Civil-Military Relations: Control and Effectiveness Across Regimes 9781626378209

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Civil-Military Relations: Control and Effectiveness Across Regimes
 9781626378209

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Civil-Military Relations

CIVIL-MILITARY RELATIONS Control and Effectiveness Across Regimes edited by

Thomas C. Bruneau Aurel Croissant

b o u l d e r l o n d o n

.

Published in the United States of America in 2019 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 1800 30th Street, Boulder, Colorado 80301 www.rienner.com

and in the United Kingdom by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. Gray’s Inn House, 127 Clerkenwell Road, London EC1 5DB © 2019 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Bruneau, Thomas C., editor. | Croissant, Aurel, 1969– editor. Title: Civil-military relations : control and effectiveness across regimes / edited by Thomas C. Bruneau & Aurel Croissant. Description: Boulder, Colorado : Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc., 2019. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018058703| ISBN 9781626378155 (hardcover : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781626378209 (e-book) Subjects: LCSH: Civil-military relations—Case studies. Classification: LCC JF195 .C58 2019 | DDC 322/.5—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018058703 British Cataloguing in Publication Data A Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound in the United States of America

The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1992. 5 4 3 2 1

Contents

List of Tables and Figures Acknowledgments

1 Civil-Military Relations: Why Control Is Not Enough, Thomas C. Bruneau and Aurel Croissant 2 The Theoretical Landscape, David Kuehn

3 Measuring Effectiveness and Control, Tanja Eschenauer-Engler and Jil Kamerling

vii ix

1 19 35

Part 1 Established Democracies

4 The United States: Planning and Managing Control and Effectiveness, Thomas-Durell Young 5 Japan: Separation, Control, and Effectiveness, Chiyuki Aoi 6 Germany: The Bundeswehr and the Limits of Strategic Culture, Sven Bernhard Gareis

v

55 69 85

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Contents

Part 2 Emerging Democracies

7 Chile: Defense Governance and Democratic Consolidation, Carlos Solar

8 Tunisia: Patterns and Implications of Civilian Control, Noureddine Jebnoun 9 Indonesia: The Military’s Growing Assertiveness on Nondefense Missions, Aditya Batara Gunawan

103 119 141

Part 3 Hybrid and Authoritarian Regimes

10 Russia: The Armed Forces as Patriotic Glue, Ofer Fridman

11 Turkey: Strengthening Personalized Political Control, Zeynep Sentek 12 Egypt: An Ineffective Military Beyond Control, Robert Springborg

13 China: Traditions, Institutions, and Effectiveness, You Ji

159 175 191 207

Part 4 Conclusion

14 The Nexus of Control and Effectiveness, Thomas C. Bruneau and Aurel Croissant Bibliography The Contributors Index About the Book

227 243 269 271 281

Tables and Figures

Tables

1.1 2.1 3.1 3.2 3.3 8.1

9.1 14.1 14.2 14.3 14.4

Attributes and Indicators of Military Effectiveness Matrix of Explanatory Perspectives Datasets Providing Information on Military Influence in Politics Number of Country Years per Region Coded “Military,” 1999–2016 Datasets with Aspects of Military Effectiveness Tunisia’s Major Contributions to UN Peacekeeping Missions TNI Assignment in TNI Law No. 34/2004 Regime Types and Types of Civilian Control Military Roles and Missions in Ten Countries Attributes of Military Effectiveness Military Expenditure and Active Armed Forces by Country, 2017

4 20 41 43 46

126 147 229 232 236

238

Figures

1.1 3.1

Five Decisionmaking Areas of Civil-Military Relations Indicators of Military Influence in Politics per Year, 1945–2017 vii

8

42

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8.1 9.1

Tables and Figures

Defense and Security Expenditures, 2012–2018 Number of Memorandums of Understanding Between TNI and Government Institutions, 2012–2017 11.1 Turkey’s Military Expenditure as Percentage of Government Spending, 2000–2016 11.2 Syrian Cities Captured or Claimed by Turkey During Operation Euphrates Shield

131 153 182 184

Acknowledgments

Early drafts of most of the chapters in this volume were presented at a workshop entitled “Civil-Military Relations in Comparative Perspective: The Nexus of Control and Effectiveness,” hosted by Heidelberg University in May 2018. We are most grateful for the generous financial support for the workshop from the Fritz-Thyssen Stiftung (Cologne, Germany) and the Field of Focus 4 at Heidelberg University. We thank Marie-Claire Antoine of Lynne Rienner Publishers for her support, suggestions, and criticisms during and after the workshop. We also thank Carmen Wintergerst and Alina Reissenberger of the Institute of Political Science at Heidelberg University for their assistance in preparing and proofreading our manuscript. Finally, we acknowledge the authors of the volume for their encouragement, patience, commitment, and continuous support, without which publication would not have been possible. —Thomas C. Bruneau and Aurel Croissant

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1 Civil-Military Relations: Why Control Is Not Enough Thomas C. Bruneau and Aurel Croissant

nation-states that maintain permanent military organizations, tasked with the defense of the state and its citizens. The fundamental issue in civilmilitary relations is how to create and preserve a military that is subordinate to political control but is also effective and efficient (Feaver 1999). This is at the core of what Feaver calls the “civil-military problematique— the ‘protection by the military and . . . protection from the military’” (1996, p. 149) or what McMahon and Slantchev (2015, p. 297) call the “guardianship dilemma” of modern polities. However, Nielsen (2005) correctly notes that the field has mainly focused on the issue of civilian control. Civilian control is not the only relevant issue in civil-military relations. Bruneau and Matei (2008), for instance, have convincingly argued that the military’s ability to achieve the roles and missions assigned to it by political leaders (“effectiveness”) at an acceptable cost in lives and resources (“efficiency”)1 is of fundamental importance for national security and the legitimacy of the political order and the military institution. While civilian control concerns one side of the civil-military problematique, military effectiveness concerns the other side. Among the few existing works on military effectiveness, most study a military’s battlefield effectiveness. However, a military’s capability to win an armed conflict is perhaps not a useful measure of its effectiveness (see also Millet, Murray, and Watman 1986, p. 37). For one, the aims of contemporary military operations have changed from pursuing concrete objectives and victory to establishing certain conditions from which political outcomes can be decided (Smith 2005, p. 269). In addition, conventional war fighting is only one of the many roles and missions implemented by modern

Civil-military relations are a key feature of political life in all

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militaries. As we elaborate below, for most of them—for instance, supporting the police in fighting crime or assisting civilian authorities in coping with the humanitarian fallout of natural disasters—it is not possible to identify a win or to declare victory. While the conventional focus of research in the field of civil-military relations is either on the question of civilian control of the military in different political systems, or on the war-fighting capabilities of the armed forces, the contributors to this book chose a different approach. Our purpose here is to contribute to a better understanding of what we describe as the “civilian control and military effectiveness nexus” in civil-military relations. Therefore, the chapters in this volume do not focus exclusively on the issue of political or civilian control over the military, but investigate how civil-military relations are organized in individual countries and the consequences regarding the nature and strength of political control over the military and the effectiveness of the military in fulfilling its various roles. This book includes chapters on theory building, research methods, and challenges of data mining as well as case studies of civil-military relations, including control and effectiveness, in ten nations. To contrast and compare different structures and methods of civilian control and oversight of the military, and their impact on the effectiveness of armed forces in contexts that have important similarities and differences, this volume brings together case studies of civil-military relations in four categories of political regimes. The first category is established or “consolidated” democracies, including the United States, Japan, and Germany, that developed different, but arguably similarly effective, models of civilian supremacy over the armed forces. The second concerns civil-military relations in emerging democracies (Chile, Indonesia, and Tunisia), and the third in hybrid or semidemocratic political regimes (Russia and Turkey). The fourth category concerns civil-military relations in clearly nondemocratic political systems (Egypt and China). In all of these nation-states, the relationship between the state, society, and the armed forces is a key issue of political organization of state and nation. Yet the types or patterns of civil-military relations vary significantly between and within these four categories, and these differences do matter regarding the political outcomes of civil-military relations. To be able to speak to each other meaningfully and to allow for cross-countrylevel comparisons, however, each country chapter in this volume draws on a similar understanding of core terms and concepts. Civil-military relations is a concept that encompasses the entire range of interactions between the military and civilian society at every level (Feaver 1999, p. 211). Studying civil-military relations is therefore an immensely

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rich subfield of sociology, political science, and multidisciplinary security and military studies. However, the research in political science has typically taken a more narrow focus on the structures, processes, and outcomes of the interactions between the political system on the one hand and the armed forces on the other (Croissant and Kuehn 2015, p. 258). Military Effectiveness There is no generally agreed-on definition of military effectiveness, nor do general measures of an effective military exist. As Nielsen notes, “Since the characteristics of effective armed forces will vary with factors such as the resources they have, the missions they must accomplish, and other aspects of their environments . . . the effectiveness of military means can only be evaluated in relation to the political ends that these means are to serve” (2005, p. 65). In the most general sense, (military) effectiveness is related to the capability of the military organization to attain a goal; that is, the ability of the military to achieve the (politically) desired outcomes of its military missions (Bruneau and Trinkunas 2006). Military effectiveness is as much about preparedness and the “capacity to create military power from a state’s basic resources in wealth, technology, population size and human capital” (Brooks and Stanley 2007, p. 9) as it is about actual action. Our understanding and operationalization of military effectiveness is based on works by Bruneau and collaborators (Bruneau 2006; Bruneau and Trinkunas 2006; Bruneau and Matei 2008), who note that military effectiveness is as much about “preparedness” as about actual “action.” Military effectiveness means that the military understands its role and mission and is capable of transforming political guidance into effective action. It is able to successfully use allocated recourses in developing military capabilities and is trained and ready to fulfill the roles and missions that the political echelon decides to assign to the military. Finally, an effective military is a military “that is capable of conducting operations within the expected or assigned time frame and with available resources, as well as successfully achieving military goals with minimum losses” (Furlan 2012, p. 438). While the conceptualization of military effectiveness is not easy, its measurement is even more problematic. What are measurable are the socalled hard data such as the number of tanks or airplanes produced or the number of troops trained or equipped for a given cost. Yet obviously, such data tell us more about how much and in what ways a state is willing to invest in its military than about the outcome of such investments in terms of an effective military. War fighting is the one role that may have obvious benchmarks of success, and for which preparedness can be empirically evaluated, to some degree, through exercises (Furlan 2012, p. 437). However, when nations prepare to defend themselves or their allies against

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external enemies, the greatest indicator of success will probably be the avoidance of armed combat, whether this is due to the perception that the defenders possess overwhelming force, to success in the use of diplomatic tools, or to the integration of an aggressor into an alliance that mitigates ambitions or grievances. The difficulty of proving effectiveness can be seen in the example of the Cold War, which never became particularly hot directly between the United States and the Soviet Union thanks to the mutual deterrence imposed by the two sides’ nuclear arsenals. Moreover, the problem is particularly serious in attempting to show effectiveness when there are no credible empirical proofs of success in missions such as peacekeeping, fighting terrorism, dealing with crime and natural disasters, and collaborating with other militaries. Consequently, we must be realistic about what is required for security measures to be effective, our ability to measure it, and how to explain success or failure. While there are perhaps cases in which effectiveness in implementing roles and missions can be demonstrated, Bruneau and Matei (2008, p. 917) argue that, generally, effectiveness is best determined by whether a state is prepared to fulfill any or all of the six roles enumerated below. Under these circumstances, three basic attributes can be employed to measure the military’s effectiveness in fulfilling its role and mission (see Table 1.1). Only if all three attributes are in place can the military be expected to fulfill any or all of its missions and roles.

Table 1.1 Attributes and Indicators of Military Effectiveness Attributes

Defense planning

Structures

Resources

Defined as

Is there a long-term plan, preferably involving several agencies of a civilian government and the armed forces, which defines goals, the means to achieve the goals, and a methodology to evaluate progress toward the goals? Examples include national security strategies, national military strategies, white papers on security and defense, and so forth. Are there structures and processes to both formulate the plans and, mainly, to implement them? Examples include ministries of defense, national security councils, joint or general staffs, and other institutions facilitating cooperation between civilians and the military, or other means of interagency coordination and coordination models. Ensuring a sufficient degree of integration or jointness between the three services has especially been a point of dispute and debate in most countries. Does a country commit sufficient financial, political, and personnel resources to ensure it is adequately (and appropriately) equipped and skilled to fulfill its assigned roles, implement missions, and achieve particular tasks? While most easily measured as a percentage of gross domestic product, in fact, resources must include sufficient personnel, equipment, and the necessary means (food, fuel, uniforms, etc.) for a nation to achieve the goals established through defense planning.

Source: Adapted from Bruneau (2017).

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As noted before, there is a great variety of activities that incorporate different instruments of state security to deal with contemporary threats, opportunities, and challenges in national and international environments. This combination of activities and the resulting mixing of armed forces, police, and intelligence agencies are the issues that democratically elected (and autocratically self-selected) policymakers must deal with to meet domestic and, increasingly, global expectations and standards (Bruneau and Matei 2008, p. 910). What then are the current major roles and missions of armed forces? What should the services be effective in implementing? Based on a review of the extant literature, we identify the following six major categories (cf. Bruneau and Matei 2008, p. 917): 1. Fight, and be prepared to fight, external wars (conventional war fighting). 2. Fight, and be prepared to fight, internal wars or insurgencies (counterinsurgency). 3. Fight global terrorism (counterterrorism). 4. Provide military support for police (fight crime). 5. Prepare for and execute peace support operations (PSO), including peacekeeping and stability and support operations, and humanitarian interventions. 6. Prepare for and execute humanitarian assistance, including disaster relief operations. Yet there potentially are trade-offs between different missions in terms of military effectiveness. For example, militaries that have to prepare for and are engaging in internal missions such as policing, civic action, or internal security will of necessity incur an opportunity cost in terms of preparing for military action in external missions such as interstate war-fighting or peacekeeping operations. The specific roles and missions of national armed forces vary between countries and within countries over time. However, it is clear that most of the literature on military effectiveness has focused on interstate warfare. Only a few studies have discussed effectiveness in other types of missions (Egnell 2008). Interstate wars have been a rare phenomenon in the post–World War II world—both before and after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Much more relevant are domestic armed conflicts and—especially after 1990—transnational conflicts involving more than two states and nonstate actors: for example, the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria (ISIS). For instance, the last interstate wars in Latin America were the Chaco War between Bolivia and Peru (1932–1935) and the so-called Football War, a brief war fought

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between El Salvador and Honduras in 1969. In sub-Saharan Africa, there have been only four interstate wars since 1946. While only in a few countries—including the United States, Russia, China, France, the United Kingdom, Israel, India, Iran, Pakistan, Taiwan, and the two Koreas—the militaries are prepared to fight interstate wars, some 124 countries currently employ a total of 91,585 military and police personnel in peacekeeping missions (as of May 30, 2018). Meanwhile, in Afghanistan, from August 2003 to December 2014, the International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) at its height was more than 130,000 strong, with troops from 51 NATO and partner nations. Since January 2015, the noncombat Resolute Support Mission (RSM) has been intended to train, advise, and assist Afghan security forces and institutions with 13,576 troops from 39 NATO and partner nations (as of May 2017). Between June 2004 and October 2017, the UN Stabilization Mission in Haiti (MINUSTAH) contained up to 3,707 uniformed military and police personnel, mostly from Brazil and other South American nations, who were engaged in various efforts in disaster recovery, crime fighting, reconstruction, and stabilization. In many other regions, especially in Central and South America and South and Southeast Asia, military forces either support or (currently in the case of Mexico, Bangladesh, and Timor-Leste) supplant police forces in operations combating drug trafficking and street crime. The militaries in other countries, including Algeria, France, India, Israel, and Turkey, are active in the fight against international terrorism or domestic insurgencies. Finally, virtually all militaries play some role in providing support to civilian authorities in the face of natural or man-made disasters. On the other hand, in countries such as Bolivia, Colombia, Pakistan, Malaysia, and the Philippines, the police fulfill military functions. Furthermore, since threats span the spectrum from global terrorism and national and international drug cartels to street gangs, militaries and police forces rely heavily on intelligence agencies to identify threats and plan missions. Finally, especially in South and Southeast Asia, the militaries’ roles and missions diversified and expanded over time. Although national defense formally remained the primary function of the armed forces and the depth of their involvement in political and civilian affairs varied from country to country, many Asian militaries took on a multitude of secondary roles, engaging in commercial activities, local administration, social development and civic action projects, and putting down internal insurrections (Croissant and Kuehn 2017a). In contrast, despite the fact that the US military has mainly been involved in irregular warfare since the end of World War II, its uncompromising focus on conventional war fighting has left the US military ill prepared for complex operations in countries such as Afghanistan and Iraq (Egnell 2008, pp. 26–28).

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Civilian Control There is no agreement on what exactly civilian control over the military entails, nor is there a generally agreed-on definition of military effectiveness or how these concepts should be measured. However, in recent years, scholars have advanced conceptions that share two fundamental assumptions (cf. Trinkunas 2005; Croissant, Kuehn, Chambers, and Wolf 2010; Pion-Berlin and Martinez 2017). First, civilian control is about the political power of the military relative to the nonmilitary political actors. Second, and related, political-military relations can best be understood as a continuum ranging from full civilian control to complete military dominance over the political system. In this sense, civilian control is a particular form of distribution of power to make political decisions in which civilian leaders (either democratically elected or autocratically selected) have the authority to decide on national politics and their implementation. While civilians may delegate the implementation of certain policies to the military, the latter has no decisionmaking power outside of those areas specifically defined by governments. In contrast, if a government is subordinate to a military that retains the right to intervene when it perceives a crisis, a regime is in fact under military tutelage (Croissant, Kuehn, Chambers, and Wolf 2010; Croissant and Kuehn 2017b). Finally, in this book the term military control is reserved for situations in which the military controls government, either through collegial bodies representing the officer corps (military regime) or because decisionmaking power is concentrated in the hands of a single military officer (“military strongman rule”; Geddes, Frantz, and Wright 2014, p. 154). Building on this definition, we can distinguish five decisionmaking areas in civil-military relations: elite recruitment, public policy, internal security, national defense, and military organization (Croissant, Kuehn, Chambers, and Wolf 2010; see Figure 1.1). This disaggregation of decisionmaking areas allows for a differentiated and specified assessment as well as a comprehensive evaluation of the overall patterns of civilian control. Full-fledged civilian control, at least in principle, requires that civilian authorities enjoy uncontested decisionmaking power in all five areas, while in the ideal type military regime the men on horseback dominate all areas. The area of elite recruitment in Figure 1.1 defines the rules, criteria, and processes of recruiting, selecting, and legitimizing political officeholders, whereas public policy comprises the rules and procedures of the processes of policymaking (agenda setting, policy formulation, policy adoption) and policy implementation regarding all national policies except the narrowly understood aspects of domestic security and defense policy. Internal security entails the decisions and concrete actions regarding the preservation and restoration of domestic law and order, including

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Figure 1.1 Five Decisionmaking Areas of Civil-Military Relations

C. Internal security

B. Public policy

A. Elite recruitment

D. National defense

E. Military organization

Source: Adapted from Croissant, Kuehn, Lorenz, and Chambers (2013).

!

!

counterinsurgency operations, counterterrorism, and domestic intelligence gathering, routine law enforcement, and border control. National defense includes all aspects of defense policy, ranging from the development of security doctrines to the deployment of troops abroad and conduct of war. Finally, the area of military organization comprises decisions regarding all organizational aspects of the military institution, including the “hardware”—that is, the military’s institutional, financial, and technological resources—and the “software” of military organization—for instance, decisions on military doctrine, education, and personnel selection (cf. Croissant et al. 2013). To achieve and preserve civilian control requires civilian (political) institutions—defined as “formal or informal procedures, routines, norms, and conventions embedded in the organizational structure of the polity or political economy” (Hall and Taylor 1996, p. 936; Pion-Berlin 1997). That is, the degree of civilian control of the military in each of these five areas depends on the existence of institutions enabling civilians to exert real power to govern, control, and monitor the military. A key set of institutions—which are not necessarily sufficient, however—are civilian-led ministries of defense, parliamentary oversight committees, and civilian oversight of (military) intelligence. Further, as the literature on military reform in democratizing countries has demonstrated, institutional development in civil-military relations tends to be path dependent (Agüero 1995, 1998; Croissant et al. 2013). But even in consolidated democracies, institutional change in civil-military relations

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is challenging because institutional structures tend to become entrenched over time. In the field of comparative politics, historical institutionalists have applied the concept of path dependence to this tendency. The concept puts forth that, once a certain institutional choice has been made, “the costs of reversal are very high. There will be other choice points, but the entrenchments of certain institutional arrangements obstruct an easy reversal of the initial choice” (Levi 1997, p. 28). Historical institutionalists often invoke “critical junctures” (i.e., moments of significant exogenous change) to explain the termination of path dependence and to account for institutional change. Such critical junctures can be a result of exogenous shocks in civil-military relations—for example, regime change, military defeat in interstate war, catastrophic terrorist attacks (i.e., September 11), or natural disasters of unexpected dimensions (i.e., the devastating 2010 monsoon flooding in Pakistan; cf. Madiwale and Virk 2011). While critical junctures are the main mechanism in institutionalist theory to explain when path dependency “breaks,” institutional change can also be the outcome of an incremental process, such as the 1986 Goldwater-Nichols Act, in which the US Congress, in the face of ongoing military disasters and the unwillingness of the Department of Defense and the armed forces to reform themselves, stepped in and legislated the reform of military decisionmaking and the education of officers (Bruneau 2013b; see Chapter 4 in this volume). While civilian control of the military is the general term, democratic control over the military is a specific form of civilian control. Democratic control of the military requires that political authorities and organizations serving in government and exercising authority and oversight over the military must themselves be subject to the democratic process. As the China case study in this book demonstrates, there can be civilian control of the military without democracy. But China and several other countries under Communist Party rule do not seek the marginalization of the armed forces from political affairs. Rather, the military is political by definition, and the structures of the ruling political organization interpenetrate the armed forces, which serve as instruments of mobilization and regime security for the revolutionary political party (see Chapter 13). Moreover, and evidenced by the case studies in this volume, the specific “structure” of democratic control is unique for each state and is shaped by factors including culture, historical tradition and experience, the internal and external threat environment, societal norms, and political institutions. Furthermore, civil-military relations are not static but evolve in tandem with and in response to different political and social dynamics. The institutional structures of civil-military relations in the United States differ from the control structures and institutions of defense politics in Germany, as well as Japan’s system of bureaucratically managed civil-military relations

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where career civil servants set the national security agenda and oversee the Self-Defense Forces (SDF; see Chapter 5). In addition, the notion of civilian control can never assume an apolitical military. Like any other organization, the military has organizational needs and interests, and it has a responsibility to advise policymakers on matters of national security. In fact, civil-military coordination and taking military expertise into account is crucial for military effectiveness. In other words, focusing solely on control is inadequate for “good” civil-military relations—at least if one accepts the idea that the only good reason for a society to spend a considerable share of its national economic resources on the military is because it can expect a reasonable amount of security in return. Rather, as Pion-Berlin argues, “if democracy is to survive and flourish in today’s world, it must strike a balance between controlling the armed forces and ensuring their effectiveness” (2006, p. ix). The Nexus Between Civilian Control and Military Effectiveness The key argument we make here, and find support in the case studies, is that there is a link between political control on the one hand and military effectiveness on the other. While few scholars would disagree regarding the importance of the civilian control aspects for military effectiveness, this consensus is not, however, matched by a corresponding body of work that seeks to increase our understanding of the relationship between the two (Nielsen 2005; Egnell 2008). Furthermore, a review of the scarce research on the control-effectiveness nexus suggests that there is also no generally accepted view on the interrelation between civilian control and military effectiveness. On the one hand, there is the opinion that the implementation of civilian control can negatively affect the military (Furlan 2012, p. 437). For example, Huntington (1968) forcefully argues that political leadership should avoid any interference in military affairs for maximum military effectiveness. Furthermore, in her research on political-military relations and military effectiveness in the Arab countries, Brooks looked at the negative impact of political control mechanisms chosen by authoritarian leaders in the Middle East on their armies’ military effectiveness (1998, pp. 45–53). She contends that the highly centralized and rigid command structures of Arab regimes, the use of direct leadership, and the tinkering with the chains of command for political reasons negatively influence the effectiveness of Arab armies (1998, p. 46; see also Biddle and Zirkle 1996; Talmadge 2015). More generally, the flourishing scholarship on coup-proofing argues that coup-proofing2 diminishes battlefield effectiveness as well as the ability of militaries to successfully fight conventional wars and counter insurgencies (Brooks 1998; Pilster and Böhmelt 2011; Talmadge 2015; Narang and Talmadge 2018).

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On the other hand, some scholars argue that without civilian involvement, military organizations will stagnate and resist necessary innovation in response to changes in the strategic context. Military bureaucracies are famously resistant to change (Pion-Berlin 2006). While military organizations may need to change to remain relevant and effective over time (Posen 1984, pp. 24–29), it is therefore unlikely that such change can emerge from inside the armed forces. That is why several military theorists insist that civilian leaders must intervene to force change in the military (E. A. Cohen 2003). Moreover, civilian control can also promote what Posen (1984, p. 25) calls political-military integration, or “the knitting-together of political ends and military means,” which is vital for military effectiveness. Moreover, a lack of civilian monitoring is likely to lead to declining defense efficiency, especially if the military is also involved in economic ventures, which make militaries more prone to corruption and the wasting of resources (Posen 1984; Pion-Berlin 2006; Pion-Berlin and Martinez 2017). Similarly, Avant highlights the importance of low-cost civilian monitoring and strong civilian control of the armed forces for military effectiveness. Without such control, she argues, the military will resist necessary innovation as the strategic context changes (1994, p. 49). As she explains, civilian control also increases the effectiveness of the state by reducing bargaining costs. It takes time to reach an agreement, during which the bargainers have to be paid and the organization may lose focus on implementing the agreed policy. Bargaining always entails the risk of reaching a suboptimal agreement. Put simply, elite civil-military disagreement is costly and reduces the effectiveness of the state. Bargaining involves the possibility of military counterpunishment, which typically decreases the military effectiveness of the state. Hence, Avant concludes that “having more civilians control the army made it easier, not harder, for the army to maintain its focus” (2007, p. 87). Bruneau and Matei (2008) also discuss the possibility of different levels of civilian control impacting military effectiveness. While there can be trade-offs between democratic control and military effectiveness, they conclude that at least increased democratic control can improve effectiveness in military, intelligence, and police forces: “While too much direction and oversight obviously can hamper security services’ capabilities or reveal sources and methods in intelligence, implementing ‘good’ control, i.e., instituting control and oversight in a way that provides top-level direction and general oversight guidance, as opposed to malfeasance or cronyism, leads to improved effectiveness” (Bruneau and Matei 2008, p. 921). Of course, good control includes not only the existence of institutions, democratic governance of the defense and security sector—that is, accountable, transparent, consultative, and responsive governance based on the rule of law—but also that civilians are willing to care about defense policy, security issues, and

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military affairs. As shown below, some of the case studies in this book (i.e., Germany and Indonesia) suggest that the latter is not always a given. The chapters in this volume provide in-depth and comparative case studies of the linkage between patterns of civil-military relations and military effectiveness in democracies and nondemocracies in six regions: North and South America (the United States and Chile), West Europe and postcommunist Eurasia (Germany and Russia), Asia Pacific (Japan, Indonesia, and China), and the Mediterranean (Tunisia, Egypt, and Turkey). To draw robust inferences from the country case studies, the case selection aimed at maximizing variation along three dimensions: (1) regime types, (2) patterns of civil-military relations, and (3) military roles and missions. At the same time, the selection of country cases also took into account the importance of the individual countries, both in regional and geopolitical terms (anchor states) and concerning relevant aspects of the control-effectiveness nexus.

Case Selection

Regime Types The case selection included consolidated liberal democracies such as Germany, Japan, and the United States, neodemocracies at various stages of consolidation and political fragility (Tunisia, Chile, and Indonesia), hybrid regimes in Turkey and Russia, as well as military rule in Egypt and civilmilitary relations in a socialist party state (China). While Germany, Japan, and the United States represent some of the most advanced liberal democracies in their respective regions (and worldwide), Tunisia, Chile, and Indonesia represent three relative success stories of democratization in their respective regions. In Chile, which experienced a transition from military rule to democratic government in the late 1980s and early 1990s, civil-military relations reforms had to cope with the legacies of one of the most brutal military regimes in South America, including unresolved issues of transitional justice, strong military veto power, and military prerogative after the transition to democracy. In contrast to the security environment of Chile’s civil-military relations, which are characterized by the absence of serious international or regional threats to the integrity of the nation-state, both Tunisia and Indonesia face challenges of domestic terrorism and insurgency. While the Indonesian military was closely associated with the dictatorship of President Suharto (1966–1998) and still is a relevant economic (and political) player after the transition to democracy in 1999, the Tunisian Armed Forces (TAF) under President Zine al-Abidine Ben Ali (1987–2011) played a minor role in the authoritarian regime coalition. In fact, deprivation of the military relative to nonmilitary security services under Ben Ali has been seen by many scholars as one of

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the reasons for the failure of the armed forces to defend the dictator against mass protests in 2010–2011. However, in both countries, the transition from authoritarianism to democracy saw the outbreak of transitional violence, partly as a result of interservice competition and rivalries and partly as a consequence of the (temporary?) erosion of state capacity. The cases of Turkey and Russia were selected because they serve as examples for the reform of civil-military relations during situations of “failed” transitions from nondemocratic to democratic regimes. Russia and Turkey have seen far-reaching and deep-cutting military reforms and fundamental change in civil-military relations (from Communist Party control to personal supremacy over the military in Russia, and from military hegemony to personalized control in Turkey). Both political regimes suffered from a dramatic weakening of democracy in the hands of elected civilian leaders and, in each, democratic backsliding also solidified the transformation of the military into tools of regime security. Finally, Egypt and China represent two different types of clearly nondemocratic rule. Following the downfall of President Hosni Mubarak in February 2011 and the military coup d’état of 2013 that brought down popularly elected President Mohamed Morsi, Egypt under President Abdel Fattah al-Sisi represents military rule in the form of a military strongman regime. The People’s Republic of China is one of only five socialist single-party regimes worldwide that survived the collapse of the Soviet Union and its satellite regimes in Eastern Europe. Moreover, the People’s Republic of China is today the main competitor of the United States in economic and security terms and has the largest, most powerful, and perhaps most effective military in Asia—next only to the United States. Patterns of Civil-Military Relations While Germany, Japan, and the United States represent the universe of advanced industrial democracies, their cases also stand for different models of civil-military relations: the separation model in the United States, the model of parliamentary army in the Federal Republic of Germany (West Germany before 1990), and the model of bureaucratic civilian control in Japan. In contrast, civil-military relations in Chile, Indonesia, and Tunisia are still in the process of transformation. Yet while most scholars seem to agree that Chile has been able to institutionalize democratic civilian control over its military since Augusto Pinochet vanished from the political scene in 2005, Indonesia and Tunisia are in search of a new model for their civil-military relations (Pion-Berlin and Martinez 2017; Chapters 8 and 9 in this volume). Both achieved a certain degree of civilian oversight and authority, but the military still enjoys a considerable degree of autonomy from the civilian institutions. And in recent years, the militaries in these two countries seem to have even gained political influence

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because of the deepening troubles with transnational terrorism, cross-border crime, and conflicts in neighboring countries (Tunisia); or because former military officers founded or joined political parties and gained political representation at the provincial or national level through the ballot box (Indonesia). Finally, while Egypt stands for a pattern of civil-military relations in which military officers directly control national politics and reign over a multilayered and vast military business complex with wide-ranging influence and impacts on their national economies, China is one of the few existing cases of a communist-style system of party control. Roles and Missions Regarding roles and missions, the US military performs the full spectrum of roles, from training, preparing, and conducting war fighting, police support, and counterterrorism to human disaster relief. In contrast, the SelfDefense Force in Japan is trained and equipped for war fighting, although its main roles are disaster relief and contributing to the national security policy of “proactive contribution to peace” by engaging in international peace-supporting and peacekeeping operations, including UN peacekeeping (see Chapter 5). Not dissimilar to the SDF, the Bundeswehr (German armed forces) trains for international wars but is exclusively deployed in peacekeeping, peace-supporting, and antipiracy operations. However, in contrast to Japan’s SDF, the Bundeswehr is constitutionally banned from providing support for police operations in any form (at least during peace), has never been involved in counterinsurgency operations, and only indirectly plays a role in counterterrorism efforts, mostly through participation in nation building and stabilization operations (e.g., in Mali and Afghanistan; see Chapter 6). Though the Bundeswehr cannot initiate offensive actions constitutionally, since 1994 it has had a marked presence in European Union (EU), NATO, and UN endeavors. Yet contrary to foreign policy declarations, the federal government and the German public have remained distant and largely uninformed about defense and military policy. Moving on to military roles and missions in emerging or consolidating democracies, it is important to note that in all three new democracies, the conventional war-fighting role of the armed forces is secondary or even of minor importance compared to other roles such as counterterrorism, anticrime operations, counterinsurgency, and border security. For example, as Gledhill (2012) demonstrates, although Indonesia is the largest archipelago state worldwide, its navy de facto has only one role, that of a heavily armed coast guard, whereas the Tunisian military is almost exclusively focused on border security and counterterrorism operations. In contrast, the Chilean military is prepared for combat with neighbors and is engaged in peacekeeping, but its main role in recent times has been to support the state in emergency relief due mainly to earthquakes.

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Finally, the military in Egypt is primarily engaged in economic and political roles, but has a dismal record in war. In contrast to Egypt, the Chinese government is determined to modernize and “professionalize” its military to prepare it for regional and international security threats (including the threat of a military confrontation with the United States). Finally, one aspect that is emblematic of the complex roles of some militaries in Asia and the Middle East, compared to their counterparts in Western democracies, is their role as “businessmen in arms” (Grewert and Abul-Magd 2016). What sets civil-military relations in Egypt, Indonesia, and to a lesser extent China (and other communist regimes such as Vietnam and Laos; cf. Croissant 2018) apart from armed forces in most other countries is that, in the post–World War II period, soldiers not only have been agents of socioeconomic modernization but also organized military business complexes. The next two chapters of this book deal with challenges of theory building, data mining, and measurement strategies in the field of civil-military relations. David Kuehn starts us out in Chapter 2 with a critical review of theoretical approaches on civilian control and military effectiveness. Building on a two-dimensional matrix of explanatory perspectives, Kuehn differentiates between structural, institutional, psychological, and ideational theories of civilian control and of military effectiveness. While his survey leads him to conclude that the field has produced several useful theories and explanatory arguments, he nevertheless identifies three substantive shortcomings in the current state of civil-military relations theory. In Chapter 3, Tanja Eschenauer-Engler and Jil Kamerling provide a critical evaluation of existing data and methods of data analysis in the field of civil-military relations that concern the two core themes of this book: military effectiveness and political roles of the military. Similar to Kuehn’s findings in Chapter 2, Eschenauer-Engler and Kamerling find much to like about the current state of the art but also identify some critical shortcomings. After that, Part 1 of this book addresses the control-effectiveness nexus in three established democracies. In Chapter 4, Thomas-Durell Young notes, often using the term prevarication, that democratic civilian control is not an issue in the United States which, since the founding of the republic in the late eighteenth century, has had a robust set of institutions whereby civilians control the military. He does, however, find major problems in the United States with military effectiveness and lays the blame squarely on the US Congress. Another prevarication is with regard to the command structure, and Young notes that the structures and processes of the US defense system were better attuned to the context of the Cold War than to the current global situation in which the the country finds itself. In sum, the United States is a

The Chapters

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case wherein there is unquestioned democratic civilian control of relatively richly endowed armed forces, but where the domestic politics, in which separation of powers is key, do not allow reforming the defense system to achieve effectiveness. Chiyuki Aoi, in Chapter 5, begins with an analysis of the context of Japan’s postwar system of civilian control by bureaucrats, which served to prevent the Self-Defense Forces from having autonomous decisionmaking powers over the use of the armed forces, but also worked to minimize the interface between the Japanese body politic and society at large. Since the end of the Cold War, however, the system has evolved, giving more power to politicians. As Aoi notes, the roles attributed to the SDF in its establishment were expanded beyond Japanese shores after 1992, and that expansion had an important impact on Japanese civil-military relations at the strategic, operational, and tactical levels. Nonetheless, this did not alter the fundamental brakes placed on SDF authority and mandate. In addition, Aoi explores the operational implications of such tight civilian scrutiny imposed on SDF missions and evaluates the effectiveness of such control. In Chapter 6, Sven Gareis investigates the relationship between the high degree of civilian control and low military effectiveness in Germany. While the political primacy over the military is unchallenged and is exercised in the form of a thorough democratic control of the Bundeswehr, severe deficits in military effectiveness are being tolerated in politics and society because immediate threats to Germany’s territory have largely disappeared and the use of force in international relations is not a preferred approach in foreign and security policy. This—most probably—will not change in the foreseeable future. Next, Part 2 of this book addresses civil-military relations in three countries in South America, Northern Africa, and Southeast Asia that underwent a transition from authoritarian to democratic government in the 1990s and 2000s. In Chapter 7, Carlos Solar explores the existing patterns of civilian control and effectiveness in Chile in light of a changing and more intricate defense governance environment. His analysis focuses especially on how the Chilean armed forces respond to national and international strategies for assessing conflict and peace. Solar’s study of the Chilean case evidences the struggle that decisionmakers experience when opening up new agendas for the military if cohesive policy frameworks for control and effectiveness are not used. Noureddine Jebnoun provides, in Chapter 8, an empirically rich and in-depth study of political-military relations in Tunisia from the early years of independence until today. His study highlights the gradual institutionalization of the military at the periphery of Tunisia’s postcolonial state and examines the deliberate process of marginalization and disempowerment of the Tunisian Armed Forces under President Ben Ali’s “secu-

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ritocracy” after 1987. Furthermore, he maps the gradual evolution of the military’s role and missions and provides an assessment of military effectiveness in the post-authoritarian era subsequent to the emergence of new security contingencies since 2011. Aditya Batara Gunawan’s study of the case of Indonesia in Chapter 9 concludes Part 2. As Gunawan argues, one of the most important achievements of democratic reforms after the collapse of the Suharto dictatorship in 1998 concerns the transformation of the political roles of the Indonesian national armed forces, Tentara Nasional Indonesia (TNI). Yet, after a period of roles retrenchment in the 2000s, the Indonesian military has recently seen a resurgence of its role in non-defense-related missions, which bears a resemblance to the military’s sociopolitical function under the authoritarian Suharto regime. He analyses the TNI’s involvement in the public food security program to show the impact of limited civilian control on military effectiveness in various missions. Then, Part 3 of this book first addresses civil-military relations in Russia and Turkey. In Chapter 10, Ofer Fridman argues that the relationship between political and military leadership is a positive-sum relationship and that political leadership and military effectiveness are highly interdependent. His case study of Russian military engagement in Syria makes the point that the deployment of Russian troops, and their presence and actions abroad, can be classified as the application of hard power. However, the application of hard power in Syria is modest in extent and intensity, and the military campaign serves a dual political purpose of enhancing Russia’s soft power in international relations (international audience) and strengthening the political support of Russians for the Vladimir Putin government (domestic audience). In Chapter 11, Zeynep Sentek provides a fascinating case study of the historical trajectories of and recent transformations in Turkey’s civil-military relations. With a particular focus on the developments since the failed military coup on July 15, 2016, she illustrates how the government of Prime Minister and President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan has followed a path of strengthening a very personalized political control without democratic oversight. Sentek’s assessment of military effectiveness, as well as the terrorismfighting role of the Turkish Armed Forces (TSK), utilizes the Operation Euphrates Shield in Syria as a case study. The two final chapters in Part 3 provide crucial insights into the relationship between political control and military effectiveness in unambiguously autocratic political regimes. In Chapter 12, Robert Springborg offers a description and analysis of civil-military relations in Egypt. He states most emphatically that there is neither democratic civilian control of the armed forces nor military effectiveness. Indeed, since independence, Egypt has been ruled by military officers except for a brief period of less than two years, and Springborg provides rich details on how the

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military, from the top to the bottom, controls the state. He also demonstrates in great detail that the military has not been effective in any role or mission that it chanced to undertake, from war fighting to border control and counterterrorism to peacekeeping and humanitarian assistance. He also highlights the huge role of the Egyptian military in all varieties of commercial activities. On a very different note, in Chapter 13, Chinese scholar You Ji examines the politically and military transformation of the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) since the late 1990s. He includes incremental change in partymilitary relations, as well as military modernization. As Ji explains, the PLA’s obedience to the Communist Party is still the essence of civilian control in China, but the party supports the deepening professionalization and modernization of the PLA because a powerful military serves the party’s interests in boosting its legitimacy, promoting a state-centric patriotism, and lifting China’s profile as a rising global superpower. This has been the foundation of the alliance between the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) and PLA in meeting their shared vested interests. While professionalization is the foundation for military modernization and military effectiveness, Ji also notes that this can be at odds with political control, especially in authoritarian political contexts, where the military tends to be politicized. Part 4 concludes this book with Chapter 14 by Thomas C. Bruneau and Aurel Croissant. The chapter summarizes the main findings with regard to civilian control, to military effectiveness, and the nexus between the two. In doing so, the authors argue against the conventional wisdom according to which democratic civilian control is a necessary condition for military effectiveness. They also emphasize the tremendous differences in the extent to which militaries in democracies are effective. 1. While Bruneau and Matei (2008) argue that “military efficiency is the third dimension of civil-military relations (in addition to control and effectiveness),” we treat efficiency in this framework as a necessary, though not sufficient, condition for effectiveness. 2. Coup-proofing describes measures taken by governments to guard their rule against the threat of a military coup, such as ethnic staking, the creation of paralleled armed organizations, and monitoring of the military through multiple internal security organizations.

Notes

2 The Theoretical Landscape David Kuehn

distinguished tradition and the relationship between civilian society and its “armed servants” (Feaver 2003) has received attention from various perspectives and research traditions, including philosophy, sociology, and political science. Carried by political events and the institutionalization of the social sciences, after World War II the field produced a number of highly influential theoretical arguments from a wide range of analytical perspectives and metatheoretical traditions. Despite these early advances, the state and progress of theory development in civil-military relations research has been the target of much criticism since its pioneering days. This criticism was echoed during the following decades, when scholars of civil-military relations repeatedly bemoaned that the field was in a sorry condition and had hardly produced a body of theory on even the most basic questions of civil-military relations (e.g., Feaver 1999). While much of this criticism was focused on the literature on civilian control, charges have also been fielded against the scholarship on military effectiveness. This literature has been scolded for its inconsistent understanding of what effectiveness entails, which has led to a lack of integration and comparative testing of existing arguments (Brooks 2007). Finally, Bruneau and Croissant (Chapter 1) bemoan that the interrelationship between civilian control and military effectiveness has thus far been undertheorized. What are the theoretical proposals made in sixty years of research on civilian control and military effectiveness, and to what extent are these critiques justified? In this chapter, I take stock of the current state of civilmilitary relations theory.

The scholarship on civil-military relations has a long and

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While there are different understandings of the term theory in the social sciences, most (neo) positivist research agrees on a general understanding of theories as “general statements that describe and explain the causes and effects of classes of phenomena” (Van Evera 1997, p. 7). Substantively, then, theories that explain the same effect can differ across a wide range of causes. In an attempt to provide some order to the vast variety of explanatory arguments in political science, Parsons (2007) introduced a parsimonious typology that differentiates theories by assigning causes to a two-by-two matrix. The first dimension of the matrix spans the exogenous-endogenous divide and asks whether a given explanation centers on factors that operate in the external environment of the relevant actors or their internal characteristics. The general-particularistic dimension differentiates explanations based on whether the factors are (quasi-)natural occurrences or may best be understood as man-made results of previous contingencies (see Table 2.1). The matrix yields four basic types of theoretical arguments: structural explanations draw on the general and regular effects of material factors that exist in the environment exogenous to the relevant actors and provide “objective” resources and constraints for human action such as geographical boundaries, socioeconomic stratifications, and the configuration of the international system. Similar to structural factors, institutional explanations focus on intersubjectively existing exogenous resources and constraints. Rather than naturally given, however, institutional factors are man-made and particular results of contingent previous action, including laws, regulations, and organizations, but also informal arrangements, rules, and practices. Ideational arguments also highlight the causal efficacy of particularistic results of previous human action, but focus on endogenous ideas, identities, and beliefs through which actors perceive and interpret the world (i.e., general norms of behavior, professional values, or ideals, as well as political ideologies). Psychological explanations, finally, also claim that human action is the result of the specific characteristics endogenous to the actors but depends on naturally occurring mental processes and predispositions that are hardwired into the human psyche.

Explanatory Perspectives

Table 2.1 Matrix of Explanatory Perspectives Exogenous Endogenous

General

Structural Psychological

Source: Based on Parsons (2007, p. 15).

Particular

Institutional Ideational

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Based on the analytical framework outlined above, in this section I survey the theoretical landscape on civilian control. I show that scholars have proposed a wide range and large number of structural, institutional, and ideational accounts for civilian control in established democracies, newly democratized nations, and authoritarian regimes. Compared to this wealth of theoretical contributions, psychological explanation has been all but absent from work on civilian control. In fact, a brief survey of the field’s leading outlet for theoretical innovation, the journal Armed Forces & Society, yielded only two research articles using psychological arguments.1 Consequently, this section is limited to surveying structural, institutional, and ideational perspectives.

Civilian Control

Structural Explanations Structuralist explanations of civilian control can be loosely divided into two broad families: domestic and international. Domestic explanations focus on the effect of different socioeconomic structures within the nation-state on civilian control, conceptualized in most instances as the occurrence or absence of military coups. These approaches share the basic underlying argument that certain structural conditions create social conflicts and potentially violent mobilization, which undermine civilian governments’ legitimacy in the eyes of the military and the populace at large, while at the same time enhancing the military’s power vis-à-vis the civilians. These conditions ultimately provide the opportunity for the military to challenge the civilian government in the name of “restoring social order.” The structural factors that have been suggested to lead to such conflicts are manifold and range from economic conditions to a variety of societal cleavages. Some authors have focused on levels of economic development, dependency on trade and natural resource exports, and the degree of socioeconomic inequality, arguing that particularly poor countries, those whose economies center on natural resource extraction and those in which economic wealth is very unequally distributed, are likely to experience civilmilitary frictions and military interventions into politics (e.g., Finer 1962). Others have focused on long-term socioeconomic changes and modernization, which transforms societies and creates social conflict that might trigger military coups (e.g., Huntington 1968). Yet others have identified short-term phenomena such as economic crises and the resulting societal upheaval as producing civil-military conflict (e.g., Nordlinger 1977). The majority of these economic explanations argue that civil-military frictions are more likely to occur in poor and highly economically unequal societies. However, Huntington (1968) argues that modernization and socioeconomic development are likely to lead to “praetorian” developments, when a country’s political institutions are unable to channel the sociopolitical conflicts that arise

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out of the social changes and pressures for participation brought forth by modernization and economic development. Similarly, Svolik (2013) notes that economic development and military intervention into politics follow a curvilinear relationship: military coups are particularly likely in countries with medium levels of economic inequality, while highly unequally and very equally distributed wealth will lead to more stable civil-military relations. In terms of societal cleavages, some theorists have highlighted the structural reasons of violent domestic conflict to explain the weakening or breakdown of civilian control as social conflicts. Such societal factors that weaken civilian control range from the conflicts between privileged and marginalized socioeconomic classes (e.g., Needler 1975) to tensions between different ethnic or linguistic groups (e.g., Harkness 2016). International explanations, in turn, highlight the impact of international veto actors, military and political cooperation with other nations, and membership in international organizations on civil-military relations—especially for the prevention of coups and the establishment of civilian control in new democracies after the Cold War. According to these perspectives, economic integration and political exchanges with democratic countries raise the costs of military interventions into politics (e.g., Marinov and Goemans 2014). Similarly, some scholars have argued that military exchanges with democratic nations and participation in peacekeeping operations instill democratic norms and the principle of civilian control in developing countries’ officers (e.g., Velázquez 2010). Especially since the September 11 terrorist attacks, Western democracies have ramped up their support for emerging democracies and developing economies in reforming their security sectors. This is in stark contrast to the Cold War era, when Western powers supported, openly or clandestinely, military interventions against socialist governments in Latin America, Africa, and Asia. Finally, many scholars have highlighted that for countries of South and Eastern Europe, the intention to become members of the European Union and NATO has contributed significantly to firm civilian control over the military as both actors demand democratic control of defense and military policy (e.g., Barany 2012). A second major strand of international explanations focuses on the impact of external security threats on civilian control. Here, two contrary lines of argumentation can be identified. The first mirrors the domestic conflict argument summarized above and expects that external security threats will weaken civilian control and result in an expansion of the military’s role in politics because external threats increase the military’s political clout. While older contributions to this literature focused on the negative impact of external security threats in new and established democracies (e.g., Lasswell 1941), more recent studies have turned to the “guardianship dilemma” in authoritarian regimes (e.g., McMahon and Slantchev 2015). The alternative line of argumentation turns the causal relationship on its head and posits that external security threats

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will actually improve civilian control as it focuses the military’s attention away from meddling with politics and toward its professional task of defending the nation, while unifying potentially divided civilians, which will reduce their willingness to draw the military into politics or seek civilmilitary conflict for short-term political gains (e.g., Desch 1999). Institutional Explanations A number of authors have proposed that the degree of civilian control is best explained by institutional arrangements. Here, two broad categories of arguments can be distinguished: one highlights the role of regime type, and the other focuses on the impact of different civilian control mechanisms. Regime type explanations argue that democracies are less likely to suffer from military coups due to two distinct particularities of democratic government. First, democracies tend to be better than authoritarian regimes at channeling social grievances and interests into the political arena, which pacifies political conflicts and reduces the likelihood that social problems become so pressing that large shares of the population would support the military toppling the government (e.g., Lehoucq and Pérez-Liñán 2014). Second, because democracies provide comprehensive guarantees of civil liberties and political rights, they tend to have strong civil society organizations that can act as “powerful safeguard[s] against military intervention when they ‘talk back’ or resist a coup by mobilizing protests or refusing to comply with plotters” (Belkin and Schofer 2003, p. 605). These explanations also provide answers why the establishment of civilian control is a challenging endeavor in many new democracies. Due to often decades of authoritarian rule, institutional channels are weakly developed; political institutions are new and not yet entrenched; political actors, such as parties and civil society organizations, are typically weak; and well-institutionalized rules of civilmilitary interactions are often missing. Consequently, historical legacies and the path dependence of authoritarian civil-military relations often continue to define the limits of civilian control in new democracies well into the democratic period (e.g., Trinkunas 2005). Related arguments have also been proposed to explain the empirical fact that some types of authoritarian regimes (i.e., one-party regimes and monarchies) are mostly immune to open military intervention as, due to their strongly developed political organization, they are “capable of mobilizing ‘the street’ . . . to protect authoritarian leaders from coups by disaffected military factions” (Geddes 2006, p. 23). In contrast, military regimes are typically much less politically institutionalized and prone to coups by politicized officers, not least because the very act that brings military regimes into power sets the precedent for future coup leaders, leading to cascade of countercoups (e.g., O’Kane 1987). The second major group of institutionalist arguments focuses on the instruments to control the military. Much of this work has been aimed at

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explaining different authoritarian regime types’ vulnerability to military coups. Where military loyalty is mainly based on the preferential recruitment of military leaders based on group membership such as ethnicity, family relations, or party membership, military coups against dictators are unlikely to occur and succeed. Alternative mechanisms of control, such as intrusive monitoring of the military through intelligence services and counterbalancing the military’s potential political power with other security agencies, might actually trigger preventive coups by the military (e.g., Sudduth 2017). Based on this finding, and touching on the regime type arguments summarized above, some authors have explained the relative scarcity of military coups in democracies by these regimes’ tendency not to use contentious mechanisms to control and oversee the military. Different than autocratic leaders, democracies typically do not counterbalance the military with other armed organizations, do not rely on clientelistic promotions of political allies into military leadership positions, and do not use irregular and often violent purges of high-ranking officers, which all might trigger military coups (e.g., Pilster and Böhmelt 2012). Finally, such arguments have not been limited to explaining military coups in authoritarian and democratic regimes, but have also been used to account for the establishment of civilian control in new democracies. Croissant et al. (2013), for instance, argue that elected civilians in new democracies need political, material, and ideational resources to use oversight, ascriptive selection, and sanctioning of military misbehavior to overcome the path dependence of authoritarian civil-military relations and compel the military leaders to accept new institutions of civilian control. Ideational Explanations Ideational explanations on civilian control focus on three sets of ideas, norms, and values: those within the military institution, those within the broader society, and the alignment of military-internal and -external values. Military-internal explanations stress the relevance of the professional norms and ethical convictions of the officer corps to explain whether the military institution accepts the principle of civilian control. The classic roots of this paradigm lie in Huntington’s (1957) argument that military subordination is based on the ethos of the officer corps, which considers acceptance of civilian control as one core responsibility of the professional military officer. In explicit contraposition to these arguments, Stepan (1988) stresses that in Latin America, the military’s professional ethos was not one of subordination under civilian rulers but of functioning as suprapolitical guardians of the nation against internal enemies, including corrupt, incompetent, and weak civilian politicians. According to the second strand of ideational arguments, civilian control depends on whether civilian supremacy is considered the only legiti-

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mate configuration of civil-military relations by society at large. The classic version of this argument is made by Finer (1962), who argues that military intervention into politics is all but impossible when the civilian government enjoys widespread support and is accepted as the legitimate holder of political power. Echoing Finer, Lindberg and Clark (2008) argue that new democracies will become less likely to experience military coups if support and trust in the democratic institutions are routinized. Finally, pro-democratic norms of civilian supremacy are also invoked to explain why, different than in Lasswell’s (1941) expectations (see above), Western democracies have not degenerated into garrison states. This is because deeply rooted liberal values and the legitimacy of political institutions have shielded established democracies from militarization despite the ongoing external threat during the Cold War. Consequently, Levy (2016) stresses that these cultural foundations are hardly incorruptible and that a militarization of the societal discourse might result in a weakening of civilian control over the military. In the most recent ideational contribution to civil-military relations theory, Schiff (2009) brings together military-internal and -external ideational perspectives, arguing that civil-military relations will be harmonious when civilian and military ideas are in maximum alignment. Schiff’s concordance theory expects that the military will most likely accept the principle of civilian supremacy and will stay out of domestic politics if civilian elites, the populace, and members of the military agree on the military’s social composition and recruitment, the modes and procedures of political decisionmaking, and the military’s style, and find a mode of cooperation that suits the normative convictions of all three partners. Consequently, Schiff argues, there is not a single but multiple models of civilmilitary relations that all can produce civilian control of the military, including the strict separation of military and civilian spheres of competence that lies at the core of Huntington’s (1957) professionalism model. Compared to the vast literature on civilian control summarized above, military effectiveness has received less attention from political scientists. Moreover, existing literature has hardly addressed the requirements for effectiveness as defined in Chapter 1 of this book, but has rather focused on a narrow understanding of combat effectiveness and war-fighting success, despite the fact that among the many potential roles, actual war fighting is the rarest played by most modern militaries (Bruneau 2017). Among the existing explanations of combat effectiveness, many authors have highlighted the importance of structural factors as resources for “raw” military power. These include economic factors such as national

Military Effectiveness

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wealth, industrial strength, access to raw materials, technological advances, and defense expenditures; social characteristics such as population size, demographics, and ethnic composition; and geographical topography (Mearsheimer 2014). Of course, military power does not equal military effectiveness since endowment with basic resources does not explain how they are translated into the ideational and institutional foundations of an effective military (Brooks 2007). The structuralist literature, consequently, does not yet provide much analytical leverage for explaining military effectiveness as defined in this book. Similarly, psychological perspectives are almost absent from the analysis of military effectiveness and there are no psychologically grounded theories on the emergence of the broader institutional necessities of effective defense planning and doctrinal adaptation, a rational structure of planning and implementation, and resource commitments. Consequently, in the remainder of this section, I focus on the existing institutional and ideational explanations of military effectiveness. Institutional Explanations Institutional perspectives on military effectiveness have traditionally centered on the causal effects of three institutional configurations: regime type, the system of government, and the institutions of civilian control. The first group, highlighting the effects of different types of political regimes, is rooted in the literature on “democratic wars,” which suggests that democracies are more likely to win wars than autocracies (e.g., Rosato 2005). For this empirical finding, a number of causal mechanisms have been proposed. The most prominent explanations, summarized by Bruneau and Croissant (Chapter 1) as “selection arguments,” have centered on the accountability of democratic elections, which ensure that leaders will be punished for starting unsuccessful wars and thus leads democratic governments to wage war only if they are likely to win. Other explanations have stressed that democracies are typically wealthier, which makes their militaries more powerful; that they engage in stronger and more effective alliances; that, due to their open and transparent societies, they benefit from superior intelligence and strategic planning; and that they can elicit much greater support for the war effort from both the civilian population and their soldiers. While regime type explanations can account for differences in military effectiveness between autocracies and democracies, they do not shed light on variation within these broad regime categories. To account for differences in military effectiveness between democracies, Avant (1994) has highlighted the different political logics of parliamentary and presidential systems of government. She argues that the ability of democratic governments to formulate coherent and effective military doctrines depends

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mainly on the unity of the civilian decisionmakers, which in turn is a function of the agreement of interests between the legislature and the executive defined by the system of government. In presidential systems, such as the United States, the government and legislature are institutionally separated and often have competing electoral and substantive interests, which creates institutional inertia, reduces the executive’s willingness and ability to enact radical doctrinal changes, and allows military leaders to play both branches of government against each other. In parliamentary systems such as Great Britain, in comparison, the parliamentary majority and the government constitute an electoral “community of fate,” which ensures the agreement of interests between the chambers and allows for much greater discretionary power over military doctrine. Concerning institutional differences in autocracies, there is little systematic theorizing of the link between different types of authoritarian regimes or other institutional variations and military effectiveness. Some authors have highlighted that leaders of institutionalized dictatorships are more likely to fear military coups and, thus, will be prone to weaken their militaries’ effectiveness (J. Weeks 2014). There also is a solid body of literature on military expenditures, which has highlighted the greater defense spending of military regimes (e.g., Bove and Brauner 2016). This literature, however, is mainly empirical and has yet to produce a coherent theory of the effective and efficient use of resources on authoritarian militaries. The third institutional perspective focuses on the interrelationship between the mechanisms of civilian control and military effectiveness. This literature is, overall, divided between studies that focus on nondemocratic regimes and those that study democracies. On autocratic regimes, there is widespread agreement on the negative effects of coupproofing on military effectiveness (e.g., C. Brown et al. 2016). These authors argue that intrusive instruments of control, such as counterbalancing different armed services against each other and basing promotions on ethnic, regional, or other group identity instead of professional competence, will undermine military effectiveness. In terms of the concept of military effectiveness suggested in Chapter 1, institutional redundancy, isolation of individual services, and professional inaptitude preclude the development of a systematic military strategy and the emergence of a coherent defense ministry and joint military planning structures, thus leading to waste and inefficient use of resources. Concerning the connection between the strength and instruments of civilian control and military effectiveness in democracies, the literature falls into two general lines (Brooks 2007). The first sides with Huntington’s (1957) assertion that increased civilian intrusion into the military’s sphere of responsibility will undermine the latter’s ability to fulfill its mission and functions. This is because civilians supposedly neither possess

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the expertise necessary to make sensible decisions in defense and military matters, nor are they sufficiently interested in maximizing the nation’s security, but are driven by the goal of maximizing political gains. Consequently, these authors suggest that all three requirements of military effectiveness will suffer if civilians have their way in defense and security matters as strategic planning will be directed more toward short-term electoral interests than long-term security requirements. Defense institutions might be structured not to maximize national security but to provide posts for political allies, and fiscal resources might be channeled into policy areas of greater electoral importance than defense and security matters such as industrial or welfare policies. The alternative perspective, which takes the majority position, suggests a positive effect of firm civilian control and influence on defense policy on military effectiveness. These authors argue that robust civilian control increases military effectiveness because “civilian leaders are less subject [than military leaders] to organizational biases and have a more ‘national’ perspective on defense issues” (Desch 1999, p. 6). In the absence of an ultimate decisionmaker impartial to military-internal divisions, the military’s myopic interests can lead to self-serving defense planning, institutions, and resource allocations and potentially crippling interservice rivalries. Ideational Explanations Ideational explanations of military effectiveness have a long and distinguished history, with the earliest accounts going back to classical antiquity. In the modern study of civil-military relations, two broad groups of ideational arguments on military effectiveness can be distinguished, which focus on military-internal ideas and broader social norms, respectively. As for military-internal factors, some authors have stressed that the military, just as any other bureaucracy, is ruled by conservative norms of order and hierarchy, which inhibits change and undermines its ability to develop adequate doctrines, technology, and tactics and to adapt to new challenges and realities in war (e.g., W. Murray 2011). In contrast, other authors have emphasized that there is not a single military culture, but that different militaries are ruled by different norms that explain the observed variances in military structure, the type of warfare militaries plan for, the willingness to adapt nontraditional strategies of warfare, and how militaries react to the demands and constraints set on them by civilian decisionmakers. Finally, Huntington (1957) has famously argued that a professional military ethos, which will result from the strict separation of spheres of responsibility between civilians and military officers, is a necessary requirement for effective national defense planning and expertise. The second current of ideational explanations of military effectiveness focuses on the dominant ideas and norms in society at large. Clas-

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sicist Victor Davis Hanson (1989), for instance, argues that democratic values and the ideal of the citizen soldier predominant in European and North American societies have given rise to a specific “Western way of war,” which is badly suited to cope with asymmetrical and nontraditional challenges. In a similar vein, Rosen (1996) argues that a society’s preferred “way of life” is embodied in its state structures, including the military, which might affect whether the military will be able to use its material resources to maximum effectiveness. Other authors have focused on a country’s strategic culture, that is, “a nation’s traditions, values, attitudes, patterns of behavior, habits, customs, achievement and particular ways of adapting to the environment and solving problems with respect to the threat or use of force” (Booth 1990, p. 121). These culturally defined styles of strategy are thought to affect a nation’s preferences by giving meaning to objective and material resources and by providing military and civilian decisionmakers with ideationally defined limits on behavioral choices. Thus, a nation’s strategic culture might reduce military effectiveness by taking some potentially effective military options off the table, while favoring other less effective strategies (Johnston 1995). This argument has been, inter alia, applied to explain a large range of strategic decisions, including the preference for using the military for nonviolent conflict resolution, a state’s acquisition and employment of weapons of mass destruction, and the propensity and effectiveness of states to cooperate militarily. Drawing on Parsons’s (2007) fourfold typology of substantive arguments in political science, I have shown that, even though there might be no single comprehensive theory of civil-military relations that is accepted by a broad range of scholars and that captures both control and effectiveness, the field has produced a large number of explanatory arguments from different theoretical perspectives. This is in sharp contrast to the critical assessments of theory development in civil-military relations research that I summarized in the introduction to this chapter, and that have been repeatedly voiced since the field’s earliest days. My survey has, instead, shown that theorizing in civil-military relations thrives, is diverse, and captures a range of different interpretations and evaluations of what constitutes the most crucial aspects of civil-military relations and the structures, institutions, and ideas that affect control and effectiveness. However, the state of civil-military relations theory also suffers from a number of impediments to the accumulation of knowledge on control and effectiveness. These relate to (1) the diversity of definitions and concepts in the literature; (2) a fragmentation of theories along political regime types; (3) a

Discussion

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vagueness concerning the assumptions underlying existing theoretical arguments; (4) the virtual absence of psychological explanations; and (5) the still insufficient attention to the interplay of control and effectiveness. First, this survey has shown that definitions and conceptualizations of the dependent variable vary broadly between, but also within, explanatory schools. This is true for the issue of civilian control, where most structural explanations, especially those that focus on economic conditions, deal exclusively with military coups. Institutional and ideational explanations of civilian control, on the other hand, are often invoked to explain more complex concepts of civilian control such as the emergence of civil-military conflict, the extent of military autonomy and its political prerogatives, and the degree of influence of nonstate actors in the security sector. It is even more true for theorizing on military effectiveness, where almost all theoretical contributions are based on a narrow concept of effectiveness, usually centered solely on external (and less often, internal) war-fighting prowess. In fact, there are only a handful of, mainly institutionalist, explanations that are based on a more demanding conceptualization of effectiveness across a wide range of military functions. This variety hampers theory development in the field and raises the question of to what extent explanations that are aimed at minimalist concepts such as coups or war-fighting effectiveness can be translated to more demanding conceptualizations of control and effectiveness such as the ones introduced in Chapter 1. Consequently, future research should aim at filling the conceptual gaps by, first of all, being clear about the scope of their theoretical arguments (what part of the conceptual continuum does the theory explain?); and, second, by explicitly theorizing the explanatory potential of factors that have thus far been underutilized for certain conceptualizations of the dependent variables. These include the relevance of economic and societal structures for complex concepts of civilian control, the role of ideas for military coups, and the structural and ideational determinants of this book’s conception of military effectiveness. Second, related to the first lacuna, theorizing especially in terms of civilian control is too fragmented along differences between political regime types. For one thing, the literature on military coups has not yielded much analytical leverage for understanding civil-military relations in the established democracies of North America, Europe, Northeast Asia, and, increasingly, Latin America. For these countries, coups are simply not a realistic problem. As noted above, existing theory has provided compelling answers as to why coups are not likely to happen in established democracies, but the arguments and insights of the literature on coups cannot explain differences in degrees, forms, and day-to-day workings of civilian control in stable democracies. The same is true for most explanatory factors and causal mechanisms fielded to explain the establishment of civilian control in new democracies. Finally, beyond the coup question, there has been

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little systematic theorizing on civil-military interactions in hybrid regimes, which combine authoritarian and democratic characteristics, and stable autocracies. Given the global recession of democracy and the increasing number of hybrid and electoral authoritarian regimes and the potential role of the military in all these developments (Kuehn 2017), future research should make sure to address these lacunae. Third, greater attention to the differences of civil-military relations across political regimes would also require a more serious reflection on the core assumptions that underpin theoretical arguments. Most explanations of civilian control, for instance, are based on the underlying tenet that civilians and the military are engaged in a power struggle that is driven by conflicting interests, and whose outcome determines the degree and patterns of civilian control. That is, where civilians have the upper hand in the power struggle, civilian control can be established or maintained; where the military wins, civilian control is weakened, undermined, or abolished. A similar zero-sum assumption underlies much of the institutional and ideational effectiveness literature, which stresses the role of civilians’ (in)ability to enforce structural, doctrinal, or strategic changes against the military’s preferred ways of war fighting. Only a few theorists have deviated from this conflict-focused perspective and have based their arguments on the assumption of a fundamental civil-military concordance of interests (e.g., Schiff 2009; Bland 2001). But even if one agrees that, for explaining civilian control and effectiveness, the assumption of a fundamental civilmilitary conflict of interests is analytically and empirically useful, future theorizing should pay more attention to making the underlying assumptions explicit. This is not limited to answering the question of whether the basic state of civil-military relations is one of conflict or harmony. It also involves defining who the relevant actors are (i.e., which civilian individuals or groups and military echelons are the ones deciding on control and effectiveness); on what grounds they make their decisions (e.g., if they are guided mainly by narrow self-interests and some form of instrumental rationality, or by personal or organizational norms, ideas, and ideologies); and how structural, institutional, and ideational factors interact with these actors’ goals and interests. Fourth, this survey has also shown that the field is somewhat lopsided in terms of its preference for certain (groups of) explanatory factors and theoretical perspectives. In particular, more attention should be paid to psychological approaches, which to my knowledge have thus far been neglected in the literature on civil-military relations but promise significant analytical value. For one thing, psychological factors shed light on the relevance of actors, their interests, and their access to and processing of information. For another thing, psychological factors are valuable for explaining aspects of civil-military relations that structural and institu-

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tional explanations are badly equipped to illuminate. The latter are well suited to explaining the resources of and power differentials between civilians and military leaders. As such, they are focused mainly on explaining the outcome of civil-military conflicts and their implications for control and effectiveness. Similar to ideational explanations, psychological perspectives such as prospect theory and framing, however, are valuable for elucidating the underlying reasons of civil-military conflict and defining the situations in which such conflict is likely to arise. Fifth, as forcefully highlighted by Bruneau and Croissant (Chapter 1) the interplay of control and effectiveness remains undertheorized. I have shown in this chapter that some authors have drawn on the degree and institutional forms of civilian control to explain military effectiveness. However, these studies remain limited by their constrained understanding of effectiveness (i.e., they narrowly focus on war-fighting power); the uncertainty concerning the causal effects of greater civilian control on effectiveness (with some authors stressing its beneficial impact and the others highlighting its negative effect); and the fact that the most rigorously developed and empirically tested theoretical arguments have been limited to civil-military relations in autocracies and the “dictator’s dilemma,” and new and established democracies have received much less attention in this regard. Moreover, what is completely absent is a theoretical discussion of how military effectiveness might affect the degree of civilian control. From an ideational perspective, for instance, it might be reasonable to expect increased civil-military conflict and a worsening of civilian control if military expenditures or the organizations themselves are perceived as illegitimate by major parts of the populace because they are unable to fulfill their socially desired functions. This might lead to attempts of intrusive civilian meddling with military internal affairs, the creation of alternative services to fulfill missions the military is not able to accomplish, or even calls to abandon the armed forces—all of which are likely to solicit covert or open resistance by the officer corps. Of course, theorizing the interplay between effectiveness and control is hardly a trivial undertaking. For one thing, because militaries are usually tasked with multiple missions, they might be varyingly effective in different tasks—and not all of them are likely to have an equal impact on civilian control. For another thing, there is cross-national, but also temporal, variance in the importance of different military missions. During the Cold War, for example, the main function of most Western armies was territorial defense, while after 1990 and into the 2010s their main mission was out-of-area peacekeeping. This multidimensional variance makes coherent theorizing on the interrelationship between control and effectiveness extremely challenging. Moreover, a theoretical argument on the control-effectiveness nexus must be wary of falling victim to fallacies of endogeneity or tautology, where for instance the degree

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of control is dependent on effectiveness, which is in turn affected by the control instruments used by the civilians. Nonetheless, explicit theoretical thinking on the relationship of control and effectiveness is necessary for progress in the field. It is to this goal, particularly, that this book is likely to bring the greatest advances. In this chapter I showed that today, civil-military relations research is far from being in the dismal and ultimately atheoretic state of affairs that its critics have described. Rather, theorizing on the causes of civilian control and military effectiveness, and their respective absence, is plentiful, diverse, and firmly rooted in multiple metatheoretical traditions, including structuralism, institutionalism, and ideationalism. I also showed, however, that all is not as well as it could be and that civil-military relations theory is limited in substance and coherence. Concerning its limitations in substance, the field does not make use of the full arsenal of metatheoretical perspectives, ignoring psychological approaches and undervaluing structural explanations of military effectiveness. Concerning coherence, the extent to which individual contributions can speak to each other is limited due to the use of different definitions, concepts, and theoretical insights on, for instance, the causes of military coups, which are not easily transferred to other more complex aspects of civilian control. Hence, in the final section of this chapter, I made some suggestions to address these substantive and coherence-related issues and improve theorizing in the field. Of course, the improvement of civil-military relations research through better theory is only one aspect and more work has to be done to put the proposed theoretical arguments to rigorous empirical tests. Theories should be tested comparatively against the explanatory power of competing theories (Lakatos 1970), and on multiple levels of analysis, involving the causal effect level of the explanatory variables and the outcome, and the causal mechanisms that connect them, employing the full arsenal of methodological tools developed and used in the social sciences. Of course, systematic empirical evaluations of competing theories on multiple levels of analysis put high requirements on the quantity and quality of data. Meaningful theoretical advances, therefore, need to go hand in hand with serious efforts to create comparative datasets on the more involved conceptualizations of civil-military relations for a larger number of democratic and nondemocratic cases (see also Chapter 3). While this volume is not aimed at charting new theoretical and empirical territory per se, it contributes to both. In terms of theory, the book is based on well-specified multidimensional definitions of control and effectiveness, which avoids incoherence and ensures the comparability of findings and the

Conclusion

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Civil-Military Relations

applicability of theoretical arguments across chapters (Chapter 1). It also contributes to broadening the breadth of substantive theoretical arguments: the chapters on the impact of the availability of resource rents on civilian control in Chile (Chapter 7), the impact of the Tunisian military’s new domestic and internal security role on its political ascendancy after the fall of dictator Zine al-Abidine Ben Ali (Chapter 8), and the role of bureaucratic politics in explaining the weakening of military effectiveness in the United States (Chapter 4) are examples in point. Finally, the book does the field a great service by paying close attention to the interaction between control and effectiveness. The study in Chapter 11 of the negative impact of the aggressive expansion of control by the Turkish Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi (AKP, Justice and Development Party) government over the traditionally powerful and autonomous Turkish military, for instance, is a great contribution to the literature on the (unintended) consequences of the mechanisms of political control. Moreover, despite being limited to qualitative case study methodology, the book also contributes to theory development thorough empirical analysis. For one thing, it includes in-depth case analyses on cases and regions whose civil-military relations have been insufficiently studied in terms of civilian control and effectiveness. This includes novel insights into civil-military interactions in Western and non-Western established democracies such as Japan and Germany and new democracies in Latin America and Asia, but also in hybrid regimes (Russia and Turkey) and hard autocracies such as party-dominated Vietnam and military-led Egypt. I wish to thank the editors of this book and the participants in the workshop “CivilMilitary Relations in Comparative Perspective: The Nexus of Control and Effectiveness,” Heidelberg University, Germany, for their insightful comments. Thanks also to the organizing staff for making the workshop possible. 1. “Prospect theory” generated a single hit; for “framing,” the search yielded thirty-six research articles, which—with two exceptions—use the term in its dayto-day meaning, not as the specific psychological mechanism discussed in framing theory or prospect theory.

Notes

3 Measuring Effectiveness and Control Tanja Eschenauer-Engler and Jil Kamerling

are broad and empirically rich fields of research (see Chapter 2). Yet when it comes to the methods used in these areas, this remarkable diversity fades away. Knowledge on the drivers, prospects, and impact of civilian control and military effectiveness is mainly derived from regionally concentrated small-N research designs. The lack of methodological variation has far-reaching consequences for the comparability and generalizability of findings. Short of cross-regional, medium- to large-N analyses, it remains unclear whether and how far findings generated in qualitative small-N studies can travel. In this chapter, we wish to give researchers, especially those new to the field of civil-military relations (CMR), answers to two questions: (1) What methods are used to analyze civilian control and military effectiveness, and what are the consequences of this methodological menu? and (2) If and how can we use existing quantitative datasets to measure civilian control and military effectiveness?

Civilian control of the armed forces and military effectiveness

Methods in the Study of Civilian Control and Military Effectiveness

Research on civilian control and military effectiveness is characterized by three methodological trends: first, whereas qualitative analyses of a small number of cases rank high on the research agenda, large-N and interregionally comparative analyses are infrequent.1 Second, despite the strong qualitative direction, certain subfields constitute methodological exceptions, 35

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whose findings, however, have to be interpreted carefully due to lack of valid data. Third, studies using multimethod designs have rarely been done. Precedence of Qualitative Small-N Studies As the editors of this book note in their introduction, civilian control in authoritarian and, especially, democratic political regimes is the key topic of comparative civil-military relations in political science. Most of this research is performed in qualitative small-N studies. Though not to the same extent as research on civilian control, a great amount of knowledge on military effectiveness is gained through small-N qualitative research designs (cf. Brooks and Stanley 2007; Croissant and Kuehn 2017b). Whereas numerous of these studies equate military effectiveness with battlefield performance (cf. Brooks 2006; Shils and Janowitz 1948; Millet and Murray 2010; Reese 2011; Talmadge 2013, 2015), some concentrate on effective peacekeeping and stabilization missions (cf. Egnell 2008; Neuteboom and Soeters 2017), or ask how to build effective armies in newly established democracies (cf. Croissant and Kuehn 2017b and (post)conflict societies (cf. T. Murray 2011; Nashabe 2009). The methodological bias in favor of qualitative small-N analyses has hampered the accumulation of knowledge beyond individual cases and limited the explanatory power and generalizability of findings. Moreover, the disparate contexts in which military effectiveness is studied and the resulting heterogeneous understanding of the concept render these qualitative analyses hardly comparable. Methodological Exceptions: Democracies’ Battlefield Effectiveness and Coup Research There are some subfields that deviate from this qualitative precedence. One exception is the branch of literature on the superior combat effectiveness of democracies, which is dominated by statistical methods (cf. Bueno de Mesquita and Siverson 1995; Gelpi and Griesdorf 2001; Lake 1992; Reiter and Stam 1998, 2002). Yet these quantitative studies have at least two major methodological and conceptual shortcomings that largely spring from their use of problematic data (more on this below). First, these studies usually rely on conflict datasets that contain data only for interstate wars. Hence, studies using these data are restricted to the analysis of varying combat performance in large-scale international conflicts, but fail to deliver insights on military effectiveness in other contexts such as postconflict peacebuilding or counterterrorism. Second, quantitative studies use contestable indicators to operationalize effectiveness (Desch 2002) and the choice of data significantly affects the results (Downes 2009; McNabb Cochran and Long 2017). Coup research constitutes another methodological exception as it shows a remarkable diversity of quantitative and qualitative methods. Qualitative

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studies have an advanced in-depth understanding of the underlying dynamics behind coups and coup prevention (cf. N’Diaye 2002; Lindemann 2011; Marcum and Brown 2017) and provide researchers with useful conceptual and theoretical tools (Quinlivan 1999). This is accompanied by a large body of research that employs statistical methods to derive generalizable findings on coups and the prevention thereof (Belkin and Schofer 2003; Böhmelt and Pilster 2015; Lehoucq and Pérez-Liñán 2014; Sudduth 2017). Furthermore, quantitative studies serve as one important link between research on civilian control and military effectiveness since coup-proofing techniques are thought of as reducing military effectiveness because they fragment the armed forces internally, create overlapping ineffective structures, and limit the militaries’ operational power (cf. Braithwaite and Sudduth 2016; C. Brown, Fariss, and McMahon 2016; Murdie 2011; Pilster and Böhmelt 2011; Powell 2017). Despite these methodological advancements, quantitative coup studies deal with extreme manifestations of military insubordination under civilian supremacy and, therefore, capture only a certain nuance of civilian control. Whereas the seizure of political control by the military clearly signalizes a lack of civilian control, the absence of coups should not be equated with full-scale civilian control (Croissant, Kuehn, Chambers, and Wolf 2010). Yet more fine-grained concepts are hardly quantifiable and are suitable only for qualitative small- to medium-N analyses (Croissant , Kuehn, Chambers, and Wolf 2010; Matei 2013). Lacking sources that capture more subtle and covert forms of military influence, data on coups often serve as a crude, but at least available, proxy for civilian control. Rare Use of Multimethod Research Designs and New Research Techniques While qualitative studies on military effectiveness and civilian control are useful to trace causal mechanisms but struggle to deliver insights beyond individual cases, quantitative studies find more general patterns but often produce only tentative evidence due to poor concept validity. A way to compensate for these shortcomings could be a systematic combination of different methods into multimethod research designs as proposed by Goertz (2016). Multimethod research “involves cross-case causal inference or game theory and within-case causal mechanism analysis and inference” (Goertz 2016, p. 6). Thus, a multimethod research design could combine regression analyses and case studies, but also could comprise a cross-case analysis using qualitative comparative analysis (QCA) or formal modeling followed by an in-depth qualitative inquiry. To date, however, there has been little effort to study civilian control and military effectiveness in such mixed designs. A recent example of the few studies that combine statistical analyses with subsequent case studies is presented by Harkness (2017), who analyzed the effect of ethnic armies on African presidents’ prospects to

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defy their term limits. Based on descriptive statistics and bivariate correlations, she selected two cases for a paired comparison in which she traced the underlying causal mechanism. Another way to combine cross-case and within-case techniques could be a systematic connection of QCA with case studies (Beach 2018; Schneider and Rohlfing 2016). While QCA enables a cross-case analysis of a medium to large number of cases and, in contrast to regression analysis, explicitly allows for causal complexity and equifinality, it has barely been applied or combined with case studies to examine civil-military relations (Kuehn et al. 2017; Kuehn and Trinkunas 2017). Not only would the combination of different empirical methods advance the study of civilian control and military effectiveness, but it also would provide a stronger systematic linking of quantitative and qualitative research techniques with more thorough theorizing. Integrating game theory, for example, allows for the deduction of clear and logically consistent causal hypotheses that can be tested in a subsequent empirical analysis to develop and refine theories. Though the number of works that use deductive approaches to study civilian control is increasing (cf. McMahon and Slantchev 2015; Svolik 2012, 2013; Little 2017), studies combining game theory and case studies remain exceptions (cf. Feaver 2003; Kuehn 2013). One reason for the overall reluctance of research on CMR to engage in large-N analyses is the lack of appropriate quantitative data to operationalize civilian control. In this section, we present three groups of already existing datasets—regime type datasets, coup datasets, and datasets on military influence—and discuss their applicability in studies on civilian control.2

Quantitative Measures of Civilian Control

Regime Type Datasets Regime type datasets primarily aim to identify differences in the way that countries are ruled and who controls access to the decisionmaking process. Generally, these datasets only touch on aspects of politico-military relations when officers assume direct control, that is, in the form of military regimes. The Democracy-Dictatorship Dataset (CGV) by Cheibub, Gandhi, and Vreeland (2010) builds on the dichotomy between democratic and autocratic regimes. Its typology of six regime types is based on the dichotomy of democratic and nondemocratic regimes. It distinguishes between parliamentary, presidential, and semipresidential democracies, and royal, military, and civilian dictatorships. Countries are coded as autocracy if (1) there are no competitive elections for the chief executive and/or the legislature, and (2) and/or there has been no alternation in power. CGV distinguishes between autocracies based on the background of the head of government.

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An autocracy is coded as “military” if the leading executive is or was a member of the armed forces.3 Geddes, Wright, and Frantz’s (2012) Autocratic Regimes Dataset (GWF) focuses on authoritarian regime types. The four main types— monarchy, personalist, military, and party regimes—are further differentiated in multiple hybrids. GWF identifies a regime as “military” if (1) the regime is autocratic, that is, the executive was not elected by at least 10 percent of the population in “reasonably fair competitive” elections; and if (2) a group of military officers controls access to power and political influence. Subcategories of military regimes are indirect military, military, and military-personal regimes.4 Within the group of party regimes, GWF also identifies two hybrids—party-military and party-personal-military—that indicate political influence of the military, but the authors do not provide clear coding rules for these two subtypes. Therefore, we focus on GWF’s main type of “military” regimes for the comparison. The Authoritarian Regimes Data Set (HT) by Wahmann, Teorell, and Hadenius (2013) offers the most subcategories of regime types. Like CGV and GWF, HT recognizes forms of military rule only in authoritarian regimes. This dataset differentiates between democratic and autocratic regimes and the subtypes of autocracies are based on the mode of “political power maintenance.” “Military regimes” are those that employ or threaten the use of military force to stay in office.5 Finally, the Varieties of Democracy project (V-Dem) (Coppedge et al. 2017) stands out from the above regime typologies. The project supplies researchers with a large set of disaggregated and multidimensional variables with the aim to enable the creation of their own measures of democracy. The V-Dem dataset offers by far the greatest coverage of countries and country years. The data is based on more than 2,500 country experts and, to account for differences in coding, the project recommends using measures of uncertainties for analyses. Within V-Dem, six variables give information on the military’s role in the political regime. Four variables relate to the entry and exit of governmental elites: v2expathhs and v2expathhg indicate whether the head of state (HOS) or head of government (HOG) was appointed by the military; v2exrmhsol* and v2exrmhgnp* ask whether the military would be likely to succeed in removing the HOS/HOG. The variables v2exctlhs* and v2exctlhg* denote whether the HOS/HOG needs to seek the military’s approval prior to making important decisions. In this chapter, we use the ordinal forms of the variables because we are in need of definite categories for the comparison. Coup Datasets Militaries generally assume political control via coups, and coup data is used as a measure of military subordination (see above). The Global

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Instances of Coups dataset (PT) by Powell and Thyne (2011) is built on the combined information of fourteen separate datasets, which were used as a basis to identify true instances of coups and attempts thereof (see p. 250). Powell and Thyne define coups as “illegal and overt attempts by the military or other elites within the same apparatus to unseat the sitting executive” (p. 252). For each country year, PT gives the number of successful and failed coups. A coup is considered as successful if “the perpetrators seize and hold power for at least seven days.” In the comparison below, we use data on all coup attempts, successful or not. Though PT is one of the most used datasets in military research, it includes both civilian and military attempts to overthrow the government and does not differentiate between military and civilian coups. This additional information is provided by Croissant and Herre’s (2013) Coupleaders Dataset (CH). Based on PT, they identify those coup attempts as “military” that were led by a military officer and executed by the military as institution (corporate coups) or segments of the armed forces (factional coup). Coding is based on data from Marshall and Marshall (2011), the New York Times, and the BBC’s Country Profiles. Dataset on Military Influence Finally, Croissant, Eschenauer, and Kamerling’s (2016) Political Roles of the Military dataset (PRM) constitutes a group of its own. It is the only dataset that focuses explicitly on political roles of the military. The sample is based on the Bertelsmann Transformation Index (BTI) project. The dataset differentiates between two forms of military influence: “ruling” and “supporting” militaries. The concept of “ruling” militaries highlights direct military rule, whereas the concept of “supporting” militaries focuses on indirect forms of military influence such as civilian dependence on military force and resulting privileges for the armed forces. Specifically, the concept asks whether the armed forces are internally employed to repress opposition and enjoy considerable veto power and impunity. Coding is based on secondary data, including the BTI, US State Department Human Rights Reports, Polity IV, Freedom House, and country-specific literature. All indicators are available as country-year data, but the authors recommend that the data be aggregated across time spells. For the following comparison, we aggregate the raw data across BTI research periods, that is, roughly two years. Across both countries and years, V-Dem offers by far the greatest coverage (Table 3.1). With the exception of HT and PRM, the other datasets begin after World War II and end in the late 2000s. Being dependent on other datasets, HT starts in the early 1970s and PRM begins with the first coding

Comparison

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Table 3.1 Datasets Providing Information on Military Influence in Politics Dataset CGV

GWF HT V-Dem PT

CH

PRM

Concept

Military regime; autocracy led by individual with military background Military regime; autocracy where group of officers controls access to power and political influence Military regime; autocracy where power is maintained by threat or use of military force (1) Appointment and removal of head of state or government by military; (2) military approval on policy decisions Coups; illegal attempts to purge ruling elite Military coups; coups staged by members of the armed forces Military influence; direct and indirect forms of military influence (military ruler and supporter)

Coverage

Unit

1946–2010; independent countries with population > 1 million

Country year

1900–2016; 177 countries (version 7.1)

Country year

1950–2016; sample based on 14 datasets 1950–2012; sample based on PT 1999–2016; 120 countries sample based on BTI

Country year

1946–2008; 199 independent countries

1972–2014; 199 countries

Country year

Country year

Military coups Country year

Note: Overview based on authors’ compilation. CGV, Democracy-Dictatorship Dataset; GWF, Autocratic Regimes Dataset; HT, Authoritarian Regimes Data Set; V-Dem, Varieties of Democracy project; PT, Global Instances of Coups dataset; CH, Coupleaders Dataset; PRM, Political Roles of the Military dataset; BTI, Bertelsmann Transformation Index.

of the BTI in 1999. All regime type datasets, except V-Dem, provide information only on the military’s role in authoritarian regimes, which limits their applicability. PT, CH, and PRM all cover both democratic and autocratic country years, but their samples are restricted by the baseline datasets they use. Born from the BTI, PRM does include autocracies as well as young and transforming democracies, but not the old embedded democracies of the West. PT and CH also cover established democracies but, since fourteen individual and partly regionally bound datasets form their foundation, the definition of their sample is rather opaque. Figure 3.1 compares the different codings in absolute countries per year. The regime type datasets all indicate a peak of military regimes between the 1960s and 1990s. CGV and HT identify considerably more military regimes (on average above twenty) than GWF (with an average of nine). This was to be expected as GWF has the most restrictive concept of military rule, while CGV codes all autocracies with a regime leader of military background as military regimes and HT all authoritarian regimes securing power by use or threat of military force. All regime type datasets

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Figure 3.1 Indicators of Military Influence in Politics per Year, 1945–2017

V-Dem

PRM

CH

PT

CGV

GWF

HT

Note: V-Dem shows all countries per year where entry and/or exit of the HOS and/or HOG is determined by the military; the upper line extends this measure on whether the HOS/HOG needs to ask the military for approval of policies. PRM indicates the number of countries per year with a military ruler and/or supporter. PT shows the number of coups per year, successful and unsuccessful. CH gives the number of military coups per year. For the regime type datasets, CGV, GWF, and HT, the graph shows the number of military regimes per year. V-Dem, Varieties of Democracy project; HOS, head of state; HOG, head of government; PRM, Political Roles of the Military dataset; PT, Global Instances of Coups dataset; CH, Coupleaders Dataset; CGV, DemocracyDictatorship Dataset; GWF, Autocratic Regimes Dataset; HT, Authoritarian Regimes Data Set.

show a clear decline of military regimes after the 1990s. The coup datasets, PT and CH, mirror this finding. Both datasets peaked in 1966 with nineteen (PT) and sixteen (CH) (military) coups and, since the late 1980s and early 1990s, the number of coups is in the single digits. Naturally, PT should identify more countries with instances of coups than CH. From comparing these two datasets, we can read that discrepancies between the two datasets vary considerably per year. V-Dem and PRM, the two datasets including more indirect forms of military influence, mark considerably more countries with a politically involved military than the other datasets. Looking at V-Dem, we find that the military influences elite selection processes in more countries than other data would have us believe. Even with V-Dem’s longer time span, the average lies at above thirty countries per year. The data show that also in countries where

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the military is not involved in elite selection, regime leaders may still be dependent on the armed forces’ approval of policies (V-Dem2). The PRM data highlight that the actual number of countries dependent on their armed forces, either as a “ruler” or “supporter” of the regime, is even higher. In 1999, PRM denotes thirty-nine countries with politically influential militaries and still thirty-five in 2016. The notable fluctuation of the PRM indicators is likely due to the short aggregation interval that we used for this comparison. The fact that the armed forces remain powerful actors in many regimes despite the decline of both the number of coups and military regimes is not surprising. Several scholars argue that in many countries the military has moved from formerly open direct rule to indirect, but crucial, supporters of the regime (cf. Cook 2007; Springborg 2016). Yet only PRM and to some extent V-Dem capture this phenomenon. Table 3.2 splits the coding across world regions for the years 1999 to 2016. With the exception of GWF, all datasets highlight sub-Saharan Africa as the region with the most politically powerful militaries, followed by the Middle East and Southeast Asia. In nearly all regions, PRM identifies by far the most country years under military influence. It is also the only dataset to indicate military influence in East Asia,6 and one of the few to find country years with influential armed forces in Eastern Europe and Central Asia.7

Table 3.2 Number of Country Years per Region Coded “Military,” 1999–2016

CGV GWF HT V-Dem PT CH PRM

Eastern Western Europe Europe and Suband Central Latin Saharan North Asia America MENA Africa America 0 0 0 13 1 0 61

3 0 0 60 6 5 69

65 12 29 57 3 1 138

118 8 119 381 35 28 291

0 0 0 0 0 0 —

East Southeast South Asia Asia Asia Pacific Carribean 0 0 0 0 0 0 18

29 13 25 36 2 1 72

10 10 14 37 2 1 47

4 0 8 36 3 2 0

0 0 0 3 0 0 0

Note: Regions coded according to the politico-geographic regions by Wahmann, Teorell, and Hadenius (2013). Italicized numbers indicates row maxima; bolded numbers indicates column maxima. Listed are the absolute number of country years coded as “military regime” (CGV, GWF, HT); country years with HOS/HOG’s entry or removal as well as policymaking process under influence of the armed forces (V-Dem); at least one coup attempt per country year (PT); at least one military coup per country year (CH); and country years with military “ruler” and/or “supporter” (PRM). MENA, Middle East and North Africa; CGV, Democracy-Dictatorship Dataset; GWF, Autocratic Regimes Dataset; HT, Authoritarian Regimes Data Set; V-Dem, Varieties of Democracy project; PT, Global Instances of Coups dataset; CH, Coupleaders Dataset; PRM, Political Roles of the Military dataset; HOS, head of state; HOG, head of government.

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In a few instances, V-Dem’s measures mark more country years with influential militaries than PRM. Examples from sub-Saharan Africa, where V-Dem highlights 381 country years compared to 291 by PRM, are Kenya in 2006–2015 and Madagascar in 2009. These differences are due to the consideration of more aspects of military influence in PRM than V-Dem, as well as PRM’s stricter coding. To qualify as a military “ruler,” PRM demands both a regime entry coup within the past twenty-five years and members of the executive to be directly associated with the armed forces; for a military “supporter,” the military’s influence spans wider than the question of military approval to policies (V-Dem) and includes impunity and the armed forces’ role in repression. Since Kenya did not experience a military coup, and neither the regime leader nor the minister of defense are members of the armed forces, it does not qualify as under military “rule.” The PRM variables show that the military is regularly employed in internal repression but neither acts as a veto player nor enjoys considerable impunity. Therefore, its influence is too low to be considered a “supporter.” For Madagascar in 2009, PRM identifies no military origin of the regime and only the minister of defense has a military background. While the military does act as a veto player, it neither enjoys impunity nor is it regularly used for internal repression. For researchers interested in civilian control, the above datasets vary in their applicability. The concept of civilian control demands the armed forces to recognize the decisionmaking power of the civilian elite in five key areas, including elite recruitment, public policy, internal security, national defense, and military organization (see Chapter 1). Both (military) coup and regime type data inform us about the armed forces’ direct involvement in elite recruitment, and GWF further provides information on direct military control of the decisionmaking process. Yet these datasets do not give any information on more indirect forms of military influence. Measuring civilian control solely with these datasets would lead to the false assumption that, in the absence of military coups and military regimes, the armed forces are negligible as political actors. However, the absence of coups and direct military rule may also be explained by the fact that the armed forces already enjoy considerable political influence and have little incentives to directly interfere and stage a coup (Svolik 2012). This especially is a problem in the analysis of current political regimes because, as mentioned above, in many countries after the 1990s the role of the military shifted from direct rule to indirect, but crucial, support and influence. These empirical findings are represented in both V-Dem and PRM data that focus on more indirect forms of military influence. Especially in countries where

Discussion and Application

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the elite is dependent on military approval (V-Dem and PRM), enjoys impunity, or is employed in internal repression (PRM), the political influence of the armed forces is likely to undermine civilians in the fields of public policy, national defense, and military organization. Regarding case selection, regime type data can, by means of conceptualization, give no information on military influence in democratic regimes (the exception being V-Dem) and thus restricts research on civilian control to autocracies. Here, V-Dem’s coverage, including more than 19,000 country years across all regime types, remains undisputed in the lead. While PRM’s coverage is considerably shorter, the dataset includes more aspects of military influence and civilian control than V-Dem. Only PRM informs us about the origin of the regime, the military background of the regime leader, the military’s representation in the ministry of defense, the military’s role in internal repression, the military’s privileges regarding criminal prosecution, and the military’s veto power in the political process. By giving information on the military’s veto power, the dataset provides a proxy for measuring military influence on the civilian decisionmaking process. Furthermore, PRM variables directly relate to at least two of the five decisionmaking areas central for civilian control (elite recruitment, internal security). Its coverage spans most countries except Western liberal democracies, countries under external governance, and “failed states.” The latest update of 2018 identifies most “ruling” (five) and “supporting” (fourteen) militaries in sub-Saharan Africa, followed by Southeast Asia and the Middle East and North Africa (MENA), each with six regimes with influential armed forces. As described in Chapter 1, military effectiveness refers to the military’s preparedness to fulfill the duties and missions delegated by civilian decisionmakers and the actual execution (see also Bruneau and Matei 2013). These military duties and missions span six major roles: the fight of (1) international wars and (2) domestic insurgencies; (3) counterterrorism; (4) crime control and police support; (5) peace support operations; and (6) humanitarian assistance. Militaries can be effective in being prepared or executing one, several, or all of these roles. Because the operational readiness is difficult to measure, Bruneau and coauthors propose to look at three attributes to assess the extent of preparedness: whether political decisionmakers have (1) formulated plans and guidelines for military tasks and mission (defense planning) and whether a regime maintains the necessary (2) structures as well as (3) resources to implement these plans (Chapter 1; Bruneau and Matei 2008, 2013; Matei 2013). Data on both dimensions of military effectiveness—the implementation and preparedness—is even harder to obtain than data on civilian control.

Quantitative Measures of Military Effectiveness

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Here, we first present three conflict datasets as representatives of data that are typically used in studies on combat effectiveness. Second, we briefly evaluate five additional datasets that touch on aspects of military effectiveness in contexts other than interstate warfare (see Table 3.3). Third, we discuss their usability in studies on military effectiveness but refrain from a direct comparison since they differ too widely. Conflict Datasets The Correlates of War (COW) project publishes the Inter-State Wars dataset 4.0 (COW) (Sarkees and Wayman 2010). To qualify as a war, an interstate conflict has to involve “organized armed forces, resulting in a minimum of 1,000 battle-related combatant fatalities within a twelve month period” (Sarkees 2010, p. 1). The dataset’s outcome variable, which is used as an indicator to measure a military’s combat effectiveness, distinguishes between eight values, including “winner” and “loser.” The HERO/CDB90 dataset focuses on the battle level, containing over 600 individual land combats that were fought in the context of international wars. Data are compiled by the Historical Evaluation and Research Organization (HERO) (see Helmbold 1990; Dupuy 1984) for the US Army and Table 3.3 Datasets with Aspects of Military Effectiveness Dataset

Coverage

COW

1816–2007

HERO/ CDB90 LERD

1600–1982 1816–1990

SIPRI Arms 1950– Transfers SIPRI Military Expenditure 1949–

IISS’s Military Balance Pilster and Böhmelt

1959–

1970–2017

Relevant Indicator

War outcomes (war criterion: organized armed forces, 1,000 battle-related deaths) Casualties, outcomes (land battles in the context of interstate wars) Loss exchange ratios (for conflict parties in interstate wars as defined by COW) Major conventional weapon transfers in TIV Military spending

Preparedness vs. Execution of Duties and Missions Execution; limited to international wars

Execution; limited to international wars Execution; limited to international wars

Preparedness; focus on resources Preparedness; focus on resources Preparedness; focus on resources

Armed forces personnel (% of total labor force) and armed forces personnel (total) Effective number of all ground-combat Preparedness; focus compatible units on structures

Note: Overview based on authors’ compilation. COW, Correlates of War; HERO, Historical Evaluation and Research Organization; LERD, Loss Exchange Ratio Database; SIPRI, Stockholm International Peace Research Institute; IISS, International Institute for Strategic Studies; TIV, trend indicator values.

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give information, inter alia, on outcomes, troop strength, and casualties. Cleaned versions of the dataset have been used in conflict research to calculate body count measures to assess military effectiveness (Biddle and Long 2004; Pilster and Böhmelt 2011). The Loss Exchange Ratio Database (LERD) reports casualty numbers as well as loss exchange ratios for over 1,000 battles defined as “the ratio of casualties a combatant suffers to the casualties it inflicts on the enemy” (McNabb Cochran and Long 2017, p. 1020). The authors use the COW InterState Wars dataset 3.0 to identify interstate wars and disaggregate them into battles (McNabb Cochran and Long 2017, p. 1024). Data are compiled based on secondary sources and, in contrast to other datasets such as the Stockholm International Peace Research Institute (SIPRI) or COW, LERD reports disaggregated body counts and loss exchange ratios for every participating party. Alternative Datasets SIPRI offers two datasets that give information on military resources. First, the Military Expenditure Database (SIPRI 2017a) provides data on military spending by independent countries based on primary and secondary sources. Military spending includes all expenditures to the armed forces, defense ministries, and other government agencies concerned with defense, paramilitary forces, and military space activities. Data are available in local currency, in current and constant US dollars, and as share of gross domestic product (GDP), and are provided in the form of country years. Second, SIPRI’s Arms Transfers Database (2017b) offers data on all transfers of major conventional weapons in trend indicator values (TIV). TIV are based on unit production costs and represent the transferred military resources rather than the financial value since weapons have no list price; thus, TIV are consistent over time. The database gives information on trade between countries, international organizations, and rebel forces. Inherent to the data is a time lag; deliveries of major conventional weapons on average have a delay of two years (cf. Perkins and Neumayer 2010). The nature of the arms trade network is highly asymmetric since more countries act as importers than exporters due to national arms production capabilities. The International Institute for Strategic Studies (IISS) collects data on troop strength and military capabilities and publishes global, regional, and country reports annually in The Military Balance. Data are partly accessible free of charge via the World Development Indicators, comprising the indicators “armed forces personnel (% of total labor force)” and “armed forces personnel (total).” Armed forces personnel includes all active duty military personnel, as well as paramilitary forces if these are employed to support regular armed forces. Pilster and Böhmelt’s (2012) coup-proofing dataset gives the effective number of all ground-combat compatible military or paramilitary

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organizations, excluding all water and air security forces. The data are based on the formula ! ! ! !"

! ! !!"#

“where sjit is the personnel share of the ground-combat compatible military or paramilitary” per year. Values higher than 1 indicate presence of multiple effective ground-combative forces, 1 signals only one military organization. All three conflict datasets that we presented are used in studies on military effectiveness and combat performance. Yet they can deliver insights on military effectiveness only in a specific and exceptional context since “armed combat is probably the least likely role that militaries are currently carrying out” (Matei 2008, p. 22). Among all instances that require military engagement, “war” as defined by the COW dataset is probably the least likely situation since the number of large-scale interstate conflicts is declining and the body count criterion excludes all instances of armed combat that do not exceed the threshold of 1,000 battle-related deaths.8 Though LERD provides information on the battle level, it is based on the COW sample of interstate wars and hence restricted to international large-scale combat. Thus, studies relying on interstate war data cannot assess military effectiveness in other important missions such as counterterrorism, domestic insurgencies, and peacekeeping. Moreover, as these datasets focus on concrete action in largescale combat, their variables provide information neither on preparedness nor on the military effectiveness of countries not engaged in international warfare. Aside from the limitations regarding the scope of the analysis, conflict datasets such as COW are neither appropriate to depict gradual differences among regimes nor to assess temporal variations. When using a binary dependent variable in a statistical analysis that distinguishes between win and lose, for instance, every regime that has ever won a war is allocated the same value of military effectiveness. Moreover, by solely focusing on the outcome, such inquiries fall short of grasping variations in the effectiveness of a military over the course of a lengthy war. Such analyses implicitly treat the effectiveness of a military as constant over the whole conflict, regardless of whether it lasted days, months, or even years. In addition, the validity and reliability of the HERO/CDB90 dataset are widely disputed as it has been diagnosed with a serious selection bias (Biddle and Long 2004, p. 152; Desch 2002; McNabb Cochran and Long 2017; Reiter and Stam 1998). To remedy these flaws, several researchers have recoded, corrected, or modified the dataset (cf. Biddle and Long 2004).9 In the absence of datasets to operationalize more holistic concepts of military effectiveness, conflict datasets serve as an easily accessible alternative to capture at least the execution aspect of military effectiveness.

Discussion and Application

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However, researchers have to be transparent about the limitations that the use of these datasets bears for the explanatory power and generalizability of findings, especially when going beyond military effectiveness in largescale warfare. The datasets that we presented as an alternative or addition to conflict datasets are to a limited extent usable to depict military effectiveness. These data sources contain information on resources or structures that concern the preparedness aspect of military effectiveness, yet do not supply variables that inform whether these attributes actually render militaries effective in fulfilling their various roles. Both SIPRI datasets provide data on material resources. Yet SIPRI itself notes that military expenditure can to only some extent measure military capability because, as a flow measure, it does not take into account the previous stock of equipment. While SIPRI’s arms trade data give explicit information on what money was spent on, countries may still differ greatly in their “technological absorption capability” or, in other words, in the number of people who know and are trained to use high-tech military equipment. IISS’s Military Balance data entail a similar problem. Though IISS reports on both weaponry and military personnel in detail, these data cannot be used to evaluate how effectively a military fulfills its various tasks and duties. Higher numbers of soldiers and sophisticated weapons tell little about military skills in concrete action. Pilster and Böhmelt’s (2012) effective number of ground-combat compatible units depicts the internal fragmentation of the security apparatus. As argued in studies on coup-proofing, the internal diversion of the military into several overlapping units and—most important—the fragmentation of command structures reduce the capacity of the armed forces to stage coups, but also may lead to a reduction of capabilities to fight and win wars (see above). Pilster and Böhmelt’s (2012) measure can therefore be applied as a proxy for structural preparedness that assesses whether a military apparatus is cohesive enough to fulfill its assigned roles effectively. How can researchers interested in military effectiveness deal with the fact that existing datasets do not provide appropriate data to measure ambitious and multilayered concepts of military effectiveness such as the one by Bruneau and Matei (2013)? In our opinion, there are three possible options. One drastic possibility would be to abstain from using these datasets and quantitative methods altogether and stick to qualitative data and research techniques. Though such an approach would prevent researchers from using problematic data, it would not solve the problem that cross-case and cross-regional findings bring forth more general insights on the drivers, prospects, and impact of military effectiveness. A second, yet ambitious, option would be the construction of a new dataset that is specifically designed for the purpose of measuring military effectiveness. Such a dataset would have to contain variables that assess the preparedness of a military to fulfill its roles, as well as the actual execution

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of missions and duties. The datasets presented here focus on only one dimension each, either preparedness (see alternative datasets) or implementation (see conflict datasets), and do not provide data on effectiveness in situations such as peacekeeping, humanitarian assistance, crime control, and police support. Here, researchers could take advantage of the immense qualitative knowledge of the field and gather information on military effectiveness via expert surveys to include the highest possible amount of country expertise. The data generation process could be separated into several rounds, starting with a preliminary coding based on qualitative primary and secondary resources that is later evaluated and corrected by country and defense experts. A time series cross-section format with country years as unit of analysis would account for variations in military effectiveness over time as well as between countries. Third, given the lengthy and costly process of data generation, it would be a pragmatic compromise to combine existing datasets that individually capture only certain nuances of military effectiveness and create more comprehensive measures on military effectiveness. We hope that our overview (see Table 3.3) serves as a helpful tool to decide which datasets could be systematically combined to derive more comprehensive quantitative measures on military effectiveness. Different datasets that deliver information on structures and resources, for example, could be merged into a quantitative index of preparedness. Another fruitful idea to mitigate the weaknesses of quantitative datasets and methods would be the application of designs that mix different methods (cf. Lieberman 2005; Seawright 2016; Goertz 2016). Existing data that touch on military effectiveness could be used in preliminary medium- to large-N analyses to identify cross-case patterns and deliver first hints for possible causal relationships. Subsequent in-depth qualitative analyses would trace the underlying causal mechanism and mend failures that spring from the poor validity of the data used in the first analysis step. We have shown that there is ample room for data generation and conceptual works that can be translated into measurable criteria. There is a need for testing the important findings within the field from the many excellent small-N studies in cross-regional qualitative and quantitative research designs. Such studies could further strengthen our knowledge of factors that have a general beneficial or prohibitive impact on civilian control and military effectiveness and, thus, advance findings beyond individual cases and regions. The central barrier for a more balanced use of methods is the lack of global datasets on civilian control and military effectiveness. Conceptual works that offer comprehensive concepts, as well as

Conclusion

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ways to validly and consistently operationalize them, open up a lacuna for future research. Our overview demonstrated that at least some aspects of civilian control can well be depicted with existing quantitative data. While regime type and coup datasets predominantly give information on the area of elite recruitment and generally cover only military influence in authoritarian but not democratic regimes, two datasets (V-Dem and PRM) enable researchers to assess limitations of civilian control due to more indirect forms of military influence. PRM focuses on the armed forces’ role in autocracies, transforming regimes, and newly established democracies, and provides information on military privileges and regime dependencies on the military. Researchers who wish to employ data on military coups should rather choose the Coupleaders Dataset by Croissant and Herre (2013) that gives more explicit information on the initiator of the attempt than Powell and Thyne’s (2011) general measure of coups. Datasets that touch on military effectiveness differ even more widely than datasets on civilian control. Every dataset on its own can be applied only as a proxy to depict certain shades of a broader concept of military effectiveness. Conflict datasets at the interstate level help to evaluate a military’s effectiveness in fulfilling the important, but rather seldom, task of high-intensity fighting. Yet data that are available in a format suitable to be used in large-N analyses on military effectiveness in humanitarian missions, crime control, or peacekeeping are largely absent. This means that there are no suitable quantitative data to assess military effectiveness in those missions that constitute core military duties today. Looking at the preparedness aspect of military effectiveness, datasets such as the Military Expenditure and the Arms Transfers Databases by SIPRI, IISS’s Military Balance, and Pilster and Böhmelt’s (2012) assessment of military fragmentation offer at least some indicators that can be applied as proxies to roughly estimate the level of a military’s preparedness to fulfill its missions. We encourage researchers to combine existing datasets, be transparent about the data limitation, and cross-check with qualitative studies. Ultimately, the best option would be the generation of a new dataset based on country expert surveys. 1. Inspired by Olmeda (2013), we follow Munck and Snyder’s minimalist distinction between quantitative and qualitative methods: whereas qualitative research is based on words, quantitative research relies on numbers (2007, p. 12). 2. As we cannot discuss all datasets that touch on aspects of civilian control and military effectiveness, we chose representative datasets for every group of datasets in this section on civilian control as well as in the following section on military effectiveness.

Notes

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3. “Royal dictatorships” are regimes where the leader gained his position through hereditary succession and holds a title. All other autocracies are coded as “civilian dictatorship.” 4. In a later article, Geddes, Frantz, and Wright (2014, p.152) suggest differentiating between military rule as an institution and rule by a military strongman, that is, a regime “controlled by a single officer absent elite constraints.” They recommend identifying military strongman regimes as those country years that are coded both “personalist” by GWF and “military” by CGV. 5. “Monarchies” maintain power via hereditary succession, and popular elections are the means to retain power in “electoral” regimes. 6. North Korea 1999–2016; China in 2012 and 2013. 7. Armenia 2008–2016; Azerbaijan, Belarus, and Tajikistan 1999–2016; Kazakhstan 1999–2003; Moldova 2012/2013; Russia 1999–2005, 2012–2016; Serbia and Montenegro 1999–2003; Turkmenistan 2006/2007; Ukraine 1999– 2005, 2014–2016; Uzbekistan 2004/2005. 8. Besides the interstate war dataset, the Correlates of War project publishes additional datasets on three further types of war (nonstate, extrastate, and intrastate wars) and provides information about their outcomes. 9. Researchers interested in studying military effectiveness in a broader sense can benefit from combining data on international warfare with other existing data sources on intrastate wars and interstate conflicts below the war level. The COW’s Intra-State Wars dataset, for instance, provides information on intrastate conflicts (Sarkees and Wayman 2010). The COW’s Militarized Interstate Disputes dataset delivers data on interstate conflicts below the war-level (Palmer, D’Orazio, Kenwick, and Lane 2015).

PART 1 Established Democracies

4 The United States: Planning and Managing Control and Effectiveness Thomas-Durell Young

the effectiveness of armed forces within the context of a long-standing democracy. If there is a single dominating theme of US history, it is the country’s adherence to the Anglo-Saxon unease (e.g., The Federalist Papers, no. 26) over the control of its armed forces. That is, albeit manifested differently over time, there has been a consistent suspicion of concentrating too much autonomy in the armed forces. This historical perspective has a distinctive US characteristic given the country’s history in the twentieth century following the emergence of the national security state in 1947. The onset of the Cold War resulted in maintaining not only a large standing conscript army (until 1973), but also the world’s most powerful navy and air force, and a large nuclear force. As these military forces were already extant at the end of World War II, it took the federal government time to adjust to the new global responsibilities by creating the requisite civil institutions needed to manage, and control, such a large force. The decision on how to organize the civilian-led institutions to provide oversight of the armed forces solved one problem but in the process created what has become an intractable challenge: how to create greater “unity” among the armed forces, that is, how to create a more effective force? Thus, whereas Congress has long urged the armed forces to achieve greater unity of effort, arguably going back to the Efficiency in Militia Act of 1903 (also known as the Dick Act),1 it has remained desirous (irrespective of which party is in power) to dominate, and wield its powers of oversight on, the defense budget. In the United States, the defense budget constitutes two separated pieces of annual legislation that dictate how much to spend and how that money is to be spent (Williams and Heitshusen 2016).

The United States is a case study of control, as well as of

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Congress controls the armed forces by de facto making defense policy (i.e., determining where money is to be spent). My argument in this chapter is that while Congress advocates unity and jointness, its practices have all but ensured that the Department of Defense remains in a state of bureaucratic disaggregation, which has direct consequences on the operational effectiveness of the armed forces. In this chapter, I focus on two of the three key instruments that governments use to control the armed forces (left unaddressed is personnel policy and particularly oversight of promotion), which essentially defines how effective the armed forces are in operation. First, I explore how financial decisions regarding the armed forces are made and who makes them. Second, I explain how national-level command of the armed forces is exercised in law, as well as in actual practice. Money and command are two of the most important tools a government has to control the armed forces. How they are created in law and exercised in practice is critical for an armed force to fulfill its missions. In fact, unity of effort, with the goal of creating greater effectiveness, is incredibly difficult to achieve in the United States. This is due to congressional policies that have ensured the continuity of the three military departments (army, navy, and air force) enjoying considerable autonomy and freedom of bureaucratic action, the result of which undermines achieving effectiveness. Judging the operational effectiveness of the US armed forces in many, if not most, operations since 1945 shows them to have been problematic at best, and arguably disunity of command has been one contributing factor to many of these failures and stalemates. The founding fathers of the United States were well schooled in the classics, as well as then recent British history. As such, the US Constitution explicitly was designed to ensure that power is divided among the three branches of government. This governance concept is nowhere more evident than in how the armed forces are envisaged to be created and national command is to be exercised. The Constitution declares the authority of Congress to raise and support armies and to maintain a navy (Article 1, Section 8). Therefore, the Founding Fathers were mindful that a standing army was not necessary but could be raised and supported only when needed. This had precedent in Great Britain, which did not have a standing army until 1688; yet even then, its continued legal existence had to be reauthorized annually by Parliament (Strachan 1997, pp. 44-49). Clearly, navies cannot be raised and equipped but must be extant and operational to master the rigors of seamanship and its unique leadership requirements. What is interesting is that by the end of the nineteenth century, the US Navy was becoming a world-class blue-water navy with squadrons stationed

Background

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in many part of the world, but the US Army was a small professional force with limited peacetime tasks, such as suppressing Indians in the West and building infrastructure (e.g., canals, ports, and roads). With the exception of its coastal artillery branch, the US Army was never an urban force, as congressional intent was to keep the army out of politics by keeping the officer corps as much as possible out of cities. As a result, whereas the US Navy (accorded by the 1922 Washington Naval Treaty) could reach parity with the Royal Navy, by 1939 the US Army consisted of less than 190,000 professionals augmented by state-controlled National Guard forces. That said, since the enactment in 1906 of the Dick Act, these forces were required to adhere to guidance and standards established by the regular army. In sum, prior to the invention of the airplane, the US Navy saw itself as an aspiring world-class naval force deployed to stations across the globe, armed with modern dreadnoughts and supporting forces. Conversely, the US Army was vested in continental defense, which included harbor defense that comprised an extensive system of coastal artillery fortifications at major ports, minefields, torpedo boats, and even coastal submarines. This interservice coordination agreement (more like a truce) was the product of years of bureaucratic infighting between the two military departments and their respective supporters in Congress. It was quickly unsettled by the acquisition of colonies in East Asia and the Caribbean following the US victory over Spain in 1898, and the massive technological disruption caused by the invention of the airplane that introduced a third dimension to military operations. The United States entered World War II in a state of disunity. The armed services maintained considerable autonomy, and joint discussions and coordination were not part of either military department’s DNA. For example, during World War I, the modest Joint Army and Navy Board (which was established in 1903 and was charged with coordinating service planning) comprised only four officers and met only twice (Hitch 1967, p. 12). President Harry S. Truman called for the creation of “integrated strategic plans and a unified military program and budget” (Hitch 1967, p. 14), but nothing came of this. The National Security Act of 1947 ostensibly brought the army, navy, and the newly independent air force under one department overseen by a secretary of defense. In reality, it created a confederation of autonomous organizations presided over by a secretary with limited powers and initially only a meager staff (Zegart 1999). Fundamentally, the military departments retained their budgetary independence, and it was not until 1949 that the post of assistant secretary of defense (comptroller) was established with the objective of bringing a uniform budgetary and financial management system to the new organization. But even with this new office, the secretary had little of the necessary data, let along authority, to create joint priorities (e.g., nuclear forces).

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Newly elected in 1961, John F. Kennedy found that the military departments retained considerable autonomy over their budgets, including establishing priorities. Worse yet, they were determined to remain independent of any guidance from the secretary of defense. It was little wonder that they remained highly parochial. The Joint Strategic Objectives Plan of the Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS) was essentially a collection of the military departments’ predetermined priorities (Hitch 1967, pp. 25–26). With the need to rationalize defense spending, particularly related to the development of expensive nuclear forces, the newly installed administration was committed to finding a way to create greater unity in defense. President Kennedy turned to Robert McNamara, chief executive officer of Ford Motor Company, to bring a corporate approach to creating greater efficiency in national defense. His solution was to bring new talent to the Office of the Secretary of Defense to press for greater unity of effort in the sprawling and uncoordinated department. A key starting point was the appointment of Charles Hitch as assistant secretary of defense. Hitch and Roland N. McKean were the authors of a well-regarded work, published in 1960, that took the then novel approach of looking at planning for national defense as an economic, as opposed to solely a military, challenge (Hitch and McKean 1960, p. 105). In other words, they endeavored to conceptualize the challenge of defense planning as an economic problem, which could be solved through the efficient allocation of resources, all the while reconciling conflicting views among organizations. In what is arguably the most persuasive treatise on the programming method that Hitch and his team used, Alain C. Enthoven and K. Wayne Smith (both of whom helped introduce programming to the US Department of Defense) identified the challenges facing the administration as it attempted to bring unity of effort among three independent military departments:

Financial Decisionmaking

Perhaps the key reason for the limited usefulness of the defense budget was the fact that defense budgeting was, in effect, conceived as being largely unrelated to military strategy. The two were treated as almost independent activities. They were carried out by different people, at different times, with different terms of reference, and without a method for integrating their activities. The strategy and forces were thought to be essentially military matters, while the budget was thought to be mainly a civilian matter. Force planning was done for several years into the future, by military men, on a mission-oriented basis, by the Services with attempts at coordination by the JCS organization. Financial planning was done one year at a time, largely by civilians, in terms of object classes of expenditures such as personnel and procurement, through the Service and DoD [Department of Defense] Comptroller organizations. This gap between strategy and forces, on the one hand, and budgets, on the other, posed a serious obstacle to rational defense planning. (Enthoven and Smith 2005, p. 13)

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The situation in which the new administration found itself was unenviable. At that time defense planning consisted of the secretary of defense dividing the defense budget among the three military departments, essentially leaving these organizations to decide how to spend their respective budgets. This was the case, in large part, due to the Department of Defense’s lack of management structures and techniques. This de facto budget-driven process predictably produced suboptimization in an aggregate sense since the military departments recognized only their own priorities and, in consequence, jointness suffered (Hitch 1967, pp. 18, 23–24). Jointness is defined as any effort on the part of the military departments to coordinate activities and expenditures that it is assumed will result not only in great financial effectiveness but also in operational effectiveness of the armed forces (Joint Chiefs of Staff 2017, pp. 1–2). With a mandate from President Kennedy to bring greater coherence to defense, Secretary McNamara put the services on notice that he expected to see, inter alia, the full life cycle costs of all new proposed acquisitions. It needs to be recalled that this was during a period of high peacetime defense expenditures, conscription, and modernization of conventional forces, as well as each service developing and attempting to field their own nuclear delivery platforms (Hitch and McKean 1960, pp. 23–83). To create the planning and management methods to achieve these objectives, McNamara directed Hitch and his team to implement programming for Fiscal Year 1963 (Enthoven and Smith 2005, pp. 27–29). The Planning, Programming, and Budgeting System (PPBS) created in 1962 was designed to provide the department with a single method of preparing the annual defense budget, as well as provide guidance for future planning in the form of costed capability proposals. Yet given the limited time to prepare the new system properly, and faced with fierce opposition it engendered from the military departments, a little-known accord was agreed on that has in effect worked against achieving the objectives of programming. Hitch obfuscated this critically important point when he later wrote: “Thus, the SECDEF [Secretary of Defense] now has the tools he needs to take the initiative in the planning and direction of the entire defense effort on a truly unified basis” (1967, p. 58). The fact of the matter is that the new programming system left untouched the existing budget structure, thereby ensuring the military department’s continuing autonomy, instead of connecting planning to budgeting via the new programming structure (Hitch 1967, p. 30). In short, Hitch allowed to remain standing one of the key weaknesses in the planning system that predated programming as identified by Enthoven and Smith (2005, p. 13). Recounting the above historical record is critical to understanding the origins of what became long-term defense planning, which serves as a basic tenet of PPBS. Under the new system, the military departments had to produce detailed financial projections for the fiscal year in which funds were

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being planned, plus the following four years for review by the Office of the Secretary of Defense. These data were compiled to constitute a five-year plan. This practice was further institutionalized in law in 1987 when Congress directed the Department of Defense to compile these figures and submit a five-year defense program, that is, the Future Year Defense Program (FYDP)2 that is used by the Secretary of Defense to project expenditures and proposed budget requests.3 The submission of the FYDP annually to Congress meets the requirements of this legislation (US Government Accountability Office 2004, pp. 4–5). To the credit of those who attempted to bring reform to the Department of Defense through creating greater unity of effort and to produce financial efficiencies, there are benefits to assessing the full financial implications of decisionmaking. As one US government report notes, “Leading practices in capital decision-making include developing a long-term capital plan to guide implementation of organizational goals and objectives and help decisionmakers establish priorities over the long term” (US General Accounting Office 1998, p. 32). All too often prior to the McNamara era, the long-term financial liabilities that were being assumed by the military departments often went unacknowledged. This situation resulted in military planners who were free from having to consider the financial consequences of their plans, whereas budget planning that lives within the context of yearly budget cycles has to be accurate. Worse yet, as Hitch notes, this led to military requirements being represented in absolute terms, disconnected from its cost implications (1967, pp. 25–26). Clearly, a solution to this policy conundrum needed to be found. As an element for bringing greater understanding of the financial implications of defense plans, officials realized that planning in a one-year time frame was simply too short. What was needed was an understanding not only of future financial obligations of proposed draft plans but also an accurate database of past financial costs to create an informed perspective of trends. In consequence, the fifth pillar of PPBS comprised a plan for combining forces and their costs, projected five years into the future to provide officials with financial data of the long-term costs of their decisions. Yet the authors of PPBS claimed that their long-term plan was never envisaged to be inflexible. Rather, it was seen as informing officials with an estimate of the financial implications of past decisions and planning assumptions, all with the objective of providing needed financial context by which defense plans could be developed. Once implemented, the initiative would force the armed services to provide accurate financial projections of decisions (i.e., full life cycle costs). Portrayed in this light, McNamara’s team argued that a long-term defense plan would not bind future officials to past decisionmaking. Rather, they contended that it would provide officials in future years with flexibility to shift priorities since they would have a full appreciation of the potential financial consequences of

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a decision to make changes to the armed forces (Enthoven and Smith 2005, pp. 20, 44–45, 48, 50). There are a number of salient implications from this recounting of the original intent of the Department of Defense’s concept of long-term defense planning. First, it is important to acknowledge that long-term “planning”— that is to say, multiyear force and supporting financial planning—was seen as an essential element of PPBS. Second, PPBS was designed explicitly to meet the then prevailing rigid bureaucratic structures and political realities within the Defense Department. With the benefit of hindsight, Haynes argues that “the process [PPBS] became the essential means by which the US military services protected their respective identities, preferred weapons systems, and relevance” (2013, p. 7). And as the military departments’ individual PPBS systems have evolved—now referred to as Planning, Programming, Budgeting, and Execution System (PPBES)—they have succeeded in isolating successive administrations’ policy priorities from financial execution precisely in a way unforeseen or intended by its originators (i.e., the inability of secretaries of defense to change priorities quickly). No better example of this fact can be seen than Secretary Robert Gates’s battle against his own Department of Defense to procure mine-resistant, ambush-protected vehicles (MRAPs) during the war in Iraq to save lives of US soldiers. Gates argues, “The hidebound and unresponsive bureaucratic structure that the Department of Defense uses to acquire equipment performs poorly in peacetime. As I saw, it did so horribly in wartime” (2014, p. 126). Additionally, notwithstanding the many public strategy documents published by administrations (e.g., National Security Strategy, National Military Strategy, and Defense Strategy), the development of Major Force Programs via PPBES and that are enshrined in the FYDP, all are a result of the intention of successive Congresses that the military departments retain a high degree of autonomy from the Office of the Secretary of Defense. In other words, the strategy documents can be considered to be essentially meaningless as they do not touch defense spending. The source of this autonomy of the three military departments is explicitly stated in the US Code and consists of twelve functions.4 On reviewing these functions of the military departments, one might conclude that the secretary of defense can only suggest priorities. But what is often overlooked is that, in establishing these twelve functions for the three military departments, the law explicitly states in the preamble to each of the three departments that the exercise of their functions is “subject to the authority, direction, and control of the Secretary of Defense.” This seemingly clearly stated intent of Congress would appear to make the secretary of defense the ultimate arbiter of how the military departments develop and execute their budgets. However, this very verbiage leads us to scrutinize how the armed forces are actually controlled in terms

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of their financial decisionmaking. As explained above, whereas Congress has, in principle, delegated the authority to lead to the secretary of defense, the reality is that annually Congress passes two key legislative acts related to all government departments. The passage of annual Department of Defense Appropriations Acts explicitly outlines how much money is to be spent.5 Conversely, the National Defense Authorization Acts explicitly outline where the money is to be spent. To be sure, glossy National Security Strategy and National Military Strategy documents often receive considerable public attention and figure predominantly as key elements in the curricula of professional military educational institutions. But, it is these National Defense Authorization Acts that are actually the initiators of policy and priorities. A cursory review of these documents (which in the case of the National Defense Authorization Act for Fiscal Year 2018 consisted of 1,295 pages) demonstrates clear and uncompromising guidance to the military departments and the Department of Defense. Thus, in a seemingly contradictory fashion, Congress gives the secretary of defense the authority to control the military departments, but this is purely rhetorical. The fact of the matter is that the services’ budgets are framed in terms of the appropriations and authorization bills. As noted above, Secretary of Defense Gates complained bitterly of his inability to direct the Department of the Army to procure MRAPs to protect soldiers in actual combat, as accepting this guidance would upset the army’s FYDP. He succeeded in his crusade to save personnel, but these vehicles had to be procured outside the normal budgetary process as they were funded by Congress using another budgetary gimmick, Overseas Contingency Operations funding (Williams and Heitshusen 2016). In essence, one needs to understand that the long-standing budgetary system of the Department of Defense (i.e., PPBES) is not established with the objective of creating planning continuity through escalation (peace, tension, crisis, and war) given that funding operations and wars are seen as exogenous of the day-to-day peacetime planning and budgeting process. Also, creating future year programs thereby ensures that secretaries of defense are incapable of fulfilling their legal oversight responsibilities of the military departments that continue to enjoy their long-standing tradition of budgetary autonomy. This is not to conclude that the US government does not exercise civilian control over its armed forces but rather that the means by which it has chosen to do so (i.e., via congressional oversight) is a hybrid arrangement with extremely negative results for the operational effectiveness of the armed forces. The US Constitution, in Article II, states that the president is the commander in chief of the armed forces. President George Washington estab-

National-Level Command

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lished the precedent that while he accepted that he was commander in chief, he would leave conducting the operational aspects of war to other designated officials. Despite the establishment of this clear distinction, there have been plenty of crises in command, where political and operational objectives have not always aligned. One notable and well-studied example was President Abraham Lincoln’s struggle to control Union generals during the Civil War (Cohen 2003, pp. 15–51). Another was the situation during World War II when US forces in Europe fell under the command of General Dwight D. Eisenhower, who was designated supreme commander of the Allied Expeditionary Forces in Europe, that is, joint. However, in the Pacific theater there was no US unified (i.e., joint) command, as neither General Douglas MacArthur nor Admiral Chester Nimitz would agree to serve under the command of the other (Weigley 1973, pp. 269–359). Following the end of the war, the issue of defining a chain of command in peacetime became a serious issue and the JCS recommended creating peacetime global commands based on existing wartime headquarters. Since the original 1946 Outline Command Plan signed by President Truman, the Unified Command Plan has evolved into the critical instrument by which the armed forces are organized to conduct military operations on a global basis and the president is invested with the power to create new commands as needed (10 U.S. Code, p. 161). Since 1946, this has resulted in the creation and disestablishment of numerous joint combatant commands, unified commands, and functional commands (Cole et al. 1995). However, this arrangement of establishing commands has not proven itself to be effective. Indeed, the string of failures in command from the Vietnam War to Desert One, and the invasion of Grenada, forced Congress into action during the administration of Ronald Reagan to bring greater unity of command to the armed forces. Despite strong opposition from senior members of the administration, Congress succeeded in both passing and persuading the president to sign legislation in 1986 (over the objections of his secretary of defense, Casper Weinberger, and the four service chiefs) that ostensibly strengthened the command authorities of combatant commanders and reinforced the policy that the military departments’ responsibilities are solely to raise, train, and equip their services, leaving combatant commanders to develop war plans as well as command operations as directed. This legislation, referred to as the Goldwater-Nichols Defense Reorganization Act of 1986 (100 Stat. 992, Pub. L. No. 99-433 of October 1, 1986), named after its congressional cosponsors, has come to be lauded as constituting a major improvement in the means by which the armed forces are commanded jointly (Locher 2002), albeit there are some who feel it needs to be revisited and revised (Hein 2015). Those officials and analysts offering paeans to the virtues of the combatant commands and jointness have assiduously avoided noticing some of

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the key weaknesses in the current command structure, which have resulted in operational failures. First, it must be recalled that the current combatant command structure was designed and optimized to fight a global war against the Soviet Union. While there have been changes to the combatant commands’ areas of responsibility, creation of new commands (Africa Command in 2007) and even the closure of one (Joint Forces Command in 2011), their basic structures, authorities, and functions have remained essentially the same as defined in the 1986 legislation. This arguably has resulted in the ineffectual command of armed forces on operations. This can be seen on two levels: one structural, and the other related to outcomes. Apropos the first issue, one could argue that the existing organization and operation of combatant commands is suboptimal by examining the means by which these headquarters have come to conduct actual military operations. It is the norm that when activated to execute an operation from something as innocuous as the armed forces’ support of annual Boy Scout Jamborees to war fighting, these commands choose to invest the actual command of these operations to a joint task force commander (Operations Desert Shield/Desert Storm constituting a major exception to this norm). For instance, between 1990 and 2006, ninety Joint Task Forces (JTFs) were established by combatant commands to command specific missions (Spirtas, Young, and Zimmerman 2009, pp. 93–98). As defined by Joint Publication 1, JTFs are “a joint force that is constituted and so designated by the Secretary of Defense, a combatant commander, a subunified commander, or an existing joint task force commander” (Joint Chiefs of Staff 2017, p. xix). Normally, JFTs are envisaged to be ad hoc and established with the view that they are temporary and exist solely as long as it takes to execute their assigned mission. However, JFT Bravo at Soto Cano Air Base in Honduras was established in 1984 to exercise command and control of US forces deployed to Honduras, largely to combat narcotics smuggling, but continues to exist to this day and now includes in its mission supporting partnership capacity building of regional forces. What makes JTFs problematic in the execution of the command of the armed forces on operations is that since geographic combatant commands abjure themselves from commanding actual operations, these ad hoc commands have to be established either ab ovo or are based on an existing service headquarters (corps) from any of the three services. The latter case is the preferred method as an existing organization can serve as the basis for augmentation by other services. Such a headquarters can also accommodate allied or partner nations, forming a combined task force (CJTF). Thus, critical capabilities, such as command and control, planning, communications, organic life support, and force protection, are in situ, thereby making the command functional and capable of conducting a minimum degree of operations. It is in the former case, however, that these commands have proven

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to be problematic (Bonds, Hura, and Young 2010). To be sure, if required by the scope of the mission or length of their existence, these headquarters invariably require personnel augmentation. This is achieved via the development of a Joint Manning Document by the JTF, approved by its parent combatant command and forwarded to the Joint Staff for review and approval of resource requirements.6 This model can work if the operation is small since resources can often be found within the service component commands under individual geographic combatant commands. The problem is that if additional manpower is required, the process to acquire these individuals is time consuming. Joint Staff policy holds that the development of a resourcing solution takes forty-five days.7 The explanation for such a long lead time is found in the fact that force providers (the armed services) are reluctant to lose their personnel to such assignments. This delay particularly affects ad hoc JTFs. For instance, CJTF-76 was created in April 2004 to command stability operations in Iraq after Operation Iraqi Freedom was completed. However, this ad hoc command was never able to obtain the necessary augmented personnel to effectively command stability operations, let alone once the security situation deteriorated into an insurgency. It consistently lacked approximately one-fourth to one-third of its approved Joint Manning Document personnel (Bonds, Hura, and Young 2010, pp. 18–21). Hence, one can identify yet another prevarication in the organization and management of the military departments. Just as in the case of how the military departments jealously guard their US Code 10 responsibilities, they are equally reluctant to post their personnel to operational assignments not within their normal war-fighting formations (e.g., battalions, brigades, ships, and squadrons). The reason for this is that they are continuously being prodded by Congress to ensure that they are utilizing their manpower effectively and efficiently, and supporting JTFs essentially have to be taken “out of hide.” Thus, one can detect an important contradiction in both law and US joint doctrine. Apropos the former, law (10 U.S. Code §164) and policy (Unified Command Plan) have created combatant commands with broad authorities to plan, deter conflicts, and conduct military operations as directed by the secretary of defense and approved by the president, while joint doctrine (Joint Chiefs of Staff 2017, III-7–III-12) lays out how these commands are to function. However, it is in the essential responsibility of conducting operations that these commands are apparently ill suited, or simply ill disposed, to carry out their envisaged responsibilities. This is indeed confounding in that the staffs assigned to these commands do not have heavy force management or financial oversight responsibilities of forces in peacetime (these tasks are performed by their respective service component commands), yet largely exist to formulate war plans and organize and conduct joint and combined exercises. Thus, it is perplexing that successive Congresses have not directed them to reorganize themselves to

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be able to command directly military operations in their respective areas of responsibility, and thereby acknowledge that the existing Cold War model no longer meets the Department of Defense’s security and defense requirements. Logically, it simply makes no sense to have established combatant commands, while promiscuously employing JTFs for operations. Apropos the second point related to the current command structure’s outcomes, one would be justified in questioning the current system’s effectiveness by examining its performance in recent campaigns. To be sure, there are examples of success (US support and leadership in peace support operations in Bosnia and Herzegovina and Kosovo); however, one would be challenged to identify their effectiveness in the cases of Operation Enduring Freedom (Afghanistan), which now constitutes the longest-running US war, let alone the fiasco seen in Operation Iraqi Freedom (Ricks 2006). Clearly, there is a need for Congress to review from first principles how it envisages the Department of Defense and the National Command Authorities (defined as the president and the secretary of defense)8 to fight the nation’s wars, given that the current arrangements are structurally inappropriate as arguably evidenced by the modest records of success of recent campaigns. While developing consensus on how national-level command should be restructured, there is an ongoing debate over options and new models to address these shortcomings (McInnis 2016, pp. 20–22, 24–26, 29–30). The United States constitutes a case of long-standing institutional schizophrenia when it comes to whether the armed forces are created to be either effective or efficient. One cannot determine a common policy or institutional narrative that drives the effective organization of the Department of Defense to produce outcomes as envisaged by policy. At its heart, the causation for this “disunity in effect” is political. Congress maintains strict oversight and control of the armed forces and Department of Defense via the control of the budget, but more importantly by determining how money is allocated and spent. But although the secretary of defense has explicit authorization in legislation to exercise authority, direction, and control of the military departments, this has been proven difficult to achieve over time. To be sure, there have been secretaries who were able to influence if not cow military departments, yet many who have held this post subsequently lamented their inability to have had greater effective control over them, via the budget (Gates 2010). One could speculate that as long as Congress continues its longstanding practice of using its power of the purse to direct policy, it is unreasonable to assume that the Office of the Secretary of Defense will ever be allowed to develop into an organization that is capable of controlling, let alone driving, the Department of Defense to create greater effectiveness.

Control and Effectiveness Trade-Offs

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The fact that Congress continues to pass legislation that encourages greater cooperation and coordination across functional lines, but refuses to provide to the secretary of defense real power (i.e., power of the purse), only underscores the actual dissonance of management and purpose within the Department of Defense. The will of Congress as expressed in law is clear that it is much more interested in the armed forces being effective at least in terms of how they allocate and manage resources, as opposed to losing control to the secretary of defense and allowing him or her to press for greater effectiveness. This can be seen in the huge number of redundancies of institutions and capabilities that Congress consistently protects and funds. Yet this intent to ensure effectiveness fails with regard to the command of the armed forces. What the evidence demonstrates is that the existing system of combatant commands and the extensive use of JTFs are neither effective nor efficient in conducting operations successfully. The case of the United States and its history of controlling its armed forces paints a conflicted story. On the one hand, the United States is one of the world’s long-standing and continuous democracies. In many ways, the US armed forces constitute the gold standard of unparalleled military capabilities, global reach, and all but unassailable technological advantages over any potential adversaries. Successive administrations and Congresses have supported relatively high defense spending even to the point that its own diplomatic corps has been starved of resources, which has led to the argument that US foreign policy has been militarized (Bacevich 2005). The fact that there are more US Army bandsmen (at the cost of more than $500 million per annum) than US Foreign Service officers posted overseas should give pause to any critique of this assertion. What needs to be assessed in a critical light is the fact that despite the defense budget for Fiscal Year 2018 being $700 billion, US armed forces have not been particularly effective in many of the conflicts in which the United States has been involved for some years, nor have its peacetime capacity-building and security cooperation efforts been remarkably effective or efficient (Young 2017). Clearly, there is not a proven return on investment for all the treasure that has been showered on the Department of Defense. As I argued in this chapter, the mere size of the armed forces since 1947 coupled with the history of their management have resulted in a number of problems unique to the United States. Critical to understanding why this is the case is the need to appreciate the political and bureaucratic prevarications that relate to controlling the budget and the command of the armed forces that plague the system. What the US government faces is almost an unwillingness to accede to the proposition that there should be real unity of effort (i.e., greater

Conclusion

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centralization of financial decisionmaking and rationalization of capabilities, forces, and infrastructure) and more clarity in directing the command of the armed forces when on operations. The ultimate effect of the inability of successive governments to agree on these objectives is a manifestation of the reality that the perceived domestic political pain of effecting these reforms exceeds their potential gain for the armed forces and the country’s interests. In an odd twist of history and politics, the world’s longest-standing superpower continues to settle for suboptimal operational results of its armed forces and wastes money in lieu of Congress ending its schizophrenic approach to its oversight of defense by enacting legislation to reinforce the civilian leadership in the Department to Defense that would enable the armed forces to achieve greater unity of effort and command. The views expressed in this chapter are those solely of the author and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the Department of the Navy or the Department of Defense. 1. Act of January 12, 1903, 47th Cong., 2nd Sess., Chap. 196, 21 Stat. 775-780. 2. U.S. Code, Title 10, Subtitle A, Part I, Chap. 9 § 221. 3. US legislation defines the FYDP as covering the fiscal year with respect to which the budget is submitted and at least the four succeeding fiscal years. For each fiscal year of the period in question, it must also include estimated expenditures and the proposed appropriations, as well as for procurement of equipment, military construction for the reserve components of the armed forces. U.S. Code 10 § 10543 (2004). 4. (1) Recruiting; (2) organizing; (3) supplying; (4) equipping (including research and development); (5) training; (6) servicing; (7) mobilizing; (8) demobilizing; (9) administering (including the morale and welfare of personnel); (10) maintaining; (11) the construction, outfitting, and repair of military equipment; (12) the construction, maintenance, and repair of buildings, structures, and utilities and the acquisition of real property and interests in real property necessary to carry out the responsibilities specified in this section. Note that the three military departments’ functions are the same, but are stated separately in law. 10 U.S.C. § 3013 (US Army), 10 U.S.C. § 5013 (US Navy), or 10 U.S.C. § 8013 (US Air Force). 5. These are Program 1: Strategic Forces; Program 2: General Purpose Forces; Program 3: Command, Control, Communications, Intelligence, and Space; Program 4: Mobility Forces; Program 5: Guard and Reserve Forces; Program 6: Research and Development; Program 7: Central Supply and Maintenance; Program 8: Training, Medical, and Other General Personnel Activities; Program 9: Administration and Associated Activities; Program 10: Support of Other Nations; and Program 11: Special Operations Forces. 6. Note that since the passage of the 1986 Defense Reorganization Act, the Joint Chiefs of Staff is now referred to as the “Joint Staff,” while JCS refers exclusively to the Joint Chiefs of Staff in session. 7. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Instruction, Joint Individual Augmentation Procedures CJCSI 1301.01 (Washington, DC, Joint Chiefs of Staff, 17 November 2014). 8. 10 U.S. Code, Sec. 162 (b).

Notes

5 Japan: Separation, Control, and Effectiveness Chiyuki Aoi

by separation, based on the ideas of civilian control and containment. While civilian control was first set out as control by bureaucracy, the Japanese society at large was insulated from military matters—matters that were understood to be functionally unique and a normative outlier within the Japanese constitutional framework. Further, particularly before the 1990s, politics and politicians had little connection to matters concerning the armed forces. While the institutions and practice of civilian control have gradually evolved since the 1990s from containment to reengagement by the political sphere, separation still characterizes the day-to-day management of civil-military relations, underlined by the ambiguous constitutional status of the Self-Defense Forces (SDF) and relative insulation of Japanese society from military affairs. This separateness has created obstacles for the management of Japan’s involvement in international peace and stability operations, the situation into which I inquire in this study. Japan’s involvement in such post–Cold War operations forced Japan to adopt more integrated forms of civil-military management. However, the idea of separation was expressed through tight controls over the military in the form of brakes (hadome) imposed on SDF deployment by the civilians. A critical evaluation of the effectiveness of such controls demonstrates that internal effectiveness—that is, the degree to which civilian authorities in Japan limit the operational mandate and authority of the SDF to scrutinize its autonomy and mission command abroad—is guaranteed by tight civilian control of operations and by the increasing professionalism of the armed forces themselves. But externally, the extremely risk-averse management of operations, manifested in tight

Japan’s postwar civil-military relations may be characterized

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controls from Tokyo over SDF actions in the field, has proved less effective in producing desired mission outcomes (beyond serving the limited goals defined by the priorities of Japanese politics). Hence, external effectiveness is measured in terms of military effectiveness of operations. The rigid coupling of the civil and defense arms of these operations also has proven to be a liability in an environment that favored more integrated approaches. Moreover, once the forces have been deployed in the field and established their routine operations, normally less political interest and attention has been focused on them by the Japanese public at large, indicating somewhat less supervision by the political sphere until the forces’ withdrawal, as long as the mission’s personnel have avoided controversy by staying within given parameters.

Japan’s Postwar Civil-Military Relations and Their Evolution

The origin of Japanese civil-military relations can be traced back to the nation’s defeat in World War II and the ensuing institution of legal and political systems that formed the foundations of the country’s democracy. Based on the understanding that the disastrous war and suffering was caused by the erosion of civil authority, which had taken place under the prewar system of “dual government” where legal authority was divided between civilian and military leadership (Katahara 2001, p. 69; Katzenstein and Okawara 1993), civilian control of the military was considered the cornerstone of a firm democratic system of rule, peace, and order. Foundations of Postwar Japanese Civil-Military Relations The basis of the revised civil-military relations after World War II was the US-imposed Constitution of Japan (1947) that famously enshrined the ideal of pacifism. Its Article 9 set the direction whereby Japan was to renounce war and disavow the use of force as a means of resolving international disputes, and to pledge not to maintain “land, sea, and air forces, as well as other war potential.” The pacifism enshrined in such constitutional terms appealed to a general populace devastated by war and distrustful of the military as the culprit for causing the destruction of the nation. What Berger calls the “culture of antimilitarism” prevailed and became the defining feature of postwar Japanese politics (1993, 1998). In postwar Japan, the “military” in popular perceptions was a dangerous institution that had to be constantly restrained and placed under surveillance to protect the democratic system (Berger 1993, p. 120; Katahara 2001, p. 70). When the intensifying Cold War prompted the United States to reverse its course on disarming Japan and decide to rearm the country for defense,

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these constitutional terms rendered the legal status and roles of the SDF ambiguous. The political parameters of postwar Japanese defense were first laid by Prime Minister Shigeru Yoshida, who resisted US (and domestic far-right) pressure to develop a robust military and ensured, under what would be known as the Yoshida Doctrine, that Japan would minimize its defense commitment for the time being while prioritizing economic recovery and prosperity. In 1951, Japan signed the San Francisco Peace Treaty and the US-Japan Security Treaty. In 1954, two defense-related laws created the Japan Defense Agency, predecessor of the Japan Ministry of Defense (MOD), and the Self-Defense Forces. Facing domestic criticism, the government justified the creation of these forces by arguing that the Self-Defense Forces were less than the “war potential” that is banned by the constitution (Berger 1993; Samuels 2007, p. 46). Japan subsequently adopted an array of self-imposed restraints on the SDF, in moves that balanced leftist and popular demands to cap or brake the strengthening of such forces. The most important of the restraints was the policy whereby Japan committed itself to an exclusively defenseoriented policy (senshu boei). This policy implied that forces must be kept to the minimum level necessary for self-defense (excluding offensive or long-range capabilities) and that the SDF could be mobilized only if Japan was to come under attack by another country (Katahara 2001, p. 69).1 Another key brake was the ban on exercise of the right of collective self-defense. The government interpretation long held that, although Japan did possess the right of collective self-defense under international law, it would not be able to legally exercise that right (Tanaka 1997, p. 178). Japan’s participation in collective security operations was also banned so as to avoid the risk of the SDF being integrated into the use of force by a multinational force. Further, since 1954 the Japanese government has endorsed an interpretation of the law that banned Japan from sending the SDF for combat abroad (Tamura, Takahashi, and Shimada 2012, p. 32). Sending SDF abroad for noncombat missions, such as for participation in UN peacekeeping operations and for international disaster relief, has also met with much political scrutiny. Other brakes included the capping of defense spending at 1 percent of gross domestic product (GDP); the ban on arms exports (after 2014, this has been replaced by new principles that allow for defense equipment transfer more broadly); the three nonnuclear principles that prohibit Japan from possessing, manufacturing, and introducing nuclear weapons into Japan; and the commitment to the peaceful use of space (Katahara 2001, p. 69). The crux of the efforts to minimize SDF authority and roles was Japan’s postwar adaptation of the idea of civilian control. The constitution explicitly restricts cabinet minister appointments to civilians. Further, the

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SDF law specifies that the prime minister is the commander in chief of the SDF, but his authority derives from his representation in the cabinet. The director general of the Defense Agency (now the MOD) is responsible for administrative control of the SDF under the command and supervision of the prime minister. However, within the overall system of cabinet control through much of the post–World War II period, Japan developed a system that resembled control by bureaucrats (bunkan tosei), under which the Defense Agency Internal Bureau (Naikyoku) officials, rather than the prime minister or the Defense Agency director general, exercised primary control over decisions and implementation of Japan’s defense policy (Musashi 2017, p. 235; Hikotani 2009). The Internal Bureau assumed a leading role in such key areas as military planning, procurement, training, and finance through its duties in assisting the director general in giving instructions and endorsements to the chiefs of staff (Musashi 2017, p. 237). The relative strength of the Internal Bureau was reinforced at the same time by the weak authority initially invested in the Joint Staff Council, which lacked the authority to command and control the services. The council was permitted merely to “coordinate,” thereby ensuring stronger control over the services by the Internal Bureau (Hirose 1989, pp. 72–74). These institutional checks prevented both autonomous decisions and political activities by uniformed personnel. The Internal Bureau also had the authority to monopolize negotiations with those outside the Defense Agency (Musashi 2017, p. 238; Berger 1998, p. 50). Further, interministerial controls over the Defense Agency and SDF were also in place. For example, the Cabinet Legislation Bureau unified interpretations (toitsu kenkai) over policy provide (to date) a powerful check to all relevant ministries and lawmakers (Samuels 2007, p. 53). The Ministry of Finance exercised the ultimate financial oversight, while the Ministry of International Trade and Industry exercised control over procurement (Berger 1998, p. 51). In the Japanese postwar context, this system of bureaucracy-dependent civilian control in effect minimized the interface between elected politicians and the public at large on the one hand and the military on the other. It relieved political leaders, rather conveniently, of having to engage seriously in defense policy and matters of control over the military and, in the prevailing antimilitarist culture, it made perfect electoral sense for politicians to avoid military matters (Hikotani 2009, p. 21). Given the ideological divide between the pacifist left and the conservative right during much of the Cold War, political leaders avoided bringing up matters relating to defense in the Diet, fearing they would be overpoliticized (Nishikawa 2005, p. 125). The SDF, on the other hand, became relatively autonomous in areas where military expertise was important, such as procurement, personnel, education, and training. A paradox emerged whereby the civilian apprehensions about the military have led to their vulnerability vis-à-vis

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the SDF as the providers of “military” expertise (Hikotani 2009, p. 20). Hence, the bureaucracy-centered civilian control developed in Japan provided the institutional foundations for containment of the military but also reinforced the relative insulation of Japanese society from the SDF and all military-related affairs. Toward “Normalization” and Reengagement The system of “autocontrol” persisted during the Cold War, based on a consensus on national security priorities underlined by a high degree of perceived predictability in strategic situations (Hikotani 2009, p. 21). Within the scope of these fundamentals, what Katahara calls the “normalization” of Japanese civil-military relations had begun to take hold in the mid-1970s (2001, pp. 76–79). The roles and missions of the SDF were expanded and consolidated in the aftermath of the National Defense Program Outline adopted in 1976. The Guidelines for Japan-U.S. Defense Cooperation of 1978 also established for the first time an institutional framework for joint defense planning and security consultations between Japan and the United States. Relations between politicians and the bureaucracy also gradually evolved, moving toward stronger engagement by politicians in policy formation as so-called zoku (policy-tribe) Diet members rose to power. New policy initiatives produced some of the key defense policies of the era: the concept of comprehensive security, strengthening sea-lane defense, and advocacy of defense buildup in the 1980s, respectively (Katahara 2001, p. 77). Further, the role of the cabinet was strengthened through actions such as the establishment in 1986 of the Security Council of Japan. Further evolution in Japanese civil-military relations took place after the 1990s, including a shift from bureaucratic to political control of the SDF, manifested in the growing importance of elected officials in national security agenda setting and in the policymaking process (cf. Musashi 2017; Nagao 1996). The once sensitive issues pertaining to “national interest”— such as revision of the constitution, key security policies involving USJapan relations, preparing legislation for emergency situations, and overseas deployment of the SDF—are now commonly and openly discussed and pursued by defense-oriented politicians (Musashi 2017, p. 246). Complex factors have been involved in this shift from bureaucratic to political control. The most important factors are the evolving foreign and defense policies of the post–Cold War era, along with the need to change the roles of the SDF to include overseas missions such as peacekeeping, disaster relief, humanitarian aid and reconstruction, and rear-area support in situations affecting Japan. As the Cold War consensus on foreign and defense policy priorities faded away, politicians realized the importance of overcoming the reticence regarding defense and SDF matters they had felt in the past (Hikotani 2009).

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Other factors have had to do with changes in the political system and political dynamics of Japan. Electoral reforms in the 1990s and 2000s made interparty policy debates more important in electoral contests (Hikotani 2009; Estevez-Abe 2006) and, combined with the rise of zoku Diet members, elevated the interests of politicians in defense matters (Musashi 2017, p. 245). The breakdown of one-party rule by the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) and the emergence of coalition politics in the 1990s also opened the way for a greater consensus on defense and national security on a (leftright) bipartisan basis (Musashi 2017; Nagao 1996). More recently, so-called kantei diplomacy (prime minister–led diplomacy) has been practiced in such critical moments as the response to the September 11 attacks and later responding to the rise of China (cf. Shinoda 2004, 2006; Pugliese 2016). In the wake of the 9/11 attacks, the Diet passed legislation for two Special Measures to allow SDF missions to participate in refueling missions in the Indian Ocean and humanitarian and reconstruction missions in Iraq. In a historic move, revisionist Prime Minister Shinzo Abe in 2015 changed the interpretation of the constitution to allow for the exercise of collective self-defense under limited circumstances. Incremental Changes in the Roles and Authority of the SDF Institutionally, following the upgrade in 2007 of the Defense Agency to the Ministry of Defense, more far-reaching defense administrative reforms were instituted. In 2009, the Taro Aso government abolished the defense councillor system, which had been a symbol of postwar civil official controls, and created the post of special advisers to the defense minister (Japan Ministry of Defense 2017, III-1-1-3). It also established formally the Defense Council, an advisory body to the minister of defense, which is comprised of civilians, bureaucrats, and uniformed personnel. Later in 2014, in order to enhance the relationship between civilian bureaucrats and uniformed personnel (hitherto subject to implicit frustration on the side of uniformed personnel), there were positions created within both internal bureaus and staffs to allow for cross-posting of personnel. In 2015, the MOD law was revised, dissolving the Internal Bureau Operations and Planning Division and unifying matters relating to unit operation within the Joint Staff (Musashi 2017, p. 257). The same reform also limited the Internal Bureau to support of policy matters, while empowering the chiefs of staff to support the defense minister on military matters (Musashi 2017, p. 257). Another important development was the creation of the National Security Council in 2013. The council consists of the prime minister, chief cabinet secretary, minister of foreign affairs, and minister of defense. Its secretariat, the National Security Secretariat (Kokka Anzen Hosho Kyoku), was established in January 2014 (Musashi 2017, p. 247). Along with this, the chief of staff, Joint Staff, was given new authority to advise the prime minister, on his or her request.2

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The inauguration of these institutions led to a generally enhanced level of interagency (including SDF cross-government) coordination. These institutional changes created momentum toward the process that resulted in the most recent formal review and revision of defense-related law in 2015. In that reform, Japan changed the core interpretation regarding exercise of collective self-defense but still kept to its restrictive reading of the constitution. According to the revised interpretation, Japan can now legally resort to collective defense actions to assist an ally in defending itself but, importantly, under only three conditions: 1. When an armed attack against Japan has occurred, or when an armed attack against a foreign country that is in a close relationship with Japan occurs and as a result threatens Japan’s survival and poses a clear danger to fundamentally overturn people’s right to life, liberty and pursuit of happiness; 2. when there is no other appropriate means available to repel the attack and ensure Japan’s survival and protect its people; 3. use of force to the minimum extent necessary. (Ministry of Defense 2017, III-3-1-2)

These conditions place restrictions on Japan’s exercise of such a right (Green and Hornung 2014). In the same revision, important changes were made to SDF law, including what is today known as the Important Influencing Situations Act; the International Peace Cooperation Law (IPCL), with the now-critical addition of SDF policing, protection, and administrative support duties (see below); and the Armed Attack Situations Response Act, among others. The government also enacted the International Peace Support Law (IPSL) that allows the SDF to provide for logistical support for coalition partners when international peace and security is threatened. There are legitimate debates as to whether these incremental changes in Japanese defense policy—in particular, the latest revisions in defenserelated laws—amount to a fundamental alteration of the postwar Japanese defense based on an exclusively defense-oriented posture (Hughes 2015; Samuels 2007; Mochizuki 2004; Kitaoka 2017). It seems evident, however, that SDF role expansion will inevitably affect the nature of Japanese civilmilitary relations.

New SDF Peace Missions and Their Impact on Civil-Military Relations

The long-term trend whereby the role of politicians in civilian control of the military strengthened vis-à-vis bureaucrats went hand in hand with the more proactive use of the SDF in the post–Cold War era to achieve foreign and defense policy goals. In Japan’s incremental, but active, search for a greater

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role in international affairs, these recent developments seem to leave two areas as major gaps, gaps that result from efforts by civilians to control the military. The first gap concerns limitations in the SDF authority and mandate, limiting its roles in international missions to logistical support and traditional peacekeeping, to rule out full participation in collective security and peace enforcement (with Japan itself engaging in use of force), or the higher end of the peace support operations spectrum involving unstable situations, or stabilization and counterinsurgency. The second gap concerns the issue of “separation,” i.e., limiting Japan’s integrated approach, which largely resulted from the gap in the SDF authority and mandate, as well as cultural differences between military and civilian agencies. Limited Authority, Limited Mandates: Banning Enforcement and Stabilization The most recent defense review in 2015 has started to fill in the gaps left in Japan’s law pertaining to missions abroad. In other words, changes that have taken place in the Japanese government’s interpretation of collective selfdefense will now affect use of weapons in the context of peace operations in subtle ways. Specifically, the reform allows SDF personnel deployed to UN or non-UN peacekeeping operations (PKO) missions under the IPCL to perform security-ensuring duties and limited protection duties, with authority to use weapons for the implementation of the mandate. Under the new IPSL passed in the same reform, the SDF can also provide logistical support for coalition forces. Both the IPCL and IPSL are permanent laws. However, the Japanese government has chosen to stay mostly within the existing interpretation of the constitution, seen from the fact that these newly added activities are not to involve (or be “integrated into”) the use of force (although the legal definition of “combat areas” is now altered to mean combat in the specific areas where SDF is conducting operations). There is also the continued ban preventing Japan from fully joining UN collective security operations, except in logistical support, and with Japan itself engaging in the use of force. As of today, SDF participation is limited to UN and non-UN PKO that retain the characteristics of traditional peacekeeping, doctrinally speaking, as the so-called five principles of SDF participation in International Peace Cooperation (IPC) activities remain intact. These five principles are (1) a cease-fire agreement exists between or among the warring parties; (2) there is consent from local authorities that Japanese personnel are part of the peacekeeping force; (3) the force is operating in an impartial manner; (4) Japan retains the right to withdraw if any of the above conditions no longer prevail; and (5) there will be no use of weapons except for self-defense. The latest round of defense reforms instituted in 2015 kept these conditions but added important new authority and mandates to the SDF,

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namely, the use of weapons to implement so-called security-ensuring operations (anzen kakuho gyomu) and rush-and-rescue (kaketsuke keigo) missions. However, crucially, these new authorizations could be added because the five principles, as enshrined in the IPCL, remained intact as control measures over the SDF authority, intended to cap its activities overseas within the prevailing interpretations of the constitution. The IPCL most likely would not provide a legal base for the SDF to conduct stabilization or operations at the higher end of the peace support operations spectrum.3 Although up to the last reform, SDF roles and authorities, including the use of weapons, were gradually and incrementally expanded, there remain discrepancies between the UN Rules of Engagement and the SDF authorizations in terms of the use of weapons. For example, SDF safety-ensuring or protection duties in theory cannot be conducted in typical UN peacekeeping operations environments, where protection mandates are provided for under Chapter VII of the UN Charter, where cease-fire agreements fluctuate and violence tends to be a recurring feature. The SDF and MOD consistently maintain that the mandates need to be matched by appropriate authority (including authority concerning the use of weapons). In reality, because SDF authority is capped under the provisions of the constitution, the mandates have tended to be quite limited. Further, particularly for the Ground Self-Defense Forces (GSDF), the issue of gaining adequate training and preparation to perform new mandates is a key concern, but precipitating such preparations before legislation clearly authorizes such mandates makes them susceptible to claims of breach of the norms of civilian control. Another control measure inherent in the IPCL is the so-called positive list methodology for governing SDF mandates and authority. This system has been described in full elsewhere (Aoi 2009, 2014; Mulloy 2018). The IPC law as it was passed in 1992 listed sixteen specific tasks as IPC assignments and the SDF was to engage in only those tasks (hence, the “positive list” naming). These tasks involve traditional peacekeeping tasks such as monitoring and patrolling, as well as election monitoring, medical care, assistance and advice in police administration, distribution of food, repair of facilities, and so forth. The latest round of Abe defense reforms added to these specific tasks in safety-ensuring operations such as monitoring, stationing or garrisoning, patrol, investigation, and escorting (keigo) to protect local residents, refugees, and so on; and tasks in rush-and-rescue operations (i.e., coming to the rescue of those civilians participating in UN or non-UN peacekeeping or relief activities in areas outside their areas of operation). Other new PKO tasks have to do with monitoring and advising local administrations and judicial and legislative bodies; limited security sector reform activities such as advising, education, and training; and headquarters tasks such as planning, coordinating, or collecting information.

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To date, the government has not mandated the SDF to fully implement the typical PKO infantry duties (banned until a reform in 2001) or newly added safety and protection-related mandates. The SDF mission in South Sudan became the first to be entrusted with the rush-and-rescue mandate after the 2015 reform, but the Abe government withdrew the SDF unit from the country soon thereafter. The positive list approach significantly reduces the flexibility of SDF operations in evolving operational environments. But from the perspective of civilian control, it provides additional civilian brakes on SDF operations and authority. Limited Progress of the Integrated Approach To facilitate its peacebuilding and disaster relief operations and implement engineering and reconstruction-related mandates, Japan has developed whole-of-government mechanisms and interagency cooperation at various levels of the government. The fact that key bureaucratic actors, as well as members of the armed forces and civil society, now recognize the need for a comprehensive approach is a notable change that has resulted from direct involvement in operations. The key characteristics of Japan’s comprehensive approach to peace operations contexts are twofold. First, the concept that frames the whole-ofgovernment approach is formally peacebuilding, a liberal peacebuilding approach that is expected to apply sequentially, first to peacekeeping, then to postconflict peacebuilding, and finally to development assistance. 4 The government’s goal is to provide for seamless assistance that bridges the gap between these phases. The actors that collaborate include civil and defense government agencies and nongovernmental organizations operating in the field (Council for Future Security and Defence Capabilities in the New Era 2010, p. 40). Officially, the Japanese government does not employ an operational or conceptual category for fragile states or stabilization. Japan has no equivalent of the stabilization unit such as established by the United Kingdom, nor is central government funding available to cover stabilization contingencies that are jointly under the jurisdiction of relevant ministries. Second, as a result of the limited SDF mandates provided by its political masters in the peace operations context, Japan’s comprehensive approach has so far been limited in scope and remained within the economy line of complex peace operations. The aim of the Japanese comprehensive approach, to date, has been to couple SDF engineering assistance with Official Development Assistance (ODA) and other civilian assistance, in independent missions (e.g., Iraq) and in UN peacekeeping contexts (e.g., East Timor, Haiti, South Sudan). The Japanese comprehensive approach has also been field (tactically)-led, with a weaker level of integration at the operational level.

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The notable advancement of the whole-of-government approach has been seen at the strategic level, where the founding of the National Security Council and its secretariat enhanced the level of interministerial information flow (including civil-military) and policy coordination. These entities determine policy regarding SDF deployment abroad. Further, at the strategicoperational level, the IPCL headquarters, created in 1992 within the Cabinet Office, provides the official mechanism for interministerial coordination pertaining to UNPKO (UN Peacekeeping Operations) participation (excluding Special Measures deployments) and drafts implementation orders, plans, and procedures. These plans and procedures itemize specific tasks or the mandates that the peacekeeping personnel are to perform, including what weapons and equipment are to be brought to the field, attesting to the extremely high degree of sensitivity toward SDF dispatch abroad and toward the issue of civilian control. Operational-tactical level planning is done by the relevant agency and, in cases of SDF unit participation, independently by each service. In this level of planning, there is no formal institution for interagency joint planning, although there are official interministerial coordination processes (Aoi 2014). Once operational parameters were set, field-level (tactical) coordination became the key feature of Japanese civil-military operations in both the UN and Special Measures contexts. More recently, efforts have been made to strengthen operational-level coordination. For example, in the recent cases of Haiti and South Sudan, interministerial committees were created to allow for an extra degree of interagency coordination for Japanese-funded assistance. Interagency committees also coordinate various capacity-building activities. Peculiarly, given the high degree of public sensitivity about decisions and actions taken autonomously by the SDF, once deployment proceeded there was weaker interface between SDF (operations) and the political sphere, if not with the civilian bureaucracies. As long as SDF operations remained within bounds previously determined by the civilian side, there was no recognizable interest politically to renew reviewing in any way of the content of the mission. Perhaps some “hiccups” hidden in the seemingly smooth civil-military relations surrounding the SDF operations could be gauged in the recent scandal surrounding the daily reports (Nippo) from the GSDF South Sudan mission and later from the SDF Iraq mission. The reports attracted public attention in 2016 when the MOD denied a journalist’s request for the release of those documents regarding the SDF mission in South Sudan, based on Act on Access to Information Held by Administrative Organs (Joho Kokai Ho), arguing that such reports had been destroyed. Since then, it was revealed that SDF/MOD does possess these reports and that they contain references to the occurrence of combat (sento) in the capital of South Sudan. The incidents

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seem to indicate the underlying reluctance on the side of SDF/MOD to share information as necessary and openly with the public and by extension the body politic (if not with civilian government officials). The political sensitivity surrounding the oft-opaque legal justification of “noncombat area” does not help in the clear-cut resolution of the matter. The manner in which SDF operations are framed is an indication of how extremely risk averse civilians are regarding their management. The careful framing of missions by the political and bureaucratic leadership, as well as the equally risk-averse way the SDF implements the mission once deployed, indicates the aversion felt by the Japanese political and military leadership to overstep the bounds established under the constitution. The political impact of perceived failure of an overseas mission (e.g., by casualties) is also much feared—there have been zero casualties to date of service members deployed to overseas missions since 1992. An early example was the case of Cambodia. When two civilian Japanese personnel were murdered, then prime minister Kiichi Miyazawa’s decision to allow the SDF contingent to stay in Cambodia was reportedly a difficult one (Asahi Shimbun 2005, p. 143).5 As that evidence would attest, it made little sense for the political and bureaucratic leadership to risk proactive use of the SDF once it was deployed, and the service members also avoided causing trouble by risk taking. It is arguably this political exigency of avoiding risk in operations that explains the relative lack of attention to mission achievements by the Japanese body politic and the public at large beyond a formal or even superficial level. Operational success is rarely precisely defined, beyond generally as reconstruction, peacebuilding, or humanitarian, but without realistic benchmarks. Mission success, in reality, is defined negatively: lack of major incidents and entanglement in local conflicts are considered criteria of success. Such risk aversion is linked also with the broader and long-term project of legitimizing the SDF in Japanese society as a whole. Overseas missions such as peace operations and international disaster relief operations, as well as the popular SDF domestic disaster relief operations, have served that very purpose of legitimizing the SDF.6 Implicitly, public acceptance of the SDF is something that the LDP leadership has sought (potentially as a step toward revising Article 9 of the constitution), and each incident-free overseas deployment or domestic disaster relief operation has contributed to that legitimacy-building exercise. Other related interests have been the long-term goal of raising Japan’s profile in world affairs, with the implicit link to its bid for a permanent seat on the UN Security Council and to keep up close relations with its main ally, the United States.

The Internal and External Effectiveness Gap

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Opinion polls have recorded general perceptions of SDF participation in peacekeeping missions among the Japanese public. In 1993, 48 percent supported such participation; that rate is now about 70 percent to more than 80 percent (Cabinet Office, Government of Japan, Secretariat of the International Peace Cooperation Headquarters, 2017). Public perceptions of UNPKO in general are also favorable. A closer look, however, would indicate somewhat weaker popular support for the SDF role in peacekeeping, particularly if SDF tasks go beyond benign humanitarian and reconstruction activities (Midford 2017). When asked in public opinion polls why the SDF is needed, respondents have consistently rated PKO missions below domestic disaster relief, national defense (including recently the defense of the Southwestern Islands), and maintenance of domestic security, in that order (Cabinet Office, Government of Japan 2014). In general, however, to the extent that the Japanese government has managed to avoid situations that might negatively affect public opinion toward the SDF role in peacekeeping, it has conducted a successful public relations campaign by operating within self-imposed limitations regarding its role (Aoi 2014). In terms of effectiveness, one can identify internal and external effectiveness, as noted above, with the former indicating the effectiveness with which SDF missions abroad are scrutinized to limit their mandates and authority, and the latter the military effectiveness of the mission concerned. Somewhat ironically, the more effective management of Japanese peace operations is vis-à-vis the domestic audience (that is, the more effectively the government scrutinizes overseas SDF missions, limiting their mandates and authority), the greater the inflexibility of SDF operations in the field, a situation that may create more risks to themselves and the operation as a whole, hence reducing the military effectiveness of the mission. Consequently, effectiveness internally may be in inverse relation to effectiveness externally. This inverse relation has not been so evident in the case of UNPKO, which comprise by far the majority of SDF deployments because SDF’s logistical and engineering capabilities are in high demand. Even there, however, when the local security situation has deteriorated, the limited authority imposed on the SDF has presented many difficulties. In past cases, the GSDF has had to adjust to changes in mission mandates or in force commander orders by stretching its capabilities and authority. Especially, the case of Iraq, which was outside the usual chain of UN command, provides for most interesting insights regarding the issues of control and effectiveness. The case in point is that although the expectation was that the Japanese deployment for reconstruction in Samawah was to complement the multinational force operation focused on security in Al Muthanna Province, the rigidity of SDF operations (as well as cultural differences) were sometimes a source of friction, though not at an insurmountable level. Interviews that I conducted with personnel in the Dutch, Australian, and Japanese

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forces provide evidence of mixed results, with signs of competition and friction, and not always complementary relations. Somewhat surprisingly, it was in the area of civil-military coordination (CIMIC), not SDF dependence on multinational forces for area security and information, where competition over the effect of the operation (meaning, in this case, attracting popular support) was high (Aoi 2017). For example, as both Dutch and Japanese forces were dependent on CIMIC effects for security, and were producing similar CIMIC projects, competition thus occurred in this area, particularly when the mission leadership did not steer clear of these problems (Aoi 2017). The limited mission command held by GSDF commanders in the field also compounded existing frictions. In Iraq, one of the often-mentioned causes of concern was the way that the GSDF disbursed funds for reconstruction projects, although important adjustments were made by Tokyo to increase funds available for projects conducted in the areas of SDF deployment. But more serious friction occurred on one occasion when a local commander (in this case it was a Dutch commander) requested joint patrols with the Japanese after a mortar attack on the Japanese base. The request could not be accommodated because of the constraints imposed by Japanese law. The ensuing lack of cooperation from the Japanese was interpreted as reducing the security of both the Dutch and the Japanese forces. The close political scrutiny over the SDF was well understood by the Dutch counterpart, which accepted that the GSDF personnel would not be willing to take risks. Often, however, GSDF risk aversiveness, coupled with its limited and restrictive mandate, proved frustrating to the Dutch forces on the ground, particularly given the high uncertainties regarding security. Examination of such Japanese civil-military operations, hence, suggests the largely unintended external consequences of the very effort to ascertain civilian control domestically, by capping SDF authority and mandates overseas. The internal control entailed some inherent limitations in that it did not necessarily result in external effectiveness, particularly because the mission command was not ensured. It is important to understand that the gap between internal and external effectiveness derives from the essential nature of Japanese civil-military relations, founded on separation rather than integration. In the above review, I attempted to evaluate the historical evolution of Japanese civil-military relations with particular focus on the relationship between civilian control and effectiveness. My evaluation demonstrated, in particular, the impact of the newly developed SDF roles in international peace and stability missions on the nature and effectiveness of civilian control. Within the broad trend of stronger political representation becoming

Conclusion

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established in Japanese civilian control, the further transformation of civilmilitary relations was set in motion by the very decision of political leaders to send the SDF abroad to conduct new missions. Accordingly, greater civilmilitary coordination became a reality. Such control, however, was still founded on separation as the essential element of civilian control, which was couched in deep-seated fear of losing control over military forces, and that necessarily placed a brake on the authority and mandate of the SDF. In terms of effectiveness, while tight control exerted over the SDF authority and mandate may make sense for the domestic audience, externally that control tended to limit the SDF mission command and flexible management of the operation. Japan’s partners fully understood Japan’s limits, as well as its strengths in providing for reconstruction support, but the Japanese body politic as well as the general public need to start to understand how their civil-military relations impact Japan’s efforts to play an effective role in international society. Currently, however, the historical culture of separation in matters of civil-military relations prevails, isolating Japanese society from SDF affairs and curbing societal interest in its international missions. The implication of my analysis is that the transition from the historical stance of protection from the military to protection by the military remains incomplete in Japan. Apparently, the Japanese public has not altogether put to rest the historical distrust of the military emanating from the experience in World War II. Whether Japan is able to nurture civilian control based on mutual understanding and whether it can arrive at a rational task delegation balancing external and internal effectiveness are yet uncertain. Particularly, careful management of SDF roles and operations still seems to be the order of the day. 1. SDF could also be mobilized for disaster relief and police support operations. 2. See Kokka Anzen Hosho Kaigi Setchi Ho-National Security Council Establishment Law, available at https://www.kantei.go.jp/jp/singi/anzenhosyoukaigi /konkyo.pdf. 3. On more detailed and conceptual, as well as case-based, examination of the features of contemporary UN peacekeeping, see De Coning, Aoi, and Karlsrud (2017). 4. See relevant government and blue-ribbon panel reports, including “Japan’s Vision for Future Security and Defence Capabilities in the New Era: Toward a Peace-Creating Nation” (Council for Future Security and Defence Capabilities in the New Era 2010); “Mid-Term Report of the Council on the Modalities of PKOs” (Council on the Modalities of PKOs 2011). 5. In fact, the murder of a police officer in Cambodia ended the Japanese Police Authority’s deployment to UNPKOs except as headquarters staff. 6. For the argument that SDF PKO missions largely extended SDF skills and experiences in domestic disaster relief, see Midford (2017). On SDF roles in disaster relief, see Murakami (2017).

Notes

6 Germany: The Bundeswehr and the Limits of Strategic Culture Sven Bernhard Gareis

ically depicts the precarious state of the art of German security and defense policy and the Bundeswehr (German armed forces).1 In her keynote speech at the opening of the Munich Security Conference, Federal Minister of Defence Ursula von der Leyen highlighted Germany’s commitment to the country’s contribution to international security in the European Union (EU), NATO, and UN, both in terms of defense expenditures and development aid, announcing that the new government would agree on a “binding ‘pact for comprehensive security’ in hard currency for the first time” (Federal Ministry of Defence 2018a). Only three days later, the parliamentary commissioner for the armed forces presented his annual report to the Bundestag (Federal Parliament) stating that the Bundeswehr’s problems and deficiencies in the areas of personnel, equipment, and funding would persist despite the turnarounds the ministry has been heralding since 2016 (Deutscher Bundestag 2018). Again, only days after the minister’s speech, the Ministry of Defence released an official report on the mission readiness of the Bundeswehr’s main weapons systems in 2017 in which it had to acknowledge grave deficiencies, especially regarding combat tanks, aircraft, and submarines (Federal Ministry of Defence 2018b). Almost thirty years after the fall of the Berlin Wall and its reunification as a fully sovereign state in the heart of Europe, Germany is still struggling to establish a professional military that meets the challenges of a rapidly developing security environment, that is able to satisfy the expectations and requests by its allies and partners in NATO and the EU, and that—not least—does justice to the country’s own level of ambition to carry international responsibilities adequate of a leading European nation. Hence, the

The following sequence of events in February 2018 dramat-

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persisting deficiencies raise the question, why Germany—as a leading economic power and a stable democracy with strong institutions and welldeveloped decisionmaking procedures—fails to achieve effectiveness and efficiency in the military section of its political toolbox. In this chapter I argue that, in the German case, the classical “civilmilitary problematique” that asks “how to reconcile a military strong enough to do anything the civilians ask them to with a military subordinate enough to do only what civilians authorize them to do” (Feaver 1996, p. 149) has to be looked at from a slightly different angle than in most other Western countries. In Germany, the political primacy over the military not only is uncontested, but it is exerted in a strict, often rigorous manner. At the same time, there is political will to accept a limited effectiveness of the German military—not because of a fear among politicians of a powerful military elite, but in the acknowledgment that Germany’s strategic culture is that of a civilian power (Zivilmacht) (Maull 2006; Mayer 2017), with pacifism and scepticism over military solutions to political problems being deeply rooted in the German society. The end of the Cold War confronted Germany with a dilemma that the country continues to struggle with: for decades, the German wish to “never again” get involved in armed conflicts and the “never alone” principle of deep integration in multilateral arrangements were the two sides of the same medal (Heitmann-Kroning 2015, pp. 49–64). While most European and NATO partners deployed their forces internationally in the pursuit of national interests or multilateral arrangements such as the UN, Germany strictly limited the mission of the Bundeswehr to national and alliance defense—a selfconstraint that was highly appreciated by its allies and partners. After the end of the Cold War and reunification, however, Germany found itself confronted with growing expectations of its allies to contribute more to common security efforts in an increasingly unstable regional and global environment. Instead of trying to take stock of the new security environment after the Cold War and communicate new strategic requirements and allocations of appropriate (military) means to the population, German governments for more than two decades have chosen a path of strategic inconsistency. On the one hand, all federal governments after 1990 have been willing to follow the allies into all kinds of new missions abroad, thus presenting Germany as a reliable partner and maintaining an active role in the decisionmaking procedures of NATO and the EU. On the other hand, the governments have tried to keep a low military (fighting) profile in those missions to avoid major public discussions about a new militaristic orientation of German foreign policy (Mayer 2017). In this situation, there was no real political incentive for the German governments to invest in an expeditionary combat-ready Bundeswehr that could reach an equal footing with allies such as France, the

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United Kingdom, or the United States. Over the course of more than twenty years, the Bundeswehr was systematically downsized, ill equipped, and underfunded—while increasingly being involved in international military undertakings on the request of allies rather than following a deliberate national strategy (Naumann 2008). As a result, the Bundeswehr—the traditional stepchild of German politics—is at its limits, with its employment of around 3,600 soldiers (2 percent of its overall size of 179,000) in thirteen missions abroad.2

Political System and Historical Trajectories of Civil-Military Relations

Germany is a federal state and a liberal democracy with a parliamentary system of government. The federal chancellor (Bundeskanzler) is the head of the executive, who nominates the federal ministers for appointment by the federal president. The potentially strong position of the federal chancellor vis-à-vis other members of the cabinet is underlined by Article 65 (1) of the Grundgesetz (German constitution), according to which he or she “shall determine and be responsible for the general guidelines of policy.” This competency forms an important pillar of “chancellor principle” that grants the head of government an eminent position, so that the political system in Germany is often referred to as a “Kanzlerdemokratie” (chancellor democracy) (Niclauss 2004). However, Article 65 also claims that “each Federal Minister shall conduct the affairs of his department independently and on his own responsibility”—this “resort principle” balances the chancellor’s competencies by empowering the ministers. Not least due to the fact that all German governments have been carried out by coalitions, the role of the chancellor is closer to that of a moderator than that of a strong political leader. But there are differences in the engagement of federal chancellors on the various policy fields: with domestic issues such as social welfare, finance, economy, or education always prevailing, foreign policy with its shiny appearances on the international stage has seduced many chancellors to sideline or even marginalize their foreign ministers. In contrast, defense policy and military issues—as much less attractive areas— have remained largely in the hands of the responsible ministers. Furthermore, Germany’s political system is fundamentally characterized by the principle of decentralization of power. In its western part, Germany was established in 1949 as a federal state with a—sometimes difficult, but eventually effective—distribution of responsibilities and powers between the federation and the Länder (federal states), not least in the security sector. While the federal government is responsible for national security, it is the responsibility of the Länder to maintain public order and security in everyday life, which above all means protecting the people from

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crime, disasters, and other dangers that may arise within the borders of a Land (state) (see Schmidt 2011). In the functional dimension, a decentralized security sector is essentially the Grundgesetz’s answer to Germany’s negative experience with the unlimited abuse of centralized state power by the “Third Reich” and the oversized and centralized security apparatus of the German Democratic Republic (East Germany). Hence, Germany clearly separated the powers of the police and intelligence services: to put it simply, the intelligence services have far-reaching powers that authorize them to conduct investigations even without a concrete suspicion against an individual, though they have no executive responsibilities. By contrast, the police have powerful enforcement tools for the purposes of criminal prosecution, but they may conduct investigations only when there is sufficient suspicion of criminal activities (Möllers 2014). Within the German security sector, the mission of the Bundeswehr is clearly limited to defense and missions abroad within collective security systems. The Grundgesetz in Article 87a clearly rules out any executive role of the German military in domestic affairs, except in a state of defense (wartime) or a state emergency (armed uprisings against the constitutional order). In Germany’s normal day-to-day life, the Bundeswehr is not allowed to discharge any police-like roles or even protect critical infrastructure. Only in cases of grave accidents or disasters that exceed the capacities of a Land can the respective government request from the federation unarmed technical support such as transportation, heavy machinery, and personnel reinforcement by the Bundeswehr.3 Civil-military relations in Germany, with its restricted set of military functions and strict democratic oversight of the Bundeswehr, are deeply rooted in the country’s historical experience. When in the early 1950s the process of rearmament started in the Federal Republic, the harsh lessons from World Wars I and II, Prussian militarism, and the role of the Reichswehr and the Wehrmacht after 1918 were that the principle of political control of the armed forces by civilians could either become dysfunctional as it did during World War I when the military leadership prevailed over the government, or that the military could be abused by a criminal regime as it was by the Nazi dictatorship in World War II. In a controversial debate and under the pressure of strong opposition, the establishment of the Bundeswehr was deemed acceptable to the West German society only as a pure defense force against the threat from the Soviet Union and its allies, which was integrated in the multilateral structures of NATO—and which was characterized by an entirely new self-concept. General Wolf Graf Baudissin, a leading West German proponent of a new type of military and civilmilitary relations, summarized the necessities of societal integration of the Bundeswehr and its tasks as follows: “If we do not adapt the military order

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to the overall public order, we will barely find an understanding of the nature and the graveness of the threat that we need to prepare for” (1969, p. 115). After internal struggles between traditionalists and reformers in the early years of the Bundeswehr, the new philosophy of an armed forces comprised of citizen soldiers (Staatsbürger in Uniform), bearing the same rights and duties as any other citizen and thus being entitled to enjoy a more cooperative style of military leadership (Innere Führung), eventually prevailed as the core principle of the German military’s self-concept to present (Kümmel 2013, pp. 314–315). The degree of civilian control of the armed forces is extraordinarily high.4 The German constitution vests the command of the armed forces in the federal minister of defence (Article 65a). This responsibility yields to the federal chancellor only on the determination of the state of defense by the Bundestag in the case of an (imminent) attack on the federal territory (Article 115a and 115b). The minister of defence is always a civilian; according to the law on the legal status of federal ministers, any soldier, civil servant, or judge must give up or make dormant his or her professional status on assuming office as federal minister. The Federal Ministry of Defence is part of the federal government, not of the Bundeswehr. Thus far, no former professional military serviceperson has been appointed minister of defence, and only a few retired soldiers have become deputy minister of defence or reached the position of the top ministerial manager (state secretary). The Bundeswehr is fully embedded into the legal state and under thorough administrative control provided by the Ministry of Defence and its subordinate structures. There is neither military justice nor any other specific legislation beyond the stipulations of the roles, functions, duties, and rights of the Bundeswehr and its soldiers. The Soldatengesetz (Law on the Legal Status of Soldiers) not only guarantees all civil rights to the service members (limitations are admitted only if indispensable for the achievement of the military mission) but also obliges them to check the lawfulness of military orders. The Soldatengesetz obliges military superiors to issue only mission-oriented and law-abiding orders, and strictly forbids the execution of orders that would lead to criminal acts. This is a strong answer to the abuse of “unconditioned obedience” that was claimed by German soldiers throughout history. The point of reference for any military action in the Bundeswehr is always the legal order of the Federal Republic, not the individual will of a political or military leader. The Bundeswehr itself is built on two pillars: the armed forces, and the Federal Defence Administration with “jurisdiction for personnel matters and direct responsibility for satisfaction of the procurement needs of the

The Issue of Civilian Control

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Armed Forces” (Article 87b of the Basic Law). Both pillars are inextricably interlocked; in practice, no military leader can spend a single euro without the approval of a civilian budget officer; on all military levels, administration officers, lawyers, and legal advisers assist (and actually supervise) the commanders in the exercise of military action in compliance with legal and administrative regulations (Heuer 2013). Parliamentary oversight of the Bundeswehr is exercised by the Bundestag and is both comprehensive and effective. The Bundestag determines the defense budget. The Defence Committee is the only parliamentary body with the powers of a committee of inquiry and in almost every legislative period, it makes use of this sharp tool that equals the powers of a prosecutor. The parliamentary commissioner of the armed forces (Wehrbeauftragter des Deutschen Bundestages) is an independent official with practically unlimited access to all military installations, units, procedures, and individual soldiers. The commissioner reports exclusively to the Bundestag, and the commissioner’s annual reports as well as topic- or situation-specific utterances traditionally enjoy a high degree of public attention and subsequently trigger lively debates. According to a landmark ruling by the German Constitutional Court on July 12, 1994, and the Parliamentary Participation Act of 2004, the federal government must seek approval by the Bundestag prior to any deployment of Bundeswehr troops to military missions abroad. The Constitutional Court defined the Bundeswehr as a “parliamentary army” and created a special parliamentary reservation for the participation of German soldiers in military missions in the framework of systems of collective security—such as the UN, NATO, or the EU. The court thus established a shared responsibility by the federal government and the Bundestag for the employment of the Bundeswehr that it specified in subsequent rulings in which the role of the Bundestag was strengthened (Gareis 2014). Those decisions also highlight the strong legal oversight of the armed forces and its use by the political decisionmaking bodies. In 2016, after a pause of ten years, Germany published a white paper on the country’s security policy and the future of its armed forces (Federal Ministry of Defence 2016). Its strategic review and the deduced conclusions for Germany’s role on the European and the global stage, as well as for its military capabilities, reflect the complex security challenges of a dynamically developing international order—and the growing risks and threats arising from a Russian Federation that since 2014 has actively put into question the cooperative and rule-based European order of peace and stability (Federal Ministry of Defence 2016, pp. 30–33). Other than its

Roles and Missions of the Bundeswehr

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predecessor in 2006 that marked the “capacity for action in the field of foreign policy” as a top priority, followed by contributions toward European and global stability (Federal Ministry of Defence 2006, pp. 13, 70), the 2016 White Paper puts the protection of Germany and its citizens at the top of the mission of the Bundeswehr that is now to “defend Germany’s sovereignty and territorial integrity and to protect its citizens” and “contribute to the resilience of state and society against external threats,” followed by its contribution to the country’s ability to take action in matters of foreign and security policy. Duties include “countering security threats to our open society and to our free and safe world trade and supply routes,” defending allies, and promoting international security and stability; strengthening European integration, transatlantic partnerships, and multinational cooperation make up the second half of the Bundeswehr’s mission (Federal Ministry of Defence 2016, p. 90). This renewed focus on defense is very much in line with not only the classical understanding of the Bundeswehr as a defense force that continues to prevail in Germany’s strategic culture but also with the attitudes and opinions held widely in German society that continuously give overwhelming support (91 percent) to the classical role of the Bundeswehr—to prevent an armed attack on Germany and to protect the population (Steinbrecher et al. 2016, p. 69). Facing new risks from a more assertive Russia, in 2016 for the first time a slight majority of the German population (52 percent) expressed support of an increase in force of the Bundeswehr (p. 68). Due to its geographic position in the heart of Europe, Germany is no longer exposed to any direct military threat of its territory; hence, defense efforts are made primarily in collective frameworks, especially within NATO. After 2014, Germany increased its activities in manning, equipping, and leading the newly created Very High Readiness Joint Task Force (VJTF), the spearhead of NATO’s rapid reaction forces. Furthermore, the Bundeswehr has taken the lead as a framework nation for NATO’s enhanced Forward Presence (eFP) efforts in Lithuania. However, the most important role of the Bundeswehr is to serve as one of Germany’s foreign policy instruments. The spectrum of the thirteen missions where the Bundeswehr has been involved with around 3,600 soldiers has ranged from stabilization operations such as the Kosovo Force (KFOR) mission to a number of training and capacity-building missions such as Resolute Support (RS) in Afghanistan and the safeguarding of sea lines of communications in the Mediterranean and around the Horn of Africa to the participation in the fight against the Islamic State in Syria.5 These deployments have taken place in the framework of the collective security systems of NATO, the EU, and the UN not only according to German constitutional regulations but also as an expression of Germany’s deep integration in multilateral arrangements. Compared to the International

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Stabilisation Assistance Force mission in Afghanistan (completed at the end of 2014), where the Bundeswehr had deployed up to 7,500 soldiers, the current missions are smaller and more focused on support and training. The increase in numbers and the geographical distribution of those missions, however, pose new challenges regarding logistics, medical care and information technology support and specialized personnel. According to the significance of the Bundeswehr involvement for Germany’s international reputation, the contingents deployed are privileged regarding training, equipment, and support. The preferential treatment of deployed forces, however, reduces the number of weapons systems available for training and exercises in Germany. In Chapter 1, the editors noted how difficult it is to assess military effectiveness. This is especially true in the case of Germany, which is perpetually undergoing fundamental changes regarding the objectives and conditions of the employment of its military. The starting point for measuring military effectiveness (and efficiency) is always the set of roles, functions, and tasks conferred on the armed forces and the degree to which they can achieve the set goals. From its inauguration until unification of the two German states, the Bundeswehr served a clear strategic goal: to effectively contribute to the common defense efforts of NATO and to deter its potential adversaries in the Warsaw Pact. Effectiveness in those days could be described by the presence of a large, highly skilled, and adequately equipped military that was perceived as a credible expression of the political will of West Germany to defend its own and its allies’ territory and political independence. One of the characteristics of the process of permanent change was always that no structure was fully implemented before a new reform was launched—a pattern that has persisted after reunification. In 1990, Germany found itself the main beneficiary of the new security environment but, at the same time, it was confronted with a strategic dilemma between its two most important self-concepts—its pacifist, defense-oriented tradition of military self-limitation and its deep integration into multilateral arrangements. Germany’s new location in the heart of Europe, with no immediate threat to its borders, raised the question about the rationale behind the maintenance of huge defense forces. Simultaneously, newly emerging risks in Europe and Germany’s wider periphery required enhanced efforts from NATO, the Western European Union (later also the EU), and the UN in international crisis management. Within a short period of time, Germany had to learn that its partners in those organizations, being so extraordinarily important to the country’s posture in international relations, were no longer satisfied with the mere financial support that Ger-

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many traditionally gave. They more and more emphatically called on Germany to make military contributions to the common missions adequate to its size, economic capacity, and new status as a fully sovereign state. Germany—initially occupied with the reduction of its armed forces to 370,000 until the end of 1994—tried to pursue an ambiguous strategy by sticking to the defense paradigm vis-à-vis its own population and joining its allies in increasingly dangerous and violent missions. Germany’s security and defense policy largely remained reactive, and the changes in Germany’s strategic culture took place much more slowly than the global security political developments. The reasons for this hesitating process of change are manifold. The costs of a profound modernization and restructuring of the Bundeswehr stand pitted against decreasing defense expenditures (peace dividend) and significant costs resulting from long-term procurement plans, which date back to long before the end of the East-West conflict. Furthermore, the clarification of Germany’s new military role was not preceded by a strategic debate on interests, objectives, and instruments of foreign and security policy, but as an attempt to gradually accustom the citizens toward the more numerous and dangerous international deployments. For a long time, these missions out of area were supposed to be the exception to the rule of the defense objective. Because of this lack of strategic clarity, the functional change of the Bundeswehr that resulted in ever more deployments was accompanied by only a timid adaptation of its structures, adaptation of its equipment, and training of its soldiers. This ambiguous approach reflects the strategic inconsistencies in German defense policy. Already in 1992, the Defence Policy Guidelines offered a precise analysis of the overall security political situation that Germany was facing. A paper published that year argued that international crisis management as a future top priority would step into the place of the former orientation toward the defense against massive aggression (Federal Ministry of Defence 1992, par. 47). However, the 1994 White Paper declared that the primary task of the forces remained the ability to defend the territory of the Federal Republic of Germany and its air space, as well as the coastal waters (Federal Ministry of Defence 1994, par. 520). Even after 2003 when the Defence Policy Guidelines concluded that “traditional national defence against a conventional attack, . . . no longer corresponds with the actual security policy requirements” and that “the capabilities that had been kept available solely for this purpose are no longer required” (Federal Ministry of Defence 2003, par. 12), then minister of defence Peter Struck coined his famous expression that Germany’s freedom would be defended at the Hindukush. In the 2011 Defence Policy Guidelines, the protection of Germany moved back to the top of the Bundeswehr’s mission (Federal Ministry of

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Defence 2011, p. 9). At the same time, the Bundeswehr had to accept its most significant reduction in forces to up to 185,000 soldiers with the traditional symbol of a defense force, general conscription, being de facto abolished. Again, the driving forces behind those steps were not strategic deliberations but fiscal reasons: the Bundeswehr had to carry the most significant share in the consolidation of the federal budget. Following Russia’s aggression against Ukraine in 2014 and its threatening posture vis-à-vis Eastern Central European NATO members, defense returned to the agendas of both NATO and Germany. After decades of force reduction and shrinking defense budgets, Minister of Defence von der Leyen proclaimed “turnarounds” in the areas of personnel, finance, materials, and infrastructure, with a white paper dedicating a chapter to how to make the Bundeswehr fit for the future (Federal Ministry of Defence 2016, chap. 8). Over the course of two decades, the structure of the Bundeswehr has been undergoing a process of permanent change. Reform (after 1994), transformation (2003), reorientation (2010/2011), and the turnarounds (2016 to present) always marked the beginning of new phases of transitions before the previous ones could be completed (Meiers 2006, Chap. 4). Besides the permanent reduction in force and the transformation of the Bundeswehr into an all-volunteer force, the enhancement of its operational capacities out of area and jointness became the lasting results of those processes.6 Furthermore, command structures in the Bundeswehr have been streamlined, levels have been reduced, the inspector general (chief of defence) has received executive functions through the Dresden Decree of 2012, an operations headquarters has been established to oversee and command the missions and—at least theoretically—operation control has been detached from administrative tasks. As of 2018, the armed forces are structured in six services: the three classical branches (army, air force, navy); the Joint Support Service; the Joint Medical Service; and the new Cyber and Information Space, which was established in 2017. As far as military effectiveness is concerned, it is difficult to say whether the existing structure is properly suited to fulfill the various tasks that the Bundeswehr officially must carry out. This just has not been probed yet in complex high-intensity operations. Concerning its missions abroad, the Bundeswehr has always been able to provide the capacities that Germany promised to its allies and partners. The level of these contributions, however, lags far behind the ambitions formulated in the current Conception of the Bundeswehr that claims mission-ready 10,000 soldiers for deployment on short notice in theaters of all levels of intensity (Federal Ministry of Defence 2013, p. 43) in addition to the forces needed to provide the German share to collective defense. Until now, the contingents deployed abroad had to be composed of soldiers from across the Bundeswehr.

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Furthermore, the six services are still in the process of consolidation. Between 1994 (at that time already massively downsized) and the present, the Bundeswehr was halved from 370,000 to a maximum of 185,000 soldiers, while constantly receiving new tasks without appropriate resources and funding. Any new structure began with the moving of capacities, entities, and units from one area of responsibility to another. What looks logical and persuasive on the organigrams needs time to develop new professional identities and procedures of cooperation in a more complex setting. The biggest defiance to the Bundeswehr’s military effectiveness, however, is its insufficient equipment and, subsequently, its limited capability to prepare its soldiers for the missions and tasks conferred on the armed forces. In its report on the mission readiness of the Bundeswehr’s main weapons systems, the Federal Ministry of Defence states that, despite some improvement in some areas, the overall situation of the Bundeswehr is problematic: the Bundeswehr categorizes its major equipment in 53 socalled main weapons systems, such as tanks, armored transportation vehicles, aircraft, ships, or submarines. The report thoroughly listed the factual availability of those weapons systems. In 2017, an average of 105 of 244 Leopard 2 combat tanks were mission-ready, 13 of 57 NH90 transport helicopters, 12 of 52 Tiger combat helicopters, and 3 of 15 A400M transport aircraft. In the navy, none of the six submarines has been mission-ready since August 2017 (Federal Ministry of Defence 2018a). This sober stocktaking raised serious doubts in the German (and international) strategic community and media about the Bundeswehr’s professional aptitude. There are several reasons for the dissatisfying situation that the Bundeswehr finds itself in. Traditionally, in the German armed forces procurement and acquisition processes have taken many years, if not decades, often due to bureaucratic hurdles and organizational cleavages between the procurement agency, the Federal Bureau of Equipment, Infrastructure and Usage under the Federal Defence Administration, and the armed forces that formulate the (frequently changing) standards and requirements of the weapons systems to be acquired. Weapons systems such as the Tiger combat helicopter, the NH90 transportation helicopter, the Eurofighter, and even the G36 standard rifle were designed for defense missions in Central Europe when the projects were launched during the Cold War. Their use in completely different missions and climate zones has led to disruptions and increased efforts in maintenance and repairs. Furthermore, the shrinking demand in the area of defense procurement has caused considerable reductions in capacity of the relevant industries in Germany and Europe, which has slowed down the provision of ordered (and funded) weapons systems. Political decisions to reduce costs have led to the outsourcing of genuine military capacities (e.g., in the field of maintenance) to private companies, which again has led to

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dependencies on partners often unable to provide the required services in due time and range. Many weapons systems are not mission-ready because they await spare parts that the armament industry no longer produces or has on stock because of shrinking demand. Homemade shortfalls and deficits also have had an immense impact on the Bundeswehr’s military effectiveness. In the face of budgetary constraints, the units in the domestic structures of the Bundeswehr no longer receive the equipment adequate to their size and mission. Instead, an average fixture of around 70 percent is thought to suffice in day-to-day business. For the purposes of full-scale exercises, training, and so forth, units must borrow necessary assets from across the Bundeswehr. The so-called dynamic availability management (one of the many euphemisms that the Bundeswehr invented to disguise the permanent administration of shortages) characterizes the reality in the Bundeswehr at present—though the term was never introduced as an official label for that practice. Military effectiveness in the Bundeswehr follows clear priorities: first come the deployments abroad that receive the highest possible standard to accomplish their missions and protect the soldiers involved. Second come the mission-like tasks (e.g., the presence in Lithuania in the framework of NATO’s eFP initiative) and other commitments in the framework of collective security (e.g., the lead of NATO’s VJTF in 2019). The needs of the domestic operational base range behind the international tasks. The ministry’s report on the main weapons systems stated in stupendous clarity that, in international deployments, the mission readiness of weapons systems is far above average to reliably fulfill the given tasks and force protection. The report explained that “of course, those provisions work to the detriment of the domestic operational base” (Federal Ministry of Defence 2018a, p. 6). In sum, through combined effort, the Bundeswehr can effectively fulfill its international tasks in some low-intensity missions abroad while its capabilities in most other areas remains limited. Even though strict and thorough civilian and democratic control of the Bundeswehr is unchallenged, it is difficult to assess its consequences for military effectiveness. However, looking at the continuously deplorable situation of the Bundeswehr, I argue that the relationship between the political leadership and the military is based on a balanced blend of incentives and fear that encourages opportunity seekers and paralyzes agile and creative actors. One striking fact is that the generals and top defense officials beneath the level of political leadership traditionally do not raise their voices to comment on political decisions concerning the Bundeswehr and its mission, structure, and equipment. On the contrary, in a kind of tacit agree-

The Nexus of Control and Effectiveness

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ment between the political and military leadership, the cascades of reforms and changes have not only been accepted by the military elites but also rigorously executed. Skeptics always have and still do run the risk of an early retirement or marginalization, thus quiet obedience is the best avenue to a decent career. Any minister of defense needs the loyalty of their subordinates, especially among the top military leadership, and appropriate ranks and broadly defined areas of responsibility are proven mechanisms to gain allegiance and support. In 2018 the number of general officer positions (208 according to the Defence Budget Plan of 2018) was roughly the same as in the three-times-larger Bundeswehr in the Cold War. The top positions in the different career paths (rank-and-file noncommissioned officers and commissioned officers) can be reached by an ever increasing number of soldiers. The Bundeswehr at large offers probably the bestpayed professional perspectives of the entire public administration in Germany—with a relatively low threshold for interested applicants regarding qualifications. Since its early days, the Bundeswehr has been one of the largest institutions in Germany for vocational and professional education, training, and development. In no other branch of Germany’s public administration can a high school graduate start a career that potentially navigates her or him to a top position without collecting credentials in the outside world. Career opportunities and well-paid positions—as proposed in the many programs to increase the Bundeswehr’s attraction as an employer— are seen as appropriate means to help cover the frustrations of working in a largely dysfunctional organization. Furthermore, the permanent process of change has given the military leadership much space to practice what most military officers really like: planning, organizing, restructuring, and feeling in control of initiatives and processes whose effects they will never have to cope with because of the job-typical rotation between positions. This occupation is much more attractive than attempting to prove combat readiness and military effectiveness in high-intensity operations to a polity and a society that is not inclined to accept either major losses of German soldiers nor major numbers of casualties produced by their forces. In the postheroic society of Germany, military leaders deemed it best for their careers to transform the Bundeswehr into the gigantic and self-referential bureaucracy that it has become. Widespread frustrations at the working level tend to be ignored or suppressed in a process of centralization that increasingly curbs the latitude of responsible leaders on all levels. This trend in conjunction with an ever decreasing fault tolerance reduces agility and determination of military leaders at the lower and intermediate levels. It is easier—and safer— to declare mission unreadiness than to creatively try to achieve an objective. In his report, the parliamentary commissioner quotes the response of a high-ranking active military officer to his question on the reasons for this

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process of ever tighter regulation in the armed forces: “anxiety and laziness” (Deutscher Bundestag 2018, p. 6; about the long history of this problem, see Federal Minister of Defence 1979). Besides the necessary investment in armament and equipment, the political leadership and the Bundeswehr itself will have to exert much effort in changing the mind-set of many of its soldiers to improve its effectiveness. In another regard, the nexus between political control and military effectiveness is being discussed from time to time concerning Germany’s reliability as a NATO member. As already noted, the Federal Constitutional Court has created a parliamentary reservation to decisions on the Bundeswehr’s participation in international operations. Part of the parliamentary procedures is public debate on a possible mandate and the numbers and specifications of forces to be deployed. Though the decisions on whether to engage in a mission or not as well as on the necessary forces lie with the federal government, and the Bundestag can only give or deny approval, the debates in the run-up to a decision have an influence—and they take time. Following the controversial discussion in 2007 on the extension of the Bundeswehr’s role in Afghanistan, the question was raised in the German polity, as well as in the strategic community, about whether the role of the federal government could be strengthened or become more flexible and whether the parliamentary reservation could be exercised in a less strict manner. An example could be by giving more general authorizations for mission deployments that would increase the government’s room of maneuver, especially against the backdrop of a growing necessity to integrate armed forces in Europe under headlines like “smart defense” (NATO) or “pooling and sharing” (EU). Within those multilateral arrangements, assigned forces cannot be withdrawn by a single nation without putting the common effort at risk (Brose 2013). A Bundestag commission on parliamentary rights in out-of-area missions of the Bundeswehr, chaired by the former minister of defence Volker Rühe, however, clearly stated in its report that the parliamentary reservation had never been a hurdle for timely decisions and subsequent deployments and recommended adhering to this principle—but also clarifying the deployment-related terms and definitions and reminding the parliamentarians of the international integration of Germany and its armed forces (Deutscher Bundestag 2015). The outcome of this debate can be assessed as clear and wise. Without doubt, a parliamentary procedure takes more time than a quick decision by the government. Regarding the traditions in German strategic culture and its deep-rooted skepticism over the use of military force, however, such advantages would be annulled by losses in legitimization and public support for the missions. However, a broad consensus in politics and society is also a prerequisite for an effective execution of a mission.

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Deficits in military effectiveness are being tolerated in the Germany polity and society because immediate threats to German territory have largely disappeared and the use of force in international relations is not a preferred approach in the country’s foreign and security policy. This will—most probably—not change in the foreseeable future. The findings of Steinbrecher, Biehl, Höfig, and Wanner (2016) confirm a pattern of opinions and attitudes in German society that has been constant over the past two and a half decades. The Bundeswehr missions are accepted because and as long as they are not “too military.” As Mayer (2017) has shown, changes in the strategic culture of a nation take place only over long periods of time or as the result of shock events—such as the large-scale crimes that German forces committed or allowed to happen during World War II. The more volatile world order that replaced the bipolarity of the Cold War, by contrast, is not being perceived as such a culture-shaking event or development. Furthermore, there is little discussion in the German media and civil society on contemporary foreign and security policy and its increasingly complex requirements for a country like Germany. During the drafting process of the 2016 White Paper, the Federal Ministry of Defence tried to engage the public and the media in a broader strategic debate on Germany’s role in international politics and its military contribution—again without a major echo. An issue that is widely ignored in the public is difficult to place prominently on the country’s political agenda. Consequently, Germany will most likely stay a self-restrained military actor that will fulfill its international roles and functions effectively on a level and on a scale that are acceptable to its society. The increases in budget and forces that Minister of Defence von der Leyen has been promising since 2016 will not reverse this steady state of German strategic culture. Those steps are necessary to give the Bundeswehr what it needs to accomplish its basic roles and functions after decades of activist downsizing that de facto dismantled the German armed forces in many crucial areas. Even von der Leyen moves ahead at a tempered pace: the efforts to achieve full equipment for the entire Bundeswehr will take until 2030; the defense budget will rise from 38.5 billion euros in 2018 to 42 billion euros in 2021. The goal of spending 2 percent of a country’s gross domestic product (GDP) for defense, as it was again formulated at the NATO summit in 2014, will thus not come into reach soon. Compared to the 1.2 percent in 2018, this would mean almost a duplication of the current expenditures until 2024. That is not realistic, and it would hardly be supported by the polity and society. The Bundeswehr is an element of the executive branch of the German political system that is highly trusted, that is not feared, and that is accepted in its given limited roles and functions. It is, however, not considered as

Conclusion

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a highly prioritized tool for the country’s security provision—as long as the environment is perceived as relatively stable. This is not too bad a perspective. 1. In this chapter, I focus on the Bundeswehr that has been the armed forces of the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG, or West Germany) since 1955 and continued to exist under that name after reunification in 1990. From 1955 to 1990 the German Democratic Republic (GDR, or East Germany) maintained its own armed forces, the National People’s Army (Nationale Volksarmee, NVA) comprised of army, air force, and navy at an overall strength of 175,000 soldiers. The GDR and its NVA were deeply integrated in the Soviet-led Warsaw Pact and its military structures. In the process of German reunification after the fall of the Berlin Wall, the NVA was dismantled step by step. Conscription was abandoned, and the professional soldiers were invited to apply for a new employment in the Bundeswehr, initially for a term of two years. Within that time the Bundeswehr decided who would be accepted as a professional soldier or a time-contracted soldier for up to fifteen years of service. All in all, 11,500 former NVA soldiers started a new military career in the Bundeswehr that then called itself the “Army of Unity” to mark its successful integration of former enemies into the armed forces of a reunited Germany (for details, see Ehlert 2002). 2. As of January 2019; for exact figures, see www.bundeswehr.org/einsaetze. 3. In its 2012 ruling, however, the Federal Constitutional Court allowed the use of military capabilities to prevent or manage situations of catastrophic damage as long as the civilian authorities stay in control of the military activities. In 2017, a first Joint Anti-Terror Exercise (GETEX) was conducted to improve communication and cooperation between the Bundeswehr and six Länder. Still, the main fields of civil-military cooperation lie in the areas of disaster prevention and relief beneath the level of an executive role of the Bundeswehr. 4. See also the general framework introduced by the editors of this book in Chapters 1 and 14. 5. For details, see www.bundeswehr.de/einsaetze. 6. An approach to overcome paradigms in the classic categories of army, navy, and air force and their specific command and deployment patterns in favor of a rethinking of the overall capabilities within and among the branches of the military service needed for mission deployment.

Notes

PART 2 Emerging Democracies

7 Chile: Defense Governance and Democratic Consolidation Carlos Solar

span. Most recently, the 1973–1990 dictatorship, ruled first by a military junta and later by the president and army chief, General Augusto Pinochet, drew a line of before and after regarding the country’s control of its armed forces. The legacies of military rule included a privileged military and security sector where civilian control was defined by a constitution promulgated by Pinochet’s dictatorship; sour enmities with territorial neighbors and old-time rivals, Peru and Bolivia and, to a lesser degree, Argentina; and a contentious world reputation due to the regime’s human rights violations. Since redemocratization, civilian politicians and chief officers in the armed forces have aimed to revamp military governance through steady and carefully planned reforms, easing up tensions over the affairs of civil-military relations. Internationally, Chile has actively engaged in a human security agenda, partaking in traditional and nontraditional military and security roles within various conflict theaters (Solar 2017). Experts and troops from the armed forces, policing, and defense communities have contributed to peacekeeping and stabilization missions in Central and South America, Asia, Africa, and East Europe. This has occurred either under the combined leadership of the United Nations or through alliances with like-minded partners such as the United States, Canada, Argentina, Uruguay, and Colombia. Equally, civil-military affairs have benefited from a state foreign policy that has gradually assimilated many aspects of soft diplomacy, most notably through intra- and extracontinental opportunities for human development and the strengthening of democracy.

Civil-military relations in Chile have had a tumultuous life

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On the domestic front, defense policymaking has also undertaken a significant number of changes over the past decade (Matei and Robledo 2013; Solar 2015). These include novel and more democratic military governance processes led by civilians in cabinet-level positions, and also a more transparent policy planning structure that has been added to a reformed Ministry of Defense and Joint Chiefs of Staff. Overall, redemocratization has brought about greater executive control over the corporate privileges that used to be the prerogative of each branch of the three armed services (Varas 2012). As in most other Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) countries, in Chile the military needs to manage shrinking defense budgets while sustaining military capability and a commitment to military effectiveness. Moreover, effective control of the armed forces has become a hot-blooded policy issue since there is now more awareness of the nation’s fiscal situation to avoid moneys being incorrectly spent, corrupted, or mishandled. For example, Chile is the world’s largest copper exporter. The country’s dependency on the price of this mineral commodity, however, has become highly relevant to civil-military endeavors because the defense and security community benefit from a mandatory decree, known as the Copper Law (Ley del Cobre), that ensures them access to 10 percent of utilities from Codelco (the stateowned copper corporation) (see Defensa 2018). Additionally, in this time of prolonged Latin American Pax, where intrastate conflict prospects have decreased, the roles and missions of the armed forces are subject to permanent revision. Public spending for strategic and deterrence military purposes, especially during times of peace, has a low priority for Chilean policymakers, compared to other policy areas such as health, schooling, and social security. In this chapter, I explore the path for such political action evidenced since 1990 with regard to the aspects emphasized in this book: control and effectiveness. Elected authorities in Chile have worked with their military counterparts to set up ways in which to obliterate the corporate shields of the armed forces that blocked them from using civilian control in key policy areas. These include defense planning, its structure, and the allocation of fiscal resources. My findings identify the most relevant junctures for control and effectiveness in civil-military relations. Finally, I argue that current military missions, their regulation, and the overall trade-off between democratic oversight have had an effect on accomplishing political goals. There is still considerably more to do. Chile is on its way to steadily defeating the legacies of the military authoritarian era and assuming a healthier defense governance. In this chapter, I provide an insight into the human security agenda led by armed forces at home and abroad and how this is echoed in an evolving military agenda.

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The long durée of Chilean civil-military relations can be differentiated into three periods. The first one is the long phase of civil and military sociopolitical evolution, ranging from state independence in 1818 to the breakdown of democracy in 1973. The second period from 1973 to 1990 saw the rise of military authoritarianism, the institutionalization of the dictatorial regime of Pinochet, and the regime’s demise. The third phase from redemocratization until today is characterized by an ongoing civilian control over military roles and missions. The independence revolt against Spain in the early nineteenth century was led by a succession of military heroes (e.g., Bernardo O’Higgins and José Miguel Carrera, the forefathers of the Chilean military), as well as political leaders with liberal and conservative tendencies. A civil war in 1829, which put the army and the navy on the side of the conservatives, eventually led to an era with a more profound political foundation, one that continued throughout the century. Nevertheless, republican life was dominated by autocratic tendencies inspired by a richer domestic aristocracy who, as suggested by historians, preferred a more orderly progress for the nascent state and its military (Collier 1967). The president had enlarged powers until a second major civil war broke out in 1891, leading to a parliamentary republic that lasted for thirty years. A major rotation of inexperienced heads of state surrounded by an even greater volatility of ministers meant that Chile was unprepared to face the global socioeconomic crisis of the early twentieth century. Civilian leadership was again challenged by military caudillos and short-lived upheavals until the turn of the century. Aside from the political situation, between 1885 and 1914 the military grew its modern foundational doctrine, heavily influenced by the Prussian doctrine. This led later to an era of peer emulation in the region, especially in issues of military buildup, conscription, officer formation, and institutional organization (Resende-Santos 2007). In 1924, the breakdown of Arturo Alessandri Palma’s presidency, instigated by an adverse Congress, led to the formation of a military junta. By then, the armed forces were said to be “sympathetic to the national cry for reform” (Gil 1966, p. 58) and decided to return Alessandri to power with the hope of having a strong executive who could control the state’s finances. The country also saw the rise of communist, socialist, and Nazi organizations; however, this time the armed forces were fulfilling a more nominal role, subordinated to formal constitutionalism and civilian leadership, although also characterized by the exertion of heavy geopolitical influence on its military affairs (Robledo 2008). 1 Political upheaval was evidenced more strongly in the region during the 1960s and 1970s as more profound social and economic change was demanded. Ideological

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trends where backed up by armed elements, ranging from para-state rebels, to ironfisted national security doctrines.2 During the height of left- and right-wing extremism, President Salvador Allende’s leftist coalition government, the Unidad Popular, in government since 1970, was brought down by Pinochet’s military-led takeover. On September 11, 1973, the Chilean military decided to take the country using arms, emboldened by a congressional declaration that was signed a month earlier accusing Allende’s socialist model of leading to a constitutional breakdown. Similar to other Cold War military dictatorships operating in Latin America, military authoritarianism in Chile conditioned civil-military relations by diverting the role of the armed forces and, most of all, perverting governmental control and parliamentary oversight for years to come.3 During the next seventeen years, Chile’s political control over the armed forces was exercised by no other than the military itself, this time wearing suits and using offices in ministries and other state branches supported by civilian technocrats who perfected Pinochet’s neoliberal regime. The mission of the Chilean military became heavily marked by the Cold War security stance and protecting right-wing authoritarianism. This development was to heavily influence the interactions of postauthoritarian security structures. For example, a constitution passed by decree in 1980 sought to perpetuate the armed forces as guardians of internal and external order. This new legal framework set in motion a warlike period of domestic censorship and state terrorism in which civil liberties and human rights were heavily undermined (Huneeus 2007). The ironfisted dictatorship also affected the public security sector as a whole. The policing bodies, the Carabineros (military uniformed police) and, less influentially, the Investigaciones (plain clothes investigative police), took over part of the junta, making sure their institutions operated via the heavy hand of the state (Fuentes 2005). This way, the armed forces and security intelligence services took part in a dirty continental war against political dissidents, grouped around the National Information Center (Central Nacional de Informaciones). Here, torture, assassination, and extralegal operations were conducted from 1977 until the late 1980s. For matters of defense governance, the dictatorship staked a barbed wire fence around corporate privileges. During the regime, all policymaking and decisionmaking on military policy was subject to uncontested power. Pinochet wanted to consolidate his power by leaving minimal control of the armed forces to future civilian governments, including their role as de facto guarantors of a constitutional order (A. Valenzuela 1995). This meant an exclusive domain ruling professional development, elite and government formation, public policy, defense planning, and organizational prerogatives. The junta’s rule over society, the state, and the military “led to a ‘tarnished professionalism’ in which the traditional doctrines of no delib-

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eration, respect for hierarchy, and subordination to political power serves the ends of a military dictatorship led by its commanding officer” (Arriagada 1986, p. 141). By consolidating military leverage, the armed forces relied on groups from right-wing political parties that supported the dictatorship to further obstruct reforms, for example, those that could end military immunity over civilian justice. Thus, ways were found to preserve even greater powers, such as their autonomy from the president’s ability to dismiss officers from the commander in chief down (Hunter 1998). Pinochet then lost a referendum and was defeated in the 1989 general elections. He did not step down as head of the army until 1998, although the armed forces did recede to their barracks and move away from homeland security affairs. With the former dictator still in uniform, the democratically elected president Patricio Aylwin (1990–1994) blazed a trail for military reform, but one that was strengthened only when democracy took root years later. Defense governability rested considerably on the mission of the armed forces and the more pressing issue of civilian control. Chile’s postdemocratization period has been marked by the ongoing tradeoff between an inherited cumulous of dictatorship-coined privileges and the policy programs brought about by the ensuing elected officials. An important part of the redemocratization of life, including civilian control over elite recruitment, public policy, internal security, national defense, and military organization, has been questioned by some clusters within the military and political groups (i.e., through both formal contestation and informal conduct, such as tricks and hoaxes, enacted mostly by the former dictator, Pinochet). As Loveman (1995) notes, Pinochet and his closest advisers were not eager to accept any subordination to the post-1990 government, including the figure of the minister of defense and the presidency as a whole. Rather, they kept only the necessary intermediaries and informal communication lines to protect their corporate interests from the civilian authority. A wave of reforms to remove the powers of the armed forces, especially the dispensations surrounding Pinochet’s inner circle, became part of a heated political discussion. Additionally, many of the allegations from families of victims of human rights violations were piling up as part of the slow-moving and politically influenced justice system, cornering the military on these two issues (Muñoz 2008). More recently, government and military have come together to slowly embrace the concepts of, on the one hand, “democratic control,” and, on the other, “civilian control” (Croissant et al. 2013). As explained in Chapter 1, a democratic context does not necessarily lead to more democratic civil-military relations. To some degree, both need to be cultivated in equal parts. In the Chilean case, this overlapping dichotomy

Existing Patterns of Civilian Control

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became clearer later on in the redemocratization era, that is, in light of the country heading toward stricter control and oversight of the military. In the area of elite recruitment, civil control has moved on slowly, but positively, to eliminate formal guarantees that include the military in political bodies. In 1998, Pinochet secured a designated seat in the Senate as a civilian. However, in a substantial reform made to the constitution in 2005, the decree giving former presidents such a privilege was eliminated. Also, since the return to democracy, the Chilean military has not had a major influence on the rules of political competition, with such powers resting independently on Congress and other state bodies tasked with electoral oversight. Active duty officers are not eligible for political office and the armed forces cannot deliberate on political issues, a principle, however, that since democratization has also been contested. In 2001, for instance, Admiral Jorge Arancibia infuriated president Ricardo Lagos (2000–2006) by announcing that although he was still commander in chief of the navy, his intention was to run backed by the centerright coalition Alianza por Chile for a senatorial constituency, which he went on to hold until 2010. In December 2006, Captain Augusto Pinochet Molina, grandson of the former dictator, gave an unauthorized speech during his grandfather’s memorial ceremony, openly justifying the 1973 coup and criticizing the courts of justice for prosecuting the former ruler. Michelle Bachelet (in her first presidential term, 2006–2010) quickly approved a decree authorizing the army to discharge Pinochet Molina since all officers gain their ranks by decree. Finally, the Chilean military does not have de facto influence on the formation or dissolution of elected governments. The degree of civilian control over public policymaking has also been awarded a higher status since the redemocratization juncture. There is no direct military influence on state budgets as generally understood in this book. Despite the Copper Law giving a considerable portion of the state’s current account to defense items (with Codelco publishing an annual report), the general sum of money is annually allocated by the Ministry of Finance following an expenditure mechanism that requires congressional revision and approval. This way, the Ministry of Defense and the armed forces are mandated to present the total of the planned and executed acquisitions and other costs on various budget items across the needs of defense. This issue has, nevertheless, been subjected to major discussions in policy and academic circles due to the Copper Law having been a secret document until recently (G. Weeks 2003; Matei and Robledo 2013). Lack of transparency and the issue of off-budget military spending or, as the Swedish think tank the Stockholm International Peace Research Institute (SIPRI) puts it, “the allocation of funds for defense functions from outside the regular state budget,” is common practice in South America (Tian and Lopes da Silva 2017). In developing nations, secret budgets

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allow, among other practices, for military expenditures to be isolated from economic shocks; for instance, the recent low price of commodity exports that has harshly affected, among other state-owned businesses, the gross earnings of Chile’s Codelco. Although Chile’s transparency effort has almost completely minimized the issue of parallel monies granted outside the Copper Law, a tide of corruption scandals within the armed forces has tainted such efforts. Chile’s prosecutors are investigating how, between 2010 and 2014, a group of active and retired military officers diverted $11 million through irregular arms procurements, an episode baptised by the media as “Milicogate.” In his campaign, President-Elect Sebastian Piñera (2018–2022) announced his intention to replace the Copper Law with a multiannual finance mechanism seeking transparency while guaranteeing future defense expenditures and the sustainability of the armed forces. Lack of political action, nevertheless, stalled a similar initiative introduced during Piñera’s first government (2010–2014). Besides the management of already allocated resources for defense purposes, the armed forces have had no other say or influence on state expenditures. What does remain, tied to more responsive constitutional practice and ongoing developments, is the role of the military in assuming civilian administration in certain functional and geographical areas. The armed forces have assumed control in many humanitarian crises, most commonly in the wake of natural disasters, although only when asked and signed off by the executive. These deployments have been within the required legal parameters; they have been assigned to specific urban or rural areas, for a limited amount of time, and according to emergency plans set in motion in conjunction with other emergency and response services from central and regional governments (J. Weeks 2014; Pion-Berlin 2016; Solar 2017). Following on from the latter, and in the area of internal security, the participation of the military in any policymaking can be initially ruled out, as can the complete separation between policing and other security agents and the military. It must be mentioned, however, that despite the higher degree of civilian control, in practice the military does contribute to some internal security tasks. This is in light of many security phenomena not fitting within the boundaries that exist between defense and public security parcels as arbitrarily erected by practitioners. For instance, on matters of intelligence gathering and sharing, as well as border control, the armed forces do pass on information and provide ad hoc resources to civilian authorities when requested. The navy, for instance, patrols the territorial sea and has contributed to contraband and other trafficking operations. The air force controls air space, and the army performs a similar accidental role through its strategic positioning along the porous border in the northern region of the Atacama Desert, a route for drugs,

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arms, and human smuggling, long considered a hot spot with territorial neighbors Peru and Bolivia (Solar 2018a). Nevertheless, it must be recognized that the burden of most internal security operations falls on constitutional mandates of the Carabineros and Investigaciones. The military has reached ad hoc agreements with other cabinet-level offices to incidentally deliver security policies, including those originating in the Ministries of the Interior and Public Security, Foreign Relations, and Justice, and other civilian organizations such as the state’s National Prosecutor Office (Ministerio Público) (Interior 2011). Regarding defense policymaking and the overseeing of military defense activities, the degree of civilian control is relatively high. Institutionalized civilian dominance over defense policy rests on the Ministry of Defense, as a 2010 reform gave the executive more overseeing and planning powers. Nevertheless, issues of military aptness remain dispersed across the three service arms. Policy implementation, on the other hand, is regulated by the cabinet and legislature through selected defense committees in both congressional chambers. For matters of national security, these are commonly kept secret and off the public record. They tend to deal with a range of military issues, most recently, for instance, matters of defense cyberwarfare and the armed forces’ maritime patrolling structure. Finally, on the topic of military organization, the road from dictatorship to democratization has found a balance in what can be defined as the “selfregulation” of military internal affairs. This move has, on the one hand, avoided imposing governmental micromanagement of the armed forces, and, on the other hand, responded to a framework of more democratic control sensibly built through years of decisionmaking on matters of equipment, logistics, education, doctrines, and personal management and promotion. Each of the arms’ cadet schools and officer academies remain strongholds of military doctrine, usually with combined civil and military staff (active and retired). Yet it is civilian authorities who monitor and control the implementation of democracy-prone military education. Congress, for instance, has modified the organic law to include subjects pertaining to the respect and promotion of human rights in the arms’ teaching syllabi. Officers can complement their education with sociology, history, management, and political science. Military doctrine, in consequence, has turned from its post-1945 geopolitical orientation to a more refined global defense conception (G. Weeks 2003). None of the above-mentioned areas of civilian control would make much sense if the roles and missions of the armed forces had not changed following redemocratization. Since no military force is able to deal with a

Roles and Missions

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portfolio of endless threats, Chile’s armed forces have allocated more time and practice to a human security agenda that mixes traditional and nontraditional defense policy issues. In a recent study, four action pillars were identified as the particular duties that are performed by Chile’s military, and which break away from former hard-line national security doctrines: peacekeeping and international conflict management; emergency and catastrophe response; arms control and landmine removal; and a concern for human, economic, and social rights (see Solar 2017). Naturally, Chile’s defense policy is set up to do considerably more than that, following its primordial role of preserving national sovereignty and territorial integrity against possible armed threats from regional rivals Peru and Bolivia (Bruneau 2013a). However, these are broad understandings, and only a more refined analysis is able to shed light on the current military topics that have been able to reconfigure peace and warfare in Latin America. Initially, it is important to admit that the country has not engaged in interstate armed combat since the War of the Pacific (1879–1883) against Peru and Bolivia, limiting its most relevant military experience since redemocratization to the participation in the UN Stabilization Mission in Haiti (MINUSTAH). The success of MINUSTAH overall is highly debatable. However, for civilian and military authorities in Chile, it has brought valuable experience in working together to prepare, execute, resource, and maintain conflict-like troop deployment. Moreover, the military has benefited by gaining vast military experience, creating bonding alliances with other regional counterparts, while, no less important, receiving an inflow of fiscal resources tailor-made to institutional needs such as the setting up of a joint operations center in Santiago to match similar policy hubs elsewhere in the region. As well, partnerships over conflict management and continental operations have created ties with an old rival turned partner, Argentina, and reconfirmed Chile’s allegiance with Colombia, the United States, and Canada. Annual joint military exercises, led for instance through the US Southern Command and based in Florida, are a prime example of Chile’s participation in ongoing military muscle flexing in the hemisphere. Partners take part in exercise missions assessing multithreat security scenarios, including counterinsurgency, interstate conflict, and drug trafficking (Solar 2018b). Because of a greater discussion of the costs and benefits involved in peacekeeping operations, the prospect of partaking in these will be subject to stricter control and oversight as politicians seek to cut the costs of Chile’s international grand strategy. An ongoing major modernization of the foreign policy machinery (see MINREL 2018), on top of the 2010 reform of the Ministry of Defense, has meant an initial investment in novel institutional capabilities and technical manpower, however, with the expectation of running its civil-military affairs and foreign policy in a more efficient, cheaper, and more simplified way in the long term.

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Second, the fact that the country is prone to earthquakes and other natural catastrophes leading to humanitarian crises has made the armed forces assume a rapid response–type role, dedicating personnel, technologies, and equipment as civil aid after major emergencies have unfolded. In 2010 an earthquake registering 8.2 on the Richter scale, followed by a tsunami, hit central and southern Chile and put civil-military relations to the test. President Bachelet initially hesitated to declare a constitutional state of emergency granting military control of a vast geographic zone under the administrative mandate of general-ranked military officer. Bachelet changed her mind shortly after looting began in the southern city of Concepción and was televised live by the media covering the catastrophe (see Pion-Berlin 2016, pp. 113–141). A revised plan for such cases has since been elaborated on, with civilian oversight and macrogovernance operating through a refurbished Office for National Emergencies (ONEMI), politically dependant on the Ministry of the Interior. In this framework, the military benefits from a coordinated policy guideline when the state’s other civil devices are surpassed. As evidenced more recently during a series of wildfires in the summer of 2017, it is expected that military involvement in these types of humanitarian missions will continue, adding to the services’ financial and physical toll (see Solar 2017). Third, current missions to comply with international standards for arms control and antipersonnel landmine removal are two other tasks that use armed forces resources: the former, through an overall campaign led by the army to destroy illegal weapons that subsequently hit the streets and end up fueling criminality; the latter, as another of the enduring legacies of the dictatorship. General Pinochet’s enmity with neighbors Peru, Bolivia, and Argentina led to a crisis in bilateral relations and the establishment of landmine zones in the extreme north and south border territories. Since redemocratization, defense policies in line with international treaties have tasked the armed forces with clearing land explosives from all territories, for example, in the Atacama Desert, which is frequently used as an illegal crossing point where the transit of vehicles and people can accidentally detonate the charges still buried in the sand (Defensa 2017, pp. 146–152). In contrast to the above missions, this role has an expiration date since the majority of the territory, at some point, will be cleared of exploding artifacts. Finally, there has been some growth in the armed forces’ role in contributing to the country’s ongoing effort to provide its population with higher human, economic, and social development. For example, the military has set up posts across all services for delivering free ad hoc health care. Also, the conscription service has changed to provide a career pathway for thousands of volunteering young people. The nexus with society

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has happened despite the military’s negative human rights record and abusive policies toward fellow citizens during the dictatorship. In fact, the military has been enjoying a positive evaluation in general opinion polls (only recently falling after Milicogate and some other corruption scandals), scoring higher than politicians, Congress, political parties, government, and other organized civil society groups (Toro et al. 2016). The four missions explained above have put the armed forces to work building a pool of multipurpose military know-how. Soldiers have legitimated these roles and the chiefs of staff have publicly enforced the concept of a more modern and holistic service meant to effectively respond under the stress of traditional and nontraditional security commitments (Scarella Arce 2017). In next section, I analyze how to interpret military efficiency in some of these particular areas, and how to shed light on their overall effectiveness toward politically desired outcomes. Chile’s defense governance is currently missing a policy planning document that either defines its goals or proposes a methodology of progress toward political inputs. During President Piñera’s first administration, the Ministry of Defense aimed to put together a National Strategy for Defense and Security (ENSYD) inspired by other advanced military such as the United Kingdom’s National Security Strategy and its companion document, the Strategic Defence and Security Review. However, the ENSYD effort was flawed in the revision stage as the political opposition disliked some of its content. Timing did not favor the document either as it was publicized close to the start of a presidential race dominated by partisan politics. The Ministry of Defense seems unable to build consensus on the idea of a multifaceted defense that could assess traditional and nontraditional military roles (Solar 2015). Nevertheless, what has become the guiding light for the military involves succeeding versions of the Defense White Papers (Libro de la Defensa Nacional). These book-length policy documents provide a state-of-the-art look at the services, organic laws, generic missions, and roles attributed to the sector. The papers are an initial step toward transparency and an aspiring policymaking exercise in a region characterized by its shady management of defense policy; however, they do not fulfill the element of effectiveness through policy planning as intended in this volume (see Defensa 2017). The majority of military missions explained in the previous section, nonetheless, can be contrasted by different standards and stipulated and monitored by foreign bodies. The progress of peacekeeping operations, for instance, is constantly measured following an in-house review of the UN Security Council’s specific subsets of progress for each particular country mission—among them, Chile’s combined effort to push forward

The Issue of Effectiveness

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MINUSTAH. Antipersonnel landmine removal is reviewed via international standards established, for instance, within the Ottawa Mine Ban Treaty. Planning for humanitarian and emergency response catastrophes, on the other hand, is extremely difficult as these phenomena are unpredictable and unique. Nevertheless, this does not mean that Chilean civilian authorities have not assessed some of these missions; indeed, congressional inquiry, cabinet peer oversight, media reports, and other civil society accountability mechanisms are constantly demanding a more transparent governance of defense and the ethical challenges faced by the military profession globally. However, in conclusion, it is telling that the instrument with which to set the advance and effectiveness of politically established goals for the military is currently unavailable. Second, regarding the structures of the defense system, these include a National Security Council and Joint Chiefs of Staff that are meant to undergo changes that could lead to the strategic command of joint forces. The Joint Chiefs of Staff, together with the reform of the organic law that was implemented in 2010, are headed by a three-star general appointed on a rotating basis from the three services. Subordinated to the Ministry of Defense, the chief’s role is to lead on issues of readiness and the joint strategic deployment of the armed forces, including military roles during states of constitutional exception and also in the case of foreign conflict or international crises affecting the security of the nation. In both cases, the power to entitle the chief of staff to “strategically deliver the means of the defence” falls on the president (EMCO 2018). Lately, the Ministry of Defense has been preparing a second wave of modernization fueled by the idea that broader levels of civil-military coordination are needed to execute missions and tasks that go beyond traditional military roles, including those occupied by civil defense. This latter concept, although previously discredited in the ENSYD, has gained much popularity. Civil defense refers to the capabilities that the armed forces are able to offer to “the community during emergency situations, natural disasters, calamities, elections, censuses, and similar kinds of situations,” as suggested by the director of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Arturo Merino Núñez, in 2017 (Scarella Arce 2017). With the purpose of encouraging dialogue and negotiations between and among the top levels of democratic civilian leadership and the armed forces, the future version of a joint command is meant to enhance planning avenues and, consequently, improve military effectiveness. Unlike the institution of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the National Security Council (COSENA) is a less-used example, originally set up to give advice to the president in the affairs of political governance and internal security. Created by Pinochet in 1980, it was summoned for the last time in 2014, due to issues of disuse. During the 1990s, the council gathered mainly to

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debate issues surrounding the political transition in light of, among other affairs, justice for human rights cases (Rodríguez, Díaz, and Vedoya 2018). In 2005, the council was reformed to sit under the authority of the elected president, something that Pinochet had constitutionally ensured would rest with the military who also had a majority of members sitting in the council, undermining the representation of civilian authority. President Piñera recalled the reformed version of the council in 2014 to discuss strategic scenarios on the territorial dispute with Peru over the limits of its coastal seawaters in the Pacific, by then about to be unveiled in the Court of Justice in The Hague. The political center-left recently proposed that its elimination be included in future constitutional amendments since, it argued, the council added little value to defense affairs, mostly being viewed as simply another nondemocratic legacy from the military regime (Ganora and Muñoz 2013). Finally, on the effectiveness of resources, the current status of Chile’s armed forces suggests a highly resourced structure, in terms of personnel, equipment, and other necessary means for performing its duties. In the American continents, military spending reached $695 billion in 2017. The United States and Canada alone made up 91 percent of that total, with some of the Southern Cone countries allocating as much as $29 billion (Brazil). Since 2008, Chile has spent in the range of $4 billion to $4.8 billion annually to sustain one of the most advanced military forces on the subcontinent (SIPRI 2018c). As mentioned above, more awareness and policy discussion regarding the Copper Law is under way as the recently elected second government of Piñera is expected to propose changes to military resourcing. From such a dialogue, it is likely that both left and right political forces will push forward different interpretations of how to sustain military effectiveness. A few remaining ideas on such a conundrum are discussed next. Countries in the developing South are attempting to control and ensure effectiveness over their militaries while managing a dedicated portion of the fiscal wallet to cover the needs of their armed forces. Buying military obedience is nonetheless a short-term solution since the needs of the military are expanding to different missions besides the traditional use of force on territorial defense (see Solar 2018b). As some observers argue, even the most sophisticated armies will remain ungovernable if civil-military relations are fragile, neutral, and politically biased (Knudsen and Gade 2017). The Chilean case demonstrates that bargaining about the effectiveness of military and civil-military control is highly dynamic and contingent on multiple pressing factors. In this vein, the country’s well-resourced armed services lack any explicit guidelines for setting up a grand strategy for the

The Trade-Off Between Control and Effectiveness

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near future or dealing with its effectiveness using traditional and nontraditional military means. The risk, here, is that endless political debates can thwart military duties. In addition, military culture, usually mission driven, needs to be highly considered by civilians in order to not antagonize senior military officials, and lower ranks’ morale, consequently losing the respect of their civilian counterparts (see Herspring 2013). Second, armies are still tied to the success of many of the state policies that go beyond the affairs of defense and security. The armed forces in Chile and elsewhere have become a crucial force in overall democratic governance. Chile’s military propensity for human security missions is pulling the debate this way, as they are likewise pictured as key actors in the state’s effort to allocate public sector means to alleviate underdevelopment. Third, the effectiveness and control of Chile’s military has been determined hand in hand with growing institutional capabilities built around the armed forces and the Ministry of Defense. New governance issues are obliging the military and its civil counterparts to adapt evolving war and peace doctrines. It is expected, therefore, that Chile’s military and nonmilitary decisionmakers will continue to pursue some degree of political power for the ongoing issues of defense. In this vein, Chile’s civil-military relations are currently adjusting to a different system of goals and rewards around military missions (e.g., the ongoing human security agenda and overseeing stipulated expenditure changes), creating a novel system of responsiveness in relation to control and effectiveness. The more complex defense governance evidenced in Chile since 2010, in terms of stakeholders, mechanisms, and the formal and informal actions for democratically governing the means and ends of defense, seems to have motivated civilian-led civil-military relations to seek out new avenues of effectiveness, this on top of the already agreed levels of control on the armed forces. In some developing countries, civil-military relations seem to have become a full-fledged part of the affairs of democratic governance, as civilians attempt new ways to lead and manage military affairs. As Chile’s case study shows, government and politicians are undergoing trial-and-error methods to create appropriate channels of control and effectiveness, especially notable in the wake of the country’s authoritarian regime. While there is still much ground to cover, some experiences in the Global South reveal a positive turn of events, with the military receding from many of the authoritarian-inherited parcels that once situated them outside civilian influence. Unfolding political events in Chile shed light on issues such as giving new roles to the armed forces, and the difficulty of providing appropriate parameters to measure politically established goals. The dynamism of con-

Conclusion

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flict and peace occurrences could quickly catch up with poorly prepared decisionmakers, especially if policies, regulation, legal frameworks, overall accountability, and the transparency mechanisms for modern defense governance are missing. Along the same line, Chile’s case provides at least three concluding ideas worth taking forward. First, policymakers and students of civil-military relations can help redefine the control and effectiveness discussion by providing more empirically driven evidence of ongoing defense governance. By illuminating the process of decisionmaking taken by the armed forces, governments, or both in allocating certain resources to specific military missions, and the frameworks that can give access to the effectiveness of such duties, a whole new body of policy and knowledge can be achieved. This will consequently provide precious know-how for ongoing decisions and policymaking in the affairs of the defense. Second, it is not sufficient to develop new civil-military control mechanisms if these do not happen in a democratically anchored setting. Civilian authority needs to unfold under a commonly respected and publicly known charter that may control effectiveness in the armed forces. Currently, we tend to fully acknowledge the politics that shape civilian control. However, there are now more evenly pressing factors of an economic and a social nature that play a part in civil-military governing, and which need to abide by the same means of control and supervision. In a consolidated democracy, such as Chile, it is expected that civilians will have the upper hand over the military in prioritizing joined-up policy ends that take consideration of such extrapolitical factors. Third, in conclusion, the Chilean case ultimately evidences the struggle that decisionmakers experience when opening up new agendas for the military if cohesive policy frameworks for control and effectiveness are not used. Security threats arise rapidly and unpredictably. Statecraft, on the other hand, is a slowly moving process of political judgment and negotiation. Despite its more prudent attitude nowadays, the military commonly assumes strategic responses to unforeseeable events quicker than does the policy cycle. However, with Latin America turning its attention more heavily to some security threats rather than others, it should not be impossible to implement this task. 1. Chilean politics began a process of major socioeconomic reform as the world faced the challenges of World War II and the Cold War. For an account on these developments, see Gil (1966) and A. Valenzuela (1978). 2. As also happened in Europe, for example; in Latin America, the politically active military was to directly influence the keeping of democracy or fueling of authoritarian regimes. See this discussion in Brands (2010). 3. For a general discussion of military authoritarianism in Latin America during the Cold War era, see Agüero (1995).

Notes

8 Tunisia: Patterns and Implications of Civilian Control Noureddine Jebnoun

many authoritarian regimes in the region and brought civil-military relations to the forefront. In Tunisia, military inaction during the Zine El Abidine Ben Ali regime’s endgame contributed to its demise. Tunisian people and their political elite were astonished to discover on January 14, 2011, only several hours after the dictator fled the country, that the state—not the regime—had an army. The opposite is true in other countries across the region. Notwithstanding the brief constitutional crisis subsequent to the vacancy of power, the Tunisian Armed Forces (TAF) did not take over. Rather, they accompanied and eased the transitional process, while expanding their mandate beyond the protection of the country’s territorial integrity to manage and address security challenges brought by the increasing political instability inherent to the country’s volatile and fragile political transition. I argue that the TAF great silent (la grande muette) played a decisive role in shaping the course and outcomes of the popular unrest and in acting as a legitimate partner of the politically relevant elite during the transitional period. In so doing, it also sought to put an end to its “long traversée du désert under the fallen regime,” in General Mansour Haddad’s words.1 Kept under authoritarian civilian control during Habib Bourguiba’s rule (1956–1987), the TAF saw their military and social prestige fading under his successor. In fact, Ben Ali marginalized the military and sidelined them in favor of a more pervasive and dreaded domestic security apparatus to secure the regime’s survival. With the fall of the dictator, Tunisia’s military began to see the light at the end of the tunnel as new patterns of civil-military relations started to emerge. The military seemed to accommodate civilian control, while working to improve its effectiveness by better managing resources and translating them into

The 2010–2011 wave of Arab popular uprisings challenged

119

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effective military capabilities to adequately respond to the spectrum of threats that the country was facing. Furthermore, Tunisia’s military willingness to acquiesce to civilian control in the post authoritarian era is paradoxically a consequence of a deliberate insulation approach under Bourguiba that turned into a systematic dual marginalization-disempowerment under his successor. Even though this marginalization-disempowerment negatively affected Tunisia’s military professionalization, it unequivocally failed to alter its cohesiveness, corporate identity, and institutionalization.

Development of Tunisia’s Military as a Peripheral State Institution

Tunisia’s military emerged as a peripheral institution in the postcolonial state. It did not play any major role in the struggle for national liberation that was largely led by the Neo-Destour party, its guerrilla armed wing (Fellaghas), and the Tunisian General Labor Union (UGTT). Thus, it was not difficult for the country’s first president, Bourguiba, to confine the armed forces to their barracks to prevent them from intervening in political affairs. His vision of a Western-style modernization project excluded the military, an institution seen across the rest of the Arab Middle East as the vanguard of socioeconomic development. The wave of military coups across the region triggered by the 1952 Egyptian coup raised Bourguiba’s “aversion to the militarization” of the Arab polity (Jebnoun 2014c, p. 108). The December 1962 attempted-then-aborted coup further strengthened Bourguiba’s mistrust of the military. He restricted its mandate to the safeguarding of Tunisia’s territorial integrity and national sovereignty to which he allocated minimum resources. Rather than the army, it was the Ministry of Interior (MOI) and its internal security apparatus and law enforcement agencies—chief among them were the National Guard, the police, and the police’s striking arm of both the Directorate of State Security and the Public Order Brigade—that were tasked on a daily basis with policing internal political dissent dubbed “internal subversion.” Occasionally, however, the Internal Security Forces (ISF) were overwhelmed and the regime resorted to the army, which engaged in full-scale repression to restore order. Such incidences included the crackdown on a social movement led by the UGTT in January 1978 (later called “Black Thursday”), the suppression of a Libyan-backed armed insurgency in Gafsa in January 1980, and bread riots across the country following the introduction of austerity measures imposed by the International Monetary Fund (IMF) in December 1983–January 1984 (Paul 1984). Notwithstanding their peripheral role in the consolidation of Bourguiba’s power, the decision to defend Bourguiba’s regime during the

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aforementioned major crises can be attributed to the military institution itself and the social background of its top brass. Shortly after independence, as part of the coup-proofing process, Bourguiba purged the TAF of officers who had trained in some Middle Eastern countries and appointed to key military commands some officers who had previously served in the French army, who were known more for their loyalty than for their military effectiveness. Moreover, most of the senior military officers were recruited from Tunis and the politically and economically important coastal area of the Tunisian Sahel, Bourguiba’s native region. Later, the few armored units vital to the regime’s survival were assigned to officers from these core regions. It was only in the late 1970s that a new generation of officers trained at Saint-Cyr, the French Military Academy, in the late 1950s assumed main leadership positions in the armed forces. Tied to the ruling elite within the Destourian Socialist Party (PSD), these senior officers were considered a part of the country’s elite since joining the TAF provided them with some degree of social mobility. Still, under Bourguiba, the key position of chief of staff was reserved mainly for officers from the coastal area, though with some minor exceptions. However, the increasing size and subsequent modernization of the TAF affected the homogeneity of the dominant military francophone elite and brought to various echelons of the TAF young midranking officers from the less affluent lower middle classes, hailing from the disenfranchised center and southern regions of the country. They had more ideological affinity with the Islamists and leftists, and they were opposed to the concentration of power among the coastal elite, as well as Bourguiba’s paternalistic rule and his PSD power base.2 Despite a dramatic increase in military expenditures from $148 million (1978) to $383 million (1983) (SIPRI 2017a), the military struggled to carry out its basic mission of safeguarding the country’s integrity and keeping up with the increasing security threats posed by the Muammar Qaddafi regime. The failure of military intelligence to provide the military with a “sound assessment of risks, external threats, and opportunities,” especially after the October 1985 Israeli attack against the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) headquarters in Tunis’s suburbs, further affected the military’s operational capabilities and deepened its members’ disillusionment (Jebnoun 2017, pp. 24–25). Bourguiba’s failure to build a more inclusive constituency beyond the sycophantic ruling elite steadily eroded his legitimacy. Growing social discontent coupled with Islamist revivalism and the rise of regional threats paved the way for the country’s security apparatus—led by then prime minister and minister of the interior Ben Ali—to step in and secure an orderly transfer of power by removing the eighty-four-year-old “supreme combatant” through a “medical constitutional coup” in November 1987 (Ware 1988).

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Military Marginalization and Disempowerment in the Shadow of Securitocracy

The demise of Bourguiba’s rule increasingly sidelined Tunisia’s military and strengthened the trend of relying on the police for the security of the regime. Although the TAF were not involved in the coup (Jebnoun 2014b, p. 300), Ben Ali promoted some of the top military brass who were his former classmates at Saint-Cyr to higher military positions.3 Later, Ben Ali smoothly exited most of his classmates from the military and appointed some of them as ambassadors as a bonus when they were about to retire. The reshuffling of the military’s upper echelons went hand in hand with the reorganization of the internal security apparatus that Ben Ali purged (Jebnoun 2017, note 91, p. 127) and the reorganization of the sensitive General Directorate of National Security. Furthermore, Ben Ali asserted his authority over the decisionmaking process on national security matters by establishing the National Security Council (NSC) (Decree 1987-1297). In 1990, the NSC experienced an in-depth reshuffling that bestowed the MOI with a pivotal role in managing the country’s intelligence (Jebnoun 2017, pp. 29–30). And given the key role played by the Presidential Security Guard (PSG) in toppling Bourguiba, coup-proofing became Ben Ali’s main priority as he detached the PSG from the MOI’s chain of command and placed it under the direct command of the presidency (Jebnoun 2017, p. 30). In the meantime, security barons inside the MOI, and their supporters within the revamped PSD renamed the Democratic Constitutional Rally (RCD), saw with a suspicious eye the rise of the military elite to prominence in the post-Bourguiba era. Thus, then minister of interior Abdullah Qallal and his main security acolytes forged a conspiracy that targeted the armed forces in the aftermath of the 1989 legislative elections. These elections marked the final rift between the al-Nahda Islamist movement and Ben Ali since the former accused the latter of engineering a large-scale voter fraud. Given the momentum gained by the Islamists in Algeria in the early 1990s, Tunisia’s internal security apparatus thought that a massive security crackdown on the al-Nahda network could be justified, but only if they could convince the president that the Islamists infiltrated the military to overthrow his regime. It was not the military involved in a coup against the regime; rather it was a conspiracy against the army orchestrated by the internal security apparatus (Koudra 2012). The primary purpose of Qallal’s machinations that led to the purge of 244 officers and noncommissioned officers in May 1991, in what was known as the Barraket al-Sahel affair,4 was to erode Ben Ali’s trust in the military by driving a wedge between him and the armed forces. This fabricated coup deprived the army of some of its dedicated elements. Adding insult to injury, the military’s higher command abstained from defending the victims, while the General Direc-

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torate of Military Security (DGSM) subcontracted its enhanced interrogation to the MOI’s coercive security agencies. The reliance of the regime’s security organ on heavy-handed techniques, including torture to extract false confessions from the alleged plotters, nurtured a strong sense of resentment among the rank and file. The “decapitation” of the army in 1991 (Jebnoun 2017, p. 35) further strained civil-military relations. First, it led to the disempowerment of the military and the rise of the domestic security apparatus and the RCD ruling party, and both metamorphosed the regime into a securitocracy. Second, Ben Ali further centralized and strengthened his grip over the security organs to monitor the military and serve as an omnipotent tool of social control. Third, the DGSM’s mission was redirected from foreign intelligence toward policing the military, which affected operational capabilities of the TAF and jeopardized the country’s security (Jebnoun 2017, pp. 44–52). Subsequently, Ben Ali prioritized loyalty over competence in the appointment and promotion of officers to key positions within the armed forces, whereas his predecessor had combined geographical basis and loyalty as criteria for such appointments. Furthermore, Ben Ali deliberately left vacant the position of chief of staff of the armed forces for the rest of his reign. Most significantly, the regime further increased its financial support for the MOI at the expense of the Ministry of Defense (MOD), which experienced annual decreases in its budget, a trend already noticeable before 1991. The budgetary gap between the two departments reached its climax on the eve of the 2010–2011 mass popular mobilization, when the government allocated 6.5 percent of the government national budget to the MOI but only 4.3 percent to the MOD (Finance Law 2010-58 on the State National Budget, p. 3646). The marginalization-disempowerment of the military institution heavily affected its development and modernization. The size of the TAF decreased from 42,100 troops (27,000 of whom were conscripts) in 1987 to 38,500 troops in 2011 (IISS 1987, p. 114, 2011, p. 332), while shrinking military expenditures restricted the growth of its training facilities and impacted its operational capabilities.

Patterns of Civilian Control in the Post-Authoritarian Era

One can argue that this process of marginalization-disempowerment was facilitated by the authoritarian civilian control that the 1959 amended constitution mirrored in such a way that it slipped past the basic rules shaping political-military decisions to meet and ultimately mitigate specific threats. The post-authoritarian era’s new institutional arrangements have only somewhat curtailed the power of the president rather than introducing efficient mechanisms of democratic civilian control of the armed forces.

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In January 2014, the National Constituent Assembly (NCA) adopted a new constitution (Constitute Project and International Institute for Democracy and Electoral Assistance 2017). While the extensive and inclusive basic law is widely considered the first milestone in the process of the country’s democratization, the security sector—including the police, intelligence apparatus, and the military—constitutes “the missing link” of the new constitutional framework (Jebnoun 2014a). However, it did introduce for the first time some provisions regulating the mandate of the TAF. Article 18 defines the military as “a republican army” tasked with the “responsibility to defend the nation, its independence and its territorial integrity” and states that it “supports the civil authorities in accordance with the provisions set out in law.” This provision limits military intervention in domestic affairs and subjects deployment only to assist civil authorities in compliance with the existing obligations provided by law. Also, the military is “required to remain completely impartial” while performing these tasks. Although, the constitution does not provide any further details with regard to the “republican” character of the military, it implies that the TAF are the servants of the state and must act as the guardians of its republican order. In other words, they serve and obey elected and legitimate civilian authorities. Should any political actor attempt to change or jeopardize the republican core of the institutional political system, the military could consider using Article 18 to act as the ultimate safeguard of the republic. The semipresidential system of government established by the 2014 Constitution affects the democratic control of the military. Although the president chairs the NSC, he or she has the obligation to consult with the head of the government in the areas of defense and foreign and national security (Article 77). As a commander in chief, the president has the power of appointing and dismissing senior military officers without seeking the approval of the legislature but “after consultation with the Head of the Government” (Article 78),5 whereas Article 89 confers to the head of the government the right to select the ministers of foreign affairs and defense—but only after consulting with the president. This overlap of constitutional powers between the two heads of the executive body can affect the chain of command during crises and negatively impact the effectiveness of the military. Furthermore, the constitution confers to the president the right to deploy the TAF abroad (Article 77). However, such deployment is subjected to the approval of both the speaker of parliament and the head of the government (Article 77). An additional legal layer strengthening democratic civilian control of the armed forces was issued by the parliament in February 2015. The adopted legal bill regulating the internal functioning of the parliament (Decision No. 2015-2) created nine permanent committees and nine special bodies tasked with oversight of government actions in specific areas. The Permanent Parliamentary Committee of the Organization of

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the Administration and of the Affairs of the Forces Bearing Arms is mandated with issues related to “the general organization of the administration, the decentralization and organization of the local collectivities, and the draft of laws relating to the armed forces and internal security forces” (Article 87-8 of Decision No. 2015-2). Article 93-1 of Decision No. 2015-2 also stipulates the establishment of a Special Parliamentary Committee for Security and Defense (SPCSD), which is “tasked with examining matters related to security and defense, and monitoring the implementation of government’s strategies in the fields of defense and national security.” The twenty-two members of each of these two committees are selected by parliament and the composition of the committees reflects the relative strengths of the parliamentary groups. With the exception of one SPCSD member of parliament who is a retired colonel from the National Guard, no other members of the two aforementioned committees have served in the military or have adequate knowledge to oversee activities of the security sector. Obviously, this security illiteracy, coupled with the lack of transparency within a complex and opaque security sector, constitutes a major impediment to effective parliamentary oversight of the military and the overall security sector. This opacity is further embedded in existing legislation that restricts parliamentary oversight of the Defense and Interior Ministries’ budget procurement and expenditure policies to ensure national defense secret requirements (Decree 1988-36; Decree 2012-2878). Rather than setting a comprehensive legal framework for democratic civilian control of the TAF, the aforementioned mechanisms seek to dilute the formerly monopolized presidential power over the military and diffuse it among other actors, including the head of the government and parliament.

The Gradual Evolution of Tunisia’s Military Capabilities

Notwithstanding their small size, the TAF, in addition to their primary task of defending the Tunisian homeland, have engaged since their establishment in UN Peacekeeping Operations (UNPKO) in Democratic Republic of Congo. In the early 1960s the TAF dispatched to the United Nations Operation in the Congo (UNOC) almost four battalions with 3,200 troops (1960–1961). Three decades later, Tunisia renewed its participation in UNPKO (see Table 8.1). The development of a new generation of multidimensional peace operations in the post–Cold War context presented the regime with a golden opportunity to redefine the military’s role and missions. Not only did UNPKO keep the military busy, but it also allowed Ben Ali’s regime to enhance its image abroad as a credible partner able to seek peace and international security. In addition, UNPKO became a significant source of

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Table 8.1 Tunisia’s Major Contributions to UN Peacekeeping Missions (without deployed police personnel)

Mission

1991

UNOSOM II UNTAC UNAMIR

1992

868 T 17 MO

MONUC

1993

1994

61 T

844 T 10 MO

143 T

1995

224 T

UNMEE

3 MO

MINUCI ONUB UNOCI

BINUB MONUSCO MINUSCO 9 MO 9 MO

2001

9 MO

9 MO

9 MO

2002

2003

2004

2005

260 T 470 T 469 T 474 T 21 MO 27 MO 27 MO 50 MO 3T 3T 3T 4T 2 MO 2 MO 2 MO 4 MO 3 MO 6 MO 1T 2T 2 MO 4 MO

continues

income for the poorly paid military personnel, for whom selection for these missions was often subjected to a patronage network linked to then army chief of staff General Hédi Ben Hassine and his entourage. However, the military strived to meet UNPKO standards by developing appropriate practical knowledge and introducing curricula centered on UNPKO training, conflict prevention, management, and resolution for the benefit of both officers and noncommissioned officers. Although participation in UNPKO enhanced the country’s international credibility and the regime’s political prestige, it did not improve civil-military relations. The latter further worsened as Ben Ali reshaped the missions of the military so that they became a backup force to the ISF in the wake of Algeria’s civil war in the early 1990s. While the main armored units were redeployed away from the capital, the army was tasked with protecting the National Guard Forward Security Bases along the entire border with Algeria as part of the Border Security System that aimed at preventing any infiltration of Islamist insurgent groups from Algeria. These missions, for which the army was not prepared, served only to drain the army of equipment and personnel and divert resources to purely surveillance missions at the detriment of conducting real-life military exercises. In the late 1980s, this trend became palpable as the Tunisian army organized its last exercise with live ammunition that involved the then Territorial Saharan Brigade, 7,000 military personnel strong. In 2001, the army adopted the French combat tactical combined arms simulation system (JANUS) that was installed at the

Tunisia Table 8.1 Continued Mission

2006

UNOSOM II UNTAC UNAMIR

MONUC 463 T 31 MO UNMEE 2T 1 MO MINUCI ONUB UNOCI 2T 1 MO BINUB MONUSCO

MINUSCO

2007

2008

2009

464 T

464 T 460 T 33 MO 28 EM

2T 6 MO 1 MO

3T 7 MO 1T

3T 5 MO

4T 6 EM

2010

2011

2012

2013

2014

4T 7 EM

2T 7 EM

3T 6 EM

4 T 6 EM 7 EM

2015

127

2016

3T 8 EM 3 T 28 EM 31 EM 27 EM 33 EM 33 EM 1 T 1T 4 EM 30 EM 21 EM

Source: Data compiled from the UN website at http://www.un.org/en/peacekeeping/resources /statistics/contributors.shtml. Note: United Nations Operation in Somalia II (UNOSOM II); United Nations Transitional Authority in Cambodia (UNTAC); United Nations Assistance Mission for Rwanda (UNAMIR); United Nations Organization Mission in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (MONUC); United Nations Mission in Ethiopia and Eritrea (UNMEE); United Nations Mission in Côte d'Ivoire (MINUCI); United Nations Operations in Burundi (ONUB); United Nations Operation in Côte d'Ivoire (UNOCI); United Nations Integrated Office in Burundi (BINUB); United Nations Organization Stabilization Mission in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (MONUSCO); United Nations for the Referendum in Western Sahara (MINURSO); MO, military observer; EM, expert on mission; T, troops.

Tunisian National War College (NWC) and the Command and Staff College. JANUS was tasked with introducing war simulation exercises from the level of the company-scale combined arms task force to the brigade level. However, most of the officers who participated in JANUS training raised some serious concerns, chief among them the inability of this system to develop joint simulation exercises that involve the other branches of the armed forces (i.e., air force and navy) when officers at the NWC were striving to develop their jointness capabilities. Furthermore, the simulation was limited to conventional warfare tactical operations that did not take into consideration asymmetric warfare associated with guerrilla warfare, insurgency, terrorism, and counterinsurgency. Moreover, officers who participated in JANUS did not have any previous combat experience and considered the simulation itself a further simplification of the fog of war and the unpredictable contingencies of any crisis situation because it did not place them in the context of combat stress and the designed models failed to produce outcomes close to the reality. Seemingly, the French who pushed their

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Tunisian partner to introduce JANUS were motivated by other reasons. From the French standpoint, “JANUS has become a true vector of influence that goes beyond the strict framework of simulation. Indeed, a true Frenchstyle military culture is regularly and inexpensively maintained in foreign training and operational preparedness centers, thus affecting a large population. In addition, the French language honored since JANUS is only served by Francophone operators and supervisors” (Coste 2011, p. 18). However, this operational paradigm shift combined with the border securitization mission did not immunize the country from attacks staged by violent nonstate actors (VNSAs). From December 23, 2006, to January 3, 2007, a jihadist militant group engaged security forces in a series of gun battles in the town of Soliman, just twenty-eight miles southeast of the country’s capital, Tunis. Although the regime tried to downplay the gravity of these armed clashes, it was forced to rely on the army to crush the group. Moreover, when the southern Gafsa region faced social unrest in the first half of 2008, the government had to deploy army troops to support the security forces in quelling the protests. This demonstrated the ineffectiveness of the domestic security apparatus and illustrated the critical importance of the military to Ben Ali’s regime’s survival. Yet when military support became crucial to the regime’s survival during the nonviolent mass protests in 2010–2011, Ben Ali registered the army’s lack of enthusiasm to defend him, which contributed to his regime’s demise (Jebnoun 2014b, pp. 303–311). The fall of Ben Ali brought to the forefront the issue of military effectiveness more urgently than before.

Military Effectiveness in the Post-Authoritarian Era: Arming Without Vision

Basically, military effectiveness is the ability of the armed forces to carry and fulfill military missions in accordance with the desired strategic choices of their civilian-military leaders. Given that the preservation of Tunisia’s territorial integrity was not at stake in the immediate aftermath of the dictator’s fall, TAF missions have shifted from territorial defense to a range of tasks. The new missions began when the ISF withdrew from the country’s major urban areas. In fact, the presence of the ISF sowed more mistrust than safety for the population when for months they refused to redeploy, suggesting to the Tunisian people as well as to the army that the only alternative to their oppressive policy was chaos. Thus, on request from the political provisional government to help manage the security situation, the military took on itself the task of ensuring stability and restoring public safety. This mission enhanced the military’s popularity since it neither repressed demonstrators during the uprising nor rescued Ben Ali’s regime from its ultimate fate.

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However, improved effectiveness would have required a better synchronization between the three branches of service. In addition to its mission of aiding the election commission by supporting the distribution of materiel and securing polling stations in 2011, and securing key infrastructure across the country and monitoring the borders, the army was involved in managing the waves of 1.6 million refugees crossing the Tunisian-Libyan border at the beginning of the 2011 Libyan civil war. The navy’s mission of securing the country’s maritime domain had also been extended to search and rescue operations for refugees and migrants crossing the Mediterranean Sea. The air force operated closely with the army and the navy in monitoring Tunisian borders and providing the former with close air support when needed against VNSAs and illicit cross-border trafficking. Notwithstanding these joint actions, the TAF were unable to develop major joint operations because of the absence of joint staff within the chain of command. To remedy this situation, in 2011 the provisional government appointed then army chief of staff Lieutenant General Rachid Ammar as chief of staff of the armed forces (COS-TAF; Decree 2011-382), a position that had been vacant since 1991. In addition to this new appointment, Ammar retained the strategic command of the army, the most prominent position in the Tunisian military apparatus. During his two-year tenure as COS-TAF, Ammar did not develop the foundation of combined and joint operations—namely, the directorates (i.e., J-1 to J-9)—which normally constitute the pillars of the joint staff. Rather, he used his position, as his predecessors did since the country’s independence, to strengthen vertical control over the armed forces. The de facto absence of jointness led to interservice parochialism that has negatively affected the missions of the armed forces since 2011. More significantly, the growth of hybrid, versatile, and unpredictable security threats demonstrated the unpreparedness of the TAF for dealing with these new security challenges. Since 2012, these threats turned into an active Islamist insurgency in Mount Chaambi near the border with Algeria. Insecurity grew quickly and threatened to derail the transitional process after the assassination of two prominent leftist politicians in February and July 2013. By the end of 2013, militant groups expanded their operations to Jebel Salloum and Jebel Semena in the Kasserine governorate and to other governorates including Jendouba, Kef, Gafsa, Seliana, and Sidi Bouzid. Militants operating in these areas interacted closely with local smuggling networks, while taking advantage of their knowledge of the terrain. These attacks revealed the deficiencies of military intelligence capabilities. The armed forces’ reliance on random air and artillery strikes on the suspected militant hideouts suggested the military’s lack of real-time operational intelligence to support actions in the battlefield. The country’s southeastern border has not been unaffected either. The immediate aftermath of Qaddafi’s fall led to the emergence of cross-border

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Emerging Democracies

networks of trade and trafficking firearms that have heightened insecurity in the border regions (Kartas 2013). Furthermore, the 2015 Islamic State– inspired attacks targeting the Bardo National Museum in Tunis and the beach resort of Sousse illustrated the ease with which armed nonstate actors can shift their modus operandi from insurgency mode to attacking soft targets in urban areas that do not require significant resources for protection. In March 2016, the Islamic State sleeper cells mounted major simultaneous attacks in the southern town of Ben Guerdane near Tunisia’s border with Libya. These attacks involved more than fifty militants who failed to take control of the town, dramatically exposing the intelligence’s inability to detect the cells and their weapons-hiding places and to anticipate such a move from the Islamic State. The main Islamic State group assaulted the military barracks of the Thirty-Third Armored Reconnaissance Regiment located at the outskirts of Ben Guerdane. However, the military was better prepared to handle such attacks because all the military bases have contingency plans for how to deal with assaults. Therefore, most of the assailants were killed or captured during their initial assault on the military. Since the police and National Guard were located in an urban area, it was difficult for them to defend their headquarters. Moreover, the element of surprise worked in favor of the assailants, as the number of victims was high among the ISF. However, the support of the population for the army and ISF was critical in defeating the insurgents. Beyond the shock and awe impact on the local population, Islamic State assailants allegedly were seeking to secure the corridor between Sabratha, an Islamic State stronghold in Libya, and Ben Guerdane. The Islamic State could then have strengthened its grip along western Libya’s coastline into the Tunisian territory. The next step would have been to move farther south and take control of the border checkpoint Dhiba-Wazen. In all likelihood, the ultimate goal was to erase the borders between Tunisia and Libya as the Islamic State in Iraq and the Levant did in the summer of 2014 in parts of Iraq and Syria. The alarming rise in insecurity since 2011 reached its apex with the Ben Guerdane attacks. These attacks were a wake-up call to the Tunisian government. In response, successive governments since 2011 have allocated substantial resources to the MOD. Between 2012 and 2018 the defense budget increased by 120.02 percent, with the highest recorded military expenditures representing 7.18 percent of the government’s national spending in 2016. Yet this still was below the 9.93 percent of the MOI’s share in the national budget for the same year (Figure 8.1). Contrary to a simplistic narrative that accredited the increase of defense resources to a magnanimity of post-uprising governments seeking to “enhance the military capabilities” (Grewal 2016, p. 9), a scrutiny of the defense budget structure invalidates this account. The last year of President

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Figure 8.1 Defense and Security Expenditures, 2012–2018 +,#$ +%#$ +!#$ +&#$ +)#$ ,#$ %#$ !#$ &#$ )#$

,"+-#$ #$ ,"+-#$

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* +,#$ *" #$ *"+,#$

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%"&&#$ #$ %"&&#$

2012

2013

2014

2015

2016

2017

2018

Budget 45$Ministry 678793:;of$$4Interior 5$?$8>@4budget) 8>?$A/0123B$ ./0123$45$678793:;$$45$?$8>@48>?$A/0123B$ . /0123$of Budget national ./0123$45$67??73>:;$45$C252892$=#$45$343>?$8>@48>?$A/0123B$ 45$Ministry 67??73>:;of$4Defense 5$C252892(% 5$343>? >?$A/0123B$ $=#of$4total $8>@48budget) . /0123$of

Sources: Data compiled by the author from following: Finance Law No. 2011-7 on the 2012 State National Budget, p. 11; Finance Law No. 2012-27 on the 2013 State National Budget, p. 36; Finance Law No. 2013-54 on the 2014 State National Budget, p. 4381; Finance Law No. 201459 on the 2015 State National Budget, p. 3832; Finance Law No. 2015-53 on the 2016 State National Budget, p. 3631; Finance Law No. 2016-78 on the 2017 State National Budget, p. 4157; Finance Law No. 2107-66 on the 2018 State National Budget, p. 4298.

Moncef Marzouki’s term (2014) showed that funds allocated to military equipment, critical to improving military war-fighting capabilities, represented only 19.04 percent of the total defense budget, while most of the spending was for wages, benefits, infrastructure, and maintenance (Republic of Tunisia, Ministry of Finance 2014, p. 11, Spending Chapter 06651). Resources directed to defense acquisition reached a record of 42.24 percent of military spending in 2016 (Republic of Tunisia, Ministry of Finance 2016, p. 15, Spending Chapter 06651), but dropped again to 20.04 percent of the total military expenditure (Republic of Tunisia, Ministry of Finance 2018b, p. 14, Spending Chapter 06651). Notwithstanding the increasing diversity of missions assigned to the TAF following the growing security threats, the 2017 defense budget allocated only 1.98 percent of total expenditures to the counterterrorism program (Republic of Tunisia, Ministry of Finance 2017, p. 12, Spending Chapter 06608). Unsurprisingly, the above incoherent defense budgetary policy barely enabled the TAF to meet the broad range of threats of the new post-2011 security context. Rather than a comprehensive modernization approach— which would have implied a defense planning process informing the structure and size of the forces—the TAF embarked on a capability-mending process. This process stems from what I call a limited revamped capabilities approach (LRCA) that aims, through minimum costs, at responding to immediate security concerns on a day-to-day basis. The LRCA has four

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major aspects: (1) increasing the size of the military; (2) acquiring and introducing select military hardware; (3) implementing new training policies; and (4) developing international defense and security partnerships. First, according to The Military Balance (IISS 2017, p. 408), the TAF had 35,800 military personnel in 2017. However, high-ranking officers on active duty with whom I met during my fieldwork strongly questioned this figure. In fact, a review of the International Institute for Strategic Studies’ annual assessment of Tunisia’s military manpower showed that the above figure has been the same since 2010 due to the Tunisian MOD’s reluctance to release reliable data considered critical for national security. My interviewees concurred that the current size of the TAF was estimated at 80,000 troops (army 60,000; navy 8,000; and air force 12,000), which represented an increase of more than 100 percent in military manpower. Regardless of the accuracy of these figures, one can argue that the growing size of the military through open recruitment policies aims at attracting adequate personnel to meet military needs and relieving the pressure on the deployed troops, who have been overstretched since 2010–2011. Yet this figure is still below the MOI’s 98,129-strong security personnel (50,083 National Police; 29,817 National Guard; 7,146 Civil Protection; and 11,083 agents tasked with administrative services) (Republic of Tunisia, Ministry of Finance 2018a, pp. 68–71). Second, as for the LRCA’s second component, the TAF sought to adapt their operational posture to counterinsurgency and counterterrorism efforts. In July 2014, Tunisia ordered twelve Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawks to improve their rapid deployment capability and provide them with a primary air support platform (Defense Security Cooperation Agency 2014). In May 2016, one year after the country’s designation as major nonNATO ally (MNNA), the United States approved a military sale to Tunisia of twenty-four OH-58D Kiowa Warrior Scouts through the Excess Defense Articles program. These helicopters, employed for reconnaissance and direct fire support, are equipped with Hellfire air-to-surface missiles and Advanced Precision Kill Weapon Systems valued at $100.8 million (Defense Security Cooperation Agency 2016). Furthermore, the Tunisian Air Force drafted a comprehensive “2030 Strategic Vision” revolving around three key capabilities (i.e., readiness, anticipation, and operational flexibility) that sought to integrate the new acquired weapons systems and adapt to the country’s evolving security environment.6 To strengthen their capabilities to counter improvised explosive devices (IEDs) and protect military personnel operating in high-risk areas where IEDs are disseminated, the TAF acquired seventy-five Turkish-made Kirpi mine-resistant ambush-protected vehicles (MRAPs) out of 100 ordered (Malyasov 2016). In June 2017, during the Army Day parade, the TAF unveiled some of their new acquisitions, mainly the Turkish-made Ejder Yalçın armored combat

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MRAPs and the French-made Bastion armored personnel carrier, both armed with a 12.7-millimeter heavy machine guns. In the same vein, trying to remedy deficiencies in the intelligence field, in November 2014 Tunisia created a new military intelligence apparatus: the Defense Intelligence and Security Agency (DISA). The DISA, tasked with strengthening intelligence-gathering capabilities for troops engaged in operations, has been struggling to meet the goals of its mission (Jebnoun 2017, pp. 74–82). Moreover, the country sought to acquire intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance (ISR) capabilities to efficiently monitor VNSAs operating in the borderland areas. Rather than addressing its ISR weakness gap, Tunisia decided to rely on the United States by enabling troops of the US Africa Command to use Tunisian military facilities while deploying with their unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs). Not only has such a decision prevented the TAF from developing autonomous ISR capabilities, but it has also raised the risk of linking Tunisia’s domestic security issues to the US global security agenda, and the uncertainty that comes with that, because Tunisia’s soil is used as a launchpad for US drone operations across the Sahel-Sahara region. Since its establishment, the US footprint has raised tension with Tunisia’s western neighbor, as Algeria distrusts the US military engagement in the region and its security implications (Jebnoun 2017, pp. 62–68). Third, the new security environment compelled Tunisia’s military to implement a new training approach that seeks to achieve adequate levels of readiness to address hybrid threats and improve effectiveness. In addition to the existing Training Center for Special Forces Group, new training centers have been created. In 2015, the Army Center of Excellence for Counterterrorism and Counterinsurgency (CoE CT-COIN) was established, tasked with improving individual and small unit capabilities in preparing for and responding to terrorist threats and fighting insurgency warfare. All of the troops, mainly infantry, assigned to security operations across the country are required to spend some time in CoE CT-COIN before their deployment, so as to immerse themselves into realistic operational conditions of diffuse and multiform terrorist threats. Another Center of Excellence for Counter-IED/Explosive Ordnance Disposal (CoE C-IED/EOD) operating under the Sixty-First Engineer Group command has been focusing on mitigating and countering IED threats. The CoE C-IED/EOD’s main tasks are acquiring new counter-IED technologies, providing training to units in the pre-deployment stage, and intervening in the field to detect and ultimately defeat IED operations. Fourth, along with improving readiness capabilities, Tunisia developed defense partnerships with international actors seeking to boost operational capabilities of the TAF. Tunisia’s designation as MNNA and the growth of regional insecurity following the 2011 Arab uprisings have strengthened NATO-Tunisia cooperation. Already a member of the NATO Mediterranean

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Dialogue since its inception in 1994, Tunisia joined the NATO Individual Partnership and Cooperation Program (IPCP) in May 2015. One of the priority areas of IPCP is counterterrorism. The 2016 NATO summit in Warsaw extended the cooperation with Tunisia to providing the country with expertise in building an intelligence fusion center and providing training to its special forces. However, cooperation in the field of intelligence with NATO has been limited because Tunisia, like other countries, privileges bilateral over multilateral intelligence cooperation. Moreover, the lack of transparency of the Tunisian government regarding these programs caused some apprehension within civil society about the real intentions of the alliance (Jebnoun 2017, p. 80; IISS Voices 2018). In contrast, the most visible sign of bilateral partnership has been with the United States, a main source of security assistance funds for the TAF since 2011. Between 2012 and 2017, the US government allocated $223 million channeled through Foreign Military Financing (FMF) (Security Assistance Monitor 2018). The new military acquisitions delivered through FMF are designed to strengthen maritime security and patrolling capabilities, high tactical mobility, surveillance and reconnaissance operations, border security control, communications systems, and night vision capabilities, among others. For the same period $13 million was allocated for training Tunisian military personnel through International Military Education Training and $14.13 million for both the Combatting Terrorism Fellowship Program and Counterterrorism Partnership Program. However, the Defense Institution Reform Initiative received only a tiny amount—$99,205 in 2014! Such an allocation indicates clearly US difficulty in tailoring its initiatives to national conditions of partner countries that entail the acquiescence of political leadership and civil society actors, which is more difficult to reach in the highly complex context of democratization than under autocratic rule. Moreover, the United States and Germany are involved in equipping the erected fortified sand fence—built in the immediate aftermath of the Sousse terror attack—along the Libyan border with mobile surveillance sensors and border control systems (Tunis Afrique Presse 2016, 2017). Other countries such as France and the United Kingdom have increased their military partnership with Tunisia. France is building its partnership with Tunisia based on decades of earlier military cooperation. In October 2015, the two countries signed a “joint and mid-term cooperation map” worth 20 million euros that enables Tunisia to receive training and equipment for its special forces, share military intelligence, and conduct joint exercises in counterterrorism with its French counterpart (Middle East Monitor 2015). Following the Sousse attack that targeted thirty-eight tourists, thirty of whom were Britons, the UK deployed military personnel to provide training in counterterrorism, mobile surveillance, and border patrol operations (L. Brown 2016). However, not only Western countries

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have been engaged in revamping Tunisian military operational capabilities. In April 2015, China provided Tunisia with military aid in the form of AK47 assault rifles, thousands of rounds of ammunition, bulletproof vests, and combat helmets. It also donated Chinese language labs for further military training (TNN 2015). Coordination with Algeria has also improved as the two countries are facing common threats on their borders. This cooperation was formalized after they signed a security agreement in the summer of 2013. Algeria, already in charge of the main effort of securing and monitoring the shared border, “has also supplied military equipment to Tunisia and deployed additional troops in 2014.” This coordinated security cooperation “since then has enabled the two sides to establish 80 checkpoints and 20 closed military zones, and to deploy 60,000 security personnel along 956 km of the border” (Jane’s Intelligence Review 2015, p. 8). The aforementioned framework of multilateral and bilateral security assistance and partnership is not exhaustive. Further, the acquisition of new military hardware has yet to enable the development of a national security policy outlining an adequate strategic vision for the use of military means. The country continues to rely on an inadequate General People’s Defense (GPD) strategy vaguely defined in the mid-1970s (Decree 1975-671). Inspired by the Yugoslav strategy during the Cold War without involving the full-fledged organization of such a model in terms of deterrence, decentralization, and mobilization, Tunisia’s GPD assigns to the minister of defense the task of “mobilizing all the necessary resources for the defense of the country.” It assumes the country’s ability to militarily resist any neighbor’s conventional attack until Tunisia’s key Western allies (i.e., the United States and France) can provide assistance. It was only in February 2016 that the MOD began drafting a white paper on national defense and security policy attuned to meet a wide array of new threats. This occurred subsequently to a workshop organized by the Geneva Center for the Democratic Control of the Armed Forces that involved the Ministries of Defense, Interior, Justice, and Foreign Affairs, as well as members of parliament, in February 2016 (DCAF Tunisie 2016). Yet this process fell short of building a comprehensive approach that would integrate and bridge the gap between each component of the security sector (i.e., ISF and TAF) to achieve national objectives. The absence of a clear definition of national interests and the lack of strategic vision among the different stakeholders in a volatile security context that requires adaptability and responsiveness are hindering the development of a realistic national defense and security policy. The weakness of such a framework further explains defense policy discrepancies, branch-centered military doctrines, and an inconsistent defense procurement and acquisition policy. The Tunisian military can expand in size to address new threats and acquire new weaponry to address them, but it cannot overcome institutional challenges

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that continue to undermine joint services coordination, capacity building, organizational management, and defense planning, let alone any strategic planning and decisionmaking process coordination with the ISF. One cannot expect a major breakthrough beyond the LRCA and a partial bottomup operational coordination with the ISF, mainly its National Guard component. Military transformation in Tunisia will be gradual and regulated by a latent process of institutional changes in the Tunisian military system. Notwithstanding these challenges affecting military effectiveness, there is a need to consider the interrelation and trade-offs between civilian control and military effectiveness.

The Interdependence Between Civilian Control and Military Effectiveness

As noted above, in the 2014 Constitution, strengthening civilian control of the military is confined to curbing the power of the president rather than introducing efficient mechanisms of democratic civilian control. Between 2011 and 2013, successive governments understood civilian control only as the absence of military coups and the military’s self-restraint from interfering in politics. In contrast, Tunisia’s military leadership asserted that the success of the democratic transition is necessary, but not sufficient, to legitimize the fledgling institutions. This approach was emphasized in my meeting with General Ammar on March 13, 2012, six days after a Salafi militant tore the Tunisian flag down from the rooftop of Manouba University and raised an al-Qaeda flag in its place (Mamelouk 2012). Ammar criticized this act, calling it a “desacralization of a national symbol and an attack against the country’s national identity that could jeopardize the inclusiveness of the transitional process.” However, it is difficult to agree on what constitutes Tunisia’s national identity, as it was built around Bourguiba’s developmental modernity driven by strong and aggressive secularism and religious exclusion. One can argue that the emergence of radical Salafism, mainly its violent jihadi brand, and the recurrent attacks against the military and security forces created significant cleavages among the ruling governing coalition. These tensions revolved around the approach to adopt toward this new generation of Islamists, while consolidating the new dividend of democratization over prioritizing a pervasive counterterrorism narrative. Still, the incompetence with which the al-Nahda-led government managed the assault against the US embassy in Tunis (September 2012) and the eruption of political assassinations have deepened the crisis of confidence between the military leadership and the political elite. Moreover, the failure of the ISF’s sluggish security reform has burdened the military with domestic policing missions to remedy the dysfunction of the country’s security

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apparatus (International Crisis Group 2015). All of this has further exacerbated the crisis of confidence between the two institutions. In this context, friction rose further between President Marzouki— lacking any military and security literacy—and the COS-TAF, which Marzouki suspected of impeding his control over the military (Al Jazeera 2017). In June 2013, General Ammar voluntary retired, while the country’s political crisis reached its climax in July–August 2013. During this time, demonstrations broke out outside the NCA and the country was thrown back into upheaval, especially after the assassination of a prominent leftist politician who was a member of the NCA in July 2013. Protesters strongly denounced the failure of the al-Nahda-led government’s inclusiveness-moderation approach toward radical Salafist militancy. Inspired by Egypt’s military takeover in July 2013, they called for Tunisia’s military to side with them against the elected political authorities. Notwithstanding these calls for military mutiny, the TAF did not intercede in the crisis. The Tunisian military’s strong republican ethos, its legalistic tradition driven by civilian control while being fully authoritarian for more than five decades, and its noninvolvement in economic business activities, contrary to its Egyptian counterpart (as demonstrated in Chapter 12), acted against any unconstitutional interruption of the transitional process. Ultimately, the crisis was resolved through a national dialogue that led to the completion of the constitution and the appointment of a caretaker government in early 2014. However, this crisis further strained civil-military relations and created an atmosphere of mistrust between the president and the military establishment.7 Hunted by the “phobia of imaginary coups” (Jebnoun 2017, p. 71), Marzouki reshuffled the high military command. Marzouki’s military adviser, Brigadier General Brahim Ouechtati, was instrumental in this process. He forced the top brass into retirement by using his personal rivalries and inimical relationship with them, simultaneously forging Marzouki’s grip over the military by promoting command officers he deemed trustworthy. Seemingly, these new appointments were determined through what can be described as an “ascriptive selection” approach that “seeks to reduce the military’s disposition to subvert civilian control” and “ensure the political loyalty of senior officers to the [fledgling] democratic regime and its authorities” (Croissant et al. 2011, p. 87). Marzouki even asserted that he felt he was in a much better position by dealing separately with the chiefs of staff of each branch of the TAF through the Supreme Council of the Armies (SCA) rather than appointing a new COS-TAF. Such an approach recalled Ben Ali’s autocratic rule. In doing so, Marzouki claimed that this coup-proofing mechanism enabled him to escape the fate of President Mohamed Morsi in Egypt without providing any credible proof of the existence of a conspiracy (Al Jazeera 2017). Marzouki’s military-security illiteracy became clear as he misunderstood the purpose of the SCA, which

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is a bureaucratic organization in charge of reporting on a day-to-day basis about the functioning of the three branches of the military. Yet, the SCA does not play any role in developing, planning, organizing, training, coordinating, and synchronizing the military efforts and operations to improve jointness across the armed forces. Needless to say, jointness implies the institutionalization of joint staff organization to develop and implement joint capabilities. Moreover, the president could neither substitute for the COSTAF nor perform his role. The adoption of the new constitution further exposed the conflicting prerogatives on civilian control of the military between President Marzouki and the head of the government, Mehdi Jomaa, throughout 2014. The overlap of constitutional provisions related to the attributions of the two heads of the executive body led to the fragmentation of decisionmaking processes on security issues. Competition rather than cooperation between the NSC chaired by the president and the new established interministerial Crisis Cell tasked with improving technical and operational coordination between the ISF and the army negatively impacted the military’s effectiveness in curbing security threats. This situation translated into a deep disagreement within the executive branch with regard to the appointment of senior military officers in key positions and exacerbated the divergence on the military’s adopted approach to fighting terrorism, all of which led to the resignation of the army chief of staff, Brigadier General Salah Hamdi, in July 2014, only one year after his appointment by Marzouki (Jebnoun 2017, pp. 72–74). At the end of 2014, the election of Beji Caid Essebisi—an old figure of the Bourguiba and the Ben Ali authoritarian regimes—to the office of president strengthened the power of the head of state to the detriment of the head of the government. In the summer of 2016, this trend continued when President Caid Essebsi appointed a member of his own party, Nidaa Tounes (Call of Tunisia), as head of the government, further asserting his monopoly on security issues to the detriment of the government. Like his predecessors, Ben Ali and Marzouki, Caid Essebsi privileged the SCA as a matrix of civil-military relations. However, the 2017 NSC reorganization has improved civilian control by providing the president with the tools and the legal framework to supervise the major security sector actors (Governmental Decision No. 2017-70; Presidential Decision on the Creation of NSC’s Permanent Committees, October 30, 2017). Yet in reality, the NSC operates neither on security matters as an interface between the executive and the legislative nor as a strong interagency platform that ensures policy development, coordination, and implementation in a way that would strengthen military effectiveness by “align[ing] policy with operational capabilities” (Strachan 2006, p. 69). Rather, the NSC has operated in a reactive mode to the major crises the country has faced since

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2011 and functioned in “Soviet politburo fashion way,” overshadowed by Caid Essebsi’s hybrid paternalistic-authoritarian leadership (Jebnoun 2017, pp. 82–84). In October 2017, Caid Essebsi established fifteen specialized committees within the NSC (Presidential Decision on the Creation of NSC’s Permanent Committees 2017). Their members are appointed among the state bureaucracy and chaired by members of the government. This implies that the NSC’s decisions will likely be directed more by political considerations than driven by a sound professional assessment of the country’s security challenges. Yet the work of these committees, tasked with drafting special subject-related documents to assist the NSC in security decisionmaking, remains to be seen. Probably only a major crisis (e.g., a spectacular terrorist attack in urban areas or an attack against the country’s key infrastructures) will determine if the NSC will be able to produce a comprehensive policy that bridges the gap between goals and achievements and in which way its implementation will impact military effectiveness. In sum, the balance between civilian control and military effectiveness in Tunisia’s post-authoritarian era is neither linear nor without challenges. In this regard, democratic civil-military relations require the elected ruling elite to engage in self-education to develop civilian expertise in defense and security matters to make informed decisions. While a time-consuming effort, security literacy can mitigate the negative perception of executive dominance of and interference in the military realm of the generals. In the meantime, Tunisia’s military not only is required to embrace and sustain the process of democratization, but it has to be given the adequate means to effectively perform its missions assigned by its elected political leaders in accordance with the national constitutional framework. It is not easy to overcome this dilemma without a constant reassessment of national priorities in light of the evolving security environment, challenges, opportunities, and available resources.

Conclusion

1. Brigadier General Mansour Haddad, former TAF inspector general (2002– 2010), personal communication with the author, January 20, 2011. 2. Tunisia’s southern regions suffered from underrepresentation in the military’s senior leadership due to the bloody power struggle on the eve of Tunisia’s independence that pitted Bourguiba against the nationalist leader Saleh Ben Youssef. Ben Youssef was backed by both Gamal Abdel Nasser’s Egypt and the marginalized country’s central and southern hinterland. Thus, the rift between Bourguiba’s regime and the central and southern parts of the country led to the political and socioeconomic marginalization of these regions from which much of the low rank and file of the TAF originated.

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3. A former head of military intelligence (1964–1974), Ben Ali rose to the rank of brigadier general although he never served as a field commander. 4. Barraket al-Sahel is a southern suburb of the city of Hammamet, where officers allegedly met in early 1991 to stage a coup against the regime. 5. This unilateral appointment of senior military officers by the executive power could free the military from being accountable, and encourage them to favor loyalty over meritocracy, and politicize their mission. 6. This is an unpublished confidential document, though the author has a copy of it. 7. All military officers who I interviewed, whether on active duty or retired, confirmed to me that President Marzouki built his assumption of a coup on the Egyptian situation. A coup in Tunisia was bound to fail without the critical support of the internal security apparatus, while the relationship between the armed forces and security establishment has been governed by deep mistrust and tension. Given the small size of the TAF, their stretch across the country, the prepositioning of armored units away from the capital, and the vacancy of the position of the COSTAF—whose position would have had to coordinate the takeover between the three branches of the military—when the crisis erupted, one can argue that Marzouki’s accusations were baseless, unfounded, and perhaps politically motivated.

9 Indonesia: The Military’s Growing Assertiveness on Nondefense Missions Aditya Batara Gunawan

cratic regime in 1998 and the transition to reformasi (democracy), Indonesia’s democracy looks more promising than in other democratizing countries in Southeast Asia. Transfers of power have been regularly conducted through democratic elections and political disputes have been resolved by constitutional mechanisms. The level of public support for the democratic system overall remains strong (SMRC 2017). One of the key factors behind Indonesia’s democratic stability is the consensus among the relevant civilian elites and the public to sideline the Tentara Nasional Indonesia (TNI, Indonesian National Military) from the political decisionmaking process of the country. The military reform agenda in post-Suharto Indonesia successfully removed the dwifungsi (dual-function doctrine) that served as the basis of TNI’s sociopolitical role during the dictatorship, further establishing professionalism as the new military identity. Nevertheless, TNI personnel and equipment have been increasingly deployed for nondefense-related missions, claimed as the manifestation of the so-called Military Operations Other than War (MOOTW, Operasi Militer Selain Perang) doctrine. These practices are evident in more than two dozen Memorandums of Understanding (MoUs) signed by the military with civilian authorities to support various government programs such as infrastructure projects and civic action projects from 2014 to 2015. As such, Indonesia’s current civil-military relations highlight TNI’s assertiveness in conducting missions beyond its war-fighting role. Perhaps one may refer to a historical explanation for the role expansion. TNI, similar to other major Southeast Asian militaries, was lacking war-fighting experience against external aggression after the nation had become sovereign in

Almost two decades after the collapse of Suharto’s auto-

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1949. Furthermore, the noninterference principle of the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) inhibits its members from intervening in their neighbors’ internal security matters through military or political means, even if the internal security problem leads to potential spillover in the region (Kivimäki 2011). In practice, the military in countries such as Indonesia, Thailand, and the Philippines was largely deployed by the authoritarian government to tackle domestic security problems such as local gangs, insurgencies, and separatist movements. In Indonesia, the domestic role of military even expanded under Suharto’s autocratic regime such as conducting surveillance on Suharto’s political opponents, quelling political protests, and occupying civilian government posts (Croissant and Kuehn 2009; Mietzner 2013). Consequently, TNI’s core identity had been shaped by its domestic nondefense activities rather than war fighting against external aggressors. Nonetheless, the historical perspective remains insufficient to elucidate why the TNI’s nondefense mission is proliferating more than a decade after the authoritarian regime collapsed, although the dwifungsi doctrine has vanished and a modernized military has a generally positive outlook on the future of Indonesia’s democracy. In this chapter, I offer a fresh explanation on the resurgence of TNI’s nondefense mission through the link between civilian control and military effectiveness in civil-military relations currently in Indonesia. In doing so, I argue that lack of civilian control in defense and military internal affairs in Indonesia after reformasi has contributed to TNI assertiveness in conducting nondefense missions recently. As I have shown elsewhere (Gunawan 2017), civilian decisionmakers hold limited or contested authority vis-à-vis the military in the defense sector, and this condition gives significant leeway to the military for engaging in and even defining its own noncombat mission. Further investigation in the case of TNI’s involvement in the government food security program shows unclear limitation on the mission’s scope and duration as well as the military’s independence to establish new nondefense-related missions leading to the problem of military effectiveness. The food security program is the current government priority to improve the capacity of domestic farmers to produce sufficient rice stock. I selected the program as my case study because it is the first nondefense mission that involves large-scale troop deployment with nationwide coverage after the reformasi. Civil-military relations before reformasi can be differentiated into two phases. The first phase of civil-military relations from 1947 to 1999 was characterized by military involvement in politics and the beginning of military adventurism. The former can be traced to the troubles of the Indone-

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sian government in establishing administrative and coercive control over the vast territory of the newly independent nation, which was fighting a liberation war against the Dutch colonial troops that had returned to the archipelago in late 1945. For lack of resources, the revolutionary government left regional administration in the hands of local independence fighters and commanders. Later, most freedom fighters joined the newly formed Indonesian Armed Forces. To a large extent, the historical experience crystalized the perception among officers that they had the capability to run the government and participate in political decisionmaking. Yet this perception remained contained during the early period of Sukarno’s presidency (1945– 1967), who preferred to keep the military outside the political arena. The turning point for Indonesia’s civil-military relations came when the cabinet announced a plan to reorganize the existing army structure so the defense budget could be cost effective (Rinakit 2005). On October 17, 1952, disgruntled officers protested the plan, demanding President Sukarno dismiss the parliament for intervening in military internal affairs (Ricklefs 2008). Sukarno declined the officers’ demand and dismissed them. The event taught the military an important lesson concerning the risk of open confrontation with civilians. Accordingly, the military gradually changed its strategy and began to seek discreet influence through military leaders within Sukarno’s inner circle. By the end of the 1950s, political stability worsened and, with full support from the military, Sukarno decided to replace the existing semidemocratic parliamentary system with presidential autocracy. In exchange for their political support, Sukarno granted military elites access to strategic positions in the cabinet, including the post of minister of defense that had previously been held by civilians. The 1965 Indonesian Communist Party rebellion provided the momentum for the next phase of civil-military relations. In this second phase, from 1966 to 1998, Indonesians witnessed the rise of the military as a powerful political player under Suharto’s authoritarian rule. Suharto, an army general, rose to power after the failed coup attempt by the Communist Party killed several prominent army generals, which turned into a prolonged security crisis. Due to his close relationship with the Communist Party, President Sukarno became the main target of public dissatisfaction. In March 1966, Sukarno “authorized” Suharto to stabilize the security condition through socalled Supersemar (Surat perintah Sebelas Maret, The March 11th Letter).1 After executing a military-sponsored nationwide campaign of mass murder against supposed or real communists, Suharto officially became president in 1968. The military then acted as Suharto’s most loyal segment of the new regime coalition, protecting his power from all potential or manifested threats. Political opponents were put under military surveillance, and any form of public criticism toward the government was prohibited. The national police force and TNI were unified under military leadership and

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the intelligence services infiltrated by military officers. The military also played a central role behind the president’s reelections for five consecutive terms, using intimidation and electoral fraud to secure Suharto’s Golkar party victory. In return for their loyalty, military officers were granted various positions in the cabinet, parliament, subnational administrations, and state-owned enterprises. In addition, Suharto encouraged the military to collect off-budget funds through government projects or illegal practices to complement weak state capacity in financing the defense sector. Overall, the military was an influential actor within the society under Suharto’s autocratic regime. However, the cordial relationship between Suharto and military leaders gradually deteriorated in the 1990s, when Suharto included technocrats and moderate Muslim groups in his inner circle as part of a strategy to balance the military’s growing influence (Rabasa and Haseman 2002). In addition, Suharto gradually transferred the political and economic perks from the military elites to his relatives and close friends (Slater 2010). As the relationship worsened, Indonesia’s economy started to crumble during the Asian financial crisis of 1997 to 1998. Students and activists launched protests and demonstrations, popularly known as the reformasi movement, demanding political reforms and pro-poor economic programs. Protests triggered the defection of a large faction of the military from the autocratic regime, leading to Suharto’s resignation in 1998 (Lee 2015). The reformasi movement then brought some positive development toward democratic civilian control of the military in Indonesia as follows. The reformasi era that took place from 1998 to 2004 experienced a major overhaul of Indonesia’s political landscape such as the competitive legislative election in 1999, major constitutional amendments from 1999 to 2002, and the passing of the TNI Law in 2004. To assess the extent of civilian control over the military since reformasi in Indonesia, in this section I utilize the framework proposed by Croissant et al. (2013). They delineate five different decisionmaking areas in civil-military relations: elite recruitment, public policy, domestic security, national defense, and military organization (see also Chapter 1). Concerning elite recruitment, Indonesia has achieved significant progress on institutionalization of civilian control. For example, in 2004 TNI reserved seats in national and subnational parliaments were revoked, and no one on active duty in the military has served as a cabinet minister—including the minister of defense position—since 1999 (Croissant et al. 2013, p. 102). The 2004 TNI Law bans military officers from running for elected offices unless they have resigned from active service or retired. In addition, the law also mandates TNI to remain neutral during elections. The legal restriction for the military to occupy political offices

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effectively removed military influence in public policymaking, allocating full decisionmaking power to democratically elected civilians. The Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (DPR, Indonesian Parliament) holds substantial power of the purse to authorize government budget proposals for all policy sectors (Blöndal, Hawkesworth, and Choi 2009). Significant civilian control also extends to policymaking at subnational levels. The army’s territorial commands that were used by Suharto to shadow government administration structure lost their sociopolitical function following the revocation of the dwifungsi doctrine.2 Consequently, these commands are prohibited from intervening in subnational government policies and activities. Furthermore, the implementation of decentralization programs and direct election for subnational governments and parliaments since 2001, despite criticism, has eliminated military access to political decisionmaking fora. Nevertheless, military influence in the realm of domestic security is still significant. The separation of Polri (Indonesian Police) and the armed forces has established a division of labor between the two security forces. Polri is a fully civilianized law enforcement body, whereas TNI is responsible for national defense. However, TNI is also legally mandated to contribute in counterinsurgency and counterterrorism operations as part of the MOOTW and, thus, results in overlapped functions with Polri in maintaining domestic security. This situation is further complicated by the absence of an integrated legal framework for TNI assistance to Polri (Araf and Mengko 2016; Mengko 2015). For example, it remains unclear under what conditions the military can be involved in domestic security, the duration and terms of ending military engagement in internal security operations, and which institution will be in charge to oversee operations. Moreover, decisions concerning TNI participation in domestic security operations are mostly made ad hoc, depending on operational dynamics and good personal relations between Polri and TNI leaders. However, it is especially in the areas of national defense and military organization where civilian control of the military is challenged by the military. Existing regulations do not clearly mandate the minister of defense to be subordinate to the Panglima (TNI commander). Both leaders are responsible directly to the president, but the Panglima holds the sole decisionmaking power for doctrinal adaptation, troop deployments, personnel supervision, and personnel career development. As such, the Ministry of Defense is often restricted to taking the role of the administrative wing of the military. Furthermore, the majority of high- and middle-ranking positions within the Ministry of Defense organization are occupied by military personnel, thereby limiting civilian influence in policy formulation and implementation regarding national defense (Gunawan 2017). The TNI Law also allows active military officers to fill several positions related to defense and security affairs in ten ministries and government agencies, as long as it is

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requested by the respective body. Regarding policy evaluation, the military’s defense activities are often isolated from external oversight mechanisms. Even though the DPR holds the power to authorize and scrutinize the government’s budget (including defense expenditures), parliamentary access to defense-related information is limited and largely depends on the will of the military-dominated defense bureaucracy to share information. Consequently, the DPR is unable to advance in-depth investigations. Moreover, high turnover rates for members of parliament negatively affect the legislature’s defense expertise. Perhaps the most striking example of the military’s autonomy in its internal affairs is the exclusive jurisdiction of military courts over members of TNI who have committed crimes, irrespective of the nature of the crime (Lorenz 2015). Unsurprisingly, exclusive jurisdiction of the military justice system over TNI personnel has entrenched the culture of impunity in TNI (Human Rights Watch 2013). The 1982 Defense Law mandated the military with a dual role: a military defense and security role and a role as a sociopolitical actor. Both roles were the legal manifestation of the dwifungsi doctrine developed by the military at the dawn of Suharto’s regime. To fulfill the first role, military and police were integrated under the so-called Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia (ABRI, Indonesian Armed Forces). ABRI held the responsibility for national defense and domestic security. Consequently, military personnel function as both national security apparatuses, enabling them to address internal security problems without restrictions. Because Indonesia did not face obvious regional or international security threats, ABRI focused on internal security. Under the authoritarian order, it was responsible for kidnappings and torture, forced eviction, and mass killings of opposition activists. Meanwhile, large military operations were conducted in Aceh, East Timor, and Papua for years, under the claim of destroying separatist groups. For the sociopolitical role, the military acted as guardian of state stability and national development via active participation in the state’s decisionmaking process. Through the so-called kekaryaan (functionality) program, active officers were selected and appointed for political offices, top bureaucracy positions, and superiors in state-owned companies (Rinakit 2005). The program itself was the backbone of military politics, allowing thousands of officers to scrutinize government administration. In the 1980s, the military launched a nationwide civic action program called ABRI Masuk Desa (AMD, or ABRI in the village) that deployed military officers at the village level to help community development projects— notably building infrastructure and farming projects—while conducting cit-

The Evolving Roles of TNI

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izen surveillance at the lowest level of administration (Honna 2003). The sociopolitical function was not limited to the political arena, but also included income-generating activities. Each command structure within ABRI had its own foundation that supervised several companies, which generated extrabudgetary funding for the military. Government projects, mining, security provision, and transportation are some examples of business activities conducted by such companies, which involved military personnel and assets. Other military income-generating activities were less formalized, but the impact was even more devastating, such as extortion, illegal logging, smuggling, racketeering, arms trade, and forced eviction (Mietzner and Misol 2012). The defense regulations—whether it was intended or not—did not specify the scope and limitations of nonmilitary duties. Consequently, the Indonesian Armed Forces enjoyed unrestricted authority to conduct missions beyond their traditional war-fighting role. This had far-reaching consequences on people’s lives in Indonesia. In late 2004, the DPR amended the old military roles. Above all, the military political and business activities were abolished. TNI’s direct involvement in domestic security was revoked and its core function was restricted to national defense. The TNI Law stipulates operational partition for TNI’s core function into combat and noncombat objectives (see Table 9.1). On the one hand, Military Operations for War (MOW, Operasi Militer Untuk Perang) are linked to the war-fighting role of the military. This Table 9.1 TNI Assignment in TNI Law No. 34/2004 TNI Assignments Military Operations for War (MOW) Military Operations Other Than War (MOOTW) 1. Tackling armed separatist movements; 2. Tackling armed rebellion; 3. Tackling terrorism; 4. Securing border areas; 5. Securing vital national objects (state strategic facilities); 6. Performing global peacekeeping tasks based on the state’s foreign policy; 7. Protecting national leadership and families; 8. Developing defense regions and supporting the force based on a total defense system; 9. Assisting government functions at the subnational level; 10. Assisting the National Police in maintaining domestic security and civil order based on the laws; 11. Protecting foreign state leadership visits; 12. Assisting natural disaster relief, refugee, and humanitarian intervention; 13. Assisting search and rescue operations; 14. Assisting the government in securing sea-lanes and air space from illegal activities such as piracy, smuggling, and trafficking. Note: TNI, Tentara Nasional Indonesia (Indonesian National Military).

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includes TNI deployment to fight external aggression following a declaration of war. On the other hand, MOOTW refers to the noncombat role of the military comprised of fourteen missions. MOOTW was designed to accommodate the advantage of the TNI organizational and command structure to assist civilian authority outside the military’s traditional role. Some MOOTW missions make a positive contribution toward state capacity in a respective issue. For example, TNI’s involvement as first responder for humanitarian action and disaster relief under the coordination of the National Disaster Management Agency has gradually improved the capabilities of the state to mitigate disaster impacts. In addition, the involvement of TNI personnel in peacekeeping operations also increased significantly since 2006 and is further aiming for deployment of 4,000 peacekeepers from 2015 to 2019. Finally, mechanisms to improve democratic civilian control of the military on combat and noncombat missions are also stipulated in the TNI Law. Military deployment in both types of missions must be approved through a so-called political decision, requiring formal consultation between the president and the parliament. However, in practice, such a consultative process has rarely taken place. The military leadership repeatedly takes the initiative to define the mission, offering it directly to the president for approval. To a certain degree, this affects the attributes of military effectiveness for the scope of TNI missions, as explained below.

Attributes of Military Effectiveness in the Period After Reformasi

From 1999 to 2006, civil-military relations in Indonesia were focused only on curtailing the military role in politics. There was a lack of effort by the government to address the issue of military effectiveness as a defense apparatus since reformasi. But this condition changed when new national defense planning was launched in 2010 under the administration of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, centering on the so-called Minimum Essential Force (MEF, Kekuatan Pokok Minimum) project to develop TNI’s capability in fulfilling its war-fighting role. Establishing rapid deployment capability, improving the striking force, and preparing force readiness for an emergency situation are three main priorities embedded in the project. Nevertheless, an obsolete defense strategy, careless weapon acquisition, lack of force interoperability, insufficient budget allocations, and unbalanced personnel composition have become serious obstacles for the improvement of the military’s MOW capability. In sum, MEF is a military transformation process that demands substantial change not only on the hardware part but also the software element of military organization. At its core, transformation requires the military to adapt its defense doctrine to the current strategic environment, a transfor-

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mation process that potentially increases future uncertainty for the military organization and thus is often avoided. In the case of Indonesia, the effort to establish a new defense strategy is in inertia. Indonesia’s recent Defense White Paper shows a lack of interest in taking seriously President Joko Widodo’s vision of Indonesia as a “Global Maritime Fulcrum” or the prospects of tensions in the South China Sea in future defense strategy. Rather, the current white paper—similar to the previous ones—emphasizes the outdated total defense doctrine (sishanta, sistem pertahanan semesta) by promoting the bela negara (state defense) program.3 The bela negara program plans to recruit 100 million volunteers in the next ten years. It was defined by the minister of defense as a “national character building” project for the citizens despite the fact that the recruitment process involves paramilitary training by the military. The absence of doctrinal innovation affects the weapon acquisition agenda in MEF. Indonesia has purchased hundreds of battle tanks, several fighter jets, attack helicopters, and frigates in recent years from various suppliers. However, such acquisitions were mostly made to rejuvenate obsolete weapons, ignoring the potential of weapons platform integration in the field. Moreover, procurement plans appear to be driven by TNI’s interest to keep up with other Southeast Asian militaries rather than by strategic consideration (Schreer 2015). The three services’ capability for interoperability has yet to be taken seriously by the military. The government announced a plan to establish a joint regional defense command (Komando Gabungan Wilayah Pertahanan), which would have integrated all services with rapid deployment capability as part of the first phase of MEF in 2014. But the plan was stalled in the Ministry of Defense due to strong resistance from the army service (Gunawan 2017). Budget allocation is another critical issue in military effectiveness. For example, a government plan to raise the defense budget from 0.8 percent of gross domestic product (GDP) in 2010 to 1.5 percent in 2016 has never been implemented (Heiduk 2017). There is little prospect for future improvement since the defense sector must compete with the current presidential ambitions to accelerate large infrastructure projects across the country. Another pressing issue is personnel salaries, which account for almost two-thirds of the annual defense budget and leave little space for additional procurements (Gunawan 2017). In addition, the existing military organization is suffering from a chronic career logjam among hundreds of high- and middle-ranking officers (Jakarta Post 2017a). During Suharto’s autocratic regime, military officers benefited from various civilian posts for career advancement outside the military organization. But these civilian posts are no longer accessible to the military officials since the TNI Law passed in 2004. Consequently, personnel rotation and career development within the military have been limited. The MEF project offers a so-called zero growth policy in military

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recruitment to address the personnel issues by balancing the number of new recruits and retirees. Yet the zero growth policy ignores the fact that TNI requires major downsizing to be cost effective. Indicators for military effectiveness in Military Operations Other than War are mostly lacking. Above all, the existing defense planning excludes the MOOTW mission. This condition may have been caused by two opposite perspectives that established a policy dilemma for the decisionmakers. First, the inclusion of MOOTW in the TNI Law was originally motivated by decisionmakers’ concerns that the law enforcement body would lack the capacity to take full responsibility for domestic security after separation of the police and the military (Lorenz 2015). Second, it seems that defense planners were indifferent regarding defining the scope of the MOOTW mission since this most likely would have triggered public criticism concerning the potential return of the military sociopolitical function or military resistance. This dilemma motivated the decisionmakers to keep the existing legal basis for MOOTW only partially regulated, overlapping with other regulations, or in most cases nonexisting (Mengko 2015). While civil society organizations have frequently called for a unified legal framework for TNI assistance to civilian authorities and law enforcement agencies as outlined in MOOTW, the cabinet and DPR have shown little interest in this issue. The absence of a unified legal framework for MOOTW is further aggravated by the lack of interagency procedures. The 2002 Defense Law stipulates the establishment of a national defense council, roughly similar to the National Security Council in the United States, which would assist the president in formulating national defense policy as well as advising her or him in decisions concerning troop deployments. As of this writing, the council has not been established. In practice, the coordinating Kemenkopolhukam (Ministry of Politics, Law and Security) plays the advisory function on defense and security policy. Because retired military generals have occupied the post of a minister of the Kemenkopolhukam since the 1980s, there is the risk that MOOTW will receive little scrutiny. Moreover, the role of the ministry is restricted to coordination between the military and other government agencies. Taking part or even intervening in the formulation, implementation, and evaluation stages of MOOTW is beyond its mandate. In addition to a poor legislative framework and the lack of an institutional arrangement, the resource attribution is another chronic problem. There is no specific allocation for the MOOTW mission in the annual defense budget. However, a closer look into several memorandums between TNI and other government civilian agencies reveals that such missions are often financed by the civilian agencies instead of the military. In 2013, the defense minister enacted a decree that allows the military to receive or give grants (hibah) in the forms of cash money, services, or assets to or from other institutions (public/private; subnational/national/international institu-

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tions) without any obligation to refund (Ministry of Defense, Republic of Indonesia 2013). It is most likely that the recent MOOTW missions are funded through such mechanisms, using the budgets of other government agencies, state-owned enterprises, or the subnational government. For instance, it was reported in 2015 that the Jakarta provincial government granted nearly 100 billion rupiah (approx. $7 million) from its annual budget to the military (Kompas 2015c). The Jakarta government claimed that the fund was to support military assistance in maintaining security in the capital. It should be noted, however, that the Indonesian Corruption Eradication Commission has reported that this type of grant mechanism is highly vulnerable to corruption practices, particularly at the subnational levels. Overall, there are no sufficient defense plans, institutional arrangements, or allocations of resources to support military effectiveness in MOW and MOOTW, although features of military effectiveness are more enhanced concerning MOW than MOOTW. In the latter, a lack of clear direction in defense planning increases flexibility in the hands of the military on the scope and duration of the mission. This condition perfectly matches with the huge potential of using grant mechanisms to finance MOOTW from other government agencies.

The Rise of MOOTW, Civilian Control, and Problems of Military Effectiveness

Principally, enhancing military effectiveness means increasing the potential for the success of military missions. The success of nondefense-related military missions depends on two elements (Pion-Berlin 2016). The first element is the selection of mission assignments based on preexisting military capacity. In other words, missions should be compatible with the organizational and professional strength of the military. A nondefense-related mission must be designed to benefit from the military’s existing capabilities for noncombat situations such as command structure, rapid transportation, logistical support, building infrastructure, and medical assistance. Allowing the military to develop a new mission beyond its existing capacities will impede the mission objective (Pion-Berlin 2016). This is because the military, like any other organization, is resistant to change. It requires considerable time for the military to gain skills for a new mission. The second element is to set clear limitations on the military role in nondefense-related missions. A mission must clearly specify its duration and, more importantly, be kept away from political or financial resources. Long duration and multiple roles in nondefense-related missions will most likely hamper military professionalism. In the context of democracy, uncontested civilian authority in the defense sector will make the inclusion of these elements easier since the military, like any other bureaucratic organizations, rarely initiates

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policy change internally (Posen 1984). This condition is particularly important for militaries that are still undertaking role transformation as professional organizations, which is the case in most new democracies. Full civilian authority in deciding the limits and scope of nondefense missions not only protects military professionalism but also makes such missions accountable to the public and measurable in terms of effectiveness. But when limited civilian control in the defense sector prevails, we would expect the opposite result as happened in the case of TNI involvement in food security discussed below. The assertiveness of TNI to conduct MOOTW missions can be traced back to the final year of the Yudhoyono administration (2014) but further intensified under President Widodo (IPAC 2015). Unlike his predecessor— a former general and military reformer—Widodo shows little interest in military and defense affairs. The newly elected president is more interested in promoting “developmentalism,” a pragmatic economic policy with a narrow target toward boosting economic growth (Warburton 2016). Although it bears resemblance to Suharto’s development agenda, Widodo’s development approach does not utilize the military as repressive tool. Yet the similar development approach is accustomed to the military. The military had mastered skills to support the development approach of Suharto and it seems plausible to assume that, if the opportunity would arise, the military would be willing to take part in Widodo’s development agenda. In fact, in late 2014, Widodo addressed military commanders to be more active in supporting his development program and, particularly, the government’s food security program (swasembada pangan) (Cabinet Secretariat, Republic of Indonesia 2014). One month later, the army signed a memorandum with the Ministry of Agriculture to deploy 50,000 military personnel in providing agricultural counseling, establishing new rice fields, and distributing farming equipment throughout the country for the following three years (Kompas 2015a). Since then, the number of TNI memorandums with other government agencies to support government’s development program increased significantly (see Figure 9.1). The memorandums mostly involve the utilization of TNI personnel and facilities to assist the agency’s duty in several issues for a five-year term. For example, TNI and the Ministry of Forestry signed an MoU to utilize TNI personnel for a forest rehabilitation and conservation program in early 2014. In 2015, TNI signed further memorandums with the Ministry of Transportation to provide security services in airports, seaports, and train stations. TNI also signed memorandums with two major state-owned enterprises, the State Mining and Oil Company (Pertamina) and State Electricity Company (PLN) to protect mining facilities and logistic transportation. The number of signed memorandums decreased in 2016 after strong criticism from parliamentarians and civil society groups. But the protest did not fully

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Figure 9.1 Number of Memorandums of Understanding Between TNI and Government Institutions, 2012–2017

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stop TNI from establishing memorandums with government agencies. For example, recently another memorandum was signed with the Ministry of Finance to assist in taxes and customs collection (Tempo 2017b). The nexus between limited civilian control over national defense and military organization on the one hand and TNI’s assertiveness in nondefense missions on the other hand is best illustrated by TNI’s participation in the public food security project. As the Office of the Ombudsman has recently criticized, the TNI Law stipulates that any form of military personnel deployment must be based on a political decision between the president and the parliament. However, this was not the case when the military and the Ministry of Agriculture signed their MoU (Tempo 2017d). The military leadership claims that the memorandum is based on Inpres (Presidential Instruction) No. 11/2011, enacted by the Yudhoyono administration in 2011. However, this Inpres specifically orders the TNI commander to deploy military personnel and assets to protect rice production and distribution following extreme weather in early 2011 that caused significant disruptions in crop production across Indonesia. In addition, there are no instructions in the Inpres to the military for conducting counseling or opening new rice fields.

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On another occasion, TNI leaders used President Widodo’s verbal instruction in 2014 as the legal basis for military involvement in food security issues. TNI Commander General Gatot Nurmantyo further expanded TNI’s quest for food security by declaring its own project, called the Center for Farmers Integrated Service (SP3T), in early 2017. According to the project, military personnel would run the center for production, distribution, and marketing of rice stocks at village level ( Jakarta Post 2017b). Since its beginning in 2014, the food security program has been characterized by a lack of civilian involvement in the decisionmaking process, an obscure legal status, and extreme military leeway to decide on the concrete scope of this mission. Moreover, the newly established SP3T project in 2017 shows military autonomy to reinvent new nonrelated defense missions without a clear scope and duration limit. Military assertiveness in the food security program raises one important question: Was the military involvement to address the food security issue effective? As aforementioned, one of the targets set in the MoU is increasing the numbers of rice fields by opening up new rice fields within three years from 2015 to 2017. The initial two years of the project were targeted to open 160,000 hectares of new rice fields and the allocated budget was 3.9 trillion rupiah (approx. $277 million). About 93 percent of the target has been fulfilled, but its effectiveness has been questioned. The ombudsman branches at the subnational level reported that the quality of the newly constructed rice fields is extremely poor. For instance, many of the new rice fields in South Kalimantan province are useless due to the lack of an irrigation system or have been destroyed by floods (Tempo 2017a). The MoU also stipulated that military personnel would take responsibility as farming counsellors throughout the country. This move was claimed by the TNI commander to tackle the current deficits of 20,000 farming counsellors at the village level by mobilizing the existing TNI’s 50,000 Babinsa (noncommissioned military officer at village level) (Kompas 2015b). Before being deployed as farming counsellors, the Babinsa officers must take part in a one-day training on agricultural techniques at the army regional command office. Of course, it is impossible for the personnel to master farming technologies in such a short period of time. Another issue is the financial management of the rice field project. The project gives military personnel the task of distributing project funds for local contractors and farmers to open new rice fields. Moreover, this proved to be problematic in the field. Several farmers reported intimidation by TNI personnel in South Sulawesi and others boycotted the TNI-led projects in the West Nusa Tenggara provinces (Tempo 2017a). These incidents had created significant delays on the project target. On closer investigation, both cases were triggered by unwarranted suspensions of the distribution of project funds from TNI personnel to the farmers.

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The military’s role in the food security project gradually expanded in 2016 when it took part in overseeing the rice trading process to increase the government rice stocks in 2016. Again, the ombudsman reported intimidation by military personnel toward farmers to sell their rice to the government’s Indonesian Bureau of Logistics (BULOG), which offered a lower price than the market (Tempo 2017c). Finally, TNI began to be self-initiated in its involvement in the food security program through the SP3T project. The SP3T is a military-sponsored one-stop service center for farming. Through the center, military personnel provide various services to rice production as well as buy or sell farmers’ products. Nevertheless, there is no target outlined in SP3T, and no civilian authorities can oversee the center activities. Under such conditions, there is a legitimate fear that the SP3T will be an entry point for a military comeback in business. Recent military assertiveness in nondefense-related missions has raised public concern over a potential revival of the military’s sociopolitical function in Indonesia after reformasi. In this chapter, I demonstrated that this development is causally linked to deficits in civilian control of the military, especially in the areas of defense policy and military affairs. The lack of military effectiveness is related to the military’s prerogative in the decisionmaking process and policy implementation of new military roles, particularly for MOOTW. There are no strategic planning, interagency processes, and budget allocation for MOOTW in Indonesia. Two implications emerge from this analysis. First, the military was able to decide its own mission profile even under the condition of a legal vacuum as exemplified by military involvement in the government’s large-scale food security project. And second, the military was able to reinvent new nondefense-related missions that further expanded from its preexisting capacity as a state defense apparatus. The introduction of a military-initiated SP3T program shows this ability, through deep involvement of the military personnel and assets in the complex process of the agricultural sector. After closer inspection, problems with the effectiveness of the military in the food security project emerged. The food security project goals of seeking to open new rice fields have not been achieved despite the deployment of thousands of military personnel nationwide and the allocation of huge funds to support it. Even for the latter, problems of fund distribution by military personnel emerged and suspended the construction process in several areas. Based on these findings, limited civilian control in defense affairs has contributed to military assertiveness in nondefense-related missions. This condition has led to unclear limitations of utilizing the military beyond its preexisting capacity,

Conclusion

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which later has been counterproductive to military effectiveness in the missions. Ideally, a national defense council that is yet to be established will be the center of gravity for any form of TNI mission (MOW or MOOTW). The council can serve as advisory body and operational command center such as the US-modeled National Security Council and National Command Authority. By doing so, the scope, duration, and command chain in MOOTW missions will be clearer and, more importantly, subjected to public scrutiny. From the military perspective, unlimited and uncontrolled nondefense-related missions potentially paralyze the effort to establish professionalism within the military. It is hard to imagine that TNI will be able to maintain its war-fighting role against external threats while devoting much of its resources to missions beyond TNI’s preexisting capacity without limitation. From a civilian perspective, allowing the military to define its own nondefense missions and shielding the missions from effective oversight may harm legitimation of democratically elected civilians in Indonesia. In the longer term, the latter holds great potential for disrupting the future of the democratic system in the country. 1. The nature of the transfer of power from Sukarno to Suharto has been a subject of controversy. Some historians argue that the Supersemar was a forgery, while others propose that the letter was drafted by Suharto and Sukarno was coerced by Suharto’s army loyalists into signing the document. 2. The army territorial commands (Komando Teritorial Angkatan Darat) are army organizational structures that correspond the structure of civilian bureaucracy at the subnational level (from provincial to village level). It was established by the military in the early 1960s to implement the territorial warfare doctrine. 3. The total defense doctrine was originally developed from the experience of independence struggle against the Dutch colonials in the 1940s. The core element is to involve the citizens in mass mobilizations against any security threats. This was further implemented through three strategies: mobilizing national resources, territorial defense, and guerrilla warfare. In practice, the doctrine has been oriented to land-based defense.

Notes

PART 3 Hybrid and Authoritarian Regimes

10 Russia: The Armed Forces as Patriotic Glue Ofer Fridman

and their civilian bosses—whether these were czars, Communist Party leaders, or presidents—has been well covered in the Western literature (Herspring 1996; Taylor 2003; Gomart 2008; Brannon 2016). Taking different characteristics of Russian political-military culture as their point of departure, most studies have examined the role and place of the military in Russian politics through the prism of Western models of civilian control of military institutions. In this chapter, I take a slightly different approach. I aim to examine the complex role that the military plays in Russia’s political system, arguing that in the Russian politico-cultural-historical context, military effectiveness extends the narrow Western understanding as “the capacity to create military power” (Brooks and Stanley 2007, p. 9). As I show in this chapter, the Russian military has historically played a complex role within the Russian political system, which not only extends the traditional role of defending the country or its political interests but also defines the nature of relations between the military, civilian leadership, and general public. Unlike in the West where armed forces are mainly seen as “hard power” intended to achieve certain political aims and, thus, are built, maintained, and controlled as such, in Russia the military has traditionally had an additional role as an “internal soft power” player in domestic politics. The military in Russia has always played a significant role in domestic politics, not only by securing the immediate stability of the civilian regime, but also by being a powerful and politically inert force that prevents rapid and precipitate political developments (Lavrov 2007). On the one hand, as I show in this chapter, the Russian military has rarely played an active role in domestic politics. On the other hand, its indirect influence

The nature of the relations between Russia’s military leaders

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on the political frame of mind of the Russian people cannot be underestimated. After all, the revolutions of 1917 and the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991 occurred when the military was highly demoralized and physically degraded (first due to the underperformance in World War I, second due to the ill-planned and executed war in Afghanistan). As noted, the Russian military, unlike most of its Western counterparts, has two traditional sets of goals—as hard power and as internal soft power. In this part of the chapter, I examine them both in an attempt to reveal the nature of the complex relations between these two different sets of goals. It is important to note that in referring to the idea of soft power, I divide it into external and internal concepts. The first concept, external soft power, refers to what is commonly known as soft power—the ability of a state to shape the political behavior of other states through attraction rather than direct pressure in the form of sanctions, according to Joseph Nye, who has been promoting this concept since he coined the term back in 1990 (1990, 2004). The concept of internal soft power, as it is used in this chapter, underlines an ability of a domestic political actor to shape public opinion through attraction, rather than direct pressure (physical or informational), creating a certain ideological framework that shapes public political behavior. Thus, internal soft power represents a slightly different form of action than what is commonly considered to be propaganda. To illustrate these arguments, I take the Russian military intervention in Syria as a case study. The role that the military plays in the Russian political system can be understood only within the Russian cultural-historical context. Ivan Ilyin, one of the renewed Russian philosophers, famously claimed that “the history of Russia is akin to the history of a besieged fortress” (2007a, p. 112). While it is hard to imagine a way in which the enormous territory of Russia can be besieged, its people believe that they have been beleaguered during the entirety of Russian history, surviving in extreme climate conditions and bravely resisting repetitive invasions from the East and the West. In the Russian mind, Russian history is “the history of defence, struggle and sacrifice: from the first attacks of nomads on Kiev in 1037 until today. Accessible from all flanks, completely unprotected, Russia was a kind of ‘sweet booty’ for the nomadic East, as well as for the settled West” (p. 110). One of the main outcomes of this reality is the fact that, historically, Russian warfare had always been a national affair. Since the first regular units (strel’tsy) established by Ivan the Terrible through more systemized recruiting systems created by Peter the Great and up to the truly national armies (first the Imperial and then the Soviet) of the twentieth century, the Russian armed forces have always had a very national character, built on the

The Role of the Military in Russia’s Political System

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“obligation of every Russian person to protect its Fatherland” (Gubanov 1999, p. 167). Russia’s military history, unlike that of the West, did not know the phenomenon of mercenaries. And despite the fact that during different periods, the Russian army welcomed a large numbers of foreign officers, the process of their enlistment was similar to that of Russian subjects and included taking an oath to protect the Russian state. While the Western term soldier originated from the old French souled—soldier’s pay that was paid by solidus (Latin for the golden coin issued in the late Roman Empire), the Russian vóin has completely different origins.1 The roots of the word vóin are in old Russian vói—people’s militiaman (narodnyy opolchenets) (Gubanov 1999, pp. 167–170). Therefore, voyná (war in Russian) is an activity done by vóinami (people’s militiamen) to defend their people. Deeply rooted in this cultural-historical context, Russian armed forces have always considered themselves more as a defender of the Russian people rather than as a tool to continue policy of political leadership by other means. Without any doubt, not all Russian wars were defensive to protect Russian people or even were justified as such. Since the late eighteenth century and until the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917, the Russian Empire was “the Gendarme of Europe,” saving Austria in the War of the Second Coalition in 1799–1800, helping to defeat Napoleon in 1813–1814 by invading Prussia and going all the way to Paris in the War of the Sixth Coalition, and rescuing the Austrian Empire from the Hungarian Revolution in 1849 (Ilyin 2007b, pp. 86–87). Also during the Soviet period, there were military operations that can hardly be described as defensive—from the Winter War with Finland and to the war in Afghanistan. But these were not the wars that influenced the understanding of the Russian armed forces about their role and place in the Russian state, as above all, their understanding has been shaped by the tragic Patriotic War against the French Invasion in 18122 and the Great Patriotic War against the Nazi-German Invasion in 1941 (the title of “patriotic” was awarded to these wars for a reason). While defending the state and its people from a foreign invasion is a duty of any military, the Russian military has always played an additional role in the domestic political system. Evgeny Messner, an Imperial officer who was writing in exile and whose works have become popular after the collapse of the Soviet Union (Fridman 2017, p. 43), argued: “The officers were educated and were educating the rest of the army and navy . . . that the army was not only the defender of the Fatherland from external enemies, but also the main support of the tsarist system from the internal enemies.” And while one might assume that this “support” was based on threat and suppression, the opposite is true, as Messner clarified: “Despite the common, but erroneous formula ‘Army is outside the politics,’ the army has [always] been an instrument of domestic politics, educating soldiers, and

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through them the whole population, in devotion to the Faith, the Tsar and the Fatherland” (Messner et al. 2000, p. 73). In other words, the Russian military has always served as one of the main founding stones of domestic politics as, in the Russian culturalhistorical context, a strong political leadership has always been, first and foremost, associated with a strong military, and vice versa. It is important to note, however, that the role of the Russian military has never been to function as a potential hammer against domestic political threats. Throughout Russian history, the military was frequently used to suppress internal uprisings (Obraztsov 2013, p. 168); these were the Imperial Secret Police, NKVD (People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs), KGB, MVD (Ministry of Internal Affairs), and other services, whose mission has been to threaten and suppress the population. However, the military has always served as the main source of Russian patriotic spirit that united people under the same leadership, in times of war as well as in times of peace (Ryazantsev 2010). To put it simply, the Russian military has traditionally been a patriotic glue (i.e., internal soft power) that has united the Russian people, even under the most tyrannical rulers, because without this glue even the most liberal leaders would have faced disastrous consequences. As General Alexander Vladimirov, one of the prominent contemporary strategists in Russia, puts it: “Military is not just one of the state’s attributes, it is its essence” (2013, p. 601). The czarist government during World War I, or the Soviet leaders during the Afghanistan War, failed to fulfill this logic and, as proof of that, Nikolas II was the last czar and Mikhail Gorbachev was the last Soviet leader. During the past 200 years, the Russian military has always been one of the most powerful military organizations in the world, something that it had to prove on several occasions. However, analyzing its relations with the political authority, it seems that the military has remained surprisingly aloof from the domestic high politics—the last successful seizure of power orchestrated by the military in Russia was in 1801. Despite several failed attempts at military coups such as the Decembrist Revolt in 1825, the 1991 Soviet coup d’état, and the 1993 Constitutional Crisis, the Russian military has proved itself ineffective in protecting its own interests. Even facing significant threats from the Russian political leadership, from the Stalinist purges in the 1930s during which thousands of talented officers were executed, to significant budget cuts in the 1990s that left military personnel unpaid for months—the Russian military has hesitated to take control in its hands. Some scholars claim that this behavior can be explained by the fact that “a norm of civilian supremacy has deep roots in the Russian armed forces”

The Issue of Control in Russia’s Civil-Military Relations

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(Taylor 2003, p. 2), suggesting that the organizational culture of the Russian military makes it naturally comply with the political control. Other researchers argue that, especially during the times of the Soviet Union, the lack of the military intervention in politics was due to the fact that “the military was under a rigorous control of the Party” (Belozerov 2017, p. 36), thus suggesting that the civilian control in the Soviet Union was so severe that the military had no choice but to comply. While these two different opinions seem to complete, rather to contradict, one another, it is important to note that even when the Russian military was dragged into internal politics by different political players who sought to use force to achieve their goals, its intervention tended to be “weak, half-hearted, and consequently ineffective” (Taylor 2003, p. 3). This leads to an important question about the nature of control in the relations between the Russian armed forces and their civilian leadership. None of the suggested explanations, whether the military traditionally submits itself to the political rule or the political rule is so rigorous that the military blindly follows its orders, explain why in times of political crises the Russian military has consistently hesitated to follow the lead of the civilian rule. To answer this question, it is important to understand that the relations between the Russian military and its civil leadership have been shaped by the tradition of the Russian political system based on the cult of personality. This has proved itself as the most efficient way to rule Russia, due to “the specifics of the Russian mentality, bureaucratic apparatus, and the sacralization of the leader’s personality, guarded by the mass media and trustworthy thinking intellectuals” (Viktorov 2012, p. 40). Consequently, it is not surprising that when it comes to the question of control by and compliance with the civilian political leadership, the armed forces, similar to any other actors within the Russian political system, tend to follow a leader with strong personality, rather than the institutionalized forms of civil-military relations (Krivopalov 2017, pp. 22–26). The understanding of the role of personality is also important for the analysis of civil-military relations in post-Soviet Russia. According to many Russian scholars, the collapse of the Soviet Union did not occur overnight but was a slow decline over a decade that was first and foremost marked by weak political leadership and its inability to grasp the scale of the people’s disillusionment with the Communist Party and its values (Panarin 2010; Khristinina 2016). Similar to many players within the slowly decaying political system of the Soviet Union, the military was lacking the traditionally required strong political leadership, a leadership that deserved following. The period of the 1990s was marked by the same problem in the relations between the newly established independent Russian government, headed by President Boris Yeltsin, and the Russian military that was bleeding

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on both fronts: physical (due to the dissolution of the Red Army between fifteen new states) and intellectual (due to the rejection of the Soviet ideology). Despite its desperate state and still suffering from the trauma of the war in Afghanistan, the Russian military was sent to fight another bloody insurgency without strong leadership from which to take orders. During the first Chechen campaign from 1994 to 1996, Yeltsin’s government was associated with a high level of corruption, economic failure, and an inability to project control on to the regions, let alone on the military (Lieven 1999, pp. 169–171). In light of this weak leadership, Russians saw this war as Yeltsin’s attempt to prove his power, rather than to defend Russian land, and the Russian public wanted “to get rid of both its hapless president and his Caucasian adventure” (Trenin and Malashenko 2004, p. 50). This approach changed entirely in 1999 with the arrival of Vladimir Putin, who was seen as an energetic, decisive, and strong leader. It is important to note that the strength of political leadership in the Russian historical-cultural context focuses not only on how strong, decisive, and important a leader is but also on how good that leader is in overcoming and concealing Russia’s weaknesses. As Dimitri Trenin puts it, “Even if the odds are against Russia, [a strong leader] is punching above the country’s weight rather than submitting himself to the will of the others” (2016, p. 27). In other words, when it comes to Russian civil-military relations, the military has traditionally been inclined to comply with a political leadership that is strong (i.e., does not appear weak) domestically and internationally in defending national interests, regardless of its real strength in projecting power internally or externally. In 1999 directly after his appointment as prime minister, during a briefing with the Russian generals in Chechnya, Putin paid tribute to the fallen soldiers, beginning in a very ordinary way: “I would like, according to Russian tradition, . . . to raise this glass and drink it for the memory of those who have fallen. . . . We have no right to allow ourselves any moment of weakness, because if we will, then those, who have fallen, died with no reason.” But Putin’s tribute had a completely unexpected ending: “This is why, I suggest, to put this glass away today. We definitely will drink for them [fallen soldiers], but we will drink later, when the immediate goals of principal character will be solved. This is why, I suggest to have a bite and start working” (Solov’ev 2015). This act of firmly putting the glass back on the table symbolizes in Russian cultural interpretation the decisiveness and power of a leader who deserves to be followed. Building on rising oil and gas revenues, the Russian economic growth of the first part of the 2000s not only was substantial, it was unprecedentedly high and fast (Åslund 2008). This success had an immediate influence on domestic public opinion that considered Putin as the “saviour of the nation,”

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“restorer of order,” and “distributor of the wealth” (Rogov 2013, p. 107). Putin’s next step, after the economic recovery, was the rehabilitation of the Russian military. Putin proved his strong and decisive leadership to the military during several occasions in the first part of the 2000s, such as the Kursk submarine disaster in 2000, the Beslan school siege in 2004, and the successful management of the Chechen conflict, which was declared a victory in 2009 (Kondrashov 2018). Moreover, in his relationship with the West, Putin had learned from the history of both Gorbachev and Yeltsin that the most important thing was “never to be weak, and never appear weak” (Trenin 2016, p. 27). While the military was ready to be led and controlled by Putin, who the security community considered as “a sort of primus inter pares” (Gomart 2008, p. 2), the Russia-Georgian war in 2008 (Tsyganok 2011; Barabanov, Lavrov, and Tseluiko 2009) proved that to fully meet its goals and aims, the military had to be given more than just “a new image,” as the 2008–2020 Plan for the Reorganisation of the Armed Forces of Russia promised (Arbatov and Dvorkin 2012, pp. 41–52; Baev 2012). In other words, the Russian armed forces required more funding, more sophisticated equipment, and more powerful weaponry to fulfill their aims. After the collapse of the Soviet Union and the following dissolution of its Red Army, the new Russian armed forces were established on May 7, 1992, with the president of Russia as the supreme commander in chief. The armed forces situated under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Defence and operationally commanded by the General Staff are divided into three “branches of Armed Forces” (Ground Forces, Aerospace Forces, and the Navy) and two “separate troop branches” (Strategic Missile Troops and Airborne Troops) (Ministry of Defence of the Russian Federation 2018). An additional separate troop branch is the National Guard, created in 2016 to consolidate the forces of the Internal Troops of the Ministry for Internal Affairs, SOBR,3 OMON,4 and other internal military forces. While retaining the legal status of armed forces, the National Guard falls outside the jurisdiction of the General Staff and is directly subordinated to the president of Russia (Presidential Decree 2016). The official goals and aims of the Russian Armed Forces are formulated by the Military Doctrine, the last version of which was approved in 2014. The doctrine defines three different sets of goals and aims for the armed forces: in peacetime, in a period of an immediate threat of aggression, and in wartime (Presidential Decree 2014). The majority of the goals and aims listed in the doctrine generally fall under the six fundamental roles of the armed forces defined by Bruneau and Matei (2008, p. 917) and described in the conceptual framework of this volume (see chapter 1). However, there are three exceptions: “[providing]

Goals and Aims of the Russian Military

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strategic (nuclear and non-nuclear) deterrence, including to prevent armed conflicts,” “ensuring the security of the economic activity of the Russian Federation in the World Ocean,” and “securing the national interests of the Russian Federation in the Arctic” (Presidential Decree 2014, p. 15). Interestingly enough, these roles refer more to defending national interests during peacetime and preventing conflicts by deterrence rather than fighting external or internal enemies, terrorism, or crime. These three roles point to the fact that a better understanding of true roles and missions of the Russian military can be offered not by the direct examination of its stated goals and aims but by an indirect analysis of the threats that, according to the Kremlin, the military has to deal with. In analyzing Russian military doctrine, it is important to note that it divides potential threats to the Russian Federation into two groups: military threats (voyennye ugrozy) and military risks (voyennye opasnosti). The definition of military threats is “a state of interstate or domestic relations, characterised by the real possibility of a military conflict between the opposing sides.” Military risks are defined as “a combination of factors that under certain conditions” has a potential to “lead to a military threat” (Presidential Decree 2014, p. 2). In other words, while military threats are seen as something that directly corresponds with the goals and aims described above, military risks imply more generic problems that, on the one hand, require military involvement but, on the other, cannot be addressed by the military alone. Interestingly, Russia’s military doctrine does not delineate NATO as a military threat; instead, it describes the mere expansion of NATO—“bringing the military infrastructure of NATO member countries near the borders of the Russian Federation”—as a military risk. Moreover, the doctrine observes “a decline in the probability of a large-scale war against the Russian Federation” (Presidential Decree 2014, pp. 4–5). Therefore, it seems right to argue that the Kremlin pays more attention to the role the armed forces play in addressing military risks rather than military threats. After all, Russia is the biggest nuclear power and it allows the Kremlin to feel relatively safe against traditional military threats, as Putin put it: “No one should have the illusion that it is possible to achieve military superiority over Russia” (2015a). In summarizing the nature of the military risks defined by Russia’s military doctrine, whether internal or external, it is difficult to avoid the conclusion that all of them describe situations that present no direct threat to the Russian Federation but a combination of military and nonmilitary hostile actions that can harm Russia’s interests, undermining the legitimacy of the Russian political establishment. Moreover, as many observers point out, the newest (2014) version of the doctrine signified potential hostile actions in the information dimension as the main risks to the Russian Federation (Gal’perovich 2014), either external by “the use of information and com-

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munication technologies for political-military purposes” or internal by “actions of information influence on population, first and foremost on young citizens, aimed to subvert historical, spiritual and patriotic traditions” (Presidential Decree 2014, pp. 6–7). This emphasis on the information dimension is a part of the general shift in the Kremlin’s approach toward the role and place of nonmilitary means and methods in international relations (i.e., political, economic, and most importantly informational) as the main threat to the stability of the Russian government. As the 2015 Russian National Security Strategy states, “The growing confrontation in the global information space has an increasing influence on the character of the international situation, as an outcome of the desire of some countries to achieve their geopolitical objectives by using information and communication technologies, including the manipulation of public consciousness and the falsification of history” (Presidential Decree 2015). This understanding of the role of the informational dimension in interstate and domestic confrontations is the result of more than a decade of conceptualization on the nature of contemporary confrontations that has been occurring in Russian academic, military, and political spheres (Fridman 2018). While the full discussion of the role and place of nonmilitary information confrontation in the Russian view of international relations is beyond the scope of this chapter, it is important to focus on the role that this conceptualization assigns to Russia’s armed forces. As two renowned Russian military theorists, Sergey Chekinov and Sergey Bogdanov, put it: while the nonmilitary interstate confrontations are not under the direct responsibility of the armed forces, they might be used as a tool that supports information and other nonmilitary actions simply by “their presence or by the demonstration of military potential” (2012, p. 15). Regarding the domestic information domain, many Russian researchers point to the role of the armed forces as a potential amplifier of patriotic notions that help to unite the Russian people (Ryazantsev 2010; Azarova 2010).5 Taking this role of the Russian military as an internal soft power actor, it is not surprising that since the early 2000s the Russian Ministry of Defence has been one of the three major institutions responsible for implementing the Russian governmental programs of the Patriotic Education of Citizens of the Russian Federation (Governmental Decree 2001, 2005, 2010, 2015). In summarizing the goals and aims of the Russian military, it is important to note that in addition to the conventional roles of any security forces as discussed in the theoretical literature on civil-military relations, the Russian military has been tasked with different goals and aims within the information domain. While it has quite specific tasks in protecting Russian information space (Ministry of Defence of the Russian Federation 2011) and supporting the Kremlin’s efforts in its nonmilitary struggle against external adversaries (Chekinov and Bogdanov 2012, p. 15), domestically

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the Russian military has been traditionally tasked (or has taken on itself) an important role of internal soft power actor that shapes patriotic notions among the Russian people. The military has always considered this role as its unwritten duty, thus it has been institutionalized not in military doctrines but in other relevant legislative documents. Moreover, as discussed above, the Russian military, as any other player in the Russian political system, has been able to fulfill its tasks (either in the information nonmilitary dimension or more security-focused ones) only under a strong political leader and has failed to perform during the periods of a bleak leadership that appears weak or in the cases of a political vacuum.

The Question of Effectiveness—Fighting for al-Assad Versus Winning Hearts and Minds

Since the very beginning of the Syrian crisis in 2011, Russia has continuously been the major international power that proactively supported the regime of Syrian president Bashar al-Assad. While on the diplomatic front the Kremlin has not been alone in averting the inclination of Western countries to impose sanctions on Syria (N. MacFarquhar 2011), it has continuously been providing military assistance to the troublesome Syrian military. From 2011 to 2015, Moscow delivered to Syria an estimated $983 million in weapons and military equipment (SIPRI 2016). Defending its actions against vast international criticism, Russian officials alluded briefly to the fact that all deliveries had been done “in accordance with international law, in compliance with the procedures and within the framework of existing contracts” (Efimova, Safronov, and Chernenko 2015). Despite the fact that President Putin’s decision to deploy forces in September 2015 surprised many Western politicians and political analysts, those who closely monitored Russian affairs could see the upcoming signs.6 Moreover, the transfer of military hardware and equipment from Russia to Syria had begun already in August and was well reported by different media outlets and social networks (Luhn 2015). According to Putin, the official aim of the Russian forces in Syria was “stabilising the legitimate power in Syria and creating the conditions for political compromise” (2015c). Almost six months later, while many were still conjecturing that the Kremlin’s real reasons for intervention differed substantially from the officially stated goals, Putin declared that “the goal, assigned to the Ministry of Defence and Armed Forces [in Syria], has been generally accomplished” and ordered the start of the withdrawal of Russian forces (2016). On the one hand, the positions of al-Assad have significantly improved due to the Russian proactive military support. On the other, it seems too simplistic and naïve to argue that helping al-Assad was the only goal that the Kremlin had been trying to achieve through its military intervention.

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From the beginning of the Russian deployment in Syria, some Western experts argued that the most important reason behind Moscow’s decision to send its troops to Syria was the fact that Damascus is “effectively the only ally which Russia has in the region” and “it is very important [to Russia] to preserve this platsdarm [bridgehead] in the region” (Sutyagin 2015; see also Mohseni 2015). From that perspective, the Russian armed forces, indeed, were successful: in less than six months, the Russian military succeeded in significantly weakening the positions of terrorist organizations and the positions of the Syrian opposition as well as helping al-Assad’s government to gain control back over significant territories. Nonetheless, a closer analysis of Russo-Syrian relations in general, and Russian strategic interests in Syria in particular, suggests several major flaws in this assumption. The first is the fact that since the end of the Cold War, Russian foreign policy has lost its ideological elements that previously fueled the “competition” in the Middle East. On the one hand, Syria has persisted to acquire Russian military equipment. On the other, Damascus had lost its status as a strategic partner, becoming just another client and, eventually, not the most reliable one when it came to paying the bills on time. Moreover, building Syria as a bridgehead for the potential expansion of influence in the Middle East suits more the ideological policies of the Soviet Union than pragmatic approaches of the Kremlin in the twenty-first century that first, and foremost, think about Russia’s national interests. It seems right to suggest that the Kremlin’s goal to stabilize the legitimate power in Syria was not the major aim, after all. Without significant political self-interest to intervene, Moscow could continue with its indirect support providing general protection against unfavorable resolutions in the UN Security Council and military hardware via Iran. Even though al-Assad has been the main beneficiary of the Russian intervention, it seems correct to surmise that Moscow was driven more by its own interests than by a bold support of the illfated Syrian president. In other words, while the Kremlin was interested in helping al-Assad no less than al-Assad was desperate for Russian help, from the very beginning, Russia was more interested in a successful end of hostilities than in preserving al-Assad’s regime (Jones, Solomon, and Hille 2016). Comparing Russian intervention in Syria to the military operations deployed by the Western countries against the Islamic State, the Kremlin was much more successful in the informational domain than its Western counterparts. From Putin’s rhetoric call to arms during a speech to the UN General Assembly just days before the “surprising” deployment of Russian forces in Syria up until the truly unexpected announcement of “mission accomplished” almost six months later—the statements, as well as actions, of the Russian leadership have resembled more a well-staged play than a simple attempt to help al-Assad. After all, Russia was involved in the Syrian conflict before September 30, 2015, and it is still

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deeply involved, even after the official withdrawal on March 14, 2016. If the true goal of this intervention was rescuing al-Assad, building a political-economic-military bridgehead in the Middle East, Moscow could have done so without all the theatrical performance that accompanied its actions. As discussed above, experts who have followed the development of Russian military thought during the past decade highlight the increasing attention that Russian scholars and strategists have been paying to the importance of informational struggle in international relations. Thus, it seems right to assume that the role of the Russian military in Syria was more to fight the battle for hearts and minds of domestic and international audiences than eliminating terrorists on the ground or saving al-Assad from the opposition. In other words, the task of the military was to perform a decisive and carefully staged performance of silver rockets, brave soldiers, shiny hardware, and fast (and almost easy) achievements. It is not surprising that, domestically, Putin’s approval rates were record high (89.9 percent) in mid-October 2015 due to the Russian military intervention in Syria (VCIOM 2015). While during the following years these approval rates slightly decreased, they stayed well above 80 percent (Levada Centre 2018), significantly higher than any Western politician could ever dream of. It is more surprising that the Russian military deployment had a more or less similar effect on Western public opinion. In light of the West’s general stalemate in its fight against the Islamic State, the Kremlin’s dramatic call for an international coalition, as well as the no less theatrical (and effective) immediate actions of its military, was overwhelmingly approved by the Western public. For example, 77 percent of British people supported forming a common front involving Russia to fight the Islamic State (YouGov 2015), whereas 53 percent of the US public thought that Russia had the upper hand in Syria (Blanton 2015). It was probably the first time in modern history that a deployment of Russian armed forces enjoyed such vast public support in the West. To conclude, the Russian intervention in Syria not only was a military operation, it also was a well-staged maneuver in information space intended to shape the public opinion inside and outside Russia. In addition, the Russian military was successful in fulfilling its goals and aims in the information domain (domestically and internationally) to the same (if not higher) degree of success, as it was achieving its more conventional military goals of this intervention.

Civil-Military Relations— Between Control and Effectiveness

In discussing the trade-off between control and effectiveness in Russia’s civil-military relations, it is important to take into consideration the Russian political-cultural context. As the analysis above shows, the Russian armed

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forces traditionally act effectively under a political leadership that assertively defends the state’s national interests, especially when it faces challenges that seem to be above the country’s weight. Moreover, since the Russian armed forces traditionally have two main roles, hard power and internal soft power, they are more effective when the political leadership takes these two into consideration. In other words, when building and deploying its military, the political leadership refers to it as hard power only (failing to understand and successfully integrate its role as an internal soft power actor), the military fails to perform effectively, and the war in Afghanistan or the First Chechen War are the best examples of such failure. However, when the Russian armed forces are synergistically tasked with these two roles, their effectiveness significantly improves, and the history is full of such examples from both Patriotic Wars to the current intervention in Syria. When it comes to the issue of control in the relations between the Kremlin and its military, it seems that Russia is an outstanding, if not unique, example of full civilian control. The Russian armed forces in the past 200 years have fully complied with the control of the political leadership, even if this leadership brutally acted against military institutional interests, such as Joseph Stalin in the interwar period with his purges against the military establishment and Yeltsin during the 1990s with his “Caucasian adventure” in Chechnya when the military faced moral and financial devastation. Moreover, in the moments of political vacuum, such as in 1917 or in 1991, the military hesitated to take control and fill the place of political leadership, even if temporarily. This leads to three important and interconnected characteristics of the trade-off between control and effectiveness in Russia’s civil-military relations. First, the Russian armed forces are effective only when they are tasked with two sets of goals as a hard power actor against external threats and as an internal soft power that serves as patriotic glue of the Russian society, regardless of whether it does it by propaganda, information operations, or promoting “devotion to the Faith, the Tsar and the Fatherland” (Messner et al. 2000, p. 73). Second, since only a strong leadership that aggressively defends Russia’s national interests would task the Russian armed forces with the goal of internal soft power to promote Russian nationalism and patriotism, the Russian military can be effective only under such leadership. Third, taking into consideration that the Russian military has traditionally seen itself more as a protector of people, rather than as a political tool in the hands of the political leadership, it seems right to argue that the armed forces, as an institution in the Russian political system, have never been in a competition for power with the civilian leadership, even when it has been considered as such. The best example of this luck of competition was the most powerful Soviet general of World War II, Marshal Georgy Zhukov, who was relieved from his duties in 1957 by Nikita Khrushchev, who enjoyed the support of

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Zhukov but similarly was afraid of his power (Chaney 1996, pp. 444– 455). In his memoirs Zhukov wrote, “Serving the Motherland and my people has always been the most important thing for me. And I can say with clear conscience: I did everything to fulfil this duty. . . . I lived my life understanding that I benefit the people, and this is the most important thing for any life” (2002, p. 399). These three characteristics are vital for any attempt to understand the nature of civil-military relations in Russia in general, and the trade-off between control and effectiveness in particular. Since the armed forces see themselves as a protector of the people, they ultimately are more effective under a political leadership that defends (or appears to defend) the Russian people’s interests. Therefore, it is not surprising that such strong leadership in Russian history is usually associated with strong and effective armed forces, and a lack of such is usually accompanied with bleak and impotent military performance. The case of civil-military relations in Russia presents an outstanding case, which probably raises more questions about the theorization of civil-military relations than provides answers. First, it challenges the common assumption of constant competition between the civilian leadership and armed forces presented by the literature on civil-military relations, which almost dogmatically assumes that “any armed force strong enough to defend a country is also strong enough to take it over” (Feaver 1999, p. 213). On the one hand, the Russian armed forces proved themselves on too many occasions as strong enough to defend Russia against powerful enemies. On the other, the Russian military repeatedly failed to take over political leadership in the times of a political vacuum or against a leadership that brutally acted against the military’s institutional interests. Second, and more importantly, the case of Russia challenges the assumption that all goals and aims of armed forces generally fall under the same six categories identified by Bruneau and Matei (2008, p. 917). First, the Russian armed forces, similar to armed forces of many other states such as the United States, the United Kingdom, Israel, and others, have an important role in preventing conflicts by deterrence. And second, as discussed above, Russia’s armed forces have an additional role as an internal soft power actor in domestic politics. This is a role that is not necessarily unique to Russia either, as, for example, the Israeli Defense Forces fulfill a more or less similar role in Israeli domestic politics (Schiff 1995; BenAmos and Bar-Tal 2004; S. Cohen 2008). In other words, the case of Russian civil-military relations that I presented in this chapter shows the importance of the cultural-historical con-

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text, in which these relations have been developing, and warns against the dangerous applications of generalized theories. This does not necessarily mean that theorization is irrelevant; the opposite is true. According to Freedman, context helps to explain the power of the theory, as well as its limitations (2018, p. 20), and this is exactly what the case of Russia does. This chapter is part of a research project generously supported by the Gerda Henkel Foundation. 1. Despite the fact that in modern Russian language soldat (soldier) is more prevalent, it was introduced only in the seventeenth century during the military reforms of Peter the Great. Today, vóin is still in use, although it has higher and poetic meaning. 2. The Russian historiography firmly distinguishes between the Patriotic War of 1812 and the Russian invasion of Europe as a part of the War of Sixth Coalition in 1812–1814. 3. Special Rapid Response Unit (SOBR, Spetsial’niy Otryad Bystrovo Reagirovaniya) are Special Forces (Spetsnaz) of the Ministry for Internal Affairs. 4. Special Purpose Police Unit (OMON, Otryad Mobil’nyi, (previously Militsii) Osobogo Naznacheniya). 5. This had already been mentioned, as Russian philosopher Ilya Ilyin puts it: “The Russian army has always been a school of patriotic loyalty,” acting as “the basis of our national identity” (Ilyin 1939, pp. 36–37). 6. For example, the Russian decision to repair the air base in Latakia, repetitive reports that Russian troops were already fighting alongside pro-Assad forces (“Russian Troops” 2015), and Putin’s call to “join efforts . . . and create a genuinely broad international coalition against terrorism” in his address to the UN General Assembly just days before he ordered forces deployed to Syria (Putin 2015b).

Notes

11 Turkey: Strengthening Personalized Political Control Zeynep Sentek

influence in politics has been in steady decline. Through the European Union (EU) reforms, the populist right-wing government of Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi (AKP, Justice and Development Party) managed to successfully break the organic bond between the old regime and the military. The process of political demilitarization “was neither voluntary nor graceful,” but it was effective nonetheless (Kadercan and Kadercan 2016, p. 84). At the same time, Erdoğan and the successive AKP governments demonstrated a desire to be more active in the regional politics. The war in Syria came at such a time, and the government has been involved politically from day one. For six years, however, it seemed that Turkey was not ready or willing to put boots on the ground. This changed in August 2016, shortly after the July 15 coup attempt that shook up the entire Turkish political system. Turkey has intervened in Syria with its Operation Euphrates Shield. This seven-month operation was undertaken as mass-scale purges were sweeping through the military and the state. In this chapter, I focus on Turkey’s counterterrorism role by analyzing Operation Euphrates Shield. My analysis shows that heavy coup-proofing measures put the military in a vulnerable state during the operation. The Turkish case proves that, unless democratic control and its proper mechanisms exist, subduing a powerful military results in the institution being used to accomplish a government’s—or a president’s—political agenda and dwindled military effectiveness. The case study further demonstrates that a politicized military under one civilian’s heavy thumb suffers from a variety of problems that eventually manifest themselves at a place when politics literally becomes a matter of life and death: the battlefield.

Since the early 2000s, the Turkish military’s power and

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Civil-Military Relations: From Tutelage to Personalist-Party Control

The established role of the Turkish military and its historical roots are well studied. The Ottoman Empire was considered to be, above all, an army where the state system and the society were only the secondary elements (Ralston 1990, p. 43). Modern Turkey emerged in the aftermath of World War I. Taking advantage of the postwar state crisis and his reputation, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, a general with extensive battlefield experience, led the “Liberation War” and the consequent takeover of the state, ending the absolutist regime. Within several decades, the republic, contrived by the victors of the Liberation War—popularly described as “the people” but, in reality, the army elites—rapidly institutionalized Turkey’s “revolution from above” under the Kemalist principles reinforced with a strong sense of national identity. Atatürk envisioned a secular and pro-Western nation-state and the military assigned itself the role of guardian of the Turkish republic, secularism, and the Kemalist principles. The Turkish Armed Forces (TSK) did not hesitate to act on the belief that they had the responsibility to defend the regime at any cost. Turkey witnessed three direct, one indirect, and one abortive coups. After every successful coup, the TSK returned to the barracks, making Perlmutter’s (1981, p. 25) “arbitrator army” conceptualization fit well with the Turkish case. This is not to say, however, that the army relinquished its influence in the postcoup phase. It simply continued to exert it behind the scenes from its privileged position presiding over a generous budget (Narli 2000). The highly skewed civil-military relations had branded Turkey as a “military democracy” (Kamrava 2000, p. 68), an “ambiguous regime” (Diamond 2002, p. 31), and, at best, an “imperfect democracy” (Larrabee and Lesser 2003, p. 26). The military and the state were so intertwined and the Kemalist hegemony was so powerful that it was difficult to envision a different path for Turkey’s limited democracy. This made the civil-military reform triggered by the EU accession process and enacted by the AKP government all the more groundbreaking. The 2002 electoral victory of the AKP was a genuine critical juncture, creating an institutional flux whereby radical change became possible. This happened due to a crisis of hegemony prompted by the defeat of established centrist parties and the victory of a newborn entity composed of experienced political Islamists. The crisis led to the opening up of several options for the AKP to handle the old hegemony. Utilizing the EU’s accession requirements as a legitimacy tool, the AKP picked the option to open up the road toward recalibration of the historical power balances through civilianization of politics. The initial outcome of the 2002 critical juncture was the approval of the Seventh EU Harmonization Package in the parliament in August 2003. It converted the Milli Güvenlik Kurulu (MGK, National Security Council),

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the strongest institutional tool of military tutelage to influence and actively shape politics, into an advisory body. Stripping off the executive powers of such a powerful entity, even dubbed “Turkey’s parallel government,” more or less drew the path toward demilitarized politics. Civil-military relations scholars praised the rapid civilianization process in Turkey as they saw it as part of a wider democratization project. Satana asserted that the country “progressed through the stages of democratization” and that the process “contribute[d] to the consolidation of democracy” (2008, p. 358). Cizre wrote about “a genuine trend towards a more democratic civilmilitary equilibrium” (2008, p. 162), and Cook talked about “Turkey’s ability to break from the logjam of authoritarian stability” (2007, p. 13). Heper praised the AKP’s skillful approach in dealing with the military—letting it know “who was the boss”—and its avoidance of cheap populism and of using religion for politics as Erdoğan “is a sincere Sufi” (2005, pp. 228–229). The works of these renowned scholars have aged quickly and badly. What followed the end of the critical juncture in 2002 was a reactive process, a hard-fought battle over institutions, which witnessed several rupture points where the newly disadvantaged group attempted to gain back its power and influence. As Erdoğan and his party’s power increased, the AKP created and expanded its preferred institutional arrangements. The new institutional setup, thriving at the expense of any other actor than the AKP, was then reproduced because it was, at the beginning, supported by a coalition composed of liberal and conservative intelligentsia and economic elites (Bakiner 2017, p. 22). Further reproduction was made possible as the AKP widened its space of influence in institutions through mass staffing (p. 35) and its support base in society through service-oriented local politics. In parallel, since around 2005, Turkey has been witnessing a profound deterioration in economic and social—as well as civil and political—rights and freedoms, which has intensified beyond proportion after the July 15, 2016, coup attempt. The political power has completely shifted from one group to another and, with the presidential elections of June 2018, has shifted to one man. Once presented as a model democracy for the Middle East, Turkey is now being referred to and categorized as “competitive authoritarian” (Esen and Gümüşçü 2016, p. 2; Akkoyunlu 2017, p. 47).

The Issue of Civilian Control: A Tamed Military, an Emboldened President

The EU candidacy proved to be a useful and compelling justification for the AKP to start off a reform process to align the civil-military relations with the good practices of the Union, even though the issue of civil-military relations is a minor dossier in the EU acquis communautaire, lacking a standard or pattern to follow. The MGK reform in 2003 allowed for a civilian secretary-general

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with the role itself becoming subordinate to the prime minister and the president of the republic. The military representatives in official institutions such as the Higher Education Council, the Radio Television High Council, and the Supervision Board of Cinema, Video and Music were withdrawn. Subsequent amendments to the constitution led to the abolishment of infamous State Security Courts presided over by military judges trying civilians, finalization of the abolition of the death penalty from the constitution, and jurisdiction of the Court of Accounts over auditing of state property used by the military. The constitutional amendments of 2010, which were approved via referendum, lifted the legal immunity of members of the MGK and its parliament, which had been imposed after the 1980 coup. It became possible for the chief of general staff and force commanders to be tried in the Constitutional Court for crimes relating to their office. Basically, the military became touchable. Another taboo-breaking development was the chain of trials, called Ergenekon and Sledgehammer, starting in 2007 that targeted an alleged clandestine organization plotting the overthrow of the AKP government. In an unprecedented move, hundreds of high-ranking military officials, including a former chief of general staff, were tried and sentenced. Since the media and intelligentsia saw these as the trials of the century, the legitimacy of the process was seriously damaged as the indictments seemed to be “full of contradictions, rumours, speculation, misinformation, illogicalities, absurdities and untruths” (Jenkins 2009, p. 11). At the end, Jenkins proved right. But in the meantime, with the TSK’s moral authority undermined, the trials signaled the closing of the military tutelage era (Söyler 2015, p. 207). In addition, besides structural and symbolic changes, the military’s share in the government budget has been in decline. Many thought the coup era in Turkey was over, but some warned that an attempt was “far from improbable” (Kadercan and Kadercan 2016, p. 97). Rogue officers, some of whom admitted their ties to the Gülen movement, attempted to take over on July 15, 2016.1 They failed. In a widely quoted statement, Erdoğan pronounced the event as “a gift from God,” giving the government further incentive and justification to take the full control of the armed forces. An aggressive process ensued; all armed forces were put under the command of the National Defence Ministry, military schools were shut down, a civil defense university was established, military hospitals were civilianized, and the president and the prime minister were given the authority to directly order the armed forces. Gendarmerie General Command, a law enforcement force with conscripts and military structure, jointly controlled by the Ministry of Interior and the TSK, were put under the Ministry of Interior’s authority. Military intelligence became the civilian National Intelligence Agency’s purview. This accompanied a mass purge in military and civil institutions that continued for months. In addition, Erdoğan extended his authority over the

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undersecretariat for defence industries and also the Defence Industry Support Fund with budgets of $11 billion and $3 billion, respectively. Utilizing Croissant et al.’s (2013) conceptualization of five decisionmaking areas determining the degree of civilian control, it can be argued that the pre-2002 era was marked by a low degree of control. This barometer hit the lowest degrees during the 1990s when the regime was unremittingly targeting its existential threats, Kurdish separatism, and political Islam. Relatively high levels of control could always be seen in some parts of core elite recruitment as active duty officers could never officially rule, but this was compensated by informal mechanisms of policymaking such as the MGK. The internal security area was also dominated by the military through this institution. Protective clauses in the constitution preventing military government members from being accountable, as well as the military’s prerogatives over the general budget allocation, were significant examples illustrating the supremacy of the TSK over public policy. In fourteen years, Turkey went from having virtually no control over its armed forces to having a mechanism resembling civilian oversight. The degree of civilian control increased to medium with the military still holding certain formal and informal prerogatives and attempting to exert political influence. Some reforms were revolutionary on paper, such as the oversight over military property, but the implementation became slow and cumbersome. Since July 2016 and the executive decrees that followed, the degree of civilian control in Turkey has become high. The government has control over essentially all aspects of the armed forces and its management. This, however, cannot be classified as democratic control, described as a specific form of civilian control in Chapter 1 of this book. The dramatic shift in the degree of civilian control was “a power struggle” where one side was defeated, while horizontal accountability mechanisms did not significantly change (Kadercan and Kadercan 2016, p. 96). As the AKP’s authoritarian policies have taken root and all branches of the state have become tightly controlled, the Turkish government can no longer be held accountable by normal institutional checks and balances, much in the same way that the Turkish military could not be throughout its period of dominance. There is no involvement of civil society, the opposition, or academia in decisionmaking processes regarding civil-military relations or security-related matters, nor is there a working mechanism to ensure the strength and transparency of the oversight practices. The Turkish Armed Forces consist of three service branches, namely, the land forces, the navy, and the air force. Gendarmerie and the coast guard were under the joint authority of the TSK and the Ministry of Interior. Since the coupproofing measures in 2016, however, they have both been fully civilianized.

Roles and Missions of the Turkish Military

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Regime maintenance historically has been an overarching role of the Turkish military. The constitution itself does not give the institution any kind of official guardianship role; however, the TSK’s Internal Service Law No. 211 Article 35 stood as the very statement validating its role vis-à-vis the Turkish polity until 2013. It stipulated that “the duty of the Turkish Armed Forces is to protect and preserve the Turkish homeland and the Turkish Republic as defined in the constitution.” It was also used as legal justification for the coups d’état in 1960 and 1980. After heated debates in the parliament, in 2013 the article was changed to “The mission of the Armed Forces is to defend Turkish territory against the foreign-born threats and dangers; to ensure that the military strength is maintained and fortified to create deterrence; to carry out the missions abroad assigned by the decision of the Turkish Parliament, and to assist in ensuring international peace” (TSK 2017). The other official mission that the TSK cites is “to learn and teach the art of war. Facilities and formations necessary to carry out this mission shall be established and necessary measures shall be taken” (TSK 2017). Although right now, the teaching and, in fact, learning part seems moot, considering that all teaching institutions of the military have been transferred to civilian authorities because prestigious military schools have been shut down and their students purged. In addition, per relevant laws, the military can aid local police and Gendarmerie forces in events disturbing public order in cases where the local authorities (i.e., the governor) request the armed forces to provide assistance, which does not happen in practice. Another military mandate is the assistance it is required to provide during natural disasters. The roles mentioned above cover all of the fundamental roles of armed forces mentioned in the first chapter of this book, except for crime fighting. In the context of armed forces, this was essentially one of the many missions of the Gendarmerie. This organization has been the law enforcement organization of the military in the rural areas, and it is considered to be “a fully-fledged military machine” with a strength of 180,000 troops and serious military capabilities (Gürcan 2014). But with the civilianization of the Gendarmerie twelve days after the coup attempt, the military does not have a crime-fighting role anymore. The military’s three branches are trained in conventional war fighting although their activity in the international arena has not been substantial in this regard. After World War I and its own Liberation War, Turkey participated in the Korean War with a brigade between 1950 and 1953, hoping for a better economic and political relationship with the West as a reward. Another international involvement came in 1974 when Turkey conducted its first joint air and sea operation in Cyprus, which ended with the partition of the island and the TSK’s uneasy, heavy, and illegal presence in Northern Cyprus.

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The TSK does, however, have accumulated experience in counterinsurgency. Successfully and brutally quashing Kurdish rebellions following the establishment of the republic, the military has been in an existential fight with the Kurds in Turkey ever since. The most extremist Kurdish movement, the outlawed Partiya Karkerên Kurdistanê (PKK, Kurdistan Workers’ Party), has been in a conflict with the Turkish state since 1984, when the PKK declared an uprising. The TSK has always been at the heart of fighting the insurgency and this has been carved into its discourse, practice, and mindset (Toktaş and Kurt 2010, p. 399). Its Special Forces, with its legends and mystique, and Gendarmerie played a crucial role in Turkey’s decades-long and relatively unsuccessful counterinsurgency campaign. In terms of peacekeeping, Turkey has contributed to some UN-led or UN-authorized missions, such as European Union Force Bosnia and Herzegovina (EUFOR ALTHEA), Kosovo Force (KFOR), United Task Force (UNITAF) and United Nations Operation (UNOSOM) in Somalia, as well as NATO-led missions like International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) in Afghanistan. As of December 2017, Turkey had 122 personnel working under six UN missions, of which 87 were armed forces staff (UN 2017). Regarding humanitarian assistance during emergencies, a specialized battalion was created in 2001 as a response to the embarrassment that the army faced when the 1999 earthquake hit Istanbul’s neighboring city of Izmit, killing around 17,000 people. To the shock of the public, the army proved to be incompetent during the first days of the devastation. Yet the specialized battalion consists of around 200 officers, and it is doubtful how effective they can be if another big quake strikes the region. Sitting in the middle of one of the most violent regions, Turkey’s role in counterterrorism operations has long been believed to be vital by the West, especially following the spread of the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria (ISIS) in the Middle East. Additionally, with its government led by men of Ottomanist geopolitical aspirations, it is not surprising that Turkey would find itself embroiled in the Syrian conflict, first as an actor behind the scenes reinforcing the opposition forces and next as boots on the ground. In the following section, I discuss the counterterrorism operations of Turkey in Northern Syria against ISIS, as well as the Kurdish forces (YPG) and the effectiveness of these operations that took place in the aftermath of the coup attempt, amidst a state of emergency and radical changes in civil-military relations.

The Issue of Effectiveness and Operation Euphrates Shield

With almost 360,000 armed personnel (Hürriyet Daily News 2016), Turkey ranks as the fourteenth-largest army in the world; the ranking dropped from eighth following the detachment of the Gendarmerie from the TSK. It is

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considered the second-most-powerful army in NATO after the United States and the largest in the Middle East and Europe, with the second-largest air force and navy in Europe. Despite that its military expenditure has been halved in the past sixteen years (Figure 11.1), Turkey continues to be the eighteenth-largest military spender globally (Nan et al. 2017) and a significant weapons importer. Numbers, however, do not say much about effectiveness, as some studies demonstrate (Talmadge 2015, p. 28; Biddle 2007, p. 208). Nor does the amount of weaponry and the pure strength of the firepower. Turkey possesses formidable firepower and is a big spender but, in the end, for example, it was political compromise that led to the PKK cease-fire and the peace process in 2013. Turkey’s counterinsurgency strategy, seeing physical force as the only viable solution, led the military to amass practical experience and tactical wisdom, but ultimately these will have little bearing if a counterinsurgency needs to be ended (Marston and Malkasian 2008, p. 16). Turkey has a National Security Policy Document (Milli Güvenlik Siyaseti Belgesi), also known as the Red Book, charting the country’s overall national security agenda. This is a classified document to which only the fifteen MGK members and the MGK president, Erdoğan, have access. Neither members of parliament nor the National Defence Commission within the parliament have any right to make suggestions, debate on, or even see the Red Book. It is also known that civilian organizations, think tanks, and academia are purposefully excluded from collaborating. A sister document, the Turkish National Military Strategy (Türkiye Milli Askeri Stratejisi), is also classified top secret. The secrecy over these papers, and Turkey’s overall defense strategy, is justified under the national interest.

Figure 11.1 Turkey’s Military Expenditure as Percentage of Government Spending, 2000–2016

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Sources: Compiled by author from data in SIPRI (2016).

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The subject of counterterrorism has been on the Turkish government’s agenda for a while. Being accused of inaction by the opposition in the face of a growing number of terror attacks inside Turkey, the United States’ suggestion that Turkey should participate more in the coalition against ISIS, and the looming threat of Kurdish empowerment at its border in Northern Syria, further prompted the government to take a more active role in Syria. The intervention, called Operation Euphrates Shield, ultimately came in 2016 and became a test case for the effectiveness of the TSK’s terrorism-fighting role. It is no secret that Erdoğan had been trying to convince the military for a year to conduct this operation (Cunningham and Sly 2016). It was claimed within the military cadres that Erdoğan’s meeting in May 2016 in the city of Malatya with the Second Army’s commander, who is responsible for the southeast regions and the Syrian border, was about putting boots on the ground. Erdoğan came back to Ankara empty-handed.2 Not long after the meeting, the failed coup attempt on July 15 and the subsequent purge saw almost half of the generals, including the Second Army’s commander, be either dismissed or arrested. Wasting no time, on August 24, 2016, Operation Euphrates Shield commenced. Assessing this operation is particularly important because it was done while the country was still recovering from the collective trauma of a bloody coup attempt and when the military was disgraced. These realities, as well as the lack of human resources to carry out complex operations and support air defense, were bound to manifest in the ineffectiveness of the operation. The aim for Turkey’s incursion into Syria seemed to be twofold: to support the coalition against ISIS by eliminating its targets and to prevent the YPG, who have common roots with the PKK, from moving west of the Euphrates River. The decision to go into Syria was also a clear projection of power by Erdoğan, aimed to demonstrate his absolute command over the military right after it acted against him, and his ambition to have his stamp in regional affairs. The aim of the operation was also to establish the strength of the armed forces, despite purges, with the president at its helm, while keeping the military command occupied and away from political turmoil—at least temporarily. Approximately 200 infantry and 150 Special Forces crossed the border into Jarablus along with around 15 tanks and armored trucks, as well as air and artillery support (Figure 11.2). A few thousand Turkey-backed Free Syrian Army (FSA) militants joined the operation as auxiliary forces. The entrance was easy as ISIS showed little to no resistance in Jarablus and moved further south without much engagement with the Turkish troops and the FSA. But the media and, consequently, the public were confused as to the real target of the operation or what Turkey’s plan was. As the progovernment media peddled propaganda, no representative was offering anything concrete. It took three months for an official statement to emerge. Even then, the time line, the strategic aim, and the end goal were left vague,

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Figure 11.2 Syrian Cities Captured or Claimed by Turkey During Operation Euphrates Shield 150 km 100 mi

Turkey

Euphrates River

Dabiq Al-Bab

Jarablus Manbij Raqqa

Iraq Cyprus

Syria Mediterranean Sea

which highlights the political and operational commands’ lack of coherence as well as their failed liaison with the media and public bodies, which was to continue up until the end of the operation. Next, the troops moved 85 kilometers west from Jarablus to take over Dabiq, a city with no apparent strategic importance, from ISIS. ISIS did not put up a fight here either. In the meantime, however, it was recapturing the towns around Jarablus, killing Turkish-backed FSA soldiers left by the Turks to secure and police the area. On November 14, 2016, Turkish troops moved south again and entered Al-Bab to start what would turn out to be an unexpectedly hard battle with ISIS. Having entered Syria with relative ease, Turkey miscalculated how much force would be required in AlBab due to the value that ISIS attributed to the city as a connecting point to other ISIS territories. Earlier, the minister of defence claimed that they had no plans to send Turks into the city battles and instead FSA militants would be supported, but as the Al-Bab operation dragged on, more and more Turkish Special Forces and infantry were sent in. It was estimated that, by the end of the operation, around 4,000 Turkish soldiers had participated (Yeşiltaş, Seren, and Özcelik 2017, p. 22). The United States found Turkey’s moves around Al-Bab “uncoordinated and not constructive” (US Department of State 2016). Turkey’s apparent motivation to fight ISIS was clouded by its objective to prevent YPG from capturing the city, and this political obscurity caused the US and Russian air forces to abstain from aiding the Turkish operation

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in Al-Bab, much to Erdoğan’s anger. Ultimately, the Russians weighed in on January 2017, but the reports suggest that the Russian jets were dropping unguided bombs and their effectiveness in eliminating targets was questionable (Gordon and Schmitt 2017). Additionally, Turkish forces suffered heavy casualties. In total, 71 Turkish soldiers died and more than 200 were wounded; the numbers surpassed those of US and Russian troops that were militarily more active in the area for a longer time (Candar 2016). In addition, the attachment of FSA rebels proved to be more chaotic and problematic than Turkey had imagined. According to testimony of Turkish troops in the Al-Bab operation, most of the 400 FSA forces who joined the initial Turkish attack team deserted their positions as soon as the first shots were fired by ISIS, leaving Turks without significant ground support (Bianet 2016). Another aspect not anticipated was the degree of defense and dirty war tactics that ISIS would employ, including improvised explosive devices (IEDs) and suicide bombers, which the soldiers were not equipped to deal with. Also, around January, rumors concerning the resignation of commanders and officers were rife. Right around the same time, a presidential decree extending the compulsory service of petty and senior officers from ten to fifteen years was passed, which was thought to have been a ploy to prevent officers from leaving in the middle of the operation. Reports emerged claiming that the physical conditions that Turkish troops were fighting in were less than acceptable, such as summer tents in heavy winter and lack of heating, regular food, and water. These conditions coupled with heavy losses and resignation allegations not only demoralized the troops but also shook up the normally stellar image of TSK’s combat capabilities. On February 23, 2017, it was announced that Al-Bab was finally captured. Erdoğan proclaimed that the next targets were Manbij, a Kurdish stronghold, and Raqqa. The government spokesperson, however, had said that, in fact, “with the completion of the Al-Bab operation, the Euphrates Shield would reach his main aim.” The government itself seemed to be confused as to what the operation was about, with Erdoğan attempting to set the record straight the day after: “Stopping after Al-Bab, there is no such a thing. There could be a miscommunication. Al-Bab is not our final aim” (T24 2017). A whole month passed with no activity and, on March 30, the MGK announced that the operation was successfully accomplished and finalized. If, as the decisionmakers had said, the aim was actually to move farther west toward Raqqa, it looks like after Al-Bab it proved to be too costly or unfeasible. If we accept that the operation was in fact not successful because the objectives were not met, then it is also possible to conclude that the operation itself was hardly an effective or efficient one, even though Turkey managed to capture land.

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The Trade-Off of Control and Effectiveness: Postcoup Military

The initial civil-military reforms that the AKP put forward after 2003 and the way these reforms were conducted—not as democratization but power transfer—already affected the military’s long-standing image and prestige. The infamous court cases Ergenekon and Sledgehammer, with their grave allegations and fabricated evidence against high-ranking officers, “not only demoralized the officer corps, but also resulted in a loss of human capital resources, leaving military proficiency in jeopardy” and threatening its capabilities (Eldem 2017, p. 185). During these trials, many of the generals and officers who had strong Kemalist ideologies were purged or put in jail, effectively paving the way for rival power groups—such as Gülenists—to be able to fill in the ranks, especially after the promotion periods were reduced to combat the issue of lack of skilled personnel. Between 2003 and 2013, three officers in every ten resigned from the armed forces citing deteriorating employee rights (Licali 2014). It is clear that the TSK’s capabilities and readiness for fighting external wars had already taken a blow in the precoup period. The most significant projection of power by Erdoğan before the coup attempt was in July 2015 when, following the failure of the Kurdish peace process, the counterinsurgency operations in the southeast of Turkey resumed. The overall aim was to quash the PKK presence in the region through heavy engagement in a minimum amount of time. Gendarmerie forces were joined by regular soldiers as well as Special Forces. More interestingly, the Police Special Forces also took part, solidifying the valued role that Erdoğan attributes to the police in his new security complex. Three forces with three different sets of training and tactical knowledge were put together to fight a war in an urban area. The operation was successful in the sense that, due to the leveling of entire cities and towns, the militants withdrew. It was not efficient, however, because 1,040 security forces were killed as well as 437 civilians, against 1,655 PKK militants (Mandıracı 2017). Yet, if efficiency is deemed to be a different issue, it can be argued the operation showed that, even with increased civilian control, the army can be mobilized to quash insurgencies and complete snap operations inside Turkey when the mandate to disregard standard rules of engagement is given. But had the order been surgical target destruction and not total annihilation, with the diminished strategic capabilities, it is uncertain if the troops could have done an effective job. Besides, if the political end was to destroy the PKK insurgency, as Erdoğan claimed, it was not achieved. But looking at it more cynically, if the aim was to project power and resecuritize the Kurdish issue to create an atmosphere of fear among the public following the July 2015 election when AKP lost its parliamentary majority, then the political end was

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achieved as the party regained many lost votes in the November 2015 snap elections. Political leaders in defective democracies tend to avoid pressing for more reform as they do not want to risk a civil-military conflict (Croissant and Kuehn 2017b, p. 17). Presumably, Erdoğan was going to continue with the reform process that started in 2003, albeit at a much slower rate so as not to incite a political conflict he could not control. The coup attempt significantly changed this prediction and Erdoğan’s behavior. Executive decrees to coup-proof the military were passed one after the other. These measures significantly affected the TSK in terms of human resources and further decline of prestige. Operation Euphrates Shield was a good case showing intrinsic problems of coup-proofing on battlefield effectiveness. First of all, civilian control should not mean that national security issues should be decided by one individual authority. The relationship between the civilians and the military should be dynamic and cooperative when it comes to operations and operational practices on the battlefield. Until the June 2018 elections, which resulted in Erdoğan’s victory and the beginning of a presidential system in Turkey, these decisions were, on paper, taken in a collaborative way through the ministers and force commanders in the MGK. In reality, it is known that the real policymaker of Turkey has long been Erdoğan. The 2018 elections have only made his total control over the state and security apparatus official. His de facto control over every minutiae of government in the prepresidential era, combined with the humiliation of the military due to the putsch, led to his demands being complied with at any cost. Coup-proofing fosters reluctance to report information that those higher up in the chain of command would not like (Talmadge 2015, p. 17). In the Turkish case, this reluctance goes all the way to the top of the chain, where it becomes taboo to relay information about deficiencies or incapability to the commander in chief, Erdoğan. Not physically intervening in Syria for six years despite the political will and the sudden and hasty incursion into the country taking place only forty days after the coup attempt illustrate that Erdoğan’s decisions are now unquestioned even if it means fighting problematic and even unwinnable wars with poorly defined missions. Second, the TSK is going through an extreme human capital crisis. Since the summer of 2016, 177 generals have been dismissed, which is almost half of the total number. In addition, 8,445 officers and 1,589 noncommissioned officers have been discharged. As effective as it is as a coupproofing provision, the purge at the top command and the officer ranks effectively destroyed the brain of the military. Additionally, 249 air force pilots were dismissed from duty during the initial purge, in July 2016, with a further 300 fired over the subsequent months. This decreased the pilot to cockpit ratio first to 0.8:1 and then to a dramatic 0.5:1, way below the ideal

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ratio of 1.25:1. Moreover, there was a lack of air force instructors to train the newcomers. The government called for voluntary returns for retired air force pilots and, when only several dozen returned to duty, it issued a decree to make the returns compulsory. Operation Euphrates Shield, which required definite air assistance, took place under these circumstances when the Turkish air force’s capacity was substantially diminished. This led to nonoptimal levels of Turkish air support and reliance on the US and Russian forces. When the United States refused to assist in Al-Bab and the Russians did a sloppy job, Turkish troops and vehicles on the ground suffered. The situation became so drastic that at the request of the TSK to the prosecutor’s office, nine jet pilots who were initially arrested as coup plotters and then released pending the judicial investigation were given permission to join the operation. In addition, all students of military high schools, universities, and academies were dismissed and placed into irrelevant civil faculties not of their choice. No new cadet was enrolled in 2016. There will be no new staff officers in the coming years, which means there will be no war academy graduates who are specifically trained in complex operations. If, as Talmadge argues, tactical proficiency and competence in complex operations are “sine qua non of battlefield effectiveness” (2015, p. 8), the military has lost its only entity for producing these skills as well as its accumulated knowledge of hundreds of years. As opposed to military universities, which accepted only military high school graduates, the replacement civil defense university will be open to students from all types of schools, which certainly democratizes the process, but it is not certain how elite the education itself will prove to be. This issue is especially of concern considering that the quality of academic staff is bound to decrease after new rules significantly lessen the requirements for promotion within public universities. The government is trying to mend the human resource deficiency by opening the military positions to outsiders, which is not necessarily harmful and in fact creates a diverse force. What is relatively problematic is that the prerequisites to get into these ranks are being lowered. This is happening simply because there is no human capital at hand to close the personnel gap as swiftly. Lower requirements for those who do not come from a military educational background might not be a big cause for alarm. However, if the education and training are not reformed to be rigorous, competitive, and of world standards at the university level, the quality of officers will notably suffer. Politicization of the military might also bring promotion patterns valuing not merit but political loyalty, which is a familiar coup protection measure (Talmadge 2015, p. 16; Quinlivan 1999, p. 133). Hulusi Akar, who was the chief of staff between 2015 and 2018 and proved his loyalty to the president, was made the minister of defence in Erdoğan’s first presidential cab-

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inet, becoming the first active military officer to hold this position. For the rest of the armed forces, those who are amenable to Erdoğan are promoted or preserve their positions. This reinforces the argument that unchallenged and undebated military-related decisions made under extraordinary political circumstances could result in dwindled effectiveness and efficiency in battlefield performance due to being out of one’s depth—in general or in that particular time. Another recognizable coup-proofing practice by a civilian leader is to intervene with the command arrangements, rotating officers among command posts to reduce chances of forming bonds with their units (Talmadge 2015, pp. 16–17). The commander of Operation Euphrates Shield, Zekai Aksakalli, dubbed “hero of 15 July” for giving the first order to shoot the coupists, was transferred to the Second Army Corps from the Special Forces Command just five months after the operation was concluded—an order that supposedly led him to suggest his resignation (Hürriyet Daily News 2017). It was not a demotion in the technical sense but a significantly less prestigious position, especially for a man labeled a hero. His replacement was a lower-ranking general, meaning the commandership was downgraded from the lieutenant to brigade level. Such acts could demoralize the Special Forces, which are the backbone of counterinsurgency and counterterrorism operations, and tinker with its command unity. Former prime minister and then president Süleyman Demirel said in 1981, “God first created the Turkish military and then he realized he had forgotten something and added the people as an afterthought” (Göçek 2011, p. 102). Considering that this was the accepted political behavior, Turkey has come a long way in developing a sociopolitical system free of military tutelage in the past decades. This, however, did not bring about democratic oversight. It was, instead, a power transfer from one strong institution to another. As Erdoğan’s autocratic tendencies were realized, it became apparent that his government had no intention of creating a transparent and accountable defense sector. The parliament still has no proper oversight authority over the armed forces and, if things continue as they have, it is almost certain that they never will. The matters of security and military are still discussed and decided on behind closed doors by a handful of men. It is no coincidence that the budget and the strategy documents remain secret and are not available for the scrutiny of public or interest groups. The civilians are perpetuating the opaque system for their own benefit now that they are in full control, especially after the July 15, 2016, coup attempt. After the humiliation brought by the coup attempt and the extreme damage on its human capital, it seems that the TSK has completely handed the reins to Erdoğan and his cabinet when it comes to decisions regarding mili-

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tary missions. Operation Euphrates Shield was commenced under harsh political circumstances when Erdoğan was purging the military and the public offices by the thousands. Erdoğan’s victorious stance vis-à-vis the coupists meant that the military could no longer say no to him. As a result, Turkey started its hasty adventure in Syria shortly after the coup attempt, perhaps when a foreign incursion should have been the last thing on the mind of the state. Operation Euphrates Shield showed that, while the Turkish Armed Forces is not lifeless, it has many wounds that need healing. The lack of human capital, especially trained pilots, illustrates the difficulties of conducting complex operations on foreign land without a consistent supply of personnel. This proved to be of even more significance as the troops moved further into Syria and lost their FSA support as the militants deserted. The problem facing Turkish military is now about policing the captured land in Syria, which has so far proved to be inefficient and will likely fail completely in the long term. In a bizarre mentality, it seems the authorities are more interested in building mosques in Al-Bab than providing infrastructure, much to the locals’ contempt (Stein, Abouzahr, and Komar 2017). Turkey seems determined to expand its foreign operations as the subsequent mission to capture Afrin, which was also drawn out and bloody, showed. As it increasingly relies on Russian’s consent and the FSA’s support to conduct its Syrian incursions, it is evident that Turkey needs considerably more resources and manpower to effectively execute military tasks and manage the postoperation phase. The resources, however, should in fact be directed to capacity building within the TSK itself. And within the TSK, the promotion patterns should follow the principle of merit instead of regime loyalty, and the training should adhere to the elite standards of military education. At the same time, the civilian government should not allow an atmosphere of fear to flourish that would prevent the officers from providing feedback on operational and tactical matters within the chain of command. Otherwise, these heavily utilized coup-proofing measures will put all military missions in jeopardy for decades to come. 1. Gülen movement (or Cemaat) is a religious group led by self-exiled preacher Fethullah Gülen who is blamed by Turkey for orchestrating the coup attempt, which he denies. However, there is evidence tying the Gülenist officers to the organization of the coup. It is clear that some other opportunistic officers with no ties to the movement also joined the coupists. 2. Four military sources with the knowledge of the issue confirmed the contents of the May 7 meeting to the author.

Notes

12 Egypt: An Ineffective Military Beyond Control Robert Springborg

between control and effectiveness, only in reverse. Egypt has no institutionalized civilian control of its armed forces, the effectiveness of which, despite their vast size, is extremely low. To the extent that the military has been controlled, it has been as a result of coup-proofing strategies by its successive presidents. Those strategies have entailed substantial costs to the nation’s political economy and its military effectiveness, to say nothing of costs to the personal power of the presidents. Civilian political institutions with nominal constitutional powers of oversight of the military are now as weak and ineffective as they were under direct military rule in the early Gamal Abdel Nasser era. The best indicators of the ineffectiveness of Egyptian armed forces since 1952 is that they have lost every war in which they have engaged and performed poorly in allied operations and peacekeeping missions.

Contemporary Egypt illustrates the positive correlation

Since seizing power in a coup d’état in 1952, the military has directly or indirectly governed the country. All presidents, with the exception of the Muslim Brother, Mohamed Morsi, who served one year between 2012 and 2013 before being overthrown by another coup d’état, have been officers. The Office of the Presidency is staffed almost exclusively by military officers. The Ministry of Defense has always been headed by an officer and, under the present constitution, one on active duty. The administrative backbone of the country is provided by what Yezid Sayigh (2012) dubs the “officer republic,” by which he means the tens of thousands of retired

The Lack of Institutional Civilian Control

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officers who essentially run all vital institutions in the executive branch. The primary anticorruption executive agency is headed by an officer. The security and intelligence services, which intermittently have enjoyed some independence from the military, are currently under the effective control of Military Intelligence (Springborg 2017a). The National Security Committee of parliament, nominally responsible for legislative oversight of the armed forces, has always been chaired and heavily staffed by officers. Since its creation in the initial parliament of Republican Egypt in 1957, it has never exerted any of its limited powers of oversight or control of the military. The legal-judicial system is dominated by the military directly through the expansive jurisdiction of its own courts over civilians, and indirectly by subordination of the judiciary to the presidency and executive branch. The main political parties that in coalition presently dominate the parliament were formed and led by Military Intelligence. The armed forces are empowered legally to censor all media, including social media, and to impose total blackouts on coverage of any matters the military deems vital to national security. Egypt’s military economy is proportionately one of the largest, if not the largest, in the world. The military, in sum, dominates the three branches of government, exerts preponderant influence over the broader political system and civil society, and is the single most important institutional actor in the economy. That the Egyptian armed forces are subject to probably less institutionalized civilian control than any other military in the Middle East, possibly even the world, is reflected in their constitutional status, which traces a path of declining control over almost a century. The only reference to the armed forces in the first constitution of independent Egypt, that of 1923, was that the king was commander in chief, with the power to declare war and to recruit, promote, and dismiss officers (Egyptian Constitution of 1923). During the reigns of King Fuad and his son King Faruq, several civilians served as ministers of defense, whereas all nineteen such ministers following the overthrow of the monarchy in 1952 have been officers. The powers of the military have been expanded at the expense of civilians in each successive constitution. The present one, ratified in 2014, was drafted under direct military tutelage. It names the president as the supreme commander of the armed forces, but must share the power to declare war with the military by virtue of the provision that the president must consult with the military-dominated National Defense Council and the parliament before so doing. Presidential power over the military is further diluted by the minister of defense being specified as the commander in chief and the requirement that the minister be a serving officer. The National Defense Council, originally created by Nasser in 1969 and chaired by the president so as to subordinate the minister of defense, was briefly revitalized by Anwar Sadat in 1971 for the same reason (Kandil 2012, pp. 92–93, 243). It was then

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revived by the military just before the Muslim Brother, Morsi, became president in 2012, this time to curtail potential presidential power. The 2014 Constitution vested supervisory power over the military budget in the National Defense Council, essentially stripping parliament of its nominal right of oversight (Egyptian Constitution of 2014). It also mentions for the first time the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces, established in 1954 as a coordinating body between the chiefs of the various services and chaired by the president for the next sixty years. The 2014 Constitution transfers its chairmanship from the president to the minister of defense. The jurisdiction of military courts over civilians in cases concerning “military security,” first given constitutional status in 2012, was retained in the 2014 Constitution. Conscription, also incorporated for the first time into a constitution in 2012, primarily to ensure a flow of cheap labor to militaryowned enterprises, was retained in that of 2014. In sum, Republican constitutions reflect the historically preponderant power of the military, reveal its further expansion at the expense of the presidency since the fall of Hosni Mubarak in 2011, and provide the legal framework within which institutional control is minimal to nonexistent. As for the military’s effectiveness, by the most crucial measure as well as by lesser ones, it is abysmal. That crucial measure is performance in war. Since 1952 the Egyptian military—which had in the early nineteenth century been the strongest in the Middle East, even more powerful than Ottoman forces based in Istanbul—has decisively lost every limited and all-out war it has fought. In 1955, it failed to protect Gaza, which it had occupied since 1948, from Israeli attack. A year later it was driven out of the Sinai by the Israeli military. Its losing campaign in Yemen from 1962 until 1967 was termed by Nasser himself as “Egypt’s Vietnam” (Ferris 2015). In that last year, in the so-called June War, its armed forces were decimated in six days by the Israelis, who went on to occupy the Sinai Peninsula and oil-bearing sectors in the Gulf of Suez. Three years later, the Egyptian military launched a “war of attrition” against Israeli forces in Sinai, a war that Egypt had to abandon in the face of devastating return fire. In October 1973, the Egyptian military successfully crossed the Suez Canal, only then to be overwhelmed by an Israeli counterattack that ended with Israel occupying territory west of the canal and having cut off two Egyptian armies in Sinai. In 1991 Egypt sent two divisions, a commando brigade and an airborne brigade, to Saudi Arabia to participate in Operation Desert Storm to expel Iraqi troops from Kuwait. During the event, Egyptian commanders were late in ordering their forces into battle: “When they finally did get moving, their operations were mediocre, and they

The Lack of Military Effectiveness

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advanced at a glacial pace against almost no Iraqi resistance” (Pollack 2002, p. 141). Republican Egypt, dominated by the military since its founding in 1952, has never won a war, all out or limited. Its effectiveness in performing other military tasks is about as bad.1 The most important of those tasks are counterinsurgency and counterterrorism. Egypt confronted a quasi-insurgency from 1992 to 1997, based initially in Cairo, then primarily in Upper Egypt. Most of the insurgents were members of the Islamic Group, recruited from among Islamist university students and lacking significant external support or sophisticated weapons. After the security forces of the Ministry of Interior failed to contain the quasi-insurgency, the military was also charged with that task, including deployment of aircraft. That it took some five years to quell this comparatively small-scale, amateurish, and unsupported quasi-insurgency was a harbinger of worse to come. In the wake of the “coup-volution” of 2011, the apt term coined by Nathan Toronto suggesting the military’s intervention to prevent a real revolution, an insurgency erupted in Sinai, led by the tribally based Islamist organization, Ansar Beit al Maqdis, which in November 2014 pledged allegiance to the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria (ISIS) and changed its name to the Islamic State—Sinai Province (Toronto 2011). Ultimately, tens of thousands of troops, armored units, and fixed-wing aircraft and helicopters have been dispatched to counter the 1,500 members of that organization. The scorched-earth methods employed, including destruction of thousands of homes and incarceration of thousands of citizens, simply intensified and widened the insurgency. By late 2017, it was claiming more casualties in Sinai and elsewhere in Egypt than ever before (Springborg 2017b, pp. 138–142). The military has imposed a blackout on news coverage of the insurgency and has intermittently closed down all electronic communications in the northern Sinai. Since neither the Egyptian military nor the broader government has ever produced an official statement of national security policy, say as reflected in a defense white paper or even as associated with an annual budget, the logic underlying rankings of the importance of military tasks is necessarily an externally imposed one. According to this somewhat subjective logic then, border security is probably the third most vital challenge that has faced the Egyptian armed forces. It is not an easy one. About the size of Texas at some 1 million square kilometers, Egypt has almost 3,000 kilometers of coastline, a 1,273-kilometer border with Sudan, and a 1,150kilometer one with Libya. Patrolling these long borders adjoining sometimes parlous territory is thus a major challenge, but one which did not until recently receive the attention it deserved. Procurement, training, deployment, and overall military organization were all based on the primacy of preparing for all-out war with Israel, the likelihood of which was reduced to nil once Israel completed its withdrawal from Egyptian territory in 1989.

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Border surveillance capacity that was developed was focused mainly on that nonexistent threat. Even in that theater, however, border security has until recently been lax. Since the return of almost all of the Sinai Peninsula to Egypt in 1982 and the remainder, Taba, seven years later, human trafficking and drug smuggling across the 13-kilometer border with Gaza and the 208-kilometer border with Israel have been endemic. Thousands of subSaharan Africans, most notably Sudanese, have been smuggled into Israel, along with unknown but significant quantities of hard and soft drugs. Tunnels under the Gaza-Egypt border served as the primary conduits for military and civilian supplies to Gaza for a decade before finally being more or less closed in the wake of General cum Field Marshal Abdel Fattah al– Sisi seizing power in July 2014. In the wake of the collapse of the Muammar Qaddafi regime in 2011, the frontier with Libya was crisscrossed with smuggling trails on which large quantities of arms and jihadis were infiltrated into Egypt, some destined for Syria and others for third country locations. The Egyptian military responded by stepping up air and land border surveillance. Its relative ineffectiveness was revealed in dramatic fashion in September 2015, when Egyptian aircraft attacked a party of Mexican tourists lunching at one of the most frequented of the western desert’s touristic sites, killing a dozen of them. Subsequent strikes in and around populated oases in that region have similarly failed to discriminate smugglers and terrorists, on the one hand, from innocent civilians, on the other, stimulating animosity toward Cairo among the local population and presumably some support for the smugglers and even jihadis. The Sudanese border is traditionally as porous as the Libyan one, but unlike in Libya, Sudan has a central government that exercises reasonable control over its border with Egypt. A long-standing dispute between Cairo and Khartoum over the 20,000-square-kilometer Hala’ib Triangle bordering the Red Sea coast, however, provides the latter with an incentive to infiltrate Egyptian territory and in general continually test Egyptian border surveillance capacities. Presumably, this is one of the reasons why a major human trafficking route from East Africa passes through Sudan, then into Egypt’s southern desert region before heading north to the Mediterranean, either in Egyptian or Libyan territory (US Department of State 2017). In sum then, Egypt’s land borders are relatively porous, inviting a variety of security challenges that have yet to be adequately countered. Maritime surveillance includes border patrol as well as search and rescue and broader security and safety tasks. Human smuggling from Egypt’s Mediterranean coast, concentrated around Alexandria, has caused Egypt to become a major “country of concern” in this issue to the European Union (EU) (Guarascio 2016). Interdicting human traffickers is compromised by corruption within the ranks of responsible security forces (Rollins 2015).

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It is impossible to determine how systemic that corruption is and how far up the chain of command it reaches. EU pressure on Egypt to take steps against maritime human trafficking since 2015 has resulted in a new, more punitive set of laws and regulations and stepped-up prosecutions against traffickers. There is, however, no reported interdiction at sea of traffickers’ vessels. In September 2016, a boat carrying some 600 Egyptian, Syrian, and sub-Saharan African migrants that set out for Italy from a small port 70 kilometers east of Alexandria foundered a few kilometers offshore, within cell phone reach of Alexandria itself. Despite numerous calls from Egyptians on board, the Egyptian navy did not respond. Some forty-two passengers drowned, the remainder being saved as the result of an informal effort organized by fishermen. Almost exactly ten years previously, an Egyptianowned ferry traveling from Jeddah in Saudi Arabia to Egypt’s Red Sea port of Sofaga with 1,400 passengers on board caught fire and sent out distress signals. Hours passed without a response from the Egyptian navy. The vessel eventually sank, taking more than 1,000 passengers to their deaths. Deficient maritime surveillance is not due to the navy’s lack of equipment or reputed overall strength. Global Firepower ranked Egypt’s navy the world’s sixth most powerful, consisting of 319 “total naval assets” comprised of 2 aircraft carriers, 9 frigates, 5 submarines, 2 corvettes, and a range of patrol and antimine craft (Global Firepower 2018). Since 1960 Egypt has contributed more than 30,000 personnel to 37 UN peacekeeping missions in 24 countries. In 2017, it had some 3,000 military and police personnel serving in nine UN peace missions (Cairo International Center for Conflict Resolution, Peacekeeping, and Peace Building 2017). This was approximately double the number of Moroccan and triple the number of Jordanian personnel committed to such missions, although fewer than many African countries with considerably smaller populations and militaries. The quality of Egypt’s peacekeeping contributions seems, however, to lag behind the quantity. Reports by independent observers on the performance of its military and police personnel involved in the UN Mission in Sudan that commenced in 2005 were critical of its relative inactivity and inadequate protection of civilian populations for which they had responsibility (Springborg 2012). One explanation of lackluster performance was that Egypt’s peacekeeping missions fall under the jurisdiction of Military Intelligence, suggesting that its peacekeepers are charged with intelligence gathering, especially in geopolitically important areas to Egypt, as Sudan certainly is. Possibly this duty interferes with others that are more directly related to peacekeeping (Springborg 2012). Power projection can be considered a separate military role, especially in the volatile Middle East region where cross-border interventions are particularly common. Egypt has a relatively poor record in projecting its military power into neighboring areas. Mention has already been made of the

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disastrous prolonged intervention into Yemen in the 1960s and of the less than impressive performance of Egyptian units in Operation Desert Storm in 1991. Under Sadat, the only external intervention was a bombing run over an airport in eastern Libya intended to send a message to Qaddafi, which he chose to ignore. Mubarak shunned even the notion of an expeditionary force. He ordered participation in Desert Storm only out of sheer financial necessity. His high command lectured any and all interested foreigners on Egypt’s refusal to countenance power projection given the all-consuming challenge, it claimed, of defending the homeland (Springborg 2012). In reality, Mubarak, like Sadat, feared power projection for two reasons. The less important one was their concern that a failed projection effort might result in political disaster, as it did for the Greek colonels in Cyprus and the Argentinian generals in the Falkland Islands. Their more important consideration was that a successful projection effort would enhance the domestic political power of the military high command, necessarily reducing their own and rendering them vulnerable to a coup. Sadat’s perceived need to liquidate politically, and even physically, key generals in the high command in the wake of the semisuccessful 1973 war is suggestive of this concern (Kandil 2012). As for current president al-Sisi, he has grudgingly permitted Egyptian military assets to be used sparingly off the Yemeni coast, as well as on and above Libyan territory. But like his predecessors, he has refused entreaties from allies, in this case the United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia, to commit further forces. Presumably, he shares the twin concerns of his predecessors. Indeed, the potential for popular mobilization resulting from a botched foreign adventure is now much stronger, especially given deterioration of the domestic economy and accompanying political repression. The regime’s political considerations thus prevent it from developing a power projection capacity in proportion to the overall size and capacities of its military. The link just noted between presidential calculations and reluctance to develop and deploy expeditionary forces is but one of several manifestations of coup-proofing undermining military effectiveness. Unwilling to empower governmental institutions, civil society organizations, or the media to oversee the military, presumably because once empowered those institutions would also seek to hold the president himself accountable, coup-proofing has necessarily depended on personalistic manipulation of carrots and sticks. Both incentives and disincentives, intended as they are to control the military rather than to upgrade its effectiveness, have undermined performance of its duties. An alternative control strategy, which is to professionalize the military, upgrade its capacities, and grant it selected

A Means of Control of the Military: Coup-Proofing

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access to formulating national security policy, as has been done over the past decade or so in China (Ji 2016; see also Chapter 13), may presently be tempting to President al-Sisi. Such a fundamental change in civil-military relations would, however, require yet more of an investment in the military at a time of financial stringency; redefinition of domestic and foreign military roles within the framework of a revised foreign policy that accords more primacy to the military; at least partial withdrawal of the military from the economy; and a substantial reduction in force size, accompanied by an upgrading of qualifications of personnel. Meeting any one of these prerequisites is probably beyond the political and economic capacities of the al-Sisi regime. Trying to meet them all would be tantamount to launching a politically risky revolution in civil-military relations. It is safe to assume, therefore, that coup-proofing will continue to be based on the personalistic manipulation of carrots and sticks, rather than on institutionalizing civilian control or on developing military professionalism.

The Incentives and Their Negative Impacts on Effectiveness

Positive inducements to the military to remain subordinate to the presidency involve interlocking rewards at the macro and micro levels. The enormous size of the armed forces, their penetration of state institutions, and their involvement in the national economy reinforce their political centrality, while providing status and rewards to officers and even enlisted troops. These tangible incentives are reinforced by indulgence of the military’s self-serving narrative of its centrality to the country’s history and contemporary well-being. They are further reinforced at the micro level by a general indulgence of lassitude, coupled with favoritism within the officer corps, which provides that corps and its members with a sense of their own entitlement while enabling them to live economically rewarding lives and face few tests, other than loyalty, in the performance of their duties (Abul-Magd 2017). Key to these incentives for military subordination is sustaining the military’s huge size, which in turn requires defense of its reputation as the necessary and effective “sword of the nation,” bravely protecting it from domestic and external threats. It is the largest military in the Middle East and the eleventh largest globally. Its overall strength is ranked by Global Firepower as twelfth in the world, just behind Germany, Italy, and South Korea, countries whose gross domestic products (GDPs) per capita are at least twelve times greater than Egypt’s (Global Firepower 2018). In 2016– 2017 Egypt, facing an economic crisis that included halving the value of its currency and inflation in excess of 30 percent, was the world’s third-largest purchaser of arms in international markets (Egypt Independent 2018).

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Attempts in the wake of the signing of the 1979 peace treaty with Israel to slim down the military that had been expanded to almost 1 million active duty personnel to confront Israel after the 1967 war, achieved only about a 50 percent overall reduction, leaving almost half a million troops on active duty and an equal number in reserve. A US-encouraged plan to reconfigure the Egyptian armed forces into a lighter, more professional, and mobile military was rejected by President Mubarak, presumably out of the calculations that such a slimmed down professionalized force could pose a heightened threat to his personal rule, while depriving him of the various bases of support inherent in his command over a sprawling and relatively weak military (Kandil 2012, pp. 175–191). Throughout Mubarak’s presidency, justification of the oversized military remained the continuing threat of all-out war with Israel. This hypothetical threat, in turn, was used to dictate procurement, deployment, training, order of battle, and virtually all aspects of military operations. Preparing for a war that was not going to happen was, not coincidentally, an effective means of coup-proofing. The military was indulged with weapons, such as M1AI main battle tanks and F-16s, that it did not need nor had the capacity to effectively operate or maintain (Fomby 2006). It rejected equipment offered by the United States that was more relevant to the actual threats faced by Egypt such as terrorism, border penetration, and humanitarian disasters on land and sea. Since the military did not expect to be put to the test of all-out war and shirked other potential duties, it did not need to be much concerned with preparedness. Training was desultory, key maintenance was contracted out to US firms, and deployment within Egypt was organized more on the basis of convenience for officers than for the purpose of confronting real threats. The military could boast on the basis of its size and equipment to be a regional superpower and even a globally competitive force. In reality its personnel, both officers and enlisted, lacked the capacity to perform the tasks that such exalted rankings require. Lest its deficiencies be made apparent and its undeserved reputation suffer, under Mubarak the military became increasingly reluctant to participate in joint operations with friendly militaries. Even more corrosive for effectiveness, to say nothing of national economic well-being, of sustaining this behemoth military charged with an irrelevant mission and led by a pampered and ever more self-reproducing officer corps, were sustainment costs and the manner in which they were met. The comparatively small military economy focused on production of weaponry and ammunition that Nasser established was expanded under Sadat but remained focused on military equipment. But the peace dividend that Egyptians believed they would receive as a result of agreeing to the treaty with Israel less than two years before Sadat’s assassination placed pressure on the military not only to downsize but to reduce its claim on the

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national budget. Mubarak could thus simultaneously appease the public’s demand for reduced spending on the military, and the officer corps’ contradictory demand that the military remain well financed, by encouraging the expansion of “Military, Inc.” into a host of business ventures producing civilian goods and services. The military’s business empire provided patronage for the officer corps, although at the cost of overall military preparedness and efficiency. Field Marshal Muhammad Husayn Tantawi, promoted from head of the Republican Guard to minister of defense not long after the removal and jailing of his predecessor Abd al Halim Abu Ghazala, whose popularity had posed a threat to Mubarak, ultimately served in that ministerial capacity longer than anyone else in Egypt’s monarchial or Republican history. A lackluster unpopular figure with no significant combat experience, Tantawi was the ideal choice to ensure the high command’s loyalty to Mubarak and to guide the Egyptian military yet further away from performing military tasks into running an ever expanding business empire. Indeed, according to accounts from foreign military personnel who dealt with him, virtually his only concerns were with economic matters, especially profits to be derived from his military’s various business dealings. The impact on personnel of this intentional refocusing away from military toward economic missions was for them to do the same (Abul-Magd 2017). Indeed, this reorientation appears to have been purposely guided by positive rewards for compliant officers and negative ones for those who appeared to resist and resent the repurposing. Key to this reward schedule was postretirement employment in military enterprises, in the public sector, or in the government itself, dubbed by Sayigh (2012) as noted above, “the officer republic.” Growing up alongside Military, Inc. during Minister of Defense Tantawi’s tenure was a parallel structure of companies owned and operated by retired officers and contracting primarily to the military or the government (Springborg 2011). Since Tantawi’s departure and President al-Sisi’s rise to power, two seemingly contradictory trends are occurring simultaneously. One is rhetorical. It includes statements by President al-Sisi himself, as well as by members of the high command, including Minister of Defense Sidqy Subhi, that the military is repurposing itself, taking on the new combat mission of counterterrorism and counterinsurgency, while also becoming more dedicated to border protection, maritime activities, and so forth. That has been accompanied by a shift in procurement away from equipment appropriate for major land battles toward equipment more useful for other tasks. But that shift has resulted at least as much from US pressure as it has from demands from alSisi and his officers. Moreover, since al-Sisi’s rise to power, Egypt has diversified its arms procurement away from the United States. That diversification has focused on major weapons systems, including two aircraft carriers, four corvettes, and twenty-four sophisticated Rafale fighter aircraft from the

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French, a similar number of advanced MIG 35 planes from Russia, along with a host of related weapons systems from the Russians and other suppliers. So, words about repurposing seem to be contradicted by actions, other than to some extent with US-influenced procurement (Sharp 2018). The bigger contradiction, however, is that the military has doubled down yet more on its economic role, vastly expanding its scope and size. It has moved into sectors, such as oil and gas production, steel manufacturing, telecommunications, the media, and logistics, in which it formerly played only a marginal, if any role, but has now become an important and, in some cases, dominant economic actor. Continued preoccupation with economic activities driven by the regime’s need to appease the military is a if not the major cause of failure in the military’s campaign to uproot terrorism, to say nothing of adequately protecting Egypt’s borders, including monitoring its territorial waters. The military is simply not adequately focused on meeting national security threats. Material incentives offered to the military by the al-Sisi regime are matched with ideational ones. The praises of the military are sung as loudly as they were only during the early stages of military rule under Nasser, after which time the military became the elephant in the room, the hulking presence of which was purposely ignored lest it invite civilian hostility or overshadow the president. New military museums have sprouted up, along with an expansion of military sports teams and facilities, as well as secondary schools and a university devoted to instilling in students discipline and loyalty to the military. The country’s top three high-profile development undertakings—the Suez Canal industrial zone, the new “administrative” capital, and the nuclear facility at Dabaa on the northwest coast—are proclaimed as being expertly led by the military. Egyptians are being told, as they were in the early Nasser era, that the military will save them from all threats, including economic ones from which they suffer so profoundly.

The Disincentives and Their Negative Impacts on Effectiveness

Disincentives to seek the overthrow of incumbent presidents have included manipulation of the high command, strengthening of countervailing coercive forces, and intrusive surveillance of the officer corps by intelligence organizations controlled by the president. All of these disincentives have negatively impacted the military’s overall performance. Manipulation of the high command has taken three forms. One has been for the president to delegate the task of control to a presumed trusted comrade by assigning that individual virtually in perpetuity the vital defense portfolio. Nasser did this with his fellow conspirator, Abd al Hakim Amer, as did Mubarak with Tantawi. In both cases, military effectiveness was

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sacrificed for presumed control by the trusted subordinate. Amer, however, indulged his fellow officers to wean their loyalties away from Nasser. Corruption, smuggling, drug addiction, lack of discipline, and other maladies came to infest the officer corps. The result was a profound lack of overall preparedness, as evidenced by the disaster in Yemen followed by that against Israel in 1967. Mubarak similarly entrusted Tantawi with the responsibility to subordinate the military, which was also achieved through indulgence of the officer corps, in this case primarily through general enrichment that diverted the institution’s focus from military to economic matters. The second method has been direct manipulation of personnel by reshuffling, counterbalancing, discrediting, and even liquidation, all of which are described in considerable detail by Hazem Kandil (see Kandil 2012). Sadat, in particular, churned his high command to ensure that no officer was able to build a political base within the military or the broader public. When that strategy seemed not to be achieving his desired result, he had potentially rebellious officers removed in circumstances that suggested foul play. The preparedness of the Egyptian military, which reached its peak in 1973, was dramatically and indeed purposely eroded in the remaining years of Sadat’s presidency as he sought, ultimately unsuccessfully, to permanently and absolutely subordinate the armed forces to his will. He was assassinated by serving military officers. The third mode of manipulation is that of direct personal control by the president, effected through his appointments of relatives and close friends to key command positions, coupled with his recruitment of officers into positions in the state and economy directly subordinate to him. This is the method President al-Sisi has chosen. He is the only president who has been able to personally control the military in this way, thanks to Tantawi having cultivated him as his successor, in part by entrusting him with command over Military Intelligence, the primary body for political surveillance of the officer corps. Through that organization, he established personal connections with and control over officers in key combat commands, thereby providing him with the social and informational capital essential for the implementation of the direct control strategy he was to adopt on becoming president. The downsides of that strategy are those inherent in a highly centralized one-man control of sprawling military, administrative, and economic domains. With all decisionmaking power concentrated in his hands, al-Sisi has disempowered officers and civilians alike. His minister of defense is conspicuous in his absence from the public limelight, which is bound to undermine his personal authority within the military. The struggling counterinsurgency campaign has been accompanied by a rapid turnover of officers in relevant commands, with no clear or effective strategy being articulated by either the president or the military. The military’s first major economic project, the digging of a canal parallel to the existing

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Suez Canal, was conducted without economic or environmental studies because al-Sisi sought a tangible and immediate demonstration of his decisiveness. It has proven to be an economic liability, while causing several environmental problems. In sum, coup-proofing by manipulation of the high command has entailed costs to military effectiveness and, as the military’s purview has extended ever further into the state and the economy, in those realms as well.

Utilization of Countervailing Security Forces and Military Intelligence

Bolstering countervailing coercive forces to counterbalance the military commenced under Nasser in the wake of the 1967 defeat and the protests it spawned against military rule. Nasser created a Central Security Force under the Ministry of Interior that was charged initially with street control, then with various counterinsurgency and counterterrorism duties. Sadat greatly expanded the size of that force and Mubarak added yet further personnel to it. In 1986 units of the Central Security Force rebelled and fought pitched battles against the military, whose officers were generally contemptuous and resentful of what they saw as a competitive, if incompetent, force. In addition to bolstering this counterbalance, Mubarak further strengthened and empowered two intelligence agencies, General Intelligence that reports to the presidency and State Security Investigations under the minister of interior, to perform various security tasks, thereby encroaching on grounds formerly occupied by the military. From within the heart of the military, its Directorate of Intelligence has from the early Nasser years spied on fellow officers. Its organizational power, however, has varied depending on the president’s confidence in his control of it. Nasser placed his trusted confidant, Zakariya Muhyi al Din, in charge of Military Intelligence and relied heavily on it until Amer was able to undercut Nasser’s authority in it and the military more generally. Neither Sadat nor Mubarak had full confidence in Military Intelligence because they feared cross-cutting loyalties between its officers and their comrades in other commands. President al-Sisi has turned the clock back to the early Nasser years by building his political control of the military and even the broader polity on Military Intelligence. The president’s control of Military Intelligence is highly personal. Two of his sons have served in it. He appointed his daughter’s father-in-law as his successor there, to say nothing of sprinkling his friends and allies in key positions within that and other key commands, including Muhammad Farid al Tuhamy, his old boss from Military Intelligence, as head of General Intelligence. While serving under President Morsi as minister of defense, al-Sisi charged Military Intelligence

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with the task of recruiting a civilian opposition to the Muslim Brothers modeled on that which had overthrown Mubarak. It coordinated organization of the ostensible volunteer youth movement, Tamarrud, which in turn circulated the petition allegedly signed by 22 million Egyptians demanding Morsi’s resignation, hence legitimating the coup. Subsequently, Military Intelligence arranged civilian window dressing to cover the military regime. Prior to the parliamentary elections in 2015, for example, it organized two political parties that together won a substantial majority and went on to form a government in early 2016. Military Intelligence has thus come full circle, back to the role created for it by Nasser. In so doing, it has dragged the military ever further into the political arena, hence further away from the performance of military functions, key of which presently is counterinsurgency. The abysmal performance of the tens of thousands of troops that have served in Sinai to combat the Islamic State there is due in significant measure to inadequate intelligence, a direct result of the politicization of Military Intelligence.

The Negative Feedback Loop of Personalistic Control of the Military

Since 1952, Egypt has demonstrated that the direct consequences of personalistic rather than institutionalized civilian control of the military is extremely negative for military effectiveness. These consequences range from the highest strategic level of failure to formulate and implement an appropriate national security policy based on realistic threat assessments; through mid-level shortcomings, including inability to combat terrorists and insurgents effectively, protect the borders, and provide emergency assistance and humanitarian relief to citizens, or for that matter to respect citizens’ rights; to lower-level operational matters, including inadequate training and poor maintenance. The indirect negative consequences of personalized coupproofing for military performance not only reinforce these direct ones, but they contribute to an overall national context that renders military effectiveness more difficult to achieve. In other words, coup-proofing impels a feedback loop through the broader political economy that negatively impacts military capacities, in turn enhancing the need for further coup-proofing, thereby maintaining the loop’s momentum. Indulging the military necessarily implies stringencies for civilians and curtailment of their political and economic activities. The domestic political economy is profoundly distorted by the military’s costs, by its encroachment into the economy, and by its repression of political rights and activities. State capacities are similarly negatively impacted. Overcentralization of the executive branch is driven in part by the military’s control of it, seeking as it does to literally run the entire administration

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from headquarters in Cairo. Civilian administrators are subordinate to officers who inhabit the deep state that underpins and controls the visible nominal government. Civilian courts operate under the shadow of constitutional and legal provisions that award superior power to their military counterparts and that render all judges directly or indirectly subordinate to the military (Aziz 2014). The transfer of resources and power from the civilian political economy to the military thus contributes greatly to the nation’s impoverishment, to its profoundly inadequate governance, and to the political alienation of its people. This in turn drives the dynamic whereby the regime is ever more dependent on coercion to sustain its rule. The coup-proofing tactics described above become ever more important, thus over time transferring ever more structural power from civilians to the military. Max Weber characterized this outcome as the “paradox of the Sultan,” whereby the ruler’s need to rely on the military empowered it against him (1978, pp. 1006–1069). What Weber did not explore was the consequence of this paradox for the effectiveness of the military. As I demonstrated in this chapter, that consequence is to create a bloated military that is inherently incapable of adequately discharging vital national security tasks, with that failure adding yet more pressure on the military regime to oppress citizens. This implies that no amount of external support for the Egyptian military will address the structural flaw on which it rests, which is the total absence of institutionalized civilian control. The Egyptian case demonstrates that running a country and being an effective military are incompatible roles. The prima facie evidence is that Egypt’s economy has been on an almost continuous downward economic slide since the army seized power in 1952, while its military has lost every interstate war in which it has engaged while also failing adequately to perform tasks increasingly essential to national security, ranging from counterinsurgency to border surveillance to humanitarian assistance. The explanation of these twin failures is that by assuming primary responsibility for politics, governance, and even economic development, the military lacks the will and capacities to discharge security duties. In a word, it is preoccupied. This preoccupation is intensified by the lack of institutional control of the armed forces, thereby demanding that the head of state devotes key personal and systemic resources to coup-proofing. Neither professionalization of the military along the lines of China nor subjecting it to democratic control appear possible in the absence of fundamental political changes in Egypt. The inadequate state of affairs with the military mismanaging the country, while not providing adequate security, seems set to continue.

Conclusion

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1. The literature on the effectiveness of the Egyptian military is overwhelmingly negative. See, for example, Jane’s Sentinel Country Risk Assessments, Egypt (n.d.), De Atkine (1999), Eisenstadt and Pollack (2001), Fomby (2006), and Toronto (2010). In addition to this and related literature, the author has drawn on interviews with US, other Western, and Egyptian military personnel conducted at various times since 1986, including in June and July 2010, when the author was based at the US Office of Military Cooperation in Cairo, and subsequently in his capacity as program manager for the Middle East for the US Department of Defense’s Center for Civil-Military Relations and for the Foreign Area Officer training program conducted by the Naval Postgraduate School at Monterey, California.

Note

13 China: Traditions, Institutions, and Effectiveness You Ji

1978 is its military reforms. The core of the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) modernization is of two main dimensions. The political dimension is narrowly defined by the PLA’s relations with the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) and broadly defined as its relations with society as a whole. Militarily, it aims at uplifting the PLA to a first-class armed forces in the world. This political-military nexus reflects the central theme of this book on the nexus of civilian control and military effectiveness in civil-military relations. In China’s case, the PLA’s obedience to the party is the essence of civilian control of the gun, but this is not a simple relationship of master and agent that is normally found in liberal democratic societies. Their intimate ties carry forward the residual traits of the original CCP-PLA symbiosis, dating back to the anti-Japanese war (1937–1945) and the Chinese civil war concluded in 1949. After the CCP came to power in 1949, this symbiotic relationship evolved into a complicated alliance of shared interests in maintaining the communist system because of the uncertain balance of power between the relatively weak civilian leaders after Deng Xiaoping until Xi Jinping and influential generals commanded an integrated force with distinctive self-interests. The proof of civilian control and military effectiveness in China can be measured by concrete political and military criteria. A militarily effective PLA is the party’s preference and serves its core interests in boosting the latter’s legitimacy to rule the country through defending the nation against external threats, protecting China’s sovereignty, promoting a statecentric patriotism, and lifting China’s profile as a top power in the changing international order. Therefore, the CCP strongly supports the PLA’s

A key component of China’s overall transformation since

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professionalization, increasing defense spending, weapons development, and power projection beyond the national borders. At the same time, professionalization is the foundation for PLA modernization, which defines its corporate objectives, organizational identity, operational autonomy, and needs of financial investments. As proven in civil-military relations in all types of political systems, military effectiveness can be at odds with political control, especially in authoritarian political contexts where the military tends to be politicized. If the civilian authority or the military asserts itself in the policy process, either political control or military effectiveness will suffer. In this chapter, I evaluate the dynamics of this dialectical relationship of control and effectiveness in the People’s Republic of China.

Conceptualizing the Changing Paradigm of Civilian Control

The nature of Chinese civil-military relations is reflected in the PLA’s interaction with the government and society, but is determined by its ties with the CCP. One central concept defining the CCP-PLA relations has been civilmilitary “symbiosis.” It underscores a historically embedded and special lipand-tongue integration of the party and the armed forces. This analytical framework captures the essence of the political process in the People’s Republic under Chairman Mao Tse-tung, where the generals’ contribution to the formulation of key state policies and to national security affairs was decisive (Perlmutter and LeoGrande 1982; Shambaugh 2003). Today as CCP-PLA relations gradually move beyond their wartime symbiotic origin, a new pattern of civil-military interactions becomes discernable, as seen in the reduced PLA role in the political decisionmaking process and in its ease of penetration into society. Undoubtedly, the PLA continues to enjoy huge privileges. Yet its weight in Chinese political and civil affairs has been substantially curbed, with its activities primarily oriented toward national security and defense matters (Ji 2014). The question is not whether the PLA intervenes in domestic politics, as it does, but how much its intervention has changed from the Maoist (symbiotic) routine intrusion. Since Deng’s departure in 1996, the PLA has restrained itself in intraparty factional strife and state administration. Yet as long as the PLA is politically tasked by the CCP, the room for its generals to intervene in politics is always open, albeit mostly at the invitation of the civilian commander in chief (Joffe 1996). Coming to power, Xi has enhanced the PLA’s influence on both domestic issues and foreign policy making. One key feature of Xi’s political leadership is his proactive use of the PLA as his primary power base, although there has not been an obvious need for him to employ the PLA in party politics due to his firm control over major policies and personnel arrangements. The PLA’s visible and invisible support was crucial for Xi to dominate the

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party’s Nineteenth Congress in 2017, where a structured Xi faction emerged. This has strengthened civilian control over the PLA, but the resultant shrinking space for the generals’ professional autonomy in administration and operations may undermine PLA effectiveness. The concept of symbiosis echoes the PLA’s self-depiction of being a revolutionary and professional army, an interesting combination of two contradictory terms. The internal role (revolutionary) has long been the permit for CCP leaders to involve the PLA in party politics and for PLA leaders to regard intervention in state affairs as its rightful duty. The Cultural Revolution fully exposed how a symbiotic civil-military relationship allowed an all-powerful leader to use a politicized military to fulfill his factional purposes and how the PLA became politicized once it entered the party’s factional strife. The direct outcome was the much-weakened combat effectiveness of the PLA (R. MacFarquhar and Schoenhals 2006). The postMao party and military leaders have seen the perils of overt politicization of the military that hurts normal civilian governance and military effectiveness at a time of heightened external security challenges. Then CCP and PLA leaders have tried to construct a new balance between retaining the PLA’s basic political functions to protect the party and facilitating PLA professionalization. The new balance has given rise to a visible control and effectiveness dynamics: when there is political need for the PLA to support the party, as in June 1989, the latter would not be hesitant. However, in peacetime, it positively selects to keep a respectful distance from civilian affairs. Whether such a subtle pattern of CCP-PLA interaction works depends on whether party control is effective. Furthermore, both the party and the PLA prefer the military to concentrate on its own business of war preparation all the time. Practically, when generals are preoccupied more with high-tech toys than with elusive political ambitions, they are less intrusive in party affairs. Militarily sharpening combat sophistication is the only way for the PLA to win the next war (Char 2016). Both theoretically and functionally, the PLA’s internal roles (protecting the party rule) and external roles (preparing for war fighting) are, however, inherently contradictory, as each dictates dichotomous organizational objectives and institutional interests for the PLA to reconcile. As far as party control is concerned, whether the PLA is more revolutionary in terms of politicization or more professional in terms of its military expertise may determine the direction of eventual Chinese political change. The party’s concerns about military loyalty are not unfounded. In CCP-PLA history, there have been cases where certain party leaders tried to use the gun to realize their factional ambition against the party center. More generally, other transforming states have testified that a military embracing professionalism, deemphasizing ideology, and indulging in its own interests would facilitate the trend of political change spearheaded by societal forces.

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This is in keeping with general social transition that deconstructs the authoritarian system. For instance, the PLA’s endeavor to become an informatized high-tech army obliges it to recruit a large number of urban technicians and scientists, qualitatively altering a peasant army into an intellectual army whose members often belong to China’s new middle classes (Goodman 2014). More importantly, their apolitical tendency would gradually replace or overcome the overt revolutionary zeal of the officer corps. Understandably, Xi has renewed the party slogan of “absolute control” vis-à-vis the PLA. Yet the control has been far from absolute. In conceptualizing the visible institutional and organizational loopholes in Chinese elite politics, China scholars created an analytical framework of “fragmented authoritarianism” to define or describe the discrepancies between a strong mobilizational state under a powerful centralized authority and an uncoordinated and often distorted implementation process at the bureaucratic and regional levels (Lieberthal and Oksenberg 1988). In the field of civil-military relations, such a political and functional dislocation is relevant in a contradictory form of effective, but fragmented, civilian control of the military. For instance, the organizational loophole is big in terms of the Politburo’s personal grip on the PLA: the Central Military Commission (CMC) is a party organ but is entirely composed of professional soldiers and, except for the party leader, no other Politburo member is authorized to monitor PLA affairs. In the party’s organizational procedures regarding military affairs, unless invited by the commander in chief, no civilian leaders can attend the CMC regular weekly conferences where major decisions are made. Additionally, the CMC has kept the Maoist tradition of selectively submitting important documents to the Politburo to “prevent leaks of top military secrets.”1 One telling example is that the PLA has introduced a thorough reform in reshaping the Chinese military, with a series of high-profile conferences to announce the strategic changes. In none of these key occasions was a civilian leader present, apart from Xi. As a result, even Politburo Standing Committee (PSC) members do not really know what is going on in the CMC. Such an organizational loophole is reinforced by a time-honored cultural and psychological taboo on unauthorized civilian-military personal contacts, which have been codified in strict discipline on both sides. In this chapter, I propose a new paradigm in interpreting the changing nature of the CCP-PLA interactions, namely, from symbiosis to an alliancestyle relationship. This bears resemblance to the cases of communist Vietnam and Laos party-military symbioses, which is typical for Communist Party regimes that come to power through guerrilla warfare. The notion of symbiosis is characterized by “low levels of differentiation between military and non-military elites” and “the circulation of elites between military and non-military posts.” This obscures “functional and even institutional

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boundaries between military and non-military structures” (Perlmutter and LeoGrande 1982, p. 782). A coalitional relationship between military and party, however, is “one where the autonomy of each individual structure is the greatest concern. A coalition is a system of reaping mutual benefits and advantages in whose absence the participants lose more than they stand to gain if they are coalesced. It is a political relationship in which the participants maintain relative equality and independence from one another” (Perlmutter and LeoGrande 1982, pp. 782–784). Although the Chinese, Laotian, and Vietnam Communist Parties continue to dominate all other state institutions, their political supremacy is necessarily limited by the division of labor among various institutions. There usually is little conflict between the party and army on issues of “normal politics.” Yet the military acts as a functionally specific elite engaged in bargaining to defend its perceived institutional interests; and, in crisis politics, the military is a political resource that various party leaders seek to enlist against their opponents. It is exactly this prospect in civil-military relations in the Communist bloc that deeply troubles Beijing’s leadership. To ensure that the military loyalty is not lost, tightening CCP control is necessary, for the safety of the political regime and for control and effectiveness dialectics.2 Based on the conceptual guidance and empirical criteria provided by the editors in Chapter 1, the PLA can be rated as one of most effective fighting forces in the world in institutional terms. This is shown by its high level of professionalism in terms of force effectiveness, institutionalized autonomy in military administration and operations, dominance in the country’s national security and defense decisionmaking, and fast and persistent capability growth. With regard to missions and roles, it is important to keep in mind that the PLA’s special status in China’s polity and society is based on the assumption that it was the creator of the People’s Republic in 1949 and still is the guardian of national interests.3 Yet in combat terms, despite its impressive war record, a period of thirty years of no action casts doubt on its battlefield effectiveness, as contemporary warfare is entirely different from those wars the PLA used to fight, especially in the context of a war with a superpower.4

Military Effectiveness and PLA Transformation

Military Effectiveness and Preparation for War Fighting

Regarding its war-fighting capabilities, the PLA can claim a victorious history to its credit. It won the civil war in China in 1949, defeating an enemy that was vastly superior in manpower and weaponry. Since then, it has fought nine interstate and intrastate wars against foes, including two

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superpowers in the Cold War era and its neighbors. The PLA won three wars or armed clashes: land warfare with India (1962), and naval warfare with South Vietnam (1974) and Vietnam (1988) in the South China Sea. It fought a stalemate with the allied troops in the Korean War in 1953, armed border confrontation with the USSR in 1969, tough battles against the United States in Vietnam between 1968 and 1972, and a series of land warfare with Vietnam in the 1980s. Yet this record is just a negative testimony to its effectiveness in combat. A positive one can be found by the PLA’s record of nonaction since 1988. Peace of three decades is amazingly rare for a military whose organizational philosophy at founding was “political power comes from the barrel of gun,” but this positively reflects its changed mentality that war avoidance has become a core national interest for a nation of tremendous wealth (Strategy Research Department of the PLA Academy of Military Science 2013, p. 76). It is also rare that China has been the only major power not involved in any war in the new century. A telling assessment is its accumulated deterrence capability in the long and nondisrupted process of modernization since 1978. Effectiveness in the planning for and fighting of interstate wars is a basic organizational requirement for all militaries. To the PLA, effectiveness is a high-stakes issue determining peace or war. Xi called on the PLA to overcome the “peace syndrome” through tightening war preparation.5 The PLA has always seen war in a Clausewitz light, as it consists of two distinctive activities—preparation for war and conduct of war (Howard and Paret 1989, p. 179). This aligns with Beijing’s acute threat perception. Arguably, China is exposed to the prospects of a war with a major power, and US identification of China as a peer strategic rival in Donald Trump’s National Security Strategy and the Pentagon’s National Defense Strategy has raised the chances of the two countries entering a Cold War–type of contention. From Beijing’s perspective, the government in Washington has conveniently leveraged Asian territorial conflicts and structured them into geostrategic rivalry among major powers. The resultant militarization of Sino-US relations has served as a powerful driver for the PLA to constantly improve its combat readiness (Weixing 2016). This underlines the PLA’s early embracing of the Revolution in Military Affairs (RMA) ideas in the 1990s. It vigorously pursues transformation accordingly. Its efforts to sharpen operational capabilities have raised the PLA from a second-tier defensive force to an expanding offensive power. The nexus of military effectiveness and war preparation is organic for the PLA’s modernization. Winning the next war against its potential adversaries has been the PLA’s ultimate goal. Ambitious as it may sound, this call also establishes concrete criteria of effectiveness building. Politically applying wartime discipline to controlling the officer corps has effectively addressed the PLA’s corruption at various levels. Toughening combat train-

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ing has promoted force cohesion of the rank-and-file members. Militarily, the professional guidance of war preparation dictates the Chinese party state and armed forces to formulate proper national defense strategy and combat doctrines, build a suitable force posture for power projection, enlarge investment of resources in the modernization, and create the integrated joint command chains and service structures. National defense strategy informs the nature of a military’s war policy. Military effectiveness does not happen automatically. It is a process in which the top brass adjust the national defense strategy through realizing their subjective war designs. It enriches military transformation through revising the goals of force enhancement and restructuring. China’s formulation of national defense strategy has been exclusively a PLA effort without civilian interference, although following the party’s overall judgment of the country’s national strength, available defense technology, and the changing international security environment. The strategy formulation is based on the sensible sequencing of a hierarchy of perceived threats, nuanced countermeasures, phased developmental plans, PLA strengths and weaknesses, and realistic priority in resource allocation (Strategy Research Department of the PLA Academy of Military Science 2013). The current PLA strategy, officially entitled “the strategy of fighting the limited and informatized regional war,” particularly depicts employment of military power against specific enemies in tailored combat typologies and around concrete geographic localities (China Defense White Paper 2015). This strategy highlights the role of information technology in the future warfare that is joint and network centric. Military informatization is valued not merely as a matter of technical significance for the PLA but for its survival, given rapid information technology breakthroughs by its chief adversaries. Now PLA commanders see the key to victory in future wars not between hardware platforms but the information technology systems integrating them (Li 2013). The strategy makes it a top priority for the PLA to enhance what is described in military studies as command, control, communications, computers, intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance 4 (C ISR). Real-time battlefield awareness is obtained and disseminated quickly top down and horizontally. Systems integration directs PLA war preparation. Clearly, the PLA has rightly structured military effectiveness in high-tech and information technology development.6 In war planning, the informatization strategy singles out four most likely war scenarios for the PLA in the coming decades. On top of the hierarchy is an all-out war against the superpower, as a new type of Sino-US Cold War is looming. A major war in the Taiwan Strait ranks second in

National Defense Strategy

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severity, and in likelihood. The third category is about a small- or mediumsized war due to territorial disputes: land warfare with India or maritime conflicts in the South China Sea. The fourth scenario is low-intensity warfare such as war against terror in Xinjiang. With another turnover of government in Taipei in 2016, the second scenario is visibly most thinkable. In the PLA’s calculation, frequencies of war onset declined in the new century, but those of crisis eruption are on the rise as the world becomes more turbulent. Armed rifts of the third category have become more realistic, as testified by the Sino-Indian Doklam standoff in 2017. The armed clash in the South China Sea is also a new scenario for the PLA to contemplate, with deepening military intervention by major powers becoming more vigorous (Strategy Research Department of the PLA Academy of Military Science 2013, p. 99, 114). The US military’s pivot to Asia heightens the danger of armed rifts involving China, as the AirSea Battle concept operationalizes US war footing against the PLA in the years ahead.7 The most eye-catching change recorded in the PLA’s current strategy is the posture shift from “defensive defense” (homeland defense) to “defensive offense” (overseas power projection to secure China’s expanded national interests), facilitated by the shift of PLA security gravity from the continent (the defense of the continental North) to maritime domains, which dictates the PLA to adopt a forward posture for oceanic power projection. Affected by this shift are force-building developments: weapons equipment priority has been placed on modernizing the navy, air force, and rocket force, and war game planning favors offensive campaigns and asymmetric warfare in the form of an offset strategy that highlights the anti-access and area denial (2A/AD) operations against the superpower from a position of weakness. In strategic parlance, asymmetry exists universally among all militaries in the world. At the tactical level, different weapons systems can inherently generate asymmetric effects against each other; for example, air power vis-à-vis the ground force and submarines against surface combatants. The PLA leverages such asymmetries to gain a relative upper hand in future wars. It strives to establish partial parity or even temporary superiority against the superpower at a chosen time, and at an optimal geographic location, within a given duration, and over a limited objective so that a good level of asymmetric advantages can be realized for a political settlement to proceed. Indeed, the PLA’s asymmetric measures include offensive strikes or defensive operations from geographic proximity, using weapons with relative technological advantage against the weak point of the enemy’s platforms and employing preemptive means to shape the combat environment. Typical of Chinese asymmetric warfare is the PLA’s antiaircraft carrier obsession. An aircraft carrier is big, slow, and relatively defenseless against fast, pinpoint, and saturated missile strikes. Thus, an asymmetric condition is there to be exploited.

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The PLA Leadership in National Security and Foreign Policy Decisionmaking

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Theoretically and practically, military effectiveness can be ensured and improved by military professionals in a country’s decisionmaking process concerning foreign and national security policies, which bear military consequences if diplomacy fails. Here, the subject of military influence on any given country’s foreign policy making has evoked immense interest among academics (Sarkesian, Williams, and Cimbala 2008; Croissant and Kuehn 2017a). For China, the depiction is not wrong, but also is not accurate, as influence has an outside-in connotation. The PLA not only influences Chinese national security (NS) and foreign policy making but is an integral part of it: thus, it makes an inside-out impact. This is consistent with most major powers in the world, which have undeniable self-interests in NS decisionmaking. President Xi strongly represents PLA interests in and viewpoints on foreign policy in the CCP Politburo as the commander in chief. PLA representatives sit in the Council of State Security, which sets the strategic direction of China’s national security initiatives (Ji 2014). The PLA’s presence in Beijing’s national security process is heavy and decisive. Basically, under the CCP primacy, China’s civilian foreign policy functionaries and PLA generals abide by a dynamic division of labor: the Ministry of Foreign Affairs is in charge of China’s generic foreign affairs and daily diplomacy, and the CMC is responsible for NS military-related foreign affairs and defines the bottom line for employing force in international conflicts. In this policy dynamic, the PLA exercises a kind of directional leadership: wielding oversight, but behind the scenes. Historically, the PLA played a critical part in shaping Beijing’s foreign strategy and dominated its NS strategy formulation, especially during periods of heightened tension with other major powers. Yet the top brass has not crossed the party line, despite constant criticism by individual PLA personnel of their perceived civilian soft response to Western pressure. The changed security environment in the Asia Pacific region has encouraged President Xi to rebalance the NS foreign policy priorities. Beijing’s previous top focus on domestic stability (state consolidation) along the lines of maintaining a strategic low profile over external conflicts was paralleled by an emphasis on sovereignty security, which is mainly the PLA domain that was designated by the party in the early 1980s. Xi’s assertive foreign policy stance has heightened the military role and onus in Beijing’s overall NS foreign policy making. Under persistent PLA persuasion, Xi has tried to strike a new balance between the need for being resolute in a sovereignty stance and the need for effective crisis control (war avoidance). The former is indicated by a hardened approach on territorial integrity, mainly in the form of a retaliatory strategy as seen by China’s military presence in the South China Sea. The latter, however, is designed by avoiding

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an excessive militarization in foreign affairs that would undermine the external conditions for China’s continued rise. China’s elite civil-military consultation and foreign policy process has been institutionalized since the post-Mao reforms, and so has the PLA directional leadership over the NS and defense-related foreign affairs. The chair of the CMC automatically leads both foreign affairs and NS affairs at the apex of power and regulates the CCP-PLA interaction on NS decisionmaking. The commander in chief is not only an ultimate civilian leader but also a key part of China’s military system. Rarely does his foreign policy choice contravene basic PLA interests in the history of the People’s Republic of China. The PLA’s close ties with the paramount leader are a source of influence at the top. All of the post-Mao CMC chairs have wooed the PLA in running state affairs. While their personal styles have mattered in setting hierarchical policy priorities, they generally have been rational and pragmatic, but firm, on sovereignty issues. Indeed, Beijing’s assertiveness on territorial issues has been consistent (Johnston 2013). The CMC independently makes war decisions in this regard and as part of its prescribed autonomy in civil-military interactions thanks to the unparalleled power of the CMC chair. The scope of PLA autonomy has also been rooted in PLA traditions and customary practices that highlight the CMC chair’s ultimate authority in military decisionmaking. For instance, the PLA action in the Spratly Islands in 1988 was an exclusive CMC decision (Huaqing 2004, pp. 324–345). The same can be said of PLA’s centrality in controlling maritime standoffs (Ji 2017). The PLA’s increased weight in Beijing’s NS and foreign policy process since Xi came to power may have enhanced military effectiveness in the policy areas related to NS, but this has caused international backlash, as demonstrated by its Spratly Islands “reclamation” in 2015. To the PLA, as with all top military power, military effectiveness is, first of all, a reflection of capability effectiveness in the weaponry calculus against its chief adversaries. This is especially difficult for the PLA, as it targets the United States as the referent object to catch up to in terms of arms sophistication. To narrow the generational gap in hardware and software, equipment has driven PLA force modernization that augments its effectiveness in war preparation. President Xi is particularly worried about the generational gap between China and the United States. He once told PLA leaders that “the effects of the weaponry in warfare have been greatly increased in the IT [information technology] era as compared with the industrial era. If we are one generation behind capabilities with another power it is very difficult for us to win future wars” (Shenzhen TV International 2018). Narrowing

Military Effectiveness and Capability Reconstruction

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the capability gap with the superpower has been the PLA standard measurement of military effectiveness. Being too far behind, the best it can do is to engage in an asymmetric 2A/AD type of warfare. At the Nineteenth Party Congress in October 2017, Xi announced a timetable for the PLA to pursue capability improvement, which is foundational to its overall transformation. Specifically, this is a three-phased transition from a top military power to a superpower military by 2050. The first phase will see the PLA realize its long-desired objective of mechanization. The goal of the second phase is to lessen the superpower’s overwhelming superiority over the PLA to one of relative superiority, which will make the Pentagon balk at intervening in regional disputes militarily against China. By the end of the third phase in 2050, the PLA plans to have largely reached a rough power parity with the United States. Mechanization has been especially cherished by a military like the PLA, which long fought on foot against mechanized enemies such as in Korea in 1950. It was not until the 1970s that the PLA achieved motorization. The new call for mechanization means mechanization with much more sophistication. Specifically, it aims to equip the bulk of the PLA with weapons of the third generation, comparable to weapons commonly used by NATO countries such as Typhoon combat aircraft and Aegis destroyers. In the meantime, the PLA will equip itself with backbone weapons of the fourth generation, similar to those of US arms (e.g., the F-22s). Advanced platforms are essential for PLA effectiveness in war fighting. The timetable of completing PLA modernization by 2035 is not an abstract concept. Of particular concern for the PLA is its weak capability in conducting network-centric warfare. The goal is to deny the enemy’s one-way battlefield transparency as a strategic necessity. To this end, the PLA Strategic Support Force will integrate all “new types of combat capabilities in modern warfare, such as those for ‘star wars,’ cyber warfare, internet warfare, unmanned warfare and so on” (Hwang 2017, p. 175008). One of the early objectives is to generate the PLA’s own battlefield transparency through toughening its C 4 ISR structure, interconnectivity, and the data-link systems. Even if the PLA narrows its capability gap with the US military by 2035 as an indicator of its modernization, the latter will remain tremendously superior in almost all areas of weapons systems. This dictates the PLA to stick to the 2A/AD typology of war fighting continuously to 2050 and beyond. There is rich inventory for the PLA to execute such asymmetric warfare, but the very foundation for it to be effective is acquisition of three mutually assured destruction (MAD) capabilities: nuclear MAD, space MAD, and cyberspace MAD that are effective asymmetrical means for a weak military to deter a strong one. While the PLA has never attempted an order of battle parity with the US military, it is confident that

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through a sustained increase in financial and material inputs in constructing the three MAD forces and carefully casting asymmetric doctrines, it will be able to deter the Pentagon in attempting military confrontation as a way of pressuring China.

Striking an Equilibrium in the Nexus of Civilian Primacy and Military Effectiveness

The military’s monopoly of means of coercion can be a constant source of insecurity to relatively weak civilian leaders. The alleged disobedience to the top civilian party leaders by the two top professional soldiers (both CMC vice chairs), Guo Boxiong and Xu Caihouin, illustrates such a worry by the civilians. A balanced control-effectiveness nexus is hard to establish in any society, democracy or otherwise. Generally, the nexus is more stable in the former because of the institutionalized political and military leadership. In China’s case this nexus is, however, more predictable and solid than most nondemocracies as evidenced by the fact that there has been no coup in the history of CCP-PLA interactions, despite the regular military interference in decisionmaking at the apex of power.

A Shared Destiny Defines the Control-Effectiveness Nexus

China may be among few major powers that have attained a relative balance in civilian control and military effectiveness. The primary logic for this argument is rooted in the unique Chinese model of the CCP-PLA alliance in achieving both political and military objectives, as analyzed in the first section of this chapter. Their shared interests in integrating civilian control and military autonomy, their historical and institutional culture and bondage, and, above all, their perception of symbiosis continue to generate mechanisms and incentives for each to stick together. For generals, party support is critical for the PLA to maintain its special status in the polity and society, as the CCP is in control of the bulk of national resources. A sufficient slice of this cake is a precondition for its modernization and effectiveness. After all, winning the next war is the PLA’s ultimate corporate interest and reason to exist. For CCP leaders, a worldclass PLA is a guarantee for China’s political system to survive and a source of its legitimacy to rule in the context of safeguarding the country against external threats. Undoubtedly, in few countries do civilian leaders maintain close relations with the military. Deng persuaded Jiang Zhemin to summon PLA generals for a chat at least four times a week (Kuhn 2003, p. 131). The frequency of Xi’s visits to military camps may be second only to Kim Jong-un.

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First of all, military effectiveness is a money game. China’s rapid economic development has been the key ingredient for an effective military and is synonymous with the expansion of its military potential. In the past twenty-five years, the PLA budget has increased by sixteen times. This extraordinary growth will substantially change the global structure of military spending. Currently, the United States is well ahead of the next cluster of seventeen nations, including China. By 2025, China will break away with this cluster of nations. Although it is still far behind the United States, its military spending is ahead of the next group of major powers. According to an International Institute for Strategic Studies (IISS) estimate, by 2030 the PLA will spend as much as the US military, although other analysts believe that 2050 would be a more realistic time framework (China spends $1 trillion vis-à-vis the $0.9 trillion of the United States; cf. IISS 2014; Kerin 2014). This enormous accumulation of defense investment helps the PLA acquire great offensive capabilities. Here it is useful to point out that it was civilian leaders who, in 1995, suggested adding a clause to China’s National Defense Law that defense spending should be increased abreast with growth in gross domestic product (GDP). As a result, China’s economic growth of twenty years at a double-digit rate paved the way for the PLA’s budgetary hike to remain above 10 percent annually, until recently when its GDP growth dropped below 7 percent. The PLA budget for 2018 was 1.1 trillion yuan, an 8.2 percent growth over the GDP growth of 6.6 percent in 2017, a clear expression of the CCP’s commitment to national defense. Second, all three top party leaders in the post-Deng era have held academic degrees in science and engineering from China’s top universities. They have been sensitive to the effects of technological breakthroughs to military development and forceful in demanding the PLA to adapt to the new war typologies based on the high-tech and information technology revolution. It was no accident that the PLA put forward its high-tech strategy just months after the end of the Gulf War in 1992. Xi has been instrumental to the PLA’s current reforms that have created the new C4ISR systems and the joint force structure for fighting future wars. The persistent efforts of the three post-Mao commanders in chief have been instrumental in overcoming the military’s conservative inertia and organizational resistance embedded in the generals’ vested interests. Moreover, they have proactively encouraged the PLA to learn from the best Western military science and technology with little political taboos. The PLA is the most eager student of Western military ideas. For instance, its ongoing reforms bear clear signs of US military establishments and command chains. On the PLA side, its subordination to civilians in managing defense affairs can also be illustrated by the two following examples:

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• When the PLA’s research for upgrading land- and sea-based intercontinental ballistic missiles was at a crucial stage, it obeyed the civilian order to terminate nuclear tests in 1996, which delayed warhead miniaturization and had an adverse effect on the development of the Julang-II missiles for China’s 094 nuclear submarines. • Through the 1980s and 1990s, the PSC withheld approval of the navy’s request to build aircraft carriers. One of its reasons was the concern about regional backlash against China’s carrier project. (Writing Group 1999, p. 62)

That the PLA abides by civilians’ decisions on NS matters is routine. It is because it sees a larger picture beyond military concerns. Interestingly, it often is compensated in other areas of civil-military interactions.

On the other hand, the Chinese history of the military’s repeated usurping of the emperors’ power, not to mention its control of means of violence as the most cohesive force in the country, can be a constant reminder of the civil-military imbalance of power in politics. An exclusive PLA corporate identity can be potentially hazardous if, for instance, it is under a powerful and politically ambitious general. Hu Jintao’s weak PLA leadership showed the danger of an imbalance of civil-military power in favor of the gun at a time of drastic social change. Since the 1990s, with the traditional methods of strongman and divide-and-rule control largely renounced and with deepening professionalization, the PLA has achieved a corporate spirit and organizational integrity as a cohesive force. This can be a double-edged sword for civilian leaders. A united military is an aid to the ruling party with shared strategic interests but a liability in civil-military disagreement over major issues. Since 2013, President Xi has tightened party control over the military in a semistrongman manner amidst his powerful push for the PLA to raise war readiness. Therefore, politically, the primary concern for the CCP is how to extract PLA loyalty in the control-effectiveness dynamics. In this equilibrium, military effectiveness, while important, is secondary. The civilians not only maintain the traditional sources of institutional control of the PLA but create new ones to manage the inherent contradictions in the control-effectiveness nexus. China’s effective civilian control mechanisms that work well in times of no domestic political crisis include

Politics in Command of Military Effectiveness

1. Personally, leadership matters. For the bulk of the interactive CCP-PLA relationship, a powerful civilian commander in chief was in a dominant position vis-à-vis the generals. This is certainly the current situation.

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2. Culturally, civilian primacy is time honored in China, reflected by a hierarchical sociopolitical status in people’s minds, who firmly uphold civilian superiority over the generals (Cosmo 2011). 3. Psychologically, PLA soldiers swear an oath on the first day of their military service. The oath’s first item is to be loyal to the party. The mental effects on the soldier should not be underestimated, when soldiers later become senior generals. 4. Professionally, except for NS-related state policies, PLA elites concentrate on military affairs. 5. Interactively, the civilian and military leaders abide by strict regulations that they are not supposed to establish unapproved personal contacts. 6. Organizationally, the party appoints a local secretary to be the first party secretary of the garrison troops, oversees the selection of the CMC, and approves the PLA members in the Central Party Committee. 7. And career-wise, PLA generals’ days in uniform are also numbered and shortened. This institutionally prevents faction formation around a few top PLA leaders from becoming structured and long enduring.8

The imbalance of power between civilians and generals is thus effectively rectified. Xi follows the practices of his post-Deng predecessors, who struck a right balance: curbing PLA intervention in generic state affairs, but allowing a level of PLA autonomy in managing its professional activities. Professionalism dampens ideological ferment that induces interventionist behavior. In this chapter, I argue that China’s civilian primacy over the PLA has been solid, evidenced by the fact of no major civil-military strife in the past two decades and by the retreat of PLA to the barracks. For instance, generals are no longer the kingmakers, who could determine leadership succession in the Maoist era. The PLA’s key political influence is expressed by its alliance with the top leader. It helps his power consolidation and builds elite consensus on controversial policies. Yet as Xi has proved, once these goals are obtained, commanders in chief would return to tighten political control over the military. Moreover, the PLA’s status has been visibly deprivileged overall in the party-state apparatus and in the society, as military service is more seen as an occupation than a revolutionary model for the population. Drawing the lesson from the Cultural Revolution, CCP leaders have tried to limit PLA representation in the Politburo and its participation in local governance. Keeping some distance from national and local politics is also the generals’ own choice to ease involvement in nonprofessional affairs. They have been required to renounce the once vast PLA business empire in exchange for guaranteed growth in the defense budget. In the eyes of the population, PLA despecialization means that its political influence has been rendered more functional.

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The CCP-PLA relations are complicated and a sensitive matter in the study of the CCP. There have been visible changes in this relationship as both the party and the military have undergone huge alterations in terms of organizational objectives, personnel structures, functional imperatives, and policymaking mechanisms. Yet if the CCP continues to see itself as a classbased party, its long-term organizational destiny will clash with that of the PLA, which embraces more broadly defined national interests than class interests. Furthermore, the PLA will face a profound challenge in serving two masters—the party-state on the one hand and the people on the other, if the state-society tension deepens and becomes structural, a natural phenomenon in every Chinese dynasty to date. Therefore, the evolution of this CCP-PLA relationship is decisive to China’s overall transformation. Uncertainties of PLA loyalty to the party underline the civilians’ pursuit of tight (strongman) political control over the military. On the other hand, they realize that effective control goes hand in hand with the PLA professionalization crucial for enhanced combat effectiveness that, in turn, strengthens China’s global influence. This allows the party to claim legitimacy to rule the country. Here, the control-effectiveness convergence is appreciated by both political and military elites. Further, they strive to consolidate the CCP-PLA coalition for the sake of promoting vested interests in peacetime and mutual survival in crises. A new balancing point is thus set: the party is prudent in involving soldiers in nonmilitary business, but engages them in raising war-fighting skills. On the part of the generals, they are careful not to cross the redline into nonmilitary affairs, while positively maximizing PLA corporate interests and organizational autonomy. Finally, in the nexus of civilian control and military effectiveness, the former is primary in China’s civil-military relations while the latter is greatly emphasized by both the party and the PLA. It will be interesting to watch whether this delicate balance can be maintained and for how long.

Conclusion

1. Anonymous (2015), “How Huang Yongsheng and Jiang Qing Clashed in the Cultural Revolution,” Yanhuangchunqiu 5 (15). 2. The frame of this paradigm and the discussion in this paragraph has greatly benefited from the comments made by Aurel Croissant, coeditor of this book. I am grateful for his insights. 3. For instance, in 2017 China’s cabinet decided that all the country’s airports and railway stations should open an express entry point for PLA personnel. The pace of their check-ins and security clearance is quicker than that of first- and businessclass passengers. 4. This has been a key point in the US Department of Defense Annual Report on the PLA in the past few years.

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5. Xi’s speech to the PLA delegation at the 2018 National People’s Congress on March 2018. Peace syndrome refers to the following phenomenon: in training, the handling of the weaponry is for show; officers lack war vigilance in daily management, as they try to avoid physical toughness; there is widespread corruption when the officers seek comfort and material gains. 6. General Liu Jixian, as quoted in Liu Yang (2015, p. 3). 7. For instance, in “The U.S. Army Operating Concept: Win in a Complex World” (2014, pp. 10–11), China was singled out as potentially the most likely country that the United States will fight a war with. 8. A convincing fact is that after Xu’s indictment in June 2014, his influence in the PLA evaporated immediately, despite his decade-long control of PLA personnel affairs.

PART 4 Conclusion

14 The Nexus of Control and Effectiveness Thomas C. Bruneau and Aurel Croissant

control and effectiveness in diverse political, cultural, historical, and security contexts. Its chapters are particularly timely as several of the case studies demonstrate substantial changes in the relationship between military institutions and civilians and in the roles and missions adopted by these institutions. For example, in the United States under the Donald Trump administration there was a unique situation for a while in which both the secretary of defense and the White House chief of staff were retired four-star Marine Corps generals. Moreover, two of three (so far) national security advisers, serving under President Trump were three-star generals, one active duty and one retired. At the same time, there is a sharp break between the administration and the civilian foreign policy and national security community, including Republican national security professionals, which means that the administration is short on civilian expertise and depends more on military professionals than previous administrations. Meanwhile, in Turkey, President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan took advantage of the opportunity of a failed military coup d’état in 2016 to purge the military and institutionalize his strongman control over military and other security forces, to the end that he is now dominating all domains of politics in his country (see Chapter 11). The situation in Russia, where President Vladimir Putin dominates an increasingly reformed and reequipped military, is similar (see Chapter 10). In contrast, in Chile, which experienced one of the most repressive military regimes in Latin America, the transitions from military to civilian government and then from a democratic government to a democratic

This book offers crucial insights into the nexus of civilian

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political regime have resulted in fundamental changes in the nation’s civil-military relations, as described by Carlos Solar in in Chapter 7. Finally, the example of Egypt (since 2013) demonstrates that under certain circumstances, militaries in the early twenty-first century are still able to successfully take over the government. As Tanja Eschenauer-Engler and Jil Kamerling argue in Chapter 3, qualitative analysis and single case studies or small-N research designs dominate research about civil-military relations. The preference for these methods of knowledge production reflects challenges of operationalizing concepts such as civilian control and military effectiveness into measurable indicators that are sensitive, valid, and reliable. This has important consequences since it is unclear whether and how far findings generated from country case or small-N studies can be generalized for larger case samples. We do not claim, hence, that our findings are generalizable to all countries. However, our focus on the control-effectiveness nexus and robust case studies of ten countries on five different continents, including the world’s four biggest economies (the United States, China, Japan, and Germany) and the world’s strongest militaries (the United States, China, and Russia), allows us to see the challenges of actually implementing a strategy or set of goals, defined here as roles and missions. In addition, we believe that the case studies are relevant for broader discussions beyond the specialized literature on US civil-military relations, military modernization in China, and Russian national security strategy. Further, using case studies of established and new democracies, hybrid regimes, and closed autocracies allows us to investigate a variety of control mechanisms over the armed forces and their relationship with military effectiveness. Further, there are also epistemological reasons for the case study approach in this book. The case study approach is particularly appropriate here because it allows researchers to accommodate bidirectional and reverse causalities, disaggregate the key concepts into their different components, and analyze the control-effectiveness nexus from different perspectives. While it is obvious from the case studies that civil-military relations are dynamic, they change, in a variety of ways, in line with changes in threats and perceptions thereof, political arrangements, historical processes, and the perception of opportunities by elites. Therefore, any approach must take into consideration these factors, as well as the incentives of the decisionmakers, as perceived by them, which means that the analysis must be grounded in deep contextual knowledge, must deal with politics, and must consider causal processes over time. We believe that the case studies in this volume fulfill these criteria. In this conclusion, we seek to integrate the findings from the twelve substantial chapters, employing the unifying framework that we introduced in Chapter 1, and raise critical issues in contemporary civil-military relations.

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All ten country case studies deal with the mechanisms of civilian control, whether the country is democratic or not. All of these mechanisms are conceptualized in the framework of civilian control that we presented in Chapter 1. It is not surprising that these mechanisms are similar in both old and new democracies since we know from existing research there are only a limited number of institutions created to deal with similar economic, political, and social challenges (see Table 14.1). What does stand out, however, are four main findings from the case studies. First, in the newer democracies, and very clearly in Indonesia and Tunisia, the mechanisms of democratic civilian control remain nascent, poorly articulated, and barely implemented. In Chile, they are more robust, as is the overall status of democratic consolidation in Chile in comparison to Indonesia and Tunisia. We conclude, based on these case studies and our other research, that progress in civil-military relations is consonant with democratic consolidation; one depends on the other. Second, in the advanced democracies of Germany, Japan, and the United States, civilian-democratic oversight of the military and its structures and functions is comprehensive and mutually accepted by political and military elites; however, despite the current shift from bureaucratic to political control, the role of civilian, in this case unelected bureaucrats, is still strong in Japan (see Chapter 5). In the United States, military departments and the defense bureaucracy are inventive in finding ways to resist unwarranted policy changes (see Chapter 4). It is important to mention, however, that in democracies, there is no clear correlation between type of

Civilian Control

Table 14.1 Regime Types and Types of Civilian Control

Chile China Egypt Germany

Indonesia

Japan

Russia Tunisia

Turkey United States

Regime Type

Presidential democracy One-party regime Military strongman rule Parliamentary democracy

Presidential democracy

Parliamentary democracy

Hybrid regime Semipresidential democracy Hybrid regime Presidential democracy

Type of Civilian Control

Diffused democratic control (president, Congress) Party control Military rule Unified democratic control (cabinet and Bundestag) Diffused democratic control (president and DPR) Unified democratic control (cabinet, civilian bureaucracy, and lower house) Strongman control Diffused democratic control (president, head of the government) Strongman control Diffused democratic control (president, Congress)

Note: DPR, Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (Indonesian Parliament).

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control—unified in systems with parliamentary government, or diffused in presidential systems—and military effectiveness. The literature on new institutional economics forcefully argues that unified political institutions in parliamentary democracies provide incentives for military and political actors to create an army that is sensitive to civilian goals and enables civilian leaders to intervene to force necessary military change. Conversely, systems of diffused control, such as the US political system, tend to allow adherence to classic principles of military science within the armed forces and often impede effective civilian intervention (Avant 1994; see Chapter 2). Yet as Chapter 6 on Germany and Chapter 5 on Japan suggest, unified civilian control does not necessarily contribute to better military effectiveness because governments, parliaments, and defense bureaucracies have incentives for implementing policies that correspond to the prevalent strategic culture and are politically effective, but prove less effective in producing desired mission outcomes. Third, the conventional wisdom in the field of civil-military relations is “that only via democratically established institutions can the armed guardians of a state’s security be guarded from their own organizational impulse to take over the reins of government” (Bruneau and Tollefson 2006, p. 264). However, Chapter 10 on Russia and Chapter 13 on China demonstrate the ability of leaders in at least some nondemocratic political systems to find effective solutions to the guardian dilemma. Moreover, the case of Turkey shows that democratic backsliding can actually go hand in hand with the strengthening of political control over the armed forces. Fourth, in democracies, the effective design and use of a certain set of institutions is an indispensable element for ensuring democratic civilian control, which is jointly exercised by the executive and legislative branches of government—supported by a cadre of expert advisers, the civilian foreign policy and national security community, and a free media. In contrast, in nondemocracies, control is centralized. Some mechanisms of control are institutionalized, whereas others are highly personalized or are mainly designed for coup-proofing. Often, as in Egypt under President Abdel Fattah al-Sisi, in Putin’s Russia, in Tunisia before the Arab Spring, and increasingly in Turkey, this takes the form of strongman rule over the military and, in fact, the whole security sector. Even in contemporary China, which adheres to the communist model of party-army symbiosis and where all the institutions and rules of party control are still in place, there is a tendency toward strongman control, reflecting a broader trend of personalization of party politics under Xi Jinping (see Chapter 13). Again, political incentives matter: measures designed to guard rulers against the threat of a military coup, as in Turkey and in Egypt, can be powerful and effective tools to lengthen the incumbent’s term, if rulers mainly fear their own soldiers. At the same time, they typically decrease military effectiveness, as

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is demonstrated by the abysmal performance of the Egyptian armed forces in counterinsurgency operations described by Robert Springborg in Chapter 12, and the less than impressive performance of Turkey’s postcoup army during Operation Euphrates Shield discussed in Chapter 11. The authors of the chapters in this book share a basic understanding of military effectiveness, though they modify the concept in specific ways in some studies. However, before we can compare measures and merits of military effectiveness, it is crucial to discuss the range of roles and missions with which governments task their militaries. The categories presented in Chapter 1 are obviously neither exhaustive nor are they all relevant in each case. In fact, the country case studies demonstrate rather that roles and missions encompass a large variety of tasks extending from facilitating patriotism and regime legitimation to peacekeeping to humanitarian assistance and military entrepreneurship. The summary in Table 14.2 gives us an idea of the broad variety and complexity of those tasks. In addition to the set of six major goals identified in Chapter 1, military entrepreneurship, regime legitimation, and deterrence are also major tasks in some or most countries. The latter is especially true for deterrence, which is much more relevant than actual war fighting. Clearly, in most countries, armed combat is “the least likely role that militaries are currently carrying out” (Matei 2008, p. 22). Among the group of countries studied in this volume, it is only Russia, the United States, Turkey, and China whose militaries fought in international wars after 1945, and the short war with Vietnam in 1979 was China’s last major conflict. The Turkish military fought in the Korean War and engaged in the occupation of Northern Cyprus in 1974. The Egyptian military fought four wars against Israel and in the North Yemen civil war but, for the past forty-five years, its soldiers preferred controlling the government, exploiting the national economy, countering armed insurgencies, and suppressing their own people. In contrast, the last war that involved Chile was the War of the Pacific (1879– 1883), whereas German and Japanese armed forces have not been involved in sustained combat after 1945, and the militaries of independent Indonesia and Tunisia never fought against other national armed forces. Overall, most militaries have seen an expansion of their roles and missions since the end of the Cold War, for example, as Noureddine Jebnoun notes in Chapter 8, the Tunisian Armed Forces developed from peripheral state institutions, in the shadow of “Securitocracy,” into a pivotal state organization in the postauthoritarian era. It did so not by its own choice but as a consequence of the general weakness of political institutions and the state. In Indonesia, the Tentara Nasional Indonesia (TNI) Law of 2004

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Table 14.2 Military Roles and Missions in Ten Countries

Chile China Egypt Germany Indonesia Japan Russia Tunisia Turkey United States

Deterrence Subsidiary Primary Subsidiary Primary Subsidiary Primary Primary Subsidiary Primary Primary

War Fighting

— — — — — — Primary — Subsidiary Primary

Counterinsurgency

— Subsidiary Primary — Primary — Subsidiary Primary Primary Primary

(Global) Counterterrorism

Subsidiary Subsidiary Subsidiary Subsidiary Subsidiary Subsidiary Subsidiary Primary Subsidiary Primary

Fighting Crime

— — Subsidiary — — — — Primarya — Only in extremes

Peace Support Operations

Primary Subsidiary Subsidiary Subsidiary Subsidiary Subsidiary Subsidiary Subsidiary Subsidiary Subsidiary

Humanitarian Assistance/ Disaster Relief Entrepreneurship Primary Subsidiary Subsidiary Subsidiary Subsidiary Subsidiary — Primary Subsidiary Subsidiary

— Subsidiary Primary — Primary — — — Subsidiary —

Facilitating Patriotism and Regime Legitimation

— Subsidiary Primary — Subsidiary — Primary — Before 2002: primary —

Note: a. Main support is provided to the National Guard and Border Customs Guard in countering cross-border illicit trafficking.

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enumerates fourteen different missions, of which thirteen are Military Operations Other than War (MOOTWs), though many of these are anything but new (see Chapter 9). While the actual role of the armed forces depends on the scenario, fighting domestic conflicts is the main duty of internal security forces in Russia and China, but it is a primary role of the military in democratizing Indonesia and Tunisia, in Turkey’s backsliding democracy, and in Egypt’s closed autocracy. In four countries, the military owns, manages, or holds stakes in major commercial enterprises, with sometimes wide-ranging impacts on their national economies. Although such commercial activities are generally legal and politically sanctioned, they all have inherent political implications: as entrepreneurs, soldiers can secure for themselves significant sources of revenue that do not depend on government appropriations. Hence, for militaries, entrepreneurship is a potentially powerful means to enhance their autonomy from government. The profit-seeking commercial business empire of Egypt’s military certainly represents an extreme example in today’s world (Abul-Magd 2017; see Chapter 12). From its earliest days, the Indonesia armed forces depended primarily on their own economic activities for survival and political reliance, but military entrepreneurship greatly expanded under the authoritarian rule of President Suharto. Democratic reforms after 1998 have put pressure on the military to hand over business activities to the government, and to make its economic activities more accountable to the government. So far, these efforts have had limited impact and have left the large field of informal military fund-raising untouched (Croissant 2018). Some military business is also conducted in Turkey, primarily through a pension fund of military personnel (OYAK). Set up by the military junta in 1960, its subsidiary has holdings in many industries. There are also several military foundations, such as the Turkish Armed Forces Support Foundation, which owns considerable shares in defense companies.1 In contrast, the emergence of a military business complex in China was not primarily the result of a military desire for self-enrichment, but instead reflected the special role of the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) in national modernization under the leadership of the Communist Party. In 1998, then president Jian Zemin ordered the PLA to close its commercial subsidiaries. While divesture was relatively successful and increases in defense expenditures have enabled the PLA to significantly eliminate its dependency on business activities for funding, the PLA continues to maintain businesses in the logistic sector and in key strategic industries such as the telecommunications sector (Goh and Muravska 2012, pp. 20–21). Finally, in some countries, the military is a transmitter of patriotism and national ideologies among local populations and an agent of regime legitimation. In his analysis of Russia in Chapter 10, Ofer Fridman emphasizes

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the role of the Russian military as a patriotic institution and the relationship between the utilization of military hard power for enhancing regime legitimacy, domestically and internationally. Other chapters in this book provide some evidence for a similar role of the military in other countries. From their earliest days, military institutions in Egypt, Indonesia, and Turkey (before the election victory of the Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi [AKP] in 2002) were an embodiment of a particular understanding of national identity. The pivotal role of new militaries in liberation wars, in national revolutions, and in quelling rebellions provided the fundament for military occupation of civilian positions and for soldiers’ self-perceptions as the prime guarantor of national unity and the state’s last (or only) line of defense against separatist threats and domestic subversion. In contrast, the Chinese PLA remained a tool for enforcing the Communist Party’s claim to power and realizing its ideological and political goals. Chapter 13 by You Ji also demonstrates a relationship between China’s military modernization effort and the party’s efforts to supplement ideological legitimation with nationalist and performance-based legitimacy. What determines these roles and missions, effective or not, in the countries studied in this book? We can discern four analytical categories in the ten case studies. The first category is what we can term a status maintenance or achievement motivation. That is, the United States seeks to maintain its global status as the leading security and defense actor. Russia is seeking to reinstate its status as a major actor with renewed land forces, a more robust nuclear arsenal, and foreign interventions in the Crimea, Georgia, the Baltics, and Syria. A new factor is the seeking of global influence by China with rapidly developing conventional forces, a nuclear arsenal, and strong involvement in the South China Sea and beyond. Both Russia and China have been engaged in informational warfare and cyber offenses, including hacking, as states. While aspirations to have power are prevalent in most political situations, and this is the second analytical category, the case studies on Egypt and Turkey seem to be particularly in line with this orientation or motivation. In Egypt President al-Sisi achieved power as his predecessors did through the military, and in Turkey President Erdoğan wrested power from the military and personalized it. According to the case studies, this seeking of power, which relies heavily on coup–proofing, does not result in effectiveness in military matters. It seems obvious that in the case studies of Germany and Japan, the roles and missions that are adopted can best be understood as a result of the imposed and assumed limits on the military following defeat in World War II. This is the third analytical category. While they may be effective in implementing these missions, they are relatively minor roles and missions and designed to minimize public controversies, even if implemented effec-

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tively. Further, the armed forces in these two countries can provide effective deterrence—against military threats by Russia (Germany) or China (Japan)—only within international alliances. For the fourth analytical category, the case studies of Chile, Indonesia, and Tunisia demonstrate that the roles and missions assumed are a result of a mixture of authoritarian or even preauthoritarian legacies and their transitions from nondemocratic to democratic regimes. In Chile while the military is robust and is thought to be necessary, considering the country’s geographical location and the winning of territory from Bolivia and Peru in the late-nineteenth-century War of the Pacific, the military has taken on missions that include peacekeeping, demining, and humanitarian assistance. In Indonesia, again in reaction to the past, the military reform agenda after 1998 successfully removed the dual-function doctrine (dwifungsi) that served as the basis of TNI’s sociopolitical role during the dictatorship but, at the same time, has regained some of its old roles and added new missions in recent years, including growing rice. In Tunisia, where the military had a small role during the nondemocratic regime, its main roles are defending the border, countering terrorism, and securing the survival of the democratic regime against the menace of political radicalism. Regarding the actual levels of effectiveness, the contributions in this book paint a conflicted story. For the case of Japan, Chiyuki Aoi notes in Chapter 5 that the risk-averse management of operations, manifested in tight controls by Tokyo over actions of Self-Defense Forces (SDF) in the field, proved less effective in producing desired mission outcomes (beyond serving the limited goals defined by the priorities of Japanese politics). With regard to Germany, in Chapter 6 Sven Bernhard Gareis notes that concerning its missions abroad, the German Bundeswehr has always been able to provide the capacities that the government promised to its allies and partners. The level of these contributions, however, lags far behind the ambitions formulated by policymakers. In addition, since the 1990s, the Bundeswehr has been subjected to a permanent process of transformation and reform. And yet Germany is still “struggling to establish a professional military that meets the challenges of a rapidly developing security environment” (Chapter 6, p. 85). Fortunately, the Bundeswehr has not been probed thus far in complex high-intensity operations. Ji’s analysis in Chapter 13 is more optimistic regarding the improved effectiveness of the Chinese PLA. Yet despite sustained and broad efforts to transform the PLA into a high-tech networked force with an increasing emphasis on joint operations and naval and air power, and with capability for conducting operations away from China’s immediate periphery, limitations remain that constrain the effectiveness of its operations, including training, jointness, human capital, and logistics (see Chapter

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13; Rinehart 2016). And in the case of Indonesia, it was only with the launch of new national defense planning in 2010 that civilian authorities began to think seriously about how to improve the TNI’s (never tested) capability in fulfilling its war-fighting role. Further, indicators for military effectiveness in much more relevant Military Operations Other than War are lacking, but it is noteworthy to mention that the existing defense planning excludes the MOOTW mission and there is neither a unified legal framework nor interagency coordination procedures for those operations and missions. Many chapters in this volume note the lack of adequate and quantifiable indicators and valid data to assess most aspects of military effectiveness in individual countries (see, for example, Chapter 3). For this conclusion, we therefore rely on the three attributes of military effectiveness presented in Chapter 1 (Table 14.3). However, what appears quite impressive at first glance must be put into perspective. Long-term defense planning in the development and management of modern armed forces, for example, is not a value in itself. As Thomas-Durell Young argues in Chapter 4, one finds on closer examination of long-term defense planning methods that they often contribute to producing suboptimal defense plans. Moreover, defense plans in the United States (and elsewhere) are policy declarations that do not sufficiently inform officials of long-term financial obligations and, hence, do not enable informed decisionmaking to fund the current force. In addition, policy priorities that are stated in defense planning often either are not or not fully implemented by defense institutions—not only in the United States but also in Indonesia, Tunisia, and, presumably, in Russia and China. In Turkey, defense planning exists, but it consists of two fundamental documents that are top secret and accessible only to force com-

Table 14.3 Attributes of Military Effectiveness United States Germany Japan Tunisia Chile Indonesia Russia Turkey Egypt China

Defense Planning Yes Yes Yes Partially Partially Partially Yes Yes No Yes

Structures Yes Yes Yes Partially Yes Partially Yes Yes No Yes

Resources Yes No Yes No Yes No Yes Partially No Yes

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manders and a few of the highest political elites. In Indonesia, there are no sufficient defense plans, institutional arrangements, or allocations of resources to support military effectiveness in traditional and nontraditional military operations and missions (see Chapter 9). Regarding the existence of structures and processes to formulate the plans and, mainly, to implement them, often the issue is the lack of institutions facilitating cooperation between civilians and the military, or other means of interagency coordination and cooperation. This is a challenge in Indonesia, Tunisia, and Egypt. In the United States and Germany, those structures are in place, but they are incredibly complex and work to isolate policy priorities from financial decisionmaking and execution (i.e., in the United States) or they negatively impact jointness between different branches of the armed forces (i.e., Tunisia). Finally, whether a country commits sufficient financial, political, and personnel resources to ensure that it is adequately (and appropriately) equipped and trained to fulfill its assigned roles, implement missions, and achieve particular tasks is a controversial question in any case. First, what “sufficient” means is disputable. Second, even abundant resource endowment is not a guarantee for military effectiveness. Despite a defense budget that is more than twice as large as the combined budgets of Russia and China, the US armed forces have not been particularly effective in many of the conflicts in which they have been involved for some years. Their peacetime capacity building and security cooperation efforts also have not been remarkably effective or efficient (see Chapter 4). Russia, for example, currently spends approximately 4 percent of its gross domestic product (GDP) on the military (see Table 14.4), but the current levels are certainly unsustainable over the long run. Third, defense spending is obviously a problematic indicator when it comes to comparisons between countries because different countries calculate defense budgets in different ways. Even the world’s leading research institutes, such as the Stockholm International Peace Research Institute (SIPRI) and the International Institute for Strategic Studies (IISS), provide estimates that in some cases vary greatly (see Table 14.4). While it is clear that the Chinese government has greatly increased military expenditures in recent decades, there are notable discrepancies between what the government announces as its official defense budget and the amount that outside observers count as China’s defense spending. For example, the SIPRI estimates that China’s total military spending in 2017 was $228 billion, one and a half times as large as the official figure. For Tunisia, official statistics are flawed (see Chapter 8) and, in all concerned countries, the profits of companies owned or controlled by soldiers are not part of the official budget.

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Having discussed the mechanisms of civilian control and the taking on of roles and missions, which allows us to discuss effectiveness, we can now turn to the nexus of control and effectiveness as assessed in the ten case study chapters. We first discuss the three established democracies, followed by the three new democracies and the four nondemocratic political systems. The United States, while it remains the sole superpower and spends on defense a sum equal to the next seven countries, is less effective than it should be, according to Young in Chapter 4. While the current US president is schizophrenic in international and security policy, which hopefully will be rectified in future US administrations, Young suggests that there is more to the stasis in the US national defense and security system than an unstable, ill-disciplined, and inept chief executive. Young highlights the reticence of the US Congress to allow for realistic strategy formation and implementation in roles and missions. These problems have been recognized for some time and the aspiration of reformers in the United States has been to replace the National Security Act of 1947, as updated to some degree by the Goldwater-Nichols Act of 1986, with another basic or organic law more in line with the post–Cold War era of hybrid threats. The most recent, comprehensive, politically sophisticated, and by far the largest in scope was undoubtedly the Project on National Security Reform (PNSR), mandated by Congress. PNSR issued its final report in December 2008, entitled “Forging a New Shield.”2 But as with previous initiatives, it failed

The Nexus of Control and Effectiveness

Table 14.4 Military Expenditure and Active Armed Forces by Country, 2017 Defense Spending as % of GDP Chile China Egypt Germany Indonesia Japan Russia Tunisia Turkey United States

IISS

1.49 1.08 1.36 1.14 0.92 0.94 3.10 2.07 0.95 3.11

SIPRI 1.9 1.9 1.3 1.2 0.8 0.9 4.3 2.1 2.2 3.1

Military Expenditure Active by Country (in constant Defense Spending Armed Forces 2016 millions of US $) Per Capita (current) (in thousands) SIPRI

5,135 228,230 2,774 44,329 8,178 45,387 66,334 836 18,190 609,757

IISS

221 126 28 518 34 324 321 72 99 1,711

SIPRI

284 162 28 540 31 356 460 72 225 1,879

IISS

77 2,035 439 179 396 247 900 36 355 1,411

Sources: Compiled by the authors based on data in IISS (2018) and SIPRI (2018b, 2018c). Note: GDP, gross domestic product; IISS, International Institute for Strategic Studies; SIPRI, Stockholm International Peace Research Institute.

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to have a significant impact. That is, the US national defense and security system is weighted down with too much historical baggage and with an infinite variety of links to all sectors of economy and society, the result of which does not allow for change to meet emerging threats. If anything, there is an excess of democratic control, in which the control mechanisms are less designed to control the military and result in stasis. The system is embedded within the huge sectors of state, economy, and society. 3 Therefore, in the United States, in terms of the nexus of control and effectiveness, it is not the institutions specifically designed for control but the vast web of bureaucracy, economy, and society by which, like the Lilliputians in Gulliver’s Travels, the national security and defense system of the United States is virtually totally constrained. Japan and Germany are similar as major democracies and economies and were both defeated in World War II. Due to the terms imposed by the victors in the war, and popular opinion in each country, the militaries are both under strict democratic civilian control and their roles and missions are severely limited. Even so, in the case of Japan, due to the pervasiveness of control mechanisms, Aoi argues that the Japanese role in peacekeeping is limited: “In terms of effectiveness, while tight control exerted over the SDF authority and mandate may make sense for the domestic audience . . . that control tended to limit the SDF mission command and flexible management of the operation” (Chapter 5, p. 83). In Germany, somewhat similar to the situation in the United States, a blend of political incentives, bureaucratic inertia, and dysfunctional incentives inside the armed forces explain why the Bundeswehr has transformed into a “largely dysfunctional organization” (Chapter 6, p. 97). It is a “gigantic and selfreferential bureaucracy” (p. 97) that is more interested in planning, organizing, and restructuring than in attempting to improve combat readiness and military effectiveness for future high-intensity operations. Because German soldiers are not involved in such operations, which the polity and society are not inclined to accept, there is little incentive for policymakers and military elites to aim for change. Turning our attention to the new democracies, Chile stands out in South America in terms of the robustness of the new democratic civilian control mechanisms and in military capabilities. Tunisia is the only success story of the Arab Spring, and it is probably not accidental that the military played a relatively small part during the authoritarian regime in power since independence. Indonesia is similar to its neighbor, the Philippines, in terms of nascent democratic consolidation and roles and missions. In Chile, the military is effective in the new roles and missions that it has most recently adopted, which include peacekeeping, removing mines, and humanitarian assistance. Tunisia and Indonesia are each weaker in terms of democratic control mechanisms and military effectiveness. Further, both Jebnoun in

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Chapter 8 and Aditya Batara Gunawan in Chapter 9 call particular attention to the weakness of democratic control mechanisms as causal factors in impeding military effectiveness. The third and final category comprises Russia and Turkey, which are similar in terms of their hybrid political regimes, as well as Egypt and China. All four cases are similar in that there are no mechanisms of democratic civilian control. Those mechanisms never existed in Egypt, which has been ruled by different military strongmen since the 1950s. Neither did they in China and Russia, where the former is controlled by the Communist Party, and the latter was but is now controlled by a former KGB officer. In Turkey, the absence of control over the military has been exchanged for the absence of control over President Erdoğan. Coup-proofing to protect Erdoğan and the emergence of his centralized strongman control have contributed to the erosion of military effectiveness. In short, the absence of mechanisms of democratic civilian control in Egypt and Turkey is matched by the absence of effectiveness. However, the cases of China and Russia are extremely challenging for analysis within normal frameworks of civil-military relations. The leaders of both have great ambitions, and everything in politics and civil-military relations is mutually supportive, and the roles and missions are focused as much on domestic as foreign purposes. In China there is indeed civilian control of the military, but it is complicated as it is not democratic civilian control. The Chinese Communist Party (CCP) and the PLA depend mutually on one another, the former for legitimacy and the latter for funding and other support. Consequently, there is a form of civilian control, but it is contingent on military support, and there is military effectiveness. Indeed, the plan is for the PLA to match the military might of the United States by 2050. In the case of Russia, as Fridman so eloquently argues in Chapter 10, the military is under the control of civilians, or a civilian, but only one that is perceived as a strong political leader. As his analysis shows, the Russian military traditionally acts effectively under strong political leadership but tends to act ineffectively if political leadership is ineffective and weak. Both Russia and China provide support to David Kuehn’s point in Chapter 2 on the importance of psychology and ideational factors. In Russia the military must be seen in terms of defender of the people, and a critical role is domestic, of domestic soft power even before foreign roles of soft and hard power. Fridman uses the term patriotic glue in reference to the Russian army. In China, the aspirations may be visualized as hard power (e.g., in the South China Sea) in terms of China’s returning to its regional hegemony. And in both Russia and China, there is great emphasis on deterrence, where success as in China is the absence of combat since 1988 and in Russia, with the case of Syria, it is winning hearts and minds. We believe that a psychological approach can,

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as Kuehn suggests, shed light on the relevance of actors, their interests, and their access to and processing of information. Further, psychological factors are useful for explaining aspects of civil-military relations that structural and institutional explanations are badly equipped to illuminate. Based on the case studies in this book, and particularly on the four countries that are neither democracies nor aspiring to become democracies, we feel that we have made a major contribution to the study of civil-military relations, and mainly in two ways. First, it makes no sense to study the controleffectiveness nexus only through the conceptual lens of democratic civilian control because (1) not all countries are democracies and, while the current number of democracies worldwide is more or less stable (or stagnant), the quality of many of these democracies appears to be eroding in recent years; and (2) the current literature on civil-military relations in nondemocracies either focuses on how they came into power, normally via coup, or the deleterious implications of coup-proofing for military effectiveness. To the best of our knowledge, until this book there has been little comparative literature on the actual workings of civil-military relations in nondemocracies. Based on the four cases of nondemocracies included in this book—China, Egypt, Russia, and Turkey—it is obvious that there are wide variations in the relations between the government and the military. There is little similarity between the party-military coalition (alliance) in China and the personalized control in Egypt, Russia, and Turkey. In addition, while China and Russia aspire to become, or become again, global powers, neither Egypt nor Turkey can realistically harbor any such aspirations. These aspirations hold major implications for the assumption of roles and missions for China and Russia vis-à-vis Egypt and Turkey, as well as the rest of the world. Second, if nothing else, the case studies in this book, with their focus on the nexus of civilian control and effectiveness, dispel the myth that more control necessarily results in less effectiveness. While the United States may be less effective due to the politically strong US Congress, there are many other factors involved, including the large role of private contractors, which in Fiscal Year 2017 consumed $320 billion, or 55 percent, of the defense budget. In Germany and Japan, which have high civilian control, the achievement of roles and missions is effective. Further, while Chile has more and better democratic civilian control than Indonesia and Tunisia, the roles and missions are also implemented more effectively. In terms of the four nondemocracies, none of which have democratic civilian control, neither Egypt nor Turkey is effective in achieving roles and missions, whereas China and Russia are. This, in turn suggests, that while civilian control may be a necessary condition for military effectiveness, democratic civilian control is not.

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1. We are indebted to Zeynep Sentek for this observation. 2. For overview and more detail, see the PNSR website at http://www.pnsr.org. 3. According to Schwartz, Mann, and Sargent (2018), in Fiscal Year 2017 the Department of Defense obligated $320 billion for federal contracts—more money than all other federal agencies combined. The Department of Defense’s obligations were equal to 8 percent of all federal spending.

Notes

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The Contributors

Chiyuki Aoi is professor of international security at the Graduate School of Public Policy, University of Tokyo. She is also a member of the Abe Administration Council on Security and Defence Capability. Thomas C. Bruneau is Distinguished Professor Emeritus of National Security Affairs at the Naval Postgraduate School, Monterey, California.

Aurel Croissant is professor of political science at the Institute of Political Science, Heidelberg University, Germany. Tanja Eschenauer-Engler is a PhD candidate in the Department of Political Science at Heidelberg University, Germany.

Ofer Fridman is director of operations at the Centre for Strategic Communications, King’s College London.

Sven Bernhard Gareis is professor of political science at the Westfälische Wilhelms-Universität Münster, Germany.

Aditya Batara Gunawan is a faculty member in the Political Science Department at Bakrie University, Jakarta, Indonesia. Noureddine Jebnoun teaches at Georgetown University’s Center for Contemporary Arab Studies in the Edmund A. Walsh School of Foreign Service in Washington, DC.

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The Contributors

You Ji is professor of international relations at the University of Macau.

Jil Kamerling is a PhD candidate in the Institute of Political Science at Heidelberg University, Germany. David Kuehn is senior research fellow at the GIGA German Institute of Global and Area Studies, Institute of Asian Studies, Hamburg.

Thomas-Durell Young is European Program manager at the Center for Civil-Military Relations, Naval Postgraduate School, Monterey, California.

Zeynep Sentek is a doctoral student and Deutscher Akademischer Austauschdienst (DAAD) scholar at the Institute of Political Science, Heidelberg, Germany, and an investigative journalist. Carlos Solar is British Academy postdoctoral fellow at the Latin American Centre, University of Oxford.

Robert Springborg is professor of national security affairs (ret.) at the Naval Postgraduate School, Monterey, California, and research fellow, Italian Institute of International Affairs, Rome.

Index

Abdl al Hakim, Amer, 201 ABRI (Angkatan Bersenjata Republic Indonesia) (Indonesian Armed Forces), 146, 147 See also Indonesia AD/2A type of warfare, 214, 217 Afghanistan, 6, 14, 91, 92, 98, 160, 161, 162, 164, 171, 181 See also ISAF Africa Command, 64, 133 al Assad, Bashar, 168, 169, 170, 173 See also Syria al Qaeda, 136 See also Islamist movements al Tuhamy, Muhammad Farid, 203 al-Din, Zakariya Muhyi, 203 Algeria, 6, 122, 126, 129, 133, 135 Alianza por Chile, 108 See also Chile al-Nahda, 122, 136, 137 See also Islamist movements: Tunisia al-Sisi, Abdel Fattah, 13, 197, 198, 200, 201, 203, 230, 234 See also Egypt Ammar, Rachid (Lt. General), 129, 136, 137 See also COS-TAF Anchor States, 12 Ansar Beit al Maqdis, 194 See also Islamist organization, Egypt Antimilitarism, 70 See also Japan

Arab Spring Egypt, 230 Tunisia, 239 Article 9, 70, 80 See also Japan Attatürk, Mustafa Kemal, 176 Authoritarian Regime Data Set, 43 Authoritarianism Fragmented Authoritarianism, China 210 Military Authoritarianism, Chile. 105, 106 See also Autocracy; Regime types Autocracy, 38, 39, 41, 143, 233 Autocratic Regimes Dataset, 39, 41 Aylwin, Patricio, 107

Bangladesh, 6 Ben Al Zine al-Abidine (President), 12, 34, 119 See also Tunisia Bertelsmann Transformation Index (BTI), 40, 41 Bolshevik Revolution, 161 See also Russia Borders Control, 129, 130, 194 Security, 88, 92, 135, 166, 195, 201, 204 Bosnia and Herzegovina, 66 Bourguiba, Haibib, 119–122, 136, 139 See also Socialist Destourian Party

271

272

Index

Bundeskanzler, 87 See also Germany Bundestag, 89, 90, 98, 229 See also Germany Bundeswehr, 14, 16, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 235, 239 See also Germany Bürger in Uniform, 89 See also Germany

Capabilities (military), 3, 49, 64, 67, 68, 71, 90, 93, 111, 114, 116, 120, 121, 123, 125, 127, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 136, 138, 148, 151, 180, 185, 186, 211, 212, 216, 217, 218, 219, 239 Capacity Building, 64, 67, 79, 136, 151, 237 Central Asia, 43 Chaco War, 5 Chechnya, 164, 171 See also Russia Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces of Tunisia (COS-TAF), 129, 137, 140 See also Tunisia Chile Alianza por Chile, 108 Commander in Chief, 107 Constitution, 105, 106, 108, 109, 114, 115 Copper Law (Ley del Cobre), 104, 108, 109, 115 COSENA, 114 Libro de la Defensa Nacional, 113 National Prosecutor Office, 110 ONEMI, 112 See also Defense White Papers China C4ISR, 213, 217, 219 CCP (Chinese Communist Party), 207, 208, 209, 210, 211, 215, 219, 221, 240 CCP-PLA Relations, 207, 208, 209, 210, 216, 218, 220, 222 CMC (Central Military Commission), 210, 216, 218, 221 Cultural Revolution, 209 Party-Army Symbiosis, 209, 210, 230 PLA (People’s Liberation Army), 207, 210, 211, 212, 214, 215, 216,

217, 219, 220, 221, 223, 233, 235 Post-Mao, 216, 219 President, 215, 216, 220 PSO (Politburo Standing Committee), 210 See also People’s Liberation Army; Revolution

Civilian Control, 7, 19, 21, 22, 24, 31, 44, 83, 105, 107, 108, 123, 144, 155, 192, 237 Bureaucratic, 72, 73 Control-Effectiveness Nexus, 2, 10, 11, 28, 29, 96, 110, 115, 138, 139, 153, 172, 177, 179, 186, 191, 218, 220, 228, 237, 240 Democratic Civilian Control, 9, 10, 239 Party Control, 13, 209 Political Control, 1, 108, 208 Mechanisms of, 8, 27, 89, 136, 148 Separation Model, 69 Civil-Military Cooperation (CIMIC), 82 CJTF (Combined Joint Task Force, also CJTF-76), 64, 65 See also United States Clausewitz, 212 Cold War, 4, 22, 25, 55, 66, 69, 72, 73, 86, 108, 125, 135, 169 Post–Cold War, 125, 238 Command and Control, 63 Commander in Chief Chile, 107 China, 208, 210, 213, 215, 216, 219, 221 Egypt, 192, 193 Indonesia, 124 Japan, 72 Russia, 165 Tunisia, 129, 137, 140 Turkey, 178, 187, United States, 63, 64, Communist Party, 105, 143, 159, 163, 207, 210, 211, 233, 240 Concordance Theory, 25, Conflict, 31 International Conflict, 47, 48, 51, 166 See also Data Congress Chile, 105, 106, 108, 110, 113, 114

Index China, 209, 227 US, 9, 15, 55, 56, 57, 60, 91, 62, 65, 66, 67, 68 Constitution Chile, 106, 108, 109, 110, 112, 114, 115, 119 Egypt, 191, 192, 193, 205 Germany, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 100, 105 Indonesia, 141, 144 Japan, 69, 70, 71, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 80 Russia, 178, 179 Tunisia, 122, 124, 136, 137, 138, 139 Turkey, 180 US, 56, 62 Correlates of War Project (COW), 46, 52 See also Data Counter-Insurgency, 205 See also Global Terrorism; Roles and Missions Coup (Military) or Coup d’état (July 15, 2016), 175–181 Coup-leaders Dataset, 39, 40, 51 Data, 36, 41, 42, 43, 44 Definition, 21 Military, 30, 108, 120, 122, 136, 137, 143, 173 Prevention, 22, 24 See also Turkey Coup-proofing, 27, 37, 47, 49, 179, 189, 191, 198, 203, 204, 205 Critical Juncture, 9, 176, 177 Cyber and Information Space, 94 Cyberwarfare, 110

Data Arms Transfer, 46, 47, 51, 71 Battle Casualties, 46, 47 Civilian Control, 35, 36, 37, 38, 44 Comparison, 38, 39, 40 Conflict, 46 Effectiveness, 39, 45, 49 Expenditure, 46, 47, 49 International Wars, 45, 46, 47, 48 Regimes, 26, 27, 31, 39, 41, 51 Sample, 41, 48 Troop Strength, 47 See also Conflict; Military Expenditure; Regime Type Decisionmaking Areas of Civil-Military Relations

273

Elite Recruitment, 8, 44, 45 Internal Security, 8, 9 Military Organization, 8, 9, 10 National Defense, 8, 10, 14 Public Policy, 8, 14, 61 See also Counter-Insurgency; Defense Policy; Organization (military) Defense Governance, 56, 103, 106, 112, 113, 114, 116, 117 Planning, 4, 26, 27, 28, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 72, 97, 104, 113, 136, 148, 150, 151, 212, 236 Territorial, 32, 91, 110, 124, 128, 212, 216 Defense Agency Internal Bureau, 72, 74 Cabinet Legislation Bureau, 72, 73, 74 Unified Interpretations (toitsu kenkai), 72 See also Niakyoku Defense Policy, 7, 16, 28, 56, 61, 63, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 85, 87, 91, 93, 99, 104, 106, 110, 111, 135, 139, 146, 149, 150, 152, 155, 194, 198, 213, 216, See also National Defense Defense White Paper Chile, 113, 135 China, 213 Egypt, 194 Germany, 90, 91, 93, 94, 99 Indonesia, 143, 149 Tunisia, 135 United States, 61, 62 See also National Security Strategy Democracy, 108, 117, 151, 233 See also Regime Types. Democratic Civilian Control, 9, 11, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 28, 31, 33, 36, 38, 45, 70, 96, 104, 107, 116, 124, 125, 136, 139, 144, 148, 175, 177, 179, 205, 229 See also Civilian Control Democratic Constitutional Rally (RCD), 122 See also Arab Spring Democratization, 12, 108, 110, 124, 134, 136, 139, 177, 186 Desch, Michael, 23, 28, 36 Deterrence, 4, 104, 135, 166, 172, 180, 212, 231

274

Index

DGMS (General Directorate of Military Security), 120, 122, 129 See also Military Intelligence DISA (Defense Intelligence and Security Agency), 133, See also Tunisia Disaster Relief Operations, 5, 14, 71, 78, 80, 81, 83, 147, 148, 232 See also Humanitarian Assistance Doklam Standoff, 214 Drug Trafficking, 109, 195 DSS (Directorate of State Security), 120 See also Tunisia Dwifungsi, Socio-Political Function, 141, 142, 146, 235 Territorial Command, 145 See also Indonesia

Effectiveness, 236 Battlefield Effectiveness (Battlefield Performance), 36, 37, 38, 39, 41, 43, 45, 46, 48, 49 External, 41, 46, 48, 49, 50, 56, 59, 62, 66, 70, 86, 92, 94, 95, 104, 116, 128, 129, 139, 175, 183, 194, 207, 209, 212, 216, 217, 218 Internal, 80, 81, 82, 83, 114, 150, 152, 155 Tradeoff of Control and Effectiveness, 5, 10, 96, 115, 136, 142, 170, 171, 186, 189, 191, 197, 203, 228, 229, 231, 235, 236, 237, 238, 239 Egnell, Robert, 5, 6, 10, 36 Egypt al-Sisi, Abdel Fattah, 197, 198, 200, 201, 202, 203, 230, 234 Ansar Beit al Maqdis, 194 Constitution, 192, 205 Military Business, 200, 233 Paradox of the Sultan, 205 Presidents, 201 SCAP (Supreme Council of the Armed Forces), 192, 193 Tantawi, Muhammad Husyan (Field marshal, SCAP), 200, 201, 202 See also Islamist organizations Endogenous, 20 ENSYD (National Strategy for Defense and Security), 113, 114

Entrepreneurship (Military). 231–233 See also Military Business Erdoğan, Recept Tayip, 175, 177, 178, 182, 183, 185, 186, 187, 188, 189, 190, 227, 234, 240 See also Turkey Ergenekon, 178, 186, 254 EU (European Union), 22, 85, 92, 175, 182, 195 Exogenous, 9, 20, 62

Farming, 146, 152, 154, 155, Food Security, 142, 152, 153, 154, 155 See also Military Operations Other Than War (MOOTW) France, 6, 86, 134, 135 Freedom House, 40 French Combat Simulation System (JANUS), 127, 128 FSA (Free Syrian Army), 183

Game Theory, 37, 38 Garrison States, 25 Gates, Robert, 61 Gendarmerie, 178, 179, 180, 181, 186 Germany Bundeskanzler, 87 Bundeswehr, 85, 88, 89, 96, 98 Citizen Soldier, 89 Civilian Power, 86, 88, Constitution, 87 Constitutional Court, 90 East Germany (GDR), 100 EFP (Enhanced Forward Presence), 91 Law on the Legal Status of Soldiers, 89 Parliamentary Army, 90 Wehrbeauftragter, 90 See also Grundgesetz; NVA Global Terrorism, 5, 6, 132 See also Counter-Terrorism; Roles and Missions Goldwater-Nichols Defense Reorganization Act, 1986, 63 See also United States Golkar party, 144 Gorbachev, Mikhail, 162, 165 Government, Type Parliamentary System, 27, 87, 100, 143, 146, 230

Index Presidential, 26, 27, 38, 118, 125, 143, 150, 167, 177, 187, 192, 193, 197 Semipresidential, 38, 124, See also Regime Type Grundgesetz, 88 Guardianship (Guardian) Dilemma, 1, 22 Gülen, Fethullah., 178, 186 See also Turkey

Haiti, 6, 78, 79, 111 See also MINUSTAH Historical Institutionalism. 33 Critical Juncture, 9, 176, 177 Path Dependency, 9 See also Institutionalism Humanitarian Assistance, 5, 18, 45, 50, 181, 204, 205, 231, 235 See also Disaster Relief Operations; Military Support to Civilian Authorities; Roles and Missions Humanitarian Intervention, 5, 147 Huntington, Samuel P., 10, 21, 24, 25 Hybrid Paternalistic-Authoritarian Leadership, 139 See also Caid Essebisi, Beji Hybrid Regimes, 2, 12, 31, 34, 39, 228, 240 See also Semidemocratic

Ideationalism, 28 Ilyin, Ivan, 160, 161 Impunity, 45 Incentives Civilian, 96, 197, 198, Political, 44, 201, 218, 230, 239 India, 6 Indonesia DPR (Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat), 145 Dual Function Doctrine. 141, 146, 235 Indonesian National Armed Forces, 143, 145, 146, 147 Joint Regional Defense Command, 149 President, 143, 144, 145, 149, 152, 153 State Mining and Oil Company, 152 Suharto, 12, 17, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 146, 149, 152, 156, 233 Sukarno, 143, 156

275

TNI Law, 144, 145, 147, 149, 150, 153, 231 Total Defense Doctrine, 149, 156 See also Dwifungsi; Sishanta; TNI Informatization (Military), 213 Institutionalism, 33 See also Historical Institutionalism Internal Security, 7, 8, 9, 24, 30, 34, 44, 45, 82, 107, 109, 120, 122, 125, 142, 145, 146, 166, 167, 179, 209, 233 See also Decisionmaking Areas Internal Wars (Insurgencies), 5, 49, 161, 171 See also Roles and Missions International Peace Cooperation Law, 75, 76, 82 International Peace Support Law (IPSL), 75, 76 ISAF (International Security Assistance Force), 6, 181 See also Afghanistan ISF (Internal Security Forces), 120, 126, 128, 130, 135, 136, 138 See also Tunisia Islamist Organizations al-Nahda, 122, 136, 137 al-Qaeda, 136 Ansar Beit al Maqdis, 194 Islamic State (ISIS), 130, 169, 170, 181, 194, 204, Islamic State, Sinai Province, 194 Islamists, 121, 122, 136, 176 Muslim Brothers, 204 See also Egypt Israel, 172, 194, 195

JANUS, 126, 127, 128, See also French Combat Simulation System; Tunisia Japan Chief of Staff, 72, 74 Commander in Chief, 74 Constitution, 70, 71, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 80 Culture of Antimilitarism, 70 Defense Agency Internal Bureau (Niakyoku), 72, 74 Defense-Oriented Policy (Senshu Boei), 71, 75 Diet, 72, 73, 74

276

Index

Exclusively Defense-Oriented Policy, 71, 75 Internal Bureau, 72, 74 Japan Ministry of Defense (or MOD), 74 Kaketsuke Keigo Missions, 77 NSS (National Security Secretariat), 74, 79 Prime-Minister-Led Diplomacy, 74 San Francisco Peace Treaty, 71 Yoshida Doctrine, 71 See also Article 9; Parliament JCS (Joint Chiefs of Staff), 58 See also United States Jointness, 4, 56, 59, 63, 94, 127, 129, 138, 236, 237

Kandil, Hazem, 192, 197, 199, 202 Kantei Diplomacy, 74 See also Japan KFOR (Kosovo Force), 91, 181 Kim Jong-un, 218 See also North Korea Kokka Anzen Hosho Kyoku (NSS), 74 See also Japan Komando Gabungan Wilayah Pertahanan (Joint Regional Defense Command), 149 See also Indonesia Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK), 181, 182, 183, 186 Legacies (historical), 23, 235 Legitimation, 156, 231, 232, 234

Mao Tse-tung, 206 Marzouki, Moncef, 131, 138 McNamara, Robert, 58, 59, 60 Messner, Evgeny, 161 Mexico, 6 Micromanagement, 110 Milicogate, 109, 113 Military Intelligence Military-Security Illiteracy, 137 Tunisia, 121, 129, 130, 133, 134 Turkey, 178 Military Business, 14, 15, 137, 147, 155, 200, 209, 221, 222, 233 Coups, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 27, 30, 33, 37, 40, 41, 42, 51, 120, 136, 176

Effectiveness, 3, 4, 10, 11, 15, 16, 17, 18, 26, 27, 28, 30, 31, 32, 36, 37, 38, 46, 48, 49, 50, 51, 56, 67, 70, 81, 83, 86, 92, 94, 95, 96, 98, 99, 104, 113, 114, 116, 117, 128, 133, 136, 142, 148–151, 154, 159, 181, 183, 186, 188, 191, 194, 198, 203, 204, 208, 209, 211, 212, 213, 215–220, 222, 228, 229, 231, 232, 235, 236, 237, 239, 240 Expenditure, 4, 27, 32, 46, 47, 49, 51, 59, 60, 85, 93, 108, 109, 116, 121, 125, 131, 146, 238 Influence, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 66, 105, 108, 143, 145, 161, 167, 173, 177, 179 Intelligence, 121, 129, 133, 134, 178, 196, 203 204, Junta, 103, 105, 106 Missions, 5, 114 Operations for War (MOW), 147, 148, 151, 156 Operations Other Than War (MOOTW), 141, 145, 147, 148, 150, 151, 152, 155, 156, 233, 236 Rule (or Regime), 39, 43, 44, 103, 119, 191 Support to Civilian Authorities, 6, 77, 124 Support to Police, 5, 50, 77, 128, See also DGSM; Entrepreneurship; Roles and Missions; SCAP Minimum Essential Force (Kekuatan Pokok Minimum), 148 Ministerio Público, 110 See also Chile Ministry of Defense (Defense Ministry) (Minister of Defense) (Department of Defense) (National Defense Ministry) (Central Military Commission, China) Chile, 104, 108, 113, 114 China, 210, 215, 216, 221 Egypt, 191 Germany, 85, 89, 91, 95, 99 Indonesia, 145, 151 Japan, 71, 72 Russia, 167 Tunisia, 123 Turkey, 178 United States, 56, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 66

Index Ministry of International Trade and Industry (MITI); Japan, 72 MINUSTAH, 6, 111, 124 See also UN Missions; Haiti Mission Command (Japan), 69, 82, 83 Modernization (PLA), 207, 208, 212, 213, 217, 234 Monitoring (Civilian), 11, 24, 125, 129, 201 See also Oversight Morsi, Mohamed, 13, 137, 191, 193, 203, 204 See also Presidents, Egypt Mubarak, Hosni, 13, 193, 197, 199, 200, 201, 202, 203, 204 See also Presidents, Egypt Munich Security Conference, 85 Muslim Brothers, 204 See also Islamist Organizations

National Constituent Assembly, 124 National Defense Law, 71, 150 National Intelligence Agency, 178 National Military Strategy, 61, 62 National Security Council, 74, 79, 114, National Security Act of 1947, 55, 57, 238 See also United States National Security Secretariat, 74, 79 National Security Strategy, 61, 62, 167 National Strategy for Defense and Security (ENSYD), 113 NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization), 86, 88, 91, 92, 94, 96, 98, 99, 132, 134, 166, 181, 182, 217 IPCP (Individual Partnership and Cooperation Program), 134 Major Non-NATO Ally (MNNA), 132, 133 NATO-Tunisia Cooperation, 133, 134 Navies (Blue Water), 56 NVA (National Volksarmee). 100 See also Germany Officer Republic, 191 ONEMI (Office for National Emergencies). 112 See also Chile Operation Desert Shield/Desert Storm, 64 Operation Desert Storm, 193, 197

277

Operation Enduring Freedom, 66 Operation Euphrates Shield, 17, 175, 181, 183, 184, 185, 187, 188, 189, 190, 231 Operation Iraqi Freedom, 65, 66 Organization (Military), 1, 3, 8, 10, 11, 24, 32, 44, 45 Overseas Contingency Operations, 62 Oversight, 24, 72, 114, 215 See also Monitoring OYAK (Ordu Yardımlaşma Kurumu), 233 See also Turkey

Paramilitary, 47, 48, 149 Parliament British, 56 Egypt, 192, 193 Germany, 85 Indonesia, 143, 145, 146, 148, 153, Tunisia, 124, 125, 135, 180, 182, 189 Turkey, 156, 178 See also Congress Parliamentary Army, 13, 90 See also Germany Parliamentary Participation Act, 90 Path Dependency, 9 Peacekeeping (Peacekeeping Operations; PSO), 5, 6, 14, 18, 22, 32, 48, 50, 51, 73, 76, 77, 78, 79, 113, 125, 81, 103, 111, 126, 147, 148, 181, 191, 196, 231, 235, 239 See also Roles and Missions Pentagon, 212, 217, 218 People’s Liberation Army (PLA), 18, 207, 208, 209, 210, 211, 212, 213, 214, 215, 216, 217, 218, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 233, 234, 235, 240 Party-Army Symbiosis, 209, 210, 230 See also China Perlmutter, Amos, 208, 211 Pertamina, 152 See also Indonesia Peter the Great, 160 Pinochet Molina, Augusto, 13, 102, 105, 106, 107, 108, 112, 114, 115 Pion-Berlin, David, 7, 8, 10, 11, 13, 109, 112, 151 PKK (Partiya Karkerên Kurdistanê), 181, 182, 183, 186 See also Turkey

278

Index

Polity IV, 40 Powell, Jonathan, 37, 40, 51, Prevarication, 15, 65 PRM (Political Roles of the Military Dataset), 40, 41, 42, 43, 45 Psychology (also Psychological Approach), 15, 21, 31, 33, 240 Putin, Vladimir, 164, 165, 168 See also Russia

Reformasi, 141, 142, 144, 148, 155 Regime Survival, 121, 128, 235 Regime Types, 229 Authoritarian (Autocratic), 21, 23, 24, 27, 41, 42, 43, 104, 105, 116, 119, 120, 137, 138, 179, 177, 142, 143 Democracy, 10, 12, 13, 31, 39, 55, 70, 86, 87, 103, 107, 108, 141, 142, 176, 177, 229, 233 Dictatorship, 12, 17, 27, 38, 52, 88, 103, 106, 107, 110, 113, 141 Personalist Rule, 39 Royal Dictatorship, 52 Strongman (Rule), 7, 13, 52, 220, 222, 229, 230 See also Data; Hybrid Regimes Regional Defense Command, 149, 154, See also Indonesia Repression, 44, 45 Research Qualitative, 34, 36, 37, 38, 49, 50, 51 Quantitative, 35, 36, 37, 38, 45, 49, 50, 51 Resources, 3, 50, 58, 67, 115, 143, 186, 190 Revolution, 143, 160, 161, 176, 179, 194, 198, 209, 210, 221 Risk, 116 Aversion, 80 RMA (Revolution in Military Affairs), 212, 219 Roles and Missions, 232 Counter-Terrorism, 232 Humanitarian Assistance, 50, 181, 204, 231, 232, 235 Internal Wars (Insurgencies). 5, 6, 10, 45, 142, 186, 231 Military Support to Police, 5, 6, 14, 50, 88 Peacekeeping (Peace Support Operations), 5, 6, 14, 18, 22, 32, 48, 50, 51, 73, 76, 77, 78, 79, 113,

125, 81, 103, 111, 126, 147, 148, 181, 191, 196, 231, 235, 239 War-Fighting (External Wars) (Interstate Warfare), 5, 6, 46, 48, 211, 212 See also Global Terrorism; Military Missions; Military Support to Civilian Authorities

RSM (Resolute Support Mission), 6 Russia Bolshevik Revolution, 161 Chechen Campaign (War), 164, 165, 171 Great Patriotic War, 161 Post-Soviet, 163 President, 159, 163, 164, 165, 167, 168 Putin, Vladimir, 164, 165, 168 Russia-Georgian War, 165 Russo-Syrian relations, 169 Special Rapid Response, 173 Spetsnaz, 173 Strategic Missile Troops, 132, 165 See also SOBR; Special Forces; Syria

Sadat, Anwar, 192, 197, 199, 202, 203 See also Egypt Salafism, 136 Sayigh, Yezid, 191, 200, SCAP (Supreme Council of the Armed Forces), 192, 193 See also Egypt SDF (Self-Defense Force), 16, 69, 71, 75, 77, 81 Ground Self-Defense Forces, 77 SDF Law, 72, 75 See also Japan Senshu Boei (Exclusively DefenseOriented Policy), 71 Separation Model, 13 See also Civilian Control September 11, 2001, 74 SIPRI (Stockholm International Peace Research Institute), 46, 47, 49, 51, 108 Sishanta (Sistem Pertahanan Semesta), 149 See also Indonesia SOBR (Spetsial’niy Otryad Bystrovo Reagirovniya), 165 See also Russia

Index Socialist Destourian Party (PSD), 121 Soldatengesetz, 89 See also Germany South China Sea, 149, 212, 214, 234, 240 Soviet Union (USSR), 4, 5, 13, 64, 88, 160, 161, 163, 165, 169 Spratly Islands, 216 Strategic Culture, 85, 86, 91, 93, 98, 99 Strongman Rule (or Strongman Regime), 7, 13, 52, 220, 222, 229, 230, 240 See also Regime Types Structuralism, 33 Suharto, 12, 17, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 146, 149, 152, 156, 233 See also Indonesia Sukarno, 143, 156 See also Indonesia Syria al-Assad, Bashar, 168, 169, 170 Russo-Syrian relations, 169 YPG, 181, 183, 184

Tantawi, Muhammad Husyan, 200, 201, 202 See also Egypt Territorial Defense, 32, 115, 128, 212 See also Indonesia Threats, 22, 121, 156, 166, 171, 198, 207, 218 Timor Leste (East Timor), 6 TNI (Tentara Nasional Indonesia), 17, 141, 142, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 153, 154, 155, 231, 235, 256 See also Indonesia Trinkunas, Harold, 7, 23, 38, Trump, Donald Administration, 227 National Security Strategy, 212 Tunisia al-Nahda, 122, 136, 137 Ammar, Rachid (Lt. General), 129, 136 Arab Spring, 230, 239 Ben Ali, Zine al-Abidine (President), 119, 122, 123, 126, 128, 137 Caid Essebisi, Beji, 138 Constitution, 136, 137, 138, COS-TAF, 129, 13 DISA (or Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance, 133

279

DSS (Directorate of State Security), 120 General Directorate of National Security, 120, 122 ISF, 130, 135, 135, 138, Jointness, 56 Limited Revamped Capabilities Approach (LRCA), 131 Tunisian Armed Forces (TAF), 12, 119, 121, 125, 129, 133 Tunisian General Labor Union, 120 Tunisian National War College, 127 See also Hybrid PaternalisticAuthoritarian Leadership; Islamist Organizations; UGTT Turkey AKP (Adalet ve Kalkinma Partisi, Justice and Development Party), 34, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 188, 234 Erdoğan, Recept Tayip (Prime Minister and President), 17, 175, 177, 178, 182, 183, 185, 188, 187, 188, 189, 190, 227, 234, 240 Gülen movement (or Cemaat), 190 OYAK (Ordu Yardımlaşma Kurumu), 233 PKK, 181, 182, 183, 186 Turkish National Military Strategy, 182

US (Federal) Government Command and Control, 67 US Congress National Defense Appropriation Act, 62 National Defense Authorization Act, 62 National Security Act of 1947, 57 US Department of Defense Combatant Commands, 63–67 Financial Decisionmaking, 61 FYDP (Future Year Defense Program), 60 JCS (Joint Chiefs of Staff), 58, 68 Joint Manning Document, 65 Joint Staff, 65 Office of the Secretary of Defense (OSD), 58 Secretary of Defense, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67 Unity of Command, 56, 63, 66

280

Index

US President Commander in Chief, 63 Ukraine, 94 UN (United Nations) TAF Participation, 125, 126 UN Rules of Engagement, 77 United Nations Organization Stabilization Mission in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (MONUSCO), 127 United Nations Stabilization Mission in Haiti (MINUSTAH), 6, 111, 114 UNPKO (UN Peacekeeping Operations), 5, 6, 14, 22, 76, 77, 79, 81, 83, 111, 113, 125, 148, 151, 127, 147, 148, 181, 191, 231, 239 See also Tunisia United States Africa Command, 64 CJTF (Combined Joint Task Force, also CJTF-76), 64, 65 Department of Defense Appropriations Act, 62, 68 Goldwater-Nichols Defense Reorganization Act of 1986, 63 National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA), 62 PNSR (Project on National Security Reform), 238 Southern Command, 111 US Code, 68 US-Japan Security Treaty, 71 See also Japan Values, 20, 24, 25, 28, 46, 47, 48, 163 Varieties of Democracy (V-Dem) Project, also V-Dem2, 39, 41, 42, 43, Vietnam, 15, 34, 82, 211, 212, 231

VJTF (Very High Readiness Joint Task Force), 91 See also Germany

War Afghanistan War, 6, 66, 160–162, 171 International War, 46, 48 Russia-Georgian War, 165 Vietnam War, 15, 63, 212 War against terror, 214 World War I, 160, 162 World War II, 6, 171 Warfare AD/2A, 214, 226 War-Fighting (External Wars) (Interstate Warfare), 5, 6, 46, 48, 211, 212 See also Roles and Missions Warsaw Pact, 92 White Paper, also Defense White Paper, 91, 93, 94, 99, 135, 149, 194, 213 Xi, Jinpeng, 207, 208, 209, 210, 212, 215, 216, 217, 218, 219, 220, 221, 223, 230

Yeltsin, Boris, 163, 164, 165, 171 See also Russia Yemen, 193, 197, 202, 231 Yoshida, Shigeru, 71 See also Japan YPG (Yekîneyên Parastina Gel), 181, 183, 184 See also Syria Yudhoyono, Susila Bambang, 148, 152, 153 See also Indonesia Zhukov, Georgy, 171, 172, Zivilmacht, 86 See also Germany

About the Book

balance be achieved between the two? In-country experts address these questions through a set of rich comparative case studies. Covering the spectrum from democracies to authoritarian regimes, they explore the nexus of control and effectiveness to reveal its importance for national security and the legitimacy of both political order and the military institution.

How does civilian control affect military effectiveness? Can a

Thomas C. Bruneau is distinguished professor emeritus of national security affairs at the Naval Postgraduate School. Aurel Croissant is professor of

political science at Ruprecht-Karls-University.

281