Russia's European Choice

Russia’s European Choice

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Russia’s European Choice Edited by Ted Hopf

russia’s european choice Copyright © Ted Hopf, 2008. All rights reserved. First published in 2008 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN™ 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010 and Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire, England RG21 6XS. Companies and representatives throughout the world. PALGRAVE MACMILLAN is the global academic imprint of the Palgrave Macmillan division of St. Martin’s Press, LLC and of Palgrave Macmillan Ltd. Macmillan® is a registered trademark in the United States, United Kingdom and other countries. Palgrave is a registered trademark in the European Union and other countries. ISBN-13: 978-0-230-60586-2 ISBN-10: 0-230-60586-9 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Hopf, Ted Russia’s European choice / edited by Ted Hopf. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-230-60586-9 1. European Union—Russia (Federation) 2. Russia (Federation)—Relations— European Union countries. 3. European Union countries—Relations—Russia (Federation) I. Hopf, Ted, 1959HC240.25.R8R89 2008 341.242’2—dc22 A catalogue record of the book is available from the British Library. Design by Scribe Inc. First edition: June 2008 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America.

Contents

List of Illustrations Introduction Part 1

vii 1

Russia and Europe, Historically Speaking

1

Russia’s Standing as a Great Power, 1494–1815 Iver B. Neumann

13

2

A Norm-Maker or a Norm-Taker? The Changing Normative Parameters of Russia’s Place in Europe Hiski Haukkala

35

Part 2 3

Russia and Europe: Making Policy

Russian Foreign-Policy Decision Making on Europe Alexander Sergunin

Part 3

Russia and Europe: Relationship under Construction

4

Russia’s Creeping Challenge to European Norms: European Promotion of Abolition of the Death Penalty in Russia Sinikukka Saari

5

Pan-European/International Transport Corridors at the Conjunction of Geography and Politics in Russia Katri Pynnöniemi

Part 4 6

59

97

123

Russia and Europe: Three Possible Conclusions

Theories of Integration and the Limits of EU-Russian Relations Christer Pursiainen

149

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Boundaries of Sovereignty, Frontiers of Integration: Rethinking “Conflict” between Russia and the EU Vadim Kononenko

187

8

The Stalemate in EU-Russia Relations: Between “Sovereignty” and “Europeanization” Sergei Medvedev

215

References

233

Index

259

Illustrations

Figures

3.1

Governmental actors

62

3.2

The internal structure of the Russian Foreign Ministry (related to European policy making)

64

3.3

The Security Council of the Russian Federation

72

3.4

The Russian foreign policy decision-making system (government and nongovernment levels)

83

5.1

Advertisement of the DVTG Group (Rossiiskaya Gazeta 23.3.2005)

125

5.2

A passage through the courtyard (photograph by author)

133

5. 3 At the opening of Chita-Khabarovsk road (February 26, 2004)

134

Tables

2.1

The role of Russia in the reconstitution of European international society

53

6.1

Four common spaces

172

6.2

Common economic space

173

6.3

The degree of economic integration in EU-Russian relations

175

viii

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Illustrations

6.4

Russia’s foreign trade structure, 2005 (not CIS)

177

6.5

Russia’s trade with main partners, 2005

178

6.6

EU trade with main partners, 2006

178

6.7

European Union, imports from Russia (Mio euro)

178

6.8

European Union, exports to Russia (Mio euro)

179

6.9

Theories of integration and EU-Russian relations

179

Introduction

Ted Hopf

T

he very title of this book, Russia’s European Choice, conceals several of the contested assumptions about Russia’s relations with Europe. The most conventional question concerns whether or not Russia is choosing Europe at all; if it is rejecting Europe, crafting for itself its own authentically Russian way; or if Russia is already confident that it is Europe. The second issue is whether or not Russia can choose to be Europe in the first place, or whether it is not more accurate to say that Europe can choose Russia, but Russia cannot choose Europe. In fact, the title has misidentified the agent in the relationship. Russia can want to be Europe desperately, but in fact only Europe can confer that status and identity on Russia. The third misdirection is the title’s presumed treatment of Russia and Europe as unitary, as if only the central government in Moscow is choosing to be European or not, and the European Commission is choosing to permit Russia to be European or not. In fact, the Russian state, let alone its society, has a multiplicity of agents, each of whom has different relations to Europe, both substantively and materially, discursively and ideationally. Likewise, the European Union (EU) itself has different institutional bodies, but just as important, the EU is still composed of member states that have bilateral relationships with Russia as well. The title also assumes that there is actually a choice to be made, as if there is an agent deliberating and deciding. But in fact, Russia’s relations with Europe are being constituted daily by myriad interactions among a plethora of agents: from individual Russian tourists in Italy to Gazprom executives considering sources of investment capital. The resultant identity relationship between Europe and Russia, itself an ongoing daily process, is an unintentional structural byproduct of these many interactions, not an intentional choice by anyone.

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Finally, the title implies some finality to the choice, as if once the choice is made, Russia will then be an unproblematic European partner in a cooperative relationship with Europe. One possibility, rarely entertained by scholars and policymakers alike, is that Russia can be European and in both daily conflict and cooperation with Europe. Each of these five themes, misleadingly hidden in a short, snappy book title, are present in the eight chapters constituting this book. In what follows, I develop each of these themes, making reference to the contributions to this volume and then providing a more literal roadmap of the volume. Before turning to the substance of the book, we must acknowledge our debt to its financial supporters. The contributors to this volume summarize the main findings from “Russia’s European Choice: With or Into the EU?” that has been funded by the Academy of Finland as part of a wider “Russia in Flux” Research Program (2004–7). In addition to the academy, we would also like to acknowledge the financial support the project has received from the Ministry for Foreign Affairs and the Ministry of Transport and Communications of Finland. Europe: Yes or No? As a matter of historical perspective that is relevant to contemporary Russian-European relations, it is important to recall the pre-Petrine days of Muscovy when the issue of Russia choosing to be European or not did not even emerge (Neumann, this volume). Even once the issue arose, Russians either understood themselves as already naturally European, becoming European, or transcendant of the European project altogether. These three broad positions remain active to this day (Medvedev, this volume). Being naturally European implies a Russia that is already confident that it is as European as Germany, Italy, or France, a Russia that need not be tutored as to what constitutes European identity. In fact, some contemporary Russians argue that Russia is the true Europe, one that has not succumbed to globalizing, homogenizing practices. At the other end of the spectrum, but with similar implications, is the argument that Russia is uniquely irreducible to European, Asian, or even Eurasian, but instead its own unique combination of characteristics. Therefore, choosing Europe is nonsensical; Russia already is something else that both includes and transcends features and practices that constitute Europe. But once Russia regards itself as becoming Europe, we are on more conventional terrain. At this point, we can speak of Russia choosing Europe as a “norm-taker” rather than as a “norm-maker” for Europe and the world (Neumann, Haukkala, Saari, this volume). This brings us to the question of

Introduction

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3

whether Russia is choosing Europe, or if Europe is conferring a European status and identity on Russia. Whose Choice? A social identity is social because it is constituted in interaction between two or more agents, and it is not in the capacity of an agent to merely declare herself to be what she wishes or considers herself to be. In this sense, power is transferred to others. In this case, Europe had and has the power to declare Russia European or not. This power often has taken some institutional form: whether or not to include Russia in peace conferences in the eighteenth century and in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, or how much to include Russia in the EU. In the past, as in the present, Russian membership has been denied or limited based on a single criterion: domestic conduct deemed unworthy of being an authentic European of the age (Neumann, Haukkala, Saari, this volume). European power was and is assumed to be material and ideational. Until Russia stops doing this, or begins doing that, it cannot expect to participate in these trade relations or diplomatic negotations. On the other hand, it is assumed that Russia is waiting, as well, to receive the European “seal of approval” for its European identity. Russia’s assertions that it is inherently European, therefore, are claims that power goes both ways, that Europe should be held to Russian standards of Europeanness, too. Russia has an interest in a Europe with plural identities, a broad enough definition of Europe to entail contemporary Russian deviations from the one on offer from the West (Medvedev, this volume). Which Russia? Which Europe? While it is always useful to warn against treating any state as a rational unitary actor, it remains the conventional default when discussing RussianEuropean or Russian-EU relations. Russia’s policy toward Europe is managed by a bewildering array of governmental institutions and nongovernmental actors (Sergunin, this volume). And those actors change across time and across issue areas, such that it is far more accurate to say that at any given moment, Russia is both choosing and rejecting Europe, as its many agents are in fact doing just that, at a minimum. Within the Russian government itself, the Presidential Administration, National Security Council, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Ministry of Defense, other executive agencies, and the Duma all compete for influence over various aspects of policy toward Europe. Meanwhile, if that were not complex enough, local and regional governments carve out their own policy domains, hoping to

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forge relationships with Europe independent of Moscow’s concerns. In addition, nongovernmental actors, such as business lobbies, interest groups, think tanks, and so on, weigh in as they can. In effect, there is no Russian-European relationship, let alone a Russia choosing or not choosing Europe. Instead there are thousands, if not millions, of choices being made in the relationship every day, diffused throughout Russian state and society, each of which contributes to the outcome, the collective choice, for or against Europe. This multifarious Russia is faced with an equally multivocal Europe (Medvedev, this volume). The Russian state itself interacts with many different Europes. Just on an institutional level, the European Union, its commission, parliament, and myriad organizational branches—the Council of Europe and the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe— each provides a different Europe with which Russia’s own collection of ministries and bureaucracies develops different relationships. Meanwhile, the Russian state and its constituent parts develop bilateral relationships with individual European states, most importantly with Germany, France, the United Kingdom, and Italy. In this way, it is misleading to speak of Russia’s European choice and more accurate to speak of the many choices many different Russias are making with regard to many different parts of Europe (Kononenko). What Decision? Identity relations are not only chosen, they are also constructed through interaction among agents who have only the most partial control over the structures of identity within which they operate and which they reproduce through their mundane daily practices and use of language (Pynonniemi, this volume). One way of thinking about this is to pose a thought experiment. Which of the following two scenarios are indicators of deeper integration between Russia and Europe? The first scenario is where “evroremont” is the taken-for-granted way of saying you have a newly modernized apartment, and every single one of the history textbooks in Russian public schools on Russian history automatically situates Muscovy, Petrine Russia, Imperial Russia, the Soviet Union, and contemporary Russia within European history. Do we think such a reality, one that is not deliberately or consciously chosen by anyone, is less indicative of Russia and Europe’s co-constitutive relationship than the alternative scenario measured by levels of foreign investment, trade, and agreements on visas or product liability law? Any account of Russia’s European choice has to take into account the millions of non-choices made every day that nonetheless end up reproducing an integral relationship between Russia and Europe, whether intentionally or not.

Introduction

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5

What Are Cooperation and Conflict, and What Are They Good For? Three Possible Answers This book ends with three alternative perspectives on Russia’s relations with Europe. Rather than trying to artificially reduce and homogenize all differences surfaced in the previous chapters, Pursiainen, Medvedev, and Kononenko offer three different analyses on the prospects for RussianEuropean “integration.” Pursiainen takes up the challenge of assessing Russian-European relations from the perspective of most of the available theoretical perspectives on offer: functionalism, neofunctionalism, institutionalism, regime theory, and others. His bottom line, presented regrettably, one might say, is that we can only hope for limited “institutionalized cooperation between autonomous rational actors in certain fields of common interests” (Pursiainen, this volume). This rather sober conclusion, as I said, is presented with some disappointment, as if we should hope for more. Medvedev and Kononenko beg to differ and do so in quite different and imaginative ways. Medvedev points out that EU-Russian relations, if not European-Russian relations (a very important distinction), are at a stalemate covered up with all sorts of razzamatazz (Pynonniemi): summits, strategies, road maps, and so on. Both Russia and the EU have adopted very modern strategies of coping with the intrusive and disruptive effects of globalization: sovereignization and assimilation. This is a collision course promising not much more than limited pragmatic cooperation, punctuated by real and overt conflicts over real differences. While Russia aspires to reduce the unexpected through protecting itself from violations of its sovereign order at home, the EU is busily implementing a neoimperial strategy of making all states on its borders like itself, thereby reducing its uncertainty about their subsequent conduct. Medvedev’s solution is, basically, let’s live with it. Russia should pursue bilateral and regional relationships that pass under the radar of EU surveillance and discipline. The EU should get over its civilizing mission in Russia and accept that Russia’s European identity, though fundamentally at variance with the EU’s own twenty-thousand page list of characteristics, is still European, but on Russia’s unique terms. Kononenko’s conclusion is that there is no solution, because there may be no problem. In implicit response to Medvedev, Kononenko observes that it is only our theoretical and political commitment to modern conceptions of sovereignty, territoriality, and borders that compels us to see the sovereignty-Europeanization binary. As a consequence of these modern a

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priori assumptions, we see much more conflict than in fact exists, especially since the myriad daily cooperative interactions, at both the most local and most elite levels, are obscured by our theory-guided focus on difference. Theory, as Kononenko observes, simplifies, but it simplifies in a skewed direction, toward binarization either in Europe or out of Europe, either of conflict or cooperation, when in fact, every day Russian-European relations are characterized by both ends of the continuum and countless ambiguous relationships in between. So, we are left with three very different views. Russia can choose Europe, but only if Europe chooses Russia, the latter occurring only after a domestic transformation according to the EU model. Or Russia and Europe can just get used to being different, respect those differences, cooperate when desirable, and clash where necessary. Or Russia and Europe can jointly realize that they are already in a relationship that is rendered problematic only by a continued commitment to a modern sovereign ontology. A Preview of Chapters This book is divided into four parts. Part 1 contains two chapters analyzing the history of Russian-European relations since the fifteenth century. Part 2 contains two chapters, one of which analyzes Russian policy making toward Europe, the other on EU policy making toward Russia. Part 3 also contains two chapters, dealing with substantive relations between the EU and Russia: the death penalty and international transport corridors. Finally, Part 4 offers three different conclusions about possible trajectories for EURussian relations. Part 1: Russia and Europe, Historically Speaking In Iver Neumann’s chapter, “Russia’s Standing as a Great Power, 1494– 1815,” he argues that international relations (IR) and social theory have given two accounts of why doubts lingered about Russia’s standing as a great power before the Napoleonic Wars. Realists treat great powerhood as a matter of having and being able to project material and especially military power, and this may account for why Russia was increasingly recognized, but not for the lingering doubt. Constructivists focus on intersubjectivity between states and stress the degree to which a power accepts a confluence of norms; this may explain some of the doubt. Neumann, however, offers a third and complementary account based on the concept of governmentality, which focuses on regime types and their representations by other powers. Whereas this reading is something new in social theory and IR, Neumann points

Introduction

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7

out that a nontheorized prototype of it is fairly prominent in the work of Russian historians. Hiski Haukkala analyses the historically changing parameters of Russia’s legitimate role in European international society from the Napoleonic Wars until the end of the cold war in “A Norm-Maker or a Norm-Taker? The Changing Normative Parameters of Russia’s Place in Europe.” He argues that the constitutive principles of European international society have varied and evolved over time. In essence, it has been the Great Powers that have been in a position to condition Russia’s role in Europe. Most of the time, Russia has been the taker of European norms, and the end of the cold war represented the recontinuation of an older historical pattern, as once again Russia has been asked to come knocking on Europe’s door. This time the difference is that European international society is more densely institutionalized and normatively elaborated than ever, making the process of adaptation much more difficult and painful for Russia. Part 2: Russia and Europe: Making Policy Alexander Sergunin, in “Russian Foreign-Policy Decision Making on Europe,” focuses on how Russia’s foreign and security policies toward Europe have been made in the post-communist era. In particular, he highlights the powers, roles, and functions of actors and institutions participating in the decision-making process. He examines both governmental and nongovernmental actors. He both assesses the effectiveness of the foreign policy and national security mechanism and explores the major problems in its organization and functioning. Part 3: Russia and Europe: Relationship under Construction Sinikukka Saari, in “Russia’s Creeping Challenge to European Norms: European Cooperation and Abolition of the Death Penalty in Russia,” looks at the ways in which the European organizations—the EU, the Council of Europe (CE), and the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE)—promote human rights and liberal democratic norms in Russia, and how Russia has responded to these efforts. Through a detailed study of the promotion of abolition of the death penalty in Russia, Saari describes the cooperation between these organizations and Russia as one of “form but not function.” Despite active, multilevel cooperation, actual results have remained modest. Saari concludes that despite European efforts, Russia has not been socialized to the European norm of abolition of the death penalty. Russia has managed to negotiate more room to maneuver

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on the issue than other European states. Contrary to expectations of the constructivist socialization literature, Russia has gradually challenged the applicability of the common European interpretation of the norm of abolition of the death penalty to its case. Saari warns that if an exception to the general norm is granted to Russia, the normative base for European cooperation will be weakened. In the long run, this could have a negative impact on the legitimacy of European organizations in general. In “Pan-European/International Transport Corridors at the Conjunction of Geography and Politics in Russia,” Katri Pynnöniemi explores the question of what happens when the basic understanding, shared widely in Russian discourse, that the sheer size of the country enhances its “standing in European and international politics is shifted, and a kind of gestalt shift emerges that allows us to focus on a closely related but still very different question: how does this ‘power’ come about?” Pynnöniemi argues that power is not something that is intrinsic to space or sovereign territoriality. It is emergent in the practices and infrastructures that change distance into proximity, allowing us to traverse along a passage in and through time and space. She reconstructs the connections between power and space through the analysis of the instances of language use. Speech act theory provides the means of doing this, because it is positioned at the crossroads of the formal logic of practical reasoning and practices of language use in everyday action, and thus provides a means of inquiry into not only what is meant by an utterance, but even more importantly, what is done with it at that particular moment, under those aspects, and in that particular context. Part 4: Russia and Europe: Three Possible Conclusions Christer Pursiainen, in “Theories of Integration and the Limits of EURussian Relations,” analyzes the possible trajectories of EU-Russian relations based on an exhaustive survey of available IR theory on the topic of integration. He argues that of all the efforts at regional integration, the EU’s efforts are generally regarded as the most successful and dynamic. It is therefore no wonder that the majority of social and economic theories aiming at explaining regional integration processes are about European integration. As to the relationship between the EU and Russia, however, these approaches are rarely used to illustrate, explain, or predict the development of the relationship. By definition, theories of integration compete with each other, especially when it comes to the question of causal factors or levels of analysis. Because of this, they are difficult to combine into a harmonized approach. However, they can still be discussed against the case of EU-Russian

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relations in comparative perspective. What explains the development of these relations? Are EU-Russian relations characterized by growing integration, or is it a question of mere intergovernmental cooperation in different fields? What are the future prospects for EU-Russian integration? Pursiainen discusses these questions from such perspectives as functionalism, federalism, neofunctionalism, intergovernmentalism, economic integration theories, the legal approximation approach, Marxist and interest group theories, institutionalism, constructivism, and transnational regionalism. He concludes that should one rely on these theories, the institutional future of EU-Russian integration does not look very promising. While for sure there will be more and more cooperation in different fields, with its ups and downs, the dilemma is that without supranational elements, traditional integration meets its limits rather soon. What would remain, in the best-case scenario, is some form of intergovernmental bargaining. Nevertheless in the longer run, the convergence of legal systems as well as transnationalization of capital and civil societies may well bring the societies closer to each other through the general processes of globalization. Vadim Kononenko, on the other hand, critically engages with the very notions of conflict and incompatibility in Russia-EU studies in “Boundaries of Sovereignty, Frontiers of Integration: Rethinking ‘Conflict’ Between Russia and the EU.” He examines the concept of incompatibility and its role in research from three directions: (1) assumptions about sovereignty, territoriality, and borders; (2) assumptions about Russia-EU interaction; and (3) policies pertaining to the Russian-Ukrainian border. Kononenko points out the centrality of the notion of incompatibility in the analysis of Russia-EU interaction and follows up the consequences and effects of it for scholarly interpretations of Russia-EU relations. Concerned with the idea of reflection and an awareness of the normative choices in Russa-EU studies, Kononenko discusses the possiblilties of rethinking “conflict” and “incompatibility” in favor of plurality and ambiguity in reality and research. In the third possible conclusion, Sergei Medvedev explores the discursive foundations of the current crisis in EU-Russia relations in “The Stalemate in EU-Russia Relations: Between ‘Sovereignty’ and ‘Europeanization.’” He argues that the problem lies in contrasting readings of sovereignty in Brussels and in Moscow. The Kremlin is bent on Westphalian readings of “gosudarstvennost,” or stateness and promoting visions of a “sovereign democracy” and a strategy of bureaucratic centralization. Meanwhile, the EU pursues a strategy of Europeanization, seeking to transform nations and spaces along its perimeter to its own image and liking. In deconstructing “Europeanization,” the chapter challenges conventional readings of the EU as a postmodern

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actor and argues that the EU’s external policy has embarked on an essentially modern strategy of “bureaucratic imperialism,” rooted in traditional readings of Westernness as goodness. The collision of two modernist projects, Moscow’s bureaucratic centralization and Brussels’s “bureaucratic imperialism,” is a key structural impediment in EU-Russia relations.

PART 1

Russia and Europe, Historically Speaking

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CHAPTER 1

Russia’s Standing as a Great Power, 1494–1815*

Iver B. Neumann Introduction

N

o doubt about it, Russia is a challenge. When observed from the West, there is an economic and political incompatibility about the place that spells fascination. Sometimes, this fascination turns into outright fear. We know about the immediate historical causes for this— the pangs of transition from communism to something else, communism itself being the nineteenth-century experience of keeping the ancien régime that other European powers discarded one by one. These experiences certainly account for the incompatibility. They do, nonetheless, raise a further question that has to do with our understanding of the roots of that incompatibility. It makes a difference whether the Russian empire was accepted into the European order on a par with other entities, only to slip away after the Napoleonic Wars, or whether Russia was really always different. In this chapter, I will try to answer this question by surveying Russia’s standing in Europe before the Napoleonic Wars. The story to be told is, first, one of how Russia made its presence felt in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, but not in a degree strong enough to be a presence as the modern * Thanks are due to the Institute for Human Sciences in Vienna, where, as a guest in December 2002, I commenced work on this piece. Thanks also to Kristian Gerner, Hiski Haukkala, Pål Kolstø, Ole Jacob Sending, Shogo Suzuki, William Wohlforth, and particularly Ted Hopf for comments on earlier drafts.

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European system of states congealed into place. Secondly, it is the story of how Peter the Great established Russia as a power in the North, and how, during the eighteenth century, Russia was gradually accepted as a great power. In the extant literature, there is no consensus about when Russia actually became a great power. For this reason, this chapter starts with an exegesis of the concept of “great power.” From early contacts between Muscovy and the Holy Roman Empire, through the rapid increase in contact during and following Peter the Great’s reign, and finally during the Soviet period, Russia has often met the conditions for great-power status set out in rationalist and even constructivist treatises on great-power status. At all points, however, among European contemporaries, doubt has remained about Russia’s great-power standing. This suggests a residual that has not been adequately accounted for. I argue that this residual is rooted in a factor that is read out by almost all International Relations (IR) literature, that on the balance of power, namely as it relates to governance. The second section gives the background story of pre-Petrine contacts between Russia and Europe. Drawing on the first section, the third part of the chapter discusses the various claims that have been made about Russia’s standing as a great power. I conclude that doubts remain about Russia’s greatpower standing that have to do with the emergence of differing models of governance followed in Russia and in the West. The Case of Muscovy In the standard work on early contacts between Russia and Europe, Marshall Poe (2000, 12–13) notes that “despite the lore of a long scholarly tradition, Russia was not ‘discovered’ by Europeans in the first quarter of the sixteenth century,” when early travelers like Sigismund von Herberstein arrived, for there had been continuous contacts between the east Slavs and the political entities around the Baltic since the time of the Vikings, and there had also been more scattered contacts with the continental powers. Poe also stresses, however, that “Muscovites knew little or nothing about ‘refined’ European customs before the early sixteenth century” (209–10), thus attesting to the absence of a common body of practices for official encounters. With the weakening of the Byzantine Empire and the fragmentation of the Mongol Golden Horde in the course of the fifteenth century, the east Slavs were able to strengthen their polities, to wage war, and to build symbolic capital by marriage (the most famous of these being Ivan II’s marriage to Sophia Paleologue, the niece of the last Byzantine emperor). Muscovy sent traveling ambassadors first to Livonia, Sweden, and Lithuania in 1480 and then in subsequent decades to Hungary, Moldavia, the Holy Roman Empire,

Russia’s Standing as a Great Power, 1494–1815

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and Milan. Muscovy considered European diplomats potential spies, but the establishment of formal contacts was not marked by the kinds of ceremonial crises one finds, for example, in the European-Chinese encounters, where the Chinese demanded that everybody who was granted an audience should kowtow to the emperor, which proved a major and long-lasting stumbling block. Although kowtowing (bit’ chelom) was ubiquitous in Russia, as it had been at the court of the Golden Horde when Russian princes and their representatives had visited it (Zorin 1959, 140), there seem to be no recorded instances of the tsar demanding that European envoys should be made subject to it. Those early formal contacts were, nonetheless, not without their problems. In 1486, a noble knight by the name of Nikolai Poppel arrived in Moscow carrying a letter from the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick III. The Holy Roman Empire came to know Muscovy as a polity separate from the Polish-Lithuanian state. Upon Poppel’s return to the empire, he started to spread the word about the Russian state and about the riches and power of its ruler. Here is the official Soviet diplomatic history’s version of what ensued: In 1489, Poppel returned to Moscow, now already as the official agent of the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. In a secret audience he suggested to Ivan III that he should petition the Emperor to confer upon him the title of king. From the point of view of Western European political thought, this would be the only means of legalising a new state and to introduce it into the common system of European states—and at the same time place it in a certain state of dependence on the Empire. But in Moscow, another point of view held sway. Ivan III answered Poppel with dignity: “By God’s grace, we are the ruler of our land from the beginning, from the first of our ancestors, it has been given us by God, and as it was for our ancestors, so it is for us.” (Zorin 1959, 262)

Ivan III insisted on signing his written answer to the emperor with the title “Great Ruler of all of Rus’ by God’s grace,” with Rus’ being the name of the polity, and for the next three generations, there ensued a tug-of-war between Russian and Western courts regarding titles. Already in 1508, Ivan’s son Vasiliy sent a letter to the emperor asking for an alliance in his war against Lithuania. In 1514 the emperor, somewhat belatedly, sent his envoy Georg Schnitzenpaumer back with an encouraging letter in German. Instead of writing “tsar,” he wrote Kaiser. “Kaiser” may be translated back into Russian as Imperator, and so the letter was taken by the Russian court to mean that the emperor acknowledged Vasiliy as a fellow emperor. In Maximilian’s letter of August 4, 1514, however, where he confirmed an alliance against the

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Lithuanian king Sigismund, there was no mention of the Russian king being a kaiser. Russia was not satisfied in its quest for recognition as an empire. Of course, further west, kings also struggled to establish themselves as being on par with the Holy Roman Emperor. To pick but one example, under Henry VIII, England launched a campaign to be seen as an empire. The Russian trajectory differs from the others in two key ways, however. First, the shift from seeing the king’s body to seeing the territory of his state as the locus of government, which we can already see in England in the sixteenth century (empire, not emperor), was willfully held back. Second, Europe shifted away from being accepted as an empire in the direction of being accepted as a sovereign state. There were empires, but the logic of recognition revolved around the term sovereignty, or around terms like emperor or empire. Again, there was no such development in Russia, which continued to play the old game long after others had embarked on a new one. Contacts were also hampered by cultural practices. For example, Herberstein noted that non-Orthodox Christians were considered unclean. This meant that rank-and-file Muscovites had a reason to stay away from them, and that the aristocrats who did meet with them and followed the European custom of shaking hands ritually washed themselves after the encounter. As late as the 1660s, when a number of European diplomats, soldiers, and merchants had been invited to the realm, a key observer talked about their separate quarters as “the diseased parts of the state and the body politic” (Krizhanich, quoted in Poe 2000, 83). It was only during this decade that ambassadors were allowed to walk the streets of Moscow alone. Poe stresses that “nonetheless, the Russian authorities realized that diplomacy and mercantile relations with European powers were necessary accoutrements of great power status” (2000, 41). From the very beginning, then, where Russia should fit in the hierarchy was a bone of contention between Russian and European rulers, with Russia in principle aiming for a top position. For the next two hundred years, which was the gestation period for the European states system, Russia was a peripheral presence. Its resources were not plentiful enough to make it a presence on the continent, so there is no rationalist case for great-power status here. Constructivists would highlight that the principle on which legitimacy and recognition was sought—divine kingly sovereignty over territory—was the same, and they would also draw attention to the doubt that ensued on both sides about whether the other party could be considered properly Christian. I would highlight that Russia’s despotic regime marked it as “barbarous.” Either way, although Russia made a principled bid for great-power status, as seen from Europe, Russia was not a ranking power by any criterion used at the time or indeed later. There were, however, cultural and organizational

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borrowings during this period, and these were sped up and diversified under Tsar Alexei (1645–76). Still, it was only during the reign of his son Peter that Russia undertook a self-conscious European socialization process. After a short lag—when the War of the Spanish Succession ended with the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713, Russia was still not among the signatory powers—Peter launched a campaign for Russian great power status. In 1993, Russia and Denmark celebrated the five-hundredth anniversary of their diplomatic relations. The year 1493 is as good as any other as a shorthand for the first formalization of diplomatic contacts between Muscovy and another Northern polity. A conventional year for the placing of Russian-English relations on a similar footing is 1553 (Anderson 1958). Richard Chancellor landed at the mouth of the River Dvina, carrying a letter from Edward VI of England addressed to “all kings, princes, rulers, judges, and governors of the earth, and all other having excellent dignitie on the same, in all places under the universall heaven” (quoted in Dukes 1990, 1) The letter suggested that trade relations be established, giving as the reason that God had placed things in different regions “to the ende that one should have neede of another, that by this meanes friendship might be established among all men” (quoted in Dukes 1990, 1). Chancellor was duly invited by the tsar to visit Moscow. Invariably, the hosts exposed these embassies to much more direct tactics of impression management than those that regulated similar occasions within Roman Christendom. Under the chapter heading “Legatus ad Moscoviam,” Poe notes that “Muscovite officials were quite suspicious of foreign envoys and thus took steps to ensure that they did not learn too much about Russian affairs or receive the ‘wrong’ impression of the tsar’s realm. Accordingly, visiting ambassadors were kept in special quarters, surrounded by officially appointed attendants, and discouraged from wandering about or engaging Muscovites in discussions. Moreover, the court presented visiting diplomats with a variety of propagandistic rituals designed to emphasize the authority of the tsar, the wealth of the realm, and the subservience of the population” (2000, 40). Already from 1585 on, one may find an English merchant fulfilling a number of functions that both we and contemporary observers would refer to as councillary. That these functions were first taken care of by merchants is in keeping with a general pattern that may be observed in a number of different places at different times. There was a degree of formalization of this arrangement in 1623, which was followed by a break when Charles I was executed. France tried to establish a residency in 1629, only to be rebuffed. There was a continuous Swedish presence from 1631 on, but it was only in the 1670s that the institution of resident presence became permanent.

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Even at this time, however, Brandenburg’s attempt at establishing a residency came to naught (Zorin 1959, 316). In 1613 Michael was elected tsar and initiated the Romanov dynasty. His administrative apparatus was rudimentary. Running business was handled mainly by a set of prikazy, or chancelleries, and decisions were mostly taken in the tsar’s privy council. A representative council, the boyar duma, met on a regular basis, and the zemskiy sobor met from time to time. Although the basic structure of the system—a political tension between the tsar and the nobles and an administrative tension between an apparatus consisting of offices and a group of councilors—was the same as that of the other polities around the Baltic, the action capacity of Muscovy was not up to the level of the strongest of those other polities. Still, Muscovy was a distinct presence. In 1617, the reestablished polity concluded the Peace of Stolbovo with Sweden, and Gustavus Adolphus withdrew from Pskov and Novgorod. Russia, on the other hand, lost its access to the Baltic coast. The Peace of Stolbovo was concluded with the offices of the Netherlands and England, and the latter’s envoy was present at the proceedings (Zorin 1959, 293). Russia’s dealing with other powers had now become a matter of major interest to key states. In 1618, Russia concluded an armistice with Poland. By the eve of the Thirty Years’ War, which would prove pivotal in melding the states around the Baltic and the states further south more firmly into one system of states, Russia was established as a power. Both Gustavus Adolphus and the Porte put out feelers for alliances against the Poles. Russia took an active role in supporting one party against another, among other things by providing Denmark with subsidized grain. The principle of legitimacy at this time was dynastic, which means that dynastic ties and hence intermarriage patterns played a particularly important role when it came to gauging how Russia fit into European political life. As part of the early initial efforts by Russia to reach beyond the Baltic, an attempt was made to forge ties with the Stuarts. As to the Baltic states, the Romanovs tried to upgrade their ties by proposing marriages. The first move by the Romanovs in the direction of intermarriage was made in 1642, when Tsar Michael sent a special mission to Denmark to offer the hand of his daughter Irene to the son of Christian IV, Prince Waldemar. The instructions given to the envoys in Moscow must have seemed more than a little strange in Copenhagen: a customary overture to such negotiations, the delivery of a portrait, was to be avoided with the explanation that the taking of portraits could be dangerous for the health of Russian princesses, who in any case were to be viewed whether in the flesh or in effigy by close relatives only. The possibility of Waldemar becoming one of the latter nearly foundered at the beginning of his determination to remain a Lutheran, and when he traveled to Moscow

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on the understanding that he would not have to convert to Orthodoxy only to find his prospective father-in-law a fervent proselytizer, a stalemate ensued that kept the prince under close house arrest (Dukes 1990, 13). In the end, there was no marriage. What we see here is a court that does not conform to established norms for marriage, that has not partaken in the sixteenth-century process of establishing cuius regio eius religio (the religion of the subjects follows that of the king) as a baseline for how to get religious pluralism to dovetail with the reality of multiple sovereignties, and that does not acknowledge freedom of movement for visiting royalty. With the Thirty Years’ War out of the way, the density of contacts between Muscovy and other polities increased. Official Soviet historiography held that “beginning from the mid-seventeenth century onwards, Russia already played a most important role in the political life of Eastern Europe, so that no international problem could any longer be solved without her participation” (Zorin 1959, 293). Even if this generalization was accepted, however, what was at stake at this time was no longer what had after the Thirty Years’ War become the regional issue of Baltic politics, but the European-wide states system. This is implicitly accepted when the observation is made by Zorin about the attempt of the empire to influence the course of what has been called the First Northern War between Russia and Poland, which goes to show that the Russian-Polish conflict had at this time lost its local character and become a matter of all-European importance (Zorin 1959, 295). Anisimov concurs when he usefully sketches out a tripartite journey into international society that “the first step that Russia took into the Westphalian world of international relations was its participation in the First Northern War (1655–60), a step determined by the decision of 1654 on the subjugation of the Ukraine. The next step was taken in 1686 by the Eternal Peace with the Rech Pospolita [that is, Poland-Lithuania]” (1993, 23). This is not only due to the way both parties now largely proceeded to draw up this treaty according to the general standard of the day but also because Russia at this time succeeded in its long struggle to form an alliance with key powers (with the empire, Venice, Brandenburg, and Poland-Lithuania against the Porte). The third step, Anisimov argues, was taken hot on the heels of Peter’s Grand Embassy (1697–98), when he grasped the potential of alliances for war against Sweden, Poland-Lithuania, and the Porte with states that his predecessors had considered untouchable for religious reasons. His first attempt at playing the alliance game failed, however, and the ensuing war waged against the Porte was called to a halt at the Congress of Carlowitz (1698–99) without Russia being present.

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These three steps all concern Russia’s maneuvering in the direction of a more central role within what by century’s end had become the Baltic subsystem of international society. These steps were, however, not followed up by increased recognition from the major polities making up the embryonic international society. An early example of Russia being recognized as a factor in a European disposition, but not being recognized as having a droit de régard (right of being taken into account), is Louis XIV’s campaign to put Jan Sobieski on the throne of Poland-Lithuania. Poland, and particularly its Ukrainian part, was a key conduit between international society and Muscovy, as witnessed by the (characteristically lagging) translation of administrative literature. In the late 1670s, Russian overtures to Poland and Austria for help against the Porte failed, and in 1681, Russia had to sign the humiliating Treaty of Bakhchisarai. Already at this time, however, Russia could muster an army of perhaps as many as two hundred thousand—six times as many as half a century earlier (Dukes 1990, 47). These forces were trained with the help of manuals translated from Western languages by officers who were imported from the West. Translations were first undertaken in the second half of the seventeenth century. Military manuals were among the first to be translated. A characteristic lag is evident in the pattern in which the powerful new administrative ethos of neostoicism spread across Europe. In the standard work on the topic, Gerhard Oestreich mentions Russia in his entry for Poland, which is reproduced here in toto: “We may gauge the enduring popularity of Lipsius in Poland by the chronological spread of the translations. Such popularity is not surprising, seeing that the Jesuit order had great influence over Polish education. As early as 1595 the Politics was translated by a secretary of King Sigismund III; a new edition came out in 1604. Only a year before the outbreak of the French Revolution a translation of the Monita et exempla politica appeared. This work was also translated into Russian in the eighteenth century” (Oestreich 1982, 102). Russians at this time held a deep skepticism about representations of humans. Throughout the pre-Petrine period, the tsars adamantly refused to put their personal signature on documents. All these treaties carry only the seal of the realm and the signature of a high official. Only Peter broke with this habit when he put his signature to the treaty with Poland in 1698 (Zorin 1959, 337–38). Granted, that diplomacy, and particularly the diplomacy of the European states system, is usually defined as written communication; this was of course a key problem. Furthermore, portraits were not taken, which was a problem in terms of the all-important game of connubium. The interface with Europe was also broadened by Michael granting to a couple hundred merchants (so-called guests, or gosti) a charter whereby they

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were exempted from taxes and allowed to travel abroad. England was given the right to trade without paying duties, whereas the Dutch were required to pay only half duty (Dukes 1990, 2). These discriminatory moves are, in addition to the feelers for alliances, examples of how Russia had begun to play the different powers against one another, thus partaking in the working of the system of states. The greater density of societal contacts between Russia and other polities generated new dimensions for foreign policy. In 1649, outraged at the fate of his English brother-monarch and with his officials expressing concern about the possibility that English subjects in Russia were spreading dangerous ideas, the tsar stripped English merchants of certain privileges and barred them from travelling from St. Petersburg to other cities in his realm. Russia refused to acknowledge Cromwell’s republic, and the tsar kept inquiring about the health of Charles’s widow and even provided funds for the campaign of their son to take what he saw as his rightful place on the throne (which, of course, duly happened). At this time, Russia also made a habit of delivering official protests about publications issued in foreign countries that they found to be slanderous to Russia. For example, it protested to Sweden about a pamphlet published in Riga about the rebellion of Sten’ka Razin. In its 1650 treaty with Poland, Russia even succeeded in having a paragraph included that was meant to limit what could and could not be printed in Poland about the tsar and his state (Zorin 1959, 316, 349). By the end of the seventeenth century, there were two particular areas in which Russia’s distance from international society was still marked.1 The first was its lack of permanent missions to other states. Russia seemed to have decided to establish a permanent mission in Sweden in 1634, but it only lasted for one and a half years and was not renewed. It therefore came to appear much like an old-style embassy that could often last for one, two, or even three years. Instead of permanent residencies, Russia fell back on a form of representation that had similarities with the ancient Greek proxenos system as well as with the present system of honorary consuls when, in 1660, they gave the English citizen Sir John Hebdon the title comissarius to England and the Netherlands. Russia’s first fully fledged resident thus became Vasiliy Tyapkin, who took up residency in Poland from 1673 to 1677. Once Peter was on the throne, permanent missions became the rule. He sent an “extraordinary and plenipotentiary ambassador” to the Netherlands in 1699, a “resident” to Sweden in 1700, a “minister” to Vienna in 1701, and so on (Zorin 1959, 344). Peter encouraged the European powers to establish permanent representations in St. Petersburg, and he himself established such missions in Paris, London, Berlin, Vienna, Dresden, Stockholm, Copenhagen, and Hamburg (Dukes 1990, 105).

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The second area where cultural difference was considerable concerned the intense jealousy with which Russia guarded court procedures, as hosts and as guests. In an age marked by elaborate and hierarchical court ritual, Russia still stood out for the tenacity with which it guarded every conceivable aspect of meetings between the tsar and foreign envoys and the display of hierarchy. This would begin at the border, where an embassy would be met and escorted to the capital. Once on Russian soil, he would be presented with a liberal amount of food and drink (korm). This made for a problem in terms of reciprocity when this way of treating foreign envoys gradually changed in the West. When reaching the capital, the visitor would be paraded in by an infantry escort, music was played, and people would throng the streets. However, no formal contact between the visiting envoy and Russians was allowed to ensue before their envoy had been received by the tsar. It was the order of the day that visiting diplomats were ranked according to the perceived importance of the courts that they represented. In Russia, however, the tsar was extremely discriminate in his use of the term “brother” to refer to other monarchs. On occasion he would only receive the envoys of the most powerful states, leaving it to the diplomatic chancellery to take care of the rest. The Vasa kings of Sweden were held to be particularly lowly, of the order of vassals; and in the early years, the tsar tried to put an end to direct contact and to instead channel relations through the envoy from Novgorod. The discriminating practice of receiving only those held to be representatives of the most powerful states continued until the middle of the eighteenth century (see Zorin 1959, 370). Once he did meet them, it happened according to a set procedure. One part of this procedure that caused continuous resentment up until Peter’s time was that envoys were not allowed to carry their swords for receptions. Another was the procedure by which Christian envoys were required to kiss the tsar’s hand, only to watch as he immediately washed his hands in a silver bowl that was held forth for him for this purpose. The official reason given for this was cleanliness, but this explanation was not accepted.2 There were also incidents over specifics, for example in 1566, when the Lithuanian representative refused to step down from his horse and walk up to greet the tsar. On formal occasions, the tsar would receive the corps diplomatique sitting on his throne in full robes (v bol’shom naryade): golden caftan, with Monomakh’s hat on his head, orb and sceptre in hand. Around the throne, there would be youths in white caftans, golden hatchets in hand. Boyars would be present to entertain the hosts. The choreography obviously owed much to Byzantine mores (see Neumann 2006), but also to the reports given by the Russian envoys who had journeyed West.

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The tsars’ envoys were forbidden, sometimes on pain of death, from formally meeting any representative of the state to which they were sent before they had been received by its head. Since the Western rule was that such a reception was precipitated by dinners hosted by noblemen en route to and also in the capital, as well as talks with officials of the court, this created tensions. By the same token, Russian envoys insisted on personally handing documents from the tsar to the king, to whom it was addressed, rather than to an official of the court. The insistence on the personal contact and the adversary relationship to intervening bureaucratic layers was a thoroughly complicating factor for Russian embassies. Furthermore, the Russian envoy usually insisted on seeing the king without there being other envoys present. Since this demand was often widened to block the king receiving other envoys on the same day, the key factor here again seems to have been marking rank, not security. Once receptions did take place, the envoys were not actually trusted with negotiations, just with relaying information, which meant that suggestions or even questions were usually answered with the set phrase, “we will also ask the Great Tsar about that, when, God willing, we see him ourselves” (“i my o tom skazhem ego tsarskomy velichestvy, kak, bog dast, uvidim ego svetlye ochi”). During the reception, the Russian envoy would not only insist on reading out all the tsar’s titles, which was in accordance with general diplomatic practice, but would also object to points of order, such as when the receiving king bared his head. For example, during P. I. Potemkin’s visit to the Spanish king in 1687, the king took off his hat when Potemkin greeted him on bended knee but kept it on while Potemkin read out the tsar’s titles. Potemkin objected, and there was an incident. To sum up, from its emergence in the late fifteenth century and throughout the seventeenth century, Russia considered itself great on transcendental and moral grounds; the tsar and his country simply had a superior tie to God. The problem, however, was that this self-understanding was not shared by any other political entity. Russia’s claim to being a power of the first rank (anachronistically, a “great power”) was noted, but not taken seriously. Powers were ranked within a tightly scripted ritual-based system. Russia kept to other rituals; hence it simply was not a player. Russia’s material resources did not allow for much projection beyond its own borders, which meant that there were no other grounds to take cognizance of it, either. Russia was excluded on the grounds that its Christianity was strange (important even in the midst of strong Catholic-Protestant skirmishes) and that it was a despotic regime—that is, its system of governance was uncivilized.

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Peter’s Century: Russia and the Other Anciens Régimes Drawing on rationalist arguments, historians universally stress the role of the Great Northern War (1701–21) in establishing Russia as a central player in international society. It was this war that broke out on the eve of the new century that really brought Russia in.3 Paul Kennedy (1988, 96) holds that Russia and Prussia added themselves to France, the Habsburg Empire, and Britain at the end of the Great Northern War. In 1721, “an exhausted, isolated Sweden finally had to admit to the loss of most of its Baltic provinces in the 1721 Peace of Nystad. It had now fallen to the second order of powers, while Russia was in the first.” (Kennedy 1988, 96) Paul Dukes holds that Russia “joined Europe at the beginning of the eighteenth century” and that Poltava was “the cause of Russia’s wider recognition throughout Europe” (Dukes 1990, 72, 112). The official Soviet diplomatic history makes no specific comment on this, but it nods indirectly in this direction by noting that, as Peter laid the plans for his Northern campaign, “the international situation in Europe seemed to be favorable for the realization of these plans. Western Europe’s strongest powers—France, England, Austria and the Netherlands—were busy preparing for the War of the Spanish Succession and were not able to meddle in the struggle around the Baltics” (Zorin 1959, 337). Anisinov argues that “the end of the Great Northern War in 1721 registered not only the collapse of Sweden as a great world power but the appearance in its place of a new empire, the Russian” empire (Anisinov 1993, 25). It is clear that Peter’s reign marked a tremendous upsurge in Russia’s standing. Drawing on English diplomatic correspondence, Janet Hartley (2001) demonstrates just how quick and thorough the change in other states’ assessment of Russia under Peter was. For example, on the eve of his great embassy to the West, the English undersecretary of state in the Hague had written to William Trumbull, secretary of state, that “towards the end of the week we are to expect ye Empr & his Rabble here. . . . It were to be wishd the Czar loving ye Sea as he does, might discover ye North passage (if there be any such) into Persia, which would be a real advantage that would justify his ramble” (quoted in Hartley 2001, 54). Hartley rightly observes that during the next two decades, that is, “both during and after the Great Northern War . . . Britain attempted to restrain Russian ambitions through the formation of coalitions against her, which is itself indicative of a new respect for Russian power” (Hartley 2001, 61–62). The leading eighteenthcentury historian Hans Bagger even argues that “the Peace of Nystadt on 30 August 1721 confirmed the position that Russia had attained as a great

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power during the Great Northern War. . . . As a consequence of its new status as a great power, Russia became a European state insofar as the Russian Empire had to be incorporated into the system of European international relations” (1993, 36). Bagger’s point is that Russia’s predominance in what was known as the equilibrium of the North, combined with its strength vis-à-vis Austria and Turkey, was enough for it to “shake the overall equilibrium of Europe,” and so “the courts of Europe could no longer ignore Russia as a semibarbarian state” but had to take it into account (1993, 36). This is true, but neither Bagger nor anyone else has demonstrated that Russia, at this time, had resources on a par with or was indeed a fixation in the military dispositions of the key Continental powers (as opposed to Northern ones). On rationalist scores, doubt must remain about Russia’s greatpower statusin the early eighteenth century. Despite pleas from its Swedish ally, for example, Lord Bolingbroke, who was secretary of state for the British Northern Department at the time, did not take Russia all that seriously (Warner 2001). Charles Whitworth, who had served as minister both in Russia and in Prussia, noted in internal correspondence in 1722 that “the Czar may be a Bug-Bear to his Neighbours; But neither his Power, nor Designs can immediately affect Great Britain” (quoted in Hartley 2001, 64–65). Furthermore, note that Bagger explicitly brackets how Russia was still classified as semibarbarian (as opposed to civilized) when he confers greatpower status upon it. The tension identified by Bagger, where Russia is concerned, between clear military potential on the one hand and a deficiency on the civilizational level on the other mirrors the tension in the IR theorizing of great-power status established above. Furthermore, Bagger produces a quote from Russian Vice-Chancellor Peter Shafirov to demonstrate that Russian statesmen themselves perceived the situation in similar if not less pejorative terms. Due to Peter’s “transformation of Russia,” Shafirov wrote, the European powers now sought out Russia as an ally, “despite the fact that a few decades ago, in the states of Europe people thought and wrote of the nation and state of Russia in the same way as they did of the Indian, Persian and other nations . . . [that had] no intercourse with Europe whatsoever, apart from a little trade” (Shafirov 1973, 1–10, quoted in Bagger 1993, 37). Shafirov, furthermore, was keenly aware of the limits beyond which Western recognition did not stretch: “We know very well that the greater part of our neighbours view very unfavourably the good position in which it has pleased God to place us; that they would be delighted should an occasion present itself to imprison us once more in our earlier obscurity and that if they seek our alliance it is rather through fear and

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hate than through feelings of friendship” (Shafirov to a French colleague in 1721, quoted in Dukes 1990, 77). Crucially, as seen by this key Russian statesman, Russia had the material power but lacked the social mores required to be fully recognized. Shafirov would turn out to be the first in a long series of Russians who saw things this way. Shafirov’s view was, furthermore, typical for his day, and it bears out very well the limitations of material resources as a measure of great-power status. Russia had the necessary resources and had proven itself in battle against an already recognized great power, but that was not sufficient to be recognized as a suitable alliance partner. It follows that, on constructivist criteria, where recognition is seen as intersubjective, it is impossible to accept the assessment held by so many historians that Russia was acknowledged as a great power following the Great Northern War. When Peter celebrated his victory in 1721 by taking the title of emperor (Imperator, referring to the Schnitzenpaumer correspondence as precedence), this was roundly resented, particularly by the Habsburgs (see Nekrasov 1972).4 Although other Northern powers were relatively quick to acknowledge the new title (the exception was Poland, which waited until 1764), Austria and Great Britain did not do so before 1742, and France only in 1744 (Florinsky 1955, 353). An added constructivist argument against Russian great-power status in the early eighteenth century concerns the key alliance-forming practice of the day. Dynasticism spelled connubium as a criterion, and Peter tried to marry into the kingly houses of Europe. Russia was certainly actively involved, but it did not succeed in intermarrying with the other leading royal houses of its day, targeting instead other Northern powers. In 1724, Peter married off his daughter Anna Petrovna to the duke of Holstein-Gottorp on Swedish behest. In 1745, Elizabeth received feelers from Charles Edward Stuart, pretender to the British throne, but these came to naught. As late as the century’s end, when Paul tried to marry off his daughter to the king of Sweden, the project still ran aground on the issue of religion. On constructivist criteria, an initial assessment is that we should be wary about Russia’s great-power status during the period of the anciens régimes. During the sixty years following the Great Northern War, Russia became gradually more successful in being recognized as a worthwhile ally, a power entitled to participation in peace settlements and a power mentioned in treaties as a guarantor of the peace. Russia attended its first peace congress at Soissons in 1728–30 (Bagger 1993, 52). In 1732, Russia concluded an alliance with Prussia and Austria, codified in the Berlin Treaty. In the War of the Polish Succession, Russia, by dint among other things of

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having fielded an army about thirty thousand men strong, was definitely a player. Russia was conspicuously absent from the peace settlement, however (Craig and George 1990, 24). But come the Seven Years’ War (1756–63, known in the United States as the French and Indian War), Russia was a key player in the basic change in alliance patterns that precipitated the war. On the rationalist criterion of objective resources and systems-wide reach, this is when Russia became a great power: “By the Seven Years War the Russian army was the largest in Europe, the establishment aimed for at its commencement consisting of 162,430 men in field regiments, 74,548 garrison troops, 27,758 men in the landmilitsiia, 12,937 members of the corps of engineering and artillery, and 44,000 irregulars” (Dukes 1990, 129). The Seven Years’ War seems to be an important breaking point also in the sense that Russia seemingly restrained its military campaign short of crushing Prussia in order to keep that state in a shape where it could play a continuing important part in the working of the balance of Europe. Russia, in other words, had entered into the management of the states system to the extent of downplaying immediate interests for what was held to be more long-term ones. Note that the Seven Years’ War is also the period when the term “great powers” emerges. We have found no indication that the shift from talking of powers of the first rank to talking about great powers is related to the tentative entry of Russia into the category, however. During the following decades, Russia also fulfilled the added rationalist criterion of being a great responsibility of the system. This factor is treated as crucial by the so-called English School of International Relations. In this regard, Adam Watson (1985, 70) points to Empress Elizabeth’s secret negotiations with the heads of France and Austria in 1760 as the crucial date. Certainly, by dint of the role Russia played in all three of Poland’s partitions, this criterion was firmly fulfilled by century’s end. If 1760 was an informal breakthrough, the Treaty of Teschen concluded in 1779 was a formal one inasmuch as it became for the first time a guarantor power. The importance of Teschen has been underlined particularly by German historians such as Hellmann (1978) and Oestreich who writes that Joseph tried to round off his Austrian territory by acquiring Bavaria and so to effect a notable shift of power within the Empire. Frederick opposed him; he appealed to Russia, who joined with France in guaranteeing the Peace of Teschen, which ended the War of the Bavarian succession. In this way the great power of Eastern Europe became obliged to defend the status quo in the Empire. The rise of Russia had taken place in the eighteenth century: she had stood united with the imperial army of Prince Eugene on the Rhine in 1735, and in the Seven Years War she had fought to crush Prussia and

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plundered Berlin. From now on Russia was a card to be watched in the game for internal unity [of Austria]. (Oestreich 1982, 255)

The official Soviet diplomatic history stresses how Russia’s convention with Turkey from 1783, as well as developments in the Law of the Sea, gave Russia a practical role in the formation of international law—definitely another breakthrough in terms of managing the system (Zorin 1959, 369). By century’s end, Russia was a fully fledged participant in the formation of alliances. For example, in 1780, Russia was a member of the League of Armed Neutrality, which also counted Denmark and Portugal. Twenty years later, a successor was formed, now consisting of Russia, Denmark, Sweden, and Prussia. In 1800, the new Russian emperor Paul ordered the College of Foreign Affairs to draw up a comprehensive analysis of Russia’s current standing and future prospects in terms of foreign policy. In the report, the college characterized Russia as “the world’s leading power,” a “Hercules” (Bagger 1993, 60). To a political realist, there is no doubt that Russia was a great power by century’s end. On constructivist criteria as well, the socialization into the states system that had taken place would appear to be strong enough for Russia to qualify. There remained no doubt about its Christian credentials; the principle of legitimacy was the same as in the other powers; and dynastic intermarriages had become common. How, then, should we account for the ubiquitous European complaints about Russia’s lack of civility and the continuing doubt about the extent to which it should be considered to be of Europe? (Being a great power and being European are different, correct?) Russia was still not seen as weighing heavily in the scales of civilization, as when David Hume complained that “the two most civilized nations, the English and French, should be in decline; and the barbarians, the Goths and the Vandals of Germany and Russia, should be in power and renown” (quoted in Horn 1945, 18–19). Variants of this complaint were heard in other forms and in other arenas. For example, in 1804, the French ambassador Hédouville complained to his foreign minister Talleyrand that “there is no other foreign court where the diplomatic corps is less informed on political dispositions and proceedings than here” (quoted in Grimsted 1969, 19). We may answer this question by turning away from the problematic of order and toward that of governance. This allows us to highlight two factors. First, as underlined by Frederick the Great and other contemporary politicians, Russia was regarded as a less successful police state than others. The capacity for state action was less efficient and more limited.

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Hamilton and Langhorn (1995: 74) highlight how Peter’s reforms also embraced the state apparatus: A “new college of foreign affairs was established, and unlike some of Tsar Peter’s reforms survived a period of near chaos after his death and grew to have 261 members at the accession of Catherine the Great in 1762. The college had a president, vice-president and two chancery councillors at its establishment, and during the eighteenth century steadily lost its responsibilities for internal provincial (also Central Asian) administration, ecclesiastical administration, for tax gathering and for the postal system, which was separated in 1782.” The result was that, as late as at the eve of the nineteenth century, “compared to the smaller and more efficient foreign offices of many other European powers, the Russian ministry counted on its rolls an extraordinary large number of officials, from those of higher ranks to clerks, codifiers, translators, and copyists. The exact number of men functioning at a given time is almost impossible to ascertain because the rolls listed many persons who rarely or never served” (Grimsted 1969, 26). Second, the order-centered discussion of Russia so far has not taken notice of the eighteenth-century process discussed above, whereby in Europe, societies emerged and states changed their way of handling societies from direct rule to indirect governance. In Europe, this period saw the gradual emergence of liberal forms of governing that replaced those of the police state, and society gradually replaced territory as the object of reference for governing. Beginning in Britain, liberalism understood as concrete social practice firmed its grip. Russia eventually had to take cognizance of the change. In summing up Catherine the Great’s reign, Bruce Lincoln places the emphasis on Russia’s “status as a Great Power” as a cause of changes in Russia’s social policy, imposing an imperative for civil peace, which again imposed heightened efficiency in the Russian administration. Lincoln then adds another factor that added to this imposition, namely that a number of young Russian bureaucrats held that, to a Europe dominated by Enlightenment thinking, “the pre-modern military and fiscal concerns of Muscovite tsars confirmed poorly to the image of a Great Power that their sovereigns hoped to project. To be sure, Russia’s military needs continued greater than ever [sic], but, as a Great Power, she also must exhibit some proper concern for her citizens” (Lincoln 1982, 3; compare 175). To paraphrase, a new ethos of what governing a state entailed was setting a new standard not only for what a state had to be in order to be considered well ordered but also, and as a corollary, for which states should be considered great powers. Liberalism formulated an imperative whereby letting go of the state’s direct control of society was becoming a necessity not only for reasons of efficiency (producing a surplus that could feed state need,

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including a military capacity) but also and more fundamentally for reasons of conforming to a new Europe-wide standard of governance (the need to appear “normal”). Given nineteenth-century European thought’s penchant for thinking about world history in terms of stages taking place in the same order and leading to the same goal, furthermore, the lack of normality was read more specifically as an insufficiently quick civilizational development.5 Russia was a laggard learner and, in this sense, inferior. Conclusion Hiski Haukkala’s chapter in this book covers the post-Napoleonic period from the vantage point of constructivism. At Vienna, Russia’s role as great power was institutionalized, most conspicuously in its being among the five powers that were given the right to have ambassadors plenipotentiary and extraordinary. From its emergence in the late fifteenth century and throughout the seventeenth century, Russia considered itself great on transcendental and moral grounds. The problem was that this self-understanding was not shared by any other political entity. Russia’s claim to great-power status was noted but not recognized. Russia was excluded on the grounds that its variety of Christianity was strange and that it had an uncivilized system of governance that was seen as despotic. As Russia’s ability to project itself grew, epitomized by its victory over what was considered the first-rank power of Sweden in 1721, European rulers came more directly up against Russian claims about parity or superiority to their own, and certainly different, governing structures. I hypothesized that it was the lack of social power to have these governing structures accepted that accounts for Russia’s lingering problems in being recognized as a great power. I gave as a symptomatic quote in this regard Russian Vice-Chancellor Peter Shafirov’s view that due to Peter the Great’s “transformation of Russia,” the European powers now sought out Russia as an ally but that “if they seek our alliance it is rather through fear and hate than through feelings of friendship” (Shafirov to a French colleague in 1721, quoted in Dukes 1990, 77). This analysis seems to have bearings on the present-day situation. Beginning in the late 1980s, post-Soviet leaders themselves began to identify the root cause of their uneasiness vis-à-vis the West in civilizational terms. One of the key slogans of the perestroika period was the need to “rejoin civilization,” a slogan that logically implied that the Soviet path had somehow led Russians away from it (Neumann 2005; compare Haukkala’s chapter in this book). With the fall of communism, the official Russian self-understanding of the Soviet past came to blame a mistaken system of governance for the

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lingering problems in what was frequently referred to as the civilized world. For example, when Vladimir Putin addressed the nation at the millennium, he said, Soviet power did not let the country develop a flourishing society which could be developing dynamically, with free people. First and foremost, the ideological approach to the economy made our country lag increasingly behind (otstavanie) the developed states. It is bitter to admit that for almost seven decades we travelled down a blind ally, which took us away from the main track of civilization . . . The experience of the 1990s vividly shows that the genuine and efficient revival of our Fatherland cannot be brought about on Russian soil simply by dint of abstract models and schemata extracted from foreign textbooks. The mechanical copying of the experiences of other states will not bring progress. . . . Russia will not soon, if ever, be a replica of, say, the U.S. or Great Britain, where liberal values have deep-seated traditions. For us, the state, with its institutions and structures, always played an exclusively important role in the life of the country and its people. For the Russian (rossiyanin), a strong state is not an anomaly, not something with which he has to struggle, but, on the contrary, a source of and a guarantee for order, as well as the initiator and main moving force of any change. Contemporary Russian society does not mistake a strong and effective state for a totalitarian one.6

This may be read as a plea for recognition of great-power status on new terms, namely those of democracy and market economy. Ostensibly, this is a liberal model. But note that the Russian leader, like both IR theory and political theory, is trapped within a problematic of order, with a strong state appearing as the guarantor of the system of governance. The problem is that the model of governance that Russia pledges to implement here runs directly against a key liberal trend, where the question is always how the state may govern less. Putin’s view of what a state should do is the exact opposite. The Russian state should rule in direct fashion, not govern from afar. What this means is that Russia is once again evolving a rationality of government that has firm precedents in Western Europe but that has, at the time of Russia’s adopting it, been left behind by Western European states themselves. One corollary of evolving a different rationality of government is that the specific social practices to which those rationalities give rise will differ. And indeed, notable differences exist between Russia and Western Europe regarding ownership, freedom of contract, judiciary and penal practices, health administration, and a whole swath of other practices. Another corollary is that, as seen from Western Europe, Russia is once again rigged with a system of governance that jeopardizes its possible standing as a great power.

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Russia’s standing as a great power must be in serious doubt. Russia’s nuclear arsenal and what a realist would judge to be its sphere of influence in Central Asia count in its favor. So does the size of its armed forces, but the weight of this factor evaporates if we correlate for quality of personnel and equipment. As seen by its inability to use military power efficiently and effectively, most conspicuously in Chechnya, Russia falls short of a key criterion used by realists, namely, an ability to project military power that is on par with (other) great powers. It also falls short of most other material criteria such as technological innovation, not to mention size of population and of gross national budget. Russia ostensibly shares a moral purpose and a whole string of norms with the system’s (other) leading powers. It is one of five permanent members of the UN Security Council, and, following the demise of the Soviet Union, it became a member of the G7, making it the G8. It is also a member of key international institutions such as the World Trade Organization (WTO) and partakes in a whole gamut of international regimes. It remains a fact, however, that Russia’s membership portfolio is patchy, with key economic institutions lacking and the overall total of institutional and regime memberships being considerably smaller than, for example, that of France. Furthermore, it is a recurrent theme of the literature on Russia’s role within international organizations such as the UN system or within regimes such as those in the area of human rights that Russia tends to wield its influence by veto rather than by initiative. It rarely plays a leading role within these institutions. These observable facts all sow doubt about the degree to which Russia actually does share a moral purpose with the other powers in the system. I have argued that we may account for the Russian lack of “socialization” on the international level by taking into account social practices and the system of governance in particular. I have highlighted how professional producers of knowledge about Russia outside the discipline of IR, most notably historians, have stressed this factor. Finally, regarding state practice itself, I have given a number of examples that historically, European statesmen and diplomats were quite explicit about the way in which they wielded the criterion of government in sizing up Russia. It seems to me that this practice continues. In order to account adequately for why Russia has been seen to be a great-power manquée, even at the apex of its material power in the 1810s or 1940s, we need to look beyond the question of moral purpose, toward the concrete and underlying question of in what degree Russian governance and Russian governmentality are compatible with the versions that dominate in global politics at any one given time. I conclude that, even if Russia may

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currently be said to have adequate resources to count as a great power, to share in the management of the system and to share a principle of legitimacy with other great powers, all of which are in some doubt, Russia’s standing is still in doubt due to its professed system of governance. If this argument has merit, then it suggests that the overall research agenda of students of International Relations needs updating. During its heydey in the nineteenth century, liberalism posed the question of great-power status in terms of a “standard of civilization.” Liberalism came to dominate in such a degree that this became the “natural” way in which to discuss global politics. At present, neoliberalism imposes a similar discursive order by bringing to bear a set of criteria in global politics that centers on governance. Like liberalism in an earlier era, it is rapidly emerging as the “natural” way to discuss global political questions such as the relative standing of powers. The issue of compatible rationalities of government is at the heart of struggles over globalization and system transformation. In a number of discourses (for example, that on development or on women’s rights), neoliberal standards for what should be considered good governance have become dominant long since and are already well described empirically and thoroughly theorized. It is high time that scholars working within the field of International Relations get rid of their presuppositions about the nonimportance of social factors for state relations and begin to note that the rise of hegemonic neoliberalism is relevant for other discourses on global politics, such as the one on greatpower status, as well. Notes 1. The following paragraphs are based on Zorin 1959, 303–18, except where otherwise indicated. 2. And rightly so; the case in point seems to have been a taboo on contact with infidels, for (a) non-Christians were not allowed to kiss the tsar’s hand at all, (b) nobles who dined with foreign guests were sometimes observed washing their hands afterwards, and (c) in 1588 the Russian envoy to the Persian shah caused an incident by refusing to kiss the shah’s foot (Zorin 1959, 306). 3. New century indeed: “Time itself was made to recognize the grandiose ideas for change that the Tsar had developed during the Great Embassy, as the calendar was adapted for the year to begin on 1 January rather than 1 September and to be numbered from the birth of Christ rather than the supposed creation of the world” (Dukes 1990, 69). 4. There is a parallel here to reactions when Ivan III and Ivan IV declared themselves tsars.

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5. Note that the thinking in civilizational terms was not specific to liberalism but was representative of the entire nineteenth century (cf. Haukkala’s chapter in this book for examples of how a radical like Karl Marx and conservative like Friedrich List were at one in holding Russia to be lacking in civilization). 6. http://www.government.gov.rus/government/minister/article-vvp1.html (accessed February 14, 2001). For an analysis, see Neumann 2005.

CHAPTER 2

A Norm-Maker or a Norm-Taker? The Changing Normative Parameters of Russia’s Place in Europe* Hiski Haukkala Introduction

I

n the post–cold war era, the main prism through which Russia’s place in Europe has been probed in the academic debate has been that of identity.1 In this book, Iver Neumann’s treatment shows in this vein how Russia has sought recognition for its own representations of its great powerhood (see also Ringmar 2002, which discusses the same issues in the context of the Soviet Union). This chapter treads another, complimentary path of analyzing how Russia’s place in Europe—and consequently its room for maneuver both internally as well as externally—has been conditioned not only by ideational but by material factors as well. As such, the most recent post–cold war period can be seen merely as the latest stage in the longer historical pattern of the evolving normative constitution of European international society and Russia’s relationship with that “Europe.” A caveat is in order here as “Europe” as a concept is of course of rather recent origin, and as a political entity (in the form of the European Union) is still—and in all likelihood will also remain—a work in progress. Before the eighteenth century, Europe was merely a geographical expression, and its inhabitants thought of themselves as members of the wider Christian community (Jackson 1999, 435–38). It was only in the nineteenth century after * I want to thank Harto Hakovirta, Mika Harju-Seppä, Ted Hopf, Iain Lauchlan, Marko Lehti, Arkady Moshes, Iver Neumann, and Tiina Tarvainen for helpful comments and criticism on earlier drafts of this chapter.

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the Congress of Vienna that “Europe” was taken to mean a collectivity in whose name the Great Powers could act and take decisions. Paradoxically for Russia, Tsar Alexander I was instrumental in creating the notion of Europe as a diplomatic entity (Watson 1985b, 72). This chapter traces and reconstructs developments from the beginning of the nineteenth century when Russia emerged for the first time as a preponderant European power to the end of the cold war2. The tale that follows is one of the evolving constitution of European international society and the place of Russia in that process. More specifically, it is a narrative that seeks to reconstruct the development of Russia’s legitimate role in Europe. On the normative side of things, without brief exceptions, Russia has almost never been able to engage herself in devising these parameters. Usually it has been Europe—or to be more precise, the Great Powers in Europe—that has set the terms with regard to Russia’s legitimate place on the continent. To a great extent, the relationship has been asymmetrical, with the power, values, and ideologies of the European powers being imposed on Russia (Lieven 2003, ix). Thus having largely been excluded from the processes where parameters for legitimate actorness in Europe have been drawn, most of the time it has been through her power—what LeDonne (1997, 348) has called “the permanent forward movement” between 1700 and 1917—that Russia has forced her way into European politics and the evolving web of institutions in Europe. It is indeed within international institutions—which, following Robert O. Keohane can be defined as “persistent and connected sets of rules (formal and informal) that prescribe behavioral roles, constrain activity, and shape expectations” (1989, 3)—that the two key concepts of this chapter, ideas and power, come together and form the evolving normative parameters as well as the actual practices that construct and constrain Russia’s legitimate role in Europe. As will be argued here, historically this role has varied significantly. The Development of European International Society One should not assume that examining Russia’s role as a European power is a straightforward business. Even less should we expect that the changing parameters that have been set for that role have been entirely—or even at all—rational. As Martin Malia (1999, 7–8) has argued, the West’s sense of difference from Russia has fluctuated dramatically over time, and the quality of these perceptions, ranging from demonizing to divinizing, has to a substantial degree been influenced by the endogenous processes within the West that have had nothing to do with the “objective” or “real” characteristics of Russia itself (the fluctuation of Russia’s fortunes over time has been aptly captured in Watson 1985b, 61). But before we can discover Russia’s place in

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Europe, we must first have an understanding of what legitimate actorness in Europe could entail and how this concept has historically evolved. We are interested in the normative framework for legitimate actorness in Europe, and the focus here is thus put on International Relations (IR) theorizing and especially the so-called English School.3 In this respect, the key concept is that of (European) international society.4 According to Hedley Bull’s classic definition, an international society exists “when a group of states, conscious of certain common interests and common values, form a society in the sense that they conceive themselves to be bound by a common set of rules in their relations with one another, and share in the working of common institutions” (1977/1995, 13). According to Adam Watson (1985a), the historical roots of a European international society can be traced back to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries when the expansion of previously insulated principalities and kingdoms put the different parts of the European international system in more frequent contact with each other. The change from a system to a society was far from easy, however. At first, increased interaction also exalted a heavy price, as it resulted in growing interstate and interdynastic rivalries that were further compounded by the emergence of religious differences in the wake of the Protestant Reformation. These schisms erupted into religious wars in the seventeenth century, and it was the savage nature of these wars— of which the Thirty Years’ War (1618–48) was the prime example—that resulted in the first attempts at codifying also a commonly agreed normative component into the emerging European international society. It should be stressed that the emergence of Westphalian sovereignty did not reflect any attempt to rationally devise a political order in Europe, but was a product of a very messy international situation: more an act of desperation at the end of a war that had consumed nearly one-third of the warring states’ population, the peace can be seen as seeking to assure the very survival of the nascent European international society more than anything else (Rudolph 2005, 4). As such, after Westphalia, the emerging normative order in Europe rested on the dual assumption that the principle of cuius regio, eius religio (“whose rule, his religion”) would form the cornerstone of the postwar religious settlement, and that every state belonging to the European international society should have an absolute ruler who would act as the guardian of that settlement in his respective kingdom (Barkin 1998, 236–37; see also Rudolph 2005, 4). Since Westphalia, the key concept in defining the parameters of legitimate actorness has been and continues to be that of sovereignty. The concept, and more importantly the actual practice of sovereignty, is the cornerstone of international society. It is the system of mutual recognition between states:

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the foundational norm on which the constitutional structure of international life has been built on (Barkin 1998, 230; Jackson 1999, 433; James 1999, 468). Often sovereignty has been seen as something absolute, fixed, and immutable. This has applied also in the case of IR scholarship (Barkin 1998, 231; see also Barkin and Cronin 1994, 107). But as Stephen D. Krasner has argued, this view is simply wrong: the content of sovereignty has changed and varied significantly, and what is perhaps most important from the vantage point of this chapter, its content has repeatedly and willfully been contested over the course of time (Krasner 1993, 1999; see also Barkin 1998; Biersteker and Weber 1996; Hinsley 1986; Murphy 1996; Philpott 1997). In short, sovereignty itself is a social construct. Often, the principle of nonintervention is seen as the embodiment of sovereignty. Robert Jackson has summed up this thought by arguing how sovereign states “are free political systems in the negative meaning of freedom: Freedom from. They enjoy a right of non-intervention” (Jackson 1999, 455; see also Philpott 1999, 570). But this is a rather one-sided and inaccurate reading of sovereignty. Although it is true that gaining sovereign recognition empowers the state in question to act as a full member of the international society, the very process of being recognized—indeed achieving the status of a recognizable sovereign entity to begin with—has also a constraining and conditioning effect that goes beyond the restrains imposed by the norm of mutual nonintervention. Thus, and as Iver Neumann argues in his contribution to this volume, gaining recognition has always entailed meeting expectations concerning the modes of internal governance. Indeed from the outset, sovereignty was not only a source of internal authority— the freedom for the ruler to do as he or she pleased domestically—but it also had a side of external legitimacy to it. Since Westphalia, the changing forms of legitimate sovereignty have all been associated with particular constitutional arrangements required from the states in question, and it is the international society—or the strongest states within that society, to be precise—that have set the parameters for those constitutional arrangements (Barkin 1998, 233). In order to understand the central role that sovereignty has played in the constitution of European international society—and how Russia’s role has fluctuated in light of that constitution—two issues deserve to be discussed in more detail. The first relates to the question of degree of homogeneity in the European international society. Fred Halliday has sought to uncover how the international society in effect affects and constrains its members by homogenizing them: in addition to showing restraint in intervening with the affairs of other states, there is an additional and much more profound expectation of convergence and similitude in domestic arrangements as

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well (Halliday 1994, 112; for a fuller discussion, see chapters 5 and 10 in his book). This homogeneity differs from Waltzian neorealism by being more profound than just the similarity existing between functionally alike units (cf. Waltz 1979, 96–97). It also goes beyond the theoretical reach of the English School that sees the commonality existing only in the form of common culture at the level of international society, with the quality and nature of the domestic arrangements remaining apart from the homogeneity of international norms and practices (Halliday 1994, 263n24). Adam Watson has touched on the logic of homogeneity inherent in the expansion of European international society. According to his observation, the Europeans have traditionally applied a “standard of civilization” to non-Europeans who have been “judged not merely by how they conducted external relations, but also by how they governed themselves” (Watson 1987, 151; see also Jackson 1999, 442–43). As a permanent semi-outsider, Russia has to a large extent been subjected to the same treatment as the other non-European others. But it is important to take note of the fact that the expectation of homogeneity has operated also within the European international society, and that the degree, nature, and content of that homogeneity have fluctuated over time. Thus, we also need to keep an eye on the processes through which the essential elements of sovereignty get reconstituted. The existing literature remains somewhat vague about these mechanisms, however. For neorealists, the onus is on the changing material structure, discounting the question of changing normative constitution entirely.5 Fred Halliday (1994, 101) has pointed out how the English School notion of international society is in fact a “communitarian” one, implying a group with shared values. The English School therefore adopts a rather conservative stance advocating the relative sameness of the constitutional arrangements in the international society and does not answer the question of change in this respect. Nor have scholars with constructivist leanings been forthcoming with unambiguous answers. For example, for Robert Jackson, sovereignty “is periodically renovated to respond to new historical circumstances,” and when those circumstances change, “requirements for order and stability also change, and the practices of sovereignty must change too” (1999, 433, 434). In a similarly vague vein, Georg Sørensen’s (1999) attempt at separating change in sovereignty’s regulative from its more static constitutive rules shies away from explicating the exact mechanisms through which the actual change takes place. The most helpful contribution in this respect is the work of Daniel Philpott who has spelled the intersubjective nature of sovereignty most explicitly. For him, to assert the constitution of international society “is not

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to insist upon a fantastic construction but to exhume and reveal something we take for granted” (Philpott 1999, 568). He then goes on to trace the changes in the constitution of sovereignty by looking at key events that he calls “constitutional revolutions” (577). But despite establishing four different changes in the constitution of sovereignty since Westphalia and going through the content of the changes in some detail, he fails to show why and through what mechanisms these changes have happened in the first instance. Instead, he takes them as a given and asserts that “the concept of the constitution of international society offers us a way of characterizing international relations, not by its distribution of power, not by its economic openness, not by its mechanisms for resolving conflict or maintaining peace, but by its very configuration of constitutional authority” (588). But Philpott’s celebration is premature in at least two respects. First, his definition amounts to a tautology (i.e., the constitution of the international society spells out the constitution of the international society). More importantly, the problem with Philpott’s work—as well as with all other constructivist writers discussed in this section—is that of monocausality. It is not either ideas or power, but both that will be required to make sense of the constitution of European international society and Russia’s role in it. In essence, all of the views previously discussed rest on too passive an understanding of the reconstitution of sovereignty. It does not just change (by itself ), but it is changed by willful actors who happen to be in a position to effect that change in the constitution of international society. A closer reading of Philpott’s work actually reveals that he, too, acknowledges the role of agents in effecting changes in the constitution of sovereignty. Thus for him, it is the role of “revisionist states” to challenge and overturn the prevailing norms of sovereignty (Philpott 2001, 359). Similarly, it was “the victors” in the aftermath of Thirty Years’ War that sought new provisions that would have freed the princes from all imperial control (363). The view adopted here contends that it is important to take note of the fact that the constitution of sovereignty is not only based on shared intersubjective understandings (a “shared” or “common” culture) of what counts as legitimate actorness. It is also something that is—at least potentially—imposed on others.6 As such, the efficacy of the given notion of sovereignty is dependent on power in two respects: on the one hand, the power of those who are strong enough to effect the content of sovereignty (the norm-makers); on the other, the power of those who are strong enough to resist that normative pressure in order to avoid the fate of becoming hapless norm-takers (see also Barkin 1998, 231; Biersteker and Weber 1996, 3; Camilleri and Falk 1992, 33).

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The Evolving Face of Sovereignty and Russia’s Place in Europe According to J. Samuel Barkin (1998), since Westphalia, the constitution of sovereignty—and also the parameters of legitimate actorness in Europe for Russia—has gone through four mutations.7 On every occasion, the pattern has been roughly the same, following the logic spelled out earlier in this chapter. First, the norms of international behavior have been contested by some actors in the international society. In most cases, a major war and a thorough upsetting of the previous balance of power has enabled the victors to become—or remain—norm-makers and to reconstitute what legitimate sovereignty entails in the new circumstances. Only twice—in the aftermath of the Napoleonic Wars and of World War II—has Russia been in a pivotal position effecting change in the normative structure of Europe. On other occasions, the ensuing mutations of sovereignty have meant additional challenges for Russia in mastering them and (re)securing her legitimate place in Europe. In the rest of the chapter, these mutations and their impact on Russia’s place in Europe are discussed. The Congress System In the aftermath of the Napoleonic Wars, the order of Westphalia was replaced with a conservative and antiliberal one, stressing the centrality of legitimate monarchy as the constitution of the European international society. The free-for-all balance of power of the eighteenth century was supplanted with the system of the Holy Alliance headed by Tsar Alexander I of Russia and Foreign Minister Metternich of Austria that pledged to defend “the spiritual, religious, and social values of their common European civilization” against the revolutionary forces rampant in Europe (Watson 1985b, 71–72). Now it was the task of the victors participating in the Congress system of the Great Powers to make sure that “[I]f domestic political developments threatened to undermine a legitimate monarch, [they] could legitimately intervene to support the old regime, or in fact to reinstate it if it had already been overthrown by a liberal revolution” (Barkin 1998, 239; see also Murphy 1996, 96; Barkin and Cronin 1994, 117). The Vienna settlement and the congress system that ensued enabled Russia to reach her apogee as the leading power on the continent. For nearly half a century—until the humiliating defeat in the Crimean War in 1853–54— Russia was to be the main and at times even the sole guardian of the system in Europe. But Russia’s triumph was not to last. Russia’s preponderance also invited fear and enmity—the fate of all hegemonic or near-hegemonic

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powers in international politics (see Gilpin 1981). Most importantly—and devastatingly for Russia—it was Britain, a previous ally in the campaign against Napoleon, that now turned into a bitter rival. This rivalry would sap the best part of Russia’s strength and undo most of her gains especially during the latter part of the century (for a discussion, see LeDonne 1997, 308–45). In a sense, Russia’s triumph against Napoleon and ascension to a fully fledged and recognized European actorness—even preponderance—came at the very last moment. Already, the latter part of the eighteenth century had witnessed a change in the way the term Europe was understood. With the advent of the Enlightenment, Europe was no longer only about power and the reason of state but also, and increasingly, a community based on shared ideas with a strong liberal component in them. Deeper cultural and societal undercurrents were at play in Europe that managed to undermine Russia’s relative position and highlight the backward nature of her government, economy, and society. Thus, Russia was to run into more profound forms of resistance and challenges than British arms. Crucially, modernity entailed the closing off of alternative avenues of societal development and the possibility of permanent relegation to an inferior status in Europe. Thus, the road ahead was once again already mapped out for Russia. In order to keep up with Europe, Russia had to be transformed into a constitutional monarchy and a legal state (Chernukha and Anan’ich 1995, 55–56). This was indeed what the Tsar Alexander I embarked on to achieve with the first of the three rounds of reforms during the nineteenth century. But despite the best of intentions, the Tsar’s vacillation and delays in the implementation of the program resulted in the emergence of the first generation of Russian revolutionaries. The death of Alexander I in 1825 and the Decembrist uprising that soon followed signaled a decisive break with the reformist program and augured the reign of Nicholas I, whose understanding of Russian statehood differed manifestly from the emerging European norms. He intended to reign in the spirit of Peter the Great’s legacy, which in effect included autocracy backed by military and a bureaucratic government (Chernukha and Anan’ich 1995, 93–94; see also Malia 1999, 92). Whereas Western Europe was moving toward constitutional and later parliamentary monarchies, Russia was further consolidating its autocracy (Szamuely 1974). Therefore, despite Russia’s key role in its inception, the nineteenthcentury constitution of European international society was one into which Russia could only apparently fit well. Initially, this fit was assured by Russia’s power and role as the leading power in the Holy Alliance. But by the middle of the century, the stability of the post-Napoleonic normative order

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was under serious strain. The challenge came from two sources. First, the combination of liberal ideas and Romantic nationalism in Western and Central Europe challenged the normative foundation of the Concert of Europe (Murphy 1996, 96–97). Second, Russia’s humiliating defeat in the face of mere expeditionary forces from Britain and France in the War of Crimea showed that the main guarantor of the order had lost its steam and was no longer deemed a reliable bulwark of that order. As a consequence, the Holy Alliance was unable to sustain and subjugate the tide of powerful unification movements in Europe that emerged during the latter part of the century in Italy, Germany, and the subsequent emergence of nationalism in all of Europe. After 1871 and the unification of Germany, it was clear that Russia now faced a major new rival, the rise of which signaled the beginning of an era of industrialized nation-states. Behind Russia’s military weakness lay a more profound systemic malaise of the Russian state and society. The hand of the autocratic tsar laid heavily on Russia, and this in turn acted as an insulator and incubator within which the negative dynamics within the Russian society brewed for many decades. The domestic societal conflict on almost all fronts led Russia under Nicholas II to opt for a fully fledged police state to hold the crumbling imperium together (Lieven 2003, 285).8 But the tighter internal controls only meant that Europe as a model and as an ideal was further slipping away from Russia’s grasp. Malia has suggested that here we have the decisive moment and the driving force in the consequent Russian/Soviet/ Russian history. As Russia increasingly came to lag behind other European powers, the challenge of imitation and adaptation grew increasingly complex, until “when she chose to adapt, she was compelled to telescope into decades developments that elsewhere had taken a century, thereby only aggravating the dislocations within her existing skewed and laggard order” (Malia 1999, 142; see also Bunce 1993, 135). After the Crimean War, Russia experienced a half century of reforms and reformers, from Nikolai Miliutin to Count Loris-Melikov and—perhaps most famous of them all—Sergei Witte. In essence, the main source behind the reformist drive during the latter part of the nineteenth century was external: the need to compete with and adapt to the demands of the West (Mosse 1996, 269). But there was more to the reformist drive than just the economic and military imperative. Larisa G. Zakharova (1995, 98) has suggested how, in addition to considerations of utility, Russian reforms were also an attempt to overcome Russia’s political isolation and negative images in the eyes of European public opinion. Thus, a significant audience of the reforms was to be found in Western Europe.

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Before Witte’s time, some important gains had already been made, however: serfdom had been abolished, and new systems of municipal and provincial government had arrived. Also interior communications were improving (Dukes 2005, 199). Witte sought to take these gains much further. Especially during the 1890s, the European parts of Russia experienced rapid industrialization and economic growth. By the turn of the century, Russia was beginning to find her way into the web of interlocking economic relationships of trade and crediting and borrowing in Europe (Malia 1999, 172). But even this was not enough, as the other European societies did not stop on their tracks to wait for Russia to catch up; they were constantly evolving and progressing (Mosse 1996, 270). In addition, the results of the reforms were ambiguous in their effects on the Russian state and society. Growing urbanization and industrialization brought diversification, liberalization, and radicalization of the Russian society that found itself increasingly at odds with the “military-autocratic” mode of governance in late imperial Russia (Chernukha and Anan’ich 1995, 95–96).9 The ill treatment of the working class ensured that it, too, had little interest in the perpetuation of the existing order (Hosking 2002, 382–83). Additionally, the reforms failed to tackle the endemic poverty ending in traumatic societal conflicts, first in 1905 and again in 1917 (Gatrell 1999, 89). When combined with the dramatic losses and blunders during the World War I, it is no wonder that Tsarist Russia collapsed under these multitude strains on its constitution, paving the way for the communist period in Russian history. Nationalism between the World Wars The dramatic change within Russia coincided with an equally tangible change in the constitution of the European international society. With the additional collapse of Wilhelmine Germany and of Austria-Hungary in 1918, the days of empires were through, and the monarchialism of the congress system was finally replaced with nationalism as the constitutive principle for sovereignty. This time, it was the main victor in the Great War, the United States, who was instrumental in putting the new order in place. President Wilson’s famous Fourteen Points entailed that now recourse to a nation became the source of legitimacy for sovereign statehood in the eyes of international society (Barkin 1998, 241; Jackson 1999, 445). The October Revolution in Russia entailed a break with these developments in at least two important respects. First, having violently overthrown the legitimate government in Russia, the Bolsheviks were seen as lacking legitimacy, and their government was denied sovereignty by the Western capitalist powers. This was manifested in the civil war (1918–22) when

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the Western powers directly intervened with the internal affairs of Russia in the form of economic and military support given to the “white” side in the war. Second, the Bolshevik government headed by Lenin willfully withdrew itself from the political concert of Europe and renounced the previous emulation of the European standards in and by Russia (Kennedy-Pipe 1998, 11). In essence, this amounted to the most radical challenge to the norms and procedures of European international society since 1789. It was a conscious attempt on the part of Soviet Russia to cease being a taker of European and wider international norms. More importantly, it amounted to an attempt at creating a competing set of norms for the future constitution of international society. The competing normative constitution drew its inspiration from the Marxist-Leninist teleology of the impending world revolution and sought the abolition of the bourgeois state system and with it, the international society in the form it is understood in this chapter. At first, this implied that the new Soviet Russia (and from 1922 onward, the Soviet Union) wanted nothing to do with the “petty bourgeois” order in Europe and even refrained from formulating any foreign policy principles (Gorodetsky 1994, 30). These views were well summed up by the Commissar for Foreign Affairs Lev Trotsky (quoted in Gorodetsky 1994, 31), who brashly announced how “the victorious revolution would not bother seeking recognition from the representatives of capitalist diplomacy” whose fate had for all means and purposes already been pre-determined. But it soon became clear that an immediate world revolution was not on the cards. This disappointing state of affairs had two consequences for the Soviet government. On the one hand, the doctrine of socialism in one country was adopted in 1925 with its corollary, the notion that the development of communism was to be an endogenous process within the Soviet Union largely based on autarchy. On the other hand, Lenin and later especially Stalin were in a desperate need for international stability that would buy them the time necessary for both recovering from the revolution and the civil war and consolidating Soviet power within their own borders (Hosking 2002, 487; Gurian 1950, 267). In order to achieve these aims, the Soviet Union was soon forced to reengage itself with European international society, seeking at first diplomatic recognition from Western powers, and later also membership in Western international institutions, becoming in the process an adept player in the European power politics of the 1930s and 1940s (Gurian 1950, 267). But opting for this dual path dictated by realpolitik had the effect of creating the problem of how to align the two conflicting goals—the protection of the Soviet state within the international system while rejecting its societal elements and indeed plotting for the final demise of that system

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at the same time—into a single foreign policy (Gorodetsky 1994, 30; Rice 1991, 145–48).10 At the ideological level, this tension was never solved, at least not before Mikhail Gorbachev redefined the key tenets of Soviet foreign policy at the end of the 1980s. At the practical level, however, things turned out to be different. By the end of the decade, Moscow had learned the hard way that it could not, after all, count on the unconditional support from the world proletariat: the dream of a world revolution had proven to be an illusion. This made the reassessment of foreign policy priorities an urgent matter. But this was easier said than done, as international recognition from the Great Powers had been slow in the coming. Once again joining the ranks of European international society entailed normative adaptation and conformism on the part of Russia. Already in the Genoa Conference in 1922— which was the first occasion for the Bolsheviks to engage themselves with the other powers in Europe in a multilateral setting—the Soviet delegation made a point of dressing formally for the occasion in striped trousers and long coats when meeting their counterparts. Later, a member of the delegation, Maxim Litvinov, remarked how this was done in order to counter the rumors rife in the Western media according to which the Bolsheviks were expected to arrive wearing red shirts and black waistbands, boots and tall fur hats. (Kennedy-Pipe 1998, 27). But normative adaptation took place in more profound matters as well, at least superficially. A case in point is the drafting and acceptance of the new constitution (adopted in 1936), which in essence sought to create the impression that the Soviet regime was indeed compatible with the Western democratic norms (Gurian 1950, 273).11 Although purges and severe internal repression soon took the fig leaf of democratic legitimacy away from Stalin, the important point is that he, too, felt compelled to imitate—at least on paper—the norms prevailing in the European international society at the time. Yet although the Soviet Union was making inroads toward becoming a member of European international society, it took the brief Western-Soviet alliance during World War II and the thorough disruption of the balance of power in Europe that followed to ensure Russia’s emergence as a pivotal player in Europe yet again. But although Stalin and the Soviet Union were instrumental in dictating the new constitution of Europe in the postwar situation, it cannot be said that the new constitution would have been formed under the rubric of common culture. Instead, it was more akin to a precarious equilibrium among the Soviet Union, Western Europe, and the United States. The precariousness of the postwar settlement is indeed the key to understanding the cold war, because at no time did the Soviet

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Union—save the final years of Gorbachev at the turn of the 1990s—cease from harboring revolutionary and subversive intentions vis-à-vis its Western capitalist neighbors in Europe, nor did the Western powers cease from “containing” the Soviet threat in the hope that one day it would result “in either the break-up or the gradual mellowing of Soviet power” (Kennan 1947/1997, 169; see also Malia 1999, 353, 387–88; Halliday 1994, 175–77). Territorial Control and the Cold War The Wilsonian interwar constitution and with it the final vestiges of European preponderance imploded during World War II. After the war, the United States and the Soviet Union were in full control of the destinies of not only Europe, but of the whole globe. They were also in an unrivaled position to reconstitute the normative order of the by now increasingly global international society. The cold war and especially the emerging nuclear stalemate of the Mutually Assured Destruction made both actors, despite their ideological grievances, unwilling to commit to all-out war, which would only result in the utter annihilation of the world. In this situation, it was the principle of territorial legitimation that came to the fore in the constitution of sovereignty. As such, national borders became sacrosanct, and it was now the relationship between state and territory—not state and people, as previously—that constituted sovereign statehood in international society (Barkin 1998, 244; Jackson 1999, 446). This principle found manifestations in the respective foreign policies of the two adversaries: the doctrine of peaceful coexistence in the case of the Soviet Union and the aforementioned policy of containment in the case of the United States. But the cold war order was a fairly unstable one, succumbing to repeated crises between the two main culprits. It was not until the Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE) at the beginning of the 1970s that the cold war constitution of territorial control was fully institutionalized—at least in Europe. On the face of it, the Helsinki Final Act in 1975 represented a resounding victory for the Soviet Union. It recognized the status quo in Europe, thus enabling Russia to codify a normative order in Europe that was to a large extent her own making and to her liking. But the Helsinki Accords also included the so-called Basket Three of Political and Human Rights, which kept these questions alive in the East and consequently opened the door for the legitimate criticism of Soviet domestic politics (Kennedy-Pipe 1998, 148; Stent 1991, 142). As such, the CSCE became a mirror that could be held against the uglier sides of the Soviet face, exposing the nakedness of Soviet power politics and domination in Eastern Europe

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and undermining the legitimacy of its prolongation (this so-called Helsinki effect has been discussed in Thomas 2001). Of course it took more than the CSCE to bring about the end of cold war, the collapse of the Soviet empire, and soon afterward the collapse Soviet Union itself. Of equal importance—very much like in the case of the collapse of Tsarist Russia—was the inefficiency and degeneration of the Soviet system itself. By the late 1970s, the economic stagnation and problems facing the Soviet Union became known also in the West (see, for example, Pipes 1976, 18). But it took the ascension of Mikhail Gorbachev into the post of general secretary of the Communist Party for the badly needed reforms to begin in earnest. This is no place to recount the story of glasnost and perestroika in full, as it has already been done in numerous books and articles on the topic (see, for example, Bunce 1993; Hosking 2002; Lieven 2003; Volkogonov 1999; Wallander 2002). It is sufficient to say that the attempts at opening up and restructuring the Soviet system also managed to aggravate internal tensions and problems—of which the badly managed and ill understood “nationality question” was perhaps the most important (for more about this argument, see Kennedy-Pipe 1998, 199–202; Motyl 1990). These tensions reached a boiling point that resulted in the eventual collapse of the Soviet Union in August–December 1991. From the vantage point of this chapter, a more salient focus of analysis resides at the nexus between the Gorbachev’s initiatives for “New Thinking” concerning international relations and the role it played in the Soviet foreign and especially European policies at the end of the 1980s. Basically, New Thinking entailed the acceptance of the mutual interdependence and relinking the future of the Soviet Union with that of the rest of Europe and the wider capitalist world that it had for so long deemed exploitative, incompatible, and harmful for its own existence (Rice 1991, 160–61; for a Soviet view on the topic, see Trofimenko 1991). The radical nature of this break with the past cannot be overemphasized: it meant the renunciation of the understandings of relations between the socialist and capitalist camps based on zero-sum logic and its replacement with a relationship based on trust and the recognition of the interdependence of both countries and classes (Gorbachev 1987, esp. 139–44; for a discussion, see Kennedy-Pipe 1998, 187; Wallander 2002, 118). This entailed the acceptance of the existence of an international society in its English School variant and the tacit acceptance of the common culture that binds its different parts together. In essence, New Thinking and the concept of the Common European Home (discussed later in this section) that followed led the Soviet Union back to the path of rapprochement and gradual convergence with the norms of European international society, a process that had been disconnected in

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1917. But in order to fully grasp the nature of these changes, we must take a brief sidestep in the narrative to examine the role of European integration in developing another, competing set of constitutive norms for the international society. It was in Western Europe where, under the wings of American power and in the shadow of the bipolar global confrontation, a new form of international governance, economic and political integration, had been gathering steam. This was the same “little Europe” that Lenin had ridiculed in his writings that had now engaged itself in building a pluralistic security community and forming a normative order that essentially went much beyond and consequently challenged the norm of territorial control prevailing during the cold war between the two superpowers (on security communities, see Deutsch et al. 1957; Adler and Barnett 1998). At first, the process had mainly internal repercussions for the European Community (EC) and its member states, but from the 1970s onward, the EC and later the European Union have become more prominent in the constitution of European international society and the exporter of this normative order to Eastern Europe and even globally (See Thomas 2001; Wallace 1999).12 The initial Soviet reaction to the Schuman declaration of May 1950 and its aftermath was hostile. It was only in the early 1970s that the tone started to change toward a wary recognition of the perseverance and even success of Western European integration (Laird 1989, 222). A decisive moment came in March 1972 when Leonid Brezhnev in a speech to the Fifteenth Congress of Soviet Trade Unions de facto—although not de jure—recognized the EC (for a discussion, see John 1975, 47). This was an act that paved the way for rounds of intermittent talks between the EC and the Council for Economic Mutual Assistance (CMEA) on the issue of mutual recognition and establishment of official ties, which did not however yield any significant results. Brezhnev’s recognition coincided with the first time that the Soviet Union had to come face to face with the normative agenda of the EC in earnest. During the CSCE negotiations in the early 1970s, the EC was the main engine in developing the conference’s agenda beyond questions of high politics and security toward respect for human rights and fundamental freedoms, which ended up in the so-called Basket Three of the Helsinki Final Act in 1975.13 It was against this background and into this normative landscape in Western Europe that Gorbachev’s New Thinking emerged. It is, however, important to bear in mind that Gorbachev’s European policy was largely driven by economic considerations.14 The Soviet Union needed to ease the burden of the relentless arms race and to attract investments and technological know-how from the West—both feats that were unattainable in the frosty international climate of the early 1980s. The EC’s drive for a single market

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launched in 1986 gave the rapprochement increased impetus as the Soviet Union could hardly risk being excluded from what looked like becoming perhaps the most dynamic economic area in the world (Stent 1991, 143). It was for this reason and to this end that Gorbachev started his charm offensive by declaring 1987 the “Year of Europe.” The Soviet initiative yielded swift results, as already in June 1988, the EC and CMEA adopted a “Common Declaration” establishing diplomatic relations, followed by a host of bilateral Trade and Cooperation Agreements with all of the members of CMEA, the Soviet Union included. In essence, Gorbachev’s agenda was that of selective imitation and careful adaptation of Western models and ideas.15 It is worth emphasizing that at no time did he have plans for renouncing communism or Lenin—in fact, he wanted to resteer the Soviet Union back to the “original” path of Leninism as he saw it (Gorbachev 1995, 173). He did not believe the task at hand was one of merely learning from the capitalist countries, and he had no intentions of subscribing to and implementing the Western liberal agenda in full (cf. Bunce 1993, 120; Malcolm 1991, 57). But like all of Gorbachev’s reforms, New Thinking also contained paradoxical and largely irreconcilable elements (for an analysis of the contradictions in the economic components of perestroika, see Zweynert 2006). An expression of this came in the form of the Common European Home Initiative, which was articulated most clearly by Gorbachev in his book Perestroika: New Thinking for Our Country and the World (1987, 190–209).16 The book portrayed a drastic break with the key Soviet tenets for Europe. Instead of making a clear demarcation between “true” and “false” Europe, the Common European Home recognized the essential cultural wholeness of the continent (Neumann 1996, 162; for the historical roots of the binary concept, see Neumann 1996; Malia 1999, 139–46). Nevertheless, it is important to point out that Gorbachev’s blueprint for Europe never entailed the total eradication of systemic and societal differences between the Soviet Union and Western Europe. In fact, this train of thought was one against which Gorbachev himself spoke in his writings and public speeches. In his book Perestroika, he argued that although “the [common European] home is common . . . each family has its own apartment, and there are different entrances, too.” He continued, it “is only together, collectively, and by following the sensible norms of coexistence that the Europeans can save their home, protect it against a conflagration and other calamities, make it better and safer, and maintain it in proper order” (Gorbachev 1987, 195). For Gorbachev, this “sensible norm of coexistence” was essentially Westphalian sovereignty. This interpretation is given currency by another passage in Perestroika, where he contends that “universal security in our time rests on

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the recognition of the right of every nation to choose its own path of social development, on the renunciation of interference in the domestic affairs of other states. . . . A nation may choose either capitalism of socialism. This is its sovereign right” (Gorbachev 1987, 143).17 Furthermore, in a speech in July 1989, Gorbachev explicitly warned against thinking that “the overcoming of the division of Europe is the overcoming of socialism. That is a course for confrontation” (quoted in Neumann 1996, 165). Instead, the idea behind Common European Home— just like that of the policy of perestroika—was that of gradual convergence and cooperation between the two systems that would leave their basic differences in place (Malcolm 1991, 70–71; see also Kubálková 2001, 129). In a sense, both policies were defensive maneuvers in the face of economically dynamic and normatively consolidating Europe. Writing in 1990, Ole Wæver (1990, 482) noted how the Common European Home had turned from a charm offensive to a part of a defensive policy whose main aim was to prevent the exclusion of the Soviet Union from Europe.18 A year later, Neil Malcolm (1991, 51) noted how the Common European Home “concerns less the changes which the country’s leadership might envisage occurring in Europe as a whole, and more the ‘Europeanization’ of the Soviet Union itself, conceived of by many Russians as an essential condition for its inclusion in the common European house.” (For the same argument, see Timmermann 1991, 169–70; Camilleri and Falk 1992, 165.) Gorbachev’s hopes for an equal role in Europe ended therefore in failure. Instead of embracing the idea of a Common European Home, Western Europe continued, or restarted, the imposition of its normative basis on the Soviet Union yet again. Moscow was not in a position to resist this state of affairs. This was partly due to the already mentioned poor performance of the Soviet system. Equally important, however, were the unintended consequences of Gorbachev’s reforms that managed to erode his chances of success. One of those was the emergence of a group of liberals who advocated the copying of and learning from Western models in order to qualify for a membership in “civilization” (Neumann 1996, 167; see also Neumann 2002). This intellectual openness to Western models was further augmented by the Soviet Union’s rapidly deteriorating standing in Europe. In the face of the tumultuous events in 1989 in Central and Eastern Europe and in the midst of its own rapidly advancing disintegration, Gorbachev and the Soviet Union were in no position to put forth their own models for the future development of Europe.19 Instead, it was the Western powers and increasingly the EC and its member states that were able to seize the initiative in laying down the rules for the emerging “New Europe.” The Soviets were forced to concur.

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This is highlighted in the words of Foreign Minister Edouard Shevardnadze, who in January 1990 noted how Moscow could not resist the “objective prerequisites for economic integration” and the gravitas of the political structures developed in Western Europe that “exert a pull to rapprochement” on the Soviet Union (quoted in Malcolm 1991, 66). In a sense, this process culminated in the Charter of Paris for a New Europe in November 1990, which was endorsed by all the members of the CSCE, including the already frail Soviet Union. The document emphasized the role of peace, democracy, human rights, and the rule of law and economic liberty as the guiding principles in the building of a “New Europe” (CSCE 1990 Summit). It also erased the clear distinction between the internal and external—domestic and foreign policies—by obligating all European countries to develop not only their mutual relations but also and primarily their domestic policies in line with these principles. Even if one removes the pompous wording of the document, one is faced with the fact that the Paris Charter represented a drastic and final break in the bipolar normative constellation in Europe. In short, the Paris Charter discredited the socialist experiment as a credible alternative to Western modes of liberalism, the market economy and the democratic rights of individuals. Convergence was not to take place between the systems, as the convergence theorists and even Gorbachev had assumed, but it was the Soviet Union and communism that essentially capitulated at the end of the 1980s by subscribing in full to the normative agenda developed by the West. By signing the Paris Charter, Gorbachev signaled the end of a competing Soviet normative agenda for the future development of the European international society. Once again it was Europe’s turn to condition Russia’s place in Europe. Conclusion The end of the cold war heralded the fourth mutation in the constitution of the European international society. The new constitution was based on the norms already advocated by the EC during the CSCE process in the beginning of the 1970s, but the primacy of human rights was complemented with a more wide-ranging cocktail of Western liberal values, such as democracy, rule of law, and market economy. The new era entailed once again closing off alternative avenues for the constitution of Europe. As such, Russia returned to her longer historical trajectory, trying to locate her own place in the emerging new constellation. To a certain degree, the new game was in fact the continuation of an older and familiar one that has been reconstructed in this chapter and that is summarized in Table 2.1.

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Table 2.1 The role of Russia in the reconstitution of European international society. The Name of the Era

Norm-maker(s)

The Constitutive Principle

Westphalia

No decisive victor

Religious settlement

Congress system

The Great Powers (Russia, Austria, Britain, Prussia)

Legitimate monarchy

Inter-world wars

The United States

Nationalism

Cold war

The United States the Soviet Union

Territorial control

The post-cold war era

“The West” European institutions, esp. CoE, EU, OSCE

Liberal democracy and market economy; human rights

Role of Russia Initially not part of the system, then a norm-taker At first the key normmaker/enforcer of the Concert, then a hesitant norm-taker Not part of the system until the 1930s, then a superficial norm-taker Key norm-maker, and at the turn of the 1990s a tentative norm-taker A norm-taker, an aspiring member of the “European Community of Values”

The table shows how only twice during the time span covered by this chapter has Russia been a pivotal player in the European international society that has been able to make—or to be a part of the coalition that made—the norms that constitute sovereignty. On all other occasions, Russia’s lot has been to be the taker of European norms. But even on the occasions when Russia has been the norm-maker, her position has been based on the temporary might of her arms achieved through tremendous internal mobilization and effort. Russia has been a “Prodigal Superpower” (Rosefielde 2005) with feet of clay, without the help of commensurate preponderance in her economic performance and societal organization. On both occasions, then, the Russian moment only lasted for about half a century, ending with a humiliating defeat and a retreat from Europe. Furthermore, apart from communism, Russia has been unable to come up with an ideology or a set of normative claims that would have acted as a legitimate and widely recognized international rallying call. Even communism was an imported ideology—notably of Western European origin, as Russians themselves like to point out these days. This is the historical trajectory to which Russia returned in the beginning of the 1990s. As in Westphalia, once again Russia had not been present at the creation of the constitution of the post–cold war European international

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society. This symmetry is no accident but something that reveals a recurring theme in Russia’s relationship with Europe. Essentially it has been Europe (and in the latest instance perhaps the “West”) that has had the opportunity to reconstitute the international society and the changing normative parameters for Russia’s legitimate place in Europe. As Table 2.1 suggests, Russia has been less than successful in rising to the occasion. The adjectives “tentative” and “superficial” before the word “norm-taker” reveal that although in principle it is possible to agree with Lilia Shevtsova’s (2005) argument that the history of Russia is also the history of its Europeanization, it is only attempted Europeanization that we are talking about in this historical context. There is nothing historically inevitable in the process, and it does not necessarily entail progress or a closer fit between Europe and Russia. Russia has in fact always been ill at ease with Europe, as it is now with its most recent manifestation, Europeanization. As a consequence, Russia has been either a demander or an apologetic, but it has almost never been an equal participant of the European international society. In a sense, the end of the cold war and the dissolution of the Soviet Union did not translate into a Fukuyaman end of history after all. Instead, the historical analysis above gives grounds to an assertion that a return of history is more appropriate—as the basic incompatibility between the Western and the Soviet systems were eradicated, Russia resumed her historical quest of finding her rightful place in the European international society.20 Once again, Russia has been forced to come a-knocking on Europe’s door. But in certain important respects, the situation is not a mere continuation of history a la 1917. The Europe of the 1990s provided Russia with unprecedented normative depth and institutional thickness and, as a consequence, a much more challenging normative landscape into which she could—and indeed must— try to position herself than the one Russia left behind at the end of the World War I. To a certain degree, the societas created at Westphalia had been replaced with a new secular universitas proclaiming the principles of Western liberalism, especially democracy, market economy, and human rights, with the EU residing at its most highly institutionalized postsovereign core. It is indeed in the highly explicit nature of this conditioning that the qualitative changes in Russia’s place in Europe in this last instance become apparent. Therefore, the question is not just that of having seats at the right tables. Once again, Russia has to wrestle with the question of how much she can —and wants to—converge toward the constitution of the European international society that has been made without her being present at its creation. The outcome is uncertain, but that Russia must try is not: this question has, after all, been the driving force of both Russian and to a lesser extent European history for at least the past three centuries.

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Notes 1. For the seminal work, see Neumann (1996). For a survey of the existing literature as well as an innovative theoretical treatment and extensive case studies about the subject, see Hopf (2002). 2. The story will be continued in my forthcoming work that will tell the post–cold war part of the story in more detail. 3. The key text in this respect is, of course, Bull (1977/1995). For an overview about the English School and its central theoretical tenets, see Buzan (2004, esp. 6–26). 4. A clarification of the usage of the terms “European international society” and “international society” is perhaps required. To a large extent, they are used interchangeably in this chapter. Traditionally, European international society has been seen as the “core,” the expansion of which has resulted in the more encompassing present global international society. For treatments, see Bull and Watson (1985) and Watson (2003). 5. For neorealists, the “constitution of the international society” (a term they would never use themselves, by the way) equals the structure of the international system and the dispersion of relative material capabilities within it. 6. Halliday (1994, 102) has sought to explicate how the (constitution of the) international society can indeed rest on the coercion of its more powerful members. 7. But see Jackson (1999), who identifies only three: Westphalian, imperial, and popular sovereignties, and Philpott (2001, 367), who sees essentially only one significant change from Westphalian sovereignty to the European Union. 8. The techniques of control employed in late imperial Russia have been discussed in Moon (1999) and Lauchlan (2005). 9. For more about the notion of military-autocracy, see Owen (1999, 108–11). 10. Walter Gurian (1950, 268–69) has labelled these two faces of the Soviet foreign policy as “utopianism” and “cynical realism.” For a longer discussion about this basic tension, see Kennedy-Pipe (1998, 1–8). 11. Gurian (1950, 270) also shows how reengaging with the international society resulted in other internal changes, as well, for the Soviet Union. For example, Stalin and his associates assumed the “hated tsarist” titles of prime minister and minister—ostensibly in order to increase their compatibility and prestige in the eyes of the new capitalist partners and rivals. 12. For a more conceptual exposition of the “Normative Power Europe,” see Manners (2002). During the post–cold war period, this role became, for obvious reasons, more accentuated, but as has already been mentioned, these events go beyond the scope of this article. 13. The role of the EC and its European Political Cooperation in broadening the agenda has been discussed in detail in Thomas (2001) and van Ham (1993, 109–14). 14. The scholarly community seems to be largely in unison over this point. See, for example, Bunce (1993, 113), Laird (1989, 231), Timmermann (1990, 106, 108–9), and Wettig (1991, 89).

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15. Moltz (1993, 308–9) has called this process borrowing, where leaders derive knowledge from the international arena in order to increase their political efficacy without experiencing more profound changes in underlying goal structures. 16. This is not saying much about the clarity of the concept, however. Neil Malcolm (1989) has pointed out how the main characteristic of the common European home concept in fact was always its vagueness. 17. For an excellent discussion of the fluctuating content of sovereignty in Soviet thinking, see Jones (1990). 18. See also Timmermann (1990, 121) for the same conclusion. In an article written a year later, William C. Wohlforth (1991, 50) argued, using neorealist parlance, that Gorbachev’s Soviet Union had become a status quo power without the power to stop its collapse. 19. This is nothing new, however. According to Iver Neumann (2002, 205) apart from communism—now lying on its deathbed—Russia has been historically unable to produce alternative models to the “hegemonic” European ones. 20. This is the point that Iver Neumann makes in his chapter as well.

PART 2

Russia and Europe: Making Policy

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CHAPTER 3

Russian Foreign-Policy Decision Making on Europe

Alexander Sergunin Introduction

T

his chapter focuses on how Russia’s policies toward Europe have been made in the post-communist era. In particular, it pays attention to the powers, roles, and functions of actors participating in the decision-making process. Both governmental and nongovernmental actors are examined. It further assesses the efficiency of the foreign policy mechanism and identifies major problems in its organization and functioning. It should be noted that a country’s decision-making system not only reflects foreign policy debate in the society, but it also is to some extent a product of this debate and an instrument that helps put ideas into practice. Decision-makers are simultaneously part of this debate, consumers of the products of discourse, instruments of implementation and feedback. The collapse of the USSR and the reemergence of the independent Russian state had many serious implications for the country’s foreign policy decision-making system. Decision-makers had to operate within a completely new political environment—domestic and international. The new political system included new institutions, political actors (such as the presidency), interest groups, multiple parties, and think tanks. The roles and functions of the old players—foreign, defense and security agencies, the legislature, the mass media, and public opinion—were all reconsidered. The purposes and motivation of the foreign policy mechanism radically changed as well.

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The country’s international strategy was no longer oriented to the struggle with capitalism or competing for global hegemony with the United States. Instead, Russia redefined its international status and resources to cope with its absolutely new set of security challenges and a new system of national interests. It is also important to emphasize that Russia had to create a new decision-making mechanism simultaneously with and in the course of nation building. This multiple transition was extremely difficult and the cause of many mistakes and lapses. This process is still far from complete: both institutions and decision-making procedures are still evolving. The decision-making process involves two types of actors—governmental (the presidency, numerous executive agencies, the Russian parliament, regional and local governments, etc.) and nongovernmental (interest groups, political parties, religious organizations, think tanks and—to a certain extent—the mass media).1 Government Actors The government decision-making mechanism for Russia’s European policies (see Figure 3.1) took its current shape by the mid-1990s. A proper legal and doctrinal basis (the Russian Constitution of 1993, presidential decrees of 1992–93) was followed by a series of decisions establishing the status of different agencies in foreign policy (federal laws on national security [1992], international treaties and foreign trade [both, 1995], delimiting powers between the federal center and regions in the sphere of international politics [1999], the concept of foreign policy [1993], military doctrine [1993], the national security concept [1997], etc.). A more-or-less clear division of labor between various executive agencies as well as between the executive branch and the legislature was established (although some squabbling between them occasionally occurs even now). Foreign policy and national security agencies have finalized internal structural and procedural reforms. On a more general note, by the mid-1990s, the Russian political, military, and business elites completed their consolidation under the Yeltsin regime, and a sort of foreign policy consensus emerged in the country (Blackwill and Karaganov 1994, 53–55; Malhotra and Sergunin 1998, 403–9; Sergunin 2003, 85). There are three levels of foreign-policy decision making in Russia among state actors: federal, regional, and local. The first (federal) level is represented (as elsewhere) by the executive and legislative branches. Among the federal executive bodies two main types can be distinguished: president-related (the president and his administration) and Cabinet of Ministers–related

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(ministries, committees, services, etc.); although some agencies have a double subordination, to the president and the prime minister. Among executive agencies involved in Russia’s shaping of European policy, four categories can be singled out: diplomacy/policy (Ministry of Foreign Affairs); national security (Ministry of Defense, intelligence community, etc.); economy (Ministry for Economic Development and Trade [MEDT], Ministry of Finance, Customs Committee, etc.); and society/culture (Ministry of Social Development and Health Care, Ministry of Culture, Ministry of Education and Science, etc. [see Figure 3.1]). According to current legal regulations, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MFA) is a key executive agency in the decision-making mechanism (including European issues). The MFA was entrusted with the function of coordinating and monitoring work by other ministries to ensure a unified political line by Russia in its relations with foreign states and its participation in international organizations. Executive agencies should coordinate draft agreements with other states, the publication of forthcoming visits abroad by Russia’s state leaders, foreign leaders’ visits to Russia, and reports of their progress with the MFA. The role of the MFA in decision making varies because its ground rules were rather unstable (especially in the 1990s). From the very beginning, the MFA has never been the only or ultimate decision-maker of Russia’s European policy. Despite the fact that the ministry was the only agency with formal responsibility for overseeing European/international policy, other ministries (such as the Ministry of Defense, the intelligence community, the Customs Committee, etc.) and especially the president and his administration interfered with policy making. As far as Europe is concerned, the MEDT is the main rival of the MFA because the lion’s share of EU-Russia relations concerns the economy, trade, the WTO accession process, Kaliningrad, and so on, where MEDT has priority. The MFA has the following responsibilities in the policy-making process: • Gathering and processing data on Russia-Europe relations and providing the president, prime minister, and other relevant executive agencies and the parliament with such information • Writing policy papers with the aim of attracting the attention of key players to particular problems and suggesting recommendations for solution • Making predictions about EU-Russia relations and on European integration • Negotiating with the EU and particular European countries on specific issues and drafting treaties and agreements

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Figure 3.1 Governmental actors.

• Diplomatic correspondence with European countries, EU organs, and other multilateral organizations—OSCE (Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe), CBSS (Council of the Baltic Sea States), BEAC (Barents-Euro-Arctic Council), etc. • The organization of official Russian delegations’ trips to Europe and the reception of European visitors to Russia • Maintaining routine connections with Russian embassies, consulates, and trade missions in European countries

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• Coordinating the foreign policy activities of Russian executive agencies at all levels (federal, regional, and local) The MFA has two types of structural units (departments): regional and functional. Three regional European departments and the functional Department for Pan-European Cooperation are in charge of European affairs. A number of other functional units (the Department for International Organizations; the Department for Security and Disarmament; the Department for International Humanitarian Cooperation and Human Rights; the Department for Liaison with Members of the Russian Federation, Parliament, and Political and Public Organizations; the Legal Department; the Protocol Department and the Consular Service) are also involved in the making of Moscow’s European policy (see Figure 3.2). There is also a Foreign Policy Planning Directorate who writes policy papers, makes recommendations on coordination measures and topical issues, as well as provides the minister with predictions about future developments in particular areas of world politics. Along with these departments, the MFA administrative structure includes a collegiate body and a consultative group that is comprised of deputy ministers, department heads, the minister’s executive secretary, and his adviser. The collegiate body discusses mainly internal administrative matters such as improving the structure of the ministry, the Russian missions abroad, and the consular service. The executive secretariat assists the minister in managing the work of the MFA There is also a group of advisers, staffed by senior diplomats, and ambassadors at large assigned special responsibilities such as conflict resolution or arms control negotiations. Deputy ministers’ responsibilities relate to particular functional or regional areas of Russian international policy and include overseeing the work of other departments. National security–oriented agencies are represented first of all by the Ministry of Defense (MoD). The MoD was formally established in March 1992. According to the Russian Constitution, the Law on Security of 1992, and the Law on Defense (October 1992), the president is the commander-in-chief of the armed forces, operating through the General Staff. The Security Council is the political body that controls Russia’s military establishment. Between 1996 and 1998, the Defense Council played an important role in military-reform planning. The MoD is responsible for the development and implementation of military, technical, and personnel policy. The functions of the General Staff include developing proposals relating to Russian military doctrine and to the structure, composition, deployment, and tasks of Russian armed forces. While the MoD was assigned political

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Alexander Sergunin Figure 3.2. The internal structure of the Russian Foreign Ministry (related to European policy making)1 Foreign Minister

First Deputy Minister

Deputy Ministers

Executive Secretariat

Group of Advisers

Ambassadors at Large

Functional departments

Regional departments

1. Department for International Organizations 2. Department for Security & Disarmament 3. Department for Humanitarian Co-operation & Human Rights 4. Department for Liaison with the Members of the Russian Federation, Parliament, public & political organisations 5. Legal Department 6. Protocol Department 7. Information and Press Department 8. Consular Service

1. Department for Pan-European Cooperation 2. First European Department (Andorra, Belgium, Cyprus, France, Greece, Italy, Luxembourg, Malta, Maltese Order, Monaco, Netherlands, Portugal, San Marino, Spain, Turkey, Vatican) 3. Second European Department (Denmark, Estonia, Finland, Ireland, Island, Latvia, Lithuania, Norway, Sweden, UK) 4. Third European Department (Albania, Austria, Bosnia & Herzegovina, Bulgaria, Croatia, Hungary, Czech Republic, Liechtenstein, Germany, Macedonia, Poland, Romania, Serbia & Montenegro, Slovakia, Slovenia, Switzerland)

1

Source http://www.mid.ru/nsite-sv.nsf/msndoc/03.04

and administrative functions, the General Staff directed operational and strategic planning and the management of troops (Yeltsin 1992). From the moment of its creation, the MoD appeared to be engaged in a determined struggle to recapture the influential position in foreign policy matters occupied by its Soviet predecessor. Although in the new regime the MoD’s approval was formally required for any decisions affecting its sphere

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of competence (and its representatives were routinely included in delegations dealing with arms control and defense matters), there was a strong sense (at least in the early 1990s) that its views were being ignored and that options for the future were being foreclosed. Remarkably, the first Russian defense minister, Pavel Grachev, became a full member of the Security Council only after he proved his loyalty to the president by supporting Yeltsin in his confrontation with the Supreme Soviet in September/October 1993. At the same time, the weakness of central authority and the lack of a sound decision-making system in the first half of the 1990s meant that the Russian military establishment enjoyed considerable autonomy and was gradually able to increase its influence on security policy. Its links with civilian politicians and expatriate communities provided the defense establishment with additional channels of influence on Russian decision making. Along with the foreign minister, the defense minister became a member of the Security Council’s Inter-Agency Foreign Policy Commission in December 1992. The General Staff dominated the process of drafting military doctrine in 1992–93. According to some accounts, at a meeting of the Security Council on February 28, 1993, Yeltsin asked the high-ranking military leaders to draft not only military-technical sections but also the political chapter of the new military doctrine—a prerogative that, in principle, belonged to the Security Council or the president himself (Malcolm et al. 1996, 253). The final version of the doctrine reflected military rather than civilian preferences. In the early 1990s, the MoD often prevailed over other foreign policy institutions in Russia’s relations with the Baltic States. In early September 1992, the Russian and Lithuanian military authorities reached an agreement on a timetable for Russian troop withdrawals. The MFA received the agreement two days before it was to be signed, and they were physically unable to make the necessary amendments (Crow 1993, 52). A few weeks later, the MoD announced that withdrawals would be suspended, when suitable accommodation was not yet ready for particular units on Russian territory. Then on October 29, the Russian president, influenced by the military, signed a directive stopping the withdrawal for a short period. The MFA claimed not to have been consulted about this move either. In 1993–94, the MFA managed to play a more visible role in negotiating and concluding agreements on troop withdrawals from Latvia and Estonia. However, the MFA had to revise its previous position under the pressure of the military establishment and implement a “linkage tactic” to secure the rights of retired officers and the Russian-speaking population in these two countries. In January 1994, the foreign minister even called the Baltic States a “source of threat to Russia,” referring to the lack of progress on negotiations on troop withdrawal

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from Estonia and Latvia and incidents between the Latvian militia Zemessardze and Russian servicemen stationed in this country (Kozyrev 1994). From 1993 to 1995, the MoD put formidable pressure on the MFA to negotiate an agreement on military transit with Lithuania (to and from Kaliningrad). The MFA initially planned to link this issue with a comprehensive political agreement with Vilnius. However, facing both the Lithuanian and Russian MoD’s reluctance to accept such a linkage, the MFA had to agree to settle the issue of military transit on a separate basis (the Baltic Independent, February 3–9, 1995, 6). It should be noted that even after the formal resolution of this problem, Lithuania complained about numerous violations of its airspace by Russian aircraft, and the MFA was often put on the spot or otherwise held responsible for wrongdoing by the military. The MoD officials, at odds with the MFA, felt themselves free to express their opposition to military intervention in the former Yugoslavia. In late April 1993, the MoD announced that Russia would not send additional peace-keeping forces there (Crow 1993, 50). Underlying these moves was the fear that Russia could be drawn into a war that had the potential to spread beyond the Balkan region. The MoD also criticized MFA’s pro-Western policy on the former Yugoslavia, in sharp contrast with the traditional Russian pro-Serbian course. However, the MFA’s subsequent criticism of NATO air strikes against Serbs in Bosnia helped to bridge the gap between the two ministries’ positions. In 1999, the MoD and General Staff demonstrated their “independence” of other foreign policy and national security agencies in case of the Kosovo crisis. They deployed military vessels (mostly reconnaissance ships) to the conflict zone and shared military intelligence data with Milosevic. This change of tack included a surprise move of Russian peace-keepers from Bosnia to Pristina (Kosovo), which led to a conflict with British peacekeepers in the area. However, many experts believe that this move was sanctioned by Yeltsin, who wanted to demonstrate to NATO that he was still able to control the whole situation. The MoD was quite independent in the sphere of military diplomacy. For example, in late July 1992 Yeltsin endorsed the MoD’s proposal to negotiate on military cooperation with Bulgaria, Hungary, Poland, Romania, and the Czech Republic, irrespective of progress in negotiating political treaties with these countries (Crow 1993, 51). In September 1994, Grachev signed military cooperation agreements with Denmark, Finland, and Norway during a visit to Copenhagen (the Baltic Independent, September 16–22, 1994, 2). He also offered the Baltic States the same bilateral security agreements. However, these proposals (which did not fully correspond to the

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Russian diplomatic line in the region in any case) were rejected by the Baltic leadership as “premature.” The MoD was quite active in military-technical cooperation with the Western European Union (WEU), which was seen as the EU’s military arm in the mid-1990s. The space and aviation industries were the main areas of cooperation. The MoD also cooperated with a number of the former members of the Warsaw Treaty Organization (e.g., Bulgaria), who were dependant on Russia for spare parts. Along with the Foreign Intelligence Service, the MoD was one of the earliest critics of plans to expand NATO eastward. The ministry was especially concerned with the possibility of NATO replacing the UN in peace-keeping or even extending NATO’s peace-keeping activities into the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS) area. The MoD was also a leading agency for the arms control process in Europe. The MoD was a significant player in the revision of the Conventional Forces in Europe (CFE.) Treaty. From the very beginning, the Russian military establishment regarded this treaty as unjust, having resulted from Gorbachev’s unilateral concessions to the West. The so-called flank issue was the main area of contention between Russia and the West. Because of flank limitations, Russia was allowed to deploy only 18 percent of its treaty-limited equipment (TLE.) in the Leningrad and North Caucasus Military Districts, together covering more than half of its units deployed on one-quarter of Russia’s territory. This asymmetry of deployment was also illustrated by the fact that Russia could have six times the number of tanks and fifteen times the number of armored combat vehicles in the tiny Kaliningrad Special Defense District than in the whole flank zone (SIPRI 1996, 718). Meanwhile Russia had to protect its northwestern and southern borders, taking into account its new geopolitical situation and the rise of unfriendly regimes. Russian demands to revise the CFE Treaty were mainly related to the North Caucasus Military District where the Chechen war broke out. Grachev played a crucial role in negotiating a compromise agreement with his American counterpart William Perry in October 1995. The Perry-Grachev compromise excluded a number of Russian regions from the flank zones and thus allowed Moscow to deploy more troops and armaments in the vulnerable areas (SIPRI 1997, 476–79). Under Putin, the MoD has continued to lose its influence on foreignpolicy decision making (including European affairs). The president has assigned the MoD predominantly internal missions such as military reform, the war in Chechnya, and so on. Even the collective security system of the CIS, including peace-keeping operations in the post-Soviet space and in the Balkans or arms control, are no longer the MoD’s preferential areas.2

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The ministry looks often more like an instrument of implementing policies rather than a decision-maker. To summarize, there were ups and downs in the MoD’s influence on the decision-making process. Being created and properly institutionalized later than many other governmental bodies, the MoD and General Staff have had to wage permanent bureaucratic warfare to secure their interests and authority. This often resulted in open confrontations with the MFA and the presidential structures as well as inconsistencies in Russia’s policies in Europe. In the 1990s, the military establishment managed to retain its positions in areas such as CIS military integration, peace-keeping in the post-Soviet space and Balkans, arms control, military-technical cooperation with European countries, and military-to-military contacts. The military lobby’s influence increased in the periods when the president badly needed the army’s support in domestic political struggles (i.e., the confrontations with parliament in 1993 and 1998, wars in Chechnya) and decreased when the Kremlin’s positions were more-or-less stable. The general tendency, however, has been that with a strong president and foreign minister and the pressing goal of military reform, the defense agency’s attention has eventually turned from international to domestic issues. The intelligence community includes four major services: the Foreign Intelligence Service (FIS), military intelligence—the GRU (Glavnoe Razvedavatel’noe Upravlenie [Main Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff ]), the FSB (Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti [Federal Security Service]), and the Committee on Financial Monitoring (CFM). The FIS is the most important agency in terms of decision making. Through its stations in Europe and analytical services in Russia, the FIS gathers a huge amount of information that often serves as a crucial factor in decisions taken by key Russian actors. The GRU is focused on military espionage, and its possibilities for influencing the decision-making process are quite limited. In addition, the GRU is subordinated to the General Staff and the defense minister and so is unable to be an independent actor, unlike the other members of the intelligence community. The FSB is mostly preoccupied with counterintelligence and rarely involved in purely intelligence operations. However, after the series of the “colored” revolutions in the post-Soviet space in 2004–5 (Georgia, Ukraine, Kyrgyzstan), Putin assigned the FSB the task of monitoring the situation in the “near abroad” (with an emphasis on potential uprisings and terrorist activities). It remains unclear whether the FSB has such capabilities, because traditionally this function belonged to the FIS which, incidentally, was quite skeptical (and to some extent jealous) about the presidential decision. The

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CFM is a key agency in controlling financial flows to and from Russia. This body is considered as crucial for the economic and financial security of the country. Since the EU is Russia’s main trade partner, the CFM pays special attention to all transactions with European countries in order to prevent illegal activities. The power/national security–oriented sector also includes the Ministry of the Interior and the Committee on Drug Control. Together with the Border Guard Service (a part of the FSB) and the Customs Committee, their contribution is crucial to EU-Russia cooperation in fighting organized crime. Cross-border crime constitutes an important area and is a common concern for both the EU and Russia, particularly as to the trafficking of drugs, money, goods, stolen vehicles, and even people. These types of activities have a significant impact on people’s lives and the pace of economic and political reforms and also undercut government revenues. At the operational level, the police, customs and special services, and border guards need to be trained to understand the implications of international laws and conventions signed by their government. Continued training for officials from these agencies also increases their ability to counteract illegal activities. Russia cooperates with Europe both at the bilateral and multilateral levels in this field. For example, a Russian-British Memorandum of Understanding on combating organized crime was signed in October 1997. Since 1996, the Task Force on Organized Crime in the Baltic Sea Region (Visby Group), developed under the auspices of the CBSS, has taken a leading role in building cooperation between regional law enforcement agencies (Vaz 2000, 56). The group deals with and coordinates action on illegal migration, money laundering, stolen cars, highly taxed goods, and trafficking in women, drugs, and corruption (Council of the European Union 2000). All partner countries of the so-called Northern Dimension Initiative (NDI) are involved. Cooperation at the subnational level takes place to fight cross-border crime. The European Commission participates in the work of the task force, and the EU presidency and Europol are regularly invited. The task force has been conducting joint, multidisciplinary law enforcement operations through its Operative Committee. A communications system allowing for an intensive exchange of information (BALTCOM) operates twenty-four hours a day. From the start, Russia has been one of the most active members of the task force. For example, Kaliningrad participated in a series of operations against stolen vehicles (the Kaliningrad Project, 1998), drugs (Channel, 1999), and illegal migration (Baltic Guard 1997–98 and VIVAN, 1999). These joint operations have contributed to confidence building and the improvement of “soft” security in the Baltic Sea area. Thanks to this, the perception

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of Kaliningrad is today much better in the region than it was in 1996 when the task force started its work (Commission of the European Communities 2001). In March 2000, an EU plan on combating organized crime, focusing on EU-Russia judicial cooperation in criminal matters, was adopted. Russia subsequently endorsed the plan as a suitable basis for cooperation. The plan concentrates on measures to combat double invoicing as an instrument of organized crime in trade between the EU and Russia (Council of the European Union 2001, 6). The Roadmap to the EU-Russia Common Space on Freedom, Justice, and Security (adopted at the EU-Russia summit in May 2005) also highlights fighting organized crime as an important priority for the joint cooperative agenda. Among the economy/trade-oriented agencies, the MEDT is a leading actor. Its international policy-related functions include: • running Russia’s foreign trade; • daily control over the Russian foreign trade missions abroad; • trade-related negotiations with individual foreign countries and international economic organizations, including the EU and the WTO; • the economic/trade aspects of the Kaliningrad problem. This has inevitably led to the numerous (however, not publicized—at least when compared to tensions with the MoD) conflicts with the MFA The latter blamed the MEDT for its nonprofessionalism and its intrusion into the MFA’s fields of jurisdiction. The MFA insisted that the MEDT’s activities should be coordinated with the diplomatic agency and that all the ministry’s officials should clear their statements with Smolenskaya Square.3 The MFA has also demanded that the heads of Russian trade missions in foreign countries should regularly report to ambassadors, who are seen as Russia’s supreme representatives abroad. Under Putin, the interpersonal relationships between the liberal-minded head of the MEDT, German Gref, and the rather conservative foreign ministers, Igor Sergeev and Sergei Lavrov, have also been problematic. The Customs Committee does not play any independent role in Russia’s decision making on Europe. Rather, it is a typical body of policy-takers overseeing implementation. However, since its huge bureaucracy deals in practical terms with the movement of people, goods, and services through EU-Russia borders, it is important that customs officers and rules correspond to international/European standards. For example, at its 1996 Visby Summit. the CBSS adopted an ambitious program aimed at subregional cooperation, including

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the need to train Russian border guards and customs officers (Diplomaticheskiy Vestnik 1996, 8: 9–11). The BEAC has developed a methodology for direct and very successful cooperation between Nordic and Russian customs authorities that could be applied also elsewhere. At the same time (as seen from the case on Kaliningrad), the Customs Committee can also be a source of rather destructive initiatives that hamper EU-Russia cooperation. The Ministry of Finance is also of secondary importance for decision making on European affairs (although it is crucial in domestic politics). It is responsible for allocating funds for Russia’s foreign policy apparatus and EU-Russia joint programs. It also oversees whether there are any violations in the use of budgetary money or not. The ministry has its own contacts with similar agencies in European countries and discusses the partners’ financial policies on an occasional basis. Since the EU and Russia have quite considerable trade in agricultural goods and the EU has initiated a number of agricultural projects in Russia with the aim to improve technology, management, and labor productivity, the Russian Ministry of Agriculture is involved from time to time in the formulation of Moscow’s European policies. Similar to many other governmental agencies, its role is of a more technical, rather than political, character. The cultural/societal bloc in the Russian government is represented by the Ministry of Social Development and Health, the Ministry of Culture, and the Ministry of Education and Science. They are often consulted by the real decision-makers on European affairs. Despite not being independent actors (all of them coordinate their activities with the Foreign Ministry), they developed rather intense and fruitful cooperative links with Europe. For example, the Ministry of Education and Science is a party to a number of EU cooperative programs, such as TEMPUS-TACIS (inter-university cooperation), INTAS (research cooperation), SIRIUS (lecturing program), and so on. The Ministry of Education and Science is crucial in terms of Russia joining the so-called Bologna Process that aims to harmonize and integrate the European higher education system. Russia has pledged to complete the reform of its university system (in order to comply with Bologna requirements) by 2010, though there is a great deal of skepticism among experts about whether it will actually be achieved. The ministry has selected several institutions to serve as “pilot universities,” where things like a two-level system (bachelors and masters) instead of the specialist scheme, the European Credit Transfer System (ECTS), and diploma supplement and mutual recognition of European and Russian diplomas, will be introduced. Given the impressive number of Russian governmental foreign policy actors, the problem of coordinating their activities is obvious. Initially, this

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Alexander Sergunin Figure 3.3: The Security Council of the Russian Federation1

Secretariat

Permanent members (prime minister; chairmen of the State Duma and the Council of the Federation; secretary of the SC; defense minister; foreign minister; director of the Foreign Intelligence Service; director of the Federal Security Service; minister of interior; first deputy prime minister; head of the presidential administration

1

Chairman (President of the RF)

Members (head, General Staff, Russian armed forces; minister of finance; president, Russian Academy of Science; attorney general; minister of justice; minister of civil defense and emergency; seven presidential envoys in the federal districts)

Interdepartmental commissions

Source: http//www.scrf.gov.ru/personnels/members.shtml

function rested with the Security Council created by Yeltsin in 1992 (in accordance with the Law on Security). The council consists of the president (chair), secretary, prime minister, and the heads of the key national securityrelated agencies. The council has a secretariat with numerous subdivisions, expert groups, and so on. The council also serves as an umbrella for various interagency groups that were created to solve or monitor specific problems (most of them are of a temporary character) (see Figure 3.3). According to the Law on Security, the council • determines the foundations of Russia’s domestic and foreign policies; • identifies the country’s vital interests, as well as internal and external threats to its security; • supervises the country’s military, economic, social, and information security;

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• makes recommendations to the president on issues of external and internal policy; • drafts presidential decrees on national security matters, such as foreign policy, defense, military-technical cooperation with foreign countries, organized crime, etc. (Yeltsin 1992). In reality, however, the council has been unable to fulfill its coordinating role for a number of reasons: • Being a collective body, the council consists of the representatives of different agencies that often have conflicting interests (the same is true for the council’s secretariat). They often use sabotage tactics to torpedo their rivals’ initiatives without a direct confrontation with the president or the council’s secretary. • Foreign policy issues are not a very important priority for the council and are discussed on an occasional rather than regular basis. • Due to its institutional organization, the council is unable to maintain daily control over the activities of the foreign policy agencies and has to limit itself only to strategic/conceptual issues. • The council has a powerful competitor, the presidential administration, that does not want to lose its control over the foreign policy apparatus. • The Council now has a figurehead role, merely rubber stamping decisions made by others. It seems that the presidential administration is the real coordinator of Russian-European foreign policies. In September 1997, a special Directorate on Foreign Policy was established within the administration. The directorate should draft executive initiatives and assist in drafting international treaties, plan foreign trips (in collaboration with the MFA), nominate foreign policy– making candidates, and collect foreign policy information for the president. Unsurprisingly, many of these functions overlap with those of the Security Council and make the latter a marginal or nominal player. With the start of his second presidency, Putin appointed Sergey Yastrzhembsky as a Special Assistant on EU Affairs and charged him with coordinating all Russian foreign policy agencies with European agendas (plus the Kaliningrad problem). This appointment, however, has provoked some disgruntlement on the part of the MFA and MEDT, who perceived this position as one more redundant bureaucratic structure. To sum up, the problem of coordinating the executive agencies’ European policies is not solved yet. Even under Putin (famous for his centralist spirit), there is a lot of unhealthy competition and tension between various governmental institutions. Russia still lacks a single (governmental) voice in

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European affairs, and Moscow’s European partners are often unsure of who to talk to and who to listen to. The Russian parliament is another player on the federal political arena. In the well-developed democracies, the legislature is a crucial and integral part of the foreign policy decision-making process. However, in Russia the situation is different. With adoption of the Russian Constitution in December 1993, the president became a key figure in foreign policy making. The president “directs the foreign policy of the Russian Federation,” within the framework set by the constitution and laws of the country (Constitution of the Russian Federation 1993, Articles 80 and 86). He no longer needs parliament’s approval for ministerial appointments, or the approval of the Security Council (Article 83). The bicameral legislature (the Federal Assembly), then, has quite limited powers in the field of foreign policy. On the other hand, it is able to influence the executive in some ways. The president needs the legislature’s approval of his ambassadorial appointees (Article 83 [m]). The lower house, the State Duma, and the upper house, the Council of the Federation (“Senate”) ratify and denounce international treaties (Article 106 [g]). Parliament also drafts legislation related to foreign and national security policies (foreign trade, defense, conversion of the defense industry, national security, etc.). However, its power over legislation is less effective because of the extensive use of executive decrees and the president’s right of veto. The legislature can also adopt nonbinding resolutions that have limited impact on the executive but cannot be fully ignored by the president. It has some voice in the budgeting process and may cut or increase appropriations for particular foreign policy agencies. The legislature may undertake investigations. The Council of the Federation exercises the sole parliamentary say in the sending of armed forces abroad. Legislators can also appeal to public opinion to block some executive initiatives. Finally, the Federal Assembly develops cooperation with foreign parliaments and parliamentary assemblies of international organizations (the Council of Europe, European Parliament, NATO, OSCE, etc.). However, none of these prerogatives affords parliament much leverage over policy, and even the legislators themselves acknowledge this (Rybkin 1995, 28). The Russian parliament’s powers and impact on foreign policy cannot be compared to those of, say, the U.S. Congress. The parliament has an institutional framework for making and even conducting foreign policy. The State Duma has three committees that deal with international affairs: the Committee for International Affairs, the Committee for Defense, and the Committee on Economics (foreign trade, negotiations with the EU and WTO). The Council of the Federation has, similarly, three

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specialized bodies. These committees are comprised of rather competent specialists. For example, Dmitry Kosachev, current chairman of the Duma’s Committee for International Affairs, is a graduate of MGIMO (Moscow State Institute of International Relations) and has a solid foreign service record. It should be noted that, in contrast with domestic policies, the Russian legislature rarely clashes with the executive branch in the domain of international politics (with the possible exception of Moscow’s policies in the “near abroad”). Rather, it usually backs the president in case of international crises or his talks with the EU, Kaliningrad, or the Russian minorities in the Baltic States. For example, the parliament supported Yeltsin during the Kosovo crisis in 1999. There were a number of extremists (mainly from the Liberal Democratic Party and the Communist Party factions) who called for immediate military-technical assistance to Serbia and creation of a trilateral union among Russia, Belarus, and Serbia (Rossiyskaya Gazeta 1999, 1). However, the vast majority of both the State Duma and the Council of the Federation was against Russia’s direct involvement in the Balkan War. Moreover, although the Council of the Federation approved funds for sending Russian peace-keepers to Kosovo, many senators expressed their concerns about the financial and security implications of peace-keeping operation for Russia. As in the case of the Yugoslav conflict, the government and parliament have often played the famous game of good cop, bad cop with the executive having to use a tougher tone with the West because of legislative pressure. Although the legislature does not play any significant role in Russia’s foreign-policy decision making, even Yeltsin realized the need to establish a liaison/consultative mechanism to avoid or prevent unnecessary conflicts with the Federal Assembly. The positions of presidential representatives in the State Duma and the Council of Federation have been created in response to these needs. These officials not only monitor the situation in both houses but take an active part in committee hearings and plenary sessions. They also draft legislation, consult deputies, present president-sponsored legislation, invite experts, make a legal assessment of bills pending in parliament, introduce presidential nominees, and deliver presidential messages to parliament (Sergunin 1999). The presidential representatives get secretarial support from the special unit of the presidential administration, which has around twenty-five employees. The post of Representative of the Prime Minister in the Federal Assembly and Constitutional Court has also been established. One of the high-ranking members of the cabinet used to assume this position ex officio. For example,

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in June 1999 Pavel Krasheninnikov, the minister of justice, was appointed representative of the government in parliament and to the Constitutional Court (Rossiyskaya Gazeta, 11th June 1999, 26). The legal directorates of both the presidential and cabinet administrations are responsible for cooperation with parliament in areas such as drafting legislation as well as legal assessment of legislation adopted by the State Duma. The Main Directorate on Domestic and Foreign Policies of the presidential administration is charged with gathering information on deputies’ attitude to president-sponsored legislation. Interestingly, liaison offices not only participated in the legislative process but also organized training programs for government officials. Some informal liaison structure has emerged as well. The Foreign and Defence Ministries often sponsor conferences, seminars, and round tables where experts from parliament are invited. Different Russian think tanks are also used for informal cooperation between agencies and parliamentary committees. These informal channels of communication have been rather helpful in reaching an executive-legislative consensus on issues such as NATO and EU enlargement, CFE Treaty, NDI, Kaliningrad, Russia’s policies in the Baltic Sea region, and so on. However, the existing liaison mechanism is far from perfect. It is reactive rather than proactive. It often simply follows events and developments in Europe rather than foresees or shapes them. The presidential and cabinet liaison structures often duplicate each other. There is a lack of coordination between different executive agencies: this frequently thwarts the government’s schemes and undermines presidential leadership in parliament. There is also the impression that the liaison mechanism sometimes looks like an individual (executive) business rather than a joint executive/legislative venture: while presidential officials are rather persistent in pursuing their interests, the legislature remains passive and indifferent. On a more general note, the legislature could play a more significant role in Russian foreign policy, making both through its own parliamentary diplomacy and providing scrutiny and accountability of the executive (perhaps the main function of the legislature in a democratic society). The second (lower) level of government actors is represented by the members of the Russian Federation. Prior to the early 1990s (when the Soviet model of federalism was camouflage for Unitarianism), the Russian regions had no say in foreign policy making. However, with the rebirth of the Russian federative system, many regions saw the development of their international contacts as an important resource both for solving their internal problems and putting pressure on the federal center (to negotiate more concessions for their loyalty to Moscow).

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Specialists distinguish two main forms of the regions’ international activities: direct (developing external relations of their own) and indirect (influencing federal foreign policies). Direct methods include: • Creating a regional legislative base: Yeltsin’s regime performed regional normative acts aimed at legitimizing the foreign policy of the members of the federation. By doing this, regional elites tried to carve out their own policies and thus become more independent from Moscow. In fact, a number of these acts either contradicted the Russian Constitution or went beyond what was envisioned in it. Spheres that in the constitution were ascribed to Moscow exclusively appeared as areas of joint jurisdiction in many documents. For example, Moscow’s treaties with Bashkortostan, Kabardino-Balkariya, North Ossetia, and Tatarstan granted these republics the right to defend their state and territorial integrity. Yekaterinburg, Tatarstan, and Udmurtiya gained authority over the functioning of defense industries and arms export. In some documents, regions (Bashkortostan, Tatarstan) had authority to establish relations and conduct agreements with foreign states. Tuva granted its local parliament the right to declare war and peace. The Tuvinian constitution even envisaged the right of secession. Areas identified in the constitution as spheres of joint authority appeared in later treaties as the exclusive jurisdiction of regions, including cooperation with foreign governments and international organizations (Bashkortostan, Tatarstan). However, sometimes local legislation has forestalled its federal counterpart: for example, in encouraging foreign investment and land ownership (e.g., Novgorod the Great). • Treaty-making: Despite the heated debate on the treaty-making powers of the center and members of the federation, the regions were quite active in this area. In the 1990s, the Russian regions concluded more than three hundred international agreements, which used to be prepared solely with the assistance of the MFA. However, some of the agreements that were signed bypassed Moscow completely. For example, in 1995 Moscow annulled the trade treaty between Kaliningrad and Lithuania because it came into conflict with federal legislation. Despite these conflicts, the treaty-making activities of the regions were one of the most effective instruments for strengthening their international prestige. • Establishing representative offices: To facilitate direct cooperation with foreign countries, the regions used to set up trade and cultural missions abroad. For instance, Tatarstan established offices in sixteen countries. In 1994, upon Tatarstan’s request, Yeltsin sanctioned the establishment of a Turkish General Consulate in Kazan. Since federal law stipulated that representative offices should be at the expense of the regions, few

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could afford having missions abroad. Many regions prefer to rely on federal structures—Russian embassies and trade missions—to develop their external relations. • Attracting foreign investment: Some regions succeeded in getting foreign investment (Moscow, St. Petersburg, Novgorod) that was crucial for their dynamic development. • Creating a region’s positive image: To attract foreign investors, many regions launched dynamic PR campaigns. They arranged exhibitions and took part in international fairs. Moreover, regional leaders undertook foreign trips with PR purposes. The regions published English-language periodicals oriented to foreign audiences. • Cooperation with international organizations: To confirm their status as global actors, many regions try to develop relations with international organizations. For example, Tatarstan cooperates with UNESCO, UNIDO, the European Congress of Municipal and Regional Governments, and the Council of Europe. Furthermore, Tatarstan is a member of the European Regions Assembly. The northwest regions of Russia cooperate with the CBSS, the Hanseatic League, and the BEAC. It should be noted that cooperation with international organizations is important for regions not only in terms of getting additional leverage in the power struggle with Moscow, but also in terms of opening up them to the worldwide processes of globalization and regionalization. The following are indirect methods: • Influencing federal legislation: Local legislation not only legitimizes the external relations of the regions but also affects federal legislation. For example, the Nizhny Novgorod Law on International Agreements (1995) has been used by the federal parliament in drafting a law on coordinating the external relations of the members of the federation (1999). The comments made by the Nizhny Novgorod regional legislature on the drafts of federal laws on international treaties of the Russian Federation (1995), state regulation of foreign trade (1995), visas (1997), and the foreign policy powers of the federation and its members (1999) have all been taken into account by the State Duma. • Taking part in federal diplomacy: Since federal law envisions the regions’ participation in international treaty-making, their representatives used to be included in official delegations and consulted about the content of agreements. For example, the representatives of Karelia and Krasnodar assisted the Foreign Ministry in preparing treaties with Finland and Cyprus, respectively. This was quite helpful in harmonizing federal and regional interests.

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• Conflict prevention and resolution: With time, federal authorities realized that regionalization can serve as an instrument for problem solving with neighboring countries. For example, Kaliningrad’s close cooperation with Lithuania, Poland, and Germany prevented the rise of territorial claims on their part and dampened their concerns about excessive militarization of the region. Cooperation between Finland and Karelia also eased Finnish-Russian tensions on the Karelia issue. • “Verbal diplomacy”: To influence federal foreign policies, regional leaders often make statements about particular international issues. For example, Yuri Luzhkov, the Moscow mayor, protested against the division of the Black Sea Fleet between Russia and the Ukraine and insisted on Russian jurisdiction over Sevastopol and Crimea. Former Nizhny Novgorod governor Boris Nemtsov made a number of negative statements about the prospects of the Russian-Byelorussia Union, thus generating an annoyed response from Minsk. This “verbal diplomacy” demonstrated the growing influence of the regions over Russia’s international strategy and he absence of a political culture among regional elites. In other words, their “diplomacy” was rather detrimental to the Russian national interests. • Exploiting the parliament: The regions use the legislature to lobby for their foreign policy interests at the federal level. The Council of the Federation, the upper chamber of the parliament, which under the Yeltsin regime was made up of the regional leaders (governors and speakers of local legislative assemblies), was the most popular vehicle for regional lobbying. For example, Prusak, being a chairman of the Foreign Affairs Committee of the Council of the Federation and the vice president of the Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe, often used his official position to promote Novgorod’s interests. Under Putin, this practice has been continued, though the composition of the upper chamber has been changed: Now it is composed of regional representatives elected by local legislatures. • Capitalizing on federal infrastructure: To influence federal foreign policy, the regions use the institutional structure created by Moscow in the periphery. For example, the Foreign Ministry has established a special unit on interregional affairs. The Foreign Ministry, Ministry of Commerce, Customs Committee, and Federal Border Service all have offices in those regions engaged in intensive international cooperation. Theoretically, these agencies should coordinate and control the regions’ international contacts. However, they often serve as the regions’ instrument of pressure upon Moscow, rather than the center’s lever over the regions. The problem is that these agencies are dependent on local authorities in terms of housing, basic provisions, and professional careers. They are usually staffed

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by the locals with close connections to regional elites. Another alarming implication of regionalization is the dependence of the so-called “power structures” (armed forces, police, special services) on local authorities. Given their lack of funds and shortage of food, energy, and accommodation (especially in the 1990s), many military commanders had to apply for assistance from local governments. This casts doubts on the loyalty of the “power structures” to Moscow. • Exploiting international organizations: To put pressure on Moscow, the regions managed to use not only federal institutions but also international organizations. For instance, to get a more privileged status (special economic zone, visa-free regime with Lithuania and Poland), Kaliningrad quite skillfully exploited venues such as the CBSS and the EU Northern Dimension. The northern areas of Russia are represented at the Regional Council of the BEAC and develop direct ties with neighboring regions in Finland, Norway, and Sweden. With the help of the OSCE, the Council of Europe, and the Red Cross, Ingushetiya managed to increase the flow of humanitarian assistance to refugees from Chechnya. It should finally be noted that in real life, the regions combine both direct and indirect methods of influencing policy because they are complimentary rather than mutually exclusive. Operationally, there are three main levels of regions’ international activities: bilateral cooperation with the subnational units of foreign countries, cooperation between the interregional associations and foreign partners, and cross-border and transregional cooperation. Bilateral cooperation between members of the Russian Federation and foreign countries (or their subnational units) ranges from economic, social, environmental, and cultural matters to security issues. For example, Nizhny Novgorod has rather close relations with the North Rhine-Westphalia region, Italian Lombardy, and the French Buche-du-Rhone, as they have much in common with the Nizhny Novgorod economy. The second level of international cooperation is through the external relations of the Russian interregional associations. There are a number of interregional associations or blocs such as the Northwest Association, the Greater Volga Association, the Chernozem Association, the Ural Association, and the Siberian Accords Association, mainly dealing with economic and social issues. The members of these associations meet several times each year to discuss issues of common interest that need coordination (e.g., transport, communication, food and fuel supplies, and joint projects). However, along with domestic affairs, these blocs are increasingly engaging in international relations. For example, the Northwest Association, led by St. Petersburg,

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coordinates the foreign economic relations of its members with the Baltic/ Nordic countries. The third level of international cooperation is cross-border (cooperative projects between regions in neighboring countries) and transregional (collaboration with and within multilateral organizations). For example, Russia’s northwest regions cooperate closely with Nordic countries: Finland and Karelia traditionally cooperate in areas such as the economy, transport, communication, tourism, ecology, and culture. It should be noted that cooperation with foreign countries was crucial for many Russian regions in terms of survival. For example, after the 1998 financial meltdown, Poland and Lithuania provided Kaliningrad with humanitarian assistance. Along with bilateral channels, there are multilateral institutions such as the CBSS, BEAC, Nordic Council, Arctic Council, and Black Sea Cooperation Forum. At the May 1996 Visby Summit, the CBSS adopted an ambitious rogram for regional cooperation in economics, trade, finance, transportation, communications, conversion, ecology, border and customs control, and fighting organized crime. Within the BEAC, two working groups— the Environment Task Force of the Barents Council and the Environment Committee of the Barents Regional Council—proved to be successful in identifying ecological problems in the region and seeking funds for the implementation of joint projects. Both organizations have been very helpful in implementing the so-called Northern Dimension Environmental Partnership (NDEP). The EU is also an important player in transregional cooperation. In the 1990s, EU members Finland and Sweden were especially important, since they border Russia. Finland was particularly enthusiastic about the so-called “Northern Dimension” of EU policy and hoped to serve as a bridge between the EU and Russia. To promote economic cooperation between the EU and non-EU countries, Brussels has allocated resources for investment and other projects in a program named Interreg. Under the program, Finland could enlist the economic support of the Russian regions if the partners are able to provide 50 percent in matching funds. Two of the four Interreg programs covered the northern parts of Russia: Interreg Barents (with a budget of ECU thirty-six million) and Interreg Karelen (with a budget of ECU thirty-two million). After the May 2004 EU enlargement, the EU acquired new members that border Russia: Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia. Currently, these countries are not very keen on intensive cooperation with Russia (for various reasons), but some sustainable transborder links have already been formed between them and the northwestern Russian regions (Kaliningrad, Pskov, Novgorod, and Leningrad/St. Petersburg).

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The third (and the last) level of governmental actors in Europe-Russia relations is local government. To date, both Russia and the EU have preferred to focus on intergovernmental or supranational levels (and from time to time, on the members of the Russian Federation), virtually ignoring the role of local government. Cooperation at this level is underdeveloped. Meanwhile, it has become commonplace to ascertain that microlevel negotiations may be crucial for establishing horizontal networks that could serve as a solid basis for mechanisms of interdependency. In the 1990s, a number of the most dynamic Russian cities, such as Moscow, St. Petersburg, Samara, Nizhny Novgorod, Novgorod the Great, Kazan, Kaliningrad, Petrozavodsk, Yekaterinburg, and so on, tried to develop their own relations with Europe, although each of them had different experiences (both positive and negative). For the Russian northwestern/border municipalities, the Euroregions Project (based on engagement of local governments from neighboring countries) became an important instrument for cooperation with their European counterparts. As the European experience demonstrates, the Euroregions Project is an efficient tool for solving transborder problems and overcoming socioeconomic and cultural disparities between neighboring regions. It could be a promising venue for subregional cooperation. Currently, local governments from three Russian border regions are part of the Euroregions initiative: Kaliningrad, Karelia, and Pskov. Kaliningard is the most dynamic Russian region in terms of Euroregions participation. Currently, the Kaliningrad region includes five Euroregions (Baltic, Saule, Neman, Sesupe, and Lyna-Lava). Municipalities from Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, Belarus, Denmark, and Sweden cooperate with Kaliningrad towns and counties in the framework of these Euroregions. They deal with issues such as the development of regional and municipal transport infrastructure, the energy sector, agricultural technologies, the treatment of waste and sewage, environment, culture, and so on (Sergunin 2006). The same problems are on the agenda of the Karelian and Pskov Euroregions. Despite some successful projects that were implemented within the framework of transborder cooperation (especially the Baltic and Karelia Euroregions that exemplify success stories), the overall results of local government international activities remain rather modest. The Euroregions are basically reduced to what common Russians call “bureaucratic tourism” (i.e., exchanges between municipalities). With rare exceptions, they do not promote economic cooperation and horizontal links at the people-to-people or NGO levels. There is no clear division of labor between Euroregions (especially in case of the five Kaliningrad Euroregions). In some cases, there is an unhealthy

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competition for funds (EU and Russian) between different Euroregions. In other words, the Euroregions concept—being a potentially important tool for subregional cooperation—does not work properly. Nongovernmental Actors Civil society in Russia is still in embryonic form, and for this reason its impact on foreign policy making is either relatively insignificant or sporadic/chaotic. At the same time, in a democratic society, nongovernmental actors (civil society institutions, NGOs, interest groups, etc.) play quite an important role in the shaping of a country’s international course. They have several helpful functions: • Articulation of foreign policy interests of various interest groups • Formulation of foreign policy objectives of various social groups • Mobilization of public support through political campaigns and mass media • Ensuring that all actors involved are supplied with useful information on the subject of public discussion • Lobbying the government to make a relevant foreign policy decision • Providing public control over the governmental international activities • Providing a mechanism for feedback (both positive and critical) about the effects of governmental policies Among the Russian nongovernment actors trying to affect Moscow’s European policy that can be mentioned are the business community, human rights NGOs (nongovernmental organizations), religious organizations, environmentalists, and public policy centers (see Figure 3.4). Figure 3.4. The Russian foreign policy decision-making system (government and nongovernment levels) Government actors

Business community/ lobbies

Human rights NGOs

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The Business Community There are several Russian business groups interested in economic and trade contacts with Europe: the energy sector, forestry, fisheries, transport companies, trade firms that specialize in the export and import of consumer goods, and tourism companies. Their roles and influence in Russian decision making on Europe are different and vary from time to time. It is obvious that energy lobbies—the oil and gas industries and the Russian electricity company RAO EES—are the most powerful players among the various interest groups engaged in the policy-making process. These companies are major suppliers of energy to Europe. In the future, Europe will be greatly dependent on Russian gas, and one important pipeline will go through northern Europe. According to some sources, Russian gas will make up between 40–70 percent of total EU gas consumption by the year 2020 (Leshukov 2000, 31). This makes Europe the largest natural export market for Russia’s gas, so there is a clear meeting of interests. Europe will need Russia and vice versa. For this reason, energy companies are interested in stable economic and political relations between Moscow and Europe. Interestingly, in the 1990s (when Russia’s relations with the Baltic States were quite tense for various reasons), the energy companies were opposed to economic sanctions against the Balts and pressed the government to normalize its political and economic relations with these countries. Testimony to the strength of this lobby is that under its influence, Moscow insisted on including a special provision on energy purchases in a larger package settling Russian-Lithuanian relations. At that time, the gas/oil lobby had a powerful agent in the Russian government, Prime Minister Chernomyrdin, a founding father of Gazprom and a leader of the Russian gas industry. Over the last decade, the Russian and European energy sectors have had ambitious plans to develop regional energy infrastructure. They heavily lobbied the EU and the Russian government to create an institutional framework for these projects. One of the early positive results of such lobbyist activities was the creation of the EU Commission’s Baltic Energy Task Force, to deal with energy projects in the region, in which Russia was also actively involved. As a result of joint business-government initiatives, the Baltic Sea Region Energy Cooperation (BASREC) has been launched. Four ad hoc groups have been created within the areas of electricity, gas, climate issues, and energy efficiency (Council of the European Union 2001, 8). In the Barents Euro-Arctic Council, a wide network of actors working with energy efficiency, energy savings, and renewable energy resources has been established as well.

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Reflecting the pressure of Russian and European energy companies, the EU Northern Dimension Action Plans (NDAPs, 2000–3 and 2004–6) defined the following strategic objectives with regard to the energy sector: the creation of conditions for trading energy across borders without any discrimination due to national affiliation; the integration of energy markets, climate issues, energy efficiency, and renewable energy; and using the Baltic Sea region as a testing ground for the Kyoto flexible mechanisms (Council of the European Union 2000; Commission of the European Communities 2003). The CBSS was seen as the main vehicle for NDI activities in the energy sector. At the same time, Russian energy companies (which are strictly controlled by the government) were concerned about their overdependence on the Baltic States and Poland for of oil and gas transit. One issue that they were unsatisfied about was the high transit fees: Russian companies had to pay seven hundred million dollars a year to Latvia for oil transit. Between 1992 and 1999, these companies paid more than five billion dollars in transit fees.4 In addition, Russia disliked EU political demands to break up its energy sector and split oil, gas, and electricity giants into smaller companies. This is why instead of developing cooperative projects with the EU in the sphere of energy infrastructure, the Russian business community (with the full support of the government) has opted for unilateral actions or bilateral (country-tocountry) projects. The construction of the Baltic Pipeline System (BPS) was the first largescale project of this sort. The BPS, operational since 2002, ships oil from the Russian high north and Urals to the coastal terminal in the Leningrad region (150 kilometers north of St. Petersburg). It brings sixty-five million tons of crude oil to European countries, which in terms of capacity is comparable with the terminals on the Black Sea coast (Novorossiysk, Tuapse). According to a representative of Transneft (a member of the consortium that runs the BPS), Russia saves two hundred million dollars by bypassing Latvia via the Russian Baltic ports. Another project that is underway is the North European Gas Pipeline (NEGP). This pipeline is planned to bring gas from the Arctic Ocean shelf to Germany and probably to other European countries (Denmark and the UK) via Russian territory and then the bottom of the Baltic Sea. This project ignores earlier proposals by Finland, the Baltic States, and Poland to construct a land-based version of this pipeline via their territories. Gazprom and its German partners also ignore environmental concerns related to potential disasters involving the underwater pipeline or the risk to damage German chemical weapons buried in the Baltic Sea after World War II. The members of the NEGP consortium believe that a new pipeline will free them from

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transit fees, political blackmailing from the transit countries, and make gas shipment to Europe more reliable. This issue, however, has become a bone of contention among EU countries as well as between the EU and Russia. Those EU countries that perceive themselves as losers obstruct both the energy dialogue between Brussels and Moscow as well as the beginning of EU-Russia negotiations on a new cooperative agreement that should replace the existing Partnership and Cooperation Agreement (PCA). To sum up, the influence of the Russian energy sector plays a rather contradictory role in EU-Russia relations. On the one hand, it is interested in expanding energy dialogue and cooperation with Europe, but on the other hand, it presses the Russian government to opt in favor of unilateral or bilateral (country-to-country, company-to-company) rather than multilateral projects, complementary to the logic of the EU. Other business groups are less influential in Russian decision making on Europe. For example, in the 1990s, the Russian timber industry put pressure on Moscow to increase quotas for exporting timber to European countries (Neva News 1996, 6). However, the federal government preferred to develop timber processing in the country so that it could produce furniture, paper, cardboard, and building materials. For this reason, both central and regional authorities favored foreign investment and foreign know-how in this sector of the Russian economy. Some Russian regions, such as Novgorod Oblast and Karelia, were quite successful in establishing joint ventures with foreign partners and promoting their local products on the domestic and international markets. Russian transport companies enthusiastically supported EU-Russia plans to upgrade and develop the existing transport infrastructure in western and northwestern Russia. They were particularly interested in developing two pan-European transport corridors: (1) Berlin-Warsaw-Moscow-Nizhny Novgorod-Yekaterinburg and (2) Helsinki-St. Petersburg-Moscow-KievCrete. Kaliningrad’s business community was especially interested in developing two branches of the second corridor—via Baltica and via Hanseatica. Russian tourism companies are also very keen on establishing stable and dynamic relations with European partners. In some regions they succeeded in establishing special associations to lobby local and federal authorities as well as foreign embassies to ease visa and border control regimes. For example, in the late 1990s, the Kaliningrad Tourist Business Association concluded a series of agreements with the local representative offices of the Russian Foreign Ministry, State Customs Committee, and Federal Border Service to simplify visa, customs, and border control formalities for tourists. This scheme was quite efficient until both Lithuania and Poland introduced a new visa regime with Russia in 2003.

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In other words, the influence of the business community on Russian decision making about Europe is growing. Human Rights NGOs These organizations have focused their activities on two areas: • Domestic issues. Russian human rights activists tried to mobilize European/ international support for solving Russian domestic problems, such as introduction of an alternative military service and the protection of young soldiers from bullying in the armed forces. The leading international human rights organizations (Amnesty International, Transparency International, etc.) cooperate with Russian NGOs and even establish local representative offices to monitor the situation from inside the country. Human rights–oriented European organizations (the Council of Europe, OSCE, European Parliament, NATO Parliamentary Assembly, etc.) also help Russian NGOs and send fact-finding missions to the most problematic regions. • International issues. Human rights NGOs are mostly interested in protecting Russian-speaking minorities in the post-Soviet republics (the Baltic States, Trans-Caucasus, Moldova, Central Asia). The Russian Society for Cooperation with Compatriots Abroad (est. in 1990) is the leading organization that has, since the early 1990s, tried to help the twenty-seven million ethnic Russians abroad to migrate to the motherland or to protect their rights in the country of their residence. Although human rights activists’ rhetoric often was a product for domestic consumption rather than a serious alternative to government policies, these NGOs succeeded in attracting public attention to the problem and forced the government to develop a special strategy on the Russian-speaking minorities abroad and charge Russian diplomatic trade and other missions with the protection of their rights. Religious Organizations Depending on the nature of their confession, different religious groups had various foreign policy interests. Yet the main religious influence, the Russian Orthodox Church (ROC), had (and still has) two major priorities in regards to European politics: • The ROC was one of the first protectors of Russian national minorities in the post-Soviet countries. At the same time, the church has specifically ruled out the use of force to protect Russians living in the “near abroad.”

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It has proposed that the Russian government should conclude bilateral agreements on national minorities’ status within the ex-Soviet republics. The government should also use the law enforcement mechanisms of the UN, OSCE, and other international organizations dealing with human rights. The church itself has tried to influence those governments involved in human rights violations through its numerous international contacts, especially by participating in the work of the World Council of Churches, the Conference of European Churches, and other ecumenical bodies (Petlyuchenko 1993, 65). • Another concern of the ROC is the aggressive infiltration of foreign confessions (Catholicism, Protestantism, etc.) and sects (including totalitarian ones). The church has charged these missionaries with dishonest behavior: they have used Orthodoxy’s financial difficulties to undermine its influence in Russia. By distributing humanitarian aid and free literature, buying newspaper space, and broadcasting time, they have tried to divert potential Orthodox believers from their religion. Particularly alarming for the church is that some of those missionaries/sects have tried to persuade people that the Orthodox religion supports them. They have borrowed components of Orthodox doctrine and used Orthodox religious symbols, a practice that the church has seen as outright sacrilege (Petlyuchenko 1993, 69–70). The ROC has even called for the Russian government to stop antiOrthodox activities. The church insisted that the Russian Foreign Ministry and security services should pay more attention to the “subversive” activities of various foreign sects in Russia. Other Russian religious groups have been less interested in European politics. Perhaps the only exception is the efforts of the Tatar Muslims to establish their relations with the Tatar migrant communities around Europe. Kazan occasionally organizes the World Tatar Congress and uses its Islamic connections to bring in the most authoritative Tatar leaders from abroad. Environmentalists The environmental movement has rapidly spread in post-Communist Russia and for a while became influential in domestic politics. Indeed, a great number of post-perestroika leaders started their political careers as environmentalists. The Russian “greens,” for example, succeeded in promoting Academician Alexei Yablokov to the post of State Counsellor on Ecology and Health Care, thus becoming their major voice in the government.

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Under the pressure of environmentalists, nearly all of the leading schools of political thought included an ecological dimension in their concept of security. A special section on ecological security was put into the Russian National Security Concepts of 1997 and 2000 (Yeltsin 1997). Environmentalists believe that traditional diplomatic methods are not sufficient for resolving the ecological problems that have now tended to become global rather than national. They believe that Russia, along with the entire world, should develop New Thinking based on a common interest in survival in the face of global problems (Plimak 1996). Environmentalists are quite radical in their recommendations regarding solutions to global problems. They recommend the dissolution of political boundaries and a de-ideologizing of international relations (except, of course, for environmentalism itself ). In order to cope with ecological problems, they say that humankind should be able to forecast both the near and distant future, considering all the components of these problems in their historical and physical developments. Since only scientists are able to make good forecasts, this stratum should be elevated to the very top of society and charged with political management as well. National and international economies should be based on new technologies targeted at the rational exploitation of natural resources. Furthermore, transnational rather than national bodies should be in charge of global problems, as nation-states are unable to cope with them any longer (Burlak 1992). The environmentalists’ pressure on both the Russian government and the EU resulted in the establishment of the NDEP in 2001. The NDEP aims at addressing environmental hot spots in the Northern Dimension area, which are largely a legacy of the former planned-economy period and have crossboundary impacts. Within the Russian NDI area, the NDEP focuses particularly on problems such as wastewater and nuclear waste treatment. The NDEP gives priority to the Archangel, Kaliningrad, Leningrad, Murmansk, Novgorod, and Pskov oblasts. The partnership pools the financial resources not only of the EU but also of regional and global financial institutions. Public Policy Centers Independent think tanks are quite a new phenomenon for Russia. In the Soviet era, foreign policy expertise was concentrated either in party/government agencies or in the academic institutions working for the government. The rise of independent public centers is an important characteristic of Russian political and intellectual life in the post-communist era. Most of the centers were created for purely political purposes such as monitoring and

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providing expertise. For this reason, few of them have been oriented to purely scientific research. Among the centers, belonging to the first group (servicing foreign policy making), Sergei Karaganov’s Council on Foreign and Defense Policy (CFDP) is the biggest and most influential. The council was established in February 1992 as an independent nongovernmental organization. The council is directed by an assembly consisting of prominent figures in government, business, academia, and the mass media. The council has a small permanent staff and a number of part-time staff for specific projects. The council’s activities include regular meetings and informal discussions among policy analysts and decision makers; conferences, seminars, and discussion groups; research projects; an education campaign in the mass media; and consulting and training for technical and social assistance programs. The CFDP does not conduct projects at the request of government structures but chooses the topic of research on its own initiative. Although the council claims that it is not an analytical think tank, it unites the leading Russian specialists in foreign and defense policy and aims at providing decision-makers with recommendations on the following topics: Russian national interests, threat assessment, the development and evaluation of new strategic concepts, regional and global security, ethnic and religious conflicts, arms control, conversion, and so on (Sergunin 2003, 63). The Russian Foreign Policy Foundation (RFPF) was another influential nongovernmental actor in the decision-making process. The foundation was established in 1992 on the initiative of the Foreign Ministry by the Diplomatic Academy, International Affairs magazine, and several powerful Russian banks (Incombank, Avtovazbank, Menatep) and companies (KAMAZ, LUKoil, and others). From the very beginning, the RFPF was designed to bring together the Russian foreign policy and business community as well as harmonize their interests. For this reason, it paid more attention to practical rather than research activities. The foundation held several conferences a year and published their proceedings. These included conferences on conflict prevention and resolution and disputes in the Caspian Sea and Black Sea regions, Kaliningrad, and Asia-Pacific. The RFPF was very active in establishing contacts with Russian regions, such as Kaliningrad, Karelia, Krasnodar, Novosibirsk, and the Russian Far East and opened regional offices in Krasnodar and Novosibirsk. Among other policy-oriented independent centers, the Foundation of Political Studies (Andrei V. Fedorov), the Politics Foundation (Vyacheslav A. Nikonov), the Russian Public Policy Center (Alexei Salmin), RussianAmerican University Corporation (Alexei Podberezkin), the Center for Ethno-Political and Regional Studies (Emil Pain), the Center for National

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Security and International Relations (Sergei Rogov), the Institute for Defense Studies (Viktor Surikov), and others should be mentioned. The second group of independent research centers that tries to combine applied and fundamental research includes the Moscow Carnegie Center (notably Alexei Malashenko, Nikolai Petrov, Dmitry Trenin, and Lilia Shevtsova), the former Moscow Public Research Foundation (Andrei Kortunov), the Center for Strategic Assessments (Sergei Oznobishchev, Alexei Konovalov), the Center for Russian Political Research (Vladimir Orlov), and the Gorbachev Foundation (Dmitry Furman and Victor Kuvaldin). Interestingly, independent think tanks have emerged outside of Moscow as well. For example, the St. Petersburg expert community includes the Baltic Research Center (Russian policies in Northern Europe, EU-Russia energy dialogue), the Center for Integration Research and Programs (politics in the Baltic Sea region, Russian policies in East Europe), and the Baltic Club (Baltic studies). The Nizhny Novgorod region also has policy-oriented research centers: the Nizhny Novgorod Center for Socio-Economic Expertise (Russian security policies in Europe, Russian foreign policy making), the Nizhny Novgorod Policy Study Center (NATO-Russia and EU-Russia relations), and Rus-Expert-Transit (European security architecture, EU-Russia energy dialogue, conversion of Russian defense industry), among others. Of course, the roles and authority of these think tanks differ from center to center. Most of them are useful in terms of generating public discussions on Europe-Russia relations, rather than influencing Russia’s decision-making process at the level of policy. However, they certainly make the intellectual landscape of the Russian expert community more interesting and diverse. Conclusions The Russian decision-making system on Europe has evolved rapidly over the last fifteen years. One can make the case for both positive and negative or problematic changes. Looking on the bright side of this dynamic process, we can identify the following promising trends: • Russia’s European policy has become less ideological and more pragmatic, oriented to national interests. • The chaos of the early 1990s has been overcome, and a more-or-less stable decision-making machinery on Europe has been created in the executive branch of government. • A more-or-less reliable civilian control over the military and other socalled “power” agencies have been established. The Defense Ministry and the Russian intelligence community are of secondary importance in the

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decision-making process. They are guided by the political structures (the presidential administration and cabinet) rather than being (semi-) independent actors. Elements of parliamentary control over the decision-making process have been created. The Russian legislature (although it is much weaker than its U.S. or European counterparts) has some important functions, such as the “power of the purse,” parliamentary investigations, and diplomacy. An executive-legislative liaison/consultative mechanism has been established, and it facilitated the dialogue between the Kremlin and the legislature on European politics. The role of the Russian regional and local governments became more salient in foreign policy making. The federal center had to take into account regional interests and preferences as regards their relations with European partners. Moscow has also had to allow some sort of horizontal or networked type of relationships between regional and local governments and their corresponding equals in Europe. Cross- and trans-border cooperation brought about a number of success stories in several Europe-oriented Russian regions—Kaliningrad, Karelia, Novgorod, Murmansk, etc. Nongovernmental actors have some say in foreign policy making. The Russian business community (especially the energy sector) has become an influential player in Moscow’s European policy making. Relatively new political actors, such as human rights and environmental NGOs, religious communities, and independent think tanks became an integral part of the decision-making process. In contrast with the Soviet period when foreign policy making was a purely elitist business, the current Russian political leadership has to take into account the various interests of different segments of an emerging Russian civil society.

At the same time, numerous problems in the organization and practical operations of the Russian decision-making mechanism can be found: • First, the decision-making system of the government is still far from ideal. There is a lack of a proper division of labor between different executive agencies regarding European politics. These agencies differ in their conceptual approaches to Russia’s European policy. There is an unhealthy competition between them for influence, funds, resources, personnel, and access to information. • Russia’s parliament has too few powers to take an active part in the shaping of Moscow’s European policy. It is also unable to provide proper public scrutiny and accountability. This makes the Kremlin too independent in its European policy initiatives.

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• The role of Russian regional and local governments in foreign policy making is still ambivalent. The federal center is too jealous of its foreign policy powers. A number of promising international regional projects (Northern Dimension, Euroregions) have found themselves in a bind because of the lack of federal support. It is a long way to go to revive these projects and put them in line with European standards (though the potential and resources are still there). • Although civil society and its institutions have come into the picture and now have some minor say in foreign policy making, it should be noticed that a lot has been done to transform nongovernmental actors into fullfledged policy players. There is still discrepancy between the interests of Russian foreign policy elites and the civil society that often wants a different European strategy from the government. What is especially important is that the Russian government actors treat expertise, including expertise housed in think tanks, with respect. In sum, a more reliable feedback system from civil society is needed.

Notes 1. The vast majority of the Russian academic community does not view the Russian mass media as an independent actor, neither in domestic nor foreign politics. Rather, Russian experts believe that the mass media is used by other, more powerful actors, such as oligarchs, political parties, government, and so on, as an instrument in their power struggle. 2. Even Putin’s 2007 decision to suspend the CFE Treaty until the NATO countries ratify this agreement is better explained by the general change of Moscow’s foreign policy rather than by MoD’s influence. 3. The location of the MFA in Moscow 4. http://www.nefte.ru/projekt/r20.htm.

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PART 3

Russia and Europe: Relationship under Construction

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CHAPTER 4

Russia’s Creeping Challenge to European Norms European Promotion of Abolition of the Death Penalty in Russia Sinikukka Saari Introduction

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uropean intergovernmental organizations, such as the Council of Europe (CoE), the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE), and the European Union (EU), have taken up the task of actively promoting human rights in Russia. Europeans have become increasingly active in their practice of promoting human rights in other states since the end of the cold war. The collapse of communism in the late 1980s was generally seen as a victory of Western liberal norms. Organizations based on those norms were eager to tie the liberated Eastern European states more closely to their structures of cooperation. The transitioning states, on the other hand, wanted to improve their international standing and domestic legitimacy by engaging in normative international cooperation. At the time, the picture looked fairly clear-cut: Russia, among other East European states, was to transform itself into a liberal democratic state based on respect for human rights, rule of law, and a functioning market economy. By internalizing Western norms and values through international cooperation, Russia would become a full-fledged member of “common European home.” As we now know, reality turned out to be more complex than was envisaged at the time. Only a few Eastern European states have been fully integrated into European structures with undoubted commitments to liberal values; some other states have developed into autocratic states where

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violations of human rights are an everyday occurrence. Some states, including Russia, hang on the edges of the European “solidarist state society” (Bull 1966)—not clearly inside or outside of it. To this day, Russia continues to be actively engaged in human rights cooperation within the OSCE, the CoE, and the EU. Results of cooperation and assistance have been modest. Normative change has proved to be extremely hard to promote from the outside, and on many issues, Russia is still nowhere near meeting European standards (Mendelson 2001). Paraphrasing the old functionalist slogan, one could describe the normative cooperation between Russia and the European organizations as “form but not function.” This development would seem to go against the expectations of constructivist socialization literature, which aims to explain the normative influence of international actors on states. This chapter explores the explanatory power of these ideas by contrasting theoretical assumptions on socialization to empirical developments in Russia. The process of norm socialization is examined through a case study on how well the European norm of abolition of the death penalty has been internalized by Russia. The goal of this chapter is to find out if the socialization literature’s assumptions on international norm transfer are applicable to the relations between Russia and the European organizations. Explaining Normative Cooperation and Domestic Change Fairly recent theories on state socialization have attempted to explain normative, ideational domestic change—for example, the decision to start liberalizing and opening up an authoritarian state, or to commit to international agreements on human rights. The constructivist socialization literature has attempted to offer a theorylike model for change and the causal relations embedded in it. Constructivist theorists have directed their attention to the ways in which international rules and norms are transferred from one party to another, usually from a state, international organization, or transnational network to another state (Zürn and Checkel 2005, 1045–79). The socialization literature looks at fundamental domestic social change as a multilevel process of norm adaptation and endeavors to reveal the causal mechanisms and modes of action involved in the transformation process. The socialization literature has not been restricted to the study of human rights and democratic norms, but it also covers broader topics, for example, transference of security and environmental norms (Evangelista 1999; O’Neill, Balsiger, and Vandeveer 2004).

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The most comprehensive attempt to formulate a multilevel model of socialization has been in a volume titled The Power of Human Rights: International Norms and Domestic Change (1999), edited by Thomas Risse, Stephen Ropp, and Kathryn Sikkink. Risse and Sikkink outline a particular model of socialization to human rights, which is claimed to be universally applicable; socialization to human rights norms is expected to happen through the same pathways in all social contexts. The “spiral model” draws a trajectory of state socialization to international human rights and identifies the causal mechanisms as well as the dominant actors at play in each of the stages of the development. It embraces the interplay between international, state, transnational and substate levels. The most important factor in the process is claimed to be formation and sustainability of a transnational human rights advocacy network. The network links domestic and transnational actors together with international organizations, Western public opinion, and Western governments (Risse and Sikkink 1999). The Risse-Sikkink socialization model is constructivist in that it mixes rationalist, material, interest-based mechanisms (bargaining, instrumental calculations) with more socially constructed mechanisms (argumentative rationality, habitualization). Its analysis is rooted in constructivist understanding, which asserts that states seek to act according to their identities. Identities are definitions of self in relation to others, and they are constructed—and reconstructed—in intersubjective processes between states and international structures (Katzenstein 1996). States care about their international reputation and can become entrapped in their own words. Alongside material gains and power, values and ideas matter in international relations.1 The Risse-Sikkink Model of Socialization The five-phase socialization model starts with a repressive society where human rights norms are denied. Only if and when the transnational advocacy network succeeds in putting the norm-violating state on the international agenda does the process move to the next phase. During the second phase, denial, there is growing international awareness of human rights violations taking place in the target state. Transnational advocacy groups gather information on violations and internationally lobby for the cause. The government is expected to deny the validity of international human rights norms and insist that any criticism is a violation of the noninterference principle in international relations (Risse and Sikkink 1999, 22–24). However, if international pressure continues and escalates, the government is likely to make minor concessions to pacify international critics. The third phase is thus characterized by tactical concessions on human rights

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issues by the repressive government. The government acts purely out of instrumental calculations: it is trying to get something out of the concession in the field of human rights (economic assistance, for example). The spiral model expects concessions to eventually facilitate further social mobilization in the target country. At this stage, the state moves toward more enduring changes in human rights and democratization; or, alternatively, it may launch a backlash against human rights. However, the potential backlash is expected to be merely a temporary suspension in the progress toward human rights socialization. During the phase of tactical concessions, the dominant mechanisms at play are strategic bargaining and instrumental adaptation on the government side, and consciousness-raising, dialogue, and persuasion on the advocacy network side. When the next phase is approaching, an “argumentative self-entrapment” takes over, and argumentation and persuasion will become the dominant causal mechanisms. It is expected that once the government opens the door for limited liberalization, socialization to democracy and human rights will almost automatically follow. The governments seem to have only little say in this as they are bound to become “trapped in their own words” and lose control of the situation (Risse and Sikkink 1999, 26–27). The next stage, prescriptive status, denotes that the target state’s government accepts the validity of human rights norms without reservations. The state commits itself domestically and internationally to the implementation of human rights norms and standards. The government creates institutional arrangements in order to secure human rights for its citizens. There may still be some problems in the implementation of international human rights standards, but the government is firmly committed—both in words and in deeds—to the values and strives for the implementation of the norms. The official discourse on the norm becomes consistent on human rights. During this phase, the dominant mechanisms at play are consciousnessraising, dialogue, and persuasion (Risse and Sikkink 1999, 29–31). The final stage in the socialization to human rights is rule-consistent behavior. Risse and Sikkink maintain that during this final stage, the processes of institutionalization and habitualization reign, and norms become firmly internalized by the target state and its society. During this phase, human rights are fully institutionalized, and norm compliance becomes a habitual practice (Risse and Sikkink 1999, 31–35). Debates around Socialization The Risse-Sikkink model is naturally not the only model of socialization. Indeed, many researchers have outlined their own models and research

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agendas for the study of state socialization. Regardless, the spiral model is almost always used as the reference point in subsequent articles and books. Even though there has been a vivid debate on state socialization, the main theses of the Risse-Sikkink model have not been challenged (Alderson 2001; Thomas 2001; Schimmelfennig 2002; Thies 2003; Checkel 2005; Zürn and Checkel 2005; Flockhart 2006). However, many of these contributions have helped to ameliorate some of the shortcomings of the model. One of the most crucial points of criticism has been the bias against ruling elites embedded in the model. Socialization to international norms naturally does not always happen because of transnational network and civil resistance. Sometimes the change in a state takes place through top-down processes: that is, elites internalize norms first, and society gradually follows after them. There are more possible pathways to internalization than the Risse-Sikkink model suggests (Checkel 2001; Flockhart 2006). Another addition to the model has been the realization that domestic structures such as culture may condition the socialization effect of international norms. Daniel Thomas, for example, has claimed that domestic identity should be added to the analysis as an independent variable. He claims that gaps between rhetoric in the international arena and actual implementation of norms domestically stem from incompatible domestic and international identities. A change in identities can either encourage or discourage socialization. Thus, according to Thomas, domestic structures matter more than the Risse-Sikkink model suggests (Thomas 2001). Other researchers have made similar points on the importance of domestic structures (Checkel 1999; Thies 2003). More generally, a considerable amount of work has been done in identifying scope conditions for normative impact of international norms—an issue that the Risse-Sikkink model leaves almost untouched. For example, according to Frank Schimmelfennig, one of the preconditions for successful socialization on the international level is an asymmetrical relationship between the international actors and the state in question. This structural condition makes the state more sensitive to the policies of organizations. For softer argumentative and ideational socialization processes to occur, the organizations need to have normative power. This arrives from unquestioned authority and legitimacy of the organization. In terms of initiating instrumental socialization mechanisms, the organization will need to have good material bargaining power. It needs to be able to pursue coercive action effectively and credibly (Schimmelfennig 2002). In his book The Power of Legitimacy among Nations, Thomas Franck argues that international rules have a stronger ability to induce voluntary compliance by states if rules and the rule-making processes are characterized

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by determinacy, symbolic validation, coherence, and adherence (Franck 1990). Determinacy means the transparency and textual clarity of the norm: the clearer the norm, the more likely its implementation (see also Legro 1997, 31–61). Symbolic validation means that some ritualistic act or tradition gives the norm stronger legitimacy, and thus there are stronger imperatives toward implementation. For instance, signing a treaty or passing a law creates an air of legitimacy around international agreements. Coherence implies that the norm is interpreted and implemented widely and consistently. Adherence refers to a norm hierarchy: there needs to be an organized chain of norms. For example, there exists a primary rule of respect for human rights and secondary rules about its practical interpretation and implementation. The rule is likely to obligate if there exists the framework of an organized normative hierarchy (see also Raustiala and Slaughter 2002). Additionally, in a commonsensical way, it has been argued that the less material resources that are needed to carry out the changes, the more likely their implementation (O’Neill, Balsiger and VanDeveer 2004, 149–75). Finally, some authors argue that technical norms are more easily adopted by states than political ones (Schimmelfennig 2002). There are also several domestic conditions that influence the efficiency of international socialization efforts. The efforts are enhanced if there is a strong domestic salience of the norm in question. This means that the domestic norms, values, interests, and practices do not clash with that norm that is being promoted by the international actors. The more domestic salience the international norm has, the more likely are the mechanisms of argumentation, persuasion, and ultimately institutionalization. Also, domestic structures play an important role in defining which pathways of socialization are likely to be decisive. The structures determine whose interests are likely to prevail when the norms are contested (Schimmelfennig 2002). Ernst Haas has also suggested in his work on learning that change in behavior is more likely when there are high levels of desirability, possibility, and urgency (Haas 1990). These points can be generalized into a hypothesis on state socialization. The desirability of normative change means that there is problem that needs to be solved, or that there is strong pressure from below, above, or outside to adopt the norm in question. There is possibility that denotes the means of reassessment are available (for example, new information and knowledge on the issue). Urgency, on the other hand, means that change is more likely when there is the time pressure of a crisis situation. Despite vivid discussion, the points of convergence in the debate on socialization have been more dominant than points of divergence. There are

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three typical features of the constructivist socialization research in international relations: 1. The dominance of international and (sometimes) domestic structures over agents. Once certain conditions have been met and the process has been kicked off, the process progresses almost automatically. There is little need for agency or politics after the initial kick-off stage, and socialization pathways are structurally predetermined. 2. Norms are the moving forces of the socialization process. Norms are often considered little black boxes that are and will always remain the same regardless of context. The ideational and cultural side of socialization is considered—if indeed considered at all—to be of only secondary importance. 3. Socialization is essentially considered a one-way adaptation process to the contents of those little black boxes called norms. Norms are transferred from the international system to the domestic. Socialization may fail, but the failure only affects the target state: It does not reflect back to the system from whence it came, nor does it affect the norms generated there. In the next section I will test these assumptions on socialization through the exploration of European attempts to transport the norm of abolition of the death penalty to Russia. Testing the Assumptions on Socialization: Russia and the Abolition of the Death Penalty Abolition as a European Norm The death penalty can be defined as a judicially ordered execution of a convict as a punishment for crime. Since the mid-1980s, Europe has acted as a global pioneer in the development of the norm of abolition of the death penalty. The current European abolitionist norm includes abolition of the death penalty both in practice and in law2. There is a strong trend toward eradication of the death penalty without exception. In 1983 the Council of Europe accepted Protocol No. 6 to the European Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms (commonly known as European Convention on Human Rights, ECHR) concerning the abolition of the death penalty for ordinary crimes (ECHR 1950 with amendments and additional protocols)3. The use of the death penalty during war for military crimes was excluded from the protocol. This protocol has been ratified by all twenty-seven EU member states and all CoE member states with

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the exception of the Russian Federation (RF). Further, in 2002 the CoE adopted Protocol No. 13 to the ECHR concerning the abolition of the death penalty in all circumstances, including military crimes during war (ECHR 1950 with amendments and additional protocols). This protocol has been ratified by twenty-two EU member states and thirty-seven CoE members. The remaining five EU member states have already signed the protocol and are in the process of ratifying it.4 The European norm is thus tied to the formal abolition: de facto abolitionism is not considered enough.5 The norm is based on the idea that the death penalty is not an issue of the criminal justice sustem of every sovereign state, but an international issue of human rights. Norm-specific conditions are generally favorable for norm adaptation. The norm has been defined in a clear manner in two legally binding documents (Protocol No. 6 and No. 13 to the ECHR). Clearly worded, legally binding documents also imply that requirement for symbolic validation is high (Franck 1990). Likewise, the coherence of and consensus on the norm is high in Europe: the requirement of abolition and practical implementation of the norm is the same for all CoE members. Finally, adherence to the norm is strong, and a clear hierarchy has been established (Franck 1990). Abolition has to be done according to certain formalized procedures, which are outlined in the protocols. Hence, according to Franck’s criteria, there should be a strong pull to adopt and implement the norm in practice by the CoE member states. The implementation of the norm does not require vast resources to be carried out, at least in countries where the death penalty was applied restrictively. The only scope condition that implies potential difficulties in the socialization process is that the norm has a high political profile. European Attempts to Promote Abolition of the Death Penalty Despite the fact that the CoE, the EU, and the OSCE are all proabolition organizations, their individual strategies for promotion of abolition differ considerably. The most lenient of the three is the OSCE, whose membership is not dependent on it. The organization does encourage discussion on the topic, requires more transparent and human application of it, and promotes the goal of abolition. It also monitors the situation in all of its member states.6 Seven of the OSCE’s fifty-six member states continue to retain the death penalty in some form (OSCE 2007).7 The early post–cold war East-West discussion on the abolition of the death penalty took place almost exclusively within the Conference for Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE)8; but later on, the CoE and

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the EU took the lead in campaigning for the abolition of the death penalty. The CSCE/OSCE has moved in the background. The abolition issue is not a high-priority one for the OSCE, and its modest strategy attempts to invoke argumentative rationality. Russia is expected to socialize the norm by regular discussion on the topic and through gradual exposure to the normal practices of the majority of the OSCE states. The methods are very delicate and soft. Pressure and coercive means are not used, and the engagement level on the issue is low. The organization has low leverage on the issue, as the strongly retentionist United States has been a OSCE member from the outset. By applying for CoE membership in 1992, Russia committed herself to the requirements that came with it. In the early 1990s, the CoE was in a very good position to influence Russian policies on the death penalty. Russia wanted to become a member and was willing to be judged by the same standards as everyone else in the CoE. Further, there was a strong asymmetrical relationship between the actors. The organization was an authoritative institution, and Russia wanted to get recognition from it. The CoE norms had been agreed without Russia’s involvement. As Hiski Haukkala argues in his chapter, at this time the CoE was clearly the normgiver and Russia the norm-taker. The CoE had bargaining power on human rights, and its engagement level was high on the issue. The CoE’s policy on the death penalty aimed at invoking all three mechanisms of change: bargaining and instrumental rationality, persuasion and argumentative rationality, and the formal institutionalization of norms in Russia. By taking Russia into the organization in 1996, the CoE lost its most efficient material bargaining tool, namely premembership conditionality. The organization has used instruments such as monitoring, political pressure and moral shaming, dialogue, technical assistance, and education. Coercive methods to insure implementation are possible but difficult to employ in practice (See Wohlwend 1999). The EU shares the CoE’s strong commitment to the norm of abolition of the death penalty. Within the EU, development has been rapid. With the end of the cold war, human rights and the issue of the death penalty gained significance both internally and externally (Manners 2002, 235– 58; Smith 2003). The final act of the Treaty of Amsterdam included a declaration on the EU commitment to abolition (European Union 1997). Today all EU member states have abolished the death penalty by ratifying Protocol No. 6 of the ECHR, and a majority of them have already ratified Protocol No. 13. The EU also actively promotes the abolition of the death penalty in non-EU countries. In fact, the campaign for the abolition of the death penalty has become one of the most visible areas of EU external policy.

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The Council of Ministers adopted guidelines for EU policy toward non-EU states on the abolition of the death penalty in June 1998. This document sets out the objectives and means of intervention (European Union 1998). The EU employs the tactics of moral shaming, political dialogue and monitoring of the issue. In the case of Russia, the EU has combined the use of technical assistance, monitoring, potential conditionality, and diplomatic instruments to push its abolitionist goal. In 1999, for example, the EU—together with the CoE— launched a public awareness campaign on the issue of the death penalty over two years to provide information for the general public, legal experts, and parliamentarians in Albania, Turkey, Russia, and Ukraine. All of the major agreements and documents on EU-Russia relations mention the goal of abolition of the death penalty (Manners 2002). Even though treaty conditionality has not been used in practice on the question of the death penalty, it could still be an effective strategy. For example, if Russia were to start executions again, the EU could suspend its assistance and treaty obligations. The EU thus attempts to invoke the logic of arguing through moral shaming, discussion, and political pressure. There may be an asymmetrical relationship between the actors, but the EU still has very little bargaining power, as Russia is not a member nor does it seek to become a member of the EU. It has few effective instruments at its disposal vis-à-vis Russia, and therefore it has opted for pooling together with the CoE on the issue. From the Russian perspective, the EU is an external actor who should not have a say on Russian matters. The Abolitionist Development in Russia From Tactical Concessions toward True Commitment? Even in the Soviet Union, the death penalty was a controversial issue. The communist party considered it incompatible with socialist ideals, but it remained an almost daily practice. Due to this contradiction, its provisional character was constantly stressed in law. During Soviet rule, capital punishment was abolished in law altogether three times, but each time it was quickly reinstated (Mikhlin 1999). In the late 1980s and early 1990s, two mutually contradictory trends reflected in the debate on the death penalty in Russia. The first one was the general growth of both perceived and real insecurity in a society undergoing dramatic transition. The rise of economic uncertainty, corruption, and social problems hardened public opinion, and there was increasing pressure to make punishments harder in the name of restoring order and respect for rules. The

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general public had never supported the abolition of the death penalty, and these developments made their opposition to abolition even stronger. On the other hand, Russia was a target of growing international pressure to limit and eventually to abolish capital punishment. In 1994 the Council of Europe decided to make abolition of the death penalty (by ratifying Protocol No. 6 to the ECHR) one of the key conditions for membership in the organization (Council of Europe 1994). This provision applied to Russia as it had applied for CoE membership in 1992. The membership aspect gave the CoE superior bargaining power vis-à-vis Russia. Russia was vulnerable to coercive action by the CoE and thus likely to react in the desired way. The new Russian constitution of 1993 confirmed the limited use of the death penalty. Nevertheless, it also stated that it was only a temporary measure and that it would be abolished in the future. Article 20, paragraph 2 allows the establishment of the death penalty “until its abolition thereof ” The constitution also confirmed that capital punishment could only be used in the case of especially grave crimes against life.9 Article 20, paragraph 2 continues, “The accused shall be granted the right to have his case examined by trial with jurors” (Constitution of the Russian Federation 1993). However, at that time only a fraction of the federation’s subjects had created such a court, and therefore Article 6 of the constitution stated that previous procedures should be retained until a new operating federal law established a new procedure for the consideration of cases by the juror courts.10 As the formulations of the constitution suggested, the stated strategy of the Russian authorities was gradual change toward complete abolition. The European organizations welcomed this approach and supported the leadership in its endeavors. The president of the Russian Federation and the Presidential Pardons Commission were seen as the most important advocates of abolition of the death penalty in Russia. The Pardons Commission was created in 1992 in an attempt to expand the use of clemency, particularly in the case of the death penalty (Pristavkin 1999, 129–38). The Russian public did not support these early steps toward abolition yet the prospects of successful norm socialization were hardly grim. This is not surprising for two reasons. First of all, in most states, abolition had not been supported by a majority of people at the time the decision had been made. This decision is often a principled, identity-related decision with which the state communicates to other states its dedication to humanistic values. Second, Russia’s liberalization overall was not a result of growing demands and activism from the public. It, too, was an elite-led project. The Russian state-society relations were—and are—such that public opinion matters relatively little; the state, in particular the president, sets the agenda and implements policy without much public interference (Smirnov 2001, 524).

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Despite the fact that the norm of abolition did not resonate with the public at large, it did resonate with the liberal-mined intelligentsia and the ruling elite. The ruling elite may have supported abolition based more on instrumental calculations, but for the liberal-minded intelligentsia, it was an important, identity-based value. The biggest achievement during these early years was that the RF publicly committed itself to the goal of abolition and to the integration into European abolitionist institutional frameworks. The Russian abolitionist strategy was gradualist: first, the limitation of its use and, second, its total abolition by ratification of Protocol No. 6. The European organizations played a significant role in the process that led to the placement of abolition on the agenda of practical politics in Russia. The scope conditions were generally positive for norm adoption by Russia. The norm was strengthened when ratification of the Protocol No. 6 became a membership condition of the CoE and more more states ratified it. The norm’s coherence, its symbolic validation, as well as the norm hierarchy and determinacy all strengthened considerably during this period. The norm became more consistently applied and backed by an institutionalized framework. Even the fact that the norm had high political profile does not seem to have played a negative role at this point. On the contrary, the norm soon gained symbolic value as a sign of “Europeaness.” The Russian discourse suggested that this was also the reason why Russia should implement the norm as soon as possible. Also, the asymmetrical relationship between European actors and Russia implied that the European organizations could influence Russian politics. The Russian state was in a new situation and open to new ideas and the values of the European organizations. Russia was in the search for a new identity after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Russia, faced with major challenges without precedent, desperately needed new solutions. The European society of states was willing and able to engage with and assist Russia in its search. The CoE and its standards became the new reference point for Russia. Russia seemed to be willing to accept the European norms without hesitation. The desire to see Russia as a “normal,” “civilized” state was so great that the issue of being patronized by Western states and institutions did not yet raise high emotions among the elite (Sakwa 2002, 351). Although the general public did not support the abolitionist goal, domestic structure was supportive to the adoption of the norm of abolition of the death penalty. Russia’s top-down societal structure suggests that the ruling elite’s abolitionist view would override the general public’s more conservative views. At this time, Russia’s socialization to the norm of abolition of the death penalty seemed fairly straightforward: Russia was expected to adopt the European norm and to implement it in practice. The socialization model would suggest that after the Soviet Union’s collapse, Russia started to move from the

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phase of tactical concessions to the phase of prescriptive status. This, indeed, seemed to be the case—despite the fact that the change was a top-down process (unlike what the model would have). There was considerable progress in terms of the consistency of official discourse and legislative action. There were also major political decisions aimed at preparing Russia for the practical implementation of the norm. Emerging Irregularities in the Phase of Prescriptive Status The war in Chechnya started in late 1994. As a response to the human rights violations taking place there, the CoE decided to suspend the consideration of Russia’s membership application (Council of Europe 1995b). After the CoE’s decision, the highest representatives of the Russian state sent a letter to the CoE. In the addendum of the letter, the leaders promised—among other commitments—that Russia would “examine Protocol No. 6 (abolition of the death penalty) for the purpose of ratification” (Annex 3, Council of Europe 1996b). The letter was a sign of Russia’s sensitivity to the CoE’s coercive action. Positive, urgent reaction and a reinstated commitment to the norms was exactly what the CoE hoped to achieve with its punitive measure. The coercive action by the CoE can thus be considered successful. The application process was reopened in October 1995 (Council of Europe 1995a). In November 1995, the CoE and the EU started a comprehensive two-year assistance program aimed at assisting constitutional arrangements, institution building, and legal reform. A month later, Political Affairs Committee of the Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe (PACE) adopted a draft opinion in favor of Russia’s membership. The report mentioned the death penalty as one of the most pressing issues. The report included a detailed advisory and control program that was aimed at guaranteeing Russia’s swift compliance with CoE norms (Council of Europe 1996a). This program was a sign that Russia was already at the doorstep of the organization and would soon be invited in. Finally, on February 28, 1996, the Russian Federation became the thirtyninth member of the CoE—despite the fact that it did not meet quite a few of the official membership conditions, including the ratification of ECHR and its protocol on abolition. (Council of Europe 1996d). At the time of accession, President Yeltsin promised to pass a moratorium on executions. There was an understanding that Russia was to abolish the death penalty within three years of accession. By accepting Russia into the organization, the CoE lost its most efficient instrument, namely the membership negotiations. On the other hand, its engagement intensified after membership was granted. Now that Russia was

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part of the in-group, the ideational, cultural side of socialization was expected to gain strength. The membership was expected to invoke the mechanisms of norm institutionalization and habitualization. The granting of membership was a sign of political will on both sides to integrate Russia with the European structures. Several positive steps followed the membership in the question of the death penalty. The new criminal code restricted the use of the death penalty, and in May 1996 the president issued a decree “on stage-by-stage reduction of execution of death penalty in connection with the Russian federation joining the Council of Europe.” After the presidential elections, Yeltsin decreed an official moratorium on the execution of the death penalty in August 1996 (Moscow Times, May 17, 1996). However, a considerable blow on Russia’s credibility as a CoE member occurred in December 1996 when it was revealed that Russian authorities had been carrying out executions during the first half of 1996 despite the CoE membership. In January 1997 the CoE published a report that concentrated exclusively on the question of the violation of the declared moratorium on the death penalty. It confirmed that at least fifty-three executions had taken place in Russia since Russia’s accession. The report argued that the Committee on Legal Affairs and Human Rights “feels that the Assembly needs to take action in accordance with its monitoring procedure to sanction this particular violation of an important human rights commitment by Russia, lest the credibility of the Council of Europe be damaged” (Council of Europe 1997). Russia apologized, and it had, in fact, already ceased carrying out executions by the time information became public. In March 1997 the State Duma considered a bill on the moratorium on executions but rejected the proposal by a clear majority: 177 votes against and 75, with 6 abstentions (Batygin 1997). At the time of the vote, 688 prisoners were on death row in Russia. Despite the Duma’s decision, however, President Yeltsin signed Protocol No. 6 to the ECHR in April 1997, although without ratification, it did not officially bind Russia. In Europe, action against the death penalty strengthened. In October 1997, the Council of Europe held a summit where the heads of government called for the universal abolition of the death penalty and outlined the main elements of its anti–death penalty policy. It was to consist of a combination of several elements: general demarches, action on individual cases, the reporting of the human rights situation, and other initiatives including assistance programs. That same year the European Union signed the Amsterdam Treaty, which confirmed its devotion to abolition of the death

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penalty. The strengthening of European action to abolish the death penalty continued the following year. Also in June 1998 the EU issued practical guidelines for its anti–death penalty policy toward non-EU states (European Union 1998). The Duma considered the issue of abolition of the death penalty again with the ratification of the ECHR in February 1998. The session was preceded by a heated debate in the newspapers. In the end, the Duma ratified the ECHR but refused to ratify Protocol No. 6 (Vandenko 1998). Negative trends further strengthened in Russia where the debate grew increasingly critical of abolishing the death penalty and the policies of the international organizations on the question. The following June in 1998, Minister of Justice Pavel Krasheninnikov made a public case for maintaining the death penalty on the basis of growth in crime, and there was strong public support for maintaining it (Suhova 1998). Krasheninnikov was far from the only representative of the executive who defended the death penalty. In fact, in November 1998 even Prime Minister Evgeni Primakov criticized the official goal of abolition by claiming in a populist fashion that Russian government should reintroduce the death penalty (Astahova 1998). These pro–death penalty comments by major political figures and high state officials created confusion and raised serious doubts about Russia’s intentions in European institutions concerned with human rights. The scope conditions changed during this period. On the one hand, the norm-specific conditions strengthened in Europe as more and more states abolished the death penalty. The norm also became one of the cornerstones of the EU’s external policy. On the other hand, the CoE’s material bargaining power and asymmetry between the organization and Russia diminished during this period. The CoE believed that Russia’s membership would encourage its socialization to European norms by strengthening the moral authority of the organization and evoking processes of persuasion and institutionalization. However, the general political environment started to change. Relations between Russia and Europe became more strained as NATO air strikes bombarded Serbia and as former socialist states sought to join NATO. There was a growing feeling of disappointment with Western-dictated reforms and their results in Russia. Russia became less open to European norms and values during these years. Engagement with the European institutions started to be seen in merely instrumental terms based on gaining concrete material benefits. The norm of abolition had always been a symbol of Europeanness, and in the new domestic atmosphere, this quality became increasingly unpopular. Yeltsin’s grip of power was not particularly strong

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during this period that neutralized the structural advantage the elite enjoyed in Russia. The domestic norm salience thus decreased during this period. The European organizations did have an impact on Russia’s policies, although not as much as had been hoped for. The initial goal of the CoE had been the abolition of the death penalty before accession. This goal was later degraded to the ratification of Protocol No. 6 in three years time and the suspension of executions from the day of accession. Russia was not ready to meet the formal abolition requirement but, nevertheless, in practice it did cease executions. The protocol was not, however, adopted within the deadline given by the CoE, and the official discourse showed increasing signs of inconsistency. Nevertheless, after 1996 the European institutions were successful in ensuring that the practical implementation of the norm was consistent in Russia. It is unlikely that this would have happened without the organizations’ active engagement in the issue. Russia’s modest hesitation over the issue did not stand out during this period in Europe. Russia was far from the only state struggling with the implementation of formal requirements of the norm. Russian discourse clearly did not contribute toward strengthening the consensus on the issue, but otherwise, its impact on the European level or on the interpretation of the norm was modest. The socialization model still seems to describe the dynamics of the developments to some extent. Russia’s progress in practical implementation and official commitment to the norm stayed at a high level even though some discursive hesitation started to emerge. Russia could be claimed to be in the phase of prescriptive status of norms. The progress was still relatively weak with regard to the legislative reforms and institutionalization of the norm, but on a practical level, progress was undeniable. However, the general attitude and discourse did not support the abolitionist goal. The problem seemed to be that after Russia’s membership, the effectiveness of the organizations gradually shrank. The processes of argument and persuasion, institutionalization, and habitualization did not take over as the model would predict. Instead, the loss of superior bargaining power and the lack of material incentives reflected negatively in Russia’s progress toward the implementation of the European norm on the abolition. Russia’s Request for an Exception to the European Rule Before long, however, the fragile moratorium on the death penalty was unexpectedly strengthened. In February 1999 the Constitutional Court ruled that Russian courts should stop imposing death sentences until a law on jury trials had been passed in all federal subjects. At the time, jury courts existed in

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nine (out of eighty-nine) regions. Even regions where jury courts existed had to cease passing new death sentences in order to guarantee the principle of the equality of all Russian citizens before the law. This was an important step because there is a qualitative difference between a moratorium on executions and a moratorium on passing death sentences by courts. After the ruling, Russia could be classified as a de facto abolitionist state—at least temporarily (Liukaitis 1999a; Hood 2002, 31). However, the Russian courts could start issuing death sentences once the jury court system had been established in all regions.11 The Pardons Committee decided to seize the moment and get rid of death row altogether. During the first five months of 1999, the Pardons Commission considered a record-breaking seven hundred cases (Liukaitis 1999b). These developments gave some hope to the European organizations that despite earlier hesitation, there still might be enough political will in Russia to abolish the death penalty in the near future. However, the positive wave of abolitionist spirit soon came to an end. With the start of the Second Chechen War in 1999, the fight against terrorism became more increasingly dominant in the Russian political agenda. Terrorist attacks against civilians considerably strengthened support for the death penalty in Russia. The Russian press launched a populist pro–death penalty campaign, and many public figures and politicians gave their support for the campaign. Many observers also feared that the new Russian president Vladimir Putin would foster pro–death penalty sympathies. This fear has not materialized, however, and the goal of abolition has continued to be supported officially by the Russian president (see for example Interfax July 9, 2001 and February 7, 2006). The resuming of hostilities in Chechnya also created an extremely volatile situation and Russia—CoE relations deteriorated once more. The tension culminated in coercive action by PACE. In April 2000 PACE decided to suspend Russia’s voting rights in the assembly (Council of Europe 2000). This time around, the Russian reaction to the coercive action was not a positive one from the council’s point of view. The Russian State Duma replied to the suspension decision by adopting a declaration criticizing the decision made by the PACE. The Duma stood firmly behind the Chechen War. It “deeply regretted” the position adopted by the assembly. It considered PACE’s decision unjust and unfounded, claiming that full-scale cooperation could only resume if the assembly reversed its “discriminatory” decision (See Council of Europe 2001a). The Russian side offered no concessions on the issue but challenged the decision by CoE directly. The reaction by Russia left the CoE in an awkward position. It seemed that the Russian side was not going to give in on the issue, but the CoE could not suspend Russia’s voting rights forever.

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In January 2001 the Political Affairs Committee commented again on the situation in Chechnya. It regretted the stance that the Russian delegation had taken. It seems that the tables had unexpectedly turned: what had started as CoE pressure on Russia had become Russian pressure on the CoE. PACE had to admit that if Russia was actually expelled from the CoE, the organization would have to invent a completely new role for itself in the new Europe. PACE decided to grant full voting rights to Russia without any major concessions having been made on the Russian side. Even though the CoE may have had structural advantage vis-à-vis Russia, Russia’s uncompromising behavior forced PACE to yield. The CoE’s moral shaming clearly did not work and, in the absence of material bargaining tools, the organization was at a loss with Russia. The status of the death penalty in Russia also caused debate within the CoE. In May 2001 PACE President Lord Russell-Johnston gave a declaration on the death penalty debate in Russia. In it he stated that “recent statements made by high-level Russian officials in favor of suspending the moratorium on the executions are therefore highly regrettable. These statements come against the background of serious concerns with regard to Russia’s human rights record in Chechnya and its commitment to the freedom of media. They are worrying sign of either ignorance of, or blatant disregard for Russia’s commitments and obligations as a member state of the Council of Europe.” Further, he claimed that a decision to end the moratorium would be challenging “the credibility of Russia’s commitment to our organization’s values and principles . . . [and] this would inevitably lead to the questioning of whether Russia is to continue as a member of the organization” (Council of Europe 2001b). In February 2002 the State Duma rejected once more the ratification of Protocol No. 6, again by a large majority, with some members of the parliament even going as far as introducing an appeal to the president to reintroduce capital punishment. This was shocking news to PACE. In March it commented on these developments in a monitoring session: “The assembly is shocked by the vote in the State Duma on 15 February 2002, asking President Putin to reintroduce the death penalty. . . . the assembly nevertheless urges the Russian authorities to abolish the death penalty de jure and to conclude the ratification of the Protocol No. 6 of the European Convention on Human Rights” (Council of Europe 2002a). In 2002 the CoE Council of Ministers decided to discuss the question of the abolition of the death penalty at six-month intervals until de jure abolition occured in all member states (Council of Europe 2002b). Also, the general secretary of the CoE wrote an article in defense of abolition in Rossiiskaia Gazeta in March

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2002 (Schwimmer 2002). Thus, the CoE’s reply was increased monitoring and attempts to convince the Russian representatives of the importance of the measure. All this did little to prevent pro–death penalty comments from Russian officials. The most serious of these attacks was Deputy Prosecutor Vladimir Koleshnikov’s advocacy of the cancellation of the moratorium in February 2005. His comments were sent to the Federation Council, which was considering anti-terrorist legislation. These comments were even more worrisome as the Constitutional Court ruling on the application of the death penalty was about to become void: the only region still without a jury court was Chechnya. This episode was repeated in February 2006 when the deputy prosecutor general publicly expressed his wish that the only terrorist behind the Beslan school attack still alive should be executed. Interestingly enough, Pavel Krasheninnikov—this time as a chairman of the legislative committee of the Duma—spoke against exceptions to the moratorium, and President Putin has periodically expressed his conviction that the death penalty should not be reintroduced (RIA Novosti, February 9, 2006). In May 2006 Nurpashi Kulayev, the Beslan terrorist, was sentenced to life imprisonment with a reference to the moratorium on the death penalty in force (RIA Novosti, May 26, 2006). In May and June 2005 the Council of Europe published a report on Russia by the Human Rights Commissioner and PACE reporters. The reports remained firm in their criticisms of the failure to abolish the death penalty in law and to bring to justice those found responsible for human rights violations in Chechnya (Council of Europe 2005a; Council of Europe 2005b). However, the issue of the death penalty was not placed on the action agenda, and no one questioned Russia’s position as a member because of its shortcomings (unlike Russell-Johnston in his statement only four years earlier). Russia thus seems to have been successful with its call for an exception to be made in its case. The EU has also paid attention to human rights and the issue of the death penalty in EU-Russia relations. It has created new, softer mechanisms to engage with Russia on human rights. The EU and Russia have been having semiannual confidential consultations on human rights issues since 2005, and the issue of the death penalty and the ratification of Protocol No. 6 has been taken up in the meetings. This softer EU measure, nevertheless, seem to be as unproductive as the CoE’s engagement on the question of the death penalty. To sum up, despite the fact that practical adherence to the norm of abolition was strengthened by the constitutional court decision in 1999,

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the Russian Federation seemed increasingly resistant to the socialization efforts of the European organizations. Russia showed blatant disregard of its membership conditions and its initial promises to ratify the protocol in three years time after its accession to the organization. Official discourse did not feature an apology or make new promises of implementation but instead indirectly challenged the European norm’s applicability to the Russian case. Russia’s action suggests that Russia is pressuring the European organizations to make an exception in its case. The coherence of and the consensus on the European norm on abolition of the death penalty further increased in the early to mid-2000s. Secondary norms backing the grundnorm12 of abolition were developed further with the adaptation of Protocol No. 13 on the complete abolition of the death penalty. This coherence was further enhanced as country after country ratified the protocols. Russia’s action is endangering further progress. Today, when a great majority of CoE members have already ratified Protocol No. 13, Russia stubbornly refuses to ratify Protocol No. 6. The recent shifts in international and domestic balance have made Russia less prone to socialization efforts by European organizations. The asymmetry between the European structures and Russia was diminishing after the turn of the millennium. Russia’s economy is much stronger, and the president is extremely popular among the Russians, which gives the state more freedom of action. Russia has become increasingly self-confident as an international actor, and this is reflected in its unwillingness to comply with European norms. Instead of desiring to be a normal European state, Russia has effectively asked the organizations to apply different norms and standards to Russia than those at use with other European states. The European material bargaining power has significantly decreased during this period. The sense of urgency to find novel solutions has long passed, and high oil prices have also contributed to the general growth of the Russian economy and general satisfaction with the current political leadership by its public. Russia has become increasingly resistant to outside influences. Russia’s noncompliance with the European norm of abolition is not due to lack of political or material resources. After all, Russia had already implemented abolition and only refused to comply with the European legislative requirements on the issue. Noncompliance on the question seemed to concern Russian identity formation. Noncompliance with the European norm seems to have become a symbolic, principled issue for Russia and a sign of Russia’s independence of action. Calls for noncompliance are not signs of “ignorance or blatant disregard” (Council of Europe 2001b) of Russia’s commitments (like Lord Russell-Johnston suspected), but, in fact, an indirect

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challenge to the CoE’s authority on normative matters. Russia does not want to play the part of a norm-taker any longer. The dynamics of the developments in Russia during the Putin years differ from the path of development envisaged by the socialization model. Russia, expected to be in the prescriptive phase with this norm, not only failed to meet the criteria but challenged the applicability of the once agreed-upon norm. Russia considers European pressure on the issue to be out of place. There has not been any major backlash as the model would suggest, but the Russian challenge has taken place indirectly while cooperating with the organizations. Russia never officially declared its denial of the norm, yet it does not believe that the European organizations should have a say on the matter. The indirect challenge has to do with the exclusive authority of European organizations’ actions and their right to interpret common norms. The socialization model seems unable to detect these dynamics at play on the issue of abolition of the death penalty. Conclusion In the case of the death penalty abolition, there has been considerable progress in the practical implementation of the norm, but the shortcomings concern the low level of rhetorical commitment by the authorities and the failure to meet the formal, legislative commitments set by the European organizations. The scope conditions were generally positive in the case of the abolition of the death penalty. The European norm was high in determinacy, coherence, and adherence; there was a European-wide consensus on the issue as well as strong symbolic validation of the norm. There is a formal, legally binding international agreement on the issue, and its ratification is required and the process closely monitored by the CoE vis-à-vis all its members. The only scope conditions that could explain the some of the difficulties of socialization by Russia are the norm-specific conditions on the technical/political character of the norm and the domestic salience of the norms combined with changes in domestic and international structures. Indeed, the norm has very high political- and identity-related profile. As long as the pro-Western attitude reigned in Russia, the environmental and international scope conditions were in favor of socialization and the issue’s high political profile seemed to be an asset in the process of implementation. Only later, when the pro-Western attitude faded and asymmetry between the parties weakened did this feature turn against socialization. It thus seems that scope conditions that relate to the distribution of material power seem to reflect fairly directly onto the degree of norm

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socialization. A norm with a high political profile has suffered from the fact that Russia’s structural position vis-à-vis the European organizations has strengthened. This indicates that the European organizations have not been successful in evoking softer mechanisms of persuasion, argumentation, and institutionalization and that their success in Russia is still very much dependent on material bargaining and instrumental calculations on Russia’s side. The socialization model by Risse and Sikkink claims that in order to engender enduring human rights change, certain types of causal mechanisms must be present in the process of socialization. These causal mechanisms for enduring change are (1) instrumental adaptation and strategic bargaining, (2) argumentation and persuasion, and (3) institutionalization and habitualization. With regard to abolition of the death penalty, these causal mechanisms have not been equally present. Based most likely on strategic calculations, Russia agreed to be bound by the European norm. This was done in order to gain access to the CoE. There have been considerable efforts to convince the Russian authorities and public alike that abolition is in their interest and the proper thing to do as a human rights–respecting state and a CoE member. These efforts seem to have been in vain. The Russian authorities and public have not been convinced by the arguments, and they have disregarded the European efforts. On the practical level, there has been some modest institutionalization. As a result of this institutionalization, it does not seem likely that Russia would revert back to issuing death penalties and carrying out executions. Neither, however, does this mean that there will be further progress in implementing the norm. Progress in the case of the death penalty also seemed to follow the expectations of the socialization model during the early years of cooperation on the issue between Russia and the organizations. The Russian leadership seemed to be committed to the implementation of the norm; there was considerable progress in the limitation of the death penalty; and the discourse was consistent. The hurdles were believed to be chiefly practical in nature, and it was believed to be only a matter of time before Russia ratified Protocol No. 6. However, while other new CoE members went ahead and ratified Protocol No. 6, progress stalled in Russia. Today, Russia is the only CoE member that has not ratified the protocol. In recent years it has even cast doubt on the general goal of ratifying the protocol (RIA Novosti, May 29, 2006). Contrary to the expectations of the model, Russia has proved to be resistant to active international pressure and to more positive encouragement alike. Risse and Sikkink argue that noncompliance is possible during the early stages of the model if the state is independent enough and does not care

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about being excluded from international cooperation, or, later in the phase of prescriptive status, if there is not enough international attention to the actual implementation of the norm. This was not the case with Russia and the abolition of the death penalty: it was already in the phase of prescriptive status, and there was plenty of international attention to the state of implementation in Russia. Whilst failing to comply with this fundamental European norm, Russia was simultaneously engaging and cooperating actively with all of these European organizations. Instead of complying with the model’s expectations and being persuaded by the international actors, Russia has sought to demonstrate that it will engage with the European organizations on its own terms only. Through its use of uncompromising, interest-based politics, Russia has gained more room to maneuver vis-à-vis the organizations. Instead of direct denial of the norm (which could be interpreted as a regression to the phase of denial), Russia has challenged the norm and the European organizations’ authority on the matter indirectly through its ignoring of the European calls for implementation. The failure to explain the developments in this case derives from the potential problems that were outlined at the beginning of this chapter. First, the Russian development has not followed the general presumption that international factors and structures would suffice to trigger development along the lines of the spiral model. In particular, the presumption that there would be some semiautomatic process of verbal self-entrapment seems illfitted to the Russian case. On the contrary, the ruling elite has been skilled in using the discursive structures and in arguing in order to escape the firm European criteria for implementation. Because politics and active political choices are by and large excluded from the model, the criteria for each of the stages fail to grasp the essence of the change. Second, the socialization model assumes that the norms are fixed, given entities. It seems that Russia has rather successfully negotiated a partial exception for itself on the question of the abolition of the death penalty. An exception to a general norm may weaken the coherence and consensus on the norm in Europe, and this could have an impact on the working of the European organizations. Third, and related to the previous point, this case study demonstrated that the process of socialization is not necessarily a one-way street. The cooperation process surrounding the norms has not simply been about the effective transference of norms from one party to another. Russia has indirectly challenged the authority of the organizations. The European consensus on the norm has been weakened by Russia’s noncompliance. How profoundly

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Russian policies will affect the development of the European norm of abolition nevertheless remains to be seen. It thus seems that Russia has been socialized to the practice of cooperation with European organizations, but it clearly has not been socialized to the norms and values of the organizations. Russia is willing to cooperate with European organizations and has many times called for even closer ties with them. However, it is only willing to do it on its own terms, which are based on its interests and not on shared values and identities. In the light of the issue explored in this chapter, it seems that question is really about the choice of Europe on Russia: will European organizations be willing to give Russia more room to maneuver than the other members of the European state society and allow for exception to some of its norms? Or will they stand firm behind their principles and confront Russia head on? Both of these options are risky, and organizations do not seem politically ready to make a strategic choice on Russia. It is likely that an unsatisfactory stagnation in relations will continue until some unexpected political change or event disturbs the fragile balance between the actors. Notes 1. Naturally, there are different variations of social constructivism: mainstream “modernist,” “rule-based,” “commonsense,” and more postmodern constructivists. Despite all their differences, the points made here are common to all of these approaches. On different variations of constructivism, see, for example, Adler 1997, 319–63 and Pettman 2001, 249–65. 2. This norm of abolition of the death penalty has long roots, but the norm as it stands today is a recent one. It only came about after the cold war. The original text of the ECHR explicitly states that the death penalty may be applied by states under certain conditions. The traditional sovereignty-based interpretation started to be questioned by international nongovernmental human rights organizations, such as Amnesty International, and by the Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe (PACE) during the 1970s and 1980s. See Wohlwend 1999, 55–67. 3. The protocol was opened for signatures on April 28, 1983. Twelve of the then twenty-one members signed the protocol on that day. It entered into force with five ratifications on March 1, 1985. 4. The latest Amnesty International report (April 2007) on the situation is available at http://amnesty.org/en/report/info/act50/003/2007. 5. De facto abolitionism means that a state retains the death penalty, but in practice it has not applied capital punishment during the past ten years or more, or it has made an international commitment not to carry out executions (Hood 2001, 331–54).

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6. The OSCE participating states agreed on the OSCE principles concerning the death penalty in 1989 in the Concluding Document of the Vienna Follow-up Meeting, the Document of the 1990 Copenhagen and 1991 Moscow Human Dimension Meetings, and the Concluding Documents of the 1992 Helsinki and 1994 Budapest summits. In 1999, the OSCE’s Office for Democratic Institutions and Human Rights started to publish an annual review on the use of the death penalty in which the international standards and the use of the death penalty by OSCE states are studied. The data in the report comes from the participating states themselves. See information at http://www.osce.org/odihr/ item_2_224.html?print=1. 7. Only Belarus, the United States, and Uzbekistan are completely retentionist. The figure includes de facto abolitionist (such as Russia) as well as partly abolitionist states (such as Latvia, which has adopted Protocol No. 6 to the ECHR). 8. In 1995 the CSCE changed its name to Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe. 9. The then prevailing criminal code allowed for much wider application of the death penalty, but the practice followed the constitution. The new criminal code was passed in 1996. 10. See Article 6 of the Constitution of the Russian Federation 1993. Jury courts existed in nine regions out of eighty-nine subjects of the RF. Gradually the situation has changed: since April 2003 only one federation subject has not had a jury court (Chechnya). 11. In November 2006, the State Duma postponed the establishment of jury trials in Chechnya until 2010. See RIA Novosti, November 15, 2006. 12. Underlying basic norm.

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CHAPTER 5

Pan-European/International Transport Corridors at the Conjunction of Geography and Politics in Russia*

Katri Pynnöniemi Pan-European Transport Corridors and the New Order of Europe

U

ntil recently, it was plausible in the EU to use simple logic to say that because Russia’s export infrastructure is directed toward Europe, it is in Russia’s interest to engage in cooperation with Europe (European Commission 2004, 6). Such optimism is rare these days, and on the contrary, oil and gas pipelines, ports, and other transport-related infrastructure are seen as a means to further Russia’s state interests in Europe (to the detriment of the latter). Both narratives are in a way right, but we would do well to beyond these simple constructions and take a look at how geography and politics are entangled in Russia’s relations with Europe. A point of departure is a simple notion that in the early 1990s, the network of pipelines, electric transmission lines, railways, and roads between Europe and Russia were labeled as symbols of strategic partnership in the making (European Council 1999, 7). An idea of a durable, common space that both the West and the East could share was written into the charter for a new * This chapter is a part of my doctoral research project funded by the Academy of Finland’s research project, “Russia’s European Choice—with or into the EU?” at the Finnish Institute of International Affairs.

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Europe signed in 1990. The first Pan-European transport conference, held in Prague in October 1991, was a turning point in the sense that it was the first official announcement of a need to formulate a common understanding on an all-European Transport Policy. This declaration called for an identification of “the most important major transport routes linking the European countries and regions.” This was intended as a “formal and concrete expression” of the need to engage in building a transport infrastructure network for the new Europe (Pan-European Transport Conference 1991, 1). The prioritization of the nine Pan-European transport corridors in 1994 was a symbolic act aimed to foster a new spatial as well as temporal order for the enlarged Europe1 (Second Pan-European Transport Conference 1994; European Parliament 1994). The new status—the Pan-European transport corridor—was the formal expression of a new order in terms of the set of road and rail connections, border crossing points, sea ports, airports, and the like, in purposive relation to each other. In the EU context, the new arrangement was primarily envisioned as a part of eastern enlargement. Consequently, the EU committed itself to finance the development of the Pan-European corridors within the territories of the new member states.2 The extension of three of the nine corridors (No. 1, 2, and 9) to the territory of Russia set the stage for further cooperation between the EU and Russia in the sphere of transport and infrastructure development.3 The growing interest in improving transport infrastructure within the enlarged EU area, as well as between the EU and Russia, stems from the fact that the trade between the EU27 and the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS) is expected to grow substantially in the foreseeable future (Kandogan 2006, 216–17, 229; Lautso et al. 2005, 39–41). The reorientation of the trade flows and the enlargement of the EU are two parts of the same coin—a coin that quite literally creates contours for a spatial and temporal reordering of Europe. The question I pose in my research work is, what happens to this coin when it is flipped around in the Russian discourse on transport and infrastructure development? What kind of “currency” is it, and what is it used for? The purpose of this analogy is to suggest that the very combination of the words “Pan-European” and “international” and their use in the articulation of Russian policy objectives vis-à-vis the development of transport infrastructure convey the extent of the change (or the continuation) in Russia’s engagement with Europe. In the first part of this chapter, I will suggest how we may picture the puzzle of Russian international transport corridors. It is argued that it consists of two layers, the foreground and the background that are nested into an “assemblage,” the combination of change and continuity in present-day Russian politics. The opening of the Chita-Khabarovsk road in February

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2004 illustrates features of “razzmatazz” in Russian politics, as well as a way to study the use of language characteristic for policy making in Russia. The Puzzle of Russian International Transport Corridors Picturing the Dynamism of Change The historian J. N. Westwood summarized the problem of transport in Russia in the following way: It is “a consequence of the geographic feature of Russia, the union of an enormous territorial expanse into a single economy” (Westwood 2002, 79). The paradox depicted in this formulation is that “an enormous territorial expanse” does not readily transform into “a single economy” or to “coherent sovereign space.” However, official discourse in Russia addresses ambiguities involved in the building of a “united transport system” as temporal obstacles that can be done away with by way of improving the system of governance. This being the permanent feature of the tsarist Soviet and subsequent Russian discussion on transport and infrastructure modernization also makes it a convenient starting point to study how the “international transport corridor” concept figures against the background of already existing policies and a purported constellation of geography and politics in Russia.

Figure 5.1 Advertisement of the DVTG Group (Rossiiskaya Gazeta March 23, 2005)

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The advertisement of the DVTG Group forwarding company helps us to picture the hypothesis put forward in the article. This advertisement envisions the future of Russia as a bridge between Asia and Europe. The advertisement says, “Whatever your cargo. Wherever its destination.” The territory of Russia is envisioned as a blue sky, and the stars in the sky are the company’s freight centers. The freight centers, rather than the thin dotted-line marking the border, constitute an interface of local/global and outside/inside of Russia. “Europe,” “Russia,” and “China” are locations in the semantic space—text fragments rather than real entities. Moscow, usually represented as the nexus of the Russian space, is, in this image, just one of the stars. The yellow figure against the blue background stands for an international transport corridor. The figure of the corridor is in fact a service offered by the company. It is the company that makes moving through Russia fast, reliable, and safe. The DVTG advertisement visualizes an arrangement of Russian space where the space is orderly in relation to the global markets. The form of this constellation derives from its function in the global trade network. Thus, it is the figure of the yellow corridor, rather than the blue background, that is illuminated. In the government policies on transport corridors, the relation between the figure of the corridor and the background is turned the other way around. In order to understand this shift, we may start with the notion of a “united transport system” (Edinaya Transportnaya Sistema [ETS]). It captures what is regarded as an essential feature of the system. Starting from the early 1930s, the concept was used to describe the main state task of the development of transport. The three main attributes of the ETS are integrity (tselostnost’), or unity of the infrastructure network; hierarchy (ierarhichnost’) of the different modes of transport; and synthesis4 (vzaimoproniknovenie or sintez) of the operation of the system as a whole (Galaburdy 1996, 15). With the emphasis on tselostnost,’ this means integrity and unity but also, in a more diffuse sense, something that is intact. The arrangement of space becomes a call for effective governance. In an analytical sense, there is a shift from the foreground: a yellow “figure” of the corridor to the background of a blue “sky” denotes a shift in the purpose order of the Russian space. The foreground—the figure of the corridor—is a constellation of the Russian space formed in accordance with the principle of competitiveness in the global markets—whereas the blue background signifies unity of power over sovereign territory. Two versions of spatiality—the “space of flows,” or global networking, and sovereign territoriality are not seen a priori as mutually exclusive but rather as two coexistent, spatial domains of politics (Ruggie 1993; Castells 1996; Agnew 1999; Allen 2003). What is here suggested is that we look at an advertisement as a

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multistable image, or to use a more familiar expression, a puzzle picture that is here put in use as a hypothesis of a possible way “to look and see” into the word “corridor” and similarities and differences in its usage5 (Wittgenstein 1953, 66). The puzzle is composed of two layers: the “figure” of the corridor that is set against the “background” or “underground” of the blue “sky.” The notion of “foreground” and “background” goes back to ideas first encountered in gestalt psychology and the basic finding that visual perception of the figure is only possible against the background. The background sets out—it gives contours to the figure while at the same time it stays unnoticed (Kharkhordin 1999; Hanks 1996). In other words, it is the background that enables us to understand literal meanings and against which the semantic content of utterances functions (Searle 1983, 148). But words of caution are clearly required. An understanding of the gestalt is usually saved only for the “truly heroic philosophical achievements” that allow us to see everything in a new angle. Therefore, I would like to emphasize that the puzzle picture is here used heuristically. It is proposed as a summary image of the hypothesis of the study, and it outlines the point of departure to the analytical approach by which the research problem can be solved (Rorty 1998, 10; Kuhn 1996; Mitchell 1995). To solve the puzzle, we should thus pay attention to the dynamism inherent in the use of language, being understood as a language game played by rules whereby the shift between the foreground and the background actualizes, and the two layers merge together to form one complete picture again.6 The research hypothesis is that what we may see emerging is a kind of “assemblage” or “nesting” of the foreground and the background. I should emphasize that in this chapter I may only hint at what can be seen as foreground and background and suggest on the way that they are nested at the instance of policy making. The Foreground: Russia as a Bridge from Asia to Europe In the context of Russian politics, the development of Pan-European corridors marks the conjunction of the three major processes: the fragmentation of the post-Soviet space, the reorganization of the Russian polity, and the integration of Russia into global markets and with the EU.7 Looking back at this process, the Russian minister of transport, Sergei Frank, noted in 2003 that the development of transport corridors in Russia has evolved “from an idea of enlarging the system of Pan-European transport corridors into Russia to the development of our own system of ‘international’ and domestic transport corridors, on the basis of which the main transport

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infrastructure projects will be realised” (Frank 2003, 3). The agreements between the transport ministries of participating Pan-European corridor countries (for example, between Russia and Finland) were negotiated and concluded between 1995 and 1996. The Russian government’s position on the development of the corridors was formulated before the Third PanEuropean Transport Conference in 1997, where Russia proposed including the Euro-Asian linkages in the map of Pan-European corridors. The issue fell into the background of Russian politics due to the August economic crisis in 1998 but surfaced again in 2000 with the positive trend in the Russian economy. The point of departure of Russian state policy on the corridors is formulated in the Federal Target Program: modernization of the transport system of Russia approved by the Russian government in December 2001. It is argued that “since Russia comprises thirty percent of the territory of Eurasian continent and has a well-developed transport system, it objectively is a natural bridge providing a set of transit connections in this direction” (Ministry of Transport of RF 2001, 13). The naturalness of the bridge is linked with features of “bridgeness” that Russia possesses. But what does it take for something to function as a bridge? The sufficient condition is that the thing creates a stable connection between two points separated by something that would otherwise be impossible to cross over. In the Searlean sense, the use of something as a bridge is a question of the intrinsic features of the thing—the structure of an object that makes it usable to function as a bridge. It is important to note, however, that to recognize something as functioning as a bridge, we do not need words or other status markers. When the thing already exists, it has its (languageindependent) intrinsic features that precede the collective imposition of new meaning. It is only the latter move whereby the thing becomes part of the institutional realm.8 This clarification may seem unnecessary since it is clear from the context that the notion “Russia is a natural bridge between Europe and Asia” is not a statement reporting this state of affairs as a matter of fact. In this connection, the word “bridge” is used metaphorically to represent, to stand for—in general—to mean something beyond the brute physical features of the thing represented. The shift that we perform when we assign the new status-function “bridge” or “international transport corridor” to an object or collection of objects is predominantly a linguistic move that “can only exist if it is represented as existing” (Searle 1995, 68). In the case of international transport corridors, maps and road signs (e.g., The trans-European road “E20”) are examples of status-indicators that mark the presence of

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international transport corridors. But the point is that since there is nothing that would distinguish “corridor” from its negation (non-corridor), the very definition of an international transport corridor establishes conditions in terms of which certain directions of routes, specific infrastructure artifacts, investment projects, or administrative practices count as an international transport corridor. This denotes a sense of a bridge understood as a locution, a space that emerges through the action. The symbolic and practical meanings of that thing are “tied to the very act of gathering, building of the bridge” (Heidegger 1997, 108). In the context of Russian politics, the idea of “gathering” is expressed with the word obustroistvo (the rebuilding of Russia): International transport routes cross our country along the shortest distance, with a minimal number of crossings over state borders, and on a territory that comprises an united legal space, thus providing for a faster delivery of goods. Besides, in the direction of the main international freight flows Russia has a well developed network of railways and waterways with a reserve of their transport capability; a developing network of motor roads, and this will allow to avoid the necessity of large investments to “rebuilding” (obustroistvo) the international corridors. (Government of RF 2000)

The Russian word obustroistvo means to rebuild or to put in order, and it is used in connection with the fixing of an apartment and refers to those little things (furniture, curtains, bed linens, and more technical things [e.g., TV sets or microwave ovens]) that give a personal look to an apartment. In connection with the international transport corridor, the word refers to specific conditions—for example, service areas along the highways, warehouses, and other infrastructure objects (or even administrative practices) that finally transform the road into an international transport corridor. To have the status of international transport corridor, the route must comply with the following criteria: It must have technically well-equipped transport communications; it must already be part of the main transport route (magistral); and it must also concentrate on foreign trade and transit cargo and passenger flows, or at least have a favorable probability for addressing the above-mentioned flows. The route should also have significant reserves for freight capacity. The price and throughput time of cargo should also be competitive throughout the entire freight route; and the quality of transport (security, services, IT technology to guarantee full information) should be high and should coincide with the set of international transport corridors agreed to by the international community (Government of RF 2000; Centre of Strategic Research 2000; Ministry of Transport of RF 2001).

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The selection of specific routes and infrastructure objects for the corridor basically consists of three criteria: (1) the type of existing or potential cargo flow (foreign trade and transit), (2) technical status (expected to be high), and (3) linkage with existing network of international transport corridors. What these criteria imply is that the Russian international transport corridors effectively consist of the already existing main transport arteries that cross Russia in the east-west or north-south direction (Government of RF 2000; Ministry of Transport of RF 2001, 20). In the case of transit corridors, the point of departure is to argue that transit through Russia is the shortest and the fastest route between Europe and Asia. This is because “transit routes through the territory of Russia are shorter than alternative ones,” (e.g., the Transport Corridor Europe-Caucasus-Asia [TRACECA]). Russian territory is a “coherent legal space,” and there is a “minimal number of border-crossings” in comparison to competing routes. One premise of this argument is based on a simple observation. The sea route between Europe and Asia through Suez Canal is approximately twenty-one thousand kilometers, whereas the length of the route through Russia (the Trans-Siberian Railway) is approximately eleven to twelve thousand kilometers (Izmailov 2002; Government of RF 2000). The second premise of this argument is equally simple. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, it was no longer acceptable to omit the real costs of transport. On the contrary, currently “sell[ing a] change in location,” as Karl Marx wrote in Capital, is seen as a major source of revenue for the state budget, often compared with the energy exports (cited in Harvey 2001, 243). The comparison is telling, for besides transit, the development of international transport corridors in Russia is closely tied with the improvement of transport infrastructure serving the country’s foreign economic interests. The Background: A Country at the Dead End The second international Euro-Asian transport conference in St. Petersburg was held on September 12, 2000. This was just five days after a government meeting where the concept of the international transport corridor was officially included in the glossary of federal transport policy. Speaking for an international audience, Minister Frank emphasized that Russia does not enter the transit transport markets as an “aggressive competitor” but as a “partner that offers transit services for the needs of the new century.” Russia was also willing to cooperate “as an equal” with those countries that see it first and foremost as a competitor in a “fight (bor’be) for transport flows.” “This approach,” concluded Frank, “can be considered constructive from the viewpoint of priorities of integration and stabilization.” (Frank 2000a, 6)

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Later in the same speech, Minister Frank referred again to unspecified “foreign partners” who in recent years believed that “Russia as a country is a dead end, its communications are routes intended for the export of minerals and the import of finished products to the Russian market. Today, along with oil and metals, Russia offers the world community a new national product, namely the export of transit services. We are ready to produce and sell this product on mutually beneficial terms with our foreign partners” (Frank 2000a, 6). The use of the metaphor “dead end” captures the sensitivity of the issue. Instead of running through the Trans-Siberian Railway, Asian manufactured products are transported via the Suez Canal to European ports. Even products destined to Russia are first carried to the ports of Finland and only then by trucks or railways to St. Petersburg and Moscow. On the eve of the transport conference at St. Petersburg, an article appeared in the Ministry of Transport’s newspaper, Transport Rossii, that referred to this practice by writing that “everyone who can carries cargo past Russia.”9 The general point to make is that Russia is currently able to attract only a fraction of the cargo traffic between Europe and Asia. In the future, the Russian Ministry of Transport (Mintrans) aspires to increase the share of Russian transit to 330–400 thousand TEU annually (Izmailov 2002, 5). Plans to increase the volume of international traffic must be offset against the decline in traffic volumes after the peak year of 1989. From the late 1980s, the volume of containers shipped westward along the Trans-Siberian route had steadily decreased from 125 thousand to 50 thousand containers in 1998. The drop was a result of several factors, including delays at the ports and customs that hampered the punctual delivery of shipments as well as theft and other disturbances (e.g., “the war on rails” in May 1998). After 1998, container shipments along the Trans-Siberian route have grown steadily from 15,100 TEU in 1998 to 48,300 TEU in 2002. In terms of punctuality of the service, by 1999 the situation on the Trans-Siberian Railway had improved insofar as the distance between the Far Eastern Russian ports and European transport hubs was counted in hours rather than days: “A container sent from a Japanese port to Germany,” writes Westwood, “would most likely make the trip in 477 hours, of which 292 hours would be taken by the rail transit over Russian and Belarussian railways to Brest (10,390 kilometers, of which 623 kilometers were over Belarussian tracks).” But this applies mainly to the set of “block-trains” running under special regulation (Westwood 2002, 131). The drastic decrease of domestic transport volumes pushed railways to develop international transport services (Babaeva 1994). At the first stage, efforts concentrated to the development of international transport along the Trans-Siberian Railway. International transit transports on that route had in fact started already in the early 1970s when the set of special trains was

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organized to run from the Far East to the eastern European (COMECON) countries, Scandinavia, or Iran. By 1979 the route had succeeded in capturing about 10 percent of the total traffic and a quarter of that between Japan and northwestern Europe (Rodgers 1990, 212). It is this experience that is referred to in current visions of increasing the bulk of transit along the Trans-Siberian Railway. To this end, Russia is identified not just as a “bridge” but an “interface” between Europe and Asia. As argued by Minister Frank, “the geographical location of Russia and the level of development of its transport infrastructure” offers a solution to the problem of how to create an optimal interface (interfeisom) between Europe and Asia (Frank 2000b, 11). The use of the borrowed word interface widens the scope of the solution. The task, as suggested by Minister Frank at the St. Petersburg conference, is to create “software” that is adjusted to manage transit flows effectively. In this way, Russia will become more than just a point of conjunction between Europe and Asia. The identification of the need for “harmonization” of rules and practices constitutive of transit transportation (e.g., customs regulations) coexists with the call for “operationalization” of those practices as a foreign policy resource in the fight for transit flows (Frank 2000a, 2000b). The definition of a set of connections as “international transport corridors” gives a convenient way out of the “dead end,” a condition resulting from the disintegration of the former Soviet-era transport network and its administrative system. On the other hand, it gives a plausible way to argue a vision for a future where Russian operators carry foreign trade cargo and the cargo destined for third countries instead of being forced to merely acknowledge how (and how much) international operators (and other countries) benefit from Russian foreign trade flows. This brings a new challenge: either Russia succeeds in developing transportation services that fulfil international criteria, or it has to face loosing this lucrative business. I have chosen the opening of the Chita-Khabarovsk road section to illustrate what possible forms the “nesting” of the two layers, the “foreground,” and the “background” may take. The event also illustrates the phenomenon of “potemkinization” in Russian politics. The rest of the chapter is used to explain how we may analytically tackle this phenomenon. From a Symbolic Act of Reality to a Matter of Fact The Ceremonial Opening of a Passage through Russian Territory The ceremonial opening of the “through traffic route” (skovznogo proezda) on the federal road Amur between the cities of Chita and Khabarovsk took place in the town of Khabarovsk in Siberia.11 It was late February 2004, and

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Figure 5.2 A passage through the courtyard (photograph by author)10

the road was concealed beneath packed snow. Present at the ceremony was President Putin together with other high-level officials from Moscow. While the regional media was understandably filled with descriptions of the event and the president’s visit, the news about the opening of the new road was welcomed with excitement and pride in Moscow as well.12 Indeed, the federal TV channel Rossiya in its main news program Vesti showed a special news clip dedicated to the opening. It stated that “‘Amur’ is not just a road from point ‘A,’ Chita, to point ‘B,’ Khabarovsk. Now, one may drive by car on this route from Moscow to Vladivostok. It is the longest road in the world, its length is ten thousand kilometres—people living in the Far East of Russia name it nothing less than an automotive Trans-Siberian” (Kozhevin 2004). The head of the Duma’s Committee on Energy, Transport, and Communications, V. A. Jazev, echoed what soon became a mainstream interpretation of the significance of the event. In his congratulation telegram to Acting Transport Minister Frank he announced that “this wonderful event opens not only a direct road link between Moscow and Vladivostok. It will also lead to the development of regional economies in Siberia and Far East, and the securing of Russia’s security interests. I am sure that this event contributes to new progress in the transport sphere in general” (Government of RF 2004). What the text declined to say explicitly was that until the completion of this road section, there was no direct, year-round road linkage between European Russia and the Far East. But the usage of the word “completion”

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Figure 5.3 At the opening of Chita-Khabarovsk road (February 26, 2004)14

in this connection proved to be exaggeration. Lengthy sections of the route were left unfinished, and passage through the entirety of the route was only possible by a heavy truck or bulldozer rather than by a normal car.13 At the same time, the new bridge and sections of the road near Chita had been already in use for two years before the ceremonial opening actually took place (Kolesnikov 2004). So what was opened in that case if not a new road and a bridge? In the above-mentioned telegram sent to Minister Frank, it was asserted that the ceremony was organized for the opening of the through-traffic route on the Chita-Khabarovsk federal road (2,165 kilometers), not just between Chita and Khabarovsk, but along the whole distance of 12 thousand kilometers from Paris, Berlin, and Moscow to Vladivostok. The acting minister of transport, Sergei Frank, was asked whether the road was really part of the Paris-Vladivostok road. “Yes,” answered Frank to the journalist’s question, “and no one has a choice, neither the French nor us. Today we have only one road. And it already has traffic.” The journalist then asked if it was “through traffic,” and Frank responded, “A little, yes,” adding, “We will continue the construction” (Kolesnikov 2004; Kolesnikov 2005, 343–45).

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After the blue, white, and red colored ribbon was successfully cut by one of the road construction workers, the governor of the Khabarovsk region, Viktor Ishaev, uttered, “And now that the through traffic route is opened, soon the Far East will become closer!” (i skoro Dal’nii Vostok stanet Blizhnim). After Ishaev’s ambiguous declaration—for his words can also be translated to mean that “soon the Far East becomes the Near East”—a column of trucks drove to the bridge with placards placed on their roofs, on which was written, “New Road! New Life! New Russia!” (Kolesnikov 2005, 346). The performative speech act, “a through traffic route is (hereby) opened,” fulfils Austin’s procedural conditions for happy performances (Austin 1965, 60–61). It is not a simple statement describing that “the through traffic route is opened.” For it is uttered on the occasion of an opening ceremony with due regard to an accepted procedure and performed by an authorized person. The formal authorization for the opening derives from a decision signed by the head of the Federal Road Agency Igor Slunyayev.15 But we may ask whether this ceremonial act, performed in the presence of President Putin and other high-level officials from Moscow, was required since the abovementioned decision had already authorized the opening of the road. Searle gives us a partial answer when he writes, “Where the institution demands more of its participants than it can extract by force, where consent is essential, a great deal of pomp, ceremony, and razzmatazz is used in such a way as to suggest that something more is going on than simply acceptance of the formula X counts as Y in C” (Searle 1995, 118). The notion of Skvoznogo proezda (through traffic) does not carry with it any special technical meaning related to road engineering in particular. The adjective skvoznoi is often used with the words traffic (dvizhenie), train (poezd), and route (marshrut); and it stands for “accomplishment of movement between two points without change of carriage or route.”16 By insisting on the opening of a through-traffic route, Ishaev and other authorities were in fact referring to something beyond the practical functioning of the road. The use of the phrase in this connection was the expression of the political will to connect Siberia and the Russian Far East with the heartland of Russia. The razzmatazz was also required because the federal authorities were behaving as if the opening of the through traffic on the Chita-Khabarovsk road marked the further confirmation of an “opening of the international (road) transport corridor “East-West.” Later in June 2004, the new minister of transport, Igor Levitin, explained that “the notion of an international transport corridor ‘East-West,’ to which the Trans-Siberian railway and the road Kaliningrad-Vladivostok belong, is already functional. Within the next

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five years, the whole length of the road will have a hard surface. It is another thing that currently only road sections from the westernmost border of Russia until Nizhniy Novgorod comply with the international requirements” (“Tranzitnaya Historiya,” 2004). It is, of course, obvious that by only saying the new road between Chita and Khabarovsk does exist we cannot make it real. But insisting that what was opened was not just a road section but an “international transport corridor ‘East-West’” takes us one step in that direction. This is because the imposition of the new status function of an international transport corridor is a kind of currency—a code word that may help to draw foreign direct investments (FDI) as well as domestic (budget) resources to that particular route project. When the use of this symbolic status is followed by authoritative actions—for example, in the form of investments—the corridor is established “as a matter of fact.” The other forms that institutionalization corridors might have are briefly discussed below. The International Transport Corridor as a System of Constitutive Rules One of the fascinating features of the present discussion on infrastructure modernization in Russia is the relative easiness by which the word “corridor” was taken into the Russian glossary. This by no means implies that the use of the term has been unambiguous. Nevertheless, in a very basic sense, the adoption of similar terminology enhances opportunities for successful dialogue between Russia and the EU. The etymology of the word corridor can be traced back to the Italian word corridore, a “gallery,” and the Latin word currere (current, “to run”). It was originally used of fortifications in the sense of “long hallway” and first appeared in this usage in 1814. In this sense, the word corridor refers to a durable arrangement that is designed to enable movement through space. This word did not appear in the Soviet dictionaries, possibly because there was nothing extraordinary in its use. In the new explanatory dictionary of Russian language, the word stands for “1. A long passage that links parts of a building, premises, apartment. 2. A narrow, long space, passage, limited from both sides” (Kuznetsov et al. 2001, 457). The first category of meaning refers to a long narrow corridor or a passage (proezd) that is located inside a building or an apartment. In this basic sense, the function of a corridor is to connect different parts of a building or rooms in an apartment. The second category of meaning refers to a purposeful arrangement of space in general. In this sense, the corridor is a negotiated concept, an arrangement that requires for its existence a certain imposition

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of meaning. The definition of a corridor as a space restricted from both sides refers also to a conception of a corridor as part of a larger whole. An example given in the Russian Explanatory Dictionary refers to the vozdushnyi koridor—air (transport) corridor.17 This is actually one of the most frequently appearing uses of the word in the press. Other examples include the notion of currency corridor, humanitarian corridor that was used mostly in connection with the war in Chechnya, and the corridor of illegal immigration that refers to the passage to Western Europe through Smolensk Oblast in Russia and the Vitebsk and Mogilev regions in Belorussia. The most often used sense of the word corridor in the press is accompanied with the Russian word vlast’—power. The phrase v koridorah vlasti—at the corridors of power—refers basically to phenomena that in the West are called “lobbying” (“Novosti ekonomiki SNG i Baltii,” 1996; “Vogrug Chechni,” 1996; “Novosti SNG i Stran Baltii,” 1997; Aleksandrov 1995). Here the use of the phrase refers especially to phenomena called apparatnaya vlast,’ that is, bureaucratic, administrative power. It is thus used to denote the way in which authority and power works in Russia. In this sense, the corridor is a venue of policy making and often linked with a concrete location—the Kremlin. The phrase refers to the mechanism of power: to the application of informal as well as unwritten rules at the event of policy making. The unwritten rules,18 as Alena Ledeneva suggested, are “meta-rules” that define “rules of the game” as a whole. “Unwritten rules are the know-how needed to ‘navigate’ between formal and informal sets of rules, and between the rules and their enforcement” (Ledeneva 2001, 6). The last example already suggests where the crux of corridor policies lies. The creation of transport corridors is hoped to reinforce the idea of proximity rather than remoteness. In other words, transport corridors are ordered arrangements of space that aim to change the tempo (and often also direction) of movement in space. Corridors impose certain rhythm and synchrony to movement in space. The technical innovations in the sphere of telecommunications technology or container transport have had crucial importance for the emergence of global markets. The current technology allows the speeding-up of the movement of goods and people as well as monitoring their spatial movements.19 Consequently, the principle of sovereign autonomy on territory and the free flow of commerce have had conflicting implications on certain policy issues, for example, in regard to commercial aviation over flight rights. Even if technical developments in transport technology and telecommunications have had a crucial impact on the development of international commercial transport flows, the nontechnical aspect of the corridors is even more fundamental. The reduction of uncertainty and unpredictability

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in international trade is achieved through the development of a body of international agreements that regulate movement between “international” or “sovereign” spaces.20 In general, corridor agreements deal with a wide range of issues such as infrastructure, customs efficiency, bottlenecks, infrastructure investment, and the practices of movement (rights and responsibilities) within and between domestic and international realms. The durability of space is in this case a feature of institutional facts. Institutional facts are linguistic constructs that create a possibility of new types of practices taking place. They are grounded in the collective acceptance of authority attached to a thing or phenomena that is thus transformed from a mere object into a site of action. Searle explains this by saying that “there is a socially created normative component in the institutional structure, and this is accounted for only by the fact that the institutional structure is a structure of rules, and the actual rules that we specify in describing the institution will determine those aspects under which the system is normative” (Searle 1995, 146–47). Searle’s thesis is that the creation of institutional reality can be explained with the formula “X counts as Y in C.” The construction of social reality in the Searlean sense draws from epistemological realism, and therefore the metaphor of construction is used quite literally. Thus, it is argued that the construction of institutional reality presupposes the existence of tangible things, even if the very creation derives from an intersubjective agreement to count certain things as institutional facts. The locution is the name given to the process of imposing a status function through agreement to its meaning. Furthermore, when the practice of imposing a status function becomes regularized and established, then it becomes a constitutive rule. Not all speech acts impose a function. Indeed, in order to have consequences, the performance of the speech act has to fulfill certain conventional criteria: it has to have sufficient authority and proper context (Searle 1970; Searle 1995, 44, 191; Austin 1965, 13–15). This is only an abridged version of a longer story, but it suffices for us for the time being. The Features of Razzmatazz in Russian Politics The Building of the Road between Chita and Khabarovsk The ceremonial opening of the Chita-Khabarovsk road was performed as an authoritative confirmation of the opening of the “international transport corridor ‘East-West.’” Given the above discussion on the collective imposition of a new function constitutive of the institutional reality, it is important

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to take a look at what the performative naming of the corridor “East-West” actually accomplished in this case. For over thirty years, the Chita-Khabarovsk project had carried an infamous status of dolgostroi (protracted construction). The project was approved by the Soviet government on July 13, 1966, and it was planned to be ready by the year 1980. Actual construction work had began in 1978, and until January 2003, 1,224 kilometers of the total 2,165 kilometers was built, of which approximately 600 kilometers had an asphalt-betony surface. During the Soviet period, construction work proceeded with a “socialist tempo”: between 1978 and 1995, only 35 kilometers of road were built per year (the sections nearby Chita, Blagoveshensk, and Khabarovsk cities); while during the last half year (between Autumn 2003 until January 2004), work progressed at a rate of one kilometer per day (Shirokov 2004; Izdan 2004). The opening of through traffic on a route that actually was not yet able to carry such traffic made sense when seen in the context of a more general policy. In the year 2000, the development of international transport corridors was declared as a “new accent of Russian economic policy,” and this was confirmed in later policy documents where the major infrastructure investments were categorized in accordance with the Russian international transport corridors: the East-West (Trans-Siberian Railway), the North-South, and the Northern Sea Route. The opening of the traffic along the East-West corridor, not just the road between Chita and Khabarovsk, was, in that sense, an appropriate identification of the “matter of fact.” The first phase of the construction of the new route section was to be completed in 2003 with the “through route.” Thus, the opening of the route was punctually performed on the eve of the forthcoming presidential elections in March 2004. The third and the last phase, the laying of the asphalt-betony surface along the whole length of the route between Chita and Khabarovsk, is to be completed in 2008. Some sections of the road have acquired funding from the European Bank of Reconstruction and Development (EBRD) loan (together with the St. Petersburg bypass), but the main part of financing is from the federal budget as outlined in the federal target program Modernization of the Transport System, 2002–10 (Ministry of Transport of the RF 2001). By January 2007 over 80 percent of the road was built, of which slightly over 20 percent had the asphalt surface (Amur Oblast Administration 2007). What this means, all things considered, is that the forthcoming ceremonial completion of the construction in 2008 will repeat the features of razzmatazz present in the first round of “opening” of the Amur route.

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The Performative Naming Symptoms of “potemkinization,” or features of “razzmatazz,” as it is called in this study, refers to “the administration’s use of major policy statements to convey an impression of unity and sincerity of purpose that was fundamentally at odds with the real—fragmented and opportunistic” nature of a particular policy (Lo 2002, 67; see also Prozorov 2006). What this metaphor purports to say is that the policy statements form a facade, the main purpose of which is to hide the fact that there is no policy. Politics acquire features of nonseriousness when the Kremlin “corridors of power” start to look like a Hollywood movie set.21 But this discussion is leading us in the wrong direction. An idea to begin with is that performatives that have features of razzmatazz (“potemkinization”) are not necessarily irrational or parasitic in the Austinian sense. Austin described conditions under which saying something under ordinary circumstances counts as doing something. Most importantly, the speech act must follow an accepted conventional procedure; the person speaking must have required authority to do so; and the procedure has to be executed correctly and completely. Austin also defined a set of anomalies, abuses, and misfires that, if present, mean that the speech act is not being properly performed (Austin 1965, 15–17). What we have here is actually one of the key controversies of speech act theory. The question in the debate was whether the illocutionary force is tied with its utterance origin (as Austin would have it), or to the conventional structure of language used (Derrida’s suggestion) (Searle 1975; Winspur 1989, 171; Searle 1998, 143–45; Derrrida 2000, 7–9). It suffices at this point to note that action, as suggested above, is not just any kind of behavior. It is “behavior under aspects of intentionality” where what is intentional is linked to the notion of background and institutionalized patterns of behavior. Philosopher Henrik von Wright argues that to understand behavior as intentional is “to fit it into a story about an agent.” This story consists of the interplay among situational change, intentionality, ability, and motivational and normative background—in other words, the logic of events within which a certain action makes sense. The key point is that the change in what Wright calls societal determinants of action, that is, in the institutionalized behavior patterns, will result in different actions (Wright 1983, 52). The context to which Wright refers to is the sediment of existing institutional practices and “ways of doing things.” The primary challenge of cultural analysis thus becomes to define the nature of the logic in accordance with which certain practices are counted as actions (Swindler 2001, 76). The word razzmatazz refers to razzle-dazzle, exciting showiness that is designed to be impressive and exiting, especially in the context of a stage

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show or spectacle. It also means double-talk, a language that appears to be earnest and meaningful but in fact is a mixture of sense and nonsense.22 And thirdly, the word means a complex maneuver (as in sports) designed to confuse an opponent.23 In the Soviet context, and subsequently in Russia, features of razzmatazz in politics refer to practices where “words, gestures and pictures have their symbolic meanings and ritual itself means accomplishing something.” (Susiluoto 1990, 79) Susiluoto writes that “when something was solemnly planned, commanded or shouted (“davai, davai”) it was already as if achieved” (Susiluoto 1990, 79). In the Soviet economic environment, symbolic confirmation of “no-nonsense attitude” toward a construction project was particularly important since the feasibility of the project rested on its status in the overall plan. Since the “status” was not easily convertible to economic cost-effectiveness calculations, the feasibility of the project rested on its representation as such.24 Eduard Uspenskii describes this phenomenon in his much-loved children’s book Krokodil Gena and His Friends. The rationale during the Soviet era, as the administrator Ivan Ivanovitsh in Uspenskii’s story says, was to complete the task only “halfway,” but the official ideology represented this “halfway act” as if the task had been completed in full (Uspenskii 2002, 173–77; also Laitinen 1983, 13). The point is that the phenomenon of razzmatazz in Russian politics is not simply about the building of facades: surfaces or layers that are meant to hide the incompleteness of Russia’s transformation along the lines of the Western path. Brune Zevi’s suggestion of how to approach architecture can be applied to the study of the Russian politics as well: “Anyone entering the study of architecture must understand that even though a plan may have abstract beauty on paper, the four facades may seem well-balanced and the total volume well-proportioned, the building itself may turn out to be poor architecture . . . to grasp space, to know how to see it, is the key to the understanding of building” (Zevi 1993, 23). What does knowing how to see entail? I suggest that we take a look at the facade, not as something that restricts us from seeing what is hidden behind it, but as a structure that supports the building. The notion of a facade is here meant as a reference to Wittgenstein and his thesis that “natural language” could not be reached by going deep into language, but on the contrary, was right at the surface in the everyday use of language. What I will look at is a façade, but what I hope to see is a structure supporting the building.25 Even if I find the analogue of building a plausible way to explain my heuristic starting points, I should stress that it is by no means an uncontroversial one. It is here used in a very literal sense to direct our attention to the process of construction of institutional reality.

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The use of borrowed words, newly invented words, or the words that can be traced back to ideological language (language used in a poetic rather than referential function) at the occasion of public rituals and other public instances of language use (e.g., official government documents and speeches) is how, to use the metaphor of building again, a void is enclosed within a supporting structure that prevents the roof from falling down. The “existence” of what is spoken of does not simply consist in the fact that people talk in a certain way, but also that those words spoken need to be applied as well: “What the ‘existence’ of whatever it is amounts to is expressed (shows itself ) in the way people apply the language they speak” (Winch 1987, 113–14). What the “using of words” entails, says Austin, is that “once we realize that what we have to study is not the sentence but the issuing of an utterance in a speech-situation, there can hardly be any longer a possibility of not seeing that stating is performing an act” (Austin 1955, 139). Conclusion The use of the notion of the “international/Pan-European” transport corridor is one form of discursive practice: a context in terms for which certain actions become possible or required. But in the light of the “ceremonial opening of the Chita-Khabarovsk road” the question is not about an “anchoring practice” that potentially changes the constitutive rules that shape and constitute a given culture (Swindler 2001, 81–83). It is not the walls that hold the roof from falling down, but on the contrary, the roof (krysha) that supports the building. Paradoxically, the features of razzmatazz in Russian politics did not disappear with the introduction of the “power vertical” in Putin’s Russia. After initial success in establishing new regulations and practices in the sphere of economics and administration (e.g., the tax reform implemented in 2000), the “administrative reform” has not provided predictability to economic environment. On the contrary, the red tape and corruption is coupled with the concentration of political and economic power in the Kremlin. It is in this latter sense that the features of the razzmatazz are linked to the double-talk with an intention to confuse the opponent. A comparison among Soviet language use, the transformation of the Russian language into cliché nonsense “filled with meaningless expressions often naming nonexistent phenomena,” (Beraha 1997, 47) and current discursive practices cannot be straightforward. Rather, the question is about the emergence into official discourse traces of slogans about a “brighter” tomorrow. In the everyday policy making, the politics is transformed along the lines Venedikt Erofeev envisioned in his famous late Soviet novel Moskva-Petushki: into a

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complete absence of distinctions, a position of neither/nor (Erofeev 1980; Martin 1997; Beraha 1997; Yurchack 2006). With the notion of international transport corridor, the referent is shifted to the sphere of “international” agentive context from the more diffuse Pan-European space. This reinforces rather than undermines the feasibility of preservation of strict contours among sovereign, local, and global spheres of action. This interpretation becomes even more plausible when it is set against the particular functions assigned for the development of international transport corridors. No positive interdependency is attributed to the development of transport connections with the “other countries,” rather what is sought is maximum independence from the use of transport infrastructure of “others” to preserve and enhance Russia’s foreign economic interests. This largely boils down to improvement of infrastructure to provide for facilitating energy exports, oil and oil products, and other raw materials. At the same time, the restructuring of the existing infrastructure network, and with it, the diversification of Russian economy, is the stated goal of “tomorrow.” Accordingly with this purpose, the building of the Amur road is highlighted in the discourse on Russian international transport corridors. Notes 1. I follow here Hedley Bull (1995) and his notion of “purposive order.” 2. The accession of new countries to the EU in April 2004 led to the significant modification of the “Pan-European partnership” policy. The new member states were now eligible to acquire funding for their Trans-European transport Network (TEN-T), and therefore there was no longer a need for the special “corridor” arrangement. In accordance with that, the corridors were regrouped into what is now called “European transport axes” (European Commission DirectoratGeneral for Energy and Transport [2003]; European Commission [2003]). 3. The Pan-European transport corridor 9 consists of transport connections between Helsinki, Finland, and the Greek town of Alexandropoulos. In my study I have focused on the so called Northern branch of the Corridor that connects (Turku) Helsinki, St. Petersburg, and Moscow. 4. In current international usage, the equivalent term of synthesis would be multimodality, which means carriage of goods by two or more modes of transport, irrespective of the types of freight, within a single transport chain. 5. I apply here ideas developed under what is called “pictorial turn,” seen often as a parallel with “linguistic turn,” both identified with Ludvig Wittgenstein’s philosophy of language (Mitchell 1995; Usvamaa-Routila 2007). 6. In my research, John Searle’s formula “X counts as Y in C” provides the analytical logic to reconstruct the argumentation for a Russian government policy on international transport corridors. Wittgenstein’s concept of language game is used in the methodical application.

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7. I follow here Zaki Laidi’s example, and instead of speaking about transition as a path with a fixed point of beginning and an end, the process of change is understood as a triple dislocation—territorial, political, and economic (Laidi 1998, 45). 8. Here Searle departs, for example, from Bruno Latour who argues that the things are constituted in an interaction between the “user” and the thing. For example, a bridge does not have intrinsic features that make it a bridge. In other words, the bridge, whatever it is made of (e.g., wooden logs haphazardly tied together, or elements requiring technically advanced engineering work), is a bridge if it is used as a bridge (Latour 1999; 2000). 9. The article cited Soviet-era figures saying that the yearly sum of money from the transit services acquired was twenty-five billion dollars. Today, transit services amount to approximately fifteen times less (“Transit dolzhen vozrastat” 2000). 10. A green garage visible behind the white-walled building closes the passage through the courtyard. Thus, the text “passage” written on the wall is actually anecdotal rather than informative. The same humorous sense applies also to a text “entrance to metro” written on a door of the same building. 11. The city of Khabarovsk is the capital of the Khabarovsk region in Siberia. The distance between Moscow and Khabarovsk is 6,147 kilometers, and the distance between Khabarovsk and Vladivostok is about 300 kilometers. 12. In the media, the opening ceremony was compared to the opening of the TransSiberian railway in 1903. See Kozhevin 2004; Ivanov 2004; “Amur Oktrylasya,” 2004; Ministry of Transport of RF 2004a; Ministry of Transport of RF 2004b. 13. The head of the Russian Road Agency (Rosavtodor), Igor Slunyayev confirmed this in an interview for the Russian radio station Mayak (Nekrasova 2005). 14. This picture was published at the Ministry of Transport Web pages photo chronicle (26.2.2004). See http://www.mintrans.ru/Pressa/Chita_Khabarov_26022004/ Chita_Khabar_8b.jpg. 15. Earlier in the same year, a special commission had traveled from Chita to Khabarovsk and, based on the estimations of this commission, had given a right to open the road section for through traffic. Izdan 2004. http://www.rosavtodor .ru/shownewsn.php?id=714. 16. Other uses of the word skvoznoi also refer to the movement through a space, be it wind blowing through the courtyard, or a two-way entrance from the courtyard (Kuznetsov et al. 2001, 1194). 17. Britain was first to declare sovereignty over adjacent airspace in 1911. This was followed by most European states, and by 1914 there was a de facto norm of state sovereignty over air space. The right of innocent passage, as well other aspects of jurisdiction, was developed in the interwar years and formulated into a Convention on International Civil Aviation in 1944. The controversial issue in this convention is the question about transit through sovereign state territory. The disagreement between the EU and the Russian Federation about flights over Siberia is a case in point (Zacher and Sutton 1996 91–93; Kuznetsov et al. 2001, 457).

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18. Searle uses the term “constitutive rules,” which is close to what Ledeneva means by “unwritten rules.” 19. For example, in the European Agreeement on Important International Combined Transport Lines and Related Installations (AGTC) parties agree that “there shall be, no stops at the border or, if unavoidable, only very short stops (of no more than 30 minutes)” (United Nations Economic Commission for Europe Inland Transport Committee 1991, Annex IV). In an inventory of AGTC standards and parameters carried out in year 2000, it is, however, noted that a relevant number of border-crossing points do not meet the target value of 30 minutes (United Nations Economic Commission for Europe Inland Transport Committee 2000). 20. The three jurisdictional norms, which have some of their roots in the seventeenth century and have been effectively developed since the nineteenth century, cut across the main international transport spheres (shipping, aviation industry, telecommunications, and postal services). These norms are the state’s right of free access to international space (freedom of high seas and open skies), the right of innocent passage through other sovereign state’s jurisdictional spheres, and the state’s right to exclude foreign services and firms from sovereign territories. Zacher and Sutton argue that international regimes (such as norms that regulate international shipping) are grounded on mutual interest among states and not imposed by a hegemonic state or a grouping of the most powerful countries. Writers subscribe to Stephen Krasner’s definition of international regimes as “sets of implicit and explicit principles, norms, rules and decision-making procedures around which actors’ expectations converge in a given area of international relations.” (Cited in Zacher and Sutton 1996 14)Although I am not using the concept of regime in my study, the idea of corridors as systems of constitutive rules neatly fits into this overall picture (Zacher and Sutton 1996, 213). 21. Viktor Pelevin, in his famous book Generation P, takes this point further by suggesting that Russian politics is simulacra, spectacle, and invention that has no connection whatsoever to reality (Pelevin 2000; Baudrillard 1983). 22. The idea of double-talk was a ubiquitous feature of Soviet politics where ideological literacy increasingly became seen as a technical skill. Discourse consisted of prefabricated “blocks” of discourse with predetermined and context-independent “literal meanings.” In the process, “official Party speeches and documents became subject to increasingly meticulous and publicly invisible editing with the goal of producing texts without ‘a single step sideways from the norm’” (Yurchak 2003, 489–90; Medvedev 1995; Yurchack 2006). 23. See e.g. Meriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary (entry razzle-dazzle and doubletalk) URL: http://www.m-w.com/dictionary/razzmatazz. See also Wikipedia where ‘razzmatazz’ is described as meaning ‘ambiguous language’. URL: http:// en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Razzmatazz. 24. In the case of the construction project, launching the groundwork was only a starting point, although a crucial one in terms of actual completion of the building. Continuation of the building work required that the site be included in the

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priority list of start-up facilities in accordance with distributed scarce resources and funding (Neshchadin 1995, 88–89). 25. I should again stress that the epistemological starting point of my research is the Searlean speech act theory. Martin’s interpretation of Wittgensteinian language-games is the methodical application of Wright’s practical inference scheme (Martin 1976; Wright 1971; 1983; 1999, 213).

PART 4

Russia and Europe: Three Possible Conclusions

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CHAPTER 6

Theories of Integration and the Limits of EU-Russian Relations*

Christer Pursiainen

O

f all the efforts at regional integration, the European Union (EU) is generally regarded as the most successful and dynamic. It is therefore no wonder that the majority of social and economic theories aiming at explaining regional integration processes, as well as practical models to that effect, are about European integration (Rosamond 2000; Chryssochoou 2001; Cram 2001; Kelstrup 1998; Michelmann and Soldatos 1994). As to the relationship between the EU and Russia, however, these theoretical approaches are rarely used to illustrate, explain, or predict its development. By definition, theories of integration compete with each other, especially when it comes to the question of causal factors or levels of analysis. Because of this they are difficult to combine into one harmonized approach. However, they can still be discussed against the case of EU-Russian relations in a comparative perspective. What explains the development of EU-Russian relations? Are EU-Russian relations characterized by growing integration, or is it a question of mere intergovernmental cooperation in different fields? What are the future prospects for EU-Russian integration?

* A number of people have been very kind with their time and comments during the seminars, where the earlier drafts of this chapter have been discussed. The author’s particular thanks go to Hiski Haukkala, Ted Hopf, Iver Neuman, and Sinikukka Saari. The author is also grateful to the Finnish Ministry for Foreign Affairs and Russian-European Centre for Economic Policy (Moscow), which both have financially facilitated the process of producing this chapter.

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This chapter discusses these questions from the perspectives of functionalism, federalism, neofunctionalism, intergovernmentalism, economic integration theories, the legal approximation approach, Marxist and interest group theories, institutionalism, constructivism, and transnational regionalism. It is concluded that, should one rely on these theories for making predictions, the institutional future of EU-Russian integration does not look very promising. While there will be more and more cooperation in a variety of different fields, with its ups and downs the dilemma is that without supranational elements, traditional integration meets its limits rather soon. What would remain, in the best-case scenario, is some form of intergovernmental bargaining. Nevertheless, in the longer run, the convergence of legal systems as well as the transnationalization of capital and civil societies may bring the societies closer to each other as part of the general processes of globalization. A Functional Necessity or a Federalist Idea? One of the most influential of the (post-WWII) classical integration theories is functionalism (Mitrany 1943/1966; see also Mitrany 1975; Haas 1958/1996), which came with the idea that modern society had created such technical problems that its resolution would require the collaboration of experts in some specific field or functional area (rather than politicians) across national borders. While the basic spirit of functionalism is connected to the idealistic goals of peace and welfare through integration—and originally functionalism did not actually propose solely European but universal integration2—integration is supposed to be reached not through “high politics” but through technocratic cooperation within certain functional fields. This cooperation in turn creates or necessitates new power centers, to which gradually more and more legislative power will be granted. However, functionalist interpretations on and methods of European integration were challenged early on by a more idealistic idea about integration as a tool for peace in Europe—federalism (Burgess 2000).3 Federalists emphasize the necessity of the creation of supranational institutions by political decisions. While functionalism implicates a somewhat apolitical character of integration, federalism sees that from the very beginning integration must be a political enterprise. The parties were supposed to voluntarily and consciously give up political sovereignty and autonomy. The ain motivation in this normatively oriented model was originally national security. According to the federalists, the European integration process was necessary, first and foremost, because of the historical experience of centuries of contradictions between state actors, Germany and France in

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particular. Merging national economies would finally end the era of confrontation. Later on, welfare-related arguments also found their way into federalist thinking. Functionalism and federalism constituted in many ways opposed views on integration. Functionalism was based on the so-called collaborative model, and federalism proposed a firm supranational model. In these forms, they were easy targets of criticism, since they seemed to exaggerate the functionalist-collaborative and federalist-supranational aspects of integration, respectively. Therefore, it is no wonder that these models were gradually softened, coming closer to each other. Thus, the federalist theory of European integration grew more gradual, not calling for a sudden transfer of state sovereignty to a “constitutional assembly,” but emphasizing a more gradual transformation toward supranational decision making. To make the distinction between the old and this revised federalism more clear, this orientation is sometimes called neofederalism. Functionalism was also modified and connected explicitly to the European integration process. Neofunctionalism became the mainstream and dominant theory of European integration from the late 1960s onward (Haas and Schmitter 1964; Haas 1964, 1970).4 Compared with functionalism and federalism, neofunctionalism was much more focused on describing and explaining the process than the normative end result of integration. It emphasized, first, the necessary preconditions of integration such as joint economic interests, similarity of economic system, interdependence, political pluralism, and the similarity of elite groups. Second, neofunctionalism paid attention to the starting phase of integration. Collaboration would begin in the field where the needs of cooperation were most urgent. Third, after the initial phase, cooperation between states would both deepen and spill over to other, related fields. For instance, cooperation in one energy sector was supposed to be followed by cooperation in the other energy-related sectors; the integrative efforts in one field cannot be properly carried out without starting similar processes in the related field. Thus, the demands of different functional tasks are not separate, as in functionalism, but linked, which causes integration in theory to snowball. This technical spillover is also easily extended into territorial or geographical spillover by the very logic of functional interdependence. However, instead of seeing integration as an automatic, politically neutral process like functionalists did, neofunctionalists started to emphasize that the technological and practical problem-solving approach would reach limits, giving way to political conflicts. They argued that the technical spillover effects of collaboration from one area to another assumed that the interests of actors would be redefined in terms of regional (rather than purely national)

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orientation. Further, this redefinition of interests would be assisted by the development of common welfare programs in the regional polity. In this way, neofunctionalism added to original functionalism the basically federalist idea that political leaders have to become interested to partially shift their loyalties, expectations, and political activities beyond existing national bodies to the interstate level. It also suggested that they had to become willing to reallocate national economic and political power to supranational polities for integration to become possible in practice. If we consider EU-Russian integration from the perspective of the above theories, we may draw some explanatory and normative lessons. First, from a neofunctionalist perspective, we should pay attention to the preconditions of integration and consider whether those preconditions are fulfilled. Are the economic interests and the economic systems of the EU and Russia similar enough to enable integration? Do both parties share political pluralism as a basic value? Are the elites “similar”? While the absence of these preconditions seems to be enough to explain why there was never any integration between Western and Eastern European countries during the cold war, or between the European Economic Community (EEC) and the Soviet Union, it might be claimed that today there are still enough differences in the economic and political systems of the EU and Russia to hinder the process of genuine integration. Russia is not seen as truly democratic or pluralist by those in the EU, and its economic system is considered to be too state-centric in many fields to be called a real market economy. Second, from the functionalist/neofunctionalist point of view, integration should be regarded as a long-term and gradual process, not as something to be achieved within a few years. One should patiently start with those functional fields, where the need for collaboration is most urgent, and then try to widen the sphere of integration to related fields. Indeed, we may interpret EU-Russian relations such that functional motivations form the vehicle of the integration process and that the tempo of creating cooperative regimes is higher in those fields, where functional needs are most concrete and topical. These functional priorities of cooperation were explicitly and jointly defined by the EU and Russia in drafting the so-called Four Common Spaces (see Tables 6.1, 6.2).5 However, EU-Russian relations seem not to follow the functionalist premise that this process of deepening functional cooperation would motivate further political integration in terms of supranational decision-making centers and loyalties. That is why a third neofunctionalist/federalist lesson is that the true integration of Russia into Europe is not possible if leading

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political elites in Russia and the EU are not ready to reallocate economic and political decision-making power to supranational levels. Nothing like this is currently in sight, setting the overall frame for EU-Russian relations. Integration Constrained by Rational Interests Neofunctionalism was especially criticized by those who were to become intergovernmentalists among integration theorists. Intergovernmentalism, sometimes labeled as liberal intergovernmentalism when the emphasis is more focused on domestic interest politics, two-level games and interdependencies (Hoffman 1966; Moravsick 1993, 1994; Moravcsik and Nicolaïdis 1999), draws more or less explicitly on traditional realist or rationalist theories of international relations. It claimed that the neofunctionalist view on the connection between functional problem solving and political identification with supranational solutions was too simple and naïve and thus did not reflect the realities of how nations work on the basis of state interests. More profoundly, the willingness of states to transfer political decision-making power to supranational bodies would fall short when questions about “high politics,” such as security, came into the picture. Thus, the spillover effect could work only in “low politics” matters, at best. A stronger (neo)realist argument would be that the neofunctionalist theory fails in not considering the overall structural power relations in the international system as a causative background factor. However, while criticizing other approaches, intergovernmentalism, whether in its stronger or more “liberal” forms, could not easily develop any coherent theory of integration of its own, since its starting point was to emphasize the limitations of supranational integration. Its main argument remains that the decisions of governments on different aspects of integration, even when they are creating institutionalized supranational cooperative regimes, are best explained by relying on the assumption of rational actors behaving according to their interests and relative power vis-à-vis each other (Grieco 1995, 1996). As for today, it seems that although the intergovernmentalist approach may not be the ultimate explanation of EU-Russian relations, both Russia and the EU surely follow the intergovernmentalist (traditional realist or neorealist) logic in their cooperative interactions, defending their autonomy and sovereignty wherever they can. While there seems to be a basic willingness to bring Russia closer to Europe on both sides, there is a rather limited readiness to accept the consequences of true integration—the necessity to gradually establish joint supranational decision-making bodies and respect joint rules.

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The spirit was perhaps more optimistic, even utopian, in terms of Russia’s integration into the EU in the immediate aftermath of the collapse of the Soviet Union and the establishment of the Russian Federation (RF). In the course of the early and mid-1990s, President Boris Yeltsin and Prime Minister Viktor Chernomyrdin used to make occasional but repeated pronouncements on the possibility of Russia’s EU membership over the long term. Today, while almost all the other European countries have joined or are striving to join the EU, Russian membership is now considered both impractical and undesirable. In the EU, the idea of Russian membership was always questioned. Even if all possible formal criteria and the full body of all EU legislation which must be adopted by all new member states (acquis communautaire) were met, a common underlying belief is that Russia is simply too vast in terms of territory and population, and militarily too independent and important a global actor, to join the club. As such, Russia’s membership would alter the whole balance and nature of the EU. While this attitude was initially seen negatively in Moscow, as one that discriminated against Russia, Russian politicians no longer speak of membership as a realistic or even desirable goal. The change toward a more pragmatic and self-confident line vis-à-vis the EU took place in late 1990s. Consequently, as stated in The Russian Federation Middle Term Strategy toward the European Union (2000–2010), relations between the EU and Russia should be based on the “objective need to establish a multi-polar world,” with Russia being one of the “poles”: “During the period under review, partnership between Russia and the European Union will be based on the treaty relations, i.e. without an officially stated objective of Russia’s accession to or ‘association’ with the EU. As a world power situated on two continents, Russia should retain its freedom to determine and implement its own domestic and foreign policies, using the status and advantages of a Euro-Asian state and as the largest country of the CIS, the independence of its position and activities at international organizations” (Russian Federation 1999). The Russian idea of a multipolar world also includes understanding the EU as a “pole,” potentially balancing together with Russia and other great powers against the hegemony of the United States. Thus, President Vladimir Putin underlined exactly this perspective in his article celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of the European Union, widely published in Russian and European media in March 2007. In this article, Putin also repeated the 1999 policy line toward the EU: We view European integration as an objective process, representing an integral part of the emerging multi-polar world order. . . . The development of

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multifaceted ties with the EU is Russia’s principled choice. It is true that in the foreseeable future, for obvious reasons, we have no intention of either joining the EU or establishing any form of institutional association with it. Viewing the situation in a realistic light, Russia intends to build its relations with the EU on the basis of a treaty and a strategic partnership. In this regard I agree with [the former president of the EC] Romano Prodi’s formula of our relationship with the EU: “Everything but institutions.”6 (Putin 2007)

Thus, the Russian leadership has explicitly chosen to see the world from the traditional (neo)realist great-power perspective, which virtually excludes the option of Russia’s EU membership and any other forms of supranational governance in the key areas of state policy. While the membership option is excluded, the current approach to closer EU-Russia cooperation is that the EU and Russia should create “common spaces” in four areas of cooperation: the Common Economic Space; the Common Space of Freedom, Security, and Justice; the Common Space of Cooperation in the Field of External Security; and the Common Space of Research and Education, including Culture (see Tables 6.1, 6.2). While these priorities are reflecting the self-interest needs of both parties in a rather interdependent environment, there is nevertheless no sense that this cooperation should lead to any limitations on state sovereignty. Integration as a Source of Economic Growth and Welfare The above theories are often regarded as “political” as opposed to “economic” theories of integration. Most economic theories of integration are based on classical liberal economic theory, which emphasizes the general benefits of the free markets resulting from integration. The “goals of integration,” then, should be enabling the optimal international division of labor, the resulting optimal economic growth, the provisioning of equal rights in economic activity, a more even income distribution, and an increase in freedom of choice (Streeten 1961). From the economic integrationist point of view, which is generally regarded as the core motor of integration, the Common (European) Economic Space (earlier CEES, now CES) becomes interesting. The idea of the CES came up rather surprisingly in the EU-Russia Summit in May 2001.7 This activity resulted in The Common European Economic Space (CEES) Concept Paper in 2003. It defines the CEES as follows: “The CEES means an open and integrated market between the EU and Russia, based on the implementation of common or compatible rules and regulations, including compatible administrative practices, as a basis for synergies and economies

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of scale associated with a higher degree of competition in bigger markets. It shall ultimately cover substantially all sectors of the economy” (CEES 2003). The basic instruments of this concept are “market opening,” “regulatory convergence,” and “trade facilitation.” In May 2005 the EU and Russia agreed on the Road Maps for the above-mentioned four Common Spaces (Road Maps 2005), altogether fifty-two pages with a list of priorities and action plans, including a Road Map of the CES (Table 6.2). What kind of a relationship does the CES indicate between the EU and Russia? Following the classical categorization (Balassa 1961), we can distinguish among five different types or degrees of economic integration: free trade area, customs union, single market, economic union, and full economic integration. Let us consider the CES concept in light of these categories. A free trade area (FTA) refers to a group of countries that have agreed to eliminate tariffs, quotas, and preferences on most goods traded among them. Typical FTAs are, for instance, the European Free Trade Association (EFTA) and the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA). As a matter of fact, the original idea was exactly to create an FTA between the EU and Russia. The idea came from the Russian side during the Partnership and Cooperation Agreement (PCA 1994) negotiations at the beginning of the 1990s. Russia did not reach its original objective, which was that the PCA would define the date to start negotiations on an FTA between the EU and Russia. However, an article was added to the PCA, which stipulated that the “parties shall examine together in the year 1998 whether the circumstances allow the beginning of negotiations on the establishment of a free trade area” (Article 3). In January 1998, when the parties met for the first time after the ratification of the PCA, it was jointly concluded that an FTA was not timely. However, the goal of an FTA is included also in the EU documents and strategies drafted after the PCA. Thus, in the EU’s Common Strategy towards the Russian Federation from 1999, the EU announced that it would examine “how to create the necessary conditions, in addition to World Trade Organization accession, for the future establishment of an EU-Russia Free Trade Area.” In the strategy, the question is connected to Russian WTO membership, the development of Russia’s own legislation and standards according to the PCA (i.e., harmonization with EU legislation), and also more indirectly to the development and stabilization of democracy and the rule of law in Russia (European Council 1999). The Russian Federation Middle Term Strategy towards the European Union (2000–2010) is also based on the future prospect of “creation of the Russia–European Union free trade zone” (Russian Federation 1999).

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After these documents, the goal of an FTA has been overshadowed by Russia’s effort to achieve WTO membership and was removed from the active agenda. However, in May 2006, the European Commission again signaled the prospect of an FTA with Russia as part of talks on the possibility of a renewed PCA (perhaps retitled as a Strategic Partnership Agreement) to be negotiated between the partners sooner or later, as the current agreement formally ended in 2007 (and is currently temporarily prolonged). In any case, one can say that at the declaratory level, both parties are loosely committed to the future of the FTA, although it does not seem very realistic in the short run. Is the CES supposed to become or include an FTA? In fact, while the Concept Paper from 2003 notes that the scope of the CES “shall be broader and deeper in comparison to the WTO and PCA provisions” (CEES 2003, 7), it does not include the term FTA. Instead, the Concept Paper refers to “eliminating obstacles and creating opportunities” in four areas of economic activity, namely the “cross-border trade of goods,” the “cross-border trade in services,” the “establishment and operation of companies,” and “related aspects of movement of persons” (CEES 2003, 7, 8) The Road Map from 2005 to some extent details these overall goals, but it does not mention anything about an FTA. In the preparation of the Concept Paper, however, the parties commissioned several economic impact studies, and at least one of them (Brenton 2002; see also Brunat et al. 2004) took the idea of an FTA literally. Nevertheless, relying on official documents so far, it seems clear that the CES should be something more than the PCA and the WTO membership, yet it remains unclear whether at the same time it is supposed to be and FTA or perhaps more or less than such an arrangement. A customs union, in turn, is an FTA with a common external tariff, that is, the members of a customs union have the same policies and common rules (customs duties, quotas, preferences, and so forth, to all goods entering the area) with respect to nonmembers. Examples of customs unions include the European Community/Union, the EU-Turkey Customs Union, and the Southern African Customs Union, for instance. Neither the Concept Paper nor Road Map mentions the prospect of a customs union. By contrast, while it seems not to be on the agenda at least for the time being between the EU and Russia, it has been one of the main issues between Russia and some former Soviet republics, indicating that Russia aims at a much closer level of integration with these countries compared to the prospects of EU-Russia integration.8 Whatever the future result of these post-Soviet or Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS) integration efforts, as to the impact of these

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arrangements to the EU-Russia CES, it remains very unclear how any form of post–Soviet area economic integration and EU-Russian economic integration should be combined, and how the elements of a customs union would fit the concept. In many ways, Russia is in a trap between the CIS and EU-Russian integration, because their forms and goals are not readily compatible. A single market is a customs union that also has common policies on product regulation and freedom of movement for all the factors of production (goods, services, capital, and labor). Examples of single markets include the European Community (EC) and the European Economic Area (EEA). There clearly are elements of a single market in the CEES Concept Paper and the CES Road Map, even if the term is not used. Instead, both the Concept Paper and the Road Map speak about an “open and integrated market between the EU and Russia” (Road Maps, 1). Furthermore, there is talk of removing most obstacles to the free movement of goods, services, capital, and labor. Without being a customs union, however, the CES would not follow the traditional definition of a single market. A very developed form of economic integration, an economic union, means everything specified above and the harmonization of national economic policy norms, rules, and regulations, generally through supranational instruments and decision making under legal obligation. Should one combine it with the supranational governance of different sectors of economic policy, this union would reach the stage of full economic integration. An even tighter definition adds to it the establishment of a monetary union, with a common currency and monetary policy. The Euro-zone within the EU fulfills these criteria. However, there are no signs whatsoever that the EU or Russia would be willing to lead the CES process as far as the creation of supranational bodies to govern common economic policies. The discussion above, summarized in Table 6.3, shows that the CES is a rather novel combination compared to traditional forms of economic integration. It seems to incorporate some elements of an FTA, but excludes the customs union. At the same time, it has some features of a single market, and through regulatory convergence it also includes some elements of an economic union. But at the end of the day, it does not fulfil the criteria of any existing form of economic integration. Two rival hypotheses could be proposed on the basis of this ambiguity. First, relying on neofunctionalist logic, the flexibility of the CES can be seen as its strength, starting a more dynamic process in deepening EU-Russian integration. The rationale of this approach and interpretation is that a rather technical functionalist and sector-specific approach is preferable to idealistic goals that could not be implemented anyway, thus not repeating the rather

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unsuccessful experience of CIS integration. Too-optimistic goals would only freeze the process by creating too many unsolved problems. Instead, moving on the long road of practical and area-specific problem solving will finally show where the road leads. Second, one might also claim that the lack of a clear-cut goal and solution in the current conception of the CES should be interpreted exactly as its weakness, leading to half-hearted compromises and exceptions rather than real integration. At the same time, the vague CES concept allows both sides to continue indefinitely the diplomatic game, pretending that the relations are in progress. The current CES with its Road Map, being actually a list of priorities rather than a road map, is lacking two things in particular: a clear-cut goal and a schedule. In order to go beyond the current approach, the first stage would be to detail the CES so that the clear goal of an FTA, followed by a single market, would be articulated. The second stage would be to work out a detailed and realistic schedule toward these goals, with sectoral transitional periods safeguarding both EU and Russian short-term interests. Integration by Law Legal approximation is more like a practical effort than a theoretical approach. However, it is philosophically and theoretically based on the thesis of classical economic liberalism that the convergence of legal systems will in the long run stabilize and strengthen national economies, creating a healthy competitive environment. The underlying idea is to make the international conditions for the movement of goods, capital, services, and people similar, automatically deepening integration. In today’s world, the phenomenon of legal approximation is connected with globalization. The main motivation lies in the fact that increased trade and rapid communication have created large regional and global markets. Greater harmonization makes sense, especially from the business perspective, since global markets require that firms operate in a number of legal spheres. Uncertainty and practical problems created by variations in the approach taken by different authorities can impose significant costs on these firms. There are several models that could be used in legal harmonization between Russia and the EU, including a more or less gradual and formal convergence of legal regimes (Kashkin 2005; Isaev 2005; Kellermann 2005). In principle, this approach is included in the official EU-Russian strategy of how Russia would be integrated into the EU. The active partner in this respect would be Russia, who should voluntarily and consciously harmonize its legislation with

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that of the EU, not the other way around. The problem is that the process is not automatic but Russia has to have the political will to do it. Russia had this will in 1994 when the PCA was signed. The legal approximation approach between the EU and Russia is based on Title VI, Article 55 of the PCA. It states that “Russia shall endeavour to ensure that its legislation shall be gradually made compatible with that of the Community” (PCA 1994, 48, 49). The process of legal approximation and regulatory convergence is also understood as one of the basic instruments of implementing the CES, and the prioritized areas mentioned in the PCA are basically the same as those in the CES Road Map (Table 6.2). The idea of Russia imitating the EU is, of course, controversial for many Russian politicians. The basic philosophy of this approach could be questioned by asking why it is only Russia who should harmonize: why could not the EU also harmonize its legislation with Russian legislation? To this objection there are rather natural reasons for defending unilateral harmonization by Russia—if the goal is integration. First, most or almost all of the legal harmonization issues are of economic nature, and the sheer difference of the size of the economies of the EU and Russia suggests that the reverse process is unrealistic. Second, the EU is also overwhelmingly Russia’s largest foreign trade partner with more than a 50 percent share, while the EU’s foreign trade with Russia is much smaller, in relative terms (Tables 6.5–6.8). Third, it is generally accepted that European legislation is more advanced as well as more suitable for enforcing regional integrationist tendencies than Russian legislation, which is based on a protectionist philosophy in many fields. However, there may be some mechanisms to provide Russia with the possibility of effecting European legislation informally during the preparatory phase and not merely blindly adapting its own legislation to that of the EU. During the earlier phases of European integration, association was considered one of the possible ways in which a country could integrate into the EU (then the EEC or the European Community) without full membership. Following this train of thought, some mechanisms were proposed by legal specialists of how an associated country could have the possibility of consultation in preparing European legislation without becoming formally involved in Community decision making. After that, the associated country would voluntarily harmonize its own legislation. This kind of mechanism, in one form or another, could perhaps be developed between the EU and Russia. It is also worthy of mention that between the EU and Russia, the vocabulary used is “approximation” or “regulatory convergence” and not total “harmonization.” Thus, Russia is not supposed to adopt European legislation

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as such, but to consider Russian particularities as well. Moreover, European legislation is only one part of the legislation of EU Member States; a lot of competency and sovereignty remains at the level of national parliaments, even within the EU. Similarly, only part of Russian legislation needs converge with EU legislation. Nevertheless, what remains to be proven is Russia’s willingness to implement the legal approximation article of the PCA, which would require new mechanisms from the Russian legislative bodies to ensure the compatibility of Russian legislation with its European counterpart. Should Russia sincerely try to approximate European legislation, a further challenge would be to create formal or informal mechanisms of communication already implied in the preparatory phase of EU legislation. Currently, the legal approximation approach is not applied in any systemized way, and there exist neither formal controlling mechanisms nor time schedules that would ensure that the relevant parts of Russian legislation would be harmonized with those of the EU. However, a starting point to this effect might be the so-called “Regulatory Dialogues,” which the EU has opened with certain countries important to the EU. With Russia, this started in the fields of financial services, intellectual property rights, and public procurement in 2006. However, it has so far only been a question of some individual meetings where information was exchanged, rather than any institutionalization of legal approximation. Marxist Theories and Interest Groups’ Politics: The Winners and Losers of Integration Marxist approaches do not belong to the mainstream of integration theories. However, a trend can be traced from the 1960s onward of critical analysis of European integration with a clear connection to Marxism. The basic issue in all Marxist analyses is to see conflict as the motor of European integration. However, there are slightly different approaches within Marxist analysis relating to exactly where the nexus of the conflict lies (Shaw 2004; Van der Pijl 1998; Cocks 1980). A basic view, perhaps accepted by most Marxist analysts, is that regional integration is just another phase of capital accumulation, based on the different phases of capitalist development. When the nation-state becomes a hindrance for capital accumulation, capitalism goes regional or global and the capitalist class with it, thus becoming a transnational capitalist class. From this perspective, the mode of late capitalism demanded a change in the relationship between European nation-states and the economy, leading to an attempt to restructure regional economic control. That is why the

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capitalist class has forced a reform of state intervention in the economy, reshaping the state to better serve the interests of the capitalist class. In European integration, the issue was a shift from Keynesianism to neoliberalism, allowing inter-European ownership of production. This shift from the previous limits of the nation-state is most notably evident in separating economic decision making from national legislative parliamentarism. This depoliticization is particularly evident in monetary policy, with the European Monetary Union (EMU) isolating national parliaments from the elaboration of monetary policy. This approach sees the state as an instrument in the hands of the capitalist class; and at European level, the European institutions are understood as forums through which the capitalist class is using its class agency to craft new rules for the game. A more complex view is that neither the state nor the European institutions are purely tools of the dominating class, but they are arenas where the class struggle crystalizes. The outcomes of historical class antagonism give rise to the functions and forms of the present state vis-à-vis the European integration. Some analysts within the Marxist school of European integration put more emphasis on intercapitalist rivalries as the central conflict behind integrative developments. It is a question of the redistribution of capitalist space. Here we can again find two tendencies. On the one hand, European integration can be interpreted as the result of interimperialist rivalries between U.S. and European capitalist classes. European integration thus would be caused by the pressure from American capital, being a defensive reaction of European capital. On the other hand, some analysts emphasize the fragmentation of the European capitalist class, and especially the conflict between national and transnational capitalist interests. National bourgeoisie protecting national capitalists favor protectionism, while those capitalists and their political allies with transnational interests favor free trade. This rivalry—similar to the rivalry between the working class interests and the capitalist interests— is then mirrored in the policies of nation-states toward integration (Van der Pijl 1998). It is especially from the perspective of the latter approach that the Marxist analysis of European integration has a lot to offer to the analysis of EU-Russian relations, even if from a non-Marxist point of view. The contemporary Marxist theories are often located within International Political Economy (IPE). As a matter of fact, the politically more neutral trend within IPE often uses explanatory elements similar to those in Marxism. An approach drawing on domestic politics theories combined with the new political economy emphasizes interest group politics (Zysman and Schwartz 1998). This approach, like some Marxist analyses, would suggest that when

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the interest groups supporting integration have more influence than those opposing integration, the integration process will proceed. In other words, integration in terms of regional trade arrangements, custom unions, and so on has great redistributive consequences, creating both winners and losers within the member states themselves. If we look at the foreign trade structure of Russia, it is obvious that oil, gas, and rather low-value-added metal products constitute the overwhelming part of Russian exports, while Russia imports mainly capital and produced goods such as machinery, equipment, chemicals, consumer goods, and food (Table 6.4). When it comes to EU-Russian trade, the same structure prevails and has even been reinforced by the rapid growth of EU-Russian trade over the past few years. We also notice that the EU is overwhelmingly Russia’s main trade partner, accounting for about half of Russia’s foreign trade, whereas Russia’s share of the EU’s external trade, despite being the EU’s third-largest trading partner after the United States and China, remains only around 10 percent (though this varies greatly among the member states). In other words, the EU is much more important for Russian foreign trade than vice versa. Nevertheless, the EU is very much dependent on Russian gas, and this dependency is growing rather rapidly (Tables 6.5–6.8). It is, however, hard to make any general conclusions on this basis alone, except that it seems natural that the Russian state’s self-interest calls for efforts in respect of diversification and the balancing of its foreign trade structure such that Russia will not remain simply a raw material and energy producer for the rest of the world, heavily reliant on outside technology. For a Marxist or an IPE analysis, however, this trade structure suggests that different parts of the Russian economy may have clearly contradictory interests vis-à-vis European integration. From this perspective, the role of the Russian business elites becomes important. The role, nature, and influence of the Russian business elites, the so-called oligarchs or financial-industrial groupings, is a much-discussed theme in any analysis of Russian politics. It is generally thought that while the business elites, or the oligarchs, were once actively involved in high-level political decision making, today the political elite is more and more involved in the business elites’ decision making. This development is sometimes described as a change from “oligarchic capitalism” toward “bureaucratic capitalism.” In this kind of a system, the interests of Russia and the rules of the game in the economic field are defined within the network of the Russian state bureaucracies and Russian business elites. Policies of integration and protectionism arise from this process. It is generally regarded that the majority of Russian business elites have a positive attitude toward deeper integration with the European and

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world economies and consequently do not categorically oppose the liberalization of foreign economic relations and domestic markets. Among the prospective benefits of integration are growing export markets, simplified importing, growing foreign investments, greater possibilities to receive foreign loans, and the transfer of technical know-how to Russia. However in some sectors, integration is seen as a threat rather than a possibility, since these sectors do not have a realistic potential of penetrating European markets (for economic, political. or quality-related reasons). These sectors thus concentrate on domestic markets and support protectionism (Pursiainen 2007; Doty, Forsberg, and Pursiainen 2000). As the role of the Russian state in this kind of “bureaucratic capitalism” is emphasized, some analysts have tried to divide the Russian business sectors into “sensitive” and “nonsensitive” sectors with regard to market opening and integration. While some sectors might be sensitive from military or economic strategy points of view, or both, there are sectors that have a low-level sensitivity, from national strategic perspectives, and that are therefore more open to integrative features (Liuhto 2007). Yet these state interests have to be harmonized with those of the businesses. Parts of the Russian business sectors (or capitalist class) are not only looking at the benefits of integration for Russian-based industries but are actively seeking for the transnationalization of Russian capital, especially in the form of foreign direct investments (FDI). Gas, oil, metallurgy companies, and maritime transportation make up the major part of this transnationalization. Territorially, about a half of Russian FDI is in the enlarged EU, and a quarter is in the United States; the three main individual countries are the United States, Poland, and Germany, together totaling over a half of all Russian FDI. While the big Russian companies are often state-controlled companies, meaning that their foreign trade strategies are intermingled with Russian foreign policy in one way or other, there is also a growing number of free marketers led by economic rationality in their foreign operations. However, the natural resource–based companies close to the state apparatus are also seeking markets and efficiency, and EU markets are often prioritized because of the superior profits available compared with, for instance, the CIS (Vahtra and Liuhto 2004). In other words, EU-Russian integration will create winners and losers in the Russian economy. Moreover, while the different Russian business elites do not have identical interests, they do not have equal lobbying capacities or access to political decision making. The same goes naturally for the EU, too. For instance, the EU textile industry and metallurgy sectors are often lobbying for protectionism against imports from Russia.

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The normative lesson of the above perspectives is that should one want EU-Russian integration to proceed, one should seek to buttress those economic and political elites that see their own self-interest as connected to further integration. The analytic lesson is that in order to understand the process of integration between Russia and the EU—both successes and failures—we should carefully consider the respective sector’s internal elite power structure and interests and estimate the sectoral elite’s influence on the decisions taken in the Russian (as well as EU) federal, regional, and local decision-making environments (Pursiainen 2007). From this perspective, Russia’s political and administrative decisions on European integration are not a result of any geopolitical master plan, but of compromises, conflicting interests, and different types of formal and informal influence networks, where the central actors are the central state apparatus, national and regional political-administrative elites, and the sectoral business elites. This decision-making complex is also, to a varying extent, influenced by external actors and factors, such as other countries, international organizations, international business corporations, the Russian media, and civil society. Integration through Institutions and Practices9 Most mainstream International Relations theories have something to offer the analysis of integration. Neoinstitutionalism, or regime theory (Rittberger 1993; Hasenclever, Mayer, and Rittberger 1997), comes close to “liberal” versions of intergovernmentalism. This approach claims that cooperation needs insti¬tutions that by their very existence change the cost-benefit calculations of member states. According to the institutionalist view, institutions work as schools for cooperation. Since institutions represent long-term cooperation in contrast to a cooperation based on case by case, they create a “shadow of the future” and help states to build strategies on cooperative efforts, rather than mere self-interest. For this to happen, however, states should be politically willing to abandon short-term calculations on relative gains (who wins more?) and concentrate on absolute gains (where both win) and reciprocal relationships. This “tit-for-tat” approach makes it possible for states to abandon short-term calculations and concentrate on the net benefits of continuing cooperation. Repeated institutionalized cooperation will teach states to trust each other, and this experience makes them willing to make compromises, since in the long run everyone wins. Examining EU-Russian relations from this point of view, we should concentrate on the institutions. To begin with, there is no lack of formal EU-Russian institutions. The most important regulative mechanism has

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been the Partnership and Cooperation Agreement (PCA 1994), which defines basic principles, goals, procedures, rights, and so on in EU-Russian relations. The PCA, negotiated between 1992 and1994, was signed in 1994 and ratified in December 1997, in effect for ten years. Most bilateral institutional mechanisms are defined by the PCA, with some modifications and new institutions.10 Yet there are contradictory views on the functionality of these institutions. While Russia has been unhappy with existing institutions longer, the EU position has been quite clear: existing institutions and mechanisms have been sufficient for a considerable enhancement of EU-Russian relations—if Russia would have had political will. From the point of view of the EU, the PCA, for instance, has been seen as a vital and well-functioning instrument should Russia want to be more closely integrated into Europe, and the EU has therefore not wanted to open the agreement. However, the PCA ended formally at the end of 2007. As the negotiations on a new agreement will be considerably delayed,11 the current PCA will be temporarily continued until a new agreement is concluded. This new agreement will probably reflect especially Russia’s concerns as to the basic institutional solutions. From the EU’s point of view, Russia has always been more interested in forms and formalities than in substance and implementation. Many commentators from the EU side argue that the Permanent Partnership Council (PPC), established in 2003 on Russian initiative, does not actually differ in any crucial way from the previous Cooperation Council (CC). While some commentators remark that Russia aspired to imitate the Russia-NATO Council, others point out that Russia just wanted to replace “cooperation” with “permanent partnership,” because it sounds better. Both sides acknowledge that the PCA’s nine subcommittees,1 where the real work should be done, do not work properly. According to EU commentators, the reason is not in the form but the fact that Russia cannot decide its position concerning the questions on the table, so it postpones or cancels meetings. From the EU perspective, Russia could work effectively within the committees, if it only wanted to do so. Another more principled reason for the restructuring of diplomatic relations is that Russia would like to conduct negotiations in the 27(+1)+1 form with the EU (as with NATO), that is, with all the EU member states added by the Commission, instead of Troika (the Commission and the current and future presidency country). While Russia would see this kind of cooperation as being more “equal,” from the EU point of view, this would, on the contrary, mean that Russia would become too involved in the EU’s internal decision making. This Russian approach is also seen by some

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EU representatives as a sign that Russia sometimes does not properly understand what belongs to the jurisdiction of the European Commission, the country holding the presidency, or the member states themselves. However, in some particular and specific issues, such as transport, the EU has agreed to work informally in line with the 27(+1)+1 formula. Thus, even if EU-Russian relations are rather institutionalized, the kind of logic neoinstitutionalism proposes seems to be absent. While the institutions without doubt enhance and facilitate EU-Russian cooperation, they at the same time create new conflicts. As a matter of fact, the main criticism against neoinstitutionalism is exactly that it supposes that the mere existence of institutions will change the cost-benefit calculations of states. The experience of the EU-Russian relations seems to confirm this criticism. Since the mere existence of institutions does not explain why integration sometimes proceeds and sometimes does not, neoinstitutionalist explanations are often challenged or accompanied by social constructivism. Constructivism, either in its mainstream or more poststructuralist forms (Katzenstein 1996; Kratochwil 1993; Onuf 1998; Wendt 1999), focuses on the necessity of shared informal and implicit values, norms, and rules—identities—as a precondition of successful cooperation and integration For some constructivists, a shared state identity is seen as constructed in everyday practices and contacts among individual decision-makers. This point has undoubted relevance to EU-Russian relations. Indeed, one hears often, especially from the EU side, that most significant problems arise not from the inefficiency of the formal institutions between the EU and Russia, but from the behavioral culture of these relations. From the EU point of view, the Russian style of negotiations, for instance, is seen as very confrontational. From the European perspective, there is a “natural Russian tendency” to think about international negotiations and international cooperation as a zero-sum game: if you win, I lose. Russia’s focus is on relative gains, not on long-term reciprocity in a win-win game. This notion implies that the worldviews of Russian and of EU leaders differ in many respects: Russian decision-makers have adopted a realist, self-help worldview, while the EU’s policy is shaped around the idea of the importance of international institutions and positive interdependence. Should one agree with these notions, from a normative perspective one can conclude that both the EU and Russia should pay special attention to the practice and the basic philosophy of their relations. It is important to consider whether the behavioral culture in the cooperation practices is based on or produced by the shared implicit values, norms, and rules, and which practices in the longer run would bring identities closer together. Currently, it might be claimed that the slogan of shared values is only superficially added

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to any EU-Russian documents (such as the Common Spaces Road Maps) but not taken seriously at the level of practice. The analytic task in turn would be to study the concrete EU-Russian interaction practices. Transnational Regionalism: Communication Matters One of the classical integration theories of the 1950s and 1960s is known as the transactionalist or communications school of thought. This approach was not explicitly concerned with European integration and in fact did not presuppose any tight territorial and institutional organization, but rather a flow of communication between relevant actors (Deutsch 1954, 1966; Deutsch et al. 1967). Its essence was that mutual transactions or communications (travel, trade, telecommunication, etc.) combined with mutual responsiveness might generate a sense of community in certain conditions. This kind of a responsive community, or even “pluralistic security communities,” would be the result of a complex and slow learning process, which increasingly involved the sharing of symbols, identities, habits, memories, values, and norms. While Deutsch focused mostly on “elite-led attempts to institutionalize and formalize the initial functional linkages” (Rosamond 2000, 47), some contemporary analysts carry these ideas further by putting more emphasis on the societal level—the level of citizens and civil societies rather than that of the elites or decision-makers—as the basis from which identities grow. At this level, the preconditions for “Russia joining Europe” were laid long before the collapse of the communist economic and political system. Although the population of the Soviet Union was cut off from spontaneous transnational connections, it did not stop youth movements and dissidents from appropriating ideas from the West, nor did it keep the elite and masses alike from yearning for Western lifestyles and consumer goods. According to some sociologists, this especially took hold in the 1970s, “a period of major social and socio-psychological shifts” with far-reaching consequences in terms of the overall modernization of society. The essence of these changes was that “an industrial society was definitely formed” in the country, and “the process of urbanization was completed and a new generation grew up, shaped by the conditions of Europeanized city life” (Kagarlitsky 1990, 284). Currently this Europeanization of standards, values, norms, and behavioral cultures in different fields of Russian society is going on through several “informal” means of transnational communication (tourism, media, Internet, etc.). In terms of formal processes, the same development takes place, for instance, through the pan-European higher education integration process (the so-called Bologna process), which ultimately will harmonize or at least make comparable the higher education systems of Russia and the EU and

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consequently further academic mobility and the convergence of the academic labor market. A school of thought—influenced by constructivist ideas—that could be labeled as “transnational regionalism” questions the whole state-centered nature of contemporary international politics. Part of this literature suggests that the emphasis in international relations is more and more on “low politics” between regions and nonstate actors, which “assumes a far more co-operative nature” than the traditional emphasis on interstate “high politics” between Russia and its neighbors (Joenniemi 1998, 194). While the sovereignty of states may not disappear, national borders are becoming open, giving added space for transnational or global civil society activities (Makarychev and Bradshaw 2001). In other words, a movement of nongovernmental organizations from the local to the global level can be identified, largely due to the globalization of communication via the Internet, which makes it physically and financially feasible for civil society actors to establish and maintain transnational cooperation (Willetts 1997). Thus, what is happening in EU-Russian relations from this perspective would be a transnational or global civil society development “from below,” beyond official EU-Russian relations. This kind of transnationalism opens up many kinds of interrelationships between Russia and the outside world at the societal level. For instance, Russian civil society actors—and through them, Russian society as a whole—may be affected by outside actors and tendencies. Or Russian civil society actors may themselves be active in influencing the outside world. Or Russian civil society actors may collaborate with their transnational nongovernmental or governmental partners in efforts to deal with some common global or regional questions beyond national borders. In this process, however, it is not only Russian civil society that becomes transnational; European societies are influenced as well. This activity may lead to a genuine multicultural dialogue overcoming traditional statist boundaries. While this transnationalization of civil societies may not have a great immediate or direct impact on EU-Russian relations, indirectly it certainly shapes the conditions of cooperation, which, in turn, may be reflected in Russia’s and the EU’s or member states’ official policies in the longer run. The EU (and other regional organizations) together with the Russian state may play a role in this development by either hindering or facilitating the process. Several things reflecting current EU-Russian relations, such as socioeconomic dividing lines, soft security threats as a source of conflict, a visa regime and a tightened Schengen border, bureaucratic border practices, Russia’s centralization and problems of region-to-region cooperation associated with that, the Russian state’s rather conservative attitude toward transnational civil society cooperation, protectionism hindering trade, and

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so forth may disturb the transnationalization of civil societies. On the other hand, some of these very same issues can also enhance cooperation. For instance, soft security threats may not only be a source of conflict but also a source of cooperation and joint projects between Russian and EU-based civil societies, regional authorities, and the businesses. Conclusions: The Limits and Possibilities of EU-RF Integration? This analysis has briefly reviewed the main integration theories, both classical and more recent, and discussed EU-Russian relations from those points of view. The theories are mainly used to interpret and illustrate EU-Russian relations rather than serving as a test of these theories. Even so, this approach may give us reason to draw some analytic and normative conclusions about EU-Russian relations (summarized in Table 6.9). Functionalism and neofunctionalism propose a functionally motivated sector-by-sector approach, and especially the latter emphasizes the spillover effects and the creation of supranational power centers during this process of deepening and widening cooperation. It was concluded that one could well interpret EU-Russian relations from this functional point of view. However, there are no signs that any supranational elements would be added to these relations, as there is no political will on either side to limit decision-making autonomy. For the same reason, we can find no evidence that would give privilege federalist theories’ interpretations of EU-Russian relations. At the same time, intergovernmentalist approaches to integration based on some form of realism seem to reflect rather well contemporary EURussian relations. From this point of view, the EU-Russian relationship does not have so many integrationist features but is rather only some kind of extended, institutionalized cooperation between autonomous rational actors in certain fields of common interests. Classical economic theories were analyzed through their typologies of different degrees of integration, and this discussion was applied to the concept of the Common Economic Space (CES). It became clear that the idea of the CES, at least so far, remains very vague. While it may provide a practical solution for how to progress from a situation where no one knows exactly where to go, it also might remain just another concept based on rather mundane economic cooperation rather than genuine integration. Yet there are some elements, such as the prospect of the FTA, that surely would deepen economic cooperation and lead to convergence of the economic systems between the EU and Russia, if only there were the political will and effective mechanisms to implement these rather abstract goals.

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One of the tools to further economic integration is legal approximation. It was concluded that there exists a basic understanding—though contested by some Russian actors—that Russia should approximate to or harmonize its legislation with that of the EU, mainly in those fields connected to the CES. However, the practical steps are still largely to be taken, and there exists no clear-cut mechanism of how to do this. Marxist analysis and interest group politics applied to Russian business elites in particular provide some new insights. Starting by understanding integration as a conflict, this approach, Marxist or not, argues that if Russian economic interest groups have some influence on EU-Russian relations, there must be several rival interests involved. There are both winners and losers in EU-Russian integration, and their mutual balance of power with regard to political decision-makers becomes important. This approach reflects rather well the difficulties in finding practical solutions to problems in economic and trade relations, even if both sides are in principle in favor of integration and even if the majority of business elites do not oppose closer ties with Europe. The long and difficult negotiations on Russia’s WTO membership are a case in point, and EU-Russian relations show the same features of practical problems, that is, the dilemma of choosing between integration and protectionism, in the crossfire of different and often competitive business sector interests. (Neo)institutionalism emphasizes the significance of formal institutions in facilitating cooperation. However, it was concluded that while EU-Russian relations are rather institutionalized, the institutions are not automatically working as mainstream institutionalism proposes, that is, by changing the parties’ cost-benefit calculations toward more cooperative policies. That is why a social constructivist approach, emphasizing the importance of shared identities, values, cultural factors and behavioral practices was added into the picture. This approach, whether applied to elite or societal levels, has the ability to shed light on some interesting features of EU-Russian relations and reveals some reasons why basically the society is ready for closer integration but also why there sometimes are problems in handling these relations. The transnational regionalism approach was shortly reviewed to picture the possibility of transnational or global civil society development “from below,” beyond the official EU-Russian relations. Each of the previously discussed theoretical approaches has its own focus and sees causal relations differently. And in theoretical terms, they are rather difficult to combine. In practice, however, all the discussed elements are simultaneously present in EU-Russian relations. To sum up, there are several factors that either hinder or further the development of EU-Russian cooperation and integration: societal and elite identities, state interests, sectoral

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or class interests, functional necessities, legal systems institutions, behavioral practices, transnational communication channels. Thus, taken together, these partially incommensurable approaches offer a toolbox of factors and instruments that are crucial if the normative goal is to further Russia’s integration into Europe. The dilemma is that without supranational elements, integration meets its limits rather soon in its traditional meaning. In the more postmodern meaning of integration, however, the market-driven convergence of legal systems as well as the transnationalization of capital and civil societies may well bring the societies closer to each other in the longer run through the general processes of globalization. Table 6.1 Four common spaces Four Common Spaces

Priorities

Common economic space

General issues of trade and economic cooperation Trade facilitation and Customs Networks: telecommunication and transport Energy Space Environment For a more detailed summary, see Table 2

Common space of freedom, security and justice

Freedom The movement of persons Border issues Migration policy Asylum policy Security Terrorism Falsified documents Transnational organised crime Anti-money laundering regime Narcotic drug problem Trafficking in human beings Corruption Trafficking in stolen vehicles and items of cultural and historical value Justice Efficiency of the judicial system Cooperation on criminal matters Cooperation on civil matters

Common space of external security

Strengthened cooperation and dialogue on the international scene Fight against terrorism Non-proliferation of the weapons of mass destruction

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Table 6.1 Four common spaces (continued) Four Common Spaces

Priorities Cooperation in crisis management Cooperation in the field of civil protection

Common space of research and education, including cultural aspects

Research, science and technology, aiming at Structuring a knowledge-based society in the EU and Russia Promoting competitiveness and economic growth Enhancing the link between research and innovation Maintaining small and medium size entrepreneurship in the field of research and innovation Education Adopting higher-education comparable curricula and degrees (the so-called Bologna process) Promoting academic mobility Promoting life-long learning Increasing the attractiveness of the Higher education systems of the EU and Russia Culture Promoting cultural cooperation and exchange Promoting cooperation of the cultural industries Strengthening the European identity “without dividing lines”

Source: Road Maps 2005

Table 6.2 Common economic space Main issues

Sub-issues

Objectives

General issues of trade and economic cooperation

Regulatory Dialogue on industrial products, especially in:

Harmonized and compatible standards, regulations and conformity assessment procedures

ICT, Radio and Telecommunication Equipment Electrical Equipment and Machinery Medical Devices Automotive industry Textiles

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Table 6.2 Common economic space (continued) Main issues

Sub-issues

Objectives

Pharmaceuticals Forest-based and related industries Public procurement

Transparent, competition based systems of public procurement

Intellectual, industrial and commercial property rights

Improvement of the legislative and law enforcement systems in order to enhance competitiveness and improving investment climate

Competition

Approximation of competition legislation and strengthening of implementing of competition policy

Investment

Improving investment climate, transparency, predictability and simplification of regulation

Enterprise policy and economic dialogue

In-depth dialogue on economic reform and enterprise policy, especially in: Automotive industry Textile industry Mining and metallurgical complex Chemical industry Aerospace industries

Interregional and cross-border cooperation

Deepening and diversification of interregional cooperation

Financial services (banking, insurance, securities)

Stability and sound financial system, protection of services consumers

Accounting/auditing and statistics

Transparency, share-holder protection, favorable investment conditions

Agriculture, forestry, timber, fisheries. Sanitary and phyto-sanitary measures

Regulatory convergence

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Table 6.2 Common economic space (continued) Main issues

Sub-issues

Trade facilitation and customs Networks: telecommunication and transport

Objectives To facilitate, to standardize and to automate external trade operations

Telecommunications, information society and e-business

EU-Russia Information Society area

Transport

The complementarity of the Russian and EU transport sectors and gradual integration of transport networks

Energy

Intensifying the EU-Russia Energy Dialogue in sustainability, reliability, distribution, transportation, energy efficiency, energy savings and renewable energies

Space

Effective EU-Russia cooperation

Environment

Promoting the commitment to and implementation of international environmental agreements

Source: Road Maps 2005

Table 6.3 The degree of economic integration in EU-Russian relations Degree of integration

Description

Free trade area (FTA)

A group of countries that have agreed to eliminate tariffs, quotas and preferences on most goods between them.

Relevance for EU-Russian economic relations Unclear, but probably the most logical solution

FTA is mentioned in the PCA (1997) as a possible future subject of negotiations, if the circumstances will allow it. FTA is also mentioned in the EU strategy on Russia (1999)

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Table 6.3 The degree of economic integration in EU-Russian relations (continued) Degree of integration

Description

Relevance for EU-Russian economic relations and Russian strategy on the EU (1999) as a future goal. Not mentioned explicitly in the CEES Concept Paper (2003) or the CES Road Map (2005). Some signs of a renewed interest from the EU in speaking about the FTA from 2006 onwards.

Customs union

Single market

A FTA with a common external tariff; the members of a customs union have the same policies and common rules (customs duties, quotas, preferences and so forth to all goods entering the area) with respect to non-members.

Problematic, not in sight

A customs union, buttressed with common policies on product regulation, and freedom of movement of all the factors of production, that is, goods, services, capital and labour.

Unclear, possible, but not in its traditional form

The CEES Concept Paper (2003) or CES Road Map (2005) does not mention the prospect of a customs union. Problematic from the perspective of the customs union plans of Russia with Belarus, Kazakhstan and the Ukraine, which might not be compatible with EU-Russian customs union perspectives.

There are elements of a single market in the CEES Concept Paper (2003) and the CES Road Map (2005), even if the very term is not used. The problem is that the traditional definition of a single market also includes a customs union.

Economic union

Everything above combined with the harmonisation of national economic policy norms, rules and regulations, with supranational instruments and decision-making under

No practical relevance While there exist some signs of regulatory approximation, there are no signs whatsoever that the EU or Russia would be willing to lead the CES process as far as the creation of supranational bodies to

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Table 6.3 The degree of economic integration in EU-Russian relations (continued) Degree of integration

Relevance for EU-Russian economic relations

Description legal obligation. Full economic integration combined with supranational governance of different sectors of economic policy

Monetary union

govern common economic policies. Everything above

Common currency and monetary policy

Table 6.4 Russia’s foreign trade structure 2005 (not CIS) Product groups

Export %

Import %

Food products and agricultural raw materials

1,1

17,0

Mineral goods (gas, oil, petrol, ores, coal etc.)

67,5

0,9

Chemical products and rubber

5,5

17,9

Leather raw materials, furs and their products

0,1

0,3

Wood, timber, pulp and paper goods

3,4

3,4

Textiles and footwear

0,2

3,3

Precious stones and precious metals

3,2

0,3

Ferrous and non-ferrous metals and products

14,5

5,1

Machinery, equipment and transport equipment

3,6

48,2

Other goods (which are not mentioned above)

0,9

3,6

Total

100

100

Source: Foreign trade of Russia 2005

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Table 6.5 Russia’s trade with main partners 2005 Import

1 2 3 4 5

Export Partners

Mio euro

%

World EU Ukraine China Japan Belarus

77.900 34.904 6.250 5.819 4.695 3.709

100 44,8 8,0 7,5 6,0 4,8

1 2 3 4 5

Partners

Mio euro

%

World EU China Ukraine Turkey Switzerland

191.173 107.494 10.489 9.949 8.729 8.410

100 56,2 5,5 5,2 4,6 4,4

Partners

Mio euro

%

World USA Switzerland Russia China Turkey

1.164.719 267.672 86.392 71.791 63.248 46.350

100 23,0 7,4 6,2 5,4 4,0

%

Share of total EU imports

Source: EU-Russia Relations 2007

Table 6.6 EU trade with main partners, 2006 Import

1 2 3 4 5

Export Partners

Mio euro

%

World China USA Russia Norway Japan

1.348.317 191.342 175.813 136.847 79.019 75.631

100 14,2 13,0 10,1 5,9 5,6

1 2 3 4 5

Source: EU-Russia Relations 2007

Table 6.7 European Union, imports from Russia (Mio euro) Product group

2002

TOTAL

61.999

Primary products of which

44.752

%

2004

%

80.722 72,2

57.895

2006 136.847

10,15

71,7

101.298

74,0

21,20

Energy

37.302

60,2

48.749

60,4

89.534

65,4

28,34

Agricultural products

2.523

4,1

2.215

2,7

2.697

2,0

3,10

Manufactured products

7.114

11,5

9.131

11,3

11.173

8,2

1,73

Source: EU-Russia Relations 2007

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Table 6.8 European Union, exports to Russia (Mio euro) Share of total EU exports

Product group

2002

TOTAL

34.279

Primary products of which:

4.862

14,2

5.312

11,6

7.671

10,7

5,22

Agricultural products

4.222

12,3

4.571

10,0

6.318

8,8

9,20

Energy

182

0,5

247

0,5

461

0,6

0,98

Manufactured products of which:

28.781

84,0

38.820

84,7

51.359

71,5

6,44

%

2004

%

45.832

2006

%

71.791

6,16

Machinery

10.920

31,9

16.341

35,7

17.024

23,7

7,45

Chemicals

4.659

13,6

6.341

13,8

10.688

14,9

5,88

Transport equipment

3.693

10,8

4.970

10,8

8.087

11,3

5,53

Source: EU-Russia Relations 2007

Table 6.9 Theories of integration and EU-Russian relations Approach integration

Focus, hypotheses

Prospects for EU-Russian

Federalism

Integration presupposes creation of supranational institutions, and the parties are supposed voluntarily to give up parts of their political sovereignty and autonomy

Very Low: EU and Russia are currently not willing to create supranational institutions to govern any areas of their interaction.

Functionalism

Integration as a result of functional necessity of technocratic cooperation of experts, which in turn creates new power centers to facilitate this cooperation

Possible, but not at sight: Cooperation exists in many functional fields, such as energy or transport, but there are no signs of a creation of interstate or supranational power centers that would challenge the decision-making sovereignty or autonomy of

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Table 6.9 Theories of integration and EU-Russian relations (continued) Approach integration

Focus, hypotheses

Prospects for EU-Russian the EU or Russia in this cooperation.

Neofunctionalism

Preconditions: Joint economic interests, similarity of the economic systems, interdependence, political pluralism, similarity of elite groups Starting phase: The collaboration would start from the field, where the needs of cooperation are most urgent. Spill-over effect: Integration will both deepen and spill over to other, related fields. Political will: Political leaders have to become interested to partially shift their loyalties, expectations, and political activities beyond existing national bodies to the interstate level, or even become willing to reallocate national economic and political power to supranational levels.

Possible, but not at sight: Preconditions partially abstaining. Rather institutionalized cooperation exists in many functional fields, but there are no signs of willingness to shift loyalties or decision-making power from national to interstate or supranational levels. Spillover process does not seem to proceed automatically either.

Intergovernmentalism, realism

The decisions of governments on different aspects of integration are best explained by relying on the assumption of a rational actor behaving according to its interests.

Very low: The EU-Russian relations can, in all aspects, be explained/described by relying on intergovernmentalist/realist arguments, thus forecasting that both the EU and Russia will defend their sovereignty and autonomy as much as possible, even when institutionalized cooperation in different fields exists.

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Table 6.9 Theories of integration and EU-Russian relations (continued) Approach integration

Focus, hypotheses

Prospects for EU-Russian

Economic liberalisation

Emphasis on the general economic growth and welfare -related benefits of a free market as a result of integration. The degree of integration can be defined by looking at whether it fulfills the conditions of free trade area, customs union, single market, economic union, or full economic integration.

Proceeding slowly, with mixed signals and results: The current goal of the Common Economic Space (CES) is a rather novel combination compared to traditional forms of economic integration. It incorporates some elements of a free trade area, but excludes the customs union. It has some features of a single market, and also includes some elements of an economic union. But it does not fulfill the criteria of any existing form of economic integration. In practice, the process goes on slowly, with no clear-cut goals or schedule.

Legal approximation

Based on the assumption of classical economic liberalism, the idea is that convergence, approximation, or harmonization of legal systems will in the long run stabilize and strengthen national economies and will create a healthy competitive environment. The conditions for movement of goods, capital, services, and people become similar, which automatically would lead to deepening integration.

Proceeding slowly, but takes time and requires political will: Russia’s willingness to implement the legal approximation approach would require new mechanisms from the Russian legislative bodies to control the compatibility of the Russian legislation with the European one. A further challenge would be to create formal or informal mechanisms of how there could be communication already in the preparatory phase of EU legislation, which Russia then would partially adopt. Currently, the legal approximation approach is not applied in any systemized way.

Marxism, IPE, interest group politics

Integration is understood as a conflict, including capitalist class versus working class rivalry, as

Possible, with mixed signals and results: Especially the inter-capitalist rivalry between “transnationalists”

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Table 6.9 Theories of integration and EU-Russian relations (continued) Approach integration

Focus, hypotheses

Prospects for EU-Russian

well as inter-capitalist rivalry. Integration has great redistributive consequences, creating both winners and losers within the participants. When the interest groups that win with the integration (transnational capitalist class) have more influence than the loosing-with-integration interest groups (national capitalist class, working class), the integration process will proceed.

and “protectionists” is relevant. The majority of Russian and European business elites is positive toward Russia’s deeper integration with Europe and world economy, and, consequently, do not oppose the liberalization of mutual economic relations and domestic markets. However, there are important “national business elites” in some the business sectors defending their domestic interests against foreign capitalists, resulting in protectionist policies.

Neoinstitutionalism

Formal institutions work as kinds of schools for cooperation, representing long-term cooperation, in contrast to cooperation case by case. States should be politically willing to abandon short-term calculations on relative gains and concentrate on absolute gains and reciprocal relationships, that is on the net benefits of a continuing cooperation. Repeated institutionalized cooperation will teach the states to trust on each other.

Rather low: Even if the EU-Russian relations are rather institutionalized and the institutions enhance and facilitate EU-Russian cooperation, at the same time, they create new conflicts and are not effective enough. The mere existence of institutions seems not to be enough to change the cost-benefit calculations of the EU or Russia. The institutional changes have not made a great difference in practice.

Constructivism

The necessity of shared informal and implicit values, norms and rules— or identities and worldviews—as a precondition of successful cooperation and integration. This shared identity is seen as being

Possible, but takes time: However, currently the worldviews of the Russian and the EU leaders/elites differ in many respects; the Russian leaders have adopted a clear realist self-help worldview, while the EU’s policy is more shaped on the

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Table 6.9 Theories of integration and EU-Russian relations (continued) Approach integration

Transnational regionalism

Focus, hypotheses

Prospects for EU-Russian

constructed in everyday communication and practices and contacts between the decision makers.

idea of the importance of international institutions and interdependence.

The emphasis in international relations is more and more on “low politics” between regions and nonstate actors rather than between the states. While the sovereignty of states may not disappear, national borders become open through tourism, travel, migration, labor markets, trade, and the Internet, thus giving added space for transnational or global civil society activities.

Possible, but takes time: In the longer run, further globalization of standards and practices, for instance, through convergence of educational systems, may bring the worldviews and behavioral practices closer to each other. A transnational or global civil society development “from below” may challenge the official EU-Russian relations. While this transnationalization of civil societies may not have a great immediate or direct impact on EU-Russian relations, indirectly it shapes the conditions of cooperation, which, in turn, can be reflected in Russia’s and EU’s or member states’ official policies in the longer run.

Notes 1. Mitrany, who’s motivation was related to the conditions of international peace against the evil of nationalism, was opposing regional integration and territorially organized power in general and preferred a universal integration, or international society or world community, created by functional cooperation instead. Functionalism, however, became one of the theories of European integration as well, against the original purpose of Mitrany. It has been argued that the two key architects of the starting shot of the contemporary EU, the creation of the European Coal and Steel Community (ECSC), Jean Monnet and Robert Schuman, “borrowed key aspects of what might be termed the functionalist method, without

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2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

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adopting Mitrany’s central goal: the dissolution of territorially based authorities” (Cram 2001, 54). Compared to functionalism, federalism, connected most notably to such pioneers of European integration as Altiero Spinelli and Sergio Pistone, has been more about practical political ideas and approaches than about theoretical and scientific scholarship. It was Ernst B. Haas who created the basic theses of this revised functionalist version called neofunctionalism and later developed it. Other prominent names include Philippe Schmitter, Leon Lindberg, Stuart Scheingold, and Joseph S. Nye. Neofunctionalism has been seen as resulting not only as a synthesis of functionalism and federalism, but also arising from a critique of the realist school, dominating at that time international relations studies. It also draws on some parts of work of Karl Deutsch that pay attention to communication, shared identities, and values (Cram 2001, 56). The categories of Table 6.1 and Table 6.2 are the author’s summaries based on the structure and prioritized issues identified in the Road Maps of Common Space between the EU and the Russian Federation, from May 10, 2005. While in the official Kremlin English version of Putin’s article, this is actually expressed as “anything but institutions”; the original Russian version with “vse, krome institutov” comes closer to the original. Putin apparently refers to Prodi’s well-known keynote speech: “A Wider Europe—A Proximity Policy as the key to stability” (speech by Romano Prodi 2002). In that speech, Prodi stated, “On other occasions I have already referred to this concept, which I described as ‘sharing everything with the Union but institutions.’ The aim is to extend to this neighbouring region a set of principles, values and standards which define the very essence of the European Union” (Prodi 2002). It was the then the president of the European Commission, Romano Prodi, who proposed it to President Vladimir Putin. After a while, a High-Level Group, headed by Commissioner Chris Patten and Deputy Prime Minister Viktor Khristenko, was established to elaborate the idea further. There have been many declarations on a customs union between Russia and some other CIS states since the mid-1990s. Among the many partially overlapping economic integration efforts in the post-Soviet space, the most far-reaching development is about a Single Economic Space (SES) between Belarus, Kazakhstan, Russia, and Ukraine (SES 2004). However, the agreements are written in the spirit of a step-by-step process, and the full implementation of the customs union or even an FTA among the countries still has a long way to go. This section’s arguments about the differences between the EU and Russian attitudes toward the formal EU-Russian institutions as well as the differences in behavioral cultures are based on the author’s subjective conclusions from several discussions with and interviews of EU and Russian authorities during 2004–6, when the author spent two years in a Moscow-based research institute (financed by the EU) and worked for both the EU and the Russian governments.

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9. They include two summits each year; the recently established Permanent Partnership Council (ministerial level, from the EU side, represented by Troika, including the commission), which replaced the earlier cooperation councils that met once a year; cooperation committees (senior official level) meeting as often as necessary; subcommittees (working level) dealing with technical issues; a joint parliamentary committee; specific cooperation committees for certain matters such as Kaliningrad; TACIS Programme (from 2007 onward the European Neighbourhood Partnership Instrument); CEES High Level Group; “specific dialogues,” such as Energy Dialogue, Transport Dialogue, and Regulatory Dialogue; meetings and summits in the framework of regional programs such as the Northern Dimension. Additionally, one should mention several unilateral or bilateral strategies and action plans in different fields. 10. Poland vetoed the decision to open negotiations on a new EU-Russian agreement in spring 2007 due to Russia’s long-lasting boycott against importing Polish meat. While this particulal conflict was resolved in late 2007, some analysts have forecasted that it will take perhaps several years before a new agreement will be reached, because of many similar problems in EU-Russian relations. 11. The following nine subcommittees exist according to the PCA: (1) trade and industry; (2) energy, environment, and nuclear issues; (3) science and technology, human resources, and social cooperation; (4) transport, telecommunications, and space; (5) coal and steel, mining, and raw materials; (6) competition, IPR, approximation of legislation, and fighting against crime; (7) customs and cross-border cooperation; (8) agriculture, fisheries, and consumer protection; (9) financial and economic issues and statistics.

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CHAPTER 7

Boundaries of Sovereignty, Frontiers of Integration* Rethinking “Conflict” between Russia and the EU Vadim Kononenko Our task is to turn our borders from barriers to bridges of friendship and good neighbourhood.2 Our task is to promote a ring of well-governed countries to the East of the European Union with whom we can enjoy close and cooperative relations.3

Introduction

I

t has become a truism to argue that the Russia-EU relationship is problematic. Occasionally, the word “conflict” is used to describe it, especially when both parties succumb to mutual bickering over a contentious issue. In recent years, there have been low points in Russia-EU relations, which some claim are manifestations of conflict. Examples include the much-discussed issue of energy security or the emergence of “sovereign democracy” in Russia under Putin.4 In addition, political changes in the EU-Russia “near abroad” arguably present room for conflict (Davidson 2006). One of the common explanations for this hypothetical ongoing conflict is that Russia and the EU have incompatible interests and goals vis-à-vis their common neighborhood and that these incompatibilities stem from internal intrinsic features and identities (Lynch 2005). * This chapter is part of a research project, “Russia’s European Choice with or into the EU?” funded by the Academy of Finland and conducted at the Finnish Institute of International Affairs.

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Yet, despite an abundance of contentious issues, conflict and incompatibility between Russia and the EU are not self-evident. The two quotations above indicate that Moscow and Brussels regard, at least on the rhetorical level, their goals in similar terms: both envisage stability and “good neighborly” relations with each other. Given the essential ambiguity of rhetoric and policies on both sides, descriptions and scenarios of conflict between Russia and the EU are as equally problematic as the relationship itself. Taking these ambiguities into account, one could argue that conflict is part of the actual political process. Such a usual explanation, however, risks explaining nothing: If conflict is inherent in social interaction, then at what point does one draw the line between conflict and cooperation? This is precisely the question this chapter aims to discuss. If conflict and cooperation are the two sides of the same coin, it is reasonable to examine how and why the coin gets tossed in the air in such a way that the sides constantly rotate. Furthermore, recognizing that social reality is multidimensional, it is difficult to conceptualize conflict as a finite quality, as if reality consisted of clearly defined moments of certainty and uncertainty, conflict and cooperation. In fact, the possibility of seeing both conflict and cooperation taking place simultaneously appears to be constrained in research. Elements of conflict can be exaggerated, unintentionally or on purpose. Likewise, the perspectives for cooperation can be either emphasized or their significance downplayed. Probing the ambivalence of conflict necessarily involves a choice or rather a series of choices on the part of a researcher, above all given the fact that elements of conflict and cooperation coexist. Conventional theories and concepts are employed to enable understanding and provide for explanations of a reality that normally appears in flux. Yet, while recognizing that theories are instrumental and influential in understanding reality, this chapter treats them as part of the problem of choice indicated above. In their own ways, theories affect perception of whether the coin is still in the air or has already reached the ground with one side turned to the viewer, another hidden. Then there is the element of reflexivity–not only between theories but research practices in general— that needs to be brought back to the realm of research of Russia-EU interaction.5 The analysis that follows is three-pronged. The concept of incompatibility and its role in research is examined in three situations: (a) assumptions about sovereignty, territoriality, and borders; (b) assumptions about Russia-EU interaction; and (c) policies pertaining to the Russian-Ukrainian border. Representations and explanations of incompatibility are examined in all three contexts. Even though the last section is particularly empirically focused, the rest of the analysis has empirical implications: the understanding of each other as incompatible affects both the ambiguity of the reality in question

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and the particularities of Russia-EU studies as field of research. The argument in this chapter is important for concepts of choice, understood as a set of interrelated options pertaining to problems of understanding and critique in research. These choices need not to be taken in isolation or, worse, taken for granted. It is in this sense that the ideas of reflexivity and the “plurality of truth” are probed in this chapter (Ojanen 1998).6 Conflict and Incompatibility The problem of conflict is central to international studies and the social sciences in general. Yet, more often than not, the problem of conflict appears not as a subject of enquiry per se but as an expected point of reference that serves the normative needs of research. Should the normative prescriptions be put into practice, the reasoning goes, conflict would be alleviated if not disappear altogether. While approaches to conflict may vary through theoretical disciplines,7 there is little debate in international studies about the overall nature of conflict. Realists and liberals (in their neo consensual guise) see conflict in rationalist terms as a condition of an incompatibility of the involved parties’ positions. The underlining sources of incompatibility may vary and, depending on one’s point of view, can be defined in terms of clashing interests or actors’ (mis)perceptions. Ensuing policies or strategies can be found incompatible and therefore lead to conflict escalation. The rise of constructivism as the third major paradigm in International Relations theory has only reinforced this consensual understanding of conflict as an outcome of incompatibility. Whereas realists would hold as a starting point the incompatibility of “positions of power” (Waltz 1979), constructivists would regard conflict as nested in incompatible identities or enmity as an identity. Conflict itself is framed as a process of discursively communicating positions. To paraphrase Wendt, conflict, just like anarchy, “is what states make of it” (Wendt 1992, 391–425; 1999). Seen in this light, the conventional strategy to understand conflict is circular: if conflict is determined by a specific communicative process, incompatible subject positions are only reinforced in the same process, thus causing even larger conflict. In other words, a researcher is expected to discover the “contours” of incompatibility in order to understand conflict. Interestingly, the term that is taken as the centerpiece in these theoretical frameworks— “incompatibility”—is frequently understood as a mere starting point in the analysis of various “how” and “why” questions regarding the construction of conflict positions. Thus incompatibility is treated as a necessary given, a sort of ontological gravity point for research. Rarely, if ever, do analysts

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ask whether the social situations under scrutiny themselves should be treated as conflict or as anything but conflict. Indeed, starting one’s analysis by questioning its very ontological underpinnings (that is, reflecting on whether in a given situation a conflict exists) is potentially hazardous for the study as a whole: the conflict must be explored—often with the use of “relevant” theoretical frameworks—but must not be questioned as such. The “uncontestedness,” or unquestioned acceptance of incompatibility, is even more important as the term itself remains the central if not the sole conceptual benchmark with which observers normally gauge conflict.8 This is evident particularly in the field of policy analysis, which portrays itself as focused on “practice” and therefore detached from arcane questions of epistemology and theoretical validity. Rather, the purpose of “policy-relevant” scholarship is to “be useful” to practitioners, whatever this category includes (Nincic and Lepgold 2000). In this respect, the goal of research is seen as working out a set of practical recommendations as to how to resolve or prevent a certain conflict. The overall goals of attaining practical value and making research relevant to concrete needs and policy objectives might lead research somewhat away from generalization to an examination of concrete occurrences of conflict. As a consequence, exploration into a conflict is conducted within a predefined problem field that perpetuates the assumption that conflict or conflict potential exists prior to the investigation. In other words, the move away from theorizing to practical policy analysis does not solve the problem of understanding the relationship between posited incompatibility and the ensuing conflict. For example, most conflict studies make the assumption that incompatibility leads to a conflict. However, a closer look at research practice reveals that the reverse takes place: a researcher attempts to understand something that is already defined as a conflict by applying different variations of “incompatibility.” These understandings of incompatibility— assumptions about the cause and nature of conflict—are directly related to the “policy recommendations” that are normally a part of policy research. There is thus a corresponding link between the rationalization of the object of research and the conclusions or answers at which the researcher claims to have arrived. This may become a real constraint to critical investigation. In this respect, despite presenting themselves as strictly empirical, such research methods might lead to surprisingly “unempirical” results, reminiscent of connecting the dots, inasmuch as both the dots and causal connections are deliberately adjoined and may have little to do with the actual problem of research. Incompatibility, therefore, is not a category of conflict per se, or something that is perceived as conflict, as much as it is a category of analysis. Logically,

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the understanding of a conflict should include an analysis of the understandings of conflict, that is, the analysis of standpoints and explanations as well as research strategies that are not only related to the conflict but also shape the ways the conflict is comprehended (as conflict). Undoubtedly, incompatible conflict positions can be perceived or constructed by the parties involved, but they also can be construed in the process of knowledge construction, theory building, and most importantly, making critiques of extant analysis on the subject. Incompatibility and What Theories Make of It The problem of starting one’s research with the assumption that agents on the empirical level are constrained by the impasse of incompatibility can be explained—among other factors—by the subject of analysis. It happens frequently that a researcher may feel pressured to accept some of the assumptions that were given previously by other scholars. In many instances, such as in the case of long-standing international or domestic conflict, the initial ontological choice of defining something as conflict often appears to have been made primarily by the parties to the conflict but also by “underlying” analytical factors that cause conflict. Beliefs and assumptions about certain things are often structural elements of the social reality under scrutiny, and in this way they may seem to escape a scholar’s critical gaze.9 That said, not all of the crucial choices are made by a researcher or prior to him starting his own work. On the contrary, there is a general idea that research should be critical and reflective about the meanings and assumptions made regarding its subject, or that the assumptions actually constitute, to a degree, the subject of the research, and this evokes even more challenging dilemmas. There is the choice of whether to focus on examining social reality as opposed to various representations, theoretical interpretations, and scholarly discourses about it, or whether to embrace the social action under scrutiny in toto, attaining the understanding of the social action in question “from within” (Hollis and Smith 1991). Related to that, there is the choice that is the most difficult of them all, namely the one between the view that there are many interpretations of conflict (and explanations of incompatibility) and the extreme pluralist view that there are as many conflicts as there are representations.10 As compelling as they might be, these challenging questions nonetheless get probed, if not fully resolved, in the course of actual research. Clearly, theories play an important role in the research process (e.g., as track switches from one explanation to another or as a “conceptual toolkit” for analysis). One should bear in mind, however, that the utility of theories to enable

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understanding might be undermined by the lack of consensus between approaches. Instead of enabling understanding, theories obscure it by giving partial answers, casting light and shadow on reality according to their internal agendas and interests. On the other hand, theories can also be problematic in giving too parsimonious representations of the realities in question, translating social action into the language of a certain theoretical paradigm (Ojanen 1998, 347–51). There is thus the possibility of compatibility and incommensurability between paradigms of intertheoretical conflict and dialogue. It is therefore instructive to examine the conceptual underpinnings of the problem at hand. In this respect, the effects of theory need to be considered, since the interpretations of incompatibility and ensuing conflict may originate from theoretical considerations. Understandings of conflict, to a degree, can be seen as the outcome of theorizing rather than an element in an external causal relationship that can be empirically observed. In the following section, there is an analysis of some aspects of research practices that are pertinent to producing conceptions of incompatibility and conflict in Russia-EU studies. The analysis shows how particular assumptions about incompatibility crystallize from an initial ambiguity of reality to sharply delineated binary oppositions. I argue that factors leading to this crystallization of views include, among others, the normative considerations of research, the intentions of critique, and the conceptual “borrowing” between disciplines and different strands of theorizing. The Ambiguity of Boundaries As is often noted, most of the literature on borders has developed on the margins of several different social science disciplines, including political geography, anthropology, political science, and international relations. Yet, despite this apparent marginality, there are several obvious issues of concern to both the subfield of border studies and the discipline of international relations. The most obvious point of convergence is the firm and long-standing focus on the state. The preoccupation with the state, both empirical and theoretical, on the part of most international relations and border studies’ theorists has lead to an interesting symbiosis in which claims about the state and borders are mutually reinforced in both subfields. One can see this in the naturalization of the state as the primary actor in international politics, and borders as the primary institution of the state-based international system. Second, both disciplines work with a narrowly defined understanding of “space”—the locus of the political being embodied in the principle of sovereignty—as politically bounded territory. As Agnew puts it, “the merging of the state with a clearly bounded territory is the geographical

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essence of the field of international relations” (Agnew 1994). This is reflected in how international borders are regarded as either boundaries of exclusion (the realist view) or zones and frontiers of integration (the liberal view).11 Finally, a common platform between the disciplines can be found in that they all are somewhat preoccupied with conflict in international politics. Finding ways to diminish conflict is one of the commitments of IR as a discipline. While this normative concern with conflict is understandable, it affects perceptions of how research should be conducted.12 A Tentative Consensus: Boundaries, Sovereign States, and International Systems John Prescott’s classical study of political boundaries is a good starting point for a discussion of how borders are regarded in international relations. In his Political Frontiers and Boundaries, Prescott is very explicit about the origins of political boundaries when he states that “there is no excuse for geographers who use the terms ‘frontier’ and ‘boundary’ as synonyms” (Prescott 1978).13 For Prescott, frontiers are zones, whereas boundaries are lines. The roots of boundaries are then linked to the origins of the state: frontiers become replaced by boundaries in the process of state building.14 Characteristically, sovereignty is formulated in Weberian terms as ability of the state to reign supreme over certain territory and establish an effective border as a line of division and instrument of domestic order. In subsequent chapters, Prescott presents his view on how boundaries should be negotiated by national governments and then placed on maps and territory in order to minimize the risk of conflict (Prescott 1978, 63). Although Prescott tries to avoid generalization, he nonetheless gives a few remarks as to the cause and nature of border conflicts. These reveal his general assumptions and meanings of international politics. For Prescott, the emergence of a conflict is determined by (a) the aim of a government of one country to seek additional territory and (b) by the fact that the boundary between the two states is incomplete. For instance, according to Prescott, the dispute between China and the Soviet Union over the island of Damansky in 1969 was caused by the ambiguous boundary definition of the 1861 treaty, which failed to specify the course of the boundary in the vicinity of the island (Prescott 1978, 94). Seen in this light, borders are legal instruments of the states to bind their otherwise immanent interest to expand. Prescott’s classical work is a median in the spectrum of views on borders as the outer limits of state sovereignty. It proposes the idea that borders are indispensable instruments in preventing conflicts that otherwise might erupt once sovereignty over certain territory becomes an issue of contest. However,

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this view of borders is ambivalent both in terms of the distinction between “frontier zones” and “border lines” (which is very different to find in practice) and in the way that borders are simultaneously understood as institutions to prevent conflict and a source of potential conflict. It is in fact very difficult to foresee when borders trigger a conflict and when they temper it. In international studies, this inherent ambiguity of boundaries has been disaggregated into two positions. The first view can be summarized as “good fences make good neighbors.” Borders need to be policed, secured, and defended. They themselves provide security for states and their populations in the world of anarchy, “state rivalry, zero-sum manifestations of state competition for power, lebensraum, or an imagined historical identity” (Simmons 2004, 3). This view is often described as closely associated with the realist school of international relations.15 Also worth noting is the collaboration of realist thought and the so-called “classical geopolitics” represented by such writers as Mackinder, Haushofer, and Mahan.16 Central to the idea is that borders literally mark the areas where power and interests of two or several states overlap, thereby causing tensions and possible conflicts. The second view starts where the realists leave off, but instead of a contest between states, it stresses their interdependence. In such a reading, the importance of boundaries is as undisputable as the first view. Yet, in contrast to positing borders as fences or springboards for expansion, the interdependence school argues that borders increasingly have a role as interfaces of cooperation and trade. Furthermore, as regime theorists would claim, cooperation across borders provides “mutual benefits” for states and diminishes sharply the probability of conflict. Critics of the realist take on borders argue that their view is restricted to military-political aspects only. As Malcolm Anderson points out, borders are institutions and should be assessed as any other social institutions (Anderson 1996). In this regard, the scope of functions pertaining to national borders needs to be expanded to include not only the defensive functions but also the facilitation of trade and exchange. On a closer look, then, there is not much disagreement between the two views. Both contend with the idea that borders are desirable, constitutive norms of international and domestic order. One could easily see how this conception of borders fits into the overall theoretical framework of both standpoints. In emphasizing different aspects of international relations—the security dilemma on one hand and economic interdependence on the other— realists and liberals effectively use the image of a “state border.” Importantly, it should be noted that in their turn, these two views of borders are based on particular understandings of the state. It is not any border that these theories

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are interested in, but only those related to a specific, idealized version of the territorial state. It is instructive to examine this seemingly unexpected conformity in international studies in more detail. Some scholars argue that the link should be seen in the context of a metanarrative about the state that has been commonly held as a given across all of the social sciences and international relations (Sahlins 1991). The metanarrative under question is one about modernity as an era of territorial sovereign states and the time locus of present social and political life (Blaney and Inayatullah 2000). Inasmuch as this highly persuasive system of meaning has been appropriated by border studies, one could see it as implicit in the analytical distinction drawn between “frontiers” and “boundaries.” The border/frontier distinction was noted before in Prescott’s and many others’ work, but it is worth following up. Frederick Jackson Turner’s The Frontier in American History sets the tone as to how the modern state should be regarded as an organic entity that evolves across time and space from a “frontier state” into a “border state” (Turner 1920). For Americans, this process simultaneously involved a transformation from a colony into a sovereign democracy. Likewise, in the European tradition, frontiers are attributed to empires, whereas borders are seen as befitting modern nation-states (Sahlin 1991). As Agnew points out, this static ontology can be seen as part of the process whereby borders are perpetually reinstated (Agnew 2007, 6). In essence, the root of political boundaries is seen in the modern territorial state, in line with the centrality of the concept in Western political thought. In international relations studies, this state-centrism has for a long time been treated as a necessary given, not only from the point of view of research, but also as an ontological condition.17 Thus it is not surprising that a paradigm that subscribes to the “Westphalian” interpretation of international politics simultaneously takes on the vision of borders as compulsory institutions that do separate or connect sovereign states, but more importantly uphold the existence of the international system of states. This is another (and for this study, the most important) effect of the inherent ambiguity of the concept of international borders. Contrary to expectations, realists and liberals are not making incompatible claims about the role of borders. Instead, what comes to the fore is a sort of deep-seated consensus about borders as fundamental building blocks of the contemporary international order, “a standard of conduct behind which all sovereign states can rally” (Jackson 2002, 87–106). To an extent, one could see this consensual understanding of borders as “building blocks” of international order as a standard of conduct around which all mainstream theories could unite.

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Incompatibility as a Practice of Making Critique: Sovereignty and Integration as Incompatible Logics It was argued in the section above that incompatibility can be seen as an inherent part of intertheoretical exchange. We have also observed that incompatibility or mutual exclusiveness in views and values can be exaggerated in order to highlight the relevance of one theoretical approach over another in explaining reality. Incompatibility can also emerge as an unintended effect of development within a theoretical discipline that strives for parsimonious explanations. However, as the example of liberal and realist conceptions of boundaries shows, it is not impossible for two opposing positions of thought to actually agree on some principles or ways of thinking. In the latter case, these consensual principles represented the ontology of the international system (territorial sovereign states). In this consensual ontology, interstate boundaries were regarded as desirable if not the only elements of its construction and perseverance. In contrast to this deep-seated consensus is the equally recurrent incompatibility of two mainstream logics in international relations theorizing identified here as sovereignty and integration. The incompatibility between sovereign and integrationist logics is relevant for our task in two respects. First, it empirically and theoretically involves borders and territoriality in the core discussion in international relations. Second, it reveals just how crucial this incompatibility is for the practice of making critique. This hypothesized incompatibility of sovereignty and integration can be seen as a result of “splitting” in international relations theories (and the social sciences in general), a process where construing two sides as “opposite and distinct tendencies” means to represent them as the only plausible alternatives. In Benjamin’s words, this is “a polarization in which opposites can no longer be integrated; in which one side is devalued, the other idealized” (Benjamin 1988, quoted in Blaney and Inayatullah, 2000, 45). In contemporary IR, this “splitting” underlies the core of the debate between globalists and pluralists. The former put forward the ideal of integration associated with globalization, liberal universal values, and economic interdependence, while the latter emphasized the benefits of sovereignty and the independence of the state within its borders, as well as the possible dangers of global unification and homogenization. However, it is important to note that this theoretical “splitting” can also be seen as an outcome of the critique of both globalist and pluralist positions. In this sense, the incompatibility of pluralist and globalist views provides an opening for criticism of those conventions to which the two views cling together and that no longer hold sway if one wants to look beyond their binary opposing logic. Indeed, behind the critique of

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splitting lies a deep discontent with any idea of the clear-cut distinctions in IR between internal and external realms of politics and subsequently with the two variants of sovereignty (Agnew 2005). It can further be argued that the reconstitution of binary oppositions and their immediate problematization is a necessary step in taking our theoretical debate to another level, even a prerequisite for some sort of progress in science. This, however, raises once again the problem of choice, namely a choice of direction after the “incompatibility” of views has been criticized. Revisiting Ambiguity and Incompatibility At first, it is only fair to acknowledge the value of criticizing the Westphalian consensus. Indeed, with the rise of dissidents questioning assumptions about the desirability of the internal/external division in IR, the concept of political boundaries has been returned to its inherent ambiguity. Such authors as Agnew, O’Thuathail, Paasi, O’Loughlin, and many others have pointed out multiple discrepancies in the conventional understanding of national borders as unproblematic demarcations of sovereign territorial statehood. Furthermore, the binary opposition of sovereignty and integration gets blurred when one takes into account the sea change of the international environment following the end of the Cold War. The European Union provides evidence of a new situation where the external borders of member states are managed effectively through supranational agreements and policies but in which the EU’s external borders are patchy and represent frontiers rather than the usual lines. The experience of EU member states contrasts profoundly with the models elaborated by political geographers like Prescott and picked up by IR theorists in which the sovereignty of the state would be effectively halved between internal and external realms. But the EU example is not alone. Russia and the other republics of the Soviet Union, particularly in the early years after 1991, provide rich evidence that the linear narrative of state building underlying the “frontier-border” model is too straightforward when it comes to complex processes of recreating political space after the collapse of a state.18 This statement should be qualified. As much as this radical criticism helps to recognize the complexities of boundary making and the related ambiguity of sovereignty and integration, it may lead to an incompatibility of its own. As van Houtum notes, most of the studies that seek to understand the relationship among territory, sovereignty, and identity, using the lens of borders, are antideterministic, antiessentialist, and “not focused on the line per se.”19 In other words, what started as a powerful critique of a consensual hegemonic discourse has developed into yet another consensual position.20

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All this can be frustrating if one takes the notion of “progress” in science as a linear motion from one theoretical debate through criticism to another, arguably one better suited to categorization of the constantly changing and overtly ambiguous subject of research. Instead, the development appears to be circular and contradictory. To sum up, this incompatibility of views and logics can be seen as part of intellectual practices of explaining ambiguous reality and more precisely, practices of criticism. This chapter has shown how the use of certain “incompatibility devices” contributes to the splitting of ambiguous concepts such as “sovereignty,” “state,” or “boundary” into binary oppositions and conflicting dichotomies. Yet, as was also shown with the example of the poststructuralist critique of the Westphalian narrative, the deconstruction of intertheoretical binaries does not warrant absolute “freedom of opinion”; this move often implies circularity and the tendency to merely restate the incompatibility of its own position with the one it criticizes. In other words, deconstruction comes with a price tag in a sense that a consensual understanding might be shattered into pieces in order to be rearranged in yet another version of reality. Understanding Russia-EU Interaction: Searching for Incompatibility? In Russia-EU studies, one can be struck by a strong presence of the idea and practice of incompatibility. In many analyses, the starting point for describing the relationship between Russia and the EU is precisely one that states that their positions are somehow incompatible. There could be different explanations for this “incompatibility,” but the fact of its recurrence suggests that it is deemed to be fairly unproblematic, a seemingly secure position for introducing one’s view of how the relationship between Russia and Europe is developing and will evolve in the future. Almost invariably, this is defined in negative terms as a sign of conflict between Russia and the EU. Noting one instance of incompatibility—the view that Russia and Europe are detached from one another politically, economically, and culturally—Mark Webber rightly points out that “there is an inherent tendency toward friction and competition” (Webber 2000, 2). On the other hand, a depiction of Russia and the EU as being increasingly interdependent (for example, on the issues of energy or Eurasian external security) explicitly hinges on the possibility of conflict (Lynch 2005). When reading accounts of Russia-EU interaction, it is important to examine not only what is considered incompatible but also why incompatibility is presented in the first place and what role it served for the analysis

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in general. Two interrelated aspects need to be followed up particularly carefully: first, the link between incompatibility and the normative underpinnings of research and second, the relationship with other critical approaches. It is hardly possible here to trace all of the representations of incompatibility and conflict between Russia and the EU in extant research. Therefore, this chapter examines only issues related to the borders of Russia and the EU, thematically linking the empirical section to the conceptual discussion on borders. The Elephant and the Bear on a Collision Course? Most analysts of Russia and the EU define their mutual incompatibility as stemming from diverging trajectories of development. It may not be an overstatement to say that there is a sort of a “grand narrative” on Russia-EU relations, one that encompasses the institutional aspects of Russia’s relationship with the EU and extends into the much broader controversies and ambiguities of Russia’s interaction with “Europe.”21 In this broad and powerful system of assumptions, the dynamics of Russia’s relations with Europe are defined solely in terms of divergence or convergence: Like two galaxies, Russia and Europe are invariably bound to orbit on mutually diverging or converging paths (Malia 2000). Incompatibility is thus made to serve the role of both the starting point and the reason for initiating their study—probing into the causes of incompatibility would arguably make it possible to understand the intricate geometry of the galaxies’ orbits, perhaps even preparing for the moment of the next eclipse. Clearly, in practice, this neat picture is contrasted by a multitude of ambiguous events and controversial consequences. Still, in trying to make sense of vagueness, even the most practice-oriented policy research falls back on implicit theorizing, thus taking up some of the conceptual pitfalls discussed above. Related to the convergence/divergence model is the tendency of Russia-EU studies to lean on concepts that are represented as binary oppositions in other disciplines of international studies. For example, there are such conventional binary concepts as “geopolitics and integration,” “sovereignty and integration,” or “postmodern and modern state.” There is an ongoing process of borrowing from different strands of theorizing in international studies, a process that often goes unnoticed even though it has direct implications to how researchers perceive Russia and the EU. One such concept that has been incorporated into Russia-EU studies is that of the Westphalian state. The concept of a territorial state with linear borders and with a clear distinction between “external” and “internal” dimensions of sovereignty is regarded as a metaphor, and simultaneously

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it is a benchmark against which to measure the degree of incompatibility between Russia and the EU. In his work on the subject, Michael Emerson describes “the pivotal concept [a]s that of the ‘modern’ Westphalian state.” Indeed, “this is one Europe’s bequests to the world, but one beyond which it is now moving” (Emerson et al. 2001, 7–9). In this model, the Westphalian state is a gradient, and Russia and the EU are located on different ends: Russia being closer to the modern gradient (or going back to premodernity on such issues like social development and infrastructure), the EU evolving into a postmodern entity. The related idea is one of delineating political space: as the “postmodern” EU advances toward Russia’s “modern sovereign” space, the two are on a potential collision course. The presupposition of a possible conflict is illustrated by Russia’s sensitivity about the EU’s rapid encroachment into Russia’s “near abroad,” a trend that has been implicitly visible in the accession of the Baltic States but that has now become an explicit source of tension as the EU has developed special relations with Ukraine, Moldova, and Georgia in the framework of its European Neighborhood policy. Russia’s sensitivity over its borders (both state borders and the more ambiguously and loosely delineated contours of the near abroad) is regarded as a sort of “modernity syndrome,” a painstaking process of becoming a modern state after decades of Soviet deferral. This “cross-pressure” view has led some authors to develop the model of the EU and Russia as two empires (Waever 1997; Aalto 2006; Emerson 2001). In fact, the image of the Westphalian state is hardly applicable to either: Russia has never been a nation-state in the Western sense, and the “stateness” of the EU might be a far-fetched argument. In this respect, the outer limits of Russia and the EU represent “imperial frontiers” rather than lines. Central to the cross-pressure view is the assumption that whatever frontiers or linear borders exist, the conflict is bound to happen when the pressure reaches a dangerous degree. Clearly, this perspective can be seen as another variation on the theme of incompatibility. This is because the two empires are not seen as equivalent. The order that the EU is promoting in its neighborhood is based on different values from those that Moscow tries to maintain. If the EU is an empire, it is a benign one that possesses positive magnetic power, strictly contrasting with the kind of power that Moscow wants to project in the region. This view has come to the fore particularly in the context of energy security and the “gas spats” among Russia, its neighbors, and the EU in 2005–6. Again, what is notable in these disputes is the incompatibility between the dynamic, blurred, and outward-looking frontiers of the EU and Russia’s own outer lines, seen as defensive barriers against the expanding EU. To an extent, this imperial analogy in Russia-EU relations can be linked to the self-image of Europe as a postmodern liberal empire found

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in the writing of Robert Cooper, for example (Cooper 2002). Understood thus, the enlarging frontiers of European integration represent the idea of progress and Europeanization, central to the future of the EU itself (Rehn 2006). Critical Voices—But Still Clinging to Incompatibility? Critical voices are emerging that stress the importance of reflection in Russia-EU studies, particularly with regard to the lack of theoretical accountability for various representations of conflict in the field.22 As Prozorov points out, “rather than explaining the descent and development of conflict between the two parties, the existing interpretations are frequently themselves complicit in the articulation of conflict discourses and thus function more in the modality of the explanandum rather than the explanans” (Prozorov 2006, 11). In what is probably the most profound critique of existing approaches in Russia-EU studies to date, Prozorov identifies two major intellectual positions delineating the field—transitionalist and traditionalist.23 Both approaches, in Prozorov’s words, function “in tandem” and are based on a narrow presupposition: if not transition, then tradition. Since both ends of this binary equation represent mirror images of Russia and the EU—narrowly defined in terms of the “Self-Other” relation—the conflict is determined by the very structure of this theoretical dichotomy. Prozorov offers an alternative model for interpreting and understanding conflict between Russia and the EU based on actual conflicting discourse. At first glance, Prozorov’s model appears to be essentially attractive and reflexive as a basis for further research since it presents itself as an apparent break with the tenacious binary discourse of mainstream Russia-EU studies. As it is focused on the process of interaction as such with all incumbent “facticity,” it promises the possibility of endless interpretation and analysis of the ongoing process of interaction. More precisely, this approach allows for the recognition of Russia and the EU not as opposing poles (on a scale of divergence/convergence) but as dynamic and flexible subjects that deploy various integrationist and sovereign responses and impulses. Nevertheless, the gap between the interpretative model elaborated by Prozorov and other approaches might not be so wide. Common to all is the preoccupation with conflict. Notwithstanding the earnest intent of a bottom-up practice-based type of analysis, the overall goal to interpret conflict in Russia-EU relations can be seen as a real epistemological presupposition and a working interpretative framework. In effect, it can lead to generalization and bias similar to that produced by “traditionalist” approaches that focus on the ideas of “continuity” or “transition,” driven by the idea of “progress.”

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In fact, whereas “mainstream” approaches ground the cause of conflict in assumptions about Russia’s primordial difference and failure to adopt to the EU’s integrationist policies, Prozorov locates conflict within a broad discourse of integration itself, which is driven by the intent to work out a normative ideal for a community and a desire to transfer this ideal beyond the limits of this community. Curiously, the image of political boundaries in Prozorov’s profound critique of integration is also drawn from a state-centered discourse, but as the reverse image of the cross-pressure view described above. He links the drawing of borders to the idea of preserving plurality in the face of homogenization (represented by the mondialist view). Borders are necessary in a world where the overlap of frontiers becomes the prevalent mode of interaction. All in all, as far as the employment of borders is concerned, there can hardly be a concept more befitting the story of the Russian-EU relations than one with such a rich “philosophy of bordering and othering”24 Overcoming Incompatibility—But on What Terms? Incompatibility as such has a certain negative value in analysis: it is a disturbing situation that has to be explained and possibly improved. Its causal relationship with conflict is notable but understandable, as a large part of international studies and the social sciences in general regard conflict in similar terms. This attitude, which can be more or less explicit in different accounts, suggests that there exist certain normative motivations to retain the notion of incompatibility at the center of analysis. This is not to say that normative considerations necessarily undermine research or are somehow wrong, as they might be implicitly present in any social science analysis. It is rather to say that they should not be overlooked. The particularities of normative views in Russia-EU studies vary, even though they are almost unanimously attached in one way or another to the convergence/divergence model. It is evident that an equal number of authors do not see full compatibility as either realistic or a desirable option. Absolute compatibility is regarded as a utopian, utterly unattainable, and irrational conception (Prozorov 2006). Although there are differing views as to how differences understood as incompatible could be practically overcome, they were developed on different conceptions of incompatibility in the first place. Since incompatibility is seen in binary terms, this difference boils down to a choice as to which side of the equation gets the lion’s share of the blame for a lack of progress in Russia-EU relations. Neither Russia nor the EU is cast directly as the cause of conflict—in most contemporary research, the blame is attached to institutions or even personalities. Very often it is certain

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intellectual paradigms or “logics” that are made to take the guilt of producing conflict, as the debate on sovereignty and integration illustrates. On the other hand, it is worth bearing in mind that as much as these paradigms are related to concrete policy practices, they transfer a part of the criticism with which they are associated onto the agents. In this sense, it becomes almost impossible for a researcher to avoid falling into the trap of taking a side in this tough binary contest of concepts, paradigms, and ultimately the “main characters”—Russia and the European Union. All in all, the dynamics of these normative considerations show how the notion of incompatibility as a concept with which to describe Russia-EU relations is deeply associated with the overall aim of understanding this relationship. Embarking on the quest to decipher incompatibility at any cost, research habitually recreates this binary opposition, thereby overlooking or leaving out important aspects that might be equally important. On the other hand, the problematic outcome of such a method might not be that the resulting picture is somehow incomplete or distorted: rather, the end image might turn out to be too clear, reminiscent of an overdeveloped negative. Instead of myriad shades of gray, the picture shows only two contrasting colors. To sum up, the persistence of the perception of incompatibility does not fade away with criticism, even though black-and-white binary representations of reality are usually easy prey for empirical criticism. An examination of normative considerations reveals that the tendency to regard Russia and the EU in terms of incompatible logics is resilient and perhaps even stronger than the initial intention of a researcher to rethink critically the conceptual underpinning of the respective disciplinary discourse. On the other hand, the reliance on the notion of incompatibility might even increase with the critical eagerness of a researcher: a desire to revisit consensual assumptions might lead to a particularly radical departure (in its own right, somewhat detached from other approaches) from the fuzzy and dynamic reality at hand. Back to Ambiguity: The Russia-Ukraine Border and the EU It would be misleading, however, to explain that such a long-standing romance with the notion of incompatibility in Russia-EU studies is determined by particularities of research practices only. Obviously in some instances, both Russia and the EU employ policies or rhetoric that may seem incompatible or even conflict prone. Curiously, the development of Russia-EU studies from the early 1990s is interlinked with the actual course of development in Russia-EU relations. The eventual departure from the “Common European Home” discourse of the early 1990s and the instatement of the “strategic

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partnership” with a more protected variant of Russian sovereignty has been followed up by investigations of the concepts of sovereignty, identity, and subjectivity.25 Here we are again reminded of the importance of tracing dialogues between different but related processes of knowledge construction. While the first two sections of this chapter looked at the relationship between Russia-EU studies and international studies in general, this last section looks at the intricacies of making a case study and the challenges that might come from the empirical ground. The question that a researcher faces when examining assumptions of incompatibility and even conflict (e.g., as a discursive “act of grievance”) is about precisely how to tackle them, as a source of evidence for a familiar frame of reference or a stepping stone into a completely new problem field? When a Russian official declares that Russia strives to make its western border the “bridge of friendship and cooperation,” similar to how a Brussels official would present the EU’s neighborhood policy, should it be interpreted as a sign of possible convergence or divergence in disguise, incompatibility wrapped up in the clout of diplomatic parlance? In tackling these questions it is worth keeping in mind that any interpretation of Russia-EU relations as incompatible is just one version of reality, and it could and should be assessed accordingly. Only when binary oppositions acquire the authority of hegemonic discourse does the issue of reflexivity become particularly pertinent. That said, reflexivity should not only concern “internal” aspects of research such as the attitude to existing research or methodological concerns but also the “external” relationship that is the subject of study itself. The case of the Russian-Ukrainian border can be used to delineate two practical aspects of dealing with the ambiguity at hand: the ambiguity of policies and that of discourse. Both aspects need to be taken into account when constructing, deconstructing, or reflecting on the assumptions of incompatibility in Russia-EU studies. The Ambiguity of (Policy) Choices Researchers usually address the question of incompatibility by referring to the choices facing the subjects of analysis.26 Often the criteria of a choice are not clear—it is a matter of interpretation as to whether and what “choice” actual policies correspond to or whether this choice has actually been made or deferred. A good example of such an ambiguity can be drawn from the RussianUkrainian border. The processes of “border making” (e.g., the border and customs control, cross-border cooperation, and policing) are normally perceived as “low politics,” technical, and very practical policy areas. On

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the other hand, these processes are distinctively centered on the notions of inclusion and exclusion, which constitute a “distinctly sovereign regime”: arguably, “sovereignty” is not an abstract notion but a very concrete policy practice employed everyday.27 Moreover, it is a policy area that touches upon wider political problems. For example, in the words of an expert, “Ukraine cannot keep both of its borders open simultaneously. Ukraine has to make a choice between Poland and Russia.” This means that Ukraine has to “choose” a solid direction for its integration policy with the EU, as opposed to keeping equally good relations with both the EU and Russia (Baronin 2001, quoted in Zhurzhenko 2005, 14). According to this reasoning, if Ukraine wishes to be taken seriously as a prospective candidate for membership, it should facilitate its pro-EU commitment by strengthening its eastern border with Russia. Likewise, the EU is often referred to as facing a particular choice regarding its outer border with Ukraine, notably one between a soft and permeable interface of integration (flexible visa regimes, advanced crossborder cooperation projects, support of regional initiative) and well-policed borders of the “fortress Europe” type. Many commentators have criticized this Janus-like approach of the EU as a somewhat hypocritical and unproductive process of balancing between inclusion and exclusion vis-à-vis its new members.28 Yet, assuming that this “choice” is somewhat metaphorical, one can still pose the question of who is supposed to make it and whether the two possibilities that constitute the choice are actual alternatives one can intentionally choose between. In fact, the reasons for this dualism and its discrepancies can be understood as stemming from EU member states concerned with both their security needs and their internal interests. Grabbe points out that there are two sets of views held by different policy makers (the representatives of the interior ministers and ministries for foreign affairs) in the EU. The representatives of interior ministries press for extending EU policies to the applicants’ eastern borders to ensure that third-country nationals cannot travel through these countries to the EU. On the other hand, their counterparts in the EU foreign ministries are concerned with the promotion of good relations with their neighbors and thus stress freedom of movement (Grabbe 2000, 524). In this respect, making a firm step toward one option—for example, the “relaxation” of border policies—might run into difficulties in accommodating the interests of a large part of the political elite in the member states. On the other hand, as Guild notes, the objectives of firm external control expressed by member states’ interior ministers will enter into conflict with the softening of the border for neighbors. If the authorities of the neighborhood are persuaded to take repressive measures against their own nationals who seek to travel in the EU on the basis of the common fight against illegal migration (part of

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the ENP), then the interests of neighboring citizens may diverge not only from those of EU citizens but also from the action of their own authorities (Guild 2005). This observation goes to show that there is a more complex interlink between policy action, actual or hypothetical, and its effect than conveyed by a simple view of “choice.” If one disaggregates these choices into the particular interests and agendas of respective agents, then it not easy to discern what alternative would be more plausible than othera. Ukraine is a case in point as far as the actual complexity of policy choice is concerned. In light of the change of leadership in the course of the Orange Revolution, Ukraine’s pro-Europe orientation has been seen as a departure from the previous course of President Kuchma.29 Since ascending to power, President Yushchenko has stressed the “new foreign policy” of Ukraine that looks forward to full integration with the EU while simultaneously realizing “great strategic interests” concerning Russia (Yushchenko 2005). Its ambivalence to the EU is usually explained by differing attitudes to institutions, which are presumed to originate in the differences between regions. Further cooperation with the EU may require a toughening of control over Ukraine’s border with Russia, thus restricting contact between the population on both sides of the border. This has political repercussions, particularly in Eastern Ukraine. Clearly, Ukraine’s border regions have an obvious stake in developing relations with Russia.30 Their apprehension about the government’s plans to strengthen the border regime as part of Ukraine’s integration with the EU is understandable. On the other hand, an observation that often crops up in the debate about Ukraine is that the “regional” imbalance of interests is beneficial for regions themselves. The regional divide between the east and west (or the rest) of Ukraine is a political issue that was played on by the political parties in both the Orange Revolution and the parliamentary crisis of spring 2006 (Wilson 2005). The discourse of pro-Western Kiev and the pro-Russian eastern regions is even more visible at the regional level. For example, the arrival of the president’s appointee as head of the Kharkiv region administration, Arsen Avakov, was greatly disapproved of by the Kharkiv Regional Council, dominated by the Party of Regions.31 In June 2006 the conflict went so far as to the impeachment of Avakov by the Regional Council. The motion for impeachment was allegedly based on the accusation that as the head of the region’s government, Avakov disregarded the obvious economic interests of the Kharkiv region with neighboring regions in Russia. At this level, one is able to see the dualism of local politics, Kharkiv being presented as balancing between taking into account the interests and policies of Kiev and its own regional initiatives as regards (for instance) the neighboring Belgorod Oblast in Russia. In another sector of Ukraine’s Russian border, Lugansk, similar

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apprehensions of regional leaders have been reported, this time regarding the policies of the government to strengthen the border regime with Russia.32 Of course, neither the EU nor Ukraine is somehow unique in the ambiguity of policy choice. For Russia, the “choice” is even wider and concerns several different contexts: bilateral relations with Ukraine (and other neighbors in the CIS), relations with the EU, and just as important the domestic interplay of relations between the center and the regions. Given this complexity of Russia’s situation, it is difficult to construct the choice for the country as one based on binary oppositions of Europeanization integration or sovereignty. In fact, the opposite might be the case: since the number of options and alternatives is very wide and itself contradictory, actors might opt for a continuing ambiguity instead of making a definite choice. On the other hand, the presentation of this choice is “natural” when one considers the length of their existence in the discourse. It could be argued that the binary oppositions that mark the policy dilemmas of the actors involved should not be seen as static and linear, even though the actors that put these claims forward often legitimize them as “traditional” or “long-standing” dilemmas that require long-term strategies and genuine commitment. In this respect, two things should be taken into account. First, the claims that policy dilemmas are “traditional” or “historical” should not be taken as if the actual meaning and content does not change over time. Second, the persistent duality of policy claims and the preponderance of binary oppositions that necessitate a certain choice might not mean that the choice was actually made or that this entailed wholehearted endorsement of one view and the abandoning of another: decisions are made on an everyday basis, but to what degree do they reflect broader dilemmas? One should therefore distinguish between rhetorical “choices” and those “crossroads” presented on paper and ensuing decisions made in practice. Undoubtedly, policy argumentation and policy decisions are interrelated, but tracing the link in practice is an empirical problem. Ambiguity of Discourse While the ambiguity of policy choices can seem confusing, the ambiguity of discourse can be overwhelming. Still, it is in discourse that there is most of the building material from which the representations of policy choices and incompatibilities are construed in the actual research process. Two aspects should be noted as regards the issue of reflexivity outlined throughout the chapter. First, there is an ongoing interplay within the field of research, one in which researchers and the agents that are subject of research are equally involved. Inasmuch as policy analysis research and the policy world

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are interlinked discursive fields, meanings and assumptions may circulate between these two spaces. That means that the issue of incompatibility frequently evoked in policy discourse (both in the EU and Russia) has probably become ingrained with the conceptions of incompatibility that are so widespread in Russia-EU studies. Likewise, the concepts of sovereignty and integration are widely political per se but have become particularly politicized in Russia-EU relations. As early as 1996, the leader of the Russian Communists, Gennady Zyuganov, spoke about the “incompatibility of the Western bourgeois civilization and the Russian civilization” (quoted in Patomäki and Pursiainen 1998, 32). In the same vein, strong themes in favor of preserving sovereignty-based diversity in the face of the threat of Western-centric globalization can be traced as far back as the Eurasianists, themselves an offspring of the debate between zapadniki and Slavophiles (Pursiainen 1998; Neumann 1996). Many elements of this discourse are still in existence today in the concept of “sovereign democracy” evident in the political program of “United Russia.” These examples go to show just how fine the line is between academic and policy discursive fields. Second, it is worth bearing in mind that the public sphere in Russia—as well as in the EU—is densely populated with images, narratives, and scripts of all kinds. In this way, analysts as much as other social agents produce constantly new discursive “literary artifacts” according to the rules of genre and style (Burke 1992, 126). It is also timely to recall the words of Hayden White, who observes that historians organize their accounts around recurrent plots or mythoi (White 1974). One is certainly able to find such plots and stories in abundance in the field of Russia-EU studies. The idea of reflection is thus not to dispel these stories as mere myths or literary conventions (opposed to texts worthy of the name of “scientific analysis”) but to reveal the plurality of this respective discursive field. Conclusions: Welcoming Conflict? Central to this chapter was the argument that the assumptions of conflict and incompatibility in Russia-EU interaction reflect both the ambiguity of reality and a certain lack of self-reflexivity in this field of studies. It is true to say that “incompatibility” and “conflict” are not more ambivalent terms to describe and understand social reality than others (for example, “progress” or “continuity”). Yet, it does matter what role these concepts play in the actual process of research. Inasmuch as the reality under scrutiny is inherently ambiguous, those who wish to understand and explain it face a difficult dilemma. On the one hand, understanding—making sense—of reality normally calls for abstract theoretical constructions to serve as benchmarks, however vague they

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might be. Furthermore, the process of understanding involves taking action on the part of the researcher: it is difficult to comprehend reality without making an effort to formulate another version of it. Taken together, these two aspects represent the initial challenge in research—one that affects the choice of what gets to be accepted and what revisited. This challenge comes to the fore in two aspects of the research process: the role and practice of critique and the role of concepts. As far as practices of critique are concerned, they often lead to “splitting”—the emergence of binary viewpoints representing opposing claims as background to introduce a third viewpoint. The latter might lead to a subsequent round of criticism often resulting in the construction of another dichotomy. The key here is the use of concepts that are self-contradictory and paradoxical, such as political boundaries and the associated views on sovereignty and integration. Nicol and Minghi nail down the problem by asking, “If there is a continuing relevance for traditional approaches, how can these approaches be recast to fit the new conceptual approaches? Can they hope to incorporate both the theoretical, discursive and pluralising accounts into a more powerful body of work; work which authorises and legitimises the study of borders both as sites unique to national territorialism impulses as well as framing referents for the more general process of mediation between local and global impulses?” (Nicol and Mighi 2005, 683). In this respect, a similar question can be addressed to approaches that look at EU-Russia interaction. This analysis hopefully showed that the notion of a border is not a coherent instrument, that sovereignty is not a clear concept for those agents normally viewed as unitary actors who face certain metapolitical choices or are at different stages of development (therefore possessing incompatible identities or interests vis-à-vis each other). The ways that analyses of Russia-EU relations (not to mention a large part of the IR literature in general) have been informed by the Westphalian consensus have direct implications as to how the EU’s and Russia’s boundaries are regarded along the axis of “imperial frontiers,” “linear borders,” and “barriers” or “bridges.” Moreover, this is the conceptual lens that is often used to probe into the empirical question of whether Russia and the EU could “coexist” in their “common neighborhood.” The border is then regarded as a “testing ground” that is supposed to provide evidence for theories regarding the plausibility of Russia-EU interaction in their “near abroad.” The evidence that this chapter brings to this debate does not prove the validity of either argument. Rather, this analysis of the making of the Russia-Ukraine border shows that Russia, Ukraine, and the EU are now inseparable from this constellation and have a complex set of interests, visions, and policies toward their common boundaries. These shifting positions may or may not “objectively” point to

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a conflict; in fact, it is this ambiguity itself that makes it possible to think of a future conflict or, on the contrary, cooperation. This chapter also argued that often it was the framework of interpreting discourse, be it a theoretical discussion or policy debate, that has led to the endorsement of certain assumptions and conclusions concerning the nature of Russia-EU interaction. Borders and border policies are understood against the images of zones of interaction or sealed walls. As far as Russia-EU interaction is concerned, it is often understood in dichotomous and allegedly incompatible terms of cooperation or conflict, interaction or integration, interdependence or self-exclusion. In practice, these dichotomous pairs are rarely the case. One can see them as rhetorical tools that point to certain choices that need to be made, either in terms of choosing a relevant theory or an appropriate policy action. However, the conventional wisdom that there is always more than one possibility does not necessarily point to the existence of one central view, one likeliest scenario: if the starting point was to suggest the intersection of two options, why should it then be narrowed down to just one of those offered? Instead of trimming the options, research can progress toward deepening the analysis and widening of the range of possibilities.1 In light of this, the notion of conflict can paradoxically be seen as having a positive function in terms of giving an impetus for development to the research field. Conflict needs not to be seen as something to overcome or mitigate. On the contrary, the absence of conflict would signify a certain stagnation of the field of research in general. Therefore, one is able to welcome conflict, hoping that it will produce more alternative and self-reflective understandings of Russia, the EU, and their interaction. Notes 1. Lozhinin 2003. 2. A Secure Europe in a better world. EU Security Strategy 2003. 3. See a good example in the piece of commentary entitled “Russia and the EUenergy dialogue or energy conflict?” available at http://www.euractiv.com/en/ energy/russia-eu-energy-dialogue-energy-conflict/article-156246. 4. For another take on reflexivity, see Saari’s contribution in this book. 5. The author wishes to acknowledge that the argumentation of this chapter is greatly inspired by Ojanen’s analysis. 6. In international relations, for instance, the problem of conflict—commonly explored at the level of interaction between states—is the grease on the wheel of the recurring debates between the two central positions of thought: realist and liberal. Realists emphasize the intrinsic character of conflict as stemming from

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the absence of a governing authority in the anarchic international system and the preponderance of states to maximize their power on the international arena. The liberals or idealists claim that even though relations between states are often conflict-prone, the likelihood of conflict can be tempered through cooperative instruments such as regimes of interdependence, mutually binding agreements, and international institutions. Conflict analysis includes a great deal of taxonomy that, once again, revolves around the concept of incompatibility. For instance, Rittberger, Efinger, and Zurn distinguish between differences of opinion, irreconcilable claims, and incompatible positions of difference. It is emphasized that of the three types, only incompatible positions qualify as conflict, which is itself disaggregated into the categories of “latent” and “manifest,” depending on whether actors “pursue incompatible goals” or perceive each other’s goals as mutually incompatible (Rittberger, Efinger, and Zurn 1989). A great deal of sociology of science literature discusses this very issue. To start with, one could consult two seminal works by Foucault (1979) and Derrida (1976). For a discussion on that, see Searle 1997; Walt 1998. For realists, territory is a source of conflict, whereas liberals tend to regard it in terms of facilitating cooperation between states, for example, by taking into account the factor of geographical proximity (Goertz and Diehl 1992). A similar argument is made about the preoccupation of integration studies with the idea of progress (Ojanen 1998). More generally, see Prozorov 2006. One might also consult Prescott’s earlier work of 1965 (Prescott 1965). To some extent, one could sum up the distinction as an argument that frontiers are typical for early states or nonstate entities such as tribal communities, whereas boundaries are the only institutes befitting of modern states (Prescott 1978, 78). Evidence that this view on borders is well in line with realist thinking can be found in the writings by Morgenthau, a political realist par excellence (Morgenthau 1962). For a good discussion on geopolitics as part of the realist agenda, see Haslam 2002. Blaney and Inayatullah call this condition “the Westphalian deferral,” meaning that the principle of state sovereignty only defers the problem of difference and diversity of states, making them formally similar “actors” of world politics, but it does not solve the problem of difference nor make it less topical. (Blaney and Inayatullah 2000). Related to that is the fact that a decade after the Soviet collapse, the former Soviet republics, excluding the Baltic states, have relatively relaxed and fussy “internal” borders within the CIS and much stricter delineated “external” borders which once were part of the Soviet Union’s Iron Curtain. According to van Houtum, “borders are now predominantly critically investigated as differentiators of socially constructed mindscapes and meaning. The

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return to geopolitics in the guise of critical geopolitics is telling in this respect” (Houtum 2005). Houtum calls it a “bordering script,” “a template largely based on the works of post-structuralists like Foucault, Derrida and De Certeu, that is used in studying the everyday social construction of border X in case Y” (Houtum 2005, 667). In this narrative, “Europe” has many names. As Ortmann puts it, “a metaphorical imagined space where boundaries are drawn by adherence to the universal values to democracy and human rights, and at the same time as a necessarily limited geographical space which is identifies as the true origin of these values” (Ortmann 2006). See also Malia 2000. One can perhaps tentatively call it the “interpretative school” in Russia-EU studies. For example, see Prozorov 2004; Morosov 2003; Makarychev 2006. In Prozorov’s convoluted writing, “The traditionalist discourse constructs a corpus of ‘tradition,’ ‘mentality’ or ‘culture’ and reifies these conceptual abstractions by assigning them an empirical function of attenuating change, discontinuity and disruption in the domain of practice. The transitionalist discourse operates with a concept of change whose direction is teleologically predetermined by the liberal doctrine to the extent that the event of change vanishes in a monotonous and continuous advance, whereby the rich facticity of contingent practices is cast in terms of mere deviation to be remedied either through Russia’s progress in domestic reforms or the elimination of institutional obstacles to communication” (Prozorov 2005, 16). van Houtum (2005), quoted in Agnew (2007). One could, of course, point at another equally ambiguous and politicised concept, namely “identity.” These issues are dealt in more detail in Ortmann and Kononenko (forthcoming). Partly this is evident in the wide proliferation of discourse analysis and identity as a method and an explanatory variable in Russia-EU studies. For example, this chapter has been prepared in the framework of a research program entitled “Russia’s European Choice: With or Into the EU.” But, of course, the EU is referred to in similar terms as facing a choice between enlargement and internal reform (deep or wide integration); other states (e.g., Ukraine, Turkey, or Belarus) are referred to as making or failing to make an important political choice as regards EU, Russia, or democracy and sovereignty. As Pratt puts it, such practices lie “at the intersection of sovereignty and governmentality” (Pratt 2005). See, for example, Groenendijk; Guild; Minderhoud 2003. In a study of the EU’s ENP and its effect on border management, Elspeth Guild examines the European Commission’s strategy to attain the stated objective of “free movement.” Guild identifies eight steps that the EU envisions to take as regards its objective, which include long-stay visa policies, an efficient and friendly system for small border traffic, assisting neighboring countries’ efforts to combat illegal migration and return policies; and readmission agreements with all the neighbors as a crucial element in joint efforts to curb illegal migration. For Guild, almost all measures are mutually contradictory and even self-exclusive. For example,

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the elements that involve the creation of the free market between the EU and the neighboring states may conflict with economic and trade relations between the neighboring countries and their neighbors outside of the EU. One could explain this inconsistence by the problems with EU’s internal political workings: the political bargaining between the Council, Commission, and individual member states. Recent commentary, however, stresses the continuity of Ukraine’s policy of close association with Europe (Moshes 2004). See trade statistics between Ukraine’s and Russia’s regions, available at the Web site of the Association of Heads of Administration of Cross-Border Regions: http://www.cross-border.org.ua. Author’s interviews with local policymakers in Kharkiv in June 2006. Lugansk nedovolen novoj granizej s Rossijei (Luhansk shows discontent as regards the new border with Russia), Korrespondent: http://www.korrespondent .net/main/153904. Such is the view that seems to be emerging in the field of political geography, in particular in the subfield that looks at borders. John Agnew puts it nicely: “We must be more open to being theoretically and empirically surprised by what the world throws up. But we can only be surprised, and then act appropriately, if collectively we stand open to it” (Agnew 2006).

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CHAPTER 8

The Stalemate in EU-Russia Relations Between “Sovereignty” and “Europeanization”* Sergei Medvedev A plague o’ both your houses! —Mercutio; Hamlet

The Problem: A Troubled Relationship

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n terms of Russia’s relations with Europe and the “near abroad,” 2006 was a year of trade wars. In early January at the height of an unusually cold winter, a “gas war” between Russia and Ukraine led to a shortage of gas supplies for customers in both Eastern and Western Europe. Later, EU-Russia relations were complicated by further disputes, from Russia’s unwillingness to ratify the European Energy Charter to the EU’s concern over Russia’s ban on wine imports from Georgia and Moldova. In November 2006, an EU-Russia summit in Helsinki failed to open talks on the new Partnership and Cooperation Agreement (PCA) due to a Polish veto in protest of the Russian ban on the import of Polish meat. On top of all things, Russia threatened to ban all food imports from the EU on January 1, 2007, because of the unsettled phytosanitary issues with new EU member states Bulgaria and Romania. In a sense, there is always some plat du jour, a trade dispute on the menu of EU-Russia relations, from the “gas war” to “meat wars.” These issues may seem purely technical, yet in fact many of them can be easily resolved. * This chapter is based on research carried out by the author at the Finnish Institute of International Affairs in the framework of the project on “Russia’s European Choice” in 2005–6. See Medvedev 2006.

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Still, they reveal a larger problem of EU-Russia relations—mistrust, mutual frustration, and broadly speaking, an institutional stalemate producing permanent outbreaks of contention. As grimly observed by Alexander Rahr, “the basis for the EU-Russia partnership is as narrow as it has ever been” (Rahr 2004). Stalemate may be the most appropriate definition of the present quality of EU-Russia relations. In a different sense, EU-Russia relations can be characterized by a word from the late Brezhnev era, zastoi. Literally this means “stagnation,” or “muddling through.” In the 1970s and early 1980s, the crisis affecting the ailing USSR was disguised by high oil prices and by the inflow of petrodollars, as well as the immense symbolic economy of the Soviet system: pompous party congresses and May Day parades, exaggerated five-year plans, and triumphant reports. By the same token, the current state of EU-Russia relations is disguised by massive East-West hydrocarbon flows (as articulated by the latest Russian impact on “energy security”) and by impressive symbolic activity, including heady summits, strategies, road maps, and ritual invocation of a “strategic partnership.” These oil and gas flows and symbolic diplomacy conceal a troubled relationship. The agenda is overburdened with permanent bureaucratic squabbling over technical issues such as Russian steel quotas, royalties (from European carriers) for flights over Siberia, the Kaliningrad transit problem, and Russia’s concerns over Schengen visa policy. Moreover, increased EU demand for Russian oil and gas has become a source of permanent tension, with the EU looking for guarantees of supply (e.g., by securing safe and cheap energy transit through the Russian territory and enforcing the Energy Charter) and Russia looking for guarantees of demand (e.g., by trying to buy a stake in European distribution chains, “the last mile” to the European customer). Broadly speaking, it is not just the past year, but the entire “noughties” that have been a period of disillusionment in EU-Russia relations. With Putin’s coming to power—and the rise (or rather, the return) of a semiauthoritarian bureaucratic state in Russia—the EU is increasingly disappointed by the prospects for the “Europeanization” of Russia. For Russia, too, the EU looks much less attractive than in the 1990s: “an over-bureaucratized formation, pursuing socialist economic policies that stifle economic growth,” in the words of Dmitry Trenin (Trenin 2006, 370–71). This mutual frustration is all the more striking, considering the fact that the EU and Russia are vitally interdependent of their external and domestic security and humanitarian issues and because the EU accounts for over 50 percent of Russia’s external trade as well as most of the FDI (Foreign Direct Investment) in Russia. The paradox of the situation is that the closer the EU and Russia get to each other territorially or economically, the

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more problematic their relationship becomes, so that interdependence and contiguity turn into a source of permanent frustration. Yet another paradox is that on paper the relationship looks just fine. There has never been a shortage of framework documents in EU-Russia relations, from the Partnership and Cooperation Agreement (PCA), which was signed in 1994 and came into effect in 1997, to various strategies (including the EU’s Common Strategy on Russia adopted in 1999 and Russia’s reciprocal Mid-Term Strategy for Relations with the EU).1 However, the proclaimed “strategic partnership” has not been supported by the clear mechanisms of implementation, timelines, benchmarks, and criteria, which, by contrast, characterize EU relations with European applicant countries. Without the prospect of Russian membership into the EU, the entire corpus of EURussian paperwork remains largely a declaration of intent, an instrument of policy avoidance rather than clear guidelines. In this sense, the recent failure of the EU-Russia summit in Helsinki to open negotiations on the new PCA (coming into force following the expiry of the current PCA in December 2007) does not seem to create a legal vacuum. At present, both sides seem content with the idea of renewing the current agreement (according to Article 106, this can be done infinitely until both sides decide to replace the agreement) without embarking on the laborious process of renegotiating and pursuing an almost improbable ratification of the new framework document. As observed by Timofei Bordachev, The format of political and legal relations between Russia and the EU does not essentially influence the development of real integration wherever there is mutual interest. Many countries that have much closer and effective ties with the EU than Russia do not seek to formalise their commitments by ratifying them in parliament and making them a part of national law. One of these countries is the United States, which has a visa-free regime and a huge trade turnover with the European Union: Yet, it makes do with general political declarations accompanied by a package of bilateral agreements and binding working plans on specific issues. (Bordachev 2006, 55).

The same is true of the most recent addition to the EU-Russian body of texts, the four Road Maps, corresponding to the Four Common Spaces: the Common Economic Space; the Common Space of Freedom, Security, and Justice; the Common Space of External Security; and the Common Space of Research, Education, and Culture. Adopted at the EU-Russia summit in St. Petersburg in May 2005, the Road Maps present some four hundred bulleted action points, mainly phrased in the language of “cooperation” and “dialogue” but vague on implementation mechanisms. Lacking strategic

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guidance, policy instruments, or even precise definitions, Michael Emerson has called the Common Spaces “the proliferation of the fuzzy” in EU-Russian relations (Emerson 2005, 3). To this effect, Emerson quotes French philosopher Paul Thibaud writing on the EU Constitutional Treaty on the eve of the French referendum: “The constitutional treaty . . . turns its back on history, which it seems, was just a painful experience, and remains indefinitely extensible for its geography and its competences. The proliferation of the fuzzy is a manner of being for the European Union, and something which the Constitution . . . did not want to end” (Thibaud 2005). By the same token, Andrei Makarychev has described the language of the Common Spaces as “the EU discursive strategy of uncertainty” that leaves as much room as possible for different interpretations of basic concepts that form the background of EU-Russian relations (Makarychev 2005a, 31). Similarly, an oft-cited report by the Moscow-based Council for Foreign and Defense Policies criticized the Common Spaces for being merely a transitory stage in EU-Russian relations that reflected a lack of vision on both sides (Karaganov 2005, 1.4.2–1.4.4). Indeed, there is a lack of strategic perspective on the future of EU-Russian relations in both Brussels and Moscow. Neither side can articulate the longterm goals of their relationship, or the common values, norms, and interests that underlie the “strategic partnership.” Most notably, by the mid-2000s, official Russian policy regarding the EU has been reduced to the flat statement that “Russia does not seek membership of the European Union.” It is obvious that such a negative pronouncement cannot inform a strategic agenda (Karaganov 2005, 1.2.2). The Discourse: Sovereignty and Europeanization The failure to formulate the long-term goals of the bilateral relationship is not just the result of a lack of political will. There is an objective logic at work, namely a difference in the EU and Russian domestic discourses relating to sovereignty. The fundamental difference is that strategic thinking in Moscow is deeply embedded in Westphalian notions of sovereignty. The comeback and consolidation of the nation-state has been and continues to be the key issue on the agenda of both Putin’s presidential terms. The visions of a “sovereign democracy” and “nationalization of the future” have been made public by the Kremlin’s chief ideologist, Vladislav Surkov (Surkov 2006a, 2006b). As Derek Averre has put it, “The current drive to strengthen state power, accepted by the majority of Russian political elites as necessary both as an instrument for national reconstruction and as a corrective to the disorder of the Yeltsin years,

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produces neither the internal stimulus to reform nor the external point of reference which would allow multifaceted engagement with Europe, especially in the context of a changing international system and developing notions of sovereignty” (Averre 2005, 175). From the “sovereignty” point of view, Russia has not quite figured out how to deal with a new sort of political animal, the European Union. The EU is a difficult counterpart, described alternately a “unique, not to say strange, political actor, with divided and clashing institutions, unclear sovereignty, a weak sense of common interest and few institutions in the political arena yet able to achieve its declared ends” (Lynch 2003, 78), and as “a bureaucratic body almost without political leadership” (Makarychev 2005b, 5). From this perspective, it is not clear to Russia where political power in Europe lies: is it in the national capitals, the council, or the commission? Russian decision-makers are sometimes compelled to repeat the frustrated remark Henry Kissinger used to make back in the 1970s: “If Europe has a foreign policy, I wish someone would tell me its phone number!” Quite often, Russia resorts to tried and tested bilateralism, only to find out that bilateral agreements (e.g., Gazprom’s deals with European governments) run into EU regulations, and Russia faces a much less cooperative EU Commission. The missing sense of direction in Russia’s relations with the EU also reflects a wider feeling of ambiguity about the future of the European project following the failure of the EU Constitutional Treaty in the Dutch and French referenda in 2005. The EU is currently at a crossroads, facing a choice between a federalist future, represented by the Constitutional Treaty, and a more minimalist kind of integration, a “Common Market Plus.” Alternatively, the choice is between wider integration, with the eventual membership of Ukraine and probably Turkey, and stopping at the current stage of enlargement, including Bulgaria and Romania. This ambiguity about the future format of the EU adds to Russia’s strategic indecision with respect to the EU. The EU, too, lacks a long-term strategic vision for its relations with Russia. For EU policy makers, the basic structural impediment is that Russia does not have a so-called “vocation for membership,” and they have difficulties in dealing with their enormous nonacceding neighbor. After half a century of successful integration and adaptation to the outside world, the EU is still essentially an integrationist machine. At its core is a set of bureaucratic rules, procedures, and institutions aimed at transforming nations and spaces to a universal standard. However, as Michael Emerson has observed, the EU does not have a well-defined model for exporting these laws, norms, and values “beyond suggesting weak and fuzzy derivatives of the enlargement process, while it cannot afford to overextend the real enlargement process for vital,

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even existential reasons” (Emerson 2005, 4). Once it appears that a nation cannot integrate, the technocratic integrationist mentality fails to produce a strategic outlook and a coherent policy. The EU operational mode is therefore best described as technocratic and bureaucratic, rather than political and strategic. The technocratic integrationist logic of the EU largely explains the “intrusive” nature of the EU’s policy toward Russia that so often irritates the Russian side. In an apparent desire to shape Russia in its own image, the EU projects its values, norms, and regulations (but also fosters its material interests), expecting Russia to comply with the EU-defined code of conduct. In short, this is an extension of the EU’s internal logic—the EU acted the same way with respect to Slovakia or Estonia—but without the added benefit of EU membership. The extrapolation of the EU’s internal logic is evident throughout the documents intended to govern its relations with Russia, such as the PCA, the Common Strategy on Russia, the European Neighborhood Policy (which Russia does not want to be covered by), and Road Maps for the EU-Russian Common Spaces. All these documents have been written using EU bureaucratic language. Starting from the original PCA, prepared during the early 1990s when Russia was seen as a “nation in transit” in need of advice, assistance, and mentorship, these documents are all based on a purely EU conception of how its neighborhood relations should be organized. According to Emerson, the long text of the PCA was a watered-down derivative of the Europe Agreements signed with the newly independent Central and East European countries that were seeking accession to the EU: Russia was then one of the new boys in the class of post-communist states (Emerson 2006). By the same token, the European Neighborhood Policy “is itself a weak and fuzzy derivative of the EU’s enlargement process. This neighbourhood policy is embracing the same comprehensive agenda of the EU’s internal policy competences and political values, but without the mega-incentive of accession. The four common spaces [between Russia and the EU-Sergei Medvedev] are now a weaker and fuzzier still derivative of the neighbourhood policy” (Emerson 2005, 3).2 The entire set of EU policies and instruments intended to govern the EU’s relations with its external environment can be summarized under the heading of Europeanization. By this term, the Brussels-based Center for European Policy Studies means the “transformation of national politics and policy making in line with modern European values and standards” through • legal and institutional obligations flowing from the norms and rules of the EU and the Council of Europe;

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• objective changes in economic structures and the interests of individuals as a result of integration; • subjective changes in beliefs, expectations, and identity (CEPS 2005). Europeanization is a traditional Eurocentric discourse that falls in line with the historical constructions of Westernness (positing Western values and practices as universal and nonnegotiable, with a civilizing mission incumbent on the West) and Easternness (positing the East as barbarian, devoid of morality and rule of law, a space to be converted and transformed) (Lehti 1999, 22). According to Jutta Weldes, something of a compulsion is entailed within the Western cultural frame that sees the West as having the “right,” even the “obligation,” to intervene in the social development of others and to “assist” them in finding the true Western path to social justice and prosperity. Armed with such an “obligation,” the West is therefore seen to have every justification to insist on the reproduction of its values and institutions elsewhere (Weldes 1999, 131). In this context, Slavoj Zizek speaks of the “Eurocentric procedure of imposing its own hegemony by means of the exclusionary discursive strategy of devaluating the Other” (Zizek 2000, 231). For all its postmodern imagery and the “rejection of power” (Kagan 2002), the European Union is a direct descendant of the Western missionary tradition (Larsen 2000). Looking at the very origins of the EU, one finds Western notions of democratic peace theory—the idea that liberal democracies do not go to war with each other. The EU was constructed in order to reconcile France and Germany, the two nations that stood at the origins of three European wars in a span of seventy years (1870–1939). This “peace mission” has been central to subsequent enlargements of the EU and provides a rationale for the further extension of EU borders and the dissemination of liberal democratic values across its external frontiers (Browning 2003, 45). To quote former EU Commission president Romano Prodi, “Europe needs to project its model of society into the wider world. We are not simply here to defend our own interests: We have a unique historic experience to offer. The experience of liberating people from poverty, war, oppression and intolerance. We have forged a model of development and continental integration based on the principles of democracy, freedom and solidarity and it is a model that works” (Prodi 2000). In this respect, Christopher Browning describes Europeanization as “developing” outsiders up to “our standards” and entails a representation of others as somehow devoid or lacking in moral fiber, irrespective of empirical reality. This is further inscribed by the fact that membership in the EU requires that applicant states be vetted against established criteria of democracy, the rule of law, human rights, economic structures, and so forth, in order to assess

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their “fitness” as potential members (Christriansen and Joennimi 1999, 90). Failure to live up to these standards, in turn, represents a failure to achieve equal subjectivity with EU members and condemns one to remain excluded (Browning 2003, 57). This is precisely what happened to the EU’s image of Russia as soon as it had become clear that it no longer fits the ideal “European” normative model and moved toward a semiauthoritarian bureaucratic state. Disillusionment in the Europeanization of Russia has led to its subsequent marginalization and isolation in EU discourses and practices. In response to the EU discursive offensive, Russia has come up with the idea of “exceptionality.” As put by Gleb Pavlovsky, “The state entity with its centers located in Strasbourg and Brussels is not a hotbed for those living in Kiev or Moscow, even if they think of themselves as Europeans” (Pavlovsky 2004, 4). However, even if this discursive defense succeeds, portraying Russia as an “exception,” a “special case” argument leads to the implicit acceptance of Europeanization as the hegemonic “norm.” In this model, the “exceptional” Russia will be tolerated rather than accepted in its otherness. The Challenge: Global Risk Management For all their obvious differences, Russia’s recent impact on the notions of sovereignty and Europeanization have one thing in common: They are two different reactions to the forces of globalization, two different ways to manage the ambiguity and global risks that have emerged in the noughties. In short, the current stage of globalization puts to test the key parameters of modern politics: sovereignty, stateness, and bureaucracy, while the EU and Russia are coming up with their respective responses. Indeed, globalization is Janus-faced: At first sight it appears to be a force for unification, integration, and standardization. It is heralded by the universal spread of free markets and information networks, accompanied by a specifically American face of Western culture (“Coca-Colonization”) and legitimized by the acceptance of democracy and human rights as universal values. One obvious political corollary of globalization is “desovereignization” and the decline of the nation-state as the basic unit of international relations. But there is the other face of globalization, including international terrorism, global criminal networks, and flows of illegal migrants that necessitate a mobilization of the residual powers of nation-states. And finally, there are all sorts of identity movements that emerge by resisting globalization, and yet are themselves invariably global: Chechen Separatists, Mexican Zapatistas, and Aum Shinrikyo, just like the antiglobalists themselves, all go online, create global networks, and transcend state borders.

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The name of the game is globalization versus adaptation (or outright resistance). This collision has been called different names by different authors: The Net and Self (Castells 2004), McWorld and Jihad (Barber 1996), and the Lexus and the Olive Tree (Friedman 1999). Almost any trend toward unification and integration is offset by the adaptation strategies of nation-states, indigenous cultures, groups and individuals, and the emergence of various resistance identities: • Denationalization, desovereignization, and debordering are counterbalanced by renationalization, the nation-state’s reclamation of its inherent monopoly on violence, security, and borders. • Integration (as manifested, for example, by EU enlargement) is counterbalanced by the forces of fragmentation (e.g., in the former Yugoslavia or in Georgia). • Global markets’ striving toward homogeneity and the universal applicability of neoliberal strategies is offset by the reemergence of the nation-state as an anchor of identity and the focal point of cultural resistance to globalization. There is also a clear drive toward greater protectionism and even renationalization of strategic industries (“resource nationalism”), as happened recently with the oil industry in Bolivia. • The Americanization of global culture is met with increasing anti-Americanism, in Europe, Russia, and the Third World. • The rise and fall of the “New Economy” is matched by the heavy weight of the Old Economy and its main commodity, oil, which is just as important today as it was in the twentieth century. In all likelihood, the importance of hydrocarbons for the economy will grow, even in developed countries, with the attendant global patterns of competition and dependence. • The rise of the “liberal imperialism” of the West (Cooper 2002) and the promotion of the New World Order (as seen, for example in Kosovo, Afghanistan, and Iraq) is met with the increasing force of global terrorism and the threat of “Coming Anarchy” (Kaplan 2001), while regional instability emerges in Europe’s turbulent neighborhoods. In all these cases, the key variable, and point of contention, is the role of the nation-state: Is it being fragmented, diminished, and dissolved by the forces of globalization, marketization, and integration? Or is it being reinstated and reinvented by the forces of resistance, localism, protectionism, and identity? What strategies of adaptation are available to the nation-state? Does it consolidate sovereignty, enhance stateness, and emphasize traditional nationhood, or does it pool sovereignty with other nations, yield to supranational governance, and develop new identities?

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These questions strike at the heart of the current transformations of the relationship between the EU and Russia. The EU is going through a difficult period of coming to grips with the level of integration achieved by 2005, when the EU expanded to twenty-seven and stood on the verge of becoming a quasi-federative state by adopting a Constitutional Treaty. Debates about the “Old Europe” versus the “New Europe”—the caricature images of the “Polish plumber” stealing jobs in the West, Ukraine’s emerging bid to join the EU, and especially the controversy around the idea of including Turkey in the EU—have all overstretched and questioned the limits of the European project. Meanwhile, the Islamic factor came to the fore with the heated debate about headscarves (hijab) in French schools in 2004, race riots in major European cities in November 2005, and the imminent threat of Islamic terrorism in Europe following the Madrid and London bombings in 2004–5. What was previously seen as an external challenge to Europe turned into a domestic social, security, and identity issue. With the image of a “clash of civilizations” brought back home, the Turkish bid for EU membership has become even more problematic. Against this background, Europeanization can be seen as the strategy of global risk management. The EU wants to minimize the ambiguity of its external environment (Ukraine, Russia, Turkey, North Africa, energy security) by extending its own bureaucratic norms and regulations. Under the guise of European values, the EU pursues a peculiar kind of bureaucratic imperialism that seeks to modify and partially control EU’s neighborhood through various instruments like the European Neighborhood Policy (ENP), the Common Spaces, the Energy Charter, and so on. This is a rather oldfashioned strategy of risk management aimed at controlling contingencies rather than adapting to them. Russia, too, is going through a difficult period of adaptation to global risks that is making it redefine sovereignty and government. During the revolutionary 1990s, the Russian state retreated and shrunk to levels unseen since the civil war of 1918–21. At the same time, the country had opened itself to globalization in an unprecedented manner. Ideas of joining the EU and NATO were given serious consideration in the early 1990s, while Russia’s regions were allowed, according to President Yeltsin, “to take as much sovereignty as they could swallow.” At some points, the situation deteriorated into pure anarchy, as the state lost its monopoly on violence (e.g., in Chechnya in 1996 to 1999) and became corrupted by the oligarchs. This was accompanied by social atomization and ideological chaos, with traditional Russian ideas of statehood being marginalized by the ruling liberal ideology.

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There was increasingly a quest for order and stability in the late 1990s, which eventually paved the way for the rise of Vladimir Putin. After becoming president on December 31, 1999, he headed Thermidor, a classic counterrevolutionary act, heralding the return of the state. Both of Putin’s terms in office have been devoted to rebuilding the Russian state and to reclaiming lost ground from business elites, civil society, the press, and the West. The state is the key to understanding the Putin phenomenon. Initially, he treated the state as a means of modernizing Russia and for adapting it to globalization: for him, Russia’s national idea was “competitiveness.” Analyzing Putin’s agenda back in 2000, Peter Rutland observed that his task was to adapt the Russian state to the challenges of the global environment: to “customise” global practices and requirements to suit Russian conditions. . . . All around the world, national leaders have been struggling to protect vulnerable social groups and preserve national cultures while adapting to the competitive pressures of the global market place. In the East, it led to the opening of China and sparked the “Asian values” debate. In the West, it caused liberals and socialists to embrace free trade and fiscal conservatism. The “Putin enigma” can be understood as part of an arc of political transformation that stretches from Mohammed Mohatir and Deng Xiaoping to Tony Blair and Bill Clinton. (Rutland 2000, 316)

However, after the YUKOS affair in 2003, and especially after the terrorist act in Beslan in 2004 that prompted a sweeping campaign for centralization, the state for Putin has become an end in itself, a means of preserving power, a self-propelled bureaucratic enterprise. While it is likely that the Putin regime (and probably himself personally) will stay in power after the 2007–8 elections, the state will most likely remain the key player in determining the future of Russia in the medium term. Bringing the state back in and stressing sovereignty, Russia displays a different strategy of global risk management, a bureaucratic-conservative strategy of centralization, aimed at minimizing or excluding external risks (e.g., prohibiting any involvement of the West with civil society in Russia, as seen in the infamous NGO law, or in limiting the access of Western companies to key oil and gas deposits like Shtokman and Sakhalin-2). “Sovereignty” and “Europeanization” are two competing bureaucratic strategies of managing globalization, one aimed at protecting internal order, and another aimed at projecting internal order. Russia is reinforcing domestic stateness as a conservative means of minimizing the ambiguity of global challenges, while the EU projects its domestic structures as a means to manage ambiguity along its periphery. In fact, Russia and the EU have inverted the

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global roles they have played during the second half of the twentieth century, when the USSR sought to export its model and the EC was inward-oriented, refraining from any foreign policy initiative. These days, it is vice versa: Russia, for the first time in five hundred years, refrains from territorial ambitions and concentrates on domestic issues (Medvedev 2004, 55–56), while it is the EU that turns into a revisionist player and seeks to remodel its neighborhood. Katinka Barysch has called this a “paradigm shift in the EU”: “Looking internally for the past 50 years, [it is] now turning outwards, seeks to define its role in the world and will see to have more influence on developments within its immediate neighborhood (without, however, ‘internalizing’ that challenge through further enlargement)” Barysch 2005). Both strategies of risk management are essentially modern, aimed at eliminating or minimizing ambiguity. (A truly postmodern strategy would have been to integrate and internalize ambiguity in a pluralist way.) The modern modus operandi is largely explained by the fact that both strategies have bureaucracies at their core that seek to reproduce and reinforce their influence by eliminating difference (Putin’s authoritarian project) or by transforming difference according to one’s own model (the EU’s bureaucratic imperialism). Andrei Makarychev has observed the paradoxical symmetry of political logics in Moscow and in Brussels, quoting to this effect Jef Huysmans’s reasoning that the “most radical form of political articulation is . . . a desire to overcome all estrangement—that is, the fact that we have to live with others who are not like us—either by eliminating or radically marginalizing those who are different or by turning those who are different into the same as us” (Huysmans 2006, 21). This is exactly what makes one perceive European and Russian policies as two poles of the same chain of political options, opposing each other but being subsumed to the same political logic (Makarychev 2006c). While it is commonplace to list Russia along with China and India as the key global players that follow the political script of modernity, the EU, too, for all its alleged political postmodernism, is engaged in a typically modern practice of othering and transforming the Other (or, at a minimum, tolerating the Other), rather than accommodating and integrating difference. The Forecast: EU-Russian Gridlock The collision of two modernist bureaucratic projects is a key structural impediment in EU-Russia relations, and a background for all recent crises. Thus, the midterm forecast for EU-Russia relations is not particularly optimistic. Most likely, we are in for a protracted stalemate. The EU-Russian dialogue will be plagued by loose institutions, hollow summits, and a

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bureaucratic tug-of-war. The rhetorical heading of this ambiguous policy setting will be the Four Common Spaces with their nonobligatory Road Maps. Indeed, new policy documents may appear, like a renegotiated PCA after 2007, but given the long tradition of noncommittal EU-Russia paperwork, they will hardly change much. The key problem will remain the systemic incompatibility between a semiauthoritarian Russia bent on “sovereignty” and “hard power,” and the EU integration machine, with its “bureaucratic imperialism,” which is structurally incapable of accommodating a Russia disinclined to submit itself to integrationist pressures. Unless significant changes occur in Russia’s internal and external policy, as well as in the EU’s approach to Russia, their relationship will remain stagnant and crisis-prone. On both sides, policy will lack consistency and cohesion and will be reactive rather than proactive. EU policy toward Russia will be decentralized, and competing visions of Russia will proliferate, from the traditional and personalized approaches of France, Germany, and Italy, to the historical mistrust of Russia on the part of new member states from Eastern Europe. As a result, bilateral policies will come to the fore. A good example is the current disagreement within the EU concerning the Nord Stream (North European Gas Pipeline), seen as favoring Germany and other nations of “old” Europe, while undermining the position of the East Europeans and the common EU stance vis-à-vis Russia. Russia, too, lacks a long-term vision of its relations with the EU and will pursue a reactive policy of damage limitation. Obsessed with the threat of “colored revolutions,” Moscow will warily watch, and try to counterbalance, EU policies in their joint neighborhood, considering the potential of Ukrainian and Moldovan membership as a threat to Russian national interests. Meanwhile, Moscow will be happy to explore the benefits of bilateralism, trying to exploit internal EU disputes and differences between Europe and the United States (e.g., on Iraq). Of the areas of cooperation between Russia and the EU, some substance will be left in the economic sphere—if only to solve issues arising from Russian energy and raw materials exports, and food imports from the EU, though many of those will be increasingly covered in the WTO framework, to which Russia is preparing for accession. Humanitarian issues will be high on the agenda, although these will fade as they lack a solid institutional and legal foundation. Meanwhile, questions of internal and external security will become increasingly contentious, with issues like visas, migration, readmission, and EU-Russian rivalry in the CIS coming to the fore. This rivalry will be all the more problematic, since Russia has excluded itself from the ENP, which is now seen as aimed against Russia, in an area perceived as

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Russia’s natural sphere of interest. In fact, many of Russia’s commentators view the ENP as an attempt by Brussels to erect a cordon sanitaire on its eastern border, further isolating Russia. Various types of EU “dimensionalism” (Northern Dimension, Eastern Dimension) and cross-border regionalism, especially in the peripheral Black Sea and Baltic and Nordic areas, might provide some compensation for the decay in the relationship. However, given the current policy setting in Moscow and Brussels, neither of these projects will be given high priority, and different regional initiatives will remain in the same low-profile and under-financed condition they have been in for a good part of the past fifteen years. Time wise, the gridlock in EU-Russian relations will be long lasting, with no incentives, actors, or political will to break it. Domestic entanglements on both sides will most probably prevent Moscow and Brussels from starting a serious dialogue on the future of their relationship any time soon. Russia will enter the 2007–8 election season, the prime goal of which will be the reproduction of the current corrupt regime, exhibiting an attendant authoritarian drift (“managed democracy”), great-power rhetoric, and rituals of enemy construction. The EU is likely to be seen as a challenger to Russian interests. Meanwhile, the EU will be too busy with domestic developments, accommodating the “Big Bang” enlargement with twelve new states (including Romania and Bulgaria in 2007) and reconsidering the future of the EU Constitution following the failure of referenda in 2005. Given these conditions of uncertainty, Russia will not be at the top of the EU’s priority list; rather, it will be viewed as yet another external threat, the impact of which has to be minimized. In other words, both sides, preoccupied with domestic developments, will see the other’s actions as threats: Russia will see the EU as an “orange” challenge to its internal undemocratic system, while the EU will see Russia as a threat to its energy security, democracy promotion, and enlargement plans. This naturally leads to a policy of damage limitation on both sides. However, both sides also have to show tolerance and restraint. Moscow has to be tolerated by Brussels for the sake of energy supplies (especially as the North Sea deposits are almost exhausted, the Middle East is becoming increasingly volatile, and Caspian reserves turn out to be overvalued) and global security (Weapons of Mass Destruction [WMD], terrorism). Brussels has to be tolerated by Moscow for the sake of energy demand, issues of joint neighborhood, and in general, because Brussels is a gateway to the West. Mutual irritation and damage limitation, combined with forced toleration and the need to avoid major crises, lead to the phenomenon of an “enforced

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partnership” between Russia and the EU (Herd 2003), heavy on rhetoric but light on implementation. Looking beyond 2008–9, change will not come easily. The problem is not of a passing nature, and is not only connected with Russia’s authoritarian drift during Putin’s second term, or with the EU’s current travails of enlargement and constitutional reform. Nor does the problem lie in the poor quality of EU-Russian relations, which could be corrected by some good policies and proper documents. Once again, the real issue is the systemic incompatibility of the EU and Russia, who undergo different cycles in the evolution of their spatial governance,3 display contrasting reactions to globalization, and engage in modern rituals of othering. A Recommendation: Going beyond Modern Scripts Revoke the Rituals of Othering A more positive outlook for the EU-Russia partnership requires a mental change on both sides. The Russian elite needs a less isolationist and securitized imagination of the outside world, getting rid of various conspiracy theories and fears of the “orange revolution” coming from the West. In this sense, rather than policies of fear and damage limitation, Russia should be looking for ways to accept the European Other, and for institutionalized forms of cooperation. The EU, too, will have to do its homework. In particular, the mechanisms of foreign policy making will have to be detached from the ideology of integration and from the practice of offering weak derivatives of enlargement as a substitute for a strategy for external relations. Like Russia, the EU foreign policy machine needs to be debureaucratized and given a bold political vision, based on Europe’s interests, not on “European values” defined in terms of civilization. The magnitude of change seems all the greater since it involves mechanisms of identity formation. By the mid-2000s, after the accession of the (largely Russophobic) East European nations to the EU and after the “colored revolutions” in the post-Soviet space, the EU and Russia returned to the opposing positions of constitutive Others in their respective identity projects. Russia’s new great-power identity is increasingly formed in opposition to the West (e.g., the official state holiday, National Unity Day, is now held on November 4, the day the Poles were expelled from Moscow in 1612, and this holiday has a decidedly anti-Western sound). For Europeans, too, discourses othering Russia are evoked at every opportunity, be it World War II victory celebrations in Russia in 2005, the 2006 G8 summit in

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St. Petersburg, or the Litvinenko poisoning affair later the same year. In this sense, any realistic prospect of an EU-Russian partnership requires a change in identity patterns. Work beyond the Moscow-Brussels Framework Considering that stagnation in EU-Russian relations will prevail in the short run and that partnership is not likely to occur without systemic political and psychological change in both the EU and Russia, the obvious policy advice is to avoid the structures and rhetoric of partnership or, indeed, any permanent arrangement or legally binding framework for EU-Russian relations. One needs to lower expectations in order to avoid disappointment. In fact, the question may arise whether the entire complex of interactions between Russia and the European countries is bound by EU-Russian relations or, indeed, by the heavily bureaucratized dialogue between Moscow and Brussels. EU-Russian relations are too important (one could say existential) to be left to the bureaucracies on either side. Other avenues of dialogue exist, first of all the traditional web of bilateral relationships: Russia-Germany, Russia-France, Russia-Italy, and Russia-Finland. Fears that these relationships might ruin a “common” EU approach are groundless since there is no common approach to begin with. Likewise, dormant regional initiatives, like the EU’s Northern Dimension, as well as the non-EU Council of Baltic Sea States (CBSS) and the Barents Euro-Arctic Cooperation, could become useful interfaces for engaging regions, local communities, and groups of people across borders. So far, these initiatives have been underresourced on both sides, but given the overall loose EU-Russia institutional framework, they should be given a second chance. Out-of-the-Box Thinking: Problematizing “Sovereignty” and “Europeanization” The tool kit of EU-Russian relations is clearly not adequate for overcoming the stalemate. Apart from bilateral and regional diplomacy, some innovative “out-of-the-box” thinking is needed to jump-start the relationship from its current stasis. This may seem far-fetched, idealistic, and politically suicidal for the incumbents, but at some point one has to question the fundamentals that underlie the policy thinking in Moscow and Brussels, namely, “sovereignty” for Russia and Europeanization for the EU. For Russia, problematizing its cherished “sovereignty” (defined in strictly security terms) could mean the abolition of visa requirements for EU citizens, a “unilateral visa disarmament” (Skidelsky and Erochkine 2003). This could

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have a groundbreaking effect on EU-Russian relations, and Brussels will feel obliged to reciprocate, significantly simplifying the Schengen visa regime for Russian citizens, with a view to abolishing visas altogether. By the same token, Russia and the EU could experiment with the establishment of “pilot regions” along the common border, which could become test grounds for the adaptation of EU legislation and for visa-free exchanges. The first of such regions could be Kaliningrad. The idea of the Kaliningrad enclave assuming the status of an “overseas territory” of Russia was briefly entertained in early 2005 but dumped by the Kremlin, which feared the loss of sovereignty it would entail, and by Brussels, which was unwilling to grant Russia any kind of “exceptionality.” Still, the idea of a voluntary adaptation by parts of Russia of some of the EU acquis (the body of EU law), not because of pressure from Brussels but for purely pragmatic reasons, merits consideration (Pursiainen and Medvedev 2005). As for the EU, the key problem in its relations with Russia is the “sacred cow” of Europeanization that “offers Russia the option, either of being imperialized within its [Europe’s] folds, or, alternatively, remaining marginalized on the periphery of Europe” (Browning 2003, 45). Whether authoritarian or democratic, Russia will never feel comfortable as the subject of a “civilizing,” “educational” discourse. In this sense, Europeanization can hardly become a solid foundation for an equal relationship. By the same token, Russia’s “exceptionality” cannot be a good foundation for EU-Russian relations either, since it will rest on the implicit acceptance of the hegemonic European “norm” within which Russia will not be accepted, but tolerated. This brings us back to the question of globalization. In adapting to its risks and challenges, Russia and Europe default into traditional modernist discourses. For Russia, the return to “sovereignty” in the 2000s means falling back on the modern origins of Russian statehood of the past five centuries, formed in opposition to the West (Poe 2003). Meanwhile, for the EU, Europeanization may sound postmodern but, in practice, means a retreat to an essentially modern teleology of progress and to a colonialist interpretation of Westernness as goodness. In questioning “sovereignty” and Europeanization, Russia and Europe will have to go beyond their modern thinking and the rituals of othering and try to accept the Other as a given, rather than something to be opposed or transformed. The result could be Euro-pluralism, a new discursive foundation for a durable EU-Russian partnership.

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Notes 1. For the analysis of the Common Strategy on Russia (CSR), see Haukkala and Medvedev 2001. 2. As the author further concedes, the EU “has worked out for itself a well-identified corpus of law, norms and values. But it does not have a well-defined model for exporting these.” (Emerson 2005, 4). 3. According to Makarychev, “both Russia and the EU are entities in a state of flux. In Vladimir Kaganski’s analysis, Russia herself is an example of unformed space, which needs to be reassembled. Though in a different sense, the EU is far from being based upon a well established spatial structure of governance. Therefore, one may wonder whether the two entities in transition are in a position to constitute a durable set of spatial arrangements.” (Makarychev 2006a, 43).

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Index

The letter n following a page number indicates a note on that page. actorness, legitimate, 36–37, 40–43 Adler, Emanuel, 120n Adolphus, Gustavus, 18 Agnew, John, 192-93, 195, 197, 213n Alexander I, Tsar, 36, 41–42 Alexei, Tsar, 17 Americanization of culture, 222–23 anciens régimes, 23, 26 Anderson, Malcolm, 194 Anisimov, Evgeniy, 19 Austin, John L., 135, 140–42 Austria, 20, 24–28, 41, 44, 53 Averre, Derek, 218–19 Bagger, Hans, 24–25 BALTCOM, 69 Baltic Pipeline System (BPS), 85 Baltic Sea Region Energy Cooperation (BASREC), 84 Barents-Euro-Arctic Council (BEAC), 62, 71, 78, 80–81 Barkin, J. Samuel, 41 Barysch, Katinka, 226 Benjamin, Jessica, 196 Berlin Treaty, 26 Blaney, L. Davis, 211n Bolingbroke, Lord, 25 Bolsheviks, 44–46 Bordachev, Timofei, 217 border, Russian-Ukrainian, 9, 188, 203–7 “border making,” 204

borders, role of in international relations, 193–203 border studies, 192–95 Bosnia, 66 Brezhnev, Leonid, 49, 216 Browning, Christopher, 221 Bulgaria, 66–67, 215, 219, 224, 228 Bull, Hedley, 37, 55n, 143n Bunce, Valerie, 56n bureaucratic capitalism, 163–64 bureaucratic centralization, 9–10, 225 bureaucratic imperialism, 9–10, 224–27 bureaucratic tourism, 82 business community, 84–87 Byzantine Empire, 14 Catherine the Great, 29 Chancellor, Richard, 17 Charles I, King, 17, 21 Charter of Paris, 51 Chechnya, 32, 67, 68, 80, 109, 113–15, 121n, 137, 224 Chernomyrdin, Viktor, 84, 154 China, 15, 163, 178, 193, 225, 226 Chita-Khabarovsk road, 124, 132–35, 138–39, 142 Christianity, 16, 18, 22–23, 38, 30, 33n, 35 classical geopolitics, 194 cold war, 7, 36, 46–52, 53–54, 105, 120n, 152 Committee on Financial Monitoring (CFM), 68–69

260

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Index

Common Economic Space (CES), 155–60, 170–76, 181, 217 Common European Home, 48, 50–51, 56n, 97, 203 Common Space of External Security, 155, 217 Common Space of Freedom, Security, and Justice, 155, 217 Common Space of Research, Education, and Culture, 155, 217 Common Spaces, 152, 155–56, 172–73, 217–18, 220, 224, 227 Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS), 67–68, 124, 154, 158–59, 164, 184n, 207, 211n, 227 communism, 13, 44–45, 48–53, 56n fall of, 30, 97, 168 Communist Party, 48, 75, 106 Concept Paper (CEES), 155–58, 176 Concert of Europe, 43, 45 Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE), 47–49, 52, 104–5, 121n See also Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) conflict, 5–6, 9, 79, 201 cooperation and, 187–89 incompatibility and, 189–91, 202 in international relations, 210n institutions and, 182 integration as, 171, 181, 202 Marxist analysis of, 161–62 positive function of, 209–10 representations of, 201 soft security threats as source of, 169–70 territory as source of, 211n conflict analysis, 211n conflict prevention, 79, 90, 194 conflict resolution, 63, 79, 90 Congress of Carlowitz, 19 Congress of Vienna, 36 congress system, 41–44, 53 constitutional revolutions, 40 constructivism, 6, 8, 9, 16, 26, 28, 30, 39–40, 98–99, 103, 120n, 150, 167–71, 182–83, 189

containment, United States policy of, 46–47 Conventional Forces in Europe (CFE) Treaty, 67, 76, 93n Cooper, Robert, 201 Council for Economic Mutual Assistance (CMEA), 49–50 Council of Europe (CoE), 4, 7, 53, 74, 78–80, 87, 97–98, 103–10, 112–18, 220 Council of the Baltic Sea States (CBSS), 62, 69–70, 78, 80–81, 85, 230 Council of the Federation, 74–75, 79 Crimean War, 41, 43 Cromwell, Oliver, 21 customs union, 156–58, 176, 181, 184n De Certeau, Michel, 212n death penalty, 7–8 abolition of as European norm, 103–4, 120n development of abolition of in Russia, 106–120 European attempts to promote abolition of, 104–6 Decembrist uprising (1825), 42 decision-making, 7, 59–60, 91–92, 145n economic, 162–63 of the EU, 166, 176–77 federal government actors in, 60–76 local, 165 local government actors in, 82–83 nongovernmental actors in, 83–91, 92 regional government actors in, 76–82 supranational, 151–53, 158 Denmark, 17–18, 28, 66, 82, 85 depoliticization, 162 Derrida, Jacques, 140, 211n, 212n Deutsch, Karl, 168, 184n Directorate on Foreign Policy, 73 double-talk, 141–42, 145n Dukes, Paul, 24 Duma, Russian State, 3, 18, 72, 74–76, 78, 110–15, 121n

Index DVTG Group, advertisement of, 125–26 economic integration CES and, 155–58, 181 degrees of, 156, 175–77 economic union as, 158 EU-Russian, 158, 175–77 full, 158 legal approximation and, 171 prerequisites for, 51–52 Edinaya Transportnaya Sistema (ETS), 126 Edward VI, King, 17 Efinger, Manfred, 211n Emerson, Michael, 200, 218–20 Energy Charter, 215, 216, 224 England, 16–18, 21, 24, 28 English School of International Relations, 27, 37, 39, 48, 55n Enlightenment, 29, 42 environmentalists, 88–89 Erofeev, Venedikt, 142–43 Estonia, 65–66, 81, 220 European Commission, 1, 69, 157, 167, 184n, 212n European Community (EC), 49–52, 55n, 152, 157–58, 160, 226 European international society: development of, 36–40 homogeneity in, 38–39 Russia’s role in reconstitution of, 53 use of the phrase, 55n Europeanization, 9, 51, 207 definitions of, 220–22 disillusionment in, 216, 222 global risk management and, 224 history of, 54 integration and, 201, 207 sovereignty and, 5, 207, 218–22, 225, 230–31 transnational communication of, 168 European Neighborhood Policy (ENP), 205–6, 212n, 224, 227–28 European norms, 7 abolition of death penalty as, 103–4, 116

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261

Nicholas I and, 42 Russia’s acceptance of, 108, 118 Russia’s noncompliance with, 116 European Political Cooperation, 55n “Europe” as a concept, 35–36 Euroregions Project, 82–83, 93 EU trade with main partners, 178 federalism, 9, 76, 150–51, 179, 184n Federal Security Service (FSB), 68–69 First Northern War, 19 Foreign Intelligence Service (FIS), 67–68 Foucault, Michel, 211n, 212n Four Common Spaces, 152, 155–56, 172–73, 217–18, 220, 224, 227 Fourteen Points (Wilson), 44 France, 2, 4, 17, 24, 26–27, 32, 43, 150, 221, 227 Franck, Thomas, 101–2, 104 Frank, Sergei, 127–34 Frederick III, Holy Roman Emperor, 15 Frederick the Great, 27, 28 free trade area (FTA), 156–59, 170, 175–76, 184n French Revolution, 20 functionalism, 5, 9, 150–52, 170, 179, 183–84n G8, 32, 229 Genoa Conference, 46 geography, political, 192, 213n Germany, 4, 28, 43–44, 79, 85, 150, 164, 221, 227, 230 Gerner, Kristian, 13n glasnost, 48 globalization, 2, 159, 169, 172, 183, 208, 222–25, 231 Golden Horde, Mongol, 14, 15 Gorbachev, Mikhail, 46–52, 56n, 67 Gorbachev Foundation, 91 “gosudarstvennost” (stateness), 9 governmental actors federal, 60–76 local, 82–83 regional, 76–82 Grabbe, Heather, 205

262

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Index

Grachev, Pavel, 65–67 Great Northern War, 24–26 Great Powers, 7, 35–36, 41, 46, 53, 154–55 great-power status, 6, 14, 16–17, 23, 25–33, 229 GRU (Main Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff ), 68 Guild, Elspeth, 205–206, 212n Gurian, Walter, 55n Haas, Ernst, 102, 184n Halliday, Fred, 38–39, 55n Ham, Peter van, 55n Hamilton, Keith, 29 Harju-Seppä, Mika, 35n Hartley, Janet, 24 Haslam, Jonathan, 211n Haukkala, Hiski, 7, 13n, 30, 34n, 105, 149n Hebdon, Sir John, 21 Hédouville, Thomas, 28 Hellmann, Manfred, 27–28 Helsinki Final Act, 47, 49 Henry VIII, King, 16 Herberstein, Sigismund von, 14, 16 Holy Roman Empire, 14–15 Hopf, Ted, 13n, 35n, 55n, 149n Houtum, Henk van, 197, 211n human rights NGOs, 87 Hume, David, 28 identity relations, 1, 4 Inayatullah, Naeem, 211n India, 226 institutionalism, 5, 9, 150, 165, 167, 171 integration See economic integration interest group theories, 9, 150, 162–63, 171, 182 intergovernmentalism, 9, 150, 153, 165, 170, 180 International Political Economy (IPE), 162–63, 181 international society, definition of, 37 Ishaev, Viktor, 135

Ivan II, 14 Ivan III, 15, 33n Ivan IV, 33n Jackson, Robert, 38–39, 55n Jazev, V. A., 133 Jones, Robert A., 56n Kaganski, Vladimir, 232n Kaliningrad, 61, 66–67, 68–71, 73, 75–90, 92, 185n, 216, 231 Kennedy, Paul, 24 Keohane, Robert O., 36 Koleshnikov, Vladimir, 115 Kolstø, Pål, 13n Kononenko, Vadim, 5–6, 9 Kosachev, Dmitry, 75 Kosovo, 66, 75, 223 Krasheninnikov, Pavel, 76, 111, 115 Krasner, Stephen D., 38, 145n Kulayev, Nurpashi, 115 Laidi, Zaki, 144n Laird, Robbin F., 56n Langhorne, Richard, 29 Latour, Bruno, 144n Latvia, 65–66, 81, 82, 85, 121n Lauchlan, Iain, 35n, 55n Lavrov, Sergei, 70 Law on Security, 63, 72, 73 League of Armed Neutrality, 28 Ledeneva, Alena, 137, 145n LeDonne, John P., 36 legal approximation, 9, 150, 159–61, 171, 181 Lehti, Marko, 35n Lenin, Vladimir Ilyich, 45, 49–50 Liberal Democratic Party, 75 liberal imperialism, 223 liberalism, 29, 33, 34n, 52, 54, 159, 181 Lincoln, Bruce, 29 Lindberg, Leon, 184n Lithuania, 14–16, 19–20, 22, 65–66, 77, 79–82, 84, 86 Litvinov, Maxim, 46 Loris-Melikov, Count, 32

Index Louis XIV, King, 20 Lozhinin, V. Valeriy, 210 Makarychev, Andrei, 218, 226, 232n Malcolm, Neil, 51, 56n Malia, Martin, 36, 43, 212n Marx, Karl, 34n, 130 Marxism, 9, 45, 150, 161–63, 171, 181 Medvedev, Sergei, 5, 9 Michael, Tsar, 18 military-autocracy, 44, 55n Miliutin, Nikolai, 43 Milosevic, Slobodan, 66 Ministry for Economic Development and Trade (MEDT), 61, 70, 73 Ministry of Culture, 61, 71 Ministry of Defense (MoD), 3, 61, 63–68, 70 Ministry of Education and Science, 61, 71 Ministry of Finance, 61, 71 Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MFA), 3, 61–68, 70, 73, 77, 93n Ministry of Social Development and Health, 61, 71 Mitrany, David, 183–84n “modernity syndrome,” 200 Moltz, James, 56n Monnet, Jean, 183n monocausality, problem of, 40 Moon, David, 55n Morgenthau, Hans, 211n Moshes, Arkady, 35n Muscovy, 2, 4, 14–23 Mutually Assured Destruction, 47 Napoleon, 42 Napoleonic Wars, 6–7, 13, 41 nationalism, 43–47, 53, 183n NATO, 66–67, 74, 76, 87, 91, 93n, 111, 166, 224 neofederalism, 150 neofunctionalism, 5, 9, 150–53, 158–59, 170, 180, 184n neoinstitutionalism, 165, 167, 171, 182 neorealism, 39, 55n, 56n, 153–55 Netherlands, 18, 21, 24

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263

Neumann, Iver, 6, 35, 38, 55n, 56n New Europe, 51–52, 114, 124, 224 New Thinking, 48–50 Nicholas I, Tsar, 42 Nicholas II, Tsar, 43 nongovernmental actors, 3–4, 7, 59, 62, 83–93 nonintervention, 38 normative adaptation, 46 normative cooperation, 98–103 “Normative Power Europe,” 55n norm-makers, 2, 40–41, 53 Northern Dimension Action Plans (NDAPs), 85 Northern Dimension Environmental Partnership (NDEP), 81, 89 Northern Dimension Initiative (NDI), 69, 76, 85, 89, 93, 185n, 228, 230 North European Gas Pipeline (NEGP), 85, 227 Nye, Joseph S., 184n October Revolution, 44–45 Oestreich, Gerhard, 20, 27–28 Ojanen, 210n Orange Revolution, 206, 229 Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE), 4, 7, 62, 74, 80, 87–88, 97–98, 104–105, 120–21n Ortmann, 212n Paleologue, Sophia, 14 Pan-European/International Transport Corridors, 6, 86, 123–32, 137–39, 143 Partnership and Cooperation Agreement (PCA), 86, 156–57, 160–61, 166, 185n, 215, 217, 220, 227 Paul, Emperor, 26, 28 Peace of Nystad, 24–25 Peace of Stolbovo, 18 Pelevin, Viktor, 145n perestroika, 30, 48, 50–51 Perry, William, 67 Peter the Great, 14, 17, 19–22, 24–30, 42

264

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Index

Peter’s Grand Embassy, 19 Pettman, Ralph, 120n Philpott, Daniel, 39–40, 55n Pistone, Sergio, 184n Poe, Marshall, 14, 16–17 Poland, 15, 18–21, 26–27, 66, 79–82, 85–86, 164, 185n, 205, 215 Poppel, Nikolai, 15 Porte, the, 18–20 Portugal, 28 Potemkin, P. I., 23 “potemkinization,” 140 Pratt, 212n Prescott, John, 193, 195, 197, 211n Presidential Administration, Russian, 73–76, 92 Presidential Pardons Commission, 107, 113 Prodi, Romano, 144, 184n, 221 progress, 112, 117–18, 197–98, 201–2, 208, 211n, 231 Protestant Reformation, 37 Prozorov, Sergei, 201–2, 211n, 212n Prussia, 24–28, 53 public policy centers, 89–91 Pursiainen, Christer, 5, 8–9 Putin, Vladimir, 70, 133, 135, 184n appointment of Yastrzhembsky by, 73 authoritarianism of, 216, 226, 229 death penalty under, 113–16 decision to suspend CFE treaty by, 93n on the EU, 154–55 exploiting the parliament under, 79 FSB under, 68 MoD under, 67, 93n “power vertical” under, 142 “sovereign democracy” under, 187 “the state” under, 31, 218, 225 Pynnöniemi, Katri, 8 “razzmatazz,” 125, 135, 138–42, 145n realism, 6, 28, 32, 153–55, 170, 180, 184n, 189, 193–96, 210n, 211n reforms, nineteenth century, 43–44 religious organizations, 87–88 Risse, Thomas, 99–101, 118

Risse-Sikkink model of socialization, 99–101, 118 Rittberger, Volker, 211n Road Map of the CES, 156–60, 168, 176, 184n, 217, 220 Romania, 66, 215, 219, 224, 228 Romanov dynasty, 18 Ropp, Stephen, 99 Russell-Johnston, Lord, 114–16 Russian Federation, 63, 72, 74, 76, 78, 80, 82, 103, 107, 109–10, 115, 121n, 144n, 154 Russian Foreign Ministry, 64, 71, 78, 79, 86, 88, 90 Russian Foreign Policy Decision Making System, 59, 83, 91–93 Russian Orthodox Church (ROC), 87–89 Russian-Ukrainian border, 9, 188, 203–7 Russia’s foreign trade structure, 163, 177 Russia’s trade with main partners, 178 Rutland, Peter, 225 Saari, Sinikukka, 7–8, 149n, 210n Scheingold, Stuart, 184n Schimmelfennig, Frank, 101 Schmitter, Philippe, 184n Schnitzenpaumer, Georg, 15, 26 Schuman, Robert, 183n Searle, John, 128, 135, 138, 143–46n, 211n Security Council of the Russian Federation, 63–65, 72–74 “Self-Other” relation, 201 Sending, Ole Jacob, 13n Serbia, 66, 75, 111 Sergeev, Igor, 70 Sergunin, Alexander, 7–8, 149n, 210n Seven Years’ War (French and Indian War), 27–28 Shafirov, Peter, 25–26, 30 Shevardnadze, Edouard, 51–52 Shevtsova, Lilia, 54, 91 Sigismund III, King, 20 Sikkink, Kathryn, 99–101, 118

Index single market, 49, 156, 158–59, 176 Sobieski, Jan, 20 social identity, 3 socialization theories and assumptions, 98–118 Sørensen, Georg, 39 sovereign democracy, 9, 187, 195, 208, 218 sovereignty: boundaries and, 193–97 Europeanization and, 5, 207, 218–22, 225, 230–31 legitimate actorness and, 37–38 “mutations” of, 41–52 nonintervention and, 38 as a social construct, 38 Westphalian, 9, 37–41, 50, 55n, 195, 197–200, 209, 218 Soviet Union, 168, 193 Chita-Khabarovsk project in, 139 in the cold war, 47–54 collapse of, 30–32, 54, 56n, 108, 154, 197, 211n death penalty in, 106, 108 dictionaries/language in, 136, 141–42, 145n Europeanization of, 51 federalism of, 76 foreign policy expertise in, 89, 92 great-power status in, 14 normative adaption of, 46–52 official diplomatic history of, 15, 19, 24, 38 Putin on, 31 razzmatazz in, 141 realpolitik of, 45–46 rejection of European norms by, 45 transport network of, 132, 144n See also USSR Spain, 23 Spinelli, Altiero, 184n spiral (Risse-Sikkink) model of socialization, 99–101, 118 “splitting” of IR theories, 196–97, 209 Stalin, Joseph, 45–46, 55n Stuart, Charles Edward (the “pretender”), 26

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265

Surkov, Vladislav, 218 Susiluoto, Ilmari, 141 Sutton, Brent A., 145n Suzuki, Shogo, 13n Sweden, 14, 17–22, 24, 26, 28, 30, 80–82 Talleyrand, Charles, 28 Tarvainen, Tiina, 35n terrorism, 113, 172, 222–24, 228 Thibaud, Paul, 218 think tanks, 4, 59–60, 76, 89–92, 93 Thirty Years’ War, 18–19, 37, 40 Thomas, Daniel, 55n, 101 Timmerman, Heinz, 56n transactionalism, 168 “transformation of Russia,” Peter the Great’s, 25, 30 transnationalism, 169 transport corridors, 6, 86, 124–43, 143n Treaty of Bakhchisarai, 20 Treaty of Teschen, 27–28 Treaty of Utrecht, 17 Trenin, Dmitry, 91, 216 Trotsky, Lev, 45 Trumbull, William, 24 Tsarist Russia, 15, 17–23, 29, 33n, 41–44, 48, 125 See also individual tsars Turkey, 25, 28, 77, 106, 157, 178, 219, 224 Turner, Frederick Jackson, 195 United Nations Security Council, 32 Uspenskii, Eduard, 141 USSR, 59, 216, 226 See also Soviet Union Wæver, Ole, 51 War of the Polish Succession, 26 War of the Spanish Succession, 17, 24 Watson, Adam, 27, 37, 39, 55n Weapons of Mass Destruction (WMD), 172, 228 Webber, Mark, 198 Weldes, Juan, 221

266

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Index

Wendt, Alexander, 189 Western European Union (WEU), 67 Westphalia (Treaty of ), 19, 37–41, 3–54 “Westphalian deferral,” 211n Westphalian state/sovereignty, 9, 37–41, 50, 55n, 195, 197–200, 209, 218 Westwood, J. N., 125, 131 Wettig, Gerhard, 56n White, Hadyn, 208 Whitworth, Charles, 25 Wilson, Woodrow, 44, 47 Witte, Sergei, 43–44 Wittgenstein, Ludvig, 141, 143n, 146n Wohlforth, William C., 13n, 56n World Trade Organization (WTO), 32, 61, 70, 74, 156–57, 171, 227 World War I, 44, 54 World War II, 41, 46, 47, 229

Wright, Georg Henrik von, 140, 146n Yablokov, Alexei, 89 Yastrzhembsky, Sergey, 73 “Year of Europe,” 50 Yeltsin, Boris, 60, 65–66, 72–79, 109–11, 154, 218, 224 Yugoslavia, 66, 223 YUKOS affair, 225 Zacher, Mark W., 145 n Zakharova, Larisa G., 43 zastoi, 216 Zevi, Brune, 141 Zizek, Slavoj, 221 Zorin, V. A., 19, 33n Zurn, Michael, 211n Zyuganov, Gennady, 208