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Defense & Security
Iranian missile strike in Bat Yam, 15 June 2025

Will the fragile ceasefire between Iran and Israel hold? One factor could be crucial to it sticking

by Ali Mamouri

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском After 12 days of war, US President Donald Trump announced a ceasefire between Israel and Iran that would bring to an end the most dramatic, direct conflict between the two nations in decades. Israel and Iran both agreed to adhere to the ceasefire, though they said they would respond with force to any breach. If the ceasefire holds – a big if – the key question will be whether this signals the start of lasting peace, or merely a brief pause before renewed conflict. As contemporary war studies show, peace tends to endure under one of two conditions: either the total defeat of one side, or the establishment of mutual deterrence. This means both parties refrain from aggression because the expected costs of retaliation far outweigh any potential gains. What did each side gain? The war has marked a turning point for Israel in its decades-long confrontation with Iran. For the first time, Israel successfully brought a prolonged battle to Iranian soil, shifting the conflict from confrontations with Iranian-backed proxy militant groups to direct strikes on Iran itself. This was made possible largely due to Israel’s success over the past two years in weakening Iran’s regional proxy network, particularly Hezbollah in Lebanon and Shiite militias in Syria. Over the past two weeks, Israel has inflicted significant damage on Iran’s military and scientific elite, killing several high-ranking commanders and nuclear scientists. The civilian toll was also high. Additionally, Israel achieved a major strategic objective by pulling the United States directly into the conflict. In coordination with Israel, the US launched strikes on three of Iran’s primary nuclear facilities: Fordow, Natanz and Isfahan. Despite these gains, Israel has not accomplished all of its stated goals. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu had voiced support for regime change, urging Iranians to rise up against Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei’s government, but the senior leadership in Iran remains intact. Additionally, Israel has not fully eliminated Iran’s missile program. (Iran continued striking to the last minute before the ceasefire.) And Tehran did not acquiesce to Trump’s pre-war demand to end uranium enrichment. Although Iran was caught off-guard by Israel’s attacks — particularly as it was engaged in nuclear negotiations with the US — it responded by launching hundreds of missiles towards Israel. While many were intercepted, a significant number penetrated Israeli air defences, causing widespread destruction in major cities, dozens of fatalities and hundreds of injuries. Iran has demonstrated its capacity to strike back, though Israel has succeeded in destroying many of its air defence systems, some ballistic missile assets (including missile launchers) and multiple energy facilities. Since the beginning of the assault, Iranian officials have repeatedly called for a halt to resume negotiations. Under such intense pressure, Iran has realised it would not benefit from a prolonged war of attrition with Israel — especially as both nations face mounting costs and the risk of depleting their military stockpiles if the war continues. As theories of victory suggest, success in war is defined not only by the damage inflicted, but by achieving core strategic goals and weakening the enemy’s will and capacity to resist. While Israel claims to have achieved the bulk of its objectives, the extent of the damage to Iran’s nuclear program is not fully known, nor is its capacity to continue enriching uranium. Both sides could remain locked in a volatile standoff over Iran’s nuclear program, with the conflict potentially reigniting whenever either side perceives a strategic opportunity. Sticking point over Iran’s nuclear program Iran faces even greater challenges when it emerges from the war. With a heavy toll on its leadership and nuclear infrastructure, Tehran will likely prioritise rebuilding its deterrence capability. That includes acquiring new advanced air defence systems — potentially from China — and restoring key components of its missile and nuclear programs. (Some experts say Iran has not used some of its most powerful missiles to maintain this deterrence.) Iranian officials have claimed they safeguarded more than 400 kilograms of 60% enriched uranium before the attacks. This stockpile could theoretically be converted into nine to ten nuclear warheads if further enriched to 90%. Trump declared Iran’s nuclear capacity had been “totally obliterated”, whereas Rafael Grossi, the United Nations’ nuclear watchdog chief, said damage to Iran’s facilities was “very significant”. However, analysts have argued Iran will still have a depth of technical knowledge accumulated over decades. Depending on the extent of the damage to its underground facilities, Iran could be capable of restoring and even accelerating its program in a relatively short time frame. And the chances of reviving negotiations on Iran’s nuclear program appear slimmer than ever. What might future deterrence look like? The war has fundamentally reshaped how both Iran and Israel perceive deterrence — and how they plan to secure it going forward. For Iran, the conflict has reinforced the belief that its survival is at stake. With regime change openly discussed during the war, Iran’s leaders appear more convinced than ever that true deterrence requires two key pillars: nuclear weapons capability, and deeper strategic alignment with China and Russia. As a result, Iran is expected to move rapidly to restore and advance its nuclear program, potentially moving towards actual weaponisation — a step it had long avoided, officially. At the same time, Tehran is likely to accelerate military and economic cooperation with Beijing and Moscow to hedge against isolation. Iranian Foreign Minister Abbas Araghchi emphasised this close engagement with Russia during a visit to Moscow this week, particularly on nuclear matters. Israel, meanwhile, sees deterrence as requiring constant vigilance and a credible threat of overwhelming retaliation. In the absence of diplomatic breakthroughs, Israel may adopt a policy of immediate preemptive strikes on Iranian facilities or leadership figures if it detects any new escalation — particularly related to Iran’s nuclear program. In this context, the current ceasefire already appears fragile. Without comprehensive negotiations that address the core issues — namely, Iran’s nuclear capabilities — the pause in hostilities may prove temporary. Mutual deterrence may prevent a more protracted war for now, but the balance remains precarious and could collapse with little warning.

Defense & Security
President Donald Trump announces the Golden Dome missile defense system P20250520JB-0081 (54536146884)

The Evolution of U.S. Defense Space Doctrine under the Donald Trump Administration

by Vadim Kozyulin

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском From 2017 to 2021, the administration of Donald Trump radically changed U.S. space policy by focusing on military dominance, integrating the commercial sector, and abandoning previous restrictions on the militarization of space. New doctrinal documents were adopted, the United States Space Force was created, and the United States Space Command was reestablished. The emphasis shifted toward the development of offensive capabilities, cybersecurity, and public-private partnerships. During his second presidential term (2025–2029), Donald Trump initiated large-scale defense projects — in particular, the “Golden Dome of America” — and expanded the involvement of private companies in their development. This policy increases international tensions, provokes an arms race in space, and draws criticism for undermining international agreements and fragmenting the legal framework. Architecture of the New Space Order: Doctrinal Principles of the 2017–2021 Administration The national security space policy of the United States is formed both through presidential directives and on the basis of legislative acts. Presidential directives remain in force until they are revised by the next president. Thus, today the U.S. operates under a set of directives issued by Presidents George W. Bush (2001–2009), Barack Obama (2009–2017), Donald Trump (2017–2021), and Joe Biden (2021–2025). During his first presidential term, Donald Trump signed an updated National Space Policy, seven Space Policy Directives (SPDs), five space-related executive orders, two strategies, two reports, and one National Security Presidential Memorandum (NSPM). His “space policy” was aimed at “reviving the proud legacy of American leadership in space,” including in the field of national security, accelerating the exploration of the Moon and Mars, and developing the commercial sector. It was based on a number of firm beliefs: America must remain the leading power in space in both scientific and commercial areas; space is a strategically important domain for protecting U.S. interests; space should become a driver of the country’s economic development; and achieving these goals would be supported by cooperation with private companies and international partners. “We are a nation of pioneers. We are the people who crossed an ocean, settled a vast continent, inhabited a boundless wilderness, and then looked to the stars. That is our history and that is our destiny,” declared Donald Trump. These beliefs were embodied in a number of doctrinal documents. The Presidential Memorandum “Space Policy Directive-1” (SPD-1) in December 2017 became one of the first steps in Donald Trump’s space policy. The document set a course for the exploration and use of lunar resources, as well as preparation for missions to Mars. In order to carry out such costly projects, the memorandum emphasized cooperation with commercial entities and international partners. In the area of national security, Donald Trump formulated the principle that the United States must maintain “peace through strength” in outer space. In the 2018 “Nuclear Posture Review” approved by him, the goal was set to modernize space-based intelligence and communication systems to strengthen nuclear deterrence. In the “National Defense Strategy” adopted in the same year, the focus was on investments in resilience and the restoration of production capabilities necessary to enhance the country’s space potential. In December 2018, the “National Security Strategy” was published, in which space was defined as a zone of confrontation, marking a more rigid approach compared to Barack Obama’s position, who merely acknowledged threats from adversaries. This document, along with the “National Space Strategy,” emphasized the strategic importance of space and the need to ensure peace in it through the demonstration of strength. In the new 2018 National Space Strategy, the administration focused on creating a more resilient space architecture, enhancing deterrence capabilities, and ensuring security in space. In 2018, under the pretext of a threat in space from China and Russia, the Trump administration initiated the creation of the United States Space Force, which in December 2019 became the sixth branch of the U.S. Armed Forces. Under Donald Trump, the United States Space Command (SPACECOM) was restored as an independent combatant command. SPACECOM, which existed as a separate military branch from 1985 to 2002, was dissolved during the reorganization following the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. The president restored it by using his executive powers. Today, the command is responsible for integrating the space capabilities of all military services (management of satellite communication, intelligence, navigation, and missile warning systems), developing doctrines and tactics for warfare in space, and ensuring U.S. superiority in this strategic domain. In the updated 2018 Missile Defense Strategy, special attention was given to the creation of a multi-layered system of space sensors and satellites for tracking hypersonic and ballistic threats — in particular, the satellite system “Hypersonic and Ballistic Tracking Space Sensor Layer,” which provides continuous monitoring of potential threats and data transmission. Additionally, the Trump administration initiated a transition from large satellite systems to a more resilient and distributed architecture — the Next-Generation Overhead Persistent Infrared (Next-Gen OPIR). Another presidential initiative was to accelerate the development of a “persistent monitoring layer” within the “Proliferated Warfighter Space Architecture,” which includes hundreds of satellites capable of tracking enemy missiles at all stages of flight. The administration actively promoted a public-private partnership model. SPD-2, issued in 2018, aimed to simplify the regulation of commercial space activities, including the licensing of launches and satellite operations. NASA’s budget was also oriented toward supporting private companies through contracts and partnership proposals. In September 2020, the administration of Donald Trump approved Space Policy Directive SPD-5, which became the first national document establishing cybersecurity standards for space systems. It outlined principles for protecting space assets and infrastructure from cyber threats, including the design and operation of systems based on a risk-oriented approach and the introduction of engineering solutions that account for cybersecurity threats. The directive emphasized cooperation between government agencies and commercial companies, and called on space system operators to develop cyber protection plans, including measures to counter unauthorized access, secure command and telemetry systems, prevent jamming and spoofing, and manage risks in the supply chain. The Trump administration aimed to strengthen international alliances in the space sector. One of its projects was the Artemis Accords, signed on October 13, 2020, which set standards for the exploration of the Moon, Mars, and other celestial bodies, including the registration of objects, sharing of scientific data, and ensuring the safety of space missions. A total of 53 countries joined the agreement. According to independent researcher Irina Isakova, the ultimate goal of the Artemis Accords was to attract technologies and form a new space community willing to operate under American rules. A notable departure from the policies of previous U.S. administrations was the rejection of multilateral initiatives to limit the militarization of space. The view of outer space as a new domain of warfare contradicted the spirit of the 1967 Outer Space Treaty. Nevertheless, the United States refused to participate in discussions on new international agreements aimed at preventing an arms race in space — in particular, proposals from Russia and China to ban the placement of weapons in space and to prevent their first use. Instead, the Trump administration focused on the development of offensive orbital systems, including satellites capable of disabling enemy spacecraft. This approach increased tensions on the international stage and drew criticism from other countries. “Peace Through Strength”: An Analysis of Space Initiatives (2017–2021) During his first presidential term, Donald Trump’s administration introduced new initiatives aimed at strengthening U.S. leadership in space, supporting the private sector, and ensuring national security. However, the implementation of these ambitious goals left a mixed legacy for the next administration. The use of the term “space superiority” provoked a negative response from the international community. The White House’s drive toward the militarization of space weakened the U.S. position on the diplomatic stage — the American view of space as a “warfighting domain” raised concerns that U.S. policy was provoking a space arms race. Declarations of a desire to strengthen international cooperation often contradicted the administration’s actual actions, leading to disagreements with allies and complicating the implementation of joint plans to protect satellites or develop norms of behavior in space. Doctrinal documents (such as the Defense Space Strategy) lacked a clear connection between goals and the means to achieve them. Unlike the more detailed strategies of previous administrations, Trump’s strategy offered only general recommendations. The initiative to create the Space Force turned out to be quite costly and led to excessive bureaucratization. Some initiatives faced budget constraints or delays due to technological unpreparedness, while cuts to Earth science programs caused concern among scientists. Overall, the stated goals of peaceful space exploration, aggressive rhetoric, and the actions of Trump’s administration undermined trust in the United States on the international stage. Evolution of Approaches in the Second Term (2025–2029) According to American analysts and former government officials, in its doctrinal approach to defense space policy, the Trump 2.0 administration will focus on offensive capabilities and the integration of commercial service providers into Pentagon projects. The main obstacle for the president’s space projects will be the issue of funding. One of Donald Trump’s key initiatives during his first presidency was the promotion of the idea to form a National Space Guard (NSG) as a reserve component to support the United States Space Force. At the time, the idea did not receive support. In March 2025, a bill to establish the NSG was introduced to Congress. One of its authors, Senator Mike Crapo, stated that “Guard members and reservists are often highly specialized and trained individuals entrusted to counter serious threats posed by global actors such as China and Russia.” On January 27, 2025, President Donald Trump signed an executive order to create the “Iron Dome of America”, which includes land-, air-, sea-, and space-based components, including orbital interceptor missiles. Just one month later, the ambitious initiative was renamed Golden Dome for America. The system is intended to protect the entire country from all types of missile threats. The general provisions of the order closely resemble the Strategic Defense Initiative plan of President Ronald Reagan from the 1980s. Creation of a dense system for intercepting and striking enemy missiles during the launch phase and even before launch;Deployment in outer space of intercept systems equipped with lasers to destroy enemy nuclear weapons;Deployment of interceptors in various orbits;Construction/deployment of a global ground-based infrastructure;Protection of critical assets and infrastructure within the framework of the extended deterrence concept;Modernization of battlefield air defense systems to protect military formations on the ground;Establishment of a complete and self-contained production cycle for all components of the “shield” exclusively within the United States, ensuring the security of the defense industry and logistics for the production of upgraded and advanced interceptors and tracking systems. In addition to the obvious analogy with the Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI), the current program also reflects the evolution of military technologies — the use of hypersonic sensors (Hypersonic and Ballistic Tracking Space Sensor Layer) and satellite networks like Next-Gen OPIR, which provide continuous monitoring. It is assumed that the system will be entirely produced in the United States. However, Kari Bingen, former Deputy Under Secretary of Defense for Intelligence and Security during the first Trump administration and now a fellow at CSIS, believes that the new administration will strive for close cooperation with Israel in the space domain. Although the technical and financial scale of the project raises skepticism among experts, the Golden Dome for America program may lead to greater involvement of private companies in the development and production of missile defense system components, stimulate the U.S. defense-industrial base, and ultimately contribute to a revision of the national defense strategy aimed at winning the arms race and achieving strategic invulnerability. At the same time, according to the December 2024 report “Government Space Programs: A Comprehensive Review of Government Space Strategies, Activities, and Budgets through 2033” by NovaSpace, 59% of global government funding for space programs comes from the U.S. budget, but Washington remains dissatisfied with the current funding level. The White House is betting on encouraging the involvement of private capital and foreign partners in space programs. A discussion held during the Small Satellite Symposium on February 5, 2025, in California highlighted strong competition for government contracts between legacy space program contractors (Lockheed Martin, Northrop Grumman, L3Harris, Raytheon Technologies, Boeing’s Millennium, General Dynamics) and several new consortium groups (Palantir Technologies and Anduril Industries, OpenAI and SpaceX). In the space sector, the United States holds not only strong technological and financial advantages but also significant competitive capacity. Trump’s 2.0 team includes many prominent figures with professional or commercial interests in space: Elon Musk, owner of SpaceX and Tesla; Jared Isaacman, NASA Administrator, CEO of Shift4 Payments and Draken International (which trained U.S. Air Force pilots); Steve Feinberg, candidate for Deputy Secretary of Defense and founder of Cerberus Capital Management; Tom Krause, Assistant Secretary of the Treasury and Director of Cloud Software Group; Jeff Bezos, advisor to space coordination councils and founder of Blue Origin, among others. The recent conflict between Donald Trump and Elon Musk, despite its public resonance, has not had a systemic impact on the administration’s strategy regarding the private sector. NASA officially stated its intent to continue implementing the president’s space priorities, using the full range of industrial partners. Any potential tactical slowdowns caused by corporate conflicts are offset by strong competition and diversification of contractors. NASA’s flagship program, the Artemis Accords, may undergo a shift in priorities. Its outspoken critic, Elon Musk, has consistently argued that the U.S. should abandon lunar exploration and focus on Mars. There remains a possibility that the Space Launch System (SLS) — the super-heavy launch vehicle for crewed missions beyond Earth orbit — may be canceled or significantly altered. Key roles could shift to private companies such as SpaceX or Blue Origin, with Elon Musk’s SpaceX Starship becoming the cornerstone of Martian ambitions. This is evidenced by budget cuts and job reductions: Boeing, the primary SLS contractor, has already announced potential layoffs. The future of the Artemis Accords will depend on decisions by the Trump administration, the influence of the private sector, and Congressional support. Invitation to a Space Arms Race The doctrinal approaches of the current U.S. president’s administration are transforming space into a full-fledged theater of military operations, where the United States seeks to establish dominance through a combination of military, commercial, and regulatory tools. During his first presidential term, Donald Trump laid the institutional groundwork for this strategy; in his second term, he is launching a qualitatively new phase of militarization. The 2018 National Space Strategy, with its emphasis on building a large-scale space architecture, marks a shift to the concept of “space as a warfighting domain.” The Golden Dome program effectively abandons the principle of “stability through vulnerability” and revives the Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI), which in the 1980s undermined nuclear deterrence stability and triggered a new round of confrontation. The Artemis program contributes to the fragmentation of the legal framework and undermines the regime established by the 1967 Outer Space Treaty. Trump’s “space” agenda is expected to further militarize the civilian sector of the economy, draw U.S. allies around the world into military space projects, and intensify global competition over frequencies, orbits, and cybersecurity standards. Such policies by the Trump administration have dangerous consequences for international security, including the escalation of the space arms race, the risk of space-based conflicts, and the provocation of nuclear arsenal expansion — especially by China. The New Space Landscape and Future Challenges Donald Trump’s administration has radically revised the U.S. approach to outer space, turning it from a domain of international cooperation into a stage of strategic rivalry. The creation of the U.S. Space Force, the launch of the Golden Dome program, and the promotion of the Artemis Accords represent a clear trajectory toward military-technological dominance, supported by public-private partnerships. These steps have sparked not only a wave of technological advancement but also increased international tension — including criticism from Russia and China, which advocate for banning the militarization of orbital space, as well as major disagreements over the interpretation of space law. The Trump era will leave behind a dual legacy: on one hand, accelerated innovation and commercialization; on the other, risks of legal fragmentation and the escalation of an arms race. Under Donald Trump, space is becoming an integral part of U.S. defense strategy. The future of humanity in space will depend on whether the White House administration can balance its desire to deter space competitors with a willingness to preserve dialogue — otherwise, near-Earth space risks turning into the “new front of a cold war.” Sources: V.P. Kozin. U.S. Space Forces: Their Key Missions and Future Potentials. Moscow: Sabashnikov Publishing House, 2022. 444 pages. ISBN: 978-5-82420-184-0. 

Defense & Security
The Cooperation Council for the Arab States of the Gulf ,is a regional, intergovernmental, political, and economic union comprising Bahrain, Kuwait, Oman, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, and the uae

Transactional Politics: Rethinking U.S.-Gulf Security and Defence Relationships amid U.S. Decline

by Kristian Coates Ulrichsen

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском Abstract This article analyses the shifts in security and defence policies across the six states of the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) and disentangles political and geopolitical strains in the U.S.-Gulf relationship from practical measures to boost cooperation and deepen interoperability. In examining the trajectory of security and defence relationships, the article assesses the stability and durability of the underlying components of U.S.-Gulf partnerships in a time of rapid change. The article begins a section that details how and why the perception of U.S. disengagement has evolved, despite ongoing reliance on facilities such as Al-Udeid in Qatar for forward basing arrangements, before a second section examines regional responses to the withdrawal from Afghanistan in 2021, the Russia-Ukraine war in 2022, and the Israeli war in Gaza that erupted in 2023. A third section explores the ‘nuts and bolts’ of security and defence relationships and considers issues such as U.S. arms sales and Department of Defense programs, such as Red Sands in Saudi Arabia and the Comprehensive Security Integration and Prosperity Agreement with Bahrain, as ways to boost cooperation in the face of political tension and stiff competition. As U.S. troop levels have ebbed and flowed, a final section considers whether a more flexible approach to security relationships is sustainable in a far more transactional era of international power and politics. Little more than 6 months separated the chaotic U.S. withdrawal from Afghanistan in August 2021 from the full-scale Russian invasion of Ukraine in February 2022.[1] The manner by which the U.S. was seen by many observers to abandon the Afghan government in the face of a resurgent Taliban cast doubt among partner nations in the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) as to the reliability and ‘staying power’ of the U.S. in the region, and rekindled memories of the withdrawal of American support for Hosni Mubarak in Egypt as the Arab uprisings began in early 2011.[2] Kabul appeared to be another blow to a U.S.-led regional order that was already being questioned by officials in the Gulf States even as they contributed to its weakening by diversifying their own political, economic, and, to a lesser extent, security and defence relationships. For many in leadership positions in the Gulf States, the fall of Kabul appeared to be one more step in a process of U.S. disengagement which they perceived to be one-directional and to take place across successive presidencies as different as Obama was to Trump and Trump was to Biden.[3] Whereas the withdrawal from Afghanistan witnessed the U.S. acting unilaterally to secure its own interests, narrowly defined and without seeming to take account of those of its partners and allies, the build-up of tension in Ukraine saw the Biden administration engage intensively with allies and partners in the runup to and aftermath of the Russian invasion. U.S. intelligence and information-sharing, which were seen to have erred badly in Afghanistan in 2021, was a high-profile and very visible policy over Ukraine in 2022, and restored a measure of credibility, especially among NATO allies.[4] However, in the Gulf States, the policy response to Ukraine did not deliver a ‘dividend’ in terms of restoring faith in the U.S. as a trustworthy partner, as GCC states pursued hedging strategies and further diversified their range of security partnerships, albeit in divergent ways. The war in Gaza, which erupted after the Hamas-led incursion into southern Israel on October 7, 2023, generated additional questions about the durability of an increasingly fragile regional order.[5] And yet, the ‘nuts and bolts’ of security and defence ties between the U.S. and Gulf States have continued to evolve, albeit in a looser and more transactional form that at any time since the structure of U.S. primacy in the region took shape in the late-1980s and early-1990s. Examples of diverging trajectories include the United Arab Emirates becoming a safe haven for Russian capital and business, regional responses to Houthi attacks on shipping in the Red Sea, and the resilience of Saudi-Iranian ties even as hopes for Saudi-Israeli normalization faded. In October 2024, the decision of the Saudi Crown Prince, Mohammed bin Salman, to receive Iran’s Foreign Minister, Abbas Araghchi, just as the Biden administration was weighing its support for a retaliatory Israeli attack on Iran, demonstrated how perceptions of regional interests were moving apart.[6] It is this ‘puzzle’ of divergence in the political and security tracks of U.S.-Gulf relations that is the focus of analysis, as ties have simultaneously become more fragile yet also shown resilient adaptability. This article examines the changing trajectories of U.S.-Gulf security relationships and moves beyond the focus, often seen in American policy discourse, on U.S. demands for ‘burden-sharing’ among regional partners, which redoubled in the first and second Trump presidencies. Instead, the article examines the ways in which the Gulf States are developing a more transactional approach to U.S. partnerships, resulting in a more flexible model of cooperation. This is consistent with broader shifts from a U.S.-dominated regional order toward the internationalization of regional security structures, as policy preferences (on all sides) have gradually diverged. While there is no monolithic approach to ‘the Gulf’, by and large there is a trend toward states no longer being willing to rely solely on U.S. guarantees, borne out of events in the 2010s, and to developing a more diversified portfolio of security and defence partnerships, again at different speeds across different countries, and with no uniformity on the choice of external partner. At the same time, several Gulf States, notably Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates (UAE), and Qatar have emerged as assertive regional and international actors, and new forms of partnership have evolved. There are four sections to this article, which begins with an examination of how and why the perception in the Gulf States of U.S. disengagement has evolved, despite ongoing reliance on facilities such as Al-Udeid in Qatar for forward basing arrangements. A second section examines regional responses to the withdrawal from Afghanistan in 2021, the Russia-Ukraine war in 2022, and the conflict in Gaza which began in October 2023. The third section explores the ‘nuts and bolts’ of security and defence relationships and considers issues such as U.S. arms sales and Department of Defense programs, such as Red Sands in Saudi Arabia and the recently concluded Comprehensive Security Integration and Prosperity Agreement with Bahrain, as ways to boost practical security cooperation in the face of political tension and stiff competition. As U.S. troop levels have ebbed and flowed, the concluding section considers whether and how a more flexible approach to security relationships is sustainable in a more transactional era of power and politics. Gulf States’ Perceptions of U.S. Disengagement A belief held by many policymakers in the Gulf States, that the U.S. is less engaged and/or less reliable and predictable in its approach to regional affairs, has taken root over the decade and a half which has elapsed since the Arab Spring uprisings of 2010–11. To be sure, this belief is rooted in an idealized view of U.S.-Gulf relations which has, over the three decades since the Gulf War in 1991, been based on extremely visible and large-scale force deployments in the region, especially during the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, which were not typical of long-term trends.[7] Nevertheless, this perception has lasted across consecutive presidential administrations and has become more deeply entrenched precisely because a pattern has been seen to develop across such different presidencies as Obama to Trump to Biden, and as U.S. troop levels in the region were inexorably drawn down.[8] While there was no regionwide consensus or monolithic view of the U.S. in the Gulf, and no one single incident which sparked a reassessment, attitudes evolved in response to a series of policy decisions which unfolded over the space of a decade. The effect has been to strengthen a process of diversification of Gulf States’ security and defence relationships to avoid over-reliance on any single partner in a world of growing multipolarity and strategic options.[9] Deciding where to begin with the many issues which caused degrees of concern in Gulf capitals at U.S. policymaking intent is a little like asking the proverbial question about how long a piece of string might be. For example, the second term of the George W. Bush administration saw frictions develop between the U.S. and GCC states, notably Saudi Arabia, over the mishandling of the occupation of post-Saddam Iraq and the sense of anger in Gulf capitals that Iran appeared to be the primary geopolitical beneficiary.[10] This caused significant mistrust in Riyadh at U.S. policy intent (and outcomes) in Iraq and the region.[11] It was in the Obama administration, however, that the perception of drift began to develop, including in relation to the so-called ‘pivot to Asia’ in the late-2000s which Gulf leaders (erroneously) saw as a shift in U.S. focus away from the Middle East, rather than post-Cold War Europe.[12] However, it was the withdrawal of political support from the embattled Egyptian president, Hosni Mubarak, in February 2011, which caused shock and bitterness in Gulf capitals, who saw the move as a betrayal of a longstanding U.S. partner.[13] The Obama administration’s response to the Arab uprisings (which, in the case of unrest in GCC states, was far more muted and reflective of U.S. interests in the stability of its regional partners) was followed by the disclosure in November 2013 that American and Iranian officials had been meeting secretly in Oman for over a year, and by the subsequent negotiations between the P5 + 1 and Iran for a Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA) to address the Iranian nuclear file in 2015. Both negotiations cut out the GCC states and added to concerns at the direction of U.S. policymaking in the region.[14] Partly in response to concerns that the JCPOA focused too narrowly on only one aspect of Iran’s regional activity and did not address other issues, Saudi Arabia and the UAE intervened militarily in Yemen in March 2015 to push back the advance of Houthi rebels they believed were in receipt of direct Iranian assistance.[15] An interview given by Obama to The Atlantic magazine in 2016 sealed the breakdown in working relations as officials reacted with fury to a comment about ‘free riders’ which they perceived to be directed at them rather than, as was the case, against the British and French governments over their intervention in Libya in 2011.[16] Genuine displeasure, as well as a degree of bewilderment, at the direction of certain aspects of the Obama administration’s policies toward the Middle East contributed to the early embrace of the Trump presidency by officials in several Gulf capitals, including Riyadh and Abu Dhabi as well as Manama.[17] In June 2017, Trump initially endorsed the Saudi-Emirati-Bahraini (as well as Egyptian) move to isolate Qatar, in a decision which caused shockwaves in Doha as well as in the U.S. Departments of State and Defense. The sight of a sitting president seemingly abandoning a U.S. partner, albeit only temporarily, raised powerful questions about the reliability and durability of the Gulf States’ most important external relationship.[18] Two years later, it was the Saudis’ and Emiratis’ turn to call into question the partnership with the U.S. as the Trump administration chose not to respond to a series of attacks, generally although never formally attributed to Iran or to Iranian proxy groups, on energy and maritime targets in Saudi Arabia and the UAE.[19] In September 2019, 2 days after a missile and drone attack on Saudi oil facilities temporarily knocked out half the Kingdom’s oil production, Trump noted pointedly ‘That was an attack on Saudi Arabia, and that wasn’t an attack on us’ and added that ‘I’m somebody that would like not to have war’.[20] Political decisions by successive presidential administrations therefore injected doubt as to the value or even the existence of security guarantees which were believed by many observers of regional affairs to form the bedrock of contemporary U.S.-Gulf relations.[21] The impact became clear when tensions between the United States and Iran soared in the aftermath of the killing of Qassim Soleimani in an American drone strike in Baghdad in January 2020, when regional officials in GCC states called for de-escalation.[22] President Biden sought to restore U.S. credibility when he reasserted ‘the U.S. commitment to help Saudi Arabia defend its territory as it faces attacks from Iranian-aligned groups’ after he took office in 2021.[23] However, poor relations between Biden and Saudi Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman, stemming from comments Biden made in a campaign debate in 2019, proved insurmountable, with MBS going so far as to reply ‘Simply, I do not care’, when asked in 2022 what he thought of Biden’s opinion of him.[24] Regional Responses to Afghanistan, Ukraine, and Gaza In August 2021, the disorganized and seemingly unilateral nature of the final U.S. withdrawal from Kabul provided yet another indication, in the eyes of already sceptical policy analysts and officials in GCC states, of the potentially capricious nature of American interests. While there was a broad consensus that the ‘forever wars’ launched in the 2000s could not continue indefinitely, the manner by which the Biden administration conducted its final drawdown reinforced the concerns listed above about the durability of U.S. commitments to regional partners, and as elements of the political right and left coalesced around support for policies of restraint and isolationism.[25] The sight of the Afghan air force rendered inoperable after the withdrawal of American training and maintenance, and the flight of Ashraf Ghani, the U.S.-backed President, to the UAE, were indicators of the vulnerability of over-reliance on single security partners, however powerful.[26] Less than six months later, the strenuous attempts made by the Biden administration to work with allies and partners to coordinate policy in early 2022 as Russian forces massed on the border with Ukraine, and then to push back against Moscow after the full-scale invasion commenced on February 24, ought to have repaired some of the damage caused by the optics around the chaos in Kabul in 2021. Specific measures included the deployment of additional U.S. troops to Eastern Europe as well as the sharing of intelligence designed to deter Vladimir Putin from moving into Ukraine.[27] Qatar, which was accorded Major Non-NATO Ally Status by the Biden administration in January 2022, in part a recognition of its assistance to U.S. and international humanitarian efforts in Afghanistan during and after the withdrawal, also sought to play a balancing role in gas markets as Emir Tamim visited Biden in the White House and hosted Russian energy officials in Doha.[28] Europe’s pivot away from Russia restated the Gulf States’ centrality in global energy security considerations, while the rise in oil and gas prices in late-2011 and for most of 2022 also returned GCC states’ budgets to surplus after years of deficits following the oil price crash of 2014.[29] However, the ‘coming together’ effect noticeable in the U.S.-European (and NATO) response to Russia-Ukraine in 2022 did not appear to mollify strained relationships in the Gulf; if anything, the responses to the invasion made the different trajectories which had taken shape in prior years all the more visible. Like much of the Global South, the Gulf States did not take sides in the Russia-Ukraine war. Policymakers in GCC capitals did not share the view of their counterparts in Washington and Europe that the collective defence of Ukraine was ‘an international order defining event, a generational moment in which international alliances and norms are being reshaped’.[30] Regional leaders refused to get drawn into a new era of bloc rivalry and, unlike the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait in 1990, did not deem Russia’s aggression against Ukraine to pose a direct threat to their political or security interests, in common with counterparts across much of the ‘Global South’.[31] A variation in stances toward the February 2022 invasion and subsequent developments nevertheless fell along a spectrum that ranged from Qatar aligning most closely with Ukraine (and the U.S. position) and Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, and the UAE leaning more closely toward Russia, with Kuwait and Oman falling somewhat in-between. These variations in position mirrored those during the GCC rift between 2017 and 2020, and indicate that, for the Qatari leadership, the sight of a larger power threatening (and ultimately invading) a smaller neighbour carried resonance, so soon after the blockade era when Doha faced pressure from Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, and the UAE. However, while Qatari leaders announced a pause in new investments in Russia, existing links with Moscow remained unchanged, and the Qatar Investment Authority became the largest non-Russian shareholder in Rosneft after BP announced it would terminate its own relationship with the state-owned giant.[32] The UAE position was complicated by the fact that the country had just taken up a rotating two-year seat on the United Nations Security Council for 2022–23. This forced the UAE to take positions even if the Emirati choice was to abstain on two Security Council votes in February 2022 which condemned the Russian invasion and called for an emergency session of the United General Assembly – abstentions which caused considerable friction with the U.S.[33] Policy responses in and after 2022 reinforced perceptions of drift in relations between the U.S. and key Gulf partners. Both Mohammed bin Zayed in Abu Dhabi and Mohammed bin Salman in Riyadh spoke on several occasions with President Putin and appeared to rebuff entreaties by President Biden during the opening weeks of the war.[34] Positions taken on Russia-Ukraine in 2022 illustrated how tensions that built up over a period of years beforehand became manifest in the regional reactions. After the imposition of additional U.S., European Union, and British sanctions on Russian entities in 2022, the UAE (and Dubai in particular) emerged as a welcoming haven for Russian capital and business elites, several of whom appeared to obtain Emirati citizenship.[35] Many of the sanctioned Russian companies continued to do business with counterparts in the Gulf States with few evident consequences, creating gaps in the moves to isolate the Putin regime. In 2023, Mohammed bin Saleh Al-Sada, the former Minister of State for Energy in Qatar from 2011 to 2018, was elected Chairman of the Board of Rosneft, in a private capacity but demonstrative of the limited reach of Western appeals to reduce Gulf ties with sanctioned entities in Russia.[36] The case of oil prices illustrated how the Gulf States assertively put their own interests forward even if they were seen to clash with the interests of partners such as the U.S. There is nothing untoward about this, as states routinely pursue national interests based on a pragmatic calculation of internal and external interests. However, in the context of the emphasis placed by the Biden administration and its European allies on the defence of Ukraine in the name of an international rules-based order, the sight of their closest partners in the Middle East not joining with anything like the same strength of approach sent visible signals of policy divergence over Ukraine. European and American leaders, including Boris Johnson and Joe Biden, visited Saudi Arabia in the spring and summer of 2022 to make the case for an increase in Saudi (and OPEC/OPEC+) output in order to bring down oil prices which had surged.[37] Moreover, the acrimonious aftermath of President Biden’s visit to Jeddah and meeting with Mohammed bin Salman in July 2022, and the coordinated Saudi-Russian oil output cut in October 2022, demonstrated the divergence of interests, especially as officials in D.C. and Riyadh traded barbs over whether (or not) the Saudi decision to cut output, or the Biden administration’s request to increase production, were politically motivated.[38] Following the outbreak of the war in Gaza after the Hamas-led attacks on southern Israel on October 7, 2023, the legitimacy of aspects of the system of international order came under growing scrutiny by critics who contrasted U.S. responses to developments in Ukraine as opposed to Gaza. Images of Palestinian suffering caused anger across the Middle East as well as much of the Global South, including in the Gulf States, and made it politically difficult for officials to ignore, with the Saudi leadership, in particular, reassessing the terms of any normalization agreement with Israel.[39] Discrepancies in labelling acts committed by Russian and Israeli forces (in Ukraine and Gaza, respectively) as ‘war crimes’, and about whether to engage with the International Court of Justice and the International Criminal Court, brought accusations of double standards and hypocrisy, and weakened the credibility of the international order in the eyes of many in the non-Western world.[40] While Gaza did not prove a breaking-point in U.S.-Gulf relations, it did bring to the surface the different trajectories in security and defence interests and priorities. Statements by leaders in Gulf capitals hardened as the bombardment of Gaza continued, with even Mohammed bin Salman going as far as to condemn ‘the collective genocide committed by Israel against the brotherly Palestinian people’ at an Arab-Islamic Summit in Riyadh in November 2024.[41] These remarks came just 14 months after the Crown Prince told Fox News in September 2023 that ‘every day, we get closer’ to a Saudi-Israeli breakthrough that, he predicted, would be ‘the biggest historical deal since the end of the Cold War’.[42] Officials in Oman went further in the use of harsh language to condemn Israeli actions which at times bordered on tacit support for Hamas, and was reflective of and rooted in an upsurge of anger among Omani citizens, hitherto one of the most politically quiescent commentariats in the region.[43] Leaders in all GCC states had to acknowledge the domestic backlash against the destruction of Gaza, a balancing act made more delicate in Bahrain and the UAE, the two Gulf signatories to the Abraham Accords with Israel in 2020.[44] An additional consideration for policymakers in Riyadh, Abu Dhabi, Dubai, and Doha, in particular, was an interest in ‘de-risking’ potential regional volatility as focus turned to large-scale developmental, energy, and infrastructure projects, including those associated with Saudi Arabia’s Vision 2030.[45] ‘Nuts and Bolts’ of Evolving Security and Defence Relationships In the face of the political and geopolitical tensions noted above, U.S. security relationships and defence partnerships with the Gulf States have evolved. A decade of change since 2015 has illustrated that ties tend to work better on an ad hoc, case-by-case basis rather than as part of a grand strategic framework. An example of the latter was the launch of a U.S.-GCC Strategic Partnership in 2015, at a summit at Camp David between Gulf leaders (only two of whom attended) and President Obama, and the creation of five working groups to cover cooperation in counterterrorism, missile defence, military preparedness and training, critical defence capabilities, and cyber security.[46] Both the working groups and the strategic partnership fell into abeyance during the Trump administration, and were superseded by U.S. efforts to form a Middle East Strategic Alliance (MESA) with GCC states plus Egypt and Jordan. MESA failed to gain traction for a variety of reasons, including the intra-GCC rift over Qatar, a failure of parties to agree on the scope and scale of the issues to be covered by the initiative, and Egypt’s withdrawal in 2019.[47] The U.S.-GCC working groups reconvened in February 2023, nearly a year into the Russia-Ukraine war, for their first meeting in years, against the backdrop of the supply of Iranian armed drones to Russia and the provision of Russian defence assistance to Iran. The fact that Iranian weapons systems were being tested on the battlefield in Ukraine and in operational and combat settings against civilian and infrastructure targets highlighted how a secondary impact of the Russia-Ukraine war could impact on U.S.-GCC interests.[48] U.S. and Gulf States’ navies then participated in a major 18-day International Maritime Exercise in February and March 2023 co-led by Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, and the U.S. and directed from the Maritime Security Centre in Oman. Held under the auspices of the U.S. Naval Forces Central Command, more than 7000 personnel and 35 ships from over 50 countries and organizations took part in exercises in the Red Sea, the Gulf of Aden, the Arabian Sea, and the Gulf.[49] Perhaps uncoincidentally, Russia and China joined Iran in a joint naval exercise in the Gulf of Oman the same month, illustrating how, in the ‘nuts and bolts’ of security and defence relationships, the GCC still chose to side with the U.S.[50] A host of new initiatives since 2020 suggest that new security partnerships between the U.S. and individual Gulf States are evolving on bespoke bilateral and issue-specific lines. CENTCOM has worked closely with Saudi officials to develop the Red Sands Integrated Experimentation Centre as a regional testing facility in Saudi Arabia to boost cooperation against the shared threat from missile and drone attacks from Iran and regional proxies.[51] Joint exercises involving U.S. and Saudi forces have tested systems to destroy and disable unmanned aerial systems of the type that breached Saudi air defences during the ballistic missile and drone strikes on oil infrastructure facilities in September 2019.[52] U.S. officials also play an integral role in Saudi Arabia’s defence transformation plan with Department of Defense personnel assisting their Saudi counterparts with overhauling human-capital development, joint staff development, intelligence reorganization and force sustainment, and the development of a National Defence College. The U.S. role in capacity-building is a step up from the hitherto-largely scattered interventions tied to the foreign military sales process rather than in support of any deeper or underlying policy objective.[53] Another example of renewed U.S. commitment to security ties with a Gulf partner was the signing in September 2023 of a Comprehensive Security Integration and Prosperity Agreement (C-SIPA) with Bahrain. Announced during a visit to Washington, D.C. by Bahrain’s Crown Prince Salman bin Hamad Al Khalifa and described as ‘the most advanced formal security agreement the United States has with any country in the region’, C-SIPA will expand defence and security cooperation as well as trade and investment ties through collaborative measures across the security spectrum, albeit without a mutual defence guarantee.[54] Although many of the specific security-related initiatives are classified, C-SIPA may build upon the recent spate of U.S. strategic dialogues with Gulf partners, which began with Qatar in 2017 and now encompass every GCC state on a bilateral (rather than collective) basis. How C-SIPA unfolds will likely be studied carefully in other Gulf capitals, especially Riyadh and Abu Dhabi, which have long demanded enhanced U.S. defence guarantees, most recently in relation to any U.S.-brokered agreement to normalize with Israel (in the Saudi case) and in the desire for ‘codified’ U.S. security commitments (for the UAE).[55] Officials in the UAE have chosen a different approach which reflects the confidence of Emirati policymakers that the country is an influential ‘middle power’ capable of holding its own on an inter-regional and increasingly global stage. This was evident in the signing of the Abraham Accord with Israel in September 2020 in which the text of the agreement signed by the UAE was far more substantive than those signed by Morocco, Bahrain, and Sudan, and included reference to a ‘Strategic Agenda for the Middle East’ that was unique to the Emirati-Israeli accord.[56] The strategic and security-focused aspects of the UAE-Israel agreement enabled the normalization process to survive periodic frictions in the political relationship, as security and defence relations took centre-stage in the new initiatives and joint ventures announced by both parties, and neither the UAE nor Bahrain has withdrawn from the Accords although other states have not joined.[57] Both Israel and the UAE, as small states with significant hard power capabilities, have operationalized formal cooperation in the security and defence realm, including a first joint military exercise in the Red Sea in November 2021 which was coordinated by the U.S. Fifth Fleet (stationed in Bahrain), which ‘set a precedent for collective policing at sea to counter weapons-smuggling and threats posed by pirates and the Iranian navy’.[58] In February 2023, a venture between EDGE, an Emirati defence consortium and Israel Aerospace Industries unveiled their first jointly created unmanned naval vessel, for use in surveillance, reconnaissance, and mine detection, during the annual Naval Defence and Maritime Security Exhibition in Abu Dhabi.[59] Sharing of intelligence, reportedly concerning Hezbollah and the Houthi movement in Yemen, also took place, including in the aftermath of three missile and drone strikes on Abu Dhabi in January 2022.[60] Emirati policymakers have continued to engage with the U.S. and other regional and international partners in a series of more focused ‘mini-lateral’ fora, including the 12U2 (with India, Israel, and the U.S.), the Negev Forum (with the U.S. and other Arab states which have normalized relations with Israel), the Somalia Quint (with the U.S., the U.K., Qatar, and Turkey), and the Yemen Quartet (with the U.S., the U.K., and Saudi Arabia).[61] Such issue-based tie-ups outside formal institutions provide opportunities for middle powers such as the UAE to engage with specific partners and have become key elements in the UAE’s evolving approach to regional and foreign affairs, especially in Asia and the Indo-Pacific, areas of increasing focus both for the Gulf States (for economic and energy reasons) and the U.S. (connected to power competition and strategic rivalry with China).[62] How the U.S. and its partners in the Gulf balance (or fail to balance) the competing and sometimes diverging interests vis-à-vis China (and, to an extent, Russia) will go some way toward defining the next phase of political relationships that may still impinge on defence and security ties, as seen in the furore over a possible Chinese naval facility in Abu Dhabi that contributed in part to significant tensions in the bilateral U.S.-UAE relationship in 2021.[63] Shifting Toward a Transactional Approach It may be that the future of relationships between the U.S. and the Gulf States will be based around a set of transactional principles that do not commit or bind the parties to long-term arrangements and represent a more fluid approach to regional affairs. A stronger but narrower technocratic focus on shared areas of interest could help to insulate U.S.-Gulf relationships from the types of political pressures and uncertainties which have generated the perception of drift. However, ‘taking politics out’ of the equation may not be easy to do in practice and could add to layers of mutual misunderstandings or grievance, as with the U.S. pressure on the UAE over its relations with China and Russia, or on Saudi Arabia not to join the expanded BRICS + grouping in 2023 (which the UAE joined but the Saudis have yet to do).[64] Several developments since 2023 provide indications as to how a new configuration of interests could function in a genuinely multipolar landscape. The Saudi-Iran agreement in March 2023 to restore diplomatic relations, which was announced in (and by) China, could be a harbinger of what a more variegated relationship might look like, with greater flexibility to rethink and reorient interests and policies. The Beijing deal appeared to take U.S. officials by surprise, and came in the midst of Beltway speculation about the prospect of Saudi normalization with Israel rather than with Iran.[65] While Saudi and Iranian officials had engaged in multiple prior rounds of talks, beginning in 2021 and facilitated by Iraq and Oman, the decision to obtain Chinese endorsement of the deal was as symbolic as it was significant.[66] China has diplomatic relations with Teheran and Riyadh as well as energy and economic ties in both Iran and Saudi Arabia, and thus could play a balancing role in ways the U.S. simply cannot. Moreover, at a time of rising tension between Iran and the U.S. and Israel, the Chinese backing for the Saudi deal signalled the desire of Beijing and its two regional partners for diplomacy and not conflict.[67] As the Gulf has seen a regional de-escalation of tension since 2021, officials in Gulf States have leveraged what influence they have to contribute to security in different ways. These include mediation, whether in regional conflicts (by Oman and Qatar) or in aspects of the Russia-Ukraine war (by Saudi Arabia and the UAE). Oman’s Foreign Minister since 2020 has been Badr bin Hamad Albusaidi, for whom a characteristic of Omani foreign policy has long been that ‘we try to make use of our intermediate position between larger powers to reduce the potential for conflict in our neighbourhood’.[68] Omani officials have kept open indirect channels of dialogue between the U.S. and Iran and also between Saudi and Houthi officials as they continue to seek to reach agreement in Yemen.[69] Qatari mediators engaged intensively with U.S. and Egyptian counterparts to secure the release of hostages taken by Hamas in October 2023, in return for a pause in Israeli military operations in Gaza, and reached a fragile three-stage ceasefire agreement in January 2025, one day before the Biden administration gave way to the second Trump presidency.[70] The close Qatari-U.S. coordination over Gaza built upon the confidence in Qatari mediation abilities generated by their role in facilitating and supporting the U.S. withdrawal from Kabul in 2021.[71] Saudi and Emirati officials engaged differently as they sought to leverage their relationships both with the U.S. and Russia to facilitate prisoner exchanges and contribute to confidence-building measures to mitigate the impact of the war in Ukraine. The occasional releases of prisoners may only have amounted to pinpricks in the course of the most serious conflict in Europe since the Second World War, but they illustrate that, for all the political tensions over the Gulf States’ reluctance to be drawn into picking sides in any great power competition, the ability to maintain diverse contacts and balance different relationships is conducive to diplomatic initiatives in a polarized world. The subsequent Saudi centrality to the process of U.S.-Russian re-engagement in Trump’s second term illustrated the Kingdom’s desire to have a seat at the table and burnish its credibility as a diplomatic facilitator, possibly with potential future Iran-U.S. talks in mind, especially after Saudi and Emirati displeasure at being cut out of the JCPOA negotiations in 2015.[72] Attacks on maritime targets in the Red Sea by Houthi militants in Yemen have nevertheless highlighted the delicate balancing act facing Gulf States as the deadliest war between Israelis and Palestinians since 1948 threatens the rapprochement that had marked the conduct of regional politics across the Middle East prior to October 7, 2023. Memories of Houthi missile and drone attacks against Saudi cities and infrastructure targets (between 2015 and 2022) and against Abu Dhabi (in 2022) remain fresh. Especially as Vision 2030 passed its halfway point (having been launched by Mohammed bin Salman in 2016) and the ‘giga-projects’ along Saudi Arabia’s Red Sea coastline move into the construction and delivery phase, ‘de-risking’ has become a priority for the Saudi leadership as they seek to attract foreign investors and visitors.[73] Officials remain mindful of the optics that went around the world during the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix in March 2022 when the annual Formula One race in Jeddah took place against the backdrop of thick black smoke billowing from a nearby oil storage facility struck by the Houthis the day before.[74] Policy responses to the Houthi attacks in the Red Sea which began in November 2023 and triggered a multinational response in January 2024 indicated the careful balancing act at play in the Gulf, especially for Saudi Arabia, given the location of projects such as Neom on the Red Sea coastline. Bahrain was the only GCC state to be named as a participant in Operation Prosperity Guardian, the multi-country coalition which was formed in December 2023 to respond to the maritime attacks. However, Bahrain did not take part in the kinetic ship- and air-based operations and it was notable that the airstrikes against Houthi targets in Yemen did not involve U.S. or British forces based in the Gulf.[75] Instead, the strikes were launched from bases in Cyprus, the U.K., and the U.S., thereby minimizing the risks to the Gulf States from any blowback either from the Houthis or Iran. Operation Prosperity Guardian may therefore be a harbinger of a more flexible approach to U.S.-GCC relations in which security and defence cooperation continues on a technocratic basis even as there is greater elasticity, and, at times, degrees of divergence in (geo)political interests.[76] The return of Donald Trump to the Oval Office in January 2025, as the first president in 130 years to serve a non-consecutive second term, suggests that U.S. decision-making, in both domestic and foreign policy, will continue along highly transactional, unpredictable, and volatile lines. A move toward a ‘post-American’ order, regionally in the Middle East and in the structure of international politics, is likely to further reshape perceptions and policies. As the Gulf States are neither allies (in the formal sense) nor adversaries of the United States, they occupy a middle ground which may shield them from swings in U.S. policymaking toward these categories of states. It is probable that the assertion of Gulf States’ interests in engaging with Iran, as well as with China and Russia will deepen the divergence of trajectories with the U.S. and increase the likelihood that ties will reframe around a looser and more transactional-based approach. The Gaza war may not have led to a rupture with the U.S., or with Israel, but, coming in parallel with the war in Ukraine, it has intensified the repositioning of the Gulf States in a rapidly changing system of international power. Declaration of Conflicting Interests The author declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article. Funding The author received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article. Footnotes 1. References in this paper to the Russian invasion of Ukraine refer to the full-scale invasion which was launched by Russian forces on February 24, 2022, rather than the invasion and subsequent Russian occupation of areas of eastern Ukraine and the Crimea in 2014. 2. David Kilcullen and Greg Mills, The Ledger: Accounting for Failure in Afghanistan (London: Hurst & Co., 2021), 222–24; Marc Lynch, The Arab Uprising: The Unfinished Revolutions of the New Middle East (New York: Public Affairs, 2012), 94. 3. Tobias Borck, Seeking Stability Amidst Disorder: The Foreign Policies of Saudi Arabia, the UAE and Qatar, 2010–20 (London: Hurst & Co., 2023), 193. 4. Huw Dylan and Thomas Maguire, ‘Secret Intelligence and Public Diplomacy in the Ukraine War’, Survival 64/4 (September 2022), 34. 5. John Raine, ‘Ukraine versus Gaza’, Survival, 66/1 (February/March 2024), 173–74. 6. Ben Hubbard, ‘Iranian Official Heads to Saudi Arabia as Israel Postpones U.S. Meeting’, New York Times, October 9, 2024. 7. Dania Thafer and David Des Roches, The Arms Trade, Military Services and the Security Market in the Gulf States: Trends and Implications (Berlin: Gerlach Press, 2016), 1–7. 8. Bilal Saab, ‘After Hub-and-Spoke: US Hegemony in a New Gulf Security Order’, Atlantic CouncilReport, 2016, 4 9. Tobias Borck, Seeking Stability Amidst Disorder: The Foreign Policies of Saudi Arabia, the UAE andQatar, 2010-20 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2023), 18; Khalifa Al-Suwaidi, The UAE After theArab Spring: Strategy for Survival (London: I.B. Tauris, 2023), 120. 10. Kristian Coates Ulrichsen, Insecure Gulf: The End of Certainty and the Transition to the Post-Oil Era(London: Hurst & Co., 2011), 40. 11. Katherine Harvey, A Self-Fulfilling Prophecy: The Saudi Struggle for Iraq (London: Hurst & Co., 2021),144–45. 12. David Roberts, Security Politics in the Gulf Monarchies: Continuity amid Change (New York: ColumbiaUniversity Press, 2023), 158. 13. Fawaz Gerges, Obama and the Middle East: The End of America’s Moment? (New York: PalgraveMacmillan, 2012), 166–67. 14. William Burns, The Back Channel: American Diplomacy in a Disordered World (London: Hurst & Co.,2019), 361–62; Marc Lynch, The New Arab Wars: Uprisings and Anarchy in the Middle East (New York:Public Affairs, 2016), 226–28. 15. Thomas Juneau, ‘Iran’s Policy Towards the Houthis in Yemen: A Limited Return on a Modest In-vestment’, International Affairs 92/3 (May 2016), 658. 16. Jeffrey Goldberg, ‘The Obama Doctrine’, The Atlantic, March 10, 2016; Turki al-Faisal Al Saud, ‘Mr.Obama, We Are Not ‘Free Riders’, Arab News, March 14, 2016. 17. Mehran Kamrava, Troubled Waters: Insecurity in the Persian Gulf (Ithaca: Cornell University Press,2018), 71. 18. Kristian Coates Ulrichsen, Qatar and the Gulf Crisis (London: Hurst & Co., 2020), 77–78. 19. By contrast, the Trump administration did respond on two occasions when U.S. assets were targeted, firstin June 2019 after a U.S. drone was shot down over the Gulf and then in December 2019 after anAmerican contractor was killed in a missile strike on a base in Iraq. 20. Steve Holland and Rania El Gamal, ‘Trump Says He Does Not Want War After Attack on Saudi OilFacilities’, Reuters, September 16, 2019. 21. David Roberts, ‘For Decades, Gulf Leaders Counted on U.S. Protection. Here’s What Changed’,Washington Post, January 30, 2020. 22. Tamara Abueish, ‘Saudi Arabia’s Vice Defense Minister Discusses De-escalation with Esper’, AlArabiya English, January 7, 2020. 23. Anon., ‘Biden Raises Yemen, Human Rights in Call with Saudi King Salman’, Al Jazeera, February 25, 2021. 24. Emile Hokayem, ‘Fraught Relations: Saudi Ambitions and American Anger’, Survival 64/6 (November 2023), 9. 25. David Deudney and John Ikenberry, ‘Misplaced Restraint: The Quincy Coalition Versus Liberal Internationalism’, Survival, 63(4), 2021, 9; Alexander Hertel-Fernandez, Theda Skocpol, and Jason Sclar,‘When Political Mega-Donors Join Forces: How the Koch Network and the Democracy Alliance In-fluence Organized US Politics on the Right and Left’, Studies in American Political Development, 32(2),2018, 128. 26. Marika Theros, ‘Knowledge, Power and the Failure of US Peacemaking in Afghanistan 2018–21’,International Affairs, 99(3), 2023, 1249–50. 27. Trine Flockhart, ‘NATO in the Multi-Order World’, International Affairs 100/2 (March 2024), 473. 28. David Ottaway, ‘U.S. Calls for Help – Again – From the Tiny Arab Emirate of Qatar’, Wilson Center,February 2, 2022. 29. Li-Chen Sim, ‘The Gulf States: Beneficiaries of the Russia-Europe Energy War?’, Middle East Institute,January 12, 2023. 30. Marc Lynch, ‘Saudi Oil Cuts and American International Order’, Abu Aardvark’s MENA Academy(Substack), October 9, 2022. 31. Chris Alden, ‘The Global South and Russia’s Invasion of Ukraine’, LSE Public Policy Review, 3(1),2023, 2–4. 32. Hazar Kilani, ‘Qatar Investment Authority Holding Onto its Russian Assets for Now’, Doha News,March 2, 2022. 33. Kristian Coates Ulrichsen, ‘The GCC and the Russia-Ukraine Crisis’, Arab Center Washington, March 22, 2022. 34. Dion Nissenbaum, Stephen Kalin, and David Cloud, ‘Saudi, Emirati Leaders Decline Calls withPresident Biden during Ukraine Crisis’, Wall St Journal, March 8, 2022. 35. Natalia Savelyeva, ‘Understanding the Russian Exodus to Dubai Following the Ukraine Invasion’, TheRussia Program, George Washington University, May 8, 2024. 36. Anon., ‘Rosneft Elects Qatari Ex-Minister as New Chairman’, Energy Intelligence, July 5, 2023. 37. Mark Colchester, Summer Said, and Stephen Kalin, ‘Boris Johnson Visits U.A.E., Saudi Arabia, SeekingMore Oil’, Wall St Journal, March 16, 2022. 38. Alex Marquardt, Natasha Bertrand, and Phil Mattingly, ‘Inside the White House’s Failed Effort toDissuade OPEC from Cutting Oil Production to Avoid a “Total Disaster”’, CNN, October 5, 2022;Anders Hagstrom, ‘Saudis Say Biden Admin Requested Oil Production Cut to Come After Midterms’,Fox News, October 13, 2022. 39. Elham Fakhro, The Abraham Accords: The Gulf States, Israel, and the Limits of Normalization (NewYork: Columbia University Press, 2024), 220. 40. Stacie Goddard, ‘Legitimation and Hypocrisy in Gaza: Implications for the LIO’, in Marc Lynch (ed.),Debating American Primacy in the Middle East, POMEPS Studies 54, 2024, 47. 41. Mostafa Salem, ‘Saudi Crown Prince Accuses Israel of Committing “Collective Genocide” in Gaza’,CNN, November 13, 2024. 42. Peter Aitken, ‘Bret Baier Interviews Saudi Prince: Israel Peace, 9/11 Ties, Iran Nuke Fears’, Fox News,September 20, 2023. 43. Giorgio Cafiero, ‘Gaza War Undermines Oman’s Role as Bridge in a Conflict-Ridden Middle East’,Stimson Commentary, August 26, 2024. 44. Dania Thafer, ‘Palestinian Statehood Tops GCC Security Agenda as Diplomatic Struggles Persist’,Middle East Council on Global Affairs, October 7, 2024. 45. Kristian Coates Ulrichsen, ‘Saudi Plans to “De-Risk” Region Have Taken a Hit with Gaza Violence – butHitting Pause on Normalization with Israel Will Buy Kingdom Time’, The Conversation, October 18, 2023. 46. Anon., ‘Fact Sheet: Implementation of the U.S.-Gulf Cooperation Council Strategic Partnership’, TheWhite House, Office of the Press Secretary, April 21, 2016. 47. Kristian Coates Ulrichsen, ‘What Next for the Middle East Strategic Alliance?’, Arab Digest, October 29, 2020. 48. Barak Ravid, ‘Senior U.S. Delegation in Saudi Arabia for Talks with GCC’, Axios, February 15, 2023. 49. Anon., ‘US Leads Gulf Partners in 18-day Naval Exercise’, Gulf States Newsletter, 47/1166, March 23,2023, 11. 50. Anon., ‘China and Russia Join Iranian Exercise at Sea’, Gulf States Newsletter, 47/1166, March 23,2023, 10. 51. Melissa Horvath, ‘Is Red Sands the Future of Middle East Defence Cooperation?’, Middle East Institute,October 4, 2022. 52. Anon., ‘U.S. and Saudi Arabia Conduct Combined Counter-UAS Exercise’, U.S. Central Command press release, September 14, 2023. 53. Bilal Saab, ‘The Other Saudi Transformation’, Middle East Policy 29/2 (Summer 2022), 27–28. 54. Kristian Alexander and Giorgio Cafiero, ‘Biden’s Realpolitik Approach: Analyzing the C-SIPAAgreement with Bahrain’, Gulf International Forum, October 29, 2023. 55. William Roebuck, ‘Bahrain Sets the Pace for Enhanced Gulf Security Cooperation with the UnitedStates’, Arab Gulf States Institute in Washington, September 27, 2023; Anon., ‘The UK’s Accession to the Bahrain-US Security Agreement’, International Institute for Strategic Studies, Strategic Comment,February 2025. 56. Sanam Vakil and Neil Quilliam, ‘The Abraham Accords and Israel-UAE Normalization: Shaping a NewMiddle East’, Chatham House Research Paper, March 2023, 5. 57. UAE officials expressed their reservations about Netanyahu’s perceived attempts to leverage the normalization agreement in his 2021 campaign by downplaying suggestions of a visit by Netanyahu asPrime Minister to the UAE, and again after Netanyahu returned to office and announced that his first foreign visit would be to the UAE, choosing instead to receive other Israeli political leaders rather thanNetanyahu himself. 58. Vakil and Quilliam, ‘The Abraham Accords and Israel-UAE Normalization: Shaping a New MiddleEast’, (March 2023), 29. 59. Anon., ‘UAE, Israel Unveil Joint Naval Vessel as Military Ties Grow’, AFP, February 20, 2023. 60. Jean-Loup Samaan, ‘The Shift That Wasn’t: Misreading the UAE’s New “Zero-Problem” Policy’,Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, Sada blog, February 8, 2022. 61. Nickolay Mladenov, ‘Minilateralism: A Concept That is Changing the World Order’, The WashingtonInstitute for Near East Policy, April 14, 2023. 62. Husain Haqqani and Narayanappa Janardhan, ‘The Minilateral Era’, Foreign Policy, January 10, 2023. 63. Gordon Lubold and Warren Strobel, ‘Secret Chinese Port in Persian Gulf Rattles U.S. Relations withU.A.E.’, Wall Street Journal, November 19, 2021; Warren Strobel, ‘U.A.E. Shut Down China FacilityUnder U.S. Pressure, Emirates Says’, Wall Street Journal, December 9, 2021; John Hudson, EllenNakashima, and Liz Sly, ‘Buildup Resumed at Suspected Chinese Military Site in UAE, Leak Says’,Washington Post, April 26, 2023. 64. Sam Fleming, Henry Foy, Felicia Schwartz, James Politi, and Simeon Kerr, ‘West Presses UAE to ClampDown on Suspected Russia Sanctions Busting’, Financial Times, March 1, 2023. 65. Dion Nissenbaum, Dov Lieber, and Stephen Kalin, ‘Saudi Arabia Seeks Pledges, Nuclear Help for Peacewith Israel’, Wall Street Journal, March 9, 2023; Michael Crowley, Vivian Nereim, and Patrick Kingsley,‘Saudi Arabia Offers its Price to Normalize Relations with Israel’, New York Times, March 9, 2023. 66. Anon., ‘Great Expectations: The Future of Iranian-Saudi D´etente’, International Crisis Group, June13, 2024. 67. Amrita Jash, ‘Saudi-Iran Deal: A Test Case of China’s Role as an International Mediator’, GeorgetownJournal of International Affairs, June 23, 2023. 68. Badr bin Hamad Al Bu Said, ‘“Small States” Diplomacy in the Age of Globalization: An OmaniPerspective’, in Gerd Nonneman (ed.), Analyzing Middle East Foreign Policies and the Relationshipwith Europe (London: Routledge, 2005), 258. 69. Giorgio Cafiero, ‘Oman Keeps Trying to Dial Down Tensions in the Middle East’, Stimson Centre,February 2, 2024. 70. Samy Magdy, Adam Geller, and Aamer Madhani, ‘To Secure Gaza Ceasefire, Dealmakers OvercameEnemies’ Deep Distrust’, Associated Press, January 22, 2025. 71. Mirdef Alqashouti, ‘Qatar Mediation: From Soft Diplomacy to Foreign Policy’, in Mahjoob Zweiri andFarah Al Qawasmi (eds.), Contemporary Qatar: Examining State and Society (Singapore: Springer,2023), 73. 72. Diana Galeeva, ‘Saudi Arabia as a Global Mediator: From the Ukraine to Gaza War’, Menara Magazine,March 24, 2025. 73. Kristian Coates Ulrichsen, ‘Saudi-Israeli Normalization and the Hamas Attack’, Arab Center Wash-ington, October 11, 2023. 74. Ben Church, ‘F1 Organizers Insist Saudi Arabian Grand Prix Will Go Ahead Despite Houthi Attack onNearby Oil Facility’, CNN, March 26, 2022. 75. Ahdeya Ahmed Al-Sayed, ‘Better Late than Never: Bahrain’s Attitude Towards the Red Sea DefenseCoalition’, The Washington Institute, Fikra Forum, December 29, 2023. 76. Nikolay Kozhanov, ‘Why Gulf Arab States Are Not Intervening in the Red Sea’, Amwaj Media, February27, 2024.

Defense & Security
ISS052-E-37828 - View of Earth

Space in the international relations of Asia: a guide to technology, security, and diplomacy in a strategic domain

by Saadia M. Pekkanen

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском ABSTRACT This essay brings space into the international relations of Asia. It orients readers to three unfolding trends that are shaping the evolution of the new space race at present – democratization, commercialization, and militarization (DCM). It surveys how these trends reflect, illuminate, or are connected to the theory and practice of international relations (IR) both in global and regional settings in Asia. Where possible, it brings in the space activities of the main independent and autonomous space powers in Asia – China, Japan, India, South Korea, North Korea – and probes what their activities signify for international and regional politics. It ends with some thematic takeaways for space policy, strategy, and diplomacy. Space is a strategic domain, meaning that its uses cut across civilian and military realities and will therefore long remain of vital interest to all states. Since its inception, space has drawn significant and long-standing attention in the fields of law and policy. Lawyers, legal scholars, diplomats, and policy analysts have covered the rise and interpretation of the space law regime in place today, which is centered on a set of space treaties, resolutions, and organized multilateral activities.Footnote1 Thanks to these efforts we have a good understanding of governance frameworks, the challenges they face, and how they may play out in constructing the peaceful uses of outer space. But studies that bring international relations (IR) theory and practice to bear on outer space affairs are far fewer in comparison to the voluminous law and policy literature. While IR scholars have generated works related to other emerging technologies, such as drones, cyberweapons, and artificial intelligence, space generally still remains understudied.Footnote2 This is surprising as the critical infrastructure of space anchors modern economies, militaries, and societies in a way no other technology does. It lies at the intersection of virtually all political, economic, and social forces that have been and will remain of concern to states. The space domain is not aloof from the “harsher realities of politics;”Footnote3 and, in fact, continues to reflect almost every feature of global politics in play – ideology, nationalism, aid, integration, division, and security, for example.Footnote4 Using the lens of states and their national interests, this symposium is among the first comprehensive efforts to combine IR perspectives, space studies, and the history, politics, and economics of Asia – a region with the most dynamic, ambitious, and competent sovereign space powers today. Alongside China, Japan, India, and North Korea, South Korea has risen rapidly as another determined player that is leveraging its industrial capabilities, alliances, and networks to position itself in the unfolding competition of the new space race. Australia and New Zealand, and other countries in South and Southeast Asia have also long been marked with emerging space activities and ambitions.Footnote5 These developments come at a time when both the United States and China are leading two different space regimes that extend beyond territorial matters to Low Earth Orbit (LEO) and celestial bodies.Footnote6 What states are doing in the IR of space, who with, why, and how affects prospects for war and peace. One indication of the importance of space nested in the contemporary geopolitical flux is reflected in The Camp David Joint Statement from August 2023, in which the U.S., South Korea, and Japan seek to enhance trilateral dialogues on space security.Footnote7 This essay guides readers to developments in the space domain, and the ways they connect to the theory and practice of IR. The first part interrogates the idea of the IR of space at the broadest level, and sets out the three principal trends that are shaping its evolution today – democratization, commercialization, and militarization (DCM). The second part then turns to asking where Asia fits in this tapestry, drawing on the intellectual lineage of key debates in the field as well as the findings from this symposium. The third part extracts some thematic takeaways that are likely to be of interest to makers of space policy, strategy, and diplomacy. What is the International Relations of Space? Space has always been – and will long remain – couched in IR theory that is centrally concerned with alternative explanations about competition and cooperation.Footnote8 The paradigmatic or theoretical approach analysts bring to space – such as realism, liberalism, constructivism, and so on – has consequences for relations among and within states.Footnote9 Political scientists are increasingly interested in the theory and practice of the IR of space, and in understanding the implications for real-world collaboration, competition, leadership, and diplomacy.Footnote10 This section provides a guide to the principal actors and the trends of the new space race in which they seek to position. The State in the International Relations of Space For the foreseeable future, outer space affairs will remain rooted in the geopolitics on Earth, and this will necessitate a focus on the makers of policy, strategy, and diplomacy. Nothing about this is new. Space could not escape the “political rivalries of this world” in the old space race; and the idea that U.S. leaders may well have had no option from the late 1950s onwards but to “allow for all possibilities by speaking of idealism and acting with realism” speaks with equal force to the complexities of decision-making in the present space race.Footnote11 The IR of space is about actors, their motivations, and the consequences of their actions for stability in, through, and at the nexus of space. This general framing of the IR of space draws attention away from unproductive and narrow theoretical debates, encourages analytical eclecticism, and privileges a pragmatic, policy-relevant, and problem-focused approach.Footnote12 Further, the approach locates actions and agency in known circumstances, remains deeply attentive to both material and ideational processes over time, is mindful of situational idiosyncrasies, and in sync with the inevitable ups and downs of geopolitics. Frankly, this kind of eclectic pragmatism is necessary in a dynamic domain in which scholars and practitioners want to grapple with visible challenges that need real-world solutions. As in other areas, a focus on states allows us to capture the “deeper political foundations, trajectory, centrality, and implications”Footnote13 of newer developments that can be consequential for the theory and practice of IR. Even when theoreticians are supportive of, opposed to, or merely agnostic about states as a unit of analysis, almost all of them have to grapple with interactive state actions at both the domestic and international levels.Footnote14 The idea of space policy analysis, which draws attention to sub-state actors and drivers of decision-making while crisscrossing levels of analysis, certainly enriches our understanding of major players beyond the West.Footnote15 But in many emerging space countries, and especially in the IR of Asia, the state remains the gatekeeper to the domestic-international nexus. Focusing on states also induces an equality in the IR of space, as many developing and emerging countries do not have the numerous legal, commercial, and nonprofit actors from the advanced industrial world who seek to influence outcomes across international forums and processes. This state-centricism is especially relevant in the strategic space domain − 95% of which comprises dual-use space technologies.Footnote16 In it, states are proactively seeking to position their countries vis-à-vis others because its very duality promises both civilian and military benefits. This reality is reinforced by the present legal space regime, which privileges the role of states as a matter of public international law. As on Earth so also for space, it is ultimately states that back and consume innovative space technologies, design strategies and policies, and construct or scuttle governance in line with their political and economic interests.Footnote17 None of this is to suggest that states are the only actors in the space domain, or that their preferences magically prevail in all matters of policy, strategy, or diplomacy. Rather, at the end of the day, it is states that possess both the ultimate and final authority over their citizens, thus regulating how this collective interacts with its counterparts.Footnote18 The Key Trends Shaping the IR of Space The new space race demands as well a new way of seeing the whole picture, which balances its principal trends without privileging any one of them. All states are presently navigating the intersections of three deeply intertwined trends in the new space race that pose novel questions and challenges for their own security – democratization, commercialization, and the slide from militarization to outright weaponization (DCM).Footnote19 While these trends may be analytically distinct, they are in reality fluid, nonlinear, and synergistic. They are interwoven into the fabric of the IR of space today, and if a problem-focused approach is to lend itself to real-world solutions it is meaningless to talk about strategy or policy concerning one or another in isolation. This has implications for IR theory more generally. A plethora of well-debated approaches, concepts, and constructs mark its two main subfields of international security and international political economy across all regions of the world – war, peace, balance of power, industrial policy, interdependence, governance, norms, diplomacy, for example. These theoretical constructs have to reconcile with the complexities of DCM. Doing so prevents hyperbole about a “knowable and certain future” for organizations, societies, and soldiers with stakes in space.Footnote20 It encourages vigilance about the commercialization-militarization axis fueling gray-zone ventures in space, where a commercial space actor operating for a rival could do what previously was the realm of only government military operations.Footnote21 It prevents naïve thinking that space commerce is unrelated to defense, or that private assets cannot become legitimate military targets in the fog of war.Footnote22 When it comes time to pass United Nations resolutions backed by a leading space power that can govern prospects for space safety how old and new actors in space align diplomatically on a normative basis is affected by their industrial and political interests in the context of DCM.Footnote23 The high-profile return of industrial policy in the U.S. stretches to the space industrial base, and includes efforts to strengthen the resilience of its supply chains with commercial space players and nongovernmental actors.Footnote24 As an analytical rubric, the trends in the DCM triumvirate, fleshed out below, help states see the many moving and equally important parts of the new space race, connect actions and technologies involving their counterparts spread around the world, and build a far more balanced awareness of the policies and strategies necessary to advance their own interests amid all the dynamism. The triumvirate, in short, is a powerful conceptual reminder for all states that “the church of strategy must be a broad one” in the space domain.Footnote25 One trend of the triumvirate stems from changes in manufacturing and accessibility, which have opened up — or “democratized” — the space domain to newcomers. Many of the newer state entrants have created space agencies, written national space legislation, targeted specific manufacturing or regulatory niches, and signed agreements with international partners and private companies. Alongside the rising number of nation-states, this democratization draw in nongovernmental entrants such as commercial startups, activist billionaires, criminal syndicates, and so on who could aid or thwart government objectives.Footnote26 New actors continue to proliferate across all regions and continents, with activities that crisscross the public and private spheres and that affect prospects for transnational collaboration in myriad ways. The year 2023 is illustrative of democratization in practice. In mid August, the SpaceX Crew Dragon spacecraft reached the International Space Station (ISS).Footnote27 This was the seventh crew rotation mission by SpaceX, a private U.S. company, and it carried four civilian agency astronauts from America, Europe, Russia, and Japan. In its previous mission to the ISS, SpaceX flew NASA astronauts, along with those from Russia and the United Arab Emirates. Earlier in May, SpaceX used its Dragon spacecraft and Falcon 9 rocket to launch an all-private astronaut mission to the ISS for a company called Axiom Space, which aims to build the world’s first commercial space station; it then carried passengers from the United States as well as both a male and female astronaut from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.Footnote28 Democratization extends to the moon. With India’s successful soft-landing on the moon in August, yet another Asian country after China now holds the distinction of being on the lunar surface.Footnote29 Private actors in Asia are also part of the tapestry. While a lunar lander attempt by a private Japanese company, ispace, was not successful in April, the company is persevering with bringing both governments and private payloads to the moon.Footnote30 More foundational for the purposes of enabling certainty for commercial transactions are some of the steps ispace took prior to the launch. It was granted a license by the Japanese government to engage in an “in-place” property transfer of ownership of lunar regolith to NASA. All these developments represent a dramatically varied landscape, which also raises challenges for building meaningful consensus in the years ahead.Footnote31 A second trend in the triumvirate is commercialization, driven by a whole new generation of space entrepreneurs. Chief among their unprecedented innovations are reusable rocketry and mega-constellations of satellites, driven by so-called newspace corporations such as SpaceX, Blue Origin, Rocket Lab, Amazon, Planet, ICEYE, Blacksky, Axelspace, and Synspective. Together these companies have not only changed prospects for frequent and cheaper access to space, but they have also changed the geospatial view of virtually all human activities on the planet, whether on land or the oceans.Footnote32 These newer entrants present competition for more established players like Boeing, Arianespace, Lockheed Martin, Raytheon, Mitsubishi Heavy Industries, Mitsui, and Thales Alenia, for example. All these corporations seek profitable niches in the global space economy, which one estimate puts at a minimum of $384 billion in 2022 and others put higher.Footnote33 Notably, the present satellite industry accounts for over 70% of the space economy. This indicates a “space-for-earth” economy, meaning space goods and services with direct use on Earth such as telecommunications and internet infrastructure, Earth observation satellites, military satellites, and so on.Footnote34 This reality accounted for 95% of the revenues earned in the space sector in 2019. Given the dependence of the global economy on space-based assets, some argue the commercial peace thesis may stay the hand of space-related conflict.Footnote35 This is good news also if the space market grows, as projected, to between $1.1 trillion and $2.7 trillion by the 2040s.Footnote36 But there is a healthy debate about what else may be scalable beyond just the satellite-enabled communications infrastructure that sustains the space economy at present. Further, despite all the rosy projections about the space economy, there is little information about which of the venture-backed private newspace entrants is or likely to be profitable anytime soon. After over two decades of operation, it is only recently that SpaceX, which leads with its rocket launches and internet-satellite business, has reported it generated $55 million in profits on $1.5 billion in revenue in the first quarter of 2023.Footnote37 In the non-satellite segment of the space economy, the search for new markets and customers certainty continues worldwide. But government budgets will matter to the survivability of many innovative technologies, products, and services where market prospects are nascent, emerging, or just plain uncertain. These include, for example, commercial human spaceflight, space stations, lunar landers and habitats, and space resources mining. The total governmental budgets for space programs worldwide is estimated to be between $92.4 billion to $107 billion.Footnote38 The U.S. government leads the world with the largest institutional budget at around $55 billion; setting aside the collective European budget at $14 billion, the single-country budgets that successively follow the U.S. are China (speculatively, $10 billion), Japan (over $4 billion), Russia ($3.5 billion), and India ($1.96 billion). More generally, the presence of government actors alerts us to a range of theoretical political economy considerations that cut across geopolitics and geoeconomics in the space domainFootnote39: the logic of state-centricism in and out of Asia in fostering innovation, the multifaceted drivers of space commercialization and privatization around the world, and the newspace business hype that needs to be reconciled with the dynamics of state interests in economic-security linkages. A final trend in the DCM triumvirate is militarization sliding into weaponization of a dual-use technology. But we may be returning to the historical roots of space technology because what we now think of as dual-use originated as military first.Footnote40 From rockets to satellites to missile defense, civilian and commercial space technologies can be morphed to serve military or national security ends. A state’s military space power can be measured not just by total space expenditures but also latent capabilities in existing commercial architecture.Footnote41 Many actors can access, or collaboratively develop, a wide spectrum of military capabilities while professing to pursue worthy civilian and commercial goals, such as launching rockets, enabling satellite communication, expanding Earth observation, developing GPS capabilities, or servicing malfunctioning satellites. These activities can be legitimized as peaceful and defensive, but their uses can also be converted to offensive purposes. As more actors join space activities and as commercial players spread space products and technologies around the world, the ambiguities of dual-use space technologies make it more and more difficult to distinguish a space asset from a weapon, or space control operations as defensive or offensive. This melding of the commercialization-militarization axis means that many advanced, emerging, and disruptive technologies that are significant for defense applications and for potentially gaining an edge over rivals are couched in commercial rather than military-industrial complexes; these technologies and capabilities are also spread unevenly across geopolitical lines.Footnote42 Depending on their financial and organizational capacities to adopt innovations, states may well face risky scenarios in an international system out of tune with power realities in which the actual balance of power diverges sharply from the distribution of benefits.Footnote43 Further, the problem is that all space assets are equally vulnerable to a range of both kinetic and non-kinetic threats, which can go from an irreversible missile hit to temporarily disabling electronic and cyber attacks on a space asset.Footnote44 Since it is hard to separate military and civilian space services, accidental or purposeful actions against those used by the military would inevitably also affect those used by civilian and commercial stakeholders. Protecting access to space and safeguarding operations within space are, therefore, a vital interest for all states interested in space for national advancement. Unfortunately, no orbit is safe or secure. This is especially concerning for the United States, which is the world’s most space-dependent power, and whose nuclear command-and-control operations worldwide rely on space assets. As of January 2023, roughly 67% of all operating satellites belonged to the U.S., with a significant part of them commercial.Footnote45 This dependence will only grow as U.S.-led mega constellations, as well as other in-space activities, proliferate. Accidents can happen, and this specter is rising as orbits become more and more crowded with civil, commercial, and military activities.Footnote46 Orbital debris, big and tiny leftovers from decades of space activities that whiz around at lethal speeds, already represent known hazards. The ISS often has to maneuver to get out of the way, and functioning satellites are also vulnerable. Satellites can collide accidentally, degrading or ending their operations; human beings can die. But it is the menace of purposeful and deliberate targeting of the space-enabled infrastructure that cannot be ruled out in the geopolitical turmoil today. There is an intensifying strategic competition between the U.S. and its allies, China, and Russia over the making of a new world order.Footnote47 This means also that there are ample incentives for U.S. adversaries to deny the heavily space-dependent United States use of its space assets in peacetime or wartime under cover of dual-use ambiguities; there are also incentives for the U.S. and its allies to do the reverse to adversaries.Footnote48 In all likelihood, every country would suffer under such scenarios, but the heavily space-dependent U.S. would suffer most. Kinetic anti-satellite (ASAT) tests have already been carried out by some of the top spacefaring powers – China (2007), the U.S. (2008), India (2019), and Russia (2021) – and have led to a U.S. declaration to ban them.Footnote49 In the non-kinetic realm, cyber attacks are a looming realistic threat for satellites and other space assets just as they for any another digitized critical infrastructure.Footnote50 Many key U.S. allies, such as Japan and Korea as well as members of NATO, see the same threats and, with extended deterrence in mind, have begun working closely with the U.S. to reshape security architectures and postures in the space domain. The war in Ukraine has also changed perceptions worldwide about the safety of the critical infrastructure of space, with Russia’s electronic and cyberattacks targeting satellite systems.Footnote51 Both the U.S. and its allies also understand that targeting U.S. space assets affects the great power status of the U.S. – the basis for its hard and soft power – which is why space will long remain a national and international imperative. Space is also pivotal because it is at the intersection of virtually all emerging and disruptive technology frontiers, such as AI, quantum computing, and cyber weapons, which can potentially affect a country’s military edge over others.Footnote52 One indication of the importance of U.S. space systems to the government for critical national and homeland security functions is reflected in institutional budgets. Worldwide, in 2021, an estimate is that civilian budgets were around $54 billion and military budgets at about $38 billion.Footnote53 The United States stands out relative to the rest of the world, irrespective of the actual size of these budgets, accounting for just under 60% of all government expenditures on space program on a global basis. The U.S. military space budget is estimated to be between roughly $30–34 billion dollars, significantly higher than its civilian budget at around $25–26 billion. With the formation of the U.S. Space Force, and the perceived growing threat to space, these patterns are unlikely to shift and will affect the evolution of U.S.-led space security architectures worldwide. Beyond orbital regimes, there are also concerns about celestial bodies, which include the moon, Mars, comets, and asteroids. The moon has become a prestigious prize. There is a race to put the next humans and outposts on it. While every state wants to be a space nation and to benefit from space-enabled prosperity and security all the way to the moon the simple point is that not all of them can be in the elite club of states who have the will and capabilities to do just that.Footnote54 Collaboration too is likely to remain divisive in the new lunar space race, whether intentional or not.Footnote55 54 countries have already signed the Artemis Accords led by the U.S. since 2020, which contain principles outlining civil exploration in space that are heralded for their openness, transparency, and predictability for all stakeholders.Footnote56 Meanwhile, China has entered into an MOU with Russia to establish an international lunar research station, with multiple scientific and exploration objectives, that is likely to be constructed on the south pole of the moon.Footnote57 The south pole on the moon is where both China and the U.S. have marked out potential landing sites as their new competing lunar programs get underway.Footnote58 It is also the region in which India, a signatory of the Artemis Accords, was instrumental in confirming the presence of water and where it has also soft-landed before anyone else.Footnote59 While no IR analyst can easily predict how the strategic culture of any state will affect its behavior in the context of space resources or space habitats it is foreseeable that such developments are significant for advancing national and relative power.Footnote60 The defense-industrial complex in the United States is paying attention to what all this will mean for the balance of power in space. The LunA-10 framework represents the next-generation quest for an integrated 10-year lunar architecture that could catalyze a commercial space economy with the U.S. in the lead.Footnote61 How competition and collaboration play out depends on how states choose to reconcile the trends of the DCM triumvirate with their own interests as they, and their counterparts, all set their sights on the moon. As technologies are always uncertain and the landscape of allies and rivals can shift, diplomacy for space security may be more necessary than ever as these lunar armadas set off.Footnote62 How Does Space Fit in the International Relations of Asia? The new space race is not going into some vacuum in the study and practice of the IR of Asia. Nor are the regional space politics divorced from the DCM trends that are reshaping prospects for all actors across all continents. There is history and intellectual precedent in how we can expect Asian states to engage with DCM trends, signifying also prospects for conflict and collaboration both in and out of the region. It is especially important to get this narrative right at a time when Asia can boast the greatest concentration of independent and autonomous space powers relative to every other region on the planet, making it pivotal for the future of space security. These are, to date, also the principal powers who have been central to shaping the dynamics of the IR of Asia in the world – China, Japan, India, North Korea, and South Korea. Caveats and Preexisting Works A few things first. This is not the place to get into polemics about what Asia is, a contested term that is perhaps most useful for differentiating it from the equally murky idea of the “West.”Footnote63 For the purposes of this essay the most useful broad category is the one from the United Nations which categorizes Member States into the regional group of the “Asia-Pacific.”Footnote64 This includes countries from Northeast, Southeast, South, Central, and Southwest Asia as well as those from the Pacific islands. This keeps us attuned to not just to the activities of the independent and autonomous space powers, but also others in the broader Asia-Pacific, such as Australia, New Zealand, and others in Southeast, Central, South, and West Asia, who are also making strides and positioning in the DCM triumvirate. This broad sweep is likely to be most useful for understanding the entanglements of the space domain in the years ahead. There is of course a substantial body of knowledge on the IR of Asia. This is also not the place to do justice to the painstaking works that have, over decades, improved our solid understanding of key aspects of the IR of Asia and allowed us to portray region-wide, sub-regional, and extra-regional interactions. A few broad works can only help us extract and reflect on the broad nature of the subject-matter involved in the making of IR of Asia to date, which continues to resonate in debates about whether or not Asia’s geography is “ripe for rivalry.”Footnote65 In very broad brushstrokes the subject-matter includesFootnote66: historical, political, and social forces that have shaped the region over time; the relevance or irrelevance of mainstream Western IR theories; the making and makeup of foreign economic or security policies; the drivers of integration or rivalries amid structural global shifts, the organizational and institutional patterns of governance, for example. More closely mirroring the IR concepts and constructs noted earlier, there are also in the IR of Asia prominent cross-cutting ideas, such as the role of states and industrial policy, economic-security linkages, technonationalism, economic regionalism and interdependence, regional organizations and institutions, balancing, bandwagoning, hedging, alliances and security architectures, and so on. But as in IR more generally, so also regionally there appears to be less of a focus on integrating space technologies into the broader fabric of changed global and regional politics. In terms of work on specific technologies in Asia, there has certainly been longstanding attention on conventional military capabilities, nuclear acquisitions, and ballistic missile defense, all of which can exacerbate security dilemmas. But there is less so on space in particular, though a number of works have contributed to our general understanding of individual space powers in Asia.Footnote67 The findings from this symposium, interwoven with IR themes below, also contributes to advancing these knowledge frontiers with implications for national interests, regional risks, and interstate stability. A cogent case for a space race in Asia back in 2012 did not prejudge any particular outcome for space security. Footnote68 In the broad sweep of space activities across Northeast, Southeast, and South Asian countries, one conclusion at the time was that Asia’s emerging space powers were keenly attuned to keeping score, following relative gains, and marking nationalist advantages vis-à-vis regional rivals. Footnote69 From the benchmark of that study, the question is what has changed in terms of Asian states and their motivations in a world returned to great power competition. Su-Mi Lee raises these questions at the start of this symposium focusing on the case of South Korea: Will South Korea and other Asian states take sides between great powers building competing blocs in the region? Or as a middle power, will South Korea recast itself as an agenda setter, rather than a passive follower, and expand its own network in space development, independently of great powers, and contribute to the peaceful uses of outer space? Jongseok Woo offers up a view on the impact of the ongoing Sino-U.S. rivalry in the Asia-Pacific region specifically on South Korea’s strategic choices in security and military affairs, as well as its space policies. There is a close connection between South Korea’s space policies and its broader economic, security, and military interests. He asserts that South Korea’s choice to align with the United States and China on trilateral cooperation in space development has arisen directly as a response to China’s assertive and aggressive policies in the Asia-Pacific region, which have also fostered negative perceptions about China among South Koreans. Material and Ideational Building Blocks There are also material and ideational building blocks that clue us into the ways space can be brought into the IR of Asia. They can guide work at a theoretical level, illuminate intersections with the politics and trends of the DCM worldwide, lead to distinctive expectations about collaboration and stability, and help us reflect on likely pathways for policy, strategy, and diplomacy in the new space race. There are three thematic clusters fleshed out below that might prove to be fruitful for these aims: (1) the state and industrial policy, intertwined with thinking on technology, economic-security linkages, and geoeconomics, (2) complex regional interdependence including economic integration, supply chains, and institutional governance, and (3) security architectures and alliances amid the changed geopolitical dynamics of the U.S.–China bipolar competition. All these clusters suggest that divorcing military and economic security for states in the region would be an analytical and policy blunder in the new space race. The Evolution of the State and Industrial Policy First, whatever the debates about its nature,Footnote70 the state in the IR of Asia is alive and well. Relative to other actors, it is unlikely to be displaced as the preeminent sovereign entity, particularly in matters of industrial and technological transformations. It has a distinguished pedigree in the region, finding its conceptual role at the center of huge theoretical and policy controversies about states and economic development.Footnote71 At one point, eight economies – Hong Kong, Indonesia, Japan, the Republic of Korea, Malaysia, Singapore, Taiwan, and Thailand – rose prominently in the international economy, a phenomenon that became known as the “East Asian miracle.”Footnote72 At the heart of the controversy was the role played by states, and whether their interventions in the market made the difference to their economic and industrial transformations. The domestic institutional configurations of the so-called newly industrializing countries (NICs) also drew attention to the reasons why states could manage to undertake industrial policies in the ways they did.Footnote73 All this came at a time of new thinking about the merits of free trade, in which activist trade policies were shown to possibly advantage some countries relative to their competitors especially in high-technology industries.Footnote74 As today, so then, high-technology industries, such as semiconductors, were at the epicenter of controversies about the fairness of then perceived Japanese activism.Footnote75 Asia is again center stage in these policy concerns, such as those about the foundational global value chain in semiconductors that fuel high-technology production and consumption. Between 2016 and 2020, 26 economies in Asia and the Pacific accounted for about 84% of total world integrated circuit exports.Footnote76 They also accounted for about 62% of total world electrical and optical equipment exports in 2021. Long mindful of their positions in the global political economy, all this suggests that for states of all stripes across Asia “developmentalism is not dead,” picking winners is still of interest, and, as in the past for other strategic sectors so also for the foreseeable future, Asian states will remain involved in shaping the frontiers of space technologies to their home advantage.Footnote77 Industrial policy motivations have clearly been a driver of South Korea’s expanding space program, and Kristi Govella points out the South Korean government has considered potential commercial opportunities when making decisions about how to structure its engagement with regional space institutions. The maxim of “rich country, strong army” pervades the intellectual landscape of prominent works, alerting us that for many countries in Asia the synergistic pathway to security comes through technology and the economy. These symbiotic economic-security fundamentals resonate in both regional and country-specific works.Footnote78 Japanese planners, for example, have long enhanced Japan’s technological edge by stimulating the interdiffusion of civil-military applications and the nurturance of a military-commercial axis.Footnote79 While not inattentive to the policy tradeoffs that must be made in practice, the Japanese state remains consistent in the twin goals maximizing both its military and its bargaining power through economic means.Footnote80 China is held up as a techno-security state – innovation-centered, security-maximizing – at a historic moment of bipolarity in world politics in which both China and the U.S. see the economic-security nexus as a pivotal peacetime battleground.Footnote81 These themes resonate also in the idea of geoeconomics – best thought of as “the logic of war in the grammar of commerce” – that would hold in a world of territorial states seeking technological innovation not just for its own sake but to explicitly maximize benefits within their own boundaries.Footnote82 With themes that echo seminal works on economic-security linkages,Footnote83 the practice of geoeconomics means the use of economic instruments in defense of national interests and geopolitical gain while being watchful of the impact on the home country of others doing exactly the same.”Footnote84 Whether geoeconomics is criticized or refined as an idea,Footnote85 is considered relevant or irrelevant to state conduct, or even goes in and out of fashion, its core continues to resonate in lively debates about the nature of statecraft in the IR of Asia.Footnote86 The case of space in South Korea is instructive along these themes. Given that the economics of the space industry require a long-term commitment with massive investments, Wonjae Hwang’s principal argument is in line with the idea of the developmental state. The South Korean government is taking a lead role in developing the space industry, and its core geoeconomic strategy in space manifests in the promotion of public–private partnerships. By building a strong governing structure within the public sector, coordinating with selective private partners, assisting them with financial support and technology transfer, the government has built strong partnerships with private firms in the space industry. There are plans to establish also a guiding public institution, which can make far-sighted plans for space development, implement the plans, and control associated institutions. As a latecomer to the space race but as a critical player in the global supply chains in the space industry, he also discusses how South Korea has promoted international partnerships with other space powers such as the U.S., EU, India, Australia, and the UAE. Complex Regional Interdependence Second, Asian economies and their integration into the international system makes them pivotal players. But indicators suggest that regional economic integration is important too.Footnote87 A regional cooperation and integration index, which tracks and meshes key dimensions across all principal regions of the world is noteworthy.Footnote88 In 2020, the index in which higher values mean greater regional integration, the EU was recorded at 0.59, North America at 0.49, and Asia and the Pacific at 0.43. This puts the Asian region on par with its peers in the global political economy. As concerns about supply chain vulnerabilities rise worldwide, less visible forces behind Asian economic fusion will also rise to shape strategies. In 2014, production networks were acknowledged as outlets for new modes of interstate friction such as between Japan and China but were still seen as reinforcing traditional commercial liberal arguments.Footnote89 Over time, despite the dramatic expansion of global supply chains involving all actors in the region over, the phenomenon remained underappreciated. But work on point finds that they may be more distinct, complex, and unique mechanisms of interdependence, and could well affect prospects for interstate conflict and cooperation in and out of the region.Footnote90 Their very presence complicates blustering proclamations of decoupling or derisking in both regional and global politics. States across Asia remain watchful about trade and investment agreements to enhance their regional and international economic prospects.Footnote91 Whatever the criticisms about this institutional proliferation, it draws attention to Asian standing and strategies relative to other regions. Among the most high-profile developments is the Regional Comprehensive Economic Partnership (RCEP), with 15 members including 10 ASEAN countries as well as Australia, China, Japan, New Zealand, and South Korea.Footnote92 China and Japan, respectively, account for around 48% and 19% of the RCEP GDP.Footnote93 RCEP’s comparative indicators put it ahead of its peer agreements, with 28% of global trade, 31% of the share of global GDP, and about 30% of world populationFootnote94 The agreement’s economic significance was deemed considerable, with one estimate suggesting it could generate over $200 billion annually to world income, and $500 billion to world trade by 2030.Footnote95 The duality of space technology also creates new dynamics for the IR of space in Asia. Even agreements that are technically about trade can be seen as opportunities to enhance alliances and alter the broader security context.Footnote96 This thinking should be borne firmly in mind in analyses of regional space governance, which is nested in broader international legal and normative frameworks. The degree of institutional density in an issue area, such as preexisting rules or regimes on point, may condition the type of diplomacy countries like China pursue in projects from space stations to lunar research stations.Footnote97 It also affects how countries like Japan can use institutional constructs for political reassurance in the region.Footnote98 At present, two markedly different Asian institutions, the China-led Asia Pacific Regional Space Organization (APSCO) and the Japan-led Asia-Pacific Regional Space Agency Forum (APRSAF) mark diplomatic prospects for the regional dynamics of collaboration and competition stretched over decades.Footnote99 Asia also leads other regions with two other space-centered institutions, the India-led Centre for Space Science Technology and Education in the Asia-Pacific (CSSTEAP) and the China-led Regional Centre for Space Science Technology and Education in the Asia-Pacific. Kristi Govella argues that these institutions have been shaped by broader geopolitical dynamics in the region, and that rising space players like South Korea carefully choose how to engage with these regional institutions on the basis of economic, security, and institutional factors. She further claims that diplomatic engagement with regional space institutions can complement states’ security alliances and bolster relationships with other like-minded strategic partners. Future patterns of regional cooperation will also continue to shape and be shaped by nonhierarchical international regime complexity in the space domain.Footnote100 Current trajectories suggest scenarios in which states’ à la carte approaches affect the integrity of existing cooperative multilateral space law and processes. Security Dynamics and Alliances Third, there is evidence for longstanding expectations that Asia’s economic rise would lead to increased military capacities and modernizationFootnote101 The grouping of Asia and Oceania stands out in this respect.Footnote102 In 2022, it accounted for about $575 billion in military spending, with China, Japan, and South Korea making up 70% of that. This figure is second only to North America with over $900 billion of military spending, the bulk of which is by the United States. Estimates between 2018 and 2022 also suggest that Asia and Oceania accounted for 41% of the total global volume of major arms, the largest compared to other regions; and, with 11% of the total, India is the largest arms importer of all countries. All this should be set against the politics of a region with the busiest sea lanes, nine of the ten largest ports, seven of the world’s largest standing militaries, and five of the world’s declared nuclear nations.Footnote103 The region is also marked by an intensifying bilateral security competition between the U.S. and China that increases the risk of inadvertent escalation of hostilities, entangling conventional, nuclear, and space capabilities.Footnote104 The U.S. has stated outright that it will consider the use of nuclear weapons in the event of any kind of a “significant” nonnuclear strategic attack on its or its allies’ nuclear forces as well as “their command and control, or warning and attack assessment capabilities” whose nodes run in and through space.Footnote105 In believing that the U.S. seeks to lower the threshold for nuclear use and so degrade its conventional strength China is responding by expanding and modernizing both its conventional and nuclear capabilities.Footnote106 A new arms race may well be underway, enmeshing old and new warfighting domains like space and affecting prospects for arms control and strategic stability. Amid these shifting military postures and perceptions, security architectures matter and have received significant attention for their origins, shapes, consequences, and transformations in the IR of Asia.Footnote107 If, prior to the 1990s, Asia was “infertile ground” for security institutions today it seems the opposite is true; new security institutions such as QUAD have come to stand alongside old ones like the ASEAN Regional Forum.Footnote108 The United States is prominent in the region for its creation of a network of bilateral alliances seen not just as instruments of containment against rivals but also as instruments of control over allies.Footnote109 As the view of space as a warfighting domain embeds itself in regional security architectures formal U.S. allies such as Japan and South Korea in the region are coalescing, connecting and responding in distinct ways.Footnote110 As well, they are motivated by other security threats and dynamics – territorial disputes and politics, North Korean missile threats and its other purported scientific missions into space – that have sobered prospects for stability in regional and global politics. Asia is leading the world in how some of these space-centric alliance transformations are coming about, and how they may affect military operations such as communication and intelligence gathering. In practice, the U.S.-led military alliances also serve as contracts in which, while one component is certainly a military commitment, there is also agreement about a continuous (and changing) exchange of space goods and services.Footnote111 The U.S.- Japan Alliance, with its attendant geoeconomic and geopolitical elements in play, is the first bilateral one in Asia to extend to the space domain.Footnote112 Although its legal foundations need far greater clarity in light of existing international space law and policy, as well as shifting nuclear postures, this extension is nevertheless becoming more concrete with the formation of a new subordinate command in Japan for the U.S. Space Force.Footnote113 But these pronounced changes on the military side sit alongside others; the Japanese state is also continuing to bargain to enmesh its civilian and commercial space interests under the umbrella of the alliance, such as those related to GPS or astronauts on the moon. A similar story is unfolding under the U.S.-Korea Alliance. As Scott Snyder notes in this symposium, the combination of South Korea’s entry into the space launch and satellite sectors and the emergence of the Sino-U.S. geostrategic competition have made it possible for both countries to pursue bilateral cooperation within the alliance. Space cooperation within the alliance brings South Korea on board to support U.S.-led development of international norms for use of space and strengthens the U.S. space-based military infrastructure to protect South Korea from adversary threats while also assisting South Korea’s long-term aspirations to gain a part of the commercial space sector. There are also implications for the hub-and-spoke model of U.S. alliances in Asia. It may not have originally encouraged trust and interactions between quasi-allies such as Japan and South Korea that are not directly allied but share the United States (hub) as a common ally. But this model may be transforming in the space domain. Tongfi Kim explains that South Korea–Japan relations, traditionally the weakest link in U.S.–Japan–South Korea trilateral cooperation, have made remarkable progress since the inauguration of South Korean President Yoon Suk Yeol in May 2022. Due to the three states’ increasing focus on space security and geopolitical development in East Asia, Kim argues, space cooperation is one of the most promising paths for institutionalizing the trilateral cooperation. What are the Thematic Takeaways? Asian states are not just passive recipients in the new space race but proactive and high-profile shapers of the DCM trends in it. They represent the new forces of democratization, which opens up diplomatic opportunities for new alignments in pursuit of material and normative quests. They know the unprecedented trends in space commercialization can boost their industrial base and position them for economic prosperity in the new frontier. They are attuned to how space militarization can give them a military edge and, carried to its extreme, how weaponization can dash prospects for strategic stability around and above us. A few takeaways stand out. The Gravity of the International Relations of Space Has Shifted to Asia Asia leads all other regions of the world with the highest concentration of independent and autonomous sovereign states – China, Japan, India, South Korea, North Korea – who possess some of the most advanced capabilities for civilian, commercial, and military space. They do not act in unison but are guided by their own national imperatives. Along with Australia and New Zealand, they are also joined by a wide variety of states in Southeast, South, and West Asia who aim for niche capabilities or capitalize on geographic locations. The State in Asia Will Be the Prime Decision-Maker in Shaping Space Activities Consistent with the state-centric nature of the IR of Asia, both the top and emerging spacefaring powers in Asia will seek to shape and balance the DCM trends in line with their own economic and political interests. They will not be dictated to, but can be persuaded through bargaining and communication. Many will try to take advantage of commercial trends abroad while reinforcing them at home, some will try to strike a balance in the commercialization-militarization axis, but a few will attempt to shift it toward offensive purposes. Dual-Use Space Technology is Another Means to Wealth and Security for Asian States All Asian states are interested in acquiring space technology, whether through direct or indirect means, to advance their prosperity and security. This is consistent with a historic intellectual lineage in the region about staying abreast of strategic high-technology sectors that crisscross civilian and military benefits, and that promise to pull other sectors along. The intersection of the space domain with emerging and disruptive technology frontiers – AI, quantum, cyber – is also of vital interest to all principal regional actors. New Patterns of Interconnectedness May Stay the Hand of Space Conflict Space nationalism drives the principal spacefaring states to compete with others in and out of the region. But continued economic integration – trade and investment flows, resilient supply chains, and space assets that facilitate them – also underpin prospects for continued engagement among all regional players. Its disruption is of concern to regional states, as in the U.S. bid to secure critical supply chains for semiconductors worldwide. As well, regional institutions that formally and informally govern relations, including those focused on space, routinize engagements, and information exchanges among all states. U.S.-Led Alliances in Asia are at the Forefront of Transforming into Space Alliances Security institutions in Asia are important for continued dialogue in the region, and for socializing emerging players into the realities of the new space race. But the designation of space as a warfighting domain — and of the U.S. declaration about the need to protect command-and-control structures that underpin extended deterrence — has put U.S.-led alliances with Japan and South Korea at the center of transformations into space alliances. This may affect the “hub and spoke” model, with the spokes also strengthening their relations in the distant future. Much however, depends on the continued domestic political support in the U.S., Japan, and Korea for alliances and such alliance transformations in the years ahead. Asian States Will Be Pivotal to Shaping or Scuttling Prospects for Peace - in Outer Space The capabilities of Asian states make them ideal candidates for large-scale collaboration in space, as well as on the moon and beyond. Diplomatically, they are being courted in the bipolar space competition between the U.S. and China. The rules on which they operate, and who gets to write and interpret them, will matter for patterns of polarity in the IR of space. Some Asian states have responded by signing up to U.S.-led interpretations of the Outer Space Treaty in practice, such as in the Artemis Accords. Other states from Asia may move to the China-led camp with Russia for an international lunar research station. 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Defense & Security
The flags of the Russia, United States, China and are drawn on a piece of ice in the form of an Arctic iceberg against a blue sky. Conflict of interests in the Arctic, Cold War, Arctic shelf

Divided Arctic in a Divided World Order

by Rasmus Gjedssø Bertelsen

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском Introduction Arctic order historically, currently, and in the future reflects the world order. The idea of ‘Arctic exceptionalism’ is not valid and is a poor guide for policy. During Cold War bipolarity, the Arctic was divided between the Soviet Arctic and the Nordic and North American Arctic. US victory and Soviet defeat in the Cold War led to US unipolarity and hegemony which was the basis for a circumpolar (including Russia) liberal (as opposed to realist) Arctic order with organizations, such as the Arctic Council, International Arctic Science Committee, University of the Arctic, Barents and Bering regional cooperation, all on liberal topics such as science, environment, Indigenous rights, people-to-people cooperation.Footnote1 US unipolarity and hegemony are slipping away to world order characteristics of continued US unipolarity and hegemony, Sino-American bipolarity in economics and S&T and multipolarity illustrated by BRICS+. Sino-US competition and US-Russia conflict to the extent of proxy-war in Ukraine reflect these changes. The Arctic, which is de facto divided between the US-led NATO-Arctic and the Russian Arctic, where Russia reaches out to the BRICS+ in diplomacy, economics, and S&T, reflects these changes to world order. There is wishful thinking in the West of returning to post-Cold War US unipolar and hegemonic ‘liberal world order’ or ‘rules-based order’ and the circumpolar liberal Arctic order with it. This wish is probably unrealistic for global trends in demography, economics, S&T, legitimacy, etc. Significant conflict can be expected between the US/West and China and Russia on developments in world order, with the Global South standing by. The Arctic is likely to remain divided between the US-led NATO Arctic and the Russian Arctic seeking engagement with the BRICS+ world for the future with extremely limited cooperation and risk of spill-over from the Ukraine War and other US-Russia-China conflicts. The Arctic in international order There are two common, but invalid, narratives about the Arctic, which are poor guides for policy: First, ‘Arctic exceptionalism’, that the Arctic was apart from international politics and allowed for West-Russia cooperation unlike elsewhere, especially between the Russian annexation of Crimea in 2014 and the Russian full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022. Second, a presentist discourse, where international interests in the Arctic are seen as rising in the last 15 years, driven by climate change, the Russian flag planting on the seafloor of the North Pole in 2007, and the United States Geological Survey’s assessment of oil and gas resources in 2008, north of the Arctic Circle. Rather, the Arctic has for centuries closely mirrored the international system, whether multipolar with Western colonial empires before the World Wars, bipolar Cold War between the US and the USSR, post-Cold War US unipolarity and hegemony, or the current emerging Sino-American bipolarity and multipolarity. During 2014–2022, cooperation in the Arctic was not exceptional compared to US-Russia non-proliferation cooperation, most notably with the Iran nuclear deal in 2015, or removing chemical weapons from Syria. There was extensive US-Europe-Russia and wider collaboration around the International Space Station. There was extensive energy trade and investment between Russia and Europe, most notably with the Nord Stream 1 and 2 pipelines under the Baltic Sea. The bipolar Cold War Arctic in the bipolar Cold War order Bipolarity with two superpowers standing out from all other great powers due to their demographic, economic, science and technology, military, and ideological weight and global claims, the US and the USSR, shaped the the Cold War order. Bipolar logic shaped the international order. John Mearsheimer explains well the structural logic of a nuclear-armed bipolar superpower security competition, and he points out how each superpower formed ‘bounded orders’ of allies and clients to discipline them and mobilize their resources. These bounded orders were the West for the US with its institutions, and the East Bloc for the USSR.Footnote2 This bipolar logic was also clear in the Arctic, divided between the Nordic and North American Arctic of the West and the Soviet Arctic by the Iron Curtain in Europe and the Ice Curtain in the Bering Strait. Circumpolar Arctic cooperation was limited to the Polar Bear Treaty of 1973 between the USSR, Norway, Kingdom of Denmark, Canada, and the US, Norwegian Soviet joint fisheries management in the Barents Sea, and some Bering Strait cooperation. The Arctic was exceptionally militarized during the Cold War driven by the mutual nuclear deterrence between the US and the USSR, where the Arctic played a central role for geostrategic and technological reasons. The Arctic was the shortest flight path for bombers and missiles, and sea ice offered cover for nuclear ballistic submarines. This exceptional militarization of the Arctic harmed the human security of Arctic local and indigenous communities through forced displacement, security service surveillance, and pollution, including notable nuclear accidents, as the 1968 B52 bomber crash off Northwest Greenland with four H-bombs causing extensive radioactive contamination of much Soviet nuclear material in and around the Kola Peninsula, including sunken submarines with nuclear fuel or weapons on board.Footnote3 Circumpolar liberal Arctic order under US unipolarity The Cold War ended with US victory and Soviet defeat and dissolution, also caused by the US pressuring the USSR into a strategic nuclear arms race, that the Soviet economy could not support. US Navy operations near the Soviet Northern Fleet nuclear bastion around the Kola Peninsula were an important part of this pressure.Footnote4 The Arctic was also part of Mikhail Gorbachev’s attempt to save the USSR by reform and lowering external tension. Gorbachev called the Arctic as a zone of peace, environmental protection and scientific collaboration in his 1987 Murmansk speech, in contrast to being at the heart of a strategic nuclear arms race with the US, which the USSR could not sustain. Gorbachev’s reforms failed to avert the dissolution of the USSR and deep socio-economic, public health, and law and order crisis in Russian society during the 1990s. The Russian State withdrew to a significant extent from its Arctic, leaving military facilities and society behind. Sino-American bipolarity comes to the Arctic The relative distribution of comprehensive material and immaterial power of the strongest States shapes international order. States stay the predominant actors since the emergence of a state system, not denying powerful non-State actors historically and today. The US unipolarity after the Cold War was an exceptional time of international history and not the ‘End of History’ as believed by some quarters in the West (Fukuyama). History is returning to normal with the return of major centres of economic output and science and technology outside the West. Ironically, US unipolarity laid the foundation for the ‘Return of history’, rather than the ‘End of History’. Since the 1990s, the world experienced globalization with economic, science and technology, and cultural integration. The US as the sole superpower provided public goods and facilitated and coordinated many of these economic, scientific, and technological, and cultural flows. Globalization undermined US unipolarity, facilitating the faster relative growth of non-Western States. China’s export-oriented growth, returning it to its historical position as one of the world’s largest economies is the most important dimension for changes to world order. In parallel, other emerging markets have grown adding multipolar dimensions to international order. International Relations theory serves to think about how to respond to the return of China. About 20–25 years ago, Professor Joseph S. Nye (Harvard University) and Professor John Mearsheimer (University of Chicago) articulated two major approaches with coherent theoretical and strategic visions for the Sino-American relationship. Nye, as a liberal institutionalist scholar and policymaker in the Bill Clinton Administration, presented a vision of ‘integrate, but hedge’. China integrated in the US-led world economy as member state of the World Trade Organization, while the US hedged against the rise of China by reinforcing its alliance with Japan.Footnote5 There were strong US and Western liberal expectations of Chinese economic growth and openness leading to political openness and reform. These expectations proved to be belied and ethnocentric. Mearsheimer, in line with his offensive realist theory, clearly outlined how the US had to keep China from becoming a regional hegemon in East Asia through a containment strategy.Footnote6 The US’ China strategy has shifted from the Nye perspective to the Mearsheimer perspective, while Mearsheimer himself is ostracized for his valid, but politically unacceptable, analysis of the Ukraine War. Mearsheimer explains how Sino-American bipolarity works with realist great power State security competition, and how competing great powers form their ‘bounded orders’ of allies and clients to discipline and mobilize these.Footnote7 The US is shaping a NATO+ order of the NATO member states and Australia, New Zealand, Japan, and South Korea. The US is increasingly engaging in trade and technology wars with China to slow down its growth rate, clearly denying its access to fundamental technologies of future knowledge-based economies. A realist focus on relative gains explains US policy to reduce China’s growth rate. China has a population more than three times that of the US with an absolute economy approaching the US economy. The US cannot allow China to catch up relatively with it, as that would imply a much larger Chinese economy than that of the US. Liberals (politically and theoretically) would ascribe the US policy to different domestic political systems, but the logic of anarchy points out how domestic political systems are of secondary concern, and empirically the US firmly bypassed and disciplined the previous Anglo-Saxon superpower, Britain. US-India relations can be expected to deteriorate with India’s socio-economic development, where India has a much younger population than China with great economic growth potential. China predicted the US abandoning its own open and globalized international economic policy out of concern for China’s relative rise to the US. China pursued a domestic and international economic policy much less dependent on US benevolence. In the domestic sphere, China pursued an economy based on domestic demand. Externally, China built up a parallel international economic and science and technology system with the Belt and Road Initiative with the Asian Infrastructure Investment Bank. Other bodies, such as the Shanghai Cooperation Organization in security reflect parallel orders and institutions to the US-led Western institutions. Sino-American bipolarity also became clear in the Arctic about 10–15 years ago. China started to appear as a diplomatic, economic, science and technology actor in the Arctic. Western surprise and consternation to this development reflects the great difficulties many Westerners have in facing a world, where the Rest takes an interest in the West, and not only the West taking an interest in the Rest as during centuries of imperialism and colonialism. It should not be surprising that China as one of the world’s two largest national economies and science and technology systems (with the US) has interests in the Arctic, or anywhere else in the world. The US is globally present in politics, defence, diplomacy, economics, science and technology, culture, etc. The unfortunate Chinese term of ‘near-Arctic State’ to legitimize Chinese involvement in the Arctic drew much Western ridicule and opposition. In comparison, the US and the West seem to be ‘near-everywhere’ States. One place where the Sino-American bipolar logic appeared soon and clearly has been the Kingdom of Denmark with the North Atlantic and Arctic overseas autonomies of the Faroe Islands and Greenland. The US applies pressure on the Kingdom of Denmark to exclude Chinese investment, science and technology, in line with Mearsheimer’s argument of a superpower building bounded orders to mobilize and discipline allies and clients in security competition with a competing great or superpower. The Faroe Islands are located between Iceland, Norway, and Scotland. They are centrally placed in the Greenland-Iceland-UK Gap controlling North-South access and blocking the Soviet-Russian Northern Fleet going south for NATO or the US and NATO navies going north for USSR/Russia. The Faroe Islands are becoming increasingly independent from Denmark. Huawei has long been a partner for the Faroese telecom company, which planned to continue with Huawei for 5G. This partnership came under increasing scrutiny from Danish and US sides. The Chinese ambassador to Copenhagen during a visit to the Faroe Islands linked the Faroe Islands choosing Huawei with prospects for a Sino-Faroese free trade agreement (the Faroe Islands are outside the EU and pursue an independent trade policy).Footnote8 The US ambassador to Copenhagen publicly spoke strongly against the Faroe Islands collaborating with Huawei for 5 G.Footnote9 Greenland is geographically North American (remember the Monroe Doctrine), crucial to US (North American) homeland defence, and pursuing independence from the Kingdom of Denmark. Greenland and China have for some time eyed each other for investment and science and technology opportunities. Greenlandic independence primarily rests on economic independence from Denmark and human capital. The economic independence should be through, among other domains, mining, where China and Chinese companies were considered as very important likely investors. Copenhagen regarded Sino-Greenlandic mutual interest with great suspicion for a long time, which was evident from the report on Greenlandic mining from 2014.Footnote10 In 2014, the Royal Danish Navy abandoned Grønnedal, a small, remote old naval facility, established by the US during the Second World War, which was put up for sale. A Chinese mining company showed interest in the facility as a logistics hub for future operations in Greenland. The Danish government promptly took the facility off the market maintaining a token naval presence.Footnote11 Developing Greenlandic tourism requires upgrading the airport infrastructure, which is an enormous project for a nation of 57,000 on a 2 M km2 island. One of the finalists to an international tender was the China Construction Communication Company (4C), which might also have provided financing.Footnote12 The Danish government convinced the Greenlandic government to accept a Danish financing (with a Danish stake) of the renovated and new airports against choosing a Danish construction company.Footnote13 The Greenlandic government was reshaped over this intervention with a coalition party leaving in protest over accepting such Danish interference in Greenlandic affairs. In 2017, China publicly presented its interest in a research station in Greenland, including a satellite ground station, which the Government of Greenland might have been positive towards.Footnote14 This idea has never materialized, first probably delayed by the COVID-19 pandemic, but Denmark and the US would never accept a Chinese research station and/or satellite station in Greenland. The US government has made its pressure on the Danish government public, through former Secretary of Defense, General Jim Mattis.Footnote15 China and Iceland spearheaded Sino-Nordic Arctic research cooperation from the official visit of Chinese premier Wen Jiabao to Iceland in 2012. In 2013, the China Nordic Arctic Research Center was founded, a virtual centre of Chinese and Nordic institutions hosted by the Polar Research Institute of China in Shanghai. CNARC has hosted an annual symposium between China and a Nordic country as well as researcher exchange. Today, Sweden has withdrawn from CNARC, and Denmark does not participate, as the participating Nordic Institute of Asian Studies at the University of Copenhagen has been closed. PRIC and RANNÍS (The Icelandic Center for Research, equivalent to Research Council) held the groundbreaking ceremony for the construction of the China-Iceland Aurora Observatory, now China Iceland Arctic Observatory, at Kárhóll, Northeast Iceland, in June 2014, which I attended. The Observatory opened formally—although unfinished—in October 2018. This collaboration had been hampered by the COVID-19 pandemic and negligence from central authorities and research institutions in the capital, Reykjavik. Today, Iceland is under pressure from the US, including a recent visit by US Congressional staffers, to close CIAO.Footnote16 US-Russia Eastern European security competition divides the Arctic US-Russia security competition, especially in Eastern Europe, became increasingly clear from around 2007–2008. In 2007, Russian President Vladimir Putin delivered a speech at the Munich Security Conference, where he unsurprisingly denounced US unipolarity. Russia had rejected US unipolarity and called for multipolarity since the Primakov Doctrine of the 1990s calling for Russia, China, and India to balance the US. In spring 2008, at the initiative of the US—and with French and German reservations—the NATO Bucharest summit invited Georgia and Ukraine to become member states. In the autumn, fighting broke out between Georgia and Russian forces in the separatist enclaves of Abkhazia and South Ossetia leading to Georgia’s defeat. In autumn 2013, the EU proposed an agreement to Ukraine, which forced Ukraine to choose between Russia and the EU. The Ukrainian President rejected the EU’s proposal, leading to popular protests met with government violence and eventually the President fleeing the country. Russia intervened annexing Crimea and supporting an insurgency in the Donbas.Footnote17 In December 2021, Russia proposed a treaty to the US blocking former Soviet Republics from joining NATO and rolling back NATO troops and equipment in Central and Eastern Europe, which was rejected by the US and allies in January 2022. On 24 February 2022, Russia launched a full-scale invasion of Ukraine, which had led to a war of attrition between Russia and Ukraine. The West extends wide-ranging political, military, economic, and further support to Ukraine and tries to isolate Russia as much as possible. The Rest of the world follows Western policy of isolating Russia to a very limited extent. The Russian annexation of Crimea affected the Arctic in limited ways. The West stopped military dialogues with Russia in the Arctic Security Forces Roundtable and Arctic Chiefs of Defense Forum. The West imposed sanctions on Russian Arctic energy projects, as the US $27 billion Yamal LNG project, which initially had Russian Novatek (60 per cent), French Total (20 per cent), and China National Petroleum Cooperation (20 per cent) ownership. Sanctions forced Novatek to sell 9.9 per cent to the Chinese government’s Silk Road Fund and rely on Chinese bank funding. Russia responded to these sanctions with counter sanctions on Western food exports to Russia, which also affected some Arctic seafood export to Russia. Russia accepted Faroese salmon exports, which led to a boom in Faroese economy. In 2014, there was some protests in the Arctic Council from the Chair, Canada. Otherwise, Arctic Council and other scientific, people-to-people, cooperation continued between Russia and the seven other Arctic States. For Northern Norway, extensive regional cooperation in the Barents region continued. The Russian full-scale invasion of Ukraine led to an almost complete Western cessation of Arctic collaboration with Russia. The other seven Arctic countries refused to collaborate with Russia in the Arctic Council, chaired by Russia 2021–2023. The Seven—now all NATO member states—Arctic Council member states have since backed down significantly. The Arctic Council was always more important to them than to Russia, suggesting that this Western brinkmanship was poorly thought through. There are extensive Western sanctions against the Russian economy, including against Russian Arctic energy projects, which were a key basis for developing the Russian Arctic. Russia had sought to develop a Europe-Russia-East Asia energy system with Russian Arctic oil and gas being exported both West to Europe and East to East Asia and with balanced Western and East Asian investments.Footnote18 The West has almost completely cut science and technology relations with Russia, also in the Arctic. The rare exceptions to continued Arctic science collaboration between West and Russia are for instance, the Norway-Russia Barents Sea Fisheries Commission because Norway also depends on this collaboration. The US continues more academic collaboration with Russia than European countries allow themselves; for instance, receiving Russian Fulbright professors. Norway pursued an extensive regional cooperation policy with Russia, Finland, and Sweden in the Barents Region since 1993 with much support for cross-border people-to-people exchange for youth, in education, academia, culture, environment, business development, and further. This collaboration built extensive insight, experience, networks, and access in Russia at North Norwegian institutions, as UiT The Arctic University of Norway, UNN The University Hospital of Northern Norway, the Norwegian Polar Institute, the Arctic Frontiers Conference, businesses such as Akvaplan-Niva marine environmental consultancy, and in academia, civil society, education, and government. The border town of Kirkenes depended for about a third of its economic turnover on trade with Russia. These connections are now almost completely cut by Norwegian government policy. Russian society and politics did become much more closed and authoritarian during this period, but that was for internal political reasons and not directed against Norway. Personally, I had successful high-level academic cooperation with some of the key Russian academic institutions funded by Norwegian public funds until they were forbidden by Norwegian government policy after the Russian invasion of Ukraine. My last personal visit to Moscow was in December 2019, and I was planning to visit with a sizeable group of Norwegian faculty and PhD candidates in April 2020, postponed due to the COVID-19 pandemic. The rapid division of world order in a NATO+ and a BRICS++ world The world is separating into a NATO+ grouping of NATO countries and Australia, New Zealand, Japan, and South Korea, under clear US leadership, and the Rest. The Rest, I call BRICS++ for the BRICS+ grouping and many other countries. This separation is clear through demography, economy, and science and technology. Humanity is about 8 billion people, compared to the West, which is about 1 billion, making it a small minority. Humanity is expected to grow to 10 billion, where the West will remain at about 1 billion, a shrinking small minority. The dominance of the West has rested on economic development and science and technology, translated into military force, with a shrinking demographic share of the world economy, scientific and technological development and relative power shifts from the West to the Rest. Legitimacy and credibility divisions are also clearly visible between the NATO+ and the BRICS++ worlds concerning the war in Ukraine, where the West is astonished by its own isolation. To great surprise, the Rest of the world have not followed the West’s attempts to isolate Russia diplomatically and economically. This rejection of the West’s position was clear from the very first UN Security Council debate on the Russian invasion of Ukraine on 24 February 2022. Russian veto and Chinese and Indian abstentions were not surprising, but the abstention by the United Arab Emirates was remarkable considering the close security and other partnerships between the GCC countries and the US and historically the UK. The speech during the debate on 21 February 2022, a few days prior, by the Kenyan ambassador to the Security Council, condemning Russia’s recognition of breakaway regions but reminding that other UNSC permanent members had also violated international law, showed the lack of Western credibility and legitimacy on the issue.Footnote19 Western credibility and legitimacy have eroded further by supporting Israel’s genocide in Gaza since the 7 October 2023 Hamas attack on Israel. The Division of the Arctic in a NATO Arctic and Russian BRICS++ Arctic. The effects of world order on the Arctic are clear, applying the analytical lenses of unipolar, bipolar, and multipolar traits of world order to the Arctic. The world is increasingly becoming Sino-American bipolar, where the US seeks to maintain unipolarity through a global containment strategy of China. This struggle is also evident in the Arctic; for instance, US pressure on the Kingdom of Denmark to exclude Chinese investment, science and technology in the Faroe Islands and Greenland. The US keeps up an ever-stronger anti-Chinese Arctic discourse from Secretary of State Mike Pompeo’s 2019 speech in Rovaniemi, Finland, to US Senator Lisa Murkowski at the Arctic Circle Assembly in Reykjavik in 2024. Russia has opposed US unipolarity since the 1990s, seeking multipolarity. The conflict between US and Russian multipolarity ultimately escalated via the 2014 annexation of Crimea, the 2022 invasion of Ukraine and the proxy war in Ukraine. This conflict has led to an almost complete division of the Arctic into NATO-Arctic (collaborating with the wider NATO+ world and further) and the Russian Arctic. Russia reaches out all it can diplomatically, economically, and in science and technology to the BRICS++ world, especially China and India. The Rest of the World seems restrained from pursuing Russian Arctic opportunities by the risk of US and Western secondary sanctions and other NATO Arctic pushbacks. Conclusion: looking forward for world and Arctic order The world is—as usual for international history—marked by the struggle over the world order among the strongest State actors. This struggle was forgotten especially by European observers during the post-Cold War era, with the illusion of End of History and confounding globalization and modernization with Westernization. Instead, we have had the Return of History and the return of historically very large non-Western economic, science and technology actors as China, followed by others. The current struggle over the world order also shapes the Arctic, as was historically clear, especially during the Second World War and the Cold War. The US is determined to prolong post-Cold War unipolar dominance expressed as ‘rules-based order’, where the US defines the rules, to whom, and when they apply. Europe has found an apparently comfortable and completely dependent position in this US-led order. The Rest of the World less so, with China and Russia explicitly rejecting this US-led order. The conflict over world order between the US and its bounded order in the NATO+ world in Europe, Oceania, and East Asia and the Rest of the World, can only be expected to escalate. The US must either stop Chinese economic, science and technology development (and later other peer competitors), or demographics, economy, science and technology will lead to a more bipolar and multipolar world. Europe by its dependence on the US is forced to follow this US strategy. The war in Ukraine can lead to a frozen conflict, where the overall Russia-West relationship remains highly conflictual, including in the Arctic. Ukrainian defeat or a negotiated settlement with a neutralized Ukraine and cessation of territory to Russia will also probably lead to a decadal severance of economic, science and technology, people-to-people ties between Russia and the West, including in the Arctic. A Russian defeat is unlikely because of difference in Russian and Ukrainian manpower and resources. China is unlikely to allow Russia to succumb to the US, which would put defeated Russia on China’s Northern frontier in China’s own conflict with the US. All in all, world order seems highly conflictual and with increased separation between the NATO+ and the BRICS++ world, which will only bring humanity more conflict and less economic development and growth, unlike the age of post-Cold War globalization. This division will be replicated in the Arctic. Disclosure statementNo potential conflict of interest was reported by the author(s).Additional informationNotes on contributorsRasmus Gjedssø Bertelsen is Professor at UiT The Arctic University of Norway. Views expressed are personal. Notes 1. Rasmus Gjedssø Bertelsen, ‘Unipolarity and Order in the Arctic’. Nina Græger, Bertel Heurlin, Ole Wæver, Anders Wivel, (Eds.), Polarity in International Relations. Governance, Security and Development, Palgrave Macmillan, Cham, 2022 at https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-05505-8_16. 2. John J. Mearsheimer, ‘Bound to Fail: The Rise and Fall of the Liberal International Order’, International Security, 43 (4), 2019, pp. 7–50 at https://doi.org/10.1162/isec_a_00342 3. George Lindsey, ‘Strategic Stability in the Arctic’, Adelphi Papers 241, International Institute for Strategic Studies, 1989. 4. Steven E. Miller, ‘The Return of the Strategic Arctic’, in The Arctic Yearbook, 2023 at https://arcticyearbook.com/images/yearbook/2022/Commentaries/6C_AY2022_Miller.pdf. 5. Joseph S. Nye, ‘The Challenge of China’, in Stephen Van Evera (Ed.) How to Make America Safe: New Policies for National Security, The Tobin Project, Cambridge, MA 2006 at https://tobinproject.org/sites/default/files/assets/Make_America_Safe_The_Challenge_Of_China.pdf. 6. John J. Mearsheimer, ‘The Rise of China Will Not Be Peaceful at All’, The Australian, 18 November 2005 at https://www.mearsheimer.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/06/The-Australian-November-18-2005.pdf. 7. John J. Mearsheimer, ‘Bound to Fail: The Rise and Fall of the Liberal International Order’, International Security, 43 (4), pp. 7–50, 2019 athttps://doi.org/10.1162/isec_a_00342. 8. Thomas Foght, ‘Hemmelig lydoptagelse: Kina pressede Færøerne til at vælge Huawei’ [Secret Sound Recording: China Pressured the Faroe Islands to Choose Huawei]. Danmarks Radio, 2019 at https://www.dr.dk/nyheder/indland/hemmelig-lydoptagelse-kina-pressede-faeroeerne-til-vaelge-huawei. 9. Adam Satariano, ‘At the Edge of the World, a New Battleground for the US and China’, New York Times, 2019 at https://www.nytimes.com/2019/12/20/technology/faroe-islands-huawei-china-us.html. 10. The Committee for Greenlandic Mineral Resources to the Benefit of Society, ‘To the Benefit of Greenland’. Ilisimatusarfik-University of Greenland; University of Copenhagen, 2014 at https://vbn.aau.dk/ws/files/208241864/To_the_benefit_of_Greenland.pdf. 11. Martin Breum, ‘Analyse: Stoppede Danmarks statsminister kinesisk opkøb i Grønland?’ [Analysis: Did the Danish Prime Minister Stop Chinese Acquisition in Greenland?]. High North News, 2018 at https://www.highnorthnews.com/nb/analyse-stoppede-danmarks-statsminister-kinesisk-opkob-i-gronland. 12. Teis Jensen, ‘Greenland shortlists Chinese company for airport construction despite Denmark’s concerns’, Reuters, 2018 at https://www.reuters.com/article/world/greenland-shortlists-chinese-company-for-airport-construction-despite-denmarks-idUSKBN1H32XG/. 13. Statsministeriet, ‘Aftale mellem regeringen og Naalakkersuisut om dansk engagement i lufthavnsprojektet i Grønland og styrket erhvervssamarbejde mellem Danmark og Grønland’ [Agreement Between the [Danish] Government and Naalakkersuisut [Government of Greenland] on Danish Involvement in the Airport Project in Greenland and Enhanced Business Collaboration Between Denmark and Greenland] Statsministeriet. Formandens Departement, 2018 at https://www.stm.dk/media/8148/10-09-2018_aftale_mellem_regeringen_og_naalakkersuisut.pdf. 14. Martin Breum, ‘Kina vil bygge kontroversiel forskningsstation i Grønland’. [China Wants to Build Controversial Research Station in Greenland], 2017 at https://www.information.dk/udland/2017/10/kina-bygge-kontroversiel-forskningsstation-groenland. 15. Damian Paletta and Itkowitz Colby, ‘Trump Aides Look into US Purchasing Greenland after Directives from President’. The Washington Post, 2019 at https://www.washingtonpost.com/business/2019/08/16/america-first-greenland-second-is-trumps-latest-white-house-directive/. 16. ‘Letter to Anthony Blinking and Lloyd Austin’, Select Committee on the Chinese Communist Party, United States Congress, 2017 at https://democrats-selectcommitteeontheccp.house.gov/sites/evo-subsites/democrats-selectcommitteeontheccp.house.gov/files/evo-media-document/10.16.24_PRC%20dual%20use%20research%20in%20the%20Arctic__.pdf. 17. John J. Mearsheimer, ‘Why the Ukraine Crisis is the West’s Fault: The Liberal Delusions That Provoked Putin’, Foreign Affairs, September/October, 2014 at https://www.mearsheimer.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/06/Why-the-Ukraine-Crisis-Is.pdf. 18. Mariia Kobzeva and Rasmus Gjedssø Bertelsen, ‘European-Russian-Chinese Arctic Energy System’,in Xing Li (Ed) China-EU Relations in a New Era of Global Transformation, London: Routledge, London, 2021, 22p. 19. Martin Kimani, ‘Statement by Amb. Martin Kimani, during the Security Council Urgent Meeting on the Situation in Ukraine’, The Permanent Mission of the Republic of Kenya, United Nations Security Council, February 2022 at https://www.un.int/kenya/sites/www.un.int/files/Kenya/kenya_statement_during_urgent_meeting_on_on_ukraine_21_february_2022_at_2100.pdf.

Defense & Security
Black Sea marked with Red Circle on Realistic Map.

War in the Black Sea: The revival of the Jeune École?

by Tobias Kollakowski

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском ABSTRACT This article analyses the naval dimension of the Russo-Ukrainian War in order to examine in which ways Ukraine’s approach to naval warfare in the Black Sea fits with Jeune École concepts – one of the leading naval strategic schools of thought. Having elaborated on the considerable success Ukraine has been able to achieve by applying a Jeune École approach and having explained the limits of Jeune École thinking in the conflict at sea, the article argues that Ukraine should be careful when considering to evolve the war at sea into a symmetrical conflict between conventional fleets.ARTICLE HISTORY Received 7 July 2024; Accepted 18 February 2025KEYWORDS War in the Black Sea; Jeune École; Russo-Ukrainian War; naval strategy; Ukrainian Navy The war that has been raging in the Black Sea since February 2022 is not a clash of titans. Its predominant characteristic are not naval battles between conventional fleets but, on the contrary, the absence of such engagements. Furthermore, as subsequent sections will further detail, most of these actions take place in the littoral. While the maritime dimension of the full-scale Russo-Ukrainian War has joined the Indo-Pakistani Naval War of 1971 and the 1982 Falklands War as among the most destructive naval wars since the end of WW2, the way in which it is waged involves coastal-defence batteries, pin prick attacks by uncrewed aerial systems (UAS), air-launched missile strikes and an asymmetric campaign carried out by uncrewed surface vehicles (USV). Not least important, the divergence between asymmetric and conventional naval warfare has not only informed the ways in which military actions have been carried out. Rather, it goes to the heart of a much larger debate over Ukraine’s fleet design and naval strategy. In this debate between adherents of a blue-water school of thought and advocates of the so-called ‘mosquito fleet’, both fractions have argued over the most appropriate develop- ment of the Ukrainian Navy and its future capabilities. To adopt an analytical framework that is well-suited to the nature of the conflict, both lethal and inter- state in the Black Sea and intellectual and within Ukraine’s military establishment, this article refrains from applying theories connected to prominent theoreticians associated with the blue-water school of thought (the ‘Old School’),1 such as Alfred Thayer Mahan, Philip Howard Colomb or Sir Julian Corbett.2 Literature on contem- porary naval strategy has indeed adopted concepts associated with these schools of thought, for example in the case of Japan (Corbett), the People’s Republic of China and India (Mahan).3 While blue-water concepts may prove beneficial when interpreting the oceanic ambitions and strategies of Asia’s mightiest naval powers, this article instead refers to Jeune École (Young School) naval strategic school of thought – one of the leading schools of thought in naval theory developed by 19th century French naval theoreticians and practitioners. As argued throughout this article, concepts and controversies affiliated with Jeune École (JÉ) are well-suited to explain the developments, circumstances and debates concerning the maritime theatre of the Russo-Ukrainian War. Scholars and experts have recently paid considerable attention to the mar- itime dimension of the Russo-Ukrainian War. Seth Cropsey, for example, argues that access to, and control of, the Black Sea is critical to the outcome of the war and Brent Sadler elaborates on lessons identified from the War in the Black Sea for a potential war involving Taiwan.4 Furthermore, scholars have examined the circumstances and implications of the transformation of a maritime gray zone conflict into a conventional war and the impact of the Russo-Ukrainian War on maritime commerce and the regional naval balance of power.5In a recent study, Md. Tanvir Habib and Shah Md Shamrir Al Af have also usefully explored Ukraine’s innovative usage of naval drones, tracing the lessons, conditions and implications of Ukraine’s approach to the War in the Black Sea and arguing in favour of the adoption of maritime asymmetric warfare strategies and capabilities by smaller countries.6 However, while deeply engaging in the discussion on asymmetric warfare Habib’s and Md Al Af’s analysis does not address the ‘Young School’ of naval strategic thought or matters of naval theory more generally. In contrast to the above-mentioned authors, in his review of the book Vaincre en mer au XXIe siècle, Michael Shurkin does take note of the fact that naval drones ‘perhaps breathe new life into the old vision of the Jeune École’ when he addresses the fact that the authors have not included the Russo-Ukrainian War due to the date of publication. However, given the nature of his article as a book review, Shurkin doesn’t elaborate on this idea.7 This article differs from the existing literature by embedding the War in the Black Sea and differing perceptions on the development of the navy and the appropriate fleet design within larger strategic debates discussed in naval theory. As elaborated in section six of this paper, a traditional assumption expressed by many authoritative voices has it that a JÉ approach is not a viable approach to wage war at sea, especially against an opponent enjoy- ing a much greater superiority in available means. Based on the examination of the case study of the Russo-Ukrainian War, this article shows how many debates surrounding the original 19th century JÉ also apply to the ongoing war in the Black Sea and demonstrates that Ukrainian success at sea and at the coast is closely linked with JÉ thinking. Given the length of the conflict and the great number of events at sea and onshore involving a broad range of topics, a comprehensive summary of the conflict at sea would go far beyond the scope of a single article. Consequently, maritime-related devel- opments are only covered as far as relevant for this article’s research design and to support or dismiss concepts associated with the JÉ naval strategic school of thought. This also means that this paper covers comparatively little on the actual conduct of naval operations. For the level of interpretation as applied in this article, tactics and operations are largely irrelevant. Ultimately, the debate on anti-access and area denial (A2/AD), a topic that has been covered in great depth within the two recent decades,8 has been largely omitted from this article. The reason is as follows. There is some conceptual overlap between the JÉ and the A2/AD debate – especially con- cerning the JÉ’s rebirth in form of the Soviet Molodaya Shkola (Young School). While JÉ could only influence naval policy in France for a few years at the end of the 19th century, elements of JÉ thinking gained prominence approxi- mately three decades later in the newly-established Soviet Union. Taking into consideration the harsh economic situation and the disastrous state of the navy in the early USSR and denouncing blue-water ‘Old School’ thinking as imperialist, advocates of the Molodaya Shkola favoured a naval strategy based on an inshore defence made up of small surface vessels, submarines, mines, coastal artillery and land-based aviation. In contrast to the Molodaya Shkola’s approach to use asymmetric means to counter conventionally super- ior navies that was effectively similar to the French JÉ, there were some differences between the two schools. Probably, the most significant differ- ence concerned the JÉ’s focus on offensive commerce raiding.9 However, whereas denying enemy major surface combatants access to one’s own littoral by employing small heavily armed craft qualifies as being very much in line with A2/AD, JÉ and Molodaya Shkola thinking, the same cannot be said for the extensive use of land-based systems. For example, the traditional ‘Central Mine and Artillery Position’ [RUS: TS͡ entral’naia͡ minno-artilleriĭskaia͡ pozits͡ iia͡ ], the stationary SSC-1 Sepal10 of the Cold War era and the contemporary Russian SSC- 5 Stooge [RUS designation: Bastion] and SSC-6 Sennight [RUS designation: Bal] coastal defence missile systems or Ukraine’s R-360 Neptune anti-ship missiles11 all count as essential elements of the A2/AD discourse. Conceptually, however, they fit much better into ‘coastal defence theory’ and the ‘brick-and-mortar school’ rather than the JÉ.12 Trying to cover all the facets of the naval dimension of the Russo-Ukrainian War would blur the conceptual lines between the differ- ent naval strategic schools of thought. It would deviate this article ever further away from its selected theoretical framework: the original 19th century ideas associated with JÉ thinking. This article comprises seven parts. Part one briefly summarises the princi- pal ideas of the 19th century JÉ as the analytical framework for interpreting Ukraine’s approach to the War in the Black Sea. The second section examines how Ukraine, having successfully withstood the initial Russian offensive, waged naval war against the Russian Black Sea Fleet (BSF) and how the conduct of warfare fits within JÉ thinking. Having elaborated on derivations from JÉ theory as far as commerce warfare is concerned, parts three and four elaborate on the limitations of the applicability of the theory. As shown at different points throughout the article, many essentials of the debate are remarkably similar despite a time difference of 150 years. The fifth section elaborates on the ways in which Ukraine attacks Russia’s maritime critical infrastructure and argues that Ukraine’s approach blends well with the JÉ strategic school of thought. Towards the end, the article presents ongoing debates on Ukraine’s naval future which once again reveal the long-standing aversion of naval leaders to embrace JÉ ideas. While the article does address certain aspects of the Russo-Ukraine War at various points throughout the text, it is in these concluding sections that the debate between ‘Old School’ proponents and the fraction advocating the development of the ‘mosquito fleet’ is illustrated. Readers only interested in this element of the academic discussion may wish to fast-forward to section six. Ultimately, the article argues that essential elements of JÉ thinking have demonstrated their worth as a viable naval strategy, at least on the narrow seas, and should receive more positive appreciation by inferior conflict parties. The origins of Jeune école During the 19th century, French naval thinkers had to tackle the issue of British naval supremacy that rested on a battle fleet vastly superior to its French counterpart while being confronted with the financial and industrial capacities of the British Empire and a redistribution of the military budget prioritising continental warfare as a result of the 1870–71 Franco-German War.13 As a result, JÉ proposed an approach to naval warfare that seeks to avoid the enemy’s fleet and targets the enemy’s sea lines of communication. For this purpose, Baron Richild Grivel, one of the forerunners of JÉ, had already proposed commerce raiding as the ‘the most economical for the poorest fleet’ and ‘at the same time the one most proper to restore peace, since it strikes directly [. . .] at the very source of the prosperity of the enemy’.14 The ideal unit to conduct such a kind of warfare was the cruiser. Drawing conclusions from the Napoleonic Wars, Grivel points out that the immense resources Napoleon had spent in constructing ships of the line (FRA: vaisseaux) would have been much better invested in the construction of quick and well-armed ships capable of waging ‘partisan warfare’.15 Furthermore, late 19th century technological advances played a major role in the calculations of JE supporters. Torpedoes, mines, and submarines made major surface combatants much more vulnerable,16 while the introduction of steam propulsion made naval battles between unlike opponents rather improbable.17 In combination, these developments led Admiral Théophile Aube, a founding father of JÉ, to the conclusion that the ship of the line was not the desired naval vessel for the future.18 When Aube became Naval Minister in 1886, the ideas of JÉ, focusing on means to wage asymmetric warfare,19 were, though only for a relatively short period, practically implemented: Aube halted battleship production, prioritis- ing the acquisition of cruisers, torpedo boats, and gunboats and ordering the construction of the Gymnote, the first French torpedo-equipped submarine.20 Still, there was substantial resistance against JÉ even during its heydays not least because of legal considerations. French naval officers, such as Commander Heuette and Admiral Bourgois, were strongly opposed to the blatant violations of international law JÉ was proposing as it demanded reckless and merciless commerce raiding (FRA: guerre de course).21 Fast, small and numerous – how Ukraine crippled the black sea fleet At the end of March 2022, it had become clear that Russia’s gambit for a quick offensive victory over Ukraine had ended in disaster. At sea, the Russians had achieved some success, among others achieving sea control and capturing Snake Island close to the Ukrainian shoreline, but had failed to carry out a decisive landing operation in the northwestern Black Sea. However, a few weeks after the beginning of the invasion, in April 2022, the Ukrainians employed their land- based sea denial capabilities and following attacks against Russian warships, most notably the cruiser Moskva, by Ukrainian coastal defence forces, the BSF’s position off Ukraine’s Black Sea coast could no longer be sustained.22 Subsequently, Ukraine went on the offensive. As a forward position, main- taining a presence on the island and re-supplying the deployed forces proved particularly difficult for the Russians as Ukrainian forces shelled the island from the Ukrainian coast and targeted vessels carrying out resupply runs to the island. According to different sources, the BSF suffered the loss of several smaller units as, among others, strikes carried out by Bayraktar UAS targeted Russian patrol boats and auxiliary vessels operating in proximity to Snake Island.23 In May 2022, the Russians claimed to have shot down 30 UAS in the Snake Island region in three days.24 Even if these numbers were correct, the effects that relatively cheap, mass-produced drones could exert on Russian equipment at land and at sea, which was expensive and hard to replace, was devastating. After a struggle that had lasted for several months, the Russian military finally withdrew its troops from Snake Island by 30 June 2022.25 Following the withdrawal of BSF from the northwestern Black Sea, the Ukrainians launched an extensive sea denial campaign throughout the entire Black Sea region. Over the next years, numerous Russian warships were reported having been attacked and sometimes fatally damaged by Ukrainian USVs. Examples include the alleged destruction of the corvettes Ivanovets (January/ February 2024) and Sergey Kotov (attacked in September 2023/supposedly sunk in March 2024) and the tank landing ship Tsezar Kunikov (February 2024).26As Habib and Md Al Af argue, the employment of such an asymmetric approach was critical for Ukraine’s ability to withstand the Russian invasion at the time of writing. Asymmetric capabilities both in the air, at sea and on land have made significant contributions to denying the Russians a quick, decisive victory and have pro- tracted the conflict.27 The BSF reacted in various ways, among others, by use of electromagnetic warfare and adding fire power to their naval assets.28 Still, even while Russian naval forces were seeking to adapt, losses were accumulating. After two years of war, naval expert Igor Delanoë assessed, ‘the BSF has not been able to overcome all the difficulties emanating from an asymmetric warfare at sea caused by the Ukrainians’ employment of naval drones and cruise missiles’.29 Already as early as August 2022, British intelligence assessed that Russian patrols were ‘generally limited to waters within sight of the Crimean coast’.30 As elaborated in the following sections, however, neither was navigating close to the shore nor staying in port going to be a viable naval strategy for the Russians. Ukrainian drone tactics involved attacks by swarms of fast USVs that were continuously improved and specialised.31 As in the case of UAS attacks, by employing comparatively cheap USVs Ukraine benefited from a great advan- tage in terms of cost-efficiency when targeting expensive assets such as warships.32 ‘Speed and numbers’, in the words of Røksund the ‘mantra’ of JÉ, 33 stood at the heart of Ukraine’s approach to naval warfare. It is therefore little wonder that Ukrainian scholars themselves have also drawn compar- isons with the Molodaya Shkola school of thought. Ukrainian military journal- ist and historian Oleksandr Vel’mozh͡ ko, for example, points out,In fact, I see here a new ‘edition’, so to speak, of the ‘young school’ - the theory of creating naval forces on the basis of small mine-torpedo, missile, or other currently high-tech weapons that would cost relatively cheap and could be used against large warships.34 Furthermore, various videos released by Ukrainian security agencies show attacks under conditions of low visibility, especially at night, when the drones could take full advantage of their small signatures.35 Immediately, nighttime torpedo boat attacks against bigger and much more heavily armed comba- tants – one of the JÉ’s leitmotif’s [FRA: ‘de nuit, l’avantage est pour les torpilleurs’ – at night, the advantage is for the torpedo boats] – come to mind.36 Essentially, the means and ways which Ukraine applied to erode the BSF’s strength resembled JE thinking at its core. While the asymmetric ways in which Ukraine has countered Russian conven- tional superiority at sea have proven to be exceptionally successful and can serve as a 21st century role model for a JÉ style of naval warfare, the second pillar of JÉ’s warfare concept – offensive commerce raiding – requires elaboration. Firstly, apart from very few instances reported by the Russian conflict party right at the outbreak of hostilities – Russia claimed that Ukrainian missiles had hit the mer- chantmen SGV Flot and Seraphim Sarovsky – Ukraine has abstained from carrying out attacks against Russian civilian shipping. As Raul Pedrozo argues, unless there were specific conditions (see the following section) which qualified both Russian merchant vessels as legitimate military targets, attacks on these vessels would have been inconsistent with the law of naval warfare.37 Whatever the conditions surrounding the alleged attacks against these two civilian ships during the first 24 hours of the war, as far as analysts can tell from publicly accessible information about the war at sea, they were isolated incidents. By no means did Ukraine pursue a naval strategy in which the deliberate targeting of enemy civilian vessels played any role. Secondly, on 5 August 2023, Russian sources reported that the Russian tanker Sig had been struck by Ukrainian forces close to Crimea – a claim that was later confirmed by the Ukrainian conflict party.38 According to various sources, how- ever, Sig was carrying fuel for military purposes to Syria.39 Thus, in this particular case, it was ‘integrated into the enemy’s war-supporting effort’ and ‘due to its behaviour fulfilled the requirements of a military objective’ which also includes ‘transporting war material or transporting or supplying troops’. Consequently, Sig lost its protected status as a merchant vessel and became a legitimate target.40 Thirdly, it is true that on 20 July 2023 the Ukrainian Ministry of Defence published a warning that from 21 July, all vessels headed to Russian ports or Russian-occupied Ukrainian ports may be considered as those carrying military cargo.41 Subsequently, this declaration was also reinforced by remarks made by various Ukrainian senior representatives in the context of the drone strike on tanker Sig who claimed that (every) Russian ship sailing in the Black Sea was now a legitimate target.42 However, the situation surrounding these declarations needs to be taken into consideration. In the context of the termination of the U.N. Grain Initiative and before the Ukrainians, the Russian Ministry of Defence had released a statement which declared that from ‘Moscow time on 20 July 2023, all vessels sailing in the waters of the Black Sea to Ukrainian ports will be regarded as potential carriers of military cargo’.43 Furthermore, at the time, Russia also targeted Ukrainian ships, ports and infrastructure connected with the export of grain.44 As Oleg Ustenko, an economic adviser to Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, points out, Ukraine’s ‘move was retaliation for Russia withdrawing from the U.N.-brokered Black Sea grain deal and unleashing a series of missile attacks on agricultural stores and ports’.45 The attack on the port of Novorossiysk had immediate effects on the movement of shipping and the calculation of war risk premiums (marine insurance).46 When both sides had given the opponent a taste of what a potential war on commercial shipping could look like, the smokescreen dispersed. Ukraine abstained from carrying out its threats. Thus, rather than interpreting Ukrainian activities within the framework of JÉ, theories on (non-nuclear) deterrence and strategic communication are much better suited to explain the events concerning civilian shipping in July and August 2023. Nothing remotely resembling a guerre de course-strategy had occurred. Why was this the case, especially in light of the enormous costs Ukraine could cause to Russian seaborne trade in comparison with the small investment associated with a few USVs? Legal constraints associated with the protection of mer- chant ships need to be primarily mentioned in this context.47  Limits to Jeune école – the legal and political dimension Although a comprehensive discussion of the law of naval warfare goes beyond the aims of this article, it is useful to recapitulate a few legal aspects concerning the war at sea. As a matter of principle, hostile merchant vessels do not qualify as legitimate military targets.48 The 1936 London Protocols awarded further protection to the status of merchant ships and clarified the rules of submarine warfare. They state, In particular, except in the case of persistent refusal to stop on being duly summoned, or of active resistance to visit or search, a warship, whether surface vessel or submarine, may not sink or render incapable of navigation a merchant vessel without having first placed passengers, crew and ship’s papers in a place of safety.49 To act in accordance with the law of armed conflict Ukraine would have had to seize Russian merchant vessels as prises and/or proclaim a maritime block- ade against the Russian Federation. In doing so, the Ukrainian Navy would have to enforce this blockade and, as a consequence, could/should have employed a belligerent’s right of visit and search.50 In order to interdict maritime traffic to the Russian coast and given the illegality of non- enforced blockades, both approaches – seizing individual enemy merchant ships and blockading the coastline – would require Ukrainian naval (and/or air) force (surface combatants) detecting civilian vessels, ascertaining their character and cargo and seizing vessels.51 Thus, as Ukraine lacked the surface units and the necessary sea control to seize ships, to enforce a blockade that requires ‘ensuring vessels trying to pass the blockade with sufficient probability’ and to exercise the belligerent’s right of visit, there were basically no options available to Ukraine to take actions against merchant shipping bound for Russian ports, if Ukraine was to act in accordance with the law of naval warfare.52 There are certain conditions when a merchant ship loses its protected status and becomes a legitimate military target, for example, when acting as naval auxiliaries, resisting capture or the belligerent’s right of visit and search or carrying out intelligence or communications functions.53 However, these conditions would not apply to a hypothetical scenario in which Ukraine would wage economic warfare against merchant shipping. Neither were merchant vessels bound for Russian ports sailing in convoys nor could merchantmen sailing towards Russian Black Sea ports generally be considered ‘integrated in Russia’s [and Ukraine’s] war effort’. All the conditions under which merchant ships may be eligible to attack during armed conflicts would not apply. While attacks on unarmed merchant vessels – especially for the weaker side – remains a tempting option in the 21st century as much as it was in the 19th century, the fear to commit blatant breaches of international law have had a discipling effect throughout the centuries. As outlined in section two of this article, the disapproval of the illegal ways of warfighting at sea that had been proposed by JÉ have been as old as this school of thought itself. In addition to the legal constraints that apply to commerce raiding, both sides’ decision not to follow the path leading to unrestricted economic warfare at sea should also be interpreted within the political context. For Ukraine acting in accordance with the law of armed conflict was significant as its support by the global community of liberal-minded states was shaped by these states’ normative understanding of the rules-based world order and international politics.54 Furthermore, both Ukraine and Russia were important exporters of various raw materials and food – particularly as far as the countries of the Global South were concerned. For example, in 2020, 15 countries in Africa imported over 50% of their wheat products from Ukraine or Russia. The impact of the war on the continent was profound as Africa suffered from a shortage of approximately 30 million tons of grains and serious inflation.55 Against this background, it seems clear that the targeting of merchant ships loaded with cargo desperately needed by the most vulner- able regions in the world would have only come at a tremendous political cost for the war parties. As Timothy Heck sums it up, Both the Ukrainians and the Russians wanted the benefits of international commerce and, diplomatically, to gain/earn/keep the goodwill of recipient nations by allowing regulated commercial traffic to escape the war zone.56 Again, similarities with the 19th century debates concerning JÉ are striking. Already in the 1880s influential opponents to JÉ, such as Admiral Bourgois, had criticised that tactics proposed by JÉ and illegal acts of naval warfare would rally neutral countries against France – the last thing an inferior French Navy in a military confrontation with Britain needed.57 While both sides largely refrained from directly targeting merchant ship- ping apart from a few exceptions, strikes against maritime critical infrastruc- ture and onshore facilities, which enabled both maritime commercial and naval operations at sea, evaded many of these constraints. Indeed, as each side intended to attrit the opponent’s ability to use the sea for one’ s own purposes, repeated attacks by various weapon systems against a wide range of maritime targets ashore became another principal characteristic of the Russo-Ukrainian War.  The degradation of Russia’s geostrategic position at the Black Sea Having elaborated on the applicability and the limits of the JÉ approach on the war at sea, the following section takes into consideration the second component of the systematic destruction of Russian naval capabilities in the Azov-Black Sea region: the targeting of Russian maritime infrastructure ashore and in port. In October 2022, a large-scale Ukrainian drone attack against Russian littoral positions attracted wide attention when several unmanned aerial vehicles and autonomous surface vehicles attacked the port of Sevastopol.58 Over the course of the next years, Ukraine repeatedly attacked Russian naval assets stationed on Crimea ashore and at the coast of the peninsula. Examples include strikes against Russian naval aviation at Saky airfield in August 2022, against various targets in the port of Sevastopol in March 2024 – apparently impacting the Ropucha-class tank landing ships Azov and Yamal – or against the Karakurt-class corvette Tsiklon in May 2024.59 Shortly after attacks against Russian infrastructure on Crimea had been reported, reports about Ukrainian strikes against Novorossiysk were pub- lished. In November 2022, a Ukrainian sea drone was reported having struck the Sheskharis oil terminal in Novorossiysk at night.60 As later reported by the newspaper Ukrainska Pravda, the following July, at a presidential meeting, Ukraine’s leadership had decided to launch strikes against Russian port infra- structure as a retaliatory measure for Russian missile and drone attacks on Ukrainian ports in the aftermath of the termination of the grain initiative.61 Subsequently, in early August 2023 movement of vessels was temporarily halted at the Port of Novorossiysk following a Ukrainian drone attack and the Russian tank landing ship Olenegorsky Gornyak suffering serious damage caused by a USV attack.62 Ukrainska Pravda reports on the moment when the Ukrainian drone operators came across various merchantmen while navigat- ing their USVs towards Novorossiysk. ‘Somewhere en route the operators saw a tanker. They asked if it could be perceived as a target. No tankers! If we hit a tanker in neutral waters, then we’ll be branded as some kind of terrorists. Your target is the port. (. . .) ’ a head of the mission said.63 Although this statement was reported by a conflict party and cannot independently be verified, it supports the argument made in the previous section about the limits of the JÉ approach in the case study of the Russo- Ukrainian War as far as the targeting of civilian shipping is concerned.64 Furthermore, and also exactly as in the case of the war on the open sea, the conflict parties had to consider third party opinions. As Ukrainska Pravda reports, following the Ukrainian strike against the port of Novorossiysk, ‘the Country’s Leadership received Warnings from partners at all levels’.65 In 2024, Ukrainian strikes against critical maritime infrastructure continued. In May, for example, Ukrainian attacks were reported on Novorossiysk’s seaport, an oil refinery in Tuapse and the Sevastopol Bay area.66 In early April 2024, Ukrainian Military Intelligence (HUR) published footage of a strike against an oil pipeline in Rostov Oblast that supposedly was used to transport oil products to the local oil depot for tankers in the Azov Sea. According to HUR, ‘the loading of tankers with oil products has been suspended indefinitely’.67 While the claim cannot be confirmed, the concept of striking the production and transport facilities before transportation rather than the merchant ships transporting the cargo highlights approaches to deal with the limits on economic warfare in the maritime dimension as detailed above. Although the BSF had to redeploy further to the eastern part of the Black Sea and Russia attempted to set up maintenance infrastructure further east, Ukraine continuously expanded the range of target locations and has thus been gradually degrading the Russian ability to make use of the sea. In the words of a retired U.S. admiral, ‘If you’re on a Russian naval ship, you’re not safe anywhere in the Black Sea’.68 As another element of Ukraine’s strike campaign, Ukraine has also targeted objectives whose destruction had a long-term impact on Russian naval capabilities and its war-making potential. For example, in July 2022 and in September 2023, Ukraine was reported having struck the naval staff/the headquarters of the BSF in Sevastopol – the latter attack causing devastating effects.69 As far as attacks against Russia’s industrial base and logistical infrastructure are concerned, examples include Ukrainian attacks against the Zaliv shipyard in Kerch, Crimea on 4 November 2023, which reportedly damaged the not yet commissioned Karakurt-class corvette Askold, and the strike against the Ropucha-class tank landing ship Novocherkassk that left the ship sunk at the bottom of the harbour. The strike has thus, extremely likely, rendered one of the main berths of the Feodosia port, which had been in use as an important logistical hub, unusable.70 A particularly devastating strike was carried out on 13 September 2023 when a Ukrainian missile strike hit dry docks of the Sevmorzavod shipyard, maintenance facilities of the BSF, in effect causing extensive damage to the Ropucha-class tank landing ship Minsk and the Kilo-II-mod-class conventional submarine Rostov-on-Don and consequently severing ‘Sevastopol’s ability to undertake maintenance and repairs of Black Sea Fleet vessels, at least until the dry docks at the Sevmorzavod facility (. . .) can be returned to regular use’, as Thomas Newdick points out.71 As the second year of the war was approaching its end, independent experts and Ukrainian military representatives were pointing at serious maintenance support issues confronting the BSF in the future as adequate repair infrastructure in this maritime theatre became a scarce resource.72 In combination, the accumulation of all these strikes over the long term had a serious attrition effect on Russia’s ability to utilise the sea for its purposes. This concerned primarily the military dimension but, as the war progressed and Ukrainian strikes against refineries and port infrastructure accumulated, also gradually the commercial dimension. British representa- tives assessed that 13% to 14% (December 2023) and subsequently 25% (February 2024) of Russia’s Black Sea combatant fleet had been destroyed.73 Moreover, on 26 March 2024, Ukraine’s navy spokesman Dmytro Pletenchuk released Ukraine’s assessment that up to that point in time, approximately a third of the BSF had been destroyed or disabled. 74 After more than two years of war, the strength and presence of the BSF had diminished consider- ably and British Defence Minister Grant Shapps considered the BSF ‘function- ally inactive’ – an assessment further substantiated by the UK Defence Intelligence update the following month75 The BSF has largely withdrawn its ships and submarines from Sevastopol further eastwards to Novorossiysk. Since the removal of the BSF commander in March 2024, the fleet has been the least active since the war began.76 How do these strikes against Russian targets in port and ashore fit within the JÉ school of thought? Firstly, while not a principal feature that is com- monly associated with JÉ naval strategy,77 the foundational literature written by the originators of JÉ does mention attacks on an enemy’s coastal facilities. This primarily includes bombardment of civilian coastal settlements for the purpose of terror but also includes military facilities when the opportunity arises. Aube, for example, writes: The masters of the sea will turn the power of attack and destruction, in the absence of adversaries evading their blows, against all the cities of the littoral, fortified or not, peaceful or warlike, burn them, ruin them or at least ransom them without mercy.78 Equally connecting strikes against military facilities at the coast with this naval strategic school, journalist and JÉ theoretician, Gabriel Charmes, argues,: The bombardment of Alexandria further showed that, if the heavy artillery of a battleship risked being quickly reduced to impotence by the resistance of the forts, the only weapon which could cause them serious damage was small artillery carried on fast ships.79 Secondly, if attention is paid to the connotated message the founding fathers of this naval school of thought tried to convey, a good argument can be made that Ukraine’s targeting of Russian infrastructure at the coastline fits well with a JÉ approach. Ukrainian strikes consist of numerous fast strikes and well- placed pin prick attacks that outmanoeuvre enemy defences and hit unex- pectedly. They are not built on sea control and air superiority because Ukraine did not enjoy dominance of these domains. Thus, the strikes were not ‘decisive’ in a Mahanian sense but rather the modern adoptions of concepts already presented by Admiral Aube during the 1880s. With the extreme mobility that steam gives to all warships, whatever the special weapon with which they are equipped, with the speed and security of informa- tion that the electric telegraph allows, with the concentration of force that is ensured by the railway, on the one hand side, no point on the coast is safe from attack.80 If one were to exchange the concept of steam power with modern forms of power generation, the telegraph with modern ISR and command and control systems and the railway with all forms of transportation available at the beginning of the 21st century, Aube’s article could very well describe a military scenario of the Russo-Ukrainian War. Repeated attacks against – and thus attrition of – the opponent’s naval geostrategic position could seriously degrade the opponent’s ability to operate, sustain and reinforce a fleet over a longer time period without having to destroy the opposing fleet in a symmetrical battle is essentially the quintessence of JÉ thinking. Granted, in Aube’s age, it would have been difficult to imagine how non- conventional means could assemble the necessary amount of firepower to cause the substantial damage to the opponent’s position as shown by the War in Ukraine. But since the development of weapon systems of ever greater ranges, a stakeholder’s position may be vulnerable to repeated attacks by an opponent even if the opponent has not been able to establish sea control and is using asymmetric styles of warfare. To sum up, technological advances have enabled the inferior side to pursue a naval strategy that contributed to driving down the opponent’s fleet’s capabilities without actually seeking a symmetrical engagement with his fleet. This, of course, is completely in line with JÉ thinking – a so-called ‘material school’ of naval strategic thought.81 Thus, in contrast to the deliberate targeting of merchantmen, in the case of attacks against Russian maritime infrastructure the Ukrainian approach can be interpreted as continuing and complementing JÉ thinking. The way ahead: Old school or young school? Ukraine’s asymmetric approach to naval warfare and the adoption of ideas associated with JÉ have secured Ukrainian successes in the maritime domain few experts could have predicted at the beginning of the hostilities.82 It is not exaggerated to claim that the significance of these events is historical. Generally speaking, many scholars and historical studies have not been particularly positive in their verdicts about JÉ as a viable strategic school of thought. As Arne Røksund elaborates, even when Théophile Aube was Minister of Marine (1886–1887), he could not overcome the French admiralty’s resistance to giving up entirely on battlefleets. The same holds true for the second generation of JÉ proponents during the latter 1890s.83 By the time De Lanessan was appointed Minister of Marine in 1899, ideas about great quan- tities of fast but mostly smaller vessels gave way for naval concepts based on comparatively fewer warships of high quality as ‘the French Navy should concentrate on what he regarded as core elements of a first-rank navy’.84 Subsequently, as Røksund, recapitulates, ‘The French Navy did not fight any war following the theory of the Jeune école.’85 Ian Speller comes to a similar conclusion as he underlines that  Even in France there was never a consensus in favour of their [Jeune École’s – author’s note] policies, and French naval policy remained divided (. . .) Ultimately, the Jeune École failed in their attempt to bring radical change to French naval policy.86 Similar to the fate of the French original, the Soviet Molodaya Shkola was replaced rather quickly by grand visions of ‘Stalin’s Big Ocean-going Fleet’ deemed more adequate for Soviet great power status.87 Of what relevance could JÉ ever be when – referring to a leading British naval historian – there has never been a historical example when the approach proposed by this strategic school of thought has ever worked in practice.88 Such criticism was very much in line with the writings of another prominent naval practitioner and theoretician: Admiral Gorshkov, Chief of the Soviet Navy. According to Gorshkov, the naval strategy pursued by the German naval leadership during WW2 had failed because it left the U-boats alone in their fight against the Allied navies without support by other subbranches of the navy. Without the danger of German naval and naval air forces attacking their surface vessels, Allied navies could focus on anti-submarine warfare and ‘the priority devel- opment of only one warfare branch, the subsurface forces, ultimately had to lead to a drastic limitation of the German fleet’s spectrum of tasks when fighting against the enemy’s fleets’, was his argument.89 As a consequence, Gorshkov strongly argues in favour of a balanced fleet which could potentially even defeat a numerically superior but unevenly developed opponent.90 In contrast, the war in the Black Sea has demonstrated that a JÉ approach can actually succeed in neutralising a superior, opposing naval force, at least in a narrow sea.91 Given recent events, the critical perception of JÉ should be carefully re-evaluated. Apart from the historical point of debate that the German military leadership had to fight WW2 with a different fleet than the ‘balanced fleet’ of the Z-Plan that it had originally envisioned but that had not been realised in time, there is also a conceptual issue worth debating from a strategic studies perspective. As various experts and, in fact, the German naval leadership,92 have repeatedly touched upon, the German Navy was doomed to lose the war at sea due to the greater strategic conditions (e.g., fleet sizes, war-making potential including shipbuilding capacity etc.) under which it had to fight WW2.93 If there was no winning condition in a conventional naval war, however, and if, consequently, the sense in carrying out the conflict at sea was not to ‘rule the waves’ but to cause the maximum amount of damage and bind a large Allied force in a way as resource-efficient as possible it has to be critically examined whether a JÉ may have actually been the smartest approach the German Navy could have chosen.94 As elaborated below, similar strategic calculations should be taken into consid- eration when debating the case of Ukraine and the War in the Black Sea. Commerce raiding, another feature of the JÉ approach, has equally been dismissed as futile. As far as targeting of individual merchant ships is con- cerned, the blue-water prophet himself, Alfred T. Mahan viewed this style of warfare as ‘the weakest form of naval warfare’95 and criticises ‘A strong man cannot be made to quit his work by sticking pins in him’.96 A hundred twenty years after Mahan, this assessment also may have lost some of its persuasive power. At the beginning of the 21st century, global sea-based commerce has become very sensitive to changes in the security environment and much more risk averse. Furthermore, the differentiation between flag states, ship owners, cargo owners, crews and charterers has greatly reduced ‘national interest’ within maritime commerce. As a consequence, the outbreak of hostilities in the northwestern Black Sea at the beginning of the Black Sea has – not discounting other factors, such as the closing of ports and Ukrainian authorities prohibiting merchant ships from leaving ports – led to a drastic collapse of merchant shipping to and from Ukraine.97 Similarly, the drastic effects of the 2023 attack against the port of Novorossiysk and the Sig on the maritime commercial sector have already been mentioned. Against this background, it seems extremely likely that if Ukraine struck or sank even a small number of merchantmen destined to call in ports such as Novorossiysk, Taganrog, Taman or Tuapse this would have devastating effects for Russian sea-based transportation in the entire Azovo-Black Sea basin. However, as already noted, as far as commerce warfare is concerned, the limiting factor was less of operational and more or of legal and political nature. While some of the aspects of warfighting associated with JÉ were already considered immoral and contrary to international law during the 19th century, the weight of politico-legal circumstances and the necessity to fight a ‘just war’ are even more significant during the 21st century. This is particu- larly true for Ukraine which depends on the support of the Global West – a value-driven community. In summary, an approach to warfare closely associated with JÉ has awarded Ukraine great successes for more than two years of war in the Black Sea. But as Ukraine has to fight the war at sea solely based on a sea denial approach, the country is also faced with severe limitations. Any opera- tion that requires sea control as a precondition is effectively beyond Ukrainian means if not in immediate proximity of the Ukrainian coastline such as the reported landings of Ukrainian soldiers on drilling platforms.98 Keeping all these more abstract considerations in mind, the debates on (applied) naval strategy that are currently ongoing in Ukraine become much more comprehensible. Following – from Kyiv’s point of view – a successful campaign at sea, in which the reinforced BSF was pushed out of the western Black Sea and suffered considerable losses, a debate is taking place about the future devel- opment of Ukrainian Navy and Ukraine’s approach to warfighting in the maritime dimension. On the one hand, there are the proponents of building a symmetrical naval force. The ‘Doctrine of the Naval Forces of Ukraine’ that was released in 2021 was an ambitious strategic document. As far as the ‘expansion of the fleet composition through the construction and modernisa- tion of the existing fleet composition’ was concerned, the doctrine detailed ‘new generation missile boats, landing ships of various classes, patrol ships and boats for the protection of the territorial waters and the EEZ, uncrewed underwater vehicles, new types of supply vessels of various types’ and ‘the construction of new mine warfare vessels and small submarines’.99 Most breathtaking, the ‘Doctrine of the Naval Forces of Ukraine’ defined capabil- ities for ‘sea control on the open ocean’ as the number one priority for the development of the Ukrainian Navy in the period following 2030.100 It is also in this context that Ukraine’s interest in procuring frigates through the UK capability development initiative and developing the design of the Volodymyr Velykyi-class corvettes have to be interpreted.101 Taking into consideration the point from where the Ukrainian Navy had to restart in 2014, these acquisition goals were bold to say the least. More than two years into the war, visions about the future of the Ukrainian Navy have lost nothing of their grandness. According to this school of thought, among other things, the air defence capability of the Ukrainian Navy is to be strengthened, long-range strike capabilities are to be acquired, surface comba- tants of different classes are to be put into service and amphibious forces are to be set up in the form of additional naval infantry brigades with landing vehicles.102 This expansion of capabilities is intended to gradually create the conditions for achieving sea control. Having established sea control, Ukraine would be in a position to conduct amphibious operations on its own and even think about establishing a naval blockade of the Russian Black Sea coast. The construction of Milgem project corvettes for the Ukrainian Navy at the RMK Marine Shipyard in Istanbul103 and capabilities gained through the British-Norwegian Maritime Capability Coalition104 are important steps in this direction. On the other hand, another faction opposes the above-mentioned views. Proponents of this second philosophy of warfare emphasise that Ukraine has been able to wage the war at sea so successfully because it has used an asymmetrical approach. According to their view, it is important to maintain this approach and Ukraine should under no circumstances aim to fight a symmetrical naval war with the Russian fleet. The Ukrainian fleet design should therefore be based on a so-called mosquito fleet – a fleet consisting of small naval assets applying asymmetrical doctrine.105 This argument is not new. Already Ukraine’s 2018 ‘Strategy of the Naval Forces of the Armed Forces of Ukraine 2035’ elaborates, Recovery of the surface forces during the first two stages of the Strategy will be executed due to the boats of the ‘mosquito fleet’. This solution is the most realistic in terms of cost-effectiveness ratio. Due to its speed, manoeuvrability and armament, such boats are capable of performing practically the whole spectrum of tasks that are inherent to classical surface ships, but they have smaller sea worthiness and operational range from the coast.106 Although Ukrainian strategic documents repeatedly referred to the term ‘mosquito fleet’, the official Ukrainian naval discourse did not explicitly mention JÉ terminol- ogy. This detail stands in contrast to the above-mentioned remarks about the Molodaya Shkola by Ukrainian civilian commentators. It is also, on first sight, surprising given the actual approach to warfare in the Black Sea region that Ukraine – although not primarily the Ukrainian Navy as mentioned further below – has chosen which has paralleled what the JÉ espoused. However, as Admiral (ret.) Ihor Kabanenko, former deputy minister of defence of Ukraine, points out, ‘this term [Molodaya Shkola – author’s note] is not widely used in Ukraine – apparently, because our experts mostly look to the UK and the US and therefore appeal to the old school of sea power and sea mastery [Soviet/Russian/Ukrainian terminological equivalent of the English term “command of the sea”107 – author’s note], missing out on important experience of waging war in the continental sea’.108 The relative silence on JÉ within the official Ukrainian naval discourse is even less astonishing if the development since 2020, approximately, is taken into consideration. As Kabanenko argues, at some point around the turn of the third decade of the 21st century, Ukrainian naval strategy changed course and while abandoning ideas associated with a mosquito fleet, the ‘later document [the 2021 Doctrine – author’s note] instead calls for ambitious symmetric decisions and actions’ in turn stretching budgetary resources and making very costly, long-term investments.109 What had happened? In June 2020, Oleksiy Neizhpapa was appointed Commander of the Ukrainian Navy.110 Neizhpapa – an ‘Old School’ commander – favoured conventional naval forces.111 Talking at the launch of the UK/Norway/Ukraine Maritime Capability Coalition at Admiralty House in London in December 2023, Neizhpapa clung to his visions of a long-term plan for a capable conventional fleet until 2035 and clearly expressed that a powerful and capable navy is not only a tool to deter Russian aggression from the sea, but also a guarantee of the prosperity of our country and security in the region.112 It is thus not a surprise that the 2021 strategic document of the Ukrainian Navy took a sharp turn. Furthermore, as various sources point out, Ukraine’s most successful maritime assets, naval drones, have been predominantly although not exclusively operated by the civilian (SBU) and military (HUR) intelligence services rather than the navy.113 Many Ukrainians who adhere to the second faction view these grand fleet ambitions critically. As Captain (ret.) Andrii Ryzhenko argues, the cost of building up a conventional fleet as envisioned by the Ukrainian naval leadership would be extremely expensive. Such resources could be spent much wiser, especially, if the fact that Ukraine’s current naval strategy that enables effective sea denial operations is taken into consideration.114 Essentially, the ideas supported by Kabanenko, Ryzhenko and other proponents of this school of thought can be attributed to the long-standing tradition of JÉ thinking. In contrast, whereas throughout this article this author has argued that means and ways which Ukrainian security organs applied to erode its Russian opponent closely resembled a JÉ style of naval warfare, this evaluation is descriptive not prescriptive. Unlike civilian experts, such as Vel’mozh͡ ko, who have equally compared Ukraine’s approach to the War in the Black Sea with Young School thinking, there is no evidence supporting that Ukraine’s post-2020 naval leadership was deliber- ately pursuing a JÉ-informed strategy. On the contrary, available evidence points in the direction that for the decision-makers at the time of the Russian full-scale invasion of Ukraine the JÈ was not a source of direct inspiration. In fact, Ukraine’s naval leaders were informed by Old School thinking and capabilities for conventional, symmetric naval warfare were favoured. Revival of Jeune École? The discussion of attacks on merchant shipping has shown that if Ukraine really wanted to interfere with Russian merchant shipping or potentially even enforce a blockade itself, it would have to acquire a fleet consisting of at least some surface combatants. It is highly questionable that under the conditions of (this) war such an aim can be accomplished. Already before the full-scale invasion in February 2022, various experts criticised Ukraine’s apparent shift in naval strategy and the country’s ambitious plans to create a balanced fleet capable of, among others, conducting offensive maritime operations which they deemed unrealistic and a waste of resources arguing instead for the establishment of an effective mosquito fleet.115 Given that Ukraine is fighting an existential struggle in a mostly land- dominated theatre of war, Ukraine should carefully assess how many resources it would want to invest in capabilities in the maritime domain. Ultimately, Russia retains significant long-range strike capabilities as demon- strated by the strike campaign which the Russian military has been waging against Ukraine’s energy infrastructure since autumn 2022.116 So far, one of the great advantages Ukraine’s Navy has enjoyed over the course of this war has been that its mosquito fleet was difficult to track and neutralise by the enemy. Introducing large, tangible objects – naval vessels – into the arsenal of the Ukrainian military would deprive Ukraine of this advantage and make the life for the Russian targeting process a lot easier. Furthermore, given Ukraine’s geographic and geopolitical situation it has to be critically questioned whether Anglo-Saxon ‘Old School’ blue-water theories are the best fit for the Ukrainian Navy. As Gorshkov argues, it is ‘wrong to attempt to build a fleet according to the model and example of the strongest naval power’ as ‘every country has its specific needs for naval forces.’117 Thus, Ryzhenko is correct to emphasise time and again the necessity to pursue an asymmetric strategy at least as far as the enclosed theatre of the Azov-Black Sea-region is concerned. In his words,  Ultimately, small, fast, maneuverable and well-armed boats as well as unmanned aerial and surface vehicles comprising a well-equipped ‘mosquito fleet’ could quickly and efficiently strengthen the Ukrainian Navy and improve the chances to execute successful operations within confined and contested areas where, for now, Russia enjoys dominance in the air and sea. 118 Considering the fate of the JÉ and the Soviet Molodaya Shkola, the – one could almost say libidinal – desire of naval leaders to aim beyond the stage of JÉ weapons and doctrine and acquire a conventional fleet (in the old days a battlefleet) has been prevalent. More than 130 years after Aube, Grivel and the other founding fathers of JÉ, the temptation remains strong. Ironically, even in pursuing an actual war-winning JÉ-based strategy Ukrainian decision- makers are still tempted to revert to warfare capabilities associated with classical naval warfare. The Ukrainian naval leadership should consider care- fully before continuing to steer down this waterway. NOTES 1 Ian Speller, Understanding Naval Warfare, 2nd ed. (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2019), 43ff. 2 See, for example, these authors’ most prominent works: Alfred Thayer Mahan, The Influence of Sea Power upon History 1660–1783 (Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1890); Philip Howard Colomb, Naval Warfare: Its Ruling Principles and Practice Historically Treated (London: W. H. Allen & Co., Ltd., 1891); Julian Corbett, Some Principles of Maritime Strategy (London: Longmans, Green and Co., 1911). Corbett has indeed also addressed several elements of naval warfare which are essential to the JÉ school of thought. For example, Corbett argues ‘The vital, most difficult, and most absorbing problem has become not how to increase the power of a battle-fleet for attack, which is a comparatively simple matter, but how to defend it. As the offensive power of the flotilla developed, the problem pressed with an almost bewildering intensity. With every increase in the speed and sea-keeping power of torpedo craft, the problem of the screen grew more exacting’ (Corbett, Some Principles of Maritime Strategy, 122). Due to limitations in aim and scope, this article limits itself to literature and theoreticians associated with the JÉ. Interpreting the War in the Black Sea from a Corbettian perspective may be an area for further research. 3 James R. Holmes and Toshi Yoshihara, Chinese Naval Strategy in the 21st Century: The Turn to Mahan (London and New York, NY: Routledge, 2008); David Scott, ‘India’s Drive For A “Blue Water” Navy’, Journal of Military and Strategic Studies, Winter 2007–08, 10/2 (2008); and Alessio Patalano, Post-War Japan As a Sea Power: Imperial Legacy, Wartime Experience and the Making of a Navy (London: Bloomsburry, 2016). 4 Seth Cropsey, ‘Naval Considerations in the Russo-Ukrainian War’, Naval War College Review, 75/4 (2022), Article 4; and Brent Sadler, ‘Applying Lessons of the Naval War in Ukraine for a Potential War with China’, The Heritage Foundation, 5 January 2023, https://www.heritage.org/asia/report/applying-lessons-the-naval-war-ukraine-potential-war-china. 5 Borys Kormych and Tetyana Malyarenko, ‘From Gray Zone to Conventional Warfare: the Russia-Ukraine Conflict in the Black Sea’, Small Wars & Insurgencies, 34/7 (2023), 1235–70; Silviu Nate et. alii, ‘Impact of the Russo-Ukrainian War on Black Sea Trade: Geoeconomic Challenges’, Economics & Sociology, 17/1 (2024), 256–79; and Nick Childs, ‘The Black Sea in the Shadow of War’, Survival, 65/3 (2023), 25–36. 6 Md. Tanvir Habib and Shah Md Shamrir Al Af, ‘Maritime asymmetric warfare strategy for smaller states: lessons from Ukraine’, Small Wars & Insurgencies 36/1 (2025), 29–58. 7 Michael Shurkin, ‘Plus Ça Change: A French Approach to Naval Warfare in the 21st Century’, War on the Rocks, 13 Oct. 2023, https://warontherocks.com/2023/10/plus-ca-change-a-french-approach-to-naval-warfare-in-the-21st-century/. 8 Andrew F. Krepinevich and Barry Watts, ‘Meeting the Anti-Access and Area-Denial Challenge’, Center for Strategic and Budgetary Assessments, 20 May 2003, https://csbaonline.org/research/publications/a2ad-anti-access-area-denial; Stephan Frühling and Guillaume Lasconjarias, ‘NATO, A2/AD and the Kaliningrad Challenge’, Survival, 58/2 (2016), 95–116; and Douglas Barrie, ‘Anti-Access/Area Denial: Bursting the “no-go” bubble?’, IISS Military Balance Blog, 29 Mar. 2019, https://www.iiss.org/blogs/military-balance/2019/04/anti-access-area-denial-russia-and-crimea. 9 Bryan Ranft and Geoffrey Till, The Sea in Soviet Strategy, 2nd ed. (Basingstoke: MacMillan Press, 1989), 94,95; Mikhail Monakov and Jürgen Rohwer, Stalin’s Ocean-Going Fleet: Soviet Naval Strategy and Shipbuilding Programs, 1935–53 (Abingdon: Frank Cass, 2001), 20ff. and Geoffrey Till, Seapower: A Guide for the Twenty-First Century, 4th ed. (London and New York, NY: Routledge 2018), 94,95. 10 The Land-Based Variant of the SS-N-3 Shaddock. 11 R-360 Neptune Anti-Ship Missiles are Believed to have Critically Damaged the Russian Cruiser Moskva in April 2022. Ellen Uchimiya and Eleanor Watson, The Neptune: The Missiles that Struck Russia’s flagship, the Moskva, CBS News, 16 Apr. 2022, https://www.cbsnews.com/news/moskva-ship-sinking-russian-flagship-neptune-missiles/. 12 Till, Seapower, 93; Beatrice Heuser, The Evolution of Strategy: Thinking War from Antiquity to the Present (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2010), 225,226. 13 Arne Røksund, The Jeune École: The Strategy of the Weak (Brill, 2007), iX; Martin Motte, Une Éducation Géostratégique. La Pensée Navale Française de la Jeune École à 1914 (Paris:: Economica, 2004), 99. 14 Richild Grivel, De la guerre maritime avant et depuis les nouvelles Inventions (Paris: Arthus Bertrand and J. Dumaine 1869), 7. 15 Ibid., 259. 16 Till, Seapower, 91. 17 Røksund, The Jeune École, 6. 18 Hyacinthe Laurent Théophile Aube, ‘La guerre maritime et les ports militaires de la France’, 320, Revue des Deux Mondes, March 1882, 314–46. 19 Till, Seapower, 91. 20 Røksund, The Jeune École, xii. 21 Ibid., 29–31, 121. 22 Defense Express, ‘First Target of Ukraine’s Neptune Missile’, 12 Jan. 2024, https://en.defence-ua.com/events/first_target_of_ukraines_neptune_missile_how_the_moskva_flagship_killer_scored_its_first_hit_and_prevented_amphibious_assault-9162.html. 23 Hannah Ritchie, ‘Ukrainian Drone Destroys Russian Patrol Ships off Snake Island, says Defense Ministry’, CNN, 2 May 2022, https://edition.cnn.com/europe/live-news/russia-ukraine-war-news-05-02-22#h_a73ac98f2400af01f729e23a7e01ae88; and AFP, ‘Ukraine Says Sank Russian Landing Craft at Snake Island’, The Moscow Times, 11 May 2022, https://www.themoscowtimes.com/2022/05/07/ukraine-says-sank-russian-landing-craft-at-snake-island-a77614. 24 Tass, ‘Kiev loses 30 drones in attempt to seize Snake Island – Russian Defense Ministry’, 10 May 2022, https://tass.com/defense/1449051?utm_source=google.com=organic=google.com=google. com/amp/amp/amp. 25 Deutsche Welle, ‘Russia Pulls Back Forces from Snake Island – as it Happened’, 30 June 2022, <https://www.dw.com/en/ukraine-russia-pulls-back-forces-from-snake-island-as-it-happened/a−62,309,716>. 26 Robert Greenall, ‘Ukraine “hits Russian Missile boat Ivanovets in Black Sea”, BBC, 1 Feb. 2024, https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-68165523; Tom Balmforth and Yuliia Dysa, ‘Ukraine attacks Russian Warships in Black Sea, Destroys Air defences in Crimea, Kyiv says’, Reuters, 14 Sept. 2023, https://www.reuters.com/world/europe/ukraine-destroys-russian-air-defence-system-near-crimeas-yevpatoriya-source-2023-09-14/; and Sergeĭ Koval’, ‘U beregov kryma potoplen rossiĭskiĭ raketnyĭ kater. Chto o nem izvestno?’, Krym Realii, 01 Feb. 2024, https://ru.krymr.com/a/krym-potoplen-ros-raketnyy-kater/32801464.html. 27 Habib and Md Al Af, ‘Maritime asymmetric warfare strategy for smaller states’, p. 34. 28 Andrew E. Kramer, ‘In a Tough Year on Land, Drones Give Ukraine Some Success at Sea’, 20 Dec. 2023, New York Times, https://www.nytimes.com/2023/12/20/world/europe/ukraine-drones-sea.html. 29 Igor Delanoë, ‘Russia’s Black Sea Fleet in the “Special Military Operation” in Ukraine’, 7 Feb. 2024, https://www.fpri.org/article/2024/02/russias-black-sea-fleet-in-the-special-military-operation-in-ukraine/. 30 UK Ministry of Defence, ‘Latest Defence Intelligence update on the situation in Ukraine − 16 Aug. 2022’, X, 16 Aug. 2022, https://x.com/DefenceHQ/status/1559411321581572098. 31 Kramer, ‘In a Tough Year on Land’; Roman Romaniuk, Sam Harvey and Olya Loza, ‘Sea drones, Elon Musk, and high-precision missiles: How Ukraine dominates in the Black Sea’, Ukrainska Pravda, 1 Jan. 2024, https://www.pravda.com.ua/eng/articles/2024/01/1/7435326/. 32 Joshua Cheetham, ‘Sea drones: What are they and how much do they cost?’ BBC, 13 Sept. 2023, https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe−66,373,052. 33 Røksund, The Jeune École, 139. 34 Oleksandr Vel’moz͡hko, ‘Rosiĭs’kyĭ flot znovu vidstupai͡e u bazi (VIDEO)’, Pivdennyĭ Kur’i͡er, 10 Dec. 2022,https://uc.od.ua/news/navy/1248235. 35 Greenall, ‘Ukraine ‘hits Russian missile boat Ivanovets in Black Sea’; and Milana Golovan, ‘MAGURA V5 drones attack Tsezar Kunikov ship: Russian occupiers release first-person video footage’, LIGABusinessInform, 6 Mar. 2024, https://news.liga.net/en/politics/video/kak-drony-magura-v5-atakovali-tsezarya-kunikova-okkupanty-pokazali-video-ot-pervogo-litsa. 36 Un ancien officier de marine, ‘Torpilleurs et Torpilles’, 47, La Nouvelle revue, 7/32 (January-February 1885), 42–71. 37 Raul Pedrozo, ‘Maritime Exclusion Zones in Armed Conflicts’, International Law Studies 99/526 (2022), https://digital-commons.usnwc.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=3018&context=ils, 531. 38 Interfaks, ‘Tanker Povrezhden Na Podkhode K Kerchenskomu Prolivu, Predpolozhitel’No,Morskim Dronom’, 5 Aug. 2023, https://www.interfax.ru/russia/914933; and Romaniuk, Harvey and Loza, ‘Sea drones, Elon Musk, and high-precision missiles’. 39 Sofiia Syngaivska, ‘Russia Uses Civilian Vessels for Military Purposes, Including Recently Attacked Sig Merchant Tanker’, 10 Aug. 2023, https://en.defence-ua.com/news/russia_uses_civilian_vessels_for_military_purposes_including_recently_attacked_sig_merchant_tanker-7590.html; and Daria Shulzhenko, ‘Ukraine’s security chief: Attacks on Russian ships, Crimean bridge ‘logical and legal’, The Kyiv Independent, 5 Aug. 2023, https://kyivindependent.com/sbu-head-says-attacks-on-russian-ships-crimean-bridge-are-logical-and-legal/. 40 Udo Fink and Ines Gillich, Humanitäres Völkerrecht (Baden-Baden: Nomos, 2023), 212; Interview with a legal advisor for Law of Naval Operations on 11 June 2024. 41 Ministerstvo oborony Ukraïny, ‘Zai͡ava Ministerstva oborony Ukraïny’, Facebook, 20 July 2023, https://www.facebook.com/MinistryofDefence.UA/posts/pfbid02fGmqenfANV5TABt16PgMpJRT7k5sbkeUhkEAsbkeUhkEAVZuvxxS2dgPkH2qAR7yl. 42 Sluz͡hba bezpeky Ukraïny, ‘golova SBU Vasil’ Mali͡uk prokomentuvav neshchodavni ataky nadvodnymy dronamy na korabli rf,‘ 5 Aug 2023, https://t.me/SBUkr/9185; Gabriel Gavin, ‘Ukraine declares war on Russia’s Black Sea shipping’, Politico, 8 Aug. 2023, https://www.politico.eu/article/ukraine-declares-war-on-russia-black-sea-shipping/. 43 Lloyd’s List, ‘Russia warns that Ships Heading to Ukraine are now a Military Target’, 20 July 2023, https://www.lloydslist.com/LL1145965/Russia-warns-that-ships-heading-to-Ukraine-are-now-a-military-target. 44 Shaun Walker, ‘Odesa suffers “Hellish Night” as Russia Attacks Ukraine Grain Facilities’, The Guardian, 19 July 2023, https://www.theguardian.com/world/2023/jul/19/odesa-suffers-hellish-night-as-russia-attacks-ukraines-grain-facilities; UK Foreign, Commonwealth & Development Office and James Cleverly, ‘New intelligence shows Russia’s targeting of a cargo ship’, 11 Sept. 2023, https://www.gov.uk/government/news/new-intelligence-shows-russias-targeting-of-a-cargo-ship. 45 Gavin, ‘Ukraine declares war on Russia’s Black Sea shipping’. 46 Michelle Wiese Bockmann, ‘Western Tankers Abandon Black Sea crude markets after Ukraine drone attacks’, Lloyd’s List, 07 Aug. 2023, https://www.lloydslist.com/LL1146178/Western-tankers-abandon-Black-Sea-crude-markets-after-Ukraine-drone-attacks. 47 Interview with an authoritative Ukrainian source in May 2024. 48 Louise Doswald-Beck (ed.), San Remo Manual on International Law Applicable to Armed Conflicts at Sea (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995) [SRM], paragraphs [59]-[61]; Andreas von Arnauld, Völkerrecht (Heidelberg: C.F. Müller, 2019), 577. 49 International Committee of the Red Cross, ‘Procès-verbal relating to the Rules of Submarine Warfare set forth in Part IV of the Treaty of London of 22 April 1930. London, 6 November 1936’, https://ihl-databases.icrc.org/assets/treaties/330-IHL-45-EN.pdf. 50 SRM paragraphs [93]-[104]; Robert Kolb and Richard Hyde, Introduction to the International Law of Armed Conflicts (Oxford and Portland, OR: Hart Publishing, 2008), 252. 51 Kolb and Hyde, Introduction to the International Law of Armed Conflicts, 252; James Kraska and Raul Pedrozo, International Maritime Security Law (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 888; Arnauld, Völkerrecht, 578. 52 Arnauld, Völkerrecht, 578. Offensive mine warfare is not considered in this article (Conversation with Dr Marc De Vore, University of St. Andrews, at the Finnish National Defence University in Helsinki on 13 February 2025). 53 SRM, paragraph [60]. For a discussion, see, Kraska and Pedrozo, International Maritime Security Law, 868. 54 UK Foreign, Commonwealth and Development Office, ‘G7 Foreign Ministers’ Meeting communiqué (Capri, 19 April, 2024) – steadfast support to Ukraine’, 19 Apr. 2024, https://www.gov.uk/government/publications/g7-foreign-ministers-meeting-communiques-april-2024/g7-foreign-ministers-meeting-communique-capri-19-april-2024-steadfast-support-to-ukraine. 55 Bitsat Yohannes-Kassahun, ‘One Year Later: The impact of the Russian conflict with Ukraine on Africa’, United Nations Africa Renewal, 13 Feb. 2023, https://www.un.org/africarenewal/magazine/february-2023/one-year-later-impact-russian-conflict-ukraine-africa. 56 Timothy Heck, speech given at the Kiel International Seapower Symposium 2024 on 28 June 2024. 57 Røksund, The Jeune École, 27. 58 Tim Lister, ‘A Russian naval base was targeted by drones. Now Ukrainian grain exports are at risk’, CNN, 31 Oct. 2022, https://edition.cnn.com/2022/10/31/europe/sevastopol-drone-russia-ukraine-grain-intl-cmd/index.html. 59 Shephard News, ‘UK says Saky explosions leave Russian Navy Black Sea aviation fleet ‘significantly degraded’, 12 Aug. 2022, https://www.shephardmedia.com/news/defence-notes/uk-says-explosions-leave-russian-navy-black-sea-aircraft-significantly-degraded/; Cameron Manley, ‘Ukraine says it has taken out another 2 warships in Russia’s Black Sea fleet’, Business Insider, 24 Mar. 2024, https://www.businessinsider.com/ukraine-taken-out-another-2-ships-russias-black-sea-fleet-2024–3; and Nate Ostiller and The Kyiv Independent news desk, ‘General Staff confirms Russian missile ship Tsiklon struck in occupied Crimea’, The Kyiv Independent, 21 May 2024, https://kyivindependent.com/general-staff-confirms-russian-missile-ship-zyklon-struck-off-occupied-crimea. 60 HI Sutton, ‘Ukraine’s Maritime Drone Strikes Again: Reports Indicate Attack On Novorossiysk’, Naval News, 18 Nov. 2022, https://www.navalnews.com/naval-news/2022/11/ukraine-maritime-drone-strikes-again-reports-indicate-attack-on-novorossiysk/. 61 Romaniuk, Harvey and Loza, ‘Sea drones, Elon Musk, and high-precision missiles’. 62 Lloyd’s List, ‘Ukraine attacks Russian port of Novorossiysk’, 4 Aug. 2023, https://lloydslist.com/LL1146152/Ukraine-attacks-Russian-port-of-Novorossiysk; UK Ministry of Defence, ‘Latest Defence Intelligence update on the situation in Ukraine − 05 August 2023’, X, 5 Aug. 2023, https://x.com/DefenceHQ/status/1687697529918373889?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw%7Ctwcamp%5Etweetembed%7Ctwterm%5E1687697529918373889%7Ctwgr%5E751b5a68b67ea91d2ca704e56fc3a0c7c88c3053%7Ctwcon%5Es1_&ref_url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.forces.net%2Frussia%2Frussian-war-ship-damaged-significant-blow-russias-black-sea-fleet-mod-says. 63 Romaniuk, Harvey and Loza, ‘Sea drones, Elon Musk, and high-precision missiles’. 64 It can certainly be argued that states do not always comply with international humanitarian law. The Second World War provides numerous examples including in the field of commerce raiding. However, the Manichaean distinction between Russia, the aggressor violating public international law, and Ukraine, which is legitimately defending itself, is essential to Kyiv’s political strategy. Against this background, consideration of international law is fundamental for Ukraine’s naval warfare and this study. 65 Romaniuk, Harvey and Loza, ‘Sea drones, Elon Musk, and High-Precision Missiles’. 66 Alona Sonko, ‘Aerial Shots Detail Drone Damage at Novorossiysk Port’, The New Voice of Ukraine, 19 May 2024, https://english.nv.ua/nation/satellite-images-show-aftermath-of-may-17-attack-on-novorossiysk-seaport−50,419,745html. 67 Martin Fornusek, ‘Military intelligence: Oil Pipeline Blown up in Russia’s Rostov Oblast’, The Kyiv Independent, 06 Apr. 2024, https://kyivindependent.com/military-intelligence-oil-pipeline-in-russias-rostov-oblast-on-fire/. 68 Jack Detsch, ‘Russia’s Home Port in Occupied Crimea Is Under Fire’, Foreign Policy, 13 Sept. 2023, https://foreignpolicy.com/2023/09/13/crimea-ukraine-russia-war-attack-black-sea-fleet/. 69 Interfaks, ‘Chislo postradavshikh pri atake na stab Chernomorskogo flota vyroslo do shesti’, 31 July 2022, https://www.interfax.ru/russia/854608; Maria Kostenko, Tim Lister and Sophie Tanno, ‘Ukraine says strike on Russia’s Black Sea Fleet HQ left Dozens Dead and Wounded ‘Including Senior Leadership’, CNN, 23 September 2023, https://edition.cnn.com/2023/09/23/europe/special-ops-black-sea-strike-dozens-dead-intl-hnk/index.html. 70 The Maritime Executive, ‘Ukraine Strikes Another Naval Shipyard in Russian-Occupied Crimea’, 05 Nov. 2024, https://maritime-executive.com/article/ukraine-strikes-another-naval-shipyard-in-russian-occupied-crimea; Defense Express, ‘Destruction of Russian Novocherkassk Ship has Blocked One of Logistic Channels to Crimea (Satellite Photo)’, 12 Apr. 2024, https://en.defence-ua.com/analysis/destruction_of_russian_novocherkassk_ship_has_blocked_one_of_logistic_channels_to_crimea_satellite_photo−10,152html. 71 UK Ministry of Defence, ‘Update on Ukraine’, X, 15 Sept. 2023, https://x.com/DefenceHQ/status/1702561936179630440?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw%7Ctwcamp%5Etweetembed%7Ctwterm%5E1702561936179630440%7Ctwgr%5E64b3d174bc910eae91016ef92e9b0b07e88b9194%7Ctwcon%5Es1_&ref_url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.twz.com%2Frussian-submarine-shows-massive-damage-after-ukrainian-strike; Thomas Newdick, ‘Russian Submarine Shows Massive Damage After Ukrainian Strike’, The Warzone, 18 Sept. 2024, https://www.twz.com/russian-submarine-shows-massive-damage-after-ukrainian-strike. 72 Craig Hooper, ‘Why Ukraine’s Strike On Sevastopol Naval Infrastructure Is A Big Deal’, Forbes, 14 Sept. 2024, https://www.forbes.com/sites/craighooper/2023/09/13/why-ukraines-strike-on-sebastopol-naval-infrastructure-is-a-big-deal/; Mike Eckel, ‘Russia’s Navy Has A Dry Dock Problem. Again’, Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, 16 Sept. 2023, https://www.rferl.org/a/russia-navy-dry-dock-problem-ukraine-/32595547.html. 73 UK Foreign, Commonwealth & Development Office and Nicholas Aucott, ‘Russia is Diminished in The eyes of The International Community through its Own Actions: UK Statement to the OSCE’, 06 Dec. 2023, https://www.gov.uk/government/speeches/russia-is-diminished-in-the-eyes-of-the-international-community-through-its-own-actions-uk-statement-to-the-osce; Sinéad Baker, ‘Putin doesn’t really want a war with NATO because “Russia will lose and lose quickly”, UK military chief says’, Business Insider, 28 Feb. 2024, https://www.businessinsider.com/putin-doesnt-want-nato-war-russia-would-lose-quickly-uk-2024–2?r=US&IR=T. 74 AP News, ‘Ukrainian navy says a Third of Russian warships in the Black Sea have been Destroyed or Disabled’, 26 Mar. 2024, https://apnews. 75 Mia Jankowicz, ‘Russia’s Black Sea Fleet is “Functionally Inactive” After being Pummeled Hard by Ukraine, UK says’, Business Insider, 25 Mar. 2024, https://www.businessinsider.com/russia-black-sea-fleet-functionally-inactive-after-ukraine-strikes-uk-2024–3.: 76 UK Ministry of Defence, ‘Latest Defence Intelligence update on the situation in Ukraine − 18 April 2024’, X, 18 Apr. 2024, https://x.com/DefenceHQ/status/1780878487068242335/photo/3. 77 Speller takes only brief note of Attacks Against Enemy Ports whereas Geoffrey Till doesn’t mention them at all. The Commerce Raiding Component of Jeune ÉCole has been awarded much greater attention. Speller, Understanding Naval Warfare, 57–60; Till, Seapower, 91–93. 78 Aube, ‘La guerre maritime’, 331. 79 Gabriel Charmes, La Réforme de la Marine (Paris: Calmann Lévy, 1886), 56–57. 80 Aube, ‘La guerre maritime’, 332. 81 Shurkin, ‘Plus Ça Change’. For Further Literature on The Subject of the ‘Material School’ see, Kevin McCranie, Mahan, Corbett, and the Foundations of Naval Strategic Thought (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 2021), 55ff. 82 Gustav Gressel, ‘Waves of ambition: Russia’s military build-up in Crimea and the Black Sea’, European Council on Foreign Relations, 21.09.2021, https://ecfr.eu/publication/waves-of-ambition-russias-military-build-up-in-crimea-and-the-black-sea/; Tayfun Ozberk, ‘Analysis: Russia To Dominate The Black Sea In Case Of Ukraine Conflict’, Naval News, 30 Jan. 2022, https://www.navalnews.com/naval-news/2022/01/analysis-russia-to-dominate-the-black-sea-in-case-of-ukraine-conflict/; Welt, ‘Militärexperte Gressel: Darum hat die ukrainische Armee kaum eine Chance gegen Russen’, 24 Jan. 2022, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aNzUf3zllJ4. 83 Røksund, The Jeune École, 84, 132. 84 Ibid., 166. 85 Ibid., 228. 86 Speller, Understanding Naval Warfare, 60. 87 Monakov and Rohwer, Stalin’s Ocean-Going Fleet, 62–109, 221–4. 88 Andrew Lambert in December 2018. M.A. Seminar Navies and Seapower offered by the War Studies Department at King’s College London 2018–2019. 89 Sergej G. Gorschkow, Die Seemacht des Staates (Berlin: Militärverlag der Deutschen Demokratischen Republik 1978) [Morskai͡a Moshch‘ gosudarstva. Voenizdat 1976], 172, 355. 90 Ibid., 341, 372. 91 The author is aware of the ongoing debate on the extent to which the technological developments – especially the use of uncrewed systems – which have shaped the War in the Black Sea can be generalised. Jacquelyn Schneider and Julia Macdonald, for example, examine the relation between autonomous/uncrewed systems and revolutions in military affairs and come to the conclusion that ‘these systems may be most revolutionary is in cost mitigation—both political and economic.’ In contrast, Oleksandr Vel’moz͡hko does acknowledge the advantages, such as mass-production and cost-efficiency, inherent to a ‘young school’–inspired navy consisting of high-tech small crafts but also points at serious disadvantages connected with such systems, for example their inability to operate on the open ocean and their high vulnerability. Duncan Redford further elaborates on the limitations concerning the use of unmanned surface vehicles, among others, arguing that ‘environmental conditions in the Baltic and High North are such that they are highly likely to severely restrict the use of’ Ukrainian style one-way attack USVs. Jacquelyn Schneider and Julia Macdonald, ‘Looking back to look forward: Autonomous systems, military revolutions, and the importance of cost’, 162, Journal of Strategic Studies, 47/2 (2024), 162–184; Vel’moz͡hko,‘Rosiĭs’kyĭ flot znovu vidstupai͡e u bazi (VIDEO)’; Duncan Redford, ‘Maritime Lessons from the Ukraine-Russia Conflict: USVs and the Applicability to the Baltic and High North’, #GIDSstatement 11/2024, (14 Oct. 2024), https://gids-hamburg.de/maritime-lessons-from-the-ukraine-russia-conflict-usvs-and-the-applicability-to-the-baltic-and-high-north/. 92 For example, in September 1939, in December 1940 and October 1942. Bernd Stegemann, ‘Vierter Teil: Die erste Phase der Seekriegsführung’, 162, in: Klaus A. Maier, Horst Rohde, Bernd Stegemann and Hans Umbreit (eds.), Das Deutsche Reich und der Zweite Weltkrieg Vol. II (Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlagsanstalt 1979), 159–188; Werner Rahn, ‘The Atlantic in the Strategic Perspective of Hitler and his Admirals, 1939–1944’, 160, 164, in: N.A.M. Rodger, J. Ross Dancy, Benjamin Darnell and Evan Wilson (eds.), Strategy and the Sea: Essays in Honour of John B. Hattendorf (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press 2016), 159–168. 93 Michael Salewski, Die deutsche Seekriegsleitung 1935–1945 Vol. I (Frankfurt am Main und München: Bernard & Graefe 1970), 128; Stegemann, ‘Vierter Teil: Die erste Phase der Seekriegsführung’, 162; Rahn, ‘The Atlantic in the Strategic Perspective of Hitler and his Admirals, 1939–1944’, 160, 164. 94 See Adolf Hitler on 31 May 1943: ‘The number of resources that submarine warfare would tie up, even if it were no longer to achieve great success, is so extraordinarily large that I cannot allow the enemy to free up these resources’ Gerhard Wagner (ed.), Lagevorträge des Oberbefehlshabers der Kriegsmarine vor Hitler 1939–1945 (München: J.F. Lehmanns Verlag, 1972), 510. 95 Craig Symonds, ‘Alfred Thayer Mahan’, 33, in: Geoffrey Till (ed.), Maritime Strategy and the Nuclear Age (London and Basingstoke: MacMillan Academic and Professional Ltd, 1990)) [1984], 28–33. 96 Alfred Thayer Mahan, Lessons of the War with Spain and other Articles (Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1899), 300. 97 Elisabeth Braw , ‘The Invasion of Ukraine Is Causing Crisis at Sea’, Foreign Policy, 7 March 2022, https://foreignpolicy.com/2022/03/07/ukraine-shipping-supply-war/; Interview with a Representative of an anonymous maritime stakeholder that was heavily affected by the War in Ukraine on 25 October 2023. 98 Paul Adams, ‘Ukraine Claims to Retake Black Sea Drilling Rigs from Russian Control’, BBC, 11 Sept. 2023, https://www.bbc. com/news/66779639. 99 Instytut Viĭs’kovo-Mors’kykh Syl, ‘Doktrina: Viĭs’kovo-Mors’ki Syly Zbroĭnykh syl Ukraïny’, January 2021, 79, https://ivms.mil.gov.ua/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/doktryna_vijskovo-morski-syly-zbrojnyh-syl-ukrayinydiv.pdf. 100 Ibid., 76. 101 Militarnyi, ‘Frigates for Ukrainian Navy: the construction agreement was included into contract with the United Kingdom’, 25 Nov. 2021, https://mil.in.ua/en/news/frigates-for-ukrainian-navy-the-construction-agreement-was-included-into-contract-with-the-united-kingdom/. 102 Vitaly Semenov, ‘Prospects for the Development of the Naval Forces of the Armed Forces of Ukraine Until 2035’, Forum: ‘State Maritime Strategy. Development and implementation of maritime potential of Ukraine’ at the National Defence University of Ukraine on 23 May 2024. 103 Tayfun Ozberk, ‘Turkish Shipyard Lays Keel Of Ukraine’s 2nd MILGEM Corvette’, Naval News, 18 Aug. 2023, https://www.navalnews.com/naval-news/2023/08/turkish-shipyard-lays-keel-of-ukraine-2nd-milgem-corvette/. 104 UK Ministry of Defence, ‘British minehunting Ships to Bolster Ukrainian Navy as UK and Norway Launch Maritime Support Initiative’, 11 Dec. 2023, https://www.gov.uk/government/news/british-minehunting-ships-to-bolster-ukrainian-navy-as-uk-and-norway-launch-maritime-support-initiative#:~:text=The%20UK%20will%div20lead%20a,ships%20for%20the%20Ukrainian%20Navy. 105 Bern Keating, The Mosquito Fleet (New York, NY: Scholastic Book Services, 1969) [Originally Published 1963]. 106 Viĭs’kovo-Mors’ki Syly Zbroĭnykh syl Ukraïny, ‘Strategy of the Naval Forces of the Armed Forces of Ukraine 2035’, 11 Jan. 2019, https://navy.mil.gov.ua/en/strategiya-vijskovo-morskyh-syl-zbrojnyh-syl-ukrayiny-2035/. 107 Milan N. Vego, Naval Strategy and Operations in Narrow Seas, 2nd ed. (Abingdon and New York, NY: Cass, 2003), 110. 108 Interview with Admiral (ret.) Ihor Kabanenko on 06 November 2024. 109 Ihor Kabanenko, ‘Ukraine’s New Naval Doctrine: A Revision of the Mosquito Fleet Strategy or Bureaucratic Inconsistency?’, Eurasia Daily Monitor, 25 May 2021, https://jamestown.org/program/ukraines-new-naval-doctrine-a-revision-of-the-mosquito-fleet-strategy-or-bureaucratic-inconsistency/. 110 Prezydent Ukraïny, ‘Ukaz Prezydenta Ukraïny No. 217/2020’, 2020, https://www.president.gov.ua/docdivuments/2172020–34,085. 111 Interview with an authoritative Ukrainian source in June 2024. 112 Lee Willett, ‘Ukrainian Navy Chief Details Future Force Requirements’, Naval News, 18 Dec. 2023, https://www.navalnews.com/naval-news/2023/12/ukrainian-navy-chief-details-future-force-requirements/. 113 Sergej Sumlenny, ‘Naval Drones in Russo-Ukrainian War: from the current stand to the future development’, presentation given at the German Command and Staff College on 19 June 2024; Kramer, ‘In a Tough Year on Land’. See also various articles by the newspaper The Kyiv Independent. Militarnyi, ‘The Ukrainian Navy received naval drones equipped with strike FPV drone’, 8 Dec. 2024, https://mil.in.ua/en/news/the-ukrainian-navy-received-naval-drones-equipped-with-strike-fpv-drones/. 114 Andrii Ryzhenko, ‘Ways of Developing the Naval Capabilities of Ukraine to Ensure the Military Security of the State at Sea, Taking into Account the Experience of the Russian-Ukrainian war’, forum: ‘State Maritime Strategy. Development and implementation of maritime potential of Ukraine’, National Defence University of Ukraine on 23 May 2024. 115 Sanders, Deborah ‘Rebuilding the Ukrainian Navy’, Naval War College Review, 70/4 (2017), Article 5, 74; Jason Y. Osuga (2017), ‘Building an Asymmetric Ukrainian Naval Force to Defend the Sea of Azov, Pt. 2’, CIMSEC, 2 Oct. 2017, https://cimsec.org/tag/ukraine/page/2/; Defense Express, ‘Ukraine’s Navy Looking To Acquire 30 New Warships By 2020’, 12 Apr. 2018, https://old.defence-ua.com/index.php/en/news/4367-ukraine-s-navy-looking-to-acquire-30-new-warships-by-2020; Kabanenko, ‘Ukraine’s New Naval Doctrine’. 116 Adam Schreck and Hanna Arhirova, ‘Russia Unleashes Biggest attacks in Ukraine in Months’, The Associated Press News, 11 Oct. 2022, https://apnews.com/article/russia-ukraine-kyiv-government-and-politics-8f625861590b9e0dd336dabc0880ac8c; Michael N. Schmitt, ‘Ukraine Symposium – Further Thoughts On Russia’s Campaign Against Ukraine’s Power Infrastructure’, Lieber Institute West Point, 25 Nov. 2022, https://lieber.westpoint.edu/further-thoughts-russias-campaign-against-ukraines-power-infrastructure/; Angelica Evans et alii., ‘Russian Offensive Campaign Assessment, 12 Apr. 2024’, Institute for the Study of War, https://www.understandingwar.org/backgrounder/russian-offensive-campaign-assessment-april-12-2024. 117 Gorschkow, Die Seemacht des Staates, p. 343. 118 Andrii Ryzhenko, ‘Ukraine Needs to Secure Its Maritime Future: “Mosquito Fleet” Provides a Viable Strategy’, Eurasia Daily Monitor, 13 Jun. 2023, https://jamestown.org/program/ukraine-needs-to-secure-its-maritime-future-mosquito-fleet-provides-a-viable-strategy/. Acknowledgments The author would like to thank Commander David Garrett, U.S. Navy, Lt. 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Defense & Security
Kim Jong-un (2023-09-13) 01

Could North Korea be Persuaded to Renounce Chemical Weapons?

by Joel R. Keep

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском North Korea is not going to give up its nuclear weapons any time soon. Pyongyang’s other strategic deterrent—a massive arsenal of chemical weapons—may prove a more fruitful target for disarmament. The strategic fortunes of North Korea in 2025 are very different to that of 2017. When Donald J. Trump first assumed the presidential office in January of that year, Pyongyang was still in the process of building a viable nuclear weapons platform that could target the continental United States. The 2017 North Korean Nuclear Crisis prompted the Trump administration to launch a concerted attempt to coerce Pyongyang into “complete, verifiable and irreversible denuclearisation (CVID).” Washington’s efforts, involving a mixture of brinkmanship, hard bargaining—and explicit threats via the deployment of serious military assets—ultimately failed. Later that year, the North successfully tested an intercontinental ballistic missile capable of reaching the US homeland. The subsequent 2018 summit between Trump and Kim Jong-un, held in Singapore, and the 2019 summit in Hanoi, led nowhere. When Donald Trump assumed office for the second time, in January of 2025, he struck a very different tone on Pyongyang. North Korea was now, he acknowledged, an established nuclear power. Today, in addition to properly miniaturised nuclear warheads that can be fit on several delivery platforms, Kim’s regime oversees an arsenal that includes intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBMs), intermediate range missiles (IRBMs), medium range ballistic missiles, submarine-launched ballistic missiles (SLBMs), and cruise missiles. Even if only a portion of these systems are fully functional, this still amounts to a serious military capability that cannot be forcibly removed, barring a massive conflagration. There is another, possibly more manageable class of strategic weapon that North Korea has been harbouring over several years—chemical weapons (CW). These are thought to include sulphur mustard, phosgene, Sarin and other nerve agents, some likely ranged against vulnerable South Korean population centres via artillery, missiles, and multiple rocket launchers. For several years now, South Korea’s Ministry of National Defense has estimated this stockpile comprises between 2,000 and 5,000 tonnes of CW agent. Pyongyang’s CW capability was demonstrated in grotesque miniature on 13 February 2017, when Kim Jong-un’s estranged half-brother, Kim Jong-nam, was killed with VX nerve agent at Kuala Lumpur International Airport. The public murder of Kim Jong-nam was conducted just as the 2017 North Korean Nuclear Crisis began, on the morning after Pyongyang successfully tested their Pukguksong-2 (KN-15) medium range ballistic missile over the Sea of Japan. Horrific as the VX murder was, it pales in comparison to the likely human impact of CW agents being used, in mass, against South Korean towns and cities in the event of a conflict. With North Korean nuclear weapons now an undeniable reality, those focused on arms limitation are left with few options in 2025. As such, Pyongyang’s chemical weapons portfolio might be worth putting on the negotiating table. North Korea still finds itself the target of sanctions and thus has an incentive to engage in disarmament talks of some kind. American officials, stung by the failure of 2017, might like to regain some clout with an achievable disarmament “win,” albeit of a non-nuclear kind. And of course, South Korea, home to the population that would suffer most from the North’s chemical weapons, would greatly benefit from seeing them verifiably destroyed.   There is a recent precedent for decommissioning an active chemical weapons program in the case of Syria. In (slightly) happier times, Russia and the United States pressured the embattled regime of Bashar al Assad into acceding to the 1993 Chemical Weapons Convention and forfeiting tonne-quantities of CW agent, after a series of government chemical attacks on civilians in 2013. Admittedly, the destruction of Syria’s chemical weapons stockpile was only a partial success, as evidenced by the resumption of nerve agent attacks in 2017, Assad’s uninterrupted “low level” use of improvised chlorine munitions, and recent revelations of a larger CW program than originally declared. And of course, facing as he was a determined insurgency and popular uprising, al Assad’s position in the 2010s was entirely different to that of Kim’s in 2025. However, if, as some have suggested, North Korea’s chemical weapons program was designed to fill a “deterrence gap” during the long march to acquire a viable nuclear weapons arsenal, Kim might be persuaded to engage in discussions on renouncing CW. This would be even more likely if Pyongyang has in fact already developed tactical nuclear weapons for shorter range use on the Peninsula, an objective Kim claimed to achieve in 2023. As a first step, perhaps a more fruitful model than Syria might be the 1992 India-Pakistan Agreement on Chemical Weapons, which saw the complete prohibition of CW on the subcontinent. Such an agreement could realistically be applied to the Korean Peninsula, where Seoul is no longer in possession of any chemical weapons as of 2008, and Pyongyang repeatedly claims not to have any CW themselves. Some may regard the idea of Pyongyang giving up any strategic weapon system as fanciful. Having signed a Comprehensive Strategic Partnership with Moscow in 2024 after committing thousands of troops to Russia’s war on Ukraine, North Korea’s degree of isolation within the wider geopolitical architecture has lessened, if only slightly. But while it may seem counter-intuitive, the Trump administration’s declared intention to re-establish closer ties with Vladimir Putin’s Russia might provide an opening for addressing the North Korea CW issue. This would require Moscow taking a more productive approach than it ultimately did in Syria, where an initial spirit of co-operation was later sullied by a determined Russian campaign to protect the Assad regime from accountability for the resumption of CW use, and other atrocities. Neither Washington, nor Moscow, can do much about North Korea’s nuclear arsenal today. Proposing negotiations on chemical weapons, however, might at least restart discussion on disarmament in one sphere, and could ultimately lead to progress on strategic weapons in general. Fully accounting for, and entirely destroying, the North’s chemical weapons would be a complex undertaking. Australia and the US at least have the technical capacity to assist in such an endeavour, should the political opportunity arise. Joel R. Keep is a PhD candidate at the University of New South Wales, where his doctoral work focuses on deterrence, non-proliferation and control of chemical and biological weapons. This article is published under a Creative Commons License and may be republished with attribution.

Defense & Security
Israel and Iran flags on Middle east map. High quality photo

Iran-Israel ‘threshold war’ has rewritten nuclear escalation rules

by Farah N. Jan

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском Israel’s conflict with Iran represents far more than another Middle Eastern crisis – it marks the emergence of a dangerous new chapter in nuclear rivalries that has the potential to reshape global proliferation risks for decades to come. What began with Israeli strikes on Iranian nuclear facilities and other targets on June 13, 2025 has now spiraled into the world’s first full-scale example of what I as an expert in nuclear security call a “threshold war” – a new and terrifying form of conflict where a nuclear weapons power seeks to use force to prevent an enemy on the verge of nuclearization from making that jump. As missiles continue to rain down on both Tehran and Tel Aviv – with hundreds dead in Iran and at least 24 killed in Israel – the international community is witnessing the collapse of traditional deterrence frameworks in real time. Unlike traditional nuclear rivalries where both sides possess declared arsenals – like India and Pakistan, who despite their tensions operate under mutual deterrence – this new threshold dynamic creates an inherently unstable escalation spiral. Iran increasingly believes it cannot deter Israeli aggression without nuclear weapons, yet every step toward acquiring them invites more aggressive Israeli strikes. Israel, for its part, cannot permanently eliminate Iran’s nuclear knowledge through military means – it can only delay it through means that would seemingly guarantee future Iranian determination to acquire the ultimate deterrent. Under this dynamic, neither side can step back without accepting an intolerable outcome: for Israel, an Iran more determined than even in becoming a nuclear weapons nation capable of deterring Israeli action and ending its regional military dominance; for Iran, the risk of regime change through devastating Israeli strikes. The consequences of this deadly logic extend far beyond the Middle East. The preventive strike precedent The stakes could not be higher, as Iranian officials have called the attack “a declaration of war” and vowed that destroyed nuclear facilities “would be rebuilt.” Israel, meanwhile has warned its campaign will continue “for as many days as it takes.” Most ominously, the scheduled nuclear talks between the U.S. and Iran were called off, with Tehran dismissing any such dialogue as “meaningless.” This may suggest diplomacy’s window – which opened for just a few months under Trump’s second administration, after being closed during his first – was deliberately slammed shut. More broadly, the Israeli strikes mark a dangerous evolution in international norms around preventive warfare. While Israeli officials called this a “preemptive strike,” the legal and strategic reality is different. Preemptive strikes respond to imminent threats – like Israel’s 1967 Six-Day War against Arab armies preparing to attack. Preventive strikes, by contrast, target distant future threats when conditions seem favorable – like Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941. Israel justified its action by claiming Iran could rapidly assemble up to 15 nuclear bombs. Yet, as the International Atomic Energy Agency director, Rafael Grossi, warned beforehand, an Israeli strike could solidify rather than deter Iran’s nuclear ambitions, potentially prompting withdrawal from the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty. True to that warning, on June 16, Iran announced it was preparing a parliamentary bill that would see the country leave the 1968 treaty. Israel’s calculations in opting to strike build on the same erosion of international legal frameworks that has legitimized preemptive warfare since the United States’ military action in Afghanistan and Iraq after the Sept. 11, 2001 attack. America’s “war on terror” fundamentally challenged sovereignty norms through practices like drone strikes and preemptive attacks. More recently, operations in Gaza and elsewhere have demonstrated that violations of international humanitarian law carry limited consequences in practice. For Israel, this permissive environment has seemingly created both opportunity and justification regarding striking Iran – something that Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has been pursuing for decades. Already, Russia’s attacks on Ukraine’s Zaporizhzhia nuclear plant demonstrated nuclear facilities’ vulnerability in modern warfare. I believe Israel’s actions further risk normalizing attacks on nuclear infrastructure, potentially legitimizing similar preventive actions by India, China or the U.S. against emerging nuclear programs elsewhere. From strikes to regional conflagration Israel’s initial strike quickly triggered inevitable escalation. Iran’s retaliation came in waves: first hundreds of drones and missiles on June 13, then sustained barrages throughout the following days. By the morning of June 15, both countries were trading strikes on energy infrastructure, military bases and civilian areas, with no immediate end in sight. The Houthis in Yemen have since joined the fight, by launching ballistic missiles at Tel Aviv. Notably absent are Hezbollah, Hamas and Iran’s Iraqi militias – all significantly damaged by recent action by Israel. This degradation of Iran’s “axis of resistance” – its traditional forward deterrent – fundamentally alters Tehran’s strategic calculations. Without strong proxies to threaten retaliation, Iran is more exposed to Israeli strikes, making nuclear weapons seem like the only reliable deterrent against future attacks. The escalation pattern illustrates what can happen when when a government casts aggression as prevention. Having initiated the recent escalation of hostilities, Israel now faces the consequences. Iranian President Masoud Pezeshkian’s vow that destroyed facilities “would be rebuilt” underscores that Israeli action designed to prevent nuclearization may instead result in Iran pursuing it with renewed determination. The commitment trap This creates what strategists call the “commitment trap” – a dynamic where both sides face escalating costs but cannot back down. Israel faces its own strategic dilemma. The strikes may ultimately accelerate rather than prevent Iranian nuclearization, yet backing down would mean accepting a nuclear Iran. Netanyahu’s promise that current strikes are “nothing compared to what they will feel in coming days” shows how quickly strikes sold as preventative escalate toward total war. Unlike established nuclear powers that can negotiate from positions of strength, threshold states, such as Iran, face a stark choice: remain vulnerable to preventive strikes and regime change or race toward the protection that nuclear deterrence provides. North Korea offers the clearest example of this dynamic. Despite decades of sanctions and military threats, Pyongyang’s nuclear program has made it essentially immune to preventive strikes. Iranian leaders understand this lesson well – the question is whether they can reach the same protected status before suffering decisive preventive action. Traditional nuclear deterrence theory assumes rational actors operating under mutual vulnerability. But threshold wars break these assumptions in fundamental ways. Iran cannot fully deter Israeli action because it lacks confirmed weapons, while Israel cannot rely on deterrence to prevent Iranian weaponization because Iran’s nuclear program continues advancing. This creates “use it or lose it” dynamics: Israel faces shrinking windows to act preventively as Iran approaches weaponization; Iran faces incentives to accelerate its program before suffering additional strikes. The absence of effective external mediation compounds these risks. U.S. President Donald Trump’s response to the strikes reveals this dynamic starkly. Initially opposing military action and preferring diplomacy to “bombing the hell out of” Iran, Trump pivoted dramatically after the strikes began, and warned that “there’s more to come. A lot more.” His post on Truth Social – “Two months ago I gave Iran a 60-day ultimatum to ‘make a deal.’ They should have done it!” – demonstrates how quickly diplomatic efforts can collapse once threshold wars begin. Global implication The international response reveals how thoroughly Israel’s Operation Rising Lion has normalized aggression against nuclear facilities. While European leaders called for “maximum restraint,” none condemned Israel’s initial attacks. Russia and China condemned the attacks but took no concrete action. The U.N. Security Council produced only statements of “concern” about “escalation.” This normalization sets what I believe to be a catastrophic precedent. The threshold war model threatens to unravel decades of nuclear governance based on deterrence rather than preemption. Indeed, the Iran-Israel threshold war sets dangerous precedents for other regional nuclear competitions. Successful preventive strikes could incentivize similar actions elsewhere, eroding diplomatic nonproliferation efforts. Conversely, rapid nuclearization by Iran could encourage other threshold states, like Saudi Arabia, to pursue nuclear capabilities swiftly and secretly. When preventive strikes become the enforcement mechanism for nonproliferation norms, the entire architecture of nuclear governance begins to crumble. Without these frameworks, the world faces an unstable future defined by cycles of preventive strikes and accelerated nuclear proliferation – far more dangerous than the Cold War-era standoffs that shaped nuclear governance.

Defense & Security
Map depicts Western Africa, including countries like Nigeria, Ghana, and Senegal, with the Gulf of Guinea coastline.

Sahelian Instability Poses a Threat to West Africa

by Sergey Balmasov

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском The Spread of Instability from the Sahel Directly Threatens West African Countries, Especially the Gulf of Guinea States (Benin, Côte d’Ivoire, and Togo) — recently, there have been more attacks by jihadist fighters in these areas. If these attacks become more successful, it could seriously hurt the global economy, especially the economy of the European Union. Events in spring 2025 show that the jihadist movement is growing in this region, which causes big problems for safety and the economy.Gulf of Guinea Countries Under Attack by Jihadists Before, jihadists attacked only the northern parts of Benin, Côte d’Ivoire, and Togo — near the borders with Burkina Faso, Mali, and Niger. But on April 24, 2025, they destroyed and captured an army vehicle in the center of Benin, far from the northern border. This showed they can now strike deep inside the country, not just near the border where most of the army is based. It seems this was done to force the army to move some soldiers away from the north, making it weaker there. This could mean that fighting is spreading into areas that used to be safe. A video of the attack was shared by a group linked to the Wagner Group that works in Africa. An even more worrying event happened on May 12. Jihadists attacked a gold mine in Mali, near the town of Narena on the border with Guinea. During the attack, they kidnapped Chinese workers. It’s important to note that the distance between this place and the attack in Benin is about 1,700 kilometers. This shows how far the violence is spreading across Africa. The situation is especially bad in Benin. Its army has been hit very hard in recent years. On April 17, 2025, jihadists destroyed two army posts in the north. The army said 54 soldiers were killed (the attackers said it was 70). Earlier, on January 8, 2025, radical Islamists killed 28 soldiers. In total, over 300 Beninese soldiers have been killed by jihadists between 2019 and 2025. The current year — 2025 — is already the worst so far, with 157 soldiers killed by May. A similar situation is happening in countries next to Benin. For example, in Togo, between 2022 and 2024, at least 37 soldiers and civilians were killed during major group attacks (with 29 of them in 2024 alone). Côte d’Ivoire (Ivory Coast) is also suffering from jihadist attacks. Back in 2016, at least 15 people were killed in one attack, including three elite special forces soldiers. Later, during a series of attacks by radical Islamists in 2021–2022, at least 15 more Ivorian soldiers were killed. And this does not include small attacks carried out by these groups. Reasons for Escalation West African countries became a new target for jihadist attacks for several reasons. Of course, the situation in neighboring Nigeria, where the jihadist group Boko Haram operates (recognized as terrorist and banned in Russia), plays a destabilizing role. Part of this group joined the Islamic State (also banned in Russia). Its appearance helped create instability in the southern Sahel, and a similar process happened in the north after Muammar Gaddafi was removed from power in Libya in 2011. Radical Islamists who took over big parts of Mali, Burkina Faso, and Niger want to spread their control even more. These are jihadist “katibas” (Arabic for “unit”), acting under the name of JNIM (an Al-Qaeda branch in the Sahel, banned in Russia) and IS Sahel (Islamic State in the Sahel, banned in Russia). They want to build on their success in fighting French influence in Africa, get rid of it in other countries too — like Benin, Togo, and Côte d’Ivoire — and bring in Islamic rule and sharia law to new areas. This is their “mission,” as they see it. It seems that they will try to do this in the medium term. For now, their main goal appears to be bringing down the weak governments in Sahel countries. Even though the situation in Burkina Faso, Mali, and Niger is still very bad, and the governments there mostly control only big cities, the jihadists have not yet succeeded in removing these military regimes. One of the reasons for this is the presence of Russian forces in the region, both state-run (“African Corps”) and semi-private (“Wagner Group”). Without removing these governments, it is too risky for jihadists to start big operations to take over other countries. But it is possible that, after facing Russian military experts — who have made the armies of Mali, Burkina Faso, and Niger stronger — the jihadists are now trying to focus on West African countries where they are not yet present. It may also be that the goal of jihadist attacks in West Africa is to put pressure on their enemies in the Sahel from the northern areas of the coastal countries in the Gulf of Guinea. For example, by setting up in northern Benin, Côte d’Ivoire, and Togo, the jihadists can create safe zones for operations in southern Burkina Faso and Niger, and also threaten the capital of Niger, Niamey. They also place supply camps and families in local forests so that government forces in the Sahel don’t capture them. And finally, they use Gulf of Guinea countries as transit zones to get the things they need. For instance, they smuggle fuel from Nigeria for their vehicles — cars and motorbikes (their “mechanized cavalry”). They pay for this with illegally mined gold and livestock from the Sahel and West Africa. Ghana plays a special role in these operations. It is the only country in the Gulf of Guinea that borders the Sahel but has not yet experienced bloody jihadist attacks. Its geographic location is very important for the logistics of radical Islamists, and the local terrain helps their activities. For example, in northern Benin and Togo there are nature reserves and national parks stretching for hundreds of kilometers — W and Pendjari Parks in Benin, Comoe Park in Côte d’Ivoire, and the Oti-Keran Mandouri complex in Togo. These are rough, hard-to-reach areas with thick forests and poor road networks. Because of this it’s hard for the slow and heavy security forces of local governments to act in these places. But for small, lightly armed jihadist groups, it is much easier to move around and complete their missions. Security Forces Are Not Ready to Fight Jihadists Among the reasons why West African countries cannot succeed in the fight against radical Islamists is the "physical" weakness (as in the case of Togo and Benin) of their state security forces, and their general unpreparedness for conducting quick anti-guerrilla operations. For example, even after being enlarged due to the current crisis, their armies do not exceed 12,300 troops each, including naval forces (which have not really been involved in this fight). This is clearly not enough to effectively control their northern borders with Burkina Faso and Niger, which together stretch more than 700 km. The technical equipment of the armies of Benin and Togo is also poor because of a lack of transport, aircraft (especially drones), and modern gear in general (for example, some armored vehicles are still from the 1950s). The army of Côte d’Ivoire is much stronger. By the end of 2024, it had 22,000 soldiers, including the navy, and more than 5,000 irregular fighters. But even this is not enough to effectively guard its difficult border with Mali and Burkina Faso, which is 1,183 km long and has rough terrain. In such conditions, it is hard to expect a turning point in the fighting. Lack of Loyalty from the Local Population The establishment of jihadist control over the northern areas of Gulf of Guinea countries is also prevented by the low loyalty of the local population. Understanding that without at least some level of support (even if forced and limited) from locals, jihadists from the Sahel would not be able to act so effectively, the security forces of the region often carry out repressions against local people. This clearly does not increase their loyalty to the authorities and creates new problems for the future. These people can seriously harm the military, even if acting passively — for example, by helping jihadists as guides, scouts, or informants. This especially concerns the nomadic herders from the Fulani (or Fula) ethnic group, who are known to form the main part of jihadist groups in the Sahel countries. Many Fulani people also live in West and Central Africa. The high involvement of the Fulani and some other groups in jihadism often comes from their dissatisfaction with their situation. They often feel left out when it comes to getting resources, positions in government, and so on. When they express their dissatisfaction, it is often ignored at best, or met with repression at worst. The dissatisfaction of people in other West African countries with their own governments and the general situation comes from many factors. One of them is the strong and sometimes very fast population growth since the countries gained independence. At the same time, the amount of resources per person, like water and fertile land, has gone down. This has naturally led to more conflicts. Just like in the Sahel, conflicts over water and land between herders, farmers, hunters, and fishermen have gotten worse in West Africa. In the Gulf of Guinea countries, this happened at the same time as the government’s efforts to protect unique nature parks, which were declared reserves, but later became jihadist strongholds. As a result, farming and herding in these areas was greatly limited, and often completely banned, which hit the local economy hard. At the same time, people believe that the governments invested very little in the development of remote northern regions, especially in infrastructure. However, the presence of almost untouched parts of nature, far from cities, did lead to some tourism development (before the jihadists arrived). Because of this, some people who could not succeed as farmers or herders found jobs in tourism. The rebels used local dissatisfaction to their advantage. When they arrived, they removed the government bans on local economic activities (except cutting down the forests that hide their fighters), including hunting rare protected animals. Many local people saw this as a good thing. Prospects for the Fight Faced directly with the threat of Sahelization, the governments of the region are trying to urgently stabilize the situation. For example, the Beninese army (and other security forces) was increased by one and a half times — if at the beginning of the jihadist attacks it had 8,000 soldiers, now it has 12,300. The governments of the Gulf of Guinea countries also turned for help to their former security partners — France and the United States, who started sending modern weapons. But new weapons alone cannot change the situation — not even the use of drones, which are supposed to help better observe the terrain and find jihadist bases. The forests in the conflict zones are so thick that even modern UAVs sometimes cannot spot the enemy, even with poor camouflage. The authorities of Benin and Côte d’Ivoire have started developing border areas and creating jobs for young people, to make it harder for jihadists to recruit them. The Beninese government is also considering helping herders switch from a nomadic way of life to more efficient and less environmentally damaging farming. This idea might work in the long term, but it will need huge resources and could anger herders, who find it very hard to change their traditional lifestyle. Togo, which is poorer, cannot keep up with Benin and Côte d’Ivoire. Its government is mainly just running information campaigns and talking about the dangers of jihadism. So, the measures to stop jihadist expansion in these countries are not well coordinated. There is also a lack of cooperation in the fight itself. For example, Islamist radicals have escaped many times into neighboring Sahel countries, and this happened because there was no agreement that would let the security forces of one country pursue enemies into another. It is important to note that back in 2017, seeing the growing threat from jihadists, the Sahel and Gulf of Guinea countries signed the “Accra Initiative”, which became an anti-jihadist alliance. But soon after that, coups hit the region, removing pro-French governments in the Sahel countries, while in the coastal states of the Gulf of Guinea (except for Guinea itself), pro-Paris governments stayed in power. This damaged relations between the Sahel countries and the West African countries that remained loyal to France. Benin, Côte d’Ivoire, and Togo, still somewhat supported by France, joined the blockade of Mali, Burkina Faso, and Niger, and even considered military intervention. The military governments of the Sahel, in turn, began to actively cooperate with Russia. Since then, there has been no coordination between the former allies in the fight against jihadism. And until this conflict is resolved, it is hard to expect any effective cross-border fight against jihadists. Therefore, even in the short term, the situation in the region will likely get worse — because the Sahel’s population keeps growing rapidly, and as they move south into West African countries, competition for limited resources will keep increasing. How the Escalating Struggle Shapes the Global Landscape and Russia’s RoleDespite the destabilizing effect of “Sahelization” and the spread of jihadism into the coastal countries of the Gulf of Guinea, there are some opportunities for Russia. For example, it is possible that the people of West African countries, just like those in the Sahel, will lose trust in France — especially if Paris fails to stop the jihadist advance. As a result, we cannot rule out the possibility of anti-French coups in Gulf of Guinea countries. Russia could use this to further weaken the West, and France in particular, during the ongoing conflict in Ukraine. Other countries will also try to fill the growing political vacuum in the region. The United States is already doing this, by giving military and technical help to these countries and clearly trying to push out French influence. In the worst-case scenario (if the governments of the coastal West African countries collapse), jihadists could reach the major shipping routes of the Gulf of Guinea. Since important global trade routes pass through this area, this would be a direct threat to international trade, especially for the European Union. However, for now, this seems possible only if the entire state system built in Africa after the end of colonial rule completely falls apart. A much more serious danger may come from jihadists reaching the border with Guinea, or pushing further south into coastal West African countries. In the first case, the threat affects the world economy, because Guinea supplies 20% of the world’s bauxite — the raw material used to make aluminum. Guinea also has rich deposits of iron ore and other minerals. It's important to note that not only the West, but also China depends on these supplies. Russian companies also work in Guinea. That’s why many outside powers (like the USA, Turkey, UAE, Qatar, and others) may be tempted to use Sahel rebel groups to try to change who controls the market in Guinea. Many people in Guinea are unhappy with how the wealth is shared, and most of the population lives below the poverty line. A large part of the population (about one-third of the 14 million people) are again the Fulani, the same active group that often forms the base of rebel movements. Some of them might join the fighters if there is an invasion of Guinea from Mali. As for the attempt to move jihadist activity into central Benin, this is very bad news for the European Union, which hopes to get cheap pipeline gas if the planned “Atlantic” gas pipeline from Nigeria to Morocco is built. So, if jihadists become more active in coastal Gulf countries, it could scare away investors from this expensive project. At the same time, Russia might use the situation to its own advantage.

Defense & Security
trade war. Flag of the People's Republic of China. Flag of the United States. Taiwan flag, 3d illustration

The ‘Clash of Nationalisms’ in the Contentious USA–Taiwan–China Relations

by Orson Tan , Alexander C. Tan

한국어로 읽기 Leer en español In Deutsch lesen Gap اقرأ بالعربية Lire en français Читать на русском Abstract Why is it that cross-strait tension has been at its highest since the missile crisis of 1996? Why is the USA–Taiwan–China relations so contentious since 2016? This article argues that one oft-neglected factor—nationalism and identity politics—needs to be considered as a contributing factor to the heightened tension in this triangular relationship. In all three states, audience costs have significantly increased as domestic leaders and elites appeal to populist and nationalistic positions and rhetoric. Though studies of foreign policy often claim that ‘politics stop at the water’s edge,’ populist and nationalist rhetoric in the domestic politics almost always spill over to the international arena. The convergence of Trump’s America First and the US’ obsession with its global primacy underpins and drives America’s approach to its strategic competition with China. China’s continual reference to the hundred years of humiliation in the nineteenth century and early twentieth century and Xi Jinping’s ‘China Dream’ are ethnonationalist appeals that drives China’s fight for its ‘rightful place’ in the global pecking order. Taiwan’s deepening national identity and sociopolitical de-Sinicisation while contributing the development of a separate nation-state is a direct clash to the People’s Republic of China (PRC’s) claim of Taiwan as part of its one-China principle. This article will trace and examine the role of domestic nationalism and how it has contributed to make the Taiwan Straits a ‘hotspot’ in global geopolitics and geoeconomics. Introduction The introduction of the phrase ‘Taiwan Contingency’ to the global lexicon in 2020 served to highlight how the temperature of cross-strait relations between China and Taiwan had become a key barometer that the global community was paying attention to (Taylor, 2020). It is also not a coincidence that the increasing attention paid to the Taiwan Strait comes at a time when the USA–China relationship has devolved into great power strategic competition; the Pentagon had long used the term ‘Taiwan Contingency’ in its annual assessment reports on the US military’s ability to implement the Taiwan Relations Act, going as far back as the report from the year 2000, but it was only when USA–China relations worsened and cross-strait tensions created a worry about a flashpoint that the term became widely used (Department of Defense, 2000; Wuthnow, 2020). Much has been said about the increasing tension in cross-strait relations being a result of the overarching competition between the USA and China to define their positions vis-a-viz each other in the global hierarchy. These increasing tensions have often been attributed to the inherent rivalry between an ascending power and a declining one, most notably by Graham Allison in his book Destined for War (Hanania, 2021). The idea of the Thucydides Trap as floated by Allison has become the dominant narrative in the discourse surrounding the USA–China competition and has also contributed to an arguably narrow analysis of the strategic competition. Influenced by the analysis of the Thucydides Trap, China’s actions have been cast separately as being driven by security concerns and imperial aggression, feeding into the narrative of a power struggle in the international arena between the reigning superpower and a surging new power with desires to fulfil its civilisational creed (Mazza, 2024; Peters et al., 2022; Sobolik, 2024). This view seeks to portray China as a disrupting force that seeks to upend the status quo in the international system and thereby overturn the current rules-based international order, while casting the USA as a defender standing up against Chinese aggression, and has led to the USA–China strategic competition also being referred to a ‘new Cold War’ (Brands & Gaddis, 2021; Mazza, 2024). The rising tension in the Taiwan Strait has thus been seen as serving as a frontline to this ‘new Cold War’, and that the three-party relationship between the USA, China and Taiwan serves as some litmus test of American ability to contain a rising China (Lee, 2024). In fact, China hawks in the US and Taiwanese officials have often made use of this ‘new Cold War’ setting to frame the USA–China strategic competition as a competition between autocracies and democracies, and that Taiwan’s democracy makes it worth protecting (Hung, 2022; Lee, 2024). The Taiwanese government has consistently focused on a need to build an alliance of democracies that will support the island against Chinese aggression, highlighting shared values and like-minded partners in their discourse (Ripley, 2024). Yet, a broader analysis shows how framing the rising tension in the Taiwan Strait was a by-product of the greater geopolitical struggle between the USA and China in this ‘new Cold War’ ignores other possible factors. Most notably, the impact of nationalism and identity politics on the domestic sphere needs to be considered as a contributing factor to the heightened tension in this triangular relationship. While there has been increasing attention on nationalism as a characteristic of the international system since the time that scholars like Holsti (1980) brought up the need to emphasise the ‘prominence of nationalist behaviour’ in international relations (IRs) theory, the contemporary analysis of the Taiwan Strait issue shows that most still ignore the impact of domestic pressures on foreign policy choice by the three parties in this relationship; audience costs have significantly increase as domestic leaders and elites appeal to populist and nationalistic positions and rhetoric, and these populist and nationalist rhetoric in the domestic politics almost always spill over to the international arena (p. 25). In the United States, we have the convergence of Trump’s America First ideology and the US’ obsession with its global primacy that underpins and drives America’s approach to its strategic competition with China. While in China, the Chinese Communist Party’s (CCP) continual reference to the hundred years of humiliation in the nineteenth century and early twentieth century and Xi Jinping’s ‘China Dream’ are ethnonationalist appeals that are used to reinforce the Party’s right to guide China to fight for its ‘rightful place’ in the global pecking order. On the island, Taiwan’s deepening national identity and sociopolitical de-Sinicisation while contributing the development of a separate nation-state create a direct clash to the People’s Republic of China (PRC’s) claim of Taiwan as part of its one-China principle. This article thus seeks to trace and examine the role of domestic nationalism and how it has contributed to make the Taiwan Strait a ‘hotspot’ in global geopolitics and geoeconomics. This is done by first analysing the literature on nationalism and its role in IRs, following which, the sections examine the unique nationalisms of the United States, China and Taiwan and their role in increasing audience costs for the political elite, which will allow us to analyse how this clash of nationalism contributes to the Taiwan Strait becoming the global ‘hotspot’ that it is. Understanding Nationalism in International Relations As previously mentioned, the literature on IRs theory mainly focuses ‘on models of international interaction based on rational action and material structural factors, and exogenising the formation of preferences and the actors’ identities’ (D’Anieri, 1997, p. 2). Even theorists who have engaged with nationalism in international relations have admitted that ‘the relationship between the two has never been an especially easy one’ (Cox, 2019, p. 249). Yet nationalism is arguably central to the practice of IRs, given how nationalism is a key factor that makes it possible to conceive of states as coherent agents, as it creates the distinctiveness that allows a nation-state to define itself in its interactions with another (Kowert, 2012; Waltz, 1959). It is almost impossible to ignore the role of nationalism given the presumed equivalence of ‘nation’ and ‘state’ in IRs theories, and how nationalism is embedded in the conceptualisation of sovereignty, which serves as a fundamental factor in the interactions between states (Heiskanen, 2019, 2021). This is especially so given how the era of globalisation has come to an end, giving rise to a period of IRs that is characterised by securitisation and the preponderance of terms like ‘national security’ and ‘national interest’ (Heiskanen, 2019; Posen, 2022). In this contemporary age, there is a heightened awareness of the need to express and protect a state’s sovereignty in its international interactions, which therefore paves the way for nationalism to be the ‘centripetal force’ in driving interactions between nation-states (Kovács, 2022; Waltz, 1959, pp. 177–178). Nationalism can play such a role in defining interactions between nation-states because nationalism at its core is the conceptualisation of the identity of the polity. Modern nationalism in that sense is the expression of the principle that ‘nation = state = people’, with the purpose of binding the people to the state under one ‘imagined community’ to justify the existence of the nation-state as a construct (Anderson, 1983; Hobsbawm, 1990, p. 19). The nationalism that defines the nation-state is neither natural nor inevitable, but rather a by-product of a nation-building effort to craft an identity that will allow the state to distinguish and therefore differentiate itself in a world of nation-states (Connor, 1990; Gellner, 1983; Smith, 1986). This creates the peculiarity of nationalism in which they are essentially all the same, yet at the same time, individually unique by necessity. It is thus the interaction between the individual uniqueness while having the same broad goals that lead to nationalism influencing the interactions of nation-states in the international arena; arguably, it is not just the strength of nationalism that is important but also the content of the national identity that helps dictate the interaction between the states (D’Anieri, 1997). The creation and the make-up of nationalisms and national identities are thus of interests for this article’s analysis of the triangular relationship between United States, China and Taiwan. The literature on nationalism and national identity gives us a breakdown on the creation of nationalism. As a relatively modern phenomenon, the rise of nationalisms around the world is a direct result of the socioeconomic upheaval that marked the progress of modernity (Anderson, 1983; Gellner, 1983). The advent of industrialisation saw the collapse of the previous social structure that separated the agrarian, merchant classes and the nobility, and necessitated the development of a new identity that would bind diverse groups of people together under the banner of a nation-state. In that regard, the creation of nationalism was necessarily top-down, often driven by the needs of the new political elite who now exercised power in these emerging modern nation-states and formed through nationwide tools such as a national language and the national education system (Anderson, 1983; Gellner, 1983). The content of the national identity though could not simply be created out of thin air where the general form of nationalisms is the same and built on a structure of common identity and a sense of belonging to a community, the content of nationalisms needed to be specific to the groups of people living in the nation-state to produce the necessary uniqueness that would engender the desired outcome. As such, nationalisms and national identities were built on the pre-existing myths and histories of the people that inhabited the land or were present at the founding of the nation-state (Billig, 1995; Calhoun, 1997; Smith, 1986). This results in various contents of the nationalism that are part ethnic but also part mythological. The next section will examine the contents of the national identities of the United States, China and Taiwan in relation to this. American Exceptionalism: America the Great Like all nationalisms, American nationalism aims to ‘legitimise, mobilise and integrate the nation, thereby promoting the unity of the national people, and demanding a sovereign state for this nation’ (Trautsch, 2016, p. 291). Yet unlike European nationalism which had existing histories to build upon, American nationalism was ‘a model of nationhood that did not rest on historic claims to antiquity nor on any sense of distinctive peoplehood’, its foundations being very much rooted on mythologising the pilgrims’ journey across the Atlantic on the Mayflower and the nation’s beginnings as a settler nation (Doyle, 2009, p. 79). The pilgrims’ journey on the Mayflower marked the separation between the ‘Old World’ and the ‘New World’, providing dividing line that forms the basis for the conceptualisation of America as unique. While American nationalism does identify its roots with the colonial migration from Europe, the beginnings of this nationalism are tied specifically to the American Revolution and the Declaration of Independence (Doyle, 2009). The War of Independence marked a coalescing of consciousness in the 13 colonies that birthed a new nation, and gave even more credence to the distinction between Europe and the ‘Old World’, and the new American nation in the ‘New World’ (Commager, 1959; Doyle, 2009). This distinction was helped by the colonies’ history as an asylum for religious dissenters, impoverished servants and assorted refugees from Europe, allowing the colonies to divest itself of its British heritage (Doyle, 2009). Yet, certain aspects of British culture did influence the founding fathers of America in the conception of the American nation. While rebelling against their colonial masters, the founding fathers framed their independence as based on the British belief in the institutions of law, liberty and representative government mixed with a healthy dose of religiosity, which, given the lack of a feudal tradition and existing aristocracy, allowed for the creation of a national consciousness that celebrated equality without the necessary social revolution that marked the ‘Old World’ (Lieven, 2012). This allowed for the image of America as a newfound promise land, further playing into the distinction between the old and new, and as scholars from Tocqueville on have noted, birthed the idea of the exceptionalism of the American nation, the ‘shining city on the hill’ (Lieven, 2012). The subsequent expansion of the USA westward that saw the eventual formation of the geographical borders of modern America helped to further this sense of exceptionalism. As the expansion evolved from purchasing land to conflict with both the Native Americans and the Spanish colonial forces, American exceptionalism took on a sense of preordination (Doyle, 2009; Trautsch, 2016). Between the Revolution and the Civil War, American nationalists who recognised the need for strengthening the national consciousness began the enterprise by focusing on the fundamental idea that ‘Americans had a historic mission and that their bond of nationhood lay in their common destiny’; this required the positioning of America’s future place in the history of the world as one that was naturally glorious (Doyle, 2009, p. 86; Trautsch, 2016). To that end, the nationalists pushed the narrative of America’s ‘manifest destiny’, an unstoppable rise for the ‘freest, the happiest, and soon to be the greatest and most powerful country in the world’ (Doyle, 2009, p. 88). The successful expansion and victories in conflict that eventuated in the American nation covering the breadth of continental North America firmly entrenched this sense of preordained greatness for the nation. American nationalism had come to encompass both the civic values of liberty and respect for institutions, and the dreams of imperial grandeur that marked them for greatness; America was free and therefore exceptional, just as America was victorious and therefore exceptional. American exceptionalism, therefore, made the nation’s ascension to the top of the global hierarchy post-1945 easy. To the American nation, having believed in their destined greatness, a seat at the table presiding over global affairs was only to be expected. American nationalism had led the nation to believe in its destiny, and it saw itself as having been chosen, or even, anointed to lead (Lieven, 2012). Such exceptionalism naturally influences modern American foreign policy, as Kristol (1983) points out: Patriotism springs from love of the nation’s past; nationalism arises out of hope for the nation’s future, distinctive greatness…The goals of American foreign policy must go well beyond a narrow, too literal definition of ‘national security.’ It is the national interest of a world power, as this is defined by a sense of national destiny. (p. xiii) American nationalism shapes the way the USA views its interactions with the world, starting with its presumption of its deserved position at the top of the global hierarchy. The mythologising of its ‘historic mission’ and ‘manifest destiny’ helped to create the paradigm that the United States is the natural leader of the world, and its national interests include the protection of its position as the leader of the world. This creates a knock-on effect in its interactions with other states; if the United States is the natural leader, then others must listen and be led, and as the leader, challenges to its primacy cannot be tolerated. However, such conceptualisation brings it into a clash with the rising nationalism of China. Chinese Ethnonationalism: The China Dream Unlike American nationalism, modern Chinese nationalism is a relatively new phenomenon. In fact, the conceptualisation of a Chinese nation did not come about until the nineteenth century, as the Chinese tried to ‘create a modern identity to cope with conditions created by China’s confrontation with the Western world’, forcing the Chinese ‘to deal with foreign concepts, including that of nation, state, sovereignty, citizenship and race’ (Wu, 1991, p. 159). Furthermore, where American nationalism was centred upon its existence as a settler nation, Chinese nationalism could rest on both historic claims to antiquity and a sense of distinctive peoplehood, as Smith (1986) would have identified it, the roots of Chinese nationalism were definitely ethnosymbolic. The 1911 Revolution that saw the collapse of the Qing Dynasty and Imperial China marked the beginnings of modern Chinese nationalism (Townsend, 1992). Where previously the conceptualisation of Chinese identity was grounded in a rich cultural heritage of stories about the ‘abstract idea of the ‘Great Tradition’ of Chinese civilisation’, the encroachment of Western colonial forces in China led to rising discontentment amongst the Chinese public and the rise of intellectual writings about a modern form of Chinese identity which combined Chinese tradition and Western nationalism (Townsend, 1992; Wang, 1988, p. 2; Zheng, 2012). Dr Sun Yat-Sen, who is acknowledged as the father of the modern nation, pushed for the creation of a consciousness of nationhood in his Three Principles of the People, advocating for the creation of modern Chinese nationalism that was centred upon the Chinese people as a unified group, which he categorised as the Chinese ethnic community, ÖлªÃñ×å zhonghuaminzu (Fitzgerald, 2016; Tan & Chen, 2013; Wang, 1988; Wells, 2001). The end of the 1911 Revolution saw the establishment of the Republic of China (ROC) with Dr. Sun as the first president (Zheng, 2012). This marked the transition of China from imperial to statehood and saw the coalescing of the consciousness of Chinese nationhood. The ethnosymbolic roots of Chinese nationalism permeated this consciousness, even the name of the Republic, ÖлªÃñ¹ú zhonghuaminguo, emphasised the belonging of the state to the Chinese ethnic nation as the first three characters of the name represent the ethnic Chinese nation. So, Chinese nationalism can be said to also equate to Chinese ethnonationalism, and as a nationalism that rested on the rich history of the Chinese people and the abstract conceptualisation of the following the tradition of great Chinese civilisations, Chinese nationalism is also beholden to a lot of nostalgia. Where Dr Sun and his fellow intellectuals pushed the creation of Chinese nationalism by appealing to the cultural heritage of Chinese civilisation, they combined this with modern western nationalist ideology that focused on a struggle for sovereignty, in this case against the Western imperial powers and the Qing rulers. As such, this nostalgia is driven by the experiences of the Chinese people during the perceived ‘century of humiliation’ °ÙÄê¹ú³Ü bainianguochi starting from the Opium War till 1945, where China struggled for self-determination only to be invaded by the Japanese prior to the Second World War (Fitzgerald, 2016; Townsend, 1992; Zheng, 2012). China, as the empire-turned-nation and heir to the great tradition of Chinese imperial civilisation, was successively beaten and this was seen as a deep shame to the Chinese people who under successively foreign oppressors, including the Manchus of the Qing Dynasty, longed for freedom and a return to glory for the Chinese nation. As such, when Mao announced the founding of the PRC in 1949, the legitimacy of the CCP in ruling the nation was built on Chinese nationalism and the part that the party played in defeating the Japanese. The CCP’s victory in the civil war was arguably also because they presented themselves as even more nationalist than the nationalist Kuomintang (KMT) that they chased out of the mainland (Gries, 2020). This close connection between the party’s legitimacy and Chinese nationalism has seen the CCP often fall back on nationalistic propaganda to shore up its position of power, most notably after the events of Tiananmen Square (Gries, 2020). With his ascension to the presidency, Xi Jinping has continued the use of Chinese nationalism to firm up the party’s hold on power, having often referred to China’s rise as the country’s national destiny, referencing the country’s glorious past and harping on the ‘century of humiliation’ that denied China its place among the world’s powers (Tan, 2023). In this current form of Chinese ethnonationalism, Xi’s slogan of ‘national rejuvenation’ helps to reinforce the concept that China, once great but humiliated by the predations of Western colonisers, is now reclaiming its previous majesty to fulfil the ‘China Dream’ (Tan, 2023). This creates the sense that China must stand up to Western powers due to their rightful placed in the world while it must also continue to address the humiliations of the past, of which Taiwan serves as a reminder of, and this creates the setting for competition with the United States and rising tensions with Taiwan. Taiwanese Nationalism: De-sinicised and Independent The case of Taiwanese nationalism is an interesting one. Of the three nationalisms examined in this article, Taiwanese nationalism is the youngest one, having come into existence only in recently. Furthermore, unlike the United States and China, there is no continuity and coherence between the nation and the state in Taiwan. The state governing and exerting authority over Taiwan’s population embodies and merges two distinct political visions, each tied to a separate national identity: Chinese and Taiwanese, as the ROC is ‘a product of Chinese history and Chinese nationalism’, having been imposed onto the island when the KMT lost the civil war and fled the mainland (Clark & Tan, 2012; Lepesant, 2018, p. 65). In fact, while the KMT exercised marital rule over the island under the regimes of Chiang Kai-shek and Chiang Ching-kuo, the party tried constantly to impose an essentialist Chinese nationalism that clashed with the memories and experience of most of the island’s population, especially those who were raised under Japanese rule (Lepesant, 2018). This directly restricted the development of a national consciousness that centred on Taiwanese-ness, which explains the relatively late creation of Taiwanese nationalism. While overseas Taiwanese who were exiled by the KMT had started to display ideologies that was a semblance of Taiwanese nationalism, it was not until the 1980s and the gradual democratisation of the island that this nationalism began to take root (Chiou, 2003; Clark & Tan, 2012; Wakabayashi, 2006; Wu, 2004). With the increasing calls for political liberalisation in the 1980s, Chiang Ching-kuo began the initial process of Taiwanisation, allowing for the appointments of Taiwanese who were ±¾Ê¡ÈË benshengren (Han-Chinese who were on the island before the 1949 migration) to political positions even in his own administration (Cabestan, 2005). This kickstarted the process of nation-building, which only moved into a higher gear with the democratisation of the island in the early 1990s as there developed a political imperative to create an identity that could unify the people on the island (Wakabayashi, 2006). Lee Teng-hui, as the president of Taiwan who oversaw the democratisation process, put his support behind the Taiwanisation movement, supporting the development of a nation-building programme that would spur the adoption of Taiwanese nationalism, against the wishes of the KMT old guard. Lee’s action in building up Taiwanese nationalism is best seen in his propagation of the idea of a ‘new Taiwanese’ national identity in his speech to the National Assembly and more concretely, the change in name for the ROC to the ROC on Taiwan (Chiou, 2003; Jacobs, 2007; Wakabayashi, 2006). As such, the content of Taiwanese nationalism cannot be separated from the complex history of the island. The roots of Taiwanese nationalism are traced to the imperial expansion of Japan in the late 1800s, while previously the island had some contact with various Chinese dynasties and a brief colonial period by the Dutch, the Qing had neglected the island which meant that Japanese colonialisation marked the modernisation of the island (Cabestan, 2005; Wakabayashi, 2006). Japanese colonial rule also sparked the development of a pan-Taiwanese identity rooted in a struggle for independence, and distinctly anti-colonial and anti-Japanese (Brown, 2004). This pan-Taiwanese identity covered all the residents of the island who were not Japanese and therefore was not just restricted to the ethnic Han Chinese. With democratisation and the push for the ‘new Taiwanese’ national identity under Lee, this pan-Taiwanese identity was used as the foundation to build a new national identity. However, this also meant that the aspects of this identity that focused on independence were subsumed into the new Taiwanese nationalism, which was further enhanced by the experiences of the Taiwanese people under KMT rule (Wakabayashi, 2006). For Taiwan, both Japanese colonial rule and the experience of the civil war of post-1945 China became the existence of the ‘others’ to the development of the Taiwanese sense of self (Wakabayashi, 2006). This therefore meant that Taiwanese nationalism was first and foremost a nationalism for an independent Taiwan. In 2000, with the election of Chen Shui-bian from the then opposition Democratic Peoples’ Party (DPP) to the presidency, Taiwanese nationalism took another step in its evolution. No longer was Taiwanese nationalism simply about the independent sovereignty of the island whilst maintaining the cultural affinity for the Chinese tradition as espoused by Lee, but now there was a clear de-Sinicised aspect to Taiwanese nationalism and national identity (Hughes, 2013; Wakabayashi, 2006). This was driven by the policies of the Chen administration which included initiatives to rectify Taiwan’s name, changes to institutions designed to promote unification with mainland China, attempts to change the ROC Constitution and most importantly, the re-orientation of the education curriculum to focus more on Taiwan and less on the mainland. This resulted in the evolution of Taiwanese national identity towards one that increasingly sidelined the culturally ethnic Chinese component, instead insisting a cultural makeup that was simultaneously Han Chinese, Japanese and Aboriginal Taiwanese (Brown, 2004; Hughes, 2013; Wu, 2004). Yet such a nationalism brings along issues given the precarious relationship between the island and its cross-strait neighbour. The Clash of Nationalisms This article aimed to examine the role that nationalism played in the rising tensions in the United States, China and Taiwan triangular relationship. The idea that nationalisms can be antagonistic to each other and lead to conflict is not entirely new, despite the lack of IR theories that appropriately accommodate for the impact of nationalism. Samuel Huntington (1996) in his book, Clash of Civilizations, argues that future global conflicts will be driven not by ideological or economic differences but by cultural and civilisational divisions due to the increasing interaction between civilisations as a result of globalisation. Huntington (1996) predicted that a rising and assertive East Asia, on the back of rapid economic development, would increasingly come into conflict with Western civilisation led by the United States, in part due to a difference in cultural values and geopolitical goals. Where some would argue that Huntington’s claims were oversimplified and may broadly reinforce cleavages, especially in the aftermath of 9/11 and the War on Terror, his basic premise provides an interesting starting point to examining the impact of nationalism on the USA–China–Taiwan relationship. While Huntington viewed the incoming conflict as drawn along civilisational lines, assuming that cultural similarities and affinities would be sufficient to create groupings of nation-states around the world that would come into conflict with each other, recent events have proven otherwise. In fact, cases like Donald Trump’s threat to put a 25% tariff on Canadian imports when he assumes the presidency in January 2025 serve as a reminder that nationalism can easily overpower any sense of cultural affinity, even between nations as closely connected and allied as the United States and Canada (Hale, 2024). The advent of modernity brought about the rise of nationalism in the nation-state, and in the bid to give the nation-state’s existence legitimacy, each nationalism was propagated as individually unique. And as such, while cultural civilisations may not be a cleavage that thoroughly defines the world today, nationalism seems to be one that could fit into Huntington’s theory instead. Given the unique nationalisms of the United States, China and Taiwan covered in the sections above, it also appears that what is happening in this triangular relationship is a conflict arising from diametrically opposed nationalisms, a ‘clash of nationalisms’ if you will. Figure 1 summarises the interactions between the nationalisms of the United States, China and Taiwan.  Figure 1. Interaction Between Nationalisms. The United States having built a national identity that centred on a higher calling to being a model nation and leader of the world sees its position at the top of the global hierarchy as sacrosanct. The reason why the concept of the ‘Thucydides trap’ has gained so much attention is because there is an inherent acknowledgement that no matter the ills that may plague the United States, it is unwilling to see the global primacy it has established after the end of the Cold War being challenged (Mazza, 2024). However, China’s ascendency on the back of its rapid economic growth and the fact that it managed to emerge from the 2007–8 Great Financial Crisis relatively unscathed has given life to the belief in the PRC that their anointed time has finally come. Driven by Xi’s desire to push Chinese ethnonationalism as a foundation for the PRC’s assertiveness in the international arena, the world is now witnessing a China that seeks to act like a great power, including a demand for regional hegemony (Mazza, 2024). Yet regional hegemony for the PRC set it in direct conflict with the United States as regional hegemony in East Asia would mean the United States having to pull back on its global primacy and cede control over the region where it has key allies like Japan and South Korea. And this is exacerbated by the anti-West element of Chinese ethnonationalism that holds the West, with the United States being symbolic of it, responsible for the century of humiliation and the country not being the rightful great power it should have long been. As the saying goes, one mountain cannot contain two tigers, the nationalisms of both the United States and the PRC are dependent on the countries fulfilling their self-perceived destiny of greatness which naturally puts them into conflict with each other and is reflected in Figure 1. Similarly, Figure 1 also shows how the nationalisms of China and Taiwan are in conflict. As mentioned above, Chinese ethnonationalism and the ‘China Dream’ are also about washing away the shame from the century of humiliation. Part of this humiliation stems from the losses to the Japanese in the two Sino-Japanese wars, of which the loss of the island of Taiwan serves as a reminder of and it is for this reason that Xi has made clear that reunification between Taiwan and the mainland is a core part of his ‘national rejuvenation’ (Sobolik, 2024). Yet, in Taiwan, the evolution and rise of Taiwanese nationalism have led to a strong Taiwanese national identity that rejects its relationship with the Chinese mainland; increasingly Taiwanese are rejecting the Beijing-led discourse of a common identity between them and the mainland Chinese, and polling shows an increasing majority of Taiwanese no longer identify as Chinese (Fifield, 2019; Wang, 2023). This sets up the two nations in a path for conflict, a worse-case scenario that experts are predicting gets ever closer, as Taiwanese independence is a redline for China that cannot be crossed, but any form of reunification for the island is incompatible with their unique and independent national identity (Kuo, 2022; Wu, 2004). On the flip side, the relationship between American nationalism and Taiwanese nationalism is somewhat complementary, as shown in Figure 1. In examining American nationalism above, we pointed out how much of American nationalism is driven by American primacy in the form of American exceptionalism. This exceptionalism has been shown to have a messianic fervour, with Badri (2024) arguing that this has led to America’s interventionist foreign policy since 1991. Yet this messianic fervour makes American nationalism the perfect complement for Taiwanese nationalism. As Taiwanese nationalism tends towards de-sinicisation and independence, it has also gone through pains to emphasise its democratisation as a key characteristic of its nationalism. This results in America becoming a natural support pillar for the objectives of Taiwanese nationalism, while America’s messianic tendencies lead it to want to support Taiwanese democracy. As a result, American and Taiwanese nationalism become complementary existences. However, that the nationalisms are in conflict do not necessarily explain the existence of the triangular relationship that has seen the Taiwan Strait become the geopolitical ‘hotspot’ that it is. In order to do so, it is important to remember that nationalism is a double-edged sword when used by governments (Gries, 2020; Tan, 2023). Since 2016, we have seen the respective governments in all three countries increasingly turn to nationalism to further their own agendas (Kuo, 2022; Restad, 2020). Trump won his first presidential victory on the back of his ‘Make America Great Again’ slogan, which implied that the greatness of the American nation had been allowed to wane by his political predecessor. In doing so, Trump had unleashed a torrent of populism built upon conservative American nationalism that centred upon how powerful and great the country was perceived at the end of the Cold War and the longing for a return to those days (Renshon, 2021). In China, Xi, as previously mentioned, turned to the concept of the ‘China Dream’ in his bid to secure the legitimacy of the CCP and his hold over power. In his elaboration, it was the preeminent task of the CCP to restore the past glory of the nation and thereby, turn the dream of a great power nation into a reality, which would aid in making life better for the Chinese people (Bhattacharya, 2019). The rise of Chinese ethnonationalism has been successful in legitimising the position of the CCP in the wake of the political turmoil of the early 2010s and increasingly we have seen assertive Chinese expressions of this ethnonationalism, be it in its ‘Wolf Warrior’ diplomacy or cases of Chinese international students in university campuses in places like Australia, United States and the United Kingdom who openly challenge their lecturers and peers who comment on issues like Taiwan and Hong Kong (Tan, 2023). While in Taiwan, the DPP under Tsai Ing-wen latched on to the anti-Chinese sentiment of the 2014 Sunflower Movement and harnessed Taiwanese nationalism and desire to exist as a sovereign people to win the 2016 presidential election from the KMT (Chen & Zheng, 2022; Clark et al., 2020). Since then, the DPP has increasingly relied on Taiwanese nationalism to secure itself electoral victories, as it provides a clear delineation on the Taiwanese/Chinese cleavage between itself and the opposition KMT, while also allowing the government to create a narrative that differentiates Taiwan from the mainland, and therefore rouse support for its cause for international recognition (Lee, 2024). In each of these countries, we have seen political leaders turning to nationalism for their own domestic agendas. However, using nationalism in such manner also means that there is a significant consequence when the desires and dreams of the nationalism cannot be fulfilled, especially for regimes that have built their legitimacy on said nationalisms. To that end, the escalation of tension in the Taiwan Strait becomes understandable. Taiwanese nationalism has led to Tsai and the DPP to insist on Taiwanese sovereignty, even without the need for actual independence, but this has crossed the CCP’s red line and Chinese ethnonationalism necessitates a reaction in the form of increased military activity. The United States, having been bound to support Taiwan due to the Taiwan Relations Act, and in part to reassert its global hegemon status, thus sees it as imperative that it continue to be involved in the situation in the Taiwan Strait, either through freedom of navigation movements or selling of arms. As each side escalates their foreign policy response to the Taiwan Strait issue, audience costs for the political leaders also increase. Having unleashed the forces of nationalism, any semblance that the political leader is contemplating backing down would have serious implications on the stability of the domestic regime. This is even more so given the looming economic challenges in each of the three nations. Conclusion Therefore, the triangular relationship between the United States, China and Taiwan is not merely a product of power struggles or ideological conflicts but a ‘clash of nationalisms’. The interplay of unique national identities, reinforced by domestic pressures, has intensified the geopolitical stakes in the Taiwan Strait, transforming it into a critical hotspot in global politics. In understanding this, we can therefore see how nationalism is in fact an important factor that influences the interactions of states in IRs theories. Declaration of Conflicting InterestsThe authors declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship and/or publication of this article.FundingThe authors received no financial support for the research, authorship and/or publication of this article.Cite: Tan, O., & Tan, A. C. (2025). 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