Civil–Military Relations in Europe
Democracy is unlikely to develop or to endure unless military and other security forces are controlled by democratic institutions and necessary safeguards, checks and balances are in place. The result of a two-year research project managed under the auspices of the European Group on Military and Society (ERGOMAS) and the Geneva Centre for the Democratic Control of Armed Forces (DCAF), this comparative study examines how contemporary European states, both mature Western democracies and emerging democracies of post-communist Europe, manage the issue of how best to control the very institution that has been established for their protection and wields the monopoly of legitimate force. This volume contains 28 case studies from 14 countries: the Czech Republic, Germany, Georgia, France, Hungary, Ireland, Israel, Macedonia, Poland, Romania, Slovenia, Serbia and Montenegro, the former Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, Switzerland, and the Ukraine. The studies cover a variety of situations from corruption to military incompetence, disobedience towards civilian superiors, lack of expertise among civilians, to unauthorised strikes and accidents. They focus on the relationship between political, civilian and military actors while identifying problems and dangers that can emerge in those relations to the detriment of effective and legitimate democratic control. This book will be of much interest to students of civil–military relations, military sociology, international relations and strategic studies. Hans Born and Marina Caparini are both Senior Research Fellows at the Geneva Centre for the Democratic Control of Armed Forces (DCAF). Karl W. Haltiner is Chair of Military Sociology at the Military Academy at the ETH Zurich, Switzerand. Jürgen Kuhlmann was the Former Director of the Research Department at the George C. Marshall European Center for Security Studies, Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany.
Cass Military Studies
Intelligence Activities in Ancient Rome: Trust in the Gods, But Verify Rose Mary Sheldon Clausewitz and African War: Politics and Strategy in Liberia and Somalia Isabelle Duyvesteyn Strategy and Politics in the Middle East, 1954–60: Defending the Northern Tier Michael Cohen The Cuban Intervention in Angola, 1965–1991: From Che Guevara to Cuito Cuanavale Edward George Military Leadership in the British Civil Wars, 1642–1651: ‘The Genius of this Age’ Stanley Carpenter Israel’s Reprisal Policy, 1953–1956: The Dynamics of Military Retaliation Ze’ev Drory Bosnia and Herzegovina in the Second World War Enver Redzic Leaders in War: West Point Remembers the 1991 Gulf War Edited by Frederick Kagan and Christian Kubik Khedive Ismail’s Army John Dunn Yugoslav Military Industry 1918–1991 Amadeo Watkins Corporal Hitler and the Great War 1914–1918: The List Regiment John Williams Rostóv in the Russian Civil War, 1917–1920: The Key to Victory Brian Murphy The Tet Effect, Intelligence and the Public Perception of War Jake Blood
The US Military Profession into the 21st Century: War, Peace and Politics Edited by Sam C. Sarkesian and Robert E. Connor, Jr Civil–Military Relations in Europe: Learning from Crisis and Institutional Change Edited by Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann Strategic Culture and Ways of War Lawrence Sondhaus Military Unionism in the Post Cold War Era: A Future Reality? Edited by Richard Bartle and Lindy Heinecken Warriors and Politicians: U.S. Civil–Military Relations under Stress Charles A. Stevenson Military Honour and the Conduct of War: From Ancient Greece to Iraq Paul Robinson
Civil–Military Relations in Europe Learning from crisis and institutional change
Edited by Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann
First published 2006 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016 This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2006. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.”
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group © 2006 Selection and editorial matter Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann; individual chapters, the contributors All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN10: 0–415–38540–7 ISBN13: 9–78–0–415–38540–4
Contents
vii
Contents
List of figures and tables Contributors Preface Acknowledgements Abbreviations
x xi xiii xvi xvii
Part I
Introduction 1
Civilians and the military in Europe
1 3
H A N S B O R N , M A R I NA C A PA R I N I , K A R L W. H A LT I N E R A N D JÜRGEN KUHLMANN
PART II
Transition states 2
Stressed and strained civil–military relations in Romania, but successfully reforming
19
21
L A R RY L . W AT T S
3
Differentia specifica: military reform in the former Federal Republic of Yugoslavia
35
M I RO S L AV H A D *I ¢
4
The impact of conflict and corruption on Macedonia’s civil–military relations BILJANA VANKOVSKA
48
viii Contents 5
Political irresponsibility and lack of transparency in Ukrainian defence reform
62
A NATO L I Y G RY T S E N KO
6
Striving for effective parliamentary control over the armed forces in Georgia
79
D AV I D D A R C H I A S H V I LI
PART III
Consolidating democracies 7
Problems confronting civilian democratic control in Poland
95 97
AGNIESZKA GOGOLEWSKA
8
Civil–military relations in Hungary: from competition to co-operation
114
FERENC MOLNÁR
9
Executive decisions and divisions: disputing competences in civil–military relations in Slovenia
130
MARJAN MALEŠI (
10
Modernisation of the Czech armed forces: no walk through a rose garden
147
MARIE VLACHOVÁ
11
A battle for civil supremacy over the military in Israel
163
AMIR BAR-OR
PART IV
Established democracies 12
The military voice in France: on the streets and in the newspapers
175
177
B E R NA R D B O Ë N E
13
Democratic control of the Swiss militia in times of war and peace: ideal and reality K A R L W. H A LT I N E R A N D T I B O R S . T R E S C H
191
Contents ix 14
International prestige and domestic democratic values in civil–military conflicts: two Irish case studies
202
JEAN CALLAGHAN AND RAY MURPHY
15
His master’s voice? Freedom of speech and the German Citizen in Uniform
217
JÜRGEN KUHLMANN AND JÜRGEN ROSE
PART V
Conclusions
233
16
235
Patterns of democratic governance of civil–military relations HANS BORN, MARINA CAPARINI, KARL W. HALTINER AND JÜRGEN KUHLMANN
Bibliography Index
256 271
x
List of figures and tables
List of figures and tables
Figures 5.1 Should there be a fully professional army in Ukraine? 5.2 Assessing the present level of budget expenditures on national defence
74 76
Tables 1.1 Overview of case studies 1.2 Comparison of the armed forces and democratic framework in 16 countries 1.3 Applying UNDP indicators for determining the democratisation level of selected states 16.1 Cases by key dimensions of civil–military relations 16.2 Democratisation and civil–military relations 16.3 Key issues of democratic governance of civil–military relations and political leadership and political system in 14 selected European states
12 13 14 239 245
248
Contributors xi
Contributors
Amir Bar-Or is Head of the Military and Security Studies Program, The BenGurion University of the Negev, Beer Sheva, Israel. Bernard Boëne is Rector of the Academia of Reunion and Professor of Sociology. Hans Born is Senior Research Fellow at the Geneva Centre for the Democratic Control of Armed Forces (DCAF), Switzerland. Jean Callaghan is Deputy Director, Research Department at the George C. Marshall European Center for Security Studies, Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany. Marina Caparini is Senior Research Fellow at the Geneva Centre for the Democratic Control of Armed Forces (DCAF), Switzerland. David Darchiashvili is Executive Director of the Open Society Georgia Foundation, Tiblisi, Georgia. Agnieszka Gogolewska is Senior Specialist of the Ministry of National Defence in Poland, Department of Defence System. Anatoliy Grytsenko was appointed Minister of Defence of Ukraine on 4 February 2005. He is also President of the Ukrainian Centre for Economic and Political Studies Ukraine, named after Olexander Razumkov, Kiev, Ukraine. Miroslav Had$i[ is Director of the Centre for Civil–Military Relations, NGO, Belgrade and Professor of ‘Global and National Security’ at the Faculty of Political Science, University of Belgrade, Belgrade, Serbia and Montenegro. Karl W. Haltiner is Chair of Military Sociology at the Military Academy at the ETH Zurich, Switzerland. Jürgen Kuhlmann was Former Director, Research Department at the George C. Marshall European Center for Security Studies, Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany. He died in January, 2006. Marjan Male;i= is Head of Defence Research Centre, at the Faculty of Social Sciences, University of Ljubljana, Slovenia.
xii
Contributors
Ferenc Molnár is Senior Research Fellow at the Institute for Strategic and Defence Studies in Budapest, Hungary. Ray Murphy is Director of the LL.M. in International Peace Support Operations at the Irish Centre for Human Rights, NUI Galway, Ireland. Jürgen Rose is External Research Fellow at the Institute for Peace Research and Security Policy at the University of Hamburg (IFSH), Germany. Tibor S. Tresch is Lecturer in Military Sociology, Military Academy at the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology Zurich (ETHZ), Switzerland. Biljana Vankovska of the University of Skopje and Director of the Centre for Democracy and Security, Skopje, Macedonia, ex-DCAF Senior Fellow (2001– 2). Marie Vlachová is Senior Research Fellow at the Geneva Centre for the Democratic Control of Armed Forces, Switzerland. She is seconded to the Centre by the Ministry of Defence of the Czech Republic. Larry L. Watts is Security Sector Reform Consultant to Romania’s National Security Adviser, Assistant to the President of Romania’s Senate Oversight Committee for Defense, National Security and Public Order, Bucharest, Romania.
Preface
xiii
Preface
We are deeply indebted to the editors and contributors for the accomplishment of Civil–Military Relations in Europe: Learning from Crisis and Institutional Change. It goes without saying that there is a common understanding that civil–military relations should be governed democratically. Indeed, both the European Union and NATO have declared that democratic control of the military is a precondition for their member countries. But what is meant by democratic control of the military? How can such democratic control best be implemented? These are precisely the questions taken up and answered in this significant and path-breaking volume. These key questions have become especially timely following the end of the Cold War. The ‘new democracies’ in Europe have integrated the principles of democratic governance into their constitutional and legal frameworks as these provisions are seen as a necessary break with the dictatorial rule and one-party state of the past. Creating the institutions and mechanisms to achieve democratic control of the armed forces has been, not unexpectedly, complicated by numerous factors, such as internal political struggles, resource constraints, and legacies from the previous regimes. The volume also makes the significant, though not usually recognised point, that civilian control of the armed forces is not necessarily correlated with democratic governments. The Warsaw Pact countries were authoritarian political systems that, nevertheless, had strong civilian control over the military. The core issue stressed by this volume is how to have both democratic regimes and democratic governance of the armed forces. As described in the overview introduction, 14 nations are discussed in detail by experts of each country. These countries are sensibly grouped into three categories. One category consists of ‘transitional states’ moving towards democracy: Georgia, Macedonia, Romania, Serbia-Montenegro and Ukraine. A second category is made up of ‘consolidating democracies’: Czech Republic, Hungary, Israel, Poland and Slovenia. The third category consists of ‘established democracies’: France, Ireland, Germany and Switzerland. Noteworthy, there are similarities as well as differences in civil–military relations within as well as between these three categories. This is to say that internal political struggles and resource constraints also affect civil–military relations in the ‘established democracies’ as well as in the ‘consolidating’ and ‘transitional’ states.
xiv
Preface
In all European countries there are debates about the post-Cold War requirements with reference to new roles and missions, sending troops abroad, multi-national forces, the abolition of conscription, the downsizing of the military, among other concerns. From a policy viewpoint, this volume breaks new ground by adopting an inductive approach. That is to say, rather than forcing findings into preconceived theoretical categories, the contributors first describe the realities in each of their countries. These in turn are related to cross-national categories of empirical description. The common framework involves such central issues as the degree of information available on the military, the convergence and divergence of military and civilian cultures and the efficiency of the military in the performance of assigned missions. This is superbly documented in the country chapters of this book. Each of the contributors presents a factual description of civil–military strain at two levels. One level deals with an acute short-term crisis and the other with a discord arising out of long-term institutional change. Thus, with an empirical examination of 14 countries, we have in effect 28 case studies of the ups and downs in democratic governance of the armed forces. Very importantly, the purview in how governmental policy comes into being is not simply civil–military conflict, but also includes civilian–civilian conflict within the political structure and military–military conflict within the armed forces. Simply put, policy analysis for democratic governance requires looking separately at both the military side and the civilian government side. This gives the reader added insight to the more conventional analysis dealing only with the interaction between the two sides. A central point in this volume is that while constitutional and legal frameworks for democratic control are clearly important, these are not sufficient to explain civil–military relations. The focus of analyses must be on the roles and behaviour of political and military leaders within their own institutional contexts. Significantly, such an analytical framework takes us well beyond the usual academic parameters of civil–military relations and especially beyond the American-centric predominance in theories of civil–military relations. Not only is the American-centric model avoided in this volume, but the findings are framed in such a way that Americans themselves can see their own civil–military relations in a new light. Furthermore, the lessons drawn from the European countries described herein also have much bearing on our understanding of civil–military relations in other nations in post-authoritarian transition, notably in Latin America. Civil–Military Relations in Europe is most timely in another way. The expansion of NATO to the countries between the Baltic and Black seas will reflect both changes and consistencies in the countries examined. Expansion of the European Union and the possible development of a European military identity gives yet another dimension to democratic governance of armed forces. The stage is being set, albeit haltingly, for the European Union itself to become a military entity in its own right. This volume moves the academic discussion of civil–military relations to an entirely new level. By presenting the reader with an empirically based examination of the broad spectrum of democratic-governance of civil military relations, we
Preface xv arrive at an understanding of how democratic control really works in European states. A central point is that no single model applies to all countries. Policy makers, military members and concerned citizens alike will each find much of value in this volume. The reader is greatly informed on issues that have real-life consequences as well as scholarly value. Professor Dr Charles Moskos Department of Sociology, Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois, USA
Editors’ note Sadly, our cherished colleague and friend Jürgen Kuhlmann died as we neared the completion of this book. We will miss his incisive intellect and good humour. The work remains as it had begun, a joint effort by the four co-editors.
xvi
Acknowledgements
Acknowledgements
The idea for this book started from a curiosity about how civil–military relations function in reality, beyond the elegantly drafted constitutional and declaratory statements of government leaders about the democratic control of armed forces. Equally, there was an uneasiness with the bias towards the US model of civil– military relations which was coined as ‘objective control of the military’ by Samuel Huntington in 1957 and which was taken for granted around the world and is so even today. Therefore, the European Research Group on Military and Society (ERGOMAS) and the Geneva Centre for the Democratic Control of Armed Forces (DCAF) brought together 14 European scholars to analyse civil–military relations in their countries according to a commonly agreed research framework. The international research team met twice, first for discussing the research framework in January 2002 in Morschach at the Lake of Four Cantons in central Switzerland and second for comparing the country studies in Portoroz in Slovenia in September 2002. Both meetings took place in a very constructive fashion and according to the best of European academic traditions. Before, between and after these two international workshops, the editorial team met various times in order to set up the framework for research and to analyse the case studies. The volume is the end result of this long research project, which was in no way an easy endeavour because of the complexity of the issues at stake as well as the cultural diversity and size of the research team. A number of debts have been incurred in the implementation of this project and we are delighted to acknowledge them here. We would like to thank Ingrid Beutler and Marlene Urscheler who provided invaluable administrative, organisational and editorial assistance in the course of this project. We thank Jonathan Bennett, (former) Assistant in Military Sociology at the Military Academy of the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology in Zurich and Eden Cole at DCAF for their conscientious editorial assistance and Martin Noble who diligently undertook the language editing of book. Andrew Humphreys and Marjorie Francois of Routledge publishers steered us through the publication process with patience and encouragement. We would like to thank all of them and to express our special gratitude to the contributors of this book who did a wonderful job in meeting the great many demands the editors made on them. Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann Geneva, Zurich, Munich June 2005
Abbreviations xvii
Abbreviations
AIMS ANCESIAC APM AVF CEE CGS COMBALTAP CSAT CSFM (TK DAK DDR DDS DEMOS DIPD DMO DOS DPA DSS DUI EEC ERGOMAS ETA EU EUROMIL FIDESZ FRY GEL GSoA IDEA
Acquisitions Integrated Management System National Agency for the Control of Strategic Exports and Anti-Proliferation of Chemical Weapons acquisitions and property management All Volunteer Force Central and Eastern Europe chief-of-general staff Commander Baltic Approaches Supreme Defence Council of Romania Conseil supérieur de la fonction militaire (France) Czech Press Agency Department of Administration and Co-ordination (Poland) disarmament, demobilisation and reintegration Democratic Party of Serbia Democratic Opposition of Slovenia Defence Integrated Planning Directorate (Romania) Defence Minister’s Order Democratic Opposition of Serbia Democratic Party of Albanians Democratic Party of Serbia Democratic Union for Integration (Macedonia) European Economic Community European Research Group on Military and Society Euzkadi eta Askatasuna (Basque Homeland and Freedom) European Union European Association of Military Associations Hungarian Civic Party and Independent Smallholders’ Party Federal Republic of Yugoslavia Georgian Lari Gruppe Schweiz ohne Armee (Switzerland) International Institute for Democracy and Electoral Assistance, Stockholm (Sweden)
xviii Abbreviations IDF IMRO IPPNW IPU JCS KDU-(SL
Israeli Defence Forces Internal Macedonian Revolutionary Organisation International Physicians for Prevention of Nuclear War Inter-Parliamentary Union Joint Chief of Staff Christian Democratic Union – Czechoslovak People’s Party KFOR Kosovo Force in former Yugoslavia (UN) LVK Landesverteidigungs-Kommission (National Defence Commission, Switzerland) MoD Ministry of Defence NADGE NATO Air Defence Ground Environment NASA National Army Spouses’ Association (Ireland) NATO North Atlantic Treaty Organisation NCO non-commissioned officer NGO Non-Governmental Organisation NIK Supreme Control Chamber (Poland) NLA National Liberation Army (Macedonia) NPP National Peasant Party (Romania) NSDC National Security and Defence Council of Ukraine ONUC UN operation in the Congo OSCE Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe PA Palestinian Authority PANA Peace and Neutrality Alliance PD Democratic Party (Romania) PDF Republic of Ireland’s Permanent Defence Forces PDFORRA Permanent Defence Forces Other Ranks Representative Association (Ireland) PDSR Party of Romanian Social Democracy (Social Democratic Party after 6/2001) PfP Partnership for Peace PPBES planning, programming, budgeting and evaluation system (Romania) PPBS planning, programming and budgeting system (Georgia) PSD Party of Social Democracy (Romania) RACO Representative Association for Commissioned Officers (Ireland) RAF Romanian armed forces RMND Romanian Ministry of National Defence SFOR Stabilisation Force in former Yugoslavia (UN) SOWI German Armed Forces Institute for Social Research SPD Social-Democratic Party (Germany) SSR security sector reform STANAVFORLANT Standing Naval Forces Atlantic TD Member of Dáil Éireann or Irish Parliament
Abbreviations xix UAH UCK UN UNAMET UNDP UNOMIG UNOSOM II USDM WEU WSI
Ukraine Hyvrna Ushtria Clirimtare Kombetare (National Liberation Army), ethnic Albanian guerillas United Nations United Nations Transitional Administration in East Timor United Nations Development Programme United Nations Observer Mission in Georgia United Nations Operation in Somalia Union of Social-Democrats of Macedonia Western European Union Wojska Sluzby Informacyjna (Military Information Services, Poland)
xx Abbreviations
Civilians and the military in Europe
Part I
Introduction
1
2
Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann
Civilians and the military in Europe
1
3
Civilians and the military in Europe Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann
The theme of this book is the democratic civilian control of armed forces. It examines how contemporary European states, both mature Western democracies and emerging democracies of post-communist Central and Eastern Europe, manage the issue of ‘Who will guard the guardians?’ (‘Sed quis custodiet ipsos custodies?’ Juvenal, Omnia Romae, VI, 347). That is, how does a society, primarily through its legitimate, democratically elected political leaders and their appointed officials, control the military, that same state institution that has been established for its protection and wields the monopoly of legitimate force? From a normative point of view, as formulated in the constitutions of many countries, civilian authorities issue instructions that the military must obey. Some theorists add to this simple rule of civilian control that professionalism requires the military to be politically neutral and therefore not to intervene in political decision making, while civilian leaders should not interfere in the technical professional domain of the military, nor micro-manage its work. The social reality of civil–military relations is, however, too complex and too varied to be explained by this simple ‘order and obey’ paradigm. The normative rule of military subordination to civilian authority does not capture fully the social reality of political–military relations involved in democratic control. Political leaders can and do readily assert that democratic civilian control of the armed forces exists, yet experience has shown, both in established democracies and those struggling to become democracies, that the actual functioning of control over the armed forces is often not accurately reflected either in the broad declaratory statements of political leaders or in the elegant principles set out in constitutional-legal texts. Broad prescriptive guidelines concerning ‘international norms’ of democratic control of the armed forces are similarly limited in providing insight. The reality of democratic control is usually much more complicated, requiring a fine-grained understanding of the informal relationships between key actors in a specific setting and the political dynamics underlying situational contexts. The main research question of this study was how does democratic control work in practice in European states? Eschewing the formalistic approach of looking primarily at the legal and institutional framework of democratic control, the editors of this volume were more interested in going beneath the surface to examine the sometimes gritty empirical reality of how civilian authorities interact with the
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Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann
military, and thus, how democratic control has worked in practice in specific situations.
Objective of the book The goal of this research project was to examine how democratic control has functioned in a number of European states that are at different stages of democratic development, i.e. to compare experiences and insights and in so doing, to try to explain the realities that lie beneath normative prescriptions of democratic civilian control. More precisely, the objectives of the research project were, first, to analyse democratic control of armed forces in 14 European countries by setting out and comparing instances in which civil–military relations were under pressure or in conflict, both short-term acute crises and long-term institutional change. Second, the book sought to identify and to explain the gap between, on the one hand, the normative prescriptions and legal frameworks that govern democratic civil–military relations, including theories and principles of democratic control, and, on the other hand, the actual practice of democratic control of armed forces. Finally, the book undertook to identify the lessons learned for the practice of democratic civil– military relations in Europe, and the insights for policy-makers and others who are interested in the governance of this key sector of state activity. The aim of the remainder of this introduction is to identify the basic assumptions and analytical considerations that guided the drafting of the country studies. It provides a brief outline of the concepts of democratic control of armed forces and civil–military relations. The chapter will then explain the methodology of the research project and the case study approach, including guiding research questions.
The conceptual framework: what is democratic control of armed forces? The modern nation state has for much of its history been defined in part by its monopoly over the legitimate use of force. The military must command sufficient coercive power to protect the polity from its external enemies, but therein lies an inherent danger: through its management of organised force, the military contains the potential to pose a threat to the democratic polity itself or the values on which it is based. In the most extreme case, a praetorian military could threaten the society it is meant to serve by seizing political power in a military coup (or threatening civilian leaders with a coup), and enforcing its will on the state and society by means of the ensuing military (or military-backed) government. In lesser forms of military intervention and influence, military leaders might pursue the institution’s corporate interest or their own personal interests to the detriment of the public interest as defined by the democratically elected civilian authorities. Democratic control, then, is not only a matter of preventing the military from seizing power. It is about aligning the goals of political and military leaders sufficiently that military interests do not overtake the broader societal interests. It is about not allowing the military to subvert democratic constitutional authority
Civilians and the military in Europe
5
or to absorb a disproportionate amount of resources relative to other societal values and priorities, while ensuring that the military can and does fulfil its functions through the provision of adequate resources. In terms of ‘guns versus butter’ decisions, it is the civilian political masters, democratically elected and held accountable by the public, who must determine where society’s priorities and values lie. Indeed, it is a basic axiom of representative democracy that the people govern through their democratically elected representatives, who represent the will of the people in conducting the business of government. The democratic legitimacy of elected political leaders imbues them with the moral and political authority to make decisions, as well as the responsibility to govern in the public interest. This applies equally to the sphere of defence and security policy. Democratic control of the armed forces falls under the interdisciplinary subject of civil–military relations. Civil–military relations, most broadly conceptualised, concerns the social relations between the military and the wider society. It can also refer more narrowly to the political relations between civilian governments and the military. Democratic control of the armed forces, how civilian actors and institutions interact with, exercise control over, and manage the military, typically fits into this narrower conception of civil–military relations. However, the focus on the interaction between civilian political and military elites cannot be considered without understanding the broader context of civil–military relations because the relationship between a country’s military and society reflects the history, culture and political system of that country. Although in the past, academics have tended to define civil–military relations narrowly in terms of the interactions between the top military officers and political elites occupying the key national government positions in the state, a broader understanding is necessary and has become increasingly accepted in the post-Cold War era. The broadening of the ‘civil’ component of the term is especially important given our interest in ‘democratic’ civil–military relations, which argues for an inclusive approach that does not privilege civil political elites but views military relations with society in the broad terms suggested by democratic norms such as openness, transparency, accountability, legitimacy and pluralism. It has also been argued that the military component of civil–military relations should be similarly broadened to refer to ‘all national security structures (public and quasi-private) vis-à-vis civilian society …’ (Nelson, pp. 1–2). However, we maintain that the term ‘military’ must remain limited to the armed forces, both its leadership, separate services and the armed forces as a whole. Broadening the focus to include all national security structures would bring in intelligence, national police, customs and border officials and various other state agencies and government departments with an important role in national security. The concept of ‘security sector governance’ encompasses just such a broad approach (see for example, Born et al., 2003; Bryden and Hänggi, 2004). For our purposes, however, broadening the understanding of ‘military’ would be too diffuse to be of much use in analysis. Democratic civilian control of the armed forces then is about good governance, which is defined as the exercise of power through decision making and
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Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann
implementation that is effective, honest, equitable, inclusive, transparent and accountable and consistent with rule of law.1 It relies on mutual perceptions of legitimacy and trust among three key groups: those who make the decisions on behalf of the populace (civilian political leaders); those who implement the decisions (the state agencies that provide public goods, in this case the armed forces); and the wider society. Institutional restructuring will not, in and of itself, overcome mutual distrust in serving the public interest, or a fundamental disagreement over the distribution of public power. A state’s system of democratic control is a product of its system of government and institutional design, history, traditions and political culture. As there are many different cultures and political systems, different practices and modes of democratic control exist as well. Consequently, there is no single, definitive model of democratic control. As demonstrated by the experience of various Western mature democracies, democratic control can be exercised in different yet still legitimate ways. This view is the basis for the lack of specific requirements attached to the general directive that each state that aspires to join NATO must have democratic control of its armed forces. Notwithstanding the lack of any single definitive model, the civil–military relations literature offers certain insights into control of the state government and its civilian leaders over the military, from which can be derived some general outlines of a system of democratic control. Civil–military relations literature identifies mechanisms of civilian control that include the constitutional and legal framework, control over the defence budget, approval of senior promotions, restrictions on political activity by members of the military, inter-service rivalry, the development of civilian expertise in military affairs and inculcating norms for an apolitical military. In modern democracies, civilian rulers engage with the military as experts in the management of coercive force, and it is an established democratic norm that militaries (as well as other state instruments of coercion) be subordinate to democratically elected or appointed civilian authorities. However, just as our thinking about democracy has evolved to differentiate between ‘formal’ democracy (which focuses on constitutional-legal formulations and requirements such as that free elections are held periodically) and ‘substantive’ democracy (which focuses on the supremacy of certain values and principles such as justice, inclusion, tolerance and legitimacy), we need to develop our conceptual understanding of democratic civilian control of the armed forces beyond the blunt requirement that civilians order and militaries obey. As discussed above, civilian control over the military is not necessarily democratic control. It is possible to have a strong civil authority that exercises control effectively but not democratically, as was the case with communist party control of the Warsaw Pact militaries of Central and Eastern Europe. Civilian democratic control over the military, on the other hand, suggests a different type of relationship between the civilian authority and the armed forces. The understanding of democratic military professionalism rejects any suprapolitical role as guardians of the national interest. Indeed, the subordination of constitutional
Civilians and the military in Europe
7
authority to institutions or offices lacking democratic legitimacy is a fundamental contradiction of democratic principles. An international norm of democratic civilian control of the armed forces can now be said to exist, and this has also become a prerequisite for states aspiring to NATO membership.2 The norm of political non-intervention on the part of the military is based on the idea in democratic theory that no individual or group represents the national will, and that ‘only a fully enfranchised electorate can speak for the nation as a whole’ (Fitch, 1998, p. 176). Thus professionalism implies political subordination of the armed forces, as well as their subordination to the policy decisions of constitutionally designated state authorities. Civilian democratic control concerns the unequivocal supremacy of democratically elected governments and parliaments over key policy decisions concerning the armed forces, such as defining security threats, determining when force will be used, strategic planning, the allocation of resources to defence such as through the defence budget, defining the missions of the armed forces, deciding on arms procurement, force structure development and senior military promotions. Anything short of civilian supremacy suggests an incomplete democracy (Luttwak, 1999, p. 99). The other side of the equation of civilian democratic control is less often mentioned, but is just as vital. Democratic civilian authorities must not only exercise supremacy, but must be responsive to the needs of the military institution and enable the military to fulfil its functions adequately by providing it with the necessary resources and professional autonomy from excessive political interference (Michta, 1997, p. 8). Civilian authorities also have a responsibility to avoid short-term fixes based primarily on political factors rather than addressing long-term structural deficiencies and problems in the military. This is a potential problem everywhere, but it has been especially the case in the highly-charged atmosphere surrounding NATO enlargement in Central and Eastern Europe, where resource constraints and the overriding interest in deflecting Western criticism may result in superficial, politically expedient reforms aimed more at convincing external audiences than at taking into account the military’s institutional interests and addressing root causes of problems (Michta, 1997, p. 114). In other words, democratic civilian control requires not only civilian supremacy, but also a basic effectiveness in the functioning of civilian government; the courage to tackle military issues seriously; and expert and informed decision making that does not treat the military institution as a political pawn but as an executive agency with legitimate professional interests in its delivery of public goods. Civil supremacy also means that the military accepts as the fundamental norm that it does not intervene directly into politics. The military has a responsibility, while providing its professional expertise and advice to help inform decision making, to accept civilian control and guidance. However, if the military does trust the civilian authority to take its legitimate institutional interests into account, it is more likely to be politicised. Military intervention in politics may also stem from the perception that civilian government is ineffective, inefficient or corrupt (Kadt, 2002, p. 320).
8
Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann
Europe in the post-Cold War era The successful establishment of democratic civilian control over the armed forces is particularly relevant in the context of the recent wave of democratisation which has swept across Europe with the end of the Cold War. Given the significance that military institutions had in supporting the preceding state socialist regimes and the absence of democratic accountability of political and military elites under the former system, examining civil–military interactions in post-communist states provides insights into the democratisation process, military professionalism and more broadly the quality of governance under conditions of profound social, economic and political change. In the countries of the former Warsaw Pact region, the armed forces were subject to strong civilian (party) control but not to democratic control or public accountability. The armed forces were the subject of a complex system of control and socialisation by the party, which was distrustful of the military’s coercive power and hence its potential for political intervention. Throughout the Warsaw Pact countries, party control of the military, through the establishment of party cells, systematic political education within the military and the exercise of surveillance and penetration of the military by party organs, was combined with co-optation of the military by giving its members access to special privileges (Szayna and Larrabee, 1995, p. 6). Moreover, in exchange for military subordination to party control, the CEE armed forces military command were granted a relatively high degree of autonomy in the sphere of military and defence matters. As state socialist regimes were replaced by democratically oriented governments throughout much of Central and Eastern Europe (CEE) in the 1990s, attention focused on reform of the armed forces because of its recent role as a primary institutional support of the previous regime, and because of concerns that military resistance could arise and pose obstacles to democratisation. The transformation of the armed forces in CEE has numerous unique characteristics in terms of the challenges of implementing democratic control. Not only did the CEE armed forces need to be depoliticised (or more specifically, departicised), but they required development of national defence planning capabilities, which had been deliberately left underdeveloped during the communist era, when national commands were subordinate to the Soviet high command. Further, the sphere of defence and security was highly secretive and the complete monopoly of the military, with the result that these societies lacked civilian expertise in these areas. A new approach of openness, transparency, and inclusiveness needed to be adopted Concerns raised by some Western observers about the potential for military coups – one of the most serious problems in civil–military relations – and the dangers of military subversion of democratic reform have generally not, however, been borne out in post-communist Europe. While conditions traditionally considered as leading to military coup have been present in many post-socialist states, including weak states and armed forces whose corporate interests have been threatened, the Russian and other post-Soviet militaries have not intervened directly in politics by seizing power through a coup, although they may exert
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influence on politics by other means (Taylor, 2001, p. 925). One of the major reasons advanced for the passivity of the post-Soviet military is the rigid organisational culture and deeply embedded norms concerning an apolitical military and subordination to civilian authority that were inculcated in the Russian and Soviet officers corps (Taylor, 2001, pp. 937–41). Democratisation of civil–military relations in post-communist states involved, most immediately, removing the influence of the party, developing national capabilities in defence planning, especially those of civilian experts, and integrating the military into the state institutional framework, including its system of democratic oversight. The post-communist states, for example, shared a common experience under communism that continues to affect the polities and societies to this day. The members of this sub-region have also been influenced in their military and political reform by Western actors and processes, including NATO and EU enlargement (Caparini, 2003). International pressure in support of democracy has served to isolate authoritarian regimes, and international financial institutions and bilateral donors have provided material incentives for democratisation. However, it is worth noting that the effectiveness of such pressure depends on the aspirations of the target country. In CEE, NATO and EU membership have been top foreign policy goals of most of the post-communist regimes. Thus while a common goal for democratising states is achieving democratic civilian control of armed forces, the process appears to be influenced by various factors, such as the experience of the preceding regime (and hence legacies of the past), the new institutions that were created with the change in regime (e.g. presidential versus parliamentary forms of government), political culture and regional dynamics (including the influence of international actors). The achievement of effective democratic control of the state’s coercive institutions is, moreover, a necessary though not sufficient component of democratic consolidation. Failure to introduce democratic structures, procedures and mindsets into the armed forces may delay democratisation or create problems further down the road. Similarly, factors hampering the consolidation of democracy, such as weakness of the civil administration, weakness of parliament and its oversight committees, intra-executive disputes over division of power and responsibilities, and corruption, will affect civil–military relations. Democratic control of armed forces in mature or established democracies is less frequently the subject of study in comparison to those in other types of states, especially those considered to be in transition to or consolidating democracy, which have an abundance of studies on civil–military relations due to the potential influence of the military on the process of democratisation. This does not mean that problems in civil–military relations or democratic control do not arise, as was evidenced by periodic crises in the USA such as that over the Vietnam War or more recently the alleged civil–military ‘gap’ in the USA,3 or the controversy generated by the Somalia Affair in Canada in the 1990s.4 However, generally it would seem that societies in mature democracies have come to a basic consensus on the division of power and state institutional arrangements. Tensions may arise due to changing social conditions, evolution in the nature of warfare, or changes
10 Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann in the types of roles and missions of the armed forces, and disagreement between political and military elites over the adaptation of the armed forces to these changes. Several useful studies have been undertaken on civil–military relations and democratic control of armed forces in post-communist states (Bebler, 1997; Betz and Lowenhardt, 2001; Cottey, Edmunds and Forster, 2001; Danopoulos and Zirker, 1996; Gow and Birch, 1997; Joó, 1996; Szemerkenyi, 1996). While these studies have yielded valuable insights on the common challenges faced by these states in transforming their defence establishments in the context of profound change, they may have inadvertently lent support to the myth that established Western states do not experience noteworthy problems in democratic control or civil–military relations. Moreover, with the passage of more than 15 years following the demise of state socialism in CEE and the installation of new political regimes, there has developed considerable diversity in outcomes of democratisation processes in CEE. As several of the post-communist states achieved membership of NATO and the EU, one can speak of international recognition of the advanced state of reforms to the political, economic and social systems of these various states. We believe it is time to look at civil–military relations not only within the narrow and exclusive category of post-communist states, but in a broader regional sense, comparing the experiences across the diverse range of polities in contemporary Europe. There exist very few comparative studies that focus on civil–military relations in both mature democratic states and in post-communist states (one exception is Kuhlmann and Callaghan, 2000), and none that specifically compare the functioning of systems of democratic control of armed forces across the two types of states. We maintain that it is incorrect to assume that mature democracies do not encounter any problems in this field, and that the time is due for a comparative evaluation of points of strain and even crisis in civil–military relations in mature and new democracies across Europe.
Methodology How do we know how democratic civilian control of the military works in practice? Using an analogy from the aircraft industry, we know that by subjecting an airplane’s wings to stress, we can assess how the plane would perform under a variety of circumstances. We think that such an approach is valid for civil–military relations as well; the behaviour of civilian and military authorities can be best studied under circumstances where they are under tension or when civilian and military actors pursue competing interests or goals. In such instances of conflict or crisis, the fault lines of civil–military relations become more visible. We have chosen a comparative approach to study civil–military relations under pressure in 14 European states.5 A more or less representative sample of European states was selected, based initially according to a basic matrix of characteristics that included type of state and political system, geographical location, whether armies were conscript or professional and military expenditures as percentage of GDP in 2000. Authors of the country studies were selected carefully as recognised experts on civil–military relations in their countries, based on the editors’ familiarity
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with their work and on discussions with their colleagues in the European Research Group on Military and Society (ERGOMAS). Authors were instructed to select two case studies that they considered to be crucial for understanding contemporary civil–military relations in their country. Of the cases selected, one was to concern a short-term crisis, an event or controversy that occurred over a relatively limited time span and with limited impact, while the other case was to relate to an event or process that could be considered to have long-term implications or affect the institutional reform of the military, and thus had a major impact on civil–military relations. In a series of workshops bringing together the editors and country authors, the methodology, goals and structure of the book were discussed. The workshop meetings also provided the opportunity for questions and feedback from editors and authors about each of the case studies, with a view to determining whether they fit the two key selection criteria: (1) relevance to democratic governance of civil–military relations; and (2) constituting both a crisis case and a case of longterm institutional change. Some of the cases were rejected and replaced by others. The end result is shown in Table 1.1. The selected countries were then subject to further classification based on specific characteristics in order to facilitate clustering and comparative analysis. In contrast to some earlier comparative studies on civil–military relations in Europe (e.g. Forster et al., 2002; Betz and Lowenhardt, 2001), the sample of countries that was chosen was not limited to so-called transition or post-communist states, but also include long-established or ‘mature’ democracies from Western Europe. The 14 selected European states comprised both ‘new’ and ‘old’ democracies, and possessed either parliamentary political systems or presidential-parliamentary (ie. semi-presidential) political systems. In order to assess whether a country had a parliamentary or presidential-parliamentary political system, we used the Freedom House categorisation (Freedom House, 2003). We considered the type of political system an important background variable as division of powers and authority over defence issues diverge in ways that can influence civil–military relations differently in each political systems. In a presidential-parliamentary system, for example, the head of state is the commander-in-chief of the armed forces, whereas in a parliamentary system the final responsibility for the armed forces lies with the cabinet or the minister of defence. The level of democratisation, the second background variable, implies a valuejudgement. Based on the assumption that the extent of democratic control of the armed forces in a state is closely linked to the state of its democracy, the country studies were divided into three categories of states according to the stage of its democratic development, based on area knowledge and basic indicators. We have tried to objectively categorise countries at different levels of democratisation by using the UNDP Development Report (2002) indicators which are related to accountability mechanisms, government effectiveness, degree of civil–political liberties, press freedom and level of corruption. Based on these indicators, we have ranked the 14 selected countries and divided them into three groups: transition states, consolidating states and established democracies. These groupings are reflected in the structure of this book (see Table 1.3).
12 Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann Table 1.1 Overview of case studies Case on short-term crisis: Political–military decision making that provoked a crisis in political–military relations Czech Republic France Georgia Germany Hungary Ireland Israel
Macedonia
Ministry of defence’s efforts to deal with thefts of military ammunition Demonstration of Gendarmerie on the streets, demanding better labour (financial) conditions Misleading parliament, media and public on covert operations, 1998–2002 Jürgen Rose case: officer raising critical questions to minister in public, 1997 Resignation chief of general staff over defence budget cuts, 1999 Spouses demonstrate publicly for better labour conditions for their husbands in the military An (excessively) independent chief of staff: the case of Lt-General Mofaz (1998–2002) Corruption around defence minister, 2001
Poland
Corruption and procurement of planes for air force, 2001 Romania The 1999 miners’ strike and role of the armed forces (in civilian law enforcement) Federal Republic The case of CGS General of Yugoslavia Pavkovic (ancien regime general protected by Kostunica), 1999–2002 Slovenia Depala Vas affair: president illegally tasked intelligence officers with molesting civilian/former military officer, 1994 Switzerland Attempt to abolish Swiss military through referendum, 1989 Ukraine
Passenger aircraft hit by Ukrainian army missile, by accident, 2001
Case on long-term institutional change: Political–military decision making of an institutional reform project Modernisation of Czech air force and procurement decision of modern supersonic aircraft Behaviour of military in the press Failed attempt to install budget control over defence, 2002 Darmstaeder signal: development of Innere Fuhrung in 1980s Attempts to integrate ministry of defence with general staff, 1989–2001 Neutrality versus joining NATO’s Partnership for Peace Netanyahu government (1996–9) attempt of changing institutional role of military in political–military decision making Outbreak of violent conflict and impact on political–military relations, 2001 (Failed) civilianisation of MoD, 1999– Reform of procurement, 2001 Postponed security sector reform after 24 Sept 2000 Dispute concerning competence in the years 1993–4 between president and defence minister Shifting controlling power from the ministry of defence to the parliamentary defence committee, 1960s–present Difficulty of reforming Ukrainian armed forces, 2000–5
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Table 1.2 Comparison of the armed forces and democratic framework in 16 countries Political system1
1 Czech Republic Parliamentary democracy 2 France Presidential-parliamentary democracy 3 Georgia Presidential-parliamentary democracy 4 Germany Parliamentary democracy 5 Hungary Parliamentary democracy 6 Ireland Parliamentary democracy 7 Israel Parliamentary democracy 8 Macedonia Parliamentary democracy 9 Poland Presidential-parliamentary democracy 10 Romania Presidential-parliamentary democracy 11 Federal Republic Parliamentary democracy of Yugoslavia 12 Slovenia Parliamentary democracy 13 Switzerland Parliamentary democracy 14 Ukraine
Presidential-parliamentary democracy
Type of Army (as of 2002)
Military expenditure as % of GDP (20002)
Conscription Professional
2.0 2.6
Conscription
0.9
Conscription Conscription Professional Conscription Conscription Conscription
1.5 1.5 0.7 8.0 2.1 1.9
Conscription
2.1
Conscription
2.6
Conscription Conscription based militia Conscription
1.2 1.1 3.6
Notes 1 2
Source: Freedom House, 2003. Source: UNDP Development Report, 2002.
Transitional states are understood as polities in which the formal institutional framework of a democratic system has largely been put into place, but which is not yet consolidated. All of the transitional states in this book are also postcommunist. The second category of states is consolidating democracies, which have progressed further and could be said to have achieved substantive democracy in most areas. Using the UNDP democracy and governance indicators (Table 1.3), interestingly, Israel fits into this second category. The third category is that of mature democracies, those that have experienced substantive democracy over a sustained period of time, including all of Western Europe. Interestingly, the 14 countries rank almost without exception in the same way according to these six UNDP criteria, implying that there is inter-correlation between the UNDP criteria. One of our key assumptions was that understanding democratic control must be situated within a specific societal, political and cultural context. In order not to overstretch the research project, and given the geographical scope of ERGOMAS, we limited ourselves to possible societal contexts within Europe, with the exception of Israel. However, this geographical limitation did not exclude making comparisons with civil–military relations outside Europe, for example, the wellknown system in the USA or the post-authoritarian transitions of Latin America.
Romania Federal Republic of Yugoslavia Macedonia Ukraine Georgia Poland Hungary Slovenia Czech Rep. Israel France Switzerland Ireland Germany
44 56 44 60 53 19 28 21 24 30 21 8 18 13
free partly free
partly free partly free partly free free free free free free free free free free
0.03 –0.31 –0.07 1.21 1.19 1.07 1.04 0.98 1.11 1.73 1.57 1.42
0.50 –0.20
Voice and Accountability3 –2.50 to 2.50 higher is better
–1.45 –0.59 –1.00 0.69 0.75 0.87 0.74 –0.54 1.04 1.61 1.24 1.21
–0.08 –0.90
Political stability and lack of violence5 –2.50 to 2.50 higher is better
– 4.0 – 4.0 4.0 5.0 5.0 5.0 5.0 5.0 6.0 5.0
4.0
Law and order4 0 to 6 higher is better
Source: UN Development Report 2002.
Notes 1 Freedom House Index 2000. 2 Freedom House Index 2000. 3 Kaufman and Kraay, Worldbank Governance Indicators Dataset 2000–2001 (Serbia and Montenegro: 2002 figures). 4 International country risk guide. 5 Worldbank 2000–2001 (Serbia and Montenegro: 2002 figures). 6 Worldbank 2000–2001 (Serbia and Montenegro: 2002 figures). 7 Worldbank 2000–2001 (Serbia and Montenegro: 2002 figures).
Established Democracies
Consolidating Democracies
Transition States
Freedom House Press freedom Categorisation1 100 to 02 0–30 free 31–60 partly free 61–100 not free
Table 1.3 Applying UNDP indicators for determining the democratisation level of selected states
–0.63 –0.75 –0.72 0.27 0.60 0.70 0.58 0.87 1.24 1.93 1.79 1.67
–0.54 –0.73
Government effectiveness –2.50 to 2.506 higher is better
–0.51 –0.90 –0.69 0.43 0.65 1.09 0.31 1.12 1.15 1.91 1.16 1.38
–0.51 –0.80
Graft (corruption) index –2.50 to 2.507
14 Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann
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Specific events and/or developments deemed critical for the civil–military relations in 14 European countries were identified. Case study authors were instructed that the phenomena studied should have involved a degree of conflict between civilian and military actors or raised political sensitivities, with potentially far-reaching political and/or military consequences. The events were to be related to the following defence/security topics:
• • • • • • • •
participation in peace support operations (perceptions of) threats to security new military doctrine, security strategy or changes in defence policy cuts in the budget for the armed forces social inclusion issues within the military (minorities, women, homosexuals) procurement of new weapon systems or equipment corruption downsizing of the military and (abolishment of) conscription issues.
Each country study entailed the analysis of two critical events or issues. The analysis of each event was to address five elements: 1 2 3 4 5
Whose preferences prevailed – those of civilian or military actors? Did one side (political or military leaders) prevail in the issue or event under evaluation, and if so, why? How did one party to the conflict prevail over the other? What types of strategies or networks of actors were involved? How did the conflict concerning the two particular events influence the future relations between the political and military leadership? What can the author identify as implications of the findings of the country studies for the theory of democratic control of armed forces and civil–military relations more broadly?
The country studies address the roles of relevant actors, such as the parliament, the government, the president, political parties, factions within the military, industry and media. The relations between these actors will be studied from several possible institutional perspectives:
• • • • • •
legal context (constitution, laws, parliamentary provisions) military cultural context international and regional embedding social context of the military the political system in relation to the military economy–military context.
Authors of country chapters were requested to include contextual material on the legal-institutional framework only on a need-to-know basis. The country chapters would focus as much as possible on the analysis of the critical events in political–
16 Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann military interactions, with broader constitutional, political and historical factors limited to strictly that which would be required to understand the implications of the events being discussed for democratic control of the armed forces. On the basis of their analysis, each author was requested to identify lessons learned about democratic control of armed forces in their country, and, if possible, wider implications of their findings for theory.
Organisation of the book The remainder of the book is organised into four sections. As discussed above, the case study countries were divided into three categories based on indicators of democratic development. The first section includes those countries classified as ‘transitional’ states – those which continue to evince significant problems and would be categorised only ‘partly free’ by Freedom House. The second section contains those states classified as consolidating democracies – those which still have some issues to resolve but have established the basic features of democratic political systems. The third section contains the country studies of states with mature, long-established democratic political systems. The conclusion compares and analyses the findings across the 14 cases in an effort to verify whether one can identify distinct patterns of civil–military relations and democratic control within each of the three categories of states in contemporary Europe. The conclusion also identifies trends and insights from the comparative analysis concerning developments in Europe as a whole. As the reader progresses through the country case studies, he or she might want to keep in mind the following questions:
• • • •
What is the proper balance between civilian oversight and democratic control on the one hand, and autonomous professional military competence on the other? Can control over the armed forces be manipulated by civilian elites in ways that do not serve the public interest? Can civil–military relations in post-communist countries still be considered to constitute a special type, with unique features or dynamics? What are the differences in societal context between mature democracies and those that are undergoing democratic transformation or consolidation, that affect civil–military relations and democratic control of armed forces?
The final chapter takes up these questions and discusses the task of comparing the empirical findings of the various country and case studies presented by the book’s contributors. In examining the patterns of civil–military relations throughout a representative sample of contemporary European states, the concluding chapter seeks to synthesise and build linkages across area studies that have hitherto been characterised by distinctive approaches. We hope that the reader finds this exercise in comparative research and analysis as exciting as did the editors and contributors.
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Notes 1 This definition adapted from ‘Good Governance’, Canadian International Development Agency (CIDA). Online. Available at HTTP: http://www.acdicida.gc.ca/cida_ind.nsf/0/120E9700965D 51CE85256919006BF1E5?OpenDocument> (accessed 23 May 2005); ‘What is good governance?’ United Nations Economic and Social Commission for Asia and the Pacific. Online. Available HTTP: http://www.unescap.org/huset/gg/governance.htm> (accessed 23 May 2005). 2 See the OSCE Code of Conduct on Politico-Military Aspects of Security, NATO 2001, pp. 67– 90. 3 For discussion of the civil–military gap, see Feaver and Kohn, 2001; Kohn, 1994, pp. 3–31; Snider and Carlton-Carew, 1995. 4 The Somalia Affair developed from the torture and killing of a 16-year-old Somali prisoner by Canadian soldiers on a peacekeeping mission in Somalia in March 1993. The controversy generated among the Canadian public resulted in a period of acute civil–military tensions, the disbanding of the Canadian Airborne Regiment and a Commission of Inquiry that was shut down by the government before it could examine the role of military leaders in the cover-up of the affair. See Report of the Somalia Commission of Inquiry (Ottawa: Minister of Public Works and Government Services Canada, 1997). Online. Available HTTP: http://www.dnd.ca/Somalia/ vol0/indexe.htm> (accessed 23 May 2005). 5 Israel was included as a case study as a European-type because of its links to Europe as reflected in strong European influences on its political orientation, and its 2003 application to become a member of the EU.
18 Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann
Civil–military relations in Romania
Part II
Transition states
19
20 Larry L. Watts
Civil–military relations in Romania
2
21
Stressed and strained civil– military relations in Romania, but successfully reforming Larry L. Watts
Introduction The pursuit of democratic control, modernisation and NATO integration created a broad range of stresses and strains within the post-communist Romanian army. The long-term reform of acquisitions and property management (APM) in Romania and the 1999 crisis over the internal use of the military demonstrate the various factors involved in the actual exercise of democratic civilian control during fundamental military transformation. Long-term reform in APM highlights the issues of institutional and structural transformation, transparency, professionalism, personnel management and budgeting and planning reform – all central aspects of democratic control. The 1999 crisis over internal use of the military underscores the interplay of tradition, legitimacy, legality and public opinion in civil–military debates over the proper role for the military. Both processes occurred against a backdrop of extensive military downsizing from more than 320,000 personnel in 1989 to 120,000 in 2003, with corresponding active service peacetime army cuts from 270,000 to 90,000 during the same period. In 2001 alone, over 4,000 senior officers were made redundant and the number of general officers reduced from 440 to 90. Within this context of wide-ranging simultaneous change, divisions appeared within the officer corps and between civilian officials and the uniformed army.
Background Prior to 1989, Romania’s hyper-centralised communist dictatorship was considered the most oppressive in Europe. In response to the experience of excessive concentration of power in the hands of a single party state leader, the architects of Romania’s democratic system decided to establish a semi-presidential constitutional system where a democratically elected president appoints a prime minister who is then approved by parliament. The president is compelled to renounce party membership upon election as to ensure there is no excessive power aggrandisement by the state executive. The president is constitutionally responsible for national security and foreign policy while the prime minister is chiefly responsible for domestic affairs.
22 Larry L. Watts Similar considerations led to the separation of key security sector institutions, the intelligence organs in particular, from party-based government to direct subordination to the presidency. In practice, this set-up has facilitated their democratic control since majority parliamentarians are not faced with the dilemma of overseeing organs directed by an executive who is also their superior along party lines. The Supreme Defence Council – known by its Romanian acronym CSAT – was formed in 1990 under presidential subordination to further address concerns of power-sharing and political neutrality on national security issues. Decisions within the CSAT are taken by consensus and are binding on all state and government bodies. The CSAT included ten voting members – the president (who also serves as president of the CSAT), the prime minister (as vice-president), the president’s counsellor for national security (responsible for its agenda), the directors of foreign and domestic intelligence, the chief of the general staff and the ministers of defence, foreign affairs, internal affairs and industry. Thus, although the government cabinet did not have primary responsibility for national security decision making, it was a vital part of the process. Reform of acquisitions and property management (APM) The principal tasks of military APM are to acquire, invest in and manage the critical equipment, weapons systems and technologies necessary for current needs and future operations. Decisions taken within the APM process determine what is developed, purchased, maintained, withdrawn from service, sold or destroyed. Given the impact of these decisions on military capabilities, it is imperative that the APM process is driven by mission-defined requirements. APM reform was central for NATO integration because effective joint operations require standardised and interoperable military technologies. Intelligently managed, APM co-operation with alliance partners can offer significant economies of scale and advantages from technology transfer, division of production, shared logistics and common training. Although procurement and supply plays such a major role in the modernisation and alliance integration process, they rarely constitute early priorities of military reform because of the immense sums of money involved. The APM process determines from whom equipment is purchased, who will be paid to maintain/ upgrade existing equipment, and to whom equipment will be sold. The failure to inject sufficient transparency into the process can have a seriously negative impact on budgeting and defence security since economic interests can leverage acquisition policy ‘such that the support of national military industries and the ability to export military products are made national priorities, superseding modernisation requirements’ (Matache, 2002, pp. 145–6). Likewise, governments can be pressured to develop military products ‘more as a means of stimulating national defense industries and the interests they represent than to meet military requirements, such that domestic defence production fails to advance the reform and integration agenda’ (ibid.).
Civil–military relations in Romania
23
A transparent APM process, with clear regulations and consistent procedures, can ensure effective use of resources and minimise waste, corruption and abuse. Transparency also fosters public support as citizens are convinced that their taxes support national security and are not diverted for partisan individual or group profit. In contrast, a non-transparent and ineffective procurement and supply process can delay modernisation, block alliance integration, undermine international credibility, alienate the domestic public, diminish defence budgets, sabotage the military reform process and compromise democratic civilian control. A fairly wide range of values, issues and personal interests come into conflict over APM reform. After 1989, vested economic interests and legacy power-privilege networks operating with discretionary and monopoly powers clashed with reform, modernisation and NATO integration interests in Romania as those interests sought to block efforts that would increase the transparency of the APM process. In so doing, those interests were also hampering the exercise and extension of democratic civilian control. Until 2001, the exercise of civilian control over APM was further complicated by the continued existence of two parallel budgeting processes: one at the Romanian Ministry of National Defence (RMND) for current expenditures and personnel and one under the general staff for procurement and supply. The seemingly most intractable element blocking real control was the existence of a legacy interest group, composed of members of the armaments department, the defence industry and military security/intelligence which sought to preserve the opaque nature of the process and its own discretionary powers. Early attempts and failures Although some steps were taken to transfer the defence industry out of the military before 2000, the more than 30 defence enterprises continued to be treated as a single ‘defence industry’, thereby foiling attempts to separate the wheat from the chaff or diminish their political clout, and providing clear disincentives to reform. General Decebel Ilina, a former military intelligence chief who subsequently headed the armaments department before his appointment as state secretary to the Ministry of Industry for Defence Industries, frankly noted that: ‘We believed that the army would be obliged to give us orders, even if we did not make the best or the least expensive goods’ (Slavik, 2001). The decentralisation of the acquisition process had the unintended consequence of multiplying military suppliers and exporters, some of which then acted contrary to Romanian security and foreign policy. For example, in a joint sting operation with American agencies, the Romanian foreign intelligence service uncovered and foiled an attempt by Iraq to purchase missile guidance systems from the Romanian firm Aerofina in 1995, resulting in the dismissal of the firm’s director and the state secretary (deputy minister) responsible for procurement, along with a number of other senior officers (Matei and Dianconu, 2001). The continued operation of the armaments – industry – intelligence triad resulted in a number of decisions regarding internal acquisition and property management
24 Larry L. Watts that, while often not explicitly illegal, were questionable economically, ethically, and in terms of integration requirements. Public scandals accompanied the modernisation and purchase of fighter aircraft, the acquisition of telecommunications and electronic warfare equipment, and the sale and transfer of real property (Diac, 2001a, 2001b, 2001c; Fotache, 2001; Slavik, 2002; Dragomir, 2002; Artene, 2002). The common feature regarding each of these decisions was the lack of transparency in the identification of requirements and comparative offers prior to the decision, and the complete lack of a transparent and competitive acquisition process during their implementation. According to General Dumitru Cioflina, the chief of staff during 1991–7, the justification given for opposition to a joint budget was that the ailing defence industry should be protected with government subsidies until some ‘sunny day’ in the future when it could be resuscitated (Personal Communication, 4 October 2001). Apparently, successive military and civilian defence ministers saw some advantage in maintaining this arrangement until the end of the decade. For example, Law No. 78, passed in 1995 and remaining in force until 2001, granted defence industries and their workers special subsidies and full salaries even when they had no orders (Plangu, 1999, pp. 139–40 and Romanian Government, 2000, pp. 62–3). Indeed, champions of joint budgeting and the removal of subsidies to obsolete defence industries risked having their patriotism impugned when they pursued the issue. As a result, the procurement process remained a black box closed to democratic control. Political and economic interests were further injected into what should have been a technical process because the senior officers named to head the armaments department during 1990–2000 were also granted the status of government state secretary (deputy minister). The 1998 decision of the Democratic Convention government to reserve the naming of the head of military intelligence and counterintelligence to the prime minister instead of the defence minister further encouraged partisan political influence and created more obstacles for reform and accountability. The Party of Social Democracy (PSD) government adopted a similar decision immediately after its constitution in January 2001. Paradoxically, the 1997–2000 period was marked both by increasing procurement and supply scandals and by the first significant movement in procurement reform planning. While civilian defence officials actively engaged in such planning, they also presided over an increasingly dysfunctional civil–military relationship that inadvertently facilitated autonomous military control over defence budgeting and acquisitions (Watts, 2001, pp. 16, 21–3). As civil–military communications broke down at the top of the hierarchy, the general staff’s budgeting section together with its Directorate for Structures and Resources assumed de facto responsibility for formulating the entire defence budget. Concurrently, deriving in part from increased Western military assistance after 1996 and in part from internal military and civilian pressures for accelerating reform, the first plan for a modern APM system was drawn up for limited implementation on an experimental basis (Romanian Government, 2000, chapter 3; Plangu, 1999, pp. 139–40). While unquestionably a step forward, civil–military breakdown, the incoherence of political leadership in the disintegrating Democratic Convention
Civil–military relations in Romania
25
coalition, and a lack of political will rendered it ineffectual. Implementation was further hampered by: (1) the lack of any reliable inventory of existing equipment and real assets; (2) the continued refusal of successive governments to end subsidies to obsolete defence industries; and (3) the lack of ‘jointness’ in planning and budgeting: all of which are prerequisites to an effective APM system. Consequently, the civilian defence managers conceptualising the new system had little impact on an unmotivated general staff responsible for its implementation. Reform, 2001–2 The new defence minister appointed following the December 2000 elections, Ioan Mircea Pascu, publicly campaigned for a set of military reform measures, including depoliticisation, professionalisation and anti-corruption, which he had identified as key problems while chairman of the Parliamentary Defence Supervision Committee in the Lower House during 1997–2000 (Dragomir, 2001; Pascu, 2002, pp. 34–6). Along with reforms in personnel policy and supervision, Pascu and his deputy, State Secretary George Cristian Maior, pursued a series of measures aimed at ‘managing, if not eradicating, corruption from acquisition and property management such that procurement effectively serves the requirements of restructuring and modernising [the] military institution’, including:
• •
• •
the full separation of Defence Ministry procurement departments from defence industries, and the ‘civilianisation’ of the latter; effective regulations prohibiting active service senior officers or their firstdegree relatives from commercial involvement in procurement for or supply to the military, with similar prohibitions against commercial involvement in arms exports from domestic defence industry to other external buyers; monitoring mechanisms to ensure that acquisitions and property management are subjected to the largest possible level of transparency; and the institution of e-procurement systems to ensure that the best equipment is obtained at the best price, with the utmost transparency.
It took several months to lay the groundwork necessary for addressing the threefold challenge of: (1) implementing a NATO-style system where acquisitions and procurement were directly linked to missions with clear lines of accountability; (2) eliminating the ability of partisan interests to influence personnel policy within the military; and (3) introducing real civilian control over the budgeting and planning process.
26 Larry L. Watts In February 2001, the Pascu-Maior team introduced the RMND’s ‘series 1000’ instructions creating an Acquisitions Integrated Management System (AIMS). The new management system defined the acquisition process throughout its entire lifecycle, beginning with the establishment of mission needs and required capabilities, the identification of priorities and resources, the assimilation of new weapons systems until their retirement from service and ultimate disposal. AIMS established periodic reporting to responsible authorities including the CSAT, the government and the parliament. It was the first explicitly elaborated system of acquisition management in the Defence Ministry in over half a century, and the first integrated system of public procurement introduced in any Romanian state or government body (RMND, 2001 and 2002a).1 In July 2001, in an effort co-ordinated by George Maior and assisted primarily by British advisers, the team introduced a human resource management policy establishing clear military career paths and a Western-style promotion board process monitored by military and civil–military advisors from NATO member states. Further measures of transparency and efficiency were introduced after the first annual review of the system. The team also implemented a genuinely joint budgeting process under civilian control, dissolving the general staff’s Department for Budget and Structures and absorbing the staff’s budgeting section into a Defence Integrated Planning Directorate (DIPD) overseen by civilian defence authorities.2 Concurrently, the Programming, Planning, Budgeting and Evaluation System (PPBES) necessary for managing the process was implemented in the RMND and down to the unit level during 2001–2, with civilian and military specialists trained at a new Regional Center for Defence Resources Management that opened its doors in 2001. The US Institute for Defence Analysis, which has worked on PPBES in over 40 states, ranked Romania as the leading example of success, benefiting from the conditions necessary for its functioning and the political will for its implementation. Under the Pascu-Maior reforms, all state secretary positions within the Defence Ministry were filled by civilian specialists, as were all director posts, and civilian appointments were accelerated (some 600 in the first 18 months beginning in January 2001 compared to about 180 during 1997–2000). For the first time since before the Second World War, a civilian was named head of the armaments department. Along with a significant increase in transparency, these changes also did away with the autonomy and political clout of the armaments department, reintegrating it under the RMND. This effectively ended the practice of maintaining separate slush funds that could be used for unplanned, discretionary procurements. Procurement decisions could now legally be made only on the basis of the unified budget, and new procurements made only after an explicit decision process involving the trade-off of shifting funds within that budget. In the summer of 2001 the Romanian armed forces (RAF) undertook and completed its first inventory of all military equipment and real property since the 1989 revolution. This created the necessary premise for efficient and transparent administration and enabled a close monitoring of all excess and redundant equipment. An agency was subsequently established specifically to evaluate excess
Civil–military relations in Romania
27
and redundant material goods created as a result of the restructuring and modernisation (RMND, 2002b). A number of measures were also taken by the CSAT further to dismantle remnants of the armaments department–defence industry–military security/ intelligence network. In July 2001, the CSAT transferred ROMTEHNICA out from under RMND subordination and into the civilian sphere. This established a clear distinction between the military profession and industry and commerce and forced the senior officers who constituted some 25 per cent of ROMTEHNICA’s employees to choose between the two (Romanian Presidency, 2001). Successive government ordinances pursuant to this issued in 2002 cut six failing defence enterprises, ended the salaried ‘technical unemployment’ of defence industry workers by abrogating Law 78/1995, and eliminated the concept of ‘defence industry’ as a unit such that each enterprise would have to prove itself viable, convert to civilian production or fail. ROMTEHNICA personnel and former officers working as defence specialists in the Ministry of Industry were no longer entitled to receive direct reporting from defence intelligence, all state subsidies to defence industry were ended, and some 40,000 employees were slated for redundancy (Jurnalul National, 2001). In October 2001, the CSAT stipulated that the obsolete production of defence industries would no longer be purchased by the military purely to ensure their survival. At the same time, the RMND began work on a reform project for the restructuring and reorganisation of military intelligence. The mobilisation of the army during the 1999 miners’ protest At the end of December 1998, the Democratic Convention government announced its intention to close several dozen unprofitable mines throughout the country. The announcement provoked a protest by the miners’ trade union. On 18 January 1999, after the government refused to reconsider, the miners began to march towards Bucharest. Thus began a public debate with the press, military and opposition on the one side, and the government and presidency on the other, over the appropriate role for the military during a domestic conflict. The march ended several days later, on 22 January, when, simultaneously, the prime minister accepted negotiations with the miners and the president mobilised troops to block roads in Bucharest. Subsequent military resentment contributed to a deterioration in civil–military relations until the general elections of November 2000. Military tradition and internal security missions The RAF has no recent tradition of performing internal security missions that would legitimise its use in police operations. Although it was mobilised during miners’ strikes in the Jiu Valley region during the communist period, it took no active part in their repression. During the December 1989 revolution, the army was mobilised on the basis of operational plans designed to counter a foreign invasion – essentially a state of siege (Codrescu, 1998). Once manoeuvred in front
28 Larry L. Watts of crowds, catalytic provocations resulted in civilian deaths while, in other instances, armed civilians attacked military objectives such as local arms depots and the Defence Ministry in Bucharest. Within 48 hours the military command grasped the situation and returned the military to the barracks. RAF forces in Bucharest sided with the population and determined the success of the revolution, with the army suffering over 20 per cent of the revolution’s approximately 1,000 casualties. Responsibility for civilian casualties and the proper role of the military then became a highly charged political issue. Outside this political battle, popular consensus overwhelmingly held that the military sided with the population and that an internal police mission was not among its legitimate tasks, a position explicitly shared by Romania’s last four military defence ministers from 1989 until 1994. Legal framework While popular consensus held that the army had no traditionally legitimate domestic police role, the post-communist legal framework was more ambiguous. The previous communist constitution did not specify such a role, nor does the democratic constitution of December 1991. The 1994 Law on National Defence No. 45/01.07.94 is also silent regarding domestic missions and refers back to the Constitution. However, decree law No. 39/1990 establishing the CSAT appears to presume such a role by assigning it the task of ensuring the co-ordination of the defence and interior ministries in ‘instituting or reestablishing legal order’. Romania’s first democratically elected parliament placed several safeguards in the Constitution in order to limit the president’s power to mobilise troops or declare states of siege or emergency. Article 92(2) established the right of the president as commander-in-chief, ‘with prior approval of parliament’, to declare ‘partial or general mobilisation of the armed forces’, stipulating that ‘only in exceptional cases’ can he declare it before that approval, which he must obtain within five days. In the handbook, Democratic Control Over the Army in Romania, published in 1996 as a basic reference for the RAF, military jurists explained that: ‘The constituent legislature excluded the possibility for the president to have discretion in exercising this attribution, making it mandatory that the mobilisation of the armed forces be approved by the parliament’. In addition, ‘a further safeguard against the adoption of this measure in insufficiently motivated cases’ was provided by requiring the approval of the CSAT (Diaconescu et al., 1996, p. 157). The Constitution likewise stipulated that the regulation of states of siege and emergency could not be legislated by ordinances, which are passed either by the government or by a simple majority of parliamentarians in attendance. Instead, an organic law approved by two-thirds of the entire parliament (Section 3, Article 72(3)(e)) was required. According to military legal specialists, the intention of the constituent legislature was to ensure that ‘neither of these measures’ would be left to the discretion of the president without parliamentary and CSAT approval (Diaconescu et al., 1996, p. 158).
Civil–military relations in Romania
29
The government’s Emergency Ordinance on States of Siege and Emergency No. 1, issued on 21 January 1999, eliminated the CSAT from the decision process entirely, along with the obligation for prior parliamentary approval. According to Chapter II, Articles 10 and 12 of the ordinance: ‘the state of siege or state of emergency is instituted by the president of Romania through decree, counter-signed by the prime minister and published at the same time in the Romanian Official Gazette’. Political crisis and miners’ protests Since the 1920s, Romanian miners’ strikes have often became violent, due in no small part to the life-threatening working conditions of men who felt they had little to lose. Immediately after the 1989 revolution, in January and March 1990, miners’ delegations went to Bucharest and were granted a number of privileges that the government proved unable to deliver. In June 1990, Prime Minister Petre Roman called upon the miners to help clear University Square of opposition protestors, and his transport ministry arranged special trains for them. This event was characterised by violence and property destruction with distinctly political overtones directed primarily against the opposition National Peasant Party (NPP), for which several members of the Interior Ministry’s Intelligence Unit (UM 0215) were later arrested and convicted. In September 1991, the miners commandeered trains and travelled to Bucharest to protest the government’s failure to deliver on its previous promises, prompting Roman’s resignation. On that occasion, the miners were welcomed by the national conference of the NPP and encouraged to demand the resignation of both Prime Minister Roman and President Iliescu. The head of the NPP at the time explained that the government erred when it ‘did not respond to the desperate appeals which the miners made to them, requesting the presence of the prime minister among them’ (Cotidianul, 1999c). The ruling Party of Social Democracy (PSD) was voted out of office in the national elections of October 1996 and replaced by a government coalition – the Democratic Convention – whose principal members included the NPP, the National Liberal Party, and the Democratic Party (PD), which had been formed by Roman after his resignation in 1991. As the economy contracted during each of the first three years of the democratic convention government, public dissatisfaction increased. When miners’ grievances were raised in October 1998, Prime Minister Radu Vasile (NPP) met with them in the Jiu Valley, resolving the crisis. At the beginning of January 1999, between 5,000 and 15,000 miners struck in protest of the decision by the Minister of Industry, Radu Berceanu (PD), to close 37 mines with no apparent consideration for the timing and sequencing that might ameliorate the social impact on the mostly mono-industrial region of the Jiu Valley. Although predisposed to meet with a small delegation of miners that arrived in Bucharest, Vasile was persuaded by advisors to refuse direct discussion. Instead, the miners were accused of ‘political actions’ outside the realm of a bona fide labour protest. After these events Vasile asserted that he had been deliberately
30 Larry L. Watts misinformed by his advisors and apologised to the miners for refusing to meet with them (Curierul National, 2000). The press and opposition took the government and prime minister to task for obstinately refusing dialogue with the miners, and accused them of intentionally ‘provoking the miners to hysteria’ (Cotidianul, 1999b). The hardball attitude of the PD and the NPP leadership also drew criticism from within their party ranks. The NPP minister of interior, replaced on 21 January 1999, criticised ‘the complete lack of tact and diplomacy with which the problem was treated at the governmental level’ and the ‘arrogance’ evident in government declarations that ‘we will not cede, we will not sit down and talk, and there is no room for discussion’ with the miners (Cronica Romana, 1999b). On the evening of 21–22 January, the president decided to institute a state of emergency throughout Romania unless the miners began to return to the Jiu Valley by 1400hrs on 22 January (Romanian Presidency, 1999b). At the same time, the prime minister agreed to ‘involve himself directly in the dialogue with the leaders of the miners from the Jiu Valley’ in order to resolve the ‘reasonable demands’ of the miners and end the conflict (Romanian Government, 1999b). The miners accepted, and by 1400hrs an agreement was reached allowing the trade union’s participation in ‘jointly establishing a programme within 30 days for the restructuring and reduction of losses’ (Romanian Government, 1999c).
The civil–military debate Almost immediately after the miners’ strike began on 4 January, the president of the NPP, Ion Diaconescu, signalled the government’s hard-line position, declaring that: ‘An appeal will be made to the police and to the army if necessary’ (Libertatea, 1999). The media attacked Diaconescu for what it termed an ‘irresponsible declaration’, for ‘not knowing that soldiers do not have the assurance of public calm and order among their attributions’, that the ‘army is not a public order force’ and that ‘the implication of the forces of the RMND in settling social turbulence is illegal’ (Cotidianul, 1999a).3 The military signalled its reluctance to become involved. After noting that the only legal norm referring to internal security was in the decree law on the Supreme Defence Council mandating co-operation between the RMND and the Interior Ministry in ‘maintaining and re-establishing the legal order’, the RMND spokesperson emphasised that ‘only the CSAT can decide such a thing’ (Adevarul, 1999). ‘In the event such an order were transmitted’, he continued, ‘the military would have “serious reservations” about intervening’, and might ‘raise the question of the legality of the order’. The harsh public and especially military reaction persuaded Diaconescu to back away from his earlier statement, affirming that he ‘referred to the order organs of the Interior Ministry that are organised in military units – the gendarmes – and not to the army or to the Ministry of National Defence’. However, Defence Minister Babiuc asserted to the press that ‘the army will intervene’, insisting that ‘there was always a legal framework for the army to intervene’, that the ‘Constitution supported this’, and that such a move ‘did not need either the approval of the parliament or that of
Civil–military relations in Romania
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the CSAT’ (Curentul, 1999). Arguing that an alleged constitutional mandate existed and that, as ‘simply a procedural issue’, no parliamentary approval was required, Babiuc then gave the example of 1907 and stated that ‘basically, [the army] is the shield of the country against external attacks and also against internal turbulence’ (National, 1999a; Libertatea, 1999). The 1907 repression of a peasant’s uprising resulted in the death of thousands of civilians. Babiuc’s statements, made without prior consultation with the Romanian general staff, exacerbated an already considerable cleavage in civil–military relations and sparked a new wave of media and opposition protest. The PSD warned of ‘the grave consequences which the implication of the army in the repression of social conflicts would have’, requesting that the government respect ‘the Constitution and the laws of the country in their totality’ (Cronica Romana, 1999a). A non-PSD former interior minister cautioned that ‘those who send the troops to fire against their co-nationals do nothing else than lead the [government] power of which they are a part into the abyss’, while another opposition party ‘urged the government into a dialogue with the miners, criticising at the same time the manner in which the executive had managed the conflict up to this time’ (Cotidianul, 1999b). According to a former member of the Democratic Convention government’s investigative branch, Babiuc’s statements disqualified him ‘as a jurist and as the chief of the army’, indicating a failure to learn from the ‘tragic experience’ of the revolution. Even worse, such a ‘confused and superficial approach to the role of the armed forces and the manner in which democratic control over them is organised and exercised could have the most serious consequences, of a nature to raise questions even about the democratic system and the constitutional order’ (Cotidianul, 1999d). By 18 January, the divergence in threat perceptions between the government and the military became more obvious. Embassies and journalists who called the RMND by telephone on and after 18 January received the following response: The events of the Jiu Valley represent, essentially, a labor conflict. And this type of conflict does not enter under the attributions of the RMND. Certainly, some social and political aspects have been registered in the development of events, but these modalities of conflict also do not enter into the preoccupations of the army. (RMND, 1999) This stood in marked contrast to presidential and governmental declarations maintaining that the trade union protest was a ‘political confrontation’ that purposely sought ‘destabilisation at the national level’ and endangered the ‘credibility and future of Romania’, specifically its integration into NATO and the EU (Romanian Government, 1999a; Romanian Presidency, 1999a). Babiuc again claimed that the army would intervene ‘with all the means at its disposal’ and ‘without reserve, if the forces of order cannot handle the situation’ because, according to the minister, the ‘army is the guarantor of the order of law in Romania’ (Mediafax, 1999; Hiza and Nechita, 1999).
32 Larry L. Watts The army, public opinion and a significant portion of the media saw the issue as fundamentally one of the military’s legitimate roles. The government and presidency took the legitimacy of an internal security role for granted – even citing non-existent constitutional support. For them, the problem was not the legitimacy or legality of the role, but the legal trigger and authority to invoke it. This difference of opinion was reflected in headlines proclaiming ‘Confusion in the RMND’, as other uniformed personnel, while noting that the protest movement might develop in a manner ‘threatening to national security’, maintained that there could be no talk of ‘the intervention of military forces in a labor conflict’ (Vladescu, 1999). According to the head of the RMND’s press bureau: ‘The protest of the miners is one of trade union nature and so the army will stand aside’. On the night of 21 January, the presidency and government decided to initiate a state of emergency. To this end, the minister of interior was replaced with Defence State Secretary (Deputy Minister) Constantin Dudu Ionescu, who transferred from his post at the RMND. In order to create the necessary military stakeholders, three general officers were transferred from the army to the Interior Ministry with him. One of those officers, General Mircea Muresan, was also made a government state secretary and given command of the military mobilisation. The action was also supported by the chief of the general staff, General Constantin Degeratu and opposed by, among others, chief of the land forces General Mihai Popescu. The government adopted an emergency ordinance invoking the state of emergency because of ‘the existence of a threat to national security or constitutional democracy, which makes necessary the defence of state institutions of law and the maintenance or reestablishment of a state of legality’ (Monitorul Oficial, 1999). According to the ordinance, states of emergency and states of siege were instituted simply by presidential decree and the approval of the prime minister. The constitutional barrier of CSAT approval was removed from the process, as was prior approval by parliament. The ordinance obliged the military to provide personnel for the maintenance or restoration of public order along communication lines, and to provide materiel, equipment and logistical support. The use of arms and rules of engagement were extremely broad; the only requirement was that the prosecutor deem the protest activity illegal (E.C.G., 1999). On the basis of the president’s verbal orders, troops were mobilised and military trucks, armoured personnel carriers and tanks were used to barricade roads leading to Bucharest. However, a confrontation did not occur because Prime Minister Vasile agreed to negotiate directly with the miners on the morning of 22 January. Within four hours an agreement was reached and the miners returned to the Jiu Valley. Media reaction referenced the events of the December 1989 revolution with headlines such as ‘The army is again ordered onto the streets’, ‘The army is drawn into a dangerous game’, and ‘Have the false targets of 1989 reappeared?’ In the immediate aftermath of the crisis, the press stressed that ‘the government called out the tanks in vain’ (Dimimeata, 1999).
Civil–military relations in Romania
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Conclusion APM reform Prior to 2001, attempts to reform APM were defeated by vested interests in both the military and political spheres, and by the lack of personnel policies and budgeting and planning processes that would support such reforms. By the elections of 2000, politicisation and corruption around APM undercut the military solidarity that had previously protected the armaments department–defence industry–military intelligence network from serious threat. Although the very real social welfare costs were emphasised, as was an alleged ‘patriotic duty’ of the government to protect domestic defence industry above all else, popular military and civilian opinion had become less suggestible and more focused on the advantages that would accrue from genuine modernisation and NATO integration. Misinterpreting the nature and breadth of this change in attitude, certain groups with vested interests targeted the defence minister as their adversary and were taken by surprise when the executive, public support, broad military opinion, and international support aligned with him. Transferring defence industry out of the RMND and cutting its subsidies did not dissolve the legacy interest network and primary source of dysfunctional influence. However, defence industry was more restricted in its ability to purchase political and military support and real disincentives for such behaviour were introduced. The introduction of the AIMS measures compelled a higher level of transparency with more attention focused on the acquisition process and explicit accountability for each decision, significantly increasing the risk that abuses would be detected. This, in turn, provided a major boost to systematic modernisation and interoperability. Civilianising defence industries and establishing controls that regulated military–industry interaction advanced this process by weakening the legal defence for maintaining non-transparent commercial relationships directly within the military and by instituting a clearer separation between the military profession and commercial business. Domestic use of the military In the second case detailing the internal use of the military in 1999, the government and presidency apparently won in the short term in that the military mobilised and there were expressions of support from the USA and the EU (US White House, 1999). However, during the obligatory debate on the ordinance, the parliament rejected the ordinance and liberalised the rules of engagement for the police and gendarmerie (National, 1999b). Henceforth, the army could intervene only following the declaration of a state of siege and not during a state of emergency. Senior officers interviewed during and immediately after the incident were incensed that the army had been summarily ordered to mobilise against a sector of the population that was neither armed nor threatening any of the state institutions protected by the Constitution (the presidency and the parliament). It was not
34 Larry L. Watts uncommon for senior officers to remark that they would not honour any order to march during a purely domestic crisis unless they received it in written form, and they would not fire on the population during a purely domestic crisis no matter what form such an order took. An even greater sanction was applied by the population during the December 2000 elections when neither the Democratic Convention nor the NPP within it gained the minimum percentage of votes to enter parliament – resulting in the virtual dissolution of the NPP. Negative polling results also discouraged Constantinescu from seeking re-election (AZI, 2000). The new government appointed in January 2001 reaffirmed the institutional separation of the police and military and adopted a law demilitarising the police in June 2002. At the end of 2000, institutional ‘twinning’ arrangements were established between the gendarmerie and several NATO/EU member states with similar structures and, in February 2002, significant resources were shifted to the gendarmerie, increasing its size by 2,400 personnel (Romanian Ministry of Public Information, 2002). The military’s obvious reluctance, falling short of disobedience, in response to a desperate government’s preference to call it in against protesting miners in January 1999, may well have prevented unnecessary bloodshed and political instability. In the end, they were called in only after a political solution had already been found and were never forced to confront the demonstrators. Although the standing government was unable to draw the appropriate lessons regarding legitimate military missions, its successor took the lesson to heart and instituted reforms making its use in future crises unlikely and unnecessary.
Notes 1 The application of AIMS was made obligatory by a defence minister’s order (DMO) of October 2001. Two months later, a government decision approved the ‘Procedures regarding the public acquisition of goods and services which implicate national defence, public order and national security.’ A methodology for auditing public acquisitions was established in January 2002. 2 The DIPD was first set up at the RMND by General Alexandru Grumaz in 1999, but was then ignored (and Grumaz ostracised) by the general staff. 3 The opinion of Cotidianul was especially authoritative in that it was owned by a vice-president of the NPP, Ion Ratiu, committed to fair-play in journalism.
Military reform in the former FRY
3
35
Differentia specifica Military reform in the former Federal Republic of Yugoslavia Miroslav Had)i¼
Introduction The direction of civil–military relations in the former Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY) until the end of 2003 was determined by the numerous situational circumstances and policies of participants of different backgrounds and uneven strength.1 Parties from the Democratic Opposition of Serbia (DOS) coalition have ruled the local political scene since the ousting of Miloševi¼. These parties were largely responsible for introducing the war and authoritarianism to the political scene, creating obstacles to changing civil–military relations. The ongoing disputes within DOS concealed the fundamental reasons for the lack of pro-democratic intervention of the new authorities in the civil– military domain. Numerous military and police incidents and affairs that marked the post-October 2000 period in the former FRY testify to this account. One of the cases which attracted the widest attention was the ‘Pavkovi¼ Affair’ – its range, its content and consequences demonstrate the failures in DOS strategy for security sector reform as well as the reasons for its postponement.2 Therefore, the aspects and meaning of this case will be discussed first. The case serves as a mirror for the condition and dynamics of civil–military relations in FRY after the regime changed on 5 October 2000. Hence, the reasons why DOS postponed its security sector reform will be analysed in the second part of the chapter. In order to explain the condition and dynamics of civil–military relations in the former FRY, the position of different political subjects on the scene, their actions and their failures are analysed. It is apparent that the political revolution in the former FRY was interrupted immediately after ousting Miloševi¼. The bearers of authority, political wording and symbols of legitimisation were replaced, but the ruling mechanisms of the old regime remained. The constitutional and institutional arrangements were not changed, and the old constitutions, even though incompatible, were still in effect. The principle of separation of powers was only a constitutional proclamation, and all the power remained in the hands of the supreme executive authority. Since political power was not returned to the federal and republic parliaments, they served only to legalise the decisions adopted outside the system. The former FRY’s sovereignty was and continues to be limited by NATO’s protectorate in Kosovo. Not one government has full jurisdiction in its domain:
36 Miroslav Had)i¼ the federal government is not competent in Montenegro and Kosovo, Kosovo was and still is outside the jurisdiction of the Serbian federal government, and the Montenegrin government is restricted by the presence of the federal army on its territory. Different armed forces formations continue to exist in parallel in the fromer FRY and act independently. The federal state has the army and its secret services, but no police forces. The Republic of Serbia has its own Police and Security and Information Agency, as does the Republic of Montenegro. There is no evidence that the services have been demilitarised, since Miloševi¼ developed them as an internal army, and Djukanovi¼ developed them as the core of a future army in a possible secessionist war. The army and the police forces of both republics have antiterrorist units and a new armed force, gendarmarie (military police), has been created in Serbia. The federal authorities are not even authorised to coordinate the work of these formations. The former FRY military reform case studies confirms that isolated reform of the security sector is not possible since a restructuring of the entire society is needed. It is difficult to assess the transformation capabilities of the army but it may be assumed that the military leadership is prepared to carry out reform orders, so long as they are given.
The ‘Pavkovi¼¼ Affair’ General Nebojša Pavkovi¼ was appointed VJ chief of staff by Miloševi¼ in 1999 after the NATO bombing was terminated by the Kumanovo Agreement. During the bombing, Pavkovi¼ acted as the commander of the Third Army and there are serious suspicions that he was responsible for ethnic cleansing during the Kosovo war. After he became chief of staff, he was one of the main supporters of the Miloševi¼ regime and even declared that the army could be used to protect the ruling elite. Therefore, after the elections on 24 September 2000, the public and political parties feared a military intervention in support of Miloševi¼. However, the officers and soldiers refused to protect Miloševi¼ by force, a fact that Pavkovi¼ later used to prove his loyalty to the Constitution and his dedication to democracy. In spite of this, DOS and President Koštunica, in particular, were under strong pressure by the public, media and some political parties to dismiss Pavkovi¼. Koštunica rejected these claims for different reasons. He claimed that Pavkovi¼’s dismissal would jeopardise the stability of the complex and sensitive military system, that Pavkovi¼ was necessary because he was the creator, executor and guarantor of the army reforms, and that Pavkovi¼’s dismissal would be a negative influence on the army’s morale. However, the first argument is not really valid because any army cannot and must not depend on any individual. The principle of substitutability is completely implemented in the military organisation, implying that no one is indispensable. For example, if any commander is killed or retired, including the chief of staff, the chain of command always includes a sufficient number of those trained to take over his duties immediately.
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The second argument fails because the army cannot be reformed without a clear national security strategy, but also without a state plan for its transformation that establishes the goals, costs, executors and means of control. Both these preconditions are still within the jurisdiction of the federal parliament and federal government. Since these documents had not been adopted at that time, it is not clear which programme Pavkovi¼ was using in allegedly reforming the army. It serves no purpose to discuss the third reason, since no one, not even Koštunica, had assessed how poorly Pavkovi¼’s lingering presence influenced the army’s morale. One could equally claim that after 5 October 2000, most of the officers awaited changes and were not pleased to see Miloševi¼’s generals remain in key positions. On 2 July 2002, the federal parliament adopted the Law on Security Services of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, placing the military security services under the control of the federal parliament and federal government. This repositioning of the military security services was resisted by the army leadership. In the process of its preparation, Pavkovi¼ stated that it was ‘nonsense and stupid that the Military Security Service should be subordinate to the Federal Defence Ministry while the Constitution is in effect’ (Danas, 22 May 2002). The first beneficiaries of the fusion of the new authorities were Pavkovi¼ and his associates. Having avoided being replaced, with Koštunica’s support, they consolidated their positions. Everything was directed towards suppressing the fact that they had been prepared to use force against the people on 5 October 2000.3 Pavkovi¼ issued a number of statements to the media for this purpose, without refraining from political intonation, since Koštunica did not prohibit Pavkovi¼ and the other generals to speak in public – especially on political issues. Pavkovi¼ then began to publicly court the president. It was the old game of the skilled generals guessing what the new ‘boss’ is planning and likes, since Koštunica did not react.4 It may certainly only be guessed how and to what extent the ‘Broz arsenal’ was applied in gaining the president’s confidence. It is no surprise that the then president had not minded the inherited head of the military cabinet, his key link with the army, and replaced him after seven or eight months. By mutual agreement, the president was placed under the securityintelligence protection of the army. However, the attention of the public and DOS factions was focused on the incidents linked to Miloševi¼’s arrest, the discovery of mass graves, and finally the uprising of the ‘Red Berets’. In the first incident, a clash between the police and army was narrowly avoided. Pavkovi¼ and the Serbian interior minister publicly exchanged accusations over the mass graves. Additionally, during the operation of re-entering the ground safety zone, the chief of staff publicly collided with the head of the co-ordination team for Kosovo (see Danas, 24–25 March 2001). In a country enjoying democratic control of its armed forces, a general would likely be suspended for politically coloured acts, if not sacked. Despite this fact, Koštunica did not react to Pavkovi¼’s behaviour in any of these situations.
38 Miroslav Had)i¼ It is easily deduced that Pavkovi¼ took advantage of the manoeuvring space that DOS leaders had left him. The army and the general staff had yielded to the new authorities and submitted to their control between 5 and 6 October 2000, without firing a single shot. It is precisely for this reason that Koštunica, Djindji¼ and his partners from the remaining DOS were fully responsible for the acts of Pavkovi¼, of the army, and of the Serbian police. Finally, on 24 June 2002, President Koštunica retired Pavkovi¼ by a presidential decree. Djukanovi¼ from Montenegro and Milutinovi¼ from Serbia had previously twice refused Koštunica’s request to dismiss Pavkovi¼. Koštunica then exercised his constitutional right, even though he had refused previous demands to do so from the public and from coalition partners.5 The remaining DOS, led by the Democratic Party (DS), then accused Koštunica and his cabinet of abusing the army. Additional arguments were provided by Pavkovi¼, who claimed that Koštunica had ordered the army to raid the Serbian Government Information Bureau.6 The accusation rested on the claim that Koštunica had previously submitted the Military Security Service to himself (and his cabinet). Since the federal parliament refused to form an investigative committee that would verify these claims, DOS formed a committee through the Serbian parliament. Three retired generals confirmed Pavkovi¼’s statement, while Koštunica and his associates refused to appear before the committee. Later, the Democratic Party of Serbia (DSS) accused Pavkovi¼ of financial and housing misuse.7 However, the entire affair was soon marginalised by another affair in the Serbian parliament. Owing to the media, the ‘Pavkovi¼ Affair’ was first interpreted as the consequence of the personal conflict between the former FRY president and his subordinate general. Even though Koštunica avoided a personal tone in passing the decree,8 Pavkovi¼ backed this thesis in his later statements. At the same time, he portrayed himself as an honourable officer who had fallen out of favour with Koštunica because of resisting the abuse of the army. Pavkovi¼ even tried, unsuccessfully, to challenge the legality of the decree before the Federal Constitutional Court and Supreme Military Court. One can speculate that Pavkovi¼ wished to maintain his position for several reasons. He could maintain his discretionary power in the army, which appeared to be the basis of his personal wealth. He could also use the position to ‘launder’ his biography and thus court the public and Koštunica.9 The aim was simultaneously to disguise his war and political service to Miloševi¼ and express his loyalty to the new authorities.10 This might be the explanation for his declaratory skills in reorganising the army, which Koštunica had presented to the public as its structural reform.11 Above all, had Pavkovi¼ perhaps secretly hoped that his position would protect him from possible criminal prosecution for the political abuse of the army, i.e. the suspicion that war crimes were committed under its protection in Kosovo? The personal motives of President Koštunica can again only be speculated upon. Since the reform of the military was not his priority, it seems that he saw Pavkovi¼ as an interim solution. He probably expected to provide the army’s
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obedience to the new authorities. It cannot be ruled out that the president soon discovered the army’s potential as an instrument for his own political goals. Even more so, since he may have realised too late that in the post-October distribution of power he received a ceremonial role only,12 while Djindji¼ had seized the central levers of power through the Serbian government. Although it is difficult to determine whether Koštunica was becoming annoyed by Pavkovi¼’s disobedience, he started to behave as a sovereign military commander and then sought support in the military security department and its head, General Tomi¼.13 Actions by DOS factions soon placed the ‘Pavkovi¼’ affair on the political scene. The affair crystallised the achievements and mishaps of the new authorities. It was confirmed that the reform had been postponed on account of the struggles of DOS factions for the redistribution of power. The ‘Pavkovi¼ affair’ could potentially bring significant benefit to the people of the former FRY, army officers and new authorities. For the first time in the modern history of the former FRY, the dismissal of the chief of staff was a public affair. It was also the first time that a general had disputed the order of a civilian commander. The public was also informed that the instigators, in control of their nationalist-patriotic rhetoric, were led by narrow personal, group and/or partisan interests. Above all, public statements that the army is not immune to corruption, financial and other abuse finally clouded its idealised image. Far more important is that on this occasion two key issues have been put before the public: the reform of the army and democratic civilian control over it. The view that the inherited army should be reformed is increasingly present in public opinion, including the view that the generals chosen and appointed by Miloševi¼ should be dismissed. This view is also encouraged by the increasingly frequent mention of the issue of Serbia and Montenegrin membership in the Partnership for Peace (PfP), with the awareness that this must include radical reform of the army. At the same time, the public is being familiarised with the concept of democratic civil control of the military. It is not to be excluded that the same idea has started circulating within the army, and that professional soldiers could soon discover the benefits that are to be gained from such control of the army. It looks as if DOS factions have finally understood that only by establishing procedures and instruments for democratic control of armed forces can they at least reduce the chances that their rivals might use the armed forces for their own interests.
Postponed Security Sector Reform in the former Federal Republic of Yugoslavia The elections of 24 September 2000 were the biggest crisis in the country. Before the elections DOS had promised radical democratic changes in the society and state. It was expected that the armed forces – the army, police and secret services – would be radically transformed according to the democratic model. However, keeping Miloševi¼’s generals in key positions in the army and police showed that the changes would not be fast or easy. The described incidents proved that
40 Miroslav Had)i¼ DOS leaders did not have full control over the special units of army and police – an additional reason to suspect the ability of the new persons in power. Events suggest that they did not even manage to protect themselves and their authority. It seems that – struck by the loyalty of Miloševi¼’s generals – they sought to use the army, secret services and special units for their political purposes and/or settling accounts with their political opponents. To explain the reasons for the hesitation of DOS, a brief reflection of the political background of DOS, i.e. the parties gathered in it until recently is necessary.14 The opposition parties in the former FRY were created in the 1980s on the ruins of self-management socialism. Anti-communism was their first basis and characteristic. As soon as the crisis of the second Yugoslavia was placed in the ethnic-religious frame by the will of the then national-republic elites (Banac, 1998), most of these parties sided with the fighters for unification of all the Serbs in one state, even by force. This was the crucial reason for their interestdirected, ideological war co-operation with Miloševi¼’s regime. Since the opposition supported all of Miloševi¼’s wars, it became the permanent prisoner of his conjectural needs. This is why they could not autonomously force changes in Miloševi¼’s policies. On the other hand, Miloševi¼ yielded only under the pressure of the defeat of the former FRY armies or his poor political judgments.15 In the meantime, the leaders of the opposition struggled more among themselves than they aspired to oust Miloševi¼. It is no surprise that DOS became operative only two months before the elections, even though the coalition was already founded in January 2000. The pre-election tactics of DOS clearly implied limits to the announced future reforms. Certainly, the main goal was to depose Miloševi¼. However, the programme offered for changing the system suffered from generalisation and easily given promises. Since the military and police generals had announced ahead of the elections that they would defend the regime by force, in the name of defending the constitutional order, DOS engaged in preventing a possible internal war. This is why it strived to widen the anti-regime front with the help of non-government organisations. The dispersion of civic resistance aimed at preventing the concentration of the army and police in Belgrade. At the same time, DOS leaders tried to gain influence over the special police and military units, sensing dissatisfaction among most of the soldiers and policemen, or at least to convince them to remain neutral if Miloševi¼ refused to hand over his authority peacefully. After Miloševi¼ was ousted, key DOS deficiencies in the civil–military sphere became apparent. It was immediately confirmed that they had neither a programme nor enough political will to reform the security sector. The postponement was originally justified by the need for DOS to get legitimate official authority in Serbia through elections, and later to prevent the Kosova Liberation Army from spilling over into southern Serbia. Another reason was the need first to redefine the new state union of Serbia and Montenegro. The hidden reasons for DOS’s lack of commitment can only be conjectured. It remains unknown whether and to what extent some of the DOS leaders became ‘captives’
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of secret agreements arranged with generals in the event of Miloševi¼’s ousting (Bujoševi¼, 2000). Even though the Democratic Party of Serbia and Koštunica portrayed themselves as legalists, they have so far not objected to the ‘constitutional holes’ that are occupied by the army and the Supreme Defence Council (Had)i¼, 2001). They never initiated a procedure in the federal or Serbian parliament for a democratic reorganisation of the status of the military and civil–military sphere. They also failed to place the Supreme Defence Council and the president under the control of the federal parliament. The president has so far not even reported to the parliament on his work or the situation in the army. On the contrary, it seems that part of his authority over the army has been transferred to his advisors – without legal basis. At the same time, Koštunica did not even initiate the procedure for creating a new security and defence strategy, as well as of a military doctrine without which the reform of the army is impossible to achieve. Instead, the ‘clericalisation’ was started, with his approval or his tacit consent,16 contrary to the Constitution and without the approval of parliament. Additionally, the president successfully kept the army away from the public, and the citizens still do not know how large it is, how well it is armed, nor whom it serves. Primarily the public, as well as DOS partners, have been and still are prohibited from entering the zone of personnel. In any case, the discretionary right regarding personnel is the essence of every authority, including the president’s. He regularly dictates lists of promoted and dismissed generals/ admirals, but avoids stating what criteria are being applied. The rest of DOS, then led by the Democratic Party and Djindji¼, also remained silent in public and in parliament on the topic of the necessity for army reforms.17 This was changed when the ‘Periši¼ Affair’ emerged: General Periši¼, former chief of staff of the army, one of the DOS leaders and Serbian deputy prime minister, was arrested by the military secret service, under suspicion of espionage. The occurrence of this affair urged them to organise the drafting and adoption of the Law on Security Services of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, through which they primarily wanted to place the military services under parliamentary control.18 Even with the justified preoccupation of the government with difficult socio-economic restructuring of Serbian society reforms, it seems that its reluctance to reforms of the army was politically motivated. The impression is that the remaining DOS took the ‘high stand’ after 5 October 2000, and left Koštunica to ‘wade in’ regarding the army, hoping that sooner or later DOS (meaning the Democratic Party, here) would have political (and electoral) benefits. A similar position on the army was assumed by the Montenegrin authorities after 5 October 2000. This is all the more strange since they had previously complained that the army was threatening democracy, which was a false pretence for gaining state independence. President Djukanovi¼’s abstinence, through which he apparently tried to avoid a conflict with DOS and the army during the local games regarding the independence referendum, could be interpreted as tactics. The true reason for the silence of the Montenegrin leadership seems to be derived
42 Miroslav Had)i¼ from the fear that their demand for an army reform could raise the issue in Montenegro of demilitarisation of the local police and security service. This, in turn, could lead to the reform and democratic civilian control of these forces, which would jeopardise the monopoly of Djukanovi¼ and his party over them. There is not enough evidence that the army was within the field of view of the economic expert part of the federal and Serbian government. The officials have so far been satisfied with trimming the part of the budget allocated for defence. However, there is no information that they have started controlling the way in which it is spent. It is difficult to claim, but this should not be dismissed, that their restraint has also been motivated by the desire to avoid a (premature) conflict with the leadership of the Democratic Party of Serbia, the remaining DOS and the army. This is more so since most of the experts are from the ‘G17 Plus’, which even though it is a non-government organisation has announced that it would transform into a political party in order to join the electoral struggle for power.19 Obstacles to reforming the army also originate in the war. The relationship between military and society was crucially remodelled by relying on the overlapping of the military and civilian elites. The army was involved in the breakup of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. The wartime collapse was completed with the renaming of its eastern Serbian remains as the Yugoslav army. After the defeat of Miloševi¼’s regime, the army and its officers are still under pressure from the Hague Tribunal, which lessens the chances of their willing redirection towards who are or might be indicted by the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY), reduces the willingness of the army’s leadership to redirect the army according to democratic social needs. Also, the deep-rooted and lasting devotion of the rulers of the former FRY, Miloševi¼ and Bulatovi¼ , and later Djukanovi¼, to the communist model of rule kept the army of the former FRY in a position of a single party, i.e. client army. The party thus unavoidably became (and/or remained) the heir to the army. The renamed army passed on the corporative spirit of its predecessor, based on which the consciousness of exceptionality and exception of the army are restored, and its leaders still publicly impose their special needs on the citizens (society) as general ones. The army is the bearer of all the wartime defeats. For this reason its members are socially, psychologically and professionally frustrated. Its personal and combat morale were systematically destroyed by wartime and political abuses. Following the ethnic cleansing of 1992–3, the communist principle of personnel policies was revived, thus only ideologically orthodox and ‘ketman’ lieges reached the top positions, chosen by the almighty Military Security Service. However, their personal loyalty to the leader and his family was crucial for their survival. The army’s social matrix was additionally destroyed by the growing corruption of the ranks and expanding list of hierarchical privileges. Soon the number of generals was increased, which made servicing this group more expensive. This was followed by internal redistribution of funds, benefiting the generals and to the detriment of the other members and their needs. Later, under the influence
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of society, a military zone of grey trade was created, hinting at a criminalisation of the army. Within such an army, the professional spirit could not even be conceived, the point of which was the professional code as the assurance for the neutrality of the officers regarding politics and interests, i.e. their primary loyalty to the Constitution and democratically elected civil authorities. This is also the army which around 28,000 citizens had deserted in previous years and during the Kosovo conflict.20 The army also suffers from the ‘refugee syndrome’, since a large number of officers and their families are still homeless.21 Due to its wartime and Bolshevik background, the army still does not have clear professional identity. Its legitimacy has also become questionable. This is made clear by the high situational dependency of its combat morale. The socialism ideology in the wartime phase was inadequately replaced by nationalist ideology, with a chauvinist and xenophobic charge. The period of apparent consolidation (1992–8) was marked by the desire to base the morale and identity of the army on nineteenth-century traditions of the Serbian, and to some extent the Montenegrin army (Negovanje, 1993). The fact that Serbia (excluding Kosovo) and Montenegro are multiethnic societies, where about 30 per cent of the population have a different ethnic background, was completely ignored. At the same time, the regime’s politicisation and ideologisation of its components was in progress. Passing on police duties to the army was included in the same package; preparing the army for internal use, i.e. the armed defence of the regime. The state reason for ‘producing’ combat morale was seriously applied for the first time during the crisis in Kosovo, and was effectively achieved during the NATO aggression. Weapons and equipment imports were prohibited because of the sanctions towards the former FRY, which accelerated the technical and technological lagging of the army. The wartime destruction of the economy also accelerated the impoverishment of army members. The circle was completed with the NATO strikes on the key sites of the state’s military industry, which impeded the subsequent revitalisation of the army through local sources. In view of all the factors discussed above, the achievements of DOS in reforming the army amount to a rather short list of mainly organisational changes, the main ones being: • • •
•
compulsory military service was reduced to nine months, and civil service to 13 months, and only under pressure by civil society;22 in spring 2002, the general staff announced the reduction of troops, in the first phase from 105,000 to 80,000, and 65,000 in the second phase; the federal parliament adopted a reduction of the military budget,23 but there is still no evidence that competent parliamentary committees have scrutinised the manner of its use; the General Staff Accounting Centre has been transferred to the Ministry of Defence, therefore it nominally allocates and controls the military budget;
44 Miroslav Had)i¼ • •
•
after 5 October 2000 it has become customary for the defence minister to be a civilian;24 the heads of the Ministry of Defence have on a number of occasions publicly shown their commitment to democratic control of the military;25 the general staff was also not far behind, taking advantage of the expression ‘civilian control of military’;26 the federal government officially initiated the procedure for membership in the Partnership for Peace (Djurdjevi¼-Luki¼, 2002).
Along with these formal and organisational changes in this sector, key processes between the army and DOS advanced in two directions during 2001. After the former FRY joined international organisations, the topics of co-operation with NATO and participation in the PfP ceased to be dangerous issues. This offered the generals the opportunity to prove their devotion to the new course, and they took part in many conferences or even organised themselves on such topics. On the other hand, the Generals publicly announced their resolve to change the army. They noisily announced a reorganisation, modernisation and a reduced number of soldiers and officers as the introduction to its future professionalisation. The postponed reform of the army caused changes to the map of security risks – after Miloševi¼ , only the sources, type and degree of security risks have changed, and there has been no improvement in the personal and collective safety of the citizens. On the contrary, the number of internal security risks has increased. In addition, even though DOS factions have gained power, it is apparent that they still do not have enough authority for the modernisation of Serbia, especially since no one has assessed the economic, political and destructive power of the war and crime lobby in Serbia. The authority, which DOS leaders have gained individually or collectively, has become a goal of its own, and serves to maintain and increase itself. The ultimate consequence is the increase in risk and price that the citizens pay for the ongoing instrumentalisation of the army, police and secret services. These formations can be adapted to the DOS and can also carry the restoration of the old regime or protagonists of monarchist, nationalclerical involution of society. The tasks of eliminating ideology and politics from the army are a priority. This includes demands for a modern organisation of civil–military relations, which requires respect for human rights and social interests of the armed forces’ members and their families. Also, legislation should provide the maximally allowed transparency of the armed forces, as well as their co-operation with media and civil society partners. A second group of tasks requires security changes in the Euro-Atlantic region and global community (Gartner et al., 2001). These countries have started the demilitarisation of the security sector, and the security of the citizens, society and state are increasingly considered as a result of the application of economic, social, political, cultural, spiritual, demographic and ecological lines of force.
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Conclusion It is difficult to assess the transformation capabilities of the army. It may reasonably be assumed that the military leadership is prepared to carry out reform orders – once they are given. However, it will be far more difficult to assess the readiness of the society for the trans-socialist reform. Individual and group readiness for accepting all and the ultimate consequences of such a choice is questionable. The ongoing political struggles, which are essentially over the contents, direction and price of reform, regardless of their ideological wrapping, testify to this effect. The future is discussed from the viewpoint of the enduring authoritarianism and the past war. This point shows the Serbian differentia specifica, because unlike the other ex-socialist counties, the citizens of Serbia did not opt for democratic reform. The ‘Pavkovi¼ affair’ is, after all, not only a metaphor of the former FRY’s departure from pre-modernity. The issue evokes challenges that military sociology seemingly conquered long ago. The problem of passing society and military from conditions of war to conditions of peace is reopened in a new manner, since it was a matter of an internal war. A novelty is the fact that the transition should be conducted with the successive change of the political and social regime. The example of Serbia and Montenegro, and also the other states derived from the former Yugoslavia, confirms that isolated reform of the security sector is not possible. Placing armed forces under democratic civilian control includes and requires the prior reconstruction and restructuring of the entire society. At that point, it becomes clear that the effect of the particularities of the civilisation and cultural heritage makes any attempt of (forced) implementation of the imported model of ‘democratic civil–military relations’ futile. Even more so because the fundamental characteristics of the (abstract) model following the NATO aggression on the former FRY are now greatly compromised in the mature western democratic states.
Notes 1 Throughtout the text of this chapter the name of former Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY) is used and not its current name Serbia and Montenegro (as of March 2003). The reason is that the military reform case studies discussed in this chapter occurred prior to the reforming and renaming of the FRY (in 1992, the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia or SFRY ceased to exist). At the time of the case studies, FRY consisted of two republics, being Serbia and Montenegro and two nominally autnomous provinces, i.e. Vojvodin and Kosovo (the latter temporarily under UN administration per UN Security Council Resolution 1244). 2 Public conflicts between the Yugoslav army and police leadership followed during Miloševi¼ ’s arrest (1 April 2001), the discovery of mass graves (May 2001) and the protest of the special police unit ‘Red Berets’ (November 2001). The chairman of the Co-ordination Committee and General Pavkovi¼ collided publicly during the entrance of the military-police units into the ground safety zone. In August 2001, Colonel Gavrilovi¼ was killed under unresolved circumstances, which was followed by strong mutual accusations by the Democratic Party of Serbia (DSS) and Democratic Party (DS). In March 2002, the ‘Periši¼ affair’ emerged when the Serbian Deputy Premier was arrested and accused of espionage. In July the affair of the alleged electronic surveillance of President Koštunica emerged, for which he accused the Serbian government and Serbia’s Premier, Djindji¼.
46 Miroslav Had)i¼ 3 This was testified by Stojadinovi¼, former head the General Staff Department for Morale, in the programme, ‘Who is Controlling the Army?’, Production of the Centre for Civil–Military Relations and P.G. Mre)a, scenario by M. Had)i¼ , directed by D. Kova=evi¼ , 2002, which was aired on TV B92 on 1 July 2002, at 8 p.m. 4 In the former FRY these skills were learned in the Guard Brigade, which serviced J. B. Tito, and it was not only the source of the president’s adjutants but also future generals. The same unit, despite the change in name and formation remains in the army, and today serves the federal president. 5 The following position of President Koštunica has methodical value in understanding Pavkovi¼’s belated dismissal: ‘To mention the persistent pressure for personnel changes in the Yugoslav army. Personnel changes are part of reform, but not its essential part, but only the normal consequence of reform [italics by M.H.]. The reform of the Yugoslav army is essentially not done by soldiers, but by the people through their representatives in parliament and legally elected bodies, executive authorities. However, I must say that pressure is coming from abroad, as well as from within: those abroad are more logical, and less aggressive than those from within’ [italics by M.H.], words of the former FRY president, October 2001 in Institute for War Skills, 2001, pp. 16–17. 6 The president and his cabinet were allegedly being monitored from the bureau, more in The Weekly Reporter, 2 July 2002, pp. 10–14. 7 An entire arsenal of accusations may be found in press clippings. Online. Available HTTP: www.ccmr-bg.org> (accessed 25 May 2005). 8 He said that he had passed the decree ‘for civilian control and for democracy, and for preserving the military as an institution’, according to Politika, 25 June 2002. 9 After Koštunica’s private visit to the Chilandar Monastery (the Serbian monastery on Mt. Athos in Greece) in late 2000, Pavkovi¼ immediately rushed to the Serbian Orthodox Church Patriarchate and introduced priests into the army, and included officers in church services. 10 See Pavkovi¼ ’s interview, Danas (27 October 2000) and Politika (1–2 November 2000), more on the issue: ‘Stipe Sikavica, Pranje biografije’ (Laundering the Biography), Danas (6–8 January 2001), p. 29. 11 After the 4th session of the Supreme Defence Council (December 2000), Koštunica stated that he had refused Pavkovi¼ ’s resignation because he had initiated and designed the reforms, and that the army had undergone the most extensive structural changes. See Tanjug, 27 December 2001. 12 According to the Constitution, the Serbia-Montenegrin president has mostly a representative function. Only the army is under his direct jurisdiction, which should be commanded ‘in compliance with the decisions’ of the Supreme Defence Council. His power over the military is derived from the power vested in him to appoint, promote, and dismiss generals (admirals), as well as judges and jurors of military courts. 13 It is probably for this reason that Pavkovi¼ expelled Tomi¼ from the School of National Defence, because he had not been attending class regularly. Graduation from this school is the legal prerequisite for promotion to the rank of general, which means that Koštunica had violated the law in promoting Tomi¼. 14 The formal split of the DOS was sealed with the annulment of the mandates of the Democratic Party of Serbia (DSS) deputies in the Serbian parliament in July 2002. 15 This includes the amendment of the Federal Constitution in July 2000, which introduced direct elections for the federal president, based on which he slated early elections for 24 September 2000. 16 The first indications came from the Regulation of Religious Issues in the Yugoslav army round table, which was organised by the army general staff in December 2000, following President Koštunica’s (private) visit to the Chilandar monastery. On this occasion it was mentioned that by the ‘clericalisation of the army’ nobody’s rights would be limited (Bujoševi¼ and Radovanovi¼, 2000, p. 31) or that ‘pacifism [is] therefore only one of the antichrist’s lies, because pacifism does not solve any problems, but is a form of special war [italics by M.H.] from a military and patriotic point of view, aimed against the specific army because it is precisely that which fights against evil’ (see Grozdi¼, 2001).
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17 The Democratic Party had allegedly only then discovered that General Tomi¼ had ‘completely privatised the Federal Security Department, by hiring a few people from Koštunica’s Cabinet and the Democratic Party of Serbia’, according to Danas, 20 March 2002, p. 4. 18 The law was promulgated on 2 July 2002 (Official Gazette, No. 37/2002), but the final version included amendments that derogated certain intentions of the workgroup. Thus Article 21, Para. 1 stipulates that the appointment and dismissal of heads of military services by the federal government requires the previous proposal by the Supreme Defence Council, which means President Koštunica. 19 This is confirmed in the nomination of Miroljub Labus for Serbian President. 20 On 26 February 2001, the federal parliament adopted the Amnesty Act that applies to persons that ‘carried out crimes against the army of Yugoslavia, against the constitutional order, security and honour of the Yugoslavia’ between 27 April 1992 and 7 October 2000; according to Vojska, 1 March 2001, p. 4. 21 About 27,000 members of the army still do not have adequate lodging, of which 17,525 do not have an apartment at all (Politika, 14 February 2001). It should also be noted that the Federal Constitutional Court has abolished the rulebook for resolving housing issues in the Federal Ministry of Defence and Army (Federal Republic of Yugoslavia Official Gazette 3/2002, according to Vojska, 28 March 2002, p. 15). 22 Despite this fact, activists of the Network for Conscientious Objection claim that the ‘Army withholds the right to conscientious objection, that is, completing one’s military service in health, humanitarian and similar organisation. Moreover, young men who choose this form of serving the state are subjected to verbal abuse, accusations of working against the state and being members of sects’, Danas, 3 July 2002, p. 2. 23 The budget, amounting to about 57 billion dinars, was given in the form of a list, which did not facilitate insight into the true structure of their needs and expenses, which made suitable control of the spending of allocated funds difficult. Online. Available HTTP: http://www.propisi.com> (accessed 25 May 2005), Intermex IndOk, 3 July 2000. 24 The low level of (political) power of the Ministry stems from the fact that the DOS handed over the position to their Montenegrin federal partners, who first appointed a surgeon and then an agronomist to the post. It would be far less appropriate if it were a matter of a stable democratic order and competent Ministry, that would allow for the Minister of Defence to be a politician and not an expert. 25 The Ministry of Defence held a conference on the democratic control of the military in cooperation with the Centre for Civil–Military Relations, a Belgrade-based non-government organisation, on 4 April 2001 (see Mile and Zoran, 2001). 26 The army general staff organised an expert discussion on this topic in October 2001, which was attended by the top level of the former FRY leadership. The statements and discussions were published in the collection Institute for War Skills, 2001.
48 Biljana Vankovska
4
The impact of conflict and corruption on Macedonia’s civil–military relations Biljana Vankovska
Introduction This chapter is a critical discourse on the applicability of the classical theory and practice of civil–military relations to societies undergoing transition, conflict and trauma. An attempt is therefore made to assess how far (well-established) standards, models and recipes can facilitate democratisation processes, especially when it comes to war-torn societies. The starting premise is that the paradigm of interethnic conflict alone is insufficient to explain the specific shape of civil–military relations. As the Macedonian case illustrates, criminality has its own share in the vicious circle of violence and destabilisation. At the end of the day, application of models of democratic control of armed forces on corrupted and even belligerent political elites and largely ‘privatised’ armed structures calls for a serious reconsideration and revision of the basic concept. Macedonia, the only exception to the Yugoslav conflict pattern, had been living in a sort of ‘virtual reality’, believing in its uniqueness (in terms of allegedly better peace prospects in the region) and ‘normality’ (in terms of its belonging to the countries in transition). However, the image was definitively broken in 2001. The country has subsequently passed through a difficult phase of facing the ‘real reality’. When it comes to reconsidering the country’s civil–military relations one can identify two major factors that have heavily influenced developments – the criminalisation of politics and the structure of societal conflict. As corruption and criminality are intertwined with the intra-state conflict potential in many other countries in South Eastern Europe, the Macedonian case is instructive. Since the beginning of the Yugoslav turmoil in 1991, Macedonia has been the object of two types of analyses. The country was seen as a success story in conflict prevention as well as a relatively typical case of transition towards democracy. The year of 2001 appeared to be, however, a ‘year zero’ in both regards. The success of conflict prevention, however, was short-lived and in a very short time it fell like a tower of cards, while the record in terms of democratisation process had already been very obvious and could hardly have been promising. One of the missing links in the analysis of the Macedonian case, which would have established a discourse between the issue of peace and democratisation, was that concerning civil–military relations. Civil–military relations have the potential to give a special insight into the crucial issues of peace and democratisation, but at the same time
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they are a reflection – for good or bad – of both processes. Another obscure question in Macedonia concerns criminality which affects the prospects for both peace and democracy. This problem has been particularly overlooked in previous examinations of civil–military relations in the country. Criminalisation of politics is hardly a new phenomenon, and not exclusive to the Balkans. Many countries are challenged with the problem of people with criminal dossiers who get elected, or with politicians who become corrupted during their terms in office (Sashar, 2002). Probably, it is a Balkan particularity that criminal activities are often disguised with ethno-nationalism as a vulgar form of quasi-patriotism. In a conflict-driven multiethnic society, the fight against crime may easily gain an ethnic connotation and thus transform into a political currency. An overt conflict becomes imminent at the moment that criminalised politics finds a state of emergency as an ideal time for war profiteering. The mirror process takes place with criminal guerrilla groups, which easily find their own interests in the outbreak of violence in the society. The culmination is reached when the former combatants are elected and become a part of the post-conflict ruling elite. The two major factors chosen as parameters for the study on civil–military relations in Macedonia are not independent and without a point of contact. On the contrary, the basic premise is that during the 2001 war crisis, they fed each other, finally erupting into an overt conflict which on the surface looked like an interethnic one. Criminalisation of politics in the pre-conflict period led directly to politicisation of the criminal in the post-conflict period. Added to the original conflict potential of the Macedonian society, this factor contributed directly to the outbreak of violence, i.e. to the use of armed forces and police in the intra-state conflict. This chapter focuses on the crisis of 2001, which should be seen as a consequence of the previous negative developments and also as a source of possible future deviations in the society. The analysis centres on two major events in 2001: a corruption scandal related to the then defence minister and the outbreak of a violent conflict, whose overt and bloody phase terminated with the signing of the Ohrid Framework Agreement, brokered by the international community. In early 2003 problems are still apparent – corruption scandals are shaking the society daily, while the conflict potential smoulders behind the façade of an allegedly successful post-conflict reconstruction. Their impact on the future of civil–military relations is likely to be significant in a longer period of time.
Criminalisation of politics and civil–military relations in the pre-conflict period The ‘oasis of peace’, as Macedonia had been known for a decade, has always been a ‘favourable’ climate for organised crime, corruption and illegal trafficking. In fact, the survival of the ‘oasis’ was often challenged by paramount domestic and regional problems. At one point, the country was under a double embargo, having to abide by the UN imposed economic sanctions against its northern neighbour (the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia), while at the same time its southern neighbour (Greece) imposed a unilateral economic embargo because of the same dispute. In
50 Biljana Vankovska addition, the UN embargo on the import of weapons affected Macedonia, regardless of its being the only peaceful actor in the Yugoslav drama. In effect, Macedonia became ‘demilitarised’ due to the fact that the Yugoslav army withdrew its troops altogether, including its armament and all mobile military equipment. The new security structures (army and the police) were built up in a rather secretive way. From the very beginning, the budgeting and procurement process was kept beyond any public scrutiny, whether internal or international. Domestically, it was quite easy to legitimise the non-transparent decision-making process on defence expenditures. Societal consensus was achieved on the need to create defence and other security structures at any cost, even if it excluded public debates. The chaotic manner of the defence build-up contributed to transforming the country into a vast depot of weapons, some of them gifts and others paid for. For years, the Macedonian security sector had not been overly affected by corruption scandals, partly because it was seen as a ‘non-patriotic’ act. Having not been given the highest priority, the security sector was not seen as the most lucrative source of income or resources for corrupted elites. Occasionally there were rumours and purges in the Ministry of Defence but they never reached the level of a public scandal. On the contrary, the level of corruption and organised crime in other parts of the society had reached a zenith during the USDM (Union of SocialDemocrats of Macedonia) led governments (1992–8) of Prime Minister Crvenkovski. At one point he was forced to ask for a parliamentary vote of confidence concerning his call to ‘fight against the Octopus’ (as he referred to the corruption in the governing political and economic elites). The lack of any result of the ‘fight’ contributed to the electoral outcome in 1998. The majority of citizens voted against USDM rather than for IMRO (Internal Macedonian Revolutionary Organisation). Apart from state-sponsored criminal activities, there was also a vigorous nonstate criminality very much focused on the illegal trade of arms, drugs and even human beings. If the first phenomenon was of domestic origin, non-state criminality had a regional dimension. This ‘regional business’ was more focused on military equipment and arms trade. The dominant ethno-nationalistic agenda was used in order to create a better image for the arms business. Every form of ethnonationalism in the Balkans has been militant in its essence, crying out for a state of its own that could be achieved without weapons and military structures. Thus the rise of nationalism and outbreak of violent conflicts in the territory of former Yugoslavia provided a ‘golden opportunity’ for the Balkan mafia networks. The numerous ‘fronts’ could easily absorb the weapons and even asked for more. Paradoxically enough, at the expense of the nationalist fever and murderous politics of the leaders, the mafias could co-operate perfectly well without any nationalistic bias and with a lot of profit. According to some recent analyses (Xhudo, 1996, pp. 1–20), Albanian organised crime developed in the 1980s and peaked in the mid-1990s. Escalation of the situation in Kosovo and the collapse of the Albanian state, with the release of thousands of small arms and other types of weapons, worsened the situation overnight. One report pointed out that ‘the trafficking of drugs and arms is basically being judged on its
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geo-strategic implications. In Kosovo, drugs and weapons trafficking is fuelling geopolitical hopes and fears’ (Geopolitical Drug Watch, 1994, p. 4). The NATO 1999 blunder in Kosovo caused further collateral damage in the region.1 Post-intervention Kosovo province resembles a European Columbia. Since 1999, there have been practically no border controls between Kosovo and Albania, nor between Macedonia and Kosovo. This ‘advantage’ made it possible for more than 40 per cent of the heroin reaching Western Europe to be transported through this region (Prentice, 1999). The 1998 parliamentary elections in Macedonia brought to power a most improbable coalition of two (allegedly) ethnically based extreme nationalist parties – IMRO and DPA (Democratic Party of Albanians). Following the first decisions of the new government, the immediate reaction of the public was suspicion of a possible agreement for division of Macedonia in two parts – one Albanian and one Macedonian.2 Behind the ethnic-political fog there was a further de facto division of the country between two spheres of mafia interest. The Albanian share consisted of control of the criminal routes through western Macedonia, while the Macedonian one was practically unlimited (mis)use of the state structures (customs, banks and the privatisation process). The IMRO leadership turned a blind eye to trafficking in the western part of the state with the police not patrolling in designated areas for protracted periods. A scandal resulted when the reporter of an independent TV channel was captured by masked Albanian para-police in the village of Tanusevci in late February 2001. Some rumours indicated that the TV crew had been close to the then opposition party (USDM) and that the excursion to Tanusevci was coincidencental. To the great surprise of many, the public disclosure of one of the main mafia routes and the threat to cut off the business overnight resulted in an armed clash that escalated into something that looked like a civil war. What occurred in Macedonia in 2001 certainly has great significance for civil– military relations, among other things. More concretely, a corruption scandal that emerged in the early stages of the crisis nevertheless clearly indicated the seriousness of the ongoing erosion of the security sector. The central character of the affair was the then Defence Minister Paunovski. During the ongoing military crisis, the Ministry allegedly transferred a significant amount of money to the accounts of two firms run by the minister’s in-laws. The firms were selected as the main suppliers of food and clothing for the army and construction works for army officer apartments, without the requested public tender. What first appeared to be an ‘ordinary’ financial scandal subsequently revealed a deep schism within the ranks of the ruling IMRO over political and security issues (Dimevski, 2001). With the outbreak of armed conflict, Prime Minister (and IMRO leader) Georgievski took a firm stand against ‘war-profiteering’ and corruption, seeking to regain some of his lost public support. The IMRO made some exaggerated claims regarding the financial scope of the affair. While media investigations spoke about DM5–6 million, IMRO claimed as much as DM11 million. The minister’s self-defence focused on denial of any involvement in the financial affair – but also included a counter-attack on his fellow party members. He publicly warned that, if necessary, he would reveal details about other instances of corruption involving his comrades.
52 Biljana Vankovska He also referred to an alleged quarrel between himself and the then Minister of Interior regarding the security situation and the solution of the crisis. The allegations insinuated that corruption was widespread within the government ranks, but also that a direct link existed between the mafia/guerrilla business and the security situation. The prime minister had been directly involved and allegedly had a very high personal interest in selling one of the biggest Macedonian firms (OKTA) to a Greek partner. The Minister of Interior had been well informed about the existence of the armed Albanian groups but turned a blind eye because of the deal with the coalition partner (DPA). Soon, and especially after a private meeting between the defence minister and the prime minister, speculations arose that the scandal might be sorted out quietly. The minister publicly apologised for his ‘over-reaction’ and resigned. The ‘reward’ was a legal charge of only DM3 million. One of the most bizarre details of the scandal concerned the state institutional response. Instead of leaving the state’s legal mechanisms to deal with the affair, IMRO established an internal party commission to decide on the minister’s responsibility and his ‘punishment’. It seemed that IMRO did not even trust its own creation, i.e. party state structures, and instead preferred dealing with state affairs as if they were a party matter. To speak about lack of political and legal culture within the ruling party would be too simple an explanation. It is more likely that IMRO preferred to maintain control over its own criminal activities and to retain the means – if things went too far and got too dangerous for the party’s interests – of sweeping the dirt under the carpet. More than two years after the outbreak of the scandal there was no judicial outcome. The court process dragged on because of the notorious slow pace of the judicial system. What is even more worrisome is the apparent social indifference of the public. At the outbreak of the scandal, the public and media reactions were intense. The minister ‘war-profiteer’ was perceived to have gained illegally and largely in the midst of war, at a time when 50,000 people were in exile, 21,000 classified as living under the poverty line, with 75,000 families barely managing on welfare. The crisis, however, brought to the fore bigger and far worse financial and corruption scandals, so the minister was soon forgotten. Actually, the scandal can hardly be termed war-profiteering because it had taken root long before the crisis erupted. It indicated that many deficiencies in the state and security sector had existed for a long time. It was only the tip of a ‘corruption iceberg’ in Macedonia and did not even have a huge financial impact in comparison with the others. The war atmosphere contributed to making it public but very quickly the public attention was turned towards other developments. Far bigger corruption scandals occurred at the peak of the crisis, overshadowing Paunovski’s ‘war-profiteering’. Long before this scandal, the country had become hostage to the black-market and the extensive smuggling of goods in the northern part of Macedonia. Bank loans, export quotas, petrol, cigarettes and pharmaceutical drugs, import permits and licences, catering contracts with the Defence and Interior Ministries, all had been on sale (Nanevska, 2001). The war appeared to be even more beneficial for the corrupt elites. Some estimates show that the economic damage and loss from
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the war activities were less harmful than the war profit gained with procurement deals. The arms and military equipment bought in the last couple of years cost 300 per cent more than the real market price. Customers and mediators in these deals have been the high IMRO party members and the profit is believed to have gone to the Party and some individuals. The quality and type of purchased military equipment indicate that additional expenses will be necessary for their maintenance, use and modification. The biggest procurement affair was related to the purchase of several Ukrainian military helicopters and Russian ‘Sukhoi’ jets during the military campaign. In addition to the absurd military tactics of confronting guerrilla fighters positioned in villages and among civilians from the air, the financial aspects of the deal revealed another disturbing detail. With the blessing of the prime minister, the Macedonian ambassador in Ukraine mediated a deal in which the state paid US$1.8 million for the purchase of US$300,000. The Albanian coalition partner, under-represented in the state administration and the security structures, could gain only in non-military deals. The most infamous figure in the 2001 corruption scandals was the Minister of Economics (DPA). During the most critical phase of the crisis he helped some DPA members gain huge profits from the illegal import of sugar. Furthermore, the biggest share of the money is believed to have been distributed to direct support of the paramilitary NLA (National Liberation Army) (Cadikovski and Fakic, 2001). According to one report, corruption in Macedonia threatens the viability of the state (International Crisis Group (ICG) Balkans Report, 2002). A poll conducted by Transparency International found that 88.6 per cent of respondents believe the government to be at the centre of fraud. Furthermore, an IDEA (International Institute for Democracy and Electoral Assistance, Stockholm, Sweden) public opinion survey identified corruption as the country’s third most pressing problem, with respondents rating it as even more destructive than the inter-ethnic tensions – only unemployment and poverty rated higher. Interestingly, fraud appears to be one of the few areas of life in Macedonia which is truly multicultural (Jovanovski, 2002). Paradoxically, the former defence minister had been the only senior political figure accused in the corruption affair until the new government (formed after the September 2002 elections) launched a wide anti-corruption action. With the old government unwilling to tackle the problem, being the main protagonist itself, the judicial system inept and heavily politicised, and the public impotent and frustrated, Macedonia constituted a bastion of corruption in the region (although the competition remained high). The corruption scandal in the security sector emerged not because of the mature political culture, efficient institutions or workable principle of democratic control. Rather, it was merely a result of political, criminal and quasi-patriotic intrigue. The outcome is likely to be of the same sort – a mixture of political gains and losses, criminal bargaining and new figures of martyrs and victors. Luckily or unluckily, the army remains isolated from the affair, while the taxpayers pay the bill. By 2003, Macedonia was far from being an oasis of peace. One may speculate about the vicious circle of conflict and criminality – which comes first, the chicken
54 Biljana Vankovska or the egg? Criminalisation of politics pushed the country over the abyss of violent conflict, and the violent conflict generously assisted the rise of criminality. The actors of this drama (state security structures, conscripts and reservists, guerrilla fighters and even citizens) were locked in the circle, tightened by their bigger or smaller material gains, fears and passions. Criminality and conflict matched each other well, often feeding and fuelling each other. Many still remain deaf and blind to the Western notions of democratic control and security sector reform. A question remains – how to break the vicious circle of misfortune that drives Macedonia?
Politicisation of criminality in the post-conflict period For years Macedonia has been troubled by the simultaneous ethnification and criminalisation of politics. Both processes were given momentum with the coming to power of the Coalition for Changes (i.e. IMRO and DPA) in the autumn of 1998. Two extreme-nationalist parties created a coalition of two unlikely partners, but the international community rushed to praise a softening of their politics and shift towards a moderate stance. Soon afterwards, however, it appeared that the coalition was a ‘marriage of (criminal) interest’. As long as the material gains were secured there was no need for violent means. The local and presidential elections that followed faced gross irregularities, including the use of violence and intimidation at voting stations. Interestingly, they were directed against opponents of the same ethnic group. Obviously, the ruling parties had not observed one of the basic rules of the game in democracy – i.e. non-use of violence. Violence (in the form of threats, intimidation, bargaining and blackmailing) has always been a chip in the political game. Greediness and harsh methods, especially within the Albanian community, had a price – heavily undermining DPA legitimacy. The sudden outburst of armed conflict around an almost unknown village on the Macedonian-Kosovo border was soon seen as an opportunity for political gain. The basically criminal groups and their motives quickly became a useful currency in the political game. The DPA leadership condemned the use of force by the Albanian groups, but also used the opportunity to improve its undermined legitimacy. The public march in Skopje and some other cities organised by DPA took the slogan of ‘Peace and Justice’, which was obvious ethno-nationalist manipulation demanding ‘peace’ (for all) under a condition that there was also ‘justice’ (for us). Another protest in Tetovo turned into a public cry for the final battle of Albanians against the ‘Slav oppression’. The shootings from the Sara Mountain outskirts were greeted loudly and the president of Tetovo University euphorically stated: ‘Those are our sons, who are more courageous than us’. Once the violence occurred, each of the coalition partners found its own interest in the conflict. Albanian DPA tried to capitalise on the clash, claiming that it stood more resolutely for, and had a greater stake in the issue of, human rights. On the other hand, ‘the most Macedonian political party’, as IMRO declares itself, seized the opportunity to manifest its patriotism by establishing functional security structures. The army of the ‘oasis of peace’ experienced a baptism of fire without a state of war or state of emergency being declared. For the first time in its ten
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year existence the army achieved visibility and a heroic image, at least at the beginning of the crisis. However, later on the glory shone on the special police forces of the infamous Minister of Interior. On the other hand, with the outburst of violence the legitimate political institutions were completely paralysed and marginalised. Not a single decision could be made in the parliament, which according to the Constitution was supposed to be the supreme body to decide on crucial security-related issues. At one point, the government pushed for a declaration of a state of war, but the ethnic constellation of interests in the parliament would have not allowed adoption of such a decision. Some suggested that the parliament be bypassed and the decision be made by the president of the republic (who was supposed to announce that the parliament could not meet, which would have been an obvious lie). Politics faced total defeat in the moment when a parliamentarian (DPA member) turned into a ‘freedom fighter’.3 He appeared in public in military uniform and carrying a rifle, sending an appeal to his fellow parliamentarians to follow his example.4 Having proved to be a very efficient way of gaining political credit, radicalism and ‘patriotism’ re-entered the rhetoric and the practice of the political parties. In fact, it became the only way of communication between the leaders and the led – in both ethnic groups. War heroism is about peacetime (or better, post-conflict) ‘rewards’. The Ohrid Framework Agreement provided an effectual ceasefire and endless source of political (de)legitimisation of the signatories (i.e. the four political parties). From the Albanian perspective, the Agreement was a victory, although views differ regarding the assessment of the achieved results, ranging between complete satisfaction to unsatisfactory responses. The Macedonian parties, although not claiming complete defeat, are trying to blame one another (and the ‘international community’) for the undesired peace deal. In short, the document translated into the constitutional changes of November 2001, although this is still a matter of different interpretations, and a chip in political and security games. The postOhrid Agreement phase, however, brought one major change on the political scene. The rebels’ leader Ahmeti has grown into a political leader and formed a political party (DUI, Democratic Union for Integration). The immediate post-conflict period developed in an unusual way. Some politicians decided to become militant leaders, while the former fighters showed obvious political ambitions. In particular, the competition over former UCK (Ushtria Clirimtare Kombetare, National Liberation Army) commanders appeared to be very strong among the Albanian political parties. However, in essence things have not radically changed. An attentive analyst rightly emphasises that the Albanian criminality and Macedonian state-corruption are twin sisters (Hislope, 2001). The war provoked by them cannot be a case for the classical DDR (disarmament, demobilisation and reintegration) programmes. In a conflict like the Macedonian one, it is likely that DDR programmes would appear too schematic and would be misused by the actors. Demobilisation and re-integration of former combatants in pre-electoral Macedonia emerged in a bizarre fashion: the combatants had always intended to be disarmed and to become ‘politicians’. Politics in a case like this is not about policy-making but about profit-making under the disguise of
56 Biljana Vankovska legality. The swift redressing of the former UCK commanders, who had no other credentials but their ‘glorious’ war records, anticipated the forthcoming appearance of these people in the parliament if not in the new government. The classical notion of parliamentarian supervision of the security sector is ‘ideally’ implemented: experienced combatants have become civilian politicians in the parliament. The other side of the coin is the influence of civilians with ‘military minds’, i.e. the bottom-up ‘democratic’ control exercised by a belligerent public that approves use of violence as a ‘last resort’. In an ethnically divided society, the analysis inevitably becomes divided. The Macedonian side of the story shows ethnic domination in the state security structures. Logically, they are perceived as an expression of Macedonianess – by both sides. The army and the police went through the baptism of fire so typical for the other Yugoslav-successor states, but ten years later. Similarity, however, can be found in the fact that again it is believed that the politicians manipulated the security forces. They were bargaining at the expense of the security forces which were given contradictory orders and sent back and forth without any visible purpose. Thus, according to many indicators, the ‘brilliant’ military offensives were part of a previously agreed deal, while in some situations of almost achieved victories, they were prevented at the last second. The conclusion was that nothing was as it appeared to be, which caused great frustrations among the members of the security forces. The agreed ‘victories’ appeared to be Pyrrhic – they definitively deepened the already existing distrust between the ethnic communities. On the other hand, aborted actions resulted in great frustrations for the security forces. All these created illusions and misperceptions among the security forces, who are still unable to figure out what really happened and what was their real military mission. In such a conflict, classical military outcomes (and victories) are unlikely, but the source of future frustrations and traumas remains deeply embedded when the security forces are not aware of this fact. Moreover, there are still speculations that the war was faked to a certain degree, i.e. the violence of criminal groups was intentionally transformed into a politically motivated violent conflict. The post-conflict elections were seen as an ultimate test of the state’s maturity and democracy, particularly by the representatives of the international community. Despite EU Commissioner Solana’s conviction that in the post-Ohrid Agreement period, Macedonia had finally turned back to the path of a genuine democracy, on the ground the internationals were assuming a worst-case scenario. The 2002 parliamentary elections in Macedonia saw the biggest OSCE (Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe) monitoring mission in the organisation’s history (around 800 monitors). NATO’s Amber Fox mission obtained a not quite legal extension of the mandate in order to provide emergency assistance to OSCE monitors. Originally it was planned to deploy NATO soldiers in the crisis region but finally they were stationed all over the country. Once again, Macedonian citizens were supposed to read international double speak, while at the same time praising the progress of the democracy, which, obviously, feared for the safety of its observers. The electoral campaign was overshadowed by, and provided a favourable atmosphere for disguising, disastrous measures in the economic and social sphere.
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The process of privatisation of the state enterprises had culminated in overt robbery, whose proponents were members of the ruling elite. It seems that the international community (i.e. Brussels) learns slowly and is caught in the trap of its mental Western democracy pattern. According to Western diplomats, Macedonia passed the most difficult test of exercising democracy. Perhaps a Danish journalist was wrong when stating that ‘USA won the elections in Macedonia’, but it is difficult to deny that it was a victory of formal democracy. However, for the majority of the population it is small consolation. The euphoria faded quickly under the pressure of the old problems. After the elections many things remain the same. The country still leads on the list of countries with the highest rate of unemployment (around 40 per cent). The recent UNDP report on Macedonia indicated that as much as one-third of the population lives on the verge of poverty (i.e. does not get regular meals). For those people the elections had nothing to do with ‘the victory of democracy’, but were rather a last resort. The elections cost an enormous amount of money, and provided ‘games instead of bread’ for the citizens. In sum, the elections were not only risky but also a very expensive circus. The Macedonian people still want to believe that they won and will be rewarded by inclusion in the family of the democratic European nations. The one decade of democracy in Macedonia did not change a lot during the latest parliamentary elections. Once again voters were free to change the government – but it is highly disputable if they are free and able to change policies.
Instead of conclusions: final scene – or maybe not? Theoretically and in practice, a conflict is a cyclical process. The central but obviously wrong question is, where do pre- and post-conflict phases begin and where do they end? Such an understanding of the conflict dynamic makes it difficult to choose the right interventionist and assistance policy. Remedies prescribed by international organisations depend on how much the findings from the field fit in with their prepared schemes and checklists. For that purpose, they badly need to differentiate the conflict phases in order to know which medicine to use. Numerous examples of ‘unfinished conflicts’ in the Balkans, however, indicate that the schematic and quick fixes lead towards ‘unfinished peace’. Short-sighted and impatient Western conflict managers rush to claim a success out of hesitation to commit to deeper and long-term involvement in conflict zones, as there are constantly new conflict zones to reconstruct (such as Afghanistan, Iraq etc.). The political and security developments in Macedonia, especially during the last one-year period, imposed a real dilemma to the society, its citizens and responsible political actors. What is more important – democracy-building or peacebuilding? It may look illogical, but it perfectly fits the situation of building democracy in a semi-protectorate and building peace in a post-conflict period. The classical notion of the democratic control of armed forces centres on securing unquestionable supremacy of civilian democratically elected politicians over the coercive apparatus. At the same time, it is important to make the security sector transparent enough but also accountable to the institutions of the political
58 Biljana Vankovska state and the civil society. Conflict-driven and criminalised societies may have formal electoral democracies, which may have nothing to do with substantive democracy. The very fact that somebody has been elected in free and fair elections does not necessarily mean s/he is a democratically oriented politician. The crucial aspect of democratic control of the armed forces in conflict-driven societies is control of violence and legitimate use of force. In other words, control should be imposed over all (state and non-state) actors who tend to illegally employ violence. This control obviously cannot be attributed as democratic – a society driven by a violent conflict, by definition, is not a democracy even in its elementary form. Positive peace and democracy call for elimination of all forms of violence, i.e. direct, structural and cultural violence. The first form of violence is most evident, while the other two are not only less visible but also more difficult to deal with. The most bizarre facet of the Macedonian crisis was the fact that violence was partly fabricated by some elites (constituting a mixture of political and criminal interests). Undoubtedly, such a risky gamble is associated with a great potential for dragging the society into an overt bloody civil conflict. During the acute phase of the conflict, the Macedonian military (as well as the police) was manipulated by the politicians in a way that left it uncertain about its primary mission. The apparent dilemma of Macedonia’s status as a post-conflict or pre-conflict society is a false one. Very few are convinced that the Ohrid Agreement was a peace accord. The ceasefire ended the hostilities, but the roots of the conflict (and the weapons) are still out there. A rather grim prognosis would be that the postconflict phase may turn into a pre-conflict phase. In early 2003, the Macedonian government still had no full control over the state territory; nobody really knows how many pieces of weapons are in free circulation. The classical ‘civil–military relations’ paradigm should be extended in order to include society – non-state military groups. The picture should also be broadened to include the international missions in Macedonia, allowing them to have a say in security matters and reforms. Domestic and international actors in Macedonia rush to claim a success story. However, the problems in the security sector are Himalayan in comparison to the situation of just two years ago. Violence makes any reform more difficult. Macedonia had been far from complete in its security sector build-up in accordance with democratic standards, when it had to put it aside and focus on more urgent matters. Apparently security sector reform (SSR) in post-conflict situations imposes quite different challenges from those in other transitional societies. The policy community (and the international community) has been constantly mixed in its conflict management, losing sight of the need to understand the conflict itself. The same mistaken approach has been favoured by the so-called democracypromotion community, which would usually prescribe ‘democratic medicine’ for societies in which the main actors derive their legitimacy from ‘patriotic’ or ‘human rights justified’ violence. In their plea for democratic control of the security sector (most usually in the context of getting the ‘carrot’, i.e. NATO admission) they disregard a crucial fact. Security structures are not only (our) state institutions but also a concrete and symbolic manifestation of structural and cultural violence.
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Hence the basic contradiction reads: how to help the building up of armed forces that would be well equipped and trained to meet NATO interoperability standards without at the same time boosting the ethno-nationalistic image of the institution in the post-conflict environment? The other dilemma is: how better to equip the state armed forces at the same time that disarmament of society is a central issue, especially if the state structures and guerrilla units are ethnically defined? Or how to support the corporate spirit of the military in a situation when one-third of the state territory is out of state control (and an international military mission guarantees the cease-fire)? As the Macedonian case study indicates, democratic control of armed forces indeed is undergoing a renaissance, although a rather strange one. Its importance grows with the increase of cases of post-conflict recovery and peace-building. The bizarre detail is, however, that this renaissance does not necessarily mean evolution and progress of the very concept. Rather, it calls for a step backwards – from democratic to civilian control. Advocacy of ‘democratic control’ may be misleading in a post-conflict society. Democratic control (or better, supervision) presupposes workable democratic institutions and total abolishment of the use of violence. Conflict-driven societies have the capacity only for imitation of democratic principles and may misuse them as well. Traumatised and belligerent societies do not have a critical mass for democratic supervision of the political decision-making process. As Kemp (2002, p. 11) correctly points out: there may be peace, but it will be one that lacks accountability, transparency, democracy and sustainability. Unfortunately, in such cases one way to combat cynicism, divert attention from economic woes, and salvage some legitimacy is to play the national card. Economic hardships are blamed on minorities or external forces. And so the risk of conflict is raised. The only ‘progress’ in the concept of civil–military relations is in the scope of the actors who should be included and subjected to democratic control. This broadening goes beyond the new paradigm of a shift from civil–military relations towards security sector reform. The security sector in post-conflict and still fragile societies comprises a range of states and para-states but also influential international actors. Nevertheless, the priority task seems to be to strengthen the capacity and viability of the state and the society. One must address the symptoms and causes at a high (political) level and on the ground, which calls for a long-term approach. Corrupt elites may be more ‘unhealthy’ than the society – that is, they may often create a link between crime and conflict either to command the situation or to profit out of it (i.e. to be parasites to benefit from the latent or overt conflict). The standard crisis management or post-conflict tools and techniques are not adequate to deal with the crime-conflict nexus as they usually focus on what is easily labelled ‘inter-ethnic’ conflict. The trick is in the fact that sometimes (as the Macedonian case proves) the conflict has little to do with ethnicity as such but with the political economy of the conflict (i.e. narrow economic interests). The conventional thinking about civil–military relations, and particularly the democratic control of armed
60 Biljana Vankovska forces, is based on legitimate state actors without bothering much with what constitutes legitimacy in a certain case. Today’s Macedonia is a puzzle in the grim Balkan region. Despite some positive moves towards stabilisation, if not complete normalisation, there is still enough reason for deep security concerns. A more realistic overview of the region shows that despite a number of ceasefires and semi-protectorates, not a single case of conflict transformation can be identified. The former Yugoslavia’s territory remains a challenge for the implementation of Western models of democracy promotion. If, a decade ago, it was the main flashpoint of bloody conflicts and ethnic cleansing, today the region is a challenge for post-conflict reconstruction, rehabilitation and reconciliation. However, the very popular programmes for demobilisation, disarmament and reintegration of the former combatants have no chance for a visible success without handling the cancer-like process of criminalisation of the region. As Hislope (2001) rightly stresses, every state usually has its own mafia, but in the Balkans mafias have their own states. The semi-protectorates themselves continue to aspire to be viable states and even democracies, trying also to please the Western factors and sponsors while fooling their own citizens. By insisting on minimal requirements for democracy (i.e. formal democracy), Western actors are sometimes guilty of wishful thinking while creating conditions for freezing the status quo in the form of ceasefire. Without tackling the problem in its entirety – and bearing in mind the interdependence between the potential for societal conflict, ethnic policy, the alliance between corrupt officials and organised crime, and the hardships of the democratisation process – the schematic Western approaches may cause harmful and undesired effects.
Notes 1 ‘In the meantime, however, the effects of the war between NATO and Serbia are in the centre of attention. Above all, there is reason to worry about the effects of the war on the restructuring of the Balkan mafias. The unavoidable reconstruction of the areas destroyed by the NATO bombs will lead to a strengthening of the local mafias that will be able to specialise themselves in the building sector, as the Italian mafias have done in the past, in order then to pour the gains of the reconstruction in the drugs trafficking business. Today, this is only a hypothesis, but whatever will happen in the southern Balkans in the future, will be automatically related to the existence of this underground economy that draws a great part of its profits from drugs trafficking’ (Silvestri, 1999). 2 The division along ethnic territorial lines reawakened the memories from the Second World War, when the western part of the country was attached to the puppet state of Greater Albania and the eastern to Bulgarians, who traditionally consider Macedonia part of their ethnic home. 3 MP Shaqiri, who said that a political battle through the institutions of the system had been futile and it was time to switch to armed battle for human rights, kept all privileges as a parliamentarian during his guerrilla adventure, including his salary, mobile phone etc. The Macedonian Parliament could not make up its mind even about its own ‘renegade’ during the whole crisis period and he was deprived of his parliamentarian status only in the post-crisis period (i.e. November 2001). Interestingly, he was revoked under the pretext of not attending parliamentary sessions for more than six months, while his participation in the armed rebellion was never mentioned.
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4 In his public statement of 28 March 2001, published in Kosovapress newspaper, Shaqiri explained the motives of his decision in the following way: ‘Aware of the current situation that the Albanian people are undergoing in Macedonia, and now, when the liberation battle between the National Liberation Army and the Macedonian military–police forces has already begun, I have decided to freeze all party and parliamentary functions and to join the troops of the National Liberation Army. I appeal to the electorate of the zone that has voted for me, to pass over to the side of the fighters for freedom. At the same time, I appeal to the high officials of DPA and the other Albanian members of the Macedonian Parliament, to join the fighters for freedom! Whoever wishes to contact me, can find me on the first front line.’
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Political irresponsibility and lack of transparency in Ukrainian defence reform Anatoliy Grytsenko
Introduction This chapter studies the impact of Ukrainian political culture on the prospects for defence reform by examining two case studies in civil–military relations: the tragic accident that occurred when a civilian airliner was accidentally targeted by a missile launched by the Ukrainian armed forces, and the ensuing behaviour of civil and military authorities; and the reform process planned until 2005 for the Ukrainian armed forces. The first case describes the technical and political developments that led up to the disaster and analyses the relevant political deliberations and actions taken after the downing of the passenger aircraft. The case study addresses the accident not only as a tragic military accident, but as an event that reflected the personal conduct of political figures, their levels of honesty and degrees of political accountability. While no one has accused the Ukrainian military of deliberately downing the passenger aircraft, the incident has raised significant questions about the behaviour of the Ukrainian military and political leadership following the crash, the personal responsibility of Ukraine’s top military and political leadership for organising potentially dangerous military exercises, and the accountability of these elites for the tragic consequences. This case has been chosen because it offers interesting insights into how various actors react in times of crisis. The second case overviews the state of the defence reform process in Ukraine in the context of the military, political and strategic environment in the country.1 This contextual environment indicates that the armed forces remain too expensive for the Ukrainian economy. The situation requires an adequate response on the part of the highest state leadership. After 12 years of attempts to modernise its military, Ukraine has determined what is possible and what is required to protect national interests from military threats. However, so far there has been sufficient political will only for identifying tasks; civilian authorities appear not to be prepared to accept direct and full responsibility for the country’s defence and security. Therefore, the second case study concerns the vision of the future state of the Ukrainian armed forces and responsibility for the managerial task of achieving this desired goal. The case is selected because it shows how political and military authorities dealt with readjusting the military to the new security environment.
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It is concluded that the country’s top political leadership, while concerned with the loyalty of military authorities, experienced significant problems initiating systemic reform of Ukraine’s armed forces. Reform has been essentially limited to a reduction in numbers without meaningful improvement in quality. In both cases under consideration, the dynamics of the current political system was the primary impediment to improving effectiveness and creating positive change in the military. As Ukraine has embarked on the path towards Euro-Atlantic integration, the issue of reform of the armed forces becomes more important as a topic for regional security. Due to the recent improvements in the country’s economic situation, as well as its improved capacity to develop realistic programmes of reform, the prospects for successful defence reform in Ukraine today are somewhat better than in the past. However, neither economic improvement nor sound security concepts can substitute for a mature political culture and effective democratic supervision, which lie at the heart of success of reforms in all spheres, including defence.
The accidental shooting-down of a civilian passenger plane by the military Developments On 4 October 2001 at 9.58 a.m. (local time) a Russian Tupolev Tu-154 passenger jet belonging to Siberia Airline departed Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion Airport for Novosibirsk with 76 people aboard (51 Israeli and 13 Russian passengers, and 12 Russian crew members). Less than two hours later, at 12.45 p.m. (local time), the plane exploded over the Black Sea at an altitude of 11,000 metres, some 190 km south of the Russian city of Sochi and about the same distance off the Georgian coast. The President of Russia, Vladimir Putin, ordered rescue ships to search for the flight data recorder. About three hours after the explosion, while Russian ships were already sailing to the site of the crash, the American news channel CNN stated that the airliner may have been mistaken for an unmanned target and hit by a S-200 surface-to-air missile,2 launched during a Ukrainian military training exercise. According to the Washington Post ‘The missile launch was picked up by satellites equipped with infrared sensors at the Defence Department’s early warning centre at Fort Meade’ (LaFraniere and Hockstader, 2001). Indeed, the same day at Cape Opuk (the test site belonging to the Russian Black Sea Fleet on the Crimean peninsula), the Ukrainian military had been conducting exercises involving naval, air, air defence and artillery forces about 250 kilometres away from the crash site. The exercises included firing antiaircraft missiles at unmanned aircraft of different types, including the S-200, which had been capable of reaching the ill-fated commercial airliner. Moreover, according to one unnamed US defence official, a satellite detected ‘the launch
64 Anatoliy Grytsenko of a missile at almost precisely the same time the airliner went down’. The launch in question occurred at 12.41 p.m., four minutes prior to the explosion. However, according to General of the Army, Olexander Kuzmuk, Ukraine’s Defence Minister, ‘All the missiles used in the exercises … are equipped with self-destruct mechanisms’ that would have prevented such an accident. He added that the Siberia Airline passenger jet was out of range of the missiles when the explosion sent it crashing into the sea (AFP, 5 October 2001). Kuzmuk insisted that it was neither technically, nor even theoretically, possible that the airliner was accidentally shot down by a Ukrainian missile. He made several other statements on the timing of the exercises and other particular issues, however, which raised suspicions that something was amiss. The Ukrainian Defence Ministry press service claimed that the missiles were not fired in the plane’s direction. ‘All the hits by the missiles used during the exercise were recorded by corresponding devices and reached their targets’, said press service head Lieutenant-Colonel Kostiantyn Khivrenko. In Russian President Putin’s opinion, broadcast on the night of 4 October, the plane was too far away from the launching site to have been hit by the missile. Putin admitted that Russian observers were present at the exercise. ‘There is no reason why we should not trust them or Ukrainian defence officials’, he said. Putin suggested that the Russian passenger aeroplane might have been targeted by terrorists. However, on 5 October, the day after the accident, US White House spokesman Ari Fleischer continued to cast doubt on the suspicion that the disaster was the result of a terrorist attack. ‘At this time, we haven’t seen anything that would indicate that a terrorist attack had occurred’ (LaFraniere and Hockstader, 2001). During the first few days after the accident, many observers felt a sense of déjà vu. In April 2000, 18 months prior to the incident with Tu-154, three people were killed and five wounded when, during firing exercises, a stray surface-to-surface missile ‘Tochka U’ hit an apartment building in the Ukrainian town of Brovary, a mere ten kilometres west of the country’s capital, Kyiv. At that time, the Defence Ministry also denied any responsibility for several days until missile parts were found in the rubble. Following the accident of 2001 the Defence Ministry reacted in a similar way, and again its arguments sounded hasty and unsubstantiated. Ukrainian officials at almost all levels, including the president and foreign minister, continued denying any relation of the Ukrainian missile to the accident during the first few days after the accident. On 8 October, commander of Ukrainian air defence forces Colonel General Volodymyr Tkachov held a press conference where he declined to comment on the US allegations, saying they were not ‘official’. He insisted that ‘all the data indicates the Ukrainian anti-aircraft air defence forces had nothing to do with this accident’. Only Prime Minister Anatoliy Kinakh admitted on 6 October that he could not rule out the possibility that a Ukrainian missile shot down a Russian passenger jet over the Black Sea, stating that the theory ‘had the right to exist’. While the Ukrainian military provoked more questions than answers by dismissing even the possibility of a misfired missile, the position of politicians
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appeared decreasingly certain in the immediate wake of the Siberia Airline crash. On 8 October, President Kuchma declined to rule out the possibility that a Ukrainian missile could have shot down the Russian airliner. He said, ‘it is technically impossible’, but ‘everything is possible theoretically’. The denials of the official Ukrainian side were further weakened after investigators at the crash site found fragments of an anti-aircraft missile in the wreckage. Independent experts in Ukraine found it very suspicious that the time difference between the missile’s launch and the plane’s explosion was about the same amount of time needed for a S-200 missile to cover the distance between the Crimean shore and the site of the plane crash. With growing evidence linking the Ukrainian military to the crash, President Kuchma evidently decided to distance himself from the Defence Ministry’s line. On 10 October he said that he would accept any conclusion reached by the RussianUkrainian Investigation Commission: ‘Whatever the joint working group [Investigation Commission] decides, I will agree with it.’ On 12 October, for the first time, a top Ukrainian official, the Secretary of the National Security and Defence Council of Ukraine (NSDC), Yevghen Marchuck admitted that ‘the catastrophe of Tu-154 could have been caused by the S-200 missile during the exercises of Ukraine’s air defence forces’. On 13 October, with mounting evidence from the USA, Russia, and from inside Ukraine, the Defence Minister General Kuzmuk and air defence forces commander General Tkachov admitted at a press conference that Ukrainian forces were responsible for the crash of a Russian passenger aircraft, and apologised to the victims and their relatives, submitting their resignation reports. On 22 October, both Russian and Ukrainian heads of the joint Russian-Ukrainian Investigation Commission, Vladimir Rushaylo and Yevghen Marchuck, confirmed the fact that the plane was shot down by a Ukrainian missile. The cause of the crash, according to a later official statement of the Russian-Ukrainian Investigation Commission, appeared to be a tragic sequence of events. On 24 October, Ukrainian President Leonid Kuchma, after almost two weeks of deliberations, fired General Kuzmuk, General Tkachov and a number of other military officials. Later, on 12 November, after another round of deliberations, the president appointed a new Defence Minister, Volodymyr Shkidchenko, General of the Army of Ukraine, who was former Chief of the General Staff of Ukraine’s armed forces. Civil–military deliberations The immediate reaction of experts in civil–military relations was that the lesson of Brovary had not taught the country’s political and military leadership a lasting lesson. A similar mistake occurred again, although on a much greater scale. After the tragedy in Brovary and the behaviour of Minister Kuzmuk, who argued that he had no desire to resign because he considered the act of resigning a means of avoiding responsibility, President Kuchma made no public comments. No one in the country was able at that time to insist that the president (who is also supreme
66 Anatoliy Grytsenko commander-in-chief of the armed forces) should come out publicly with his assessment of what happened and why. This evidently paved the way for the next tragedy, which occurred 18 months later over the Black Sea. In view of the previous behaviour, one wonders whether the second tragedy would have received as much attention by the country’s top officials, including the president, and whether the public would have learned as much about it as it did, if foreign countries like Israel, Russia and the USA had not been involved. However, this second tragedy was on a much larger scale and, according to Kuchma’s statement, Minister Kuzmuk immediately filed the resignation report but the president did not accept it. In Kuchma’s words, this was because he ‘could not take hasty decisions’. Moreover, Kuchma said, ‘Olexander Kuzmuk is a man of high moral standards. I don’t waste such people, such cadre’. Therefore, in the wake of the crash it became evident that Ukrainian President Leonid Kuchma unequivocally took sides with the military leadership. Only after the direct responsibility of Ukraine’s military for the tragedy was established was Kuchma forced to make a difficult decision. There were numerous calls to dismiss Kuzmuk, as well as specific questions about the personal responsibility of military officials to adhere to safety procedures and the responsibility of the state to ensure democratic and civilian supervision of Ukraine’s military. Inside Ukraine, calls to dismiss Kuzmuk were coming mainly from uninfluential independent media, which represented both anti-Kuchma opposition from radical national-democratic parties, and, quite understandably for this particular case, from pro-Russia circles. The remaining larger part of the political spectrum was not at all vociferous. Pro-Kuchma political forces remained loyal, and moderate national-democratic leaders were cautious of a possible pro-Russian substitution for Kuzmuk. Part of the answer to the question of why Kuchma was so protective of the defence minister resides in the weakness of the democratic foundations of Ukraine’s political system, in which the president has the sole power to appoint or dismiss any minister, but the parliament and political opposition have no authority to influence this exclusive power. According to Ukrainian legislation, the minister of defence can be either military or civilian (Ukraine had a civilian minister, Valeriy Shmarov, in 1994–6.) However, the problem lies not in the ‘suits versus uniforms’ tension, but in the nature of civilian control over the military in Ukraine, where the defence minister reports directly to the president and does not represent and is not supported by any political party or bloc. The dismissal of defence minister Kuzmuk might have seemed to be unavoidable according to Western democratic standards. Many observers wondered about the reasons for President Kuchma’s delay in taking a concrete decision, even when faced with the opportunity to show himself in a good light after his own unfortunate behaviour and controversial remarks. The general mood was that General Kuzmuk’s fate in the affair was favoured by his low level of political ambitions coupled with his low political potential, as well as his declared personal loyalty to the president. These factors probably meant much to Kuchma when considering whether to replace Kuzmuk as defence minister.
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But after all, President Kuchma evidently became convinced that it would be best for him to admit the blunder while the world’s eyes were preoccupied elsewhere after the events of 11 September. On 24 October, he made a statement in which he announced his decision to accept the resignation of the defence minister and requested the government, the National Security and Defence Council and the new Defence Ministry’s leadership to ‘provide urgently for qualitative shifts in defence reform and introduce effective civilian control over the armed forces’ (Interfax-Ukraine, 24 October 2001). Was it the sense of danger built up by the nearly universal indignation at the Ukrainian military leadership’s behaviour and officials’ comments at home and especially abroad that lay behind the decision to dismiss Kuzmuk? Since local media and opposition criticism did not appear sufficient reason to dismiss such a personally loyal figure as Kuzmuk, this was probably the case. Since the appointment of the new defence minister was not made at the same time as the dismissal of the previous one, and since the president made clear his preference in favour of strengthening civilian control over the military, the defence expert community and society at large started speculating about the appropriate candidates for the post of defence minister. Different variants were discussed depending on the particular affiliation of the commentators. The majority of politologists, parliamentarians and defence experts were in favour of appointing a civilian defence minister and argued for the benefits of effective civilian control over the military. It is probably fair to summarise these speculations by concluding that the general mood was in favour of appointing a responsible politician as a minister, while leaving respected General Volodymyr Shkidchenko as chief of the general staff of the armed forces and ex officio as commander of the armed forces. It is quite possible that for some time Kuchma seriously considered the option of appointing a civilian minister. The lack of an alternative to strengthening democratic civilian control over the military as a prerequisite to successful defence reform was acknowledged. The decision was announced to appoint a civilian state secretary to the Defence Ministry and to adopt several key normative documents in the sphere of civilian control (Defence-Express, 2 November 2001). Finally, however, General Shkidchenko was appointed the new minister of defence. According to rumours, no one from amongst the worthwhile civilians had agreed to become minister, so a disappointed President Kuchma announced they were not yet ready for a civilian minister. In his speech to the Defence Ministry Collegium during the introduction of the new minister, President Kuchma referred to the public expectations about a civilian minister: ‘I don’t object in principle to this variant and more so, I don’t see any alternative to it in the future … But today we should not jump into the cold water, into the perturbations of such depth and magnitude’.3 In his speech, President Kuchma also vaguely hinted of being misinformed in the wake of the airplane crash, yet continued to praise highly General Kuzmuk’s moral qualities. After the new defence minister was finally appointed, there was some delay in the appointment of the chief of the general staff, prompting suspicions about the difficulties experienced by the new minister in building his own team. This is not
68 Anatoliy Grytsenko surprising, given that during Kuzmuk’s tenure at the head of the Defence Ministry there was little room for decent talents to grow. Observing such developments and deliberations caused the majority of experts to conclude that, due to the positive traits of General Shkidchenko, some improvements in the Ministry in comparison to the period under Kuzmuk were possible, but not radical changes, since it would be impossible to achieve completely new results from the same political structure in which the defence minister responds only to the president and in practice is not accountable to anyone else. After action reflections In view of the American allegations, and assuming a logical procedure in which no possible explanations would be dismissed without proper consideration, it was becoming more and more suspicious to independent observers that Ukrainian officials categorically denied that their forces could have accidentally brought down the civilian plane during a military exercise. President Kravchuk later gave his assessment of the Ukrainian leadership’s behaviour: The reason behind the fact that the guilt was not admitted immediately lies in the problem with representatives of official structures, which have not grown up to the level of proper political behaviour … Ukrainian politicians should have expressed condolences but given the estimates only after receiving the investigation results. Outright declarations about the innocence of our military equal the absence of political culture. Desire to fence themselves off from the event comes from old Bolshevik traditions. I think the major reason here lies in the education, in traditions of the past, which unfortunately had not been removed yet. (see Kravchuk, 12 October 2001) The most vivid and relevant observations of the reasons behind the tragedy and its lessons as perceived by independent experts are presented below. According to Oleg Varfolomeev: As supreme commander-in-chief of the armed forces of Ukraine, Kuchma is personally liable not only for the actions of the country’s air defence forces, but for the atmosphere of fear and lies presiding over the military. The military leadership of Ukraine inherited the worst traditions of the Soviet Army (Anatoliy Grytsenko, Personal Communication with Varfolomeyev, 18 October 2001). Valentyn Badrak: The supreme commander [L. Kuchma] didn’t use the chance to appoint a civilian to the post of defence minister and thus demonstrate Ukraine’s European nature. Possibly the Ministry is not yet ready objectively to be headed
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by a civilian. Most probably the president was cautious about a civilian minister’s potential independence at any given moment (Anatoliy Grytsenko, Personal Communication with Badrak, 17 November 2001). Yulia Mostova: They can’t be lying so crudely, I was thinking to myself. Perhaps, there are certain reasons behind the denial from the Ukrainian side … Every step made by the defence minister and the president in the case of the downed Russian plane was a mistake. And every mistake added to the previous one … What is going on? A chronic fear of responsibility? A result of the lack of civilian control over the army and public control over power? … if Olexander Kuzmuk is dismissed, it will be interesting to know what exactly people think of him. Now it is not important. Now, for him and for everybody else, it is important what the president will say. This importance leaves no room for motives as regards honour, honesty with the country and moral restrictions. They are afraid of the president but they are not ashamed of the people … this system has no room for respect of the state interests and selfdignity (Anatoliy Grytsenko, Personal Communication with Mostova, 20 October 2001). In the view of the author of this chapter, the terrible accident in which an airliner was hit by a missile of the Ukrainian armed forces seriously undermined the international image of the Ukraine. The main reason behind that was not just the tragedy itself, but the behaviour afterwards of civil and military authorities. When personal loyalty is considered to be a more important personal characteristic for a minister than professionalism and moral qualities, the result is obvious and logical – the political master becomes hostage to the low proficiency of the mediocre but loyal official. Unfortunately, in the world of security, the price of such questionable personal preferences and evident political mistakes is often very high. It is also valid to state that the tragedy inflicted a serious blow to the prestige of Ukraine’s armed forces, their ability to motivate personnel and promote their agendas to the parliament and broader public, whose support is indispensable for the success of current defence reform.
Reform process of the Ukrainian armed forces until 2005 General framework The reform process of the Ukrainian armed forces for the period until 2005 is defined, first of all, by the State Programme for Reform and Development of the Armed Forces of Ukraine until 2005 (Reform Programme), adopted by presidential decree in the summer of 2000. The Reform Programme represents a revised and improved version of the first substantive Ukrainian programme on military reform – the State Programme of Armed Forces Construction and Development by 2005,
70 Anatoliy Grytsenko which was similarly adopted in 1997 but failed to address Ukraine’s defence reform needs in a comprehensive and effective manner. Over the course of 2001–2, there were also a number of other important reform documents adopted. Chief among them was the State Programme of Transition of the Armed Forces of Ukraine to Manning with Contract Servicemen (Professionalisation Programme). This Professionalisation Programme envisages the transition to an all-volunteer force by 2015 (its planned first stage also ends in 2005) and serves as a framework for long-term reform planning. While on the one hand, both basic programmes represented evident conceptual improvements with regard to future composition and manning of the armed forces, on the other hand they inherited the deficiencies of the first State Programme – the lack of a clear financial basis and lack of co-ordination with other related legislative acts etc. But most importantly, the reform programmes were developed by the military itself and approved by the president without co-ordination and consent of the legislative body, the Verkhovna Rada, which is supposed to approve the budget for reforms. These financial and political deficiencies precipitated one of the main problems of Ukraine’s defence reform process – the constant and painful necessity to modify the reform plans. Reform programme Drafting state programmes for the long-term development of power structures presents possibilities for walking away from the permanent solution of everyday ‘survival’ problems, setting long-term strategic targets, balancing national needs and resources in the long run and laying down fundamentals for steady progress. So far, no radical positive changes are seen here, since even the overarching Reform Programme has a major deficiency that brings the titanic efforts of its developers to naught: the set targets are not backed with resources so the programme is simply impracticable and actually repeats the fate of its predecessor of 1997.4 The role, functions and missions of Ukraine’s armed forces are, in general terms, legislatively defined. However, the relevant provisions of Ukraine’s Constitution and the law are too general. The Acts of the President, Cabinet of Ministers, and Ministerial Public Acts also contain few concrete provisions and background data. Proceeding from these vague functions, the military can ‘reasonably’ maintain the necessity of keeping its strength at 400,000 with a budget worth US$2 billion. Civilians can equally ‘reasonably’ approve its manpower at a level of 20,000 men and allocate US$20 million for their maintenance. If this results in the curtailment of combat training, then in the absence of clear criteria it will be difficult to prove that the level of combat training meets the requirements. It is worth noting that the Reform Programme specified the functions and missions of the Ukrainian armed forces; however, this specification is still far from being acceptable. For example, the State Programme stipulates that ‘the armed forces must be constantly ready for participation in peacekeeping and humanitarian operations under the auspices of international organisations with up to one brigade
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(numbering 2,000–3,000 men)’. However, there is a big difference between training 2,000 and 3,000 men. It is known that the maintenance of the Ukrainian 240th peacekeeping battalion in Bosnia (with only 400 men) cost close to US$10 million per year during its deployment there in 1996–9. The question is whether it is worth providing for such measures. How can the troops’ readiness to accomplish their missions, or the intended use of budget funds be determined without defining how many soldiers are to be trained – 2,000 or 3,000? Another example of vague wording in the Reform Programme is the definition of the missions of Ukraine’s navy: ‘destroying enemy targets; assistance to the ground forces at combat operations in seaboard directions’. Unfortunately, such indistinct formulations of the missions make it difficult to determine how many warships of different classes Ukraine needs, how many aircraft of the naval air arm (and what types) are required or whether it needs any at all. Indeed, ‘destroying enemy targets’ can involve air force aviation, missile forces, ground force artillery and air defence forces. Furthermore, ‘assistance to the ground forces at combat operations in seaboard directions’ can be provided by the naval forces of the border troops, or even by mercantile fleet (if ‘assistance’ includes sealift). Some other questions also remain unanswered: which country can attack Ukraine from the sea? Russia or Turkey are the only possible answers since no other country in the region has sufficient forces for this. If Russia is theorised as posing a potential threat, would it be tempted to attack from the sea, and should Ukraine build its navy proceeding from the possible scenario of war with Russia, a war whose consequences would be disastrous for the whole of Europe? And if (again theoretically) Ukraine is attacked from the sea by Turkey, are there any doubts as to the possible reaction to this by Russia (whose Black Sea Fleet will be stationed in the Crimea until 2017)? If more questions are asked (by civilians and the military, who ought to ask those questions), then a more general problem arises: does Ukraine need its navy, proceeding from the necessity of accomplishing the missions formulated in the Reform Programme? Or perhaps the navy is needed, but the Reform Programme does not identify other, more important missions assigned to it. Ukrainian legislation does not provide for such ‘classic’ parliamentary powers as approving long-term national programmes in the military domain, approving key nominations, laying down fundamentals and controlling human resources policy in power structures, supervision of combat readiness and broad functions of control entrusted to specialised parliamentary committees. The president, by his decree, has approved the Reform Programme. This programme was approved without being preceded by a broad discussion in parliament, which is not required by Ukraine’s Constitution. It is noteworthy that this document defines the parameters of the total numerical strength of the armed forces, although the Constitution identifies it as the exclusive prerogative of the Verkhovna Rada (parliament). Furthermore, parliament does not review the development programmes of other power structures, which reduces the possibility of their proper funding at the implementation stage. The National Security and
72 Anatoliy Grytsenko Defence Council has no powers to make decisions, but can only advise the president and co-ordinate the activities of executive structures. In addition to the limited influence of parliament on the definition of priorities in the development of the military, the crisis in its funding was to a large extent conditioned by the failings of the budget process itself. The practice of its limitation by a year-long term has proved ineffective; the procedure of defence budget formation (substantiation) requires serious changes and a move away from traditional but obsolete procedures and towards more effective multi-year and goal-oriented programming and budgeting. Time limitations are not the only problem of the budget process. No less important are the frequent changes in tax legislation, a significant ‘shadow’ sector of the economy, and the non-functional character of the budget. These factors complicate both the collection of budget revenues and the effective use of allocated funds. Without resolving these issues one can hardly hope for a stable funding of power structures, the transition from ‘fight for survival’ to development, or for drawing closer to the standards of the developed democratic countries. Here, the role of parliamentary control (in the broad sense) over the military sector could be stronger. Meanwhile, Ukrainians found themselves in a rather absurd situation. The Verkhovna Rada seemingly supports the fundamental reform of the armed forces, and strengthening of the national defence capability. However, at the same time, parliament approves a defence budget that is insufficient even for maintaining personnel at a decent level. Combat training, let alone deep reform, does not receive any mention; and parliament approves the numerical strength of the armed forces (over 300,000) at a level that would be unaffordable for the national economy even given 15–20 years of steady economic growth at a rate of 5–7 per cent of GDP per year. In 2001, Ukraine allocated close to US$2,900 for maintaining one serviceman, while Russia spent for this purpose US$7,500, the Czech Republic – US$20,100, Poland – US$18,000. And if we look at the developed Western countries, in France this figure exceeds US$90,000, in Great Britain – US$160,000, and in the USA – US$200,000. According to expert estimates, maintenance of Ukraine’s armed forces at their present strength (as well as at the strength approved for 2005) and to NATO standards will cost between US$5.5 and US$7.5 billion per year, which is comparable with the total state budget of Ukraine. In such a situation, it is difficult to speak about realistic assessments, the preparedness to make important political decisions and, generally, the responsibility of the authorities for the combat readiness of the troops. For instance, according to the estimates produced by the military, the funding requirement of the Ministry of Defence in recent years was close to US$6.5 billion. Meanwhile, the national budget earmarked only around US$700 million for national defence – many times less than the estimated requirement. The consequences of such a huge imbalance are obvious – an overmanned and underpaid military which has no resources to modernise hardware and conduct realistic combat training.
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Neither the National Security and Defence Committee, nor the Budget Committee have published their own estimates of the budget requirement as differing from the military’s estimate. If the imbalance between the normative requirements of the military and the capabilities of the state amounts not to 10–15 per cent but much more, it means that the situation cannot be improved through ‘cosmetic’ changes and responsible political decisions must be taken. But the fact remains that by the spring of 2003, there was still a lack of political will to unlock the stalemate between two conflicting visions – the official one supported by the military, which called for gradual reduction in the hope of better financing in the future, and that of their opponents primarily represented by non-governmental organisations (NGOs) and a few active and retired officials, which called for more radical reductions in concert with more radical increases in financing at the expense of aggressive market oriented economic reforms (see Muntiyan, 2003, pp. 9–15). Professionalisation programme After the tragic accident of the downing of the commercial airliner by a Ukrainian missile, it was ever more evident that Ukraine’s military required radical and urgent reform. In November 2001, in a speech to the Defence Ministry Collegium during the introduction of the new defence minister, President Kuchma once again spoke about the necessity of corrective measures: ‘It is quite evident today and it is becoming more urgent a necessity to make significant corrections in the strategy and tactics of the armed forces reforms … The main direction and goal of this work is in transition to the small, but mobile and robust army, equipped with the modern weapon systems’. This vision was soon embedded into the State Programme of Transition of the Armed Forces of Ukraine to Manning with Contract Servicemen, approved by presidential decree on 17 April 2001. Approval of the Professionalisation Programme found substantial political and public support (see Figure 5.1). Meanwhile, the uncertainty of powers, functions and political responsibility of the bodies of power for the solution of defence issues, the absence in the Professionalisation Programme of a detailed financialeconomic substantiation and cost-estimate of events provided for therein gave rise to a number of factors hindering its implementation (see Muntiyan, 2003, pp. 9–15). The analysis of those factors allows for an assumption that the programme may become hostage to the same problems that make implementation of the reform impossible and remain unresolved even now. Implementation of the Professionalisation Programme requires co-ordinated action of the legislative and executive branches, clear definition of politically responsible actors and the mechanism of continuity in the event of changes in the political leadership of the state. However, the problem of political responsibility for defence and, therefore, for the fulfilment of long-term programmes of reform of the military sector remains unresolved, when the president holds the bulk of authority to control the military and in fact approves all the programmes, while the power of financial support rests with the parliament, which is never in a hurry
74 Anatoliy Grytsenko No 14.5%
Yes 69.0%
Hard to say 16.5%
Figure 5.1 Should there be a fully professional army in Ukraine? (Source: Opinion poll was conducted by Sociological Service of the Razumkov Centre on 18–24 April 2002, among 2000 respondents over 18 in all 27 regions of Ukraine. For more details on the prospects of professionalisation of the armed forces in Ukraine see National Security & Defence, 2002, pp. 7–28.)
to support the programmes approved by the president without parliamentary support. It might look uncertain and illogical to the Western outside observer, but it is an unfortunate reality of Ukraine’s political life. Uncertainty persists regarding the division of powers and functions among the bodies of state power concerning defence issues; as a result, none of these bodies bears all responsibility for the execution (or non-execution) and consequences of decisions taken (or not taken) in the defence sector. Therefore, as with the adoption of the Reform Programme, a decision was evidently made to avoid risk, possible criticism, or even opposition of parliamentarian’s deputies, and the State Programme of Professionalisation was approved by presidential decree. Such insistent neglect of parliament is surprising, to say the least, since the previous experience has shown that without legislative support and proper budget funding, no state programme can be implemented. Implementation of the Professionalisation Programme primarily depends on provision of sufficient funding. Yet the programme does not define mechanisms of financial support adequate to achieve the declared goals. Analysis of the Professionalisation Programme, the tasks of the Reform Programme and the actual and predicted budget expenditures for Ukraine’s national defence requirements suggests the following insights. First, it may be assumed that the signing of the Professionalisation Programme was preceded by certain financial calculations. However, if such calculations were made they would never have been made public. The Programme also lacks quantitative benchmarks and goals that would allow assessment of the results of reforms and accurate planning of expenditures. Furthermore, the published data are fragmentary and contradictory. Given the imperfections of the budget process and controversies of the effective legislation, the prospects of funding the professionalisation of the armed forces of Ukraine do not look very encouraging. Secondly, it is difficult in practice to define accurately the sum necessary for the reform of Ukraine’s armed forces. One reason lies in the ambiguous interpretation of the content of defence expenditures by Ukraine’s Defence Ministry
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and Ministry of Finance. The Defence Ministry proceeds from the constitutional norm whereby ‘the defence of Ukraine, protection of its sovereignty, territorial integrity and inviolability is vested in the armed forces of Ukraine’, which requires priority funding (no less than 3 per cent of GDP) of military expenditures. Meanwhile, the Ministry of Finance argues that the 3 per cent of GDP spent on defence should include expenditures on all activities attributed to defence by the legislation as well as military pensions. Such a situation leads to a parliamentary debate every year during the budget approval, and in the end, makes the amount of defence expenditures unpredictable. Thirdly, financial resources for fully fledged reform of the armed forces are seriously limited due to the setting of fixed amounts of budget expenditure by law. Legislation sets fixed amounts of budget expenditures for support of the following sectors and social needs: national defence – no less than 3 per cent of GDP; education – no less than 10 per cent of GDP; culture – no less than 8 per cent of GDP; public health – no less than 10 per cent of GDP; science – no less than 1.7 per cent of GDP; various privileges and subsidies – approximately 8 per cent of GDP. As a result, various legislative acts together establish a minimum allocation of nearly 40 per cent of GDP to separate sectors, despite the fact that, for instance, in 2001, only 26.7 per cent of GDP was redistributed through the national budget. Fourthly, the structure of expenditures on national defence is deeply flawed. The lion’s share of total expenses, 80–90 per cent of annual defence expenditures, is simply ‘eaten up’ by personnel costs. Such a ratio raises the serious risk of degradation of the army since little is left over for training, equipment and maintenance. This disproportion in defence expenditure in the wider context of low funding is not likely to be removed within the short term, if at all. Fifthly, total costs of transition of Ukraine’s armed forces to a professional basis should include, apart from the cost of current maintenance of the army, the cost of reducing their personnel strength, decreasing material and technical reserves, recycling of ammunition, developing smart weapon systems and implementing a single automated force and weapons control system, plus advertising for contractual service etc. These expenses are important for essential support and maintaining combat efficiency of a professional army. During the transition to voluntary service, the needs of the military will be increasing. Meanwhile, the prospects of meeting these expenses remain unlikely. Even assuming a favourable scenario concerning the development of Ukraine’s economy, the level of funding needed to maintain a professional army of 240,000 men by 2015 is unlikely to be provided. This target was set out in the Concept of Transition of the Armed Forces of Ukraine to Manning with Contract Servicemen through 2015 of 7 April 2001. Even funding for a professional army of 180,000, as envisioned in the Professionalisation Programme, is unlikely. Actual defence expenditures are presently ten times below the level that would be necessary to sustain an army that is ten times smaller, i.e. some 30,000 men. It would be a huge success if Ukraine were able to provide 40,000 men for the Forward Defence Force before 2005. The Ukrainian population appears to understand fully the scope of the problem (see Figure 5.2).
76 Anatoliy Grytsenko Very low
23.5%
Sufficient
7.7%
High
1.5%
Very high
0.8%
Hard to assess
23.1%
Figure 5.2 Assessing the present level of budget expenditures on national defence
The conclusions of the military have often sounded quite optimistic: the Chief of the General Staff of the armed forces of Ukraine noted: There will be no extra expenses, because there is parallel reduction of the armed forces of Ukraine, reduction of the draft, and at the expense of these and other measures we can financially maintain contracted servicemen on the condition of appropriate funding of the armed forces of Ukraine. (Interfax-Ukraine, 15 May 2002) The reality provided little grounds for optimism – a week later the same person said: If the State Programme of Reform and Development of the Armed Forces of Ukraine is not properly funded, there will be no reform whatsoever … (Den, 22 May 2002, p. 1) Comparison of the provisions of the Reform Programme and the Professionalisation Programme with the economic capabilities of the state points to poor timing and co-ordination of financial limits on providing the would-be professional army with ‘modern weapon systems’. If the cost of modernisation is assumed to be equal to 20 per cent of the cost of a new weapons system, one can calculate that before 2015 the amount needed for modernisation of the stock of arms and military hardware will amount to nearly US$5 billion. Therefore, in order to ensure observance of the planned targets and terms of the defence reform, Ukraine must spend over US$420 million per year on upgrading of arms and military hardware alone (which amounts to 67 per cent of the 2002 defence budget). Meanwhile, the 2002 defence budget earmarks only US$43 million for the procurement and upgrading of arms and military hardware. The experience of modern combat operations proves that expensive modern equipment does not guarantee victory unless a high level of training of its operators is provided. Hence, without a solution to the problem of funding of procurement of arms and military hardware and fully fledged combat training, one should not speak about attaining an adequate professional level by 2005, nor even by 2015.
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By and large, the present financial capabilities of the state prove that the financial resources necessary to achieve fully fledged reform of the Ukrainian armed forces will not be sufficiently satisfied in the foreseeable future. And if the plans of professionalisation are consistently upheld, the need for efficient spending must sooner or later lead to a political decision on a more radical reduction of the armed forces. Since in the future one cannot rule out the emergence of a military threat, the intention to join NATO and ensure military security with the support of allies may be justified.
Conclusion The two cases under consideration have many similarities which, when taken together, reveal the substantial problems faced by Ukraine’s military: it is fighting for survival in the absence of proper political guidance, meaningful political support and minimum necessary funding, all in the absence of effective democratic supervision. As far as the first case is concerned, in terms of prerequisites of democratic civil–military relations there were two major issues in the aftermath of the terrible accident with the civilian airliner that was hit by a missile of the Ukrainian armed forces. The first was the dismissal of the defence minister, General Kuzmuk, and the second was the nature of his replacement by a civilian or military. On the first issue civilian preferences prevailed and the notorious General Kuzmuk was dismissed, while on the second issue military preferences prevailed – the new minister of defence was again a military person, General Shkidchenko – and Kuzmuk himself after his dismissal retained significant influence in defencerelated matters. Such developments have proved that for Ukraine’s current top political leadership, the personal loyalty of the minister of defence is more highly valued than professionalism, honesty and honour. This attitude in the recent past resulted in human tragedies and loss of prestige for the armed forces. However, while preoccupied with the loyalty of military leadership, the country’s top political leadership has not managed to initiate systematic reforms of Ukraine’s armed forces. As far as the second case – the reform process until 2005 of the Ukrainian armed forces – is concerned, several attempts to initiate urgently required radical military reform have so far failed. Unless the processes of budgeting for defence and defence policy-making are radically improved, constant and unavoidable corrections will remain the major characteristic features of the defence reform process. After more than ten years of attempts to reform the military, the general vision of the future armed forces required for the state is more or less accepted, and civil society is becoming more capable of putting forward its own agenda (such as Kuzmuk’s dismissal). However, the specific issues of political responsibility and sound planning are indispensable for the success of reforms that are still far from being satisfactory. In both cases under consideration, an overarching factor was
78 Anatoliy Grytsenko the existing political system, which appears to be a major barrier to improving effectiveness and implementing positive change in the military.
Notes 1 The defence reform process is based on two basic documents: the ‘State Programme for Reform and Development of the Armed Forces of Ukraine by 2005’ and the ‘State Programme of Transition of the Armed Forces of Ukraine to Manning with Contract Servicemen’. 2 The S-200 (SA-5 Gammon by the NATO classification) has an effective range of 240 kilometres, travels three times faster than the speed of sound, and can hit targets at an altitude of up to 40,000 metres. 3 See Text of the President of Ukraine’s Speech for the Collegium of the Ministry of Defence on 14 November 2001. 4 For more details on the general state of defence reform in Ukraine see National Security and Defence, 2001, pp. 292–329 and 344–87.
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Striving for effective parliamentary control over the armed forces in Georgia David Darchiashvili
Introduction Democratic control of armed forces in Georgia is still far from perfect, in spite of the laws that have been adopted in recent years. Indeed, after the 1991 break away from the Soviet Union (by referendum), Georgia adopted various laws which aimed at establishing democratic accountability of the military and other security forces. However, the two selected case studies show that these new laws did not entirely reflect the reality of Georgian political–military relations. The first case study refers to a long-term process by which the Georgian parliament has tried to install proper control over defence budgets. Notwithstanding American foreign aid aimed at facilitating implementation of a sophisticated defence planning, programming and budgeting system (PPBS), the parliament was unable to exert meaningful control over the way taxpayers’ money was spent on defence. The second case study analyses the lack of parliamentary involvement in overseeing various covert operations (e.g. in the Georgian–Abkhazian conflict zone). These covert operations led to a profound dissatisfaction in parliament and society at large, forcing President Shevardnadze to sack the entire government in 2001. Both case studies exemplify the fact that Georgia is a so-called ‘weak’ state, in which the transition to democracy is hampered by conflicts between executive and legislative power, corruption and whose territorial sovereignty is contested by both paramilitary forces of semi-autonomous regions and Russian ‘peacekeepers’. It gave hope for a brighter future, yet at the same time the 2003 ‘velvet revolution’ underlined the precarious and unstable political situation in Georgia. As Georgia occupies a strategically important geographical location in the Caucasus and because various opposition politicians in Georgia’s neighbouring countries see Georgia’s revolution as a possible model of political change,1 the significance of the Georgian case cannot be underestimated. This chapter is written prior to the velvet revolution, since which further dramatic changes have occurred to civil– military relations in Georgia. Constitutional design has been altered and there have been three different defence ministers. The interior troops have merged with the army, while the border guards have been placed under the ministry of interior. The two selected case studies of Georgian civil–military relations tell the story relevant to the defence policy and system of pre-revolutionary Georgia. These cases are still interesting for two reasons. First, they indicate some reasons why
80 David Darchiashvili the Georgian polity eventually underwent revolutionary changes. Second, these cases occurred rather recently. The new government, as well as civil society in Georgia has to be aware of the systemic shortcomings of the recent past in order not to get caught in the same trap.
Basic constitutional and legal framework The Georgian Constitution provides numerous tools to establish civil democratic control over power agencies. The parliament is entitled to approve the state budget and specify basic directions for the country’s foreign and domestic policy. The parliament decides the size of the armed forces. Parliamentary ratification is mandatory for every defence-related international agreement. According to the Constitution, the president, even as the supreme commander-in-chief of the armed forces, has no right to order troops into action in the event of emergency or for implementation of international obligations without parliamentary approval. The parliament passes laws to regulate the organisation and functions of the armed forces, the laws on defence, interior troops, and state security. Some clauses of these laws stipulate the loyalty of power structures to the Constitution, to the elective government, and to international legal norms. Principles of democratic accountability are based on such fundamental acts of the political system as the law on the budgetary system and budgetary responsibilities, the General Administrative Code etc. The legislation adopted by the Georgian parliament provides for the protection of fundamental civil rights of the personnel of power agencies. Article 12 of the Law on the State Security Service stipulates that officials of the Security Ministry must take measures to enforce the legislation if they receive illegal orders or instructions from their superiors. Transparency and the importance of human rights are reflected in the General Administrative Code. Article 3 of the Code stipulates that information on military issues cannot be classified where citizens’ constitutional rights and freedoms are concerned. The Administrative Code lays down legal boundaries of state secrecy that are generally compatible with the principle of transparency. In accordance with Article 28 of the General Administrative Code, information should be classified only if it can damage national security and only if ‘there are convincing arguments that its disclosure can jeopardise planned or ongoing military, intelligence, or diplomatic actions and physical safety of their participants’. However, the law on state secrets and the list of classified information created on the basis of the law undermines the transparency provisions of the Code. The law on state secrets has been interpreted as a ban on preparing a detailed defence budget. The list of classified information includes data on the location of military sites, military installations, military airfields, army ranges, ordnance depots, etc.; armed formations of civil ministries and departments; the development, disbanding, reorganisation, and renaming of military units, warships, and other institutions; the organisation of troops, the number of personnel, ammunition, military hardware, transport, and logistical maintenance equipment; and staff regulations, staff and
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maintaining of units. The list provides little room for transparency of the defence policy if all these requirements are observed. The laws on parliamentary committees, parliamentary ad hoc investigation commissions, and the parliamentary Group of Confidence also deal with parliamentary control over the power agencies. The Group of Confidence is made up of several members of parliament (MPs) and is supposed to provide oversight of special programmes and secret activities in the field of defence and security. The Group’s work is also part of the parliament’s budgetary control over the armed forces. According to the Constitution, the president should secure parliamentary approval to appoint ministers in office, including security, defence and interior ministers. The parliament has the right to impeach ministers and the president. According to the Constitution, the Georgian president has no right to dismiss the parliament. Conversely, the procedure to impeach the president is so complicated that it can be compared to a revolution (which is indeed what occurred in 2003): the president can be charged with violating the Constitution, high treason, or committing a crime and the impeachment must be approved by the Constitutional or Supreme Court and an overwhelming majority (two-thirds of the total votes) of the MPs. Implementation of the impeachment procedure is unlikely in the current Georgian political and legal system, in which the search for consensus has become the accepted way to solve disagreements between the president and the parliament. Another possibility is that one of the branches of power may exert its political influence to subdue all the others. Under such circumstances, subjectivism begins to play a certain role in state management and, particularly, civil control – a rather risky development for civil–military relations (Huntington, 1995). At the same time, the Georgian model of subjectivism is inclined to favour executive power. The president has enough normative leverage to gain advantage over the legislature and judiciary, and in reality power structures in Georgia are under presidential control. As the supreme commander-in-chief and chairman of the National Security Council, the president is entitled to supervise power agencies and plays a decisive role in appointing their leadership. The president is able to dismiss ministers at will, while the parliament can do so only through a complicated impeachment procedure. It is interesting that institutions with the status of presidential consultative bodies – various state commissions, National Security Council, Justice Board – include the Procurator General, MPs, and even the chairman of the Supreme Court as members. This practice brings the various branches of power suspiciously close to each other. In addition, top officers of the military and special services, as well as the defence and interior ministers, who until very recently held the rank of general, are also members of the National Security Council. That is, MPs responsible for overseeing defence and security institutions hold positions as presidential consultative bodies in tandem with political, military and law enforcement officials. It is also noteworthy that the parliament has few opportunities to control some power agencies which do not have the state of ministry yet are independent executive bodies. Parliament has no right to approve appointments of the heads of those executive bodies. The list of such bodies includes the state border defence
82 David Darchiashvili department, the special state guard service and the intelligence department. The apparatus of the National Security Council is also beyond parliamentary control, although it plays an important role in the development and implementation of the security and law-enforcement policies. In addition, numerous laws stipulate that procedural details, which are often very important, should be defined in bylaws and executive orders, while only the president and the government have the prerogative to issue such acts, without parliamentary approval.
A heritage from the past: corruption as a ‘way of life’ Under current Georgian legislation, personnel of the power agencies are prohibited from engaging in any commercial activity. Additionally, the law on the conflict of interests and corruption in the public service aims to counter clan alliances between state officials and businessmen, creating legal barriers against uncontrolled commercialisation of power structures. Public servants have no right to represent their respective agencies in commercial dealings with relatives. The law on the status of military servicemen/servicewomen adopted in 1998 bans the military from certain forms of political activity, reflecting the liberal-democratic principle of a separation between the political and military spheres. However, in practice the conduct of the Georgian power structures does not fully conform to the law. Corruption is the single most serious threat to the viability of several countries of the former Soviet Union (Donnelly, 2001, p. 33), and Georgia is one of the most effected. According to the 2002 review of Transparency International, the level of corruption in Georgia’s state sector is higher than in Russia or in most Latin American and African countries (Transparency International, 2002). A special group to work out basic directions of the anti-corruption programme, which was created by the president’s order in July 2000, warned that ‘corruption has become a way of life in certain areas’ (President of Georgia, 2000, p. 9). Together with ordinary corruption, Georgia possesses a so-called ‘war economy’. In weak states with numerous internal tensions this phenomenon is associated with illegal financial-economic operations and with situations in which the roles of military commander, politician, criminal leader and monopolist supplier merge with each other (Davis et al., 2001, p. 26). Ethnic conflicts and civil wars engulfed Georgia in the early 1990s. All vital areas of state life were controlled by uniformed or non-uniformed paramilitaries, who either ignored the country’s legislation and the state management hierarchy or represented or provided their own interpretation which had little in common with the legislation. Georgia continues to deal with the legacies of that time. Zones of frozen conflicts or other poorly controlled territories have turned into criminal enclaves, and the crime situation has again deteriorated in Tbilisi. According to reports in the media, Georgian law enforcement and security officials are involved in corruption, trade in contraband, tax evasion and serious crime involving kidnapping, drugs and weapons trafficking (Transparency International, 2001). Misappropriation of state funds is another characteristic of
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power structures. Such a situation indicates that until the revolutionary events of 2003, the country’s political and legislative leadership was unable to control power agencies efficiently. At the same time, there were enough grounds to suspect some top executive officials or legislators of engaging in clandestine alliances with the criminal world or with those officials of power agencies who had little, if any, respect for the rule of law.
The 2002 defence budget Defence financing is a sphere of civil democratic control in which the role of parliament is especially significant. One of the serious shortcomings of the Georgian budgetary process is the parliament’s inability to amend a budget bill introduced by the president. The parliament cannot approve or reject large purchases by the power agencies, though foreign advisors have repeatedly recommended doing so since 1998 (Personal Communication, 5 February 2001). The parliament has no right to make any amendments to a budget bill brought in by the government – if no compromise is reached, legislators either have to approve the entire bill or reject the whole document. The second option requires serious mobilisation and political courage from MPs. In addition, as admitted by Levan Alapishvili, one of the authors of the legislation on the Group of Confidence, the legislation does not define clearly what measures the Parliamentary Group of Confidence, which is supposed to control special programmes of power agencies, should undertake if its complaints to the president about expediency of a particular special programme of power agencies prove ineffective (Personal Communication, 5 February 2001). Large military procurement deals also do not require parliamentary approval. The parliament can only request or recommend that the government change the budget or vote down the entire bill. In the latter case, the government still has some room for manoeuvre – as it would continue using the budgetary parameters for the previous year. According to one of the senior experts of the parliamentary apparatus during parliamentary debates over the 2002 budget bill, ‘There has never been much point in discussing budgetary bills’ (Personal Communication, 31 October 2001). Furthermore, according to Article 98 of the Constitution, the president is entitled to determine the structure of the armed forces, while the size of the forces is approved by a majority vote in the parliament. As a result, it is unclear how the president and the parliament can legally resolve any disagreement over organisational issues of the armed forces. The 1997 law on defence contradicts this constitutional provision – it states that the structure of the armed forces should be defined by law. Some other clauses of the Law on Defence also contradict the Constitution: Article 78 of the Constitution bans any kind of merger between forces of the Defence Ministry, State Security Ministry and Interior Ministry. However, Georgian law also stipulates that interior troops of the Ministry of Internal Affairs are part of the country’s military forces. Yet the parliament retains certain levers to influence the budgeting process. The fiscal and calendar year coincide in Georgia. According to the law, parliament
84 David Darchiashvili receives the final draft from the president in October; thus the parliament has three months to come up with its own position at the level of parliamentary factions and committees, and pass the country’s main financial law through three readings. The Parliamentary Defence and Security Committee and the Group of Confidence functioning under its auspices are to present conclusions on the draft defence budget. It seems logical to assume that the government will try to avoid completely ignoring the legislators’ opinions at all. It is more politic for the government to engage in a long dialogue with MPs in order to reach a compromise, especially if the parliament is more or less unanimous. However, various subjective factors prevent the parliament from implementing even its limited role efficiently. Parliamentary debates over draft defence budgets for example are characterised by lack of transparency and apparent violations or only formal compliance with respective deadlines and stages. In previous years, draft defence budgets submitted to MPs did not exceed one to two pages. The document usually specified the total number of military personnel and some other, quite general, categories such as ‘salaries and trips’ or ‘other products and services’. Explanatory notes were included to justify the proposed general figures. As a result, it was hard to achieve an acceptable transparency. The Parliamentary Defence and Security Committee sometimes received additional clarifications from military commanders. However, as early as March 2000, the chairmen of the Parliamentary Defence and Security Committee and the Parliamentary Group of Confidence complained that they did not feel familiar with financial defence issues (Personal Communication, 21 March 2000). Real steps to promote transparency and eliminate the old Soviet practices in developing and debating defence budgets were made in the late 1990s when the USA assisted Georgia in establishing a Defence Resources Management Office in the Defence Ministry. By summer 2001 the office had prepared a one-year socalled programme defence budget for 2002.2 It was a step forward not only in the field of defence planning but also in parliamentary control. For the first time the parliament and interested NGOs had an opportunity to view a comprehensive document which:
• • •
grouped expenses in accordance with standard Western categories, such as personnel, maintenance of combat efficiency, investments; grouped expenses into eight programmes representing large structural and functional components of the armed forces and specified the number of personnel for each of them; specified parameters to calculate operational efficiency of military units and equipment, and limits on trips, fuel and repairs.
However, the development of a programme budget failed and, respectively, democratic control did not improve substantially. The reason for this failure is that the above described draft defence budget produced by the Defence Ministry in the summer of 2001 raised several unanswered questions in itself:
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The document stated that the armed forces needed restructuring but it did not specify what kind of process was required. Although the Defence Ministry had declared its plan to cut military personnel, the timetable of the reduction and its financial effects were not specified in the budget. The document did not clarify the rationales governing the division of the various components of the budget into the eight programmes. The draft budget amounted to 71 million GEL (Georgian Lari, about US$33 million) but did not indicate which programme would be curtailed and how, should the figures not be finally approved. Programmes represented general and unequal entities – the Defence Ministry, ground troops, logistical services etc. – and programme elements (for instance, battalions or, at least, brigades) were not detailed. The draft did not specify and justify the number of generals, officers, NCOs and privates in the army. The draft left out procurement prices for food, although the Ministry had been accused of inadequately spending large funds on food for years. The draft did not clarify why 5.3 million GEL were allocated to the general staff, while the entire ground troops were to get only 12.4 million GEL. There was also no explanation why the Ministry itself had 1,300 employees with many more serving the general staff, while the entire ground troops comprised only 8,897 people. Logistical programmes included the expenditure of 6 million GEL on a special programme for which no details were provided.
On the whole, the draft did not display any connection between the expenditure and combat missions, the main objective of a programme budget, which should be based on preliminary planning and programming. The document also mentioned nothing about non-budgetary incomes of the Defence Ministry and received or pending foreign grants. Representatives of the Ministry avoided some of these questions and provided only partial answers to the others. Still, the draft budget was welcomed in the parliament. The Parliamentary Defence and Security Committee launched preliminary hearings on the so-called programme budget of the Defence Ministry in September 2001. Some MPs emphasised that the Ministry’s ‘programmes’ were in fact its renamed departments and the budget did not reveal their connection with any missions. Representatives of the Finance Ministry made similar remarks. Nonbudgetary incomes and the fact that the planned reduction of military personnel was not reflected in the draft were also highlighted during the hearings. The defence minister provided only general explanations to MPs and specified that the Ministry was going to cut the armed forces by 1,000 servicemen in 2002, though he did not discuss expected financial effects of the reduction and why it was not reflected in the draft. The minister promised to provide information about non-budgetary incomes later, after special examination. By and large, the committee and its
86 David Darchiashvili chairman described the draft as reasonably transparent and programmed, and supported it. The committee also supported the total defence expenditure of 71 million GEL specified in the draft. In the meantime, committee hearings revealed that the Finance Ministry was not going to allocate 71 million GEL to defence. MPs should have been aware that the president’s decree of 20 July ordered the Finance Ministry to set a 44 million GEL ceiling for the 2002 defence budget, while the Finance Ministry notified the Defence Ministry as early as 7 August that even this ceiling was not realistic. The defence minister said at the committee hearings that the army could survive with a 44 million defence budget but would be unable to function with less money. On 30 October, the Parliamentary Defence and Security Committee launched hearings on the defence section of the State Budget Bill. According to the Constitution, at this stage all parameters of the Bill should have been co-ordinated with the president and ministers beforehand. However, the defence minister complained to the MPs that the Finance Ministry had slashed the defence budget to 42 million GEL without consulting the Defence Ministry. In his words, the Finance Ministry unilaterally revised financial parameters of the Defence Ministry’s eight so-called programmes. In response, the finance minister highlighted the fact that the total expenditure had been examined at a governmental session and should not have been a surprise for the Defence Ministry. He blamed the military for not having recalculated the programmes properly, saying that the Defence Ministry should have complied with limits imposed by the Finance Ministry, when planning its programmes. ‘There is no 71 million defence budget for me. I have never examined such and will never do’, the finance minister said (Personal Communication, 30 October 2001). It also came into the open during the committee hearings that the total state budget had yet to be co-ordinated with the International Monetary Fund, with the result that there was not much point in discussing allocation of even 42 million GEL. MPs gradually left the hearings, while ministers continued to debate basic principles – who must decide the defence expenditure and what criteria should be applied in the process. The debate showed that even elementary issues had not been resolved in the government. Although it was already late October 2001, MPs had little idea about the nature and feasibility of particular defence programmes, the size of the armed forces, the timetable of military personnel cuts and, on the whole, the financial framework of the defence policy. Moreover, the total procedure of the parliamentary committee hearing remained unclear. There was apparently no quorum at the end of the hearings. The committee chairman made an emotional statement that the president and the government should either allocate 71 million GEL to the Defence Ministry or overrule its arguments; otherwise the committee would reject the entire draft state budget. The finance minister promised MPs that final budget parameters would be presented in November but in reality he did it only on 1 December 2001. Therefore, the parliament had less than a month to analyse the parameters until the end of the fiscal year. Some time later the government revised the budget bill once again and brought in its renewed version on 26 December. The new bill assigned only 36 million GEL to defence.
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The situation appeared extraordinary even for the parliamentary majority traditionally obedient to the president. At a session of the parliamentary bureau, almost all political groups condemned such blatant violation of the constitutional timetable of parliamentary debate. ‘This evil practice undermines every possibility for serious debates in the parliament’, the vice-speaker of the parliament (according Personal Communication, 27 December 2001). However, the legislators’ ‘rebellion’ led only to a one-month delay and the budget bill was eventually passed in January 2002. No further committee hearings were held on the issue. The government and the parliament set up a ‘reconciliatory commission’ to resolve the problem but this goodwill gesture of the government had few practical effects. The parliament was unable to make amendments, and any attempt to pass a vote of no confidence with the president and government would have been revolutionary. The parliament did not possess political will to achieve such an outcome. Some MPs, including the chairman of the Parliamentary Defence and Security Committee who had joined the opposition at that time, continued to demand 71 million GEL for defence. However, the government managed to push the budget through, allocating only 36 million GEL to the Defence Ministry. The finance minister promised that if the country’s revenues had exceeded planned figures during the year, the defence budget could have been revised. It might have been a face-saving compromise for some MPs but the parliamentary approval of the 2002 state budget did little to improve parliamentary and, respectively, civil democratic control in the country. After the budget was approved, one of the officers of the defence resources management office of the Defence Ministry said that the plan to introduce programme financing had failed. The initial document proposed by the Defence Ministry was futile, while further calculations and financial parameters of the programmes were prepared outside of this newly created special department of the Ministry. The officer suggested that meagre funds of the approved defence budget should be reallocated between various programmes. Besides, the Defence Ministry could save money by reducing military personnel and directing the saved funds to combat training and maintenance. The Defence Ministry also expected some assistance from foreign countries (Personal Communication, 30 January 2002). All this might have happened. Naturally, the Ministry could have found a solution to the problem, even if it was on the boundary between the law and lawlessness. It is obvious, however, that the parliamentary leverage of civil democratic control, which must be most effective during parliamentary debates over budget bills, proved inefficient. The blame should be laid on the executive branch – the Defence Ministry developed its so-called programme budget without any co-ordination with the Finance Ministry and made little effort to correct the draft afterwards. The president and the Finance Ministry brought to the parliament the final version of the State Budget Bill at the last moment so that legislators had almost no time for debates. MPs also did not prove strong enough – at first they readily agreed with the Defence Ministry’s request for a 71 million GEL defence budget, while later approving a 36 million GEL limit with equal lack of deliberation. MPs did not demand an
88 David Darchiashvili explanation for the nature of the defence programmes nor for detailed calculations of the size of the armed forces and reductions of military personnel. However, there were some exceptions, for instance, the chairman of the Parliamentary Defence and Security Committee. Yet his emotional attitude to the issue and his poorly grounded support of the Defence Ministry’s initial request for a 71 million GEL budget yielded few results. The chairman’s categorical demand that the Defence Ministry should submit a timetable of the planned personnel cuts was lost in a polemic between the Defence and Finance Ministries. Elements of civil control may be found in the fact that the Finance Ministry managed, with presidential approval, to impose its will on the Defence Ministry, the personnel of which, including the defence minister, are overwhelmingly military servicemen. However, the parliament’s role in this story indicated that control was lacking. While MPs are being listened to and their questions usually answered, it looks more like a formal ritual than substantive oversight. Respect for the legislature and MPs’ access to information ends wherever and whenever deemed by the government.
Georgia’s shady ‘covert operations’ The Georgian state’s weakness in building up an army was in some respect compensated for by the assistance which US and NATO experts provided to the Georgian military. The Office of Defence Resources Management in the Georgian MoD was set up with American advice and assistance. Apart from that, the US Army’s European Command Mission worked out a piecemeal plan for Georgian armed forces reforms. However, foreign experts cannot replace the legislative and representative body of the state altogether. It is an axiom of democratic civil– military relations theory that the programming and financing of the defence system needs not only co-ordinated work with other executive bodies (e.g. with the Ministry of Finance), but also transparency and legitimacy on the parliament’s part. Even less permissible is ignoring the parliament in the field of military and security policy, including the planning and implemention of special operations. On the one hand, this topic is very sensitive, and even in democratic countries it is the executive’s prerogative. On the other hand, there should be clear procedural guidelines and mechanisms to convince MPs that such activities are within the limits of the Constitution and declared state policy, and that there are no illegal or subversive activities behind certain special operations. If special operations are unconstitutional, the country’s legislative body is entitled to know all of the details of the military operations and to demand answers for wrongdoings. Georgian legislation exists on the matter, but at least until the November 2003 revolution, the reality was totally different. As early as May 1998, armed clashes occurred in the Georgian–Abkhazian conflict zone, where peacekeeping operations had been in progress since 1994.3 Georgian guerrillas had been supported by official military personnel who moved into the Gali district, which was controlled by the Abkhazian side. As a result of the clash between Georgian and Abkhazian armed formations, some 10,000
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civilians were forced to flee their native villages and Georgian forces were withdrawn. The financial cost resulting from this operation amounted to millions. However, the parliament had not been given any explanation about the government’s expectations or figures of the Georgian army when it was getting involved, nor was it given an explanation for why the end was so calamitous. Neither the Parliamentary Investigative Commission nor the Parliamentary Group of Confidence raised any debate about the events. In October 1998, an anti-governmental uprising took place in one of the brigades of the Defence Ministry. It was suppressed by force, leaving behind a number of dead and wounded soldiers. The Georgian Constitution forbids any use of force during a state of emergency without prior parliamentary authorisation. However, a state of emergency was not declared during either the May or October 1998 events and ordinary civilians unexpectedly found themselves amidst military actions. The Georgian parliament failed to demand an answer from the executive for what had happened. Another uprising came on 25 May 2001 in a unit of the National Guard. Fortunately, it was soon calmed down. An example of democratic control was illustrated in this event when rebels came to the Parliamentary Defence and Security Committee meeting. However, the committee hearing was only confined to talks about the army’s poor financial conditions. Some MPs even praised the insurgent officers. One of those officers retired without any problems, while another went abroad for study. Another mysterious military operation took place in the autumn of 2001, which was followed by much more parliamentary attention. Chechen guerrillas, who were assisted by Georgian military officials, travelled across the country and launched military actions in the Georgian–Abkhazian conflict zone against Abkhazians. At first glance it was a kind of illustration for the total ignorance of democratic control. Only afterwards, when the mood became tenser and the mass media reported and complained about it, did the parliament get involved in the process. The whole affair took on the tint of shady adventure and lawlessness on the part of the Georgian law enforcement establishment. The events contradicted Georgia’s official statements.4 This time Georgian MPs displayed more austerity and representatives of law enforcement bodies found themselves in a difficult situation. On 1 November 2001, the president dismissed the entire government. Negative attitudes of the majority of MPs as well as society on the whole towards some high-ranking officials and particularly towards the ministers of interior and defence was said to have been behind the president’s action. General displeasure was caused by the doubts about their involvement with suspicious Chechen groups. However, the formally declared reason of the conflict between the parliament and two law enforcement ministers, which ended up with not only dismissed ministers but also with the parliamentary speaker’s resignation, was absolutely different. The minister of interior intimidated the independent media and the security minister sent his people to the Rustavi 2 TV company for vague official reasons. This barging in was followed by students’ mass rallies and the parliament too did not stay aside. Even the Prosecutor General lost his office.5
90 David Darchiashvili Thus, it was this general crisis which inspired the parliament to act heroically and the president reluctantly parted with his ministers. With increasing aggressiveness the Russian political leadership accused Georgia of covering Chechen terrorists. In turn, the US Defence Department required certain conditions in order to intensify its assistance to Georgia, namely eliminating Chechen fighters’ presence and their uncontrolled relocation throughout Georgia, and dismissal of high-ranking law enforcement officers with doubtful reputations. Western and international diplomatic missions expressed their concern not only about the Chechen fighters’ presence in Georgia but also about an escalation of violence in the GeorgianAbkhazian conflict zone, for which the Georgian side was blamed. According to one high-ranking Western diplomat, the Western diplomatic community felt embarrassed and uneasy given that they had always protected Georgia from the former Soviet metropolis (Personal Communication, November 2001). Foreign reaction also contributed heavily to the belated but adequate measures taken by then President Shevardnadze. In respect to civil–military relations, the November 2001 events can be considered a successful instance of democratic control. The ministers, who held generals’ ranks and represented militarised services of the state, intimidated the free and independent media, the cornerstones of a democracy. The media had openly accused them of corruption, dealings with criminal groups and even likely secret deals with Russian security services. Public indignation led to their removal, but would the parliament have demanded and ultimately achieved their dismissal had it not been for mass demonstrations and strong Western criticism? The answer to this question is not simple. It is linked with the issue of sustainability of civil democratic control. Before the scandal broke out and gained international resonance, Georgian officials had been keeping relevant information secret for quite a long time from the public and MPs. More than that, a number of MPs were aware of the presence of suspicious Chechen groups in the Pankisi valley through various channels. They knew that the valley had become a criminal enclave and that law enforcement bodies were clearly not engaged in improving the situation. Presumably, the presence of Chechens in Georgia was backed by the president’s involuntary or intentional permission. Georgian officials were politically irrational in allowing Chechen armed units to remain in Georgia while fighting against Russia, again violating the Constitution of Georgia. The Constitution clearly states that the redeployment of foreign armed forces on Georgian territory requires parliamentary sanction. It cannot be justified by the fact that Chechnya is not a state in terms of international law. Unfortunately, for various reasons, all of those who knew the case, among them informed MPs, chose to remain silent.6 Later, when Chechen fighters were revealed by the media and were exposed at the epicentre of military actions in the Georgian–Abkhazian conflict zone, both the parliamentary majority and minority were competing with each other to blame the military leadership for aiding this shady undertaking. Even in September and October 2001, emotional speeches of MPs regularly ended up with broad and vague explanations and promises from law enforcement
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officials who argued that the situation had developed on its own and they would do their best to relieve the tension (Rustavi 2 TV Channel, 27 September 2001). The chairman of the Defence and Security Committee, who at the same time was head of the parliamentary Group of Confidence, from the beginning insisted that everything happened behind his back and that participants of the shady adventure should have been punished. However, after he had met with the ministers, his passion and criticism faded away. He still insisted on investigating the whole affair and holding responsible those who contributed to this operation from the Georgian side. But he started adding here and there that this was a move to be done in the future, that currently everything was a state secret, not justified for public information. He himself would be willing to fight Abkhazian separatists (Rustavi 2 TV Channel, 25 September, 13 October 2001). The reason for the softening of the rhetoric in the Georgian parliament could have been the Georgian-Chechen groups’ military successes against Abkhazians, reported by the Georgian media in October. This might have raised patriotic sentiments among MPs, who calmed down about military officials voluntarism. It cannot go unnoticed, though, that many Georgian MPs lacked the political will, courage and competence. In several cases they were scared – for instance, one of the MPs disclosed to a journalist that she had information about cooperation between military officials and Georgian-Chechen criminal groups, but she was afraid to name them (Rustavi 2 TV Channel, 23 October 2001). Such fear was partly overcome when officials attacked the independent media and the parliament, and the public expressed their negative attitude towards executives and the inadmissibility of their policy. Political scientist Gia Nodia believed that the removal of high officials, namely the Ministers of Interior and Security and the Prosecutor General, was the year’s most positive event and that the government realised it was impossible to remain indifferent to the people’s will (Nodia, 7–13 January 2002). However, on the whole, this affair and its end indicates the weakness of civil democratic control, and especially the fragility of the parliamentary control. The shady Georgian-Chechen operation carried out in September–October, as well as the unlawful situation in the Pankisi Valley long before, clearly pointed to the criminal and anti-constitutional nature of the establishment in which law enforcement official bodies played an important role. According to the Georgian media, independent experts, and to the broader public, the drug and arms sales in the Pankisi valley, as well as the confinement of kidnapped people, had been under way for years. Georgian security and law enforcement bodies were aware of it and even of criminals’ identities, but there was no counteraction on their part. Moreover, there existed well-grounded doubts about co-operation between criminals and high-ranking security officials. According to unconfirmed information, a group of about 200 of Ruslan Glaev’s fighters, who were the head of Chechen guerrilla groups, camped in the Pankisi valley and crossed all of Georgia, arriving at Abkhazia by the end of summer or the beginning of autumn in unlicensed trucks of the Interior Ministry. By the end of September and beginning of October the group had raided Abkhaz-controlled
92 David Darchiashvili territory, all of this happening without parliament’s attention. The executive denied everything to the end. Intimidation of the media and actions against them followed the disclosure of these events by journalists. Parliament officially ‘punished’ militaries not because of the Georgian-Chechen adventure, but for attacking the independent mass media. Afterwards, none of the removed officials or their subordinates were held responsible. So far, no parliamentary investigation of the affair has been carried out – nor has it even started. The chairmanship of the Defence and Security Committee, however, has been changed. It is not intended here to provide a detailed explanation of the Georgian-Chechen military ‘co-operation’. It cannot be ruled out that Georgian militaries assisted Chechens’ covert operations only for the sake of bribes. Other explanations suggest that Ruslan Gilaev acted under the orders of the Russian security services and aimed to force Georgia into a dangerous game. It is also possible the Georgians wanted to get rid of Chechens without any complications and at the same time score a victory over Abkhazians. Later, as winners, they could have gained political payoffs. If anyone displayed skills of democratic control under these circumstances, it was the students, the media and representatives of the non-governmental sector (as happened during the 2003 ‘velvet revolution’). The parliament only followed the events. However, the fact that it did not investigate the affair and its vagueness in holding officials responsible fed the assumption that many more personnel or structural changes are urgently needed in the higher layers of the government in order to avoid similar situations, when military or security operations do not fall under consolidated civilian democratic control.
Conclusion: the need for political will Consolidated democracies are characterised by social, political and economic parameters. The economic parameter does not necessarily mean prosperity but rather a development tendency and a certain level of social justice. Even poor countries can achieve democracy, provided they develop respective civil and political institutions, efficient state bureaucracy, and constitutionalism with a clear hierarchy of laws, and accountability mechanisms for an elective government (Przeworski et al., 1996). Such a legal liberal-democratic order has not yet been completely achieved in Georgia, due to poor implementation of laws and large-scale corruption in state institutions. Flaws in the legislation and the Constitution contribute to the weakness of parliamentary control. Some laws are vague or appear to be purely declarations. Some simply contradict each other. Additionally, some articles of various laws do not comply with the goals of democratisation. All these aspects negatively affect the quality of civil democratic control. In the case of a major confrontation between the president and the parliament, solutions will be hard to find. The subjectivism rooted in the normative base of defence/security sector is supplemented with elements of a presidential authorit-
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arianism. Neither subjectivism nor authoritarianism comply with the principles of civil democratic control by any means. They curb parliamentary control and are detrimental to Georgian democratic statehood. The respective literature emphasises that one of the most serious problems of the security sector in post-Soviet countries is the inadequate legal division of power and of responsibilities between agencies of government, between the offices of the key political leaders, and of ministries and parliament (Donnelly, 2001, p. 34). A lack of experts in the field, especially within the parliament, worsens the problem. These shortages cannot be eliminated without generating broad public support and political will, something that Georgia still needed to achieve up to the very last events. Georgians have a new leadership which came into power after the revolution. The 4 January 2004 presidential elections confirmed that an overwhelming majority of the population is supportive for the prominent oppositional leader, Michael Saakashvili. This individual has a legitimacy that was lacking in Shevardnadze. He is believed to be a genuine reformer, advocating for the democratic development of Georgia. The actual results of the leadership change and the implementation of reforms still remain to be seen, and Georgia faces many challenges in rectifying the weaknesses of its system of democratic control of the armed forces. This includes the two set out in this chapter – formalistic parliamentary scrutiny of the defence budget and its failure to hold the government responsible in the case of illegitimate special operations.
Notes 1 Spokesmen of opposition parties in Belarus and Ukraine regard the Georgian 2003 velvet revolution as possible for their own countries. See Khokhotva, 2003. 2 Based on a planning, programming and budgeting system (PPBS), which relates inputs (funds) to desired outputs (objectives, missions or programmes). 3 Including Russian forces and the United Nations Observer Mission in Georgia (UNOMIG). 4 For years Georgia has officially denied the presence of Chechen fighters on its territory. Georgia has also emphasised its adherence to peaceful settlement of the Georgian–Abkhazian conflict. 5 At that time, relations between the Speaker of the Parliament Zurab Zhvania and President Shevardnadze became very tense. A few months earlier Zhvania published his letter to the president, where he pointed out the totally corrupt nature of the Georgian state. Following this, Zhvania was regarded as an oppositional figure with ambitions to substitute Shevardnadze. The latter himself hinted about this. To disclaim such accusations, Zhvania declared his resignation on condition that the two above-mentioned ministers should be fired and that the general prosecutor should also resign. 6 A few months later in a TV interview, the then Speaker of the Parliament Zurab Zhvania admitted that he had been aware about problems in Pankisi valley prior to the most dramatic events, when Chechen fighters moved from there to Abkhazia and the fighting started. According to Zhvania it was a mistake to hide the truth from the society and international community until the very last moment (Rustavi 2 TV Channel, 2002).
94 David Darchiashvili
Civilian democratic control in Poland
Part III
Consolidating democracies
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96 Agnieszka Gogolewska
Civilian democratic control in Poland
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Problems confronting civilian democratic control in Poland Agnieszka Gogolewska
Introduction This chapter argues that after the initial period of difficulties in introducing democratic standards of civil–military relations in Poland, during the years 1996–99 Polish authorities successfully implemented legal and institutional reforms that allowed the civilian politicians to take control of the defence sector away from the military. However, the progress in building democratic civilian control of the military has not been sustained. The model adopted in the Ministry of Defence (MoD) largely restricted civilian control to the civilian minister of defence and a few political appointees, while the role of providing defence expertise and advice remained in the hands of military. In the long term, neglecting the development of civilian defence experts made qualitative change in the management and control procedures impossible and impeded effective execution of democratic civilian control of the military. The inadequate organisation and procedures for civilian personnel management as well as the generally low priority attached to fostering civilian expertise in the field resulted in shrinking cadres of civil servants in the MoD and undermined democratic control over the army. The provisions of the amended law on civil service, introduced in 1999, did not strengthen the civilian component in the MoD; rather, the legislation arrested its development, heavily bureaucratised the personnel policy and contributed to worsening civil–military relations inside the ministry. The corruption scandal of 2001 in the military procurement sector of the MoD made the deficiencies and weakness of such control evident. The affair provoked a personnel shuffle in the military procurement sector, yet the entire corruption-prone institutional design has not yet been rectified. Poland appears to be a particularly interesting case for studying democratic civilian control of the armed forces due to severe civil–military conflicts that the country experienced in the early post-communist period, but also due to subsequent reforms that allowed Poland to overcome problems and meet the basic democratic requirements for accession to NATO. The introduction of profound structural and organisational reforms of the military led to the reduction of the initial 460,000 strong army to 150,000,1 accompanied by downsizing of the military infrastructure and reorganisation of the military districts system as well as a reorientation of the military posture towards defence (Latawski, 1999). Those changes prepared the Polish armed forces both for membership in NATO and for the new system of
98 Agnieszka Gogolewska command and control in the MoD, which was being introduced simultaneously in order to ensure proper division of competencies between the civilians and military and civilian supremacy in the defence sector. It is possible to discern two phases during which civilian democratic control of the military was introduced in Poland. In the first stage, democratic legal and institutional mechanisms were devised and implemented in order to ‘make place’ for civilians in the military realm. These steps were followed by the second, ‘qualitative’ phase of reform in which the civilianisation of the MoD was to take place. It would be difficult to say precisely when the first stage ended and the second began, yet the two phases differed on many dimensions, including such issues as actors involved in the process, aims of the reform and their end results. In this chapter it is argued that while the first, legal-institutional phase of the reform was successful, the progress in building democratic civilian control of the military in Poland was not sustained in the second phase. The degree of civilianisation of the MoD is far from satisfactory, and the overall influence of civilians on the defence and security policy in Poland remains limited. Paradoxically, instead of improving the situation of the civilian cadres, the introduction of the civil service into the MoD had an adverse effect and in some instances contributed to the reversal of civil–military reforms in Poland. The first case study describes the problems related to the civilianisation of the MoD. In the second case study, the deficiencies of the civilian control of defence policy are illustrated through the description of a corruption scandal in the procurement sector in 2001. However, a caveat is due here in relation to the issue of MoD civilianisation. This is not intended to imply any kind of inherent superiority of civilians in the MoD, or that there is an intrinsic difference between civilian and military personnel. They have equal rights as members of the electorate and important tasks in the defence and security sector. Instead, the thesis on the need for progressive civilianisation of the MoD is based on the premises of shared responsibility being the key condition for the effective civilian control of the military, here understood as practical and constitutional ways for national political and military leaders to provide for national defence while maintaining civilian control of the armed forces without allowing partisan interference within the armed forces (Bland, 1995, p. 110). The practical implementation of the principle of shared responsibility is possible on condition that a sufficient number of civilian experts become engaged in the defence planning and management processes. Civilian and military specialists bring different skills and capabilities into defence management, and good management is an indispensable part of proper democratic control of the military. The military offer their professional knowledge and skills, often supplemented by technical awareness of modern security needs while civilians tend to bring greater political and financial awareness and flexibility into the field, qualities that are essential for credible defence planning, programming and management. Additionally, civilian expertise and knowledge of the military environment can be a valuable source of alternative opinions and views for political leaders, thus providing additional tools of control over the armed forces. Therefore, the absence of a civilian
Civilian democratic control in Poland
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component in the defence sector effectively precludes an emergence of mature and effective democratic control of the military in Poland and elsewhere.
Remaking of the MoD: civilians unwelcome For most of the 1990s Poland was a country notorious for its civil–military conflicts. The problems originated in the institutional reforms of 1991 prepared by the socalled Inter-Ministerial ¦abinsky Commission. It divided the MoD into two separate parts: a mixed civilian–military Ministry of Defence and a purely military general staff. As a result, the powers were distributed in such a way that ministerial access to military resources and information was possible only through the general staff. Thus, the general staff became a semi-independent institution able to regulate the amount of information available to the minister as well as being able to decide on the implementation of ministerial decisions (Parandowska, 1995, p. 12). Moreover, the division of the MoD along civil/military lines led to a widespread perception of the general staff as the exclusive preserve of the military as opposed to the ‘civilian’ ministry, a perception that remained deeply rooted in the senior ranks despite successive MoD reorganisations and limited hiring of civilians to the general staff. The poorly devised institutional reform resulted in over-empowerment of the general staff and encouraged the military to pursue maximum professional autonomy with minimum political control. With the full support of the then President Lech Wa$¥sa, the Chief of General Staff, General Tadeusz Wilecki restricted the powers of civilian ministers, duplicated ministerial departments in the general staff, and gradually took over control of financial, personnel and defence planning (Michta, 1997, pp. 87–90). Before long, the position achieved by the general staff led to the political involvement of the senior military. In a series of political scandals, officers openly contested the principles of civilian democratic control, engaged in electoral campaigns, publicly voiced harsh criticism of the political leadership (Rozbicki, 1996, p. 20) and condemned the government’s military reform plans. The scandals culminated in the infamous ‘Drawsko affair’ in 1994, when the senior military commanders gathered at a dinner in the presence of the president and took an informal vote of no confidence against the civilian minister of defence. Finally, in August 1995 during the anniversary of the Battle of Warsaw of 1920, General Wilecki made a speech in which he viciously attacked the politicians and bitterly criticised military reforms, shocking many observers (Michta, 1997, p. 93). The dramatic situation called for urgent action. The reform carried out in several stages in the years 1996–9 remodelled civil–military relations in Poland and changed the division of executive competencies. The new constitution adopted in 1997 enshrined the principles of political neutrality of the armed forces and civilian democratic control of the military.2 The basic law redistributed powers between the president and the prime minister in the security and defence field. The president remained the supreme commander-in-chief of the armed forces, but in peacetime he would discharge his duties through the minister of defence, and in case of war
100 Agnieszka Gogolewska he would appoint the highest commander of the armed forces on the motion of the prime minister (Mitek, 1997, p. 10). The legislators left certain prerogatives with the president, among them the right to nominate the chief of defence staff and senior military commanders, to invest military ranks on the motion of the minister of defence and to select the members of the National Security Council. However, in general, the responsibility for peacetime management of the military was removed from the president in favour of respective members of the Council of Ministers. Redivision of competencies between the minister of defence and the chief of general staff was the next logical step in the first phase of civil–military reform. It was achieved primarily through the adoption of the Bill on the Minister of National Defence on 14 December 19953 after a long and bitter debate in the parliament. The new law made the general staff a part of the ministry and subordinated the chief of general staff to the prime minister and to the minister of defence. The minister’s decisions in matters concerning structures, organisation and activities of the Polish armed forces became final, and the role of the chief of general staff was supposed to be mainly advisory (Gazeta Wyborcza, 1995, p. 3). Taking the Bill as a point of departure, the so-called ‘Karkoszka Commission’4 worked out further details of the MoD structural reform that consolidated the ministry and were instrumental for the introduction of functioning democratic civilian supervision of the army. The changes were supplemented by the creation of Ground Troops Command, which became operational in 1999 (Grochowski, 1997, pp. 20–1), and by the 31 July 1997 amendment to the Bill on the Professional Military Service that introduced a limited term of office (2–5 years) for selected military positions, including the chief of general staff.5 Thus, in the years 1996–9 a new institutional shape of the MoD emerged. That new order created favourable conditions to suppress military supremacy in defence policy and established fundamentals for effective civilian control of the armed forces, and also enabled Polish accession to NATO. Although undeniably successful, the institutional reform of the MoD was never properly completed. Certain legislative problems were left unresolved, among them the extent of presidential prerogatives in the president’s capacity as supreme commander-in-chief of the armed forces or the issue of the constitutional role of the president in wartime (Grochowski, 1998, p. 11). Secondly, the Bill on the minister of defence was only one of the many regulations needed in defence and security sector and the legislative effort in that field was not sustained. Last but not least, the legislative and structural changes of 1996–9 fell short of introducing mechanisms that would guarantee a progressive civilianisation of the MoD and a long-term balance in civil–military relations. In fact, development of a body of civilian defence experts was never high on the reform agenda. Polish reforms focused exclusively on the empowerment of a civilian minister of defence and a few other political appointees in relation to the chief of general staff and the army. It should not be surprising given that NATO and other Western representatives repeatedly stressed the importance of a civilian minister while only paying lip service to the importance of a civilian specialists cadre (Dandeker, 1994, p. 353).
Civilian democratic control in Poland 101 Even such democratising programmes as Partnership for Peace failed to take civilians into account. Reka Szemerkenyi (1996, p. 68) rightly observed: Western initiatives [...] have all tended to involve a large majority of military personnel. […] From its inception, [PfP] had an excessive military-to-military focus. The virtual absence of civilian defence specialists was one of the communist legacies in Poland and elsewhere in the region, and an additional impediment to the civilianisation of MoD. Most ‘civilian’ experts initially employed in the MoD were retired military personnel who perceived such a posting as a comfortable extension of their military career. As a result of all those factors, the civil–military transformation in Poland failed to build a foundation for the steady development of civilian cadres in the MoD. Instead of a carefully planned civilianisation of the MoD there took place an unsystematic development of the non-military component of ministerial personnel. Recruitment did not follow any carefully devised plan with target figures of civilian employment; rather, it was a random pattern of openings (and sometimes closings) of civilian posts in various departments and offices of the MoD. In that process of tentative civilianisation, apart from the general lack of political will, two other factors had an additional negative influence over the development of democratic civilian control of the military. These were the adoption of the ‘Minister Administers It All’ model of the management and control of the MoD, and the introduction of universal civil service regulations for the ministry. The model adopted in the MoD provided that daily responsibilities for most defence planning, management and administration were vested in the minister of defence or his deputies. In an effort to give the minister sufficient instruments of control over the military, a system was designed in which civilian ministers were expected to exert civilian control largely unaided. Most MoD departments report directly either to the minister or his deputy, or under-secretary of state, and to the general director after the creation of such post. The system resulted in an excessive amount of senior administrative management where government representatives are routinely involved in all details of running defence affairs. Practically all areas of the defence sector, major and minor, became preserves of the minister. Rather than creating incentives to develop a sensible division of labour and delegation of authority within the ministry, the system favoured a military-like, rigid hierarchical structure and caused regular decision-making delays. Moreover, the excessive amount of administrative work did not leave the minister or his deputies adequate time to devote themselves to elaboration of strategic political directions. Instead, their work has become mostly reactive and responsive in character. That excessive focusing of the control system on the civilian minister and a few other political appointees has caused a weakening rather than strengthening of civilian control over the military (DMCS, 2000, pp. 9–10), and contributed to the marginalisation of non-political experts at the lower levels of the bureaucratic hierarchy. The second factor that impeded the development of a cadre of civilian experts
102 Agnieszka Gogolewska in the MoD was, paradoxically, the introduction of the revised and more stringent Law on Civil Service.6 The regulations were expected to help develop a staff of non-political civilian professionals that would form the strong backbone of the MoD. In reality, however, the introduction of the civil service regulations to the MoD was disadvantageous to the emergence of a cadre of career government officials and did more harm than good to those already employed in the ministry. One of the problems was that the Law introduced identical regulations for the civil service throughout the government administration, taking no notice of the specific civil–military environment in the MoD. The new regulations set unified conditions of entry to the service for all ministerial positions, introduced a similar hierarchy of office and personnel policy standards throughout the government administration and provided a degree of legal protection from unjust discharge from service. Although these developments would normally be perceived as advantageous, in the MoD they did not work well because of unique conditions. The legislators failed to take into account the inevitable confrontation between the civil service and the military service following the implementation of the Law, as well as different requirements for administering each service. In the post-communist environment, army officers still regarded many defence and security-related fields as their sole preserve and jealously guarded their positions and influence. Therefore the inflexible implementation of the Law combined with a lack of political support for civilian employment produced many tensions. The problems related to the introduction of civil service regulations could be briefly summarised as the following three items:
• • •
creation of a separate administration for civilians and military with unclear lines of responsibility and, as a result, the complete detachment of civilian personnel policy from the structures where the civilians actually work; elevation of entry conditions significantly above those required for military counterparts with the simultaneous maintenance of much lower remuneration levels; absence of personnel policy, further hampering the development of a civilian expert cadre.
In the period preceding Polish accession to NATO there was a significant increase in the number of civilians working in the MoD. Admittedly, the employment of civilian specialists was not based on central schemes; rather, it was erratic and driven by the immediate needs of departments and the general policy to boost civilian cadres in the MoD. Under the old system, however, the immediate principal had a significant influence over hiring or firing a person and so qualifications, loyalty and good work could earn a promotion or an award. The Law on Civil Service provided for the creation of the function of general director in all the ministries,7 responsible for the recruitment process and the entire personnel, financial and administrative management of government agencies. The general director reports to a respective minister but the security of his or her tenure is legally guaranteed. The general director should be selected in a competitive
Civilian democratic control in Poland 103 recruitment process by the supreme chief of civil service and be politically neutral throughout the term of office. The reality, however, is different in the MoD. The choice of the first general director in the MoD, Tadeusz Diem, was strongly supported by the then prime minister. Similarly Diem’s successor in the position had been formerly deputy general director in the MoD and the departing director carefully arranged his subsequent nomination. Political neutrality is also a fiction. Staying neutral is difficult due to the considerable powers vested in the function of general director, which gives many decisions a political outlook in any case. Moreover, directors themselves are not free from temptations to engage politically. The best example is again the first general director in the MoD, Tadeusz Diem, who left his apolitical office half way through the term to become Under-Secretary of State for Defence Policy. The creation of the post of general director radically changed the structural outlook of the MoD. The Law on Civil Service described in detail the scope of responsibilities for personnel policy of the general director, but the remaining management duties and responsibilities, particularly regarding relations with the minister, were vaguely defined. It created grounds for a potential conflict between the minister of defence and his general director, especially given that the minister’s authority over his own chief manager in the MoD was more limited than his powers over the chief of general staff. Implementation of the provisions of the Law on Civil Service contributed to further bureaucratisation of the Ministry of National Defence. An administrative cell existing in the MoD since 1994 evolved into a large and powerful Department of Administration and Co-ordination (DAK),8 which exchanged its auxiliary administrative support functions into the supreme management role in the entire ministry, additionally responsible for civilian personnel. The heavy, bureaucratic structure and its unclear relation to the military administration caused regular decision-making delays and complicated the organisation and workings of the MoD.9 Among the civilian employees outside the Administrative Department it became a synonym of bureaucratic inefficiency and ignorance. Moreover, administrative structures under the general director’s authority remained in constant conflict over competencies with their military counterparts, which slowed and complicated the exchange of information. Language courses provide a prime example of such problems when information concerning the availability of courses frequently reached civilian cadres (for whom language education is a statutory requirement) after the recruitment process had already finished. The provisions of the revised Law on Civil Service had by far the most serious consequences for personnel policy. The Law radically changed civilian personnel management procedures since the military service had been regulated by separate legislation. Following the implementation of the Law on Civil Service, a strict separation of military and civilian personnel management took place in the MoD. The Department of Cadres continued to manage military personnel, while the civil service corps was taken over by the general director and a small cell in the Administrative Department was created. In practical terms, it meant a complete separation of the civilian cadres from their immediate principals in matters of
104 Agnieszka Gogolewska personnel policy. The influence of principals on the recruitment process and promotion was drastically limited, and in some instances they had no influence at all. Moreover, there was no way they could get rid of an unwanted employee. Such a system provides a degree of protection against biased or prejudiced principals, but it does not tend to promote initiative, good work or loyalty because personnel decisions are taken elsewhere, independently of the opinion of the departmental director or head of section. Moreover, the general director does not participate in meetings other than those of senior ministerial leadership; therefore, under normal circumstances there is no connection between the director and ‘his’ or ‘her’ employees in the ministry. Most problems in civilian personnel policy have their source in the lack of a general career scheme for civil servants. In violation of the provisions of the Law on Civil Service, none of the successive general directors prepared a central programme of appraisal and development of manpower. The only change introduced following the adoption of the Law on Civil Service was in the recruitment procedure. According to its provisions, civilian vacancies must be announced in the special Civil Service Bulletin and filled in through a competitive process. As a result, the civilians coming to the MoD have to meet high levels of criteria, only to find out that their military counterparts did not have to fulfil any such requirements (DMCS, 2000, p. 13). Moreover, only junior level vacancies are filled in a truly competitive way; more senior positions are frequently staffed by people who have already served in the post as a military or in an ‘acting’ capacity. There is no personnel appraisal system either that would justify promotion or its lack. With the sole exception of recruitment, all such personnel decisions are taken arbitrarily by the general director. There were instances when the head of division (a departmental cell) would learn the name of his future senior level employee without being consulted prior to the nomination and without even seeing the person beforehand. Personnel policy attaches the greatest importance to formal qualifications, while work experience or completion of specialised courses count for little. In addition, the rules of the civil service exclude secretarial and support staff from the system and deprive them of chances for further career development. Under the Law on Civil Service, support staff do not qualify for either of the servants’ grades in the two-tier system and their management cell is in another MoD structure. This is most unfortunate because young support staff are prospectively the best potential pool of candidates to become civilian specialists, and excluding them from the ranks of civil servants further weakens the position of civilian personnel vis-à-vis the military. Generally speaking, the system of manpower management is too rigid and should be made more flexible and prepared for quality selection through a fast career path for the best civilian specialists. Such a window of opportunity for the particularly suitable or gifted is necessary in order to build a cadre of highly qualified civilian defence specialists. Last but not least, payment is a problem. Here, the rules again severely discriminate against civilian personnel in the MoD. Their pay is very poor by comparison with their military counterparts and there are no additional allowances to compensate for high living expenses in Warsaw. Little training or further
Civilian democratic control in Poland 105 education is available, and particularly attractive courses are seldom open to competition among the most suitable candidates. Individual education is not encouraged; for example, it is impossible to have an extra day off for examinations or training if the MoD is not the delegating authority. But while the specialised training or language education offers are scarce, the general director regularly offers participation in civil service training that has no connection to the function and work in the MoD, but in which participation may be obligatory under law. These courses typically cover administrative issues, such as public tender procedures, legal regulations, Administrative Code, European integration etc. The problem is that such training is of little use to defence specialists, causes delays at work and upsets military principals. Furthermore, in contrast to their military counterparts, civilians are not financially or otherwise rewarded for obtaining additional qualifications related to their field of specialisation. Finally, the system of employment of civil servants discourages from horizontal transfers between the MoD departments, despite the fact that a system of routine horizontal movement would naturally promote development of much needed defence expertise and experience among the civilians. In the Polish MoD the intention to move from one department to another is typically treated as a vote of noconfidence in one’s own principal and is strongly opposed. Consequently, a narrow career path is the rule at the lower levels of civil service and cannot produce the breadth of knowledge necessary at the more senior levels or in the more military focused areas. While the Law on Civil Service created objective conditions having adverse effects on civilianisation of the MoD, there are also more subjective obstacles to the development of cadres of civilian experts. Despite 12 years of post-communist civil–military transformation, the role of civilians in defence is still understood narrowly as political controllers and not as substantial contributors to defence policy. Unfortunately, such an attitude is shared both by military (especially senior ranks) and politicians inside and outside the defence sector. In one official MoD document there was a paragraph explaining that the importance of civilian employees in the MoD stemmed purely from the constitutional principle of the civilian and democratic control of armed forces. This narrow view of civilians as ‘controllers’ is widespread at all levels of the ministry. While senior military figures acknowledge the necessity of civilian political presence in the MoD leadership in order to assure democratic civilian control, they find it much more difficult to accept civilian employees as fellow defence experts. For example, when the official British advisor to the Minister of Defence, William Jesset, was delegated to the general staff to make an initial appraisal of the ‘Programme for the Reconstruction and Technical Modernisation of the Polish Armed Forces in the years 2001–2006’, some of the officers were so hostile to the idea of a civilian evaluating their plan that they would not even answer his greeting of ‘good morning’. The few senior civilian employees in the MoD also meet sometimes with patronising attitudes from the military, although it would be difficult to call this a rule. Some of that, however, is likely to be a generational problem, since junior ranks appear to cooperate with fellow civilians much more easily.
106 Agnieszka Gogolewska What is more troubling is the same lack of confidence in civilian experts on the part of top MoD leadership and politicians outside the ministry. As a result, the defence policy sector remains militarised in Poland. ‘Defence experts’ invited to appear before parliamentarians or to government meetings are predominantly service officers. The secretariats of senior political appointees are run by the military and officers staff most senior positions. When in 2000 the then general director recommended 14 senior level posts in the MoD to be open for civilians, including director and deputy director in the minister’s secretariat, director of departments for NATO, personnel, science and military education, armaments policy, social affairs and armed forces supply, director of department of foreign military affairs, the incoming Minister of Defence Komorowski personally withdrew those posts from open competition. In the defence policy branch, which is the most civilianised part of the MoD,10 only two out of nine heads of department are civilians, despite the greater overall number of civilian employees in the department.11 Since 2001, even the civilian personnel branch within the administrative and co-ordinating department has been headed by a retired officer, a fact which provoked particular irritation among the civilian cadres. The above facts demonstrate that development of a strong cadre of civilian experts, in reality, was not on the political agenda of successive defence ministers. They have failed to designate key areas for civilian expertise and as a result the engagement of civilians in the MoD proceeded slowly and erratically over the years and was most successful in administrative structures, i.e. those areas not directly related to defence policy making. In 2001, the total number of civilian employees, both specialists and support personnel in the Ministry of Defence and the armed forces was about 55,000 (about 25,000 of whom were women). Of that number, roughly 560 posts out of a total of some 1,900 posts were civilian positions in the MoD and from the point of view of democratic civilian control of the military those were really the key positions. However, a great majority of civilian posts were secretarial, junior and clerical posts: about 200 inspectors (junior entry posts) and another 200 specialists (junior post-entry level). The more senior the level, the fewer civilians there were. Prior to the restructuring in 2002, there were only five posts at the Director or Deputy Director level occupied by civilians in the entire MoD. Out of those five, three directors were retired military and the remaining two were employed in an ‘acting’ capacity for a prolonged period. In April 2002, the MoD underwent a restructuring process after which the defence policy sector, the most ‘civilianised’ sector in the MoD, shrank further. Three formerly separate departments were combined into one structure under a civilian director and deputy director. Not surprisingly, nominations were temporary and in an acting capacity.12 As of April 2003, an open competition for the post of civilian director had yet to be organised. In order to nominate a civil servant to a post, the job must be advertised and theoretically open for competition from the outside the department. Unless this formal process is followed, the acting director cannot receive a permanent nomination. By April 2003 such an announcement had not yet been published, thus the acting director had to wait and in the meantime carry out his duties under temporary nomination. Such provisional status did not
Civilian democratic control in Poland 107 reinforce his position. When the competition was finally organised in the summer of 2003, the acting director won the post. The complete lack of ‘audition schemes’ (systems for monitoring the work performance of civil servants), poor pay, training and career prospects combined with the absence of civilian manpower retention programmes had a predictable effect on the specialist cadre. The corps of civilian specialists in the MoD has been shrinking in recent years. Since 1997, some 440 civilians have left the MoD, some of them as a result of personnel reductions and structural downsizing processes, but many were lost to more promising job offers. The general recession of the job market in Poland slowed this process, but did not stop it. Most unfortunately, in recent months only the best-qualified specialists could find positions in the difficult job market, and they are the ones who quit. There were also some spectacular senior level resignations and sackings. The most spectacular protest against the personnel policy took place in autumn 2000, when nearly 50 specialists left the MoD. The majority of them were qualified and experienced civilians who had participated in Polish negotiations on NATO membership. No effort was made to retain them, and instead of being dismissed, the general director responsible for personnel management was subsequently nominated as UnderSecretary of State for Defence Policy. As a result of the military-dominated structure, the successive ministers of defence and senior management did not have an alternative politically and financially aware civilian advice at their disposal. Nor was such opinion regarded as crucial to defence policy making in Poland. Civilian expertise has not been established as a crucial element of a balanced defence policy. As a result, the present quality of work in the ministry, in the opinion of many insiders as well as external observers, is deteriorating. Since Polish accession to NATO, there has been further regression rather than progress in building civilian defence expertise in Poland and if current policy does not change, progressive albeit selective militarisation of defence policy is likely to take place in Poland.
Procurement and corruption: who controls the controllers? The procurement-related scandals of 2001 highlighted the inadequate MoD organisation, poor management and superficial civilian control. In July 2001, Rzeczpospolita, one of the biggest Polish newspapers, published an article on allegations of corruption in the MoD in connection with the tender for the purchase of howitzer artillery for the Polish armed forces (Kittel and Marsza$ek, 2001, pp. 2–3). According to an unidentified witness, Zbigniew Farmus, the then assistant to the Secretary of State and First Deputy Minister of National Defence Romuald Szeremietiew, was alleged to have demanded in the name of his principal US$100,000 from a foreign representative of the armaments producer in exchange for the promise of winning the howitzers tender. Allegedly, it was not the first such corruption incident connected to military procurement. Moreover, Secretary of State, Romuald Szeremietiew, was presumably involved in many of these illegal activities. At that time, Szeremietiew was responsible for the entire infrastructure
108 Agnieszka Gogolewska and procurement sector, including the organisation of tenders. His procurement policy was often controversial and so was the 1997 tender for howitzers. Howitzers were not on the list of urgent military acquisitions; moreover, the Parliamentary National Defence Committee investigated the tender and negatively assessed the bidding procedures and the final choice of the manufacturer. Similarly, the tender received a disapproving opinion from the Supreme Control Chamber – NIK (Rzeczpospolita, 2001, p. 6). Those alarm signals were, however, disregarded and no action was taken to improve tender procedures or strengthen control of the field. Following the press reports on the alleged corruption in military procurement it became known that the then Minister of Defence Komorowski had ordered investigation of the case by the Military Information Services and that publication of the article had only speeded up the developments. The investigation purportedly revealed a number of potentially corrupting mechanisms in the procurement policy; however, direct evidence of criminal behaviour was not found. Soon afterwards, Farmus was arrested during an attempted escape to Sweden and Minister Szeremietiew was promptly dismissed (Polska Zbrojna, 2001, p. 11). Next, a number of senior level officials connected with the tender were removed from office and replaced by new people. The minister of defence also announced his intention to take further radical steps, primarily to carry out restructuring of the MoD procurement sector to achieve better organisation and transparency. The main impact of reform was to be directed primarily towards far-reaching changes in the organisation of the tender for multipurpose planes. This was in order to ensure transparency of the bidding procedures and to avert accusations of corruption or political motivation in the final choice of the producer. The relatively radical reaction of the minister of defence to allegations of a corruption scandal, although directly linked to the tender for howitzers, had deeper reasons. Deputy Minister Szeremietiew was personally involved in the organisation of the tender for supersonic aircraft and possible corruption in connection with the already ill-famed aircraft tender could have a fatal effect on Poland’s reputation and credibility abroad, particularly with NATO partners, and complicate procurement policy in the future. Additionally, corruption in military procurement was proof of the impotence of civilian democratic control of the military and of inadequate qualification of employees. Radical reforms were needed to wipe away the negative image of toothless civilian control in the infrastructure and procurement sector. Lack of transparency was a typical feature of military procurement and the tender for multipurpose planes provided a striking example. The tender had a ten-year old history when Minister Szeremietiew took charge of it. Those ten years featured a series of scandals, each of them testifying to the lack of strategic vision concerning army development, weakness of procurement planning and poor co-ordination and control of the process. Polish authorities first considered equipping the Polish Air Force with multipurpose planes in January 1992 and it was planned that F-16A planes would be leased. Eventually the government withdrew from the lease and a special inter-governmental commission was
Civilian democratic control in Poland 109 established and tasked with elaboration of technical specifications and other conditions of transaction. For the next several years the organisation of the tender repeatedly fell below standards commonly accepted in democratic countries. The political decision to acquire the multipurpose plane had originally been taken in a ‘security vacuum’ when Poland formally was not a member of any security alliance. Why the decision was sustained after accession to NATO and even became one of the priorities of army modernisation was never explained to the public in a satisfactory way (Karkoszka, 2002, pp. 27–8). Several times between 1992 and 2002, the tender’s closing date was officially announced and then delayed or cancelled, or simply disregarded. Public opinion was never properly informed and little was known publicly about the tender criteria, the offers being considered, or even the composition of the qualifying commission. In 2001, the Polish government was prepared to disregard all earlier decisions and make a ‘gratitude purchase’ of F-16 aircraft in the USA without a tender. The idea was finally dropped, mainly because the American administration preferred a more competitive procedure, but it left a general impression of ambiguous intentions on the part of the Polish authorities (Czwartosz, 2002, p. 5). That negative impression was only deepened when the Secretary of State and First Deputy Minister of Defence Szeremietiew, suddenly announced a plan to close the tender in 76 days. Such a plan, in the opinion of independent specialists, was both undeliverable and compromising to its author. Another defining feature of that and many other tenders was lack of clarity regarding the competencies and responsibilities of the agencies involved. The works of the special commission were complicated by the multiplicity of laws and agendas governing its organisation and procedure. The purchase of new planes was included in the governmental ‘Programme of Restructuring and Modernisation of the Polish Armed Forces 2001–2006’ and regulated by at least two parliamentary acts and several regulations of lower order. The amount of funds necessary for the purchase of multipurpose aircraft by far exceeded the budget of the defence sector, therefore a separate parliamentary law on 25 May 2001 approved prospective transactions. The Bill guaranteed financing the transaction for 15 years from the state budget on the condition that the expenses would not exceed 0.5 per cent of GDP. However, the issues regarding obligatory offset investment in the Polish economy that would compensate the procurement costs were regulated by yet another law, the so-called ‘Offset Bill’ of September 1999, revised and amended specifically to facilitate the aircraft transaction (Choroszy, 2001a, pp. 8–10). Thanks to offset regulations, the military industry sector could have become a beneficiary of the transaction. However, a long-term investment plan that would supplement the Offset Bill was never elaborated. As a result, the Polish side does not have a viable policy to guide its choices among offset offers. Control of procurement was additionally complicated by the simultaneous involvement of three different ministries in the process: the Ministry of the Economy, the Ministry of State Treasury and the Ministry of National Defence. Each minister was responsible for a different aspect of the tender. The minister of economy represented an owner of the military industry property and was charged
110 Agnieszka Gogolewska with realisation of the Offset Bill. The minister of state treasury was responsible for the privatisation of the military industry sector so therefore was also a party to offset negotiations. The technical and defence related side of the acquisition was obviously a responsibility of the minister of defence. The involvement of three different ministries caused great difficulties in negotiations and blurred the division of responsibilities, especially considering that intra-governmental communication and co-operation was poor and caused frequent decision-making delays (Choroszy, 2001b, p. 3). The internal organisation of procurement within the MoD was no better. Generally speaking, there were three separate departments involved in the procurement process: the Department of Armaments Policy, Department of Procurement and Infrastructure and Department of Military Standardisation. All three departments were subordinated to the secretary of state and the first deputy minister of defence and were responsible for different aspects of centrally planned and tri-service purchases and supplies.13 The organisation suffered from typical post-communist diseases: unclear division of functions between the departments, overlapping responsibilities, poor co-ordination of works between various cells in that area, and as a result, disjointed decision-making processes. There were working contacts between the departments and the general staff, but no formal obligation to co-ordinate their works. Consequently, procurement planning and execution was taking place in relative isolation from activities in other defence planning structures in the MoD, which caused problems and contention in the ministry. Additionally, as the British survey revealed, procurement budgets were in the wrong place. The departments in the procurement sector had limited influence on the preparation of the budget as chairs of two out of three budget sub-committees in the MoD could authorise spending on behalf of others, but they lacked functional responsibility for the expenditures. They could not reallocate funds or effectively supervise the mechanics of spending. The lack of functional responsibility further stiffened the procurement procedures and limited decision-making flexibility and control instruments. Finally, in the MoD there was not a single authority that would have the unique task of monitoring the area of procurement in the Polish armed forces. Thus, the secretary of state was the main executor and at the same time chief controller of the procurement policy in the MoD. The concentration of executive and supervisory functions in the hands of one political nominee, combined with low civilian involvement in the procurement policy and an absence of external control mechanisms created conditions conducive to corruption (Kami>ski, 2001, p. 6). The 2001 scandal involving the Secretary of State and First Deputy Minister of Defence, Romuald Szeremietiew, made those problems apparent and alarmed the politicians, especially in light of the fact that relatively few military acquisitions were decided on through a fully competitive process. Most tenders employed the so-called ‘free hand’ procedure whereby the bidding process is not fully competitive and technical specifications could be prepared with a specific producer/supplier in mind. Controllers found it difficult to verify the real reasons for limited competitiveness because decisions were frequently justified by the need for utmost secrecy
Civilian democratic control in Poland 111 of the proceedings. This was yet another sign of the impotence of control mechanisms inside the Polish MoD (Nowak, 2002, pp. 5–6). Soon after the scandal broke it seemed likely to trigger a genuine reform of military procurement. Parliamentary elections that took place a few months later and the subsequent change of government created political conditions favourable to a radical structural rearrangement. In reality, the pompously proclaimed changes in the sector involved affected actual persons rather than reform of the mechanisms. The most important institutional change was moving procurement planning to the General Directorate of Strategic Planning (P-5) in the general staff. It amounted to a regression in the civilianisation of the MoD, invalidating earlier reform in which procurement planning had been moved from the general staff to the Infrastructure Department and earmarked as a civilian function. The corruptionprone amalgamation of the executive and controlling functions vested in one political figure has been sustained, meaning that the reform of the military procurement sector did not bring about a qualitative change.
Conclusion Poland is often perceived as a country that over the past ten years achieved substantial progress in instituting democratic civilian control of the armed forces. This is rightly so. The legal and structural reforms prior to Polish accession to NATO clarified and streamlined control functions in the executive and introduced a modicum of civilian expertise into defence planning. Equally important, the successful civil–military reforms managed to instil a general conviction in the military as well as in the political elite that functioning democratic civilian control was an indispensable feature of modern democracies. However, the principle of civilian democratic control over the military was narrowly understood as a control exercised by politicians over the armed forces and not as a system of shared civil– military responsibility for the defence and security policy of the state. Such a course of transformation should not be too surprising. In fact, NATO and other Western observers promoted a model of civilian control that focused on a civilian minister of defence and promoting military socialisation to democracy. Legal and institutional reforms were emphasised in this model, while little attention was devoted to the long-term development of civilian experts in the field. Polish reforms precisely followed in that direction. Progress in building effective mechanisms of civilian control over the military was not sustained. Rather than fostering the development of a professional cadre of civilian defence specialists as the backbone of democratic control of the military, successive ministers promoted a system in which management and control prerogatives became concentrated in the hands of a few senior political leadership figures. The result of that policy is not only inefficient control, but also poor management of resources in the defence sector and gradual weakening of the civilian component in the MoD. The principle of shared responsibility does not exist in practice. The organisation of the ministry does not promote contacts and co-operation between
112 Agnieszka Gogolewska the various structures and personnel; on the contrary, civilians wanting to move between departments are regarded with suspicion. There are no standards or popularly approved ethics that would guide the civil–military coexistence inside the MoD. Moreover, the introduction of legal provisions for civil service, originally designed to promote and protect civilians in the government service, in the militarised environment of the Ministry of National Defence turned out to be detrimental to the development of a specialised cadre of civilian defence experts. It contributed to greater bureaucratisation of personnel and resource management in the MoD as well as afflicting relations between the two services within the ministry. The situation is aggravated by the fact that the political leadership in the MoD and outside ministerial structures does not recognise or appreciate the importance of civilian expertise in the defence sector. Consequently, in daily routine the general staff becomes an increasingly independent structure and usurps the right to represent the Ministry of Defence in external contacts. The corollary of that situation is that political leaders formally exercise their control powers, yet their knowledge of the defence and security sector is based on military advice and their management of the MoD is dominated by the military as well. Defence policy lacks a strategic vision of long-term development, and the existing procedures for strategic planning increasingly exclude civilians from participating in the process. The corruption scandal of 2001 revealed a dramatic inadequacy of control mechanisms within the defence sector. The weakness of civilian influence on defence planning became manifest also in the case of the plan for the development and modernisation of the armed forces, dubbed ‘Army 2006’, which was prepared by the general staff and turned out to be undeliverable due to financial and political constraints. Unless action is taken in the near future to rectify these problems, a further shrinking of the civilian component and underdevelopment of civilian control is likely to be observed in the MoD. In extreme conditions, democratic civilian control of the military in Poland may be reduced to the symbolic figure of the civilian minister of defence and a token presence of civil servants in the defence sector.
Notes 1 Target figure set out in the ‘Programme for Restructuring and Technical Modernisation of the Polish Armed Forces in the Years 2001–2006’. 2 Article 26 of the Constitution. 3 Dziennik Ustaw, No. 10/1996, Title 56. 4 Andrzej Karkoszka was then the Under-Secretary of State for Defence Policy. 5 Dziennik Ustaw, No. 107 of 15 Sept. 1997, Title 688. 6 ‘Ustawa o s$u
Civilian democratic control in Poland 113 11 The ratio is 48 civilian employees to 36 military. 12 The post of deputy director was filled by the former service officer who retired specifically to be able to take over the position. 13 In the event that the procurement was for a single service only, the funding would go directly to the service commanders.
114 Ferenc Molnár
8
Civil–military relations in Hungary From competition to co-operation Ferenc Molnár1
Introduction One of the key aspects of democratic transition and consolidation in Hungary has been the development of democratic civil–military relations. Compared with other former Warsaw Pact countries, Hungary had rather advanced democratic conditions by the end of the 1980s. Nevertheless, from 1989 it still had to undertake efforts to establish democratic civil–military relations. This process was relatively quick and successful because the military was co-operative and accepted the fact of democratic transition. It was also successful because the political society shared the belief of the necessity of building a new democratic system. Nevertheless, it only means that the most important elements of the democratic civil–military relations were set up peacefully and in time. Although the institutional and legal foundations of the democratic control of the military were established during the early phase of transitions, the effective control over the armed forces has had deficiencies. The measure of effectiveness is most likely a properly financed, socially accepted and capable military, which requires balanced civil–military relations in a consolidated democracy. Taking this into account, Hungary has had severe problems concerning civil–military relations since the military has been extremely under-financed,2 with a significant ratio of the male population avoiding compulsory military service,3 and NATO has voiced serious reservations concerning the capability of the Hungarian military (Simon, 2000; Népszabadság, 2002). However, it can be stated that Hungarian social, political and economic development sets constraints to the domestic civil– military relations, which has not promoted a shorter or more successful development of effective civil–military relations. After all, the last 12 years produced a long learning process in civil–military relations. First, the foundations of democratic control were set up at the beginning of the transition (1989–94), secondly, the decline of the defence budget stopped in 1997, the third government (1998–2002) enforced a new executive power’s control over the military and the fourth government (2002–) decided to abolish conscription and improve the capability of the military. This chapter describes two important cases of this process. It focuses on formulating co-operation (sometimes competition) between the political/administrative and military sides in post-communist Hungary. It
Civil–military relations in Hungary 115 demonstrates that the civil–military system has required a close co-operation between civilian and military authorities, which necessarily means military involvement in policy making and, therefore, the politicisation of the military to a certain degree. This statement is relevant because the depoliticisation of the military after communism pictured a politically sterile military. The fact is that co-operation between the political and military elite is a requirement for sufficient defence policy making and a properly financed military. Furthermore, whether it is liked or not, co-operation and/or coalition building occurs according to the nature of civil–military relations. The question is rather how it can be organised to promote its functionality. The first selected, long-term case (1989–2001) follows the development of a key problem of Hungarian civil–military relations: the integration of the Ministry of Defence and the high command of the military. During this dispute, the main problem was the difficult clarification of civil and military responsibilities concerning command and control of the military. The civilian actors involved in the process learnt much regarding the military demand of real supervision over the armed forces in addition to their expectation that the military remain neutral in domestic political dynamics. At the same time, it was a learning process on the military side in which the military learned to articulate its interests with increasing effectiveness in the new pluralist, democratic environment. It ultimately led to a relative politicisation of the military elite, especially when political parties in the parliament were lacking political consensus concerning the military. The second, relatively short civil–military conflict was an intermezzo of the current Hungarian civil–military relations. It was the case of General Ferenc Végh (1996–99), who pressed politicians to accept civilian responsibility and wanted to end the continuous reorganisation of the military driven by only fiscal requirements. General Ferenc Végh utilised foreign political demands to achieve military purposes such as sharing responsibility with politicians in building a more capable and NATO-compatible military. Consequently, his influence on Hungarian foreign policy was also perceived as a challenge to the politically acceptable activity of a military man, which led to his replacement.
The long-lasting civil–military struggle: the integration of the ministry and the general staff The integration of the Ministry of Defence and the high command of the military caused the longest civil–military debate in today’s Hungary. In December 1989, in the last year of communism and after many decades, the Ministry of Defence and the headquarters of Hungarian home defence forces became separate entities.4 Although decision makers intended to create a clear situation between the ministry and the headquarters, conflicts became continuous over the sphere of authority between the two organisations. The legal solution to the debate was born in 2001. Nonetheless, developing a new organisational structure and culture for smooth co-operation between the civilian administration and military personnel probably requires a further decade.
116 Ferenc Molnár The questioned issue was not always clearly civil–military but rather a political conflict concerning the military, even though it represented the long-term and continuous difficulties between civil and military interests. It was a crucial and long-standing struggle for power over the military organisation and military related issues. In other words, the ministry wanted more opportunity to control the military and the headquarters/general staff wanted to preserve its independence. This conflict was much more complicated than this short and simple description because of the current political and organisational dynamics. Describing the fully detailed case is almost impossible because so many individual and group interests filled the struggle between the two institutions. This chapter intends to examine the most important elements of the conflict to derive a greater understanding of the nature of civil–military relations in post-communist Hungary. The origin of the conflict (division of the ministry and the headquarters) generated the ‘last communist step’ theory about communist efforts to preserve power over the military (Simon, 1995, p. 86). However, the declared aim of the separation was to isolate the military from political party struggles and influences when there were upcoming free elections (Joó, 1996, p. 48). Although it could be a reasonable motive, the ‘last communist step’ theory became generally accepted among experts for the following reasons. In the newly created situation, the Ministry of Defence was subordinated to the prime minister and the high command of the armed forces was subordinated to the president and to the minister of defence. The institution of president was created at that time in Hungary. In October 1989, the communist majority parliament (the first free elections took place in May 1990) passed the new constitution which declared the president to be commander-in-chief of the armed forces (the commander-in-chief had rights to act influentially mainly in qualified situations). According to a widely shared opinion, the reform communist Imre Pozsgai had the best chance of being elected president and to command the military. Nonetheless, Pozsgai was not elected in the 1990 presidential election. Neither the president nor the government came under communist influence in 1990. The practical command of the armed forces remained purely in military hands (under the commander of the home defence forces) without effective control of the Ministry of Defence. Any connection between the two institutions was structurally eliminated; there was virtually no formal connection between them except at the top of the hierarchy. Nonetheless, the military never opposed the overall democratisation and was co-operative during the transition. The first minister of defence of democratic Hungary was not satisfied with this situation in which his position was too weak to control the military. He expressed the view that Hungary was a parliamentary democracy, and that consequently he as a member of the government was responsible to the parliament to implement defence policy, and the foundation to put into practice defence policy including the control of the armed forces. The commander, General Lorincz, perceived the activity of the disappointed civilian minister as an attack against his professional independence. Although the public debate was not between them, the general had felt that political games (and
Civil–military relations in Hungary 117 therefore party politicians) had endangered the coherence of the military since the beginning of the systemic changes. He even articulated this opinion: ‘It should be considered that the Hungarian army is a national institution. If it is a place for “minute made” short-time political interests, this will have serious consequences’ (30 March 1990, quoted in Szemle, 2000). On the one hand, it was evident that the military leaders felt responsible for the military, on the other hand, the orientation became difficult for them in the new social and political environment. It was more complicated around and after the elections than during communism. The monolithic, slowly changing, stable political environment became pluralist, brand new and dynamic. It was especially difficult because of the emerging legal and organisational environment. Additionally, the conflict between the biggest governing (right-of-centre Hungarian Democrat Forum) and opposition (Liberal Alliance of Free Democrats) parties flavoured the civil–military divergence. In the triangle of the minister (governing party), the president as the commander-in-chief (opposition party), and the commander of home defence forces (military), the political actors interpreted the Constitution differently, i.e. the responsibility of the president and the minister was not clear.5 It frustrated the military and resulted in a civil–military struggle between the ministry and the headquarters. However, this tension between the civilian leadership and the military was not made public for a while. The following factors characterise the foundations of the conflict:
•
•
The new political actors wanted to control and reform the post-communist military while they struggled with each other. At the same time they had no chance to manage any military-related question (withdrawing the Soviet troops, downsizing the national military, eliminating the structure of the communist political department in the military, guaranteeing the security of the country etc.) without the only military experts: soldiers of the former regime. Additionally, civilians had no experience in working with military personnel. The military leadership experienced a deprived situation due to its political background, while the military as an executive body was responsible for all mentioned duties amid weakening organisational resources (lower budget, downsizing military). It is important to note that in this period the Romanian revolution, coup-attempt in Moscow, and the civil war in Yugoslavia resulted in insecurity. The adaptation of the new political and security environment caused difficulties for the military, especially among the domestic situation which was quickly being entirely transformed. The military elite had no knowledge about a pluralist, democratic political system.
Tensions between the civilian and military leadership were firstly publicised and became an issue when General Kalman Lorincz, commander of the home defence forces, sent his resignation to the president. The commander’s explanation was that the ministry intended to modify the current management system of the military. He commented: ‘The publicly articulated purpose [of the ministry] was to question
118 Ferenc Molnár my job’ (Magyar Hírlap, 1991). The president did not accept his resignation and the General remained commander until retirement (February, 1994). At the same time, the minister was unsatisfied because of lacking tools to practice control over the military. Thus Minister Lajos Fur asked for a decision by the Constitutional Court clarifying the rights of the Ministry of Defence. The decree of the Constitutional Court empowered the position of the minister and the civil control (furthermore, the court’s decision definitely limited the power of the president over the armed forces). The Constitutional Court made clear the difference between ‘controlling’ and ‘leading’ the military, which had not been obvious in Hungary. The court declared that there was no competency to ‘lead’ independently. The commander of the Hungarian home defence forces could use its right to lead the military in accordance with the requirements of controlling bodies, i.e. parliament, government and the president (Constitutional Court, 1991). Consequently, the commander had no right to make any decision that was not based on one of the controlling institutions’ verdicts (law, declaration, directive). The sophisticated argument of the court was that the controller was outside (beyond) the controlled organisation, while the leader was at the top of the hierarchy of organisation. Therefore, the leading activity was the fulfilment of the requirements of control. In other words, the civilian minister of defence is a controller and the commander of the military is a leader and thus their relationship becomes obvious. This declaration of the Constitutional Court became the foundation of Hungarian civil–military relations and later the Defence Act (1993) used it as a normative guideline. As a consequence of the clarification of responsibilities, the government made changes making the minister’s power over the military apparent. The administration subordinated the military leadership to the minister of defence and appointed more civilians from the governing party to mid-level leading positions (Szabo, 2001, p. 31). At the same time, the military questioned the competence of civilian leadership in military-related fields and perceived civilians as ‘guest players’ with quasi-responsibility, who were willing to cut the size and the budget6 of the military, then shift the responsibility on to military personnel. On the whole, the tensions between the ministry and the military headquarters were still latently present. Besides the tensions, the two organisations developed parallel structural elements and similar functions. This resulted in a continuous rivalry between the ministry and the headquarters that caused not only domestic civil–military conflicts but inconveniences abroad. For example, the administrative state secretary complained in an interview that a delegation of the ministry arriving at a defence industry conference in Stockholm was informed about another delegation from the Hungarian headquarters. He stated that it was intolerable that two organisations belonging to the same ministry, working for the same overall goals, produced such bad co-operation and co-ordination (interview with Rudolf Joó, cited in Hungarian Ministry of Defence, 1994a, p. 164). The first freely elected government intended to resolve the anomalies of civil– military relations with the integration of the ministry and the military staff at the
Civil–military relations in Hungary 119 very end of its governing cycle. In spite of the ambiguity of the first government in 1994 it was too late. Besides the obvious rigidity of the military leadership, the parliamentary opposition did not want to accept significant changes of the military shortly before the elections.7 Following the parliamentary election, the new government came into power with new priorities. The new social and liberal coalition (Hungarian Socialist Party and Alliance of Free Democrats) did not keep integration of the ministry and the headquarters on the agenda. Although the new government considered the lack of civilian experts and civilian expertise at the ministry an important question, the parliamentary opposition, domestic experts8 and NATO, as well as member countries, strongly and reasonably criticised its solution to this problem (Heti Világgazdaság, 1994a; 1997a). The new political leadership preferred military and/or ex-military personnel (Simon, 1995, pp. 100–2), which seemed to be partly an answer for the incompetence during the previous administration9 and partially proved the good relationship between the military leadership and the Socialist Party (the successor party of the Hungarian Socialist Workers Party). Albeit the new leadership undoubtedly accepted the democratic rules, the so-called ‘militarisation’ of the ministry was a fact. At the same time, the new government worked out a plan for transforming the military. The goal was a smaller, ‘financially sustainable’ and NATO compatible military. According to the official communiqué, the ministry and the headquarters together worked out a middle- and long-term transformation plan for achieving the mentioned goals. The national assembly adopted it in 1995. This plan contained the main priorities but it did not contain the question of integration. It took quite a long time before the new leadership at the Ministry of Defence initiated domestic and international discussions on this topic. It happened when the ministry realised the extent of NATO’s concern about civilian control. The head of the Parliamentary Defence Committee, Imre Mecs, stated after the Hungarian NATO ambassador had reported to the Defence Committee: It seems Hungary has a chance to join NATO before the millennium … It also became clear that developing the democratic control is extremely significant among the [NATO] requirements (Hungarian National Assembly, 1994). It also took quite a long time to recognise that structural changes in the ministry and the headquarters were unavoidable. The minister of defence decided to deal with the integration of the ministry and the general staff only after experts from NATO countries declared its necessity. The most decisive pressure on the ministry was brought about by a British study (UK Ministry of Defence, 1996). Experts of the British Defence Ministry carried out screening research on the Hungarian democratic control over the military. According to one of the most important conclusions of the study, the separate structure of the ministry and the military constituted the most acute problem in the establishment of civil control (Joó, 1999, p. 105). The overall tension between the two organisations remained the same: according to the high command of the military, the ministry deeply intervened in strictly
120 Ferenc Molnár military issues, while the ministry complained about the weak supervision of the military. More precisely, three major factors can be identified:
• • •
insufficient organisation guarantees (regulations) for practising the minister’s rights; dysfunctional labour and shared responsibility between the two organisations (overlapping and parallel functions); differing interpretations of the existing regulations limiting the clarification of civil and military responsibilities (more competition than co-operation).
Hungarian experts highlighted the unclear identification of duties and responsibilities of the ministry and the general staff. As a result of the competition between these two entities, the flow of information and the co-operation was very limited. Furthermore, the general staff from time to time challenged the limits of its competency (Kelemen, 1999, pp. 96–7). Ultimately, the efforts of the second freely elected government concerning the integration of the two organisations culminated in theoretical preparation. Jozsef Feher, Administrative State Secretary (Deputy Minister), led the most important work (Hungarian Ministry of Defence, 1997). His work clarified the requirements for the democratic control of the armed forces and described the main problems in Hungary as well as the options for the relationship between the general staff and the ministry, more exactly the chief of staff and the minister. The analysis highlighted that democratic requirements were clear, but the integration or separation was just one problem among several. Authors declared that the defence-planning system had deficiencies and the practice of legislative power was the micromanagement of the military. The organisational integration would not solve this problem and only a task-oriented, transparent planning system with a long-term budget could be the foundation of effective control of the military (Hungarian Ministry of Defence, 1997). As far as the type of relationship between the minister and the chief of staff is concerned, the experts of administration supported the version of so-called shared leadership. In this model, the minister would have received all authorities concerning the military but strictly military questions would have been delegated to the chief of staff. The minister would have kept responsibilities and would be accountable for operating personal and material matters, such as human resource management and education, budget, logistic support, technical procurement and development, international relations etc. The chief of staff would have been responsible for planning, organising and fulfilling military duties such as defence planning, operations planning, military training, working out the requirements of readiness and mobilisation etc. In short, the minister would have had all authority but leading functions would have been shared. The chief of staff would have been on the same level as the administrative state secretary (deputy minister). It is important to note that in this solution the chief of staff would be the superior (commander) of the military (including the army, air force staffs) but not the integrated general staff.
Civil–military relations in Hungary 121 The second freely elected government accomplished the theoretical preparation with this work, but in fact was not able to manage the integration. In 1998, the social liberal coalition lost the parliamentary election and a new right-of-centre government (FIDESZ-Hungarian Civic Party and Independent Smallholders’ Party coalition) was to continue this job. The new ruling parties could develop the military and the idea of the integration among much better circumstances than the previous two governments. The economy was definitely stronger and rapidly emerging, Hungary was very close to membership in NATO, and society accepted the modernisation of the military.10 At the same time, the domestic political dynamics resulted in an unfortunate situation at the Ministry of Defence. The smaller (weaker) partner in the coalition (Smallholders’ Party) nominated the minister of defence. This meant not only a weak position of the ministry in the government, but also caused quite serious problems due to a lack of civilian experts. Ultimately, the new minister made personal changes in key positions which meant a re-civilianisation of the ministry (for a certain period).11 Nevertheless, civilians appointed by the Smallholders’ Party had no military-related experience, which was at the root of the decision to keep and appoint some smallholder experts to key positions.12 The most interesting situation concerning the tasked question was that a FIDESZ politician and member of the Parliamentary Defence Committee, Tamas Wachsler (presumably as a result of political negotiations) became the Administrative State Secretary. He had remarkable experience with the military since he had dealt with military-related issues for years. Wachsler considered the military was far from transparent for civilians (interview with Tamas Wachsler cited in Hungarian Ministry of Defence, 1994a, pp. 177–8), and the military elite had a ‘retrograde’ part which rigidly opposed real civilian supervision. Naturally, his definitive opinion and the urgent task of completing the integration of the ministry and the general staff boosted civil–military disputes. The debate around the integration was an issue when General Végh (see the other described Hungarian case) as chief of staff conflicted with the ministry. The chief of staff imagined the integration as the action of two equivalent organisations and not as the ministerial actors did. His concept of the integration was one in which the chief of staff was on an equal level with the administrative state secretary (right below the minister in the ministerial chain of command). Obviously, the ministry planned to integrate the general staff into the ministry and in the course of this integration civilians would have remained superior. Although the general had high respect in the military and significant influence in NATO (as the military leader during the final phase of preparation for NATO membership) supporting the military arguments about the integration, civilian politicians had to prove their dominance. This debate resulted in the replacement of General Végh with the appointment of General Lajos Fodor.13 Nevertheless, the hoped improvement of the integration did not materialise with this replacement. Although General Fodor did not seem to be as strategic thinking and strong-minded as his predecessor (Heti Világgazdaság, 1999), he had insightful experience into the ministry since he had
122 Ferenc Molnár been a deputy state secretary14 responsible for defence policy. Consequently, the struggle relating to the integration received a political flavour. Wachsler was determined about the integration15 and his idea was to subordinate the chief of staff to the administrative state secretary, which increased the military leaders’ firmness. Unsurprisingly, the military leaders were not fond of this idea in which the highest ranked general would have received a lower position in the ministry than the deputy minister. Although the administrative state secretary was confident about civilian supremacy, that did not seem to be enough in the civil– military debate in which the new chief of staff was able to use his political networks and routine successfully. General Fodor utilised the latent tension between the Smallholders’ leadership and the FIDESZ member state secretary. The Smallholders’ Party had wanted politically homogeneous ministries appointing only Smallholders to positions since the elections. It was an unsuccessful attempt during the negotiations of coalitionbuilding in the case of the Ministry of Defence. Apart from that, the Smallholdersline regarding the position of the administrative state secretary was weakened when the prime minister interfered in the debate. The prime minister encouraged the military side of the debate16 and opposed Wachsler’s idea (Heti Világgazdaság, 9 September 2000). The debate concluded with the replacement of the civilian state secretary, which proved – regardless of the quality (right or false) of his arguments – stronger military influence than previously. Wachsler’s successor was a military man. By this time, generals and retired generals were in leading positions at the ministry with the exception of the minister, the head of the minister’s office and the political state secretary. The preparation for the integration accelerated after Wachsler’s resignation. In spite of some political debate in the parliament, the National Assembly adopted a resolution on the long-term reorganisation of the Hungarian home defence forces.17 This required accomplishing the integration of the ministry and the general staff by the end of 2000. It was May 2001 when political parties could negotiate the exact operational plan of the integration and a few months later the parliament passed the law about all the legal modifications necessary for the integration.18 The accepted integration aimed to reduce the ministry-general staff (later on ministry), clarify the chain of command and the responsibilities for harmonising the administrative rules and military requirements in command and control, and support the effective planning, spending and controlling of the defence budget. The following important features characterise the integrated ministry:
• •
The minister of defence controls and leads the Hungarian home defence forces via the administrative state secretary and the chief of staff. They are on the same level in the ministerial hierarchy. The administrative state secretary is responsible for the non-military operation of the ministry, while the chief of staff leads the military activity in the ministry. More exactly, the state secretary leads the administration and certain agencies, institutions (but not the general staff), and controls the human resource-related, logistical, financial, maintenance and procurement, administrative and
Civil–military relations in Hungary 123
•
international activity of the military. The chief of staff leads the general staff, the armed forces, and acts as a military expert at the ministry. The general staff is part of the ministry and the defence forces at the same time. The general staff plans and organises the preparation for the military defence of the country as an integrated part of the ministry (consequently, it supports the minister). Additionally, this staff together with the army and air force staff manage the activity of the armed forces. The integration eliminated the divided structure of subordinated organisations (a part of the organisations had belonged to the ministry and another part to the defence forces).19
In short, after many political and civil–military debates the integration was accomplished from a legal and – to a certain extent – organisational point of view. The chosen solution enabled civilian authorities, civil servants, military leaders and experts to work together and learn more about each other’s requirements and responsibilities. However, doing this job well requires developing a new culture in the integrated ministry and is a very time-consuming venture. It seems to be especially complicated by more than a decade of mismanaged reforms and political struggles around the military which have demoralised a significant part of the military and the defence bureaucracy. The integration is (legally) in existence now, but it seems to be simply an opportunity to eliminate serious conflicts, which are ongoing, and thus the consolidation of the highest power-structure of the military and the ministry has not ended. However, the foundation of balanced civil–military relations and the building of a capable defence management and military has been established.
The case of General Végh The Hungarian democratic civil–military relations experienced a conflict in the late 1990s when General Ferenc Végh was the chief of staff of the Hungarian military. After ten years of a declining defence budget and shrinking military, the newly assigned chief of staff continuously expressed the politicians’ responsibility of granting political and financial support for building a more capable military. Although theoretically it met with the political goals during the time of preparing for NATO membership, articulating demands on the military side instead of reporting blurry achievements caused open tension between politicians and the military. Finally, General Végh’s definitive opinion concerning the reorganisation of the structure of the Ministry of Defence and the general staff resulted in his replacement. This situation was full of contradictions but probably the most remarkable of them was that the civil–military tension rose when politicians celebrated finding the Western-educated, skilful and young general for the top military position. The core of the civil–military debate circled explicitly around the military budget. At the same time, the clarification of civil and military responsibilities was initiated by the military in a qualitatively different way than previously during the democratisation. More exactly, building proper legal and organisational
124 Ferenc Molnár solutions and educating the military for democratic control over the armed forces dominated the early 1990s. Although this work (setting up rules and institutions) had not been an easy task, the clarification of working mechanisms, and written and unwritten responsibilities and building norms seemed to be more complicated. It did not consist of a disagreement about democracy or democratic requirements, but of the enormous difficulty of finding the balance between civil and military institutions in a young democracy amid weak economic circumstances. The obvious cornerstone of the Hungarian democratic civil–military relations was in 1997 when Hungary was invited to join NATO and preparation for NATO membership became the top political priority, requiring a qualitatively different way of thinking regarding the military. The necessity for a smaller, but more capable, NATO compatible military was apparent. Although military reforms had been continuously on the political agenda since the collapse of communism, they mainly consisted of downsizing efforts driven by financial constraints. The problems of restructuring the economy after communism made it impossible to support effective military reforms. Although the weaknesses of the underfinanced, mismanaged changes in the military were clear, the military elite primarily wanted to prove its loyalty towards democratisation, and as far as possible tried to avoid conflicts with politicians. Nevertheless, the conditions of the civil–military relations had changed significantly by 1996–7. First, Hungary had almost passed the so-called economic ‘shock therapy’. From the macroeconomic point of view, 1996 had a good start and also ended well, beyond all expectations. The national economy started to emerge: the deficit of the state budget was reduced, the country’s external debt declined, the hard currency reserves and the foreign investment rapidly increased, the ratio of unemployment declined (Bossanyi, 1999). Decision makers had a better chance to provide financial resources for the military than previously. Secondly, the NATO enlargement became more and more clear and politicians had to realise that a declining defence budget and an extremely unsatisfied military could badly affect foreign political goals. The ratio of the defence budget as a percentage of the GDP declined from 2.8 per cent to 1.3 per cent between 1989 and 1996 (Hungarian Ministry of Defence, 1998, p. 113; 1994a, p. 157). Military personnel were exhausted due to unsuccessful reorganisations and worsening working and living conditions. Finally, a new generation of military leaders emerged during the 1990s. They were young enough to be politically ‘innocent’ (they were not top leaders during communism) and had Western educational backgrounds. Furthermore, they had useful Western experience and/or NATO networks supporting military interests in domestic political dynamics. General Végh was undoubtedly the leading member of this group. Politicians made an unsurprising decision choosing General Ferenc Végh as the successor to General Janos Deak in 1996. General Végh was 47 years old with a full military career. He was a graduate of a Hungarian military college then spent time in Moscow and was the first Hungarian at the US Army War College. The general proved his conceptual, strategic thinking about national security and
Civil–military relations in Hungary 125 his ability to use the media as the deputy of the former chief of staff. He expressed his belief in an effective military reform several times to the media and urged to work out an overall military reform building capable and NATO compatible national armed forces. As he said: ‘What has happened is neither reform, nor rational military building. The necessary qualitative changes are missing …’ (Népszava, 11 March 1996). Decision makers looked to him as a general who was important for achieving NATO membership for Hungary. General Végh proved them right when he worked on the national military strategy and speeded up a new concept for military reorganisation in accordance with the 88/1995 resolution of the parliament. The aim of the reorganisation was to achieve smaller, better-structured and capable armed forces, which met budgetary limits. It is worth noting that such budgetary limits made impossible a rational military reorganisation and almost only financial reasons prevailed again just as they had previously in the 1990s. Nevertheless, politicians did not predict General Végh’s ability to draw attention clearly to politicians’ responsibility concerning national security and the establishment of a new military. General Végh surprised the public on the day of his assignment (7 June 1996) when he stated: There is no more reserve energy of the military … we cannot fulfil our duty … It is my responsibility to speak out: politicians have to be pressed to decide whether they want to have an effective defence force or only a symbolic operetta army. (Csendes, 1998, p. 169) This statement was not ordinary because Hungarian military leaders used to report that ‘in spite of the difficulties the military is ready’. It was quite clear that the new chief of staff would be an involved actor in domestic civil–military relations. General Végh realised that certain political questions (setting up legal regulations, organisations of the political supervision, eliminating indoctrination) had dominated the democratisation of the civil–military relations since the change of the regime. It was time to step forward and press decision makers to finance the restructuring of the military in accordance with contemporary requirements. He did not miss any opportunity to draw attention to politicians’ responsibility in making decisions about the fundamental ‘operational questions’ and money allocation. The general made it clear in an interview: Politicians’ and financial experts’ duty in planning and sharing the budget. That is what civilian control means, but it means civilian responsibility too. As a military man, I can calculate needs for certain tasks of the army … (Magyar Hírlap, 1997, 19 July) On the civilian side, there was not such a direct argumentation publicly. Nonetheless, two arguments were identifiable: first, financing other sectors of the society
126 Ferenc Molnár provided much more support for domestic (and foreign) political dynamics.20 However, there was an important decision in 1997 to increase the defence budget by 0.1 per cent per year between 1997 and 2002.21 Secondly, in spite of the democratisation of Hungarian civil–military relations, the military was not transparent enough for politicians in the parliament and in the government(s). Civilian actors wanted to receive more precise information about the military. As a matter of fact, the Hungarian defence budget, in terms of the percentage of GDP, was far behind either the NATO average or the other invited countries’ (Czech Republic and Poland) budget. Budgetary disputes put aside military interests and politicians did not pay attention to the military. The civil–military tension was increased by two phenomena. First, the military articulated its financial demands but there was neither civilian expertise nor time to evaluate those demands according to the defence committee of the parliament.22 Secondly, the general staff calculated the military needs and separately the Ministry of Defence calculated its own financial needs and the sum of these two embodied the defence requirements of the parliament. The final amount that was allocated by the parliament was obviously always smaller than required. Consequently, the general staff and the ministry struggled over sharing the defence budget. Although it is part of a long-term civil–military conflict (integration of the Ministry of Defence and the general staff), it is important to note that there were structural causes of the conflict between the chief of staff and the ministry. Interviews and statements in the media demonstrated the controversy between the ministry and the general staff. Probably the best example was when the administrative state secretary of the Ministry of Defence highlighted publicly, through a British review, the deficiencies in transparency of the military management. General Végh argued that the military should have known the defence budget for years ahead to produce transparent management (27 January 1997, quoted in Szemle, 2000). The dispute between the civilian decision makers and the chief of staff draws attention to the external factor. The flow of public statements (both on the chief of staff’s and the civilian side) showed that actors on both sides looked for foreign (Western) support for their arguments. Feedback from NATO and EU countries counted significantly due to the primary Hungarian political goals of joining NATO and the European Union. NATO and EU suggestions impacted deeply on Hungarian political and civil–military debates. In general, NATO requirements and suggestions helped to find common denominators in disputes. Nevertheless, in the case of General Végh, the external opinions did not fulfil this role. Western experts – such as the British research group – enhanced the further development of civilian control, such as the role of civilian experts, the transparency of the military etc. These arguments were backed by the civilian side (ministry, politicians), while NATO officials and especially NATO military leaders articulated opinions, which encouraged military building, procurement to increase the defence budget. These opinions confirmed the activity of the general staff.
Civil–military relations in Hungary 127 The Western support for General Végh improved the military’s foreign political weight. Obviously, politicians did not want to accept it. The general’s activity became especially unpleasant for politicians when he used his ‘popularity’ (in the national military and in NATO circles) to block the integration of the ministry and the general staff, which was the top priority of the military reform. All of these phenomena resulted in a sharpening two-way game: the military communicated the responsibility of politicians allocating financial resources for building the army, civilians raised the question of the insufficient transparency and a too influential military in the process of decision making. General Végh had a central role in this dispute. He pressed politicians into accepting the significance of the military and defended the autonomy of the military against civilians’ curiosity. The dynamic of this civil–military dispute seemed to be quite balanced until Hungary reached its foreign political goal: NATO membership. However, the increasing dissatisfaction of politicians with the situation in which the military publicly argued with civilian leaders became more and more obvious. The minister’s order in January 1999 made it clear when prohibited public statements without the agreement of the Ministry of Defence found legal backing. General Végh got this order in a letter from the minister according to the Hungarian leading daily.23 Hungary became a member of NATO on 12 March 1999 and almost immediately there was increasing news about the planned replacement of General Végh. However, politicians and MOD officials denied this information time after time. Finally, three months after the NATO enlargement the chief of staff was replaced and started to prepare for the foreign service in Ankara. The government decided to replace General Végh in spite of his good military ability. The reason was not just the general’s independent communication policy and his harsh words about political responsibility but that he also opposed political decisions concerning the reorganisation of the structure of the MOD and the general staff (see the other Hungarian case). The intended changes aimed to integrate the two organisations consequently limited the independence of the general staff from the ministry. In summary, the democratic control over the armed forces worked and civilian politicians’ concept prevailed. The democratically elected civilians decided to allocate state resources and the military had to accept it.24 The chief of staff and his subordinates had the opportunity to influence political decisions by co-operating as military advisers. The usual (‘natural’) conflict of civilian and military interests became more acute when the military missed the clear civilian responsibility and accountability, the civilian actors blaming military leaders for being too demanding and particularly for interfering in national foreign politics.
Conclusion In conclusion, the early post-communist civil–military relations in Hungary can be described as the re-orientation of the military elite in a confused social–political situation, with a lack of military-related knowledge on the civilian side (Bebler,
128 Ferenc Molnár 1997, p. 75). The late 1990s and/or early 2000s have been the time for learning how to share responsibilities among rather clear legal and institutional circumstances (Bland, 1999, pp. 7–26), and to be influenced by international actors. This learning process during the democratic consolidation resulted in real civil– military conflicts since politicians were no longer satisfied with the fact that the military did not threaten democratisation, and military leaders were no longer pleased only to be accepted as non-communist professionals. Furthermore, the military started to lose a part of its independence because civilians increasingly understood defence matters and the nature of the military. Consequently, military leaders started to build coalitions with political actors enforcing their interests. Politicians were also ready for coalition-building because the consensual political goal of establishing democracy had been achieved and they could utilise this coalition in domestic political dynamics. In such a complex situation, it is difficult to predict who will prevail (Desch, 1999, pp. 4–5). Probably the single most important question is whether the final decision is made by accountable civilians or not. What seems to be quite sure is that the necessary co-operation and coalition-building between civilian and military leaders calls for clear structures and rules, especially in a country where nonwritten rules and norms are weak due to the lack of democratic traditions. Although the rearrangement of the Ministry of Defence and general staff structures and functions is continuing, responsibilities are still overlapping in Hungary. Consequently, the effectiveness of the civil–military leadership has been suffering from organisational and political dynamics. At the same time, pressures from international, financial and, to a certain degree, civil society sides have started to speed up this process in the current period.
Notes 1 This chapter was concluded in 2002 by the author. 2 The defence budget was as low as 1.3 per cent of the GDP and military units often were not able to settle the bills of public utilities in the mid-1990s. 3 More than 50 per cent of civilian young men did not meet the health requirements of the military and 20 per cent did not show up to enlist in 1999. 4 Civilian authorities reached the High Military Staff via the Headquarters and so via the commander of defence forces. After 1996 the commander of the Headquarters and the chief of staff was the same person and in fact the general staff led by the chief of staff commanded the military and was in contact with civilian superiors. The commander position was abolished in 2001. 5 During the transportation blockade in 1990, the president rejected the use of military force intended by the government. According to the government, the president was too strong in limiting the power of the government. The opposition interpreted the event differently: the president secured the peaceful resolution of tensions between the society and the government. 6 The real value of the defence budget declined radically (1989: 1, 1992: 0.59) and the size of the military was reduced from 156,000 to 100,000 between 1989–92 (Hungarian Ministry of Defence, 1994a, p. 157). 7 The opinion of the parliamentary opposition was especially remarkable around the second free election in 1994. It refused to continue definitive organisational and personal changes in spring
Civil–military relations in Hungary 129
8
9 10
11 12
13 14 15 16
17 18 19 20
21 22 23 24
1994, according to the National Information Agency (Hungarian Ministry of Defence, 1994b, p. 66). Tamas Katona, an opposition member of parliament, objected to what he called the ‘remilitarisation of the Ministry of Defence’, Szemle, 2000; Ferenc Gazdag (Director of the Hungarian Institute for Strategic and Defence Studies) ‘The militarised ministry is so far from NATO requirements’, Szemle, 2000. MG Károly Janza, who was the chief economist at the MoD, claimed experts, who are even military personnel, instead of amateurs (Heti Világgazdaság, 1994b). Nonetheless, there were important political obstacles in defence-related issues after 1999. The achieved NATO enlargement and the new-style rhetoric (rather assertive) on the government’s side caused political difficulties in defence-related issues, compared to the period when preparation for NATO membership pressed parties for mainly smooth coalition building. A remarkable number of civilians were replaced by military personnel up to the last year of the governing circle. Leader of the Defence Policy section remained ambassador Istavan Gyramati until NATO enlargement, Tamas Wachsler the head of the parliamentary defence committee became administrative state secretary. The prime minister was attempting to build stronger civilian positions during the integration. Later on, the prime minister’s view changed and he rather supported the military idea. Fodor became the successor of Istvan Gyarmati in February 1999. Interview with Tamas Wachsler in the Hungarian television (MTV1. 06.00 19 July 1999). Printed version in Szemle, 1999. The media corresponded that the prime minister interfered as a result of accepting a military adviser’s (Bela Kiraly ret. general) arguments about the integration and in order to settle former personal conflicts between the Prime Minister Victor Orban and Tamas Wachsler (Wachsler challenged Orban’s party presidency in the FIDESZ in 1994, Szemle, 2000; interview with Tamas Wachsler on Hungarian television, Szemle, 1999). 61/2000 (VI/21). 2001/XLIII Law. Justification of the 2001 XLIII Act. 2002. The Magyar Hírlap cited from the Wall Street Journal and The New York Times, which admired Hungarian political and economic reforms. The Wall Street Journal declared that Hungary was better prepared for NATO membership politically and economically than its military due to the weak defence budget and blurry requirements of Brussels, Magyar Hírlap, 1997. It started right after the NATO summit in Madrid, 1997 when Hungary was invited to join NATO. UK Ministry of Defence, 1996, p. 37. Nepszabadsag was cited by Honved Esemenynaptar (1999), 27 January in Szemle, 2000. Minister Gyorgy Keleti (socialist, 1994–8) declared himself willing to lobby for a higher defence budget but it had to fit to the capacity of Hungary. ‘As a member of the government, I have to calculate with the requirements of education and health too’, Heti Világgazdaság, 1997b.
130 Marjan Maleši=
9
Executive decisions and divisions Disputing competences in civil– military relations in Slovenia Marjan Maleši=
Introduction After a short ten-day war between the Yugoslav People’s army and the Slovenian territorial defence1 and police forces in June and July 1991, Slovenia became an independent state. These events took place after the Declaration of the Independent Slovenia was issued (Bebler, 1992). The military conflict was followed by diplomatic negotiations under the auspices of the European Economic Community (EEC), today’s European Union (EU). The outcome was a three-month moratorium on Slovenia attaining independence. The full retreat of the Yugoslav People’s army out of Slovenian territory followed in October 1991. At the beginning of 1992 Slovenia was an internationally recognised sovereign state and it was thus possible to radically reform its legal, socio-economic, political and security systems (Maleši=, 2000). Those changes obviously exerted a profound influence on the nature and practice of civil–military relations. When studying civil–military relations in states in transition, one should take into consideration their structural and legal aspects, yet also societal conditions. This is quite important, since a less developed civil society and democratic political culture, and the lack of a ‘critical mass’ of expertise may result in political deviation from the legal fundamentals and declared objectives. Even in times of the former Yugoslavia, civil society in Slovenia was known for its sensitivity to interference by the armed forces in civil affairs. Equally, it was sensitive to occasional attempts to militarise society. Civil society and (part of) political elite criticism of the armed forces occurred often and those features were especially typical in the second half of the 1980s.2 Researchers from the academic sphere have noticed an intensive ‘defence socialisation’ of civilians and of the newly formed political elite by means of public discussions about ‘taboo topics’ related to the Yugoslav military (Group of authors, 1991; Grizold, 1992). Despite debates and various actions going on in times of the common state Yugoslavia, the real chance for Slovenia to carry out a reform presented itself later on. Only after the formation of its own state was the time right for an intensive building up of its national security system, and accordingly also of its armed forces. At the same time the development of a parliamentary political system, market economy and general social reform was in progress. There was a process of
Civil–military relations in Slovenia 131 renationalisation of security and of the defence doctrine going on in Slovenia in the early stages of its independence. As part of the process of democratisation of the ‘political and military landscape’ typical of the reform period, the following could be especially underlined (cf. Barany, 1993, pp. 594–610; Bebler, 1994b, pp. 28–32; and Johnson, 1995, pp. 9– 43): the depoliticisation of the army and its officers, the loyalty of the army to the Constitution and thus to the state, the nomination of the civilian defence minister, the respect for human rights in the military field, the parliamentary supervision over the army, the defence politics and budget becoming more transparent due to both external and internal factors and the abolition of military courts and internal repressive role of the armed forces in general. Slovenia followed this pattern; however, it does not mean that civil–military relations in the country were free of problems. This chapter deals with two problematic cases in civil–military relations in Slovenia. In 1993, a dispute occurred between the president of the republic, the supreme commander of the armed forces and the defence minister. The dispute had a constitutional and legal basis, however, it was primarily politically and ideologically motivated. Although it entailed a struggle between two civilians, the dispute had some impact on civil–military relations due to the fact that members of the officer corps were taking sides in the dispute and became very politicised despite the fact that the military is required by law to refrain from political involvement. This first case study represents the institutional change case study. It illustrates that states in transition, which Slovenia was in the beginning of the 1990s, are facing problems between competing civilian elites. Therefore, this case study shows that transition states not only have problems in civil–military relations, but also problems in civil– civil relations, in which the military can become instrumentalised in struggles for political and economic power. The second case study refers to a scandal which happened in March 1994, the so-called Depala Vas Affair. It concerns the beating up of a civilian by the military. The civilian was accused of ‘acting against the state’ trying to obtain secret documents. He was also accused of working for the Ministry of Interior and the president. The immediate political consequences of the illegal military operation against the civilian were the sacking of the Minister of Defence and the withdrawal of his political party from the government coalition. Therefore, this case study can be seen as an element of the ongoing struggle between civilian elites, at the beginning of the transition to democracy in Slovenia.
Problems in creating a pattern of democratic control of the armed forces Bebler (1994a) has described the general difficulties characteristic of civil–military relations in former socialist countries, including relatively low levels of education and professionalism of the new political and military elite, cronyism in personnel decisions, where supporters, friends and even relatives may be rewarded with positions in the defence sector regardless of their professional knowledge and
132 Marjan Maleši= skills, corruption and manipulation of public opinion. To an extent the Slovenian experience is not much different. Despite adopting the standard legal approaches towards democratic civil–military relations and despite a relatively developed democratic political culture in Slovenia (with some elements of post-modernity),3 the reality was different. Deficiencies in standard practice had an impact, as did partly the short ten-day war that fostered a specific meritocratic mentality, i.e. those who performed the key roles in the independence process were to maintain the predominant political positions in the period following the war, regardless of the outcome of the democratic election.4 Some typical problems included the glorification and mythologisation of the ten-day war, the arms affair in September 1993, the interpellation against the Minister of Defence in January 1995, the military press interference with civilian affairs in 1993–4, the dispute between the president of state and defence minister concerning competence in 1993–4 and the Depala Vas affair in the spring of 1994 (see Maleši=, 2001, pp. 229–51). The latter two cases are intertwined and will be examined in greater detail in this chapter.
The dispute concerning competences in the years 1993–4 Political context Before analysing the case in detail, it is necessary to depict briefly the political situation in Slovenia in the early 1990s. The first democratic parliamentary elections in Slovenia were held in April 1990 when Slovenia was still part of the federal Yugoslav state. Ten political parties managed to enter the Slovenian Assembly after the elections – seven of them (Slovenian Democratic Association, National Democratic Party, Social Democratic Party, Farmers’ Association, Green Party, Liberal Party, Slovenian Christian Democrats) formed the coalition DEMOS (Democratic Opposition of Slovenia) prior to the elections and they won the majority of votes. Political parties that were formed on the basis of so-called ‘sociopolitical organisations’ of the previous socialist regime were the Party of Democratic Reform (ex-communists), Liberal-Democratic Party (ex-association of socialist youth) and Socialist Party (ex-socialist association of working people). The strongest individual party in the Assembly was Party of Democratic Reform. Within DEMOS the strongest party was the Slovenian Christian Democrats who, according to pre-election agreement, won the mandate to propose a prime minister and create a government together with other parties of DEMOS. The Minister of Defence in the first democratic government was Janez Janša, an influential figure of the Social Democratic Party (despite its name, there were, and still are, many right-wing elements in its programme and especially in its political activities; the party is a member of the so-called ‘Black International’5). Janez Janša played an important role in the independence process, especially in the field of defence and the military in the months to come. Concurrently, the presidential elections were held: the president of the presidency became Milan Ku=an, the former president of the Central Committee of League of Communists, who was, despite his communist legacy, very popular
Civil–military relations in Slovenia 133 with the citizenry. When the new constitution of the state was adopted, he won two consecutive presidential elections and left his office in December 2002 (see Slovenska Kronika XX, 1997). The programme of the DEMOS government requested the realisation of Slovenian sovereignty and independence and thorough reform of society. On October 1990, DEMOS adopted the decision to hold a referendum on independence for Slovenia as early as December 1990. The results of the referendum were overwhelmingly6 in favour of an independent and sovereign Slovenia – the legal and other preparations for the final act were to be completed in six months. Independence was declared on 25 June 1991 by the Slovenian assembly, followed immediately by a ten-day war with the Yugoslav People’s Army. The territorial defence forces and police forces provided military defence for the country. In the beginning of 1992 Slovenia gained international recognition from many European and other states. By the spring of 1992, tensions had mounted within DEMOS and finally the coalition collapsed. In April 1992 Janez Drnovšek, former president of the federal presidency and the last representative of Slovenia in an ex-federal presidency, became the new Prime Minister of the Republic of Slovenia. In December 1992, the second democratic elections were held, this time in the internationally recognised sovereign state of Slovenia. Eight political parties managed to enter the parliament, the Liberal Democracy of Slovenia being the strongest (holding 22 seats of a 90-member parliament) and the Social Democratic Party the weakest (four seats). Janez Drnovšek was again elected Prime Minister by the parliament and he formed a so-called ‘great coalition’ consisting of liberal democrats, christian democrats and ex-communists, joined by social democrat Janez Janša, who again became Minister of Defence. It is important for our analysis to understand the huge number of political parties entering the legislature after each election in Slovenia and the resulting political– ideological diversity of Slovenian politics. Put simply, there is a constant struggle between ‘the forces of continuity’ (political parties of communist provenance) and ‘democratic forces’ (political parties deriving from DEMOS), although the democratic principles do not necessarily play an important role in making such distinctions – the struggle is mainly connected with self-perception of different political leaders. On the other hand, these political parties are forced to collaborate and create coalitions, regardless of the fact that the number and diversity of political parties make for some rather strange coalitions. Various political programmes create difficulties in the functioning of the government and require a lot of compromises. The dispute between the president and defence minister The dispute in question, between the President of the Republic, Milan Ku=an, who was constitutionally ‘the supreme commander of the Slovenian defence forces’7 and the Minister of Defence, Janez Janša, regarding respective competences over the armed forces, resulted in polarisation within the defence establishment and within the officers’ corp.8 The dispute was of an extremely ideological and political nature: the defence minister was himself a former ‘dissident’, one of the
134 Marjan Maleši= accused in the military ‘trial against the four’ in 1988.9 The president of the republic in 1994 was at that time the president of the Central Committee of the League of Communists. The defence minister accused him of being involved in the preparation of the trial, yet could not prove anything. Another significant point refers to the early stages of conflict between the Yugoslav People’s army and Slovenia. The former issued an order in May 1990 to disarm the republican territorial defence forces by taking over the control of weapon storage facilities. According to Janez Janša (then a republican secretary for defence), Milan Ku=an (then a president of the presidency of the socialist republic of Slovenia) knew about the disarmament but did not do anything to prevent it. The president claimed he had no idea about the order until it was partly executed. The dispute had its roots in a constitutional discrepancy between the nature of the political system and the competence to act as supreme commander of the defence forces.10 Slovenia has a parliamentary political system and its executive powers lie within the government. The president’s role is more ceremonial, yet constitutionally he is the supreme commander of the defence forces. The Defence Act of 1991 establishes that the command and control in territorial defence is a task of the presidency of the republic, the commander of territorial defence, and commanders in territorial defence that operate at lower levels of organisation (military regions, districts and institutions). The commander of territorial defence and the chief of staff are appointed and released by the presidency of the republic of Slovenia upon the proposal of the Defence Secretariat (later renamed Ministry of Defence). The commander is responsible to the presidency for the level of combat readiness, use and command and control of the territorial defence.11 The Constitutional Acts of 1990 and 1991, respectively, determine that the presidency of the republic of Slovenia leads and commands territorial defence in peacetime and makes decisions on the use of territorial defence in a state of emergency. The presidency can transfer certain matters of command and control to the republic secretary of defence who is responsible to the presidency for the realisation of these tasks. The commander of territorial defence is accountable to the presidency of the republic of Slovenia for the use of and command to units, institutions and staffs of territorial defence both in peacetime and in a state of emergency.12 The Decree on the Competences and Authorisations of Territorial Defence Officers of 1991 ‘expressis verbis’ determines that the commander of territorial defence of the republic of Slovenia appoints the commanders of territorial defence regions on the basis of the consent of the presidency of the republic of Slovenia.13 The main legal problem in this sphere was the fact that the new Slovenian Constitution abolished the presidency and introduced the function of president of the republic. However, the Defence and Protection Act was at that time not yet adjusted to the new Constitution and still referred to ‘the presidency’. The Minister of Defence misused that fact and a ruling of the Constitutional Court that, in another matter, decided it was not authorised to make a judgement about an Act that was no longer valid. That Act involved the presidency of the republic among
Civil–military relations in Slovenia 135 other matters. Therefore, according to the Ministry of Defence, the president could not automatically take over the competences of the presidency until the new Defence Act was adopted. Key points of the dispute The constitutional and legal dispute between the president and defence minister was triggered soon after the election of the new government in the parliament in January 1993. The list of points of controversy that followed is rather long and complex, and therefore they are only summarised below:
• The defence minister neglected to inform the president on defence matters
• •
• • • •
– the president learned about the new national security strategy adopted by the government and about the decree on the use of armed forces in a state of emergency from the mass media. The personnel policy (promotions and demotions, awarding medals, conferring ranks and the appointment of chief of staff) in territorial defence was formed and executed without presidential consent. The defence minister misused his competences by reducing the military term for a whole generation of soldiers by 30 days, which, according to practice, was the competence of the president – he usually performed this task upon the positive report on combat readiness of the armed forces and proposal of the Ministry of Defence. The problem was solved when the government decided to re-authorise the president to make a decision about the matter. The political circle around the defence minister ‘sponsored’ anonymous letters aimed at discrediting the president and ‘his men’. The defence minister misused military intelligence for political purposes – consequently the president had a feeling that his communications were being wire-tapped. The president was accused of being involved in selling arms to Croatia and Bosnia-Herzegovina during the UN arms embargo. The use of the honour guard for the benefit of presidential state activities was disputed.
The defence minister claimed there was no legal basis to inform the president about defence matters, whereas the president claimed he was not able to perform as supreme commander of the armed forces without proper information. He asked the parliament to adopt a new Defence Act as soon as possible or to change the Constitution. The prime minister was rather inactive during the dispute, claiming that he did not want to become an instrument for solving the conflict between two ideological and political options.
136 Marjan Maleši=
Consequences Although the dispute formally involved two civilian representatives of the political elite, its consequences had an impact on civil–military relations. Its consequences were political in contributing to a hostile political climate, the taking of sides by military officers and obvious tensions within the officers corps. Yet it is difficult to tell whether the dispute itself caused any negative effects in terms of security (e.g. a rather unclear role of the supreme commander could not be considered beneficial given that Slovenia was trying to join international security structures such as the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO) and the Western European Union (WEU). The dispute raised a lot of suspicion and bad feelings in Slovenian political life in general, and especially in the sphere of civil–military relations. It can be seen as a lead-in to the Depala Vas affair, which revealed many deficiencies in democratic control of the Slovenian army. There were also significant legal consequences of the dispute to prevent further misunderstanding and misuse of constitutional and legal basis that regulate the relationship between the president, government and defence minister. The Defence Act of January 1995 reiterates after the Constitution that the supreme commander of the Slovenian army is the president of the republic. The chief of staff and other commanders have the authority of military command with subordinated commands, units and institutions. On the basis of the consent of the president of the republic, the defence minister determines in detail the conditions and procedures of informing the supreme commander about the combat readiness of the army and about other matters important for the defence of the country, the provision of accommodation, protection, protocol matters, sentry and other conditions for exercising the role of supreme commander in peace and war. It is also important to stress that the chief of general staff is now appointed by the government upon the proposal submitted by the defence minister.
The Depala Vas Affair in March 1994 The Depala Vas Affair was hence a continuation of the dispute between the President of the Republic, Milan Ku=an, and the Minister of Defence, Janez Janša. Janša suspected that a former military officer of the Slovenian army, Tone Smolnikar, was trying to persuade his former colleagues, officers in a military intelligence section, to collaborate with him in gathering information for the president of the republic. It should be noted, however, that as supreme commander of the defence forces, the president is already constitutionally entitled to be informed on matters concerning the army. The military action On the evening of Sunday 20 March 1994, a group of members of the military police and 1st Special Brigade Moris violently stopped Smolnikar on a local road
Civil–military relations in Slovenia 137 near the capital Ljubljana. He was surrounded by four military cars. The military group wanted him to step out of the car, but Smolnikar resisted. Members of the military group pointed their rifles at Smolnikar, broke the windows of his car, forced Smolnikar out and proceeded to beat him. A civilian police patrol of two policemen noticed this group on the road and approached it, but did not intervene since the military group claimed the case fell under their jurisdiction and assured the policemen that the operation was agreed and coordinated between the Ministry of Defence and Ministry of Interior. Smolnikar was handcuffed and brought to the premises of the military intelligence at the MoD headquarters and interrogated. According to his subsequent testimony, he was accused of acting ‘against the state’. Since he was injured and requested medical assistance, one of the military intelligence officers called the Ministry of Interior and asked them to send the civilian police to take Smolnikar to the hospital. After a brief conversation in which the circumstances of the operation became clear, the civilian police did not want to become involved. Smolnikar was escorted to the hospital by the military police, who stood guard in front of the door of his room. At one o’clock in the morning (Monday), Smolnikar was allowed to contact his lawyer, while two judges investigated the site of the operation. It was reported that there was an envelope found on the seat in Smolnikar’s car next to the driver seat containing secret military documents. The envelope was lying on top of broken glass, however, raising suspicion that the evidence had been planted. The Ministry of Defence’s position The MoD released a public statement claiming that organised individuals were trying to penetrate the MoD and the Territorial Defence, and were seeking to acquire top secret military documents and information from MoD employees. On the basis of collected intelligence, Smolnikar was arrested on suspicion of disclosing military secrets. Smolnikar had been collecting information and secret documents from November 1993 onwards, handing them over to other members of the ‘organisation’ to which he belonged and to other unauthorised persons. Smolnikar had also intended to convey the documents to the criminal inspector at the Ministry of Interior. According to the MoD’s account, Smolnikar was only one element in an intelligence chain including criminal experts in the Ministry of Interior, and particularly a group related to the cabinet of the president and members of the cabinet themselves.14 A collaborator from the MoD had been convinced by Smolnikar that he was a member of a financially and politically strong organisation which was closely related to the highest political circles in the country. The purpose of the organisation was to hand out information to the mass media, to embarrass the MoD and eventually to crash down the leading structures of the MoD and the minister himself. Smolnikar was arrested as he received documents from his MoD collaborator. Allegedly attempting to escape from the scene, he was followed, stopped and arrested. Since Smolnikar resisted the arrest, he was injured and then – upon his
138 Marjan Maleši= own request – hospitalised. The judge investigator and deputy state prosecutor were immediately informed about the event and began an investigation. They also seized the documents. Smolnikar was allowed to talk to his attorney. The Ministry of Interior’s position Smolnikar was suspected of conveying secret documents to employees of the Ministry of Interior. The Ministry of Interior claimed that some military persons were involved in criminal activities and the MoD was not co-operative enough in helping to investigate criminal acts of military personnel, who have been suspected of involvement in illegal arms traffic, several burglaries in military and civilian premises, a bomb placed under the car of a member of parliament and anonymous letters to the public discrediting high state officials and politicians.15 Even before the Depala Vas scandal occurred, the Minister of Interior had reported to the prime minister that some activities of certain employees of the MoD went beyond their official competences and did not conform to the law. Some members of Moris were involved in intelligence activities in the area of Ljubljana. The top leadership of the MoD was not only uncooperative in the investigation process, but also impeded it. This situation, in which two key ministries competed with each other without respecting their respective areas of jurisdiction, was embarrassing for the prime minister. The prime minister therefore requested both ministries to clarify the situation and to solve all problematic issues that had prevented effective cooperation in the past. Legal aspects The military action against Smolnikar could only occur given an unclear legal basis. Also problematic was the delineation of the competences between the MoD and the Ministry of Interior. Nevertheless, judicial experts in Slovenia warned that the military action against Smolnikar was clearly against both international law of human rights and domestic law.16 Article 80 of the Defence and Protection Act allowed military intelligence to stop the activities directed against constitutional order and security of the republic (see Defence and Protection Act of 1991). On the other hand, the Decree on the Security Body of the MoD and Military Police stipulated that military bodies do not have competences in a civilian sphere, whereas they have the same rights as ‘authorised persons’ of the Ministry of Interior but only within the armed forces. According to the same decree (Article 10), military bodies must immediately inform the Ministry of Interior if a criminal act was perpetrated by a person who is not employed by the MoD or the Territorial Defence. Such a person could be kept at the ‘crime scene’ by the military authorities until the civilian police arrives and takes over the case (Article 14 of the Decree). The government commission which investigated the case found that there was a special, relatively autonomous group within Moris which did not in practice abide by the general instructions introduced in the MoD.
Civil–military relations in Slovenia 139 The reaction of the political state The very next day after the event there was a correspondent meeting of the Commission of the National Assembly for the Supervision of Security and Intelligence Services. They decided to form a delegation to visit Smolnikar in the hospital, to speak with him about the incident and write a report. They also decided to visit the military intelligence headquarters in order to talk to the director and write another report (see Slovenian Ministry of Defence, 1994). The prime minister’s political co-ordination body had a meeting as well and dealt with the case. The information about the case was released separately by the Minister of Interior, Minister of Defence and Minister of Justice. The prime minister formed a commission to investigate the case, consider possible breaches of competences, and inform the prime minister and the government about its findings and proposals. The commission was led by the Minister of Legislation, and was politically balanced and neutral in its composition. After a few days the commission came to the conclusion that members of the military intelligence and military police had acted beyond their competences. The prime minister considered the option of relieving the defence minister from duty. Some politicians warned that the arrest of Smolnikar by military personnel was conducted in a way which would not have happened even under the previous communist political and military regime.17 When the defence minister was a dissident in 1988 and was suspected of revealing military secrets by the then Yugoslav People’s Army, he was arrested by civilian authorities and taken to a military prison. Since as minister he confirmed that he knew about the Depala Vas operation and did not distance himself from it, nor did he suspend the MoD employees involved in it, he should have resigned immediately. Some politicians warned that there was a group of people involving the MoD and military that regularly acted beyond the rule of the law. Two days after the Depala Vas operation the defence minister announced an internal investigation within the MoD. The investigation was never completed due to the fact that the minister was replaced at the request of the prime minister, who sent a proposal to the parliament on 24 March to remove the minister and to appoint a new one. The new minister established a commission that investigated the case on 30 March; the report was made available in July and it was the basis for the report of the Commission of the National Assembly. The Commission of the National Assembly, which supervises the security and intelligence services, also investigated the Depala Vas affair and in four months issued its report. The commission disclosed that members of 1st Special Brigade Moris, military police and military intelligence were involved in the operation. The perpetrators had ‘special authorisations’ as in the case of the officials (‘official person’) of the Ministry of Interior. Special authorisations were issued to the above mentioned MoD employees in order to protect the defence minister; however, that group of individuals had not been systematically trained in the use of special authorisations.
140 Marjan Maleši= There was no plan made for the military action against Smolnikar on 20 March 1994, and the action was not exercised according to the usual principles of military command and subordination. There was no written order to request the action; rather, the order was issued orally by the major involved in the action. The defence minister knew about the action. The group knew that the person who was to be followed and stopped was a civilian, but they still did not ask the Ministry of Interior to carry out the operation. The Moris group was formed to protect the then defence minister both in physical and political terms, and to intervene if necessary. The Moris group acted relatively autonomously and outside the usual system of military hierarchy. This group was directly subordinated to the defence minister. The conflict between the MoD and Ministry of Interior was revealed when the affair broke out, and was apparently influenced by several factors:
• • • • • •
unclear legal competences; not respecting the chain of military command; low professional level of the specific military personnel involved; the use of special operative methods and means of one state body against another; the special position of the 1st Special Brigade Moris within the MoD and the army; not respecting the specific request of the prime minister, which was addressed to both ministries a week before the incident, to stop all activities against the other (Biš=ak, 1994).
Hence, four days after the scandal occurred, the prime minister sent a proposal to the parliament to replace the defence minister by another person. According to the prime minister, the military action against Smolnikar was a violation of constitutionally guaranteed human rights and a case of exceeding the competences of the military institutions. The intervention of military institutions in the civilian sphere and the use of physical violence jeopardises the legal order and basic principles in a democracy. Judicial procedure Immediately after the affair, criminal charges were issued against the MoD individuals who had been involved. However, after two-and-a-half years the state prosecutor decided that there was no proof that the members of the MoD had perpetrated a criminal act. According to the prosecutor they had been authorised to act in the way that they did. This decision was viewed as politically motivated by some commentators, who observed that the state prosecutor made a principle and standard out of a scandal (Miheljak, 1994). While it may happen in any democracy that the military sometimes acts beyond the limits of the law,
Civil–military relations in Slovenia 141 authorisations and accepted norms, it is not acceptable in any democracy that the state prosecutor does not prosecute such violations of law. At that point Smolnikar and his attorney laid private criminal charges against the MoD members involved in the action, on the grounds of kidnapping, physical injury and damage to personal property (Smolnikar’s automobile). Four-and-a-half years after the scandal, the Senate of Ljubljana District Court introduced an investigation against seven MoD employees who were involved in the action. The investigating judge thought that the suspects acted according to the authorisations provided by law, whereas the Senate decided there was a grounded suspicion of the criminal acts committed by ‘the seven’ from the MoD. Even if the suspects found the activities of Smolnikar mentioned in Article 80 of Defence Act, they were obliged to notify the Ministry of Interior. They could have kept Smolnikar at ‘the crime scene’ until the police arrived, but they should not have beat, removed and detained the suspect at the MoD premises. In short, they acted beyond their legal authorisation. The suspects appealed against the decision of the Senate but this was rejected by the court. The court pointed out that Smolnikar had no intention of violently opposing the constitutional order and he was not a spy (spying would imply handing secret military, economic or official data or documents to a foreign state, organisation or a person, which was not the case). For that reason Smolnikar and his attorney asked the general state prosecutor to continue the prosecution officially, and their request was accepted. Almost seven years after the scandal (January 2001) the district state prosecutor issued a bill of indictment against five of the MoD employees involved while two of them were free of any charges. The trial began in November 2001. In May 2003, the then opposition leader and in 2005 Prime Minister Janez Janša, still claimed that this was a political process, referring to different Ministry of Interior documents from 1993 and 1994 to prove that the Ministry of Interior planned to start ‘a civil war’! These statements should, however, be best understood as pressure placed on judicial bodies prior to the resuming of the trial. In June 2003 the perpetrators of Depala Vas military police action were found not guilty. The state prosecutor made an appeal but was rejected by the higher court in March 2004, one day before the affair became officially obsolete. The reaction of civil society Civil society (mass media, human rights organisations, influential individuals, academics and also, to a certain extent, the Catholic Church) was shocked by the military action against the civilian Smolnikar. Part of civil society pointed out the similarity between the military action in 1988 (‘the trial against the four’) and the military action against Smolnikar in 1994. In the former case the Yugoslav People’s Army was involved, while in the latter, the main role was played by the military police and the 1st Special Brigade Moris18 of the Slovenian Territorial Defence Forces.
142 Marjan Maleši= In both cases there was a secret military document, an unauthorised disclosure (leak) of military secrets and an assessment of ‘attacks’ against the Ministry of Defence in question. In the first case Janez Janša was a victim, while in the second one he was a perpetrator. There was also an important difference: the Yugoslav People’s Army did not use any physical violence against the four persons suspected of a criminal act and the doctors did not allow military persons and policemen to enter the medical institution while the prisoners were medically examined. An important fact was stressed in that the armed forces did not have any legal basis for the military action against Smolnikar. It is unimportant whether Smolnikar perpetrated any criminal act or not – the appropriate authorities should judge that, not the Ministry of Defence. Every person suspected of committing a crime has the right to undergo a fair and legal procedure including respect for his human dignity and freedom from abuse. A former military person, now a civilian, is not the property of the MoD; on the contrary, he is a citizen and his human rights are guaranteed by the Constitution. The uncooperative relationship between the MoD and the Ministry of Interior was depicted as a conflict between the military and police structures and as a war between the ministries. Mass media commentators warned that misunderstandings and the bad relationship had roots in the ten-day war (see for example Vasle, 1994). The relationship deteriorated immediately after the war when both sides were involved in prestige polemics about the war effort: who was more successful against the Yugoslav People’s Army units – police forces or territorial defence forces? Perceptions and implications Democratic accountability This case of military action against a civilian underscores the need for governmental actors in a democratic political system to function with a high level of accountability. The defence minister should be accountable for his deeds legally and politically. It was evident from his statements after the scandal that he knew about the preparations for the military action against a civilian, yet he did not announce any suspension or other disciplinary measures against the protagonists. And he did not offer his resignation; instead he tried to justify the operation expecting to reveal a conspiracy against the MoD and himself. The defence minister was encouraged twice by the prime minister to introduce sanctions against the protagonists of the action within the MoD and to assess the event critically. That would probably be enough for the political survival of the minister, but he rejected such an option, saying that he would not sacrifice his own men. Two civilian policemen at the site of the incident did not react properly although they saw masked soldiers acting against a civilian. They should at least have alerted their superiors immediately. The investigating judge did not insist strongly enough to speak with the hospitalised civilian. The hospital managers should not have allowed the military police to guard a civilian in front of his hospital room.
Civil–military relations in Slovenia 143 ‘Somebody’ also should have informed the mass media about what had taken place in Depala Vas before it became a scandal. The reaction of the entire public, civil society and political establishment should also have been more dramatic and insistent on the accountability of the individuals involved. However, it seems that the then political culture, to a certain extent still tinted by a mixture of fear, comfort and past experience, set some limits to democratic principles and prompt reactions. International implications At the time of the scandal, Slovenia had just started its intensive approach to the international security structures of NATO and WEU. Ten days earlier there had been an international conference held in Ljubljana on civil–military relations in the region. Slovenia’s highest officials assured the participants of the conference that Slovenia was building up a national security system based upon democratic values and parliamentary order. The country would follow the principles and experiences of developed democratic and liberal countries. The supervision of the political establishment over the military was one of the most important features of the defence system, as well as the public scrutiny over the performance of the military. The security policy and defence budget were transparent and a matter of public debate (Dr=ar-Murko, 1994). It is evident that the military action against a civilian was not in conformity with the above-mentioned democratic standards and with the desire of the Slovenian political elite and public to adopt the values underlying the Euro-Atlantic integration process. Conspiracy theory The defence minister explained the event in terms of conspiracy theory. A conspiracy was allegedly planned by some organisations close to the president. If we analyse this statement, we can see a lot of confusion in it. It means that the president of the state or his collaborators hired ‘spies’ to get information from the MoD. On the other hand, it must be questioned why the president should have wanted to be informed about the situation in the MoD. Under the Constitution the president, as supreme commander of the defence forces, is entitled to get prompt and accurate information from the MoD without having to make a special demand. Moreover, which kinds of military information should be withheld from the supreme commander? Nevertheless, this conspiracy was understood by the main protagonists of the scandal in an ideological–political way, in terms of the defence minister being a guarantor of the profound social reform and the president a representative of the ‘continuity forces’, i.e. the ancien regime. However, the reality was different due to the fact that the president himself substantially contributed to the success of the independence process and social reforms in Slovenia.
144 Marjan Maleši= Meritocratic behaviour This kind of behaviour is quite familiar to the Slovenian public from the time of the ancien regime. The members of a partisan movement and protagonists of a revolution during the Second World War had claimed a disproportionate amount of social and political power as compared to other (groups of) citizens regardless of the political (election) process. A very similar phenomenon, but to a lesser extent, happened after the ten-day war in 1991. The parliamentary election in 1992 dramatically under-represented the protagonists of the so-called Slovenian Spring and the war was a crucial event within it. Some of the protagonists, especially a political nucleus around the defence minister, wanted more political power and social influence than had been given to them by the freely and democratically expressed will of the citizens at the elections, causing constant problems and political affairs. Accountability of the armed forces to the state Analysis of the scandal revealed that it was, at least to a certain extent, a consequence of a ‘personality cult’ that had evolved around the defence minister, who had gained a lot of prestige among certain segments of the population during the independence process, and especially during the war of the summer of 1991. After the war, he was surrounded by loyal military and civilian personnel. As state officials and military officers, however, they should be loyal to the state, constitution and laws, and not to the individual personality who is currently defence minister. It seems that this principle was not upheld by some of the minister’s close collaborators, who served first the minister, and only second the state. This was also reflected in their efforts to impede the investigation of the military personnel involved in criminal activities. An isolated event or a pattern? The analysis revealed that the MoD and the defence minister were involved in activities within the civilian sphere even before the military action against the civilian Smolnikar. They published data and information obtained by wire-tapping, to morally and politically disqualify influential individuals – an enterprise that had nothing in common with the defence of the country. They also influenced the procedures and decisions of state bodies regarding the citizenship, pensions, flats, exile of people from Slovenia and permissions to enter the state. The defence minister systematically usurped social and political power and disqualified people who resisted his power and ambitions (Bavcon, 1994). The defence minister:
• •
controlled the only effective intelligence service in the state; controlled the only military unit capable of being used internally;
Civil–military relations in Slovenia 145
• • • • • •
had responsibility for all of the property of the former Yugoslav People’s Army on the territory of Slovenia, including military flats, and he misused his control over that property; had considerable power deriving from various bylaws to influence citizenship status, pensions and flats; treated the territorial defence and the military personnel as his personal property; increased the number of people employed by the MoD whose first loyalty was to him personally and only secondly to the state; took over the presidency of a political party he belonged to; as a hero of the ten-day war and the independence process in general, enjoyed a lot of ‘freedom of action’ in the eyes of the public and some parts of the political elite.
It is evident that there was a specific pattern of behaviour endorsed by part of the military and political elite which was clearly revealed by the Depala Vas affair. This kind of behaviour was effectively stopped by the reaction of civil society and the political establishment, whereas the verdict of the judicial trial came as a huge surprise.
Conclusion The two cases explored in this analysis show how sensitive the sphere of civil– military relations is in ‘new’ democracies and how difficult it is to establish a consistent and thorough legal basis for the democratic control of armed forces. And even when it is established, political and ideological animosity, a desire to take revenge on one’s enemies and the desire to accumulate more political power than has been delegated after elections, may produce not only obstacles to democratic control of the armed forces but also to the democratic political process in general. The dispute between the defence minister and the president during 1993–4 revealed that the lack of concordance between the Constitution and the Defence and Protection Act provoked political and ideological rivalry that was counter-productive as far as national security was concerned: political elites were confronted or ignorant, the public was ill-informed and manipulated, military intelligence misused its authorised powers, the military press provided biased political discussion and the officers’ corps were subjected to unhealthy political divisions. The Depala Vas affair of 1994, when the military police and special brigade Moris members violently stopped, beat and arrested a civilian, also showed that the competences of different state bodies were not clearly defined: the military intelligence dealt with civilians; civilian intelligence dealt with soldiers; the Ministry of Defence and Ministry of Interior competed for areas of jurisdiction and impeded each other’s activities; and the Ministry of Defence and the presidential Cabinet accused each other of acting illegally.
146 Marjan Maleši= Both cases also brought about some positive changes in the sphere of civil– military relations and in the political process in general: constitutional and legal provisions were clarified and adjusted to the changing environments; both cases had a positive impact on the development of democratic political culture; the relationship between the legislative and executive powers was clarified; positive changes were made within the defence system; and finally, the armed forces were reorganised in 1993 and 1994 in order to avoid further abuse.
Note 1 Territorial Defence (Teritorialna Obramba) was renamed Slovenian Army in 1995. 2 See the journals Mladina, Teleks, Katedra and Nova revija. 3 The claim is based upon the data of the public opinion polls, which underline that the public is rather sensitive to the interference of the armed forces in the civil sphere, as well as to the violation of human rights; it respects social justice and is aware of environmental problems. 4 The general election in 1992 strongly under-represented state-forming parties and politicians, i.e. those that played an important role in the process of Slovenia attaining independence. 5 The ‘Black International’ and the ‘Red International’ are international associations of likeminded political parties of, respectively, conservative (right-wing or black) and social-democratic (left-wing or red) provenance. 6 93.2 per cent of voters participated at the referendum and 88.2 per cent voted for the independent Slovenia. 7 Article 102 of the Constitution of Republic of Slovenia adopted in December 1991. 8 A similar dispute about the competence was experienced by Hungary and Poland. See Johnson, 1995, pp. 32–3 and Barany, 1993, pp. 604–5. 9 Three civilians including the defence minister in 1994 and the then dissident, and one military person (a non-commissioned officer of Yugoslav People’s Army) were accused of disclosing a military secret by stealing a top secret military document from the barracks. The ‘trial against the four’ triggered a so-called Slovenian Spring, an intensive process of social, political, economic and security changes. 10 Article 102 of the Constitution of Republic of Slovenia adopted in December 1991 reads: The president of the Republic represents Republic of Slovenia and is a supreme commander of its armed forces. 11 See Articles 45 and 52 of Defence and Protection Act of 1991. 12 See Articles 2 and 3 of the Constitutional Acts of 1990 and 1991. 13 See Article 9 of the Decree. 14 See the official explanation of the event by the Ministry of Defence (Delo, 22 March 1994). 15 See a report from the press conference held by the Minister of Interior (Delo and Dnevnik, 24 March 1994). 16 According to the experts the action breached Article 9 of International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, Article 5 of European Convention on Human Rights, Articles 19 and 20 of the Constitution of the Republic of Slovenia, Articles 195 and 196 of Criminal Act related to Article 192 of the same Act, and Article 80 of the Defence Act related to Articles 10 and 14 of Decree on the Security Body of the Ministry of Defence and Military Police. 17 See statements of some parliamentarians in Republika, 23 March 1994. 18 See the open letter to the Prime Minister signed by an influential civil society group and published by Republika on 23 March 1994.
Modernisation of the Czech armed forces 147
10 Modernisation of the Czech armed forces No walk through a rose garden Marie Vlachová
Introduction The decision radically to reform the armed forces was probably the most important defence decision made by the Czech government since the beginning of the 1990s. It was made in 2000 after a range of reorganisations, personnel reductions and structural changes had been executed without achieving the capabilities and qualities required by Alliance forces. The reform aims at the creation of small, sustainable and responsive forces with balanced air–ground and specification capabilities that are able to meet peacetime and contingency requirements and can respond to natural disasters (Czech Ministry of Defence, 2001). The change of the format from conscript to all-volunteer forces and the creation of a new demobilisation system were seen as ways of achieving that target. Substantial reductions in headquarters, military bases, garrisons and personnel – the process painfully impinging on lives of many military personnel and civilians – are necessary because of the financial expenditures of the reform. For at least the next five years, the increased military budget guaranteed by the Governmental Act of August 2001 was considered as conditio sine qua non of the reform. However, the vast damage caused by the floods of 2002 made a substantial revision of all reform plans necessary. The original version of the reform counted on a yearly increase of the military budget of 2.2 per cent of GDP. In spring 2003, the budget was reduced to 2.05 per cent of GDP, which means a cut of about 60 billion Czech korunas1 in the next five years. Inevitably, the reduction will hugely influence the reform: the shift to all-volunteer forces will be postponed for at least two years, it will not be possible to maintain all classical weaponry for territorial defence, such as tanks, artillery and anti-artillery missiles. Many already worked-out projects on the modernisation of military bases and garrisons have been cancelled or postponed. Out of a projected five, only two headquarters will be maintained. The size of the Czech international contingent may be reduced from 5,000 to 3,000 military personnel. The armament of the Czech subsonic aircraft L-159, which had been produced not only for training and combat purposes, but also as an important trade commodity, will be cancelled and the plane will serve only training purposes, which may impact negatively on its value on the market. The purchase of national supersonic aircraft remains an open issue. The only consensus which seemed to have been achieved up to now
148 Marie Vlachová is the prevailing political and public opinion on the necessity to have some national supersonic jets. In 2003 the drastic budget cuts resulted in the resignation of the very popular Czech defence minister Jaroslav Tvrdík. The new minister Miroslav Kostelka in his inaugural media declarations accentuated that the reform had not been called off, but personnel reductions were inevitable, and the original target of the reformed military of 45,000 persons had to be reduced to 30,000 people including civilians.2 Specialised units – mainly passive monitoring systems and defence units against NBC weapons – are still a priority. However, it is recognised that a certain universality of the forces must be preserved to be capable of participation in international operations. As experienced during the recent floods, the military continues to be the only organisation capable of saving lives of people and protecting their property in natural crises, therefore rescue bases must be preserved as well. This is the general framework in which the following two case studies in civil–military relations have been undertaken. These cases have been chosen in order to document the level of the democratic control of the Czech armed forces. Both of them refer to the chaotic decision making in the beginning of the transformation of the Czech armed forces, illustrating serious problems that the transformation of the armed forces has been facing. The first case deals with the modernisation of the Czech air force. The modernisation of the air force raised the issue of the purchase of modern supersonic aircraft, which represents the biggest defence investment of the Czech Republic. Therefore, democratic civil control at every step of such a process has become vitally important. The second case describes the Ministry of Defence’s endeavour to cope with dangerous thefts of military ammunition, showing that even a well-intended solution of some problems rooted in the military’s past fails when funds are lacking and cooperation between civilian leadership and military representation is affected by gaps. The implications of the case studies for the level of democratic control concentrate on the balance within the triangle ‘politicians–military–public’, summarising the attitudes of politicians and military personnel in both cases, and the impact of various solutions on the attitude of the Czech public. It will be argued that the balance between crucial actors of control has not been achieved yet, in spite of a certain progress in the process of decision making and in the way the options of the modernisation were presented to the public.
Modernisation of the Czech air force: no walk through a rose garden Being established in 1993, after the division of the Czechoslovak federation, the structure of the Czech air force reflected the legacy of the Warsaw Pact. The Czechoslovak air force represented an important element of the Pact due to the country’s geographical position in Central Europe and the good reputation of its fighter pilots.3 Built-up as an additional force to the Red Army and determined to fulfil the strategic missions of the Warsaw Pact, the air force had been fully
Modernisation of the Czech armed forces 149 dependent upon Soviet aircraft, the only exception being a training jet plane produced in the Czech factory AERO Vodochody and supplied both to the Pact members and some Third World countries. After the OSCE Summit in Paris in 1990 the maximum strength of the Czech air force was limited to 230 fighters and 37 helicopters.4 In 1993 the Czechoslovak air force was divided in a peaceful but rather unfavourable way for the Czech Republic that, although larger than its counterpart, received the same number of modern Russian MiG-29 fighters.5 All ten of the fully serviceable machines were exchanged with Poland for PZL Falcon helicopters. Up to now, there are still heated discussions about the true value of this step, its proponents saying that the MiGs were not sufficient for territorial defence, while its opponents consider the whole bargain precipitous and disadvantageous for the Czech side. Generally, the bargain has been considered as a blunder, politically motivated by the effort to avoid any possible dependency upon Russia, and suspicious due to its evident disadvantageousness for the Czech side. As a result, the Czech air force has at its disposal only obsolete machines of MiG-21, MiG-23, Su-22 and Su-25. In 1996 an ambitious decision to purchase a Western aircraft, and at the same time, to launch the production of a domestic subsonic aircraft was taken.6 The domestic subsonic L-159 ALCA fighter Immediately after the 1989 changeover, President Havel declared a demobilisation of the Czech armaments industry. But when the country began to prepare for the NATO accession his ideas were forgotten. Arms producers representing one of the most powerful industrial lobbies in the country gained political support to modernise the air force via the resurrection of the domestic arms production. In 1993 a group of military air force experts launched a project of production of a modern domestic fighter, and in 1996 the Czech government approved the contract for 72 planes at AERO Vodochody, the tender which saved the floundering factory. The first aircraft was to be delivered in 2000, the rest in 2004, when obsolete MiG-21 serviceability would end.7 The production of the Czech subsonic L-159 has been accompanied by serious ‘labour pains’, which logically attracted a lot of public attention. In May 2001 the Russian Suchoj-25 fighters served out, but the Czech producer was not able to deliver all the contracted L-159s to substitute the obsolete Russian machines. The military received only 24 machines, moreover in a state that did not allow their full utilisation.8 The newly installed Minister of Defence Jaroslav Tvrdík publicly criticised the whole project stating that the MoD would not let itself be exploited by the armament producers, who produced a machine of high price and low quality. He pointed out that the project consumed almost all military funds for modernisation, but the results were poor, the plane not only being problematic from the point of view of NATO requirements, but the delivered machines being ‘more dangerous for the Czech pilots than for a potential enemy’ (Gazdík, 2001).
150 Marie Vlachová The sharp criticism was aimed at the Czech producers, but also at the American management in AERO Vodochody.9 The minister’s criticism has been given great publicity in the Czech media. The industrial lobby, the management of AERO and its trade unions denied his accusations; the then Prime Minister Miloš Zeman, on the other hand, fully supported him. Some journalists speculated that behind the whole turmoil was a desire of some military representatives to push politicians to a decision about the supersonic aircraft (Komárek, 2001, p. 6). The situation became almost dramatic in December 2001. While the producer considered constant breaks of the plane as current and inevitable problems accompanying the development of any sophisticated machine, the air force high commander banned pilots from flying the planes. Nevertheless, the military had no other choice than to continue the acquisition, and finally new deadlines for deliveries were settled between the MoD and the factory. The Czech armed forces have a subsonic aircraft of domestic production, for the time being usable exclusively for training purposes, whose importance for the achievement of the Czech forces full compatibility with NATO as well as for the territorial defence is dubious, as admitted by military representatives. To change the plane into a subsonic combat jet plane usable in anti-terrorist and anti-guerrilla fighting would require another investment into the modernisation of its ammunition systems.10 At present the funds for such an investment are lacking. The high expectations concerning the marketability of the L-159 have not yet been fulfilled. The factory lost a promising trade with India which in January 2003 gave priority to the British Hawks.11 The quest for foreign customers continues, and for the time being it is not clear whether the huge investments into an attempt to resurrect the tradition of the Czech arms industry will pay off in the future. Purchase of a western supersonic fighter aircraft At the end of 2001 there were the following possibilities of air space defence: first, to modernise the Russian MiG 21; second, to ask the allies to defend the Czech air space for reimbursement; third, to substitute the supersonic aircraft by modernisation of anti-aircraft troops, especially of its missile and rocket components; and finally, to purchase a supersonic aircraft of a Western provenance. The acquisition of a supersonic aircraft, and tenders invited by the government, came under close scrutiny by the Czech media in May 2001, after all the participating companies except for the British–Swedish consortium BAe-Systems with JAS-29 Gripen rather surprisingly resigned. The reasons why the two American companies, Lockheed Martin and Boeing/McDonell with F-16 and F-18, the consortium EADS with Eurofighter and the French firm Mirage Dassault Aviation dropped out of the contest were neither clear to journalists nor to politicians.12 The opinion emerged that conditions of the purchase were extremely demanding because of the offset programmes bound to the purchase. It was
Modernisation of the Czech armed forces 151 claimed that the American firms were put off when it was discovered that the government decision had been taken before the contest finished. In the spring of 2002 both the Minister of Defence, Jaroslav Tvrdík, and the Prime Minister Miloš Zeman made several press statements pleading for the purchase of a new Western supersonic aircraft.13 Prime Minister Zeman claimed that without the purchase the Czech air force would perish in 2004 and that it would be almost impossible to rebuild it before 2017 due to the length of pilots’ training. The media debate had been heated up by Tvrdík’s statement that Germany is the most probable ally to be asked to protect the Czech Republic in case no fighters are bought. It aroused a wave of emotional reaction. ‘Over Czech heads German fighter pilots will romp around’, ‘Fighters, or resignation to our air space defence’, ‘Postponing of the purchase of supersonics will result in losing our sovereignty’, and ‘We shall pay Germans for our defence’ – such and similar headlines emerged in the media (Mladá fronta DNES, 29 January 2002, p. 7). To the public the purchase of British–Swedish Gripens has been presented as the best possible solution to the precarious situation. The modernisation of the Russian MiG 21 has been doubted because of political reasons and both Tvrdík and Zeman refused the fourth solution (see above) based upon the modernisation of anti-aircraft artillery as extremely expensive. A great effort by the government and the MoD was deployed to conclude the contract successfully before the general election planned for June 2002. To achieve that, a law on financing the purchase had to be passed by both chambers of the Czech parliament. Financing was the crucial point of the purchase, and most of the debate in the parliament centred around the methods of how to fund the acquisition. The standing military budget had been overburdened by the obligation to pay by instalments for 72 L-159 planes. The Gripens have become so popular within the government because their producer was the only one who made an offer with direct and numerous offset programmes. The priority given to the economic aspect of the whole contract with BAe-Systems has not been concealed. The former Prime Minister Miloš Zeman made it clear that the contract with direct offset programmes and international investments into the Czech regions with the highest rate of unemployment and the industries that needed to be revitalised, such as mines, steel factories etc., had priority within the government.14 But the offset programmes had a lot of opponents, some of them belonging to powerful and respectful groups of economists. 15 The Lower Chamber of the Czech parliament passed the law only thanks to three votes, the purchase being supported by ruling Social Democrats, Christian Democrats and Communists, while right-oriented parties opposed it. During the debate in the Upper Chamber (Senate) two interventions to the decision-making appeared from abroad. Literally several hours before the Senate session was opened, the USA had provided the Czech Press Agency ((TK) a declaration suggesting that the Czech Republic should first reform its armed forces and only then buy expensive weapon systems. Belgium offered a sale of 24 F-16A fighters for nine billion korunas. While the Belgian Ambassador to the Czech Republic Bernard Pierre received a diplomatic note about the inappropriate timing of
152 Marie Vlachová the offer, the lobbying from the part of the USA has never been admitted officially. The government lost its fight for the Gripens when the Senate refused to approve the law on financing the purchase, and the political debate on the supersonics continued only after the general election in June 2002. The Governmental Declaration – a guideline for a new coalition government – in the chapter ‘Defence’ declared the necessity to protect the country’s air space by national means without mentioning the Gripens. In July 2002 it was quite clear that politicians were far from reaching a consensus. While the Social Democrats stressed their resolution to stick to the Gripens, their political allies from Christian Democratic party expressed their doubts. Moreover, the American firms Lockheed and Boeing began to execute pressure on the Czech government, allegedly coming up with a new and very advantageous offer.16 Reports about a meeting of US Deputy Defence Minister Paul Wolfowitz with the chair of the Senate Defence Committee Michael *antovský appeared quoting Wolfowitz’s threat that if Prague buys the Gripens, the existing excellent military co-operation between Prague and Washington is jeopardised. One of the leaders of the coalition party Union of Freedom, Hana Marvanová, welcomed the US offer: I am glad that the question from whom we buy the supersonics for tens of billions crowns stays open, and I would prefer the decision to be taken only after the NATO Summit in the autumn. (Mladá fronta DNES, 4 July 2002, p. 6) The floods in summer 2002 and the necessity to cope with enormous damages ended the political discussions ‘whether to buy the Gripens or not’. The government had to refuse the British–Swedish BAe Systems’ original offer as too financially demanding. The debate returned to considerations of some less expensive options, such as a lease of an ally’s supersonics, the possibility which had been tested during the Prague NATO summit when the Czech air space was defended by American aircraft.17 Another option is to reduce to half the number of Gripens purchased or to buy older American planes (F-16 and F/A-18). An interesting option emerged by the end of 2002 when the prime ministers of the Czech and Slovak Republics agreed on investigating the possibility of a common defence of the air space of these two states. The information about debates concerning the creation of a common unit with an Alliance country that bought the Eurofighters, and would be willing to let Czech pilots fly some of the machines, appeared at the beginning of 2003. The government could also invite new tenders respecting present economic capabilities of the state. The present Minister of Defence, Miroslav Kostelka, supports the option of national supersonics in the next five years with used machines, either leased or bought, and then – if the financial situation allows it – with the purchase of new supersonics. The serviceability of the only machines assigned to the protection and defence of the air space – MiG 21 – will end in 2005. That year has been considered as a deadline for making a decision (Mladá fronta DNES, 10 July 2003, p. 7).
Modernisation of the Czech armed forces 153 After three years of intensive negotiations, debates and skirmishes the situation has not changed much and all options are open. Politicians have reached a consensus as to the necessity to invest in national supersonic aircraft, but they differ in the question of the producer. The military insist upon national supersonics to be able to fulfil their obligation to protect the country. The signals from the NATO headquarters do not conceal the fact that the Alliance’s main interest lies in the serviceability of Czech airports and bases more than in Czech’s national supersonics. Undoubtedly, the unsolved issue will lead to more lobbying from the producers, but it may also be an opportunity for further public debate which could bring to light more information about the dubious decisions made in the past for which nobody has been held accountable.
‘Unconquerable forts’ The main analytical document on military reform pointed out the issue of tens of thousands of kilos of unusable ammunition for the weaponry which the Czech military has already got rid off. A really obscure example consists of the more than half-a-century-old T-74 tank. To dispose of the obsolete ammunition is extremely difficult both from the technical and financial point of view.18 It is not easily saleable, since its rather low price does not make it very profitable, not to speak of the trade difficulties of such a transaction. Disposal of the ammunition would be extremely costly since there is no Czech company capable of such an operation and the transport to a foreign company would raise the costs to astronomic figures.19 Although the ammunition represents the main problem, there are other serious issues to be solved in connection with its liquidation. The usability of military storage facilities for civil purposes has been very low, since for decades the military has not invested in its modernisation. Potential new owners may not be able or willing to invest money in dilapidated buildings. Therefore the local authorities are usually not very interested in military property. The entrepreneurial boom of the beginning of the 1990s, when some new owners of bank credits could invest in relatively well-kept storage facilities, has gone. Thus the only solution is simply to continue storing the ammunition, in spite of the fact that most of it is obsolete. The reform documents highlighted the severity of the problem and a gradual liquidation of the obsolete and redundant supplies became an important process of modernisation of the logistic support system.20 The problem of military ammunition stores would have probably been kept within the walls of the Defence Ministry were it not for repeated thefts that attracted the attention of the media. In autumn 2002, military police began to investigate the case of the ammunition theft after a woman working at a gas station had been seriously injured by a military hand grenade when she was robbed. The perpetrator of the theft was an officer responsible for a military store, later on apprehended and sent to prison. But the thefts have continued and ammunition has been disappearing even from relatively well-guarded facilities. In most cases the ammunition has really been stolen, although inspections ordered by the military leadership could not exclude disorder as a reason for missing
154 Marie Vlachová cartridges and loads. The leadership of the armed forces was anxious about the thefts, as admitted by the then defence minister Jaroslav Tvrdík, who confirmed to the media that, in 2002, 15 cases of theft were registered. The military has not made them public in order not to upset the allies before the Prague NATO Summit. The problem was brought to light by the media in the spring of 2003, quickly becoming a true media scandal. In the socialist military, the stealing of military material has not been unusual. It belonged to the old tradition of conscript service to bring home some ‘souvenir’ – military caps or other parts of uniforms, military pouches, duffle bags and kitbags, boots, badges, knives, etc. But repeatedly occurring and well-organised thieving of military ammunition was potentially too dangerous to be shrugged off as a surviving tradition of socialist slovenliness. For instance, F1 hand grenades with splintering effect can mortally injure a person at the distance of 200 metres. They can be used in a homemade production of explosive-trap systems, not to mention the possibility of exploding during unprofessional handling. The military leadership began to test the security systems at the biggest ammunition stores in a rather unusual way, deploying elite parachute units to the garrisons to reveal ways of breaking into the stores and carrying away the ammunition. The exercise proved that the stores were in a much worse state than expected revealing obsolete and dysfunctional technical equipment, neglect of regular sentry movements, and guard dogs tethered to the sentry boxes. An easy way of penetrating the stores suggested also the possibility of profiting out of information from the conscripts, who are skilled in escaping from garrisons and making their way to the local pubs. Although it has not been confirmed, the existence of perpetrators among former conscripts, very well acquainted with the local setting and motivated by their frustration of the time wasted during their conscript service, cannot be excluded. Tvrdík also suggested the possibility of youngsters executing larcenies in order to experience the entertainment of ‘adrenaline sports’. The participation of organised gangs had been taken into consideration as well, although this could not be proved. The stolen ammunition might become a subject of a profitable trade. In a small town near Prague, called Bustehrad, every week a noted flea market is organised, and besides other commodities the military material has been traded there. The customers interested in militaria come not only from the Czech Republic but also from Germany, the Netherlands and Poland. Allegedly, illegal weapons and military ammunition are available there.21 The military leadership took the thefts seriously. In 2003, some of the stores were re-equipped with modern technical devices, and Jaroslav Tvrdík proudly declared them ‘unconquerable forts’. They began to be guarded by professionals, instead of conscripts, from the military police equipped with modern monitoring systems. A project of a gradual reduction, modernisation of the stores and the liquidation of obsolete and redundant ammunition has been worked out. According to the project, the present 100 stores will be reduced to six modern stores with high-tech equipment. The deadline has been set for the end of 2006. But in July 2003 it was announced that the establishment of a new central store
Modernisation of the Czech armed forces 155 would be cancelled with regard to the budget cuts. Allegedly, the project has been only postponed until the time when the reduced reform will be launched.22 Tvrdík, who had been involved personally in the solution of the humiliating thefts and made the case public, resigned when the cuts to the budget were announced. His departure from the MoD raised a small media scandal itself, in which he revealed a tense relationship between the ministry and the general staff, accusing the military representatives of a low level of co-operation with the superior MoD and himself.23
Implications for the democratic control of the armed forces Healthy democratic control of the armed forces requires the creation of a certain milieu in which a balance between controlling actors, that is between executive, legal and judicial institutions, has been achieved. The involvement of civil society in debates on defence is also of great salience for properly functioning democratic control. The relationship between civilian control of politicians and executive power of the military may be considered the most delicate part of that balance. The two case studies indicate that an appropriate balance in the triangle ‘politicians–military–public’ has been in a process of development in the Czech Republic, accompanied with many deficiencies in transparency of the reform steps and in accountability of those responsible for them. The purchase of supersonic aircraft became a subject of fierce political struggle, especially before the general election in 2002. Over several months the government changed substantially its opinion about the reform priorities, shifting the supersonics from the third line of projects, designed for the distant future, to the first line. Evidently, economic reasons played the most substantial part in this shift of priorities. Strong support of the Gripens aroused a harsh backlash against them from the side of the political opposition that accused the ruling social democrats of neglecting the reform.24 Voting in both chambers of the parliament was executed mainly according to party views and two implacable camps came into existence. Due to this fact and in a turbulent pre-election atmosphere there was no chance of reaching a political consensus about the issue. The political debate presented in the media indicated more general characteristics of the present Czech political scene. The development of a pluralistic political system has been only gradual, and slow, and the sectarian character of political parties seems to block a more profound preparation of decision making. As a consequence, low experience and expertise make politicians susceptible to lobbying of varied interest groups, such as the arms industry. The prevailing role of domestic arms producers in the decision of contracting the production of the L-159s in AERO Vodochody has been quite obvious. The contract was prepared only by military and industry executives, and there is no information as to whether it has been subject to any approval by the Czech parliament. Actually, none of the previous modernisation programmes have been put under strict parliamentarian control.25 The media began to be interested only after military personnel started to complain about delayed, overpriced and flawed deliveries of purchased equipment.
156 Marie Vlachová Certainly, the most criticised business of the modernisation of the Czech air force was the exchange of ten Russian six-year-old MiG 29s for eleven Polish Falcon helicopters, allegedly of disputable quality and usefulness for territorial defence. The transaction was played out between the end of 1995 and the beginning of 1996; it was worked out at the MoD and submitted to the government and its then Prime Minister Václav Klaus without any independent evaluation and debates within the parliament (see Splítková, 2002). Such a ‘bargain’ understandably created many suspicions, although up to now no legal steps have been taken against anybody. Miroslav Kalousek, the deputy of three defence ministers in 1993–8, responsible for military budget and tenders, always denied any immoral or wrong-doing by himself and his direct subordinates. According to him, those responsible for strategic planning at the MoD should be blamed for the decisions that nowadays cannot be considered anything but blunders. He claims that any strategic decision about weaponry should be made in balance with defence requirements, and the economic interests of the state.26 In other words, the military should be responsible for strategic expert decisions, and politicians are obliged to reconsider their requirements from the point of view of state interests, first of all taking into consideration the feasibility of any investments from the point of view of economic resources and profits of the domestic industry. This statement is significant as an illustrative example of mutual accusations by politicians and the military about whom to blame for some botched acquisitions. Since such statements are not exceptional they indicate that the level of democratic control has been far from ‘shared responsibility’ in decision making. A certain gap between the military and civilian politicians is an inevitable reflection of their different professional interests. The military wish the reform to be executed gradually, within the walls of the ministry and garrisons rather than publicly, they wish it to be cushioned against the painful consequences of downsizing and to be aimed at the broadest possible understanding of potential risks in order to justify state investments into the modernisation. Seemingly, they believe that their military expertise makes them not only highly regarded but also responsible partners in any political strategic decision making, even if politicians will always have the last word. In the past, politicians several times neglected military expertise, making non-transparent decisions, such as the exchange of the Russian MiG 29s for the Polish Falcons. Understandably, the military might feel like ‘captives’ of economic priorities, the defence and military interests having been subordinated to interests of the domestic arms industry. On the other hand, the military washed its hands of dubious decisions many times by saying ‘you politicians order, we soldiers execute only what you want us to do’ – which can be considered a rather misunderstood version of Huntington’s objective control. Indirectly, the second case study also indicates the low level of co-operation between civilians and military personnel. Minister Tvrdík’s personal engagement in the endeavour to stop the scandalous thefts in military ammunition stores revealed the enormous scope of problems the civilian and military leadership
Modernisation of the Czech armed forces 157 have to solve, moreover with restricted funds, and sometimes in a very resistant environment of well-established behaviour of those who are not able to change their ‘socialist mentality’ attitudes. What Tvrdík, in a rather non-diplomatic way, revealed in the media about the relationship between the ministry and the general staff, suggests that there is a very wide gap between the two crucial elements of democratic control, and that ‘the power game’ within the Czech military continues in spite of legislatively determined powers and responsibilities of the superior ministry and subordinate general staff. It would be an exaggeration to speak of a profound, well-informed public debate on the modernisation of the Czech armed forces. Nothing of that kind has taken place in the media, in spite of the fact that the purchase of supersonics may be considered as one of the best-covered defence issues since the foundation of the Czech Republic. Also, the thefts in military ammunition stores were paid a lot of media attention. Although quite frequent topics, the defence and military issues were presented as reports rather than profound and knowledgeable commentaries. The few journalists referring regularly to the modernisation have been dependent upon statements of ministerial representatives, arms producers and politicians. The Defence Ministry might have been well prepared for expert and political debates, but too few of its arguments appeared in the media. Evidently, the public has not been a target of the ministerial endeavour to win the battle. No wonder that the message to the public about the reform and the air force modernisation has been rather confusing.27 For the first time, a debate on a defence issue appeared on the Internet, but most of the contributions were too emotional, biased or limited to technical details, suggesting that mostly military pilots and fighter-fans took part in this rather exclusive debate.28 There were too many contradictory statements, too many unclear issues, and there was too much influence from different interest groups and too great a rush to receive the approval of the parliament and conclude the contract with the British–Swedish consortium before the general election. The most crucial question – why the Czech political and military representatives decided to omit from the public debate the repeated NATO leadership statements about the Alliance priorities diverging from an acquisition of supersonics – has been very rarely mentioned in the debate (Gabal, 2002). The announcement of the impact of the budget cut on the reform gave rise to a public discussion about the most substantial issue of the reform process, that is, what kind of armed forces should be established in the future. Will it be a small military based upon specialisations,29 with the Czech armed forces, as already proved, being able to contribute to the Alliance’s capabilities in a significant way? The military deliberately focusing on territorial defence, and dependent on the Alliance’s help in case of an attack. Or will small, universal armed forces be created that are able to defend the country against such a highly improbable attack but contributing to the Alliance capabilities only in a very modest way? The ‘universal’ solution is the least painful one, since the reductions in personnel in the best units would not be so drastic, but the price – losing the possibility of becoming a fully fledged NATO member – frightens even those who prefer
158 Marie Vlachová territorial defence to an Alliance defence. The ‘high specialisation’ solution is rather foggy and military experts are not very eager for it, even if they might be aware that in the future it is probably the best possibility for a small state with limited human and economic resources. Jaroslav Škopek, former deputy minister and one of the reform’s founding fathers, expressed the doubts quite clearly: It [specialisation] is a right direction, but to take it at present would be rather premature. The Alliance states have not been prepared for the complementary deployment of national units and mutual support yet. We would be in advance of our capabilities in doing so.30 Understandably, NATO supports the ‘specialisation’ solution expressing the prevailing opinion by its high commander who thought ‘a slimming diet quite healthy for the Czech military’. Economising programmes and modernisation are ahead of both new and old Alliance members, since in spite of two million miltary personnel serving in the European Alliance militaries their capabilities are not sufficient for common operations with the US and British troops.31 Public opinion on the modernisation and purchase of the supersonic aircraft reflects the opaque, contradictory views presented in the media. People seem to be cautiously supportive of the modernisation of the armed forces, but only on condition that it does not restrict investments into social, health and environmental care.32 The public has diverse opinions on the issue of whether the purchase of supersonic aircraft is necessary for territorial defence or not (46 per cent for versus 35 per cent against). On the question of NATO’s willingness to defend the Czech air space if necessary, the public is again divided into almost even groups of sceptics (39 per cent) and those who believe in such a possibility (41 per cent). The relatively large group of undecided or hesitant people (about 20 per cent of citizens) can be seen as an indicator of the fact that the public opinion on the acquisition has not yet formed into relatively stable attitudes. A certain widespread scepticism in the capability to defend the country, deeply rooted in historic experience with superpowers and pacts (the Munich Treaty in 1938, and the Soviet occupation in 1968), has been obvious in public attitudes to defence and the armed forces for a long time. Over 60 per cent of Czech citizens are convinced that in critical moments the decisive role will be played by superpowers, not by the strength of the military. Nevertheless, defence of the state sovereignty is considered a necessity, even though economic development has not been very favourable. People are convinced that the weaponry and equipment of the armed forces must be updated, not only to defend the country but also to cope with NATO obligations. There is an overall awareness about the inadequacy of arms, leading to a conclusion that the present military would not be able to defend the country in case of an attack (40 per cent of citizens).33 But the most important message of the public opinion polls to politicians is the priority of social and ecological needs. Political decisions in military modernisation, including the air force, could become illegitimate in the eyes of the public, if made at the expense of social investments without being argued emphatically and persuasively.
Modernisation of the Czech armed forces 159
Conclusion The Czech Republic has been considered a consolidated democracy with a parliamentarian political system (Kubát, 2003, p. 51). The parliament of the Czech Republic is legally responsible for the democratic control of the armed forces, which is guaranteed by civilian leadership of the armed forces represented by a civilian minister of defence, to whom all military structures, including the general staff, are subordinate.34 The process of decision making is governed by defence acts passed in 1989–99, and the government submits proposals by means of its minister of defence, supported by the State Security Council that operates as a governmental consultative and expert body.35 As any other NATO member, the Czech Republic consults the Alliance on substantial security and defence decisions. The parliament is the most important element of the security and defence policy, dealing with all substantial issues of the policy and passing applicable Acts. It is mostly the Defence and Security Committee of the Czech parliament that is in charge of the security and defence policy of the country. The strategic community, i.e. the segments of civil society that are more than others devoted to security and defence policy, does not impinge on the state defence and security policy significantly, although the media have been paying more attention to the most important decisions. The democratic control of armed forces in the Czech Republic from the point of view of its very primary goal has been achieved, since any possibility of a coup d’état has been eliminated by institutional and legal means. In this chapter it was argued that regarding the political civilian control over domestic defence policy and all substantial processes including budgeting, downsizing, equipment procurement and overall military strategy, the situation is more blurred, and as has been shown in the two presented case studies, a fully fledged democratic control has been more of a goal than a reality. If control is defined as a shared responsibility for the reform of the armed forces executed by both politicians and the military, although in various ways and with different powers, then the results of the controlling process seem to be rather chaotic until now. Neither politicians nor the military were able to execute control and leadership over the transformation processes to the extent that would avoid a waste of economic and human resources. There are many examples that the balance between dominant civilian attitudes and the military leadership’s ethos has always been the most delicate part of democratic control (see, e.g. Boëne, 2001, p. 55). The case studies show that in the Czech Republic the balance between civilian control and military expertise has not yet been achieved. The two ‘stories’ about the reform of the Czech armed forces also indicate the size and scope of the problems with which the politicians and the military leadership have to cope in order to modernise the armed forces. Some of the problems are difficult to overcome in spite of all the efforts of those in power, as the case of Tvrdík’s stubborn endeavour to stop the humiliating thefts from military stores illustrates. The reform requires money, time, patience and teamwork, i.e. a close co-operation of all those executing the leadership and the control of the armed forces.
160 Marie Vlachová The two cases also show a progress, however slow and gradual, both in preparation of the state tenders for the armed forces, in negotiation with arms producers at home and abroad, and in presenting sensitive defence issues to the public. While at the beginning of the 1990s the military representatives did not have any experience in dealing with domestic and foreign arms producers, the preparation of the purchase of supersonics seems to be a different story. Much effort has been invested in preparatory, consultative and expert phases of the business. A great deal of attention has been paid to gaining support for the supersonics from governmental politicians and parliamentarians. Several seminars, workshops and briefings have been organised by the MoD and members of both defence committees (the Senate and the Lower Chamber) were provided with relevant documentation. Unfortunately, the rush to conclude the business before the election, the lack of a broader public debate and the distrust ensuing from previous dubious tenders have contributed to the failure of politicians and the military to persuade their opponents of the merits of their solutions.
Notes 1 About €1.85 billion. 2 The reformed military should include 23,000 professional military personnel and 7,000 civilians. 3 The Czechoslovak military pilot school gained its fame during the Second World War when Czech and Slovak pilots fought on both fronts. The history of the Czechs in the RAF, doomed to oblivion by the communist regime because of ideological reasons, has been revoked since 1993 by numerous books, films (e.g. The Dark Blue World, directed by Jan Svìrák) and state awards to the pilots. For instance, the first squadron of the Czech subsonic L-159 bears the name of General Alois Šiška, the member of 311th Bomber Squadron (Czechoslovak) of the Royal Air Force. 4 According to the Treaty on Convention Armed Forces in Europe signed at the OSCE Summit in 1990. 5 Probably due to the fact that the last federal defence minister was a Slovak. 6 The situation in the Czech Republic differed from that in Poland, Hungary and Slovakia. All these ‘hot’ candidates in the first wave of NATO enlargement stuck to MiG-29s, their repair components and new machines were bought for debts from the Soviet times. The Czech Republic refused such compensation. 7 The L-159 ALCA (Advanced Light Combat Aircraft) can be used in direct support of ground operations, for attacks on ground targets, for tactical reconnaissance and in anti-aircraft defence. It is usable especially in anti-guerrilla operation; it can attack sea targets as well. The plane can fight helicopters or in peacetime identify the planes penetrating national air space. The doubleseat version of the plane (L-159B) is suitable for the training of fighter pilots. The plane can bear up to three cannons of 20 mm calibre, rockets, missiles and bombs. The low fuel consumption and low cost operation add to its advantages. In future the plane will be fuelled during flight. Maximum speed of 639 km/h; maximum flying range of 2530 km with additional fuel tanks. 8 The new L-159 proved to be faulty, half of its radars were not working, and moreover, the MOD did not order a flight simulator, necessary for pilots’ training, thus giving the producer the possibility of ascribing the faults to lack of experience of military pilots with the new sophisticated machine. 9 American Boeing and Honeywell became shareholders in AERO Vodochody, Boeing owning 35 per cent of AERO, supplying state-of the-art avionics, while Honeywell supplies the engines for the L-159B.
Modernisation of the Czech armed forces 161 10 The plane is to be equipped with the gun FLAME produced by a domestic company, but this production has also been accompanied by delays and financial problems. See Noviny.cz, 2003. 11 Being in the process of the re-armament of its air force, India expressed interest in 200 doubleseated L-159Bs for border patrol and pilot training. The business of seven billion Czech korunas would have definitely ended the uncertain destiny of AERO Vodochody, and might have meant a breach in the world arms markets. 12 Blesk, 24 May 2001, ‘Tendru na stíha=ky hrozí fiasco’ (The tender of supersonic planes threatened by a débâcle). 13 A classified report about the situation in the Czech Air Force with regard to the fact that in 2004 it would lose the last supersonic MiG 21s was submitted to the government and the parliament. 14 Allegedly, the offset programmes should bring a 1–2 per cent yearly increase of the GD. The BAe-Systems’ offset programmes bewitched the Czech government mainly because it suggested the way to finance L-159 planes and to buy the supersonics as well, accepting the obligation to sell half of the subsonics to their international partners. Quoted according to Ústav strategických studií, 2002a. 15 For instance, conversely to the Prime Minister’s view, the former social democratic finance minister Pavel Mertlík argued that even if offset programmes would bring investors to the country, and would enhance the sale of Czech products on Western markets, it would be rather naïve to think that there would be any significant economic profit on the tender. ‘Offsets can compensate the enormous investment only partly. And it will be difficult to push a Western firm to grant everything it had promised. At the same time that is the only way to guarantee that Western investments in domestic economy or sale of Czech products abroad, motivated by the tender, has brought such and such advantages … The Czech Republic does not have much experience with offsets and the few have not brought much profits’. Quoted according to Ústav strategických studií, 2002b. 16 The impact of American interests can be documented also by the statement of American Defence Minister Donald Rumsfeld who, during his visit to Prague in 2002, confirmed that for the American side the military reform and fulfilment of NATO obligations were more important than sophisticated and expensive aircraft. 17 The Czech parliament had to pass a special law on the necessity to strengthen the state air space by an ally power. 18 Czech Ministry of Defence, 2001, para. 2.3.4, the Logistic Support System. 19 The estimated costs of the liquidation of one current machine gun cartridge are about 4–7 korunas, the complete cost of the obsolete ammunition was calculated at up to three billion korunas. 20 ‘In terms of its composition, equipment and organisational structure, the logistic support system of the armed forces of the Czech Republic does not meet the requirements placed upon the armed forces of the Czech Republic. […] Infrastructure development projects do not match existing needs. Combat equipment and systems are nearing the end of their planned lifetime. Because these programs are capital-intensive, a failure to sort out related problems would have a major impact on material aspects of the implementation of the reform of the armed forces of the Czech Republic, as well as on its timetable. On the one hand, the logistic support system is overburdened with having to take care of vast stocks which are practically useless (which have been left after the scraping of obsolete weapons and equipment). On the other hand, it suffers from a lack of spares and stocks, particularly for newly introduced weapons and equipment, and because of having to sustain and support rotating forces participating in missions in faraway places’. See Czech Ministry of Defence, 2001, para. 2.3.4, the Logistic Support System. 21 In April 2003 a report appeared in a Czech daily according to which shooting torches, handguns and machine guns without production numbers, explosive traps, ignitable by a mobile, rifle and handgun cartridges and other military material of a dubious origin have been available at the market. See Kedro±, 2003, p. 5. 22 The new concept of the reduced reform should be published by the end of 2003, after being approved by the Czech government. 23 Mladá fronta DNES, 30 May 2003 and 2 June 2003, 11 March 2003.
162 Marie Vlachová 24 ‘Professionalisation can be the first target shot down successfully by the supersonics’, stated Petr Ne=as, ironically the former chair of the Defence and Security Committee of the Czech parliament. He is one of the most ardent opponents of the Gripens. See Ne=as, 2002, p. 12. 25 Military information systems, the modernisation of the T-72 tank, a new set of military parachutes etc. 26 Quoted according to the website of the Christian Democratic Union – Czechoslovak People’s Party (KDU-(SL), Media, media presentations of the MPs. Online. Available HTTP: http:// www.kdu.cz/media/tisk.asp?IDC1=11001&IDR=132 (accessed 23 May 2005). 27 Due to the contradictory official opinions, people could learn from the media that we had to have the Gripens to become a fully fledged member of NATO, and at the same time that NATO was against the purchase, or that the Gripens were the best jets in the world, and conversely that they could not compete with American fighters, that all NATO countries had supersonics, and that our country was too small for them, that we could do only with the L-159 etc. 28 There was an exchange of opinions on the Air Force modernisation on the MoD website and in the popular independent internet magazine Neviditelný pes (The Invisible Dog). 29 NATO is interested in the Czech chemical, medical, radiolocation and parachute units, as expressed for instance during the Prague Summit in 2003. But even such a scope of specialised units seems to be rather too demanding for the present financial possibilities of the Czech state. 30 Mladá fronta DNES, 4 June 2003. 31 NATO high commander James Jones in his interview for the daily Mladá fronta DNES on 27 July 2003. 32 87 per cent of Czech citizens approved of the modernisation of the armed forces on the condition of maintenance of social investments. See Hendrych et al., 2001 and 2002. 33 Ibid. 34 The president of the Czech Republic is the high commander of the armed forces, although his powers during peacetime are mostly limited to representative functions. 35 One Constitutional Act (Act on Security of the Czech Republic), five Acts, three amendments of other Acts affected by the new defence legislation and a number of implementing regulations concerning the new defence laws. Act No. 219/1999 Coll. on the armed forces of the Czech Republic is of fundamental importance to democratic control, since it defines the responsibilities and powers of government authorities and institutions exercising control over the armed forces.
A battle for civil supremacy in Israel 163
11 A battle for civil supremacy over the military in Israel Amir Bar-Or
Introduction The day after the independent, democratic State of Israel was born on 14 May 1948, it found itself battling for survival against an invasion force of regular armies from neighbouring Arab states. This existential crisis had a precedent-setting influence on the creation of the political institutions and the Israeli Defence Forces (IDF). It was also the initial stage of the complex relationship between the political level and the senior military command that has continued for the following 57 years of Israel’s national independence. Since then the intensity and dynamics of the Arab–Israeli conflict, with an average of one major war every decade, has influenced the way that Israeli political institutions exercise supervision over the IDF. The cases dealt with in this chapter reflect the lack of formalised rules of conduct and the attempts of government and military to force one another’s hand even though it is absolutely clear that the army is committed to obeying the yardsticks of the political leadership. The power struggle relates, on the one hand, to the growing military influence on government decision making in security matters, and, on the other hand, to the government’s attempts to narrow the IDF senior command’s influence on these decisions. The War of Independence in Israel created the patterns of political supervision, mainly because it represents the period in which the political leadership maintained full control over the army’s senior staff. In the pre-state period, the military command had operated on the basis of a militia-like, underground organisation, and had been under the authority of the institutions of the ‘state in the making’. Ben-Gurion, the first prime minister and defence minister, sought a fundamental change in the supervisory patterns and arrangements at the political and security levels. This was an expression of his concept of a new security regime. As the representative of the state’s political leadership, he strove to cement his rule over the military force by proceeding to crystallise the political platform that would enable the civilian level to become the supreme and exclusive authority over security affairs. Braced with the necessary political backing, Ben-Gurion completely altered the game rules in a way that left no doubt where the centre of decision making lay. In his management of the War of Independence, David Ben-Gurion incurred harsh criticism from his colleagues in the political leadership, as well as from the
164 Amir Bar-Or army’s senior commanders. In the following years, while he permanently served as both prime minister and defence minister, the relationship between the political and military spheres were upheld on the strength of his leadership, personality, and vision – rather than according to formally legalised parameters. Ben-Gurion’s vision of civil supremacy was justified not only because of the emergency situation, but also because it served as a basic value in the construction of the political–military relationship of the new statehood and in the early years of national independence. Ben-Gurion’s centralised concentration of power evoked an overt, publicly expressed fear stemming from the perceived threat to democratic norms. This was due to the drastic change that political norms had experienced during the Jewish community’s transition from a pre-state, ‘free-wheeling’ democracy to a sovereign country. In fact, Ben-Gurion sought to rid himself of all supervision over his own undertakings, even refusing to subordinate his authority to the jurisdiction of the Defence Ministry at whose head he stood. In Ben-Gurion’s view, civil supremacy implied more than the political leadership’s participation in determining military policy or contributing to political thinking and orientation (Harkabi, 1990, p. 526). Civil supremacy, according to him, meant the total involvement of the political level in all aspects of military and wartime activity, even in real-time situations, in order to serve the political view without any degree of variance. The ability to dictate decisions that sometimes ran counter to the professional judgment of military commanders was a necessary condition, in his view, for the wisest and most feasible management of the military system. Ben-Gurion expressed his principles in October 1949 on the occasion of the appointment of the IDF’s second chief of the general staff (CGS): The army determines neither the policies, administration, nor laws of the state. The army does not even determine its own structure, its missions, or methods of operation, and under no circumstances does it wage war or sign peace treaties. The army is nothing more than the executive arm for the defence and security of the State of Israel. Organising the army … [is] the sole responsibility of the civilian authorities who comprise the government, Knesset, and the voters … The army is unconditionally subordinate to the government and the Knesset [Israeli Parliament]. (Ben-Gurion, 1971, p. 82) In this way Ben-Gurion shaped the principles of Israel’s civil–military relations, and they became his pole star for as long as he served in the twin-role of prime minister and defence minister during the state’s first 15 years (1948–63). One of the consequences of the government’s paramount position was the protracted weakness of the parliament [the Knesset], and especially the foreign affairs and security committee, in overseeing military-security matters. When Ben-Gurion took an extended leave of absence in 1954, and after his final resignation from government in 1963, the question of supervision over the army by the state’s democratic institutions became a complex and highly charged political issue.
A battle for civil supremacy in Israel 165 It should be emphasised that even if the role of democratic institutions in Israel – the government and Knesset – was relatively limited in the supervision of the army due to Ben-Gurion’s dominance, a clear distinction existed between the political system and military systems. This distinction, however, became muddled in the post-Ben-Gurion period (from 1963 onwards). For many years, no clear boundaries existed regarding relations between the military and the civil authorities in Israel. In Israel’s government system there is no such title as ‘commander-in-chief of the armed forces’. (Hofnung, 1996, p. 188) The turning-point in this state of affairs took place in 1976 with a new passage in the Basic Law, entitled ‘The Army’, which was intended to define formally and explicitly, once and for all, political–military relations. Up to this time, this relationship had been characterised by conspicuous ambiguity regarding the allocation of authority between the prime minister, government (cabinet), defence minister, CGS and Knesset. Although the modus vivendi survived until the 1973 war, in the aftermath of the war it could no longer continue, especially in light of the revelations and decisions of the blue-ribbon Investigating Commission that studied the mismanagement of the war (the Agranat Commission). One of the major issues of the Commission was the nature of political–military relations, and it reached the unanimous decision that they had to be legalised. The new Basic Law passage stated that the CGS is subject to governmental authority and is subordinate to the defence minister. This implies that the government, as a collective body, is the undisputed supreme commander and has the right to rescind any orders issued by the defence minister – whose job it is to execute government policy and who has been granted legal control of the army by government consent. Naturally, such vague legalistic language regarding the chain of command, and the unprecedented allocation of authority in the hands of the government and defence minister, left ample room for interpretation and did little to alter the rules of the political–military game. The specific terms outlined in the new Basic Law passage were designed to clarify the chain of command between the government, defence minister and CGS but the wording was sufficiently hazy to leave the major protagonists considerable room for manoeuvre. Over the years, even partial attempts of formally establishing government supervision over the IDF, in the form of professional advisory bodies, were hampered by numerous obstacles. Although the creation of a ‘National Security Council’ in the prime minister’s office is mandated in the Basic Law, it has never materialised in a way that guaranteed its success. Attempts to appoint relatively lower echelon, non-influential personalities to this body during the premiership of both Shamir (1986–92) and Rabin (1992–95) ended in failure primarily because the work style of these two decision makers left little space for consultation agencies. The vacuum was filled by the IDF whose proposals and political–military recommendations were generally accepted by the political echelon. The IDF has
166 Amir Bar-Or to act according to orders emanating from within the military that are essential for the functioning of the military organisation. The IDF and the CGS, in conjunction with the general staff and its various branches, execute their work schedule through smoothly running processes. This places the CGS in an advantageous position vis-à-vis the government, the prime minister and even the defence minister. All attempts of setting up professional advisory boards for the prime minister and defence minister, and of installing senior consultants for military affairs, have come to naught. The national security advisory staff during Ariel Sharon’s term as defence minister (1982–3) was an all-out effort to contend with the lack of an advisory board. Its failure was due to its pretentious attempt to replace the general staff. Later efforts of creating an advisory board were more limited in scope, and were careful not to curtail the IDF’s main functions. The political–military relationship has retained its informal character until the present. The case studies presented illustrate an ascendancy of informal processes. Both cases show different aspects of the same phenomenon – an increase in the strength, status and influence of the IDF over the political system despite repeated attempts at limiting it. The first case deals with the plans of Prime Minister Binyamin Netanyahu (1996–9) to reshape Israel’s civil–military relations. The second case illustrates the way the previous CGS, Lt. Gen. Mofaz (1998–2002), strengthened the IDF’s status by positioning himself vis-à-vis the government after Netanyahu had left office. While Netanyahu enacted fundamental, destabilising changes in the modus vivendi that had crystallised over the years, Lt. Gen. Mofaz, who served three prime ministers (Netanyahu, Barak and Sharon) and four defence ministers (Mordechai, Arens, Barak and Ben-Eliezer), drew more fire on himself throughout his term than any previous CGS.
The Netanyahu government (1996–9) Following the 1996 elections, the newly installed political leadership attempted to enact a basic reform in Israel’s civil–military relations. The first-ever direct election of an Israeli prime minister was an important factor strengthening the position of the new prime minister. Direct elections provided him with greater authority than in the past when he was only ‘first among equals’. Responsibility for the IDF was transferred directly to the prime minister, as he conceived it, instead of being collectively held by the government, and was supposed to grant the prime minister additional leverage in dealing with security matters. But in this case the prime minister simply ignored the fact that the status of the government had not been formally changed and that it retained the authority to deliberate and decide on matters of national security. The gap between the prime minister’s expectations and his actual performance as the de facto supreme commander of the IDF strengthened the trend of alienating the IDF from their political matters. This took place against the background of Netanyahu’s criticism of the involvement of many IDF generals in political issues during the Rabin Administration. According to Netanyahu the army should be separated from all aspects of political decision making. The moment he stepped into office, a reversal of game
A battle for civil supremacy in Israel 167 rules characterised the prime minister’s effort to concentrate power in his own hands while sidelining the CGS. Above all, Netanyahu made a transparent attempt to distance high-ranking officers, who had supported the policies of the previous governments headed by Rabin and Peres, from decision-making politicians. This may have been the real reason why Netanyahu adopted an entirely new approach towards civil–military relations – the dismissal of the army from the political arena. If the new government’s aim was to narrow the influence of the senior military command in the political arena, then very quickly the IDF was removed even from discussions connected with their own role. The CGS and his deputy were not invited to meetings on cutbacks in the security budget, and the prime minister cancelled what had formerly been routine work-meetings with the CGS. Moreover, Netanyahu initiated a highly skewered presentation of the ‘exaggerated’ salaries of military personnel as part of his prearranged campaign to influence a slash in the defence budget. The sense of alienation remained despite the fact that the new defence minister, Yitzhak Mordechai, came to office shortly after ending a long military career; in fact, it increased since he became a full-time partner in the government’s policy of distancing itself from the IDF. Even a ‘positive’ security initiative by Netanyahu was made known to the IDF only through the media, and underpins another attempt by the prime minister to sever the direct communication between his office and the senior military command. Netanyahu’s plan to establish a National Security Council in the prime minister’s office, as required by the Basic Law, had the potential for creating a new set of ground rules in civil–military relations. The Council was to be headed by Maj. Gen. (Res.) David Ivri, the former air force commander and one of the most distinguished figures in the national security establishment. Ivri had served in the high-profile role of director general of the Defence Ministry for over ten years and was now expected to usher in a major overhaul in the prime minister’s capacity to oversee military operations. In addition, the national security council was designed to co-ordinate numerous inter-ministerial projects, such as the Anti-Terror Unit, and special issues that would come under Ivri’s direct responsibility in the Defence Ministry, such as strategic co-operation with the USA and chairing the arms control steering committee. The amassing of all these roles in the prime minister’s office could have enabled the prime minister, acting on behalf of the government, to exercise unprecedented control over national security policies by reducing the IDF’s de facto influence. But the initiative of this reform naturally encountered stiff opposition from the IDF and the defence minister. Heavy pressure by the newly appointed defence minister altered the council’s original format, reducing it to a consultative forum headed by Ivri within the framework of the Defence Ministry rather than the prime minister’s office. The prime minister’s volte-face on this issue was a clear victory for the defence minister. An additional exacerbation in the relationship between the prime minister and senior command occurred when the top brass was no longer invited to political colloquiums in order to state its professional opinion on purely military subjects. Two examples illustrate this point. When the cabinet discussed the Hebron
168 Amir Bar-Or withdrawal plan in 1996, the military, and especially the General of the Central Command, were kept in the dark about it. And, before the disastrous Western Wall tunnel opening in the Old City of Jerusalem (September 1996), the military was neither informed about the timing nor issued specific orders once the decision was made. All that the army received was painful short notice to muster the troops. The fact that military figures were no longer ‘in the game’ put them in the awkward position of having to provide military solutions for political contingencies that they were not consulted on in the first place. Not surprisingly, a reaction of outspoken criticism set in, emanating from anonymous voices within the military establishment and surfacing in the media. In vitriolic language they castigated the prime minister’s relations with the IDF high command and oppugned his criticism of the top brass on public occasions such as at the graduation ceremony at the National Security College (summer 1996). The cumulative effect of the continual marginalising of the IDF led to a weakening and further polarisation of the relations between the prime minister and the CGS. The brunt of the prime minister’s criticism was directed towards the CGS, Lt. Gen. Shachak, who was identified more than anyone else in the IDF with the previous government’s policies at reaching the ‘Oslo Accords’. The flaunted disregard of Shachak’s military expertise from all aspects of the political process paralleled Netanyahu’s relentless whittling down of the CGS’s stature and authority. The prime minister’s disdain of Shachak’s professional advice corresponded with the attempt to discredit the general’s position. In light of the worsening relationship following the events at the Western Wall tunnel, when the blame for the fiasco was placed on the IDF and the IDF turned into a political punching bag, distrust between the different sectors soared to its highest level since the 1967 War. This state of affairs stood at the basis of a political analysis which claimed that the prospects of a putsch in Israel were on the rise because of the combined effects of a deep credibility gap and direct elections for the prime minister. This analysis, as expected, set off a heated public debate that exposed the government’s faulty handling of its relations with the IDF and other security services. But public criticism changed nothing whatsoever of the prime minister’s management of civil–military relations; in fact, they worsened as the 1999 election campaign approached. A minor incident again turned into a major clash between the prime minister and CGS, who was now seen as a growing threat to the prime minister’s political future. After Netanyahu had prevented the CGS from completing a routine report he was to deliver at a government meeting, the prime minister was criticised for his interference in the way the government was functioning as the state’s supreme decision maker on security matters. To recall, the Agranat Commission after the 1973 War had admonished that proper decision making on security matters by the government depends on the free flow of information. By obstructing the government from receiving up-to-date information from the IDF’s best-informed soldier, the prime minister had committed an expressly illegal act. Not only the CGS was brushed aside by the prime minister, but the defence
A battle for civil supremacy in Israel 169 minister, Yitzhak Mordechai, was too – he found himself isolated within the Netanyahu Administration towards the end of its stay in power. Again the same motif was at play: Mordechai’s public popularity portended a political threat to Netanyahu. The burly defence minister harboured his own dreams for political prominence and had no qualms at maligning the cabinet’s execution of major security matters, but his outspoken manner eventually led to his removal by Netanyahu. This turning-point, at the tail end of his term as prime minister, allowed Netanyahu to establish the National Security Council within the framework of the prime minister’s office. Netanyahu’s creation of the council may be considered an amelioration in civil–military relations, but it failed to become a key partner in national security decision making. After all, his conduct towards the IDF general staff and his efforts at co-opting the authority of a supreme commander without due legal backing must be considered negative and dangerous developments in the delicate and complex relationship between the political and military sectors in Israel.
Lt. Gen. Mofaz’s tenure as chief of staff (1998–2002) Over the years, IDF senior military commanders accrued almost mythic admiration and unlimited professional respect from the political captains-of-state. The government and defence minister granted them almost total freedom of action, even if it gradually reduced the civilian authority’s involvement in military affairs. It was natural, then, that in the course of time the CGS should establish himself as a very influential figure in the political arena. Mofaz replaced Lt. Gen. Shachak after a stormy period of prime minister– CGS relations and after securing the job over his rival who had better prospects for it. Expectations did not run high for the new CGS who assumed the role at a relatively quiet period and planned on being the ‘CGS of peace’ by devoting the main part of his time and energy to building up the army. ‘IDF 2000’ was the name of the plan that he intended to implement. Lt. Gen. Mofaz was appointed CGS in 1998 by Netanyahu. In 1999 a new government came to power headed by Prime Minister Ehud Barak who also commissioned himself as the new defence minister. The Barak government was too short-lived. The recently installed prime minister was forced to hand over his office to Ariel Sharon who stood at the head of the National Unity government at a time of aggravating conditions in the Israeli–Palestinian conflict. After Sharon came to power, Lt. Gen. Mofaz was involved in certain incidents, some of which created a crisis in civil–military relations. Simmering tension between Lt. Gen. Mofaz and the political echelon reached boiling point over a series of issues in the current conflict with the Palestinian Authority. If the main reason for appointing Mofaz to CGS had been to prepare the army for the twenty-first century, then very quickly it grew apparent that he was on the way to becoming the most political CGS in IDF history. In retrospect there were very few CGSs who succeeded in staying aloof from political identification during
170 Amir Bar-Or their tenures. The role of CGS as ‘the highest command role in the army’ is one of the most explicit definitions in the Basic Law. The CGS is the commander of the army and not the commander-in-chief of the army, and he is subordinate to the government. But, since the CGS also serves as the government’s senior military advisor (not anchored in law), this task became one of the main sources of conflict between Mofaz and his last two civilian bosses, especially during the renewed confrontation with the Palestinians. Under the Netanyahu government no particular problems arose regarding Mofaz’s functioning, excluding the case when the CGS expressed reservations over the government’s restraint after the Katyusha rocket attack in the north. But it seems that once Barak was elected prime minister and took on the additional role of defence minister, the twisted path in the chain of events was set in motion and Mofaz increasingly found himself involved in a dispute with the government. When Barak assumed office, an unwritten and ‘unholy’ pact existed between him and Mofaz: the CGS was to manage military affairs without civilian interference, and the prime minister would encounter no military opposition on his handling the affairs of state. But, as it turned out, under this agreement the army received orders from the political level on state matters that ran counter to IDF’s professional opinion. Inside the army Mofaz’s position was strong and secure. Minimal involvement on the part of the prime minister left the CGS plenty of room for manoeuvring without having to offer excessive explanations. But after he was estranged from state affairs and presented with faits accomplis, such as the May 2000 pullout from Lebanon, major decisions made on defence cutbacks and the prime minister’s relentless disparagement of the senior staff command resulted in an open breach between Mofaz and Barak that was peppered with mutual animosity. At the same time, against the advice of fellow senior officers, Mofaz rushed headlong into a collision with the Supreme Court, maybe in the belief that could influence the Court bench. For the first time in the state’s history one of the CGS’s appointments was abrogated by a Supreme Court ruling. The Court had been asked to intervene in the promotion of a brigadier general convicted of sexual harassment within his command, but the CGS stubbornly insisted on going through with the promotion for professional reasons. The Supreme Court’s willingness to accept the victim’s plea (a female soldier) to block the brigadier’s advance exposed the army to excoriating social criticism of its insensitivity to normative changes on sexual behaviour. In another case, the Supreme Court stopped short of getting involved in the CGS’s decision to promote an officer charged with questionable judgment during a military operation. After the 2001 elections, Ariel Sharon assumed power and placed a full-time defence minister in the seat next to him. This presented a new series of difficulties before the CGS who for one-and-a-half years had enjoyed almost absolute freedom as commander of the army. This took place as the IDF began responding vigorously to the Palestinians’ terror campaign. The army may have known what to do to suppress the complex challenge of terrorism but the newly instated Sharon
A battle for civil supremacy in Israel 171 Administration dithered endlessly before deciding on its modus operandi. A list of misunderstandings about the new game rules among various elements at the political level, and between them and the experienced CGS, characterised the early stages of containing Palestinian terror. The political level accepted almost all of the CGS’s recommendations for terminating the confrontation by toppling the Palestinian Authority (PA) and expelling Arafat (Benn, 2002a). If the political echelon harboured reservations, then most, if not all, referred to the way the CGS handled the Sharon government’s curtailing of the authority he had grown accustomed to. Moreover, the decision of the newly installed Sharon government extending his tenure by one year (the fourth year), and the approval, without the defence minister’s intervention, of the CGS’s nominations for the general staff, worked to enhance the CGS’s strength in his last year of command and afforded him greater freedom to speak his mind and perform his duties. Mofaz realised that he had the power to advance or frustrate affairs of state. For example, when he expressed his professional reservations regarding President Clinton’s bridging plan during negotiations with the Palestinians, his statements led to the loss of Israeli public support for the American proposal. As Sharon assumed the office of prime minister, Mofaz’s announcement that the PA is ‘a den of terror’ appears to have gone beyond a purely professional military estimate and entered into the realm of political opinion. In this way the CGS’s statement may be seen as a warning signal to the new government (Limor, 2001). Further events in the last year of Mofaz’s service illustrate more than anything else that the CGS overstepped his bounds in his broad ‘professional estimate’. It was this ‘professional estimate’ that led the CGSs to declare that parts of the seam area (the 1967 border) would become closed-off military areas – an act that had far-reaching political implications (Benn, 2002b). This announcement resulted in an immediate statement by the prime minister, who was abroad at the time, that the Israeli government alone is the supreme commander of the army. In similar fashion, further declarations were made by the prime minister and his close associates such as: Mofaz thinks he is running the state, or, in Israel it is not the army that has a state, but a government that has a military establishment duty-bound to it. But these statements were quickly pushed aside by the 11 September events in the USA. Nevertheless, the stage had been set for a test of wills between the CGS and the defence minister. The next wrangle was the CGS’s public criticism on 13 October 2001, in an official announcement by the IDF spokesperson, of the government decision to pull out of PA territory in Hebron. According to the IDF statement, a pullback at this time was liable ‘to create a security danger that would make it difficult to protect civilians and IDF personnel. This will be the case as long as the PA takes no steps in countering terrorism’ (Military Spokesperson Announcement, 14 October 2001). In this case, Mofaz overstepped his bounds and clearly deviated from what can be considered acceptable behaviour. It is one thing for a chief of general staff to express opposition at a Cabinet meeting, from the military point of view, to a proposal by the prime minister or defence minister:
172 Amir Bar-Or True, such a statement will probably be leaked to the press, but this is not his fault. However, it is a totally different story when he issues a public declaration, through the IDF Spokesman, criticising a decision of his civilian superiors. This borders on insubordination and is unacceptable. (Ben-Meir, 2001) Mofaz’s reaction did not calm the crisis; in fact, it only exacerbated the already tense relations between the defence minister and the CGS. ‘I admit that the wording of the second part of my statement was not well drafted, and it was not my intention to announce that I opposed the decisions of the political echelon’, Mofaz said. ‘He said that his role “was only to make recommendations and render professional assessments. I come to no one with complaints in this matter and take upon myself all responsibility” ’ (O’Sullivan, 2001). The defence minister was very close to firing the CGS but instead settled on a severe reprimand. Even this relatively mild response failed to keep the lid on Mofaz who again let his opinions be known regarding the government’s position. The crisis came to a head in April 2002 during Operation Defensive Shield when the government decided to isolate Arafat. The CGS declared that according to the army Arafat should be expelled from the PA. This statement was seen ‘especially in the public’s eyes as casting doubt on the correctness of the government decision, [and] has the effect of undermining its authority’ (Zadok, 2002). Moreover, according to the army’s assessment, also given public expression, four to eight weeks would be needed to complete the operation. This was another blow to the governmental authority over the military. Mofaz continued to claim that his own management of the affair was correct and that he was compelled to express his professional opinion that, unlike military actions, was not subordinate to any higher authority. This statement indicates that the CGS obviously must have forgotten the difference between the limitations of a public servant appointed by the government and someone elected by the public to fulfil a political role. As opposed to elected officials, the CGS’s authority is not derived directly from the public, rather, the CGS is subordinate, in his opinions and actions, to whomever appointed him and he is required to abide by the accepted rules of the democratic system (Oren, 2002a).
Conclusion Section 29 of the Basic Law ‘authorises the government to act on behalf of the state whenever the power to act is not conferred by law or any other body’ (BenMeir, 1995, p. 30). In the case of Netanyahu, it has been claimed that he viewed the direct elections for the office of prime minister as granting the prime minister a preferential role that included the command of the army. Lt. Gen. Mofaz saw himself as the commander-in-chief of the army, as he publicly stated. This perspective stemmed from his partial familiarisation with the Basic Law and from his misunderstanding of the political aspect of the CGS’s role
A battle for civil supremacy in Israel 173 in Israel’s democratic political system. Mofaz’s public statements along with an official document that he sent to the Supreme Court (acting as the High Court of Justice) were signs of a major break in the historical, informal ‘game rules’ that had characterised prime minister–CGS relations. This may have been an expression of protest against Prime Minister-Defence Minister Barak’s dealings with the army and its CGS, or it may have stemmed from Mofaz’s inexperience and inability to discern between the ‘the IDF senior staff’ and the entire government as the supreme commander of the army. Obviously the CGS had difficulties fathoming the rules of the democratic game. In his handling of relations with the government he continuously hurt them by criticising governmental decisions and trying to change them via methods more in line with those used by elected politicians rather than appointed office holders. At the same time, according to the legal definition of his role, he was required to be the guardian of democratic values in Israeli society. In the name of democratic values he became the adversary of a group of reservists refusing to serve in the occupied territories, and claimed that such a phenomenon was unacceptable because unwillingness to serve and carry out orders could damage the democratic strength of Israeli society. But it was the same CGS who threatened to resign, not because of his disagreement with government decisions, but against the possibility of having to call up soldiers to appear on the witness stand before a UN Investigating Commission following the IDF’s take over of the Jenin refugee camp during Operation Defensive Shield (April 2002). Mofaz’s readiness to resign over this matter ‘justified all those who shun discipline and quit their role without carrying out what is called for, if a legal order was not to their liking’ (Oren, 2002b). In Israel the term ‘democratic control’ is used infrequently and the more common term is ‘political control’ which refers to limited supervision by the political institutions. The Israeli case of civil–military relations, at their present stage of development, is far from being correlative with the term ‘democratic control’ that emphasises the supremacy of the democratic institutions in relation to the army. While the army carries out its assignments according to government guidelines, its ability to influence government decisions on security matters is increasing. The Knesset’s involvement as a civilian, democratic institution represents above all the nation’s sovereignty to influence security matters, but the Knesset’s ability to supervise the army’s operations is greatly limited. Therefore, the Israeli case is incompatible with democratic control as it is implemented in other European countries. One of the reasons for this significant difference lies in the fact that only in Israel does the government have limited supervision over the army, a situation that leaves room for many loopholes and deviations. A major reform, anchored in law, is required to redefine in explicit terms the authorities and boundaries of all office holders and the relations between the state’s various agencies so that the bastion of Israeli democracy, the Knesset, will attain a greater degree of supervision over the affairs of state and especially over security issues where, as stated, the supervision is problematic and complex.
174 Amir Bar-Or
Epilogue A few months after Mofaz completed his term as CGS and as a result of changes in the composition of the Sharon government, Mofaz was appointed defence minister. The ‘Cooling-Off’ Law in Israel according to which senior military officers may not be elected for the Knesset earlier than one year after their discharge, does not apply for retired officers who become ministers. Nevertheless, the appointment itself roused wide public criticism that focused on the new defence minister’s expected functioning as an ‘über-CGS’. The Supreme Court also criticised Mofaz for trying to get elected to parliament prior to the legally required cooling-off period: The attempt to reach public office by someone who only a few months ago was in uniform and carried the rank of Lt. General … raises concern that his decisions made in the recent past within the framework of his military or security office, were influenced by his political views. (Oren, 2003) It seems that these remarks indicate the lack of proper democratic supervision in Israel over the conduct of senior military figures.
The military voice in France 175
Part IV
Established democracies
176 Bernard Boëne
The military voice in France 177
12 The military voice in France On the streets and in the newspapers Bernard Boëne
Introduction This chapter examines developments that have affected civil–military relations at the political–military interface in France recently. By way of introduction, it presents an overview of the post-Cold War context, and justifies the selection of themes to be considered in the two case studies offered. One deals with the growing dissatisfaction now openly expressed by general officers at the lack of attention paid to their professional viewpoints by politicians in office – a distinct novelty since 1962. The other scrutinises the roots, development and effects of the public protest staged by gendarmes in late 2001. In both cases, it concludes that the main reason behind such new phenomena lies in the deep change which has positively affected the symbolic resources available to uniformed personnel in the last few years, while the political class saw theirs considerably dwindle. However, such developments can only be understood if one takes into account the fact that military grievances were mostly justified by decades of relative neglect, now recognised by politicians. In more ways than one, therefore, these protests have served to redress a severe imbalance inherited from the last three decades of the Cold War, when the military’s symbolic resources were scarce, the utility of conventional forces within the framework of a strategic doctrine based on nuclear deterrence was comparatively low, and successive governments used the defence budget as an adjustment variable without heeding professional advice. While such developments have not been widely perceived as endangering civil control or the proper bounds of collective bargaining in a liberal democracy, the author, while not pessimistic, refrains from passing judgment on the innocuous or deleterious character of such developments for the future of French civil–military relations.
Background The last decade has seen the armed services undergo major changes not only in their strategic environment and organisational goals, but also in their relations with both state and society. The salient facts in nearly all Western nations have been a steep decline in the resources, both human and budgetary, allotted to them and a concomitant rise in the confidence placed in them by public opinion.1 This
178 Bernard Boëne was a recipe for the destabilisation of the rather quiescent balance of civil–military relations at the political level during the late decades of the Cold War, and indeed tensions arose in many countries2 which, while they did not in any way seriously undermine democratic principles of civil control, have made the study of that topic more lively. The growth of the relevant social-scientific literature bears witness to the reality of that phenomenon. In France, matters were compounded in 2000–2 by social trends which placed the then Socialist Cabinet in a tight corner (and probably contributed in part to the defeat of the Left in the recent rounds of presidential and legislative elections). In the last few years, more generally, successive governments have had to face an impressive barrage of demonstrations, job actions and even all-out strikes on the part of a variety of occupational groups distinguished from most others by a common characteristic: a service ethic which had hitherto stopped them from forcing their claims through in industrial relations style. Erosion over time of their professional or semi-professional status, worsened by a cultural climate in which private interests took precedence over public values as of the mid-1980s, resulted in growing discontent as recognition and income dwindled to a point where long hours, observance of powerful norms, commitment to elevated standards of service, and often high levels of human capital resources, brought precious little reward in comparative terms. The health sector was particularly affected, as the compensation of doctors and nurses under the welfare system had not been revised for years. But soon others in the public sector, especially those in charge of security, who had long been feeling the pinch of budget restrictions imposed by EU discipline, began to complain about the dearth of funding for badly needed new equipment and maintenance of aging assets. Unrest in that ‘service ethic’ quarter appears to have been triggered by the socialist government’s liberal distribution of new welfare benefits for the underprivileged in the cause of ‘modernising society’. The measure which unanticipated effects proved the most explosive was the blanket implementation of a 35-hour work week, designed to generate new jobs and thus alleviate the plight of a still ample supply of unemployed people, especially among the young. This exerted pressures on overtime pay and created chaos in many sectors, setting the stage, with the long 2002 election campaign in mind, for a hard-line expression of health and security sector grievances motivated by deprivation, both relative (hours, pay), and absolute (equipment, maintenance). The last year before the 2002 election saw self-employed and hospital nurses, general practitioners and emergency ward doctors, firefighters and others repeatedly hitting the pavement en masse to back their demands, and stopping just short of all-out strikes. In the wake of a few spectacularly violent incidents, they were joined, or followed, in November 2001 by some 30,000 police officers in uniform, who saw most of their demands satisfied at a budgetary cost that left many wondering.
The military voice in France 179 Selecting the cases to be considered Against that background, the armed services have endeavoured to walk a narrow path between what Albert Hirschman called ‘voice’ and ‘loyalty’: between airing their own (often justified) grievances and keeping on the right side of their legal status and professional ethos – which preclude the former possibility. What are their grievances? One, probably the most sensitive, is that they feel neglected by politicians in office, who tend to ignore their professional viewpoints and – because the military does not wield countervailing power of the type enjoyed by labour unions (and has been a rather feeble lobby until recently) – regularly overlook defence needs when it comes to allocating scarce budget funds. The latter point has been central, while defence estimates have rarely been formally decreased, funding authorised by parliament has often been known to be frozen by the Budget Ministry, with the result that the gap that has accumulated over a decade between estimates and actual outlays now amounts to huge sums that the military has little hope of recouping. Internal studies leaked to the press detail the number of aircraft, tanks or ships immobilised for lack of spare parts, and the dire consequences that are apt to follow in terms of restricted mission options, training standards and demoralisation of service personnel. Interestingly, these stylecramping material difficulties were interpreted as a lack of recognition, at a time when armed forces top the list of most respected public institutions. This was seen as confirmed by the fact that while public image is excellent, young men and women do not flock to recruitment offices. In other words, the nation likes its military for the wrong reasons – it no longer compels young males to serve, perform peace support and public service missions, and consumes fewer resources – but nobody seems prepared to give it the means to keep its members usefully occupied or trained for the more serious contingencies. Just-retired generals regularly hammered away on these themes in the press, and specifically targeted the political class. Another theme very much on the minds of uniformed personnel concerns their rightful place in society. They harbour highly ambivalent feelings about recent societal trends. On the one hand, service members fully realise that, for both functional and socio-political reasons (attractiveness of service in the forces, avoidance of a civil–military gap), they cannot possibly remain on the sidelines while society moves on in terms of work hours, entitlements, civil liberties or cultural change. Indeed, relative deprivation in the face of new advantages enjoyed by civilians is very much a factor, especially among gendarmes – as we shall see, major protagonists in the unfolding drama. At the same time, they are loath to accept further erosion of the unique traits that characterise service in uniform, and emotions sometimes run high when the prospect is mentioned of a military based on self-interest rather than on service values, tradition and community feeling. The shift to an all-volunteer force, a major success in practical terms, is clearly not entirely behind us in cultural terms. Many declare that they never asked for a 35-hour week which is ill-adapted to the military environment; others resent the notion that in an all-professional force deaths on the battlefield could be treated like work accidents. News that the highest court in the land had extended quasimilitary widowhood privileges to the wife of a salesman who had been murdered
180 Bernard Boëne while on a mission overseas created something of a stir. And while many would not be averse to an improved system of interest representation, they are dismayed at the thought that labour union confederations for the first time dare let it be known (as they have done recently) that they would welcome military unions. Nor are such sentiments the monopoly of conservatives. In fact, the prevailing attitude is that the military should be distinct, but not distant from society, a definitely pragmatic position. What they expect from the government is a clear reaffirmation of military uniqueness combined with a rise in the defence budget and an extension of civilian advantages to service members whenever these do not detract from ‘militariness’. That being the case, it is of particular interest to detail, first, the way in which relations between political and military elites have evolved over the last decade and, secondly, to retrace the stages of the social and cultural crisis of late 2001 which took the minister of defence and everybody else by surprise.
The great unspoken secret: generals voice their dismay (1997–2002) The last three decades of the Cold War were a quiet period as regards civil–military relations at the political–military interface. After the troubled days of the Algerian conflict,3 especially its late stages, those officers who had taken part in, or sympathised with, the 1961 putsch and its aftermath were arrested, or purged. The generals who were in command henceforth were staunch loyalists whose association with de Gaulle dated back to the Second World War period. Under Charles de Gaulle’s strong leadership, the new deterrence doctrine amounted to an intellectual orthodoxy from which few officers were allowed to deviate in public without harming their careers. The services turned inward as their public image reached a nadir due first to revulsion from war after 23 years of uninterrupted military conflict (1939–62), then to the ascendence, after 1968, of a new dominant hedonist/individualist culture which scorned everything the armed services stood for. The conventional armed forces were seen as a mere auxiliary of the nuclear deterrent now central to French national security strategy. Without the symbolic support afforded by prestige, any military voice in public debates with political overtones would have been inaudible, and no general actually tried. The situation remained basically unchanged under subsequent presidents, despite generational change as well as minor (and healthy) doctrinal controversies in the mid-1970s and again in the mid-1980s. The political–military interface was almost entirely dominated by statesmen of the first rank, who did not hesitate to take major decisions affecting military policy without even consulting generals. Interestingly, the first military voices to be heard came with the early stages of the French participation in the UN peacekeeping effort in Bosnia. But the sentiments expressed were directed mostly at UN ineffectiveness rather than at national policy. Later, negative public comments on the Dayton Accord by a Major General (who had to be repatriated for diplomatic reasons) actually reflected the president’s own doubts.
The military voice in France 181 So when the time came to start thinking ahead and assess the outline of a new force configuration better adapted to the post-Cold War environment, the chances were that the government would bypass professional military advice as it had done for the past 30 years. The central issue was whether conscription should be retained even though manpower requirements no longer guaranteed that a majority in successive age-cohorts would be called up, thereby jeopardising the legitimacy of France’s traditional organisational format. It was known in informed circles that the military leadership was solidly against an all-volunteer force.4 A conference organised by this writer and others in February 1991 on the future organisational structure had shown the three service chiefs’ representatives united in their defence of a draft system (Boëne and Martin, 1991) to which they were accustomed, one that afforded the comfort of an abundant supply of cheap military labour (even if it was hardly adapted to new force projection missions). Nor was this limited to generals at the top: a 1992 survey of a large sample of the officer corps as a whole had found a two-to-one majority in favour of retaining the draft (Boëne, 1993). In 1993, the conservative cabinet cohabiting with a socialist president had seemed to defer to military viewpoints when it had refrained from appointing François Fillon, an avowed proponent of a shift to an all-volunteer force, as defence minister. But appearances were misleading. It is closer to the truth that there was no consensus in the political class, and the conservatives had no guarantee that President Mitterrand would not force a showdown on that issue. In that case, they were unsure of carrying the day. The 1994 Defence White Paper, drafted by a group of predominantly senior civilian public servants, had prudently left the problem unsolved, its difficulty resided in a highly ambivalent public opinion,5 and strong political will was required in order for it to be laid to rest. Evidence in support of that hypothesis came in February 1996, hardly a year into the first Chirac presidency (then backed by a majority in parliament), when the new president took everybody by surprise – including the defence minister – by announcing his decision to do away with the old draft system. This was the result of a combination of circumstances (Irondelle, 2001). Cutting across party lines, an informal coalition of socialist and Gaullist defence experts had come to a strong consensus that the Gordian knot of conscription had to be cut. But there was also acute awareness that a policy window existed which was not to be wasted if defence affairs were to be put in order at long last. France was among the last Western countries not to have drawn the consequences of the Cold War’s end, and was saddled with a defence establishment that was clearly ill-configured. The two years (1993–5) of the second cohabitation had delayed crucial decisions which it was now imperative to reach without delay. On the Gaullist side, former Prime Minister Pierre Messmer, François Fillon (the party’s defence expert), and Pierre Lellouche, one of Chirac’s closest advisers, had peddled the idea of an all-volunteer force (AVF) following the British model as the only solution to the conundrum. On the socialist side, François Cailleteau and François Heisbourg, two elite civil servants who had served in the office of
182 Bernard Boëne the defence minister in previous years, led the charge in favour of that idea. The latter had published a book which strongly supported it (Heisbourg, 1995). From then on, the military elites’ degree of alienation from their political masters became apparent. Their tack was to denounce publicly either the failure to apply the decisions contained in the defence programming law, or the promises made. An air force chief of staff was heard criticising the costs and delays affecting the Rafale fighter aircraft programme; sailors lamented the prospect of a navy with only one nuclear-powered aircraft carrier instead of two. But it was within the ranks of the army that dissatisfaction was the most vocal. That service’s restored prestige provided the symbolic resources that had been lacking for over three decades. Politicians, who now ranked near the bottom of the league in terms of public opinion confidence, suddenly found themselves on the defensive. Late in 1997, after fresh legislative elections returned a Socialist Cabinet to office and ushered in a third period of cohabitation, Le Monde published on its front page an interview with the incoming army chief of staff (Mercier, 1997). In critical tones, he warned the conservative president that the reforms he had personally initiated the previous year would not be implemented if the new prime minister’s recent defence budget decisions were carried over to the next fiscal year (1999). This was widely interpreted as an attempt, the first of its kind, to drive a wedge, in a period of cohabitation, between the two heads of the executive. The tell-tale feature of that interview was that it had obtained clearance from the defence minister, which certainly would not have been the case only a few years earlier. This is all the more remarkable as the political stakes were high for the minister who was thus placing his head of government in a difficult position. One hypothesis is that he was playing a power game against his colleague at the Budget Ministry. But the political risks involved were such that this seems unlikely. The better interpretation is that the minister found himself with insufficient symbolic resources to publicly coerce the chief of staff into submission, as most of his predecessors would have done. This confirms that the military now wield more clout in their relationship with politicians than at any time since the end of the Algerian War. In June 1998, another article in Le Monde made much of criticisms levelled at ruling politicians of all persuasions by an association of retired army generals (Isnard, 1998). It was explicit concerning their resentment of the fact that the military leadership’s professional points of view were rarely sought on major policy decisions, many of which they deemed disastrous for France’s military standing in Europe and the world. Interestingly, Le Monde’s defence correspondent (who ought to know better) depicted the generals as preoccupied by their loss of influence. In fact, the influence of the generals in the last decades had been minimal for quite some time (Cohen, 1994), and the correct interpretation was that they now felt strong enough to make their dissatisfaction with such a state of affairs publicly known through resignations, lectures and statements or leaks to the press.
The military voice in France 183 From then on, the flow of public statements by generals, retired or not, became more or less uninterrupted. Things that hitherto were regarded as internal affairs and were not usually advertised now routinely give rise to press releases. In May 2002, the army chief of staff relayed to political authorities the yearly synthesis of army morale studies. Morale, he indicated, was down from previous years because, at a time when the service was asked to do more with less, personnel at all levels had negative perceptions of the attention and recognition they received from those in political office. In October, he went public about it in an interview (Crène, 2002). Right in the middle of the presidential campaign, in February 2002, the chief of staff who had made front-page news five years earlier, now retired, penned a vehement op-ed opinion article published by the left-oriented newspaper Libération, in which he opined that the real Minister of Defence was the budget minister (Mercier, 2002). He denounced the civilian technocrats who overrode the provisions contained in the programming law, and the hypocrisy of election campaign promises made empty by cohabitation paralysis. He asked whether it was possible to talk back to the Americans with armed forces the size of Luxemburg’s. All of this suggests that we have entered a new era of civil–military relations at the political level. Should we lament the change, or welcome it? And what are the factors behind such a change? It is important to note that the principle of civil control is upheld, and that no intimation of antidemocratic feeling can be detected in the pronouncements of general officers. Generals do not demand that their advice prevail, only that it be taken into consideration, making it possible to locate the anomaly in the last three decades of the Cold War rather than in what has come to pass since then. A civil– military system in which statesmen do not find it useful to take account of professional opinion before reaching fundamental decisions is a severely unbalanced one. Granted that the situation generated by years of scarce funding has deteriorated to a point that most military grievances are fully justified (even politicians responsible for such a state of affairs now concur with this point). But then, if we compare it to the plight of conventional forces in the 1960s and 1970s, when the effort put into the nuclear deterrent strike force severely depleted the conventional resources placed at their disposal, we find that it was hardly more favourable. And yet in those days, the military acquiesced with their lean lot without so much as a whisper. Where does the difference lie? As already alluded to, it seems to reside in the restoration of a high level of confidence and prestige. The source of such symbolic resources is to be found partly in what the services have experienced over a decade and its impact, judged mostly beneficial, on society: the disappearance of Cold War fears of Armageddon, the shift to an AVF (which, because young males are no longer obliged to serve if they do not want to, was well received by public opinion when it finally came, if surveys are to be believed), and the congruence of peace support or public service missions6 with dominant civilian values. But that
184 Bernard Boëne can only be one half of the story; it so happens that police forces at present also enjoy comparable levels of respect (Hartung, 2003), and yet the change that has affected them is very different. Therefore, there is reason to suspect that the longterm rise of order as a value (at least in the public sphere) has played an overarching role in the services’ distinctly improved status. Now, there are two ways of looking at the trend described above of a more vocal military leadership. One consists in seeing a partial return to radical professionalism7 among officers,8 caused by the substantial improvement in their status in society. The other approach is content to hypothesise a shift to a healthier equilibrium in civil–military relations within the bounds of pragmatic professionalism, i.e. an orientation that combines military uniqueness and meaningful integration into society. The former interpretation is less optimistic than the latter in that radical professionalism usually connotes a more rigid, unco-operative military culture while pragmatism seems much better adapted to the present circumstances (indeed, if one follows its proponents, is always superior to the other variety of professionalism). The future will tell. However things turn out, the theory expounded here posits in either case that professionalism does matter, and that prestige9 is a central variable in order to assess and predict professional behaviour.10 This writer’s conjecture at this time is that, given the usual tendency of social trends to overshoot optimal balance, the former interpretation is more likely to be correct.
Who shall guard the guardians? Gendarmes protest en masse A major event of recent years was without a doubt the short but massive demonstrations by gendarmes in uniform, sometimes jeering their superiors when the latter tried to remind them of their duty under the law. Gendarmes are basically policemen who for most of modern and contemporary French history have been subjected to a military legal status.11 Unlike the civilian police, they are not unionised and their civil liberties are restricted in ways that are basically the same as those of soldiers, airmen and sailors. They are entrusted with keeping the civil peace in rural areas, but over and beyond that traditional role, they are the last bulwark of political and judicial institutions. The trust placed by the Republic on that most loyal of services is such that they are in charge of the security of the nuclear strike force, of parliament and executive buildings, law courts embassies etc. One can thus imagine the stir created throughout the country at the sight of thousands of these ‘soldiers of the law’ demonstrating on the streets in uniform. How did that situation arise? Gendarmes have been unhappy with their lot for some time, and they have become adept at letting the country know about it12 – through their wives’ associations, or leaks to the press. One factor until recently was the aloofness of a tiny officer corps of 2,500 (for a total force nearly 100,000 strong today), which meant that vertical relations were often distant. But that problem has been remedied
The military voice in France 185 in the last few years through the recruitment, promotion from the ranks or transfer from other services, of a large number of new officers. The main difficulty relates to equipment, accommodation and long hours. Members of the gendarmerie have long complained about old, weak-powered vehicles, lack of computers in sufficient numbers, poor accommodation (generally attached to the work station), light weaponry dating back to the 1950s, etc. The crisis of late 2001, set against a background of general weariness in the face of mounting (mostly juvenile) delinquency, ineffective judicial procedures easily swamped by the tide of minor cases, and a long-term rise of violence, was triggered by a surge of relative deprivation generated by comparison with the civilian police. Members of the national police force and gendarmes can easily compare their respective lots as their duties and the cases they deal with are broadly similar. Yet, while policemen receive overtime pay, enjoy the protection of unions and live in civvy street, gendarmes have an open-ended liability for service,13 rely on the paternal solicitude of their superiors and have a statutory obligation to live in quarters with their colleagues’ families. On the other hand, like their comrades in the army, navy and air force, they are entitled to leave the service after a minimum of 15 years’ seniority with a sizable pension that can be combined with income from a second career. Accommodation is free, and they enjoy pay levels that are on average 30 percent above those of soldiers, airmen and sailors. The rationale for having two police forces, one military and the other civilian, is surely that it provides the ‘divide et impera’ guarantee of stronger civil control in exceptional circumstances. The downside is that in everyday, ordinary contexts, it engenders rivalry (of which there traditionally is a lot) and relative deprivation (on the increase on both sides since co-operation has been mandated). To compound matters, the public image of gendarmes, the frequency with which they bring criminal investigations to successful conclusions, and their prestige are higher than is generally the case with national police forces. Evidence of that was supplied about a decade-and-a-half ago when the national police adopted a military style designed to improve standards. When, in October 2001, policemen (who have almost the same types of grievances concerning equipment, but add union claims to mission-specific bonuses) staged their own protests in uniform on the streets of towns and cities, there was reason to fear contagion. All the more so when the Minister of the Interior, in charge of police forces, settled the crisis by acceding to their demands for a thorough modernisation. The example of a spectacularly successful movement was not lost on gendarmes and others. In November 2001, gendarmes’ wives demonstrated in a number of cities to air their husbands’ grievances. The absence of reaction on the part of the defence minister, taken aback by such developments, swelled the movement which climaxed in early December when the gendarmes themselves came out in force, thereby transgressing one of the basic norms imposed on them by their military status. The Jospin government could hardly do less for them than it had done for the police, and quickly put an end to a crisis which threatened to involve the other three armed services. It granted over €1 million for ‘modernising’ purposes, leaving
186 Bernard Boëne open the question of where it would find that amount of money in a tight budget. The opposition and the press accused it of robbing Peter to pay Paul, and to this day it has remained unclear which other government departments would suffer in order to satisfy gendarmes’ demands. The only weapon that could be used to contain the movement and prevent its spreading was to play on service members’ emotional attachment to the unique traits of their military status, which more often than not underpins career motivations. The threat of amalgamating police and gendarmerie forces into a single (civilian) force, as had been done in Belgium only a few years before, was brandished.14 This proved a powerful argument as gendarmes had to explain to an ambivalent public opinion that they had been forced to such extremes, much to their regret, by the government’s ineptness, but that the movement had been useful in that it had brought results that were in the general interest. They also had a lot of explaining to do vis-à-vis their military colleagues, who had witnessed those events with mixed feelings at best: envy, gratitude and disbelief were very much in evidence in the army, where the most vocal reactions were recorded. Envy, or relative deprivation, because protests had achieved what Kadavergehorsam could not; gratitude, because henceforth the government could not afford not to lend an ear to the similar complaints of the other three services; but also disbelief because those who were perceived to be the best-paid of service members had dared be untrue to the sacred myths of the profession. The chief of the defence staff, a four-star army general, was reported to have dismissed his gendarmerie adviser in disgust; the army chief of staff repeatedly warned that the gendarmes’ was not an example to follow under pain of losing one’s military soul. In officers’ messes throughout the country and on overseas theatres, the topic was relentlessly talked over, mostly in unfavourable tones, and a gap opened between the ‘offenders’ and the rest of the services. Letters to the editor in Le Figaro and other papers were for a time full of recriminations by retired servicemen who felt doom was at hand. At the military academy, where 200 gendarmerie officer cadets had just completed a four-month combat training period alongside Saint-Cyr cadets, a gendarmerie general dwelt at length on the ‘militariness’ of his service and the complementary nature of its missions to the army’s in the service of state and society. Nevertheless, expectations were (and still are) that army, navy and air force would not be forgotten, that their ‘loyalty’ would be rewarded. Politicians on the verge of a long election campaign to come in the spring treaded cautiously on uncertain ground. Except on the far-left, all parties and leaders of the first rank (including, most conspicuously, presidential contenders) vowed that they had learnt a lesson in managing an all-volunteer force, and would from then on heed professional military advice more attentively. A strong political consensus emerged on the need to beef up the armed forces after what amounted to past neglect, ascribed to cohabitation. A new objective – catching up with Britain in terms of defence budget as a function of gross domestic product – was advanced during the campaign. And now that president and parliament belong to the same political
The military voice in France 187 camp, such promises stand a better chance of being kept (even though budget constraints have not vanished into thin air overnight). However, the new administration’s strategy to restore the state’s authority over those whose duty it is to protect it has been to reassert the military’s uniqueness while adapting the legal status of armed forces so as to prune provisions dating back to the 1972 law that spelled it out, and which may no longer be adapted. It received support from the proceedings of the recent session of the Conseil supérieur de la fonction militaire (CSFM), an advisory body made up of service members’ representatives designated by means of a lottery. It came up with a strong position in the debate internal to defence circles on the nature of military identity, reaffirming that: … the role of service members is to safeguard the nation’s higher interests by military means, including the most powerful with full legitimacy, if need be at the possible cost of their lives. The military profession is not a public service like any other notwithstanding a few provisions to the contrary. The character of the Ministry of Defence is fundamentally different from that of other government departments. As a consequence, members of the armed forces are citizens with a difference. Their identity is fashioned by the requirements of their profession, and governed by a set of sacred principles which form the basis of its uniqueness. […] These principles are: for service members, discipline, loyalty, unrestricted availability for duty, commitment that includes the possibility of sacrifice; for the state, guaranteed protection of their interests and of the legitimacy of their action on its behalf. (Message No. 720/DEF/C.S.F.M., 9 July 2002, Section 2) At the same time, the CSFM upheld the notion that the present balance of requirements and compensation is unsatisfactory and has to be revised. This is precisely what President Chirac (prior to the presidential election) declared needed to be done (Chirac, 2002), and what the new defence minister promised to do. The crisis was – temporarily? – over. It remained for the new government to keep its promises, and the earlier, the better, for uniformed personnel would in all likelihood not wait patiently until the new legislature runs its five-year course to ask their due. They, too, have learnt the rules of the new civil–military game.15
Conclusions The question that comes to mind is: should one regard such developments with alarm, or with confidence? If one considers, as the author does, that most military grievances were justified, then those politicians in office over the last few years cannot complain that what happened was undeserved, especially as harbingers had been around for some time of a social revolt in the gendarmerie, and of frustration on the part of the military leadership due to a thoroughly unbalanced political–military interface. There is some semblance of truth in the charge by a
188 Bernard Boëne journalist on the conservative newspaper Le Figaro that the state has turned deaf, and can only hear arguments that are shouted to its face (Rioufol, 2001). This can be seen in the light of the wider ‘managerialism versus professionalism’ issue in so far as a sizeable proportion among politicians of the first rank in France are former elite civil servants who share the same narrow outlooks with the nay saying technocrats who hold sway in the Budget Ministry and elsewhere. It was indeed unreasonable by any standards to allow service conditions to deteriorate to a point where 30 percent of fleets were immobilised for lack of maintenance and spare parts, or where gendarmes had to purchase their own computers. There is a tremendous hazard involved in long-neglecting the legitimate interests of professionals in charge of securing central values simply because they are in theory prohibited from walking out in anger and staging protests on the streets – especially when everybody else in society does it, and wins more often than not. It is indeed unhealthy for a government to make major policy decisions without at least hearing what professional leadership circles have to say, which is a far cry from allowing professional viewpoints to prevail at the expense of the general interest. If, therefore, the socio-drama that unfolded in late 2001 and early 2002 has served the purpose of righting the balance and goes no further, i.e. remains within the bounds of pragmatic-professional norms, then confidence should prevail over alarm. However, if the restoration of prestige, as has been argued in this chapter, is apt to lead to a partial return to radical professionalism on the part of service personnel, then the consequences for the future can be more serious, as the hard feelings loudly voiced recently may augur the rise of an unco-operative military culture, hence more problematic civil–military relations. The next few years will probably be decisive – and interesting for scholars to watch.
Notes 1 Approval ratings are now in the 70–90 percent range, which in many countries means a substantial increase from the figures that prevailed in the late stages of the Cold War. In France, the gain has been close to 25 percent when the 1970s are used as a baseline. Hartung, 2003 documented the fact that in the European Union in general, the armed forces are the most respected public institution. 2 This was the case in the USA under the Clinton administration, but West Europe was not spared. In Germany, a Bundeswehr chief was publicly reprimanded in 1992 for anticipating the government’s lead in providing guidance for German participation in peace support operations. In Belgium and the Netherlands, service chiefs protested the decisions which led to steep reductions in force levels and budget as well as the shift to AVFs. In the UK, a public controversy pitted Gen. Sir Michael Rose in 1996 against those in office, accused of turning the armed forces into social laboratories where cultural innovations (women in combat positions, open homosexual behaviour etc.) are tried out without much regard for their sensitivities or for their potential consequences on operational effectiveness. Many other instances could be found of such tensions, and it is difficult not to see a pattern. 3 The decolonisation of Algeria proved an extraordinarily trying experience in contemporary French politics. It gave rise to two coups d’état: one in 1958, which was instrumental in eventually
The military voice in France 189
4 5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12 13
bringing De Gaulle back to power and quickly spelled the premature end of the feeble Fourth Republic; another in 1961, in which parts of the armed services rebelled against De Gaulle’s decision to grant Algeria its independence. That attempt failed not only because the nation was solidly behind the then President, but also because the insurgents’ goals appear to have been more closely related with a face-saving gesture with respect to their earlier pledge to keep Algeria French rather than with any real desire to assume political power against the wishes of French political society. While the former coup is widely perceived in retrospect as legitimate given the political confusion and volatility which prevailed at the time, the latter brought lasting discredit upon the armed forces’ professional cadre as a whole (though only a minority took part in it). It took fully three decades to erase such discredit. (Adm.) Jacques Lanxade, Chief of the Defence Staff in 1991–5, forcefully confirmed that point in a subsequent book. See Lanxade, 2001. Polls in the late 1980s and early 1990s showed three-quarters of respondents conceding that an all-volunteer force would be more effective, but two-thirds were still in favour of retaining conscription, because of the central socio-political role it played in the republican tradition. In 1994, the proportion who declared their intention of backing a presidential candidate in favour of doing away with the draft was 26 percent, against 68 percent who would oppose him or her (Louis Harris, 20 June 1994). These missions in aid of civilian authorities include patrolling territorial waters, rescue operations, surveillance of train and Metro stations as part of anti-terrorist programmes etc. Such missions have tended to be on the increase in the last few years. The twin concepts of ‘radical’ and ‘pragmatic’ professionalism are derived from the classical social science literature in the military field, notably from Huntington (1957) and Janowitz (1960), see Larson (1974). Radical professionals are those who exalt the profession’s sacred myths and are loath to make concessions to society beyond what those myths require. As professions thrive when social recognition and prestige are available to them (since they are not supposed to take advantage of the power they derive from their expertise in order to exploit or dominate patients or clients), the intransigence inherent in ‘radical professionalism’ is likely to be stronger when the military is highly respected, and thus to lead to a more rigid culture in its relations with society and state. ‘Pragmatic professionalism’ is characterised by the duality of sacred myths and adjustment to the social and political environment: as such, it is better adapted in most historical circumstances than the other variety, and can survive lack of prestige and recognition. The distinction finds an evocative parallel in the duality of ‘regular’ and ‘secular’ clergy. Such a return can only be partial since many other factors – the nature of missions, meaningful integration of private life into society etc. – point in the direction of continued dominance of pragmatic professionalism. This is admittedly a vague notion, taken to refer to public confidence, recognition and respect – the symbolic ingredients of social status. Despite the difficulty involved in operationalising it, it is sufficient at the theoretical level, and has the advantage of being synthetic and evocative. That the mechanism outlined here is not peculiar to the military is suggested, for instance, by a comment made by a colleague, a French sociologist teaching at an architectural school, who remarked that when the prestige of architects in France was at its lowest, in the 1970s, they tended to tone down their exaltation of the profession’s sacred myths, and to take a genuine interest in sociology as a means of understanding society and their place in it. Since, in the wake of a new appreciation of the quality of their work, prestige has been restored in the last decade or so, their interest in society and sociology has gone. This means that, while they cater for the needs of a variety of ministries, their personnel managers belong to the Ministry of Defence. The traditional division of labour between the Gendarmerie and civilian police is a geographic one: the National Police deals with larger built-up areas, gendarmes with the rest of the country. A similar crisis, though lesser in scope and fall-out, had occurred in 1989. This, in the recent period, has translated into 50–60 hour weeks, whereas policemen work fewer than 35 hours.
190 Bernard Boëne 14 The new Chirac administration has placed the gendarmerie under the operational authority of the Ministry of the Interior, together with the national police forces, but has conspicuously refrained from abolishing its military status. 15 An interesting question is whether the change can be related to the new all-volunteer force. It is true, as a general rule, that under an AVF self-interest figures more prominently in the equation than when the rank and file is mostly comprised of conscripts eager to be demobilised. However, in this particular instance, the protest movement started in the Gendarmerie, the only service whose personnel have traditionally been all-professional.
Democratic control of the Swiss militia
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13 Democratic control of the Swiss militia in times of war and peace Ideal and reality Karl W. Haltiner and Tibor S. Tresch Introduction In Switzerland’s political system, military power and efficiency are only supposed to develop in emergency cases. One can therefore regard the Swiss militia system as an attempt to install an all-embracing civil democratic primacy rooted in a deep mistrust of military power. Of particular importance to the aspect of democratic control of the armed forces is the fact that most military functions are available to the citizen-soldiers. The nation-in-arms principle, almost ideally institutionalised in Switzerland, implies a swing in civil–military relations: during the transition from democratic peacetime into a state of war, a partially latent, partially manifest militarisation of society takes place, almost inevitably, through the process of mobilisation. Concurrently, this transition changes civil–military relations. Though democratic supremacy, as guaranteed during peacetime, is not suspended, a latent shift towards greater political influence of the military transpires with all its risks of weakening the civil primacy. The goal of the present study is to investigate the effectiveness of political control over the armed forces in Switzerland by comparing the actual situation with the ideal on the basis of two case studies. The emphasis is laid on the military’s relative position of power1 within a society that until today has organised its armed forces according to the ‘nation-in-arms’ principle. To this end, Swiss political culture and its controlling institutions will be outlined in an ideal-type manner; they consist primarily of the mechanism of direct democracy as a system of political control and intervention on the one hand, and the militia military system on the other, which leaves the control over the armed forces to a large extent in the hands of the citizen-soldier. The selected examples of serious tensions in civil–military relations in Switzerland involve the balance of power between parliament and the military administration, exemplified by a large airplane procurement project in the 1960s; and the effectiveness of civil–military control on a plebiscitary level, exemplified by the vote on the abolition of the Swiss army in 1989. In recent Swiss history, there are few isolated cases which would serve better to demonstrate the functioning or malfunctioning of democratic control. In our conclusions we will develop some general principles and problems that seem to be inherent to Swiss civil– military relations.
192 Karl W. Haltiner and Tibor S. Tresch Direct democracy and militia military as instruments of democratic supremacy – the ideal As far as the role of the government and parliament in controlling the armed forces is concerned, Switzerland hardly differs from other parliamentary democracies. The executive body is in charge of the supreme command, plans and carries out armament procedures and can call smaller troops temporarily. The parliament and its commissions are in charge of the budget and have insight into the core organisational goings-on of the armed forces. The military and its administrative body do not have a unique position. They are entirely integrated into the main federal and administrative law. Accordingly, there is no basic difference between the supervision of the military and that of other sectors of the administration. Much the same way, the Constitution does not attribute a special status to security policy. It is legally equal to other policies (Lendi, 2001, p. 1). The federal government2 has the main supervision of security policy and of the military. The annual defence budget, the armament programme, and even the operative-strategic concepts – so called army guidelines – require the approval of parliament. The parliamentary defence committee has far-reaching insight into the more obscure aspects of security policy and formulates petitions in specific areas of control. The organisation of the Swiss state and its civilian ruling structure, however, are not only comparatively strongly decentralised, but mainly characterised by a plebiscitary curtailment of political power. The Swiss political culture differs markedly from parliamentary and presidential democracies in so far as the electorate not only determines the political course in periodic elections, but is also regularly given a direct say in specific political matters (Bühlmann et al., 2005). The voters are thus given the power of direct control and intervention in the political process. Two political instruments are eminent in this process. On the one hand, the socalled ‘people’s initiatives’ which are political proposals made by citizens in which a group of citizens can bring about a plebiscite to change the Constitution. The second instrument is the so-called ‘referendum’, which requires a bill to be passed by the legislature to be voted on by the electorate. Changes to the Constitution proposed by parliament require a mandatory referendum. These plebiscitary rights define Switzerland’s political system. They work very much like the parliamentary opposition in parliamentary democracies. Plebiscitary votes on factual matters are more important than elections.3 The direct say includes defence policy as well as the military and thereby represents a strong element of democratic control of the armed forces (Lendi, 2002, p. 1). During the 1990s there was an average of one vote per year, directly or indirectly linked to defence policy in general or more specifically to the armed forces themselves (Haltiner, 2004, p. 74). As a rule, public opinion, i.e. the electorate, has proved to be more status-quo oriented than parliament and the government. In other words, it has shown itself to be the most conservative element in the process of decision making concerning issues of national security. A militia consists by definition of non-permanent mobilisation-based forces, i.e. it is of low immediate presence. Undoubtedly, the most salient feature of the
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Swiss militia by international comparison is that it does not have a professional military elite. The egalitarian nature of the country’s co-operative past led to a traditional distrust of a professional caste of officers and of professionalisation of the forces in general that is still present today (Haltiner, 2002). The tradition of the citizen soldier has also become a part of Switzerland’s national identity and political culture. It is essentially linked to the Swiss political system of direct democracy. Of particular importance to the aspect of democratic control of the armed forces is the fact that a military commander-in-chief does not exist in peacetime. A head of the army, called ‘the General’, is elected only in times of crisis, i.e. in case of mobilisation of a large amount of troops by parliament.4 He is thereby given the same democratic legitimisation as the government; the seven-member Bundesrat5 remains, however, nonetheless subordinated to the latter. The role of the General is thus not fully defined, it is obviously very political in its design and provides the person exercising this function with considerable freedom in fulfilling his role. Therefore, it seems that the civil–military balance in times of crises largely depends much on the personality of the elected military commander and on the informal relationship between him and the government. 6 The democratic legitimisation of the ‘General’, as well as the arbitrary civil–military boundaries inherent to the ‘nation-in-arms’ principle, seems to work in favour of the shifting of the balance of power towards the military in times of war. The mistrust of military power and the fear of the political misuse of a standing force is also evident from the fact that only parliament can order general or partial mobilisation.7 The government may not call more than 4,000 troops for a maximum of three weeks in an urgent situation.8 Troop mobilisations which exceed these numbers require that parliament be summoned at once. There is strong evidence that ultimately the militia system as it is laid down in the Constitution of 1874 can only be understood as the expression of a comprehensive curtailment of military power on the one hand, and of an absolute supremacy of democracy over the military on the other. The minimisation of the institutional division of labour between the roles of citizen and soldier serves that purpose. Moreover, peacetime military efficiency seems of secondary importance compared to civilian supremacy. It does not come as a surprise that the aspect of political control of a militia has not yet been thoroughly analysed in Switzerland. The issue of democratic control of the armed forces was always taken as granted and therefore never became a topic of political debate. Formal and informal arrangements undermining democratic control – the reality While most of the control of the military seems to work under almost ideal-type conditions, there are some formal and mainly informal arrangements that tend to undermine the formal control mechanism. This chapter focuses first on a major crisis in the relations between the parliament and the military administation which displayed a considerable gap between ideal and reality in the 1960s. The second
194 Karl W. Haltiner and Tibor S. Tresch case demonstrates the effectiveness of plebiscitary control of the military on the basis of an initiative to abolish the Swiss armed forces in the late 1980s.
A scandal-induced shift of controlling power from a militarised ministry of defence to parliament The early stages of the Cold War along with the increasing military threat enhanced the position of national defence in Swiss politics. During the mobilisation of the Second World War until the 1950s, the military leadership had gained considerable influence on defence policy and armament planning by counselling the government directly through a board of the high ranking military commanders, the so-called Landesverteidigungs-Kommission (LVK). The LVK succeeded in resisting parliamentary attempts to gain better control of defence issues. A scandal had to occur – the so-called Mirage airplane procurement scandal in 1964 – to break the direct influence of the military on the government and to establish tighter parliamentary supremacy of defence issues. This case illustrates that even the leadership of a citizen-army, having become an important societal force in a time of threat, does not like to see its power lessened. The militarisation of defence policy in the 1950s Switzerland had been spared in the Second World War. According to the still prevailing perception of a large part of the Swiss population, the country’s military readiness during the Second World War had contributed to keeping the country from getting directly involved in the war. The militia’s social and political prestige rose markedly. But the Second World War had also strengthened the Swiss executive body – the Bundesrat – who, referring to the critical situation, implemented emergency laws without consulting the parliament. Moreover, in spite of the great military efforts of the country, the war period had proved a suboptimal functioning of the civil–military relations at the executive level. The relations between the elected ‘General’ Henri Guisan and the government had continuously deteriorated during the period of 1939–45. In his final report before resigning he demanded the creation of a militia supreme commander also for peacetime in order to coordinate more efficiently all means of national defence, a demand which was turned down by the government with reference to the absolute primacy of politics over the military. Nevertheless, during the war the LVK, originally composed of a staff working for the minister of defence, had developed into a main decision and managing board for almost all defence issues. It was chaired by the minister of defence (member of the Bundesrat). After the Second World War it consisted of the chief of staff, the chief of training and the top four-star corps commanders. All of its 12 members were professional soldiers and senior officers; no civilian, except the minister of defence, belonged to the board. Its members were appointed by the Bundesrat who, however, usually followed the proposals made by the LVK itself. This means that the body co-opted itself and was without democratic legitimisation. It decided on the appointment of high-ranking officers, on defence doctrine,
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armament policy and on most other issues related to national defence (Schärer, 1997). Being an all-military board it had a tendency to develop an exclusively military perspective. Within the frame of post-world war national defence, the military was able to improve its already dominant political position. First resistance against the influential position of the LVK rose shortly after the war within the federal parliament, which was denied access to certain classified information by the LVK. It proposed to have the LVK members elected by parliament and to have the commission include civilian experts. However, the intensifying Cold War and the growing military threat more or less blocked these first attempts of the parliament to reduce the LVK’s influential position. During the 1950s and early 1960s, national defence issues again enjoyed high priority and the military itself a high social reputation. Popular votes denied plebiscitary initiatives to reduce defence spending and to forbid nuclear armaments mainly as a result of the 1956 Hungarian crisis. Not until the 1960s was the parliament able to emancipate itself. The defence managers had planned to arm Switzerland with nuclear weapons (Wollenmann, 2004) and to procure the air force with 100 Mirage jets as arms conveyors. However, costs ran out of control and parliament finally refused supplementary funds and established a Special Commission to examine the defence planning of the government and the LVK. It uncovered attempts by the military to deceive parliament. In 1964, its report resulted in the reduction of the chief of staff’s influence on defence planning and in complementing the LVK with civilian armament experts. The chief of staff, formally the main responsible actor in this débâcle, resigned. He was followed shortly after by the chief of the air force. The resignation of the Minister of Defence was demanded as well. Although these kinds of resignations are rather uncommon in Switzerland, the weakened minister of defence resigned in 1966 due to the continuous political pressure. Moreover, parliament established stricter financial control and reinforced the right of its military commissions to have access to any military information. This case exemplifies that the inheritance from times of war, in this case the shifting of controlling power from civilians to military during the Second World War, can require arduous acts of democratic control to be dealt with, even more so if the military threat to the nation remains intact after a war has ended. It also illustrates a characteristic of the citizen-army principle, where widespread socialisation in military matters can degenerate into the militarisation of security policy. The social esteem of the military may influence civilian authorities, making all political issues linked directly or indirectly to defence policy excessive.
The attempt to abolish the Swiss armed forces by plebiscitary votes The second study aims at demonstrating the controlling and correcting effects of the instruments of direct democracy. To understand them fully, it is essential to first examine in greater detail their political functioning within the democratic process.
196 Karl W. Haltiner and Tibor S. Tresch The so-called ‘people’s initiative’ implies the right of citizens to propose a change to the Constitution and bring about a popular vote on the issue. To do so, it is necessary that 100,000 signatures be collected and submitted within 18 months. The people’s initiative constitutes the most significant plebiscitary right. It brings to the public’s attention those proposals that would most certainly not be taken up by parliament. It is an instrument popular in progressive circles taking a stance for radical reforms and aiming to speed up the political process. Its most important effect is that parliament and the government often submit alternative proposals to the voters that are generally of a more conciliatory nature, if they consider an initiative to be too radical but its basic aim to be justified.9 Due to their inherent tendency towards radical solutions, initiatives have only had a success rate of about 9 per cent over a time span of over 100 years. However, if one deems the approval of a parliamentarian alternative induced by the original initiative a success, the rate rises to 25 per cent.10 A further important function of such initiatives is that they operate as ‘early warning systems’ for the political establishment about ongoing changes in society. The focus here is on the initiative to abolish the army (1989), and its impact on civil–military relations in Switzerland. The genesis of the initiative and its impact on civil–military relations must be viewed in the light of the changing socio- and geopolitical situation during the 1980s and 1990s. Until the 1970s, the militia was an undisputed ideal among Swiss citizens. The military’s public prestige was high, its social position central. The militia military not only served as an instrument of national security but also as an agent for national cohesion in ethnically heterogeneous Switzerland. During the rapid change of values in the 1970s and 1980s, the social position of the military was challenged for the first time. The movement of 1968 reached the Swiss youth with some delay but with considerable power and resulted in unrest among young recruits in their barracks and in anti-military manifestations at Swiss universities. The public, the media, politicians and especially the military were taken by surprise. Conscientious objection and criticism of the military became more common during the 1970s, a topic for the media and the classe politique, as well. Especially among the young, the military became the preferred target of political opposition, embodying traditional and anti-modern Switzerland. In the 1980s the peace movement developed an enormous capacity to mobilise people in Switzerland even though, as a small neutral nation, Switzerland was not directly affected by NATO’s decision to introduce new short-range missiles. In this climate of scepticism towards the military, in 1982 about 100 young socialists founded the group ‘Switzerland Without an Army’ (Gruppe Schweiz ohne Armee, GSoA), calling for a people’s initiative to abolish the army and to adopt a new peace policy. GSoA’s main point of criticism was that the militia system and the Swiss doctrine of ‘comprehensive defence’ lead to the militarisation of society. Although ridiculed at first, the group succeeded in submitting the initiative along with 113,000 valid signatures in the fall of 1986 (Bühlmann et al., 2005). It called for a change of the Swiss Constitution, prohibiting the cantons and private people to train and maintain armed forces. On a Sunday in late autumn
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of 1989, after an interesting campaign which had been very imaginatively run by the group, 35.6 per cent of all voters voted in favour of the initiative, at a turnout of 69 per cent, which is exceptionally high for Switzerland. In the two cantons of Jura and Genève, the initiative even received an absolute majority of votes. Analyses show that a majority of the 20- to 29-year-olds, the segment of society from which the largest percentage of militia personnel is recruited, accepted the initiative. This result came as a shock to official Switzerland, as the initiative had not been expected to receive more than the usual 20 per cent of protest votes commonly cast in initiatives.11 The result had to be interpreted as a sign of widespread dissatisfaction with defence policy and the socio-political position of the armed forces, and as a general disapproval of everything military. The fall of the Berlin Wall and the end of the East–West conflict may well have contributed to the success of the initiative which had been started during a tense phase of the Cold War (Longchamp, 1989; Haltiner, 1989). But what exactly is the relationship between the GSoA initiative and the political control of the military in Switzerland? Connections can be seen on several levels. To start with, the initiative triggered a substantial reform of the armed forces, which otherwise would have taken place either later or not at all. Secondly, it caused a ‘liberalisation’ of military style in Switzerland resulting in the militia force losing its indisputable position as a national symbol and turning it into a political institution, making it subject to criticism in the same way as other political bodies. Furthermore, the initiative indirectly helped enhance the country’s readiness for an opening of the security sector, as well as the creation of an alternative civil service for conscientious objectors. In the following the most important effects of the plebiscite will be examined more closely in relation to the issue of controlling the military: 1
The Swiss government and parliament refused to deal with the issue raised by the initiative submitted in 1986 and thus did not present an alternative proposal to the voters. The initiative seemed too radical and its chances of being accepted too small. Furthermore, it was expected that the electoral disapproval of the initiative would be ostentatiously strong, the government assuming that this would strengthen the military’s legitimacy in a time of widespread criticism of the military.12 But in spite of this, growing concern was to be sensed within the Defence Ministry as the vote drew closer.13 The behaviour of youth organisations revealed great sympathy for the aims of the initiative. The Swiss Social Democratic party, which was part of the government, decided neither to endorse nor oppose the GSoA initiative, which in fact was a clear display of sympathy. Finally, GSoA, through its vivid campaign, managed to win sympathy also among people who initially disapproved of the initiative’s aims. Such was the mood when the defence minister announced a radical, allembracing reform (‘Armee 95’) of the Swiss army, half-a-year prior to the vote. The militia force was to be reduced from 600,000 to about 300,000 persons, the maximum age of servicemen should be lowered, service periods
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2
3
4
become less frequent and services become shorter in duration. Even though these steps were labelled as a necessary process of rationalisation and modernisation, and were not linked to the GSoA initiative, one could assume that this radical downsizing was also intended as an informal alternative proposal which should help to fight the initiative. The first conclusion, therefore, is that the GSoA initiative may well have initiated the first major army reform in Switzerland since the end of the Cold War; it certainly accelerated the process of modernisation and downsizing of the militia. The army refrained from taking part in the campaign, as is required by the principle of political neutrality. Of course, certain high-ranking officers and especially militia officers spoke out strongly against the initiative as citizens. Moreover, some commanders of militia units illegally attacked the initiative in front of their units during military service. However, the military leadership was not allowed to bring up the subject at troop reports and military events, and it consciously respected this rule, conduct which was also appreciated and confirmed by the GSoA. The military accepted the political primacy and the rules of democracy almost perfectly. The large percentage of approval came as a shock to the military leadership, as well as to politicians. As a consequence of this unexpected result, the military high command by its own initiative appointed a reform commission headed by a well-respected member of parliament, which also included opponents of the army.14 At the same time, the education and training of officers, especially professional officers, who serve as instructors in the militia, was expanded and substantially reformed. Obviously, the plebiscite not only initiated a modernisation on a political macro-level, but also a change on the civil–military micro-level. The government’s proposal in 1990 to create an alternative civil service for conscientious objectors may be regarded as a late effect of the initiative. The initiative’s succès d’estime marked a change of direction that should not be disregarded. In an obligatory referendum in 1992, an article was added to the Constitution allowing exceptional alternative service after an individual assessment.
To what extent the military reforms have been successful in redefining and stabilising its socio-political position in Switzerland was demonstrated by the complete failure of a second initiative with the same purpose launched by GSoA, which was voted on in December 2001 without having received much public attention. At a minimal turnout, only 22 per cent of the electorate voted in favour of it and, other than in 1989, it did not get the approval of a majority of the youngest group of voters, even though it enjoyed above-average sympathy among them (Haltiner and Bennett, 2002). It may be interesting to imagine what would have happened if the first initiative had received a majority of the vote. Would the army have been dissolved? And would the militia and the military high command have complied with this popular vote without opposition? These questions were never seriously discussed during
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the campaign. Moreover, within the government, no plans for such a case were prepared. The minister of defence confirmed that in case the initiative should be approved, the high command’s planning of the dissolution of the army would begin at once. In addition, it can be assumed that the high command would not have opposed the army’s dissolution. The idea of a military coup was justly termed ridiculous (Villiger, 1989), keeping in mind that officers attempting a coup would first have to mobilise citizen soldiers in order to have them rebel against their own vote, a scheme which is obviously a contradictio in adiecto. The example of the GSoA initiative demonstrates how in Switzerland plebiscitary instruments are used to control the army. They are especially effective when demands are made concerning a factual matter of strategic significance. Due to their generally high potential of legitimisation they often gain political momentum exceeding the original factual issues and have an impact on aspects of micro-, meso- and macro-levels of civil–military relations.
Conclusions As outlined in the introduction, Switzerland’s political system, military power and efficiency are only supposed to develop in emergency cases. However, if they do develop, it is in a manner affecting the whole country and its people. The minimalisation of the institutional division of labour between civil society and the armed forces, as well as the incomplete labour division between the roles of citizen and soldier, both embodied in the militia system, serve that purpose. Such a division, which can be found in societies with volunteer forces, and to a high extent where there is a conscript force in being, is not fully developed in Switzerland. In Swiss tradition a military commander-in-chief is accepted only in a time of crisis, and even then solely on the basis of a democratic legitimisation, namely on the grounds of a parliamentary election. One can therefore regard the Swiss militia system as the attempt to install an all-embracing civil democratic primacy rooted in a deep mistrust of military power.15 But civil–military relations are subject to completely different logics during peacetime than during war. Whereas during peacetime military power is kept to a minimum, the tendency towards a complete militarisation of society and its resources grows in times of war, through the process of mass mobilisation. In the latter case, the military organisation gains momentum relatively slowly and at the price of a substantial weakening of the economy and of civil society. This specific institutional settlement implies mainly two risks for eroding democratic control of the armed forces. The institution of electing a temporary military commander in times of war favours the politicisation of the military leadership. And the intended swing from the civilisation of the military in peacetime to the militarisation of the people through mass mobilisation in wartime promotes the military to become an influential player in the domestic political theatre. Though democratic supremacy is not suspended, a latent shift towards a dominant political influence of the military transpires. The Swiss military system requires a peaceful political environment and the negation of an active foreign policy relying on military power in order to
200 Karl W. Haltiner and Tibor S. Tresch work best under the perspective of democratic control. Such factors reveal an obvious connection between the Swiss militia system and Swiss neutrality. Wartime regimes, even democratically elected ones, are generally given many extraordinary competencies based on the right of necessity. It does not seem extraordinary that civil governments often hesitate to return rapidly from martial law back to normal jurisdiction. This can make it difficult to re-establish full democratic control after a wartime regime. Our first case served to demonstrate the hesitation of a military administration that had gained political importance during wartime to step back in a more moderate post-war position. Given the enormous potential of plebiscitary and parliamentary means for controlling the military, the demilitarisation of the civil executive after the Second World War took, as shown in our crisis case study, a long time in Switzerland. The continuation of the war-induced militarisation had been facilitated by the continuous threat of the Cold War on the one hand, and the high social prestige that the military had earned during the times of crisis 1939–45 on the other. Both of these facts assisted in a latent militarisation of the population even after the war had ended. It needed a scandal to render visible the extent of the influence of the military on defence policy. From the perspective of efficient democratic control, it has to be considered disquieting that this influence had not been recognised and limited earlier. Concurrently, this case proves in a paradigmatic way the ability of the parliament to correct deficient control and remain as the controlling body. The second case presented of the plebiscite to abolish the military in 1989, symbolises, as it were, a long-term shift of the post-world war military’s central social and political position to a more peripheral one in the late Cold War period. It also proves how far the influence of direct democracy and the control of politics and the military had advanced and to what extent the military itself was ready to accept its diminished socio-political role and its national desymbolisation as a matter of fact. There is no doubt that the primacy of politics over the military is guaranteed in an old and stable democracy such as Switzerland at any time. Seen from a comparative perspective, the plebiscitary participation in political decision making secures and extends the democratic supremacy in a unique manner. However, and quite paradoxically, this does not rule out that in times of great threat and mass mobilisation the thereby induced politicisation of the military, democratically legitimised as it is, can undermine the primacy of democracy.
Notes 1 ‘Position of power’ is a term used in analogy to and in expansion of the term used by Max Weber: ‘Every substantial influencing that a part of society exercises over an other without the latter being able to evade that influence’ (Hradil, 1980, p. 229). 2 The Swiss government, the Bundesrat, is composed of seven members from several political parties. Its members are elected individually and confirmed by Parliament. Currently, all of the important parties from the right to the left are represented. There is thus no parliamentary opposition as in parliamentary democracies, but the role of opposition is assumed occasionally by individual parties and mainly by groups launching initiatives and referenda (see below).
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3 In a recent survey two-thirds of the questioned Swiss stated that votes were more important to them than elections. See Hug, 2002. 4 During the 150 years of the Federation’s history, the Swiss parliament has had to elect a ‘General’ three times. The first time was when, during the Franco-German war of 1870–71, Switzerland sent troops to its borders with France and Germany. The second and third elections took place when the militia was mobilised to guard the borders in 1914–18 and 1939–45. The army reform of 2004 created the function of head of the armed forces also during peacetime. However, the rule according to which a wartime General is elected by parliament is not affected by that. 5 This is also evident from the fact that even though the government cannot dismiss the General, it can order the time of demobilisation and thus the retirement of the General. 6 The strong tensions between the government and elected charismatic General Henri Guisan in the period of 1939 until 1945, hint paradigmatically to the fragile civil–military power balance inherent to the Swiss system in times of national threat. Serious differences developed mainly when, prior to the German attack on France in May 1940, the government favoured a policy of appeasement while Guisan called for resistance. The latter thus became the most important symbolic figure of national resistance against fascism and was extremely well-trusted and popular among the Swiss people. Without informing the civil government he prepared military coordination with the French in case the Germans should attack Switzerland. This resulted in a scandal when the Wehrmacht, after its victory over France, found related documents and accused the Swiss of having violated their neutrality (Gautschi, 1989; Kimche, 1961; Senn, 1995, p. 285). 7 Article 173(1)(d) of the Constitution. 8 Article 185(4) of the Constitution. 9 Initiatives may be withdrawn by the initiators and are then not voted on. 10 During the time span from their introduction in 1891 to 1998, 123 initiatives have been voted on, 110 without, 13 with an alternative proposal being made, see Huber, 1999 and for current trends: Online. Available HTTP: www.bfs.admin.ch/bfs/portal/de/index/themen/politik/ abstimmungen> (accessed 23 May 2005). 11 That an approval rate of no more than the usual one-fifth was being expected was a notion expressed by parts of the media even on the very day before the vote. See Zimmermann, 1989. 12 The initiative was officially referred to as ‘a chance’. The defence minister stated that it ‘forces us to explain to our youth the purpose of the army’. He also called for a clear rejection of the initiative as a symbol of Swiss self-assertion. Tages-Anzeiger, 24 April 1989. 13 During the campaign, the then defence minister stated that an approval rate of 18 per cent would be disastrous for Switzerland, as well as for the political and military establishment (according to Gilardi, 1998, p. 58). 14 Group Schoch, appointed by the army’s chief of training, Corps Commander Rolf Binder, see Heller, 1994. 15 This interpretation results from an expertise by Professor of National Law Dietrich Schindler concerning the army reform XXI and especially the intended extension of the permanent core of military personnel (professional and contract soldiers). See Schindler, 1999; Haltiner, 2002.
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14 International prestige and domestic democratic values in civil–military conflicts Two Irish case studies Jean Callaghan and Ray Murphy1 Introduction This chapter examines Irish civil–military relations through two prisms. The first shows how active duty military officers and warrant officers, non-commissioned officers (NCOs), and soldiers, although officially not permitted to engage in political activity, were able to pressure the Irish government into allowing them to form elected representative organisations, which have become quite influential in decision making concerning the Republic of Ireland’s Permanent Defence Forces (PDF).2 The chapter explores why those serving in the military felt the need to agitate for a representative association, despite the risks of disapproval and even punishment, as well as the efforts of the Department of Defence and senior military officers to defend their position prohibiting the formation of such representative associations. The case study concludes by elaborating some of the changes brought about in the Irish military because of the work of these new elected representative organisations. The second case discusses how the changed security environment and evolving nature of peacekeeping stimulated the Irish government, with the support of the military, despite its tradition of military neutrality and non-alignment, to take part in NATO Alliance’s Partnership for Peace (PfP) programme. This occurred even in the face of politicians’ promises to have a referendum on PfP membership before joining, and broad public support of the country’s military neutrality. This case study explains Irish military and diplomatic concerns that the country could be left behind in the changing activities of the international security community unless it too adapted to events. The case raises legal and constitutional issues related to Irish troops serving under foreign (NATO) command, and whether the government has adequately explored the legality of this practice. Finally, the lasting repercussions of this decision on Irish political discourse and attitudes are discussed.
Struggle for representation in the defence forces Those serving in the Irish military share the same democratic rights that other Irish citizens enjoy. However, these rights are circumscribed by the Defence Acts, the Official Secrets Act, Irish military tradition, and the ‘oaths of fealty’ taken by those entering the military, which prohibit, inter alia, membership in political
Civil–military conflicts: two Irish case studies 203 parties or engagement in political activities. Because Irish military regulations expressly prohibit the vast majority of those serving in the armed forces from ‘seeking publicity’ (i.e. contacting the press to discuss issues related to military service), many in the military felt that they had no voice in governmental decisions, which affected many aspects of their lives and careers, including pay, benefits, working conditions and safety issues. Except for these limitations in expressing their opinions and articulating their concerns to the press, however, Ireland’s PDF have long been characterised by a high degree of discipline combined with a democratic professional structure. At least until the recent vocal debates on Irish participation in PfP (covered later in this chapter) and on two relatively recent initiatives – the controversial 1994 Price-Waterhouse study that strongly criticised the Irish military’s efficiency and the February 2000 White Paper, which threatened the military with deep cuts – the defence forces have avoided any involvement in politics. Up until this time (as a matter of fact, since the last days of the Irish Civil War and the establishment of the modern Irish state in late 1922–early 1923 respectively), no suggestion of partiality has been made on the part of the defence forces. The organisational ethos has been so apolitical that, up until the late 1980s, the Irish military still fostered a culture that held the view that ‘airing the military’s dirty laundry in public’ was just ‘not done’. This attitude flourished for decades, even though the Irish army is well integrated into Irish society, living not on isolated military bases or in military enclaves, but rather in homes and apartments alongside their civilian counterparts. Irish service-members are drawn from all segments of society, and remain integrated members of the society, thus ensuring that their ties with the rest of Ireland are strong and well-rooted (Murphy, 1998, pp. 33–4). A brief overview of the history of the republic’s military forces is in order to put this issue into context. Although the Irish military is best known for its contribution to United Nations peacekeeping operations, the de jure primary role of the PDF is to defend the state against aggression. However, its capacity to fulfil this mission has almost always been hampered by a lack of adequate resources. In such a situation, it may well be asked: why does the Irish state maintain a standing army at all? The answer probably lies in the historical background to the foundation of the Irish state. The perceived threat to the democratically elected government and the institutions of the state has always been greater from within the state than from any potential foreign aggressor, except for a period during the Second World War. This may account in part for the disproportionate strength of the army within the Defence Force establishment. Since the founding of the Republic, the independent state of Ireland has never been invaded and its soldiers have not participated in any foreign wars. Security and defence matters are seldom topics of public debate; when they do arise, they are usually in the context of European integration and military neutrality. Furthermore, since the establishment of the modern Irish state, the army has avoided (and is actually prohibited from) any involvement in politics. Unlike most other European countries, the ministerial portfolio of defence is regarded as a minor cabinet post. Successive ministers of defence from different political backgrounds
204 Jean Callaghan and Ray Murphy have not been known for their political dynamism or significant contribution to public debate on security or defence (Murphy, 1998, pp. 33–4). For many years, the lack of policy and debate on defence issues reflected a general lack of ideas and interest at all levels. 3 After the Second World War, the Irish army suffered from a lack of purpose and a certain ambiguity regarding its role. Ireland’s initial refusal to join NATO, largely on account of partition (i.e. the retention by the United Kingdom of Northern Ireland) and the adoption of a policy of military neutrality, meant that the army was denied any international role. This decision had serious implications for national defence. A policy of military neutrality requires that the state maintain a credible military deterrent. However, until recently, a country of Ireland’s size and resources could not afford the required investment in armed forces organised along conventional military lines. As a result, the defence forces became rundown in the 1950s and early 1960s. One of the immediate impacts of large-scale participation in UN peacekeeping operations in the 1960s was to lift professional morale out of the routine rut of state ceremonials, guard duty, civilian emergencies and horse shows (Keatinge, 1978, p. 93). It is also generally accepted that participation in UN peacekeeping operations has improved considerably both training and morale in the defence forces. Unfortunately, despite an improvement in the sort of missions and general public support for the military, many enlisted men as well as their families began to face serious difficulties in the late 1980s. In 1987–8, service-members faced deteriorating working conditions and low salaries. Pay for the military was at an all-time low in comparison with other civil servants in similar jobs, such as prison guards and the Garda (police); working conditions were often unacceptable and allowances were falling further and further behind. Due to a variety of reasons, from other legislative priorities to the lack of a united political voice for soldiers as well as military regulations prohibiting those in the forces from speaking to the press, pay and allowances in the military had by the late 1980s reached such a low level that many families began to face serious financial difficulties. Working conditions, as well, had dramatically declined to a point where action was needed. Other armed governmental security forces in Ireland, such as the Garda and prison guards, were much better paid than the soldiers were, even though (as military activists were quick to point out) the military took the same and even more serious risks and – again unlike the other security forces – often had to deploy on overseas peacekeeping missions to foreign countries; despite these facts, the pay differences between the civilian and military sectors were disproportionate, with those in the defence forces getting the short side of the stick. Soldiers’ wives and chaplains were among the first to publicly sound the alarm that conditions in the armed forces were deteriorating. Military families were increasingly challenged to make ends meet financially, with many under the rank of sergeant forced to apply for social welfare benefits. High operational tempo because of peacekeeping commitments and aid to the civil power obligations meant that fathers were often away from home, which caused great difficulties for military families. Military chaplains, aware of these problems, attempted to use the chain
Civil–military conflicts: two Irish case studies 205 of command to help address the most dire cases, but it was clear that piecemeal fixes would not improve this situation; some kind of systematic changes were necessary. Military wives turned out to be a far more effective lobbying group. They began to mobilise to bring attention to the plight of their husbands, first in Dundalk, and then later across the entire country. The National Army Spouses’ Association (NASA) was formed, and began an ambitious programme of marches, letter writing campaigns, television appearances and other forms of lobbying on behalf of their husbands. For example, in 1988, one soldier’s wife was shown on television news declaring that her husband had to work 80 hours a week and for these long hours earned only IR£112 per week (PDFORRA, 1999). The women were very effective in getting their message across; they not only persistently pointed out the differences in pay and conditions between the military and other public service sectors, but also told the press about the problems their husbands faced when their military superiors discovered that their wives were active in NASA. The wives reported that their husbands were being called in by superior officers and received threats of extra duty and blocks to promotion; many soldiers’ wives publicly claimed that these coercion and intimidation tactics were commonplace once a soldier’s wife was known to be active in the NASA movement. Because discussing problems in the forces and arguing in public about military issues is not ‘done’, according to traditional Irish military culture, the military, particularly senior officers and the senior civilians at the Department of Defence, saw the wives’ efforts to bring the problems facing the soldiers into public view as offensive, distasteful and inappropriate. The Irish military (like most military organisations) did not want these issues discussed or debated in public. In an apparent effort to show the public that he was concerned, the Minister of Defence declared that although there were problems, they were not widespread, and were soon to be remedied. This declaration was not seen to be credible, especially as it came on the heels of the Brady Commission (Irish Department of Defence, 1988), which was widely seen as a whitewash; in fact, this Ministry of Defence response only made protests louder. The wives, determined not to be ignored, continued their battle, for instance, marching on the Irish Parliament; they even found candidates to stand for office in the general election, influencing the outcome of at least one race. As this NASA offensive was being pushed forward, some of those serving in the military took action as well. Frustrated with their continuing plight, and cognisant of the fact that other groups in Ireland had successfully improved their working conditions and pay because of the work of well-organised lobbying groups, a small number of activist NCOs unofficially drew up a proposal for a defence forces representative association, which they circulated by hand throughout all of the Irish army barracks. They did this in spite of defence forces regulations prohibiting political activity because they believed, based upon Article 40 of the Irish Constitution, that even those serving in the military were allowed the right of association. By 11 November 1989, one group, ad hoc PDFORRA (Permanent Defence Forces Other Ranks Representative Association) had already established itself
206 Jean Callaghan and Ray Murphy and met in County Cork, where it decided, as the ad hoc national executive body, that it would announce its existence as an association from that day on under the provisions of Article 40 of the Constitution. One of the first orders of business was to meet in Dublin with the approximately 40 activists elected to represent the different barracks and to seek legal advice on how to form a representative association. At the same time, feelers were put out to EUROMIL (European Association of Military Associations), which offered the Irish soldiers aid, advice and moral support. The Irish representatives of the defence forces who met with EUROMIL supported the fundamental principles of the organisation and saw that they would be applicable to a potential Irish representative association: … all member associations from EUROMIL consider themselves committed to the principle of the Citizen in Uniform. This means that the serviceman has, in principle, the same rights and obligations as any other citizen. A serviceman, who must defend the rights and freedoms of his fellow citizens outside his own national territory, must be entitled to enjoy and make use of these same rights and freedoms in service. This principle requires action by states: the removal of all restrictions on civil and social rights, which do not inevitably result from the military assignment and the constitution of the state in question. Associations made up of servicemen and therefore of responsible citizens in uniform form the basis for fair and active participation in the political life of their countries. One of the central concerns of EUROMIL is to put through the right of association for all active servicemen in Europe. This fundamental human right, which servicemen of all rank- and status groups should enjoy, is still not granted in some countries in Europe and member states of the North Atlantic Alliance. Article 23, (4), of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights of the United Nations says: ‘Everyone has the right to form and to join trade associations for the protections of his interests’. EUROMIL asserts the right to found associations or unions in order to represent social interests (the right of association) and advocates that this practice of association activity has to be anchored in the appropriate national and international laws, agreements and conventions for all servicemen. The right of association includes the right to found an association, the freedom to belong to it, and the possibility of this association and of its members, to act in and on behalf of the association. The right to represent social interests in an association includes not only the right and freedom of founding associations with the aim of safeguarding and furthering the economic and labour conditions, but also of joining this association and acting in and on behalf of the association. It includes also the freedom of setting up the statutes and articles of the association. The right of association can be restricted by a prohibition to strike for political reasons. The member associations from EUROMIL resign from the right to strike. (EUROMIL, 2003).
Civil–military conflicts: two Irish case studies 207 The struggle for representation reached a crisis point soon after delegates of the Irish military attended a EUROMIL conference in Denmark, where Warrant Officer Michael Martin held a press conference about the situation in Ireland. This press conference was covered by the news media in Ireland, where the authorities saw it to be in direct contravention of the defence forces regulation prohibiting seeking publicity. Upon his return to Ireland, Martin learned that the threat of court martial or discharge was hanging in the air, and therefore sought support for his position through the court system. By this time, however, the government was starting to realise that the majority of the public supported the soldiers and their fight.4 Despite the grumbles and whispered threats against Martin, the government then played an unexpected card, surprising Martin and the other activist NCOs who were seeking to establish a representative association by abruptly sending two members of parliament to meet with ad hoc PDFORRA. In 1990, an amendment to the Defence Act was passed, which allowed for the establishment of representative associations for those serving in the defence forces. Representation was now legally allowed for all ranks. Soon thereafter, the Representative Association for Commissioned Officers (RACO) was established. Representative associations would be allowed to submit proposals on welfare, pay and conditions for independent adjudication but were not allowed to make submissions on matters of discipline, operations and command; they were also prohibited from association with organisations outside of the defence forces, and would not have the right to strike (Irish Department of Defence, 1991). The successful establishment of (now statutory) PDFORRA was a major achievement for those serving in the defence forces. Despite opposition from the military leadership and from the civilians in the Department of Defence, a group of soldiers and their wives were able to assert their rights and create a new avenue made up of democratically elected officials to address complaints and problems related to service in the defence forces. Since the founding of PDFORRA, the organisation has reached more than 80 agreements related to pay and conditions with the Irish government and military leadership. Written, formal agreements have been drawn up between PDFORRA and the military on the national level; there are many additional side agreements on the local level. It is not unusual to see a reasonably well-functioning committee address from 20 to 40 issues per year on a local level. RACO has had similar successes. Approximately 90 per cent of all enlisted people are members of PDFORRA and almost 100 per cent of officers are members of RACO. PDFORRA has established a co-operative and synergistic relationship with the Department of Defence, which has given enlisted personnel their first chance in 60 years to influence conditions, pay and terms of service positively. Instead of the old practice of the chaplain going to commanding officers on his own initiative to ‘tell tales out of school’, those serving in the Irish military now have an elected representative with statutory rights to go to their commanding officer to resolve issues. In recent years, pensions were increased by almost 14 per cent due to PDFORRA interventions. Finally, PDFORRA is also active internationally. For
208 Jean Callaghan and Ray Murphy instance, the Irish representative association has led EUROMIL in advancing the Convention on the Safety of UN and Associated Personnel by lobbying governments in Europe and across the world to ratify the Convention, which gives international legal protection to UN peacekeepers and NGO workers in the field.
Ireland and membership in the partnership for peace (PfP) The decision to join PfP must be seen in the context of changes in Irish defence policy and a reorientation in Irish foreign policy. A bit of background history is essential to understand this conflict and the interests of the different parties involved. Since 1955, membership of the UN has been a cornerstone and determiner of Irish foreign policy (Irish Department of Foreign Affairs, 1996, pp. 149–67 and Irish Department of Defence, 2000, pp. 59–70). For many years, prior to accession to the European Community, the UN was the only forum where Ireland could express its concerns across a wide range of international issues. The building and maintenance of a strong and effective UN, especially in the area of conflict prevention, still forms a key objective of Irish foreign policy, within which Ireland’s traditionally robust contribution to UN peacekeeping operations have come to play a central role. Ireland’s successes in UN peacekeeping operations have built up tremendous good will in the international community and have made the country disproportionately influential in the UN. These successes allow the country to ‘punch above its weight’ in international discussions and decision making; these achievements in peacekeeping operations also give the Irish defence forces legitimacy both at home and abroad. Despite their accomplishments over more than 40 years in the UN arena, however, the primary focus of Ireland’s foreign policy has been increasingly shifting towards Europe since the early 1970s. One of the consequences of the White Paper on Defence (mentioned earlier in this chapter) was that it has allowed the Department of Foreign Affairs to significantly influence matters essentially military in nature; interestingly, this Department has often been supportive of involvement in UN operations even when civil servants in the Departments of Defence and Finance opposed participation. Although both the 1996 Foreign Policy and the 2000 Defence Forces White Papers were vague in many respects, the chapters dealing with overseas peace support operations set out the background to Irish involvement; the factors that must be used to inform the government’s consideration of requests for troops were enunciated in clear terms. What is surprising about the criteria and guidelines outline is how little reference was actually made to them in the debates concerning joining PfP and in discussions seeking approval for participation in specific operations. The key issue relating to peacekeeping and Irish foreign policy arising from the White Paper on Foreign Policy was the focus on maintaining military neutrality while fostering a security role within Europe. This role within Europe was expanded upon in the White Paper on Defence with a commitment to pledge troops to the European Union’s planned Rapid Reaction Force. Participation in UN-led and
Civil–military conflicts: two Irish case studies 209 sponsored operations is not a contentious issue, but the growing trend of recent years to ‘contract out’ peace support operations to regional organisations such as NATO was seen as potentially problematic for a country that has traditionally shied away from difficult or controversial decisions on security and defence issues. The debate stimulated by the publication of the White Paper on Foreign Policy was a welcome attempt to engage the Irish public in the formulation of foreign policy and it has assisted in identifying and clarifying some key issues. The importance of maintaining a clear distinction between traditional peacekeeping and operations involving some degree of enforcement action is not just important for the UN, but also for contributing states like Ireland. Today’s intra-state conflicts present complex and dangerous circumstances not only for peacekeepers, but also for the politicians involved in taking decisions about deploying soldiers to peace operations; while there is general support from the Irish public for participation in such operations, the Irish people are not prepared to accept any significant casualties or unnecessary exposure to risk. Politicians and senior government officials in Ireland are not unlike their counterparts elsewhere; over the last few years, they have repeatedly responded to public opinion (and, some may claim, even succumb to a media-driven agenda) by adapting Irish military and defence policy to the demands of the voters. One of the areas in Irish foreign policy that definitely attracts significant public attention and strong support is the question of Irish military neutrality and nonalignment. The original proposal that Ireland join the UN was controversial in its own time, but it must be remembered that this was a decision taken in full knowledge of the fact that the UN Charter, unlike that of the League of Nations, contained coercive military provisions binding on all member states by the decision of the Security Council. It is noteworthy that Eamon de Valera, a former Irish Prime Minister and the person most associated with Ireland’s policy of neutrality during the Second World War, did not consider that UN membership would present any significant problem for Irish foreign policy. He did, however, share the concern of other deputies regarding the potential military obligations imposed by admission. Despite de Valera’s reservations, it was probably a fear of Ireland being isolated and denied a role on the world stage that finally prompted him to opt for membership. In this way, as has often over the following years been the case with questions of Irish military neutrality, the decision was based on pragmatic considerations, rather than any idealistic or similar commitment to the UN itself. There are interesting parallels with the debate regarding membership of the NATO-sponsored PfP and Irish participation in the UN-mandated but NATOcommanded Stabilisation Force (SFOR) and Kosovo Force (KFOR) missions in the former Yugoslavia. There was a very real fear among officials in the Department of Foreign Affairs and the military that if Ireland did not join the PfP programme, it would become isolated and out of touch with international developments in peacekeeping. Those fears echoed similar concerns expressed by de Valera some 50 years earlier in relation to membership of the UN.5 Despite its conventional structure, the real role of the defence forces up until recently has been closer in nature to that of a garrison-based gendarmerie than a
210 Jean Callaghan and Ray Murphy modern army. In this way, defence from an external threat was not taken seriously (except, as noted above, for a period during the Second World War); most in Ireland believed that the country required little more that a small paramilitary force to quell civil disorder. Therefore, for much of the Republic’s history, and especially since the outbreak of para-military violence in Northern Ireland (known as ‘The Troubles’), aid to the civil power – essentially a policing function – has been a crucial, high-priority task of the Irish military. Competence and familiarity with this mission, together with the defence forces’ emphasis on adaptability and ability to operate independently of large-scale supporting forces, combined to make the Irish forces highly suitable for traditional peacekeeping missions. However, they also contributed to an ambiguity surrounding the role of the defence forces in modern Ireland. Although the Irish commitment to the UN forces in Somalia (UNOSOM II) in the early 1990s was quite small, numbering only around 180 personnel, the decision to participate had significant political and military implications. It was the first time that Irish soldiers participated in a Chapter VII peace enforcement operation of this kind and it set a precedent that helped pave the way for Ireland’s participation in the Stabilisation Force in the former Yugoslavia as well as for formal participation in the PfP. UNOSOM II also marked a watershed in Irish involvement in peacekeeping activities as well as a growing realisation that Ireland could be left behind in the changing nature of the international security environment unless it too adapted to recent events and new trends in peace operations. Though the UN operation in the Congo (ONUC) in the 1960s did involve a degree of enforcement actions to which the Irish contingent was a party, recent decisions to participate in SFOR, KFOR, UNAMET (East Timor) and UNOSOM II were conscious decisions taken in response to the changed international environment and the changed nature of peacekeeping operations. In the case of SFOR, KFOR and UNAMET, the government also agreed to pay all the expenses associated with Irish participation. Although peace support operations are generally associated with the UN, in reality Ireland has contributed to operations under the auspices of NATO, the Organisation for Security and Co-operation in Europe, and the European Union for some years. More significantly for the purposes of this chapter, however, it is important to note that Irish participation in the NATO-led, albeit UN-mandated, operations placed Irish troops under the de facto command of NATO for the first time. There are significant legal and constitutional difficulties involved in command and/or control of Irish forces by non-defence force personnel, but successive governments to date have quietly ignored these concerns (Murphy, 1994; Murphy, 1999). Despite the fact that this command and control issue could become a major civil–military conflict at some point in the future, to date it has not. Irish military and other personnel have adapted successfully to such missions, because thus far there has been recognition of the fact that there is an ongoing need to keep up to date in training and to ensure that equipment levels and standards are appropriate to these tasks. In 1994, a leaked confidential report written by Price Waterhouse consultants, who had conducted a study of the Irish military, described the defence forces as,
Civil–military conflicts: two Irish case studies 211 inter alia, ‘badly structured, too old, poorly trained, and inappropriately equipped’. Though this was controversial at the time, the Defence Forces Review Implementation Plan later accepted and adopted the conclusions (Irish Department of Defence, 1996). After neglect over many years by successive governments, most of the deficiencies in structures, training and equipment identified were also self-evident to members of the defence forces.6 However, other perceived shortcomings were not; the Price Waterhouse analysis offered a serious indictment of the levels of collective training and management structures, which they rightly identified as the key to operational capability in the defence forces. This had important implications for participation in UN operations, as deficiencies in training would also undermine operational capability on the ground. As a result, the government committed itself to reorganise the defence forces as an ‘all arms conventional force’. While the Irish military undertook efforts to ensure that its force structure, training and equipment were brought to the standard that they considered necessary to retain their role as respected key members of the international peacekeeping community, the nature of peacekeeping (as outlined above) began to change. To its credit, the Irish government began to recognise that, without making efforts to keep up with the times, the very complexity and evolving nature of peacekeeping might diminish the role of the defence forces. There was a realisation that if Ireland wants to stay in what has been described as the ‘premier league’ of peacekeepers, then it must ensure that it remains capable of meeting the challenges of the new sorts of peace operations that have emerged since the 1990s. The government and the military were aware that although there will always be a need for traditional peacekeeping, there may not always be a need for Irish personnel to form part of such operations. The support from Ireland for the inclusion of the so-called Petersburg Tasks of peacekeeping and similar humanitarian activities into the Amsterdam Treaty on Europe indicated a growing awareness of the need to respond to the changing international security environment. The White Paper on Defence also recognised the changing trends in international peace support operations. At the same time, most likely anticipating public outcry on some possible future deployment, the government has consistently stressed that participation in UN-approved European peace support initiatives does not change Ireland’s traditional policy on military neutrality. This may well be official government policy, but it is hard to reconcile with participation with other European states in military operations of whatever nature, and the increasing co-operation envisaged for European Union states. When the matter of contributing troops to the NATO-led SFOR and KFOR was first being considered, there was general support for the proposal from the main political parties, based upon the consideration of guidelines developed to evaluate whether Irish forces should be used in international operations. The defence forces and the Department of Foreign Affairs considered these guidelines and were satisfied that this mission passed the test; both the Department of Defence and the Department of Foreign Affairs became strong advocates of the proposal7 (Irish Department of Foreign Affairs, 1999). In July 1999, Ireland agreed to send a
212 Jean Callaghan and Ray Murphy transport company to Kosovo as part of KFOR. There was nothing radical or new in this decision, as their role was very similar to that performed by the Irish contingent with UNOSOM II. Nonetheless, Irish involvement in SFOR and KFOR set the scene for a longer-term re-orientation of Irish participation in international peace support operations, particularly with regard to the more robust operations that began in the mid-1990s. Over the course of many discussions about the evolution of peace operations in the 1990s, Irish policy and military experts have often made the case that if the defence forces were to retain the skills and reputation acquired to date in the new context of European security, it would be necessary for them to participate in organisations and programmes such as the PfP, where best contemporary practice is developed. This is all the more true with the UN’s move from traditional peacekeeping to more complex peace support operations conducted by regional organisations with UN approval. But through its participation in these ‘subcontracted operations’, Ireland was seen by some as contributing to the demise of the UN at the behest of the USA and other permanent members of the Security Council. Ireland may also have come under some pressure from its European partners to participate more actively in such initiatives. While non-membership in NATO and the small size of the defence forces were attributes of traditional Irish peacekeeping, they could also be barriers to participation in future UN-mandated but NATO or EU-led regional operations. The government’s assessment of the necessity of Ireland to expand its participation in multilateral operations to include participation in PfP programmes, however accurate, is not necessarily supported among the Irish electorate. Although Irish policy states that there is no conflict between Ireland’s military neutrality and full and active support by Ireland for collective security, based on international law (Irish Department of Foreign Affairs, 1999, p. 8), the Irish people are very proud of and protective towards the country’s tradition of military neutrality and non-alignment. Most Irish governments, on the other hand, including the current one, speak of a ‘pragmatic neutrality’ and dismiss the general electorate’s understanding of the issue as crude and uninformed. Aware of the voters’ sympathies toward and support of neutrality, and perhaps realising that the voters in Ireland might not share the elites’ interest in participation in PfP, politicians made the question of whether or not to join PfP an election issue. While in opposition, the political party Fianna Fáil,8 campaigning for the support of – among others – the pro-neutrality camp, promised a referendum on whether or not Ireland would participate in PfP before any such move would be made. Once in office, however, the Fianna Fáil Taoiseach (head of government) Mr Bertie Ahern, claimed that – after having obtained the advice of the Attorney General on the issue – there was no legal requirement for such a referendum. He then announced that Ireland would participate in PfP programmes (Cusack, 1999, p. 6). Despite having committed to holding a referendum on the issue as part of its election manifesto, the cabinet and later the Dáil (Irish Parliament) approved membership of PfP without holding any referendum in December 1999. This failure to adhere to the earlier commitment to hold a referendum was a further source of
Civil–military conflicts: two Irish case studies 213 controversy in the debate over membership and led – as is illustrated in the conclusion – to other significant credibility problems for the government in the realm of security and defence policy, as well.9
Conclusions When considering these two case studies and what these changes in policy mean for the country in terms of civil–military relations, one sees two quite different outcomes. In the first case, we witness a triumph of the exercise of democratic rights. We see soldiers, despite strong pressure to the contrary, refer their commanders and countrymen to the Constitution and to the Universal Declaration on Human Rights and then insist that these rights be applied in their democracy. The German concept of citizen in uniform is successfully invoked. The military and government, despite initial resistance based upon tradition and regulation, decide – once it is clear this initiative has popular support – to allow the requested changes in legislation and regulation. These changes now enshrine in law Irish soldiers’ (somewhat limited but greater than before) rights to freedom of speech and freedom of association. In addition, over the more than ten years since this legislation has been enacted, the now legal representative associations have instigated many positive changes in the lives, working conditions and pay of those serving in the Irish defence forces. The decision of the government to take part in PfP, on the other hand, illustrates a victory of the elites’ goals for the country over the people’s self-perception as a neutral, non-aligned nation. There are good arguments to be made for this decision, as well; these range from the need for Ireland to stay relevant in UN ‘subcontracted’ EU- and NATO-led operations to the requirement that Ireland be experienced and ready for future international peacekeeping and – more importantly perhaps – peace enforcement operations and thus continue to enjoy the benefits of its disproportionate (for its size) influence in the UN and in international bodies. The elite understanding of a narrow, ‘pragmatic neutrality’ won the day, while the popular understanding of the concept, as well as Ahern’s promised referendum before joining PfP, fell by the wayside. Later, this decision had a significant impact on the Irish electorate’s attitude towards government assurances regarding the security and defence implications of the Nice Treaty, which was rejected on the occasion of the first referendum on the Treaty in 2001. The government’s decision to participate in PfP without the promised referendum has cast a long shadow for some political groups in Ireland, undermining the people’s trust in its promises and raising questions about the gap between elites’ and the people’s perceptions about Irish neutrality and non-alignment. For example, the ‘Peace and Neutrality Alliance’ (PANA), an umbrella group of organisations in favour of retaining Irish military neutrality and using the UN rather than the EU or NATO for Irish peacekeeping missions (De Bréadún, 2001), has been quite open about its concerns, which include the possibility of the creation of a ‘European army’ linked with NATO and the potential for EU military deployments without what it views as proper democratic accountability. As PANA
214 Jean Callaghan and Ray Murphy chairman Roger Cole explained, ‘There is nothing in the Treaty of Nice, which would require a UN mandate before it is used. All we have is the words of politicians, and as we have seen in their decision to join NATO’s PfP, they have no meaning’ (Callaghan, 2001). Distrust of the current government’s motives, tracing back at least in part to the government’s handling of this PfP decision, can also be seen in the strong reaction of those in Ireland’s anti-war movement, who have protested Ireland’s policy of allowing the USA to use Shannon airport in support of the US-led war on Iraq. Many in Ireland have disputed the claims of Bertie Ahern (the Prime Minister), Brian Cowen (the Minister of Foreign Affairs), and Michael Smith (the Minister of Defence), that the use of Shannon by US military aircraft in support of the US war and subsequent operations in Iraq is merely the continuation of a long-standing arrangement for overflights and landings of US military aircraft. They have further disputed the government’s contention that this practice is no more a threat to Irish military neutrality or non-alignment than providing support to US military aircraft en route to participation in UN-mandated peacekeeping operations (Irish Department of Foreign Affairs, 2003; Ahern, 2003). The arguments10 of the Taoiseach, the minister of foreign affairs and the minister of defence in support of continuing these overflights and landings have for many in Ireland touched the ‘PfP referendum nerve’ and have elicited great scepticism among those who believe that the current government is not committed to the people’s traditional understanding of military neutrality and non-alignment and is instead buckling under and conforming to the will of the USA. The Irish government’s decision to join PfP, therefore, illustrates that the political and military leadership in this case were convinced that it was worth the risk of alienating a substantial part of the population in order to achieve the desired ends in the international arena. This contributed significantly to suspicions in the Irish electorate about government assurances regarding the military implications of the Nice Treaty. Consequently, during the second Nice Treaty referendum campaign, the government made a solemn Declaration as part of the Nice Treaty, which is known as the Seville Declaration (Irish Department of Foreign Affairs, 2002).11 In this Declaration, Ireland reiterates that the participation of contingents of the Irish defence forces in overseas operations, including those carried out under the auspices of the EU’s Common Security and Defence Policy, requires (a) the authorisation of the operation by the Security Council or the General Assembly of the United Nations, (b) the agreement of the Irish government, and (c) the approval of the parliament, in accordance with Irish law.12 One of the first outcomes of this Declaration was an embarrassing reversal in Irish government policy. After the European Union announced that it would be leading a preventive deployment mission in the former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia, Ireland vigorously lobbied to obtain a place on the mission; after the government had succeeded in obtaining a number of positions in the force for PDF personnel (Murphy, 2003), Ireland was forced to step back from its offer to contribute personnel because of the commitments made in the Seville Declaration. This was a source of significant embarrassment to Irish diplomats at the Department
Civil–military conflicts: two Irish case studies 215 of Foreign Affairs and to the defence forces.13 The Irish attorney-general advised the government that Ireland could not contribute troops to this mission, as it did not satisfy commitments made by Ireland as part of the Seville Declaration prior to the second Nice Treaty referendum. Critics have argued that this sort of reversal is characteristic of Ireland’s inept posturing on issues of European foreign policy and security co-operation, and it has serious consequences for Irish foreign policy, both within the EU, and with regard to participation in future peacekeeping operations. In the end, it could be said that, despite the clear interest in participation on the part of the national security elites in the country and the obvious benefits to the state on both the international stage and in the military realm that participation in this pioneering EU mission could bring, this deployment of Irish forces was ended because of a paradox generated by a civil–military conflict: Irish participation in this first EU-led peacekeeping operation was not allowed because it did not meet the requirements of the Seville Declaration, which only came into existence as a way to address the Irish electorate’s lingering concerns about the possible compromise of Ireland’s military neutrality and non-alignment in the aftermath of Ahern’s broken campaign promise about joining PfP.
Notes 1 The opinions expressed in this article are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect those of the Irish, US, or any other government or governmental institution. 2 When the term Defence Forces is used, it refers to the Permanent Defence Forces established under Section 18 (a) of the Defence Act 1954, and includes army, navy, and air corps. 3 More recently, the formation of representative associations and the publication of Strategy Statements, Annual Reports and the White Paper have improved this situation, but the overall level of public debate and knowledge about the armed forces and conditions in them remains abysmally low. 4 The women in NASA who stood for election had cleverly targeted constituencies with heavy concentrations of military personnel and their spouses, such as Counties Kildare, Longford/ Westmeath and Cavan/Monaghan, where traditionally a large part of the army’s vote has gone to Fianna Fáil. The women’s decision to stand for election was crucial for both the public and government to come to realise that the situation in the Defence Forces was a serious problem. Following a successful run in County Kildare – one Member of Parliament lost a seat, it was believed, because of the presence of a NASA candidate on the ballot (though she did not gain it) – the government began to take the issue seriously. 5 Ireland’s willingness to participate in SFOR, despite reservations, was also based upon pragmatic considerations and a desire to play as full a role as possible in world affairs for a country of its size and resources. For example, see Dáil Debates, 14 May 1997, pp. 514–39. 6 In addition, the Report of the Commission on Remuneration and Conditions of Service in the Defence Forces was a damning indictment of not just pay and conditions, but also bureaucratic and ineffective structures, and a remarkably militarily ineffective organisation. 7 It had been hoped to send a company strength contingent to SFOR, but some 50 personnel in a military police capacity were ultimately deployed. 8 This is the country’s largest political party, which was founded by Éamon de Valera in 1926. A centrist political party with strong republican leanings, Fianna Fáil currently holds 80 seats in a coalition government with the Progressive Democrats, which hold eight. Irish members of Parliament are referred to as TDs (Member of Dáil Éireann or Irish Parliament). Mr Bertie Ahern, the party leader, is currently Taoiseach or prime minister.
216 Jean Callaghan and Ray Murphy 9 Despite having broken campaign promises, however, it should be noted that – from a strictly legal point of view – it is generally accepted that there was no requirement to do so, as the agreement concluded still left the discretion with the Irish government regarding Irish participation in individual activities and operations under PfP. 10 Mr Smith said, in an article in the Irish Times on 20 January 2000, ‘we have a lot of contact with America, a lot of business with America, we have a lot of people in this country who depend on America for their jobs’. He also argued that there is ‘no such thing … as complete military neutrality’. There are more than 200 articles and editorials on this issue available from the Irish Times between 1 January 2003 and 1 April 2003, an indicator of how controversial the issue has become in Ireland. 11 At the June 2002 EU summit in Seville, the Irish government declared, ‘Ireland confirms that its participation in the European Union’s common foreign and security policy does not prejudice its traditional policy of military neutrality’. The government apparently believed that one of the main reasons the Irish people rejected the Treaty of Nice in the first referendum in 2001 was because the electorate feared that their country’s policy of military neutrality would be adversely affected. 12 This is referred to as the ‘triple lock mechanism’ agreed as part of the Seville Declaration prior to the Nice Treaty referendum, in which Ireland can only participate in a peacekeeping mission if it is UN authorised, and approved by both the Dáil and Government. 13 Personal communication, Department of Foreign Affairs official, Dublin, March 2003.
Freedom of speech and the German Citizen in Uniform 217
15 His master’s voice? Freedom of speech and the German Citizen in Uniform Jürgen Kuhlmann and Jürgen Rose
Introduction From a speech of defence minister Manfred Wörner, given to the Army Cadet Academy in Hanover, 10 June 1983: One can easily build a connection to what is called internal freedom and the courage to defend one’s convictions … attitudes growing out of independent thinking, life experience and own values which … [are] … even then expressed when they are not shared by others. … [They] … are essential traits of an officer. … We don’t want ‘apparatchiks’ who permanently adapt to circumstances in order to further their careers. … You have every moral right, even an obligation, to articulate deviating views wherever it appears necessary to serve the basic idea or a higher value system. … There’s hardly anything worse than the ‘pre-emptive obedience’ of one who doesn’t tell the superior what knowledge and conscience demand, but instead what one assumes that the superior wants to hear. … The horrible dictum ‘this is a political issue’ suffocates all independent thinking. We don’t want to have ‘yes men.’ That would be the worst thing that could happen to an army. (cited in Rieger, 1995, p. 109) This credo reflects a basic characteristic of Innere Führung in the Bundeswehr. Whether the defence minister himself and his successors really carried out what is promised here is demonstrated with the help of two cases in which active soldiers publicly contradicted governmental politics. The first one started in 1983 and ended, at least formally, in 1992. The second one began in 1997 and is still going on. The analysis feeds the suspicion that a support of Innere Führung by both political authorities and service personnel is fading. To understand this long-term crisis fully, core elements of Innere Führung are explained beforehand. Background Rearmament was Germany’s price for political integration into the West, as such, it had to be marketed to what at that time was a widely reluctant population. The
218 Jürgen Kuhlmann and Jürgen Rose concept of ‘Innere Führung’1 and the philosophy of the ‘Citizen in Uniform’2 were designed to guarantee democratic control over the new German military. This concept was often expressed by General Wolf von Baudissin, carried forward by a generation of political reformers and their parliamentary allies, and observed and discussed by civil–military leaders everywhere. A new member of the Bundeswehr was to be primarily a citizen, though at the same time a soldier. He was to retain and respect the civil rights assured for every member of the Federal Republic’s political system. He was to possess obligations to exercise those rights and a guarantee within the Bundeswehr structure that those rights would be respected by others. The concept itself, whether in terms of discipline, organisation, or even in the extension of obligations to society as a whole, reflected a number of accusations and criticisms raised against the past era (Kelleher, 1990, p. 27). Innere Führung obliges every action in the armed forces to be in accordance with the ‘vision of good citizenship’ as laid down in the Constitution, i.e. every soldier and officer should act as a free individual, responsible to himself, tied to and sharing solidarity with the community. Some civil rights of German soldiers may be legally limited when it is inevitably necessary to uphold functional requirements of the soldierly job (Rose, 1998a and 1999). The Constitution expressly authorises the legislature to restrict the rights of active duty soldiers with regard to the freedom of assembly, the right to petition in joint actions, the freedom of movement, the inviolability of residence and the basic right ‘to freely express and spread one’s own opinion in word, writing and image’. The ‘Legal Status of Military Personnel Act’ consequently puts limits on soldiers’ freedom of speech. Soldiers are obliged to speak out in favour of the democratic basic order, they have to act with restraint and tactfulness when in a supervisory position, and they have to demonstrate comradeship to their fellow soldiers. When on duty, soldiers may not disturb the office routine and are not allowed to favour any political movement or party. They have to protect government secrets and should not publicly talk about official matters. In their capacity as citizens, however – that is, when off duty – soldiers’ expressions of opinion should not give the impression of an official statement; instead, they must be clearly described as their individual private views. This limited freedom of speech is the basis of German military law and elucidates the guiding principle of the ‘Citizen in Uniform’. In their double role as citizens in German society and citizens in uniform, soldiers are expected to participate in political discussions about security and peace by bringing in their expertise, thus indispensably contributing to the furthering development of the democratic community (Ebeling et al., 2002, p. 25). Innere Führung aims at removing the oppression of human individuality, which easily can occur in a hierarchically organised military system dominated by the principle of order and obedience (Rose, 1998b). More importantly, the guiding idea of the ‘Citizen in Uniform’ is intended to do away with miserable treatment
Freedom of speech and the German Citizen in Uniform 219 of subordinates once and for all. Citizens in uniform are expected to critically form their own opinions and to stand up for their convictions. In times past the German military used to be marked by an elitist solidarity mentality, which considerably contributed to the fateful acceptance of a ‘state within the state’. The really revolutionary aspect of this military reform lies in General von Baudissin’s belief that the German military had to be freed from its mentality by democratising the armed forces as much as possible. The new German military pre-World War II should instead perceive itself to be an integral part of society, fulfilling the duties and enjoying the rights which an open and pluralistic community provides. Innere Führung and the concept of the ‘Citizen in Uniform’, in essence, do not conflict at all with the Bundeswehr’s operational effectiveness, as some traditionalist critics had argued when these leadership philosophies were initially implemented. The basic idea is to let soldiers experience their constitutionally guaranteed democratic rights when serving. From this point of view, Innere Führung may be seen as a political and psychological force multiplier, which leads to a citizensoldier who serves out of conviction, thus enhancing instead of destroying or adversely affecting operational effectiveness.
Soldiers interfering in security policy: the Darmstadt Signal3 In December 1979, NATO’s ministers of foreign affairs and of defence decided to modernise NATO’s land-based medium-range ballistic nuclear missile systems. The weapon systems were only to be deployed if future armament control negotiations with the Warsaw Pact were to fail. Such negotiations were not in sight at that time. From the beginning, this move was vehemently criticised by society. Actors in the public discourse were individual peace researchers and peace movements, on the one side, and the ruling political elites, especially the German Ministry of Defence, on the other. The Ministry of Defence underlined that the Bundeswehr at large would unanimously endorse nuclear rearmament as an inevitable military action. In September 1983, a group, calling itself ‘Das Darmstädter Signal’ (The Darmstadt Signal),4 entered the dispute by publishing a flyer entitled ‘Active soldiers and employees of the Bundeswehr say NO to stationing new nuclear missiles in our country’. The arms race in the East and West, they said, endangers mankind. The possibility of nuclear wars, even accidental ones, required a reversal of this policy. ‘We can and must start with it’. The flyer was signed by three active officers, who gave their contact addresses, followed by a listing of all 20, who were the first signers of a previous founding document, including full addresses and military ranks. The surprise was not in the contents of the appeal – which more or less repeated what had been openly discussed by others in the years before – but in the fact that active members of the Bundeswehr contradicted the official position of their own government and of the military establishment.
220 Jürgen Kuhlmann and Jürgen Rose The soldiers of the Darmstadt Signal explicitly emphasised their self-perception as citizens and military experts (Rieger, 1995, p. 82), who in accordance with Innere Führung – as citizens in uniform – had the right and the duty to participate in political processes. ‘We perceive ourselves, of course, as truly serving soldiers in our official military functions but [also] as critically acting soldiers in our political activities’ (Presseerklärung, 1983). Indeed, the concept of ‘Citizen in Uniform’ ‘derives the motivation [of the soldiers] for defence from the possibility of identification with the political system … and prevents soldiers on military duty from being degraded to objects and from encroachment on their human dignity’ (von Schubert, 1977, p. 275). An ‘apolitical citizen and soldier, standing beyond political responsibility, forms a sharp contrast to the ideal of the citizen in uniform’ (Rössler, 1977, p. 129). The Darmstadt Signal’s concern The Darmstadt Signal members, throughout their campaign, consistently maintained that the strategy of nuclear deterrence would cause them a moral dilemma because, should nuclear deterrence fail, it would mean indiscriminate mass killing. According to their experience, numerous other soldiers shared their reservations. As information about differing positions was the basis of political education in the Bundeswehr, prevailing NATO doctrine should have been openly discussed in the rank and file. The Darmstadt Signal intended to carry peacemovement ideas to the troops in order to familiarise them with arguments exchanged in society, but not inside the Bundeswehr, to that date. Consequently, the Darmstadt Signal addressed several military periodicals and other relevant journals, asking them to publish the Darmstadt Signal position statements in order to present them before soldiers and officers for discussion. Not unexpectedly, there were friendly but firmly negative reactions from the military side. One chief editor admitted that he had read the statement with great interest, but his interpretation of military legal provisions prevented him from publishing on this issue. The Defence Ministry argued that it had already published numerous articles in the field of security and defence policy. Therefore, they asked for understanding in their decision not to continue publishing any further pieces on this topic. In reality, however, the political leaders of the Bundeswehr must have believed themselves to be under substantial pressure. The news of active soldiers publicly contradicting the official defence doctrine spread quickly in the media. A labour union official commented that the touchiness on this issue in the Ministry of Defence was alarming. The times of Baudissin seemed to have gone long ago. One was left with the strong impression that the military was not willing to be questioned anymore. Symptomatically, a minister of state played down the activities of the Darmstadt Signal and called demonstrators, who had announced plans to protest and a blocking of military installations, ‘radical criminals’ (Friedensbewegung, 1986).
Freedom of speech and the German Citizen in Uniform 221 The Darmstadt Signal then asked the Minister of Defence, Wörner, to support their concerns. Wörner, correctly, let the petitioners know that soldiers could inform themselves in publicly available media, which they were officially provided by the Bundeswehr. Military periodicals only supplement non-military media. Of course, any soldier could comment personally on military periodicals by letters to the editor, but it would be up to the editor to decide whether such letters would be published or not. Muzzling dissidents – a top-down scenario Such official reactions by the establishment sound correct and logical but do not disclose the full truth. The further development in the Darmstadt Signal affair shows that political actors in the Ministry of Defence, strongly backed by military leaders, tried to utilise all non-illegal means to isolate the Darmstadt Signal supporters and to deny any platform for discussion within the ministry’s sphere of influence. One may show some understanding for the actions of these officials when consideration is made of the political conditions in those times of the Cold War. Those in power may have feared that an extensive internal Bundeswehr debate would harm the effectiveness of deterrence. Officials must have known, however, that this meant a violation of the spirit of Innere Führung yet they still deliberately may have done just that. Understandably, such behaviour is facilitated by the numerous instruments and measures available to military authorities to uphold discipline and to reach a desired end state. Ignoring and slandering the Darmstadt Signal The reproach that the members of the Darmstadt Signal were insufficiently informed about defence and security matters was a constant Ministry of Defence refrain in response to the allegations of the Darmstadt Signal. The Ministry of Defence claimed that the Darmstadt Signal called for a one-sided political avowal, which therefore was not sufficient for creating an informed opinion. The four-star General Inspector of the Bundeswehr5 warned that any officer criticising and ‘distorting’ the government’s policy, thereby giving the impression of a wellinformed member of the executive, had to be reined in. Admiral Wellershoff, who later became general inspector, questioned the expert knowledge of the Darmstadt Signal and therefore saw no basis for discourse. One should recall, however, that the positions promoted by the Darmstadt Signal originated in part from discussions among those in the peace movement in Germany at large, involving numerous distinguished academics, writers and political scientists. The ministry also asserted that the position of the Darmstadt Signal was an inadmissible distortion of reality and that the supporters of the Darmstadt Signal formed only a negligible minority of the troops. The ministry could and should have known better. In 1983, the German Armed Forces Institute for Social Research
222 Jürgen Kuhlmann and Jürgen Rose (SOWI) had submitted an empirical study to the ministry concerning ‘education in the Bundeswehr’. It revealed that a majority of conscripts and career soldiers and officers objected to the nuclear option of the then prevailing military doctrine and were strictly against deploying nuclear weapons in Germany. The study was originally planned to be published but was (erroneously) declared an ‘expert finding’ to the ministry, which meant the study consequently had to be treated confidentially and remain unpublished. However, by the end of 1984, through peace movement channels, a grey copy of the study came onto the open press, thus substantially compromising the Ministry of Defence position. In the autumn/winter of 1983–4, German writers declared their solidarity with the Darmstadt Signal – among them famous writers and poets like Heinrich Böll, Günter Grass and Luise Rinser. Günter Grass appreciated the contacts because, to his knowledge, this was the first time in German history that writers and active officers had talks about peace. Heinrich Böll welcomed the fact that German officers had broken Defence Minister Wörner’s ‘untouchability directive’, as he called it, by talking with the authors. Even as late as 1986, however, an article in the semi-official periodical for reservists in Germany questioned whether one could have serious talks with these persons about ethicalmoral questions. With special regard to the officers, the article complacently remarked, ‘If I know who your friends are, I know who you are’. How right it was! But that goes both ways: the use of this cliché also demonstrates who the friends of the author of the article were. A similar impudent gaffe came out in an army periodical in 1987. A Lt. Col. interviewed the commander of military intelligence in the Bundeswehr, asking what his opinion was of the Darmstadt Signal’s actions against the Bundeswehr. Would forces, he asked, who were not grounded in democracy [sic!] through such demonstrations for peace, undermine the fighting power of the Bundeswehr? Prudently, the commander responded that his task was to fight unconstitutional offences by soldiers. In connection with the Darmstadt Signal, no unconstitutional background had been seen so far (at that time). The Lt. Col.’s insinuation of anticonstitutional behaviour on the part of the Darmstadt Signal resulted in a formal complaint against the officer, after he had refused a heart-to-heart talk with a member of Darmstadt Signal. The complainant’s charges were upheld. A later parliamentary inquiry then urged the minister of defence to declare that he would not support the Lt. Col.’s insinuation. Imposing a ban on communications with the Darmstadt Signal The entrenched positions of the conflicting parties called mediators into action. The parliamentary commissioner for the armed forces, in his 1983 annual report to the parliament, admonished the Defence Ministry to treat soldiers equally. This report said that it was inappropriate to judge comments for and against rearmament differently. Further appeals by superiors for subordinates to leave political parties because the positions of these parties was contrary to the majority in parliament, had to be stopped (Rieger, 1995, p. 157).
Freedom of speech and the German Citizen in Uniform 223 The Protestant Church tried to bring together the above mentioned writers, the Darmstadt Signal, and the Defence Ministry, by inviting them all to a seminar on ‘The Future of Security and Peace’ in January 1984. The writers had sharply criticised the NATO Double Track decision before, arguing that the new weapons were instruments of genocide and therefore unconstitutional (Rieger, 1995, p. 164). The military establishment, naturally, reacted with shock to this statement. Numerous soldiers accepted the invitation to the seminar, amongst them full colonels from the Ministry of Defence. However, the defence minister officially ordered the soldiers not to attend the seminar. Soldiers should not participate in events which deliberately ‘slander’ the Bundeswehr by raising the reproach of breaching the Constitution. For a long time this ministerial directive was referred to as a ‘muzzle order’. The paralysis of communication6 slowly spread to the ‘youth information officers’. In the framework of public relations, these lieutenants and captains maintain contact preferably with the younger strata of society by informing them about and discussing with them the armed forces’ view on defence and security policy. They are frequent speakers in panel discussions in schools, universities, seminars etc. Following the ‘muzzle order’, youth information officers increasingly rejected invitations to speak at such events when a member of the Darmstadt Signal was on the speakers’ list. As late as 1990, a high-ranking command staff still could not appoint a representative because the directive of Defence Minister Wörner prohibited a simultaneous appearance of an official representative of the Bundeswehr and of the Darmstadt Signal (Rieger, 1995, p. 228). To the end, supporters of the Darmstadt Signal saw themselves as relatively isolated, at least where debates about security and defence policy with official military representatives were concerned. There is evidence that organisers of such events apologised to Darmstadt Signal members for not having invited them as this would have meant not having representatives of the military on the agenda. In the peace movement and in the media outside the Bundeswehr, however, the Darmstadt Signal continued to play a remarkable role. Sanctioning the hardened nay-sayers The Darmstadt Signal affair, as one may have expected, initiated numerous legal clashes on both sides. Like any other military, the Bundeswehr provides a substantial toolbox of positive and negative formal sanctions to superiors who are entitled to initiate disciplinary proceedings. Subordinates, in return, may protect their rights by appealing against superiors’ decisions in several ways, for instance, by bringing their cases before an ordinary court of law, or by addressing a petition to the parliamentary commissioner for the Bundeswehr. Under the Bundeswehr’s disciplinary code, no higher line superior is allowed to correct a decision on disciplinary matters ordered by a lower line superior, no matter what the outcome was.7 This rule ensures that disciplinary actions cannot be ordered against the will of the responsible superior. There is a grey zone, however, which was utilised in the case of the Darmstadt Signal. Top ranking
224 Jürgen Kuhlmann and Jürgen Rose generals gave interviews to non-military newspapers about their views of the affair and had ample access to military publications, too – something that the Darmstadt Signal had been denied earlier and which constituted an obvious inequality of weapons. The top military officers did not directly encourage the disciplinary superiors to initiate an inquiry; instead they broadly discussed the ostensible ‘violations’ by military people in the Darmstadt Signal, who were accused of not being loyal to the state. A military officer, it was claimed, who openly criticised the government’s security and defence policy, was said to have violated his military duties. It was also said to be illegal to contradict a military superior in his interpretation of the government’s policy. Finally, the Ministry of Defence charged that military officers, who claimed conscientious and moral reservations towards nuclear rearmament and to the prevailing defence doctrine, were criticising their fellow officers who were not doing so, and were thus violating their duty of comradeship. Whether or not these accusations were the true convictions of the top officers in charge, in the end they influenced public opinion in the armed forces, channelling possible disciplinary actions in a desired direction. Superiors with disciplinary power chose, however, different strategies. Most of them saw no reason to react at all. Some, assisted by their legal advisers, explicitly opposed any disciplinary rebuke. It is known that, in some cases, superiors with disciplinary power sanctioned incriminated Darmstadt Signal members with the weakest possible measure, thus protecting them from any further prosecution as no offence may be prosecuted twice. In the military setting, the overall availability of military manpower is, without question, a useful instrument for personnel management. The standing argument that ‘you have to do your duty wherever we post you’ seems to be one of the real characteristics of a soldier’s job. Even today, this argument remains one of the atavistic means of eliminating unpopular critics by posting critics to positions where they can no longer attract notice. In order to camouflage these de facto forced reassignments, officials generally justify them with duty related contingencies such as personal development requirements. During the Darmstadt Signal affair, several officers were transferred to positions where they no longer had subordinates. Criminalising Darmstadt Signal members In late 1984, during a public panel discussion, a German medical doctor and member of the ‘International Physicians for Prevention of Nuclear War’ (IPPNW) argued that, considering the inevitable collateral damage of nuclear warfare, one may call every soldier a potential murderer. Addressing a youth information officer who participated in the panel, he emphasised that this would also apply to the youth officer. The youth officer took the case to a criminal court. The Ministry of Defence joined him as co-plaintiff. In 1987, the physician was initially declared guilty of slander and inciting the masses.
Freedom of speech and the German Citizen in Uniform 225 The physician filed an appeal against the decision and was exonerated. Next, a public prosecutor and the Ministry of Defence lodged an appeal. The case then had to be reopened. In October 1989, the physician was acquitted again. The court argued that subjectively and objectively the physician had insulted the youth officer, but that the physician had acted to safeguard his legitimate interests. In competition with the legal protection against slander, the right to publicly express and defend one’s own convictions is the more valuable public good. A personal storm of public indignation grew out of the acquittal. Active soldiers and reservists were angered and felt insulted. The General Inspector of the Bundeswehr threatened to step down from his office. High-ranking military officers publicly criticised the judgement but, in so doing, ignored the fact that in a constitutional state, they, as members of the executive, are not entitled to criticise the judiciary’s rulings. The public debate in general stayed rather superficial with regard to the underlying question of conflict between two fundamental democratic rights (legal protection against slander and freedom of speech) was concerned. The Bundeswehr establishment was no exception in this regard as it rejected the ‘murderer reproach’ without referring to the in-depth legal justification of the judgement.8 Some critics even suspected that Bundeswehr officials were interested in livening things up a bit. In this heated situation, the Darmstadt Signal issued a press release stating that it welcomed the judgement. On the one hand, the struggle of opinions is an essential element of a democratic society; on the other hand, the statement ‘all soldiers are potential murderers’ was correct. Citizens in uniform did not need a specific protection of honour. In contrast to the Ministry of Defence, the Darmstadt Signal saw the necessity of discussing the judgment and its justification in detail, within and outside of the Bundeswehr. The Bundeswehr obviously must have seen the unique chance then to deliver a deathblow to the Darmstadt Signal once and for all. A directive from the ministry demanded a disciplinary inquiry of those who had signed the press release; during the investigations, any personnel development measures of those involved had to be suspended. The results, however, turned out to be rather meagre: one ‘delinquent’ was transferred to another unit – a forced reassignment – while two others received disciplinary punishment. A majority of superiors refrained from disciplinary punishment but decided that a warning would be enough. These officers and their legal advisers may have had a decision in mind, which the Federal Administrational Court had released in 1986.9 It had ruled: Soldiers and superiors are entitled to deal critically, in words and in writing, with political issues, including questions of defence policy, and may even be in disagreement with the opinions of their superiors and fellow soldiers. In this context, they may in general mention their military affiliation by giving their military rank. (Bundesverwaltungsgericht, 1986)
226 Jürgen Kuhlmann and Jürgen Rose It is likely that, because the Ministry of Defence was dissatisfied with the outcome of the previous disciplinary campaign, it itself in 1990 instituted legal proceedings before the Disciplinary Court against six of the officers who had signed the Darmstadt Signal press release and had not previously been subject to disciplinary punishment for this alleged offence. As a result, in 1991, a major was downgraded to the rank of a captain, and another major and a captain were demoted to the rank of second lieutenant.10 A cadet was denied promotion for a three-year period. The Court was of the opinion that those accused had slandered the soldiers of the Bundeswehr and that their behaviour was an example of demagoguery and hypocritical agitation. Soldiers also enjoy freedom of speech The convicted appealed these rulings, so the case was brought to all legal venues and was finally tried before the Supreme Federal Constitutional Court. The Court, in July 1992, argued that punishments administered to the officers were excessive. It tersely decided that Article 5 of the German Constitutional Basic Law was violated. This article states (in paragraph 1, sentence 1): ‘Everyone has the right to freely express and spread one’s own opinion in word, writing, and image and to inform oneself in an unhindered manner from openly available sources’. Consequently, all officers were rehabilitated. One major was fined a sum of 500 German Marks11 because of a minor disciplinary offence. The Darmstadt Signal is still active. Twenty of its approximately 200 sympathisers serve in the Bundeswehr. The perception of the Darmstadt Signal by Bundeswehr officials, however, has not substantially changed over the years. An open discussion in military publications still does not occur. Serving members of the Darmstadt Signal are ignored and distrustfully observed and still, sometimes, face hard times.12
Bringing a critical scholar-soldier under the whip One should expect that Bundeswehr officials would have learned from the Darmstadt Signal experience. Far from it!13 This is clearly evidenced in the case of Lt. Col. Jürgen Rose.14 The incriminated ‘offences’ In 1997, Rose attended a conference on security policy issues in Berlin. Attendees of the event were high-ranking officers, academics, political analysts, politicians and journalists – members of the so-called ‘strategic community’. Speakers and lecturers were top-level politicians, e.g. ministers of defence and foreign affairs, as well as top military officers. The minister of defence at the time, Volker Rühe, spoke about current issues in German security policy. During the question and answer period, Rose – in full uniform – posed a question concerning the legitimacy of preserving the conscription system in Germany after the fall of the Berlin Wall
Freedom of speech and the German Citizen in Uniform 227 and the collapse of the Soviet Union, which, at that time, had reduced German security threats to a minimal level. The minister obviously had difficulties in sufficiently explaining his own position in this respect and did not seem to be happy with the question. Upon his return to his office at the Marshall Center,15 Rose was immediately summoned to his German military line superiors, a full colonel and a retired three star general. They informed him about a directive by Rühe to the deputy General Inspector of the Bundeswehr, a vice admiral, to launch investigations against him. Both superiors criticised Rose’s performance fiercely, and ordered him never again to act this way. Rose rejected this request. He pointed out that the principles of Innere Führung gave him the opportunity to exercise his right of free speech, as guaranteed by the German Constitution. However, instead of protecting Rose and refraining from any action against him – which normally would have been their obligation under the concept of Innere Führung – both superiors insisted upon supporting the minister’s directive. After intensive consultations with the Director of Research at the Marshall Center16 and other academic colleagues, Rose reached a conclusion, which most scholars would likely have made in such a situation: he started to thoroughly analyse the prospects and problems of maintaining the conscription system in Germany. In October 1997, one of the leading German newspapers published a slightly changed version of his paper under the title ‘Conscription Can’t Be Preserved: Commenting on an Unwelcome Debate’ (Rose, 1997). Without having informed him in advance, the newspaper added Rose’s military rank, and did not clarify that he was expressing his individual findings. These two issues formed the basis of the ministry’s subsequent reactions. Sanctions: the establishment strikes back Whereas the Dean of the Marshall Center’s College, a full US army colonel, congratulated Rose on his article, the German military hierarchy instantly started its investigation routine. Rose had to appear before his direct military superior again and had to justify why his military superiors had not been informed about the newspaper publication prior to its appearance, how the newspaper had obtained knowledge of his military rank and affiliation and whether he realised that the disclosure of these details conflicted with his military obligation as an air force officer. All available stops were pulled. The ministry investigated whether Rose had betrayed any sensitive or secret information in his article. He was then ordered to appear before the next higher military command level, where two full colonels had been tasked to investigate whether a disciplinary action could be launched against him. Rose and the Director of Research at the Marshall Center had to report to the ministry in Bonn for an official inquiry by the Attorney-General of the Bundeswehr. Additionally, Rose was required to report for an hour-long serious talk with the deputy General Inspector of the Bundeswehr, the highest ranking military superior with disciplinary power. The vice admiral strongly urged him not to disclose his
228 Jürgen Kuhlmann and Jürgen Rose rank and military affiliation in private publications anymore, to which Rose, again, objected by referring to the concept of citizen in uniform under Innere Führung. In spite of all these ministry efforts, no disciplinary measures could be taken. Astonishingly enough, the freedom and independence of research as protected by the German Constitutional Basic Law, formed no major point of discussion – the issue seemed to be unfamiliar to military leaders. A subsequent temporary calm before the storm fed the suspicion that military officials were looking for alternative measures to use instead of the blunt disciplinary sword. And the storm came soon. The inspector of the air force, a three star general, let Rose know that the defence minister and the ministry were very annoyed about Rose’s question during the Berlin conference and about the published article on conscription. The minister therefore advised that the air force ‘should take necessary actions’. On short notice, Rose was required to attend a staff course in Hamburg. In the long run, Rose was then removed from his research position at the Marshall Center and transferred to Cologne. Although the Director of Research and the College Dean at the Marshall Center protested against the planned reassignment of Rose,17 his German military line superiors did not interfere: Rose had to leave the research department. Mediating and enforcing interventions It goes without saying that Rose strongly objected to the new assignments and the circumstances under which they had occurred. His appeal was supported by the parliamentary commissioner for the armed forces and the Bundeswehrverband.18 He went through all levels of appeal up to the Military Disciplinary Senate (attached to the Federal Administrational Court), but his efforts did not change any of the issued directives. The military side persistently stone-walled all intermediating interventions, one of the actors commented. How sensitively even top-level officers were evaluating the case became visible through a remark of the General Inspector of the Bundeswehr, a four star general, during a press conference: ‘It would be better for a lieutenant colonel who is calling for an all-volunteer force to consider serving in another army’ (Reinhardt, 1997a). ‘Altogether we must prevent conscription from being put at risk and compromised from inside the Bundeswehr’ (Schwennicke, 1997). The Military Disciplinary Court, finally, made short work of Rose’s appeal. It ruled that the Ministry of Defence was free to transfer any member of the military to whatever posting it deemed functional and necessary. The specific circumstances of the ministry’s decision as well as its motives and rationales were completely left aside by the judges. The military’s campaign was broadly covered by the press throughout 1999 (Reinhardt, 1997b; Szandar 1997). Rose’s counterparts did not even refrain from personally contacting journalists and trying to win them over to their side. Minister Rühe’s speaker phoned a journalist who had written an article in the Neue Ruhr Zeitung (Möhle, 1997, p. 6) and disseminated allegations and rumours about Rose. On a second occasion, the author of a piece about Rose and his case in the newspaper
Freedom of speech and the German Citizen in Uniform 229 Die Tageszeitung (Andresen, 1999) received a phone call from the deputy General Inspector of the Bundeswehr. The vice admiral told her that she had taken a mistaken viewpoint and invited her to visit the Center for Innere Führung, where she could gain real insight into how well things were running within the Bundeswehr. Finally, an editor of the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung also unveiled during a phone call with Rose that he was fed personal information about him by people in the Ministry of Defence. Rose started several initiatives to get a more appropriate assignment in the field of research on security policy issues and international relations inside and outside the Bundeswehr. These efforts were regularly undermined by the Ministry of Defence and by the personnel management office of the Bundeswehr. After the change of government in autumn 1998, Rose contacted some new people in charge who had already supported him during his struggle with Minister Rühe and his followers. The head of office of the new minister of defence, a full colonel, promised help. In July 2000, the opportunity of reassigning Rose to the Munich Bundeswehr University became feasible. The Department of ‘International Relations and International Law’ had meanwhile requested that Rose be allowed to return to this department, where he had already worked years before. Two civil Ssmilitary administration in the ministry, however, put a stop to the measure by arguing that it made no sense, as the head of that department would retire soon. When, some time later, the new head of the Department showed interest in Rose, he received strong signals from the military portion of the university to drop this idea quickly. He then sent Rose a friendly letter explaining why it would be dysfunctional for the department to have Rose serving there. In conclusion, the manoeuvre represents a perfect example of how political masters’ directives are overcome by the military apparatus. The record to date The head-over-heels actions initiated by Defence Minister Rühe brought turmoil for the military administration. For Rose to attend the staff course in Hamburg, another officer had first to be prevented from attending, as otherwise no slot would have been available. Rose’s assignment in Cologne at the Air Force Office had to be ended after about five weeks, as Rose’s slot was endangered by a reorganisation of the Air Force Office, which had been planned long before. In order not to allow Rose’s return to the Marshall Center, the department where Rose was exiled to was ordered to temporarily maintain the old structure – a real military provincial burlesque. Finally, due to vigorous interventions of a one star general at the Air Force Office, the nonsense was stopped and Rose was moved back to his old position at the Marshall Center. Nine months later, another regular position was found in the Air Force Office. Rose was reassigned there and had to stay for about three more years. The scholar officer had to deal with issues for which he had never been trained and with which
230 Jürgen Kuhlmann and Jürgen Rose he had no experience. He remonstrated and asked for an assignment which would match his competencies – only very few assignments of this quality were found. The whole affair became a disaster for both parties. Rose’s motivation and satisfaction declined to near zero. The personnel management office of the Bundeswehr had to delegate a major to the Air Force Office in order to assist in Rose’s duties. Military bureaucracy and legal advisers were kept constantly busy responding to all the appeals that Rose filed. Finally, the Air Force Office requested to move Rose to another position. Since October 2001, Rose has been ‘attached for special duty’ to other military units in Munich, with no responsibility that would require his academic qualifications and competencies. Although under constant financial constraints, the Bundeswehr can obviously afford a ‘dog’s body’, on a Lt. Col.’s full salary – about €75,000 per annum. Revenge is sweet, but has its price.
Freedom is always the dissenters’ freedom: Innere Führung in today’s muscular Bundeswehr One may pose the question, why, again and again, Bundeswehr authorities let themselves be carried away and illegally suppressed pluralistic disputes inside the armed forces. Considering that such actions occur only when deviationist statements which are not in line with official doctrines are released, it becomes clear that the Bundeswehr establishment regularly fears losing opinion leadership in politically sensitive issues. A policy of imposing conformity apparently meets fertile conditions within military settings. Where order and obedience together with a clear line of command determine the daily routine, it apparently is more convenient to individually adapt to perceived trends than to deal with diverging opinions. The primacy of politics over military matters then is often misinterpreted. Unfortunately, many in the Bundeswehr seem to believe that this means one must assiduously quote and support what the military and political establishment had alleged before. That a soldier has to carry out legal orders, however, does not automatically include the idea that it is also his duty to individually approve every given directive, especially when he is off duty. Exactly at this point, Innere Führung mandates that the responsible ‘Citizen in Uniform’ raises his/her voice and stands up for his/her convictions. A prerequisite for such a functioning of free speech within the framework of Innere Führung is a spirit of openness and an internal climate of mutual trust and tolerance. Such a climate will definitely not emerge when military members of the Bundeswehr feel in danger of being prosecuted through disciplinary actions and by forced assignments when claiming their right of free speech. It must be viewed as a scandal when citizen-soldiers are sacrificed because they truly believe in Innere Führung and behave in accordance with its principles. In this sense, one may argue that there is nothing so dangerous as a man who comes to truly believe in the values about which he was educated.
Freedom of speech and the German Citizen in Uniform 231 Insiders – correctly – deplore the fact that the climate within the forces has cooled down since the beginning of the 1990s, when the East- and the West-German armed forces had to be merged to one entity and the new Bundeswehr had to be confronted with ‘new missions’, including ‘muscular’ deployments. Both big challenges were organised through a top-down approach, with no major public debate within the troops. Defence ministers – of every government – surround themselves with yes-men, who do not accept any contradictions, and are resistant even to constructive proposals.19 One has every reason to feel worried about today’s Innere Führung. As in the 1960s, there is a quiet change under way, nearly unnoticed by the public. The Bundeswehr has given up much of its inner liberalism. Criticism is not welcomed and harms one’s career; at best, there are no consequences. The concept of Innere Führung has been reduced to a purely social technique which is aimed solely at the best possible functioning of relations between the ranks. Today, Innere Führung is reduced to what traditionalists have always said: ‘Treat your subordinate in a decent way’, and that, according to their conclusion, had been the case since the old German Wehrmacht of the Second World War. (Fleckenstein, 1999, p. 15) One has to recall here that the freedom of speech of ‘Citizens in Uniform’ may be evaluated as an instrument of internal control of the Bundeswehr by the effected service members themselves. This internal control was seen to be a necessary supplement to external control measures, collectively called the primacy of politics over military matters. Political masters and their military followers, who continue to suppress an open exchange of arguments, not only do harm to an outstanding principle of Innere Führung but also to the concept itself. They obviously abuse the power given to them for other purposes – namely to strengthen and support, not to jeopardise and damage the fundamental military reform philosophy. In sum, they simply violate a basic civic right, as often enough attested by German High Courts. On the whole, the slogan not to address touchy matters publicly, if one does not want to harm one’s career, seems to have become a prevalent attitude of todays Bundeswehr. In August 2002, the periodical of the Bundeswehrverband published statements of active soldiers for and against the forced resignation of Defence Minister Scharping and concluded: Most soldiers don’t like to give their names: from the very top, there was an urgent admonition not to comment on the matter. Over and over again soldiers called this a ‘muzzle’. ‘We are not allowed to say anything. An iron curtain has come down’, a navy commander explained. Even a former inspector does not like to speak openly, but talks, nevertheless, about a widespread relief.
232 Jürgen Kuhlmann and Jürgen Rose
Notes 1 For a thorough discussion of the concept of ‘Leadership and Civic Education’ cf. Abenheim, 1990; cf also Fleckenstein, 1999, p. 32 and German Bundestag. According to Abenheim the concept of Innere Führung defies easy translation. ‘Perhaps the phrase “leadership and participation” best conveys what the Bundeswehr means by Innere Führung’ (Abenheim, 1990, p. 32). 2 ‘The concept and principles of Innere Führung formed a precondition for labour unions, churches, youth organisations, and the German Social-Democratic Party (SPD) to accept German rearmament. Without this concept there would not have been any Bundeswehr’ (Bald et al., 1994, p. 14). 3 This chapter is broadly based on the dissertation by Rieger, 1995. Another dissertation which systematically deals with the Darmstadt Signal affair was published in 2003 by Lt. Col. (ret.) Lothar Liebsch. 4 Named after the city Darmstadt, where the group had one of its first sessions. 5 The position of the ‘General Inspector of the Bundeswehr’ roughly equals the position of Chief of Staff. This applies to the inspectors of army, air force and navy as well. 6 The information boycott came up with some grotesque actions by superiors. A battalion commander, for example, cut two ‘letters to the editor’ in a national journal, which were written by a Darmstadt Signal major in his battalion, before the journal was laid out in the officers’ mess. 7 Higher line superiors have to overrule such decisions, however, for formal reasons or when the disciplined service members had appealed to them to review the decision. 8 The responsible judge complained about serious abuses, including about four dozen death threats, much insulting mail, police protection for the family, and misleading information in general, deliberately channelled from the very top of the political chain. 9 In connection with another trial against a member of the Darmstadt Signal. 10 Downgrading a major to the rank of a second lieutenant causes, during an average military career, a total loss of income of about €200,000. 11 About €250. 12 Phone interview with the Managing Committee of the Darmstadt Signal on 5 August 2002. 13 One would not believe it, but in 1997, Bundeswehr Colonel Pickert was again formally disciplined for having written a private letter disclosing his military rank and military affiliation, which was then revealed by the addressee. The officer was admonished not to mention rank and affiliation in private statements any more. Furthermore, he had to confirm expressly that, in the future, his private deliberations would really remain private [sic!]. The Colonel had to go all the way up to the Federal Administrational Court before the formal disapproval was rescinded. 14 Lt. Col. Rose is co-author of this chapter. To avoid a suspicion of prejudice, the authors strictly report facts and figures. However, some evaluation is added. 15 George C. Marshall European Center for Security Studies, Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany. 16 At that time Jürgen Kuhlmann, co-author of this chapter. 17 ‘LTC Rose’s assignment … will interrupt … ongoing projects, jeopardise their success, and send the wrong signal to the participating nations, casting doubt about the Marshall Center’s commitment to these and future engagement projects.’ 18 The Deutsche Bundeswehr-Verband forms one of the most effective soldiers’ pressure groups worldwide. It numbers nearly a quarter of a million members: conscripts, enlisted soldiers with limited contracts and career soldiers of all branches and ranks (including reservists, veterans and surviving family members). 19 Prayon, 1998. Horst Prayon is a retired full army colonel, who during his career had served, among other functions, as Speaker of Defence Minister Wörner and as commander of the military ‘Academy for Information and Communication’.
Patterns of democratic governance in civil–military relations 233
Part V
Conclusions
234 Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann
Patterns of democratic governance in civil–military relations 235
16 Patterns of democratic governance of civil–military relations Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann As discussed in detail in the first chapter, democracy in any country is unlikely to develop or to endure unless the military and other security forces are under the full control of democratic institutions and all the necessary safeguards, checks and balances to affect this are in place. If defence would be exempted from democratic decision making and left alone to an unaccountable small circle of civilian or military decision makers it is not possible to speak of a democratic state but only of a ‘guardian’ state. In a democratic society, civil–military relations should be governed according to principles of political supremacy, accountability and the rule of law. This idea is embodied in the constitutions of democratic states across Europe, for example in France and Hungary, two of the countries which are studied in this volume: The President of the Republic shall be commander-in-chief of the armed forces. He shall preside over the Higher National Defence councils and committees. (Article 15 of the French Constitution) […] [T]he Parliament shall, […] with the exceptions laid down in the Constitution, rule on the use of the armed forces both abroad and within the country, the deployment of foreign armed forces in Hungary or in other countries from the territory of Hungary, the participation of the armed forces in peacekeeping missions, humanitarian operations in foreign theatres, and the stationing of the armed forces abroad or of foreign armed forces in Hungary. (Article 19, 3, Constitution of Hungary) In spite of these and other declaratory statements about democratic control of armed forces, we are faced with the situation that currently no explicit, comprehensive and consistent system of democratic governance of the armed forces exists. The literature and official statements on this theme give a series of guiding principles that are partly convincing and generally accepted but, at the same time, are partially inconsistent and which are not yet universally accepted by the international community. Though there is an international consensus about the relevance of democratic oversight of the armed forces for a democratic society,1 democratic states have adopted different constitutional and institutional frameworks
236 Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann due to differences in their political, historical and cultural backgrounds. These differences concern, for example, the division of powers between the executive, parliament, judiciary and independent review institutions; the role of the military domestically; as well as the limitations of political and civil rights of servicemen (e.g. military unions). Also, at an academic level, serious differences about understanding civil–military relations are apparent. One of the most famous debates occurred in the 1960s between Huntington and Janowitz over whether control of the armed forces should be based on professionalism of the armed forces or on the integration of the armed forces within society (Born, Caparini and Haltiner, 2002, pp. 160–2).2 More recently, authors have tried to define ‘political norms and widely recognised principles and practices’ (Hänggi, 2003, pp. 12, 17)3 of a democratic governance of the armed forces. They see this concept as ‘rather complex and multi-faceted’ (Born, Haltiner and Maleši=, 2004, p. 18) and underline that democratic governance of the security sector is a ‘container’ concept consisting of incomplete approaches and ideal-types ‘which, at present, no country anywhere in the world is able to match in their entirety’ (Hänggi, 2003, p. 17).4 With regards to civil–military relations in Europe, the current state of the academic debate on the issue suffers from at least three major shortcomings. First, most of the attention is still on the US situation. This may seem logical as the USA today is the only superpower, but precisely for that reason it is difficult to generalise from the USA to other countries. Second, many publications are normative and prescribe how democratic civil–military relations should function (e.g. Rudolf Joó), but do not analyse the behaviour of political and military actors in reality practice. Third, many studies are insulated country case studies, and mostly no or little attention is spent on theorising or drawing lessons from other countries (there are at least two notable exceptions, Kuhlmann and Callaghan, 2000 and Cottey, Edmunds and Forster, 2001). There is a need for empirical comparative studies which contribute to the entire spectrum of democratic governance of civil–military relations, including the behaviour and practices of the main actors in their institutional context. This study contributes to the debate by comparing experiences concerning the functioning of democratic control of the armed forces in reality and drawing insights from a large sample of European countries across the spectrum of transitional, consolidating and mature democracies.
The case studies The 28 cases described in the 14 country studies vary greatly with respect to civil– military relations as well as to the democratic control of the armed forces (see Table 1.1 in Chapter 1). They cover mainly a period from the end of the Cold War to the year 2000 and include events such as uncontrolled covert military operations (Georgia) and the indirect disobedience towards civil superiors by members of the military elite (France and Israel). The studies also detail events that are related to the democratic governance of the armed forces, such as: a competence struggle
Patterns of democratic governance in civil–military relations 237 over the control of the military between the president and the minister of defence (Slovenia); disputes over the reorganisation and demilitarisation of ministries of defence (Hungary, Poland); politically embarrassing military incompetence involving ammunition storage (Czech Republic) and the accidental targeting of a civil airliner by a military anti-aircraft missile unit (Ukraine). The spectrum also stretches from unauthorised strikes by members of the military (France, Ireland), to problems concerning the creation of transparent defence budgets, attempts by civilian authorities to instrumentalise the military for their own purposes (Georgia, Macedonia, Israel), constantly postponed security sector reform (the former Republic of Yugoslavia), the long-term changes of the military’s acceptability within society (Switzerland), barely concealed corruption (Macedonia), the attitude of the military towards critical officers within their own organisation (Germany) and to questions of the armed forces’ influence over a country’s foreign policy (Ireland, Israel). In sum, these case studies describe and analyse the crises, problems and deficits of the democratic control of armed forces, as perceived by the authors of those case studies, therefore giving room for subjective interpretation. The case studies focus on the interactive and mutual influencing relationships between political, civilian and military actors. The actors include democratically legitimised political bodies such as the head of state, cabinet members and the parliament; and partly include civilian bodies such as NGOs, media organisations, political parties, think tanks, military associations and peace movements as well as lobby and pressure groups. Finally, they include actors within the armed forces, varying from generals, officers and soldiers, to inspector-generals and retired armed forces personnel and their spouses.5 The interaction between these actors forms the empirical material on which the conclusions of each case study and the general conclusions of this chapter are based. These conclusions address the main question of this study: ‘how do civil–military relations function in practice?’ and to try to do this by identifying patterns of democratic governance of civil–military relations. In doing so, the studies can be considered as aq ‘check’ as to whether constitutions, laws and declaratory statements of national governments and international organisations on the democratic control of armed forces reflects reality of everyday life. The case studies presented move beyond the more traditional focus of civil–military relations studies on state institutional actors by also encompassing non-state actors and therefore broadening the focus on accountability and oversight mechanisms compared to that found in earlier studies.
Analysing the case studies Two simple questions inform the following analysis: what is the scientific value of these ‘crisis’ cases? How can comprehensive conclusions be drawn considering the heterogeneity of the cases? Methodologically, there are at least three ways to achieve this which can be expected to lead to different findings. First, the classical procedure consists of formulating an hypothesis and testing it against empirical data. This is Karl Popper’s deductive approach, starting with
238 Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann theoretical or normative assumptions which are then put to the test. As we are interested in the functioning of civil–military relations in practice, we think that a deductive approach (reasoning from the general to the particular) is less suitable than an inductive approach. As there is no unifying coherent theory about democratic civil–military relations which would allow us to formulate consistent hypothesis, an inductive approach would probably be more conducive to theorybuilding. A second approach which is currently popular within the field of civil–military relations is based on the principal-agent model or the ‘new-institutionalist’ perspective (for an introduction, see March and Olsen, 1984). Here the attitudes of elected political authorities and senior civilian officials as principals and the top commanders of the armed forces as agents are analysed (Avant, 1994; Feaver, 1997). This approach implies that both principals and agents operate under the conditions of institutional frameworks (norms, laws, rules of engagement) and different levels of information (asymmetry of knowledge) and tend to maximise their own interests according to the ‘rational choice’ principle. This method was not an option in our analysis because this approach was not required of the authors of the country cases in the first instance and therefore the necessary level of detail is insufficient. In addition, we have some theoretical doubts about this method: in our view, the principal-agent model tends to narrow down the perspective too much to specific actors on the civil–military axis and to limit complex relations to solely a kind of order-obedience relation. Other relations, such as between the government and parliament and comparable others tend to remain out of the picture. Therefore, the complex reality of civil–military relations is unduly reduced. Notably, the variety of cases cited in this book demonstrates impressively that democratic civil–military relations can only be adequately understood as an interdependent network of a wide variety of actors. A third approach is to look for underlying common patterns in the many cases and crises presented and to categorise them accordingly. The procedure is inductive, distilling common aspects out of many observations. The question is: do the cases have comparable attributes and, if so, how could they be combined into classes of attributes relevant to specific countries? In this concluding chapter, the third approach is applied. It could be termed as a categorisation concept or a typology. Various scholars have used it in their research on civil–military relations.6 In a first round of evaluation, the cases were compared and grouped according to their central attributes. Thereby, categories such as ‘corruption problems’, ‘budget problems’, ‘mass media problems’ and so on were defined. However, the categorisation of the case studies at such a low level of abstraction did not allow for an unambiguous classification in every case, nor did it achieve the reduction of complexity necessary for a profound analysis. In the second round of evaluation, the four editors of this volume and three external social scientists7 finally identified four basic dimensions of behaviour. They are: POWER to direct or redirect the armed forces; EFFECTIVENESS and EFFICIENCY, i.e. under- and non-performance of the military; TRANSPARENCY, manipulation of information by civilian or military leaders; and CULTURE,
Patterns of democratic governance in civil–military relations 239 Table 16.1 Cases by key dimensions of civil–military relations POWER: To direct and redirect the armed forces
IN CIVIL–CIVIL RELATIONS • failure of parliamentary budget control (Georgia); • abuse of military in ethnic conflict (Macedonia); • military refused to be used in maintaining domestic law and order in miners’ strike (Romania); • dispute between president and cabinet about keeping chief of staff (the former FRY); • president illegally tasking intelligence service to discipline former military officer (Slovenia); • power struggle between president and minister of defence, contributing to politicising the military (Slovenia). IN CIVIL–MILITARY RELATIONS • military resisting defence reform planned by the civilian leadership (Ukraine); • dispute between minister of defence and the general staff over aircraft procurement (Czech Republic); • power struggle between military and civilian leadership over integration ministry of defence with general staff (Hungary); • resignation of chief of general staff over defence budget cuts (Hungary); • implicit disobedience of chief of general staff (Israel); • attempts of prime minister to weaken military’s position in political decision making (Israel); • failed civilianisation of Ministry of Defence due to military blockade (Poland); • military criticising civilian politicians (Germany).
EFFECTIVENESS AND EFFICIENCY: Performance
• incompetent military: shooting down civilian aircraft during military exercise (Ukraine); • Ministry of Defence’s efforts to deal with thefts of military ammunition (Czech Republic).
TRANSPARENCY: Information
• misleading public, media and parliament about covert operations (Georgia); • corrupt and criminal activities of civilian authorities in the defence sector (Macedonia); • attempts to increase transparency in defence procurement (Romania); • corruption in military aircraft procurement (Poland); • government misleading public in ‘neutrality case’ (Ireland); • misleading parliament about military aircraft procurement costs (Switzerland).
CULTURE: Military versus civilian values
• authoritarian legacy blocks rapid defence reforms (the former FRY); • striking military police in the streets (France); • retired generals raising voice in public against politicians (France); • judiciary saves moral leadership under threat (Germany); • women as trade unionists for their military spouses (Ireland); • attempt to abolish Swiss military through referendum (Switzerland).
240 Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann referring to a possible civil–military cultural gap. According to these four key dimensions the 28 cases are categorised, looking at the behaviour of political and military actors (see Table 16.1). In a small number of ambiguous cases, a decision on their categorisation under one of the four key dimensions had to be made arbitrarily. When in doubt, the dimension was selected which seemed to be the decisive one, the one which could explain most of the variances. To give an example: the categorisation of a case study which deals with a debate on the defence budget was made under the dimension ‘power’ or ‘transparency’ depending on which of the two aspects was pre-eminent. The result of the categorisation in Table 16.1 presents an acceptable optimum between loss of information and generally applicable insights.
Democratic civil–military relations: power, effectiveness and efficiency, transparency, culture Key dimension ‘power’: conflicts between civil–civil authorities and civil–military authorities According to Max Weber, power can be defined as ‘the probability that a person in a social relationship will be able to carry out its own will in pursuing goals of action, regardless of resistance’ (Weber, 1976, p. 28). Thus, power concerns the influence which persons or social groups exert or can exert on others without the latter being able to avoid it. Power is also defined as an actor’s capacity to act independently of specific situations (Bornschier, 1998, p. 39). Since Weber’s analysis, the monopoly of the legitimate use of force (Gewaltmonopol) has been regarded as the very essence of the modern state. In democratic systems, the question of control over power is especially significant. Those exerting power and the military, intelligence and police organisations at their disposal must subordinate themselves unconditionally to the control of the people: to do otherwise would contradict the idea of a democracy. Anything but an unconditional subordination of the armed forces under the elected bearers of power would put in question the people’s rule per se (Luttwak, 1999, p. 99). In addition to peaceful regime change through elections, the separation of power into executive, legislative and judicial functions is fundamental to democratic governance. Modern democracies feature a many-faceted circular web of power checks: parliament supervises the government and its administration; the opposition monitors the parliamentary majority; courts supervise the accordance of political decisions with the given constitution; independent ombudsmen address citizens’ grievances against state bodies; and the media scrutinises the actions of those in power (Caparini, 2004). This network of actors creates multiple, sometimes competing, sites of oversight and control over the exercise of state power. The majority of the 28 case studies demonstrate that the democratic control of armed forces can only rarely be understood as a linear subject–object relationship. Predominantly the relation is an open process within a network of mutual influencing actors which resembles more a ‘tit-for-tat’ negotiating scheme than a
Patterns of democratic governance in civil–military relations 241 simple order-obedience scheme. Governance of the security sector in modern democracies therefore must be seen as a progressive, highly interdependent network of formal and informal relationships of power (Born, Fluri and Johnson, 2003). All the case studies in some way centre around a conflict between authorities, involving a formal or informal power struggle with one side seeking to prevail. Regardless of the style of and the issues at stake in a conflict, the prime condition for a case to be subsumed under the key dimension of ‘power’ is that one or more actors whose interests or preferences prevailed over other actors has to be present. Unsurprisingly, of our four dimensions, the power dimension turns out to be by far the most important facet of civil–military relations. Half of the 28 cases of democratic governance of the armed forces are in one way or other related to questions of power (see Table 16.1). Some good examples of civil–military relations problems belonging to the power dimension are:
• •
•
Hungary: resignation of the commander-in-chief because of disagreement with the defence budget cuts proposed by the government; The former Republic of Yugoslavia: after the ousting of Milosevic in 2000, the new politically elected political leaders shied away from reforming the security sector as they feared losing the support of the army generals, aggravated by a lack of consensus among political leaders about the intended reforms; Romania: the military’s opposition against being used in a domestic dispute between the government and miners in the 1999 miners’ strike, leading to a crisis in the relations between the Romanian defence minister and the general staff.
It became evident that the complexity of power issues could not be limited to the civil–military axis because many power conflicts occur on the civil–civil axis between civilian elites. A typical example of this type of conflict are the common disputes between the government and parliament over the defence budgets. It seemed appropriate to separate the civil–civil axis from the civil–military axis when discussing the power dimension. This is one of the most interesting research findings of this volume, i.e. many conflicts take place between civilian political elites (civil–civil relations) in which the military is instrumentalised. These ‘civil– civil’ conflicts can be:
•
•
Conflicts between parliament and executive over the control of the military in terms of operations, personnel appointments, budget and procurement (e.g. Georgia). Central to this conflict is the dividing line between the mandate of the parliament and the executive. Conflicts within the executive, i.e. between president, prime minister and defence minister, over competences concerning the control of the military (e.g. Slovenia and Hungary). Often these types of conflicts occur due to legally unclear constitutional control of the armed forces (e.g. the former FRY).
242 Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann
•
Use and abuse of the military in domestic political conflicts by civilian elites (e.g. Slovenia, Romania, Macedonia). In these cases, civilian leaders try to intstrumentalise the military in domestic affairs.
Key dimension ‘effectiveness and efficiency’: under- and non-performance of the military Effectiveness and efficiency are relative terms, not absolute ones. The rationale of effectiveness recommends the taking of those measures (input) only which can be expected to influence the pursued goals (output) in a desired manner. Efficiency as a norm implies that a certain outcome should be produced with a minimum of input, respectively, that given resources (input) should bring a maximum of output. The concept of effectiveness and efficiency are not to be seen independently from the concept of ‘power’. One can also understand the nature of ‘power’ as an ability to perform or act effectively. Effectiveness and efficiency require power. An integral part of the control and management of the security sector are democratic guidelines determining the extent to which the intended goals in the security sector can be achieved without putting the household and the economy under excessive strain. The fundamental prerequisites of democracy – legitimacy and good governance – are achieved if they are coupled with effective management of the economy and the administration (see Lipset, 1960; Bornschier, 1998, p. 30). It goes without saying that this includes the efficient management of the armed forces. In the long term, it is likely that the legitimacy of the political and military authorities will be eroded if they mismanage the armed forces or if the armed forces are not capable of protecting the society against threats. Case studies were subsumed under the key dimension effectiveness and ‘efficiency’ if those case studies reveal the inability or incompetence to act economically or effectively. The main problems related to this dimension of the behaviour of political and military elites are related to the under or non-performance of the military, leading to a crisis in civil–military relations. This can be seen in the case studies of:
• • •
Macedonia: ineffective military performance in the ethnic conflict in 2001; Ukraine: the incidental targeting of a civilian airliner during a military missile exercise in 2001; Czech Republic: incomplete control of military ammunition storage depots, leading to ammunition theft, critical media attention and embarrassment among political and military authorities.
Key dimension ‘transparency’: manipulation of information Transparency, too, is as a concept not wholly independent from ‘power’. The benchmarks of democratically legitimised power are ‘transparency, accountability and performance’ (Inoguchi, Newman and Keane, 1998, p. 1). Transparency implies a clear assignment of responsibility (Bland, 1999) as well as comprehensive political
Patterns of democratic governance in civil–military relations 243 decisions and actions. It is an elementary prerequisite for the democratic control of power relations and thus an elementary postulate with respect to every democratic governance in which the media plays a significant role in the creation of transparency (Caparini, 2004). In the realm of national security and defence procurement in particular, the civilian and military authorities often derogate from the principle of the transparency principle, not only to protect national security interests, but also, potentially, to conceal corruption, fraud, waste or mismanagement. It is thus not surprising that most of the case studies deal with the issue of lacking or insufficient transparency, especially in non-Western societies, which are related to covering up corruption and ineffectiveness. Cases under this key dimension obviously show a systematic manipulation of information in favour of political and military bearers of power. The spectrum stretches from inscrutable hierarchical relations to corruption and to the manipulation of the mass media. Problems are related to:
•
•
The lack of transparency as a way of covering up corruption, as was reported by the country experts in the case study of Macedonia (corrupt and criminal activities in the defence sector), Romania (defence procurement) and Poland (corruption in military aircraft procurement). According to the authors of the Irish case study, the government tried to mislead the general public about the issue whether Ireland should join NATO’s Partnership of Peace in spite of Ireland’s tradition of neutrality.
Key dimension ‘culture’: a civil–military cultural gap? Culture refers to shared and common values, norms, symbols and priorities in life, as well as to subconscious convictions, ideas, interpretations (Soeters, Winslow and Weibull, 2003, p. 238). Of particular interest are those values, norms and institutions which determine civil–military relations in the observed countries. Despite several common aspects within Europe’s development – for example, the creation of mass armies based on conscription in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries – different political and military cultures have developed. As a rule, the political culture of a society or a nation can be seen as a consequence of a shared historical background as well as a common culture and heritage of attitudes, values and behaviour (Almond and Sidney, 1963). Military culture as such can be understood as a specific organisational culture which can be derived from the armed force’s assignment and the management of macro-violence. This functionality lends isomorphism to all military cultures, a set of features common to all military organisations (Caforio, 2002; Geser, 1996; Haltiner, 2000; Born, Fluri, and Johnson, 2003, p. 53; Morgan, 2003). However, it can be assumed that aside from such functional commonalities, there is a specific connection between the way in which a state organises its political institutions and the way it organises and integrates its armed forces into society. For example, Germany, based on an assessment of its military history in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and due to its historical legacy, has developed
244 Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann a special concept of ‘Innere Führung’8 which sets constitutional and ethical limits to the scheme of order and obedience. ‘Innere Führung’ is an integral part of the Bundeswehr’s military culture and its identity. It is probably not by accident that a direct democracy and federal state like Switzerland, with its inherent mistrust towards the concentration of political power, only has a militia and not a standing army. Thus, the militia system’s legitimacy is derived from the special tradition of Swiss political culture (Haltiner, 2004). Although there is a wide spectrum of literature on the theoretical connection between democratic and military organisation cultures (Janowitz, 1983; Burk, 2002; Kernic, 1997), there are few empirical studies on the interdependent genesis of political and military cultures (Soeters, Winslow and Weibull, 2003). Case studies are primarily considered as culture-related if their emphasis lies on the acceptance and legitimacy of the armed forces or the perceived role of the soldier. Hence, these case studies focus on the difference and inherent potential for conflict between democratic and military value systems and traditions. As Table 16.1 shows, six of the 28 case studies fall under the key-dimension ‘culture’. Notable among these are three cases showing how:
•
• •
In France, the military became more assertive against their political leaders, as evidenced by public street protests of the gendarmerie against government policy and by general officers expressing their critical view in the newspapers. Both cases were signs of a growing culturally critical attitude of the military. In Germany, the freedom of speech as an element of the ‘Citizen in Uniform’ ‘Innere Führung’ concept was upheld by the court, in spite of attempts by the German Ministry of Defence to punish critical officers. In Ireland, as military personnel were not allowed to demonstrate, the spouses of military personnel staged public protests against the government. As an indirect consequence, the military then was granted the right to form unionlike associations and to participate in duty-related decisions of their superiors.
Democratisation and civil–military relations Is there a connection between the four key dimensions of democratic civil–military relations and the democratic development of a state? Are there typical problems concerning civil–military relations which arise in certain phases of a state’s democratic development? Or are certain phases of development on the contrary marked by the absence of certain constellations and issues related to democratic governance? In order to address these questions, we arrange our case studies according to the four dimensions and to the phase of democratic development, that is, countries in transition-to-democracy, consolidating democracies and established democracies. By doing so, a pattern of correlation emerges between democratisation and the four dimensions of democratic governance of civil–military relations:
Patterns of democratic governance in civil–military relations 245 Table 16.2 Democratisation and civil–military relations A. Transitional democracies POWER: To direct and redirect the armed forces
B. Consolidating democracies
In civil– civil
• • • •
In civil– military
• Ukraine
• • • •
EFFECTIVENESS: and EFFICIENCY: Performance
• Ukraine
• Czech Republic
TRANSPARENCY: Information
• Georgia • Macedonia • Romania
• Poland
CULTURE: Military versus civilian values
• Serbia and Former FRY
• • •
• •
C. Established democracies
Georgia • Slovenia (2 cases) Macedondia Romania Former FRY and Montenegro Czech Republic Hungary (2 cases) Israel (2 cases) Poland
• Germany
• Ireland • Switzerland
• France (2 cases) • Germany • Ireland • Switzerland
Conflict and power struggles between civilian elites (civil–civil relations) are to be found nearly exclusively in transitional democracies and was reported with the exception of Slovenia (consolidating democracy). Power problems of the civil–military type appear to be typical of consolidating democracies. In all of these states such problems are observed. Efficiency problems occurred in a transitional democracy (Ukraine) and in a consolidating democracy (Czech Republic). None of the cases concerning established democracies can be regarded as efficiency problems. In established democracies, the majority of cases are related to the category ‘culture’ and refer to a gap between civilian and military values. They are of marginal importance in transitional and consolidated democracies. Transparency problems appear to be endemic to democracies of all phases.
The patterns between civil–military relations problems on the one hand and democratisation on the other, as seen in Table 16.2, are plausible. In the young, post-communist transitional democracies, civilian elites are still competing for power. The constitutional rules are not fully institutionalised and structures of civil power are not – or not yet – sufficiently consolidated. The fight over the
246 Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann building and shaping of institutions continues. In the course of such fights, the military often becomes misused by competing agencies of power to serve their own purposes. The case studies from Georgia, Macedonia, Romania and the former FRY illustrate this. Civil–military relations are subject to not yet established norms legitimised by tradition. Democratic governance is often practised according to informal rules defined by given situations and changing group interests. The way in which the military can become the object of such group interests is illustrated by the covert action seen in Georgia. The armed forces themselves lack resources and are susceptible to corruption. The deficient consolidation of the military goes along with a lack of transparency and efficiency. This is indicated by a susceptibility to tremendous errors such as the accidental downing of an airliner in the Ukraine and the failure of the regular armed forces to fight the rebels in Macedonia. The need for substantial reforms of the oversized armed forces is obvious but delayed or does not take place at all primarily because the civilian elites do not dare to touch the armed forces or because of a political power vacuum created by conflicts between civilian elites (such as in Serbia and Montenegro). In consolidating democracies, democratic structures of control are in place and initial difficulties characteristic of transitional democracies have been overcome. Power problems barely affect the horizontal, but rather the vertical civil–military dimension. The issue here is to balance the civil–military relationship axis. This is necessitated either by stress stemming from wartime strain (Israel) or under the pressure of post-communist reforms. Cottey, Edmunds and Forster (2002) coined the term ‘reforms of the second generation’ in view of the Eastern European states. The ‘civilianisation’ of the ministries of defence and power struggles within the military elite over prerogatives in strategic decisions as well as financial and personnel resources seem to be characteristic of such a network of relations.9 Democratic governance often falls short in the military as well as in the civilian sector evidenced in the fact that corruption plays often an important role in armament programmes. Obviously, reforms in post-communist states almost inevitably involve problems with respect to transparency and efficiency, as, for example, the case study from the Czech Republic on difficulties to control ammunition storage shows. Israel is a peculiar case inasmuch as the permanent strain exerted on civil–military relations by the Palestinian–Israeli conflict seems to be of advantage to the military’s position in the balance of power informally rather than formally between military and political leaders. The primary field of problems in established democracies, on the other hand, are of a different kind. One is tempted to say that, as compared to transitional democracies which are dealing with fundamental macro-scale problems, here we are looking at micro-scale problems. They primarily concern the key dimension ‘culture’, meaning they include issues such as the military’s role in society and its social and political legitimacy (Switzerland); the tendency of employees in the armed forces to organise themselves in unions (France, Ireland); or the acquisition (France) and maintenance of freedom of speech (Germany). A high degree of consolidation of civil–military relations is witnessed by the complete absence of
Patterns of democratic governance in civil–military relations 247 reports on efficiency issues. The reported power problems are rather a singular than a general phenomenon. To conclude, even if we take into account the slim quantitative basis and the lack of representative character of the case studies submitted, the research findings presented here support the idea that the nature of civil–military issues changes according to the European democracies’ state of development. In the course of the socio-economic and political development power and efficiency problems are gradually disappearing, while problems concerning the adjustment of normative regulations are becoming predominant.
Political systems and civil–military relations How does a given political system affect civil–military relations? For example, are problems as to how government deals with the military of a different kind in a presidential system with a strong hierarchical leadership as compared to a direct democratic system where representatives of the people or the people themselves are given far-reaching competencies? The sample of countries includes both presidential-parliamentary and parliamentary democracies. Five countries have presidential-parliamentary democracies, i.e. France, Poland, Georgia, Romania and Ukraine and nine countries have parliamentary democracies, i.e. Hungary, Macedonia, Serbia and Montenegro, Slovenia, Czech Republic, Germany, Ireland, Israel and Switzerland.10 Presidential systems modelled on the USA, where a president elected by the people and independent from the parliament’s trust is juxtaposed to the legislature, are prominent in Eastern Europe.11 Normally, the elected president is simultaneously the commander-in-chief of the armed forces and is equipped with considerable prerogatives with respect to the control and supervision of the military and security sector (such as police and intelligence). In parliamentary democracies, the existence of government is dependent on parliament’s confidence in the government: if a government loses the confidence of parliament, it has to resign. In such parliamentary systems of government, the control over the armed forces is generally organised in a decentralised way with respect to the military high command as well as budget and supervision competencies. Based on the research findings, a clear relation between political system and type of problems of civil–military relations cannot be established. However, the research findings show a pattern of civil–military relations if a distinction is made between countries with a president as commander-in-chief versus countries where the government or minister of defence is commander-in-chief. The findings in Table 16.3 show that mostly in countries where the president is the commander-in-chief, civil–civil power struggles over the military are reported. In countries where the minister of defence (or the cabinet as a collective decisionmaking body) has the supremacy over the armed forces, there is a tendency for civil–military power struggles. How can this be explained? Problems between civilian elites might occur especially in countries with a president as commanderin-chief because in those countries two members of the executive have control
248 Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann Table 16.3 Key issues of democratic governance of civil–military relations and political leadership and political system in 14 selected European states President is Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces I. Presidentialparliamentary democracy: POWER: To direct and redirect the armed forces
Government/ Minister of Defence is Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces I. Presidentialparliamentary democracy:
In civil– civil relations
• • • • •
Macedonia Georgia Romania Slovenia (2 cases) Former FRY
In civil– military relations
• Hungary (2 cases) • Ukraine • Poland
• Czech Republic • Germany • Israel (2 cases)
EFFECTIVENESS and EFFICIENCY: Performance
• Ukraine
• Czech Republic
TRANSPARENCY: Information
• • • •
• Ireland • Switzerland
CULTURE: Military versus civil values
• Former FRY • France (2 cases)
Macedonia Georgia Poland Romania
• Germany • Ireland • Switzerland
powers over the military, i.e. the president and the minister of defence (or sometimes the entire cabinet). The situation of dual leadership increases the chance of civil– civil competence struggles between the president and the minister, for example over appointments of generals, procurement or the budget. A second reason is that most of the countries with a president as commander-in-chief belong to the category of transition states or consolidating democracies (except for France) which are characterised by struggles between civilian elites because of the fragile nature of democracy in those countries. The civilian–civilian type of problems do not occur if the minister of defence has the supreme authority over the military because the armed forces are under one direct line of control, instead of receiving orders from two different members of the executive body.
Patterns of democratic governance in civil–military relations 249 Political masters, citizens and soldiers: shortcomings in normative theory The academic debate on the military’s democratic control often gives the impression of a dichotomised civil–military community: the democratic legitimised civilian leaders on one side of the equation and the military – which has to be kept under control – as servants on the other side of the equation. Such an approach may be analytically beneficial and permissible, but tends to distort the gaze for the exceedingly complex relationship which exists between citizens and members of the military. The fact that members of the military are also citizens sometimes gets buried to the point of oblivion (see Born, Fluri and Johnson, 2003, p. 150). In the ‘citizen-in-uniform’ approach, military personnel are basically entitled to ensure all rights and duties of the constitution are provided within the statutory framework of a community. In general the citizens have the right to choose a profession which suits its affinities and qualifications and even the profession of a soldier.12 In any case, basically one decides to become a soldier and remains – needless to say – a citizen. Eventually, military personnel also take a stake in the democratic control of the military, inasmuch as they participate in the role of a citizen’s formation of opinion and decision making. Division of labour and professional expertise and ethos It is particularly necessary to monitor the military because it is intended to be an instrument for the state monopoly of force which should not be used against the state and the society itself. A military coup is not very likely in developed democracies, though there is a latent danger of political authorities using state power for personal or party goals. Furthermore, not only the military but also other public institutions administrate the state monopoly of legitimate use of force such as the police; law enforcement agencies; security services; tribunals; penitentiaries; customs authorities; border guards; civil management and oversight bodies.13 To associate them with the security sector combined with the military makes sense among other things, because they all have to adhere to the postulate of good governance. The fact that civil and military establishments are bound to the principle of division of labour is a further similarity, not only among each other, but also within their own structures as well as between the political masters and the administrative specialists. The institutional political–military division of labour thus is not a specific problem for civil–military relations, but rather – not only in public facilities – a commonly accepted principle to improve effectiveness and efficiency. The aforementioned agencies in the security sector share the standard with the military, that professional expertise is to be achieved through schooling, training and experience. Similar to the military, laws regulate the instructions to and labour agreements of each particular individual. Furthermore, comprehension of the profession, an occupational ethos and a corporate identity are expected, in line with the regulations and organisation’s goals.
250 Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann Members of the military organisation likewise pursue individual goals in their professions which do not have to be in line with official aims. It is often said that obedience forms the heart of the military profession. However, the assertion that it is a special unique attribute for the soldier’s profession to subordinate personal interests to the organisation’s aims or even for the group’s well-being, has to be questioned sceptically. Nearly all (subjected to public law) professions in the security sector (including the civil policy makers) are obliged to support the common welfare of society. Laws and decisions of the government have to be obeyed by all sectors of society, not only by the military. There may indeed be a specific military ethos. The so-called military virtues – as far as they even exist – would then only be a certain specification of qualification profiles, such as other professions also would claim for themselves. One cannot directly identify why and how the job of being a soldier became, for some, a ‘sacred’ profession. Neither why it actually should be a privilege of the soldier’s profession, ‘to sacrifice one’s life for the team, in peace and war’ (Dandeker and Gow, 2004, p. 15).14 Also members of other professions are requested to risk their lives if necessary, for example police officers, fire-fighters, counter-terrorism officials, secret agents, test pilots, racing drivers and bomb disposal experts. However, compared with the military, these dangerous professions can be adopted without a patriotic ideology. An apolitical military? In discussions about the democratic control of the military, no other demand but the demand for political neutrality of the military could have kept itself alive so insistently. Huntington left a wide track.15 He saw his concept of ‘objective control’ of the military becoming effective if the military renders its services to the political authorities without pursuing self-interest. The political masters should assure extensive autonomy as a return service for the military, which would mean among others, abandoning political micromanagement in the military. However, some have argued the contrary, using examples from the same military (that of the USA) which Huntington first analysed: The pulling and hauling among interest groups, the authoritative allocation of scarce resources, the exercise of power in pursuit of interests – all these are readily evident in any historical examination of the military experience. (Feaver, 1996, p. 157) Additionally, American officers actually seem to have broken the formerly common tradition, to neither participate at political elections nor to only vote for independent candidates. The voting strength of officers, augmented by military Independents who favour Republican candidates, has turned the officer corps into one of the most ‘solidly Republican professional groups in American society’. (Betros, 2001, p. 502 referring to Feaver and Kohn, 1999, p. 2)
Patterns of democratic governance in civil–military relations 251 Several of the arguments assembled here rather confirm Abrahamsson’s opinion, whereby: the professional military was a politicized and active interest group [and therefore] a system of institutional control mechanisms was necessary, which would allow civilian governments a fair chance in their defence and foreign policy options. (Abrahamsson, 1972, p. 160 cited after Cottey, Edmunds and Forster, 2002, p. 33) In Switzerland and Germany, for example, the idea of apolitical behaviour is not expressly part of the occupational image of a soldier, although the primacy of politics over the military is an officially distinguished principle. The Swiss ‘citizen soldier’ and the German ‘citizen-in-uniform’ have to maintain a low political profile during their military service. When exercising their military profession, their civil rights are partially, but not totally, restricted by law in order to guarantee an undisrupted military service. The same types of restrictions also applied to civil employees in other (public) institutions of the security sector, they are not militaryspecific. All soldiers, not only officers, have the right to function politically as a citizen. For example, in several of the countries analysed in this volume, military personnel can join labour unions and build up their own professional interest groups.16 In other countries military strikes are prohibited, but public demonstrations by members of the military show have, especially when they are held in uniform, a similar impact. The analyses in this book show that military personnel have publicly criticised or disregarded decisions of the government.17 It would be an exaggeration to perceive this criticism as a default reply of the military every time they disagree with their political authorities. Disagreements between the military and political leaders happen frequently and have to be seen as part of the ordinary civil–military discourse. However, most of these disputes are not discussed publicly but behind closed doors. High level commanders who express their disagreements publicly in the media take a real risk that their military career will be ended by their political masters. Military commanders who intervene in the public debate without the permission of their political masters, must be sure that the issues at stake justify their disregard of government policy. The public image of the armed forces and the specific military spokesman often plays a crucial role. If the public opinion is positive towards the military cause and mission (see French and Irish case studies of military demonstrations), it is likely that the civil–military balance will shift in favour of the military. According to some case studies in this volume, democratic governance of the armed forces can only function if the military is provided with clear political guidance and when there is dialogue between the political masters and the military. For example, in the late 1990s, French generals went public with their criticisms because they were not sufficiently consulted on important decisions such as the abolition of conscription. The case studies which mention the protesting French gendarmerie and the spouses of Irish military servicemen, show that their public
252 Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann criticisms were caused by a perceived imbalance in civil–military relations in which the political masters profited from the work of the military while not sufficiently compensating the military for their work. The fact that the French and Irish governments accepted the demands of the French gendarmerie and Irish spouses is a de facto proof of the government’s acknowledgement of the military’s grievances. With a view of democratic governance of the armed forces, it is not only important whether the military respects government policy, but also how the civilian government responds to demands of the military. The case studies allow for the conclusion that parliaments and governments in all the democratic countries studied were able to swing civil–military relations back into balance whenever the normative equilibrium faltered (though in the German case, the German Constitutional Federal Court had to function as an arbiter between the civil and military authorities).
Towards an ideal model of civil–military relations? In Europe, how do civil–military relations function in practice? The 28 case studies from 14 European states (including Israel, see note 5, Chapter 1) show that civil– military relations are a multi-faceted and multi-dimensional phenomenon which cannot be understood from a purely legal constitutional point of view. Civil–military relations are not simply a command relationship in which the politicians order and the generals obey. In practice, it is a negotiating relationship in which both sides trade ‘tit-for-tat’ on various issues and have different sources of power with which to convince the other side. The contemporary prevailing (Western) concept of democratic control of the armed forces is not adequate insofar as it suggests a static relationship, while in practice, civil–military relations refer to an open process of mutual influences between various actors within the context of a complex political system. In post-Cold War Europe, because the primacy of politics is an established principle, not only in established but also in transitional and consolidating democracies, the main problem of civil–military relations is no longer to avoid military coups. However, the absence of military coups does not imply the presence of harmony and an absence of tension. Disagreements have occurred but have never resulted in the overthrow of the political order. Tensions in civil–military relations have surfaced when the civilian leadership wanted to limit the autonomy and prerogatives which militaries enjoy, especially in post-authoritarian countries. As any other professional group in society pursuing corporate interests, the military tries to shield off their interests from outside control. At the same time, the civilian leadership tries to avoid that the autonomy of the military is maintained or expanded beyond acceptable limits. Military autonomy as a rule covers issues of operations budget planning, military justice, military education and defence reform. The case study of the Former Federal Public of Yugoslavia (FRY) illustrates how the military leadership managed for years to delay necessary defence reform of their oversized military.
Patterns of democratic governance in civil–military relations 253 In addition to keeping the military accountable, the main challenge for civilian leaders in European democracies currently is defence reform, that is, to adapt the military to the new security threats and missions. In particular, the following two questions have to be addressed:
•
•
To what extent should the military be involved in (re-) directing national and trans-national security and foreign policy? Which new missions and what relevance should the military have in the European integration of security policy? How much decision-making power should be delegated from the political level to the military level in the implementation of the new missions mainly outside national territory, be it on monitoring missions, traditional peacekeeping operations to enforcement operations, pre-emptive operations and post-conflict reconstruction? How can a transparent division of competences between the civilian and the military level be realised which is in accordance with the legitimate primacy of politics and the need for the autonomy of the military professional?
As shown in our studies in post-Cold War Europe, the danger is not so much the unjustified intervention of the military in politics, but the danger of unjustified intervention of political leaders in military competences and professional autonomy. Unjustified political intervention can manifest itself in political micro-management of military deployments abroad (e.g. peacekeeping operations) or the political instrumentalisation of the military in domestic political conflicts. Both results are highly undesirable: micro-management might endanger the mission or the safety of military personnel in deployments abroad and the misuse of the military in domestic conflict leads to the politicisation of the military. The case studies have also shown that civil–military relations involve more than civilians and military leaders. It has become clear that civil–military relations consist of various actors. The civilian side includes actors such as the head of state, prime minister, minister of defence, parliament, judiciary, independent ombudsman and the media and even the people as shown in the case of the Swiss referendums. All these institutions and actors play a role in keeping the armed forces accountable. The same holds true for the military side, which includes a variety of actors at different levels of the hierarchy. Additionally, the military side includes various branches of the security sector, such as the military police and intelligence services. Therefore, instead of using the simple picture of civilians versus military, it is better to use the concept ‘governance of civil–military relations’ which includes a wide variety of state and non-state as well as military and nonmilitary actors involved in controlling the armed forces. The analysis also shows that all crises and institutional changes described in the 28 case studies could be characterised in terms of the four key dimensions previously outlined: power, transparency, culture and efficiency. The four key dimensions of civil–military relations can be regarded as a main research result as they provide a framework for an analysis of civil–military relations. Bringing these four categories together, the following definition for the democratic
254 Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl W. Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann governance of civil–military relations on the national level can be established: governance of civil–military relations refers to the degree of consensus between elites about the desired security policy, the power of those political elites to direct the military, in a transparent and efficient manner, based on a country’s political culture. This definition is based on the data, conceptualised in an inductive manner. It is a problem-based description as it shows where problems may arise: consensus among elite(s); the power to direct; transparency; efficiency; and culture. Whether the governance of civil–military relations is democratic, depends on whether the (political) elites are democratically legitimised and whether the power is exercised within the rule of law. The concept of governance allows for both state and private actors to be involved in civil–military relations, i.e. ministries, cabinet ministers, media, unions, NGOs, think tanks and pressure groups. In conclusion, this volume deals with problems affecting civil–military relations in 14 European states. It is important to underline that the political control of the armed forces in daily life reality is hampered by conflict and problems in both Western and Eastern European democracies. However, the nature and causes of conflict between civilian and military authorities do differ in various selected states. Transition states are confronted with all types of problems, especially civilian elite power struggles. The case studies of Georgia, Macedonia and the former FRY show that civil–military relations are more about civil–civil conflicts than about civil–military conflicts, pointing to the phenomenon that competing civilian elites instrumentalise the armed forces in domestic conflict. Consolidating democracies are dealing with all type of problems except for very severe conflicts between civilian elites over the control of the armed forces. Established democracies are by and large free from power struggles between civilian and military elites as well as from crises caused by lack of efficiency, but are confronted with problems caused by a lack of transparency and cultural differences between civilian and military leaders. This is not to say that power struggles between civilian and military actors do not exist in established democracies. However, it does indicate that procedures and rules have been institutionalised in established democracies which are accepted by the parties involved and which also moderate civil–military conflicts in such a way that they do not threaten the established order. The presented case-studies in this volume demonstrate that the way crises in civil–military relations are addressed is generally dependent on the political culture and traditions of a given country. Because of the variety of political cultures in Europe (and elsewhere), it is predicted that at best minimal standards of democratic governance of the military institutions can be postulated, which then have to be adjusted to a country’s practice and culture. One single best model for democratic governance of civil–military relations does not and probably can never exist.
Notes 1 See, for example, the OSCE Code of Conduct on Politico-Military Aspects of Security, Budapest, 1994.
Patterns of democratic governance in civil–military relations 255 2 See on this topic Feaver, 1996, p. 149. Feaver states that: ‘neither Huntington nor Janowitz adequately explain the problem of civilian control and so both are uncertain guides for future study and policymaking’ (ibid. p. 150). The post-Cold War dialogue on this matter is summarised by Cohn, 1999. 3 See also: ‘Roles and Responsibilities of Parliament and other State Institutions’, in Born, Fluri and Johnson, 2003, p. 20. 4 Cf., too, the critique ‘of principles of democratic force control’ in Born, Haltiner and Maleši=, 2004, p. 14. 5 The United Nations Development Report (2002) provides a list of actors in the security sector, see p. 87, box 4.1 ‘Who’s who in the security sector’. 6 See, for example, the classical study of Luckham, 1971 or the more recent study of Cottey, Edmunds and Forster, 2002. 7 Marlene Urscheler, formerly at Geneva Centre for the Democratic Control of Armed Forces (DCAF); Jonathan Bennett and Tibor Szvircsev, both Swiss Federal Institute of Technology in Zurich (ETHZ). 8 According to Abenheim the concept of Innere Führung defies easy translation. ‘Perhaps the phrase “leadership and participation” best conveys what the Bundeswehr means by Innere Führung’, Abenheim, 1990, p. 32. 9 ‘Civilianisation’ of ministry of defence refers to the process of appointing (especially high level) civilian employees in the ministry of defence, to provide the minister with advice and expertise. For a full understanding of the concept, see Chapter 7 in this volume, which describes the ‘civilianisation’ attempts in the Polish Ministry of Defence. 10 The grouping is based on the Freedom House categorisation for 2003. The group of parliamentary democracies includes countries with a president as the head of state, but who plays a ceremonial role only, for example Germany and Hungary. 11 Why so many former communist Eastern European states have chosen a presidential system is not clear. Perhaps the founding fathers of the new democracies thought that a centralised presidential political system would be the best option for a new and often fragile democracy. However, this question remains outside the scope of this chapter. 12 Only compulsory military service generates an exception, which in fact is not arbitrary, because it is a national enacted compulsory labour – and therefore requires particularly exhaustive legitimisation. 13 Cf. United Nations Development Report, 2002, p. 87, box 4.1 ‘Who’s who in the security sector’. 14 A similar opinion is represented in Mileham, 2004, p. 88. He refers uncritically to an article in the British Journal Army Doctrine Publication in 2000 (prepared under the direction of the Chief of the General Staff). Also the Conseil supérieur de la fonction militaire, which is little surprising, maintains that the readiness to make sacrifices is a ‘sacred principle’ in the profession of a soldier, cf. the French case study in this book. 15 Also authors of the case studies of this book may have kept requirements of an apolitical military as an immutable fact in their mind, when they criticised insufficient political neutrality of the high-ranking military several times. 16 In 2002, the military are entitled to found or to join military representative associations in the Czech Republic, Germany, Hungary, Ireland, Slovenia and Switzerland, see Born, Fluri and Johnson, 2003, p. 150. 17 France, Germany, Hungary, Ireland, Israel, Poland, the former FRY and Switzerland.
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Index 271
Index
Abkhazia 88–9, 91–2, 93n3 Accountability: democratic 8, 79, 80, 142, 213; mechanism 11, 92, 237 Ahern, B. 214 Albania 50–1 Algeria 180, 182, 188–9n3 Almond, G. and Sidney, V. 243 Amber Fox mission 56 Andresen, U. 229 Armed Forces Institute for Social Research (SOWI) (Germany) 221–2 Artene, A. 24 Avant, D. 238 Babiuc, Defence Minister 30 Badrak, V. 68, 68–9 Bald, D. et al 232 Barak, E. 169, 170 Barany, Z. 131, 146 Bavcon, L. 144 Bebler, A. 10, 127, 130, 131 Ben-Gurion, D. 163–5 Ben-Meir, Y. 172 Benn, A. 171 Berceanu, R. 29 Betros, L. 250 Betz, D. and Lowenhardt, J. 10, 11 Bišèak, J. 140 Bland, D. 98, 242 Boëne, B. 159, 181; and Martin, M.L. 181 Böll, H. 222 Born, H. et al 5, 236, 241, 243, 249, 255 Bornschier, V. 242 Bossanyi, K. 124 Bryden, A. and Hänggi, H. 5 Bühlmann, et al. 192, 198 Bujoševi=, D. 41; and Radovanovi=, I. 46 Burk, J. 244 Cadikovski, M. and Fakic, S. 53
Caforio, G. 243 Cailleteau, F. 181 Callaghan, C. 214 Caparini, M. 9, 240, 243 Central and Eastern Europe (CEE) 8, 10 Chechnya, Chechens 89–92, 93n4, n6 Chirac, J. 181, 187 Choroszy, R. 109, 110 civil–military relations, actors in 59–60; analysis of case studies 237–40; analysis of 4; and apolitical military 250–2; case studies 236–7; categorisation of case studies 238–40; comparative approach to 10–11; concept of democratic control 4–7; and conflict with civil–civil authorities 240–2; control through professionalism/integration 236; culture dimension 239, 243–4, 248; deductive approach 238; democratisation of 244–7; differences in understanding 236; difficulties in former socialist countris 131–2; and division of labour/professional expertise/ethos 249–50; effectiveness/ efficiency dimension 239, 242, 248; and ethnicity 59; in Europe 236; and influences affecting democratic structures 9; international norms 3, 7; and manipulation of information 242–3; order-obey paradigm 3; overview of case studies 12–13; and passivity of post-Soviet militaries 8–9; and political non-intervention by military 7; and political systems 247–52; and post-Cold War era 8–10; and potential for military coups 8–9; power dimension 239, 240–2, 248; in practice 3–4; principal–agent model 238; problems with schematic Western
272 Index approaches to 60; and responsibility/ responsiveness of civilian authorities 7; shortcomings in normative theory 249; studies on 10; tensions in 9–10; towards an ideal model of 252–4; in transition states 130; transparency dimension 239, 242–3, 248; and under-/non-performance of the military 242; underlying common patterns in 238; USA ’gap’ in 9, see also named countries, e.g. Macedonia civil society 43, 44, 58, 77, 80, 128, 141, 143, 145–6, 155, 159, 199, 267 Codrescu, C. 27 Cohen, S. 182 Cole, R. 214 Congo 210 control: budget 239; civil 39, 81, 88, 118–9, 148, 177–8, 183, 185, 257, 263, 265; civilian control of the military/armed forces xiii, 3, 5–7, 10, 97–8, 101, 106, 111, 112; constitutional 241; democratic civil 80, 83, 87, 90–3 (see also country case studies); parliamentary 41, 72, 79, 81-5, 87, 89, 91–3; presidential 81 corruption scandal 49–53, 97–8, 108, 112 Cottey, A. et al. 10, 236, 246, 251 court: constitutional 38, 47, 118, 134, 244; military 38, 46, 131 Cowen, B. 214 Crène, Y. 183 Crvenkovski, Prime Minister 50 Csendes, L. 125 Czech armed forces, background 147–8; and balance between politicians– military–public 155; and budget cuts 148, 160n2; decision to reform 147; democratic control of 155–8, 159; dependence on Soviet aircraft 149; effect of flood damage on plans 147; and illegal sale of militaria 154, 161n21; and liquidation of ammunition 153, 161n19, n20; media interest in 155, 162n27; and military– civilian gap 156; modernisation of air force 148–53; modernisation of stores 154–5; production of domestic subsonic aircraft in 149–50, 160–1n6–n11; public debates on modernisation of 157, 162n27, n28; purchase of western supersonic fighter aircraft 150–3, 155, 161n13–n17, n24; reputation of fighter pilots 148, 160n3;
specialisation solution 157–8, 162n29; and theft of ammunition 153–4 Dandeker, C. 100; and Gow, J. 250 Danopoulos, C. and Zirker, D. 10 Davis, I. et al. 82 Dayton Accord 180 De Bréadún, D. 213 De Gaulle, C. 180, 189n3 Deak, J. 124 Degeratu, C. 32 democracy, case studies 237; and civil– military relations 244–7; and concept of control 4–7; consolidating 246; and control of armed forces 235–6; development/endurance of 235; dimensions of 240–6; and governance of security sector 241; influences affecting structures of 9; problems in 246–7 Democratic Opposition of Serbia (DOS), and deficiencies in civil–military sphere 40–1; disputes within 35; and elimination of ideology/politics from the army 44; and formal/organisational changes in army 43–4, 47n22–n26; lack of commitment to reform 40–1; and Pavkovi= Affair 38; political background of 40–1, 46n14; reasons for hesitation of 40–2; and removal of Miloševi= 40; and security 44; and silence on army reforms 41, see also Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY) Depala Vas Affair (Slovenia) 136; accountability of armed forces to state 144; conspiracy theory 143; democratic accountability 142–3; international implications 143; as isolated event/pattern 144–5; judicial procedure 140–1; legal aspects 138–9; meritocratic behaviour 144; military action 136–7; Ministry of Interior’s position 138; MoD’s position 137–8; perceptions/implications 142–4; reaction of civil society 141–2; reaction of political state 139–40 Diac, M. 24 Diaconescu, G. et al. 28 Diaconescu, I. 30 Dimineata 32 Djindji=, 39, 41 Djukanovi=, President 36, 41–2 Djurdjevi=-Luki=, S. 44
Index 273 Donnelly, C. 82 Dragomir, D. 24, 25 Drèar-Murko, M. 143 Ebeling, K. et al. 218 European Association of Military Associations (EUROMIL) 206–7, 208 European Economic Community (EEC) 130 European Research Group on Military and Society (ERGOMAS) 11 European Union (EU) 31, 33, 130, 208, 213 Farmus, Z. 107 Feaver, P.D. 238, 250, 255; and Kohn, R.H. 17, 250 Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY) 237, 252; armed forces in 36; background 35–6, 45n1; and clericalisation of army 41, 46n16; and criminalisation of army 43, 47n20; and disaffection of army 42–3, 47n21; effect of war on reform 42–3; ethnic– religious framework in 40; and Law on Security Services 41, 47n18; limitation of sovereignty of 35–6; and Montenegrin army reform 41–2; and morale/identity of army 43; and Pavkovi= Affair 36–9, 45; political parties in 40; political situation in 35; and postponed security sector reform in 39–44; and principle of separation of powers in 35; and public lack of knowledge concerning the army 41; and reform of army/democratic civilian control 39, 41; and retaining of Miloševi=’s generals 39–40; secret services in 36, Serbia, Republic of 36, 39, 40, 246, 247; see also Democratic Opposition of Serbia (DOS) Fillon, F. 181 Fitch, J.S. 7 Fleckenstein, B. 229 Fleischer, A. 64 Fodor, L. 121, 129n14 Forster, A. et al. 11 Fotache, V. 24 France 237, 244, 246, 247, 251; and Algeria 180, 188–9n3; approval of the military in 177, 188n1; background 177–80; civil–military relations in 177, 183–4; conscription in 181–2, 189n4, n5; and destabilisation of civil–
military relations 178, 188n2; and dismay voiced by generals in 180–4; gendarmes protest in 184–7, 189–90n11–n15; major changes in 177–8; managerialism vs professionalism in 188; military grievances in 177, 179–80, 183, 187; and military place in society 179–80; and peacekeeping in Bosnia 180; political–military interface 180–3; and possibility of military unions 180; principle of civil control in 183; public protests in 177, 178; and public service missions by the military 183, 189n6; radical/pragmatic professionalism in 184, 189n7, n8; and respect for/prestige of the military 183–4, 188, 189n9, n10; selection of cases 179–80; social trends/unrest in 178 Freedom House 11 Friedensbewegung 220 Gabal, I. 157 Gartner, H. et al. 44 Gazdik, J. 149 Georgia 236, 237, 246, 247; and Abkhazian conflict zone 88–9, 91–2, 93n4; anti-government uprising in 89; background 79–80; basic constitutional/legal framework 80–2; and Chechen guerrillas 89–92, 93n4, n6; civil–military relations in 79, 90–2; Constitution of 81; corruption as ‘way of life’ 82–3; defence budget (2002) 83–8; democratic legislation in 80; dismissal of entire government in 89, 93n5; elements of civil control in 88; and elimination of Soviet practices in 84; military/security policy in 88; National Security Councl in 81; need for political will in 92–3; parliamentary power in 81–2; precarious/unstable political situation in 79; shady ‘covert operations’ 88–92; and state secrets/classified information 80–1; structure of armed forces in 83; transparency in 84; US/ NATO involvement in 88; as ‘weak’ state 79 Georgievski, Prime Minister 51 Germany 237, 244, 246, 247, 251; background 217–19; Bundeswehrverband in 228, 232n18;
274 Index and case of Lt. Col. Rose 226–30; and Citizen in Uniform 218–19, 220, 228, 230; and conscription 226–7; Darmstadt Signal 220–26; disciplinary actions in 223, 232n7; forced military reassignments in 224; and freedom of speech 233; and lack of information on defence/security 221, 224; Legal Status of Military Personnel Act 218; limitations on civil rights in 218; and policy of imposing conformity 230; and soldiers interfering in security policy 219–26; support for Innere Führung in 217–19, 227, 230–1, 232n1, n2; and vision of good citizenship 218 Geser, H. 243 Gilardi, P. 201 Gow, J. and Birch, C. 10 Grass, G. 222 Grizold, A. 130 Grochowski, J. 100 Grozdi=, M. 46 Guisan, H. 194, 201n6 Haltiner, K.W. 192, 193, 199, 201, 243, 244; and Bennett, J. 198 Hänggi, H. 236 Harkabi, Y. 164 Harris, L. 189 Hartung, H. 184 Heisbourg, F. 181, 182 Hendrych, J. et al. 162 Hirschman, A. 179 Hislope, R. 55, 60 Hiza, R. and Nechita, B. 31 Hofnung, M. 165 Hradil, S. 200 Hug, P. 201 human right: civil right 80, 218, 236, 241; freedom of speech/expression 213, 21719, 221, 223, 225–7, 229, 231, 244, 246; freedom of assembly 218; freedom of association 205–6, 203, 207, 244, 255; organisation 141, 256; political rights 166; right to information 260 Hungary 237, 247; background 114–15; and case of General Végh 123–7; civil–military struggle in 115–23, 128; defence budgets in 114, 128n2; democratic transition/consolidation in 114; HQ home defence/MoD separation 115, 128n4; integration of
MoD/general staff in 115–23; political–military conflict in 116–17 Huntington, S.P. 81, 189 Iliescu, President 29 icompetence 119, 237, 242 India 150, 161n11 Innere Führung 217–19, 227, 230–1, 232n1, n2 Inoguchi, T. et al. 242 International Institute for Democracy and Electoral Assistance (IDEA) 53 International Physicians for Prevention of Nuclear War (IPPNW) 224–5 Ionescu, C.D. 32 Ireland, Republic of 237, 244, 246, 247, 251; and ad hoc PDFORRA initiative 205–8; ambiguity of forces in 210; anti-war movement in 214; Brady Commission (Ireland) 205commitment to participation in UN operations 210; conditions of military in 204, 213; curtailment of democratic rights in 202–3; debates on PfP in 203; Defence Forces Review Implementation Plan 211; distrust of government motives in 214; and Fianna Fáil 212, 215n8; historical background of mlitary in 203–4; lack of policy/debate on defence issues in 204, 215n3; lobbying of military wives/chaplains in 204–5; and membership of UN 208, 209, 215n5; military neutrality of 208–9, 212–13, 214, 216n10; NASA initiative 205, 215n4; and NATO-led SFOR/KFOR operations 211–12, 215n7; NCOs in 202; neglect of armed forces in 211, 215n6; participation in PfP 208–18, 216n9; ‘Peace and Neutrality Alliance’ (PANA) (Ireland) 213–14; peacekeeping operations 202, 208; Permanent Defence Forces Other Ranks Representative Association (PDFORRA) 205–8; Permanent Defence Forces (PDF) (202–8, 215n2; reform of military in 211; struggle for representation in PDF in 202–8; Representative Association for Commissioned Officers (RACO) 207; support for military in 204; and triple lock mechanism 214, 216n12; White Papers on Foreign Policy/Defence Forces 203, 208
Index 275 Irondelle, B. 181 Isnard, J. 182 Israel 237, 246; amassing of roles in prime minister’s office 167; background 163–6; Basic Law in 165, 172; civil supremacy in 164; CoolingOff law 174; direct elections in 166; effect of marginalisation of IDF 168; as independent state 163; lack of democratic supervision in 174; Morfaz’s tenure as chief of staff (1998–2002) 169–72, 173, 174; and National Security Council 169; Netanyahu government (1996–9) 166–9; oppostion to reform 167; and the Palestinian Authority 169, 170, 171; political-military relations 164, 166; power struggles in 163; prime minister-CGS tension 167–72, 173; public criticism in 168; role of CGS in 169–70; role of democratic institutions in 165; security regime in 163; sexual harassment in army 170; Shamir/ Rabin premierships 165, 167; social criticism of army 170; and War of Independence 163–4 Israeli Defence Forces (IDF) 163, 165–6, 167–8, 173 Ivri, D. 167 Janowitz, M. 189, 244 Janša, J. 133, 136, 141 Jenin refugee camp 173 Johnson, M.M. 131 Joó, R. 10, 118, 119, 236 Jovanovski, V. 53 judiciary 81, 225, 236, 239, 253 Kadt, E. de 7 Kamiòski, A. 110 Keatinge, P.A. 204 Kedroò, R. 161 Kelemen, L. 120 Kelleher, C.M. 218 Kemp, W. 59 Kernic, F. 244 Khivrenko, K. 64 Khokhotva, I. 93 Kinakh, A. 64 Kohn, R.H. 17 Komárek, M. 150 Komorowski, Minister of Defence 108 Kostelka, M. 152 Koštunica, President 36, 37–9, 41, 46n12
Kubát, M. 159 Kuèan, M. 132–3, 134–5, 136 Kuchma, L. 65, 66, 67, 73 Kuhlmann, J. and Callaghan, J. 10, 236 Kumanovo Agreement 36 Kuzmuk, O. 64, 65, 66, 67–8, 77 LaFraniere, S. and Hockstader, L. 63, 64 Lanxade, J. 189 Larson, A.D. 189 Latawski, P. 97 Lellouche, P. 181 Lendi, M. 192 Lipset, S.M. 242 Longchamp, C. 199 Lorincz, General 116 Luckham, R.A. 255 Luttwak, E.N. 7, 240 Macedonia 237, 242, 246, 247; analysis of 48; armed conflict in 54–5; background 48–9; black market/ smuggling in 52–3; challenges to 49; civil-military relations in pre-conflict perod 49–54; conflict dynamics in 57; criminalisation of politics in preconflict period 49–54; democratic control of armed forces in 57–9; and disarmament, demobilisation and reintegration (DDR) 55; economic embargoes on 49–50; elections in 56– 7; ethnic problems in 51, 54–5, 56, 60n2; influence of Albania/Kosovo situations on 50–1, 60n1; Internal Macedonian Revolutionary Organisation (IMRO) 50, 51–4; level of corruption/crime in 50–3; military crisis/scandal in 51–2; as oasis of peace 49, 53, 54; political situation in 54–6, 60–1n3, n4; politicisation of criminality in post-conflict period 54–7; privatisation in 57; security sector in 50, 58; virtual reality image 48 Maior, G.C. 25–7 Maleši=, M. 130, 132 March, J. and Olsen, J. 238 Marchuk, Y. 65 Martin, M. 207 Matache, G. 22 Matei, S. and Diaconu, F. 23 media: mass media 89, 92,137, 141–3, 38, 243; scandal 154–5 Mercier, P. 182, 183
276 Index Messmer, P. 181 Michta, A. 7, 99 Miheljak, V. 140 Mile, S. and Zoran, J. 47 military: associations xvii, 206, 237; coup 4, 8, 199, 249, 252; demonstration 251; lobby 44, 129, 150, 179, 237; lobbying 152-3, 155, 205, 208; neutrality of military 202–4, 208–9, 211–16; opposition 170; political neutriality21, 99, 103, 198, 250, 255; protest 29, 31–2, 173, 220, 228; representation 148; unions 180, 236 Miloševi=, S. 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 42, 44 Mitek, T. 100 Mitterand, F. 181 Mofaz, Lt. Gen. 166, 169–72 Möhle, H. 228 Montenegro, Republic of 36, 39, 41–2, 246, 247 Mordechai, Y. 167, 169 Morgan, M.J. 243 Mostova, Y. 69 Muntiyan, V. 73 Muresan, M. 32 Murphy, R. 203, 210, 214 Nanevska, B. 52 National Army Spouses’ Association (NASA) (Ireland) 205, 215n4 National Security and Defence Council of Ukraine (NSDC) 65, 71–2, 73 Neèas, P. 161 Negovanje 43 Nelson, D.N. 5 Népszabadság 114 Netanyahu, B. 166–9 Nice Treaty 214, 216n11 non-governmental organisation (NGO) 73, 94, 208, 237, 254 North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO )7, 10, 31, 35, 43, 45, 51, 56, 88, 97, 107, 111, 119, 123–7, 136, 149, 152, 158, 162n29, n31, 196, 202, 209, 211–12, 213 Noviny.cz 160 Nowak, P.F. 111 Ohrid Agreement 58 Operation Defensive Shield 173 Oren, A. 173, 174 Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) 56, 149, 160n4
O’Sullivan, A. 172 Parandowska, J. 99 Partnership for Peace (PfP) 39, 101, 202, 203, 208–18, 216n9 Pascu, I.M. 25, 25–7 Paunovski, Defence Minister 51 peacekeeping operation 88, 203–4, 208, 210, 214–15, 253 peace support operation 188, 208–12, 253 Peres, S. 167 Periši= Affair 41 Petersburg Tasks 211 Pierre, B. 151–2 Plangu, I.M. 24 Poland 237, 247; abandonment of integration policy 119, 129n8; background 97–9; civil–military conflicts in 97; clarity of duties/ responsibilities 120; competencies/ responsibilities of military agencies in 109; constitutional/institutional changes in 99–100; control/leading of military 118; debates on integration 121–2, 129n13; Defence Act (1993) in 118; Drawsko affair 99; effectiveness of civil-military leadership in 128; impediments to reform 101–6; inefficiencies/poor management in 111–12; introduction of civilian democratic control in 98; and lack of audition schemes in 107; and lack of transparency in military procurement 108–9; and Law on Civil Service 102– 4, 105; legal-institutional reform in 98, 111; legislative/structural changes in 100–1; and membership of NATO 123–7; payment problems 104–5; political scandals in 99; preparation for integration 122–3; procurement/ corruption in 107–11, 112; proposed military transformation in 119, 121, 129n10; remaking/civilianisation of MoD 98, 99–107; and reorientation of military elite 127–8; restrictions on civilian control in 97; shared responsibility in 98; structural/organisational reforms of military in 97–8, 111; subjective obstacles to civilian experts 105–7; tensions in 119–20; type of relationships in 120; weakness of civilian influence in 112; Zabinsky Commission 99
Index 277 Popescu, M. 32 Popper, K. 237–8 Pozsgai, I. 116 Prentice, E. 51 press: freedom of 11; general 27, 30miliary 132, 145 Przeworski, A. et al. 92 Putin, V. 63, 64 Rapid Reaction Force (EU) 208 Reinhardt, C. 228 Rieger, M. 217, 222, 223, 232 Rinser, L. 222 Rioufol, I. 188 Roman, P. 29 Romania 242, 246, 247; acquisitions/ property management (APM) in 21, 22–3, 24–5, 33; and armaments– industry–intelligence triad 23–4; attempts/failures at reform in 23–5; background 21–30; civil–military debate 30–2; civilian as head of armaments department in 26; creation of Acquisitions Integrated Management System (AIMS) IN 25–7, 34n1; and decentralisation of acquisition process 23; Defence Integrated Planning Directorate (DIPD) 26, 34n2; and democratic civil control 23; democratically elected parliament in 28; domestic use of military in 33–4; economic interests/ legacy power-privilege networks in 23–5; greater transparency in 26; legal framework in 28–9; military tradition/ internal security missions in 27–8; Ministry of National Defence (RMND) 23, 26–7, 30–3; mobilisation of army during miners’ protest (1999) 27; oppressive regime in 21; partisan political influence in 24; Pascu-Maior reforms in 25–7; political crisis/ miners’ protests in 29–30; procurement/supply scandals in 24; and protection of defence industry 24; Programming, Planning, Budgeting and Evaluation System (PPBES) 26; Regional Center for Defence Resources Management 26; Romanian armed forces (RAF) 26, 27–8; security sector institutions in 22; semipresidential system in 21; state of emergency in 32;Supreme Defence Council (CSAT) 22, 27, 28, 29, 30, 32
ROMTECHNICA 27 Rose, J. 218, 227; assignments/ reassignments 229–30; mediating/ enforcing interventions against 228–9; question concerning conscription 226–7; sanctions against 227–8 Rössler, T. 220 Rozbicki, W. 99 Rühe, V. 226, 227 Rushaylo, V. 65 Sashar, R. 49 Schärer, S. 195 Schindler, D. 201 Serbia, Republic of see Federal Republic of Yugoslavia Seville Declaration 214–15, 216n11 Shachak, Lt. Gen. 168 Sharon, A. 169, 171 Shevardnadze, President 90, 93n5 Shkidchenko, V. 65, 67, 68 Silvestri, F. 60 Simon, J. 16, 114, 119 Slavik, M. 23, 24 Slovenia 237, 242, 247; background 130–1; civil society in 130; consequences of dispute 136; Constitutional Acts (1990, 1991) 134; Decree on the Competences and Authorisations of Territorial Defence Offices (1991) 134–5; Defence Act (1991) 134, 141; democratisation process in 131; DEMOS government in 132–3; Depala Vas affair (1994) 136–45; dispute concerning competences (1993–4) 132–5; as independent state 130; institutional, economic, social reform in 130–1; key points of dispute 135; parliamentary elections in 132; political context 132– 3; president/defence minister dispute 133–5; problems of civilian democratic control 131–2 Smith, M. 214 Smolnikar, T. 136–8 Snider, D. and Carlton-Carew, M.A. 17 Soeters, J.L. et al. 243, 244 Solana, EU commissioner 56 Somalia 210 Somalia Affair 9, 17n4 Switzerland 237, 244, 246, 247, 251; and abolishment of army in 196–8, 200; and attempt to abolish armed forces by plebiscitary votes 195–9; background
278 Index 191–4; civil–military relations in 191, 196, 199–200; control of military in 193–4; and fear of political misuse of standing force in 193; features of militia in 193; formal/informal arrangements 193–4; and the ‘General’ 193, 201n6; ideal of direct democracy/ militia military 192–3; LVK in 194–5; militarisation of defence policy in 194–5; mistrust of military power in 193; organisation of state/civilian ruling structure in 192; people’s initiatives/referendums in 192, 196, 201n3, n9, n10, n11; primacy of politics over military in 197, 200; reform of military in 197–9; relative position of power of military in 191, 200n1; role of government/parliament in 192, 200n2; scandal-induced shift of controlling power in 194–5; skepticism towards military in 196–7; undermining democratic control in 193–4; ‘Switzerland Without an Army’ (GSoA) 196–7 Szandar, A. 228 Szayna, T.S. and Larrabee, F.S. 8 Szemerkenyi, R. 10, 101 Szeremietiew, R. 107–8 Taylor, B.D. 9 Tkachov, V. 64, 65 Tvrdik, J. 151, 154, 155, 156–7, 159 Ukraine 237, 246, 247; background 62–3; civil airline disaster 62, 68–9, 77; framework of reform in 69–70; function/mission of armed forces in 70–1; legislation for reform 70; Manning with Contract Servicemen (Professionalisation Programme) 70,
73–7; potential threats to 71; Professionalisation Programme 70, 73–7; programme of reform in 70–3; resources/budgets for reform 70, 72–3, 74–7; shooting-down of civilian passenger plane 63–9, 77; and state division of powers/functions 74; State Programme of Armed Forces Construction and Development (Ukraine) 69–70; State Programme for Reform and Development of the Armed Forces of Ukraine 69–73 State Programme of Transition of the Armed Forces of Ukraine 70 United Nations (UN) 208, 212, 214 UNOSOM II 210 Valera, E. de 209 Varfolomeev, O. 68 Vasile, R. 29, 32 Vasle, V. 143 Végh, F. 115, 121–2, 123–7 Villiger, K. 199 Vladescu, F. 32 von Schubert, K. 220 Wachsler, T. 121, 121–2, 129n12, n16 Walêsa, L. 99 Warsaw Pact 8, 114, 148 Watts, L.L. 24 Weber, M. 240 Western European Union (WEU) 136 Wilecki, T. 99 Wollenmann, R. 195 Xhudo, G. 50 Zadok, H. 172 Zantovský, M. 152 Zeman, M. 151
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