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In retrospect, there was perhaps nothing surprising about Russia’s decision to invade Ukraine on Feb. 24, 2022. Vladimir Putin’s intentions were, after all, hiding in plain sight and signaled in the months running up to the incursion. What could not be foreseen, however, is where the conflict finds itself now. Heading into its third year, the war has become bogged down: Neither is it a stalemate, nor does it look like either side could make dramatic advances any time soon. Russia appears to be on the ascendancy, having secured the latest major battlefield victory, but Ukrainian fighters have exceeded military expectations with their doggedness in the past, and may do so again. But as a foreign policy expert and former journalist who spent many years covering Russia, I share the view of those who argue that the conflict is potentially at a pivotal point: If Washington does not continue to fully support President Volodymyr Zelenskyy and his military, then Ukraine’s very survival could be at risk. I believe it would also jeopardize America’s leadership in the world and global security. How the conflict develops during the rest of 2024 will depend on many factors, but three may be key: supplies, information and political will. The supplies race Russia and Ukraine are locked in a race to resupply its war resources – not just in terms of soldiers, but also ammunition and missiles. Both sides are desperately trying to shore up the number of soldiers it can deploy. In December 2023, Putin ordered his generals to increase troop numbers by nearly 170,000, taking the total number of soldiers to 1.32 million. Meanwhile, Ukraine is said to be looking at plans to increase its military by 500,000 troops. Of course, here, Russia has the advantage of being able to draw on a population more than three times that of Ukraine. Also, whereas Putin can simply order up more troops, Zelenskyy must get measures approved through parliament. Aside from personnel, there is also the need for a steady supply of weapons and ammunition – and there have been reports that both sides are struggling to maintain sufficient levels. Russia appears particularly eager to boost its number of ballistic missiles, as they are better equipped for countering Ukraine air defense systems despite being slower than cruise missiles. Increasingly, Moscow appears to be looking to North Korea and Iran as suppliers. After Kim Jong Un, the North Korean leader, visited Russia in 2023, the U.S. accused Pyongyang of supplying Russia with ballistic missiles. Iran, meanwhile, has delivered to Russia a large number of powerful surface-to-surface ballistic missiles and drones. Ukraine, meanwhile, is dependent on foreign military equipment. Supplies were stronger at the beginning of the war, but since then, Ukraine’s military has suffered from the slow, bureaucratic nature of NATO and U.S. deliveries. It wasn’t, for example, until the summer of 2023 that the U.S. approved Europe’s request to provide F-16s to Ukraine. Ukraine needs more of everything, including air defense munitions, artillery shells, tanks and missile systems. It is also running short of medical supplies and has seen hospital shortages of drugs at a time when rampant infections are proving resistant to antibiotics. Perhaps the biggest factor that remains in Russia’s favor when it comes to supplies is the onerous restrictions placed on Ukraine from the West, limiting its ability to attack Russian territory with U.S. or NATO equipment to avoid a wider war. For example, the Ukrainian military had a High Mobility Artillery Rocket System with a 50-mile range that could hit targets inside Russia, but it modified the range to keep the U.S. military satisfied that it would not cross a Russian red line. If this policy could be relaxed, that might be a game changer for Ukraine, although it would raise the stakes for the U.S. The information war The Ukraine conflict is also a war of messaging. To this end, Putin uses propaganda to bolster support for the campaign at home, while undermining support for Ukraine elsewhere – for example, by planting stories in Europe that cause disenchantment with the war. One outrageous claim in the early weeks of the war was that Zelenskyy had taken his own life. The rumor came from pro-Russia online operatives as part of an aggressive effort to harm Ukrainian morale, according to cybersecurity firm Mandiant. More recently, in France, stories appeared that questioned the value of assistance to Ukraine and reminded the public of the negative impact of Russian sanctions on the French. Stirring dissent in this way is a classic Putin play to raise doubts. And investigative reporting points toward a disinformation network being run out of the Kremlin, which includes social media bots deployed on Ukrainian sites spreading stories of Zelenskyy’s team being corrupt and warning that the war would go badly. Given that Putin controls the Russian media and is quick to crack down on dissent, it is hard to really know what Russians think. But one reputable polling agency recently reported strong support in Russia for both Putin and the war in Ukraine. Ukrainians, too, still support the fight against Russia, polling shows. But some war fatigue has no doubt lowered morale. There are other signs of domestic strain in Ukraine. At the end of 2023, tensions grew between Zelenskyy and his top military commander, General Valery Zaluzhny who had complained about weaponry. Zelenskyy ended up firing the military chief, risking political backlash and underscoring that not all is well in the top chain of command. Should disunity and war fatigue continue into the war’s third year, it could serious impair Ukraine’s ability to fight back against a resurgent Russian offensive. The politics of conflict But it isn’t just domestic politics in Ukraine and Russia that will decide the outcome of the war. U.S. politics and European unity could be a factor in 2024 in determining the future of this conflict. In the U.S., Ukraine aid has become politicized – with aid to Ukraine becoming an increasingly partisan issue. In early February, the Senate finally passed an emergency aid bill for Ukraine and Israel that would see US$60.1 billion go to Kyiv. But the bill’s fate in the House is unknown. And the looming 2024 presidential elections could complicate matters further. Former president Donald Trump has made no secret of his aversion to aid packages over loans, calling them “stupid,” and has long argued that Americans shouldn’t be footing the bill for the conflict. Recently, he has made bombastic statements about NATO and threatened not to adhere to the alliance’s commitment to protect members if they were attacked by Russia. And uncertainty about American assistance could leave Europe carrying more of the financial load. European Union members have had to absorb the majority of the 6.3 million Ukrainians who have fled the country since the beginning of the conflict. And that puts a strain on resources. European oil needs also suffer from the sanctions against Russian companies. Whether these potential war determinants – supplies, information and politics – mean that the Ukraine war will not be entering a fourth year in 12 months time, however, is far from certain. In fact, one thing that does appear clear is that the war that some predicted would be over in weeks looks set to continue for some time still.

Rapid geopolitical change is curtailing Russian power in the South Caucasus, boosting the influence of Middle Eastern countries and bookending the region’s “post-Soviet” history. The South Caucasus is undergoing a geopolitical transformation. The war in Ukraine and the effective resolution of the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict between Armenia and Azerbaijan mean that the region is entering a new age. Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Georgia have gradually become more confident on the world stage, with each trying to limit its dependence on Russia by diversifying its foreign policy. Georgia has boosted relations with the European Union, China, and—to some extent—the United States, while Azerbaijan has sought closer ties with Turkey, Israel, Central Asia, and a number of European countries. Having gone through the traumatic loss of Nagorno-Karabakh, Armenia has pushed for closer engagement with the EU, rapprochement with Turkey, and even military links with India and some European states. Instead of an arena for competition between Russia and the West, the South Caucasus has turned into a highly congested geopolitical space, with up to six major powers vying for influence. We are not, however, just witnessing the end of the post-Soviet period. We are witnessing the end of exclusive Russian influence in the South Caucasus, which has been the status quo for almost two hundred years. The decline of Russian power has led to the reemergence of close links between the South Caucasus and the broader Middle East. Indeed, geography favors such a connection. Russia lies across the formidable Caucasus mountains, and Middle Eastern states have long regarded the South Caucasus as a natural continuation of their own territories. The deepening ties are visible in growing trade, investment, energy infrastructure, and railways that link the South Caucasus to two large neighboring powers: Turkey and Iran. Turkey is a key ally of Azerbaijan, and also enjoys close links with Georgia, while Armenia has Iran’s backing. In particular, Turkey has been pushing for the development of east-west connectivity that cuts through the traditional Russia-sponsored north-south infrastructure. The successful completion of the Baku-Tbilisi-Kars railway is one example; another is the push by Baku and Ankara to open a new route via Armenia’s southernmost province of Syunik. Iran, too, has scored significant victories. In October, it inked a deal with Baku on a new transit corridor linking Azerbaijan to its exclave of Nakhchivan via Iranian territory. Tehran has also advanced work on the International North-South Transport Corridor, which runs from southern Iran to Russia via Azerbaijan and the Caspian Sea. Other initiatives involve the development of roads through Armenia, which could provide solid links between Iran and Georgia’s Black Sea ports of Poti and Batumi. Energy infrastructure in the South Caucasus, too, is increasingly tied to the Middle East. Azerbaijan has become one of Turkey’s major gas suppliers, covering about 16 percent of the country’s needs in 2022, while Iran and Armenia have agreed to extend their gas trade agreement through 2030. The civil war in Syria showed how political and military developments in the Middle East impact the South Caucasus. For instance, residents of the Pankisi Gorge in Georgia volunteered to fight with radical Islamist groups in Syria and Iraq, sparking fears of terrorism spreading. Syria is also one of few countries that has recognized the independence of Georgia’s separatist regions of Abkhazia and South Ossetia. And the Second Nagorno-Karabakh War of 2020 allegedly saw Syrian soldiers fighting for Azerbaijan. Even beyond security, Armenia and Georgia have built robust relations with other prominent Middle Eastern countries. Saudi Arabia recently agreed to establish diplomatic relations with Armenia, which has also expanded its ties with other Gulf states. Similar trends are visible in Georgia’s relations with nations like Saudi Arabia, Iraq, and Jordan. Other actors like Israel are also playing an increasingly active role. Israel’s relations with Azerbaijan are especially noteworthy, with the two states enjoying close military ties. Azerbaijan used high-tech Israeli weaponry to devastating effect in the Second Nagorno-Karabakh War, and, more recently, in September 2023, when it reclaimed full control over the disputed region. Azerbaijan is also a major supplier of oil to Israel, meeting as much as 40 percent of the country’s demand. Azerbaijan’s links with the Middle East mean that flare-ups between Israel and Iran could have local consequences. Iran has expressed concern about Israel allegedly using Azerbaijan for espionage activities, and Azerbaijan was one of just a few Muslim countries not to condemn Israel’s military operation in Gaza, sparking anger in Tehran. With an end to Russian dominance in the South Caucasus, it’s clear that the region is growing closer to the Middle East. Historically speaking, this is actually a return to normal practice, with Middle Eastern powers traditionally the most influential in the region. For Iran and Turkey, Russian hegemony was always an aberration. The process could yield benefits for the West. After all, shifting tectonic plates create opportunities for multiple actors to project power. But the EU and United States are limited by geographical distance, and the absence of significant economic levers. Turkey and Iran are both nearby, and eager to accrue more influence in the South Caucasus.

After comments made by the US presidential candidate, Donald Trump, some Europeans are considering the possibility of acquiring nuclear weapons. They should think again. On 10 February, former United States President Donald Trump recounted a conversation with an unnamed European counterpart in which he stated that he “would not protect” them from a possible Russian attack because they failed to allocate two percent of their gross domestic product to defence, and thus fell short of North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) spending targets. Such delinquency would lead Trump to “encourage [Russia] to do whatever the hell they want.” Given Trump is the probable Republican candidate at the election in November, and currently polling ahead of incumbent President Joe Biden, these comments have triggered concern among European leaders, including German Foreign Minister Annalena Baerbock, Polish Defence Minister Wladyslaw Kosiniak-Kamysz, as well as NATO Secretary General Jens Stoltenberg. These concerns were exacerbated on 9 February when Danish Defence Minister Troels Lund Poulsen warned that Russia might militarily challenge NATO’s mutual defence article within the next three to five years, considering “new knowledge.” Some are now calling for the expedited integration of European defence capabilities to the point of acquiring nuclear weapons. This conversation was initiated by European Union (EU) parliamentary vice president Katarina Barley who perceives a joint nuclear deterrent as part of Europe’s path toward to an eventual joint EU army. Her fellow social democrat, former German foreign minister Sigmar Gabriel concurs, as does German Finance Minister Christian Lindner. However, others – such as chancellor Olaf Scholz, Defence Minister Boris Pistorius, or Marie-Agnes Strack-Zimmermann, who chairs Germany’s parliamentary defence committee – deem a European nuclear option “unrealistic.” According to political scientist Karl-Heinz Kamp, “debate about European nuclear weapons is a very German debate.” Nonetheless, non-Germans have also chimed in, including the chair of the EU Military Committee Robert Brieger – who argues in favour of European nuclear weapons – and Stoltenberg, who opposes them. Until recently, discussion of a European nuclear deterrent was unthinkable. Current debate fluctuates between proposals for joint EU nuclear procurement, merging existing capabilities, and individual European states acquiring nuclear weapons. Indeed, there are many barriers to all of these options, including the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty (NPT), and the ongoing stationing of American nuclear warheads on European soil. One suggestion might propose that the two existing European nuclear powers, namely the United Kingdom and France, could increase their stockpiles and integrate them into a joint framework. However, this is also unrealistic as the cost of these two powers expanding their stockpile would be exorbitant. For instance, Britain is already projected to spend 34 percent of its military budget on maintaining its existing nuclear arsenal. Moreover, it is unlikely that the UK would participate in an EU nuclear weapons program post-Brexit. European states would do well to consider Australia’s pursuit of nuclear-powered submarines through the AUKUS agreement to inform their own ongoing debate. While these submarines will not carry nuclear warheads, regional powers such as Indonesia did question AUKUS’ legitimacy, considering Australia’s commitment to non-proliferation. Certainly, the outright pursuit of nuclear warheads by the EU would be legitimately challenged in the same way. To acquire nuclear weapons, European states would have to withdraw from the NPT which would, no doubt, undermine the international rules-based order that they wish to preserve. Furthermore, it would be hypocritical of Europe to insist on non-proliferation, for instance toward Iran through the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JPCOA) or other states which might wish to acquire nuclear weapons, such as Saudi Arabia or South Korea, but then become a proliferator itself. This would set a dangerous precedent, potentially perceived as a “go ahead” by other states who wish to acquire nuclear weapons. Similarly, it is questionable whether the US would tolerate nuclear proliferation in Europe. Certainly, the US has the means to prevent the pursuit of nuclear weapons, as seen in 2009 and 2010 when it allegedly employed the Stuxnet computer virus to sabotage Iranian enrichment centrifuges. Even if the US were to abstain from sabotaging European efforts, it would nonetheless constitute a rupture in the transatlantic alliance. That Trump would only be president for four years, were he to return to the White House, it is short-sighted to sacrifice the important postwar alliance structure which has hitherto guaranteed peace in Europe, in favour of a potentially calamitous undertaking. Furthermore, it is questionable whether the EU as a whole, with its slow-moving bureaucracy, could acquire nuclear weapons in a timely manner. This question would likewise apply if individual European states were to pursue independent nuclear capabilities, as none appear in a position to do so with expediency. While current discussions about European nuclear weapons emphasise the need to deter Russia, the reality is that such weapons cannot be acquired overnight. Their acquisition would likely take years, if not decades, and Europe must deter aggressors today. A fruitful caveat of these debates has been the suggestion to integrate European arms procurement. As the second anniversary of Russian’s invasion of Ukraine passes, Armin Papperger, the chief executive of Rheinmetall – one of Europe’s biggest defence contractors – warned that the continent requires at least a decade to be able to defend itself from a sophisticated aggressor. Presently, European governments procure arms individually through their respective national bureaucracies. A more efficient mechanism would be an integrated, EU-wide procurement processes, for instance through the Permanent Structured Cooperation (PESCO). Ultimately, such procurement integration could pave the way for a joint European defence force. US presidents have rightfully criticised Europe for not abiding by the two percent rule, as President Barack Obama did. However, European states have drastically improved in this regard. While only four NATO states met the two percent target in 2017, today eleven do, and another 18 members are inching closer to it. Next month, EU Commission President Ursula von der Leyen plans to present a new European defence industrial strategy that aims to increase defence spending, improve interoperability, and establish joint procurement of conventional arms. This shows that Europe can adapt – when the political will to do so exists. Ultimately, Trump’s comments, and the prospect of his return to the presidency, have triggered an overdue conversation in Europe. While a possible second Trump administration would be comparatively short-lived, Europe must consider how it plans to defend itself without the American nuclear umbrella. On the road toward greater integration, collective defence will be of paramount importance. However, European states, largely embodied by the EU, should shy away from a precarious nuclear option. Rather, its resources should focus on the procurement of conventional arms and ammunition, and not on expensive Cold War era weaponry.

Around 1.5 million Palestinian civilians are currently squeezed into the southern Gaza city of Rafah after repeatedly being forced by Israeli bombardment and ground assaults to evacuate further and further south. The town, which originally had a population of 250,000, is now host to more than half of Gaza’s entire population. They are sheltering in conditions the UN’s top aid official has called “abysmal”, with disease spreading and famine looming. In a military onslaught the International Court of Justice has ruled a plausible case of genocide, Israel has so far killed over 29,000 Palestinians in the Gaza Strip. Now there are increasing fears Israel’s expected ground assault on Rafah could push civilians across the border into Egypt’s Sinai Peninsula. Originally designated as a “safe zone”, Rafah is now being targeted by Israeli airstrikes, as well. Those fleeing the violence have nowhere safe to go. However, Egypt, the only country aside from Israel that has a border with Gaza, has rebuffed pressure to accept Palestinian refugees displaced by Israel. Reports have indicated that Israeli officials have tried to lobby international support to compel Egypt to accept refugees from Gaza. Egyptian President Abdel Fattah Al-Sisi, however, has been adamant in refusing to allow humanitarian corridors or the entry of large numbers of Palestinians into Sinai. He has called it a “red line” that, if crossed, would “liquidate the Palestinian cause”. In recent days, the UN’s High Commissioner for Refugees, Filippo Grandi, has validated Egypt’s position. Grandi said displacing Gazans to Egypt would be “catastrophic” for both Egypt and the Palestinians, who, he indicated, would likely not be allowed to return. Why Egypt is opposed to the idea There are a few reasons for Egypt’s opposition. The first is that Egypt does not want to be seen to be facilitating ethnic cleansing through the permanent resettlement of Palestinians outside of Gaza. In October, a leaked document from Israel’s Intelligence Ministry included recommendations to forcibly transfer of Gaza’s population of 2.3 million out of the territory and into tent cities in Egypt’s Sinai Desert. Government ministers Bezalel Smotrich and Itamar Ben-Gvir have also both openly advocated the expulsion of Palestinians from Gaza to make way for their replacement by Israeli settlers. Further, in January, a conference in Israel calling for this very plan was attended by 11 members of Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s cabinet and 15 additional members of parliament. While Netanyahu last month said Israel has “no intention of permanently occupying Gaza”, he hasn’t shut down talk from his ministers about it. When asked about the conference in January, for example, he said everyone was “entitled to their opinions”. Sisi is also conscious of the strong surge of sympathy the Egyptian public has demonstrated for the Palestinians and the support they have shown for his opposition to any displacement of people across the border. This is due to feelings of solidarity with the Palestinian struggle, as well as an awareness of the lessons of history. Recalling 1947-49, when an estimated 750,000 were either expelled or forced to flee their homes by Zionist forces during the war surrounding the creation of the state of Israel, Egypt doesn’t want to be seen to be enabling another Nakba, or “catastrophe”. The total number of refugees created by the Nakba now stands at around 6 million. According to the UN, about a third live in refugee camps, Israel having denied their right to return to their homeland. Significantly, in November, Israel’s minister for agriculture, Avi Dichter, declared: “We are now rolling out the Gaza Nakba,” adding, “Gaza Nakba 2023. That’s how it’ll end.” Egypt’s complicated relationship with Hamas Another key concern for Egypt is its security. If Palestinians were resettled in Sinai, it could make the Egyptian territory a new base from which to launch resistance operations. This could drag Egypt into a military conflict with Israel. In addition, Sisi has only just managed to clamp down on Islamist insurgents in North Sinai in recent years and is presumably concerned that an influx of refugees could be destabilising. Finally, Sisi likely believes Hamas could mount opposition to his regime. After overthrowing President Mohamed Morsi in a military coup in 2013, the Sisi regime cracked down on the Muslim Brotherhood and repressed all dissent. This extended to a demonisation of Hamas, which grew out of the Muslim Brotherhood’s Palestinian branch. Between 2014 and 2016, the Egyptian military bombed and flooded tunnels linking Gaza with Egypt, at the same time as accusing Hamas of colluding with the Muslim Brotherhood against the state. It has also enforced Israel’s blockade of the Gaza Strip. Having said that, the relationship is not straightforwardly antagonistic. Hamas and Egypt have co-operated on counterinsurgency operations against the Islamic State in Sinai. Egypt has also played a role in mediating current and past ceasefire negotiations between Hamas and Israel. However, the latest rounds of negotiations have gone nowhere, leaving Egypt to nervously ramp up its warnings around any Israeli moves on the border. Egypt and Israel have had a peace treaty since 1979, and their relationship has become stronger with Sisi in power. However, Egypt has threatened to suspend the peace treaty if Rafah is invaded. Where does this leave the people of Gaza? Netanyahu has vowed to push ahead with a ground incursion of Rafah in the coming weeks. Concurrently, Egypt has moved to fortify its border and, according to reports and satellite images, begun building a walled buffer zone of about 21 square kilometres in the Sinai. This suggests Egypt is preparing for a potential removal or exodus of Palestinians. While it isn’t entirely clear whether this is being done in co-ordination with Israel or as a “contingency” measure, the zone would condemn Gazans to yet another densely packed open-air prison with dire human rights implications. As much as states like Egypt and Jordan have strengthened their rhetorical opposition to Israel in the past few months, neighbouring Arab countries have done little to seriously pressure Israel to halt its military operations or significantly improve aid access to the Gaza Strip. In fact, Egypt’s intermittent closures of the Rafah crossing have delayed the entry of desperately needed aid into Gaza. There are also reports Egyptian authorities are demanding thousands of dollars in bribes from those desperate to leave via Rafah, deepening a sense of cynicism, despair and, ultimately, abandonment.

Prabowo Subianto has won Indonesia’s presidential election. Who is he, what will Joko Widodo’s influence be, and what does it mean for Indonesian democracy? Prabowo Subianto has achieved a resounding victory in the elections for the presidency of Indonesia with around 58 percent of the vote. Who is the new president of Indonesia? Prabowo is the ultimate insider whose entire life has been focused on keeping himself close to power, but his path to the presidency has been a long one. Born into an influential family, Prabowo joined the military in 1970, a pivotal institution at the time. He quickly rose through the ranks of the elite Special Forces (Kopasas), helped along by his 1983 marriage to then President Suharto’s daughter, Titiek. He was, however, sidelined after the fall of the Suharto regime in 1998 when he was dishonourably discharged from the military over allegations of human rights abuses. Despite this blow to his career, Prabowo used close family connections to go into business and re-emerged into public life as a multi-millionaire and aspiring candidate for the presidency. Prabowo stood unsuccessfully for the presidency in the 2009, 2014, and 2019 elections. In his first bid, he allied with Megawati Sukarnoputri, leader of Indonesia’s largest party and daughter of President Sukarno. In the following two elections he created motley coalitions of various parties, alliances that reflected both Prabowo’s highly movable political outlook, plus what has been called the “promiscuous” behaviour of Indonesia’s political parties. In the 2019 elections Prabowo conducted a bitterly divisive campaign against incumbent President Joko “Jokowi” Widodo, playing on deep divisions in Indonesia between those aiming for a more prominent role for Islamic values and those wanting to protect the diverse and tolerant character of Indonesian society. He also initially refused to accept the 2019 election outcome and briefly threatened to mount a campaign in the streets to overturn the results. But despite Prabowo’s bitter standoff against Jokowi in 2019, the two leaders apparently reconciled, with Jokowi’s surprise move of taking Prabowo into his camp as Defence Minister. While ostensibly remaining “neutral” in this year’s election, Jokowi signalled his support for Prabowo’s bid by arranging for his eldest son, Gibran Rakabuming Raka, to stand as Prabowo’s vice-presidential running mate. Jokowi is an immensely popular figure and his implicit backing provided critical momentum to Prabowo’s winning campaign. This is despite criticism of Jokowi that he is betraying his origins as a non-elite outsider and trying to build a political dynasty. What do these results mean for Indonesia’s major parties and leaders and what questions remain? This outcome represents the culmination of a lifetime effort by Prabowo to achieve the ultimate position of power in Indonesia. A key question is how he will conduct himself as president. He is known as a volatile figure, given to fits of anger, and seen as a military enforcer during the Suharto regime. While generally seen as an effective Defence minister, he was known for publicly putting forward ill-conceived proposals without presidential authorisation. The big question is how Prabowo will act as president. During this year’s campaign he was markedly more self-controlled, but it remains to be seen whether he will revert to his old authoritarian habits. Was he only acting when he appeared to be a threat to stability in the 2019 election or was he only acting when he seemed more moderate in this year’s poll? Will he become Indonesia’s version of Donald Trump or Vladimir Putin? Prabowo will need to build a coalition of parties to support his administration in parliament. Under Indonesia’s presidential system, the president does not need a parliamentary majority, but a troublesome parliament would be a major impediment for his presidency. While Prabowo swept the field in the presidential contest, his party, Gerindra, received only a small boost to its modest parliamentary vote. With his son as vice president and Prabowo in his debt, Jokowi is well placed to sustain his influence long after he leaves the presidential palace. Jokowi is very keen to protect his policy legacy and maintain the momentum of investment in infrastructure, including the building of a new capital city, and policies designed to encourage local Indonesian investment in processing the country’s natural resources. The relationship between incoming Prabowo and Jokowi will be one to watch. Although having Jokowi’s son as vice president was symbolically important during the election, the powers of the office are constitutionally undefined, and it is in Prabowo’s power to keep Gibran marginalised if he chooses. The election result was a massive blow to long-standing leader and would-be kingmaker Megawati and her party, the Democratic Party of Indonesia – Struggle (PDIP). Despite Jokowi’s formal status as a member of PDIP, he and Megawati had a difficult relationship, and he resented her efforts to treat him as a party subordinate. Jokowi took his huge political capital to another party, with the PDIP presidential candidate, Ganjar Pranowo, relegated to a humiliating third place. How PDIP conducts itself during Prabowo’s presidency remains in doubt. While the party narrowly retained its status as the largest party in parliament, it lost votes and is continuing a long-term decline from its glory days when it controlled nearly a third of parliamentary seats. PDIP may form the main opposition force to Prabowo’s administration, but it may be tempted to be bought off with a seat in cabinet. What does the outcome mean for Indonesian democracy? The formal process of the election appears once again to have been free and fair. The massive logistical task of running presidential elections on the same day as managing both national and regional parliamentary elections has been undertaken with the same effectiveness that has characterised Indonesia’s six democratic elections. But while the electoral process has been untainted, serious concerns are growing about the conduct of Indonesia’s political affairs and governance. Indonesia made great democratic progress after the fall of Suharto in 1998. This included the withdrawal of the military from politics, constitutional reform, and the flowering of non-government organisations, freedom of speech and media, as well as governance changes such as the creation of an anti-corruption commission and the devolution of power to the regions. From the beginning, however, concerns were expressed that the peaceful transfer of power had allowed most of the old players to reinvent themselves as democratic politicians but maintain the old ways of backroom politics. There was thus widespread optimism when Jokowi’s rise to the presidency in 2009 appeared to usher in a new type of leader – he came from the provinces, not from the old Jakarta circles and had won his national status as an honest and effective local administrator. But to secure his position in the face of potential obstruction from the old political elite, Jokowi resorted to the methods of that elite. Instead of changing the system, the system changed him. Jokowi used his presidential office to intervene in the internal affairs of other political parties to install leaders who supported him. He slashed the powers of the anti-corruption commission, partially reversed the devolution of authority to regional governments, and cracked down on non-government political movements. These backward steps are unlikely to be reversed under Prabowo – he may take them even further. Jokowi’s anointing of his son as vice-president is widely seen as the final sign of his incorporation into the elite and the triumph of dynastic politics. Dynastic succession has been a key feature of the elite’s grasp on power and now Jokowi has become a master of the game. An implicit alliance between Prabowo and Jokowi could become a way to choke off political competition. Prabowo’s election happened through a peaceful transfer of power, but it has cemented in place a system of governance that challenges the ideals of democratic politics that many Indonesians had looked to with hope during the heady days of reformasi after 1998.

The news of the death of Alexei Navalny, a symbol of the political opposition to Vladimir Putin's regime, in a prison 60 kilometers from the Arctic Circle, has shocked Western public opinion, but comes as no surprise. Since coming to power in 2000, Putin has resorted to the physical elimination of his political opponents as a tool to stay in power and terrorize the opposition. First he used it against the oligarchs who enriched themselves during Boris Yeltsin's two presidential terms. Then journalists, such as Anna Politovskaya, who criticized him and reported on the Chechen war, were murdered. Then Boris Nemtsov on the Kremlin bridge in 2015, while numerous other opposition politicians were imprisoned. Since the beginning of the war in Ukraine, several people who opposed the invasion have "committed suicide". Navalny, who had already in 2020 been poisoned with novichok, a chemical nerve agent to whose use only high-ranking government or military officials can have access, had defined Putin's United Russia party as that "of criminals and thieves". He was also the driving force behind the massive anti-regime demonstrations during the winter of 2011-2012 (the largest so far), over alleged electoral fraud in regional elections. The most defiant figure to Putin's regime, Navalny has paid with his life for the one message he insisted on sending to Russians: that they should fight for freedom. Navalny's death is yet another symptom of what is really happening in Putin's Russia. The next presidential elections will be held March 15-17. Putin is certain to win them. The disappearance of the political opposition to the Russian regime has not translated into a mass protest of the population nor - more importantly - into a vote against the government. Boris Nadezdin, baptized by Western journalists as "the candidate for peace" will not be able to run in the elections because the Russian Supreme Court has upheld the decision, taken by the Central Electoral Commission, to invalidate 100,000 signatures endorsing his candidacy, under the generic pretext of "irregularities". Nadezdin advocates an immediate truce and a transition to peace negotiations in trilateral format involving Russia, Ukraine and the West. According to him, the decision on the fate of the territories annexed by Russia should be based on the will of the people who lived there before the conflict. The war in Ukraine, now entering its third year, is the cause of the breakdown of relations between Russia and the West and Russia's growing dependence on the "axis of the sanctioned" (North Korea, Iran and China). Ukraine is losing on the battlefield due to lack of ammunition and war fatigue affecting both its own population and its allies. The prospect of Donald Trump's victory in November this year further darkens its future, as NATO countries will not be able to overcome an eventual suspension of U.S. military aid to Ukraine, as the alliance's secretary general has warned. The war is turning into a competition between the Western and Russian military industries. If Europe does not wake up, Ukraine and its allies will lose everything that Kiev has so far gained, thus fulfilling Russia's goal of turning its neighboring country into a failed state. The Western allies had managed to provide Ukraine with significant political, military and economic support during the two years of war. However, it is not so clear that they are prepared for a long war nor for the containment and deterrence of Russia, although it is well known that investing in deterrence is always cheaper than investing in open warfare. Navalny's death, Putin's electoral victory and the long duration of the war in Ukraine are the fateful triangle that the Kremlin now opposes to the West, a triangle strengthened by the shameful silence of the majority of the Russian population, a silence that is a consequence of the tyranny and information manipulation carried out by the regime, but also of its political apathy.

Renewed major tensions have surfaced once again in the South China Sea between China and the Philippines. While the immediate concern revolves around the control of reefs and islets, the underlying issue extends to the control of maritime territories, driving the parties involved. These sovereignty disputes are not novel occurrences. Conflicts in the South China Sea (SCS) have intensified since the 1960s, leading to a competition for the occupation of islands and islets in the Paracels and Spratlys. The objective was to establish control over these islands, using them as military outposts and symbols of sovereignty. With the introduction of the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS), the rivalry transitioned towards the assertion of states' rights over maritime zones. The narrative of the parties involved has evolved regarding the legitimacy and legal characterization of the claimed maritime territories. Malaysia (1983), Vietnam (1994), and the Philippines (2009) have contended that the Spratly Islands do not merit an exclusive economic zone (EEZ), indirectly challenging China's claims. In response, Beijing has adjusted its official discourse. Is this shift in legal rhetoric a strategic reinterpretation of maritime law aimed at refuting adversaries' arguments and utilizing legal discourse as a political tool in a broader struggle for influence? An evolution in the legal discourse of Southeast Asian states In the South China Sea (SCS), a noticeable shift in the redefinition of maritime boundaries has emerged since 2009. Previously, definitions often lacked clarity and legal grounding. In recent years, Malaysia, Brunei, Vietnam, and the Philippines have sought to refine their claims, aligning them with the norms established by the 1982 United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS). This strategic move sharply contrasts with the trajectory of the People's Republic of China (PRC), whose evolving stance has been criticized for increasingly diverging from international maritime law. Between 1994 and 2016, China's assertion over the Maritime Claims (MCS) primarily relied on the controversial nine-dash line [九段线], criticized for its ambiguity regarding the extent and legal basis of the claimed maritime territory. However, since 2016, following the ruling by the Permanent Court of Arbitration, China's discourse has shifted towards the "Four Sha" theory [四沙], positing that large (sometimes fictional) archipelagos serve as the legal foundation for its maritime claims. This shift among the Southeast Asian players could be seen as a strategic move vis-à-vis China: by refining their claims to align more closely with the principles of the Law of the Sea, these nations might aim to underscore the inherently unlawful and objectionable nature of China's assertions. This tactic underscores an increasing disparity between Southeast Asian states, endeavoring to adjust their claims in accordance with international legal norms, and China, whose assertions are grounded in disputed interpretations of maritime law. The clash of legal discourses in the South China Sea The People's Republic of China (PRC) asserts its claim to the South China Sea (SCS) through what is commonly known as the nine-dash line (Fig. 1), a demarcation that has encompassed the majority of this maritime region since 1949. However, significant ambiguity persists regarding the precise meaning and scope of this demarcation, as China has yet to provide a clear explanation despite repeated requests from neighboring states. This lack of transparency has led to frustration among neighboring nations, prompting the Philippines to file a formal complaint with the Law of the Sea Tribunal in April 2013. The Chinese government's reluctance to clarify the exact nature and coordinates of the line has fueled suspicions regarding its true intentions. Even Indonesia, which does not have territorial claims in the South China Sea, expressed concerns about the legal uncertainty surrounding China's delineation of this maritime boundary in 2010. Before 2009, Southeast Asian countries involved in disputes over island formations or maritime zones in the South China Sea (SCS) had not clearly delineated their claims, either by providing legal justifications for their extensions or by publishing precise coordinates of the boundaries of the claimed maritime areas. However, on May 6, 2009, Malaysia and Vietnam submitted a joint proposal for the extension of their continental shelves in the southern part of the SCS, followed by Vietnam's independent submission for the central part of the SCS on May 7. By doing so, they publicly disclosed the positions of the outer limits of their respective Exclusive Economic Zones (EEZs). Neither state included the island formations they claim in the SCS in the definition of their EEZs or extended continental shelves. Instead, the boundaries of the 200-mile zones are determined based on each state's coastline. For instance, both Malaysia and Vietnam have excluded the Spratly Islands from the definition of their maritime zones, indicating that they consider these island formations as rocks under Article 121(3) of the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS), which cannot generate either EEZs or continental shelves.  Are the states of Southeast Asia pursuing a political objective by modifying their legal discourse? There has been a notable evolution in the discourse of Southeast Asian states involved in the South China Sea conflict – Vietnam, the Philippines, Malaysia, and even Indonesia, which is not directly embroiled in the dispute over sovereignty in the Spratly Islands – regarding the status of these islands and their capacity to generate maritime zones. Changes in interpretation, qualifications, or legal doctrines, as well as efforts to define international norms, can potentially be seen as a mobilization of law to achieve political objectives. When questioned about the evolution of legal analyses among the protagonists in Southeast Asia, a majority of the interviewed specialists (20 out of 25) noted a clear shift in the discourse of these four countries. There is a consensus that they seek alignment with the principles of the Law of the Sea. These states are exploiting ambiguities in Article 121 for political purposes: it involves waging "legal guerrilla warfare" and "legal diplomacy" to underscore China's divergent stance and, implicitly, its disregard for the spirit of UNCLOS. Chinese Response: Reassessing Island Groups in the South China Sea? On July 12, 2016, the Permanent Court of Arbitration in The Hague issued its ruling following the Philippines' claim filed in 2013. The Court's decision rebuffed Chinese assertions regarding historical rights and determined that none of the island formations in the Spratlys qualify as islands under Article 121, precluding them from generating an EEZ or continental shelf. China vehemently rejected this ruling, refusing to acknowledge the arbitration. However, Chinese rhetoric has shifted since 2016, indicating a willingness to adjust its arguments in light of the Court's findings. Before 2016, China asserted its sovereignty over the islands in the South China Sea without specifying the status of the Paracels or Spratlys island groups. However, since 2016, China has been advancing a new line of argumentation, grouping the island formations in the South China Sea into cohesive units. Chinese sovereignty is claimed to be derived from control over four blocks of islands forming coherent entities. It appears that Chinese legal experts are attempting to introduce a novel concept, as China cannot assert itself as an archipelagic State under UNCLOS. Such status would allow continental States to draw baselines around their archipelagos, which are considered territorial units. This concept faces significant challenge from numerous Western legal experts. Hence, in the Chinese narrative, there's a departure from discussing individual island groups or the ambiguous nine-dash line, towards emphasizing four archipelagos as the fundamental units of Chinese legal discourse. This shift, while sidestepping the PCA's 2016 ruling and distancing itself from the weakened concept of "island" due to the arbitration's denial of China's EEZ rights in the Spratlys, introduces the notion of archipelagos, purportedly enabling the creation of maritime zones in official discourse. However, this stance is dubious under the Law of the Sea, as it doesn't permit continental States to exploit the establishment of archipelagos outlined by lengthy baselines. Moreover, it doesn't authorize the generation of maritime zones from archipelagic entities if the islands constituting these archipelagos cannot themselves establish an EEZ or continental shelf.    Conclusion In the South China Sea, there has been a notable shift in legal positions by both China and the Southeast Asian states. Vietnam, the Philippines, and Malaysia are now advancing the argument that the islets fail to meet the criteria outlined in Article 121(3), thus negating the establishment of an EEZ or continental shelf. This reclassification not only impacts their own claims but, more significantly, challenges China's assertion of expansive maritime territories under international law. This strategic maneuvering appears to signify a politicized manipulation of maritime legal frameworks. Conversely, China has also undergone doctrinal evolution, transitioning from conventional maritime claims rooted in the Paracels and Spratlys islands, to the historically contentious nine-dash line, and most recently, the emergence of the "Four Shas" concept, positing four coherent archipelagos as the basis for EEZs. This progression aims to establish a novel legal foundation to defend its ambitious territorial claims. In essence, these legal transformations underscore the instrumentalization of law as a means to advance and safeguard national interests, with China advocating for a distinct interpretation of international legal norms.

President Vladimir Putin's promise to restore order in Russia following the Wagner mercenaries mutiny has been fulfilled. In just a few months, Yevgeny Prigozhin had been sidelined. The Kremlin regained control of the private security market to ensure that previous experiences – "clumsy", in Putin's words[1] – will not be repeated. The official line is now well-established. It claims that the issue of private military companies (PMCs) has never existed in Russia because these activities have never been legally regulated. And it implies that transparency is back and that Russian diplomacy's foreign operations on the African continent and in the Arab world are unconcealed. Since the 2010s, Russian private military companies have worked with regimes that came to power through armed insurrection (Central Republic of Africa, Niger, Mali) and have intervened in the Middle East, particularly in Syria. Mercenaryism has been an unresolved issue in Russia for almost a decade. The option of following the American model was rejected: it would not have been in keeping with Moscow's tradition to expose state security to the laws of the free market. Since the time of the Tsars, it has been accepted that any question of national security should be dealt with at the highest level in the Kremlin and nowhere else. When the Wagner company was established in 2014, the authorities did not interfere because of the relationship of trust that existed between President Putin and Prigozhin. The approach may have been illegal, but it had the merit of being realistic. The Russian army needs men. The days of Soviet-era overstaffing are over, and the security apparatus needs to be strengthened with manpower. The country also needs courage. Wagner has shown that far from bureaucratic red tape, a simple company of mercenaries can accompany Russian diplomacy in the Middle East and Africa, helping to increase its strategic depth. President Putin followed the Wagnerian dynamic by signing a decree [N°370-17.07.15] authorizing the creation of a mobilization reserve for his armed forces a year later. The BARS (Special Army Combat Reserve)[2] are nothing more than the reserve units that exist throughout the world. This would have been the end of the story, were it not for the fact that there is a grey area in this project, at least one that is specific to Russia. The BARS are not just battalions. Some have the financial backing of major Russian companies. Transneft, a wealthy oil pipeline construction and management company,[3] is the financial backer of the BARS-20 battalion, commanded by Sergei Dedov. Employees of the company, particularly security guards, were offered the chance to join the battalion as "volunteers" rather than "mercenaries" in return for a pay rise. Some were sent to fight in Ukraine. The exact number of deaths is unknown, but memorial videos are available on social networks.[4] The confusion was compounded when it emerged that the list of reserve units included private military companies (PMCs) such as Olkhone and Troie, which are legally banned but still listed for military intervention if necessary. A plan to legalize security companies was mooted in 2018 to address this discrepancy but was quickly rejected. Although the Kremlin made no official statement, it can be assumed that it wanted to retain control over these unregulated and highly lucrative activities – the Russian security market is worth billions of dollars[5] – while taking advantage of the operational ease of ambiguity. Legalization would have led to restrictions that would have hindered the operational flexibility needed in "grey" operations. Russia officially has 27 private military companies.[6] After the disappearance of Wagner's boss in a plane crash in June 2023, Moscow decided that all players in the security market, without exception or privilege, must register with the Ministry of Defense. As of 1 July, they must keep detailed records of their activities, as well as an inventory of their personnel and equipment.[7] Mercenaryism remains formally banned, unless the "volunteers" are part of a Russian army operation (Ukraine, Syria) or the men operate in close coordination with Kremlin’s diplomacy. In the event of a breach, security companies are liable to a fine and risk being dissolved. To show the public that nothing will be the same after the Wagner affair, Moscow launched a communications operation with the Chechen militia Akhmat, which has gone to the Defense Ministry to declare its activities. The Kremlin wants to send the message of a return to normality. Official semantics now speak of "volunteer units" rather than "mercenaries."[8] It trivializes the phenomenon by providing aid and support to "volunteers" deployed in foreign theaters. The Defenders of the Fatherland Foundation, headed by Anna Tsivileva and apparently set up under the aegis of the Russian Ministry of Defense, provides administrative and human support to soldiers returning from the front. Their injuries are considered and they are now receiving appropriate follow-up care. The Russian PMCs still exist, but they have fallen into line. State of Play The new map of Russian military companies is organized around an entity called Redut-Antiterror, also known as "R Centre" or "Redut." Its name is no coincidence. It refers to the Patriotic War of 1812, when the Russians halted the advance of Napoleon's armies using fortifications known as “redoubts.” These redoubts contributed to the defense of Moscow. At the outset, Redut was to be a security company like any other, no more and no less than a competitor to Wagner, which dominated the security market at the time. Redut was founded by billionaire Gennady Timchenko in 2006 or 2008, depending on the source,[9] a time when the fate of mercenary companies was being played out in Moscow's chic restaurants, at the tables of retired military officers, businessmen with links to the oligarchs and influential personalities who were able to obtain tacit approval from the Kremlin to carry out such activities. At first sight, Redut is nothing special. It's a simple PMC (private military companies). Its first employees were former soldiers from the 106th Airborne Division, the 56th Airborne Battalion, the 2nd Special Forces Brigade of the GRU (military intelligence) and the 173rd Special Forces. These are classic, experienced profiles often used to screen recruits. Redut recruits Russian citizens aged between 21 and 50, and the jobs on offer are varied: reconnaissance officers, Vasilek mortar gunners, snipers, medical instructors, logisticians, drivers, etc. Salaries vary between $1,300 and $1,900 per month when the mercenary works in Russia and can reach $5,000 in foreign operations.[10] Although this is slightly higher than what Wagner charges, it can be considered normal for this type of work. Redut is based in Kubinka, near Moscow, next to the 45th Brigade of the Russian Armed Forces. This is where the mercenaries train. But on closer examination, Redut is not a PMC like the others. It defines itself as a "military-professional union." This may seem like an odd name, as it brings together two antinomic words, "military" and "union." But that's exactly what it is. At the very beginning, when Redut was founded, the idea was to create a collaborative organization that would unite Russia's PMCs in the same way that a trade union is a point of convergence for different companies. It was understood that each PMC would retain its autonomy, staff, hierarchy, and funding. By joining Redut, they agreed to work together on an ad hoc basis, pooling their human and material resources to carry out specific tasks. When the mission is over, everyone goes back to their own barracks. In the 2010s, this idea met with mixed success. At the time, Wagner dominated the security market thanks to generous subsidies. Prigozhin was in such a position of superiority that he didn't see the point of such an initiative. The fall of the Wagner empire brought the concept back into the limelight. The Kremlin has seen fit to promote the organizational model. It has three advantages: a) PMCs become allies in winning contracts rather than competitors; b) the risk of one company establishing a dominant position is virtually eliminated; c) the authorities simplify their chain of command. Should the Kremlin issue a request, for example, to recruit X new volunteers for the operation in Ukraine, it asks Redut, and they will come from the various Russian PMCs that have applied for the operation. A team of investigative journalists has uncovered this highly unusual organization, reminiscent of the "operations rooms" of armed groups in the Middle East. At the heart of the organization is Redut. Around Redut, the PMCs come and go. [11] They are classified by geographical origin, name, or company affiliation. This is a hodgepodge of disparate groups such as the Siberian Brigade, groups from the Don (Aksai Battalion), formations from the Union of Donbass Volunteers, Gazprom PMCs, and other small, virtually unknown groups such as the Borz Squad or the Imperial Legion. In the Field When a mercenary leaves his original PMC to join Redut, the "Military-Professional Union," he joins new units, which have common names: Ilimovtsy, Hooligans, Wolves, Marines, Axes.[12] The system is deliberately flexible and malleable, and therefore very opaque. It's hard to know who is who, who is fighting for what, who is operating under what identity. The administrative procedures are not clear either. Sometimes a mercenary who signs up to fight in Redut signs a contract on a sheet of paper bearing the abbreviation "RLSPI," the initials of the Laboratoire Régional de Recherches Sociales et Psychologiques. According to the investigative website Idel.Realities, the name is a cover for the secret activities of Unit 35555, which is linked to Russian military intelligence.[13] This labyrinth of truth and untruth, approximation, and mystery are parts of the Redut system. Some of the PMCs involved in the system are easily identifiable. This is the case of the Russian fossil fuel giant Gazprom, a strategic company that, in February 2023, created a private military company called Gazprom PMC, officially to protect its industrial infrastructure in Russia and abroad.[14] The details of the financial package are interesting. The main shareholders are PJSC Gazprom Neft (70% of the capital) and the private security company STAF-CENTER (30%), a company co-founded by former KGB officers Andrey Kuratov, Andrey Timofeev, and Andrey Gavrilov. Other PMCs are little known because they have only recently been created, such as the "Russian Volunteer Corps," which was created in Mariupol in February 2023.[15] This unit brings together fighters who support Russia's attack on Ukraine. There is also Convoy, founded in Crimea by Sergei Aksenov, which also fights to defend Russian interests. In the past, the life of a mercenary was a jealously guarded secret. Today, thanks to social networks, it is possible to find out about the daily life of these men, who belong to the most modest and certainly the most confidential of all private military companies. The Convoy Telegram channel describes the daily life of these men on the front line in Ukraine. Here are a few examples: 13.10.2022 A mercenary shoots a video presenting his kit bag. VIDEO. 14.10.2023 "Our fighters inflicted fire damage on the personnel and equipment of the 126th Armed Forces Defense Brigade in the Berislav region." 22.10.2023 An anonymous mercenary's birthday is celebrated with a photo. 25.10.2023 "Our fighters also struck exposed concentrations of enemy personnel in the areas of Aleshkinsky Island and the small railway bridge over the Dnieper. Enemy drones were shot down by Russian air defenses in the Peschanovka area. Over the past 24 hours, more than 110 shells have been fired by Ukrainian forces along the left bank of the Kherson region." To get a better idea of the profile of this type of mercenary, to "humanize" the fate of those men who decide one day to take up arms, it is worth taking a look at the case of "Shaman," alias David Honda, born in Khakassia, one of many mercenaries. His story reflects this new generation of Russian mercenaries.[16] When he applied to join Redut, he lied. David Honda claimed to have graduated from the Krasnoyarsk branch of the Higher Police School in 2004, but there was no such school that year. He explained that his non-Russian-sounding surname was given to him by the French Foreign Legion, where he claimed to have served. There is no indication that this information has been verified. Honda went to fight in Syria. He was sent to the outpost of the 23944 military unit in Khmeimim. This base is the nerve center of the Russian operation, commanded at the time by Colonel-General Alexander Zhuravlev. In 2019, the end of the Islamic State group's territorialization was accompanied by a reorganization of its spheres of influence, and there was much fighting. David Honda was killed in unknown circumstances on 15 June 2019, aged 42. A few weeks later, his body was returned to his family in a zinc coffin, accompanied by a certificate stating, "cerebral hemorrhage due to a fragmentation explosion." The document was signed by Syrian forensic doctors, Brigadier General Ghassan Ali Darwish and Brigadier General Shafik Abas, head of the Zaghi Azraq rehabilitation hospital. A Mysterious Commander While it is very clear that Redut operates under the authority of the Russian presidency and the Ministry of Defense, there are still doubts about the company's direction. Since August 2023, Russian sources have claimed that Andrey Troshev, a retired colonel and former executive director of Wagner PMC, has joined Redut's management team.[17] This choice, which has not been denied by Moscow, seems credible. The officer is no stranger. A veteran of the wars in Afghanistan and Chechnya, Troshev is a graduate of the military artillery school in Leningrad. He left the army in 2012 to join Prigozhin's team. He was decorated with the “Hero of Russia,” the country's highest award. If confirmed, the appointment would be a shrewd move. It would weaken the current management of Wagner, who no longer has the scent of Putin's sanctity about it, and would strengthen the management skills of Redut, who is now the Kremlin's point man on "volunteer" or "mercenary" issues, depending on your point of view. What is certain is that Vladimir Putin and Andrey Troshev know each other, as newsreels and photographs taken in the Kremlin during an official ceremony confirm. Wagner's setbacks did not interrupt the meetings. On 29 September 2023, Troshev was officially hosted at the presidential palace. Putin gave him a mission: "You will be responsible for training volunteer battalions capable of carrying out various combat missions, especially in the area of the 'special military operation' [in Ukraine]." According to Dmitri Polyansky, Russia's permanent representative to the UN, Redut receives no state support.[18] The statement is very clear about there being no direct or indirect link. However, several sources indicate the opposite. In July 2022, a recruiter with the call sign "Kibarda" working at the Trigulyai (Tambov) training center stated that "Redut is a company of the Main Intelligence Directorate."[19] The usually well-informed Russian researcher Anton Mardasov has obtained information that tends to confirm the existence of organic links between Russian military intelligence and Redut. An investigative article by the Warbook journalism platform agrees. It argues that Redut is "fully controlled by the Main Directorate of the General Staff of the Russian Armed Forces."[20] There is every reason to believe that the Kremlin has reorganized the private military sector based on cold analysis: Wagner was not all doom and gloom. The break came not from mercenary activities but from a leadership position that the iconoclast Prigozhin was intoxicated by. Like any intelligence officer, President Putin had his "return from experience." Ultimately, the Wagner case had the merit of being a caricature that showed the Kremlin what it had to give up and what it had to keep being in a position to make the best possible contribution to Russian influence. The man responsible for transferring the contracts between Wagner and Redut is the Deputy Defense Minister, Yunusbek Yevkurov.[21] This summer he travelled to Libya and sub-Saharan Africa (Mali, Niger, Burkina Faso) to persuade the regimes to cancel their original security contracts and turn to Redut. The aim is to achieve a gradual and smooth transition. The regimes visited are fragile, either in a situation of latent civil war or victims of recurrent armed uprisings. Russian diplomacy must be tactful; otherwise, China's PMCs, which are as discreet as they are ambitious, will take advantage of Russia's retreat to gain new market share. Above all, Moscow does not want to give up Wagner's business network in Africa, where security has become more lucrative as the UN and Western forces have reduced their military footprint. When the Wagner empire was at its height, it had 5,000 men in Africa. Business was booming. Estimates put revenues from its mining empire at US$250 million between 2018 and 2020.[22] The company has developed a sprawling presence in every lucrative sector of the economy. In addition to mining and security, Wagner has used its address book to open unexpected markets. In 2021, for example, a company linked to Prigozhin's interests was awarded a lucrative logging concession in the Central African Republic (CAR). The company, Bois Rouge, was granted the right to exploit 186,000 hectares of forest that is home to protected species.[23] Since then, Central African timber exports to the EU have increased by 62 percent, to 11 million euro.[24] The most important country for Russia in the Middle East is Syria, where Wagner's men have long been present. According to Russian sources, Moscow offered Bashar al-Assad's regime to write off its debt to Wagner if it agreed to trust Redut and use its security services. In the absence of an authentic source, it is impossible for now to know whether Damascus responded positively or negatively. But Redut has real arguments for making its voice heard in Damascus and winning back contracts. It knows the Syrian theater, where it was identified in 2019. Its mercenaries have secured the Stroytransgaz gas installations.[25] Since the regime owes its survival to the Russian intervention in 2015, it would have no interest in persisting in working with a now disgraced PMC. The pressure is on the shoulders of Wagner's new directors as they try to preserve all or part of the company's heritage. Yevgeny Prigozhin's son Pavel is working with security chief Mikhail Vatanin to keep the group going, but it's not easy. There is a real possibility that the group will disintegrate. In addition to the loss of valuable officers such as Andrey Troshev, who was recruited by Redut to lead the group, mercenaries are leaving the PMC. Men from the 1st Assault Battalion have reportedly already signed so-called resubordinating contracts to join the Federal Service of National Guards of the Russian Federation (Rosgvardiya).[26] The problem of the viability of Wagner's mercenary activities may eventually be resolved. His overall business volume has already taken a hit. In 2022, his revenues fell from US$25 million to US$6.7 million.[27] Although its laws prohibit mercenaryism, Moscow hopes that the Redut "volunteers" will eventually establish themselves as trusted interlocutors of the Kremlin, without fear of mutiny, including in African and Arab countries where Russia has influence. The idea is to trivialize the phenomenon of auxiliary forces, mercenaries or not, so that they become part of the norm. The Russian press has finally gotten used to this new focus. The very official – and once feared – Pravda reports on it daily. The information is presented not as scoops but as banal events: "Russian Defense Minister Sergei Shoigu's private military company (PMC) Patriot, in competition with Yevgeny Prigozhin's PMC Wagner, has been spotted near Vuhledar in the Donetsk region."[28] For its part, the tabloid press is supporting the movement by announcing the creation of the Borz battalion by Redut, for example. Its only distinguishing feature is that it recruits women for combat roles such as snipers, drone operators and so on.[29] Conclusion The reorganization of the security sector seems to have been inspired by an old Russian proverb: "In a united herd, there is no need to fear the wolf." Vladimir Putin has closed the ranks of the PMCs to maintain full use of the famous "grey zone" that states are so fond of using for parallel diplomacy. Thus, when the Deputy Defense Minister, Yunusbek Yevkurov, visited Libya this summer, he added to the Redut dossier the fate of the ports of Benghazi and Tobruk, where the Russian navy intends to make technical stops with the aim to prevent the Turks from taking eastern Libya's maritime infrastructure. The idea is to play down the "shadow soldiers" issue, to strip it of its fictional substance, to give it a simple transactional value, so that Redut is no more and no less than an additional package line that Moscow is offering its partner countries.   REFERENCES [1] “Putin said that there are no PMCs in Russia,” RIA (ru.), October 5, 2023. [2] "Why is former Wagner PMC chief of staff Troshev known and why did Putin meet him?” Crimea.Realii (Ukr), September 30, 2023, https://rb.gy/gidk8r [4] Video on the Russian social network VK, https://rb.gy/knlnlw [6] “Catalog of Russian PMCs: 37 private military companies of the Russian Federation,” Molfar, 2023, https://cutt.ly/EwYV99sc [8] “Private military companies required to sign contracts with the defense ministry,” Asia Plus, June 12, 2023, https://cutt.ly/uwYBoVEM [10] “'La Redoute' to replace 'Wagner': what do we know about this PMC and its leader?,” The Ftimes (Ru), September 5, 2023, https://bit.ly/4aHELf2. [13] “Who's Who Among Russia's Mercenary Companies,” RFE/RL's Idel.Realities, May 23, 2023. [14] “Russian Gazprom creates its own PMC - intelligence,” Pravda (Ru), February 7, 2023, https://t.me/wargonzo [16] “Without “Shield” - Service and death in another private military company, which does not officially exist in Russia,” Novaya Gazeta (Ru), July 29, 2019, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sqaDZUdAN4c [18] Svetlana Kazimirova, “Which company will replace the Wagnerians in the Northern Military Region: what is Redut PMC, what does it do, when did it appear and who runs it?,” Vesiskitim (Ru), September 5, 2023, https://www.currenttime.tv/a/redut-zk-systema/32632359.html [21] “Haftar discusses situation in Libya with Russian defence command. Discussions focused on the future of 'Wagner',” CNN (Ar) September 27, 2023, https://foreignpolicy.com/2023/06/28/will-wagner-stay-in-africa/ [23] “Prigozhin structures received 200,000 hectares of forest in Africa,” Activatica (Ru), July 22, 2022, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NC-8-xDtKoU. [27] “Wagner fractures in Syria, Libya amid conflict with Russia's Defense Ministry,” Al Monitor, October 1, 2023, https://www.pravda.com.ua/rus/news/2022/12/28/7382706/. [29] Anastasia Korotkova, "Created for much more than soups and children." Russian women began to be recruited into combat specialities to take part in the war,” Storage Googleapis, October 23, 2023,

The Australian government asserts that China’s military buildup is the largest of any country in post-war history. Their threat perception is overblown. The Australian government claims that China has made the biggest military buildup of any country since 1945. The statement is contained in the 2023 Strategic Review: “China’s military build-up is now the largest and most ambitious of any country since the end of the Second World War.” The claim has been repeated in several media interviews by the Defence Minister Richard Marles in Australia and overseas. Such claims are hard to pin down since analysing them throws up different possible methods for assessing a buildup, let alone its ambition. Nevertheless, on the basis of a normal interpretation of “biggest military buildup” since 1945, the dubious honour falls to the USSR in the 23-year period from 1962 (the Cuban missile crisis) to 1985 when it was engaged in global confrontation with the United States and military confrontation with China on their mutual border. If we compare the surge we saw in the USSR in that 23-year period with the surge in China’s buildup in a similar time span, between 2000-2023, the conclusion is stark. China’s build up is not only smaller in terms of comparative growth rates in key categories of military capability (nuclear warheads, intercontinental missiles, submarines, and principal surface combatants), but the end point in numbers arrived by China at the end of its 23-year buildup are far smaller than those achieved by the USSR in 1985. For example, the USSR had 40,000 nuclear warheads in 1985 and China in 2023 has only 500. The USSR in 1985 had ten times the number of intercontinental and sea-launched nuclear ballistic missiles as China does today. China is currently engaged in a modernisation and likely expansion of its forces in coming years, but the comparison over 23 years between China (2002-2025) and the Soviet period (1962-1985) would not change significantly. For the time being, however, the claim by the Australian government would not appear to be borne out by the facts. There is another contender to join the ranks ahead of China in the record for the biggest military buildup since 1945, and that is the United States in the 23 years from 1949 to 1972. This period began just after the start of the Cold War in 1948, the signing of the North Atlantic Treaty in 1949, and the victory of Communist Forces in the Chinese Civil War in the same year. In that period, the US fought two major local wars: in Korea and in Vietnam. The end point of this period is marked by détente between the US and both the USSR and China, and the US-Soviet strategic arms limitation agreements. Table 1 below offers a comparison of numbers for selected categories of military platforms and for nuclear warheads at the end point of the three different buildups over the selected 23-year periods. The data shows that China cannot claim to have the biggest military buildup since 1945, and that it sits well behind the USSR and the US in that effort. Table 1: Platform numbers at the end-point of the buildup US 1972, USSR 1985, CHINA 2023. Source*     US 1972 USSR 1985 PRC 2023 ICBM 1,000 1,396 350 SLBM  656 983 72 N-Warheads  26,516 ~40,000 ~500 Strategic Submarines (SSB or SSBN)  41 70 6 Attack Submarines (SSK and SSN)  94 206 53 Aircraft Carriers  17 3 2 Principal Surface Combatants  242 280 97 Bomber ACFT  455 847 500 Tactical Combat ACFT  7,560 6,300 2,394 Tanks  9,434 52,600 4,200 Artillery  6,318 39,000 7,600   The government’s intent in using the phrase “biggest military buildup” in connection with China is to imply it is the biggest military or strategic threat that Australia and its allies have faced since 1945. This implication is reinforced by the equally questionable claim by the prime minister and many officials over several years that Australia faces its most challenging strategic environment since 1945. This proposition is as easily contradicted by the facts as the claim about biggest military buildup, as analysed in my critique in the journal of the International Institute of Strategic Studies, under the title, “Australia’s Drums of War” published in 2021. China poses clear threats to Australian strategic and military interests, but the pace and scale of its military buildup have only been modest compared with the two historical examples cited. The categories selected for Table 1 relate primarily to China’s capability to project power well beyond its coastal areas and beyond Taiwan. That set of categories used is one often seen in comparisons of national military capabilities in the broad. In contrast, there are categories of platforms where the buildup has been more rapid and consequential, such as in dual-use (conventional or nuclear) intermediate range ballistic missiles (IRBM) and smaller ships (corvettes) and patrol craft. Yet these capabilities relate almost entirely to coastal areas or near sea areas, especially for localised contingencies involving Taiwan and/or Japan. The rapid expansion of these lighter and smaller maritime forces and the large number of IRBMs for localised contingencies is what Australia and its allies need to address. In particular, the expansion of the number of smaller patrol craft would be a particularly powerful enabler for unconventional scenarios of strategic pressure by China on Taiwan. It is doubtful that the exaggeration of China’s general military buildup is helpful in achieving that focus. China has good options for irregular operations and subversion against Taiwan that it will almost certainly take before risking a major military confrontation with the US and its allies. *Data is not fully consistent in different sources. For China, the data in Table 1 is based on the US Dept of Defence, “Military and Security Developments in the People’s Republic of China,” October, 2023. Data for the USSR is based on Department of Defense, “Soviet Military Power 1986,” 1986. Data for the US is based on several official US documents. These include ‘The Joint Chiefs of Staff and National Military Policy 1969-72,” 2013; Naval History and Heritage Command, “US Ship Force Levels 1886-Present,” undated; US Dept of State, “Transparency in the US Nuclear Weapons Stockpile,” undated; and Congressional Research Service, “US/Soviet Military Balance Statistical Trends’ 1970-1980,” October 1981. The author has also consulted IISS, “The Military Balance 1973,” 1973. Note that the census date for these various sources is not always clear but the author has assumed them to refer to platform holdings during the year indicated in Table 1 even if the publication date is the year following.

Alexei Navalny was a giant figure in Russian politics. No other individual rivalled the threat he posed to the Putin regime. His death in an Arctic labour camp is a blow to all those who dreamed he might emerge as the leader of a future democratic Russia. What made Navalny so important was his decision to become an anti-corruption crusader in 2008. Using shareholder activism and his popular blog, he shone a spotlight on the corruption schemes that enabled officials to steal billions from state-run corporations. His breakthrough came in 2011, when he proposed the strategy of voting for any party but President Vladimir Putin’s “party of crooks and thieves” in the Duma (parliament) elections. Faced with a collapse of support, the regime resorted to widespread election fraud. The result was months of pro-democracy protests. Putin regained control through a mix of concessions and repression, but the crisis signalled Navalny’s emergence as the dominant figure in Russia’s democratic movement. Despite being convicted on trumped-up embezzlement charges, he was allowed to run in Moscow’s mayoral elections in 2013. In a clearly unfair contest, which included police harassment and hostile media coverage, he won 27% of the vote. Perseverance in the face of worsening attacks The authorities learned from this mistake. Never again would Navalny be allowed to compete in elections. What the Kremlin failed to stop was his creation of a national movement around the Foundation for the Struggle Against Corruption (FBK), which he had founded in 2011 with a team of brilliant young activists. During the ensuing decade, FBK transformed our understanding of the nature of Putin’s kleptocracy. Its open-source investigations shattered the reputations of numerous regime officials, security functionaries and regime propagandists. One of the most important was a 2017 exposé of the network of charities that funded the palaces and yachts of then-premier Dmitry Medvedev. Viewed 46 million times on YouTube, it triggered protests across Russia. No less significant was Navalny’s contribution to the methods of pro-democracy activism. To exploit the regime’s dependence on heavily manipulated elections, he developed a strategy called “intelligent voting”. The basic idea was to encourage people to vote for the candidates who had the best chance of defeating Putin’s United Russia party. The result was a series of setbacks for United Russia in 2019 regional elections. One measure of Navalny’s impact was the intensifying repression directed against him. As prosecutors tried to paralyse him with a series of implausible criminal cases, they also pursued his family. His younger brother Oleg served three and a half years in a labour camp on bogus charges. This judicial persecution was compounded by the violence of the regime’s proxies. Two months after exposing Medvedev’s corruption, Navalny was nearly blinded by a Kremlin-backed gang of vigilantes, who sprayed his face with a noxious blend of chemicals. More serious was the deployment of a death squad from Russia’s Federal Security Service (FSB), which had kept Navalny under surveillance since 2017. The use of the nerve agent Novichok to poison Navalny during a trip to the Siberian city of Tomsk in August 2020 was clearly intended to end his challenge to Putin’s rule. Instead it precipitated the “Navalny crisis”, a succession of events that shook the regime’s foundations. The story of Navalny’s survival – and confirmation that he had been poisoned with Novichok – focused international attention on the Putin regime’s criminality. Any lingering doubts about state involvement in his poisoning were dispelled by Navalny’s collaboration with Bellingcat, an investigative journalism organisation, to identify the suspects and deceive one of them into revealing how they poisoned him. The damage was magnified by Navalny’s decision to confront Putin’s personal corruption. In a powerful two-hour documentary film, A Palace for Putin, Navalny chronicled the obsessive greed that had transformed an obscure KGB officer into one of the world’s most notorious kleptocrats. With over 129 million views on YouTube alone, the film shattered the dictator’s carefully constructed image as the incarnation of traditional virtues. ‘We will fill up the jails and police vans’ It is difficult to exaggerate the impact of the “Navalny crisis” on Putin, a dictator terrified of the prospect of popular revolution. No longer was he courted by Western leaders. US President Joe Biden began his term in office in 2021 by endorsing an interviewer’s description of Putin as a “killer”. To contain the domestic fallout, Putin unleashed a crackdown that began with Navalny’s 2021 arrest on his return to Moscow from Germany, where had been recovering from the Novichok poisoning. On the international stage, Putin secured a summit with Biden by staging a massive deployment of military force on the Ukrainian border, a rehearsal for the following year’s invasion. The Kremlin’s trolling factories also tried to destroy Navalny’s reputation with a smear campaign. Within weeks of Navalny’s imprisonment, Amnesty International rescinded his status as a “prisoner of conscience” on the basis of allegations about hate speech. The evidence was some ugly statements made by Navalny as an inexperienced politician in the mid-2000s, when he was trying to build an anti-Putin alliance of democrats and nationalists. What his detractors ignored was Navalny’s own evolution into a critic of ethnonationalist prejudices. In a speech to a nationalist rally in 2011, he had challenged his listeners to empathise with people in the Muslim-majority republics of Russia’s northern Caucasus region. This divergence from the nationalist mainstream was accentuated by Putin’s conflict with Ukraine. After the invasion of Crimea in March 2014, Navalny denounced the “imperialist annexation” as a cynical effort to distract the masses from corruption. Eight years later, while languishing in prison, he condemned Putin’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, exhorting his compatriots to take to the streets, saying: If, to prevent war, we need to fill up the jails and police vans, we will fill up the jails and police vans. Later that year, he argued a post-Putin Russia needed an end to the concentration of power in the Kremlin and the creation of a parliamentary republic as “the only way to stop the endless cycle of imperial authoritarianism”. Navalny’s tragedy is that he never had a chance to convert the moral authority he amassed during years as a dissident into political power. Like Charles de Gaulle in France and Nelson Mandela in South Africa, he might have become a redemptive leader, leading his people from war and tyranny to the promised land of a freer society. Instead, he has left his compatriots the example of a brave, principled and thoughtful man, who sacrificed his life for the cause of democracy and peace. That is his enduring legacy.