Mobilizing Force: Linking Security Threats, Militarization, and Civilian Control 9781626379435

Table of contents :
Contents
Acknowledgments
1 Militarization: The Missing Link Between Threats and Civilian Control
PART 1 External Threats
2 Israel: Remilitarized Threats and Military Contrarianism
3 Japan: “Normalizing” the Japan Self-Defense Forces?
4 South Korea: Media-Driven Amplification of Threats
5 United States: The “Angry American” and Transnational Terrorism
PART 2 Domestic Threats
6 Colombia: Confronting Insurgency, Drug Cartels, and Narcoterrorists
7 El Salvador: Old Habits Die Hard
8 France: Swinging Securitization Paths?
9 Senegal: Managing Civil War Without Militarization
10 South Africa: From Militarization to Demilitarization to Remilitarization
11 Spain: A War Without an Army
PART 3 Conclusion
12 Theorizing Threats, Militarization, and Civilian Control
Bibliography
The Contributors
Index
About the Book

Citation preview

Mobilizing

FORCE

Mobilizing

FORCE Linking Security Threats, Militarization, and Civilian Control edited by

David Kuehn and Yagil Levy

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

Published in the United States of America in 2021 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 1800 30th Street, Suite 314, 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 www.eurospanbookstore.com/rienner

© 2021 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Kuehn, David, 1977– editor. | Levy, Yagil, 1958– editor. Title: Mobilizing force : linking security threats, militarization, and civilian control / edited by David Kuehn and Yagil Levy. Description: Boulder, Colorado : Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc., [2021] | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Summary: “Considering a wide range of democratic states, explores the interrelationships among perceived security threats, the militarization of security policy, and democratic accountability”— Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2020047199 (print) | LCCN 2020047200 (ebook) | ISBN 9781626379398 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781626379435 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Civil-military relations—Cross-cultural studies. | National security—Cross-cultural studies. | Militarization—Cross-cultural studies. Classification: LCC JF195 .M63 2021 (print) | LCC JF195 (ebook) | DDC 322/.5—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020047199 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020047200

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

Acknowledgments 1

Militarization: The Missing Link Between Threats and Civilian Control David Kuehn and Yagil Levy

Part 1 2 3 4 5

External Threats

Israel: Remilitarized Threats and Military Contrarianism Yagil Levy Japan: “Normalizing” the Japan Self-Defense Forces? Eyal Ben-Ari

South Korea: Media-Driven Amplification of Threats Insoo Kim

United States: The “Angry American” and Transnational Terrorism Alice Hunt Friend and Lizamaria Arias

Part 2 6

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1

17 37 55 77

Domestic Threats

Colombia: Confronting Insurgency, Drug Cartels, and Narcoterrorists Samuel Rivera-Paez v

97

vi 7 8 9

Contents

El Salvador: Old Habits Die Hard Sabine Kurtenbach and Désirée Reder

France: Swinging Securitization Paths? Chiara Ruffa

117 139

Senegal: Managing Civil War Without Militarization Jahara Matisek

161

Demilitarization to Remilitarization Lindy Heinecken

181

10 South Africa: From Militarization to 11 Spain: A War Without an Army

Rafa Martínez and Oscar Jaime

Part 3

199

Conclusion

12 Theorizing Threats, Militarization, and Civilian Control David Kuehn and Yagil Levy

223

Bibliography The Contributors Index About the Book

245 273 275 287

Acknowledgments

Earlier versions of the empirical chapters for this volume were presented at a workshop at the German Institute of Global and Area Studies (GIGA) in Hamburg, Germany, on April 9–10, 2019. The editors are grateful to the Fritz-von-Thyssen Foundation, which generously funded the workshop (grant 30.18.0.209PO), and to GIGA for providing the venue and support in organizing it. We are indebted to Lindsay Cohn and Aurel Croissant, who were so kind as to act as discussants during the workshop and provided extremely helpful substantive comments on the first drafts of the chapters. Finally, we want to thank all the authors who contributed chapters to this volume and Marie-Claire Antoine at Lynne Rienner Publishers for her always helpful and kind support and advice throughout the publishing process.

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1 Militarization: The Missing Link Between Threats and Civilian Control David Kuehn and Yagil Levy

Controlling the armed forces is one of the major challenges for new and established democracies alike. Militaries’ resistance to control often takes the form of dissent over defense and security policy, as happened in the United Kingdom during the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan (de Waal 2013), or outright involvement of retired or active officers in policymaking, as under the Donald Trump administration in the United States (Coletta and Crosbie 2021). In drastic situations, the military also might resort to overt varieties of disobedience that may lead to the breakdown of governments (for example, the Argentinian military’s declining to crack down on mass protests in 2001), or even topple the democratic regime (for instance, the military coups in Thailand in 2006 and 2014) (Pion-Berlin, Esparza, and Grisham 2014). These examples show that the question of how to guarantee the subordination of the military to civilian control is of both academic and political relevance. In the post–Cold War era, military coups are no longer the main focus of literature dealing with civilian control. Such literature deals with issues of military influence on decisionmaking, the military’s public support/opposition to an announced civilian policy, and the degree to which the will of civilians always prevails over that of the military command (Feaver 1999). In this volume, we seek to contribute to the body of civil-militaryrelations theory by linking security threats, militarization, and democratic civilian control of the military. We do so in ten case studies that 1

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aim to answer three core questions: Why and under which circumstances do democratic governments mobilize the military to counter domestic and external security threats? Do democratic governments militarize the security discourse to legitimize the military’s deployment against security threats? What are the effects of the military’s deployment and the militarization of the security discourse on the democratic civilian control of the military?

Civilian Control, Security Threats, and the Need to Account for Militarization Civilian control of the military refers to the ability of political leadership to decide what the military should do and does and to oversee its actions (Kuehn 2018). In democracies, where the political leadership is accountable to the citizens, this principle ensures that military operations as well as broader security, defense, and military policy (including military organization, funding, doctrine, equipment, and training) are linked back to the citizenry through state institutions, the media, and civil society (Bruneau 2006; Croissant et al. 2010; Levy 2016c). Democratic civilian control is effective when civilian state institutions (primarily the executive and representative branches of government) are able to set limits on the freedom of action of the military in a manner that corresponds to the political objectives that are autonomously shaped by politicians, and the military abides by these civilian directives (Levy 2016c). Democratic civilian control of the military, then, entails a horizontal and a vertical dimension. Horizontal civilian control relates to the degree to which the democratically legitimized political executive is able to decide on military and security policy without undue influence by the military (regardless of the degree to which it is less or more war prone than elected civilians) and the extent to which military-related decisionmaking by the political executive is overseen, checked, and balanced by the legislature and judiciary. But if one of the core principles of civilian control is that the citizenry engages with military issues (Kohn 2002), vertical democratic control is also of significance. It refers to the degree to which the processes of military decisionmaking are tied to the citizenry (the demos) by means of deliberation. This mainly occurs through the democratic electoral process through which the political decisionmakers are

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elected (and held accountable) but also involves the openness and transparency of security decisionmaking to media scrutiny as well as the inclusion of civil society organizations. These nonstate actors provide information about security, defense, and military policy and, thus, complement and enable state institutions’ control, direction, and oversight of the use of military force. While there is considerable agreement on the core principles of civilian control, scholars do not agree on the relevance of explanatory variables in determining healthy civilian control or its absence. Given the role and function of the military as a state organization entrusted with the defense of state and society against threats (Kuehn 2018), it is not surprising that many scholars have highlighted the role of security threats in the relationship between civilians and the military. Many democracies, long established or more recently democratized, are challenged by serious security threats to the state and political and social order posed by human collective actors through (the threat of) physical violence. External threats include international conflict between states, the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction, illegal migration, and international terrorism. Such threats can be considered by relevant actors (elites and a sufficiently large segment of society) to have the potential to challenge the survival of the state, the nation’s political sovereignty, or the normatively defined social order (Buzan, Waever, and de Wilde 1998), or its territorial integrity (Edmunds 2012), or a democracy’s “way of life” (Desch 2010). Domestic threats range from large-scale organized crime and drug trafficking to domestic terrorism and armed insurgency. They can pose a threat to the territorial integrity of the state, to domestic security, to the state’s political order and institutional integrity, to the survival of the ruling elites, and even to the normative identity of a social entity (Buzan, Waever, and de Wilde 1998). Regardless of the nature and origin of the threat, democracies have different options for reacting to security threats, ranging from ignoring them, to solving them through peaceful means, to containing or terminating them by force. Moreover, if a government decides to counter a threat by violent means, it has to mobilize public support and societal resources and then select an agent to fulfill these missions. Usually, this means deciding whether civilian state agencies, such as the police, gendarmerie, or intelligence services, or the military should be tasked. While in dictatorships the military is

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often engaged in defending the regime against domestic challenges (Svolik 2012), in democracies the military’s role has traditionally been limited to defending the state against external threats, and it has been the mission of specialized police and paramilitary forces to meet internal security challenges. However, in recent years, many democracies have deployed military forces not only in asymmetric external security roles, such as South Africa’s border security operations or Israel’s campaigns in Lebanon and Gaza, but also in an increasingly broader range of domestic roles. French soldiers, for instance, patrol cities in response to terrorist attacks, and Latin American militaries combat organized crime and armed insurrection. Furthermore, democracies also use other agents to deal with external threats, such as the drone warfare in Pakistan carried out by the CIA or the use of private contractors in the core state function of providing security. Finally, many democracies have militarized their police forces to deal with domestic threats. These new forms of deployment raise the question of how the presence of a threat and the military’s role in countering that threat affect the military’s political power and civilians’ capacity to discipline it. Theorists are divided over the question of how threats affect control of the armed forces. The “garrison state” school of Harold Lasswell (1941) worried that empowerment of the military establishment in reaction to an external threat would undermine civil-military relations by letting the officers, as “specialists in violence,” run the state and impose their warlike inclinations on politics. In contrast, Michael Desch (1999) has argued that the impact of threats on civilian control depends on the nature of the threat—whether it is external or domestic. According to this argument, civilian control will be highest when external threats are high and domestic threats are low because (1) the military is externally oriented; (2) the civilian leadership is experienced and knowledgeable about national security and supplies the military with the resources it needs; (3) society is relatively unified and, as such, discourages the military from internal intervention; and (4) the civilian and military leadership share similar ideas on how to handle the threat. In such a case, the military will be distanced from domestic politics and nurture its professional ethos. In contrast, Desch expects that under low external and high domestic threats, the military is likely to be involved in internal security operations and will be politicized, which will lead to military empowerment and the erosion of civilian control (see also Andreski 1968).

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Charles Tilly (1992) offered a structural argument in his “war makes the state” theory. Historically, the introduction of artillery and gunpowder in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century warfare led modern states to collect resources needed for a military buildup. In exchange, extraction of resources increased state-society bargaining and ultimately led to the centralization of political power, including the transfer of controlling military power from a dispersed feudal system to the central state. In turn, the military’s dependence on civilian supporters decreased its autonomy. From this it follows that if the military can draw on autonomously collected revenues (such as independent business projects) or is funded by external actors, it becomes independent of the democratically elected government, which reduces its willingness to submit to political control by elected civilians. Since state institutions increase their resources and are less threatened by their own military, Tilly argued that the elites who run the state might have an interest in the existence of external threats. Ultimately, he saw the state as a “protection racket,” selling security in exchange for the extraction of resources. Hence, elites had incentives to “simulate, stimulate, or even fabricate threats of external war” (Tilly 1985, 171). This shows, however, that the presence or absence of an “objective” threat alone is insufficient to explain the degree of civilian control. What is missing here is the role of militarization, understood as the process that legitimizes the use of military force, actually or potentially. This legitimacy refers to a socially constructed system of norms, values, and beliefs held by the community of citizens that accepts (or rejects) the state’s use of the armed forces as (at least) a normal, pervasive, and enduring strategic option. Such legitimacy encompasses social beliefs about the role of the use of force in human affairs, the nature of the adversary and the threat it poses, and the efficacy of the use of force (Levy 2016c). Militarization reinforces the status of the armed forces and their cultural importance, generating cultural militarism “when the armed forces become essential to the social experience and collective identity, when they rank as one of the collectivity’s central symbols and the very embodiment of patriotism. Here public experience is enveloped in ceremonial endeavor dominated by soldiering and military professionals, and by para-militarist groups” (Kimmerling 1993, 202). To emphasize, militarization is a process rather than an ultimate result of the creation of a society dominated by “militarism,” that is, by “a vast array of customs, interests, prestige, actions and thought

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associated with armies and wars and yet transcending true military purposes . . . [displaying] the qualities of caste and cult, authority and belief” (Vagts 1959, 13–14). But militarization has often been developed from preexisting militaristic ideologies in civilian political culture, such as neoconservative and ethnonational ideas in the United States and Israel, respectively. Such an ideational infrastructure is often a self-reinforcing mixture of ideas and material interests. Consequently, militarization is not only a cultural-political but also a social process, as it stipulates the mobilization of societal resources for the military buildup. So, “civil society organizes itself for the production of violence” (Geyer 1989, 79), that is, for war preparation, including “the organization of large standing armies and their leaders, and the higher taxes or tribute used to pay for them” (Lutz 2004, 320). Of course, the legitimacy of using force can range from accepting the preparation for the use of force to supporting the actual deployment of the armed forces. However, the military is not necessarily the exclusive bearer or addressee of such discursive and normative cultural processes. On the contrary, the military may even restrain politicians from using force (see Desch 2006). Also, subtler forms of militarization can emerge, which are often subsumed under the label of “securitization.” This process entails “actors identify[ing] an existential threat that requires emergency executive powers, and, if the audience accepts the securitizing move the issue is depoliticized and is considered a ‘security’ issue outside the rules of normal politics” (Salter 2008, 321). This suggests that the process of militarization can be driven by a multitude of actors, both military leaders and civilian agencies, elites and professions. As of now, scholars who have discussed the interplay of threats and civilian control have largely ignored the role of militarization as a mediating factor. Desch’s (1999) structural theory of civil-military relations, for instance, while theoretically innovative and empirically very broad in scope, focuses exclusively on the direct effect of structural security threats on civilians’ ability to keep the military subordinated. However, it does not specify how threats are translated in the political realm. Militarization matters as it shapes the subjective dimension of an external threat to the same extent that it reflects the political and cultural dimensions of that threat. An external or domestic threat is not an objective entity per se but rather is understood and molded through a discursive construction (Wendt 1992). At the very

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least, the evaluation of threats is subject to interpretation, which in turn is affected by various influences, including dominant ideas, politicians’ domestic considerations, and the varying perspectives, identities, and interests of different participants in the public discourse. It is true that, according to Desch, military doctrine may play a greater independent role in affecting civilian control in less structurally determinate situations, as when both external and internal threats are high or low. Under such conditions, the military’s approach to using force can impact its bargaining mode with civilians and generate conflicts between the sides (Desch 1999, 18, 36; see also Schiff 1995). Nevertheless, military doctrine is only one aspect affecting the military’s use of force and, we argue, not independent from the broader social currents. Consequently, we understand specific principles of the use of force, such as military doctrine, as consequences of political culture in general and militarization in particular. Furthermore, the doctrine itself could be shaped by power relations between civilians and the military, as, for example, in democracies it is normally civilians who determine the mode of recruitment as a means to affect the military’s power (see Kier 1997). In a similar vein, Tilly also disregarded militarization, despite its being an important aspect of the mechanism justifying the demand for protection through which the state recruited the resources needed for military buildup that in turn regimented the military. Inevitably, demand for protection is discursively reflected and might amplify or hamper militarization. Lasswell, in contrast, is much more explicit in linking external threats and control through militarization, even though he never uses the term. For him, the persistence of an external threat allows elites to legitimize the erosion of democracy and the rise to power by military elites as necessary for the survival of society. Under these conditions, the ideational ground for the emergence of the garrison state is laid by an “adjustment of symbols, goods, and violence . . . [and] in the fundamental practices of the state” (Lasswell 1941, 461). For the same reasons, militarization is crucial to linking domestic threats and civilian control. On the most basic level, a militarized discourse may help transform domestic social issues such as crime, border security, immigration, or ecological crises into security threats that have to be dealt with through military or other force-oriented means (Waever 1995). As a result of this process, police forces become militarized in their structure, training, equipment, and operations (Kraska

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2007), and/or the military is employed for tasks normally dealt with by the civilian police, such as combatting crime, domestic terrorism, or drug trafficking (Brooks 2016; Pion-Berlin and Martínez 2017). Returning to Desch’s (1999) structural theory, domestic threats undermine civilian control because they may encourage the military to intervene in politics to counter an internal threat to its institution from state and society. Furthermore, group conflicts in the political arena are paralleled by conflicts among the representatives of the same groups in the military, thus constituting subjective control (Huntington 1956, 677). Domestic threats may also weaken the capacity of state institutions to extract resources for war making, thus providing fewer resources to the military and encouraging it to play a more autonomous part in national politics (see Tilly 1992). Lastly, domestic threats increase the regime’s reliance on repression and thus empower the military vis-à-vis civilians (Svolik 2012, 10). However, like external threats, internal threats are not per se objective truths but need to be interpreted and constructed as such. Nor is the deployment of the military as the most effective or legitimate response to such threats a natural given. Consequently, and paralleling the discussion of external threats above, the discursive social, political, and cultural processes in relation to domestic threats play an intervening role in mediating between security threats and civilian control. As we have showed, despite the relevance of militarization for understanding the relationship between security threats and civilian control of the military, existing literature has thus far not conceptualized the link. Filling this vacuum is the purpose of this volume.

Structure of the Book This volume aims at examining the interrelationship between security threats, the militarization of security policy, and civilian control of the military, with special attention to the missing link of militarization in translating threats into impacts on civilian control. Our main goal is to take steps toward a greater theoretical integration of these three aspects of civil-military relations in democracies that are challenged by security threats, based on a comparative empirical analysis of old and new democracies in Africa, Asia, Europe, Latin America, North America, and the Middle East.

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The main body of the volume, therefore, consists of ten empirically rich, in-depth country studies of old and new democracies that are confronting domestic or external security threats. In line with our goal of theory building and in order to capture as broad an empirical range as possible, we selected the cases based on three criteria (see Table 1.1): 1. The nature of the threat: We included cases that are challenged by external threats (e.g., Israel, South Korea) and whose main threat stems from domestic actors (e.g., France, El Salvador). 2. The degree of militarization: We included countries where militarization has occurred (e.g., South Africa, Colombia) and where militarization has not (yet) occurred (e.g., Japan, Senegal). 3. The age of democracy: Our sample includes “new” democracies that have made the transition from authoritarianism during or after the so-called third wave of democratization (i.e., post-1974; see Huntington 1991), as well as countries whose transition to democracy happened before that date.

The case selection thus focuses on “diverse” cases (Gerring 2016), which capture the range of variance on the relevant independent and intervening variables (threat and militarization), while not selecting on the dependent variable (civilian control). Based on the conceptual framework and proto-theoretical ideas outlined above, each of the ten case studies is motivated by the following questions:

Table 1.1 Case Selection Criteria and Cases Militarization

External

Main Threat

Yes

Israel (old) South Korea (new) United States (old)

No

Japan (old)

Domestic

Colombia (old) El Salvador (new) France (old) South Africa (new) Senegal (new) Spain (new)

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1. What are the main threats? 2. How do democratic leaders react to these threats? Do they deploy the military (and how), or do they use other means (civilian security agencies, diplomacy, politics)? 3. How are the main security threats defined, shaped, and interpreted by the elites, the military, and civil society groups? What is the role of the existence of a previous militaristic infrastructure in the civilian political culture in this process? Does this process reinforce or mitigate militarization (or securitization) through the imperative to legitimize the use of force to counter the threats, and if so, how? If not, why not? Does this process affect the tools used, whether military deployment and buildup or other mechanisms, or not? 4. What are the effects of militarization (or its absence) on civilian control of the military?

The remainder of the book proceeds in three parts. Part 1 includes case studies of new and old democracies challenged by external threats. In Chapter 2, Yagil Levy argues that, until the 2000s, Israel exemplified a direct relationship among the level of external threats, militarization, and the autonomy of the military vis-à-vis civilians, while the period that followed showed that nonexistential threats had a dual impact on civilian control of the military. They spelled out demilitarization that limited the military’s autonomy. At the same time, it is precisely the de-existentialization of threats that enhanced the politicians’ dependence on the “legitimation services” of the military when they strived to use force, while de-existentialization reduced the public interest in military affairs, hence reducing control. In Chapter 3, Eyal Ben-Ari argues that successive governments in Japan responded to external security threats by legalizing actions of the military, thus overcoming historical and cultural constraints. These material developments have been reinforced by discursive processes of remilitarization. However, since all the stages of militarization have been variously opposed, critiqued, or moderated, several mechanisms, such as electoral changes and internal ruling party pressures, have held Japan’s governments accountable for their actions and limited their leeway in overly militarizing the country. In Chapter 4, Insoo Kim analyzes the South Korean government’s attempts to impose on the military restrained rules of engagement in response to the North Korean military’s violation of the mar-

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itime border between the two Koreas in the Yellow Sea (the Northern Limit Line). While it could be expected that the military would obey the instructions by refraining from using force even in the event of North Korean provocations, Kim argues that the media played an important role in harming civilian control. By amplifying the image of the North Korean threat, the media militarized the security discourse, while often criticizing the more restricted policies of the government. This encouraged the military to use force against enemy provocations in violation of the government’s instruction. In Chapter 5, Alice Hunt Friend and Lizamaria Arias investigate the complex interactions among transnational terrorism, a militarized security discourse, and civilian control in the United States. Although they highlight that the United States had not been a stranger to a militarized security discourse before September 11, 2001, it was only after the terrorist attacks that transnational terrorism was considered a problem that should be addressed by military means. In a meticulous analysis that combines positivist and ideational perspectives, they show the specific interplay of the objective material conditions of a qualitative change in the terrorist threat and its subjective interpretation by elites and the populace—and its impact on both the use of military force and civilian control. The impression that the country (as well as its allies) is embroiled in a Manichaean war of “good” versus “evil” engenders a “rally-round-the-flag” effect around the chief executive, and military action becomes the logical and righteous response—especially if it comes with little threat of large numbers of American casualties. The consequences are a self-imposed enfeeblement of the legislature and a preference for “surgical” special operations, which together undermine democratic accountability and weaken civilian control. Part 2 includes case studies of old and new democracies that are challenged by domestic threats. In Chapter 6, Samuel Rivera-Paez analyzes the effects of Colombia’s decades-long experiences of a counterinsurgency war against well-organized guerrilla armies and the rise of powerful drug cartels as challengers of the state. He maintains that Colombia has a unique political structure based on close cooperation between the elites. Therefore, the military’s maneuvering power has been limited, and its leadership internalized principles of subordination to civilian authorities. Furthermore, this cooperation between the elites enhanced the legal system, which, in turn, further limited the military’s autonomy. Based on this infrastructure, even when deployed to address domestic threats, the military grasped the

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idea that to win in the battle, legitimacy is essential, and therefore further obeyed the civilians’ directives. Violent crime and the legacies of a long and bloody civil war are also at the heart of Sabine Kurtenbach and Désirée Reder’s analysis of El Salvador (Chapter 7). They argue that some progress has been made in the more than twenty-five years since the comprehensive Chapultepec peace agreement ended the twelve-year civil war in reforming the security sector and increasing civilian control over the military. However, they also show that Salvadoran governments of both major parties continue to rely on exceptional legislation to deploy military forces in the fight against rampant crime and youth gangs. This not only is a breach of the peace agreement but, coupled with impunity for human rights violations, leads to excessive levels of violence by the state security forces and weakens effective civilian control over the military. Kurtenbach and Reder show how these patterns are legitimized and reproduced by a heavily militarized discourse that demonizes youth gangs as the main perpetrators of violence. As such, the discourse, actively promoted by the traditional oligarchy that continues to dominate state, economy, and society, succeeds in concealing the socioeconomic conditions of exclusion and inequality that are the underlying reason for violent crime in the country. In Chapter 8, Chiara Ruffa analyzes three waves of securitization in France between 1995 and 2017 as a response to transnational terrorism that posed domestic threats. Although in all waves the government performed domestic policing, the type of securitization differed sharply under the three presidencies studied, with important ramifications for civilian control. While the norm of civilian control held strong, the combination of the president’s relative power position, the military’s propensity to perform domestic tasks, and its interest in doing so results in different types of securitization and different levels of erosion of civilian control. In general, the military accepted new policing missions and guaranteed obedience in exchange for more resources. From 1995 to 1998 under President Jacques Chirac, a heightened transnational terrorist threat led to the deployment of the military in domestic policing and increased the politicians’ dependence on the military. On its side, the military converted this dependency into bigger budgets following abolition of the draft, mainly in the form of new missions and increased, albeit limited, status in decisionmaking. During the terrorist attacks of 2015 and 2016 under President François Hollande, the

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government traded display of power in the streets and pure policing roles by a reluctant military for a more robust upgrade in the military’s status in decisionmaking. Later, under the more powerful President Emmanuel Macron, the policing roles of the military were reduced and replaced by nonmilitary measures, and so the military’s level of autonomy and status in decisionmaking was also downgraded. In his analysis of Senegal’s experience with armed separatist rebellion in the country’s southern Casamance region, Jahara Matisek stresses in Chapter 9 that the severity and regional location of the threat affect a state’s reaction to domestic challenges. He starts out with the puzzle that Senegal, which maintains a large military that is often considered one of the most professional and effective armies in Africa, has not suffered to the same degree as its neighbors from praetorianism and military intervention into politics. Moreover, the military never was considered the state’s primary instrument to fight the separatist insurrection in the Casamance, despite the civil war having led to over 5,000 deaths and about 60,000 displaced persons since its outbreak in 1982. Matisek argues that this is because the conflict was successfully contained in the relatively isolated and peripheral Casamance region and never spilled into Dakar or other urban centers in northern Senegal. While military troops participated in counterinsurgency operations as support for the civilian police and gendarmerie, the Casamance problem was deemed resolvable mainly through a crimefighting approach. Under these circumstances, political and military leaders never had the political capital or need to fully militarize the conflict, elected civilians had no issues controlling their military, and the armed forces saw little incentive to fight in the Casamance. In Chapter 10, Lindy Heinecken argues that while there is an underpinning relationship between threats, militarization, and civilian control in South Africa, the relations are not always linear. When the threat perception is high, the security of the state and citizenry is threatened, and militarization is elevated, civil control may be compromised, especially under an authoritarian regime, and vice versa. However, remilitarization, as a response to rising domestic threats, compromises civilian control to the extent that remilitarization is promoted by the military and enhances its power, while, as the case of South Africa shows, remilitarization promoted by nonmilitary actors has a lesser effect on civilian control. Then the challenge is not controlling the military as an organization but, rather, controlling the violent means of the polity.

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In Chapter 11, Rafa Martínez and Oscar Jaime make a similar point as that made in Chapter 9 in their analysis of Spain’s fight against Basque nationalists and Islamist terrorists. Despite the considerable terrorist threat faced by the Spanish state and society, unlike in France, the Spanish armed forces were never seriously considered as a useful instrument for domestic antiterrorism. This, Martínez and Jaime argue, is due to both material and ideational factors. Materially, the Spanish state could draw on well-developed civilian police, intelligence, and security agencies, especially the paramilitary Guardia Civil, which enabled a relatively effective containment and prosecution of terrorist organizations through criminal procedures. Ideationally, the military’s involvement in domestic affairs was and continues to be delegitimized in large segments of Spanish society after decades of Francoist rule in which the military was a core pillar of the repressive regime. Under these conditions, the militarization of antiterrorism operations was neither functionally necessary nor politically viable, which, in turn, also contributed to the successful and swift consolidation of civilian control over the military in the 1980s. Drawing on the individual chapters’ empirical insights, Part 3’s Chapter 12 by David Kuehn and Yagil Levy concludes the book. The chapter summarizes the findings and translates them into theoretical conclusions on the relationship between security threats, militarization, and civilian control. Our main theoretical insight, drawn from the cases under study, is that a perceived severe external threat increases the autonomy of the military vis-à-vis civilian control. This happens if threats lead to militarization—the missing link in the literature—rather than being addressed by nonmilitary means. However, when war preparation requires the mobilization of significant societal resources, this linearity is disrupted, and the process enhances civilian control as it encourages monitoring of the military by the sacrificing groups. This linearity between the three variables generally moves in the reverse direction when external threats decline and demilitarization rises. At the same time, reinforcement of internal threats will most likely negatively affect civilian control if the threats are militarized and entail military deployment. Civilian control is less affected when nonmilitary means are deployed. The chapter ends with suggestions about how to proceed toward testing these theoretical ideas empirically.

PART 1 External Threats

2 Israel: Remilitarized Threats and Military Contrarianism Yagil Levy

Israel launched Operation Protective Edge in the summer of 2014 against the Hamas-ruled Gaza Strip. Its goal was expanded from halting the rocket attacks on Israel to a ground invasion aimed at destroying the tunnel system dug by Hamas from Gaza into Israel’s territory. Two phenomena stood out: First, the Israel Defense Forces (IDF), against its own logic, was dragged by politicians into pointless tunnel combat for which it was unprepared (Michael and Even 2016, 30–31). However, the IDF demonstrated full compliance with the politicians’ directives. Second, as argued by the Israel State Comptroller (2017, 8), prior to the operation, the government did not consider political options to resolve the IsraelGaza conflicts. Thus, the political logic was militarized, in the sense that Israel preferred the military logic (albeit not the logic of the military) of dealing with the threat of the tunnels through coercive means rather than the political logic of solving the crisis through diplomatic means. Paradoxically, then, this decision was part of a broader phenomenon: the IDF is politically monitored, but in a militarized political environment (Levy 2020a). It is oversupervised by civilian groups to the degree that its professional autonomy is partly limited (S. Cohen 2006), but, at the same time, military thought governs political thought (see, for example, Ben-Eliezer 2019;

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Michael 2009; Peri 2006). As I have previously explained by drawing on theories of state formation, this duality stemmed from the impact of militarization on creating engines of control: militarization legitimizes the rising levels of sacrifice for war in monetary and human terms; in turn, investment of resources increases the dependency of the military on the state civil institutions and therefore enhances civillian control (Levy 1997). In this context, the way in which external threats are contextualized and leveraged in order to justify investment by displaying determination to remove them by force is of great significance. It empowers the military, which is “the ultimate knowledge authority on the definition of security threats and shaping the responses for tackling them” (Michael 2009, 690). This knowledge is derived from the supremacy of the theme of security from the beginning of the Zionist project in Israel/Palestine, which “became the principal subject of cultural activity . . . [of] a nation for which ‘security’ was an existential problem” (U. Cohen 2019, 123). This militarized Israeli culture and, in turn, enhanced the IDF’s status in the decisionmaking process, in which the military option was often prioritized over less lethal ones (Ben-Eliezer 2019; Kimmerling 1993). However, as Israel has experienced a gradual transition from existential to nonexistential threats, there exists a lack, beyond a general analysis of threats, of a better understanding of how variations in the level of threat affect variations in the level of control, as mediated by varying levels of militarization. As the theoretical introduction of this volume implies, scholars debate whether external threats are positively or negatively correlated with civilian control. Indeed, this chapter will show a more complicated relationship by looking into the post–Oslo Accord period (1993–1995), the peace process between Israel and the Palestinians, during which threats became perceived as nonexistential. It is argued that until the 2000s, Israel exemplified a direct relationship between the level of threats, militarization, and the autonomy of the military vis-à-vis civilians, while the period that followed showed that nonexistential threats had a dual impact on civilian control of the military: They spelled out demilitarization that limited military autonomy. At the same time, it is precisely the de-existentialization of threats that enhanced the politicians’ dependence on the “legitimation services” of the military when they strived to use force, while de-existentialization reduced the public interest in military affairs, hence reducing control.

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Background: Militarization, Demilitarization, Threats, and Civilian Control Prior to 2000 Israel was created at the beginning of the twentieth century as a colonial project of Jewish emigrants, mainly from eastern Europe. During the formative years of the pre-state political community, a conflict developed between the Jewish and Palestinian communities. This conflict escalated from local clashes to intercommunal conflict, culminating in the 1948 War between Israel and the surrounding Arab states following the formal establishment of the Israeli state. Since then, Israel has been in a constant state of war with its neighboring armies and militias. In tandem with the escalation of the conflict, society experienced militarization during the 1950s and 1960s, the principles of which have remained in force till now. The main pillar of the militarized conception was the assumption that the Arab world essentially rejects Israel’s right to exist as a Jewish state. Israel thus lives under constant existential threat to its security (further amplified by the memory of the Holocaust [Lustick 2008]), facing an enemy that is superior in both territorial and demographic terms, which has given shape to a siege mentality. Therefore, according to Kimmerling (1993), the Israeli-Arab conflict was accepted as a routine, immutable, and uncontrollable situation. A “worst-case analysis” was the only prudent approach to assessing the reality, guiding the determination to retain territorial and demographic assets unless they can be proportionally translated into sustainable security gains and military superiority. Therefore, society was subordinated to the military and national security considerations: it was a “mobilized society” and a “nation in arms.” War sacrifice (in both human and material terms) was acceptable as part of normal life (see also Freilich 2012, 381–416). The argument about militarization implies that it is not necessarily that “objective,” and even preordained, external threats spelled out militarization. On the contrary, as scholars argue, for either cultural or materialist reasons, Israel opted for belligerent options when it stood at crossroads from which more diplomatic or less belligerent options could be selected. However, the militarized principles were not significantly challenged domestically. Rather than reflecting threats, militarization legitimized—even encouraged—the lethal option of addressing them (Ben-Eliezer 2019; Levy

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1997), with interest-guided security networks nurturing the perception of threats (Sheffer and Barak 2013). As noted, the centrality of security bolstered the status of the IDF as the ultimate authority in defining security threats. However, over the years, a gradual institutionalization of civilian control was noted. Institutional (horizontal) control over the military’s operational conduct was enhanced and limited its autonomy to act in defiance of political directives (as happened in the 1950s and 1960s when the IDF often escalated border clashes without effective political monitoring) (Levy 2020a). Militarization-generated investment of resources increased the dependency of the military on state civil institutions and hence reinforced control (Levy 1997). Nevertheless, the 1973 (Yom Kippur) War and the First Lebanon War (1982) marked the turning point toward demilitarization. Israel suffered a large number of casualties, and the IDF’s image as an omnipotent military was harmed following the surprise EgyptianSyrian attack in 1973 and the war of attrition in Lebanon between 1985 and 2000. This shift found expression in the 1979 peace treaty with Egypt; the ensuing withdrawal from the entire Sinai Peninsula, conquered during the 1967 war (the Six-Day War, which marked the climax of Israel’s militarization); and the two unilateral withdrawals from Lebanon in 1985 and 2000. Furthermore, when antiwar demonstrations erupted in the 1980s and 1990s, the criteria for legitimizing the use of force became the subject of debate. As political disputes over the use of military force intensified, political and military leaders had to carefully calculate the expected political outcomes, including cohesiveness of the ranks into which the political disputes diffused. Having learned these lessons, the restrained use of military force, along with considerations of international politics, was also reflected in the relatively moderate policy adopted by the government during the First Intifada that erupted in 1987 as the first Palestinian uprising against Israel’s rule in the West Bank and Gaza Strip, occupied by Israel in the 1967 war. Reluctance to use massive firepower to quell the Palestinian uprising paved the road to the 1993–1995 Oslo Accords between Israel and the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO), through which control over part of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip was gradually handed over to the newly established Palestinian Authority (Levy 2012, 58–60). In terms of threat perception, from the mid-1980s on, the general public perception was that the external threat to the country had

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receded. Public opinion polls showed that between 1986 and 2006, the composite measure of external threat decreased by more than 10 percent (Arian 2006). Not only were threats perceived to have declined, but their removal by less forceful measures became part of the political culture, unlike in the years that preceded the 1973 war, when Israel refused to swap “land for peace” (i.e., the idea of withdrawing from the territories conquered in the 1967 war as a means to settle the Arab-Israeli conflict). Demilitarization also affected the IDF’s status. In addition to formalizing civilian authority and enhancing parliamentary oversight (Levy 2020a), most significant was the emergence of extra-institutional control mechanisms, backed by a more independent media, signifying stronger vertical control. Extra-institutional control is action generally taken by nonbureaucratic actors (mainly social movements and interest groups) in the public sphere in an attempt to bargain with the military or to restrain it, either directly or through civilian state institutions. In Israel, extra-institutional actors, including civil rights organizations, parents, reservist organizations, and interest groups, acted in several arenas (public, judicial, and even within the military) and restricted the autonomy of both the military and its institutional political supervisors. For example, antiwar protests in both 1985 and the 1990s compelled the government to withdraw the troops from Lebanon (Levy and Michael 2011).

Remilitarization and Threats Since the 2000s The outbreak of the Second Intifada in 2000, following the failure to peacefully resolve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict as outlined by the Oslo agreements, shifted the trend toward remilitarization. This had multiple impacts. Unlike in the First Intifada, this time the Palestinians employed firepower against IDF forces and gradually launched terror attacks in Israeli cities. In 2005, Israel unilaterally withdrew from the Gaza Strip, but the Muslim movement Hamas eventually seized control of Gaza, mounting repeated rocket attacks against Israel’s civilian population, thereby pushing Israel to subsequently initiate large-scale military campaigns from 2008 to 2014. At the same time, however, Israel renewed its security cooperation with the Palestinian Authority in the West Bank and thus brought greater stability to the region (Ganor

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2015, 255). In any case, the Palestinian attacks were perceived not so much as threatening to Israel’s existence but rather as a disturbance of daily life. Hence, the supremacy of security concerns declined steadily from 2003 to 2005 (Arian et al. 2005, 60). Militarily, evidence of remilitarization could be seen through the IDF’s aggressive reaction to the Palestinian hostilities, with the aim of eliminating terror infrastructures and deterring future aggression. Operatively, at the peak of the intifada, in 2002 Israel recaptured the main Palestinian cities in the West Bank. Allegedly, Israel committed “politicide” through the destruction of the Palestinian political entity (Kimmerling 2003) and the IDF’s political goal of “burning into the Palestinian consciousness” the recognition that violence would not bring political gain (Ben-Eliezer 2012, 100–101). In terms of public opinion, the Oslo Index, measuring support for the Oslo agreements and belief in their ability to bring about peace between Israel and the Palestinians, dropped from 45.3 points in August 2000, on the eve of the Second Intifada, to an average of about 35 points in 2001 and to about 33 points in 2002.1 While in 1996, at the peak of the Oslo process, 36 percent of Jewish respondents identified with the Left (in the Israeli context, this equates to “doves” with regard to security policy and posture vis-à-vis the Palestinians), only 27 percent did so in 2003. Meanwhile, identification with the Right (i.e., “hawks”) rose from 39 to 52 percent (Arian, Atmor, and Hadar 2006, 86). Remilitarization re-empowered the IDF under Chief of General Staff Shaul Mofaz. With Prime Minister Ehud Barak, who advanced peace talks with the Palestinians but failed, Mofaz could expand his bargaining space as the government relied on the IDF’s support, first, to legitimize the talks and the concessions that they might yield and, second, to legitimize the partly restrained fighting against the Palestinians when the intifada erupted. Furthermore, as the demilitarization processes of Oslo and the May 2000 unilateral (and perceivedly traumatic) withdrawal from Lebanon threatened the status of the IDF and its resources, a contrarian approach toward civilians emerged as a means to rehabilitate the military’s status (see Levy 2013, 47–51). As a consequence, a series of frictions developed between the IDF and civilians. More than once during that time, the IDF dictated policies regarding Israel’s warfare in the West Bank and Gaza Strip and created facts on the ground. Mofaz even publicly disputed policies enacted by elected civilians (Peri 2006, 91–170).

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However, tensions were calmed, especially when the nationalist Ariel Sharon replaced the centrist Barak as prime minister in 2001, another indication of political remilitarization. Then, the military became more disciplined. In general, right-wing governments face less pressure to use military force than left-center governments, which rightist groups traditionally suspect of being politically soft. Moreover, rightist governments have found it easier to restrain and control the military. The politicians’ need for the military’s support was therefore reduced, as was the military’s ability to be contrarian (Levy 2013, 50). Evidently, in 2005, the military cooperated with the government in implementing the unilateral withdrawal from the Gaza Strip despite previous reservations by Chief of General Staff Moshe Ya’alon, whose term was shortened. This ushered in the post-intifada period. Declining threats, regardless of the pendulum of demilitarization/ remilitarization, eroded the legitimacy of military sacrifice, which had been high until the 1970s. Three manifestations stood out. First, since the First Lebanon War, parents and reserve soldiers had protested against the loss of life by voicing a subversive bereavement discourse—a reflection of the casualty sensitivity syndrome (Levy 2019, 165). After 2000, concerns for casualties had deterred the IDF from initiating ground operations in the Gaza Strip and deep into Lebanon, when the government waited until the last minute to launch a massive ground operation during the 2006 Second Lebanon War (Levy 2015, 62–63). Second, motivation to serve in combat roles declined in multiple forms, especially among the secular middle class, bringing about a gradual change in the social makeup of the military, with a growing presence of lower-class and religious soldiers (Levy 2009). Third, a drop was found in the public’s readiness to pay higher taxes to fund defense matters, as indicated by a survey conducted in 2007. Despite security concerns that remained after the failure in Lebanon and the emergence of a Hamas-ruled state in Gaza, only 29 percent of Jewish respondents were ready to pay more taxes for defense, whereas 48 percent had been willing in 1986 (Arian, Atmor, and Hadar 2007, 92). From that point, support for decreasing the defense budget continued. For example, in May 2014, a public opinion survey revealed that the Jewish majority (49 percent), particularly on the Left, did not support an increase in the defense budget, even though about two-thirds defined the level of security-military

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risk to Israel as high or moderately high (Yaar and Hermann 2014). It is no wonder that these years also saw measures taken to increase the transparency of the defense budget and the oversight of both the government and the Knesset (Knesset Research and Information Center 2015). This combination of nonexistential threats and reluctance to sacrifice created complicated relations between the IDF and the politicians. No longer did increasing threats translate linearly to militarization and weak civilian control and vice versa.

Remilitarized Threats in the Post-Intifada Era Since the 2010s, Israel has faced several threats. Let us take the mid2010s as a point of departure to consider the post-intifada period. As reflected in the security discourse, the main threat is the nuclearization of Iran, accompanied by anti-Israeli rhetoric and support of enemy proxies. However, nuclearization was at least temporarily halted by the interim agreement signed in 2015 between Iran and the Western powers. Next is the threat posed by Hezbollah in Lebanon, which has continued its military buildup with rockets and missiles able to cover the full territory of Israel. At the same time, while the civil war in Syria removed that nation’s threat to Israel, the state vacuum empowered other forces, including ISIS. The Hamas-ruled Gaza Strip poses the threat of rockets fired into much of Israel’s territory. Finally, the Palestinian Authority in the West Bank maintains its security cooperation with Israel but still poses the threat of uprising and terror attacks. All in all, the conventional threat posed by regular armies in the region has ceased to exist, and Israel remains the strongest power in the region, while also it cooperates pragmatically with the moderated Sunni world (such as Egypt and Saudi Arabia) (Yadlin 2016). Moreover, not only does Israel not face any objective existential threat, but the public also believes this, with the majority of the Jewish (75 percent) and the Arab (58 percent) public agreeing (in December 2018) that Israel defends itself “very well” (Yaar and Hermann 2018). The majority of the Jewish public (51 percent) also believes that socioeconomic challenges pose a greater threat to Israel’s future than the security-military ones (Yaar and Hermann 2014). At the same time, notwithstanding the option to renew political negotiations with the Palestinian Authority to settle the historical con-

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flict, the peace issue has disappeared almost completely from Israeli public discourse (Yaar and Hermann 2018). As a further indication, the Negotiation Index monitors, on a monthly basis, the Israeli public’s attitudes toward peace negotiations between Israel and the Palestinian Authority (the public support for peace negotiations and the degree of its belief in success). This index declined from fifty-six points on the eve of the Second Intifada to an average of forty-six points in 2016.2 While reduced threats were translated into demilitarization trends among the secular middle class (as attested by the above-mentioned attenuated legitimacy of sacrificing), new forms of remilitarization emerged among lower-class and religious groups. While in the past, and even during the Second Intifada, the IDF played the key role in promoting militarization inspired by a security rationale, postintifada militarization was promoted by rightist and religious extramilitary agents inspired by a religious and nationalist rationale. It was not that new threats emerged but that the same threats were reinterpreted according to a different logic. In this spirit, the threat was less to physical security and more to the Jewish identity of the state. Most important was the religionization of threats. Since the 2000s, the failure to resolve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the outbreak of the Second Intifada were increasingly viewed by large segments of Israeli society as a struggle between Jews and non-Jews. Renewed hostilities reinforced Jewish identification in Israeli society, leading to the strengthening of a religious, or at least a nonsecular, identity (Yadgar 2012). Jewishness was transmuted into a nationalist territorial cult, legitimizing the settlement project and demarcating firmer boundaries between the Jewish majority and the Palestinian minority within Israel’s territory (Ram 2008, 57–73). For the rightist religious sector, the intifada created an opportunity to annul the impact of the Oslo Accords, which threatened its Jewish identity by promoting the option to separate the perceived holy West Bank from Israel’s territory and destroy the settlement project, which had been pioneered by the religious sector. This political-cultural resistance to Oslo was planted while the Oslo process was unfolding, leading, among other things, to the assassination of Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, the leading figure of the peace process. Against this background, the ongoing friction with the Palestinians in the West Bank and Israel’s wars in Gaza were presented as religious wars and were accompanied by the dehumanization of the

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Palestinians (for example, presenting them as the Amalek biblical enemy, whom God had said to kill without sparing women and children). A religious war leads not to political arrangement but to a decisive defeat of the enemy (Levy 2016b, 315–317). Not only was the IDF not the bearer of remilitarization, but it was strongly criticized by rightist agents for not being decisively directed toward victory. Most representative of this was the incident in March 2016 when Elor Azaria, an Israeli conscript combatant, was filmed killing an immobilized Palestinian attacker (Abd al-Fattah Yusri al-Sharif) in the West Bank city of Hebron. The decision by the IDF to try the soldier for manslaughter instead of pardoning him provoked unprecedented right-wing protests against the IDF. This also spilled over into interethnic tension. Lower-class Mizrahi groups (those who emigrated from Muslim countries in the 1950s) pushed back against what some saw as stereotyping and vilifying, as Mizrahi combatants such as Azaria were accused of being especially violent and racist toward Palestinians (Eastwood 2019). The prevailing atmosphere of remilitarization was further indicated by polls in October 2015, when Palestinians in the West Bank began to carry out lone-wolf attacks on Israeli civilians and soldiers, temporarily known as the Third Intifada. Polls showed that 53 percent of Jewish interviewees agreed with the statement “Any Palestinian who has perpetrated a terror attack against Jews should be killed on the spot, even if he has been apprehended and no longer poses a threat” (Yaar and Hermann 2015). This statement stood at odds with the IDF command’s more restrained approach (see below). Divisions then emerged between IDF commanders and civilian sectors. In July 2016, polls showed that among the hard Right, about half saw no concordance between the IDF senior command’s values and those of the general public (Yaar and Hermann 2016). On another level, the national-religious sector blamed the legal system outright for endangering the soldiers. For example, in a wellpublicized speech, Rabbi Yigal Levinstein, head of the Eli premilitary academy (which prepared hundreds of religious conscripts for military service), said, “The value placed on the other [Palestinian or Lebanese] side—on what are called innocents—has been rising to the point of endangering our soldiers” (Cohen and Lis 2016). Militarization often signifies an intergroup struggle over the meaning of military sacrifice and its translation into social status (see, for example, Mann 1987). That holds true in this case, when

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especially religious groups struggled for meaning by aggrandizing their own contribution, while presenting the old, secular elites as weak (Lebel 2013). However, even if remilitarization was promoted by religious and nationalist groups, it was also leveraged by state institutions, including the IDF, to encourage military motivation. Thus, to the extent that the 2000s saw a declining motivation for sacrifice in terms of both life and money, religionization served the need to increase motivation among the ranks and their civilian communities. It was the IDF command who religionized the ranks from the top down by expanding the role of the Military Rabbinate during the Second Intifada from provision of religious services to religious socialization of secular soldiers. Providing a tailwind to these new roles, in 2002, the military defined its collective identity as the military of the Jewish democratic state, committed to the strengthening of Jewish identity among its troops and the enhancing of their links to their land, values, heritage, and people (Levy 2016b, 314–315, 322). ReligiousJewish socialization helped reeducate the troops toward task adherence, balancing out the impact of the liberal education system. Indeed, from the military, this trend spilled over into the civilian education system, which attempted to eradicate any sign of doubt through such measures as rewriting civic texts, religionizing the secular schools, and preventing subversive organizations from entering the schools (Kashti 2020).

Military Contrarianism Reduced threats may bring about demilitarization, which translates to tightened civilian control, as was the case in Israel when extrainstitutional agents of control continued to heighten the monitoring of the IDF. For example, human rights groups increased their monitoring of the IDF’s activity in the West Bank (see Levy 2020b). At the same time, however, it was precisely the remilitarized interpretation of nonexistential threats that also empowered the military. The militarization-informed public expectations for taking a harsher stand contradicted the professional military’s approach and therefore encouraged contrarianism. When the military perceives the conduct of politicians as harmful to its interests, it has a tendency to resist by demonstrating its independence and attempting to thwart

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the politicians’ will. The form and intensity of the military’s opposition derive from the intersection between the level of perceived harm done to the military and the power relations that exist among the various echelons. An increase in the military’s perception of significant harm to itself and an upsurge in the “legitimization services” required by politicians against their rivals will lead the military to demonstrate over-independence, resistance, and expansion of its power (Levy 2013, 40). This combination occurred in the post-intifada period. The IDF was concerned about becoming embroiled in military conflicts it could not win decisively. The command jealously guarded its own organizational interests, the most important of which was preservation of its reputation as the “people’s army”—a depoliticized organization transcending the divisions in Israeli society—its access to state funding, and its ability to control its troops. Indeed, since the 1980s, asymmetric clashes with nonstate actors such as Hezbollah and Hamas harmed the IDF’s reputation (Levy 2016a). For example, it ended the Second Lebanon War with a sense of failure. Furthermore, not only did the IDF’s ongoing strikes in Gaza fail to bring long-term calm to the Israeli communities targeted by Hamas’s rockets, but the border clashes also often put the IDF at risk for conducting a bloody ground thrust, which was at odds with the casualty sensitivity syndrome. At the same time, the IDF’s room for maneuvering vis-à-vis politicians was expanded because its legitimation services were needed. The nationalist governments headed by Benjamin Netanyahu since 2009 have required such services in support of hard-line policies (mainly toward the Palestinians) in the face of opposition by the Center-Left. Such potential opposition is especially loud when motivated not simply by ideology but also by a reluctance to sacrifice both life and money, as has typified Israeli society since the 1980s, especially in light of declining existential threats. Under such conditions, the military profession is used to justify action, while the army also realizes politicians will refrain from restraining it due to a fear of delegitimization by the opposition (Levy 2013). Furthermore, and unique to the reality of Israel, the rightist leadership’s needs of legitimation services to silence the Center-Left grew especially since the IDF has always been the stronghold of the secular middle class, mainly the upper echelon associated with the CenterLeft. This group established the military and occupied its senior positions until at least the 1980s. Still, the 1990s and 2000s saw the

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divorce of this group from the IDF, not only in its loss of positions to other groups but also in its self-liberation from the shackles of military thought and the interests of the military organization. Ironically, the more the IDF was attacked by rightist groups, such as during the Azaria affair (mentioned above), the more the Center-Left was pushed to reprotect the military. The IDF was even absurdly portrayed as one of the “fortresses of democracy” that the Right allegedly threatened to dismantle (see, for example, the 2016 speech of opposition leader Isaac Herzog, in the shadow of the Azaria affair).3 Not for nothing did the IDF garner the highest level of trust among Jews, with no significant differences between Left and Right (Hermann et al. 2018, 103). Nothing testifies more to the affinity between the Center-Left and the IDF than the establishment of the Blue-White Party. Centrist and headed by three former chiefs of general staff, it is challenging the rightist Netanyahu-led Likud Party. Blue-White became the largest centrist party in 2019. The IDF therefore not only provided legitimation services for the government to mobilize the Center-Left but could also use the support of this group to act with more freedom. A complementary factor empowering the military was its restructuring. In general, governments have reduced the level of social mobilization for war by deploying volunteer, technology-intensive militaries, allowing them to bypass the popular will when they initiated war and to defuse antiwar protest (see, for example, Vennesson 2011). Policymakers then have acquired more freedom of action. This holds true in the case of Israel as well. Social restructuring of the IDF resulted in changes in its social makeup, mostly reflected in the casualty map that mirrored the reduction of risks to secular, middle-class males and the reduced burden on the reserves (who hold the power to resist the military) (Levy 2015). No less important, the economic burden became lower as military expenditures as a proportion of gross domestic product declined from about 19 percent in the mid-1980s to about 5 percent in 2017.4 Therefore, powerful middle-class groups limited their interest to the consumption of military resources and the impact of military action on Israel’s global status (through the activity of human rights organizations), with less interest in military campaigns (in contrast to the 1980s and 1990s, when demilitarization and civilian control grew together). Less attention meant larger freedom of action for the IDF

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and its political supervisors. Furthermore, at least part of the middleclass apathy to peace options could be explained in terms of the relatively small costs of the conflict, especially those borne by the most powerful groups. Paradoxically, it is precisely the impact of the demilitarization, which adjusted the military’s structure and resources to the new environment, that also provided more autonomy to the military when this adjustment materialized. In summary, motivated to counter the politicians but also equipped with the power to do so, the IDF played a unique role in Israeli politics. In one way, it played a restraining role. In 2000, Chief of General Staff Gabi Ashkenazi allied with other security agencies to thwart the intention of Prime Minister Netanyahu and Defense Minister Ehud Barak to attack the nuclear installations in Iran (Michael and Even 2016, 29–30). Later, in January 2016, while Prime Minister Netanyahu led a campaign to convince US President Donald Trump to exit the deal with Iran, Chief of General Staff Gadi Eisenkot defended the deal and presented what could be seen as “the most direct public challenge yet posed by Israel’s security services to the repeated claim by Netanyahu that the Iran nuclear agreement threatens Israel’s survival” (Goldberg 2016). For the IDF, breaking the deal could yield (as really happened later) risky frictions with the Iranians and their proxies. In a similar spirit, following Operation Protective Edge in 2014, the IDF command pressed politicians to loosen the blockade of the Gaza Strip, the blockade against which Hamas fought. IDF generals also proposed expanding the Palestinian Authority’s security responsibilities and thereby replacing Israel’s agencies (Levy 2016a). In addition, in the fall of 2015, when the “Third Intifada” broke out and the IDF reacted with arrest operations in the West Bank, right-wing politicians wanted to step up the response further and pressed the IDF to loosen its rules of engagement and use greater force against suspected attackers (Levy 2016a). Countering such pressures, which, it was feared, could drag the West Bank into a new wave of uprising, Chief of General Staff Eisenkot defended the military’s relatively moderate rules of engagement and the efforts not to harm the large population in the West Bank. In February 2016 he even declared, “I don’t want a soldier to empty a magazine on a girl with scissors” (G. Cohen 2016). Ultimately, it was the IDF that restrained the hawkish defense minister Avigdor Liberman by blocking his aggressive agenda in

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Gaza, leading to his resignation in 2018 (Pfeffer 2018). Eisenkot summed up the relations with the politicians after his retirement: “It happened to me as chief of staff, and not once, that a political actor called me and said: You have to go to war here, to war there. It was removed from the table” (Fishman 2019, 10). Common to all cases were the generals’ attempts at limiting military campaigns to those situations in which political alternatives were exhausted and Israel’s security was clearly and directly at risk. Only then could the IDF command ensure both domestic and international legitimacy for the application of overwhelming force as a last resort (Levy 2016a). More significantly, it was precisely the “restraining services” of the IDF that bolstered its status among the Center-Left, as a block against the allegedly irresponsible, rightist government. Enjoying a high level of trust among the Center-Left and the ability to deploy forces autonomously by “bypassing” the popular will, politicians were encouraged by remilitarization to deploy the military more freely for what would otherwise have been debated missions. Rounds of warfare in Gaza from 2008 to 2014 provide one example. As mentioned in the case of Operation Protective Edge, the military logic guided the escalation and supplanted less belligerent options without any real public debate. Another example is the lethal force Israel used in 2018 and 2019 against Gazan demonstrators along the Israel-Gaza border, allegedly to prevent a breach of the Gaza fence. As of July 2019, the military had killed more than 200 Palestinian demonstrators using live fire and injured thousands. The lethal open-fire regulations were unsuccessfully challenged by human rights organizations in the Supreme Court of Justice (B’Tselem 2019). However, they were not challenged publicly by the Center-Left. More significantly, the IDF and its political supervisors became utterly autonomous in conducting what became known as “campaign between wars” operations. Carried out since the mid-2010s, this concept targeted mainly Iran’s proxies in order to deter Iran and dismantle the proxies’ arm. During 2018 and 2019, the campaign escalated, focusing on Syrian and later Lebanese territory, and included hundreds of (mainly secret) strikes against targets linked to Iran or its proxies. Gradually, it was expanded in the summer of 2019 to Iraqi weapons depots belonging to a pro-Iranian Shiite-Iraqi militia (Yadlin and Orion 2019). Remarkably, however, this military-initiated policy

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has never been significantly challenged in the political discourse. Notwithstanding the risk of escalation, potentially culminating in a “third Lebanon war” and direct clash with Iran, alternative voices have hardly been heard. Such operations provided the IDF with some glory (especially when they were exposed), without its being dragged into the mud of dirty and bloody clashes in the West Bank and Gaza, for which politicians often pushed. Finally, the following attests to the power of the IDF: In 2015, Chief of General Staff Gadi Eisenkot drafted a document titled the “IDF Strategy.” Remarkably, it was published with no political directive setting its political guidelines. On the contrary, the document openly proposed the type of directives that its author felt the political echelon should provide (Michael and Even 2016, 31–33). In this document, the IDF practically shaped an offensive approach by advocating the application of overwhelming military power at the outset of any future military conflict in order to end it decisively and swiftly, supplanting the concept of gradual escalation (Ben-Meir and Siboni 2016, 42). This approach was divorced from any agreed-upon political rationale and may have harmed steps to dissolve future conflicts in a less belligerent way. Despite the exposure, the doctrine did not provoke political deliberation. It follows that a complicated process ran its course. The military was increasingly subject to horizontal accountability: control was formalized, the budget became better supervised, extra-institutional actors limited the IDF’s autonomy, and cases of overt contrarianism vis-à-vis civilians emerged less frequently. At the same time, vertical accountability remained in deficit; in other words, control of militarism remained limited (see Levy 2016c). Owing to increasing civilian supervision of the military at the operative level, macro issues of war and peace were neglected, as was also reflected in the media’s coverage of the IDF (Peri 2007). It was the universalization of the military through the bolstering of its image as a politically controlled entity that gained the trust of most segments of society and hence inactivated deliberation about the way it led in alliances with the political leadership. Although it lost much of its autonomy, the IDF still retained it in the critical realms of strategic planning and the consequent definition of war goals, as attested by the strategy document. In sum, it was military thought that was powerful rather than the military organization itself.

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Conclusion The chapter starts from the initial assumption that scholars debate whether external threats are positively or negatively correlated with civilian control. Therefore, it attempts to look into what the literature lacks: how variations in the level of threat affect variations in the level of control, mediated by varying levels of militarization. Linear relations between these three variables—perceived severity of threats, militarization, and the autonomy of the military vis-à-vis civilian control—were identified when militarization translated external, existential threats into empowerment of the military in the first years of the state. Gradually, however, during the 1960s and 1970s, militarization-generated investment of resources increased the dependency of the military on the state civil institutions and thereby enhanced civilian control. Later, following the 1973 war, demilitarization reflected decreasing threats, but also subjective readiness to remove them peacefully, and hence enhanced the supervision of the IDF. Post-Oslo remilitarization, with the reappearance of the Palestinian threat in the Second Intifada, re-empowered the military, at least temporarily, and clashes between generals and civilians emerged. Later, in the post-intifada era, amid the acknowledgment that Israel was facing nonexistential threats, the IDF’s autonomy partly declined again. But a new form of remilitarization—religiously nationalist interpreted threats as well as a restructuring that reduced social mobilization for war—provided the IDF with both power and motivation to take a contrarian approach vis-à-vis civilians and to reenhance its autonomy. This happened because nonexistential threats can be reflected in demilitarization that limits military autonomy; at the same time, reducing threats may also enhance the politicians’ dependence on the “legitimation services” of the military, thus increasing the military’s autonomy. As Desch (1999, 14–15) has argued, the combination of low external threats and high domestic threats may weaken civilian control, as the military is threatened by societal fractions and thus encouraged to intervene in politics. This chapter offers a process that is less structural and more dynamic, through which the level of threat changes incrementally. Even if the military is pushed to defend itself, it does so within the boundaries of the social power relations and

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legitimation system. Hence, it intervenes subtly without losing its universalist status, from which much of its power has been historically derived. Civilian control is enhanced horizontally (increased supervision of the military) and weakened vertically (greater military influence in a remilitarized environment). When nonexistential threats are culturally remilitarized, they may place the military in a suitable position to affect policies. Threats are a subjective construct rather than an objective entity. Militarization, therefore, is a struggle over interpretation and thus also affects power relations. As such, militarization can challenge the traditional military thought, as the Israeli Right has done. Consequently, the military is in a complicated position: reducing threats could undermine its centrality, as does challenge from the Right. However, its legitimation services are still needed to legitimize hard-line policies among the Center-Left, and the challenge from the Right further forges the military’s alliance with the Center-Left. So the structural analysis of Desch could be morphed into a more relational analysis. Furthermore, the new type of militarism that has emerged since 2000 is reminiscent of what Michael Mann famously termed “spectator-sport militarism” to describe the new type of warfare: “Because life-and-death are involved, the emotions stirred up are deeper and stronger. But they are not backed up by the commitment of personal resources. They do not involve real or potential sacrifice, except by professional troops” (1987, 48–49). This type reinforces the status of the military and its political supervisors. As Martin Shaw noted in his Dialectics of War, “Total war is at its very best a two-way process, in which the State coerces the population but the population endorses its own coercion and thereby improves its position in and influence on the State” (1988, 57). So, a less-than-total war means weaker bargaining power for the population. Together with apathy, as the war touches less powerful groups, the result is more maneuvering power for the executive. In the reality of Israel, where the military is directly targeted by extrainstitutional agencies of control, reinforcement of the government affects the military as well. From a broader theoretical perspective, the case of Israel validates the argument that a distinction should be made between two modes of civilian control over military affairs: control of the military and control of militarization. Control of the military is the

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main focus of students of civilian control. It is primarily concerned with the military organization and focuses on the operational aspects of the military’s performance, such as doctrine, deployment, resources, and their expected political implications (mainly horizontal control). Control of militarization, which is mainly vertical, deals with controlling the mechanisms that legitimize the use of force. This type of control draws on political discourse and is high when the use of force follows a thorough, open, and deliberative process of decisionmaking in which the citizenry plays an active and autonomous role in addressing the legitimacy to use military force (Levy 2016c; see also Levy 2020a). As the case of Israel suggests, control of the military can be high, while control of militarization can be relatively low, as is evident in the post-intifada period on which this chapter has focused. The IDF lost much of its organizational autonomy, but owing to the special conditions presented above, it retained its ability to steer military policies. The ability to reinterpret external threats and use them to accumulate power was key. Threats matter, but more important is the way they can be politically harnessed.

Notes I would like to thank Kobi Michael for his valuable comments on an earlier version of this chapter. 1. Peace Index (n.d.), http://www.peaceindex.org/indexMainEng.aspx (accessed January 18, 2020). 2. Peace Index. 3. “Opposition leader Herzog: ‘Netanyahu’s principles and goals are identical to a classic military coup—takeover, purge, suppress and dismantle—the fortresses of democracy,’” The Knesset, October 31, 2016, https://main.knesset .gov.il/News/PressReleases/pages/press311016-980.aspx (Hebrew). 4. “Defence Expenditure in Israel, 1950–2017,” Israel Central Bureau of Statistics, https://www.cbs.gov.il/he/publications/DocLib/2019/1758/e_print.pdf, 12.

3 Japan: “Normalizing” the Japan Self-Defense Forces? Eyal Ben-Ari

The relationship between militarization and democratic accountability in Japan is problematic. Japan is still marked by a lingering antimilitarist ethos, suspicions about overseas deployments, and legal restrictions on the use of the country’s SelfDefense Forces (SDF). Yet, despite these limitations, Japan has a full-fledged military, advanced military technology, and one of the world’s five largest military budgets (Ben-Ari 2015). In addition, its air force has a large fleet of fighter jets and sophisticated earlywarning systems, and its maritime forces are one of the three largest, standing alongside those of the Chinese and the Americans (Tanter 2006). Indeed, since the end of World War II, and particularly since the end of the Cold War, successive governments have consistently worked toward legalizing actions of the SDF, enacting a series of laws allowing it more roles abroad, increasing the defense budget, and loosening some of the restrictions on military exports. These concrete developments have been reinforced by key discursive processes that include persuading about the necessity of militarization, distancing the SDF from the imperial forces of World War II, softening its martial potential, and embedding it in a US alliance, signaling that it is conforming to a global standard of military professionalism. Indeed, developments since the 1990s point to a process by which Japan’s elites have been “pushing the

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envelope” in terms of the legal, financial, and operational limits on the SDF and more widely the idea that Japan should be able to use its armed potential overseas. Yet almost all the stages of contemporary militarization have been variously opposed, critiqued, or moderated (and sometimes retracted). At the same time as Japan is militarizing, key mechanisms of accountability have appeared to limit and shape its form. This situation is, from a theoretical point of view, an anomaly or puzzle since the governing scholarly argument is that militarization leads to a weakening of democratic forms of accountability. It is this puzzle that forms the core of my analysis, namely, explaining how in the Japanese context militarization has been accompanied by the emergence of relatively effective mechanisms that restrain and, no less important, direct it. In other words, while militarization has taken place, it has done so within rather strict parameters. Accordingly, the key issue I address here centers on the actors, institutional arrangements, and political dynamics that have held Japan’s governments accountable for their actions and limited their leeway in militarizing the country. I argue that successive administrations have been constrained in their actions and that these constraints are supported by a blend that includes a broad-based consensus on the legitimacy of a certain form of militarization and mechanisms of democratic accountability entailing electoral changes, internal ruling party pressure, coalitional dynamics, parliamentary opposition, the actions of think tanks and scholars, public opinion, demonstrations by social movements, and the media. Militarization in Japan has been a dynamic process that has taken place within an amalgam of forces and mechanisms calling for decisionmakers to be accountable for their actions. Further, the case of (re)militarization in Japan is intriguing since it appears to have the opposite effects as in other countries in that it has led to greater governmental accountability rather than less. This chapter is organized according to the key questions of this volume. In the next two sections I examine the circumstances that have led Japanese governments to develop the country’s military potential to meet emerging security threats and the actual changes that have taken place. I then analyze the kinds of discursive strategies used to explain and persuade publics about the necessity and legitimacy of militarization. I end by evaluating the relationship between militarization and democratic accountability.

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Japan’s Security Threats While during the Cold War Japan’s SDF and the country as a whole were geared for conventional scenarios, since then a variety of new (and renewed) possible and credible threats have emerged (see Oros 2017; Ben-Ari 2015; Ministry of Defense 2019). North Korea: North Korea represents a host of threats that encompass conventional missiles and the incursions of spy ships and special forces (The Mirror, September 19, 2016). Yet the most important involves the regime’s nuclear arsenal (over the past decade and a half, it has undertaken nuclear tests and tested longrange missiles). Despite overtures between the United States and the North Korean regime, this threat is one of the most pressing defense concerns for Japan against the background of the latest firings and fifth nuclear test in 2016 (Yomiuri, September 6, 2016). Of less concern from a Japanese defense perspective are North Korea’s millionstrong army and aging navy (Berkshire Miller 2014b). Consequently, Japan has been emphasizing such measures as strengthening its antiballistic missile capabilities (including ship- and land-borne missile defenses) and the deployment of new kinds of radar and detection devices (Copp 2019). In addition to all of this, the kidnapping of Japanese nationals by North Korean operatives in the 1970s and 1980s is still a national concern. China: The most significant long-term threat, however, is China’s militarization: by the mid-2000s China’s defense budget overtook Japan’s (Bloomberg, August 16, 2010). In addition, China is constantly testing its power through a range of local, limited encroachments on Japan’s air space and territorial waters (Japan Times [JT], September 3, 2014) and disputed territories that Japan officially “owns” (Ministry of Foreign Affairs 2012). In fact, in the past decade Japan has scrambled fighter jets hundreds of times in response to Chinese aircraft (JT, January 24, 2019). In addition, China’s announcement of its new Air Defense Identification Zone in 2013 is another friction point given that the zone extends beyond accepted limits into areas held by Japan, South Korea, and Taiwan. This move should be seen against the fact that Japan is the sixthlargest state in the world in terms of maritime area, the EEZ (Oros 2017, 11). Hence while the Soviet Union posed a theoretical existential threat to Japan, China’s contemporary military threat is of a level and salience not seen since World War II (Oros 2017, 19).

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While China has consistently reacted sharply to changes in Japanese security policies and actions and attributed Japanese declarations about China’s as a pretext for its own militarization (The Economist 2013), the countries are significantly integrated in trade. Therefore, Japan’s elites are aware that steady relations are essential for the stability of the whole Asia-Pacific region, and the declared attitude is that Japan will continue constructing and promoting a mutually beneficial relationship based on common strategic interests with China in all areas, including politics, economy, finance, security, culture, and personal exchanges. Russia: A central issue in Japan’s relations with Russia is the fate of the disputed Kuril Islands, which the Soviet Union occupied at the end of World War II and which Japan calls the Northern Territories (Hook et al. 2012). At the same time, to oppose Russian incursions into its air space during the past decade, Japan has had to scramble its planes tens of times a year (JT, May 17, October 16, 2014). As regards China, while there are areas of friction, in 2014 the government indicated the importance of cooperating with Russia in all areas and emphasized negotiations concerning the islands with the purpose of signing a peace treaty (Yomiuri, November 2, 2014). Indeed, top-level negotiations between President Vladimir Putin and Prime Minister Shinzo Abe over this issue took place for years (Azuma and Walker 2019). Other threats: While China and North Korea prominently occupy Japan’s decisionmakers, there are other threats that the country faces. Cyber threats are increasingly seen as presenting a range of risks that only a national response can handle (in 2011 hackers attacked Mitsubishi’s defense manufacturing arm), and thus the country established a cyber defense unit in the early 2010s (Defense News, October 9, 2012). International terrorist threats have also been identified by the government (terror organizations have attacked Japanese nationals in such diverse countries as Peru, Iraq, and Libya). The background to attacks in the Middle East is related to the fact that despite only providing nonmilitary financial assistance to countries fighting the Islamic State group, Japan has been labeled an enemy because of its close relationship with the United States. The executions of Japanese citizens Kenji Goto and Haruna Yukawa by Islamic militants in 2015 and the chilling message that followed shocked the public in Japan and raised concerns that the country could become a future target. These dangers are seen as necessitat-

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ing preventative measures and economic policies addressing the root causes of terrorism (Mainichi, March 18, 2017). Finally, in reaction to international piracy threatening supplies to the country, Japan’s warships have participated in the Somali mission against pirates, and its coast guard cooperates with and trains the navies of South East Asia (JT, March 18, 2017). United States: The centrality of Japan-US ties harks back to America’s military occupation (ending in 1952) and the emergence since that time of a wide consensus that by having a strong alliance with the United States, Japan would be able to “strengthen the deterrence necessary for maintaining peace” (National Institute for Defense Analysis 2014). However, especially since the end of the Cold War, Japan has been caught between reluctance to engage its military in missions outside Japan and American calls for it to play a much more active security role in the region (Hook et al. 2012). Japanese decisionmakers today, however, have grown skeptical about the United States’ support and its wider global commitments. This has been especially true after the extended campaigns in Iraq and Afghanistan and the American public’s apparent weariness of their country’s being the policeman of the world. This awareness of changed US attitudes, in turn, has been one of the reasons for Japan’s militarization.

Militarization: Changes in Security-Related Measures In considering the reactions of successive Japanese governments to developing threats, it is vital to note that the moves undertaken by the Abe administration are a direct extension—albeit at a greater pace— of initiatives undertaken by previous governments and are a response both to the country’s security-related circumstances and to US pressure for more equitable burden sharing. As Katzenstein (2008, 23) argues, the end of the Cold War initiated not a seismic shift of change but marginal and adaptive change in policy and action. In this respect, it is important to observe that it was the 2010 National Security Guidelines (Liberal Democratic Party was in opposition) that shifted Japan’s doctrine from a reactive and basic defense concept toward an approach called “dynamic defense,” promoting a proactive, flexible, and highly mobile SDF that emphasized advanced technologies,

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intelligence and surveillance capacities, and amphibious warfare capability. The latest guidelines issued by the Abe government in 2018 hence build on the concepts put forth by previous governments. New Security Strategy and a National Security Council: Probably the most important changes that Japanese security policy has undergone include the upgrading of the Defense Agency to a full-fledged ministry in 2007 and the 2013 establishment of a National Security Council (NSC) and release of the first-ever National Security Strategy (NSS) to meet the country’s complex diplomatic and security challenges (National Institute for Defense Analysis 2014, 3–6). The NSC is an ongoing forum for discussing strategic issues, overcoming institutional barriers in the country’s security and defense bureaucracy, introducing the direct participation of SDF officers in defense planning (Oros 2017, 155), and creating stronger collaboration with key allies (Panda 2014). However, Japan still lacks a foreign intelligence agency like the CIA, focused on providing timely intelligence and analysis, because its establishment could anger its neighbors (Berkshire Miller 2014a). The 2013 NSS proposes that Japan become more proactive in preserving a regional balance of power, deterring and coping with local contingencies, and contributing to international security activities led by the United Nations (Berkshire Miller 2014b; Straits Times, January 15, 2014). Additionally, it entails a shift in force structure based on strengthening the naval and air forces and a new security framework enabling Japan to take part in collective self-defense within the framework of the US-Japan alliance (Maslow 2013). Based on these goals Abe revised the National Defense Program Guidelines, specifying defense and deploying the SDF effectively by adding rapid deployment and wide-ranging logistical support capabilities (Ministry of Defense 2019). The 2018 NSS further introduced the idea of a “MultiDomain Defense Force” integrating capabilities in space, cyberspace, and the electromagnetic spectrum and capable of sustained conduct of flexible and strategic activities during all phases from peacetime to armed contingencies (Kotani 2018). Finally, as part of the strategy, Abe intensified previous efforts to link Japan in bilateral security-related ties around the world, thus forming complementary (rather than alternative) bonds to the American one. Consequently, in addition to agreements about exports (actually still heavily restricted—Oros 2017, 139) and joint technological development, Japan has either signed or is discussing a host

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of security cooperation agreements with India, Sri Lanka, most countries of Association of Southeast Asian Nations, Egypt, the United Kingdom, France, and Italy. Underlying these moves is a clear message from the Abe government: that Japan is a central actor in shaping and maintaining the stability of the international and especially the regional order (Cronin 2013). Enhanced capabilities and procurement: Since the mid-2000s Japan has strengthened control of the sea and air around the country with new ships (Aegis-equipped destroyers, submarines, and a helicopter-landing ship that can be transformed into an aircraft carrier [Chang 2019]), aircraft (F-15 and F-35 jets, early-warning planes, Ospreys, and unmanned drones) (Nikkei, January 27, 2019; Farly 2019; JT, December 18, 2018; Yomiuri, January 13, 2019), long-range missiles (Mainichi, January 30, 2019), and cyber units (Kyodo, December 29, 2018; Nikkei, January 27, 2019). In addition, it has established a US Marines–like rapid-response force especially suited for counterattacks on offshore islands (Eldridge 2017). Further, the coast guard (a paramilitary force) has received boosts to its budget as tensions with China and South Korea over disputed islands have increased and North Korean spy ships have entered Japanese waters (Asahi, January 30, 2014). Joint training has taken place with such countries as the United States, the United Kingdom, and South Korea, and Japan is also investing in cyberspace and outer space for both intelligence and operations (Copp 2019). While impressive, the recent increases in the defense budget have come after years in which the country’s security institutions have been underfunded. Finally, a major aim of the NSS has been the strong promotion of Japan’s defense industry (Maslow 2014) through investments in defenserelated research in cooperation with universities (Yomiuri, March 8, 2014), new policies for arms exports, and many new bilateral defense agreements with other countries in Asia and Europe, including India, the United Kingdom (Mainichi, January 12, 2019), France (Nikkei, January 21, 2019), Italy (Mainichi, June 7, 2014), and Australia (Yomiuri, October 8, 2014). Attitudes within the SDF: In general, changes in security policy have been received within the SDF with a great deal of approval (Ben-Ari 2015). Not only have these changes filled a legal vacuum by clarifying what it could or not do, but all the new moves have raised awareness of defense and the armed forces. And based on survey research among officers, Hikotani (2009, 22–23) concludes that

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there is no significant civilian-military gap in Japan, and the majority of officers accept civilian control (although they want a greater say in policymaking).

The Discursive Spread of Militarization and Resistances We now turn to the key discursive strategies undertaken by politicians, senior bureaucrats, and the SDF as part of the country’s militarization (for greater detail, see Ben-Ari 2008, 2011; Frühstück and Ben-Ari 2002). Justification: To justify the existence and strengthening of the SDF and militarization more widely, Japan’s governments have consistently pursued a policy of creating public understanding that military forces are needed for the defense of the country as the “guardians” of national security. The development and testing of nuclear weapons by North Korea, the incursion of its spy ships into the country’s territorial waters, and the emergence of China as a major armed nation in the region have made this effort easier. Furthermore, by linking Japan’s national interests to the threat of piracy off the Somali coast or along the Malacca Straight, elites have sought to justify measures in which the SDF and the Japan Coast Guard participate in various patrols and missions abroad (Tarriela 2018). All of these cases, beginning with the 1998 launching of the North Korean missile over Japan, were not designed by Japan but did provide threshold incidents that could be used opportunistically for the purposes of justification. Importantly, the significant role of the SDF in the triple disaster of 2011 has underscored the need for “military” action in both natural and man-made disasters (Mainichi, December 31, 2011). Distance from pathology: Given Japan’s military conquest and devastation of Asian countries during World War II, since the 1950s broad Japanese government policy has been to emphasize economic and diplomatic means as more important than military ones for solving international conflicts. These efforts were aimed at signaling that the country had changed and was no longer marked by the militarism of the war. However, given the especially brutal image of the imperial forces (especially the army), the longtime strategy undertaken by the SDF has been to demonstrate an absence of the “pathology” of

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the Japanese imperial forces: the SDF dissociates itself from the image and legacy of the imperial military and defines Japanese militarism as an aberration, a deviation from normal modes of civilmilitary relations and the political control of the military (Frühstück and Ben-Ari 2002). Distancing is done through such measures as the creation of new names for military ranks; the introduction of a distinct “neutral” language for talking about weaponry; the hosting of open days for the public in military camps (Ben-Ari 2011); cooperation with commercial firms to hold military-themed tours to bases and ships (JT, August 31, 2006); and the use of “soft” manga representations of the SDF, contrasting with the “hard” images of the imperial forces (Frühstück 2007). More generally, the idea is that openness to civilians signals that the current forces are definitely not a military “caste apart,” as was the case before the war. Ritual naturalization: A third strategy centers on the place of the SDF in the “ritual cycle” (Ben-Ari 2011) of national events so that its appearance is made to appear “natural.” These cycles include internal events reported on by the civilian media, like the induction of new unit commanders; triannual parades, flotillas, and flypasts arranged by the SDF’s services; graduation ceremonies from the National Military Academy; and irregular ceremonies for units departing or returning from international missions or rites held to mark the end of SDF participation in relief efforts following natural disasters. Another set of cyclical events includes an annual live-fire exercise held near Mount Fuji reported about by the national media (Ben-Ari and Frühstück 2003) or performances of the SDF’s aerial acrobatics team. This dense array of public events works to turn Japan’s forces into an acceptable, taken-for-granted institution regularly appearing on the national calendar. Moreover, taken together these occurrences work toward creating a past or a tradition for the SDF. As the years go by and the Japanese forces participate in more missions, this task becomes much more straightforward. Mimicking other armed forces: This stratagem centers on demonstrating that the SDF conforms to the standards of the militaries of other industrial democracies, of any late-modern democratic state (Hughes 2009, 49). Many security alliances and joint endeavors exemplify this point, whether they be integrating the SDF into US military operations, joint exercises with such countries as South Korea or Australia, large-scale maneuvers with other navies, or the Exercise RIMPAC taking place since 1971. Modeling the SDF on the

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militaries of these states is both an organizational matter and a display of the SDF’s professional identity. Additionally, Japan’s military—like those anywhere—has performed civilian missions such as aid during earthquakes, typhoons, floods, and other natural disasters and bomb disposal. Indeed, the help the SDF extended very soon after the 2011 tsunami and the nuclear disaster in Fukushima have led its popularity to skyrocket (The Guardian, May 17, 2011). The resemblance to other militaries is even more striking in missions abroad, and since the early 1990s Japan has taken part in peacekeeping operations in Cambodia, Mozambique, Zaire, the Golan Heights, and Timor-Leste (East Timor). Moreover, the SDF has provided transport, medical assistance, and infectious disease prevention after natural disasters in Iran, Turkey, and Honduras. And this year the government decided to send two officers to the Sinai to work in the headquarters of a nonUN observers’ mission within a “robust protective defensive camp” (Yomiuri, February 14, 2019). According to scholars (Kawano 2002; Kurashina 2005), participation in peacekeeping and international missions, as well as disaster relief, has allowed Japanese troops to prove themselves and improved their public status. Along these lines, the assistance provided to Iraq was framed as a noncombat, humanitarian mission aiding the country’s reconstruction following the American-led invasion of 2003. The wider point is that the globalized practice of peacekeeping and humanitarian missions since the end of the Cold War has become a standard of international behavior to which states feel an obligation to respond—a norm (Dobson 2003, 161)—and another way to distance the SDF from the imperial forces of World War II. Legalization and formalization: It is against the background of these strategies and alongside them that the process of legalization and formalization should be seen. Apart from the upgrade of the Defense Agency to the level of ministry, the past two decades are marked by tens of major pieces of legislation allowing the SDF to perform new missions. These include, for example, the Peace Keeping Operations Law of 1992, the Law Concerning Measures to Ensure the Peace and Security of Japan in Areas Surrounding Japan of 1999, the Ship Inspection Operations Law of 2000, and the Iraq Reconstruction Special Measures Law of 2003. In these measures Japan has signaled that the overseas operations of the SDF are normal and essential and part of Japan’s contribution to international

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cooperation. New legislation, in turn, has come in tandem with formally redefining the alliance with the United States (Tanter 2006). My analysis up to this point underscores that Japan is clearly in the midst of a process of militarization—discursively and in action— that has been taking place especially since the 1990s. However, militarization is limited by a number of factors that center on the question of democratic accountability.

Militarization and Accountability At first glance, it seems that Japan’s militarization can be expressed as moves that entail coming ever closer to the core of military action: the use of organized state violence. Accordingly, the activities of the SDF can be placed on a continuum leading from financial support (the First Gulf War) and logistical support (refueling NATO ships supplying troops in Afghanistan), to peacekeeping (overseeing elections in Cambodia and observing on the Golan Heights) and reconstruction in war zones (like Iraq and the Sudan), to joint training with militaries holding legal right to use armed force (say those of the United States, United Kingdom, South Korea, and India), to much more active missions against piracy (Somalia), the deployment of antimissile batteries in the country’s urban centers, and the establishment of a rapid-deployment force to counter potential Chinese invasion of the southern islands. This steady development has been accompanied by formal declarations about “proactive pacifism,” “reluctant realism,” or “dynamic defense.” Moreover, each step has been reinforced by the discursive processes of normalization and legitimation outlined above, and each step further forms the starting point for the next one. Thus, once Japan had deployed forces to Iraq for humanitarian purposes, it was easier to send ships as part of an antipiracy coalition. And finally, as Japan has moved from one stage to another, not only has the Japanese public seemingly accepted the new missions, but support for the SDF has progressively risen. Indeed, such a view has merit and well fits the arguments of scholars who see militarization as driven by elites. Thus Samuels (2007) concludes that while Japan has become more active operationally and is better prepared in terms of legal frameworks to act in its own defense now, the end of the Yoshida doctrine (emphasizing economic and diplomatic means to handle international relations) has

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led to a much more nationalistic and militarily committed foreign policy. In fact, according to him, it is the efforts of the country’s top decisionmakers that have slowly changed ideas about national aspirations. Amplifying this emphasis, Feffer (2009) sees these processes (of militarization) as the outcome of neonationalist “salami tactics” used by a group of politicians since the 1990s to dismantle the restrictions binding the Japanese military since the end of World War II. Yet things are more complex. To begin, Japan’s security environment has changed significantly since the 1990s, with the emergence of a number of concrete and credible threats. While full-scale conflict is not envisaged in East or Southeast Asia, there are distinct possibilities for a host of other lesser contingencies with incursions, harassment, and the occasional outright aggression against Japan by the likes of North Korea, China, or pirates and terrorist groups that may lead to armed reactions (Ben-Ari 2015). As decisionmakers see it, if left unchecked these potential threats may develop into much more serious crises. Indeed, the reactions of successive governments to such threats (fitting the gradualism characterizing Japan’s militarization) seem perfectly rational ones to the country’s elites (Clausen 2014; Cronin 2013). Thus, at a minimum, Japan’s militarization expresses the widespread realization that to assure the country’s national interest, things have had to change. Indeed, the manner in which successive Japanese governments (of different parties and ideological hues) have met the challenges of Japan’s security environment is rather consistent. Moreover, for Japan’s leaders, increasing militarization is still seen as an addition to economic and diplomatic means for solving conflicts (Oros 2017, 134; Heng 2015). In fact, the very widespread consensus is that military options are the very last ones after other means have been exhausted. Indicators of this point can be found in the fact that, despite repeated setbacks, Japan continues to engage North Korea diplomatically, continually and actively engages China economically, and has ongoing negotiations (with little success) with Russia about the disputed islands in the north. Moreover, to assure the stability of the South China sea-lanes, Japan is using its military prowess—in particular its advanced technology and working knowledge and training—as a new “fledgling” arm of its foreign policy (Midford 2015). Concretely, it uses a combination of regional multilateralism, the Overseas Development Agency, and training by the Japan Coast Guard to assist states in the regions (Heng 2015).

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Furthermore, a closer look reveals that Japan’s governments have always acted as though they perceive limits on the use of military force and on the broad processes of militarization. Two important distinctions in the view of the majority of the public and among many decisionmakers are at the bottom of these limitations: the first is between militarization aimed at the defense of Japan (acceptable) and militarization as overseas force projection at the behest of the United States (unacceptable) (Midford 2011a; Katzenstein 2008, 19); the second is between overseas deployments for humanitarian and reconstruction missions (to be supported) and combat missions (to be opposed). In other words, the main tenets of this “limiting” consensus (one excluding the extreme Left and the extreme Right) centers on the acceptance (or legitimacy) of militarization related to home defense and peacekeeping and humanitarian missions abroad. More pointedly, to follow a line of commentators, the only legitimate situation for the use of any armed force by Japan is for self-protection (Katzenstein 2008; Midford 2011b; Oros 2017), and accordingly the only acceptable justification for militarization is defense of the homeland or projecting the softer side of Japan’s role in the world. In fact, while for some commentators, especially on the Left, public debate has not been open or fair enough (especially given Abe’s recent supermajority in both houses of the country’s parliament, the Diet), discussions have taken place in parliamentary forums and the media, and there have been large-scale demonstrations against militarization. To use Oros’s (2017, 150) words, the seemingly new approach to security is not some kind of transformation engineered by elites but rather Japan grudgingly adapting to changing circumstances with limits. And Madison (2018) shows that many changes are the outcome of both elite initiatives and much more pluralist dynamics. To reiterate, while government rhetoric after 9/11 made it seem that things had completely changed, in practice militarization had strict parameters. A number of examples underscore this argument. For instance, to be publicly acceptable, the dispatch to the Persian Gulf to aid the United States was not formulated as an antiterrorism measure but as support for reconstruction. And while elites from the governing LDP have attempted to push the boundaries of military deployment in such dispatches as the one to Iraq, these have been temporary moves and, more often than not, ended once it became politically feasible.

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If we refer to democratic accountability as the ability of the citizenry of a democratic state to affect and oversee the use of the military in response to security threats and the process of militarization (Kuehn 2018; Levy 2016c; Lindberg 2009), then successive Japanese governments have on the whole been accountable to a variety of actors through a diversity of institutions. In Japan governments have been accountable to a combination of public opinion, internal party and coalition dynamics, opposition parties, think tanks, legal scholars, the media, and social movements. Let us look at each of these. Public opinion: In general, there have been changes in public attitudes. For instance, despite domestic opposition before deployment to Iraq, public opinion grew more positive once the SDF had deployed. More generally, today many people have a positive attitude toward debate about the changes to the constitutional limitations on the SDF. In fact, as Arrington (2002, 545) has stated, the very fact that constitutional revision can be discussed at all signals a new era. But there is more here. Despite myths of a peaceful Japan, public opinion was never pacifist or opposed to all forms of military power, as some observers have contended. Public opinion has been coherent and stable and evolves in intelligible and generally rational ways; what has changed are the country’s security threats and the reaction of the majority of the public to these developments (Midford 2011a, 3). In other words, public opinion constrains the range of choices and moves of elites because polls reveal that already during the 1970s, a large majority believed in the utility of military force for homeland defense but not strategically offensive use of military power, such as suppressing proliferation of weapons of mass destruction, defeating terrorist networks, or promoting democracy and human rights (Midford 2011a, 18). Accordingly, while there was support for the Iraq mission in terms of what the country’s forces (primarily engineers) were doing there, there was also support for withdrawing as soon as possible (Midford 2011a, 125). In fact, while initially wanting to please the United States in deploying the SDF, then prime minister Junichiro Koizumi had to water down his proposal to deployment for humanitarian missions for it to be publicly acceptable. In addition, support for humanitarian missions abroad temporarily decreased after the Iraq mission due to the danger that the SDF might be embroiled in overseas use of force. Furthermore, public opposition to changing Article 9 also remains high, and support for additional deployments abroad has come down (Mainichi, September 5, 2019).

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This conclusion helps explain further cases. For instance, when North Korea shocked Japan by firing a Taepondong missile over the country in 1998, it did little to change public views of overseas dispatch of SDF but did galvanize support for developing a “normal” military necessary for homeland defense through legal frameworks suited to emergencies (Midford 2011a, 108–109). Since that time, public opinion increasingly saw the necessity of preparing for war and maintaining deterrence against external powers given the country’s security situation. In addition, the public voiced strong opposition to some moves, such as the enactment of the State Secrets Act or the legislation of collective self-defense allowing the SDF to fight along with other militaries, but was relatively acquiescent in regard to relaxing arms exports restrictions (Oros 2017, 8). And while Prime Minister Abe wanted Japan to have overt strike capabilities, he did not request it (Oros 2017, 158). Indeed, to echo Seaton’s (2007) analysis, public support of the SDF cannot be understood simplistically as a growing consensus about Japan’s remilitarization since such a view effaces a host of critical voices and positions in Japan. Elections and party and coalitional dynamics: An indicator of the accountability of any ruling coalition is the installation of a new administration headed by the Democratic Party of Japan (DPJ) in 2009. Once in place, it decided to end the deployment of the SDF to the Indian Ocean, thereby “liquidating Koizumi’s near-combat SDF deployments overseas” (Oros 2017, 6), and move away from missions with the United States toward home defense. However, it also showed continuity with previous administrations in developing missile defense and spy satellites and strengthening security partnerships with other countries. No less importantly, it went beyond the LDP to develop the submarine fleet and strengthen defense against China in the southern islands. The alternation of power forced this coalition of parties, which were previously in the opposition, to think seriously about security and endorse policies long associated only with the political Right. Thus steps taken toward militarization by this coalition again took place within the national consensus about what was acceptable (Midford 2011b; Oros 2017, 2). Given the LDP’s supermajority in the Diet, the focus of deliberations has shifted from parliamentary committees to intraparty and intracoalition forums. In other words, while the Diet itself occasionally is the site of opposition parties calling the ruling coalition to

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account, most of the more important discussions and struggles take place elsewhere. Thus, what does seem to have changed is that within the LDP, the antimilitarist factions have grown weaker, and the party is characterized by a shift to the right. Be that as it may, despite a rightward turn within the ruling party, there are still limits related to the LDP’s coalition partner, the Komeito. Against the background of intense public discussions and political demonstrations against security legislation, an often antagonistic relationship emerged between the LDP and this junior coalition partner (Fisker-Nielsen 2016). Ultimately, the latter was a strong moderating influence on the ruling party. In terms of civilian control and democratic accountability, Japan is marked less by parliamentary control in terms of multiparty committees than directly by LDP politicians and senior civil servants. It is to these actors that one must look for the way public sentiments are translated into limitations on operational deployment. The media and social movements: The openness and relative transparency of security decisionmaking to media scrutiny, civil society organizations, and experts is another contributor to democratic accountability. These nonstate actors provide information about security, defense, and military policy and thus complement and enable state institutions’ control, direction, and oversight of the deployment and allocation of resources to the SDF. No less importantly, these actors continually raise deeper questions about the country’s militarization. Numerous examples of the activity of these actors can be seen in media programs, the reports of think tanks, academic studies, investigative and polemical books, and public demonstrations (especially over constitutional reform and the relocation of American camps in Okinawa), as well as among younger members of the electorate in activities in the new media. A large measure of contemporary civic activity can be traced, as Hobson (2013) suggests, to the concern and anger over the Fukushima Daiichi disaster, with 2012 seeing weekly protests and one rally with more than 170,000 people. Thus, an antimilitary ethos and suspicions about antidemocratic forces seeking to exploit security issues to remilitarize the country continue to hold sway (Oros 2017; Ben-Ari 2015). Specific examples of the expression of antimilitarist views over the last twenty years can be seen in the following cases of dissent: failed attempts during successive governments by local-level groups petitioning courts to rule the deployment of SDF troops to Iraq unconstitutional (JT, August 7,

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2006); gatherings of citizens’ groups to block efforts to revise the war-renouncing Article 9 of the Constitution (JT, June 11, 2006); constant resistance to the deployment of nuclear-powered ships such as US aircraft carriers in Japanese ports (JT, January 18, 2007); and intense demonstrations against government decisions about the allocation of land to military camps in Okinawa (JT, January 8, 2019; Mainichi, January 9, 2019). Keep in mind, however, that while security issues are now argued more on their merits than judged by how they comport with past practice or ideology, plenty of “old school” thinking about security remains visible in public protests and discourse (Oros 2017, 3–5) on both the Left and the Right. In this respect, it seems that Japan is characterized by a process marked by path dependence within which each stage forms the conditions for the inception of the next. Thus, over time, Japan’s ruling elites continue to test the limits of the public’s antimilitarist stance, each time on the basis of previous successes, but these attempts are limited by actors that work at times in tandem and at others by reinforcing each other.

Conclusion The key problem for democratic theory posed by militarization is that of control. Here I follow Levy (2016c), who suggests that we distinguish between control of the military (operational control) and control of militarism (effectual control). Thus, there is an analytical divide between control of the military as an organization and institution and control of militarism as a set of processes centered on modes of thought and practice. In other words, regulating the actions of the armed forces (control of the military) differs from monitoring a set of assumptions, principles, and policies that constrain a view of the centrality of the military to the state and the subordination of all other interests to those of the military (control of militarism). This distinction allows us to recognize the situation in which the armed forces of Japan are more restricted and have more freedom than in the past. Accordingly, while the professional sphere of the operational activities of the SDF continues to be very strictly circumscribed, the general public grants wider acceptance of and support for both the use of the SDF in a wide variety of missions and the acceptability of allocating more resources for the country’s militarization.

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Analytically, the focus has been on mechanisms of militarization and mechanisms of accountability. In terms of the relationship between them, I have made two interrelated arguments—one about the trajectory of militarization and one about the shaping of its form. First, looking back at Japan’s trajectory since the end of the Cold War, each stage of militarization has formed the baseline for the next. Along these lines, deployment of the SDF to Cambodia to oversee elections opened the way for peacekeeping missions in the Middle East and Africa, which in turn allowed a humanitarian operation in war-ravaged Iraq, which again accelerated the move toward sending ships to join the antipiracy mission off the coast of Somalia, which once more formed the basis for a move to collective defense. Thus, while this has not been a strictly linear process, succeeding steps of initially low-level militarization limited further debate about what had already been achieved, and thus some issues were no longer discussed. Second, and furthermore, rather than a simple linear restraint imposed by mechanisms of control (expressed as “more or less” militarization) what is important is how decisionmakers have channeled militarization in very certain directions: defensive and not offensive, humanitarian and not waging battle. Thus, I posit not a plain model of control that is lineal in the quantitative sense of degrees or measures of militarization. Rather, the best way to understand the mechanisms of control is in terms of how they have funneled or constrained the direction of acceptable militarization. All these developments are complemented by control—or limitation—of the deeper process of militarization as a way of thinking and acting. As I have shown, an analysis of the effects of accountability also clearly shows the limits of Japan’s militarization. Hence, contemporary militarization does not spell a “remilitarization as reversion” of Japan to a form akin to the regime of World War II or even contemporary Russia or China (Ben-Ari 2008). In this sense, Japan is becoming militaristic to the same degree as many other industrial democracies, such as those of Western Europe. Hence, Japan’s militarization intensifies questions about national identity and the kind of democracy that thrives within it. And looking at the future, it seems that while now militarization has brought about a positive effect on democratic accountability, in the long term it may have the opposite effect as the country’s militarization is normalized.

4 South Korea: Media-Driven Amplification of Threats Insoo Kim

North Korean vessels frequently cross the Northern Limit Line (hereafter NLL), the de facto maritime border between the two Koreas in the Yellow Sea. The intentions of North Korean ships crossing the NLL are not transparent to the South Korean government because these vary. The Yellow Sea is a fertile fishing ground, especially for blue crab; thus, there are ample economic motives for North Korean fishing boats to cross the line (Kim and Lee 2011, 62). North Korean patrol boats accompany these fishing vessels to prevent defection to South Korea. If the South Korean government judges the boats to have purely economic motives, even patrol boats crossing the NLL are not very provocative. The South Korean government is likely to classify an NLL violation as economically motivated when it is pursuing a pacifist policy of inter-Korean reconciliation that may be disrupted by a military clash. However, even fishing vessels crossing the line may be part of the campaign to undermine the legitimacy of the NLL, which North Korea has never accepted as the maritime border. In this situation, the military is more likely to interpret North Korea’s intention as provocative and to feel obliged to use force against North Korean boats in the disputed waters. The following question thus emerges: What is the responsibility of military officers when they are ordered by the civilian government to follow a pacifist policy of inter-Korean reconciliation, which they know will lead to exploitation by North Korea? 55

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It is easy to answer this question if democratic control of the military is strong enough to keep military officers submissive to their civilian masters. In 1997, when the Liberal Party won the presidential election for the first time since the military coup of 1961, it was feared that the South Korean military would try to deter the transition of power from the Conservative Party to the Liberal Party, but it did not. Since then, civilian supremacy over the military has seemed to be an established norm (Croissant 2004). However, an apparent conflict occurred between the Liberal government and the military in the 2000s when the Liberal government, unlike the previous Conservative governments, pursued a pacifist policy of inter-Korean reconciliation. In this period, the government accused the military of not fully cooperating with government policies to engage North Korea. The alleged antipathy for the Liberal government alone cannot explain why the South Korean military suddenly deviated from civilian control under the stable democracy. The media played a pivotal role in militarizing the security discourse while criticizing more restrictive government policies. This chapter argues that the conflict between the government and media regarding security discourse harms democratic control of the military. Democratic control of the military is affected by the role of the media in interpreting security threats, as Figure 4.1 shows. In a stable democracy, the military is submissive to the civilian government. When the civilian government pursuing a pacifist policy of reconciliation with the enemy state bans the use of force, the military will refrain from using force even in the event of an enemy provocation. However, the media can report enemy provocation more frequently and as more hostile to make people believe in enemy threats when it wants to delegitimate government policy. The more people believe in enemy threats, the more incentive the military has to use

Figure 4.1 An Analytic Model for the Democratic Control of the Military Paciffist governmennt policy Bellicose media coverage

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force against enemy provocations in violation of the government’s instruction, thus weakening democratic control of the military. The fear of North Korean threats has been a critical election issue that works in favor of the Conservative Party over the Liberal Party in elections (Kim and Moon 2001, 89). Thus, this chapter explains how the conservative media—in conflict with the Liberal government—attempted to utilize militaristic infrastructure to replace the economic discourse of the Liberal government with more belligerent discourse against North Korea.

Militarization, Election, and the Media While it is widely accepted wisdom that “just as militarism interferes with democracy, the expansion of democracy helps to contain militarism” (Drez 2000, 1177), democracy is not necessarily inversely associated with militarization. Even in a democracy, the discourse on the militarization of security has been an effective means by which to win an election (Gaubatz 1999, 3–5). However, the presence of threats is a necessary but insufficient condition for militarization. Not all severe threats have the potential to challenge national security, while some relatively light provocations can be considered severe threats to be defeated through military force. These discrepancies could be better understood through the context in which threats are socially constructed. From a constructivist perspective, culture and values are at least as necessary as objective facts in the evaluation of a situation. Thus, objectively similar events can be interpreted differently in different political or economic contexts. This mechanism is particularly relevant in democracies, which are more accountable to the media, and may give them an edge in such situations (see Table 4.1). In a democracy, the media is meant to provide the public with accurate and impartial information about policies. However, D’Alessio Table 4.1 An Analytic Framework Actors

Media Government Military

Structure

Militaristic infrastructure (under a stable democracy)

Outcome

Democratic control of the military

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argues that in the media, “the most remarkable sort of bias . . . is partisan bias, the favoritism on the part of the media for one party’s positions over the other’s” (2012, 8). If political culture has a robust militaristic infrastructure, we should not neglect nonstate actors’ campaigns regarding the militarization of security discourse. A democracy provides ample room for the media to incite public opinion to accuse the military of incompetence when the military remains submissive to the government implementing a pacifist policy of reconciliation with the enemy state. The media is decisive in militarizing security discourse for two reasons. First, the media can produce facts, figures, and information to generate a favorable or unfavorable impression of a given issue. Second, media coverage can exaggerate the importance of a specific issue. Media highlighting the need for vigilance may be more inclined to label an event as a serious threat than a government attempting to talk down the event. If the media successfully portray an antimilitarization policy as weakening the military capacity to respond to security threats, these narratives provide the military with greater autonomy to act contrary to the government’s instruction (Kohn 1997). In this situation, despite the widespread acceptance of civilian supremacy, the military is not bound to obey civilian orders. Viewing militarization as part of an election campaign between the government and media broadens political explanations for how militarization affects democratic control of the military. Gaubatz argues that “when the public mood is belligerent, the government should pursue more belligerent policies as elections approach” (1991, 218). Choosing a different policy, the government has to pay the cost, which depends on the extent to which the policy concerns its domestic audience (Fearon 1994, 577). If the media incite belligerent public opinion, a Liberal government with a dovish reputation may adopt a belligerent policy to be accountable to public opinion. The military then has no reason to resist the Liberal government. If the Liberal government sticks to its original policy position to not lose its supporters, the military will remain submissive to the government because the cost of violating civilian control is high in democracies. However, this cost is inversely associated with the extent to which the media successfully militarize militaristic infrastructure. The military’s intention to conform to the Liberal government’s policy is hampered both by imperfect information about the government’s intention to punish disobedience and by the belligerent public opinion calling for a military response (for the theoretical perspective, see Feaver 1998).

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North Korean Threats in the Disputed Waters On June 25, 1950, North Korean leader Kim Il-sung invaded the South with military support from the Soviet Union and China. Designating the North Korean invasion as illegal aggression and urging United Nations member-states to together defeat the North Korean military, the United States sent 480,000 troops to fight Communists in the Korean Peninsula. In response, China sent 1.35 million troops to support the North Korean military. As the two great powers collided, the Korean War rapidly became a stalemate, and neither of the two warring parties could be sure of winning the war. This situation quickly increased the demand for a cease-fire. In the long term, the Korean War ended with an armistice agreement in July 1953, leaving about one million Korean casualties in its wake. At the end of the Korean War, the Military Demarcation Line was established on land by the armistice agreement between the United Nations Command (UNC) and North Korea. However, the Korean War was terminated without an agreement regarding the maritime demarcation line. The UNC wanted to prevent South Korean troops from attacking North Korea at sea and breaking the armistice agreement. For this purpose, the UNC created the northern limit for UN forces to operate, which, as Figure 4.2 shows, extended from the west coast of the Korean Peninsula into the West Sea. North Korea

Figure 4.2 The Northern Limit Line in the West Sea

Source: Republic of Korea Ministry of National Defense (2016, 238).

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has not accepted this as a maritime border because the UNC located all the islands under its control south of this line. The armistice agreement did not mean the end of military confrontation between the two Koreas. North Korea has conducted more than 3,000 military provocations since the armistice agreement in 1953. North Korea’s military provocation of South Korea demonstrated different patterns in different periods. To break down the South Korean government in connection with antigovernment forces and Communist sympathizers in the South, North Korea infiltrated commandos into the South in the 1960s. As the economic gap began deepening between the two Koreas in the 1970s, South Koreans were no longer likely to be misled by North Korea’s propaganda, and such attempts rapidly decreased. While North Korean provocation has remained relatively constant since then, the country began increasing NLL violations in the 2000s. Recently, North Korea’s NLL provocations account for 82.5 percent of all its provocations, as Figure 4.3 shows. The issue of North Korea’s NLL violations has long been a central concern of South Korean policymakers because long-simmering tensions have boiled over in the waters nearby the NLL. Clashes in the waters near the disputed maritime border have never been trivial. Naval skirmishes between the Koreas, with North Korean ships south 

Figure 4.3 North Korea’s Military Provocations and Percent of NLL Provocations to Total Provocations 1,500

1 340 1,340 74.5%

1,200

82.5%

80%

900 600

100%

60%

300

1.6% %

0.5%

0 1950s

40%

406

405

1960s

1970s

228 222 6.9% % 5.3% % 1980s

241

252

2000s

2010s

44.5%

1990s

20% 0%

North North Korea's Military Provocations % % of NLL Provocations to Total Total Provocations

Source: Republic of Korea Ministry of National Defense (2016, 288–289). Note: 2010s = 2010–2016.



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of the NLL, occurred in 1999 and 2002 when the Liberal government implemented an engagement policy toward North Korea. As a North Korean patrol boat crossed the NLL despite South Korea’s warning announcement in 2009, the South Korean patrol boat fired a warning shot, resulting in North Korea’s precision shot in return. As South Korean boats returned fire on the North Korean patrol boats, the third naval skirmish occurred, with eight North Korean casualties. In 2010, two events focused global attention on the NLL. In April, a North Korean submarine sank South Korean destroyer Cheonan with a torpedo, killing forty-six South Korean seamen. In December, North Korea bombarded Yeonpyeong Island, killing two South Korean civilians and two South Korean marines. In early April 2014, the global media again focused on the tensions between the Koreas when both sides engaged in shelling around the contested maritime border, the NLL. North Korea fired 500 shots near the NLL in the West Sea, 100 of which fell to the south of the NLL near Baekryeong Island. In response, South Korean marines fired 300 shots on the north side of the NLL. In 2014, the discovery of a suspected North Korean drone on Baekryeong Island also illustrated how this boundary drawn early in the Cold War continues to be a point of twenty-first-century military significance.

Détente Dilemma and Antimilitarization Policy of the Liberal Government Détente Dilemma

Inter-Korean relations are Janus faced and often challenging to understand. Although the two Koreas fought a war and continue to prepare militarily for a future conflict, a shared culture and history promote an affinity between the two peoples. The transition from the Conservative Kim Young-sam government (1993–1997) to the Liberal presidencies of Kim Dae-jung (1998–2002) and Roh Moo-hyun (2003–2008) considerably changed inter-Korean relations. President Kim Dae-jung reversed hard-line North Korea policy, pursuing the sunshine policy instead, prioritizing reconciliation and cooperation with North Korea as a means of diminishing its hostility toward South Korea. This radical change in North Korea policy propelled South Korea’s society into what Henry Kissinger (1982) termed the “détente

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dilemma,” the condition of suspicious cooperation that follows when two states simultaneously have substantial military tension and shared economic interests. The governments of both states must balance cooperative economic development while checking the other’s expansionist tendencies. This situation makes it complicated for one government to use military force against the other, because excessive use of military force may escalate the conflict, which is harmful to reconciliation between the two states. Jervis argues, “States that can afford to be cheated in a bargain or that cannot be destroyed by a surprise attack can more easily trust others and need not act at the first, and ambiguous, sign of menace” (1978, 172). From this perspective, South Korea’s Liberal government had an apparent reason to endure North Korea’s provocations, which could lead South Korean citizens to suspect North Korea of exploiting them. Dissemination of Economic Discourse Regarding NLL Violations

The Liberal government attempted to generate a favorable impression of North Korea’s NLL violations by disseminating economic discourse regarding its intention to do so. First, the Liberal government argued that any tension in the disputed waters had many adverse outcomes, including escalation of military tension and the resulting economic harm. The South Korean economy is highly dependent on foreign trade and investment, and these sectors are highly vulnerable to perceived instability as “tension on the [Korean] peninsula or signs of unrest in North Korea have typically led to market sell-offs” (Marshall 2009). In effect, a military confrontation in the disputed waters has triggered economic downturns. Local stocks and the exchange rate fell dramatically in a single day’s trading after the Cheonan sinking and Yeonpyeong Island attack in 2010. Second, the Liberal government argued that North Korean boats crossed the NLL because “fishery resources continue to decrease in the nearby sea and due to the lack of modernized fishing boats and gear, North Korea’s fishing industries consist mainly of inshore fisheries” (Kim and Lee 2011, 61). These narratives highlight the economic suffering of the North Korean people and could mitigate the legitimacy of using military force in the disputed waters. The next administration, under President Roh Moo-hyun, continued the sunshine policy, causing the growth of inter-Korean trade

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and exchange. The Roh Moo-hyun government softened the public perception of North Korea from a dangerous enemy to a profitable economic partner, taking several actions to calm inter-Korean confrontation. First, the government supported the North’s argument that the NLL is not a legitimate maritime border between the two Koreas, and thus the disputed water near the NLL is not South Korea’s territorial sea. Similarly, the Roh Moo-hyun governments proposed creating a special peace and cooperation zone in the disputed waters, indicating that the number of NLL violations is closely associated with North Korea’s exports of animal and plant products (Pearson correlation coefficient = .695, p-value = .008), as Figure 4.4 shows. Second, to change the military’s perception of North Korea, the government banned the military from referring to the North as the South’s main enemy, eliminating this phrase in the 2004 Defense Whitepaper (Republic of Korea Ministry of National Defense 2004, 49).  

Figure 4.4 Export Specialization Index and NLL Violations by North Korea 80 1999 70 60 1998

50

NLL N LL 40 V iolations Violations 30 20

1993 2005

2001 1996

1 1994

1995

2000 2004

2003 2002

10 1997 0 -0.60

-0.40

-0.20

0.00

0.20

0.40

0.60

Export Specialization Specialization Index Index of Animal Animal and and Plant Plant Products Products Export

0.80

Sources: Lee (2006, 41); Im (2014, 325). Notes: ESI = (export – import) / (export + import). An ESI greater than 1 indicates that exports surpass imports.



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Establishment of Stricter Rules of Engagement

Rules of engagement can be considered an indicator of the extent to which the government pursues a pacifist policy of inter-Korean reconciliation. The Liberal government issued stricter rules of engagement to prevent the military from responding to NLL violations militarily, prioritizing inter-Korean reconciliation over military preparedness against North Korean threats. After the first naval engagement, in which the South Korean navy sank or damaged six North Korean patrol boats in response to North Korea’s attack, President Kim Dae-jung ordered South Korean forces to fire when fired upon only and to use collide-and-push tactics to enforce the NLL. The South Korean navy had to go through five steps before using force (a warning announcement, demonstration maneuver, collide-and-push, warning shot, and precision shot). North Korea quickly grasped the weakness of South Korea’s rules of engagement and tactically exploited it. Because the South Korean navy could not open fire first, North Korea developed tactics in which it would wait until the South Korean patrol boats approached its own, then abruptly fire at them. As North Korean boats intensively crossed the NLL in June 2002, the South Korean Joint Chiefs of Staff ordered its patrol boats as usual to use collide-and-push tactics and not to use firearms. On June 29, 2002, North Korea attacked South Korean patrol boats, causing twenty-two South Korean casualties. Thus, the instruction that rendered South Korean soldiers vulnerable to North Korea’s surprise attack had to be revised. In July 2002, the rules of engagement were shortened from five to three steps (a warning announcement, warning shot, and precision shot), giving the military more autonomy in using military force in the disputed waters. Concerns were raised that more aggressive rules of engagement could lead to increased military conflict. Prioritizing the defusion of any tension in the disputed waters, the Roh Moo-hyun government began inter-Korean military talks in June 2004, reaching an agreement with North Korea that they would warn each other through radio contact before engaging in hostilities. According to the agreement, South Korean patrol boats had to attempt radio contact before firing a warning shot to prevent an unexpected exchange of fire in the disputed waters (Chosun Ilbo 2004a). The tightened rules of engagement made it more difficult for the South Korean military to forcefully respond to North Korea’s NLL violations.

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The tightened rules of engagement under the Liberal government ended in 2008 upon the inauguration of Lee Myoung-bak of the Conservative Grand National Party as the president of South Korea. The Lee Myoung-bak government emphasized reciprocity in its North Korea policy, responding with greater firmness to North Korea’s provocations. In contrast to President Kim Dae-jung, who was accused of intentionally concealing evidence, to ensure the success of the sunshine policy, that North Korean armed forces had deliberately planned the first naval clash, President Lee announced, “If the North commits any additional provocations against the South, we will make sure that it pays a dear price without fail” (Wall Street Journal Staff 2010).

Media Response to Antimilitarization Policy and Civil-Military Conflict Militaristic Infrastructure in Civilian Culture

A militaristic belief that sees military service as a sacred duty dominated South Korean society. Although inter-Korean confrontation on the world’s most militarized border is one reason for intense militarization, the historical origin of South Korea’s militarism extends beyond the Korean War (Tikhonov 2009, 7). Prewar Japan colonized Korea for thirty-six years (1910–1945), creating a garrison state wherein militarism dominated society (Lasswell 1941, 467). The Koreans were exposed to Japanese totalitarian militarism after Korea’s annexation to Japan in 1910 (Moon 2005, 192). Under Japanese rule, there was consensus among Korean intellectuals that the Koreans could not avoid submitting to Japanese colonial rule because of their military incompetence. After liberation from Japanese rule in 1945, South Korea was invaded by North Korea. Most South Koreans have been subject to an intense fear of war since the end of the Korean War. In response to North Korean threats, President Park Chung-hee established 2.5 million reserve forces in April 1968. The establishment of the reserve forces was controversial due to anxiety that these forces would engender in South Korean society a totalitarian atmosphere. Voices calling for the abolition of reserve forces were edged out soon after President Park dissolved the National Assembly and declared emergency martial law in October 1972. After that, the

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authoritarian government could use all means for “the negative otherization of all who were unwilling to conform to the dominant militarist ethos” (Tikhonov 2009, 2). The transition to democracy in the 1990s did not end the period of prolonged fear, partly because of the first North Korean nuclear crisis in 1993 and North Korea’s threat to turn Seoul into a sea of fire in 1994. North Korea’s military threats were exaggerated by conservative governments that attempted to secure their legitimacy based on external threats. Conservative governments pointed out that North Korea was South Korea’s main enemy and attempted to raise public awareness of threats from the North. The military mores permeating much of South Korean society did not quickly disappear, even in the mature democracy (Song 2014). Thus, South Korean militarism turned into liberal militarism, which refers to “the commitment by liberal democratic states and societies to maintain and use military force” (Basham 2018, 33). To empirically examine the level of militarism in South Korean society, data from two samples were collected: civilians with military experience (N = 400) and active-duty soldiers (N = 546). Militarism refers to “an approach that regards war and the preparation of war as a normal and desirable social activity” (Levy 2016a, 76). Respondents were asked to evaluate the following four statements on a fivepoint scale (where 1 = strongly disagree and 5 = strongly agree): 1. All nations must have reliable military power to prepare for war. 2. There is a situation in which war is a must. 3. South Korea should use military force more aggressively in foreign relations. 4. Civilians are inevitably killed or injured during the war.

The internal consistency of these items was relatively high (Cronbach’s alpha = .765): thus, the militarism score was calculated by the mean values of responses to the four statements. Figure 4.5 shows that civilians with military experience have a higher level of militarism than active soldiers when military rank is controlled. Media Response to the Antimilitarization Policy

The conservative media, for two reasons, could determine the ups and downs of public opinion calling for the use of violence against

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Figure 4.5 Comparison of the Level of Militarism of Active-Duty Soldiers and Civilians with Military Experience

Sources: Army Value & Culture Research Center (Republic of Korea) (2018); Kim (2018). Notes: Military rank of civilian males indicates the last rank at the time they were discharged from active service. Each score indicates the average to four questions on militarism measured on a five-point scale (where 1 = weak militarism and 5 = strong militarism).

North Korean boats in the NLL area. First, three conservative newspapers dominate South Korea’s newspaper industry: Chosun Ilbo, Dong-A Ilbo, and Joong-Ang Ilbo. Of South Korean newspaper readers, 75.2 percent read one of these three newspapers regularly, while only 5.1 percent read Hankyoreh, which in 2010 was considered the most liberal newspaper (Korea Press Foundation 2010, 81). Second, media coverage of incidents between the two Koreas varies greatly, as does their ideological orientation. Conservative newspapers have put forward accounts alleging that the North Korean boats cross the NLL to collect intelligence on the South Korean navy or to undermine the status of the NLL. For instance, following the North Korean attack on South Korean patrol boats in June 1999, a Hankyoreh editorial (1999) argued that the South Korean navy was fundamentally responsible and that this isolated incident should not be allowed to undermine the sunshine policy. Covering the same event, an editorial in conservative newspaper Dong-A Ilbo (1999) called on the government to sever relations with the North, arguing that the flawed sunshine policy emboldened North Korean patrol boats in the disputed waters. When the conservative media highlighted NLL violations as a deliberate attempt at territorial expansion, public concern about North Korean threats that might make the military feel pressured to respond militarily to NLL violations increased. An example of this

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dynamic is the first West Sea naval engagement in June 1999. North Korean patrol boats first crossed the NLL on June 7 and continued to cross on June 8, prompting the Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS) to inform the South Korean media. On June 10, it was reported that North Korea first began crossing the NLL on June 7, and it was alleged that the Ministry of Defense concealed North Korea’s NLL violation in favor of the government’s sunshine policy toward the country. On June 11, South Korea’s major conservative newspaper Chosun Ilbo (1999a) began sharply criticizing the South Korean military for tolerating North Korea’s violation of territorial lines. In response, the South Korean government instituted a more aggressive collide-andpush tactic, which continued until June 15, when North Korean sailors opened fire on a colliding South Korean boat. In the early 2000s, severe conflict existed between the Liberal government and conservative newspapers. In 2001, the liberal Kim Dae-jung administration investigated taxes pertaining to newspaper and broadcasting companies. The government faced stiff resistance from the press, which considered the media reform policy a political maneuver designed to restrict its freedom. After the inauguration of Roh Moo-hyun in 2003, conservative newspapers began raising controversy surrounding alleged illegal affairs related to the president’s inner circle. The government responded by launching a media reform policy, arguing, “We have to fight against news reports that intentionally distort facts for political purposes” (Kim 2004). This response deepened the conflict between the government and the conservative press. Consequently, conservative newspapers had an apparent reason to ensure the Liberal government’s defeat in the election. Figure 4.6 shows that conservative newspapers reported NLL violations more frequently when they wanted to attack the legitimacy of the Liberal government, not when the frequency of NLL violations was high. The South Korean Ministry of Defense recorded 558 NLL violations by North Korean boats from 1993 to 2010. Three major conservative newspapers (Chosun Ilbo, Dong-A Ilbo, and Joong-Ang Ilbo) reported 159 cases. Because the media decide whether to report on the NLL violation after the Ministry of National Defense distributes a press release, it is extraordinary for the three newspapers to cover all the NLL violations that occurred in a particular year. The media coverage rate was substantially higher in the early 2000s when the conservative newspapers were at

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Figure 4.6 Percent of NLL Violations Reported by the Media and Total Number of NLL Violations per Year (reported by the Ministry of National Defense)

Source: See Appendix 4.1. Notes: ■ = Year under the Conservative government. ○ = Year under the Liberal government.

odds with the Liberal government’s media-reform policy and when the Liberal Party defeated the Conservative Party in the presidential election of 1997 and 2002. The amount of coverage given to NLL violations may similarly influence public opinion. Frequent reporting could produce significant public concern and add credibility to the notion that these crossings were not accidents but part of North Korea’s broader expansionist tendencies (Bennett 2010, 135–178). As a consequence, we can conclude that the media encouraged security anxiety to pursue their interests according to the identity of the party in power. Increased Military Autonomy

Even in a democracy, it is not appropriate to expect the military to make no response at a time when the public is uneasy about North Korean threats. Generals will push back against political orders when they believe, and gain public support for their belief, that these orders are to benefit the enemy. In a strongly militarized

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South Korean society, the conservative media has easily stimulated citizens to take a belligerent attitude toward North Korea by accusing the Liberal government of yielding territorial waters to North Korea and highlighting NLL violations as a deliberate attempt at territorial expansion. A few days before the first West Sea naval engagement in 1999, Chosun Ilbo began reporting the fishermen’s complaints that “as our patrol boats took the lead in guarding the North Korean ships crossing the NLL, even if North Koreans took away all of our fishing grounds, we had nowhere to turn to” (1999b). Similarly, a few days after the outbreak of the second West Sea naval engagement in 2002, Chosun Ilbo began contrasting the Liberal government’s comment on the incident that the North Korean attack on South Korean seamen, which caused twenty-two casualties, occurred accidentally because of South Korean fishing boats crossing the NLL with the navy’s report that North Korean patrol boats practiced shooting at South Korean patrol boats two days before the incident, and there were no South Korean fishing boats around the NLL on the day of the incident (2002a; 2002b). In this situation, public concern about North Korean threats could make the military feel pressured to respond militarily to NLL violations against the Liberal government’s instruction. Said otherwise, as predicted by Feaver’s (1998) principal-agent theory, the military is more motivated to disobey when it expects that civilians will not punish it for this, and this expectation is higher the more the public favors the military’s approach. So, it is reasonable to expect that the military is more likely to use warning fire when conservative newspapers are engrossed in reporting on NLL violations. Figure 4.7 shows that, as expected, the media coverage rate per year is positively associated with the likelihood of the use of warning fire (Pearson correlation coefficient = .666, p-value = .002). In the early 2000s, when the media coverage rate of the NLL violations was the highest, the military’s attempt to disregard the Liberal government’s instruction surfaced. The military lied, hid its activities, and opposed the government, for example, when it wanted to assume a hostile attitude toward North Korea (Park 2017). In 2004, the South Korean navy fired on North Korean boats in the disputed waters, lying that the boats did not respond to radio contact (Chosun Ilbo 2004b). The disobedience here was clear because in June 2004, the government had entered into an agreement with

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Figure 4.7 Percent of Warning Fire on NLL Violations and Percent of Media Coverage on NLL Violations

Sources: Chosun Ilbo, Dong-A Ilbo, and Joong-Ang Ilbo. Notes: ■ = Year under the Conservative government. ○ = Year under the Liberal government.

North Korea that they would warn each other by radio before engaging in hostilities. In addition to this, the South Korean JCS intentionally hid that they were working with the Korea-US Combined Force Command to develop Operation Plan 5029 in preparation for North Korea’s sudden breakdown. The Roh Moo-hyun government, biased in favor of North Korea, never wanted the United States to discuss the possibility of North Korea’s sudden breakdown. Learning about this later, the government ordered the South Korean JCS to stop developing the operation plan. In 2007, President Roh Moo-hyun officially argued that the NLL was not a legitimate territorial boundary. In response, Defense Minister Kim Jangsoo publicly reiterated his position that the military would defend the NLL at a meeting including the chiefs of staff of the army, navy, and air force (Chosun Ilbo, 2007).

Statistical Test: Impact of Media Coverage on Democratic Control of the Military Data and Methods

This analysis used data on 190 cases of 558 NLL violations (34 percent) collected primarily from news reports and yearbooks (Chosun

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Ilbo, Dong-A Ilbo, Joong-Ang Ilbo, Hankyoreh, and Gukbang Ilbo). Whether to use warning shot or not may depend on the behavior of the North Korean vessels in the disputed waters. For reliable conclusions, complete observations are only available for these 190 cases. This study employed a logistic regression analysis model to examine whether the odds that the military used firearms against North Korean vessels in the disputed waters varied according to the perception of threat manipulated by the media report and the government’s instruction regarding the use of military force. Table 4.2 provides the descriptive statistics for the measure. The South Korean navy fired a warning shot in 16 (8.4 percent) of 190 NLL violations investigated. In the statistical model, the dependent variable was coded as “1” if the South Korean military fired a warning shot in the disputed waters and as “0” otherwise. The model included three independent variables: pacifist rules of engagement, conservative media coverage, and threat perception. First, pacifist rules of engagement are the government’s instructions regarding the use of military force. If the government pursues an antimilitarization policy, it is likely to enact pacifist rules of engagement that prevent the military from arbitrarily using military force. The shorter and less complex the steps outlined in the rules of engagement, the more aggressive they are. Therefore, pacifist rules of engagement are coded as “1” when the government enacted rules of engagement I (a five-step procedure in the period before September 2002) or rules of engagement II (a three-step procedure Table 4.2 Descriptive Statistics for the Measures Used in the Analysis

Variables

Min.

Use of a warning shot 0 Pacifist rules of engagement 0 Conservative media coverage (%) 4 Threat perception 18.9 Patrol boat 0 Intensity of violation 0 Frequency of violation 1

Max.

Mean (Std. Dev.)

1

1

100 66.8 1 15 4

Frequency 16 (8.4%)

61.48 (35.33) 37.95 (11.21) 1.84 (2.15) 1.23 (.571)

125 (65.7%) 71 (62.6%)

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with mandatory contact of North Korean vessels in the period from September 2004 to May 2008). This study used rules of engagement III (the shortest three-step procedure used from October 2002 to August 2004 and after June 2008) as a baseline category. Second, conservative media coverage is the percentage of NLL violations reported by the conservative media each year. It measures how hostile the conservative media have been to government policy every year. Third, threat perception was measured by the percentage of people who were uneasy about the security situation each year. Data were collected from national surveys on general public security awareness, which South Korea’s National Defense University conducts every year. This study employed three variables to control for the observable behavior of North Korean boats in the disputed waters. First, “patrol boat” is a dummy variable coded as “1” if the North Korean vessel crossing the NLL is an armed patrol boat and as “0” otherwise. Second, the intensity of the violation is the number of North Korean boats that crossed the NLL simultaneously. Finally, frequency of violation indicates that North Korean boats crossed the NLL more than once a day. Findings

Table 4.3 presents the odds ratios. An odds ratio higher than 1 indicates that the probability of firing a warning shot is positively associated with a one-unit increase in the independent variables. In contrast, an odds ratio smaller than 1 indicates that the probability of firing a warning shot is negatively associated with a one-unit increase in the independent variables. All three models were statistically significant because the probability of obtaining the chi-square statistic in each model was less than .001. Model 2 had a lower Akaike information criterion (AIC) than others. In all the models, three variables regarding the observable behavior of North Korean boats in the disputed waters did not have a statistically significant effect, but pacifist rules of engagement statistically significantly decreased the odds of a warning shot. The results indicate that civilian control over the military is effective. However, considering the threat perception, we can see that the effects of civilian control are weakening. In Model 1, pacifist rules of engagement decreased the odds of a warning shot by 85 percent (odds ratio =

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Table 4.3 Multivariate Logistic Regression Estimates Variable

Model 1 Odds Ratio (S.E.)

Patrol boat .41(.23) Intensity of violation 1.12(.13) Frequency of violation 1.02(.57) Pacifist rules of engagement .15(.09)*** Threat perception Conservative media coverage Constant .26(.20)* Log likelihood –46.99 AIC value 101.99 Probability > chi2 .003 Pseudo R2 .143 Number of cases 190

Model 2 Model 3 Odds Ratio (S.E.) Odds Ratio (S.E.) .88(.58)

1.26(.93)

.89(.53)

.92(.55)

1.06(.13)

1.06(.1333)

.20(.13)**

1.07(.02)*** .01(.01)*** –42.90 95.80 .000 .218 190

.20(.55)**

1.07(.03)**

1.01(.00) .00(.00)*** –42.27 96.54 .000 .230 190

Notes: * p < .1; ** p < .05; *** p < .01; S.E. = standard error.

.15). In Model 2, this effect has been reduced to 80 percent (odds ratio = .20), while a one-unit increase in threat perception increased the odds of a warning shot by 7 percent (odds ratio = 1.07). In Model 3, a one-unit increase in conservative media coverage increased the odds of a warning shot by 1% (odds ratio = 1.01) when controlling for the effect of pacifist rules of engagement and threat perception, but it was not statistically significant. The effects of conservative media should not be ignored because of the increased chances of firing on the patrol boats (odds ratio = 1.26). The results demonstrate that the South Korean military became less accountable to the civilian government when the conservative media attempted to incite belligerent public opinion.

Conclusion The results of the statistical analysis support the argument of this study that the South Korean military was concerned with the mili-

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tarization of security discourse by the conservative media. When the Liberal government restrained the rules of engagement, the military was less likely to use force against North Korean boats when controlling for the observable behavior of these boats in the disputed waters. However, the military did not remain submissive to the Liberal government when the level of threat perception, which was attributable to the frequency of media coverage, increased. The likelihood of the South Korean military using firearms against North Korean boats was positively associated with the level of threat perception when controlling for the effect of the restrained rules of engagement. The issue of North Korea’s NLL violations has long been a central concern of South Korean security policymakers, especially in recent years. However, the South Korean cases provide us with a glimpse into the effect of militarization on the use of military force. Appendix 4.1 Number of NLL Violations by Year Year

1993 1994 1995 1996 1997 1998 1999 2000 2001 2002 2003 2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010

Sum Mean

Number of NLL Violations (the South Korean JCS) 25 30 26 16 6 48 71 25 20 19 21 19 14 21 28 24 50 95

558 31

Conservative Media Coverage on NLL Violations 1 0 0 3 3 0 27 1 20 32 20 17 8 0 10 4 9 4

159 8.8

Sources: Chosun Ilbo, Dong-A Ilbo, and Joong-Ang Ilbo; Im (2014, 325).

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Even objectively similar events can be interpreted differently in a political context where the government, media, and military pursue their interests. The mobilization of the military is a product of the social environment in which nonstate oversight actors play a critical role. Possibly, the mobilization of the military can be attributed to collective actions or campaigns to call attention to security threats. When nonstate oversight actors delegitimate the government policy of reconciliation with the enemy state, the military may feel pressured to be accountable to both the government and public opinion. Prioritizing the obligation to fight security threats over the cost of punishment by the government, the military may violate democratic control. In sum, the findings from this analysis caution against the practice of treating democratic control of the military as if it only reflects the relationship between the democratic government and the military.

Note The views expressed in this chapter are the author’s opinions and as such do not represent the official position of the South Korean military.

5 United States: The “Angry American” and Transnational Terrorism Alice Hunt Friend and Lizamaria Arias The American experience with transnational terrorism offers insights into the interactions between the material and discursive drivers of militarization and provides evidence that accountability mechanisms can be shaped to justify, rather than constrain, the uses of military force. This chapter argues that militarization in the United States preceded the global war on terror but that the response to transnational terrorism was not specifically militarized until after the 9/11 attacks. It took a major attack to bring transnational terrorism into militarized discourse because material threats matter to that discourse within the United States. Thus, militarization may have appeared to be a consequence of 9/11, but in fact it was also—and primarily—a conditioning factor on how the United States responded to it. Moreover, although militarization in the United States does privilege military tools generally, it also shapes how force is used. Militarization does reproduce itself, but in ways that are sensitive to the domestic political environment. The US response to 9/11 suggests that militarization not only has an amplifying effect on the justifications to use force but can also have a conditioning effect on how the military is mobilized and limiting effects on efforts to enforce accountability. In the US case, an affinity for technological approaches to warfare and a perceived public aversion to casualties shaped the type of military force used for counterterrorism. Thus, the country’s general militarized 77

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discourse preceding 9/11, followed by the specific militarization around the threat of transnational terrorism, determined not only the fact of a military response but also the scale and type of that response. Accountability for the resulting uses of force was then constrained by militarized discourse. To explore the relationships between militarization, transnational terrorism, and democratic accountability for the use of force, we examine the history of US policy toward transnational terrorism between 1980 and 2014. To explore and deepen our understanding of when and how threat, militarization, and accountability interact for democratic states, we rely on a mixed methodology of both positivist and critical methods. The ontological differences between these two major approaches suggest they cannot be combined. Yet society responds to both types of realities, material and discursive, simultaneously. Material facts and social facts coexist and are able to talk to each other.

How Militarization Shapes Threat Perception Theories of international relations have generated a series of expectations about the power of threats to the state to dictate not only the uses of force but also military doctrine and patterns of civil-military relations (Posen 1984; Rosen 1991; Kier 1997; Desch 1998). One major point of contention among international relations theorists has been the degree to which threats are rationally deduced and their consequences logically inferred or, conversely, how systematic organizational or human biases may distort rational responses (Snyder 1984). Going further, both the new institutionalists and the constructivist approach contend that social reality, including threats, conflicts, and even the structure of international and domestic political life, is all generated internal to human society by cultural and social processes rather than imposed on society by nature (Katzenstein 1996; Legro 1996; Kier 1997). The central insight of such studies for our purposes is that threats are interpreted and even created by social processes rather than received exogenously and passively. One such social process is militarization itself. Although militarization has been a more popular topic of analysis in the United States since the advent of the war on terror, it has been a defining, if fluctuating, feature of US foreign policy since the early days of the Cold

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War. Raw American military power, measured by the size of the Defense Department budget, the advanced capabilities of the US armed services, and the global presence of US forces and basing infrastructure, has been a prominent element of US foreign policy since the end of World War II (Ambrose and Brinkley 2011). Such growth in military resources has often come at the expense of “the civilian tools of statecraft” (Adams and Murray 2014, 3), as has the tendency to conflate military strategy with national strategy (Weigley 1973). The modern militarization trend was punctuated in 1980, when presidential candidate Ronald Reagan ran on a “military revitalization” platform and pursued a large Defense Department budget increase upon his election (Weinberger 1990). The Vietnam War had marked the nadir of the relationship between the American military and civil society, but public support for the military has been growing ever since, particularly in the wake of the 1990–1991 Gulf War, and reached stratospheric heights during the post-9/11 wars (Kennedy 2016). At the same time, other trends in the United States have put socially preferred limits on the types of military force used. The shift from a draft army to the professional, all-volunteer force has been accompanied by a decrease in the average American’s engagement with and knowledge of the military as an institution (Schake and Mattis 2016) and a sensitivity among politicians to the political risks behind low public tolerance for military casualties (Gelpi, Feaver, and Reifler 2009). Glee over the swiftness and comparative bloodlessness (for American personnel) of the first Gulf War, followed later in that decade by victory in the Balkans, led to the celebration of air power and other approaches that minimized ground operations (Halberstam 2001). Militarization in the United States meant an affair with technology and other methods that resulted in low American casualties. As the new millennium dawned, defense technocrats had embraced a concept called “transformation,” which sought to minimize risk to personnel even as it maximized American military reach around the world (Dombrowski and Gholz 2006). In more recent years, what the Pentagon calls “low profile, light footprint” approaches relying on small units operating at comparatively low cost and (supposedly) low risk have prevailed (Friend 2018). All of these choices are shaped by ideas about the ongoing utility of military force to American goals and American identity (Cohn 2018). The archetypal soldier is GI Joe, somewhere between a cowboy, a saint, and a superhero (K. Hall 2004). The military, too, represents

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the complex contradiction inherent in American society: violence in the name of peace. These ideas and tensions are maintained with language. Militarization is, in part, a discursive practice; language may do the work of choice, powering not only a general propensity for the use of force but shaping what kind of force is legitimate. This is possible— and important for the inquiry under way in this chapter—because, as Lene Hansen argues, “discourses articulate and intertwine material factors and ideas” (2006, 1). Terrorist attacks reveal actual vulnerabilities; language attaches meaning to those vulnerabilities and works out ways to mitigate them. Language combines reason and emotion to generate choices and select among them and creates a cultural narrative around the appropriate response. The American case, where the use of force against terrorism has favored minimizing risk to military personnel, setting few limits on defense spending, and emphasizing special operations, demonstrates the work discourse does on the political calculations of successive presidential administrations and the public’s support for the continued use of force. Prior to 9/11, Americans generally approached terrorist activity as an infrequent, criminal problem—often, but not always, something that happened far away from American shores. Even the 1993 World Trade Center bombing and the 1995 bombing in Oklahoma City were regarded as the aberrant acts of violent, criminal individuals rather than the start of a trend or part of a wider campaign or phenomenon (Thomas 1997). Acts of terrorism at the hands of foreign actors could be rebuked militarily, but such operations were one-off punishments, such as the missile strikes launched by President Bill Clinton following the bombings of US embassies in Kenya and Tanzania or the Reagan administration’s 1986 airstrikes on Libyan territory after that country sponsored terrorist attacks in Berlin. These were exceptions to the rule; most US engagement was via diplomatic channels. However, once politicians, policymakers, and the public had clear evidence of al-Qaeda’s capacity for violence, as well as the capacity of other groups that aspired to use terrorism to target American citizens at home and abroad, Americans at the elite and societal levels drew on their ambient level of militarization to interpret those previously unrevealed (or unobtained) material capacities and shifted their emphasis to military approaches to terrorism. The meaning Americans attached to the material facts of terrorism after 9/11, and even which facts mattered most, continued to evolve via discursive practices. Such practices were not merely the province of

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political elites but were also mirrored in cultural expressions. As one popular post-9/11 country song observed, “We’ll put a boot in your ass. It’s the American way” (Keith 2002). The binary discourse used to frame the external threat in the immediate aftermath of 9/11—“You’re either with us or you are with the terrorists”—created an environment in which opposition to a military response was cast as unpatriotic (Krebs and Lobasz 2007).

Terrorism and Militarization Before 9/11 Material Aspects of Militarization: Terrorism, Threat Perceptions, and the Use of Force

Although it is easy to assume the attacks of September 11 introduced international terrorism into American security policy, that is not the case. Thirty years prior to the attacks of 2001, the 1970s saw multiple incidents of international terrorism, including the brutal massacre of the Israeli wrestling team at the 1972 Munich Olympics by Palestinian terrorists (Alexander, Kraft, and Sheehan 2008). In December of that same year, in response to the hijacking of a Southern Airways flight in Birmingham, Alabama, the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) ordered that all passengers be screened with metal detectors, all carry-on luggage be inspected, and armed guards be posted at boarding checkpoints.1 However, neither the public nor the private sector saw terrorism as a major threat. Airline hijackings had been occurring almost monthly since the 1960s; yet private-sector lobbies were opposed to even the most limited of security measures. Despite a number of bombings aboard aircraft in the latter half of the 1970s, it was widely believed that the cost to implement a change or require inspections of checked baggage was too great, while many analysts maintained that the brunt of the threat remained abroad (Naftali 2005). For the Richard Nixon administration, terrorism initially did not rank on the list of top priorities—“terrorist” was seen as interchangeable with words such as “insurgent,” “guerrilla,” and “Vietcong.” Although Congress had held hearings regarding the increased number of hijackings in the late 1960s, the FAA (though it never admitted as much to the public) saw terrorism as a flaw within the aviation system that needed to be “managed,” not necessarily resolved (Naftali 2005). It wasn’t as though the Nixon White House didn’t deal with

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terrorist crises. The hijacking by Palestinian terrorists of TWA Flight 840 from Los Angeles to Tel Aviv in 1969 was the first instance of Palestinians inflicting violence on an American target. Although the hijacking captured American media attention, the White House’s response focused on applying diplomatic pressure to secure the release of the passengers (Naftali 2005). Incidents of terrorism in the 1980s served to move the policy needle slightly more toward the use of force. The Iran hostage crisis put terrorism in the spotlight for the American public and prompted the Jimmy Carter administration to review an array of both diplomatic and military options. When diplomacy failed, Carter ordered a rescue operation that had to be aborted due to equipment malfunctions, then ended in a collision between American aircraft on the ground that killed eight US servicemen. The debacle seemed to suggest special operations were not any more effective than conventional military responses as a solution to the problem of terrorism (Moyar 2017). The 1983 bombing of the marine barracks in Beirut also prompted efforts to establish a policy framework to respond to and deter terrorist attacks against Americans. Yet that framework still did not militarize US counterterrorism approaches. An assessment of the 636 terrorist incidents (ranging from small to large in scale) that occurred during the Reagan years reveals that despite the tough rhetorical stance, military options were only employed twice (Wills 2003). The administration maintained that terrorism was ultimately a political, not a military, matter and that there was little need to resort to military tools. Although post-9/11 analysts have made much of the gathering threat to the United States posed by al-Qaeda during the 1990s, little distinguishes the policies of Reagan/George H. W. Bush and Clinton toward international terrorism. When they were considered, military options to punish or defang terrorist organizations were generally rejected in favor of other nonmilitary measures, such as sanctions. There is no public evidence that any discussions about responses to al-Qaeda, for example, considered a conventional invasion of Afghanistan, and suggestions of employing special operations forces were quickly dismissed (Naftali 2005). Efforts to deal with Osama bin Laden remained a matter reserved for the intelligence community and kept outside the purview of the American public. The 1993 World Trade Center bombing, though a harbinger of 9/11 in many regards, did not garner the same kind of response as the 9/11 attacks. The scale of destruction was not as great as that of 9/11. President Clinton ultimately never even visited the site, and appro-

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priate security changes, such as closing the immigration loopholes exploited by the attackers, were never implemented (Gerth 2001). The 1993 World Trade Center bombing notwithstanding, Clinton’s approach was made easier by the fact that during his administration, major terrorist attacks happened in faraway places outside the mainstream of American life. Nevertheless, growing concern among national security agencies about al-Qaeda’s desire to attack the United States, coupled with the 1998 bombings of American embassies in Dar es Salaam and Nairobi, spurred a short-term change in Clinton’s willingness to use force against terrorist groups. In a punitive strike the administration launched two missiles, one targeting what was believed to be a gathering of key terrorist leaders in Afghanistan and the other targeting a pharmaceutical plant in Sudan that was (falsely) thought to be a site for the production of VX nerve agent (Mitchell and Talbot 2018). This was the greatest degree of military action Clinton used in response to terrorism, and it consisted of tactical strikes rather than a campaign of military activities. The threat posed by terrorism, and by al-Qaeda in particular, was seen as a real concern but not necessarily the kind of threat that required a broad military response. It was just another threat in a long list of global priorities. Terrorism was also a burgeoning challenge in the domestic context, made most prominent with the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995. The attack, which involved a powerful truck bomb, killed 168 people in a downtown federal building and left hundreds more injured. Until 9/11, it was the deadliest act of terrorism carried out on American soil. Nevertheless, the response to the attack emphasized law enforcement rather than military tools. In part, this was a result of the principal attacker, Timothy McVeigh, being an American citizen—it was an internal attack perpetrated by an individual with rights under the justice system. Had the attacker been a foreign citizen acting on behalf of a government or with a government’s protection, the White House might have reached for alternative, even military, tools. However, the FBI’s jurisdiction was clear, and the attack, while devastating to the community in Oklahoma City, did not pose a greater or ongoing risk to large numbers of Americans. It was a tragic act of violence, but it was not an act of war. Militarization of the Terrorism Discourse

The United States’ history with militarism is longer than its history with international terrorism. The Cold War transformed a country

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traditionally suspicious of standing armies into one that maintained a professional force supported by a very large military enterprise. By 9/11, however, militarization was characterized by a mix of support for a large defense establishment and discomfort with using it in riskinducing ways. Although the American public allowed a large standing military and defense spending that dwarfed competitors’, popular tolerance for casualties was assumed to be low—an assumption validated by the strongly negative reactions to the “Black Hawk Down” incident in which eighteen Army Rangers died on a humanitarian deployment to Somalia in 1993. Whether or not this assumption was true, politicians were unwilling to experiment using their own political fortunes. Moreover, in the post–Cold War context, the notion of a “peace dividend” prevailed; it was hoped the United States could focus its energy on economic prosperity and spend less time and treasure on security. Americans had become much more comfortable with deterring war than they were with launching one. This pattern of militarization and its role in perceptions of terrorism were reflected in the discourse on terrorism prior to 9/11. Reagan’s rhetoric on terrorism was firm and reflected his understanding that after the Iran hostage crisis and the 1983 marine barracks bombing in Beirut, terrorism was no longer just another foreign policy issue (Wills 2003). However, despite Reagan’s denouncing the marine barracks attack, stating, “The United States will not be intimidated by terrorists. . . . Every effort will be made to find the criminals responsible for this act of terrorism so this despicable act will not go unpunished,” the United States would not commit more troops to Lebanon.2 Although he was asked at a press conference following the attacks whether he would consider not just sending “replacement marines” to Lebanon but going into the country with “some real force,” Reagan maintained that that would not be the road to peace in the region. He said, “What that entails, and that is the difficult thing, we would then be engaged in the combat. We would be the combat force.” It was just eight years after Vietnam, and the reality was, as Ryan Crocker, the political officer at the Beirut embassy, put it, “It’s a hard thing to say, it’s a hard thing to accept, but we had lost. . . . The situation would not have gotten any better. We would have had more dead Marines” (Associated Press 2003). Despite the firm rhetoric, when push came to shove, the administration balked at committing to a full military response. The Clinton administration continued to view the domestic terror threat as a law enforcement issue, with Clinton advocating giving “law

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enforcement the most powerful counterterrorism tools available” (Alexander, Kraft, and Sheehan 2008). The 1998 bombings of American embassies in Dar es Salaam and Nairobi jolted the White House and moved Clinton to declare that the United States would “use all the means at our disposal to bring those responsible to justice, no matter what or how long it takes” (Matthews 1998). In a speech following the attacks, Clinton went so far as to claim, “Terrorism is one of the greatest dangers we face in this new global era.” Yet the response to that threat would come only in the form of targeted strikes, not an allintensive effort to defeat terror. President Clinton and President Reagan were firm in their rhetoric, but their actions were constrained by the nature of the threat and societal restrictions that would not allow for a full-scale fight. Thus, prior to 9/11, terrorism largely continued to be seen as a problem to be addressed through diplomatic, economic, and legal tools—states sponsoring terrorism ran the risk of US sanctions, and law enforcement agencies in the United States would prosecute acts of domestic terrorism. The issue was not one around which the American public would rally or demand action. Unlike in the aftermath of 9/11, the president and other leaders did not necessarily try to shape the public’s perception of terrorism or frame the threat as requiring a broader response. Nor was it seen as an issue the military should be (or even wanted to be) heavily involved in, and there was little impetus, political or otherwise, to make it one. Discursive connections between military tools and international terrorism were codified in the National Security Strategy (NSS) reports produced during the 1980s and 1990s. A content analysis of those documents reveals the limited scope with which the threat was perceived. The first NSS reports written by the Reagan administration outline terrorism mostly in relation to state-sponsored acts, state funding of terror organizations, and ways to combat both terrorism and illicit drug trade abroad. Framing terrorism as a problem that could be dealt with on a state level allowed diplomatic options and traditional statesmanship to take the lead in dealing with the issue. Unlike independent terrorist organizations toward which the United States has a nonnegotiation policy, state-sponsored terrorism could be dealt with through traditional conduits and didn’t require the associated risk of a military approach. Also telling is the number of times terrorism is mentioned throughout the NSS reports. In the 1980s and 1990s, the number of times the word terror appears hovers in the mid-twenties and begins to steadily climb in the early 1990s, skyrocketing after the

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1998 embassy bombings. The closer to an attack the production of an NSS report, the more mentions that occur, on average. As the attack recedes from view, the focus shifts elsewhere, not allowing for the execution of a consistent, cohesive strategy. This same pattern exists even post-9/11, with terrorism being the focal point of the NSS reports in the immediate aftermath and then mentions of terrorism beginning to wane and be replaced by other more pressing concerns. Yet, as will become increasingly evident in the following section, while the attention given to terrorism decreases with distance from 9/11, efforts to combat terrorism haven’t necessarily decreased commensurately with official rhetoric to that effect.

Terrorism and Militarization After 9/11 Material Aspects of Militarization: Terrorism, Threat Perceptions, and the Use of Force

At 8:45 a.m. on September 11, 2001, hijackers aboard American Airlines Flight 11 crashed the plane into the North Tower of the World Trade Center. It was the first in a series of such attacks that left nearly 3,000 Americans dead in New York and Washington, DC, and another 6,000 injured.3 The day’s horror transformed the way the United States viewed and responded to international terrorism. Witnessing the event live and then rebroadcast on their television screens, millions of Americans watched the airplanes hit the Twin Towers in New York over and over, repeatedly exposing themselves to the collapse of steel and concrete as well as the choice of many victims to jump to their deaths rather than succumb to smoke and fire (Silver 2013). On 9/11, policymakers and the public alike began to conceive of terrorism as an existential threat. Instead of being relegated to farflung countries most Americans had never even heard of, the threat became tangible. For a country unaccustomed to warlike conditions on domestic soil, it was a stunning realization of vulnerability (White 2004). It was not just any attack; it was an attack on innocent civilians in the heart of a city that is emblematic of American values. A meaningful action to respond to and, ideally, deter future such violence seemed compelled by the scale of the attack. Consistent with public sentiment, the 2001 Authorization for the Use of Military Force (AUMF) was passed in the US Congress just three days later by a nearly unanimous vote in the House (only Rep-

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resentative Barbara Lee cast a nay vote) and a unanimous vote in the Senate.4 The passage of the AUMF signified a break away from the previous counterterrorism landscape and marked the beginning of a significant overhaul of US counterterrorism policy. It also marked the launch of the post-9/11 wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. As policymakers’ memoirs of the weeks after the September 11 attacks show, the George W. Bush administration began planning a rapid invasion of Afghanistan immediately after Osama bin Laden’s Taliban-harbored al-Qaeda network was identified as the source of the attacks (Bush 2010; Rumsfeld 2011). Officials wanted to punish the Taliban, deprive it of its ability to harbor bin Laden, and send a deterrent message to any other state sponsors of terrorism around the world. Moreover, the logic of the use of force abroad was that it would keep terrorist groups from developing the capability to attack the United States at home again. This approach was coupled with greatly increased defensive measures, particularly regarding security in the air-travel sector. These material considerations drove not only the use of force but also what kind of force the United States used. Initially, officials believed that massively destructive military force was the most likely way to defeat the Taliban and terrorism alike. But after the invasion of Afghanistan and, eighteen months later, Iraq, officials in the Bush administration and the military began to perceive a mismatch between the military approaches and tools they were using and the nature of the conflict against insurgent terrorist groups. The military capabilities used against terrorists began to shift away from missiles and target destruction to special operations and counterinsurgency. Outside these so-called areas of active hostilities (more colloquially, “war zones”), the United States relied on a mix of intelligence and precision direct-action and airstrike tools to pursue a decapitation and disruption strategy, hunting terrorist leaders with the goal of disabling terrorist networks (Price 2012). The shift was in the type of military approach, from massively and bluntly destructive standoff tools that relied more on technology and hardware than personnel on the ground to large numbers of troops conducting clandestine raids and engaging in population security to isolate society from terrorist groups. Militarization of the Terrorism Discourse

After 9/11, militarized discourse had an amplifying effect on the material impacts of international terrorism. Most prominently, American politicians began to use the term war to describe the new context and

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the nature of the engagement with al-Qaeda and associated terrorist groups. “War” provided a reference to the magnitude of the effort and the priority placed on it and also implied that the use of force was not only a logical but also a moral response to terrorism because of its existentially threatening nature. War not only introduces the military as the lead element of policy but legitimizes it. The invocation of existential threat implied by a “war” on an idea over which material victory is impossible also removes disciplining constraints on the scope of the effort—in terms of time, resources, and even geography. Along with his first use of the phrase “war on terror,” President Bush (2001) declared to the world the Manichean choice between good and evil dictated by wartime: “Either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists.” During his remarks in the Cabinet Room the next day, the president explicitly stated that the “attacks which were carried out yesterday . . . were more than acts of terror. They were acts of war” (Alexander, Kraft, and Sheehan 2008). This rapid shift was reflected in the language of the AUMF. Only sixty words long, it gave the president authority “to use all necessary and appropriate force against those nations, organizations, or persons he determines planned, authorized, committed, or aided the terrorist attacks that occurred on September 11, 2001, or harbored such organizations or persons, in order to prevent any future acts of international terrorism against the United States by such nations, organizations or persons.”5 The use of force was thus directly legitimized with words like “necessary” and “appropriate” and with the notion that, because force could also “prevent” more terrorism, its use was in self-defense. These words and ideas reinforced a sense of pressure applied by the threat of terrorism as well as the administration’s willingness to employ a more militaristic approach than before. They built an argument that the threat was so dire as to approach being existential. The discourse surrounding the attack created a strong sense of unity and patriotism among the American public, which translated into near-unanimous support for the policies being put forth and actions taken by American leaders. Making use of this new disposition to accept a broader interpretation of authority, constitutional scholars like Robert Delahunty and John Yoo (2001) busied themselves with crafting the legal argument for presidential authority in the deployment of force, arguing that the “president’s constitutional authority to deploy military force against terrorists and the states that harbor or support them includes both the power to respond to past attacks and the power to act preemptively against future ones.”

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The threat was further attached to broader principles of international peace, not simply parochial American defense concerns. As President Bush (2001) stated, “This enemy attacked not just our people, but all freedom-loving people everywhere in the world.” This rhetoric drew on a broader American militarization discourse about the role the US military has played historically in liberating people around the world from tyranny (Adams and Murray 2014). As an outgrowth of these arguments, the Bush Doctrine emerged as another key element of the new American militarization of the response to terrorism. One of the doctrine’s aspects called for a much more robust foreign presence, making the case that “great threats . . . can be defeated only by new and vigorous policies, most notably, preventive war” (Jervis 2003). This willingness for an American president to endorse the idea of preventive war was a clear break from past approaches to terrorism but was consistent with the broader themes of militarization in the United States. Thus, both broader militarized discourse and 9/11-specific stories legitimated the military response to the attacks.

Terrorism, Discourse, and the Erosion of Civilian Control As the militarized discourse took hold in the aftermath of 9/11, civilian control over the military fell into a path-dependent pattern of evergrowing resourcing for the defense budget and degraded civilian autonomy over the use of force. Civilian control of the military is an explicit part of the design of the constitutional system in the United States and a component of American military professionalism. As such, civilian control prior to 9/11 was strong by America’s own standards as well as relative to contemporary states. Thus, weakened civilian control post-9/11 is measured against a baseline of strength and is not indicative of a complete absence of control or accountability mechanisms. Yet it is critical to recognize that a shift occurred, especially in the context of expanding defense budgets and bureaucratic capacity. The ways military forces and capabilities were used in Afghanistan, Iraq, and areas outside active hostilities were increasingly shaped by military institutions with less and less independent civilian input and intervention—a degradation in what this volume calls horizontal civilian control of the military (Friend 2020). At the same time, some types of force being used in the post-9/11 conflicts naturally reduced

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democratic transparency. Special operations and unmanned aerial vehicles were major elements of counterterrorism and were typically used in clandestine ways. Although there were operational security justifications for this reduced transparency, it nevertheless resulted in weaker vertical civilian control by the American public. Horizontal control weakened in large part as a result of the political implications of resisting militarization. The legitimacy of the military as an institution and an approach to the supposedly existential threat of terrorism generated an intolerance for political opposition to military action, broad legal authority for the president and the Department of Defense, irreducible military access to resources for counterterrorism, a tendency to use low-profile special operations forces and rely on classification to minimize public (and sometimes even internal executive branch) monitoring of the use of force, and a hesitancy on the part of Congress to address any of the preceding dynamics. Discourse that legitimized military expertise and military approaches to foreign policy led the processes that weakened civilian control. Opposing the military approach was seen as unpatriotic. Opposition to the AUMF—which, recall, was a lone nay vote in the House—was met by a slew of allegations that the representative in question was disloyal to the United States (Friedersdorf 2014). In this environment, future accountability received little attention. Whereas the American public’s perception of governmental actions played a role in staving off more militaristic responses to terror acts in previous administrations, that concern was not a factor in the immediate aftermath of 9/11. The perpetual use of force, once established, was resistant to delegitimization, in part because the language used to justify that use of force initially painted a picture of a globally pervasive threat. At the same time, the mechanisms put in place to deal with the terrorist threat since 9/11, including expanding military budgets and the loss of congressional oversight, among others, became self-reinforcing and increasingly difficult to alter. Even when military veterans have tried to push against this discourse by providing alternative options to combat the threat, they cannot seem to weaken the relationship between militarization and accountability. A growing cadre of military veterans of the ongoing wars in Afghanistan and Iraq derisively call them America’s “forever wars” to little effect on the wider legitimacy of the military and its lead in foreign policy (Danner 2005). The law followed the public in this regard, condoning a continued emphasis on military tools regardless of their practical benefit.

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Provisions that were meant to deal with an al-Qaeda-specific threat began to be used to buttress the legitimacy of US actions beyond the obvious scope of the war on terror. For example, the AUMF has been used to justify the use of military action against enemies beyond just al-Qaeda and the Taliban. The provision in the AUMF that allows for the use of military force against “associated forces” has slowly allowed for the expansion of the AUMF’s reach in places like Yemen, Syria, Somalia, and Niger, among others. In 2012, strikes on alShabaab in Somalia were justified under the umbrella of the AUMF. An important reinforcing element of the AUMF was that the use of force against terrorists was limited only by the president’s judgment of what was “necessary” and “appropriate.” As discussed above, necessity and appropriateness were baked into the discourse around using force against groups connected to the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Pointedly, the dramatic increase in the use of special operations forces (SOF) in the post-9/11 wars has degraded both horizontal and vertical civilian control of the use of force. The clandestine nature of SOF-led counterterrorism operations makes it more difficult for the public and other branches of government—and even those within the Department of Defense without the proper clearances—to monitor counterterrorism deployments.6 Both the increase in secrecy surrounding the use of force and the difficulty of overseeing operations were largely functions of the increase in the use of SOF. At the same time, the special operations forces’ credibility with the American public increased their domestic political legitimacy, incentivizing politicians to at least appear supportive of SOF personnel and their preferences. Having sold itself as the best defense against terrorist groups, the US special operations community successfully argued for increases in force structure and budget share. Since 2001 the force has expanded from around 30,000 to 70,000 active-duty personnel across all four services (Feickert 2019; US Government Accountability Office 2015). As of 2017, US SOF were deployed to 149 countries across the globe— a 150 percent increase from the George W. Bush era (South 2018). SOF’s budget request for 2019 was $13.6 billion. A significant portion of the Overseas Contingency Operations (OCO) fund, sometimes called the Pentagon’s “slush fund” for the lack of transparency associated with the money, is believed to go to SOF (Haynes 2019). Over the years since 9/11, the responsibilities associated with SOF have also expanded. In 2013, Special Operations Command

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(SOCOM) was assigned command of the Theater Special Operations Commands, giving SOCOM greater autonomy over global operations. The increased use of SOF in a broad range of locations makes oversight and accountability more time-consuming and more difficult. The appeal of using SOF is their ability to perform low-profile missions. They employ a “light footprint” approach that aims to work “by, with, and through” partners on the ground to advance US interests without necessitating a large-scale, conventional deployment. Yet the seeming ease and low risk associated with SOF-led uses of force, coupled with SOF’s low profile, reduce policymakers’ and the public’s access to information and impoverishes the debate over the use of force. Dozens of simultaneous small-scale deployments of US forces around the globe that conduct counterterrorism operations under the veil of secrecy, with only requirements for congressional notification without preceding debate or authorization (War Powers Resolution 1973), have meant that the American public does not get wind of these involvements unless something is a dramatic success—or goes terribly awry. The latter occurred during an ambush of US Special Forces in the landlocked West African country of Niger in 2017. The deployment was unknown to both the average American and the average member of Congress (Cooper, Gibbons-Neff, and Schmitt 2018; Fontaine and Serchuk 2018). In the region to counter terrorist groups affiliated with both al-Qaeda and the Islamic State, American special operators were on patrol with Nigerien forces when a large group of militants attacked their party, separating the force into multiple groups and eventually killing four Americans. It was a revealing moment, not just as to the precarious nature of such deployments but also as to the degree to which counterterrorism operations lacked serious civilian oversight and control. The ever-increasing number of deployments, the secrecy surrounding them, and the ambient legitimacy of military operations that led legislators and the public alike to give SOF near autonomy in their activities all suppressed congressional oversight of the use of force abroad. Although budgetary control via Congress is a major avenue of military accountability, the emphasis on militarized responses to terrorism has atrophied the budgetary mechanism of civilian control. In fact, it is unclear just how much the United States has spent on the war on terror. A nonpartisan group convened by the Stimson Center found the initial tally to be somewhere around $2.8 trillion

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spent between fiscal years 2002 and 2017 (Heeley et al. 2018). This number, however, only accounts for the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and doesn’t account for the other costs of the global war on terror, including Veterans Affairs costs, equipment replacement, and infrastructure rebuilding (it also does not consider engagements in Syria and Pakistan). When spending beyond the Defense Department is included, the total cost of the post-9/11 wars is closer to $5.6 trillion (Crawford 2017). This lack of transparency is further complicated by the extent to which the Department of Defense has used the previously mentioned OCO fund, which is not constrained by mechanisms to limit military budgetary autonomy, such as the 2011 Budget Control Act (Heeley 2018). When funding origins and appropriations are murky, it becomes increasingly difficult for Congress, the media, or outside watchdog groups to generate accountability for the use of military force.

Conclusion The relationships between the threat of transnational terrorism, military mobilization and militarization, and civilian control of the military in American democracy are complex but have clear patterns. Material aspects of terrorism have played an important role in whether Americans use force to respond to it. But ideational and discursive factors have interpreted material reality through a lens that values military approaches over other alternatives. Over time, an independent, co-constitutive relationship occurs between patterns of mobilization and militarization and patterns of both vertical and horizontal civilian control. As the salience of the threat fades, a pathdependent series of mutually enforcing legitimized military activities and accountability mechanisms remains. This relationship is likely to persist until another focusing event triggers change in the perception of terrorism and thereby the military-accountability relationship (Birkland 1998). Indeed, recent declarations of a change in US defense strategy to de-emphasize counterterrorism have yet to realize reductions in SOF operational tempo or major budgetary shifts (Edelman et al. 2018). As we have shown, the response to transnational terrorism specifically did not become militarized until the horrific attacks of 9/11. Thereafter, the president, congressional leaders, and the media

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drew upon the preexisting militarization of US foreign policy to create a discourse on terrorism in particular, giving meaning to material factors, shaping the nature of the response, and legitimizing the use of military force to counter terrorism. Even as public dissatisfaction with military engagements in Afghanistan and Iraq grew and the existential nature of the threat was reconsidered, established patterns of low-profile mobilization and low-information accountability have allowed policymakers and political leaders continued access to US military tools for counterterrorism missions often without subjecting their decisions to the level of scrutiny required for meaningful civilian control of the use of force. The discursive mechanisms that legitimized the use of military tools and made broader presidential authority more palatable to the American public constrained avenues of political oversight for both Congress and the public. That same discourse made clandestine and covert operations, especially via SOF, more acceptable and therefore more sustainable than other types of military force. Until the United States confronts a threat that it deems to be more significant than terrorism, it does not seem likely that civilian control over military counterterrorism will increase any time soon.

Notes 1. “Airline Passenger Security Screening: New Technologies and Implementation Issues,” NAP.edu, https://www.nap.edu/read/5116/chapter/3. 2. “Transcript of President Reagan’s News Conference on the Attack in Beirut,” New York Times, October 25, 1983, https://www.nytimes.com/1983/10 /25/world/transcript-of-president-reagan-s-news-conference-on-the-attack-in -beirut.html. 3. “Names on the Memorial,” National September 11 Memorial & Museum, https://www.911memorial.org/names-memorial. 4. “Roll Call Vote 107th Congress—1st Session,” US Senate, April 25, 2017, https://www.senate.gov/legislative/LIS/roll_call_lists/roll_call_vote_cfm .cfm?congress=107&session=1&vote=00281. 5. “S.J.Res. 23 (107th): Authorization for Use of Military Force,” GovTrack .us, https://www.govtrack.us/congress/bills/107/sjres23/text. 6. “Too Many Secrets: Overclassification as a Barrier to Critical Information Sharing,” 108th Congress, Committee on Government Reform, US House of Representatives, August 24, 2004, https://fas.org/sgp/congress/2004 /082404transcript.html.

PART 2 Domestic Threats

6 Colombia: Confronting Insurgency, Drug Cartels, and Narcoterrorists Samuel Rivera-Paez

Colombia has lived in a state of internal war for virtually its entire period as a republic. Since establishing independence from Spain in 1819, it has experienced violence as a part of daily life (Bushnell 1993; Palacios and Safford 2012). At the end of the twentieth century, the country was on the tipping point of becoming a failed state because of its weak reaction against the two main domestic threats: guerrilla and organized crime (Menkhaus 2010). The government’s reaction to this situation has combined persuasive and coercive mechanisms in the search for legitimacy. Contributing factors to modifying that destiny included the establishment of a formal national security policy, fiscal measures such as war taxes, military intervention in internal security and therefore extensive growth in military capabilities, and strengthening of the alliance with the United States, among others. At the dawn of the twenty-first century, a successful era of military operations led to some organizations negotiating with the state for the demobilization of their structures (Ospina and Marks 2014). Perhaps the most important was the negotiation that led to the 2016 signing of an accord to end fifty years of confrontation between the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) against the Colombian government. Not all the FARC was dismantled, however, generating a new cycle of violence (Ugarriza and Pabón 2017; Pizarro 2018). Meanwhile, this situation has resulted in a large military presence in the lives of Colombians, including in 97

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the security of roads, factories, mines, and pipelines, the management of rural development projects, and the war on drugs. This militarization has been based on at least four basic discursive ideas of legitimization: demonization, securitization, rationalization, and a hypothetical future. All of the above help to explain why today Colombia is a militarized country. However, it does not explain why the military does not intervene in politics or why it lacks the power some theorists suppose it should have (Levy 2016c). Despite the many limitations on the quality of its democracy, Colombia could be considered a country where the democratic model has prevailed without attempts by the armed forces to intervene in politics (Watson 2000; Bruneau 2013). Indeed, Colombia is one of the few countries in Latin America where confrontations between political and military elites have not erupted into military coups. This suggests that Colombia has a unique political structure based on close cooperation between the elites. Against this background, the military’s maneuvering power has been limited. Therefore, the military mind-set has been that of discipline vis-à-vis the politicians. Based on this infrastructure, even when deployed to address domestic threats, the military understood that legitimacy was essential “to win in the battle,” and thus it obeyed civilian orders. Therefore, this chapter explains the threats, followed by the actions taken by Colombia to promote a militarized environment. It then discusses some discursive elements in the construction of this militarization and concludes with how this affects democratic civilian control.

Hybrid Threats to Colombian Order Colombia faces three main types of threats: guerrilla, organized crime, and traditional interstate threats, which work together to impose challenges on the state (Borrero 2018). From the Colombian perspective, drug trafficking is an important phenomenon that articulates all of the external and internal security threats. Following Hoffman (2009), I describe this threat configuration as hybrid threats once this environment shows simultaneous and adaptive employment of “a fused mix of conventional weapons, irregular tactics, terrorism, and criminal behavior in the battlespace to obtain . . . political objectives” against the Colombian regime. Insurgency becomes the first threat to analyze. Since 1964, Colombia has been involved in an internal armed conflict. During the Cold

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War, at least nine different Communist, Maoist, pro-indigenous, and nationalist guerrilla groups emerged in Colombia. The most important have been the FARC (1964–2016), the National Liberation Army (ELN) (1964–present), the Popular Liberation Army (EPL) (1967–present), the 19th of April Movement (M-19) (1970–1990), the Movimiento Armado Quintin Lame (1984–1991), and the Guevarista Revolutionary Army (1992–2008). Their war strategy mixed the Russian model of insurrectional warfare and the Maoist model of prolonged people’s war for the conquest of power. For many years, Communist governments were the primary source of financial support. After the fall of the Berlin Wall, though, the logistical effort required to carry out war has been the guerrilla groups’ excuse for engaging in illegal activities to procure financial resources. Kidnapping, extortion, drug trafficking, illegal mining, and arms, ammunition, and explosives trafficking, among others, are the predominant income sources. After separate peace agreements, today there remain around 150 members of the EPL as well as approximately 4,000 members of the ELN and 3,000 fighters of the former FARC who do not accept the peace agreement signed in 2016. Drug trafficking has generated essential links with international actors, among whom high-ranking Venezuelan government officials and Mexican cartels are particularly important today. Transnational organized crime constitutes a second substantial threat to the country. There are mainly two types of criminal organizations: drug cartels and bandas criminales (“criminal gangs”). The former are organizations that originated in the traditional cartels of the 1980s, while the latter are remnants of paramilitary groups. To support the state troops in combat against guerrilla armies, paramilitary groups, called self-defense groups, were organized by the state in the late 1990s (Romero 2003). These groups quickly grew, and their conduct became highly violent. The National Police charged them with around seventy massacres and over 200 cases of selective killings between the group’s formation and 2001. Between 2003 and 2006, under then president Alvaro Uribe, the Colombian government reached an agreement to demobilize about 30,000 paramilitaries. About 3,700 have been brought to justice. Some reinstated middleranking members of the United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia (Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia [AUC]) worked together with some dissident structures and drug traffickers to organize criminal gangs. The national security policy issued by the administration of President Iván Duque estimates that these gangs have around 1,600 personnel (MDN 2019, 23). They engage in drug and human trafficking, other

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illegal activities, and co-optation of official procurements at some local and regional administrations. In addition to the threat posed by internal violence, there is a foreign threat related to Venezuela’s intentions regarding territorial expansion. Once Hugo Chavez’s left-wing populist Bolivarian movement came into power, its adherents changed the constitution. Those changes imply a direct threat to Colombia’s territorial integrity. Specifically, Title II of the Constitution of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela states that the country’s current territory includes all those territories—including vast regions in northern and eastern Colombia—recognized by the Captaincy General of Venezuela in 1777. It could be just rhetoric, but today diplomatic relations between the two countries are broken, and threats to use force are part of the political, diplomatic, and military discourse on both sides of the border. The presence of many guerrilla leaders and FARC dissidents within Venezuelan territory, the ideological empathy between some of these groups and the Venezuelan leadership, and the confluence of interests between the Bolivarian Venezuelan government and some groups of insurgents and drug lords around drug trafficking are nowadays important concerns for the Colombian and US governments.

Militarizing the State Reaction Most administrations are aware of the country’s social and economic problems and have left the door open to combating violence by nonviolent means, such as comprehensive development programs to substitute illicit crops and reduce poverty and inequality. Nevertheless, military solutions have been used extensively in the last thirty years. During this time, the government has implemented different actions to strengthen the national security system, each of which will be explored briefly. Broadening the Role of the Military Forces

The demobilization of the M-19, together with the contemporaneous political climate, gave way to the 1991 Constitution, of which Article 217 defines as an aim of the Colombian Military Forces (CMF) “the integrity of the constitutional order.” It implies the possibility of using the CMF for internal security and public-order control operations. Despite opposition from some political sectors, rulings issued by the

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Constitutional Court have made it clear that the primary function of protecting the population allows these forces to “deploy their activities with the appropriate firmness and forcefulness to subdue those who subvert the constitutional order and defy the democratic principle, according to which the State is entrusted with the monopoly on the legitimate use of arms.” The Constitutional Court decision also allowed the military to fight guerrilla groups and paramilitaries when the latter tried to subvert the constitutional order. Strengthening the Alliance with the United States

Cocaine trafficking from Colombia in the 1980s and the violent upsurge in the actions of guerrilla groups in the 1990s after the end of the Cold War led the Colombian government to strengthen its ties with Washington, DC. The idea that Colombia would become a failed state gave rise to a crucial initiative, known as Plan Colombia, to solve the problem. Initially, it was a six-year international assistance strategy to eliminate drug trafficking and promote social and economic development. As part of the war on drugs, the idea was to achieve military control of the territory to reduce the quantities of drugs going to the United States and Europe. It would also impact the guerrilla side of the equation. Between 1998 and 2008, “U.S. aid to Colombia has added up to US$6,495 million and has included the following allocations: Military and police aid (US$5.5 billion); economic and social aid (US$1.2 billion); military equipment (US$1.3 billion); counter drug operations (US$176 millions); and humanitarian and civic assistance (US$871,975)” (Acevedo, Bewley-Taylor, and Youngers 2008, 4). Since 2010, Colombia and the United States have implemented a training program in which the United States allocates financial resources to fund Colombia’s security-training initiatives in Central American countries. This program has been significant for Colombia’s geopolitical positioning as it uses security experience and operational success as references. Strategically aligning with US security interests is also a reason of convenience. The United States is interested in stabilizing the Central American region to reduce migration northward, and Colombia wishes to be recognized in the North Atlantic Treaty Organization as a global partner nation. Moreover, the United States is Colombia’s leading trading partner: in 2017 more than 34 percent of the country’s exports went to that country, and approximately 28 percent of imports came from there (Harvard Growth Lab 2017).

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Sustained Growth of the Armed Forces and Enhancement of Their Capabilities

Plan Colombia and a plan for military transformation allowed a sustained growth of the total number of troops (CMF and the National Police) from 313,400 in 2002, to 426,000 in 2010, to around 485,000 today. The growth in troops was accompanied by enhanced intelligence and growth in both land-combat equipment and air and naval units. During this period, the army activated its aviation fleet with more than fifty Black Hawk helicopters. The air force upgraded its strategic aviation and acquired thirty-seven Super Tucano aircraft from the Brazilian company Embraer. At the same time, the navy upgraded its frigates and submarines, strengthened the coast guard with more than 250 coast guard and marine boats, activated three riverine brigades, and called for the construction of more than ten ships. War Taxes

To comply with Plan Colombia, the Colombian government implemented a war tax that collected approximately US$8.5 billion in four collections between 1992 and 2010. These funds enabled the acquisition of the military equipment mentioned above. War on Drugs

Although the military was initially not interested in Plan Colombia, given the budget limitations after 9/11, the CMF saw an opportunity to strengthen themselves and agreed to participate actively in the war on drugs. In a way, the strategies used by traffickers to export drugs from Colombia generated operational needs in terms of maritime and air interdiction that, due to their capabilities, only the Colombian navy and air force could meet. All the branches of the armed forces received money from the United States. In the 1990s, the navy implemented the coast guard to interdict go-fast boats at sea; the army developed the Special Brigade Against Drug Trafficking to reduce coca leaf production; the police strengthened the Antinarcotics Police; and the air force developed a strategy for the interdiction and in-flight destruction of unidentified aircraft often used to transport illicit drugs. In the last twenty years, through joint operations, they have coordinated the manual eradication and fumigation of coca crops.

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Escalation of the Crisis with Venezuela

In the first decade of the twenty-first century, there was a wave of progressive governments in Latin America, which contrasted with governments of a markedly neoliberal nature in Colombia. In this regard, some neighboring countries’ governments provided financial and logistical support to guerrilla groups due to ideological affinity. In 2008, the Colombian government attacked a FARC base camp located in Ecuadorian territory, 1.5 kilometers from the border with Colombia, causing the death of the second in command of that guerrilla group. That event caused a severe diplomatic crisis between the countries of the region and served as an excuse for then president of Venezuela Hugo Chavez to accuse Colombia of being a military threat. Since then, there has been a tense calm between the two nations, marked by military overflights, armed incursions by members of the Venezuelan armed forces into Colombian territory, and periodic closures of the borders of both countries. Colombia has led the effort to condemn the regime’s abuses of power in Venezuela and has given unreserved support to the United States’ efforts to oust President Nicolás Maduro from power in that country. Colombian president Duque promoted the activation of the Inter-American Treaty of Reciprocal Assistance as a defense mechanism against possible Venezuelan military aggression. It stipulates that all parties “agree that an armed attack by any State against an American State shall be considered as an attack against all the American States” (OAS 1947).

Legitimizing Militarization in Colombia There are several reasons why Latin American political leaders choose to use the military in such activities rather than external security. Latin America scholars have noted that the growing problems of insecurity (Dammert and Bailey 2005; Sansó-Rupert 2013; UNDP 2013b), for example, or the lack of police personnel (Whiters, Santos, and Isacson 2010) and the low public confidence in the police contrast notably with the high level of public confidence in the military (Bayley and Perito 2010; Observatorio Social 2013; UNDP 2013b). These rationales contribute to an interconnected network of causes that evince some of the indirect reasons, such as the role of the neoliberal mind-set in addressing development and security problems (Sansó-Rupert 2013), as well

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as the role of the war on drugs that stresses an increase in military capabilities to prohibit the circulation of drugs (Dammert and Bailey 2005; Sansó-Rupert 2013). Colombian administrations have used most of these reasons, if not all, to justify the use of the military. At least four discursive mechanisms for legitimation help to support it: (1) demonization of illegal actors; (2) securitization of the political, economic, and social agenda; (3) instrumental rationalization of the effectiveness and popularity of the armed forces; and (4) a hypothetical future like that of Venezuela if the guerrilla groups gain power. Demonization

The Cold War set up the first reactions to the insurgent phenomenon and the anti-Communist discourse in the 1960s. In a largely Catholic country, where the church exercised strong political influence, the classic dichotomous discourse of demonization/glorification (Lasswell 1938) played a fundamental role in mobilizing society. For that reason, the political discourse shaped the idea of an evil enemy that sought to undermine the nation’s foundations and values. The intention to impose new values was part of the persuasion offered by the civilian elites who acted to mobilize support from society. As pointed out by Leal and Dávila (2010) and Andrade (2011), politics and religion in Colombia have always gone hand in hand. Indeed, the 1886 Constitution, in force until 1991, recognized Catholicism as the country’s official religion. It was the basis for establishing a concordat agreement that endured between 1887 and 1993. In this sense, the guerrilla groups and liberal ideas represented imminent dangers that had to be fought until they were controlled. The biased vision of the others as barbaric promotes their destruction at all costs. Some implications in the Colombian social mind-set include their objectification, the use of terms that denigrate their dignity as human beings, the emergence of discursive euphemisms when undertaking warlike actions, the delegitimation of peace negotiations, and the elimination of any possibility of their recognition as political actors, categorizing them as terrorists and demanding their defeat by military means. Actions of the guerrilla groups, which over time became increasingly violent, helped to feed the population’s feelings of rejection and further encouraged support for government use of military means to contain them. Of the country’s 1,096 municipalities, 569 were attacked

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between 1965 and 2013 (CNMH 2016). During the same time, there were 11,841 victims of antipersonnel mines and unexploded ordnance. This problem left 80.5 percent (9,536) injured and 19.5 percent (2,305) dead; 39 percent were civilians (AICMA 2020). They also disrupted traffic on the roads to kidnap people and demand ransom to support the war effort. Approximately 39,668 people were kidnapped between 1970 and 2012 (Ugarriza and Pabón 2017). Whiters, Santos, and Isacson (2010); Observatorio Social (2013); and Haugaard and Kinosian (2015) claimed that, because of the United States’ presence, the end of the Cold War did not bring to an end the Cold War mind-set (friend/enemy). Indeed, this type of mind-set has been useful in the move from the Cold War to the war on drugs and, more recently, to the war on terror. Securitization

As Goldstein argues, since 9/11 “security has usurped the discourses of the present, displacing all other phenomena to the margins of public scrutiny,” and securitization plays a role as “an indicator of the political power of the speaker demonstrated by his or her ability to declare something a security threat and to have that declaration recognized publicly as legitimate” (2010, 492). He used the Colombian case to show how the national security policy implemented by Uribe’s government in 2002 was directly related to the use of fear, in the classic Hobbesian sense, to mobilize the population’s support for the securitization of many aspects of daily life. The Democratic Security Policy (DSP) was President Uribe’s response to the previous government’s failed attempt to negotiate peace with the FARC. With this policy, security became an essential right that Colombians should enjoy, a way of deepening democracy in the country (Goldstein 2010; Rivero 2009). It entailed five strategic objectives: (1) consolidation of state control of the territory, (2) protection of the population, (3) elimination of the illegal drug trade, (4) maintenance of a dissuasive capacity and efficiency, and (5) transparency and accountability. Tickner (2005) pointed out that in the Colombian case, securitization discourse of the economic and political agendas played a crucial role in gaining popular support for the use of legitimate force to eradicate widespread violence. Regarding the political agenda, the discourse uses security as a goal to achieve. The direct relation of insecurity to the above-mentioned violent acts made the use of force to diminish them the most viable solution to guarantee

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the population’s freedom and tranquility. In the early 2000s, for most of the population (80 percent in opinion polls), insecurity and economic issues were the most significant concerns (Gallup Colombia 2020). The security discourse succeeded in capturing this widespread desire to the extent that it managed to gather more than three million voluntary informants. It also obtained support in 2003 to implement the “peasant” soldiers, who protected their regional communities from guerrilla attacks through support and information received from their families and friends. Exceptional support occurred in some areas of the country, where even knowing they would occur, the population, out of fear, did not report the possible occurrence of such attacks. Securitization of the economic agenda also meant gaining the support of Bogotá’s elites. It was important because, since independence, the struggle between regional elites and those in the capital contributed to a fragmented state and society marked by high rates of inequality and extensive development gaps among geographical regions (Palacios and Safford 2012). President Uribe came from those regional elites and initially was not well received in Bogotá. Security has the role of incorporating part of the country’s “forgotten” territories into the international agricultural and mining markets. The guerrilla groups executed more than 3,000 attacks on the country’s energy and road infrastructure, affecting the economy. The main discursive idea was that the violent threats to the economy needed to be overcome to build a better future. It led to a strategy that demanded a security provision in those territories as a prerequisite for investor confidence. For the country’s most prominent economic groups, it was an excellent opportunity to increase their power. For local leaders, it also was an excellent opportunity to mobilize resources to develop their initiatives. This discourse facilitated economic elite support reforms, such as the war taxes. With that support, the national government deployed military troops following its priority interests. It met with little resistance from the population, the media, and even the military itself. Since 2003, the Colombian government has activated twenty-one Special Energy and Road Battalions that provide security for goods, roads, energy infrastructure, and strategic assets, including refineries, oil pipelines, hydroelectric plants, coal mines, railway lines, and the like. More than 70,000 members of the armed forces are dedicated to this task.

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Instrumental Rationalization As pointed out by Hitchcock (2010), “Instrumental rationality is rationality in the selection of means, or instruments, for achieving a definite goal.” In this case, this applies to the extent that political agents have used the popularity of the military as an instrument to achieve their ends in domestic politics. For example, they have defined drug trafficking as a threat to national security to use the military as a seemingly effective instrument to control this phenomenon. In contrast to the bad opinion of Colombians about institutions such as the judicial system, the Congress, the high courts, the General Prosecutor’s Office, and political parties, among others, the favorability of the CMF has not been below 60 percent in the last twenty years (Gallup Colombia 2020) and between 2003 and 2017 reached, on average, 61.97 percent in the confidence index of the AmericasBarometer. Likewise, they have the support of more than 81 percent to intervene in internal situations that affect security (Pantoja et al. 2016). During the last fifteen years, they have achieved important military actions that changed the armed conflict’s strategic balance, bringing several guerrilla groups to the negotiation table. The social capital achieved by the institution seems to explain why some politicians, usually of the party in power, support using the military to fight crime and lead social and economic development programs in regions far from the big cities (Ospina and Marks 2014). At the same time, drug trafficking has an impact on the destruction of the social fabric and on foreign relations and commerce. The United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC) reports that in 2019 Colombia had the largest area of coca leaf crops (around 200,000 hectares) and was the largest producer of cocaine hydrochloride in the world, with a potential capacity of production around 1,300 tons/year (MDN 2019, 26). Scholars estimate that the drug trade accounts for approximately 2 percent of Colombia’s GDP (US$6.3 billion out of the total GDP of US$309 billion). This illicit business alone has produced around 45,000 violent deaths (Atehortúa and Vélez 1994; R. Vargas 2004; Kaplan 2009; Cubides-Salazar 2014). During the internal armed conflict, the guerrilla groups used car bomb attacks and worked with drug traffickers. In response, the Colombian state, in conjunction with the United States, coined the term narcoterrorists to refer to members of those groups. This new discourse also served to change Washington’s position: initially, the

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war on drugs that started in the United States with Richard Nixon moved into the region with the rise of the Colombian cartels. The common interest of both governments fighting illicit drugs established a significant flow of foreign assistance resources focused on the institutional strengthening of the security forces. With the rise of narcoterrorists, though, Washington afforded US military assistance to Colombian military units and authorized the use of resources destined initially for the war on drugs to be used instead in the war on terror against guerrilla groups. As common sense is the foundation of this legitimation strategy, Colombian governments have used rationalization to show the utility of the armed forces as an actor to mitigate the problem. In the end, guerrilla groups, drug cartels, and other criminal organizations, leveraged by the enormous amount of money earned in the drug business, have developed complex criminal networks that permeate all sectors, promoting a culture of illegality and challenging Colombian progress, economy, and overall social welfare. Illicit drugs also have been the most significant cause of violence in many regions of the country. In other words, “the policymaker occasionally succumbs to the perverse political-electoral logic to create the impression of effectiveness against crime” (Sansó-Rupert 2013, 8). Hypothetical Future Discourse

The agitated political environment that Latin America has experienced in the first two decades of the twenty-first century has facilitated the construction of a hypothetical future discourse that legitimizes militarization. The social and humanitarian crisis in Venezuela, a product of the Chavez model, is connected to what was experienced in Cuba in the past with the Fidel Castro model and is projected as a hypothetical future for Colombia if the guerrillas manage to come to power through violence and repression. In some sense, such a hypothetical future is part of a riskification discourse, which is now understood as a separate speech act than securitization (Corry 2012); in other words, it acts as a precautionary principle in security matters. This discourse gained strength after 2016, when, following the signing of the agreement with the FARC, the referendum for its implementation was rejected. The risk that Colombia would become another Venezuela in crisis and the unpopularity of the insurgent groups were two of the key incentives for rejection. Likewise, it was an excellent motivator for President Duque’s victory in the 2018 presidential election. The

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idea of applying a firm hand when returning to the DSP model gained space and managed to give the victory to the party of former president Uribe. With this discourse, the president has, contrary to the Juan Manuel Santos administration, prioritized security over peace as central to the public agenda. This has meant more military offensive operations against guerrilla groups and criminal organizations with the support of an extensive part of the population.

Democratic Control of the Military The relationship between militarization discourses and democratic civilian control has at least four elements for discussion. The first has to do with how the structure of power relations shaped by cooperation between civilian elites has allowed them to exercise control over the military by delving into the above-mentioned discourse of militarization, demonization, and securitization (Ruhl 1981; Tickner 2005; Rodriguez 2018). The second relates to the fact that these power structures have also promoted subordination by the military through forms of interaction that have varied with political movements, including the application of various mechanisms of intrusion (Dávila 1999; Bruneau and Goetze 2019). Third, the rational instrumentalization that originated from military distrust of civilians (Watson 2000), the historical evolution of that relationship, and the overarching perception of the military’s inefficacy at the end of the 1990s (Ospina and Marks 2014; Bruneau and Goetze 2019) led the military to promote modernization of the CMF based on two key aspects: legitimacy in action (Ospina 2014) and compliance with international humanitarian law (Kalmanovitz 2018) as a means to win the war against guerrilla groups and transnational organized crime. This new perspective bolstered both the role of the United States in Colombia and the demands for legality derived from its military assistance (Watson 2000; Rodriguez 2018). It also contributed to the military’s voluntary submission to obey the political will in the defense sector. Finally, the media has contributed so that the governments in power can learn of anomalous situations and develop measures to investigate and exert control over the military organization. This has been particularly important in the last fifteen years, in which the most serious scandals have originated in the military institution and accusations by human rights NGOs of possible human rights violations have been made. In this regard, taking a broad view of civil-military relations, the judicial system has also played a fundamental role in this

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development. All this has meant that, despite the military’s involvement in the internal conflict and contrary to theory, its intervention in politics has been minimal, and civilian control prevails in the country. In consolidated democracies, the natural order of things is that domestic deployment enhances the military’s power. This is not the case, though, in some places around the globe where the political process runs differently. Colombia is one of these cases. Regarding Colombian civil-military relations, it is widely thought that during the second half of the twentieth century, civilian elites and the military established a covenant to address national security issues. According to this mainstream view, the covenant gave the military full autonomy in national security issues and challenged civilian control (Atehortúa and Vélez 1994; Isacson 2009; Dávila 1999). However, although one cannot speak of an ideal subordination of the military to civilian authority, in several episodes of tensions between civilian and military elites, civilians have been able to exercise control over the armed forces using a different set of intrusive and nonintrusive mechanisms (Feaver 2003). Overall, they have been successful in imposing their political will and maintaining their freedom in national security decisions. The military mind-set was that of discipline vis-à-vis the politicians. Rather than the military pushing civilians to the sidelines, civilian elites have co-opted the power of the state and dominated the discourse of solving problems using force not as a last available resource but rather as part of the way of governing (Garay et al. 2008). Elites’ Structure and Civil Control

Civil elites’ role at different times in Colombia’s history is key to understanding their control over the military even when the militarization process became important. As Tenorio-Trillo (2018) recalls, evoking a couplet from the nineteenth century, “Colombia is a country of unique things, where civilians give war and the military, peace.” It is crucial to describe the civilian elites’ configuration and how they have managed to control power to understand this. Colombia has a unique political structure based on close cooperation between the elites that have led the process of militarization. Exclusion, cooperation, and solidarity among them have been, among other things, powerful mechanisms that have allowed them to maintain control over the land, the economic apparatus, the organs of justice, and the exercise of political power at both national and local levels (Stone 2016). Ruhl investigated some particularities of the Colombian civil-military relations during

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the second half of the twentieth century, when military coups occurred throughout Latin America, and pointed out that “the Colombian military remains obedient to civilian authority because the civilian political elite continues to demonstrate its unity, its governmental capabilities, and its substantial popular support” (1981, 142). Rodriguez reached a similar conclusion when analyzing the situation at the end of the twentieth century and the beginning of the twenty-first century about how this political unity allowed for “framing counterinsurgency in terms of security facilitated by civilian militarism—where the banner of ‘security’ meant ‘war’—effectively collapsing distinctions between war and security in practice and enabling a highly militarized society” to keep control over the military (2018, 119). By the end of the twentieth century, the urban elites of merchants, bankers, and media owners acquired the greatest power within this configuration and assumed the management of national politics. The poor infrastructure, however, and the lack of state presence in peripheral regions allowed traditional landowners and regional elites to gain local autonomy and exercise great power locally. With the economic opening in the 1990s and the high public investment at the beginning of the twenty-first century, technical and bureaucratic elites somehow were able to permeate this configuration. Among them, bureaucracies linked to the exercise of justice acquired great importance. This configuration facilitated a discourse of demonization and securitization and allowed the arrangements to pay war taxes once guerrillas became a real threat for the urban centralist elites. This, as mentioned by Kuehn and Trinkunas (2017), is very unusual for the region. As can be seen, military leaders have never been among the country’s elites despite their active participation in the country’s political life. Against this background, the military’s maneuvering power was limited. Civilian Intrusion to Enhance Civilian Control

Maintaining civilian control in a militarized environment means also considering the intrusive and nonintrusive mechanisms that different governments have developed. They have used power strategies such as the dismissal of high-ranking officers, the generation of interservice rivalry, especially between the armed forces and the National Police, and detailed supervision and monitoring of the actions of the CMF during the internal armed conflict. In the last fifty years, more than thirty generals, admirals, and colonels have been removed from service by government order for

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commenting on or contesting government policies on national security. The most important are the following:

1. The forced retirement by President León Valencia of General Alberto Ruiz Novoa in 1965 after his proposing, as minister of defense, a social plan to solve the incipient problems of internal violence 2. The retirement of General Álvaro Valencia Tovar in 1975 when he controverted President Alfonso López Michelsen 3. The resignation of General Fernando Landazabal Reyes as minister of defense in 1984 4. The forced retirement of General Harold Bedoya as general commander of the military forces in 1997 after he opposed President Andrés Pastrana’s peace negotiation with the FARC 5. The forced retirement by President Uribe of Generals Roberto Pizarro, Duván Pineda, Luis García, and Hernan Cadavid in 2005 for resisting changes in the way the military forces operate 6. The departure ordered by President Santos in 2014 of General Leonardo Barrero (general commander) for making comments against judicial officials investigating military personnel

These dismissals’ systematic nature shows how the government has been able to exercise its capacity to withdraw senior officers at will without radically changing the relationship between civilians and the military organization. Another important point is the change made by President Pastrana in 1991 when he began to appoint civilian defense ministers after more than forty years of military ministers. While this might seem an element of demilitarization, in this case, it meant the opposite. Rodriguez (2018) and Bruneau and Goetze (2019) showed how the ministry became politicized, as did security and defense issues, since they were key in both the country’s electoral processes and in democratic civilian control. As shown in the ministry’s reports to Congress between 1998 and 2014, and as noted by Bruneau and Goetze (2019), this also meant that civilian defense ministers would increase the monitoring of the administrative and operational activities of the military. First, there was procurement control in the late 1990s. Then, in the mid-2000s, there was the implementation of rules of engagement (MDN 2007) for decisions on the use of force. Some operations, such as the bombing of guerrilla camps, required consultation. According to these ministerial directives, the decisionmaking

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power to execute the bombing operation lies with the president of the republic (Mejia 2019). In the same way, Ministerial Directive 014 of 2011 and its replacement directive 015 of 2016, as well as the intelligence law of 2013, are structural pieces in the scope of military activities authorized by the government to fight crime and to ensure compliance. Today, practically every management, operational, or control process has a medium or high level of civilian supervision. Voluntary Obedience (Subordination) of the Military

Based on this previously explained infrastructure, even when the military has been deployed to address domestic threats, it has understood that legitimacy is crucial to “winning the battle” and has therefore obeyed civilian orders. To explain this apparent contradiction, four aspects of this decision must be understood. First, after the military government of General Gustavo Rojas Pinilla (1953–1957), the military understood that its intervention in politics was always going to be used by the elites to evade political responsibility for the country’s lack of governance. This experience was complemented with lessons about the adverse effects on the military organization of the authoritarian governments in different Latin American countries in the 1980s. Therefore, as Watson (2000) and Dávila (1999) have pointed out, not even in the worst-case scenario of the 1990s, when the country was at risk of failure, did the military consider a severe intervention in politics. Second, it was precisely this crisis in the country, caused, among other things, by the lack of military effectiveness against guerrilla groups, paramilitaries, and drug cartels, that led to the search for solutions to change the situation from a military perspective. Although not total, the autonomy given to the military by some governments allowed the construction of the first process for transformation. As described by Ospina and Marks (2014), legitimacy became the center of gravity for the military to impose itself in the conflict between the state and the guerrilla groups. The one recognized as legitimate will be the one who gets the support of the population. That legitimacy included obedience to the constitution and elected civilian authorities. The military began to appear as the most reliable institution, along with the church, and that generated a positive response from the government and the people, so obedience was the right choice. Third, as Kalmanovitz (2018) has showed, it was only when the government began to implement the rules of engagement and human

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rights guidelines that the military understood the importance of international humanitarian law. By that time, by the mid-2000s, a good number of officers were already facing legal proceedings for alleged violations and fundamental failures in legal proceedings against illegal actors. This led to the military’s reinforcement of operational guidelines and their evolution into leading advocates for the implementation of operational law and the rules of international humanitarian law. Finally, the fourth aspect is related to why the government implemented these types of control mechanisms. As already mentioned, Plan Colombia was key to modifying the balance of forces in the conflict. In exchange for assistance, as Bruneau and Goetze (2019) and Rodriguez (2018) point out, the US government imposed clear rules of the game regarding transparency in the management of these resources and the protection of human rights in operations involving these resources. Therefore, the government opted to strengthen the ministry’s action in administering resources and operational control. The military weighed the benefits associated with strengthened capacities and the implementation of the rules of war in the Colombian conflict. Throughout this analysis, the US government and the American advisers of the military group were crucial. Vertical Democratic Control

Concerning vertical democratic control, it is clear that the structural problems of the Colombian democracy of exclusion also affect the defense sector. The amendment to the constitution in 1991 made no significant changes in the military (Cabarcas 2011; Palau 1993; Schultze-Kraft 2012; Torres del Rio 2000; A. Vargas 2006) but did transform citizen participation in public decisions. Still, though, citizen participation in the defense sector’s decisions is marginal. The reports submitted by the Ministry of Defense to Congress reflect that most of the requests dealt with by the customer service office are related to personal, not sectorial, matters. In Colombia, the process of deliberation on security and defense issues developed hermetically on the grounds of national security. There are no think tanks or research centers specializing in the subject. Furthermore, those interested in these processes do not have access to the information essential for such research. Information leaks and intelligence activities of the guerrilla groups have limited access to such data for people outside the sector. In this sense, the media have been vital in controlling militarization as they have brought to light valuable information and procure-

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ment scandals involving high-ranking officers and political leaders with accusations of a wide array of illegal activities. A prime example is a scandal that the news magazine SEMANA revealed about an army office that apparently executed a clandestine operation in 2014. It included illegal wiretapping and illegal access to information and electronic correspondence of government delegates to the Havana peace talks between the Colombian government and FARC as well as politicians and journalists. In the aftermath, two generals were suspended. Then, two weeks after this scandal, on February 16, SEMANA published recordings in which a colonel prosecuted for human rights violations was talking with high-ranking officers about the negative attitudes of officials of the Office of the Attorney General. SEMANA also revealed other audiotapes of him talking with civilian contractors of the army and the defense department about how to broker illegal contracts. As a result, President Santos requested the demission of seven generals, including the joint commander of the armed forces. The levels of violence and the deviant actions of some members of the Colombian armed forces have led to the emergence of multiple victims and human rights groups that are consistently reporting on these possible behaviors. This has forced the judicial bodies receiving these complaints to act and has somehow promoted more rigorous implementation of the above-mentioned operational law measures. Some of these complaints have led to the discovery of situations that severely impacted the credibility of the forces. More than 2,000 officers have applied to the Special Justice for Peace implemented by the agreement signed with the FARC. Interventions by the media and NGOs have encouraged the government to implement more control actions such as those already mentioned. They have also led to demands for more accountability and transparency directed to the communities and the government’s management control bodies. In terms of civilian control, this has helped to strengthen civic action over military institutions and to implement programs to strengthen democratic values for the members of the CMF.

Conclusion Colombia is a very particular case study of militarization, the use of force, and democratic control over the military. The threats it faces, the regional and national complexity, and the limitations it imposes on the political process are part of this.

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There are three types of threats—guerrilla, organized crime, and traditional interstate threats—that work together to impose challenges on the state (Borrero 2018). From the Colombian perspective, drug trafficking is an important phenomenon that articulates all of the external and internal security threats. Shared interests between the Bolivarian Venezuelan government, insurgent groups, and drug lords around drug trafficking have been used to reach their goals. In Colombia, the typical response by different governments to these hybrid threats has been to deploy the military and police forces. While most governments, aware of the country’s social and economic problems, have left the door open to combating violence by nonviolent means, such as comprehensive development programs to reduce poverty and inequality and to increase illicit crop substitution, there is enough evidence to support the contention that the military solution has been privileged. There are at least four discursive mechanisms for legitimation that help to support it: (1) demonization of illegal actors, which includes moral dichotomization; (2) securitization of the political, economic, and social agenda represented in the way DSP works to militarize society with a discourse of democratization; (3) instrumental rationalization of the effectiveness and popularity of the armed forces and the importance of the war on drugs; and (4) a hypothetical future to become like Venezuela if the guerrilla groups gain power. Alignment of the citizens’ interests and the government discourse worked to allow support from different sources for governmental militarization strategies. From these discursive forms of militarization, democratic civilian control has been challenged in recent years. It has been shown, though, that even the military’s deployment to address internal threats can reinforce or at least preserve civilian control when certain conditions are met. These include a power structure that imposes, through different mechanisms, its will to act; a genuine intention by the military to subordinate itself to civilian power, understanding its limited room for maneuver; the need to have widespread support to impose itself in the domestic confrontation; and the role that legitimacy plays for that purpose. In the case of Colombia, the use of international military assistance to influence relations between civilians and the military is essential. Colombian elites have built a political infrastructure that allows such assistance, and its military has recognized the importance of distance from the ruling class and the tensions between corrupt political decisions and constitutional aims.

7 El Salvador: Old Habits Die Hard Sabine Kurtenbach and Désirée Reder

El Salvador’s recent history is shaped by the experience of war, formally successful democratization, and the persistence of high levels of violence mostly classified as criminal or social. Twelve years of civil war (1980–1992) caused at least 75,000 deaths and forced one-fifth of the population to flee the country. In 1992, the government and the Frente Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional (FMLN, Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front) signed a comprehensive peace agreement that was praised as a “negotiated revolution” (Karl 1992). The so-called Chapultepec peace accord envisioned a process of demobilization of the guerrillas as well as profound reforms of state security institutions, such as the downsizing of the Fuerzas Armadas de El Salvador (FAES, Salvadoran Armed Forces), the establishment of a new civilian police force (Policía Nacional Civil, PNC), and reforms to the judiciary. The missions of the FAES and the PNC were clearly separated. In the following years, El Salvador served as a blueprint for the liberal peacebuilding paradigm promoted by the United Nations Secretary-General in An Agenda for Peace (Boutros-Ghali 1992). International democracy indices such as the Polity IV Index have since constantly ranked El Salvador as a consolidated democracy. At second glance, the ostensible success story of the transformation out of war fades due to the excessively high levels of homicide, criminal violence, and repressive strategies applied in public security. In clear violation of the peace agreement, 117

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the Salvadoran governments of both major parties have continuously used exceptional legislation to send the military into the streets to “support” the police. Promoted by the United States, El Salvador’s democratization process had already started amid the war but without institutional change in the security sector and with only limited electoral participation until the end of the war. In 1992, a process of disarmament, demobilization, and reintegration (DDR) of former guerrilla members started, as did a purge and a numeric reduction of the armed forces. The first postwar elections in 1994 broadened the political spectrum that until then had been limited to the Center and the Right. These and the following elections were mostly free and fair, and the FMLN, now a left-wing political party, increased its vote share significantly and emerged as the second-strongest party. In 2009 and 2014, two of its candidates were even elected president. However, despite regular elections and ostensible advancements of democratization, the Salvadoran success story is heavily marred by the persistence of high levels of postwar violence. El Salvador has a history of high levels of interpersonal violence: according to Walter (2018), the average homicide rate was 33 per 100,000 inhabitants between 1950 and 1970. Even concerning these already high prewar homicide rates, postwar violence has remained extremely high (Figure 7.1). There is a broad debate on the causes of these manifestations of violence. Linking them to drug trafficking, all postwar governments identified youth gangs (maras) as the main perpetrators of violence. 1 Without doubt, these gangs are brutal and violent—but they could not have flourished and grown without the extremely fertile conditions of exclusion and inequality that shape the context of postwar El Salvador. Neither are these groups the only ones using extralegal force (Aguilar 2019, 24). State actors, especially the police, armed forces, and paramilitaries, contribute to these exorbitant homicide rates, often targeting marginalized youth claiming they are members or suspected members of youth gangs. Marginalized youth thus remain principal actors, as well as the main victims of violence, as the state’s security policy is dominated by violent repression. While the governments of the right-wing party Alianza Republicana Nacionalista (ARENA, Nationalist Republic Alliance)2 have traditionally relied on violent repressive measures, the FMLN was expected to develop different strategies. It recognized the social and economic causes of violence; nevertheless, except during a

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Figure 7.1 Homicide Rate, 1994–2017

Source: “Intentional Homicides (per 100,000 people),” UN Office on Drugs and Crime’s International Homicide Statistics Database, World Bank, https://data.worldbank .org/indicator/Vc.ihr.PSrc.P5 (accessed September 10, 2019).

short cease-fire between the gangs in 2012 and 2013, it promoted and even intensified highly repressive policies during the administrations of the two FMLN presidents (Aguilar 2016). This chapter examines the conditions that have set the Salvadoran governments on their repressive path, how the administrations have legitimized militarized security policies, and how this has affected the country’s democratic accountability. We argue that despite contextual changes such as the ending of the civil war, the emergence of other forms of crime, the main structures of power, the patterns of militarization, and the militarization of the discourse have remained relatively constant in El Salvador. In El Salvador, where the bonds between old elites and the military are traditionally strong, the strategy to preserve power despite transition included militarization, and the main drivers of the militarization of public security are related to the persistence of the traditional “oligarchic elite” (Pearce 2018) and the co-optation of the former rebels from the FMLN. These conditions fit the interests of the military-civilian elite that uses the security discourse to generate fear and to legitimize the militarization of internal security and maintain traditional power relations. We argue that these practices resemble the path dependent reproduction of militarization and repression. This analysis shows

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how the critical juncture of the peace agreement and its implementation lost momentum early on and could not be recovered after the formerly guerrilla FMLN came into office. Two interlinked elements explain the continuity of militarization and repression: (1) discursive strategies criminalizing political opponents and marginalized groups, and (2) impunity for gross human rights abuses during the war and afterward, safeguarding the autonomy of the military as well as the reconfiguration of its alliance with the economic elite.

Elites, Institutions, and the Limits to Meaningful Change The role of elites in the transformation out of war as well as during democratization has been widely discussed (Acemoglu and Robinson 2008; Cheng, Goodhand, and Meehan 2018). Especially the relationship between elites and institutional change is of significance in democratization processes. Elites tend to choose institutions that benefit them economically and allow them to maintain political power. Consequently, elites will try to shape institutions for their own benefit and use these to steer (economic) resources in their own direction (Robinson 2010). This explains the high persistence of existing power relations and institutions, which is often summarized as “path dependence.” Nonetheless, institutions may change in the context of “critical junctures.” Critical junctures are “moments in which uncertainty as to the future of an institutional arrangement allows for political agency and choice to play a decisive causal role in setting an institution on a certain path of development” (Capoccia 2015, 148). In order to understand why a given society has a certain set of institutions and why these either change or persist, we need to consider the historical background. Only by thoroughly reviewing the history can we identify dominant elites and investigate how they have persisted or changed and influenced institutions (Robinson 2010, 3). Although elites might be replaced, this does not necessarily mean that a substantial change occurs. Robinson extends Michels’s (1915) iron law of oligarchy with the notion of path dependence. On the one hand, the new elites’ choices depend on the actions of their predecessors (Robinson 2010, 4–5). On the other, the new elites may be subject to the same structural and institutional constraints. Constitutions adopted by the authoritarian regime are an

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important mechanism for elite survival in a democratic transition (Albertus 2019). This can lead to the continuation of policies. While reform of core state institutions (especially of the security sector) is complicated in nonwar contexts of democratization, the challenges in postwar societies are increased by the existence of nonstate armed actors that might aspire to become part of the state security institutions or need to be disarmed and integrated into society. Likewise, members of the former state-institutions, which are to be reformed or replaced, need to be professionalized and integrated into the new institutions. This process is highly contentious as all sides fear for their power, status, and/or personal security. Hence, those involved might seek to secure their position and maintain the status quo. Historical institutionalism provides a theoretical framework to investigate the interaction between institutional reform, existing “social coalitions” (P. Hall 2016, 39–42), and power relations (Pierson 2016; Moe 2005). This analysis is key to identify and explain continuity and change in the public policies these institutions undertake. Pierson (2016, 125–126) emphasizes the need to examine the time dimension of these developments as well as the fact that specific arrangements tend to favor the interests of political coalitions shaping the reforms. At the same time, he highlights three interrelated dimensions of power: (1) open contestation, (2) agenda control and anticipated reactions, and (3) ideational shifts or changing beliefs. Translated to the contexts of postwar institutional reform, these three dimensions of power call for the analysis of 1. the causes of war as an evident form of open contestation; 2. the power relations shaping the reform agenda as outlined in peace agreements or other forms of elite bargains; 3. continuity and change regarding the main issues at stake in war and afterward in the transition.

In the Salvadoran context, where the bonds between old elites and the military have traditionally been strong (Stanley 1996), the strategy to preserve power despite transition is likely to include militarization. Militarization in El Salvador can be observed in two forms: first, the deployment of military personnel in tasks attributed to the police according to the peace agreement, and second, the adoption of military practices and weaponry by police units. Both

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practices violate the peace agreement and need to be legitimized in the political discourse. Based on these considerations, the following section analyzes reforms of the security sector in El Salvador during and after the war. We will limit our analysis to the main security institutions—the military and the police.3

War, the Militarization of Public Security, and Security-Sector Reform El Salvador’s civil war was mostly about political, social, and economic marginalization of large parts of the population and the dominance of the infamous “fourteen families” and their alliance with the military. Although military and economic elites kept competing for control of the state, facing protest and contestation they formed an alliance to consolidate and strengthen their influence and power. In the early decades after Salvadoran independence, the military served as an armed actor to enforce cheap labor for large landowners, suppressing protests by the economically marginalized. After economic reforms, which endangered the privileged position of the military (Stanley 1996, 47), a coup put the military in control of the government in 1931. The ties between the military and the social and economic elite grew stronger due to the increasing activities by unions and the Communist Party. A first open contestation came in January 1932 when mostly indigenous poor campesinos (peasants) and landless rural workers protested against the politics of land dispossession.4 The social and economic elite felt threatened by this large-scale contestation of the status quo (Stanley 1996, 54). The military, the National Guard, and the National Police (NP) murdered close to 30,000 people in what entered El Salvador’s history as La Matanza (the massacre). During the following decades, the traditional elite and the military developed a division of labor, with the military controlling the state apparatus, while the oligarchy dominated the economy and society for the next fifty years. Although the traumatic experience of mass violence in 1932 hindered open contestation for decades, new political actors such as the Christian Democratic Party (Partido Demócrata Cristiano, PDC) emerged in the 1960s as part of a process of social change, characterized by relatively competitive elections, changing

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economic policies, and respectable levels of growth. Again, the contestation of the status quo faced violent repression. Even before the war started, the military killed tens of thousands of civilians (Peceny and Stanley 2010). A short interlude of a reform-oriented civil-military alliance failed to introduce profound changes, leading to a full-scale civil war between 1979 and 1982 (Montgomery 1995; Stanley 1996). During the war, power relations between the main actors changed. Economic and military aid by the United States,5 as well as military control of nationalized enterprises, empowered the FAES significantly. The traditional oligarchic elite lost some of its power due to political reforms introduced by the short-lived reformist civil-military government (1979–1980) and the promotion of limited democratization by the US Congress after 1983. An agrarian reform expropriated landholdings above 500 hectares, but meaningful changes were prevented by landowners subdividing their estates among family members. As a reaction, for the first time in Salvadoran history, the oligarchic elite established a formal political party, ARENA, in 1981. The military lost direct control of the state except for the realm of public security as a result of the 1982 elections, which gave ARENA and its allies control of the National Assembly but not of the presidency.6 The lack of substantial change and the ongoing repression strengthened the armed opposition that had united in 1980 under the name of Frente Martí de Liberación Nacional. The FMLN organized major military guerrilla offensives and established operational control over some departments of the country and later even parts of the capital. In the mid-1980s, the FMLN was close to a military victory, which was only prevented by the increase of US military aid to the FAES (Stanley 1996; Montgomery 1995). The oligarchic elite increased its dominance by winning the presidential elections of 1989 when ARENA candidate Alfredo Cristiani defeated the Christian Democrat Napoléon Duarte. At the end of 1989, under the impression of a hurting military stalemate, the FMLN and the government started negotiations mediated by the United Nations. In January 1992, a comprehensive peace agreement was signed. The agreement envisioned profound reforms, including DDR of the FMLN combatants, a fundamental reform of the armed forces (including downsizing of the military and limitation of its mandate to the protection of the external borders), the establishment of a civilian police force responsible for public security, the

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establishment of a truth commission, and the broadening of political participation starting with the elections in 1994. Economic and social reforms were only vaguely addressed. The peace treaty thus introduced a new round of changes in power relations. At least theoretically, the military lost its remaining control of the state security apparatus, while the economic power of the elite remained untouched. At the same time, the FMLN became part of the political system and increased its vote shares constantly over the following elections (Moodie 2010; Wade 2016). While El Salvador served as the blueprint for the United Nations’ liberal peacebuilding paradigm, the implementation of the reforms envisioned by the peace agreement had mixed results at best. Reforms of the military and the police were highly contentious, and implementation was slow as the ARENA government continued to use the armed forces in public security. As early as 1993, the government sent the army to “secure” the coffee harvest (Plan Oro), a clear violation of the peace accord. While former FAES members were barred from recruitment into the PNC by the peace accord, this rule did not apply to former officers of the National Police. Circumventing the accords, several army personnel were transferred to the NP first and then made their way into the new PNC (Eide and Holm 2013, 19). Initially, the whole former Executive Antinarcotics Unit7 (430 officers) and the 140 members of the NP’s Special Investigations Unit were transferred wholesale into the new PNC even without going through the now obligatory human rights training and despite the fact that many of its members had been involved in illicit activities and gross human rights violations (Williams and Walter 1997, 179). The government’s lack of political will to comply with the peace agreement became evident when in 1994 ARENA used its control over parliament to pass a comprehensive amnesty for war atrocities. This took place only a few days after the truth commission had issued its report holding the FAES, and to a lesser extent its paramilitary allies, responsible for over 85 percent of gross human rights violations (Betancur, Planchart, and Buergenthal 1993). Accordingly, the amnesty rendered many reforms nonviable as it allowed personnel continuity in the new civilian police and a lack of judicial reform (Kurtenbach 2019). Consequently, high levels of impunity persist for war as well as postwar crimes. Due to its close alliance with the military and pro-government death squads,8 ARENA had a clear interest

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in stalling reform, preserving the status quo, and recuperating what it lost in the peace accord (interview, San Salvador, March 13, 2017). The same actors (the militaries, the political Right, and the United States) that had historically manipulated the old security bodies behind the scenes started to do the same with the newly created PNC right after its creation (Silva Ávalos 2014). Furthermore, since its founding days, the PNC’s capacity was constrained by limited resources and chronic underfunding (Johnson 1993, 2). Even seventeen years after the foundation of the PNC, reports revealed not only the lack in numbers but also in basic equipment such as gloves and boots for police personnel (Yashar 2018, 217–219). When FMLN candidate Mauricio Funes won the presidency in 2009, there were initial signs that change could occur. During the election campaign, he promoted a public security approach, including more programs for crime prevention, whereas the previous governments had focused solely on repression. In a speech on the twentieth anniversary of the peace agreement, Funes was the first postwar president to recognize the state’s responsibility for gross human rights violations. He also ordered that those responsible for these acts no longer be honored as “war heroes” (Alvarado 2015). Nevertheless, these initiatives for change were soon marginalized due to the high levels of violence and the dominance of the existing power structures. Funes ended up militarizing public security even more than his predecessors (Aguilar 2014, 2016). Although the military had been deployed in public security for the entire postwar history, these policies went much beyond. While under the ARENA administrations, the number of military personnel deployed in public security fluctuated over time it did not exceed 2,000 troops.9 During the Funes administration their number rose to between 6,200 and 11,200 soldiers (Aguilar 2019, 39). Now the military was deployed not only to assist the police but also to secure prisons, youth detention centers, and almost 800 public schools. Mirroring this development in clear violation of agreed reductions in the peace accords, military expenditures increased from $211 million to $269 million from 2004 to 2012 (Aguilar 2016). This material militarization of public security in El Salvador was epitomized by a high degree of personal continuity. Despite the peace accord provisions calling for a purge of the police and FAES personnel and for a clear separation between the two, amnesty laws and other maneuvers enabled many (former) militaries to remain in or

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become part of the new police force. With ARENA in the presidency until 2009, the political Right was able to ensure that the key posts within the PNC were filled from the beginning with its allies from the old security forces. Although the peace agreement excluded military personnel from the new PNC and placed it under civilian control, army officers and ex-officers dominated the command structure in the PNC (Silva Ávalos 2014) and were treated preferentially for promotions (Call 2007). This is also reflected at the top level, as exemplified by the appointments of Captain Óscar Armando Peña Durán in 1993 and of General David Munguía Payés in 2011 as ministers of justice and public security, as well as the appointment of General Francisco Salinas as director of the PNC in 2012.10

Politics Made for and by Business Elites The close ties between the economic elites and the political sphere were not interrupted by the democratization process and continued despite change in administrations. Accordingly, private business leaders often are at the same time public political actors influencing legislation either directly, as part of the government or political parties, or through business associations or think tanks (Bull and Aguilar-Støen 2019, 122). Accordingly, the Fundación Salvadoreña para el Desarollo Economico y Social (FUSADES, Salvadoran Foundation for Economic and Social Development) and the Asociación Nacional de la Empresa Privada (ANEP, National Association of Private Enterprise) were major players in lobbying for business interests with close ties to ARENA in particular. The economic program, adopted by President Cristiani in 1989, was designed by FUSADES. Representing the interests of major business owners as well as the banks, it established a neoliberal economic system. This is of little surprise as considerable parts of Cristiani’s cabinet were FUSADES members (Wade 2016, 118– 127)—a fact that was continued under Armando Calderón Sol’s administration (Melhado 1997, 94–95), where the businessmen pushed for privatization of the telecommunication and the energy sectors as well as a trade agreement with the United States (the Central American Free Trade Agreement) (Wade 2016, 122), which was ratified in 2004. During Francisco Flores’s administration, FUSADES’s impact remained undisputed but changed when Elías

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Antonio Saca became president of El Salvador. As Saca was the former president of ANEP (2001–2003), the influence of FUSADES diminished compared to that of ANEP. The FMLN and President Funes, caught between a rock and a hard place, needed to ally business influence with politics and, at the same time, establish a dialogue between business elites, civil society, and the government. Such attempts at dialogue, however, failed frequently, and as of 2011, the private sector’s influence was unmissable when El Salvador signed the Partnership for Growth with the United States (Wade 2016, 141–143). Although the direct influence of ANEP and FUSADES on the government declined, the business sector remained influential in the first FMLN administration via the so-called Amigos de Mauricio (Friends of Mauricio) (Martínez and Arauz 2009). When Salvador Sánchez Cerén took over the presidency, ANEP sought again to influence the government and especially security politics. This is illustrated by the collaboration between ANEP and Giuliani Security & Safety (GSS), the consulting firm of New York City’s ex-mayor Rudy Giuliani. In 2015 and 2017, ANEP organized presentations of GSS recommendations for public security to representatives of the government (Lohmuller 2015; La Prensa Gráfica 2017). Although adoption of the GSS plan was officially denied, the government’s iron-fist strategy resembled the consultation firm’s proposal. The existence of blurred lines between politicians and business elites continued despite the change of administrations and assured business friendly politics. Hence, the ties between the two spheres were and remain strong up to this day.

The Discursive Construction of Threat The military’s role expansion was made possible by a moral panic on crime, which has been used by Salvadoran governments ever since the end of war. Even though the threat of crime was real, the security budget was disproportionate to the reality, and the strategies were exclusively repressive. Creating an atmosphere of fear had various effects: It allowed the governments to divert attention from other social and political problems or scandals and was used to create public support in the run-up to elections and to secure the power positions of (political and economic) elites and their military

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peers. Furthermore, it facilitated and legitimized the militarization of public security. The country’s media have played an essential role in disseminating these discourses ever since. Traditionally, the Salvadoran media landscape has been characterized by strong links to both the business sector and right-wing political parties. Two families have dominated the market over the last century: La Prensa Gráfica, the country’s biggest newspaper, is owned by the Dutríz family, while the Altamirano family owns its greatest competitor, El Diario de Hoy. Ideologically, both media houses can be allocated to the right or ultraright end of the spectrum (Huhn, Oettler, and Peetz 2009), with strong links to ARENA and the economic oligarchy,11 reflecting the interests of both (Freedman 2012). The interweaving between politics, the economic sector, and the media is further embodied by Antonio Saca, who, before becoming El Salvador’s president (2004–2009), was president of the Radio Broadcasters Association (1997–2001), then ANEP president (2001–2003). The country’s radio sphere is controlled by five business groups. Saca and his wife were the largest and second-largest shareholders of the biggest one (SAMEX), while Saca’s cousin dominated the second-biggest group (Corporación FM) (Freedman 2012). El Salvador’s security discourse follows two dynamics: power politics and path dependence. As discussed above, the historically close ties between the oligarchy and the military survived the political transformation after the end of civil war. This continuity can also be observed in the dominant security discourse that legitimizes the existing security policy. A detailed analysis of the speeches of seven Salvadoran presidents between 1981 and 2016 (Reder 2017) shows that presidents have strategically constructed or dramatized threats and thereby created an atmosphere of fear within the population. First the insurgent peasants, later guerrillas labeled as “Marxists,” and today youth gangs and maras have been framed by the political elites as posing a threat to El Salvador’s peace, economy, tranquility, and stability. The underlying motive was to distract the public from other political problems (e.g., the economic situation), to justify their policies, and to maneuver strategically in the run-up to elections (Reder 2017). Especially after the signing of the peace accord and the related democratization process, the continued use of the military in internal security required legitimization. Hence, political decisionmakers had to justify their decision to equip the police with military means or to broaden the military’s scope, includ-

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ing public security. The Salvadoran security discourse centers on presenting a major threat that requires the state to apply “consequent” repressive measures, including the deployment of the FAES internally to defend the nation, the state, the peace, and especially the citizens. The limited operational capability of the PNC was used to justify the use of the military (see below). In this framing, the decisionmakers’ responsibility for the police’s bad equipment and a lack of preventive policies were ignored. Throughout Latin America, governments coined the term seguridad ciudadana (citizen security) in the 1990s and early 2000s. This term was supposed to broaden the meaning of security and is somehow related to the concept of human security fostered by the United Nations (UNDP 2013a). Citizen security has the positive connotation of demilitarizing public security (Chinchilla 2003) and embracing preventive policies. However, Peetz (2011) finds that the concept has an effect on the general security perception, implying that the physical integrity of all citizens is equally endangered. This spread the fear that anyone could be the next victim, including oneself or one’s family members. However, the expression also creates a “criminal other” that poses the threat. In this sense, “the concept and practice of seguridad ciudadana tend to create a difference between citizens who deserve protection and social groups considered to be a potential threat” (Peetz 2011, 1464). The arbitrary division into citizens and noncitizens has an impact on the understanding of who is entitled to civil rights and who is not. While the state is expected to protect the lives and rights of its citizens, this does not apply to noncitizens. This characterization of the threatening “criminal other” on the one hand, threatened citizens on the other, and the heroic state forces is predominant in Salvadoran political security discourses, legal texts, and media reports. Although evidence suggests that a majority of robberies, kidnappings, and homicides were not and are not being committed by gangs (UNODC 2007, 16–17, 37; IUDOP 2014, 19), all five postwar presidents singled out gangs as the principal threat to citizens’ security and linked them to transnational organized crime networks and drug trafficking (Reder, 2017). Since 1999, the framing has become even more exaggerated as gang members were framed as terrorists from then on. ARENA candidate Armando Calderón Sol was the first president elected after the war (1994–1999). He faced the challenge of comparatively high crime rates, as often observed in postwar countries,

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partly due to Salvadoran youths who had been deported from the United States. El Salvador was still preoccupied with postwar reconstruction, and no special assistance or reintegration measures were provided to the returnees. Without social affiliation and job opportunities, many of these young men engaged in illegal activities (Arana 2005). The government’s response to increasing crime included the internal deployment of the military, the tightening of laws especially for crimes committed by minors, and the broadening of police powers (e.g., house inspections without court warrant). These actions were against not only the peace agreement but also the provisions of the Salvadoran constitution. In this sense, the state continued to act beyond the democratic political range, although the war had ended. Likewise, the political security discourse centered on youth and street gangs and was reproduced and exaggerated by the media (Peetz 2008; Huhn, Oettler, and Peetz 2009). In his election campaign, presidential candidate Calderón Sol made crime and security his main topic. His campaign spot screened in late 1993 promised a better life for everyone secured by “increase[d] number[s] of police agents, trained and equipped to meet our needs to come through with our mission to give us all security” (as cited in Moodie 2010, 76). Two years later, as president, he openly declared that although the police were allegedly being successful in fighting crime, they were insufficiently equipped to get on top of the situation. He thus suggested that other state institutions should join the war against crime. Accordingly, as part of his Plan Guardián (February 1995), FAES was officially deployed to “support” the police in joint task groups (Aguilar 2016, 72). Calderón Sol’s successors, Francisco Flores (1999–2004) and Elías Antonio Saca (2004–2009) (both ARENA), continued the militarized and repressive security approach, now under the terms mano dura and mano super dura (hard hand and superhard hand, respectively). Militarization was justified with the claim that the civilian PNC was overburdened and that there were more mareros (gang members) than police officers and military personnel together (Flores 2003). When FMLN won the presidency in 2009, many anticipated that President Funes would change the security discourse and strategies significantly, especially as he had campaigned on assertion of the previous ARENA governments’ twenty years of failed policies (Wade 2016, 104). The expectations were enhanced as his electoral campaign was based on the promise of change (Funes 2009, 2010b),

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and he identified organized crime and state infiltration by criminal syndicates, not maras, as the major threat. Accordingly, his government presented a comprehensive approach to crime that focused on finally applying existing laws and included a plan to reform and professionalize the security sector as well as programs for social prevention and rehabilitation of offenders (Aguilar 2019, 36). However, instead of implementing this plan, the government quickly returned to a repressive and militarized security policy. Especially the appointment of General Munguía Payés, a mano dura hardliner, shaped the first FMLN government’s security policy. His influence went beyond the Ministry of Security and Defense, and he was able to position close collaborators and friends in important posts in the administration such as border control and intelligence (Aguilar 2019, 43). Munguía Payés insisted the government must depart from normal politics, as the “gang problem” would require extreme measures, such as a state of exception and military interventions. The declaration of a state of exception allowed bypassing the normal rules of the game. Not only did it legitimize the presence of military troops in the streets, but it also allowed the raid of private homes without judicial warrant and facilitated arbitrary and prolonged detention. The remilitarization strategy not only generated citizen support for the government but also repositioned the military in key areas of the state. It paved the way for the advancement of a new military-political project, secretly negotiated in 2012 by General Munguía Payés (Aguilar 2019, 38): a truce between the main gangs. Although the homicide rates dropped significantly during the truce, when the government’s involvement became public, it was met with criticism from the media and the citizens. The truce was seen as a sign of weakness and inconsistency on the part of the government (Aguilar 2014). Therefore, Funes returned to zero-tolerance politics and remilitarized public security. This deviation can be traced back to the persisting power relations and hegemonies within the government. Although the FMLN won the presidency, the party was short of a parliamentarian majority. Hence, the president depended on the support of conservative parties, ARENA and the Partido de Conciliación Nacional (National Conciliation Party, PCN)12 as well as other influential interest groups, which had no interest in changing security policies as they themselves benefited from impunity and corruption. Particularly noteworthy were the Friends of Mauricio, a group of seven including a banker, a café

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baron, an ex-director of the PNC, a retired colonel, an economist, and two businessmen (Martínez and Arauz 2009), who had financed Funes’s electoral campaign, as well as a group around ex-president Saca, with whom Funes was seeking alliance, all of whom pressed for a continuation of previous security approaches (Waxenecker 2017, 44–47). To legitimize the continued militarization and repression under Funes’s alternative Plan Anticrisis, the administration’s security discourse was based on three pillars. As with his predecessors, the extraordinary measures and especially the deployment of military troops were justified by the police being overwhelmed. “The ordinary measures for maintaining the internal peace, tranquility and public security are exhausted” (Funes 2009). In addition, Funes (2012) claimed that 90 percent of homicides were committed by gangs. This not only gave the gangs the sole responsibility for the violence and trivialized the role of other armed actors and organized crime but also justified the full deployment of all state capacities to fight the internal enemy. Police records, however, suggest that between 2009 and 2010 only 11 percent of the homicides could be attributed to gangs. This number went up to 26.4 percent in 2011 and decreased again in 2013 (IUDOP 2014, 19–20). Moreover, in response to critiques of the increasing visibility of the military in the streets, Funes (2010a) highlighted the “exceptional role” the FAES had played in establishing postwar democracy and peaceful coexistence. Funes’s successor, Salvador Sánchez Cerén, inherited a difficult legacy. After the gang truce broke apart in 2014, homicide rates escalated by 57 percent, from 43.7 to 68.6 per 100,000, representing an average of 10.8 murders per day (Gurney 2015) (compared to 6.9 in 2013). As a result, Sánchez Cerén announced the implementation of extraordinary security measures: “This strategy was designed to neutralize the actions of gangs both in prison and in the territories, with security devices designed from a logic of war: neutralize, demoralize the enemy and, if possible, eliminate it” (Aguilar 2019, 59). These extraordinary measures included the deployment of elite police and FAES, the creation of specialized tactical antigang units working directly under army command, and the use of tanks, rocket launchers, and all kinds of military weapons (Aguilar 2019, 61). Although he affirmed that his strategy did not mean a return to mano dura strategies, his actions spoke a different language. Reports increased of forced disappearances of young people at the hands of military patrols, arbitrary military raids, and arrests (e.g.,

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Arauz 2015; Martínez, Valencia, and Caravantes 2015; Martínez 2016). After only six months in office, the new president declared a “war to confront the phenomenon of the maras,” that the gangs were responsible for the high homicide rates, and that they had stepped beyond what was legally acceptable (Sánchez Cerén 2015). Closing 2015 with an overall murder rate of 104 per 100,000 habitants (Lakhani 2016), Sánchez Cerén came under even more pressure. He justified his strategy against criticism based on the rising murder rates by claiming that this was a sign that his strategy was working and that this was only one last rallying of the gangs before their demise. Despite his repeatedly emphasizing that his security plan (Plan El Salvador Seguro, Plan Safe El Salvador) would focus on prevention and rehabilitation, in fact only the repressive parts of this policy were realized (CIDH 2016). The president further increased the FAES presence in the streets from 897 in 2006 to 13,000 in 2016 (CIDH 2016). President Sánchez Cerén’s security discourse also shows the impact of the differentiation under seguridad ciudadana between citizens and noncitizens. Sánchez Cerén (2016) called gang members “inhumane savages” and thereby denied them all humanity and thus treatment as humans. Such a framing contributes to the acceptance of measures normally considered violations of human rights and dignity. In this sense, gang members were “constructed under an ‘othering’ and dehumanizing discourse in order to feed a vicious circle of violence, whereby fear and chaos bec[a]me legitimizing agents for increased repression and a continuation of authoritarian measures” (Hume 2007, 739). The militarization of the political discourse and its focus on crime helped to keep the social and economic disparities at the margins of the public debates. Surveys show that while the economy was named as the most pressing problem in 1995–1996, that priority changed along with the increasing militarization of public security (Figure 7.2). The repeated reelection of ARENA despite the persistence of serious economic problems contradicts research showing that Salvadorans tended to vote for FMLN when mainly concerned with economic problems and for ARENA in times when security was their principal concern (Wolf 2017, 52). The shifting priorities in public opinion surveys are a clear sign of the successful agenda control by the political and economic elite. After getting into the government, the FMLN itself internalized the security narrative.

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Figure 7.2 Public Perception of the Main Problems in El Salvador (percentage)

Source: “Latinobarómetro análisis de datos,” 1995–2017, Latinobarómetro, http:// www.latinobarometro.org/latOnline.jsp.

The framing of the gangs as the country’s principal security problem “downplay[ed] human rights, rule of law, and the mechanisms of political liability” (Cruz 2011, 145–46). By emphasizing the gang threat in El Salvador, successive governments managed to bypass the normal processes of decisionmaking, which are often slow and might also include different instances of oversight. Additionally, the construction of an exceptional menace and thus the creation of an atmosphere of fear facilitates the mobilization of public support and diminishes possible critiques by the broader audience.

Militarization and Democratic Accountability Repressive public security policies had severe consequences for El Salvador’s democracy. First, neither the ARENA nor the FMLN governments were willing to confront or deal with the country’s structural, socioeconomic problems. Second, postwar governments did little to increase the efficacy of institutional structures but kept institutions like the judiciary intentionally weak to stay in power. Regarding the structural problems, the broadening of formal political participation was meant to resolve one of the main drivers of the war (i.e., limited possibilities for political participation) and to generate governments that would deal with social conflicts such as high lev-

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els of social and economic inequality. However, as shown above, with the public discourse highlighting exceptional threats, the political elites managed to convince the population that the economic situation was only of secondary importance, while security was the principal problem in the country, which could only be met by military means. The publication by the government of false numbers concerning the main perpetrators of crimes and their reproduction by the (governmentlinked) media further stirred up the security situation to justify the government’s policy decisions. In this way, despite the lack of significant success, the militarized iron-fist security policies enjoyed great support among the population. This was also reflected in the electoral success of first ARENA and later FMLN (Figure 7.3), regardless of their failure to improve the living conditions of the population. The second consequence of militarization relates to the lack of horizontal democratic control of the military and the police. Instead of these institutions being held accountable for transgressions of the law and human rights violations, legislation was changed to suit the interests of the repressive security policies. The parliament passed a series of laws legalizing the use of the military in public security again and again under special emergency rulings, undermining the already fragile judiciary. Furthermore, (former) military personnel can be found in almost all political institutions. High levels of impunity and increasing Figure 7.3 Results of Parliamentary and Presidential Elections, 1994–2019

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corruption are just two indicators. In 2017, the journal Revista Factum published a report on a death squad operating inside the Salvadoran police forces (Avelar and Martínez 2017). These groups have a long tradition and continue to exist today (Cuellar 2016; interview, San Salvador, April 5, 2017). Regarding corruption, El Salvador ranks 105 out of 180 on Transparency International’s 2018 Corruption Perception Index. A recent report by the InSight Crime and Global Initiative (2019) revealed a major corruption scheme inside the police. Inmates in El Salvador’s prisons have to pay for everything from meals to sleeping places, among other “services.” The emphasis on repressive policies also increased the autonomy of the military vis-à-vis the government. The growing private security industry became a major economic enterprise controlled by former military officers as well as parts of the traditional elite. The number of employees of private security firms exceeds the sum of military and police personnel in San Salvador (interview, San Salvador, March 13, 2017). Private security firms are commissioned to protect companies, banks, neighborhoods, or individuals. However, the government is struggling to hold these private security firms accountable for offenses they commit and to ensure oversight of these bodies. Existing regulations lack specifications, creating gray areas in which private firms operate and avoid sanctions (Asmann 2017).

Conclusion Constantly high levels of homicides and crime as well as persisting economic problems, despite promises for change by political decisionmakers, have caused exasperation among the population. The presidential elections in February 2019 seemed to signal a new reconfiguration of the political system. The two major parties, ARENA and FMLN, recorded significant losses, and the two-party dominance that had lasted for three decades was interrupted. President Nayib Bukele—a former mayor of San Salvador expelled from FMLN in 2017 for criticizing the party who then joined Gran Alianza por la Unidad Nacional (GANA, Great Alliance for National Unity)13—ran on an anticorruption campaign (Wade 2019). His electoral success was seen as a first indicator that Salvadorans wanted to break with the past. It also represented a clash between the generations, which is

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observable in the political party sphere but also within business groups and Salvadoran society. In this context, parties have lost significance and are merely understood as political machines blocking reforms opposed to their interests (interview, San Salvador, March 22, 2017). Although Bukele was criticized for political opportunism, underdeveloped plans to fulfill his promises, and populist strategies, his first security plans focused less on repression than on prevention programs. However, the first months of his presidency proved him unable and unwilling to depart from repressive politics. Even more consequential for the development of El Salvador’s democracy might be his disrespect for checks and balances. To speed up a vote on an international loan for his security plan, he entered parliament with a group of military and police officers in February 2020. Only after the constitutional court criticized this course of action did he pledge not to repeat the tactic. With his high approval ratings, it is difficult to imagine that he might not be tempted to instrumentalize the military and the police again to push through his policies. To achieve real change, a clear separation of the police and the military, civilian control of the security institutions, and a strengthening of the judiciary would be necessary. In other words, the spirit of the peace accords needs to be revived and its core provisions implemented. However, persisting power relations do not seem to open space for profound changes, and governments seem to adapt rather than to fight.

Notes Research and fieldwork for this case study were possible thanks to the project “Security Sector Reform and the Stability of Postwar Peace,” funded by the German Research Foundation (2015–2019, Grant KU 1106/4-1). 1. There is a complex debate regarding the framing of the organizations of marginalized youth as criminals. The term “gang” is mostly used in criminology to imply criminal activity of youth. In Central America, the term maras is used for highly violent organizations established first by young Salvadoran migrants in the outskirts of Los Angeles to protect themselves. When some of these young people were deported back to El Salvador in the 1990s, they reproduced the organizational patterns. 2. Roberto D’Aubuisson, a military general and founder of the infamous death squads, established ARENA in 1981. ARENA controlled the National Assembly until 1985 and the presidency from 1989 to 2009. 3. For an analysis of judicial reform in El Salvador under a similar frame, see Kurtenbach 2019.

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4. Although Augustín Farabundo Martí and the Communist Party had organized the protests, most of the protestors were peasants without political or ideological agenda (see Stanley 1996, 41–54). 5. US$3.5 billion during the 1980s (US Government Accountability Office 1990). 6. Elections for president, parliament, and municipalities have different periods. The president is elected for five years, parliamentarians for four years, and local authorities for three years. 7. President Cristiani established the Executive Antinarcotics Unit in January 1990. Its officers received a higher wage than regular police officers, and a group of FAES and NP officers commanded them. 8. Death squads are heavily armed men in civilian clothes and unmarked vehicles “whose connections to the state are kept secret” but who are used by states “to conceal mass murder” (Stanley 1996, 1, 17). In El Salvador’s civil war, death squads were responsible for many arbitrary executions and cruelties. 9. In 2006, the military members participating in security support reached 897; a year later this number grew to 1,432, and toward the end of 2008, it reached 1,975 (IUDOP 2014, 89). 10. A year and a half after their appointments, Munguía Payés and Salinas were supposed to leave their posts, as the Sala de lo Constitucional declared these appointments unconstitutional. 11. The Altamiranos represent the most conservative landowner positions (coffee and cotton), while the Dutríz family is more business diverse. 12. In 2010, the PCN was dissolved for not meeting the minimum requirements to continue as a political party. In 2011, it was re-founded by the same members as Partido de Concertación Nacional (National Concertation Party, PCN). 13. After his expulsion, Bukele tried to found his own party (Nuevas Ideas). El Salvador’s electoral court failed to approve it in time for him to run in the 2019 elections. He then joined the GANA, a party cofounded by ex-president Saca in 2010, as a result of a fracture within ARENA.

8 France: Swinging Securitization Paths? Chiara Ruffa

In recent years, we have seen a growing use of the military for domestic purposes in reaction to terrorist attacks and threats. For instance, in the United Kingdom, after the Westminster attacks and the Manchester attacks, tanks were deployed at Heathrow Airport. This trend is visible even in countries that are traditionally reluctant to use the military in domestic functions, either for historical or legal reasons, such as Italy and the UK. The use of the military domestically has been widely criticized for risking undermining the rule of law and the quality of democracy. In Australia, for instance, the defense forces were given power to fight domestic terrorism, setting “a dangerous precedent” in which “the potential for abuse, including the imposition of martial law and human rights abuses, can’t be ignored if the military is granted rights over domestic citizens.”1 The use of the military domestically not only has symbolic importance but is often the tip of the iceberg of deeper dynamics relating to emergency legislations and an increase in military autonomy. Classic work in the civil-military-relations literature has overwhelmingly focused on internal and external threats leading to different kinds of civil-military-relations equilibria (Brooks 2019; Desch 1999; Levy 2016c; Staniland 2008). Only a very recent paper has explored the effects of a rising terrorist threat or an increase in terrorist attacks on military involvement in politics (Bove, Rivera, and Ruffa 2020). In that piece, we find that an increase in terrorist attacks 139

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and threats triggers increased military involvement in politics—via the military either pushing its way into politics or being pulled in by decisionmakers.2 This finding points to a perhaps even more important question: Does an increase in terrorism and subsequent heightened military involvement in politics influence democratic control? And if so, how? I focus on the case of France, which has experienced widespread—albeit varying—terrorist threats and attacks over the past twenty years. In this chapter, I contribute to the theory-development purpose of this volume, using as a starting point the two analytical tools proposed, namely, securitization and militarization. As discussed elsewhere in this volume, securitization processes entail that “actors identify an existential threat that requires emergency executive powers, and, if the audience accepts the securitizing move the issue is depoliticized and is considered a security issue outside the rule of normal politics” (Salter 2008, 321). Securitizing moves are made by civilian authorities; for instance, in France, the president holds extraordinary power when it comes to issues relating to defense and security. Securitization differs from militarization. Militarization refers to the discursive process through which the use of force is legitimized—as the acceptability of the use of force remains limited (Levy 2016c). While militarization falls outside the scope of this chapter, I focus on securitization processes triggered by use of the military for domestic purposes.3 By exploring this longitudinally, I identify three distinct securitization phases. They all entailed the use of both military (e.g., domestic policing) and nonmilitary (e.g., higher alert in governance) means as a response to a terrorist threat, but each phase had distinct consequences for civilian control. From the outset, it might look as if France’s struggles with transnational terrorism have led to a linear securitization process. Yet, as usual, things are more complicated. In this chapter, I make two main, interrelated points. First, once it started, securitization persisted in ways that are surprisingly inertial and became ingrained, thereby impeding a return to the preceding level of democratic control. Second, securitization differed sharply longitudinally. I identify three distinct types of securitization in three different phases: from 1995 to 1998 under Jacques Chirac, from 2015 to 2016 under François Hollande, and from 2017 onward under Emmanuel Macron. All three presidents dealt with a similar type of threat—transnational terrorism—and displayed what may look like a similar response,

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namely, domestic policing. Yet, on closer look, the type of securitization differed sharply under the three presidencies under study, with important ramifications for civilian control. While the norm of civilian control still holds strong in France, in this chapter I find that the combination of the president’s relative power position and the military’s propensity to perform domestic tasks resulted in different types of securitization and different levels of erosion of civilian control. In particular, under the Chirac presidency, securitization was tit for tat in the sense that the military saw Chirac’s need for security and pushed for domestic policing, in exchange receiving more resources. In this case, civilian control held strong because Chirac enjoyed high political capital, and the negotiation was very specific. In a second phase, Hollande pulled in a reluctant military and gave it more autonomy. A reluctant French military entered a new bargaining process in which it held a powerful position because Hollande needed the military’s support to increase its capital and the highly professional French military needed more to accept what was perceived as a downgrade. The French military got increased autonomy in decisionmaking, and Hollande could portray himself as a strong statesman at an all-time low in his political capital. Macron, by contrast, was in a relatively strong position and displayed a purer form of securitization, progressively adding nonmilitary measures to domestic policing. With Macron, I observe the persistence of some of the military means introduced by Hollande combined with nonmilitary means, such as several—albeit relatively targeted—civilian governance measures aimed at enhancing levels of alertness, coordination, and speed of information sharing. In sum, the type of securitization that we observe is a function of the relative strength of the presidency in terms of the incumbent’s relative political capital and the stakes and interests of the military as a scrutinized agent. The combination of the strength of the presidency and the military’s role results in different types of securitization, which then leads to different types of civilian control. The dynamic equation between a varying level of terrorist threat, subsequent domestic policing missions, and the level of civilian control found in France leads to two important findings. First, the main power of securitization is derived from the nonmilitary measures taken (à la Macron). Second, involving the military not only empowers the military but also weakens civilians, particularly with a very weak president, and it remains to be seen whether this actually deters threats.

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My sources include interviews with key experts at the French presidency, the Interior Ministry, the Defense Ministry, and the first minister’s office, as well as retired military personnel and secondary sources.

From One Threat to the Next: Internal, External, and Terrorist Threats The core military role for the French military during the Fifth Republic has been in expeditionary, out-of-area contexts. And it still is, to a great extent. At least until the late 1970s, France strived to carve out its own distinct approach to the East-West confrontation, thereby prioritizing nuclear deterrence and conventional warfare, notwithstanding the long tradition of low-intensity warfare gained during the decolonizing campaigns. While defense spending was high, it was mainly for countering enemies and combat readiness in conventional warfare. To illustrate, during the 1980s, France bought heavy Leclerc tanks that were never used for conventional purposes and used decades later in traditional peacekeeping missions, like UNIFIL II in Lebanon. However, starting from the early 1980s, the French military started to play a limited but growing role in the domestic context, particularly in antiterrorist functions. In 1978, French president Giscard D’Estaing launched the Vigipirate instrument, one in which, for the first time, the army could also be used in domestic territory (Inciyan 1997). Vigipirate is the national security alert system conceived to provide a timely response to a heightened terrorist threat. By using different alert levels, it aims to protect installations against the risk of terrorist bombing attacks. France has been exposed, particularly since the early 1990s, to elevated terrorist threats and attacks, which varied in intensity and breadth over time but culminated with the devastating attacks in 2015 and 2016. For instance, between 1995 and 1998, we observe an increase in terrorist attacks and threats in France, including attacks at the St. Michel RER station in July 1995, the Arc de Triomphe in August 1995, and the Port-Royal metro station in 1996, as well as the killing of Préfet Claude Erignac in Corsica in 1998. The largest and deadliest attacks, however, were those affecting France after the Charlie Hebdo attack, starting in 2015, followed by the deadly attacks at Bataclan and Stade de France (2015) and Nice (2016). As of now, the most challenging threat for France is terrorism, both domestic and transnational.

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The legislation in France foresees a relatively limited role for the military to respond to these threats. Decades of terrorist attacks and elevated terrorist threats have shaped the French counterterrorist apparatus, which is dominated by a judicial approach, in which judges have prominent prerogatives (Benedicte and Shapiro 2003). Within this approach, the military plays only a well-defined and narrow role: the French military contributes to counterterrorist activities either with intelligence or with surveillance within the framework of Vigipirate (Guittet 2008, 174).4 Constitutionally, the military could also be asked to intervene within the framework of the “state of emergency” or the “state of siege” (art. 36 of the French constitution) or under a particular menace (lit. menace particulière) (art. 16 of the French constitution). Against the background of external and internal threats—now also including cyber threats (Pannier and Schmitt 2019)—transnational terrorism has established itself as a distinct kind of threat.

Baseline of Civilian Control France has traditionally been rather consistent in its foreign policy, combining so-called strategic autonomy in choosing the place and means of out-of-area interventions with a more principled concern for human rights (Pannier and Schmitt 2019). The transnational terrorist threat has, however, been transformative and triggered three distinct types of securitization processes. Before describing the processes of securitization in France from 1995 to 1998 and after 2015–2016, I briefly describe the “baseline” level of civil-military relations in France and what the traditional focus originally was. France fits the model of a unified approach (Avant 2007), with the president of the republic, as supreme head of the armed forces and the head of government, responsible for defense policies, with little involvement of the parliament (Irondelle 2008). The system is labeled as unified because, at least at the elite level, there are several opportunities for the military and civilians to exchange information and interact.5 Moreover, France scores high in terms of integration between the president of the republic and its particular chief of staff (lit. chef d’état major particulier) sitting in the presidency’s very own military headquarters, a measure usually considered important for harmonious civil-military relations (Schiff 1995), ensuring a constant and close dialogue between the president and the armed forces.

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Indeed, notwithstanding some tensions, “civil-military relations in France have never been as harmonious since the Second World War as they are today” (Vennesson 2003, 29). Contemporary civil-military relations in France are considered to be in line with the Janowitzian model of pragmatic professionalism, in which a professional force is compatible with and respectful of the norm of civilian control (Irondelle 2008, 14). French civil-military relations, however, were not always so harmonious. In the aftermath of World War II, the officer corps progressively lost its sense of belonging and mission, which became apparent during the decolonization campaign in Indochina and Algeria and culminated in an attempted coup d´état in Algiers in 1961 (Alexander and Bankwitz 1994; Ruffa 2017, 2018). Charles de Gaulle reacted very strongly to this attempted coup, and in a message to the nation he reaffirmed forcefully the norm of civilian control. On April 23, 1962, de Gaulle appeared on television in general’s uniform and ridiculed the four generals behind the putsch as “a quartet of retired generals” and “forbade every Frenchman, and above all every French soldier, from executing a single one of their orders” (Ruffa 2018, 55). While it is hard to disentangle the extent to which de Gaulle was trying to reestablish civilian control or his own control,6 de Gaulle’s reaction to the attempted coup was forceful and extremely firm. For instance, he disbanded all units that were behind the coup attempt, including the 1st Foreign Parachute Regiment and the 14th and 18th Colonial Regiments (Ruffa 2018, 55). De Gaulle’s intention was to “erect a civilian regime whose authority would be incontrovertible in the eyes of not only the people but also the military” (Alexander and Bankwitz 1994). New men were promoted to guide the French army back to discipline and a sense of duty. When France decided to acquire nuclear weapons, de Gaulle considered that an unmissable opportunity to provide a new mission and new core tasks to the officer corps and to make them less self-absorbed, hence potentially less dangerous. De Gaulle ultimately was the one to realize and “set the seal on this reconstructed consensus or solidarity between nation, regime and armed forces” (Alexander and Bankwitz 1994). Ultimately, he succeeded in reprofessionalizing the officer corps. Yet these steps were arguably more broadly related to the reconstitution of a new model of civil-military relations, in which the French armed forces, and the officer corps in particular, were more explicitly and firmly subordinated to civilian leadership.

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Since that day, the French military has become particularly careful about dealing with civilian decisionmakers and worked strenuously to regain its image as guardian of the nation. The French public holds its military in high esteem, notwithstanding the decline in support that followed engagement in the NATO operation in Afghanistan (Jankowski 2014). Also, when deployed in expeditionary missions, French soldiers were traditionally extra careful about getting the orders right and not being vocal about their concerns. The Uzbin accident in 2009 made this apparent: after the ambush against French soldiers, which killed and injured several, it became clear from my interviews that French soldiers were clearly frustrated, but very little was transmitted to civilian authorities. Within the boundaries of civilian control, voicing concerns and frustration to relevant authorities to prevent wider issues—such as a decline in retention—seems key but thus far absent in the French case. I will now describe the securitization processes as they unfolded among the political elites, the media, and public opinion. I will describe an increase in terrorist threat in the 1995–1998 period, then discuss what happened after 2015–2016.

Securitization Tit for Tat: 1995–1998 In the first period—under Chirac as president—from 1995 to 1998, a heightened transnational terrorist threat led to domestic policing and increased the politicians’ dependence on the military, which, however, was the result of a new implicit pact between the military and the executive, the president mainly, concerning new missions and budgeting. I label this first phase “securitization tit for tat.” Between 1995 and 1997, France experienced a number of terrorist attacks.7 After the first attack in 1995, the president activated Vigipirate at its highest alert level and deployed military personnel in Paris to monitor sensitive sites. In early 1997, however, several politicians from across the political spectrum argued in favor of withdrawing Vigipirate and continuing with judicial counterterrorist measures alone. At that time, the French military was in trouble. The proposed suspension of Vigipirate came at a time of particularly profound dissatisfaction and frustration within the French military triggered by budgetary constraints (Irondelle 2008, 15) and a perceived mismatch between missions and means provided. 8 Moreover, in February 1996,

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President Chirac had announced the end of conscription and a set of profound transformations toward a smaller, more agile and technologically advanced professional military, which would have substantially reduced the military’s budget and its autonomy and resulted in the loss of an estimated 2,000 jobs. 9 This had triggered widespread discontent and concern among the military (Rigouste 2014). Moreover, some officials questioned the decision to cut the military budget because it would hinder the military capacity to prevent and fight terrorism.10 This ended in the unique gesture by Chief of Army General Philippe Mercier of doing an interview with Le Monde in which he argued against budgetary cuts (Inciyan 1997).11 High-level officers criticized Chirac and former president François Mitterand for an “interventionist eagerness” that was not supported by adequate financial resources, particularly within UN missions (Dufour 1997).12 Unusually for France, high-ranking officers started to voice a preference concerning their deployment. In particular, they signaled their eagerness to deploy in more kinetic and combat operations—both domestically and abroad—via retired high-ranking officers rather than by undertaking demanding, confusing, and complex peacekeeping missions in which they were constrained by overly restrictive rules of engagement. In 1996, Admiral Jacques Lanxade famously proclaimed that “either we shoot or we withdraw,” demonstrating how the military was running out of patience with UN peacekeeping (Irondelle 2008, 18).13 The military seemed all of a sudden more inclined toward domestic counterterrorism over peacekeeping. With domestic policing, the military saw a bargaining opportunity. Between 1997 and 1998, several high-ranking officers explicitly connected the increased terrorist threat to the need to make greater use of the military. 14 For instance, General Henri Paris declared that any outbreak of violence would require the use of the armed forces, instead of the police, to take care of the increased terrorist threat (Paris 1998, 1). Other officers called for strengthening the Vigipirate program with a more extensive use of the army and the gendarmerie to “fight terrorists with military means.”15 In addition, some officials questioned the decision to cut the military budget because it would hinder the military capacity to prevent and fight terrorism.16 In the words of a retired army general, “1997–98 was a messy time in which we tried to show the importance of the military for anti-terrorist purposes because we did not want to end up being micro-managed as in UN

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peacekeeping missions and we wanted to contain the budgetary cuts.”17 In the 1990s, the military identified the opportunity for a broadening of tasks and functions at a time of high uncertainty and shifted its approach from reluctance to acceptance of new missions. With the increase in terrorism in 1995, the military saw an opportunity to justify its claim against budget cuts and to make it more attractive for politicians to increase the military’s role (and budget) and signal a focus on security to voters, which was reflected in parliamentary debates in both chambers.18 At that point, the military pushed for an implicit pact with the president. The military would accept new missions in exchange for more resources and new enhanced status in mission decisionmaking, and it would guarantee obedience, which also helped calm down dissident voices within the military following abolition of the draft. This increased military autonomy via military means to combat counterterrorism, but nonmilitary means were relatively limited. Despite the absence of new attacks and a decreasing threat level, in 1998 civilian authorities decided nonetheless not to lift the alert system and approved another reinforcement.19 For the first time since its establishment, the military was asked to monitor sensitive sites throughout the entire territory, and the army and the gendarmerie were authorized to deploy an exceptionally high number of troops on the ground.20 Also defense budget reduction came to a halt, and all services were involved in a wide range of internal counterterrorist activities.21 In particular, the gendarmerie was given much ampler power, which triggered a heated debate with the police.22 In an interview, the defense minister defended the gendarmes’ more assertive role, reminding the public that they were not supposed to tend cows but protect French citizens against terrorists. 23 From 1998 terrorist attacks declined, but the military budget did not decrease, and the role of the military for internal security increased even further.24 Lionel Jospin’s defense minister Alain Richard claimed that the military was opening a second front at home with its wider influence also in domestic affairs.25 In a time of great change in operational, structural, and budgetary terms, the French military used the terrorist threat to justify the appropriateness of its role on domestic soil. Importantly, beyond domestic policing, it secured new missions, autonomy, and resources. Chirac benefited from this in terms of domestic policing, and the military managed to bring to a halt the decrease in the defense

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budget. This strategy continued, and the implicit pact held even after the advent of the cohabitation between the conservative pro-military president Chirac and the socialist prime minister Jospin, traditionally pacifist and critical toward the military, which led to the second increase in 1998. Against all odds, Jospin in 1996 radically transformed his party’s stance and transitioned to tougher views on the fight against terrorism, which became one of the core tenets during his time as prime minister.26 Chirac, Charles Millon, and even Jospin were all perceived to be extremely close to the military between 1996 and 1998 (Gregory 2000).27 The military used the psychological power of terrorist threat as opposed to other motives to create an implicit pact and increase its relative autonomy (Inciyan 1997; Isnard 1999). A retired French general summarizes the motives behind these policies: “politicians felt pressed to show solidarity with the military given the tough time.”28 Overall, by 1999–2000, terrorist attacks and threats started to decrease, and within a few years, the level of securitization within society declined, with the progressive diminishing of Vigipirate and, more broadly, of a securitization narrative. The politicians had followed the military’s move, but when the threat level decreased again, the government was left without reason to maintain high securitization. Vigipirate was withdrawn, as was the state of emergency, and the military budget started to decrease again. The government had to deal with more pressing issues, such as widespread welfare-sector reform. So the securitization started to slow down. Because Chirac enjoyed relatively high political capital, the military’s push led to a relatively limited erosion of civilian control and did not undermine democratic accountability.

Corrosive Securitization by “Necessity” and the Reluctant Military: 2015–2016 The process I describe under Chirac differs strikingly from a second phase of securitization, following the 2015–2016 terrorist attacks during Hollande’s presidency. As during Chirac’s presidency, an increase in terrorist attacks led to the introduction of domestic policing. But in this case, securitization happened by “necessity” to increase the popularity of a weak president, Hollande, and notwithstanding a skeptical military that was pulled into this new mission.

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The presidency exchanged display of power in the streets and pure policing roles by a reluctant military for a more robust upgrade in the military’s status in decisionmaking. After the terrorist attacks against Charlie Hebdo, Bataclan, and Stade de France (2015) and Nice (2016), military Operation Sentinel (lit. Sentinelle) was launched to complement Vigipirate within the frame of the state of emergency. More than 13,000 troops were deployed domestically— 6,000 of them in the Paris region alone—amounting to 10 percent of the army’s active-duty members (Tenenbaum 2016). The army and the gendarmerie were tasked with a mission-type mandate allowing for ample margins of maneuver when deploying in urban operations. For instance, local commanders had to meet with prefects in local districts for coordination only once a week. 29 Under Hollande, display of power in the streets and pure policing roles created a new dependency of the politicians on the military for recovering political capital. The French military was at first highly skeptical. Already involved in several military operations abroad, the military establishment reacted very critically to the decision of Hollande to make more extensive use of the military instrument. Involvement in external operations—particularly when not concerning peacekeeping—suited the military’s self-image better. Unlike in the 1995–1998 period, those missions abroad were mainly counterterrorism, which is why the French military perceived them as more appropriate. For instance, retired general Vincent Desportes declared, “The military component of Hollande’s domestic anti-terrorist measure is unnecessary and the war against terrorism will not be won through military means.”30 Similarly, another retired officer commented, “It is inconceivable to transfer to the military authority these kinds of power.”31 Criticisms on the military side increased particularly after the Nice attacks, when Hollande decided to “recall” more than 12,000 operational reservists as yet another sign that the country was at war. Retired general Bruno Dary wrote, “The army, and more in general security forces, are very badly used,” continuing, “If we are at war, war is the military’s business, and the military has other things to do than serve as sentinels for places of worship or train stations.”32 Other experts suggested that the operational reserve was an empty measure, merely serving Hollande’s political goals.33 Also, at lower levels of the military echelons, soldiers said “they [were] very tired of this” and denounced the limited turnover and the low morale

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(Tenenbaum 2016, 38). Hence, the military was reluctant to assume this role again. Allegedly, it was Hollande himself who insisted on launching Operation Sentinel and recalling the reserve at a time where his popular support was waning.34 As Michel Goya puts it, Operation Sentinel did “not help much apart from reassuring the population, which is not nothing, and in particular in providing oneself with a flair of energetic statesman posture, which is more unacceptable.”35 The French military—albeit reluctantly—entered into a new round of bargaining to sell its services at a higher price. An implicit pact, again, was made. But this time, the president had to pay a higher price. With the professionalization of the military during the postconscription era, deployment in the streets downgraded its position, and the politicians balanced out this frustration by upgrading the military’s status in decisionmaking. In combination with domestic policing, the French armed forces saw also an increase in the number and quality of encounters with the decisionmakers: high-level officers of the Joint Chiefs of Staff met the president once every seven days instead of every forty-one days as usual.36 Nevertheless, Sentinel progressively increased the military’s autonomy along several dimensions, including an increase by 15 percent of the French operational force, which had remained frozen since 2002, and an increase in tactical autonomy, including the right of the army to conduct inspections and use force in the street.37 This increased autonomy was confirmed by the fact that the Ministry of Interior became “increasingly jealous of its prerogatives” and was reluctant to share information with the Ministry of Defense in charge of Operation Sentinel.38 Likewise, when Hollande mobilized the reserve, he maintained the same regimental structure, which allows the military to maintain more autonomy, as opposed to smaller units, specifically tailored for Operation Sentinel. 39 Importantly, both the military and the gendarmes were provided with some of the judiciary police functions, a decision considered to be highly controversial.40 Some claimed that Hollande was never fully aware of the potential effect of increased autonomy, but as soon as President Macron was elected, he proceeded to change the organizational structure to increase control.41 Finally, Sentinel greatly improved recruitment rates and brought the legitimacy of the military to exceptionally high levels, and surveys suggest that the French public felt reassured by the military presence.42 Thus, by the end of

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2016, “a reluctant military was ‘pulled’ into politics and found itself with increased autonomy, resources and bargaining power” (Bove, Rivera, and Ruffa 2020, 273). Hollande’s move—dictated by the need to recuperate political capital—did lead to some erosion of civilian control. The president argued that “the country was at war” and mobilized the gendarmes, the military, and the reserves in Operation Sentinel. 43 He tried everything he could to show his strength. When Hollande, the prime minister, and the minister of interior had to react to the terrorist attack, they tried hard to maintain a cool head and to stick to all their appointments. For instance, Hollande maintained all his political and personal commitments, such as the appearance in Corrèze after the attack against Charlie Hebdo and the environmental negotiations in Paris COP 21 after the November attacks. At the same time, as we have seen earlier, he did everything he could to show his strongman posture: “In our policy, it [terrorism] has changed many things: we have been governed by fear, not to be accused of being lazy ‘gauche caviar’ [lit. bobos laxistes]. Hence, because of this situation the state of emergency and also the draft law of ‘withdrawal of citizenship’ was launched.” As such, Hollande, the so-called most warrior-like president of the Fifth Republic, gave prominence to the military’s role, but, as discussed, the military was highly skeptical at first because it considered domestic policing a downgrade. However, as with Chirac, an implicit pact persuaded the military to accept. While it did accept domestic policing, the military also benefited tremendously from the pact. The French military reinforced its military operations abroad and systematically chose to call the Defense Council over the Internal Security Council, which entailed a greater representation of high-ranking military officers. The combined effect led to an increase in military autonomy. Already overstretched with several military operations abroad, however, the military establishment reacted critically to Hollande’s decision to launch Operation Sentinel; the military was reluctant to assume this role and remained skeptical. 44 In addition, while the military increased its autonomy, particularly in key decisionmaking areas, the presidency remained weak. The combination led to a hitherto unobserved persistence of the securitization narrative, which may, ultimately, in the long run, undermine democratic accountability.

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“Pure” Securitization Under Macron and Civilian Control In the third phase, the most corrosive form of securitization was put to a halt with Macron’s election. In this phase, I detect a “purer” form of securitization, relying on rather nonmilitary means. Macron, a more powerful president compared to Hollande, reshaped the power relations by decreasing the military involvement (and hence also decreasing the politicians’ gratitude to the military) and reduced the military’s autonomy, thereby using a purer mode of securitization, mainly relying on new nonmilitary modes of governance. At first sight, however, again nothing changed: the transnational threat remained high, and Macron maintained domestic policing in place. Yet, Macron progressively pushed the military back in its alcove and used nonmilitary means to maintain the alert. “Nonmilitary means” refers to several small civilian governance measures aimed at increasing levels of alertness, coordination, and speed of response, such as a compressed command structure. When Emmanuel Macron became the president of the French Republic, he immediately started to slow down the military’s influence and autonomy. In one of his first moves, Macron withdrew the judiciary police functions that had been given to the army when patrolling in urban environments. Controversially, he allocated some functions to private security companies, thereby diminishing the relative power of the military. Shortly thereafter, Joint Chief of the Defense Staff Pierre de Villiers resigned in July 2017, lamenting inadequate resources. While this could be interpreted as a “pushing” move on the side of the military to maintain high levels of influence, most observers argue that it was in fact Macron who asked for his resignation.45 After this move, securitization became normalized through new nonmilitary modes of governance. Macron recuperated vertical control, but horizontal democratic control—traditionally weaker—sustained similar levels of erosion. A famously critical and left-wing newspaper argued, “Since 2015, the terrorist threat has never decreased. The possibility of an attack is omnipresent among state institutions.”46 The threat narrative became normalized. According to another article, “A new way of governance has established itself with the President, who has to be ready to act at any time.”47 Even before he got elected, during the presidential campaign, Emmanuel Macron was informed about the terrorist threat well

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before he could rightfully access all the pieces of information that he would subsequently have access to as president of the French Republic, namely, the command post for the control of nuclear weapons, in French sometimes emphatically called le saint des saints (the Holy of Holies). According to several reliable and diverse sources, “Diplomatic telegrams and notes of intelligence services start[ed] to reach Macron between the two tours of the Presidential election”48 Allegedly, this is part of a long-lasting tradition thought to ensure the continuity of the government. As a novelty, however, during the 2017 presidential campaign only Macron and not his opponent, Marine Le Pen, was informed. This has been explained by many as based on Le Pen’s small chance of victory. But this also meant that even before being elected, Macron symbolically “swam already in the anti-oxygen climate of the terrorist menace, concretely confirmed by a wave of deadly terrorist attacks.”49 Macron was socialized early on into a high threat environment. But Macron was not the only one informed about the breadth and width of the terrorist threat. In early October 2017, when the French newspaper Libération asked then prime minister Édouard Philippe what had been the most surprising elements in the exercise of power, he answered with no hesitation, “The undoubtedly high level of the threat and impressive number of measures taken to avoid the passing to action.”50 Nowadays, at least in Matignon, where the prime minister sits, it is being recognized that “it is like Damocles’s sword” and “the idea of crisis is permanent.” Even at the Interior Ministry, this seems to be the case: “the terrorist threat has changed the life of the ministry, we do not take care of it full-time because there are other files but it is omnipresent.”51 One of Hollande’s former advisers acknowledged that both under Hollande and continuing with Macron, “without pause, we are haunted by the terrorist menace. At any moment, everything can blow up.”52 Similarly, the government launched a series of initiatives and laws on internal security and the fight against terrorism. In particular, one part of the state of emergency legislation was transposed into ordinary law. On this occasion, certain members of parliament were allowed access to secret information (in French called habilités secret defense). The parliament became enrolled into the fight against terrorism, thereby relatively increasing democratic accountability. But the place in which the terrorist menace was even more strongly normalized is at the Elysée by the president. While Macron

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dissolved the implicit pact that the military had with Hollande, the president received regular updates on the terrorist threat from mainly two sources: his head of cabinet, Prefect Patrick Strzoda, and the national coordinator for intelligence and the fight against terrorism, Pierre Bousquet de Florian. It became apparent that President Macron “likes raw material,” and he often sends back the classified documents he receives with several annotations asking for additional detail.53 In normal times, the president receives summaries on security intelligence twice a day, in the morning and in the evening. In crises, he may receive up to six notifications. When he is out of Paris, the president is kept constantly in the loop by his field officer, who can be seen on occasion delivering short notes while the president is giving a speech. His field officer always has a printer with him so that it is possible to have Macron sign an urgent decision even in the middle of a transatlantic flight. In other words, France under Macron continues to experience securitization, mainly via nonmilitary means, and there is no indication of it stopping at any time soon. What does this mean for democratic accountability? Notwithstanding Macron’s move, the military did not fully return to its alcove of before the 2015 period. Not only has the Defense Council become regular after the terrorist attacks, involving a greater role for the Joint Chiefs of Staff, but there are also two military officers dedicated to the preparation of these meetings full-time. The less important ministers have to sit outside the “green room” where the meeting takes place in case their views are needed, at least until the most confidential elements have been discussed. Macron transformed this venue into a very operational one in which everyone has to come prepared. “It is not only about making the point of the situation on the threat level, for the President it is also the occasion to envisage the measures to be put in place.”54 Just before entering the council, the minister of interior makes the point of the situation with his or her team, in order to have the freshest information from the prefects and the intelligence services. Gerard Collomb, the minister of interior, declared, “The strength of the Ministry of Interior is its ability to collect information from a variety of sources that allows the information to climb up the ladder (…) and to be consolidated very quickly.”55 When two young women were killed at the Marseille train station in October 2018, the information reached the Interior Ministry within minutes.56 This suggests that the degree of information and alertness is very widespread. The

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level of commitment to fight terrorism is so strong that every attack brings also a number of material and procedural innovations: mobile means for transmitting coded information after the attacks in SaintQuentin Fallavier in June 2015; a list of people who can be inspected after November 2015. After the attack in Nice in July 2015, no state secretary was present. The presidential palace also endowed itself with a series of scooters for finding and picking up the advisers as quickly as possible. After the Nice attack the chief of cabinet of President Hollande was stuck near the Eiffel Tower, unable to reach his office, and there was no secretary at the Elysée. The main problem with this approach is that everything gains a terrorist nuance. Bureaucrats within the Interior Ministry have said, “Every piece of news that comes our way is immediately perceived as a potential terrorist threat.”57 The problem is to make sure that this does not take over everything else. “The hardest thing is to make sure not to diminish nor overemphasize the threat following what the public opinion thinks. If we underestimate, the country does not understand and thinks we are hiding something. If we overemphasize, we scare everyone and strengthen the demagogues, it is very complicated.”58 While a more powerful president, Macron, has reduced military involvement in decisionmaking, he also sustained nonmilitary securitization, which has led to new ways of governance, which center on the terrorist threat. I do observe a deceleration of the erosion of civilian control, but the baseline never returned to what it was before Hollande.

Conclusion The case of France points to two main findings, which are promising for theory development. First, while civilian control still holds strong, we observe a progressive increase in the baseline level of involvement of the military in decisionmaking processes. In other words, inertia never makes France go back to the 1996–1998 period. While in the 1996–1998 period, the perception of threat slowly returned back to what it used to be, this does not seem to be the case in France in the 2015–2016 period. Notwithstanding variations, the threat is understood and narrated as widespread and permanent. A new way of governance has emerged, consisting of a high and stable level of alertness and improved information sharing via a compressed

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command structure, with the Defense Council as the main venue in which key decisions are taken. The French public has gotten used to emergency measures (Tenenbaum 2016). Second, at first sight, the three phases I analyzed share an important feature: an increase in transnational terrorism led to domestic policing. Yet, domestic policing is only the tip of the iceberg, and France’s struggles with transnational terrorism did not trigger a linear securitization process. The type of securitization differed sharply under Chirac, Hollande, and Macron. Under Chirac’s presidency, securitization was tit for tat in the sense that the military saw the need of Chirac for security, pushed for domestic policing, and in exchange received more resources and new missions. In a second phase, Hollande pulled a reluctant military in and gave it more autonomy and greater weight in decisionmaking. A reluctant French military made a pact in which it held a powerful position because Hollande needed the military’s support to increase its capital, and the highly professional French military needed more to accept what was perceived as a downgrade. The French military got increased autonomy in decisionmaking, and Hollande could portray himself as a strong statesman at an all-time low in his political capital. Macron, by contrast, was in a relatively strong position and displayed a purer form of securitization, progressively substituting domestic policing with nonmilitary measures. The type of securitization that we observe depends on the strength of the presidency in terms of the incumbent’s relative political capital and the stakes and interests of the military as a scrutinized agent. Obviously, France is not only facing the transnational terrorist threat. But with this particular threat taking a hitherto unobserved relevance, the dynamics of control seem to have changed. Furthering the threat-based debate, we need to conceptualize transnational terrorism as a distinct kind of threat, neither domestic nor external, as it presents distinct traits, particularly the perception of the urgency and omnipresence of the threat. In this chapter, I find that transnational terrorist threats reduce civilian control in a country with exceptionally solid civilian control of the military. In the French case, they created a set of practices or modes of governance that became inertial and slowly penetrated the state establishment. They diminished capacity of state institutions to extract resources for war making or potentially combating other threats. Further research could explore these mechanisms further. We need a more nuanced and dynamic

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understanding of securitization processes in order to understand the subtler ways in which democratic control has become eroded. In terms of vertical democratic control, there is no sign of erosion, under the important caveat that France has a relatively low baseline level of vertical democratic control, strong only on the side of the media. Rather more worrisome is the role played by horizontal democratic control as military-related decisionmaking is not closely overseen by the legislature or the judiciary. A positive note has been the increasing involvement of the parliament in these issues, with more of its members involved in the decisionmaking process. Civilmilitary relations have been considered to be very harmonious for a very long time in France. Interestingly, they still are. But the reaction to a series of terrorist attacks has been to give more autonomy to the military in implicit and not transparent ways and, more broadly, to frame terrorism as a permanent and widespread threat. The recent process of securitization is clearly detrimental to the quality of French democracy. Even though state institutions are solid and still accountable, more could be done to enhance transparency, without undermining the necessity to fight terrorism effectively.

Notes 1. Greg Barns, “Giving the Defence Force Powers to Fight Domestic Terrorism Sets a Dangerous Precedent,” The Guardian, July 7, 2017. 2. In the article, we identify either a push or a pull mechanism by which the military either pushes its way into politics or is pulled into politics by civilian decisionmakers. We test our hypotheses on a global panel dataset (1984–2004) and refine our mechanisms by delving into the cases of France and Algeria (Bove, Rivera, and Ruffa 2020). 3. Militarization did happen in France to some extent—overseas interventions clearly suggest at least some level of militarization—but it falls outside the scope of this chapter. 4. Namely, the Directorate for Defense Protection and Security (Direction de la protection et de la sécurité de la défense, DPSD), the Directorate for Military Intelligence (Direction du renseignement militaire, DRM), and the General Directorate for External Security (Direction générale de la sécurité extérieure, DGSE). 5. Such level of unity is much higher in the UK case, since integration is high also at the administration level (see Irondelle 2008, 14). 6. I thank Lindsay Cohn for helping me clarify this excellent point. 7. For instance, the RER Metro bombing at Saint Michel in July 1995, the Arc de Triomphe bombing in August 1995, or the 1996 RER Metro bombing at Port-Royale.

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8. La Rédaction, “Trente ans de législation antiterroriste,” Vie Publique, https://goo.gl/axJLhq. Two particular measures of austerity entailed the reorganization of the high command structure by reinforcing the prerogative of the Joint Chiefs of Staff over specific services and by withdrawing conscription in 1997 (Vennesson 2003, 29–30). 9. “Allocution de Jacques Chirac sur le service militaire,” ina.fr, https://goo.gl /N5m9S8; Kathryn Hone, “Chirac Announces End to Conscription and a Smaller, Modern Army,” Irish Times, February 23, 1996, https://goo.gl/5rR4Ht. 10. “Le général Philippe Mercier craint une réduction de l’outil de défense,” Le Monde, November 16, 1997, https://goo.gl/uTBuwK. 11. Jean-Dominique Merchet, “Le chef d’état-major de l’armée de terre pique un coup de sang. Le général Mercier proteste contre la baisse de son budget,” Libération, October 10, 1997, https://goo.gl/n7jeuG. 12. See also Fricaud-Chagnaud 1997. 13. Another example is General Quesnot, who in 1997 called for a more “muscly” and “ambitious” action than the humanitarian operations just concluded in Bosnia and Rwanda. 14. “Le général Philippe Mercier craint une réduction de l’outil de défense”; Cecile Prieur, “A Paris, la ‘sécurisation’ se fond peu à peu dans le paysage urbain,” Le Monde, January 24, 1997, https://goo.gl/T76tPN. 15. Erich Inciyan, “La militarisation de ‘Vigipirate’ suscite des inquiétudes dans la police,” Le Monde, January 24, 1997, https://goo.gl/uqL6nG; author interview with Expert 2. 16. Author interview with Expert 3, as well as, for instance, “Le général Philippe Mercier craint une réduction de l’outil de défense.” 17. Author interview with Expert 1. 18. “Projet de loi de finances pour 1996: défense—forces terrestres,” Sénat, https://goo.gl/7nWZ6i. 19. “Le plan ‘Vigipirate’ est renforcé,” Le Monde, April 20, 1997, https://goo .gl/o9qaf6. 20. Author interview with Expert 2. 21. “La France s’installe durablement dans ‘Vigipirate,’” Le Monde, January 12, 1997, https://goo.gl/gTkhAK. 22. Le Monde, January 24, 1997, https://goo.gl/jqBSeH; “La France s’installe durablement dans ‘Vigipirate.’” 23. Judith Perrignon, “Alain Richard, 53 ans, ministre de la Défense. Il a fait de sa rigidité naturelle, qui rivalise avec celle de Jospin, une arme politique. Blindé,” Libération, June 14, 1999, https://goo.gl/dFPkqS. 24. “La France s’installe durablement dans ‘Vigipirate.’” 25. “Projet de loi de finances pour 1996: défense—forces terrestres.” 26. “Terrorisme international et politique intérieure,” Le Monde, July 27, 1995, https://goo.gl/zhTHFo; Georges Marion, “Les pouvoirs publics redoutent un ‘terrorisme des banlieues,’” Le Monde, September 12, 1995, https://goo.gl/Kg7HEk. 27. Daniel Carton, “Lionel Jospin veut prendre la tête d’une opposition résolue,” Le Monde, August 22, 1995, https://goo.gl/H3k9cu. 28. Author interview with Expert 9. 29. Author interview with Expert 2. 30. “Nice: ‘L’opération Sentinelle est inutile, cette guerre ne se gagnera pas avec des moyens militaires,’” BFM avec RMC, July 15, 2016, http://rmc.bfmtv .com/emission/nice-l-operation-sentinelle-est-inutile-cette-guerre-ne-se-gagnera -pas-avec-des-moyens-militaires-1006427.html.

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31. “Etat d’urgence et article 16: Pourquoi Hollande veut-il réviser la Constitution?,” Le Monde, November 16, 2015, http://www.lemonde.fr/les-decodeurs /article/2015/11/16/etat-d-urgence-et-article-16-pourquoi-hollande-veut-il-reviser -la-constitution_4811353_4355770.html. 32. “Attentat à Nice: ‘La France est en guerre,’ les réactions de personnalités obtenues par RT France,” RT France, July 15, 2016, https://francais.rt.com /france/23811-attentat-nice-reactions. 33. Virginie Grolleau, “Renforcer la réserve opérationnelle, est-ce vraiment possible?,” L’Obs, July 18, 2016, http://tempsreel.nouvelobs.com/societe/attaque -de-nice/20160718.OBS4856/renforcer-la-reserve-operationnelle-est-ce-vraiment -possible.html. 34. Author interview with Expert 2; Nicolas Barotte, “Entre François Hollande et l’armée, une relation à bâtir,” Le Figaro, July 13, 2012, http://www.lefigaro .fr/politique/2012/07/13/01002-20120713ARTFIG00594-entre-francois-hollande -et-l-armee-une-relation-a-batir.php. 35. “Opération Sentinelle: Ces sérieuses raisons d’avoir des doutes sur l’utilité d’un dispositif qui affaiblit notre armée sans nous assurer d’être protégés,” Atlantico, June 9, 2016, http://www.atlantico.fr/decryptage/operation-sentinelle-ces -serieuses-raisons-avoir-doutes-utilite-dispositif-qui-affaiblit-notre-armee-sans -assurer-etre-proteges-2726260.html. 36. Author interview with Expert 1. 37. Le Monde avec AFP, “L’Assemblée approuve le projet de loi controversé de sécurité publique,” Le Monde, February 8, 2017, https://goo.gl/rqd5s8. 38. “Opération Sentinelle: Mission paratonnerre?,” franceculture.fr, August 10, 2017, https://goo.gl/Rh3mAa, in particular passage 8:12–8:43 (second part of the program). 39. “Compte rendu: Commission de la défense nationale et des forces armées,” Assemblée Nationale, December 2, 2015, https://goo.gl/g5QaAx. 40. “Réserve opérationnelle, plan Orsec... Le point sur les annonces de Hollande,” Libération, July 15, 2016, https://goo.gl/FZ9FWQ; Laurent Joffrin, “La liberté n’est pas une faiblesse,” Libération, November 16, 2015, https://goo.gl/k6KsoJ. 41. Pierre Alonso, “Antiterrorisme: Des structures plus proches du président,” Libération, November 12, 2017, https://goo.gl/QYS5tu. 42. “Opération Sentinelle: Mission paratonnerre?” 43. “La Frances’ installe durablement dans ‘Vigipirate.’” 44. “‘La Sentinelle égarée? L’armée de Terre face au terrorisme’: Présentation du Focus Stratégique n°68 par Elie Tenenbaum,” ifri.org, June 16, 2016, https:// goo.gl/iQbkEm. At lower levels of the military echelons, soldiers also voiced their distress and how “they are very tired of this,” denouncing the limited turnover, the demanding shifts, and the low morale (Tenenbaum 2016, 38). 45. Pierre Alonso, Luc Mathieu, and Nelly Didelot, “Haut-Karabakh: Une guerre de trente ans,” Libération, October 8, 2020, https://www.liberation.fr /auteur/2154-pierre-alonso. 46. “Comment l’Elysée vit avec l’obsession du risque,” Libération, November 12, 2018, https://www.liberation.fr/france/2017/11/12/comment-l-elysee-vit -avec-l-obsession-du-risque_1609654. 47. “Comment l’Elysée vit avec l’obsession du risque.” 48. Author interview with Expert 10. 49. “Comment l’Elysée vit avec l’obsession du risque.” 50. Author interview with Expert 11. 51. Author interview with Expert 12.

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52. Author interview with Expert 12. 53. Author interview with Expert 13. 54. Author interview with Expert 12. 55. Author interview with Expert 8. 56. Author interview with Expert 13. 57. “Comment l’Elysée vit avec l’obsession du risque.” 58. Author interview with Expert 12.

9 Senegal: Managing Civil War Without Militarization Jahara Matisek

On February 28, 2019, the people of Senegal reelected President Macky Sall for a second and final term—without electoral violence or irregularities (Al Jazeera 2019). While news of another peaceful election may seem unimpressive to an international audience, it was a rare occurrence in Africa. Since the 1960s, coups, political violence, ballot stuffing, internal wars, and a host of other pathologies have plagued the continent, undermining the prospects for democracy, stability, and good governance. The smooth electoral process in Senegal and the country’s status as a relatively capable state make it an outlier in Africa. Despite Senegal’s good fortunes, it is ironically home to the longest running civil war in Africa. Since 1982, an open-ended separatist insurrection by the Mouvement des Forces Démocratiques de la Casamance (MFDC) in the Casamance, southern region of Senegal, has oscillated in strength and intensity. Due to the topography— dense jungles and mangroves—and relative isolation of the region, accurate numbers on the Casamance conflict are difficult to pinpoint, although most estimates put the death toll at 1,000 to 5,000, with over 60,000 people displaced and seventy-two villages destroyed (Harsch 2005; Uppsala Conflict Data Program 2018). While some semblance of peace has held since a 2014 government-brokered cease-fire, militant maquis (guerrilla) fragments of the MFDC still pose a threat. In the most recent incident, a splinter MFDC faction 161

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killed thirteen teenagers a month before the 2019 elections (BBC 2019). Such MFDC violence after a truce was not an anomaly, however; there have been numerous cease-fires over three decades. Notwithstanding isolated violence from MFDC-held territories in the Casamance region, Senegal is a major success story, with four peaceful presidential transitions since its 1960 independence from France. This is all the more remarkable given that West Africa has been rife with insurgency, transnational criminal networks, religious extremism, authoritarianism, and military coup d’états. While some scholars have attributed the resilience of the Senegalese to aspects such as their “joking culture,” military and statebuilding assistance from the West (France and the United States especially), and their particular form of Sufi Islam, such explanations fail when considering the similarly structured, yet considerably more unstable societies of neighboring Mali and Côte d’Ivoire (De Jong 2005; Straus 2015). Substantial literature points to how societies become militarized due to the dynamics of insurgency, intercommunal and interethnic violence, and resource competition (Davis and Pereira 2003; Wood 2008). Yet Senegal has managed to avoid these traps, with its stability attributed to maintaining a multiethnic Senegalese army that has increasingly viewed itself as a defender of constitutionalism and promoter of democratic values (Harkness 2018). Categorized as a low-income country (a GDP of less than US$1,000 per capita) and rated as a “weak/fragile” state by many indices, Senegal has managed to create a “strong” army, without the associated perils of praetorianism, coup d’états, and repression (FSI 2018). The Forces Armées Sénégalaises (SAF) are regarded by many as a highly effective and reliable professional military under strong civilian-democratic control and oversight, with one of the highest participation rates (per capita) in peacekeeping missions in Africa (Providing for Peacekeeping 2016). The existence of this capable military makes it somewhat puzzling that Dakar never attempted to fully militarize the conflict in the Casamance. This chapter argues that the nonmilitarization of the Casamance conflict is a by-product of Senegalese presidential personalities and the high degree of professionalization of the Senegalese military, which saw more value in foreign peacekeeping than fighting a small group of secessionist rebels in a remote region of the country that did not threaten Dakar’s democratic rule. Geographical isolation of the combat zone and limited MFDC aspirations translated into the group’s

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never attempting an attack in Dakar or other urban centers in northern Senegal. Hence, political and military leaders never had the need or the political capital to fully militarize the conflict (Conteh-Morgan 2018). Throughout most of the conflict, each administration took different approaches along the spectrum of military force and negotiation in dealing with the MFDC. Over time, however, Dakar increasingly relied on the spirit of dialogue, focusing on patronage, developmental projects, and civil society groups to engage the MFDC and redress the Casamance grievances, while sometimes utilizing some elements of military force for signaling and bargaining purposes. To explain how Senegal has dealt with the low-intensity Casamance conflict and how it avoided societal militarization, this chapter traces the evolution of the MFDC threat and how each of the three presidencies responded through containment, combat, and negotiations. It highlights how the MFDC threat was minimized by leadership in Dakar—to a certain extent—through an oscillating approach that “respond[ed] to the insurgency with a panoply of tools, from coercion to accommodation and political negotiations” (Kurz 2016, 25). Finally, the SAF served as an important actor of restraint, which came from its Armée-Nation ideology: the collaborative spirit to develop Senegal without militarization (Diop 2013, 239). This resulted in a particular democratic form of civil-military relations (CMR) and a demilitarized approach to problems and threats. Instead of pursuing an overly repressive approach to the insurgency, political leadership in Dakar engaged in peaceful discourses, developmental projects, and civil society engagement to reconcile troubles in the Casamance.

Historical Context of the Casamance People and Grievances At the core of the Casamance conflict lies a deep-seated grievance by the Casamançais peoples of being historically dominated by northern Senegalese and other outsiders. When colonization, first Portuguese and later French, came to Senegal, the North became the epicenter of power in the country, and Islam became the primary religion (M. Evans 2013; d’Orsi 2015). In the neglected southern region, many Casamançais peoples maintained their traditional religious animist beliefs and societal norms, which were diametrically opposed to those in northern Senegal.

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Ethnic groups in the North developed modernist views under direct French rule, integrating Islam into all aspects of life and society. This translated into centralized politics and informal hierarchies of power and organization, going against Casamançais egalitarian views (Posthumus 2000). The peculiar nonhierarchical view of how their communities organized power and decisionmaking processes translated into Casamançais peoples resisting any form of rule by the French and northern Senegalese, to include sporadic acts of violence against interloping government officials, with the last preindependence violence ending in 1943 (Roche 1985). Over time, ideational grievances were compounded by ethnic tensions, as northern Senegal is primarily dominated by the Wolof ethnic group, whereas the Casamance region is only 14 percent of Senegal’s landmass with only 10 percent of the population, composed primarily of Diola (Jola) peoples. The distinct Diola culture and religion, a mix of Christianity, Islam, and animist beliefs, also drove a wedge between the North and South, making their politics incompatible (Baum 1999). The remoteness of the Casamance (see Figure 9.1) translated into historical exclusion from Dakar’s politics, leading to underrepresentation. Many government jobs and postings in the Casamance were given to non-Diola peoples from the North. Moreover, ethnic groups in the North came to act as power-broker proxies for French colonial rulers, supporting the administration of Francophone Africa. In 1947, several community leaders in the Casamance organized the MFDC based on egalitarian beliefs about self-rule to peacefully resist French colonial rule (d’Orsi 2015, 2). The MFDC loosely existed as a political group until Senegal’s independence and the election of the country’s first president in 1960, Léopold Sédar Senghor, dissolving shortly thereafter. However, while running for president, in an attempt to secure rural votes, Senghor negotiated with one of the MFDC cofounders, allegedly promising the Casamance people independence within twenty years in exchange for the region’s support at the ballot box (Purkitt 2010, 95). After being elected president, Senghor would commonly refer to the importance of the Casamance as “the breadbasket of Senegal” (Rudolf 2016, 191). While Senghor’s comments meant to convey a sense of national unity, the Casamançais people interpreted his comments as northern dependence on the Casamance, which fed into perceptions of exploitation (Rudolf 2016, 191).

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Figure 9.1 Map of the Casamance Region and Its Three Administrative Units Inside Senegal

Senghor’s government “was unable to apply its fusion-of-elites policy in [the] Casamance” (Boone 1994, 94). The few local “big men” willing to act as Diola political representatives on behalf of Casamançais were denounced by locals for “selling out.” In consequence, the Casamançais people disavowed patron-client relations because they went against their heritage, undermining their access to power and land, thus allowing Dakar to administratively exploit their region and resources (Engelbert 2005). These sentiments of exploitation were further kindled in 1967, when Father Augustin Diamacoune Senghor called on the Casamance to unite against President Senghor. In radio broadcasts, the Catholic priest espoused the uniqueness of the Casamance juxtaposed with the urban North, calling for self-determination, and criticized Dakar for excluding the Diola from political and economic prosperity (M. Evans 2003). Father Diamacoune’s denunciations of the Senegalese state continued into the 1970s, radicalizing the Casamance, leading to large gatherings that promoted Diola nationalism and defiance of Senegalese

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officials in the region. Tensions peaked in 1980 with major student protests in the regional capital Ziguinchor, with one student killed by local security forces—predominantly manned by northern Senegalese—and violence erupting at sporting events due to the belief that Dakar was cheating against the Casamance teams (M. Evans 2004). In 1982, Father Diamacoune resurrected the MFDC political party and, as its leader, began organizing independence protests.

Three Presidential Eras: Managing the Casamance Conflict Tensions escalated after a December clash in 1982 between the proCasamance demonstrators and the gendarmerie (paramilitary police) in Ziguinchor. The local authorities initiated arrests and trials—acting on Dakar’s orders—and political violence escalated. The proCasamance demonstrators killed three gendarmes at Diabir, which spiraled into further repression by local Senegalese security forces, who arrested hundreds of protestors and supporters (M. Evans 2004, 3). More and more confrontations between MFDC nationalists and security forces eventually culminated in the “Red Sunday” event of December 1983, where over 100 protestors in Ziguinchor were killed (Mané 2002). The MFDC leadership responded by creating an armed wing known as Atika (warrior in Diola), which also included some Senegalese security forces that had defected (Connolly 2015, 15). The President Diouf Era (1981–2000): Rebellion, Repression, Fragmentation, and Reconciliation

The new Senegalese president, Abdou Diouf, who came into office in 1981, initially relied on a specialized component of the gendarmerie, known as the Intervention Unit, to suppress the MFDC movement (McCoy 1994, 39). The “Red Sunday” event spurred him to deploy a few hundred SAF personnel in the Casamance to support local police and gendarmerie units, assisting in patrols against the MFDC (M. Evans 2004, 4). Diouf was initially “dismissive” of the Casamance social movement and had a “no-negotiation policy” during the 1980s (Tombe 2016, 44). With marches, protests, and riots growing in scale and intensity after “Red Sunday,” Diouf responded

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vigorously against the MFDC on three fronts. First, Diouf began to invest heavily in the Casamance, to include infrastructure projects, such as roads, bridges, schools, and the Anambe-Kayang dam, and even created the Casamance commission to distribute land more equitably in the region (Beck 2008). Second, state security forces drove most of the movement underground (C. Griffiths 2013, 95), creating a low-intensity period (1983–1990), with sporadic clashes between MFDC rebels and Senegalese security forces. Finally, Diouf divided the Casamance (see Figure 9.1) into two different administrative regions in 1984—Ziguinchor (western area) and Kolda (eastern area)—in hopes that this would enable better responses to the various needs and grievances of each area (President Wade would further divide the Casamance, creating the Sédhiou region in 2008). During the 1983–1990 period, most Atika fighters hid in the dense forests and/or in Guinea-Bissau. Sidy Badji led the training and arming of the MFDC, until it mobilized fully with about 600 fighters in April 1990, for its first major attack against a Senegalese customs station at Séléti near the Gambian border (M. Evans 2004, 4; Bessène 2015). The attack resulted in President Diouf’s mobilizing an army brigade of about 3,000 SAF personnel to reassert control and authority in the Casamance. In using various parts of the Senegalese security forces at his disposal, Diouf attempted to stop the MFDC but also “hesitated between negotiations and firmness” (Manga 2017, 17). For instance, within a year, Diouf discovered that the “military solution [had] become inefficient” as increasing international scrutiny brought the conflict to light (Fall 2010, 19). An Amnesty International report identified SAF abuses, tourism revenues declined, and international donors openly questioned Diouf’s harsh approach (Humphreys and Ag Mohamed 2005, 252). Thus, Diouf reduced military pressure, negotiated with the MFDC for the first time, and “granted amnesty to MFDC members who were jailed after the 1982 and 1983 demonstrations in Ziguinchor” in hopes that it would reduce MFDC violence (Fall 2010, 19). However, the organization began behaving increasingly like “a terrorist organization—random bombings, [engaging in] hit-and-run tactics, and harassment and intimidation of the local populace” (McCoy 1994, 39). Further MFDC violence resulted in Diouf’s assigning a military governor to the Casamance, with military units formally assigned in late 1990 to conduct counterinsurgency (COIN) operations (Da Costa 1991, 22). Such COIN efforts by the SAF included armored vehicles

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and heavy weapons, helping cut off different MFDC elements (Paul, Clarke, and Grill 2010, 80–81). The SAF also came to value the use of information operations in the Casamance “to win hearts and minds (domestically)—to kill rumors and restore confidence for a new beginning” as a way of undermining the appeal of the MFDC (Wardini 2008, 54). Furthermore, Diouf authorized the SAF and air force to attack MFDC bases in Guinea-Bissau, to put more pressure on MFDC leaders (Da Costa 1993a). In 1991, Diouf created the Office of the Coordinator for the Casamance Peace Initiatives and the National Committee for the Management of Peace in the Casamance. Each of these was initially successful with the political wing of the MFDC, leading to the 1991 Bissau Accords cease-fire, the Cacheu Accords of 1992, and another cease-fire in 1993 (Straus 2015, 219–220). Just as important, SAF commanders found that shifting their focus from “actual combat” to “peacekeeping; peace enforcement; and law enforcement” in the Casamance was a more beneficial approach (Dietzman 2003, 32–33). Each of these engagements gave Diouf maneuvering space, seeking a “divide and rule” approach with MFDC politicians and fighters and co-opting many MFDC moderates (Langeveld 1994, 219). The Cacheu Accords, especially, provided Diouf substantial leverage as the negotiations “intensified a rivalry” between Atika commander Badji and the MFDC political leader, Father Diamacoune (Bertrand and Jeram 2014, 115–116). Diouf’s pluralist approach, amnesty provisions for MFDC fighters, and successive cease-fires led to the fragmentation of the MFDC armed wing in 1992 into two groups. The Front Nord (Northern Front) agreed to the provisions put forth by Diouf and retired from military action, gaining substantial authority and control of their region and shifting into a criminal enterprise by exploiting timber resources and growing cannabis. The Front Sud (Southern Front) hardliners maintained their doctrinaire position of nothing short of independence of the Casamance from Senegal. Front Sud fighters greatly escalated their military operations after 1993, leading Diouf to deploy about one-third of the SAF (about 5,000 soldiers) to the Casamance to contain the violence. After Diouf’s reelection in 1993, matters worsened in the region as the Front Sud began seizing territory from the pacified Front Nord, leading to violence between different MFDC commanders and state security forces, as the SAF began using landmines in 1997 to limit Front Sud movement (Humphreys and Ag Mohamed 2005,

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253–254).1 The brutal violence during the 1993–1997 period caused civil society throughout Senegal to organize marches for peace and developmental projects to reduce the appeal of joining the Front Sud rebels. President Diouf ordered government agencies to provide food to the MFDC rebels after each cease-fire, as an attempt to reduce “banditry by hunger and as an act of goodwill, all to facilitate dialogue” (M. Evans 2004, 11). In 1999, Diouf’s peace talks with Atika in The Gambia led to a general peace accord, which further fragmented the MFDC. Moderates and hardliners in the Front Sud split into two factions, with hardliners aligning with Salif Sadio and moderates with Léopold Sagna. Such divisions occurred due to Diouf’s reconciliation tactics and use of peace-related groups in the Casamance, to include women’s groups, convincing many to give up insurgency (Marut 2010). The Front Nord continued de facto control north of the Casamance River, using violence primarily for criminal activities.

The President Abdoulaye Wade Era (2000–2012): A Stalemate of Carrots and Sticks In 2000, Diouf lost his reelection bid to Abdoulaye Wade, who had promised to resolve the Casamance dispute within 100 days (Manga 2017, 18). Wade’s optimism was based on his experience in jail, where he had developed friendships with some MFDC members. While hostilities did not cease, Wade established the National Agency for the Relaunch of Economic and Social Activities in the Casamance (ANRAC). Wade used the ANRAC to essentially “buy off” rebels through basic patronage payment schemes, to include the provision of health care to MFDC rebels in government hospitals. Unlike Diouf, Wade reduced the role of actors from civil society, diplomatic circles, and NGOs. Wade opted for direct negotiations with the MFDC, leading to multiple peace accords in December 2000, March 2001, and December 2001 (Abdallah and Okai 2014, 67). Despite such temporary cease-fires, limited progress was made. Wade reversed course and empowered civil society to support the peace process and formed the Social and Economic Reconstruction of the Casamance program to develop the region (Abdallah and Okai 2014, 68). Moreover, Wade succeeded in convincing leadership in The Gambia and Guinea-Bissau to reduce their support for the MFDC.

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As development took root in the Casamance, many MFDC fighters witnessed the positive changes in the region. Most MFDC leaders acknowledged there were no more reasons to fight or seek independence (Abdallah and Okai 2014, 68). Thus, in 2004 Wade was able to negotiate another peace accord. In turn, MFDC competition over patronage from Dakar splintered the Front Sud (Manga 2013), leading to the emergence of three primary MFDC rebel groups: Baraka Mandioka (led by Salif Sadio), Cassolol (commanded by César Atoute Badiate), and the Diakaye (led by Kamugué Diatta). Baraka Mandioka consistently resisted Wade’s attempts at buying them out, due to Sadio’s extremist hard-line view that MFDC negotiations should be for outright independence for the Casamance. Sadio’s ideology was so doctrinaire that he had MFDC moderates, like Léopold Sagna, arrested and executed for negotiating with President Diouf (Humphreys and Ag Mohamed 2005, 253). Cassolol and Diakaye were more moderate and pursued a more pragmatic approach to autonomy for the Casamance, collaborating in peace negotiations with Dakar in 2004. Baraka Mandioka remained fully committed to insurgency against Senegal and moved its bases across the border to The Gambia and Guinea-Bissau (Abdallah and Okai 2014; M. Evans 2004). From 2006 to 2010, security conditions in the region improved as Wade deployed substantial military power to compel Baraka Mandioka’s 750 troops to capitulate. Specifically, during this period, Wade divided the Casamance into a third administrative region (see Figure 9.1) in 2008 and deployed “4,500 troops . . . including an armoured battalion with air-support” (Butcher 2011, 141). Such attempts to divide and conquer the remaining MFDC holdouts failed as Baraka Mandioka received support from The Gambia and indirectly through Iranian weapons shipments. Sadio even took SAF personnel hostage to extract further concessions from Wade and ANRAC (Avec AFP 2011).

The President Macky Sall Era (2012–2022): Civil Society Engagement, Mediation, and Dialogue Seeing that “the preceding practices of conscience-purchase within the rebellion” were not working (Manga 2017, 18), after his 2012 election President Macky Sall renewed efforts at dialogue and increased the role of civil society, announcing his desire to bring the international community into deliberations with the final MFDC

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holdouts. One of Sall’s first official statements as president concerned the Casamance conflict: “We are ready to open talks with the fighters and actors involved in the peace process, religious leaders and men and women of good will” (Thurston 2012). Sall followed through on his dialogue of goodwill by first bringing in the think tank Reflection Group for Peace in the Casamance (GRPC) and the Community of Sant’Egidio (a neutral mediation church in Rome) to arbitrate negotiations with the MFDC. Even staunch holdouts, such as Sadio, welcomed the discussions in 2012 and shortly thereafter released eight SAF hostages (Brodal 2015). Sall, seeing value with the Casamance women’s groups in the peace process, proactively included them in his pacification strategy, knowing their matrilineal power structure held substantial influence within MFDC ranks. Approximately 170 women’s groups in the Casamance collaborated in pushing Senegalese politicians and MFDC leaders to commit to long-term peace negotiations, and Sall relied on the women’s groups to shift narratives toward peacebuilding and reconciliation (Abdallah and Okai 2014, 70–71). Sall’s inclusive efforts at increasing participatory politics, bringing in international mediators, and empowering a vibrant civil society proved to be a hallmark of his administration (BTI 2018). Regardless, Sall and the GRPC were able to broker Vatican peace talks, leading to the final 2014 MFDC cease-fire (Minority Rights Group International 2017). The cornerstone of this most recent peace agreement was Dakar’s shift in attitude of giving administrative autonomy—but not full independence—to the Casamançais peoples. Most importantly, Sadio’s extremist faction finally laid down their arms, as did the other two moderate factions, leaving only fringe MFDC groups that continued their insurgency, albeit for criminallike, predatory resource-extraction purposes. The latest February 2020 round of peace talks between Dakar and a delegation of MFDC leadership, headed by Sadio, centered on collectively pacifying remaining MFDC splinter groups (Sant’Egidio 2020). While hostilities between the Senegalese military and most elements of the MFDC have basically ceased, there is much to be done in terms of repairing the Casamance. For instance, since 2016, there has been a demining program run by Handicap International to remove the 100,000 mines in the Casamance. Moreover, the removal of Gambian president Yahya Jammeh, a supporter of the MFDC, by the Senegalese military in 2017 has since made it nearly impossible

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for remaining MFDC elements to receive external aid and support. Dakar and NGOs appear poised to continue improvement of the Casamance through engagement, reconciliation, and other development efforts, which will help isolate the remaining MFDC rebels who desire full independence.

A Nonmilitarized Security Discourse: Civilian and Military Perspectives With many observers referring to the Casamance as a “forgotten civil war,” most Senegalese in the North do not worry about the region (Tandia 2012). In fact, most political discourse in Dakar has treated the MFDC as a criminal organization, considering the violence a by-product of underdevelopment. Since 1982, “political actors, public opinion, and the Senegalese media” have broadly shared views that the Casamance should be managed and that the conflict was not a “war” to be solved through military means (Diouf 2004, 218). Hence, political and military officials avoided public discourses about pursuing firepower-intensive military actions in the Casamance, opting to rely on the SAF to engage in “policing actions” against “criminal MFDC elements.”2 Dakar’s treatment of the Casamance as a developmental issue has led to lobbying efforts to bring in foreign donors to focus on economic empowerment in the region. Since the 2014 peace accords, Dakar’s efforts have paid off in attracting over 100 international developmental NGOs to operate in southern Senegal, in hopes that this may reduce the desire for long-term rebellion. The empowerment of locally important civil society actors in the Casamance, such as Robert Sagna, coordinator of the GRPC, has proven vital in reducing the appeal of the MFDC with disenfranchised youth. Sagna regularly engages youth groups in the Casamance with discussions about the gains the region has made and increasing constructive discussions with remaining MFDC fighters in the bush through a “dialogue for peace” (Dimma 2020). Senegalese leaders have also tried to portray the Casamance through the lens of unity and pluralism. Using “cultural politics to combat separatism” has increasingly become a common theme in which politicians and military officials have framed the Casamance conflict and MFDC rebels. Many Senegalese generals did not view

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the people of the Casamance as outsiders and presented narratives of one Senegalese people, with overlapping ethnic and familial ties, bonds, and links (Straus 2015, 219–221). President Diouf in 1994 identified various unique Senegalese “social mechanisms” during a conference on Senegalese nationalism in Dakar, adding, “We have to live together in harmony and peace”; otherwise the “distressing spectacle of micro-nationalisms and tribalisms . . . [will] take humanity back to barbarity [sic]” (Tambadou 1996, 8–10). Such calls for dialogue and inclusiveness have informed each Senegalese president’s approach, pursuing limited military campaigns against the MFDC because they go against the cultural logic of the state and national identity. The comprehensive perspective is also shared by the SAF. Active and retired SAF personnel deployed to the Casamance have expressed in interviews with the author that they saw the decades-long conflict as “sad” and “unfortunate.” SAF leadership made a crucial decision about how military members would be used in the Casamance. While SAF personnel essentially conducted COIN operations, maintaining a positive image in society was paramount. Many SAF personnel described their deployment experience to the Casamance in the 1980s and 1990s in very personal terms. Many decried their necessary actions against “their brothers and sisters” in the Casamance, while seeing “valor” in the work they were doing “down there.” This interpretation of conflict in the Casamance came about because SAF leadership viewed it as “inappropriate” to provide combat medals and awards to military personnel serving there, because they were “fighting their own people.” Imbued with such normative aspects, this prevented an overescalation of hostilities in the Casamance (Schutte and Weidmann 2011), with the SAF seeing little value in fighting the separatists. Finally, since the 2014 peace deal, tensions have declined between the SAF and MFDC, with them playing friendly soccer games with each other (Zartman 2016, 107). The lack of militarization in Senegal, even with a decades-long separatist conflict, is a product of stable civil-military relations having created Senegalese professionalism under democratic control since the constitutional crisis of 1962. This has permitted the creation of the necessary “space” for political and military elites to circumnavigate the various “traps” facing underdeveloped countries like Senegal (Collier 2007). In its place, CMR has institutionalized over several decades where the SAF has been made into a competent bureaucratic enclave.

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SAF leadership—on numerous occasions—has resisted attempts by political leaders to politicize the army or deploy it for the purposes of quelling riots and protests (Matisek 2019). Alternatively, local Senegalese police and the gendarmerie have gained a reputation for violently suppressing public demonstrations and corruption (Business Anti-Corruption Portal 2017; Pujol-Mazzini 2019). Several factors over the course of Senegal’s history have created a harmonious CMR environment in which the SAF has readily submitted itself to civilian control while resisting political leadership attempts at using the military for policing activities and other subversive purposes. Outside coercive capabilities, the Armée-Nation ideology has tied Senegalese state-building to the army, whereby the SAF has been involved in providing health care, building infrastructure, and numerous other developmental projects (Diop 2013). According to most SAF personnel interviewed, many believe the Armée-Nation ideology has been critical to the way political and military leaders have sought to resolve the Casamance conflict, since it provided a collaborative framework for dealing with threats and issues. The Armée-Nation concept and focus on positive civilmilitary relations embodied how the SAF operated, whereby a lack of resources and logistics required deployed SAF personnel in the Casamance to emphasize “human security” with locals, sometimes serving as schoolteachers (Cissé 2015, 129). The apolitical and docile nature of the SAF is remarkable considering that most Western engagements in Africa have led to militarization in many partner nations and a host of other problems associated with militarily assisting underdeveloped states (Nsia-Pepra 2014). This is precisely why the Senegalese democratic form of CMR has been so critical in preventing the militarization of the conflict in the Casamance. Moreover, SAF involvement goes against the commonly held belief in civil war literature that internal conflicts— especially those centered on identity—lead to underdevelopment of the state (Murshed 2002). However, in the case of Senegal, it appears to have increased state capacity and made the SAF institutionally more competent and effective without bringing societal militarization. Finally, another reason why Dakar did not militarize the problem in the Casamance was that Senegalese leadership relied on Sufi Islam brotherhoods to exert informal control in the periphery. This was viewed as a more cost-effective method of internally solving problems and co-opting others in the Casamance region.

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Democratic Control and Accountability: Stable CMR with Armée-Nation Ideology As one Senegalese army colonel put it, “The Senegalese military is not a separate caste of society” (interview, Dakar, Senegal, August 16, 2017). The SAF is situated in a different sociopolitical space in Senegalese society precisely due to the power of the Armée-Nation ideology. This fostered the apolitical nature of a professional SAF and its belief in Senegalese democratic institutions and processes. According to an Afrobarometer (2020) survey, 83 percent of the Senegalese public trusts their military “a lot,” with 84 percent also rejecting the idea of military rule—substantially more than in any other African country. These views are indicative of how the SAF pursued ways of keeping a positive public image and likewise how political elites have managed the army. This is not to say that such favorable views always translate into positive behavior. The democratic interplay between Senegalese politicians and the army has been vital to ensuring accountability mechanisms laterally and up and down the chain of command (Matisek 2019). A lack of militarization is similarly reflected in postmilitary life, where military experience does not translate into political victories. This was best exemplified by retired SAF general Joseph Louis Tavares de Souza’s failing in a mayoral election bid in a small town.

The Foundations of an Institutionally Effective Military According to Émile Ouédraogo, “Senegalese democratic culture has been periodically tested by political tensions, but the military has not challenged the constitutional order. Having passed these tests, Senegal’s democratic culture has grown stronger over the years” (2014, 6). Senegal, unlike most other African countries, has capable civilian management institutions within its defense ministry, ensuring high accountability for funds, reducing the likelihood of corruption, and contributing to the SAF’s overall transparency and legitimacy with the public (Henk and Rupiya 2001, 19). The current state of CMR harmony is a by-product of Senegal’s first internal political struggle. The 1962 crisis between President Senghor and his prime minister was a critical juncture in how Senegalese elites would handle

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future internal problems. Senghor avoided using the SAF to resolve this political dispute, which set a precedent against the politicization of the army and militarization of politics. Following the crisis, Senghor promoted Jean Alfred Diallo to general as the new army chief of staff. Diallo, a former French army engineer, established the Armée-Nation ideology of collaborating with Senghor in developing a cohesive and highly educated army that could build Senegalese infrastructure and support society (Diop 2013, 239). Diallo and Senghor made a deal to increase educational investments—almost 30 percent of the SAF budget—to support domestic state-building projects (Partners for Democratic Change 2010). This led to further coordination between civilian and military leadership, creating a sense of trust between both as the military developed a combat track that focused on peacekeeping missions and another track that focused on developing Senegal’s “infrastructure, health, education, and environmental protections” (Marc, Verjee, and Mogaka 2015, 134). This professionalized focus limited militarization, supported constitutionalism, and created an effective “military enclave” that enabled Senegalese development (Matisek 2019). This critical juncture would inform future crises, as the SAF became a defender of democratic constitutionalism. For instance, SAF generals refused Senghor’s 1968 deployment order to suppress student protests (Maack 1981, 81). Such refusals to use force against nonmilitary threats solidified institutional norms of noninterference. In 1988, Diouf ordered the SAF to quell postelection violence, but General Joseph Louis Tavarez de Souza refused (Fowler 2010, 218). Each of these examples suggests how the military was a check on presidential powers based on its commitment to constitutionalism. It cannot be overstated how important the Armée-Nation ideology, developed over decades, has been to the SAF as a guiding principle for domestic actions, helping it coordinate activities with political leadership. Moreover, the ideology has effectively ensured the SAF’s acceptance of strong vertical and horizontal control.

Vertical Democratic Control Because the SAF views itself as a defender of the republic and constitutionalism, it has submitted itself to democratic control. At the same time, these norms and values have translated into military lead-

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ership taking actions to avoid politicization of the SAF and, in some cases, not using military force against protestors. Moreover, SAF leadership since the 1980s has focused on a “quartering system of recruitment,” expending considerable resources in pursuit of recruiting an ethnically diverse military that is representative of the population in the belief that this would further contribute to national unity and support development. In many ways, the SAF defies conventional logic due to its being one of the most capable institutions of the state while not abusing its position of power. In addition, it was not until 2006 that SAF personnel could vote, and few even bothered to do so because many SAF personnel viewed this new privilege as an attempt by President Wade to personalize the military. Finally, one of the most important elements about Senegal is that most government power is in the hands of the president, and the parliament has historically kowtowed to presidential desires, as has the judicial branch. However, freedom of the press and a robust civil society have enabled Senegalese news outlets to “discuss sensitive topics such as the separatist Casamance region or criticize local governments” (Karlekar 2006, 9), checking abuses of power by political and military leaders (Castéran 1998).

Horizontal Democratic Control Broadly speaking, Senegal’s government is specifically organized to support the SAF, gendarmerie, national police force, prison service, customs service, and department of water, forestry, hunting, and soil conservation. The SAF falls under presidential control and administrative control by the defense ministry, being relied upon extensively to maintain control in the Casamance. The gendarmerie provides basic military policing duties, public security, and criminal investigation. It is under the authority of the senior commander of the national gendarmerie and director of military justice, with the national gendarmerie divided into territorial and mobile units. The national police force is controlled by the minister of interior and public security, with territorial and mobile units. Recent reforms since 2009 have focused on instituting two ranks, controller general and inspector general, to improve the effectiveness of the police force (Cissé 2015, 122–123). When a security problem or humanitarian issue arises, the SAF is not the first responder. In fact, there are three categories of response,

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and the president must ultimately sign off on categories two and three. With the first option, regular police and gendarmerie are mobilized in response to any problem. The second category involves the activation and deployment of an Intervention Forces Unit, which can be either territorial or mobile. Finally, the third option of deploying the SAF internally requires a regional/district authority to make a written request to the prefect governor, detailing the reason for SAF involvement and the rules of engagement (ROEs). The prefect governor then requests military forces from the respective SAF zone commander, who fulfils the request in conjunction with presidential approval. Ultimately, the civilian authorities formally requesting army assistance also end up with operational control of the SAF within the ROEs prescribed. The only forces that the president can directly mobilize are the General Reserve Units, composed of commandos, paratroops, artillery, and tanks; the only known domestic activation to this day was Senghor’s use of paratroopers to guard his palace during the 1962 constitutional crisis. Ultimately, substantial military power is vested in the president, with no written national security policy. For instance, there is a Supreme National Defense Council, National Security Council, and Strategic Guidance Center, staffed with numerous civilian ministers and some SAF personnel. However, each body is led by the president and abides by presidential decisions. Parliament only plays a role in developing and implementing security policies, from determining defense principles to examining the budgets and laws of security objectives. Finally, the Law Committee of Parliament is the only component with jurisdiction over the SAF when it comes to human rights violations (Ouédraogo 2018). The strong presidential framework, robust civil society, and professional SAF provide sufficient oversight in preventing Senegalese militarization.

Conclusion Senegal’s current status as a vibrant democracy with a healthy civil society is a product of President Senghor’s actions in the 1960s to democratically use the military for development through the ArméeNation ideology. Such actions fostered inclusion and positive engagement with society, as the SAF and political leadership in Dakar viewed the army as playing an important, yet subordinate role. The

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SAF came to fill three important functions in Senegal, namely, domestic development, foreign peacekeeping, and fighting MFDC rebels. Regardless, democratic institutions prevailed, as did SAF subservience in limiting the impact of militarization on Senegalese society and in the Casamance. Unlike internal conflicts in other countries, such as Guatemala, the Casamance conflict did not result in the militarization of politics. Dakar’s leaders increasingly relied on dialogue and co-optation strategies, and the SAF approach to COIN was treated as more of a policing action against the criminal MFDC rebels. Political and military leaders forbade the glorification of the Casamance conflict, which de-escalated securitization discourse, preventing the violence from spiraling out of control. Senegal’s lack of militarization is atypical, as numerous scholars (Stepan 1973; Kingsbury 2005; Pion-Berlin and Martínez 2017) have identified issues arising from fighting an insurgency and using the military for nonmilitary tasks (e.g., health care, building infrastructure) as leading to a reduction in civilian control by weakening the state while empowering the military by giving it more legitimacy in the eyes of the public. The ability of Senegal’s government to maintain legitimacy in the face of a threat, while avoiding the pitfalls of militarization and erosion of civilian control, points to the value of contextually viable political institutions and depoliticized organizational culture in the SAF. Moreover, the robust ability of the SAF to resist politicization attempts only further underscores the importance of the Armée-Nation ideology in checking occasional presidential abuses of power. Additionally, the positive view of the SAF is not accidental. Instead, it has been fostered over several decades, during which the Senegalese military has become an apolitical and professional army. This institutional competence in a weak state has translated into a military that has sought what is best for the nation and its people, while not being a drain on or detriment to Senegalese development. This is most evident in the Global Militarization Index, which ranks Senegal 109 out of 152 for militarization. This ranking shows how little militarization has taken place in Senegal, given that Germany is considered more militarized at a ranking of 100 (Mutschler 2016). In sum, while the Casamance has been an irritant, it was never enough so to cause full-scale militarization. In fact, the proper balance of CMR, professionalism in the SAF, and belief in a particular form of inclusive Senegalese nationalism all contributed to the way

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in which the problems in the Casamance were handled. In some cases, military campaigns were pursued, then alternated back to politicking and bargaining with MFDC rebels, including paying them to quit the separatist insurgency or co-opting them into the government and/or army. The oscillation between each and the narrative of inclusiveness, open dialogue, and pluralism are important ingredients in Senegalese statebuilding. These factors have contributed to Senegal avoiding the problem of militarizing society or the erosion of civilian control, in spite of the long-running Casamance conflict.

Notes 1. The MFDC began using landmines during Diouf’s 1993 reelection campaign (Da Costa 1993b). 2. Semistructured anonymous interviews during fieldwork with over thirty SAF personnel and civil society actors. Dakar, Senegal, August 14–18, 2017.

10 South Africa: From Militarization to Demilitarization to Remilitarization Lindy Heinecken Throughout the course of South Africa’s history, the military’s involvement in various conflicts intersected with domestic politics, shaping the character of the state and civil-military relations (Seegers 1996). The most profound effect of the military on politics and society occurred during the apartheid era from 1948 to 1994. The need to counter both the ideological threat of communism and resistance to the political regime heightened levels of militarism and militarization. During this period, the institutional structures of government, business, and civil society became intertwined, with the military exercising inordinate influence over state policies, decisionmaking, and the citizenry. With the end of the Cold War in 1989, subsequent demise of apartheid, and advent of democracy in 1994, the state and civil society made a concerted effort to ensure effective civil control of the military. As such, the period associated with the administration of Nelson Mandela and Thabo Mbeki (1994–2008) witnessed a decisive attempt to institute mechanisms to ensure the purview of defense matters, enforce defense transformation, and restore the legitimacy of the military (Heinecken 2019a). However, this started to wane during the Jacob Zuma administration in 2009, as South Africa’s democracy started showing signs of fragility. Rising poverty and inequality were contributing to the structural and cultural violence in the country, engendering an increase in crime and physical violence (Galtung 1969). In response, the coercive 181

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capacities of the state consisting of the police, the intelligence services, and the military came under more stringent executive control (Nicolson 2015). This marked the beginning of a new era of securitization and militarization, which saw the South African National Defence Force (SANDF) increasingly deployed in internal roles to counter cross-border crime, illegal immigration, and poaching and in other law-and-order functions (Duncan 2014). At the same time, as the state fails to address the security needs of the citizenry, one sees an increase in the private security sector, as well as militant populism, all of which feed into a culture of militarism. South Africa is an interesting case study, as the remilitarization is a consequence not of the growing influence or prominence of the military per se, but rather of the police and private security, which have come to assume a militarist approach to violent crime and conflict. This chapter argues that when the threat perception is high, the security of the state and citizenry is threatened, and militarization is elevated, civil control is compromised, especially under an authoritarian regime, and vice versa. However, when remilitarization is promoted by nonmilitary actors this has a minor effect on civilian control, mainly tightening the loyalty of the military to the controlling elite rather than to the entire polity. The challenge is not controlling the military, but rather the spread of militarism that advocates the use of force to solve problems beyond state institutions. Thus, the challenge is to consolidate control over the monopoly of violence.

Apartheid Regime and Militarization As indicated, during the apartheid era the military permeated all facets of the society and everyday lives of South Africans. During this time, the South African Defence Force became central to state power, resulting in the extensive mobilization of the country’s political, economic, and ideological resources for war, based on the perceived security threat to the state and political hegemony of whites. Ideological and Political Threats to National Security

The Cold War and fears of the spread of communism, together with the changing geopolitical international and domestic context, affected South Africa’s strategic outlook. During the 1960s the

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apartheid state was relatively secure in geostrategic terms, but this changed as the former colonial countries moved violently toward independence. Consequently, the SADF’s military posture changed from primarily defensive to offensive to deal with the threat insurgents posed both outside and within the borders of South Africa (Jacobs 2006; Seegers 1996). At the same time within the country, rising black resistance to the apartheid state posed a political threat to white supremacy. As a result, President P. W. Botha proclaimed that South Africa was experiencing a “total onslaught” that required a “total strategy” to counter both the Communist and the political threats to white supremacy (the so-called red and black dangers) (Davies and O’Meara 1987). The changed security context thrust South Africa into a repressive phase, where the security forces were granted extraordinary powers to act against those who posed a threat to the state (Nathan 1994, 5). Through conscription and the part-time force system, the SADF had access to the best available manpower in the country (Sass 1996, 126). As black resistance to the apartheid state grew, more troops were deployed to the townships, and extraordinary powers were granted to the police and military to disperse “unlawful” gatherings and arrest and detain suspects. Murder by death squads and the disappearance of prominent antiapartheid activists were common during this time (Stott 2002, 14). In response, those oppressed by the state saw violence as the only effective means of achieving political change through the launch of a people’s war (Marks and Mckenzie 1995). Heightened Militarism and Militarization

The security threat to the apartheid state evoked a process of militarization throughout society. On the economic level, an increasing amount of public money was spent on defense, reaching a peak of 4.3 percent of GDP in 1983–1984 (Seegers 1996, 269). Associated with this was the massive growth of the armaments industry, which by 1988 was the tenth-largest exporter of arms in the world (Reichardt and Cilliers 1996). The expansion of this sector stimulated the mingling of economic, military, and political elites, leading Philip Frankel to comment that the South African military under apartheid was “not only an army of soldiers . . . but an army of industrialists, financiers, economists and other business personnel” (1998, 8). Here one can see the extent to which militarization permeated society and

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how the industrial-military complex developed to aid the economy and employment, mostly for whites. But militarization among the black community too was on the increase. The failure to achieve political change through peaceful means resulted in their turning to a strategy of armed conflict against the state. In 1961, the exiled African National Congress (ANC) formed an armed wing, Umkhonto we Sizwe (MK), to infiltrate and operate in South Africa. Similarly, the Pan African Congress (PAC) set up its own armed wing, the Azanian People’s Liberation Army (APLA). Both MK and APLA embarked on campaigns of armed resistance against the state, including acts of direct violence involving sabotage, guerrilla warfare, and terrorism with the aim of causing physical and psychological harm. As resistance against apartheid grew, many youths left the country to join MK in exile and took up the armed struggle against the state both externally and internally (Williams 2000). By the 1980s, South Africa was becoming politically more unstable, and the country teetered on the brink of civil war. This was effectively quelled by the extensive deployment of the military in a “hot war” against activists in the black townships under a state of emergency that granted the military and police extensive powers to arrest, detain, and torture activists (Grundy 1986). Erosion of Civil Control

At the time, the ability to constrain the excessive use of force by the SADF was limited. Civil control of the military, oversight, and accountability were minimal for two reasons. First, as the security threats to the country increased, the military gained considerable leeway as the “protector” of the nation. Second, members of parliament lacked expertise in military matters and were content to accept the SADF’s assertions and explanations of the security threats facing the country. In the absence of members’ expertise and a parliamentary support system for research into military matters, the control potential that existed remained underutilized (R. Griffiths 1995, 401). Civil oversight and control were further compromised when the Defence Secretariat was militarized in 1966. This meant that the state president could authorize the use of the SADF in a wide range of tasks—to suppress terrorism and internal disorder, preserve property, maintain essential services, and assist the police in law and order and crime prevention.

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The right to mobilize the military for any one of these tasks was proclaimed in the Government Gazette. The president could authorize the SADF to deploy without having obtained specific authorization for every operation. Civil oversight was further eroded by the elaborate politico-security infrastructure, called the National Security Management System (NSMS) (Seegers 1996, 166). The NSMS reached some 500 regional districts and local joint management centers (JMCs), mostly headed by military or police brigadiers and representing local government officials, community councilors, and other organizations such as churches and civil defense units. At the apex of the NSMS was the State Security Council (SSC), consisting of the prime minister; the ministers of defense, foreign affairs, justice, and police; and related senior officials, but essentially controlled by the Ministry of Defence and the SADF. A massive militarized state bureaucracy evolved that managed security, intelligence, constitutional, social, and economic issues at both national and local levels (Selfe 1994, 103–112). Accordingly, the NSMS placed the military at the center of state power and political decisionmaking, leading to accusations that the SADF was an alternative government (Sass 1996, 129). South Africa in effect became a praetorian state, with the military dictating the actual course of the regime given the prevailing security situation, but not with the intention to become or overthrow the state (Frankel 1984). From the side of civil society, there was little to counter this as opponents were either suppressed, detained, or killed. The media was heavily controlled, regulated, and manipulated by government and courted by the military for its own propaganda (Cilliers and Heinecken 2000, 249–250). With little civil control and parliamentary oversight, a culture took hold of “no accountability and rules,” as the security situation in the country worsened (Welsch 2010, 249). The SADF during this time became one of the strongest, most brutal, and toughest counterinsurgency forces in the world (Gossmann 2008). However, the winds of change were upon the country and the military. The end of the Cold War in 1989 created the climate for the political reform that was to follow. On February 2, 1990, President K. W. de Klerk announced the unbanning of the ANC and other political organizations, paving the way for negotiations and a peaceful settlement in South Africa. At this point, striking a compromise between the military and the new political order was central to the

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success of the transition to democracy (Heinecken 2019a, 16). Given the pivotal role the military played in upholding the apartheid regime and the level of mistrust within society toward the military, this was vital. The challenge was not only to curb the political influence of the military in politics, but to demilitarize society and establish acceptable limits on military activities (R. Griffiths 1995, 395).

Democracy and the Process of Demilitarization (1994–2008) With the end of the Cold War and the Border War and the demise of apartheid after 1990, the military was no longer central to state power. Even if elements within the SADF considered the possibility of a military coup during the transition, the odds were against them. With the advent of democracy in 1994, a key priority was to ensure effective civil control and adherence by the SANDF to the imperatives spelled out in the Constitution of the Republic of South Africa. Extensive defense transformation followed, with far-reaching implications for the nature and state of defense within the new democratic dispensation (Heinecken 2019a). Shift from Political to Regional Security Threats

In the absence of any external threat, the tasks of the SANDF, as defined in the Constitution, Article 200 (2), were “to defend and protect the Republic, its territorial integrity and its people in accordance with the Constitution and the principles of international law regulating the use of force” (Republic of South Africa 1996, 113). The first and primary role of the SANDF was defense against external aggression, and it was for this that it was funded, structured, trained, and equipped. However, it was for its secondary function, “to defend and protect its people in accordance with the Constitution and principles of international law,” that the SANDF would be most operational (Pretorius 2008, 42). This posed a dilemma, as the security threats facing the country and region were rooted in socioeconomic problems, but most wanted to curtail the military to its primary mission and remove it from the domestic sphere (Republic of South Africa 1998). However, the internal security situation in the country did not allow this.

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During the early years of the transition to democracy, the military continued to deploy in an internal role as political violence threatened the political stability of the country (Ellis 1998). For example, in 1997 approximately 6,000 soldiers deployed on a daily basis in cooperation with the police. However, as the political situation stabilized, the military was withdrawn from internal activities, including border control, which was transferred to the South African Police “Service” in 2003. This coincided with a shift in mission priorities toward African regional security and peace missions, in line with the foreign policy objectives of the Mbeki administration (Heinecken and Ferreira 2012). The promulgation of the White Paper on South African Participation in Peace Missions in 1999 led to the extensive deployment of the SANDF in peace missions, effectively removing the military from the domestic sphere (Montesh and Basdeo 2012, 72). The withdrawal of the SANDF from internal roles signified that the regime was no longer dependent on military force for its stability. Demilitarization of Society

Accordingly, in the postapartheid era the military was no longer central to state power and decisionmaking and over time became politically marginalized. Massive cutbacks in the defense budget occurred, resulting in what Luckham (1994) called economic demilitarization by default. Military expenditure during this time dropped from a high of 4.3 percent of the GDP in 1983–1984 to 2.6 percent by 1993– 1994 (Seegers 1996, 269) and to just above 1 percent in the years that followed (Husseini 2019). Similarly, the armaments industry faced cuts, and the number of jobs declined by two-thirds by 2009 (Truesdell 2009). The armaments programs, including nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons and ballistic missiles, were suspended (Purkitt and Burgess 2005). Those components of the military responsible for the implementation of the “total strategy,” including the state security bureaucracy and military intelligence, were reined in as a measure to reduce their influence (de Klerk 1999). In addition, the military was downsized, and those military units involved in counterinsurgency operations closed (Gossmann 2010). In 1993, white male military conscription, the backbone of the SADF, was suspended as the SANDF transitioned to an all-volunteer force broadly representative of society.

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The integration of the revolutionary forces into the SANDF in 1994, together with the rapidly changing racial profile of the military, largely restored the legitimacy of the military. However, while the legitimacy of the military was restored, its status and relevance as an institution declined together with the demilitarization of society. As time progressed, the military became an increasingly faceless organization as it no longer had a footprint within society. With little knowledge of and contact with the military, few civilians today understand how it operates, the challenges it faces, how the defense budget is spent, or where it is deployed and why (Esterhuyse 2010, 15). Already in 1998, Frankel (1998, 166) commented that this had developed into an “ongoing fault line” affecting policymaking and an understanding of what constitutes the national interest and the role of the armed forces. Heightened Civil Oversight and Control

Given the history of the country, effective overview of the Department of Defence (DOD) was imperative. In this regard, the Constitution provided clear guidelines on the separation of powers (Frankel 1998). The chief of the SANDF’s power became limited to command of the military under direction of the minister of defense in times of peace and under the president during a state of national defense. The minister became accountable to the parliament and the cabinet for the SANDF. A civilian Defence Secretariat was established to formulate the policies, programs, and budgets and to control the execution of the mandate of the Defence Force. The secretary of defense became administrative head, accounting officer, and principal departmental adviser to the minister with regard to defense policy (Cawthra 2005). Accordingly, horizontal democratic control over the military, in the sense of the executive’s ability to exercise influence over the Defence Force, was relatively secure during the first decade after the political transition. In addition, vertical democratic control was enhanced through two key parliamentary committees, which ensured openness and transparency in decisionmaking. The Joint Standing Committee on Defence (JSCD) was established to make recommendations on the budget, functioning, organization, armaments, policy, morale, and state of preparedness of the Defence Force (Republic of South Africa 1996, 10–11). Although not mandated to deal with defense

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legislation, the JSCD has ranging powers of investigation. In the first decade, the JSCD was vigilant in its task not to rubber-stamp the SANDF’s demands, despite having little experience or knowledge of conventional defense doctrine, operational concepts, composition of forces, or supportive defense tasks (Williams 1998). A more active committee is the Portfolio Committee on Defence and Veterans Affairs (PCDVA) of the National Assembly, with membership open to all political parties represented in the legislature (Ngculu 2003). The PCDVA tended to focus more on defense management, democratic accountability, and human resource issues (Heinecken 2019a; Janse van Rensburg 2019). However, according to Janse van Rensburg (2019, 235), from 2004 onward one saw an erosion of the effectiveness and use of oversight mechanisms, because the activities of the JSCD declined, parliamentary debates on defense matters were afforded less prominence, and the oversight committees failed to hold the executive to account. At the same time, a growing nonresponsiveness from the DOD to parliamentary questions emerged. Added to this, within civil society there was apathy toward defense, with a noticeable decrease in the involvement of external stakeholders, academics, and experts in defense debates (Heinecken 2015). Hence, while the mechanisms to ensure civil control are functional, the actual quality of military control declined as society became demilitarized and the civil-military gap widened. Consequently, vertical civil control started to weaken and become less effective.

Emerging Authoritarianism and Remilitarization (2009–2019) When Jacob Zuma assumed the presidency in May 2009, the country was already politically and economically more unstable. To stem rising discontent, the Zuma administration resorted to more coercive measures to curtail public protest and enhance the capacities of the police, military, and intelligence services (Duncan 2014; Nicolson 2015). Internal Threats to Political Stability and Security

Civil unrest and violent crime increased exponentially, driven by the underlying causes of structural and cultural violence, as well as easy

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access to weapons. Added to this, corruption within the criminal justice system contributes to a general climate of lawlessness and serves to undermine the legitimacy and effectiveness of the criminal justice system (Montesh and Basdeo 2012, 75). To cope with the rise in crime and violence, the police were granted more coercive powers, with the military being called in to support the police in publicorder duties. Yet this was done with some reluctance by both politicians and the military, as the military was neither structured, funded, nor trained for these roles and did not have the capacity to perform these tasks (Reuters 2017). The deployment of the military in public law-and-order functions was associated with the upsurge in political protest. Since 2008, more than two million people have taken to the streets in protest every year. Common reasons for protest include poor service delivery around water and sanitation, government corruption, electricity disconnections, overcrowding of schools, and lack of other broader socioeconomic rights (Lancaster 2019; Duncan 2016). But the rising levels of protest, crime, and violence in the country have been linked not only to the country’s own economic and political woes but to the instability in the region. South Africa has the highest number of asylum seekers in the world, with an estimated five million illegal immigrants, of which three million are Zimbabweans (Mollema 2017). This influx is aided by the porous nature of the country’s land borders and coastlines and weak border management systems (SAPS 2016). This has opened up the borders to numerous criminal activities, including smuggling of illegal vehicles, commercial explosives, cigarettes, drugs, and weapons, as well as human trafficking, often of illegal immigrants and children. Illegal poaching of wildlife, especially of rhinos and elephants, has increased in the border region. Due to corruption and lax border-control measures, these activities have been difficult to control (Mollema 2017). Border control was assigned to the police in 2003, but with the sharp increase in crime and violence in the country and the extra burden this placed on the police, this task was reassigned to the military in 2009. This marked the beginning of a period of remilitarization, as the SANDF became progressively drawn into countering crime and violent conflict that was threatening political stability or posing a threat to the national interest. At the same time, one sees an increase in militarism, as crime, migration, and ecological concerns become framed

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within a war narrative and addressed through military means (Buzan, Waever, and de Wilde 1998). Remilitarization of Society

Accordingly, one sees how the military is being used to defend national interests. A good example of this is the deployment of the military in antipoaching activities, which has been criticized as leading to “green militarization” (Masse, Lunstrum, and Holterman 2018). Conservationists claim that “equating rhino poaching with threats to national security and declaring war on poachers” (Annecke and Masubelele 2015) has led to a paramilitarization of rangers, who are now expected to become involved in covert operations, tactical ambushes, counterinsurgency operations, and intelligence gathering (Masse, Lunstrum, and Holterman 2018, 5). On the one hand, “the use of forceful and violent strategies in conservation can lock conservationists into an escalation of violence, a dynamic that also risks undermining other conservation priorities” (Duffy et al. 2019). On the other, rhino poaching has declined significantly since the combined involvement of the military in these operations (defenceWeb 2019). Besides the internal deployment of the military to counter crossborder threats, immigration, and poaching, another indication of remilitarization is the increase in the deployment of the military in crime prevention and public law-and-order functions. However, this has been limited for a variety of reasons: First, the military is neither geared for law-and-order functions nor trained, equipped, or funded for these roles. Second, involvement in these roles could undermine its legitimacy, especially where this could result in the excessive use of force. Lastly, the progressive underfunding of defense has limited the capacity to support the police (Reuters 2017). Consequently, the SANDF has only been deployed by the president under exceptional circumstances, most recently on the Cape Flats to combat gangrelated crime and violence on the insistence of local communities (Montesh and Basdeo 2012, 90; Davis 2019; Mawu 2019). This has raised concerns that the country is entering a new era of militarization, where the military is seen as the ultimate resolver of societal problems (Heinecken 2019b; Shelly 2019). More pronounced is the increase in police militarization. In 2010, President Zuma decided to revert to military-style ranks for the police in order to create a “military spirit” to “wage a war on crime.”

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More paramilitary policing units were created and trained in military techniques, including the use of lethal force. Such conduct is evident during police raids and public-order policing, where violence is used not only in force-reaction situations, but even when the situation is not high risk. There has been a substantial increase in police shootings, brutality, excessive use of force, authoritarianism, and the centralization of power (Duncan 2014; Lamb 2018; Western Cape Government 2018). However, the increase in militarization is not limited to the police and military. According to Cock (2004), one of the distinguishing factors of the postapartheid society is the growth in “privatized militarism,” defined as a range of cultural practices and social activities, which involve a systematic and extensive reliance on various non-state organized forms, expressions and instruments of violence. Three closely related illustrations of this privatized militarism include (i) increasing levels of highly organized criminal violence; (ii) the growth of armed, private security firms and vigilante groupings; and lastly, and most importantly (iii) individual reliance on instruments of violence—small arms.

A form of militarized citizenship has emerged in postapartheid South Africa, where gun ownership is associated with citizenship and manhood. The importance of owning a weapon has developed into a subculture that serves as a key driver behind the problem of armed violence. Gangs, for example, have assumed a militarized command structure and culture, and one sees the emergence of a kind of militarized masculinity linked to sexism and increased violence against women (Graaff 2017, 82). Vigilantism has increased as citizens take the law into their own hands to address the rising levels of crime, violence, and gangsterism (Lancaster 2019). Given the lack of police capacity to address the underlying structural and cultural violence, the private security sector has grown exponentially. There are now more private security personnel than members of the police and military combined in South Africa, with the country said to have the biggest private security sector in the world (Areff 2015). Private security personnel too have assumed a militarized culture, as witnessed by their uniforms, display of weapons, and conduct (S. Evans 2016). More alarming is the rise in militarized populism, where some political parties use a militarized aesthetic to attract support and advocate violence as a means to achieve political objectives. The Economic

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Freedom Fighters (EFF), for example, use weapons like spears in their party logo and military terminology (e.g., commander in chief) to refer to their leader, who was seen firing an assault rifle at a political rally (Evans and Cowan 2018). A distinct paramilitary posturing and “speech acts” using inflammatory language—such as the need “to fight and take back the land,” inciting violence against whites (The Citizen 2018), and to mobilize their “army” to take forward the “unfinished” revolution—fuel a culture of violence (Pauwels 2019). Even former president Jacob Zuma openly sang “Bring Me My Machine Gun” as his theme song at political rallies (Gon 2017). Such symbolic displays that glorify weapon use fuel an ideology of militarism. The prevalence of such warlike values is far more difficult to control than the military, where the legitimate use of force is subject to oversight. Weakening Civil Control of the Military

The increase in private militarization has a direct and indirect effect on civil control of the military. The direct effect is where the military is called upon by the state to counter the threats that nonstate actors pose to national interest and security. In South Africa, one sees a hesitancy by both politicians and civil society to deploy the military to counter the rise in private militarism, which sanctions the use of violence for criminal or political purposes. At the same time, the state security forces do not have the capacity to provide citizens with the security they deserve, which has meant that the private sector has come to fill this void. The indirect effect is that private militarization is not subject to civil control, as with the military, and can be viewed as symptomatic of the state’s lack of control over the use and threat of violence. Hence, private militarization, which is a response to the structural and cultural violence within society, is more difficult to control than state militarism but may indirectly lead to further militarization should the military be deployed more extensively to combat the security threats facing the citizenry. Should this occur, it is imperative that civil control of the military is strong in order to ensure that the government does not resort to the use of excessive force as a solution to societal problems, such as violent political protests, which are on the increase. In South Africa, while it is not yet the “new normal,” one does see a steady increase in the use of the military in internal roles to combat nonmilitary security threats. While all the mechanisms are in

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place to ensure objective control of the military, elements of subjective control bedevil civil control. According to Huntington (1957), subjective control is increased when the military is drawn into domestic politics, which ultimately comes to undermine military professionalism or objective control. Born claims that the first indication of this is where “political leaders try to control the armed forces by appointing high ranking generals who are political friends to the political party in power” (2003, 155). Under the Zuma administration, party loyalists have been progressively appointed to senior positions in the military and police, opening up the potential for political manipulation and corruption (Duncan 2014, 111). The generals aligned with the ANC find it difficult to stand up to politicians and are afraid to speak out due to the consequences this may have for their own careers (Esterhuyse 2010). Such servitude and affinity between politicians and generals enhance the loyalty of the elected government and the ruling party, which poses a threat to the democratic order. In terms of vertical control, one sees a weakening of the oversight mechanisms that exist to challenge the executive due to both political subservience and lack of capacity. Although by no means perfect, under the Mandela and Mbeki administration the parliamentary committees managed to institute a reasonable measure of oversight, holding both the executive and the DOD to account (Esterhuyse and Heinecken 2015). However, under the Zuma regime this has become more fractious. For example, in 2010 the PCDVA was in a vehement tug of war with the minister of defense and military veterans for not releasing two reports compiled by the Interim National Defence Force Service Commission on the service conditions and state of morale in the SANDF. Only after extensive pressure by the opposition, Democratic Alliance, were these reports released two years later (News24 2010). The opposition party accused the minister of defense of “surrounding the Defence Force with a circle of impenetrable steel” and turning it into a state within a state (Duncan 2014, 107). The chairperson of the PCDVA expressed similar concerns, stating that the empowerment of ministers over members of parliament and their supervisory role can “kill” parliament, as this constantly brings the legislative authority into conflict with the executive authority (Du Toit 2010). Concerns have been raised about the failure of the minister of defense to brief parliament on the combat readiness of the SANDF and to provide parliament with information

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on arms procurement and, not least, the controversy related to the deployment of soldiers to the Central African Republic (Heitman 2013). Similarly, there are indications of insufficient transparency around domestic deployment associated with mandate creep, where soldiers are deployed for extensive periods in different roles internally. According to constitutional regulations, each deployment needs to be authorized by a presidential proclamation, which includes informing parliament each time (Duncan 2014, 105). This clearly points to a lack of accountability, which depends on a degree of transparency and the adequate provision of information on security matters (Nathan 1994, 63). A culture of secrecy stemming from the national executive emerged under the Zuma administration (Duncan 2012, 57). Overall oversight declined as executive control over the police, military, and intelligence services increased (Duncan 2014). As a result, the military has become more insular and less willing to engage with civil society over military issues. Civil society, including the media, military unions, NGOs, and external research institutes, battles to gain access to information that is necessary for civil engagement and informed decisionmaking (Heinecken 2015). In this regard, Kohn (1997, 153) points out that a vigilant press and widespread understanding and engagement on military matters are vital to ensure effective civil control. This is sorely lacking in South Africa. The lack of access to information is problematic, as it undermines mature debate and analysis of military issues. Uncertainties about the possible sensitivity of information have meant that those classifying documents tend to “lean towards keeping everything secret from everybody” (Heitman 2013). The consequence is a general decline in the availability of credible information and expertise on the military, which impacts informed decisionmaking, the functioning of the military, and civil control. This contributes to a civil-military divide whereby military personnel feel that politicians and citizenry are ignorant of and unsympathetic to the tensions created by the under-resourcing of their mandate (Duncan 2014, 104). In this regard Cohn warns that this may lead civilian officials “to use the military in inappropriate ways, straining it beyond what it can bear and threatening national interest and relevance” (1999, 14). Evidence of this exists as the SANDF battles to fulfil its obligations, leading the 2015 Defence Review to conclude, “The Defence Force is in a critical state of decline, characterized by force imbalance between capabilities, block obsolescence and unaffordability of many

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of its operating systems, a disproportional tooth-to-trail ratio, the inability to meet current standing defense commitments and the lack of critical mobility. The current balance of expenditure between personnel, operating and capital is both severely disjointed and institutionally crippling” (DOD 2015, vii). The SANDF is without doubt at a crossroads, where it faces a mismatch between means and ends in terms of commitments to protect the border, internal security deployments, and African peace operations, as well as fiscal well-being (DOD 2015). The 2015 Defence Review estimated that the “defence force was 24% underfunded in relation to its current force structure” (Mandrup 2018, 137). A negative consequence of this is that it can lead to a self-perpetuating trend of isolation, disengagement, and even militarization (Morgan 2001). This epitomizes the current state of civil-military relations in South Africa.

Conclusion Based on the preceding discussion, there is a distinct trajectory between what the threat perception is, the associated level of militarization, and the strength of civil control. One can theorize that where the threat perception is high and the security of the state and citizenry is threatened, militarism and militarization are elevated, but civil control may be compromised, especially under an authoritarian regime. Under apartheid, the centrality of the military to regime stability effectively meant that the executive came to be led by the military, with the legislature, judiciary, and civil society exercising little influence over the actions and conduct of the SADF. In many respects, South Africa became the classic example of a garrison state (Lasswell 1941), where the military officers, as the “specialists in violence,” ran the state and dictated the political course of the country amid a highly militarized society. The fact that the security threats were also “interpreted in cultural, national, religious and racial terms” (Levy 2016a) turned South Africa into a highly militarized society. The opposite holds true where security threats are low and where state sovereignty is not immediately threatened. Here there is typically a disinvestment in the military, a decline in militarization, and an increase in civil control. This is especially so where the military has a history of human rights abuses and where those who had been oppressed in the past rise to check the military’s power. With the end

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of the Cold War and the dawn of a new democratic era, the military was sent back to the barracks and effectively removed from the political and social domain. This was possible as the country faced no immediate external or internal threat. Accordingly, there was agreement that state resources should be deflected away from the military to address more pressing social concerns. Given the legacy of the military and antipathy toward deploying the military in domestic roles, there was little support for the mobilization of societal resources for military purposes. Here one sees a relation between a decline in security threat, diminished relevance and status of the military, and demilitarization, facilitated by institutionalized horizontal and vertical civil control to curb the power and influence of the military. As the Zuma administration took over the political leadership of the country, this changed, and one sees a steady process of remilitarization due not to the military per se but rather to the increase in police and private militarism in response to growing crime and violence within society. In accordance with Kraska’s (2007, 203) definition of police militarization, one sees how the police came to draw on tenets of militarism and military methods to solve and respond to problems. A military-style approach emerged in dealing with situations, often involving excessive use of force (Lamb 2018, 935). At the same time, the inability of the police to counter crime and violence led to the growth of private militarization, where military symbolism, rhetoric, and weapon use came to be seen as a “legitimate” means to respond to the structural and cultural violence embedded within society. This in turn perpetuates the spread of militarism as an ideology that embraces social practices that regard the use of violence as normal and desirable (Enloe 2016, 11). This resonates with the point made by Burk (2002) that “students of militarism have not extended the theme of civilian control from controlling the military to controlling the civilian institutions that legitimize the use of force” (cited in Levy 2016a, 92). Based on this, one can see that militarism and the militarization of society are not limited to the mere power and influence of the military but can become endemic within broader society. Even though there has been an increase in the deployment of the military internally, this is limited and subject to civil oversight and control, albeit weakened due to “subjectivity” and an ever-widening civil-military gap. The most important takeaway from the South African case study is not the failure to exercise effective civil control of the military but

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rather the inability to control pervasive militarization by nonstate actors, which poses the greatest threat to political stability and security in the country. The big question is how this will evolve as the domestic vulnerabilities in the country increase and the state is unable to protect its citizens against this endemic violence. No doubt there will be growing demands to deploy the military internally to fill the “gap between police deficiencies and military capability” (Esterhuyse 2019). In many other countries this space is filled by a third constabulary, paramilitary, or gendarmerie-type force more suited to these tasks (Heinecken 2019b). However, in the absence of such a force in South Africa, this responsibility inevitably falls on the military. Should there be a reinvestment in the military, without effective civil control this “inevitably becomes associated with the encroachment of the military over civilian institutions and a concomitant decline in individual freedoms and democratic forms of decision-making” (Klare 1978, 121). Given the history of South Africa, a return to a state of militarism, militarization, and authoritarianism is indeed worrying.

11 Spain: A War Without an Army Rafa Martínez and Oscar Jaime

The killing of Guardia Civil officer José Pardines on June 7, 1968, marked the first time that Euskadi Ta Askatasuna (ETA, Basque Country and Freedom) took a life. French policeman Jean Serge Nerin was killed on March 16, 2010, in ETA’s last deadly attack. Between these two events, some 3,600 attacks were perpetrated by more than 200 commandos, including 86 kidnappings and numerous bombings, which left more than 800 dead and over 16,000 wounded. Finally, on May 3, 2018, ETA, after having been dismantled, disarmed, and reduced to its minimum, announced its dissolution. ETA—still named Aberri Ta Askatasuna (ATA, Homeland and Freedom) at the time—was created in 1959 and took its inspiration from the Cuban Revolution. This was the start of a violent struggle to gain the independence of the Basque territories.1 During the last years of Francisco Franco’s regime and at the dawn of the transition to democracy, Spain had terrorist groups from the extreme Right and the extreme Left and from nationalist groups from the Basque Country, Catalonia, Galicia, and the Canary Islands. Of all of them, only the terrorist group ETA maintained its armed struggle after the arrival of democracy in 1977. Basque terrorists have always used belligerent language. They called themselves gudaris (soldiers in Basque) and declared themselves to be permanently at war with Spain. Until the mid-1980s, the targets of their assassination attempts were members of the military, the Guardia Civil (Spain’s paramilitary gendarmerie), 199

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and the police; later they attacked civilians indiscriminately. ETA strenuously sought to enter into war with Spain, based on the conviction that a largely Francoist army would sooner or later engage in an asymmetric confrontation with the terrorist group. In fact, in 1979, former Francoist minister Manuel Fraga (leader of the Popular Alliance, which later gave rise to the Popular Party [PP]), stated in Congress that the revolution advocated by the Basque independence movement was “a war like any other, which could be either won or lost. To win it, you have to take it seriously, and that means using all available means, as has been done in Italy, by using the Army” (El País 1979).2 However, the Spanish Armed Forces (AFs) have never been considered a useful tool in the fight against terrorism by the post-transition governments: ETA’s strategic goal of provoking the Spanish military into an asymmetric civil war never materialized. Instead, a holistic approach was adopted that combined national and local police forces, the Guardia Civil, and Spanish intelligence services with international forces, judicial pressure, legislative reforms, strong social resilience, and the entire political arc as part of a major collaborative effort. This approach was also followed in Spain’s response to jihadist terrorism, which burst upon the Spanish scene in 2004 with an attack on several suburban trains in Madrid, killing 193 and wounding around 2,000. In August 2017, another attack by Islamists left 16 dead and more than 100 injured in Barcelona. The emergence of this new terrorist threat coincided with the process of ETA’s weakening and ultimate dissolution. This meant that the targets of the entire police and judicial apparatus could simply change; they had successfully gained experience that could therefore be redirected. However, a different problem called for a different strategy, and the holistic path resulted in police coordination and the application of what can be called a “European doctrine,” based on prevention, protection, prosecution, and response. The armed forces had not been used in the fight against ETA, and there was no reason for them to become engaged in the antijihadist struggle. They have only participated in counterterrorism operations outside the nation’s borders, subject to severe constraints. In this chapter, we argue that the armed forces did not intervene in the fight against terrorism in Spain because, first, the civilian-led holistic approach and the later European doctrine were sufficiently effective, and, second, there would have been no societal support for

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using the military internally. The AFs’ key role during Franco’s dictatorship had led them to be held in low regard socially, to be rejected politically, and to be mistrusted in terms of their expertise. In addition, as there were no professional troops until the beginning of the twenty-first century, using conscripts for antiterrorist tasks would have been socially and politically unacceptable. ETA terrorism was also an autochthonous, decidedly internal problem, and it was clear that the AFs should not be used for domestic security purposes; they had been used more than enough during the previous forty years. In addition, the antiterrorist efforts of the Guardia Civil (a police force that was originally part of the military and whose officers were initially trained in the army) probably gave many military members the impression that they were present in the fight against terrorism.3 For much the same reasons, jihadism, despite being a new, international terrorist phenomenon with a religious component, did not cause an increase in military participation in the fight against terrorism within Spain.

Mapping Terrorism Since the End of Francoism in Spain The victory of Franco’s side in the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939) was initially accompanied by the intense repression of any internal political dissent. However, from the 1960s onward, a diffuse social conflict began in Spain as a result of the partial modernization of the economy and the emergence of an incipient middle class with growing expectations. The workers became organized, and university students also became somewhat politically active, demanding greater freedom (Jaime-Jiménez 1997). The international context of the fight against colonialism and for national self-determination— for instance, in Vietnam and Algeria—contributed to making violence attractive and encouraged leftist students at the national level and radical nationalists in the Basque Country to explore the option of violently overthrowing the Franco regime. This was the case with those who wanted a revolutionary transformation of Spain, including peripheral groups in the Basque Country, Catalonia, the Canary Islands, Galicia, and elsewhere, which sought revolution and independence (Table 11.1 provides a list of all terrorist groups active in Spain since the 1970s).

202 Table 11.1 Active Terrorist Groups in Spain Since the 1970s Group Identity Links

Extreme Left

Terrorist Group

Number Killed by Each Terrorist Group

Frente Revolucionario 3 Antifascista y Patriota (FRAP) Grupos de Resistencia 38 Antifascista Primero de Octubre (GRAPO) Comandos Autónomos 25–30 Anticapitalistas Extreme Right Batallón Vasco Español (BVE) 18 Alianza Apostólica Anticomunista (AAA) 8 Grupos Armados Españoles 6 Guerrilleros de Cristo Rey 2 Milicia Catalana 0 Pro-independence Euskadi Ta Askatasuna (ETA) 864 Terra Lliure 1 Exèrcit Popular Català (EPOCA) 3 Fuerzas Armadas Guanches (FAG) 1 Exército Guerrilheiro do Povo Galego Ceive (EGPGC) 2 Liga Armada Galega (LAG) 0 Loita Armada Revolucionaria (LAR) 0 Andecha Obrera 0 Tierra Lleunesa 0 State Grupos Antiterroristas de Liberación (GAL) 24 Jihadist al-Qaeda 193 al-Qaeda en el Magreb Islámico (AQMI) 0 Daesh 16

End Year of Terrorist Group 1978 2007 1984 1981

1982 1980 1981 1995

2018 1991 1979 1979 1993

1980

1980 1985 1986

1987 SA SA SA

Sources: Authors, based on data from the El País newspaper, the Report of the Office of Victims of Terrorism (issued by the Basque government in 2010), and the Office of Information and Assistance to Victims of Terrorism of the National Court. Note: SA = still active.

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The radical Basque organization ETA was the first stable terrorist organization that emerged in Spain (1959), although it did not kill until 1968, when its members decided to increase the violence of their actions. Franco’s regime responded with indiscriminate repression, which took place within a context of intense and accelerating delegitimization of the dictatorship. This epic struggle of the weak against the evil prompted large sectors of Basque youth to join ETA. During the 1970s various groups from the extreme Left emerged with the intention of fighting the regime in its dying days. Leftist organizations such as the Frente Revolucionario Antifascista y Patriota (FRAP, Revolutionary Front Antifascist and Patriot) and Grupos de Resistencia Antifascista Primero de Octubre (GRAPO, Antifascist Resistance Groups First of October) began to commit violent acts with the ambitious intention of creating a revolutionary climate at an auspicious moment: the end of the dictatorial regime. Franco’s death in 1975 and the subsequent political change did not alter these groups’ use of violence, since both Basque radical nationalists and radical leftists viewed the new government under Adolfo Suárez as a mere extension of the Franco regime, so terrorist violence intensified until 1980 (Castro, 2009, 2010; Wilhelmi 2016). During the last years of Franco’s rule, his regime had supported terrorist activities carried out by members of the extreme Right from Italy and France in actions against leftists and Basque radical nationalists. Although the disappearance of the regime also meant the end of direct political-institutional support for these groups, both the military and the police continued to provide active, albeit discreet, support (Jabardo 1997; Jaime-Jiménez 2001, 2018; Sánchez Soler 2010). The effectiveness of the security forces at the beginning of the 1980s led to the dismantling of the violent extreme leftist groups, due to their structural weakness and lack of social support, although GRAPO would precariously extend its presence into the decades that followed. The nationalist terrorist groups from the Canaries, Catalonia, Galicia, and elsewhere had a very limited operational capacity, also due to their sociopolitical isolation. In the meantime, the extreme rightist groups disappeared as a consequence of a strong judiciary, the exhaustion of informal support from the police and the armed forces, and political isolation. The end of the 1980s was marked by the survival of ETA as the only terrorist organization with operational capacity and strong sociopolitical backing and by the ephemeral appearance of the Grupos Antiterroristas de Liberación (GAL, Antiterrorist Liberation Groups). The GAL lacked an

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ideological affiliation in classical terms and was at the service of the interests of the Spanish Ministry of Internal Affairs, which financed it. Its objectives were to combat ETA in French territory and cause the organization to feel unsafe in its sanctuary, while, at the same time, sensitizing the French government to collaborate with the Spanish authorities. Its members came from various backgrounds (mercenaries, gangsters from Marseille, extreme rightist French terrorists from Algeria, and members of the Spanish security forces). As indicated in Table 11.1, the GAL killed twenty-four people but made serious errors in selecting their targets, since many of their victims were not related to ETA (Woodworth 2002). In the first decade of the twenty-first century, when ETA was near its end, Spain was to be another victim of the religious and international fanatic brand of terrorism known as jihadism with the “11-M” attacks of March 11, 2004, in Madrid. Spain had already been a logistics base for Algerian Islamist networks in the 1990s and later became a center for recruitment by Syrian networks. After the attacks in Madrid, the objective was to make the country a logistics base for and a preferred target of jihadist terrorism, in retaliation for President José María Aznar’s decision to involve Spain in the Iraq War. Since then, al-Qaeda, al-Qaeda en el Magreb Islámico (AQMI, al-Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb), and Daesh have all operated on Spanish territory using the same leitmotif: attacking Spain with the ultimate goal of reclaiming Al-Andalus, the territory conquered from the Muslims by Christian Spanish kingdoms during the Reconquista in the Middle Ages. In recent years these groups have also laid claims on two extraterritorial Spanish exclaves in North Africa (Ceuta and Melilla), which they also believe should be reintegrated into the Islamic world. The number of arrests has reflected the intense jihadist activity. In 2004 and 2005 there were 131 and 92 arrests of suspected Islamist terrorists, respectively. Between 2015 and 2017 the average dropped to seventy-six people arrested for jihadist activities. Since 2018, due to the bewilderment generated by the defeat of the Daesh in Syria and Iraq and the apparent weakness of al-Qaeda, their networks were systematically penetrated and deactivated, seemingly without being replaced; arrests decreased to twenty-nine (Ministerio del Interior 2020). Despite these arrests, the feeling of uncertainty remained due to a fear that foreign fighters might return from Syria and Iraq, as well as to the unforeseeable changes in loyalties expe-

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rienced by Spanish ISIS activists after the end of the caliphate (Reinares, García, and Vicente 2019). Consequently, the understanding that terrorism was a pressing societal problem was pervasive in Spain, but its relative importance changed over the years. According to a January 2001 survey by the Centro de Investigaciones Sociológicas (CIS), for instance, 65.9 percent of Spanish citizens believed that ETA’s terrorism was the main problem, followed by unemployment and immigration. In September 2017 that percentage was 0 percent, in contrast with 15.6 percent of the population who believed that international jihadist terrorism was a major problem. However, this kind of terrorism ranked below unemployment, the economy, corruption, and the political class. Nonetheless, terrorism continued to be perceived as the main threat to security in surveys conducted in 2015 and 2017 (Figure 11.1). Some 88.7 percent of Spaniards thought that terrorist groups such as Daesh were a real threat to the security of Spain and the Spanish; however, only 56.5 percent agreed with Spain’s engaging in military intervention against them outside national borders.4 Figure 11.1 Assessment of the Main Risks and Threats in Spain (0–10 scale) Espionage Espionage Vulnerability Maritime aritime Space Space Vulnerability of M Irregular Flows Irre gular Migration Migraation Flows Armed Conflicts A rmed Confl icts o Cri tical Infrastructure Infrastructure Threats Critical T hreats tto E mergencies aand nd Disasters Disasters Emergencies

2015

Energy E nergy Vulnerability Vulneraability

2017

Organized O rganized Crime Crime Weapons Destruction Weeapons of Mass Mass D estruction Vulnerability Cyberspace Vulneraability of Cyberspace Economic E conomic and and Financial Finaancial Instability Instability Terrorism Te errorism

5.5

6

6.5

7

7.5

8

8.5

9

Sources: Authors, based on data from Centro de Investigaciones Sociológicas (CIS, Sociological Research Center) Surveys 3110 (2015) and 3188 (2017). Notes: “0” means that respondents consider a threat “not important” and “10” that they consider it “very important.” www.cis.es/cis/opencm/EN/2_bancodatos/estudios /listaTematico.jsp?tema=4&todos=no.

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The Spanish State’s Fight Against Two Waves of Terrorism The institutional confusion that followed the transition to democracy in Spain gave rise to an equally confused initial state response to the terrorist threat from ETA. Fear of the consequences of altering the inherited structure was a constant factor during this period within the new democratic system. Antiterrorism practices during this initial stage were marked by improvisation. There was an absence of adequate preparation, as the police had been used to repress the political opposition for decades but did not know how to deal with the new terrorist threat; the fear of provoking an army imbued with Francoist perceptions and values was still present, and there was a feeling that the international community lacked understanding, especially in relation to France, which would have been a natural ally in the fight against Basque nationalist terrorism. A Holistic Strategy for Defeating ETA: From the Zen Plan to the Antiterrorism Pact

Two approaches were developed to adapt the police procedures to the new context. The first was the different tactical focus used, as attention switched from ETA’s operational commandos (i.e., those groups that prepared and perpetrated actual attacks), which had been the previous center of attention, to the so-called legal commandos (structures formed by aspirants to become members of ETA who lacked a criminal record) (Figure 11.2). When the police targeted them, the operational commandos did not have intelligence that they could use to plan their actions (Jaime-Jiménez 2001). Second, the government increased the human and material resources allocated to the security forces. This led to greater police pressure, and ETA became increasingly unable to recruit young people at the same pace as before. Another significant development was the creation of the Mando Único para la Lucha Contraterrorista (MULC, Unified Counterterrorist Command) in March 1981 under the Ministry of the Interior, which included the civilian national police service (Cuerpo Superior de Policía, CSP), which was based in urban settings; the paramilitary Guardia Civil, which was detached to rural locations; and the military intelligence service (Centro Superior de Información de la Defensa, CESID). The effectiveness of MULC was questioned from the very

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Figure 11.2 Number of ETA Legal Commandos Formed and Lost in the Basque Country and Navarre 40

35 30 25 20 15 10

1995

1994

1993

1992

1991

1990

Lost

1989

1988

1987

1986

Formed

1985

1984

1983

1982

1981

1980

1979

1978

0

1977

5

Source: Authors, based on data from Dominguez Iribarren (1998, 191).

beginning, and its coordination deficiencies were considered a structural problem. As a coordinating body, it lacked the ability to command outside the hierarchical structure. This was a weakness when it came to liaising with powerful police and intelligence organizations that constantly rivaled each other. The relative weight that the army (through the CESID) had in the fight against terrorism did not help either. In fact, their presence caused police officers to have deep misgivings. So the MULC was bypassed and began to report directly to the Bilbao police chief. This reduced the scope and aspirations of the MULC and distanced it from the decisionmaking bodies in Madrid. The criticisms of the MULC and its lack of practical operational capacity were a constant factor throughout its history.5 After the bloody years of 1978 to 1980 (Figure 11.3), there was a significant decrease in the number of deadly attacks in the three months prior to the creation of the MULC due to the dismantling of several legal commandos (Figure 11.2). The police effectiveness in dismantling these commandos would lay the foundations of the subsequent decrease in the ETA’s operational and recruiting capacity. Furthermore, despite the high number of killings in 1980, that year saw the beginning of a decline in the organization’s ability to carry out attacks (Figure 11.3). An explicit symptom of ETA’s organizational weakness

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Figure 11.3 Number of Actions and Deaths Caused by ETA

Deaths

ETA’s Actions

Sources: Authors, based on data from López Agudín (1996, 245), the Spanish Ministry of Interior Affairs, and weekly newsletter no. 828 of Vasco Press News Agency.

was that it began to request information from the Basque people in its public announcements. ETA no longer had “legal” commandos. But reactive measures by the security forces were not solely responsible for the decrease in terrorist activity. Passive measures (i.e., improved protection of potential targets) also had an effect. These included increased concern for self-protection of security service personnel, such as increased surveillance of installations and the use of armored vehicles. These new dynamics meant that launching attacks on the police became much more difficult. This forced ETA to look for easier targets and move its locus of activity progressively further away from the Basque Country. In this sense, a campaign announced by ETA at that time to fight against drug traffickers should be partly interpreted as an attempt to define new, more accessible enemies, whose elimination would yield greater social recognition. By attacking drug trafficking, ETA was hoping to win favor among broader sectors of society. ETA’s change of strategy prompted the Guardia Civil to partially modify its tactical plans. Until then, as ETA’s activities had been limited to a more or less restricted geographical area, its response had also been mainly local. However, as the geographical scope of the

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attacks expanded, the Guardia Civil gradually centralized its antiterrorist command structures. The unsuccessful MULC was replaced by the Gabinete de Información y Operaciones Especiales (GAIOE, Information and Special Operations Cabinet), which focused on the coordination and analysis of information coming from the different police bodies involved. The GAIOE designed and organized all operations that originated from the Dirección de la Seguridad del Estado (Directorate of State Security) or any center controlled by it. A lieutenant colonel from the Guardia Civil was appointed to head this unit. Giving prevalence to this police force to the detriment of the CSP showed the Ministry of the Interior’s new attitude to antiterrorism. After the Partido Socialista Obrero Español (PSOE, Spanish Socialist Workers Party) won an absolute majority in the 1982 elections, the prevalence of socialist politicians in managing the counterterrorism efforts instead of established civil servants contributed to the former placing greater trust in the Guardia Civil to the detriment of the CSP (Ballbé 1985, 373–378). In 1984, the thus far strictly police-based fight against terrorism was tempered by the approval and application of the comprehensive Zona Especial Norte (ZEN, Special North Zone) antiterrorism plan. The ZEN measures included were not new in and of themselves, but the novelty lay in the unified structure used. They included the need to obtain a political consensus on the fight against terrorism, coordination of police resources, improvement of the police’s public image, and social reintegration of terrorists into a coherent and comprehensive strategy. At a strictly technical level, it decentralized the information and command bodies of the security agencies. Despite the ZEN plan’s being rejected by all Basque nationalist forces, it was the state’s key response during the 1980s, culminating in the signing of the 1987 Madrid Accords (Acuerdos de Madrid) and 1988 Ajuria Enea Accords. The effectiveness of ZEN, however, was counteracted by the creation of GAL (Carrasco Moraleda 2017). The activities of this state-sponsored counterterrorist militia breathed political life and votes into the ideological arm of ETA, the political party Herri Batasuna. It went from about 136,000 votes in 1983 in local elections to more than 210,000 in 1987 in regional elections and stressed relations with France at a time when collaboration between the Spanish and French governments had been increasing. The creation of GAL was the last major strategic error committed by the Spanish state in the fight against ETA.

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In addition to ZEN, the central government wanted to establish a broad political agreement on counterterrorism. The pact would give the government broad powers to develop an effective antiterrorist policy and would be fundamentally endorsed by all signatory political forces. The chances for such a pact were good, as the socialist central government enjoyed a large parliamentary majority, while the Partido Nacionalista Vasco (PNV, Basque Nationalist Party) a nationalist, Christian democratic party that had governed the Basque Country since the end of the dictatorship, was rather weak. Personal confrontations between the PNV’s leaders had ended with a severe intraparty split, which ultimately resulted in the creation of a new party. In addition, in June 1987, ETA carried out one of its deadliest attacks, which took place outside the Basque Country and caused many civilian casualties. The bombing of the Hipercor shopping center in Barcelona killed twenty-one people and injured forty-five. ETA began its strategy of “socializing” terror (see below), and the whole of Spain became a target. The Madrid Pact was signed by all parties represented in the national parliament in November 1987. ETA responded in December 1987 with an attack on a Guardia Civil barracks in Zaragoza that killed eleven (including four children) and injured eighty-eight, mostly family members of Guardia Civil officers. In January 1988, the Ajuria Enea Pact was signed by all parliamentary groups represented in the Basque regional parliament except the ETA’s political arm, Herri Batasuna. The main issues agreed in the Madrid Pact included a vague reference to possibly negotiating an amnesty with ETA that would be conditional on the group’s renouncing the armed struggle. The pacts stipulated that there would be no negotiations with ETA beyond when and how the terrorist group would dissolve. Therefore, any type of political negotiation was excluded. This pact also served to repeal the then current, extremely restrictive antiterrorism law, which had aroused much criticism, while allowing the government to grant pardons when deemed necessary, even to individuals convicted of violent crimes. In terms of strictly police matters, the Ajuria Enea Pact made the most important contributions. It granted the Basque government (and therefore the Basque Autonomous Police, or Ertzaintza) a greater role in the fight against terrorism, even suggesting that it should have a leading role. The two pacts also included provisions for better coordination of the police, but this was never achieved. In fact, from the second half of the 1980s to the 1990s, there were no significant changes in

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antiterrorism police organization, although the bad practices inherited from Francoism were disappearing due to the generational change taking place within the police force. The new police had been trained under a democratic system, shared pluralist values, and took a different approach to their work. In spite of the relative successes of the police in reducing the number of ETA attacks in the 1980s, which also saw the dismantling of numerous commandos and increasing collaborative efforts with France, terrorism remained entrenched, and no short-term solutions were foreseen at that time. The murder of the prosecutor of the National Court, Carmen Tagle, by ETA commandos in 1988 had the effect of increasing cooperation between the judiciary and the police. A twofold strategy emerged as a result of this collaboration. Traditional police investigations continued, while the judiciary focused on discovering the financial fabric that supported the terrorist structure. The assassination was part of ETA’s new strategy, which it had followed since the late 1980s, of terrorizing all citizens. According to ETA’s ideological pamphlets, the group sought to “socialize suffering” by declaring all Spanish citizens legitimate targets. In January 1996, a prison official was kidnapped and held for 532 days until he was rescued by the Guardia Civil. ETA’s response to this police success was to kidnap in 1997 a young Popular Party councilor from a small Basque town and announce that they would execute him within forty-eight hours if the group’s prisoners were not brought closer to the Basque Country. This “total war” approach to terrorism further diminished social support for ETA throughout Spain and, very significantly, in the Basque Country. Between 1988 and 1997 more than sixty people unrelated to the police or the armed forces were murdered. In the 1990s the two-front strategy based on police and economic action began to bear fruit. Moreover, the strong French collaboration with the Spanish justice and police system closed terrorist “sanctuaries” on French soil. For instance, in 1992, the French police captured ETA’s top leaders and seized documents that served to drastically weaken the organization. This approach succeeded in exposing ETA’s economic fabric and thwarting its main financing sources, also in French territory. The victory over ETA was multifaceted: it was social, political, judicial, economic, international, and, of course, police based. However, despite the attempts made to generate coordination spaces

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between the National Police and the Guardia Civil, no common approaches to security problems have been developed; nor have any shared areas for collaboration emerged, even in the fight against terrorism. The Cuerpo Nacional de Policía (CNP, National Police Force, heir of the CSP) has a highly permeable hierarchical structure in political terms, which gives rise to significant internal tensions. The presence of a very powerful police trade union drives internal debates and generates parallel power structures. This complexity has sometimes benefited CNP’s influence over political decisionmakers, but on other occasions it has been detrimental to the force, as it has conveyed an image of internal misgovernance. The Guardia Civil, for its part, has a military nature and has an image of greater discipline and submission to institutions since the establishment of democracy, although it has been characterized by its internal opacity. More specifically, the armed forces have been ostentatiously excluded from the fight against terrorism in Spain. They did have a discreet presence through the paramilitary values, corporate ethos, and organization of the Guardia Civil, as well as—in the early years, at least—their dominance of the state intelligence services. The fight against ETA progressed with time through different stages. At many points of this journey, Spain demonstrated difficulty in acting as a democratic state, for instance by organizing and financing the GAL. The final success was the result of a multifaceted strategy born of a very hard lesson: a very high death toll. Along the way, many severe mistakes were made, but from the beginning it was clear that, although ETA wanted to confront the military directly, the army would never be the tool used by the state. This decision was probably one of the greatest successes of the then fragile Spanish democracy. The Quick Adaptation to the New Challenge of Jihadist Terrorism

The change in the fight against terrorism intensified even further at the turn of the century. The trigger was the train bombings perpetrated by al-Qaeda in Madrid in 2004, which caused 193 deaths and were a very severe blow not only to Spanish society as a whole but also to the political scene and the police structures. The PP and PSOE decided to include Islamist terrorism in the Antiterrorism Pact signed in 2000 in the fight against Basque terrorism. In addition, the lack of preparedness of the security forces for the threat of Islamist terrorism com-

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pelled both the police and the intelligence services to significantly increase the human and material resources dedicated to it. The creation of broader, more encompassing (but also more specialized) police coordination bodies could no longer be postponed. This resulted in the Comité Ejecutivo del Mando Unificado (CEMU, Executive Committee of the Unified Command). Its objective was to become the highest coordination and strategic management body between the National Police and the Guardia Civil. However, in line with the broad, allencompassing vision of the new security concepts, a more complex structure was developed that included other bodies and covered the majority of the major bodies within the Ministry of the Interior. The CEMU’s role in the fight against terrorism centered on coordinating the CNP and the Guardia Civil in matters of research and intelligence, with particular emphasis on international cooperation. The need to develop new instruments to foresee scarcely known terrorist threats prompted the PSOE government to explore coordination procedures not only from the idiosyncratic Spanish police model but also from other countries’ experiences in this field. This was how the Centro Nacional de Coordinación Antiterrorista (CNCA, National Counterterrorism Coordination Center) was created in 2004 following the Anglo-Saxon model, with the aim of “coordinating intelligence activity” between the CNP, the Guardia Civil, and the Centro Nacional de Inteligencia (CNI, National Intelligence Center). It was clearly structured and had very specifically defined functions, since it was required to publish periodical risk reports, conduct strategic quality analysis, and make operational recommendations, although its initial objective continued to be to promote interforce coordination. However, at no time since its creation did the CNCA strictly fulfil its role as coordinator. Information was shared between the bodies, but nothing that could be key to mount an important operation. The progressive decline of the CNCA was confirmed when it merged with the Centro de Inteligencia Contra el Crimen Organizado (CICO, Intelligence Center Against Organized Crime) to create the Centro de Inteligencia contra el Terrorismo y el Crimen Organizado (CITCO, Center for Intelligence Against Terrorism and Organized Crime) in 2014 during the government of the conservative PP. The official reason provided was the need to cut costs, but the internal operations remained practically the same, only now as part of a larger structure. The action taken to combat jihadist terrorism has been effective largely due to the lessons learned and the protocols developed during

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the long fight against ETA. However, the different character of the terrorist acts and the suicidal nature of jihadist terrorists have led to some important strategic changes. The most remarkable change has been the greater role played by the National Intelligence Center in information and monitoring tasks and the strengthening of proactive security. This is illustrated by the Plan Estratégico Nacional de Lucha Contra la Radicalización Violenta (PEN-LCRV, National Strategic Plan to Combat Violent Radicalization), which integrates all measures aimed at preventing young Muslims from becoming radicalized in Spain. This has been combined with growing international cooperation between intelligence services. Additionally, given the great mobility of terrorist cells, growing coordination of the different state, regional, and local police officers through CITCO has become more essential than ever before. Nevertheless, the idea that armies must be kept away from the fight against terrorism inside the national territory remains unchanged. The police responses to both ETA terrorism and jihadist terrorism were radically different since the main characteristics of the respective threats were also different. Nonetheless, faced with the new Islamist terrorist threat, Spanish forces could rely on previous experience of decades of anti-ETA operations and therefore a significant psychological disposition and transferable tactical knowledge. However, neither the approach adopted by intelligence services nor the operational response had prioritized jihadist terrorism before 2004. Since then the institutional response has been articulated through the PEN-LCRV, the 2019 National Counterterrorism Strategy, the Criminal Code reform, the STOP Radicalism project, and the formation of social organizations involved in the fight against radicalism. The strategic approach had changed, as Spanish police forces had adopted the European doctrine based on prevention, protection, prosecution, and response. As was the case during the fight against ETA, the Spanish military did not play a role in these post-2004 reorganizations of the security sector. This ran somewhat counter to the global trend of involving the military in domestic antiterrorism operations in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks in 2001. In Spain, however, post-2001 developments saw a strengthening of the paramilitary Guardia Civil. The impact of the armed forces on the fight against terrorism through the duties performed by the Guardia Civil has been determined by two important facts. First, the armed forces’ influence on the Guardia Civil had been

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declining early on in the fight against ETA, as the paramilitary organization shed its role in the internal repression of the political opposition and focused on its police duties. Second, the increasing role played by the Guardia Civil in the fight against terrorism has been directly proportional to the loss of influence of the army in its internal leadership and management. At the dawn of democracy, when the military nature of the corps was most marked, the antiterrorist activity of the Guardia Civil was only minor. However, when the army lost its influence over the corps, the Guardia Civil became the main asset of the state in the fight against ETA and (together with the National Intelligence Center) in the fight against jihadist terrorism.

Controlling the Use of Force Legally, how has the terrorist threat affected democratic accountability for the use of military force in Spain? The answer is not at all. The only regulatory impact related to civilian control of the military has been the hardening of the requirements and guarantees necessary to send Spanish troops on missions abroad as a result of social rejection, demonstrated by the “Stop the War” movement against the intervention of Spanish troops in the Iraq War of 2003. This caused the Organic Law on Basic Criteria for National Defense and Military Organization (Ley Orgánica Sobre Criterios Básicos de la Defensa Nacional y la Organización Militar), approved in 1980 and partially amended in 1984, to be replaced in 2005 by the Organic Law on National Defense (Ley Orgánica de Defensa Nacional), which stipulates that it is the president of the government who orders AFs’ missions (Art. 6), although it is the government as a whole that makes the decision when missions take place outside the national territory (Art. 5); prior to making that decision, however, it must consult with Congress and request authorization (Art. 17). In order for Congress to grant that authorization, (1) the request for intervention needs to have been made by the government in response to a resolution from the United Nations, the European Union, or NATO; (2) the mission must pursue humanitarian, stabilizing, or peacekeeping aims; and (3) it must abide by the UN Charter and not contradict the international treaties signed by Spain. Missions entrusted to the AFs must “preserve the security and well-being of citizens in cases of serious risks, disasters, calamities or other public needs” (Art. 15.3). The specific

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types of operations that may be performed under this heading include (1) collaborating with the different public administrations in the cases of serious risks, disasters, calamities, or other public needs, and (2) supporting state security forces and bodies in the fight against terrorism (Art. 16). Provisions on collaboration in terrorism matters had been added to the previous law; however, as was already the case in the 1980 law, it was stipulated that the president of the government would give the order, and the defense minister would execute it. Parliament is responsible for the control of government action in these areas, as is the case with any other policies. To verify that there are no other regulations on the use of military force within Spain, Spanish legislation on security matters will be reviewed here. The current legislation is listed in Table 11.2 and refers to the main actors (police, intelligence services, armed forces, foreign service, private security, and civil protection) and critical security scenarios (states of exception, protection of essential infrastructures, citizen security, and national security). The regulations relating to security forces (police and Guardia Civil) (within the first six months of their coming into force) allowed military officers who had carried out policing roles to leave the AFs and be permanently integrated into the police force (1st and 3rd Transitional Provision of law). The law regulating the National Intelligence Center (CNI) annulled the Higher Information Defense Center (2nd Additional Provision of law), but it stipulated that the members of the CNI were not a public authority (Art. 5) and would have their own statutory regime (Art. 8); that is, they were part of neither the police force nor the military. The law regulating the administrations that participate in the state’s foreign policy refers to the AFs as the “basic pillar for external State action . . . to contribute to Spain’s international outreach and the maintenance of international peace and security” (Articles 8 and 15), but it refers to the National Defense Law for provisions on how they are to be used. The regulations concerning private security do not include any activities related to the AFs, whereas the law that regulates public services for intervention and assistance in civil protection emergencies refers to the AFs, specifically to the unidad Militar de Emergencias (UME, military emergency unit), as one of these services (Art. 17). The UME (as a member of the AFs) is entrusted with supporting civil protection tasks, but only under the parameters set out in the National Defense Law (Art. 37). The risk scenario and most serious exception contemplated is the state of siege: “When an insurrection or an act of force occurs that is

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Table 11.2 Main Public Safety Legislation Currently in Force in Spain (2019) Security Actors

Risk Scenarios

Organic Law 2/1986, of March 13, Organic Law 4/1981, of June 1, on on security forces and bodies states of alert, exception, and siege Law 11/2002, of May 6, regulating Law 8/2011, of April 28, which the National Intelligence Center established measures for the Organic Law 5/2005, of November protection of critical infrastructures 17, on national defense Organic Law 4/2015, of March 30, on Royal Decree 1438/2010, of the protection of citizen security November 5, on military missions Law 36/2015, of September 28, on that can be entrusted to the national security Guardia Civil Royal Decree 1008/2017, of Law 2/2014, of March 25, on the December 1, approving the 2017 state external action and service national security strategy Law 5/2014, of April 4, on private security Law 17/2015, of July 9, on the National System for Civil Protection Source: Developed by the authors.

against or threatens the sovereignty or independence of Spain, its territorial integrity or the constitutional order, which cannot be resolved by other means, the Government . . . may propose that the Congress declare a state of siege. The corresponding declaration will determine the territorial scope, duration and conditions of the state of siege” (Art. 32). The government will take on all the extraordinary powers provided for in the declaration and will designate a military authority to implement the necessary measures under its direction (Art. 33). In 2015 Spain also passed a Law on National Security, defined in its preamble as the “state’s action aimed at protecting the freedom and wellbeing of its citizens, guaranteeing the defense of Spain and its principles and constitutional values, and contributing to international security under the commitments made to that effect, together with our partners and allies.” The preamble also warned that the challenges to national security are sometimes highly complex and exceed the boundaries of traditional categories such as defense, public security, foreign action, and intelligence. For this reason, some areas of special interest are identified: cybersecurity, economic and financial security, maritime security, air and outer space security, energy security, health

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security, and preservation of the environment (Art. 10). The president of the government, assisted by the Consejo de Seguridad Nacional (CSN, National Security Council),6 will direct the national security system. The list of resources to be used must be proposed by the CSN for the approval of the Council of Ministers and updated for each national security strategy. The law approved in 2017 (1) refers to the AFs as a tool for the state’s foreign policy in meeting its obligations to the EU, NATO, and the UN; (2) announces the need to equip the AFs with the capabilities that enable it to fulfil its obligations to NATO and the recommendations of the European Parliament; and (3) entrusts the AFs with joint responsibility, together with the police forces, the judiciary, and the health authorities, for responding to intentional attacks with infectious agents that seek to generate epidemics and pandemics. Finally, neither the law that addresses the protection of citizen security nor the law concerning the protection of critical facilities (those whose operation is essential and that have no alternatives) from potential terrorist attacks refers to the AFs at all. The Guardia Civil deserves special treatment. It is a militarized body that reports to the minister of the interior and has mainly police functions, namely, maintaining order and public security in rural areas and in the municipalities to be decided upon by the government. Due to its military nature, it may be required by the minister of defense to carry out some specific military missions as an armed force, subject to consultation with the minister of internal affairs. 7 Its intervention outside Spanish borders requires authorization from the Senate, as is the case for the AFs.

Conclusion

Once the transition to democracy began in Spain, the AFs could not be used in the fight against ETA for political reasons. Terrorism lasted for decades in Spain. Over that long period, the AFs were never seen as a technically useful response to the problem. Additionally, their intervention would presumably have caused some political upheaval. Moreover, the AFs were not needed in the fight against terrorism in Spain, as the police, intelligence services, and paramilitary Guardia Civil were able to deal effectively with the terrorist threats the country faced. This counterterrorism action meant that political parties, society, judges, the press, and, logically, the police forces, intelligence services, and international collaboration were all

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reading from the same page. Police coordination was sought, but it was not as strong and fluid as expected, although some collaborative efforts and information flow did take place. What changed was the leading and coordination bodies. After a period when the National Police had the leading role, the Guardia Civil became the preferred force to be employed, because political leaders saw it as a more docile police force. It was perceived as less reactive to changes in the public safety strategy resulting from political decisions that failed to assess the technical and operational consequences. Today the threat of jihadist terrorism remains in Spain. But all the experience and the organizational framework that has developed during the almost forty years of struggle against ETA is proving to be quite effective in the fight against this new terrorist actor, even though it has required increased preventive work and international cooperation. That is why the AFs have only acted against jihadist terrorists outside the country’s borders and have sealed Spain’s land, air, and sea borders when they have been required to do so. Since 2005, however, they may be called upon to act within Spain in the fight against terrorism, jointly with the state security forces. In addition to its presumed ineffectiveness, the military did not have enough support from the population to face the terrorism threat, even in exceptional circumstances. The AFs have spent decades modernizing and preparing to meet their new daily role: international missions and catastrophes and disasters inside Spanish borders. They have remained outside political daily life, which has helped them to ostensibly improve their once battered image. Today the AFs are more a tool of state foreign policy than a defensive instrument and, even less, a provider of domestic security in the interior of Spain. Even though it may be technically possible to involve the AFs in antiterrorism operations within Spanish borders, doing so might awaken too many ghosts from the past. There are still many Spaniards who lived under the oppressive control of the military forces under Franco and are suspicious of them, albeit with more passion than reason.

Notes

This work has received funding from the State Research Agency of Spain (PID2019 -108036GB-100 / AEI / 10.13039 / 501100011033). 1. These are the three Spanish Basque provinces (Álava, Guipúzcoa, and Vizcaya), the Spanish province of Navarre, and the three French Basque territories belonging to the department of the Pyrénées Atlantiques (Lapurdi, Nafarroa

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Beherea, and Zuberoa). The demand to integrate the Basque territories into one arose in the nineteenth century under the motto “Zazpiak Bat” (all seven in one). 2. The Italian armed forces, following the kidnapping and subsequent murder of former prime minister Aldo Moro, carried out internal territorial-control tasks (Caffio 2018). 3. The Guardia Civil was formed in 1844 to fulfil the need for the state to have a disciplined coercive force in addition to the army. It has remained a military body, mainly rural, whose members have been subject to military discipline since the arrival of democracy. Since the end of the dictatorship, the policing role of the corps has been emphasized to the implicit detriment of the military role, which has had an important impact. The Guardia Civil carries out highly visible and socially profitable roles, such as traffic surveillance as well as sea and mountain rescue. It also has a hegemonic presence in the fight against terrorism from the last years of the fight against ETA. 4. CIS Surveys nos. 2234 (1997), 2277 (1998), 2317 (1999), 2379 (2000), 2447 (2002), 2592 (2005), 2680 (2007), 2825 (2009), 2912 (2011), 2998 (2013), 3110 (2015), and 3188 (2017), http://www.cis.es/cis/opencm/EN/2_bancodatos /estudios/listaTematico.jsp?tema=4&todos=no. To better understand the complex relationship of Spaniards with their armed forces, it must be borne in mind that in the event of an invasion of the Spanish territory by a foreign country, only two-thirds of the population believe that it is justifiable for the government to use the army. 5. The articles published in El País newspaper on April 12, 1981, and December 23, 1982, are of interest. 6. The CSN is comprised of (1) the president of the government, who presides over it; (2) the vice presidents, if any; (3) the Ministries of Foreign Affairs and Cooperation, Justice, Defense, Finance and Public Administration, Internal Affairs, Development, Industry, Energy and Tourism, Presidency, Economy and Competitiveness, and Health, Social Services, and Equality; (4) the director of the cabinet of the presidency of the government, the secretary of state for foreign affairs, the chief of defense, the secretary of state for security, and the secretary of state–director of the Centro Nacional de Inteligencia (CNI, National Intelligence Center). 7. According to Article 3 of Royal Decree 1438/2010: “the military missions that may be entrusted to the Guardia Civil are a) Participating in the planning, preparation and execution of military operations carried out by Spanish or multinational armed forces, by performing the following functions: 1. Military police, including the specific police areas of expertise. 2. Military surveillance and defense. 3. Those other actions assigned to it as part of military operations carried out by Spanish or multinational armed forces. b) Integrated participation, in activities carried out by military units, centers and agencies dependent on the Minister of Defense, as well as military judicial and military legal prosecuting bodies, by performing the following functions: 1. Judicial police in the scope of the military jurisdiction. 2. Liaising and providing support and coordination. 3. Intelligence, counterintelligence and security. 4. Military education. c) Participate in similar activities as required by the Council of Ministers, at the proposal of the Minister of Defense.”

PART 3 Conclusion

12 Theorizing Threats, Militarization, and Civilian Control David Kuehn and Yagil Levy

The goal of this book is to uncover the nexus between domestic and external security threats, militarization of security discourse, and civilian control of the military in democracies. In this final chapter, we draw on the case studies in the previous ten chapters to draw some general conclusions and to develop a first integrative model on the relationship of these phenomena.

Threats, Militarization, and Civilian Control The cases for this volume were selected to portray a variance in the sources and types of security threats and in the degree of militarization. The goal of the case studies was to link these phenomena and to identify potential relationships between them and the degree of democratic civilian control over the armed forces. Table 12.1 summarizes the ten cases in terms of the three crucial variables. In four out of the ten cases, the main threat originated from outside the countries’ borders. Israel’s main threat emanates from Arab countries and Iran; Japan finds its national security challenged by China’s and, to a lesser extent, North Korea’s ascent as regional and assertive powers in its neighborhood. In South Korea, the main threat is aggression, both symmetric and asymmetric, by the country’s autocratic and highly militarized neighbor, North Korea. For the 223

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Table 12.1 Threats, Militarization, and Civilian Control in Ten Cases Country

Colombia

Origin of Type of Main Threat Main Threat Domestic

El Salvador Domestic France Domestic Israel

Japan

Senegal South Africa South Korea Spain USA

External

External

Domestic Domestic

External

Domestic External

Insurgency, crime Crime Terrorism

State Response Military

Military Military and police Terrorism and Military foreign states Foreign state Military

Security Discourse

Militarized

Militarized Partly militarized Militarized

“Soft” militarization Insurgency Police Not militarized Border Military Partly security, crime and police militarized Foreign state Military Militarized

Terrorism Terrorism

Police Military

Civilian Control

Moderate

Weakened Weakened Weakened

Strong

Strong Weakened

Weakened

Not militarized Strong Militarized Weakened

United States, the main threat also emanates from outside the country’s borders, but since the 9/11 attacks, it mainly takes the form of transnational Islamist terrorist groups such as al-Qaeda. Terrorism is also the main threat to a number of other cases in our sample. However, unlike in the United States, where the terrorist threat was considered a foreign problem and materialized within the country only in a small, albeit highly visible and impactful, number of instances, in the European cases the terrorist threat was mainly domestic. In the 2000s and 2010s, France and Spain found themselves challenged by jihadist terror cells linked to al-Qaeda and ISIS that were recruited from immigrants and nationals with migration backgrounds, mostly from North Africa. Spain, in addition, also had historically been challenged by a range of domestic terrorist groups immediately after the country’s transition to democracy in the 1970s, especially by the Basque separatist nationalist group Euskadi Ta Askatasuna (ETA), which was responsible for some 3,600 attacks before it declared its dissolution in 2018. Senegal also had its security and national integrity challenged by an armed separatist insurgency that had ravaged the country’s peripheral Casamance region since 1982, leading to over 5,000 deaths. In Colombia the main threat for a long time also was armed insurgency, when the country was ravaged

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by a brutal civil war between the state security forces and a number of guerrilla groups, which left more than 220,000 dead. Since the state’s peace deal with the largest group, the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (FARC), in 2016, the main challenge to the state’s monopoly on violence has been the rising power of heavily armed and well-organized crime syndicates that have grown incredibly rich from the drug trade. After the end of the country’s bloody civil war and the signing of a comprehensive peace agreement in 1992, crime also has become the main threat in El Salvador, and the brutal conflict between the state security forces and armed gangs (maras) and especially between the armed groups and between groups and civilians has led to one of the highest homicide rates in the world. In South Africa, the threats came from insurgents both outside and within the nation’s borders during the apartheid era and from rampant domestic crime and violence in the postapartheid era. The ten countries in our sample reacted to these external and domestic threats in different ways. While all relied on state security forces to address and contain the respective threats, there is variance in the extent of military deployment. It is not surprising that the military plays the key role in the state’s response to external threats. After all, external defense is the military’s core function in most countries (Bruneau and Croissant 2019). Consequently, in Israel the military guards the borders with Lebanon and the Palestinian Authority, as well as projects power to deter regional threats, especially from Iran. The Japanese Self-Defense Forces patrol sea lanes and run aircraft interdictions in the country’s attempt to limit Chinese assertiveness. Next to guarding the border along the thirty-eighth parallel, which is considered the most heavily militarized piece of earth, the South Korean military is deployed to thwart North Korean incursions in numerous theaters, including cyberspace, and across the contested Northern Limit Line in the Yellow Sea. Finally, the US military has played a key role in the country’s fight against al-Qaeda, ISIS, and other terrorist organizations. However, the main mode of operations has changed quite dramatically from large-scale mobilization and invasion with huge armies in Afghanistan and Iraq in the early phase of the war on terror to a focus on smaller deployments of special operations forces that blur the line between military and intelligence operations. Military troops are also routinely used by democracies in our sample in response to domestic threats. In both Colombia and El Salvador, the military played a leading role in the counterinsurgency

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operations during the civil war, while after the war, the military took on the main responsibility in the fight against crime and in the socalled war on drugs, not least because of the ineffectiveness and understaffing of the civilian police forces. Crime fighting has also been on the agenda for the South African military in the postapartheid era, even though the main burden of this was shouldered by civilian police forces and, increasingly, private security providers. In France, the military plays a role in supporting the police in the antiterror operations by guarding public spaces. This is despite the existence of a large and mostly effective civilian police apparatus—and very much in contrast to Spain, where the military has not been involved in the domestic security operations against Basque nationalist or Islamist terrorists. These challenges were addressed by the civilian police troops, intelligence services, and the paramilitary gendarmerie-type Guardia Civil. In sum, eight out of the ten cases saw military deployment, including all four democracies faced with external threats and four that were challenged by domestic threats. Military deployment to deal with security threats, however, did not mean that in all eight cases there was rampant militarization. Instead, there is some considerable variation in the degree to which the security discourse highlighted the role of the military, and attempts took place to justify, normalize, and legitimize the military’s deployment in response to threats. Of the ten cases in our sample, seven saw a militarized discourse, three in response to external threats and four due to domestic threats. Faced with external threats, Israel, South Korea, and the United States experienced militarized discourses. In Israel, military thought has traditionally governed political thought regarding the response to the hostility of the Arab countries. Following the outbreak in 2000 of the Second Intifada, the hostilities between Israel and the Palestinian Authority, the militarized discourse was religionized in that religious symbols gradually became prominent. In South Korea, the media played a key role in militarizing the security discourse in the way it interpreted North Korea’s crossings of the de facto maritime border between the two Koreas, while criticizing more restrictive government policies. In the United States, an existing, heavily militarized security discourse was transferred to the problem of transnational terrorism after the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Japan, in contrast, experienced a softer version of militarization in response to its external threats. To justify the strengthening of the military to cope with the

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tensions with China and North Korea, Japan’s governments have consistently pursued a policy of creating public understanding that military forces are needed for the defense of the country. However, this was a kind of “soft” militarization that avoided glorifying the military or the use of force. As the case of Japan reminds us, militarization will not take place at all if the government decides to refrain from deploying the military to address external threats. West Germany (not in our sample) did so from the 1960s to the 1980s in response to the Soviet threat. It did something similar to what Michael Barnett (1990) called an international strategy for war preparation in which a state attempts to distribute the costs of war to foreign actors by creating alliances. In this case, West Germany relied on NATO rather than opting for autonomous military buildup and thereby avoided militarization. We also see variance in the democracies facing predominantly domestic threats. Three countries, Colombia, El Salvador, and France, saw a militarized discourse, closely mirroring the military’s expansive role in providing internal security. In El Salvador, presidents from both major parties framed criminals and particularly youth gangs (maras) as existential threats to citizen security, which the military had to combat due to the inability of the police to contain surging homicide rates. Defining gang members as noncitizens justified military deployment as well as excessive violence. A similar pattern can be observed in Colombia, where various discursive patterns, such as demonization of insurgents, legitimize the application of military force against criminal organizations, while with securitization, security became the most important right that Colombians should enjoy. In France, the military was deployed in internal policing roles to struggle with transnational terrorism, but eventually securitization rather than militarization was developed. In South Africa, the postapartheid era saw a trend of demilitarization. However, since the end of the first decade of the 2000s, rising poverty and inequality contributed to rising domestic violence. This marked the beginning of a new era of securitization and militarization, but in a way that was characterized by growth in “privatized militarism” developed in civil society rather than the empowerment of the military and its symbols. Elected elites in Spain, in contrast, did not militarize the security discourse in response to domestic Basque and jihadist terrorism but actually stressed that this was a problem to be dealt with through robust and integrated police and intelligence

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work. Also, in Senegal, the security discourse around the Casamance conflict remained decidedly unmilitarized as successive governments combined limited repressive means, led by the civilian gendarmerie, and political accommodation to achieve a diplomatic solution to the conflict. The patterns in civilian control across the ten cases are also mixed. In five democracies the state of democratic civilian control remains high or unchanged. In France, while the norm of civilian control held strong, the combination of the president’s relative power position and the military’s propensity to perform domestic tasks resulted in different types of securitization and different levels of erosion of civilian control. Eventually, the more the military was distanced from domestic missions, the stronger the capacity to subordinate it to civilian control became again. In Japan, civilian control has traditionally rested with the defense bureaucracy, but in recent years it has seen a strengthening of control and oversight by elected politicians. Senegal is an exception in West Africa as it has not experienced praetorianism and military intervention into politics, and elected presidents have been able to maintain robust civilian control over the military. Colombia as well is an exception in Latin America as the military was largely disciplined by the civilian authorities, and its autonomy was diminished. However, although it readily accepts the ultimate authority of civilian politicians and the country has not experienced a coup since the 1950s, the military is a powerful actor. So we cannot classify civilian control as “strong” in comparison to other cases. Finally, in Spain the subordination of the armed forces under civilian control and oversight is also well established, both legally and in practice, and it is not challenged from within the military, the political arena, or civil society. The remaining five democracies have seen problems in the quality and extent of civilian control and a power shift toward the military. In El Salvador, civilian control has been relatively weak after that country’s long and bloody civil war. As in Colombia, the military accepts the ultimate authority of civilian politicians, and the country is not threatened by military intervention per se; yet, the military is a powerful actor in its own right and has considerable authority and institutional autonomy in the area of security policy. In Israel, the less existential threats became, the less militarization took place, which in turn also limited military autonomy that had been historically high, even though the principle of civilian control

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has never been challenged in this country. At the same time, it is precisely the de-existentialization of threats that enhanced the politicians’ dependence on the “legitimation services” of the military when they strove to use force, while de-existentialization reduced the public interest in military affairs, hence reducing civilian oversight. South Africa had inherited from its authoritarian past a tradition of strong political leadership over the military, and this pattern remained in force in the postapartheid era. Still, deployment of the military on internal missions gave rise to patterns of subjective control—that is, a tightening of the loyalty of the military to the controlling elite rather than to the entire polity. In South Korea, initial conditions for strong civilian control were much less auspicious when the country made the transition from military to democratic rule in the late 1980s. Nonetheless, the country made great progress in establishing firm and unchallenged civilian control. However, these general principles have been challenged by instances of military insubordination in response to North Korean violations of the Northern Limit Line. In the United States, while the military is under firm control of the executive, effective oversight by Congress has been undermined by the turn from regular military campaigns to covert action and special operations, with serious repercussions for the transparency and accountability of military missions. In none of the five cases, however, have the observed problems of civilian control of the military threatened the general principle of the supremacy of democratically elected politicians over military officers or even endangered the survival of democracy per se.

Toward an Integrative Model of Threats, Militarization, and Civilian Control How do threats, militarization, and civilian control relate? Can they be systematically linked to each other in order to construct a general theoretical model? Our point of departure was the need to address the unsolved debate about how threats affect control of the armed forces and the role a militarized security discourse plays therein. The main debate can be framed as the Lasswell-Desch debate. Harold Lasswell’s (1941) “garrison state” school predicted that external threats will empower the military by letting the officers, as “specialists in violence,” run the state. In contrast, Michael Desch

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(1999) argued that civilian control will be high when the state is challenged by external threats while not experiencing domestic threats, because this would direct the military to external missions under a strong and unified civilian leadership. Providing more nuance to the argument, Charles Tilly (1992) posits, with his “war makes the state” theory, that threats affect the incentives for civilians to control the military not uniformly but depending on the extent to which the level of threat requires the mobilization of societal resources for war. The more dependent the military is on society’s material and human resources, the more it will depend on the ability of civilian state institutions to extract these resources from the population, which in turn strengthens the position of the civilian political elite vis-à-vis the military.1 However, while Tilly’s argument reminds us of the importance of the confounding effects of material and institutional factors on the relationship between threats and civilian control (and, ultimately, the survival of democracy), it does not explicitly include the ideological aspect of legitimizing the extraction of resources and the use of the military to counter existing threats in the first place. However, this is crucial, as the more the military is dependent on the consent of the civilian state apparatus, which in democracies is itself dependent on the consent of (parts of) the populace, the greater the necessity to legitimize the military’s resources and its deployment to counter threats. Therefore, missing was the role of militarization as a politicalcultural interpretation of threats as reinforcing the status of the armed forces. This missing link is especially important given the role of domestic threats in amplifying militarization or securitization, as derived from the type of threats, the means used, and the agency deployed by government to address such threats. The case studies in this book allow us to distil some first theoretical ideas of the potential interplay between threats, militarization, and civilian control. As summarized in Table 12.1, the cases vary significantly across all three variables. While all the countries studied face serious threats, they differ in the nature of the threat (external or domestic), the security discourse’s degree of militarization, and the strength of civilian control. Since the military’s role and the impact of militarization are likely to differ depending on the nature of the threat a democracy is facing, we discuss the relationship between threats, militarization, and control for external and internal threats consecutively.

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External Threats, Militarization, and Civilian Control In terms of external threats, while Lasswell and Desch differ in the expectations of the impact of threats and control, both arguments posit a linear relationship between the variables. However, Table 12.1 suggests that the link between external threats and civilian control is hardly uniform. In Israel, South Korea, and the United States, external threats went together with a weakening of civilian control. In Japan, however, civilian control remained strong in the light of increasing military tensions with the country’s main regional adversaries, China and North Korea. The nature of the threat alone, thus, is a bad predictor for civilian control. However, integrating the militarization of the security discourse helps to make sense of the observed differences: in all four cases, there is a correlation between the militarization of the threat discourse and the degree of civilian control. In the three countries in which civilian control was weakened, security discourse was militarized, whereas in Japan, with its continuing high degree of control, attempts at militarization were blocked, limiting it to a “soft” and very restricted version. This pattern suggests that militarization is the missing link to make sense of the different outcomes of external threats vis-à-vis civilian control. The question, of course, then becomes why militarization happens in some countries confronted with external threats and not others and how exactly militarization impinges on civilian control. The case studies in this volume suggest two important aspects: the “weight of history” and the extent of popular mobilization. The first factor concerns the historically existing, militaristic infrastructure. In Israeli culture, it was the memory of the Holocaust; in Japan, deeply engrained memories of wartime devastation and nuclear destruction; and in Korea, the legacies of decades of military-led politics. The reaction to threats is framed against this historical context, which affects the mode of “reading” threats and the measures taken to address them. In the case of Japan, these historical patterns set limits on remilitarization, while in Israel and South Korea, they encouraged a more aggressive stance. However, if we take into account the second factor, the level of mobilization to call up societal resources to prepare for and conduct war, this linearity is somewhat broken. According to Tilly, investment in a military buildup creates dependency of the armed forces on

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civilian state institutions. Furthermore, mobilization of resources, Tilly argues, facilitates democratization to the extent that rulers exchange the citizens’ bodies and money, required for war and war preparation, for political rights that enhance the representative institutions. Consequently, militaries become more politically supervised. Decisive then is the role of mobilization in reinforcing the public interest in military affairs, which translates into political monitoring of the armed forces by the democratically elected authorities, as well as extra-institutional control mechanisms. These latter are performed by social movements and interest groups assisted by the media, with a clear agenda to monitor military activities that may have large social and political implications such as rules of engagement, deployment, human resources policies, military budgets, and more. Extrainstitutional agents work in multiple arenas such as the legal and public ones to affect the military. They even might act in a direct manner—for instance, human rights groups watching military activities on site (Levy and Michael 2011). In sum, as Bruce Porter put it, “the voice of the people is heard loudest when governments require either their gold or their bodies in defense of the state” (1994, 10). These relationships are well exemplified by the case of Japan. There, increasing concerns about rising external threats by an increasingly assertive China enhanced the military’s status and militarized political culture. However, more investment in security also triggered extra-institutional agents to monitor the armed forces. Militarization then entailed engagement of the media and other civil society agents to voice their opinions in policy debates and raise deeper questions about militarization and even turn to mass protests. In the end, the military was better monitored. Israel also reflected this process when civilian control was tightened even in the face of remilitarization since the 2000s. In contrast, when militarization is entwined with a low or declining level of mobilization, the military gains power. The transition to a volunteer, technology-intensive military during the post–Cold War era reduced the level of mobilization for war. As Pascal Vennesson (2011) argued, governments gained the ability to simply bypass the popular will. And as Siniša Malešević asserted, “The militarism of new wars does not require direct popular mobilization, rather it aims to indirectly acquire passive support by relying on media as a neutralizer of electoral surveillance” (2008, 102). Attenuated public interest in military affairs provides the military and its political

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supervisors with more autonomy. And the military’s relative gains in power and autonomy increase with the extent of the public’s disinterest. This is also the insight of Peter Feaver’s (2003) agency theory of civil-military relations: the combination of attenuated public interest reduces public pressure on civilian politicians effectively to monitor and steer the military, while militarization means that the military may be less concerned about being punished for its deviations from formal policies and directives. This was exemplified in several cases. In South Korea, the mediamilitarized public discourse encouraged the military to act more independently vis-à-vis the elected government in its responses to the alleged incursions by North Korea across the Northern Limit Line. In this case, the professional segment of the military (mostly the navy) carried the burden of the maritime frictions. Otherwise, if escalation necessitates a larger mobilization and hence also a heavier burden, extra-institutional agents of control may enter the policy scene and challenge the policy with its implications for their interests. In Israel as well, changes in military recruitment policies resulted in a restructuring of the Israel Defense Forces’ social makeup, which in turn reduced the level of burden imposed on the powerful middle class. Political apathy toward military deployments was the result. A similar picture was seen in the case of the United States. As Alice Hunt Friend and Lizamaria Arias outline in Chapter 5, a civilian executive, empowered by legal changes and a dominant Manichean discourse of “us” versus “them” in the aftermath of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, managed to erode congressional oversight over the use of force. This was possible, not least, due to the increasing importance of covert intelligence and special operations forces instead of large-scale troop deployments in wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Not only did these covert operations, by their very nature, reduce the transparency of the application of military force, but since these “surgical” special operations come with little threat of large numbers of American casualties and are comparatively cheap in terms of material costs, there is little need for large-scale mobilization of resources. The underlying linearity between the three variables—external threats, militarization, and the autonomy of the military—moves in the reverse direction when external threats decline. This gives rise to demilitarization, in the sense that fewer cultural and political barriers limit criticism about the military and its codes, resources, and symbols. Demilitarization thus encourages efforts to monitor the military.

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Extra-institutional agents of control are, again, instrumental in these developments. Demilitarization means, among other things, that military burdens and costs are further debated, and extra-institutional actors are among the first to target such costs and burdens, bringing about better monitoring of the armed forces. This was the case in Israel during the peace process of the 1990s and in the years that followed the end of apartheid in South Africa, where external threats virtually disappeared. However, again the relationship is not linear, as despite reduced threats, the military can see empowerment. This again points to the importance of militarization of discourse and the way objective threats are subjectively framed. Even declining, nonexistential external threats can be remilitarized, which may re-empower the military and undermine civilian control. Here we again draw important lessons from the case of Israel. First, militarization is a struggle over reinterpretation and thus also affects power relations: when interpretations framed by nonmilitary agents (like religious groups in the case of Israel) challenge the military, this encourages the armed forces to act in a contrarian mode vis-à-vis civilians. Second, what also matters is the degree to which the military provides legitimation services to the elected civilians (see Levy 2013). The more it is tasked to legitimize hard-line policies among the more dovish sectors of society, the more its bargaining power increases. Domestic Threats, Militarization, and Civilian Control

The South African example shows that the basic linearity may be also broken to the extent that declining external threats may give rise to reinforcement of internal threats. It is safe to assume that the more society is mobilized to counter an external threat, the less domestic threats can arise and affect the state’s capacity to mobilize. Domestic conflicts are more easily escalated when the nation faces fewer external threats. Desch (1999, 14–15) predicted that the combination of low external threats and high domestic threats may weaken civilian control, as the military is threated by societal fractions and thus encouraged to intervene in politics. In fact, the deleterious nature of domestic security threats on civilian control has been highlighted by many authors. In his seminal study on the military’s political role in Brazil, Alfred Stepan (1988) highlighted the expansion of the mili-

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tary’s power and its proclivity to intervene in politics under the conditions of low external and high internal threats. When civilians call on the military to repress the political opposition or fight domestic insurgents, civilians become dependent on the military’s coercive abilities (Svolik 2012, 10). In addition to the growth in resources and manpower directed to the military, this dependence will undermine civilians’ will and ability to rein in a power-hungry military. Moreover, long-term involvement in internal conflicts and domestic counterinsurgency will incentivize the military to develop doctrines and procedures and adapt its structure to become an even more effective political actor. While these developments are particularly pronounced in authoritarian regimes, this assertion holds true even in more democratic regimes, albeit in a more limited manner. The cases in this volume mostly corroborate these expectations. In four out of six cases in our sample with domestic threats, the degree and quality of civilian control over the military suffered due to the extensive role militaries played in countering the threat. In these cases, we see a linear relationship between the extent of military involvement in the fight against domestic threats and civilian control. In El Salvador, the military played the largest role in domestic security. Here, civilian presidents rely heavily on exceptional legislation to deploy military forces in the fight against rampant crime and youth gangs, thereby violating the Chapultepec peace agreement that ended a twelve-year civil war. Civilian elites’ dependence on and close interrelation with the military have weakened civilian control by undermining oversight by the elected legislature and monitoring by civil society groups. This has resulted in extensive material benefits for the military and also goes along with impunity for gross human rights violations by state forces, which bear much responsibility for the country’s dismal human rights record and homicide rates. However, a weakening of civilian control does not necessarily translate into military intervention into politics and a threat to the survival of the electoral regime, however defective it may be, per se. After all, militaries in the democratic era “don’t need to run the government in order to wield power” (Smith 2005, 102). In Colombia, the military has been the main state actor in a decades-long counterinsurgency war against wellorganized guerrilla armies and powerful drug cartels, owing to which it became a powerful actor in Colombian politics. However, not only did the close cooperation between the elites discipline the

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military, but even when the military was deployed to address domestic threats, the elites’ cooperation further encouraged the military to obey the civilian authorities as a means to gain wide political legitimacy, necessary to win domestic battles. The situation was different where the military’s role in domestic security was more limited. Such was the case in South Africa, where the military was involved in combating crime, illegal immigration, and poaching, or in France, where the military played an important role in the fight against jihadist terrorists. In both cases, civilian control suffered from military involvement in domestic security. But the erosion was much more limited than in El Salvador, as in the former cases involvement was both limited and of short duration, and militarization was not promoted by the military. In South Africa, the postapartheid democratic regime, facing domestic threats during the 2010s, refrained from fully deploying the military, thus limiting potential power gains by the army. Moreover, even partial deployment increased the government’s sensitivity to the possible empowerment of the military. The government thus increased its control over the military by appointing high-ranking generals loyal to the ruling party. This strengthened executive control by incumbent politicians weakened the military’s commitment to the entire polity and impaired its accountability to the parliament. In France, since the 1990s, the military identified the opportunity to trade new domestic missions for more resources and influence in the policymaking process. Most importantly, the governments of both countries eventually relied mainly on civilian mechanisms to counter internal threats. In both countries, although remilitarization (and in France especially securitization) following the emergence of new domestic threats could have empowered the armed forces, it was not the militaries that promoted this cultural trend. In South Africa it was privatized militarism (for example, the emergence of private security companies), while in France, during the presidency of Emmanuel Macron (late 2010s), securitization was promoted by civilian agencies, with the military playing a relatively minor role. Finally, the picture is completely different where governments decided from the outset not to deploy the military to address internal threats. This was the case in Senegal and Spain, where the state mainly relied on civilian law enforcement agencies such as the police and paramilitary gendarmerie forces to counter the threats posed by secessionist insurgencies and terrorist groups, respectively. In both

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countries the military did play a role in these struggles, but almost exclusively in minor and subordinate roles. In Senegal the armed forces acted as auxiliary forces to support the main effort of civilian law enforcement, while in Spain military involvement in antiterror activities was limited to the integration of some military officers into the state intelligence services. In both cases, by leaving the military out of policing, civilians remained relatively independent of military support, and civilian control did not suffer. It follows that internal threats do not necessarily harm civilian control to the extent that the military is distanced from handling such threats. Again, these empirical patterns raise the question of why some democracies opt to involve the military in the provision of domestic security—with the respective deleterious effects on civilian control— while others do not. The cases in this book suggest that militarization of the security discourse by the political elites played an important role as it essentialized the threat and, thus, provided legitimacy for the deployment of the military. This is clearly the case in Colombia and El Salvador, where the threat by insurgents and cartels and by youth gangs, respectively, is interpreted in existential terms as threatening the very core of state and society by politicians who often fall back on the language of “war.” In both countries, this fit the interests of both political elites and the military as it legitimized the executive’s dominance over the political system as well as the autonomy and political influence of the military, whose support remains an important pillar for oligarchic elites’ hold on power. The clearest counterexamples are the cases of Senegal and Spain, where the political elites explicitly and consistently interpreted Casamance rebels and Basque nationalist and jihadist terrorists, respectively, not as military adversaries but as criminals. Consequently, it was civilian police and paramilitary forces that were considered the adequate state forces to deal with the threat. On first sight, lessons from South Africa and France were less clear-cut. However, both cases also corroborate the relevance of a militarized discourse by civilian politicians, as in both countries the military’s role in domestic security waxed and waned with different administrations’ preference for a militarized discourse. As has been identified for the militarization of external threats, historical legacies have also been crucial for the proclivity of civilian politicians to engage in a militarized domestic security discourse. Militarized drug cartels in Colombia and militarized criminal youth

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gangs in El Salvador are just the latest instances of a long tradition of militarization during decades of counterinsurgency warfare in the former and direct military rule and bloody civil war in the latter. In France, post–World War II decolonization and, no less profoundly, the end of the Algerian war left a heritage of demilitarization accompanied by reined-in military power, especially domestically (Ruffa 2018, 53–57). In South Africa, dark memories of the military’s repressive role under the apartheid regime imposed a limit on the militarization of government responses to surging crime. The limiting effects of institutional and social memories on militarization and its damaging effects on civilian control are even more visible in Senegal and Spain. In Senegal, a decades-old self-conception as an apolitical “nation’s army” has precluded both the military’s instrumentalization by politicians as well as the army’s meddling in politics. In Spain, the military’s involvement in domestic affairs was and continues to be delegitimized in large segments of Spanish society after decades of Francoist rule in which the military was a core pillar of the repressive regime. This brings us to a broader theoretical insight. In Chapter 1 we offered the distinction between horizontal and vertical dimensions of democratic civilian control. While the horizontal dimension relates to the subordination of the armed forces to an institutional civilian authority, the vertical dimension refers to the degree to which the processes of military decisionmaking are tied to the citizenry by means of deliberation. As the cases show, mobilization to war positively affects vertical control through the engagement of civil society agents in monitoring the military. Extra-institutional control is then performed. However, by bringing in the impact of militarization and securitization, the insight that comes is that the quality of vertical control is measured through the openness of deliberation. Useful then is the distinction between two modes of civilian control over military affairs: control of the military and control of militarization (Levy 2016c). Control of the military is the main focus of students of civilian control. It is primarily concerned with the military organization and focuses on the operational aspects of the military’s performance, such as doctrine, deployment, resources, and their expected political implications. It is mainly performed in the horizontal dimension but also in the vertical one inasmuch as extra-institutional agents enter the scene of control but focus mainly on the above-mentioned operational aspects. In

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a different manner, control of militarization deals with controlling the mechanisms that legitimize the use of force. This type of control draws on political discourse and is high when the use of force follows a thorough, open, and deliberative process of decisionmaking in which the citizenry plays an active and autonomous role in addressing the legitimacy to use military force. Naturally, this mode is vertically performed. However, what is crucial is the substance of control rather than just the circles involved. Militarization and securitization signify downgraded control of militarization as long as discursive barriers are set to limit deliberation. Soft militarization in Japan is a case in point, as is the remilitarization experienced by Israel since the 2000s. In both cases, it was the image of the military, as a politically controlled entity, that facilitated militarization, even though in the case of Japan it was limited due to the country’s militaristic past. In a similar vein, Spain’s militarization was confined by memories of the military as a tool of repression under the authoritarian Franco regime. French securitization that entailed the deployment of the military in the streets under the presidency of François Hollande could not develop with a military suspected of having a sectarian agenda. In other words, the two modes of control can be inversely related, as when it is precisely the highly controlled military that facilitates low control of militarization owing to its image as a politically controlled entity. However, the role of South Korea’s media in kindling militarization also shows that stronger vertical oversight by nonstate actors might also have negative implications for the control of militarization and the military. Bringing It All Together

In our attempt to develop a first general framework of the interplay between threats, militarization, and civilian control, we suggest condensing the core insights of the case studies into the stylized summary depicted in Figure 12.1. The upper part of the schematic shows the relationship of the three variables for external threats. Confronted with an external threat, political leaders have the option to militarize the threat or not. Whether or not a threat can be militarized depends to some degree on historical legacies. In Japan, for instance, powerful memories of its militaristic past inhibit full-scale militarization of external threats despite some politicians’ attempts to do so in the face

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Figure 12.1 A Schematic Model of Threats, Militarization, and Civilian Control

of an assertive China. Without militarization, Japan suggests, the threat should not have negative implications for civilian control. If militarization takes place, however, this does not spell doom for civilian control. Instead, the deleterious effects of militarization of external threats are mitigated by the degree of military mobilization. Where militarization goes hand in hand with a large-scale mobilization of societal resources, civilian control should remain high. This was the case in some periods of Israel’s conflict with its Arab neighbors. Where mobilization is limited or declining, as exemplified by the increasing US reliance on special operation forces and covert intelligence missions, vertical and civilian control suffers as the public, civil society organizations, and legislators have few incentives to pay attention to controlling the civilian and military segments of the executive. For domestic security challenges, depicted in the lower part of Figure 12.1, the cases in this book suggest a more linear relationship between threats, militarization, and civilian control. Again, elected politicians are affected by the “weight of history” in their ability to militarize an existing or emerging domestic threat. Where historical legacies have severely delegitimized the military (as in Spain and South Africa) or led to a decidedly apolitical military esprit de corps (as in Senegal), militarization is unlikely to succeed. In these situations, politicians will find it extremely difficult to legitimize the military’s deployment against a skeptical electorate or to convince mili-

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tary leaders, used to being on the political sidelines, to repress political opponents and engage in domestic policing. Consequently, in these cases, both military deployment and the negative implications of military internal security operations for civilian control are unlikely. And even if deployment of the military for domestic policing is temporarily legitimized and enhances the military’s power, as in the case of France, the implications for civilian control are both limited and reversible. In this case, as for South Africa, securitization developed and legitimized the creation of civilian, not military, procedures to address the newly presented security threats. In El Salvador, militarization of internal security is deeply engrained in civilian political practice and the military’s normative and operational framework, and the military is likely to be considered an adequate and willing instrument of internal security policy, with all corresponding negative effects on civilian control. In a different manner, Colombia exemplifies a case in which the political structure limited the military’s space for maneuvering vis-à-vis the politicians despite, and even owing to, its domestic roles. Stable, if limited, civilian control encourages the military to accept civilian supremacy in order to gain political legitimacy upon which its effectiveness in combating domestic battles depends. It follows that the previous political structure matters for shaping the military’s level of authority even when it is deployed domestically. These cases also highlight the fact that even in the face of long and violent civil wars in El Salvador and Colombia, the mobilization requirements to combat domestic threats are typically rather limited; therefore, in our sample we do not see mobilization playing the role of a mediating factor that affects military empowerment vis-à-vis civilians.

Conclusion and Future Outlook The goal of this volume was to draw on in-depth studies of a selected sample of cases to develop generalized inferences on the relationship between threats, militarization, and civilian control of the military. We consider the resulting preliminary model depicted in Figure 12.1 as a first, necessary step toward a more comprehensive theoretical development. In this, we see two fruitful avenues for future research, one empirical and one theoretical. Empirically, the ideas developed here based on the analysis of ten cases need to be evaluated against a larger

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set of diverse cases. In the short term, we need more in-depth case studies on a wide variety of democracies, both old and new, faced with domestic and external threats to test whether the processes identified in this book’s case studies can also be found in other examples. In the longer-term perspective, the goal should be to complement this qualitative case study approach with a quantitative analysis of a large number of cases, from both cross-sectional and longitudinal perspectives. The greatest barrier for the latter approach will be the current nonexistence of comparable high-quality data on militarization and civilian control (thankfully there is no dearth of excellent data sets on threats, domestic or external), which would require a rather ambitious, but definitely worthwhile, data-collection effort. Theoretically, we see three aspects that should be addressed in future research. For one thing, as of now, the theoretical model is relatively structural in the sense that it does not factor in agency: the model does not include a systematic theorization of the role of actors, either civilian or military. While this makes sense for a first theoretical approximation of the general processes through which threats, militarization, and civilian control are linked, a fully developed theory requires the inclusion of an actors-focused perspective. This would include defining who the relevant actors are, what their relevant interests and potential options for (strategic) action are, and how the factors that we expect to affect the link between threats, militarization, and civilian control interact with the interests to produce the observed outcome (Kuehn and Lorenz 2011). This would also include considering more systematically the role of alternative security forces such as gendarmeries, national guards, and private contractors in countering domestic (and, to the relevant extent, external) threats and their impact on militarization and civilian control. For another, future theoretical work should attempt to include more rigorously in the model the relevance of existing degrees of militarization as well as the existing degrees of civilian control. While many of our case studies highlight the tremendous weight of history and the impact of past experiences on the interpretation of threats, the militarization of security discourse, and the extent of civilian control, this should be more formally and systematically integrated. The suggested actors-focused perspective is helpful here as historical legacies can be thought of as boundaries and resources for military and civilian actors to realize their interests in their respective contexts (Kuehn and Lorenz 2011).

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Finally, some more attention needs to be paid to the interrelationship between militarization and securitization, especially with regard to how it might affect the status of the armed forces in society. While some of our case studies suggest that securitization did not affect the degree of civilian control of the military, further attempts should be made to understand the extent to which securitization might affect the military’s role in the reaction to threats as well as the degree of civilian control. After all, as the cases of France and South Africa show, civilian and military mechanisms can jointly work to address domestic threats and the division of labor, which may create tensions between civilians and generals. To some degree, the 2020 securitization of health is a case in point. To effectively combat the coronavirus pandemic, democratic states adopted a security discourse framing the virus as a high national security threat against which they had declared war. Securitized discourse helped legitimize the exceptional measures taken by states to forcefully respond to the crisis, including those harming individual freedoms (Sears 2020). Remarkably, although securitization is advanced by civilian agencies, militaries are called to assist, especially in imposing order, such as the National Guard in the United States and conscript soldiers in Israel. This campaign thus invites future research on how the mingling of troops with civilians affects the civilians’ ability to monitor the armed forces. Of course, these additional theoretical ideas need to be tested empirically, both on the cases included in this volume and against the broader population of aforementioned cases.

Note 1. This, of course, is only the case if the military is mainly funded and staffed by domestic resources and appointed by the civilian government. Accordingly, mercenary armies and externally funded armies (such as those employed in proxy wars during the Cold War or in post-2011 Syria) are highly problematic for civilian control and democratic accountability, as are national armies funded by an external power (e.g., postcolonial militaries) or militaries that own autonomous business interests (e.g., in Egypt).

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The Contributors

Lizamaria Arias was a Herbert Scoville Jr. Peace fellow working with the Project on Nuclear Issues at the Center for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS).

Eyal Ben-Ari is a senior fellow of the Center for Society, Security and Peace at Kinneret College on the Sea of Galilee.

Lindy Heinecken holds the chair of sociology and social anthropology at Stellenbosch University, South Africa. Her research focuses on armed forces and society, and her most recent book is South Africa’s Post-apartheid Military: Lost in Transition and Transformation. She is president of the International Sociological Association’s Armed Forces and Conflict Resolution Research Committee.

Alice Hunt Friend is a senior fellow in the International Security Program at the Center for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS) and a visiting research professor at the US Army War College from 2020 to 2021. She worked on policy issues in the US Office of the Secretary of Defense from 2009 to 2014. Oscar Jaime is associate professor of sociology at the Universidad

Nacional de Educación a Distancia in Spain. From 2004 to 2012, he served as director of the Police Studies Institute of the General Directorate of the Police and was general director of the Spanish Police Foundation until 2007. From 2010 to 2012 he was technical 273

274

The Contributors

secretary-general of the Interior Security Studies Office (GESI) of the Secretary of State for Security of the Ministry of the Interior.

Insoo Kim, lieutenant colonel, Republic of Korea Army, is professor

in the Department of Political Science at Korea Military Academy.

David Kuehn is a senior research fellow at the GIGA Institute of

Asian Studies in Hamburg, Germany, and book reviews editor for the academic journal Democratization.

Sabine Kurtenbach is a senior research fellow at the GIGA Institute of Latin American Studies in Hamburg, Germany, and honorary professor at the Philipps-University Marburg, Germany.

Yagil Levy is professor of political sociology and public policy in

the Department of Sociology, Political Science and Communication at the Open University of Israel. His field of research is the theoretical and empirical aspects of relations between society and the military. His most recent book is Whose Life Is Worth More? Hierarchies of Risk and Death in Contemporary Wars (2019).

Rafa Martínez is professor of political science at the University of Barcelona. He is chair of the Defense, Public Security and Democracy Section of the Latin American Studies Association (LASA). In 2002 he was awarded the National Prize of Research by the Ministry of Defence of Spain.

Jahara Matisek, lieutenant colonel, US Air Force, is an instructor pilot who has flown the C-17, T-6, and E-11. He is an assistant professor in the Department of Military and Strategic Studies, director of research for the Center for Strategy and Warfare at the US Air Force Academy, and a two-time nonresident fellow with the Modern War Institute at West Point. Désirée Reder is a research fellow at the GIGA Institute of Latin

American Studies in Hamburg, Germany.

Samuel Rivera-Paez is a navy captain (retired), Colombian Navy, and professor and director of the research group Masa Crítica at the Colombian National War College. Chiara Ruffa is an academy fellow at the Department of Peace and

Conflict Research at Uppsala University and associate professor of war studies at the Swedish Defense University.

Index

Abe, Shinzo, 40, 41–43, 51 Accountability. See Democratic accountability Afghanistan: French soldiers attacked in, 145; military veterans on ongoing war in, 90; US invasion of, 87 African National Congress (ANC), 184, 185, 194 AFs. See Spanish Armed Forces Agency theory of civil-military relations, 233 Ajuria Enea Pact (1988), 210 Alianza Republicana Nacionalista (ARENA): amnesty reforms of, 124– 125; Calderón Sol of, 126, 129–130; during civil war in El Salvador, 123; Cristiani of, 123, 126, 138n7; electoral success of, 135, 135fig; establishment of, 137n2; Flores of, 126, 130; Saca of, 126–127, 128, 130, 132, 138n13; violence used by, 118 ANC. See African National Congress ANEP. See Asociación Nacional de la Empresa Privada ANRAC. See National Agency for Relaunch of Economic and Social Activities in the Casamance Antimilitarist ethos, Japan, 37, 52–53 Antimilitarization policy: media on South Korea, 66–69, 69fig; in South Korea, 61–65

Antiterrorism Pact (2000), 212 Apartheid era: black resistance as threat in, 183; civilian control eroded in, 184–186; defense budget in, 183; ideological and political threats to national security during, 182–183; militarism and militarization heightened during, 183–184 APLA. See Azanian People’s Liberation Army ARENA. See Alianza Republicana Nacionalista Armée-Nation ideology, 163, 174, 175, 176, 178–179 Asociación Nacional de la Empresa Privada (ANEP), 126–127 AUMF. See Authorization for the Use of Military Force Australia, 139 Authorization for the Use of Military Force (AUMF): expansion of, 91; 9/11 passing of, 86–87, 88; opposition to, 90 Azanian People’s Liberation Army (APLA), 184 Azaria, Elor, 26 Badji, Sidy, 167, 186 Barnett, Michael, 227 Basque Country: ETA legal commandos in, 206, 207, 207fig; independence movement of, 199–200; PNV of, 210;

275

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Index

provinces and territories of, 219n1. See also Euskadi Ta Askatasuna Batasuna, Herri, 209, 210 Bin Laden, Osama, 82, 87 Bukele, Nayib, 136–137, 138n13 Bush, George W., 87, 88, 89

Calderón Sol, Armando, 126, 129–130 Carter, Jimmy, 82 Casamance conflict: beginning of, 166; cease-fires in, 161–162, 168, 169, 171; cultural politics to combat separatism in, 172–173; death toll in, 161; Diouf managing, 166–169, 173, 176, 180n1; historical context of, 163– 166; landmines used in, 168–169, 180n1; nonmilitarization of, 162–163, 172–174, 179–180; Red Sunday, 166; SAF members reflecting on, 173; SAF restraint regarding, 163, 174; Sall managing, 170–172; Wade managing, 169–170, 177. See also Mouvement des Forces Démocratiques dela Casamance CEMU. See Comité Ejecutivo del Mando Unificado Centro Nacional de Coordinación Antiterrorista (CNCA), 213 Centro Superior de Información de la Defensa (CESID), 206 Chapultepec peace accord: signing of, 117, 123–124; violations of, 117–118, 124 Chavez, Hugo, 100, 103 China, 39–40 Chirac, Jacques, 140, 141, 145–148, 156 Christian Democratic Party (PDC), 122– 123 CITCO. See Inteligencia contra el Terrorismo y el Crimen Organizado Civilian control: analytic framework for, 57tab; analytic model for, 56fig; caution on, 76; defining, 2–3; future considerations on, 241–243; toward integrative model of threats, militarization and, 229–241; introduction to security threats, militarization and, 2–8; militarization as link between security threats and, 7–8, 230; of military compared to militarization, 34–35, 53, 238–239; military doctrine influencing, 7; military resistance to, 1; relationship between militarization, domestic

threats and, 234–239; relationship between militarization, external threats and, 231–234; relationship between security threats and, 4–8; schematic model of threats, militarization and, 239–241, 240fig; summarization of militarization, security threats and, 223–229, 224tab. See also Horizontal civilian control; Vertical civilian control; specific countries Civil-military relations: agency theory of, 233; structural theory of, 6, 8 Clinton, Bill, 82–83, 84–85 CMF. See Colombian Military Forces CNCA. See Centro Nacional de Coordinación Antiterrorista CNI. See National Intelligence Center CNP. See Cuerpo Nacional de Policía Cock, Jacklyn, 192 COIN operations. See Counterinsurgency operations Collomb, Gerard, 154 Colombia: armed forces enhancement and growth in, 102; civilian control in, 109–115; civilian intrusion to enhance civilian control in, 111–113; conclusion on, 115–116; criminal organization types in, 99; domestic deployment in, 110; DSP in, 105, 116; Duque of, 99, 103, 108–109; elites structure and civilian control in, 110– 111; hybrid threats for, 98–100; internal war as state of, 97; militarization and media relations in, 114–115; militarization legitimization in, 98, 103–109, 116; military presence in, 97–98; Pastrana of, 112; Plan Colombia initiative, 101, 102, 114; religion and politics relationship in, 104; research overview on, 11–12; securitization in, 105–106; selfdefense groups, 99; senior officers removed by government order in, 111–112; Special Energy and Road Battalions, 106; summarization of threats, militarization, and civilian control in, 224–226, 224tab, 227, 228, 235–236, 237–238; UNODC on, 107; Uribe of, 99, 105, 106, 112; US alliance with, 101, 107–108; Venezuela relations with, 100, 103; vertical civilian control in, 114–115;

Index voluntary obedience and civilian control in, 113–114; war on drugs participation of, 101, 102, 103–104, 107–108; war taxes, 102 Colombian guerrilla groups: bombings of, 112–113; demonization of, 104–105; drug trafficking by, 98, 99–100, 101, 102, 107–108; emergence of, 98–99; FARC, 97, 99, 103, 105, 108, 112, 115; hypothetical future discourse on, 108– 109; illegal activity types of, 99–100; instrumental rationalization for support against, 107–108; kidnappings by, 105; as narcoterrorists, 107–108; securitization for support against, 105– 106; Venezuela crisis and attack on, 103 Colombian Military Forces (CMF): aim and functions of, 100–101; favorability of, 107; modernization of, 109 Comité Ejecutivo del Mando Unificado (CEMU), 213 Consejo de Seguridad Nacional (CSN), 218, 220n6 Coronavirus pandemic, 243 Counterinsurgency (COIN) operations, 167–168, 173 Cristiani, Alfredo, 123, 126, 138n7 Critical junctures, 120 CSN. See Consejo de Seguridad Nacional CSP. See Cuerpo Superiorde Policía Cuerpo Nacional de Policía (CNP), 212, 213 Cuerpo Superiorde Policía (CSP), 206, 209, 212 Cultural militarism, 5 Cyber threats, 40

Dary, Bruno, 149 De Gaulle, Charles, 144 De Klerk, K. W., 185 Defense budgets: in apartheid era South Africa, 183; France debate on, 145– 148; in Israel, 23–24; in Japan, 37; South Africa decreasing, 187; in US, 79; US counterterrorism, 91, 92–93 Demilitarization: in Israel, 19–21; in South Africa, 186–189 Democracies: case study criteria for, 9, 9tab; civilian control role in, 2–3; militarization, election, and media relationship in, 57–58, 57tab; options for reacting to security threats in, 3–4

277

Democratic accountability: El Salvador militarization and, 134–136; Japan militarization relationship with, 37– 38, 47–53, 54; Senegal stability around, 175 Democratic civilian control. See Civilian control Democratic Party of Japan (DPJ), 51 Democratic Security Policy (DSP), 105, 116 Department of Defence (DOD), 188, 189, 194 Desch, Michael, 4, 6, 7, 8, 33, 229–230 Desportes, Vincent, 149 Diallo, Jean Alfred, 176 Dictatorships, 3–4 Dimensions of power, 121 Diouf, Abdou, 166–169, 173, 176, 180n1 DOD. See Department of Defence Domestic terrorism, 139 Domestic threats: defining, 3; relationship between civilian control, militarization and, 234–239. See also Colombia; El Salvador; France; Senegal; South Africa; Spain DPJ. See Democratic Party of Japan Drug trafficking: by Colombian guerrilla groups, 98, 99–100, 101, 102, 107– 108; ETA fighting, 208 DSP. See Democratic Security Policy Duque, Iván, 99, 103, 108–109 Economic Freedom Fighters (EFF), 192– 193 Eisenkot, Gadi, 30–31, 32 El Salvador: ANEP in, 126–127; Bukele of, 136–137, 138n13; business elite politics in, 126–127; Calderón Sol of, 126, 129–130; Chapultepec peace accord and, 117–118, 123–124; civil war, militarization of public security, and security-sector reform in, 122– 126; civil war ending in, 117–118; conclusion on, 136–137; corruption in, 136; crime rates in postwar, 129– 130; Cristiani of, 123, 126, 138n7; death squads in, 137n2, 138n8; democratization in, 117–118, 120; discursive construction of threats in, 127–134; elites, institutions, and limits to meaningful change in, 120– 122; FAES in, 117, 123, 124, 129, 130; Flores of, 126, 130; Funes of,

278

Index

125, 127, 130–132; FUSADES in, 126–127; GANA of, 136–137, 138n13; GSS working in, 127; homicide rates in postwar, 118, 119fig; mano dura security approach in, 130– 131; La Matanza in, 122; media influence in, 128; militarization and democratic accountability in, 134– 136; militarization and repression interlinked in, 119–120; militarization in, forms of, 121–122; Payés of, 126, 131, 138n10; PDC of, 122–123; PNC in, 117, 124, 125, 126, 129, 138n12; public perception of issues in, 133, 134fig; reconfiguration of political system in, 136–137; research overview on, 12; Saca of, 126–127, 128, 130, 132, 138n13; Salinas of, 126, 138n10; Sánchez Cerén of, 127, 132–133; seguridad ciudadana concept and practice in, 129, 133; structural and socioeconomic problems in, 134–135; summarization of threats, militarization, and civilian control in, 224tab, 225–226, 227, 228, 235, 237–238; as UN peacebuilding paradigm blueprint, 117, 124; youth gangs in, 118, 137n1. See also Alianza Republicana Nacionalista; Frente Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional Elections, 57–58, 57tab ETA. See Euskadi Ta Askatasuna European doctrine, 200–201 Euskadi Ta Askatasuna (ETA): actions and deaths from, decrease in, 207–208, 208fig; Ajuria Enea Pact of 1988 and, 210; Batasuna of, 209, 210; dissolution of, 199; drug traffickers fought by, 208; emergence of, 199, 203; experience gained from fighting, 214; fear of consequences around fighting, 206; France collaboration with Spain against, 206, 209, 211; GAIOE for fighting, 209; GAL created to combat, 202tab, 203–204, 209, 212; Guardia Civil tactical modifications against, 208–209; Guardia Civil targeted by, 199–200, 210; holistic strategy for defeating, 206–212; legal commandos of, 206, 207, 207fig; Madrid Pact of 1987 and, 210; MULC for fighting, 206–207, 209; Nerin killed by, 199;

Pardines killed by, 199; passive measures against, 208; police coordination regarding, 210–211; Spain using European doctrine against, 200–201; Spanish public opinion on, 205; Tagle killed by, 211; total war approach to terrorism by, 211; ZEN for fighting, 209 External threats: defining, 3; elites interest in, 5; relationship between civilian control, militarization and, 231–234. See also Israel; Japan; South Korea; United States Extra-institutional control, 21, 27

FAA. See Federal Aviation Administration FAES. See Fuerzas Armadas de El Salvador FARC. See Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia Feaver, Peter, 233 Federal Aviation Administration (FAA), 81 Flores, Francisco, 126, 130 FMLN. See Frente Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional Forces Armées Sénégalaises (SAF): abuses by, 167; Armée-Nation ideology of, 163, 174, 175, 176, 178– 179; Casamance conflict reflections of, 173; COIN operations by, 167– 168, 173; constitutionalism defended by, 176; horizontal civilian control of, 177–178; interviews with, 180n2; peacekeeping missions by, 162; public trust of, 175; recruitment system of, 177; Red Sunday deployment of, 166; restraint from, 163, 174; vertical civilian control of, 176–177 Fraga, Manuel, 200 France: Afghanistan war attacks on, 145; civilian control baseline in, 143–145; Collomb of, 154; conclusion on, 155– 157; conscription ending in, 146, 158n8; coup attempt in, 144; Dary of, 149; de Gaulle of, 144; defense budget debate in, 145–148; Desportes of, 149; horizontal civilian control in, 152, 157; Janowitzian model regarding, 144; Jospin of, 147, 148; Lanxade of, 146; Le Pen of, 153; Nerin of, 199; Operation Sentinel in, 149, 150–151; peacekeeping missions by, 146; Philippe of, 153; research overview

Index on, 12–13; securitization under Chirac, 140, 141, 145–148, 156; securitization under Hollande, 140, 141, 148–151, 155, 156; securitization under Macron, 140, 141, 150, 152–155, 156; security threats for, 142–143; Senegal colonization by, 163–164; Spain collaborating with, 206, 209, 211; summarization of threats, militarization, and civilian control in, 224, 224tab, 226, 227, 228, 236, 237, 238; terrorism elevated threat increase for, 142–143; unified approach model in, 143; vertical civilian control in, 152, 157; Vigipirate in, 142, 143, 145, 146, 148, 149 Franco, Francisco, 199, 200, 201, 203 FRAP. See Frente Revolucionario Antifascista y Patriota Frente Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional (FMLN): Chapultepec peace accord and, 117– 118, 123–124; during civil war in El Salvador, 123; electoral success of, 135, 135fig; Funes of, 125, 127, 130– 132; political party strength of, 118; violence used by, 118–119 Frente Revolucionario Antifascista y Patriota (FRAP), 202tab, 203 Fuerzas Armadas de El Salvador (FAES): during civil war in El Salvador, 123; deployment of, 129, 130; downsizing of, 117; human rights violations by, 124 Fundación Salvadorenapara el Desarollo Economico y Social (FUSADES), 126–127 Funes, Mauricio, 125, 127, 130–132 FUSADES. See Fundación Salvadorenapara el Desarollo Economico y Social

Gabinete de Información y Operaciones Especiales (GAIOE), 209 GAL. See Grupos Antiterroristas de Liberación GANA. See Gran Alianza por la Unidad Nacional Garrison state: Lasswell on, 4, 7, 229; South Africa as, 196; South Korea as, 65 Giuliani Security & Safety (GSS), 127 Gran Alianza por la Unidad Nacional (GANA), 136–137, 138n13

279

GRAPO. See Gruposde Resistencia Antifascista Primero de Octubre GRPC. See Reflection Group for Peace in the Casamance Grupos Antiterroristas de Liberación (GAL), 202tab, 203–204, 209, 212 Gruposde Resistencia Antifascista Primero de Octubre (GRAPO), 202tab, 203 GSS. See Giuliani Security & Safety Guardia Civil: coordination with, 213; establishment and roles of, 220n3; ETA targeting, 199–200, 210; military nature of, 212, 218; Pardines of, 199; Royal Decree on military missions of, 220n7; strengthening of, 214–215; tactical modifications against ETA, 208–209 Guerrilla groups. See Colombian guerrilla groups Hamas: Gaza Strip taken by, 21; Israel launching Operation Protective Edge against, 17 Hitchcock, David, 107 Hollande, François, 140, 141, 148–151, 155, 156 Horizontal civilian control: defining, 2, 238; in France, 152, 157; in Israel, 32, 34; in Senegal, 177–178; in South Africa, 188; in US, 89–90, 93 Humanitarian missions, 46, 49, 50

IDF. See Israel Defense Forces Institutional change, 120 Instrumental rationalization, 107–108 Inteligencia contra el Terrorismo y el Crimen Organizado (CITCO), 213, 214 International relations, 78 Intifada: First, 20; remilitarization and threats in post, 24–27; Second, 21–22; Third, 26, 30 Iran: hostage crisis, 82; nuclearization threat, 24, 30; proxies of, 31–32 Iraq: military veterans on ongoing war in, 90; US invasion of, 87 Israel: antiwar protests in, 20, 21; CenterLeft politics in, 28–29, 31; conclusion on, 33–35; defense budget in, 23–24; extra-institutional control in, 21, 27; horizontal civilian control in, 32, 34; Iran nuclearization threat for, 24, 30; militarization, demilitarization, threats, and civilian control prior to

280

Index

2000, 19–21; military contrarianism in, 27–32; as mobilized society, 19; Netanyahu of, 28, 30, 35n3; Operation Protective Edge launched by, 17; politicide by, 22; religionization of threats in, 25–27; remilitarization and threats in post-Intifada era, 24–27; remilitarization and threats since 2000s, 21–24; research overview on, 10; summarization of threats, militarization, and civilian control in, 223, 224tab, 225, 226, 228–229, 231, 232, 233, 234, 239; vertical civilian control in, 32, 34 Israel Defense Forces (IDF): Azaria of, 26; campaign between wars operations of, 31–32; Center-Left political relations with, 28–29, 31; demilitarization impacting, 21; Eisenkot of, 30–31, 32; freedom of action increase for, 29–30; Mofaz of, 22; monitoring of, 27; paradox regarding, 17–18; protests against, 26; remilitarization re-empowering, 22; reputation concerns of, 28; restraining role of, 30–31; Strategy document, 32; as ultimate authority on threats, 20 Israeli-Palestinian conflict: beginning of, 19; First Intifada in, 20; Oslo Accords and, 20, 22, 25; in post-Intifada era, 24–27; public discourse on peace in, 24–25; Second Intifada in, 21–22; Third Intifada in, 26, 30 Janowitzian model, 144 Japan: Abe of, 40, 41–43, 51; antimilitarist ethos in, 37, 52–53; capabilities and procurement enhancement in, 43; China as security threat for, 39–40; civilian control acceptance in, 43–44; conclusion on, 53–54; cyber threats for, 40; defense budget in, 37; discursive strategies for militarization in, 44–47; DPJ, 51; elections, political party, and coalition dynamics in, 51–52; LDP of, 49, 51– 52; media and social movements in, 52–53; militarization and democratic accountability relationship in, 37–38, 47–53, 54; militarization and security policy changes in, 41–44; North Korea as security threat for, 39; NSC of, 42; NSS of, 42–43; piracy as

security threat for, 41; public opinion on militarization in, 50–51; research overview on, 10; Russia as security threat for, 40; security threats for, 39– 41; South Korea under rule of, 65; summarization of threats, militarization, and civilian control in, 223, 224tab, 225, 226–227, 228, 231, 232, 239; terrorism as security threat for, 40–41; US as security threat for, 41. See also Self-Defense Forces Jihadist terrorism: Spain adaptation to fighting, 212–215; Spain first encounter with, 200, 204 Joint Standing Committee on Defence (JSCD), 188–189 Jospin, Lionel, 147, 148 JSCD. See Joint Standing Committee on Defence Kim Dae-jung, 61, 64, 65, 68 Kissinger, Henry, 61–62

Lanxade, Jacques, 146 Lasswell, Harold, 4, 7, 229 LDP. See Liberal Democratic Party Le Pen, Marine, 153 Lee Myoung-bak, 65 Liberal Democratic Party (LDP), 49, 51–52

Macron, Emmanuel, 140, 141, 150, 152– 155, 156 Madrid Pact (1987), 210 Madrid train bombing (2004), 200, 204, 212 Malešević, Siniša, 232 Mandela, Nelson, 181, 194 Mando Único para la Lucha Contraterrorista (MULC), 206–207, 209 Mann, Michael, 34 Mbeki, Thabo, 181, 187, 194 Media: Colombia militarization and, 114– 115; El Salvador influence of, 128; Japan social movements and, 52–53; militarism in relation to, 232–233; militarization, election and, 57–58, 57tab; NLL violations warning fire in relation to, 70–71, 71fig; on South Korea antimilitarization policy, 66–69, 69fig; South Korea relationship between security threats, civilian control and, 56–57, 56fig, 74–75, 75tab MFDC. See Mouvement des Forces Démocratiques dela Casamance

Index Militarism: apartheid era and heightened, 183–184; cultural, 5; democracy in relation to, 57; media in relation to, 232–233; privatized, 192; in South Korea, 65–66, 67fig; spectator-sport, 34 Militarization: during apartheid era, 182– 186; case study criteria for, 9, 9tab; in China, 39–40; civilian control of military compared to, 34–35, 53, 238– 239; Colombia legitimizing, 98, 103–109, 116; Colombia media and, 114–115; defining, 5–6; disregard of, 6–7; El Salvador civil war, securitysector reform, and public security, 122–126; El Salvador democratic accountability and, 134–136; El Salvador forms of, 121–122; El Salvador repression interlinked with, 119–120; future considerations on, 241–243; toward integrative model of civilian control, security threats and, 229–241; introduction to civilian control, security threats and, 2–8; Israel demilitarization and, 19–21; Israel remilitarization, 21–27; Japan democratic accountability relationship with, 37–38, 47–53, 54; Japan discursive strategies for, 44–47; Japan security policy changes and, 41–44; as link between civilian control and security threats, 7–8, 230; media, election and, 57–58, 57tab; military sacrifice and, 26–27; relationship between civilian control, domestic threats and, 234–239; relationship between civilian control, external threats and, 231–234; schematic model of civilian control, security threats and, 239–241, 240fig; securitization compared to, 140; as social process, 6, 78; South Africa demilitarization, 186–189; South Africa remilitarization, 189–196; summarization of civilian control, security threats and, 223–229, 224tab; terrorism response from US, 77–78; US on terrorism and, after 9/11, 86– 93; US on terrorism and, before 9/11, 81–86; US threat perception shaped by, 78–81 Military: civilian control of militarization compared to, 34–35, 53, 238–239; resistance to civilian control, 1;

281

terrorism increasing political involvement of, 139–140 Military contrarianism, 27–32 Military doctrine, 7 Military emergency unit (UME), 216 Military sacrifice, 26–27 MK. See Umkhonto we Sizwe Mofaz, Shaul, 22 Mouvement des Forces Démocratiques dela Casamance (MFDC): aspiration limitations of, 162–163; Badji of, 167, 186; Baraka Mandioka group, 170; Cassolol group, 170; cease-fires by, 161–162, 168, 169, 171; Diakaye group, 170; Diouf dealing with, 166– 169, 173, 176, 180n1; establishment of, 164; insurrection by, ongoing, 161; Sadio of, 169, 170, 171; Sall dealing with, 170–172; Senghor, A., of, 165– 166, 168; Wade dealing with, 169–170, 177 MULC. See Mando Único para la Lucha Contraterrorista

Narcoterrorists, 107–108 National Agency for Relaunch of Economic and Social Activities in the Casamance (ANRAC), 169 National Intelligence Center (CNI), 216 National Security Council (NSC), 42 National Security Management System (NSMS), 185 National Security Strategy (NSS): of Japan, 42–43; of US, 85–86, 88 Nerin, Jean Serge, 199 Netanyahu, Benjamin, 28, 30, 35n3 9/11: AUMF passed after, 86–87, 88; events of, 86; al-Qaeda before, 82, 83; al-Qaeda connection to, 87; US militarization response to, 77–78; US on terrorism and militarization after, 86–93; US on terrorism and militarization before, 81–86; US public discourse after, 80–81 Nixon, Richard, 81–82 NLL. See Northern Limit Line violations Nonmilitarization, 162–163, 172–174, 179–180 Nonmilitary means, 152 North Korea: data and methods for analyzing NLL violations by, 71–73, 72tab; détente dilemma between South and, 61–62; economic discourse

282

Index

regarding NLL violations by, 62–63, 63fig; findings on NLL violations by, 73–74, 74tab; Japan security threats from, 39; Korean War between South and, 59, 65; media response to NLL violations by, 66–69, 69fig; Military Demarcation Line between South and, 59–60, 59fig; NLL nonacceptance by, 55; NLL provocations from, 60–61, 60fig; NLL threats between South and, 59–61; nuclear program of, 39; South Korea pacifist policy toward, 55–56, 72, 73–74; South Korea rules of engagement established for, 64–65; South Korea warning fire against, 70– 71, 71fig; UNC and, 59–60 Northern Limit Line (NLL) violations: data and methods for analyzing, 71– 73, 72tab; defining, 55; economic discourse regarding, 62–63, 63fig; findings on, 73–74, 74tab; media response to, 66–69, 69fig; North Korea feelings on, 55; provocations in, 60–61, 60fig; rules of engagement established on, 64–65; security threats from, 59–61; South Korea classifying, 55; total number of, 69fig, 75tab; warning fire on, 70–71, 71fig NSC. See National Security Council NSMS. See National Security Management System NSS. See National Security Strategy Oklahoma City bombing (1995), 83 Operation Protective Edge, 17 Operation Sentinel, 149, 150–151 Oslo Accords: First Intifada paving way to, 20; public opinion on, 22; resistance to, 25

PAC. See Pan African Congress Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO), 20 Palestinians: Hamas, 17, 21; terrorism against Israel, 81; terrorism against US, 82. See also Israeli-Palestinian conflict Pan African Congress (PAC), 184 Pardines, José, 199 Park Chung-hee, 65 Partido Nacionalista Vasco (PNV), 210 Partido Socialista Obrero Español (PSOE), 209, 212, 213

Pastrana, Andrés, 112 Payés, Munguía, 126, 131, 138n10 PCDVA. See Portfolio Committee on Defence and Veterans Affairs PDC. See Christian Democratic Party Peacebuilding paradigm, UN, 117, 124 Peacekeeping missions: by France, 146; by SAF, 162; SANDF, 187; by SDF, 46 PEN-LCRV. See Plan Estratégico Nacional deLucha Contra la Radicalización Violenta Philippe, Édouard, 153 Pierson, Paul, 121 Piracy, 41 Plan Colombia initiative, 101, 102, 114 Plan Estratégico Nacional deLucha Contra la Radicalización Violenta (PEN-LCRV), 214 PLO. See Palestine Liberation Organization PNC. See Policía Nacional Civil PNV. See Partido Nacionalista Vasco Policía Nacional Civil (PNC): command structure of, 126; dissolvement of, 138n12; establishment of, 117; limitations of, 125, 129; recruitment into, 124 Popular Party (PP), 212, 213 Porter, Bruce, 232 Portfolio Committee on Defence and Veterans Affairs (PCDVA), 189, 194 Power, dimensions of, 121 PP. See Popular Party Privatized militarism, 192 PSOE. See Partido Socialista Obrero Español Al-Qaeda: before 9/11, 82, 83; 9/11 connection made to, 87; Spain attacked by, 202tab, 204

Reagan, Ronald: military revitalization under, 79; on terrorism, 82, 84 Reflection Group for Peace in the Casamance (GRPC), 171, 172 Remilitarization: Israel post-Intifada era threats and, 24–27; in Israel since 2000s, 21–24; South Africa authoritarianism and, 189–196 Research: case study selection criteria, 9, 9tab; core questions of, 1–2, 10; future outlook on, 241–243; goal of, 223; structure, 8–14

Index Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC), 97, 99, 103, 105, 108, 112, 115 Roh Moo-hyun, 62–63, 64, 68, 71 Russia, 40

Saca, Elias Antonio, 126–127, 128, 130, 132, 138n13 SADF. See South African Defence Force Sadio, Salif, 169, 170, 171 SAF. See Forces Armées Sénégalaises Salinas, Francisco, 126, 138n10 Sall, Macky: era of, 170–172; reelection of, 161 Sánchez Cerén, Salvador, 127, 132–133 SANDF. See South African National Defence Force SDF. See Self-Defense Forces Securitization: in Colombia, 105–106; defining, 6, 140; in France under Chirac, 140, 141, 145–148, 156; in France under Hollande, 140, 141, 148–151, 155, 156; in France under Macron, 140, 141, 150, 152–155, 156; future considerations on, 243; militarization compared to, 140 Security threats: case study criteria for, 9, 9tab; future considerations on, 241– 243; toward integrative model of civilian control, militarization and, 229–241; international relations regarding, 78; introduction to civilian control, militarization and, 2–8; militarization as link between civilian control and, 7–8, 230; options for reacting to, 3–4; relationship between civilian control and, 4–8; schematic model of civilian control, militarization and, 239–241, 240fig; summarization of civilian control, militarization and, 223–229, 224tab. See also Domestic threats; External threats; Terrorism; specific countries Self-Defense Forces (SDF): distance from pathology strategy for, 44–45; dynamic defense approach of, 41–42, 47; elections, political party, and coalition dynamics impacting, 51–52; humanitarian missions by, 46, 49, 50; justification strategy for, 44; legalization and formalization strategy of, 46–47; limitations and restrictions on, 37–38; media and social movements impacting, 52–53;

283

mimicry of armed forces strategy for, 45–46; peacekeeping missions by, 46; protests against, 52–53; public opinion on, 50–51; ritual naturalization strategy for, 45; security policy changes approved by, 43–44; US relations with, 49, 50 Senegal: Afrobarometer survey on, 175; ANRAC in, 169; Armée-Nation ideology of, 163, 174, 175, 176, 178– 179; characteristics of, 162; COIN operations in, 167–168, 173; conclusion on, 178–180; Diallo of, 176; Diola culture in, 164–166; Diouf of, 166–169, 173, 176, 180n1; foundations of institutionally effective military in, 175–176; France colonization of, 163–164; General Reserve Units, 178; GRPC in, 171, 172; horizontal civilian control in, 177–178; map of, 165fig; nonmilitarization, 162–163, 172–174, 179–180; presidential transition success in, 161, 162; research overview on, 13; Sall of, 161, 170– 172; Senghor, L., of, 164–165, 175–176, 178; stability around civilian control and democratic accountability in, 175; summarization of threats, militarization, and civilian control in, 224, 224tab, 228, 236–237, 238; vertical civilian control in, 176–177; Wade of, 169–170, 177; women’s groups in, 169, 171. See also Casamance conflict; Forces Armées Sénégalaises; Mouvement des Forces Démocratiques dela Casamance Senghor, Augustin Diamacoune, 165–166, 168 Senghor, Léopold Sédar, 164–165, 175– 176, 178 Shaw, Martin, 34 SOCOM. See Special Operations Command SOF. See Special operations forces South Africa: ANC in, 184, 185, 194; apartheid era in, 182–186; APLA in, 184; border control issues in, 190; civilian control and oversight heightened in, 188–189; civilian control weakening in, 193–196; conclusion on, 196–198; conscription ending in, 187; Constitution of, 186,

284

Index

188; de Klerk of, 185; defense budget decrease in, 187; demilitarization and democracy from 1994-2008, 186–189; DOD in, 188, 189, 194; EFF in, 192– 193; as garrison state, 196; horizontal civilian control in, 188; internal threats to political stability and security in, 189–191; JSCD in, 188–189; Mandela of, 181, 194; Mbeki of, 181, 187, 194; militarized citizenship in, 192; militarized populism in, 192–193; MK in, 184; NSMS in, 185; PAC in, 184; PCDVA in, 189, 194; poaching in, 191; political to regional security threats shift in, 186–187; as praetorian state, 185; privatized militarism in, 192; protests in, 190; remilitarization and authoritarianism from 2009-2019, 189–196; research overview on, 13; summarization of threats, militarization, and civilian control in, 224tab, 225, 226, 227, 229, 234, 236, 237, 238; vertical civilian control in, 188; White Paper on, 187; Zuma of, 181, 189, 191, 193, 194, 195, 197 South African Defence Force (SADF): as alternative government, 185; increase in role of, 182, 183, 184; manpower availability to, 183 South African National Defence Force (SANDF): concerns about, 194–195; Constitution of South Africa regarding, 186, 188; decline of, 195– 196; gang related crime handled by, 191; increase in role of, 182; JSCD relations with, 188–189; peacekeeping missions by, 187; revolutionary forces integrated into, 188 South Korea: antimilitarization policy in, 61–65; conclusion on, 74–76, 75tab; data and methods for analyzing, 71– 73, 72tab; détente dilemma between North and, 61–62; economic discourse regarding North Korea, 62–63, 63fig; findings on, 73–74, 74tab; as garrison state, 65; Japan ruling over, 65; Kim Dae-jung of, 61, 64, 65, 68; Korean War between North and, 59, 65; Lee Myoung-bak of, 65; media, security threat, and civilian control relationship in, 56–57, 56fig, 74–75, 75tab; media on antimilitarization policy in, 66–69, 69fig; militarism in, 65–66, 67fig;

military autonomy increase in, 69–71; Military Demarcation Line between North and, 59–60, 59fig; NLL threats between North and, 59–61; NLL violation classified by, 55; pacifist policy in, 55–56, 72, 73–74; Park Chung-hee of, 65; research overview on, 10–11; Roh Moo-hyun of, 62–63, 64, 68, 71; rules of engagement established by, 64–65; summarization of threats, militarization, and civilian control in, 223, 224tab, 225, 226, 229, 231, 233, 239; UNC and, 59–60; US operation plan with, 71; warning fire from, 70–71, 71fig Spain: Ajuria Enea Pact of 1988 and, 210; Antiterrorism Pact of 2000 signed in, 212; armed forces and civilian relationship in, 220n4; Basque independence movement threat to, 199–200; CEMU in, 213; CESID in, 206; CITCO in, 213, 214; CNCA in, 213; CNI in, 216; CNP in, 212, 213; conclusion on, 218–219; CSN in, 218, 220n6; CSP in, 206, 209, 212; European doctrine against terrorism in, 200–201; Fraga of, 200; France collaboration with, 206, 209, 211; Franco of, 199, 200, 201, 203; FRAP violent acts against, 202tab, 203; GAIOE in, 209; GAL created in, 202tab, 203–204, 209, 212; GRAPO violent acts against, 202tab, 203; jihadist terrorism and adaptation of, 212–215; jihadist terrorism beginnings in, 200, 204; Law on National Security, 217–218; Madrid Pact of 1987 and, 210; Madrid train bombing of 2004 in, 200, 204, 212; MULC in, 206–207, 209; Organic Law on Basic Criteria for National Defense and Military Organization, 215; Organic Law on National Defense, 215; PENLCRV in, 214; PP of, 212, 213; PSOE of, 209, 212, 213; public safety legislation on force in, 217tab; alQaeda attacking, 202tab, 204; regulations on use of force in, 215– 218; research overview on, 14; security threat assessment in, 205, 205fig; state of siege scenario in, 217; summarization of threats, militarization, and civilian control in,

Index 224, 224tab, 226, 227–228, 236–237, 238, 239; Tagle of, 211; terrorism in, fight against two waves of, 206–215, 218–219; terrorism since end of Francoism in, 201–205, 202tab; terrorist groups active in, 202tab; UME in, 216; ZEN in, 209. See also Euskadi Ta Askatasuna; Guardia Civil Spanish Armed Forces (AFs): regarding fight against terrorism, 200, 218–219; mission regulations for, 215–216, 218; mistrust of, 201 Special Operations Command (SOCOM), 91–92 Special operations forces (SOF), 91–92 Spectator-sport militarism, 34 Structural theory of civil-military relations, 6, 8

Tagle, Carmen, 211 Terrorism: Bush on, 87, 88, 89; Carter on, 82; Clinton on, 82–83, 84–85; domestic, 139; FAA response to, 81; France elevated threat of, 142–143; France securitization under Chirac against, 140, 141, 145–148, 156; France securitization under Hollande against, 140, 141, 148–151, 155, 156; France securitization under Macron against, 140, 141, 150, 152–155, 156; Japan security threat from, 40–41; Madrid train bombing of 2004, 200, 204, 212; military political involvement increase due to, 139–140; narco, 107–108; Nixon on, 81–82; Reagan on, 82, 84; SOF against, 91–92; Spain adaptation to fighting jihadist, 212–215; Spain first encounter with jihadist, 200, 204; in Spain since end of Francoism, 201– 205, 202tab; Spain using European doctrine against, 200–201; Spains fight against two waves of, 206–215, 218– 219; total war approach to, 211; US embassy bombings, 83, 85; US militarization and, after 9/11, 86–93; US militarization and, before 9/11, 81– 86; US militarization response to, 77–78; US NSS on, 85–86, 88; US Oklahoma City bombing, 83; US World Trade Center bombing of 1993, 82–83; vulnerabilities revealed from, 80; war on, 87–88. See also Euskadi Ta Askatasuna; 9/11

285

Tilly, Charles, 5, 7, 230, 231–232 Transnational terrorism. See Terrorism Trump, Donald, 1, 30

UK. See United Kingdom UME. See Military emergency unit Umkhonto we Sizwe (MK), 184 UN. See United Nations UNC. See United Nations Command Unified approach model, 143 United Kingdom (UK), 139 United Nations (UN), 117, 124 United Nations Command (UNC), 59–60 United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC), 107 United States (US): AUMF, 86–87, 88, 90, 91; Bush of, 87, 88, 89; Carter of, 82; civilian control eroded in, 89–93; Clinton of, 82–83, 84–85; Colombia alliance with, 101, 107–108; conclusion on, 93–94; defense budget in, 79; defense budget on counterterrorism, 91, 92–93; embassy bombings, 83, 85; FAA of, 81; GSS in, 127; horizontal civilian control in, 89–90, 93; Japan security threats from, 41; Kissinger of, 61–62; militarization response to terrorism, 77–78; militarization shaping threat perception in, 78–81; military casualty tolerance in, 79; military contradiction in, 79–80; Nixon of, 81–82; NSS of, 85–86, 88; Oklahoma City bombing in, 83; Reagan of, 79, 82, 84; research overview on, 11; SDF relations with, 49, 50; SOCOM, 91–92; SOF, 91–92; South Korea operation plan with, 71; summarization of threats, militarization, and civilian control in, 224, 224tab, 225, 226, 229, 231, 233; on terrorism and militarization after 9/11, 86–93; on terrorism and militarization before 9/11, 81–86; Trump of, 1, 30; vertical civilian control in, 90, 93; World Trade Center bombing of 1993 in, 82– 83. See also 9/11 UNODC. See United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime Uribe, Alvaro, 99, 105, 106, 112 US. See United States Venezuela, 100, 103

286

Index

Vennesson, Pascal, 232 Vertical civilian control: in Colombia, 114–115; defining, 2–3, 238; in France, 152, 157; in Israel, 32, 34; in Senegal, 176–177; in South Africa, 188; in US, 90, 93 Vigipirate, 142, 143, 145, 146, 148, 149 Wade, Abdoulaye, 169–170, 177 “War makes the state” theory, 5, 230

War on drugs, 101, 102, 103–104, 107–108 War on terror, 87–88 West Germany, 227 World Trade Center bombing (1993), 82– 83 Zona Especial Norte (ZEN), 209 Zuma, Jacob, 181, 189, 191, 193, 194, 195, 197

About the Book

What leads a democratic government to use military force to counter a domestic or external threat? How does it legitimize this mobilization to its citizenry? And what is the significance for civilian control of the military? The authors of Mobilizing Force draw on case studies from around the world to systematically examine these critical questions, exploring the interrelationships among security threats, the militarization of security policy, and democratic accountability.

David Kuehn is senior research fellow at the GIGA Institute of Asian Studies in Hamburg, Germany. Yagil Levy is professor in the Department of Sociology, Political Science and Communication at the Open University of Israel.

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