the United States in a bind when the South could not pay its share. The premium all U.S. presidents put on reputation as critical to deterrence ensured the fighting would continue despite the unattainable objective and of marginal value. When President Richard M. Nixon assumed office in 1969, the United States was ready to return the relationship with South Vietnam to its proxy status. After the Tet Offensive in January 1968, President Johnson announced in March that he would not seek reelection and would devote his remaining time as president to ending the Vietnam War. He also ordered a halt to bombing North Vietnam above the 20th parallel and ordered the Joint Chiefs to prioritize strengthening the South Vietnamese armed force’s ability to resist (Rearden 2012, 305). Nixon, whose

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campaign for the presidency included a promise to get U.S. troops out of Vietnam, largely continued these policies. When Nixon took over, there were still over 500,000 troops in the country and no timeline for withdrawal. Unfortunately, despite the commitment to withdraw, Nixon still confronted the tension between ending the war and not losing it. To achieve those goals, Nixon applied a combination of diplomacy and military pressure to encourage North Vietnam to negotiate. Diplomatically, he tried to undermine North Vietnam’s proxy relationships by pursuing détente with the Soviet Union and rapprochement with the Chinese. Meanwhile, he covertly expanded the bombing campaign to include the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) as well as Viet Cong bases and supply lines in Cambodia. He also accelerated the “Vietnamization” program to increase South Vietnam’s ability to defend itself (Rearden 2012, 316). As history records, the plan did not go exactly as envisioned. The expanded bombing campaign ended up being neither covert nor effective. The bombings and subsequent invasion of Cambodia sparked widespread protests in the United States without significantly impacting Communist bases and supply lines (Drivas 2011, 138). The results of Vietnamization were a little more mixed. The South Vietnamese Army did take on more of the burden of fighting. When the North Vietnamese launched the “Easter Offensive” in 1972, they successfully defended the country. However, increased U.S. air support played an essential role in attritting North Vietnamese forces (Rearden 2012, 324; Gartner 1998, 246–258). That success, however, was not sustainable without continued U.S. military assistance. After the cease-fire agreement in 1973, Congress called a halt to any U.S. military operations in defense of South Vietnam and, by 1975, had significantly reduced military assistance. When President Gerald Ford asked for additional funds to support South Vietnam during the North’s 1975 offensive, Congress refused, with many members believing the cause was lost and any further assistance would be a waste (Finney 1975; Zelizer 2007; Rearden 2012, 326–327). Analysis The Vietnam War illustrates how introducing a sponsor encourages the resort to war and prolongs it. While Washington endorsed the Geneva Accords, it nonetheless backed Diem’s cancelation of elections out of fear of a Communist electoral victory (Cuddy 2003, 354–355). Diem’s

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subsequent repressive policies gave rise to internal opposition that the North exploited to form their proxies. While the Soviets maintained more distance than the United States, they were able to get the United States entangled in a land war in Asia. However, they could not translate that into improved ties with China, which drew closer to the United States after Nixon visited Beijing in 1972 (Parker 1976, 105). Without U.S. encouragement to violate the Geneva Accords, it is not clear Diem would have had the political capital to do so on his own. Even if he did choose this path, subsequent internal dissent resulting from his policies would have likely ended his regime sooner rather than later. Moreover, had the Soviet Union, and to a lesser degree China, not provided the North Vietnamese with military assistance, they may not have been able to mount a successful offense sufficient to reverse Diem’s decision to cancel the elections. However, Ho would likely have continued to sponsor an irregular war that would have likely smoldered indefinitely. Sponsor assistance can also have an effect beyond simply increasing capability. It can also underwrite proxy flaws that would have made sustaining a conflict difficult. Joseph W. Dodd argues that the South Vietnamese government was composed of several rival factions that reinforced corrupt practices and made united action difficult (Dodd 1975, 176– 177). In a crisis, individual sections have little choice but to prioritize their interests over the larger group. So, while the collapse of the South Vietnamese government may not have been inevitable, it was at least highly likely. Thus, had it not been for U.S. assistance, the war would have likely ended well before the United States took it over in 1965. The Vietnam War also illustrates how proxy relationships can amplify the importance of non-vital interests that set conditions for quagmire. Both the United States and the Soviet Union placed little strategic value in Indochina, but concerned about how failure there might affect relations elsewhere, both engaged in a conflict they would have preferred to avoid. For the United States, that amplification was partly due to the flawed domino theory that placed a premium on reputation and its impact on other actors’ willingness to align with the Soviet Union. The Soviet Union suffered from similar logic, though they were also concerned about preventing China from supplanting them as leader of the Communist bloc. Even though the Soviet proxy won, neither party achieved its strategic objectives. This outcome raises the question of whether proxy relations are worth the cost.

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African Decolonization In the aftermath of World War II, indigenous Africans increasingly sought to establish independence from their colonizers, and in many cases, those colonizers were happy to oblige. Still, these liberation efforts initially got off to a slow start due, in part, to both colonizer and colonized not seeing a clear path forward and the colonized not having the organizations to find one. These movements later accelerated due, in part, to the Soviet Union viewing African nationalist movements as an opportunity to grow its influence and a general recognition by the colonial powers that it was time to relinquish control (Garraty and Gay 1972, 1107-1110). This dynamic brought indigenous Africans into conflict with descendants of colonial settlers and set conditions for increased violence as groups competed for power. The Nixon Administration tried to balance the tension between nationalist groups and colonial-era governance by adopting a policy open to established, generally white-dominated governments while opposing racial repression and encouraging reform. The assumptions behind the policy were that the only path to indigenous Africans’ greater political rights was recognizing that violent political change would lead to chaos, which would only provide more significant opportunities for the Soviets to expand their influence. The specific measures manifested under this policy were to relax UN-imposed sanctions, including arms embargos, against white-dominated states while supporting economic assistance to black-dominated states (Brown 2015, 290). The apparent hope was that indigenous Africans would be deterred both by the ability of the white-dominated governments to defend themselves as well as alternatives provided by economic aid. This policy could have worked out better. Given the relatively zero-sum nature of relations between nationalist movements and legacy colonial regimes, supporting one generally precluded having ties with the other. The effect was that the United States backed increasingly unpopular governments while the Soviet Union had its relative pick of increasingly stronger movements. The adverse effects of this approach became evident in the Angolan Crisis, which led to one of Africa’s longest civil wars. As a result, the Nixon Administration amended its policy, recognizing the need for majority rule across Africa (Brown 2015, 289–290).

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Angolan Civil War (1975–2002) This revised policy did not work out well either, as evidenced clearly in Angola’s Civil War, arguably Africa’s most prolonged post-colonial conflict. Angola’s independence and subsequent civil war illustrate how Cold War superpower competition exacerbated an already unstable situation, setting conditions for violence that would last well past superpower interest. After a coup in Lisbon in 1974, a new left-leaning Portuguese government determined to divest itself of its former colonies and established Angola’s independence date as November 11, 1975. To facilitate the transition, they found a framework, known as the Alvor Accord to guide the transition, establishing an interim governing body of the major parties and setting elections for October (Pearce 2012, 9–10). Almost immediately, that decision set in motion an internal competition that would eventually lead to civil war. The differences between Angola’s competing liberation movements were not primarily ideological; however, ethnic and geographic differences made it difficult to find ways to share power. When the Soviet Union provided one group, the Movement for the Liberation of Angola (MPLA), a rapid infusion of military assistance and Cuba provided troops, the United States under President Richard M. Nixon, responded by authorizing covert support for both the other major parties: National Front for the Liberation of Angola (NFLA) and the National Union for the Total Liberation of Angola (UNITA) (Groh 2019, 157–158; Brown 2015, 290–291). Not everyone in the Nixon Administration was happy with the idea of taking sides. Some in National Security Council Staff and the State Department argued that a U.S. covert intervention would not stay secret, giving the Soviet Union and regional powers a pretext to escalate. Such support would also increase levels of violence, which, if committed by a group supported by the United States, would prove an embarrassment. Moreover, the United States would commit itself to a situation with little ability to influence an uncertain outcome. Thus, if the MPLA did win, establishing constructive relations would be easier. Unfortunately, the U.S. options were limited. NATO countries had recognized the need to make room for if not support, African nationalist and liberation movements (Coker 1982, 324). Doing so constrained the United States’ ability to intervene directly, however, the need to counter Soviet influence entailed it had to do something (Brown 2015, 291).

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Unfortunately, predictions of regional intervention, escalation, and increased violence did come to pass. South Africa intervened on behalf of UNITA, while the Soviets and Cubans supported the MPLA. To give their side the advantage during the transition period, in the Spring of 1975, the Soviets sent weapons and equipment while the Cubans sent troops. As a result, the MPLA could go on the offensive, effectively destroying the NFLA and driving UNITA from the urban areas (Valenta 1978, 9–13). As a result of this escalation, U.S. support ended in 1976 when Congress passed the Clark Amendment over concerns that continued covert involvement could drag the United States further into the conflict, as it did in Vietnam (Walters 1981, 4). Moreover, the United States formally and publicly adopted a policy endorsing majority rule, undermining white-dominated governments, including South Africa (Brown 2015, 289–294). South African support, however, would continue. Pretoria’s concerns were three-fold. First, they were concerned that a Marxist government in Angola would enable the South-West African People’s Organization (SWAPO), a liberation group contesting South African control over Namibia, to increase its operations. They were also concerned that Moscow might try to replicate any success in Angola in South Africa, dealing with its liberation movements. An unfriendly government in Angola exacerbated these concerns as it could cut off water to the Cunene River hydroelectric plant, which powered South Africa’s uranium mines and other industries in Namibia (Groh 2019, 158–159). Like the United States, South Africa’s options for direct intervention were also limited. Political isolation from apartheid policies and little public support made direct intervention unsustainable for South Africa. Complicating things, the main opposition to the MPLA, UNITA, was on friendly terms with both SWAPO and the African National Congress (ANC), a South African organization that opposed the apartheid government. So, in 1975, Pretoria felt it had little option but to provide covert support to UNITA. Their aims in doing so, however, were limited. They did not want UNITA to defeat the MPLA and gain sole control. Instead, they tried to prevent the MPLA from doing the same. Though UNITA had good relations with SWAPO, South Africa also hoped to use its access to UNITA-controlled areas to constrain SWAPO operations in Namibia (Groh 2019, 161). By 1976, Angola was effectively divided in two, with the MPLA holding the coastal region and inland towns, including the capital,

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Luanda, while UNITA controlled the southeast, establishing a headquarters in Jamba, which gave it an internal supply line to South Africa (Pearce 2012, 452–460). The conflict would essentially reach a stalemate until the late 1980s when the United States pressured South Africa to find a settlement, and the Soviet Union turned operations in Angola over to the Cubans, who were also interested in finding a way out. Ultimately, the South Africans agreed to leave Namibia, and the Cubans decided to leave Angola, allowing both to say they had accomplished something. The South Africans could say they addressed their concerns of Communist expansion in their direction, and the Cubans could say they helped free Namibia (Groh 2019, 168). With the departure of the sponsors, the MPLA and UNITA signed the Bicesse Accords in 1991, which called for a cease-fire, demobilization, and elections in 1992 (Pearce 2012, 459). UNITA leader Joseph Savimbi, however, did not like the election results, which gave the MPLA a clear majority. In doing so, the “winner-take-all” nature of the election placed Savimbi in a position where UNITA would have minimal influence after more than a decade and a half of civil war. By 1993, fighting had renewed in earnest (Pycroft 1994, 252). It would not end until Savimbi died in 2002 (Pearce 2012, 462). Analysis Here again, bipolar competition enabled a war that may not otherwise have happened. Soviet and Cuban military assistance undoubtedly triggered the conflict by allowing the MPLA to go on the offensive rather than find the compromise the Alvor Accords required. Soviet and U.S. assistance encouraged Angola’s factions to take sides, transforming ethnic identities into ideological ones. Moreover, regional powers, like South Africa, who were also forced to pick sides in the Cold War, were driven by other concerns to perpetuate the conflict. The result was a confluence of interests that were difficult to untangle, even after the superpowers lost interest. Even when all the sponsors eventually ceased assistance, the competing factions had built enough capacity that neither had to seek a settlement. The result was between 500,000 and 1,000,000 killed and 4 million displaced (Beaumont 2023; Murray, et al. 2002). The covert nature of both U.S. and Soviet assistance also raises concerns. While arguably an advantage of proxy relationships is that they allow one enough distance from the fighting to avoid escalation,

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it also exposes one to reputational costs and possibly a loss of control. In this case, reputational costs were both internal and external. Internally, supporting a proxy raises gives the sponsor a greater stake in the proxy’s conflict. When that support is covert, the sponsor’s public and parts of government do not get a voice in the decision to commit and thus may perceive it as illegitimate when it comes to light. For these reasons, Congress cut support early in the conflict. Externally, reputational costs can range from mistrust to poisoning the proxy’s cause. For example, South Africa initially kept its interventions secret to avoid domestic and international backlash and potentially undermine support for UNITA by linking it to the Apartheid regime. When their support became public, the international community accused South Africa of prolonging the conflict to maintain control over Namibia (Groh 2019, 163). Regarding control, it is worth noting that external support can have a moderating effect on proxy actions. UNITA, for example, avoided atrocities when external assistance allowed it to consolidate internal support by investing these resources in building, rather than coercing, political relationships. When UNITA lost that support, it was placed on the defensive, and its actions became more violent and predatory (Pearce 2012, 446). When that support is covert, however, the sponsor can lose some leverage, especially where withholding or modifying support risks that support becoming public. Thus, even if South Africa had wanted to moderate UNITA’s behavior, doing so when UNITA was under pressure risked failure, and failure risked the support becoming public. Aware of that concern, UNITA had little incentive to change its behavior. Ogaden Plateau There is no shortage of proxy wars in Africa to consider. While the longest was probably the Angolan Civil War, the weirdest was the very short fight over the Ogaden between Ethiopia and Somalia in 1977. In this case, the superpower switched proxies. After supporting Ethiopia for decades in its rivalry with Somalia, the United States cut military assistance to Ethiopia in 1976 over human rights violations, prompting Addis Ababa to seek support from the Soviet Union. The Soviet Union, meanwhile, had been preparing the Somalis for war with Ethiopia. When Ethiopia sought their assistance, the Soviets agreed to covertly provide them with $100 million in aid (Mott 2002, 260–261).

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However, with the Soviet support they had already begun giving, the Somalis invaded the contested Ogaden plateau, igniting war with Ethiopia. This action prompted Moscow to provide more assistance. Between 1977 and 1978, the Soviets rapidly increased assistance by providing $1 billion in weapons, equipment, and military advisors. They also airlifted Cuban and Yemeni troops to help in the fight (Mott 2002, 260–261). This assistance allowed the Ethiopians to overwhelm the Somalis and retake the region (Rearden 2012, 404). The Carter Administration, which had been emphasizing economic over military assistance, was unprepared to respond. The best it could do was offer moral support to the Somalis and send a naval task force to reinforce its demand that Ethiopian troops stop at the Somali border. This negative outcome prompted the Carter Administration to rethink the role of military force in containing the Soviets, which led to the creation of the Rapid Deployment Joint Task Force, which would later become Central Command (Rearden 2012, 404–405). Analysis Though brief, this example illustrates the contingencies on which proxy relationships often hang and how even well-intentioned efforts to control proxy behavior or limit one’s exposure to moral taint can have harmful effects. Thus, it serves as a good example of how a principle-agent relationship, which can be simple to describe, can be challenging to manage in practice. Key to this management is anticipating the other actors’ alternatives and finding ways to mitigate ill effects in advance. Failure to do so not only can place the sponsor and proxy at a disadvantage, as will be apparent in the following examples, but they can also give a louder voice to those in future administrations who want to take more problematic stances against an adversary. That is precisely what happened in the examples that follow.

The Soviet-Afghan War (1979–1989) The Soviet intervention in Afghanistan was a mirror image of the U.S. intervention in Vietnam. Like the United States in Vietnam, the Soviets supported the local government against an indigenous rebellion backed by external parties. In the case of Afghanistan, the Soviet-aligned government faced Western-aligned Islamists—the Mujahideen—who objected

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to Communist reforms. When the Afghan government could no longer contain the growing insurgency, the Soviet Union invaded, assuming complete control of the fighting (Hughes 2014, 112; Kalinovsky 2009, 48–49; Abdulkader 2008, 126). Meanwhile, much like the Soviet Union during the Vietnam War, the United States kept its distance, providing insurgents with some military assistance through Pakistan, which effectively added another proxy layer, making relations particularly complex (Cogan 1993, 76). By supporting the Mujahideen, the United States hoped not only to cause the collapse of the Soviet proxy government in Kabul but also to spoil a broader Soviet push to the Persian Gulf (Prados 2002, 446–471). The Soviets’ goals in Afghanistan were to bolster their territorial security, expand influence in Central Asia, and prevent further consolidation of a perceived pro-American bloc of conservative Islamic countries. The path to their quagmire began with the overthrow of the secular and nominally Communist regime of Muhammad Daoud by members of the People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan (PDPA). After the coups, the leadership of Afghanistan fell to the PDPA’s Chairman of the Revolutionary Council, Nur Mohammad Taraki, and General Secretary, Hafizullah Amin. The rivalries, unfortunately for the Soviet Union, did not stop there. When they took power, the PDPA was divided into two dominant factions—the Khalq and the Parcham. After taking control, Taraki and Amin, who were Khalq, removed rival Parcham leaders—notably Babrak Karmal—and strengthened ties to the Soviet Union (Westad 1994, 50–54; Goldman 1984, 384–390). Moscow, however, was not happy with the severity of this purge and put pressure on Taraki and Amin to focus more on the growing insurgency than intra-party power struggles (Goldman 1984, 388–389) (Westad 1994, 56–57). Before long, however, an uprising in Herat led to the deaths of 5,000, including Afghan soldiers, as well as several Soviet advisors and their families. Afghanistan was now in a state of civil war. The Soviets initially responded by trying to build a coalition government, including both factions of the PDPA as well as the political Islamists of the opposition. Amin and Taraki refused, so Moscow decided to provoke a confrontation between the two to divide and conquer. Initially, the Soviets backed Taraki, who tried to have Amin assassinated. When that attempt failed, Amin had Taraki killed and purged the party of his supporters (Westad 1994, 58–62).

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With the country divided, Amin in charge, and the rebels growing stronger, Moscow tried to bring the Afghan government in line. However, by December 10, 1979, the Soviet ambassador had departed. By Christmas Eve, Soviet forces invaded Afghanistan (Westad 1994, 64). Shortly after that, Amin was executed by Soviet forces, replaced by the exiled Babrak Karmal, and large-scale combat operations between the Soviets and rebels commenced (Gompert et al. 2014, 129–138). Months prior, in July of 1979, the U.S. president, Jimmy Carter, had authorized a covert CIA operation supplying weapons to the Mujahideen (Prados 2002, 467; Kuperman 1999, 219–263). Most of these activities were conducted across the Pakistan-Afghanistan border with the help of Pakistani Inter-services Intelligence (ISI) officers (Prados 2002, 468), effectively making themselves proxy managers of a proxy force. As with proxy relationships in general, along with the benefits of ISI involvement came certain drawbacks. First, they preferred U.S. assistance to the more fundamentalist (and less U.S.-aligned) Mujahideen leaders. Second, the costs required to move aid through them were high, diluting its effectiveness. Due to these factors and the United States bureaucracy, much U.S. assistance did not reach the Mujahideen until 1986, seven years after their resistance began. In fact, by the time Stinger anti-aircraft missiles began to become militarily relevant in 1987, Soviet leadership had already decided to withdraw and was looking to set conditions (Prados 2002, 468; Abdulkader 2008, 135). Another difficulty for the United States was the fractured nature of the Afghan rebels, comprised of eight Sunni and six Shia groups coalesced around religious, charismatic, or hereditary leaders. The variation among these factions contributed to significant infighting, often culminating in violence. However, it was this same decentralized structure that contributed to their success. For the Mujahideen field commanders, continued operations against the Soviets were the best way to improve their social and economic status. For opposition party leaders, power and influence rested on how many field commanders would support them. The resulting dynamic was that any party leader who moved toward a cease-fire with the Soviets would lose field commanders and thus any clout needed to sustain their position (Abdulkader 2008, 126–139). This dynamic worked for the United States’ immediate interest in resisting the Soviets. As the situation in Afghanistan deteriorated in 1979 due to the growing insurgency, they increased their training and advisory presence to enable the PDPA under Taraki and Amin to control it. They inserted ground forces to secure Afghan bases and urban areas when that failed. When that failed, the Soviets escalated and assumed control of the

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conflict, like the United States in Vietnam (Gompert et al. 2014, 133). By 1986, the Mujahideen were well-armed with U.S. weapons, including rockets, mortars, communications equipment, and “Stinger” anti-aircraft missiles. These capabilities allowed the rebels to inflict significant casualties on Soviet soldiers, who, when they returned home, became a visible symbol of Soviet impotence. So, as Soviet leadership was beginning to question the value of continued operations, public opposition to the war increased, especially in the non-Russia republics, for whom the debacle in Afghanistan became a symbol of their resistance to Moscow. When Mikhail Gorbachev became General Secretary in 1985, he first tried to persevere; however, in February 1986, he began publicly referring to the war as a “bleeding wound” (Reuveny and Prakash 1999, 688–699). Conditions for withdrawal had been set. The withdrawal process had its real beginnings in the summer of 1985 when Gorbachev floated potential strategies among the Politburo while distancing himself from the ineffective leadership of Babrak Karmal. The Politburo approved the decision to withdraw in October of 1985, but Gorbachev believed withdrawal had to be carefully executed to avoid further damage to Soviet prestige. To this end, Soviet leadership initiated a troop surge, forced Karmal from power, and replaced him with Muhhamad Najibullah, hoping the country would unify behind a capable, friendly regime and create conditions for an honorable Soviet withdrawal. By 1987, there had been negligible progress under Najibullah, and Soviet relations with the U.S. were improving, which by April of 1988 would result in the signing of another Geneva Accords, ending the war and setting a February 15th deadline for Soviet withdrawal (Kalinovsky 2009, 61–65). Najibullah remained surprisingly resilient after the Soviet withdrawal and had effectively achieved a stalemate with the Mujahideen. However, the economic impact of the war imposed significant hardships on the population, who blamed the government for their condition. Exacerbating this decline, Soviet aid, including financial assistance, had all but dried up as their leadership was preoccupied with the implosion of the Soviet Union. The breaking point came in January 1992, when Najibullah purged the military and replaced key leaders with loyal co-ethnic Pashtuns. The purged commanders revolted and took control of Afghanistan’s northern regions. In April, Najibullah resigned but was murdered as he was trying to leave the country (Smith 2014, 326–333).

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Analysis The war in Afghanistan was a strategic disaster for Moscow and contributed to the collapse of the Soviet Union (Reuveny and Prakash 1999, 706–708). Before Afghanistan, the Soviet Army enjoyed a privileged status as the defender of Communism because of its role in World War II. As such, it was frequently the glue that held the Soviet Union’s diverse societies together. Its loss in Afghanistan damaged its credibility and bolstered opposition to the Soviet regime, bolstering reformists who favored economic and political reforms, which in part called for the demilitarization of Soviet society (Reuveny and Prakash 1999, 698–701). While the war marked a significant strategic success for the United States, its role, as noted above, may be overstated. Moreover, the U.S. failure to manage the aftermath of the conflict set conditions for its invasion of Afghanistan in 2001. Like the Vietnam War, the war in Afghanistan clearly illustrates the perils of linking proxy outcomes to sponsor reputation and sponsor reputation to sponsor credibility. This logic embroiled the United States and the Soviet Union in disastrous conflicts. While credibility is a crucial feature of successful deterrence, the fallacy here is to conflate credibility with history. One’s deterrent threat is credible when an adversary believes one will be better off acting on it (Pfaff 2022, 9). Thus, past behavior’s link to current credibility is mediated by how that history communicates the value one places on the interests at stake in the present. If an adversary does not believe that value is high enough to warrant the cost of acting on a threat, it will not matter how consistent one was in the past. The Soviet invasion of Afghanistan also raised issues of proxy control and how control issues should affect how much sponsors invest. The Soviet Union and the United States supported proxies who had not fully settled how power would be distributed within their governing structures. As a result, their assistance did as much to fuel the internal conflicts as it did the external ones. In the case of Vietnam, a unified North defeated a fractured South despite massive assistance from the United States. The dynamic was somewhat different in Afghanistan, where the Soviet Union was hampered by divisions within the Afghan government, while the United States—though perhaps unintentionally—benefitted from the fractured nature of the Mujahideen resistance.

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That benefit, however, was diluted. While the United States may be faulted for disengaging with its Afghanistan proxies after the Soviet withdrawal, it is unclear what that engagement would have accomplished. Moreover, had the United States continued to engage the Mujahideen through the ISI, it may not have been in any more control of the relationship in the aftermath of the conflict than during it.

Latin America Just as in Asia and Africa, the proxy wars fought by the United States and the Soviet Union in Latin America involved overt and covert interventions engaging a range of governments, rebel groups, and political movements. Superpower proxy warfare in Latin America arguably started with the revolution in Cuba in 1959, when Fidel Castro came to power. When Castro began his revolution in 1953, the Cuban Communist Party paid him little attention. However, by 1958, they had aligned causes. Even with this alignment, the Soviet Union paid little until after the revolution succeeded. At first, assistance consisted primarily of trade and technical support deals. However, after the failed “Bay of Pigs Invasion,” military assistance increased (Hershberg 2019, 40–42; Tompkins 2012, 215; Rearden 2012, 196–198). Despite close relations, Cuba was often a problematic proxy for the Soviets. Problems arose because the Soviets and Cubans had fundamentally different approaches to exporting the revolution. For the Soviets, armed revolt should occur as the final revolutionary phase and only after establishing a political infrastructure that can organize workers to create broad political fronts. On the other hand, Cubans believed small groups of dedicated guerillas could create the conditions through armed attacks that mobilized the masses. This difference is unsurprising since each revolution proceeded according to each party’s preference, a fact both understood. However, rifts would arise because the Cubans saw waiting for such conditions to appear as inertia and criticized their Soviet counterparts for being insufficiently committed (Taylor 1989, 93–94; Kruijt 2017, 78–110). As a result, Castro was often ahead of the Soviet Union in sponsoring other revolutionary groups. In fact, in Latin America, at least, the Soviets had come to prefer economic and technical assistance as more effective ways to undermine U.S. influence over armed revolt, whose success was uncertain (Taylor 1989, 94). Still, in many ways, the Soviets benefitted

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from this activity and often supported it despite the risk of conflict with the United States. Two conflicts Cuban adventurism did place the Soviet Union and the United States on the path to conflict were Nicaragua and El Salvador. In Nicaragua, Sandinistas overthrew the government and replaced it with a Marxist one aligned with Cuba and the Soviet Union. This government then funneled assistance to revolutionaries in El Salvador, which opened a second front for Cuban and Soviet influence (Rearden 2012, 404; Salehyan 2009, 126; Ladwig 2017, 222). What makes these conflicts particularly interesting for this discussion is they illustrate competing concepts of cause and control that led to both success and failure in addressing the moral concerns the conflicts raised. The Nicaraguan Civil War (1979–1990) On the surface, the Nicaraguan Civil War had the appearance of a classic Cold War proxy conflict. In 1979, the Sandinista National Liberation Front (FSLN), a left-wing guerilla group supported by Cuba, removed the U.S.-backed Anastasio Somoza Debayle as President of Nicaragua and installed a Marxist government. In response, the United States, with help from regional allies such as Honduras and Costa Rica, organized and supported counterrevolutionaries, eventually referred to as “Contras,” to topple the Sandinista regime and replace it with something more aligned with the United States. The reality was a little more complex. While Castro may have disagreed with the Soviets over the role of revolution, it was not always his first resort. Initially, Cuba supported the Sandinistas. However, in the few years before the revolution, Cuban support for them was limited. Cuban forces were stretched thin by their intervention in Angola, and the fractured nature of the FSLN leadership made control challenging. Additionally, Castro has adopted a more diplomatic approach to reduce Cuba’s regional isolation that sponsoring further violence would have undermined (Nateras 2018, 5). Even after the revolution got underway in 1977, Cuba still kept its distance. This refusal to provide assistance forced the Sandinistas to look elsewhere, turning to Panama, Venezuela, and Costa Rica, who provided funding, weapons, and safe havens despite generally friendly relations with the United States. They wanted to moderate what they saw as an inevitable conflict that would eventually lead to Somoza’s defeat and possibly a Marxist government that would further destabilize the region.

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By conditioning their support on promises of moderation, these countries also hoped to avoid intervention by the United States, which would not likely tolerate a potential Soviet ally in the Americas (Nateras 2018, 5–10). These countries were further encouraged by the Carter Administration’s withdrawal of its support for Somoza. As noted in the discussion on Africa, Carter had wanted to change the Cold War’s bipolar dynamic that prioritized balance of power over moral and ideological concerns by prioritizing human rights and economic assistance as the primary means of extending U.S. influence. So, while Somoza had enjoyed U.S. backing in the past, the Carter Administration had become frustrated by human rights abuses and corruption committed by Somoza’s government and withheld support. This withdrawal allowed the Sandinistas to grow rapidly with their support from Cuba (Nateras 2018, 2; Salehyan 2009, 126–128). In 1979, the Sandinistas, supported by the Venezuelan president, reached out to the United States, asking it to take a stand regarding their confrontation with the Somoza government. They hoped for material support, but failing that, at least a mediator who could broker a resolution. President Carter, however, refused. The result was a power vacuum, which Nicaragua’s neighbors filled (Nateras 2018, 7–12). With the support they received from Cuba, Venezuela, Panama, and Costa Rica, the Sandinistas could mobilize broad segments of the Nicaraguan population. Energized by protests over the assassination of a popular journalist, the Sandinistas drove Somoza from power and took control in July 1979 (Salehyan 2009, 127). Initially, relations between the United States and the Nicaraguan government were accommodating, if not friendly. Sandinistas, in fact, reached out to the United States for military assistance. While that assistance was not forthcoming, the United States provided $118 million in aid, more than any other donor up to that point and more than the United States had given to the Somoza regime. In 1981, however, the Carter Administration suspended an additional $75 million aid package after the Sandinistas reportedly shipped arms to Marxist rebels in El Salvador. He then went a step further and approved a covert program to fund civil society organizations that opposed the Sandinistas (Hager and Snyder 2015, 16–19; Edelman 1988, 54; Regan 2013, 163). While the intention here was to create domestic alternatives that could moderate

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the Sandinista government, it set conditions for military assistance to the Contras in the future. With the withdrawal of U.S. assistance, a cash-strapped Nicaraguan government had little choice but to turn to Cuba and, eventually, the Soviet Union (Edelman 1988, 53–54). During the early parts of the revolution, aid from the Soviet Union reportedly was only about $5 million, though it included anti-aircraft guns, missiles, and RPG-7 antitank weapons. This amount would increase rapidly. By the end of 1982, the Soviets and other Eastern Bloc countries had sent $125 million worth of military equipment, and Cuba had sent advisors. By comparison, the United States provided $124 million in similar assistance to El Salvador and $44.1 million to Honduras during that same time. In 1983, Nicaragua again received approximately $125 million in assistance, which doubled in 1984 to $250 million. In 1985, however, Moscow reduced its contributions to $75 million in 1985 (Edelman 1988, 56–67; CIA 2011, 2). Reagan took office in 1981 and pursued a more aggressive approach to curbing Soviet influence. Even with this policy change, he did try, at first, to take a cooperative path with the Sandinista government, much like Carter did (Vilas 2004, 51). Like the Carter Administration, the Reagan Administration was concerned with Nicaragua exporting arms to insurgent groups in El Salvador. It was also concerned with the potentially destabilizing effect Nicaragua’s Soviet-supported military build-up might have on the region. To provide the Sandinistas with an alternative, the United States tried to ease their security concerns, even offering to cease support for the Contras in exchange for addressing U.S. concerns. Reagan even held out the possibility of economic assistance if U.S. security concerns were met. The Sandinistas, however, did not feel the offer was enough and declared it “sterile” (Hager and Snyder 2015, 26–28; Vilas 2004, 51). In response, the United States backed multiple opposition groups made up mostly of former National Guard soldiers from the Somoza regime and some groups who fought with the Sandinistas but opposed their reform agenda implemented after they took power. These groups would eventually be referred to collectively as the “Contras.” The two major groups in this loose coalition included the Nicaraguan Defense Forces (FDN), based in Honduras, and the Revolutionary Democratic Alliance (ARDE), based in Costa Rica, which, perhaps ironically, had provided support and safe haven to the FSLN. Like the FSLN, these

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groups began operating without foreign assistance; however, they were largely ineffective and could not hold territory inside Nicaragua. Eventually, the United States tried to establish an umbrella organization, the United Nicaraguan Opposition (UNO), with mixed results. While U.S. assistance grew these disparate groups to a force of about 15,000 by 1985, they could have been more effective. That same year, ARDE had been effectively defeated, and by 1986, the FDN had been driven back to its bases in Honduras (Booth 1986, 406). Even with U.S. assistance, the Contras could never hold territory and only sustain operations given sanctuaries in Honduras and Costa. These sanctuaries provoked the Sandinista to pursue the rebels across those borders, threatening to escalate the conflict. In 1988, the United States deployed elements of the 82nd Airborne Division to Honduras in response to the Nicaraguan pursuit of Contras into Honduran territory. While portrayed as an exercise, the U.S. presence sought to compel Nicaraguan forces to depart to avoid a wider conflict with Honduras. On their own, these countries may have responded to Nicaragua’s demands to close their borders to the Contras; however, the United States conditioned significant amounts of assistance on those sanctuaries remaining open, which they did. (Salehyan 2009, 128–130; Miller 1988). The effect of Contra operations was to force the Sandinistas to spend a significant amount of their budget on military weapons and equipment from the Eastern Bloc and rely more on Soviet assistance. (Salehyan 2009, 126–132). It did little to stop the flow of assistance to El Salvador since that was to be an indirect benefit of removing the Sandinistas. Moreover, to make up for these economic shortfalls, Soviet bloc countries also provided preferential trade agreements, loans, cooperative projects, donations, and enhanced commercial relations that eventually accounted for 27% of Nicaragua’s foreign trade, making the Sandinistas resilient to U.S. pressure (Vilas 2004, 52). As the war went on, accounts of human rights abuses at the hands of the Contras became public. In an early attempt to address these concerns, the CIA reportedly drafted an operational manual in 1983 intended to improve Contra operations’ effectiveness and make them more ethical by discouraging indiscriminate killing. Unfortunately, the manual included passages that advocated kidnapping and assassination to “neutralize” selected Nicaraguan government officials. While arguably targeting government officials is a kind of discrimination, it is not the right kind. The response was public outrage and, more importantly,

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Congressional oversight. CIA Director William Casey tried to defend the moderating influence of the manual to Congress but with little result. Congress sought hearings, while the Reagan Administration disavowed the manual and ordered investigations (Barger 1984; Brinkley 1984). Part of the Congressional response was also to earmark $3 million in the 1987 Military Constructions Appropriations Acts to establish the Nicaraguan Human Rights Association, which conducted investigations substantiating reports of atrocities, including the execution of prisoners, forced recruiting, and the deliberate killing of civilians (Goldberg et al. 1988, 260–265; Beamish 1987). Congress also passed the first of the Boland Amendments in 1982, which prohibited U.S. government agencies from providing aid to the Contras to overthrow the government of Nicaragua. However, the legislation only applied to fiscal years 1984– 85. Moreover, it did not apply to operations intended to prevent arms shipments from Nicaragua to El Salvador. So, it was easily bypassed by the Reagan Administration. In April of 1984, President Reagan made a nationally televised speech outlining a plan for transferring an additional $600 million in aid to the Contras. Congress was unimpressed and passed a second Boland Amendment that effectively ceased U.S. agencies’ provision of funds and materiel to the Contras (Douville 2012, 98–99). To avoid growing Congressional oversight, the Reagan Administration transferred control of the operation from the CIA to the National Security Council (NSC) staff and private contractors who were not subject to Congressional reporting. It was here that a team from the NSC famously led by Lt. Col. Oliver North diverted proceeds from weapons sales to Iran to fund Contra operations in what became known as the IranContra affair (Douville 2012, 88; Parry and Kornbluh 1988, 29). While experts differ on the legality of Reagan’s circumvention of Congressional oversight over presidential foreign policy prerogatives, the scandal was generally viewed as a foreign policy disaster, leading to significant declines in Reagan’s presidential approval ratings (Hicks 1996, 972; Brody and Shapiro 1989, 353). Meanwhile, by 1983, regional powers such as Mexico, Venezuela, Colombia, and Panama sought to address several regional security issues. They pressured El Salvador, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and Honduras to the negotiating table in what became known as the “Contadora” process (Ryan 2017, 286). Major points included halting the growing Central American arms race, democratization, and ending external support for the Contras. The United States placed pressure on El

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Salvador, Honduras, and Costa Rica to undermine the proposal by placing conditions they felt Nicaragua would not accept, such as the expulsion of Soviet and Cuban advisors, halting arms imports, ending support for guerillas in El Salvador, multiparty elections, and reduction of its armed forces. When the Sandinistas surprisingly agreed on the condition that the United States would stop supporting Contras, U.S. partners in the group declared the proposal was just a set of talking points and not a final agreement. Their revised proposal did not include Nicaragua’s condition on support for Contras, so they rejected it (Salehyan 2009, 132–134; Wolk 1985, 27–28). Conditions changed with the election of Oscar Arias Sanchez as President of Costa Rica in 1986. Running on a pro-peace platform, he pushed to resume the peace process. The “Esquipulas” agreement that resulted, signed in August of 1987, called for national reconciliation commissions, free elections, and international monitoring. It also denied sanctuaries and bases for rebel groups. The reasons this process succeeded while the Contadora process failed arguably are two-fold. First, the defection of Costa Rica from the U.S. camp relieved pressure on the other participants to follow the U.S. lead. Second, the fallout from the Iran-Contra scandal undermined Congressional support for continued assistance. The agreement did not immediately end the conflict as Honduras continued to provide safe havens until 1988. However, when Honduras finally did comply, the Contras were forced to the negotiating table, where the Nicaraguan government offered amnesty and protection of political rights. Peace was still delayed by issues over the timing of elections and the disbanding of Contra bases. The introduction of UN peacekeepers in 1988 assuaged Nicaraguan concerns and set conditions for reconciliation. Eventually, the rebels disbanded and returned to Nicaragua (Salehyan 2009, 135–142). Lower-intensity combat continued until elections were held in 1990, but the peace plan significantly contributed to de-escalation. These elections surprisingly resulted in a win for Violeta Chamorro, a Contra-affiliated politician. What could not be done on the battlefield was done at the ballot box, and after eleven years, the FSLN relinquished control over Nicaragua (Nygren 2003, 378). Analysis One thing that stands out in this case is that both sides, at some point, attempted to find alternatives to conflict and control proxy conduct,

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and both met with limited success. Both the United States and the Sandinistas reached out at some point to mollify the other’s security concerns; however, that outreach was insufficient for reasons that are not entirely clear. That said, the intervention by sponsors such as the United States and Cuba raised the stakes, making resolution more challenging. Policy orientation also has an effect. Carter, for example, preferred the Nicaraguans to settle their political differences internally, leaving open intervention by a competing power. In fact, Carter’s position caused anger among the moderate Nicaraguan opposition, who felt the United States had a duty to exercise its “moral influence” (Nateras 2018, 6). The fact that the outcome of Nicaragua’s internal process later led him to provide covert non-lethal support to the Sandinista’s opposition suggests that his original policy of non-intervention was not sustainable. While Reagan certainly did not share Carter’s aversion to intervention, it is worth noting that his efforts to provide the Sandinista’s an alternative to Cuban and Soviet support were very much in line with Carter’s overall approach. When Reagan initially authorized support for the Contras, he hoped that it would serve more as a bargaining chip to use with the Sandinistas. The reason it failed had more to do with the policy orientation of the Sandinistas, who did not take such threats seriously because they believed Reagan would be constrained by domestic concerns stemming from the Vietnam War and, flush with military assistance from Cuba and the Soviet Union, were confident they would prevail (Hager and Snyder 2015, 30). The conduct of the Contras also raises the concern of “dirty hands,” which will come up again in the discussion regarding El Salvador. In the history of proxy warfare, the Nicaraguan case before the International Court of Justice (ICJ) was one of the first times a state tried to hold a proxy sponsor responsible for the intervention and the proxy’s abuses. In its decision, the court found that while the United States financed, organized, trained, supplied, equipped, and armed the Contras, it was not responsible for their violations of International Humanitarian Law (ICRC 2023). I will discuss the merits of this decision later. Still, even if one is to believe the purpose of the operations manual provided to the Contras was to curb indiscriminate killing, the fact it included provisions that might technically be discriminate, but which are still violations of international law, suggests there is more work to be done regarding establishing accountability for proxy actions.

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The Salvadoran Civil War (1979–1992) In 1979, a group of Army officers deposed El Salvador’s president, Carlos Romero, for failing to implement necessary political reforms (Harris and Espinosa 1981, 296). Initially portraying themselves as progressive and reform-minded, the junta they formed could not resolve internal tensions between the extreme left- and right-wing factions. As a result, some of its members were either pushed out or resigned, eventually forming a more right-wing junta. While the new junta maintained the former’s reform policy, it resorted to repressive measures to deal with the opposition and maintain order (Ladwig 2017, 218–219). Moreover, rather than pursuing reform, they sought the continued protection of elite interests and renewed efforts to combat growing left-wing dissent and rebellion throughout the country (LeoGrande and Robbins 1980, 1093–1094). While the junta transformed into a right-wing dictatorship, the opposition coalesced around the Farabundo Marti National Liberation Front (FMLN). The FMLN was a composite of five revolutionary groups brought together by Fidel Castro in 1980, blending Marxism and Catholic liberation ideology. Additionally, grievances against the security forces motivated many to join, independent of the group’s ideology. In the beginning, Cuba was the FMLN’s primary sponsor. Eventually, though, it would receive weapons and military training from various sources, including the Soviet Union, Nicaragua, East Germany, and Vietnam (Ladwig 2017, 221–222; Hager 1995, 452). For the most part, FMLN’s agenda focused on democratization, disbanding what had become an oppressive security apparatus, and land reform (Oswaldo López et al. 2015, 6; Jones and Libicki 2008, 64– 68). Of course, given the group’s association with Communist countries, it would seem reasonable to expect an FMLN government to manifest as a Communist dictatorship unfriendly to the United States and its regional allies. Interpreting these objectives exclusively through a Marxist lens would be a mistake. As in Nicaragua, the El Salvadoran opposition groups addressed genuine grievances against a ruling elite who showed no interest in reform (LeMoyne 1989, 106–107). Moreover, there was controversy regarding the extent of foreign influence exerted on the FMLN. It was undeniable that Cuba and Nicaragua were providing arms and other assistance; however, the FMLN was reportedly able to purchase sufficient arms and ammunition on the black market with funds from bank robberies and kidnappings of elites, allowing

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for a measure of independence (Harris and Espinosa 1981, 309–310; Jones and Libicki 2008, 68; Hager 1995, 443–446). As with Nicaragua, the U.S. approach focused on offering an alternative the opposition could accept. While the United States’ general interest in this conflict was to prevent the spread of Communism, the Carter Administration—sensitive to the complexities of the source of revolutionary fervor—also sought to prevent a far-right government from emerging. Given that supporting the El Salvadoran security forces was the only option to avoid a far-left takeover, finding a balance would prove difficult. To find that balance, the administration provided military assistance while supporting economic and political reforms intended to make the Marxist cause less appealing as well as address the abuses of El Salvador’s security forces and right-wing death squads (Graham 1996; Walker 1998, 146–149; Hazelton 2021, 114). Adding urgency to the issue of control, high-profile atrocities, like the rape and murder of three American nuns and a lay missionary and the murders of two American land reform experts by the El Salvadoran National Guard, made assistance hard to sustain. In the wake of those killings, outrage in the United States risked Congressional intervention. So, Carter suspended assistance while conditioning future assistance on government restructuring to give the civilian government more control over the military to reduce indiscriminate killings. He also insisted on prosecuting the National Guard members and removing hard right leaders from their posts. When the government agreed, economic assistance was fast-tracked, but military assistance was conditioned on evidence of tangible progress in reducing death-squad violence and holding perpetrators accountable (Ladwig 229–232). However, in 1981, Carter abandoned many of those conditions when the FMLN came close to seizing much of El Salvador, if not toppling the government. In his final days in office, the FMLN conducted a “final offensive,” which initially made impressive gains and assumed control over several towns and villages, including four provincial capitals. Unfortunately for the FMLN, the offensive’s success depended on the El Salvadoran masses rising in support, which did not happen. So, the El Salvadoran security forces were able to reverse those gains before U.S. assistance arrived. Carter nonetheless rushed helicopters, trainers, weapons, and ammunition to the fight. By doing so, he sent the message

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that the United States would always prioritize the El Salvadoran government’s survival over human rights and other moral concerns (Ladwig 2017, 233–234). The Reagan Administration took an even harder line after Reagan took office about a month later. Preoccupied with expanding Soviet influence, the Reagan Administration prioritized military assistance over addressing the need for reform (Hammer 1988, 99). Moreover, he viewed the FMLN offensive as a failure of Carter’s policy of conditional assistance. Reagan believed that conditioned assistance made the United States an unreliable partner, diminishing its leverage. This logic, while missing a step, had some basis in fact. Senior members of the El Salvadoran security forces took pride in the fact they contained the offensive without U.S. support. Thus, in this view, sufficient and consistent assistance was a better means of control. (Ladwig 2017, 234–239; Hammer 1988, 96– 97). This is not to say that he uncritically supported the right. Like Carter, however, he recognized that reforms were critical to counter-insurgent success, so he authorized covert funding to moderate factions like the Christian Democrats (Ladwig 2017, 235–236). In addition to reliability, the Reagan Administration believed that a more capable El Salvadoran military would be more likely to show restraint because it was more confident in victory. Conversely, without this assistance, the El Salvadoran security forces would be more desperate and thus even more brutal. Moreover, the unconditioned commitment to stopping Soviet expansion would send a message of assurance not just to El Salvador but to all U.S. partners and allies in the region, bolstering their commitment to resist, making revolutionary causes harder to sustain, thus eliminating the conflicts that lead to these abuses in the first place (Ladwig 2017, 238). The missing step in this logic is that conditions are not the same as incentives. A strong El Salvadoran Army might be better positioned to show restraint; however, if restraint entails individual risk, the motivation to show it is low. Moreover, unconditioned assistance provides no further incentive to address the necessary political reforms. Shortly after Reagan announced his intention to drop conditions on assistance, the El Salvadoran government stalled murder investigations the United States had demanded and abandoned land reform. At the same time, right-wing death-squad killings increased (Ladwig 2017, 238). As a result, by 1982, there was a growing backlash in the United States, prompting Congress to impose certification procedures that conditioned

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U.S. assistance on observing human rights, preventing its security forces and right-wing death squads from committing abuses and undertaking necessary economic and political reform (Hammer 1988, 99). Fortunately for the United States, El Salvadorans turned out in large numbers for the March 1982 elections, effectively repudiating the FMLN, which had threatened violence against voters (Hammer 1988, 100). Still, human rights abuses undermined the legitimacy of the El Salvadoran government—and consequently U.S. assistance—throughout the war. Over its course, more than 71,000 civilians were killed or disappeared (Green and Ball 2019, 781), and roughly 85% of those deaths and disappearances were likely attributable to the Salvadoran military (USIP 1993). One of the most egregious atrocities was the massacre at the village of El Mozote, where Salvadoran soldiers from the Atlacatl Battalion, which had been trained and armed by the United States, killed 1000 men, women, and children (Holiday and Stanley 1993, 432; Scott 2001, 79–86). These high civilian death rates were primarily a function of how the El Salvadoran security forces fought the war. Despite U.S. advice, Salvadoran security forces believed victory was a function of attrition and effectively pursued a strategy of annihilation that blurred the distinction between insurgents and, to paraphrase Mao, the sea they swam in. Moreover, while Salvadoran security forces were killing civilians, they avoided taking the fight to the FMLN. Over time, and mainly due to U.S. pressure, El Salvadoran commanders became more reluctant to use force indiscriminately; however, they never really adopted the irregular warfare strategy recommended by their U.S. advisors that included precise operations directed against the FMLN coupled with the political and economic reform to reduce their support (Hazelton 2021, 114–118). To gain control over El Salvadoran security force atrocities, by 1983, Congress had increased its oversight, and the Reagan Administration had adopted a more conditional approach. Like Carter, his conditions included prosecution of outstanding murder cases, including those of the American nuns and land reform experts, except he insisted on a timeline to ensure these cases were resolved and not remain leverage in a future crisis. He also insisted on a commitment to elections in 1984 and complete constitutional action on land reform. As a result, when Napoleon Duarte, a moderate Christian Democrat, won the election, he immediately disbanded abusive security force organizations. He also removed leaders associated with death squads and prosecuted the murder cases. Subsequently, death-squad activity decreased by 80%, and U.S.

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assistance resumed. What did not happen was continued U.S. pressure (or conditions) to implement reforms. As a result, not only did reforms stall, but some were also repealed. When Washington again dropped conditions after Duarte’s apparent success in curbing abuse, the Salvadoran armed forces stalled investigations, and there was a moderate increase in death-squad activity (Ladwig 2017, 259–266). Believing the El Salvadoran government had sufficient control over human rights abuses, Washington again dropped conditions on aid. However, the crisis returned when the FMLN launched another “Final Offensive” in 1989. A few days into the offensive, members of the Atlacatl Rapid Reaction Battalion murdered five Jesuit priests and two bystanders. The result was to galvanize Congress and the Executive Branch, now with George H. W. Bush in office, to withhold assistance. Newly elected El Salvadoran President Alfredo Cristiani conceded and arrested the murderers. Again, Washington rewarded the act before there was an outcome by increasing economic assistance by $50 million. And again, El Salvadoran security forces stalled the investigations (Ladwig 2017, 277–280). The 1989 Final Offensive, much like the one before, failed. This time, not only did the people fail to rally to the insurgent cause, but there was also a significant backlash against the FMLN. Recognizing it could not win, the FMLN offered to negotiate. To ensure the El Salvadoran government would negotiate in good faith, the U.S. Congress cut assistance by 50% and conditioned release of the rest on completing the investigation of the Jesuit murders and avoiding large-scale violence against civilians. The conflict ended in 1992 when the El Salvadoran government signed a UNbrokered peace deal with the FMLN that included separating the military from the police, shrinking the Army by 50%, eliminating rapid-reaction battalions and other units and leaders associated with death-squad activity (Ladwig 2017, 278–281). Analysis Much like Nicaragua, U.S. involvement in El Salvador seemed to involve an intent to get things right while things still go very wrong. Also, as in Nicaragua, part of the responsibility rests with a flawed theory that analogizes countries to dominoes and concludes should one fall, so will those close by. The “all-or-nothing” outcomes this theory suggests generally belie a more complicated truth. Whatever that truth was, this view

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discounted the possibility that Cuba and Nicaragua, as regional powers, had limited goals that did not include more costly interventions against neighbors who would not otherwise be a threat, whether sponsored by the Soviets or not. The fact that Sandinista and FLMN goals were initially limited relative to U.S. security interests, does not mean that the United States had nothing to be concerned about. The advantage proxy relationships provide is the ability to take advantage of potentially valuable opportunities with limited investment. So, the fact that the FMLN maintained independence from its sponsors does not diminish its role as a proxy. Of course, there is a tradeoff between investment and control, given that the less a proxy depends on a sponsor, the less leverage the sponsor has. However, the relationship between leverage and control is not straightforward. Other factors, such as ideology, culture, and history, can amplify a sponsor’s control depending on the alternatives the proxy has. So, it would be reasonable to expect a victorious FMLN faced with a hostile United States to become increasingly dependent on the Soviet Union, creating additional opportunities to expand its influence. This point is not an endorsement of the “domino theory.” There certainly was not anything inevitable about continued Soviet encroachment in Latin America. However, as long as there was opportunity, the Soviets were likely to keep trying. Their success would depend on the kind of alternative the United States provided. Situations like El Salvador raise the question of how to deal with dirty hands and what to do when a proxy’s way of warfare is self-defeating. It would be easy to conclude under such circumstances, the sponsor should withdraw support. Sometimes, however, the stakes are too high for that to be a reasonable conclusion. Establishing when those conditions exist and what additional obligations may be imposed has not been well established in international law. That may account, in part at least, for the ICJ’s seemingly unsatisfying judgment regarding U.S. sponsorship for the Contras and the license the United States felt it had in supporting El Salvador despite continued abuse.

Conclusion The history of proxy war illustrates how even well-intentioned actors can engage in partnerships that set conditions for moral failure. As mentioned in the introduction to this book, “mutual interest” is not always a benign

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concept, even when the interests themselves are perfectly permissible. Decisions to support a partner are frequently motivated by a desire to help; however, when it comes to state actors, there is also a recognition that support is politically sustainable only if the supporting actor also has a stake. As the relationship evolves, however, so do the stakes. As with Vietnam, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Iraq, and Afghanistan, those changes forced hard decisions about whether and how support would continue, often putting both sponsor and proxy under challenging positions. The history of proxy warfare illustrates the importance of bettergoverning proxy relationships. While the international order may not be entirely anarchic, it is not strong enough to prevent state conflict. So, there will always be sponsors seeking proxies to mediate the costs of confrontation. As the history of proxy warfare also illustrates, the potential for exploitation and harm exists even where the intent is to serve mutual interests. Depending on how those interests diverge and evolve, sponsors and proxies may find themselves in difficult positions where betrayal is the most rational course of action. Since those decisions are generally collective, policymakers need a clear set of norms to guide policymaking. When policymakers know what they are accountable for beyond outcomes, they can craft more responsible policies that mitigate the potential for betrayal or other harm. Establishing these norms will be the subject of the following two chapters.

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Pycroft, Christopher. 1994. “Angola—‘The Forgotten Tragedy.’” Journal of Southern African Studies 20 (2): 241–62. http://www.jstor.org/stable/263 7389. Rearden, Steven L. 2012. Council of War: A History of the Joint Chiefs of Staff . Washington, DC: National Defense University Press. Regan, Ricahrd J. 2013. Just War, Second Edition. Catholic University of America Press, 163. https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctt5vj8j2. Reuveny, Rafael, and Aseem Prakash. 1999. “The Afghanistan War and the Breakdown of the Soviet Union.” Review of International Studies 25 (4): 693–708. http://www.jstor.org/stable/20097629 Ryan, David. 2017. “The Peripheral Center: Nicaragua in US Policy and the US Imagination at the End of the Cold War.” In Foreign Policy at the Periphery: The Shifting Margins of US International Relations since World War II , Edited by Bevan Sewell and Maria Ryan, 286–312. University Press of Kentucky. http://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt1ht4v7c.15. Salehyan, Idean. 2009. “The Nicaraguan Civil War.” In Rebels without Borders: Transnational Insurgencies in World Politics, 1st ed., 126–44. Cornell University Press. http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.7591/j.ctt7z6bx.9. Schulhofer-Wohl, Jonah. 2020. Quagmire in Civil War. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Scott, Douglas D. 2001. “Firearms Identification in Support of Identifying a Mass Execution at El Mozote, El Salvador.” Historical Archaeology 35 (1): 79–86. http://www.jstor.org/stable/25616895. Smith, Shane A. “Afghanistan after the Occupation: Examining the PostSoviet Withdrawal and the Najibullah Regime It Left Behind, 1989–1992.” The Historian 76, no. 2 (2014): 308–43. http://www.jstor.org/stable/244 56716. “Soviet Policy toward Nicaragua—The World Factbook.” 2011. CIA World Factbook, March 14. Central Intelligence Agency. https://www.cia.gov/readin groom/docs/CIA-RDP87T00787R000400510001-6.pdf. “Sumpul River (1980) 121” Report of the UN Truth Commission on El Salvador, 1 April 1993. United States Institute of Peace, Commission on Truth for El Salvador, From Madness to Hope: The 12-Year War in El Salvador: Report of the Commission on the Truth for El Salvador (1993). https://www.usip.org/publications/1992/07/truth-commission-el-salvador Taylor, Frank F. 1989. “Cuba’s Relations with the Soviet Union since October, 1962 - A Retrospect.” Boletin de Estudios Latinoamericanos y Del Caribe. 46: 91–109. “The Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty (NPT), 1968.” 2023. U.S. Department of State. Office of the Historian. https://history.state.gov/milestones/19611968/npt.

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Tompkins, Paul J. 2012. Casebook on Insurgency and Revolutionary Warfare, Vol II 1962–2009. Ft Bragg: United States Special Operations Command. Toong, Zi Jun. 2008. “Overthrown by the Press: The US Media’s Role in the Fall of Diem.” Australasian Journal of American Studies 27 (1): 56–72. http://www.jstor.org/stable/41054100. Valenta, Jiri. 1978. “The Soviet-Cuban Intervention in Angola, 1975.” Studies in Comparative Communism 11 (1/2): 3–33. Vilas, Carlos M. 2004. “Revolutionary Attempts in Late Cold War Settings: Nicaragua in the 1980s.” Journal of Third World Studies 21 (2): 45–61. http://www.jstor.org/stable/45198469. Walker, William O. 1998. Journal of Interamerican Studies and World Affairs 40 (2): 146–49. https://doi.org/10.2307/166381. Walters, Ronald W. 1981. “The Clark Amendment: Analysis of U.S. Policy Choices in Angola.” The Black Scholar 12 (4): 2–12. Westad, Odd Arne. 1994. “Prelude to Invasion: The Soviet Union and the Afghan Communists, 1978–1979.” The International History Review 16 (1): 49–69. http://www.jstor.org/stable/40106851. Wolk, Jeffrey. 1985. “Contadora: A Catalyst for Moderation.” Harvard International Review 8 (1): 27–29. http://www.jstor.org/stable/42759827. Zelizer, Julian E. 2007. “How Congress Got Us out of Vietnam.” The American Prospect, February 19. The American Prospect. https://prospect.org/fea tures/congress-got-us-vietnam/.

CHAPTER 4

Jus Ad Bellum and the Implications for Proxy Warfare

Introduction: Jus ad Bellum and Proxy Wars The moral disposition against proxy wars burdens those who would engage in them to establish explicit norms and principles to govern these relationships. In establishing these norms, it is not sufficient to consider the justice of the proxy’s resort to war. As the history of proxy warfare clearly shows, the relationship between sponsor and proxy is asymmetric: the justice of the proxy’s cause does not ensure the justice of the sponsor’s support. Further, the justice of the sponsor’s support is not always dependent on the justice of the proxy’s cause, as I will discuss later. So, the first concern to address is the permissibility of these wars in the first place. As stated above, since proxy wars are wars, it makes sense to begin an assessment of their morality through the lens of jus ad bellum, which assesses when, as a moral (if not legal) matter, a state is permitted to resort to war and by extension, when other states are permitted to provide military assistance. The asymmetry introduced by the sponsor-proxy relationships presents three morally relevant models of proxy relationships: . The proxy meets all elements of jus ad bellum and engages in conflict; thus, sponsor support is not causally related to the initiation of hostilities. To the extent one accepts the governments of © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 C. A. Pfaff, Proxy War Ethics: The Norms of Partnering in Great Power Competition, Palgrave Studies in International Relations, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-50458-7_4

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Nicaragua and El Salvador enjoyed a right to sovereignty, they may fit into the first category. Whether one should assume that depends on what basis state governments enjoy rights to sovereignty and territory. The French Protestants and the Hungarian Independence movements may also fit into this category, though there are also questions of legitimacy for non-state actors. . The proxy meets all elements of jus ad bellum but does not initiate conflict without sponsor support. South Vietnam may fall into this category. Had the United States not provided political support to resist unification under the Geneva Accords and had it not deployed troops immediately after the French withdrawal, Diem may not have had the political capital to cancel elections or defend against North Vietnam and its proxies. . The proxy cannot meet all elements of jus ad bellum without sponsor support (like proportionality and reasonable chance of success); sponsor support is causally related to hostilities. Revolutionary movements and weaker states generally fall into this category. Even if one accepts the justice of the African and Latin American revolutionary movements, or the Contras for that matter, jus ad bellum requires that one can pursue a just cause in a just manner. Given the reliance of these groups on terrorism, kidnapping, and extortion to compensate for their weakness, they would not meet these conditions. The fact they did not meet these conditions even with sponsor support implies additional obligations for sponsors beyond supporting a just cause. The concern here, of course, is the sponsor’s role in making the war come about. To the extent the war would have occurred otherwise, as in the first situation, there are fewer moral barriers to sponsor participation. If the proxy meets the jus ad bellum criteria and decides to fight, the sponsor joins an already just enterprise. If it is a just cause to come to another’s defense, it is a just cause to go to that defense by proxy. I will discuss whether and which of these criteria apply to the sponsor later. Where the war would have happened regardless of the sponsor’s support, the sponsor did not affect the decision to go to war. Thus, the sponsor’s support is not causally related—at least not in the same way it would be in the other two situations—to the decision to go to war. The moral opportunity for the sponsor is to ensure that the just side wins with the least harm caused to either side. This point suggests that when

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sponsor involvement would prolong, widen, or increase the wars’ overall destructiveness; it would be impermissible, regardless of the justice of the proxy’s cause or the sponsor’s interests at stake. This provision would not preclude short-term escalation if it ended the war faster. What matters is the overall harm committed. More concerning are the following two models: one where the proxy meets the criteria but does not fight absent the support of the sponsor and one where the proxy can only meet all the just war criteria with sponsor support. In both these cases, the sponsor’s participation seems causally related to the proxy’s resort to war in ways it is not in the first situation. In the former, the proxy meets all the criteria, including proportionality and reasonable chance of success; however, it chooses not to fight without sponsor support. One can imagine several reasons this might be the case: the proxy wants to lower its cost; it is culturally risk averse; or values the legitimacy an outside party might bring. Whatever the reason, the concern here is that sponsor participation informs the decision to go to war. In the latter, the sponsor enables a war that could not have happened otherwise. Sometimes, however, it is preferable to forego a good when attaining it causes harm. Thus, sponsors must clearly establish that their involvement serves a greater good that overrides the proxy’s reluctance to go it alone. While it might not be the worst thing, war should always be a “necessary” thing. What counts as necessary is, at a minimum, the proxy meets jus ad bellum conditions described in Chapter 1, and which I will discuss in detail below. What is not the case, however, is that the sponsor’s sense of necessity does not have to be the same as the proxy’s. For the proxy, necessity turns on the nature of the aggression and the extent to which it violates its rights. In the case of a state, those rights are political sovereignty and territorial integrity. For non-state actors, it may depend on other things, such as avoiding gross human rights violations or severe political marginalization. For the sponsor, other matters of justice may be brought to bear, even if they would not constitute self-defense on the sponsor’s part. For example, concerns about preserving a just international order or deterring an adversary from future aggression could justify a sponsor’s intervention. Athens, for example, may have greater justification for its support of Corcyra to the extent it also advanced Athenian democracy over Spartan tyranny (Devereaux 2023). Such conditions would also morally enable

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U.S. and NATO support for Ukraine’s defense against Russian aggression, whereas simply maintaining a balance of power would likely not. However, because of the condition of necessity, there is an extra burden on the sponsor to find and support alternatives to war. It could also be the case that the injustice suffered by a potential proxy warrants intervention; however, the proxy, for whatever reason, chooses not to fight. In these cases, the fact there are other concerns of justice enabling intervention would not justify pressuring the proxy to resort to war. The reason for this condition is that, as I will discuss in the next chapter, proxy warfare opens up the possibility of a variety of moral hazards that the proxy, for the most part, would have to bear. The fact of those hazards does not preclude the resort to war; however, a proxy should genuinely feel that it is in its interest to do so. In these cases, sponsors should proceed with caution. In the last model, the proxy has met all the conditions it can, but only some of the conditions it must. In this situation, the proxy suffers from an injustice or aggression that would justify war; however, it simply cannot morally do anything about it because it either lacks the capability, whether as a matter of capacity or training, to fight proportionally or discriminately or it does not have a reasonable chance of success on its own. Iraqi Security Forces (ISF) after the fall of Mosul may serve as an example. Without U.S. advisors, weapons, and equipment, they would not have likely been able to go on the offensive, and even if they did, their ability to fight in accordance with jus in bello principles would also likely be limited as evidenced by the struggles they had even with U.S. support. In this situation, the proxy’s choices are to suffer the injustice or to violate one (or more) of these other jus ad bellum or jus in bello conditions. In this case, the sponsor’s intervention makes it possible for the proxy to address the injustice and do so justly. Doing so, of course, should be a condition of the sponsor’s participation, regardless of the sponsor’s more significant interest. Next, I will discuss each specific jus ad bellum condition’s moral demands in the context of proxy relationships.

Just Cause Arguably, the purpose of the Just War Tradition is to prevent war and, failing that, limit the destruction caused by war. The primary limiting condition in this view is just cause. While jus ad bellum conditions are constructed as an “all-or-nothing” set, just cause must first be established

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before the other conditions matter. By extension, proxies must meet all these conditions before considering a proxy relationship would be morally permissible. As mentioned, just causes are self-defense, defense of another, and humanitarian intervention. In what follows, I will discuss what conditions the proxy must meet and how those conditions should impact the obligations and permissions putative sponsors would have. State-Defense Paradigm Self-defense and defense of another are apparent just causes. For any defensive act to be justified, however, it has to be both necessary and proportional to the act of aggression that initiates fighting. Here, necessity requires there be no non-violent alternative, and proportionality requires the response’s size, duration, and target produce more good than harm. While conceptually different, they are closely related. If a use of force is not necessary it cannot be proportionate, and if it is not proportionate, it cannot be necessary (Gray 2008, 149–150). I will take up these conditions later in this chapter. Before doing so, it is first necessary to establish what kinds of threats are sufficient to justify an armed response. Some violent acts, even those committed by states, are better thought of as crimes than an act of aggression. In those cases, necessity and proportionality would not permit war as a response. Unfortunately, neither the ethics nor the law of war has fully settled this concern. Walzer describes an act of aggression as a violation of a state’s political sovereignty and territorial integrity (Walzer 2015, 52–54). The United Nations uses a similar definition where an act of aggression constitutes a state’s first use of force “against the sovereignty, territorial integrity, or political independence of another state” (UN 2023). Cases would obviously include attacks conducted by a state’s armed forces. However, more relevant for this discussion, cases also include states allowing other states to commit acts of aggression from their territory. It also includes states employing or allowing non-state actors to carry out violence comparable to regular armed forces (UN 2023). The difficulty with these definitions is that they offer little clarity. While it makes sense to insist that irregular uses of force reach the level of regular uses of force, the definition does not specify what that “regular” level is or what “regular” forces are. It simply identifies the targets of such force: another state’s sovereignty, territory, or independence. This ambiguity is probably by design. State actors benefit by having leeway

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to characterize acts of violence as acts of aggression to amplify an adversary’s use of force or downplay their own. However, this definition may be too imprecise to establish clear moral and ethical obligations without additional clarification. For example, Chinese and Indian troops brawled using sticks in December 2022 on their disputed border in the Himalayas (Yeung 2022). Right now, neither country is treating the incident like an act of aggression, but it is not clear that they could not, especially if one side held territory it previously did not at the end of the fight. Of course, even if they did, the conditions of necessity and proportionality would likely limit any response; however, given that proportionality is itself an imprecise term, any response could be perceived as an aggressive act, setting conditions for escalation. Cyber and information operations also raise similar concerns. Did Russian trolling of the U.S. elections in 2016 count as an act of aggression against U.S. sovereignty? If there were no way to prevent these attacks except through the proportional use of force, would that be permitted? More relevant to this discussion, if a state actor used hackers from another state as proxies for such operations, would an armed response against that state be justified? While it may not be possible to resolve this ambiguity fully, some precedents in international law may help. The authoritative UN’s 1980 “Eighth Report on State Responsibility” states that where a state suffers “a series of successive and different” armed attacks, the proportionality requirement does not prohibit the aggrieved state from taking a single large-scale action to end these attacks (Ago 1980, 69). Unfortunately, courts have done little to clarify further what counts as a justified application of this standard. For example, the UN’s Eritrea/Ethiopia Claims Commission found that in deciding who started the war between the two countries, “localized border encounters between small infantry units with loss of life” were not considered “an armed attack opening right to self-defense under the United Nations Charter” (UN 2005, 459). Israel, South Africa, and Portugal have also employed this defense; however, in each case, the UN Security Council found their use of force disproportionate, even given the harm done by those attacks. When the United States invoked this defense against Iran during its legal dispute over its seizure of Iranian oil platforms during the “Tanker Wars” in the 1980s, the ICJ also found that the series of attacks did not amount to armed force and that the United States failed to establish Iran had conducted the attacks (Gray 2008, 156). What one might take away

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from these decisions is that claims that a series of attacks amount to an act of aggression depend on being able to make the additional case that a proportional large-scale armed response is the only option to ending them. This can be difficult if one cannot provide convincing evidence that more attacks are to come. While the UN Definition of Aggression holds that supporting proxies (though it does not use that word) fighting against another state counts as an act of aggression, the ICJ’s Nicaragua decision referenced earlier held that simply providing weapons or logistics support would not, though it might be illegal on other grounds. What is less clear from this decision is whether state acquiescence or inability to control irregular forces would also amount to an act of aggression (Gray 2008, 130–132). So, while attacks against a supporting state may be legal, attacks against a harboring state might not be. As Walzer argues, when sponsors are unable or unwilling to control irregular actors on their soil, they undermine their right to sovereignty. To the extent other states suffer because of those irregulars, those states are thus entitled to provide that control (Walzer 2015, 220). If that permission holds where states do not have control, it seems reasonable to conclude it remains true when harboring such groups is intentional. In proxy wars, sponsors may not suffer an act of aggression; however, their support for a proxy that has suffered one will generally be permissible since the defense of a victim of aggression is generally permissible. As mentioned in Chapter 1, the U.S. government’s lend-lease program before its entry into World War II serves as an example. Britain and Russia had suffered an act of aggression, and the United States was justified in assisting them. The fact that, for a time at least, Britain and Russia were effectively U.S. proxies is not of moral concern since their interests—the defeat of Nazi Germany—were just and more or less aligned. Sponsor and proxy interests, however, may not always closely align. Sponsors often take on proxy relationships to serve a variety of vital national interests unrelated to a particular act of aggression and thus for which the use of force would not be warranted. The United States, for example, has listed as global priorities, among other things: (1) outcompeting Russia and China; (2) promoting climate and energy security; (3) ensuring pandemic and bio-defense; (4) preventing food insecurity;( 5) establishing arms control, and (6) combatting terrorism (White House 2022, 23–31). There is nothing, of course, wrong with the pursuit of these priorities. The U.S. government would only exceed its warrant if it

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pursued them by force, even if it convinced someone else to employ that force on its behalf. To the extent sponsors encourage a third party to go to war because it would serve an interest that would not usually justify the resort to force, they act unethically. This point would be valid even if the proxy’s cause were just. For example, one can imagine a repressed population for which armed resistance is justified. Imagine further that the repressing government has hostile relations with a neighbor and has engaged in activities that negatively impact that neighbor’s economy. The neighbor, for its part, is considering arming the repressed population as a means to pressure the repressing government to cease its harmful economic activities. In this case, even if the proxy’s cause is just and the sponsor’s interests legitimate, instigating an armed response to serve those economic interests would be unethical and unlawful. It is unethical and unlawful because the conflict—and its associated violence and suffering—would not have otherwise occurred. Because it would not have happened otherwise, the sponsor’s interest stands as the cause for the war. Since economic interests generally do not justify the resort to war—a point I will take up shortly—any instigation for the proxy to resort to war would be unjust. There may be limits to this argument. In some cases, excluding interests based on kind may be difficult. Take economic interests, for example. While economic measures like sanctions and boycotts do not normally justify the resort to force, when the resulting disruption threatens economic collapse and places the population’s access to basic needs at risk, there may be a stronger case for intervention. Walzer, for example, argues that Israel’s first strike against Egypt in 1967 was justified because of the widespread state of fear imposed by the Egyptian Army’s mobilization on its border with Israel. He does not specifically appeal to economic conditions but does note that people hoarded food, water, and other basic items. He also observed that to counter the Egyptian military presence; Israel had to mobilize the reserves, which could not remain mobilized indefinitely (Walzer 2015, 83–84). While he does not explicitly say so, the likely reasons reserves could not be mobilized indefinitely were the drain on the economy that their presence at the border and their absence in the workforce entailed. So, if one accepts that the imposition of an economic catastrophe of the sort described above would justify the resort to war, it seems reasonable to accept that it would justify the resort to proxy war, assuming the

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proxy also has a just cause. However, there are limits to these permissions. Instigating proxy war to avoid fighting directly externalizes the risk governments probably should take to alleviate their population’s suffering. One could imagine, for example, that the Israeli government decided not to strike first. In the ensuing standoff, Arab states decided to halt oil exports to the United States, much like they did in 1973, which caused severe economic conditions. Even if those conditions threatened the United States with economic collapse, instigating the Israelis to fight would not have been justified. Such an instigation imposes risks to innocent third parties, in this case, Israeli civilians, that they were unwilling to take for their own cause. That judgment changes when Israelis decide to fight on their own. Since U.S. assistance, in that case, would not entail additional innocent third-party risk, it would be permitted, assuming the other conditions discussed here also hold. Where proxies would fight if they could, sponsors would have greater permission to provide support. If, for example, the imagined Israeli reticence to strike first rested on the certainty of their defeat, the United States would be permitted, even if it were not suffering from economic collapse, to provide military assistance. The condition “reasonable chance for success,” which will be discussed later, will impose conditions on that assistance; however, it should at least be sufficient to eliminate the certainty of defeat even if it cannot promise the certainty of victory. Even under these conditions, though, sponsor cause matters. To the extent a peaceful, if tense, standoff or a rapid Israeli defeat would result in less suffering than an expanded conflict that potentially turns the Cold War into a hot one, sponsors must provide further justification for their intervention, including measures for addressing escalation, which I will discuss in the next chapter. In cases where sponsors have no casus belli, support for a proxy that is willing to accept the risk of fighting but has not initiated it may be permitted where the effect of the fighting may have a deterrent or otherwise stabilizing effect regionally or globally. Taken together, these points suggest the standard for just cause that establishes permissions for potential proxies to resort to war, sponsoring a potential proxy who is fighting a just war, and attacking a proxy sponsor: . Proxy resort to war: proportionate and necessary response to an act of aggression, consisting of armed attacks sufficient to damage or destroy their ability to maintain their sovereignty, territory, or independence.

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. Sponsoring a proxy: Given a potential proxy’s just cause, states may sponsor that proxy to the extent that doing so counts as coming to the defense of another. However, sponsors should proceed cautiously where sponsor support would enable fighting that would not have otherwise occurred or escalate a conflict. This analysis would not rule out supporting a proxy under those conditions; however, it suggests sponsors should apply necessity and proportionality requirements to their own intervention when considering whether to assist and how. Moreover, where sponsoring a proxy does not serve other justice concerns—like regional or international stability—sponsors should generally not consider other benefits—like economic ones—when assessing necessity and proportionality. . Attacking a sponsor of a proxy: Where states actively sponsor proxies that conduct armed attacks, victim states are permitted to respond in kind. For that response to rise to the level of war, the proxy must have conducted a series of attacks that amount to an attack on sovereignty, territory, and independence; future attacks are reasonably expected, and there is no alternative to preventing future attacks except for the resort to large-scale operations that could, on their own, count as an act of war.

Interventions From a Just War perspective, the state-defense paradigm, however, does not exhaust just cause. The international community, for example, recognizes the permission, if not the obligation, to intervene on behalf of populations facing an imminent humanitarian catastrophe or gross violation of human rights (Bellamy 2015, 161). Often referred to as “Responsibility to Protect (R2P),” this emerging international norm creates space for external military interventions in violation of an existing state’s sovereignty (Bellamy 2015, 162–171). Of course, intervention does not entail a proxy relationship, but all proxy relationships are a kind of intervention. As noted above, many interventions use proxy relationships to achieve relevant military and political objectives. Since proxy relationships represent a kind of intervention, applying the norms associated with interventions to proxy wars makes sense. Walzer provides a helpful starting point for understanding moral considerations for external state interventions, which include support for

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secessionist movements, counter-interventions in civil wars, and humanitarian interventions (Walzer 2015, 108). Walzer argues that communities enjoy a “right to self-determination” that allows them to settle their internal differences, even violently, without external interference (Walzer 2015, 88). However, concerns of justice and human rights may allow external parties to override this right and intervene. In the case of secessionist causes, Walzer argues that a third-party intervention is justified when the opposition movement represents a distinct community with a demonstrated ability to defend and govern itself. As he states, The mere appeal to the principle of self-determination is not enough; evidence must be provided that a community actually exists whose members are committed to independence and ready and able to determine the conditions of their own existence. (Walzer 2015, 93)

When these conditions exist, a community is justified to resort to arms to win its independence, and other states are also permitted to assist. In this context, Walzer argued that Britain would have been justified in intervening on behalf of the Hungarian separatists (Walzer 2015, 91–95). The fact that the British did not intervene, he acknowledges, reflected more a standard of prudence than justice. While prudence itself is not a Just War criterion, it can—and probably should be—determinative in contexts where there is permission, rather than obligation, to go to war or intervene on another’s behalf. In the case of Hungarian independence, British intervention would have brought them into conflict with the Austro-Hungarian Empire and Russia, possibly escalating beyond their ability to respond. Russia did later intervene to prevent a separatist victory; however, Britain did not respond in kind. Nor is it clear they should have. A just cause, even where there is a reasonable chance of success, does not entail a third-party’s obligation to intervene. Moreover, as this example suggests, the potential for escalation should factor into the decision to intervene, which I will take up in more detail later. Counter-intervention The fact of this Russian intervention, however, raises another category for just cause, which is counter-intervention. Because communities have

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a right to self-determination, unjust external interference in civil wars or other domestic conflicts may permit a counter-intervention by another external party. From Walzer’s perspective, such counter-interventions must be limited to balancing out the original, unjust intervention. Otherwise, one also risks violating the right to self-determination. As Walzer states, “When a state sets out to maintain or restore the integrity of a local struggle, its military activity should be roughly equivalent to that of the other intervening states” (Walzer 2015, 88). In this context, counterinterventions are distinct from more conventional wars. Because the justification for a counter-intervention depends on a community’s right to self-determination, counter-intervention should not aim to win the war but ensure the local population’s right to determine its fate (Walzer 2015, 100). Taken together, however, the permissions to intervene on behalf of a legitimate secessionist movement and to counter-intervene to uphold the right to self-determination risks escalating the conflict and creating an impasse. If, for example, the British had counter-intervened to neutralize the effect of the Russian intervention, the Russians would be prompted to increase their assistance. For the sake of argument, imagine the AustroHungarian government had a just cause, in which case the Russians would be morally permitted, if not obligated, to provide this increase. Even though the Empire’s right to self-determination should limit the British response to simply offsetting the original Russian intervention, Russian would be permitted to escalate, thus creating a cycle of intervention without moral conclusion. At each point in the cycle, both sponsors would have legitimate reasons to increase their assistance. Therefore, to the extent that the right to self-determination always entails permission to counter-intervene, interventions on behalf of even a just cause can be self-defeating. They are self-defeating because Walzer’s doctrine does not require a beneficiary to have a just cause for the counter-intervention to be just. It is sufficient that there is a violation of the larger community’s right to self-determination. The problem with such a view is that it would invite Britain and Russia to continue to escalate their military assistance until there was little left of the Empire from which the Hungarians could secede. This point has important implications for proxy wars in general. Take, for example, the proxy war in Syria, where a complex and fragmented mix of nationalist and Islamist opposition groups seek to overthrow the Asad

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government (Hughes 2014, 522). Taken together, secessionist rights and the right to self-determination discussed earlier place the U.S. and Russian interventions on morally equal footing. This moral equality makes it difficult, if not impossible, to judge which either side should do since any action or inaction comes with its own moral failings. If the United States does not escalate, its proxies will likely lose, and an oppressive government will endure. Putatively, from the Russian point of view, if they did not respond in kind, then Syria’s right to self-determination might have been compromised. This apparent dilemma suggests the need to bring additional considerations to bear to resolve this impasse. Resolving the Ethical Impasse The first of these additional considerations is the cause for which each potential proxy fights. This point entails that, unlike Walzer’s view, the right to self-determination cannot be sufficient cause to justify a counterintervention or a proxy relationship that supports it. Thus, to fully justify a counter-intervention, the right to self-determination needs to be accompanied by a just cause on the part of the beneficiary or proxy. So if the Austro-Hungarian government had the just cause, the Russian intervention might be justified, but the British counter-intervention would not. To the extent the moderate Syrian opposition is warranted in its resistance to Assad’s regime, a U.S. intervention would be justified, and a Russian counter-intervention would not, even if it was only intended to preserve the Syrian right to self-determination. The second of these additional considerations is the prevention or mitigation of a humanitarian catastrophe or gross violations of human rights, which can fall under the framework of R2P. In this context, a community maintains its right to self-determination as long as it can do so within the reasonable bounds of justice. Of course, not every resort to violence or injustice warrants external intervention. However, once one side resorts to mass atrocities, genocide, or other massive human rights violations, an external intervention would be permitted. As Walzer says, “If the dominant forces within a state are engaged in massive violations of human rights, the appeal to self-determination … is not very attractive” (Walzer 2015, 101). A difficulty with this permission is that it is not always clear what constitutes a gross violation of human rights, mass atrocity, or catastrophic humanitarian conditions. For the U.S. context, the Leahy Laws

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(FAA Sect. 502B(d)(1) (22 U.S.C. 2340(d)(I)) state, “the term ‘gross violations of internationally recognized human rights’ includes torture or cruel, inhuman, or degrading treatment or punishment, prolonged detention without charges and trial, causing the disappearance of persons by the abduction and clandestine detention of those persons, and other flagrant denials of the right to life, liberty, or the security of person” (Serafino et al. 2014).These laws determine when intervention—at least regarding security partnerships—is prohibited rather than permitted. On this point, the United States and the international community have not been consistent. The United Nations, for instance, has endorsed R2P to justify intervention in Bosnia, Somalia, Libya, and elsewhere but so far has not done so in Syria, even though civilian harm there has exceeded that of conflicts where they did intervene (Bellamy 2015, 170). Part of the difficulty is the political concerns of council member states who fear the costs associated with such intervention and setting precedents for international intervention in their own domestic affairs (Bellamy 2015, 163–165). These are, of course, matters of prudence, and it is beyond the scope of this discussion to offer a complete account that would fully distinguish prudential acts from cowardice. However, the other part of the difficulty is distinguishing a gross violation from the merely unjust. It is not only beyond the scope of this discussion to establish such a bright line but also unlikely that a bright line is possible or perhaps even desired. There is some utility in the kind of “strategic ambiguity” associated with these terms that can warn those intent on committing the merely unjust that the international community may not view their acts in the limited way they do. Failure to establish a bright line, however, does not mean that one cannot give some description of a broad, if somewhat dimmer, line that external parties can utilize in determining when intervention or counter-intervention is appropriate. As Walzer notes, when the “moral convictions” of ordinary men and women are shocked to the point that political leaders do not need to offer an argument for a response, the line likely has been crossed (Walzer 2015, 107). While one would not want to leave all decisions about using force to the public, the fact that a state’s population not directly involved in the conflict experiences outrage suggests a response to that outrage is in order. The introduction of a proxy relationship adds other considerations to decisions regarding intervention. Potential proxies decide to resort to violence based on beliefs about their capabilities, which involves beliefs

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about what kind of additional support they might receive. For example, many Syrians who took up arms against Assad likely did so because they believed significant U.S. assistance was coming and may have felt abandoned when it did not. Relatedly, sponsors, for their part, make decisions about providing support based on how likely they are to achieve their desired strategic outcome rather than whether the proxy will be successful. If, for example, Russian objectives in Ukraine were to prevent Ukraine’s government from developing closer relations with the European Union, continued fighting would serve Russian purposes more than their proxy separatist’s victory. To the extent these decisions are taken before the resort to force, it makes sense to set a high bar, such as those associated with gross human rights violations and humanitarian disasters. As discussed in the next section, it is an essential tenet of the Just War Theory that one does not cause more suffering than one intends to relieve. However, once a war is underway, external parties may take action to address the suffering and injustice the war brings. So, where direct intervention may be prohibited before hostilities because of the additional suffering and injustice it risks, support via a proxy relationship post-hostilities breaking out may be warranted regarding the suffering and injustice it relieves. In a proxy relationship, the bar to intervention may be slightly lower under certain conditions. As Pattison argues: As with humanitarian intervention, what justifies the (exceptional) right to arm the rebels is a broad and serious threat to the enjoyment of basic human rights. Most clearly, this might consist of helping rebels to overthrow an oppressive regime, to secede from a repressive majority, or to reduce the extent of the government repression. (Pattison 2015, 463)

While Pattison’s bar is still relatively high, it would endorse intervention before either side crosses Walzer’s broad line of widespread outrage. For Pattison, what seems to matter more than scale is that any particular support improves the overall conditions for justice and human well-being. As he states, such justifiable consequences could include greater stability, encouraging compromise or shortening the conflict, eliminating repression, and preventing mass atrocities. Moreover, Pattison argues such outcomes may justify a proxy relationship even when the proxy’s cause is not just. Arguing in the context of external state actors arming rebel groups, what matters is “not the justifiability of the rebel’s war, but rather

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the justifiability of the state’s arming of the rebels, which will be determined in part by the foreseeable consequences of providing such arms” (Pattison 2015, 462–466). The interesting thing about Pattison’s view is that by decoupling the justice of the sponsor’s cause from the potential proxy, he creates space for justified assistance to an unjust cause. Although some non-state actors may act unjustly, for example, by armed opposition to a democratic and otherwise just government, external parties may be permitted to assist these non-state actors if it achieves some proportionately good end. So proxy relationships that encourage a more just peace settlement or protect some vulnerable population could be justified. He notes forcing Assad to negotiate was one of the rationales offered to justify U.S. assistance to the opposition in Syria, despite the difficulty in determining any particular group’s relationship with Islamist extremists and thus the actual justice to their cause (Pattison 2015, 465–466). While Pattison is writing specifically in the context of rebellions, it seems this permission can be generalized to include both state and non-state actors. Of course, in both cases, the original intervention has led to a more enduring conflict, which in turn has arguably increased the civilian death toll. This fact, however, is not a concern for the justice of the cause. It is, however, a concern for the following jus ad bellum criterion I will discuss proportionality.

Proportionality While just cause is a necessary condition for a just war, it is not sufficient. War—including proxy war—brings destruction, and that destruction has to be worth the ends to which it is directed. Russia violated Ukrainian sovereignty when it took Crimea in 2014. Although the Russians used proxies to portray their irredentism as a defense of the population, the assimilation of Crimea arguably triggered jus ad bellum permissions regarding self-defense and defense of another on the part of Ukraine and NATO. However, suppose the only way to restore that sovereignty was a general war between NATO and Russia. In that case, it is not clear that all things considered, fighting such a war would be worth the suffering it would potentially cause. The difficulty here, of course, is ascertaining when the harm of the suffering caused by war exceeds the harm of tolerating injustice.

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The proportionality condition, simply put, requires that a war’s destructiveness not exceed the relevant good winning the war will accomplish (Hurka 2005, 33). It also requires governments to consider whether responding to a particular act of aggression warrants the destruction military force will bring (Norman 1995, 119). In this regard, proportionality, as mentioned above, is not simply a utilitarian calculation of goods and harms but also relates to the size, duration, and target of any putative military response (Gray 2008, 150). When calculating proportionality, one must first consider that it is a forward-looking criterion. It is forward-looking because the harm committed by an act of aggression has already happened, and committing additional harm in retaliation adds to the harm already caused. Thus, further harm would never be justified simply by prior ones. What matters is the justice the proposed act of defense would bring about. This point does not mean that the past harm does not figure into the calculation. Responding effectively to acts of aggression, for example, has a deterrent effect on future acts of aggression, so it could count for responding with force (Hurka 2005, 43). This forward-looking aspect of proportionality also entails that self-defense not be retaliatory or punitive, but aimed exclusively at halting or repelling an attack (Gray 2008, 150). Moreover, any application of proportionality depends on some conception of what goods count toward justifying the resort to force, what harms count against it, and how these goods and harms weigh against each other. For example, it may have been good that military spending in World War II helped the United States escape the Depression; however, it hardly seems reasonable that an improved economy should count as a relevant benefit that justifies a world war. On the other hand, one may note that due to that war, Japan and Germany embraced democracy and developed into free, just, and productive societies (Hurka 2005, 38–40). Similarly, it may be good that military assistance to Saudi Arabia provides the U.S. economy with jobs. That fact, however, does not count toward the proportionality of U.S. support for Saudi operations in Yemen, even if failure to provide that assistance would encourage the Saudis to look elsewhere for military aid, costing U.S. jobs and reducing U.S. influence in the region. At this point, it is helpful to distinguish between sufficient and contributing causes when determining relevant harms and goods. Sufficient causes fulfill the just cause condition associated with responding to an act of aggression. Contributing causes, on the other hand, do not fulfill

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the just cause condition but are themselves causes of justice, which, given a sufficient cause, should count toward the proportionality of a military response. Thus, while regime change in Syria may not have justified a unilateral U.S. declaration of war, once war has started, replacing that unjust regime with a just one would count toward the proportionality calculation for any U.S. decision to intervene. Contributing causes can, in principle, make just causes that are not proportional in themselves become proportional, given their effects on other goods, such as human rights and national security (Hurka 2005, 41–42). There likely is not one over-arching conception that accounts for all the possible relevant goods and harms. Generally, goods associated with justice, especially the aims related to the conflict in question, would count. Examples could include incapacitating an enemy to prevent future acts of aggression or deterring future aggression by others. Other matters of justice may count as well (Hurka 2005, 40). For example, preventing a return of the Syrian government’s repressive policies toward its civilians may not justify war, even proxy war; however, it would count as a good not only toward the cause of the war but also toward the justification to assist. Further, when calculating proportionality, one must measure it in the context of the alternatives. The “baseline” alternative is “do nothing” (Hurka 2005, 42). However, one may only consider that baseline if no other options are available. It would be insufficient to conclude that the resort to force was proportional just because it was better than the “do-nothing-baseline” if there were less costly (or at least less violent) alternatives such as sanctions or diplomatic initiatives (Hurka 2005, 38–42). While sponsors and proxies must meet the conditions described above, sponsors have other considerations they must consider if a proxy war is to pass the proportionality test. First, sponsors must consider the impact of their support on the proxy’s proportionality calculation. Sponsor assistance typically lowers the proxy’s cost and thus makes its decision to go to war more accessible and, therefore, more likely. Making war less costly, however, does not necessarily make it less destructive. The simple fact that sponsor support can sustain a proxy beyond its indigenous capacity to resist extends the conflict and thus increases the resulting destruction. So, as Walzer notes, “A state contemplating intervention or counterintervention will for prudential reasons weigh the dangers to itself, but it must also, and for moral reasons, weigh the dangers its action will impose

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on the people it is designed to benefit and on all other people who may be affected” (Walzer 2015, 95). Of course, whether making war more likely in any particular instance constitutes a moral wrong depends on the circumstances. Making it possible for a proxy to confront injustice proportionately is arguably better than allowing it to continue to suffer. However, a concern arises when lowering the cost precludes alternatives to war the proxy and its adversary might have otherwise pursued. It is worth asking, in the context of Syria, had the rebels not believed the United States and the international community would bear some of the burdens of fighting, would they have sought some accommodation with the government that, while imperfect, may have constituted a better outcome than the chaos Syria is in today? Similarly, had the Russians not supported the Assad government, would it have chosen to pursue an agreement rather than continuing to fight? It is difficult, if not impossible, for any actor to answer such counterfactual questions before intervening. While this fact may preclude attaining certainty regarding any decision to intervene, the minimum demands of morality suggest that one must at least ask the question and undertake a good-faith effort to answer it. What it means is that sponsors must consider how their support impacts proxy calculations and whether the good intended from the relationship also meets the conditions of proportionality. Thus, sponsors must consider the relevancy of their desired strategic outcome to the proportionality calculation. As discussed above, not all interests count, regardless of their importance. If it is not related to the justice of the conflict in question, it does not count. This point, however, does not mean that sponsors should not pursue a proxy relationship just because doing so serves non-contributing interests. As long as the other conditions for a just proxy war are met, as suggested earlier, there is nothing wrong with such “collateral goods.” It is also not the case that political, economic, and social interests that typically fall outside just war considerations can never contribute to a proxy relationship’s proportionality. When an unjust act of aggression threatens such interests, even if indirectly, responding to that aggression counts as a relevant good. As Thomas Hurka observes, “imagine that in 1990 Iraq had occupied both Kuwait and Saudi Arabia and stopped all their oil production. In that case, preventing or relieving the economic

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harm that would have resulted from that unjust act of aggression would have been a relevant benefit of war (Hurka 2005, 42). Relevant interests are not the only things that can affect the proportionality of a conflict. As suggested above, the presence of a sponsor may not only make it easier for a proxy to choose war, but that presence may also make it more likely that the war will escalate as other interested parties decide it is in their interests to intervene. Escalation, however, is only one of the moral hazards that proxy relationships entail. These moral hazards are difficult to calculate in advance and thus challenging to include in the initial proportionality calculation. Still, their effect can be to turn an initially proportional response into one that is not. I will later take up the management of these moral hazards in Chapter 5. Still, to the extent possible, sponsors must consider them when determining whether to intervene.

Legitimate Authority French Philosopher Jean Jacques Rouseau observed war is not a relationship between individuals but between states because it is “impossible to fix a true relationship between things of different natures” (Rouseau 2010, 46–47). While certainly, individuals can resist the state, and states can harm individuals in other states, these activities are better thought of as “brigandry,” or in today’s contexts, crime or terrorism. If it is true that only states can make war, then it matters how states decide to go to war. This point raises the issue of what counts within a state as a “legitimate authority,” which would be a position empowered to act on behalf of the individuals who make up the state (Frowe 2011, 59). Intended to ensure that not just any political actor can commit a people to war, the criterion of legitimate authority requires that there must be some relationship between the people and that actor that grants the authority to act on the people’s behalf. While states may have a commonality that allows for certain relations like war, that commonality does not extend to how they are organized. Thus, it is worth asking what constitutes a legitimate authority. Legally, United Nations membership essentially grants sovereignty by provisions in Chapter 1, Article II (UN 2023), establishing conditions for membership and prohibitions against using force against other member states. Article 51 further grants states the right to self-defense for all its members

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(UN 2016). So, for legal purposes, heads of UN member states would count as legitimate authorities. Moral and ethical purposes are a little more complicated. As Walzer argues, states—and those who would represent them—derive their rights from the rights of their citizens. In this account, all persons enjoy the rights to life and liberty, and thus, the state—via the social contract— must secure those rights. To ensure those rights, states are entitled to space (territory) where they govern in a way that respects those rights (Walzer 2015, 53–55). As noted in the discussion on intervention, this protection does not have to be perfect, and even where it is much less than ideal, states can still be entitled to sovereign rights by virtue of selfdetermination. So, since a just cause for war is a response to a violation of a state’s political sovereignty and territorial integrity, then only legitimate representatives of states would constitute a legitimate authority. This conception of states’ rights raises questions about what would count as a legitimate authority. Simply possessing the power to control the state, which is essentially the only legal requirement under the UN Charter, does not entail ensuring the basic rights of one’s citizens. Since states’ rights derive from individual ones, the state must do what it can to protect those individual rights. Otherwise, it loses its legitimacy. There is no single view of basic rights that enables states’ rights. Walzer’s account is fairly minimalist, resting mainly on life and liberty. Orend, for his part, argues for a more robust conception, where basic rights include (1) physical security, (2) material subsistence, (3) personal freedom, (4) equality, and (5) recognition as a person and rights holder. To the extent a government is recognized as legitimate by its people, avoids violating the rights of other states, and satisfies basic rights to the extent possible, it would be considered legitimate (Orend 2006, 33– 36). The caveat “to the extent possible” is important here. States do not have to be perfect in providing for rights. No state would meet such a standard. While there is no bright line to establish where a state is good enough to be minimally just, it is probably sufficient that populations at least recognize the state as not inherently rights violating, if not actively rights promoting. This point is analogous to Walzer’s regarding humanitarian concerns. If claims that a state is minimally just do not seem cynical, then there is likely a case that it is, despite some level of rights violation or other abuses. While there are good reasons to view authoritarian states, for example, as lacking minimal justice, ensuring a high bar for intervention to avoid its

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proliferation over cultural and political differences that do not warrant war is helpful. This account of legitimate authority does raise some interesting concerns for proxy relationships. If the proxy constitutes a legitimate authority, then the question of legitimate autority is settled for the sponsor. Supporting it as a single entity would only be permissible if it is. There may, however, be some exceptions. It would be easy to imagine a population identifiable as a single demographic lacking governance or any other representative body that could speak on its behalf. It would also not be hard to imagine another actor repressing this population. The Uyghurs in China serve as a good example (Maizland 2022). There is certainly nothing wrong with finding ways to alleviate the suffering of the Uyghur population. The fact that one might enjoy some collateral, indirect benefit, such as the political isolation of the Chinese government, does not make the Uyghurs a proxy. However, providing them military assistance, assuming that doing so would somehow cross the threshold of prudence, could violate the self-help condition without the supported group having some authority to act and speak on the general population’s behalf. Here it matters how one perceives the plight of the Uyghurs. Intervening on humanitarian grounds would not invoke concerns regarding legitimate authority as long as doing so was not contingent on settling questions like that of Uyghur independence. Relieving suffering is generally good for its own sake. However, if that intervention entails mobilizing Uyghurs in their own defense, then legitimate authority would be a concern. Failure to observe this condition risks moral hazards, including proxy failure, loss of control of lethal assistance, and increased suffering in the likely event resistance fails. While legitimate proxies may also experience those outcomes, they can at least be held accountable for that failure as there is a sense in which they consented. If the proxy authority is legitimate, it is empowered to act on behalf of those it represents. Where unrepresented people are forced into war, accountability would lie with the parties who enabled it, including sponsors who provide military assistance. Things get a little more complicated with sponsors who need more legitimacy. In this view, illegitimate sponsors do not have rights or permissions to support proxies since they lack consent from those on whose behalf they would act. However, it would also not be hard to imagine an illegitimate government intervening on behalf of an aggrieved population.

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For example, if North Korea intervened on behalf of the Uyghurs, we might consider that just. Even though it is not a United Nations member and thus does not even meet the legal standard of legitimate that does not preclude benevolent, if puzzling, behavior. This account also raises issues for non-state actors. While some nonstate actors can constitute a legitimate representative of a particular population, determining when they do is difficult since they fall outside the more formal process of recognizing states. This point suggests that it is incumbent on state sponsors to make the case that a proxy does count as a legitimate representative of the population it intends to commit to war before assisting. However, some non-state actors hold and administer territory and project military force outside that territory but have no statehood aspirations. The Lebanese Hezbollah is an example. Their original aspiration was to represent and defend the Shia population in Lebanon (Noe 2007, 1–13). In fulfilling that aspiration, Hezbollah evolved from its local beginnings into a capable proxy of Iran that has conducted operations on its behalf throughout the Middle East. In doing so, it has dragged the Lebanese people into conflicts with Israel and the Islamic State (Spyer 2016, 31–32). Because it does not act on behalf of the Lebanese government, much less Lebanon’s other factions, when it does involve them in conflicts of its own making, it does so without the proper authority. While Hezbollah’s domestic and regional use of force arguably fails just cause, it is worth considering whether there is space for non-state actors to be legitimate authorities where they could satisfy just cause. Consider, for example, the rationale Hezbollah’s leader, Hassan Nasrallah, gave for its Syrian involvement: defense against the Islamic State (IS) and other “takfiri” groups that have a historical animosity toward Shia (Sullivan 2014). Given that the Syrian government cannot effectively provide for that defense, Hezbollah’s intervention may seem reasonable. This last point raises a question: does the identity of the non-state actor matter? When it comes to states, there is a presumption of consent when a state acts to defend its population. That presumption would not hold for transnational non-state actors. For example, one could imagine another Salafist group offering to protect Syrian Shia against the IS only so they are in a better position to exploit that population after the conflict is resolved. Clearly, while the Shia population would likely appreciate any assistance against the IS, they would not consent to rule by that Salafist

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group either. Thus, while they might recognize the utility of their assistance, the Salafist group would fail as a legitimate authority, whereas Lebanese Hezbollah, in the example given, likely would not. On the other hand, denying legitimate authority does not make sense simply because there is no prior shared identity on which to base consent claims. It could be the case that the Salafist group intended a more inclusive right respecting future government. In that case, their claim to legitimacy may be warranted. In the context of proxy wars, legitimate authority has two applications. First, as discussed, the proxy leadership must count as a legitimate authority. Second, the sponsor must count as a legitimate authority as well. Thus, while the exploitive Salafist group would not count as a legitimate authority for the Shia, they could count as a legitimate authority for their Salafist constituency. In that case, it would not be ethically appropriate for an intervening actor, like the United States, to sponsor them as a proxy in their role defending Shia. However, it may be ethical for the Shia population to employ them as a proxy against the IS and save concerns for that Salafist group’s rule after the current threat is dealt with. A beleaguered population will likely welcome any assistance, regardless of the provider’s identity. It is this willingness to accept assistance that is morally relevant to justifiability of that assistance. Legitimate authority, however, requires further consent. Since consent to be governed determines a government’s legitimacy, something similar should hold in the case of the transnational non-state actor. Of course, a shared identity will likely facilitate that consent, but it is not necessary. So, while it may be the case that the enemy of my enemy is my friend, in cases where an actor leverages its assistance to defeat one adversary to place its proxy at a disadvantage, then it would fail to meet this condition. Taken together, these points suggest five conditions for transnational non-state actor legitimacy: (1) the population in question welcomes the non-state actor’s assistance; (2) the population is under physical threat; (3) no state alternative can or will address that threat; (4) populations not represented by the non-state actor are not unwillingly involved in the fighting; and (5) the threat to the population is not the result of an unjust act on their part. Once these conditions are fulfilled, a transnational nonstate actor may constitute a legitimate authority. For example, Hezbollah may be entitled to defend Shia in Syria, where the collapse of the government has given rise to the Islamic State, which represents a severe threat to Shia populations. On the other hand, Hezbollah would not be entitled

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to act in Bahrain since doing so would, at a minimum, violate the Gulf country’s right to self-determination. Further, to the extent the defense of Shia in Lebanon risks dragging Lebanon’s military into an unwanted conflict with the Islamic State, its activities would be prohibited.

Public Declaration The public declaration criterion “gives a potential adversary formal notice that the issue at hand is judged serious enough to warrant the use of military force and that the nation is prepared to use that force unless the issue is immediately resolved” (Cook 2004, 29). Doing so also allows the offending party to right a wrong before war formally begins. Moreover, it also gives the population on whose behalf war is declared an opportunity to decide if the costs and risks are worth it and, if not, voice their opposition before it is moot. This obligation is largely placed on the proxy since it is the aggrieved party. However, the sponsor also has unique obligations as well. For example, failure to hold a proxy relationship up to public view got the Reagan Administration in trouble when it failed to disclose that it was funneling money to the Contras. The administration, of course, had every reason to want to keep the arrangement secret. The money was funneled off of arms transfers made to the Iranians in exchange for releasing U.S. hostages that their proxy, Hezbollah, had taken. This subterfuge was necessary because Congress had prohibited U.S. military support without their specific authorization in the wake of the Vietnam War. The consequence of that effort was the Iran-Contra scandal, which resulted in almost a dozen indictments of senior U.S. officials (Brown 2016, 243). In the Just War Tradition, however, public declaration only applies to the decision to go to war. It needs to be clarified that it also applies to the proxy relationship. The utility of a proxy relationship is often that it allows sponsors to pursue vital interests outside of an adversary’s view and public opinion. Being out of public view also allows a sponsor to better manage potential hazards like escalation since, if the assistance is covert, an adversary would not know there is something to escalate against. Public animosity, for its part, would not get the opportunity to encourage escalation. Moreover, the proxy may also be interested in keeping the relationship quiet. Even in the context of a just cause, political, cultural, and

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social factors could legitimately drive the need for secrecy. For example, in the Middle East, the West is often viewed as a corrupting influence, and any association with Western powers can undermine the legitimacy of a particular cause. This was undoubtedly the concern associated with U.S. support for the Green Movement in Iran, where even moral support from the United States risked its legitimacy (Majd, 2010). So, while the movement may have made a natural proxy for U.S. interests, any U.S. support would have likely been self-defeating. Had there been external support, especially from the West, not only would the government have a pretext for an even harsher crackdown, but the movement would also have lost support from many Iranians who did not want to associate with the West. While the Green Movement protests never reached the level of war, it is worth asking, had they done so, would external powers be permitted to assist secretly? In general, one should presume an obligation to publicize military assistance programs, especially where a violent conflict is involved. The public has a right to know what kinds of security-related entanglements its government is involved in. It could be the case that a population may be more disposed to unjust escalation than its government and that there is moral utility in keeping a proxy arrangement secret to avoid that domestic pressure. However, even in such cases, there are alternatives. The fact of public pressure does not entail a government obligation to act. If that entails losing an election, then that is a risk government officials should have to take. Otherwise, one risks legitimizing the rationale of those U.S. presidents like Johnson who considered their status as president a reason to fight a war they did not believe they could win. Moreover, proxy relationships, as the Iran-Contra scandal demonstrates, have a way of not staying secret and, as Vietnam also clearly shows, have a way of escalating into full-blown war. There is a difference, however, between avoiding public exposure and avoiding the kind of legal oversight that guarantees public interests are considered. As suggested above, there may be legitimate, even humanitarian, reasons not to disclose publicly a proxy relationship. However, overriding a prima facie obligation for public transparency does not entail overriding responsibility for public accountability. Failure to understand— or perhaps care about—this distinction is precisely the Reagan Administration’s mistake. The point here is that when a legitimate intermediary,

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such as a legislative body, can represent public interests and provide oversight, governments may be permitted to keep a proxy relationship secret when human rights and human well-being are concerned.

Right Intention The criterion of right intention requires that one have a just cause, and that cause constitutes one’s motivation for going to war. As philosopher Helen Frowe observes, it is one thing to fight for the wrong reasons and another to have several reasons to fight. She cites as an example British Prime Minister Tony Blair’s statement that going to war in Afghanistan would allow Britain to prevent the flow of Afghan opium into British streets (Frowe 2011, 60). While there is nothing wrong with preventing the flow of opium to Britain, going to war for that reason represents an unjust cause. Moreover, should one broaden the scope of the war to accommodate that prevention, one risks acting unjustly. Right intention arises from the intuition that killing can only be justified for the right reasons, regardless of what good may result. For example, killing out of hatred, envy, or personal or communal gain is wrong, regardless of whether it constitutes an act of defense (Bellamy 2015, 122). Imagine, for example, someone intervenes in a violent robbery and kills the would-be robber before any theft or other harm occurs. While arguably preventing violence against innocents is a good thing, one’s judgment regarding the intervention depends partly on the intent of the one who intervened. It would be one thing if the one intervening did so just to defend the would-be victims from attack. It is another thing, however, if it turns out that the one who intervened knew the robber, held a grudge for some past wrong, and saw the robbery as an opportunity to kill the robber and make it look like an act of defense. While the robbery victims might not mind the outcome, one would be hard-pressed to say that their rescuer acted rightly, given the immoral intent behind the intervention. In addition to being an essential component in moral assessment, right intention is also instrumental. As mentioned earlier, decisions about war are corporate in that they represent decisions by several individuals who may have different reasons for supporting or rejecting a decision to go to war. Therefore, a shared understanding of right intent is critical to prevent unjust “mission creep” as one party (or both) attempts to realize an otherwise unjust cause as they are trying to realize the just one.

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Some just war scholars have argued that right intention, for all its intuitiveness, cannot be meaningfully applied in practice (Orend 2006, 46–47) (Frowe 2011, 60). As the above example suggests, it is only sometimes possible to know why people act, regardless of what they say about why they acted. The person who intervened would likely claim to be motivated by the defense of the would-be victims, whatever the actual intent. From a practical standpoint, there would be no way to discern if the intervener lied. This epistemic concern is magnified in the case of corporate decisions, especially in international relations, where there are often so many people who participate that there is often not one clear intent one can attribute to the act in the first place. While these epistemic concerns are legitimate, when coupled with the requirement to publicly declare, announcing one’s intent regarding decisions to go to war still serves a useful moral purpose. As suggested above, it is not morally sufficient to say that one is going to war; one must also declare why. Otherwise, the enemy will not know what grievance it should respond to, and the public will be unable to evaluate whether it is worth killing and dying for. Moreover, when actions and intent seem to deviate from the stated cause, the public—or at least their representatives—will have reasons to intervene and ensure whatever fighting occurs is for the right reasons. As Cook notes, “Once hostilities commence, there is always the temptation to forget what cause warranted the use of force and to press on to achieve other purposes—purposes that, had they been offered as justifications for the use of force before the conflict, would have been seen as unjustifiable” (Cook 2004, 29–30). This account of right intention can pose difficulties for proxy relationships, especially given that sponsors typically have other reasons for intervening apart from the actual cause of the war. Russian intervention in Ukraine may be a paradigmatic example. While Russia has portrayed its support for separatist groups in eastern Ukraine as an effort to protect the ethnic Russian population from an oppressive pro-Western government in Kyiv(Hughes 2014, 106), arguably, its more significant concern is preventing Ukraine from further aligning itself with the West, especially forming closer ties with the European Union (McMahon 2014). To the extent that Russia only articulates the intent to protect the population, then we may morally evaluate its cause and actions based on factors such as the threat the population was under, whether they are under threat currently, and whether current operations exceed what is required to meet the stated intent. This point suggests that right intention applies not only

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to the conflict but also to the relationship. Given the potential for interests to diverge, there is a moral utility for both proxy and sponsor to declare their intent to enter the relationship so both sides can better understand how interests might diverge and affect participation. Fortunately, the criterion of right intent does not require one to discern which intent motivated the Russian intervention. Nor does it need one to insist that only one intent counts. It is perfectly plausible that the Russian government intends both to protect ethnic Russians as well as prevent Ukraine’s drift to the West. If ethnic Russians were under attack from the Ukrainian government, then Russia would likely have cause for intervention, even if their doing so also prevented Ukraine from drawing closer to the West.1 Regarding intent, the question to ask then is, would the Russian government have intervened absent the interest in Ukraine’s relationship with the West? If the answer is no, Russia would fail the intent test since its concern about Ukraine’s foreign relations would not constitute a sufficient or contributing cause. If the answer were yes, Russia might pass the right intent “test,” but once the threat to the Russian population was removed, no further force would be permitted, regardless of Ukraine’s foreign policy. As discussed previously, sponsor and proxy intent, like their respective causes, do not need to align perfectly. When they do not align, the sponsor has additional considerations. The first consideration is the relationship between the sponsor’s and the proxy’s intent. While different, the question is whether fulfilling the proxy’s objective would realize the sponsor’s. Would, for example, a South Vietnamese victory have met the U.S. intent of preventing Soviet expansion? In the case of Ukraine, before the 2022 invasion, one might ask whether a separatist victory would forestall Ukraine’s drift to the West. If the answer is no to both, then this misalignment creates political space for escalation, mission creep, and possibly a protracted or expanded conflict, as it may be in the sponsor’s interest to keep the conflict going until its intent is realized. While I will discuss these moral hazards in the next section, right intention does require sponsors to manage these hazards and restrict their support to realizing the proxy’s intent. Proxy and sponsor intents do not need to be the same, but to the extent possible, the realization of the former should entail the completion of the latter. 1 For the record, I do not claim that the ethnic Russian population in Ukraine was under severe physical threat by the Ukrainian government before Russian intervention.

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The second consideration is the nature of the sponsor’s intent itself. As the examples above show, not just any intent should count. Preventing Ukraine’s drift to the West is arguably a violation of Ukraine’s sovereignty, so it should not matter as just intent to justify the Russian intervention. Preventing Soviet expansion in Asia might, at least in the context of the Cold War, but only to the extent one can characterize U.S. assistance as an effort to secure South Vietnamese sovereignty against Communist aggression. As with just cause, sorting out which ones count in the moral calculation and which ones do not can be difficult. Hurka’s distinction between sufficient and contributing causes provides a helpful starting point. It seems reasonable that if a contributing cause can make an otherwise disproportionate response to a just cause proportionate, then it seems reasonable to conclude a “contributing” intent could justify a sponsor’s support to a proxy as long as that proxy had a “sufficient” intent. For example, assuming the opposition in Syria had sufficient cause, a contributing cause, such as removing a corrupt and oppressive regime, could count as a contributing cause to justify a sponsor’s intervention by proxy. This is essentially the point Frowe made with the example of preventing opium smuggling as a contributing intent that is only relevant if there was a just cause. Of course, right intention does not include a threshold like proportionality does. However, it seems reasonable to conclude that given a sufficient right intention, contributing ones that also entail some cause of justice could enable third-party participation in pursuing those contributing causes. Thus, sponsors may be justified in supporting a proxy even though their intent would not justify fighting. As long as the proxy’s intent does justify fighting and the sponsor’s intent serves a cause of justice, the sponsor would be permitted to provide support.

Last Resort The criterion of last resort follows from the necessity requirement associated with self-defense, except that it not only requires that there be no alternatives to war, but it further requires that one has pursued all those alternatives (Orend 2006, 57). A pacifist would argue that last resort is incoherent since there are always non-violent alternatives. In the context of the just war tradition, however, one is only required to weigh the alternatives that will address the grievance that drives the conflict. While one calculates proportionality relative to a baseline “do nothing” option, one

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fulfills last resort based on alternatives that “do something” (Patterson 2007, 23). Last resort ensures that one considers all non-violent measures that could resolve the conflict before resorting to war. If no non-violent measures are available, last resort is fulfilled. In proxy wars, last resort does not hold equally for sponsor and proxy. Sponsors generally always have an alternative to intervention. Not being under direct attack, they can always walk away from the fight. In this context, sponsors should consider whether to provide support, especially if it makes the proxy more likely to resort to war. In general, it would not make sense to hold a sponsor to the last resort criterion when the proxy has met it. Since jus ad bellum allows for the coming to another’s defense through direct action, it would also permit another’s defense through indirect action. To the extent that a sponsor can broker some peace settlement without fighting, it should do so. This requirement, however, is ongoing, even after war has begun. However, the presence of a sponsor can change the belligerents’ calculations and how they view the conflict. Because of that possibility, sponsors must seek ways to open up peaceful, just alternatives. For example, the United States tried several times to establish a peace process between the Saudis and the Houthis they are fighting (Mazetti and Schmitt 2016). The result was a temporary cease-fire in October 2022, which, though it has expired, is still observed at the time of this writing (Council on Foreign Relations 2023). While those efforts have not been entirely successful, they are examples of the kind of efforts sponsors should undertake when political conditions allow.

Reasonable Chance of Success This criterion requires that “arms may not be used in a futile cause or in a case where disproportionate measures are required to achieve success” (Patterson 2007, 23). As a feature of the Just War Tradition, a reasonable chance of success further entails a reasonable chance of ethical success. Reasonable chance of success can seem counter-intuitive, at least from a moral point of view. The idea of a heroic yet futile defense against some great evil appeals to one’s sense of what is supererogatory and what should be praised rather than blamed. However, it is one thing for individuals to sacrifice themselves and another to obligate others to sacrifice, especially without their consent. Modern wars, even limited ones, almost always entail the death and suffering of innocents, at least some of whom,

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such as children, could not possibly consent. As Cook asks, “if you are going to do all that damage and cause death, are you likely to get what you want as a result?” (Cook 2004, 31). If the answer is no, or even just “extremely unlikely,” then fighting is unjustified. Destruction for destruction’s sake does not hold up well as a moral good, even when the cause is just. Like the other jus ad bellum criteria, a reasonable chance of success poses an interesting challenge for proxy warfare. Where sponsor and proxy have different ends, they have differing chances of success in achieving those ends. If they have differing chances of success, then it is possible that one may fulfill this condition and the other may not. Given that the “dominoes” did not fall after Vietnam, one may argue that the United States successfully contained Soviet expansion, even though many senior officials at the time did not believe the war in Vietnam could be won (Nichols 2015). Conversely, we can imagine a situation where the proxy can succeed, but this does not realize the sponsor’s objective. The Saudi military and the pro-Hadi Yemenis may eventually prevail against the Houthis in Yemen, but they may have little success containing Iran. So, in cases where the sponsor cannot meet the condition, but the proxy can, it might be permissible, all other things being equal, for the sponsor to support, as long as no other harm or moral hazard results from doing so. In such circumstances, whether that relationship should be considered a proxy is one worth questioning. Simply supporting a cause does not entail a proxy relationship; the sponsor must also seek some strategic outcome. If the sponsor knows it is not likely to achieve the outcome it seeks, the relationship essentially collapses into one of direct support. In that case, the moral merits of the support must be judged in terms of the recipient’s cause. If the proxy fails the criteria, but the sponsor does not, it would typically be wrong for the sponsor to support. This failure is apparent where the sponsor’s interest is insufficient to justify war. If the proxy is unlikely to succeed, it makes no moral sense to commit it to the destruction of war in service to a cause that does not justify it. It may be less clear where the sponsor’s interest is sufficient to justify war; however, they have no moral need for the proxy relationship in such cases. Pattison’s caveat regarding humanitarian concerns would, however, apply. If the sponsor’s support can serve some humanitarian end, especially if that end relieves suffering the proxy would have otherwise experienced, the sponsor would be permitted to provide support, even if the proxy cannot fulfill the reasonable chance of success criterion.

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What follows from this analysis is that sponsors should intervene with proxy success in mind. While there may be good operational and political reasons to limit assistance, as was done in Syria, it makes no moral sense to provide proxies with insufficient assistance to meet their political objectives. Doing so prolongs the fight and the suffering. It is worth mentioning that what counts as a reasonable chance can be subjective and context-sensitive, and thus beyond the scope of this discussion to explore fully. However, that point does not mean one cannot hold a particular judgment up to some standard. At a minimum, judgments about a reasonable chance for success should account for the necessary connections between the actions one will take and the ends one intends to achieve. Accounting for these connections does not mean one must know they will work—victory does not have to be certain. One should know, or at least have an idea, of how they will work. Just as it makes no sense for a mechanic to rotate a car’s tires when it does not start, it makes no sense to use force—or support the use of force—if there is not sufficient indication doing so will resolve the conflict favorably. In conventional warfighting, there is typically a necessary connection between destroying the enemy’s military and winning the war. Therefore, acts, or support for actions, that lead to the destruction of those forces would count as necessarily connected even if one was uncertain such destruction was possible. In irregular warfare, this connection is not as clear; however, it should still be possible to account for how one’s assistance or direct engagement will contribute to victory (Pfaff 2016, 83). Performing such a calculation may be more difficult for the sponsor, especially regarding strategic objectives for which the proxy relationship only contributes a part or for which there is no necessary connection between the combination of a sponsor’s efforts and the objective’s realization. In cases where that necessary connection does not exist, sponsors may still be permitted to provide support if (1) the proxy has met the jus ad bellum conditions and (2) the support provided does not place the proxy at any additional risk. Proxy relationships can pose a particular challenge for this condition. Facing an act of aggression, leaders of victim states are incentivized to resist, even if the odds of winning are slim. The comparisons of Zelensky to British Prime Minister Winston Churchill, whose defiance in World War II is legendary, underscore this point (Baldoni 2022). Thus, in practice, a reasonable chance of success is frequently interpreted as any chance

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of success greater than zero. Given that proving one does not have a non-zero chance of failure is logically equivalent to proving a negative, this condition can provide few persuasive reasons not to fight. This point suggests that any support, regardless of adequacy, will amplify the disposition to fight, setting a proxy up for failure. Sponsors should take this point into account before embarking on a potential quagmire.

Jus Post Bellum and a Better State of Peace While jus post bellum is not a part of jus ad bellum, it is still morally relevant to proxy relationships and warrants mention here. The decision to go to war entails, at least from a moral perspective, determining whether the result sought yields a better state of peace than the one experienced before the onset of hostilities (Cook 2004, 31). Originating with Augustine, this condition rests on the assumption that the political order before the conflict was in some sense unjust—and thus unstable—otherwise, the war would not have occurred (Reichberg et al. 2006, 77–80). Therefore, the purpose of war should not simply be the imposition of one’s will on the enemy but the imposition of a particular will that includes remedying the political order so that future war is unlikely. In this view, the terms that ended World War I were a colossal failure, and those that ended World War II were a qualified success. A better state of peace further entails “the vindication of the international community and the rights of its members” (Coates 2016, 287– 288). Orend argues vindicating a victim’s rights requires, at a minimum, the aggressor to publicly end hostilities, exchange prisoners of war, apologize, demilitarize at least to the point it cannot renew hostilities, and be held accountable for war crimes. Without meeting these minimum conditions, grievances will fester while the aggressor’s capability to renew violence is preserved, if not strengthened. Orend also points out that in addition to these minimal conditions, one may pursue a retributive settlement, where one imposes costs on a defeated aggressor so that it is worse off than before the war to deter future aggression. One may also pursue a rehabilitative settlement, where one makes the defeated aggressor better off than before the war, as a means to incentivize peaceful cooperation (Orend 2018, 271–280). Retributive settlements are generally only permissible where rehabilitation is not possible. No settlement should entail rights violations.

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It is easy to see how such a requirement can complicate the sponsorproxy relationship. For political, cultural, and practical reasons, proxies and sponsors may have different attitudes toward jus post bellum requirements or the same capabilities to meet those requirements. The point here is that where that is the case; the sponsor still has obligations to moderate or enable proxy actions. If proxies take a vindictive approach to postwar political consolidation, sponsors must pressure them to do otherwise. To the extent that proxies cannot provide for jus post bello conditions, sponsors are obligated to continue their support.

Conclusion It should be apparent from this discussion that entering into proxy relationships creates opportunities for moral failure. These opportunities arise because the introduction of the sponsor complicates already complex and somewhat subjective decisions regarding the resort to war and introduces a potentially corrupting influence that risks distorting the reasons that drive those decisions. Because sponsors are the ones who bring these moral complications, they bear the greater burden of addressing them. This point does not mean that proxies have no responsibilities. It does mean that most moral decisions regarding proxy wars are often in the hands of the sponsor, without whom there would be no proxy relationship to judge. Summarized, this analysis has specific implications for applying jus ad bellum in proxy relationships. . Regarding just cause, sponsors bear the greater moral burden to ensure proxies conform to this condition, including assisting them in finding alternatives to war. The sponsor’s cause matters to the extent to which sponsor support plays a causal role in the conflict, whether initiating it or sustaining it beyond what is in the proxy interest. . Proportionality raises two primary concerns. The first is assessing how sponsor support impacts proxy calculations, and the second is how sponsor interests should count regarding calculating both the proportionality of the proxy’s conflict and the proportionality of sponsor involvement. Regarding the former, sponsor support should ensure the proxy’s resort to war is proportionate. Sponsors can do this in two ways. First, ensure their support enables proportionate warfighting. Second, consider how their interests—or interests they

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can take on—affect the conflict’s proportionality. This point means setting aside interests that benefit the sponsor and taking on interests that also positively affect the international community. Regarding the latter, sponsors must also consider how enabling a proxy to fight proportionally allows the decision to fight. This point underscores the burden on the sponsor to search for alternatives to make their participation more proportionate. Legitimate authority can pose problems for the proxy and sponsor, especially where the proxy is a non-state actor. Whether a proxy is a state or non-state actor, sponsors should ensure proxy governments or leaders act on behalf of an identifiable population. Also, decisions to sponsor must be taken by the same legitimate authority that is permitted to decide to go to war. While proxy wars, like all the others, must be publicly declared, there are conditions where a proxy relationship may be kept secret, especially where public acknowledgment of the relations risks undermining a proxy’s cause or otherwise putting the proxy at risk. This permission does not entail additional permission to keep the relationship from constitutionally mandated oversight. It underscores the importance of submitting proxy relationships to such oversight to ensure the public’s interests are considered. Right intention applies to the proxy independent of the proxy relationship. Sponsors do not need to intend simply the proxy’s cause in their decision to support, but where other intentions matter, they should disclose these to the proxy. For the proxy, last resort entails no additional obligations other than to consider non-violent alternatives before resorting to war. For the sponsor, as discussed, there is a requirement to seek an alternative the proxy may not have been able to create on its own. This obligations extends for the duration of the conflict. Reasonable Chance of success raises similar concerns as proportionality. Sponsors should only provide support if the proxy is likely to succeed, even if they can meet their objectives independently of the proxy’s. In meeting that condition, sponsors should be able to articulate a reasonable connection between the assistance they provide and proxy success. Jus post bellum. Like all wars, proxy wars must end; however, sponsor obligations do not. To the extent possible, sponsors should ensure that proxies meet jus post bellum requirements and avoid rights-violating activities or policies (Fig. 4.1).

Obligates that the good obtained from victory exceeds expected destruction.

Obligates that only heads of state, or other constitutional entity or process entitled to act on behalf of a population declares war.

Provides enemy chance to redress wrong, public to weigh costs and risks.

Obligates all sufficiently just peaceful alternatives considered before resorting to war.

Obligates war undertaken for the sake of the just cause, not some

Prohibits inflicting suffering in vain.

Just Cause

Proportionality

Legitimate Authority

Public Declaration

Last Resort

Right Intention

Reasonable Chance of Success

Fig. 4.1 Sponsor Obligations under Jus and Bellum

Figure 1.3: ad Bellum otherJus interest.

Definition

Permits self-defense, defense of others, humanitarian intervention.

Condition

Obligated: sponsors should provide sufficient support for the proxy to succeed as quickly as possible.

Obligated. Sponsor intent must proxy success. Thus, proxy success entails sponsor ceasing support for fighting. Support may continue to meet jus in bello conditions.

Obligated: sponsor must make good faith effort before and during the war to find peaceful alternatives and off-ramps to escalation.

Permitted: Keeping a proxy relationship secret as long as doing so avoids harm to proxy and adequate, representative oversight maintained.

Permitted: Sponsoring non-state actors as long as leadership is representative and can pass self-help test.

Obligated: Ensure proxy’s war is proportionate and that it can fight proportionately. Ensure harms and hazards associated with sponsor support are considered when calculating proportionality. Permitted: counting deterrent and other stabilizing effects towards proportionality of support. Prohibited: counting non-vital interests, like non-essential economic, political, or social benefits, toward proportionality of proxy relationship.

Obligated: Ensure proxy cause just; Ensure sponsor interest contributes to stability and a better state of peace. Permitted: support proxy who has initiated fighting or who would initiate if reasonable chance of success. Prohibited: Encouraging proxy to fight where they have a reasonable chance of success but choose not to.

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The fact that a sponsor and proxy can meet all the conditions of jus ad bellum and jus post bellum does not exhaust the sponsor’s moral responsibilities. While war, in general, is filled with moral hazard, the sponsor-proxy relationship sets conditions for moral hazard that must be managed as the conflict proceeds. This next section will discuss those hazards and how they may be managed.

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Ethiopia’s Claim 1-8.” United Nations. https://legal.un.org/riaa/cases/vol_ XXVI/457-469.pdf. Frowe, Helen. 2011. The Ethics of War and Peace: An Introduction. New York: Routledge. Gray, Christine. 2008. International Law and the Use of Force, 3rd ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/law/978019923 9153.001.0001. Groh, Tyrone L. 2019. Proxy War: The Least Bad Option. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Hughes, Geraint Alun. 2014. “Syria and the Perils of Proxy Warfare.” Small Wars & Insurgencies 25 (3): 522–538. https://doi.org/10.1080/09592318. 2014.913542. Hurka, Thomas. 2005. “Proportionality in the Morality of War.” Philosophy & Public Affairs 33 (1): 34–66. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3557942. McMahon, Robert. 2014. “Ukraine in Crisis.” Council on Foreign Relations. Council on Foreign Relations. August 25, 2014. https://www.cfr.org/bac kgrounder/ukraine-crisis. Maizland, Lindsay. 2022. “China’s Repression of Uyghurs in Xinjiang.” Foreign Affairs. Council on Foreign Relations. September 22. https://www.cfr.org/ backgrounder/china-xinjiang-uyghurs-muslims-repression-genocide-humanrights. Majd, Hooman. 2010. “Think Again: Iran’s Green Movement.” Foreign Policy. Graham Digital Holding Company. January 6, 2010. http://foreignpolicy. com/2010/01/06/think-again-irans-green-movement/. Nichols, John. 2015. “McNamara Was ‘Wrong, Terribly Wrong’ about Vietnam.” The Nation, June 29. https://www.thenation.com/article/arc hive/mcnamara-was-wrong-terribly-wrong-about-vietnam/. Noe, Nicholas. 2007. Voice of Hezbollah: The Statements of Sayed Hassan Nasrallah. London: Verso Books. Norman, Richard. 1995. Ethics, Killing and War. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. https://doi.org/10.1017/CBO9780511554568. Orend, Brian. 2006. The Morality of War, 1st ed. Peterborough, Ontario: Broadview Press. Orend, Brian. 2018. “Jus Post Bellum: Contested and Fragmented Sovereignty and the Limits of Postwar Rehabilitation” in The Ethics of War and Peace Revisited: Moral Challenges in an Era of Contested and Fragmented Sovereignty, Daniel R. Brunstetter and Jean-Vincent Holeindre, editors. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press: 265–286. Patterson, Eric. 2007. Just War Thinking: Morality and Pragmatism in the Struggle against Contemporary Threats. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books.

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Pattison, James. 2015. “The Ethics of Arming Rebels.” The Journal of Carnegie Council for Ethics in International Affairs 29 (4): 455–471. https://doi. org/10.1017/s089267941500043x. Pfaff, Anthony C. 2016. “Fighting Irregular Wars Well.” The Strategy Bridge, February 16, 2016. https://thestrategybridge.org/the-bridge/2017/2/16/ fighting-irregular-wars-well. Reichberg, Gregory, Henrik Syse, Endre Begby. 2006. The Ethics of War: Classic and Contemporary Readings. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing. Reichberg, Gregory M., Endre Begby, and Henrik Syse. 2013. The Ethics of War: Classic and Contemporary Readings. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing. “Reports of International Arbitral Awards: Eritrea-Ethiopia Claims Commission—Partial Award: Jus Ad Bellum—Ethiopia’s Claims 1–8.” 2005. United Nations Office of Legal Affairs. United Nations. https://legal.un.org/riaa/ cases/vol_XXVI/457-469.pdf. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques., and Of the Social Contract. Victor Gourevich, eds. 2010. Rousseau: The Social Contract and other later political writings. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Serafino, Nina M., June S. Beitetel, Lauren Ploch Blanchard, and Lisa Rosen. 2014. “‘Leahy Law’ Human Rights Provisions and Security Assistance: Issue Overview.” Congressional Research Service. https://sgp.fas.org/crs/row/R43 361.pdf. Special Committee on the Question of Defining Aggression Resolution 3314 (XXIX); Definition of Aggression, Session 29, 14 December 1974. Spyer, Johnson. 2016. “Patterns of Subversion: Iranian Use of Proxies in the Middle East.” Middle East Review of International Affairs 20 (2): 29– 36. http://search.proquest.com/openview/aa7473b98059572f0e9a06e239d 2d5d0/1.pdf?pq-origsite=gscholar&cbl=54955. Sullivan, Marisa. 2014. “Hezbollah in Syria.” Middle East Security Report 19. http://www.understandingwar.org/sites/default/files/Hezbollah_Sullivan_ FINAL.pdf. The White House. 2022. Biden-Harris Administration’s National Security Strategy. https://www.whitehouse.gov/wp-content/uploads/2022/10/ Biden-Harris-Administrations-National-Security-Strategy-10.2022.pdf. United Nations, Charter of the United Nations, 24 October 1945, 1 UNTS XVI, available at: https://www.un.org/en/about-us/un-charter/full-text United Nations, Charter of the United Nations, ch. 7, article 51, 24 October 1945, 1 UNTS XVI, available at: https://legal.un.org/repertory/art51. shtml#:~:text=. “United Nations General Assembly Resolution 3314 (XXIX).” 2023. University of Minnesota Human Rights Library. United Nations. http://hrlibrary.umn. edu/instree/GAres3314.html.

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Walzer, Michael. 2015. Just and Unjust Wars, 5th ed. New York, NY: Basic Books. Yeung, Jessie. 2022. “Indian and Chinese Troops Fight with Sticks and Bricks in Video.” CNN . Cable News Network. December 15. https://www.cnn.com/ 2022/12/14/asia/india-china-border-tensions-video-intl-hnk/index.html.

CHAPTER 5

Mitigating the Moral Hazards of Proxy Warfare

Introduction Moral hazards, a term that originated in economic theory, arise when some assume greater risk because they know others will bear the burden of that risk. For example, the provision of medical insurance can increase the cost of medical care because, among other things, the lower cost of care for the individual encourages greater use while at the same time discouraging shopping around for the best prices for the best care. The resulting incentive structure places pricing in control of institutions rather than normal market forces, making costs difficult to control (Arrow 1963, 941–962). The fact uncontrolled costs can also constrain overall available care is the hazard one risks with health insurance. This point does not entail anything wrong with health insurance, only that policies need to be in place to mitigate the consequences of this hazard. In proxy relationships, moral hazards arise when sponsors and proxies can redistribute risk to each other in ways that enable potentially harmful outcomes. In doing so, one risks creating self-defeating incentives because one will not experience the full range of harms those risks entail. These incentives are self-defeating in at least two ways: (1) encouraging more risk-taking inappropriately expands the scope of the conflict and (2) taking those risks results in greater suffering or violations of moral norms. The presence of moral hazard does not directly impact the permissibility of a © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 C. A. Pfaff, Proxy War Ethics: The Norms of Partnering in Great Power Competition, Palgrave Studies in International Relations, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-50458-7_5

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particular proxy relationship. However, failure to manage these hazards can effectively transform an otherwise permissible intervention into an impermissible one. As the examples discussed have shown, these hazards arise because of variations in sponsor and proxy interests, will, and capabilities. Moreover, these variations can lead to divergent interests and overly optimistic estimates about the actual cost of war that can drag both parties into a conflict they might otherwise have avoided. Even if one cannot prevent the conflict, introducing a proxy relationship can motivate others to join the fight, thus escalating it. Moreover, once the fighting has started, the proxy’s failure to abide by jus in bello norms can implicate the sponsor in war crimes and other atrocities. Finally, these moral hazards can impact well after the conflict is over as military equipment no longer needed for the fight diffuses into other militant and criminal hands, making conflict more likely or more brutal elsewhere.

Diverging Interests Once mortal enemies, Sparta’s acceptance of Persian sponsorship to defeat Athens illustrates that divergent interests do not necessarily pose concerns for proxy relationships. While one should doubt the justice of Sparta’s and Persia’s cause, even by the standards of the time, their relationship illustrates that the sponsor and proxy do not have to share interests for the relationship to be mutually beneficial. However, as English, Dutch, and Spanish intervention in France during the Wars of Religion, divergent interests can also set both sponsor and proxy up for failure. There are, of course, more modern examples. The Vietnam War clearly illustrates what can happen when shared interests no longer align because the cost outweighs what a sponsor is willing—or able to—pay. A more recent example would be the abrupt withdrawal of U.S. forces supporting Kurds in Syria ahead of NATO-ally Turkey’s invasion in 2019 (Laub 2023). As Krieg notes, “Regardless of the degree of cooperation between patron and surrogate on the strategic or operational level, surrogates are ultimately autonomous actors who always have an agenda of their own to pursue – an agenda which may overlap only marginally with U.S. foreign policy” (Krieg 2016, 109–110). As evidenced in the examples above, the same is true for sponsors. However, as Pattison argues, not only can these interests diverge, but sometimes they should, especially in those cases

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where the proxy’s cause is questionable; however, sponsor support is justified by the fact it helps avoid a humanitarian crisis or disaster. Thus, this divergence is not prima facie impermissible. However, this divergence can become impermissible when pursuing one party’s interest undermines achieving the other’s. This concern applies primarily to the sponsor, especially under the second model of proxy relationships, where the sponsor’s interest may diverge enough that it is sufficient for the proxy to fight for the sponsor to realize its interests. Suppose one accepts that fighting for its own sake is a moral wrong. In that case, as discussed in the previous chapter, a sponsor should not withhold sufficient assistance for the proxy to successfully resolve the conflict, whatever greater good the sponsor achieves. The proxy would also be generally impermissible to undermine the sponsor’s permissible interest. Take, for example, the proxy war in Syria, where elements of the U.S.-supported Free Syrian Army (FSA) have been known to fight alongside Islamist groups like the Islamic State even while other U.S.-supported forces, like the Kurdish militias, are fighting those groups elsewhere. According to one FSA commander, “We were always asked why we accept al-Qaida within our midst. It’s simple: we wouldn’t if we had more support and were more confident in our allies and the international community” (Lister 2016). The FSA commander’s point here is interesting as it reflects the norm discussed in the previous chapter that sponsors should intervene in a way that facilitates a rapid, just end to the conflict. However, in this context, the commander’s assertion appears more as extortion since it is not clear that any level of assistance would enable the FSA to defeat its numerous rivals. The primary concern here is that once one party in the proxy relationship has achieved its objective, its will to bear the cost of fighting reasonably wanes. If the party who wants to opt out is the proxy, the chances for moral hazard are small. Since, presumably, the proxy is bearing the burden of the fighting, its departure from the conflict forces the sponsor to find alternative means to realize its strategic objective. Unless the failure to achieve that objective will lead to greater harm than continued fighting would represent, the right answer is for the sponsor to abandon the conflict as well. The sponsor opting out, however, can also create a moral hazard. To the extent that the absence of sponsor support places the proxy in a position where it can no longer resolve the conflict successfully, the sponsor has set conditions for an unjust resolution, given the presumption of

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justice for the proxy’s cause. To the extent the sponsor’s support encouraged or enabled the proxy’s resort to arms, the moral hazard is amplified as the sponsor bears responsibility for the unjust suffering that will follow. This point does not suggest that sponsors should never opt out once in. Instead, it indicates that their reasons for opting out must have greater moral weight than the harm caused by their withdrawal. For example, withdrawing support because a proxy cannot or will not abide by just war norms is likely justified; however, withdrawing support to save on costs may not be, depending on the impact on the proxy.

Under-Estimating Costs and Risks of Violence As Athens discovered in supporting Corcyra, insufficient support can make things worse than no support. Moreover, as both sponsor and proxies discovered during the French Wars of Religion, proxy relationships make accurate estimates of relative strength difficult, if not impossible. Depending on the limits, support not only can set a proxy up for failure but can provoke a wider and longer conflict as well. While Athens did provide decisive support in the end, the outcome was so close it is clear they should have considered the total costs in advance. So, while proxy relationships have sometimes been characterized as the “cheapest insurance in the world,” they still incur costs, sometimes unexpectedly. Proxy relationships allow sponsors and proxies to mitigate costs while addressing their security needs, or so the theory goes (Mumford 2013, 100). However, this cost reduction often increases readiness on both sides of the relationship to accept risk. For sponsors, the proxy’s direct involvement allows them to address more distant security threats, mainly when the urgency for the sponsor to directly engage lags (Krieg 2016, 102). These incentives can be challenging to control for either sponsor or proxy. For proxies, the sponsor’s support can fill capability gaps they would have otherwise had to serve themselves. Filling these gaps reduces the proxy’s costs, increases its likelihood of success, and thus makes the resort to war more likely. This dynamic seemed to be the case at the outset of the Syrian Civil War, where some rebels may have interpreted pledges of U.S. support as sufficient to make the cost of war bearable (Rogin 2014). Without such a pledge—and the support that followed—it is not clear that the rebellion would have lasted very long. As I will discuss in Chapter 6, U.S. support met the jus ad bellum conditions described in the previous chapter. However, it is reasonable to ask, given that the war has

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gone on for 12 years, whether it was worth it. The answer may be yes, but the costs associated with such a prolonged conflict were not likely adequately considered when deciding to fight or support. Given the potential that underestimating costs could lead to moral harm, sponsors, and proxies should consider not just the cost of conflict but the cost to them if the proxy had to wage it on its own and then only proceed if the costs are lower than doing nothing. From the sponsor’s perspective, this consideration entails accounting for the cost of abandoning the proxy. For the proxy, it means considering whether fighting after sponsor withdrawal is preferable to the status quo. As noted in the discussion on proportionality, sponsors who enable a conflict must consider the costs to anyone affected. The same, of course, is valid for the proxy. Underestimation entails a potential mismatch between the total cost of the fight and the political will of either party to sustain it that must be addressed before the fighting starts. Addressing this concern entails an obligation on both sides to consider what would happen if the other quit. If the answer to that question is unacceptable, then so is fighting in the first place. It would appear on the surface that this condition would conflict with the reasonable chance of success requirement. If the proxy would likely lose if it had to go it alone, it should not fight at all. However, where sponsor support creates a reasonable chance of success, there is nothing inconsistent with the proxy fighting, as long as it does so with the understanding that should the sponsor withdraw support, they consider the war to have been worth it. The fact that the proxy might later fail because the sponsor quit may require they cease fighting; however, that future risk does not undermine the present permission for the proxy to fight when it had support. This condition, however, risks creating a bias toward proxies who can prosecute war on their own. If a proxy is likely to be successful without support, sponsors have greater leeway when considering how much help to provide. Given the risks of proxy relationships, this situation raises the question of why engage in one in the first place. The most acceptable answer to that question is that sponsor support contributes to a rapid conclusion of the conflict or some other condition that limits the destruction of war. Achieving these outcomes should be considered before committing to support a proxy. Where proxies cannot successfully prosecute a war even with support, jus ad bellum conditions would require their ceasing of hostilities, if not

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surrender. The two are not the same. Ukraine, for example, would not be obligated to surrender to Russia if it concluded that it could not meet all its military objectives, even with NATO support. Should that become the case, and I am not saying it is, Ukraine would not be obligated to cease fighting and find non-violent means to continue it. This point entails an obligation on sponsors to pressure adversaries and their sponsors to meet jus post bellum conditions, even at additional costs. Otherwise, one may end up with the post bellum situations in Vietnam and Cambodia that involved mass atrocities. As history shows, such efforts may not be successful, but given that only good would come from trying, sponsors would still have an obligation to do so. This point does not entail that either sponsor or proxy must be able to realize their interests alone as a condition for the permissibility of the relationship. If it did, then there would be no need for the relationship in the first place. It does mean that both the sponsor and proxy should consider if the consequences of the other’s withdrawal in the future are worth risking the present. Even then, it could still be permissible to proceed, but, as a practical matter, that decision rests on how trustworthy they perceive the other. Ethical decision-making does not have to be risk-free.

Escalation Related to the concern of underestimating the actual costs of a conflict is the potential for escalation the proxy relationship engenders. This concern is exacerbated when both sides directly involved in a conflict have their own sponsors. One study concluded that “in the 114 civil wars between 1946 and 2002 where at least 900 people were killed, no rebel group was transferred major conventional weapons without the government also receiving arms from another source” (Pattison 2015, 463). This point suggests that escalation in proxy conflicts is often the rule rather than the exception. The fact that a proxy conflict escalates does not necessarily mean the proxy relationship becomes unjust. Given that such support meets the jus ad bellum criteria discussed above and that both parties in the relationship successfully manage the associated moral hazards, the fault of the escalation arguably lies with the side that responded. Thus, the risk of escalation does not morally prohibit intervention, especially when the supported side faces massive rights violations, as the Syrian opposition did when Assad’s troops used military force against unarmed protests in 2011

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(Hughes 2014, 523). As Pattison notes, “those facing violations of their basic human rights still retain their right of self-defense, irrespective of how others will react to the exercise of that right” (Pattison 2015, 463). Given the importance of proportionality to judgments regarding the justice of any particular conflict, however, sponsors and proxies must manage the potential for escalation. In the face of proxy failure, the sponsor must choose between abandoning its strategic objective and becoming more involved in a conflict not originally worth involving itself directly. Abandoning the objective means abandoning the proxy, which can yield a “serious decline in the credibility of its commitments worldwide” (Brown 2016, 243). As discussed previously, the perceived importance of credibility based on reputation incentivizes sponsors to choose incremental increases that gradually escalate the conflict, especially when that assistance is public. In this way, winning a small war in a far-off place becomes a vital, and perhaps existential, national interest. This last point underscores the importance of incorporating the potential cost of escalation before deciding to resort to war. U.S. involvement in Vietnam illustrates the importance of this point. Initially a proxy war, where the U.S. support was limited to equipment and advisors, it ended with almost ten years of direct U.S. engagement that left more than 60,000 U.S. soldiers killed and 300,000 wounded (Brown 2016, 248). Moreover, this commitment did not happen all at once. As the United States provided more sophisticated assistance, securing that assistance required the presence of more Americans, who then needed additional forces to provide them security. Providing that security led to the deployment of additional troops. As Communist capabilities increased, this security force expanded its offensive operations until they were indistinguishable from defensive ones. Moreover, as political instability forced the South Vietnamese military to take on domestic law enforcement tasks, the United States became the primary counterinsurgent force on the battlefield. As the example of Vietnam also suggests, escalation can lead to more destruction without bringing one closer to realizing one’s political or military objectives. Thus, escalation for escalation’s sake is immoral. Escalating to “send a message” or “show resolve” makes no moral sense outside a necessary link to resolving the conflict. To avoid pointless escalation, sponsors must account for “escalation dominance” that assures their

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ability to out-escalate the enemy. Dominance, in this context, does not simply entail military force. As Herman Kahn notes, Escalation dominance is a complex concept in which the military calculations are only one element. Other elements are the assurance, morale, commitment, resolve, internal discipline, and so on of principals and their allies. (Kahn 1965, 23)

Recalling the earlier point regarding the credibility and capability of deterrent threats, something similar applies to escalation. As stated earlier, deterrence is credible if adversaries perceive employing the deterrent threat is in one’s interest and it is capable when adversaries also perceive that one doing so is not in their interest. For escalation to be effective, the first condition of escalation dominance is that the adversary believes it is in one’s interest to continue should the adversary respond. A second is that the adversary also believes that continuing to escalate is not in their interest. These are precisely the conditions Putin established during his proxy war in Ukraine in 2014. Believing that Putin’s interest in gaining control over Crimea and other Russian-dominated areas of Ukraine, the United States, and NATO limited its support initially to include only non-lethal assistance. That changed in 2015 when they began to provide lethal defensive systems, including anti-tank and air defense systems (Charap and Priebe 2023; King 2019). So sponsors must consider what they can and will do and what the opponent, especially another sponsor, can and will do in response. This point seems evident from the military planning perspective: one should always consider enemy capabilities and likely responses before acting. One concern here is that the adversary or the adversary’s sponsor may not share the same understanding of cost and benefit as one does. In such circumstances, the adversary may escalate despite its apparent irrationality. Establishing escalation dominance is one thing; communicating it so that the adversary factors it into its calculations is another. Rather than undermining the importance of this criteria, it underscores it. Establishing escalation dominance also does not mean escalation will not happen. What it does do is ensure one is prepared for that contingency and not in the awkward position of supporting a proxy who cannot win. That is how conflicts become frozen.

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In such contests, one must consider the opponent’s ability to bear costs and one’s willingness to bear the costs the opponent will impose in return. To the extent that one cannot impose more cost than the enemy is willing to bear or that they can impose more than one can, it is worth asking whether one should impose any cost. As Kahn also notes, “That side which has least to lose by eruption, or fears eruption the least, will automatically have an element of escalation dominance” (Kahn 1965, 290). It is worth noting, however, that even when one has established escalation dominance, escalation can still be to an adversary’s advantage. Iran, for example, sometimes encourages U.S. escalation, especially in Iraq, because of the generally negative impact that escalation has on Iraqi tolerance for a U.S. military presence, even though that presence supports Iraq’s counter-terror efforts. In late 2019, for example, Iranian proxies killed an American contractor and wounded several soldiers in a rocket attack. In response, the United States attacked proxy bases in Iraq and killed Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps commander Qassem Soleimani. Subsequently, likely instigated by Iran and its proxies, Iraqis engaged in widespread anti-U.S. protests, and some stormed the U.S. embassy while Parliament passed a non-binding vote to expel U.S. forces (Kadhim 2020). This point again suggests that as an ethical rule of thumb, it makes sense for sponsors and proxies to assess the cost of a proxy war as though they were to fight it without the benefit of the proxy relationship. For sponsors, such a calculation will help determine the cost of escalation dominance since, for the sponsor, the logical end of continued escalation is direct involvement since indirect measures always have their limits. For proxies, it will help them assess the chances that the sponsor will abandon them when the cost of escalation gets too high. This point does not mean that sponsors or proxies should engage in a relationship only if they can go it alone. Instead, the fact is that both should consider if the consequences of bearing all the costs in the future are worth risking whatever conditions they experience in the present. Even if they cannot bear those costs, proceeding could still be permissible; however, that decision depends on how trustworthy actors perceive the other. Ethical decision-making does not have to be risk-free; it just has to be prudent.

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Diffusion Related to escalation is what Pattison refers to as the “diffusion problem.” One of the most dramatic examples would be the diffusion of mercenaries during the period surrounding the Hundred Years War. The concern is that the capabilities one may provide a proxy may not stay with the proxy. Arguably, a proxy is interested in maintaining and utilizing support as intended by the sponsor. However, after the conflict is resolved, weapons and equipment are often sold or traded to other groups, or the proxy utilizes these weapons in ways that respond to new security concerns but which fall outside the terms of the proxy relationship. This diffusion can thus create new conditions for instability. Pattison notes that the diffusion of weapons in a post-conflict environment can lead to “higher homicide rates, more violent crime, and further conflict” (Pattison 2015, 460). Such diffusion sometimes ends after the conflict. As Krieg notes, conflict fuels economies through corrupt activities that serve local actors whose primary interests are often amassing wealth, influence, and power and who are not concerned with a swift and successful end to the conflict. As a result, “Money, commodities, and arms provided by the patron, particularly to non-state surrogates, might be diverted into the hands of individual strongmen, tribal, rebel or ideological leaders attempting to strengthen their personal standing vis a vis partners and competitors” (Krieg 2016, 102). The best example of the hazards associated with this concern is the spread of Stinger anti-aircraft missiles the United States provided to the mujahideen following the Soviet withdrawal from Afghanistan in 1989. After the conflict ended, these missiles were found as far afield as Bosnia, Iran, Kashmir, Tunisia, and the Palestinian territories. To control this diffusion, the U.S. government initiated a $65 Million buy-back program; however, only a tiny fraction has been recovered, and a reported 300 to 600 missiles remain unaccounted for (Mumford 2013, 109). As Laura Blank observes, international law addresses diffusion through the comprehensive framework of the Arms Trade Treaty, which sets standards to ensure the transparency and visibility of arms transfers. The treaty expresses a general obligation to prevent the diversion of weapons. It prohibits weapons transfers if the transferring party knows these weapons will be used to commit genocide, crimes against humanity, grave breaches of the 1949 Geneva Conventions, or attacks against civilians. States are also obligated to conduct a risk assessment to evaluate the chances that

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transferred weapons might be used in ways that violate international humanitarian law or in acts of terrorism or transnational organized crime (Blank 2023, 248). However, it needs to be clarified how effective the treaty has been in addressing illicit arms transfers. Major arms exporters like the United States and Russia have not ratified it, and many of those states that have often do not comply (Amnesty 2018). The United States, which played a significant role in negotiating the treaty, did sign it in 2013; however, the Senate did not ratify it. In 2019, the United States withdrew from the treaty and has yet to sign back on. Having said that, most, if not all, of the treaty’s provisions are already reflected in U.S. law (Stohl 2022). There is, no one way to manage this particular moral hazard. However, it is typically better to be proactive than reactive when managing moral hazards. Sponsors should pay attention in advance to how they will control the distribution of assistance, especially lethal aid, and prevent its diffusion when the conflict is resolved.

Dirty Hands The history of proxy wars, especially during the Cold War, clearly illustrates the cost a proxy’s jus in bello violations can have on proxy relationships. Despite broad support for containing Soviet influence, Congress, and presidents were often willing to place that objective at risk to avoid the moral taint associated with proxy atrocities. This point underscores that setting aside moral and ethical concerns, as a realist might, is rarely possible, much less prudent. As Pattison notes, it should be the concern of every putative sponsor that its proxies fight in accordance with the principles of jus in bello (Pattison 2015, 463). Though the relationship between the support from the sponsor and any violation of jus in bello by the proxy may be indirect, the causal nature of that relationship implicates sponsors in whatever crimes the proxy commits, especially when sponsors are reckless in how they assist. However, when the stakes are high, concerns about possible implications can feel more like a luxury than a limitation. When the fate of nations is involved, it can seem irresponsible for leadership to sacrifice the well-being of their state’s citizens because some partners do not fight by the same rules they do. Moreover, as a matter of practice, war is brutal and

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brutalizing. Not only is it unreasonable to expect any war to be crimefree, but it is also even more unrealistic to expect to be able to hold someone else’s soldiers accountable for every violation. This last point raises the question, of course, when is a sponsor responsible for a proxy’s actions? International law requires that for a state to be accountable; the activity must be performed by an “organ” of the state. For an entity to be an organ of the state, it must have some status under that state’s internal law. However, the fact a state does not recognize an actor as such does not allow it to avoid responsibility. To the extent an actor is under a state organ’s instruction, direction, or control, its actions may be attributed to that state. So, a state that created, funded, and directed a militia, for example, would be responsible for that militia’s action (Hathaway et al. 2017, 9). This legal standard is different than the moral one argued for here. The moral standard requires a causal relationship between the sponsor’s action and any harm done by the proxy. In this regard, to the extent that sponsor support enables a proxy’s operations, the sponsor is responsible for any associated harms. The legal standard, however, requires that the sponsor also have “effective” or “overall” control over a proxy’s operations. So, where the moral standard requires the relationship to be intentional, it does not entail that the sponsor intends the harm to be responsible for them. Under this reading of international law, not only must the sponsorproxy relationship be intentional, but sponsors must also intend the harm or at least have sufficient control over the actor to prevent it or hold the proxy accountable (Hathaway 2017, 11). International law is a little less clear, or at least less helpful, in determining what constitutes “effective control.” For example, in the case of U.S. support to the Contras, the International Court of Justice found that while the United States had “financed, organized, trained, supplied, equipped and armed” the Contras, it was not ultimately responsible for Contra violations of international humanitarian law, which included killing of unarmed civilians (Hathaway et al. 2017, 12). It was not responsible because the court found it did not have effective control over Contra operations. To have effective control, the court held that there needed to be a “direct link” between U.S. support and any particular operation that included direction from a U.S. source. The court held this position despite, according to the case, a manual the United States provided the Contras advising them to “shoot civilians attempting to leave a town,

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neutralize local judges and officials, hire professional criminals to carry out ‘jobs,’ and provoke violence at mass demonstrations to create ‘martyrs’” (Hathaway et al. 2017, 12). For there to be effective control, any direction from the United States had to apply to a specific operation and include instructing the Contras to commit unlawful acts (Hathaway et al. 2017, 13). Overall control assesses the ties between sponsor and proxy rather than just responsiveness to specific sponsor organs. Following the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY) Army’s use of proxies against BosniaHerzegovina, the International Criminal Tribunal for Yugoslavia (ICTY) applied a standard of control that did not require specific orders relating to a violation. In a case involving the Serbian Republic’s Army (VRS), a non-state actor, the court had to determine whether their acts could be attributed to the FRY despite no evidence of specific direction from them. The court, noting that the relevant degree of control necessary for attribution can vary from case to case, found that what was important was whether the FRY exerted “overall control” of the VRS. Noting that the FRY transferred officers to serve in the VRS, paid their salaries, had the same military objectives, provided financial and logistical support, and “directed and supervised the activities and operations of the VRS,” the court found that the standard for overall control had been reached (Hathaway et al. 2017, 19–20). The difficulty with either standard of effective or overall control is not just that they set the bar very high. They also establish perverse incentives that encourage states to employ proxies while discouraging them from moderating proxy behavior since any attempt at moderation could imply control (Hathaway et al. 2017, 25–26). Arguably, had the FRY just provided support and not direction, the FRY leadership may not have been found accountable for VRS atrocities. From the moral point of view, however, what matters is typically the intentional causal role one plays in bringing about the harm. From the Just War Theory perspective, intent and cause are essential. There is a difference between causing harm and allowing it, where the former entails a moral responsibility, and the latter does not. As Pattison notes, having a causal role in some harm would implicate a sponsor and constitute a moral wrong. Allowing harm, however, can be permissible given other prudential considerations, especially if preventing it would lead to even more significant harms (Pattison 2015, 463). Even then, sponsor obligations may not be exhausted. Philosopher Rosalind Hursthouse describes

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“tragic dilemmas” as one where there may be a conflict of duties and no possible action that would fulfill them all. Under these conditions, actors are left with “moral residue,” over which there should be regret, remorse, and even guilt (Hursthouse 1999, 72–77). This point suggests that even in cases where sponsors only allow harm, they are nonetheless tainted by it, and that taint entails an additional obligation to mitigate it. As this standard of responsibility suggests, given an intentional relationship between sponsor and proxy and a causal relationship between sponsor support and proxy actions, a sponsor should be accountable to some degree, at least for the proxy’s actions. Despite the ICJ’s controversial Nicaragua decision, for example, the United States certainly bears some burden for Contra war crimes, especially given the manual U.S. advisors provided that included obvious jus in bello violations. All this analysis establishes is that sponsors may be responsible for proxy crimes. It does not, however, say much about what sponsor obligations might be when those crimes are committed. War’s brutalizing effects ensure that even the best trained and ethically committed militaries will deal with cases of war crimes. Thus, a policy that entails all proxy relationships are tragic dilemmas is self-defeating. What is needed is a view that establishes, despite the high likelihood or presence of war crimes, when sponsors have met their obligations. Such a view would not entail sponsors would be permitted to tolerate war crimes, but it does suggest that there are conditions under which the relationship would be permitted to continue. There are several reasons a proxy force may not be able to fight by jus in bello norms that could range from poor training, inappropriate tactics or equipment, or a culture that prioritizes things like revenge over humane treatment of prisoners and detainees. For example, as in El Salvador, the proxies may believe these norms are incompatible with their way of warfare. Believing that attritting insurgent supporters, often more so than the insurgents, was the path to victory motivated egregious war crimes. Other times, proxies may not be trained or equipped well enough to avoid indiscriminate or disproportionate civilian harm. For example, Amnesty International reported that in the Battle for Mosul in 2017, Iraqi forces frequently missed the legitimate military target they intended, causing significant civilian casualties. They also often employed weapons that were insufficiently discriminate given where legitimate targets were located. On the other hand, the report acknowledged that Iraqi forces,

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like the U.S.-supported Counter-terrorism Service (CTS), received praise from locals for their care in avoiding civilian harm (Amnesty International 2017, 25–28). Setting aside the blame ISIS should assume for locating its forces close to civilians, these points suggest that much of the harm to civilians was as much a function of competency and capability as it was to indifference. When these conditions are present, the chance that sponsor assistance will enable moral harm is high. So, while acting on this concern may feel like a luxury, managing this potential harm is critical to ensuring the continued moral permissibility of the proxy relationship. The default position, of course, should be that if a proxy will not or cannot uphold jus in bello norms, then a sponsor should withhold support. While it would be easy to settle the argument here, it can sometimes be the case that failure to provide such support could lead to more significant moral harm, especially when the proxy meets the conditions for jus ad bellum. Take, for example, U.S. support for the Iraqi Security Forces (ISF) against ISIS. If the United States had ended support because of the report of atrocities, such as the torture of detainees committed by the Emergency Response Division (ERD) (Ross et al. 2017), arguably, ISIS would still be in place. And people would suffer. And the conflict would go on, or worse, resolve favorably for ISIS. This point suggests that while jus in bello violations should prompt the sponsor to do something; it does not necessarily determine that it should entirely withdraw its support. The report notes that the United States has withheld direct support from the ERD precisely because of concerns about abuse. The question remains, then, what should the sponsor do? In discussing dirty hands, Walzer observes that great goods are often accompanied by great harms. It is not just that doing good sometimes can entail some collateral harm, but rather, to achieve good, sometimes one must do wrong, much like Hurthouse’s tragic dilemma. Further, he argues, such situations are not occasional instances from which the political or military leader can walk away. Instead, it is the condition of governing and, one could add, fighting. He argues that to govern is to give up one’s innocence since governing innocently is not just impossible; it is irresponsible (Walzer 1973, 63). The same is likely valid for soldiering. The question is, how does one responsibly give up one’s innocence? One could accept the utilitarian calculation and argue that if one creates more good than harm, the political or military leader has done no wrong—however, such a standard sets conditions for more significant

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harms that are not permissible. For example, Walzer describes a ticking time bomb scenario where a politician orders the torture of a bomber so that he will give up the locations of the bombs so that lives can be saved. As long as the suffering of the bomber is exceeded by the well-being of the individuals saved, the torture would be justified on utilitarian grounds. Because it is justified, the utilitarian calculation solves the concern by letting leaders keep their innocence. Because their act realized the greater good, they have done no wrong. What they have done is justified a conceptually difficult-to-constrain general policy permitting torture. One difficulty with this view is that it only concerns itself with consequences. It does not concern itself with how those consequences come about. Thus, as mentioned previously in the discussion of realism, no particular measure would be morally off-limits. If rounding up members of a specific community and interning them regardless of their guilt or innocence maximized utility and prevented future bombings, then that is what the leader should do. As discussed previously, such consequentialist reasoning is inadequate to account for all our moral obligations. While interning Japanese citizens during World War II for fear they would become proxies for Japan may have felt like a difficult but necessary decision, history has judged it otherwise (Daniels 2002, 302). The concern here is two-fold. First, one can never be sure when one will be disadvantaged by a policy justified purely by its consequences. So, as a matter of prudence, it is worthwhile to impose limits in advance on the kinds of things utilitarianism can justify. A strict utilitarian would argue that such limitations are warranted by utility theory, which also requires taking the longest view and mitigating any dire consequences. So, Walzer’s political leader could argue that there would arguably be limits given the disutility of a general policy permitting torture. However, under utility theory, limits can only be justified by the case. The difficulty is that while utility theory encourages a deliberative process, in the end, no judgment regarding limits can be final, so no limits can be considered part of a stable policy. Second, even when one is not the loser in a utilitarian calculation, some measures, like torture, conflict with other strongly held moral intuitions that are hard to give up, such as those related to human dignity; thus, Walzer argues, while certain measures may sometimes be necessary, it is still essential to maintain their prohibition. As Walzer states, “The notion of dirty hands derives from an effort to refuse ‘absolutism’

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without denying the reality of the moral dilemma” (Walzer 1973, 64). So, while it may not make moral sense to prohibit proxy relationships in every case where dirty hands are a concern, one still needs a framework for addressing the wrongs done and the harms committed. Walzer’s remedy is for politicians to acknowledge the wrong and their community to hold them accountable, including the imposition of some sanction commensurate with the nature of the crime. The politician’s willingness to be held responsible consummates the sacrifice. As Walzer notes, in cases of civil disobedience, when an individual violates the state’s laws for moral reasons, the state may still provide punishment. In “dirty hands” cases, where an individual breaks moral rules for reasons of state, there is no one to give the punishment (Walzer 1973, 81). The answer is to provide the punishment to the state, or at least the individual who committed evil on behalf of the state. This point brings up concerns regarding the differences between moral obligations between individuals and those between states. From Walzer’s perspective, even when acts are done on a state’s behalf and with the approval of that state’s relevant institutions, it is still an individual or individuals who decide to act and thus are morally responsible for its consequences. Of course, how those institutions function to diffuse decision-making impacts responsibility and can mitigate any particular individual’s liability; however, it still makes sense to discuss what norms one would hold agents of the state or the state itself. The punishments that would apply, and to whom, would be considered on a case-by-case basis. How one would hold a state responsible for international law violations is beyond the scope of this discussion. As discussed, the United Nations and ICJ are frequently engaged to render judgment, which only sometimes turns into meaningful sanction. Currently, no international sovereign can enforce accountability, and there are arguably good reasons there should not be one. As the discussion regarding the ICJ indicates, more than international law is needed to account for all the relevant moral concerns. A state that was self-policing and held officials accountable in some way would meet the standard for accountability argued for here. In a mature and ethical democracy, for example, political and military leaders who make the hard choices discussed here should expect to be held accountable for those choices. The point that leaders should expect to be held accountable does not, of course, only apply in mature democracies.

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The point here is that such democracies tend to have the institutional capability and disposition for such accountability not found in more authoritarian regimes. However, it would be naïve to conclude that the relevant political or military leaders would be eager to submit to judgment and will undoubtedly be incentivized to cover up any wrongdoing. Moreover, when the state cannot or will not hold its leaders accountable, it is even less likely that it would welcome an external agency to do so on its behalf. So, perhaps the best conclusion to draw from this analysis is that only extraordinary circumstances could justify support to proxies who violate jus in bello—or any other feature of International Humanitarian Law and International Human Rights Law. This standard is, of course, a high one but not impossible. Given the indirect nature of the fight to the sponsor, prohibitions against getting one’s hands dirty should be observed. Moreover, it is not entirely unrealistic to expect a state, especially a democratic one, to hold its leaders accountable for the legal and moral transgressions they commit. While not directly related to dirty hands, the dozen or so indictments handed down in the wake of the Iran-Contra Scandal suggest that such accountability is possible, if not consistent. By extension, it seems reasonable to conclude that support to a proxy who violates jus in bello could also be justified if such support also realizes a greater humanitarian good than might have occurred had the proxy not received support. However, not just any humanitarian interest should count to justify overriding jus in bello commitments; otherwise, one is left with the same utilitarian standard previously rejected. Perhaps the proper standard to apply here is the same one Walzer used for interventions in general. When the public’s moral convictions are shocked to the point additional argument for intervention is unnecessary, it makes sense to permit some tolerance for jus in bello violations. For example, while the ISF’s human rights record in the fight against ISIS may be inconsistent and their use of force sometimes disproportionate and indiscriminate (Human Rights Watch 2017), their violations are intuitively far outweighed by ISIS’s atrocities and the ongoing threat it represents. Further, given that an ISF defeat could lead to a permanent Islamic State presence that would entail further gross human rights abuses, the good of an ISF victory outweighs the harms committed in its pursuit.

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This justification is not simply a utilitarian calculation. The abuses the ERD reportedly committed, for example, are still wrong. The question at hand, though, is whether all other things considered, should those wrongs prohibit the intervention of a sponsor. When Walzer’s threshold of public moral outrage is crossed, political and military leaders would be irresponsible if they did not do something. To the extent support for the ISF appears to be the most effective, it makes moral sense not to hold U.S. officials individually accountable for the harms the ERD has committed. These conditions, however, do not exhaust sponsor obligations. Their first responsibility is to ensure someone relevant is held accountable. Their second is to continue to use their influence and leverage to moderate the proxy’s actions and reduce, if not eliminate, violations. Fulfilling these responsibilities can be difficult and, in some cases, impossible. In cases where it is impossible, sponsors must establish an extraordinary case for continued support. Where it is merely difficult, there may be some good accomplished in the effort, even though the results were unsatisfactory. As the example of El Salvador suggests, insisting on accountability and conditioning assistance can improve a proxy’s willingness to observe the laws of war, even if it never wholly prevented them. It is worth noting that the Iraqi Ministry of Interior did open an investigation into the ERD’s reported abuses (Abdul-Zahra 2017). These points suggest that wherever proxies have difficulty with the ethics of fighting, for whatever reason, unconditional assistance would not be permitted. Of course, simply withholding all support until the proxy holds violators accountable can create its own set of moral hazards. As suggested earlier, making the ISF’s response to the Islamic State less efficient is in no one’s interest. However, it is possible to discriminate who within a proxy’s military receives assistance and what kind of assistance they receive. As noted above, those concerns have limited the type of support the United States has provided to the ERD. So, as a general rule, organizations within a partner’s military forces associated with jus in bello violations should probably not receive lethal assistance or, to the extent possible, should only receive defensive lethal assistance. Sponsors may also modify their assistance to make harm to civilians less likely or reduce the chances that their support is a contributing factor. In 2018, for example, the United States withheld refueling operations for

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Saudi aircraft because of the Saudi’s apparent inability to target discriminately. The United States continued intelligence support, but, according to then Secretary of Defense James Mattis, it was part of an effort to assist the Saudis in reducing civilian casualties (Stewart 2018). This kind of selective support may not end abuses, but it should moderate the proxy’s behavior and incentivize adhering to jus in bello norms. Even if it does not, sponsors are at least obligated to try. Recognizing that perfect compliance with jus in bello norms is an elusive and unlikely goal, this analysis would permit a sponsor-proxy relationship when the following conditions hold: . A greater injustice will arise if the proxy fails than the injustice represented by its jus in bello violations. . Proxy leadership intends to abide by jus in bello norms and hold violators accountable and has taken some credible steps to do so. . The sponsor must take extra measures to mediate the likelihood of jus in bello violations. Supporting a proxy who routinely violates jus in bello rules should be rare. However, when the stakes are sufficiently high, and the conditions for jus ad bellum are met, such support may be permitted if the state, or those acting on its behalf, can be held accountable for the harms caused. If such accountability is not feasible, such support may be permitted if it avoids some humanitarian catastrophe or gross violation of human rights. Even when permitted, however, sponsors are never absolved of the responsibility to do their best to limit violations and bring violators to account (Fig. 5.1).

Conclusion As with jus ad bellum and jus post bellum, it is generally the sponsor’s burden to manage moral hazard. Proxies, especially in crisis, will not likely have the incentive or even the governing capabilities to identify and address these hazards when they do. Critical to managing these hazards is ensuring interests align. Aligning interests, as described here, is not the same as sharing interests. Instead, it simply requires that sponsors are sufficiently invested in realizing their interest and that their support will be adequate for the proxy to realize theirs. Proxies, for their part,

Permitted: Sponsors are permitted to support a proxy whose forces have committed violations only when proxy failure represents greater injustice than dirty hands represent. Obligated. In those cases, sponsors must ensure proxy leaders remain committed to preventing future violations and hold violators accountable.

The risk that sponsor intervention will raise the stake for other actors, leading escalation and expansion of the conflict. Proxy loses control of lethal assistance, which results in increasing local criminal activity or fueling other conflicts

Proxy actions violate jus in bello or other moral or ethical concerns.

Escalation

Diffusion

Dirty Hands

Fig. 5.1 Managing moral hazards

Obligated: Sponsors and proxies ensure adequate controls for lethal assistance before providing it. Sponsors should also plan additional mitigation for cases where proxy loses control.

Sponsor support encourages overly optimistic forecasts for proxy victory or impact of sponsor support. Results in under-resourcing fight increasing likelihood of failure, additional moral hazard, such as escalation.

Under-estimating cost of violence

Mitigation

Diverging interests create potential for betrayal, especially by sponsor.

Diverging Interests

Obligation: Sponsor plan for escalation dominance and off-ramps. Reinforces obligation to find non-violent alternatives.

Obligated: Sponsor and proxy should consider cost of war if one or the other withdrew. For proxy, proceed only if cost of going it alone after sponsor withdrawal preferable to doing nothing.

Obligated: Interests should align well-enough that proxy success entails sponsor success or at least end of sponsor support. Permitted: interest do not align well-enough; however, sponsor still ends support when proxy succeeds. Prohibited: One party pursuing its interest at expense of the other.

Definition

Hazard

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should employ that support to end the war as fast and ethically as possible. Practical constraints, such as limited resources or equally urgent but competing priorities, will limit what even the most dedicated sponsors and proxies can sustain. The point here is that to the extent divergent interests undermine the other partner, and they should be addressed and brought into alignment. Divergent interests often arise because actors underestimate the costs of fighting. As mentioned above, actors are biased to amplify a proxy relationship’s benefit without fully considering the cost. Because war can be unpredictable, however, it is likely not possible to know what all those costs are in advance. Still, both actors should consider the cost of the proxy going it alone. For the sponsor, that includes the cost of withdrawing support, and for the proxy, that consists of the potential cost of failure if that support disappears. If the status quo is preferable to going it alone, then it is likely best not to enter into the relationship in the first place. A potentially equally tricky decision for a sponsor as withdrawing support is to escalate it when proxy success is in doubt. Escalation always risks more violence and expansion of the conflict beyond what the stakes are worth, especially if the proxy’s adversary also has a sponsor. To manage this hazard, sponsors must have the capability to both place adversaries in a worse position if they counter-escalate as well as the ability to communicate that before initiating. Finally, the brutalizing effects of war ensure sponsors will be confronted with proxy war crimes or other abuses. Where the proxy is willing and able to hold those accountable, sponsors have few additional obligations. However, where representatives will not or cannot hold perpetrators accountable, sponsors must consider whether continuing the relationship is worth the potential moral taint. If so, sponsors should condition support for proxy improvement in reducing violations and increasing accountability. If the proxy does not make those improvements despite intending to, sponsors may only continue support if greater harm will result from proxy failure. Even then, sponsors must continue to pressure proxies to conform to jus in bello norms. In the following and final chapter, I will apply the norms and considerations described in the last two chapters to more current proxy relationships.

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References Abdul-Zahra, Qassim. 2017. “Iraqi Forces Release Videos It Says Counters Claims of Abuse.” AP News, May 25. https://apnews.com/article/eb0d90 abd2a041809c1bcf9f58df30d0. “Arms Control.” 2023. Amnesty International, September 18. https://www.amn esty.org/en/what-we-do/arms-control/. Arrow, Kenneth J. 1963. “Uncertainty and the Welfare Economics of Medical Care.” The American Economic Review 53 (5): 941–73. https://assets.aea web.org/asset-server/files/9442.pdf. “At Any Cost: The Civilian Catastrophe in West Mosul, Iraq.” 2017. Amnesty International. Amnesty International, July 1. https://www.amnesty.org/en/ latest/campaigns/2017/07/at-any-cost-civilian-catastrophe-in-west-mosuliraq/. Blank, Laurie R. 2023. “Arming Proxies: Ethical and Legal Dilemmas.” Edited by Assaf Moghadam, Vladimir Rauta, and Michel Wyss. Routledge Handbook of Proxy Wars. New York, NY: Routledge. Brown, Seyom. 2016. “Purposes and Pitfalls of War by Proxy: A Systemic Analysis.” Small Wars & Insurgencies 27 (2): 243–257. https://doi.org/10. 1080/09592318.2015.1134047. Charap, Samuel, and Miranda Priebe. 2023. “Avoiding a Long War.” RAND, January. https://www.rand.org/pubs/perspectives/PEA2510-1.html. Daniels, Roger. 2002. “Incarceration of the Japanese Americans: A Sixty-Year Perspective.” The History Teacher 35 (3): 297–310. https://doi.org/10. 2307/3054440. Hathaway, Oona A., Emily Chertoff, Lara Domínguez, Zachary Manfredi, and Peter Tzeng. 2017. “Ensuring Responsibility: Common Article 1 and State Responsibility for Non-State Actors.” Texas Law Review 95 (3): 539–90. https://texaslawreview.org/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/Hathaway.pdf. Hughes, Geraint. 2014. “Syria and the Perils of Proxy Warfare.” Small Wars & Insurgencies 25 (3): 522–538. https://doi.org/10.1080/09592318.2014. 913542. Hursthouse, Rosalind. 1999. On Virtue Ethics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kadhim, Abbas. 2020. “By Killing Soleimani, the United States Destroyed Its Relationship with Iraq.” Atlantic Council, January 6. https://www.atlanticc ouncil.org/blogs/menasource/by-killing-soleimani-the-united-states-destro yed-its-relationship-with-iraq/. Kahn, Herman. 1965. On Escalation: Metaphors and Scenarios. Manhattan, New York: Preager. King, Iain. 2019. “Not Contributing Enough? A Summary of European Military and Development Assistance to Ukraine since 2014.” CSIS, September 26. https://www.csis.org/analysis/not-contributing-enough-sum mary-european-military-and-development-assistance-ukraine-2014.

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Krieg, Andreas. 2016. “Externalizing the Burden of War: The Obama Doctrine and US Foreign Policy in the Middle East.” International Affairs 92 (1): 97–113. https://doi.org/10.1111/1468-2346.12506. Laub, Zachary. 2023. “Syria’s War and the Descent into Horror.” Council on Foreign Relations, February 14. https://www.cfr.org/article/syrias-civil-war. Lister, Charles. 2016. “The Free Syrian Army: A Decentralized Insurgent Brand.” The Brookings Project on U.S. Relations with the Islamic World, no. 26 (November). https://www.brookings.edu/wp-content/uploads/2016/ 11/iwr_20161123_free_syrian_army1.pdf. Mumford, Andrew. 2013. “Proxy Warfare and the Future of Conflict.” The RUSI Journal 158 (2): 40–46. https://doi.org/10.1080/03071847.2013.787733. Pattison, James. 2015. “The Ethics of Arming Rebels.” The Journal of Carnegie Council for Ethics in International Affairs 29 (4): 455–471. https://doi. org/10.1017/s089267941500043x. Rogin, Josh. 2014. “Syrian Rebels See U.S. Abandoning Them.” Bloomberg, December 12. https://www.bloomberg.com/view/articles/2014-12-12/syr ian-rebels-see-us-abandoning-them. Ross, Brian, Rhonda Schwartz, James Gordon Meek, and Randy Kreider. 2017. “The Torture Tapes: Iraqi Troops Torture and Execute Civilians in Secret Videos.” ABC News, May 25. http://abcnews.go.com/Blotter/deepdive/ brian-ross-investigates-the-torture-tapes-47429895. Stewart, Phil. 2018. “U.S. Halting Refueling of Saudi-Led Coalition Aircraft in Yemen’s War.” Reuters, November 9. Thomson Reuters. https://www.reu ters.com/article/us-usa-yemen-refueling/u-s-halting-refueling-of-saudi-led-% 20coalition-aircraft-in-yemens-war-idUSKCN1NE2LJ. Stohl, Rachel. 2022. “Why Is the Biden Administration Still Silent on Arms Trade Treaty?” Stimson Center. The Henry L. Stimson Center, November 15. https://www.stimson.org/2022/why-is-the-biden-administration-still-sil ent-on-arms-trade-treaty/. Walzer, Michael. 1973. “Political Action: The Problem of Dirty Hands.” Philosophy & Public Affairs 2 (2): 160–80. https://www.ias.edu/sites/default/ files/sss/pdfs/Walzer/Political-action.pdf. “World Report 2017: Rights Trends in Iraq.” 2017. Human Rights Watch. HRW. January 12, 2017. https://www.hrw.org/world-report/2017/cou ntry-chapters/iraq#950b3d.

CHAPTER 6

Conclusion: Applying the Proxy Moral Framework

Introduction: A World Order in Transition After the fall of the Soviet Union, the United States emerged as the global hegemon. As hegemon, the United States arguably pursued a strategy aimed at maintaining its primacy by promoting a stable international order and a prosperous global economy. While this strategy relied on political efforts to promote democracy, its “backbone” was a robust forward military presence intended to effectively respond to challenges to this order (Brands 2018). However, growing assertiveness by regional state actors, non-state actors increasingly able to project power globally, and a warweary American public who had expected a peace dividend after the Cold War ended made this strategy unsustainable. Rather, these conditions suggested a strategy where the United States would “encourage other countries to take the lead in checking rising powers, intervening itself only when necessary” (Mearsheimer and Walt 2016, 95). Whether this latter strategy was ever explicitly adopted, the need to rely more on partners grew as the world order became more polarized, especially in regions with significant challengers, such as the Middle East and Asia. While, as Groh argued, such conditions incentivize a regionally weak hegemon to employ proxies, they also incentivize regional challengers to employ their own proxies to manage the costs of challenging the hegemon. Iran serves as the paradigmatic example, where it has used © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 C. A. Pfaff, Proxy War Ethics: The Norms of Partnering in Great Power Competition, Palgrave Studies in International Relations, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-50458-7_6

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various militias and non-state actors to challenge the United States and its partners. Since the Cold War, the world has transitioned from a brief hegemony after the fall of the Soviet Union to something arguably more multipolar, if not polyarchic. Groh describes the current order as “quasi-unipolar,” where only one state can act globally but drifts toward a multipolar order as regional powers strengthen. Under a quasi-unipolar order, a hegemon must compensate for actors who may be stronger regionally by moderating its exercise of power to avoid other actors band-wagoning against it. This power relationship incentivizes avoiding direct intervention, which just incentivizes the proliferation of proxies (Groh 2019, 51–52). Currently, the world order appears to exhibit elements of both, depending on region and actor, as I will illustrate below. What this account of polarity misses is the incentive for other actors to become proxies. Potential proxies have a wider range of sponsor options than they would under a bipolar order in both a quasi-unipolar and multipolar order. Potentially, they also take bigger risks if they become a proxy. Where there are more than two greater powers, choosing one risks conflict with the other for lesser powers. Thus, lesser powers are incentivized to hedge their bets and avoid bilateral proxy relationships under such conditions. In fact, in the Middle East and Africa, regional actors are partnering with different combinations of greater powers. For example, Saudi Arabia accepts U.S. military assistance but has expanded economic ties with Russia, reducing the latter’s isolation (Weiss and AlexanderGreene 2022). In Africa, it is no coincidence that the United States and China have bases in Djibouti (van Staden 2022). Under these conditions, proxies are a handy tool that can be hard to use. Thus, there have been fewer cases of great powers confronting each other through proxies but a proliferation of lesser powers using proxies to confront great powers as well as each other. However, the potential for great power proxy wars is not zero, and, as I will discuss, the potential exists for regional conflicts to provoke great power proxy war. Examples may include the war in Ukraine, which is frequently viewed as a proxy war between the United States and Russia. However, even in this case, Russia’s willingness to go to war seems as much a function of Ukraine’s location as it does alignment. Hughes traces the current proliferation of post-Cold-War proxy conflict to their success during the Cold War. For all the harm caused, the superpowers managed to avoid direct and globally catastrophic conflict.

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More importantly, proxies allowed them to achieve strategic results with limited commitment (Hughes 2014c, 14). But as Rondeaux and Sterman compellingly argue, current proxy relationships are not simply a continuation of past practice. Instead, they say that the “erosion of state power, rise of transnational social movements, and proliferation of advanced military and communications technology” expose actors of all types to vulnerabilities they may not know they have, as well as proliferate the kinds of actor that can take advantage of them (Rondeaux and Sterman 2022, 13). Rondeaux and Sterman’s description resonates with Krieg’s and Rickli’s view, discussed in Chapter 1. The latter argue that the disconnect between the state’s and the public’s threat perception differentiates the current era’s proliferation of proxy relationships from the past. Drawing on Clausewitz, they argue that in the past, the trinitarian relationship between society, the military, and the state-aligned in ways that allowed for mass mobilizations to meet it (Krieg and Rickli 2019, 39). In Clausewitz’s view, war is a function of three tendencies: (1) primordial violence, hatred, and enmity; (2) the creative spirit subject to chance and probability; and (3) subordination of these tendencies to policy. Each tendency corresponds to one of three groups. Primordial violence, hatred, and enmity correspond to society, the creative spirit to the military, and policy to the state (Handel 2009, 102–109). Their logic here is that the people must experience sufficient hatred to sustain the war, the military must harness that hatred to defeat the enemy, and the government must adequately subordinate that military capability to policy, which addresses how the state confronts the object of the people’s hatred (Krieg and Rickli 2019, 35–39). Security challenges today have changed in ways that fail to mobilize society’s passions; however, they are significant enough that the state feels it must act. That failure to mobilize constrains state options for intervention, especially in democratic states, since the public will presumably have a low tolerance for cost and risk. This constraint forces those responsible for state security to seek less risky means, which naturally encourages externalizing the burden of confrontation (Krieg and Rickli 2019, 39–50). Mearsheimer and Walt make a similar, if less theoretical, point. In their view, as mentioned above, proxy use is a function of growing instability driven by increasingly assertive regional state and non-state actors that can better challenge global powers, coupled with an American public that will not likely endorse large-scale military commitments. As Krieg and Rickli pointed out, if governments cannot mobilize the people, they

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must find another way to address security concerns. Thus, they argue, these conditions have motivated the U.S. government to rely more on regional partners “to uphold the balance of power in their own neighborhood” (Mearsheimer and Walt 2016). Thus, the United States is better positioned to balance power globally. The current conflict in Ukraine exemplifies these points. As of this writing, 64% of Americans see Russia as an enemy (Poushter 2023); however, only 32% see Russia’s invasion of Ukraine as a threat to the United States. Moreover, as many as 28% believe the United States provides too much aid to the Ukrainians (Cerda 2023). Whatever one thinks about the justice and sufficiency of U.S. support for Ukraine, these poll numbers suggest that direct intervention is not politically sustainable, especially as the conflict becomes even more protracted. Interestingly, these poll results are similar to those taken at World War II’s outset. After Germany invaded Poland in September 1939, a Gallup poll indicated that while 58% of Americans supported providing military assistance to England, France, and Poland, 86% opposed sending U.S. forces to participate in the conflict. Interestingly, that unwillingness prevailed despite most Americans opposing any appeasement, where England, France, and Poland would trade territory for peace (Reinhart 2019). It should thus be no surprise that World War II started as a proxy war for the United States since the public saw Germany as a threat but was unwilling to take it on themselves. That opinion changed after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. In a mid-December 1941 Gallup poll that asked whether the United States should declare war on Germany and Japan, public support was 90% (Cantril 1951, 1173). Thus, absent a direct attack by the Russians on U.S. soil—or something of similar gravity—it is unlikely the current conflict in Ukraine will mobilize the passions of the American people to resort to war, despite the fact they agree that Russia is an enemy at about the same rate as their predecessors did about Germany. That limits the direct intervention the United States and its NATO allies can reasonably engage in while increasing Ukraine’s utility as a proxy to confront Russian provocations. In what follows, I will analyze cases that involve some level of great power involvement undertaken in the current post-Cold War conditions. I will first describe the interaction in terms of the features articulated in Chapter 1 regarding the nature of proxy relationships: (1) the existence of a principal-agent relationship with indirect benefit to the principal, (2) alignment of interest, and (3) control. With this description in mind,

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I will then describe how actors in the relationships conformed to the requirements of international law and the Just War Tradition and manage any resulting moral hazard. This analysis is not intended to bea comprehensive or even final judgment regarding these proxy relationships. Each case is sufficiently complex that a complete analysis would be beyond the scope of this discussion. Instead, the discussion below is intended to illustrate the application of these standards and serve as a starting point for further ethical analysis.

Great Power Competition in Africa While Africa today is very different than the Africa of the Cold War, it remains an arena for great power competition. The civil wars of the post-colonial period have ended; however, in some cases, they have been replaced by growing Islamist insurgencies, such as in Nigeria, Mali, and Burkina Faso, or internal power struggles, which have resulted in coups or civil war, such as in Sudan, Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), Niger, and Gabon (Campbell and Quinn 2021; Al Jazeera 2023; ACSS 2023; CFR 2023). Moreover, tensions between Burundi, Rwanda, and Uganda risk expanding into a proxy war in the Great Lakes Area as they each sponsor violent opposition groups that operate out of safe areas in the DRC (ICG 2020). However, while proxy warfare among African states may proliferate, proxy wars between great power competitors so far have not. This has not been for lack of effort by those powers to increase their influence. China has strengthened its economic and security cooperation with several African countries, especially in West Africa. For the most part, its interests are to gain access to resources, increase trade, and expand its influence. For the most part, security cooperation has been focused on maritime capabilities. In Nigeria, for example, it focuses on combatting piracy and securing energy infrastructure. It has already established a naval base in Djibouti and seeks to establish a military hub in Equatorial Guinea (Bociaga 2022; Miller 2022). More recently, China has promised more security cooperation with the African Union, though, at the time of this writing, it is not clear how extensive that will be (Xinhua 2023). China has also tried to increase its share of the African arms market. At the turn of the last century, China could not export state-of-the-art weapons systems, so it sought to open markets to its small arms manufacturers by selling to poor, underdeveloped, and fragile states, many of

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which were in Africa. The resulting sales contributed to the spread of violence, especially in Sudan and Zimbabwe (Taylor and Wu 2013, 458– 459). Chinese weapons have also been used in conflicts in Ivory Coast, Sudan, and Somalia (CSIS 2021). By 2022, China had 9.8% of the African arms market, compared to Russia’s 40% and the United States’ 16%. China has had more success in sub Saharan Africa, with 18% of the arms market, representing a significant drop from 29% in 2013 (SIPRI 2023). Despite this decline, China’s defense export company, NORINCO, has opened an office in Senegal and has plans to open offices and maintenance facilities in Ivory Coast and Mali in a bid to replace the French, whose influence has waned in recent years (Seibt 2023). On the economic front, China has signed 46 nations to the Belt and Road Initiative and established 10,000 commercial enterprises in African countries, generating $180 billion in revenues. In fact, by 2017, China had become Africa’s largest economic partner, with robust economic ties with South Africa and Ethiopia and close ties with Kenya, Nigeria, and Tanzania (Tanchum 2021; Jayaram et al. 2017). Between military and commercial ties, China does stand to increase its influence in Africa, which could set conditions for proxy conflict. However, it must be made clear that China and its potential proxies’ interests align well enough to sustain one against a peer competitor like the United States. While China’s partners in Africa may benefit from Chinese assistance, many also receive assistance from the United States. For example, the United States and Nigeria have long-standing security cooperation in combatting terrorism (U.S. Department of State 2022). Given the extent of U.S. assistance, it is unlikely that Nigeria would involve itself in a proxy war that would force it to choose sides between the United States and China. China’s extensive relations in Africa could enable it to instigate a proxy war to control non-aligned actors where there is a vital interest involved. There is some evidence China encouraged Somalia to attack Somaliland when the latter recognized Taiwan and signed an extensive cooperation agreement with them (Shattuck 2020; Rubin 2023). However, the evidence for this claim is largely circumstantial, so it would be premature to conclude that China did play a sponsoring role in causing the violence. Absent a clear example of a China-sponsored proxy war in Africa, it is difficult to tell how China would control a proxy. For the most part, China places few conditions on its lethal assistance. That makes it an attractive sponsor, especially for states not allowed to purchase weapons

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from Western sources (Taylor and Wu 2013, 460). Where a proxy’s policies or activities might not align with China’s interest, it could also employ economic controls, mainly where a proxy’s economy depended on trade with China. Economic coercion, in fact, has been a critical aspect of China’s foreign policy to confront competitors. Generally, Beijing employs informal, deniable measures such as the selective implementation of domestic regulation, increased customs inspections, and information operations that encourage boycotts (Harrell et al. 2018). Such measures would allow them to avoid escalation and provide a proxy as an alternative to realignment. Like China, Russia’s interest in Africa is more about exporting security and influence than channeling influence into proxy action. At least so far. As mentioned above, Russia has significantly outpaced China and the United States in arms exports to Africa, even in sub Saharan Africa, where its share is 26% (SIPRI 2023). Moreover, Russia extends its influence through elite capture rather than broader bilateral relationships that address economic, trade, and other areas besides security. Where African leaders are under duress, Russia will provide a combination of political support and military assistance, as well as members of the Wagner group to secure the elite leadership and better enable them to defeat their opposition. Russia has used this approach in the Republic of Congo, Gabon, Mozambique, Madagascar, Zimbabwe, South Sudan, and Guinea (Siegle 2021). Elite capture allows for “control on the cheap,” as Russia only needs to consider what it takes to keep the elite in power to incentivize favorable national policy. The Wagner Group, formerly Russia’s primary proxy in the region, is a critical tool that does more than personal security. They have conducted combat operations in support of Russian partners, especially the Central African Republic, secured—and profited from gold and diamond mining, provided training, and conducted disinformation campaigns through its own “Internet Research Agency” and “Association for Free Research and International Cooperation” (Rampe 2023). However, its status as a proxy is now in question as the Russian Ministry of Defense announced that it is assuming control of Wagner operations in Africa after its failed “mutiny” earlier in the year (Assheton 2023). While Wagner Group’s presence and activities are not likely to change, Russia’s ability to maintain this influence is in question. Due to the war in Ukraine, Russian exports have slowed and are expected to increase significantly in the coming years (SIPRI 2023). It is possible, if not likely,

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that China could fill the gap Russia might leave. For example, international sanctions have limited Russia’s ability to fulfill its military assistance agreement with Nigeria, which China will likely fill (Mohseni-Cheraghlou and Aladekoba 2023, 13). For the United States, recent military cooperation with African states has primarily focused on combatting terrorism. For the most part, these interests line up well enough. To the extent an extremist organization is defeated or at least contained, there is little incentive to prolong or expand more than what is necessary. Much of this cooperation falls under the Trans-Sahara Counterterrorism Partnership (TSCTP), which includes Algeria, Burkina Faso, Cameroon, Chad, Libya, Mali, Mauritania, Morocco, Niger, Nigeria, Senegal, and Tunisia. This effort includes training and equipping as well as civil engagement to improve youth employment and local government services (U.S. Department of State 2023). While the United States has one permanent military base in Djibouti, it reportedly has approximately 6,500 troops stationed in Africa, 1,500 of which are in West Africa (Schogol 2023). With these troops, the U.S. pursues a “partner-led” strategy, enabling host-nation security forces to combat extremists (Schogol 2023). The United States also provides training, weapons, and intelligence to specific host-nation units to conduct operations against terrorist organizations that pose a mutual threat to the host and the United States (Turse and Speri 2022). Of all the supporting-supported relationships described here, these “by-with-and-through” arrangements with its African partners illustrate a principle-agent relationship where actors outside the sponsor’s constitutional organization conduct activities that indirectly benefit a sponsor. Given the proxy structure of these relationships, it would be reasonable to expect they are prone to the same moral concerns and hazards as proxy relationships in the past. Despite best efforts, many of these concerns have arisen. The U.S. counter-terrorism support in Africa has had tactical and operational success; however, extremist organizations still pose a significant threat in sub Saharan Africa (Townsend 2022). Moreover, this support has come under some criticism. Elizabeth Shackelford, Ethan Kessler, and Emma Sanderson from the Chicago Council on Global Affairs argue that U.S. military assistance to countries like Burkina Faso, Cameroon, and Ethiopia has exacerbated, rather than diminished, the spread of extremism. In Burkina Faso and Cameroon, U.S. military assistance enabled security forces to conduct abusive and indiscriminate military operations that

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facilitated extremist recruiting. In Ethiopia, U.S. military assistance exacerbated a civil war as both sides had access to U.S.-provided weapons (Shackelford et al. 2023, 11–13). California Representative Sarah Jacobs also captures these concerns in her critique of “military-focused” approaches to counterterrorism in Africa that ignore conditions for violent extremism. She points out that extremist violence in Africa has increased 300% in the last decade, often fueled by marginalization, poor government services, and corruption (Jacobs 2022). When the host nation responds to terrorism by attacking segments of populations experiencing those conditions, extremism typically wins. Since this criticism in 2022, the United States has broadened its approach to account for diplomatic and development needs associated with defense against terrorism. Referred to as the “3Ds,” this approach seeks to coordinate efforts by the Department of State, U.S. Agency for International Development, and Department of Defense to offer a more holistic approach to combatting violent extremism (DOD 2023). Whether it succeeds is too early to tell; however, it does seem to recognize many of the concerns proxy relationships can raise. Despite all the fuel, there has not been the kind of fire experienced during the great power proxy wars during the Cold War so far. Part of the reason for this is that Russia, China, and the United States are not trying to influence the same actors for the same things. Russia tends to have success in authoritarian states where elites control. China also tends to have success with authoritarian regimes but can broaden its appeal where it can undersell Western partners, who may provide assistance that is not only more expensive but comes with terms that restrict its utility. Thus, often, where Russia and China can succeed, the United States has limited interest or prospects for success. This limit is partially reflected in the fact that from 2010 to 2021, the United States arms exports only represented 5% of the sub Saharan market, where China represented 22% and Russia 24% (Mohseni-Cheraghlou and Aladekoba 2023, 12). Limited interest, however, does not entail any interest. Increased Russian and Chinese influence in Africa has enabled them to undermine democratic reforms, alleviate political isolation, create new markets to mitigate sanctions and expand global reach (Hudson 2023). Thus, the potential for great power proxy competition to renew remains high, especially if Africa becomes a venue tied more directly to great power interests.

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Asymmetric Power Competition in the Middle East In many ways, the Middle East is the epicenter of proxy conflict. Unlike Africa, proxy competition has enabled a not-so-great power, like Iran, to challenge its peer neighbors and greater powers like the United States. These proxy relationships have erupted into proxy wars in Yemen, Syria, Iraq, and most recently Israel, which involve a highly complex array of competing and cooperating actors that have prolonged these conflicts beyond what local interests would have likely sustained. In what follows, I will discuss the proxy wars in Yemen and Iraq to illustrate how twentyfirst-century proxy relationships enable competition between strong and weak actors in ways that increase and sustain instability. Doing so should demonstrate how changes in policy and approach can shape support for proxies fighting causes that raise opportunities for favorable conflict termination.

The Yemen Civil War The Yemeni Civil War began amid widespread protests in late July 2014 over the government’s reduction of fuel subsidies, undertaken to increase funds available for development projects and social services (Salisbury 2014). In response, members of the Houthi tribe, who also represent a Zaidi Shia Islamist political group, organized massive protests intended to force the resignation of Prime Minister Mohammed Salem Basindwa and gain inclusion in the government, which they did not have at the time (Ghobari 2014). After negotiations with the government failed, Houthis seized the presidential palace in January 2015, leading Yemeni President Abd Rabbu Mansour Hadi to resign. In March, Saudi Arabia intervened on behalf of the ousted Yemeni government and attempted to isolate the Houthis economically. It also conducted air strikes against Houthi targets, with logistical and intelligence support from the United States. The Saudis and Houthis eventually reached a cease-fire, brokered by the United Nations, in April 2022. Despite the fact the cease-fire has expired, neither has renewed fighting at the time of this writing. Meanwhile, the renewal of diplomatic relations between Saudi Arabia and Iran in April 2023 has given hope the cease-fire will endure (CFR 2023). The Yemeni Civil War ended up comprising multiple layers of proxy relationships. At one level, Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates

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(UAE) supported disparate anti-Houthi groups, while the Houthis received support from Iran. This description belies a more complex reality. While the Houthis portrayed their fight as one against Saudi Arabia and the UAE, casting pro-government forces as proxies, at the local level, many Yemenis saw the Houthis as an invader and their fight as defensive (Baron and al-Hamdani 2022, 220). For the Houthi’s part, Iran probably had little to do with their decision to attack the Yemeni government; however, their use of Iranian-made weapons suggests Iran sees benefit in supporting their fight, especially against the Saudis. Houthis frequently, in fact, fired Iranian-made missiles into Saudi Arabia apparently aimed at critical infrastructure (Borger and Wintour 2017) (Al Jazeera 2022). A 2020 UN report also showed that Houthis received weapons from Iran, which they used to attack a Saudi Aramco refinery (Nadimi 2020). Al Qaeda in Yemen also took advantage of the chaos and portrayed its cause as one against foreign sponsors in general while itself as a locally rooted group defending Yemen (Baron and al-Hamdani 2022, 221). At the great power level, the United States has provided Saudi Arabia with logistic, intelligence, and maintenance support and sales of weapons and ammunition. The United States benefits from this support as Saudi operations in Yemen help to contain Iranian influence, prevent a proIranian government from taking hold in Yemen, and ensure it has permission to continue its counter-terror operations. At the time, this support also incentivized Saudi support for other U.S. diplomatic efforts, especially the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action intended to limit Iran’s ability to develop nuclear weapons (Kahan 2016; Riedel 2016). These relations fit the definition of a proxy relationship employed here. For Saudi Arabia, UAE, Iran, and the United States, the supported actors’ activities provided indirect benefits, even if they retained autonomy. It is unclear that interests with their respective proxies aligned well for Saudi Arabia and the UAE. For example, anti-Houthi groups supported by Saudi Arabia and UAE often fought among themselves and against Houthis. As Adam Baron and Raiman al-Hamdani point out, over time, local authorities operated more independently and more isolated from what was happening in the rest of the country. As a result, they prioritized local agendas over that of the government (Baron and al-Hamdani 2022, 228). The Iran-Houthi relationship is better aligned. Iran obtained an indirect benefit as long as the Houthis were fighting and would have certainly

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benefited from a reduction in Saudi, and by extension, U.S. influence had the Houthis succeeded in controlling the Yemeni government. U.S. and Saudi interests also seemed relatively well aligned. The Saudis’ interest in preventing the existence of a hostile neighbor aligns with U.S. interests to curb Iranian influence. In both cases, achieving one achieved the other. Control, in this case, is more complicated. Looking at just the U.S.-Saudi relationship, which is the only relationship for which there is any reliable information, Saudi air strikes reportedly killed more than 9000 civilians, according to the Armed Conflict Location and Event Data Project. In response, in 2016, the United States stopped sales of precision-guided munitions while still providing refueling and maintenance support. The United States also offered advisors and added training on International Humanitarian Law and avoiding civilian casualties. It also used its targeting support to provide alternatives that reduced civilian casualties. When Saudi airstrikes continued to result in high civilian casualties, the United States stopped refueling operations. In 2020, the United States also stopped “offensive support” and limited sales primarily to airto-air missiles and ground-based air defense systems (Stewart and Strobel 2016; Sohyun-Lee et al. 2022; Stewart 2018). Jus ad bellum: Just cause does not permit overthrowing a minimally just government, and there is no indication that the Yemeni government did not meet those standards within its abilities. While the reduction of fuel subsidies may have been mishandled, if the government intended to divert money to development programs, it was not rights-violating. On that basis alone, the Iran-Houthi proxy relationship would not meet the ethical standards described here. On the other hand, Saudi Arabia has a plausible cause for intervening: countering an unjust Iranian intervention. Without that prior Iranian intervention, the Saudi’s support for the Yemeni government may have violated Yemenis’ right to selfdetermination, even though a Houthi victory, even without Iranian support, may have placed a hostile neighbor on its border (Laub 2016). The point here is that as long as the conflict was internal to Yemen, military intervention on behalf of one side or the other would violate the other party’s rights. But causes must be both necessary and proportionate. As the sponsor in this case, the U.S. has been sensitive to limiting the scope of its involvement to the goals of counter-intervention and security of the Saudi borders. Thus, to the extent the Saudi counter-intervention was justified,

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U.S. support is likely as well, as long as it moderates the Saudi response regarding its war aims and the means it has chosen to prosecute it. Moral Hazard: Saudi Arabia primarily relied on air strikes to disrupt Houthi operations and support pro-government forces on the ground. These strikes reportedly killed over 4,000 Yemeni civilians and struck hospitals and schools (Ryan 2016). While jus in bello does not prohibit operations that cause unintended civilian casualties, it does require that they be proportionate to the military objective and that belligerents employ means that can adequately discriminate between combatants and non-combatants. The Saudis have acknowledged these requirements and have attributed the civilian casualties to targeting errors or have claimed Houthi forces had occupied those buildings (CBS News 2015). I do not intend to adjudicate these competing claims here. Even if one takes the Saudi response at face value, their failure—whether due to capability or intent—is a dirty hands problem for the United States (Motaparthy 2016). If one further accepts that the Saudi and its proxy’s cause is just, the United States would need first to determine if the harm of a potential Saudi failure entails a greater injustice than the future violations they are likely to commit. If that answer is yes, then Saudi leadership should commit to reducing violations and holding previous violators accountable. As the example of El Salvador suggests, where accountability involves overcoming cultural and organizational norms, it will take time and likely require considerable external pressure. This point, in part, is why sponsors must take additional measures to limit violations. Whether one accepts that the good obtained by realizing the Saudi’s cause outweighed its inconsistent ability to abide by jus in bello norms depends on several factors not possible to assess here fully. For the United States part, the White House rejected a Congressional effort to end military assistance to Saudi Arabia over concerns that it would disrupt peace negotiations (Widakuswara 2022). To the extent that withdrawal of U.S. support would have given the Houthis and their Iranian sponsors reason to believe they could win—and thus not negotiate—this is a plausible rationale for continued support, though it is not a plausible rationale to maintain pressure on the Saudis to reduce civilian harm caused by their operations. Absent such a rationale, one could also consider the alternative of withdrawal of support for Saudi armed forces. Under that alternative, one should consider a Houthi victory’s likelihood and its moral consequences. If a Houthi victory is unlikely, then one should consider whether

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that would contribute to an intractable and unending civil war or make a cease-fire or other peaceful alternatives more likely. If the latter, then continued support would not be permitted. For the consequences of a Houthi victory to obligate withdrawal of support, it would have to result in a Yemeni government more representative than the previous one. As noted above, Saudi leaders did make commitments to upholding jus in bello norms. Accountability for prior violations, however, has yet to be apparent. Responsibility, however, may not necessarily entail a war crimes trial, especially if the source of the violations is poor capabilities or competence. Even if those were the case, at a minimum, one should expect a transparent investigation whose results are public. Should the investigation place the blame on poor capabilities, there should be decreased use of those capabilities commensurate with self-defense and positive steps to acquire more discriminate and proportionate ones. To the extent it places blame on incompetence, then one should expect actions such as removing leaders from their positions or training for combatants so that they are better able to avoid violations. As noted above, the United States did provide better targeting alternatives, training on preventing civilian casualties, and conditioned assistance on improvement. The Houthis are also guilty of war crimes and other violations. According to Human Rights Watch 2019 Yemen country report, Houthis have conducted indiscriminate artillery attacks against the towns of Taiz and Hodeida and have planted land mines in areas that endanger civilians. In places they control, they have also engaged in arbitrary detention, torture, and forced disappearances (Human Rights Watch 2020). The Houthis have also conducted indiscriminate missile and drone attacks against Saudi and Emirati civilian targets (Holleis and Knipp 2022). The fact of these violations does not in any way justify violations by the Saudis. However, they do underscore the utility of more robust and enforceable norms governing proxy relationships. These violations would, moreover, support the view that a Houthi victory would lead to a much less stable and rights-respecting government that could justify support for the Saudis as long as all other conditions were met. Although the Houthis may operate independently of Iranian direction, their crimes also implicate Iran. Even if Iranian weapons were not used in attacks that violated jus in bello norms—and as noted above, there is good evidence that they have been—to the extent they enabled Houthis to fight, they play a causal role in those violations.

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Diffusion is also a problem for both the United States and Iran. For the United States, that diffusion is less direct. Saudis have supported their proxy groups in Yemen, who have become dependent on funds extorted at checkpoints, weapons smuggling, and other illicit means. This funding is lucrative enough that rival local groups fight over the territory needed to conduct these activities. As a result, the resulting local rivalries make a national solution more difficult (Baron and al-Hamdani 2022, 223). Post-conflict, these local militias will likely make any government attempts to reassert the monopoly on the use of force more difficult. For Iran, Houthis have used Iranian-supplied weapons to attack targets that Iran may not have intended, as may have been the case when Houthis fired missiles at the USS Mason that, had it been successful, could have led to increased U.S. intervention (Stewart 2016; Nevola 2023).

Iranian-Backed Proxies in Iraq As is well-known, Iran’s use of proxies is not limited to the Houthis. Likely more than most, Tehran’s security strategy relies significantly on proxies to avoid direct conflict, most notably with the United States, Saudi Arabia, and Israel. With Iranian support, for example, Hezbollah has played a dominant role in Lebanese politics while maintaining the independence and capability to attack Israeli and U.S. targets (CRS 2023). Iran’s use of proxies in Iraq also allows them to create a façade of non-interference. Groups currently backed include In Iraq, Kitab Hizballah, Asab Ahl al Haq, Harakat Hezbollah al-Nujabah, the Badr Corps, and Kataib Sayyad al Shuhada, all of whom are also aligned with political parties that allow them to mediate government attempts to control their activity (Lane 2023; Knights 2023). Even though dependent on Iran for support, many of these militias integrated into the ISF in 2016 as members of the Popular Mobilization Forces (PMF), which are constitutionally a part of Iraq’s armed forces (Ahram 2011, 88–94; Egel et al. 2023). Despite now having a constitutional relationship with the Iraqi government, the responsiveness of these militias to Iranian interests demonstrates a principal-agent relationship. For example, Iran-backed militias have suppressed anti-Iranian protests, conducted attacks against U.S. facilities, and intimidated Iraqi citizens and politicians, including the Prime Minister (Malik 2020). This responsiveness suggests their interests are generally well aligned. Iran’s interest is ensuring Iraq does not become a hostile state, as it did

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under Saddam, and driving out U.S. forces from the region (Robinson 2022). A secondary benefit from realizing these interests would be the ability to move material to support its proxies in the Levant by land, where its movement would be more challenging to detect (Clawson et al. 2018). These interests align well with its proxies’ who use Iranian support to enhance their power and influence, which, in turn, makes them better proxies (Smith and Knights 2023). Due to this alignment, Iran seems to have reasonably good control over these proxies (al-Qassab 2019). For example, despite widespread anger at Iran and its proxies in Iraq, these militias conducted over 500 attacks against Coalition targets, Turkish bases in northern Iraq, and Iraqis engaged in what they consider “un-Islamic” activities (Nevola 2023). After Saddam’s overthrow in 2003, Shia militias began to play a dominant role in Iraq’s governance. Excluded from participating in Iraqi politics when Saddam was in power and exiled to Iran and elsewhere in the Middle East, these militias exploited the opportunity the American-led invasion and subsequent disbanding of the Iraqi Armed Forces afforded. In this vacuum, these militias assumed security and other public sector responsibilities and established their members in positions of power in the new Iraqi government’s institutions, especially Iraq’s security services (Ahram 2011, 88–91). Initially, many of these paramilitary organizations provided personnel for Iraq’s developing security services and, in some cases, even sought integration into Iraq’s military and police forces (Pfaff 2008). These militias have a long history of corruption, criminal activity, and abuse (al-Omran 2019). Even when their activities align with Iraqi needs, as they did against ISIS after the seizure of Mosul in 2014, they conduct operations in a way designed to increase Iranian influence. For example, in Sunni-dominated areas liberated by these militias during the campaign against ISIS, hundreds of men and boys have disappeared, and scores of others have been executed (Amnesty 2017). The fact these militias have not been held accountable for these killings amplifies their ability to intimidate others who might oppose them. These activities further exacerbated Iraq’s disunity, which fueled violent opposition from all factions (Hashim 2006, 386–387). Jus ad bellum: As mentioned above, Iran employs proxies as part of its overall security strategy. When that strategy aims at ensuring no hostile forces on its border, whether Iraqi or American, it is understandable, if not justifiable. While the reasons for hostility are morally

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relevant, ensuring border security is something all states do. Thus, adversarial actors should consider the other’s basic security requirements when considering courses of action. To the extent escalation is unwarranted, provocation would be unethical. So, while there may be good arguments that the Iranian regime fails the standard of minimum justice, deterring or defending itself against external threats is expected. Since it is expected, the United States and Iraq are responsible for ensuring any provocation is warranted, just as Iran must ensure measures it takes to defend its borders are appropriately discriminate and proportional. However, another way to understand Iranian-proxy roles in Iraq is their role in state formation. New, weak governments in developing states often rely on local proxies to play an essential role in state formation. Allowing this role, however, can include ceding some of the state’s monopoly on force in exchange for these group’s willingness to restore or maintain order on the state’s behalf. In Indonesia, for example, the government employed militias established by occupying Japanese forces as a home guard to centralize control gradually. Even after achieving relative stability and order, the government relied on these militias to maintain order and ensure Communist or secessionist groups could not challenge it for control of the country (Ahram 2011, 30–43). This model is not unlike how Iran and the Iraqi government have employed militias. Shia and Sunni militias, the latter under the “Sons of Iraq” program, were used to fight Sunni extremists before the U.S. departure in 2011 (Rayburn and Sobchak 2019, 216). After ISIS seized Iraqi territory in 2014, Iran-backed militias fought alongside the ISF as Popular Mobilization Forces until they were assimilated in 2016. However, in the case of the Iran-backed militias, their responsiveness to Iranian control and willingness to suppress peaceful opposition to Iranian influence violated Iraq’s right to self-determination. Coupled with the measures they employ, even when acting on behalf of the Iraqi government, that marginalized significant elements of the Iraqi demographic, their use was not likely proportional even relative to the requirements of state formation. Moral Hazard: As the Indonesian experience suggests, proxy use in state-building is fraught with moral hazard, even when an external power does not manipulate them. Not only can their competing interests perpetuate violence, but ensuring their loyalty can lead to waste, fraud, and abuse as militia leaders use government patronage for personal ends (Ahram 2011, 14–15). So, in the chaotic aftermath of Saddam’s

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fall, it may be understandable that the Iraqi government empowered Shia and Sunni militias to fill resulting security requirements. Doing so, however, empowered competition for the monopoly of force, created space for malign external influence, and established a pattern of patronage and corruption that has resulted in a weakened security establishment, undermining the government’s legitimacy. The risk these militias represented to Iraqi state formation was not lost on Iraqi government leaders or U.S. officials who participated in Iraq’s recovery and reconstruction. As early as 2004, the Coalition Provisional Authority attempted to demobilize these militias or bring them under Ministries of Defense or Interior control. However, the political parties associated with these militias had little interest in fully surrendering control of these forces to a ministry where they may not have a decisive voice (Ahram 2011, 89). Given that these ministries were as much under the control of these parties as they were in control of these militias, integration did not succeed, and Iraq’s militias continued to increase and pursue their own security and political agendas. Simply constituting an additional armed force does not entail a moral hazard. However, the militias’ independence has allowed them to metastasize into what Huseyn Aliyev refers to as “state-parallel” militias, which are characterized not just by freedom from, but also superiority over, a state’s conventional military forces as well as an indispensability to state survival which lifts them beyond the state’s control. These characteristics allow these militias to function “in parallel” to the state government and determine when and how they will use force in their defense (Aliyev 2016, 499–512). This parallel function is not inherently malicious or destabilizing; however, the Iran-backed militias in the PMF have reportedly committed widespread abuses against Sunni populations in areas it has liberated from the Islamic State. As mentioned above, these militias’ fight against the Islamic State has been “marred by war crimes and other violations of international humanitarian law and human rights law, mostly against members of the Sunni Arab community, including extrajudicial executions and other unlawful killings, torture and deliberate destruction of civilian homes and property” (Amnesty International 2017, 11). More recently, they have intimidated or killed protestors, many of whom were Shia (Egel et al. 2023, 34). Their independence from Iraqi Security Forces has made it difficult for the U.S. to leverage its support to prevent these abuses;

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however, the government’s association with PMF and the PMF’s association with Iran-backed militias will likely prove a significant impediment to the kind of national reconciliation required to stabilize Iraq. Though the U.S. is not directly supporting any element of the PMF, their presence also presents the U.S. with both a diffusion and a dirty hands problem. As Amnesty International also reports, the PMF’s relationship with the Iraqi security ministries has allowed it access to U.S. weapons and equipment for which the Iraqi government can no longer fully account for nor oversee and which have reportedly been used in instances of abuse described above (Amnesty 2017, 11). Thus, Iran’s unethical use of proxies poses an ethical problem for the United States as it considers balancing its interests in supporting Iraq’s counter-terrorism efforts with how it can enable Iran’s destabilizing activities.

Proxy War in Europe: The Epic of Ukraine As mentioned at the outset, Russian Foreign Minister Lavrov pejoratively described Ukraine as a U.S. proxy. In doing so, he hoped to portray the United States as cynically exploiting pro-Western factions in Ukraine to advance U.S. interests at the expense of the Ukrainian people. His polemic omits the proxy war in Ukraine that began with the Russian intervention in 2014. Then, the Russian military provided weapons, equipment, and special operations forces to disrupt Ukraine’s growing relationship with the European Union. So, as the analysis in the previous chapters has shown, proxy relationships describe a principle-agent relationship whose structure entails the risk of moral failure and hazard, even among well-intentioned actors. Given that one can address and manage these risks, there are better and worse ways to engage in these supporting relationships. In what follows, I will compare the Russian support for Ukrainian separatists with the United States’ and NATO’s support for Ukraine’s government. In doing so, it should become apparent how vital an ethical framework for proxy relationships is not just to limit the opportunities for proxy conflict but also, when that fails, minimize the harm they cause.

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Russian Support for Separatists in Ukraine (2014) In 2014, Russia conducted a proxy war in Ukraine that enabled it to seize Crimea and establish a foothold in the east that it later exploited to annex provinces in the Donbas after its 2022 invasion. Russia’s proxy intervention was prompted by the ousting of Ukraine’s pro-Russian leadership after widespread protests over its decision to reject a deal for more economic integration with the European Union, in what was referred to as the “Maidan Revolution” (CFR 2023). In response, Russia covertly employed special operations forces to support pro-Russian separatist militias under the pretext of their poor treatment under the new, pro-Western government (Rauta 2016, 91–111). In Crimea, Russia held a referendum regarding integrating back into Russia, which was won by an overwhelming majority. After the referendum and its ratification by the Crimean parliament, Russia overtly deployed forces to secure the territory (Walker 2023, 4–5). Jus ad bellum: As mentioned in Chapter 1, the Just War Tradition’s success lies in that it is often the tribute vice pays to virtue. It may be that Putin’s irredentism fully accounts for his intervention decisions; however, even in authoritarian states, moral reasons matter. When people believe the risks and sacrifices they are called on to make serve a higher purpose, they are likelier to make them. It is thus no coincidence Putin had to raise the specter of Nazi resurgence when describing his cause for war in 2022. While such cynical appeals are easy to dismiss, they illustrate the power moral language has to insulate actors from criticism and isolation. Unsurprisingly, even U.S. allies like India, Saudi Arabia, and the UAE have not joined U.S. sanctions against Russia (Katz 2022). In 2014, Putin offered three primary reasons Russia supported what he portrayed as indigenous separatist movements: protection of nationals, intervention by invitation, and the principle of self-determination. Each of these reasons has some precedent in international law. Rescue of extra-territorial nationals, for example, can be partly assimilated into selfdefense under Article 51 or as an exemption under Article 2, paragraph 4 of the UN Charter. Both of these articles would recognize self-defense as a justification where there is an ongoing or imminent attack against a state’s territory or military bases and units abroad but is less clear about nationals residing in another country unless it crosses a threshold where the scale of the attack constitutes an attack on the state (Marxsen 2014, 372–373). The United States, for example, invoked the defense of

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nationals as part of its rationale for the invasions of Grenada and Panama in the 1980s (Gray 2008, 158). However, such a justification requires (1) the lives of state citizens are at risk on the territory of another state; (2) the other state is unwilling or unable to protect those citizens; and (3) there must be no other nonviolent way to rescue those citizens (Marxsen 2014, 374). Given these conditions, there are several problems with the Russian position. First, whatever Putin’s actual reasons, there is a difference between being a Russian national and being a Russian citizen. Even if one accepted that Russian nationals were Russian citizens, the law requires they be under threat of violence. Differences over political rights, unless they threaten basic rights, would not qualify. Finally, given that Putin did not seem to try a peaceful alternative, he likely fails that condition unless one can demonstrate that there was not one. Putin has a more plausible claim when he argues that Russian forces were invited to intervene by ousted President Viktor Yanukovych. Yanukovych was not ousted in accordance with the Ukrainian constitution. After he fled Ukraine, he requested Russian intervention, though he later claimed to regret that decision. Because he fled, Yanukovych’s status as leader of Ukraine was in question. Having abandoned his position, whatever one thinks about the new government’s legitimacy, Yanukovych was no longer in charge and thus did not have the staendings to make the request (Marxsen 2014, 375). One can also see where intent can be applied as a condition of jus ad bellum. Even if one accepts that Yanukovych had standing when he made the invitation, any subsequent Russian intervention should have been designed to put his government back in power, not, as what happened, annex territories. This fact raises another point regarding alternatives Russia had a legal obligation to consider. Not only did Putin’s positive justifications fail, but he also had a negative obligation to respect Ukrainian territory and sovereignty beyond those specified in the UN Charter. In 1994, Russia, the United States, and the United Kingdom committed to respecting Ukrainian sovereignty, given the border at the time in exchange for Ukraine signing the Nuclear Non-Proliferation pact and removing nuclear weapons from its territory (UN 1994, 169–170; Marxsen 2014, 370). The 1997 Treaty on Friendship, Cooperation, and Partnership between Ukraine and Russia also affirmed the borders established in 1994, including Crimea as a part of Ukraine (UN 1997, 147–149). Regarding these treaties, Putin

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argued that given regime change, and he was no longer bound by these treaties. Under international law, however, revolutionary change does not necessarily count as discontinuity of government (Marxsen 2014, 371). Moreover, acknowledging that the government had changed Putin technically would undermine Yanukovych’s status as head of state, undermining the case Russia was legally invited to intervene. In addition to the reasons above, Putin also stated that NATO expansion was part of why he annexed Crimea in 2014, which, if nothing else, provided access for Russian naval forces to the Black Sea. From the Russian perspective, the West has exploited Russia’s post-Cold War weakness and pushed its influence eastward—at Russia’s expense. Moreover, they have found this expansion as humiliating as it is troubling. In this context, the Russians typically view actions that Western powers might see as benign, if not beneficial, as part of a more significant effort, driven mainly by the United States, to force regime changes in its favor. Thus, in context, the color revolutions that installed pro-Western regimes in Georgia, Kyrgyzstan, and Ukraine appear to Russians as thriving “gray zone” warfare on the part of NATO and the United States that should be resisted (Hughes 2014c, 107; Cordesman 2014). In the Russian view, the United States conducts proxy engagements that follow a predictable pattern. First, Western media outlets create dissent, which results in the growth of an organized political opposition. Second, Western states support that opposition in efforts to reform the government. These efforts force the government to take harsh measures to suppress the opposition, which spirals depending on the opposition’s resilience. The United States then uses the fact of these extreme measures to justify the imposition of sanctions and, on some occasions like Syria and Libya, military intervention. Eventually, the government collapses, allowing the United States to install a pro-Western regime. While such a view may be better understood as a Russian projection than a deliberate strategy, that point is generally lost when Russia’s former clients realign with the West (Gerasimov 2016) (Bartles 2016, 31–33). Even if one accepts the accuracy of this view, partner realignment is not a just cause for war, much less a proxy war. As discussed in Chapter 1, partners realign when the value of a partnership falls below a certain threshold. The ethically appropriate response should be to raise the threshold of realignment by providing benefits rather than imposing costs. While failing just cause arguably makes applying the other jus ad bellum conditions irrelevant, a brief discussion of Russia’s use of covert forces

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and the legitimacy of the separatist forces may be worthwhile. As previously discussed, it may be permissible to keep a proxy relationship secret under the conditions that (1) making it public undermines the proxy’s just cause and (2) it is subject to oversight that allows the public, even if through their representatives, to weigh in on the value of the relationship. Regarding the latter, it is impossible to adequately assess to what extent oversight organizations or processes are designed with the public interest in mind. To the extent these processes conflate government interest with the public’s, they would not likely meet this condition. The separatists and their Russian sponsors may have a case regarding the former. If the legitimacy of the separatist cause depended on separatist forces in Crimea, Donetsk, and Luhansk originating as a local, independent movement, then Russia would have a case for secrecy. Legitimacy, as mentioned previously, depends further on separatists’ ability to (1) represent the population and (2) can govern according to standards of minimum justice, also mentioned earlier. Regarding the former, a Pew Research Center Poll in May 2014 indicated that while most eastern Ukrainians were not happy with the government in Kyiv, 70% wanted to keep the country intact, including 58% of ethnic Russians. The same poll recognized that over 90% of Crimeans believed the referendum formalizing their annexation to Russia was “free and fair” (Recknagel 2014; Pew Research Center 2014). So, there may be a case that Crimea meets the conditions of legitimacy described above. Regarding the latter condition, with Russian support, it seems clear that the separatists can govern in areas they control. Crimea, as noted above, has been formally annexed into Russia, which has provided ample administrative support and expertise, as the above polling suggests. The situation in eastern Ukraine appears to be different. As one account described, life in those provinces is like “a gulag,” where residents are subjected to frequent human rights abuses (Mirovalev 2022). These abuses make it reasonable to question how well they are representative, even if the population shares common complaints about Ukraine’s government. Moreover, to the extent the separatist government does not provide for or violates basic rights, it loses its legitimacy to govern. Other conditions could apply here as well. Grievances from Russianspeaking populations generally involve a desire for more local control because of concerns of corruption and power-sharing that pre-date the Maidan Revolution. The Maidan Revolution, however, did increase their sense of marginalization, exacerbating complaints over poor government

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services. Given that the majority of this population, however, still wanted to remain as part of Ukraine, separatists would fail the condition of last resort since it appears political solutions were either not tried or given a reasonable chance to succeed (Recknagel 2014). These grievances also do not seem to rise to gross human rights violations, so in addition to just cause, separatists also violated proportionality. Moral Hazard: As evidenced by the subsequent invasion in February 2022, escalation, at least from the Russian perspective, was arguably the most significant moral hazard. Between April 2014, one month after it annexed Crimea, and August 2014, Russia went from supporting separatists in Donbas to direct intervention by August. Even though they initially denied it, Russia sent battalion-sized forces to prevent the separatists’ defeat in Donetsk and Luhansk (Katchanovski 2016, 481). By September 1, 2014, Russia and Ukraine had signed the first Minsk Agreement, which implemented a cease-fire, invited international monitors, and called for an election to settle the status of Donetsk and Luhansk (Peace Agreements Data Base 2014). Unfortunately, the language of this agreement was vague, leaving much to fight about in its implementation. As a result, the conflict escalated, and in 2015, Russia and Ukraine agreed to another cease-fire under the Minsk 2 Agreement, which again imposed a cease-fire and tried to bring more clarity to the original agreement (Powirska 2022; Peace Agreements Data Base 2015). Neither side fully implemented the arrangements, nor the conflict again escalated when Russia invaded in February 2022, suggesting it needed to see a path to realizing its interests through proxies alone. This point further suggests that Russian and separatist interests did not align well enough to prevent escalation. Arguably, the separatists mainly had achieved theirs. They had effectively separated from the new government in Kyiv and established a path to self-governance if not integration into the Russian Federation. While Kyiv would have likely opposed that integration, it is not clear that they could have escalated militarily, under the assumption that if they could have defeated the separatists militarily, they would have done so. However, integrating Ukraine’s Russianspeaking population into Russia would not have prevented the Western part from drawing closer to the European Union. So, in December 2021, Putin demanded guarantees that Ukraine would not join NATO and that NATO forces would return to their 1997 boundaries, effectively leaving eastern European members undefended (Roth 2021). When

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those demands were not met, he ordered the Russian Army to invade in February 2022. This analysis only applies to Putin’s stated interests. The divergence issue would only gain significance to the extent he has a larger agenda. After the invasion, Ukrainian separatists ceased being proxies and eventually became Russians. Whether they will remain as Russians will depend on how well Ukraine’s armed forces, supported by NATO, can retake territory the Russian army has seized. In what follows, I will examine the relationship between the United States, NATO, and Ukraine to understand better how it raises moral concerns and suggest measures to address them.

U.S. and NATO Support for Ukraine Of the relationships examined, U.S. support for Ukraine is the only one where the supporting actor has a treaty obligation to intervene. As mentioned above, the 1994 Budapest Memorandum obligates the United States, United Kingdom, and Russia to respect Ukrainian sovereignty. When this sovereignty was violated by the Russian invasion in February 2022, however, the positive obligations expressed in the treaty were limited. According to the Memorandum, signatories must bring violations to the UN Security Council and consult with Ukraine regarding an appropriate response. So, any further obligation would only result from a UNSC resolution or an agreement with the Ukrainian government. Given Russia’s veto power on the council, any resolution would be improbable. This fact thus places a burden on at least the United States and the United Kingdom, if not NATO, to support Ukraine’s defense but it is less clear on how. As mentioned above, Russia’s invasion obligated the United States to consult with Ukraine regarding its defense. Given this formal obligation, the relationship may be better described as an alliance. However, the obligations under the treaty seem to fall short of the “all-for-one and one-for-all” alliance construct. While Russia poses a common threat, the nature of that threat differs for each actor. For Ukraine, the Russian threat is existential, given Putin’s apparent aim of seizing Kyiv and presumably installing a government that better aligns with Russia’s interests. For the United States and NATO, Russia is more of a destabilizing influence whose disruption of the international order threatens Eastern European allies andhas negatively impacted the global economy and food security

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(Courtney 2023). Though serious, such a threat would not count as existential. So, while perhaps technically an alliance, at least as the term has been used here, the fact that the United States and NATO have avoided direct conflict and benefitted indirectly from Ukraine’s resistance still raises concerns about sponsor cause, interest alignment, and moral hazard. At the outset of the conflict, the situation in Ukraine reflected the first proxy model discussed in Chapter 4, where it appeared to meet all jus ad bellum conditions without sponsor support. It had stopped the Russian invasion from advancing too far outside separatist-controlled areas and, as of this writing, had begun retaking territory (Adams 2023; Kullab 2023). However, as the conflict grinds on, concerns regarding the chances of Ukrainian success in retaking all its territory may place Ukraine in the third proxy model, where sponsor support is causally related to continued, possibly futile, and fighting. To the extent Ukraine depends on Western support, there are concerns regarding the nature and duration of that support that supporting actors should observe. While those treaty obligations permit the signatories flexibility in their response, it still puts them in a bind. While it does not seem likely that the United States or NATO would end their assistance in the short term, strains on these nations’ defense industries, increasing war-weariness, or higher priorities such as deterring China could force them to revise or end their support at a time and in a way detrimental to Ukraine’s cause. This point suggests that policymakers in the United States and Western Europe should consider these potential outcomes now and formulate measures that mitigate any negative impact. Jus ad Bellum: Given Russian aggression, U.S. and NATO support for Ukraine fits within the conditions of defense of another discussed in Chapter 1. The fact they may have additional interests in aiding Ukraine does not pose a unique moral concern. Those other interests are irrelevant as long as the intent behind that support provides for Ukraine’s defense. However, to the extent those other interests impact support in ways that diverge from Ukraine’s security, these supporting actors must consider whether that divergence is permissible. For example, reducing Russia’s capability for further aggression would count positively towards the proportionality of the conflict, the United States and NATO should weigh its benefit against the additional cost in terms of the destruction and death that continued fighting entails. Those

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deaths would arguably be unnecessary if excess risk and harm were unnecessary to restore Ukraine’s sovereignty. The point here is that even if Ukraine can reclaim all its territory, doing so may not reduce Russian military capabilities beyond the threshold where they can no longer aggress against other neighbors. That being the case, the United States and NATO must live with that gap or find alternative means to deter future aggression. One could argue that where continued fighting is disproportionate to expected gains, and one should cease hostilities. As the prior discussion regarding proportionality observed, there is no reliable way to compare the value of restoring Ukraine’s sovereignty or deterring future Russian aggression with the coming destruction that achieving those goals will entail. However, given the Ukrainian willingness to bear these costs, one could reasonably say continued fighting is not disproportionate and thus permissible to support, although there are additional costs the United States and NATO should consider when deciding whether that support is proportional. For the United States, its other interests—such as maintaining deterrence against China and avoiding escalation to direct war with Russia— force it to constantly make hard choices between increasing assistance, encouraging settlement, or abandoning Ukraine to its fate. Increasing assistance would increase the chances of Ukraine’s success but risk direct conflict with Russia and perhaps its use of nuclear weapons. Increasing assistance could also diminish the United States’ ability to deter other adversaries, like China, from their adventurism. While encouraging settlement would conserve those capabilities, it could embolden Russia to commit future aggression once its military recovers. Finally, other security interests and domestic pressures could place the United States in a position where further support is politically untenable. Moreover, as Alexander Motyl argues, a Russian military defeat could lead to the collapse of the Russian government. That may seem like welcome news, but the resulting instability could have significant adverse second and third-order effects, including an internal civil war and significant increases in energy prices (Motyl 2023). While those possibilities do not undermine Ukraine’s right to self-defense, Ukraine’s supporters should anticipate these outcomes and consider measures to mitigate their negative impact at the outset. The element of time further confuses the application of the proportionality condition. With the original decision to go to war, expected

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casualties and physical destruction count against the proportionality of a particular response. Once started, however, actual losses count positively in favor of continued fighting since to cease hostilities would mean that any resulting death and destruction was in vain (Fabre 2015, 125, 637). This confusion does not entail that one does not consider the costs of fighting at all. At some point, the destruction caused by fighting, especially in occupied areas, could exceed the benefit of liberation, rendering further military action self-defeating (Fabre 2015, 636–637). To paraphrase a famous quote no one ever said, it makes no sense to destroy the province to save it (Carter 2018). While establishing that point would be subjective and politically tricky, Ukraine and its supporting partners must also consider what that threshold would look like and what actions they should take to avoid crossing it. A reasonable chance of success is also difficult to assess. When Russia initially invaded, many observers believed Ukraine would quickly collapse. That did not happen (Lister 2023). Now that Ukraine has embarked on a counter-offensive, many observers again believe that Ukraine cannot retake much more of its territory (Haider 2023). There is more at stake, however, than retaking Ukrainian territory. Ending the war on any terms that make the Russians better off than when they started would likely incentivize future such aggression and set the stage for a renewal of hostilities once the Russians believe they have sufficiently recovered. If nothing else, Russia will be able to continue provoking Ukraine and NATO, leading to further instability, much as it did under the Minsk Accords (Socor 2015). So, to the extent that continued resistance prevents future aggression or provocation against Ukraine or elsewhere, it may be permitted even if its primary goal seems futile, as long as that resistance is proportional to this more limited cause. Moral Hazards: The most significant concern is again the potential for escalation. A senior advisor to Russian President Vladimir Putin stated that the war in Ukraine was effectively part of a broader war with the West, where Ukraine was just the “spearhead” (Fubini 2022). The concern here is two-fold. First is the possibility that a prospective Russian defeat could motivate Putin to expand the conflict to NATO countries and employ nuclear weapons to prevent an embarrassing loss that could lead to his ouster. Second, as the conflict escalates, NATO supporters could determine that continued support is no longer worth the risk and abandon Ukraine (Drezner 2022).

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As mentioned in the previous discussion, actors should anticipate the conflict will escalate and be prepared to bear those costs before any intervention. In the context of Ukraine, the most pressing concern is the potential use of nuclear weapons, whose use would be devastating, especially for Ukraine but likely for the global food security should their use preclude exporting Ukraine’s grain. While Putin would certainly not employ strategic nuclear weapons since doing so would make large parts of Ukraine uninhabitable, he has threatened the use of smaller systems to deter the United States and NATO from increasing their assistance to Ukraine (Kaushal and Cranny-Evans 2022). Even this use, however, could be more credible and capable. Ukraine has not massed forces enough to make higher-end tactical nuclear weapons useful, and conventional artillery and indirect weapons systems, including thermobaric bombs, are just about as effective as Russia’s smaller nuclear weapons and do not violate norms against nuclear weapons use (Alberque 2022). Moreover, any such use would likely make it easier to isolate Russia and undermine what international support it has. So not only would Russia probably be worse off, but Ukraine might be, in some ways, better off. This point does not mean Putin is out of escalatory options. For example, Russian forces attacked the Ukrainian power grid in response to Ukraine’s successful destruction of the Kerch bridge in Crimea, which links Crimea to Russia (Dana 2023). They have also conducted extensive attacks on civilian energy infrastructure and destroyed the Khakovka dam, causing significant environmental destruction (van den Berg 2022; Chernov and Hinnant 2023). The point here is that while Putin may stop short of using nuclear weapons, and the non-nuclear destruction he can cause suggests an enduring obligation to manage escalation. As with other conflicts, diffusion is also a concern in Ukraine. A Department of Defense Inspector General report released in June 2023 stated that some assistance going through Jasionka, Poland, needed adequate accountability (DODIG June 2023). Another report released in September 2023 found that inconsistent implementation of security controls left equipment vulnerable to theft or diversion (DODIG September 2023). While, as of this writing, U.S. and NATO weapons have not appeared outside the combat zone, Ukraine has been a source for illicit weapons transfers in the past. After the fall of the Soviet Union, for example, Ukraine lost accountability for approximately $32 billion

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in weapons and equipment, later found in Sierra Leone, Liberia, and Afghanistan (Stohl and Yousif 2022). So far, the problem of dirty hands has not been a major concern for NATO. Ukrainian forces are fighting for a just cause on their territory and currently appear to be exercising due care relative to civilian casualties. However, Ukrainian forces in the past have been accused of using indiscriminate weapons and committing abuses against civilians in Donbas when fighting separatists in 2014–2015 (CIVIC 2016, 15–19). More recently, the U.S. State Department’s 2022 Human Rights Practices Report on Ukraine states that Ukrainian forces have reportedly committed human rights abuses, including unlawful killings, forced disappearances, and torture, though nowhere near the scale of Russian troops (U.S. Department of State 2022; HRW 2022). Strictly speaking, there still needs to be accountability for those alleged crimes, especially if one expects similar accountability for the Russians. According to a March 2023 UN report on prisoner treatment by Ukraine and Russia, Ukrainian prosecutors have investigated some cases but have yet to take any to court (Keaten and Ritter 2023). Most of their attention appears directed at the more than 66,000 cases against Russian perpetrators (Sly 2023; van den Berg and Deutsch 2023). While this focus is certainly understandable, to avoid repeating the experiences of Nicaragua and El Salvador, U.S. and NATO officials should maintain pressure on Ukraine—and condition assistance if necessary—to prevent abuse and, failing that, investigate reported cases, and if they have merit, hold perpetrators accountable. Given the experience of Russian occupation, however, a Russian victory likely represents greater injustice than Ukrainian war crimes. So, the United States and NATO have some moral room to maneuver, so to speak, though even under these conditions the moral requirement for accountability does not go away. While U.S. and NATO support for Ukraine introduces features of proxy relationships, as long as that support aims at defeating Russian aggression, it offers little moral or legal concern. However, to the extent interests diverge—even if they are legitimate interests—the relationship dynamics could incentivize unnecessarily prolonging the conflict by making non-violent, if less optimal, alternatives less attractive. While such settlements might represent a compromise of justice, that compromise has to be weighed against the destruction and death obtaining a more optimal result would cause. Even where interests do not diverge, there is still concern regarding second and third-order effects associated

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with escalation, diffusion, and dirty hands that assistance can cause. The point here, however, is not to avoid such relationships but to establish, promulgate, and follow norms that treat partners respectfully, align interests with the greater good, and reduce the suffering wars inevitably bring.

Transnational Non-State Actors While non-state actors are frequently proxies, globalization has enabled the growth of transnational non-state actors (TNSA) who can also be sponsors. As noted above, it is a feature of the current polyarchic international order that some non-state actors can challenge states globally and, in effect, wage war. The most obvious example is ISIS, which has forged relations with groups in Pakistan, Egypt, Algeria, Libya, the Philippines, Lebanon, Indonesia, and Jordan and conducts attacks on their behalf (Zavadski 2014). Similarly, Al Qaeda, which IS used to be a part of, now applies a “franchise model” with many of the elements of a proxy relationship (Mendelsohn 2016, 71). Lebanese Hezbollah (LH) may also count as one such group. Hezbollah, an Iranian proxy that initially limited its operations to Lebanon, now sponsors its own groups (Cragin 2015, 314). ISIS In its efforts to expand its influence, ISIS offers three kinds of relationships. At one level, groups can adopt ISIS’s flag and other symbols without becoming subject to direct ISIS control. At the next level, groups can pledge loyalty and act on ISIS’s behalf without, again, submitting to ISIS leadership. The most committed make a formal declaration, more closely identifying themselves as ISIS allies. Affiliated groups are in Pakistan, Egypt, Algeria, Libya, Jordan, Philippines, Gaza, Lebanon, and Indonesia (Zavadski 2014). The first two models better fit the proxy model as ISIS indirectly benefits from promoting its brand, while affiliates gain whatever reputational benefit being affiliated with ISIS brings. The third level is more direct, where ISIS and affiliates benefit more directly. ISIS gains from resources and access the affiliate can provide, and affiliates gain not just access to funding and expertise but also increased visibility and prestige from being associated with ISIS and its global media outreach (Watts 2016; Byman 2016).

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Still, distance and the divergence inherent in regional differences create a principal-agent problem for ISIS because its occasional “lone wolf” approach to control exposes it to situations it had not planned. For example, an ISIS affiliate downed a Russian airliner over Egypt in 2015 without consulting ISIS leadership. The attack provoked Russia, which had previously limited its operations in Syria to the moderate opposition, to attack ISIS. These kinds of risks run both ways. When local Islamist groups pledge allegiance to ISIS or AQ, they draw the attention of U.S. counter-terrorism efforts, which they could have otherwise avoided. By making demands on resources, ignoring directives, and committing reputational damage when an affiliate conducts an unpopular attack, these affiliates create vulnerabilities the core group does not have (Byman 2016). Al Qaeda In 1998, Al Qaeda (AQ) established the World Islamic Front, a loose organization of like-minded groups where AQ’s leader, Osama bin Laden, could incite attacks on the United States and its interests. These attacks aimed to diminish U.S. presence in the region so that AQ could remove U.S.-supported regimes and re-establish the Islamic Caliphate. In 2003, after suffering setbacks from U.S. operations in the wake of 9/11, AQ abandoned this loose coalition in favor of a “franchise” model that allowed AQ to appear to expand while leveraging local grievances to mobilize global jihad (Mendelsohn 2016, 71–81). In this framing, Al Qaeda, as a sponsor, supplied credentials and an audience. At the same time, franchises broadened their appeal and reaffirmed their commitment as an enemy of corrupt regimes across the Muslim world. This exchange came at the cost of AQ’s strategic focus on the United States and reduced control over its brand image, which could be damaged when affiliates did not follow guidance. Bin Laden frequently admonished affiliates to proceed carefully when controlling territory and treat locals well. Where they failed to follow that guidance, as in Iraq, AQ lost (Byman and Williams 2015; ICG 2016). Such explicit association runs counter to the typical narrative of proxy warfare; however, due to the lack of organizational integration, the connection between Al Qaeda and the franchises is still fundamentally a sponsor-proxy relationship. Here, Al Qaeda provides resources to expand their scope in a way they were unwilling or incapable of doing themselves

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while attaining only limited control over the proxy actor, as illustrated above. Under this new model, AQ experienced many of the same issues raised in proxy relationships. While AQ likely intended to portray strength by exporting its brand in this way, the identification with local conflicts diluted its global message and dragged it into battles it hoped to avoid (Mendelsohn 2016, 81). Still, these affiliates have expanded AQ’s reach to Africa and South Asia. However, affiliates like Jubhat al Nusra (JN) in Syria and Al Qaeda on the Arabian Peninsula (AQAP) in Yemen are mired in a conflict not just by supported regimes but against other Islamic groups as well (ICG 2016). Lebanese Hezbollah With the help of Iran, Lebanese Hezbollah formed in the 1980s to allow Shia to defend themselves during Lebanon’s Civil War better. Not only do they advance Iranian interests in Lebanon, but they have sent forces to Syria, Iraq, and Yemen not just to fight but also to manage and coordinate the activities of other militia forces (Levitt 2021, 5–18). In this role of proxy manager, LH functions somewhat like the Pakistani ISI did for the United States when it supplied Afghan rebels fighting the Soviet Union. By acting as an intermediary for both material resources and direction, they become a “proxy sponsor,” which allows the originating sponsor, in this case, Iran, to manage its direct risks better. However, doing so exposes the proxy to conflicting sponsor agendas that can dilute assistance and increase the chances of interest misalignment. In addition to militias, LH employs proxies globally to finance and resource its operations. For example, in 2000, the FBI broke a Hizballahaffiliated criminal organization smuggling cigarettes from North Carolina, where the tax is five cents per pack, to Michigan, where it is seventy-five cents, providing some of the proceeds to LH. Apart from some senior leaders, most network members are criminals with loose connections to LH. As such, they often pursue independent interests and function more as a proxy than a cell (Kokinos et al. 2022, 16–17). From a policy perspective, transnational non-state sponsors pose a unique challenge to the ethics of proxy wars. As discussed, the Just War Tradition does make room for liberation and nationalist movements that seek either status as a state or group within a state that is on their terms. The tradition has less to say about organizations that not only do not have

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political or territorial rights and in fact benefit by not having those rights. Because TNSAs can take advantage of multiple cross-cutting individual identities that characterize a polyarchic order, they can better distribute assets and conceal operations, increasing their resiliency. These advantages, however, bring them moral concerns regarding the nature of their cause and their status as a legitimate authority. For some, their ability to pursue their cause proportionally raises concerns. Jus ad bellum: Setting aside the fact that the groups represented above are not pursuing just causes, it needs to be clarified whether they could. Since they do not enjoy political or territorial rights, they technically cannot suffer from an act of aggression. This point does not mean they cannot be wrongfully attacked; however, the distributed nature of these organizations suggests that any wrongful attack would be better thought of as a crime and would not cross the thresholds described earlier for war. These organizations could come to the defense of another or provide humanitarian support, as LH has done in Syria and Iraq; however, they lack the status of a legitimate authority if that intervention plays a role in initiating or prolonging a war. As Chapter 4 mentions, a non-state actor can be a legitimate authority to the extent they represent a community and can govern that community, including acting on behalf of the population and providing for basic rights. Given that ISIS and AQ’s stated purpose is to impose a particular religious order, any claims to legitimacy would depend on governing communities that already accept those beliefs. In those cases, it is unclear whether these groups would have a just cause to fight since their conditions would presumably have been met. LH may have more of a claim to legitimacy when it plays a role in defending Shia communities. For example, LH operations in Syria partly prevent groups like ISIS and AQ from gaining control of Shia populations, which they habitually repress (Chulov 2014a). The trouble for LH in Syria is that the Syrian government under Bashar al-Assad does not have a just cause. Hence, efforts that support Syrian government forces arguably prolong the conflict and are thus not permissible. To the extent they are focused on preventing atrocities against Shia communities, their operations may fit Pattison’s condition discussed earlier, where preventing significant human rights abuses is permissible even if they indirectly support an unjust cause. Even where non-state actors have a just cause, they often cannot pursue it using proportionate means. When that is the case, the pressure to resist

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can be significant depending on the nature and scale of the injustice. When that nature and scale places a community in a position where it must choose between extreme suffering or violating the laws of war, the choice to violate the laws of war seems more reasonable, if not ethical. The Just War Tradition accounts for this choice under the doctrine of “supreme emergency,” which permits an actor to violate laws of war when defeat is imminent and represents a grave injustice. In his account of this doctrine, Walzer argues that in the early days of World War II, when Britain was alone after Nazi forces had taken most of continental Europe, they were permitted to employ indiscriminate bombing tactics since that was their only means of resistance. Once the United States entered the war and defeat seemed less imminent, that permission ceased (Walzer 2015, 257–259). Of the groups discussed here, only LH and only when defending Shia populations against Sunni extremists would plausibly have recourse to supreme emergency. In the other two cases, they are more likely to be the source of the emergency. Moral Hazard: TNSAs, as sponsors, do not introduce anything unique regarding moral hazards. That is not to say they do not present moral hazard. Like any sponsor, their intervention risks diverging interests, escalation, diffusion, and dirty hands. However, these hazards do manifest in unique ways. AQ’s franchising strategy, as discussed, sets conditions where the more they expand, the harder it is to achieve their primary objective. An ISIS affiliate’s downing of the Russian airliner also illustrates how poor proxy control can lead to unwanted escalation. Moreover, LH’s ability to operate regionally but resource globally facilitates the diffusion of weapons and equipment that has contributed to instability in the Middle East. Finally, while these groups and their affiliates typically do not observe international law, they are often negatively impacted when affiliates violate the norms they do hold, as AQ experienced in Iraq. As TNSA’s capability and reach increase, so does their risk. Thus, one should expect efforts to mitigate that risk through proxies will increase as well. While these organizations fall outside the reach of international norms, understanding them as a source of moral concern should encourage measures by state actors to take steps to mediate their impact. Such actions would undoubtedly include measures most state counterterrorist operations already have, such as intelligence cooperation and targeting features of global communications and transportation infrastructure that enable organization and diffusion. It would also suggest promulgating a narrative that illustrates affiliate (or potential affiliate)

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violations of relevant cultural or religious norms that could impede sponsor groups’ interest in affiliating. This analysis also suggests how, from the perspective of the groups, norms among them may develop over time. Given that divergent interests, diffusion, and dirty hands expose these groups to risk, one could expect norms to evolve that emphasize unity and control that encourage integration over mere affiliation. That could mean that where there are differences, sponsors may be more circumspect regarding affiliation, which will place limits on their expansion. Whether that increases competition between these groups will depend on whether they can build the trust necessary for cooperation.

Conclusion: The Future of the Ethics of Proxy Wars As the history of proxy wars has shown, proxy relations often allow bad actors to avoid accountability and place good actors in situations without good moral options. Since all actors are often varying degrees of both good and bad, the potential for moral harm, as equally well illustrated by more recent proxy wars, remains high. This situation calls not just for increased international regulation of the elements of proxy relations, such as interest, support, and control, but also a better understanding of how proxy relations set conditions for harm in the first place. With this understanding, actors within the international community will be in a better position to establish binding norms not only because of sanctions but also because it is in all actors’ interests to uphold them. Cooperative norms emerge when they represent the best strategy actors can adopt in a given situation. For it to be the best strategy, actors must be better off because all actors have adopted it (Goertz 2003, 62– 63, 82). This point entails two kinds of proxy norms. First are those that express expectations between sponsor and proxy, and second, those between sponsors. Being better off does not mean any actor’s interests are fully realized. It simply means that actors’ situations are better off than the status quo. Thus, there will often, if not always, be incentives to cheat. To the extent that cheating is incentivized by the fact that the other actor upholds the relevant norm in the relevant situation, there are incentives for the international community to impose formal or informal sanctions when actors breach those norms.

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Sponsor-Proxy Obligations The focus of this discussion has been the sponsor-proxy relationship. Proxy relationships do not just make judgments to go to war more likely. They also risk corrupting those judgments. The divergent interests inherent in any proxy relationship raise the risk of going to fight to serve unjust ends and the risk of expanding the fighting as the parties involved attempt to realize multiple, and sometimes exclusive, goals. To complicate matters, sponsors and proxies never really know—or at least sometimes misinterpret—the other’s interests and intentions. If that divergence is not clear, both parties risk making bad judgments and commitments that could prolong the conflict and undermine the just cause for which it is fought. Under these conditions, norms that would make both sponsor and proxy better off would first include a commitment to transparency regarding interest and how the value of that interest entails thresholds that would trigger the withdrawal of sponsor support. To better manage those thresholds, sponsors should also make good faith efforts to seek nonviolent solutions first and ensure the option for such solutions is always open. Moreover, sponsors and proxies must understand how interest alignment should affect the nature of the relationship. While specific interests do not necessarily need to be shared, they should align well enough that the realization of the proxy interest also realizes that of the sponsor. Decisions about the cause, especially where non-state actors are involved, also require judgments about legitimacy, territory, and sovereignty that may need a more precise answer. Further, assessing proportionality, reasonable chance for success, and last resort require judgments about future costs and alternatives that are difficult, if not impossible, to anticipate. The introduction of the sponsor, however, can affect these judgments by conveying legitimacy, reducing costs, and providing additional capabilities that make the fight seem just and prudent. The difficulty is that sponsors can convey these apparent advantages while at the same time unintentionally offsetting them. Introducing a sponsor does not lower costs as much as it complicates their calculation. Given the propensity for escalation, frozen conflict, and diffusion inherent in proxy wars, it is hard to know how costly a dispute will be. Given that increased uncertainty, a proxy relationship’s value as an insurance policy seems diminished. Moreover, even without a sponsor, one

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can never know if one has tried all possible alternatives. Given the typical urgency of decisions to resort to war, introducing the sponsor is likely to make non-violent but costly alternatives seem unattractive. These concerns can be mitigated if both proxy and sponsor understand how their differing causes relate to their obligations. Where the proxy has resorted to war and has a just cause, sponsor intervention is permissible to the extent it is prudent. Where proxies’ resort to war depends on sponsor intervention, the sponsor’s cause must also be in some sense just as necessary. While it may not be a direct response to aggression against itself, it must serve some overriding good, such as preserving a just international order or deterring future aggression. In cases where the proxy’s cause is unjust, sponsors may intervene only to avoid some gross violation of human rights, humanitarian disaster, or set conditions for a rapid and just resolution to the conflict. Further, the fact there are conditions where proxy relationships may be kept secret suggests that there are also conditions where this permission for secrecy will be abused. Thus, making all actors better off entails the presumption to be open about such relationships, and if good cause requires otherwise, ensure it is subject to proper oversight. If one is in doubt, a good rule of thumb is the “Washington Post Test.” This test asks, if the relationship became public, what would the public’s reaction be? If that reaction is likely adverse, one should think twice before keeping the relationship a secret. Secrecy, however, is not the only feature of proxy relationships vulnerable to abuse. The indirect nature of the relationship means not only that sponsors can get someone to do their dirty work, but it also means they can get someone to do their dirty work without getting their hands dirty. As previously discussed, the bar that international law sets regarding state responsibility for a proxy’s actions is high and limited in its application as it applies only when proxies are non-state actors. As a result, it does not account for all our moral intuitions: there are some things we want to judge wrong, even if we sometimes judge them as necessary. Reconciling these competing intuitions requires some accountability to maintain the moral legitimacy of the proxy relationship. What that accountability would look like among sponsors is hard to tell. As mentioned earlier, efforts to legislate international norms governing any aspect of proxy relationships are often met with an odd and seemingly irreconcilable combination of enthusiasm and denial. The Arms Trade Treaty, which has 111 signatories, two of which are not

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some of the largest arms exporters, is a case in point. Not only did major arms exporters not sign, but it also needed to be more enforceable. However, on the enthusiastic side, one of those two recalcitrant signatories—the United States—helped negotiate the treaty and already covers its provisions in domestic law. Sponsor Obligations Beyond the Proxy Proxy relationships can also make wars more likely and messier. Given that the purpose of the Just War Tradition is to prevent war or limit the suffering it causes, the proxy relationship risks undermining that tradition even as it conforms to it. As suggested at the outset, it would be wrong to conclude that proxy relationships are never justified or only justified to avoid some great human rights or humanitarian catastrophe. Because decisions about wars do not just affect belligerents, sponsors should consider how enabling a proxy affects other state actors, including any that would likely counter-intervene. Unfortunately, swearing off proxy relationships is not likely sustainable as a norm. Given the likelihood of proliferation described above, the moral presumption against proxy relationships is just wishful thinking. While there is something unseemly about getting someone else to do one’s dirty work, even responsible national leaders will not set aside costeffective ways to achieve vital interests. It is tempting, as Pattison argues, to hold the moral bar high and justify proxy wars only by the gross human rights violations and humanitarian crises they avoid or remedy. It is equally tempting to give into realism and allow leaders the space to do what they can rather than what they should. Both choices, however, are unsatisfying. The former precludes too much and the latter too little. Of course, human rights and humanitarian concerns should feature prominently in one’s judgments regarding war. Wars are only justified by a violation of some important right. Such violations do not have to rise to the level of atrocity to justify fighting; they just have to rise to the level of aggression, for which there is no non-violent alternative for resolution. In the context of such aggression, others are certainly permitted to defend the aggrieved. However, this permission does not entail an obligation, so matters of prudence should constrain calculations regarding intervention. Thus, it makes sense for external parties to enter into proxy relationships that serve other interests and lower the costs of realizing them.

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This point further entails the sponsor-proxy obligation that a sponsor’s causes, interests, and intentions should align so that the realization of the proxy’s cause either realizes the sponsor’s or ends the need for the proxy relationship. When the proxy wins, the proxy relationship should end and transform into something that contributes to order rather than set conditions for future chaos. Even with these norms in mind, current history demonstrates how perilous proxy relationships are. At this time, the war in Ukraine is slowly freezing, fueled by potentially limited sponsor support. While the war in Yemen seems to be slowly resolving, it will take years to undo the humanitarian catastrophe it caused. Meanwhile, Iranian proxies continue their tit-for-tat exchanges with the United States to drive it from the region. Most recently, Iran enabled Hamas to conduct a devastating attack on Israel that killed hundreds of Israeli civilians and is certainly to escalate. And while Africa has resisted the return of great power proxy war, internal ones stand to proliferate, which could eventually draw the great powers in. These current perils underscore why the study of proxy war ethics is essential. Not only are proxy relationships strategically useful, but proxy features also tend to be reflected in all kinds of relationships where supporting actors receive indirect benefits from a partner over which they have limited control. The point of this discussion has been that states need not necessarily avoid such relationships; instead, they should establish, promulgate, and follow norms that treat partners as ends, not means, align interests with the greater good, and reduce the suffering wars inevitably bring.

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Index

A Ababa, Addis, 90 Adrianople, Battle of, 53 Aegina, 49 Aegospotami, Battle of, 51 Afghanistan, 35, 78, 91–96, 110, 143, 168, 212 Africa, 48, 63, 64, 71, 78, 86, 90, 96, 98, 184, 187–192, 215, 222 African National Congress (ANC), 88 African Union, 187 Ago, Roberto, 122 Algeria, 190, 213 Allies formal alliances, 5, 9 informal alliances, 5, 9 Al Qaeda, 18, 193, 213–215 Al Qaeda on the Arabian Peninsula (AQAP), 215 Alvor Accord, 87, 89 Amin, Hafizullah, 92, 93 Amnesty International, 172, 201 Angola, 78, 87–89, 97

Angolan Civil War, 90 Angolan Crisis, 86 Apartheid, 88, 90 Aristotle, 21, 22, 28 Arms Trade Treaty, 168, 220 Asab Ahl al Haq, 197 Asia, 63, 80, 82, 83, 85, 92, 96, 146, 183 Asprey, Rober B., 71, 79, 82 Assad, Bashar al-, 129, 131, 132, 135, 164, 216 Association for Free Research and International Cooperation, 189 Athens, 29, 48–52, 119, 160, 162 Atlacatl Rapid Reaction Battalion, 108 Attila, 53 Austin, Lloyd, 2 Austria, 66–70 Frans Joseph I, 68 Austro-Hungarian Empire, 127 B Badr Corps, 197

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 C. A. Pfaff, Proxy War Ethics: The Norms of Partnering in Great Power Competition, Palgrave Studies in International Relations, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-50458-7

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236

INDEX

Balance of power bipolarity, 46, 48, 51, 71, 77, 89, 98, 184 multipolarity, 4, 46–48, 51, 60, 71, 77, 184 unipolarity, 47 Balkans, 59 Bay of Pigs, 96 Beijing, 82, 85, 189 Belarus, 16 Belt and Road Initiative (BRI), 188 Berman, Eli, 19, 185 Better state of peace, 25, 150 Bien Hoa, 80 Binh Xuyen, 80 Bin Laden, Osama, 214 Blackburn, Simon, 21 Blair, Tony, 143 Boers, 71 Boland Amendments, 101 Bosnia, 130, 168 Bosnia-Herzegovina, 171 British East India Company, 63 Brown, Seyom, 36, 47, 48, 86–88, 141, 165 Budapest, Buda and Pest, 67, 68, 207 Buddhism, 80, 81 Bukovina, 67 Burkina Faso, 187, 190 Burma, 80 Burundi, 187 Byzantium, 48, 54

C Calais, 61 Cambodia, 84, 164 Cameroon, 190 Camp David Accords, 9–11 Cao Dai, 80 Capitalism, 77 Carnatic Wars, 64

Carter, Jimmy, 93 Carter Administration, 91, 98, 99, 105 Carthage, 45 Casey, William, 101 Castro, Fidel, 96, 97, 104 Catholic Church, 55, 56, 61 Central African Republic, 189 Central Command, 91 Chad, 190 Charter Act, 65 China, 4, 11, 77, 79–82, 85, 123, 138, 184, 187–191, 208, 209 Christian Democrats, 106, 107 Churchill, Winston, 149 Cicero, Marcus Tulius, 30 Clark AMendment, 88 Clausewitz, Carl von, 185 Cold War, 2, 20, 34, 46, 48, 71, 78, 87, 89, 97, 98, 125, 146, 169, 184, 187, 191 Colombia, 101 Communism, 80, 95, 105 Congress of, 3, 84, 88, 90, 101, 106–108, 141, 169 Consequentialism, 31–33 Contadora, 101, 102 Contras, 97, 99–103, 109, 118, 141, 170 Control of relationships, 11, 12, 96 Copp, David, 28 Corcyra, 49–52, 119, 162 Corinth, 49–52 Costa Rica, 97–99, 101, 102 Counter-Terrorism Service (CTS), 173 Crimea, 1, 132, 166, 202–206, 211 Cristiani, Alfredo, 108 Croatia, 67 Cuba, 87, 96–99, 103, 104, 109 Cunene River, 88 Cyber operations, 122

INDEX

237

D Daoud, Muhammad, 92 Death squads, 105, 107 Debrecen, 68 Delian League, 48 de Mesquita, Bruce Bueno, 31, 32 Democratic republic of Congo (DRC), 187 Department of Defense of, 9, 14, 15, 191 Department of State of, 191 DIen Bien Phu, 78 Dieppe, 61 Diffusion, 168, 169, 197, 201, 211, 213, 217–219 Dinh Ngo Diem, 79, 80 Dirty hands, 103, 109, 169, 173–176, 195, 201, 212, 213, 217, 218 Diverging interests, 160, 217 Djibouti, 184, 187, 190 Dodd, Joseph W., 85 Domino theory, 80, 85, 109 Donbas, 202, 206, 212 Donetsk, 1, 205, 206 Duarte, Napoleon, 107, 108 Dunant, Henry, 22

El Salvador, 78, 97–106, 108–110, 118, 172, 177, 195, 212 Emergency Response Division (ERD), 173 England Charles II of, 63 Crown of, 63–65 Edward III of, 56, 57 Elizabeth I of, 61, 63 James I of, 63 Parliament of, 64, 65 Enlightenment, 48 Epidamnus, 49 Equatorial Guinea, 187 Eritrea, 122 Escalation, 13, 34, 35, 46, 69, 71, 77, 78, 80, 82, 83, 88, 89, 119, 122, 127, 136, 141, 142, 145, 164–168, 180, 189, 199, 206, 209–211, 213, 217, 219 Esquipulas agreement, 102 Ethiopia, 90, 91, 122, 188, 190, 191 Europe, 2, 7, 8, 48, 54, 60, 64, 68, 71, 208, 217 European Union, 131, 144, 201, 202, 206

E Eastern Bloc, 99, 100 Easter Offensive, 84 East Germany, 104 East India Charter Bill, 65 East Indies, 63 Edict of Nantes, 61 Egypt, 9–11, 17, 124, 213, 214 82nd Airbone Division, 100 Eisenhower, Dwight D., 79, 83 Elections of, 79, 84, 85, 87, 89, 102, 107, 118, 122 Elite capture, 189 El Mozote, 107

F Farabundo Marti National Liberation Front (FMLN), 104 First Indochina War, 78, 79 First Punic War, 46 Florence, 57 Foederati, 53–55 Ford, Gerald, 84 France Charles IV of, 56 Charles VII of, 59 Estates General, 60, 62 Phillip VI of, 56 Franchise model, 213

238

INDEX

Free Companies, 57, 59 Freedman, Lawrence, 2, 13 Free Syrian Army (FSA), 161 French Wars of Religion, 60, 61 Frowe, Helen, 136, 143, 144, 146 G Gabon, 187, 189 Gaddafi, Muammar, 18 Gaiduk, Ilya, 78–80, 82 Galicia, 67 Gelb, Leslie, 79, 80, 83 Geneva Accords, 78, 79, 84, 85, 94, 118 Geneva Conventions, 22, 168 Georgia, 204 Germany, 30, 133, 186 Ghassanids, 48, 54 Goertz, Gary, 218 Goodman, Nelson, 28 Gorbachev, Mikhail, 94 Goths, 53–55 Great Leap Forward, 79 Great power competition, 4, 187 Greece, 51 Green Movement, 142 Grenada, 203 Groh, Tyrone L., 13, 20, 36, 46, 47, 71, 87–90, 183, 184 Grotius, 22 Guinea, 189 Gulf of Persia, 11, 92 Gulf of Tonkin Incident, 82 H Hadi, Abd Rabbu Mansour, 192 Halberstam, David, 81 Halidon Hill, 56 Hannibal, 46 Hanoi, 79, 81 Harakat Hezbollah al-Nujabah, 197

Harris, Arthur “Bomber”, 30 Hastings, Warren, 66 Herat, 92 Hezbollah, 139–141, 197, 213 Himalayas, 122 Hinduism, 65 Hoa Hao, 80 Hobbes, Thomas, 31 Honduras, 97, 99–102 Houthis, 147, 148, 192–197 Hughes, Geraint, 13, 19, 20, 36, 92, 129, 144, 165, 184, 185, 204 Human rights, 36, 90, 98, 100, 106–108, 119, 126, 127, 129–131, 134, 143, 165, 176, 178, 200, 205, 206, 212, 216, 220, 221 Hundred Years War, 55, 56, 58, 60, 168 Hungarian Revolution, 66, 67, 69 Hungary, 67–70 Huns, 53 Hurka, Thomas, 133–136, 146 Hursthouse, Rosalind, 171, 172 I India, 63–65, 202 Indian Mutiny, 65, 66 Indochina, 16, 78, 80, 82, 85 Indonesia, 80, 199, 213 Information operations, 122, 189 Innes, Michael, 13, 20 Intention, 17, 23, 46, 98, 106, 143–146, 152 International Court of Justice (ICJ), 103, 170 International Criminal Tribunal for Yugoslavia (ICTY), 171 International Humanitarian Law (IHL), 24, 103, 169, 170, 176, 194, 200 International Human Rights Law, 176

INDEX

Internet Research Agency, 189 Invasion of Iraq, 18, 19 In Vietnam, 2, 22, 78–82, 84, 88, 91, 94, 95, 104, 110, 142, 148, 164, 165 Ionia, 49 Iran, 13, 18, 19, 101, 122, 139, 142, 148, 167, 168, 183, 192, 193, 196–199, 201, 215, 222 Iran-Contra Affair, 101 Iraq, 11, 13, 15, 18, 19, 36, 110, 135, 167, 192, 197–201, 214–217 Parliament of, 167 PMSCs in, 14–16 Iraqi Security Forces (ISF), 18, 120, 173, 200 Islam, 18 Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corp, 167 Islamic State in Iraq and Syria (ISIS), 18 Israel, 9, 10, 17, 122, 124, 139, 192, 197, 222 Ivory Coast, 188 J Jacobs, Sarah, 191 Japan, 3, 11, 32, 133, 174, 186 Jelacic, Josip, 67 Jesuits, 108 Joint Chiefs of Staff of, 82 Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action, 193 Jordan, 213 Jubhat al Nusra (JN), 215 Juntas, 104 Just War Tradition jus ad bellum, 22, 23, 46, 117–120, 132, 147–151, 154, 162–164, 173, 178, 194, 198, 202–204, 208, 216

239

jus ex bello, 23 jus in bello, 22–24, 52, 120, 160, 169, 172, 173, 176–178, 180, 195, 196 jus post bello, 23, 151 K Kabul, 92 Kagan, Donald, 48–50, 52 Kahn, Herman, 166, 167 Kant, Immanuel, 21, 22 Kápolna, 68 Karmal, Babrak, 92–94 Kashmir, 168 Kataib Sayyad Al Shuhada, 197 Kennedy, John F., 80, 81, 83 Kenya, 188 Khalq, 92 Kitab Hizballah, 197 Kossuth, Lajos, 67–69 Krieg, Andreas, 13, 20, 27, 36, 160, 162, 168, 185 Kurds, 13, 160 Kuwait, 11, 135 Kyiv, 1, 144, 205–207 Kyrgyzstan, 204 L Lake, David A., 19 Lakhmids, 54 Lalman, David, 31, 32 Landsknecht, 58 Languedoc, 61 Last resort, 23, 30, 46, 146, 147, 152, 206, 219 Lateran Council, 56, 58 Latin America, 78, 96, 109 Lavrov, Sergei, 2, 201 Lawrence, T.E., 71 Laws of war, 177, 217 Leahy Laws, 129

240

INDEX

Lebanon, 139, 141, 213, 215 Le Havre, 61 Lend-lease, 3, 123 Lettow-Vorbeck, Paul von, 71 Libya, 36, 130, 190, 204, 213 London, 63, 65, 68, 69 Luanda, 89 Luhansk, 1, 205, 206

M Madagascar, 189 Maidan Revolution, 205 Malaya, 80 Mali, 187, 188, 190 Mamertines, 45, 46 Marignano, Battle of, 58 Mattis, James, 178 Mauritania, 190 Mazarr, Michael J., 4, 47 Mearsheimer, John J., 28, 185, 186 Medici, Catherine De, 61 Mediterranean Sea, 64 Megara, 49 Melian Dialogue, 29 Melos, 29, 49, 52 Mercenaries, 48, 56–60, 66, 168 Mexico, 101 Middle East, 11, 139, 142, 183, 184, 192, 198, 217 Minsk 2 Agreement, 206 Minsk Agreement, 206 Mission creep, 143, 145 Montmorency, Henri Duc, 61, 62 Moral hazards, 7, 14, 48, 120, 136, 138, 145, 148, 154, 159–162, 164, 169, 177, 178, 187, 199, 200, 206, 208, 217 Moral influence, 103 Morocco, 190 Moscow, 1, 79, 81, 82, 88, 91–95, 99

Mosul, Battle for, 172 Mott, William H. IV, 8–12, 19, 80, 90, 91 Motyl, Alexander, 209 Movement for the Liberation of Angola (MPLA), 87 Mozambique, 189 Mughal Empire, 64 Mujahideen, 91–96 Mumford, Andrew, 3, 13, 17, 18, 34, 77, 162, 168 Mytilene, 31

N Najibullah, Muhhamad, 94 Namibia, 88–90 Nasrallah, Hassan, 139 National Defense Committee, 67 National Front for the Liberation of Angola (NFLA), 87, 88 National Security Council of (NSC), 87, 101 National Union for the Total Liberation of Angola (UNITA), 87 NATO, 1–3, 7–9, 13, 16, 22, 28, 29, 36, 71, 87, 120, 132, 160, 164, 166, 186, 201, 204, 206–212 Netherlands, 60, 61, 64 Neutrality Acts, 3 Nexon, Dan, 61 Nicaragua, 97–105, 108, 110, 118, 123, 172, 212 Nicaraguan Defense Forces (FDN), 99 Nicaraguan Human Rights Association, 101 Niger, 187, 190 Nigeria, 187, 188, 190 Nixon, Richard M., 83–85, 87 Nixon Administration, 86, 87

INDEX

Non-state actors, 14, 20, 23, 47, 118, 119, 121, 132, 139, 140, 152, 171, 184, 185, 213, 216, 219, 220 Norms moral norms, 33, 159 practical norms, 5 North America, 64 North Korea, 139 North, Oliver, 101 North Vietnam, 16, 78, 82–84, 118 Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty of 1968, 77 O Ogaden Plateau, 90, 91 P Pakistan, 92, 213 Inter-Services Intelligence of, 93, 215 Palestine, 168 Palmerston, Henry John Temple, 67–69 Panama, 97, 98, 101, 203 Parcham, 92 Parker, F.Charles, 79, 82, 83, 85 Partners asymmetric partners, 12 D.O.D. definition of, 10 Pashtuns, 94 Pattison, James, 36, 131, 132, 148, 160, 165, 168, 169, 171, 216, 221 Peloponnesian league, 48, 50 Peloponnesian war, 31, 48, 50–52 People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan (PDPA), 92, 93 Persia, 49, 51, 54, 160 Philippines, 80, 82, 213 Plataea, 50–52

241

Poland, 186, 211 Polyarchism, 47, 48, 55, 56, 59, 60, 213, 216 Ponsonby, John, 69 Pope Clement VIII, 62 Pope Gregory XIII, 61 Pope Urben, 58 Popular Mobilization Forces (PMF), 197 Portugal, 122 Pretoria, 88 Prigozhin, Yevgeny, 16 Principal-agent theory, 14 private military security companies Blackwater, 15, 16 Halliburton, 15 Wagner Group, 15, 16, 189 Protestantism, 62, 118 Proxies asymmetry, 13, 19, 20 Hughes’ definition, 13, 19, 36, 184 intentionality, 18, 19 Mumford’s definition, 3, 13, 17 sponsors, 215 Public declaration, 46, 141 Pulszky, Ferenc, 68 Putin, Vladimir, 1, 22, 210

Q Quagmire, 78, 80, 83, 85, 92 Quasi-unipolar order, 47, 184

R Rapid Deployment Joint Task Force, 91 Rawls, John, 28 Reagan, Ronald, 99, 101, 103, 106 Reagan Administration, 99, 101, 106, 107, 141, 142 Realism, 29, 31, 33, 174

242

INDEX

Reasonable chance of success, 23, 119, 120, 147–149, 152, 163, 210 Renaissance, 48, 60 Republic of Congo, 189 Responsibility to Protect (R2P), 126 Reveron, Derek S., 10 Revolutionary Democratic Alliance (ARDE), 99 Rhegium, 45 Rickli, Jean-Marc, 13, 20, 27, 36, 185 Rome, 30, 45, 53–55 Romero, Carlos, 104 Roosevelt, Franklin D., 3 Rouseau, Jean Jacques, 136 Russia, 1–3, 7, 11, 16, 32, 67–70, 123, 127, 128, 132, 144, 145, 184, 186, 189, 191, 202–207, 209, 211, 212 Russo-Ukrainian War, 212 Rwanda, 187

S Sachs, Jeffrey D., 28 Sadat, Anwar, 10 Salvadoran Civil War, 104 Sandinista National Liberation Front (FSLN), 97 Sandinistas, 97–100, 103 Saudi Arabia, 36, 133, 135, 184, 192–195, 197 Savimbi, Joseph, 89 Savoy, Duchy of, 60 Duke of, 61, 66 Scotland David II of, 56 Robert the Bruce, 56 Self-defense, 23, 119, 121, 122, 132, 136, 146, 165, 196, 202, 209 Senegal, 188, 190 Sepoys, 65

Serafino, Battle of, 22 Serbian Republic’s Army, 171 Sestus, 49, 51 Seven Years War, 64 Shia, 93, 139–141, 198, 215–217 Sicily, 45, 50 Siena, 57 Soleimani, Qassem, 167 Somalia, 90, 130, 188 Somaliland, 188 Somoza, Anastasio, 97–99 Sons of Iraq, 199 South Africa, 88–90, 122, 188 South Vietnam, 19, 78, 79, 83, 84 U.S. support for, 19, 35, 79 Soviet-Afghan War, 91 Soviet Union, 3, 32, 71, 77, 78, 82, 84–87, 89, 90, 92, 95–97, 99, 104, 184, 215 Spain Moors, 59 Phillip II of, 61 Sparta, 48–52, 160 Special operations forces of, 1, 201, 202 St. Jacob, Battle of, 58 Strategic ambiguity, 130 Sudan, 187–189 Sunni, 93, 198, 200, 217 Surinam, 64 Syracuse, 45 Syria, 13, 128, 130, 132, 134, 135, 140, 149 Syrian Defense Forces (SDF), 15 Szalay, Ladislas, 68

T Takfiri, 139 Tanker Wars, 122 Tanzania, 188 Taraki, Nur Mohammad, 92, 93

INDEX

Tet Offensive, 83 Thebes, 50 Thich Quang Duc, 81 3Ds approach, 191 Thucydides, 29, 31 Transnational non-state actors, 139, 213 Trans-Sahara Counterterrorism Partnership (TSCTP), 190 Transylvania, 67 Treaty of Friendship and Cooperation, 9 Treaty of Hampton Court, 61 Treaty on Friendship, Cooperation, and Partnership, 203 Truman, Harry, 3 Tulchin, Allan, 60, 62 Tunisia, 168, 190 Turkey, 7, 160

U Uganda, 187 Ukraine, 1–3, 11, 13, 28, 71, 120, 131, 132, 144–146, 164, 166, 184, 186, 189, 201–203, 205–212 United Arab Emirates (UAE), 193 United Kingdom, 203, 207 United Nations Charter of, 22, 137 Article 51 of, 136, 202 claims commission of, 122 definition of Aggression, 123 security council of, 122, 207 United Nicaraguan Opposition (UNO), 100 United States Congress of, 3, 88, 106 Department of Defense of, 9, 191 elections of, 79, 102, 107 government of, 2

243

invasion of Iraq, 18 In Vietnam, 2, 78, 88, 91, 94, 95, 148, 165 Joint Chiefs of Staff of, 82 military assistance by, 2, 3, 17, 87, 90, 92, 98, 105, 106, 125, 133, 186, 195 National Security Council of, 87 special operations forces of, 1, 201 U.S. Information Service (USIS), 80 U.S. Military Assistance Advisory Group (MAAG), 80 Uyghurs, 138, 139 V Valens, 53 Venezuela, 97, 98, 101 Vienna, 66, 67, 69 Viet Cong, 19, 79, 84 Viet Minh, 78, 79 Vietnamization, 84 Világos, 68 Visigoths, 53 W Wagner Group, 15, 16, 189 Walt, Stephen, 5, 9, 10, 185 Walzer, Michael, 22, 25, 29, 31, 49, 123, 124, 126–130, 134, 137, 173–176, 217 Washington, 81, 84, 108 Washington Post Test, 220 Western Roman Empire, 53, 55 West Minister Abbey, 30 World War I, 71 World War II, 3, 10, 22, 29, 30, 32, 48, 71, 77, 78, 82, 86, 95, 123, 133, 149, 186, 217 Y Yanukovych, Viktor, 203, 204

244

INDEX

Yemen, 48, 54, 133, 148, 192, 193, 196, 197, 215 Yemeni Civil War, 192 Yugoslavia, 171

Z Zagare, Frank C., 9, 17 Zelensky, Volodimyr, 149 Zimbabwe, 188, 189 Zwingli, Huldrych, 58