De Facto States: The Quest For Soverignty

De Facto States

In this new century, the relentless appeal of national self-determination has moved beyond decolonisation. A large group of de facto states, would-be sovereignties, now seek international recognition. In some cases these ‘nations in waiting’ have already established the exclusivity of their writ on the ground and wait only for the outside world to come to terms with the realities of their existence. In others, there are powerful external players who could undermine their claims on one hand or ensure their success on the other. The cases described in this book are to be found throughout the world: Abkhazia and Chechnya in the Caucasus; Kosovo, Montenegro, Republika Srpska and Transnistria in eastern Europe; Palestine and the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus in the Middle East; Somaliland in Africa and Bougainville in the Pacific. Are these isolated voices or a harbinger of things to come? Their demands for separate statehood have breached the orthodoxies of territorial integrity and eroded the taboos of secession. Other large states, such as Indonesia, Nigeria and the Sudan, also teeter on the brink of disintegration. This volume for the first time provides a comprehensive theoretical and empirical examination of a new and very significant development in the international politics of fragmentation. Tozun Bahcheli is Professor of Political Science at Kings University College, University of Western Ontario, Canada. Barry Bartmann is Professor of Political Studies at the University of Prince Edward Island. Henry Srebrnik is Professor in the Department of Political Studies, also at the University of Prince Edward Island.

De Facto States The quest for sovereignty

Edited by Tozun Bahcheli, Barry Bartmann and Henry Srebrnik

First published 2004 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 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2005. “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.” © 2004 Tozun Bahcheli, Barry Bartmann and Henry Srebrnik for selection and editorial matter; individual contributors their contribution 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. The publisher makes no representation, express or implied, with regard to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and cannot accept any legal responsibility or liability for any errors or omissions that may be made. 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 ISBN 0-203-48576-9 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-203-58221-7 (Adobe eReader Format) ISBN 0–714–65476–0 (Print Edition)

Contents

List of contributors Foreword Acknowledgements Maps Introduction: a new world of emerging states

vii ix xii xiii 1

TO Z UN BA HC HELI, BARRY BART MANN AND HENRY SREBRNIK

1 Political realities and legal anomalies: revisiting the politics of international recognition

12

BA R RY BA RT MANN

2 Republika Srpska

32

M A R I E - J O Ë L L E Z AHAR

3 Montenegro and Serbia: disassociation, negotiation, resolution?

52

P H I L I P LYO N

4 Albanian and Serb rivalry in Kosovo: realist and universalist perspectives on sovereignty

74

V J E R A N PAV L AKOVIC AND SABRINA PET RA RAM ET

5 From frozen conflict to frozen agreement: the unrecognized state of Transnistria

102

S T E V E N D. ROPER

6 Chechnya K AT H E R I N E GRANEY

118

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Contents

7 The Abkhazians: a national minority in their own homeland

143

E DWA R D M IHALKANIN

8 Under Turkey’s wings: the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, the struggle for international acceptance

164

TO Z UN BA HC HELI

9 Palestine 2003: the perils of de facto statehood

187

DA N T S C HI RG I

10 Can clans form nations? Somaliland in the making

210

HE N RY S R EBRNIK

11 Bougainville: the quest for self-determination

232

R AL P H R . P REMDAS

Conclusion: states in waiting, nations tiring of waiting

245

TO Z UN BA HC HELI, BARRY BART MANN AND H ENRY S REBRNIK

Index

257

Contributors

Tozun Bahcheli is Professor of Political Science at Kings University College (University of Western Ontario), London, Canada, where he teaches courses in international politics. He is the author of numerous journal articles and of Greek–Turkish Relations Since 1955 (Westview, 1990). During the 1995/96 academic year, Bahcheli was a Senior Fellow at the United States Institute of Peace in Washington, DC. Currently he is preparing a book on ethnic conflict in Cyprus. Barry Bartmann, Ph.D. (London School of Economics and Political Science) is Professor of Political Studies at the University of Prince Edward Island, where he teaches International Relations and Comparative Politics. He is also a member of the Graduate Faculty in Island Studies. He has published widely on issues relating to very small islands, including recently as co-author with Dr Dag Anckar, Framing an Independent Åland. Katherine Graney is Assistant Professor of Government at Skidmore College in Saratoga Springs, NY, a position held since 1999. She holds a Ph.D. in Political Science from the University of Wisconsin-Madison and has done extensive fieldwork in Tatarstan and Bashkortostan. She is currently finishing a book-length manuscript about the drive for sovereignty in Tatarstan. Philip Lyon worked as an OSCE election monitor in Montenegro and Kosovo and also served with the OSCE in Croatia. In 2002 he earned an M.A. in International Relations from the Johns Hopkins University’s School of Advanced International Studies (SAIS) and is currently completing a Ph.D. in history at the University of Maryland. His most recent publication is ‘Discord, Denial, and Dysfunction: The Serbian–Montenegrin–Kosovar Triangle’ in Problems of Post Communism. Edward Mihalkanin is an Associate Professor of Political Science and Director of the Political Science Program at Texas State University-San Marcos, Texas. He teaches International Relations and is co-author of the Historical Dictionary of Human Rights and Humanitarian Organizations, published in 1997. Vjeran Pavlakovic is currently a Ph.D. candidate in the History Department at the University of Washington. His research is centred on both historical and

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Contributors current issues of Croatian nationalism. He is the editor of ‘Nationalism, Culture, and Religion in Croatia since 1989’, issue Number 32 of the Donald W. Treadgold Papers.

Ralph R. Premdas, Ph.D. (Illinois), is Professor of Public Policy at the University of the West Indies, Trinidad and Tobago. His research focus is Comparative Ethnic Politics; multi-culturalism and migration. His publications include eighteen monographs and books, and over a hundred refereed articles and book chapters including most recently Identity, Ethnicity and Culture in the Caribbean. Sabrina Petra Ramet, Ph.D. (UCLA) is a Professor of Political Science at the Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU), Trondheim, Norway, and a Research Associate of the Science and Research Centre of the Republic of Slovenia, in Koper. She is the author of several books including Whose Democracy? Nationalism, Religion, and the Doctrine of Collective Rights in Post1989 Eastern Europe which was named an Outstanding Academic Book for 1997 by Choice magazine. Her specialties are East European affairs, religion and politics, and applied philosophy. Steven D. Roper is an Associate Professor of Political Science at Eastern Illinois University. His research focuses on parliamentary politics, regime types and conflict resolution in East Europe and the former Soviet Union. He is the author of Romania: The Unfinished Revolution (Routledge, 2000). Henry Srebrnik is a Professor in the Department of Political Studies, University of Prince Edward Island, Charlottetown, PEI, Canada. He teaches Comparative Politics and Ethnic Relations and has published extensively on the impact of nationalism and ethnically-based political conflict, especially in island societies and among diaspora peoples. He is also the associate editor of the Canadian Review of Studies in Nationalism. Dan Tschirgi, Ph.D. (University of Toronto) is currently Professor of Political Science and Chairman of the Department of Political Science at the American University in Cairo. His published works have mainly dealt with the Arab–Israeli conflict and US policy towards that issue as well as with comparative political development and political violence in developing states including such publications as The American Search for Mideast Peace and The Origins and Development of the Arab–Israeli Conflict. Marie-Joëlle Zahar is Assistant Professor of Political Science at the Université de Montréal. Her research interests and her most recent publications are centred in conflict-resolution, peacebuilding and post-conflict reconstruction. She has held a number of distinguished international research fellowships including positions at Stanford University.

Foreword De facto states and the international order John McGarry

The international system, supposedly based on a community of nation-states, is in fact an inter-state system, made up of what are frequently multi-national polities. Within these polities, different national communities may co-operate, as in Canada or the United Kingdom, but in others, including those described in this volume, they are locked in conflict. Conflict results from the capture of the state by one nation, which uses its power to oppress others, to involuntarily assimilate them, to expel them or to wipe them out. Such policies frequently provoke a secessionist response from the beleaguered minority in question. As the volume makes clear, however, the members of the inter-state system invariably oppose secession, as it is seen as threatening their fundamental interests. The right of self-determination, recognized in international law, applies only to colonies which are separated from their metropoles by salt water. It does not apply to regions of states, even when, as in some of these case-studies, the state–region relationship is as imperial and exploitative as the metropole–colony relationship. Recently, some have detected an easing in the international community’s position on secession. While only one case, Bangladesh’s secession from Pakistan, was recognized in the period between the end of the Second World War and the end of the Cold War, several new states have succeeded in joining the international state system since the 1990s. This was mainly a result of the break-up of the three communist federations of the Soviet Union, Yugoslavia and Czechoslovakia, although Eritrea and East Timor have also been accepted as independent states. Any easing, however, has been strictly limited, and we should be wary about expecting it to continue. Recognition was forthcoming in the case of the three communist federations because there was no central government willing to resist break-up. Both Prague and Moscow (eventually) assented to the break-up of Czechoslovakia and the Soviet Union. Yugoslavia, as the Badinter Commission pointed out, was breaking apart, i.e. it was not simply a matter of a region seceding. Even then, the Commission made clear, only Yugoslavia’s federal republics had the right to secede, and not regions within these republics, such as Republika Srspka or Kosovo. Eritrea and East Timor left with some degree of consent from the central authorities in Ethiopia and Indonesia, respectively, and both could also

x Foreword plausibly claim to be examples of decolonization rather than secession, as they had been at one time distinct colonies. There has, by contrast, been few if any recent cases, where secession has been successful, i.e. that have achieved widespread recognition against the wishes of the state’s central authorities. The situation now does not appear dramatically different from the early 1970s when Samuel Huntington warned that ‘the bias against political divorce, that is, secession, is just about as strong as the nineteenth-century bias against marital divorce’. This continuity can be seen in the consensus among international actors, including the United Nations and the European Union, that Cyprus be put together as a single state, in spite of the fact that it has been partitioned for over thirty years. It can be seen in the current international consensus that Iraq should remain united, in spite of the fact that its Kurdish minority has enjoyed de facto autonomy since 1991, that the Kurds were gassed by the Baathist regime in Baghdad, and that Kurds overwhelmingly prefer independence. It can also be seen in Kosovo, where, ironically, the international community intervened to prevent the abuse of the local population by the Serbian authorities, but nonetheless appears reluctant to sanction Kosovo’s independence from Serbia. In certain respects the ability of states to win international support against secessionists may even have been strengthened, as a result of the consequences of 11 September 2001. Chechen separatists, Mindanao separatists, Tamil separatists and Basque separatists are facing an even more hostile international environment than they did previously. De facto states are a result of a strong secessionist bid, on the one hand, and the unwillingness of the international system to condone secession on the other. They are regions which carry out the normal functions of the state on their territory, and which are generally supported by significant proportions of their population. They are not ‘de jure states’, because they are not sanctioned by the international order. Instead, other states and inter-state organizations, such as the mis-named United Nations, continue to recognize the authority of the state from which the secession occurred, even though its writ no longer runs in the breakaway region, and though its legitimacy is rejected by the region’s population. Some de facto states appear able to manage without international approval, but others suffer considerable hardship as a result of sanctions and of barriers to trade and travel. This poses Lenin’s question: what is to be done? For some of the cases discussed in this volume, de facto statehood is a transitional stage to full independence. It is widely accepted throughout the international order that Palestinians should have their own state. This is, after all, unfinished business from the colonial era. Montenegro will also be recognized, should its electorate choose to secede, as it is a republic of the former Yugoslavia with the same rights enjoyed by other breakaway republics, such as Croatia or Slovenia. Bougainville has managed to extract, as part of its settlement with Papua New Guinea, the promise of a referendum on independence. Others may be able to go the same route, i.e. persuade their former central authorities to accept the divorce, in which case international recognition will follow unproblematically. There is, interestingly, some emerging

Foreword

xi

evidence that states, particularly if they are liberal democracies, are no longer as prepared as they once were to retain territory against the wishes of the local population. Both Canada and the United Kingdom have recently established legal channels whereby regions may secede. Some of the others may be able to endure in their present status for a considerable time, particularly if they have support from an ethnic kin-state, as the example of the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus shows. For the remainder, all that may be on offer is re-integration. The best that can be hoped for in such circumstances is a negotiated re-entry resulting in a decentralized federal system combined with consociational power-sharing. This is what was provided to Republika Srspka under the Dayton Accords, and it is what is being offered to Turkish Cypriots under the so-called ‘Annan Plan’. It is also what the Kurds of Iraq and the Tamils of Sri Lanka are hoping for during their current negotiations, for both understand that independence is a pipedream. Federation combined with consociation may not be as satisfying as independence, but it is usually much better than what existed prior to breakaway. In fact there is much to be said for states exploring such forms of accommodation prior to secessionists bids, for they may help to prevent them arising in the first place. Not all states are likely to take such-pre-emptive action of course, and many will also continue to refuse to relinquish territory. This is why the phenomena of ‘de facto states’ is likely to remain with us, and why this volume will remain relevant for a considerable time. Kingston, Ontario March 2004

Acknowledgements

We are grateful to Rob Turner of the Weldon Library of the University of Western Ontario for his meticulous work with the maps in this volume. Tozun Bahcheli would like to thank Henry Srebrnik, David Milne, Peter Pavilionis and William Mckercher for their useful comments on his chapter on Cyprus. Barry Bartmann would like to express his appreciation to David Milne of the University of Malta for making substantive suggestions on his chapter. Henry Srebrnik would like to thank Irving Hexham at the University of Calgary for his valuable input on the chapter on Somaliland. Tozun Bahcheli is grateful for the support of his research on Cyprus by King’s University College of the University of Western Ontario, and particularly for the encouragement of Principal Gerry Killan, Dean Des Dutrizac, and Professor Hugh Mellon. We are grateful for the support of the University of Prince Edward Island, particularly Dr Richard Kurial, Dean of Arts. We also immensely appreciate the many administrative tasks which Maureen Mackay undertook with typical generosity. And we thank Sarah Murphy for her patience and diligence in the preparation of the index.

Introduction A new world of emerging states Tozun Bahcheli, Barry Bartmann and Henry Srebrnik

The late twentieth century was clearly a time when conventional notions of sovereign statehood were changing. The phenomenon of globalization along with the emergence of new regional and international regimes in virtually every dimension of traditional sovereign authority are now widely acknowledged. The post-1945 period, paradoxically, has also been one of fragmentation and disintegration. The proliferation of new states, indeed the celebration of separate statehood, has reached the most improbable corners of the world. States may be conceding large areas of exclusive competence, succumbing to new regulatory regimes and collaborating in all manner of jurisdictional authority. But, they also continue to assert their separateness, their exclusivity and their final sovereign authority in an international system predicated on the symbols and the recognition of the centrality of the sovereign state. Indeed, the appeal of sovereignty has ignited the ambitions of scores of societies for whom such a status would have once seemed both absurd and unreachable. But, as new states emerge from the detritus of empires, it has also increased the level of friction between and within states. The demise of the Soviet Union and Yugoslavia demonstrated the chaos that ensues when large states that were informed by an all-encompassing and transnational ideology collapse and leave in their wake a multitude of ethnies within complex belts of mixed population. Some of the nationalities in these multinational empires were already politically organized into legally recognizable and ethnically homogeneous territorial units that made the transition to sovereign statehood relatively easily: Lithuania and Slovenia come to mind. But others found themselves without a political status that could quickly or easily become transformed into sovereign statehood. The Abkhazians, Chechens, Ossetians and Tatars, in the Soviet republics of Georgia and Russia, were examples of such peoples: while they enjoyed a considerable legal measure of autonomy, their lands did not constitute fully-fledged union republics (as say, Uzbekhistan did) with the theoretical right to independence under the Soviet constitution – a right which, surprisingly, all the union republics were able to exercise in 1992. Yet others discovered their claim to sovereignty over all or part of what they considered their historic patrimony was contested by groups competing for parts of the same geographic areas; such was the case of the Armenians and Azeris in the enclaves of

2

Tozun Bahcheli, Barry Bartmann and Henry Srebrnik

Nagorno-Kharabakh and Nakhichevan, the Romanians and Ukrainians in Moldova and the Albanians and Serbs in Kosovo. Compounding the difficulty was the fact that virtually every group could justify its claim to some other group’s territory, or at least a portion thereof, based on their particular reading of demography, geography and history. Competing groups living in claustrophobic proximity often quarrel over the most basic definitions regarding cultural, linguistic, religious and national identity, and over core-foundation myths, historical memories, traditions and other aspects of a collective heritage. Macedonia is so diverse its very name became the term the French use for a mixed salad, while all of its neighbours have tried to define Macedonians as members of other ethnic groups – Bulgarians, Greeks and Serbs. Boundaries, no matter how skilfully drawn, still remain to some extent arbitrary and illogical. Robert Kaplan has, with a measure of exasperation, described the territorial claims of the various Balkan groups: ‘Each nation demands that its borders revert to where they were at the exact time when its own empire had reached its zenith of ancient medieval expansion.’1 Hence the forcible assimilation of minorities, or else their eviction, displacement or transfer, to create homogeneity, a brutal solution known nowadays as ethnic cleansing. The alternative, after all, might be permanent irredentist pressures on the newly-formed state’s majority, with incendiary activities culminating in further territorial re-divisions or partitions – the eventual fate, no doubt, of Bosnia-Herzegovina, since the Dayton Peace Accords have legitimized the de facto decentralization and pseudo-partition of the country. New nations are most likely to emerge when the following two factors are present: a pre-existing and defined geographic area with recognizable boundaries, one that has already obtained some form of recognition, even if at a sub-state or colonial, level; and an ethnic, religious and/or cultural sense of self-definition of the inhabitants of the territory, propelling the group in question towards the desire for independent statehood. Both of these elements can be found in, say, Bougainville, Chechnya or Kosovo, as well as ex-Soviet or Yugoslav republics such as Armenia, Lithuania and Slovenia, which successfully obtained independence with very little opposition. In such instances we have what amounts to a geographic Procrustean bed, inhabited by an overwhelming and distinct majority that is seeking sovereignty. Somewhat more problematic are those places which have never been formally subdivided and are co-inhabited by two or more identifiable groups, even when the peoples in question live within segregated enclaves and communities, in a checkerboard or fruitcake pattern. Most of these are post-colonial states, such as Guyana, Trinidad and Fiji, where the composition of the population was altered fairly recently through the sponsored settlement of transplanted labourers by the colonial rulers; but similar states exist where communities have been intermingled for centuries, as in the case of Bosnia-Herzegovina, Lebanon and Sri Lanka. Pre-1963 Cyprus and pre-1948 Palestine also fit this definition, though both were eventually partitioned, despite the lack of internally defined boundaries. Of course, military action, ethnic cleansing and transfer of populations occurred in such circumstances. Ireland and the Indian subcontinent are somewhat anomalous in that they fit into neither of the above categories. Colonial Ireland did have internal boundaries,

Introduction

3

namely its 32 counties, but the part that remained British, as Northern Ireland, following the granting of sovereignty to the Irish Free State in 1921, had never itself constituted a sub-national unit within those boundaries. The Ulster Protestants, a majority in the six northern counties, considered themselves ‘British’ rather than ‘Irish’ and refused to leave the United Kingdom. It was a partition, based on ethno-religious definitions, rather than secession. British-ruled India had also been an aggregation of provinces and quasi-autonomous princely states but, once again, the boundary lines drawn between India and the new entity of Pakistan in 1947 reflected the principle that religion would, where feasible, determine citizenship. This entailed the partition not just of the subcontinent, but some of the sub-units: Bengal and the Punjab were apportioned between the two new states and, in a manner that remains unresolved to this day, so was Kashmir. The least common category of countries seeking independence, a group to which Somaliland belongs, are those where there are pre-existing geographic configurations – in this case, the old British Somaliland protectorate – but few discernable cultural, ethnic, linguistic or religious differences, the usual markers hiving one group off from another, between those wishing to secede and those in the state being divorced. Still, Amitai Etzioni has drawn our attention to the fact that quite subtle differences in geography, religion and culture ‘can be fanned into new separatist movements’.2 ‘Ethnic conflict does not require great differences; small will do’, adds Daniel Patrick Moynihan.3 It is the group’s own psychological perceptions and preferences, and not tangible attributes such as racial characteristics, which should constitute ‘the basis of their claim to have the power to decide their future course’.4 Perhaps all that is necessary is that the group constitutes a ‘politically coherent’ community.5 The clans in Somalia, for instance, effectively correspond to ethnies, and are the primary locus of allegiance. The Fijians, the Germans and the Scots, in earlier periods of their histories, all had political structures resembling those of the Somalis. Though they shared common characteristics, considered themselves related, and were at various times united under the banner of a single leader in order to battle invaders from outside, yet they also engaged in warfare amongst themselves. Culture and ethnicity, as David Brown observes, have in the past often been ‘relegated to the status of epiphenomena’ by many political scientists and economists, regarded as merely part of the ‘superstructure’ of given societies rather than as an engine of change.6 Providing non-sovereign ethnic communities with political legitimacy, it was felt, would undermine international stability by encouraging small peoples to seek statehood. Many, notes Uri Ra'anan, were enamoured of sheer size, which they equated with efficiency and viability. Because it appeared axiomatic that large territorial units would prove more competent and effective members of the international community, they persuaded themselves that large political states, however arbitrary their frontiers, would evolve into nation states.7 Their model was the western European nation state, which over the generations had successfully assimilated – so they assumed – the various minority groups that

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Tozun Bahcheli, Barry Bartmann and Henry Srebrnik

inhabited its territory. The process undergone by Europeans would presumably be repeated elsewhere. They were, of course, proved wrong. Where ethnicity and nation do coincide, and the state becomes the embodiment of the national group, nationalism and patriotism reinforce each other. In these happy circumstances, ‘civic’, ‘political’ and ‘territorial’ nationalism converge with ‘ethnic’, ‘integral’ and ‘organic’ nationalism. Yet all but some 15, at most, of the world’s 194 states are multi-ethnic states; indeed, in almost one-third of these, the largest ethnic group does not even constitute a majority. As Walker Connor notes, ‘The political borders of states have been superimposed upon the ethnic map with cavalier disregard for ethnic homelands.’8 In such heterogeneous entities loyalty to one’s ethnie has usually remained more important than allegiance to state structures whose boundaries were imposed through war, conquest or colonization, and which are therefore dismissed as ‘artificial’; this is especially true if the state is controlled by one nationality which discriminates against other groups who are ostensibly compatriots. Most countries in the world are ‘little empires, where one dominant ethnic group imposes its imperium [authority] in varying degrees of harshness upon the unfortunate weaker neighbours that happen to live within the same political boundaries’.9 This is particularly true in what Samuel Huntington calls ‘cleft’ states, that is, countries which are not just multi-ethnic but which bestride the fault lines between religious-cultural civilizations: examples include the Sudan, Nigeria, Cyprus, India, Sri Lanka, the Philippines and Malaysia. The former USSR and Yugoslavia, and Ethiopia before the secession of Eritrea, were cleft countries unable to survive their very deep cleavages.10 Tonya Langford has described Somalia as ‘the quintessential case of state failure: a fractured society with weak and often no connections to the body politic suffering under authoritarian rule’.11 Of course Somalia is not unique in this regard. It falls within the pessimistic framework espoused by John Comaroff when he refers to ‘a world map with spreading gray areas, in which no identifiable political community exists at all’ and where power has been appropriated by local warlords or pre-state chieftains12 who, as Paul Rich points out, ‘represent desperate and militarised fragments of societies’.13 Benjamin Barber maintains that in such heterogeneous regions, ‘the real players are not nations at all but tribes, many of them at war with one another’.14 Rich defines failed states as those with only ‘juridical’ legitimacy within the international framework of states but with no ‘empirical’ legitimacy – that is, ‘its ability to secure its authority at the local level’.15 Joel Migdal has determined that most Third World states have been ‘on the low end of a spectrum of capabilities’, especially in their ability to regulate social relations and make use of resources. The state’s drive for social control ‘has stalled in many countries because of tenacious and resilient organizations scattered throughout their societies’, where ethnic and linguistic fractionalization remains high. States find themselves ‘at loggerheads with kinship and ethnic groups and others’, often led by ‘strongmen’.16 Mehran Kamrava cites religion, kinship and tribe, all of which may serve as a strong base of heritage and identity, and as a source of protection for its members, being ‘the prime focus of social interaction and cultural expression’ in such countries,

Introduction

5

and thus instrumental in undermining the growth of a unified political culture. A regime may be accepted on the surface, but in reality may not be able to compete with ideologies that give pre-eminence to religion or ethnic nationalism. Since a supportive political culture is, Kamrava notes, the ‘transcendental link that binds state and society together’, a mismatch between the formal political institutions and the underlying culture of a society may result in a ‘soft’ or unstable state, one given to ‘personalist’ and patrimonial politics, rife with corruption, nepotism and patronage, and therefore lacking in legitimacy. Such systems, often imposed from the outside and not normatively backed by an indigenous political culture, have time and again, regardless of their ideological pedigrees, failed to provide a framework for good governance or sustainable economic development.17 Many of these states are little more than notional entities, and some have imploded and have ceased to exist except as legal fictions: examples include Angola, Congo, Liberia, Sierra Leone and, of course, Somalia. When the state becomes little more than a hollow shell, other forms of collective identity provide the infrastructure for survival, notes William Zartman, and there is usually a retreat to ethnic nationalism ‘as the residual, viable identity’.18 A complete ‘descent into statelessness’ may result in smaller-scale, family bonds assuming great importance, according to Julia Maxted and Abebe Zegeye. ‘The use of kinship in a political context acts as compensation against the weakness or incapacity of state institutions to protect citizens and advance their interests.’19 As Pierre van den Berghe has noted, ‘ethnic sentiments are primordial, ineradicable, and ancient, since ethnicity is, in the last analysis, kinship writ large’.20 In such circumstances, writes David Carment, ‘there are clear competitive advantages attached to an ethnic identity’ as a basis for collective action.21 Where loyalty to the state and the ethnically-based nation are perceived as being in irreconcilable conflict, nationalism typically proves the more potent. Robert Cooper and Mats Berdal remind us that the ‘voluntary acceptance of majority decisions implies a strong sense of common destiny’, which presupposes a political community to which everyone belongs.22 After all, one basic definition of nationhood is the notion that a people share at least a minimal sense of common fate and destiny, and that when one part suffers, others empathize. Yet in most of the case studies in this book, we find that the regimes in power exhibited a complete lack of concern for the suffering of those groups that eventually decided to secede and form their own polity; indeed, many rulers attempted to crush secessionist movements through sheer military force. This has certainly been true for the behaviour of the Russians in Chechnya, the Serbs in Kosovo, the Georgians in Abkhazia and the Papuans in Bougainville. What overarching set of national myths could provide any sense of cohesion following such bloodletting? Typically, dominant ethnic elites use the power of the state to their own advantage, and rarely are the fruits of development distributed equitably. Groups totally excluded from power in a state usually find themselves with only two options: ‘either overthrow the ruling group and seize power themselves, or secede’.23 Obviously, most ethnically or religiously distinct minority peoples will chose the latter course of action, so, as John Chipman indicates, the first act of liberated

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groups is often ‘to seek some permanent escape from the state they see as having oppressed them’.24 As a result, demands by subordinate ethnic communities range from full independence to autonomy, local political control, language and religious rights, and control of land, resources and economic development. Arguments for independence by those wishing to withdraw include claims of ‘unjust incorporation, drastic oppression and/or severe economic discrimination by the mother state’.25 Ethnic groups struggling for independent statehood or attempting to wrest disputed territories from rival claimants have found it advantageous to solicit support from kith and kin abroad, in particular from those compatriots now living in diasporic communities in countries such as Canada, the United States and Britain. Diaspora communities, ‘rather than fading away as anomalous anachronisms of the past’, write Yossi Shain and Martin Sherman, ‘appear to be not only an endemic feature of the international system, but a pivotal element in comprehending the direction of present and future trends in it’.26 As Mary Kaldor has observed, ‘Many nationalist movements rely on diaspora support, especially in North America and Australasia, where ethnic immigrants have retained and indeed reinvented their identity.’27 Pluralistic, democratic countries allow great scope for pressure from organized interest groups in the formulation of foreign policy. The US, in particular, has a very diffuse political system; in contrast to most countries, foreign policy is not just the preserve of the executive branch and professional bureaucracy, but is also constitutionally subject to input and oversight by Congress. These legislators are, naturally, particularly attentive to the concerns of their constituents. This provides great opportunity for lobbying by demographically concentrated, relatively wealthy and politically influential ethnic groups. American Armenians, Greeks and Jews, in particular, have sought support for embattled co-religionists in Nagorno-Kharabakh, Cyprus and Israel/ Palestine. Given their fewer numbers and political clout, Azeris, Palestinian Arabs and Turks, on the other hand, have found themselves on the short end of this particular stick. Of course, as Lea Brilmayer writes, ‘every separatist movement is built upon a claim to territory, usually based on an historical grievance, and that without a normatively sound claim to territory, self-determination arguments do not form a plausible basis for secession’.28 All of the peoples described in this book have passed that test. Each of these unrecognized states has become what Alexis Heraclides calls a ‘separate society’, that is, ‘one whose members are convinced that self-rule would result in far greater justice and equality’ than continued allegiance to the previous unified state, and who consider the territory in which they live ‘as having historical roots and being viable as an independent state’.29 The international community still frowns on the principle of self-determination being invoked by what it considers ‘disaffected minorities within states’30 and the UN (United Nations) remains stubbornly wedded to a position of restoring such fractured states as Cyprus and Somalia. Still, much has changed with the end of the Cold War. More than 20 new countries emerged in the 1990s as ‘successor states’ to former ‘empires’ such as the Soviet Union and Yugoslavia, and many

Introduction

7

others are trying to follow the same path. The latest entity to join the world community, which now counts 194 sovereign states, is East Timor, which extricated itself from Indonesian domination in 1999. Donald Horowitz emphasizes that with the breakup of Czechoslovakia, Ethiopia, the Soviet Union and Yugoslavia in the 1990s, ‘there has been a sharp change in the willingness of Western states to recognize secessionists’. He contrasts these events with the non-recognition of Biafra in 1968, when, despite the great sympathy the Igbos received in their attempt to break away from a repressive Nigerian state, western capitals remained steadfast in their adherence to the then-established international law doctrine ‘forbidding recognition of secessionist units whose establishment is being resisted forcibly by a central government’.31 Ali Mazrui has argued that the independence of Eritrea in 1993 might be the start of a redrawing of African maps. He calls that event the breaking of the postcolonial ‘taboo of officially sanctioned secession’, which had survived previous attempts at separation by breakaway movements in Nigeria, Sudan and Zaire, for example. In the future, he argues, ethnic self-determination will result in smaller, more homogeneous states.32 Michael Chege has recommended to the Organization of African Unity (OAU) that it accept this new reality: ‘There is nothing remiss about altering state frontiers in the nobler interests of domestic tranquility and sustained economic growth.’33 Dozens of the world’s smallest and weakest colonial territories now raise their flags in the United Nations Plaza and negotiate their own terms of engagement with the most powerful state and intergovernmental players in the system. The successful demonstration of this global devolution has emboldened peoples who have seen themselves trapped in the borders of an alien state. These are not salt-water colonies and claims for self-determination are far more difficult when pitted against the equally sacrosanct principle of territorial integrity. Nonetheless, as the collapse of the Soviet Union so dramatically illustrates, empires can be contiguous land masses and their captive peoples moved by the same sense of separate destiny as far-flung societies in maritime imperial systems. The closing years of the twentieth century were witness to a liberation of those ambitions in lands where the doctrine of territorial integrity would surely have precluded such claims only a few decades earlier. The fate of the Baltic states, for example, is just such an example of the prevailing orthodoxy of territorial integrity. While the plight of these states was viewed with enormous sympathy in the Western world, even to a refusal to acknowledge the legality of their incorporation into the Soviet Union, the notion of separate independence received only lip service among their erstwhile allies in the West. Even in the last hours of the unraveling of the modern Russian empire, George Bush, then president of the United States, still obsessed with the need to preserve the integrity of the Soviet Union, and with it the authority of Mikhail Gorbachev, urged the Baltic peoples to temper their demands and to seek accommodation within their fated destiny. Similarly, save perhaps for Germany, Western powers attempted to coax the unhappy peoples of Yugoslavia from abandoning their federal state. In some cases the appeal was laced with threats of exclusion from Europe’s family table should they insist on pursuing their separatist aspirations.

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All of this is behind us now. The map of the Eurasian continent has been dramatically altered with the emergence of so many new states, all of them determined claimants from the carcasses of exhausted imperial/federal states. This phenomenon has not been confined to the voluntary disintegration of the Soviet Union or Czechoslovakia or the wars of the former Yugoslavia. There are other national peoples, even within the rump successor states themselves, who are moved by the successful demonstration effect of secession. Indeed, the post-Soviet republics might be likened to Maryushka dolls, containing increasingly diminutive nations within each stage of imperial disrobing. Nor is this process confined to the dismantling of the huge Russian Empire, the last of the great European imperial systems. It was evident in Ethiopia with the final victory of the Eritreans, and it is a powerful force in Cyprus, Palestine and Western Sahara. Should not governments in the post-Cold War era adopt ‘a broader and less alarmist view of self determination’?34 At some point, argues Jeffrey Herbst, the reality of disintegrating, dysfunctional states stands in such contrast to the legal fiction of sovereign states ‘that experimentation with regard to new states is in order’. Alternatives to an ‘old, failed political order’ must be discussed.35 Maybe that is why many of the states in this volume, though still denied recognition, do seem to have won for themselves ‘a degree of toleration’ and ‘limited accommodation’ from the members of international society.36 After all, as Chaim Kaufmann put it, sometimes ‘separation is the worst solution, except for all the others’.37 The seemingly relentless appeal of national self-determination, and the demands for separate statehood, have breached the orthodoxies of territorial integrity and eroded the taboos of secession. In all of this, conventional notions of recognition are central to the status of these de facto players in the global system. To what extent is formal recognition still relevant in addressing the place and the fate of these disputed entities within the global system? In some cases these ‘nations in waiting’ have already established the exclusivity of their writ on the ground and wait only for the outside world to come to terms with the realities of their existence. In others, there are powerful and sometimes mischievous external players, which could undermine their claims on one hand or ensure their success on the other. Unrecognized states were barely known in the early post-Second World War years, though separatist movements were common enough. The case of Japanese client-state Manchukuo, in the 1930s, seemed to prove the rule that gatecrashers could never succeed in breaching the formidable codes of the international system. Yet while there is still a determined effort to withhold recognition from such pretender states, there is today also an acknowledgement that this is a phenomenon that can be neither ignored nor dismissed. Clearly, with only a few European dependencies left, self-determination has moved beyond decolonization and reality is forcing the international community to revisit this complex matter. Other large states, such as Indonesia, Nigeria and the Sudan, also teeter on the brink of disintegration. All of the cases described in this book challenge long-held assumptions regarding the application of the right of self-determination and the nature

Introduction

9

of sovereignty. This volume, then, is an examination of this most timely and pressing subject, a comparative analysis of a new and very significant development in the international politics of fragmentation.

Notes 1 R. Kaplan, Balkan Ghosts: A Journey Through History (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1993), p. 57. 2 A. Etzioni, ‘The Evils of Self-Determination’, Foreign Policy, 89 (1992/93), p. 27. 3 D. Moynihan, Pandaemonium: Ethnicity in International Politics (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994), p. 15. 4 V. Nanda, ‘Self-Determination Under International Law: Validity of Claims to Secede’, Case Western Reserve Journal of International Law, 13, 3 (1981), p. 276. 5 W. Ofuatey-Kodjoe, The Principle of Self-Determination in International Law (New York: Nellen, 1977), pp. 156–59. 6 D. Brown, ‘Ethnic Revival: Perspectives on State and Society’, Third World Quarterly, 11, 4 (1989), pp. 1–3. 7 U. Ra'anan, ‘The Nation-State Fallacy’, in J. Montville (ed.), Conflict and Peacemaking in Multiethnic Societies (Lexington, MA: Lexington Books, 1991), p. 11. 8 W. Connor, ‘The Impact of Homelands Upon Diasporas’, in G. Sheffer (ed.), Modern Diasporas in International Politics (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1986), p. 20. 9 G. Van Cleemput, ‘Clarifying Nationalism, Chauvinism and Ethnic Imperialism’, International Journal on World Peace, 12, 1 (1995), p. 67. 10 S. Huntington, The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1996), pp. 137–8. 11 T. Langford, ‘Things Fall Apart: State Failure and the Politics of Intervention’, International Studies Review, 1, 1 (1999), p. 61. 12 J. Comaroff, ‘Ethnicity, Nationalism and the Politics of Difference in an Age of Revolution’, in E. Wilmsen and P. McAllister (eds), The Politics of Difference: Ethnic Premises in a World of Power (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), p. 173. 13 P. Rich, ‘Warlords, State Fragmentation and the Dilemma of Humanitarian Intervention’, Small Wars and Insurgencies, 10, 1 (1999), p. 79. 14 B. Barber, Jihad vs. McWorld: How Globalism and Tribalism are Reshaping the World (New York: Ballantine Books, 1996), p. 8. 15 See Rich, ‘Warlords’, p. 78. 16 J. Migdal, Strong Societies and Weak States: State–Society Relations and State Capabilities in the Third World (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1988), pp. 3, 32, 37, 40. 17 M. Kamrava, Understanding Comparative Politics: A Framework for Analysis (London: Routledge, 1996), pp. 43–8, 71, 175–80. 18 I. Zartman, ‘Introduction: Posing the Problem of State Collapse’, in I. Zartman (ed.), Collapsed States: The Disintegration and Restoration of Legitimate Authority (Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner, 1995), p. 1. 19 J. Maxted and A. Zegeye, ‘State Disintegration and Human Rights in Africa’, International Journal of Comparative Sociology, 38, 1–2 (1997), pp. 68, 73. 20 P. van den Berghe, ‘Denationalizing the State’, Society, 33, 2 (1996), p. 65. 21 D. Carment, ‘The International Dimension of Ethnic Conflict’, Journal of Peace Research, 30, 2 (1993), p. 138. 22 R. Cooper and M. Berdal, ‘Outside Intervention in Ethnic Conflicts’, Survival, 35, 1 (1993), p. 119. 23 G. Ayittey, ‘Obstacles to African Development’, in G. Agbango (ed.), Issues and Trends in Contemporary African Politics: Stability, Development and Democratization (New York: Peter Lang, 1997), p. 330.

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24 J. Chipman, ‘Managing the Politics of Parochialism’, Survival, 35, 1 (1993), p. 168. 25 R. McMullen, ‘Somaliland: the Next Eritrea?’, Low Intensity Conflict & Law Enforcement, 2, 3 (1993), p. 421. 26 Y. Shain and M. Sherman, ‘Dynamics of Disintegration: Diaspora, Secession and the Paradox of Nation-States’, Nations and Nationalism, 4, 3 (1998), p. 322. 27 M. Kaldor, ‘Transnational Civil Society’, in T. Dunne and N. Wheeler (eds), Human Rights in Global Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 208. 28 L. Brilmayer, ‘Secession and Self-Determination: A Territorial Interpretation’, Yale Journal of International Law, 16 (1991), p. 192. 29 A. Heraclides, The Self-Determination of Minorities in International Politics (London: Frank Cass, 1991), pp. 14, 16. 30 J. Mayall, ‘Non-Intervention, Self-Determination and the “New World Order,” ’ International Affairs, 67, 3 (1991), p. 424. 31 D. Horowitz, ‘Self-Determination: Politics, Philosophy and Law’, in M. Moore (ed.), National Self-Determination and Secession (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), p. 189. 32 A. Mazrui, ‘The Bondage of Boundaries: Why Africa’s Maps will be Redrawn’, in The Future Redrawn: 150 Economist Years, supplement to The Economist, 11 September 1993, p. 28. 33 M. Chege, ‘Remembering Africa’, Foreign Affairs, 71, 1 (1991/92), p. 153. 34 M. Halperin and D. Scheffer with P. Small, Self-Determination in the New World Order (Washington, DC: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, 1992), p. 46 35 J. Herbst, States and Power in Africa: Comparative Lessons in Authority and Control (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000), pp. 266, 269. 36 S. Pegg, International Society and the De Facto State (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 1998), pp. 98, 198. 37 C. Kaufmann, ‘Possible and Impossible Solutions to Ethnic Civil Wars’, International Security, 20, 4 (1996), p. 170.

References Ayittey, G., ‘Obstacles to African Development’, in G. Agbango (ed.), Issues and Trends in Contemporary African Politics: Stability, Development, and Democratization (New York: Peter Lang, 1997), pp. 321–35. Barber, B., Jihad vs. McWorld: How Globalism and Tribalism are Reshaping the World (New York: Ballantine Books, 1996). Brilmayer, L., ‘Secession and Self-Determination: A Territorial Interpretation’, Yale Journal of International Law, 16 (1991), pp. 177–202. Brown, D., ‘Ethnic Revival: Perspectives on State and Society’, Third World Quarterly, 11, 4 (1989), pp. 1–17. Carment, D., ‘The International Dimension of Ethnic Conflict’, Journal of Peace Research, 30, 2 (1993), pp. 137–50. Chege, M., ‘Remembering Africa’, Foreign Affairs, 71, 1 (1991/92), pp. 146–63. Chipman, J., ‘Managing the Politics of Parochialism’, Survival, 35, 1 (1993), pp. 143–70. Comaroff, J., ‘Ethnicity, Nationalism and the Politics of Difference in an Age of Revolution’, in E. Wilmsen and P. McAllister (eds), The Politics of Difference: Ethnic Premises in a World of Power (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), pp. 162–83. Connor, W., ‘The Impact of Homelands Upon Diasporas’, in G. Sheffer (ed.), Modern Diasporas in International Politics (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1986), pp. 16–46. Cooper, R. and Berdal, M., ‘Outside Intervention in Ethnic Conflicts’, Survival, 35, 1 (1993), pp. 118–42. Etzioni, A., ‘The Evils of Self-Determination’, Foreign Policy, 89 (1992/93), pp. 21–35.

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Halperin, M. and Scheffer, D. with Small, P., Self-Determination in the New World Order (Washington, DC: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, 1992). Heraclides, A., The Self-Determination of Minorities in International Politics (London: Frank Cass, 1991). Herbst, J., States and Power in Africa: Comparative Lessons in Authority and Control (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000). Horowitz, D., ‘Self-Determination: Politics, Philosophy and Law’, in M. Moore (ed.), National Self-Determination and Secession (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), pp. 181–214. Huntington, S., The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1996). Kaldor, M., ‘Transnational Civil Society’, in T. Dunne and N. Wheeler (eds), Human Rights in Global Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 195–213. Kamrava, M., Understanding Comparative Politics: A Framework for Analysis (London: Routledge, 1996). Kaplan, R., Balkan Ghosts: A Journey Through History (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1993). Kaufmann, C., ‘Possible and Impossible Solutions to Ethnic Civil Wars’, International Security, 20, 4 (1996), pp. 136–75. Langford, T., ‘Things Fall Apart: State Failure and the Politics of Intervention’, International Studies Review, 1, 1 (1999), pp. 59–79. McMullen, R., ‘Somaliland: the Next Eritrea?’, Low Intensity Conflict & Law Enforcement 2, 3 (1993), pp. 421–33. Maxted, J. and Zegeye, A., ‘State Disintegration and Human Rights in Africa’, International Journal of Comparative Sociology, 38, 1–2 (1997), pp. 64–86. Mayall, J., ‘Non-Intervention, Self-Determination and the “New World Order,” ’ International Affairs, 67, 3 (1991), pp. 421–9. Mazrui, A., ‘The Bondage of Boundaries: Why Africa’s Maps will be Redrawn’, in The Future Redrawn: 150 Economist Years, supplement to The Economist, 11 September 1993, pp. 28–30. Migdal, J., Strong Societies and Weak States: State–Society Relations and State Capabilities in the Third World (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1988). Moynihan, D., Pandaemonium: Ethnicity in International Politics (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994). Nanda, V., ‘Self-Determination Under International Law: Validity of Claims to Secede’, Case Western Reserve Journal of International Law, 13, 3 (1981), pp. 257–80. Ofuatey-Kodjoe, W., The Principle of Self-Determination in International Law (New York: Nellen, 1977). Pegg, S., International Society and the De Facto State (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 1998). Ra'anan, U., ‘The Nation-State Fallacy’, in J. Montville (ed.), Conflict and Peacemaking in Multiethnic Societies (Lexington, MA: Lexington Books, 1991), pp. 1–20. Rich, P., ‘Warlords, State Fragmentation and the Dilemma of Humanitarian Intervention’, Small Wars and Insurgencies, 10, 1 (1999), pp. 78–96. Shain, Y. and Sherman, M., ‘Dynamics of Disintegration: Diaspora, Secession and the Paradox of Nation-States’, Nations and Nationalism, 4, 3 (1998), pp. 321–46. Van Cleemput, G., ‘Clarifying Nationalism, Chauvinism and Ethnic Imperialism’, International Journal on World Peace, 12, 1 (1995), pp. 59–77. van den Berghe, P., ‘Denationalizing the State’, Society, 33, 2 (1996), pp. 64–8. Zartman, I., ‘Introduction: Posing the Problem of State Collapse’, in I. Zartman (ed.), Collapsed States: The Disintegration and Restoration of Legitimate Authority (Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner, 1995), pp. 1–11.

1

Political realities and legal anomalies Revisiting the politics of international recognition Barry Bartmann

The decade since the end of the Cold War witnessed a number of developments that challenge conventional norms concerning the nature and legitimacy of contemporary states. Those developments speak directly to the core assumptions and practices of international recognition. In some cases recognition is granted readily or, more typically, persistently maintained in spite of conditions on the ground which are tantamount to legal fiction. In other cases, recognition is stubbornly withheld even though the realities on the ground themselves expose the legal fictions which the international community supports in the defence of the principle of territorial integrity. We are thus faced with an absurd combination of states and would-be states existing in a legal fog: some widely-recognized states can claim only the rudimentary conditions for statehood; indeed, in some instances, even those minimal conditions seem ephemeral and random. In other cases, fullyfunctioning and self-contained states are quarantined as pariahs, excluded from the mainstream channels of international diplomacy, existing in conditions beyond the pale of normal international intercourse. In short, they have been ‘sent to Coventry’! In reviewing the developments of the late twentieth century which have raised questions about the contemporary nature of statehood, two can be said to have reinforced trends to greater universality and inclusiveness, while suggesting new perspectives on those waiting in the wings for their opportunity to be accepted as normal states in the ever-expanding network of global diplomacy. First, the process of decolonization, and particularly its extension in the late 1960s to even the smallest and most fragmentary of colonial territories, has most altered the complexion of the international system. The United Nations system is itself the most obvious and dramatic example of that change. From its beginnings in 1945, with 51 members to its present membership of 191, with the recent accession of East Timor and Switzerland, the UN reflects a dramatic shift from a largely Euro-centred state system to a genuinely universal community of states, engaged in a vast range of obligations and commitments that touch upon nearly every facet of their sovereign authority. Of course, these ties are reinforced further and often with greater depth in an astonishing number of regional agreements and institutions. The second sea-change, as it is often cited, came in the aftermath of the collapse of communism, the end of the Soviet Union, the velvet divorce in Czechsolovakia,

Political realities and legal anomalies 13 the success of Eritrean and other anti-Dergue forces in Ethiopia, and, of course, the wars of succession in Yugoslavia. In a breathtakingly short period of time a whole new group of states was introduced to swell the membership of the international system. To be sure, there was reluctance to encourage these trends, again for fear of the precedents that would be set for other restless national minorities, and indeed, perhaps for those people like the Turkish Cypriots, who had already established the realities of their statehood on the ground. For instance, at one point, the first President Bush, in contrast to long years of American moral support for the Baltic peoples, urged them to reconsider the option of full independence from the Soviet Union, a gesture of support for the increasingly beleaguered Mikhail Gorbachev.1 And European Union spokesmen warned Czech and Slovak leaders that their impending divorce could mean isolation outside the European family.2 Most significant, tensions between leading members of the European Union over a strategy of recognizing the self-proclaimed independence of former Yugoslav republics, the first cases being Slovenia and Croatia, reflected the anxieties over exactly what was being released in this post-Soviet can of worms.3 Still, in the end, new precedents for achieving statehood had been established, albeit with the democratic sanctions of free elections of governing parties committed to the independence agenda and reinforced in most cases by referenda with convincing majorities in support of separate statehood. The narrow interpretations of self-determination being granted only to colonial peoples, as outlined in General Assembly Resolutions 1514 and 1541 (1960), had suddenly given way to new possibilities for people whose links to their metropolitan centres were not those of the traditional and more familiar blue-water colonies, but rather those who were in effect challenging the identity and the international frontiers of those states from which they sought to liberate themselves. For the most part, they were eventually recognized and accepted into international councils. In any case, through international recognition of these new states the international system was expanded again and a new wave of inclusiveness stretched the parameters of the system to a point that would have been unthinkable in 1945. The very nature of the controversy over early recognition of the former Yugoslav republics reflected deep concerns over precedents set by states born out of the womb of secession. Yet, though the conventional post-war taboo against secession was breached, it was not overrun. Indeed, the conservatism of international norms on the genesis and prerequisite conditions of statehood remain powerfully formidable and consequently contradictory, inconsistent and even hypocritical. In short, the contemporary international system is one of egregious double standards. On the one hand, there is a continuing commitment to states whose legal international personality masks a general state of domestic collapse, where the writ of the state is incidental and random at best. This is particularly true in several sub-Saharan African countries where rebel armies, warlords, and in some cases foreign armies, roam over vast swathes of territory with the official state authorities confined only to the capital and adjacent areas and even then only in broad daylight.

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In cases such as the Democratic Republic of Congo, or Somalia, one is bound to go beyond the question of recognizing the legitimate government of these alleged states to raising the deeper issue of whether the state actually exists. Are such states legal fictions on international life-supports to safeguard the cardinal and sacred principle of territorial integrity, a principle particularly and frantically held by African states in recognition of capricious colonial roots, the many dangerous internal cleavages endemic in the region and the fragile basis of legitimacy, not only of so many governments but of the states themselves? Robert Jackson was one of the first scholars to attack the sacred cows of legal and diplomatic correctness in his unequivocal exposure of what he called ‘quasi-states’ or ‘pseudo-states’.4 Similarly, inspired by the work of Thomas Homer-Dixon, Robert Kaplan paints a portrait of the total collapse of governance in a string of states in his remarkable book, The Ends of the Earth.5 In all of these cases the policies of stubborn recognition of dubious, pretender or substantively non-existing states is nonetheless consistent with the spirit of inclusiveness and continued universality in the international system. But it is a policy which is at odds with its mirror image, that is the determined non-recognition of states which do meet de facto criteria, nonetheless, continue to be treated as if they did not exist or banished to a shadowy underworld of the shunned, international lepers in a world of lawful states. Moreover, a firm commitment to keep the usurpers beyond the gate is hardly consistent with patterns of greater universality and inclusiveness. Nor does it offer much prospect of conflict resolution in these cases because one partner’s status precludes the confidence, good faith and security to engage a long-term settlement. Indeed, this hardline policy of dismissing the claims of dissident peoples who see themselves trapped in the legal framework of an alien state also risks undermining the credibility of international recognition as an instrument of international order and security. It is that question to which we will return later in the discussion. First, let us consider the implications of the trends outlined thus far in this necessarily broad introduction.

Statehood: legality and legitimacy An abiding concern throughout this volume is the attendant tension between conditions of legal status, reflected in the act of state recognition, and the conditions of legitimacy of statehood, which are assumed, at least officially, in the act of recognition itself. Legal status and convincing arguments for the legitimacy of states may not always conform to the formalities of diplomatic practice for either recognized or unrecognized states, whatever private misgivings may be acknowledged in world chancelleries. In other words, members of the international community, and indeed the international community collectively, may recognize and continue to recognize in response to diplomatically correct pressures a state whose status and future is a source of deep misgivings. Similarly, there may be a reluctance to challenge those same orthodoxies of diplomatic consensus by publicly

Political realities and legal anomalies 15 acknowledging the realities so obvious in a shunned and unrecognized state. Consider the misfortune of the hapless former foreign minister for Italy, Lamberto Dini, who was forced to withdraw his acknowledgement that there were indeed two states on the island of Cyprus.6 When we speak of the legitimacy of a state in international relations we are referring to the justification for its existence in both practical and moral terms;7 that is, the credentials of statehood. In the first sense legitimacy refers to an assessment of the state’s capabilities. Can the state (or would-be state) act in the capacities normally understood to be the functions of a state? Here the emphasis is on viability: that is, ‘surviving and functioning in a changing environment’.8 The capacity to fulfill the functions of statehood can be seen as a measure of a state’s ‘survivability’. A state with intrinsic and chronic disabilities may be viewed by other members of the international system (and even by its own subjects) as an aberration likely to succumb eventually to a more rational and capable political system. Legitimacy is withheld to the extent that permanence is doubted. But the legitimacy of a state is not only a reflection of its capacities. It is also a consideration of moral justification, of its ‘right’ to a separate destiny. The justification of a state’s existence is a question of both domestic and international support. The internal basis of legitimacy reflects the extent to which the state is identified with primary community loyalties. Legitimacy is present if the state is believed to be the ‘basis of which a particular group organizes its separate and distinct existence’.9 The international judgement of a state’s legitimacy is based, in part, on an assessment of this evidence. It is also the belief that these majority sentiments can be accommodated within the framework of other principles, particularly the territorial integrity of other historical claims of other peoples and states. (Herein lies the rub for the aspiring states in this volume.) Legitimacy then is the conviction that a particular territorial community has a right to be constituted as a state and to enjoy the privileges of sovereignty and membership in the international system. Legitimacy is most convincing if the separateness of the community as a sovereign state is seen to be in accord with clear evidence of self-determination. This aspect of the legitimacy of the state is also an issue of viability. Clear domestic consensus in support of the state’s separate independence, buttressed by a favourable international climate, is particularly important in times of crisis when a state’s survival is threatened by larger interests and alternative versions of a just settlement. Of course, this is even more pressing for aspiring, unrecognized, states where the issue is not just survival but abortion. The legitimacy of the state in international relations refers, then, to the extent to which there is positive commitment to a state’s right to exist and confidence in its ability to survive, at least in the foreseeable future. The legitimate state is the state which is seen as credible, durable and authentic. In this sense, the concept of legitimacy conveys more than the acceptance derived from legal recognition, though recognition and admission to international organizations most certainly invest even the most improbable states with at least some measure of legitimacy.

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Every state jealously protects the rituals, symbols and privileges of its sovereign status. For some, the legal prerogatives of sovereignty may contribute in time to legitimacy where it is not yet confidently established. That is certainly the hope of visionary nation builders in fledgling and fragile African states. Similarly, for leaders of unrecognized states, international recognition and legal acceptance would surely reinforce the legitimacy which they believe to be the basis of their claims to separate statehood. When there are misgivings about a state’s right to exist (Macedonia, perhaps) or its likelihood of survival (the Democratic Republic of the Congo or even Iraq), a state can be said to suffer ‘a crisis of legitimacy’. In such cases, self-justification becomes a foreign-policy priority, reflecting both the lack of confidence in the state itself and the perceived scepticism or indifference of the outside world. This is all the more true for governments of unrecognized states in waiting. Behind the weakness of a state’s or would-be state’s credentials is the fear that the identity of the state will be surrendered to more persuasive claims or more expedient interests. Legitimacy is a bulwark against expendability (a major factor in the defence and rescue of Kuwait) and for the smallest and weakest states, and certainly for unrecognized states in gestation, the appeal to the legitimacy of their independence may be their only defence in the face of challenge. There is one further dimension of the legitimacy question that needs to be noted, particularly in relation to the cases in this volume: the role of external interventions in the struggle for independence and recognition. This is an issue which speaks to both the ‘consumatory’ and the ‘instrumental’ elements of Apter’s familiar elucidation of legitimacy. The active presence of foreign allies can obscure the clarity and even the authenticity of the domestic call for self-determination. At worst, the role of external allies, particularly if there is an obvious asymmetry between domestic and external forces, can cast the cause for independence as one of external fabrication and manipulation. Similarly, at the instrumental level, the struggle may be portrayed successfully in international councils as a contest between the metropolitan government and an avaricious third-party state with the domestic forces successfully marginalized to the sidelines. Because of these dangers even sympathetic allies to the independence cause are reluctant to risk the possible dangers of premature recognition if foreign forces are in the picture. Thus the most supportive allies of an independent Bangladesh initially withheld formal recognition while it appeared that Indian forces might be critical to the outcome. But Bangladesh was a case of secession, not decolonization. The same inhibitions have not been evident in those cases of decolonization where foreign troops have been in the front lines of the liberation struggle. Consider the role of Cuban forces in the Portuguese colonial territories in Africa. Indeed, a number of sympathetic African and Third World states recognized an independent Guinea-Bissau with Cuban troops active in the country, even while the Portuguese were still firmly in charge of the capital, Bissau. In the vein of the constitutive theory of recognition, it was as if this act would hasten the birth process of an independent Guinea-Bissau. But Portugal was an illegitimate occupying colonial power with no claim in the international community for the respect of its overseas territories.

Political realities and legal anomalies 17 The situation for our case studies is entirely different. None is a case of decolonization according to the language and practice of self-determination in the United Nations in the post-war period. To be sure, one can argue persuasively for a broader interpretation of ‘decolonization’ that would include the contiguous imperial expansion of Russia, for example, a colonial adventure in substance not unlike the overseas expansion of her European maritime rivals. But, fairly or not, the cases in this volume are cast within a context of secession and separatism and not decolonization. This in itself makes issues of legitimacy more pressing and more formidable. The presence of external allies remains a critical factor in some of these cases (the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, Abkhazia, the TransDniester Republic), but not a major issue in others (Somaliland, Bougainville and even Chechnya where, in spite of various volunteer Islamic insurgents, foreign troops from other states have not been involved). In summary, both the instrumental and the consumatory elements of the legitimacy question have been radically challenged by major shifts in the international system since 1945. The conventional emphasis on competence, capacity and viability, which were widely assumed to be the minimal conditions for statehood in the early post-war years, were abandoned entirely in a wave of universal inclusiveness in the latter periods of decolonization, reflected primarily in the micro-state phenomenon. Indeed, most of the unrecognized and would-be states in this volume would seem to demonstrate more convincing and more promising conditions of long-term capacity and viability than a number of the smallest states which currently sit in the General Assembly. For instance, given the dire prognostications of global climate change, the very physical existence of some of these states is under threat. There has been also a similar shift in the normative dimension of the legitimacy question which may have profound implications for the candidate states in this volume, and for those who would follow in their wake. Since 1991 the strictly narrow right to self-determination confined to the colonial territories of the European maritime powers has been breached; not without formidable resistance, to be sure, but breached nonetheless. These shifts in international norms have implications not only for the unrecognized states and subnational movements central to this discussion but also for the conventional and orthodox underpinnings of international recognition in policy and practice.

Self-determination, decolonization and the micro-state phenomenon When the great European maritime powers first contemplated the realities of post-Second World War withdrawal from their overseas territories, they understandably viewed this process as one of independence for the major peoples of the empire. After all, these were, for the most part, very large, resource-endowed territories where prospects for their viability as independent states were not in question, except for the most stubborn and reactionary soldiers of empire in the Conservative Party, Whitehall and their continental counterparts. Still, the conventional thinking of the time was that the smallest territories, those bits and

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pieces of empire which came to be known as micro-states or very small states, would likely remain permanent wards of their metropolitan centres. It was widely felt that for the smallest colonial territories perhaps continued integration with the metropolitan power was the only reasonable choice.10 Accordingly, much of the debate in the 1950s and early 1960s on the future of these diminutive entities centred on notions of viability, or rather the absence of those conditions which were deemed to lie beyond the traditional criteria for statehood in international law: a resident population, a fixed territory, a government and a capacity to engage in relations with other states. ‘Viability’ meant those conditions necessary to give full meaning to these familiar prerequisites of international law. A fixed population, for example, was understood to be a critical mass large enough to ensure that the state could indeed engage in relations with other states and, more important, be capable of undertaking those rather vague responsibilities and obligations under international law. Many of these very small territories were seen to be obviously so small that these conditions were clearly in doubt. In general in United Nations usage, very small states or micro-states, were those territories with populations of approximately one-million or less. That arbitrary classification is still widely used in the literature, though the Commonwealth employs the figure of 1.5 million, which would mean including such states as Trinidad and Tobago, and Mauritius.11 These doubts concerning the viability of very small states reflected several concerns at the time. The first of these anxieties related to their capacity to meet even the most rudimentary conditions of statehood: the capacity to ensure their own security, to establish a viable economy, to represent themselves in international affairs given the paucity of their resources and the early ceiling on qualified personnel. The second concern was one of fairness and equity: was it reasonable to grant a voice for village states in international councils equal to that of such great powers as the United States or China? Was this not a gross distortion of the principle of the equality of states? Was there not a risk of a Lilliputian majority in the General Assembly overwhelming a more genuine reflection of international opinion? Even worse, given the growing Western disenchantment with the complexion of the General Assembly at the time, was there now a danger of such an extension amplifying even further the stridently anti-Western tone in the General Assembly? Above all, did self-determination and sovereignty for such very small territories corrode the meaning of statehood itself ? For many sceptics, universality in this extreme would extend the normal understanding of a state to the limits of absurdity, and undermine the tacit assumption that there were normal dimensions of statehood rooted in the intuitive but common-sense practices of international diplomacy. Those tacit assumptions were clearly in place in 1920 when the League of Nations turned down Liechtenstein’s application for membership, in spite of Swiss sponsorship, on the grounds that the principality had deputed too many of the prerogatives of statehood in its treaty relations with Switzerland to be considered capable of exercising its obligations as a member state under the Covenant. In other words, Liechtenstein could be considered a state for some purposes (read courtly, or ceremonial or courteous) but not for

Political realities and legal anomalies 19 12

others. This was an approach taken up years later by Rosalyn Higgins in her discussion of the dilemma of dubious states and United Nations membership in her landmark work, The Development of International Law through the Political Organs of the United Nations.13 In a tone that would be echoed later by Robert Jackson, Professor Higgins insisted on ‘the importance of actual independence’ (my italics) in order to ensure the marriage ‘between law and fact’.14 The predispositions against very small states remained the same in 1945 as they had been in 1920. Luxembourg was the only very small state to be a founding Charter member. Iceland joined a year later. The other very small states remained outside the United Nations, except for some participation in the specialized agencies and eventual observer missions for Monaco, the Vatican and San Marino. This situation remained in place for 15 years, until 1960, when the great wave of decolonization began and Cyprus, Gabon and Mauritania (then with a population of less than one-million) became the first micro-states to join the United Nations since Iceland in 1946. However, the handwriting was soon on the wall. Literally scores of these very tiny territories were queuing up to take their places as recognized and fully accepted members of the United Nations system, and more broadly the full international community. In part this was due to a growing impatience in metropolitan capitals with the continued costs and responsibilities in these far flung remnants of empire, especially in Great Britain. In part it was due to the growing confidence of ever smaller territorial governments to make their way as separate independent states, inspired by the successful demonstration effect of other very small states only marginally larger than themselves. In part, too, it was a response to the growing and relentless pressure for complete and universal decolonization, whatever the obstacles, in the General Assembly and particularly the increasingly strident tone of the Committee of Twenty Four. The 1965 admission of the Maldive Islands, the first candidate state then below the unspoken 100,000 barrier, prompted the United States and Great Britain to seek assistance from the Legal Counsel to the Secretary General to explore alternatives to the micro-state question.15 Could there be a distinction between the right to statehood on the one hand, and the right to United Nations membership on the other? Could a micro-state participate for some purposes, those related to their specific and particular interests, for example, but not for others? In the end it became impossible to impose such qualifications or to resist the relentless pressure for unequivocal universality, at least for colonial peoples. Non-admission or partial admission, no matter how much the sovereignty of the micro-state was reaffirmed, was seen to be compromising both to the quality of that state’s sovereignty and, equally important, to its dignity and status. By the early 1990s the drift to inclusiveness came full circle when, exactly 50 years after the principality was turned down at the League of Nations, Liechtenstein assumed her long-delayed place as a full member of the United Nations. The other European micro-states, San Marino, Monaco and Andorra soon followed. In 1999 and 2000 the extent of this pattern was even more dramatically evident when, apart from the Vatican (admittedly, a special case),16 the smallest countries in the world, the tiny Pacific Island states of Nauru and Tuvalu with populations of only 10,000 each, the size

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of some housing complexes in any major North American or European city, joined the General Assembly as full members of the United Nations. This represents a major change in a very short period of time as to the contemporary understanding of the conditions for legitimate statehood in the international system. Statehood for Tuvalu would have seemed preposterous in the early years of decolonization. The recent efforts of the governments of Nevis ( population 9,000) and the Faeroe Islands (population 45,000), for independence from St Kitts and Denmark respectively, would have been met with disdain in both academic and diplomatic circles not so long ago. But we have now reached an understanding that there are no material conditions for statehood that could thwart the self-determination of those people seeking the acknowledgement of their own identity in the international system through international recognition and admission to the councils of the world. The notion of statehood, then, has become much more elastic and much more all embracing. Revisiting the micro-state issue is useful in the context of current issues of international recognition and the apparent contradictions therein. The debate was characterized by widespread anxiety that the familiar foundations of statehood were being eroded in deference to a universal and unequivocal commitment to self-determination, and that such erosion would have a dangerous long-term impact of the marriage of law and fact. Yet, in all but a few cases, both the analysis of the conditions of micro-states and the fears which that assessment provoked were both exaggerated and ill-founded. The nearly four-dozen micro-states that sit in the General Assembly have not undermined the authority and effectiveness of United Nations bodies. Nor have they compromised conventional conditions of statehood. Most are stable and prosperous states. Indeed, it might be argued that the conditions of statehood in most of these jurisdictions are enviable when compared to Professor Jackson’s quasi-states. Moreover, in considering the enormous challenges of national integration facing such states as the Democratic Republic of Congo, very small size might be seen to be a distinct advantage. The micro-state explosion has certainly altered the complexion of the international system. Preconditions of size and notions of viability (witness the independence of East Timor) may have been defeated by the sheer clamour of a universal call for self-determination. But one huge hurdle remains: the unqualified right of self-determination in terms of separate statehood is still a privilege exclusive to separate colonial peoples, those societies seeking liberation from metropolitan centres in blue-water relationships. It is not recognized to apply to those hapless people whose own colonization was from a contiguous eastward moving Russian empire where there were no oceans to cross. Such is the fate of the Chechens among others. Nor are there residual rights to separate statehood once a new state is recognized as a single entity whose territorial integrity must be respected at all costs, even when the integration of dissident minority peoples was fraught with controversy from the outset, such as the Papuans of West Irian in Indonesia or the Bougainville Islanders in Papua New Guinea, or when the original constitutional terms of the state collapsed, as was the case in Cyprus in 1963. In short, conditions for recognized statehood changed during the period of

Political realities and legal anomalies 21 decolonization, particularly with the abandonment of criteria of viability so evident in the micro-state phenomenon. Yet aspirations for legitimate, separate, statehood among peoples within states that are internationally recognized are still fiercely resisted in the name of the principle of territorial integrity. The changing conditions of statehood as represented in the widespread international acceptance of micro-states may be heartening on one level but also exasperating when set against the aspirations of such peoples as the Turkish Cypriots, the Northern Somalis or the Bougainville Islanders. Yet recent developments since 1991 have surely forced a reassessment of these rigidities. Or at least there may be an uncomfortable recognition that there have been some deviations from the narrow confines of self-determination for colonial peoples only, deviations which could have long-term implications for the peoples included in this volume.

New states in the post-Soviet era The collapse of the Soviet Union certainly exposed the myths of the national identity of Soviet Man. The aroused national sentiments of non-Russian peoples including Ukrainians (Little Russians in the eyes of Moscow), confirmed the realities of the Soviet experience as one of Great Russian imperialism, a colonial history not so different in substance than its European maritime counterparts. The Soviet collapse resulted in 15 independent republics, including the Russian Federation itself. However, some of these republics proved to be Maryushka dolls with dissident nations within their borders immediately asserting their own national aspirations and even establishing their own de facto states: Abkhazia, for example, in Georgia; Nagorno-Kharabakh in Azerbaijan; the Trans-Dniester Republic in Moldova and, of course, Chechnya in the Russian Federation. Of these only Chechnya came briefly to the precipice of near recognition. Indeed, Boris Yeltsin’s Human Rights Commissioner, Sergei Kovalev, who spent much of the first Chechen war in Chechnya, in 1997 described the agreement between the Russian and Chechen High Contracting Parties as one which sought to ‘establish equal relations built on commonly recognized principles and norms of international law’.17 Given the retreat of Russian troops and the consolidation of Chechen authority on the ground, it seemed likely that the final status of Chechnya, which was to be settled in 2001, would have been in accord with the language of the agreement that brought an end to the war. Tragically, the Chechens squandered their hard-won gains when leading Islamic militants among them initiated a series of attacks on villages and Russian troops in neighbouring Dagestan, with a long-term objective of establishing an Islamic state in the Caucasus. President Putin branded Chechnya a bandit republic which was harbouring terrorists and unleashed the second Chechen war with a full-scale invasion of the republic. The brutality of the second invasion aroused condemnation in the West, particularly among various human-rights groups. However, with the events of 11 September (2001), criticism of Russian activities in Chechnya

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is clearly muted as Moscow has joined in a global coalition to root out terrorism everywhere. Chechnya lies in ruins and the immediate prospects for a sovereign Chechen state seem as bleak as they have ever been; though, after hundreds of years, Chechen resistance is unlikely to wane. Resistance to Chechen independence was largely a fear that successful secession would encourage other peoples in the kaleidoscopic Russian Federation to press their claims, with unleashed forces of fragmentation spinning out of control. In multi-national states such as Russia or even India and China, and certainly Indonesia, that is a spectre for national catastrophe. The international community, then, resists any attempt to sanction self-determination through what appears to be secession from a recognized, established state. Such pressures are evident even in the case of the tiny Commonwealth Caribbean state of St Kitts-Nevis, where the 1983 constitution allows for the legal secession of Nevis should the there be a majority of 66.6 per cent in favour in a referendum. Three days before the vote in August 1998, the then Canadian foreign minister, Lloyd Axworthy, circulated an open letter among the people of Nevis urging them to vote against independence.18 Such a gesture reflects Canada’s own near-paranoid preoccupations with separatism and the dangers of successful example. In the event the yes vote fell only a few hundred votes short, a result so close that the question is likely to be revisited again.19 Consider too the case of Montenegro. Apart from Serbia itself, Montenegro, of all the former republics of Yugoslavia, was the only one to have a genuinely modern pedigree of sovereignty and statehood. Montenegro was a full member of the European state system through most of the nineteenth century and until 1918. During the Milosevic years Milo Djukanovic, Montenegro’s reformist prime minister and a staunch Milosevic opponent, was encouraged by the West to keep his distance from Belgrade. Montenegro’s economy was virtually withdrawn from Yugoslav economic space, the Deutsche Mark was the currency circulating throughout the republic and Montenegro established its own trade offices that tended to function as diplomatic missions across the Western world. Now the West is encouraging Montenegro to stay in some sort of partnership with Serbia rather make the break altogether. This new cosmetic confederation is now known as Serbia and Montenegro where each republic will continue to go its own way save for a few shared responsibilities and a common seat at the United Nations: an entity without equal in the current international system. Given Djukanovic’s long-held views on independence, a sceptic might be forgiven as viewing this arrangement as ‘playing for time’. The West will be facing an even more intractable dilemma in Kosovo. Having secured the return of the Kosovo Albanians to their homes and, in the process, encouraged the out-migration of the province’s few remaining Serbs, the West has created the foundations of an independent Kosovo state. Belgrade was promised that Kosovo would be permanently part of Yugoslavia, but once again the political realities on the ground belie such legal commitments. Like Montenegro, Kosovo has its own economic space, and with the retirement of the Deutsche Mark, widely in use there, it is now part of the Euro zone. And the Kosovo

Political realities and legal anomalies 23 Albanians are unlikely ever to relinquish their security again to the Serbs, however generously democratic, federal or confederal those arrangements might be. The cement of trust is simply not there. Commitments to respect the will of the people of Kosovo in a democratic exercise(s) then run straight into the brick wall of hasty commitments to honour the territorial integrity of Serbia. Some may hope that with the evolution of democracy in both Kosovo and Serbia, Kosovo Albanians might be persuaded to reconsider their future by maintaining constitutional links with Belgrade. More likely, and there is already some evidence for this from various voices in Belgrade, is the possibility of growing resignation to the loss of Kosovo in Serbia, an exhaustion with the Kosovo issue and even a recognition that the separation of Kosovo may be in the best long-term interests of Serbia. In all of this the sacrosanct principle of territorial integrity has been challenged, and some might argue fatally compromised, by the eventual acceptance of states where the self-determination process was the consequence of that great taboo, secession. These issues might be blurred by convoluted language; for example, it might be argued that the independence of the Baltic states was in fact an act of state restoration given the illegality of the Molotov–Ribbentrop pact. However, the reality is that the Baltic states did withdraw from the Soviet Union, the illegal agreements which led to their incorporation in 1940 notwithstanding, agreements which Mr Gorbachev himself released. In spite of the West’s refusal to accept the legality of the Baltic republics’ annexation, there was still an acknowledgement that they were functioning as integrated entities with the Soviet Union for 51 years! The situation is different in the case of Czechoslovakia, where both parties agreed to terminate their marriage, a decision which was never submitted to popular consultation. In Yugoslavia, the secession of Slovenia and Croatia was met with fierce resistance by federal troops. Their determination to leave opened the path for Bosnia-Hercegovina and Macedonia. The openly raging debate among Western governments over the recognition issue clearly reflected the concern that such precedents might have for the further fragmentation of the international system, and its consequences for international peace and security. In short, the post-Soviet experience has, at the very least, forced a reassessment of those conditions for statehood which lie at the core of the recognition question. The dismantling of the old Soviet edifice clearly did not exhaust the demands for self-determination across the vast corpus of the old superpower. Other national movements surfaced and in some cases established their writ on the ground and are continuing to function as de facto states as we speak. We have noted the same phenomenon in the former British territory of Somaliland and elsewhere. These states remain unrecognized but in control of their day-to-day circumstances. Second, the post-Soviet experience has admitted a crack in the stalwart defence of the principle of territorial integrity and the unflinching resistance to any form of separatism or secession. In the first 45 years of the post-Second World War era there was only one case of successful secession: Bangladesh. And there the circumstances were extraordinary and even absurd given the geopolitical nightmare of the original separation of the two parts of Pakistan. In Biafra, attempts to win

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support for the fledgling Ibo state failed when, apart from a handful of sympathetic African leaders, the international community rallied around the Federal Government in its efforts to protect the territorial integrity of Nigeria. Even in the case of South Yemen, which had existed as a separate state for 23 years, attempts to restore its independence in 1994 were successfully put down by the government in San’a in the face of quiet international acceptance. Up until the early 1990s, then, the sanctity of territorial integrity held, and the international community rallied behind the doctrine that there was no residual right to self-determination within the internationally recognized frontiers of existing states. The first significant challenge to that consensus came with the independence of the Baltic states, and particularly with the new realities in the former Yugoslavia. It is against the backdrop of these changing perspectives on the nature of the contemporary state, the rights of self-determination and the values and purposes of recognition or non-recognition, that the international status of the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, perhaps the most familiar unrecognized state, should be re-visited.

The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC) is the longest established de facto state considered in this volume, and as such warrants particular attention given the larger issues discussed thus far. The political realities on the ground in Cyprus are those of a separate democratic state functioning on a day-to-day basis without any reference to the authorities in the south. For 20 years this state has met its obligations to its citizens, albeit under very difficult conditions of boycott and international isolation. Every election indicates that the TRNC is generally meeting the expectations of its people, allowing freedom for issues of opposition and division across the political spectrum. In short, the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus is no Manchukuo. Ever since the Lytton Commission’s report in 1932, international jurists, diplomats and scholars have referred to the Manchukuo case as a guide in determining the extent of credible and genuine sovereignty and, conversely, those conditions which make a mockery of such pretensions, thereby establishing credible norms for the recognition of international legal personality.20 Unlike Manchukuo, or indeed, unlike Transkei, Northern Cyprus was not a fabrication of the Turkish government. Ministers and government officials of the TRNC are not appointed by Ankara. Disagreements between representatives of the TRNC and the government in Ankara are not uncommon. The TRNC enjoys what Alan James, in his classic work on sovereign statehood, has called ‘constitutional self-containment’, the notion that the state is not constitutionally bound to any higher authority than that of its own constitution.21 These are crucial distinctions in assessing whether a state is a puppet-state or not. In the case of Transkei and the other Bantustans, statehood was a cosmetic contrivance designed and put in place by the government of South Africa, directly funded by that government and often manned by South African officials in so-called Transkei positions. This is not so to say that a state which is constitutionally

Political realities and legal anomalies 25 self-contained must also be effectively independent. If that were the case most of the nations that sit in the General Assembly would have their credentials cast into doubt, including Canada whose security provisions, foreign investment and trade are almost exclusively with the United States. Professor Higgins notwithstanding, effective independence is not a prerequisite for sovereignty. It is patently the case that the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus is necessarily hugely dependent on Turkey for its military security, its trade links to the outside world and many of its basic supplies. But this is the consequence of international opprobrium and boycott, not the imperial and hegemonic designs of Turkey. The presence of such a large Turkish military force is often cited to undermine the credibility and the legitimacy of the TRNC. No doubt in negotiations these numbers might well change. There is also little doubt, however, that there is considerable public support for some kind of ongoing security presence from Turkey given their small population size vis-à-vis the Greek Cypriots. Finally, the status of the TRNC is questioned because these constitutional developments occurred in the wake of the events of 1974. Greece and the Greek Cypriots portray the Turkish intervention as an invasion that resulted in ethnic cleansing and eventually de facto partition. In this view the Turkish presence on the island is presented as the real foundation for a separate Turkish state in the north. Thus, for Greek Cypriots the events of 1974 mark the beginning of the Cyprus crisis. In their view it was in 1974 that they lost their country. From their perspective Turkish Cypriots were a small minority, not equal partners, in an otherwise Hellenic island or, as Henry Srebrnik put it recently, ‘400 year old guests’.22 For Turkish Cypriots the events of 1960 through 1974 mark the failure of the promise of a unified Cyprus, a partnership republic. And there is no security being a small minority in a state defined by a hostile majority. Entirely separate memory paths, passing each other like great liners in the night, have thus doomed any attempt to approach consensus on the future of Cyprus. In the wake of that failure only the realities of two functioning states remain, and perhaps it is time those realities were acknowledged. The Republic of Cyprus in the south is a vibrant economy whose progress since 1974 stands in sharp contrast to the deprivations in the north. But the Greek Cypriot state has not controlled the northern part of the island for nearly 30 years. Its writ does not extend an inch beyond the border, and it has no links to those people whom it proclaims as its citizens. Claims to the contrary have the hollow ring of legal fiction. The Republic of Cyprus is the south and no more. That such an entity could enter the European Union with the understanding that it speaks for the entire island and all its residents promises to be a political and administrative nightmare for European governments and officials in Brussels given the obvious yawning gap between fact and fiction, between reality and pretension, public statements to the contrary notwithstanding. Recognition of two functioning states on the island would not necessarily preclude eventual agreements that could involve a generous measure of economic and even political integration. Most states, after all, live in arrangements which the late premier of Quebec called ‘sovereignty-association’. Consider the manifold common rights of citizens in the Nordic countries who, while enjoying their

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separate status as sovereign states, nonetheless move, live and work freely around a common space, largely defined by their common patrimony in these most northern reaches of Europe. Such generous arrangements may be a very long way off in Cyprus or in other cases in this volume as they are based on confidence, trust and mutual interest established over many years. For Turkish Cypriots recognition would at least acknowledge their own historical roots on the island. They would come to negotiations confident in their status as equal parties to a settlement and not with a sense of inferiority as a minority that must accept its fate within a promised benign and tolerant state still constructed on the premises of Hellenic historic national identity. It will not be easy to discover means, however modest, whereby links between the two sides might develop on the ground. As David Milne noted in a recent discussion of possible federal and confederal solutions for Cyprus, experience in similar bicommunal conflicts elsewhere is not encouraging. ‘There is little point’, he argues, ‘in trying to reconstruct the past’. Moreover, he adds: Realism is needed to take account of the fact that the policy of non-recognition of the TRNC by the international community has not worked. No progress can be made from here unless and until the world engages with the obvious reality of a Turkish Cypriot state that has functioned now for more than a quarter of a century.23 Realism must dictate, then, not only the facts on the ground in the north, but also the moot and eclipsed claims of a single Republic of Cyprus across the island. The recurring reality in international politics is that few situations can be confidently predicted as permanent, including frontiers and the terms of international legal identity. Who would have imagined in 1914 that the great Austro-Hungarian Empire would be lying in ruins five years later never again to see the light of day? Even more dramatically, who could have imagined with the success of its pioneering space programme, that little more than 30 years later, this huge superpower, the Soviet Union, would no longer exist? Nothing is cast in stone and all of the wishful thinking and the neglect of uncomfortable realities can’t make it so. It is difficult to imagine that, as with Humpty Dumpty, the 1960 republic of Cyprus can be put back together again. No amount of positive thinking will reverse the fact that the Republic was a victim of cradle death, surviving in its original construct only for a few years in its infancy. Similarly, no amount of shunning will force the Turkish Cypriots to renounce their status as a national people and timidly accept their fate as a minority within a fictional state that the international community insists is the legitimate reality, contrary to all the evidence.

Conclusion Where do the dilemmas surrounding this growing lobby of unrecognised states, not to mention the scores of similar movements in the wings, some of them in decades-old struggle, stand in the context of the nuanced issues of legality and

Political realities and legal anomalies 27 legitimacy raised at the outset of the discussion and, more particularly, the major shifts in the post-Second World War international system in the wake of unbridled decolonization and, with its exhaustion, the redirection of the forces of self-determination, now secessionist, to established recognized states? All unrecognized states remain illegal personalities in the eyes of the organized international community. Their plaintive claims are received by most other states as matters of domestic conflict to be resolved within the parameters of the sovereign authority of the challenged state. Even those peoples with a powerful longstanding and culturally-rich historic identity, such as the Tibetans, are not able to penetrate the rigidities of diplomatic orthodoxy, even with an enormous army of dedicated and zealous supporters campaigning around the world. Even Taiwan, admittedly compromised in part by its determined stance as ‘The Republic of China [ROC], the fifth largest economy in Asia’24 now a well-established democracy, and a formidable military power in the region, exists in the shadowy world short of normal diplomatic intercourse, with ostensibly commercial delegations serving as diplomatic outposts in Taipei, a few well-touted ROC embassies in a handful of lonely very small capitals abroad and, more significantly, defence agreements with the United States that seem to defy all the other internationally imposed terms of the outcast. In short, unrecognized entities, are forced to demur to the prevailing criteria of legality in the international system’s current terms for acceptable conditions of statehood, criteria which, above all, seek to honour the respect for existing recognized frontiers (read independence and non-intervention) and the sanctity of territorial integrity. There is no ambiguity in their legal position as they confront the formidable common front of the organized international system, where even potentially sympathetic states are reluctant to break ranks. As we noted at the outset, the issues of legality and legitimacy are inextricably intertwined, there are yet important distinctions between the two concepts. States may be accepted as wholly legal international personalities and function as such while legitimacy is withheld by a vast majority of the population at home as well as among officials and public opinion abroad. Such was the case for apartheid South Africa for many years and particularly during the latter period of selective punitive measures both symbolic and substantive. Similarly, some currently unrecognized states, while gatecrashers should they attempt to access the normal channels of diplomatic exchange, nonetheless may count on a considerable measure of sympathy and genuine support among neighbouring and ethnic or confessional confrère states not yet ready to risk the international opprobrium of diplomatic isolation.25 It can be assumed, for example, that among Islamic states there is instinctive support in the street, and even among cautious government ministers, for the plight of such outcast peoples as the Chechens. It would not be rash to make similar assumptions concerning the Melanesian neighbours of Bougainville. And in the case of Somaliland, relatively free trade access in spite of diplomatic isolation, however clandestine, has bolstered a stable economy, enviable in the Horn of Africa. To illustrate the ambiguities of what constitutes a legitimate claim to statehood, and how those claims might open the doors to legal recognition, consider the truly

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aberrant case of Western Sahara or the Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic (SADR) which claims to be the successor state to the Spanish Sahara abandoned by Madrid in 1975. By all practical measures for recognition the case for the SADR appears wanting: there is no Sahrawi presence on the ground behind the huge wall of sand which the late King Hassan built to protect himself against an increasingly effective Polisario guerilla force and to secure the population of the contested territory, now primarily Moroccan immigrants. The original Sahrawi population with the infrastructure and goverment of their state is based in a refugee camp in Tindouf across the Algerian border. And yet Western Sahara is recognized by some 70 states and is a member of the African Union! Indeed, at the founding of the African Union, Sahrawi President Mohammad Abdelaziz was named one of the five vice-presidents of the new body.26 That this untypical legal overstretch has been achieved in spite of the realities on the ground speaks to the enormous advantages in the Sahrawis’ kit bag of legitimacy arguments: Spanish Sahara was a clearly separate colonial territory and therefore in keeping with United Nations doctrine and practice on decolonization subject to separate independence; many subsequent resolutions in the General Assembly reinforced those arguments; the visits of Olof Rydbeck, as the Secretary-General’s mediator to Sahrawi and Polisario representatives in the Sahara and Tindouf confirmed, both the Sahrawi desire for independence and Moroccan obstructionism were clear; and the ICJ decision, which King Hassan had initiated, concluded that there were no historical legal ties between the Sahrawis and the Sultans of Morocco or the Mauritanian entity, and certainly none which could approximate obligations of sovereignty. Western Sahara remains a case where issues of legality and legitimacy are blurred, an international personality which seems to be half in and half out of a network where full diplomatic acceptance can open nearly ever door to full participation in the global state system. In returning to the opening remarks of this discussion concerning the legal status and legitimacy conditions for states, how might the inherent assumptions of these principles affect future developments for the unrecognized states in this volume, particularly in light of the changes in international norms outlined in the body of the discussion? Crucial here are issues of legitimacy for these issues, particularly when wedded to a final resigned recognition of the realities on the ground, are those that are likely to determine the prospects for unrecognized states. As suggested earlier, the universal acceptance of even the smallest and most fragile of micro-states has put to rest material viability as a condition for statehood. There can be no convincing arguments that these small, unrecognized states are bound to falter if eventually recognized and faced with the presumably lonely challenge of engaging a harsh, competitive and likely indifferent outside world. Indeed, if the micro-state experience offers any new and fresh perspective about the international system it is this: contrary to the earliest and most pessimistic prognoses for very small states, global engagement has introduced an unexpected broad range of supports far beyond those available to them in confined metropolitan relationships, while creating new opportunities for productive bi-lateral and multi-lateral relationships. For the most part, micro-states are

Political realities and legal anomalies 29 middle-income countries, some with most impressive indices of economic growth and diversification, and most with confident security arrangements.27 Some even make significant contributions to major agenda issues in international and regional councils. Far from floundering, they are flourishing. It must be said, for it is relevant to the states under discussion in this volume, that these outcomes were hardly anticipated in the early days of small-state literature and even now there is a persistent emphasis on issues of vulnerability for those who address the prospects of these smallest states.28 Yet the actual experience of micro-states dispels similar arguments concerning those states eagerly awaiting legal recognition and international acceptance. Who could possibly now doubt that once international opprobrium was lifted and legal channels were opened that these states would begin to take off, admittedly some more dramatically and some more modestly than others. They would immediately enjoy access to official development assistance, both bilateral and multilateral, to new sources of foreign investment, possibly to an expanded tourist market, to technical assistance, infrastructure improvement and, of course, to the many opportunities in regional cooperation. But to realise these benefits, to allow the incentives to prevail, there needs to be a dramatic reassessment of the conservative policies of international recognition. The fear of a wholly uncontrollable unleashing of fragmentation in the international system may be a red herring to delay facing inevitably difficult choices. There are many proud national minorities which live peacefully within host states largely dominated by majority groups but where sub-national and national identities coexist in stable civic cultures. For most of the national minorities in Europe these conditions prevail. And, even in the Balkans, particularly with the integration of these multi-national states into the central institutions of the European family, there is reason for guarded optimism in the months and years ahead. Sadly, there are scores of other cases, where wounds run deep, where battle memories are generational and where sensibilities seem irretrievably alienated. The solutions to the question, ‘Whose land is this anyway?’ are always agonising, let alone the actual steps to end the stalemate that is the perpetual lack of recognition in the face of continued defiance on the ground, though as the chapters in this volume clearly indicate, some cases offer more promise than others. Specific suggestions of process lie beyond this chapter and could very well constitute another volume in this discussion. Yet one very general principle may be stressed at this point, and it is a principle found unexpectedly in the recently released ‘Road Map’ for a permanent settlement in the Middle East. While acknowledging the intensity of dismissal and hostility from rejectionists on both sides, and the horrific violence that has followed the Aqaba summit of 2003, the Road Map is not without promise. It is supported by the major pillars of the international system: the United States, the European Union, Russia and the United Nations. More important, for our purposes, it is premised on the equal rights and claims both of the Israelis and of the Palestinians, each entitled to the full prerogatives of international legal personality within the frontiers of two viable and secure states within the Holy Land. There can be no underestimating the land mines and

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the dangers of sabotage that lie ahead. But Aqaba at least confirms the equality and, critically, the dignity of the parties as they set out on this road to peace and full integration within their region and within the international community. A similar stage was nearly reached at the end of the first Chechen war. Is there any reason to doubt that such a road map could be drawn in the Horn of Africa or in Western Melanesia? One reality seems certain: claims for self-determination outside the nearly exhausted framework of decolonization are likely to continue to loom over the international agenda. Indeed, it would not be injudicious to anticipate the centrality of these issues in global politics over the next century. It remains abundantly clear that complacency and a continuing indifference to the realities of self-determination on the ground, combined with a Pavlovian deference to conventions of international recognition, fictions increasingly hollow and eventually irrelevant, remain wholly unsatisfactory strategies in the future. A direct head-on collaborative effort to revisit the contradictions of international-recognition practice on the part of the globe’s major players may provide insights and even guidelines where none seem now to exist in the murky complexities of these particular conflicts.

Notes 1 New York Times, 28 March 1990, A1. 2 The Times, London, 9 June, 10. 3 Misha Glenny, The Fall of Yugoslavia: The Third Balkan War (London: Penguin Books, 1996), p. 179. 4 Robert H. Jackson, Quasi-states: Sovereignty, International Relations and the Third World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990). 5 Robert D. Kaplan, The Ends of the Earth: A Journey at the Dawn of the 21st Century (New York: Random House, 1996). 6 The Irish Times, 28 August 1997. 7 In discussing the legitimacy of governments, David Apter chose to see legitimacy as the composition of two sets of values: those which can be described as ‘consumatory’, that is, normative and those which he calls ‘instrumental’, that is, utilitarian. David Apter, The Politics of Modernization (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1965), pp. 83–7. 8 Patrick Emmanuel, ‘Independence and Viability: Elements of Analysis’, in Vaughan A. Lewis (ed.), Size, Self-Determination and International Relations: The Caribbean (Kingston: Institute of Social and Economic Research, University of the West Indies, 1976), p. 3. 9 John Herz, ‘The Territorial State Revisited: Reflections on the Future of the NationState’, in James N. Rosenau (ed.), International Politics and Foreign Policy (New York: The Free Press, rev. ed.,1969), p. 82. 10 David W. Wainhouse, Remnants of Empire: The United Nations and the End of Colonialism (New York: Council on Foreign Relations, Harper and Row, 1964), p. 72. 11 Commonwealth Advisory Group, A Future for Small States: Overcoming Vulnerability (London: Commonwealth Secretariat, 1997). 12 Michael Gunter, ‘Liechtenstein and the United Nations: A Precedent for the United Nations’ Ministate Problem’, American Journal of International Law, LXVIII, July 1974, pp. 496–501. 13 Rosalyn Higgins, The Development of International Law Through the Political Organs of the United Nations (London: Oxford University Press, 1963).

Political realities and legal anomalies 31 14 Ibid., p. 55. 15 Memorandum by the Legal Counsel on the proposal of the United States of America (S/9836, Annex I) and the suggestion of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (S/9836, Annex II) regarding membership for exceptionally small states in the United Nations, Committee of Experts Established by the Security Council at its 1,506th meeting, Conference Room Paper no. 8, 23 July 1971 (mimeograph). 16 Though the Vatican City, or more precisely the Holy See, is not a member of the United Nations, it participates actively in the UN system through many of its specialized agencies and a large permanent observer mission in New York. Jorri C. Duursma, Fragmentation and the International Relations of Micro-States: Self-determination and Statehood (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 400–07. 17 Sergei Kovalev, ‘Russia After Chechnya’, The New York Review of Books, XLIV, no. 12, 17 July 1997, 27. 18 Toronto Star, 14 August 1998, A21. 19 Globe and Mail, 12 August 1998, A3. 20 Gerhard von Glahn, Law Among Nations: An Introduction to International Public Law (Boston: Allyn and Bacon, 7th edn, 1996), p. 70. 21 Alan James, Sovereign Statehood: The Basis of International Society (London: Allen and Unwin, 1986). 22 Henry Srebrnik in plenary discussion at the international conference, Small Island States in a Changing World, 6–8 May 2001, Eastern Mediterranean University, Famagusta, Cyprus. 23 David Milne, ‘One State or Two? Political Realism on the Cyprus Question’, The Round Table (2003), 368, 159,157. 24 The Economist, The World in Figures: 2003 Edition (London: Profile Books, 2002), p. 24. 25 Western Sahara and East Timor have shared a similar status of half-hearted support outside the normal channels of international diplomacy since 1975. It is not surprising that Sahrawi President Abdelaziz was given full honours at his welcome in Dili when East Timor finally became independent. The two governments immediately exchanged full diplomatic relations. 26 www.moro16a-sah-au.htm, www.afrol.com/news2002/afr020_au_launched.htm 27 Barry Bartmann, ‘Meeting the Needs of Microstate Security’, The Round Table (2002), 365 (361–74). 28 Lino Briguglio’s 1995 study well represents a more sceptical view of very small states’ prospects. See Lino Briguglio, ‘Small Island Developing States and their Economic Vulnerabilities’, World Development, XXIII, no. 9, 1995, 1615–32.

2

Republika Srpska Marie-Joëlle Zahar

On 7 May 2001, several thousand rioters disrupted the ceremony of laying the foundation stone of the Ferhadija Mosque in Banja Luka, the capital of Republika Srpska (RS). At least 34 persons were injured; one elderly Bosniak man subsequently died of his injuries. Police looked on as demonstrators set buses and cars on fire and trapped about 400 Bosniak pilgrims, as well as local and international officials, inside the Islamic Community Centre for several hours. This was no isolated incident but an orchestrated move that bespeaks the failure to create a common sense of Bosnian identity and the attachment of a majority of Serbs to the Serbian character of Republika Srpska. Indeed, local newspapers revealed that secondary-school classrooms had been emptied on the afternoon of 7 May.1 In its official statement on the event, the RS government blamed leaders of the Islamic Community for their haste in rebuilding the mosque and for not acting ‘in accordance with the normal order of works required for a foreign investor who wishes to respect the law in such cases’ (emphasis mine). While the foundation stone for the Mosque was ultimately laid on 18 June, more than 1,200 police were required to keep back several hundred demonstrators and rioters. Coming as it did on the heels of increasing violence against minorities seeking to re-integrate their homes in Republika Srpska,2 the Banja Luka incident can be interpreted in at least two ways. The first interpretation would link the incident to the ethnic hatred that supposedly fanned the flames of war in Bosnia and Herzegovina in 1992. This interpretation cannot give a full account of the logic by which a Bosniak is considered a foreign investor by the government of Republika Srpska. A fuller account necessitates an understanding of the institutional structures of Bosnia and Herzegovina, and of their role in strengthening the fiction of a Serb ‘state within the state’. Republika Srpska – one of two entities that constitute the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina under the terms of the Dayton Agreement – is the epitome of aborted statehood. Each of the entities has extensive autonomy in the conduct of its internal affairs and a large margin of independence in the conduct of foreign relations. They also retain their wartime armies. There is no antecedent to this situation, a country with two separate national armies. The constituent entities of Bosnia and Herzegovina have more powers than most federated territories, yet they are not recognized as states in their own rights. Could they, however, move

Republika Srpska 33 towards independence? The question is particularly relevant for Republika Srpska. Indeed, Bosnia’s Serbs fought a war from 1992 to 1995 to achieve the right to self-determination with the ultimate objective of joining their kin in the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY). To answer this question, the chapter outlines the origins, development and future of the Serb entity. I argue that the future of Srpska depends on developments that lie outside the borders of the de facto state. Republika Srpska’s trajectory exemplifies the constraints that outside forces impose on would-be states.

Origins of Republika Srpska The origins of Republika Srpska lie in two related though conceptually distinct historical developments: the unraveling of the former Yugoslavia, and the changing relations between Belgrade and the Bosnian Serb capital, Pale. The nationalist climate that accompanied the unraveling of the former Yugoslavia acutely posed the issue of national self-determination for the Bosnian Serb community. Belgrade’s decision to recognize the independence of Bosnia and Herzegovina against the wishes of the Bosnian Serbs was instrumental in entrenching the de facto state by foreclosing the option of Republika Srpska’ s unification with Yugoslavia. Constituent nations adrift: the unraveling of Yugoslavia The birth of Republika Srpska is inextricably tied to the wars of succession in the former Yugoslavia. In the chain of events leading to the dismemberment of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, the Serbian, Croatian and Slovenian Republican elites used nationalist rhetoric in their dealings with each other. Republican governments led secessionist movements seeking to gain independence from Yugoslavia. They attempted to destabilize their adversaries internally by ‘encouraging ethnic conflicts on their territories, or by tolerating and allowing the drafting of “volunteers” or mercenaries to be sent to areas affected by ethnic rebellion’.3 Although they mediated between the interests of citizens and the policies of the centre, Yugoslav republics were not always coterminous with constituent nations.4 Thus emerged the problem of national ‘minorities’ within the republics aspiring to independence. Whereas some republics like Slovenia were ‘ethnically’ homogeneous, others like Bosnia were not. The Serbs were the most scattered nation with significant populations living outside Serbia. The rise of nationalist republican governments created a dilemma for national minorities. If these nationalist governments were to secede, the minorities lacked guarantees as to their future status within nationalist states. Thus, while civil conflicts within the disintegrating Yugoslav State were essentially about the equal rights of republics to decide their destiny after the federal state’s collapse, civil conflicts within the emerging successor states focused on the equal rights of constituent nations to self-determination. Early on in the process of Yugoslavia’s disintegration, the issue of the national self-determination of minorities did not receive due attention. The international

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community acknowledged the rights of republics to seek independence but remained silent about the right to self-determination of the Yugoslav constituent nations. When the Republic of Serbia asked, ‘Do the Serbian people in Croatia and Bosnia and Herzegovina have the right to self-determination?’ the Arbitration Commission set up by the European Community to study the issue answered: International law at its current stage of development does not specify all the consequences of the right to self-determination . . . Whatever the circumstances, the right to self-determination may not lead to a change of borders existing at the moment of independence (uti posseditis juris) . . . If within a country there is one or more groups . . . these groups have . . . the right to recognition of their identity.5 The Commission proceeded to equate the rights of constituent nations with those of national minorities, arguing that nations should enjoy all the rights of minorities in conformity with international law and that they ought to be granted the right to national determination if necessary. In the nationalist climate that accompanied the breakdown of the old order, this was not a reassuring answer. In this context, the Bosnian war cannot be interpreted solely as an aggression by the rump Federal Republic of Yugoslavia on the newly-independent republic of Bosnia-Herzegovina.6 This is not to deny the role of the Yugoslav army in the military operations, or the close relations between President Slobodan Miloˇsevic´ and the Bosnian Serb leadership. However, one should not overlook the fact that Bosnia’s Serbs were genuinely concerned about their physical safety in the event of the republic’s accession to independence. Their fears were historically grounded in the memory of genocidal atrocities committed by an ultra-nationalist Croatian regime against ordinary Serbs in World War Two. The SDS (Serb Democratic Party) leadership argued: ‘Serbs had fought two world wars on the winning side in order to ensure the security which a constitutional connection with Serbia would guarantee.’7 Descent into hell: the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina This is not the place for a detailed recollection of the specifics of the disintegration of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia; suffice it to say that after the ‘Ten-Day War’, which established Slovene independence, and the war in Croatia ( June to November 1991), ‘the march to war in Bosnia-Herzegovina was a terribly doomed procession’.8 Upon recognition of Croatia’s independence by the European Community, Bosnia faced a stark choice: either remain in Serb-dominated Yugoslavia or declare independence. Each option carried a risk. In a Serb-dominated Yugoslavia, Bosnian Muslims feared that they would become an oppressed minority. They often referred to the situation of the Kosovo Albanians in this respect. However, a declaration of independence ran against the wishes of the Bosnian Serbs who constituted 33 per cent of Bosnia’s pre-war population. This would

Republika Srpska

35

mean an invitation to the regime of President Milosˇevic´ to come to the rescue of his ethnic kin. In Bosnia, tension ran high between Serbs, Croats and Muslims. Already in September 1990, Serb–Muslim clashes had erupted in Focˇa, a town on the River Drina. That same year, the first multiparty parliamentary elections returned a victory for nationalist parties, Izetbegovic´’s SDA (Party for Democratic Action), Karadzˇic´’s SDS, and the Croat HDZ (Croat Democratic Union of BosniaHerzegovina). Temporarily united against the Communist Party, a coalition of the three parties held the collective Bosnian presidency.9 However, strains would soon tear it apart. In February 1991, Izetbegovic´ put forward a motion to discuss Bosnia’s sovereignty before Parliament. In a typically heated example of the ambient nationalist rhetoric, the Bosnian President declared: ‘I would sacrifice peace for a sovereign Bosnia-Herzegovina, but for that peace in Bosnia-Herzegovina I would not sacrifice sovereignty.’10 Serb deputies refused to discuss the motion. In August 1991, a last minute attempt by the moderate Muslim Bosniak Organization (MBO) to negotiate a Muslim–Serbian accord to preserve Bosnia’s integrity failed. Karadzˇic´ and Milosˇevic´ allegedly accepted the agreement but Izetbegovic´ rejected it.11 In October 1991, Bosnian Serb deputies walked out of Parliament in protest at the Republic’s attempts to secede from Yugoslavia. Ignoring this opposition, the remaining members of the Bosnian Parliament approved the holding of a referendum on independence.12 The Muslim and Croat members of Parliament also amended the Bosnian constitution. They replaced the parliament’s rule of decision making by consensus by that of majority vote. Consequently, Bosnian Serbs’ fears increased that they were ‘about to be excluded from the governance of the area that they had long regarded as an integral part of Serbia’s historical patrimony’.13 When the referendum finally took place, on 29 February and 1 March 1992, the Serbs boycotted it, but 64.4 per cent of eligible voters cast their votes, and 99.7 per cent of those votes favoured independence. The dye was cast. Once military clashes started in Bosnia, events unfolded with great speed.14 President Izetbegovic´ issued a general mobilization of the Bosnian Territorial Defence on 4 April. The Serbs interpreted this as a declaration of war, and their two representatives in the collective Bosnian presidency, Nikola Koljevic´ and Biljana Plavsˇic´, resigned, putting an official end to the myth of nationalist cooperation among the three ethnic groups in Bosnia. The next day, Serb paramilitaries laid siege to the Sarajevo police academy. That same night the JNA seized Sarajevo airport. On 6 April Karadzˇic´ retaliated against the EC’s recognition of Bosnia by proclaiming the independent ‘Serbian Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina’ (later renamed Republika Srpska). Sarajevo would be the capital (under occupation) of the new state. Serbs within dismiss Serbs without: relations between Belgrade and Pale At the outset of the SFRY’s (Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia) collapse, Slobodan Milosˇevic´’s main objective was the creation of a Greater Serbia, a state

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for all Serbs. This objective failed when the international community recognized Bosnia’s independence. ‘Thereafter, the war objectives were very confused for the inhabitants of the RS. Pale did not know what the future of the Serbs would be without Milosˇevic´ and he himself did not redefine that future for them.’15 Emerging differences in political objectives between the Bosnian Serbs and the Serbian leadership crystallized in a series of confrontations between Pale and Belgrade. Contentious issues centred on the extent of acceptable territorial compromises and the status of Serb-held territory within a unified BosniaHerzegovina. These differences were instrumental in entrenching the de facto Bosnian Serb state. The nature of ties between Milosˇevic´’s FRY and the Bosnian Serbs is a vexing issue for students of the war in Bosnia. According to a high-ranking official at the Office of the High Representative in Bosnia (OHR), Relations between the Bosnian Serbs and Belgrade are difficult to understand. They are not personal (Milosˇevic´ is disliked), not ideological (the Bosnian Serbs disagree with the socialist line of Milosˇevic´’s party) and not political (the Republika Srpska has become the preferred option of the Bosnian Serbs). Somebody once described them to me as ‘primeval’. Whenever there is a crisis, they all go to Belgrade.16 This relationship comprises four components: organizational, military, financial and political. In the early stages, FRY military and financial support was crucial in the establishment of the RS. Post-1993, and with the consolidation of a thriving black-market economy, the RS was increasingly able to dispense with FRY material and financial support. However, the Bosnian Serb leadership became heavily dependent on Belgrade for political support. Ironically and for reasons that will become clearer in the following paragraphs, Milosˇevic´ had already decided to abandon his initial plan of establishing a Greater Serbia. In Milosˇevic´’s new calculations, his former Bosnian Serb partners had become political liabilities. When the Bosnian Serbs held their own referendum on sovereignty, they had the full backing of the Yugoslav National Army ( JNA) and of the regime in Belgrade. When the conflict erupted in full force, in April of 1992, the JNA fought on the side of the Bosnian Serbs. A number of smaller militias, including the – by ˇ ˇelj, came now infamous – Tiger units of Arkan and the Chetniks of Vojislav Ses across the border with Serbia to lend a ‘helping hand’. The most eloquent expression of Belgrade’s support remains the role of the JNA in the creation of the Bosnian Serb Army (VRS). This involved two decisions. First, the JNA, under direct orders from Milosˇevic´, transferred all Bosnian Serb officers back to their native republic, thus preparing for the establishment of the VRS cadres. Second, the JNA armed the VRS by leaving its ammunition and military equipment behind when it formally withdrew from Bosnia in May 1992. This tight connection has led many to infer that the Bosnian Serbs were puppets of the FRY regime. The reality was otherwise. Unlike Croatia, where the Serbian Ministry of

Republika Srpska 37 the Interior was heavily involved in the organization of the SDS,17 the organization of the Bosnian SDS fell mostly to locals. The lack of direct organizational control would prove one of Milosˇevic´’s grave mistakes. ‘It meant that later when conflicts arose with Belgrade, Milosˇevic´ had far less control over [the Bosnian SDS’s] affairs than he wanted.’18 As the war in Bosnia unfolded, the relation between Belgrade and Pale changed. Though VRS officers remained on the Yugoslav payroll throughout, Belgrade became less forthcoming with equipment, especially after the international community tightened sanctions on the Serbs in 1993. ‘Sometimes, material supplies came in from Yugoslavia but whether they were granted or sold depended on the goodwill of Belgrade on that particular day. However, on a personal basis, [VRS] generals could still go to Belgrade and obtain stuff for their units’.19 While the decrease of FRY aid might have partially hurt the Bosnian Serbs, it did not paralyze them. A thriving black market had developed in the meantime. The institutionalization of this predatory war economy generated sufficient revenue to dispense with Belgrade’s financial and material assistance. The gradual loss of influence of the FRY gave rise to tensions between Milosˇevic´ and the Bosnian Serb leadership. As early as the Vance-Owen plan in January 1993, differences had begun to emerge over the extent of concessions the Bosnian Serbs should agree to in exchange for peace. ‘The divide was between a pragmatist, willing to buy the favors of the international community when the price was right, and more maximalist unbending leaders’.20 While Serbia and Montenegro became overly concerned with the weight of economic sanctions, Serbs outside Serbia were still fighting for their right to self-determination. The two objectives were at odds with one another. Lifting economic sanctions was contingent upon resolution of the conflict in Bosnia. In the lead up to Dayton, this divergence of interests had come to a head. Milosˇevic´ had used Krajina21 and Bosnian Serbs when he believed he could establish a Greater Serbia on the ruins of the old Yugoslavia. In summer 1995 they had become ‘a burden to be shuffled off so that Serbia could have sanctions lifted and Milosˇevic´, who had already transformed himself from communist to nationalist, could now evolve into a peacemaker’.22 When in August 1995 the Croat army annihilated the Republika Srpska Krajina, exacting in the process a heavy toll in casualties, Milosˇevic´ stood and watched. His cynicism troubled even RS opposition groups who had no sympathy for the policies of the SDS. One opposition member said, ‘I am not sure about the role of Belgrade, it is not clear to me. I cannot believe that they had such an influence and let such things happen’.23 The Bosnian Serbs watched in awe. Karadzˇic´ accused Milosˇevic´ of abandoning the goal of establishing Greater Serbia: ‘You have turned your back on the Serbs. You have relented under foreign pressure to an extent which could be compared only to treason’.24 Accepted wisdom considers the Bosnian Serbs as an extension of Belgrade; the reality of relations between the FRY and Republika Srpska paints a different picture. This is the tale of a growing gap, a gap that foreclosed for the Bosnian Serbs the option of joining Yugoslavia and left them with only one option: to strengthen their own state.

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Republika Srpska: development of the de facto state With the collapse of the former Yugoslavia, Serbs outside of Serbia became concerned about the prospect of becoming national minorities. In Croatia and Bosnia, newly established Serb parties agitated to keep the two republics inside the Serb-dominated Yugoslav State. Bosnian Serb organization began in July 1990 with the creation of the Bosnian Serb party, Srpska Demokratska Stranka (SDS). Although they considered Bosnia as their homeland, SDS members considered the perpetuation of the Serb-majority Yugoslav state ‘crucial to their “Serbianism” and their perceived security’.25 Under the impulse of the SDS, Bosnian Serbs would reject the independence of Bosnia from the FRY. Bosnian Serb parliamentarians would walk out of the Bosnian parliament and establish the breakaway Republika Srpska. This three-pronged effort involved the diffusion of a ‘national consciousness’, carving the territory of the Serb Republic, and developing the institutions of the state such that they would have the monopoly of coercion. Molding the nation: Serb myths and their diffusion In their effort to mobilize Serbs in Bosnia, the Bosnian Serb leadership drew on readily available ‘national myths’. However, the creation of the nation did not only entail winning the hearts and minds of Serbs but also ensuring their willingness to provide human and financial resources for the war effort. Two institutions were particularly instrumental in mobilizing the Serbs: the SDS network and the media.

Winning hearts and minds: past myths and present objectives The Serb leadership reached into the past for historical events that strengthened its claim for an independent state. Buttressed by the Serb interpretation of historical events, and in the context of real threats of Serb marginalization in the new nationalist Croat and Bosnian republics, this argument was instrumental in winning overwhelming popular support for the war effort. The Serbs’ right to their own nation was at the heart of the highly controversial 1986 Memorandum of the Serbian Academy of Arts and Sciences, often considered the starting point of post-Tito Serbian nationalism. It argued that Serbs had been unjustly treated in post-Second World War Yugoslavia. They were the victims of political and economic discrimination and their very existence as a nation was threatened by intentional dispersion. The disintegration of Yugoslavia thus threatened to hit the Serbs the hardest. The implication of the Memorandum was stark: if the Serbs were ever to have their own state, the time to act was now or never. The frustrated Serb quest for statehood goes back to the battle of Kosovo in 1389, when the Ottomans vanquished a Serbian army on the Field of Blackbirds. The loss ushered in centuries of Ottoman domination. Serbs blame Muslims,

Republika Srpska 39 perceived as the legacy of Turkish occupation, for aborting their path to statehood. The lessons of Kosovo reinforced the Bosnian Serb determination not to part with their Serbian kin in the FRY. Bosnian Serb objections to the independence of Bosnia and Herzegovina are best understood in this framework. The Bosnian Serbs reacted violently to suggestions that held the potential of shattering their dreams of the re-emergence of a Serbian state. Indicative of their state of mind is the old Serbian slogan that came to embody their ideology: ‘Samo sloga Srbina Spasˇava’ [only unity will save the Serbs]. The Krajina experience reinforced the Serb perception that statehood was a territorial issue as well as a ‘national imperative’.26 Although Serbs provided the first line of defence of the Habsburg Empire, the 1878 Congress of Berlin allocated the provinces of Bosnia and Herzegovina to Austria-Hungary instead of independent Serbia. In spite of their services to the Habsburg Empire, the Krajina Serbs’ desire to live in one state with their Serbian kin had been overruled. The lesson for the Serbs was that real self-determination required an independent territorial base. During World War Two, Krajina Serbs came to associate territorial autonomy with security. Of all Serbian lands, the Krajina suffered most during the war. The Serbs of Bosnia and Croatia fell under the rule of the Ustasˇa leader, Ante Pavelic´. Pavelic´ allied himself with the Germans and established the Independent State of Croatia. The method by which [he] sought to create his ethnically-pure territory was the annihilation of the Serbs as a people . . . The historical memory of an independent Croatian state that extended as far east as the Drina River – Bosnia’s border with Serbia – made the Serbs, living west of the river, consider themselves the most vulnerable of all.27 These historical events provided a reservoir of symbols that resonated with Serb populations outside Serbia. The SDS network During its pre-war popular mobilization effort, the SDS extended its local influence in Serb-dominated regions of Bosnia-Herzegovina, particularly in 18 communes in the north-western and central parts of Bosnia directly adjacent or close to the Croatian Krajina.28 By autumn 1991, the SDS declared large parts of the republic as SAOs or Serbian Autonomous Regions. In these regions, the SDS network established local crisis committees. These groups of local Serb notables prepared the community for war by arming it and mustering available financial resources. In organizing the Serbs, the SDS and the crisis committees relied on the institutional structure provided by the Yugoslav Territorial Defence organization (TO or Yugoslav civil defence). As part of its concept of Total National Defence, the Yugoslav army had set up reserve forces in each republic. In heavily Serb-populated areas, the SDS and the crisis committees used the local TOs as a basis to recruit

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and organize the populace. TOs allowed the quick identification of Serb reservists. They conveniently provided a structure for the mobilization effort. The media The media strengthened the fiction of Bosnian Serb independence. Internally, Kanal-S (a TV channel) bombarded ordinary Serbs with propaganda that served to heighten their fears of Muslims (and, to a lesser degree, Croats) and to diffuse the national myths that created a sense of Serb nationhood. In the process, it strengthened their dependence on and loyalty to the SDS and guaranteed that they would vote correctly in a future referendum on unity with Yugoslavia. Externally, control of the media provided the Bosnian Serb leadership with the leverage to force foreign journalists to deal with them as a de facto government. Foreign crews had to secure clearing and accreditation from the Bosnian Serb authorities.29 TV-Pale also provided additional revenue, ‘because of its exclusive access on the Serbian side, a tidy profit could be made by selling footage to television companies and agencies from around the world’.30 Map drawing and state-making: the territorial dimension In the first two months of war, the Serbs controlled 70 per cent of the territory of Bosnia and Herzegovina.31 Their primary war objectives were to secure border towns with Serbia and Montenegro in order to keep the supply lines open. They also sought control of the towns and regions that they had earmarked for themselves. The Bosnian Serbs conducted their war effort on two levels: demarcating their zone of control and ridding it of pockets of enemy presence. The Bosnian Serbs hit two obstacles in their initial efforts to demarcate the boundaries of their enclave. The first was in the Neretva valley, the westernmost limit of the territory, which bordered Herzegovina. The Bosnian Serbs had indicated their intention to draw the border of their state at the River Neretva but there was no agreement to this effect between them and the Croats. The valley was an area of mixed Serb, Croat and, to a lesser extent, Muslim population and pitched battles were fought for its control. Ultimately, the Croats cleansed Serbian villages along the river and secured control of the Herzegovinian historic capital, Mostar. The second obstacle was more serious. Bosnian Serb territory spread in a horseshoe pattern from north-western Bosnia down to the south-east. The territorial contiguity of the Republika Srpska was at risk in the Posavina valley in the north.32 There, the regular Croatian army crossed the River Sava to bolster the fledgling Bosnian Croat and Muslim TOs, cutting Serb lines across the north and separating the Bosnian Serb enclave into two regions. The area was the Serbs’ main access route to Serbia.33 By 2 May, the Serbs carved a corridor nicknamed the ‘corridor of life’ in recognition of its strategic value. At its narrowest, at Brcˇko, the corridor was only two miles wide. In this area, unlike others, military operations continued throughout the war.

Republika Srpska 41 The Bosnian frontlines demarcated in summer 1992 would remain relatively unchanged34 until the Muslim-Croat offensive of 1995. However, the Bosnian Serb leadership still had to ensure that, in case of a referendum on sovereignty, the inhabitants of the enclave voted correctly. This political objective was paramount in view of the recommendations of the Badinter Commission.35 The commission had decreed that international recognition of sovereignty would require a referendum asking residents in a given territory to determine their choice of state. Bosnian Serbs had become acutely aware of the fact that the majority could easily ignore a minority’s objections in a referendum. In 1992 their wishes to remain within Yugoslavia had been brushed aside by Bosnian Muslim and Croat parliamentarians. Hence, it was not sufficient to control territory militarily; ‘population transfers’ had to be carried out ‘to consolidate ethnically pure territories that would vote correctly in a referendum on sovereignty and in future elections and to justify government administration by their national group’.36 Thus originated the policy of ethnic cleansing in Bosnia.37 This was the ultimate instrument through which the Bosnian Serb Republic acquired its territorial definition.38 The institutional backbone of the state When it became clear that Bosnia would seek independence from Yugoslavia, the Bosnian Serbs sought to strengthen their case for secession. One clear way of asserting their claim was to govern territory. The SDS established the breakaway Bosnian Serb Assembly and declared the Serb Republic of Bosnia-Herzegovina (later renamed Republika Srpska). In theory, state and party were separate. In practice, authority was highly centralized in the SDS.39 Key SDS people doubled as state officials and the party assumed responsibility by taking over the institutions of the ‘state’. The Serb constitution gave overwhelming powers to the presidency, but the National Assembly retained some checks and controls. Pale largely controlled the Assembly, which was initially made up of SDS members elected to the Bosnian Parliament in 1990 and who later broke away. The SDS also controlled the police forces.40 They used the police as a mechanism for the integration of militias, hence the police appointment of Srd–an Knezevic´, commander of the ‘white wolves,’ for example. Ethnic cleansing The implementation of ethnic cleansing provided the Bosnian Serbs with an opportunity to establish local institutions. ‘Every major population center in northern Bosnia acquired . . . a “Bureau for Population Exchange” ’.41 Recruited locally among SDS sympathizers, bureau ‘officials’ systematically harassed Muslim populations. The methodic imposition of restrictions was one aspect of a system whereby terrorized Muslims would sign documents giving up their material property in return for the right to leave – rendered ‘official’ by the issuance of a departure ‘visa’. The real and movable property of Muslims was made available

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for distribution. The Serbian National Assembly regulated this whole arrangement by passing legislation on ‘abandoned property’ and ‘temporary occupancy’. The black market SDS officials developed a highly sophisticated black market to break sanctions and finance their war effort. It revolved around the provision of needed supplies, the sale and rental of military material to enemy factions and the taxation of international aid.42 The organization and control of the black market was made possible by SDS control of ‘state’ institutions such as customs and key ministries such as the interior and resource ministries. ‘Illicit traffic was institutionalized during the war between all warring sides. Many people lined up their pockets but some of the money also went to organizing the RS’.43 The military wing In May 1992, the JNA withdrew from Bosnia after establishing the foundations of the VRS. In January 1992, President Milosˇevic´ had issued a secret order to transfer all JNA officers who were Bosnian natives back to their republic. The VRS was comprised of ‘about 90,000 “regulars”, consisting of ex-JNA personnel, volunteers and conscripts and 20,000 irregulars, presumably meaning semiindependent armed groups such as the Tigers, Chetniks, Panthers and White Eagles’.44 It was also well equipped as the JNA left behind a substantial amount of military equipment. The army saw itself as the guardian of the Bosnian Serbs, entrusted with the liberation of their historic lands. The VRS maintained strong links to the JNA; Bosnian Serb officers remained on the JNA payroll throughout the war and used their strong personal connections in the Yugoslav army to get supplies for their troops. Because it had independent sources of financing, the army remained one of the few Bosnian Serb institutions not to merely fall under SDS influence.45

The Dayton Peace Agreement: is Republika Srpska here to stay? On 21 November 1995, Serb, Croat and Muslim leaders initialed a peace agreement at Wright-Patterson airbase in Dayton, Ohio. After nearly four years, two hundred and fifty thousand people killed, two million refugees and atrocities that have appalled people all over the world, the people of Bosnia finally [had] a chance to turn from the horror of war to the promise of peace.46 The Dayton Peace Agreement (DPA) became the basis for conflict-resolution in Bosnia-Herzegovina. It has been hailed as a symbol of successful foreign mediation to end civil wars.

Republika Srpska 43 However, Dayton has also ushered in a period in the history of Republika Srpska where the status of the entity has been frozen. The agreement is rife with tensions between integration and separation of the two entities that make up Bosnia and Herzegovina. These have led some observers to claim that the Dayton Accords are ‘at war with themselves. They are both a plan for reunification and a plan for partition’.47 The implementation of Dayton reflected this state of affairs. The entrenchment of nationalists at the entity level often undermined small victories for integration at the federal level. Dayton: one step towards recognition? A quick look at the terms of the DPA might lead observers to disagree with the contention of Richard Holbrooke that ‘as diplomats we could not expect the Serbs to be conciliatory at the negotiating table as long as they had experienced nothing but success on the battlefield’.48 The DPA was not highly detrimental to the Bosnian Serbs, and their conciliatory attitude can be attributed as much to the changes in the balance of forces as to the relatively favourable terms of the agreement compared to earlier ones.49 Indeed, Dayton went further than any preceding plan in addressing the question of Serb territorial contiguity. Under the terms of the DPA, the territorial contiguity of the RS, though not guaranteed, was not ruled out either. In the Posavina, the Serbs suffered a slight reduction to the ‘corridor of life’. However, an agreement was reached with the Federation to subject the status of Brcˇko to binding international arbitration. In Eastern Srpska, the Serbs were granted de jure control over some of the enclaves, namely Srebrenica and Zˇ epa, whereas the Federation was awarded Gorazˇde. Thus, territorial contiguity was threatened only in the north-east. In relative terms, this arrangement was better than the Contact Group Map or the Vance-Owen Peace Plan. The most significant Bosnian Serb gain was the recognition of Republika Srpska as an equal partner with the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Referred to as ‘entities’ in the DPA, the RS and the Federation are the two territorial units that constitute the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina. This recognition is particularly meaningful because of its incorporation in the Constitution of Bosnia and Herzegovina, itself an annex of the DPA. Separated by an InterEntity Boundary Line (IEBL), the RS and the Federation maintain separate armed forces. While the IEBL is not an international frontier, the DPA states ‘under no circumstances shall any armed forces of either Entity enter into or stay within the territory of the other Entity without the consent of the government of the latter and of the Presidency of Bosnia and Herzegovina’.50 The Entities can only adjust the IEBL by mutual consent. The DPA also contradicted the main Bosnian Serb war aim. By recognizing the continued existence of Bosnia within its internationally recognized borders, the accord closed the door on RS secession and ultimate accession to the FRY. Karadzˇic´ expressed dissatisfaction with the DPA because ‘our natural aspiration is to remain in Yugoslavia, to join Yugoslavia, to join Serbia’.51 The Bosnian Serbs

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even attempted to interpret the DPA clause that ‘The Federal Republic of Yugoslavia and the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina recognize each other as sovereign independent States within their international borders’ as non-binding. However, Dayton’s recognition of Republika Srpska granted the Serbs as much autonomy as they could expect under the circumstances. The survival of the RS weighed heavily in the considerations of Bosnian Serb decision makers. Within Bosnia, the creation of a Serb Entity was hailed as a victory. ‘By recognizing Republika Srpska, the international community has recognized that our fight was justified,’ Karadzˇic´ said. ‘We got less than we could but the fact is that the state is there’.52 Cementing the status quo: Dayton implementation in perspective Not only is there an inherent tension in the Dayton Peace Agreement between integration and separation but peace implementation has not helped either in resolving this issue. The current weakness of federal institutions in Bosnia and Herzegovina and the existence of pending problems cast doubt on the solidity of the arrangement. Recent developments that favour integration have not yet shifted the balance. Concrete developments have usually come about because of external pressure rather than domestic will. The unity of Bosnia remains fragile, particularly should the various entities move to intensify relations with neighbouring ethnic kin.53 Weak centre, strong entities The DPA gave wide autonomy to the entities relative to the centre.54 Though there is a unified citizenship of Bosnia and Herzegovina, there also is an Entity citizenship. Entities can establish special parallel relationships with neighbouring states ‘consistent with the sovereignty and territorial integrity of Bosnia and Herzegovina’. They can also enter agreements with foreign states and international organizations with the consent of the BiH Assembly. Finally, all governmental functions and powers not expressly assigned in the Constitution to the common institutions of Bosnia and Herzegovina fall immediately within the preserve of the Entities. The international community arguably undermined political capacity building at the federal level in Bosnia thus weakening the centre further relative to the entities. Power sharing is premised on the will of the parties to compromise, but federal representatives of the three Bosnian ethnic groups have not demonstrated such a will. Instead, the Office of the High Representative has gained quite a reputation for imposing solutions on the Bosnian parties whenever they seem to have reached a deadlock. In 1997, the High Representative was even authorized to make decisions for Bosnians. Thus, Entity leaders can ‘choose intransigence and delay when a decision would be unpopular with constituents or colleagues’. The parties have capitalized on the benefits of cooperation without incurring the domestic cost of compromise.55

Republika Srpska 45 Bosnia’s joint institutions did eventually come together in January 1997. However, it is no exaggeration to state that to date they have failed to function, that every issue has been viewed in zero-sum terms and that almost all ‘breakthroughs’ have required disproportionate, indeed often ridiculous, amounts of time, effort and concessions on the part of the international community.56 Not only do the federal institutions work mostly through international coaxing, but also political control at the entity level has largely remained the preserve of nationalists.57 Elections in Bosnia and Herzegovina have provided the war elites with other means to wage their wars. In the federation, the two wartime parties, the SDA and the HDZ, are still holding the reins of power. In Republika Srpska, the intensive involvement of the international community failed, in September 1998, to prevent the victory of right-wing nationalist Nikola Poplasˇen, who defeated ‘moderate’ president Biljana Plavsˇic´.58 The organization of elections remains in the hands of the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe in conjunction with entity governments. The involvement of local authorities in the organization of the ballot provides an opportunity to influence outcomes. In Srpska, for example, the SDS maintained extensive control over voter registration until 1997. The allocation of housing, jobs and social services have been used as bargaining chips by ruling elites to coerce Bosnian Serb refugees to register in the municipalities where they had relocated instead of the municipalities that they lived in before the war. Nationalists also had a total monopoly over the media. When in 1996 the Provisional Election Commission drew up an Electoral Code of Conduct for the media, RTV Srpska adapted its rules. The television channel decided to ‘affirm the sovereignty and integrity of Republika Srpska, determined by the DPA’.59 This re-interpretation of the PEC code of conduct allowed RTV Srpska to refuse airtime to those political parties and factions deemed against the national interest. Opposition parties were put on the defensive and forced to ward off attacks in which SDS sympathizers intimated that they were traitors to the Serbian cause. In general the electoral process seemed to have provided the channel through which nationalist war elites entrenched themselves in power.

Uneven implementation While the RS leadership dragged its feet when it came to implementing civilian aspects of Dayton, they complied with the military aspects of the agreement. The Bosnian Serb leadership negotiated amendments to the Inter-Entity Boundary Line. They also largely complied with provisions concerning cantonment of weapons, withdrawal of forces behind the IEBL, notification of plans for the deployment of weapons systems, and the disbanding of special operations and armed civilian groups. In contrast several civilian aspects of the agreement remain ink on paper. Refugee returns are insignificant, and many publicly-indicted war

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criminals are still free. The common institutions of Bosnia and Herzegovina are frail. According to observers, ‘The reason why [the DPA’s] military part is most successful is not because of SFOR but mainly because this is the only element in the DPA which is directed to what delineates the parties rather than what should be bringing them together.’60 At the moment, the Serbs are the status quo power in Bosnia and Herzegovina. For the Serbs, Dayton gave them half of the territory of Bosnia and Herzegovina though they form only 35 per cent of its population; it also provided them with a single contiguous territory, allowed them to have their own laws, army, etc. They comply with the military aspect of Dayton and do not really care should the IEBL become a border. They . . . are pleased with its constitutional provisions, which afford them a large degree of autonomy. What they are unhappy about is the return of refugees and, consequently, they obstruct the implementation of Annex 7. They, as well as other parties, see Dayton as a menu from which to choose certain items . . . and from which to reject whatever is not in your interest. They therefore accept and interpret Dayton to reinforce their own political imperatives.61

The status quo in jeopardy? Recent developments and the future of Republika Srpska Developments since 2000 partially contradict the picture painted above. In spite of the seeming entrenchment of the Bosnian Serb entity, the future is still in relative flux. There are several sources of change. Regionally, NATO’s Kosovo campaign, the death of Croat President Franjo Tudjman and the overthrow of Slobodan Milosˇevic´ in Yugoslavia have spurred calls to accelerate Bosnia and Herzegovina’s post-conflict transition. Change also emanates from the international community, notably the Office of the High Representative and the US State Department under former Secretary of State Madeline Albright. The assertiveness of the international community has occasionally meant the use of force by the NATO Stabilization Force (SFOR) to get compliance with certain provisions of the Dayton Accords.62 This assertiveness and the consequent abandonment of impartiality have ‘disturbed the delicate balance of the Dayton accords, leading Serbs and Croats to view American action as even more proBosniac than they had thought and to think even more in terms of protecting their own national interests’.63 Tensions in 2001 between the Bosnian Croats and the international community underscore the heights of Serb and Croat distrust. In early April 2000, SFOR detained the former Serb member of the Bosnian Presidency, Momcˇilo Krajisˇnik, under a sealed indictment from the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia. Krajisˇnik is the first high-ranking Bosnian Serb official to go before the Hague tribunal. His arrest came against the backdrop of the NATO bombing of Yugoslavia over Kosovo, of the arbitration decision on Brcˇko,64 and of the dismissal of RS President Poplasˇen by the High

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Representative. All three events indicate an increased international determination to weaken war elites and strengthen non-nationalist forces in Bosnia and Herzegovina. All three events also triggered crises in Republika Srpska. Poplasˇen’s dismissal led to a political stalemate when the ruling SRS/SDS coalition failed to nominate a candidate who could both win support from a majority of the Bosnian Serb national assembly and enjoy the approval of the international community. The arbitration decision was bitterly resented in Republika Srpska given that Brcˇko was the only point where the territorial contiguity of the entity was in danger. Finally, the NATO bombings led the RS to withdraw from the central institutions of Bosnia and Herzegovina. High-ranking Bosnian Serb officials claimed the international organizations had turned into occupiers and angry mobs attacked the offices of Western embassies and international organizations in Banja Luka and Bijeljina. More recently, the international community has resorted to the Constitutional Court in its integration drive. The court struck down the consociational arrangement enshrined in the Law on the Council of Ministers of 1996, thus effectively leaving the country without a government; it thus forced Parliament to enact a law providing that council chairmanship rotate among the three constituent peoples every eight months.65 The court also issued landmark decisions forcing the entities to review their citizenship laws and ensuring equal rights to ethnic minorities in Republika Srpska and the Federation. In spite of indicators of tension, the practical consequences of these developments could also be the prelude to better integration of Bosnia and Herzegovina. The decision on Brcˇko can be interpreted as a reversal of the territorial separation principle. NATO bombing has all but destroyed economic ties between the FRY and Republika Srpska.66 As RS revenues dropped, the international community ‘rewarded’ official RS moderation by promising financial support. USAID alone pledged $10 million in direct aid to fill the gap in the budget. At the international donors’ conference in May 1999 the RS received approximately $400 million in additional funding. Finally, the removal of war elites from the seats and the corridors of power could clear the way for moderate leaders willing to work with their Croat and Bosniac counterparts. While on the surface a seeming victory for the nationalist parties, the October 2002 elections point to some hopeful trends, including the decline in support for the SDS and the challenge to its monopoly of Republika Srpska’s political life by the Alliance of Independent Social Democrats (SNSD or Stranka Nezavisnih Socijaldemokrata). ‘The votes of returnees and potential returnees, voting in absentia, have also begun to affect politics, permitting Federation-based parties to claim 17 per cent of the seats in the RS National Assembly in the October elections’.67 The future of Republika Srpska depends once again on outsiders. If the current assertiveness of the international community continues, and the record under HR Ashdown confirms this trend, the war elites may well be in jeopardy. In addition, if international aid succeeds in improving the RS economy and effectively tying it to the economy of the Federation, then potential gains from economic ties may increase the perception of all sides that there are gains in inter-ethnic cooperation. The international community’s staying power in Bosnia may well determine the future of Republika Srpska.

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Notes 1 ‘Casovi po programu, Djaci na ulici’, Nezavisne novine, 9 May 2001. The information prompted the education minister to suspend principals of the schools whose pupils had participated in the riots. They were quietly reinstated at a later date. See International Crisis Group, The Wages of Sin: Confronting Bosnia’s Republika Srpska, Balkans Report no. 118 (Sarajevo/Brussels: ICG, 2001), at www.intl-crisis-group.org 2 While UN statistics for the 2001 return season (April to September) indicate that Bosniak returns were almost five times greater than Serb returns to the Federation, the number of incidents against returnees ranged anywhere from 208 (UN figures) to 316 (IPTF figures). See UN document, ‘Minority-Related Incidents Reported to IPTF’, quoted in ICG, The Wages of Sin. 3 Dusˇan Janjic´, ‘Resurgence of Ethnic Conflict in Yugoslavia: The Demise of Communism and the Rise of the ‘New Elites of Nationalism’, in Payam Akhavan and Robert Howse (eds), Yugoslavia: The Former and the Future-Reflections by Scholars from the Region ( Washington and Geneva: the Brookings Institution and the United Nations Research Institute for Social Development, 1995), p. 35. 4 Tito’s Yugoslavia recognized the separate existence of Yugoslav nations and sought to protect their sovereign rights in the framework of a federal system. However, nations and peoples were not conceptually distinct (both translate as narod in Serbo-Croat). The peoples of Yugoslavia had rights as constituent nations of the federal republics and simultaneously as individual members of nations. 5 Branislava Alendar, ‘Reflection on Nationalism and Minorities in Yugoslavia’, in Michael Freeman, Dragomir Pantic´ and Dusˇan Janjic´ (eds), Nationalism and Minorities (Belgrade: Institute of Social Sciences, and Brighton, England: University of Sussex, 1995), p. 89, fn.7. 6 Haris Silajdzˇic´ talks about the ‘original sin’ committed by those who consider the conflict a civil war. Haris Silajdzˇic´, Bosnian Muslim Foreign Minister, Interview, 13 September 1998. 7 Misha Glenny, The Fall of Yugoslavia: The Third Balkan War (New York: Penguin Books, 1996), p. 155. 8 Laura Silber and Alan Little, Yugoslavia: Death of a Nation (New York: Penguin Books, 1996), p. 205. 9 Modeled after the Yugoslav rotating presidency, the Bosnian Presidency had two places each for Muslims, Serbs, Croats and one place for Yugoslavs. 10 Quoted in Silber and Little, Yugoslavia, p. 211. 11 The SDA leader felt that the MBO initiative amounted to taking sides with the Serbs, an unacceptable position in light of events in Bosnia and in neighbouring Croatia where an undeclared war raged. 12 At independence in 1992, Bosnia’s population numbered approximately 4.3 million people, of whom 44 per cent were Muslims, 33 per cent Serbs, 19 per cent Croats and 4 per cent described themselves as ‘Other’ (a category including Yugoslav). The Yugoslav Census of 1991 quoted in Edgar O’Ballance, Civil War in Bosnia, 1992–1994 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1995), p. 2. 13 Lenard Cohen, Broken Bonds: Yugoslavia’s Disintegration and Balkan Politics in Transition (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1995), p. 242. 14 In spite of the widespread belief that the first clashes occurred on 6 April in Sarajevo, upon the EC recognition of Bosnia-Herzegovina, they did not. Clashes had already begun in February in Bosanski Brod in the northernmost part of Bosnia. 15 David Stewart-Howitt, Field Officer, European Community Humanitarian Organisation (ECHO), Banja Luka (formerly aide to UNPROFOR Commander, Sir Michael Rose), Interview, 2 September 1998. 16 Vincent Devine, Head of the Political Section, Office of the High Representative Banja Luka, Interview, 3 September 1998.

Republika Srpska 49 17 Judah details the involvement of the SDB (Serbian Ministry of Interior) in the organization of the Croatian SDS in ‘Frankie and Badger Go to War’, in Tim Judah, The Serbs: History, Myth and the Destruction of Yugoslavia (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998), pp. 168–90. 18 Ibid., p. 192. 19 Vladimir Milin, Staff Member, Economic Dept, Office of the High Representative, Banja Luka (formerly a VRS officer), Interview, 5 September 1998. 20 David Harland, Head of Civil Affairs, UN Mission in Bosnia and Herzegovina, Interview, 24 August 1998. 21 The Republika Srpska Krajina was the Serb-held territory in Croatia. 22 See Judah, The Serbs, p. 298. 23 Branko Peric´, Editor-in-Chief, Alternative Information Network [Alternativna Informativna Mreza], Interview, 5 September 1998. 24 See Silber and Little, Yugoslavia, pp. 360–1. 25 See Cohen, Broken Bonds, p. 130. 26 The Krajina was the defensive line of the Habsburg Empire, a succession of fortresses designed to ward off further Ottoman expansion westward. 27 See Silber and Little, Yugoslavia, p. 92. 28 ‘Of the approximately 670,000 people living in these eighteen communes in 1981, 63.1 per cent were Serbs, 15.1 per cent Moslems and 9.5 per cent Croats, with another roughly 10 per cent classified as ‘Yugoslavs’. Ibid., p. 141. 29 The place and time span involved in this process changed weekly. See Brigitte Hipfl, Klaus Hipfl and Jan Jagodinzski, ‘Documentary Films and the Bosnia-Hercegovina Conflict: From Production to Reception’, in James Gow, Richard Peterson and Alison Preston (eds), Bosnia by Television (London: British Film Institute, 1996) p. 35. 30 See Judah, The Serbs, p. 220. 31 I am indebted to Mihailo Crnobrnja for drawing my attention to the fact that the Serbs did not gain 70 per cent of Bosnia’s territory during the first three months of the war. This, the usual formulation in academic analyses, is misleading because it implies that the Bosnian Serbs started from zero. Actually, the Serbs controlled about 62 per cent of the Bosnian territory at the outset of the conflict. 32 The Posavina was one of the most heterogeneous regions of Bosnia with substantial Muslim and Croat populations, located at the border between Bosnia, Croatia and Serbia. 33 The border between eastern Republika Srpska and Serbia was home to large concentrations of Muslim villages, which at that point were still home to their original inhabitants. 34 The fall of Jajce to the Serbs in October 1992 was the last, major, Serb land gain. Until the fall of Srebrenica and Zˇ epa in July 1995, the confrontation line would not change in any significant way, with the exception of a few weeks in 1994 when the Bosnian 5th Corps broke out of the Bihac´ pocket. 35 The Badinter Commission is the European Community’s Arbitration Commission discussed earlier in this chapter. 36 Susan Woodward, Balkan Tragedy: Chaos and Dissolution after the Cold War (Washington, DC: The Brookings Institution, 1995), p. 242. 37 It should be noted that Croats had committed ethnic cleansing against Serbs earlier in the conflict. I am indebted to Susan Woodward for bringing this to my attention. 38 The ethnic cleansing campaign concentrated on two heavily Muslim-populated areas: northern Bosnia and the Drina valley. 39 According to Milin, the political wing working through the municipalities, could, for example, decide to send paramilitary reinforcements when the army required backing. However, once on the ground, the paramilitaries were neither accountable nor controllable. Milin, Interview, 5 September 1998. 40 There were three separate police forces: the regular police force, the special force (State security) and the secret police (an SDS apparatus). All three technically reported to the Bosnian Serb ministry of the interior.

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41 See Silber and Little, Yugoslavia, p. 246. 42 For details see Judah, The Serbs, pp. 247–51; The Times, quoted in Edgar O’Ballance, Civil War in Bosnia 1992–94 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1995), p. 180. 43 Geoffrey Beaumont, UN Civil Affairs Officer, Pale, Interview, 27 August 1998. 44 See O’Ballance, Civil War in Bosnia, p. 127. 45 The SDS attempted to influence the army by putting its own people in decisionmaking positions. Peric´, Interview, 5 September 1998. 46 President Clinton’s announcement of the DPA, quoted in Richard Holbrooke, To End a War (New York: Random House, 1998), p. 309. 47 Michael O’Hanlon, ‘Turning the Bosnia Ceasefire into Peace’, The Brookings Review 16, 1 (Winter 1998), p. 42. 48 See Holbrooke, To End a War, p. 73. 49 For a detailed comparison of the VOPP, the Contact Group plan and the DPA see Marie-Joëlle Zahar, Fanatics, Mercenaries, Brigands . . . and Politicians: Militia Decision-Making and Civil Conflict Resolution, Ph.D. Dis., McGill University, Montreal, 2000. 50 The General Framework Agreement for Peace in Bosnia and Herzegovina, Annex 1A, ‘Agreement on the Military Aspects of the Peace Settlement’, at www.ohr.int/gfa/ gfa-an1a.htm, p. 2. 51 ‘Karadzˇic´ Denies Crimes Committed by Serb Army’, Xinhua News Agency, 1 February 1996. 52 Ibid. 53 In 1997, Republika Srpska signed a cooperation agreement with the FRY. Sophia Clément, ‘Introduction’, Cahiers de Chaillot: Les Questions Soulevées par la Bosnie et le débat transatlantique, 32, May 1998, p. 3. However, this agreement is allowed under the terms of the DPA. Moreover, High Representative Carl Bildt put serious limits on Republika Srpska–Yugoslav cooperation in comparison with the almost confederal relation between Croatia and the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina. 54 General Framework Agreement, Annex 4, ‘Constitution of Bosnia and Herzegovina’, at www.ohr.int/gfa/gfa-an4.htm 55 Susan Woodward, ‘Transitional Elections and the Dilemmas of International Assistance to Bosnia and Herzegovina’, in Steven Riskin (ed.), Three Dimensions of Peacebuilding in Bosnia: Findings from USIP-sponsored Research and Field Projects (Washington, DC: USIP, 1999), p. 9. 56 International Crisis Group, Doing Democracy a Disservice: 1998 Elections in Bosnia and Herzegovina (Sarajevo: ICG, September 1998), p. 8. 57 In the 2000 municipal elections, nationalist Croat and Serb parties remained in power in the Croat and Serb areas. Only in the Muslim areas did non-nationalist parties win some marginal gains. 58 By March 1999, the High Representative, Carlos Westendorp, removed Poplasˇen from office because of a deadlock over the appointment of a Prime Minister acceptable to all parties. In this affair, the OHR backed the re-appointment of Milorad Dodik. The Bosnian Serb President refused to comply with the order of the HR and still considered himself in office. 59 Institute for War and Peace Reporting, IWPR Monitoring Report, 10 July 1996, p. 6. 60 UNHCR official, Interview, 7 September 1998. (Identity withheld at the request of the interviewee.) 61 Harland, Interview, 24 August 1998. 62 SFOR has been instrumental in backing former Bosnian Serb President Biljana Plavsˇic´ in her attempt to wrest control of Republika Srpska away from the SDS in 1997. For the best coverage of the split, see ‘Republika Srpska Splits’, War Report, 55, October 1997. 63 Woodward, ‘Avoiding Another Cyprus or Israel’, The Brookings Review 16, 1 (Winter 1998), p. 47. 64 The arbitration award created a condominium in Brcˇko between the Muslim-Croat Federation and Republika Srpska.

Republika Srpska 51 65 The law, adopted when the federal House of Representatives failed in 1996 to achieve agreement on a single candidate, stated that the chair of the council consists of two co-chairs and a vice-chair who occupy the positions on a rotating basis. This contradicts Article IV of the constitution according to which the chair of the council is a single individual. 66 For details of the economic consequences of the NATO bombings, see International Crisis Group, Republika Srpska in the Post-Kosovo Era: Collateral Damage and Transformation (Sarajevo: ICG, July 1999), pp. 13–15. 67 International Crisis Group, The Continuing Challenge of Refugee Return in Bosnia and Herzegovina, Balkans Report no. 137 (Sarajevo and Brussels: ICG, 13 December 2002), p. i.

3

Montenegro and Serbia Disassociation, negotiation, resolution? Philip Lyon

In his introduction to Milovan Djilas’ Land without Justice, William Jovanovich calls the people of Montenegro ‘Serbian by nationality, Orthodox by faith, Montenegrin by choice’.1 As Montenegro begins the twenty-first century, this assessment has perhaps never been so apt or so mistaken. Montenegro, still nominally bound to Serbia in a joint state, is a divided country and has spent much of the past several years wrestling with the prospect of its own formal independence. After elections in April 2001 returned an ambiguous majority to the Montenegrin Parliament, Serbia and the Federal administration also devoted themselves to this topic and engaged with Podgorica over whether, where and who should negotiate either a radically redefined federation or else Montenegrin independence.2 In spring 2002, Serbian, Montenegrin and Yugoslav representatives reached an EU-brokered agreement to establish the new state of ‘Serbia and Montenegro’. Thereafter, however, the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY) lingered on as a country without a valid constitution or a functional government, a ‘hollow edifice whose institutions hardly function except as an address for the international community’3 while Serbia’s and Monetenegro’s leaders struggled to agree on a constitutional charter for the new state. Even under the new joint-state arrangement, the locus of real power remains in the republics. Montenegro, in fact, has been not just autonomous or even sovereign, but de facto independent for several years. In many ways, therefore, the real question in recent years has not been whether there would be an independent Montenegro, but rather whether there would be a redefined Yugoslav federation. Montenegro’s moves towards disassociation from Yugoslavia have not occurred in isolation. Rather, they have been largely products of and reactions to actions taken by Slobodan Milosˇevic´ during his reign, and thereafter by his successors in Serbia and FRY. Economic arguments are also involved, as are local power politics. Indeed, Montenegrin President Milo Djukanovic´’s stubbornness in negotiations with Belgrade in 2001,was partly tied to the need to satisfy his stridently separatist coalition partners in order to keep his own party, the Democratic Party of Socialists (DPS), in power.4 These have diminished somewhat due to DPS electoral gains in 2002. Nevertheless, Montenegro’s leadership seems only very tenuously committed to their new state arrangement with Serbia. The debate that raged between Podgorica and Belgrade was fundamentally connected with questions of sovereignty. Sovereignty is an inherently slippery

Montenegro and Serbia 53 concept that is imbued with tremendous moral and legal power while being simultaneously difficult to isolate or define. Perhaps it is sovereignty’s multiplicity of meanings and interpretations that have made it so compelling for theorists and politicians for centuries. Sovereignty in turn is predicated on who or what is sovereign. That is, where in a state or society does supreme and permanent authority lie? As Sabrina Ramet observes elsewhere in this volume, sovereignty has been mobilized in the collapse of Yugoslavia by nationally construed, secessionist republics as connoting entitlement to independence. Such normative language has not been totally absent from the Montenegrin political dialogue and Podgorica’s moves toward disassociation from Yugoslavia, but I argue that the debate in that complex society has been highly nuanced and heavily reflective of the writings of John Locke. I argue that the repatriation under Djukanovic´ of legal, economic and political authority to Podgorica was justified, and perhaps necessary, as resistance to the tyranny which was Milosˇevic´’s arbitrary rule. While the language of ‘historic’ and ‘states’ rights’ has intruded on the political debates surrounding Montenegro’s bid for formal independence, it is essential first to understand that Podgorica’s reassertion of authority over Montenegrin affairs was not a usurpation of power, but rather a resistance to Milosˇevic´’s tyranny. The logical conclusion of this resistance, however, is not yet certain. Certainly Montenegro has legitimate grounds for formal secession from its dysfunctional joint state with Serbia. However, formal independence is desired by barely half of the population, for whom the final division of the joint state with Serbia is as much a question of identity as sovereignty. Ultimately, Montenegro is a divided society which is less comfortable with its political allegiances than either the pro-independence or pro-Belgrade groups would prefer to admit. Montenegro is remarkably diverse for its size and has a sense of identity that extends beyond the usual national straitjackets. The history and symbolism of the vanished Montenegrin state have provided some of the language in the debate over separation from FRY, but the driving force behind the Montenegrin independence movement may be the least nationalist in the Balkans.

Serbs by another name? In 1908 National Geographic produced an eponymous article on ‘Serbia and Montenegro’ which observed that ‘both countries are peopled by the Serbs’ but recognized an exceptional Montenegrin character.5 The author approvingly called Montenegrins a warrior race but noted that each possessed ‘the bearing and dignity of a gentleman’ and they were ‘easily distinguishable from the Servians’.6 Similarly, English poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892) celebrated ‘Great Tsernogora!’ and called its inhabitants a race of faithful and free ‘mighty mountaineers’.7 It should first be observed that Montenegro is a remarkably diverse place. In addition to the 61.7 per cent of the population that identified itself as ‘Montenegrin’, the 1991 Yugoslav census found 9.3 per cent were Serbs, 14.5 per cent Muslims, 6.5 per cent Albanians, 1 per cent Croat and 8 per cent other.

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The presence of large number of refugees from Croatia and Bosnia must further alter these numbers, most likely to the benefit of the Serb population. The Montenegrin government estimated the republic’s population in 1998 as 650,575 inhabitants, compared with Serbia’s population of about 10,000,000.8 Montenegrins have always lacked a broad consensus on whether they are their own nation or a distinct branch of the greater Serbian people.9 Nevertheless, they have a historical distinction from the Serbs in that they were the only Balkan people to resist successfully Ottoman conquest. In 1918 Montenegro’s monarch was deposed and the country was absorbed into the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes. Many Montenegrins never became fully reconciled to their loss of independence however. A Christmas uprising occurred in 1919 and the monarchist, separatist ‘Greens’ fought a guerrilla war against Yugoslav forces until 1926.10 Commenting on this period, Milovan Djilas observed that a majority rejected inclusion into Yugoslavia and wrote, ‘Old Montenegro was all out of joint. Her mountains and crags still stood, but she herself had fallen, sunken in hatred and blood, seeking but unable to find herself.’11 Serb–Montenegrin relations remained tense throughout the interwar period and during World War Two, Montenegrin autonomists took up arms against Chetniks and Partisans.12 Under Tito, Montenegrins received their own titular republic and were recognized as a distinct nationality by the 1946 constitution. Many, including Djilas, came to wholly endorse Yugoslavia.13 Nevertheless, two basic strains of Montenegrin nationalism competed in the postwar period, one stressing the close kinship between two branches of one Serbian nation, and the other emphasizing the uniqueness of the Montenegrin nation.14 By the mid-1980s, ‘Montenegro was becoming sharply polarized between antiSerbian and pro-Serbian nationalists’.15 In a symbolic move, the remains of King Nicholas and other Montenegrin royals were returned to Montenegro in 1989 and reinterred in Cetinje amidst much fanfare. The Montenegrin leadership nevertheless supported Milosˇevic´ and his Serb nationalist project, and the reformed League of Communists of Montenegro won the first free elections in Montenegro in 1990. However, while many Montenegrins eagerly participated in the wars against Bosnia and, particularly, Croatia, others remained uneasy. By the mid-1990s, Montenegro was moving to dissociate itself from Milosˇevic´’s Yugoslavia.

Montenegro’s political landscape Since early 2001, Montenegro has held two rounds of parliamentary elections, each of which produced a majority for Milo Djukanovic´’s pro-independence platform, but neither of which has indicated overwhelming support for Montenegrin separatism. Montenegro’s political scene can be basically divided into two contending coalitions, between which operates the small but hardly unimportant Liberal party (LSCG).16 Djukanovic´’s coalition, consisting of the DPS and SDP,17 competed in the April 2001 elections as ‘Victory for Montenegro – Milo Djukanovic´’ and in the October 2002 contest as ‘Democratic List for European Montenegro’.18 The Montenegrin opposition (SNP, SNS, NS19) ran as the

Montenegro and Serbia 55 ‘Together for Yugoslavia’ coalition in 2001, but renamed itself for 2002 as ‘Together for Changes’ (ZZP).20 Though it operates in coalition, Milo Djukanovic´’s nominally pro-independence DPS is the leading force in Montenegrin politics. Ironically, the DPS is actually the former Montenegrin division of the League of Communists,21 and Milosˇevic´ was able to count the Montenegrins and particularly their leader, Momir Bulatovic´, among his closest supporters in the late 1980s and early 1990s. In 1992, the DPS assumed its current name, and by 1997 the party was split into two factions respectively led by Momir Bulatovic´ and Milo Djukanovic´. Djukanovic´ himself had become Montenegro’s Prime Minister in February 1991 at the age of 29. In the early 1990s he had been a Milosˇevic´ loyalist but later sought to distance his party from the Serb strongman. When the Djukanovic´-led faction prevailed in 1997 and Djukanovic´ became the coastal republic’s president,22 Bulatovic´ left the party to form the Socialist People’s Party (SNP), which he later also left.23 The DPS’s smaller coalition partner, the Social Democrats (SDP), is strongly pro-independence and draws its support largely from well-educated and urban Montenegrins. Under Zarko Rakcevic´, the party has long been an advocate of a sovereign and internationally recognized country in a union with a similar Serbia. In January 2001, however, the DPS and the SDP went further, calling for international recognition of Montenegro. The Liberal Alliance of Montenegro (LSCG) has occupied an awkward position in the country during the last decade, and until spring 2002 operated as an uncomfortable partner with the DPS and the SDP. Although it shared certain views with the Victory for Montenegro coalition, the LSCG did not join the DPS in government until 2001, and in many ways continued to act like an opposition party. The Liberals support open borders, regional cooperation (including with former Yugoslav republics) and Montenegrin participation in European integration. Founded in 1990, the LSCG persistently opposed Milosˇevic´ and the wars of Yugoslav succession. Furthermore, it never recognized the 1992 establishment of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, Milosˇevic´’s rump state that he intended to succeed the defunct socialist Yugoslavia (SFRY). Under the leadership of its current president, Miodrag Zivkovic´ and (until autumn 2002) President of the Parliament Vesna Perovic´, the LSCG has been Montenegro’s most persistent pro-referendum and pro-independence party. Djukanovic´’s ‘Victory for Montenegro’ coalition is opposed by the ‘Together for Changes’ coalition, consisting of the Socialist People’s Party (SNP), the People’s Party of Montenegro (NS) and the Serbian People’s Party (SNS). As its former name (Together for Yugoslavia) implies, this coalition supports union with Serbia, though in a somewhat redefined federation. The coalition contains many pro-Serb elements, but does not include the Serbian Radical Party (SRS) for example, which denies the existence of a separate Montenegrin nation. Together for Changes also attracts the votes of some minorities that fear the results of further Yugoslav dissolution. Its leading party, the SNP, was founded in 1998 after the split in the DPS. Originally headed by Momir Bulatovic´ and now by Predrag Bulatovic´, the party opposes Montenegrin independence, favouring a continued

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relationship with Serbia. Indeed, the SNP has not endorsed Djukanovic´’s moves to dissociate Montenegro from FRY and has been a regular receiver of financial and political support from Belgrade. While under Predrag Bulatovic´, the SNP has edged away somewhat from its pro- Milosˇevic´ past;24 it nevertheless consists of largely unreconstructed friends and allies of Milosˇevic´ who peddle threats of ethnic conflict and block cooperation with the ICTY. Unlike Djukanovic´’s coalition, the SNP did not boycott the September 2000 elections in Yugoslavia, and thus holds all but one seat (which went to its coalition partner, the SNS) in the Federal Parliament. The SNP was thus assured the role of the FRY Prime Minister under the Serb Kosˇtunica, because the 1992 FRY constitution stipulated that the state’s Premier and President could not hail from the same republic. The SNP’s two coalition partners were once one party and were allied with the DPS and the SDP. The NS, under Dragan Sˇ oc´, has additionally been allied previously with the LSCG. Though the NS has moderated its once fiercely pro-Serb tone, it still supports the preservation of a joint state with Serbia. The NS split with the DPS and the SDP as a result of those parties’ pro-independence January 2001 platform, precipitating parliamentary elections in April 2001. A more extreme faction of the NS later broke away to form the SNS under Bozidar Bojovic. Montenegro’s 22 April 2001 parliamentary elections were widely understood to be an unofficial referendum on whether to hold a referendum on independence, which Djukanovic´’s coalition supported. The coalition saw in the forced elections an opportunity to secure enough seats in the Montenegrin parliament to reach the two-thirds majority required for any changes to the Montenegrin constitution and, thus, independence. During the 2001 election campaign, the Victory for Montenegro coalition consistently emphasized the impossibility of achieving equality with Serbia in such a lopsided and twisted federation even after Milosˇevic´’s ousting. The Together for Yugoslavia coalition, by contrast, stressed the uncertainties and perils of Montenegrin independence. In particular, the proYugoslav coalition stressed the potential dangers of further Yugoslav dissolution posed to Montenegro’s ethnic minorities while simultaneously emphasizing the danger which separatist elements of those ethnic groups could pose to ˇ ´ declared ominously that it should not Montenegro itself. NS leader Dragan Soc be left to Muslims and Albanians to decide the fate of Montenegro but rather should be the decision of the country’s Orthodox population.25 Such rhetoric is not atypical of the pro-Yugoslav coalition, which has at times made inflammatory or menacing statements regarding the dangers poised to and by Montenegro’s minorities should the republic achieve formal independence. By contrast, Djukanovic´ tends to draw support from the country’s minorities.26 Though they failed to win a majority, the Together for Yugoslavia coalition celebrated the election results as a victory. In truth, however, the election results showed neither side to have a proper mandate in Montenegro in 2001. Djukanovic´’s coalition won 36 mandates and Together for Yugoslavia earned 33 in the 77-seat chamber, placing the LSCG in the role of kingmaker with its six seats.27 Thus, though there was a majority voice for Djukanovic´, it was a weak one. Despite failing to secure a two-thirds majority, pro-independence forces

Montenegro and Serbia 57 nevertheless vowed to persevere with a referendum. After six weeks of negotiations, the DPS and SDP reached an agreement to govern with the stridently pro-independence Liberals. That government would not be a stable one, however. For reasons that will be discussed elsewhere in this chapter, the government resulting from the 22 April 2001 elections would collapse within one-and-a-half years, foundering on the rocks of the independence issue.

Emergence of a sovereign state That such energy should be spent on a formal assertion of Montenegrin independence is perhaps not surprising, but the fact is that Montenegro has been virtually independent for all intents and purposes for several years. The kernel of independence was planted and gradually nurtured by Djukanovic´ and his supporters for a number of reasons. It became evident to many Montenegrins that the costs of association with Milosˇevic´’s ‘Yugoslav’ pariah state were outweighing the benefits. Furthermore, the economic costs of international sanctions and hyperinflation (as well as lost tourism revenues) were self-evident. That Montenegro could never have equality with its sister republic Serbia, as promised in the FRY constitution, appeared certain by the mid-1990s. Additionally, Montenegrins, many of whom had themselves brutally besieged Dubrovnik in 1991, began to tire of Milosˇevic´’s wars. Regarding the distinction made by Vjeran Pavlakovic´ and Sabrina Ramet (elsewhere in this book) between Jean Bodin’s and Thomas Hobbes’s notions of sovereignty, it almost goes without saying that the modus operandi of the Milosˇevic´ regime was to proceed with a Hobbesian arrogance for power, thinly cloaked with appeals to Bodin’s notions of the secular sovereign’s morally limited authority. Milosˇevic´ was careful to establish a veneer of legality around his actions but in fact acted arbitrarily to secure his own objectives. Milosˇevic´’s amendments to the FRY constitution that altered the nature of that state at the expense of impotent Montenegro stand as a supreme example of precisely such arrogance and will be treated later in this chapter. Montenegro’s de facto independence emerged gradually as Podgorica assumed federal competencies and disregarded federal institutions and FRY authorities abused the constitution or manipulated federal structures to the exclusion and detriment of Montenegro. Montenegro began the 1990s not as an upstart republic but as Serbia’s supplicant. On a republican level, one could say that the disintegration of the SFRY began in Montenegro with Milosˇevic´’s engineering of the replacement of the republic’s leadership with his supporters. Viktor Meier observes that this event beyond Serbia’s borders demonstrated to other republic leaders that Milosˇevic´ intended to dominate not just Serbia but all of Yugoslavia.28 Yet if by the autumn of 1989 Montenegro was ‘for all practical purposes a colony of Serbia’,29 this would change dramatically in the coming years as lost wars and hyperinflation cast a pall over the tiny republic.30 Milo Djukanovic´, a Milosˇevic´ ally installed in 1991 as Prime Minister, began to distance himself from his patron during the mid-1990s. As previously noted,

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meaningful change occurred in 1997 with the split in the DPS and Djukanovic´’s defeat of Momir Bulatovic´ in an October 1997 run-off election for the republic’s presidency.31 The first anti-Milosˇevic´ demonstrations occurred on 28 July of that year, as local police merely looked on.32 Later that year Djukanovic´ called Milosˇevic´ ‘an outdated politician’ and baldly declared that the question for Montenegro was ‘whether we want to enter the twenty-first century as a democratic and free Montenegro or become some insignificant appendage to an undemocratic regime’.33 Previous to his election as president, Montenegrin Prime Minister Djukanovic´ used his votes in the FRY parliament to block constitutional changes that would have granted the FRY President sweeping powers. Milosˇevic´ had become FRY President in July 1997 and sought to replicate the authority he had enjoyed in Serbia in the more figurehead role of FRY executive.34 Milosˇevic´ largely exercised power, however, through his personal authority and the removal of those disloyal to him. Recognizing Djukanovic´ as a threat, Milosˇevic´ orchestrated demonstrations that threatened to block Djukanovic´’s inauguration as president in early 1998. Henceforth, a pattern would develop whereby Milosˇevic´ would attempt to exclude Montenegrins from federal functions and subject the republic to economic blockade or harassment. Meanwhile, Montenegro would try to assert itself as well as possible at the federal level, while simultaneously distancing itself from Belgrade. As such, Podgorica came to assume ever-more federal areas of responsibility as Montenegro’s own. As a means of undermining the Milosˇevic´ regime, the United States and the European Union openly supported the Djukanovic´ government’s rebellion through aid and the relaxation of economic sanctions. Additionally, Montenegro gradually developed its own ties with NATO and the EU. Over the course of several years, Podgorica came to achieve de facto independence from Belgrade’s authority. John Locke provides a theoretical underpinning for Djukanovic´’s defiance of Belgrade in his Two Treatises of Government of 1698. Locke observes that a usurper of power ‘can never have Right on his side’. Should that usurper alter the forms and rules of the government beyond those which previously belonged to the lawful government, ‘tis Tyranny added to the Usurpation’.35 Indeed, the Milosˇevic´ regime and its apologists ruled arbitrarily, habitually denying political and human rights to the citizens of FRY, and regularly abrogating the state’s constitution. Simultaneously, Milosˇevic´’s policies and cronyism launched the country into an economic freefall from which it has yet to recover properly. In a state such as this, Montenegro and Djukanovic´ may be admired for their defiance. Locke states, Whosoever uses force without Right, as every one does in Society, who does it without Law, puts himself into a state of War with those, against whom he so uses it and in that state all former Ties are cancelled, all other Rights cease and every one has a Right to defend himself, and to resist the Aggressor.36 To Milosˇevic´’s consternation and fury, Djukanovic´ did resist. In the run up to the June 1998 parliamentary elections, Victory for Montenegro’s opponents charged

Montenegro and Serbia 59 Djukanovic´ with being a tool of the West and Islamic forces (because he received support from Montenegro’s Albanian and Muslim communities). At political rallies, Milosˇevic´ supporters inveighed against ‘Milo the Turk!’ while Djukanovic´’s supporters retorted, ‘This is not Serbia!’37 After Djukanovic´’s coalition took 49.5 per cent in the 1998 elections to the Montenegrin Parliament, the Parliament declared that it would no longer respect laws promulgated by the FRY parliament; it would not recognize Bulatovic´’s appointment as FRY Premier; and it would henceforth disregard the will of now-FRY President Milosˇevic´.38 Milosˇevic´ for his part blocked the transfer of pension and federal funds to Montenegro and banned President Djukanovic´ from his federal roles. Meanwhile, Djukanovic´ began to build up the Montenegrin police as a potential counterweight to the Yugoslav Army (VJ).39 The VJ’s presence in Montenegro has been significant over the 1990s, prompting one Montenegrin to complain in July 1999, ‘We live under Serbian occupation’.40 The Kosovo crisis provided another opportunity for Djukanovic´ to assert Montenegrin independence against Belgrade. During that conflict, Djukanovic´ walked a tightrope between NATO and Belgrade, and pronounced Montenegro ‘neutral’. Unsurprisingly, the NATO bombing had a crystallizing effect in Montenegro and was a turning point for the government. The government essentially rejected the call up of Montenegrin reservists and new recruits into the army. By July 1999, Montenegrin authorities were promising to arrest anyone on the republic’s territory indicted by the ICTY for war crimes. Foreign Minister Branko Perovic´ warned ‘We will arrest the first person who attempts to operate here in a federal uniform’ adding ‘we do not recognize federal authority’.41 Additionally, the Montenegrin government had called for the withdrawal of VJ troops.42 FRY/Serbia and Montenegro also came to confront each other economically. By spring 1999, the VJ was setting up periodic roadblocks to attempt to enforce payment of FRY taxes and customs duties (which Podgorica had refused to pay), or otherwise block goods from entering Montenegro from Serbia.43 By spring 2000, Serbia had imposed a strict ban on the shipment of goods between Serbia and Montenegro.44 And, perhaps most significantly, after several months of a dualcurrency system with the Yugoslav Dinar, Montenegro introduced the DM as its official currency in November 2000. In 2002, it was formally replaced by the euro.45 Also in 2000, the Montenegrin government declared that it could no longer recognize the VJ as a legitimate authority in Montenegro.46 The VJ maintained its presence, however, and at this writing (2003) is among the few federal institutions still present in Montenegro. By summer of 1999, Montenegro had abolished visa requirements and even set up its own airline. Having already rejected the legitimacy of FRY, Djukanovic´ dismissed the prospects for fair elections to the federal presidency and his supporters boycotted the September 2000 elections. As previously observed, the pro-Yugoslav opposition, however, did participate, winning every Montenegrin seat in the Federal Assembly. Ominously, the tension over Montenegro has produced a schism in the Serbian Orthodox Church in the republic, and resulted in the re-establishment of the autocephalous Montenegrin Orthodox Church.47 The existence of the specifically Montenegrin church is a development of no small significance, since an

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autocephalous Orthodox Church is traditionally seen as the repository of national identity and legitimacy in the Orthodox world. Thus, a bid for a Montenegrin Orthodox Church strongly suggests a bid for separate statehood and has been harshly rejected by the Serbian Orthodox Church. Violence and confrontation between members of the rival churches is not unknown. So, currently Montenegro may be said to exercise the sovereignty of an independent state in numerous ways. The Montenegrin Central Bank is an independent institution from the Yugoslav National Bank, and in fact the two banks have little to do with each other. The official currency in the republic (in which virtually all transactions take place) is the Euro, which further frees the Montenegrin economy from Belgrade’s influence by denying the Yugoslav National Bank the ability to determine monetary policy there.48 Although Montenegro lacks a proper military, the robust Montenegrin police act as an ersatz defence force. The elected government only acknowledges the FRY regime in the most limited and reluctant of ways. The republic effectively runs its own foreign policy through the Montenegrin Ministry of Foreign Affairs and has successfully asserted a separate foreign policy from Belgrade’s. Montenegro’s ‘trade missions’ serve as self-styled embassies and consulates in Washington, Brussels and elsewhere. Since 1999, Montenegro has operated a distinct visa regime from FRY. Montenegro maintains border controls with Serbia, asserts its own customs regime and collects duties on trade. The Serbian Orthodox Church has suffered a split with the establishment of an autocephalous Montenegrin Orthodox Church, traditionally seen as a source of national legitimacy and assertion of national identity. Even after Milosˇevic´’s ousting, the Montenegrin government continued to insist that little had changed in the FRY, and that therefore the coastal republic could not expect fair treatment within the federation or proper representation by the FRY on the international stage. In addition to the pervasive belief that democratic Montenegro would prosper and integrate into the EU faster without the dead weight of the FRY, Montenegrin authorities have based their claims to independence on a number of grounds, including illegal acts and constitutional abuses that occurred under the Milosˇevic´ regime. The chief such abuse was the amending of the FRY constitution which relegated Montenegro to second-class status in the so-called federation. Because of the conduct of the Milosˇevic´ regime even before the passage of constitutional amendments in July 2000, however, the FRY constitution may be said to have already been seriously in breach, raising the matter of the legitimacy of the joint state. Podgorica has thus assumed most of the key functions of the federal state, leading one Deputy Premier of Serbia to acknowledge, that ‘Montenegro is de facto independent’.49 Thus, even before the EU-brokered agreement establishing ‘Serbia and Montenegro’ one may have been forgiven for asking if the Yugoslavia still properly existed at all.

Altered states The 1992 constitution of the Federal Republic of Montenegro opens by citing the ‘determination of its citizens for Montenegro to continue to live in the joint state

Montenegro and Serbia 61 of Yugoslavia as a sovereign and equitable republic’.50 Such an arrangement appears guaranteed by Article 1 of the 1992 Constitution of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, which states that the FRY shall be ‘a sovereign, federal state, founded on the equality of its citizens and the equality of its member republics’.51 Furthermore, the constitution observes that the state is founded upon the rule of law and stipulates that ‘Executive and judicial powers shall be subject to law.’52 Finally, authority in the FRY, according to Article 12, is to be organized on the principle of separation of powers between the legislature, executive and judiciary. On all of these accounts, the FRY failed its constitution, thereby imperiling its legitimacy. By exercising his control of the Federal Constitutional Court, in 1998 Milosˇevic´ blocked Montenegro from installing its legally appointed representatives in the upper house (Chamber of Republics) of the federal parliament, supposing them to be more loyal to Djukanovic´ than himself.53 As such, the previous, Milosˇevic´-loyal, Montenegrin delegates retained their seats and Milosˇevic´ was able to guarantee his influence over that institution. Thus went a pattern where Milosˇevic´ did not circumvent formal institutions but rather controlled them through his proxies to exclude obstreperous Montenegro from its rightful influence in the affairs of state. In addition to locking out the new Montenegrin deputies from the upper house, Milosˇevi´c removed disloyal representatives from Montenegro from the Yugoslav National Bank, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Supreme Defence Council, the Federal Constitutional Court and the Federal Supreme Court.54 Additionally, as Montenegrin representatives regularly complained, the Federal Constitutional Court was beholden to Milosˇevic´.55 In addition to demonstrating the clear lack of separation of executive, legislative and judicial authority in FRY, the barring of the newly-elected Montenegrin representatives to the Chamber of Republics was particularly important because this body was the only one where the Montenegrin republic had absolute parity with the much larger Serbia. It was only here that Montenegro could exercise meaningful influence on the federal level through its veto power over legislation, the election for the FRY President, or the selection of the federal government. Thus when Milosˇevic´ barred the appointed deputies, the Montenegrin government pronounced the FRY’s chief bodies to be illegal and illegitimate. The constitution was in breach.56 Finally, during the summer of 2000, Milosˇevic´ and his cohorts rammed through a collection of constitutional amendments designed to enhance the position of the FRY presidency while reducing even Montenegro’s lingering formal influence in FRY affairs. Montenegro was being constitutionally shut out of FRY matters. The impact of these amendments was immediately recognized in Montenegro and by the Serbian opposition. Opposition politician Zarko Korac (now Serbian Deputy Prime Minister) called the amendments ‘almost a death blow to the Yugoslav federation’.57 Vuk Drasˇkovic´ pronounced the constitutional changes as ‘legal terrorism’,58 while his Serbian Renewal Movement warned ‘The Yugoslav constitution was torn apart and the final stage of the destruction of the Federal state’ begun. The changes, furthermore, ‘fully destroyed the statehood of Montenegro’.59 Meanwhile, Zoran Djindic´’s Democratic Party concurred, charging the new

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constitution as ‘both the annulment of the federal state and a push to drive Montenegro out of Yugoslavia’.60 Miodrag Vukovic´, advisor to President Djukanovic´, stated bluntly that the changes ‘amounted to the constitution of a new country’.61 The amendments were adopted in approximately two hours, without proper review by the Constitutional Committee of the Parliament, or public debate. Podgorica was not even consulted on the amendments, a fact which the International Crisis Group asserts violates the parity principle enshrined in Article 1 of the FRY Constitution.62

General dynamics The struggle to redefine the FRY or achieve formal Montenegrin independence cannot be viewed from a single angle. Indeed, the battle for the future of the FRY and Montenegro contains several other, sometimes interlocking, dynamics. In Montenegro, local politicians struggling over the republic sometimes resemble medieval notables battling to control a fiefdom.63 Djukanovic´ and the DPS were no doubt sincere in their belief that Montenegro needs totally to redefine Yugoslavia or leave it, but there was dissent even within the DPS over which of these alternatives is preferable. Within the DPS some forces urged accommodation with Serbia/FRY. Meanwhile, the LSCG has always been highly distrustful of the DPS and never moderated its strident demands for independence. The LSCG’s recent alliance with the DPS was conditional on a promised independence referendum, and the Liberals made it amply clear during the 2001 to 2002’s independence negotiations with Belgrade that their cooperation in government remained contingent upon that referendum. Thus, during those negotiations Djukanovic´’s DPS had to struggle with itself, with its governing partner and with the opposition Together-for-Yugoslavia coalition, which exclusively represented Montenegro in federal bodies and regularly called Montenegro an authoritarian, personal state of Djukanovic´.64 As for Yugoslavia’s last president, the Montenegrin government saw in Kosˇtunica not democratic renewal but a shrewd repackaging of the Serb nationalist project, which would achieve its aims at Podgorica’s expense. As such, Montenegro was initially very wary of FRY involvement in any negotiations on the future of the Federation, and early on stipulated that SNP member and FRY Prime Minister Dragisˇa Pesˇic´ be excluded from the process. Montenegro’s minorities appear divided on the matter of independence, with Albanians being more in favour of separation from Serbia, and Bosniak Muslims decidedly less enthusiastic. According to the International Crisis Group, leaders of Montenegro’s Albanian political parties have repeatedly professed their loyalty to Montenegro. Nevertheless, opposition parties in Montenegro have been vocal and often provocative in expressing their fears that minorities would proceed to destabilize the country in the event of a declaration of independence. Such claims may be opportunistic, but they also suggest potentially real concerns. The Serb–Muslim border is straddled by a swath of territory known as the Sandzˇ ak that contains a large majority of ‘Bosniak’ Muslims. Cross-border movement by Serbs, Montenegrins and Muslims alike is very common in this region, and it is not unusual for residents of one republic to work or visit family in the

Montenegro and Serbia 63 other. Accordingly, Muslims on both sides of the border have developed opinions on the subject of Montenegrin independence. One main concern is that Muslims would become scapegoats of frustrated Serbs and Montenegrins, or that Muslims would suffer new oppression or expulsion with the formal division of the joint state. In October 2001, Muslim parties organized a pro-Yugoslav rally, and in mid-February 2002 the International Democratic Union, the Bosniak Democratic Union and the Bosniak Democratic Party issued a joint statement in which they declared that they could never support ‘ “Berlin walls” between Rozaje [Montenegro] and Novi Pazar [Serbia]’, nor could they ‘interrupt communication with their relatives in the Serbian part of Sandzˇ ak’.65 The SRNA (Bosnian Serb News Agency) has also quoted the chairman of the International Democratic Union and former leader of the Party of Democratic Action in Montenegro as opposing a referendum in Montenegro as destabilizing and likely to deepen the current political crisis.66 The OSCE believes Montenegro’s Muslims to be generally supportive of Djukanovic´ and the DPS, the SDP, or the LSCG. Indeed, under Djukanovic´, Montenegro’s minority-rights record has been impressive (for the region) and ethnic relations are generally good. Nevertheless, there have been allegations of abuse by Muslim leaders. The Chair of the Bosniak Society, for example, has remarked that Muslims in northern Montenegro live in fear and uncertainty and were increasingly moving to Novi Pazar. Muslim communities near the border in particular favour maintaining ties with Serbia for fear of their communities being divided. To forestall such a division, some Sandzˇ ak Muslims have considered calling their own referendum. Said Chairman of the People’s Movement of Sandzˇ ak, Dzˇemail Suljevic´: The border cannot be at Mehov Krs and cannot be where it never existed in the first place. We do not contest the right of Podgorica and the current authorities in Montenegro to call a referendum, but we shall absolutely and very soon set an initiative in motion to call a referendum at the level of Sandzˇak so that the citizens can have a say in which state Sandzak should be. All citizens should take part [in the referendum], that is Bosniaks as well as Serbs and Montenegrins. We propose or rather send a message to Mr. Djukanovic´ and the current regime in Montenegro that if they want a secession of Montenegro then they have to choose between two issues – Sandzˇak and Montenegro, that is, to set up a new state called Sandzˇak and Montenegro or to have a lesser Montenegro or mini-Montenegro’.67 Even should this be mere hyperbole and such a Sandzˇ ak referendum never be held, that some Sandzˇ ak leaders so oppose the division of the region does not bode well for the future territorial integrity of an independent Montenegro.

Negotiations While there is a Montenegrin nationalist element to Montenegrin separatism, it is hardly comparable to the nationalism that has reigned in Serbia or Croatia. It

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is true that much Montenegrin symbolism and heraldry has been employed by the separatists and there are no doubt true nationalists involved in the separatist movement. As previously mentioned, however, many of the supporters of Montenegrin independence are not Montenegrins at all, or even Slavs: rather, they are Albanian. Montenegrin separatism is on one level a move towards ‘state rights’, a republic asserting its position in the FRY and also that of the historic Montenegrin state. It is also a reaction against the excesses and transgressions of the FRY and Serbia. Perhaps most important from the negotiating point of view, Montenegrin separatism is a point of economic self-defence. The government of Montenegro may be expected to accept many things, but a return to the Dinar, or even a properly unified customs regime with Serbia is unimaginable. Podgorica makes sound arguments about the need for an open trade regime and a monetary policy that is independent of Belgrade. (By adopting the Euro, of course, Podgorica has effectively surrendered monetary policy to the EU.) Finally, the realities of coalition politics eliminated certain options for Djukanovic´’s and then Montenegrin Prime Minister Filip Vujanovic´’s government, and compelled the government to pursue independence. From the onset of talks with Belgrade, the DPS’s coalition partners warned that they would leave the government in the event of rapprochement with Belgrade, thus forcing new elections.68 Meanwhile, though advocates of a joint state no doubt include those who sincerely believe in the wisdom of continued union with Serbia, many of the opponents of separatism are basically unreconstructed friends and allies of Milosˇevic´ who peddle threats of ethnic conflict and block cooperation with the ICTY. Besides opposing Montenegrin independence, they seem still committed to Milosˇevic´’s projects, if ˇ ˇelj. not that of Vojislav Ses Negotiations on the future of the federation took place in a number of forums involving a number of participants over several months. The meetings included the FRY, Serbian, and Montenegrin political authorities, teams of ‘experts’ and, finally, Javier Solana and other EU representatives.69 Beside ways to reorganize the federation, Belgrade and Podgorica argued whether the future of the federation should be discussed at all, with the Montenegrin delegation proposing instead to define an alliance of independent states.70 The talks occurred in Podgorica, Belgrade and Brussels and occasioned alternately optimistic predictions and pessimistic grumbling. Vesna Perovic´, then the fervently pro-independence President of the Montenegrin Parliament, captured the mood when she quipped that the worst aspect of the negotiations was that each meeting concluded only with the agreement to hold future meetings.71 Throughout negotiations, Podgorica advocated a redefined union of internationally recognized, independent states; Serbia and the FRY pushed for a loose federation; and the European Union called for a ‘democratic Montenegro in a democratic Yugoslavia’.

A new Sporazum On 14 March 2002 Yugoslav, Serbian and Montenegrin leaders signed the ‘Proceeding Points for the Restructuring of Relations between Serbia and

Montenegro and Serbia 65 Montenegro’, commonly referred to as the ‘Belgrade Agreement’. The document, which was signed under intense pressure from the European Union, redefines relations between the two remaining Yugoslav republics in an arrangement that Yugoslav President Vojislav Kosˇtunica insisted represents a true break with previous incarnations of Yugoslavia. The Montenegrin President and Prime Minister (accused of ‘treason’ by their coalition partners), however, faced a difficult time in convincing many of their countrymen of the wisdom of the deal.72 When President Djukanovic´ addressed the Montenegrin Parliament on 26 March 2002, he insisted that he and Prime Minister Vujanovic´ were confident that the new arrangements were ‘good for Montenegro and all its citizens’. However, his subsequent remarks do not suggest his own deep conviction of that appraisal, or that he expects many in Montenegro to share it. Djukanovic´’s speech was filled with some truth, some exaggeration and some vagueness. However, the nature and details of the Belgrade Agreement suggest that the new arrangements are neither a permanent nor a real solution. Montenegro’s pro-independence forces have not been defeated, nor can the forces favouring a joint state with Serbia claim final victory. The new arrangement effectively recognizes the status quo between the Serbian and Montenegrin republics, and therefore does little to resolve the basic uncertainty surrounding the joint state. However, with Montenegrin opinion so closely divided over independence, and the international community so unenthusiastic about Montenegrin separatism, such a non-solution may have been the only option for Montenegro’s leaders. As Djukanovic´ said before the Montenegrin Assembly, I think the agreement on redefining relations between Montenegro and Serbia to a large extent acknowledged the political reality in Montenegro, which objectively should result in a more favorable atmosphere for political processes. We who are present in this room today bear utmost responsibility for this. The agreement provides equal opportunity to the forces who prefer an independence option for Montenegro and to those who believe a joint state with Serbia is a better choice. This, too, is one of the qualities of the agreement: we have to observe it whether we like it or not.73 The agreement signed in Belgrade on 14 March 2002 is remarkable for the ‘new’ state it creates, and also in that it ultimately resolves so little of the root differences between Montenegro and Serbia. The ‘Proceeding Points for the Restructuring of Relations between Serbia and Montenegro’ ends the ‘Yugoslav’ fiction of Milosˇevic´’s FRY and establishes a new state to be called Serbia and Montenegro. This ‘truly original solution’ (in Kosˇtunica’s words),74 reconstructs the country as a very loose union of highly autonomous republics linked by a single president, a unicameral parliament, a council of ministers and a Court of Serbia and Montenegro. According to the document, the state’s president will be elected by the Parliament of Serbia and Montenegro, which will ‘provide positive discrimination for Montenegrin representatives’.75 The president’s role will be

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limited and the council of ministers will consist of just five departments, including foreign affairs, defence, international economic relations, internal economic relations and protection of human and minority rights. Serbia and Montenegro are to have a joint army under a Supreme Defence Council, composed of the presidents of Montenegro, Serbia and ‘Serbia and Montenegro’, and the Supreme Defence Council will take decisions by consensus. What will most notably not be common between the two republics is the economic sphere. Though the member states will be obliged to allow the free flow of people, goods, services and capital, they are also responsible for establishing their own customs regimes.76 Additionally, Montenegro will retain the Euro, while Serbia will continue to use the Dinar. Thus Serbia and Montenegro, though nominally one country, will not enjoy a proper common market or a common currency. The agreement envisions a Constitutional Commission that will submit a Constitutional Charter to the republic parliaments, after which elections and appointments for the joint state’s posts and bodies will take place. The agreement, contingent upon approval by member-state parliaments and the federal parliament, is also notable for the lurking distrust that is evident in its many provisions.77 Through the Supreme Defence Council, Montenegro has been certain to secure a veto over the use of a common army. (Podgorica has long viewed the VJ not as a defender of Montenegro but rather as a threat.) Additionally, the agreement stipulates that the EU monitor the economic functioning of the member states and even act as an arbitrator should one member state believe that the other is shirking its responsibilities towards the free flow of commerce. An awkward principle of rotation is meant to ensure parity of representation between the two member republics in international organizations such as the UN, OSCE and the Council of Europe. The document asserts that ‘In the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Ministry of Defense, the minister and his/her deputy from different member states shall take turns when one half of the term in office expires’.78 Thus, rotation will apply to domestic portfolios as well. What is perhaps most remarkable about the Belgrade Agreement is the very uncertainty built into the new state. The agreement includes a ‘Provision on Reconsideration’ which stipulates that ‘Upon the expiration of a three-year period, the member states shall be entitled to institute proceedings for a change of state status, that is, withdrawal from the state union [my italics].’79 So likely did the possibility of withdrawal by a member state seem to the agreement’s authors that they included a provision recognizing Serbia as the successor to FRY in regards to international documents related to Yugoslavia, especially UN Security Council Resolution 1244.80 Ultimately, neither federalists nor separatists can claim proper victory with the Belgrade Agreement, which effectively defers a final decision on Montenegro’s status. Indeed, the Provision on Renegotiation could conceivably provide incentive for separatists to sabotage the new arrangements. With two distinct currencies and customs regimes, it is difficult to imagine how the state could hope to move towards a proper common market. Additionally, the rotation principle for ministerial posts and international organizations may well prove inoperable. At

Montenegro and Serbia 67 the very least it is bound to undermine the effectiveness of those institutions it governs. Montenegro’s securing of an effective veto over the deployment of the common army, however, should be considered an unqualified success. Ultimately if Montenegro really is able to exercise effective influence in Belgrade, the deal will have somewhat expanded Montenegrin sovereignty, in that Montenegrin representatives will have accesses to the resources of a much larger state. In essence, however, this deal effectively recognizes the status quo of two highly autonomous republics in a union that at times seems more fictional than real. Reaction to the agreement has been mixed, and it is notable that dissatisfaction has been expressed at the Yugoslav, Serbian, and Montenegrin levels. At the federal level, Mladjan Dinkic´, the Governor of Yugoslavia’s National Bank, pessimistically claimed that the agreement did not resolve matters but in fact created new areas of contention between the member states. Referring to Kosˇtunica’s characterization of the deal as ‘original’, he stated: ‘The solution is indeed original because with no common monetary or tariff system there can be no state’. To Dinkic´’s mind, the only winner from the agreement was Javier Solana.81 Even Yugoslav Deputy Prime Minister Miroljub Labus, a signatory to the agreement, announced that he was ‘not happy’ with it and only signed in order to assure Belgrade’s future progress towards European integration.82 Critics of the deal deride the new joint state as ‘Solania’, after the EU diplomat Javier Solana who brokered the Belgrade Agreement. In Serbia, Serbian Justice Minister and head of the Christian Democratic Party of Serbia (DHSS) Vladan Batic´ announced that his party would not support the new arrangements, which could not last anyway. Batic´, who had earlier called for a referendum on independence in Serbia stated: ‘It’s high time that we [Serbs] came to our senses and at the start of the third millennium created our own, independent, respected, democratic, European, integrated and credible state.’ Calling Serbia the greatest loser of the joint-state accord, Batic´ continued, ‘We have been turned into European Kurds of sorts’, and vowed to persevere with his referendum efforts.83 The DSS and the DS unsurprisingly endorsed the agreement, while the spokesman for Milosˇevic´’s Socialist Party of Serbia called 14 March 2002 ‘the most shameful day in the history of the Serbian nation’.84 Serbian Prime Minister Djindic´ remarked that the deal recognized the status quo.85 Meanwhile Vojvodina’s politicians had mixed reactions to the accord, with some calling on Serbia (to which Vojvodina nominally belongs) to now reassess its own internal make-up and provide greater autonomy for Vojvodina. In Montenegro, debate over the new arrangements was predictably explosive. As previously observed, the DPS’s coalition partners maintained far more strident separatist positions than that party. Indeed, the LSCG predicated its participation in government on the holding of an independence referendum. After signing the agreement with Belgrade, President Djukanovic´ and Prime Minister Vujanovic´ faced a full-scale revolt by their coalition partners which they attempted to quell in part by highlighting the impermanence of the new arrangements. After the main committee of DPS voted unanimously to support the new union, the SDP issued a statement, on 15 March, that it would quit the Montenegrin government

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if the parliament ratified the new union with Serbia. On 19 March the LSCG also announced that it could no longer support the government, and Liberal leader Miodrag Zivkovic´ called upon Djukanovic´ and Vujanovic´ to resign.86 By contrast, representatives of the Together for Yugoslavia Coalition predictably indicated that the coalition would endorse the new state. Djukanovic´ has attempted to mollify his coalition partners by emphasizing the temporary nature of the new state, calling it ‘a transitional arrangement on the way to full independence of both Montenegro and Serbia’. In an attempt to demonstrate DPS’s fidelity to the goal of eventual independence, party official Miodrag Vukovic´ announced that party leaders could easily agree to schedule a referendum in March 2005, shortly after the Period of Reconsideration.87 Djukanovic´’s dilemma over independence has long been acute and a solution to the political fallout has seemed elusive at best. As Miodrag Zivkovic´ observed in the initial aftermath of the Belgrade Agreement, ‘It is important to know one thing and it is that Mr. Djukanovic´ has no good possibilities. All the possibilities are objectively bad and he’s is in a situation [where he must] choose the least terrible.’88 Indeed, the fallout from the signing of the agreement with Belgrade was so intense that extraordinary parliamentary elections were called for October 2002 in Montenegro.

Conclusion The Montenegrin constitution’s preamble begins by invoking the ‘historical right of the Montenegrin people to have its own state, acquired through a centuries long struggle for freedom’.89 With the collapse of the equitable federation guaranteed by the FRY Constitution, which was a Montenegrin requirement for participation in a joint state, this legally codified ‘historical right’ has reasserted itself. A majority in Montenegro favours independence, but the country is closely divided over the issue. Furthermore, opposition to separation from the joint state often follows ethnic or regional lines, suggesting that the territorial integrity of an independent Montenegro could not necessarily be guaranteed. Montenegro’s politicians are in the unenviable position of having to disappoint nearly half of the country’s population no matter which choice (continued union or full independence) they take. Montenegro’s leaders have been bold in their assertion of sovereignty and repatriation of authority to Podgorica. However, the question of independence will be difficult for the coastal republic to resolve and will ultimately depend heavily on issues of identity. Montenegro long ago secured de facto autonomy from Belgrade, but does a majority in this country desire proper independence? Recent electoral results suggest a cautiously affirmative answer to the independence question. In October 2002’s parliamentary elections, Djukanovic´’s reassembled coalition (DPS and SDP) triumphed over Montenegro’s pro-Yugoslav bloc. Still espousing the goal of eventual independence while nevertheless advocating that the new state arrangement with Serbia be given a chance, the ‘Democratic List for European Montenegro – Milo Djukanovic´’ handily defeated the renamed ‘Together for

Montenegro and Serbia 69 Changes’ coalition (ZZP), winning an absolute majority in Montenegro’s parliament. The parties of Together for Changes lost seats, but the real losers in the election were the Liberals, whose calls of immediate independence apparently failed to resound with the electorate. The LSCG also perhaps lost votes for its bizarre behaviour in the months preceding the campaign, when it essentially allied itself with the pro-Yugoslav bloc for the purpose of bringing down the government. Thus, the electorate rewarded Montenegro’s moderates at the expense of both extremes of the independence spectrum.90 Meanwhile, Montenegro continues to exercise its sovereignty at the expense of the joint state in both domestic and international matters. After months of further negotiations, the Serbian and Montenegrin governments were finally able to adopt a constitutional charger for the new state, in February 2003. Thus, ostensibly moribund Yugoslavia continued its zombie-like existence for nearly a year after the ink was dry on the Belgrade Agreement. As such, one may be forgiven for pessimism regarding the future of the new joint state. Indeed, shortly after his May 2003 election as Montenegrin President, Filip Vujanovic confirmed his intention to hold a referendum on independence after a trial period for the new joint-state arrangement.91 In any event, it is difficult to imagine Montenegro surrendering its de facto independence. Ultimately the accord establishing ‘Serbia and Montenegro’ has not resulted in an attempt at a new Yugoslavia. Rather Serbia and Montenegro, their ‘historic rights’ as states explicitly acknowledged in the founding accord of the joint state, have agreed to a loose union of highly autonomous states that appears very temporary in nature. In the process, they have definitively shown that behind the fiction of Milosˇevic´’s FRY lay the obvious truth that Yugoslavia became an anachronism over a decade ago.92

Notes 1 William Jovanovich ‘Introduction’ in Milovan Djilas, Land without Justice (New York: Harcourt Brace,1958), p. xi. 2 Podgorica, formerly known as Titograd, is the capital of Montenegro. 3 International Crisis Group, ‘Montenegro: Resolving the Independence Deadlock’, 1 August 2001, p. 61. 4 Trans. Demokratska Partija Socijalista Crne Gore. 5 Gilbert Harvey Grosvenor, ‘Servia and Montenegro’, National Geographic, November 1908, p. 774. 6 Ibid., p. 783. 7 Alfred Lord Tennyson, Montenegro, available at www.fordham.edu/halsall/mod/tennysonmontenegro.html 8 Available at www.montenegro.yu. The Montenegrin government expected to conduct a census in spring 2002. At present, however, it appears that that census will be postponed because of local elections in the republic and a possible referendum. 9 Patrick Moore, ‘Montenegro at a Crossroads’, RFE/RL Newsline, vol. 5, no. 77, II (20 April 2001), available at www.rferl.com 10 Jeff Chu, ‘Time Trail: Montenegro’, available at www.time.com/time/europe/timetrails/ montenegro/

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11 See Djilas, Land without Justice, p. 99. 12 Viktor Meier, Yugoslavia: A History of its Demise, trans. Sabrina Ramet (New York: Routledge, 1995), p. 83. 13 Indeed, Djilas thought of himself as a Yugoslav and objected being called Montenegrin. William Jovanovich in Djilas, Land without Justice, p. xi. 14 Sabrina Ramet, Nationalism and Federalism in Yugoslavia, 1962–1991. 2nd edn. (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1992), p. 212. 15 See Ramet, Nationalism and Federalism in Yugoslavia, 1962–1991, p. 212. 16 LSGC – Liberalni Savez Crne Gore. 17 SDP – Socijal Demokratska Stranka Crne Gore. 18 ‘Pobjeda je Crne Gore – Democratska Koalicija Milo Djukanovic´’. 19 SNP – Socijalisticka Narodna Partija, SNS – Srpska Narodna Stranka, NS – Narodna Stranka Crne Gore. 20 ZZP – ‘Zajedno za Jugoslaviju’ and ‘Zajedno za Promene’. 21 Under the SFRY system, republic Leagues of Communists were highly autonomous and effectively acted as individual parties. 22 When Djukanovic´ was inaugurated president in 1998, SNP and Milosˇevic´ supporters staged several days of protests featuring toughs bussed in from Serbia, a Milosˇevic´ tactic from the early 1990s. After the 2002 parliamentary elections, Djukanovic´ resigned his presidential post to become Prime Minister. 23 SDP – Sociajalisticka Narodna Partija. 24 SNP opposes cooperation with the ICTY, however. For example, in 2001 its representatives in the Federal Assembly blocked the passage of legislation that would have allowed FRY to extradite indicted war criminals to The Hague. 25 International Crisis Group, ‘Montenegro: Time to Decide’, 18 April 2001, pp. 6–7. 26 A pro-Yugoslav position, however, is not necessarily indicative of xenophobia or nationalism. Often positions on independence follow regional and generational lines. 27 Two small Albanian parties also won one seat each. 28 See Meier, Yugoslavia: A History of its Demise, p. 83. 29 Sabrina Ramet, Balkan Babel: The Disintegration of Yugoslavia from the Death of Tito to the War for Kosovo, 3rd edn (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1999), p. 40. 30 Eric Gordy observes that by January 1994, the height of hyperinflation, the monthly inflation rate was 313,563,558 per cent. Eric D. Gordy, The Culture of Power in Serbia: Nationalism and the Destruction of Alternatives (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1999), p. 170. 31 On 20 May 1998, Bulatovic´ was appointed Prime Minister of FRY. 32 Jane Perlez, ‘Serbia’s Last Ally in the Yugoslav Breakup is Restive’, New York Times, 7 August 1997, available through Lexis Nexis. 33 Chris Hedges, ‘Rival’s Victory in Montenegro Weakens Milosˇevic´’, New York Times, 21 October 1997, Lexis Nexis. 34 Ibid. 35 John Locke, Two Treatises of Government, ed. Peter Laslett (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1960), p. 397. 36 Ibid., p. 419. 37 Chris Hedges, ‘It’s Serb vs. Serb in Montenegro Vote’, New York Times, 28 May 1998, Lexis Nexis. 38 Ibid. 39 The VJ was estimated at 25,000 in July 1999 against Djukanovic´’s 15,000 police. Associated Press, ‘Montenegro Begins to Talk with Belgrade on Gaining Autonomy’, New York Times, 15 July 1999, Lexis Nexis. 40 Chris Hedges, ‘Montenegrins, Angry Serbs, Talk of a Split’, New York Times, 10 July 1999, Lexis Nexis. 41 Ibid.

Montenegro and Serbia 71 42 The destruction in Serbia due to NATO bombing was far worse than in Montenegro, providing another economic argument to those who anticipate swift economic growth following independence from FRY. 43 See Hedges, ‘Montenegrins, Angry Serbs, Talk of a Split’. 44 Carlotta Gall, ‘Blockade is Raising Tension for Serbia’s Smaller Partner’, New York Times, 2 April 2002, Lexis Nexis. 45 The DM was replaced by the euro following the introduction of the euro in January 2002. 46 International Crisis Group, ‘Current Legal Status of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia and of Serbia and Montenegro’, 19 September 2000, p. 32. 47 The Montenegrin Orthodox Church was abolished under King Alexander Karadjordjevic in 1920. 48 Edmund L. Andrews, ‘Euro is a Hit in Montenegro (Yes, Montenegro)’, New York Times, 17 January 2002, Lexis Nexis. 49 Zarko Korac, Deputy Prime Minister of Serbia at the Swiss Foundation for World Affairs conference, ‘Stabilizing and Reconciling the Balkans’ at the Johns Hopkins University School of Advanced International Studies, 23 October 2001. 50 Constitution of the Republic of Montenegro (1992). Available at www.mediaclub.cg.yu (Preamble). 51 Constitution of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (1992). Article 1. 52 Constitution of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (1992). Article 9. 53 Miloˇsevic´ insisted that the previous MPs’ mandates simply be extended. Associated Press, ‘Montenegro Begins Talks with Belgrade on Gaining Autonomy’, New York Times, 15 July 1999, Lexis Nexis. 54 International Crisis Group, ‘Current Legal Status of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia and of Serbia and Montenegro’, 19 September 2000. p. 20. 55 Indeed, the International Crisis Group observes that the Federal Constitutional and Supreme Courts trespassed beyond their strictly federal jurisdiction when they declared invalid the election process for the Montenegrin Presidency (1997) and Montenegrin Parliament (1998). The Courts had no business in republic affairs. International Crisis Group, ‘Current Legal Status of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia and of Serbia and Montenegro’, 19 September 2000, pp. 23–25. 56 Ibid., p. 23. 57 Paul Watson, ‘Miloˇsevic´ Rewrites Constitution in Bid to Extend his Rule’, Gazette (Montreal), 7 July 2000, Lexis Nexis. 58 Ibid. 59 Deutsche Presse-Agentur, ‘Serbian Opposition Condemns Constitutional Amendments’, 6 July 2000, Lexis Nexis. 60 Ibid. 61 Steven Erlanger, ‘Change in Yugoslav Constitution allows Miloˇsevic´ to Seek another Term as President’, New York Times, 7 July 2000, Lexis Nexis. 62 International Crisis Group, ‘Current Legal Status of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia and of Serbia and Montenegro’, 19 September 2000, p. 28. 63 Serious allegations against Djukanovic´ have been made by the Croatian weekly Nacional. According to Nacional, Djukanovic´ has been involved in cigarette smuggling and contract killings and has amassed a fortune of US$63 million. Indeed, Djukanovic´ is widely supposed to have mafia connections. 64 The decision of Djukanovic´ and DPS to boycott FRY elections in September 2000 meant that all but one of the Montenegrin seats on the federal level were won by SNP. The remaining seat went to its ally, SNS. 65 Statement by International Democratic Union, the Bosniak Democratic Union and the Bosniak Democratic Party, ‘We Do Not want Walls between Rozaje and Novi Pazar’, Vijesti (Podgorica), 11 February 2002, at www.mnnews.net

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66 Harun Hadzic in BBC Monitoring Service, ‘Montenegro: Bosniak Politician Opposes Referendum’, SRNA News Agency, Bijeljina, 11 February 2002, at www.ft.com 67 Dzˇemail Suljevic´ in BBC Montiroring Service, ‘If Montenegro Calls Referendum, Sandzak’s Bloc Will Do Likewise, Party Chairman’, Radio Novi Pazar, 12 February 2002. 68 Generally, these coalition partners are motivated much less by nationalism or even Montenegrin identity than by seeing secession as a way to move closer to Europe and safeguard or even advance reforms. 69 Groups of technocrats from FRY, Montenegro and Serbia have met to discuss monetary and economic issues, constitutional issues, and foreign policy and defence matters. 70 FRY has sought to capitalize on apparent EU support for an enduring federation while Montenegro counts on its right to democratic self determination through a referendum, its democratic irrefutability. 71 Vesna Perovic´, ‘Solana and Djukanovic´ Meeting to Arrange Meetings’, 11 February 2002, at www.b92.net 72 Slavko Perovic´, ‘Perovic´: Djukanovic´ Explains the Treason’, Publika (Podgorica), 27 March 2002, at www.mnnews.net 73 Milo Djukanovic´’s address to the Montenegrin Parliament, ‘Montenegrin President Recommends Parliament Adopt Agreement with Serbia’, BBC Monitoring Service, TV Crna Gora, 26 March 2002. 74 Vojislav Kosˇtunica, ‘Yugoslav President Says Agreement “Basis for Future Constitutional Document” ’, BBC Montitoring Service, Radio Belgrade, 14 March 2002. 75 Kostunica, ‘Proceeding Points for the Restructuring of Relations between Serbia and Montenegro’, at www.mfa.gov.yu/Sporazum/sporazum_e.html 76 While the agreement does observe that member states’ trade and customs policies should in principle move towards harmonization, it does not stipulate that they must. Given the dramatically different nature of their economies, it seems unlikely that industrialized Serbia would ever adopt the minimal tariffs insisted upon by Montenegro. 77 The parliaments of Montenegro and Serbia approved the new arrangements on April 2002. 78 ‘Proceeding Points for the Restructuring of Relations between Serbia and Montenegro’, at www.mfa.gov.yu/Sporazum/sporazum_e.html 79 Ibid. 80 UN Security Council Resolution 1244 recognizes Kosovo as part of FRY, but not necessarily Serbia. 81 Mladjan Dinkic´, ‘Dinkic´ Warns of New Federal Conflicts’, 15 March 2002, at www.b92.net 82 Miroljub Labus, ‘Yugoslav Official Only Accepted Federal Accord for Purposes of EU integration’, BBC Monitoring Service, FoNet News Agency, Belgrade, 14 March 2002, at Lexis Nexis. 83 Vladan Batic´, ‘Party Leader Batic´ Says Serbia Has “Lost the Most” from Accord’, BBC Monitoring Service, Beta News Agency, Belgrade, 14 March 2002, at Lexis Nexis. 84 Branko Ruzic, ‘Serbian, Vojvodinian Politicians Divided on New State Union’, BBC Monitoring Service, Beta News Agency, Belgrade, 14 March 2002, at Lexis Nexis. 85 ‘Agreement Recognizes Real Life, Says Djindic´’, 14 March 2002, at www.b92.net 86 ‘Montenegrin Minority Government Loses Crucial Support’, 19 March 2002, at www.b92.net 87 ‘Vukovic´ Announces referendum for March of 2005, Simonovic Says that It Should Not Be Even Thought About’, Vijesti (Podgorica), 25 March 2002, at www.mnnews.net 88 Miodrag Zivkovic´, ‘Condition Set by Liberals an Absurdity that Reduces Chances for Reaching Agreement’, Vijesti, 27 March 2002, at www.mnnews.net 89 Constitution of the Repubulic of Montenegro (1992), at www.mediaclub.cg.yu, preamble.

Montenegro and Serbia 73 90 In a surprising twist, the widely popular Djukanovic´ opted in October 2002 to resign his presidency and become the costal republic’s prime minister. While this should guarantee four years of parliamentary stability, it offers Montenegro’s chastised opposition another shot at government. DPS member and former Prime Minister Filip Vujanoric´ has since become President. 91 ‘New Balkan Leader Backs Secession Vote’, BBC News, 12 May 2003, at news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/3021977.stm 92 Yugoslav President, Serbian nationalist and sometime democrat recognized this himself in March 2002 when he stated that Yugoslavia and Yugoslavism ‘[does] not exist without all its constituent peoples with whom Yugoslavia was born in 1918’. Vojislav Kosˇtunica, ‘Kosˇtunica Threatens Resignation if Federal Agreement Falters’, 18 March 2002, at www.b92.net

4

Albanian and Serb rivalry in Kosovo Realist and universalist perspectives on sovereignty Vjeran Pavlakovic and Sabrina Petra Ramet The people of Kosovo have a right to self-determination. They [enjoy] – just like the Croatians and the Slovenians did, and just like those in Bosnia who wanted to be not under Milosˇevic´’s heel or the Serbians’ heel, and just like the people of the United States had a right as we declared ourselves as in 1776, the right to dissolve the political bonds. (US Representative Dana Rohrabacher)1 . . . just imagine the outcry if, during our civil war, Great Britain would have invaded the North to ‘punish’ Abraham Lincoln for his militant defense of the Union. Kosovo is a part of Yugoslavia and Belgrade has every right to defend its national borders. (Bill Hughes)2

In an essay originally published in 1960, Hans Kelsen, the brilliant if controversial specialist in international law, held that international law and the laws of any given state cannot both be primary: one must take precedence over the other.3 If, Kelsen argued, one posited the primacy of international law, then there can be no room for state sovereignty as such.4 But if, on the other hand, one chooses to affirm the primacy of state sovereignty, then, for Kelsen, one must accept that this entails acceptance of the maxim ‘. . . that the state is not subject to a legal order superior to its own national law’.5 Kelsen tried to resolve this dilemma by holding that the state’s subscription to international law was voluntary; in this way he hoped to salvage the binding character of international law without sacrificing the concept of state sovereignty. But the difficulties do not end there. After all, the notion of popular (or national) sovereignty may be marshalled against that of state sovereignty. If the people are sovereign, or so Locke held, then it would follow that . . . if a long train of Abuses, Prevarications, and Artifices, all tending the same way, make the design visible to the People, and they cannot but feel, what they lie under, and see, whither they are going: ‘tis not to be wonder’d, that they should then rouze themselves, and endeavour to put the rule into such hands, which may secure to them the ends for which Government was at first erected.6

Albanian and Serb rivalry in Kosovo 75 Thus, the doctrine of state sovereignty faces a second challenge, from those who would make the People the ultimate repository of sovereign authority.7 Jacques Maritain has offered a Gordian solution by declaring the concept of state sovereignty ‘intrinsically wrong’ by which he means morally wrong.8 Tracing the doctrine of state sovereignty to the rise of absolute monarchies, Maritain treats the rival notion of popular sovereignty as a bastard extrapolation from the false (for him) doctrine of state sovereignty; for him, the doctrine of popular sovereignty is, moreover, a contradiction in terms.9 Ultimately, for Maritain, neither international law nor state sovereignty can be said to possess the moral credentials necessary to constitute the primary point of reference determinative of both national and international norms. Maritain locates this point of reference, however, in Natural Law (Universal Reason) from which, he argues, the right of people to self-governance proceeds.10 But which people? And within which territorial borders? If the case of Serbia may be adduced, shall such right be restricted to the people of the Republic of Serbia taken as a whole, or may specific groups, aggregated regionally, as, for instance, in Kosovo, also lay claim to such right, even if against the declared right of the whole? In the chapter which follows we shall show how rival understandings of sovereignty have been reflected in rival positions in the dispute over Kosovo, and argue that where Belgrade’s official line has adhered to traditional principles of Hobbesian ‘realism’, with the Albanians making an appeal to a nationalist version of the doctrine of popular sovereignty, stability and respect for human rights can only be grounded on the foundation of political legitimacy and an understanding of sovereignty compatible with the teachings of the sixteenth-century philosopher Bodin, who ‘set out to combat the sceptical trends of his age and to find a new basis of divine and natural right among human beings’,11 in the process setting certain limits to the authority of the sovereign. We shall begin by briefly tracing the development of the idea of sovereignty, then look at how arguments about sovereignty have figured in the debates surrounding Kosovo, examine the historical roots of the independence movement among Kosovar Albanians and, finally, outline the political and economic conditions within the province, as well as the reaction of both the Belgrade government and the international community to the Albanians’ political strivings, concentrating especially on the years from 1989 to the present.

Claims about sovereignty In a recent work, Stephen Krasner has argued that the norms of sovereignty should not be viewed as guiding principles of the international order but as ‘cognitive scripts’ which are ‘instrumentally useful’ to heads of state.12 In this view, states simultaneously want to preserve norms of sovereignty and violate them when it serves their interests to do so. This ‘instrumentalist’ view is set against the ‘constructivist’ view of those who argue that states attune their behaviour to generalized notions of appropriateness. The contemporary debate between instrumentalists and constructivists mirrors, up to a point, a much older debate between those who, like Jean Bodin (1529/30–1596), have sought to set moral limits to the authority of the secular

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sovereign,13 and those who, like Thomas Hobbes (1588–1679), have emphasized instead the supremacy of the sovereign, entrusting to him even the authority to interpret divine and natural law for the body politic.14 For Bodin, the authority of the sovereign is, of necessity, limited by leges naturae et divinae (natural and divine law), by international law and by the laws of the realm, if only because sovereign authority derives from those very legal and normative frameworks.15 But for Hobbes, these appeals to divine and natural law disappear into thin air on the argument that the law does not interpret itself. It follows that someone must have the sovereign power to interpret those laws; indeed, for Hobbes, sovereignty itself consists, in part, in the authority to serve as the ultimate arbiter of divine and natural law. By Hobbes’ time, the earlier aspirations of the Church to such authority already seemed anomalous, while Hobbes had no patience with claims on behalf of popular sovereignty. For Hobbes, no group of citizens can ever constitute more than a mere ‘crowd’ and, Hobbes argues, ‘a crowd is not a natural person’ and, therefore, does not enjoy specific rights.16 Historically, of course, the notion of sovereignty had its incunabulum in theories of divine law, such as that of Francisco de Vitoria, a legal scholar active in the early sixteenth century, who argued that sovereign power was derived from, validated by and ultimately contingent upon its conformity with divine law.17 Yet, within the constraints set by divine law, Vitoria nonetheless salvaged a strong concept of state sovereignty, arguing that: The State may in no wise be deprived of this power to protect citizens and to guard against every injury from its own citizens or from aliens . . . [and even] if all the citizens should agree to dispense with these powers . . . the[ir] agreement would be null and void, being contrary to natural law.18 The concept of sovereign assumed a more formal character in connection with the development of the concept of the divine rights of kings and designated the natural and inalienable right of the king to rule society from above.19 It gained force from the Treaty of Westphalia (1648) and associated covenants, in the course of which the sovereign’s authority in the religious sphere was affirmed and demarcated under the principle, cuius regio, eius religio [whose region, his religion].20 But the subsequent development of theories of sovereignty has failed to establish a single uniform standard for assessing claims of sovereignty or demarcating the rights of sovereign authority. Instead, we have inherited three alternative views: 1

2

State sovereignty: tracing its heritage to Hobbes, emphasizing the alleged rights of recognized governments and regimes, and expressed most recently in the claims registered on behalf of Slobodan Milosˇevic´’s alleged rights to formulate and pursue such policies in Kosovo as he sees fit, without regard to life or limb. Popular sovereignty: tracing its heritage to John Locke (1632–1704),21 emphasizing the alleged rights of people to challenge their government and, in certain circumstances, to secede from the jurisdiction of their government

Albanian and Serb rivalry in Kosovo 77

3

or overthrow it altogether, and expressed in arguments in favour of Kosovar Albanian separatism. Sovereignty defined by Moral Law: this may trace its heritage to Bodin and locates sovereignty in the relationship between government and governed, but which also factors in the moral law – as understood at the time – as a component of legitimate authority.22 On the relational view, thus, one must, in the first place, distinguish between legitimate and illegitimate authority, and hence also between legitimate and illegitimate sovereignty.

These three rival theories of sovereignty have underlain the rival arguments registered on behalf of the Milosˇevic´ regime, the separatist aspirations of Kosovo’s Albanians, and solutions premised on the reconstruction of local politics along classical liberal lines. Although the dispute between Serbs and Albanians over Kosovo may be traced at least as far back as the late nineteenth century, it assumed the form of a clash of formal claims to sovereignty on 19 October 1991, when the underground Assembly of Kosova met clandestinely and adopted a decree, declaring that ‘the Republic of Kosova is a sovereign and independent state’.23 The subsequent recognition of the declaration by neighbouring Albania24 and election the following May of Dr Ibrahim Rugova as President of the Republic of Kosova25 consolidated the Albanian counterclaim. From then until the resignation of Rugova’s government on 2 February 2000,26 in the wake of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization’s (NATO) aerial campaign against the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY) in spring 1999, this underground government served as the vessel for Albanian claims to sovereignty.

Historical sources of rival claims Many of the problems in present-day Kosovo have their origin in the long, turbulent history of this region in the Balkans. However, the history of Serbs and Albanians did not make the current problems inevitable, but the specific configuration of problems and pattern of resentments must be traced to policies pursued in the first and second Yugoslavias. Moreover, the chauvinistic interpretation of this historical record by both sides has taken a prominent place in any discussion of the future of Kosovo. Since the debate is so steeped in historical claims, it is crucial that past developments be reviewed and assessed. The critical issue at the heart of these events (which have escalated from demonstrations, riots and police repression to a full-blown guerrilla war and bombing campaign by the world’s most powerful military alliance) is the desire for independence by Kosovo’s Albanians, that is, political, cultural and economic sovereignty for the Albanian ‘nation’ living in Kosovo. This desire does not originate from an ‘ancient hatred’ of Serbs or from a plan to create a Greater Albania, but rather from the failure of the Yugoslav – and ultimately Serbian – government to create a legitimate system accepted by all of Kosovo’s citizens. The Serbian political leadership (first under the aegis of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (SFRY) and

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later within a greater Serbian state)27 has been determined to maintain sovereignty over as much territory as possible, relying on force as the primary method for resolving any crisis within its territory.28 Serbs and Albanians have lived in this region of the Balkans for well over one-thousand years; the Albanians claim to be descended from the Illyrians, some of the earliest known inhabitants of the Balkan Peninsula. However, the Albanian tribes, scattered in a mountainous terrain at the intersection of the ancient world’s empires, and divided by religious and linguistic differences, were never able to unify sufficiently to form a state.29 In contrast, the Serbs (Slavs who settled in the Balkans in the seventh century) formed a large kingdom, which reached its greatest extent under Emperor Stefan Dusˇan (1308–1355). The territory under his control extended from Belgrade in the north to portions of modern-day Greece in the south, and encompassed parts of Bosnia and all of Kosovo and Albania. One of the most significant developments during this period was the establishment of the Serbian Orthodox Church patriarchate of Pec´ in 1557, which was followed by the construction of numerous churches and monasteries throughout the region. The Ottomans abolished the patriarchate of Pec´ in 1766, however, but the rich heritage remained.30 This vast religious heritage in Kosovo is one of the reasons why Serbs view this province as an integral part of Serbia. Dusˇan’s empire quickly broke apart after his death, due both to the weakness of his successor and the rise of a new power in the Balkans, the Ottoman Empire. The political landscape of the Balkans underwent a colossal transformation as the Ottoman Empire expanded northwards in the fourteenth century, resulting in massive migrations, the destruction of the native nobility and, over time, widespread conversions to Islam.31 The independent Serbian and Bosnian medieval kingdoms disappeared, and while the Battle of Kosovo Polje (1389) was not a decisive victory for the Ottomans, it was indicative of the weaknesses of the Balkan Christian states in resisting Ottoman expansion. Following the establishment of Ottoman control, the population of Kosovo fluctuated as Serbs adopted Albanian names and language (and vice-versa), people of various ethnicities intermarried and Serbs emigrated north while Albanian populations settled into areas emptied by warfare.32 While the reasons and exact numbers behind the transformation of Kosovo’s population are still contested, by the twentieth century the overall trend was a decrease in the Serbian population and the steady growth of the Albanian population.33 Thus, the two claims for sovereignty in Kosovo developed out of historical circumstances: one argument based on the existence of a historical state,34 and the other relying on the reality of the contemporary demographic structure of the province. From the fifteenth until the twentieth century, Kosovo was part of the Ottoman Empire, and the last territory of the former Yugoslavia to be ‘liberated’ from Turkish rule. The majority of the Albanian population converted to Islam during this period, while the Serbian national consciousness was kept alive through the language and folklore of the Serbian Orthodox Church, which played an important administrative role under the Ottoman millet system. Even though the period of Ottoman rule was not without conflict, the various religious and ethnic

Albanian and Serb rivalry in Kosovo 79 communities generally lived together peacefully. Many Albanians even helped maintain and protect Serbian cultural monuments, one of the foundations of Serbian claims on this territory. While nominally loyal to the Sublime Porte, local Albanian leaders were often involved in revolts against centralized Turkish rule, which were then crushed by the Sultan’s armies.35 This tradition of military resistance to central authority and guerrilla warfare would continue in Kosovo as the Ottoman government was replaced by Serbian monarchist, and later Yugoslav communist, regimes. The Serbian peasantry was also involved in resistance to the Ottoman Empire, particularly when the Ottomans were fighting their main foe in Europe, the Habsburg Empire. The participation of the local Orthodox population in military campaigns alongside an invading Austrian army in the late seventeenth century resulted in one of the greatest emigrations of Serbs from Kosovo, the Velika Seoba [Great Migration], led by Patriarch Arsenije III Crnojevic´ in 1690. After the Austrian army retreated, some 30,000 Serbian families, fearing reprisals by Ottoman forces, fled north and were resettled in the border regions of the Habsburg Empire, chiefly in the Vojvodina and the Croatian Military Frontier [vojna krajina].36 This event is cited by Serbian historians as the moment when the demographic balance of Kosovo was tipped permanently in favour of Albanians, and the reversal of this trend would become a central goal of all subsequent Serbian policy regarding Kosovo, eventually culminating in the settling of Serbian colonists and the forceful expulsion of Albanians throughout the twentieth century. Yet, according to Serb historians, pressures on local Serbs continued to the last days of Ottoman rule, with some 150,000 Serbs allegedly being driven out of Kosovo between 1878 and 1912.37 By the nineteenth century, the Ottoman Empire was increasingly unable to control its border regions, and in the 1820s a small Serbian territory (the area of the Pas¸alik of Belgrade) was able to achieve a degree of autonomy after waging war against the Ottoman state.38 As the nascent Serbian state continued to expand – receiving official independence with the Treaty of Berlin (1878)39 – the ultimate goal of the leading Serbian politicians was to recover all of Dusˇan’s medieval kingdom, particularly Kosovo. This was finally realized during the course of the two Balkan Wars (1912–1913), when Serbia, Montenegro, Greece and Bulgaria first attacked the Ottoman Empire, and then fought each other over the division of the conquered territory.40 The Ottomans were driven from Kosovo, and a Montenegrin army captured Scutari after a long siege on 23 April 1913. But, thanks to the insistence of Austria-Hungary, Italy and Germany, the Serbs were compelled to relinquish certain Albanian-inhabited territories which they had claimed in an earlier treaty with Bulgaria, while the Great Powers forced the Montenegrins to evacuate Scutari.41 The Great Powers then accorded recognition to a truncated Albanian state, within borders which satisfied no one – not the Albanians, not the Serbs, not the Montenegrins and not the Greeks. Following the arrival of the Serbian army, reprisals were carried out against pro-Ottoman Albanians and others opposed to Serbian occupation, setting off another episode of emigration from Kosovo, this time of Muslims. Martial law was declared on the pretext of liquidating ‘bandits’, but often this resulted in

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entire villages being destroyed and the inhabitants deported.42 However, Serbia was not able to hold on to Kosovo for very long because of the outbreak of the First World War and the defeat of the Serbian army in 1915. The remains of that army, along with thousands of civilians, retreated through the mountains of Montenegro and Kosovo, in the middle of winter, in order to be evacuated by the Allies off of the Albanian coast. In the process, there was a massive loss of life due to harsh conditions, disease and attacks from Albanian guerrilla fighters who harassed the retreating army.43 This tragic retreat, through an area already symbolically important to Serbian identity, contributed further to the Serbian sense of victimization, which would affect post-war politics in Kosovo as well as throughout the new state created after the First World War, the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes.44 Since Serbia had been on the side of the Allies during the war, all of the territory claimed by the Serbian government was incorporated into the new state, despite the policy of national self-determination supposedly promulgated by American President Woodrow Wilson. The majority of the Albanianspeaking population was therefore divided between two countries, Albania and Yugoslavia, the latter of which was inhabited overwhelmingly by Slavic speakers. Despite efforts by some segments of Kosovo’s Albanian population to integrate into Yugoslav society, during the twentieth century the two dominant political goals have been either union with Albania or – as Kosovar society increasingly developed along different lines than Albanian society – the creation of an independent state. Successive Serbian regimes have only encouraged the support for these goals by alienating Albanians from equal political participation, failing to protect Albanian’s civil rights and resorting to brute force to solve any problem within Kosovo – in other words, not creating a legitimate political system in this region. The return of the Serbian army in 1918 was met with resistance by groups of guerrilla fighters, as insurgency spread over large parts of Kosovo, Montenegro and Macedonia. The most famous kaçak (guerrilla) leader was Azem Bejta (killed in 1924), and Serbian military operations to crush him and other kaçaks resulted in heavy civilian casualties.45 Eighty years after these events, some of the same families would again be involved in armed resistance against Serbian forces. In the interwar era, resistance was strong in areas such as the Drenica Valley, one of the Kosovo Liberation Army’s (KLA) main bases of support in the 1990s. In addition to the military campaign, Serbian tactics involved ‘colonization’, a policy which settled Serbian families from the north on land taken away from Albanians. About 45,000 Albanians fled Kosovo, under pressure, with about 60,000 Serb colonists moving into the province to take their places.46 The Belgrade regime confiscated at least 47,044 hectares of arable land from Kosovar Albanians, turning some of that land over to the army.47 Plans for even more drastic measures against the Albanians developed in Serbian political circles, which laid the groundwork for the wholesale expulsion of Albanians from Kosovo.48 While this was never implemented, Serbian rule was characterized by the use of force to maintain control rather than any attempt to include the Albanian population in the political system. Albanian language schools and publications were prohibited and initially the Serbs

Albanian and Serb rivalry in Kosovo 81 denied that a minority of Albanians even existed in Kosovo.49 Serbian hegemony also alienated the other ethnic groups in interwar Yugoslavia, creating weaknesses which quickly became apparent when Axis armies invaded on 6 April 1941. Low morale and poor organization contributed to the Yugoslav army’s quick collapse, and Yugoslavia was divided between Germany, Italy, Hungary and Bulgaria. The events in Yugoslavia during the Second World War had an incredible impact on all the ethnic groups in the region, and its consequences still affect politics today. This was also the case in Kosovo. Most of Kosovo was attached to Albania, which had been occupied by Italy since 1939, while the northern part (bordering Serbia proper and containing important mineral resources coveted by the Axis war machine) was directly administered by Germany. In the resultant ‘Greater Albania’, as Viktor Meier notes, ‘the most capable and most renowned Albanian politician . . . Xhaver Deva, came from Kosovo’.50 Although many Albanians did not support their new Fascist overlords, they nonetheless welcomed the removal of the disliked Serbian government. The Albanians also relished the opportunity which Fascist occupation engendered to reverse two decades of Serbian colonization.51 The Italians promoted publications and education in the Albanian language, and even opened numerous schools in the areas under their control.52 Albanians also helped Axis units in expelling Serbs (especially those who had been recent arrivals under the colonization programme), although attempts to create fully-fledged Albanian quisling units were generally unsuccessful. However, because Albanians found that conditions had in many ways improved under the Italians, this gave the Serbs justification for labelling political opponents as collaborators after the war was over, and Kosovo once again returned to Yugoslavia. Unlike in other parts of occupied Europe, the war in Yugoslavia was not just between the Axis occupiers and resistance groups, but erupted into a multi-sided conflict often split along ethnic lines. The one force which transcended ethnic divisions was the Communist-led Partisan movement, under the leadership of Marshal Josip Broz Tito. The Partisans stressed that the liberation war they were waging would lead to the creation of a country which would solve the nationality problems plaguing the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, expressed in the slogan of ‘Brotherhood and Unity’. For most of the war, the Communists had difficulty generating support in Kosovo, since the Albanians saw it as another attempt to impose Serbian hegemony, while Serbs generally supported the cˇetniks [chetniks], guerrilla fighters who wanted to restore the Serbian monarchy.53 The persistence of Partisan commanders in Kosovo and victories on the battlefield eventually drew more Kosovar Albanians to the side of the Communists, particularly after Tito gave considerable support to the Communist movement in Albania under Enver Hoxha. Some Albanian resistance groups refused to join Tito’s National Liberation Movement, most importantly Balli Kombëtar, which was mercilessly hunted down after the victory of the Partisans. The status of post-war Kosovo was not explicitly discussed at the second AVNOJ [Antifasˇisticˇko vec´e narodnog oslobodjenja Jugoslavije – Anti-Fascist Council of the National Liberation of Yugoslavia] convention held in Jajce in November 1943, when the government of socialist Yugoslavia was effectively

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created, but the Albanian CP was by this point making its opinion known, that is, that Kosovo should be assigned to Albania in the post-war settlement.54 The Yugoslav Communists were doggedly opposed to any such notion, except in the event that the thereby enlarged Albania would therefore join the Yugoslav federation as its ‘seventh republic’. A variation on this notion foresaw Albania’s inclusion in a Balkan Federation, together with Bulgaria and Yugoslavia, with Tito as the presumed president of the new state.55 This idea eventually fell through, primarily because of Stalin’s opposition to it.56 Tito also needed to appease the Serbs in Serbia in order to gain their support, since before 1944 there had been little Partisan activity in Serbia proper.57 Kosovo was thus ‘reattached’ to Serbia in 1944–1945, requiring Partisan units many months to pacify the region and resulting in 36,000 deaths.58 The Albanians of Kosovo were divided into two broad groups, espousing alternative concepts of sovereignty. For the resistance, Kosovo was best viewed as an alienated part of a sovereign Albania, a territory to which Belgrade had a legitimate claim. For Communist loyalists, on the other hand, ‘realism’ was the byword, and appeals were made for the recognition of Kosovo’s ‘limited sovereignty’ on a par with Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Macedonia and Montenegro. This meant Kosovo’s elevation to ‘republic’ status within the new Yugoslav federation – the fulfillment of which, inevitably, Serb communists would not allow.59 Tito nevertheless sought to give Kosovo some degree of autonomy, and in the 1946 Constitution, Kosovo was declared to be an ‘Autonomous Region’. This was in contrast to the six republics constituting the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (SFRY), which were considered to have some degree of sovereignty. While each republic was a homeland for one of Yugoslavia’s constituent ‘nations’ (Serbs, Croats, Slovenes, Macedonians and Montenegrins – Bosnian Muslims achieved this status in the 1960s), Kosovo’s Albanians were considered to be a ‘national minority’ (later the terminology was changed to ‘nationality’), since there existed a country with Albanians outside of Yugoslavia. The republics also, theoretically, had the right to secede, something Kosovo and Serbia’s other autonomous province, Vojvodina, did not. Since many Kosovar Albanians were seen as Axis collaborators, Kosovo was placed under martial law immediately after the war ended. Repression increased in 1948 after Yugoslavia’s break with the Cominform (and most importantly with respect to Kosovo, Hoxha’s Albania), and was directed by the Minister of Internal Affairs and head of the secret police, Aleksandar Rankovic´. While all of Yugoslavia was under a highly authoritarian and centralized system for the first twenty years after the war, conditions in Kosovo were particularly harsh until Rankovic´’s fall from power in 1966. Demographic change was once again taking place, as Albanians fled to Turkey because of the repression, and Serbs left for other areas of Yugoslavia claiming harassment and pressure from Albanians. Beginning in 1963 and continuing with amendments passed from 1967 to 1971, and with culminating in the 1974 constitution, the Yugoslav Communists decentralized the political system, giving the republics more sovereignty over their own affairs. While Serb Communists grumbled about the new state of affairs, Kosovar

Albanian and Serb rivalry in Kosovo 83 Albanians were once more voicing their desire for republic status to be granted to Kosovo, but despite demonstrations and some violence, the federal authorities agreed only to increase the autonomy (and change the name of Kosovo from ‘Autonomous Region’ to ‘Autonomous Province’). Concessions to the Albanians did include the opening of an Albanian-language university (in Prisˇtina in 1969), cultural recognition and closer ties between Kosovo and Albania. The status of Kosovo and Vojvodina was codified in the 1974 Constitution, but significantly these two Autonomous Provinces were not granted a formal right to secede, a right accorded to the republics. This period is nonetheless seen as the zenith of good relations between the Serbs and Albanians, with Kosovo receiving the greatest amount of autonomy it would ever have in Yugoslavia.

Kosovo from the death of Tito to the Dayton Accords The death of Tito on 4 May 1980 came at a time of deepening economic morass, and Tito’s successors soon proved incapable of dealing effectively with the growing challenges. In Kosovo, illegal separatist organizations were appearing and were distributing propaganda materials in the province. The Albanians of Kosovo were rife with discontent, above all because they had been denied their sovereignty.60 Under these conditions, student protests over bad conditions at the university (in March 1981) quickly erupted into demonstrations throughout Kosovo, to which the Serbian authorities responded with military force. During this period of martial law, hundreds of Albanians were apparently killed (the Serbian media reported only eleven deaths) and thousands of others were beaten and arrested. The demands of the protestors ranged from improving the economic and social conditions in Kosovo, to the granting of republic status for the province–sentiments which had also been expressed during protests in 1968.61 The Serbian authorities portrayed the demonstrations as counter-revolutionary and guided by irredentists wanting to unite Kosovo with Albania, accusations which, while having some element of truth, were greatly exaggerated in order to justify the harsh crackdown.62 Would the problems in Kosovo have been solved if it had become a seventh republic within Yugoslavia? According to Fatmir Limaj63 and Izet Sadiku,64 a Kosovo republic within Yugoslavia, was never the ultimate goal. In their view, Albanians ‘never belonged’ in Yugoslavia, and self-determination had always been the desired outcome.65 Granted, both of these men had been part of the KLA, and thus viewed independence as the only solution, but conferring republic status on Kosovo would only have made the province’s secession more legitimate in a legal sense, rather than solve the basic problem: the lack of a legitimate system. Even moderate Kosovar politicians such as Ibrahim Rugova have sought independence for Kosovo, the difference being that he has advocated peaceful means rather than guerrilla warfare. Despite the anti-Albanian repression by the Yugoslav military and police units, throughout the 1980s it was Kosovar Serbs who claimed they were being victimized. It was clear that after the events of 1981, Serb–Albanian relations had visibly soured. The Serbian media fueled the perception of an unrelenting

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campaign by Albanians to expel Serbs, publishing stories of Albanians raping Serbian women, harassing and threatening Serbs so as to chase them off of their land, and ignoring the ongoing violence when Serbs allegedly reported these crimes to the (mostly Albanian) authorities. The Yugoslav census figures do indicate a decrease in the population of Serbs in Kosovo, and there is no doubt that there were individual acts of violence and intimidation. By the 1970s, processes of de facto social segregation were occurring in Prisˇtina, and relations between the Serb and Albanian communities were increasingly characterized by fear. Serbs and Montenegrins complained, for example, that they were afraid to receive care from ethnic Albanian health care providers.66 Serbs and Montenegrins began to leave Kosovo for more hospitable parts. And while Albanian sources and scholars partial to the Albanian side claimed that economic duress was the principal reason why Serbs were leaving the province in droves, Serbian sources and scholars partial to the Serbian side claimed that unemployment and economic depression, while not without importance, were not the main reasons for the outmigration of Serbs and Montenegrins in the 1980s.67 Between April 1981 and December 1987 alone, some 24,209 Serbs and Montenegrins abandoned their homes in Kosovo, generally taking up residence in Serbia proper.68 This contributed to a change in the demographic structure in the province, as the percentage of Serbs dropped from 23.6 per cent in 1961 to 18.4 per cent in 1971, reaching a new low of 13.2 per cent in 1981.69 Another factor affecting the demographic structure was the high birth rate of the Albanians (although rural Serbs in Kosovo had higher birth rates than Serbs in other parts of Yugoslavia), which resulted in ethnic Albanians making up nearly 90 per cent of the population by the 1990s. As political solutions were discarded by Belgrade in favour of continued repression, Albanians viewed the Yugoslav state as increasingly illegitimate. The growing sentiment of persecution among many Serb intellectuals was expressed in an unfinished document (it was leaked to the press) called the ‘Memorandum’, written by members of the Serbian Academy of Sciences and Arts (SANU) in 1986. The Memorandum was a clear threat to the continued existence of Yugoslavia, as for the first time the Serbian intellectual community questioned the validity of Yugoslavia, long seen as the guarantor of security for the Serbian nation. The grievances cited in the Memorandum included the alleged exploitation of Serbs by the other nations of Yugoslavia, the claim that Tito had deliberately weakened Serbia by creating two autonomous regions that could vote against Serbia at the federal level, and the deplorable condition of Serbs in the nation’s heartland, Kosovo. The Memorandum described how pressure from Albanians and their high birth rate was tantamount to a ‘genocide’ of the Serbian nation.70 This document caused considerable controversy in the Serbian press as well as in the other republics, but nevertheless, after this point nationalism in Serbia began to be expressed more openly and became a viable political tool. The politician who benefited the most from the conclusions reached by the Memorandum was Slobodan Milosˇevic´, whose quest to reassert Serbia’s power in Yugoslavia began in its most troubled province, Kosovo.71

Albanian and Serb rivalry in Kosovo 85 Milosˇevic´ exploited the Kosovo question to fashion his own rise to power from 1987 to 1989, followed by changes in the Constitution in order to strengthen the status of Serbia within Yugoslavia, as well as Serbs in Kosovo.72 Already in July 1987, even before he had carried out his coup within the Serbian party organization, Milosˇevic´ told the Sixth Session of the Central Committee of the LC Serbia, ‘Where Kosovo is concerned, we have been hearing appeals for six years already to keep a cool head. That policy has, in the event, been shown to be entirely erroneous.’73 Once ensconced in power, Milosˇevic´ moved resolutely to smother Kosovo’s constitutionally-anchored autonomy. In May 1988, Azem Vllasi was forced to relinquish the leadership post in Prisˇtina, but his successor, Kaqusha Jashari, continued to defend the province’s limited sovereignty, as guaranteed by the constitution of 1974, and to resist the constitutional amendments being advocated by Serbian communists.74 But Jashari was herself forced to step down in November 1988, and in February 1989 Belgrade used a combination of illegal and extralegal means to suppress Kosovo’s autonomy. Subsequently, Milosˇevic´ orchestrated the removal of thousands of Albanians from their jobs at the university, in the medical profession, in the military and police and from government positions, which were quickly filled by Serbs.75 According to Milosˇevic´ this was necessary in order to preserve the sovereignty of both Serbia and Yugoslavia.76 Not only had communism failed as a legitimate form of government throughout Eastern Europe (including Yugoslavia) and the former Soviet Union, but the arbitrary violation of the Constitution by the Belgrade leadership made it clear to the Kosovar Albanians that it would be impossible to achieve a liberal, democratic society by working within the current system. On 2 July 1990, members of Kosovo’s provincial parliament (who were actually locked out of the parliament building) voted for Kosovo to become a republic (independent of Serbia but still within Yugoslavia). This was followed by a referendum on independence in 1991; war broke out in Slovenia and Croatia upon their declarations of independence.77 Although the Serbs boycotted the vote, 99 per cent of those who voted chose independence for Kosovo and, on 19 October 1991, the now-illegal parliament declared an independent ‘Republic of Kosova’.78 Thus, in the 1990s, a shadow state was built up by the Kosovar Albanians which co-existed with the Yugoslav one. In 1992 elections were held, unhindered by the Serbian authorities, which resulted in Ibrahim Rugova’s ascendancy to the presidency of this underground government. As war tore apart other areas of Yugoslavia trying to assert their sovereignty, Rugova and his followers advocated passive resistance and peaceful methods to achieve their goals, since the Serbian military was too strong in Kosovo. However, Rugova warned, in what would be prophetic statement, what would happen if the Albanians continued to be denied their human rights. He stated that: If Serbia goes on suppressing our national identity, then there will be an uprising. I can only warn the Serbs: they, too, are a small people. In the past, whenever a small people have tried to play the role of a power in the Balkans, this has always ended in tragedy for that people.79

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During this period, all the structures of a state were built, mostly with funds from Kosovars working abroad, including a parliament, an educational system and separate health care services, which lasted until 1 February 2000 when it was dissolved by Rugova and its funds transferred to the UN administration.80 While sovereignty had, for the majority of the population, been transferred to this shadow state, the Serbs’ monopoly of force meant that effective sovereignty continued to reside in Belgrade. This does not mean that Belgrade’s authority was seen as legitimate by the Albanians actually living in the province. Indeed, while the world’s focus was on the ethnic cleansing going on in Croatia and Bosnia, human rights groups monitoring Kosovo continued to publish reports about the persecution of Albanians in Kosovo and how they were systematically being denied their human and civil rights.81 In April 1993, for example, Serbian police summoned members of the (now illegal) Kosovo parliament for ‘fact-finding talks’, in which the parliamentarians were allegedly subjected to harassment.82 In spite of Rugova’s consistent calls for passive resistance and negotiation, a separatist organization, calling itself The National Movement for the Liberation of Kosovo, distributed pamphlets in spring 1993 calling for an armed insurrection.83 Meanwhile, even as foreign powers suggested at most the restoration of the province’s pre-1989 autonomous status, Adem Demaqi, a long-suffering champion of Kosovo’s secession from Yugoslavia who has spent almost twenty-eight years of his life in Serbian prisons, described autonomy as no more than a ‘temporary solution’, with self-determination as the only viable long-term solution.84 Still, in spite of these rumblings, most Albanians of Kosovo held to Rugova’s pacifist approach and waited for the West to pressure Belgrade to agree to a negotiated settlement. When, in October 1995, talks were set for Dayton, Ohio, Rugova pressed President Clinton to be included in the talks. But Rugova was not included, and the Dayton Peace Accords ignored Kosovo – to the bitter disappointment of the province’s Albanians.

Kosovo after Dayton After the crisis in Kosovo had been ignored by the West during the Dayton Peace Accords in 1995, and the situation had not improved, some Kosovars began looking for an alternative to Rugova’s pacifism. The origins of the Kosovo Liberation Army are still somewhat shrouded in mystery,85 but rumours of its existence began to circulate in the course of 1996. By that point, the Belgrade regime had settled some 19,000 Serb refugees (mostly from Croatia) in Kosovo,86 in a move which pleased neither the Albanians of Kosovo nor the refugees themselves. Then, in February 1996, the situation in Kosovo began to deteriorate, with some 580 cases of human-rights abuses committed against local Albanians that month (up from 185 the previous month).87 The following month there were reports of Serbian police raiding Albanian homes, plundering Albanian firms, demolishing Albanian-owned shops and otherwise mistreating local Albanians.88 Even as Serb police abuse of the rights of Albanians continued,89 Serbian politicians continued to deny that there were any human-rights abuses and to rule

Albanian and Serb rivalry in Kosovo 87 out any ‘deals’ concerning autonomy. Serbian Prime Minister Mirko Marjanovic´ put it this way in July 1996: Kosovo-Metohija is an integral and inalienable part of the Republic of Serbia and thereby of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. There can be no deals regarding Kosovo-Metohija . . . [I]n Kosovo-Metohija we are implementing the policy of preserving peace and are observing constitutionally guaranteed and legally defined equal rights for all citizens regardless of their national and religious affiliation and in line with the highest European and world standards.90 Yet, after the shooting, on 21 April, of twenty-year-old Armend Daçi (an Albanian) by Zlatko Jovanovic´ (a Serb), local Albanians were quick to translate the incident into ethnic terms. Reprisals against Serbian police officers and civilians took place across the province the following day. By 25 April, the independent Belgrade daily newspaper Nasˇa borba was fretting that ‘a single spark would be enough to bring the already inflammable situation to boiling point’.91 Five days later, printing a commentary by Bahri Cani, Nasˇa borba repeated the warning, noting that the escalation of violence ‘could lead to much wider and bloodier clashes – even to all-out war, which would be impossible to keep within the borders of Kosovo’.92 But, in the absence of convincing concessions from Belgrade, such warnings could have no effect. Kosovo was already spinning out of control,93 and an insurgent guerrilla force, the Kosova Liberation Army (KLA) was already preparing itself for action. Among the first KLA actions were the simultaneous attacks on several police stations across the province at about 9:30 p.m. on 2 August.94 Two days later, Zˇ eljko Razˇnjatovic´ (‘Arkan’), the brutal leader of the Serbian Tigers paramilitary units, arrived in the province, to parade with his forces on the streets of Prisˇtina and Podujevo.95 Pacifism had given way to confrontation. Subsequently, after the collapse of Albania’s government in 1997, and the looting of weapons depots, the military option became increasingly viable in achieving an independent Kosovo. Inevitably, the Serbian military’s tactics resulted in civilian deaths as it tried to hunt down the elusive KLA and the burning villages of Kosovo were reminiscent of the tactics used against the kaçaks earlier in the century. On 28 February 1998, according to the testimony of Fred Abrahams of Human Rights Watch: Serbian police, paramilitary, and possibly the army began an all-out attack on the triangle of villages in the Drenica region of central Kosovo, the alleged stronghold of . . . the Kosovo Liberation Army. All evidence indicates that the security forces used violence that was both brutal and indiscriminant. An estimated 80 people were killed, many of them civilians.96 Recoiling from this tragedy, the Albanians of Drenica took to arms, and an emboldened KLA began a major, if rather conventional, military offensive,

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controlling about one-third of the province by July of that year. But at the end of the month Serbian forces began a stiff counter-offensive, easily rolling back the KLA and adopting ‘scorched earth’ policies in rebel areas. By late summer there were approximately 200,000 Kosovar Albanian refugees97 hiding in the hills or fleeing into neighbouring countries, which prompted the international community to issue warnings against Milosˇevic´’s continued use of military brute force. While the insertion of OSCE observers temporarily halted the violence, several massacres of ethnic Albanian civilians in early 1999 spurred the West into action. This lead to the seventy-eight-day NATO bombing campaign after the Serbs refused to sign the Rambouillet Accords, which would have called for an international military presence in Kosovo. NATO’s air campaign was answered by a full-scale assault against Kosovo’s Albanian population by the Serbian army and paramilitary units, creating a humanitarian disaster as an estimated 862,979 refugees fled Kosovo by 9 June.98 Some five hundred Serbian civilians were estimated, by Human Rights Watch, to have died during NATO’s aerial bombardment,99 while Serbian troops killed thousands of Albanian civilians during the same period, looting and torching Albanian-owned houses in their rampage.100 As it turns out, Milosˇevic´’s eventual capitulation resulted in that very same military occupation he had tried to resist, although he had undoubtedly strengthened his own grip on power domestically by standing up to the West.

Kosovo and post-Milosˇ evic´ Serbia The removal of Slobodan Milosˇevic´ from power, after his attempt to rig elections sparked popular street demonstrations in October 2000, was welcomed by the West and by many Serbs, who saw those events as the victory of democratic forces over an increasingly authoritarian regime. In Kosovo, however, the fall of Milosˇevic´ was interpreted in a different light. For the Kosovar Albanians, the presence of Milosˇevic´ was one of the strongest arguments for not returning Kosovo to the control of Belgrade, since Milosˇevic´ and several of his close associates had been indicted as war criminals by the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia during the NATO campaign. UN Security Council Resolution 1244, the mandate under which the current UN administration is operating, places Kosovo under the sovereignty of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY), although there are provisions for establishing ‘substantial autonomy and selfgovernment’ pending a final settlement on the status of Kosovo.101 The wording of this document leaves open the possibility for the return of Kosovo to Belgrade’s control (however unlikely that may seem), while at the same time not explicitly ruling out an independent state, which is supported by the overwhelming majority of ethnic Albanians and all of the Albanian political parties. The ousting of Milosˇevic´ and the establishment of a democratic and seemingly reformist government in Serbia, could thus be seen as a negative development in the eyes of the ethnic Albanians in Kosovo, who could justify their drive for independence by emphasizing the illegitimacy of FRY’s political system and the crimes of Milosˇevic´ and his coterie. Conversely, the first post-Milosˇevic´ government, led

Albanian and Serb rivalry in Kosovo 89 by Yugoslav President Vojislav Kosˇtunica and Serbian Premier Zoran Djindjic´ could argue that a Serbia without Milosˇevic´ was democratic and capable of reintegrating Kosovo back into the federation. In fact, revising agreements over Kosovo was one of Kosˇtunica’s first goals in the early months of his presidency, in particular regarding the buffer zone between Kosovo and southern Serbia which was off limits to Yugoslav troops and police.102 In December 2000, Kosˇtunica’s foreign policy advisor, Predrag Simic´, noted in an article in the Belgrade weekly NIN that the new government in FRY and the new international climate (referring to the US presidential elections) would make it more likely for ˇ ovic´, Kosovo to return to the Yugoslav fold.103 Serbian Deputy Premier, Nebojsˇa C was appointed as the head of the Coordinating Center for Kosovo and Metohija. In this capacity he has attempted to reassert Serbia’s influence in the affairs of Kosovo, stating in Mitrovica on 20 February 2001 that Belgrade’s ‘new democratic authorities have . . . the formula to achieve [a solution to the Kosovo crisis] ˇ ovic´’s attempts to with the help of the international community’.104 By 2002, C increase Serbia’s involvement in Kosovo, in particular the close contacts with the Kosovar Serb coalition Povratak, [Return], prompted Michael Steiner, head of the UN administration since February 2002, to tell him that the ‘Belgrade authorities have no right to interfere in Kosova’s affairs’.105 Steiner has continued to assert UNMIK’s (United Nations Interim Administration Mission in Kosovo) sovereignty in Kosovo by condemning the separate government organizations funded by Serbia which are functioning in northern Kosovo, an area predominantly inhabited by Serbs.106 If the reports of parallel government structures are true, then it is further evidence that attempts to destabilize Kosovo or partition the territory continue, a tactic the Milosˇevic´ government pursued in the aftermath of NATO’s occupation. Even though the regime change in FRY is a crucial first step for the normalization of the region, the nationalist ideology of the Milosˇevic´ era remains embedded in the Serbian political system, and influences any attempts to resolve ongoing problems in Kosovo. The Kosovar Albanian response to Milosˇevic´’s fall were uniform despite the typical political divisions and lack of consensus. Ibrahim Rugova, considered a moderate, put it bluntly that Belgrade could not be trusted and that ‘the government could change there anytime’.107 Rugova has continued to insist in numerous interviews and public statements that independence is the only viable future political solution for Kosovo, and that it is only a matter of time before Serbia and the rest of the international community realize that fact. Hashim Thaçi, the former KLA leader, agreed that the new government in Serbia represented a ‘new era’, but ‘for Kosova it doesn’t matter much. We want to be independent from Belgrade and from Kosˇtunica’.108 Another former KLA member and the head of the Kosova Protection Force, Agim Çeku, stated that ‘no Serbian leader and no Serbian government, no matter how democratic, can block Kosova’s path to independence’.109 Elder ethnic Albanian statesman Adem Demaçi, in a visit to Belgrade in October 2000, congratulated Serbia’s new democratic leaders, but emphasized that ‘Kosovo is lost for Serbia’ and added that ‘It’s not enough to remove one man. This man left behind a military-police complex and a destructive nationalist mentality.’110 To the

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new Serbian leadership and to many in the West, the departure of Milosˇevic´ from the political scene, and eventually to The Hague, represented a radical shift in the Balkans, one which opened up the possibility of returning Kosovo to Yugoslav control. However, it has been seen that Kosovar Albanians across the political spectrum remain committed to creating an independent state, regardless of how democratic or liberal the remains of the Yugoslav Federation become. Two important elections have taken place since the entry of NATO forces in 1999, vital first steps in Kosovo’s path towards self-governance. Convincing Kosovo’s remaining Serbs to participate has been one of the greatest challenges during both of these elections, since one of the conditions for self-governance stipulated by the UN mandate is the development of a multi-ethnic society and ensuring the protection of minority rights. On 28 October 2000, municipal elections took place throughout Kosovo, although Kosovar Serbs refused to participate in the voting. The first ever democratic elections in Kosovo resulted in a victory for Rugova’s Democratic League of Kosovo (LDK), which won twenty-one out of twenty-seven municipalities.111 Even though the new councils only had responsibility for education, transport, health care and other local services, Rugova’s first comments following the election results were to ‘call for immediate independence from Yugoslavia’.112 In Belgrade, Kosˇtunica issued the statement that ‘Yugoslavia cannot recognize the results of local elections’,113 indicating that both Serbs and Albanians viewed this seemingly minor election as the first phase in redefining the sovereignty of Kosovo. A significantly more important election took place on 17 November 2001, which elected a parliament with legislative powers and once again raised the issue of independence. In the month prior to the elections, Rugova made several statements suggesting that the elections would be an opportunity to work towards ˇ ovic´ to seek assurindependence from Yugoslavia.114 This prompted Nebojsˇa C ances from the head of UNMIK (at that time), Hans Haekkerup, that the new ˇ ovic´ felt Kosovo parliament would not be empowered to declare independence; C that he needed this reassurance if he was to convince Kosovar Serbs to participate in the elections. Even though Haekkerup denied signing any sort of agreement excluding future independence for Kosovo – following Albanian furor at ˇ ovic´’s announcement that ‘Yugoslavia has returned to Kosovo’ – Yugoslav leadC ers encouraged the province’s Serbs to take an active role in the political future of Kosovo and not boycott the elections.115 Despite threats from Serbian extremists, Serbs in Kosovo did turn out to vote on 17 November, winning twenty-one out of the assembly’s one hundred and twenty-one seats.116 An estimated 65 per cent of the registered voters in Kosovo participated in electing the Kosovo Assembly, with Rugova’s LDK taking 46 per cent of the vote, followed by 25.54 per cent for Hashim Thaci’s Democratic Party of Kosovo, and 10.96 per cent for the Serbian Povratak coalition.117 In spite of Rugova’s clear plurality, the LDK was unable initially to put together enough votes to elect Rugova as president, the stumbling block was Rugova’s reluctance to share power in a coalition government. It was not until 4 March 2002 that Kosovo’s new parliament was able to reach a consensus, after several months of deadlock. Ibrahim Rugova finally accepted the necessity of a coalition and was thereupon elected president.

Albanian and Serb rivalry in Kosovo 91 Even though the creation of a parliament which includes the Serbian minority was a major step in the transformation of Kosovo into a sovereign state, the new head of UNMIK, Michael Steiner, made it clear that sovereignty was still held by the international community and the UN administration. On 9 May, the Kosovo Assembly held a debate over security concerns in Mitrovica and a border agreement was signed between FRY and Macedonia in February 2001, which many Albanians do not recognize as being legitimate. This prompted Steiner to issue a warning to the Assembly not to overstep its competency, which does not include foreign relations and border issues as stipulated in Kosovo’s Constitutional Framework. The Assembly ignored this warning and issued a resolution on 23 May disputing the FRY–Macedonia border agreement, angering Serbian deputies who walked out of the session.118 Steiner immediately vetoed the resolution, receiving support from both the UN Security Council and the European Union on the grounds that the Assembly had exceeded its authority.119 Thus, the first attempt for the Kosovo Assembly to exercise real sovereignty was nullified by the international community, revealing that Kosovo, for the near future, will continue to exist as only a semi-sovereign state. The current situation in Kosovo is extraordinarily complex, with three competing claimants to authority: the Serbian government, the politically-fractured Kosovar Albanians and the international community under the auspices of the United Nations, though the international community makes its claims to authority only on a temporary and provisional basis and makes no claims to sovereignty. Firstly, Belgrade continues to maintain that Kosovo is an integral part of Serbia, and that the results of the NATO campaign have only temporarily removed Kosovo from its direct control.120 This claim to sovereignty is based on the historical precedence of a medieval Serbian kingdom and the inclusion of Kosovo into the modern Serbian state, even though that result has always been accomplished through violence and military force. The legal claims to this province are actually quite sketchy, as pointed out by Noel Malcolm. He argues that Kosovo was never legally incorporated into Serbia because the peace treaties after the Balkan Wars were never ratified by Serbia. However, after World War One, Kosovo’s incorporation into the Kingdom of the Serbs, Croats and Slovenes was officially confirmed; after World War Two, Kosovo was reincorporated into Yugoslavia, after a transient attachment to Italian-controlled Albania during the war.121 After socialist Yugoslavia collapsed in the 1990s, the international community refused to recognize the FRY’s claim to be the legal successor to the Socialist Federated Republic of Yugoslavia. Since the international recognition of a state’s territorial integrity, as defined by international law, applies by definition only to internationally recognized states, rump Yugoslavia’s non-recognition among the international community left its claims on Kosovo in legal limbo.122 After the fall of Milosˇevic´, however, the FRY was rapidly admitted to certain international bodies and was allowed to (re)open its embassy in Washington DC. With the transformation of the FRY into ‘Serbia and Montenegro’ announced in March 2002,123 however, even the limited recognition accorded to Belgrade’s sovereignty under UN resolution 1244 seemed to melt away.

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The Kosovar Albanian claim to sovereignty is based on the ‘situation on the ground’ and the ‘will of the people’. Historically, Kosovo had never existed as a sovereign entity; it had been divided among different administrative units under the Ottomans, was forcibly annexed by Serbia after three separate wars and, ironically, had experienced the most cultural autonomy for Albanians under the occupation of foreign armies (the Austrians during the First World War and the Italians during the Second World War). While the Kosovar Albanians never had their own state, they certainly have a long historical tradition of trying to achieve independence. It is therefore no surprise that it was a guerrilla insurgency (of course aided by the world’s most powerful military alliance), which gave rise to the present ambiguous situation. In the opinion of most Kosovar Albanians, there is no question that they now live in the independent Republic of Kosova, regardless of what the Serbs or the international community might say. Fatmir Limaj, a member of the Kosovo Transition Council, stated that peace would come to Kosovo ‘only when the Serbs realize that the decisions are no longer being made in Belgrade, but in Prisˇtina:’124 in other words, Kosovo is already de facto independent and sovereign. Furthermore, this would extend over all of Kosovo, including the northern part bordering Serbia, which would be joined to Serbia if the province is partitioned, as some analysts have suggested. This is unlikely to be accepted by the Kosovar Albanians, since economic sovereignty is likewise a goal, and the important mining complex of Trepça is currently divided between Serbian- and Albanian-controlled territories, rendering the mines inoperable.125 When asked if some sort of partition would be feasible, Limaj responded that the Albanians would take Trepça by force if necessary, as it is one of the most important assets of the region.126 Finally, the international community, headed by UNMIK, is nominally the sovereign power in the province. Until 2002, the Kosovo Transition Council, with representatives from all of the Kosovar Albanian political parties and some moderate Serb organizations, functioned as the executive power. The November 2001 parliamentary elections were the first step in creating a self-governing body for Kosovo, and the 120-member Kosovo Assembly, inaugurated on 10 December 2001, represented a shift of power from the UN to elected Kosovar politicians. Nevertheless, the UN civilian administration and the NATO security forces (KFOR) continue to have the final say in Kosovo’s affairs, and will likely remain the effective sovereign bodies in Kosovo for the foreseeable future. The European Union (reconstruction) and the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (institution building) add to the number of organizations from the international community operating under different mandates in Kosovo. Unfortunately, a lack of resources and bureaucratic inefficiency resulting from the complex international administration have plagued Kosovo in the five years of international rule, a situation in which many basic state functions were not being performed. This has led to continuing violence, the growth of criminal organizations and activity, and a desire by the Kosovars to select their own government. The international community, however, has never openly supported an independent Kosovo, and the assumption is that Kosovo would revert to Serbian sovereignty, albeit with a great deal of autonomy. The development of a liberal democratic society is of

Albanian and Serb rivalry in Kosovo 93 utmost importance, but this will require time before the animosity generated by the latest war is overcome.

Conclusion Serbian claims have, in fact, been advanced both on Hobbesian premises (appealing to state sovereignty) and on nationalist premises (appealing to notions of popular sovereignty, albeit in corrupted form). The Serbian argument for state sovereignty runs along the following lines: the FRY is a sovereign state and, as such, is entitled to maintain peace and stability within its own borders, free from foreign or international interference; Albanian separatists – the official Serb argument continues – have been relentlessly pursuing a nationalist-chauvinist programme, attacking innocent Serbs, even while demonizing Serbia in the eyes of the world.127 The appeal to state sovereignty is an appeal to the alleged primacy of positive law over either natural law or international law – an appeal which recalls the pure conventionalism of Thrasymachus.128 But there is a second Serbian argument, albeit unofficial, which appeals to notions of blood and soil, nation and national memory, justifying Serbian sovereignty not on the basis of the preferences of recent or current inhabitants, but on the basis of the ethnicity of long-dead residents. As Matija Becˇkovic´, president of the Serbian Association of Writers, once put it: ‘There is so much Serbian blood [which has been shed in Kosovo] and so many sacred relics that Kosovo will remain Serbian land, even if not a single Serb remains there.’129 In another context, replying to rather different points which had been made by the eighteenth-century English political commentator, Edmund Burke, Thomas Paine noted: There never did, there never will, and there never can exist a parliament, or any description of men, or any generation of men, in any country, possessed of the right or the power of binding and controlling posterity to the ‘end of time’, or of commanding for ever how the world shall be governed, or who shall govern it; and therefore, all such clauses, acts or declarations, by which the makers of them attempt to do what they have neither the right to do, nor the power to execute, are in themselves null and void.130 The Albanian counter-claims have been based on explicit appeals to notions of national self-determination, buttressed by documentation of systematic humanrights abuses at the hands of the Milosˇevic´ regime. Hivzi Islami states the Albanian case, emphasizing that the Albanian people have been artificially divided – even within socialist Yugoslavia – and that they enjoy a right to unite and to determine their own future.131 Isa Zymberi, director of the Kosovo Information Centre, put it this way in March 1998, in testimony before a US congressional commission: It is an illusion to expect that the Albanians of Kosovo will ever experience Serbia as their own state or accept to be citizens of Serbia, as it is an illusion

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Serbian claims and Albanian counterclaims to Kosovo have stirred controversy precisely because there continues to be disagreement about the very principles to which they appeal. When the Albanians speak of their ‘sovereignty’ in Kosovo, they refer implicitly to a notion of popular sovereignty,133 under which ‘sovereignty’ is invested in the people residing in the country. When the Serbs speak of their ‘sovereignty’ in Kosovo, by contrast, they think of sovereignty as per Thrasymachus or Hobbes, as a feature of the state, with its territorial extent fixed by history or, perhaps, by force, rather than by the will of the people residing in one or another place. Needless to say, there is no point of contact between these two concepts of sovereignty. Having identified these two rival concepts of sovereignty, however, we can appreciate that, when Michael McGwire, the distinguished specialist in security affairs, worries that the NATO intervention showed disrespect for ‘Serbia’s legitimate interests as the sovereign power’,134 he is implicitly accepting the Hobbesian – and in this case, also Serbian – notion of sovereignty. On the other hand, in an article titled ‘Sovereignty is No Longer Sacrosanct’, Jarat Chopra and Thomas Weiss have identified legitimacy as an important attribute of sovereignty, arguing that ‘the supremacy of sovereignty over law is untenable’.135 In their view, the conventional (Hobbesian ‘realist’) tendency to exalt sovereignty over human rights is in decline, giving way to a growing tendency to link the two, with natural law often serving as the link.136 J. Samuel Barkin, in an article for Millennium, comes to a similar conclusion, urging that ‘sovereignty has always been subject to legitimising principles’, and that to the extent that ‘sovereignty’ as an operational norm follows, rather than precedes, some form of legitimation of sovereignty as a principle, the internationalisation of human rights can be seen as an evolution of the constitution of sovereignty, rather than as a challenge to it.137 Or again, Michael J. Smith, in an article for Ethics & International Affairs, argues that ‘a state that is oppressive and violates the autonomy and integrity of its subjects forfeits its moral claim to full sovereignty’.138 These writers – Chopra, Weiss, Barkin and Smith – are thus closer in spirit to Bodin and Maritain in their understandings of sovereignty, than they are to Hobbes or Machiavelli. One might even group them together as advocates of variants of sovereignty defined by moral law. The NATO intervention against the FRY placed ‘sovereignty’ in the limelight. But, setting aside the issues as to whether NATO had the authority to decide on military action in the absence of a UN mandate, and whether the campaign itself was waged in accord with international humanitarian expectations and international law,139 the intervention forced observers to confront the issue squarely as to

Albanian and Serb rivalry in Kosovo 95 whether sovereignty could be, as Hobbes had claimed, absolute and antecedent to law itself or whether, as we have argued, sovereignty must be seen as an emanation of legitimacy, which is to say, derivative from natural law. While decisions taken on the ground will inevitably be decisions which serve the interests alternatively of either Albanians or Serbs, the universalist perspective draws attention to the sources of collective discontent and destabilization, which might never have developed had Belgrade constructed a legitimate political system, and to the imperative of looking beyond ethnicity to legitimate politics in seeking solutions for the region.

Notes 1 In testimony at the House Committee on International Relations (10 March 1999), in Federal Document Clearing House, Inc., FDCH Political Transcripts (10 March 1999), on Lexis-Nexis Congressional Universe, p. 29 or 38, bad syntax in original. 2 ‘Warhawks at 501 Calvert Street’, from The Baltimore Press, (5 May 1999), reprinted in CounterPunch, at www.counterpunch.org/hughes.html, punctuation modified. 3 Hans Kelsen, ‘Sovereignty and International Law’, in Georgetown Law Journal, vol. 48, no. 4 (Summer 1960), in W.J. Stankiewicz (ed.), In Defense of Sovereignty (New York: Oxford University Press, 1969), pp. 117–18. 4 Ibid., p. 121. 5 Quoted in W.J. Stankiewicz, ‘In Defense of Sovereignty: A Critique and an Interpretation’, in Stankiewicz, In Defense of Sovereignty, p. 28. 6 John Locke, Two Treatises of Government (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1960), 2nd Treatise, para. 225, II, 5–11, p. 415, original spelling. 7 Yet a third challenge has been raised recently by champions of the sovereign rights of Great Apes. See Robert E. Goodin, Carole Pateman and Roy Pateman, ‘Simian Sovereignty’, in Political Theory, vol. 25, no. 6 (December 1997). 8 Jacques Maritain, ‘The Concept of Sovereignty’, in Stankiewicz, In Defense of Sovereignty, p. 42. 9 Ibid., pp. 49–50, 55. 10 Ibid., p. 60. 11 D. Engster, ‘Jean Bodin, Scepticism and Absolute Sovereignty’, History of Political Thought, vol. 17, no. 4 (Winter 1996), p. 478. 12 Stephen D. Krasner, Organized Hypocrisy (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1999), as summarized by Jack Goldsmith in a review essay for Stanford Law Review, vol. 52, issue 4 (April 2000), ‘UW Expanded Academic ASAP ’, p. 12. 13 See Jean Bodin, On Sovereignty, ed. and trans. by Julian H. Franklin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992). 14 Thomas Hobbes, On the Citizen, Richard Tuck and Michael Silverthorne (eds) (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). 15 Max Adams Shepard, ‘Sovereignty at the Crossroads: a Study of Bodin’, in Political Science Quarterly, vol. 45, no. 4 (December 1930), pp. 587–8. See also Engster, ‘Jean Bodin, Scepticism’, pp. 475–7. 16 See Hobbes, On the Citizen, pp. 76–7. 17 Jens Bartelson, A Genealogy of Sovereignty (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), p. 128. 18 Francisco de Vitoria, De Potestate Civili, (1527/28), as quoted in Bartelson, A Genealog y, p. 129. 19 See Maritain, ‘The Concept of Sovereignty’, pp. 49–50. 20 Leo Gross, ‘The Peace of Westphalia, 1648–1948’, in American Journal of International Law, vol. 42, no. 1 ( January 1948).

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21 See John Locke, Two Treatises of Government, critical edn. (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1960). 22 See John Hoffman, Sovereignty (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1998); also Sabrina P. Ramet, ‘Evil and the Obsolescence of State Sovereignty’, in Human Rights Review, vol. 1, no. 2 ( January–March 2000). 23 Quoted in New York Times (3 November 1991), p. 17, on ‘Lexis-Nexis Academic Universe’ (hereafter, LNAU). 24 Agence France Presse (22 October 1991), on LNAU. 25 Croatian Radio (Zagreb), (25 May 1992), Albanian service, trans. in ‘BBC Summary of World Broadcasts’ (27 May 1992), on LNAU. 26 Illyria [The Bronx], (4–7 February 2000), p. 1. 27 The 1990s witnessed the collapse of the SFRY as the country’s constituent republics (first Croatia and Slovenia in 1991, followed by Bosnia-Herzegovina and Macedonia in 1992) declared independence after a decade of economic crisis, the disintegration of the communist system and resurgence of nationalism. The Yugoslav National Army ( JNA) initially fought to preserve the territorial integrity of the SFRY, but under the guidance of the Serbian leader Slobodan Milosˇevic´ the war degenerated into an attempt to secure as much territory as possible for the Serbian nation. The socalled ‘rump’ Yugoslavia (Federal Republic of Yugoslavia – FRY) consists of Serbia and Montenegro, although the continued existence of this entity is questionable since several regions have expressed a desire to separate. 28 While many classical definitions of sovereignty specify the monopoly of force by the sovereign, John Hoffman argues that the use of force is an illegitimate action on the part of the government. He offers coercion as an alternative to force, since legitimacy involves a relationship between the government and the people, which is destroyed by violence. See Hoffman, Sovereignty, pp. 47–9. 29 See Alain Ducellier, ‘Genesis and Failure of the Albanian State in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries’, in Arshi Pipa and Sami Repishti (eds), Studies on Kosova (New York: Columbia University Press, 1984), p. 8. 30 See discussion in Branislav Djurjiev, Uloga crkve u starijoj istoriji Srpskog naroda (Sarajevo: Svjetlost, 1964). 31 See discussion in Noel Malcolm, Bosnia: A Short History (New York: New York University Press, 1994). 32 For a detailed history of this period, see Noel Malcolm, Kosovo: A Short History (London: Macmillan, 1998), pp. 105–8. 33 Serbs and Albanians are not the only ethnic groups in Kosovo, but people identifying themselves as Muslims, Gypsies, Turks, and ‘others’ counted for less than 10 per cent of Kosovo’s population according to the 1991 census. See Julie A. Mertus, Kosovo: How Myths and Truths Started a War (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1999), p. 316. 34 The significance of the territorial boundaries of Dusˇan’s empire is reflected, for example, in the choice by contemporary Serbian historians, writing on contemporary issues in Kosovo, to include as the only map of the region one which shows the greatest territorial expansion of medieval Serbia. The borders of the Autonomous Province of Kosovo (established in 1946), or even the SFRY were not shown, despite the bulk of the book addressing events of the twentieth century. See Alex N. Dragnich and Slavko Todorovich, The Saga of Kosovo: Focus on Serbian–Albanian Relations (Boulder, CO: East European Monographs, 1984). 35 Tim Judah, Kosovo: War and Revenge (New Haven, CN: Yale University Press, 2000), p. 11. 36 Noel Malcolm has challenged many of the traditional accounts of this event, arguing that not all of the Serbian refugees actually fled from Kosovo (many came from other areas of Serbia proper), the numbers usually given (30,000 families) are from only one source and are probably higher than the actual wave of emigration, and many of the volunteers fighting on the side of the Austrians were in fact Albanians. See Malcolm, Kosovo, pp. 139–62.

Albanian and Serb rivalry in Kosovo 97 ˇ ´epanovic´, ‘The Exodus of Serbs and Montenegrins 1878–1988’, in Kosovo: 37 Milija Sc Past and Present (Belgrade: Review of International Affairs, 1989), p. 146. 38 For an excellent overview of Serbia’s struggle for national liberation, see Barbara Jelavich, History of the Balkans: Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983). 39 The Albanians were one of the last European peoples to develop a national consciousness and it was at the meeting of the League of Prizren in 1878 – in response to the Great Powers determining the borders with the Treaty of San Stefano – that a national programme was outlined for the first time by an all-Albanian political organization. 40 Serbia acquired Kosovo, parts of Macedonia, the Sandzˇak of Novi Pazar (giving Serbia a common border with Montenegro) and northern Albania, which it was later forced to abandon when pressured by the Great Powers, who created an Albanian state as part of realpolitik policy making in the region. A dispute over the division of Macedonia led to the second Balkan War, involving Serbia, Montenegro and Greece in a coalition against Bulgaria, whose overextended armies were quickly defeated. News of atrocities committed against civilians prompted an investigation by international observers, but this report was quickly overshadowed by the catastrophe of the First World War. 41 Charles Jelavich and Barbara Jelavich, The Establishment of the Balkan National States, 1804–1920 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1977), p. 219; L.S. Stavrianos, The Balkans since 1453 (New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston, 1958), pp. 536–8; and Branko Komatina, Jugoslovensko-Albanski odnosi 1979–1983. Belesˇke i sec´anja ambasadora (Belgrade: Novinsko-izdavaˇcka ustanova Sluzˇbeni list SRJ, 1995), p. 12. 42 See Malcolm, Kosovo, p. 257. 43 It is estimated that Serbia lost 25 per cent of its population during the First World War. Zˇ eljan E. Sˇ uster, Historical Dictionary of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 1999), p. 333. 44 This country was cobbled together from Serbia, Montenegro, the territories conquered during the Balkan Wars and areas of the Austro-Hungarian Empire with South Slavic populations (Croatia, Slovenia, Bosnia-Herzegovina and Vojvodina). In October 1929, the name of the country was changed to the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, after King Aleksandar declared a royal dictatorship earlier that year. The term Yugoslavia will be used throughout the rest of this chapter. 45 See Malcolm, Kosovo, pp. 273–8; also Misha Glenny, The Balkans: Nationalism, War and the Great Powers, 1804–1999 (New York: Viking Press, 1999), p. 367. 46 Christine von Kohl and Wolfgang Libal, Kosovo: gordischer Knoten des Balkan (Vienna and Zurich: Europaverlag, 1992), pp. 42–4. 47 Nikola Gacˇesa, ‘Settlement of Kosovo and Metohija after World War I and the Agrarian Reform’, in Kosovo: Past and Present, p. 102. See also Branko Petranovic´, Istorija Jugoslavije 1918–1988, vol. 1: Kraljevina Jugoslavija 1914–1941 (Belgrade: Nolit, 1988), p. 98. 48 See Malcom, Kosovo, pp. 285–6. A campaign of terror and the destruction of ˇ ubrilovic´ in his 1937 Albanian property was suggested by Serbian historian Vaso C recommendation to the Serbian government, ‘The Expulsion of the Arnauts’ [a Turkish word for Albanians]. See Judah, Kosovo: War and Revenge, pp. 23–4. 49 See Malcolm, Kosovo, p. 269. 50 Viktor Meier, Wie Jugoslawien verspielt wurde, 2nd edn. (Munich: C.H. Beck’sche Buchdruckerei, 1996), p. 51. 51 Branko Petranovic´, Srbija u drugom svetskom ratu 1939–1945 (Belgrade: Vojno-izdavacˇki i novinski centar, 1992), pp. 251–2. 52 Bernd J. Fischer, Albania at War, 1939–1945 (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 1999), p. 87. 53 While the cˇetniks [chetniks] initially resisted the Axis occupiers, they abstained from attacks on German and Italian troops following brutal reprisals against civilians.

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Vjeran Pavlakovic and Sabrina Petra Ramet Realizing that the Communist Partisans posed the greatest threat to the post-war political situation, the cˇetniks began collaborating with the Axis forces in military actions against the Partisans, as well as committing atrocities against Albanian, Croatian and Muslim civilians in retaliation for their own alleged collaboration. For a detailed study on the cˇetniks, see Jozo Tomasevich, The Chetniks: War and Revolution in Yugoslavia, 1941–1945 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1975). See Petranovic´, Srbija u drugom svetskom ratu, p. 556. For discussion, see Slobodan Nesˇovic´, Bledski sporazumi: Tito-Dimitrov (Zagreb: Globus and Sˇ kolska knjiga, 1979). For accounts of Stalin’s opposition to the Balkan federation and other developments in Yugoslavia, see Milovan Djilas, Conversations with Stalin, trans. Michael B. Petrovich (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1962). See Mertus, Kosovo, p. 287. Ibid. Details in Milosˇ Misˇovic´, Ko je trazˇio republiku: Kosovo 1945–1985 (Belgrade: Narodna knjiga, 1987), pp. 5–62. See Dusˇan Ristic´, ‘Kosovo i Savez komunista Kosova izmedju dva kongresa i dve konferencije’, in Obelezˇja (Prisˇtina), vol. 8, no. 2 (March–April 1978), p. 24; and Sabrina P. Ramet, Nationalism and Federalism in Yugoslavia, 1962–1991, 2nd edn. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1992), pp. 194–5. Ibid, pp. 29–32. Tim Judah notes that many of the Albanian opposition groups carried Marxist–Leninist names and openly praised Enver Hoxha. See Judah, Kosovo: War and Revenge, p. 40. Limaj was a member of Hashim Thaqi’s political party, PDK (Kosovo Democratic Party) and was the PDK’s ‘political representative’ on the Kosovo Transition Council (KTC). During the war Limaj was a high-ranking member of the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA). Sediku, also formerly in the KLA, was the vice president of the Youth Forum of the LDK (Democratic League of Kosovo), the party founded by Ibrahim Rugova. Interview with the author, 3 August 2000, Seattle, Washington. Ruzˇa Petrovic´ and Marina Blagojevic´, The Migration of Serbs and Montenegrins from Kosovo and Metohija: Results of the Survey Conducted in 1985–1986 (Belgrade: Serbian Academy of Sciences and Arts, 1992), p. 122. Ibid., p. 53. NIN (Belgrade), no. 1,941 (13 March 1988), p. 16. See Judah, The Serbs, p. 152. Incidentally, demographic change in Croatia and Bosnia-Herzegovina, where the percentage of Serbs in the population had declined since the end of the Second World War, was also seen by the authors of the Memorandum as ‘genocide’. See Kosta Mihailovic´ and Vasilije Krestic´, Memorandum of the Serbian Academy of Sciences and Arts: Answers to Criticisms (Belgrade: SANU, 1995), pp. 10–11. For discussion, see Tim Judah, The Serbs: History, Myth and the Destruction of Yugoslavia (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997), pp. 158–9. Although the authors assert that Milosˇevic´ had no connection to the memorandum and that his political platform merely reflected the sentiment of Serbs at the time, the grievances found in the memorandum were incorporated into Milosˇevic´’s rhetoric along with other Serbian national myths and historic manipulations. See Mihailovic´ and Krestic´, Memorandum, pp. 80–1. For a detailed history of Milosˇevic´’s rise to power, see Robert Thomas, Serbia under Milosˇevic´: Politics in the 1990s (London: Hurst, 1999). Slobodan Milosˇevic´, Godine raspleta, 2nd edn. (Belgrade: Beogradski izdavacˇko-graficˇki zavod, 1989), p. 160. See Meier, Wie Jugoslawien, p. 136.

Albanian and Serb rivalry in Kosovo 99 75 Details in Sabrina P. Ramet, Whose Democracy? Nationalism, Religion and the Doctrine of Collective Rights in Post-1989 Eastern Europe (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 1997), pp. 148–51. 76 See Mertus, Kosovo, pp. 176–7. 77 See Judah, Kosovo: War and Revenge, pp. 64–5. 78 Ibid. 79 Interview with Ibrahim Rugova in Der Speigel, no. 26 (1989), reprinted in Harillaq Kekezi and Rexhep Hida (eds), What the Kosovars Say and Demand (Tirana: 8 Nëntori Publishing House, 1990), p. 27. 80 Star Tribune (Minneapolis), 2 February 2000, online version at www.startribune.com 81 See, for example, Open Wounds: Human Rights Abuses in Kosovo (New York: Human Rights Watch Helsinki, March 1993); and ‘Human Rights Abuses of Non-Serbs in Kosovo, Sandzˇak and Vojvodina’, Human Rights Watch Helsinki, vol. 6, no. 6 (May 1994). 82 Radio Croatia Network (Zagreb), 12 April 1993, trans. in Foreign Broadcast Information Service (FBIS), ‘Daily Report’ (Eastern Europe), 13 April 1993, p. 44. 83 According to Tanjug Domestic Service (2 April 1993), trans. in FBIS, ‘Daily Report’ (Eastern Europe), (5 April 1993), p. 59. 84 Interview with Adem Demaqi, in Trud (Sofia), 26 July 1993, p. 10, trans. in FBIS, ‘Daily Report’ (Eastern Europe), 30 July 1993, p. 72. 85 For a detailed account of the origins of the KLA, see Judah, Kosovo: War and Revenge, pp. 99–134. 86 ATA (Tirana), 10 June 1996, in FBIS, ‘Daily Report’ (Eastern Europe), 13 June 1996, p. 60. 87 ‘Kosova Daily Report’ (Prisˇtina), 11 March 1996, in FBIS, ‘Daily Report’ (Eastern Europe), 14 March 1996, p. 60. 88 See Kosova Daily Report, 18 and 19 March 1996, summarized in FBIS, ‘Daily Report’ (Eastern Europe), 21 March 1996, pp. 58–9; ‘Kosova Daily Report’ 21 March 1996, in FBIS, ‘Daily Report’ (Eastern Europe), 25 March 1996, p. 56; and ‘Kosova Daily Report’ 21 and 22 March 1996, summarized in FBIS, ‘Daily Report’ (Eastern Europe), 25 March 1996, pp. 56–7. 89 See ‘Kosova Daily Report’, 13 August 1996, in FBIS, ‘Daily Report’ (Eastern Europe), 15 August 1996, p. 54. 90 Quoted in Tanjug Domestic Service (30 July 1996), trans. in FBIS, ‘Daily Report’ (Eastern Europe), 31 July 1996, p. 45. 91 Nasˇa borba (Belgrade), 25 April 1996, p. 1, trans. in FBIS, ‘Daily Report’ (Eastern Europe), 29 April 1996, p. 61. 92 Nasˇa borba, 29 April 1996, p. 8, trans. in FBIS, ‘Daily Report’ (Eastern Europe), 30 April 1996, p. 71. 93 See details in Ramet, Whose Democracy, pp. 157–8. 94 Tanjug Domestic Service, 3 August 1996, trans. in FBIS, ‘Daily Report’ (Eastern Europe), 5 August 1996, p. 54. 95 ATA, 5 August 1996, in FBIS, ‘Daily Report’ (Eastern Europe), 6 August 1996, p. 50. 96 ‘Repression and Violence in Kosovo’, 18 March 1998, in Two Hearings before the Commission on Security and Cooperation in Europe, 105th Congress, 2nd session (Washington DC: US Government Printing Office, 1998), p. 12. 97 Figure given by UN High Commissioner for Refugees, Sadako Ogata, in a speech on 5 October 1998, online version at www.unhcr.ch/refworld/unhcr/hcspeech/05oc1998.htm; this figure is also cited by Michael MccGwire, in ‘Why did we bomb Belgrade?’, in International Affairs (London), vol. 76, no. 1 ( January 2000), p. 4. 98 Figure as given by Carl Cavanagh Hodge, in ‘Casual War: NATO’s Intervention in Kosovo’, in Ethics & International Affairs, vol. 14 (2000), p. 47. 99 Star Tribune, 7 February 2000, at www.startribune.com. The Yugoslav Army high command claimed that, in addition, some 545 of its soldiers were killed in the course

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Vjeran Pavlakovic and Sabrina Petra Ramet of NATO air strikes. See ‘Beta news agency’, 14 June 2000, in ‘BBC Summary of World Broadcasts’, 16 June 2000, on LNAU. Between June and December 1999, ICTY forensics teams exhumed the bodies of 2,108 Albanians killed by Serbs and buried in 195 graves. It was thought that more graves remained to be found. See ‘Agence France Presse’, 14 June 2000, at LNAU. The full text of UNSC 1244 is available online at www.un.org/Docs/scres/1999/ 99sc1244.htm Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, Newsline, vol. 4, no. 244, (19 December 2000), online version at www.rferl.org NIN, no. 2608, 21 December 2000, online version at www.nin.co.yu Quoted in Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, Newsline, vol. 5, no. 36, (21 February 2001), online version at www.rferl.org Ibid., vol. 6, no. 44, (7 March 2002). Washington Post, 22 June 2002, p. A13. Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, Newsline, vol. 4, no. 215, (6 November 2000), online version at www.rferl.org Ibid., no.195, (9 October 2000). Ibid., no. 198, (12 October 2000). Quoted in the Los Angeles Times, 1 November 2000, online version at www.latimes.com. New York Times, 31 October 2000, p. A15. Ibid. Ibid., 30 October 2000, p. A6. Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, Newsline, vol. 5, no. 193, (11 October 2001), online version at www.rferl.org Ibid., (5–7 November 2001). New York Times, 20 November 2001, p. A8. Because of the threats, many Serbs went to vote just before the polls closed after dark. Approximately 46 per cent of the registered voters participated in the elections. Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, Newsline, vol. 5, no. 220, (20 November 2001), online version at www.rferl.org Ibid., vol. 6, no. 96, (23 May 2002). UNMIK News Archive, 24 May 2002, at www.unmikonline.org/archives/news See, for example, ‘Vojska Jugoslavije c´e se vratiti na Kosmet’, Politika (Belgrade), 20 November 1999, at www.politika.co.yu/politika/arhiva/6sub/01_10.htm; ‘Kosmet je neotidjivi deo Srbije i Jugoslavije’, Politika, 31 January 2000, at www.politika.co.yu/ politika/arhiva/20000617/01_11.htm; and ‘Manilov: Vojsci i policiji SRJ omoguc´iti povratak na Kosmet’, Politika, 29 June 2000, at www.politika.co.yu/politika/01_02.htm See Malcolm, Kosovo, pp. 264–6. This conclusion is argued in a report prepared in 1998 by the International Crisis Group titled ‘Intermediate Sovereignty as a Basis for Resolving the Kosovo Crisis’, online version at www.crisisweb.org. The report was compiled by a team of international lawyers who, as the title implies, advocated a form of ‘intermediate’ sovereignty for Kosovo before the NATO campaign led to military occupation. For details and discussion, see Sabrina P. Ramet and Philip W. Lyon, ‘The Serbian–Montenegrin–Kosovo Triangle: Discord, Denial, Dysfunctionality’, in Problems of Post-Communism, vol. 49, no.5 (September to October 2002). Fatmir Limaj, in interview with Vjeran Pavlakovic, Seattle, Washington, 3 August 2000. The status of Trepça is currently unsolved as, according to the UN mandate in Kosovo, the international body ruling the province can take over all state owned enterprises. The authorities in Belgrade claim that the mines are owned by private businesses, yet the connection between the owners and the state are not clear. Likewise, the Albanians claim the mine is theirs, but are unable to operate it since only the extraction facilities are under their control, while the processing complex is

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controlled by the Serbs. For further discussion of this issue, see the International Crisis Group report, ‘Trepça: Making Sense of the Labyrinth’, 26 November 1999, online version at www.crisisweb.org Fatmir Limaj, interview with Vjeran Pavlakovic, Seattle, Washington, 3 August 2000. See, for example, the comments by Vojislav Zˇ ivkovic´, as reported in Tanjug, 30 December 1995, in FBIS, ‘Daily Report’ (Eastern Europe), 2 January 1996, pp. 74–5. See Plato, The Republic, Book 1. Kosovo 1389–1989, Special edn of the Serbian Literary Quarterly, nos. 1–3, (1989), p. 45. Thomas Paine, Rights of Man, [1791–92], (Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin Books, 1969), p. 41. Hivzi Islami, ‘Demografska stvarnost Kosova’, in Dusˇan Janjic´ and Skelzen Maliqi (eds), Sukob ili dijalog (Subotica: Otvoreni univerzitet i EGCRK, 1994), pp. 29–30, as summarized in Marina Blagojevic´, ‘The Migration of Serbs from Kosovo during the 1970s and 1980s: Trauma and/or Catharsis’, in Nebojsˇa Popov (ed.), The Road to War in Serbia: Trauma and Catharsis, English version by Drinka Gojkovic´ (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2000), p. 237. See ‘Repression and Violence in Kosovo’, p. 7. See Edmund Morgan, Inventing the People: The Rise of Popular Sovereignty in England and America (New York: W.W. Norton, 1988). See McGwire, ‘Why did we bomb Belgrade?’, p. 5, our emphases. Jarat Chopra and Thomas G. Weiss, ‘Sovereignty is No Longer Sacrosanct: Codifying Humanitarian Intervention’, Ethics & International Affairs, vol. 6 (1992), p. 106. See also p. 103. Ibid., p. 111. J. Samuel Barkin, ‘The Evolution of the Constitution of Sovereignty and the Emergence of Human Rights Norms’, Millennium, vol. 27, no. 2, (1998), p. 229. Michael J. Smith, ‘Humanitarian Intervention: An Overview of the Ethical Issues’, Ethics & International Affairs, vol. 12 (1998), p. 76. These issues are discussed in Julie Mertus, ‘Beyond Borders: The Human Rights Imperative for Intervention in Kosovo’, Human Rights Review, vol. 1, no. 2 ( January– March 2000), pp. 78–87.

5

From frozen conflict to frozen agreement The unrecognized state of Transnistria Steven D. Roper

The war in Chechnya serves as a reminder that de facto territorial solutions do not eliminate the eventual possibility of further conflict. After the 1996 ceasefire, Chechnya enjoyed a semi-independent status within the Russian Federation and for many years thereafter, scholars and policy makers alike talked about the region’s semi-independent status and possible confederation with Russia. However, the military offensive in September 1999 demonstrated that regional solutions must be institutionalized. These solutions must include a defined legal basis agreed to and implemented by both sides in order to contain conflict and promote a structured devolution of power. Chechnya represents one regional scenario in the former Soviet Union that, unfortunately, has occurred repeatedly in areas such as Abkhazia and South Ossetia and Nagorno-Kharabakh. Transnistria is similar to these other regions in which a status quo ceasefire has endured for a number of years. Since 1992, when the Moldovan–Transnistrian dispute erupted into violent conflict, Transnistria has remained virtually independent of Moldova.1 However, as intractable as the Transnistrian problem has been, the Moldovan government was able to resolve another conflict involving the region known as Gagauzia. This region declared independence even before Transnistria on 19 August 1990; however, the Moldovan and the Gagauzian leaderships were able to agree on the devolution of power and the creation of an autonomous territorial status in 1995. Therefore, the settlement of the status of Gagauzia in 1995 prevented the creation of another de facto state on Moldovan territory. The first part of this chapter examines Moldova’s contemporary history and addresses the development of inter-ethnic relations and elite mobilization before independence in 1991, with a focus on how Moldovan and Transnistrian officials used history, language and culture to justify actions that ultimately led to the 1992 civil war. The second section discusses the origins and the consequences of the Transnistrian civil conflict. While this conflict was portrayed as an ‘ethnic’ struggle, the linguistic and cultural issues were soon overwhelmed by political and economic concerns. Moldovan and Transnistrian elites used ethnicity in order to further their own political and economic agenda. There were legitimate and real concerns among the Moldovan population concerning linguistic and cultural freedom. However, elites exploited and manipulated these concerns in order to

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maintain or to attain power. Transnistria’s early status as a de facto state was based on the perception of persecution of ethnic Russians The final section examines the role of the Russian government and the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) and their negotiations since the mid-1990s, including the Istanbul Summit of 1999 and the draft agreement on the status of Transnistria endorsed by the United States in 2002.

Contemporary Moldovan history: from Romanianization to Russification In order to understand the political agenda of Moldovan and Transnistrian elites, as well as the Transnistrian justification for statehood, it is instructive to examine Moldova’s contemporary history. Transnistria’s current de facto status is a function of the historical evolution of the Moldovan state. Following the Russo–Turkish war of 1806 to 1812 and the conclusion of the Treaty of Bucharest, the Moldovan area between the Prut and the Dniester rivers was annexed by Russia in 1812 and came to be known as Bessarabia. The region enjoyed considerable autonomy within the empire and during this time Moldovans comprised 86 per cent of the population.2 However, by the midnineteenth century, Russia began to actively assimilate Bessarabians. Local government control was rescinded, and the Russian language supplanted the Romanian language in all legal proceedings. In addition, an influx of Russians and other ethnic groups significantly reduced the percentage of the ethnic Moldovan population. While they were still the largest language group, by the 1897 census their numbers had been reduced by almost 40 per cent, and they comprised only 14 per cent of the urban population.3 In addition, Wim van Meurs argues that the Bessarabian population had ‘only a local consciousness. They had no mature identity and they identified themselves . . . only in a territorial, non-ethnic sense’.4 During this time, the Moldavian principality (eastern Romania to the Prut) and the Wallachian principality (southern Romania) each elected Alexandru Ioan Cuza as prince, thereby creating a de facto union. Following the Berlin Congress, the principalities achieved independence in 1878 and were recognized as the Kingdom of Romania in 1881. World War One and the Russian revolution provided Bessarabia’s panRomanian nationalists an opportunity to press their claims for self-determination and integration with Romania. Unlike the rural Bessarabian population that van Meurs describes, these urban Bessarabian elites demanded greater administrative, cultural and economic autonomy. By spring 1917, public meetings were held throughout Bessarabia. For example, many teachers called for the replacement of the Cyrillic alphabet with the Latin alphabet and for the freedom to use Romanian in the classroom.5 The cultural demands soon gave way to political aspirations. By the summer, a national assembly was formed (Sfatul Tarii) that was largely composed of pan-Romanianists. On 15 December, the Sfatul Tarii voted to form the independent Moldovan Democratic Republic of Bessarabia. The Republic’s borders extended from the River Prut to the River Dniester.

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Significantly, the area of modern-day Transnistria was not included in this new formation. In order to secure its borders from the Bolshevik military, the republic requested Romanian troops. Two months later, on 27 March 1918, the Sfatul Tarii voted to unite with Romania, and by the end of 1918 the areas of Bukovina and Transylvania joined Bessarabia to form ‘Greater Romania’. While self-determination transformed into a civil war after 1991, Bessarabian self-determination after World War One did not lead to violence. From one perspective this result is surprising given that of all of Romania’s regions, Bessarabia had one of the lowest percentage of ethnic Romanians.6 In order to integrate the newly acquired population into Romania, the state greatly expanded the number of primary and secondary schools, instituted language tests and loyalty oaths for teachers and administrators, and implemented ethnically-based quotas for admission to secondary schools and universities. However, Russian language and cultural influences were still dominant during this period. For example, Irina Livezeanu reports that, except for the brief period of 1926 and 1927, there was no Bessarabian Romanian language daily newspaper after 1918.7 Part of the problem was that the illiteracy rate among ethnic Moldovans was the highest of any ethnic group.8 Moreover, attempts at converting from the Cyrillic to Latin alphabet proved difficult. Even in the 1930s Cyrillic letters could be seen on some Chisinau street signs and most Orthodox priests refused to use the Latin script.9 One of the reasons why the Romanian government was less than successful at integrating the Bessarabian population had to do with its perceived chauvinistic attitude towards locals. Romanian administrators were regarded as corrupt, inefficient and elitist. Whether real or imagined, many Bessarabians felt that the Romanians treated them unfairly. Another reason why the Romanian government was unsuccessful at its efforts at Romanianization was due to Soviet propaganda. In 1924, Soviet authorities created the Moldovan Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic (MASSR) by combining Transnistria with territory in present-day Ukraine. The Moldovan ethnic component of the MASSR was actually quite low. In 1926, Ukrainians constituted 48.5 per cent of the population while Moldovans constituted approximately 30 per cent.10 The MASSR served as a propaganda vehicle and base for Soviet activities in Romanian-controlled Bessarabia. King notes that the MASSR served as a ‘political magnet’ to draw Bessarabians away from Romania and highlight the technological and economic superiority of the Soviet Union.11 However, King’s data show that between 1926 and 1936, the percentage of ethnic Moldovans increased by less than 2 per cent. In August 1939, Germany and the Soviet Union signed the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact that included secret protocols that conceded the Soviet Union’s special interest in Bessarabia. With Germany’s support, on 26 June 1940, the Soviet Union issued an ultimatum to Romania demanding the immediate surrender of Bessarabia and Bukovina. By 3 July, all of Bessarabia and northern Bukovina were under Soviet control.12 The Romanian army reclaimed the area in 1941 and even occupied portions of the MASSR until 1944. However, in 1944 the Red Army was able to recapture the area, and later that year the Soviet

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Socialist Republic of Moldova was formed by joining Bessarabia with six counties that had constituted the MASSR. Therefore, Moldova inherited a large Russianspeaking community from the MASSR and immigration, particularly of industrial workers, furthered the Russification of Moldova’s urban areas. The percentage of ethnic Russians in Moldova almost doubled, from 6.7 per cent in 1941 to 13 per cent by 1989. Moreover, the actual number of ethnic Russians increased dramatically from just 300,000 in 1959 to over 550,000 in 1989.13 As elsewhere in the Soviet Union, ethnic Russians enjoyed disproportional representation in important political and economic institutions. Ethnic Moldovans perceived that they were under-represented in the more desirable professions while they dominated the inferior agricultural positions.14 Throughout this period, the Soviet leadership encouraged the creation of a distinct Moldovan nation. As part of the Russification policy, the alphabet for the Romanian language changed back to Cyrillic and Russian once again became the language of inter-ethnic communication, higher education and public life. As part of the Russification policy, Soviet linguists were instructed to find fundamental differences between the Romanian and the Moldovan language.15 A new mythology was created in which Soviet scholars spoke of a distinctive Moldovan language that was the foundation of a distinctive non-Romanian Moldovan nation.16 As elsewhere in the Soviet Union, reforms introduced by Mikhail Gorbachev in the mid-1980s provided an opportunity for titular majorities to express their resentment against Soviet Russification policies. In 1987, Moldovan intellectuals organized informal discussion groups that focused on greater cultural and linguistic freedom. According to Livezeanu, the Moldovan intelligentsia had a three-prong strategy designed to increase the visibility of their demands.17 First, they decided to appeal to the general public in order to garner mass support to pressure the party nomenklatura. Second, the intellectuals used the language of glasnost when confronting the communist leadership in Moldova. They hoped to gain union-level support from Moscow for their reforms. Finally, the initial movement included broad cultural, educational and linguistic issues that encouraged the participation of non-ethnic Moldovans such as ethnic Ukrainians and ethnic Gagauzi. By mid-1988, these informal pro-reform groups had organized the Democratic Movement in Support of Restructuring to press for democratization and redress for discriminatory practices imposed upon the ethnic majority and certain ethnic minority populations. While the Democratic Movement pressed for the recognition of Moldovan as the official state language (using the Latin alphabet), it also articulated a linguistic agenda that focused on cultural and linguistic freedom for ethnic Gagauzi, Ukrainians and Bulgarians. Therefore, at the beginning, reform was not organized around the issue of ethnicity. Several disadvantaged ethnic groups joined with ethnic Moldovans to press their claims. Instead, the division was among political elites and those that aspired to power. ‘It is a gross simplification to present the conflict as a showdown between ethnic Moldovans and the “Russian-speaking” part of the Moldovan population . . . it [the conflict] is essentially political in character.’18

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The Movement’s demands were offered as general reforms, and at several Movement demonstrations, supporters even carried portraits of Gorbachev.19 At this time, Moldova had no official language, but clearly Russian was the most prominent language in factories and educational institutions. For example, in 1989 only 10 per cent of Chisinau kindergartens conducted classes primarily in Romanian, and in Tiraspol there were no Romanian-language elementary or secondary schools.20 By 1989 the Democratic Movement and its supporters had largely won the linguistic debate. The Scientific Council of the Moldovan Academy of Sciences recommended that Moldovan be made the official language and the Democratic Movement was able to organize well-attended rallies and demonstrations. In May 1989, individuals from the Democratic Movement, the Democratic League of Moldovan Students, the Ecological Movement and other associations organized the Popular Front and it quickly became the leading Moldovan opposition force, promoting linguistic and cultural freedom.21 While the Front was opposing Soviet policies of Russification, several leading Front members were actually ranking Communist Party apparaticks. These party leaders recognized that to maintain power, they would have to shift their policies. In August 1989, the Moldovan Supreme Soviet proclaimed Moldovan (using the Latin alphabet) as the state language.22 While the language law required those working in public services and education to acquire facility in both Moldovan and Russian, it allowed a period of five years to gain language facility. Afterwards, the Front adopted a much more radical platform than the earlier Democratic Movement. The pan-reform agenda of the Democratic Movement was rejected in favour of a pro-Romanian agenda. This shift in focus and the exclusive elevation of the Moldovan language touched off an immediate response by the Russian-speaking community that William Crowther has labeled ‘reactive nationalism’. According to Crowther, ethnic minority-led conflict was instigated because of a threat to the status quo (in this case elite privileges). The promotion of the Moldovan language, particularly in an area such as Transnistria, threatened elites and at the same time was used by other elites in Chisinau to secure their position in the new emerging political environment.23 In September 1989, Gagauzian leaders proclaimed the creation of an independent republic in the southern part of the country. Ethnic Ukrainians and ethnic Bulgarians left the Front and joined with ethnic Russians to form the Internationalist Movement for Unity (Edinstvo) which was a pro-Russian organization. Edinstvo joined with the United Council of Work Collectives in Tiraspol to organize factory strikes and demonstrations against the language law. As King argues, Transnistrians were the group most opposed to the language law because it was the most visible sign of the shifting balance of power away from ethnic Russian speakers to Romanian speakers.24 By early 1990 there were 40–50 per cent fewer students studying in the Russian language sections in several faculties at Moldova State University.25 This shift in power was also evident during the 1990 election to Moldova’s last Soviet-era parliament. The Communist Party became sharply divided between

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a reformist wing and conservatives who consolidated their control over Transnistria. The reform-communist faction cooperated with the Popular Front and collaboration between these two groups extended into the electoral arena where one could find the names of ranking Communist Party members among the nominees of the Front.26 Unlike earlier elections to the Supreme Soviet, the March 1990 elections were generally fair. Following the election, the Popular Front formed a parliamentary coalition with other parties which held over 66 per cent of the seats. Popular Front member Alexandru Mosanu was named speaker and the parliament confirmed a government composed almost entirely of ethnic Moldovans. Mircea Snegur, a leading Front supporter, was elected president by the parliament and Prime Minister Mircea Druc was a strong advocate of union with Romania. During this period, Front MPs and the Druc government pursued a proRomanian and pro-unionist agenda that alienated the Russian minority. Iurie Rosca, president of the Front’s parliamentary faction, stated: ‘Moldova will unify with Romania – it is inevitable. We need time for Russia to lose power in Moldova. People do not remember what it is like to be part of Romania.’27 In May 1990, the ethnic minorities’ elites who controlled the city governments of Tiraspol, Bender28 and Ribnita refused to accept the legitimacy of the new parliament and asserted sovereignty over all local institutions. Tiraspol organized several referenda throughout Transnistria and Bender, in which voters overwhelmingly favoured local autonomy from Chisinau. During the next two years, the status of Transnistria was the single most important domestic issue facing the Moldovan government.

Transnistria: the evolution of an unrecognized state Much of the reason why Transnistria was so opposed to the agenda of the Popular Front was because the region’s ethnic composition was unlike the rest of Moldova. In Transnistria, approximately 55 per cent of the population is ethnic Ukrainians and ethnic Russians and aside from Bender and a few right-bank villages, the region was never part of Romania.29 Therefore, pan-Romanian appeals by the Popular Front caused considerable fear among many Transnistrians. They refused to acknowledge the legitimacy of the 1989 language law,30 and in January 1990 a referendum on territorial autonomy was held in Tiraspol and passed by 96 per cent of the population. However, even Stuart Kaufman, who views the situation essentially as ethnic conflict, admits that the ‘Dniestrian Russophones are not, then, an ethnic group; they are a coalition of ethnic interests’.31 After the formation of the Transnistrian Moldovan Soviet Socialist Republic in September 1990, the conflict between Chisinau and Tiraspol quickly accelerated. By early 1991 several Transnistrian cities, including Tiraspol, Ribnita, Dubasari and Bender, began to form paramilitary organizations.32 The August 1991 Soviet coup clearly demonstrated the division between Moldova and Transnistria. While the Moldovan leadership denounced the coup leaders, the Transnistrian leadership, including future president Igor Smirnov, supported the coup. Transnistria attracted unreformed communists throughout the former Soviet Union. Shortly

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after the coup, Vadim Shevtsov, a former head of the Soviet OMON Special Forces in Riga, came to Transnistria and became head of the Ministry of State Security. Daniel Ionescu states that up to four-hundred former employees of the KGB and the Soviet Ministry of Internal Affairs were employed in Transnistria.33 After Moldova declared independence in August 1991, relations with Transnistria further deteriorated. On 2 September, Transnistria declared its independence from Moldova and formed its own separate republic. The Moldovan government viewed Transnistrian officials, especially Smirnov, as traitors and terrorists rather than as legitimate negotiators. The Moldovan government captured Smirnov and leaders of the Gagauzian separatist movement on Ukrainian soil. They were brought back to Chisinau but were released after one month in prison following a Transnistrian railroad blockade. Later in December, Smirnov was elected president of Transnistria. During 1991 and 1992 the Transnistrian paramilitary force benefited from the transfer of men and arms from the Russian 14th Army. The origins of this unit trace back to 1945 and, since then, the military has amassed a huge stockpile of weapons and ammunition stored in the Transnistrian town of Kolbasnaya. The exact figures are unclear but approximately 40,000 tons of ammunition (dating back to World War Two) are stored in Transnistria. Prior to 1992, there were approximately 10,000 servicemen and some 60,000 reservists. However, the distinction between the Transnistrian regulars and the 14th Army were often blurred. Soldiers were often placed under the command of the Transnistrian military and in December 1991 the army’s chief commander, General Gennadi Iakolev, accepted the position of Transnistrian defence minister. In addition to the assistance of the 14th Army, a large contingent Don Cossack members arrived in late 1991. During 1992, several clashes took place along the River Dniester between the Moldovan and the Transnistrian paramilitary, in which over one hundred people were killed. As the Transnistrian separatists consolidated their position, nationalist elites inside the Moldovan parliament became increasingly militant. This brought intense pressure on President Snegur to undertake decisive action to resolve the conflict. In late March 1992, a state of emergency was declared and an effort was made to disarm the separatist units. This attempt met with armed resistance and intensified the conflict. By this time, Russian nationalists viewed Transnistria as a test case for Russians in the near abroad. Russian Foreign Minister Andrei Kozyrev warned that the country would act to protect the rights of all ethnic Russians. Therefore, Chisinau was very concerned when in April, Boris Yeltsin placed the 14th Army under Russian control (the 14th Army had been under CIS control). Yeltsin’s decree meant that these soldiers were now stationed on foreign territory. Also in April, the Russian Congress of People’s Deputies passed a resolution in support of the population in Transnistria, and during that month, Russian Vice-President Alexander Rutskoi travelled to Transnistria to provide his support. Not only did Rutskoi travel to Transnistria during the state of emergency, he never officially informed Chisinau of his intention to visit Tiraspol. While Moscow may not have

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been actively instructing the 14th Army to intervene on the side of Transnistria, it was idle as 14th Army commander, Lieutenant-General Iuri Netkachev, assumed the authority to act.34 While Russia figured prominently in the conflict, Ukraine and Romania were also important international actors. During March and April, the foreign ministries of Moldova, Romania, Russia and Ukraine met on several occasions to create a framework for negotiations and a ceasefire. While the Transnistrians were not present, the Russians acted as their representatives. An agreement was finally reached and a ceasefire commenced on 7 April. The four foreign ministries agreed to form a commission that would monitor the ceasefire and the withdrawal of military forces. While the four parties initially were able to find some common ground, demands made by the Russian representatives ultimately made conflict resolution difficult. For example, Kozyrev suggested that the 14th Army should be used as a eace-keeping force and that representatives from Transnistria be formally included in the discussions. Moldova, Romania and Ukraine rejected these suggestions and soon the discussions broke down. During this period, the Transnistrians claimed that the Romanians were supplying the Moldovans with equipment and men; however, there has never been any evidence of active Romanian participation in the civil war. By May the level of violence had greatly increased. The heaviest fighting occurred close to the border between Moldova and Transnistria, particularly in the cities of Dubasari and Bender. On 11 and 23 May, elements of the 14th Army reportedly attacked the villages of Cocieri and Cosnita which are located near Dubasari. While most of the population supported the Transnistrian leadership and the 14th Army, some Transnistrians declared their support for Moldova. In early June several members of the renamed Christian Democratic Popular Front (FPCD)35 Tiraspol branch were arrested. These six members became known as the ‘Ilascu group’, named after Ilie Ilascu who was the president of the FPCD Tiraspol branch. These six individuals were later convicted of terrorist acts against the state and given the death penalty. While the sentence was rescinded and two individuals were released, the other four were sentenced in 1992. The arrest of these FPCD members eliminated the last major opposition within Transnistria and further escalated tensions. While there were several last minute attempts to broker a deal, neither side was willing capitulate. Throughout the early summer, Bender had been a particular flash point. As noted earlier, Bender is located on the right bank of the Dniester and was strategically important because the road into Bender linked Moldova to the rest of the former Soviet Union. During the spring and summer, Transnistrian regulars captured most of Bender’s police stations. On 19 June Transnistrian elements attacked the last police station that was still loyal to Chisinau. Initially, the Moldovan military was able to repel the attack, but on the night of 20/21 June, 14th Army tanks rolled into the city, and within a few short hours Transnistria captured Bender. While there was some fighting after the war in Bender, the violence essentially ended. The Moldovan side realized that it could not defeat the Transnistrians as long as they enjoyed such a material and manpower advantage.

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There are various estimates of the number of causalities, but perhaps as many as a 1,000 died during this entire period.36 The violence in Bender forced the Russian government to intervene actively in the conflict. In June, Yeltsin replaced Netkachev with Major-General Alexander Lebed and in July 1992 Yeltsin and Snegur signed a ceasefire agreement that ended the hostilities. While Smirnov was present at the meeting, he did not sign the agreement. It contained a provision granting Transnistria a special status, and guaranteed it the right of self-determination should Moldova change its statehood (this had been offered to Transnistria much earlier). The agreement also established a security zone composed of Moldovan, Russian and Transnistrian forces. A tripartite Joint Control Committee ( JCC) was formed to observe the military forces in the security zone and to maintain order. The peace-keeping forces were first deployed on 29 July 1992, and consisted of six Russian, three Moldovan and three Transnistrian battalions. The civil war, and particularly the violence in Bender, had an immediate impact on Moldovan domestic politics. In July almost all of the members of the FPCDdominated government resigned, and Andrei Sangheli was named prime minister. Also in July, President Snegur removed Defence Minister Ion Costas from his post, and in January 1993 Petre Lucinschi replaced Mosanu as parliamentary speaker. For many Moldovans, the FPCD was to blame for the escalation of conflict during the spring and the summer. The irony is that while the civil war forced a fundamental change in the Moldovan government, the conflict entrenched the Transnistrian leadership. As King notes, the conflict in Bender became part of the mythology of Transnistria. Those that were associated with the conduct of the war such as Smirnov, his advisor Valeri Litskai (later named foreign minister), Grigore Maracuta (speaker of the Transnistrian parliament) and Vladimir Atamaniuk (deputy speaker) were viewed as heroes.37 While Moldova has had several different governments since the war, there has been no significant change in the Transnistrian leadership since 1992. The political fallout from the civil war continued throughout 1993. There were several defections from the FPCD and Lucinschi’s Agrarian Democratic Party (PDA) began to fill the political vacuum. While the FPCD no longer enjoyed its absolute parliamentary majority, the party had enough votes to block the passage of any constitutional or basic law. The legislative stalemate forced early parliamentary elections, in February 1994. In order to prevent Transnistrians from participating in the elections, President Smirnov declared a state of emergency from January through March 1994. Although the Central Election Commission established alternative voting sites for Transnistrian residents, very few individuals participated.38 The elections marked a turning point in Moldovan domestic politics. The FPCD, which had held a majority of seats in the previous parliament, was reduced to less than 9 per cent of the seats, while the PDA captured an absolute majority. By the mid-1990s, Transnistria had developed all the vestiges of an independent nation state. The Transnistrian constitution was approved by the parliament that created a semi-presidential system. In addition, Transnistria created its own flag,

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currency and postage stamps that were valid only on Transnistrian soil. Although these efforts were largely symbolic, because no other member of the international community recognizes the stamps or the currency, these were important psychological symbols that denoted statehood to many Transnistrians. With a government and the symbols of statehood in place, it was even more difficult to negotiate an end to this frozen conflict.

The role of Russia and the OSCE in Transnistria The success of the PDA signalled a change in Moldovan politics. While President Snegur had maintained a policy of ‘one people, two states’ throughout the early 1990s, the 1994 parliamentary elections indicated that only a small minority of the Moldovan population embraced the pro-Romanian, anti-state position of the FPCD. In March, a non-binding referendum was held in which more than 95 per cent of voters favoured Moldova’s continuing statehood, and in April, the parliament ratified CIS membership. The Moldovan constitution was adopted in July, and Article 111 provided Transnistria a special form of autonomy. The PDA’s more balanced approach to Transnistria, overwhelming public support for statehood and CIS membership should have facilitated negotiations; however, the two sides were still far apart. The Transnistrian side steadfastly maintained that any final agreement had to be made between two sovereign states. In order to bridge the gap, the OSCE established a mission in Chisinau in May 1993. This organization has been a significant actor during the post-conflict period in Moldova, and generally throughout the former Soviet Union. In 1993 and 1994, the OSCE attempted to start a dialogue between Moldova and Transnistria.39 On the advice of the OSCE, the two sides established ‘expert groups’ that were responsible for negotiations. Prior to this negotiations occurred at an inter-parliamentary level but were unsuccessful.40 However, the creation of special negotiation teams did not end the stalemate. Philip Hahn, who was the head of the OSCE mission in Moldova in 1994, stated that the situation resembled ‘a family feud – they will not see or speak to each other and this will last for the next six to ten years’.41 One of the major issues of contention was the status of the 14th Army. While the July 1992 agreement had ended hostilities, the 14th Army remained in Transnistria. Yelstin’s April 1992 decision to place the unit under Russian authority meant that a foreign force was occupying Moldova. During 1993 and 1994, the status of the 14th Army was one of the major foreign-policy issues confronting the president and the parliament. This issue was so important that an article was included in the constitution that forbade the stationing of foreign troops on Moldovan territory. The Russians had always linked the withdrawal of the 14th Army with a settlement on the final status of Transnistria. This process has come to be known as ‘synchronization’. However, the OSCE Budapest summit in 1994 rejected the linkage between the two issues. After two years of negotiation, the presidents of Moldova and Russia finally signed an agreement in 1994 that called for the withdrawal of the 14th Army within three years ‘from the date of entry into force’ of the agreement. This clause was particularly important

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because Russian officials argued that the agreement only enters into force upon approval by the Duma which has refused to ratify it. Another problem is that the agreement specifically refers to the withdrawal of the 14th Army. In 1995, the 14th Army was downgrade to an ‘operational group of Russian forces’ (OGRF) and, therefore, many in the Duma and Russian government argue that the agreement is not legally binding on the military force still remaining in Transnistria. For obvious geographic reasons, any discussion of removing weapons and ammunition by train from Transnistria to Russia must involve Ukraine.42 Because of its own separatist movement in the Crimea, Ukraine was always very supportive of Moldova’s territorial integrity. As mentioned earlier, the Ukrainian foreign ministry had been a participant in the 1992 ceasefire agreements. After the civil war Ukraine initially played a role behind the scenes. However, by 1995 Ukraine became a more visible partner in the negotiation process. Moldova and Ukraine reached a protocol on the creation of a customs regime and established four joint customs posts. Michael Wygant, head of the OSCE mission in 1995, stated that ‘while Ukraine cannot replace Russia, it has a very important role to play in the negotiations’.43 The importance of Ukraine became evident during the discussions over the memorandum on normalizing relations between Moldova and Transnistria. After months of negotiation, Moldovan and Transnistrian officials endorsed a memorandum on the settlement of the conflict in July 1996. Although the twopage document contained much of the same text found in previous agreements, there was the introduction of new concepts that caused President Snegur not to sign the document. He was concerned about the Transnistrian interpretation of certain clauses. For example, the memorandum stated that the parties would ‘continue the establishment between them of state–legal relations’. Transnistria interpreted this clause as establishing state-to-state relations. However, the clause that caused the most concern stated that the parties would ‘build their relations in the framework of a common state’. According to Maracuta, the concept of a ‘common state’ was first developed by Transnistrians and has four general elements: divided powers, delegated powers, unified powers and borders within the former Moldovan Soviet Socialist Republic.44 Maracuta stated that a common state is defined as an equal partnership between two states. The memorandum became an important issue during the 1996 presidential election. Presidential candidate Lucinschi argued that Snegur’s failure to sign the memorandum prolonged the conflict. After Lucinschi’s second round victory in December, it was hoped that his leadership would put an end to the conflict. Many believed that his position within the former Communist Party would enable him to resolve the stalemate.45 However, after taking office he also refused to sign the document because of concerns over interpretation. Therefore, Moldovan officials insisted that a separate annex be included that elaborated all of the points. Although Lucinschi and Smirnov signed the memorandum in May 1997, Smirnov and the Transnistrians never acknowledged the annex. Donald Johnson, head of the OSCE mission in 1997, believed that with the passing of time the importance of the memorandum had diminished and its defects had become

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more obvious. Therefore, he recommended that the OSCE Permanent Council should not endorse the document.46 He argued that the major flaw with the memorandum was that its operative provisions did not reaffirm the basic OSCE principles of sovereignty and the territorial integrity of Moldova. Following Ambassador Johnson’s statements, the OSCE representatives were repeatedly banned from the JCC and Ambassador Johnson was basically declared persona non grata by the Transnistrian government. Ultimately Johnson was correct – the memorandum had no lasting influence on the negotiation process. Throughout 1997, meetings of the JCC or the expert groups occurred infrequently and there was little progress on the final status of Transnistria. Part of the problem was that the composition of the Moldovan expert group changed frequently. After every presidential and parliamentary election, the group membership altered and these changes slowed down the process. With the active support of Russian Prime Minister Viktor Chernomyrdin and Ukrainian President Leonid Kuchma, Lucinschi and Smirnov concluded an agreement in Odessa in March 1998 that called for a reduction in the number of peace-keeping forces and the re-building of the bridges that were destroyed or damaged during the fighting in 1991 and 1992. While the two sides made no progress on the larger issue of Transnistria’s status, these confidence-building measures were important and by the summer of 1999, most of the tasks had been completed. However, the negotiations would sometimes lapse for months and only the intervention and pressure of Russia and Ukraine forced the Transnistrians back to the table. Just as Chernomyrdin was instrumental in orchestrating the Odessa summit, Russian Prime Minister Sergei Stepashin was largely responsible for organizing the Kiev summit a year later, in July 1999. In Kiev, the two sides agreed to establish five ‘common spaces’ including a common border, defence, judicial, economic and cultural space. However, Lucinschi and Smirnov left it to the expert groups to elaborate these spaces and even in Kiev it was clear that they had different interpretations. Lucinschi stated that a common defence would be based on the creation of a single military force, while Smirnov insisted that Transnistria would maintain its own military. Moreover, Smirnov argued that any discussion concerning weapons and ammunition in Transnistria would only occur between Moscow and Tiraspol. The Moldovan press and news agencies were highly critical of the Kiev summit. The news agency Basapress called the summit ‘resultless’ and stated that the leaders ‘did not sign any important documents’.47 Ironically less than a week after the Kiev summit, the Cuciurgan power station located in Transnistria cut off electrical power to Chisinau. Moldovan Prime Minister Ion Sturza claimed that the decision to cut off the electricity was not made by the power plant but by Transnistrian officials. The power station claimed that Moldova owed over $12 million and, unless it paid, no electricity would be delivered. The Moldovan response was to secure energy from Ukraine and Romania. Economic issues have become extremely important during recent negotiations. While Moldova and Transnistria both owe Gazprom (gas provider), it is unclear how to settle the accounts. Moldova’s energy debt to Gazprom is approximately

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$200 million while Transnistria’s debt is more than $500 million. During the last few years, the Russian government subsidized Transnistria’s energy needs; however, there has been a change in the Russian attitude. In March 2000, Alexander Puskin, deputy chairman of Gazprom, wrote a letter to the Transnistrian parliament in which he stated: ‘Gazprom cannot be a donor for Transnistria. The reluctance to pay for gas is a gross political and economic blunder the entire responsibility for which shall be on the region’s leaders.’48 However, recently the Transnistrian leadership has been in negotiations with Gazprom and the Russian leadership concerning a deal in which Transnistria will allow for the unobstructed withdrawal of ammunition in exchange for a write-down of its energy debt. The reason why the withdrawal of the ammunition and the remaining Russian forces have become a pressing issue is because of the Istanbul declaration signed in 1999. The Istanbul declaration spelt out a specific timetable in which ammunition and troops were to be withdrawn from Transnistria. The declaration was signed by the Russian government, which committed to withdraw its military from Transnistria in three stages, with all hardware to be removed by the end of 2001 and troops by 2002. Although three convoys, carrying limited weaponry and non-combat material were dispatched immediately, only one convoy left Transnistria in 2000, and the first destruction of equipment did not begin until July 2001. By the autumn and winter of 2001, several more trains departed from Transnistria, and by the end of 2001 Russia claimed that it had meet all of its Istanbul obligations. However, by summer 2002 Russia still had not withdrawn its 2,600 troops remaining in Transnistria. Russia has given mixed signals in regards to its commitment to the declaration. For example, President Putin has stated that Russia would only ‘try’ to withdraw troops from Transnistria as required by the Istanbul declaration. Following the election of Moldovan President Voronin, in early 2001, there was a great deal of optimism that a conclusive status could be negotiated for Transnistria. During the parliamentary election campaign, the Moldovan Communist Party (MPC) had proposed the elevation of Russian to a second state language, and Moldovan membership of the Russia–Belarus Union. Although these policies were not immediately implemented it was hoped that the support of the Moldovan leadership for such issues would satisfy Transnistria. The negotiations between Voronin and Smirnov were initially successful. In May Transnistria released the Romanian–Moldovan nationalist, Ilie Ilascu, from a Transnistrian jail. The release of Ilascu (his colleagues remain imprisoned) had been a longstanding demand of the Moldovan Government and Voronin and Smirnov met on subsequent occasions to negotiate a wide range of issues. However, by late 2001 Voronin had concluded that Smirnov had no real interest in ending the status quo and, therefore, suspended the negotiations. The first sign of a possible change in the negotiation process finally occurred in July 2002. Ambassadors from Russia, Ukraine and the OSCE submitted a new draft agreement to Moldova and Transnistria that was the most detailed and far-ranging proposal ever submitted by the mediators. Fundamentally, the document envisions the federalization of Moldova with state-territorial formations

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(specifically Transnistria) exercising local power over a range of issues subordinated to the Moldovan central administration. The proposal called for the creation of a bicameral parliament in which the upper house would represent the territorial formations. While the proposal was well received by President Voronin and leading members of the MCP, opposition parties spoke out against the proposal. There were concerns that the proposal did not specify how many territorial formations were to be created and that it did not provide a mechanism for constitutional revision.

Conclusions Over the last decade, the frozen conflict between Transnistria and Moldova has become a frozen agreement. While several Moldovan politicians have actively campaigned to resolve the conflict, the fact is that many in the government derive material benefits from the status quo. While it is well known that Transnistrian government officials benefit from the black market that has developed in the Transnistrian economic space, it is perhaps somewhat surprising that Moldovan officials also benefit from the status quo. In 1997, the Moldovan government provided the Transnistrians with an official customs stamp and export licenses. King argues that these confidence-building measures created a cover for illegal commerce in which Moldovan tax authorities derive a substantial economic benefit.49 Although the 2002 draft agreement is the most detailed and specific document offered by the international negotiators, it is clear that there has been little movement on several fundamental issues. First, there is the issue of the Transnistrian constitution. President Smirnov wants the two constitutions to have equal status. The Moldovan government and the draft agreement maintain that the Transnistrian constitution must be subordinate to the Moldovan one. Second, Transnistria wants its final status ratified as a state-to-state treaty. Smirnov wants all relations between Transnistria and Moldova based on a treaty rather than a law. The Moldovan government wants to grant Transnistria autonomy using a law rather than a treaty, which denotes statehood (similar to Gagauzia). Fundamentally while many Moldovans oppose the federalization of the country, the Transnistrian have been equally vocal in their opposition to a Moldovan federation. Transnistria still maintains that any solution must involve the creation of a confederal state. Third, and perhaps most important, is the commitment of the Russian government to force Transnistria to the negotiating table. As long as Russian political sentiment is divided on the merits of a final solution, Transnistria will remain a de facto state.

Notes 1 Moldavia was the Soviet-era name for present-day Moldova. In this chapter I only use the name Moldova. 2 M.F. Hamm, ‘Kishinev: The Character and Development of a Tsatrist Frontier Town’, Nationalities Papers, 26, 1 (1998), p. 19.

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3 M.F. Hamm, ‘Kishinev: The Character and Development of a Tsatrist Frontier Town’, Nationalities Papers, 26, 1 (1998), p. 25. 4 W. Van Meurs, ‘Carving a Moldavian Identity Out of History’, Nationalities Papers, 26, 1 (1998), p. 41. 5 K. Hitchens, Rumania 1866–1947 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994). 6 During this time, most Romanians refused to acknowledge a distinctive Moldovan ethnicity. Therefore, the term ‘ethnic Romanian’ was applied to any Romanian speaker. Even today, many Romanians do not recognize Moldovans as ethnically distinct. 7 I. Livezeanu, Cultural Politics in Greater Romania: Regionalism, Nation Building and Ethnic Struggle, 1918–1930 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995), p. 120. 8 E. Mazilu and I. Iscurtu, ‘Invatamantul si cultura din Basarabia in anii interbelici’, in I. Scurtu (ed.), Istoria Basarabiei: De la inceputuri pana in 1998 (Bucharest: Semne 1998). 9 C. King, The Moldovans: Romania, Russia and the Politics of Culture (Stanford: Hoover Institution Press, 2000), p. 45. 10 P. Kolsto, A. Edemsky and N. Kalashnikova, ‘The Dniester Conflict: Between Irredentism and Separatism’, Europe–Asia Studies, 45, 6 (1993), p. 978. According to King the census figures probably overestimated the percentage of Moldovans residing in the MASSR. See C. King, ‘Ethnicity and Institutional Reform: The Dynamics of ‘Indigenization’ in the Moldovan ASSR’, Nationalities Papers, 26, 1 (1998), pp. 57–72. 11 See Kolsto et al., ‘The Dniester Conflict’, p. 60. 12 A separate telegram sent by the Soviet Union on 27 June demanded the evacuation of Romanian troops within four days. For the complete text of the Soviet and Romanian documents from this period, see I. Shishcanu and V. Varatec, (eds), The Pact: Molotov–Ribbentrop and Its Consequences for Bessarabia (Chisinau: Universitas, 1991). 13 V. Trebici, ‘Basarabia si Bucovina: Aspecte demografice’, in A. Pop (ed.), Sub povara granitei imperiale (Bucharest: Recif, 1993). 14 S. Kaufman, ‘Spiraling to Ethnic War: Elites, Masses and Moscow in Moldova’s Civil War’, International Security, 21, 2 (1996), p. 121. 15 C. King, ‘Moldovan Identity and the Politics of Pan-Romanianism’, Slavic Review, 53, 2 (1994), p. 349. 16 Dyer notes that the Russification process was not linear. During the 1950s, Moldovan literature flourished compared to the 1960s and 1970s. See D.L. Dyer, The Romanian Dialect of Moldova (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press, 1999). 17 I. Livezeanu, ‘Moldavia, 1917–1990: Nationalism and Internationalism Then and Now’, Armenian Review, 43, 2–3 (1990), p. 173. 18 See Kolsto et al., ‘The Dniester Conflict’, p. 975. 19 See Livezeanu, ‘Moldavia, 1917–1990’, p. 176. 20 J. Chinn and S.D. Roper, ‘Ethnic Mobilization and Reactive Nationalism: The Case of Moldova’, Nationalities Papers, 23, 2 (1995), p. 299. 21 N. Enciu and I. Pavelescu, ‘Un miracol istoric: Renasterea romanismului in Basarabia’, in I. Scurtu (ed.), Istoria Basarabiei: De la inceputuri pana in 1998 (Bucharest: Semne, 1998). 22 Kolsto et al. argue that the language law was not undemocratic and contained articles protecting the linguistic rights of other ethnic groups. See Kolsto et al., ‘The Dniester Conflict’, p. 981. 23 W. Crowther, ‘The Politics of Ethno-National Mobilization: Nationalism and Reform in Soviet Moldavia’, Russian Review, 50, 2 (1991), pp. 183–203. 24 See King, The Moldovans: Romania, Russia and the Politics of Culture, p. 186. 25 See Kolsto et al., ‘The Dniester Conflict’, p. 982. 26 W. Crowther and S.D. Roper, ‘A Comparative Analysis of the Institutional Development in the Romanian and Moldovan Legislatures’, in D.M. Olson and P. Norton (eds), The New Parliaments of Central and Eastern Europe (London: Frank Cass, 1996), p. 144. 27 Iurie Rosca, president of the parliamentary faction and chair of the Executive Committee of the Christian Democratic Popular Front, interview with the author, Chisinau, 27 April 1994.

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28 While the city of Bender is under the control of Tiraspol, it is actually located on the right bank of the Dniester and was part of Romania during the inter-war years. 29 Ethnic Ukrainians constitute approximately 28 per cent of the Transnistrian population while ethnic Russians are 25 per cent. 30 For Transnistrians, the return to the Latin script in the 1989 language law was unacceptable. While the Transnistrian constitution guarantees that Moldovan has an equal legal status with Russian and Ukrainian (Article 12), it is always written with the Cyrillic alphabet. 31 See Kaufman, ‘Spiraling to Ethnic War’, p. 11. 32 V. Nedelciuc, Republica Moldova (Chisinau: Universitas, 1992), p. 70. 33 D. Ionescu, ‘Lethal Expansion in the Dniester Security Ministry’, Transition, 1 November 1996, p. 6. 34 Some argue that Moscow provoked the violence in Bender in order to justify military intervention. However, there is no conclusive evidence that supports the contention that the 14th Army acted on the instructions of Moscow. 35 The Front changed its name at a February 1992 congress. 36 The Moldovan government claimed that 231 died during the conflict and another 845 were injured. The numbers reported by the Transnistrians were much higher. 37 See King, The Moldovans: Romania, Russia and the Politics of Culture, p. 197. 38 Central Election Commission decision no. 255 governed elections for ‘citizens of the Dniester left-bank raions and the city of Bender’. 39 The OSCE itself has been a controversial figure within the negotiations. Some OSCE mission heads have been considered too supportive of either Moldova or Transnistria and not impartial. 40 Yuri P. Ataman, Chairperson of the Joint Committee for Democratization and Conciliation, interview with the author, Chisinau, 6 March 1997. 41 Philip Hahn, Former head of the OSCE mission in Chisinau, interview with the author, Chisinau, 4 June 1995. 42 As quoted in Basapress, 15 August 1997. 43 Michael Wygant, former head of the OSCE mission in Chisinau, interview with the author, Chisinau, 6 June 1995. 44 Grigore Maracuta, Speaker of the Transnistrian parliament, interview with the author, 22 May 1997. 45 Lucinschi was a first secretary in the Communist Party and the highest-ranking ethnic Moldovan in the Communist Party. 46 Donald Johnson, former head of the OSCE mission in Chisinau, interview with the author, Chisinau, 8 August 1997. 47 Basapress went on to say that the ‘talks in Kiev have not changed one little thing in the stance of the Tiraspol leadership’. See Basapress, 20 July 1999. 48 As quoted in Infotag, 16 March 2000. 49 C. King, ‘The Benefits of Ethnic War: Understanding Eurasia’s Unrecognized States’, World Politics, 53, 4 (2001).

6

Chechnya Katherine Graney

Introduction The experience of the former Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic of Chechnya over the past decade constitutes what is perhaps the largest-scale and longest-running humanitarian tragedy to have emerged from the collapse of the Soviet and Soviet-satellite regimes, as the ongoing military engagement and massive civilian suffering in Chechnya has now far outlasted that of the former Yugoslavia. The Chechen odyssey in the post-Soviet era can be divided into three periods of attempted state building: two led by secessionist Chechens and aimed at establishing an independent Chechen state (autumn 1991–December 1994 and August 1996–September 1999) and the current period led by Russian Federation officials in Chechnya and aimed at re-integrating Chechnya into the Russian state ( June 2000–present). These intervals of mostly unsuccessful state-building have been punctuated by two wars between the pro-independence Chechen forces and the combined forces of the Defence and Interior Ministries of the Russian Federation (December 1994–August 1996 and September 1999–present). At the time of writing (November 2002), the legal and political status of Chechnya remains highly fluid and ambiguous, while the situation on the ground in Chechnya continues to be extremely chaotic, violent and dangerous. The Russian Federation claims that Chechnya has been successfully re-integrated into the legal and political space of Russia and that ‘normal life’ is returning to the republic.1 However, pro-independence Chechen forces, led by General Aslan Maskhadov, who was elected to the post of president by the Chechen people in January 1997, remain in hiding in the mountains of southern Chechnya and continue to mount almost-daily guerrilla attacks against both Russian military forces and the pro-Moscow administration in Chechnya. Maintaining their stated goal of creating an independent Chechen state that is a ‘subject of international law’, the Chechen forces in hiding have vowed to drive Russian forces from the republic.2 The sad events in Chechnya over the past decade have determined that both short- and long-term prospects for any type of lasting peace and stability in Chechnya, whether as an independent state, a de facto state, or as an ‘integral part’ of the Russian Federation, are not heartening. Unfortunately, the events of

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11 September 2001, which have served to frame the Chechen conflict as one that is mainly about Islamic terrorism instead of about Chechen self-determination, have given Russia more international support for its ongoing brutal military occupation of Chechnya, while seemingly not offering any new ideas about or new opportunities for a lasting political settlement of this devastating conflict.

The historical context: ‘two hundred years war’3 The Chechens, who refer to themselves as ‘Nokhchii’, constitute the largest ethnic group in the North Caucasus region, traditionally inhabiting the mountainous and heavily forested area between the Terek and Sunzha rivers. The Chechens are Sunni Muslims of the Hanafi School, who were converted to Islam beginning in the late seventeenth century. The Chechen language is a member of the Nakh branch of the Caucasian language family.4 In terms of structure, ‘right up until the early modern period – and even, to a limited extent, until the present’, Chechen society has remained ‘a clan-based society of strikingly archaic and egalitarian cast, without rulers, feudal lords, a military or merchant caste or a formal clergy’.5 The roots of the Chechen drive for independence from Russia in the early 1990s extend far back into the history of the interactions between this small nation and great powers. While Chechens had early contacts with Cossack forces in the sixteenth century, the first real conflict between Chechens and the Tsarist Empire of Russia came during the era of Peter the Great, when Russian cavalry were handed a ‘serious reversal’ by local Chechens at the village of Enderi in 1722.6 Chastened but unbowed by such early setbacks, Russian imperial expansion into the North Caucasus continued in earnest under Catherine the Great, who built what is considered to be the ‘cornerstone of Russian conquest’ in the Caucasus, the fort at Mozdok, in 1762.7 The increasingly intensive Russian military incursions first met with organized resistance from the Caucasian ‘mountaineers’ (including Chechens along with Kumuks, Kabardins, Adygeis and others) under the leadership of Sheik Mansour from 1785 to 1791. Caucasian resistance intensified during the tenure of the brutal General Aleksei Yermolov, who was appointed commander-in-chief of the Russian forces in the entire Caucasus region in 1816. Yermolov, who founded the Russian fort that would later become the city of Grozny, the capital of Chechnya, held a particular hatred of and suspicion towards the Chechens, who he called ‘a bold and dangerous people’.8 The resentment of the Caucasian peoples and the Chechens in particular, towards unceasing Russian colonial pressure erupted into the first ‘Caucasian War’ (conventionally dated 1817–64), which saw the emergence of ‘perhaps the most outstanding political and military leader ever to emerge from the North Caucasus region’,9 Imam Shamil, who led the Muslim resistance to Russian military encroachment until the Tsarist government finally concentrated the force of its entire 200,000-man army to capture him and crush the rebellion in 1864. As a result of the this brutal and lengthy war, thousands of Chechens, ‘those whose

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will to resist was not broken’,10 were forcibly deported to Ottoman Turkey, while tens of thousands of other Chechens emigrated voluntarily to Turkey in the same period. While a full recounting of the intricacies of the Russian Revolutionary and Civil War periods in the North Caucasus are beyond the scope of this chapter, it is important to note that the ‘White’ forces under the leadership of General Denikin, famous for his reactionary motto ‘Great Russia, One and Indivisible’, burned down several Chechen cities and thus insured that many Chechens looked favourably upon the arrival of the Red Army in the region in spring 1920.11 However, this goodwill was short lived, and a brutal nine-month war between the Bolsheviks and the Chechens and other Northern Caucasian peoples ensued until the Bolsheviks finally prevailed and the Soviet Mountain Republic was created in 1921. This republic was later broken up into smaller units, with the Chechens and the neighbouring Ingush being placed together in a new entity that was given the status of an ‘autonomous Soviet Socialist republic (ASSR)’ within the Russian Federation.12 The fact that the Chechen–Ingush ASSR was a constituent part of the larger Russian republic during the Soviet period would later precipitate Russia’s virulent response to Chechen demands for independence in the early 1990s. While during the Stalinist period the Soviet Union was one of the most egregious and indiscriminant violators of human rights the world has ever seen, the wholescale deportations of the Chechens and the other peoples of the North Caucasus during the Second World War are certainly some of the most tragically notable events in the long and voluminous history of Soviet oppression. In February 1944, over 300,000 Chechens were loaded into typhus-ridden freight cars (in some cars the death rate en route was over 50 per cent) and sent into exile in Central Asia.13 While exact death tolls are disputed, most historians agree that a ‘demographic cataclysm’ struck the Chechens during their years of deportation and exile, with total losses to the Chechen population, in terms of direct deaths and lost population growth, totalling over 200,000 people.14 Vacant Chechen mountain villages were destroyed, while thousands of ethnic Russians were moved into newly-evacuated urban and low-lying territories, particularly around the city of Grozny.15 Amazingly, the Chechen nation managed to survive and even prosper in exile, due in part to extremely high birthrates among Chechen women, in part to the persistence of strong linguistic, clan (teip) and religious (Sufi) communal ties among Chechens and in part due to the Chechens’ ‘sheer determination’ to return to their ancestral homeland.16 After Stalin’s death, the Chechen community in exile began to demand a return to their historical homeland. In fact, starting in 1954, so many thousands of Chechens risked (and endured) arrest to return to their Caucasian homes without official permission (approximately 25,000–30,000 Chechens returned home illegally in 1956 alone), that the Party relented and attempted to institute a phased return of the Chechens starting in 1957.17 However, the determination of the Chechens to return to their homeland overwhelmed the Party’s plans – in 1958, for example, more than

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200,000 Chechens returned home, twice the number the Party had anticipated.18 By the time of the 1959 Soviet census, 419,000 Chechens lived in the newlyrestored Chechen–Ingush Autonomous Republic, 8,000 more than had inhabited the republic in 1939, at the time of the last census before Stalin’s deportations.19 Soviet officials drew the borders of the new Chechen–Ingush republic to ‘dilute’ the demographic impact of the returning indigenous populations on ethnic Russians who had been moved into the area after 1944 – whereas Chechens and Ingush together had composed over 60 per cent of the population before 1944 (Russians were about 35 per cent), as of 1959 the indigenous populations made up only 41 per cent of the population of the ‘resurrected’ republic.20 However, extraordinarily high birth rates (as high as 40 per 1,000 in the 1980s, as opposed to 12 per 1,000 among ethnic Russians),21 and strong clan and religious communal cohesion among the Chechens meant gradually increasing Chechen demographic and social domination in the republic – by the time of the 1989 Soviet census, the nearly 750,000 Chechens constituted 55 per cent of the republic’s population to the almost 300,000 Russians’ 22 per cent and the 163,700 Ingush’s 12 per cent.22 While ethnic Russians continued to dominate the oil sector and higher education in the republic, social segregation deepened as the Brezhnevite state slowly decayed and powerful Chechen clans gradually came to dominate local political and informal economic networks, to the extent that ethnic Russians began to leave the republic.23 As one Russian citizen of Grozny recounted: By the 1970s, the Chechens got the upper hand. We had always been frightened of them – in school they always stuck together and made us feel like foreigners. Unlike us Russians, they have tremendously strong family and clan links. Every Chechen is a member of a clan (teip), it helps him and he is completely loyal to it. Also, they soon began to outnumber us . . . But what really gave the Chechens their chance was the decay of the Soviet organs of power. As the Soviet state became more and more corrupt under Brezhnev and the police got weaker, the Chechens moved into the cracks . . . When I returned home to Grozny in 1974 from my military service, I saw how powerful the Chechens had become and I decided to leave. It was already clear there was nothing there for Russians.24

The first period of Chechen state building: the Dudayev revolution (autumn 1991–December 1994) From 1991 until the time that Russia launched a full-scale military invasion of Chechen territory on 11 December 1994, a former Soviet air force general, Dzhokar Dudayev, spearheaded the first attempt to create a wholly independent Chechen state on the territorial and administrative basis of the former Soviet Chechen–Ingush Republic. Dudayev was an ethnic Chechen who had experienced exile to Kazakstan and who had spent much of his Soviet military career serving in the Baltic States. Inspired by the Baltic independence movements, in November 1990 Dudayev returned to Chechnya and accepted the invitation of

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the populist, nationalist organization, the Chechen National Congress, to become both chairman of its Executive Committee and the commander of the yet-to-beformed Chechen National Guard. During 1990 and 1991 the Chechen National Congress uneasily shared and competed for power with the Communist government in the Chechen–Ingush ASSR, led at that time by former collective-farm manager and ethnic Chechen, Doku Zavgayev. The fluid political situation in the Chechen–Ingush republic during 1991 was mirrored, and indeed exacerbated by, the competition for power between Gorbachev and Yeltsin in the Soviet Union and the Russian Republic. In June 1991 Yeltsin had famously encouraged the autonomous republics within Russia to ‘take all the sovereignty they could swallow’, with the understanding that they would wield that new sovereign power to help Yeltsin in his own battle to oust Gorbachev and take power in a new independent, democratic Russian state.25 Following the failed coup against Gorbachev in August 1991, Dudayev felt empowered to consolidate and radicalize the nationalist movement in Chechnya and begin the first phase of Chechen-led independent state building.26 In September 1991, Dudayev’s Chechen National Congress supporters launched a general strike and a series of mass demonstrations, which culminated in the seizure and occupation of the Supreme Soviet building, the flight to Moscow of Doku Zavgayev, and the formal dissolution of the Chechen–Ingush Republic.27 On 27 October 1991 the pro-Dudayev Central Elections Commission held presidential and parliamentary elections in the newly-proclaimed Chechen Republic, which were won by Dudayev with 85 per cent of the vote. On 1 November 1991, in a Presidential decree ratified by the new parliament the next day, the Chechen Republic was declared to possess ‘state sovereignty’. While this formulation of ‘state sovereignty’ was legally ambiguous, and open to various interpretations by actors in both the Chechen and Russian camps, it soon became evident that Dudayev and his followers interpreted the law as a de facto declaration of independence and act of secession from the Russian Federation. In time, as will be discussed below, Russian officials would also come to this interpretation, thus prompting the invasion of December 1994. The ‘Dudayev Revolution’ of October and November 1991 prompted Moscow, which had been preoccupied with its own state-building problems in the wake of the August coup, to turn its attention back to Chechnya. Yeltsin immediately declared the ‘Dudayev Revolution’ illegal, imposed martial law in the republic and sent 600 Russian Federation Interior Ministry (OMON) troops to the republic on 11 November 1991. This heavy-handed action on the part of Moscow, which ended with the OMON troops being overwhelmed by Chechen ‘national guard’ troops, only reinforced the legitimacy of the new Dudayev government, making him a genuine national hero in Chechnya by ‘reopening dormant hatreds and reviving and reopening traumas of past humiliations and defeats’ at the hands of the Russians.28 President Dudayev proved largely incapable of capitalizing on these large reservoirs of legitimacy to help build an effective and functioning sovereign state in Chechnya. From 1992 to 1994 the Dudayev regime attempted to construct the institutional and symbolic practices associated with statehood, including: a

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new National Guard and militia;29 a viable economic system anchored by a Chechen National Bank and based on a policy of ‘Chechenization’ of the oil sector (which resulted in the exodus of many educated Russians and an influx of both Chechen- and Russian-organized crime networks into this sector); a set of national symbols and other state institutions – some quite straightforward, like the State Prosecutor’s Office, some more nebulous, like the ‘Committee on State Operations’, which reported directly to Dudayev; and finally, an independent foreign policy masterminded by a Ministry of Foreign Affairs, whose envoys began feeling out the possibility of diplomatic negotiations with various Caucasian, Islamic and even European states, though they failed to gain diplomatic recognition from any country in the international community.30 Dudayev’s state-building efforts were conducted in an increasingly authoritarian, ineffective and, in some cases, blatantly criminal way. As one author has put it, Dudayev’s Chechnya came to resemble a type of ‘twilight zone’ where the President’s actions seemed to reflect more the ‘idea’ of independence than the ‘substance’ of it, never resulting in the effective consolidation of state authority, and ultimately leading to a situation of ‘legal nihilism’ where state, society and economy all became penetrated by and overwhelmed by ‘crime and criminals’.31 Dudayev’s economic policy, such as it was, failed miserably, resulting in a ‘sharp decline across the board in Chechnya’s industrial and agricultural production’.32 The one arena in which Chechnya experienced growth was in trade of ‘various types of contraband’, including weapons and narcotics – the gun market in Grozny became the ‘largest clearinghouse for weapons in the CIS’.33 The Dudayev regime also proved wholly unable to provide any kind of social welfare services to the population in Chechnya. Some analysts have placed the blame for the failure of the Dudayev regime to pursue state-building effectively squarely on Dudayev himself, pointing to his total lack of administrative or political experience and his imperious, even delusional and megalomaniacal, personality.34 Others have referred to the underlying social, economic and political conditions in the Chechen republic, arguing that the clan-based Chechen social structure was not ‘ready for democracy’, and that this basic unpreparedness for democratic self-rule was exacerbated by the extreme poverty in Chechnya.35 Chechnya under Dudayev also suffered from severe international isolation. While Chechnya briefly received help and attention from the short-lived Gamsakhurdia regime in neighbouring Georgia,36 all other CIS states and other members of the international community, save the Geneva-based non-governmental international organization UNPO (Organization of Unrepresented Peoples and Nations), greeted the new, self-proclaimed ‘sovereign state’ of Chechnya with a very cool reception, withholding any type of recognition or aid, and instead deferring to Moscow and its assertions that the Chechen Republic remained an integral part of Russia and thus a ‘problem of internal law and order’.37 As Dudayev’s regime grew more autocratic, erratic and mafiya-ridden, opposition to his rule grew in three sectors – among the almost 300,000 ethnic Russians in the republic, among Chechens themselves and in Moscow. In a survey taken in 1992, 37 per cent of ethnic Russians polled said they wished they could leave

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Chechnya–60,000 actually did leave that year, while the total number of Russians who had left the republic by 1993 would climb to over 90,000 – and those Russians who remained in the republic were subject to increasing legal and economic discrimination.38 Supported by the growing anti-Dudayev opposition movement, the Chechen parliament did attempt to assert some control over the increasingly despotic and chaotic situation in the republic. In spring 1993 they formed a ‘shadow’ Cabinet of Ministers and ‘people’s army’ to counter the Chechen National Guard loyal to Dudayev; began impeachment proceedings against Dudayev; and scheduled a referendum on the question of removing the Chechen President.39 Dudayev responded harshly to these threats to his amassed power, dissolving the parliament and the constitutional court, closing opposition newspapers and storming Grozny’s main municipal building in Grozny on 4 June 1993, while the city assembly was in session and a pro-democracy demonstration was taking place, resulting in 60 deaths.40 At this time Chechnya ‘began to unravel as a state’, with three districts voting to secede from the ‘criminal regime in Grozny’.41 After the failed November 1991 attempt to overthrown Dudayev there ensued a period of what author Gail Lapidus calls ‘benign but profitable neglect’, from January 1992 to September 1994, wherein the Russian Federal government held ‘intermittent but unsuccessful’ negotiations with members of the Chechen government (talks which were often disrupted by Dudayev’s imperious manner of treating the Russians).42 Gradually, Russia began to make more concerted moves towards toppling the increasingly criminalized and embarrassing Dudayev regime. A number of ‘hawks’ began to appear on the Russian political scene, actors who were tired of the ‘legal limbo’ in which Chechnya existed and who desired firmer (and more legalized) control over the Baku–Novorossiisk pipeline which ran through Grozny and which had been subject to frequent closings and illegal siphonings during the Dudayev regime.43 The desire to ‘resolve’ the Chechen question, which had lain largely on the back burner while Russia dealt with more pressing state-building issues of its own (namely the Yeltsin-parliament showdown of October 1993), was exacerbated by Moscow’s successful resolution of the similarly vexing autonomy conflict with the former Tatar ASSR (now the Republic of Tatarstan) in February 1994, through the conclusion of a treaty dividing powers and authorities between that republic and Russia. Tatarstan, like Chechnya, had declared ‘state sovereignty’ in August 1990 and refused to sign the 1992 Russian Federal treaty, but unlike Chechnya had never formed its own national guard or militia or declared independence outright.44 The February 1994 agreement between Tatarstan and Russia (which was hailed by the Tatarstani government as a ‘bilateral’ treaty between two sovereign states) described Tatarstan as a state ‘associated’ with the Russian Federation on the basis of their two constitutions, and allowed Tatarstan to conduct international economic relations unilaterally.45 While many legal ambiguities and contradictions were embedded in the agreement, it did serve to ‘return Tatarstan to the fold’ of Russian legal and political space and as such ‘left secessionist Chechnya as the sole holdout among the eighty-nine “subjects” of the Russian Federation’.46

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The ‘Tatarstan Model’ of resolving sovereignty disputes within Russia through treaty-type power-sharing agreements was later extended to over 40 of the other subjects of the Russian Federation. Some members of the Yeltsin administration did, in fact, envision a type of ‘Tatarstan-plus’ treaty as a possible solution to the ongoing ‘Dudayev problem’ in Chechnya, which would have given Chechnya significant ‘sovereignty and independence’ within the confines of ‘a single economic and military space’ with Russia.47 But in contrast to the prolonged, cordial and productive negotiations the Yeltsin regime held with Tatarstani President Mintimer Shaimiyev from 1992 to 1994, Yeltsin himself, and his Deputy Premier and Nationalities Minister Sergei Shakrai had an almost pathological dislike and distrust of Chechen President Dudayev, to the point where the cornerstone of their strategy in dealing with Chechnya became to ‘avoid all personal contact with Dudayev’.48 Yeltsin’s personal antipathy to Dudayev was exacerbated by the latter’s ‘very public’ and ‘very undiplomatic’ personal insults of Yeltsin,49 and by Dudayev’s public and constant demonization of Russia and Russians in his quest to build an independent Chechen state. In this respect, Dudayev’s leadership differed greatly from the moderate, conciliatory tone adopted by Shaimiyev in his quest for Tatarstani sovereignty. Thus despite Shaimiyev’s repeated offers to mediate between Russia and Chechnya, the Tatarstan model did not prove to be an acceptable solution for either Moscow or Grozny in 1994.50 The necessity of resolving the Chechen question was given further urgency by the presence of former Chechen Communist Party elites in Moscow, namely the deposed Doku Zavgayev. As a result of the pressure of Zavgayev and other ‘party of war’ voices in the Kremlin, Russian Federation officials began to talk more frequently and openly about the necessity of ‘freeing the Chechen people from the illegitimate and dictatorial rule exercised by Dudayev and his “bandit formations” ’, and to back up these utterances with increased political, economic and military assistance to the Dudayev opposition in Chechnya. This strategy culminated in the formation of a pro-Moscow ‘Chechen Provisional Council’, headed by a Zavgayev protégé, Umar Avturkhanov in the Chechen city of Nadterechnii in June 1994.51 Avturkhanov intimated to Moscow that Chechnya would be amenable to concluding a ‘Tatarstan-type’ treaty concerning the ‘mutual delegation of authorities and powers’ between Russia and Chechnya. However, neither Avturkhanov nor the Chechen Provisional Council had any legitimacy in the republic – Russian journalists found that most Chechens they spoke with about the new Moscowbacked government head had never heard of him.52 Meanwhile, the increasingly unpopular Dudayev continued to sit as acting Chechen president in Grozny.

The first Chechen war: December 1994 to August 199653 Three of the most important factors influencing Yeltsin’s decision to use the full brunt of the military to forcibly bring the ‘renegade republic of Chechnya’ back into the legal, political and economic space of Russia were: first, the spread of Chechen gangsterism, hostage-taking and terrorism to southern Russia, where a series of bus hijackings in summer 1994 unnerved Russian authorities and the

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populace alike;54 second, the failure of a badly-planned ‘Bay of Pigs’-type plan to capture Grozny with the help of anti-Dudayev forces in November 1994;55 and, finally, the (ultimately tragically mistaken) belief among Russian military elites that a full-scale Russian military incursion into Chechnya would be a ‘small and victorious war’.56 Author Anatol Lieven argues that fear of eventual Turkish control of the BakuNovorossiisk pipeline, which runs through Chechnya, also motivated the December 1994 Russian invasion, although historian John Dunlop counters that even in Dudayev’s ‘independent’ Chechnya, Russian and Chechen government officials, and Russian and Chechen mafiya forces, conspired together to make sure that oil deliveries through Chechnya to Novorossiisk continued (albeit at reduced levels), to the mutual enrichment of all parties involved.57 As relations between the Dudayev and Yeltsin regimes turned more acrimonious in 1994, however, it is highly possible that the Russian government sought to shore up its direct control of this valuable pipeline, rather than continue to wheel and deal with the Dudayev regime. Ironically, the entry of nearly 24,000 Russian troops into Chechnya on 11 December 1994, served to do what Dudayev had failed miserably in doing over the past three years – uniting the Chechen people in a common cause. A fullyfledged ‘independent Chechen state’ began to seem both much more necessary and much more possible to the Chechen population when they were faced with the potential loss of all political autonomy and the imposition of a potentiallyharsh regime of occupation in the event of a Russian military victory. The muchreviled Dudayev enjoyed a resurgence in popularity as he became the symbol of a nation which was again facing possible extermination at the hands of its larger neighbour, while both aspects of the Russian government’s two-pronged strategy (to pursue a military victory against the pro-independence and pro-Dudayev forces while simultaneously building support for the pro-Moscow, pro-Zavgayev Chechen Provisional Council), failed utterly.58 Though the Russian military did succeed in killing Dudayev during heavy fighting in April 1996, during the first Chechen war, the previously sharply-divided Chechen people put aside their political and clan differences and came together in an ‘overwhelmingly spontaneous effort’ eventually to defeat the more numerous and better-supplied Russian forces. Ultimately, the Chechens forced a truce agreement, negotiated between Chechen General Aslan Maskhadov and Russian General Alexander Lebed in the Dagestani city of Khasavyurt in August 1996. They later achieved a complete Russian withdrawal from the republic, negotiated by Maskhadov with Russian Prime Minister Viktor Chernomyrdin, in November 1996.59 If the anarchic, clan-based structure of Chechen social society had proved ill-suited to handling the demands of self-government in peacetime, it proved to be singularly well-suited to the demands of fighting a war against the invading Russians on Chechen territory.60 The pathetic quality of all aspects of the Russian military effort and the lack of support for the war among the Russian public also contributed to the eventual Russian loss and withdrawal in the first Chechen war.61

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The second period of Chechen state building: Maskhadov takes a turn (August 1996 to October 1999) The August 1996 Khasavyurt Accords called for the ‘shelving’ of the question of Chechnya’s final political and legal status for five years and were themselves intentionally ambiguous – they only provided that by the end of 2001, Russia and Chechnya were to sign an agreement ‘demarcating the legal parameters of their relationship’.62 For the victorious Chechens, the Khasavyurt Accords were understood as a huge legal capitulation on the part of Russia, in fact tantamount to Russian recognition of Chechen independence. As one author has put it, the fiveyear respite provided for in these accords was interpreted by the Chechens as, ‘a face-saving device allowing the Russians to prepare mentally for Chechnya’s independence’.63 Thus, immediately after the Russian pull-out, the second Chechenled attempt to create a viable form of Chechen sovereign statehood commenced. Unfortunately for the Chechen and Russian civilians living in war-ravaged Chechnya, this interlude of state building would prove no more successful than the first, and would result, tragically, in yet another large-scale Russian military invasion and war. The challenge of building the external and internal aspects of state sovereignty is difficult even in the best of political and economic circumstances, a fact that the examples discussed in the other pieces in this volume attest. However, the catastrophic infrastructural and human damage inflicted on Chechnya during the 1994 to 1996 war (there were over 28,000 civilian deaths in the first Chechen war, while hundreds of thousands of refugees fled to neighbouring republics, and virtually all agricultural and industrial enterprises in the republic were destroyed),64 coupled with the brutalization and ‘general arming’ of society in Chechnya as a result of that war,65 severely complicated the state-building tasks facing the Chechen leadership after the Russian military withdrawal in November 1996 (to say the least). Further handicapping Chechen state-building efforts following the first war with Russia was the almost immediate re-emergence of power struggles between the most powerful Chechen ‘field commanders’ and their armed loyalists, struggles that were to some degree related to the complex clan structure of Chechen society. The one thing uniting the different armed factions competing for power after the first war was their unwavering belief in and commitment to the independence of Chechnya.66 However, even this common goal would not prove enough to hold the extremely weak state and sharply fractured society in Chechnya together over the next three years. Former Soviet Army Colonel Aslan Maskhadov won the internationallysupervised Chechen presidential elections, which were held in January 1997, with nearly 60 per cent of the vote, defeating both acting Chechen President Zelimkhan Yandarbaev, who had held that office since Dudayev’s death, and Shamil Basayev, a popular Chechen field commander who led the infamous assault on the Russian town of Budennovsk in June 1995.67 Early indications were that the various Chechen commanders would try to work together in the interests

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of an independent Chechen state – when over three-hundred Yandarbaev supporters rioted in Grozny following Maskhadov’s announcement that he would be assuming the title and duties of Prime Minister as well as President, Yandarbaev called on them to stop their protests and ‘calmly join forces to help build the independent state of Chechnya’.68 Even deposed Chechen Communist Party Secretary Doku Zavgayev, still living in Moscow, called on the different Chechen armed formations to overcome their allegiances to individual field commanders and to help form a new national army to support the fledging state.69 Whereas all the various armed Chechen factions could agree on the necessity of supporting Chechen independence, translating that desire into a functioning reality on the ground would prove to be an overwhelmingly difficult and expensive task. The new Chechen government would need significant financial aid to rebuild the country’s ravaged infrastructure and re-create the devastated Chechen economy (it is estimated that unemployment in Chechnya after the war was around 80 per cent).70 Thus the Maskhadov regime set out to garner international recognition and humanitarian aid for the new Chechen state, with Maskhadov himself travelling frequently to Turkey, Jordan and Azerbaijan, the countries with the largest Chechen diasporas. While receiving ‘unofficial’ political support and small grants of aid from these countries, nowhere did Maskhadov’s Chechnya gain official diplomatic recognition, not even in the Baltic States where ‘pro-independence and anti-Russian feelings run high’.71 Another sign of the failure of Maskhadov’s Chechnya to gain international recognition is the fact that while his regime issued new Chechen passports to two-hundred top Chechen officials in January 1998, Maskhadov himself travelled internationally as ‘a private citizen’ and on a Russian Federation passport.72 The crushing reality for the Maskhadov administration was that Russia remained the only country that was even remotely willing to provide the type of large-scale reconstruction funds Chechnya needed, while trade and economic links with Russia were the only potential salvation for the suffering Chechen population. It was in the face of this harsh realization that Maskhadov entered into negotiations with Russia in early 1997. While an agreement was signed between Maskhadov and Yeltsin in May 1997 which called for Russia to begin giving reconstruction aid to Chechnya, Maskhadov remained adamant that eventually relations between Russia and Chechnya ‘must be brought to the level of ties enjoyed by sovereign states’, which included ‘diplomatic relations between the two states, [and] the opening of embassies in Moscow and Grozny’.73 Despite its many capitulations after the first Chechen war, the Yeltsin administration still refused to acknowledge Chechnya’s independence, allowing only that eventually Russia might consider a treaty which ‘to a certain extent, will increase the sovereignty of the Chechen Republic’ while retaining ‘a joint economic space, joint defense space and joint aviation space’ between Chechnya and Russia – essentially, a ‘Tatarstan-plus’ deal for Chechnya.74 Further evidence of the distance that remained between Chechnya and Russia was evidenced in June 1998 when Chechnya openly declared its intention to join the United Nations, prompting the Russian Foreign Ministry to respond huffily that Chechnya is ‘in no way entitled’ to UN membership, as it remained ‘only a subject of the Russian Federation’.75

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The period from 1997 to 1999, during which the political and economic situation in Chechnya grew increasingly fractured and desperate, and political relations with Moscow grew increasingly polarized and problematic, bore an uncanny resemblance to the period which precipitated the first Russian invasion of Chechnya in December 1994. As Maskhadov’s regime proved incapable of restoring the Chechen economy or performing any basic state functions, such as the provision of basic social services, economic desperation and dissatisfaction with the Maskhadov regime spread in the republic, aided by the growing restlessness of the different Chechen field commanders (particularly Basayev, Yandarbaev, Salman Raduev and the Jordan-born Emil Khattab) and their supporters, who were suspicious of Maskhadov for his continued relations with Moscow. For its part, Moscow failed to provide much of the economic aid that it had promised Chechnya (which is unsurprising considering the depth of the economic and political crisis in postSoviet Russia). That aid which Moscow did provide was promptly ‘lost’ – surely to Chechen or Russian mafiya structures, or, more likely, to both equally.76 In 1998, in the absence of a functioning formal economy and in the context of a growing struggle for power in Chechnya (in February 1998 almost 10,000 armed Chechen soldiers loyal to the field commander Salman Raduev demonstrated against Maskhadov in central Grozny),77 various clans, militias and mafiya groups (it is difficult to distinguish neatly between these types of social formations in Chechnya during this time) turned to a uniquely horrifying way simultaneously to earn a profit and gain publicity for the pro-independence and anti-Maskhadov cause – kidnappings for ransom. Victims of this burgeoning ‘economy of terrorism’ included Russian Presidential Envoy to Chechnya Valentin Vlasov, in May 1998, as well as several Western aid workers (over seven-hundred people were kidnapped in Chechnya in 1998 alone).78 In the wake of increased crime of all types and intensified military clashes between the Chechen National Security Service loyal to Maskhadov and forces loyal to different field commanders, the Chechen parliament called on the republic’s Security Minister to resign and Maskhadov himself instituted the first of several states of emergency in Chechnya in June 1998.79 In December 1998, in response to the grisly decapitation of four foreign aid workers, Maskhadov moved to call up Chechen reservists and enlist them in a new crackdown on criminal elements among their ethnic brethren – a step that seemed to indicate that Chechnya was on the brink of a large-scale civil war.80 An emblematic sign of the increasingly chaotic and terroristic situation emerging in Chechnya during this time is the fact that the Taliban regime in Afghanistan became the first (and only) state to establish diplomatic relations with Chechnya, in August 1998.81 Another significant development during Maskhadov’s reign concerns the complex role politicized Islam began to play in the Chechen republic. Opposition field commanders in Chechnya had developed strong ties to radical and violence-prone Islamists in Afghanistan, Dagestan and Kosovo, which in turn prompted Maskhadov to try to appropriate the discourse of Islam to legitimate his regime. As one author has put it, Maskhadov believed that by declaring Chechnya to be ‘an Islamic Republic’ (in 1997) and announcing the gradual introduction of

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sharia law he could simultaneously co-opt the platform of his most serious political rivals and ‘bring order to the streets’.82 Yet the actual implementation of sharia law as state law in Chechnya (which had never been part of the Chechen political tradition, where adat, or customary law always took precedence over formal sharia law) never truly took place, leading to further criticism of Maskhadov from the opposition field commanders. The balance of power between Maskhadov and the Islamist field commanders began to tip towards the latter in late 1998 and early 1999, when Maskhadov submitted to a decision of the highest religious court in the country, the Supreme Sharia Court, that he suspend the republic’s parliament, begin to draft an ‘Islamic’ constitution and ‘immediately’ introduce sharia law throughout Chechnya.83 However, Maskhadov refused the court’s request to create a new ‘State Council’, on which his most powerful opponents, the field commanders, would sit and when the rebels went ahead and elected such a council anyway, Maskhadov vowed never to recognize it. The steadily deteriorating political situation and increased levels of violent criminal activity in Chechnya throughout 1999 also exacerbated relations with Russia. The Russian Federation removed all of its personnel from Chechnya in March, after the senior Russian Interior Ministry Officer in the republic, General Gennadi Shpigun, was abducted from Grozny airport by armed gunmen, leading Russian Interior Minister Sergei Stepashin to vow that Russia’s new policy in Chechnya would be to ‘elminate the Chechen bandits who kidnap and kill people’.84 More ominously, starting in summer 1999, Chechen rebel forces stationed near the border with the Russian republic of Dagestan, led by the warlord Shamil Basayev, began to make armed incursions into Russia, ostensibly in the name of creating a broader Islamic republic in the North Caucasus.85 Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin, appointed in August 1999, referring to Chechnya’s inability to stop ‘gangs of international terrorists’ from operating on its territory, began to increase Russian military actions (mostly aerial bombings) on both sides of the Chechen–Dagestani border.86 This potentially explosive situation literally ignited at the end of the summer, when a series of devastating apartment bombings in southern Russia, in Dagestan and in Moscow killed over three-hundred people. The Russian media overwhelmingly blamed the Chechens for these bombings (the question of who actually masterminded them still has not been definitively answered) and in the wake of these tragedies, the Russian populous was swept up into a frenzy of xenophobia and chauvinism aimed at the Chechens.87

The second Chechen war: history never repeats? (October 1999 to June 2000) Buoyed by popular outrage against perceived Chechen terrorism on Russian soil, newly-appointed Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin announced on 30 September 1999 that ‘combat operations’ had commenced once again in Chechnya. On 1 October, one-thousand Russian armoured vehicles entered Chechnya, while by the last day of the millennium, which would also turn out to

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be Boris Yeltsin’s last day in office, there were nearly 100,000 Russian soldiers carrying out daily massive ground, artillery and air strikes in Chechnya. In the wake of this invasion, nearly one-third of the Chechen population, some one-million people, found itself again fleeing war – 200,000 fled to neighbouring Ingushetia alone.88 Russian forces were able to recapture much of northern Chechnya quite easily and in fact raised the flag of the Russian Federation over the city of Gudermes (Chechnya’s second-largest city) on 12 November 1999, and quickly began setting up pro-Moscow local administrations across northern Chechnya.89 Grozny itself finally fell to Russian troops in February 2000, but only after a brutal campaign in which, according to one correspondent on the scene, ‘virtually every building in the city was gunned and every tree scorched’. It would be years, he continued, before the ‘uninhabitable’ city would be able to ‘restore services of any magnitude’.90 According to Russian top brass, the military phase of the war was largely over by summer 2000, the Russian forces having driven the Chechen fighters back into the far reaches of the Caucasus mountains. However, the over-80,000 Russian troops that remain in Chechnya are still subject to almost daily attacks from Chechen fighters, many of whom are armed with weapons supplied to them by desperate and disillusioned Russian officers and soldiers (the most recent and most damaging Chechen attack of note came in August 2002 when a Russian Mi-26 helicopter carrying 191 soldiers was shot down by Chechen rebels using a Russian-issue Igla missile). Meanwhile, Moscow has stopped talking about a firm date for pulling ‘excessive’ Russian troops out of Chechnya, and in fact recently announced that a new division of special-forces troops under the authority of the Russian Ministry of the Interior was being deployed to supplement those Russian forces currently in Chechnya.91 It is by no means clear that Russia has actually ‘won’ the second Chechen war, despite Moscow’s repeated claims that it has done so.92 Frequent Chechen guerrilla attacks weaken Moscow’s claim that they are in control in the republic, while the brutal ‘cleansing’ operations the Russian military is using to find suspected Chechen rebel fighters are widely criticized by Chechen civilians and the international human rights community. And yet, despite the spectre of a long, drawn out and expensive guerilla war with the Chechen rebels, the Putin administration is firmly committed to rebuilding some type of functioning state administration in Chechnya and to reintegrating Chechnya into Russia’s legal and economic space.93 As Russian Defence Minister Igor Sergeyev stated bluntly, soon after the incursion of Russian troops into Chechnya in October 1999, ‘We have come to never go away.’94

The third period of Chechen state building: ‘normal life’ returns? ( June 2000 to the present) As the Russian military struggles to hold the line against guerilla warfare in Chechnya, and against terrorist attacks on Russian civilians, political solutions that might bring a lasting peace to the region continue to elude representatives of both sides. Russia’s long-term goals in Chechnya are twofold. First, the Putin

132 Katherine Graney administration has vowed to restore some semblance of ‘normal life’ in the Chechen republic, a task which includes (in part): establishing a functional and legitimate government apparatus in Chechnya; fostering the economic, infrastructural and social rehabilitation of Chechnya; facilitating the return of the hundreds of thousands of Chechen refugees who have fled the fighting in the republic over the past decade; and neutralizing the estimated 2,000–3,000 remaining Chechen guerilla fighters, who continue to be supported by Islamist groups and the Chechen diaspora and who are well ensconced in Chechnya’s mountainous terrain.95 Rebuilding the virtually non-existent Chechen state in a region that is suffering from the cumulative effects of a decade of utter economic dysfunction, intense political instability and brutal military engagement, seems an impossible task for Moscow.96 Nevertheless Putin administration officials claim that they have already made significant progress in returning ‘normal life’ to Chechnya, claims that are often contradicted by foreign news correspondents reporting from Chechnya and by those few Chechen refugees who have returned to their homeland. The Putin administration has committed itself to re-integrating Chechnya fully into Russia’s legal, political and economic space. Since declaring a military victory in the second Chechen war, Russian officials have stoutly refused to entertain the possibility of Chechen independence. According to a September 2002 report, authored in part by the Institute of Ethnology of the Russian Academy of Sciences, in the wake of the second Chechen war most elements of the Chechen opposition have ‘implicitly’ recognized that they lack the ability to achieve full independence from Russia using military means – this is, in fact, why Chechen separatists have increased their use of terrorist methods to obtain their goal.97 Thus a political stalemate currently exists in Chechnya that parallels the military stalemate – since the end of the second Chechen war there have not been any serious attempts to negotiate a final political settlement to the conflict or to determine the final political and legal status of Chechnya, despite which the Russian government has continued its efforts to bring the republic back under its political control. In June 2000, President Putin issued a decree creating a new pro-Moscow government in Chechnya headed by Chechen Mufti Akhmed Kadyrov, who has been described as ‘the most charismatic of Kremlin loyalists in Chechnya’.98 Kadyrov immediately called on Chechen president-in-hiding Aslan Maskhadov to give up his post and immigrate to Malaysia (where Maskhadov’s son lives), a request Maskhadov categorically rejected.99 In August 2000, the new proMoscow government in Chechnya took an important step towards fostering Chechnya’s re-integration into Russia’s legal and political system when it held new elections for the republic’s vacant seat in the Russian Duma; the seat was won by an ethnic Chechen named Aslambek Aslakhanov, who was formerly a general in the military wing of the Soviet Ministry of Internal Affairs.100 Other attempts to re-integrate Chechnya into Russia have not been so successful. For example, as a sign of protest against continued Russian military mistreatment of Chechen civilians during ‘cleansing operations’, Akhmed Zavgayev, the Russian-appointed head of administration in the Nadterechnyi region of Chechnya, has refused

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Moscow’s order that he take his place as Chechnya’s appointed representative to the upper house of the Russian parliament, the Federation Council.101 To facilitate the economic and social reconstruction of Chechnya, in November 2000 Putin appointed a special Minister for the Reconstruction of Chechnya, and promised close to $1 billion in aid for Chechnya in 2001 and 2002.102 However, Putin’s new team has proven unable to disperse or to keep track of monies allocated for the rebuilding of Chechnya any more successfully than Yeltsin’s adminstration. In a September 2002 interview Usman Masayev, the Deputy Chief of Administration for Investment and Economic Development in the pro-Moscow Chechen government of Akhmed Kadyrov, noted angrily that: The budget for Chechnya in 2002 is 4.5 billion rubles and it should be coming from Moscow. But this isn’t happening. Officially, only 14 per cent of the budgeted funds earmarked for the restoration of the Chechen economy were spent over the first seven months of this year. But even this 14 per cent exists only on paper . . . In fact, and I stand behind these words – not a single ruble has to date been spent. Last year, $500 million disappeared into thin air – this year they will steal even more – $700 million.103 Russian state-building efforts in Chechnya are also hampered by the lack of coordination between and competition among the various representatives of the Russian government in Chechnya. For example, in an effort to re-inforce Russian control over the processes of political and economic development in Chechnya, in January 2001 Putin appointed Stanislav Il’yasov, an ethnic Russian, to be the ‘Prime Minister’ in Chechnya, thus marginalizing Akhmed Kadyrov, who is the putative head of administration in Chechnya. The fracturing of political authority in Chechnya led one frustrated member of Kadyrov’s administration to exclaim that ‘There are way too many bosses in charge of Chechnya!’104 Furthermore, there are severe differences of opinion about how to achieve Russian goals in Chechnya between the Russian military and FSB on the one hand, who favour a ‘force-based’ approach, and Putin-appointed political officials on the other hand, who favour a lighter touch.105 Despite these problems and despite the continued underlying instability caused by persistent Chechen guerilla attacks on Russian military and government officials stationed in Chechnya (in April 2001 alone four prominent members of the pro-Russia government in Chechnya were assassinated), there are other signs which suggest Moscow may be making some small progress towards its twin goals of making Chechnya a functional state that is politically and economically integrated into the Russian Federation. One of Moscow’s most notable achievements is that a daily train service from Grozny to Moscow resumed in April 2001. Moscow has also shipped over 400,000 Russian Federation passports to Chechnya, and claims to have already issued 100,000 of them – a significant step aimed both at asserting Russia’s symbolic control over and facilitating its actual political control over Chechnya.106 Another sign of normalcy is that the October 2002 Russian Federation census, the first of the post-Soviet era, was carried out in

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Chechnya along with the rest of the country, although there are severe doubts about the resultant numbers, which appear to have been highly inflated with ‘dead souls’ in order to hide the fact that tens of thousands of Chechen civilians have died over the past decade (some estimate as many as 80,000), while perhaps hundreds of thousands of Chechens remain displaced across its borders.107 The Russian-controlled government of Chechnya insists that displaced persons are returning to the republic, though Putin’s assertions that life in Grozny and Chechnya as a whole is ‘returning to normal’ must be treated with some skepticism.108 In fact, only small numbers of refugees have been resettled in Chechnya, while those who have come back complain that the homes, food and aid that were promised to them upon return never materialized. Interviews with Chechen refugees indicate that few desire to return to their homeland while it still exists under what is basically a Russian-imposed state of martial law. As one Chechen refugee living in the Pankisi Gorge region of Georgia told respected Russian journalist Anna Politkovskaya, he and his family would ‘never go home while the Russians are there’ and would ‘prefer to die of hunger than die in a Russian cleansing operation’.109 The refugee problem obviously complicates Russian efforts to normalize the status of Chechnya. The situation is in fact so dire that it has led the Chechen Head of Administration, Akhmed Kadyrov, to announce that it is virtually ‘impossible’ to hold any type of republic-wide elections in Chechnya, or any type of referendum on the republic’s final political status, while so many Chechens are still either in hiding in the mountains or living as displaced persons in neighbouring republics.110

Conclusions: Chechnya in the post-11 September 2001 world For two distinct periods in the 1990s, the republic of Chechnya enjoyed de facto independence and statehood: the first as a result of the political and legal confusion which plagued the Russian Federation immediately after the collapse of the Soviet Union, and the second after defeating Russia militarily in 1996 in the first Chechen war. However, the Chechen republican leadership proved unable to utilize either of these opportunities, never effectively creating or wielding either external or internal sovereignty by failing to garner the international support and recognition necessary for the former or to provide the effective governance which is the hallmark of the latter. Furthermore, the violent and criminal consequences of the failures of governance in Chechnya during both periods of de facto sovereignty were not contained within the republic, but instead spread to other parts of Russia, twice provoking a violent response from the Russian government in Moscow. More ominously, by the mid-1990s, the Chechen separatist movement had become dangerously intertwined with international Islamic extremism, a development that has obscured the original causes of the conflict in Chechnya and made finding a political resolution to the conflict much more difficult, particularly after the events of 11 September 2001 (9/11). After the 9/11 attacks on the United States, President Putin found international audiences (particularly in Washington) to be more receptive of his

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long-standing claim that Chechen rebels are al-Qaeda-sponsored Islamic terrorists rather than ethno-nationalist, state-seeking separatists. The October 2002 Chechen hostage drama in Moscow gave even more credence to Russia’s assertion that the Chechen separatist cause had been ‘hijacked’ by Islamicinspired, internationally-funded, mujahadeen terrorists. As one European diplomat in Moscow stated soon after the hostage drama ended: ‘We’ll now be more prepared to acknowledge that the Chechens might be part of a larger international conspiracy, though we’ll continue to push Russia towards a political solution in Chechnya.’111 Yet while the October 2002 Moscow hostage tragedy refocused the world’s attention on the Chechen question, leading many international observers to call on Russia to restart stalled efforts to find a political resolution to the problem,112 support for such talks among officials in the Putin administration remained low. In fact, in the wake of the shocking attack in Russia’s capital city, Putin promised to institute a ‘large-scale’ military campaign to eradicate Chechen terrorists both in Chechnya and Moscow.113 Moscow also reiterated its staunch opposition to Chechen independence; indeed, the October 2002 hostage crisis seems to have weakened support for the Chechen cause even among such liberal members of the Russian Duma as Boris Nemtsov, who noted that, given that Chechen president-in-exile Maskhadov appears to have sanctioned the acts of the terrorists in Moscow, peace negotiations with the Chechen separatists were ‘pointless’.114 That Maskhadov has denied involvement and offered to hold ‘unconditional talks’ with Russia about a peace settlement has made no difference – as Russia’s leading democratic voice, Grigory Yavlinsky, baldly stated when speaking of the October 2002 events in Moscow, ‘This is a political earthquake that destroys the fragile hope for peace talks in Chechnya.’115 Perhaps surprisingly, however, the Putin regime has not responded to the increase in both the scale and number of Chechen terrorist attacks with an intense military escalation in the republic. Instead, while Russia maintains a heavy military presence in Chechnya, and while the brutal Russian ‘cleansing’ operations against Chechen citizens suspected of aiding the separatists go on, the Putin administration has intensified its efforts to impose a unilateral, Russian-crafted political solution to the conflict in the republic. In March 2003, Moscow presented Chechen citizens with a draft constitution that closely resembled those of Russia’s other national republics (especially Tatarstan), and held a referendum asking voters to endorse both the draft constitution and a timetable for holding new republican-level presidential and parliamentary elections in Chechnya.116 The referendum was conducted peacefully, with the Chechen Central Election Commission reporting the astonishing figure of 89.48 per cent voter turnout and over 95 per cent affirmative responses to both the constitutional and election questions.117 Human rights and other opposition groups in Chechnya have condemned these results, arguing that given the state of chaos and disarray in Chechnya, such high levels voter turnout are nigh impossible.118 Despite continued misgivings about the referendum’s ‘freeness and fairness’, Putin himself has triumphantly described the referendum as ‘solving the last problem associated with Russia’s

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territorial integrity’, while the US ambassador to Russia and other international organizations have endorsed the referendum as potentially ‘laying the basis for stability’ in Chechnya.119 Not everyone is quite so sanguine about the potential of yet another ‘topdown’, Russian-imposed political solution to resolve the long-festering conflict in Chechnya. As Moscow-based journalist Thomas de Waal points out, Russia cannot just ‘declare’ Chechnya to be an ‘integral part of Russia’ and attempt to legitimate that declaration through a forced referendum, when thousands of Chechens have died in two wars over the past decade to defend the cause of an independent Chechnya.120 His sentiments are echoed by Chechen leader Ruslan Khasbulatov, who wagers that, given the total marginalization of the Maskhadov government and the other separatists from this imposed Russian settlement, coupled with the extreme corruption and incompetence of the Russian bureaucracy in Chechnya, Russia will be unable to carry through its promise to rebuild Chechnya politically and economically, and thus, ‘two months from now, seeing that nothing has changed, they [the Chechen people] will curse the referendum and turn their backs on the [Russian] Federal government permanently’.121 Indeed, while the current Chechen administration head, Kadyrov, fully endorses the new Russian constitution and the planned elections, it is clear that severe opposition to both Kadyrov and the new Russian plan exists within the republic. Kadyrov himself, already the target of one attempted assassination by suicide bombing in December 2002, narrowly survived a second attempt on his life six weeks after the referendum, on 14 March 2003, just two days after another Chechen suicide bomber killed ten Russian FSB agents and forty other Russians at a government compound in Znamenskoe in northern Chechnya. Further underscoring the deep divisions that remain in Chechen society regarding the future status of that territory and its relationship with Russia is that fact that, in the same week that Putin confidently unveiled his new constitutional blueprint for reintegrating Chechnya into Russia, Ilyas Akhmadov, the foreign minister of Chechen president-in-exile Aslan Maskhadov’s government, presented an alternative Chechen peace plan in Washington DC that called for full political independence for Chechnya, the occupation of the country by UN peacekeepers (as in Kosovo and East Timor), and the establishment of a war-crimes tribunal in Chechnya.122 How will these two seemingly irreconcilable visions of Chechnya’s future – integral part of the Russian Federation or independent, UN-protected state – be reconciled? Having learned from the loss in the first Chechen war, and having in the interim experienced the pain of Chechen-inflicted terrorism, the Russian government under Putin now possesses a renewed sense of national purpose and national identity, one that firmly locates Chechnya as a constituent part of the Russian Federation and is backed up by the legal weight of the March 2003 referendum in Chechnya. Considering the reluctance of the international community to recognize secessionist movements in general and to criticize Russia’s actions in Chechnya in particular,123 the growing identification of Chechen separatism with international Islamic extremist and terrorist movements, the

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weakness and illegitimacy of the Maskhadov government-in-exile, and the sheer scale of the near total rebuilding project facing Chechnya, it seems unlikely that the Chechens will ever either earn militarily or be given politically a third chance to explore independence or to exercise de facto sovereignty under the umbrella of UN peacekeepers anytime soon. Rather, while there will almost certainly be longterm, low-intensity guerilla war and civil strife in Chechnya, like that which plagued Lebanon in the 1980s and which currently characterizes the Israeli–Palestinian conflict, at this point it seems likely that Chechnya’s near future will consist of some form of political association with the Russian Federation. For the suffering citizens of both Chechnya and Russia, let us hope that whatever final legal form that relationship takes, it leads to a more peaceful and humane existence in the next decade.

Notes 1 Chechnya Weekly, 2, 15 (13 April 2001). (On-line report of the Jamestown Foundation, available at www.chechnya.jamestown.org). 2 For example, in April 2001 Maskhadov issued a two-month ultimatum to Russian troops to withdraw from Chechen territory, and warned that if they did not the rebels would recommence ‘large-scale military operations for the withdrawal of the Russian occupiers’. See Chechnya Weekly, 2, 18 (8 May 2001). Other reports suggest that in July 2002, frustrated by the failure of Chechen guerrillas to dislodge Russian troops, and emboldened by the success of the 9/11 attacks in the United States, Maskhadov secretly met with his former rival, warlord Shamil Basayev, and that the two resolved to increase the number and intensity of Chechen attacks on Russian military and civilian targets. See Washington Post, 28 October 2002. 3 Anatol Lieven, Chechnya: Tombstone of Russian Power (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998), p. 303. 4 John B. Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya: Roots of a Separatist Conflict (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 1–3; Joanna Nichols, ‘Who are the Chechens?’, University of California, Berkeley Caucasus and Central Asian Program Occasional Paper, 1995. 5 See Lieven, Chechnya, p. 305. 6 See Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, p. 7. 7 Ibid., p. 7. 8 Ibid., p. 14. 9 Ibid., p. 24. See also Lieven, Chechnya, pp. 308–14 for a broader discussion of the Caucasian Wars. For a very detailed account of the Caucasian Wars, see Moshe Gammer, Muslim Resistance to the Tsar: Shamil and the Conquest of Chechnia and Daghestan (London: Frank Cass, 1994). 10 See Lieven Chechnya, p. 316. Dunlop puts the total number of Chechen deportees and emigrants to Turkey during the years following the Chechen war at 100,000, leaving less than 250,000 Chechens in the North Caucasus by the time of the next imperial census of 1897. See Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, p. 30. 11 See Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, pp. 38–40. 12 This is in contrast to the Georgian, Azerbaijani and Armenian republics, which were made ‘union republics’ (Soviet Socialist Republics – SSRs) that theoretically shared the same level of political and economic rights as Russia itself, and theoretically had the right to secede from the Soviet Union. The ASSRs enjoyed no such rights and were subordinate to the Russian Republic. There were 21 such ASSRs (Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republics) within the composition of the Russian Republic.

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13 See Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, p. 68. 14 Ibid., pp. 68–71. For more on the Chechen deportations, see Robert Conquest, Stalin: Breaker of Nations (New York: Viking, 1991) and Alexander M. Nekrich, The Punished Peoples (New York: W.W. Norton, 1978). 15 See Nekrich, The Punished Peoples, p. 150. 16 See Lieven , Chechnya, p. 321; Nekrich, The Punished Peoples, pp. 146–50. 17 See Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, pp. 75–7; Nekrich, The Punished Peoples, pp. 134–6 and pp. 146–7. 18 See Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, p. 77. 19 See Nekrich, The Punished Peoples, p. 138. 20 See Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, p. 79. 21 See Lieven, Chechnya, p. 323. 22 See the Natsional’nyi Sostav Naseleniya SSSR [National Composition of the Population of the USSR], (Moscow: Financy I Statistika’, 1991), p. 40. 23 In fact, some 10,000 ethnic Russians left the republic immediately upon the return of the Chechen and Ingush exiles, while sporadic clashes between the returnees and the local Russian population continued throughout the late 1950s and early 1960s. See Nekrich, The Punished Peoples, pp. 150–8. The next great wave of Russian out-migration from the region came in the wake of the ‘Dudayev revolution’, when over 60,000 Russians left Chechnya in 1992 alone. See Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, p. 126. 24 See Lieven, Chechnya, p. 323. 25 Yeltsin’s use of the language of the right to self-determination and sovereignty during his ‘campaign’ to become the first Russian president parallels the Bolsheviks’ use of similar language to garner support against the Whites during the Civil War years. See John Dunlop, The Rise of Russia and the Fall of the Soviet Empire (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), pp. 62–5. 26 Gail Lapidus, ‘Contested Sovereignty: the Tragedy of Chechnya’, International Security, 23, 1 (Summer 1998), p. 12; Anatoly Isaenko and Peter Petschauer, ‘A Failure that Transformed Russia; the 1991–94 Democratic State-Building Experiment in Chechnya’, International Social Science Review, 75, 1/2 (2000), p. 6. 27 See Lieven, Chechnya, pp. 60–2. John Dunlop argues that there ‘quite clearly was an element of social revolution’ in these events, and that Dudayev and the Chechen National Congress were supported by large numbers of Chechens, both in Grozny, where the main events transpired, and in the more rural areas, where some were even inspired to come to Grozny to participate. See Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, p. 102. 28 Isaenko and Petschauer, ‘A Failure that Transformed Russia’, p. 7; see also Lapidus, ‘Contested Sovereignty’, p. 15. 29 See Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, pp. 104–5. 30 Rfe/Rl Newsline, 21 April 1998. 31 Gulnaz Sharafutdinova, ‘Chechnya Versus Tatarstan: Understanding Ethnopolitics in Post-Communist Russia’, Problems of Post-Communism, 47, 2 (March–April 2000), p. 18. 32 See Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, p. 126. 33 Ibid., p. 127. 34 Fiona Hill, Russia’s Tinderbox: Conflict in the North Caucasus and its Implications for the Future of the Russian Federation (Cambridge: Harvard University Strengthening Democratic Institutions Project, September 1995); Lieven, Chechnya, pp. 64–84. 35 See Isaenko and Petschauer, ‘A Failure that Transformed Russia’, p. 8. 36 See Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, p. 96. 37 See Lapidus, ‘Contested Sovereignty’, pp. 28–31. 38 See Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, p. 126; Sharafutdinova, ‘Chechnya Versus Tatarstan’, pp. 15–16. 39 Of the 36,000 voters who were able to participate in the 3 June referendum on Dudayev’s presidency (which was severely impeded by the interference of the Dudayev regime), 98 per cent voted against Dudayev. See Hill, Russia’s Tinderbox, p. 85.

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40 Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, p. 150; Isaenko and Petschauer, ‘A Failure that Transformed Russia’, p. 11. 41 See Hill, Russia’s Tinderbox, p. 85. 42 See Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, p. 153; Lapidus, ‘Contested Sovereignty’, p. 16. 43 See Isaenko and Petschauer, ‘A Failure that Transformed Russia’, p. 12. 44 For comparisons of the Tatarstani case with the Chechen case, see Ann Robertson, ‘Negotiating Autonomy for Tatarstan and Chechnya’, in Terry D. Clark and Daniel R. Kempton (eds), Unity or Separation: Center–Periphery Relations in the Former Soviet Union (Westport: CT, Praeger Publishers, 2001), pp. 99–142. 45 The text of the treaty is available in English (and Russian) in Suverennyi Tatarstan: Sovereign Tatarstan (Moscow: INSAN Publishers, 1997), pp. 40–6. 46 See Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, p. 187. 47 Ibid., p. 218. 48 Ibid., p. 184. Also see Sharafutdinova, ‘Chechnya Versus Russia’, p. 19. 49 See Lieven, Chechnya, p. 68. 50 See Sharafutdinova, ‘Chechnya Versus Russia’, p. 20. 51 See Lapidus, ‘Contested Sovereignty’, p. 18; Lieven, Chechnya, p. 80. 52 See Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, p. 156. 53 The best account of the first Chechen war remains Lieven’s Chechnya. 54 See Lieven, Chechnya, p. 86. 55 For an insightful discussion of this failed invasion, see Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, pp. 204–6. 56 See Lapidus, ‘Contested Sovereignty’, 1998, p. 20. 57 See Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, pp. 130–1; Lieven, Chechnya, pp. 85–6. As Sergei Stepashin, head of the Russian successor to the KGB, noted at the time, ‘corruption originating from Dudayev’s regime reached ministerial levels in Moscow [and] manipulation of oil export quotas was one mechanism used for profiteering’, see Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, p. 130. 58 See Lapidus, ‘Contested Sovereignty’, p. 22. 59 For detailed and useful accounts of the various stages of the ‘endgame’ of the first Chechen war, see Charles Blandy, Chechen Status – Wide Differences Remain (Conflict Studies Research Centre: UK Ministry of Defence Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, 1998), and Diane Curran, Fiona Hill and Elena Kostritsyna, The Search for Peace in Chechnya: A Sourcebook 1994–1996 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Strengthening Democratic Institutions Project, 1997). 60 Russian analyst Sergei Artuyunov has described Chechen society as an example of a ‘military democracy’. See Lieven, Chechnya, p. 329 and Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya, pp. 211–12 for discussions of this theory. 61 Again, one can do no better than to consult Lieven (ch. 5 and 8) for a brilliant discussion of Russia’s military failure in the first Chechen war. 62 See Blandy, Chechen Status, p. 52. 63 Edward Walker, ‘Constitutional Obstacles to Peace in Chechnya’, East European Constitutional Review, 6, 1 (Winter 1997), available at www.socrates.berkeley.edu/~bsp/ caucasus/articles.html 64 On deaths and refugee totals for the first Chechen war see Lapidus, ‘Contested Sovereignty’, p. 6, fn. 3. On infrastructure, see Blandy, Chechen Status, p. 32. 65 See Sharafutdinova, ‘Chechnya Versus Tatarstan’, p. 18. 66 See Blandy, Chechen Status, pp. 21 and 41. 67 See Curran, Hill and Kostritsyna, The Search for Peace in Chechnya, pp. 61, 73–9. 68 Ibid., p. 63. 69 Ibid., p. 63. 70 See Blandy, Chechen Status, p. 33. 71 Ibid., pp. 39–40. 72 Rfe/Rl Newsline, 5 January 1998, 6 March 1998.

140 73 74 75 76

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Katherine Graney See Blandy, Chechen Status, pp. 6–7. Ibid., pp. 8–9. Rfe/Rl Newsline, 30 June 1998. For example, when Yeltsin and Maskhadov met in Moscow in August 1997, Yeltsin claimed that the Russian state had transferred 800-billion roubles to Chechnya, while Maskhadov claimed that only 120-billion roubles had actually made it into the National Bank of Chechnya, leading Yeltsin to exclaim: ‘This money, the devil knows where it has gone !’ See Blandy, Chechen Status, pp. 8–9. Rfe/Rl Newsline, 23 February 1998. Rfe/Rl Russian Federation Report, 1 July 1999. By one estimate, 1,600 people were kidnapped in Chechnya between 1996 and 1999. Once captured, hostages would often be bought and sold between rival Chechen clans and militias. See the article by Robert Bruce Ware in the L.A. Times, 8 November 1999. Rfe/Rl Newsline, 24 June 1998. Ibid., 14 December 1998. Ibid., 24 August 1998. Edward Walker, ‘Islam in Chechnya’, Contemporary Caucasus Newsletter (Autumn 1998), p. 5. Available at www.socrates.berkeley.edu/~bsp/caucasus/articles.html Rfe/Rl Newsline, 11 January 1999 and 3 February 1999. Ibid., 31 May 1999. Ibid., 12 August 1999. Ibid., 16 August 1999. In a poll conducted at the end of September 1999, 75 per cent of Russian citizens supported the expulsion of all Chechens from Moscow and other parts of Russia and 75 per cent approved of Russian military actions against Chechen ‘terrorists’. See Rfe/Rl Newsline, 29 September 1999. Independent (UK), 3 November 1999; Rfe/Rl Newsline, 30 December 1999. Rfe/Rl Russian Federation Report, 22 November 1999. Washington Post, 20 February 2000. Rfe/Rl Newsline, 9 March 2001 and 14 March 2001. Also see Chechnya Weekly, 3, 27 (23 September 2002). As Terence Taylor from the International Institute of Strategic Studies in London has said: ‘The war in Chechnya is by no means over. The Russians are really strapped to keep a lid on what is happening there. They are in there, and you can’t see an end to the guerrilla war. It may even get worse as the Russians struggle.’ See the Christian Science Monitor, 4 December 2000. Also see the L.A. Times, 30 December 2000. In fact, Putin has taken recently to comparing the Chechen rebels to the Baltic ‘forest brethren’ who led a decade-long campaign of resistance against Soviet occupation after the Second World War, insinuating that Russia was willing to wait out the guerilla threat for a significant period of time. See Chechnya Weekly, 2, 13 (27 March 2001). Moscow Times, 29 October 2000. Chechnya Weekly, 3, 29, 7 October 2002. For an inventory of Russian human-rights abuses (and to a lesser extent, Chechen human-rights abuses) during the second Chechen war, see the excerpts from Ruslan Khasbulatov’s report on Chechnya, which were published in Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 29 December 2000. In English, see the special reports about and on-going coverage of Chechnya from Human Rights Watch at www.humanrightswatch.org/Europe/Russia.php and Doctors Without Borders at www.doctorswithoutborders.org/news/Russia.shtml For a discussion of the report, entitled ‘The Way to Peace in Chechnya’, see Chechnya Weekly, 3, 29 (7 October 2002). New York Times, 9 June 2000; East–West Institute Russian Regional Report, 5, 23 (14 June 2000). BBC News On-line, 14 August 2000.

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100 Ibid., 20 August 2000; New York Times, 22 October 2000. However, Kadyrov’s claims that the situation in Chechnya was ‘normalizing’ were belied by the fact that he was under constant threat of assassination, having in fact lost six bodyguards to assassination attempts between 1998 and 2000. BBC News On-line, 6 November 2000. 101 Rfe/Rl Newsline, 22 December 2000. 102 Ibid., 29 November 2000 and 20 April 2001. 103 Chechnya Weekly, 3, 25, (9 September 2002). 104 Ibid., 3, 29 (7 October 2002). 105 Ibid., 3, 31 (21 October 2002). 106 Moscow Times, 25 April 2001. 107 Chechnya Weekly, 3, 31 (21 October 2002). 108 New York Times, 26 April 2001. 109 Chechnya Weekly, 3, 31 (21 October 2002). 110 Rfe/Rl Newsline, 2 April 2001. 111 Wall Street Journal, 28 October 2002. 112 For example, editorials in the New York Times (28 October 2002) and the Wall Street Journal (28 October 2002) called on Russia to find a political solution to the crisis in Chechnya. Even before the hostage drama, high-profile figures such as former US National Security Advisor Zbigniew Brzezinski had called on Russia to find a political solution. The Council of Europe Chechen Committee also continues to press Russia to find a political solution. See Washington Post, 21 June 2002. 113 Izvestiya, 27 October 2002. 114 Wall Street Journal, 28 October 2002. 115 Ibid. 116 According to the draft document, Chechnya would be a ‘constituent part’ of the Russian Federation, but would also retain ‘sovereignty’, defined as ‘all those powers (legal, executive and judicial) which the Russian Federation does not reserve for itself ’. The draft constitution would also allow Chechnya to define its own citizenship norms. As Sergei Markedonov points out, these are precisely the types of formulations that the Kremlin has tried to remove from the constitutions of other republics such as Tatarstan. Thus either this signals that the Putin administration is retreating from its attacks on regional sovereignty in Russia or that it intends eventually to ‘water down’ Chechen sovereignty in the same way that it has tried to roll back other republics’ gains in autonomy. Either way, Chechen political elites, who know well the Kremlin’s history of negotiations with the other republics, like Tatarstan, are sure to be sceptical of the legal norms laid out in the new draft constitution. See East–West Institute Russian Regional Report, 8, 7 (7 May 2003). 117 See Moscow-based news agency INTERFAX, 26 March 2003, at www.interfax.com 118 See ‘Chechnya’s Referendum: the Vote of Dead Souls’, The Economist, 29 March– 4 April 2003 and ‘Chechnya: Rights Groups Dispute Kremlin Claim That New Constitution Sets Foundation for Peace’, Rfe/Rl Newsline, 27 March 2003. 119 See Moscow-based news agency Prime-TASS, 24 March 2003 at www.prime-tass.com and INTERFAX, 26 March 2003. 120 ‘Chechen Referendum is Road to Nowhere’, Thomas de Waal, Moscow Times, 21 March 2003. 121 See the Andrei Riskin interview with Ruslan Khasbulatov in Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 10 April 2003. 122 The text of this peace plan can be found online at www.peaceinchechnya.org/ peaceplans.htm, which is the website of the American Committee for Peace in Chechnya, the group founded by Zbigniew Brzezinski and Alexander Haig. 123 In April 2003, the UN Human Rights Commission refused, for the second year in a row, to pass a resolution condemning Russia for its part in the ongoing war in Chechnya. See ‘Chechnya: UN Declines to Censure Russia Over Rights Abuses’, Gregory Feifer, Rfe/Rl Newsline, 16 April 2003.

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References Blandy, C., Chechen Status – Wide Differences Remain (Conflict Studies Research Centre: UK Ministry of Defence Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, 1998). Conquest, R., Stalin: Breaker of Nations (New York: Viking, 1991). Curran, D., Hill, F. and Kostritsyna, E. The Search for Peace in Chechnya: a Sourcebook 1994–1996 (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Strengthening Democratic Institutions Project, 1997). De Waal, T., ‘Chechen Referendum is Road to Nowhere’, Moscow Times, 21 March 2003. Dunlop, J., The Rise of Russia and the Fall of the Soviet Empire (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993). Dunlop, J., Russia Confronts Chechnya: Roots of a Separatist Conflict (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). Feifer, G., ‘Chechnya: UN Declines to Censure Russia Over Rights Abuses’, Rfe/Rl Newsline, 16 April 2003. Gammer, M., Muslim Resistance to the Tsar: Shamil and the Conquest of Chechnia and Daghestan (London: Frank Cass, 1994). Hill, F., Russia’s Tinderbox: Conflict in the North Caucasus and its Implications for the Future of the Russian Federation (Cambridge: Harvard University Strengthening Democratic Institutions Project, 1995). Isaenko, A. and Petschauer, P., ‘A Failure that Transformed Russia; the 1991–94 Democratic State-Building Experiment in Chechnya’, International Social Science Review, 75, 1/2, (2000), pp. 1–32. Lapidus, G., ‘Contested Sovereignty: the Tragedy of Chechnya’, International Security, 23, 1 (Summer 1998), pp. 5–49. Lieven, A., Chechnya: Tombstone of Russian Power (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998). Natsional’nyi Sostav Naseleniya SSSR [National Composition of the Population of the USSR] (Moscow: Financy I Statistika’, 1991). Nekrich, A., The Punished Peoples (New York: W.W. Norton, 1978). Nichols, J., ‘Who are the Chechens?’, University of California-Berkeley Caucasus and Central Asian Program Occasional Paper, 1995. Robertson, A., ‘Negotiating Autonomy for Tatarstan and Chechnya’, in Terry D. Clark and Daniel R. Kempton (eds), Unity or Separation: Center–Periphery Relations in the Former Soviet Union (Westport, CT: Praeger Publishers, 2001), pp. 99–142. Sharafutdinova, G., ‘Chechnya Versus Tatarstan: Understanding Ethnopolitics in PostCommunist Russia’, Problems of Post-Communism, 47, 2 (March–April 2000), pp. 13–22. Suverennyi Tatarstan: Sovereign Tatarstan (Moscow: INSAN Publishers, 1997). Walker, E., ‘Constitutional Obstacles to Peace in Chechnya’, East European Constitutional Review, 6, 1 (Winter 1997), available at www.socrates.berkeley.edu/~bsp/caucasus/articles.html Walker, E. ‘Islam in Chechnya’, Contemporary Caucasus Newsletter (Autumn 1998), available at www.socrates.berkeley.edu/~bsp/caucasus/articles.html

7

The Abkhazians A national minority in their own homeland Edward Mihalkanin

On 18 March 1989 an Abkhazian national assembly was held in the village of Lykhny under the leadership of a group calling itself the National Forum of Abkhazia – Ajdgylara in the Abkhazian language.1 The assembly, numbering between 30,000 and 37,000 people, passed a resolution, the Lykhny Declaration, asking the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU), the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet and Council of Ministers of the USSR to restore Abkhazia’s status as a Union Republic.2 On 24 March 1989 an edited version of the Declaration was printed in all Abkhazian and Russian newspapers. Sadly, as had happened too many times before, the expression of Abkhazian national sentiments sparked an equally strong Georgian response. Around 12,000 Georgians held their first rally to protest the Declaration on 25 March in Gali, and this was followed by other rallies in Sukhumi, Leselidze and other towns in Abkhazia and Georgia.3 The increasing tension and competing national demonstration in Abkhaza led to a multi-day rally by 100,000 Georgians in Lenin Square, in front of the Government House, in Tbilisi, the capital of the Georgian SSR.4 Soviet Interior troops, under the command of General Rudionov, attacked the rally with shovels and poison gas, killing twenty and injuring hundreds. Although Secretary General Mikhail Gorbachev disassociated himself from that Politburo decision and the top party and government officials in Georgia were removed from office, the violence was a turning point. ‘The April Tragedy fundamentally radicalized political life in the republic’5 and transformed a movement for civil rights into a demand for Georgian independence.6 As Fuller observed early on: One of the factors that gave rise to the demonstrations was indignation over the demand by the minority Abkhaz that their ASSR, currently a part of Georgia, be detached from the republic and given Union republic status – a demand that served to fuel Georgia’s nascent chauvinism towards the non-Georgian population of the republic.7 These events quickly led to a full-scale war between Georgia and Abkhazia in 1992 and 1993, leading to a bitter stalemate ever since, but with a de facto

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Abkhazian state in control of its historic homeland. What follows will be a short review of Abkhazian history to 1978; the Georgian–Abkhazian dispute and the 1992 to 1993 war; post-war Abkhazian–Georgian relations; and the political and economic prospects for Abkhazia and Georgia. The chapter will conclude with a discussion of Abkhazia as an example of a de facto state.

Abkhazian history to 1978 The core of Abkhazia is bordered on the north and east by the Caucasus Mountains and the River Psou, on the south and west by the Black Sea and the south and east by the River Inguri and spurs from the Caucasus Mountains.8 As to the Abkhazian people, ‘all the evidence points to their continuous occupation of the land over the last three millennia’. Sometime between the fourth and sixth centuries Abkhazia coalesced into a subject kingdom of West Georgia, which in turn was a vassal state of the Byzantine Empire. Christianity officially was introduced into Abkhazia during the reign of Justinian. Wars against Byzantium, Persia and the Arabs, from the sixth through the eighth centuries helped forge Abkhazia into a nation.9 Leon II established the kingdom of Abkhazia, which included all of western Georgia, in the late eighth century after soundly defeating an Arab army with the support of Byzantium.10 By the late 970s, the Kingdom of the Abkhazians and the Kartvelians was formed; this was the origin of the Georgian Kingdom, which reached its peak during the reign of Queen Tamar (1184–1213). Georgia could not withstand the brute force of the Mongol invasions and broke apart into a number of kingdoms and principalities. Abkhazia developed as a separate princedom. Officially Abkhazia became a protectorate of Russia in 1810, though Abkhazians in the mountainous areas continued to struggle against Russia for decades afterwards.11 In June 1864, Russia abolished the Abkhazian princedom and replaced it with the Sukhum District. A major Abkhazian revolt broke out on 26 July 1866, with an estimated 20,000 Abkhazians participating. The rebellion was quickly crushed, with Russia forcing an estimated 20,000 Abkhazians to go into exile. The last major revolt during tsarist times occurred in 1877 and was linked to revolts in the north Caucasus and the Russo–Turkish War of 1877 to 1878. It has been estimated that due to Russian expulsions and Abkhazian fear of reprisals, anywhere from 120,000 to 200,000 Abkhazians left Abkhazia for Turkey. In some ways, the ‘contemporary’ hostility between Georgia and Abkhazia can be traced back to the confused conditions in Russia from 1917 to 1921. Abkhazia entered the Union of United Mountain Peoples of the Caucasus after the February/March Russian Revolution.12 In November 1917, an Abkhaz assembly established the Abkhazskij Narodnyj Soviet (ANS) or the Abkhazian People’s Council, which passed a declaration on 9 November 1917 calling for the ‘self-determination of the Abkhazian people’. On 11 May 1918 the Union of Mountain Peoples was reorganized into the North Caucasian Republic, and it included Abkhazia as one of its constituent territories. On 26 May 1918 the Democratic Republic of Georgia was proclaimed.13

The Abkhazians 145 In late June 1918, Georgia invaded Abkhazia and subjected it to military rule until March 1921. In fact, this Georgian domination of Abkhazia aided the imposition of Soviet rule on 4 March 1921, and the Abkhazian Soviet Socialist Republic (SSR) was proclaimed officially on 31 March 1921.14 The Abkhazian SSR had full republic status, and in 1922 Abkhazia became a member of the Transcaucasian Federation under the terms of a special union treaty with Georgia, in which Abkhazia maintained its union republic status. The Federation constituted an original part of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) formed on 30 December 1922. In 1925, an Abkhaz constitution was adopted which codified Abkhazia’s union republic status and treaty relationship with Georgia. From 1922 to 1936, Nest’or Lak’oba, an Abkhazian, led the Abkhazian government. Lak’oba repeatedly failed to implement party directives and resisted introducing collectivization to Abkhazia in 1930 to 1931. Joseph Stalin promised not to force collectivization if Lak’oba agreed to reduce Abkhazia’s status to an autonomous republic within Georgia, and the change became official in February 1931.15 The promise was not kept even though Lak’oba helped Lavrenti Beria become head of the Georgian Communist Party in 1931 and the party head for the whole Transcaucasia in 1932. In December 1936, Beria presented Lak’oba with a plan to resettle peasants from western Georgia to Abkhazia. Lak’oba supposedly replied ‘over my dead body’. The next day, 16 December 1936, Lak’oba was murdered and Beria instituted a purge of the Abkhazian government, accusing it of conspiring to assassinate Stalin. Under the leadership of Stalin, a Georgian, and Beria, a Mingrelian, the Soviet regime reintroduced the tsarist policy of forced relocation and exile. As part of a deliberate ‘Georgianization-drive’, Beria oversaw the forced resettlement of Georgians, Armenians and Russians from 1937 to 1953. Beria’s policies resulted in the ethnic Abkhazian proportion of the population of Abkhazia declining from 28 per cent in 1926, to 18 per cent in 1939, to 13.3 per cent in 1950 and 1955.16 Under Beria’s direction, the new Abkhazian government introduced a new Abkhaz alphabet and script based on Georgian; however, the systematic assault on Abkhazian culture would have to wait the end of World War Two. According to Slider, ‘the period after World War II until Stalin’s (and Beria’s) death in 1953 was an especially harsh one for the Abkhaz, as Beria launched a campaign apparently designed to obliterate the Abkhaz as a cultural entity’.17 The Georgiandominated Abkhaz government closed all schools that used Abkhaz as the language of instruction and made Georgian the mandatory language of instruction. Abkhaz journals and Abkhaz-language radio broadcasts were halted while all district-level Abkhaz newspapers ceased publication. The government of the USSR gave the most fertile lands in Abkhazia to Georgian settlers, and increased access to higher education for Georgians at the expense of the Abkhazs. In fact, plans were being developed in the late 1940s to relocate the total Abkhaz population to Kazakhstan or Siberia.18 The more blatant anti-Abkhaz measures ended with the deaths of Stalin and Beria. Abkhaz journals, newspapers and radio broadcasts were re-established in

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the mid and late 1950s. Also, Abkhaz schools re-opened and a new alphabet for the Abkhaz language was introduced, replacing the Georgian one imposed in the late 1930s. Mass meetings and demonstrations demanding the removal of Abkhazia from the Georgian SSR took place in 1957, 1964, 1967, 1978 and 1989. As a result, there were 39 Abkhaz schools in 1966 and 91 by 1978. Further, Abkhazs increased their numbers at different government levels. Abkhazs constituted 4 per cent of district and city secretaries in 1949, 30 per cent in 1963 and 37 per cent in 1978; and 29 per cent of party department heads in 1949, 40 per cent in 1963 and 45 per cent in 1978. In fact, from the late 1950s to the early 1970s, Abkhazia was ‘one of the few non-Russian administrative units in the USSR to have both its first and second party secretaries drawn from the native population’.19 The Abkhazs could still point to economic and cultural grievances. Abkhazia in 1970 had a higher percentage of its population (50.7 per cent) in the peasant category than any other major group except the Moldovians. The state budget for Abkhazia was 40 per cent lower on a per capita basis than Georgia’s; while the increase in capital investment for Georgia as a whole was 39.2 per cent, in Abkhazia it was 21 per cent. The only official language in Georgia was Georgian although only 1.4 per cent of Abkhazs spoke it according to the 1979 Soviet census. University entrance exams were in Georgian and Abkhazs had trouble entering institutions of higher learning: there were only 34 Abkhaz graduate students throughout the USSR in 1975.20 The most successful Abkhaz agitation before 1989 occurred in 1978. As part of the discussions concerning the revising of the Soviet constitutions in 1977 and 1978 under Leonid Brezhnev, 130 Abkhaz intellectuals sent a letter to the Central Committee and the Supreme Soviet of the USSR, which criticized the Abkhaz government and explicitly called for Abkhazian secession from Georgia. There were also public demonstrations demanding significant changes. As a result, the Sukhumi Pedagogical Institute was developed into the Abkhaz State University, which led to a major increase in size of the student body; Abkhaz television began to broadcast in Abkhaz in November 1978; and two new Abkhaz art and education journals were established. Also, new capital investment was brought to Abkhazia and new road, airport, hospital and school construction were begun.21 The result of these policies was Georgian disquiet, an Abkhazian demand for even greater reforms and deterioration in relations between Abkhaz and Georgian nationals within Abkhazia.

The Georgian–Abkhazian dispute and the 1992–1993 war Neither side was satisfied with the settlement of 1978. Georgia began a programme of settling Georgians in Abkhazia with the goal of decreasing the Abkhaz percentage of the local population. The Abkhazs realized what was happening and Abkhaz–Georgian relations within Abkhazia deteriorated. Consequently, ‘the daily lot of members of both adversarial communities were

The Abkhazians 147 humiliation and violence’. In the 1980s, ‘muffled hostility’ was being transformed into ‘overt hatred’.22 On 17 July 1988 a group of Abkhaz intellectuals requested that Abkhazia be transferred to the authority of the Russian Soviet Federated Socialist Republic (RSFSR).23 In response, a crowd of several thousand people protested against Abkhaz secession and the treatment of Georgians in Abkhazia on 18 February 1989 in Tbilisi.24 The Georgians feared that the USSR was purposely supporting the Abkhazs so that violence between the nationalities would give the Soviets the pretext necessary to intervene militarily in Georgia. The Abkhazs were convinced that the instability in the USSR made it the time to press their maximum demands before the opportunity was lost to them. The Soviet government responded with the massacre of ‘Black Sunday’, of 9 April in Tbilisi, which killed for the Georgians the idea of a ‘Soviet People’ and confirmed their suspicions that the Abkhazs were nothing but tools in the hands of the Russians, to be used to beat down the Georgians. Whereas the Abkhazs saw the drive for Georgian independence as the final attempt to destroy them as a people and to merge them into a Georgian nation. The Georgian Supreme Soviet asserted Georgia’s sovereignty, including the right of secession, on 18 November 1989. It also approved a special commission’s report that said Georgia’s union with the USSR was ‘an annexation’ achieved through brute military force and occupation.25 In response, on 25 August 1990, the Abkhaz Supreme Soviet passed a declaration on the State Sovereignty of the Soviet Socialist Republic of Abkhazia. The Georgian legislature declared the act null and void.26 In the October 1990 parliamentary elections, Zviad Gamsakhurdia’s Free Georgia Round Table coalition won an overwhelming number of seats in the Georgian Supreme Soviet and began a policy of ‘Georgia for the Georgians’.27 Vladislav Ardzinba, a historian, was elected chair of the Supreme Soviet of Abkhazia on 4 December 1990.28 A referendum was held throughout Georgia on 17 March 1991 on the question of the continued existence of the USSR. Georgians throughout the country boycotted the election. However, 52.3 per cent of the Abkhazian electorate did vote and 98.6 per cent of those voters supported the continued existence of the USSR.29 Abkhazians and other non-Georgians boycotted the Georgian national referendum held to decide the Georgian independence issue on 31 March 1991. With 90 per cent of the registered voters casting ballots, 98 per cent of the voters supported ‘the restoration of the independence of Georgia’ based on the declaration of independence of 26 May 1918. Acting quickly, Gamsakhurdia convinced all the members of the Georgian Supreme Soviet to pass the declaration of independence unanimously on 9 April 1991.30 Gorbachev, aware that the Soviet Union was in serious disarray but confident that he was still relevant, presented a treaty plan to replace the Union Treaty of 1922 on 18 June. Georgia’s Minister of Education, Temur Koridze, threatened that if Abkhazia signed the treaty, ‘rivers of blood would flow’.31

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The attempted anti-Gorbachev coup of 19 August was designed to forestall what the putschists saw as the disintegration of the USSR but instead it hastened the collapse of the Soviet Union. The sudden dissolution of the USSR froze the republic boundaries in the configuration Stalin had left them in the Soviet Constitution of 1936, so Abkhazia found itself inside a Georgia made independent by the latter’s unilateral declaration of independence. Gamsakhurdia became ‘increasingly dictatorial’ very quickly, ‘arresting political opponents, imposing censorship of the media and blaming Moscow for any manifestation of dissent’.32 This situation was threatening to the Abkhazs because the ‘autocrat’ viewed all national minority concerns, be they Abkhazian, Ossetian or Adzharian, as part of either a Soviet or Russian ‘conspiracy’. Gamsakhurdia’s increasingly xenophobic rule exhibited an intolerance and violence that rejected the political participation of ‘minorities’ that had lived as neighbours of the Georgians for centuries. In early 1991, the Gamsakhurdia government legally established a National Guard to act as the army of Georgia. Paramilitary groups had begun to form in Georgia in the 1980s. There may have been as many as 60,000 members of these groups by early 1990, the most important paramilitary force being the Mkhedrioni or Horsemen. Jaba Ioseliani, a convicted bank robber, organized this extreme nationalistic militia in 1989.33 Gamsakhurdia’s authoritarian rule quickly provoked serious internal opposition. Armed clashes between pro- and anti-Gamsakhurdia groups occurred in Tbilisi in August and September. The Mkhedroni and others launched a coup and Gamsakhurdia fled the country on 6 January 1992.34 Former Soviet foreign minister Edward Shevardnadze soon afterwards became the chairman of the newly-formed State Council. After fleeing to Grozny, Chechnya, Gamsakhurdia rallied his supporters against Shevardnadze’s government. Opposition within Georgia centred in Gamsakhurdia’s home province of Mingrelia, directly south and east of Abkhazia.35 Early in the morning of 14 August 1992 Georgia invaded Abkhazia, taking control of the Sukhumi airport on 14 August and then entering the capital city. The Abkhaz government regrouped in Gudauta, a town north-west of Sukhumi. Georgian troops launched a successful amphibious landing near Gagra and took the city by 19 August. The same day, Tengiz Kitovani, the Defence Minister, announced that all of Abkhazia was under Georgian control except for Gudauta and surrounding communities.36 In response, the Abkhaz government issued a full-scale mobilization of all Abkhaz males between the ages of 18 and 40. In late October 1992, Georgian forces vandalized and burned down the university, museum, state archive and language research institute, embittering Abkhaz–Georgian relations to today.37 Although the Russian government was officially neutral in the war, the Russian Supreme Soviet on 25 August passed a resolution condemning Georgia for starting the war and there was a ‘leakage of weapons’ from Russian military facilities to the Abkhazs.38 The turning point in the war was the battle for Gagra, which the Abkhazians retook on 2 and 3 October 1992.39 By regaining Gagra, the Abkhazs freed themselves from a two-front war and secured the ports and border of north-west

The Abkhazians 149 Abkhazia, thus being able to ensure supplies and volunteers to continue its war effort. The conquest of Gagra allowed Abkhazia to go on the offensive for the rest of the war and it was able to retake all of the territory north of the Gumista river to the Russian border. The Abkhazs launched three unsuccessful offensives to retake Sukumi on 5 January, 16 March and 1 July 1993. It was during this six-month period that a Russian tilt toward Abkhazia became more pronounced in response to Georgian actions, especially after a Russian army helicopter was shot down in Abkhazia on 14 December 1992. The Russian government also gave itself an important role in the Transcaucasia specifically, and for the whole ‘near abroad’ more generally, when Russian President Boris Yeltsin, on 28 February 1993, asserted that ‘responsible international organizations, including the United Nations, should grant Russia special powers as a guarantor of peace and stability in the region of the former union’.40 By 27 September 1993 Abkhaz forces had recaptured Sukumi and its airport. Although Shevardnadze had vowed to remain in Sukumi ‘even if I am the last one’ and would defend it with ‘the last drop of our blood’, he vacated the city along with the last of the defending Georgian troops on 27 September. The Georgian troops retreated in such confusion that the Abkhaz forces were able to advance to the Ingur river by 30 September; this has become the de facto order between Akhazia and Georgia.41 Under the auspices of the United Nations (UN), representatives of Abkhazia and Georgia began to meet in November 1993 to discuss a ceasefire and other topics. Although a ceasefire agreement was not reached until May 1994, the war was effectively over by 1 December 1993, after a final Abkhaz offensive captured the eastern portion of Svanetia province.

Post-War developments in Abkhazian–Georgian relations Most observers agree that without Russian support Abkhazia would not have defeated Georgia in the war. In the early phase of the war, Russian planes and ships bombed and shelled Georgian-controlled territory, while the Abkhaz forces acquired Russian arms for their direct use. By the end of 1992 Abkhazia forces had Russian heavy artillery and tanks, and Russia bombed Georgian-held Sukhumi in February 1993. Although the Russian government was surprised when Abkhazia broke the ceasefire in September 1993, the Russian military in the area did not seem to be. The Russian forces on the border between the opposing forces ‘made no attempt to forestall the attack’.42 The resulting diplomatic stalemate was inevitable given the intractable sentiments of the Georgians and the Abkhazs. Georgian Minister of State Vazha Lortkpanidze said: ‘The Abkhaz conflict is a military and political conflict started in order to preserve the Soviet Union, and it is the Russian government that is responsible for it.’43 Abkhazian Foreign Minister Sergei Shamba stated, ‘we have no intention of giving up our independence. Under the alternative scenario there exists a real threat of annihilation for the Abkhazian race’.44

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In the face of the debacle of the Georgian defeat at the hands of Abkhazia and a major threat from Gamsakhurdia’s forces, the Zviadists, Shevardnadze tacitly changed Georgian policy vis-à-vis Russia. Georgia had refused to join the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS) when it was formed by Russia, Ukraine and Belarus on 8 December 1991, and when it was expanded by a protocol with eight additional former republics two weeks later on 21 December.45 The Zviadists launched a major offensive against the Georgian government, and on 8 October Shevardnadze announced he would advocate Georgia joining the CIS. Georgia agreed to a collective security treaty with Russia on 25 and 26 October. Soon thereafter, Russian troops had secured the rail line from Poti to Tbilisi, and Shevardnadze ‘requested’ that Russia’s Black Sea Fleet protect the city of Poti. Georgia leased to Russia four military bases, including one in Abkhazia, for 25 years. Further, Russia was to protect the land and maritime borders of Georgia and provide training and equipment to the Georgian armed forces.46 Talks began between Abkhazia and Georgia on 1 December 1993, which led to the signing of a Declaration of Understanding in Geneva. The two sides agreed to a ceasefire, prisoner exchange and continuation of the negotiations. By the terms of a joint communiqué, the two sides agreed to CIS peace-keeping forces (CISPKF) to monitor the ceasefire.47 Negotiations continued, and on 4 April 1994 the parties signed a ‘Declaration on measures for a political settlement’, also known as the ‘Moscow Agreement’. By the terms of this agreement the parties were committed to a ‘strict formal cease-fire’ and to the ‘non-use of force or threat of the use of force’, and the parties ‘reaffirmed their request for a peacekeeping force’ that would include Russian troops. Further, Abkhazia was to have its own constitution and ‘state symbols, such as anthem, emblem and flag’. Finally, Abkhazia and Georgia agreed that ‘powers for joint action would include foreign policy; border guards and customs; energy; communications and transport; and protection of human and civic rights’.48 A ‘Quadripartite Agreement on Voluntary Return of Refugees or Displaced Persons (Annex II)’ also was signed on 4 April. The signatories to this document were representatives from Abkhazia, Georgia, Russia and the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR). By the agreement, the parties agreed to ‘guarantee the safety of refugees and displaced persons’ during ‘voluntary repatriation’. The right to return was not to apply to persons who had ‘committed war crimes and crimes against humanity’ nor to people ‘who have previously taken part in hostilities’, or who ‘are currently serving in armed formations, preparing to fight in Abkhazia’.49 Abkhazia approved a new constitution on 26 November 1994, to replace the one from when Abkhazia had been an autonomous republic of the Georgian SSR in the Soviet Union.50 Russia closed its border with Abkhazia on 19 September 1994, supposedly to help stop aid to Chechnya. On 19 December, it closed the border with Abkhazia along the River Psou. By orders of the Russian Foreign Ministry, Abkhazia’s major port, Sukhumi, was closed to Abkhaz shipping on 30 August 1995. The

The Abkhazians 151 Russian government ordered Sukhumi closed to all shipping on 5 January 1996. Russian Deputy Foreign Minister Boris Pastukhov, on 30 August 1995, declared Abkhazian passports invalid outside the CIS even if people had valid visas. In violation of the Moscow Agreement, Georgian officials repeatedly threatened violence when discussing the issue of Abkhazia. In August 1994, Georgian Deputy Prime Minister Tamaz Nadareishvili labelled Abkhazian President Vladislav Ardzinba a ‘state criminal’. In February 1995, Shevardnadze said ‘we must stop this epidemic of disintegration . . . we must resolve to take all prompt and necessary measures regardless of cost’. On 3 September 1996 Nadareishvili said: ‘I think we should go back to Abkhazia and restore our authority there by force. Of course there will be more blood, more casualties.’ At the end of that same month, Georgia conducted military exercises near the conflict zone. In July 1996 Nadareishvili said that agreements between Abkhazia and Georgia had no legal basis.51 The most progress in resolving the diplomatic stalemate came in 1997. On 15 August 1997, Ardzinba and Shevardnandze signed a joint statement in Tbilisi wherein they both promised to ‘renounce force, demonstrating patience and mutual esteem, and settle differences peacefully through negotiations’.52 In November 1997, Abkhazia and Georgia, under UN auspices, established a coordinating council consisting of representatives of both parties, in which regular negotiations would be held with the goal of resolving outstanding issues.53 Georgian guerillas organized as the White Legion and the Forest Brothers, consisting mostly of Georgian internally displaced persons from Abkhazia, ‘systematically targeted’ CIS peacekeepers and Abkhaz forces in the Gali region of Abkhazia in 1997 and 1998.54 The commander of the White Legion, Zurab Samushiya, was a follower of Gamsakhurdia, while the head of the Forest Brothers, Dato Shengelia, had been a member of the Mkhedrioni. On 12 May 1998, the Forest Brothers attacked Abkhaz forces in the village of Khumukhkuri. This was a prelude to the six-day war of 19 to 25 May 1998, begun when the guerillas attacked an Abkhaz guard post, killing 17 Abkhaz police officers. In response, on 21 May, 1,500 Abkhaz militia men launched a successful counteroffensive against the guerillas. It is estimated that between 30,000 and 40,000 Georgians fled the Gali region.55 By the terms of the Gadauta ceasefire of 24 May 1998, both Abkhazia reinforcements and Georgian guerillas were to be withdrawn from the Gali region. Also, Georgia promised to forestall any future guerilla activities in Gali. Notwithstanding the distrust generated by the violence, Abkhazian and Georgian representatives agreed, in June 1998, to negotiate and sign two documents, an ‘Agreement on Peace and Guarantees for Preempting Armed Clashes’ and a ‘Protocol on the Return of Refugees to the Gali Raion and Measures to Restore the Economy’. The first document sought to make permanent the ceasefires of 14 May 1994 and 24 May 1998, the second to resolve the issue of establishing a schedule for the return of Georgian refugees to Gali.56 By 1999 it was clear that the Georgian government felt it could withstand Russian pressure and began to articulate openly a pro-Western posture, and

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to raise the stakes diplomatically vis-à-vis Abkhazia. In February 1999, the Parliamentary Committee on Defence and Security formally requested NATO ‘to protect Georgia’s security and independence’.57 In April 1999, Shevardnadze said that Georgia wanted to join NATO and in an interview with the Financial Times, in October 1999, stated that Georgia ‘will knock vigorously on NATO’s door’ in 2005.58 Abkhazia conducted a referendum on 3 October 1999 on Abkhazian independence as enshrined in the Constitution of the Republic of Abkhazia adopted by the Supreme Council of the republic on 26 November 1994. On election day, 87.6 per cent of the registered voters took part and 97.7 per cent of the voters approved the constitution. President Ardzinba and the People’s Assembly proclaimed independence on 12 October 1999.59 President Ardzinba ran unopposed and also won re-election to his second five-year term in October 1999, and announced that one of his main goals was to initiate conversations with these countries that might be open to extending diplomatic recognition to Abkhazia.60 Russia continued its ‘carrot and stick’ approach in late 1999. In September, Russia unilaterally reopened its border with Abkhazia, closed since December 1994.61 Also, in what was considered a major agreement at the time, Georgia and Abkhazia signed a protocol designed to stabilize conditions on either side of the de facto border on 11 July 2000. By the protocol, both sides agreed to reduce the number of their police and other types of forces in the conflict zone to 600; to establish joint special organizations to suppress crime and smuggling in the zone; to continue to renounce the use of force to settle the conflict; and to complete the draft protocols on the ‘Non-Renewal of Hostilities’ and on the repatriation of Georgian displaced persons to Abkhazia’s Gali raion, under discussion since June 1978. In a report to the UN Security Council in late January 2001, Kofi Annan said that if deadlock over Abkhazia continued it ‘could jeopardize the whole peace process’. Annan noted the abductions of UN military observers who were part of the UN Observers Mission in Georgia (UNOMIG) and pointed out that Georgia and Abkhazia were primarily responsible for their security. The UN Security Council adopted a resolution, on 31 January 2001, strongly requesting Georgia and Abkhazia to sign two documents: an agreement on peace, which would make the ceasefire permanent, and a protocol on the return of refugees to the Gali raion that the two sides had been discussing since June 1998.62 Tensions between Georgia and Abkhazia over their border region increased dramatically in April 2001 as a series of arrests, hostage-takings and detentions unfolded. Dieter Boden, the UN special envoy for Abkhazia, mediated a meeting between Abkhazian and Georgian officials. Abkhazia had complained to UNOMIG, according to Annan’s 24 April report to the Security Council, that ‘several groups of armed persons are crossing the cease fire line into Abkhaz controlled territory’. Russian officers of the CISPKF had reported Abkhaz compliance with the July 2000 protocol while the Russians had observed a build up of armed men on the Georgian side of the River Ingur.63 On 4 October 2001 several hundred Chechen and Georgian guerillas attacked Giorgievskoe, a village in eastern Abkhazia. During the fighting, on 8 October,

The Abkhazians 153 a UN helicopter was shot down, killing all nine people aboard. The partisans pushed their attack and were said to have nearly reached Sukhumi. In response, Abkhazia carried out air strikes against the guerillas in the Kodori gorge. The Abkhaz defence spokesman, Garry Kupalba, said ‘the terrorists suffered heavy losses’.64 Abkhazian Prime Minister Anri Djergenia, in a Russian television interview on 14 October said that Abkhazia would seek ‘associate status’ with the Russian Federation. On 18 October, Vice President Valerii Arshba announced that the Abkhaz were drafting proposals for Russian Federation membership. The next day, Djergenia said that the two countries would have a common economic policy. On 23 October Ardzinba said that while ‘Abkhazia is de jure and de facto an independent state’, in its future relations with Russia, Abkhazia is a subject of international law (a member of the UN and other international organizations), but at the same time it implements [a common] foreign and defense policy together with Russia, has a shared currency and customs union with Russia and jointly with Russia guards its state border.65 Although Boden presented a draft agreement on the constitutional relationship between Georgia and Abkhazia in December, the Abkhazian government explicitly rejected it on 5 February 2002, while in response to the UN Security Council resolution of 31 January, Astamur Tania said ‘we will not consider this document’.66 Georgia became more aggressive over the Abkhaz issue: on 20 March, the Georgian parliament alleged that Abkhazia was a ‘haven for international terrorists’. In response, the Russian Foreign Ministry issued a statement: Georgia has clearly adopted the policy of preparing the domestic and international public for new attempts to solve the Abkhaz problem by force . . . under the guise of unfounded official claims about the presence of international and Arab terrorists in Abkhazia.67 To underscore Russian anger at Georgia, 150,000 Abkhazians were provided with Russian passports in June. The new passports permitted an estimated 70 per cent of the Abkhazian population to claim Russian citizenship. The Georgian Foreign Ministry called the distribution of Russian passports to Abkhazians an ‘unprecedented illegal campaign’. Shevardnadze suggested in a national radio address that the Russian action ‘effectively amounts to covert annexation and the violation of Georgia’s sovereignty’. The Abkhazian prime minister, Anri Djergenia, bragged that he was a Russian citizen and had been one for years. Djergenia explained his reasoning saying ‘the more Russian citizens who live in Abkhazia, the greater guarantee that Georgia will not begin a new war. Every great power is duty-bound to defend its citizens, wherever they live’.68 Edward Kokoyev, the President of South Ossettia, met Djergenia in September. The two leaders negotiated a mutual defence treaty to protect each other from Georgian ‘aggression’.69 As the new year (2003) opened, lingering

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issues continued to bedevil Russian–Georgian relations to the benefit of Abkhazia. Moscow and Tbilisi are still at odds over the Russian demand that Georgia extradite Chechens accused of fighting against Russia. And Russia has no immediate plans to close its Georgian military bases. Also, the opening of a Russian– Abkhazian rail line has obviously rankled Georgian officials. Georgian Minister of Transport and Communication Merab Adeishvili, on 27 December 2002, labeled the reopening a ‘blatant violation of international norms and bilateral agreements’. The Russian Foreign Ministry was puzzled over Georgia’s ‘insistence on draconian measures to isolate Abkhazia’.70

Political and economic prospects of Abkhazia Both Abkhazia and Georgia are worse off today than they were in 1991 during the last days of the Soviet Union. Abkhazia has been weakened economically by the 1992 to 1993 war, the subsequent embargo and its international isolation. Georgia has been weakened economically by the separatist movements in Abkhazia and South Ossetia; its wars against Abkhazia and South Ossetia; its civil war of the early 1990s; disruptions in its trade with Russia; and by general disorder and corruption within Georgia. Due to the precariousness of its position, Abkhazian politics appears to have had less open strife and dissension, since it was deemed necessary to repair the Abkhazian economy, badly damaged by the war and subsequent embargo. Before the 1992 to 1993 war, Abkhazia ‘was one of the most prosperous regions of the former Soviet Union’. The Caucasus Mountains protect Abkhazia and it has one of northernmost subtropical climates in the world. The country had a strong agricultural base, resting on citrus, tea, tobacco, olives, figs, nuts and wine. Abkhazia, with 0.2 per cent of the Soviet population, provided 20 per cent of the Russian demand for tea, for example. Wood products and fish were also important exports.71 The Akbhazian economy was different from many other regions of the former USSR. Its subtropical climate on the Black Sea and the restrictions on foreign trade oriented Abkhazia’s products to the Soviet market, but collectivization never took hold, as Abkhazian agricultural production of citrus fruits, tea, nuts and other products did not lend itself to such production. Consequently, there was a tradition of family farms and orchards in Abkhazia. After World War Two, major investments in tourism established Abkhazia as a major destination for Soviet tourists. Hotels, spas and sports complexes were built, and the Soviet government developed the civilian airport outside of Sukhumi at this time. The large influx of tourists has aided the development of the private sector in such areas as bed-and-breakfast establishments, handicraft production and street vendors.72 The 1992 to 1993 war affected at least 70 per cent of Abkhaz territory. One estimate puts the economic damage of the war in destruction of property and personal belongings at $10 billion. In the first full post-war year (1994), industrial production was down 93 per cent, hydro-electric generation 60 per cent, and the GDP of the rural economy was down 75 per cent. The average per capita income

The Abkhazians 155 in 1994 was $120, down from $800 in the 1980s.73 The Georgian forces, in additional to destroying homes, schools, bridges and tunnels, looted Abkhazia, stealing aircraft, locomotives and train cars, buses, trucks, automobiles and computers. The Georgians also plundered farms and plantations. Citrus, tea and tobacco exports in 1994 were 19 per cent of their 1989 level. Overall the GDP in 1994 was 14 per cent of the pre-war level.74 The human loss is grimmer. There were an estimated 5,000 fatalities, and 1,256 people became disabled from the war. It is also estimated that 6,000 children became orphans as a result of the conflict.75 Although trade with Russia and Turkey continued even during the strictest enforcement of the blockade, it is estimated that the trade restrictions engendered losses equal to the pre-war Abkhazia GDP. By the end of 1999, 62 per cent of Abkhazian imports came from Turkey, while 45 per cent and 54 per cent of Abkhazia exports went to Turkey and Russia respectively. Trade revived after Russia ended its trade embargo against Abkhazia in the autumn of 1999. By the end of 2002, Abkhazia imported flour, petroleum and sugar from Russia, and exported citrus fruits, fish, timber and wine to Russia. Abkhazia’s tourism industry has also revived, relying on Russian tourists, mainly members of the armed forces of Russia.76 Tourists numbered 12,000 in 1996.77 Abkhazia has experienced some economic growth: one estimate puts the average annual growth rate from 1994 to 1997 at between 30 per cent and 40 per cent, while another puts the growth at 15 per cent to 20 per cent per year from 1994 to 1999. Average per capita income rose $250 by 1996.78 Abkhazia has great potential economically. The tourist resorts in Pitsunda, Gagra and New Athar were not damaged by the war, and even without new investment Abkhazia could handle over one-million visitors a year. Even during the embargo, Russians were returning to visit Abkhazia.79 In terms of natural resources, Abkhazia is self-sufficient in coal, has some oil and natural gas deposits, and has substantial reserves of timber, one of its main exports to Turkey. Abkhazia exports coking coal, marble, limestone, cement, copper, lead and zinc. The country is also very well supplied with water and Abkhazia’s hydro-electric potential is estimated to be at 25-billion kilowatts.80 In short, Abkhazia would be economically viable as an independent country, and recognized as such by the international community. A main factor in the domestic political stability in Abkhazia has been the consistent leadership role of Vladislav Ardzinba. A historian by training, he was elected chair of the Supreme Soviet of Abkhazia on 4 December 1990.81 It fell to him to rally the Abkhazian nation to face the brutal Georgian invasion of the country in August 1992.82 On 26 November 1994 the Abkhazians adopted a new constitution which declared that Abkhazia was a sovereign state. Yet the Abkhazian government stated it was not declaring independence from Georgia.83 Abkhazia held elections for president and a referendum on independence on 30 October 1999. Ardzinba was re-elected to a five-year term with 99 per cent of the votes. In the referendum, 97 per cent supported the 1994 Constitution. In response, the Abkhaz legislature enacted the State Independence Act which declared Abkhazia to be

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a fully-independent state on 12 October 1999.84 Abkhazia held parliamentary elections on 2 March 2002; Georgia condemned the elections as illegal and no international organization recognized them.85 Gennady Gagulia was appointed prime minister in autumn 2002, and called on the international community to help Abkhazia economically.86 A problem for Abkhazia since late 2000 has been the rumours about Ardzinba’s health. Georgian newspapers have alleged repeatedly that he is afflicted with Parkinson’s disease.87

Abkhazia as a de facto state Although Abkhazia has been in control of its territory with a functioning government for almost eleven years, its future is far from certain. It appears that Abkhazia has been able to take advantage of Russian hostility towards Georgia, yet Russia appears to be unwilling to extend diplomatic recognition to Abkhazia, lest Georgia and other countries such as Turkey and Azerbaijan extend the same recognition to Chechnya. It is possible, too, that what stays Russia’s hand is the old dream of dominance in the transcaucasian region. Some in the Russian government appear to want to re-integrate both Abkhazia and Georgia into the Russian Federation. Others may not want to deal with a hostile and sullen Georgia within Russia and so would rather keep Georgia nominally independent but weak. This strategy appears to have been nullified in the wake of Georgian hostility and the deployment of US power in the region after 11 September 2001. A third approach might be to make Abkhazia a de facto protectorate and to extend Russian de jure recognition in the midst of an international uproar which would inhibit a response from the US, Europe and countries of the region. Abkhazia, along with the other countries analyzed in this book, is a de facto state and not a de jure state because of the post-World War Two ‘situation of normatively-sanctified fixed territorial borders and internationally-guaranteed sovereignty’.88 Robert Jackson’s analysis of the ‘new sovereignty game’ identified two main distinctions of this post-1945 situation. First, ‘rulers can acquire independence [statehood] solely in virtue of being successors of colonial government rather than having to demonstrate the ability to govern’. Second, ‘weak states may no longer be deprived of their sovereignty through colonialism, conquest, or partition’. Consequently, the new sovereignty game created a large number of quasistates – states that lack most capabilities protecting sovereignty, yet which have the same rights as all other states because of the principle of juridical equality of states.89 The new sovereignty game created a second type of state: the de facto state. The same principle which uphold quasi-states ‘also prevents the acceptance of other groups regardless of how legitimate their grievances, how broad their popular support, or how effective their governance. Quasi-states and de facto states are thus both children of the new sovereignty regime’. In short, the quasi-state has recognition but lacks capabilities, whereas the de facto state has capabilities but lacks recognition.90

The Abkhazians 157 Of course, recognition is vitally important because it allows access to the public goods that the international community doles out via such institutions such as the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank. The community of states in its decisions on recognition acts as a gatekeeper for the private sector as well. States not recognized as such have more difficulty obtaining loans, capital investment and other necessary resources for a functioning economy. And yet, the decision on recognition is not based solely on law but rather ‘the process of legitimization is ultimately a political phenomena, a crystallization of judgment that may be influenced but is unlikely to be wholly determined by legal norms and moral principles’.91 Pegg identifies four factors which act as ‘figurative ceilings’ that stop de facto states from attaining sovereign statehood, and they are all applicable to Abkhazia.92 The first factor is the changing normative environment on territory. The traditional norms permitted if not required changes in territorial boundaries. Territorial borders were fluid and helped sustain the balance of power. Contemporary norms during the post-World War Two era attempted to ‘freeze the map’ and sanctified existing boundaries. The new norm rested in part on the globalization of the legal principle uti possidetis geographically and the expansion of the principle conceptually in that it was applied against irredentist and secessionist movements. As Pegg has pointed out, existing states have a vested self-interest to reinforce existing state boundaries. Each supports the other in their presumptions to a monopoly of power within their territory.93 A second factor putting a ceiling on attempts of Abkhazia and other de facto states to become de jure is the changing conceptions of sovereignty. As Barkin and Cronin put it, since ‘understandings of legitimacy tend to change from era to era . . . the rules of sovereignty are neither fixed or constant, but rather are subject to changing interpretations’. In their terms the international community has alternated between the conceptions of ‘state sovereignty’ and ‘national sovereignty’. The former stresses the link between sovereign authority and a defined territory, the latter ‘emphasized a link between sovereign authority and a defined population’. When the former predominates, as it does today, the international community ‘will tend to defend the rights of established states against nationalist claims of domestic ethnic groups’.94 A third factor is the shift from ‘empirical statehood’ to ‘juridical statehood’, which mirrors the shift in sovereignty concepts noted above. For centuries, ‘demonstrated capacity for self-government created capability and respect which warranted recognition’.95 UN General Assembly Resolution 1514, adopted 14 December 1960, reflected the change as it counselled that ‘inadequacy of political, economic, social or educational preparedness should never serve as a pretext for delaying independence’.96 Having an efficient government, supported by its population and in effective control of territory is literally not germane to a de facto state’s attempt to be accorded sovereign statehood. The last factor which Pegg argues has established a ceiling against de facto sates attaining de jure status was a new recognition norm. Until World War One, recognition was granted when states ‘successfully demonstrated their empirical

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capabilities’. Since the First World War, recognition is based on opinions about the legitimacy of a state’s origin and its policies. A very important determinant is if the ‘prior sovereign’ grants recognition to a new state. Recognition is now a political and not a legal decision. Overall, today, there is ‘a strong general refusal to recognize any secessionist entity that does not receive consent from its existing sovereign’.97 While the previous four factors have inhibited de facto states from joining the international community, Pegg has identified two other factors that have provided the impetus for peoples to strive for independence that creates the context for the emergence of de facto states. The first factor Pegg calls ‘weak state security dynamics’ and refers to those states which lack legitimacy and socio-political cohesion. For most of these states, their primary threats are ‘internally generated’ and constitute the gravest threat to their existence. These weak or quasi-states have boundaries that lack any geographic, economic, ethnic, religious or linguistic sense.98 Another dynamic contributing to weak states is that most such states are multinational, not nation states. The core of the ‘insecurity dilemma’, in Holsti’s terms, is that the attempts to create a strong state result, instead, in perpetuating the weaknesses of a state. As Holsti explains it, ‘without a nation, a state is fundamentally weak. But in attempting to build strength, usually under the leadership of an ethnic core, minorities become threatened or excluded from power’.99 The principle of self-determination has also served to aid the development of independence/secession movements. The UN, in practice, sharply limited the application of self-determination to colonies and a handful of exceptions, such as those people living in apartheid regimes. Although, as Pegg has pointed out, ‘secession and decolonization are based on the same principle’, the international community has embraced the latter, rather than the former.100 Why is it that the ‘self ’ in ‘self-determination’ refers now to former colonies and former Soviet Socialist Republics rather than to groups of people who are readily recognizable as nationalities? And, more to the point of this chapter, how do the legal principles of state sovereignty and territorial integrity come to be used to defend a Georgian military junta that illegally overthrew a democratically elected government, unilaterally declaring itself independent and declaring all Soviet laws null and void, except those that related to the territorial extent of the former Georgian SSR? If all Soviet laws are null and void, then the Soviet law making Abkhazia an autonomous republic of Georgia is null and void, and Georgia has no inherent legal right to the territory of Abkhazia. Abkhazia has been stuck in its de facto status since late 1993 due to the factors mentioned above. The international community was concerned about the violence that could possibly have erupted in the face of the break up of the Soviet Union. Thus, an easy way of handling the break up was to accept the USSR republic boundaries, in a similar way to the granting of independence to the colonies of Asia and Africa. Georgia was accorded status as an independent country because of its former republic status. Abkhazia lacked that status and so was frozen out.

The Abkhazians 159 The second factor referred to by Pegg is that the dominance of ‘state sovereignty’ privileged Georgia’s claims to statehood while delegitimazing the ‘national sovereignty’ claims of Abkhazia. Georgian claims rested on its status as a union republic which permitted its secession under the Soviet constitution. Abkhazia was an autonomous republic, an administrative unit within Georgia, so its national claims were ignored by the international community. Thirdly, the new norm of juridical statehood mirrored the state-sovereignty rule. As a constituent part of the USSR, Georgia was seen to have legitimate statehood although its government was not in control of at least one-third of the country. Abkhazia having a government in control of territory does not provide it a basis for statehood under the post-colonial dispensation. Lastly, since the USSR recognized Georgian independence the latter is now a legal member of the state system, no matter how often it has failed to show an ability to govern effectively. Abkhazia, being denied recognition from its ‘prior sovereign’, Georgia, is frozen out of the international community because of political calculations dressed up as legal norms. The Abkhazs have been in a very difficult situation for over eleven years now. They believe that a false move could, literally, lead to the genocide of their national community. They realize the disproportionate power of Russia and act accordingly. Yet Abkhazia will be able to make its own way in the world, basing its national interest solely on the well-being of its own people.

Notes 1 K. Ozgan, ‘Abkhazia–Problems and the Paths to their Resolution’, in Ole Hoiris and Sefa Martin Yürükel (eds), Contrasts and Solutions in the Caucasus (Aarhus, Denmark: Aarhus University Press, 1998) p. 188. 2 J. Anchabadze, ‘History: the modern period’, in George Hewitt (ed.), The Abkhazians: A Handbook (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1998) p. 132; G. Hewitt, ‘Abkhazia: a problem of identity and ownership’, in J. Wright, S. Goldenburg and R. Schofield (eds), Transcaucansian Boundaries (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1995) p. 205. 3 S. Chervonnaya, Conflict in the Caucasus: Georgia, Abkhazia and the Russian Shadow, trans. Ariane Chanturia (Somerest, UK: Gothic Image Publications, 1978), p. 60. 4 ‘Soldiers Patrolling Soviet Georgia Amid Wave of Nationalist Protests’, New York Times, 8 April 1989, p. 1. 5 D. Slider, ‘Crisis and response in Soviet Nationality Policy: The Case of Abkhazia’, Central Asian Survey, 4, 4 (1985), p. 66. 6 J. Russel, ‘The Georgians’, Minority Rights Group Soviet Update (London: The Minority Rights Group, 1991), p. 2. 7 E. Fuller, ‘What are the Meskhetians’ Chances of Returning to Georgia?’, Report on the USSR, 1, 26, (1989), p. 18. 8 R. Dbar, ‘Geography and the environment’, in George Hewitt (ed), The Abkhazians: A Handbook, p. 23. 9 S. Benet, Abkhazians: The Long-Living People of the Caucasus (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1974) pp. 6–7; O. Bgazhba, ‘History: First 18 centuries’, in Hewitt, The Abkhazians, pp. 59–60. 10 See Bgazhba, ‘History: First 18 centuries’, p. 60. 11 S. Lak’oba, ‘History: 18th Century–1917’, in Hewitt, The Abkhazians, pp. 78–80. 12 S. Lak’oba, ‘History: 1917–1989’, in Hewitt, The Abkhazians, pp. 89 and 186.

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13 S. Lak’oba, ‘History: 1917–1989’, in Hewitt, The Abkhazians, pp. 89–90. 14 See Chervonnaya, Conflict in the Caucasus, pp. 22–27; Lak’oba, ‘History: 1917–1989’, pp. 90–93; Ozgan, ‘Abhazia’, p.186. 15 See Lak’oba, ‘History: 1917–1989’, pp. 24 and 94; Hewitt, ‘Abkhazia: a problem of identity and ownership’, p. 203; Ozgan, ‘Abhazia’, p. 186. 16 See Lak’oba, ‘History: 1917–1989’, p. 95; S. Lak’oba, ‘On the Political Problems of Abkhazia’, Central Asia and Caucasus Chronicle, 9, 1 (1990), pp. 17 and 29; Slider, ‘Crisis and Response in Soviet Nationality Policy’, pp. 52–3. 17 See Slider, ‘Crisis and Response in Soviet National Policy’, p. 53. 18 Ibid., pp. 53–4; Lak’oba, ‘On the Political Problems of Abkhazia’, p. 17; Chervonnaya, ‘Conflict in the Caucasus’, pp. 29–31; Lak’oba, ‘History: 1917–1989’, p. 95; Hewitt, ‘Abkhazia’, pp. 203–4. 19 See Ozgan, ‘Abhazia’, p. 187; Lak’oba, ‘History: 1917–1989’, pp. 96–7; Slider, ‘Crisis and Response in Soviet Nationality Policy’, p. 53–4. 20 See Slider, ‘Crisis and Response in Soviet National Policy’, pp. 54, 57, 58; Lak’oba, ‘History: 1917–1989’, p. 96. 21 Slider, ‘Crisis and Response in Soviet National Policy’, pp. 60–4; Hewitt, ‘Abkhazia’, p. 205; Lak’oba, ‘History: 1917–1989’, p. 98. 22 H.D’Encausse, The End of the Soviet Empire: The Triumph of the Nations, trans. Franklin Philip (New York: Harper Collins Publishers, 1993), p. 76. 23 Ibid., pp. 77–8; Chervonnaya, Conflict in the Caucasus, p. 57. 24 B. Nahaylo and V. Swoboda, Soviet Disunion: A History of the Nationalities Problems in the USSR (New York: The Free Press, 1990), p. 319; D’Encausse, The End of the Soviet Empire, p. 78. 25 See Nahaylo and Swoboda, Soviet Disunion, p. 340; S. Shane, ‘Georgia Reasserting Its Right to Secede from Soviet Union’, AP, 19 November 1989. 26 C. Barner-Barry and C. Hody, The Politics of Change: The Transformation of the Former Soviet Union (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1995) p. 230; Anchabadze, ‘History: the modern period’, pp. 135–7; D’Encausse, The End of the Soviet Empire, p. 241. 27 Barner-Barry and Hody, The Politics of Change, pp. 214–15, 230; D’Encausse, The End of the Soviet Empire, p. 262; Anchabadze, ‘History: the modern period’, pp. 136–7. 28 Anchabadze,‘History: The modern period’, pp. 136–7. 29 Hewitt, ‘Abkhazia’, p. 213; Anchabadze, ‘History: The Modern Period’, p. 137. 30 D’Encausse, End of the Soviet Empire, p. 262; Anchabadze, ‘History: The Modern Period’, p. 137; Barner-Barry and Hody, Politics of Change p. 215. 31 Hewitt, ‘Abkhazia’, p. 215. 32 E. Fuller, ‘Edward Shevardnadze’s Via Dolorosa’, RFE/RL Research Report 2, 43 (1993). 33 R. Woff, ‘The Armed Forces of Georgia’, Jane’s Intelligence Review (1993), p. 307; Fuller, ‘Edward Shevardnadze’s Via Dolorosa’; S. Theisen, ‘Mountainers, Racketeers and the Ideals of Modernity-State Building and Elite Competition in Caucasia’, in Ole Hoiris and Sefa Martin Yurukel (eds), Contrasts and Solutions in the Caucasus (Aarhus, Denmark: Aarhus University Press, 1998) p. 144. 34 Hewitt, The Abkhazians, p. 216; Fuller, ‘Edward Shevardnadze’s Via Dolorosa’; Anchabadze, ‘History: the modern period’, p. 138. 35 Theisen, ‘Mountaineers, Racketeers’, p. 144; Human Rights Watch Arms Project & Human Rights Watch, Helinski, Georgia/Abkhazia: Violations of the Laws of War and Russia’s Role in the Conflict (New York: Human Rights Watch, 1995) p. 16. 36 Human Rights Watch, Georgia/Abkhazia, pp. 17–19; Anchabadze, ‘History: The Modern Period’, p. 140; G. Hewitt, ‘Post-war Developments in the GeorgianAbkhazian Dispute’, in Ole Hoiris and Sefa Yurukel (eds), Contrasts and Solutions in the Caucasus (Aarhus, Denmark: Aarhus University Press, 1998) p. 222. 37 See Hewitt, ‘Abkhazia’, p. 219; Anchabadze, ‘History: The Modern Period’, p. 141. 38 Human Rights Watch, Georgia/Abkhazia, pp. 18–20.

The Abkhazians 161 39 Ibid., pp. 23–5. 40 S. Crow, ‘Russia Seeks Leadership in Regional Peacekeeping’, RFE/RL Research Report 15 (1993); T. Goltz, ‘Letter from Eurasia: The Hidden Russian Hand’, Foreign Policy 92 (1993) pp. 107–8. 41 See Hewitt, ‘Abkhazia’, p. 220; Hewitt, ‘Post-war Developments in the Georgian–Abkhazian Dispute’, p. 223; Anchabadze, ‘History: the modern period’, p. 143; Human Rights Watch, Georgia/Abkhazia, pp. 35–6; S. Schmemann, ‘Georgia Truce Collapses in Secessionist Attack on Black Sea Port’, New York Times, 19 September 1993; ‘Georgian Regional Capital Under Aerial Attack’, New York Times, 21 September 1993; S. Schmemann, ‘In Crushing Blow to Georgia, City Falls to Secessionists’, New York Times, 28 September 1993. 42 Human Rights Watch Georgia/Abkhazia, pp. 28, 32, 38; Goltz, T., ‘Letter from Eurasia’, p. 107. 43 E. Fuller, ‘Quotations of the Week’, RFE/RL Caucasus Report 1, 44 (1998). 44 S. Shamba, ‘Interview with Abkhazian Foreign Minister Sergie Shamba with Nikolaus von Twickel, correspondent of Mittel deutscher Zeitung Kolner Stadt Anzeiger’, 26 September 1997, at www.apsny.org/shamba19970926 45 Barner-Barry and Hody, The Politics of Change, pp. 269–70. 46 Human Rights Watch, Georgia/Abkhazia, p. 37; B. Porter and Saivetz, ‘The Once and Future Empire: Russia and the Near Abroad’, Washington Quarterly, 17, 3 (1994) p. 85; M. Glenny, ‘The Bear in the Caucasus’, Harper’s Magazine, 288, 1726 (1994) p. 47; Barner-Barry and Hody, The Politics of Change, p. 270; J. Feinberg, The Armed Forces of Georgia, (Washington, DC: Center for Defense Information (1999)) p. 17; Fuller, ‘Quotations of the Week’, p. 203. 47 Human Rights Watch Georgia/Abkhazia, p. 39; V. Chirikba, ‘Republic of Abkhazia (apsny) Review of Events for the Year 1996’, at www.apsny.org/review 48 See Hewitt, The Abkhazians, pp. 266–7; Chirikba, ‘Republic of Abkhazia’. 49 See Hewitt, The Abkhazians, pp. 267–71. 50 See Hewitt, ‘Post-war Developments in the Georgian–Abkhazian Dispute’, p. 202; Ozgan, ‘Abhazia’, p. 197. 51 See Chirikba, ‘Republic of Abkhazia’, Hewitt, ‘Post-war Developments in the Georgian’–‘Abkhazian Dispute’, pp. 209, 212, 215. 52 See Chirikba, ‘Republic of Abkhazia’, E. Fuller, ‘Georgian–Abkhazian Deadlock Continues’, RFE/RL Caucasus Report 1, 42 (1998). 53 E. Fuller, ‘Abkhaz Deadline Expires’, RFE/RL Caucasus Report 2, 18 (1999). 54 See Feinberg, The Armed Forces of Georgia, p. 34. 55 See E. Fuller, ‘The Blood Dimmed Tide is Loosed’, RFE/RL Caucasus Report 1, 13 (1998); Feinberg, The Armed Forces of Georgia, pp. 13, 35. 56 See Fuller, ‘Georgian-Abkhazian Deadlock Continues’; E. Fuller, Georgia Lobbies for International Condemnation of Alleged Ethnic Cleansing’, RFE/RL Caucasus Report 2, 29 (1999); E. Fuller, ‘Georgia Appears to Backtrack on Abkhaz Accords’, RFE/RL Caucasus Report 4, 5 (2001). 57 See Feinberg, The Armed Forces of Georgia, p. 18. 58 E. Fuller, ‘Georgian President Hints at Concession to Russia’, RFE/RL Caucasus Report 4, 6 (2001). 59 See Chirikba, ‘Republic of Abkhazia’. 60 E. Fuller, ‘Georgia, U.N. to Draft New Abkhaz Peace Plan?’ RFE/RL Caucasus Report 2, 48 (1999). 61 Ibid. 62 See Fuller, ‘Georgia Appears to Backtrack on Abkhaz Accords’, (2001). 63 E. Fuller, ‘Abkhaz Standoff Could Presage New Fighting’, RFE/RL Caucasus Report 4, 17 (2001). 64 Diamond, T., ‘UN Secretary-General Reports on Abkhazia, as Georgia Unravels’, Eurasia Insight, 1 November 2001, at www.eurasinet.org/departments/insight/articles

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65 E. Fuller, ‘How Does Abkhazia Envisage Its Future Relationship with Russia?’ RFE/RL Caucasus Report 4, 36 (2001). 66 J. Devdariani, ‘Fresh UN Resolution on Abkhazia Fails to Generate Optimism’, Eurasia Insight, 7 February 2002, at www.eurasianet.org/departments/insight/articles 67 E. Fuller, ‘Capture of Guerillas Triggers New Crisis in Georgian–Russian Relations’, RFE/RL Caucasus Report 5, 11 (2002); J. Devdariani, ‘US and Georgian Officials Move to Next Phase of Military Deployment’, Eurasia Insight, 4 March 2002, at www.eurasianet.org/departments/insight/articles 68 M. MacKinnon, ‘Russian passports anger Georgia’, Toronto Globe and Mail, 2 July 2002. 69 J. Devdariani, ‘Georgia’s Turmoil Heightens Tension in Separatist Regions’, Eurasia Insight, 15 October 2002, at www.eurasianet.org/departments/insight/articles 70 S. Blagov, ‘Military Issues Block Russia–Georgian Détent’, Eurasia Insight, 6 January 2003, at www.eurasianet.org/departments/insight/articles 71 D. Bargandzhia, ‘Economy: Traditional and Modern’, in Hewitt, The Abkhazians, pp. 159–61; V. Chirikba, ‘Abkhazia: Economic and Political Situation and Perspectives’, 4 November 1999, at www.abkhazia.org/chirikba19990411/html 72 See Bargandzhia, ‘Economy: Traditional and Modern’, pp. 156–61; Chirikba, ‘Abkhazia: Economic and Political Situation and Perspectives’. 73 See Bargandzhia, ‘Economy: Traditional and Modern’, pp. 162–4. 74 Chirikba, ‘Abkhazia: Economic and Political Situation and Perspectives’ (1999). 75 Ibid. 76 Ibid; I. Bell (ed.), Eastern Europe, Russia and Central Asia, 2003, 3rd edn. (London: Europa Publications, 2002), p. 199. 77 See Bargandzhia, ‘Economy: Traditional and Modern’, p. 165. 78 Ibid., p. 164; Chirikba, ‘Abkhazia: Economic and Political Situation and Perspectives’. 79 See Chirikba, ‘Abkhazia: Economic and Political Situation and Perspectives’. 80 See Bargandzhia, ‘Economy: Traditional and Modern’, pp. 165–6; Chirikba, ‘Abkhazia: Economic and Political Situation and Perspectives’; E. Fuller, ‘Reading Russian–Georgian Tea Leaves’, RFE/RL Caucasus Report 5, 27 (2002). 81 See Anchabadze, ‘History: The Modern Period’, p. 136. 82 See Anchabadze, ‘History: The Modern Period’, p. 140. 83 See I. Bell, Eastern Europe, Russia and Central Asia, p. 172; Parliamentary Human Rights Group (PHRG), ‘The Elections in Abkhazia and the prospects for peace: Report on visit to Georgia/21–28 November 1996, at www.apsny.org/phrgrep 84 See I. Bell, Eastern Europe, Russia and Central Asia, pp. 173, 199; Republic of Abkhazia (1999), at www.channel.com/users/abkhazia/index 85 E. Fuller, ‘Abkhazia Prepares for Parliamentary Elections’, RFE/RL Caucasus Report, 5, 8 (2002). 86 See Blagov, ‘Military Issues Block Russia–Georgian Détent’, V. Kafka, ‘Gagulia: Abkhazia works accomading refugees’, Kafkas Vakfi Caucasus Foundation, 6 February 2003, at www.kafkas.org.tr/English/TARIH/index 87 See Fuller, ‘Georgia Appears to Backtrack on Abkhaz Accords’. 88 S. Pegg, International Society and the De Facto State (Brookfield, Vermont: Ashgate Publishing Company), p. 1. 89 R. Jackson, Quasi-states: Sovereignty, International Relations and the Third World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), pp. 27–30, 34. 90 See Pegg, International Society and the De Facto State, pp. 5, 6. 91 I. Claude, Jr, ‘Collective Legitimization as a Political Function of the United Nations’, International Organization, 20 (1966), pp. 368–9. 92 See Pegg, International Society and the De Facto State, pp. 120–32. 93 Ibid. 94 J.S. Barkin and B. Cronin, ‘The State and the Nation: Changing Norms and the Rules of Sovereignty in International Relations’, International Organization, 48 (1994), pp. 107–30.

The Abkhazians 163 95 96 97 98 99

See Jackson, Quasi-states, p. 34. See Pegg, International Society and the De Facto State, p. 127. Ibid., pp. 128–32. Ibid., pp. 132–7. K. Holsti, ‘War, Peace and the State of the State’, International Political Science Review, 16 (1995), p. 330. 100 See Pegg, International Society and the De Facto State, pp. 138–40.

8

Under Turkey’s wings The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, the struggle for international acceptance Tozun Bahcheli We are allergic to the word ‘minority’. (Osman Ertug, Undersecretary, Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Defence, Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, 21 May 2001) The European Union could not indefinitely ignore the aspirations of the majority of the population to be an EU member. (Hans Van Den Broek, EU External Affairs Commissioner, 16 March 1996)

Introduction It is not surprising that most Turkish Cypriots dislike the use of the word ‘minority’ when it is used in a political context vis-à-vis the Greek Cypriot community. They are troubled that Greek Cypriots and the bulk of the international community view Cypriot society and possible solutions of the Cyprus problem in majority–minority terms. Yet even so, the fact is that Turkish Cypriots have governed themselves in their self-declared state in northern Cyprus for three decades. Established in 1983, the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC) has functioned like many states in the international community: its government maintains effective control over its territory and provides a myriad of services to its population. Its leadership can boast a mandate achieved through free elections. Nevertheless, in spite of its seeming endurance and sponsorship by such a powerful regional state as Turkey, the TRNC has been shunned by most of the international community. As troublesome as this has been to the TRNC leadership, generous Turkish support and the expectation of greater international acceptance (and perhaps even recognition) have sustained the TRNC leaders’ hopes of better prospects in the future: Turkish Cypriot leadership has anticipated that, with the passage of time, the international community would acknowledge the ‘facts on the ground’, that is the hardening partition and the eventual separation of the Mediterranean island into two states. Due to the regional dimensions of the stalemate, however, there has been vigorous rejection of this kind of realism in favour of a policy of internationalizing the Cyprus Question. This is reflected by the presence of the United Nations Force in Cyprus (UNFICYP) on

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the island since 1964, and the UN Security Council’s authorization of the secretary-general to use his good offices to resolve the Cyprus issue. Other parties, too, particularly the United States, the United Kingdom and the EU, usually acting in collaboration with the UN, have endeavoured to promote a Cyprus settlement. Because of successful initiatives on the part of the Greek Cypriots and the Greek government, the international community has remained engaged in Cyprus for some sort of resolution; the United Nations, the United States, the United Kingdom and, more recently, the EU, have all remained committed to the achievement of the island’s reunification. Given such intense international pressure, the Turkish Cypriot leadership felt obliged to participate in UN-sponsored negotiations with its Greek Cypriot counterpart. To varying degrees, third parties have acknowledged the mistrust and decades of separation between the two communities, and the need for considerable Turkish Cypriot autonomy in a future united Cyprus; yet none have been willing to confer de jure status to the de facto Turkish Cypriot state. Turkish Cypriots have therefore sought to rectify their weakness as an unrecognized ‘minority’ by turning to Turkey for support. Indeed, this reliance on ‘big brother’ to counter Greek Cypriot nationalist aspirations has been a constant factor in Turkish Cypriot political life since the end of Ottoman rule. The Turkish community enjoyed the status of a privileged minority during Ottoman rule (1570–1878); as the Ottoman Sultan’s Muslim subjects, they paid lower taxes than the Orthodox Christian Greeks on the island, an arrangement that came to an end when British administration replaced Ottoman rule in 1878. No longer restrained by Ottoman rulers on the island, Greek Cypriot nationalist leaders agitated to achieve representative government and the eventual union of Cyprus with Greece, a national goal known as enosis. Greek Cypriot nationalists shared the Greek governments’ view of Cyprus as a Hellenic island waiting to be redeemed by the motherland at an appropriate time. As the majority of the island’s population (80 per cent), Greek Cypriots cared little that Turkish Cypriots might be uninterested in, or opposed to enosis; for Turkish Cypriots, though, enosis meant becoming an insignificant and neglected minority in a Greek state. Indeed, fearing discrimination at the hands of the Greek Cypriot majority, Turkish Cypriots also resisted initiatives for representative government. To this end, they entered into an alliance with the British colonial administration and additionally counted on Turkey to oppose enosis. Given these conflicting goals, there was predictable trouble when Greek Cypriot leaders began a new and quite effective campaign in 1955 to end British rule in order to achieve enosis. The years spanning 1955 to 1959 were of critical importance in shaping political attitudes among Turkish Cypriots, particularly their relations with Greek Cypriots and with Turkey. First, the pursuit of enosis drove a wedge between the two communities by provoking serious communal clashes that claimed hundreds of Greek and Turkish lives and created much bitterness and mistrust. Consequently, efforts for finding a compromise settlement were handicapped. Second, Turkey became increasingly involved in Cyprus from

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1955 onward, not only to protect the interests of Turkish Cypriots but, more important, to safeguard its own strategic interests by preventing Greek sovereignty of the island. Turkey exercised its considerable weight vis à vis the parties in the island, as well as with Greece and the United Kingdom, and demonstrated its importance in any future deliberations regarding the island’s future. Thus, it was at Turkey’s behest that the call for partition – adopted in response to enosis – was abandoned in 1958. It was Ankara and Athens (and not Turkish or Greek Cypriots) who conducted the negotiations in Zurich and London the next year that brought about an agreement for independence and communal powersharing in the island. Turkish Cypriots had no credible choice but to follow Ankara’s leadership. Turkey used its leverage to secure considerable protection for the Turkish community. The Republic was to have not only a Greek Cypriot president but also a Turkish Cypriot vice-president empowered with veto rights over foreign affairs, defence and security. In addition, the adoption of legislation required separate majorities in the parliament. The independence constitution also provided for a 7 : 3 ratio for Greek and Turkish Cypriots respectively in the cabinet, parliament and civil service, even though Turkish Cypriots represented 20 per cent of the island’s population. The Turkish community was obviously pleased that Turkey (together with Greece and the United Kingdom) became a guarantor with the right to intervene to protect Cyprus’s independence and to station a small contingent on the island. Nevertheless, many Turkish Cypriots remained pessimistic about the prospects of intercommunal cooperation so soon after the violence and mistrust of the preceding years.

Through Turkish Cypriot eyes: the failure of power sharing and its aftermath The sceptics were soon vindicated, as the two communities quarreled over the application of key constitutional provisions a year after the founding of the Republic of Cyprus in 1960. One of the contested issues concerned civil service quotas: Greek Cypriot officials contended that there were not enough qualified Turkish Cypriots to fill the 30 per cent quotas; Turkish Cypriot leaders countered that there were qualified members of their community whom Greek Cypriot officials overlooked. Another controversial issue was related to the division of municipalities in the five major towns, as provided in the constitution. Greek Cypriot leaders wanted to defer separation, claiming that it could be used as a basis of partition in the future. Turkish Cypriots pressed for implementation, fearing that their neighbourhoods would be poorly served by unified municipal authorities controlled by the Greek majority. These and similar issues caused an impasse and immobilized the bi-communal government. Turkish Cypriots made the full application of the constitution the litmus test of Greek Cypriot trustworthiness. But Greek Cypriots pledged to make the constitution more workable by revising some of its key articles, including

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those relating to veto rights and separate majorities for adopting legislation: these revisions would have removed major constitutional protections for Turkish Cypriots. Securing Turkish Cypriot consent became impossible as Greek Cypriot leaders’ renewed advocacy of enosis in a number of speeches beginning in 1962, thereby angering Turkish Cypriots. Few Cypriots were surprised when intercommunal warfare broke out in December 1963, soon after Greek Cypriot President Makarios submitted proposals for constitutional changes that would have substituted individual for communal rights for Turkish Cypriots.1 Greek Cypriots blamed the 1960 constitution, namely the difficulties in applying its key provisions, for the failure of the bi-communal government; they also held the Turkish Cypriot leadership responsible for the civil strife that ensued. However, Turkish Cypriots blamed Greek Cypriot leaders entirely for the failure of the constitutional order, and the ensuing suffering of the Turkish community. Citing the pro-enosis speeches of Makarios and his ministers, and the revelations of the Akritas Plan, they argued that Greek Cypriot leaders were never serious in applying the 1960 constitution.2 After 1963, Greek Cypriots assumed total control of the Cyprus government, preventing Turkish Cypriots from assuming their positions in the civil service, parliament and cabinet. Denied any government funding Turkish Cypriots were forced to rely on financial aid from Turkey. Also, 25,000 Turkish Cypriots (one quarter of the community) became refugees during 1963 and 1964. Confined to a mere 3 per cent of the island’s territory in vulnerable enclaves, and surrounded by superior Greek Cypriot forces, Turkish Cypriots endured a decade of physical insecurity and poor economic conditions. Turkish Cypriots who lived through the 1963 to 1974 period nurse bitter memories and often dwell on instances of mistreatment and threats to their physical security posed by Greek Cypriots when the latter enjoyed military and political dominance. The Turkish Cypriot reluctance to re-establish a joint government with Greek Cypriots after 1974 is thus explainable by the memories of the preceding decade. Turkish Cypriots were losers in the aftermath of the of bi-communal government’s collapse. In a reflection of their weakened position in the post-1963 period, they were forced to compromise on some key issues: they agreed to reduce the Turkish Cypriot participation in the government from 30 per cent to 20 per cent, and to narrow the range of issues over which the Turkish Cypriot vice-president could exercise his veto. However, they demanded the right to exercise ‘local autonomy’ in areas of Turkish Cypriot concentration. But this federal-type arrangement was rejected by the Greek Cypriot leadership on the grounds that it aimed at creating a ‘state within a state’. Bargaining from a position of strength, Makarios wanted to achieve a settlement that would enable Greek Cypriots to exercise majority rule without the power-sharing constraints contained in the 1960 Constitution. Makarios may well have succeeded were it not for the huge miscalculation of the military regime that held power in Greece from 1967 to 1974. On 15 July 1974, Greek junta leader Brigadier General Dimitrios Ioannidis engineered a coup against Makarios. The overthrow of the Greek Cypriot leader was

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intended to bring about enosis, yet by triggering Turkey’s military intervention it unleashed a war that led to the island’s partition. Turkish forces occupied 37 per cent of Cyprus’ territory.

The post-1974 realities: negotiating federation, consolidating partition The results of the 1974 war transformed the political position of Turkish Cypriots from weakness to one of considerable bargaining strength. As a consequence of the war, 160,000 Greek Cypriots (a third of the Greek community) were forced to abandon their homes and properties in the areas occupied by Turkish troops and sought refuge in the south. At the same time, 45,000 Turkish Cypriots (representing nearly 40 per cent of the Turkish community) decided to move to the greater safety of the north. Having gathered virtually all Turkish Cypriots in northern Cyprus, the Turkish Cypriot leadership created for the first time a territorial basis for separate governance; this, together with the presence of tens of thousands of Turkish troops, as well as the possession of some territories that could be returned to Greek Cypriots in negotiations, meant that Turkish Cypriots would have a strong hand in demanding a new settlement based on communal separation. In 1975, the Turkish Cypriot leaders declared the ‘Turkish Federated State of Cyprus’, arguing that they were formalizing the Turkish part of the yet unformed Cyprus federation; at a minimum, they aspired for a Turkish Cypriot state in north Cyprus that would be loosely connected with its Greek Cypriot counterpart in a federal state. At best, with Turkey’s help and international acceptance, the Turkish Cypriot leadership hoped for an independent state. In order to bolster the Turkish Cypriot claim to the territory in the north, the Denktash government – acting in concert with Ankara – sought to shift the demographic balance on the island by bringing thousands of settlers from Turkey who were assigned Greek Cypriot houses and land. This resettlement programme enraged Greek Cypriots; although the number of settlers was disputed between Turkish and Greek Cypriots, and within the Turkish community on the island, some estimates suggested that roughly a third of the TRNC’s population of 200,000 was made up of Anatolian settlers who moved to the island since 1974.3 Whereas the Turkish Cypriot proportion of the island’s total population was about 19 per cent in 1974, the influx of settlers from Turkey increased that percentage to roughly 24 per cent by 1996.4 To the discomfiture of Turkish Cypriot and Turkish officials, this demographic engineering created social tensions between mainlanders and local Turkish Cypriots: the bulk of Turkish settlers came to Cyprus from poor rural areas of Turkey; they are more religiously observant and socially conservative than most Turkish Cypriots. As a result, their integration in Turkish Cypriot society has been problematic. Turkish Cypriots consider themselves more ‘modern’ than mainland Turks: they are better educated, more secular and enjoy a higher standard of living. More to the point, though, they are concerned that immigration from Turkey since 1974 has diluted the ‘Cypriot’ character of the society in the north.

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In the post-1974 period, the prospect of increasing settlement from Turkey has added to the pressures on Greek Cypriots to revise their position on the terms of a settlement. The new Turkish Cypriot leverage became apparent when the Greek Cypriot leadership dropped its pre-1974 opposition to a federal settlement. Calculating that the alternative to a federal solution would be permanent partition, Greek Cypriot leader Makarios agreed to negotiate a federal solution with Denktash in 1977. However, any expectation that the parties’ agreement to create a federation would yield a settlement was soon laid to rest. Turkish and Greek Cypriot negotiators wrangled for years over the powers of the envisaged central government and the constituent states, the authority of guarantor powers and territorial arrangements. During nearly two decades of negotiations after 1977, Denktash appeared willing to accept Cyprus’s reunification in the form of a loose federation. However, his brand of federalism proved unpalatable to Greek Cypriots, who emphasized the unity of the island and sought a centralized federation in which Greek and Turkish Cypriots could move freely and settle anywhere on the island. Greek Cypriots typically proposed majoritarian features in a settlement. Denktash countered these proposals by calling for political equality for both communities. Capitalizing on fears that accepting a joint government would leave the Turkish community at the mercy of the Greek majority, as happened during 1963 to 1974, he insisted that Turkish Cypriots exercise self-rule in a future ‘bi-zonal’ federation. He was equally adamant regarding Turkey’s guarantor rights and rejected Greek Cypriot demands to revise the Treaty of Guarantee to let the UN Security Council, rather than the guarantor powers, safeguard future security on the island. In view of the fundamental differences between the positions of the two communities, prospects for a breakthrough appeared bleak for several years after the post-1974 negotiations began under UN auspices. Denktash calculated that the passage of time enabled Turkish Cypriots to consolidate their de facto state in northern Cyprus and saw no need to compromise his basic positions. By the same token, given their aversion to what appeared to be partitionist solutions, and fearing the military threat posed by Turkey, Greek Cypriots refused to accept a settlement that would legitimize the division of the island brought about by Turkish military might. They also refused to accept settlement formulas that would sanction Turkey’s long-term military presence on the island. Even though Greek Cypriots lost the war of 1974, suffered huge economic losses and were saddled with a large refugee problem, they enjoyed a paramount advantage: the international recognition of the Greek Cypriot-controlled Republic of Cyprus as the sole legitimate government of the island. That status enabled them – together with Greece – to bring international pressures to bear on Turkish Cypriots and Turkey to end the island’s division. With the advantage of international legitimacy, Greek Cypriots could more effectively present their case in international fora, much to the chagrin of Turkish Cypriots. Most of the UN resolutions supported the Greek Cypriot position by calling for the reunification of the island and the departure of non-Cypriot (i.e. Turkish) troops.

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Similarly, Greek Cypriot officials, as representatives of the Republic of Cyprus, secured favourable communiqués in meetings of the non-aligned states and of the Commonwealth. In spite of their paramount weakness of non-recognition, the Turkish Cypriots have not been helpless in presenting their case in the international arena. With Turkey’s assistance, they have been able to secure observer status and argue their position in various organizations, most notably the Organization of the Islamic Conference and the Economic Co-operation Organization (Iran, Pakistan, Turkey, Afghanistan, Azerbaijan and the five other Soviet successor states in Central Asia). In addition, the Turkish Cypriot government has dispatched representatives to offices in Washington, London, Brussels, New York, Islamabad, Baku and Abu Dhabi. Except in Ankara, where the TRNC representative is accorded full diplomatic status, none of the offices in these capitals enjoys diplomatic privileges; however, Turkish Cypriot representatives in these cities have been able to lobby and win understanding and a measure of support for their cause. Yet the failure to win recognition for the TRNC has been very disappointing to Turkish Cypriots, and the lack of international legitimacy has been costly in economic terms. The Greek Cypriot government has succeeded in imposing an economic embargo on the Turkish Cypriot-administered part of the island. The embargo involved boycotting goods from the area administered by Turkish Cypriots but it also persuaded other states, namely European countries, to do the same. As a result of successful Greek Cypriot representations, foreign governments – with the exception of Turkey – have not allowed scheduled flights to the Turkish Cypriotadministered area, thereby curtailing the north’s tourist development.

The TRNC: a means to an end, or an end? Turkish Cypriots have felt betrayed by the international community for both supporting the economic embargo and for accepting the claim of the Greek Cypriot-controlled Republic of Cyprus as the only legitimate government of the island. At the same time, they have accused the Greek Cypriots of being more interested in bringing international pressures to bear on Turkish Cypriots and Turkey than in negotiating the terms of a new settlement as equals. With no equivalent international standing, Turkish Cypriots have resented Greek Cypriots’ use of their exclusive status to garner international support for their position. In May 1983, the Greek Cypriot government’s recourse to the UN General Assembly led to Resolution 37/253, demanding ‘the immediate withdrawal of all occupation forces from the Republic of Cyprus’.5 As with similar initiatives, this exploitation of the international standing of Greek Cypriots angered Turkish Cypriots and set the stage for dramatic Turkish Cypriot countermeasures. The Turkish Cypriot Legislative Assembly, at Denktash’s initiative, proceeded to declare the founding of the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus on 15 November 1983. Denktash and his supporters hoped that the acquisition of statehood would help redress the balance between the two communities by giving Turkish Cypriots an

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international status comparable to that of their Greek Cypriot counterparts. Cast in these terms, even left-wing politicians opposed to the idea of creating a separate state, felt pressured to support what turned out to be a unanimous motion for self-determination.6 Turkey promptly recognized the newly declared state and proceeded to exchange ambassadors. Yet no other country recognized the Turkish Cypriot state. Bangladesh declared its willingness to recognize the TRNC soon after its declaration but withdrew the offer a few days later, apparently after the United States urged it not to proceed with recognition. Worried that new tensions in Cyprus could worsen already strained Turkish–Greek relations, the United Kingdom submitted UN Security Council Resolution 541 that called for a reversal of the declaration of statehood by the Turkish Cypriots and urged other states not to recognize the new state. The resolution was adopted by 13 votes; Pakistan voted against it, and Jordan abstained.7 Was the creation of the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus an end in itself, or did the Turkish Cypriot leadership intend independent statehood to bolster its negotiating position in the intercommunal talks? Greek Cypriots (as well as some Turkish Cypriots) have for years believed that Denktash has been more interested in sustaining a separate Turkish Cypriot state than in reaching an agreement that would reunify the island as a federation. Third party mediators, too, felt that the Turkish Cypriot leader had little interest in a federal settlement that would have him abandon the TRNC and its claim of separate sovereignty in the future. They nevertheless remained hopeful that a bizonal federation that met both Turkish Cypriot and Greek Cypriot security needs could nonetheless be negotiated. Turkish Cypriot mistrust of Greek Cypriots meant that for many years Denktash faced little domestic pressure to adopt a stance in favour of reunification. By soliciting Turkey’s protection and subsidies to the TRNC, Denktash calculated that he could weather international pressures for a settlement that would create a joint government with Greek Cypriots. This same dependence upon Turkey, however, caused him at times (to wit, the UN draft plan in 1984/85) to be forced – however unwillingly – to consider a federal settlement. Responding to an appeal from Turkish president General Kenan Evren in 1984, Denktash agreed to drop his demand for a rotating presidency, and to reduce the territorial size of the envisaged Turkish Cypriot state or province to less than 30 per cent of the island’s total. Both these concessions paved the way to what was arguably the most promising opportunity to reach a federal settlement and reunify the island: Denktash agreed to the draft of a federal settlement presented by UN secretary general, Xavier Perez de Cuellar at a summit meeting with Greek Cypriot leader Spyros Kyprianou in January 1985. Far from being disappointed, Denktash was relieved when Kyprianou refused to sign the UN draft. The failed summit improved Denktash’s international standing in the short run: he was seen as willing to settle, unlike his Greek Cypriot counterpart. However, during later negotiations with Kyprianou’s successors, namely George Vasiliou and Glafkos Clerides, Denktash was seen by third parties as showing less flexibility in negotiations than his Greek Cypriot counterparts.

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During the course of the 1990 summit meeting with Vasiliou, Denktash insisted that his Greek Cypriot counterpart acknowledge the right of Turkish Cypriots to self-determination, but it was extremely unlikely that any Greek Cypriot leader would accept such a demand. Denktash, in turn, saw no major incentive to give up the TRNC and accept a settlement requiring a joint Greek and Turkish Cypriot government. He thus rejected the ‘Set of Ideas’ presented by the United Nations in 1992 (together with the map depicting major territorial adjustments in favour of Greek Cypriots).8 Although the Greek Cypriot government also rejected the UN blueprint in 1992, the UN Secretariat and other third parties such as the United States and United Kingdom saw Denktash as less accommodating than Greek Cypriot leaders.9 However, as long as Ankara continued to support the TRNC, the Turkish Cypriot leader was able to defy pressures by third parties to reach a political settlement on terms that could win Greek Cypriot consent. Indeed, the apparent boost of Turkey’s regional influence soon after the end of the Cold War raised Turkish Cypriot hopes that greater Turkish international stature would secure a more promising future for the TRNC. In the post-Cold War environment, following the Soviet Union’s collapse, Ankara saw new opportunities for exercising Turkish influence in the Balkans, the Caucasus and Central Asia. Not the least, the emergence of independent former Soviet republics with majority Turkic populations (Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan) raised Turkish Cypriot hopes – though unfulfilled – of winning diplomatic recognition for the TRNC. In addition, and perhaps more important, Ankara’s support for the United States-led coalition in the 1991 Gulf War emphasized Turkey’s strategic assets and enhanced its diplomatic standing in Washington. With greater clout, Turkey could more effectively counter the activities of pro-Greek and Greek Cypriot lobbies in Washington and other international pressures hostile to Turkish Cypriot interests. Furthermore, with Turkish–Greek relations remaining poor or even worsening during much of the 1990s, partly due to Aegean quarrels, Ankara was unlikely to consider making concessions to Greek Cypriots and Greece over Cyprus. On 29 August 1994, the TRNC Assembly voted by 30 to 16 to overturn two previous resolutions dated 1984 and 1985 which stated that ‘setting up a federal state on the island was the only solution to the Cyprus problem’.10 The Assembly’s declaration confirmed that the Turkish Cypriot position had shifted away from a federation. As Nancy Crawshaw, a long-time observer of Cypriot political developments, explained: The difference between ‘federation’ and ‘confederation’ may be blurred, but it has been clear for some years that the Turkish Cypriots have been moving away from the original agreement in favour of two sovereign states with equal rights to self determination. This was confirmed in March 1990 by Rauf Denktash in discussions with the then UN secretary-general, Javier Perez de Cuellar.11

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Although he apparently advocated a confederal rather than federal solution for some years, Denktash made the Turkish Cypriot position more explicit on 31 August 1998, when, with Ankara’s backing, he called for a two-state confederation. He proposed that negotiations should aim at creating a ‘confederal structure of two peoples and two sovereign states’,12 while entrenching the special dual Cypriot relationships with their respective motherlands. Predictably, the Greek Cypriots rejected Denktash’s call for a confederation; Greek Cypriot Foreign Minister Ioannis Kasoulides stated that ‘confederation is worse than partition’.13

Economic factors: the TRNC’s Achilles heel? For many years, Denktash’s tough negotiating stance with his Greek Cypriot counterparts won him substantial political support. Yet his bid to secure the future of the TRNC has been compromised by the recurrent economic difficulties faced by the Turkish community. TRNC officials have boasted that Turkish Cypriot incomes have increased threefold since 1977. Whereas the per capita income was $1,444 in 1977, it doubled to $3,477 by 1990 and reached $4,000 by 2002.14 On account of the considerable grey economy, it is widely believed that the real income of most Turkish Cypriots is higher than suggested by official figures.15 At an estimated per capita GDP of US$4,00016 (for the year 2002), the TRNC has a higher standard of living than any of the de facto states examined in this volume. The TRNC has benefited greatly from the economic support provided by its ‘Big Brother’ at a level that other de facto states would envy. Turkey has invested in several infrastructure projects in the TRNC and has provided credits and other forms of development aid. Large financial transfers from Turkey have enabled the Turkish Cypriot community to achieve a standard of living higher than that in Turkey itself. In a report issued in 2002, the EU Commission gave a nuanced assessment: On an annual equivalent basis, Turkey provides at least 100–200 million euros in economic and financial support, in the form of direct aid, loans, subsidies and other grants. Turkey has promised aid of about 225 million euros for 2002/2005. However, the amount is set in Turkish lira, which effectively reduces real annual economic support by the high rate of inflation. In addition, in March 2002 it was announced that $260 million will be given according to an investment incentive plan, but here the same remark applies.17 Turkish Cypriot economic achievements have been eclipsed by more impressive economic accomplishments in the south. With a per capita gross domestic product of US$13,000 Greek Cypriot incomes are more than three times higher than that of their Turkish Cypriot counterparts.18 Moreover, whereas poor economic growth and high levels of inflation have periodically blighted the TRNC economy, the Greek Cypriot government has attained high rates of economic growth with low inflation.

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Most Turkish Cypriots blame the Greek Cypriot embargo for their economic difficulties, arguing that without the international embargo and boycott, the island’s northern economy would prosper. Although the embargo’s effects on the Turkish Cypriot economy are difficult to measure, there is no doubt that it has seriously hampered the TRNC’s economic development, especially in tourism. The Turkish–Cypriot administered area has some of the most attractive coastline on the island; unlike the south where intensive hotel development has blighted the coastal environment, the north boasts an unspoiled habitat. However, the boycott of the Turkish Cypriot airport by virtually all airlines because of the political ban on scheduled flights to the TRNC has taken a heavy toll. In 2000, the north received 433,000 tourists (of whom 348,000 were from Turkey), compared with 2,686,000 in the south.19 The lack of de jure status has imposed other economic costs on the Turkish Cypriot state as well. The TRNC has been unable to receive aid of the kind that the Greek Cypriot government has secured from a number of states and international bodies, such as the World Bank, the United Nations Development Programme and the EU; nor has it attracted outside investment of any significance. Even private Turkish investors have shunned the Turkish Cypriot state. Nevertheless, in spite of these handicaps, Turkish Cypriots were able to export their products with little hindrance for about two decades after 1974. Turkish Cypriot export of some key commodities became very difficult since 1994 however. Following an appeal by the Greek Cypriot government, the European Court of Justice ruled that exports from the TRNC were illegal if they did not have the ‘sanitary certificates’ of the republic (that is, of the Greek Cypriot authorities). Given that the EU, particularly the United Kingdom, has been the TRNC’s largest export market (the main commodities being citrus, potatoes and clothing), the ruling was a substantial blow to the Turkish Cypriot economy.20 Turkey assumed the large costs associated with re-exporting Turkish Cypriot citrus and clothing after the European Court of Justice ruling and has continued to support the TRNC economy. Yet, as noted previously, Ankara’s financial help was constrained by Turkey’s own economic problems in the late 1990s. This became apparent when Turkey experienced a deep economic crisis in 2000. While the Turkish Cypriot and Turkish authorities have conveniently blamed the Greek Cypriot embargo for their economic woes, other factors have clearly hampered the TRNC economy: the EU Commission report has stated that ‘the northern part of the island continues to face severe shortages of capital, skills and business’.21 Moreover, many Turkish Cypriots and Turks believe that poor management has also taken a toll on the north’s economy. This view is widely shared by Turkish officials and may be why Ankara insisted on stringent conditions for the aid package it made available to the TRNC in 2000.22 Whereas Turkish Cypriots have been prepared to pay an economic price for the sake of having a separate state, persistent economic problems have shaken confidence in the economic viability of the TRNC. Whereas Greek Cyprus has been importing labourers, substantial numbers of Turkish Cypriots have emigrated in search of better economic prospects abroad.23 Whereas only a few

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hundred Turkish Cypriots were employed by Greek Cypriot enterprises in past years, that number has grown to 7,000 in 2002.24 All of these factors have generated considerable Turkish Cypriot pessimism that their government can sustain a healthy economy, and while adverse economic conditions alone cannot be held responsible for an apparent crisis of confidence since 2000, there appears to be a correlation between the health of the economy and Turkish Cypriot doubts regarding the merits of indefinite separation from the south. It is not a coincidence that many Turkish Cypriots have appeared willing to forsake separate statehood in favour of a loose federation within the EU (as stipulated in the UN plan of 2002) following the economic crisis that began in late 1999, increasing unemployment levels, and a sharp reduction in the purchasing power of Turkish Cypriots. An opinion poll in northern Cyprus in 2002 showed that support for a two-state confederation dropped from 27.2 per cent in 2000 to 11.8 per cent in 2002.25 Such results have obviously weakened the hand of the TRNC leadership.

Proliferating third parties: enter the EU Although he was able to frustrate Greek Cypriot attempts to reunify the island under a single sovereignty, Denktash and the Turkish government could not turn international attention away from the Cyprus issue. In spite of Turkish Cypriot/Turkish endeavours since the war of 1974, third-party involvement and pressures on Denktash and Ankara have remained steady and even increased. Greek Cypriot leaders have been anxious to achieve some sort of UN-sponsored settlement, lest the world body withdraw its peace force on the island to cope with numerous other trouble spots around the world, particularly during the 1990s. Keen to secure the continued involvement of the United Nations (and specifically the Security Council, which authorized UNFICYP), the Greek Cypriot government along with Greece have paid an estimated half of the UN force’s expenses since 1993.26 The United States and the United Nations have been drawn to the Cyprus issue in order to avert regional conflict between Greece and Turkey over Cypriot tensions. It is no coincidence that third-party initiatives to secure a Cyprus settlement usually came on the heels of worsening Greek–Turkish relations. A case in point was the 1996/97 US initiative led by Richard Holbrooke, the architect of the Dayton Agreement that ended the war in Bosnia in 1994. Before Holbrooke assumed his mission as the emissary of US, President Bill Clinton, Turkey and Greece came dangerously close to a military confrontation over the sovereignty of an uninhabited Aegean islet in January 1996. Tensions in Cyprus rose dangerously high a few months later because of a series of deadly incidents along the UN-patrolled Green Line. However, as with many earlier initiatives, the Holbrooke mission failed. Holbrooke assumed that because Turkish leaders are keen on EU membership, they would be agreeable to a negotiated Cyprus settlement along federal lines, if the EU gave a clear timetable for accession to Turkey. However, he failed to persuade European governments to include Turkey among the eleven countries,

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including Cyprus, designated for accession at the EU summit in 1997. He also failed to persuade Denktash to yield on the latter’s insistence that a settlement be based on the principle of two sovereign states on the island. Although its membership prospects improved at the EU’s Helsinki summit in December 1999, at the time of Holbrooke’s mission Ankara saw no reason to pressure Denktash to be more flexible given Turkey’s humiliating exclusion from the list of eligible EU members in 1997. That the EU figured prominently in Holbrooke’s failed mission demonstrated how central an actor Brussels had become in the Cyprus issue, particularly in the second-half of the 1990s. For Greek Cypriots and Greece, this factor was another successful case of engaging an international actor to help resolve the Cyprus issue through reunification. Already unhappy with unremitting international pressures, Turkish Cypriots and Turkey would inevitably resist the EU’s involvement. The TRNC (and Ankara) repeatedly warned that the EU should not proceed with Cypriot accession without a prior political settlement. More than that of any other third party engaged on the island, the EU’s involvement has jeopardized the TRNC’s legitimacy and bargaining strength. To begin with, Greece’s EU membership and its continued denial to Turkey has fed Turkish Cypriots fears that the EU would be predisposed to the Greek Cypriot position. This seemed to be confirmed when Brussels rejected the TRNC claim that the Greek Cypriot government, acting as the Republic of Cyprus, has no legal authority to represent the entire island and therefore could not apply for accession, without the consent of Turkish Cypriots. In addition, the Turkish Cypriot leadership saw the EU as an integrationist institution that would not endorse separate statehood for Turkish Cypriots even if it were couched in terms of a confederation. Indeed, EU officials in Brussels made it clear that a negotiated settlement in Cyprus would have to satisfy important conditions and while the conditions were welcomed by the Greek Cypriot authorities, they undercut the bargaining strength of the Turkish Cypriot government. Turkish Cypriot fears were only confirmed by the blunt language of Gunther Verheugen, EU Enlargement Commissioner: the components of a common Cypriot state could not be sovereign in the sense of international recognition and independence. Cyprus would have to have a single voice in the EU and Cyprus would have a central authority, with administrative structures, powers and jurisdictions that can enforce decisions, including EU legislation.27 Turkish Cypriots believed that EU officials viewed the community as a minority rather than as an equal party with Greek Cypriots. In referring to the desire of the Greek Cypriot majority for accession, EU external affairs commissioner Hans van den Broek warned that the EU ‘could not indefinitely ignore the aspirations of the majority of the population to be an EU member’.28 In the TRNC, this and similar statements by EU officials were seen as proof that Brussels viewed the Cypriot communities in majority–minority terms.

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EU officials have sought to persuade Turkish Cypriots of the merits of EU accession, particularly by emphasizing the economic benefits of membership. On 30 January 2002, in a bid to ease Turkish Cypriot anxieties regarding economic competition with the more developed Greek Cypriot zone, the EU Commission proposed to allocate 206-million euros, for 2004–2006, in order to help northern Cyprus reduce the economic gap with the south.29 However, Denktash has condemned these initiatives on the grounds that they aim at undermining support for his overall position that emphasizes the security drawbacks of reunification. Denktash has capitalized on Turkish Cypriot fears of becoming a vulnerable minority in relation to the wealthier and more numerous Greek Cypriots. Most Turkish Cypriots have been apprehensive that the application of the EU’s acquis communitaire (body of laws) would benefit Greek Cypriots who insisted on the application of ‘three rights’: freedom to travel, to settle and to acquire property anywhere on the island. This raised the prospect of the more numerous Greek Cypriots, moving into the north to buy the properties of poorer Turkish Cypriots, and thus turning them into a minority. In recognition of this anxiety, the UN Secretariat worked closely with EU officials to incorporate several derogations from the acquis in the November 2002 Kofi Annan UN plan: these exceptions provide numerous restrictions on Greek Cypriot settlement and purchase of properties in the envisaged Turkish Cypriot constituent state. The TRNC and Ankara’s efforts to keep the EU at bay were to no avail, as Greece used its EU membership to secure the organization’s increasing engagement with the Cyprus issue throughout the 1990s. In 1993, the EU Commission’s opinion on the Republic of Cyprus’ application (first made in 1990) fell short of a commitment on accession: the commission cited the need for a political settlement on the island before proceeding on accession talks. However, in a significant concession to Greek Cypriots, Brussels agreed to reconsider Cypriot membership by January 1995 if no communal settlement emerged. Ultimately, Greece was able to secure a commitment that Brussels would open negotiations on Cypriot membership within six months of the conclusion of the 1996 intergovernmental conference as a quid pro quo for lifting its veto on the EU–Turkey customs union agreement of 1995. Thus Greece swayed the rest of the EU states on the Cyprus membership in order to open the way towards a customs union agreement with Turkey. Even with this commitment, Turkish Cypriots and Ankara believed that the EU countries would stop short of admitting Cyprus, and thus avoid importing the problems of a divided and militarized island. When the EU decided to begin accession negotiations with the Greek Cypriot government for Cyprus’s membership in 1998, the Turkish Cypriot and Turkish leadership continued to believe that at least some of the EU states would hold back Cypriot accession to avoid the risks of confronting Turkey over Cyprus’s accession. Clearly, the EU states would have preferred to proceed with Cyprus’s accession after a political settlement between its two communities. At the same time, they did not want to let Turkish Cypriots and Turkey (a non-EU member) implicitly cast a veto on Cyprus’s membership indefinitely. Yet, in spite of their greater

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receptivity to Greek Cypriot positions, the EU states would have been unwilling to proceed with Cyprus’ problematic accession were it not for Greek pressures. Cypriot membership itself offered no abiding benefit to the Union. In this respect, one observer suggested that for the EU, ‘Cyprus is an ugly bride with no dowry’.30 In spite of the potential headaches that Brussels would face by admitting a divided island, Greece extracted concessions to advance Cypriot accession each time its EU partners wished to promote Turkey’s membership prospects. When the EU presidency affirmed Turkey’s eligibility to become an EU member at the Helsinki summit on 10 December 1999, fellow EU members were obliged to make a balancing concession to Greece by stating that a political settlement would not be a precondition to Cyprus’s accession.31 Subsequently, Greece’s threat to veto the accession of eastern European states was instrumental in winning support for the Greek Cypriot bid for accession at the EU’s Copenhagen summit on 12 and 13 December 2002. Cyprus, minus the TRNC, became an EU member on 1 May 2004.

Managing Turkish uncertainties For several years, successive Turkish governments warned Brussels that Turkey would proceed to integrate with the TRNC if the EU admitted Cyprus without a prior political settlement. Turkish and Turkish Cypriot officials threatened that EU accession prior to a settlement would close the doors to future possibilities of reuniting the island. Former Turkish prime minister Bulent Ecevit even threatened that Turkey might annex north Cyprus.32 However, when the AK ( Justice and Development) Party came to power in Turkey on 3 November 2002 with a comfortable parliamentary majority, it signalled a serious intention to achieve EU membership, and that it would pursue a different Cyprus policy than its predecessors. Thus Ankara responded mildly when the EU Copenhagen summit in December 2002 ignored Turkish entreaties and endorsed Cyprus’s membership. Indeed, in a bid to improve prospects of securing an early date for Turkey’s accession talks with the EU, AK leader Tayyip Erdogan, unsuccessfully tried to persuade Denktash to accept the plan that UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan presented to the parties on 11 November 2002. Convinced that an unsettled Cyprus issue would impede Turkey’s chances of securing EU membership, Erdogan has tried to pressure Denktash to endorse the UN plan. Soon after his party formed the government in Ankara, the AK party leader announced that he did not favour the continuation of Ankara’s longstanding Cyprus policy and made numerous other statements criticizing Denktash’s policy.33 In the months leading up to the December 2002 EU Copenhagen summit, but especially since the submission of the UN plan for Cyprus, numerous Turkish newspaper columnists have argued that Denktash’s hard line has jeopardized Turkish Cypriot chances of EU accession, as well as Turkey’s own membership prospects. These have coincided with massive demonstrations in the TRNC demanding negotiations based on the UN plan to ensure that Turkish

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Cypriots do not forsake the opportunity to enter the EU at the same time as Greek Cypriots. Turkish critics of Denktash are clearly anxious: should Greek Cyprus become an EU member alone, Greek Cypriots would agitate against Turkey in the EU and complicate Turkey’s future accession. Turkish officials fear that what has hitherto been an issue between the Cypriot communities and between Greece and Turkey will become an EU–Turkish issue. Turkish observers and officials believe that upon accession, Greek Cyprus will renew its efforts to secure the withdrawal of Turkish troops on the grounds that the latter are occupying the territory of an EU member.34 The Erdogan–Denktash disagreement is similar to the policy differences between the Turkish Cypriot president and other Turkish leaders in past years. These differences surfaced whenever Turkish leaders pressed Denktash to adopt more flexible positions in intercommunal negotiations in order to smooth Turkey’s EU membership path. The late Turkish leader Turgut Ozal was a keen advocate of Turkey’s EU membership and believed that a Cyprus settlement was essential for Turkish accession. He did not fully trust Denktash and sought to ensure that the Turkish Cypriot leader did not evade negotiations that could yield a settlement. Former Turkish premier Tansu Ciller had a similar outlook on the TRNC leader; hence, she preferred to handle Cyprus policy primarily through the prime minister’s office rather than through the foreign ministry, where Denktash enjoyed greater support. Ciller and Denktash had major policy differences concerning the acceptance of confidence-building measures promoted by the UN and when Ciller appeared receptive to calls from Washington and EU states for the adoption of the confidence-building measures in late 1993 and early 1994, the opposition supported Denktash in resisting the measures. Anxieties among Turks concerning the link between a Cyprus settlement and Turkey’s EU accession have become more manifest as Turkish accession prospects have improved since late 1999. Some Turkish commentators have complained that the future of 69-million Turks is being jeopardized because of a policy geared for the benefit of 200,000 Turkish Cypriots.35 In fact, Turkey has borne considerable costs for many decades because of its Cyprus policy. Successive US administrations have routinely petitioned Ankara to help settle the Cyprus issue and to pressure Denktash to show more flexibility in intercommunal negotiations. Greek/Greek Cypriot lobbying in Washington has regularly caused problems for Ankara by generating critical congressional resolutions, cuts in US aid and circumspection over US arms to Turkey. In Europe, too, governments have also called upon Turkey to exercise its influence with Turkish Cypriots to help achieve a settlement on the island. European Parliament resolutions criticizing Turkey’s Cyprus policy have been commonplace. In a major blow to Ankara, a 28 July 1996 ruling by the European Court of Human Rights (ECHR) held Turkey (rather than the Turkish Cypriot government) responsible for barring a Greek Cypriot refugee’s access to her property in northern Cyprus and ordered the Turkish government to pay her compensation. Ankara has rejected the rulings arguing that it is the TRNC, not Turkey, that represents the legitimate authority in northern Cyprus. Nevertheless, since the

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1996 ruling the ECHR has issued several other similar judgements for Greek Cypriot refugees and dozens more such appeals to the court have been lodged against Turkey.36 Some Turkish commentators have argued that the Turkish government might be held liable for hundreds of millions dollars in compensation to settle these judgements and future claims, unless a political agreement is reached that mandates the settlement of property claims between the two island communities (as provided by the 2002 UN plan).37 Denktash has typically sought allies within the Turkish political establishment in order to strengthen his hand in dealing with politicians or high-level bureaucrats who might apply pressure on him. In Turkey, he has enjoyed enormous prestige as a vigorous defender of Turkish Cypriot rights and of Turkish interests. He has cultivated political ties with influential Turks in many walks of life, including the military, the foreign-policy establishment, political parties and the media. His success in cultivating such ties, his political longevity and his decades-long experience in dealing with the Cyprus issue has given him a significant advantage in dealing with Turkish leaders. Premiers, foreign ministers and military chiefs have come and gone, but Denktash remained Turkish Cypriots’ voice on the island and abroad for many years. In the contest of wills with the AK party leader during 2002–2003, Denktash received the backing of the powerful Turkish military and the senior ranks of the Turkish foreign policy bureaucracy, as well as that of the opposition parties.38 However, in February 2004, Erdogan succeeded in compelling Denktash to resume negotiations with his Greek Cypriot counterpart based on the UN plan and to accept the binding arbitration of the UN Secretary-General if no agreement could be reached.

Weakened domestic consensus Denktash has led the Turkish Cypriot community for forty years. He has been the intercommunal negotiator since 1968 and he has won six consecutive presidential elections (as president of the Turkish Federated State of Cyprus in 1976 and 1981, and as president of the TRNC in 1985, 1990, 1995 and 2000). Ankara has backed him in every election in Cyprus, partly out of a desire to undercut the appeal of the leftist parties which have often criticized Turkey’s influence in the Turkish Cypriot community. Most Turkish Cypriots strongly support Turkey’s guarantor status and the stationing of Turkish troops to bolster their security. Yet many in the Turkish community are unhappy about the level of influence and interference that Turkish authorities exercise in the TRNC. As a report by the Economist Intelligence Unit in 2000 put it: Although the administration of President Denktash firmly supports the Turkish presence and accepts Turkish guidance in many aspects of domestic policy affairs, opposition to Turkish involvement in the Turkish Cypriot society at large, as epitomized by the slogan ‘This Land is Ours’ is considerable.39

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The Turkish Cypriot anxiety regarding Turkish influence in the Turkish Cypriot state has been articulated in these terms by Serdar Denktash, son of the TRNC president and leader of the centre-right Democratic Party, in a remarkably frank interview: In 1974, the Turkish Cypriots considered the north of the island their homeland and established a state, but they have never been able to become a ruling power in this state. They were forced to consult with Turkey for every step they wanted to take. They were always faced with the intervention of Turkey’s representative on the island.40 The close relationship between Ankara and Denktash has generated substantial controversy among Turkish Cypriots, particularly among members of the centre-left parties, the Republican Turkish Party (CTP) and the Communal Liberation Party (TKP), which have criticized Ankara’s seemingly unqualified support of the TRNC leader. At the same time, they have accused Denktash of seeking to incorporate the TRNC within Turkey’s domain rather than backing a solution based on a federation to ensure Turkish Cypriot accession to the EU.41 Since the presidential elections in 2000, Denktash’s political support has declined. Right-wing parties backing Denktash’s approach have also seen their support diminish,42 explainable in part by the deep economic crisis that gripped the TRNC since 1999. In addition, Turkish Cypriots have been encouraged by the pro-EU stance of Turkey’s AK Party government, 2002; the centre-left opposition parties and numerous non-governmental organizations have mobilized considerable support among Turkish Cypriots to accept the United Nations plan and thereby to ensure the Turkish community’s accession into the EU at the same time as Greek Cypriots.43 Since its submission to the parties on 11 November 2002, the UN plan was revised five times by March 2004 to improve the prospects of its acceptance by all the parties.44 The plan calls for the reunification of the island as a loose federation consisting of two constituent states with a rotating presidency, and accession to the EU. While the Greek Cypriot leadership has announced that the UN draft is negotiable, Denktash has condemned it. The plan calls for the return to Greek Cypriot administration of substantial territorial (roughly 20 per cent of the Turkish-Cypriot administered area). This would enable 90,000 of the Greek Cypriot refugees to return to their former homes but would also necessitate the resettlement of an estimated 42,000 Turkish Cypriots (constituting 25 per cent of the TRNC’s population). The UN plan also provides for the staggered return and settlement of up to 60,000 Greek Cypriots to the envisaged Turkish Cypriot constituent state. In addition the plan calls for the drastic reduction of Turkish troops in the TRNC. Over and above these unpalatable requirements of the UN plan, Denktash understands that accepting the plan will foreclose any future possibility of Turkish Cypriot sovereign statehood. He has refused to accept these terms and has sought to mobilize support in the TRNC and among influential groups in Turkey.

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Many Turkish Cypriots are unhappy about the deep concessions called for by the UN plan and have singled out three provisions as being highly problematic: the settlement of tens of thousands of Greek Cypriots in their area, the recognition of Republic of Cyprus title deeds in north Cyprus and the resettlement of a quarter of the Turkish community. On the other hand, they are tired of the adversities of years of isolation and poor future prospects and are attracted by several key provisions of the plan: political equality of the two communities; the wide measure of autonomy envisaged for the constituent states; the presence of Turkish troops, though in fewer numbers, to underwrite their security; and, not the least, the expected benefits of EU citizenship. This complex of incentives perhaps explains why Denktash’s resistance to the plan has provoked unprecedented demonstrations among Turkish Cypriots in favour of EU membership, and calls for his resignation as the community’s negotiator. In one of the largest demonstrations, an estimated 60,000 Turkish Cypriots (almost a third of the entire Turkish community) marched on 14 January 2003 calling for negotiations based on the UN plan and Turkish Cypriot accession to the EU.45 Since the submission of the UN plan and the endorsement of Cyprus’s accession by the EU’s Copenhagen summit in late 2002, many Turkish Cypriots have been worried that if they forsake the UN plan for EU accession, they would be relegated to an uncertain and bleak future. Turkish Cypriots are well aware of strong Greek Cypriot opposition to the UN plan on the grounds that it makes too many concessions to the Turkish community. The only compelling reason the Greek Cypriot leadership would be willing to endorse the UN plan is that rejecting it would jeopardize the highly prized EU membership. In view of this, Turkish Cypriots are convinced that Greek Cypriot leaders would insist on much tougher terms (than those in the UN plan) before endorsing northern Cyprus accession in the future. These considerations helped the pro-EU, pro-UN plan Republican Turkish Party to achieve a narrow victory in parliamentary elections of December 2003 in the TRNC. Its leader, Mehmet Ali Talat, assumed the prime ministership as head of a coalition government in January 2004. In an implicit criticism of his father’s policies, Serdar Denktash of the Democratic Party spoke for most Turkish Cypriots when he stated that ‘it is not possible to maintain the status quo that existed for the last 28 years with the same policies and the same approach’.46 It is certain that many more Turkish Cypriots than before would obtain Republic of Cyprus passports from Greek Cypriot authorities as a first step in securing EU passports and leaving the island for better economic prospects in EU countries. Many observers anticipate that younger Turkish Cypriots, faced with poor employment prospects in a languishing TRNC economy, will emigrate in significant numbers. 47

Conclusion: facing uncertain prospects All of these developments have presented the TRNC leadership with unpalatable options. Integration (or, rather, deeper integration) with Turkey, often promoted in the past as a credible response to Greek Cyprus’s integration with the EU, has

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only limited appeal among Turkish Cypriots. According to public opinion polls, 11.5 per cent of Turkish Cypriots supported integration with Turkey in 1997; but support for this dropped to 8.2 per cent in 1999, 7.7 per cent in 2000 and a mere 5.1 per cent in 2002.48 Moreover, the AK Party government and other Turkish officials do not view integration with Turkey as a desirable outcome. Nor is the TRNC’s becoming a province of Turkey a credible option: Turkey would pay a heavy diplomatic price by doing so, and most Turkish Cypriots doubt that such a drastic step will alleviate their economic and social difficulties. In summarizing the responses of the international community to de facto states such as the TRNC, Scott Pegg notes that: International society has traditionally chosen to respond to the existence of de facto states in three main ways: actively opposing them through the use of embargoes and sanctions; generally ignoring them; coming to some sort of limited acceptance and acknowledgement of their presence.49 Highlighting the international embargo and sanctions against the TRNC, Pegg has described it as a classic example of a de facto state that the international community has actively opposed. Indeed, besides the economic embargoes that have hurt its economy, the TRNC has existed as a pariah state. Since 1974 the international community remained committed to reunify Cyprus and discouraged the recognition of the TRNC. Even as the taboo of secession weakened in the aftermath of the Cold War, concerns regarding separatist ethnic groups at home dissuaded friendly states from granting recognition. Such was the case, for example, with Azerbaijan, which established close relations with Turkey after declaring its independence from the Soviet Union in 1990. Azerbaijan has had to confront the secession of Nagorno-Kharabakh, over which it fought a costly war with Armenia; it therefore balked at granting recognition to the TRNC. The Central Asian Turkic states have also been unreceptive to Turkish Cypriot entreaties for establishing diplomatic ties. The TRNC faces unprecedented challenges. A languishing economy has created widespread disenchantment among Turkish Cypriots, causing growing doubts about the viability of their state. No less important, the international community, with the EU playing a central role, has forced open the sovereignty issue as never before. The EU’s involvement in the Cyprus question has been particularly damaging to the TRNC’s prospects of sovereign statehood, and Brussels may have dealt a heavy blow to the Turkish Cypriot state by offering a vision of the material benefits of EU membership accruing to citizens of a unified island. No less important, while improving Turkish prospects by granting a date for the start of accession talks, the EU has affirmed a link between a Cyprus settlement and Turkey’s accession, thus putting great pressure on Ankara to settle the Cyprus issue. Quoting an EU diplomatic source, the New York Times reported: ‘If there is no deal, this will guarantee to make things incredibly difficult for Turkey’s accession to the EU, every step of the way.’50 EU Enlargement Commissioner Guenther Verheugen echoed the same view by stating: ‘It is difficult to see how it

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would be possible to start accession negotiations [with Turkey] under such circumstances.’51 These pressures resulted in Ankara’s proposal to resume the Cyprus negotiations on 19 February 2004 that culminated in an agreement to hold referenda on the UN plan on both sides of the island on 24 April 2004: while 65 per cent of the Turkish Cypriot electorate voted in favour of the UN plan, an overwhelming 76 per cent of Greek Cypriots rejected it. But since the Greek Cypriot-controlled Republic of Cyprus was guaranteed accession to the EU regardless of a settlement to reunify the island, the Turkish Cypriot area is excluded from the Union. The strong endorsement of the UN plan by Turkish Cypriots has won them considerable sympathy in Brussels, Washington and elsewhere, and has opened the prospect of removing or substantially easing the economic isolation of the TRNC. Since the referenda, there have been references in some international media to applying a ‘Taiwan’ solution to the TRNC, whereby trade and travel restrictions to north Cyprus would be lifted without however granting it international recognition. The relentless international pressures on the TRNC to abandon its claim to separate statehood in the months leading to the EU accession date were quite effective: they encouraged many Turkish Cypriot to support the UN plan to reunify the island. Still, the very rejection of the UN plan by Greek Cypriots in the referendum may ultimately weaken the Turkish Cypriot backing for any powersharing arrangement in the future. In addition, the EU’s stated goal of rewarding the Turkish Cypriots for their support of reunification by ending their economic isolation may ironically breathe new life to the TRNC in the coming years.

Notes 1 Tozun Bahcheli, Greek–Turkish Relations Since 1955 (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1990), p. 59. 2 The Akritas Plan was a confidential blueprint for action authorized by Makarios that sought to elicit support for Greek Cypriots by emphasizing the ‘negative elements’ of the constitution while stressing the principles of ‘self-determination’ and ‘minority rights’. Once self-determination was realized, enosis would be realized through a plebiscite. 3 Greek Cypriots allege that Turkish settlers outnumber Turkish Cypriots, whereas Turkish Cypriot officials understate their number. A number of credible Turkish/Turkish Cypriot press reports have estimated that settlers represent approximately a third of the TRNC’s population. See Cyprus Today (Nicosia), 24–30 May 2003 and Sabah (Istanbul), 21 December 2002. 4 In 1960, the last year when an island-wide census was taken, the Turkish Cypriot population constituted roughly 20 per cent of the island total of 571,500; Cyprus, Statistics and Research Department, Statistical Abstract, 1963, p. 22. It is widely assumed that the population ratio between Greek and Turkish Cypriots did not change significantly during 1960–74. However, the census taken by Turkish Cypriot authorities on 15 December 1996 reported a population of 200,587, cited in Clement H. Dodd, The Cyprus Imbroglio (Huntingdon, UK: Eothen Press, 1998) p.1. Figures provided by the Republic of Cyprus indicate the Greek Cypriot population to be 645,300, see Republic of Cyprus, The Almanac of Cyprus: 1998, p. 8.

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5 See Zaim M. Necatigil, The Cyprus Question and the Turkish Position in International Law, 2nd edn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), pp. 191–2. 6 Necatigil has articulated the official Turkish Cypriot position regarding the community’s claim of the right of self-determination in the following terms: ‘In the Turkish Cypriot view both of the co-founders of the Republic of Cyprus are “communities” qualifies as a “people”, so must the other. As a corollary to this, the words “communities” and “peoples” are synonymous. The Turkish Cypriots are not a “minority” but an organized community, or people.’ Ibid., p. 222. 7 Ibid., p. 236. 8 ‘Set of Ideas on an Overall Framework Agreement on Cyprus’, UN Resolution 750, 10 April 1992. The territorial ratio suggested for two federated states in the map attached to the Set of Ideas is similar to the map presented by the UN (Annan) plan of 2002. 9 ‘The secretary-general then broke precedent and put the blame for the failure of the negotiations on one side: “The absence of agreement [is] due essentially to a lack of political will on the Turkish Cypriot side.” ’ Economist Intelligence Unit, Cyprus, Third Quarter, 1994, p. 11. 10 Briefing (Ankara), 5 September 1994, Issue 1,005 p. 5. 11 Nancy Crawshaw ‘Cyprus: a crisis of confidence’, World Today, April 1994, p. 72. 12 Agence France Press, 31 August 1998. 13 Cyprus News Agency, 2 March 2000. 14 Financial Times, 11 December 2002. 15 Commission of the European Communities 2002, ‘Regular Report on Cyprus, Progress Towards Accession’, available at: www.europa.eu.int/comm/enlargement/report2002/ cy_en.pdf 16 The figures for 1977 and 1990 are derived from State Planning Organization (Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus), Economic and Social Indicators for 1996 (October 1997), p. 1. The figure for 2002 is from the Financial Times, 11 December 2002. 17 There are 125,219 motor vehicles registered in the TRNC (as reported in Kibris, 24 January 2000), most of which are passenger cars, showing, on average, one car per two residents in the TRNC. 18 Financial Times, 11 December 2002. 19 Economist Intelligence Unit, Country Report: Cyprus, December 2002. 20 According to the Inter Press Service (9 October 1997) the ruling cut the TRNC production of potatoes and fruit in half. 21 Commission of the European Communities 2002, ‘Regular Report’. 22 Economist Intelligence Unit, Country Report: Cyprus, March 2002, reported that ‘Mehmet Ali Talat, leader of the left-wing CTP, criticized the programme because it had been drawn up in consultation with the Turkish government rather than with representatives of Turkish Cypriot society.’ 23 Economist Intelligence Unit, Country Report: Cyprus, 2001. 24 Kibris (Nicosia), 2 December 2002. 25 Cyprus Mail, 4 October 2002. 26 See information provided in the UNFICYP website: www.unficyp.org/Factsfigures/ factsfig.htm 27 The Economist Intelligence Unit, Country Report: Cyprus, March 2002. 28 Reuters, 16 March 1996. 29 Commission of the European Communities 2002, Regular Report on Cyprus’ Progress Towards Accession, at www.europa.eu.int/comm/enlargement/report2002/cy_en.pdf 30 This characterization was made by Professor Hubert Faustmann of Intercollege, Cyprus, during an interview with the author in Nicosia on 30 January 2003. 31 Commission of the European Communities 2002, ‘Regular Report’. 32 Reported in Turkish Daily News (Ankara), 5 November 2001.

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33 Turkish leader Recep Tayyip Erdogan declared: ‘I am not in favour of the continuation of the policy that has been maintained in Cyprus over the past 30–40 years . . . We will do whatever falls on us. This is not Denktash’s private matter.’ New York Times, 2 January 2003. 34 ‘Turkey . . . could be accused of occupying EU territory. The accusation has already been made by the spokesman of the EU commissioner for enlargement, Gunter Verheugen.’ Reported by Oxford Analytica, ‘Turkey/Cyprus: Divisions To Deepen as Peace Plan Fails’, 12 March 2003. 35 ‘Why, mutter some Turkish diplomats, should 200,000 or so people in northern Cyprus scupper the European ambitions of 69 million plus Turks?’ The Economist, 16 January 2003. 36 Commission of the European Communities 2002, ‘Regular Report’. 37 Cuneyt Ulsever, ‘The Status Quo in Cyprus is no longer Viable’, Hurriyet, 27 January 2003. 38 Center for Strategic and International Studies, Washington, DC: Cyprus: Turkey’s Other Difficult Decision, March 2003. 39 Economist Intelligence Unit, Country Report: Cyprus, December 2000. 40 Radikal (Istanbul), 24 February 2003. 41 See the interview with Mehmet Ali Talat, leader of the Republican Turkish Party, in Kibris (Nicosia), 8 February 2000. 42 Economist Intelligence Unit, Country Report: Cyprus, 3 July 2002 reported: ‘Major economic problems have increased the desire of the Turkish Cypriots to find a settlement. In the local elections in June 2002 parties more willing to make concessions have therefore gained some ground.’ 43 Economist Intelligence Unit, Country Report: Cyprus, 1 December 2002, cited a poll commissioned by the EU and conducted in September 2002, which showed that ‘87.4 per cent of Turkish Cypriot citizens would vote in favour of EU membership’. 44 The revised UN plan is available at www.pio.gov.cy/other/final_un_plan.htm 45 Economist Intelligence Unit, Country Report: Cyprus, 31 January 2003. 46 Radikal (Istanbul), 24 February 2003. 47 ‘Given the desolate economic situation in the Turkish Cypriot north of the island, due to the domestic banking crisis in December 1999 and the Turkish financial crisis in February 2001, economic incentives for Turkish Cypriots to emigrate to the EU in search of employment are strong. There have already been reports that the weak economic situation has led to increased immigration.’ Economist Intelligence Unit, Country Report: Cyprus, 2001. 48 Yeniduzen (Nicosia), 3 October 2002. 49 Scott Pegg, International Society and the De Facto State (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 1998), p. 177. 50 New York Times, 9 March 2003. 51 Ibid.

9

Palestine 2003 The perils of de facto statehood Dan Tschirgi

Introduction De facto statehood grew up in Palestine in the short period between 1993 and 2000. However, in the even shorter period separating the dawn of the twenty-first century from today (December 2002), the viability of that de facto Palestinian state has been seriously called into question. In part, the intellectual problem at this point is whether what seemed (in the long ago days of 2000) to be so tantalizingly close – the conversion of Palestinian statehood to a de jure status – has now been removed from the realm of practical alternatives in the Middle East. In part, it inevitably also entails the problem of discerning what, if any, lessons Palestine’s frustratingly sad recent history implies for the dynamics, obstacles and prospects of success surrounding such potential conversions. Although Palestine’s recent history is not this chapter’s primary focus, its highpoints are worth recalling: as the Oslo Peace Process (1993) unfolded, a functioning quasi, or de facto, Palestinian government (the Palestinian National Authority, under Yasser Arafat) assumed limited authority over large parts of the Israelioccupied West Bank and Gaza. With the United States functioning as principle peacemaker, various political and administrative problems were resolved over the next few years by Palestinian and Israeli negotiators. However, as deadlines for resolving ‘final status’ issues (issues central to Palestinian/Israeli rivalry) approached, tensions between the principal protagonists skyrocketed. Among the thorniest final status issues were Jerusalem’s final disposition, the boundaries of Israel and the ultimate fate of Palestinian refugees. By the autumn of 2001, the press of final status issues was cracking the structure of the Oslo peace process. The outbreak of the Second Intifada, provoked by Israeli Likud leader Ariel Sharon’s ‘visit’ to Jerusalem’s Haram as-Sharif, signalled the overture of the Oslo Process’s death knell. The violence soon rose to the level of virtual war between Palestinians and Israelis, the original protagonists in the ‘Arab–Israeli’ drama. 11 September 2001 suddenly injected a major new element into the brewing communal conflict. The war on terror declared by George W. Bush’s administration soon led to a reordering of Washington’s foreign-policy priorities that resulted in the relegation of the Israeli–Palestinian peace process to the backburners of official US attention. Within a year it was not only clear that Washington was counting on

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Israel as an ally in its campaign against terrorism but also that the Bush administration accepted Israel’s claim that the Palestinian National Authority was linked to the terrorist enemy. The new US ‘roadmap’ to peace in Palestine, while still positing an eventual Palestinian state, made this contingent upon a change of the Palestinian regime and, in effect, placed active efforts to finalize Palestinian–Israeli peace in abeyance for a three-year transitional period. By the end of 2002, the chief instruments of the PNA’s authority – its security and administrative apparatus – had been shattered by repeated Israeli military strikes, the very mobility of its leadership lay at the mercy of Israel’s army and major Palestinian cities were subject to repeated and frequent re-occupation by Israeli forces. In the broader regional context, however, the most pressing issue of concern was not the Palestinians’ plight but rather the looming prospect of a US-led war against Iraq, and the ominous possibility that the result might be widespread upheavals in the area. This uneasy backdrop makes it almost impossible to speculate over the possibility that the now-crushed Palestinian de facto state will be resuscitated and eventually win full statehood. The uncertainties clouding the Middle East’s immediate future preclude the reliable identification of patterns or forces upon which meaningful projection might be based at this point. There remains, however, the historical record of the forces and factors that shaped the Palestinians’ struggle for statehood, led to establishment of their de facto state and eventually imperiled their whole project. In that tale may lie, if nothing else, lessons relevant to the dangers that face any de facto state.

The de facto Palestinian state Following the mutual recognition of Israel and the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) in 1993, the latter was permitted to return to Palestine to establish the interim Palestinian Authority, the idea being that further PLO – Israeli negotiations would resolve all questions of final status within five years. That deadline was not met. In September 1999, largely through the offices of US President Bill Clinton, the two sides agreed to a one-year extension. Soon, that deadline also fell by the wayside. Ariel Sharon ‘visited’ the Haram As-Sharif, the Second Intifada broke out, and the train of events that buried the Oslo Peace Process proceeded to unfold. Prior to these developments, however, a de facto Palestinian state had arisen in the West Bank and Gaza. By the dawn of the twenty-first century, Palestine, though not a state, issued passports that were acknowledged as valid documents by dozens of countries throughout the world, including the United States, Canada, Great Britain, France, Russia, China and Israel. Its government, or Authority, as it was known, extended to nearly three-million people in the West Bank and Gaza. Palestine also maintained ‘diplomatic missions’ in over eighty states, including most of those acknowledging the Palestinian passport. A non-voting Palestinian Representative, with observer status, continued to sit in the UN General

Palestine 2003 189 Assembly, as he had since 1974. Some states, primarily but not exclusively Arab and Muslim countries, accorded formal diplomatic rank to official Palestinian representatives. Others, such as the United States and Canada, withheld this status while acknowledging the individual’s function as an emissary of the Palestinian Authority (PA). On the domestic front, the Palestinian Authority presided over an environment that sported many of the trappings of a sovereign state. The Palestinian flag flew proudly over official installations, and school children sang the National Anthem. A Palestinian police force was in place and a judicial system had been steadily developing. A Palestinian Airlines existed and, boasting a fleet of three aircraft that flew to half-a-dozen destinations in the Middle East, proclaimed itself the ‘national airline of Palestine’. In 1996 a Palestinian Legislative Assembly was elected, as was a President, PLO Chairman Yasser Arafat. The Executive included much the same range and variety of ministries to be found in most sovereign states, with the notable exception of a ministry of defence. Palestinian political life was, to say the least, vitally alive. Political parties and groups had proliferated in the years after PLO leader Yasser Arafat returned to establish the Palestinian Authority (PA) in 1994. A range of newspapers propounded different views, some of which were often decidedly unwelcome to PA authorities. Civil society was both extensive and dynamic. Associational groups abounded and worked actively on behalf of their goals. On one level, all the above appeared to reinforce and consolidate the reality of a functioning Palestinian state on the world’s stage. Yet the restrictions under which the PA functioned belied this facile conclusion. The point was driven home both symbolically and practically by existing limitations on Palestine’s standing in the international community as well as on the entity’s ability to direct its own affairs. The entity’s chief representatives abroad might, for example, style themselves ‘Ambassadors’ but in many cases they were not recognized as such by host countries and therefore did not enjoy the prerogatives normally implied by diplomatic status under international law. In its domestic life, Palestine might hold elections and have a ‘National Authority’ and ‘President’ in place, but the PA’s effective mandate remained so circumscribed in practical terms by the realities of external power that its writ on all major issues and most minor ones, was at best tentative as it attempted to ‘administer’ the areas, peoples and issues under its nominal authority. The PA lacked the ability to formulate definitive policies in all important matters, including land ownership and transfer, water management, immigration, security, and fiscal and foreign affairs – to name just a few by way of example. Nor, to extend the list to relatively ‘unimportant’ matters, could it freely determine who was to be permitted temporarily into areas under its control, or even guarantee that bearers of its own identity documents would be able to transit freely among the fragmented areas assigned to its administration. True ‘self-determination’ still remained beyond the grasp of Palestinians, though it appeared to be tantalizingly close.

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The drive to self-determination A clear theme runs through the last one-hundred years or so of Palestinian political history. This, of course, is the search for self-determination, the effective capacity of Palestinians themselves to shape their own collective socio-political life. It is also clear in retrospect that this search has entailed four aspects, which have existed concurrently, albeit with varying intensities, during most of the past century. These ‘sub-searches’ have been: first, a search for internal (Palestinian) consensus as to the nature of Palestinians’ collective identity; second, a search for a viable organizational manifestation of that consensus; third, a search for full acceptance at the international level of that organizational manifestation as a key actor whose participation in determining the collective political fate of the Palestinian people is required; and, fourth, a search for a viable, permanent institutional manifestation of the Palestinian collective identity that is recognized as such by the international community. Although historians will undoubtedly continue to debate the precise origins and development of the first stage, the essential truth, at least of the origins of the search for a collective identity is captured in George Antonius’ classic The Arab Awakening.1 By the late nineteenth century, with the Ottoman Empire itself futilely searching for a cohesive national identity, Palestinians were caught up in the growth of the beginnings of a countervailing Arab nationalism. The crucible of World War One forged the first major steps in what would, in time, become an unquestionably Palestinian national identity. Barbara Tuchman has shown that the nineteenth century, in all senses but the chronological, really ended only during the course of World War One.2 In the Middle East, as elsewhere, this led to the 1914 to 1918 diplomacy of the Great Powers being rooted in a nineteenth century mentality that was shaped by imperial interests. Lord Balfour, whose name was destined to be eternally linked to Palestine’s travails, privately encapsulated the result when he noted in 1919 that, insofar as Palestine is concerned, ‘the Powers have made no statement of fact which is not admittedly wrong, and no declaration of policy which, at least in the letter, they have not always intended to violate’.3 He was absolutely correct, and in that same year the Versailles Conference set about creating what proved to be the extremely vulnerable post-World War One international order. Part of this global order had to do with the Arab World, and part of that had very specifically to do with Palestine. In 1920 the League of Nations allocated the area, then including Transjordan (today’s Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, which London effectively severed from Palestine a year later) to Britain as a ‘mandate’. Under the terms of the mandate, Britain was charged with facilitating development of a ‘national home’ for the Jewish people. The mandate upheld one of the contradictory promises the British government had made regarding Palestine during the war years, the Balfour Declaration of 1917. That pledge, made by the Foreign Secretary in the form of a letter to Lord Rothschild, committed Great Britain to ‘view with favour the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people and [to] use their best endeavours to facilitate the achievement of this object . . .’. The Declaration made

Palestine 2003 191 no mention of the Palestinian Arabs, who at the time constituted some 90 per cent of Palestine’s inhabitants, though it stipulated ‘nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine’.4 From the beginning, the import of the Balfour Declaration was thoroughly unclear. Hurewitz has pointed out that ‘the concept of a national home was unprecedented in international law, and the mandate failed to clarify its meaning’. 5 Jeffries concludes that wartime pressures led Britain to employ ‘unfathomable phrases’ in the Declaration ‘just because they were unfathomable and could be interpreted to pleasure’.6 Decades later, shortly before the end of British rule in Palestine, another Foreign Secretary, Ernest Bevin, would publicly bewail the carefully structured imprecision: ‘nobody indicated . . . when the national home would be established’. What, he asked, did its completion require? ‘Was it millions of Jews; was it a majority; was it a Jewish state; or what was it?’7 In Arab eyes, including Palestinian Arab eyes, whatever might have been meant by Lord Balfour’s commitment, its incorporation in the League of Nations mandate was an unequivocal violation of even earlier promises made by the British Government. Arabs particularly pointed to communications that occurred in 1914 to 1915 between Britain’s High Commissioner in Egypt, Sir Henry McMahon and the Hashemite Sherif of Mecca, Hussein Ibn Ali. By 1915, Hussein was in possession of Britain’s promise to support Arab independence – in specified areas of the eastern Arab World – in return for an Arab revolt against the Ottoman Empire. The revolt was duly launched and is best known in the West today because of the exploits of ‘Lawrence of Arabia’. Although controversy has long surrounded the point, Anthony Nutting is correct when he concludes that the Arabs were ‘fully entitled’ to regard Palestine among the territories whose independence had been promised by Britain.8 The overwhelming majority of Palestine’s population, its Arab community, was not mentioned once by name in the League of Nations mandatory instrument, but simply referred to as the area’s ‘non-Jewish communities’. Nor, in contrast to the mandates for Iraq and Syria (then including Lebanon) given to Britain and France respectively, was Palestine recognized as provisionally independent, and the mandatory power enjoined ‘to facilitate the progressive development of full sovereignty’.9 Faced immediately upon the end of World War One by the prospect of being ruled as an official non-entity under a system devoted to the creation of a Jewish national home, Palestinian Arabs did not delay in insisting on national rights. The first major expression of this is revealing. In July 1919, a General Syrian Congress convened in Damascus, where it passed resolutions denouncing the idea that Syria’s Arab inhabitants were less fitted than other nations to govern themselves, protesting the notion of a tutelary mandate, demanding immediate independence for the state of Syria, and rejecting Zionist claims to ‘that part of southern Syria known as Palestine’.10 This demand for Palestinian independence within the framework of a larger Arab state reflected the origins of Arab national consciousness within the context of the Ottoman Empire. By the late 1800s, a centuries-old legacy of religiously

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determined communal identity had come to be rivaled by ethnic factors, as Arabs and Turks alike searched for a more effective ideological basis for group cohesion. World War One severed the Turks and Arabs. The former rapidly came under the sway of Kemalism, which provided a solidly ethnic nationalist ideology. Among the latter, however, Islam, ethnicity and more localized factors remained attractive as politically viable ideological foundations. Pan-Islamism, pan-Arabism and what can be termed ‘particularistic Arab nationalism’, therefore all had adherents in Palestine and the rest of the Arab world in wake of World War One. Much of the area’s political turmoil throughout the twentieth century – which was by no means limited to its confrontation with Israel – can be attributed to the interaction among these orientations. Still, while all Arab nationalist trends existed in mandated Palestine, the growing pressures of Jewish immigration during and after the 1920s led to the rise of a localized national feeling that ‘came to be particularly true in Palestine’.11 To a great extent, this can be explained by Palestine’s special circumstances. Other European-dominated parts of the eastern Arab World (including Transjordan) could increasingly look forward to full self-determination. However, Palestinian Arabs progressively confronted what, given their numerical majority, was the infuriating prospect of living in a ‘Jewish national home’. The reaction was firm, consistent and often violent: the drive for Palestine’s independence as an Arab state. Differences between Pan-Arab, Pan-Islamic and purely Palestinian nationalistic currents were simply swept out of court in the face of events that intensified a unifying ideological aversion to Zionist ascendancy. The different strands of preference in Palestinian nationalism were not erased but rather overridden by the growing Zionist threat. Thus, the leading Palestinian political group that developed during the mandate was very largely dominated by Islamic discourse and led by the Mufti of Jerusalem, Haj Amin al-Husseini. However, it long found its basic support in Muslim–Christian Associations. On the other hand, one of the main Palestinian political parties, the Istiqlal, was committed to the eventual inclusion of Arab Palestine in a Greater Syria under the Emir of Transjordan, Abdallah.12 A factor which did not impede the growing ideological consensus on the need for a Palestinian Arab state, but which helped undermine organizational unity on behalf of that goal, was the nature of Palestinian Arab society. Traditionally hierarchical and dominated by ‘notable’ clans, the Palestinian Arab community reflected the drawbacks of this legacy when it attempted to organize itself to contest the Jewish national home under the mandate. Personal and clan rivalries repeatedly undermined such efforts. At the same time, any possibility of gaining a degree of political experience in government was obviated by the common aversion of all Palestinian Arab factions to various British proposals for participating, together with Zionists, in policy-relevant bodies linked to the mandate’s administration. To do so, went the Palestinian argument, was unacceptable, for it would legitimize the goal of a Jewish national home. The Palestinian Arabs’ political impotency helped produce a violent upheaval that, with ebbs and flows, raged for most of the period between 1936 and 1939.

Palestine 2003 193 Known as the ‘Rebellion’, the uprising began as a general economic strike against the mandate, but soon turned violent. The Arab community’s established leadership did not initiate these events. Rather, they sprang from grassroots dissatisfaction and the growth of guerrilla bands in rural areas reflected the anger of those most directly affected by the growing Zionist presence: peasants who found their livelihood threatened as Jewish land acquisition expanded. Palestine’s traditional leaders were essentially dragged into the Rebellion and then had to reassert their position by condoning and sponsoring it.13 In the process, Palestinian Arab factions came together under the direction of a Higher Committee, which was the first executive organ of the national movement to function efficiently, although it enjoyed this characteristic for only a relatively short time before being split by internal divisions.14 Ultimately, the mandatory government proved ruthless in quashing the Rebellion. Between 1936 and 1939, no less than 112 Palestinian Arabs were executed by the mandatory administration and many more died while fighting British troops. In its latter stages, the Rebellion acquired an added element of mayhem as inter-Arab rivalries contributed to the bloodshed. It is probable that some 5,000 Palestinian Arabs were killed in the turbulent 1936 to 1939 period.15 Those same years not only witnessed a severe deterioration of the Arab community’s economy, but also the arrest and exile of most of its established leaders. The situation was cogently captured by the American Consul General in Jerusalem, who in late 1939 reported finding among politically minded Arabs ‘an undercurrent of helplessness amounting almost to resignation. They are without effective leadership, largely impoverished’.16 The Rebellion had two immediate consequences that had very long-term implications. The first of these was the active involvement of other Arab actors in the Palestine problem as intermediaries between Palestinian Arabs and the British Government. The regimes of Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Transjordan and Yemen became involved in such efforts. Second, the Rebellion underscored the impossibility of reconciling the political aspirations of Arabs and Zionists within the mandate’s framework. In 1937 a Royal Commission concluded that Palestine’s partition into sovereign Arab and Jewish states was the only available political solution. The proposal was subsequently dropped when Britain concluded that its implementation was administratively, politically and financially inadvisable. In the meantime, Zionists had responded to the suggestion with clear interest. Palestinian Arabs reacted negatively, though at least one faction initially appeared receptive on grounds that a Palestinian Arab state could unite with Hashemite Transjordan.17 It was ironic that just as the Rebellion was crushed, Britain confronted the necessity of placating the Arab World’s growing outrage over its Palestine policy. With World War Two rapidly approaching, the British Government suddenly modified its support of the national home in major ways. Part of this turn was played out in 1939 at a conference in London to which Zionists and Palestinians, as well as representatives of the governments of Egypt, Iraq, Saudi Arabia and Yemen were invited. When no compromise could be reached between Zionist

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demands for no change in policies affecting the mandate and Arab demands for an immediate termination of Jewish immigration and land purchases in Palestine, and for Palestine’s establishment as an Arab state, Britain unilaterally declared its new approach. Jewish immigration would be restricted and permitted for only five more years in the absence of Arab acquiescence, Jewish land purchases would also be restricted, and Palestine would be granted independence in ten years – if relations between Arabs and Jews permitted the removal of foreign authority.18 World War Two saw a major shift in the nature of the Palestine problem: Zionists turned to cultivating the United States as a political counterweight to Great Britain.19 However, nothing changed in terms of either the basic incompatibility between the Zionist and Palestinian Arab positions or the Palestinian Arabs’ essential organizational weakness. The latter was due the continuation of inter-Palestinian rivalries as well as the prolonged absence from Palestine of many key leaders, some still exiled by the British, some having fled to lands beyond Britain’s control. Among the latter was the leading luminary of the Husseini faction, Haj Amin, who had finally taken refuge in Hitler’s Germany. The war years also saw an intensification of the broader Arab World’s concern with the Palestine problem. Saudi Arabia’s King Saud took the matter up directly with US President Franklin D. Roosevelt in early 1945. Shortly after this, a pact forming the League of Arab states was signed. An annex to the document declared that Palestine possessed an international existence that ‘cannot de jure be questioned any more than can the independence of any other Arab country’.20 Provision was made for Palestine’s representation on the Council of the Arab League, a body which included all member states. It was due to pressure from the Arab League that Palestinian Arab factions were, near the end of 1945, temporarily able to able to overcome their internal divisions and form the Arab Higher Executive. This organ rapidly became the instrument of the Husseini faction, which helped ensure that internal divisions would continue to plague Palestine’s Arab community up to the end of the mandate. That end came relatively swiftly. Failing to enlist US support for efforts to arrange some orderly settlement of the Palestine problem, Britain chose to turn the mandate over to the United Nations without recommendation. In November 1947 the UN General Assembly recommended Palestine’s partition into Arab and Jewish states. From that date on, Palestine collapsed into inter-communal warfare. When Britain withdrew from Palestine in May 1948, military forces from surrounding Arab countries moved against the newly declared Jewish state of Israel. By 1949, the First Arab–Israeli War was over, the UN Partition Plan one of its major casualties. Israel emerged from the fray significantly larger than the Partition Plan envisaged. The Palestinian Arab state did not emerge at all. The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan (formerly Transjordan) took control of the West Bank and Egypt did the same in the Gaza Strip. Jerusalem was not internationalized, as called for by the UN plan, but divided between Jordan and Israel. Approximately 850,000 Palestinian refugees welled up from the wreckage, most of whom soon wound up in camps in Arab-controlled areas along Israel’s borders.

Palestine 2003 195 The catastrophe that befell the Palestinian Arabs decisively shifted the conflict’s focus for two decades. Humiliated by their defeat, and separated from Israel by armistice lines rather than borders, Arab states vowed to liberate Palestine but flirted with possibilities of reaching an accommodation with Israel.21 The political climate was not conducive to the latter possibility. The Palestine debacle was directly linked to the overthrow of regimes in Syria and Egypt, as well as to the assassination of Jordan’s King Abdallah. Militancy, at least rhetorical militancy, came to be prized in the Arab World much more than any form of moderation on the Arab–Israeli question. Following Gamal Abdel Nasser’s 1952 rise to power in Egypt, the Arab World’s ideological pendulum swung sharply toward Pan-Arabism. The Palestine issue became ever more enshrined as the determining standard of Arabism as espoused by various (competing) Pan-Arabist orientations. Palestinians themselves, scattered, demoralized and largely homeless, responded eagerly to Pan-Arabist calls. It was an understandable reaction, not only to their post-1948 collective fate but also to the failure of Palestinian political organizations under the mandate. While the flame of national feeling had burned brightly under British rule, it had failed to produce any effective political organization that could win recognition as an actor whose participation was necessary in decisions affecting Palestine’s final disposition. By the end of the mandate, other voices – Zionist, British, Arab and international, drowned out the Palestinians. Palestine’s traditional Arab elites had failed the challenge they faced under the mandate (which, in truth, could equally be put another way: Palestine’s traditional Arab society failed the challenge posed by the mandate). At the level of global politics, now caught up in the Cold War, the West quickly understood that the Arab–Israeli problem might easily provide a springboard for Soviet penetration of the strategically vital Middle East. In 1950, the US, Britain and France issued a ‘Tripartite Declaration’ which, by pledging the powers to limit arms transfers to the Middle East as well as to uphold impartially the ‘territorial integrity’ of all states in the region, sought to contain the Arab–Israeli conflict. Underlying this approach was the conviction that the ‘Arab–Israeli problem’ was an inter-state issue, and could – once passions subsided – be resolved on the basis of rational calculation of interests by the concerned states. In this view, of course, the Palestinian Arabs had no presence as political actors. The Palestinian issue was no more than a humanitarian one, a ‘refugee issue’. By relying upon pan-Arabism to come to their rescue, Palestinians played into this outlook. Although the 1956 Suez war boosted Pan-Arabist enthusiasm throughout the Arab World, it would soon enough become increasingly evident that no amount of Pan-Arabist rhetoric could eclipse the operative, particular interests of individual Arab regimes. The (1958–1961) Egyptian–Syrian union in the United Arab Republic caused Pan-Arabist hopes and particularly Palestinian hopes, to soar. The union’s collapse after such a brief life became a major factor in Palestinians’ reappraisal of their plight, which not only reinforced particularistic nationalist but also Marxist Palestinian perspectives.22 By this time, activist sentiment had led to the beginnings of independent-minded militant Palestinian groups, one of which, Al-Fatah, was giving rise to the leadership of Yasser Arafat.

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It was, indeed, largely in an effort to contain growing Palestinian demands for independent action, that Egypt and the Arab League sponsored the creation of the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) in 1964, placing it under the leadership of a compliant Palestinian, Ahmed al-Shuquairy. The organization was essentially intended as a safety-valve, designed to channel Palestinian activism so that it would not jeopardize the plans of Arab regimes. This, at bottom, meant that Palestinians would be kept from starting an unwanted war with Israel at the expense of the Arab states. That war came nonetheless, provoked partly by Palestinian action but even more by an almost unbridled competition in militant posturing among Arab states that had no real wish to go to war with Israel at that moment. Between the autumn of 1966 and June 1967, escalating tensions and confrontations between Israel, on the one hand, and Jordan, Syria and Egypt, on the other, rendered meaningless all external pledges to protect the ‘territorial integrity’ of states in the region. When Israeli warplanes dropped the first bombs on 5 June 1967 it was impossible to determine objectively whether the act was ‘aggression’ or ‘pre-emptive self-defense’.23 The 1967 Arab–Israeli War marked both the end of Palestinian reliance on Pan-Arabism and the beginning of the emergence of a solid movement based solely on the drive for a Palestinian Arab state. In retrospect, it is also clear that the war’s outcome laid the essential groundwork for the pursuit of individual selfinterest by other Arab actors, an outcome which only reinforced the new Palestinian direction. Egypt, Jordan and Syria suffered serious territorial losses, and saw their erstwhile lands fall under Israel’s occupation. Ideological priorities that had once given primacy of place to Palestine’s liberation had now to be re-ordered in the interest of recovering national territories. The war’s immediate political aftermath reflected these realities, as well as the overwhelming impact that Great Power interests would exert in this new phase of the Palestinians’ drive for self-determination. The first sign of a change in the orientation of Arab states was subtle. It came in August 1967 – at a Summit Conference in Khartoum. The conference became famous for ‘three nos’: no peace with Israel, no recognition of Israel, no negotiations with it [Israel]’. The ‘nos’ did indeed appear in the Khartoum Declaration, but they were accompanied by a little remarked article that also pledged the Arab states to seek to recover occupied lands through international diplomacy.24 The inclusion of this position was not accidental. It responded clearly to the posture taken by the United States shortly after the war. On 19 June, only days after the war ended, President Lyndon Johnson delivered a public address in which he set forth five principles for peace in the Middle East. These were notable for overwhelmingly focusing on the interests of state actors, never mentioning the Palestinian Arabs by name and citing only the need for ‘justice for the refugees’ as one among the other essential requirements. As the others all dealt with stateto-state issues, it was clear that Washington still viewed the Arab–Israeli issue as an inter-state problem.25 Khartoum signaled that at least some Arab states were willing to explore possibilities of a bargain within this framework. It was a framework that clearly excluded the Palestinians as political actors.

Palestine 2003 197 Two decades would be consumed by the Palestinians’ effort to overcome this exclusion from the search for Middle East peace. Ironically, the initial (and utterly false) signs were that Palestinian political activism would be welcomed by the Arab World. The immediate post-war period saw an increase in militant activity by Palestinian guerrilla groups. It was a spectacle that a defeated Arab public not only relished but also took to with romantic determination. The Fedayeen were lionized. In 1968, a pitched battle between substantial Israeli forces and El Fatah guerrillas at the Jordanian town of Karameh galvanized Arab public opinion. The Fatah fighters acquitted themselves well. ‘We shall all be Fedayeen soon’, exulted Jordan’s King Hussein after the battle. However, such momentary euphoria, though accurately reflecting general Arab sentiment at the time, did not obviate the inherent potential for conflicts of interest between a Palestinian national movement and Arab governments seeking their respective interests. The Battle of Karameh furthered the ascendancy within the PLO of Al-Fatah and its leader, Yasser Arafat. In the summer of 1968 the PLO’s charter was amended, making it plain that the organization viewed itself as the representative of the Palestinian people in the process of a genuine and independent revolution that rejected ‘all forms of intervention, trusteeship and subordination’.26 By early 1969 the umbrella organization, at the core of which was a range of militant groups dedicated to armed struggle, was dominated by Arafat and Fatah. The commitment to independent revolutionary action against Israel free from constraints from any quarter quickly ran afoul of the interests of Arab governments. Fouad Jabber long ago summarized the essence of the problem: A guerrilla movement with a substantial popular base, an activist sociopolitical program and a viable military force would present an intolerable challenge and threat to the existing political systems in Jordan, Lebanon and Syria, and is therefore bound to clash with the central authorities.27 The clashes were not long in coming. The first, in Lebanon, was in 1969 as the Beirut government sought to restrict Palestinian guerrillas’ use of south Lebanon as a base for forays against Israel. After rather intense fighting, Egypt’s Gamal Abdel Nasser mediated an uneasy accord. The second, even more serious, confrontation occurred the following year in Jordan, when King Hussein unleashed his army against PLO forces. Chased from Jordan, the guerrillas eventually regrouped in Lebanon. The years 1967 to 1974 marked a period during which the PLO emerged as the organizational embodiment of Palestinian nationalism, and sought to drive home the demand for Palestinian self-determination through a sustained campaign of violence. There was little strategic alternative in the context of the time, for efforts to resolve the Arab–Israeli conflict remained grounded in the statecentric US approach to peacemaking. Still viewed as refugees, at best, or simply as troublesome terrorists, at worst, there was no role for Palestinians in the search for Middle East peace. Lyndon Johnson had 18 months left as president when the 1967 Arab–Israeli War broke out. As manifested by the ‘five principles for peace’ he announced only

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days after the fighting ended, his administration looked to a bargaining process through which the return of occupied lands would provide the currency for definitively settling outstanding points of contention between Israel and the Arab states. For most of Johnson’s remaining tenure, Washington futilely attempted to convince the protagonists to launch such a process ‘through some agreed procedure’.28 Failing in this, and feeling trapped in a dynamic that could lead to the dominance of Soviet influence in the Arab World, the administration ended its days by pursuing a dialogue with Moscow that might lead to a joint US–Soviet approach.29 President Richard Nixon initially followed Johnson’s strategy, though without much enthusiasm. Nixon’s reluctance was bolstered by Henry Kissinger, who, first as National Security Adviser and than as Secretary of State, was unpersuaded by fears of Soviet gains in the Middle East. Kissinger saw an opportunity to eject the Soviets from the region if Washington would only lose its fear of a regional arms race and back Israel fully until the Arabs realized that only a US-sponsored peace process held out hope of regaining their lost territories.30 In short, Arab states would be required to learn that the road to the recovery of occupied lands ran only through Washington. By the early 1970s, Kissinger’s view was guiding the US approach to the Middle East, fueled significantly by Israel’s success in deterring Syria from coming to the PLO’s aid when Jordan attacked Palestinian guerrilla forces in 1970. It quickly seemed to bear fruit when Anwar Sadat succeeded to Egypt’s presidency after Nasser’s death in 1970. However, Sadat was unable to attract Washington’s attention until he initiated, with carefully limited objectives, the October War of 1973.31 The war’s aftermath made Henry Kissinger’s ‘shuttle diplomacy’ famous, as he jetted through the Middle East seeking limited agreements between Israel, on the one hand, and Egypt and Syria on the other. In Egypt’s case, such limited agreements had one clear objective: to remove Egypt from the ranks of Israel’s enemies. Sadat’s regime was amenable and, indeed, much preferred diplomacy that proceeded towards that end ‘leap-by-leap’ rather than only ‘step-by-step’. By September 1975 Egypt and Israel had signed the Sinai II Agreement, the main significance of which was that it eliminated war as an option in Egypt’s future relations with Israel. Cairo was effectively excised from the ranks of Israel’s Arab enemies.32 At the time of Nasser’s death, the Palestinian drive for self-determination could be credited with significant gains in the brief span of just over three years. A strong and multifaceted nationalist organization, the PLO, existed. Moreover, despite its reliance on a variety of Arab states for funding, those sources were sufficiently diversified to offer the organization a strong chance of retaining its independence. Finally, the organization’s dominant ideological underpinning – purely Palestinian nationalism – reinforced its identity and provided guidelines in the form of policy imperatives. Balanced against these gains, however, was a persistent failure. Beyond the confines of the Arab World the PLO continued to be ignored as a political actor. Violence had attracted attention but failed to give the PLO legitimacy as an authentic nationalist voice. Palestinians still did not have a recognized role in helping to shape their political fate.

Palestine 2003 199 The early signs of Anwar Sadat’s eagerness to embrace a Pax Americana, and the success of his 1973 effort to attract Washington’s attention, boded ill for a PLO that could only speak through the barrels of Kaleshnikovs. This led to a major shift in PLO priorties. While not abandoning armed struggle, the thrust of the organization’s ensuing initiatives increasingly aimed at winning political recognition in the centres of power that could most affect the Palestinian people’s fate. Encouraged by the Soviet Union, who as co-chair of the short-lived and symbolic ‘Geneva Peace Conference’ at the end of 1973, had broached the idea of a Palestinian mini-state in the occupied areas, the PLO’s fundamental policy-making body, the Palestinian National Council (PNC) met in July 1974 and called for the creation of ‘a Palestinian national authority in any Palestinian areas liberated from Israeli control’. As Cobban notes, support of the ‘national authority’ concept was: [a] new departure, for it allowed, for the first time . . . the possibility of dividing the land of Palestine – even though [the PLO] was at pains to point out [that] this would only be a transitional step towards the creation of a secular, democratic state in the whole of Palestine.33 To the extent that the ‘new departure’ was intended to give Palestinians a voice in the Geneva Peace Conference, it failed. The symbolic gathering was immediately followed by the US-dominated peace process that, under Kissinger’s direction, led rapidly to the series of agreements that culminated in the 1979 Egyptian–Israeli Peace Treaty. As part of the price of one of those, the 1975 Sinai II Agreement, Israel elicited an American pledge not to ‘negotiate with or recognize’ the PLO until that organization accepted Security Council Resolutions 242 and 338 and recognized ‘Israel’s right to exist’.34 This commitment would prevent substantive contact between the US and the PLO for the next 13 years. Efforts to circumvent this constraint occasionally proved costly. Thus, when president Jimmy Carter sought to broaden Kissinger’s approach to peacemaking by reviving the Geneva Conference in order to pursue a comprehensive settlement, exploratory attempts to learn under what conditions the PLO might bow to the demands of Sinai II led to the forced resignation of Andrew Young, the US Ambassador to the UN. Carter was soon forced to abandon his interest in a comprehensive peace because of several factors. One among these was the PLO’s own nebulousness regarding the extent of its readiness to recognize Israel and accept the relevant Security Council resolutions.35 This, to a large extent, was mainly due to internal Palestinian divisions. The move toward moderation after 1974 produced a ‘Rejectionist Front’ composed of dissident guerrilla groups whose more inflexible position was supported by the socalled radical Arab governments of Syria, Iraq and Libya. Although the PLO would not fully overcome internal strains between hardliners and moderates, the latter ultimately prevailed. By the end of the 1970s even the Rejectionist Front agreed on the right of the Palestinian people to ‘self determination within the framework of an independent state set up in any part of Palestinian soil that may be liberated’.36

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The PLO’s emphasis on pursuing its cause politically was sustained throughout the 1970s by a series of important gains. The United Nations was the venue for many of these. The ‘Question of Palestine’, dropped from the General Assembly’s agenda since 1952, was re-introduced in 1974. At the same time, the PLO was granted permanent observer status as the representative of the Palestinian people. The following years not only saw the General Assembly pass various resolutions endorsing the Palestinians’ right to national independence, but also the extension of the PLO’s presence to a wide range of UN organs.37 Political progress was also made beyond the UN’s confines, as Western Europe and Latin America joined Asia and Eastern Europe in giving rise to significant and progressively more explicit expressions of support for Palestinian national rights and for the PLO’s role as the Palestinians’ representative institution. In 1977, for example, the European Community’s (EC) London Declaration argued that the ‘legitimate rights of the Palestinians should take the form of a homeland for the Palestinian people’.38 The EC’s 1980 Venice Declaration was more explicit, noting the need for the PLO to be associated with negotiations towards a peaceful settlement, it stated bluntly: ‘The Palestinian people . . . must be placed in a position, by an appropriate process defined within the framework of the comprehensive peace settlement, to exercise fully its right to self-determination.’39 The PLO was clearly advancing in its drive to win a recognized role in the peace process, but it was yet far from reaching that goal. The peace process, still dominated by the US, had produced the 1977 Camp David Accords as a prelude to the Egyptian–Israeli Peace Treaty that followed two years later. The ‘Framework for a Middle East Peace’ called for Egypt, Israel, Jordan ‘and representatives of the Palestinian people’ to resolve the Palestinian problem ‘in all its aspects’. It proposed negotiations towards ‘full autonomy’ for the inhabitants of the West Bank and Gaza Strip during a ‘transitional period’ (of at most five years’ duration) and – ultimately – final negotiations over the West Bank, Gaza and a peace treaty between Jordan and Israel.40 The PLO was not seen as the Palestinians’ representative, at least not by Israel and the United States. The enormous gap separating Israel and the United States from the PLO was a major factor in the tensions that wracked the Middle East throughout the 1980s. Ronald Reagan’s election to the US presidency ended the interest that Jimmy Carter’s Washington had shown in exploring possibilities of accommodation with Palestinian nationalism. Reagan and his Secretary of State, Alexander Haig – deeply concerned by the fall of Iran’s Pahlavi regime and the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan at the end of the 1970s – viewed the Middle East solely through Cold War lenses. Priority was given to furthering an anti-Soviet ‘Strategic Consensus’ in the region. Pro-Soviet ‘Radicals’, among which the PLO was counted, were not to be countenanced. This perspective underlay the administration’s complicity in Israel’s 1982 invasion of Lebanon.41 The invasion, which sent 90,000 troops into Lebanon, was ordered by the strongly nationalist Likud government of Menachem Begin. Its immediate objective was, in the words of Israeli General Aharon Yaariv, to ‘demolish the infrastructure of the PLO’ and ‘to do our best to see it was not

Palestine 2003 201 re-established’.42 The ultimate objective behind this operational goal was revealed by Israeli Foreign Minister Yitzhak Shamir’s comment that ‘the defense of the West Bank starts in Beirut’.43 In short, the Begin government hoped to kill and bury the organizational manifestation of Palestinian national consciousness, and by doing so destroy, or at least render impotent, that consciousness itself. Initially, the immediate objective seemed to have been attained. Most of the elaborate infrastructure that the PLO had built up over the years in Lebanon was lost. The bulk of the fighters who endured Beirut’s ten-week siege were evacuated to places far from Israel’s borders; the PLO’s headquarters was moved to Tunis. None of this, however, killed the organization. Even less did it eliminate its standing as the embodiment of Palestinian nationalism. On the international plane the disproportionate and brutal struggle between Israel’s land, air and sea power, and the lightly armed PLO forces trapped in Beirut generated widespread sympathy and concern for the Palestinians’ cause. This was strikingly symbolized, much to Israel’s outrage, when Pope John Paul II accorded a private audience to Yasser Arafat only days after the latter left the battered city of Beirut. Nor, as was soon shown, did the PLO’s military defeat in Lebanon undermine its support among Palestinians. Over the next several years, Palestinians in the occupied territories found various ways to leave no doubt of their overwhelming support for the Arafat-led PLO.44 Finally, the ramifications of the 1982 invasion of Lebanon impacted upon Israel’s body politic in ways that ultimately helped undermine the demonization of the Palestinian nationalism and the PLO.45 In the meantime, the peace process languished. Much futile effort was made by various parties, including moderate Arab states, to find a formula that would enable contacts between the US and the PLO. Related efforts, also futile, were made to encourage some sort of joint PLO – Jordanian rule over occupied territories that might be returned in the context of a comprehensive settlement. At the end of 1987, the years of frustration suffered by Palestinians living under Israeli occupation exploded in the Intifada, a popular, largely non-violent, revolt. Over the next several years, images of unarmed stone-throwers fighting pitched battles against well-armed Israeli troops were carried around the world, constituting not only a public-relations disaster for Israel but also, within vocal segments of Israeli society, a source of deepening conviction that the demand for Palestinian self-determination had somehow to be satisfied.46 In July 1988, Jordan’s King Hussein renounced all claims to the occupied West Bank, thus removing any challenge he might have posed to the PLO’s insistence that it alone spoke for Palestinians. A few months later the PLO explicitly renounced terrorism in all forms, accepted Israel’s right to exist, and accepted Security Council Resolutions 242 and 338. This development was fueled by the organization’s awareness that worldwide sympathy for the Palestinians’ cause had reached a high point, as well as its fear of growing Islamist sentiment within the occupied territories and its inability to shake Washington’s minimal requirements for opening a dialogue. Even so, it was only after facing considerable international pressure that the Reagan Administration grudgingly agreed to have contact with the PLO.

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The initial dialogue lasted only 18 months and had not turned to substantial issues before its suspension by the Bush Administration in the wake of a foiled effort by Palestinian commandos to enter Israel. Thus, the 1980s ended on an ominous note in the Middle East. The Palestine issue remained unresolved and no signs of imminent movement towards resolution were in sight. It took no great acumen to observe that the region was ending the decade ‘riddled by various crises and deep divisions’ and note that: It is impossible to know how long this state of affairs may last, or what will replace it. All that is certain is that someday, in some way, it will change. If the Palestine issue has not been resolved by then, part and parcel of the change may well be the renewal of tensions, if not hostilities, between Israel and the Arab World.47 Saddam Hussein’s invasion and seizure of Kuwait in the summer of 1990 reflected longstanding inter-Arab tensions and the Soviet Union’s progressive collapse as a viable actor on the world stage. Palestine was not a factor in Baghdad’s undertaking. Yet, it was not long in becoming a major and seriously threatening, element in the drama that led to the 1991 International Coalition’s war against Iraq. Iraqi spokesmen promptly forged the link between demands for an Iraqi withdrawal from occupied Kuwait and Palestinian/Arab demands for an Israeli withdrawal from occupied territories. Iraq’s SCUD missile attacks on Israel once the war broke out were – happily – conducted without the use of biological or chemical warheads, although the threat of this was very prominently present. Israel bowed to US pressure and absorbed the attacks without responding. Had non-conventional warheads been involved, a very different, and very serious, story might well have unfolded. The lesson, gleaned from the smoke-filled burning Kuwaiti oilfields in the war’s wake, was not only that war is not the optimal way to defend oil fields but also that, if left unresolved, the festering Palestine issue could seriously destabilize the Middle East in myriad ways. The upshot was a full change of direction in Washington’s approach to Middle East peacemaking. The centerpiece of the ‘New World Order’ proclaimed by the Bush Administration was the Middle East and its construction was slated to begin at the October 1991 Madrid Peace Conference, co-chaired by the US and the moribund Soviet Union. Washington did not object to PLO-approved Palestinian delegates forming part of Jordan’s delegation. With this, the PLO achieved the essence of its third, and penultimate, nationalist objective: an acknowledged role as a participant in the determination of Palestine’s overall political fate. Nearly two years would pass before this essential victory was capped by full formal victory. In September 1993 Israel and the PLO mutually recognized each other’s legitimacy and formally agreed on a ‘Declaration of Principles for Palestinian Interim Self-Government’. Initially, the interim period was scheduled to end in May 1999. In the interval, in 1994, Yasser Arafat and the PLO leadership returned to Palestine and established the

Palestine 2003 203 Palestinian Authority (PA). In 1996, elections were held, making Arafat President of the PA and giving his supporters over 60 per cent of seats in the PA’s Legislative Council. At least in embryonic form, the Palestinian National Movement now appeared to have achieved its fourth, and final, goal, the establishment of a permanently recognized and legitimate institutional embodiment of Palestinian national identity. The de facto state of Palestine was born. The various accoutrements mentioned at the outset of this chapter, the airline and the passports and so forth, sprouted rapidly. Yet multiple outstanding problems remained. While the ‘interim period’ was supposed to produce a final arrangement, it did not. Not the borders, nor the status, nor the powers of any authority ruling the final Palestinian entity were clarified. The same was true of sundry other issues, including the Palestinian refugee problem, the question of Jerusalem and the relationship of Jewish settlements – and settlers – in the occupied territories to any definitive Palestinian national entity. An entirely distinct category of problems emerged from the PA’s domestic sphere of action. While the PLO managed to extend itself into the PA with the support of most Palestinians in areas under its limited authority, it encountered problems emanating from two major sources of domestic political inclinations. There was, on the one hand, a segment of the population whose nationalist vision was linked to that of liberal democracy and who balked at signs of authoritarianism within the PA. On the other hand, a much larger, better organized Islamist segment, primarily manifested by Hamas, differed fundamentally with the PLO/PA’s abandonment of earlier Palestinian nationalist hopes of undoing the state of Israel. The implications of these and other problems that faced the de facto state of Palestine are examined below. First though, it will be useful to review briefly major lessons to be drawn from the Palestinian people’s search for self-determination.

Towards understanding a century of struggle Four broad categories of interrelated factors stand out as having shaped the long trajectory of the Palestinians’ struggle for self-determination. First, there were the political contexts in which the nationalist struggle was waged. These were the interrelated local, regional and international environments that provided settings for the confluence of actors and interests that ultimately defined the course of Palestinians’ search for self-determination. With Israel physically in control of Palestine after 1967, the regional and international environments became the main stages upon which the struggle developed. As each of these contextual environments became less opposed to purely Palestinian nationalism, opportunities for the Palestinian National Movement increased. Egypt’s turn away from pan-Arabist values after Anwar Sadat came to power in 1970, marked the beginning of a fundamental change in the regional environment that offered scope for strengthening Palestinian particularistic nationalism and for the growth of pragmatism in its pursuit of self-determination. Eighteen

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years later, the Hashemite Monarchy’s renunciation of claims on the West Bank removed the last major Arab obstacle to the PLO’s single-minded pursuit of control of the occupied territories. From its outset, the struggle between Palestinian nationalism and Zionism had, of course, been shaped by the international context. Most of the years after 1967 were dominated by the US-directed search for Middle East peace, in which there long proved to be no room for Palestinian nationalism. By 1988, the altered regional environment permitted the PLO to meet minimal US requirements for altering its own approach. That step was, in turn, largely facilitated by a progressively changed international environment that ultimately made Washington’s recalcitrance untenable. Further major developments in the international environment – the Soviet Union’s collapse and the 1991 Gulf War – eliminated the grudging disposition with which the US had originally accepted the reality of Palestinian nationalism. In turn, these changes in the international regional and international environments helped promote the ascendancy in Israel of a greater willingness to accept the legitimacy of Palestinian nationalism as a force that should be dealt with politically. All this opened the way – via Madrid – for the breakthrough developments of the 1990s: the mutual recognition of the PLO and Israel, and the creation of the PA. These dynamics returned the essence of the Palestinians’ drive towards self-determination back to the local level, to Palestine itself, a process that had already started in the late 1980s with the onset of the Intifada. The second major category of factors that has molded Palestinians’ campaign for self-determination has been the determination of the Palestinians’ themselves. Generations managed to pass to succeeding generations a commitment to the nationalist ideal in one form or another. In itself, persistence only partly explains the survival of such determination. Adaptability – that is flexibility – both in goals and strategies to achieve those goals have been overall hallmarks of the Palestinians’ campaign. Thus, the shifting of ideologically nationalistic paths, from mixed particularism/pan-Islamism/pan-Syrianism, to pan-Arabism, to purely Palestinian particularism, helped keep alive the core Palestinian national concern. The third major category of factors helping to explain the course of Palestinians’ struggle is, indeed, the nature of the dominant leaderships that emerged at various periods in the campaign. Various styles and orientations are easily identifiable, ranging from the impassioned and inflexible nationalism of Haj al-Amin al-Husseini to the compliant role of Ahmed al-Shuquairy to the pragmatic independence of Yasser Arafat. Historians, polemists and partisans may never cease debating the contributions, or lack thereof, of these figures. But ‘historical might have beens’ constitute a very sterile area of thought. What is clear is that each style of leadership, in its own time and way, helped produce the chain of events that led to the conditions under which the Palestinian de facto state could arise after 1994. This brings up the fourth, final – and currently most relevant – set of factors that has shaped and continues to shape, the Palestinians’ quest for self-determination: the

Palestine 2003 205 different experiences of the Palestinians who have promoted it. The political environment in which this aspect of the Palestinians’ long search for self-determination has most strikingly been played out is the post-1994 environment of Palestine itself. All signs indicate that this is the arena in which the final outcome of that search will be determined.

Conclusion Upon returning to Palestine in 1994, the PA learned that the final step towards its ultimate goal – the establishment of an internationally recognized sovereign state of Palestine – would entail two sorts of political activity. One, the task of winning Israel’s agreement to all specific conditions that would attend this outcome, was obviously expected. The other entailed the need to secure and sustain the support of a population that, unlike the leadership it looked to, had consistently fought the nationalist struggle on Palestinian soil. This, perhaps, was not so expected. In short, tensions between the diaspora-formed PLO leadership and the populations of the West Bank and Gaza were not slow to develop. The ‘insiders’, having gone through the occupation and the Intifada found grounds for resentment as the incoming ‘outsiders’, formed by decades in the diaspora, looked to themselves as they set about building the working institutions of the PA. Two clear domestic challenges to the PA soon developed. One emanated from liberal, largely Western-educated, local intellectuals and activists. These looked forward to the development of an open, democratic and liberal Palestinian selfgovernment under the rule of law. What in fact quickly developed under the ‘interim’ PA was not to their liking. Power was concentrated in the presidency, that is, in Yasser Arafat’s office; there was far too little transparency in government; human rights violations abounded, as did corruption and nepotism; and the rule of law was often capricious. The second purely domestic challenge, however, went much deeper – not so much focusing on the apparent direction in which state-building was going but on the very legitimacy of the state-building exercise in the context of a basic Palestinian acceptance of Israel’s legitimacy and its role in Palestinians’ efforts to forge the institutional basis of self-determination. This challenge emanated from Islamists and particularly from Hamas, originally a Gaza-based offshoot of the Muslim Brotherhood, that quickly gained very significant popular support. While not rejecting the goal in principle, Hamas continued to insist on the liberation of all Palestine. Although both the PA and Hamas pledged to avoid inter-Palestinian conflict, conflict indeed occurred. Pressed by Israel for proof of its commitment to a political settlement, the PA periodically cracked down on Hamas, all the while insisting that it remained open to all forms of opinion. However, throughout the period that led up to Second Intifada and the ensuing collapse of the PA’s already-limited authority there was a real question as to whether Arafat’s quasi-government could win – or would progressively alienate – the loyalty of Palestinian masses on their home ground.48

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The outbreak of the Second Intifada in late 2000, and the ensuing prolonged intercommunal warfare that has been Palestine’s fate in the interval, not only called into question the degree to which Arafat’s regime rejects violence in its pursuit of statehood – it has also raised the question of the Palestinian masses willingness to rally behind any regime committing itself to a purely political route. The answer will be determined largely by the extent to which Israeli decision-makers are prepared to adopt positions that enhance the political option’s credibility. It is by no means certain that this will be the case. It must be recalled that even at the height of the de facto Palestinian state’s apparent viability as a steppingstone to full statehood and peace, the PA’s domestic political problems paled alongside the challenge it confronted in negotiating a final settlement with Israel. The major outstanding points of contention between Palestinians and Israelis continued to involve key issues of emotional, economic and vital political importance. Among these were the status of Jerusalem, psychologically a basic and exclusive demand of Israelis as well as Palestinians; water rights, of basic importance to Israel as well as to any Palestinian entity; the future of Jewish settlements in projected Palestinian territories; the disposition of Palestinian refugees, who are currently estimated to number some 4.5 million;49 and the all-important question of boundaries. Caught between its domestic difficulties and its need to arrive at a final settlement with Israel, the PA relied heavily on the support of international donors. The world community responded quickly to the chance for peace offered by Israel and the PLO’s mutual recognition. Pledges for some $4.1 billion in assistance for Palestinian reconstruction and development were quickly forthcoming. Of this some $3.6 billion was committed against specific projects and $2.5 billion was actually disbursed by the end of 1998.50 Much of this largesse was utilized by the PA to consolidate its authority on the basis of crude patronage.51 Samuel Huntington once noted that the task of government is to govern. Between 1994 and 2000, the Palestinian quasi-government faced an especially difficult task in this regard because it was a ‘government-in-the-making within astate-in-the making’. In 1999, a blue ribbon ‘Independent Task Force’ of the prestigious, US-based Council of Foreign Relations examined the PA’s performance in terms of public institutions. Although finding much fault and offering pertinent recommendations for remedial steps, the Task Force also recognized the heart of the PA’s difficulty: The Palestinian Authority has lacked undisputed control over key resources such as land, water and contiguous territory. It does not have exclusive jurisdiction over the legal and administrative systems that serve its population, nor does it have unfettered access to external markets. A large share of its operating budget remains dependent on transfers of taxes and duties collected by Israel on its behalf, reaching 40 per cent of the Palestinian Authority’s domestic revenue in 1998. Furthermore, by May 1999 Israel still exercised full control over 71 per cent of the West Bank and 30 per cent of the Gaza Strip and over the movement

Palestine 2003 207 of people and goods between the two areas and within them. Israel also held responsibility for overall security in an additional 19 per cent of the West Bank that came under the territorial and functional control of the Palestinian Authority and in which roughly half the local Palestinian population resided. Finally, Israel has retained complete control over all external borders, airspace, territorial waters and the electromagnetic sphere of the West Bank and Gaza Strip.52 Whether what currently exists of the Palestinian de facto state can be resuscitated and, if so, whether its transformation to full Palestinian statehood can be achieved, will depend on what transpires in the international political environment and, on the other hand, choices made by Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza. The present international environment is, of course, primarily shaped by the US ‘war on terrorism’ and Washington’s bid to create a new order in the Middle East, following the overthrow of the Saddam regime in Iraq, by applying pressure to such regimes as those in Syria and Iran. These objectives have arguably heightened Israel’s value to Washington as an ally. This, in turn, has bolstered the position of forces in Israel that inveterately oppose any movement toward Palestinian statehood. At the same time, the ascendancy within Palestinian ranks of those who see violence as the only avenue to political success stands not only as a reaction to, but also as a cause of, rigid militancy in Israel. The result is a vicious circle, an extremist dialectic of death and destruction that leaves virtually no space for moderates to explore possibilities of definitive political accommodation. The only way the dismal spinning of this vicious circle can be stopped appears to be by major changes in the international environment. There is no certainty when, or how, such changes will occur. All that seems sure is that someday, in some way, change will come. The unanswerable question at this point is whether the destructive dynamic that now has Palestine in its grip will by then have left any prospect of a settlement to which a Palestinian state might be a partner. With reference to de facto states, the Palestinian experience carries a gloomy lesson – that de facto statehood is no long-term alternative to the real thing. For the populations of such entities will at best find their fates tied to forces that they may, perhaps, aspire to influence but can never hope to control.

Notes 1 George Antonius, The Arab Awakening (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1938). 2 Barbara Tuchman, The Proud Tower: A Portrait of the World Before the War, 1890–1914, (New York: Macmillan, 1966). 3 ‘Memorandum by Mr. Balfour Respecting Syria, Palestine and Mesopotamia, 1919’, in Walid Khalidi, (ed.) From Haven to Conquest (Beirut: The Institute for Palestine Studies, 1971), p. 208. 4 J.C. Hurewitz, Diplomacy in the Near and Middle East: A documentary Record (Princeton, N J: D. Van Nostrand Company, 1956), pp. 25–26. 5 J.C. Hurewitz, The Struggle for Palestine (New York: W.W. Norton, 1950), pp. 18–19.

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6 J.M.N. Jeffries, The Balfour Declaration (Beirut: The Institute for Palestine Studies, 1969), p. 9. 7 Hansard, Parliamentary Debates (House of Commons, London), 5thSeries, vol. 433, col. 1915, address by Ernest Bevin. 8 Anthony Nutting, The Arabs (New York: Mentor Books, 1964), p. 290. For an involved and unconvincing attempt to refute Nutting’s view, see Isaiah Friedman, The Question of Palestine, 1914–1918 (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1973), pp. 65–96. 9 See Hurewitz, The Struggle for Palestine, p. 18. 10 See Antonius, The Arab Awakening. The resolutions are reproduced in Appendix G. 11 See Hurewitz, The Struggle for Palestine, p. 56. 12 Ibid., p. 58. 13 Dan Tschirgi, The Politics of Indecision: Origins and Implications of American Involvement With the Palestine Problem (New York: Praeger Publishers, 1983), p. 12. See also John Marlowe, The Seat of Pilate (London: The Cresset Press, 1959), p. 137; and David Waines, The Unholy War (Montreal: Chateau Books, 1971), p. 90. 14 See Hurewitz, The Struggle for Palestine, pp. 68–90. 15 See Tschirgi, The Politics of Indecision, p. 13; Government of Palestine, A Survey of Palestine, 3 vols. (Palestine: Government Printer, 1946), II: 49. See also Waines, The Unholy War, p. 81 and Hurewitz, The Struggle for Palestine, p. 83. For a particularly well chronicled account of the Rebellion’s degeneration into bloody confrontations among Arab factions, see Yehoshua Porath, The Palestinian National Movement: From Riots to Rebellion (London: Frank Cass, 1977), pp. 249–60. 16 George Wadsworth to the Secretary of State, 8 January 1940, Despatch 1187, 867n.01/1685, National Archives of the United States, 1940–44. 17 See Hurewitz, The Struggle for Palestine, p. 78. 18 See Richard Allen, Imperialism and Nationalism in the Fertile Crescent: Sources and Prospects of the Arab-Israeli Conflict (New York: Oxford University Press, 1974), pp. 324–31. 19 See Tschirgi, The Politics of Indecision, pp. 38–56. 20 ESCO Foundation for Palestine, vol. 2, Palestine: A Study of Jewish, Arab and British Policies (New Haven: Yale University Press,1947), p. 1,005. 21 For.example, see the interesting study by Muhammad Abd el-Wahab Sayed-Ahmed, Nasser and American Foreign Policy: 1952–1956 (Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press, 1989). 22 For the boost given to Marxist perspectives by the UAR’s breakup, see the important work by Walid Kazziha, Revolutionary Transformation in the Arab World: Habash and His Comrades From Nationalism to Marxism (London: Charles Knight, 1975), pp. 65–81. 23 Dan Tschirgi, The American Search for Mideast Peace (New York: Praeger, 1989), p. 8. 24 For the text of resolutions adopted at Khartoum, see Arab Report and Record, 1–15 September 1967, p. 286. 25 See Tschirgi, American Search for Mideast Peace, pp. 14–15. 26 Helena Cobban, The Palestinian Liberation Organization: People, Power and Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), p. 43. 27 Fouad Jabber, ‘The Palestinian Resistance’, in William B. Quandt, Fouad Jabber and Ann Lesch, The Politics of Palestinian Nationalism (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1973), p. 214. 28 US Office of the Federal Register, Weekly Compilation of Presidential Documents IV, no. 37 (16 September 1968), p. 1,342. 29 see Tschirgi, American Search for Mideast Peace, p. 52. 30 Ibid, pp. 53–90. 31 I am well aware of how curious it sounds when one says that ‘Sadat was unable to attract Washington’s attention’. In essence, the point is true, though made so telegraphically (as it must be here) it might confuse more than explain. There are, of course, both explanations as well as outstanding questions attached to the Nixon Administration’s relations with Sadat’s Egypt between 1970 and 1973. For further

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32 33 34

35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44

45

46

47 48 49 50 51 52

reference: Henry Kissinger, Years of Upheaval (Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1982); Richard Nixon, RN: The Memoirs of Richard Nixon (New York: Warner Books, 1978); and Tschirgi, American Search For Mideast Peace. See Tschirgi, American Search For Mideast Peace, pp. 92–97. Cited in Cobban, Palestinian Liberation Organization, p. 17. The PLO’s essential reasons for disquiet over these resolutions were: (1) That its acceptance of either implied recognition of Israel’s legitimacy; (2) That neither upheld the national rights of the Palestinian people as an issue that had to be resolved in the context of a Middle East peace. See Tschirgi, American Search For Mideast Peace, pp. 109–110. See Kemal Kirisci, The PLO and World Politics: A Study of the Mobilization of Support for the Palestinian Cause (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1986), p. 66. Ibid., pp. 138–45. Cited in Ibid., p. 115. Cited in Ibid. See Tschirgi, American Search for Mideast Peace, p. 126. Ze’ev Schiff, ‘The Green Light’, Foreign Policy, 50 (Spring, 1983), pp. 80–1. ‘Beirut siege, Talks on Fate of PLO in Lebanon Continue’, in Facts on File, vol. 42, no. 2172 (2 July 1982), p. 474. Cited in George Ball, Error and Betrayal in Lebanon: An Analysis of Israel’s Invasion of Lebanon and the Implications for U.S.–Israeli Relations ( Washington, DC: Foundation for Middle East Peace, 1984), p. 27. Among these were the outcomes of municipal elections, demonstrations and responses to public opinion polls. A particularly widely noted poll was sponsored jointly in 1986 by the Palestinian newspaper Al Fajr, Australian Broadcasting, and Newday. See ‘The Al-Fajr Public Opinion Survey’, Journal of Palestine Studies, XVI, no. 62 ( Winter, 1987), pp. 196–297. See also John Kifner, ‘Anti-Arafat Position By Jordan’s Hussein Appears to Backfire’, International Herald Tribune, 6 March 1986. The impact of the prolonged siege of Beirut upon the Israeli public’s perceptions of their country’s policies toward the Palestinians should not be underestimated. Among many striking manifestations of a growing conviction that prevailing official approaches needed to be re-thought, the most striking was a massive protest, in the wake of the Sabra and Chatila massacres, against the possibility that Israel’s leaders would indulge in tactics that bordered on the genocidal. A reported 350,000 Israelis – nearly 10 per cent of the country’s population at that time – took to the streets. See Tschirgi, American Search For Mideast Peace, pp. 173–4. Anyone with personal experience in Israel and the opportunity to interview a wide range of politically-active Israelis would have seen this. For this insight, I am indebted to many Israeli sources, including those made available by the Harry S. Truman Center for the Advancement of Peace during and after 1984. See Tschirgi, American Search for Peace, pp. 238–39. See the excellent study by Christopher Parker, Resignation or Revolt? Socio-Political Development & the Challenges of Peace in Palestine (London: IB Taurus, 1999). A conclusive figure for the total of Palestinian refugees in the world is not available, largely because of the lack of a universal consensus as to what determines refugee status. Michel Rocard and Henry Siegman, ‘Strengthening Palestinian Public Institution’, Council of Foreign Relations Independent Task Force Report, (New York: Council of Foreign Relations, 1999), at www.CFR REPORT.htm ( July 15, 2000). See Parker, Resignation or Revolt?, passim. Ibid.

10 Can clans form nations? Somaliland in the making Henry Srebrnik

The Somali: a nation or an aggregation of clans? In 1987, David Laitin and Said Samatar published Somalia: Nation in Search of a State. Their thesis was that the Somali Democratic Republic, as it was then known, was a rarity among African polities, in that its entire population comprised a people with the same language (Somali), religion (virtually all adhered to Sunni Islam), economy (pastoral and agricultural) and social structure (clan-families). Their view, that Somalia constituted a genuine nation state, was shared by almost every scholar writing about the country. Indeed, before 1991, the Somali people, some 9.5 million in number, was deemed to include, in addition to the 7 million that had formed Somalia, another 2 million in the Ogaden region of Ethiopia, 250,000 in the Northern Province of Kenya and 200,000 people in Djibouti, the old French Somaliland. ‘In its pristine meaning, a nation is a group of people whose members believe they are ancestrally related. It is the largest group to share such a myth of common descent; it is, in a sentient sense, the fully extended family,’ writes Walker Connor. This sense of kinship, of separate origin and evolution, whether historically accurate or fictive, is, he writes, ‘the glue of the national bond’. While objective criteria such as common language, religion, territory and the like, help define an ethnonational community, its essence is a psychological bond that joins it and ‘differentiates it, in the subconscious conviction of its members, from all nonmembers in a most vital way’.1 Ethnicity and kinship are alike in that one is born into both, adds Donald Horowitz. ‘The language of ethnicity’, he stresses, ‘is the language of kinship. Group members often call each other brothers and call distantly related groups cousins.’2 All of this, it would seem, applied to the Somalis, an Eastern Cushite or Hamitic people, like the North African Berbers, who were converted to Sunni Islam between the eleventh and thirteenth centuries by Arabs from across the Gulf of Aden in the Arabian peninsula. They have occupied some 400,000 square miles of arid semidesert in the Horn of Africa for millennia, and possess, apart from a common way of life and culture, ‘a profound Islamic heritage; and a deeply held belief that nearly all Somalis descend from the same source and are therefore drawn together by emotive bonds of kinship and genealogical ties’. They have a ‘consciousness of their corporate unity’ and a sense of common

Somaliland in the making 211 destiny.3 They are unified by ethnicity, language, religion, and even economics and social structure – some 60 per cent of Somalis are nomadic pastoralists who have made their living through animal husbandry, another 20 per cent are farmers, and, although a few rich merchants may be found in the coastal cities, there have been few discernable class differences among them, or much social stratification. And they made-up close to 90 per cent of the population in the new republic formed in 1960. Yet the Somali state would crumble into nothingness. ‘It was once thought that ethnic heterogeneity facilitates state failure, while homogeneity correlates strongly with success’, yet Somalia seemed to have refuted this argument.4 But maybe the Somalis were not really a nation, at least not in our modern (and Western) sense of the term. Perhaps Somalia had been a state in search of a nation, and that attempts at ‘nation building’ in this seemingly homogeneous state had born as little fruit as elsewhere in sub-Saharan Africa. The anthropologist Ioan M. Lewis has noted that ‘the key to Somali politics lies in kinship. . . . All political units are first and foremost lineages’.5 To vastly oversimplify an exceedingly complex genealogical tree, there are six major clanfamilies, that is, coalitions of smaller clans and lineage groups, named for their founders: the Darood, Dir, Hawiye and Isaaq, who together make up the group known as the Samaale, are mainly pastoral; the Digil and Rahanwayne (sometimes called the Digil-Mirifle), known as the Sab, predominantly agricultural. A Somali belongs to Somali society through a kinship group which is part of a clan-family. This genealogy is ‘the heart of the Somali social system’, but it is also the basis for the ‘predilection to internal fissions and internecine sectionary conflicts’.6 The clan-families are all subdivided into a complex pattern of hundreds of segmented smaller clan and kinship units, and this reduces the ability of a large clan-family to act in unison; different clan segments may at any given time be opposed to each other while allied with clan segments from other clan-families. Clans are the primary unit of organization and disputes between them have become the fault lines of conflict. The sets of rules that govern conduct between these clan groups are known as heer. Along with Islam, they form the basis of social order and ‘provide acceptable and workable ways of dealing with disputes and conflicts’.7 As such, they are extremely important in interactions among the clans. As we shall see, these time-honoured conventions were compromised after 1960. Indeed, clan and tribal rivalries and schisms have proved so destructive throughout Somalia that theorists of nationalism will be forced to rethink their definitions of what constitutes a nation and ‘revise Eurocentric notions of political formations’.8 Can a people possess national consciousness yet be unable to overcome internal difference and form a unified state? Can sub-national clan loyalties override national identity? Did we miss the trees for the forest?

Somali history to 1978 Italian Somaliland, a UN trusteeship after the Second World War, began preparing for independence in the mid-1950s. Britain, however, did not allow political parties

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to organize in its Somaliland protectorate until 1959, putting the north at a severe disadvantage. There were three major political groupings formed in British Somaliland at independence: the Somali National League (SNL), founded in 1951, an Isaaq party led by a schoolteacher, Mohamed Ibrahim Egal, who was a member of the Iise Muse sub-clan of the Habar Awal clan, and which drew its strength mainly from the Habar Yunis and Egal’s own subclan; the National United Front (NUF), also Isaaq, its support coming from the Habar Tol Jaalo clan; and a Dir- and Darood-organized party, the United Somali Party (USP). The SNL was the strongest of the three. These three parties were almost entirely unprepared when, in 1960, the British suddenly announced with no prior warning, that their territory would gain independence simultaneously with Italian Somaliland. They found themselves forced to negotiate with the major party in Italian Somaliland, the Darood and Hawiye-dominated Somali Youth League (SYL), which was poised to take power in the new state, 246,201 square miles (637,657 square kilometres) in area, that would emerge on 1 July 1960. A root cause of the collapse of the state 30 years later ‘can be traced to the rapid union of the two Somali territories’.9 The two Somalilands had to integrate their different educational, legal and commercial systems into what was to become a unitary state. Each assembly passed its own version of legislation authorizing the union, but these were never harmonized. No formal international treaty combining the two countries was ever signed. Because northern and southern politicians could not agree on the terms of the Act of Union, the new president, Aden Abdilla Osman, decreed the unification himself, something which was, technically, unconstitutional. North–south divisions emerged almost at once: Osman, the president of the new state was a Hawiye, Abdirashid Ali Shermarke, the prime minister, a Darood, but both were southerners. Southerners also took more than two-thirds of the senior cabinet posts and the top positions in the military and police forces. Egal, the foremost northern politician, received the minor education portfolio. The new Somali constitution uniting the former British and Italian colonies, drafted mainly by southern politicians with Italian aid, and with almost no northern input, was put before the Somali people in a referendum in June 1961. The SNL campaigned against it and advocated a boycott; altogether only some 100,000 northerners turned out to vote, and it received less than 50 per cent support in the north from those who did turn out. However, since the north comprised only about one-third of the population of the new Somalia, and since it was approved overwhelmingly in the south, the new constitution received a clear overall majority. The two parts of the new country had few economic interests in common. Less than 1 per cent of their trade was intranational – the south traded mainly with Italy, the north with the Arabian peninsula. Government, largely in the hands of the Darood and Hawiye, the major clan-families in the new country, was centralized in Mogadishu, where the SNL did not even have an office, and economic and political opportunities followed. Soon, leading entrepreneurs and educated bureaucrats were moving south. Investment went into projects in and around the

Somaliland in the making 213 capital, including construction of new buildings for the parliament, university, national theatre, hospitals and hotels. In December 1961 there was an unsuccessful military coup by British-trained northern officers, led by Hassan Kayd, who wished to break up the new union. Two years later, continued widespread discontent culminated in riots in Hargeisa. Parliamentary democracy never took root, and in 1969 a coup was staged by a military officer from the Mareehan Darood, a minor clan which had become prominent within the military during Italian-colonial rule. General Mohamed Siad Barre, born in the Ethiopian-held Ogaden, soon put an end to electoral politics altogether. He also decided to provide support to the ethnic Somali guerrillas who were contesting Addis Ababa’s rule in the Ogaden. This led to the disastrous full-scale assault on Ethiopia from 1977 to 1978. The defeat destroyed any sense of national unity.

The decay of Somalia and the growth of Isaaq political consciousness The Isaaq were especially frustrated at their relatively impotent position. No northern politician had been at the centre of power during the entire period of union save for Egal’s two-year spell as prime minister from 1967 to 1969. The defeat in the Ogaden war meant that the Haud grazing lands in the Ogaden, which the Isaaq viewed as their own, would continue to remain outside Somali control; worse, the massive influx of refugees – mainly Ogaden of the Darood clan-family – into the north threatened the Isaaq’s own hold on Somaliland and sparked intense antagonism. Many of these refugees became part of the Somali army, which increased in number from 37,000 in 1977 to 120,000 in 1982. The Isaaq accused the government of economic and political discrimination. Public works were neglected, no new factories or roads were built in the north. More than 95 per cent of all development projects and scholarships went to southerners. Government restrictions and red tape hampered the trade in livestock through the port of Berbera which was such an important component of the northern pastoral economy. And, while most of Somalia’s foreign earnings came from that sale of livestock, most of the customs duties collected flowed to Mogadishu. Siad Barre imposed crippling restrictions and ‘special’ taxes on northern merchants, and sometimes confiscated goods, while southerners who had moved there received preferential treatment. These policies were reducing the Isaaq ‘to the status of second-class citizens in their own region’.10 Building restrictions and construction moratoriums, harassment of builders and the freezing of bank credits were all used to ensure that northern cities would not be able to compete with the south. Even veterinary services and wells were neglected. The north resembled a colony under foreign subjugation. Discontent over their treatment, and resentment over the continued regional disparities in government economic policies, finally led a number of Isaaq intellectuals, politicians, business people and religious leaders, all émigrés in London, to form the Somali National Movement (SNM) in April 1981. The SNM depended on donations from Isaaq abroad. Its backers in the Somali diaspora,

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including those in western countries, kept the SNM relatively accountable and internally democratic. Between 1981 and 1991, the SNM held six congresses, during which it evolved policies and elected leaders. This gave it a political maturity almost unique among the Somali movements opposing Siad Barre and would enable it, when the time came, to organize a relatively stable and responsible administration in Somaliland. It was clear that the SNM had widespread support from the Isaaq population for its demand for greater northern autonomy and a larger share of the country’s resources. Though as yet unstated, the idea of secession was gaining ground. Soon full-scale civil war raged in the north. In May 1988 the SNM captured the town of Burao, attacked Hargeisa and besieged Berbera. Government troops in Hargeisa massacred large numbers of civilian supporters of the SNM. The brutal campaign of murder, torture, rape and extortion escalated. Children were killed, entire villages depopulated, livestock slaughtered and towns plundered. Isaaq were being killed by heavily-armed Ogaden Darood militiamen, some known as the ‘Isaaq Exterminating Wing’. Some one million land mines were planted by the government. By August 1988 some 50,000 people had been killed, many by death squads and another 400,000 to 600,000 had fled to Ethiopia. Artillery duels left Hargeisa a ghost town, with some 14,000 buildings destroyed and most of its half-million inhabitants no longer in the devastated city. The intensity and duration of the violence against the Isaaq was unprecedented in Somali history; John Drysdale, a Briton who was an adviser to the UN operation in Somalia between 1992 and 1993, said that it ‘amounted to genocide’.11 People in the north came to look upon the repressive southerners despoiling the country no longer as compatriots but as alien occupiers. Other Somalis were by now also fed up with Siad Barre and warfare throughout the country grew more savage. On 27 January 1991 the dictator fled Mogadishu. The Somali state had ceased to exist and the country was split into zones under the loose authority of political warlords.

The Somaliland declaration of independence and the development of state institutions The SNM, now more than 50,000 strong, assumed control of the old British protectorate on 18 May 1991, after having reached an accommodation with the Dulbahante and Warsangale Darood and the Iise and Gadaburse Dir, the other clans in the region. At a ‘Grand Conference of the Northern Peoples’ gathering in Burao, they formally repealed the 1 July 1960 Act of Union, and declared the Republic of Somaliland sovereign. The new state’s borders were those of the former British protectorate: it incorporated its five former regions, Awdal, Woqoyi Galbeed, Sanaag, Sool and Togdheer, with a combined area of 68,000 square miles (176,000 square kilometres) and a population estimated at 1.35 million. At least 70 per cent of them were Isaaq, with another 15 per cent Dir and 15 per cent Darood. Abdirahman Ahmed Ali ‘Tuur’, a Habar Yunis Isaaq and chair of the SNM, became interim president.

Somaliland in the making 215 Soon enough squabbles between Isaaq and non-Isaaq clans broke out. There was fighting in Berbera and Burao in late 1991 and early 1992 between Isaaq and Gadaburse Dir, who had formed the Somali Democratic Alliance (SDA) and further west between Isaaq and Iise Dir, who were represented by the United Somali Front (USF). In response to the continuing instability, traditional elders took matters into their own hands. Some 2,000 people participated in the four-month long Borama National Reconciliation Conference from January to May 1993, at which political elders brokered a political settlement that brought peace among the clans. The conference produced a National Peace Charter, in effect an internal non-aggression code of conduct which pledged every community to uphold peace, and defined the responsibilities of the clan elders in ensuring the peaceful resolution of disputes. It gave the government of Somaliland ‘a local legitimacy beyond the Isaaq-dominated SNM’.12 Borama created a bicameral legislature, with a lower house of popularly elected politicians, the Golaha Wakiilada, or Council of Elected Members, and an upper house known as the Golaha Guurtida, or Council of Elders, men who were emissaries of and for their clans. (The old Somali People’s Assembly had been unicameral.) It also made provisions for a Golaha Hukuumadda, a Council of Ministers. A Supreme Court was reconstituted and a penal code proclaimed. Finally, the conference selected an electoral body of 150 members which conducted a series of consultative meetings and chose Mohamed Ibrahim Egal as president of Somaliland and former president Abdirahman Ahmed Ali ‘Tuur’ as vice-president. The Borama conference had not settled all outstanding friction and in August 1993 the Sanaag Peace and Reconciliation conference opened in Erigavo, a mixed Habar Yunis Isaaq and Dulbahante and Warsangale Darood town before the war, to address issues of property destruction, use of grazing lands, access to water and other issues arising from the destruction left by the war. No economic recovery was possible until these matters were settled. Again, it was clan elders and Muslim religious sheiks, rather than politicians or warlords, who were the main actors and resolved outstanding issues. In May 1995 Egal’s term as president was extended for another 18 months by the Somaliland parliament. Abdirahman Aw Ali ‘Farah’, a Gadaburse, had replaced ‘Tuur’ as vice-president. A Constitutional Commission was formed to begin the process of public consultations with Somalilanders throughout the country before submitting a proposed new constitution to a parliamentary vote and a general referendum. On 10 October 1996, in Hargeisa, 335 delegates convened in order to prepare a draft of the new constitution. The new charter provided for a presidential political system, with a five-year presidential mandate; future presidents would be selected by direct national elections. The convention kept in place the bicameral national assembly, with the 74-member lower House of Representatives elected by proportional representation while the National Guurti, the upper House of Elders, was made up of 83 elders representing the clans. The new constitution was ratified by the assembly in February 1997. Meanwhile, a total of ten candidates contested the presidency; Egal was re-elected by the constituent assembly for a four-year term, receiving 223 of the 315 votes

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cast. His new vice-president was another Gadaburse, Dahir Riyale Kahin. The constitution was further modified in April 2000 and the president’s term in office extended by a year. Four months later Egal signed a new electoral law that aimed to set up national political parties within 18 months. He indicated that any political organization would have to win a minimum of 20 per cent of the vote in at least four of the six regions in the country, in regional elections preceding a national vote, in order to qualify as a legitimate political party. This provision was introduced in order to minimize fractious clan-based politics. By the end of 2002, there were nine registered political parties, including one formed by the president himself, named UDUB (‘Pillar’ in Somali), an acronym for the United Democratic Party. Others included the Justice and Welfare Party (UCID), the Kulmiye (Solidarity) Party for Unity and Development, SAHAN (Somaliland Alliance for Islamic Democracy) and ASAD (Alliance for Security and Democracy). A referendum on the constitution, which was also, stated Egal, ‘a referendum on the separation of the country’ from Somalia and a ‘renewal’ of its independent status, took place in May 2001 and was monitored by international observers. It was overwhelmingly endorsed; only in parts of Sool, where some clan leaders owe allegiance to neighbouring Puntland, did the no vote rise above 10 per cent. ‘With this referendum we become a nation with a constitution,’ stated Egal. The issue of reunification with Somalia was now closed.13 Local elections had been scheduled for December 2001 and a presidential election for February 2002, but these were postponed; the government claimed that the country still lacked a regularized political process and was insufficiently prepared for electoral politics. Instead, given how disorganized opposition parties still remained, the Somaliland parliament, in December 2001, passed legislation establishing an electoral commission to organize and set a date for forthcoming elections. The bill included detailed provisions for the allocation of parliamentary seats, local authority seats, and procedures for conducting presidential, local and parliamentary elections. In January 2002 Egal’s term was extended by a year by the House of Elders. This delay was criticized by Somalilanders who asserted that an imperfect and flawed process would better serve the purpose of democratic consolidation than an extension of the government’s writ. Some opposition politicians called the move unacceptable and accused Egal of harbouring dictatorial ambitions and also of condoning corruption and nepotism. Abdirahman Aw Ali ‘Farah’, now a leader of the opposition ASAD, called it ‘totally unacceptable’.14 However, President Egal died suddenly in May 2002 after undergoing surgery in South Africa. He was succeeded by Kahin, who was installed as acting president by parliament in accordance with the constitution. Kahin in turn selected as his vice-president a member of parliament, Ahmed Yusuf Yassin. Kahin stressed that his main goal remained gaining international recognition for Somaliland and ensuring its continued security. ‘I hope the international community will realize that we are not a fragile state but one ruled by a constitution’, he stated. ‘Not many African countries can do what we have done.’15 Presidential elections were scheduled for April 2003 and elections to parliament for May 2003. It was also decided that, in order to minimize clan-based factionalism, only those parties that

Somaliland in the making 217 obtained at least 20 per cent of the vote in regional elections would be eligible to participate in the presidential contest. Six parties contested local elections for 379 local authority district council seats on 15 December 2002, with the government party, UDUB, winning the most votes, followed by Kulmiye and UCID. These three would contest the presidential election. Ahmed Mohamed Mahmud ‘Silanyo’, who had chaired the SNM between 1984 and 1990, declared his candidacy for the presidential post as the standard bearer for the Kulmiye Party. A member of the Habar Tol Jaalo Isaaq, he was a former finance minister and Minister for National Planning. UCID announced as its candidate for president Faysal Ali Waraabe, a former chief engineer of Mogadishu who had been studying in Finland, and a member of the Idagalle sub-clan of the Garhaji clan of the Isaaq. The presidential campaign was a lively affair, demonstrating again the continuing vitality of Somaliland democracy. Silanyo, who chose as his vice-presidential running mate Abdirahman Aw Ali ‘Farah’, a former vice-president in Egal’s government, accused the government of mismanaging the economy and promised to establish a leaner government. He indicated that he would work harder for international recognition and put Somaliland’s case to the international community much more effectively. Waraabe called both Kahin and Silanyo part of the old guard of politicians who were at the root of Somaliland’s problems. His priorities would include gender equality, the environment, health care and building a healthy economy. He would also implement a five-year plan for rebuilding Somaliland’s roads, he said. Kahin also came under attack for having served in Siad Barre’s National Security Service. Monitored by international observers, the 14 April election was conducted peacefully, and resulted in a narrow victory for the incumbent. Kahin received 205,595 votes (42.08 per cent) against the 205,515 (42.07 per cent) cast for Silanyo. Waraabe ran a distant third, with 77,433 votes (15.85 per cent). ‘My government will give priority to development and will seek recognition,’ stated Kahin after his victory. However, Silnayo claimed that there were irregularities in the counting.16 Still, given the public and transparent deliberations that had brought it into being, and the careful blending of indigenous cultural forms of governance with more modern democratic political institutions, a state has been taking shape that arguably had more in the way of stability and legitimacy than just about any other in Africa. As Steve Kibble writes, Somaliland has been building ‘accountable and participatory forms of governance’ that fuse ‘traditional forms of organization . . . within a democratizing framework containing an emphasis on self-reliance’, and as such it might be conceived as the ‘first indigenous modern African form of government’.17 Certainly Somaliland is the only part of the ex-Somalia in which new political institutions have emerged with genuine public support. It has not become a one-party state ruled by a former revolutionary movement, a path taken by so many African states after independence. Indeed, the deliberations in the lower house, including fierce attacks on the government, are arguably among the freest found anywhere in the world. Somaliland has two

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independent daily newspapers, one government daily, and an independent English-language weekly, and they too are not loath to criticize government policies when they see fit.

The Isaaq: no turning back Why did the north decide to pursue a destiny separate from the rest of the shattered nation? Most significant was the perception that southern-based clans had ‘remained unmoved and silent’ while the Isaaq faced Siad Barre’s military repression.18 After 1988 the basic social and religious principles of heer and Islam that, along with kinship, had tied the Isaaq to the rest of the Somali nation were ruptured, perhaps forever. The events of 1988 to 1991 represented a moral collapse within Somali culture and society, one as traumatic as any experienced by peoples who have fought civil wars. What overarching set of national myths could provide any sense of cohesion following such bloodletting? The harrowing experience sparked a sense of autonomous Isaaq ‘national’ consciousness, one in which the bonds that tied them to other Somalis were severed. In the light of ‘the genocidal repression of the North’, the people of Somaliland ‘exercised their inherent right of self-determination’.19 Statehood had become a fait accompli. Popular support for independence was such that even those SNM leaders who still hoped for reconciliation with the south were silenced. Abdi Yusuf Duale ‘Boobe’, a former secretary of information for the SNM, said that the brutalities after 1988 ‘helped to solidify our sentiment of separateness . . . . We realized we had nothing in common with these people from the south’.20 The Hargeisa government, in April 1998, created a war crimes’ committee to investigate human rights violations against the northern clans during the Siad Barre period: hundreds of bodies have since been discovered. A representative of the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights who investigated mass graves believes that Somalilanders ‘want to assert that they were persecuted and systematically killed’ in order to strengthen their case against reunion with the south.21

Integrating the non-Isaaq clans: negotiation, reconciliation and acceptance What then of the minority groups? The SNM leadership was aware that it needed to get the non-Isaaq Somalis, who constitute more than a quarter of the population, on side in order to avoid secessionism within the newly-formed state and the potential loss of territory. Hence the sensitive negotiations with the Gadaburse and Iise Dir and with the Dulbahante and Warsangale Darood, many of whom had supported the Siad Barre regime. In 1991 the SNM, on the verge of taking power in the north, had enlarged its central committee to accommodate non-Isaaq clans, in order to position itself to gain the acceptance of all Somalilanders. Decentralization and power sharing was introduced as a principle of governance in the new National Charter in 1993, with regional and district councils created to allow for more political autonomy; the

Somaliland in the making 219 new country was determined to avoid the pitfalls of overcentralization and militarization that had ruined Somalia. While Egal was an Isaaq, the vicepresident selected in 1995, Abdirahman Aw Ali ‘Farah’, was a Gadaburse and a leader of the Dulbahante, Garaad Abdulgani, became speaker of the new parliament. In 1997, another Dulbahante, Mohamed Salah Nur ‘Fagadeh’, became foreign minister. Egal’s successor, Dahir Riyale Kahin, is also a Gadaburse. Only the eastern part of the country, which is inhabited by the Dulbahante and Warsangale Darood, remains in dispute between Somaliland and its neighbour to the east, Puntland, the Majerteen Darood region which, while not proclaiming itself independent, in July 1998, under Colonel Abdillahi Yusuf, also became a self-governing entity, with its capital in Garowe. The Dulbahante and Warsangale were deeply involved in the 1996 to 1997 constitutional conference and, along with the Gadaburse, seem to have accepted the idea of Somaliland independence. Somaliland has moved beyond being simply an ‘ethnocracy’.22 Although it has not tried to abolish clan identity, the political leadership of the country aspires to move beyond the ethnic-based nationalism of the Isaaq and develop a more inclusive, civic, national identity, with membership defined in terms of citizenship rather than genealogy.

Somaliland: a player in the international community? Somaliland has worked hard to obtain a place within the community of states. In 1998 Egal traveled to France and Italy to seek support; Rome promised it would try to get the European Union (EU) to grant Somaliland a ‘national authority’ status similar to that obtained by the Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza. Following up, in summer 1999 Egal met with PLO officials while in Cairo to ask advice on what steps he should take to obtain much-coveted observer status at the UN, which would enable Somaliland to establish direct links with international financial institutions such as the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and World Bank. Egal then met with UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan while on a visit to the United States in October 1999, and lobbied UN officials, unsuccessfully, to obtain observer status. He also raised the issue of recognition with US State Department officials and legislators. ‘I tried to make them understand that we are not Somalia, that we have never been Somalia’, he said. ‘Never again will we be ruled by tyrants. We have accepted the fact that we cannot risk another union with Somalia.’ A few Congressmen called on President Bill Clinton to provide more aid to Hargeisa. Somaliland also set up an informal mission in Washington, headed by Ania Abdulla Essa.23 One government minister, Abdillahi Mohamed Duale, faulted the international community for failing to recognize Somaliland while accepting new states in eastern Europe; he accused them of ‘employing double standards’.24 Jama Musse Jama, then chair of the Somaliland Forum, reminded the international community that East Timor, another former colony that had been forcibly incorporated into a larger state, was now being reborn: ‘Why is it then that our East African State is treated differently?’25

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The international community refuses to give Somaliland credit for its accomplishments, complained President Egal in 1999. He spoke of the indifference of the outside world to his country’s fate: ‘After nine years we feel frozen’, he told one American journalist.26 Indeed, yet another reconciliation proposal, this one drafted by Djibouti president Ismael Omar Guelleh was offered in February 2000 as a way to bring together the warring factions in Somalia in order to restore unity to the country. The Djibouti plan called on warlords to convert their clanbased factions into political parties, commit to complete and verifiable disarmament and respect the creation of a Somali police force to replace armed militias. A conference to implement these proposals convened at Arta in May; the 2,000 delegates chose an interim legislature of 245 members, who in turn, in August, selected as the new Somali president Abdiqassim Salad Hassan, a member of the southern-based Habar Gedir branch of the Hawiye clan, and a former minister in Siad Barre’s regime. In January 2001, the UN Security Council discussed plans for a peace building mission in Somalia to strengthen this new ‘transitional national government’. However, its authority remains severely circumscribed, and rule by warlords and armed gangs remains the norm in Somalia. Egal stated that ‘there is no party or grouping in Somalia to which Somaliland needs to be reconciled’, and warned that his country would if necessary go to war to resist ‘any attempt to drag it into the quagmire of the anarchy and chaos’ that characterizes present-day Somalia. He told a visiting Italian delegation that Somaliland did not want ‘to involve itself in the conflict between the southern factions’ and he also sent a letter to Kofi Annan, accusing Djobouti of creating instability.27 In talks with Ethiopian prime minister Meles Zenawi, in November 2000, Egal declared that he would not countenance an imposed settlement imposed through the Arta process.28 The Somaliland Forum, an organization of expatriates, declared that the plan was ‘deeply flawed’ in disregarding the wishes of Somaliland itself, which has already ‘determined its own destiny as a sovereign independent state’.29 It accused Guelleh of wanting to see Somaliland ‘disappear from the map’ and charged the conference with setting ‘a tone of violence and war-mongering’ against the north.30 As well, it denounced Italy for engaging in ‘behind the scene maneuvers aimed at sabotaging Somaliland’s independence’ by trying to impose another Mogadishu-centered ‘pretender-president’on the country.31 Gérard Prunier criticized the initiative as well-intentioned but nonetheless ‘erroneous and potentially deadly’.32 In the aftermath of the 11 September 2001 attacks by the al-Qaeda network against targets in New York and Washington, the United States renewed its concerns about Somalia, which it feared would become a base for terrorism. Advocates for Somaliland independence were quick to point out that, in contrast to the anarchy that prevailed in the south, Somaliland had demonstrated that it was a force for moderation in the Horn of Africa, one which ‘deplores terrorism and any sort of fanaticism. Thus, recognizing Somaliland will help and assist the international community in its fight against terrorism, both in the long-term and short-term.’33 A former American ambassador to Ethiopia, David Shinn, suggested that Somaliland also renew its efforts to gain support from other African

Somaliland in the making 221 states: ‘Important countries like South Africa, Algeria and Senegal, if convinced of the merits of Somaliland’s case, could make an enormous difference.’34

Economic prospects Somaliland is one of the world’s least developed countries, with virtually no all-weather roads, railways or industry. The land, except in some parts of the north-west, is arid and water is scarce; droughts are common and there are no rivers. Exports of livestock, including camels, cattle and goats, through the port of Berbera to nearby Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, for sale in the Gulf states of Yemen and Saudi Arabia, are the main source of foreign exchange. Fruits, vegetables, rice, sorghum, wheat and coffee, grown in the highland region, are also exported. Export duties form the main revenue base for the government. Much economic activity is in the ‘informal sector’ and often clandestine, including non-monetary barter, especially sale of the illegal narcotic known as qat. Extensive deposits of gypsum, granite, tin and zinc are also found in Somaliland. The country has thus far neglected to exploit the rich marine resources in its coastal waters; fishing is not a traditional Somali occupation and the fishery has been subject to piracy by foreign fleets. There is much economic potential in this sector. There have been some promising geological reports regarding oil and gas potential in the Gulf of Aden region near Berbera but, although the government ‘has maintained a positive policy towards foreign oil investment’,35 companies have been reluctant to commit themselves to further exploration due to the post-1988 warfare, insecurity, lack of communications and the uncertain legal status of the country. Trade agreements with foreign countries are also hampered by the lack of international recognition. But, spared the terrible fighting that has continued unabated in the south, Somaliland after 1993 began to recover economically. Trade with Ethiopia and Djibouti increased dramatically following the opening of the borders between Somaliland and its neighbours; the governor of Djibouti’s central bank visited Hargeisa in 1997. In May 1995 Egal introduced extensive economic reforms to liberalize the economy and foster private enterprise. Somaliland began issuing its own currency, the Somaliland shilling. Reductions in state subsidies and a marked increase in producer prices, food, imported fuel and other essential goods, initially resulted in spiraling inflation. But it was anticipated that allowing prices to rise would restore incentives for domestic output and production for export, thus increasing the overall gross domestic product. New irrigation projects have increased production of grains and vegetables (but also qat). By 1997, the port of Berbera was again a major exporter of livestock to the Gulf states, shipping out 2–3 million animals a year, worth some US$130 million. It also was the port of entry for sugar, rice, wheat, cooking oil, fuel and cars. France’s Total oil company spent US$3.5 million refurbishing the port’s oil storage facility. When Eritrea and Ethiopia began a border war in May of 1998, disrupting Ethiopia’s access to Eritrean Red Sea ports, Berbera’s port gained new business and in September 1999 it underwent renovations to increase its capacity.

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Ethiopia now receives most of its imported goods through Berbera, Somaliland’s biggest income generator. ‘No one expected us to be this far today,’ said the mayor of Berbera, Abdilla Ali Ahmed. ‘Everybody expected us to fall back into anarchy.’36 Egal and foreign minister Fagadeh visited Addis Ababa in November 2000 to brief the Ethiopians on what Somaliland could offer in terms of commercial and trade links. An Ethiopian delegation, led by deputy foreign minister Tekeda Alemu, reciprocated with a visit to Hargeisa in April 2001. Fagadeh noted that the port of Berbera has ‘a large capacity, including oil storage facility’, that Somaliland was ready to share with Ethiopia, its main trading partner, for its international trade.37 However, in February 2001 the Gulf states imposed a comprehensive ban on all livestock imports from the Horn of Africa, following reports of Rift-Valley Fever in Africa; this adversely affected the port of Berbera and cost the government US$15 million in lost duties.38 The minister of planning and coordination, Muhammad Usman Fadl, said that the ban pointed to the need for Somaliland to diversify and move away from overdependence on the export of livestock.39 The ban was finally lifted in December. In 1998, the government signed an agreement with two American and British companies to reconstruct power stations in the country. ‘These companies are investing millions of dollars in Somaliland. This is more than political recognition,’ declared Egal. ‘We are not only grateful to them, but we have to prove to them and to the international community that we are really worth their trust.’40 Rich in natural beauty, Somaliland has also begun to promote tourism, but acknowledges that ‘it is tough developing a tourism economy if you’re a country that doesn’t officially exist’.41 A dynamic service sector, including overland transport, telecommunications, electronics and airlines has blossomed. The country has no external debts and is enjoying an economic boom. Two Canadian-based non-governmental organisations (NGOs) called the favourable conditions ‘the envy of many developing countries’.42 This has been mostly the work of the private sector, in contrast to the inefficient and unprofitable state-run enterprises that dominated the Somali economy before 1991. Somaliland, notes Prunier, ‘has delighted even the most rigorous’ of IMF economists.43 By 2000, five private telecommunications companies and five private airlines were operating out of Hargeisa, and Ethiopian Airlines began flights to the capital in 2001. ‘Cheap and reliable international communications have strengthened the links with the Somali diaspora and greatly facilitated the crucially important system of remittances from abroad’, which are being invested in commercial activities.44 Small import–export and manufacturing businesses are springing up, moneychangers (who converted foreign currencies sent by expatriates to their relatives into Somaliland shillings) are everywhere, a new business hotel has been built, and there have been two trade fairs in Hargeisa since 2000. International assistance from NGOs, UN agencies, the IMF, the World Bank and donor countries was at first near non-existent; for many Somalilanders, this amounted to a form of indirect economic sanctions against their country. Relations between NGOs and the government were often ‘characterized by

Somaliland in the making 223 misunderstanding, mistrust and private recriminations’.45 In 1995 the Hargeisa government issued ground rules for international organizations, including their acceptance of the ‘reality of the existence of the Republic of Somaliland, and the authority of its government’.46 Lack of formal recognition still inhibits the ability of Somaliland to dialogue with potential benefactors and obtain multilateral aid. Jeffrey Herbst has criticized the international community for its ‘dogmatic approach’ and has suggested it ‘adjust to reality’ and acknowledge that the government in Hargeisa provides services to its citizens.47 In August 2000 Egal pleaded with the UN to accord Somaliland a form of special status ‘whereby we can at least deal with donors and the international financial institutions’.48 ‘The international community has disenfranchised Somaliland, but we haven’t let this stop us’, stated the deputy speaker of parliament, Abdul Qadir Jirde. ‘With our own muscle, blood, and very small wallets, we have established a government, and are beginning to rehabilitate our schools, health clinics and other important sectors of Somali society’.49 Still, in recent years Somaliland has begun receiving more assistance. The EU is by far the biggest foreign-aid donor, providing US$13 million in 1999; it has been financing the reconstruction of the port of Berbera and may provide funds to improve the road between the port and Addis Ababa. The port brought in 81 per cent of Somaliland’s overall budget of US$16.19 million in 2002.50 Barry Clarke, the senior EU representative in Hargeisa, declared that the country ‘has a great future if it is properly managed’.51 Remittances from the Somaliland diaspora, totaling as much as US$500 million annually, remain an important source of money and account for far more than the US$15 million provided in international development assistance. Somalilanders abroad have also helped build hospitals, schools and universities.52

Conclusion: a viable state in the making The referendum of May 2001 was ‘clearly not an internationally recognised referendum, and the outcome has no validity in the international community, but many will nevertheless take note of the message coming from the people of Somaliland’, said David Stephen, UN Special Representative for Somalia. Temedhin Temariam, an Eritrean diplomat, warned that it would be wrong for the international community to ignore developments in Somaliland. From a purely legal point of view, the vote for independence may not be acceptable, but in terms of what is in the hearts of the Somalilanders, it is very important to listen. Somaliland is trying to succeed as a smaller, working entity . . . it is very important that the world should not deny them recognition in terms of working with them, and providing help to ameliorate their situation.53 Somaliland has managed to achieve a ‘quasi-juridical’ sovereignty and its administration has established low-key bilateral relations with several states and informal contacts with regional organizations.54 Still, no state has as yet extended

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Somaliland full diplomatic recognition, although Ethiopia did send a diplomat with ambassadorial rank to Hargeisa in January 2002.55 Yet, as Ismail Ahmed and Reginald Green note, the only successful state reconstitution in ex-Somalia has been in Somaliland, which has ‘peace and personal security almost everywhere, an elected two-house Parliament and President, a functioning civil police/magistrates’ court system, municipal government and some – albeit limited – basic service delivery by a professional public service’.56 Scott Pegg takes note of its ‘high comparative levels of legitimacy, efficiency and democratic accountability’.57 Somaliland’s modest but real progress ‘deserves a better response than the international cold shoulder it has received so far’.58 Matt Bryden maintains that Somalilanders have presented ‘articulate historical and legal arguments in support of their case [for independence], and have made considerable progress in establishing de facto administration throughout much of Somaliland’s territory’.59 Martin Doornbos describes the country as ‘an island of tranquility within the Horn of Africa’ and writes that, ‘Increasingly, the key question has become no longer on what grounds Somaliland should be internationally recognized, but why it is not being recognized.’60 Even theorists dubious about the morality of secession have accepted the principle of a ‘remedial’ right to self-determination, that is, allowing a group ‘subject to persecution or systematic discrimination’ the right to independence if this is ‘their best prospect for escaping these injustices’.61 As Hurst Hannum has posited, in determining whether a secession is legitimate, certainly ‘one common denominator is the violation of fundamental rights by the state’.62 Ved Nanda would concur that, for groups such as the Isaaq, ‘the severe deprivation of human rights often leave no alternative to territorial separation’ as the ‘only viable remedy’.63 Of course, there is no doubt that Somaliland remains an Isaaq-controlled state – but why need they apologize for that? The concept of ‘nation’ is an elastic and subjective one; as Hans Kohn recognized many decades ago, ‘Nationalism is first and foremost a state of mind, an act of consciousness.’64 There are no rules or checklists for defining nationhood and ‘nations’ have been formed from all kinds of cultural, geographic, linguistic, religious and societal groupings. ‘Many a people, who were assigned the role of tribe or some other componential status [such as a clan] subsequently became convinced that they constituted a thoroughly fulfilled nation in their own right.’65 The basic question to be asked, remarks David Miller, when encountering a group dissatisfied with its lot in a larger state is: ‘Does the group have a collective identity which is or has become incompatible with the national identity of the majority in the state?’66 Hence, even in cases where people share commonalities of language and faith, nations may come to be constructed ‘from other sources of identity and other points of grievance’.67 ‘Ethnic groups,’ according to Dov Ronen, ‘are born and arise because of the perception of oppression’.68 Just as Somali nationhood is ‘ethnic’ and is based on common ancestry and kinship, so, by the same token, does each Somali clan’s identity rest on the same foundation. Therefore, why cannot an aggrieved Somali clan come to constitute a nation, and demand a territorial expression of its separate identity? Certainly the Isaaq can make a case in terms

Somaliland in the making 225 of these criteria. After all, as Anthony Smith has emphasized, in the modern world, ‘autonomy and recognition are best secured and preserved in a state of one’s own’.69 Apart from any right to national self-determination based on the shared characteristics of the Isaaq majority, Somaliland has a strong juridical claim to independence, having existed as a distinct colonial territory for some 80 years. British Somaliland became formally independent on 24 June 1960, five days before Italian Somaliland did and it was as a self-governing and sovereign entity that it entered into a union with the Italian trusteeship territory. It was accorded diplomatic recognition by 35 states and received a message of congratulations from the United States. Anthony Carroll and Balakrishnan Rajagopal remind us that in 1960 ‘the two territories qualified as two individual countries’.70 Can not an entity that independently – and perhaps less than voluntarily? – united with another break off that relationship? That was the case when Syria quit the United Arab Republic, which it had formed with Egypt in 1958, and resumed its existence as an independent state in 1961. It was true when Singapore left the Federation of Malaysia in 1965, two years after it had joined. It also happened when two French African colonies, French Soudan and Senegal, who had joined together as Mali in 1959, disbanded their union just two months after they achieved independence in 1960. The two west African states of Gambia and Senegal, too, formed a confederation in 1980 but since the formal dissolution of Senegambia in 1989, the two countries have drifted further apart. The same might occur if Montenegro, a separate entity for centuries, dissolves its federation with Serbia in the future. Certainly, in terms of international law, Somaliland has a stronger case to qualify for statehood than did Bosnia-Herzegovina following the dissolution of Yugoslavia. Charles King has observed that the territorial separatists of the 1990s have become the state builders of the new century, creating de facto countries whose ability to govern, educate their children and maintain local economies is ‘about as well developed as that of the recognized states of which they are still notionally a part’.71 This is certainly the case for Somaliland, which completely satisfies the criteria for independent statehood, by which a state should possess a permanent population, a defined territory, a government and the capacity to discharge international obligations and enter into relations with other states. It has an army of 15,000, a flag, national anthem, a currency and a central bank. Somaliland’s government includes a parliament, a functioning civil court system, executive departments organized as ministries, six regional governors and municipal authorities in major towns. In area and population it is not at all anomalous: at least 50 sovereign states have fewer inhabitants. Its people have affirmed their loyalty to the country and acknowledge it as legitimate, most recently by giving overwhelming approval to the new constitution. Most significant, there was a constitutional and peaceful transfer of power following the death of President Egal in May 2002, and a very lively and free presidential election in April 2003. Certainly there is something ludicrous in the fact that Somalia, a failed state without a genuine government, an army, diplomatic missions, UN representation,

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or domestic control of its economy and infrastructure, should nonetheless be accorded legal standing by the international community, while Somaliland, which functions as a fully-fledged state, is not. So, instead of lamenting the collapse of Somalia, might we not rather applaud the decision of the people in the old British Somaliland to assume their rightful place as a self-governing polity? Should we not declare that ‘the state of Somalia is dead, long live the state of Somaliland?’

Notes 1 W. Connor, ‘The Nation and its Myth’, International Journal of Comparative Sociology, 33, 1, 2 (1992), pp. 48–54; W. Connor, Ethnonationalism: The Quest for Understanding (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994), pp. 197, 202, 206. 2 D. Horowitz, Ethnic Groups in Conflict (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1985), p. 57. 3 D. Laitin and S. Samatar, Somalia: Nation in Search of a State (Boulder, CO: Westview, 1987), pp. 21, 29. 4 J. Gros, ‘Towards a Taxonomy of Failed States in the New World Order: Decaying Somalia, Liberia, Rwanda and Haiti’, Third World Quarterly, 17, 3 (1996), p. 464. 5 I. Lewis, A Pastoral Democracy: A Study of Pastoralism and Politics Among the Northern Somali of the Horn of Africa (London: Oxford University Press, 1961), pp. 1–2. 6 See Laitin and Samatar, Somalia, p. 29. 7 T. Lyons and A. Samatar, Somalia: State Collapse, Multilateral Intervention and Strategies for Political Reconstruction (Washington, DC: Brookings Institution, 1995), p. 10. 8 M. Bradbury, Somaliland: CIIR Country Report (London: Catholic Institute for International Relations, 1997), p. 43. 9 I. Ahmed and R. Green, ‘The Heritage of War and State Collapse in Somalia and Somaliland: Local-level Effects, External Interventions and Reconstruction’, Third World Quarterly, 20, 1 (1999), p. 116. 10 R. Omaar, ‘Somaliland: One Thorn Bush at a Time’, Current History, 93, 583 (1994), p. 233. 11 J. Drysdale, ‘Proud Northerners Seek to Stand Alone’, Guardian, London, 25 June 1991, p. 11. 12 See Lyons and Samatar, Somalia, p. 46. 13 ‘Egal Says Referendum Planned For May’, UN Integrated Regional Information Networks, 7 March 2001, AllAfrica.com – Somalia News Plus, at www.allafrica.com/somalia; ‘Somaliland Appeals for Recognition After Independence Vote’, Reuters, 2 June 2001, Somaliland Net, at www.somalilandnet.com; ‘Somaliland Endorses New Constitution by a Landslide’, Reuters, 4 June 2001, Africa News Online, at www.africanews.org/east/somalia 14 ‘Somaliland President’s Term of Office Extended’, UN Integrated Regional Information Networks, 15 January 2002, AllAfrica.com – Somalia News Plus, at www.allafrica.com/somalia 15 ‘Somaliland Eager to Prove its Worth as an Independent State’, Washington Times, 9 May 2002, at www.washtimes.com 16 ‘Somaliland President Wins Election by 80 Votes’, Reuters, 19 April 2003; ‘Somaliland Presidential Poll Challenger Rejects Result’, Reuters, 20 April 2003; Somaliland Net, at www.somalilandnet.com 17 S. Kibble, ‘Somaliland: Surviving Without Recognition; Somalia: Recognised but Failing?’, International Relations, 25, 5 (2001), pp. 14, 16. 18 See Lyons and Samatar, Somalia, p. 24. 19 A. Carroll and B. Rajagopal, ‘The Case for the Independent Statehood of Somaliland’, American University Journal of International Law and Policy, 8 (1993), p. 666. 20 M. Bryden, ‘Fiercely Independent’, Africa Report, 39, 6 (1994), p. 39. 21 A. Simmons, ‘Mass Graves Leave a Corner of Somalia Appealing for Justice’, Los Angeles Times, 10 July 1998, p. A-14.

Somaliland in the making 227 22 R. McMullen, ‘Somaliland: the Next Eritrea?’ Low Intensity Conflict & Law Enforcement, 2, 3 (1993), pp. 428–9. 23 T. Crapanzano, ‘Somaliland Leader Sees U.S. Meetings as Progress Toward Recognition’, Dallas Morning News, 17 October 1999, p. 21A. 24 S. Horner, ‘Somalia: Can the Jigsaw be Pieced Together? ’, ACP-EU Courier, 162 (1997), p. 50. 25 Somaliland Forum, ‘Somaliland, the Forgotten State’, 27 September 1999, Africa News Online, at www.africanews.org/east/somalia 26 I. Fisher, ‘Somalia’s Oasis of Peace Seeks Status of a Nation’, New York Times, 26 November 1999, p. A12. 27 M. Egal, ‘Position of the Republic of Somaliland On the Djibouti Peace Initiative on Somalia, 10 March 2000’, Somalia Watch, 17 March 2000, at www.somaliawatch.org/ archive/000310601.htm; ‘Somaliland President in Talks With Visiting Italian Officials’, Mandeeq, Hargeisa, 10 April 2000, Somalia Watch, 12 April 2000, at www.somaliawatch. org/archive/000410103.htm; ‘Somaliland President Appeals for UN Membership’, Dhambaal Home Page – Somali Newspaper, 13 September 2000, at www.somaliland.com 28 N. Bhalla, ‘Egal Believes the Arta Faction Does Not Have Mandate’, 15 November 2000, Somalia Watch, at www.somaliawatch.org/archiveoct00/001115102.htm 29 Somaliland Forum, ‘All That Somaliland Wants is What Djibouti Has’, 21 March 2000, Africa News Online, at www.africanews.org/east/somalia 30 ‘IRIN Interview with Mohamed Diriye Abdullahi, Spokesman for Somaliland Forum’, UN Integrated Regional Information Networks, 14 July 2000, AllAfrica.com – Somalia News Plus, at www.allafrica.com/somalia; Somaliland Forum, ‘Is Hassan’s Election as “President” Catering to Guelleh’s Needs or Somalia’s Interests?’, 1 September 2000, AllAfrica.com – Somalia News Plus, at www.allAfrica.com/somalia 31 Somaliland Forum, ‘Italy’s Myopic View of Somali Affairs is Intolerable’, 13 December 2000, AllAfrica.com – Somalia News Plus, at www.allAfrica.com/somalia 32 G. Prunier, ‘Recomposition de la nation somalienne’, Le Monde Diplomatique, April 2000, p. 23. 33 Somaliland Forum, ‘International Community Must Recognize Somaliland’, 17 January 2002, Somaliland Net, at www.somalilandnet.com 34 D. Shinn, ‘Somaliland: The Little Country that Could’, Africa Notes, 9 (2002), p. 7. 35 M. Kielmas, ‘Oil Hopes Hinge on North Somalia’, Petroleum Economist, 58, 10 (1991), p. 19. 36 A. Simmons, ‘Commerce Rises from Ashes in Somalia’, Los Angeles Times, 16 September 1998, p. A-4. 37 ‘Somaliland Seeks Economic Ties with Ethiopia’, Panafrican News Agency, 10 November 2000, AllAfrica.com – Somalia News Plus, at www.allAfrica.com/somalia 38 ‘The Nation Nobody Knows’, The Economist, 14–20 April 2001, p. 42. 39 ‘The Berbera Lifeline’, Parts I and II, UN Integrated Regional Information Networks, 3 April 2001, AllAfrica.com – Somalia News Plus, at www.allafrica.com/somalia 40 ‘Somaliland Signs Deals for Restoration Power Plants’, Alexander’s Gas & Oil Connections, 3, 16 (9 June 1998), at www.gasandoil.com/goc/news 41 J. Kamau, ‘It’s a Country Where Tourists are Never Guaranteed Comfort’, East African Standard, Nairobi, 12 January 2002, AllAfrica.com – Somalia News Plus, at www.allafrica.com/somalia 42 ‘Peace and Development in Northern Somalia: Opportunities and Challenges’, SomCan Institute for Research and Development and Partnership Africa Canada, Ottawa, 8 September 1999, p. 3. 43 See Prunier, ‘Recomposition de la nation somalienne’, p. 23. 44 See ‘Peace and Development in Northern Somalia’, p. 5. 45 M. Abdillahi, Somaliland NGOs: Challenges and Opportunities (London: Catholic Institute for International Relations, 1997), p. 2. 46 See Bradbury, Somaliland, p. 36. 47 J. Herbst, States and Power in Africa: Comparative Lessons in Authority and Control (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000), p. 268.

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48 H. Morris, ‘Somaliland Seeks Special UN Status’, Financial Times (US edn), New York, 14 August 2000, p. 3. 49 J. Frushone, Welcome Home to Nothing: Refugees Repatriate to a Forgotten Somaliland (Washington, DC: US Committee for Refugees, December 2001), p. 16. 50 ‘Somaliland Economy Crippled by Lack of Recognition’, Vanguard, Lagos, 23 April 2003, AllAfrica.com – Somalia News Plus, at www.allAfrica.com/somalia 51 D. Gough, ‘Breakaway Somalis Battle for World Recognition’, Guardian, London, 25 November 1999, p. 17. 52 ‘A Sudden 280% Rise in Tariff Angers Many’, Somaliland Times, no. 5, 9 February 2002, Somaliland Net, 12 February 2002, at www.somalilandnet.com 53 ‘Somalia: IRIN Special – A Question of Recognition’, UN Integrated Regional Information Networks, 11 July 2001, Somalia Watch, at www.somaliawatch.org/ archivemay01/010711401.htm 54 A. Huliaras, ‘The Viability of Somaliland: Internal Constraints and Regional Geopolitics,’ Journal of Contemporary African Studies, 20, 2 (2002), p. 174. 55 ‘Somaliland President Reportedly Receives Credentials from Ethiopian Ambassador’, Mogadishu Times, Mogadishu, 21 January 2002, via BBC Monitoring Service. Financial Times, London, 22 January 2002, at www.ft.com 56 See Ahmed and Green, ‘The Heritage of War and State Collapse’, p. 126. 57 S. Pegg, International Society and the De Facto State (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 1998), p. 255. 58 G. Prunier, ‘Somaliland Goes it Alone’, Current History, 97, 619 (1998), p. 228. 59 M. Bryden, ‘New Hope for Somalia? The Building Block Approach’, Review of African Political Economy, 26, 79 (1999), pp. 136–7. 60 M. Doornbos, ‘Somalia: Alternative Scenarios for Political Reconstruction’, African Affairs, 101, 402 (2002), pp. 95–6. 61 A. Buchanan, ‘What’s So Special About Nations?’, in J. Couture et al. (eds), Rethinking Nationalism (Calgary: University of Calgary Press, 1998), pp. 285–6. 62 H. Hannum, Autonomy, Sovereignty and Self-Determination: The Accommodation of Conflicting Rights (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1996), p. 471. 63 V. Nanda, ‘Self-Determination Under International Law: Validity of Claims to Secede’, Case Western Reserve Journal of International Law, 13, 3 (1981), pp. 265, 280. 64 H. Kohn, The Idea of Nationalism: A Study in its Origins and Background (New York: Macmillan, 1951), p. 8. 65 See W. Connor, Ethnonationalism, p. 213. 66 D. Miller, ‘In Defence of Nationality’, Journal of Applied Philosophy, 10, 1 (1993), p. 12. 67 D. Kaplan, ‘Territorial Identities and Geographic Scale’, in G. Herb and D. Kaplan (eds), Nested Identities: Nationalism, Territory, and Scale (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 1999), p. 44. 68 D. Ronen, The Quest for Self-Determination (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979), p. 95. 69 A. Smith, Nations and Nationalism in a Global Era (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1995), p. 84. 70 A. Carroll and B. Rajagopal, ‘The Case for the Independent Statehood of Somaliland’, p. 659. 71 C. King, ‘The Benefits of Ethnic War: Understanding Eurasia’s Unrecognized States’, World Politics, 53, 4 (2001), p. 525.

References Abdillahi, M., Somaliland NGOs: Challenges and Opportunities (London: Catholic Institute for International Relations, 1997). Ahmed, I. and Green, R., ‘The Heritage of War and State Collapse in Somalia and Somaliland: Local-level Effects, External Interventions and Reconstruction’, Third World Quarterly, 20, 1 (1999), pp. 113–27.

Somaliland in the making 229 ‘The Berbera Lifeline’. Parts I and II, UN Integrated Regional Information Networks, 3 April 2001, AllAfrica.com – Somalia News Plus, at www.allafrica.com/somalia Bhalla, N., ‘Egal Believes the Arta Faction Does Not Have Mandate’, 15 November 2000, Somalia Watch, at www.somaliawatch.org/archiveoct00/001115102.htm Bradbury, M., Somaliland: CIIR Country Report (London: Catholic Institute for International Relations, 1997). Bryden, M., ‘Fiercely Independent’, Africa Report, 39, 6 (1994), pp. 35–40. Bryden, M., ‘New Hope for Somalia? The Building Block Approach’, Review of African Political Economy, 26, 79 (1999), pp. 134–40. Buchanan, A., ‘What’s So Special About Nations?’, in J. Couture, K. Nielsen and M. Seymour (eds), Rethinking Nationalism (Calgary: University of Calgary Press, 1998), pp. 283–309. Carroll, A. and Rajagopal, B., ‘The Case for the Independent Statehood of Somaliland’, American University Journal of International Law and Policy, 8 (1993), pp. 653–81. Connor, W., ‘The Nation and its Myth’, International Journal of Comparative Sociology, 33, 1–2 (1992), pp. 48–57. Connor, W., Ethnonationalism: The Quest for Understanding (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994). Crapanzano, T., ‘Somaliland Leader Sees U.S. Meetings as Progress Toward Recognition’, Dallas Morning News, 17 October 1999, p. 21A. Doornbos, M., ‘Somalia: Alternative Scenarios for Political Reconstruction’, African Affairs, 101, 402 (2002), pp. 93–107. Drysdale, J., ‘Proud Northerners Seek to Stand Alone’, Guardian, London, 25 June 1991, p.11. Egal, M., ‘Position of the Republic of Somaliland On the Djibouti Peace Initiative on Somalia, 10 March 2000’, Somalia Watch, 17 March 2000, at www.somaliawatch.org/ archive/000310601.htm ‘Egal Says Referendum Planned For May’, UN Integrated Regional Information Networks, 7 March 2001, AllAfrica.com – Somalia News Plus, at www.allafrica.com/somalia Fisher, I., ‘Somalia’s Oasis of Peace Seeks Status of a Nation’, New York Times, 26 November 1999, pp. A1, A12. Frushone, J., Welcome Home to Nothing: Refugees Repatriate to a Forgotten Somaliland (Washington, DC: US Committee for Refugees, 2001). Gough, D., ‘Breakaway Somalis Battle for World Recognition’, Guardian, London, 25 November 1999, p. 17. Gros, J., ‘Towards a Taxonomy of Failed States in the New World Order: Decaying Somalia, Liberia, Rwanda and Haiti’, Third World Quarterly, 17, 3 (1996), pp. 455–71. Hannum, H., Autonomy, Sovereignty, and Self-Determination: The Accommodation of Conflicting Rights (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1996). Herbst, J., States and Power in Africa: Comparative Lessons in Authority and Control (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000). Horner, S., ‘Somalia: Can the Jigsaw be Pieced Together?’, ACP-EU Courier 162 (1997), pp. 46–50. Horowitz, D., Ethnic Groups in Conflict (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1985). Huliaras, A., ‘The Viability of Somaliland: Internal Constraints and Regional Geopolitics’, Journal of Contemporary African Studies, 20, 2 (2002), pp. 157–82. ‘IRIN Interview with Mohamed Diriye Abdullahi, Spokesman for Somaliland Forum’, UN Integrated Regional Information Networks, 14 July 2000, AllAfrica.com – Somalia News Plus, at www.allafrica.com/somalia

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Kamau, J., ‘It’s a Country Where Tourists are Never Guaranteed Comfort’, East African Standard, Nairobi, 12 January 2002, AllAfrica.com – Somalia News Plus, at www.allafrica.com/ somalia Kaplan, D., ‘Territorial Identities and Geographic Scale’, in G. Herb and D. Kaplan (eds), Nested Identities: Nationalism, Territory and Scale (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 1999), pp. 31–49. Kibble, S., ‘Somaliland: Surviving Without Recognition; Somalia: Recognised but Failing?’, International Relations, 25, 5 (2001), pp. 5–25. Kielmas, M., ‘Oil Hopes Hinge on North Somalia’, Petroleum Economist, 58, 10 (1991), pp. 19–20. King, C., ‘The Benefits of Ethnic War: Understanding Eurasia’s Unrecognized States’, World Politics, 53, 4 (2001), pp. 524–52. Kohn, H., The Idea of Nationalism: A Study in its Origins and Background (New York: Macmillan, 1951). Laitin, D. and Samatar, S., Somalia: Nation in Search of a State (Boulder, CO: Westview, 1987). Lewis, I., A Pastoral Democracy: A Study of Pastoralism and Politics Among the Northern Somali of the Horn of Africa (London: Oxford University Press, 1961). Lyons, T. and Samatar, A., Somalia: State Collapse, Multilateral Intervention and Strategies for Political Reconstruction (Washington, DC: Brookings Institution, 1995). McMullen, R., ‘Somaliland: the Next Eritrea?’, Low Intensity Conflict & Law Enforcement, 2, 3 (1993), pp. 421–33. Miller, D., ‘In Defence of Nationality’, Journal of Applied Philosophy, 10, 1 (1993), pp. 3–16. Morris, H., ‘Somaliland Seeks Special UN Status’, Financial Times (US Edition), New York, 14 August 2000, p. 3. Nanda, V., ‘Self-Determination Under International Law: Validity of Claims to Secede’, Case Western Reserve Journal of International Law, 13, 3 (1981), pp. 257–80. ‘The Nation Nobody Knows’, The Economist, 14–20 April 2001, p. 42. Omaar, R., ‘Somaliland: One Thorn Bush at a Time’, Current History, 93, 583 (1994), pp. 232–6. ‘Peace and Development in Northern Somalia: Opportunities and Challenges’, Som-Can Institute for Research and Development and Partnership Africa Canada, Ottawa, 8 September 1999. Pegg, S., International Society and the De Facto State (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 1998). Prunier, G., ‘Somaliland Goes it Alone’, Current History, 97, 619 (1998), pp. 225–8. Prunier, G., ‘Recomposition de la nation somalienne’, Le Monde Diplomatique, April 2000, p. 23. Ronen, D., The Quest for Self-Determination (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979). Shinn, D. ‘Somaliland: The Little Country that Could’, Africa Notes, 9 (2002), pp. 1–7. Simmons, A., ‘Commerce Rises from Ashes in Somalia’, Los Angeles Times, 16 September 1998, p. A-4. Simmons, A., ‘Mass Graves Leave a Corner of Somalia Appealing for Justice’, Los Angeles Times, 10 July 1998, p. A-14. Smith, A., Nations and Nationalism in a Global Era (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1995). ‘Somalia: IRIN Special – A Question of Recognition’, UN Integrated Regional Information Networks, 11 July 2001, Somalia Watch, at www.somaliawatch.org/archivemay01/ 010711401.htm ‘Somaliland Appeals for Recognition After Independence Vote’, Reuters, 2 June 2001, Somaliland Net, at www.somalilandnet.com ‘Somaliland Eager to Prove its Worth as an Independent State’, Washington Times, 9 May 2002, at www.washtimes.com

Somaliland in the making 231 ‘Somaliland Economy Crippled by Lack of Recognition’, Vanguard, Lagos, 23 April 2003, AllAfrica.com – Somalia News Plus, at www.allAfrica.com/somalia ‘Somaliland Endorses New Constitution by a Landslide’, Reuters, 4 June 2001, Africa News Online at www.africanews.org/east/somalia Somaliland Forum, ‘Somaliland, the Forgotten State’, 27 September 1999, Africa News Online at www.africanews.org/east/somalia Ibid., ‘All That Somaliland Wants is What Djibouti Has’, 21 March 2000, Africa News Online, at www.africanews.org/east/somalia Ibid., ‘Is Hassan’s Election as “President” Catering to Guelleh’s Needs or Somalia’s Interests?’, 1 September 2000, AllAfrica.com – Somalia News Plus, at www.allAfrica.com/ somalia Ibid., ‘Italy’s Myopic View of Somali Affairs is Intolerable’, 13 December 2000, AllAfrica.com – Somalia News Plus, at www.allAfrica.com/somalia Ibid., ‘International Community Must Recognize Somaliland, 17 January 2002, Somaliland Net, at www.somalilandnet.com ‘Somaliland President Appeals for UN Membership’, Dhambaal Home Page – Somali Newspaper, 13 September 2000 at www.somaliland.com ‘Somaliland President in Talks With Visiting Italian Officials’, Mandeeq, Hargeisa, 10 April 2000, Somalia Watch, 12 April 2000, at www.somaliawatch.org/archive/000410103.htm ‘Somaliland President Reportedly Receives Credentials from Ethiopian Ambassador’, Mogadishu Times, Mogadishu, 21 January 2002, via BBC Monitoring Service. Financial Times, London, 22 January 2002, at www.ft.com ‘Somaliland President Wins Election by 80 Votes’, Reuters, 19 April 2003, Somaliland Net, at www.somalilandnet.com ‘Somaliland Presidential Poll Challenger Rejects Result’, Reuters, 20 April 2003, Somaliland Net, at www.somalilandnet.com ‘Somaliland President’s Term of Office Extended’, UN Integrated Regional Information Networks, 15 January 2002, AllAfrica.com – Somalia News Plus, at www.allafrica.com/somalia ‘Somaliland Seeks Economic Ties with Ethiopia’, Panafrican News Agency, 10 November 2000, AllAfrica.com – Somalia News Plus, at www.allAfrica.com/somalia ‘Somaliland Signs Deals for Restoration Power Plants’, Alexander’s Gas & Oil Connections, 3, 16 (9 June 1998), at www.gasandoil.com/goc/news ‘A Sudden 280% Rise in Tariff Angers Many’, Somaliland Times, no. 5, 9 February 2002, Somaliland Net, 12 February 2002, at www.somalilandnet.com

11 Bougainville The quest for self-determination Ralph R. Premdas

The copper-rich island of Bougainville, a province of Papua New Guinea (PNG), had sought since 1989 to secede and form a separate sovereign state. In a punishing and protracted military struggle with the secessionists, the PNG government finally made peace in 1997. Under the auspices of New Zealand, the Bougainville Revolutionary Army (BRA) and the PNG government signed the Burnham Declaration calling for a cessation of hostilities, the end of the embargo of Bougainville, the demilitarization of the island and the insertion of an UN peacekeeping contingent. The Burnham Declaration was optimistic even though the crucial issue of Bougainville’s status was left untouched, with neither party in the conflict yielding on its essential stance. In March 2000, the two parties agreed on a working plan called the ‘Loloata Understanding’ under which negotiations commenced with a view to accord Bougainville ‘the highest possible autonomy’ within an unified Papua New Guinean state immediately, and a referendum in the near future to determine finally the status of Bougainville. These negotiations periodically proceeded smoothly but floundered just as often, especially when the prospect of an independent Bougainville beckoned to the central government after a referendum. Distrust is deep and the negotiations appear as a desperate ritual that precedes an apocalyptic resumption of civil war. The central government still believes that Bougainville can live satisfactorily within the unified state while Bougainville bides its time to exit either through a peaceful referendum, or by force if necessary. The crisis had become an unbearable albatross, the most devastating event since PNG became independent in 1975, draining national confidence and embattling and enfeebling three different governments. Successive PNG regimes found themselves mired in a quagmire in their struggle with the Bougainville secessionists, costing the state an enormous outlay including the closure of the lucrative mine which provided a substantial part of the country’s revenues. Bougainville also paid a steep price, its society thrown into almost complete shambles, its entire attention preoccupied with the struggle which displaced most of its people and turned a great many of them into refugees. As in other parts of the post-Soviet world, secession in PNG became a major cause of warfare with attendant refugee flows and humanitarian suffering. Ethnonational strifes have featured as the most frequent source of open armed conflict in recent years ‘based on communal rivalries and ethnic challenges to the

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state’.1 Most of the world’s refugees have been displaced in ethnopolitical conflicts and Bougainville has added to this tragic landscape. A striking aspect of these struggles is the equally stubborn reluctance of centre and periphery to yield even in the face of debilitating losses. Until recently, equally striking has been the reluctance of states in the international system to countenance claims of sub-state communities for independence. Apart from Norway in 1905 and Bangladesh in 1971, no secessionist drive had succeeded, until 1989, in obtaining international recognition leading to statehood. Now, however, things have changed, especially since over a dozen new sovereign states have emerged from secessionist struggles in the former USSR, Yugoslavia and Ethiopia.2 A new horizon of hope has dawned for ethno-political communities in quest of a separate sovereign survival. The purpose of this chapter is to look at the dynamics of Bougainville secessionist strife in PNG in relation to the prospect of its obtaining independence and international recognition.

The evolution of the demand for autonomy The island of Bougainville is one of the provinces in the south-west Melanesian country called Papua New Guinea.3 With only about four-million people, PNG was, until 1975, a Trust Territory of the United Nations under the administration of Australia, but it gained its independence under a dark cloud. Just about two weeks prior to independence, Bougainville unilaterally proclaimed its own sovereignty. This was not an insignificant gesture even though the secessionists at that time did not possess an army to implement their will. A critical fact was that on Bougainville was located one of the world’s largest opencut copper and gold mines which generated about 60 per cent of PNG’s export earnings and about 16 per cent of the country’s revenues.4 PNG is a remarkable country given its intense linguistic fragmentation. It contains over 700 language groups and is marked by a fragile, if not complete lack of, shared sense of national citizenship. Fearing that a Bougainville secession might trigger a stampede by other ethnocultural groups for self-determination, the central government was determined to prevent Bougainville from leaving at all costs, even if Bougainvillean claims for a separate sovereignty were perfectly legitimate. Prior to colonial intrusion in the nineteenth century by the Germans and British, PNG societies, small and decentralized, had survived as separate selfgoverning communities. It was the colonial powers which superimposed a wider unity in constructing a territorial state on the European model. This would set the preconditions for subsequent challenges to the legitimacy of the state. When the leaders of the Bougainville ethno-political movement demanded greater autonomy for their island, one of them, Leo Hannett, did so by referring to this history, interrogating ‘the false unity’ of the state.5 In 1975, therefore, it seemed right for Bougainville to seize the moment to reclaim its freedom. Ironically, the new national PNG leaders who had invoked the principle of self-determination to justify their demand for independence from Australia were unwilling to concede similar status under the same principle for Bougainville.

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Bougainville is an island of 9,000 square kilometres with only around 150,000 people situated about 500 kilometres off the northern coast of PNG. While Bougainvilleans are Melanesians sharing among themselves certain similar institutional forms, and are internally differentiated by language and region, the Bougainville people bear one distinctive trait that distinguishes them from the others: colour. They are a jet black people who live not only on Bougainville but in the adjacent independent state, the Solomon Islands. While Bougainville was administered by Australia as part of PNG, its people travelled to other parts of the colony and discovered that their black colour became a source of insulting remarks. Papua New Guineans referred to them as ‘black bastards’, or in Melanesian Pidgin which was the lingua franca, as ‘as bilong sauspan’ (as black as the soot at the bottom of a saucepan). Alienated, Bougainvilleans sought a separate state, fearing ‘internal domination’, that is, being overwhelmingly outnumbered by the rest of the population and permanently reduced to a minority, with all such a status might entail. Leo Hannett (see note 5) articulated the case for a separate existence for Bougainville: ‘Our fear is that we will always be a fixed, unchangeable hopeless minority in the midst of an overwhelming majority.’ It would take the impending prospect of PNG’s independence to trigger the mobilization of Bougainvilleans for self-determination. Bougainvilleans, however, faced internal barriers to their mobilization for autonomy. They themselves are divided into eighteen language groups (see note 4) and they live on several islands in PNG, of which Bougainville island is the largest, followed by Buka island and several small atolls. During the period of colonial administration, these internal differences were ignored as they were all put under one administrative unit called ‘Bougainville’, a fact that would assist in forging an all-Bougainville collective identity. The construction of a single Bougainville self-consciousness assumed strong content, however, in relation to another fact imposed from the outside: the development of a massive copper- and gold-mining operation in their midst. While PNG was still under Australian administration, a multinational mining corporation, Riotinto Exploration Ltd., obtained permission in 1964 to explore for mineral resources on Bougainville island. Copper and gold were discovered and in 1967 an agreement was reached with the Australian government to permit what became known as Bougainville Copper Ltd. (BCL) to acquire land on which the mineral resources were located for exploitation through mining. The open-pit mine was massive, costing US $400 million to build, and came into operation in 1972. Under the initial agreement, BCL owned 80 per cent of the shares and the PNG government 20 per cent. The landowners on whose land the mine was constructed did not subscribe to the view that they did not own the subsoil property, but had no choice but to accept a minuscule royalty. The way in which the land was acquired, the disruption to the traditional pattern of life of the Nasioi people on whose land the Panguna mine was constructed, the extensive environmental despoliation and the radical redrawing of the lifestyle of practically all Bougainvilleans would in time provide the incendiary raw materials for the emergence of the unified ethnopolitical movement in quest of separation. While the mine brought many jobs and economic opportunities for

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Bougainvilleans, the revenues went to the PNG treasury. This bothered Bougainvilleans who carried most of the cost in the operations of the mine, in the disruption of their lives, destruction of their culture and the damage to their environment, while others, far away, reaped the bulk of the profits and benefits. It did not seem fair: they were never consulted about the terms. The enormity of the mine and the small scale of the society would in time magnify the extent of the dislocations and dramatize the minuscule rewards which Bougainvilleans received. The costs would escalate in human-relations terms when many migrants from other parts of PNG, especially Highlanders from the mainland of the country, converged on Bougainville, squatting on traditional lands and committing crimes. After universal suffrage was first introduced in PNG in 1964 and especially after 1968 in response to the rising anxieties and complaints, two Bougainville leaders became prominent, Leo Hannett and a Catholic priest, Father John Momis, who started the agitational process as the mine was being constructed. Initially, they sought a greater share of the financial benefits for Bougainvilleans and more autonomy for Bougainville to run its own internal affairs. To be sure, Hannett, Momis and their supporters initially resorted to the language of secession instead of just internal provincial autonomy, but this was a bargaining stance to goad the central government to take them more seriously. However, for Hannett and Momis, the demand for more autonomy took priority above other claims, in part because of the lingering accusation that the Bougainville ethnonational leaders were motivated mainly by financial greed. To this charge, they underscored that Bougainville alienation preceded the arrival of the mine. In particular, it is usually pointed out that Bougainvilleans expressed the desire to go it alone to a visiting UN mission in April 1962. They had recited a litany of ailments, including the failure of the colonial government to establish schools, leaving this to missionaries. Bougainville’s isolation from the mainland by about 500 kilometres contributed to the neglect. By the late 1960s, the presence of the mine had become the main source of complaints and frustrations. Demands for autonomy assumed greater salience as PNG itself approached self-government and independence. A main difficulty for leaders such as Hannett was the lack of unity among Bougainvilleans themselves on what exactly they wanted, especially the issue of internal autonomy versus outright independence. In part, the diversity of views correlated with the different parts of Bougainville. The colonial authorities had subdivided Bougainville into three subdivisions, each would reflect to some extent the diversity of views on the type of autonomy desired. The three subdivisions were Sohano, covering north Bougainville including the island of Buka; Kieta, covering eastern Bougainville; and Buin, in south and south-east Bougainville. People from Buin were among the most secessionist while those from Buka were inclined towards internal autonomy. Persons living closest to the mine tended to be the most militant on secession. But there was no question that despite the divisions, the presence of the mine created a new collective Bougainvillean consciousness, with concerns expressed about compensation, migration, crime and environmental despoliation. The dilemma was about how to obtain a single viewpoint quickly lest the issue engender two

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movements. Then a major accidental event occurred that would rally all sides to a militant position that was closer to secession than ever before (see note 5). The event related to the lynching of two Bougainville public servants in the Highlands of PNG after a car accident. News of the brutal killing spread like wildfire among Bougainvilleans and galvanized their political views for bruk, the pidgin word for secession. The murders forged a new consciousness and a complete mobilization of all Bougainvilleans. Bougainville ethnonationalism was now sufficiently solidified as to pose a threat to the unity of the emergent, new, PNG state. The activities of the Bougainville leadership in seeking self-definition in political autonomy took place in the wider context of general preparations for a new constitution for PNG at independence. A Constitutional Planning Committee (CPC), appointed by the House of Assembly in 1972, solicited opinions from citizens regarding the structure of the government and concluded that ‘there was a widespread discontent with the distribution of power in our country’.6 The CPC recommended a radical decentralization that resembled a federal arrangement.7 Hannett, aware that Bougainville lacked the basic administrative and institutional structures to embark on an independent course immediately, was interested in the decentralization proposals as a preliminary step for ultimate independence. There were some Bougainville leaders, however, who wanted outright independence immediately. In 1973 Hannett established an experimental prototype of a provincial government structure, with extensive local powers, that might sufficiently satisfy Bougainville demands to allow it to remain in PNG. While it received the support of Bougainvilleans it was rejected by the central government. The rejection was based on the fear that such a structure would subvert the unity of PNG and undermine the powers of the central government’s authority in Bougainville. Hannett, on the other hand, openly said that only the sort of devolution that Bougainville wanted would win the province’s loyalty to a larger PNG nationhood.8 The central government responded ambivalently to this argument, proceeding on occasion to offer some measure of decentralized autonomy to Bougainville and then again to withdraw it. Hannett retreated from full mobilized confrontation and accepted the invitation from the central government to put in place a new decentralized provincial government. While the contest between Bougainville and the central government was proceeding, the issue of revenues and financial rewards from BCL to PNG was being renegotiated. The new PNG nationalists, led by Michael Somare’s Pangu Pati, felt that the original mining agreement was not fair to PNG and challenged BCL on it. The upshot was a settlement that saw PNG obtain 20.2 per cent of the shares, BCL 53.6 per cent and the public 26.2 per cent. After 1978, the renegotiated deal would yield the PNG government 60 per cent of the net profits, BCL 35 per cent, the Bougainville provincial government (renamed the North Solomons Provincial Government, or NSPG) 5 per cent and landowners 0.2 per cent. The new agreement also called for a review of the arrangement every seven years, with the next round due in 1981. From the perspective of the Bougainville leaders however, their share of the profits was still minuscule. They decided to concentrate on lobbying for the system

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of decentralised provincial government to be entrenched in the constitution of the country. The Somare government was still ambivalent about the intent of Hannett and the new proposals for provincial decentralization. Many parliamentary members also began to realize that decentralization was not likely to be an innocuous experiment but would in all likelihood threaten their bases of support. A new tier of provincial government with a premier, a provincial parliament and a civil service was likely to create new centres of rival power. Under pressure, the Somare government withdrew the provision for provincial government that was recommended for the country’s constitution. When this was done, it sent a shudder of consternation throughout the body politic. Many provinces had already prepared advanced plans to implement the new system of local autonomy. The frustrated Bougainville leaders decided to respond in dramatic fashion by unilaterally declaring independence on 1 September, just about two weeks before PNG’s date of liberation. In turn, the central government suspended and dissolved the Bougainville provincial government. It would not be until June the following year that the tensions between the Bougainville ethnonational leaders and the Somare government took a turn towards violence. The occasion for this was provided by the refusal of the central government to release to Bougainville its share of the royalties from BCL. The central government was given an ultimatum with a deadline to comply, and upon its refusal to do so the ethnonationlists proceeded to burn and damage central government facilities and blockade the Bougainville airstrip. Riot police arrived and things seemed to be heading towards civil war. At this point cooler heads prevailed and the escalation of the confrontation was arrested. Somare and the Bougainville leaders met face to face, and after days of negotiations an agreement was reached to re-introduce provincial government through a special Organic Act that entrenched the decentralization system of local autonomy. With this retreat from the edge of disaster years of peace ensued and it seemed that the matter had been permanently resolved.9 However, this was premature as several issues were still outstanding and at some point these would have to be dealt with. Among them were the problems of internal migration which was severely encroaching on the limited space of Bougainvilleans. The provincial government needed more funds to attend to the infrastructure of roads and other public facilities on Bougainville. The seductiveness of the mine’s rewards in providing lucrative employment for large numbers of Bougainvilleans was initially enough to contain rash demands for radical changes. However, BCL activities not only left an ugly, massive, hole on the island but also pollution by the dumping of waste which affected adjoining rivers to the point that the livelihood of villagers was endangered. Between 1975 and 1988, little was done to review the mining agreement even though a massive backlog of grievances and demands had steadily accumulated and the mining agreement had provided for periodic reviews every seven years. On its part BCL needed more land for exploration. The Bougainville – now the North Solomons Provincial – Government had its own interests, wishing for a greater share of BCL profits. However, it could not make direct representations to BCL because it was not

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a party to the agreement, only the PNG government on behalf of all Papua New Guineans enjoyed this prerogative. The date of the 1981 renegotiation lapsed without the parties meeting at all. The next date for renegotiations was 1988. In the meantime several events occured in the country to reduce the strategic centrality of the mine, among them the discovery of more mineral-rich areas such as Ok Tedi and Lihir. Additionally, the politicians who acceded to power after Michael Somare, including Julius Chan, Pius Winti and Rabbie Namaliu, were less inclined to make easy concessions to Bougainville. The accumulated grievances and demands finally exploded in 1988, precipitated by an innocent private matter that spilled its confines and engulfed the entire island and the PNG government in what became known as the ‘Bougainville Crisis’. The event occurred within the Panguna Landowners Association (PLA), which represented the recipients of royalties, mainly landowners who resided in land contiguous to the mine. The annual financial awards were paid into a trust account, and its disbursal was under the supervision of an older group of PLA directors who evidently did not share the proceeds with newer stakeholders who felt entitled to a share. A new generation of landowners led by a BCL employee, a land surveyor named Francis Ona, felt that the current incumbents were not aggressive enough in seeking increased benefits from the mine and demanded that the trust be turned over to them. They unsuccessfully litigated in court to achieve this end. This internal, intergenerational, PLA dispute led to the formation of a ‘New PLA’. In the persisting internal struggles one of the trustees was killed. BCL was seen as supportive of the old generation PLA and consequently the New PLA decided to carry its claims for increased remuneration directly to the company. When their access was denied, Ona and the New PLA made an extraordinary set of demands to BCL, including access to 50 per cent of all BCL profits and a compensatory sum of K10 billion (almost the equivalent US$10 billion) for environmental damage. Ona was told to take his demands to the PNG government which alone had the authority to deal directly with BCL. Not getting anywhere, Ona and his supporters decided to sabotage the operations of the mine. Explosives were stolen from BCL and soon attacks were launched against BCL employees, resulting in injuries and fatalities. By the end of 1988 and early 1989, Ona had menaced the operations of the mine and had to be taken seriously. BCL employees threatened to go on strike because of the new dangers, and a curfew was imposed on 19 January. Meanwhile, the crisis took a turn for the worse when in March 1989 a Bougainville woman was killed on a plantation by a migrant from the PNG Highlands. In traditional payback fashion, two highlanders were killed and riots ensued for days. PNG troops were summoned to restore law and order and to ‘get Ona’, which drove the dissidents literally into the bush where they organized themselves into the ‘Bougainville Revolutionary Army’ (BRA). The subsequent mayhem caused by the troops would add a new exponential dimension to the conflict.10 The result was that all Bougainvilleans were now drawn into a wider confrontation with the central government; issues that

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had remained dormant for the past decade and a half were now also appended to the dispute. Ona had emerged as the new successful leadership outbidder on Bougainville superseding Hannett. His arguments were not only specific to the injustice of the minuscule revenues that the landowners received but systemic in comprehending the loss of a way of life in Bougainville. Over the next decade of civil war intermittent deals were struck to bring the strife to a satisfactory solution. Among these were those of the new PNG Prime Minister, Rabbie Namaliu, who in April 1989 proposed an act of conciliation in a ‘Bougainville Development Package’. While this was a generous offer which gave to Bougainvilleans a 10 per cent equity stake in BCL, it did not receive the support of the PNG Defence Force (PNGDF) which wanted a military solution and so sabotaged the deal. Continued efforts failed, and in frustration Namaliu decided that negotiations were not the answer to the Bougainville Crisis and launched ‘Operation Footloose’ with the aim to ‘rid Bougainville of this terrorist scourge’.11 Violence escalated and periodic ceasefires were arranged and broken with treachery and distrust shared among all.12 The PNG government proceeded to impose a selective sea and air embargo on goods destined for Bougainville with a view of forcing the BRA to sue for a settlement. In response, on 7 May 1990, Ona and the BRA unilaterally declared Bougainville’s independence. The new state was to be called the Republic of Mekaamui.

Internationalization of the conflict, third party intervention and failure of a military solution The deepening crisis had become an international issue, with Amnesty International issuing a report condemning extensive human-rights violations by the PNGDF. The BRA had accused Australia of supporting the PNG government against the insurgents by supplying sophisticated military equipment, including deadly Iroquois helicopters which were used indiscriminately to strafe civilians. In turn, the BRA sought support from the neighbouring Solomon Islands’ government and, in part because many Solomon Islanders were ethnically related to Bougainvilleans, it received sympathetic treatment in the use of Solomon Island territory as a place of refuge and a source of medical and material supply. Though the BRA was unsuccessful in obtaining open diplomatic recognition from other states it did establish several overseas offices to disseminate its positions as well as procure aid. It would carry its complaints and grievances and its case for independence to the United Nations and various international organizations. The New Zealand government offered its frigate, the Endeavor, as a site for negotiations between the parties and in July 1990 they signed the Endeavor Accord, though it was not implemented, becoming a casualty of mutual distrust. Under the auspices of the Solomon Islands’ government, the representatives of the BRA and the PNG government met again in January 1991 in Honiara, the capital of the Solomon Islands, leading to the Honiara Declaration, which again called for a cessation of hostilities and a restoration of services but left the central

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issue regarding the status of Bougainville unresolved. Again, the declaration was not implemented. By 1995 Julius Chan had returned to power as PNG prime minister. He faced mounting pressures for a speedy resolution of the crisis from all quarters, including the PNG Council of Churches and international organizations. Amnesty International continued to criticize the performance of the PNG security forces, pointing to continued human-rights violations, including ‘the unlawful killing or disappearance of 44 people on Bougainville’.13 It asserted that the ‘PNGDF refused to hold its soldiers responsible for their actions, creating a cycle of impunity’.14 On the peace front, Chan initiated a new grassroots approach that engaged the consultation of village elders on Bougainville by creating ‘Councils of Elders’.15 Former Prime Minister Somare also argued for more concessions to the rebels, calling for self-government on the model of the Cook Islands and their relationship to New Zealand.16 On his part Ona, not to be outdone, called for a ceasefire and the removal of all PNG forces from Bougainville, accompanied by the introduction of a peace force on the island.17 Chan, however, had now become frustrated with the BRA and like his predecessors Pius Winti and Rabbie Namaliu, embarked on a miliary solution.18 Earlier, the PNGDF had captured the island of Buka from the BRA, and the PNG government promptly proceeded to establish and support the proclamation of a ‘Buka Liberation Front’. The PNGDF had turned its attention next to Bougainville itself and it regained the mine site and the town of Arawa. Services were restored in these areas as an incentive to win support among Bougainvilleans. However, the BRA retained control of central Bougainville where most of the population resided. A second significant strategy utilized against the rebels involved the training and equipping of an indigenous Bougainville paramilitary force to challenge the writ of the BRA on Bougainville. Called the ‘Resistance’ this group did create some problems for the BRA but it, too, failed to dislodge them. On the whole, a military stalemate persisted and the struggle continued to draw and divert resources from the national development of PNG, quite apart from the continued loss of revenues stemming from the closure of the mine. Chan therefore sought a radically different route to resolve the crisis. He, however, could not rely on the PNGDF which was rife with indiscipline. In desperation, in 1996, Chan contracted for the services of a mercenary South African organization called Sandline and Executive Outcomes to the tune of about US$40 million for the training of the PNGDF and for the establishment of an elite anti-terrorist squad.19 The PNGDF, resenting the entry of the foreign mercenaries, seized them and attempted a military coup, creating a national crisis that led to Chan’s resignation.20

Bougainville states its claim for independence to the international community Despite their small numbers, the Bougainville separatists had successfully fought the central government to a stalemate, continued to control most of Bougainville for nearly the entire period of the struggle and established their authority in the

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province. They decided to take their case to the United Nations Working Group on Indigenous Affairs. They sought to legitimize their claims at this forum by reference to the 1970 UN ‘Declaration on Principles of International Law Concerning Friendly Relations and Cooperation Among States (GA Resolution 2625-xxv)’. This document stated that the territorial integrity of a state can be nullified if its government does not represent ‘the whole of the people belonging to the territory without distinction to race, color and creed’. It specified serious human-rights violations, denial of electoral rights and persistent economic discrimination. A secessionist group needed to establish its distinctiveness from the dominant group in relation to culture, history and religion; demonstrate that it occupied a separate territory; and prove that a substantial majority of its people supported it. The Bougainville separatists maintained that ‘ethnically, culturally and consciously’ they were a distinctly different people from other Papua New Guineans, given their history, colour, distance from the PNG mainland and proximity to the western Solomon Islands. They contended that they enjoyed the support of nearly all Bougainvilleans and constituted an effective government with a viable economy and a sufficient population. They provided evidence that the PNG government discriminated against the Bougainville people, had imposed the mine on them without their consent and that the PNG armed forces had inflicted horrendous human-rights brutalities and atrocities which were compounded by the naval and air blockade of the province. PNG disagreed with practically every point made by the BRA delegation. It argued that the principle of self-determination applied only to instances of decolonization and had never been used to justify secession. In similar fashion, the PNG position sought to show that the claims of cultural distinctiveness were not valid and that Bougainvilleans shared similar Melanesian institutions, customs and practices with all other parts of PNG as well as the Solomon Islands. On the charge of discrimination and mistreatment, the PNG position sought to portray the BRA as rebels and terrorists who had seized power by force and perpetrated innumerable atrocities on the Bougainville people. It noted that the BRA was never elected while the PNG government had held regular elections in the province. It maintained that Bougainville did not have a viable economy. The establishment of the Buka Liberation Front was submitted as evidence that Bougainvilleans were not all agreed with regard to secession. Finally, PNG stated that it was always ready to negotiate with the BRA and that it was the BRA that habitually dishonored all the accords and agreements that were reached.

The Burnham agreement In the midst of the continuing crisis, new elections were called which brought a new, more flexible, regime to power in PNG under Prime Minister Bill Skates and a fresh attempt was made to resolve peacefully the Bougainville problem. Early in 1997, a group of Bougainvilleans including a contingent from the BRA was assembled under the auspices of New Zealand to resolve the secessionist crisis.

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The result was the Burnham Declaration, calling for a cessation of hostilities but leaving the issue of Bougainville’s status untouched. Both the BRA and the PNG government had become war weary and willing to cease hostilities without conceding anything to each other. The fundamental claim of Bougainville for a sovereign independence remained unresolved, but deferred for the moment. In the wake of the ensuing peace agreement, the rebuilding of parts of Bougainville followed and political leaders representing Bougainville interests were elected. In free and open elections, Joseph Kabui, the foremost leader of the political wing of the BRA was selected as the main spokesperson of Bougainville under the party rubric of the Bougainville People’s Congress. To approach the PNG government as a unified group, all of the main Bougainville factions and interests came together and in December 1999 forged a common set of demands called the Hutneja Record. The document contained two critical demands: first, that the PNG government accord a new Bougainville Provincial Government ‘the highest possible autonomy’ (excluding only foreign affairs and defence) and, second, that a referendum date be set for some future time to decide finally the status of Bougainville. The new PNG government appointed its own negotiating team, under former Prime Minister Michael Somare, to respond to the Hutneja demands of the unified Bougainville leaders. The Lincoln Agreement followed by the Loloata Understanding provided the framework for negotiations to begin regarding the details of an accord. By the end of 2000 the negotiations remained deadlocked over the issue of a future referendum. It was clear that the PNG government wanted to prolong the negotiations, but Joseph Kabui would have none of this. Somare seemed conciliatory but said that the demand for a referendum could not be accommodated within the PNG constitution, which makes no mention of such a device. This meant that a constitutional change would be required, a prospect that likely to be very lengthy and the chances of its adoption uncertain. To the unified Bougainville leaders and especially the BRA, it was a referendum that was of the most salience for the future of Bougainville–PNG relations. Not to concede it even in the distant future seemed the signal to a return to war. It seemed that the PNG government was unwilling to let the people of Bougainville decide their own fate.

Conclusion The stalemate between centre and periphery offers an opportunity to review what was gained and lost in the Bougainville conflict as well as to evaluate the future. Without much external assistance apart from some derived from the Solomon Islands, Bougainville successfully stalemated the PNG government’s quest for a military solution. The PNG government on the other hand, despite support from Australia and despite its superior size, failed to quell the independence movement. Both sides have been devastated: Bougainville suffered more materially, but PNG placed at risk its democratic institutions and faced a revival of demands by other provinces for separation. The BRA survived and after the cessation of hostilities, it demonstrated through its political wing, headed by Joseph Kabui, that it retained

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the bulk of Bougainvillean support. Its demand for a referendum underscores the belief that it would win popular approval for full independence. In response, forms of decentralization appear still to be espoused by the PNG government. The BRA and its Kabui-led political wing have decided that after the blood and sacrifice of a decade of war, it is not prepared to relinquish the aim of independence. It is willing to accept extensive decentralization temporarily in a provincial government, but only as a prelude to a decisive referendum to determine the future. An independent Bougainville could be quite viable, especially with the mine in operation. The Kabui-led Bougainville government enjoys widespread support on Bougainville but uncertain international support should there be renewed warfare. Similarly, the PNG government cannot assume support again from Australia in a new civil war. The logic seems to point to political separation within a shared economic space of cooperation. What is lacking is the will to do this. As an act of territorial and political assertion, a secessionist struggle is usually prolonged, punishing and prohibitively costly, as the Bougainville case illustrates. Demands made by secessionist movements are typically resisted, dealt with by fierce counter force, deemed traitorous and deserving of destruction and conceded only with the utmost reluctance.21 Again, the Bougainville case underscores this point. At a certain point in the course of secessionist strife, a critical threshold is reached that is marked by extensive violence and human-rights violations. Genuine differences and claims are transformed into intransigent positions on issues that are now more intensely wrapped in cultural symbolism and demands for preserving the integrity of the state and outright secession by the respective parties become uncompromising.22 The Bougainville crisis had clearly reached that point when third-party intervention in the form of the Burnham declaration temporarily suspended mutual self-destruction. Today, a return to war seems less imminent with peace extensively established under a United Nations programme that has witnessed the voluntary collection of many of the weapons of warfare.23 However badly beaten and savagely brutalized they may appear to be, rarely are secessionist assertions totally and finally annihilated.24 At times, in seeming defeat, they may appear moribund and may even be forgotten, but over time, given the right circumstances, these movements will likely be awakened in all of their old fury.25 They survive from generation to generation, within a logic of their own.

Notes 1 Ted R. Gurr, ‘Peoples Against States: Ethno-political Conflict and the Changing World System’, International Studies Quarterly, 38 (1994), p. 354. 2 See Lee C. Burcheit, Secession: The Legitimacy of Self-Determination (New Haven:Yale University Press, 1978); Alfred Cobban, The Nation-State and Self-Determination (London: Thomas Crowell, revised edition 1969); and H. Hannum, Autonomy, Sovereignty, and Self-Determination: the Accommodation of Conflicting Rights (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1990), pp. 33–5. 3 Margaret Moore, National Self-Determination and Secession (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998).

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4 See Ralph Premdas, ‘Ethnonationalism, Copper and Secession in Bougainville’, Canadian Review of Studies in Nationalism, vol. IV, no. 2 (1977), pp. 247–65. 5 L. Hannett, ‘The Case for Bougainville Secession’, Meanjin Quarterly, vol. 32, no. 2 (1975), p. 286. 6 Ibid., p. 292. 7 See Richard Scagion, ‘Chiefly Models in PNG’, The Contemporary Pacific, vol. 8, no. 1 (1996), pp. 1–31. 8 See A. Mamak and R. Beckford, Bougainville Nationalism: Aspects of Unity and Discord (Christchurch, NZ: University of Canterbury, 1974), pp. 17–19. 9 CPC Report (Konedobu: Ministry of Information, 1975). 10 See Ralph Premdas, Focus on the South West Pacific, occasional paper no. 23 (Queensland: University of North Queensland centre for Southeast Asian Studies), pp. 1–35. 11 See Hannett, ‘The Case for Bougainville Secession’, p. 291. 12 Y. Ghai, Reflections on Self-Determination in the South Pacific, Working Paper Series, no.12 (Hong Kong: University of Hong Kong Law Faculty, 1974), p. 29. 13 Ghai, Reflections on Self-Determination, p. 3. 14 See T. Wesley-Smith, ‘PNG: A Year of Crisis’, Asian Survey, 31 (1991), p. 190. 15 Ibid. 16 ‘Amnesty Reports Unlawful Killings in Bougainville’, Radio Australia, 26 February 1997. 17 Ibid. 18 ‘PNG Wants New Approach to Solving Bougainville Crisis’, Radio Australia, 3 February 1997. 19 ‘Autonomy is Back on the Agenda’, Post-Courier, Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea, 9 July 1996, p. 1. 20 ‘PNG Must Withdraw its Forces from Bougainville or Fighting will Never End’, Republic of Bougainville Press Release, no. 315, 9 January 1997. 21 ‘Attempts to Play Down Role of Mercenaries in PNG’, Australian Associated Press, 26 February 1997, p. 1. 22 L. Palmer and C. Skehan, ‘Elite Anti-Terrorist Squad Planned in PNG for Months’, Sydney Morning Herald, 26 February 1996, p. 1. 23 ‘Military Crisis Ends in PNG’, Reuters, 18 March 1997. 24 See Ralph R. Premdas, ‘Comparative Secessionist Movements: a Theoretical Framework’, in R. Premdas, S.W.R. de Samarasinghe and A. Anderson, (eds), Comparative Secessionist Movements (London: Pinter, 1990). 25 See Ralph Premdas, ‘Secession and Decentralisation: the Case of Bougainville’, Canadian Review of Studies in Nationalism, XXV (1998), pp. 24–5.

Conclusion States in waiting, nations tiring of waiting Tozun Bahcheli, Barry Bartmann and Henry Srebrnik

The persistence of ethnic separatism in the modern world has long confounded social scientists. A succession of analysts, Karl Marx and Max Weber among them, postulated that ethnicity would dissipate, and ethnic and nationalist conflicts diminish, through the process of modernization. But contrary to their predictions, the integration of ethnic populations into larger state structures and economic systems did not, in most instances, result in a decline in ethnic allegiance; there seems to be little correspondence between modernization and levels of ethnic group cohesion. Instead, the role of ethnicity as a mobilizing force appears to be escalating, and the worldwide development of a sense of ethnic and national consciousness constituted one of the major political and social trends of the twentieth century. There are as many as 3,500 groups of people around the world who describe themselves in ethnic or national terms, so most of the world’s sovereign states are multinational patchwork units of different – often hostile – ethnic communities. On the other hand, there are some 80 multistate national groups – ethnic peoples who live in more than one state. Given this situation, the principle of national selfdetermination has come into conflict with the doctrine of state sovereignty and the inviolability of borders. Since World War Two, more people have been killed in ethnic conflicts within states than have been killed in wars between states. Today, with ideologically-based superpower rivalry a thing of the past, nationalist doctrines are in the ascendancy, often bringing in their wake intolerance of minorities, hatred of neighbours, and impatience with established frontiers. The past two decades (1980s and 1990s), especially, have seen the intensification of ethnic conflicts, especially in multinational states prone to such antagonisms. Indeed, conflicts between rival nationalities are the basis of most of today’s violence and have contributed significantly to global instability. When such hostilities involve national groups in command of sovereign states, they may take the form of territorial invasions and wars. When they affect ethnicities within the same political unit, they can result in communal animosity, separatist agitation and sometimes civil war. The latter has been the case in states such as Russia, Serbia, Georgia, Bosnia-Herzegovina and Papua New Guinea, which contain peoples and regions wishing to secede and form their own independent states. ‘Ethnic and separatist conflicts are among the most implacable and intense of disputes . . . and least amenable to a peaceful settlement’, notes Alexis Heraclides. He calculates

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that the international system has experienced some 60 secessionist conflicts since World War Two.1 For most of the post-war period, the sanctity of the principle of territorial integrity prevailed. The right to self-determination was confined to colonial peoples who were the subjects of European salt-water empires, and did not apply to dissident and alienated peoples within existing states. Following the period of decolonization – which, ironically, typically produced states themselves usually a hodge-podge of quarrelsome ethnic and religious groups – the only successful claim to self-determination prior to 1990 was that of Bangladesh, a unique case given the sheer force of Indian intervention and the bifurcation of Pakistan itself. Since the collapse of communism, however, these prevailing orthodoxies concerning the territorial integrity of states have been increasingly defied on the ground. In some cases, such as Somalia, a collapsed state has left a vacuum for the assertion of a separate authority. In others, such as the old Soviet Union and Yugoslavia, gradual patterns of disintegration created windows of opportunity for territorially-concentrated minorities to press their own agendas in the ensuing confusion. All of these cases challenge long-held assumptions about the application of the right of self-determination and the nature of sovereignty. The principle of self-determination, John McGarry and Brendan O’Leary point out, ‘flows from the democratization of the world’.2 So it is the denial of self-determination, not its pursuit, Rodolfo Stavenhagen declares, that is ‘essentially incompatible with true democracy’ and leads to upheavals and conflicts.3 After all, as Michael Hechter so convincingly asserts: ‘Self-determination is a universal good; people always prefer to act on the basis of their own desires rather than those of others.’4 Those who form a national community in a given territory have a good claim to self-determination, adds David Miller, because political communities ‘should as far as possible be organized in such a way that their members share a common national identity’.5 As Margaret Moore argues, the claim to territory derives from the claims that national minorities make to institutional recognition of their own identity, so ‘if we accept that there is moral value in recognizing national identities, then it follows that territorial recognition, where it is possible, is justifiable and sometimes even desirable’.6 It is foolish, maintains Brian Walker, to overlook ‘the central role of territory’ within cultural and ethnic selfdetermination movements.7 Clearly, with only a few European dependencies left, self-determination has moved beyond decolonization. The countries depicted in this book, along with others, such as the Kurdish self-rule region in northern Iraq (perhaps the core area of a nascent Kurdish state), are all the homes of distinct nationalities and, as such, ‘states in waiting’.

Chechnya When Chechen fighters capped their outstanding military victory against Russian forces in 1996 with the Khasavyurt Accords, Chechnya stood poised to advance on the road to becoming an independent state. Moscow accepted that the writ of the Grozny government rather than that of the Russian Federation would apply

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in Chechnya. Moreover, although the accords deferred the issue of Chechen sovereignty for five years, the affirmation of Chechnya’s ultimate independence seemed virtually assured. For the first time in their modern history Chechens appeared to hold the destiny of their country in their hands. And yet, within three years, the Chechen leadership squandered an outstanding opportunity to advance towards independence. While Moscow’s failure to provide promised aid hampered Chechnya’s reconstruction, the Mashkadov government was unable to overcome the deep fractures in Chechen society and to create a state that observed the rule of law. Furthermore, Mashkadov’s inability to stop renegade warlords from initiating armed incursions into neighbouring Dagestan provoked Moscow’s second and more successful invasion of Chechnya 1999. Since then Moscow has claimed that it has successfully re-integrated Chechnya into the legal and political space of the Federation. In view of the on-going Chechen armed resistance to Russian authority, these claims ring hollow. The outlook for Chechnya in the coming years appears grim, with Katherine Graney anticipating long-term, low-intensity guerilla war and civil strife in Chechnya of the kind that plagued Lebanon of the 1980s and Palestine/Israel today. The suffering of the Chechen people is thus likely to continue unabated, with no realistic prospect of a renewal of the earlier opportunity to establish an independent state of their choosing.

Kosovo Perhaps no case of aspiring statehood has drawn such widespread attention and indeed support, as the struggle in Kosovo. This is a classic case where the claims to territorial integrity, always honoured above those of self-determination except in maritime colonial territories, were challenged by the humanitarian catastrophe of a failed, dysfunctional state. For ten years Kosovo existed as a shadow state with its own underground administration. With the emergence of the KLA and the intensification of the campaign against Kosovo’s Albanian majority, calls for outright independence commanded growing support in the province. The international community, still committed to conventional Westphalian norms of territorial integrity, and wary of secessionist precedents, insisted on autonomy for Kosovo, but within Serbia. This Rambouillet provision seemed, on the surface, to have been strengthened further, given that the withdrawal agreement with Serbia dropped any reference to a referendum on Kosovo’s future. Yet the facts on the ground after the 1999 war speak for themselves, and a growing body of observers now assume the likely permanent separation of Kosovo from Serbia. In their chapter, Vjeran Pavlakovic´ and Sabrina P. Ramet show how rival understandings of sovereignty have been reflected in rival positions in the dispute over Kosovo, and argue that where Belgrade’s official line has adhered to traditional principles of Hobbesian ‘realism’, the Kosovar Albanians were able to make their appeal through a nationalist version of the doctrine of popular sovereignty. Though international administration is likely to continue for a long time, the emergence of a separate Kosovo seems probable in the long run.

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The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus has existed for over a quarter of a century. Yet it remains unrecognized save for Turkey. It has very limited access to international bodies, and no access to aid agencies or potential donor states. It suffers from physical isolation as well, as one can only reach the republic through Turkey. As Tozun Bahcheli has noted, in light of the post-1960 history of the island, Turkish Cypriots have been wary of third-party settlement plans that could reduce them into a vulnerable minority in a reunited island. Yet, notwithstanding the considerable support the TRNC has enjoyed from its people, its separate status in the outside world is still that of an entity created by and sustained by the formidable power of the Turkish army. Concerns over secessionist challenges at home have discouraged even states that have close ties with Turkey, such as Azerbaijan, to extend diplomatic recognition. Additionally, by imposing an economic boycott and embargo on the TRNC at the behest of the Greek Cypriot government, the international community has seriously hampered its economic development. The failure of the Turkish Cypriot government to overcome these adversities, and to sustain a healthy economy has shaken the confidence of a considerable number of Turkish Cypriots regarding the future viability of their state, and to consider the merits of becoming EU citizens in a federal arrangement with the Greek Cypriot part of the island as proposed by the UN plan of 2002. The decision of the European Union to conduct accession negotiations with the Greek Cypriot administration as the legitimate government of the whole island, and to proceed with Cyprus accession in 2004 without a prior political settlement, has dealt a major setback to the TRNC. In addition, the EUs affirmation of a link between resolving the Cyprus issue as a condition of Turkey’s EU accession raised the stakes for Turkey as well. In spite of the TRNC’s longevity, the EU membership issue has posed severe challenges to the Turkish Cypriot state’s claim to sovereignty and international acceptance.

Palestine Long before Yassir Arafat set up office in Jericho, and then Ramallah, the Palestinians were recognized as a national people with legitimate aspirations to statehood. The PLO was granted observer status at the United Nations and many countries, including European states, led by Austria, welcomed Palestinian diplomatic missions in their capitals. These claims were given more substance with the establishment of the Palestinian Authority over parts of Israeli-occupied West Bank and the Gaza Strip. Yet, with its authority constrained by continued Israeli occupation, the PA has not developed into a state in the conventional sense. While enjoying enormous international support of their right to sovereign statehood (which puts them in contrast to the other de facto states in this volume), the Palestinians have only been able to exercise limited authority on the ground. The apparent failure of the Oslo process to yield an agreement between the PA

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and Israel on key issues related to territorial boundaries, water resources, east Jerusalem, or the Palestinian right of return has created a crisis of confidence among Palestinians regarding the attainment of a viable state on the West Bank and Gaza. The slide into a vicious circle of violence between Palestinian militants and Israel since the beginning of the Second Intifada in September 2000, has further undermined the prospects of achieving Palestinian statehood. It is no wonder that Palestinians have had little hope in the chances of progress being made with the latest US initiative to restart negotiations, announced in spring 2003, in spite of the apparent changes represented in this ‘roadmap’. It is understandable too that Dan Tschirgi is sceptical about the prospect of a Palestinian state emerging on the West Bank and Gaza, as the death and destruction in Palestine and Israel continues to weaken the political position of moderate groups in both societies.

Somaliland The case of Somaliland represents the greatest fears among those who cling to the order of existing borders. If the territorial identity of the colonial African state is open to challenge with a successful precedent for partition, then virtually the whole of the sub-Saharan continent is vulnerable to fragmentation and cartographic redefinition. That Somalia, the one African state which could boast ethnic homogeneity and the foundations of a genuine nation state, should be dismembered is bound to raise anxieties for scores of other states on the continent where tribal and clan divisions have eroded the pretences of integration and the writ of central authority. Yet the case for separate statehood in Somaliland, as in Eritrea, also rests on the sanctity of the colonial state. Eritrea was a separate colonial entity when federation was forced upon it. Northern Somalia, Somaliland, is really the successor state, albeit unrecognised, to the old British Somaliland colonial territory. The integration of Somalia was itself in defiance of colonial borders, a seemingly enlightened strategy of self-determination at the time. Attempts to reach across separate colonial experiences in subSaharan Africa were rarely successful (Cameroun) and more often dramatic failures (Senegal and The Gambia). That Northern Somalis should revert to a separate identity in the wake of the failure of their experiment with integration should not be all that surprising. Still, Somaliland, while it enjoys a level of order not evident anywhere in the south, exists as an unrecognized state. Many observers have pointed to its relative security and success but no government has thus far risked accepting the disintegration of Somalia by recognizing the reality on the ground. It seems unlikely in the near future that any government in Mogadishu would be in a position to bring Somaliland to heel. It may be possible then for Somaliland to wait it out and develop as a state within an underground system of international relations cultivating support in discreet manner. In this chapter Henry Srebrnik has examined diplomacy by stealth and the opportunities for unrecognized states to exist and even thrive on the margins of the international system.

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Abkhazia Abkhazia is truly a Maryushka doll, a nightmarish doll for Georgians who must deal with other Maryushkas within the borders of their reconstituted state. The question which Abkhazia raises most powerfully, is a question which is resonant in so many of the cases within this volume: whose land is it anyway? Does this land belong to the indigenous Abkhazians who were forcibly ethnically cleansed from this territory by Stalin and who at the time of Georgian independence in 1991 constituted only 17 per cent of Abkhazia’s population? Or is this now an integral part of Georgia, a land settled, with the support of Stalin, by hundreds of thousands of his fellow Georgians? The independence of Abkhazia was achieved largely because of the intervention of Russia determined to maintain some influence in its near abroad. True, Abkhazians were one in their determination to win sovereignty and the prowess of Abkhazian forces is not in doubt. Moreover, the divisions within Georgia at the time of independence hardly gave them an advantage in putting down a separatist movement. Still, initial Russian support for the Abkhazians followed by offers of mediation and peacekeeping which seemed to offer Eduard Shevardnadze the only hope of recovery, largely determined the course of Abkhazian independence. Abkhazia still remains dependent on Russia, yet, as Ed Mihalkanin notes, Russia appears to be unwilling to extend diplomatic recognition to Abkhazia, lest Georgia and other countries such as Turkey and Azerbaijan extend the same recognition to Chechnya. As the Abkhazians also continue to face Georgian hostility, there appears little hope for international recognition at the present time.

The Transnistria Republic The case of the Transnistria Republic is similar to that of Abkhazia; it was formed and exists within the context of Russian support, in this case of fairly independent units of the Russian army. Of all the cases within this volume, Transnistria is the weakest example of de facto sovereignty and the one least likely to survive. It is a product of an ill-placed boundary, with a largely Russian and Ukrainian population on the east bank of the Dniester finding themselves within the majority Rumanian population of the former Soviet republic of Moldova. Initially resistance to the Chisinau government was determined with Russian forces staunchly defending the claims of the populace and the local authorities. Moreover, the success of Transnistria might have spoken to the anxieties and ambitions of other stranded Russian settlements in the newly sovereign republics looking for support from Moscow. However, while Transnistria still exists, Russia’ s patronage has been anything but unequivocal and the current drift is one of eventual accommodation with Moldova. As Steven Roper indicates, while few Moldovans or Transnistrians support a federal state, some Transnistrians would settle for a confederal arrangement. It seems clear that Moscow’s concerns for Russian nationals in the near abroad may be met within generous arrangements of autonomy and devolution. And, of course, the credibility of devolution strategies will spell the fate of de facto claims of sovereignty in most, if not all, the territories under consideration.

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Republika Srpska Nowhere perhaps is the conflict between the de facto and de jure terms of sovereignty more egregiously demonstrated than in the case of the Serbian Republic which is formally part of the integrated state of Bosnia-Herzegovina. The Dayton Accords represent a Herculean effort on the part of the international community to determine the shape of a political solution against all evidence to the contrary. However noble in intention, Dayton is largely a case of shutting the barn door once the horse has fled. There is no evidence at all thus far that conditions within Bosnia have given life to the Dayton agreements, particularly the freedom of people to return to their homes and thus reverse the brutalities of ethnic cleansing. Nor is there any real prospect of the central Bosnian government, an unwieldy triumvirate, functioning in any meaningful sense. The Republika Srpska continues to function as a de facto sovereign state. While it is a pariah to be sure, there is little reason to believe that the international community is in any position to bring it into line. There is even less reason to expect accommodation once the NATO forces have withdrawn, as withdraw they must in due course. The fate of the republic may well depend on the current conflict between moderates in Banja Luka and the Karadzic loyalists holed up in Pale. Conceivably, there could be a disintegration within the republic which would leave the eastern portion either more isolated than ever or eventually integrated with Serbia proper. However, regional and international hostility to union with Serbia could mean that Belgrade might not welcome the return of the Bosnian Serbs to the homeland. In any case, the Republika Srpska is a dramatic illustration of a de facto state existing in utter and complete defiance of the international system and its eventual fate probably depends, as Marie-Jöelle Zahar asserts, on the future shape of the international community’s involvement in Bosnia. Recognition seems to be entirely beside the point in this case.

Montenegro Montenegro is one of the most interesting cases in the volume as it has been moving towards separate statehood gradually and, since the Kosovo war, more openly. Moreover, unlike any other case in this volume, Montenegro has a modern history of statehood. It was a separate principality from the fourteenth century and a sovereign state from 1799 to 1852 and from 1878 to 1915. This long pedigree would be of considerable importance should Montenegro eventually decide to secede from the rump of the Yugoslav Federation. Clearly there is a growing body of opinion in the republic resistant to the domination of Serbia. In any case, Montenegro has established de facto sovereignty status, issuing its own currency and establishing its own direct links to the outside world, particularly Italy and the European Union. The 2002 accord establishing ‘Serbia and Montenegro’ has not resulted in an attempt at a new Yugoslavia. Rather Serbia and Montenegro, their status as states explicitly acknowledged in the founding accord of the joint state, have agreed to a loose union of highly autonomous states that appears very temporary in nature. As Philip Lyon observes, a discrete but substantive de facto independence and the

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history of pre-Yugoslav independence, the precedents finally accepted in the other Yugoslav republics, all bode well in Montenegro’s bid for recognition.

Bougainville Though Bougainville is the northernmost island in the Solomons chain, it was included as an integral part of Papua New Guinea (PNG) when the former Australian administrative territory became independent in 1975. From the outset, the Bougainville islanders resisted integration with PNG. The roots of the secessionist movement in Bougainville are, to use Ralph Premdas’ terms, both primordial and secondary. There is a clear sense of ethnic and cultural separeteness, which inclines the islanders to their southern kith and kin in the Solomons rather than their fellow citizens in PNG. Moreover, the huge copper mine on the island has generated divisive questions of local access to the island’s resources, the equitable distribution of wealth, the protection of the local environment, and the placement of the islanders in jobs, especially those relating to the mine. Years of war and resistance to the Port Moseby government have finally given way to a fragile ceasefire and the active intervention of Australia and New Zealand. The accords between the PNG government and the Bougainville authorities point the way to a democratic resolution of the dispute and, if the islanders wish it, to an independent Bougainville.

Obstacles to recognition These ‘real, existing’ nations, listed above, still have many hurdles to surmount. Despite the realities on the ground, there remain tremendous obstacles before they can become part of the community of states and be allowed entry into such exclusive clubs as the United Nations and other international bodies. Modern, Western, political theory has become increasingly critical of the classical nation state, especially of the notion that each self-defined group is entitled, as part of its patrimony and place in the world, a particular space it can call its own homeland. In the past few decades, a consensus has emerged among Western political elites and activists in government, the media and academia regarding the proper character of the state. They increasingly regard as illegitimate those states founded on the basis of ethnic or religious nationhood, as opposed to the civic-territorial or multicultural model found in present-day Australia, Canada or the United States. They have come to define nationalism itself as a variant of xenophobia and racist intolerance, indeed a political pathology that leads inexorably to the narrowest of so-called ‘tribalism’. The older paradigm of nationhood, one grounded in what they consider an exclusionary ethno-nationalism, has for them been largely discredited, perhaps due to the excesses of fascism and ultra-nationalism before World War Two. In April 1999, questioned by reporters about NATO’s action against Serbia, Strobe Talbot, then the American deputy-secretary of state, stated that he found ‘insidious’ the view that states might be formed on the basis of ethnicity or religion.8

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The Western elevation of a universalist human-rights regime has led to the privileging of individual values over those of nations, denigrating states and disparaging nationalism. The president of the Czech Republic, the former dissident Vàclav Havel, speaking to a session of the Canadian parliament in April 1999, stated flatly that ‘Human rights are superior to the rights of states. Human freedoms represent a higher value than state sovereignty. International law protecting the unique human being must be ranked higher than international law protecting the state.’9 (Havel neglected to mention that his own former country, Czechoslovakia, broke apart because its two component nations could not cooperate in building a new democracy!) Thus has arisen the paradigm of a state with a universalist vision based on international human-rights ideology. This ideal state preferably should not be linked to any ethnic group per se, but should adhere to a civic and political, instead of an ethnic, concept of nationhood, and in principle be open to anyone. And even if a state remains, historically and predominantly, the homeland of one ethnic group, it should live up to the same standards, the way Holland and Sweden do. In our political culture, individual human rights trump national rights and the state is now envisioned as some sort of post-national potential utopia that exists for the purposes of individual self-fulfillment and self-esteem. Perhaps this explains why such a liberal vision embraces utopian fantasies of peoples with longstanding historical, national and religious rivalries – including even those who have recently engaged in terrorism or warfare against each other – living harmoniously within a common political entity, and harbours such strong aversion towards any territorial partitions or transfers of population in order to forestall communal violence. We recognize these attitudes as the basis of Western policy in the 1999 Kosovo war, and in the continued refusal of the West to acknowledge the obvious in places such as Bosnia-Herzegovina and Cyprus, which, as states, exist only on paper and under the watchful eye of foreign troops, but which are in reality partitioned into Greek and Turkish self-governing sectors in the case of Cyprus and Croat, Muslim and Serb enclaves in Bosnia’s case. This is why such an immense and sophisticated political-science literature has developed, devoted to the preservation of multi-ethnic states encompassing mutually hostile populations. Entire library shelves are now dedicated to theses on constitutional architecture designed to facilitate consociational forms of power sharing, coalition building, communal representation and ethnic-conflict management, and other forms of limited self-government, and to providing us with an immense array of theoretical models of confederations, assymetrical federations and federacies, as well as more minimal forms of political devolution such as cantonization; cultural, functional or territorial autonomy; special legislative representation; and administrative decentralization and subsidiarity within larger jurisdictions.10 The notion that states based on a common ethnicity, language and religion – in previous eras the very sine qua non of statehood – are now somehow illegitimate and incompatible with democracy, a view now fashionable among Western proponents of multiculturalism and civil society, is an easy attitude to adopt in ‘new world’ settler states such as Australia, Canada and the United States. These

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are recently formed societies based on immigration, which have never been a territorial ‘homeland’ to any of its citizens (save for the defeated and marginalized native peoples); they are ‘creolized’, so-called ‘melting pots’ or ‘mosaics’. Most of the world, however, remains land claimed as a ‘homeland’ by one or another distinct, discrete and exclusionary group, be it ethnic, religious, or otherwise defined and based on demography, geography, history, myth or some combination of these. This is certainly true for the case studies in this volume. In such situations, ethnic diversity is combined with historical grievances and territorial claims in such a fashion that it becomes a ‘zero-sum game’: the victory of one usually entails the defeat of the other. Think of Kashmir, a bone of contention between Muslim Pakistan and Hindu India that has sparked three major wars and numerous border clashes; Sri Lanka, where civil war has raged between Buddhist Sinhalese and Hindu Tamils; the Punjab, claimed by an ethno-religious group, the Sikhs, as a homeland they call Khalistan; Tibet, where an indigenous Buddhist population has suffered under the thumb of the Communist Chinese; Guyana and Trinidad, where the descendants of African slaves and South Asian migrants live in an uneasy, and sometimes volatile, political co-existence, both claiming the prerogative of defining the very symbols of statehood and the right to govern; Malaysia, a society riven by tension between the native Muslim Malays and the Confucian Chinese who settled there in the nineteenth century; and even far-off Fiji, that ostensible South Pacific paradise, where three times in the past 17 years indigenous Melanesian Fijians attempted to stave off a political takeover by an immigrantorigin Indian community by staging a military coup. The list can go on and on – Africa is a veritable crazy-quilt of thousands of ethnic tribes, and the states they inhabit are mere lines on a map, corresponding to no national divisions: the results invariably lead to conflict and have included genocide in Rwanda, interminable warfare in Angola, anarchy in Sierra Leone and maltreatment of national groups like the Igbo in Nigeria, who tried unsuccessfully to form their own nation, Biafra, 37 years ago. Nor are wealthy, developed, democracies immune – the Scots and Welsh in the United Kingdom, the Basques in Spain, the Flemings and Walloons in Belgium, the Québécois in Canada all seek increased recognition as nations with a right to self-determination. All of these battles may be encapsulated by the slogan ‘Whose country is it anyway?’ Who is to adjudicate between these nations and peoples? They are not just ‘human beings’ in the abstract. Failure to recognize this is a major blind spot in much of the current discourse on nationalism.

A ray of hope? Of course this post-Westphalian creed cuts both ways: while it remains suspicious of attempts by non-state groups to secede from established polities, it is also less committed to the sanctity of sovereignty and territorial inviolability. ‘Are not international organisations, in the name of human and minority rights and under the impact of widespread ethnic nationalism, eroding the sovereign powers of individual states?’ asks Anthony Smith?11 Malcolm Waters has argued that globalization weakens the nexus between nation and state; it also fosters the view that all ethnic identities, not just those that

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managed to establish states in the nineteenth century, are legitimate. Waters thus advocates the possibility of ‘releasing absorbed ethnic minorities and allowing the reconstitution of nations across former state boundaries’.12 Moore, too, maintains that ‘there is strong evidence that in fact the global economy will facilitate the emergence of new nationalism, because in this context minority nationalism is more viable’.13 For Montserrat Guibernau, the proliferation of supranational institutions and multinational corporations is undermining the traditional role of the state in the economic sphere, and creating demands for self-determination in new ‘nations without states’.14 Economic globalization will in any event further hasten ethnic separatism in many cases, states Graham Fuller, as it will produce economic winners and losers within states. ‘When the fault line . . . occurs along ethnic lines, it will heighten the incentive for minorities to opt out of a state that is . . . failing them.’15 Geert Van Cleemput agrees that, instead of forcing peoples to bury or repress their ethnic concerns, the solution to ethnic strife within larger states is ‘to give every people independence from others. If that would create many more countries than exist now, so be it’.16 Hans-Hermann Hoppe would welcome such a development; he advocates a greater degree of decentralization, involving the dismemberment of large states and a proliferation of political units, all of them integrated within the global economy.17 Pierre van den Berghe, too, advocates the creation of ‘ethnic micro-states’ subsumed in a globalized world of free trade. ‘If we must suffer states, let them be small and weak’, he writes.18 Even Arend Lijphart has conceded that in cases where consociationalism has been tried and failed, ‘dividing the state into two or more separate and more homogenous states’ is the only viable alternative.19 Are these a few isolated voices, ahead of their time, or a harbinger of theoretical things to come? Perhaps there is some hope that most of the de facto states we have introduced in this volume may yet achieve that most desirable of objectives – recognition by the international community. Such formal acceptance would certainly go a long way in determining the durability of statehood and in shaping the geopolitical realities of statehood in the contest between self-determination and territorial integrity.

Notes 1 A. Heraclides, ‘Ethnicity, Secessionist Conflict and the International Society: Towards Normative Paradigm Shift’, Nations and Nationalism, 3, 4 (1997), pp. 493, 500–03. 2 J. McGarry and B. O’Leary, ‘Introduction: The Macro-Political Regulation of Ethnic Conflict’, in J. McGarry and B. O’Leary (eds), The Politics of Ethnic Conflict Regulation: Case Studies of Protracted Ethnic Conflicts (London: Routledge, 1993), p. 15. 3 R. Stavenhagen, Ethnic Conflicts and the Nation-State (London: Macmillan, 1996), p. 301. 4 M. Hechter, Containing Nationalism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), p. 115. 5 D. Miller, On Nationality (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), pp. 11, 188. 6 M. Moore, The Ethics of Nationalism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), p. 193. 7 B. Walker, ‘Modernity and Cultural Vulnerability: Should Ethnicity be Privileged?’, in R. Beiner (ed.), Theorizing Nationalism (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1999), p. 156. 8 S. Talbot, Interview on the CBS-TV programme, ‘Face the Nation’, New York, 11 April 1999.

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9 V. Havel, ‘Kosovo and the End of the Nation-State’, New York Review of Books, 10 June 1999, p. 6. 10 Their number is endless; a typical, recently published example of the genre is A. Reynolds (ed.), The Architecture of Democracy: Constitutional Design, Conflict Management and Democracy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002). 11 A. Smith, Nationalism and Modernism (London: Routledge, 1998), p. 79. 12 M. Waters, Globalization (London: Routledge, 1995), pp. 136, 139. 13 See Moore, The Ethics of Nationalism, p. 234. 14 M. Guibernau, Nations without States: Political Communities in a Global Age (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1999), pp. 16–17, 107. 15 G. Fuller, ‘Redrawing the World’s Borders’, World Policy Journal, 14, 1 (1997), p. 15. 16 G. Van Cleemput, ‘Clarifying Nationalism, Chauvinism and Ethnic Imperialism’, International Journal on World Peace, 12, 1 (1995), p. 72. 17 H. Hoppe, ‘Small is Beautiful and Efficient: The Case for Secession’, Telos, 107 (1996), pp. 98–101. 18 P. van den Berghe, ‘Denationalizing the State’, Society, 33, 2 (1996), pp. 66–8. 19 A. Lijphart, Democracy in Plural Societies: A Comparative Exploration (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1977), pp. 44–5.

References Fuller, G., ‘Redrawing the World’s Borders’, World Policy Journal, 14, 1 (1997), pp. 11–21. Guibernau, M., Nations without States: Political Communities in a Global Age (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1999). Havel, V., ‘Kosovo and the End of the Nation-State’, New York Review of Books, 10 June 1999, pp. 4–6. Hechter, M., Containing Nationalism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000). Heraclides, A., ‘Ethnicity, Secessionist Conflict and the International Society: Towards Normative Paradigm Shift’, Nations and Nationalism, 3, 4 (1997), pp. 493–520. Hoppe, H., ‘Small is Beautiful and Efficient: The Case for Secession’, Telos, 107 (1996), pp. 95–101. Lijphart, A., Democracy in Plural Societies: A Comparative Exploration (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1977). McGarry, J. and O’Leary, B., ‘Introduction: The Macro-Political Regulation of Ethnic Conflict’, in J. McGarry and B. O’Leary (eds), The Politics of Ethnic Conflict Regulation: Case Studies of Protracted Ethnic Conflicts (London: Routledge, 1993), pp. 1–40. Miller, D., On Nationality (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995). Moore, M., The Ethics of Nationalism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). Reynolds, A. (ed.), The Architecture of Democracy: Constitutional Design, Conflict Management and Democracy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002). Smith, A., Nationalism and Modernism (London: Routledge, 1998). Stavenhagen, R., Ethnic Conflicts and the Nation-State (London: Macmillan, 1996). Talbot, S., Interview on the CBS-TV programme ‘Face the Nation’, New York, 11 April 1999. Van Cleemput, G., ‘Clarifying Nationalism, Chauvinism and Ethnic Imperialism’, International Journal on World Peace, 12, 1 (1995), pp. 59–77. van den Berghe, P., ‘Denationalizing the State’, Society, 33, 2 (1996), pp. 64–8. Walker, B., ‘Modernity and Cultural Vulnerability: Should Ethnicity be Privileged?’ in R. Beiner (ed.), Theorizing Nationalism (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1999), pp. 141–65. Waters, M., Globalization (London: Routledge, 1995).

Index

11 September x Abdelaziz, Mohammad 28 Abdulgani, Garaad 219 Abkhazia i, xvii, 12, 21, 143–63, 250; Abkhazians 1; Armenians 145; ceasefire 149, 150, 151; constitution 150, 152, 155; de facto state 143–4, 153, 156–9; ‘de jure’ state 153; diplomatic recognition 152; economy 144, 154, 155; elections 155, 156; embargo 154; ethnic Abkhazians 145, 250; exile 144; forces 250; genocide 159; Georgian–Abkhazian dispute 144; Georgian–Abkhazian post-war relations 147–54; Georgian invasion 145, 148, 155; ‘Georgianization-drive’ 145; Georgian language 146; Georgians 5, 143, 145, 146, 147, 250; government 145, 148, 153; history 144–6; independence 149, 152, 155, 156, 249; international community recognition 155, 156, 250; international law 153; international organization 153; isolation 154; language 145, 146; legitimacy 17; minority 143; nation 144; national assembly 143; natural resources 155; passports 151; political and economic prospects 154–6; princedom 144; recognition 159; referendum 152, 155; refugees 150; Russia 144, 153, 155, 159, 250; Russian Federation membership 153; Russians 145, 147; Russian support 149; secession 146; self-determination 144, 250; six-day war 151; sovereignty 155, 156; State Independence Act 155; state symbols 150; status 143, 145, 158; terrorism 153; tourism 154, 155; tsarist

policy 145; Turkey 144, 155, 250; United Nations 153; war with Georgia 144, 148, 154; see also Georgia Abkhazian People’s Council 144 Abkhazian Soviet Socialist Republic (SSR) 143 Abkhazia State University 146 Abkhazskij Narodnyj Soviet (ANS) 144 Abkhaz Supreme Soviet 147 Act of Union (Somalia) 212, 214 Addis Ababa 213 Adeishvili, Merab 154 Afghanistan 129, 170, 200 African states 14, 16, 210, 216, 217, 220, 249; see also Western Sahara, sub-Saharan Africa Akhmadov, Ilyas 136 Albania 78, 80, 81, 82, 83, 87, 91, 93, 94; see also Kosovo Al-Fatah 195, 196 Algeria 221 alien state 7, 14 Ali, Hussein Ibn 191 Alliance of Independent Social Democrats (SNSD or Stranka Nezavisnih Socijaldemokrata, Republika Srpska) 47 Alliance for Security and Democracy (ASAD) (Somaliland) 216 American Consul General in Jerusalem 193 Amin, Haj al- 204 Amnesty International 239, 240 Andorra 19 Angola 5, 254 Ankara 24, 166, 168, 170, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181 Annan, Kofi 152, 177, 178, 219, 220 ‘Annan Plan’ xi, 177

258

Index

Anti-Fascist Council of the National Liberation of Yugoslavia – Antifaˇsistiˇso ve´ce narodnog oslobodjenja Jugoslavije (AVNOJ) 81 April Tragedy (Abkhazia) 143 Apter’s familiar elucidation of legitimacy 16 Aqaba Summit (2003) 29, 30 Arab–Israeli war 194, 196, 197 Arab World 190, 191, 192, 194, 195, 196, 198, 202; see also Palestine Arafat, Yasser 187, 189, 195, 196, 201, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206, 248 Ardzinba, Vladislav 147, 150, 152, 155, 156 Aslakhanov, Aslambek 132 Assembly of Kosovo 77 Atamaniuk, Vladimir 110 Athens 166 Australia 233, 234, 242, 243, 252, 253 Austro-Hungarian Empire 26, 39, 79 Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic of Chechnya 118; see also Chechnya autonomy 1, 224, 253 Avturkhanov, Umar 125 Axworthy, Lloyd 22 Azerbaijan 21, 128, 170, 172, 183, 248, 250 Badinter Commission ix Balfour Declaration of 1917 190–1 Balfour, Lord 190 Balkans 29, 77, 78, 79, 82, 85, 90, 172 Baltic states 13, 23, 24, 121, 128 Bangladesh ix, 16, 23, 171, 233, 246 Bantustans (South Africa) 24 Barre, Mohammed Siad 213, 214, 217, 218, 220 Basayev, Shamil 130 Begin, Menachem 200 Belarus 150 Belgrade 22, 33, 36, 37, 52, 56, 58, 59, 60, 62, 64, 67, 69, 74, 75, 78, 80, 82, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 91, 92, 95, 247 ‘Belgrade Agreement’ (2002) 65, 66, 67, 68, 69 Bender (Transnistria) 107, 109, 110 Berbers 210 Beria, Lavrenti 145 Bessarabia 103; autonomy 102; ethnic Moldovans 103, 104, 106; ethnic Romanians 104; Romania 104; Russian annexation 103; selfdetermination 103, 104; see also

Independent Moldovan Democratic Republic of Bessarabia, Moldova Bevin, Ernest 191 Biafra 7, 23, 254 ‘Black Sunday’ (Abkhazia) 147 Bodin, Jean 57, 75, 76, 77, 94 Bojovic, Bozidar 56 Bolsheviks 120 Borama National Reconciliation Conference 215 Bosnia-Herzegovina 2, 23, 33, 34, 37, 39, 40, 41, 42, 47, 78, 82, 175, 225, 245, 250, 253; autonomy 44, 46; Bosnian Serb independence 40; Bosnian Serb leadership 34, 37, 38, 41; Bosnian war 34; Communist party 35; Constitution 44; Croats 35, 40, 253; declaration of independence 34, 35; entities 44; ethnic cleansing 86; ethnic groups 35; independence 34, 35, 39, 41; institutions 46; integration 43, 47; international community 35, 37, 44, 251; Muslim–Croat offensive 41; Muslims 34, 35, 40, 41, 82, 253; nationalist 45; parliamentary elections 35, 44; presidency 35, 43; recognition 35; referendum 35, 41; refugees 45; reunification 43; separation 43; Serbs 35, 36, 39, 40, 41, 43–4, 253; sovereignty 35, 41; status 46; war 34–5, 38; see also Serbian Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina Bosnian Serb Army (VRS) 36, 37, 41 Bosnian Serb party, Srpska Demokratska Stranka (SDS) 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 45; black market 41; Bosnian Serb Assembly 41, 44; leadership 34; officials 41 Bosnian Territorial Defence 35 Bougainville i, x, xxi, 2, 27, 232–44, 250; aid 239; alienation 235; autonomy 232, 233–9, 242; Bougainville–PNG relations 242; central government 236, 237, 238, 240; civil war 232, 237, 243; colonialism 234, 235; consciousness 236; copper 232, 233, 234, 252; ‘Council of Elders’ 240; decolonization 241; demilitarization 232; diplomatic recognition 239; economy 234; elections 242; embargo 239; ethnonationalism 236, 237, 252; ethnopolitical movement 234; gold 233, 234; independence 232, 233, 235, 236, 237, 239, 242, 252; international

Index community 240–1; internationalization of the conflict 239–40; international recognition 233; international support 243; islanders 21; landowners 234, 236, 238, 239; leadership 235, 236, 237, 239, 241, 242; legitimacy 17; Melanesian institutions 241; migration 235, 237; mine 234, 235, 237, 238, 240; minority 234; missionaries 235; mobilization 236; Papua New Guinea 232, 252; Papuans 5; paramilitary forces 240; parliament 237; peace agreement 242; PNG government 232, 236, 252; provincial government 236, 237, 242, 243; rebels 240; referendum 232, 242, 243; refugees 232; secession 232, 233, 235, 236, 243; selfdetermination 233, 234, 241; selfgovernment 235, 240; separate statehood 234; separation 234; separatists 240, 241; Solomon Islands 234, 252; Somare Government 237; sovereignty 232, 233; status 232, 240, 241, 242; structure 236; United Nations 232, 235, 239; unity 235; see also Papua New Guinea (PNG), Solomon Islands Bougainville Copper Ltd 233, 235, 236, 237, 238 ‘Bougainville Development Package’ 239 Bougainville People’s Congress 242 Bougainville Revolutionary Army (BRA) 232, 238, 239, 240, 241, 242, 243 Brezhnev, Leonid 146 Britain see United Kingdom British High Commission in Egypt 191 British Somaliland Protectorate 3, 212, 214, 225, 226, 249; see also Somalia, Somaliland Broek, Hans van den 176 Brussels 25, 60, 176, 177, 178, 183; see also European Union Buin (Bougainville) 235 Buka (Bougainville) 235, 240 ‘Buka Liberation Front’ (Bougainville) 240, 241 Bukovina 104 Bulatovi´c, Momir 55, 58 Bulatovi´c, Predrag 55, 56 Bulgaria 79, 81, 82 “Bureau of Population Exchange” 41 Burnham Declaration (Bougainville) 232, 241–2, 243 Bush, George W. 7, 13 Byzantine Empire 144

259

Camp David Accords 200 Canada ix, xi, 6, 22, 25, 188, 189, 252, 253 Carter, Jimmy 199, 200 Catherine the Great 119 ‘Caucasian War’ 119 Caucasus i, 21, 144, 172 Çeku, Agim 89 Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) 143 Chan, Julius 238, 240 Chechen Communist Party 125, 128 Chechen–Ingush autonomous Soviet Socialist republic 120, 121, 122 Chechen National Congress 122 Chechen National Guard 122, 124 Chechen National Security Service 129 ‘Chechen Provisional Council’ 125, 126 Chechnya i, xvi, 2, 118–42, 148, 246–7; aid 128, 129, 150; Bolsheviks 120; Brezhnevite state 121; ceasefire (1996) 102; Chechen High Contracting Parties 21; Chechenization 123; Chechens 1, 27, 247; Chechen separatists x, 134, 135, 136; conditions 123; confederation with Russia 102; conflict 118; constitution 135; de facto independence 122, 134; deportation 120, 121, 133; diaspora 128, 132, 133, 134; diplomatic recognition 123; Dudayev regime 122–3, 125, 126; economy 123, 124, 128, 129, 132, 133; elections 122, 127, 134, 135; ethnic Russians 121, 123; fighters 246; first Chechen war 126, 127, 134, 136; governance 134; government 126, 128, 132, 246; humanitarian aid 128; independence 1, 2, 118, 119, 120, 121, 123, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 132, 136, 137, 246, 247; international community 123, 136; international recognition 128; Islamic insurgents 17, 118; leadership 127, 247; legitimacy 17; martial law 134; military invasion 121, 126, 127; national army 128; National Guard 122; nationalist movement 122; parliament 124, 129, 130; political relations 128–9; poverty 123; pro-independence forces 118; rebels 130, 135, 152; recognition 134, 250; reconstruction 132, 133, 136; referendum 124, 134, 135, 136, 137; reintegration into Russia 118, 123, 131, 132, 136, 247; relations with

260

Index

Chechnya (Continued) Moscow 129; relations with Russia 130; ‘renegade republic of Chechnya’ 125; Russian cleansing operation 134, 135; Russian military 126, 127, 131, 132, 133, 135; Russian occupation 119, 126, 127, 129, 130, 131, 134; Russian officials 118, 132, 136; Russians 5, 21, 121, 124; second Chechen war 127, 130–1, 132; self-determination 119; self-government 126; social segregation 121; society 119, 120, 123, 126, 127, 136; sovereignty 21, 127, 128, 134, 247; ‘sovereignty and independence’ 125, 137; state building 123, 127–30; ‘state sovereignty’ 122, 123; status 21, 102, 127, 132; terrorism 130, 132, 135, 136; UN membership 128; UN-protected state 136, 137; war 21, 102; war-crimes tribunal 136; see also Russia Chernomyrdin, Viktor 113, 126 Chisinau 107, 108, 109, 111, 113, 250 Christian Democratic Party of Serbia (DHSS) 67 Christian Democratic Popular Front (FPCD) 109, 110, 111 Ciller, Tansu 179 ‘cleft states’ 4 Clinton, Bill 96, 175, 188, 219 Cold War 6, 12, 172, 183 Colonialism 4, 7, 16, 20 Commonwealth 18, 170 Commonwealth Caribbean 22 Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS) 150, 151 Commonwealth of Independent States peacekeeping forces (CISPKF) 150, 151, 152 Communal Liberation Party (TKP) (TRNC) 181 Congo see Democratic Republic of Congo Congress of Berlin (1878) 39 Constitutional Planning Committee (CPC) (Papua New Guinea) 236 Cook Islands 240 Coordinating Centre for Kosovo and Metohija 89 Costas, Ion 110 Council of the Arab League 194 Council of Europe 66 Council of Foreign Relations 206 ˇ c, Nebojˇsa 89 Covi´ Croat HDZ (Croat Democratic Union of Bosnia-Herzegovina) 35, 45

Croatia x, 13, 33, 36, 37, 82; Croatian army 40; ethnic cleansing 86; European Community 34; independence 34, 85; nationalism 63; secession from Yugoslavia 23; Serbs 29; war 34, 85 Croatian Military Frontier “Vojna Krajina” 79 Cuellar, Xavier Perez de 171, 172 Cuza, Alexandru Ioan 103 Cyprus see Republic of Cyprus Czechoslovakia ix, 7, 8, 12, 23, 253 Dagestan 21, 129, 130, 247 Darood (Somaliland) 212, 213, 214, 215, 218, 219; see also Majerteen, Warsangale Dayton Peace Accords (DPA) xi, 2, 32, 37, 41–6, 86, 175; American Action 46; Croats 46; implementation 44–6; international arbitration 43; military 46; Serbs 46 ‘Declaration of Principles for Palestinian Interim Self-Government’ 202 decolonization i, x, 17, 19, 20, 21, 27, 28, 30, 158, 246 de facto states i, x, xi, 21, 23, 156, 157, 173, 248; governance 156; international order ix; players 8; recognition 156; Republica Srpska 33; sovereign statehood 157; Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus 33 ‘de jure states’ x Demaqi, Adem 86 Democratic League of Moldovan Students 106 ‘Democratic List for European Montenegro’ 54 Democratic Movement in Support of Restructuring (Moldova) 105, 106 Democratic Party of Kosovo 90 Democratic Party of Socialists (DPS) (Montenegro) 52, 54, 56, 57, 58, 62, 63, 64, 67, 68 Democratic Republic of Congo 5, 14, 16, 20 Democratic Republic of Georgia 144 Denikin, General Anton Ivanovich 120 Denktash, Rauf 169, 170, 171, 172, 173, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182 Denktash, Serdar 181, 182 Denmark 20 diasporic communities 6 Dinki´c, Mladjan 67 Dir (Somaliland) 214, 215, 218

Index Djergenia 153 Djibouti 220, 221; see also French Somaliland Djindi´c, Zoran 61, 67, 88 Djukanovic, Milo 22, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 61, 62, 63, 65, 68 Draˇskovi´c, Vuk 61 Duale, Abdillahi Mohamed 219 Dubasari 107, 109 Dudayev, Dzhokar 121, 122, 123, 125; Chechen National Congress 122; death 127; demonization of Russia and Russians 125; impeachment 124; leadership 125; opposition 124, 125, 126; regime 124; Revolution 122 Dulbahante (Somaliland) 214, 215, 218, 219 Duma 112, 130 Duˇsan, Emperor Stefan 78 East Timor ix, 7, 12, 20, 136, 219 Ecevit, Bulent 178 Ecological Movement (Moldova) 106 economic development 5, 6, 7, 29 economic growth see economic development Egal, Mohamed Ibrahim 212, 213, 215, 216, 217, 219, 220, 221, 222, 225 Egypt 193, 194, 195, 196, 198, 200, 203, 224 Egyptian–Israeli Peace Treaty 199, 200 Endeavor Accord (Bougainville) 235 Erdogan, Tayyip 178, 179 Eritrea ix, 7, 8, 13, 221, 249 Essa, Ania Abdulla 219 Ethiopia 7, 8, 13, 210, 213, 214, 220, 221, 222, 224, 233 ethnic cleansing 2, 41, 86 European Community 34; see also European Union European Court of Human Rights (ECHR) 179, 180 European Court of Justice 174 European dependencies 8, 246 European imperialism 8 European maritime powers 7, 17, 21, 246 European Parliament 179 European Union (EU) x, 13, 25, 29, 58, 64, 65, 91, 94, 164, 165, 174, 176, 177, 178, 181, 223; acquis communitaire 177; Copenhagen summit 176, 178, 182, 184; European Community’s London Declaration 200; European Community’s Venice Declaration 200;

261

Helsinki summit 176, 184; legislation 176; officials 176, 177; states 177, 179 Evren, Kenan 171 Fadl, Muhammad Usman 221 Faeroe Islands 20 ‘Fagadeh’ Mohamed Salah Nur 219 ‘Farah,’ Abdirahman Aw Ali 215, 216, 217, 219 Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY) 44, 52, 55, 56, 58, 64, 77, 82, 86, 88; Albanian separatism 93; authorities 57; border with Macedonia 91; constitution 56, 60, 61, 62, 68; dissatisfaction 67; government 89; illegitimacy 88; legitimacy 61; sovereignty 44, 93; war of succession 13, 33 Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina 43; see also Bosnia-Herzegovina Fiji 2 First World War 80, 91, 92, 103, 104, 157, 158, 190, 192 former Yugoslav republics 13, 22, 23; recognition 13; secession 13; see also Bosnia-Herzegovina, Croatia, Kosovo, Macedonia, Montenegro, Serbia, Slovenia France 188, 191, 195, 219, 221 Free Georgia Round Table coalition 147 French Somaliland 210 French Sudan 225 Gabon 19 Gadaburse (Somaliland) 215, 216, 219 Gagauzia 102, 115; independence 102; leadership 102; separatist movement 108 Gambia 225, 249 Gamsakhurdia, Zviad 147, 148, 150, 151 Garhaji (Somaliland) 217 Gaza 187, 188, 194, 200, 205, 206, 207, 219, 248, 249 General Assembly Resolutions 1514 and 1541 (1960) 13 General Syrian Congress 191 ‘Geneva Peace Conference’ (1973) 199 Georgia 21, 143–63, 245; assembly 147; ceasefire 150, 151; defeat 150; disorder 154; economy 154; election 147; Georgian–Abkhazian post-war relations 149–54; Georgian armed forces 150; Georgian Communist Party 145; Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic 146, 150, 158; Georgian Supreme

262

Index

Georgia (Continued) Soviet 147; government 150, 151; guerillas 151, 152; independence 143, 146, 147, 148, 152, 158, 159, 249; international community 159; legislature 147; nation 147; National Guard 148; nationalistic militia 148; NATO 152; occupation 146; opposition 148; parliament 153; referendum 147; refugees 151; Russia 153; Russian–Georgian relations 154; secession 146, 147; security treaty 150; separatist movement 250; South Ossentia 154; sovereignty 146, 147, 153; statehood 159; union with USSR 147, 159; war with Abkhazia 143, 148, 153, 154; see also Soviet Republic of Georgia Germany 7, 79, 81, 104 Gorbachev, Mikhail 7, 13, 23, 105, 106, 122, 143, 147, 148 ‘Grand Conference of the Northern Peoples’ (Somaliland) 214 Great Britain see United Kingdom Greece 25, 79, 165, 166, 169, 172, 175, 176, 177, 179 Greek Cypriots 25, 164, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172, 174, 176, 177, 178, 179, 181, 182, 248; administration 181; authorities 174, 176, 182; embargo 174; enterprises 174; forces 167; government 170, 173, 174, 175, 176; integration 182; leadership 164, 165, 166, 167, 169, 178, 181, 182; majority 165, 176; nationalists 165; officials 166, 170; position 178; refugees 179, 180; representation 170; reunification 175; settlement 177; territory 172; zone 177 Grozny 121, 123, 124, 125, 126, 128, 129, 131, 134, 148, 246 Guelleh, Ismael Omar 220 Guinea-Bissau 16 Gulf War 172, 202, 204 Guyana 2 Habar Gedir (Somaliland) 220 Habar Tol Jaalo clan (Somaliland) 212, 217 Habar Yunis (Somaliland) 212, 214, 215 Habsburg Empire 39, 79 Haekkerup, Hans 90 Hague (The) 46, 90 Hamas 203, 205

Hannett, Momis 235, 236, 239 Haram as-Sharif 188 Hassan, Abdiqassim Salad 220 Hassan, King 28 Haud (Somaliland) 213 Hawiye (Somaliland) 212, 220 Hobbes, Thomas 57, 76, 94, 95; Hobbesian premises 93; Hobbesian ‘realism’ 75, 247 Honiara Declaration (Bougainville) 239, 240 Horn of Africa 27, 30, 210, 220, 222, 224 Hoxha, Enver 81 human rights violations 21, 241, 243, 253 Hungary 80 Husseini, Haj Amin al- 192 Hussein, King 197, 201 Hussein, Saddam 202, 207 Hutneja Record (Bougainville) 242 Iakolev, Gennadi 108 Iceland 19 identity 2, 4, 13; cultural 2; ethnic 3; linguistic 2, 4; national 2, 60, 224, 246; religious 2, 4, 60; tribal 4 Iise Muse (Somaliland) 212, 218 Ilascu, Ilie 114 Il’yasov, Stanislav 133 Independent Moldovan Democratic Republic of Bessarabia 103; see also Bessarabia, Moldova India 4, 21, 254 Indonesia 8, 20, 21 Ingushetia 120, 131 Inter-Entity Boundary Line (IEBL) 43, 45 international community 6, 8, 12, 21, 23, 24, 27, 30, 47, 52, 88, 89, 92, 157, 158, 189, 190, 255; Bosnia 44, 47; Bosnian Croats 46; Chechnya 123, 136; claims in 16; Cyprus 164, 165, 183, 184; diplomatic consensus 14; distrust 46; Kosovo 91; recognition 14, 111, 157; self-determination 24; Serb National Assembly 47; Somaliland 216, 217, 219–21, 223, 226; statehood 27; Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus 26 International Criminal Tribunal see International Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia, Hague Internationalist Movement for Unity (Edinstvo) (Moldova) 106

Index international law 7, 18, 21, 34, 74, 91, 93, 94, 123, 189, 191 International Monetary Fund (IMF) 157, 219, 222 international order ix, x, 14, 75 international organizations 15, 47, 136, 149, 239, 240, 252, 254 international system x, 1, 6, 8, 13, 233, 246, 249, 251; decolonization 26; diplomatic acceptance 28; inclusiveness 14; legitimacy 17; membership 12, 15; microstates 20; post-Second World War 27; recognition 20; sovereignty 15; universality 14 International Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia 46, 88 Intifada 187, 188, 201, 205, 249 Ioannidis, Dimitrios 167 Ionescu, Daniel 108 Ioseliani, Jaba 148 Iran 170, 207 Iraq 16, 191, 193, 199, 202, 207, 246 Ireland 2–3 Isaaq (Somaliland) 212, 213, 214, 215, 217, 218, 224, 225 Islam 119, 129, 192, 210, 211; Islamic forces 59; Islamic insurgents 17; Islamic states 27; Sharia law 129, 130; Supreme Sharia Court 130; terrorism 118, 135, 136 Israel 6, 29, 188, 192, 194, 196, 197, 198, 200, 201, 203, 205, 207, 247, 249; decision-making 206; Egypt 198; Iraq 202; leadership 188; Lebanon 200; legitimacy 205; military 188; ‘national home’ for Jewish people 190; negotiators 187; occupation 196, 201; Palestinian forces 202; recognition 196; ‘right to exist’ 199, 201; rivalry 187; troops 201 Istanbul Declaration (1999) 114 Istiqlal (Palestine) 192 Italian Somaliland 211, 212, 225; see also Somalia, Somaliland Italy 79, 81, 219, 220 Izetbegovi´c, Alija 35 Jama, Musse Jama 219 Jashari, Kaqusha 85 Jerusalem 194, 203, 206, 248 Jirde, Abdul Qadir 223 Johnson, Lyndon 196, 197, 198 Joint Control Committee ( JCC) 110, 113

263

Jordan 128, 194, 196, 197, 198, 200, 201, 202 Justice and Development Party (AK) (Turkey) 178, 181, 183 Justice and Welfare Party (UCID) (Somaliland) 216, 217 Kabui, Joseph 242, 243 kaçak (guerilla) 80, 87 Kadyrov, Akhmed 132, 133, 134, 136 Kahin, Dahir Riyale 216, 217, 219 Karadˇzi´c, Radovan 35, 37, 43, 44, 251 Kashmir 3, 254 Kasoulides, Ioannis 173 Kayd, Hassan 213 Kazakhstan 121, 145 Kemalism 192 Kenya 210 Khartoum Declaration 196 Khasavyurt Accord (Chechnya) 127 Khasbulatov, Ruslan 136 Khattab, Emil 129 Kieta (Bougainville) 235 Kiev Summit 113 Kissinger, Henry 198, 199 Kitovani, Tengiz 148 Koljevi´c, Nikola 35 Korak, Zarko 61 Koridze, Temur 147 Kosova Protection Force 89 Kosovo i, x, xiv, 2, 22, 23, 39, 59, 74–101, 129, 136, 247; Albania 82; Albanian Communist Party 82; Albanians 2, 22, 23, 34, 75, 77, 78, 80, 81, 82–3, 84, 85, 86, 88, 89, 90, 92, 93, 94, 247; Albanian separation 77; Albanian–Serb rivalry 74, 77, 78, 84; ‘Autonomous Province’ 83; ‘Autonomous Region’ 82, 83; autonomy 82, 83, 85, 92; bombing 46; buffer between Serbia 89; ‘colonization’ 80, 81; communists 81; constitution 82, 83, 85, 91; cultural recognition 83; Dayton Peace Accords 86–8; de facto independence 92; de facto social segregation 84; democracy 23; economic and social conditions 83; economic sovereignty 77; elections 90, 92; emigration 79; European Union 91; Euro zone 22; expulsion of Albanians 80; expulsion of Serbs 81; Great Migration [velika seoba] 79; human rights 85, 86, 88; independence 77, 80, 83, 85, 87, 89, 90, 92, 247; international community 91, 92;

264

Index

Kosovo (Continued) international military presence 88; Kosovar society 80; Kosovo Assembly 90, 92; Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA) 80, 83, 86, 87, 88, 89, 247; Kosovo Transitional Council 92; legitimacy 83; liberal democratic society 92; martial law 79; minority 80; Montenegrins 84; Muslims 38–9, 79, 82; national identity 85; NATO Campaign 47, 90; Ottoman 38, 39; out-migration 22; parliament 85, 86, 91; referendum 85, 247; refugees 86, 88; religious heritage 78; remittances 85; repression 82; ‘republic’ 82, 83, 85; return to Yugoslavia 90; right to secede 83; secession 86; self-determination 74, 80, 83, 86, 247; self-governance 90; separation 23; separatist organizations 83, 86; Serb–Albanian relations 83; Serbian army 80, 85, 88; Serbian Authorities 83; Serbian claims to territory 79; Serbian extremists 90; Serbian government 77, 80, 81; Serbian hegemony 81; Serbian land 93; Serbian monarchy 81; Serbian police 86; Serbian sovereignty 92, 94; Serbs 2, 5, 22, 23, 38–9, 80, 83, 84, 86, 94; shadow state 85; sovereignty 75, 77, 78, 82, 85, 86, 88, 90, 91, 92, 94; statehood 247; territorial integrity 247; UN administration 86, 91; unite with Albania 83; warfare 253; Yugoslavia 74; see also Serbia Koˇstunica, Vojislav 62, 64, 67, 89 Kovalev, Sergei 21 Kozyrev, Andrei 108 Krajina 37, 39 Krajiˇsnik, Momˇcilo 46 Kuchma, Leonid 113 Kulmiye (Solidarity) Party for Unity and Development (Somaliland) 216, 217 Kurdish minority x, 67, 246 Kuwait 16, 202 Kyprianou, Spyros 171 Kyrgyzstan 172 Labus, Miroljub 67 Lak’oba, Nest’or 145 League of Arab states 194, 196 League of Communists of Montenegro 54, 55 League of Nations 18, 19, 190, 191 Lebanon 191, 197, 200, 201, 247

Lebed, Alexander 110, 126 legitimacy 3, 5, 12, 14, 15, 16, 29, 60, 94, 122, 158; legality 27; normative dimension 17; political 75; unrecognized states 16 Leon II King of Abkhazia 144 Liberal Alliance of Montenegro (LSCG) 55, 56, 62, 63, 67, 68 Liberal party (LSCG) ( Montenegro) 54 Liberia 5 Libya 199 Liechtenstein 18, 19 Limaj, Fatmir 92 Lincoln Agreement (Bougainville) 242 Lithuania 1, 2 Litski, Valeri 110 ‘Loloata Understanding’ (2002) 232, 242 Lortkpanidze, Vazha 149 Lucinschi, Petre 110, 112, 113 Lucinschi’s Agrarian Democratic Party (PDA) (Transnistria) 110, 111 Luxembourg 19 Lykhny Declaration (1989, Abkhazia) 143 Lytton Commission’s report (1932) 24 Macedonia 2, 16, 23, 80, 82 Machiavelli 94 McMahon, Sir Henry 191 Madrid Peace Conference (1991) 202, 204 Majerteen (Somaliland) 219 Makarios, Archbishop (Greek Cypriot president) 167, 169 Malaysia 4 Maldive Islands 19 Mali 225 Manchukuo 8, 24 Mansour, Sheik 119 Maracuta, Grigore 110, 112 Marjanovi´c, Mirko 87 Marx, Karl 245 Maskhadov, Aslan 126, 127, 128, 129, 130, 132, 135, 136, 247 Mauritania 19, 28 Mauritius 18 Mehmet, Ali Talat (TRNC) 181 Melanesia 232, 234 micro-states 17–21, 28, 255; Commonwealth 18; experience 28, 29; fairness and equity 18; General Assembly 18, 20; international acceptance 21, 29; international law 18; metropolitan centres 18; opposition 54; recognition 20, 29; security 18; self-determination 18; sovereignty 18;

Index statehood 18; United Nations 18, 19, 20; viability 18 Miloˇsevi´c, Slobodan 22, 35, 36, 37, 41, 52, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 61, 76, 84, 85, 88, 89, 90; allies 64; anti-Miloˇsevi´c demonstrations 58; fall 91; Federal Republic of Yugoslavia 65, 69; international community 88; Kosovo 74; nationalist mentality 89; regime 60, 77, 93; Social Party of Serbia 67; supporters 59, 61 minorities 2, 3, 5, 6, 158, 164, 246, 255; assimilation 2; displacement 2; national 29, 33, 34; rights 34 Mitrovica 89 Mkhedrioni (Georgia) 148, 151 Mogadishu (Somaliland) 212, 213, 214, 217, 220, 249 Moldova 2, 21, 102, 109, 250; ceasefire 109; civil war 109, 110; Communist Party 106, 107; conflict 105, 106, 108, 110, 115; consciousness 103; control over Transnistria 107; de facto state 102; democratization 105; domestic politics 109, 110, 111; economics 113; elections 110, 111, 114; elites 102, 103, 108; energy 113–14; ethnic Bulgarians 105, 106; ethnic Gagauzi 105; ethnicity 102; ethnic Moldovans 105, 146; ethnic Russians 105, 106; ethnic Ukrainians 105, 106; federalism 114; government 102, 110, 114; history 102–7; independence 108; intelligentsia 105; Kingdom of Romania 103; language 105, 106; leaders 106, 107, 114; military 109, 113; nationalism 106; paramilitary 108; paramilitary organizations 107; parliament 107; Popular Front 106, 107; population 102; relations with Transnistria 108; Romanianization 103; Russification 103, 105, 106; Soviet leadership 105; state 103; status 103; support for Moldova 109; see also Bessarabia, Moldovan Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic, Soviet Republic of Moldova, Transnistria Republic Moldovan Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic (MASSR) 104, 105 Moldovan central administration 115 Moldovan Communist Party (MCP) 114, 115 Molotov–Ribbentrop pact 23 Momis, Father John 235

265

Monaco 19 Montenegrin Orthodox Church 59, 60 Montenegro i, x, xiii, 22, 52–69, 79, 80, 82, 225, 251–2; Albanians 53, 56, 59, 62; Bosniak Muslims 62; constitution 68; Croats 53; currency 65, 66; de facto autonomy 68; de facto independence 56, 58, 60, 69, 251; ‘democratic Montenegro’ 64; diplomatic missions 22; disassociation with Yugoslavia 52, 56, 62, 251; economy 22, 66; ethnic minorities 56, 62, 63; European Union 52; foreign policy 60; formal secession 53; government 54, 61, 64; identity 68; independence 52, 53, 55, 56, 57, 59, 60, 62, 63, 64, 65, 68, 69, 252; independence movement 53; international community 65; international organizations 66; international sanctions 57; leaders 52, 64, 68; massacre of ethnic Albanians 88; monarchy 54; Muslims 53, 56, 59, 62, 63; nationalists 63; opponents 58; opposition 55, 62; parliament 52, 56, 59, 64, 69; parliamentary elections 54, 56, 57, 68; pro-Serbian nationalism 54; recognition 252; referendum 56, 57, 62, 63; refugees 54; separatism 54, 55, 63, 64, 65; Serbia 22, 52, 53, 55–6, 57, 61, 62, 63, 65, 68; Serbian occupation 59; Serb–Muslim border 62; Serbs 62, 63; sovereignty 52–3, 60, 67, 69, 251; statehood 61, 251; tourism 57; veto 65, 67; war against Bosnia 54; war against Croatia 54; Yugoslav Army 59; see also Serbia and Montenegro Moral Law 77 Morocco 28 Mosanu, Alexandru 107 Moscow ix, 21, 22, 105, 108, 113, 118, 122, 125, 128, 129, 130, 131, 135, 148, 154, 198, 247 ‘Moscow Agreement’ (1994) 150, 151 Muslim Bosniak Organization (MBO) 35 Nadareishvili, Tamaz 151 Nagorno-Kharabakh 2, 6, 21, 102, 183; see also Azerbaijan Nakhichevan 2 Namaliu, Rabbie 238, 239, 240 Nasser, Gamal Abdel 195, 197, 198 National Forum of Abkhazia (Ajdgylara) 143

266

Index

nationalism 4, 5, 93, 211, 224, 245, 252, 254 National Movement for the Liberation of Kosovo 86 National Peace Charter (Somaliland) 215 Nation United Front (NUF) (Somaliland) 212 NATO Stabilization Force (SFOR) 46 Natural Law 75, 76, 93, 94 Nauru 19 Netkachev, Iuri 109, 110 ‘New World Order’ 202 New Zealand 232, 239, 240, 241 Nigeria 4, 7, 8, 24, 254 Nixon, Richard 198 ‘Nokhchii’ 119; see also Chechnya North American Treaty Organisation (NATO) 46, 58, 59, 77, 88, 89, 90, 92, 94, 152, 251, 252 North Caucasian Republic 144 North Solomons Provincial Government (NSPG) 236 Norway 233 Odessa Summit (1990) 113 Office of the High Representative of the United Nations in Bosnia (OHR) 36, 44, 46–7 Ogaden War 213 Ona, Francis 238 ‘operation group of Russian forces’ (OGRF) 112 Organic Act (Bougainville) 237 Organization of African Unity (OAU) 7 Organization of the Islamic Conference and the Economic Co-operation Organization 170 Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) 45, 63, 66, 88, 92, 103, 111, 114; 1997 mission 112; Budapest summit in 1994; mission in Moldova 111; Permanent Council 113; principles of sovereignty 113 Organization of Unrepresented Peoples and Nations (UNPO) 123 Oslo Peace Process (1993) (Palestine) 187, 248 Osman, Aden Abdilla 212 Ottoman Empire 38, 54, 78, 92, 165, 190, 191 Pakistan 23, 170, 171, 246, 254 Pale (Bosnia-Herzegovina) 35, 36, 41, 251

Palestine i, x, xix, 2, 6, 8, 29, 137, 187–209, 219, 247, 248–9; accommodation with Israel 195; Arab–Isreali conflict 195, 196, 197; Arab–Israeli peace process 187, 200; Arab–Israeli question 195; Arab national consciousness 191; Arab nationalism 190, 192; Arabs 6, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 196; Authority 188, 189; autonomy 200; communal conflict 187, 194, 206; consensus 190; de facto state 187, 188–90, 203, 204, 207; de jure status 187; diaspora 205; diplomatic activity 188, 189; divisions 199; economy 192; elites 195; ethnicity 192; government 193, 205; guerrilla 197, 198; history 187, 190; identity 190, 192, 203; independence 191, 192, 194, 196, 197, 198, 199, 200; international community 189, 190; international law 189; Israeli–Palestinian conflict 137, 187, 193; Jewish immigration 192, 194; Jewish ‘national home’ 190, 191, 192, 193; Jewish settlements 203; Jewish state 191; leadership 192, 193, 205; Legislative Assembly 189; legitimacy 204; liberation 194, 205; Marxism 194; nation 248; national consciousness 201; national entity 203, 206; nationalism 195, 197, 198, 200, 203, 204; ‘non-Jewish community’ 190, 191; occupation 188, 201, 248; Palestinian–Israeli peace 188; particularism 204; partition into Arab and Jewish states 194; passport 188; political activism 196; political fate 190, 202, 206; population 191, 207; quasi-government 206; ‘Rebellion’ 193; recognition 205; refugees 194, 195, 196; regime 188; ‘Rejectionist Front’ 199; representatives 188, 189, 200; rivalry 187, 192, 194; ‘roadmap’ to peace 188, 248; self-determination 189, 190–203, 204, 205; sovereign state 189, 248; sovereignty 191, 193, 205; state 188, 189, 196, 206; state-building 205; statehood 187, 188, 207, 248; territorial integrity 195; Turks 6; United States 187, 194, 199, 248, 249; viability 187; Zionism 192, 193, 195, 204; see also Gaza, Israel, West Bank Palestinian Authority (PA) 203, 205, 206, 207, 248

Index Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO) 188, 196, 197, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202, 203, 204, 219, 248; leadership 202, 205; legitimacy 198; terrorism 201 Palestinian National Authority (PNA) 187, 188, 199 Palestinian National Council (PNC) 199 Palestinian National Movement 202, 203 Pan-Arabism 192, 194, 195, 196, 203, 204 Panguna Landowners Association (PLA) (Bougainville) 238 Pan-Islamism 192, 204 Pan-Syrianism 204 Papua New Guinea (PNG) x, 232–44, 245, 252; Australia 233; ‘Bougainville Crisis’ 238, 239; colonialism 233, 234; constitution 236, 237; decentralization 236, 237, 243; elections 241; exports 233; government 232, 234, 236, 238, 239, 240, 241, 242, 243; highlands 235, 236, 238; human rights violation 232, 239, 240, 241; independence 232, 233, 234; leadership 233; legitimacy 233; linguistic fragmentation 233; national development 240; nationhood 236; secession 232; self-determination 233; state 232, 236; treasury 235; United Nations 233; warfare 232; see also Bougainville Party for Democration Action (SDA) (Bosnia) 35, 45 Pastukhov, Boris 151 Paveli´c, Ante 39, 45 Pax Americana 199 Perovi´c, Branko 59 Perovi´c, Vesna 55 Peˇsic, Dragiˇsa 62 Peter the Great 119 Philippines 4 Plavˇsi´c, Biljana 39, 45 PNG Council of Churches 240 PNG Defence Force (PNGDF) 239, 240 Podgorica (Montenegro) 52, 53, 57, 58, 62, 64, 68, 69 Podujevo 87 Polisario guerilla force 28 Poplaˇsen, Nikola 45, 46 Portugal 16 Prague ix Presidium of the Supreme Soviet and Council of Ministers of the USSR 143 pretender states 8

267

Priˇstina 85, 87, 92 ‘Protocol on the Return of Refugees to the Gail Raion and Measures to Restore the Economy’ 151 ‘pseudo-states’ see would-be states Puskin, Alexander 114 Putin, Vladimir 114, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 136 Quadripartite Agreement on Voluntary Return of Refugees or Displaced Persons (Annex II) 150 ‘quasi-states’ see would-be states Quebec 25, 254 Rakcevi´c, Zarko 55 Rambouillet Accords 88, 247 Rankovi´c, Aleksandar 82 ˇ Raˇznjatovi´c, Zelkjo 87 Reagan, Ronald 200 recognition i, x, 1, 2, 7, 8, 12, 13, 14, 91, 158, 183, 224, 233, 248, 252–4, 255; contradictions 30; conventions 30; cultural 83; international status 24; legal acceptance 16; legal status 14, 15; policy and practice 17, 29; premature 16; sovereignty 41 Red Army 120 Republican Turkish Party (CTP) (TRNC) 181 Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina 43, 44; see also Bosnia-Herzegovina Republic of China (ROC) see Taiwan Republic of Cyprus x, 2, 4, 6, 8, 14, 25, 26, 164–86, 253; bi-zonal federation 169; British administration 165; Commonwealth 170; communal power-sharing 166, 171; confederation 172, 173; constitution 20, 166; decolonization 18; demographic engineering 168; departure of nonCypriot troops 169, 170; enosis 165, 166, 168; European Union 25, 175, 177, 178, 181, 182; federalism 169, 171, 172, 173; government 169; GreekCypriot control 169; Hellenic historic national identity 26, 165; independence 166, 176; intercommunal cooperation 166, 179; intercommunal warfare 167; international acceptance 168; international community 26, 184; international legal identity 26; joint government 172; leadership 167; legislation 167; minority–majority

268

Index

Republic of Cyprus (Continued) terms 164, 165, 176; parliament 166; recognition 172; representative government 165; resettlement program 168; reunification 165, 169, 171, 175, 176, 178, 181, 183; secession 183; security 169, 180, 182; selfdetermination 171; society 164; sovereignty 176; statehood 20, 170; Turkish–Greek relations 172, 175; Turkish settlers 168; United Nationspatrolled Green Line 175; United States 172; violence 166; see also Greek Cypriots, Turkish Cypriots, Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC) Republic of Mekaamui (Bougainville) 239 Republic of Serbia 87 Republic of Somaliland i, xx, 3, 23, 27, 210–31, 249; administration 214; aid 223; autonomy 218; civil war 214; clan identity 219; constitution 215, 216; Constitutional Commission 215; Council of Elders 215; Council of Elected Members 215; Council of Ministers 215; culture 218; currency 221; decentralization 218; democracy 217; democratic consolidation 216; diplomatic recognition 224; economy 215, 217, 221–3, 225; elections 216, 217, 225; ‘ethnocracy’ 219; European Union 219, 223; expatriates 220; exports 221, 222; fishery 221; foreign oil investments 221; governance 217, 218, 226; government 215, 216, 223, 225; heer 218; House of Elders 215, 216; House of Representatives 215; human rights violations 218, 224; identity 249; independence 214, 219, 220, 223, 224, 225; international assistance 222; international community 216, 217, 219–21, 222, 223, 225; international recognition 216, 217, 221, 222, 223, 224; Islam 218; kinship 218; leadership 219; legislature 215; legitimacy 17, 215, 217, 224, 225; Muslims 215; nation 216, 218; national assembly 215; National Charter 218; national identity 219; northern autonomy 214; parliament 215, 216, 224, 225; peace 224; politics 216; ‘quasi-juridical’ rebuilding 217; referendum 215, 216, 223; remittances 223; reunification 216, 218; secession

224; security 224; self-determination 218, 224, 249; self-reliance 217; separation 216; society 223; sovereignty 220, 223, 249; statehood 249; status 216; Supreme Court 215; tourism 222; UN representation 225; warfare 221; see also Somalia Republic of Tatarstan 124, 125, 135 Republika Srpska (RS) i, xi, xii, 32–47, 251; Dayton Accords 32, 41–6, 251; development of the de facto state 38, 251; enclaves 43; ethnic cleansing 251; Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY) 33; future 47; leadership 45; origins 33; refugees 45; self-determination 33; Serbian Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina 35, 41; status 46 ‘Road Map’ for the Middle East 29 Romania 106, 109, 113 Roosevelt, Franklin D. 194 Rosca, Iurie 107 Rothschild, Lord 190 Rugova, Dr. Ibrahim 77, 83, 85, 86, 89, 90 Russia 109, 113, 114, 118, 124, 125, 127, 128, 135, 137, 150, 152, 188, 245, 250; authority 125; Chechen incursions 130; colonial powers 119; constitution 136; elections 136; forces 114, 118; government 110, 111, 113, 115, 126, 148, 149; guarantor of peace 149; leadership 114; military incursions 119, 130; parliament 133; political control over Chechnya 133; political sentiments 115; Russian Revolutionary and Civil War period 120; territorial integrity 135–6; see also Russian Empire, Russian Federation Russian Congress of People’s Deputies 108 Russian Empire 8, 16, 20, 21, 119 Russian Federation 21, 22, 124, 125, 128, 130, 131, 133, 134, 137, 246, 247; see also Chechnya, Russia Russian Federation Interior Ministry (OMON) (Chechnya) 122 Russian Revolution 103 Russian Soviet Federated Socialist Republic (RSFSR) 147 Russian Supreme Soviet 148 Russo–Turkish war 144 Sadat, Anwar 198, 199, 203 Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic (SADR) 28

Index Saint Kitts and Nevis 20, 22 Samushiya, Zurab 151 Sanaag Peace and Reconciliation conference (1993, Somaliland) 215 Sandzak 63 Sangheli, Andrei 110 San Marino 19 Saud, King 194 Scientific Council of the Moldovan Academy of Sciences 106 secession ix, x, 5, 6, 7, 8, 13, 21, 23, 157, 158, 224, 243, 245 Second World War 17, 23, 34, 54, 81, 91, 92, 108, 120, 145, 154, 156, 157, 193, 194, 211, 245, 246, 252 self-determination i, 6, 8, 16, 17, 20, 158, 225, 246, 247, 254, 255; claims 30; independence 34; international community 22, 24; international law 34; microstates 18; national 8, 34; separation 15 Senegal 221, 225, 249 separatism 3, 6, 7, 8, 23, 33, 245, 255 September, 11th, 2001 see 11 September Serbia x, 22, 33, 34, 37, 38, 39, 43, 52, 55, 57, 75, 78, 80, 82, 94, 225, 245, 247, 251; autonomy 79; communists 82; democracy 23; demonized 93; ethnicity 93; Greater Serbia 35, 37; identity 80; inclusion of Kosovo 91; independence 67, 79; Kosovo 80; leadership 64, 90; Montenegro 22, 56; ‘national consciousness’ 38; nationalism 63, 84; referendum 67; regime 94; Second World War 34; selfdetermination 37, 39; Serbian claims 93; Serbian Monarchy 79; Serbian State 78; Serbs in Serbia 82; Serbs outside Serbia 37; sovereignty 93; territorial autonomy 39; territorial integrity 23; see also Kosovo, Republic of Serbia Serbia and Montenegro 37, 40, 52, 56, 65, 69, 91, 251; Constitutional Commission 66; government 89; international system 22; parliament 65; referendum 69; Supreme Defence Council 66; United Nations 22 Serbian Autonomous Regions (SAO) 39 Serbian National Assembly 42, 47 Serbian Orthodox Church 59, 60, 78 Serbian People’s Party (SNS) (Montenegro) 55, 56

269

Serbian Radical Party (SRS) (Montenegro) 55 Serbian Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina 35; see also Republika Srpska Sergeyev, Igor 131 Shaimiyev, Mintimer 125 Shakrai, Sergei 125 Shamba, Sergei 149 Shamil, Imam 119 Shamir, Yitzhak 201 Sharon, Ariel 187, 188 Shengelia, Dato 151 Shermarke, Abdirashid Ali 212 Shevardnadze, Edward 148, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153 Shevtsov, Vadim 108 Shpigun, Gennadi 130 Shuquairy, Ahmed al- 196, 204 Siberia 145 Sierra Leone 5, 254 ‘Silanyo,’ Ahmed Mohamed Mahmud 217 Simi´c, Predrag 89 Sinai II Agreement (Israel) 198, 199 Sixth Session of the Central Committee of the LC Serbia 85 Skates, Bill (President, Papua New Guinea) 241 Slovenia x, 1, 2, 13, 33, 82; and Croatia 23; independence 34; leaders 13; ‘Ten-Day War’ 34; war 85 Smirnov, Igor 107, 108, 110, 112, 113, 114, 115 Snegur, Mircea (President, Moldova) 108, 110, 112 ˇ c, Dragan 56 So´ Social Democrats (SDP) (Montenegro) 54, 56, 57, 63, 67 Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (SFRY) ix, 1, 6, 7, 8, 37, 38, 77, 82, 91, 93, 94; Arbitration Committee set up by the European Community 34; collapse 35, 57; government 81; independence 34; international community 33–4; leadership 57; national self-identity 33; secession 23; self-determination 33, 34; war of succession 13, 33 Socialist People’s Party (SNP) (Montenegro) 55, 56 Solana, Janvier 67 Solomon Islands 234, 239, 241, 242, 252 Somalia 3, 4, 5, 6, 14, 210–14, 216, 217, 219, 220, 246, 249; ceased to exist 214;

270

Index

Somalia (Continued) clans 3, 211, 224; constitution 212; decay 213–14; diaspora 213, 222; discrimination 213; economy 211, 212, 213; ethnicity 210, 211, 224; government 212, 213; guerrillas 213; history 211–13; independence 211; Isaaq 213–14; Islam 210, 211; kinship 210; language 210; legitimacy 14; militarization 219; nation 211; national unity 213; overcentralization 219; parliament 213; parliamentary democracy 213; politics 211; recognition 14; referendum 212; refugees 213; religion 210; secessionism 218; social structure 210, 211; Somali 210–11, 214; state 214; terrorism 220; ‘transitional national government’ 220; unification 212; United Nations 211; warfare 214, 220; see also Somaliland Somali Democratic Alliance (SDA) (Somaliland) 215 Somali Democratic Republic see Somalia Somaliland Alliance for Islamic Democracy (SAHAN) 216 Somaliland Forum 219, 220 Somali National League (SNL) (Somaliland) 212 Somali National Movement (SNM) (Somaliland) 213, 214, 217, 218 Somali Youth League (SYL) (Somaliland) 212 Somare, Michael 236, 237, 242 South Africa 24, 27, 221; see also Bantustans, Transkei South Ossetia 152, 153 South Yemen 24 sovereignty 1, 2, 8, 12, 75, 76, 95, 157, 158, 253, 254; claims to 75–7; human rights 94; illegitimate 77; independence 25; legal prerogatives 16; legitimate 77, 94; micro-states 18; national 157, 159; notions 76, 94; popular 74, 75, 76, 94, 247; state 74, 75, 76, 93, 157, 158, 159; supremacy of the sovereign 76; theories 76, 77 ‘sovereignty association’ 25; see also Quebec Soviet Mountain Republic (Chechnya) 120 Soviet Republic of Georgia 1, 143; independence 1; sovereignty 1; see also Abkhazia, Georgia, Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic

Soviet Republic of Moldova 105; see also Moldova Soviet Socialist Republic of Abkhazia 147 Soviet Union ix, 1, 6, 7, 8, 12, 13, 26, 85, 102, 107, 109, 111, 147, 148, 150, 154, 183, 198, 199, 200, 202, 246; Baltic states 23; collapse 118, 134, 172; constitution 146, 148; government 147; national identity of the Soviet Man 21; post-Soviet era 21–4; self-determination 23; Soviet experience 21, 23; Stalinist period 120; Supreme Soviet 147; Ukrainians 21 Spanish Sahara see Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic (SADR) Sri Lanka xi, 2, 4, 254 Stalin, Joseph 120, 145, 148, 250 statehood 3, 8, 12, 13, 20, 122, 157, 225, 233, 255; conditions 13, 21, 27; credentials 15; empirical 157; functions 15; juridical 157; legal recognition 27; legitimacy 14, 15, 20, 21, 27; ‘survivability’ 15 Stepashin, Sergei 113, 130 Sturza, Ion 113 sub-Saharan Africa 13, 221 ‘successor states’ 6 Sudan 4, 7, 8 Suez war 195 Summit Conference in Khartoum 196 Sunni Muslims 118, 210; see also Chechnya, Somaliland Supreme Soviet 103, 107 Supreme Soviet of Abkhazia 155 Switzerland 12, 18 Syria 191, 195, 196, 197, 198, 199, 207, 225 Taiwan (Republic of China) 18, 21, 27, 188 Tatar Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic 124; see also Republic of Tatarstan Tatarstan Model 125 ‘Ten-Day War’ 34 territorial integrity i, 7, 8, 12, 14, 21, 23, 24, 27, 91, 158, 196, 241, 245, 246, 247, 255 Thaçi, Hashim 89 Thrasymachus 93, 94 Tiraspol 107, 108, 109, 113 Tito, Marshal Josip Broz 38, 54, 81, 82, 84 ‘Together for Changes’ (ZZP) (Montenegro) 55, 56, 68–9

Index Transcaucasian Federation 145, 149 Transjordan 190, 192, 193, 194; see also Jordan Transkei (South Africa) 24 Transnistrian Moldovan Soviet Socialist Republic 107, 112 Transnistria Republic i, xv, 21, 102–17, 250; 14th Army 107, 108, 109, 111, 112; autonomy 111, 115, 250; black market 115; Communist Party 107, 112; confederal state 115; conflict with Moldova 115; constitution 110, 115; currency 111; de facto state 115, 249; dispute with Moldova 102; economics 113; elections 112, 113; elites 103; energy 113–14; ethnic conflict 107; ethnic Russians 103, 107, 108; ethnic Ukrainians 107; federation 115; flag 110; government 111, 113, 115; independence 108; independent nation state 110; KGB 108; leaders 107, 109, 110; legitimacy 17, 107; memorandum on the settlement of the conflict 112, 113; Moldovan Constitution 111; opposition 106; paramilitary forces 108; parliament 114; postage stamp 111; referendum 107; Romania 104, 107; Russian government 103, 249; Russian nationalists 108; selfdetermination 110; separatists 108; settlement of conflict 111; statehood 115; status 103, 110, 111, 113; symbols of statehood 111; territorial autonomy 107; territorial integrity 113; see also Bessarabia, Moldova Treaty of Berlin (1878) 79 Treaty of Bucharest (Moldova) 103 ‘Treaty of Guarantee’ (1960, Cyprus) 169 Treaty of Westphalia (1648) 76, 247, 254 Trepça 92 Trinidad and Tobago 2, 18 ‘Tripartite Declaration’ (Palestine) 195 Tsarist Empire of Russia 119; see also Russia Turkey 25, 82, 128, 165, 166, 168, 169, 170, 172, 173, 175, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183, 247, 250; economy 174; European Union 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 183, 248; exclusion 176; forces 168, 179, 181, 182; government 174, 178, 180, 184; guarantor 169, 180; immigration 168; leadership 177, 179, 180; military intervention 168; military

271

presence 169; officials 169; Ottoman 120; protection 171; uncertainties 178–80; see also Republic of Cyprus, Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC) Turkish Cypriots 21, 26, 164, 165, 166, 170, 174, 177, 178, 181, 182, 183, 248; communal rights 167; displacement 168; economic situation 173; employment 175; European Union 177, 178; government 170, 176, 179; Greek Cypriots 164; international community 170; international legitimacy 170; leadership 171, 172, 175, 179, 184; military 180; minority 26, 165, 176; officials 178; resentment 170; self-determination 172; self-rule 169; society 168, 180; statehood 13, 171, 181; status 26, 171; Turkish influence 180; see also Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC) ‘Turkish Federated State of Cyprus’ 168, 180 Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC) i, xi, xviii, 16, 24–6, 164–84, 248; aid 173, 174, 248; Ankara 24, 170; Assembly 172; autonomy 165; bi-communal government 166, 167; communal separation 168; constitutional protections 167; ‘Cypriot’ character 168; de facto state 24, 165, 169, 183; de jure state 165, 174; economic embargo 170, 174, 248; economy 167, 173–5, 181, 182, 183, 184, 248; embargo 183; emigration 174, 182; ethnic kin-state xi; European Union 173, 175–8, 179, 181, 248; federalism 175; governance 164, 168; international acceptance 164; international community 26, 183; leadership 164, 165, 166, 168, 175, 179, 181, 182; legitimacy 17, 25, 26, 176; negotiation 25; public support 25; recognition 183, 248; regional dimensions 164, 175; re-integration xi, 248; representatives 170; self-declared state 164; separate statehood 176; separatist ethnic groups 181; sovereign statehood 24, 181; sovereignty 24, 175; statehood 13, 175; third-party initiatives 175, 247; tourism 170, 174; Turkey 25, 165, 181, 182; Turkish intervention 25; Turkish support 164, 170, 184; see also Greek Cypriots,

272

Index

Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC) (Continued ) Turkish Cypriots, ‘Turkish Federated State of Cyprus’ Turkmenistan 172 ‘Tuur,’ Abdirahman Ahmed Ali 214, 215 Tuvalu 19, 20 Ukraine 104, 109, 113, 114, 150, 250 Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) 146, 147, 148, 154, 158, 159, 233; see also Soviet Union Union Treaty of 1922 (Soviet Union) 147 Union of United Mountain Peoples of the Caucasus 144 United Arab Republic 195, 225 United Council of Work Collectives in Tiraspol (Moldova) 106 United Democratic Party (UDUB) (Somaliland) 216, 217 United Kingdom xi, 3, 6, 19, 74, 165, 166, 172, 188, 190, 191, 193, 194, 195, 212, 254 United Nations (UN) x, 6, 7, 12, 20, 66, 91, 92, 128, 149, 151, 158, 165, 169, 172, 175, 194, 199, 200, 219, 239, 248, 252; Administration 86, 88; Committee of Twenty Four 19; decolonization 29, 158; General Assembly 17, 19, 20, 188–9, 194, 200; Legal Council to the Secretary General 19; mandate 94; membership 19, 181; microstates 18, 19; plan 178, 180, 181, 182; self-determination 16 United Nations ‘Declaration on Principles of International Law Concerning Friendly Relations and Cooperation Among States (GA Resolution 2625-xxv) 241 United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) 174 United Nations Forces in Cyprus (UNFICYP) 164–5, 175 United Nations General Assembly Resolution 37/253 170 United Nations General Assembly Resolution 541 171 United Nations General Assembly Resolution 1514 157 United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) 150 United Nations High Commission for Human Rights 218

United Nations Interim Administration Mission in Kosovo (UNMIK) 89, 91, 92 United Nations Observer Mission in Georgia (UNOMIG) 152 United Nations operation in Somalia 214 United Nations Partition Plan for Palestine (1947) 194 United Nations Security Council 88, 91, 152, 153, 165, 169, 175, 220 United Nations Security Council Resolutions 242 and 338 199, 201 United Nations Security Council Resolution 1244 88, 91 United Nations Special Representative for Somalia 223 United Nations Working Group on Indigenous Affairs 241 United Somali Front (USF) (Somaliland) 215 United Somali Party (USP) (Somaliland) 212 United States 6, 7, 18, 19, 25, 27, 29, 58, 74, 165, 171, 172, 175, 187, 188, 189, 194, 195, 196, 197, 199, 200, 201, 202, 204, 219, 220, 225, 252, 253; attacks 134, 220; Bush administration 187, 202; Reagan administration 201; war against Iraq 188; ‘war on terrorism’ 207; see also Washington Uzbekistan 1, 172 Vance Owen plan 37 Vatican City 19 Verheugen, Gunther 176, 183 Versailles Conference (1919) 190 Vlasov, Valentin 129 Vllasi, Azem 85 Vojvodina 67 Voronin, Vladimir (President; Moldova) 114, 115 Vujanovi´c, Filip 64, 65, 68, 69 Vukovi´c, Miodrag 62, 68 Warabe, Faysal Ali 217 Warsangale (Somaliland) 214, 215, 218, 219; see also Darood Washington 60, 91, 134, 136, 170, 172, 179, 187, 196, 198, 199, 201, 202, 204, 207, 219, 220; see also United States West Bank 187, 188, 194, 200, 201, 204, 205, 206, 207, 219, 248, 249 Western Melanesia 30 Western Sahara see Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic

Index White Legion and the Forest Brothers (Abkhazia) 151 Wilson, Woodrow 80 Winti, Pius 238, 240 World Bank 157, 174, 219, 222 World War One see First World War World War Two see Second World War would-be states 12, 14, 15, 16, 156 Yaariv, Aharon 200 Yandarbayev, Zelimkhan 127, 128 Yassin, Ahmed Yusuf 216 Yavlinsky, Grigory 135 Yeltsin, Boris 21, 108, 110, 122, 124, 125, 126, 128, 131, 149 Yemen 193, 221 Yermolov, Aleksei 119 Young, Andrew 199 Yugoslav Army (Vj) 59, 66 Yugoslav civil defence see Yugoslav Territorial Defence Organization Yugoslavia 22, 33, 34, 36, 37, 38, 40, 43, 54, 57, 65, 69, 77, 78, 80, 81, 83, 91,

273

225, 233, 246, 251, 252; Albanians 85; Balkan Federation 82; ‘Brotherhood and Unity’ 81; collapse 52; communism 79, 82, 85; constitution 84; ‘democratic Yugoslavia’ 64; dissolution 56; elections 56; Kosovo’s secession 86; leader 64; Serbia within 84; sovereignty 61, 85; succession 55; validity 84; see also Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia Yugoslav National Army ( JNA) 36, 37, 39, 41 Yugoslav National Bank 60, 61, 67 Yugoslav Territorial Defence Organization (TO) 39 Yusuf, Abdillahi 219 Zagreb 69 Zavgayev, Akhmed 132 Zavgayev, Doku 122, 125, 128 Zenawi, Meles 220 Zivkovi´c, Miodrag 55, 67